Hello all of you in ToR-land. I'm sorry this has been so long in coming. I might've set my own record for time between new chapters. However, the life of a High School assistant principal at the end of the school year is less than accommodating for free time. Put a summer school principalship on top of that and you get….well…about a month (or more) between chapters.
I hope you are not disappointed with what you got for as long as you waited. I want to thank Soch for a great IM session that managed to shatter a bit of writer's block for the Quidditch scene. Neither CC nor I are guys, so I trust you'll let me know how I did with that Soch!
As always, big props to my "semi-colon princess" and adverb-killer extraordinaire. You all should thank Cheering Charm for her quick returns on these chapters…thankfully she takes practically no time compared to me J
I'm still thinking this is 25 chapters with an epilogue-however my June target for finishing seems to have been a bit….optimistic. Especially now that these chapters have gone from 12-15 pages a piece to what they are now…this one is 27.
(FYI - This is one of those "enhanced chapters" the scene with H/R in the library is not included on the snitch).
All hail the Triumvirate of Verbosity.
VL
(PS This chapter has now been edited to reflect some constructive criticism from Soch-it's better for it!)
Chapter 18 - The Winds of Change
Harry scanned the shelf, looking for a book that would call out, "the answer is in here!" He attended a school of witchcraft and wizardry and often wondered why the books weren't enchanted to do that very thing. In actuality, he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for.
That's probably why you can't find it.
He stepped back from the shelf and took a breath to clear his thoughts. The Christmas holidays had flown by and classes resumed faster than ever. Aside from this "project," as they dubbed it, he was swamped with homework. He needed to be in the Common Room with Hermione and Ron, working on Snape's latest foray of assignments. However, procrastination had gotten the best of him. He smiled inwardly, wondering if it was possible to channel the living. He'd had a compulsion to go to the library that Hermione would've been proud of.
So here he stood, staring at a dusty rack of books in the restricted section of the library, trying to remember why he'd come here.
You remember him…heir of Slytherin…killed your parents…would really like to see your head mounted on the London Bridge…
"I'm never going to find the answer," he mumbled under his breath.
Given the weight of the prophecy on his shoulders, he'd tried to maintain a positive outlook on the situation. But he couldn't fight the relentless onslaught of time; it marched on, whether he was prepared for the future or not. He was far more concerned about finding a viable defeat for Voldemort, than studying for his N.E.W.T.s. Hermione either understood this or was too encumbered with her own studies to mention it. If there was anything Harry was grateful for, it was that. The first two weeks of January had already slipped by and the last thing he needed was a lecture from her.
His eyes stopped on a vaguely familiar book - Magical Myths and Legends; A History of Ancient Familial Rivalries. He furrowed his brow and gently slipped it from the bookshelf. When he turned it over, examining the front cover, he suddenly remembered where he'd seen it before. This was the book Professor Dumbledore gave him for Christmas.
Admittedly, Harry hadn't cracked it open. He was rather convinced Hermione gave it to him, until he read the card. He read it so many times he memorized its brief inscription.
Dear Harry,
I thought you might find the information in this book of some interest. I hope you enjoy it.
Sincerely,
Professor Dumbledore
He'd become increasingly worried about the Headmaster. He looked older than Harry had ever seen him and he seemed less erudite in their conversations. Dumbledore worked with the trio frequently, usually leaving at curfew, claiming the necessity of a warm blanket and his bed. Now, he'd sent Harry a book for Christmas - and a history book at that. Short of scheduling him into additional potions classes, Harry couldn't think of a gift that might excite him less.
However, as he looked at it now, the book suddenly became more intriguing.
Why would a history book be in the restricted section? Moreover, why would Dumbledore send me a restricted book for Christmas?
He looked quizzically at the book when a crash from just outside the gate roused him from his thoughts. He absentmindedly reshelved the book to investigate the disruption, making a mental note to give his Christmas gift a thorough once-over that evening. As he reached the gate, he saw a young Gryffindor, with his belongings strewn about the floor. He was scrambling after an ink bottle and trying to collect his parchment at the same time. His bag lay on the floor with a torn shoulder strap. Harry stifled the smile brought on by the other student's amusement, and bent down to help him collect his things.
He gathered a few spell books and reached for a quill that had slid away. Just as his hand reached it, a shoe, nearly squashing Harry's hand, firmly planted itself atop the feather. He snapped his eyes up, knowing full well whom he would see. He drew himself up slowly, silently appreciative that although he wasn't as tall as Ron, he was still able to look down at this git - even if he only outmatched him by a mere inch.
"Malfoy," Harry said coolly.
"Potter," Malfoy drawled.
"What are you doing here?"
"I thought I'd help this ickle first-year gather the rubbish he just dropped all over the floor."
"You've never helped anyone but yourself," Harry's voice darkened.
"Tut, tut, Potter. How quickly we forget the Hog's Head Tavern," Malfoy said, feigning affront.
Harry didn't respond. He wasn't sure how to do so. It was true. Draco stood with he and Ron, against Lucius Malfoy, during their encounter last year. But, Harry was still disquieted nonetheless. He'd been programmed for years to appraise Malfoy as a self-important, egotistical, supremacist whose actions were entirely based on some inner equation that placed him ahead of everyone else. But for as eloquent as that sounded, he'd also called Hermione a Mudblood more times than Harry could count - and that was something Harry was not likely to get over quickly.
"People can change, Potter," Malfoy said, lifting his foot and reaching down to pick up the quill.
"Despite what happened last year, I don't believe you're one of them," Harry replied, plucking the quill from Malfoy's fingers. They held each other's venomous stare for a fleeting moment before the corner of Malfoy's lip turned skyward and his eyes sparkled brightly. Harry wrapped his fingers around the wand in his pocket, prepared - if not anxiously awaiting - the inevitable. To his surprise, it didn't come.
Malfoy, silently turned away and left the library. Harry watched him go, only vaguely aware of shocked eyes that had watched the entire scene.
"Wow. They weren't kidding about the two of you were they?" Mark Evans said quietly.
Harry snapped his eyes to Mark's. "Who wasn't kidding?" he asked sharply.
"Everyone. You know some of my year were told their sorting test was to get you both to shake hands without hexing each other." He chuckled. "Thank you for helping me with my books." He held out his hands to collect his things from Harry. Harry picked up his bag and repaired the handle with a quick incantation before handing it over as well. "Thanks," Mark replied appreciatively.
