He smells nice she reflects, feeling the up and down motions of his rib cage expanding and contracting with his breathing, inhales a deep whiff of sandalwood? patchouli? with her own. It's something not exactly girly but sweet nonetheless with a hint of earthiness below not at all unpleasant.

The conversation lulls and rises around her, occasionally she chimes in but mostly she just leans on him, legs thrown across his best friend's lap and revels in the comfort of touch, small and innocuous, comfortable and intimate. The touch of a friend who could be a lover but is not. There is no angst, only animated flirting, no longing glances or uncomfortable strained silences but banter, witty repartee.

She wonders why people even bother with dealing with their ust when there can be this comfortability, this intimacy without actually being intimate and all the evils that come with that, jealousy, possessiveness etcetera. Just a group of friends who occasionally find each other physically and mentally attractive but are content to live in this sort of half intimacy. Thinks it would do the world a hell of a lot of good to experience more things like this than the burn of raw intimacy, true depth that is just too deep for her to venture, too much for her to expose.

Fingers drum on her jean clad calf and she looks up to smile at blue eyes that smile back at her. This is nice. Nicer than choosing, nicer than breaking up the set. This way there's Her, Harry and Ron, together. Always.