Identifiable, chapter 5
Hermione Granger walked down one of many barren hallways, colder in the autumn breeze than she liked and with the added solitude of the longer nights doused in shadow.
She felt heavier even though she ate less in those days.
A right turn and nothing to worry about.
Her hands dug into her coat pockets. She wandered aimlessly down the maze of corridor twists. The repetition of quiet steps in successive order was the only sound of the nocturnal route. Frankly, she was beginning to understand Hedwig the owl a little better.
To the left, and still no broken rules. Big surprise.
The quiet bothered her.
Did anyone get used to it?
To answer her own question, she supposed it took a while to get accustomed to the boredom of peace and safety. From the changes she’s experienced firsthand, she wondered if anyone appreciated the magnitude of it all.
The effort, the sacrifice that had been made for the cause - she wondered if it was really worth it? The thought of another Cornelius Fudge with adoring followers modeled after Percy Weasley made her mostly empty stomach churn. She supposed that the uneasiness that stayed was part of the side effects from constant paranoia and the sense that everything would and could be over at any moment.
She lined up one foot in front of the other, balancing on an invisible line. Equilibrium-a strange goal to try to achieve. The most impossible of ideals to uphold. It would slip from her hands too, no doubt.
Her arms stretched out at perfect right angles on a childish whim.
All that mattered was stability.
And suddenly, the heel of the shoe made a mistake and stepped on the tip of the other. She stumbled against the stone wall. So much for staying balanced, after all. It was a fragile, impermanent thing to be easily thrown off by a misplaced toe, keeping her away from realizing the very thing she strove toward.
She huffed slightly, righting herself so.
Try, try again Hermione, she thought, more out of habit of persistence than actual optimism.
When she looked up, the Fat Lady dozed off in the frame as she neared the Gryffindor entrance. Another fully conscious night of sleepwalking. Even the mornings dawned with a tangible gloom that stayed on her skin like the colorful tattoos she found in the packets of fruity gum. A shame that melancholy didn’t wash away with soap and water like the inky red butterflies of her childhood.
As she turned slowly, her ears caught the sound of a voice saying her name. She would have smiled some other time, but Harry Potter tended to alarm her with his presence as of late.
“You should be asleep, you know,” she responded dryly. “It’s my night to do patrol.”
Apparently, it wasn’t quite the response he was looking for, as he suddenly glared at her. Again, she used the usual manner of ignoring him at that moment, and began to walk away from him.
Harry felt as her robes brushed past him, producing a very cold breeze. Her constant indifference had him on edge and was the source of his distracted looks in class. His good intentions mostly extinguished, he was going to make her listen.
She had almost forgotten how strong he was when he grabbed her arm and half dragged her into a narrow hallway.
“What are you...?” she managed before her back connected with another stone wall.
The hands on her shoulders worked their way up, cupping her face. She knew she was silly not to expect the next four words out of his mouth.
“We need to talk,” he answered, staring her in her eye.
Dum, dum, dum.
Judging by the severity of his gaze, she was expecting an interrogation. Her legs stiffened and her back braced against the hard wall. This was a far cry from the brief, intimate moments they’d shared a previous season.
“Look at me.”
She closed her eyes, not to contradict him on purpose but because he sounded like he was begging. It was not the boy she knew and wondered how responsible she was for this change. A flash of that final fight came to mind, making her shiver involuntarily. Despite his grip loosening slightly, his hold was firm. He waited patiently.
“What’s happening?” he asked. “Why don’t you talk to me anymore?”
Her eyes reflected melancholy when she finally looked at him. She sighed, studying him for a moment. Her fingers reached up, prying his loosening hold from her face.
“Things change,” she said simply.
For a person that gave detailed answers in class, she was being awfully cryptic. The walking encyclopedia he’d been contemplating all summer long wasn’t giving up anything.
He smiled bitterly, turning on his heel.
“Don’t talk to me as if I don’t know that,” he said.
A few steps away from her and he frowned. He was right to feel hurt, seeing as he’d gained an impressive sum of losses in less than a decade. He briefly wondered if he should start to count her as one of them.
“You’re the only one who knows what it’s been like,” he said.
She leaned her shoulder against the wall, looking downward. She had been anticipating the awkwardness during the term, but she had been hoping to stay away from him long enough so that her eventual absence would lessen the impact of their concluding farewells. The easiest thing would have been to part ways and not know anymore. She was willing to let the distance become the cure that let her release him and make him an isolated memory.
She had McGonagall to thank for throwing a giant wrench into the plan. She wasn’t sure how much information the professor had disclosed in the meeting that followed her departure that afternoon. She didn’t want to venture to guess, even for curiousity’s sake. But the way his figure cut through the angled shapes of the school’s austerity made it hard for her to ignore him. He didn’t flaunt authority for its sake, but understood intrinsically that his actions were for a reason and always for the greater good. Her impressive vocabulary didn’t allow her to articulate the version of selflessness she was attempting for his sake.
The otherwise simple Muggle boy, very much like her, had made quite an impression on her. She hoped he’d understand someday.
“I don’t know anything,” she said softly.
When in doubt, deny, deny.
He turned to face her. She looked very different from the girl who had willing followed him through hell and back.
“Liar.”
She was willing to forsake a little truth for the something bigger than herself. If it meant bruising him a bit, so be it, she figured. Whatever was left for them to figure out wasn’t as important as minding other’s feelings.
“Let this go,” she answered.
She looked downward, her hair fell over her line of vision, partially obscuring her face. It was him who sighed this time and leaned on the wall across from her. His stare was penetrating despite hiding behind a curtain of chestnut hair.
“I can’t,” was his exasperated reply. “I need to know what this means.”
He exhaled roughly and she wondered how often he’d thought about it. The memories that circulated between them were interchangeable at times, sometimes appearing in dreams or at random times. He could recollect her childhood fears and imagined she saw his phobias and aspirations as well. Especially the hopes that revolved around her.