"No problem," Harry replied.
An awkward silence befell the two as Harry searched for the next thing to say. He wasn't sure why, but something about Mark Evans intrigued him. He'd given it a lot of though over the course of the term. Perhaps it was because they had something in common, if only their muggle upbringing and Dudley's propensity to beat them senseless. Perhaps it was the familiarity of his last name. He knew his mother's maiden name was Evans as well. Perhaps it was his desperate desire to find a family he'd thought he'd lost - or create one in their conspicuous absence. Regardless of the possibilities, Harry was compelled to find out as much about this young wizard as he could.
"So, you're adopted?" he asked speculatively.
"Yes," Mark answered without reserve.
"How long have you been with your family?" They both began walking to a vacant desk where Mark could reorganize the belongings from his bag.
"Since I was very little." He looked at Harry appraisingly. "You and I are not that different. I don't remember my parents either." Harry nodded silently.
"Have you ever thought about finding them?"
"No," Mark said flatly.
Harry's face furrowed in confusion. He couldn't comprehend someone not wanting to see their parents if they were given the opportunity. Mark seemed to grasp what Harry was feeling.
"You don't have parents because they were taken from you. Mine threw me away."
How do you respond to something like that?
"It's okay, Harry. I've gotten used to it. And besides, my adopted family loves me very much - I'm really very lucky to have the family I do," Mark said as he continued stuffing his bag.
"I didn't think there was anyone named 'Evans' living in that community," Harry responded in a futile attempt to navigate the conversation into happier waters.
"There isn't. Evans was my birth mother's name. My adopted family is the Smythe's," Mark replied nonchalantly. "They never changed my name. They said that my experience was as much a part of who I am as roots are to a tree. So, my name stayed Mark Evans," he said somewhat sadly. After a moment, his eyes lit up and he looked at Harry. "I guess they were right. You should've seen them when that Hogwart's owl arrived." He smiled broadly. "I imagine you had the same experience with the Dursley's," he asked.
"Yes." Harry laughed remembering his first impression of Hagrid and the look on Uncle Vernon's face.
"Well, I need to get going. Curfew is coming up and I'd hate for some rule-abiding Head Boy to give me detention," Mark said spryly.
"If I see one, I'll let you know," Harry replied with a raised eyebrow.
Mark chuckled as he threw his mended bag over his shoulder and swept from the library toward Gryffindor tower.
***
"Where's the other book?" Ron asked.
"What other book?" Hermione replied without looking up from the pages she was flipping through.
"I don't know, it was green, it had gold lettering on the front…" he remarked as he sorted through a stack of books on the table.
"What was the title, Ron," Hermione said with growing agitation.
"If I knew that Hermione, I wouldn't be asking about it," Ron said flatly. He peered around at the remaining books on the table without finding the one he was looking for. It was driving him crazy. In matter of fact, this entire process was driving him crazy. He had poured over more textbooks in the last five months than he had in five years. Unlike Hermione, he wasn't obsessed with outperforming every wizard who ever lived on his N.E.W.T.S, but he was still disconcerted that this "project" had usurped so much of his time. He felt as if every waking moment was spent in this library and his resentment was growing.
The four walls of this room were beginning to feel like a prison and the endless pages of textbooks were its guards. He looked over toward a group of giggly second year students and wondered why his life couldn't me more like theirs. They didn't appear to have a care in the world. He reasoned their biggest concern was which boy to attend the Valentine dance with. His eyes floated from table to table, each playing out a similar scene, and a weight lodged itself in his chest. The weight of what he was not sure, but it was stifling the very air he tried to breathe.
"Ron," Hermione said softly as she laid a hand on his arm.
"What," he said shortly, snapping his eyes back to hers.
"Let me help you," she whispered.
"Help me with what? I can't find the bloody book," Ron hissed.
"No," she grasped his arm tighter. "Let me help you," she reiterated.
Staring at her benignly, he cottoned onto her implied meaning but had no idea what she was planning to do. She must've taken his silence as a mandate to proceed. She turned to face him fully, reaching between them, while her hand from his arm slid down to grasp his palm. She turned him in his chair and lowered her head in concentration. Ron gave a fleeting glance over the tall stack of books to catch Harry's interested green eyes looking back. He was marginally concerned that Harry would have some issue with whatever Hermione was doing. He didn't appear to, and Ron's concern quickly vanished.
Without understanding what Hermione was doing, but understanding it must've been coming from her, he felt the tension release from his shoulders. His pounding heart tempered its stride and the heat from his angered face ebbed away. He looked back to Hermione, noticing the features of her face furrowed in concentration. It occurred to him that this time in the library was not so terrible. After all, he had no intention of spending his time with giggly girls and frankly wasn't that motivated to study for N.E.W.T.s to begin with. If he couldn't be at the pitch (and in the blinding snowstorm that erupted outside that was rather impossible) then why not spend this time working toward finding a way to defeat Voldemort. These were his best friends, and the only way any of them would have a "normal" life was to see this prophecy through to the end. And he would just as soon fight to the same death Harry might be condemned to if it could ensure "the happily ever after" for the people he loved.
Hermione looked up and met Ron's eyes. They smiled warmly and she wrapped her arms around him in a supportive embrace. With a short peck to the top of her head, they returned to their studies.
***
"What did you think of the idea I left for you last night?" Merc asked quietly as she flipped through her arithmancy book. Hermione looked up from her parchment as a contemplative expression crossed her features.
"Well," she began hesitantly. "It shows a bit of promise."
"You said that about the last three things I found."
"Well, I will admit this one is intriguing," Hermione clarified.
Merc looked around the room, finding Professor Vector consumed in an equation at the chalkboard, before opening her mouth to speak. Just before it leapt from her throat, she decided better of her comment. She had been working with Hermione, Harry, and Ron for several weeks on the project they'd told her about. She knew it must harbor some matter of importance for the sheer amount of time she saw them spending on its solution. The fact that she'd seen Professor Dumbledore's handwriting on several bits of parchment only fostered her concern. She wasn't being told everything and it was clearly getting to her.
She understood that she was likely helping with some greater cause. Part of her felt like she should be honored to contribute. But, she wasn't. She was angry. They weren't telling her the whole truth and she knew it. She'd spent a great deal of her free time looking for a means to defend against the Avada Kedavara and wasn't appearing to get anywhere. Every suggestion or hypothesis she posed never seemed to strike anyone as anything more than a "remote possibility." She thought her latest theory might at least raise an eyebrow.
