Like it was the easiest thing in the world, Hermione lost herself in the kiss. One wouldn't have expected Ron Weasley to be so gentle, and yet he was, right down to the soft brush of his breath against her lips, as though he knew exactly how to drop those five words against her skin. I love you too, Hermione. She could hardly breathe for fear of losing that very moment, the sensation of his warmth and the mere closeness of him, that which had her eyes growing hot at the corners. Slowly and gently, she returned the kiss, eyes slowly falling shut as her hand traced down the side of Ron's neck and her thumb crushed against his clavicle.

That was when she realized.

Interrupting the ease of the kiss, Hermione allowed her fingers to skate down and across Ron's chest, not sure if there was an appropriate place to rest her hand. She'd thought about it, of course— one couldn't turn eighteen without such curiosities arising to a certain degree— but as the reality of the moment was anything but what she'd imagined, Hermione could only feel her breath lightly trembling against her lip as she traced her fingers down his side. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips more insistently against Ron's, feeling her heart practically beat against her ribcage like a drum, only with the light flutter of feathers against bars as well to contend with.

"Ron," she breathed as she continued to press kisses against his lips, soft. The temptation to smile and laugh hadn't been completely buried, but if anything could serve as a comfort to her right then, it was that Hermione and Ron had always learned side-by-side, and neither judged the other for any stumbles along the way.

This was no exception.