Corrupting The Innocents

Corrupting The Innocents

Title: Corrupting the Innocents
Author name: Romulus Lupin
Author email: galigad@yahoo.com
Category: Romance
Sub Category: Angst
Keywords: H/Hr
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None.
Summary: A sequel of sorts to Dream Chasing. One night in the Gryffindor Common Room, a frequent visitor chances upon something that she had only heard about but had never seen before.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: This plot bunny bit soon after I completed Dream Chasing and I was already up to about five chapters when an accident made me lose all the files I had written to that point. I’ve been trying to reconstruct those chapters but it has been slow going; I decided to start posting what I had in hopes that the Muses (who must be out on a drinking binge right now) will come back and party with me.

I am also dedicating this story to both my dear, dear friends who made cameo appearances in DC (you know who you are ;)) and to so many other people who have had an impact on my life in the fandom, especially those who have recommended my fics in PK’s recommendations sites, everyone who has ever reviewed my stories … and most especially, my extended ‘net-family.’

Chapter 1.

I need to close my eyes. Much as I wanted to continue reading about the subtle science and exact art of potion making but there were times when the spirit was willing, but the eyes were weak.

Or something like that.

The words on the page were blurring and I bit back the frustration threatening to escape my lips. I have to memorize the components of Pepper-Up Potion tonight, lest the greasy-haired Professor Snake – I mean, Snape – took it into his mind to sneer at the failings of the American wizarding educational system.

I lean back in my comfortable armchair and close my eyes with a weary sigh, the chaotic sounds of a Common Room in overdrive washing over me -- and I couldn’t help but smile at the mix of luck, fate or Divine Intervention that had landed me here in Britain’s premium school of witchcraft and wizardry.

The noise was mostly coming from the younger students, I knew. It was the middle of the week and there were exams to take, potions to memorize, charms to learn, wand movements to practice for the coming day. I heard snatches of conversation here and there – the twelve uses of Dragon’s Blood; the difference between Grindylows and Kappas; whether Hippogriffs were symbols of love -- which was the better means of Divination: tea leaves or tarot cards?

“Check!” I blinked and turned in my seat -- and I had to bite on my lip to keep from laughing at the irritated look on Nic’s face as she contemplated the wizarding chess board where the King was haranguing her for having fallen into a trap. ‘Poor Nic,’ I thought. ‘Chess has never been her game … too bad the Quidditch pitch is off-limits tonight – she could easily wipe Ron’s smirk off if they’re playing Chaser and Keeper out there.’

Before I could close my eyes, a sudden cheer made me turn that way -- in time to see Fred (or was it George?) jumping up and down, swatting at his burning eyebrows and I couldn’t help but join in the laughter at seeing another game lost to that incomparable piano player and card shark, Erin.

Right on cue, a voice sounded from another corner of the room and I turned to look at a smirking Jim as he heckled the Twins: “Told you Erin didn’t just play the piano in Atlantic City! When will you ever learn?”

I smiled as Erin stuck out her tongue at him; he didn’t notice, however, as he was busy collecting his winnings from the chagrined Gryffindors who’d bet on the Twins finally breaking Erin’s winning streak. Maybe Jim had a point, I thought: Erin’s daily piano playing and finger exercises were what a card shark needed – and that would have been what made her Hogwarts’ undisputed Champion at Exploding Snap.

I tried to shift to a more comfortable position and allowed the noise to wash over me; for some reason, being in the Gryffindor Common Room evoked a sense of comfort and security that I seldom felt outside my own home -– and not just because Fred and George kept loudly proclaiming to everyone who would listen that someone must have kidnapped me from Ginny’s cradle when we were babies.

I smiled at the memory, thankful that our chance encounter with the legendary Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry in Hogsmeade on the day we arrived had forced changes in the plans for our integration into the school’s student body.

The original plan was to have the Sorting Hat do its thing during the Easter Ball – an idea that Miss Anne vetoed the moment she heard about it, a reaction which – surprisingly –Professor Snape vigorously supported, and which had the rest of us breathing sighs of relief. After what happened in Quality Quidditch Supplies and the Three Broomsticks, none of us were looking forward to the prospect of being Sorted into Slytherin and having to deal with a still-smarting Draco Malfoy in the privacy of their Common Room!

The compromise that Miss Anne, with assistance from Sarah and Joyce, were able to work out was much more to our liking: we had been assigned our own dormitories and Common Room but were free to visit or even stay over with the other Houses, as long as we were invited there and we were not to be given the passwords to their entrances.

The Gryffindors (led by my ‘brothers’ George, Fred and Ron and my ‘sister’ Ginny from whom I was – supposedly – separated at birth) had, of course, given us the password to their Common Room and we had spent many an hour with them, although (to be honest) we spent just as much time with the other houses as we could.