Hermione did not look impressed.
She returned her attention to the assignment in front of them, attempting to put on the façade she used with nearly everyone. It wasn't working. She wasn't doing an adequate job of appearing nonchalant and she knew it. Furthermore, she knew why.
It wasn't supposed to be like this with Hermione. Distant acquaintances used her for the workhorse in a study group. Young Ravenclaws who'd procrastinated too long begged for her notes. Disinterested Slytherins willingly volunteered to be in her group so she could find the answers while they discussed their ever-impressive social calendars. Hermione was not only brilliant in her own right, but also one of the only friends she truly had. She wasn't supposed to do this.
Merc jabbed her quill in the inkwell and scribbled down the appropriate numerical sequence for soothing a restless Aquarian during the waning moon cycle. Somewhere in her churning discontent, she'd begun chastising herself.
You should've known better. This always happens.
Shut it, this is Hermione. She's not like everyone else.
Then why is she lying to you?
She's not! I think….
So ask her.
Merc looked up from her parchment speculatively. Hermione was engrossed in the assignment. She had marked two pages in the text and methodically flipped the pages back and forth, comparing the information she'd found. Merc, a defeated expression on her face, returned to her studies.
Coward.
I'm in Ravenclaw for a reason.
Fine….Smart coward.
Sod off.
"We aren't getting anywhere are we?" Hermione said in a distant voice. Merc looked up from her assignment quizzically. They had been working for less than an hour, but were making fine progress completing it. The progress they'd made nearly ensured she would have time for the History essays she'd not had the opportunity to complete.
"What do you mean?" Merc argued, pointing to the parchment in front of them.
"I'm not talking about arithmancy."
The realization dawned on Merc like the morning sunlight blinding off newly fallen snow. "Oh." She couldn't say much more. She didn't know where they were supposed to be going, and therefore couldn't comment on their progress getting there. However, she did know that any expanse of time conversing about this subject was likely to light her fire. She was just about to mention that when Hermione reached across the table and laid her hand over Merc's.
"I know you're frustrated with this. I know you're angry with me." Merc suddenly hated having an empath for a friend. "You have to trust me," Hermione said with pleading eyes. "Please."
Merc eyed her suspiciously, took a deep breath and asked the question she'd been thinking about for weeks. "Why won't you tell me the truth?"
Hermione pulled her hand away and picked innocuously at the table. "It's not my place to tell you." This was about as unsatisfying an answer as any Merc could've imagined.
She looked at Hermione with a dumbfounded expression. "So, you are lying to me."
"I am not!" Hermione said, clearly taken aback by the accusation.
Merc crossed her arms on the table and looked directly at Hermione, the anger welling in her chest. "Are you, or are you not telling me the whole truth about this project."
Hermione looked away, shoulders collapsing as she let out a captive breath. "That's what I thought." Merc returned to her arithmancy, if only in show, and flipped the pages in her book curtly.
"Merc," Hermione said in a quiet voice.
"What?" she replied, not removing her glare from the parchment before her.
"Please look at me." Although her quill stopped moving, her head did not rise. Merc silently cursed her loose tongue. She knew what Hermione was doing. Unfortunately, they had too many study breaks in the library where they did nothing but talk about…nothing. Hermione knew Merc couldn't stay mad at someone if she had to look them in the eye.
"Please," she reiterated.
Her desire to please her friend commanded her as the Imperius had during their fourth year Defense classes. She drew a breath and met Hermione's eyes. Her friend said the one thing she really didn't expect.
"I'm sorry," Hermione said quietly. "I never should've brought you into this if I couldn't tell you everything. It was selfish of me. I wanted you to help us so I wouldn't feel as though the burden was entirely on my shoulders. I used you." Hermione finally broke eye contact with a defeated expression. "I really am sorry."
Merc had no idea how to respond to this. If she was angry with Hermione before, she was angry with herself now. What's more, she was angry with herself for being angry with Hermione and sat frozen in the chair wondering how her emotions could be entirely negated in the course of five sentences. In the end, she did the only thing that felt right.
"It's okay, Hermione." She reached across the table and took her hand. Hermione's eyes glistened as they smiled together. "I'm sure you'd tell me if you could. You're just going to have to be more creative in telling me I'm two cows short of a herd the next time I find something promising." Merc chuckled at her own joke.
"You still want to help?" Hermione asked incredulously.
"Do you still need me?"
"Yes."
"That's all I need to hear."
Hermione's face broke into a broad smile and she happily returned to her Arithmancy assignment just as the bell announced the end of class. Merc checked her watch, not believing the time had passed as quickly as it had. She stood up and began collecting her things. Before she had the chance to suggest lunch, her stomach growled maliciously.
Hermione looked up with a raised eyebrow and smirked knowingly.
"I'm starving," Merc said, making no attempt to look embarrassed. "Let's get something to eat before I wither away to nothing right in this room." She threw her bag over her shoulder and started for the door. Hermione caught up with her, her face barely maintaining its composure. "What?" Merc asked, looking around to see if she'd missed something humorous.
"Nothing," Hermione replied laughingly. "Sometimes you remind me a bit too much of Ron."
"Oh," Merc replied flatly.
Ron Weasley was a subject she'd rather not explore. She'd done rather well not thinking about him for the better part of at least two hours. She wasn't even sure why she thought of him as much as she did other than to conclude he was the most puzzling individual on the Earth. The mere thought of him confused her entirely, which is why she chose not to think of him at all. However, for as much as she'd like to avoid the subject, her insidious propensity to work every problem to a successful conclusion compelled her to think of him incessantly. Until Hermione mentioned his name she'd, thankfully, not thought of him once since the beginning of class.
"Everything alright?" Hermione asked as they walked out of the classroom together.
"Fine," Merc replied quickly. "Why do you ask?"
Hermione didn't answer. Merc could feel her eyes on her as they walked the corridor and she quickly thought of any available topic to change the subject. Settling on the one thing nearly everyone was discussing, she continued. "So, what are you wearing to the Valentine Ball? No doubt who you're going with I presume," Merc asked brightly.
"I have no idea."
Merc stopped abruptly. "What?"