“Why?”
Again, that smile emerged, both chilling and predictable. Her knees shook a little under his knowing gaze. For a boy she’d spent knowing the last six years, she was struck by his sudden mysterious disposition.
“You know the answer better than I do.”
Harry could figure her out too well sometimes.
She pushed off the wall with one foot, making her way out of that lonely corridor. He grabbed her arm unexpectedly and spun her around. He wasn’t quite embracing her, but held her with an arm around her waist. He seemed to like repeating the day’s events.
“You can’t expect me to let this go,” he said in her ear.
Her hands on his chest, she felt the steady heartbeat beneath his shirt. She pushed away slowly, meeting his eyes reluctantly.
“But I can,” she said, pointing a finger at herself. “And I will.”
Actually leaving him there, however, was more difficult than she wanted to admit. Especially as he was the one blocking her escape single-handedly. It was typical of him, she thought, to wield that much influence on her. He was the one who’d taught her how to break rules, after all.
He was warm, even though she was desperately finding some way to ignore the sudden spike in her pulse caused by their contact.
“I would think that you, of all people, would need to know why this is happening. It’s what you do best, Hermione-seek answers.”
He noticed how she shivered, although no October breeze drifted in their part of the school. Emotional blackmail worked, after all.
“Stop,” she said. Her hand fisted and connected with his shoulder. “Stop it.”
For a moment, he did, feeling as though she’d been pushed enough. She was up against a barrier, both literary and figuratively.
“I’ll wait,” he told her instead.
When she looked up again, she saw the familiar sight of his messy hair. Her fingers itched at the sight. It was, as she was somewhat growing used to, a little soothing and terrifying.
When she finally did walk away, her temple burned where he had brushed away a wayward lock of her hair.
She penalized a pair of Ravenclaws twenty points apiece when she caught them in the hallway.
-
- - -
-
Ronald Weasley’s continuing fascination with an old tin box kept him from reading the assigned chapters. He turned it over in his hands, marveling quietly at how many memories resurfaced with each item it contained.
While he had been initially horrified at finding it, the metal box was quite endearing as he read over the notes, some folded in delicate origami patterns, while others were carefully put in small envelopes.
Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed like ages since he’d thought about silent corners and abrupt affection. It was probably typical, he thought, that he should desire what he could no longer have.
He could blame Viktor Krum for introducing him to jealousy.
As he read old letters, each scrawled neatly on unlined paper. He didn’t understand why she’d spoiled him rotten with attention he was never used to receiving from anyone. Call it the middle child syndrome, but he felt somewhat entitled to use that term (although the meaning was lost on him-trust Hermione to use Muggle psychology jargon to confuse him).
The door to his room opened unexpectedly, with one semi-aggravated Harry entering and slamming the door. Ron watched his friend cross the room and sit on the edge of his bed, sighing irritably.
“Something the matter?” Ron asked casually.
He carefully picked up the pieces of paper scattered around his mattress, arranging them in the small metal box as best as his memory allowed. Harry grunted something, fingers curling into a fist.
“Girls,” Harry said cryptically.
Ron picked up his bits of paper and began to stuff them indiscriminately into the box. The look on his friend’s face made him seem prone to destroying something in close proximity. Ron decided not to take any chances, snatching the last piece he’d spread out when opening the box. It hovered dangerously close to Harry’s tightening fist.
“Girls,” he complained again.
However deranged Harry seemed at the moment, Ron paused for a moment to consider his record with girls. He tended to exclude his fascination with Fleur and counted Hermione and Lavender Brown among his romantic experiences. The first one amounted to a valuable friendship and he was still wondering about the latter as he stashed the box under his pillow.
“Tell me about it, mate,” he said. “Can’t live with them.”
Harry fell backwards into the bed, frowning deeply. Ron considered his friend’s previous forays with girls and shuddered slightly. He’d never been stalked, had an attempted Amorentia drugging and been had girls arguing over him-all on top of being targeted by a dark wizard. Harry had a certain luck that even he wasn’t envious about.
“Can’t live without them,” Harry said softly.
-
- - -
-
Hermione was thankful for the lack of disturbance after her shift was over.
The soft candlelight helped calm her nerves somewhat as she sat down at the small desk to do some light reading before going to sleep. She opened the cover of A Tale of Two Cities.
And then shut it just as quickly.
A huff.
She kicked off her shoes, making sure they hit the wall with a satisfying thud. She piled her hair in a messy twist and let it fall down again.
Her skirt and socks were replaced by warm flannel bottoms. She unbuttoned her shirt, letting it slide off her shoulders. An odd warmth persisted below her ribs, even after that encounter in the hall. And the one before in the office.
She frowned, dragging her fingers heavily over her skin. Reluctantly, she wondered what he would feel like under his clothes. She shook her head violently.
It didn’t go away.
Sleep, when it finally arrived, was fitful. It was a lonely thing to experience, being an orphan. The resentment and feeling of loss that never quite went away, haunting the quiet moments stayed with her.
-
- - -
-
He dreamt of chocolate coins and outings with a family he didn’t belong.
Still, even that wasn’t enough for Harry to wake up in a good mood in the morning.
-
- - -
-
She awoke in the cold of dawn with inexplicable tears in her eyes. She rubbed them away with fists, forcing that false sentimentality down inside, bottle it up, chain it down, suppress it somehow.
Again, she relied on routine to rescue her.
As part of her morning ritual, Hermione stretched out her limbs, with her foot resting on top of the headboard of her bed as her fingers reached out for her toes. She hated the quiet of those four walls, missed the breathing of another human in her same space. She would have given anything for a roommate and given up her responsibilities as Head Girl to have one.
But that would have been irresponsible and she couldn’t bear to have that on her conscious. It was heavy enough as it was already. She blamed those early years of Sunday school and the imbedded Catholic guilt for that.