I stole a quick glance around and nodded to myself, noting that almost everyone was there. Pat and Joyce were absent and I snickered to myself: Joyce would probably be in the library or with the Ravenclaws with whom she felt an intellectual affinity; Pat would doubtless be there to rein in her obsessive-compulsive streak and make sure that she got some rest before her brain fizzled out.

Not that the Ravenclaws were all books and learning, as I learned to my chagrin when I paid them a visit with Joyce. They had a sense of humor that could rival the Gryffindors at their finest – but one had to be quick with a verbal response and a sharp mind whenever they went into their cutting remarks and double entendres – and I smiled as I remembered comparing notes with Mandy and Lisa on the differences between Muggle Ballet and Wizarding Dance.

Nor were the Hufflepuffs the simplistic but loyal herbologists that everyone assumed from meeting Professor Sprout: I had spent many delightful hours talking with Justin Finch-Fletchley and Ernie Macmillan about architecture and interior design from both Muggle and Magical perspectives, as well as even more fun and giggly hours with Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot talking clothes, fashion and the latest gossip.

Kaze was the only one who’d made it into the Slytherin Common Room, but she wouldn’t tell us much about that cold and drafty dungeon. She did tell us that Blaise and some others were perfect gentlemen all during her stay there; she would have enjoyed herself, she admitted, were it not for the snide remarks and cold looks that Malfoy and his minions kept throwing her way.

I leaned back in my chair and allowed the silence to wash over me – and I almost jumped as I realized that something was wrong—

The silence was deafening.

Only a moment ago, I couldn’t find the quiet space needed to snatch a few moments of rest; granted, my memories and thoughts hadn’t helped but the noise of the Common Room was, by itself, more than enough to distract me from either rest or study.

But now … I wondered if an angel had walked through the room and the people were standing in respectful silence until it passed.

I looked around, trying to see the reason why – and stopped when I turned towards the fireplace and a cozy collection of armchairs that Ron once told us was known as “Hermione’s Study,” but was now more commonly called “The Family Room.”

It was something that I’d only heard about – no, actually it was something that had only been whispered about because it seemed that no one outside the Gryffindors really knew what was going on …

It was a cute scene, I thought: a cozy arrangement of low tables and comfortable chairs, Harry and Hermione sitting across each other with the Terrible Spawn beside them, the light from the flickering fire dancing across their faces, books and parchments scattered around them, the elders reviewing something that the children had given them … it made for a charming family picture that tugged at my heart.

Except for one thing.

Hermione was in her usual place and pose, head down, bushy hair over her face, quill in hand poised over the parchment she was reading, Carolyn beside her reading quietly. Cindy, on the other hand, was sitting beside Harry with a book on her lap but she had leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, her breathing slow and measured, doubtless taking a break from whatever it was she was reading.

And Harry …

He was in almost the same pose as Hermione – still as a statue, an eagle-feather quill poised over a parchment while the other hand held open a book on the table in front of him.

He wasn’t looking at the parchment, however.

His eyes, hidden behind the glasses that reflected the dancing flames of the fire, were focused on something else.

Or someone else.

I was now a witness to something I had only heard about – the sight of Harry staring at her, a sight that made the whole room fall silent as we watched, waiting for something to happen.

Whatever it was.

We were all entranced by the sight – if there was any meaning to what we could see in front of us, it was something we would never discuss with anyone outside our Common Room. It was as if a secret pact had been made – what we saw here was for our eyes only; but why it should be so, no one could have expressed in words.

I started as I felt someone settling on the arm of my chair, and I heard a soft voice whispering to me, “You know what they’re doing, don’t you?”

I blinked as Erin continued, smiling as she watched Harry watching Hermione: “They’re corrupting the innocents.”

Corrupting the Innocents

Title: Corrupting the Innocents
Author name: Romulus Lupin
Author email: galigad@yahoo.com
Category: Romance
Sub Category: Angst
Keywords: H/Hr
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None.
Summary: A sequel of sorts to Dream Chasing. Why did Erin say that Harry and Hermione are ‘corrupting the innocents’? Who are the ‘innocents’? And why are they being corrupted?

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: My brain must have been out on a binge with my muses when I posted the first chapter (actually, the Prologue) of this story yesterday. I completely forgot that the dedication should have been to the original “Corruptors of Innocence:” kaze, Mel (happy daze), and Trisha (simon’s_flower), three of the most talented and lovely (physically and spiritually ;)) writers who sail the HMS Pumpkin Pie.

Thank you for all the corruption that you gave my innocent soul. :P

P.S. The song is ‘It’s A Heartache’ sung by Bonnie Tyler.