"About what I'm going to wear," Hermione said, looking at Merc amusedly. "I'm going to the ball with Harry of course." Their steps fell in line with each other as they continued toward the Great Hall. "I really only have one formal gown, and I wore it to the Yule Ball. There's another Hogsmeade weekend before Valentine's," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Maybe we can go shopping together?"
"Shopping for what?"
"New robes for the Ball," Hermione said disbelievingly. "You are going aren't you?"
"No," Merc replied. She couldn't understand why Hermione would even ask that question. They'd had this discussion before the Yule Ball during their fourth year. Although three years had passed, nothing had changed.
"For heaven's sake, why not?" Hermione exclaimed.
Merc responded with an incredulous chuckle. "For the same reason I didn't go to the Yule Ball." Hermione stood in the corridor, clearly trying to remember what those reasons were. Feeling the need to alleviate the confusion, Merc continued. "No one has asked me to go."
Hermione, appearing shaken from her thoughts replied, "Oh, that's just ridiculous! This is the last opportunity you'll have to attend something like this at Hogwarts." She raised her hands to the walls around them. "All of this will be over before we know it. You have to come, Merc!"
"So I can stand along the wall, trying to look imperturbable, while blissfully happy couples snog each other senseless on the dance floor? No thank you, Hermione. I've been an unwilling wallflower my entire life. I'm certainly not going to look for an opportunity to be conspicuously disregarded." Merc hadn't expected that to come out as brutally as it had, but she couldn't help it. She was not a social butterfly. She wasn't even the moth beating itself senseless against the windows looking in on the party.
"What if you had a date?"
"Hermione," Merc scoffed. "Haven't you heard any of the conversations in this castle over the last few weeks? Everyone already has a date! If there was someone out there who actually noticed me, I think they would've asked by now."
"Ron doesn't have a date."
"Last time I checked, the concept of a "date" was predicated on the idea that the wizard actually like the witch."
"How do you know he doesn't?"
"Because it's me, Hermione. I've never been asked on a date in my life. I've never even been kissed." Hermione's eyes widened. "Shocking, but true. I've got to be the only seventeen year old girl in the world who has quite literally never been noticed by the opposite sex." Hermione's mouth was agape. Merc laughed imperceptibly. "Don't give it a thought, Hermione. I'm used to being invisible," she said quietly.
As if to prove the point, at that moment Merc was knocked to the side of the corridor by a group of passing students. She threw out her hand and caught the cool stone wall to steady herself before she turned to see who'd failed to notice her this time. When she saw him, she thought better of the situation. It's not that he didn't see her, he just didn't care.
"What in the world is the matter with you, Malfoy?" Hermione hissed. "You knocked her clear across the corridor!"
"Hermione," Merc said quietly, doing her best to intercede. Of all the things she didn't like, confrontation was on the top of the list. It's why she rarely argued with anyone. She couldn't stand it. She wasn't sure where any of it came from; she'd had a happy childhood. She'd had a loving family. Arguments, while infrequent, were certainly not foreign to her existence. But she didn't handle them well. In some dark corner of her mind, she figured arguing with the few people that did speak to her would only drive them away. She generally settled for a well-placed insult (which, by design, most combatants wouldn't understand) that would offer her the opportunity to exit the situation while getting the "last word." But, even when she emerged "victorious," the argument would plague her for days, if not weeks, following. That was the worst part about her constant musing over Ron. It wasn't what he said to her that night outside Gryffindor tower, it was the tone of his voice. She couldn't remember much of what he'd said, but she'd never forget the timbre of his voice as he said it.
So much for not thinking about Ron.
She was drawn from her thoughts as she realized Malfoy was looking at her scathingly. She noticed Pansy Parkinson clamoring toward them with a scowl. "There you are Draco!" She glared between Merc and Hermione. "Whatever are you wasting your time with this lot for? We've been looking all over for you," she said as she fell to a stop next to him.
Pansy's arrival also heralded the arrival of the remarkably dim Crabbe and Goyle. Given the number of people now filling the corridor around them, "flight" was definitely not an option; therefore, Merc chose the former of the mantra. She flicked her eyes toward Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle and back to Malfoy. "I'm surprised they found you, did you have to write down the directions for them, or actually draw a map?"
"I don't know who you think you are!" Pansy barked.
"I'd be shocked if I thought you actually knew anything," Merc replied without hesitation.
"We were just discussing your boyfriend's lack of manners," Hermione added before Pansy could string together a response.
Malfoy rounded on Hermione. His eyes were flashing. He stepped toward her menacingly. Merc was duly impressed that Hermione didn't flinch. She stood there stoically with him hovering over her for what seemed an eternity. Merc couldn't read his expression. He was either looking for an appropriate response, or deciding if he should use the one he already had. Merc silently prepared for the hex that Hermione was bound to throw off when he called her a 'mudblood.' She could see the word seeping from every pore in his body. It was only a matter of time before it erupted from his mouth.
"Pansy and I are not dating…Granger," he said through a tightly clenched jaw. "I might have thought to apologize had your friend not decided to open her mouth as thoughtlessly as you do."
"If there's anyone in this castle who is completely lacking in concern for another human being Malfoy, it's you. Don't lecture me on thoughtlessness, ferret," Hermione said derisively. Merc gripped the wand in the front pocket of her robes, silently begging this to end now before it turned into a Filch beckoning fire-fight in the corridor.
Malfoy scoffed. "You and Potter have a memory to rival Gilderoy Lockhart."
Back down, Hermione. Let it go.
This is Hermione Granger you're talking about.
I know. That's what I'm afraid of.
Hermione glowered at Malfoy, appearing to fish through a list of appropriate retorts. If there was one thing Hermione was incapable of, it was backing down from a fight. Merc tried to mention that to her several times over the course of their friendship - usually when Hermione was obsessing about the latest row with Ron - but she could never find the words, or the courage, to do so. The tension between Malfoy and Harry was legend and it translated completely to Hermione and Ron. If he didn't back down, she wouldn't either.
Merc held her breath, quickly glancing around the corridor for some measure of escape, or rescue, from what was quickly becoming an unnecessarily poor situation. Amazingly, the resolution was directly in front of her.
Malfoy straightened up and adjusted his robes haughtily. He glanced back toward Merc, an indiscriminate glimmer in his eyes, and returned his attention to Hermione. Without looking at his cohort, he replied, "Come on, Pansy. We'll be late for lunch." Not surprisingly, Crabbe and Goyle were the first to move the scrum down the corridor toward the Great Hall.