She thought of the Weasley twins and their abrupt departure from Hogwarts the previous year. While they’d grown tired of Umbridge and her antics, they’d left her with one as a parting gift. She smiled at the memory, wondering if she was capable of doing such a thing.
She slid a perfectly starched white shirt off a hanger, buttoning it up carefully. She put on her skirt in much the same manner, being conscious of how the uniform hung on her body. Her knee high white socks slid up her calves and then she tied black leather shoes in neat, symmetrical bows.
The first day of her muggle school came back to her in haunting detail when she looked at the shine of black leather. Either Dobby or one his companions had worked on them, putting black leather polish them until they could see their reflections.
Her mother had been the one to help her dress in her uniform when she’d begun that terrible first day, alone and not knowing the other children in the classroom. She was in a room full of sorrow from those who did not know how to let go.
Despite her terror that one morning in September, she’d been different from her classmates. With a valiant determination of not despairing, she’d merely hugged her mother-the world as she had known up until that point-and wanted to get through the day.
She looked at the book bag that lay beside her desk. Another day was beginning and again, she was determined to see it be over.
She could already see what her day would be like: skip breakfast (despite waking up in time for it), attend class, take notes in between staring at Harry and then avoid him for the rest of the day.
She had been dreaming lately of the last battle in the war, as she wandered with Harry through an old cemetery before apparating to the Forbidden Forest. She couldn’t bear to look at him and have the confirmation in his eyes that he dreamt of it as well. That look would undo her and with her departure so soon, she didn’t think it wise to keep in contact with him about it at all.
She sighed, sitting on the edge of her bed. Class began in an hour.
She felt cold, feeling as though her bed was far too large for her in that terrible, solitary moment. She shut her eyes, trying to block out the missing inhabitant.
-
- - -
-
She hummed muggle songs these days, much to Ron’s bewilderment. Rather than being annoyed with the minor details surrounding her, he noticed the subtle mannerisms, like her note taking in classes or how slowly she ate her dessert after dinner.
“You stick around now it may show,” she muttered softly. “I don’t know.”
He smiled a little, liking the sound of her voice, no matter how low it was. She had a soothing quality when carrying a tune, despite being slightly monotonous. He imagined the quiet rumble he would hear if he could embrace her.
Like old times, he thought as he saw her between older volumes of Hogwarts, A History and Indispensible Magickal History when she walked by.
But perhaps, he was the only one who thought that way now. She passed by the bookshelf beside him and passed a glance down that aisle. The song died immediately on her lips when she met his eyes.
“Lavender,” he said, breaking into a shy smile. “Hi.”
She returned his smile tersely.
“I was looking for this title,” she explained. “Project, you know?”
She walked down his way, glancing down at a scrap of paper.
“Transfiguration?”
She shook her head, browsing along the shelf, letting her fingers run lightly along the spines of books before stopping beside him. She found her book at her eye level on the shelf opposite from him. After consulting with the paper again, she slipped her hand over a red cover, pulling it away from a line of tan and grey books.
Remedies, printed in silver letters glared back at him in the shadows of the library when she presented it to him.
She was a long way from the girl he had known, interested love spells and random trysts in dark corners and empty corridors.
“Potions class is murder,” she said.
Yet here she was trying to find ways to save people. He watched her as she leaned on the shelf. A slow smile spread on her face, somewhat dreamily while wisps of hair fell along her cheek. A loose lock covered her eye while she looked at him.
For a girl Ginny once dubbed “motor mouth,” it was as mysterious as he had ever seen her. If he didn’t know any better, he’d call her terse and not willing to speak. He found himself liking it.
“It’s better than McGonagall. Anything she teachers is thorough,” he said. “She’s hell on academia.”
Her laughter interrupted the silence.
“You mean on students,” she said.
He smiled.
“Very true.”
He hadn’t even begun to think about his presentation for the class, which was scheduled in December-a good two months away for him to even begin contemplating the material.
Her laugh died slowly as she pushed herself away from the books with her foot. Her hand slid softly along his shoulder before leaving. Her dark hair had grown longer than he remembered. When his fingers used to brush her hair, they tended to stop at the base of her neck. Now the ends reached past her shoulder blades and he wondered if she would mind if his hands stayed on her lower back instead of the nape of her neck.
“Good luck on your presentation,” she said before leaving.
Her footsteps echoed away in the silence of the room. He continued to feel the warmth of her hand for the rest of the day. It was irritating, but not for the same reasons as he’d remembered.
-
- - -
-
“It seems that some of you aren’t doing as well in class as I would expect you to,” Minerva McGonagall said. Her stern voice carried a bit of an edge to it.
The parchment she handed to Harry contained a sharp glare.
“I would expect you to find help in order to do better,” she said pointedly. “And perhaps stop being so distracted. I understand that some of you have had a difficult time, but you shouldn’t neglect your studies.”
He got the message. And made himself not crumple the essay as he looked at it.
-
- - -
-
The tedious measurements, precise timing and time consuming preparation still wore the collective patience of teenagers six feet deep under Professor Slughorn’s scrutiny. The general consensus still held that potions was an awful class, even if Snape wasn’t teaching it any longer.
“Ron, pay attention,” Hermione snapped, flipping his book to the designated page.
“What’s going on?”
She didn’t like the frown he gave her. It was puzzled, questioning. It bothered her. She pointed at the material Slughorn was lecturing about.
“You’re missing out on the lesson,” she answered. “You know? Poison prevention. It’s important.”
Funny, but it seemed to him that something had already gotten into her system already. He might have mumbled something about it, but she wasn’t close enough to hear it.
His eyes wandered off to another brunette three tables away.
“Can we talk?” he whispered in her ear before the class was over.
She looked in the direction his eyes stared, seeing long dark hair. She nodded, sensing the seriousness in his voice.
The history class that followed went on endlessly for him.