Chapter 2.

He’s doing it again.

I close my eyes the moment I saw his quill stop moving and take a deep, calming breath.

He’s staring at her again.

I look up and saw that she had her head bent over Ca’s essay, her eyes focused on the words written there, trying to decipher the chicken scratch that a hand unaccustomed to quill and parchment had made. Head bent, brown hair hiding her face, but his fascinated eyes were fastened there –- mouth slightly open, a corner of his lips tilted up just one tiny bit, the quill with which he'd been industriously hacking away at my essay forgotten in his hand.

I close my eyes and force myself to breath. A deep breath in, the same breath out - each lungful of air inhaled or exhaled a single, careful count that I had learned in an effort to keep track of time.

I wish he would look at me that way.

But he never would.

There was only one person - one girl - he would ever look at that way.

And it wasn't me.

I lean back in my chair, resting my head on its back, peeking at him from behind my lowered lashes ...

He was still staring at her hair.

I've been tempted to ask, so many times, if he knows how many hairs there are on the crown of her head. He's the youngest Seeker in a century and, despite his glasses - is he near- or far-sighted? Funny, we've known him for almost a year now but have never really asked him—

But anyway.

Her hair.

The way he stares at her, I am almost sure that he knows how many hairs there are on her head -- Merlin knows, he's stared at her long enough and often enough to have been able to count them! But I don't want to ... the truth is, no matter how observant he may be (he let me try to find the Snitch one time on the field and I got so dizzy with looking that I decided then and there I'd rather be a Beater than a Seeker!), they both live in the illusion that no one notices them.

Yeah, right.

She knows he's looking at her as she nonchalantly tucks a curl behind her ear - and I feel my smile growing wider as I notice the faintest tinge of pink touching its tip. She may be looking down at the parchment, but there must be something in those eyes that would make her heart beat faster, cause the blood vessels to tingle and blood to flow faster, making her skin flush and redden even as she tries to act still and unaware—

I wish I could feel what she feels - feel his eyes on my head as I bow down to my work, know - through some indecipherable means of magic - that his eyes are on me.

But wishes are all I have.

There is only one person in the room who could feel that way.

And that person isn't me.

I lean back again in my chair and sigh, softly, carefully, not wanting to disturb them. I wanted to look around the room, distract myself from the spectacle that was causing knives to cut into my heart but I did not want to do so.

I don't need to look around the Common Room to know that everyone in sight is doing one of five things: snickering, rolling their eyes, grinning, looking on wistfully -- or sighing. The Room has fallen silent and everyone is looking our way, everyone doing one or the other - oftentimes, going through all of those things in rapid succession.

I am sitting beside him, knowing what is going on around me as everyone watches them … and I find myself wishing that I didn't see them, that I didn't know what they were doing - that I hadn't been watching everyone around me often enough that I could see what the others in the Room were doing with my eyes closed.

But there it was - they were in a world of their own and we were on the outside looking in. We could only guess at what they are thinking ... what they are feeling ... what words pass through their minds as the seconds drift by.

All I know is I want to be in her place.

I feel a tingling on my nose and I turn away from him and her; I have to reach for something to cover my face, something to cover my nose before a sniffle or a sob breaks out. I feign that I am about to sneeze or cough but knowing I would not do it ... no one has ever thought to break the silent tableau before me with such an uncouth or ill-mannered gesture.

Doing so would break the magic that we could feel in the room as he continued to stare at her and she continued to look down.

And once again, I find myself wishing that—

I hear a soft, but happy sigh in the room -- as if a gentle breeze had passed – and I knew she had looked up from the parchment she'd been reading, and her cheeks would be blushing as she meets his eyes. I glance around the room and see people turning away - to read, to play chess or Exploding Snap, to resume writing their essays or assignments or letters or notes but I know that everyone in the room has a smile on their lips and - what was that Muggle saying that my best friend told me about – “a song in their hearts?”

I never knew what it meant until I saw them going through their routine - of Sir Harry staring at Miss Hermione while she was bent on some task or other, of Miss Hermione's cheeks slowly blushing as she felt his eyes on her. Of watching her slowly lift her head until their eyes meet and they would talk in a language that only they seemed to understand but which we all wanted to listen in on.

But I wondered if I was the only one hearing a different tune in my heart, a song that Carolyn had sung one time, not knowing that it would become a tune that will get stuck in my mind, cutting into me every time I see him looking at her:

“It's a heartache

Nothing but a heartache

Nothing but a fool's ache

Coming from the heart-”

I shake myself as I feel his eyes on me - full of concern, full of affection and I quietly touch the pumpkin-shaped badge that Carolyn and I had made, with the laughing assistance of Fred and George: “Potter-Granger Spawn.”