As the crowd passed, leaving Hermione and Merc alone in the corridor, they both began to speak simultaneously.
"Why do you put up with that?"
"Why do you have to stir things up?"
They both tried to answer the other's question, each time speaking over each other once again until they finally conceded what they already knew at the outset. These were two long-standing questions they would never be able to produce satisfactory answers for. As far as Merc was concerned, that was especially true on an empty stomach. She gathered her bag from the floor and playfully bumped Hermione's shoulder.
"Come on, let's eat." They walked down the corridor in silence. The duration of silence eventually strained the limits of Merc's tolerance. "What's the matter?"
They entered the Great Hall together. Hermione's eyes floated to the Slytherin table where Malfoy was absent-mindedly stabbing his baked potato. "He's hiding something." Merc scoffed as she readjusted her bag on her shoulder.
"No offense, Hermione. I'm not even an empath and I could've told you that."
"What?" Hermione asked benignly.
Merc smiled. "This is Draco Malfoy were talking about. He's probably hiding the skeletons of small muggle children under his four-poster." Hermione maintained her stare across the hall. Merc was decidedly underwhelmed with Hermione's reaction to the joke. "Or he's sporting a black leather thong under those robes."
That worked.
Hermione looked at Merc and burst into laughter. After regaining her composure she replied, "I guess you're right."
Merc looked toward the Gryffindor table, noticing Ron and Harry had saved Hermione her customary seat. "I think they're expecting you," she said inclining her head toward the table where Ron and Harry were curiously looking on. Hermione smiled and nodded affirmatively. "I'll see you later."
She watched Hermione settle herself at the table and launch into an animated tale (no doubt describing their encounter with Malfoy) and chuckled to herself as she sat down at a deserted length of the Ravenclaw table and extracted a novel from her bag for company. With a sigh, she helped herself to a rather unladylike portion of mince pie and flipped the dog-eared book open.
***
"Hermione, dear! I certainly didn't expect you today," Madam Pomfrey said brightly as Hermione strode into the deserted hospital wing. She drew to a near immediate stop and wondered if she shouldn't have requested an appointment.
"Er - Professor McGonagall told me you wanted to see me about my lessons," Hermione said uneasily.
"Yes, yes…but it's a warm Saturday, especially for early February. The sun is brighter than it's been in months and there's a Quidditch match today. I wouldn't expect any student to be electing extra study time," she replied.
"Well, I'm hardly the sporting girl. I generally only watch Gryffindor matches to support Ron and Harry. I thought my progress with you was more important than boring myself into a stupor," Hermione reasoned.
"And you had nothing better to do with your Saturday since Ron and Harry are undoubtedly watching the match," Madam Pomfrey said knowingly.
"Ugh," Hermione exclaimed as she flopped onto a vacant bed. "Can you teach me how to do that?"
"Do what?"
"That? You're omnipotent or something," Hermione said jokingly.
Madam Pomfrey laughed aloud. "Dear, I've been around teenage boys obsessed with Quidditch for the better part of this century. I have no knowledge or special power that life experience has not imparted." Hermione smiled at her. "Besides, your Harry is exactly like his father. Poor Ms. Evans," Pomfrey chuckled. "That poor soul sat through more stupefying discussions of proper Quaffle control than any girl I've ever seen."
"Except for me."
"Well," Pomfrey smiled as she folded a blanket and laid it on the end of the bed. "Also like his father, Harry has impeccable taste in women. You are very much like his mother was at that age."
Hermione smiled appreciatively as she continued her rant. "And they talk about it incessantly. Especially Ron! I'm rather glad he's found his niche with this captaincy, but honestly, does every conversation have to end with some new found technique to increase broom speed?" Hermione said exasperatedly. Madam Pomfrey merely sniggered at Hermione's frustration and began organizing the potions in an ornate glass cabinet hanging on the adjacent wall.
They continued to catch up with each other over the course of the next half hour. Not surprisingly to anyone, Hermione progressed through her empathy lessons with her trademark feverish speed. By the holidays, she'd stopped visiting the hospital wing entirely. Madam Pomfrey changed her lessons to something more fitting of an independent study, serving only as a consultant when Hermione began new skills. In all, Hermione had done beautifully with her "gift."
She could regularly assess the emotions of those around her. Of course, the stronger the emotion, the easier it was to discern. She spent the majority of her time recently attempting to feel beyond the obvious and into the hidden emotions. Madam Pomfrey once told her that the true impetus and motivation for any person was not in the obvious face they showed the world, but viciously guarded beneath the exterior. She'd gone so far to describe it as the "stranger" within, an image that unsettled Hermione, if only because it invariably lodged a muggle rock song in her head for hours afterward.
She'd extended her independent study to her friends first. Merc proved a difficult "stranger" to find, but she felt rather confident that she'd been successful in her attempts. Harry was an open book, at least to Hermione so there was little mystery left in him. Ron was equally as unguarded with Hermione, but she had been discomforted with how stressed he'd been of late. He had been quick to anger and generally confused most of the time. Between he and Ginny's obvious trepidation around any of the trio, Hermione finally put an explanation to the part of empathy she hated most.
She could feel if there was a problem, but empathic ability gave her no insight into solving it.
She knew Malfoy was deceitful. She knew Ron was confused and irritable. She knew Merc was scared to death that anyone see her for who she was, and Ginny…she was a conundrum all to herself. But, for all Hermione knew, she had no idea as to why any of those emotions existed. And the answers couldn't be found in a book. They were found within the people themselves, and Hermione's people skills were less than legendary.
"Well, I suppose we should discuss the reason I asked you here," Pomfrey said, walking Hermione toward her office.
"Something new?"
"Yes. You've done a brilliant job with reading other's emotions, especially the most outward of them. You've progressed faster than I expected projecting your emotions to others." Madam Pomfrey organized some papers on her desk.
"So," Hermione asked hesitantly. "What's next?"
Madam Pomfrey looked up from her desk and smiled warmly. "Now comes the difficult part."
"Difficult?" Hermione asked incredulously. Little did anyone know she practiced these skills in nearly every interaction she'd had. It was more than difficult, it was exhausting. Certainly, it couldn't get any tougher than it was.
