The Streeler's Fault

Angie Crawford

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 08/07/2004
Last Updated: 08/07/2004
Status: paused

A ridiculous magazine article puts Hermione under public scrutiny at a time when Harry is desperately trying to tell her his secrets...

Chapters

1. Part I

1. Part I

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters and places related to him belong to the brilliant J.K. Rowling. I have just expanded on her world.

The Streeler’s Fault

Part I

Sixth year Prefect Hermione Granger was at the top of her class, and it was rather obvious from the way she was hunched over (due to the weight of the twenty or so books she carried in her bag) that she intended to stay there. In fact, she had just come from the Herbology greenhouses, where Professor Sprout had given her a few remarkably handy tips for rearing wild Golgigreens. She was absolutely certain some of it would come up on her N.E.W.T.’s next year, and if not, then at least she would know never to try a Ribose Hex on them.

Hermione made her way quickly across the grounds, now looking forward to the cool sanctuary of the library and what would likely prove to be a long discussion with Harry about the advantages of using dried pixy dung in a Twittering Potion. Halfway to the doors, however, she noticed a somewhat large group of chattering girls, several of whom she had the misfortune to recognize as being in her year. There was something very conspiratorial in the way they stood whispering, an occasional harsh bark of laughter piercing the near-silence. Hermione suppressed a shudder. Childhood memories of the many nights she had spent crying herself to sleep due to a few well-phrased bits of ridicule came flooding back to her, and inwardly she chided herself. Those days were long past, from when she was still a Muggle. Now, as a Prefect at Hogwarts, it should be her duty to sort out whatever chaos they were about to create. After all, the reputations of young witches and wizards were at stake. She drew a deep breath, resigning herself to giving the chattering witches a thorough scolding.

As Hermione approached them, heels clicking noisily in the courtyard, apprehension crawled up her body, leaving her stomach feeling as though something quite large and slimy had taken up residence there. She swallowed. You’re in Gryffindor, she reminded herself. You’re in Gryffindor, you’re in Gryffindor…they’re not laughing at you, you’re in Gryffindor…

The group, she noted, consisted of Pansy Parkinson and her usual gang of Slytherin girls. Surprisingly, however, they were not alone. Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, and a handful of Ravenclaw girls she didn’t recognize had joined them in hovering over a glossy magazine article. What appeared to be a giant picture of someone on the left-hand page immediately caught Hermione’s attention. In previous cases, exceptionally nasty articles about Harry had found their way into Hogwarts, causing enough of a stir to keep Harry, Ron, and Hermione on edge for the better part of several weeks. The most hurtful, she recalled painfully, had been those written by the "lovely" Rita Skeeter. Hermione felt suddenly ill, a sharp pang of worry invading her senses. Harry didn’t need any more publicity, not when the fate of the wizarding world rested in his hands. She huffed indignantly. The idea of Harry’s reputation hanging in the balance between reality and a tactless magazine article set Hermione on edge. Steaming mad, she steeled her nerves, tapped Pansy Parkinson on the shoulder and--

"Oh." A single syllable escaped her lips as she saw clearly, for the first time, what it was they were laughing about. The picture was a rather unflattering caricature of Hermione herself, with hair so bushy it refused to fit on the page, as well as a very pointed, bossy-looking nose. Whoever had drawn it seemed to have forgotten that she no longer had large, protruding front teeth, and had also failed to notice that her ears were not elephant-sized. As she watched, the sketch of herself frowned. Hermione couldn’t help but notice, as she was sure everyone in the group around her had already, that in the picture she looked extraordinarily like a beaver.

As it turned out, though, the article did have something to do with Harry. A large, flashing green headline to the right of the caricature boldly proclaimed,

"A STREELER EXCULSIVE:

HARRY POTTER’S STALKER."