I knew they looked at us that way. They saw us as siblings, as the younger sisters that chance had denied them but which a kind Divinity had set in their paths –

He looks at me in concern, and I smile back while shaking my head. He smiles at me in a way that should make my heart melt, but doesn't ... because he smiles at me with brotherly love, sibling affection, a fatherly concern.

It was all I had.

It was enough for me.

Until the next time he stops tutoring me to stare at her.

Corrupting The Innocents

Title: Corrupting the Innocents
Author name: Romulus Lupin
Author email: galigad@yahoo.com
Category: Romance
Sub Category: Angst
Keywords: H/Hr
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None.
Summary: A sequel of sorts to Dream Chasing. Why did Erin say that Harry and Hermione are ‘corrupting the innocents’? Who are the ‘innocents’? And why are they being corrupted?

And … are all the ‘innocents’ really innocent?

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 3. Fairy Tales Are For Idiots

She’s staring at him again.

I couldn’t help but smile as I watch her, knowing full well what she was doing, remembering all the times before when I sat in my own little corner, staring at him in the same way that she does …

Feeling the same things she feels.

I shake my head.

Been there, done that – and I could feel my heart going out to her as she tried to act nonchalant and unaffected, knowing that she wanted to bolt and run as far away as she could—

Been there.

I feel myself flushing as I remembered the summer before I went to Hogwarts – running down the stairs and barreling into the kitchen, only to stop and gape at seeing the person I’d been talking about all summer sitting at our table, thinner than I had imagined, hair standing out all over the place, a piece of toast in his mouth and looking back at me with those emerald eyes that I really saw for the first time up close and personal …

Done that.

Sitting beside him at our table, silently watching as he read his Hogwarts letter and frowning ever so slightly as my brothers and Mum discussed finances … putting my elbow in the butter dish when he turned to me and asked if I was also going to Hogwarts that year … blushing every time he came within 10 feet of me—

How can she stand it?

Sitting there so close to him, spending all that time with him as he tutored her, racing around the Quidditch pitch on the Firebolt that he had never allowed anyone else to touch, much even use—

I shake my head at that. Be honest with yourself – he’s let Ron have a go with it; he’s allowed me to practice chasing the Snitch on it while he contented himself with sitting on the ground watching me fly around …

Happy to be grounded and sitting beside her as she read.

He would never do the same with me.

He would share everything else he had with me and my family – I almost fainted that first summer at Diagon Alley when he simply shoved Lockhart’s books into my cauldron without a thought. He’d seen me watching enviously as he raced around our makeshift Quidditch pitch on his Firebolt and simply flew down and handed it to me without a word – and I had gone into my mouth-open, clueless and totally stupefied routine at what he had done …

And he had gone into the Chamber of Secrets to look for me.

I closed my eyes and fought down the shiver that those memories brought – the hours of darkness and waking up with blood and feathers all over my robes, crying and whimpering as the person I thought was my best friend in the world turned on me and laughed as I tried to fight back, the mortification -- the sheer humiliation – of Tom’s laughter as he thanked me for telling him the key to getting Harry to go after him.

Hermione.

My fingers, my hands – my arms -- were hurting and I forced myself to calm down, to loosen my tight hold on the quill in my hand, forced my mind away from the words I had written in that thrice-be-dammed diary:

“I don’t know what he sees in her, Tom! All bushy hair and brains – Ron told me that she spends all her time outside of classes in the library. Maybe that’s why she’s so pale? She hardly ever steps out of school except to go to the greenhouses for Herbology or to watch Harry practice…

“I hate her, Tom. He doesn’t see anyone else but her. I was going to visit him in the hospital wing but he suddenly burst into the Common Room – he simply nodded at me as he passed, and went out again. I knew where he was going … he was going to look for her. ”

I force my teeth to unclench – no need to go to Madam Pomfrey and try to explain how I broke my teeth from biting down too hard, or even how to explain how I cut off my own tongue…

Even now, the shame of it all haunts me and I feel myself shaking in horror: do I still feel the same way now, after all these years? Seeing him stare at her in wonder, watching her as she acts as if nothing in the world mattered except her books and the parchment she was working on – waiting for the moment when she will look up and see him watching her, and she will smile at him in that secret way that she thinks no one else can see…

A glimmer of something catches my eye and I recognize the pumpkin shaped badge that the Cindy and Carolyn had made, with the willing assistance of Fred and George -– what does Cindy stand for?

Cinderella?

I stopped the snicker in my throat -- who was I to cast stones? Almost everyone in Hogwarts assumed that my name was Virginia; good thing that the story of Harry and Ron arriving in a flying car distracted everyone from McGonagall when she called out “Weasley, Ginevra” during my sorting or I would never have heard the end of it …

Cindy.