"Reading the emotions of others is the spectator sport of empathy. It doesn't require any real control on your part. You need only use your intuition, logic, and heart to read what's being thrown at you. Imparting your emotions to others is not much more advanced. It's not much more difficult than steering a conversation to your favor. " Pomfrey raised an eyebrow wryly. "I dare say you have a bit of practice with winning verbal altercations."
Hermione felt her cheeks tinge as she thought back to the maelstrom of rows she and Ron had engaged in over the years. "Sheilding is the near reverse of that concept." Her face darkened. "I won't euphemize this for you Hermione. It will be fantastically difficult for you, but you must master the skill."
"Why is it so important?"
Madam Pomfrey crossed her arms over the desk and drew a breath. "Do you remember your summer?"
Hermione looked away. "Of course."
"A lot of things happened to you that you were unable to control." Hermione nodded. "Exploding dishes, ruthless nightmares, even the ability to apparate long before any of your classmates; each of these things were beyond your control, and caused by dark emotions."
"Dark emotions?"
"Fear, hate, despair," Pomfrey clarified. "And all before you, or anyone else, truly realized your empathic gift."
Hermione stared blankly across the desk. While she understood what Pomfrey was saying, she was not able to make the connection as to its importance. Fortunately, the mediwitch didn't make her wait long. "Imagine if the wrong people, Death Eaters for example, knew of your abilities. A wizard skilled in dark magic - and most of them are - will use your gift against you. Without shielding your emotions from them, and theirs from you, you can be controlled as easily as by an Imperius."
"And it wouldn't be an unforgivable," Hermione said darkly.
"Not that a Death Eater would mind if it was, but it makes their efforts nearly impossible to trace," Pomfrey replied.
Hermione sat up in the chair and brushed her robes needlessly. She raised her eyes to her mentor and asked, "What do I do?" Madam Pomfrey's face broke into a wide smile.
***
"Oh, Come on Hooch! That was a foul!" Ron shouted over the angry voices of other spectators. Harry was scowling right next to him. They begrudgingly sat down together, keeping a suspicious, but innocuous eye on Vincent Crabbe. For all practical purposes, Slytherin was slaughtering Ravenclaw; in part because the snakes had not bothered themselves to play by the rules, and also due to the markedly poor showing of several Ravenclaw players - Merc among them. Crabbe and Goyle, the two beaters Syltherin chose to play whenever they felt the need to be particularly brutal, we're doing a wonderful job of sending bludgers at the heads of every Ravenclaw they could find. Madam Hooch had apparently decided to pace herself in whistling the fouls.
"I almost wish they'd get the snitch to put Ravenclaw out of its misery," Ron said solemnly. "This is hard to watch."
"If they had a seeker who could catch the snitch," Harry shouted as Malfoy glided past their seats, "I'm sure it would be over." Harry looked at Ron and sat back in his seat. "As it is, we could be here for another four hours." Ron crossed his arms and studied the formations the Slytherin chasers were using.
"I hope they use that pattern with us," Ron said with a raised eyebrow. "I have got just the strategy to get past that." Harry looked over and smiled as the Slytherins, having scored another goal, leapt to their feet again. "Bloody hell," Ron lamented.
Harry couldn't help but agree with Ron's sentiment. He didn't particularly care for any team that wasn't Gryffindor, but watching Slytherin win was tantamount to extra detention with Delores Umbridge. He began to think Hermione had the right idea. She'd chosen to skip the match and visit Madam Pomfrey rather than surrender her day to a torturous Quidditch match. Harry buried his eyes in his hand, shaking his head methodically.
"What?" Ron questioned.
"Malfoy," Harry replied.
"What about him?"
"Well, he's flitting about the South end," Harry said, throwing his hand toward the Slytherin seeker.
"So?"
Harry moved his hand quickly, clamping down on the top of Ron's head, forcibly turning it to the space directly in front of their seats. "Oh." The snitch was darting around aimlessly mere feet from where Harry and Ron sat. Harry had the overwhelming urge to snatch it out of the air and chuck it at Malfoy. After a few moments, it became entirely obvious that the only person who hadn't seen the snitch was the Seeker himself.
Slytherin fans were shouting across the pitch, flailing their arms wildly in the direction of the snitch. Malfoy caught a glimpse of his quarry and darted for the stands directly in front of Harry and Ron. Not surprisingly to Harry, the snitch scampered away before Malfoy crossed half the distance of the pitch.
Harry gave a fleeting glance toward Ron before launching into a derisive comment about Malfoy's eyesight only to be stopped short. Ron didn't appear to be paying much attention to the game. He was staring blankly across the pitch toward the treeline in the distance.
"What is it?" Harry asked interestedly.
"Have you ever had the feeling you're being watched?"
Harry felt a sudden tingle climb his spine and followed Ron's gaze toward the Forbidden Forest. He scanned the tree line curiously. His stomach flipped uncomfortably. For the briefest of moments he'd expected to see a great black dog meandering among the trees. He was about to chastise himself internally for failing to remember the reality of Sirius' death when his eyes caught a dark flutter among the distance foliage.
He leapt from his seat, crossing in front of Ron, and stepping to the edge of the stands. Ron appeared beside him instantly, looking toward the same spot. "You see it don't you?" Ron asked.
"Yeah," Harry replied. They squinted their eyes, both trying to make out the figure in the woods. Wild screams erupted behind them as the student commentator announced two successive goals scored by Merc Thompson. Ron glanced toward the scoreboard while Harry kept his eyes firmly locked on the forest. The dark figure hadn't moved. If he didn't know better he'd have thought it was staring him down. Harry blinked his eyes, adjusting his glasses in an attempt to make out the immobile shape. In doing so, he lost visual contact with it entirely. It simply disappeared into the woods. Harry scanned the trees to no avail. It was gone.
"It was probably some creature for Hagrid's next lesson," Ron said distantly. Harry suddenly felt a bit silly. Ron was right. There were an inordinate number of animals roaming the forest at any given time, for all he knew, it was a thestral or a centaur investigating the noise from the stadium.
"Ron!" Ginny barked. "You're the one who demanded the team scout this match! Are you even planning to watch it?"
Harry looked past Ron and noticed Seamus and Neville whispering secretively to each other. He and Ron took their seats and returned their waning attention to the match. Harry glanced back toward the forest as he noticed Ron's shoulders tense. He turned his head to the pitch just in time to duck as Merc Thompson careened over the stands, avoiding a well-aimed bludger from Goyle. Whereas most of the stands began shouting insults toward the Slytherin beater, Ron's eyes hadn't left Merc. She was hovering just a few feet away, adjusting the black leather boot resting against her broomstick.