-
- - -
-
It seemed that being involved in the war did nothing to gain professors’ sympathy. Ginny Weasley pulled back her hair, tugging somewhat roughly at the roots, even though she wanted to pull it out in fistfuls, never mind if it made her unattractive or look crazy in front of her peers. She stared at her assignments, complete with comments and the pile of books in front of her.
How Hermione did it, she had no idea. The girl was clearly insane. And she hated how easy the brunette made it look.
Ginny’s hair slipped through her fingers as her head gradually came into contact with the hard surface of the desk. Through the smooth grain of the wood, she made herself breathe.
Her mind wandered along the edge of daydreams in classes, rendering her unable to concentrate. She wasn’t sleepy or tired. Quite the opposite, she felt a restless stir in her veins, and only felt alert on a broom where she could feel the rush of air between her fingers. She missed the Quidditch pitch, the enormous space behind the Burrow, any place with a large field where she had room to fly.
Her head rose from the desk and stared out of the window. She felt stifled indoors, tasted the staleness in the pages of old books she had little interest in. A somewhat depressed exhale was let out into the silent corner of the library. There was so much history within Hogwart’s walls that was lost on her. The past was nothing anyone could do anything about, she concluded. There was no reason to dwell, wade or wonder about those things.
She didn’t understand why her friends put so much emphasis on it, devoting their time with a near religious zeal.
Neville Longbottom studied dutifully herbology texts on the table beside her. Surely, he might be able to explain how to distill the essence of mandrake roots and their properties. He was a near expert. She’d heard about his weak record during his first year in flying lessons. She could certainly help him there. Quid pro quo and whatnot, she figured.
She scooted over in her seat.
“Neville,” she started sweetly. “How ‘bout I make you a deal?”
-
- - -
-
“I’ve always thought it was going to be me and you.”
“Why do you say that?” Hermione asked.
“You just seemed so obvious for me,” he paused, staring at the setting sun. “Like you complemented me or something.”
Ron touched his fingertips along the edge of his palms in a roughly formed globe - a crude illustration of what the abstract concept he was trying to articulate.
“Abbott and Costello,” she muttered softly.
“I was thinking more yin and yang,” he said. He shook his head. “Hell if I know.”
She stayed quiet, looking at him as if it were the first time she’d seen him up close.
“It’s hard to explain,” he managed vaguely, looking away from her. He wouldn’t admit it, but seeing her confused bothered him more than he’d admit. Uncertainty was not something he liked to see on her when he was search for reassurance.
He watched her shift to the left on the fallen log they used to sit on. She was trying to move away from him.
“There’s no logic to it,” she said, watching the waves crash quietly on the pebbled shore.
“Is there supposed to be?” he leaned back on his hands. “I wasn’t aware that reason was required for attraction.”
Her knees bent under her chin as she stared thoughtfully ahead. He could never understand what was going on that head of hers. She always thought too much, and didn’t vocalize her worries.
Harry had told him about those endless days during the summer when they worried about his disappearance.
In truth, he and Tonks had been sneaking around the enemy lines, trying to avoid detection. He’d been surprised at the reaction he’d received on returning. She’d hit him pretty hard, landing a punch on his shoulder before throwing her arms around him haphazardly. It was as if she didn’t expect to see him again, he thought. He remembered the wonderful fright reflected in her eyes before she kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair.
“Maybe there should be.”
“You’re telling me,” he sighed lightly. “Because I can’t understand why I can’t stop looking at her. I hate it.”
She frowned.
“Why tell me?”
“You usually know what to do about this sort of thing. It’s absolutely maddening the more I think about it.”
He paused, kicked a pebble instead.
“Her,” he corrected himself. “Whatever.”
Blunt, as he usually answered her questions. Of course, he didn’t know what exactly she had been doing since summer, trying to forget just this kind of thing in a stranger’s embrace. It hadn’t worked. But she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“You’re right. It is maddening.”
He chanced a side glance at her. She hands waved around, trying to scare a swarm of insects that had accumulated during their visit and scratched her neck.
-
- - -
-
Harry saw what appeared to be a pair of amateur burglars who were trying too hard not to be caught by being excessively sneaky in the middle of a crowd. He watched as Ron and Hermione walked through the portrait hole, robes slightly out of place. He wondered what they might have stolen. Or who the mastermind had been in the plot.
She cleared her throat, running her hand through her hair nervously until it covered her neck entirely. Incriminating. At least to the ones paying attention. Namely, only him it seemed.
He berated himself. I’m just being paranoid.
He watched as Ron spoke. Something whispered so that he couldn’t hear. Excluded once more. Ron lowered Hermione’s hand and tipped her chin slightly to the side.
Old habits die hard and the suspicion crawling down his spine couldn’t be avoided. It was a cold feeling, like someone packing snow down his shirt in a room that was too warm.
“You should put something on that. I’m sure the hospital wing has something,” Ron advised her, running his thumb over her skin.
“It’s not like I need to go to Madam Pomfrey for every single little thing,” she retorted, pressing her palm against her neck. “And I told you it was a bad idea going out to the lake at this time of the day.”
Harry’s frown deepened, but said nothing. Let it pass.
“There’s a world out there not found in books,” he warned. “Aren’t you tired of the great indoors?”
“I’ve work to do.”
She slapped Ron’s hand away, not entirely playful. She was warning him. A finger pointed toward him momentarily before turning away.
Harry couldn’t pay attention to Ginny, who was probably asking for some sort of advice for her Transfiguration homework. She made some strange motions with her hands that he didn’t entire care to decipher at the moment. Swish and flick, he dimly guessed. She’d been doing it correctly for quite some time now and didn’t know why she was asking.
The evidence was mounting. The investigation only beginning. Harry accepted the role of great inquirer once more, even if it did involve his friends. Best friends, at that.
When she passed by him, he noted the spot on the side of her throat was unnaturally pink. The tip of his quill snapped as he tried to write the next paragraph of his essay.