Cinderella.

How appropriate: Cindy for Cinderella.

Cinderella and pumpkins.

I glance at her, sitting there all composed and natural, seemingly taking a break from studying, leaning back in her chair with her eyes closed but the slightest of frowns on her forehead….

Poor girl. You may really feel like Cinderella with her Prince Charming, don’t you -- but at least Cinderella had until midnight before her carriage turned into a pumpkin; at least she had until midnight to dance and talk and have fun with her prince – it isn’t even midnight and Prince Charming has never even spared you a glance.

Or if he does, he looks at you with undisguised affection, friendship and … yes, love.

But it isn’t the kind of love that you want from him, is it?

You want him to see you as something more … not as an ickle firstie whom he met in Diagon Alley and befriended … not as a wide-eyed little girl who couldn’t believe that she is studying in the same school, sharing the same House and the same Common Room as The-Boy-Who-Lived … you don’t want him to look at you as a younger sister to whom he brings home treats and sweets from Hogsmeade—

You want him to look at you in the same way that the handsome Prince looked at Cinderella in all her finery, to see you as the young woman you are and can become, to look beyond the ashes and dirt on your face and see the inner beauty that only your mother knows—

I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes and cursing myself at the same time, suddenly ashamed.

Who was I to talk?

You want him to look at you in the same way that I had wanted him to look at me – and it had taken me all of four years to realize that he will never do so.

Been there, done that …

At least, Cindy-rella has the chance to be close to Prince Charming.

No matter if he looks at her as a younger sister, no matter if she has to share the time with Carolyn or with Hermione.

At least they had some thing.

I never did.

I never will.

And all because of my big mouth and stupid brain. Thinking all the while of becoming noticed as more than his best friend’s sister … of prattling on and on and on about him during the weeks before Ron and the Twins finally rescued him from his muggle guardians … of becoming so absorbed in his heroic role as ‘The-Boy-Who-Lived’ that I had totally forgotten about ‘The-Boy-He-Is.’

Losing myself in the fanciful tales of my childhood … fantasizing how famous, good, great Harry Potter would see me as being more than just Ron’s sister, more than just another younger Gryffindor, more than just another of his fan club …

Cindy-rella had it better, I thought.

She’d accepted him for what he is, not for what the world thought of him. She’d accepted his friendship without expectations, learned to keep her feelings hidden from his clueless face, accepted her position as his youngest sister—

She blinked and looked around as Hermione looked up from the parchment she was working on and I hear the sighs escaping everyone else as Harry and Hermione went into their routine of talking through their eyes.

I watched as he turned to Cindy and she shook her head at him, smiling before turning back to her book and I have to wonder … is he really as clueless as he looks? Does he know the younger girl’s feelings for him, know that the way he smiles can make her melt into a babbling idiot but dealing with her in the same way he tried to deal with me before – with considerate understanding and quiet sympathy, something I never realized and didn’t want to accept because I wanted something he was unable to give me then or even now?

Who was the insensitive git, then?

I lower my face and pretend to knead my aching head, using this as an excuse to wipe at my suddenly brimming eyes, cursing myself for believing in the tales of my childhood … of having a handsome Prince sweep me off my feet and carry me away into the sunrise of a new day—

Fairy tales were for idiots.

I look up and could not help but smile wistfully as I watched Cindy watching him intently as he demonstrated a wand movement to her, Hermione smiling as she watched them fondly, Carolyn beside her also focused on Harry’s wand …

The Terrible Spawn.

That could have been me if I had my wits about me – maybe that’s why I’m in Gryffindor and not in Ravenclaw. All courage and no brains – like Ron.

I turned that way and blinked.

Had he been staring at me? He turned away just as I looked at him, focusing on the chessboard where it seems Nic had made an unexpected move but he had been looking at me, I was sure of it. Unless—

I looked around the Common Room but no one was looking at me, and I shake my head.

Fairy tales were for idiots and clueless children. It was time for me to stop thinking I was living in one and move on.

Corrupting the Innocents

Title: Corrupting the Innocents
Author name: Romulus Lupin
Author email: galigad@yahoo.com
Category: Romance
Sub Category: Angst
Keywords: H/Hr
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Books 1-4
Summary: A sequel of sorts to Dream Chasing. Why did Erin say that Harry and Hermione are ‘corrupting the innocents’? Who are the ‘innocents’? And why are they being corrupted?

And … are all the ‘innocents’ really innocent?

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. “The Witch-Wife” is from ‘Renascence and Other Poems’ by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950) No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Dedicated to Nightfall, a wonderful writer who has been absent from the fandom for some time, in the hope that she will find the time, the energy and the inspiration to grace us once again with her presence.