Hermione had explained that Merc, while brilliant in academics, was less than adept in the areas of social maneuvering. At this point, Harry had to agree. Ron's mouth was conspicuously agape as she adjusted her stride over the broom. She grabbed the end of the broomstick and pressed herself against its length, stretching her shoulders. To say it was a bit provocative was an understatement, and Merc was obviously unaware of exactly how she looked to those in the stands. It was a typical way for players to loosen the muscles that would tire after a few hours of flying; Harry had done it more times than he could count, after watching that display however, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to do it again without thinking of the look on Ron's face.
She sat up, ran her hands through her hair, and pulled a few loose strands into the elastic band at the nape of her neck and darted back into the game. She'd barely had time to drop into formation when it happened.
The bludger left Crabbe's bat with a sickening smack. She'd heard it, but hesitated a moment too long before looking around. She threw a hand up in a vain attempt to stop its approach but it was too late. The bludger connected with her right side and sent her tumbling off her broom toward the grassy pitch below. The crowd let out a collective groan and Ron leapt from his seat as she fell.
Thankfully, she was less than fifteen feet from the ground and the melting snow softened the surface and cushioned her fall. But, it was still disconcerting to hear her body connect with the ground. Madam Hooch's whistle blew immediately upon impact and several of her teammates sped to the place where she lay. The first to arrive was a tall, and rather good-looking boy who dropped off his broom and crouched on the ground next to her. From the look on Ron's face, it could only be the same boy he'd described the day he'd apologized to Merc. She stood up gingerly and brushed the snow and mud from her cobalt blue robes. He handed her broom back, and with a grateful wave to her house, she climbed back on, rising on the pitch to the cheerful applause of the spectators.
Ron seemed to realize he was leaning over the edge of the railing and tentatively looked to see who had seen him. The second his eyes connected with Seamus and Neville they burst into laughter.
"What?" Ron snapped.
"Oh, nothing," Seamus said with a wave of his hand. "I don't think Thompson could get another twenty goals on our King next time," he finished.
"What are you on about?" Ron exclaimed, temper rising.
"I'd say Merc Thompson is the only thing he has scouted today," Seamus added.
"Well Gryffindor has nothing to fear from those long legs of hers," Neville chuckled.
"Or those tight-fitting Quidditch pants," Dean Thomas joined in.
"Oh, dear, my hair has fallen," Seamus continued in a high voice, running his hands through his hair as if to straighten it out. "Let me throw my chest out and tie it back!"
Even Harry couldn't contain the chuckle from Seamus' melodrama. Neville, Dean, and Seamus were collapsing into hysterics while continuing to comment on the finer points of Merc's rather athletic build. Ginny had long since rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the match, but Ron was trapped.
If he argued the point, Seamus would only take that as license to continue chiding him. If he remained silent, they would assume he was admitting defeat. Either way, he was doomed to endure whatever his fellow roommates would throw his way.
"Sod off, Finnegan."
That's one way to go.
"Oh, it's okay Ron…really," Seamus said, gathering his composure. "We know you fancy her," he said wryly.
"I do not!" Ron retorted.
"You do to!" Seamus replied.
"I do not!"
"You talk in your sleep."
Dead silence.
"I what?" Ron asked incredulously. He looked to Harry for some modicum of support, but Harry was incapable of lying at the moment, even if he truly wanted to help Ron save face. The situation was just too priceless. He nodded almost invisibly and the others completely dissolved into laughter. Ron flopped down onto the bench and buried his head in his hands. Harry could make out a few muffled, but scathing, remarks that certainly would've inspired a lecture from Hermione and felt suddenly relieved that she hadn't witnessed the scene.
The blazing red color of Ron's ears hadn't even begun to fade when the Slytherins spectators erupted in applause. Malfoy finally caught the less-than-elusive snitch and the game came to an end. Ron quickly made his way from the stadium. Harry caught up with him several paces later and they walked up the sloping lawns toward the castle.
Harry was feeling rather guilty for having lost his composure with Seamus. Ron was not talking and his eyes were fixed on the ground before him as he meandered toward the doors in silence. It truth, Harry was a bit glad it happened. He'd been searching for a way to have this conversation.
"Seamus was just having a go at you," Harry reasoned.
"I know."
"Do you..er - want to talk about it?" Harry said awkwardly.
"What in the world did I say?" Ron asked, his footsteps drawing to a halt.
Harry tried to mask the grin. "Nothing specific, but her name has come up once or twice."
"Once or twice?" Ron said skeptically.
"A week," Harry added quietly.
"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed as he turned on his heel and walked aimlessly around the lawn. Harry stifled the chuckle that threatened to escape his throat and collected himself just as Ron turned back toward him.
"Ron, it's okay," Harry said simply. He had a sincere appreciation for what Ron was going through as he'd tried to reason himself through a similar kaleidoscope of confusion at the beginning of last year. Although he'd intended it, Harry never talked to Ron about the conflicting emotions he'd experienced when his heart first took notice of Hermione. His silence had been a mistake that only made the experience harder. Admittedly, he felt this entire conversation was going to be awkward - guys just don't talk about their feelings - but if it would help Ron that was all that mattered.
Without discussion they resumed their walk toward the castle, taking a mutual detour along the edge of the woods where their conversation could be private.
Ron broke the awkward silence first. "It's not okay," he said quietly. Harry furrowed his brow and looked up at him in confusion. Before he could reply, Ron continued. "I don't know what's the matter with me."
"What do you mean?"
Ron stopped, gazing blankly along the tall trees as a cold breeze rustled through the foliage. "I just…I don't know." Ron stammered, unable to put his thoughts into words. Ron kicked at the snow dusted grass in frustration and began walking away. Harry shook himself to reality and caught up with him deciding to run headlong into the conversation.
"Ron?" he began. "Would it be such a tragedy if you did fancy her a bit?"
Ron's mouth fell open as he stopped abruptly and looked at Harry. "Fancy her?" He repeated.
"Yes."
"But, I don't…I…I don't know." Ron stammered as he threw his hands up in defeat. "I don't know what I think about her."
"Yes, you do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
This was quickly becoming a "sitting down" type of discussion. Harry inclined his head toward a large tree trunk that had fallen to the ground. Ron followed him silently as they took a perch together.