Hermione felt ill once more. She fervently hoped Harry hadn’t seen this. It was only mid-September, and the death of Sirius in June still haunted his dreams. On more than one night already he had awoken the entire Gryffindor tower with his unconscious shouts; Ron had told her that Harry had now progressed so far in his nightmares as to start mumbling countercurses in his sleep. Hermione was worried about him, worried about what he might be capable of, even if he were asleep. A shameless publicity stunt such as this couldn’t have come at a worse time, and those witches, if they should be called such, knew it.

Hermione was absolutely fuming. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks, steaming its way out of her pores. But her own anger paled in comparison to the surge of loyalty that swept through her body, engulfing her heart so completely she felt for a moment light-headed. "This is positively ridiculous!" she shouted, snatching the magazine from an unsuspecting Ravenclaw. She glanced at the magazine’s cover. Bright green calligraphy sparkled up at her, bearing the title The Streeler. A largish photograph of Harry blinked nervously, while the same caricature from the inside article frowned at him disapprovingly. The Streeler, she noticed, was growing quite hot in her hand, her temper bubbling to the surface once more, dangerously close to spilling over. "When," she seethed, "will you all learn to leave Harry alone!"

Lavender Brown smirked at her, seemingly unperturbed by the dangerous look in Hermione’s eyes. She pointed a bony finger at The Streeler, still clenched in Hermione’s hand, which had apparently reached such an extreme temperature that it was now issuing puffs of smoke. "Seems like you’re the one having a problem leaving him alone, Hermione," she said, her sweet tone laced with venom.

Frustration, a lifetime’s worth of pent-up anxiety over Harry’s well being, boiled underneath Hermione’s skin, pounding in her temples. She found her wand pointed dangerously at Lavender’s nose before she realized she had even drawn it. "NEVER read this rubbish again," she spat, her jaw clenched. With that, the magazine in her hand burst into flame, unaided by her wand. Surprised beyond reason, Hermione hurled it to the ground, causing the girls around her to scatter. "Ten points," she added coldly, "from each of your houses."

A cool afternoon breeze swept the grounds as seconds later Hermione walked briskly to the oak doors, her bushy brown hair bobbing along behind her. She had an appointment in the library to keep with Harry, she reminded herself. She would have to hurry now so he wouldn’t be kept waiting. It was funny, she thought, that Harry should be asking for help studying, especially so early in the year when most of their classes consisted of reviewing old material. And she was rather sure Harry knew the properties of dried pixy dung already—"Umpf!"

A cold, invisible hand had suddenly clamped itself over her mouth, and she found herself being pulled urgently into a musty classroom just to her left. Before she had time to ponder what was going on, a strikingly familiar voice muttered, "Lumos!" and with a slight swishing sound, Harry Potter, the famous Boy Who Lived, pulled his invisibility cloak from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor in a heap. Hermione grinned: it was hard not to smile at the mischievous glint he had in his eyes. Harry smiled somewhat sheepishly back, and she found herself feeling suddenly awkward, as though the almost six years of knowing Harry were not nearly enough to be found hiding in an empty classroom with him.

Rather than empty, the classroom was quite obviously abandoned. The only light was that which emanated from Harry’s wand: there were no candles lit anywhere in the room, and the shades about the windows were drawn and dusty. Desks were stacked haphazardly along the far wall, along with a pile of rumpled tapestries and an ancient wardrobe that kept shuddering. Hermione suspected a boggart. Clearly the classroom had not been in use for some time, but she felt nonetheless wary. A prefect should not have to put up with constant delinquency, she admonished herself. But a single look at Harry was enough to convince her otherwise. It was enough, in fact, to jolt her back to reality.

"Harry, what are we doing here?" she said, straining to keep the curiosity out of her voice. Indifference was the key in such situations. Never mind that he was supposed to be waiting for her in the library.

Harry grinned, the mischievous shimmer still present in his eyes. "We are here to learn the art of wizardry, Hermione. Or did you miss that owl?"