And to everyone who has reviewed this and my other works, my deepest gratitude … especially for your patience. Thanks especially to two of my favorite writers, Golasgil Sindar (for the gentle reminder to update this – my apologies for not having responded sooner to your owl) and Paracelsus (welcome to Portkey, Bruce!)

And without further ado…

Chapter 4. The Witch Wife

He’s staring at her again, heedless of everyone around watching him … in the same way that she is unaware that we watch her when she is the one staring at him in the same way that he is looking at her.

I want to turn away from the sight before me—but I cannot.

I cannot help but watch as she continues her revision: hair covering her face, slim fingers gripping quill…I knew her lips would be moving as she argues with herself about every word Carolyn had written, seeking the right phrase, aiming for that singular moment that would change an essay written in grudging compliance for a requirement into an academic masterpiece that would help another young girl get high marks in her class—

In the same way that she had spent hours drilling us in Potions and Transfiguration and Charms… mumbling and whispering instructions to me as I try to concentrate while Snape glares at me and Malfoy snickers and sniggers in an effort to distract me and cause another disaster—

Does he know how lucky he is?

To have her as his friend and something more … to have her waiting for him in the mornings, to walk with her from the tower to the Great Hall for meals, from the Great Hall to our classes in the castle or in the greenhouses or out on the grounds with Hagrid…to have her hand on his arm as she whispers, “Ignore them, ignore them” every time Malfoy and his sorry clique of wannabe Death Eaters try to insult him or her every time they pass by—

To simply have her by his side for as many minutes that each busy day can give them.

Does he know how lucky he is?

To have her in the stands for every Quidditch match, watching his every move like a hawk—alternately screaming his name as she cheered, and clutching herself in fear every time he dives for the Snitch or she sees Bludgers headed his way. I know my heart is in my throat every time I see him in his fearless dives— How much more does she feel? How much more is her fear every time he mounts his broomstick before a game?

How can she stand it? How can her heart take all the pain and abuse that his yearly games bring to her? She hasn’t had an easy time of it—first year, he was almost thrown off a hexed broomstick; second year, the mad Bludger that went after him as if tied to him by a string; third year, falling almost fifty or more feet, unconscious, because of the Dementors around us … fourth year—no Quidditch but he had the Hungarian Horntail to deal with.

Does he even know how she feels? Does he know the fear and pain that every game brings to her as he flies around on his broomstick, the way she bites down on her lip as she watches the Bludgers heading his way, the way her hands clench as he goes into the Wonky-Faint—deathly scared to look but forcing herself to watch to make sure that he doesn’t end up with his face six feet into the ground—

Does he even think about her when he’s flying around up there, looking for the Snitch while she is down there with us in the stands, ignoring us and everything else around, so focused is she on watching him—except for the moments when she’d be gripping our arms or hands so tightly that bruises would form.

We’d learned to stay away from her whenever Harry is playing—even Cindy and Carolyn know better now than to stand close to her during Harry’s games.

Why does she do it? What is it about him that makes her act that way—to forget everything that she has ever said about following the rules, about studying in preparation for O.W.L.s or even the end-of-term tests—

She has done so much for him—cheered him at his games, nearly bought out Honeydukes during our first Hogsmeade visit so she could bring him something when we got back, ignored the snubs and jeers of three Houses when his name came out of the Goblet of Fire—spent so much time with him in the library and empty classrooms all over the castle to prepare for the First Task—

Only to flick her eyes towards him when I asked her to be my date for the Yule Ball—and I knew then that there would be no hope for me to ever have her as more than a friend, more than a classmate, more than a fellow Gryffindor. There was no need for her profuse apologies, no need for her to even make an effort not to make me feel bad … I knew that she had been hoping, holding out for what was best rather than what was second-best and I allowed her rambling explanation that she had already agreed to go with someone else to go over my head.

Like everyone else, I thought she really didn’t have a date to the Ball since I knew that Harry hadn’t invited her. I had watched her narrowed eyes and clenched jaw whenever some girl approached Harry or tried to get him to notice them—and now, I force my hands to relax their grip on the book in my lap as my mind replayed the laughter of Ron when he told Harry that I had asked Hermione to be my date.

I shudder as I tried to control my anger… he was one to talk! They both were—they’d been her best friends for the better part of four years, and neither one even thought of asking her to the Ball! They never even thought to look beyond the bushy hair and brown eyes, those thick eyebrows and lashes—

I force my tense hands to relax, and found the effort to take calm and even breaths difficult—simply because I was fighting a snigger that wanted to erupt from my throat. They hadn’t noticed that I was in the Common Room then, sitting in a quiet corner by myself and it was all I could do to keep from hexing them when they started laughing at my gall at asking her to the Ball.