After rummaging around for a replacement, he found his concentration had diminished. He scribbled a note and left for the owlery three hours before his patrol that night. Ginny hear him say he needed air.
She felt heavier even though she ate less in those days.
A right turn and nothing to worry about.
Her hands dug into her coat pockets. She wandered aimlessly down the maze of corridor twists. The repetition of quiet steps in successive order was the only sound of the nocturnal route. Frankly, she was beginning to understand Hedwig the owl a little better.
To the left, and still no broken rules. Big surprise.
The quiet bothered her.
Did anyone get used to it?
To answer her own question, she supposed it took a while to get accustomed to the boredom of peace and safety. From the changes she’s experienced firsthand, she wondered if anyone appreciated the magnitude of it all.
The effort, the sacrifice that had been made for the cause - she wondered if it was really worth it? The thought of another Cornelius Fudge with adoring followers modeled after Percy Weasley made her mostly empty stomach churn. She supposed that the uneasiness that stayed was part of the side effects from constant paranoia and the sense that everything would and could be over at any moment.
She lined up one foot in front of the other, balancing on an invisible line. Equilibrium-a strange goal to try to achieve. The most impossible of ideals to uphold. It would slip from her hands too, no doubt.
Her arms stretched out at perfect right angles on a childish whim.
All that mattered was stability.
And suddenly, the heel of the shoe made a mistake and stepped on the tip of the other. She stumbled against the stone wall. So much for staying balanced, after all. It was a fragile, impermanent thing to be easily thrown off by a misplaced toe, keeping her away from realizing the very thing she strove toward.
She huffed slightly, righting herself so.
Try, try again Hermione, she thought, more out of habit of persistence than actual optimism.
When she looked up, the Fat Lady dozed off in the frame as she neared the Gryffindor entrance. Another fully conscious night of sleepwalking. Even the mornings dawned with a tangible gloom that stayed on her skin like the colorful tattoos she found in the packets of fruity gum. A shame that melancholy didn’t wash away with soap and water like the inky red butterflies of her childhood.
As she turned slowly, her ears caught the sound of a voice saying her name. She would have smiled some other time, but Harry Potter tended to alarm her with his presence as of late.
“You should be asleep, you know,” she responded dryly. “It’s my night to do patrol.”
Apparently, it wasn’t quite the response he was looking for, as he suddenly glared at her. Again, she used the usual manner of ignoring him at that moment, and began to walk away from him.
Harry felt as her robes brushed past him, producing a very cold breeze. Her constant indifference had him on edge and was the source of his distracted looks in class. His good intentions mostly extinguished, he was going to make her listen.
She had almost forgotten how strong he was when he grabbed her arm and half dragged her into a narrow hallway.
“What are you...?” she managed before her back connected with another stone wall.
The hands on her shoulders worked their way up, cupping her face. She knew she was silly not to expect the next four words out of his mouth.
“We need to talk,” he answered, staring her in her eye.
Dum, dum, dum.
Judging by the severity of his gaze, she was expecting an interrogation. Her legs stiffened and her back braced against the hard wall. This was a far cry from the brief, intimate moments they’d shared a previous season.
“Look at me.”
She closed her eyes, not to contradict him on purpose but because he sounded like he was begging. It was not the boy she knew and wondered how responsible she was for this change. A flash of that final fight came to mind, making her shiver involuntarily. Despite his grip loosening slightly, his hold was firm. He waited patiently.
“What’s happening?” he asked. “Why don’t you talk to me anymore?”
Her eyes reflected melancholy when she finally looked at him. She sighed, studying him for a moment. Her fingers reached up, prying his loosening hold from her face.
“Things change,” she said simply.
For a person that gave detailed answers in class, she was being awfully cryptic. The walking encyclopedia he’d been contemplating all summer long wasn’t giving up anything.
He smiled bitterly, turning on his heel.
“Don’t talk to me as if I don’t know that,” he said.
A few steps away from her and he frowned. He was right to feel hurt, seeing as he’d gained an impressive sum of losses in less than a decade. He briefly wondered if he should start to count her as one of them.
“You’re the only one who knows what it’s been like,” he said.
She leaned her shoulder against the wall, looking downward. She had been anticipating the awkwardness during the term, but she had been hoping to stay away from him long enough so that her eventual absence would lessen the impact of their concluding farewells. The easiest thing would have been to part ways and not know anymore. She was willing to let the distance become the cure that let her release him and make him an isolated memory.
She had McGonagall to thank for throwing a giant wrench into the plan. She wasn’t sure how much information the professor had disclosed in the meeting that followed her departure that afternoon. She didn’t want to venture to guess, even for curiousity’s sake. But the way his figure cut through the angled shapes of the school’s austerity made it hard for her to ignore him. He didn’t flaunt authority for its sake, but understood intrinsically that his actions were for a reason and always for the greater good. Her impressive vocabulary didn’t allow her to articulate the version of selflessness she was attempting for his sake.
The otherwise simple Muggle boy, very much like her, had made quite an impression on her. She hoped he’d understand someday.
“I don’t know anything,” she said softly.
When in doubt, deny, deny.
He turned to face her. She looked very different from the girl who had willing followed him through hell and back.
“Liar.”
She was willing to forsake a little truth for the something bigger than herself. If it meant bruising him a bit, so be it, she figured. Whatever was left for them to figure out wasn’t as important as minding other’s feelings.
“Let this go,” she answered.
She looked downward, her hair fell over her line of vision, partially obscuring her face. It was him who sighed this time and leaned on the wall across from her. His stare was penetrating despite hiding behind a curtain of chestnut hair.
“I can’t,” was his exasperated reply. “I need to know what this means.”
He exhaled roughly and she wondered how often he’d thought about it. The memories that circulated between them were interchangeable at times, sometimes appearing in dreams or at random times. He could recollect her childhood fears and imagined she saw his phobias and aspirations as well. Especially the hopes that revolved around her.
“Why?”