Perhaps indifference wasn’t the key after all. She was growing impatient; she had far better things to do with her time than trade jokes with Harry. Her mind threw her the image of the rather large and ugly caricature of herself, frowning as she received a "D" on the Charms essay she needed to complete. "Really," she scolded. "I thought you needed help with an essay on the properties of dried pixy dung, but apparently I was wrong and you just wanted to put on that—that ridiculous cloak and go off on another of your ‘adventures’!" Hermione let out a harsh breath, steadying herself. It was too much, she decided. Her life had thrown her too much. A normal girl turned witch, who had befriended the one boy Voldemort had resolved to kill, and as a result had become a victim of public ridicule. And here Harry was now, standing in an abandoned classroom with her, with his stupid invisibility cloak by his feet and that surprised, hurt look on his face….

Hermione melted. "I’m sorry," she said, but she knew it was too late. She cringed, waiting for Harry’s outburst. It never came.

Harry sighed. "It’s all right," he said blandly. "I just…I just feel restless. That’s all." He wasn’t looking at her as he spoke; there was apparently a rather interesting dust ball near his feet.

The tone that Harry used was one in which she had never wanted to hear coming from his mouth, and yet it was also one he had been using quite a lot recently. It was hopelessness. She took a look at him, surveying the way his shoulders seemed to sag, his arms hanging limp at his sides. He lifted his head, staring blankly at her. Hermione could see dark circles underneath his green eyes, eyes that had now completely lost their sparkle. And then Hermione knew. She knew, in the second it took for their eyes to meet and then glance hastily away, that Harry had been keeping something from her. It was indescribable, a harsh electric jolt to her system. Something was very wrong.

"What’s happened, Harry?" she queried, her voice timid and nearly muffled by the thick, dusty air surrounding them.

She didn’t miss the sudden look of anxiety that passed across his otherwise emotionless face before he blinked and replied, "Nothing." He hesitated, and after what appeared to be a moment’s misgivings, took a step nearer.

Hermione bit her lip, feeling the heavy air hanging around them, as though waiting. Harry had stepped almost ridiculously close, so close she could see the indentation his glasses had left on the bridge of his nose before slipping down farther. She couldn’t remember, suddenly, what they were doing in this room. Or had Harry even told her? Why had he pulled her in here? What was going--

"Hermione?" Harry prodded, reaching out to shake her arm slightly.

Hermione started, confused by her thoughts. "Er…yes, Harry?" she blinked, feeling very uncharacteristically stupid, caught in the gleam of his eyes.

"I said…I said that I need you," Harry whispered.

Something lurched somewhere in the region of her stomach, and she choked on her own voice, coughing. "What?" She felt dizzy, her eyes wide as she watched him.

"If you don’t want to, I’d understand," he added quickly, as though this cleared up the matter.

Hermione didn’t reply immediately. Realization had started to sink in; she felt as though she was drowning herself in logic. What had she been thinking? She raised an eyebrow in defense against her own mind. Finally, she asked, "What do you need me for?" Her stomach settled itself comfortably back in place, burying any hint of unease in her tone.

Harry glanced around nervously, as though the room itself was eavesdropping. "I need you," he repeated, his eyes searching hers, seemingly begging her to respond. He shuffled the slightest bit closer, and Hermione could suddenly see herself, reflected in the lenses of his glasses, her eyes wide. "Understand," he whispered. His hand reached out, trailing down her arm until it reached her fingers, pressing a bit of parchment into her palm. Hermione felt the gooseflesh rise where he had touched her, yet at the same time knew she was looking at him as though he was mad. "Please," he continued, whispering urgently. "Help."

The door rattled on its hinges, causing Hermione to jump back uneasily, Harry’s parchment safe in her closed fist. Harry reached out for her, instinctively pulling her behind him. All was silent for a moment before—with a tremendous BANG—the door flew open, slamming into the wall beside it. A cloud of dust took flight, obscuring Hermione’s vision and sending Harry into a violent coughing fit. "Ormund cotulla!" he choked, wiping his forehead on his arm as the dust began to settle. Nothing happened.

Hermione peered out from around Harry, her wand drawn. Someone was standing in the doorway, face obscured by death-black shadow.