I so wanted to curse them for laughing at her and at me—but then she came in and I shrank back in my corner, but I almost lost it again when Ron told her, “Neville’s right—you are a girl!”

Idiot.

Yeah, Ron—and it took you only four years to realize the fact. You’ve been her friend for all those years, you often bicker with her as if you were an old married couple, you wouldn’t even talk to her in third year when she turned in Harry’s Firebolt and you thought her cat ate your rat… and all those years, you never thought of her as a girl.

I watched as Ron continued placing his big feet into his even bigger mouth, insulting her by saying that she didn’t really have a date, insulting me by saying that she didn’t want to go with me, and I kept myself from jumping up and following her as she walked away from the stupid git.

But Harry—

My hands stopped mangling the book in my lap as I nearly choked from the struggle to hold down my laughter. That was one of the few times that I wished I had Colin’s camera immediately to hand… I wondered then and even now if that was how I looked when a Potions lesson finally made itself clear… when I finally grasped the workings of a Charm cast by Flitwick… when I was able to Transfigure something to McGonagall’s satisfaction.

He never said a word all throughout as Ron’s mouth ran away with him, he never even moved as she stormed out of the room and Ginny left them both alone… he never uttered one single word the whole time but I watched his face move from surprise and realization to pain and sorrow and finally, acceptance and determination as Lavender and Parvati came in, and he stood up and asked Parvati to be his date for the ball.

No questions, no hesitation, no doubts.

He was presented with a problem, and he did what he thought he had to do to get it over and done with. He’d lost his chance to ask her to the Ball but he didn’t let that problem stop him from accomplishing his Task.

As he hadn’t let anything or anyone stop him from looking for her when the troll came into the castle that Halloween night in our first year.

I watch her tuck a curl behind her ear, eyes still locked on the parchment in front of her and I knew that his eyes would be following her every move.

Had he been following her every move even then? Ron told us later that they’d overheard Parvati and Lavender talking about Hermione crying in the girl’s bathroom, but it was Harry who remembered that she hadn’t shown up for dinner, Harry who’d thought of looking for her, Harry who’d jumped on the troll’s back to ram his wand up its nose—

Was that what it was all about?

I hear a soft sigh passing through the room, and I knew that she had looked up from her work and was smiling at him, the same smile that she gave no one else but him, the same smile that I had often wanted to see her giving me, but knowing it was a lost cause….

They were looking at each other now, smiling in a way that we all envied, but I cannot help but wonder…what was behind those smiles and their silent conversation? Were they thinking of the troll in first year? Or the basilisk in second—and Hermione slamming into him for a fierce hug before Dumbledore and everyone else in the Hall? Were they thinking about the end of third year, the night Sirius Black was captured and escaped and—so the rumours said—they were found out on the grounds, unconscious and one inch away from a Dementor’s Kiss…

I slump back in my chair, the book forgotten in my lap as my mind went back. The Dementors had left the school soon after, but the rumours persisted: that the three of them had gone out to try and capture Sirius Black; that they had almost succeeded until Professor Lupin transformed into a werewolf; that Harry, Hermione and Sirius Black were able to distract the werewolf from Ron and Professor Snape until they were felled by Dementors; that something—or some one—had been able to drive back the Dementors…

The question was…who?

Snape was out there, but he never claimed anything more than capturing Sirius Black and finding them unconscious on the grounds. Ron had been with them, but said that he’d been knocked unconscious when Lupin transformed into a werewolf. Hermione, when asked, always said that she was also oblivious when the Dementors surrounded them…

And Harry—

I blinked as I watched them looking at each other. It always seemed to be from her to him; it always seemed to be her who was giving him something—his Broomstick Servicing Kit, the sweets from Honeydukes, the time she spent coaching him in hexes, charms and everything else—

But he’d saved her life.

Not just the one time that we all knew about in our first year, or even the time a few weeks back when they were both knocked senseless for a week, but were there other times, other things that only they knew about?

Was that the reason behind their silent communication? The way they could look at each other and know what the other was thinking? The way they would walk down the corridors, talking about this or that—and automatically move one way or another, never missing a step, never having to stop to think about where to go, what to do, what to say…

It always seemed to be from Hermione to Harry, but that was what we could see. We do not know what it was that Harry had given Hermione… those moments that only they know about for which they had no need to share with anyone else because it was something that only they would know and understand.

I shake my head at the thought, and look down on the book in my lap—wondering again why, of the thousands of books in the library, I had to pick this particular book, knowing that no one—not even me—would understand.

On impulse, I close my eyes and open the book, jamming a finger randomly on a page and reading the first thing I found there:

She has more hair than she needs;

In the sun ’tis a woe to me!