Again, that smile emerged, both chilling and predictable. Her knees shook a little under his knowing gaze. For a boy she’d spent knowing the last six years, she was struck by his sudden mysterious disposition.
“You know the answer better than I do.”
Harry could figure her out too well sometimes.
She pushed off the wall with one foot, making her way out of that lonely corridor. He grabbed her arm unexpectedly and spun her around. He wasn’t quite embracing her, but held her with an arm around her waist. He seemed to like repeating the day’s events.
“You can’t expect me to let this go,” he said in her ear.
Her hands on his chest, she felt the steady heartbeat beneath his shirt. She pushed away slowly, meeting his eyes reluctantly.
“But I can,” she said, pointing a finger at herself. “And I will.”
Actually leaving him there, however, was more difficult than she wanted to admit. Especially as he was the one blocking her escape single-handedly. It was typical of him, she thought, to wield that much influence on her. He was the one who’d taught her how to break rules, after all.
He was warm, even though she was desperately finding some way to ignore the sudden spike in her pulse caused by their contact.
“I would think that you, of all people, would need to know why this is happening. It’s what you do best, Hermione-seek answers.”
He noticed how she shivered, although no October breeze drifted in their part of the school. Emotional blackmail worked, after all.
“Stop,” she said. Her hand fisted and connected with his shoulder. “Stop it.”
For a moment, he did, feeling as though she’d been pushed enough. She was up against a barrier, both literary and figuratively.
“I’ll wait,” he told her instead.
When she looked up again, she saw the familiar sight of his messy hair. Her fingers itched at the sight. It was, as she was somewhat growing used to, a little soothing and terrifying.
When she finally did walk away, her temple burned where he had brushed away a wayward lock of her hair.
She penalized a pair of Ravenclaws twenty points apiece when she caught them in the hallway.
-
- - -
-
Ronald Weasley’s continuing fascination with an old tin box kept him from reading the assigned chapters. He turned it over in his hands, marveling quietly at how many memories resurfaced with each item it contained.
While he had been initially horrified at finding it, the metal box was quite endearing as he read over the notes, some folded in delicate origami patterns, while others were carefully put in small envelopes.
Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed like ages since he’d thought about silent corners and abrupt affection. It was probably typical, he thought, that he should desire what he could no longer have.
He could blame Viktor Krum for introducing him to jealousy.
As he read old letters, each scrawled neatly on unlined paper. He didn’t understand why she’d spoiled him rotten with attention he was never used to receiving from anyone. Call it the middle child syndrome, but he felt somewhat entitled to use that term (although the meaning was lost on him-trust Hermione to use Muggle psychology jargon to confuse him).
The door to his room opened unexpectedly, with one semi-aggravated Harry entering and slamming the door. Ron watched his friend cross the room and sit on the edge of his bed, sighing irritably.
“Something the matter?” Ron asked casually.
He carefully picked up the pieces of paper scattered around his mattress, arranging them in the small metal box as best as his memory allowed. Harry grunted something, fingers curling into a fist.
“Girls,” Harry said cryptically.
Ron picked up his bits of paper and began to stuff them indiscriminately into the box. The look on his friend’s face made him seem prone to destroying something in close proximity. Ron decided not to take any chances, snatching the last piece he’d spread out when opening the box. It hovered dangerously close to Harry’s tightening fist.
“Girls,” he complained again.
However deranged Harry seemed at the moment, Ron paused for a moment to consider his record with girls. He tended to exclude his fascination with Fleur and counted Hermione and Lavender Brown among his romantic experiences. The first one amounted to a valuable friendship and he was still wondering about the latter as he stashed the box under his pillow.
“Tell me about it, mate,” he said. “Can’t live with them.”
Harry fell backwards into the bed, frowning deeply. Ron considered his friend’s previous forays with girls and shuddered slightly. He’d never been stalked, had an attempted Amorentia drugging and been had girls arguing over him-all on top of being targeted by a dark wizard. Harry had a certain luck that even he wasn’t envious about.
“Can’t live without them,” Harry said softly.
-
- - -
-
Hermione was thankful for the lack of disturbance after her shift was over.
The soft candlelight helped calm her nerves somewhat as she sat down at the small desk to do some light reading before going to sleep. She opened the cover of A Tale of Two Cities.
And then shut it just as quickly.
A huff.
She kicked off her shoes, making sure they hit the wall with a satisfying thud. She piled her hair in a messy twist and let it fall down again.
Her skirt and socks were replaced by warm flannel bottoms. She unbuttoned her shirt, letting it slide off her shoulders. An odd warmth persisted below her ribs, even after that encounter in the hall. And the one before in the office.
She frowned, dragging her fingers heavily over her skin. Reluctantly, she wondered what he would feel like under his clothes. She shook her head violently.
It didn’t go away.
Sleep, when it finally arrived, was fitful. It was a lonely thing to experience, being an orphan. The resentment and feeling of loss that never quite went away, haunting the quiet moments stayed with her.
-
- - -
-
He dreamt of chocolate coins and outings with a family he didn’t belong.
Still, even that wasn’t enough for Harry to wake up in a good mood in the morning.
-
- - -
-
She awoke in the cold of dawn with inexplicable tears in her eyes. She rubbed them away with fists, forcing that false sentimentality down inside, bottle it up, chain it down, suppress it somehow.
Again, she relied on routine to rescue her.
As part of her morning ritual, Hermione stretched out her limbs, with her foot resting on top of the headboard of her bed as her fingers reached out for her toes. She hated the quiet of those four walls, missed the breathing of another human in her same space. She would have given anything for a roommate and given up her responsibilities as Head Girl to have one.
But that would have been irresponsible and she couldn’t bear to have that on her conscious. It was heavy enough as it was already. She blamed those early years of Sunday school and the imbedded Catholic guilt for that.
She thought of the Weasley twins and their abrupt departure from Hogwarts the previous year. While they’d grown tired of Umbridge and her antics, they’d left her with one as a parting gift. She smiled at the memory, wondering if she was capable of doing such a thing.
