Ron has grown up with magic so it never really fazes him.
Flying broomsticks, exploding toffees, paintings that move… he doesn’t bat an eyelash. When Harry and Hermione’s faces would light up over some spell or charm they had just discovered, Ron would smile at them indulgently like an amused father but to him it was all old news.
Then Hermione kisses him and he learns what it means to be astounded.
Now, he knows the kiss happened, he was there. Saw it with his own two eyes, felt it with his own lips. But even though he knows it happened (and has happened 258 wonderful times since), there remains an aura of incredulity, a sense that this is all just some sleight of hand, some sort of bamboozle.
It’s not just the kissing either. She introduces him to her parent’s elderly neighbours as “my boyfriend Ron” and he can’t join in the conversation for a full minute because he’s too astonished by her words.
When he accidentally clunks his knees against hers under the table at the restaurant, she just smiles at him and catches one of his big clumsy feet between both of hers and goes back to whatever she was doing like it isn’t the most incredible thing in the world.
She takes her own clothes off that night because he’s far too flummoxed to participate. When she eases herself back into his arms he finds a way to pull himself into motion, but the back of his mind still struggles to process what seems to be an entirely implausible situation.
She is fast asleep in his arms now, soft and warm and impossibly real. Ron struggles to stay awake, trying to believe.
He has never known true magic until now.