And her voice is a string of colored beads,

Or steps leading into the sea.

I blink and look up, wondering why—of all the things I could find in this book—this passage would be the one to leap to my eyes. It described her perfectly—the young girl with the bushy hair and prominent teeth who’d helped me look for Trevor during our first trip on the Hogwarts Express; the brilliant classmate whose voice was in my ear as she whispered instructions and encouragement in Potions, in Charms, in Transfiguration; the young lady that I had worked up the courage to approach to ask for a date to the Yule Ball—

I turn back to the book in my lap, the title of the poem vaguely registering in my mind (‘The Witch-Wife’? How appropriate!) and started reading it from the top:

“SHE is neither pink nor pale,

And she never will be all mine;

She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,

And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;

In the sun ’tis a woe to me!

And her voice is a string of colored beads,

Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,

And her ways to my ways resign;

But she was not made for any man,

And she never will be all mine.”

I feel my teeth grinding once again, knew that my hands were turning white as they gripped the book, wondering who was this writer that could so perfectly describe me and her—

No.

I lower my head and wipe at my eyes as the words mock me. No matter the time she spent tutoring me, no matter the hours I spent with her in classes and walking around the castle, following her with my eyes, no matter the small tokens of friendship and affection she has shown me, ‘she will never be all mine.’

But it wasn’t that she wasn’t made for any man…she was made for Harry Potter, not for me—and I saw the page blurring as I fought back the painful realization found in that poem.

“What’s that you’re reading, Neville?” I nearly jumped out of my skin when the voice broke through my befuddled mind—looking up, I thought I was going to have a heart attack as my eyes met hers, only to realize in the next moment that it wasn’t Hermione in front of me but her “twin sister,” Joyce.

“Nothing, nothing,” I croaked as I closed the book, placing a finger within to keep my place. From somewhere deep within, I blurted out something I’d heard her use before: “Just a little bit of light reading,” and I felt the blood rushing to my face as I tried to hide the book from her upraised eyebrow.

Her eyes fell on the cover and she smiled, and I braced myself for the teasing that was bound to follow at being caught like a pouf with a book of—

“I’ll tell her that you’re enjoying the book, Neville—I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

My face must have been something to see as I tried to force words out of my suddenly dry mouth; before I could utter anything, however, Joyce Cohen tapped the book’s cover as she continued, “The book’s editor? She’s a friend of mine… she’d asked our help to look for things to put in the book…in fact, she was nice enough to include something I wrote—”

I glanced down at the cover as her explanation washed over me: “Nightfall’s Anthology of Wizarding Prose and Poetry.”

“Uhm, Joyce?” She stopped and looked at me curiously as I continued, while looking nervously around me, “Uh…would you mind keeping this between us? You know…people may not understand—“

She smiled at me then, the same sort of smile that I could always count on Hermione for: warm, sympathetic, understanding—and she nodded. I watched as she turned away from me and called out to her friends, reminding them that it was close to curfew and that they had better start moving back to their own dormitories. I joined in with those waving to Joyce and her friends, wishing them a good night as I made a mental note to look for whatever it was that Joyce that Nightfall—whoever she is--had included in the book in my hand.

I turn back to the book as the portrait-hole closed on them—and noticed something that I hadn’t seen the first time I laid my eyes on the page.

It was a drawing of a Valentine’s heart—but a broken Valentine’s heart, jagged edges right down the middle, a tear showing from the strength exerted when the drawing was made: a strength that was born of anger, and frustration, and annoyance. Curious, I stared at it and realized that there were letters within each half of the broken heart: “V-K”

Who is V-K, I wonder? Or perhaps, who is V and who is K? What had happened to him or to them, that they would have taken a quill to this book and this page, and mark it with the universal sign of a broken heart? What had happened to him or to them…what was the story behind this broken heart and why was it here, on this page and this poem?

“Hey, Neville!” I look up at Ron who was on his way up to our room, apparently unwilling to remain in the Common Room now that Nic had left for her own dorm. “You comin’ up?”

“Sure, Ron,” I replied as I started to put my things together; shoving my book into my bag so that no one would know that I had it there. “I’ll be right up.”

Ron was about to say something but stopped; with an amused grin, he turned away and went up the stairs, shaking his head at the same time. I glanced around and smiled: Harry and Hermione were sitting next to each other, both apparently engrossed in their books but with Harry’s head resting on Hermione’s shoulders … Cindy and Carolyn on either side of them, reading their own books but sneaking glances at their mentors and giggling to themselves.

I shake my head and start walking towards the stairs, and my mind ponders again the mystery of the broken heart and whoever had scratched it on the page and that poem.

One thing for sure, I thought… I wasn’t alone.