She slid a perfectly starched white shirt off a hanger, buttoning it up carefully. She put on her skirt in much the same manner, being conscious of how the uniform hung on her body. Her knee high white socks slid up her calves and then she tied black leather shoes in neat, symmetrical bows.
The first day of her muggle school came back to her in haunting detail when she looked at the shine of black leather. Either Dobby or one his companions had worked on them, putting black leather polish them until they could see their reflections.
Her mother had been the one to help her dress in her uniform when she’d begun that terrible first day, alone and not knowing the other children in the classroom. She was in a room full of sorrow from those who did not know how to let go.
Despite her terror that one morning in September, she’d been different from her classmates. With a valiant determination of not despairing, she’d merely hugged her mother-the world as she had known up until that point-and wanted to get through the day.
She looked at the book bag that lay beside her desk. Another day was beginning and again, she was determined to see it be over.
She could already see what her day would be like: skip breakfast (despite waking up in time for it), attend class, take notes in between staring at Harry and then avoid him for the rest of the day.
She had been dreaming lately of the last battle in the war, as she wandered with Harry through an old cemetery before apparating to the Forbidden Forest. She couldn’t bear to look at him and have the confirmation in his eyes that he dreamt of it as well. That look would undo her and with her departure so soon, she didn’t think it wise to keep in contact with him about it at all.
She sighed, sitting on the edge of her bed. Class began in an hour.
She felt cold, feeling as though her bed was far too large for her in that terrible, solitary moment. She shut her eyes, trying to block out the missing inhabitant.
-
- - -
-
She hummed muggle songs these days, much to Ron’s bewilderment. Rather than being annoyed with the minor details surrounding her, he noticed the subtle mannerisms, like her note taking in classes or how slowly she ate her dessert after dinner.
“You stick around now it may show,” she muttered softly. “I don’t know.”
He smiled a little, liking the sound of her voice, no matter how low it was. She had a soothing quality when carrying a tune, despite being slightly monotonous. He imagined the quiet rumble he would hear if he could embrace her.
Like old times, he thought as he saw her between older volumes of Hogwarts, A History and Indispensible Magickal History when she walked by.
But perhaps, he was the only one who thought that way now. She passed by the bookshelf beside him and passed a glance down that aisle. The song died immediately on her lips when she met his eyes.
“Lavender,” he said, breaking into a shy smile. “Hi.”
She returned his smile tersely.
“I was looking for this title,” she explained. “Project, you know?”
She walked down his way, glancing down at a scrap of paper.
“Transfiguration?”
She shook her head, browsing along the shelf, letting her fingers run lightly along the spines of books before stopping beside him. She found her book at her eye level on the shelf opposite from him. After consulting with the paper again, she slipped her hand over a red cover, pulling it away from a line of tan and grey books.
Remedies, printed in silver letters glared back at him in the shadows of the library when she presented it to him.
She was a long way from the girl he had known, interested love spells and random trysts in dark corners and empty corridors.
“Potions class is murder,” she said.
Yet here she was trying to find ways to save people. He watched her as she leaned on the shelf. A slow smile spread on her face, somewhat dreamily while wisps of hair fell along her cheek. A loose lock covered her eye while she looked at him.
For a girl Ginny once dubbed “motor mouth,” it was as mysterious as he had ever seen her. If he didn’t know any better, he’d call her terse and not willing to speak. He found himself liking it.
“It’s better than McGonagall. Anything she teachers is thorough,” he said. “She’s hell on academia.”
Her laughter interrupted the silence.
“You mean on students,” she said.
He smiled.
“Very true.”
He hadn’t even begun to think about his presentation for the class, which was scheduled in December-a good two months away for him to even begin contemplating the material.
Her laugh died slowly as she pushed herself away from the books with her foot. Her hand slid softly along his shoulder before leaving. Her dark hair had grown longer than he remembered. When his fingers used to brush her hair, they tended to stop at the base of her neck. Now the ends reached past her shoulder blades and he wondered if she would mind if his hands stayed on her lower back instead of the nape of her neck.
“Good luck on your presentation,” she said before leaving.
Her footsteps echoed away in the silence of the room. He continued to feel the warmth of her hand for the rest of the day. It was irritating, but not for the same reasons as he’d remembered.
-
- - -
-
“It seems that some of you aren’t doing as well in class as I would expect you to,” Minerva McGonagall said. Her stern voice carried a bit of an edge to it.
The parchment she handed to Harry contained a sharp glare.
“I would expect you to find help in order to do better,” she said pointedly. “And perhaps stop being so distracted. I understand that some of you have had a difficult time, but you shouldn’t neglect your studies.”
He got the message. And made himself not crumple the essay as he looked at it.
-
- - -
-
The tedious measurements, precise timing and time consuming preparation still wore the collective patience of teenagers six feet deep under Professor Slughorn’s scrutiny. The general consensus still held that potions was an awful class, even if Snape wasn’t teaching it any longer.
“Ron, pay attention,” Hermione snapped, flipping his book to the designated page.
“What’s going on?”
She didn’t like the frown he gave her. It was puzzled, questioning. It bothered her. She pointed at the material Slughorn was lecturing about.
“You’re missing out on the lesson,” she answered. “You know? Poison prevention. It’s important.”
Funny, but it seemed to him that something had already gotten into her system already. He might have mumbled something about it, but she wasn’t close enough to hear it.
His eyes wandered off to another brunette three tables away.
“Can we talk?” he whispered in her ear before the class was over.
She looked in the direction his eyes stared, seeing long dark hair. She nodded, sensing the seriousness in his voice.
The history class that followed went on endlessly for him.
-
- - -
-
It seemed that being involved in the war did nothing to gain professors’ sympathy. Ginny Weasley pulled back her hair, tugging somewhat roughly at the roots, even though she wanted to pull it out in fistfuls, never mind if it made her unattractive or look crazy in front of her peers. She stared at her assignments, complete with comments and the pile of books in front of her.
