Romione And Hinny Headcanons

Romione - kiss

Oh bloody hell, now he's done it.

He doesn't even know exactly what it is. All he'd said was they should say the house-elves. (And he'd actually meant it. He doesn't want Hermione to think he was trying to get into her favours; he really does not want any more Dobbies.)

All Ron does know is that he's in trouble. He's never seen a look that incredibly intense on Hermione's face, and it can't mean anything good for him. From the looks of her, she's either going to hit him like she did outside the tent, or sending him a furious flock of birds.

Or worse.

He pales. There are far worse animals in the world than birds. Far worse.

She's on the move now, her Basilisk fangs scattering all over the ground as she charges towards him, and as Ron braces himself, resigned to his fate, all he can think is that it's all woefully unfair, because he doesn't even know what he's done -

And she's kissing him.

He's pleased at how he responds, given the fact that he's totally flummoxed, but he supposes that when he has spent so many years fantasising about this precise moment, playing over and over in his head, his body just knows what to do on it's own.

He is also pleased because he's finally -finally- kissing Hermione and he makes a real, conscious effort to catalogue everything that's going on in this moment -how she feels in his arms, her taste in his mouth, her hands playing with her hair- because deep down he knows that this is something he will want to remember in every tiny detail for the rest of his life.

He's dimly aware of Harry nattering on about something in the background, but there can't be anything in the whole wide world that is more important to Ron than this.

Nothing about this bloody woman makes any sense. And never has he cared about it less.