Ron Weasley loved Hermione Granger.
He loved her smooth, unblemished, milk-chocolatey skin. He loved the way her dark curls spilled over her shoulders, tangling around his fingers like they wanted to keep him there. He loved the slight crease in her brow when she was deep in thought, the freckles scattered across her nose, her soft, plump lips, and her warm honey-brown eyes. He loved the twitch of her mouth when he made her laugh, even when she called him “immature and indecorous”.
He loved how passionate she was, how she could lose herself in a book for hours. He loved her atrocious-looking but ridiculously comfortable socks. The ink stains that never seemed to leave her fingers because she was left-handed. The way she scrunched her nose in disgust and how she drowned in his sweaters. He loved that she was a terrible cook—except when it came to chocolate chip cookies, which were somehow always perfect.
He loved that brilliant mind of hers, how she could run circles around him in a debate but could never quite beat him at chess. He loved the wobble of her bottom lip when they watched a sad movie, the look of satisfaction when he showed her just how much he loved her. He loved the way she danced, her hips swaying to the music. He loved hearing her sing when she didn’t know he was listening—her voice really was lovely. He loved the way she carded her fingers through his hair after a hard day, how she held him close even though he was twice her size. He loved how terrible of a sleeper she was, and the wild mess of curls she woke up with every morning.
Now, curled up on the couch with his girl tucked into his chest, her book in hand, his fingers threading lazily through her hair, her hand warm against his skin—he had never felt more alive.
He hadn’t truly been living before this. No bloody way.
Ron Weasley loves Hermione Granger.