How Hermione did it, she had no idea. The girl was clearly insane. And she hated how easy the brunette made it look.
Ginny’s hair slipped through her fingers as her head gradually came into contact with the hard surface of the desk. Through the smooth grain of the wood, she made herself breathe.
Her mind wandered along the edge of daydreams in classes, rendering her unable to concentrate. She wasn’t sleepy or tired. Quite the opposite, she felt a restless stir in her veins, and only felt alert on a broom where she could feel the rush of air between her fingers. She missed the Quidditch pitch, the enormous space behind the Burrow, any place with a large field where she had room to fly.
Her head rose from the desk and stared out of the window. She felt stifled indoors, tasted the staleness in the pages of old books she had little interest in. A somewhat depressed exhale was let out into the silent corner of the library. There was so much history within Hogwart’s walls that was lost on her. The past was nothing anyone could do anything about, she concluded. There was no reason to dwell, wade or wonder about those things.
She didn’t understand why her friends put so much emphasis on it, devoting their time with a near religious zeal.
Neville Longbottom studied dutifully herbology texts on the table beside her. Surely, he might be able to explain how to distill the essence of mandrake roots and their properties. He was a near expert. She’d heard about his weak record during his first year in flying lessons. She could certainly help him there. Quid pro quo and whatnot, she figured.
She scooted over in her seat.
“Neville,” she started sweetly. “How ‘bout I make you a deal?”
-
- - -
-
“I’ve always thought it was going to be me and you.”
“Why do you say that?” Hermione asked.
“You just seemed so obvious for me,” he paused, staring at the setting sun. “Like you complemented me or something.”
Ron touched his fingertips along the edge of his palms in a roughly formed globe - a crude illustration of what the abstract concept he was trying to articulate.
“Abbott and Costello,” she muttered softly.
“I was thinking more yin and yang,” he said. He shook his head. “Hell if I know.”
She stayed quiet, looking at him as if it were the first time she’d seen him up close.
“It’s hard to explain,” he managed vaguely, looking away from her. He wouldn’t admit it, but seeing her confused bothered him more than he’d admit. Uncertainty was not something he liked to see on her when he was search for reassurance.
He watched her shift to the left on the fallen log they used to sit on. She was trying to move away from him.
“There’s no logic to it,” she said, watching the waves crash quietly on the pebbled shore.
“Is there supposed to be?” he leaned back on his hands. “I wasn’t aware that reason was required for attraction.”
Her knees bent under her chin as she stared thoughtfully ahead. He could never understand what was going on that head of hers. She always thought too much, and didn’t vocalize her worries.
Harry had told him about those endless days during the summer when they worried about his disappearance.
In truth, he and Tonks had been sneaking around the enemy lines, trying to avoid detection. He’d been surprised at the reaction he’d received on returning. She’d hit him pretty hard, landing a punch on his shoulder before throwing her arms around him haphazardly. It was as if she didn’t expect to see him again, he thought. He remembered the wonderful fright reflected in her eyes before she kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair.
“Maybe there should be.”
“You’re telling me,” he sighed lightly. “Because I can’t understand why I can’t stop looking at her. I hate it.”
She frowned.
“Why tell me?”
“You usually know what to do about this sort of thing. It’s absolutely maddening the more I think about it.”
He paused, kicked a pebble instead.
“Her,” he corrected himself. “Whatever.”
Blunt, as he usually answered her questions. Of course, he didn’t know what exactly she had been doing since summer, trying to forget just this kind of thing in a stranger’s embrace. It hadn’t worked. But she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“You’re right. It is maddening.”
He chanced a side glance at her. She hands waved around, trying to scare a swarm of insects that had accumulated during their visit and scratched her neck.
-
- - -
-
Harry saw what appeared to be a pair of amateur burglars who were trying too hard not to be caught by being excessively sneaky in the middle of a crowd. He watched as Ron and Hermione walked through the portrait hole, robes slightly out of place. He wondered what they might have stolen. Or who the mastermind had been in the plot.
She cleared her throat, running her hand through her hair nervously until it covered her neck entirely. Incriminating. At least to the ones paying attention. Namely, only him it seemed.
He berated himself. I’m just being paranoid.
He watched as Ron spoke. Something whispered so that he couldn’t hear. Excluded once more. Ron lowered Hermione’s hand and tipped her chin slightly to the side.
Old habits die hard and the suspicion crawling down his spine couldn’t be avoided. It was a cold feeling, like someone packing snow down his shirt in a room that was too warm.
“You should put something on that. I’m sure the hospital wing has something,” Ron advised her, running his thumb over her skin.
“It’s not like I need to go to Madam Pomfrey for every single little thing,” she retorted, pressing her palm against her neck. “And I told you it was a bad idea going out to the lake at this time of the day.”
Harry’s frown deepened, but said nothing. Let it pass.
“There’s a world out there not found in books,” he warned. “Aren’t you tired of the great indoors?”
“I’ve work to do.”
She slapped Ron’s hand away, not entirely playful. She was warning him. A finger pointed toward him momentarily before turning away.
Harry couldn’t pay attention to Ginny, who was probably asking for some sort of advice for her Transfiguration homework. She made some strange motions with her hands that he didn’t entire care to decipher at the moment. Swish and flick, he dimly guessed. She’d been doing it correctly for quite some time now and didn’t know why she was asking.
The evidence was mounting. The investigation only beginning. Harry accepted the role of great inquirer once more, even if it did involve his friends. Best friends, at that.
When she passed by him, he noted the spot on the side of her throat was unnaturally pink. The tip of his quill snapped as he tried to write the next paragraph of his essay.
After rummaging around for a replacement, he found his concentration had diminished. He scribbled a note and left for the owlery three hours before his patrol that night. Ginny hear him say he needed air.