"I think about her all the time," Ron said quietly as he plucked a twig from the log. "I don't even know why."
"What do you think about?" Ron blushed visibly and inspected the twig as if it held the secrets of the universe. Harry smiled and thought back to his time at the Burrow the summer before their sixth year. He had a relatively clear picture of what Ron thought about. After the Quidditch match today, it seemed everyone in the Gryffindor stands knew as well. "She does have really nice legs,' Harry said with marked nonchalance.
"And she's tall," Ron said dreamily. "I'm well over six feet tall and it's rather difficult to find a girl that looks you higher than the navel. No offense to Hermione of course, but I could use the top of her head as an armrest." Harry silently praised himself for apparently finding the right words to get Ron talking. "Aside from that, she plays Quidditch…really well. She's not some ninety pound waif-like girl that is afraid of a proper supper. She knows about broomsticks, and technique, and did you see the quill she used last week?"
"The one with the Chudley Cannon Chaser flying around the tip?"
"That's the one." Ron sighed and tossed the twig into the woods. "You should've seen her the day I bought that broomstick. She knew everything there was to know about it."
"Sounds like Hermione to me," Harry chuckled.
"No, that's just it. She's not like Hermione at all." Harry looked toward him interestedly. "Hermione is brilliant, there's no question in that. She's the cleverest witch at Hogwarts. I think Merc is just as bright. But," he hesitated, returning his attention to the frozen ground in front of his feet. "Merc has never made me feel…"
"Inferior?" Harry replied.
Ron jerked his head in what Harry assumed was a nod. He knew exactly what Ron was talking about. They'd seen it from the moment they met Hermione. Over the years, they'd learned to accept her stubborn streak and her propensity to tell them the answers whether they wanted to hear them or not. On more than one occasion - and usually anytime Hogwart's: A History was mentioned, Hermione behaved as if she was the only one who had any sense at all. Strictly speaking, it was one of the things that bothered Harry about her. She could be blinded to other's feelings when she was convinced she was right. Harry's thoughts returned that fateful night before they flew off to the Department of Mysteries.
Maybe that's not such a bad thing.
"Hermione never needed me," Ron said, breaking through Harry's thoughts. "I'm not entirely sure she needs either of us." Ron picked at the bark along the log. "She's strong-willed, brilliant, she's gotten us out of far more situations than we ever saved her from."
"Merc seems to have the same strength of will that Hermione does. She's certainly cut you off at the knees once or twice," Harry replied.
"No. I don't think she does. I think she does a great job of acting confident," Ron said thoughtfully.
"Why do you say that?"
"She won't argue with me."
"Ron, that's hardly a criteria for a relationship," Harry declared.
"If she had half the confidence she claims to have, she'd never let me get away with some of the things I've said to her. She would've hexed me in the corridor after Halloween. She should've, but she didn't," Ron explained. "I saw it in her eyes. She put on a brave face, but she couldn't hide the truth in her eyes."
"Is that why you apologized?"
"Yes. I could've said that to Hermione and it would've been okay the next day. She would've yelled, I would've yelled, and we would've moved on. But I saw something in Merc's eyes - I don't know what - but I've never forgotten it." Harry and Ron sat silently on the log, Ron's words hanging in the cold air. "Harry?" Ron asked tentatively.
"What?"
"Can I ask you a serious question?" Given the tone of the entire conversation, Harry didn't see fit to deny the request now.
"Go ahead," he replied.
"What's it like?" He looked at Harry pensively. "Being in love? Knowing you're the one Hermione's daydreaming about when she gets that look on her face and chews on her quill?" Ron looked into the distance. "I'm not that person for anyone. I'm not even that person for my own mother. I've never rated more than one-seventh of her attention." He looked back to Harry, a smirk breaking across his face. "Maybe less with Fred and George in the house." The smile faded and Ron's expression grew serious. "I want to be that important to someone; not a second thought…not a hand-me-down…not the 'reserve protector'…whoever she is, I want her to think of me first."
What could Harry say to that? From the moment Ron described his view in the Mirror of Erised, Harry knew what Ron wanted most. He felt as though he'd finally heard Ron say it aloud and he had no response for him.
"She eats breakfast, lunch, and dinner alone, Harry. I don't care what she wants people to think, she doesn't have the courage or the confidence to stand up for herself. It's like she won't let people see who she really is," Ron said flatly. "It's like the damn name!" Ron stood up and paced in front of Harry. "She won't even tell me her real name!" He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared into the trees over Harry's head.
Harry stood up and gathered a breath. "So when are you going to ask her to the Valentine ball?" Ron's mouth dropped open.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Harry," Ron said in disbelief. "Have you been listening to anything I've said?"
"Every word."
"This isn't about me asking some girl to a dance," Ron snapped.
"It should be." Harry threw a hand up before Ron could press the point. "Ron, whether you want to admit it or not, you fancy Merc. I understand how you're feeling more than you realize and trust me when I say this: the only way you're going to get through all this confusion is to jump in with both feet. If it works out - fantastic. If it doesn't, it's unfortunate. But you'll never know until you try." Ron turned away, shoulders slumping as he began to walk toward the castle. After taking a few steps, he turned back to Harry.
"We've not exactly gotten off on the right foot," Ron rocked back and forth on his heels. "What if she says no?"
"Maybe she'll surprise you. Besides, you're the Gryffindor, not her. If anyone will summon the courage to ask, it will be you." Harry smiled.
Ron stood in silence, appearing to contemplate Harry's advice. After a moment or two, Harry looked skyward toward the streaming hues of pink and orange that had begun to paint the canvas of the sky. All of the students had long since left the stadium and the setting sun was chilling the already cold February air. Without doubt, Hermione would be expecting them both for dinner, if not already concerned that they'd launched into another ill-fated quest. When he looked back at Ron, he seemed to read Harry's thoughts implicitly.
"We should head back," Ron said solemnly.
"Yeah," Harry replied. "It's nearly time for dinner."
"Harry?" Ron asked quietly.
"Yeah?" Harry responded.
"You're not - er - going to tell anyone we had this conversation are you?"
"Are you mad? It would completely destroy our image!"
Ron sighed in relief. "I was afraid Hermione softened you up too much."
Laughing together, they fell in step with each other and traversed the sloping lawns toward the castle still blissfully unaware of the chilling grey eyes that had watched the entire scene transpire.