Disclaimer: I own nothing. And that's just the way it's going to be.
Rating: Er…PG-13, I suppose. In case I happen to get creative in later chapters. (Don't get your hopes up.)
A/N: So. This is a somewhat (alright, alright, completely) delayed response to a challenge at the CastleHogwarts community on LJ. Pretty simple. Pick a pairing (Check!). Use an `ancient magical reference' (Ancient Egyptians, Mayans, etc.). Create references to currently `uncharted' classes/clubs. Mention a banana, pink quill ink, and harpsichord for extra points. Write about it (Em…yeah. Got that bit, too). Score.
Now for the part where I pretend as though I'm accepting an Oscar, and take the chance to thank all the `little people.' Erm…except I've only got one person on the list (details, details). Point: a big `Mucho Gracias' to Amethyst for beta-ing and supplying a number of amusing headlines. Basically, you're amazing. *jumps you*
Anyway. I expect this'll be about three chapters long, aaaaaand…woo hoo. There you are. Moving on…
~*~*~
There are moments when a life can take unexpected turns. Moments when one is lured into a false sense of security. Moments when, blinded by an unfounded feeling of comfort, a person is caught completely and utterly unaware by unforeseen developments. Such occasions, while rare, can have a vast impact on one's ability to produce rational thought or make logical decisions, thereby seizing any and all control over his or her actions.
In Harry Potter's case, that moment arrived on a day that was…rather ordinary, really.
The morning began quite like any other - Ron's final, gasping snore of the night jerking him out of sleep, eyes blearily taking in familiar surroundings, blinking against the sunlight streaming in through open windows, falling in bright patches on thickly carpeted floor.
He stretched a bit. Groped blindly for the round-rimmed glasses on the nightstand. Swung both legs over one side of the bed; first left, then right, landing lightly on the floor. Shuffled to the loo and washed up. Snatched a pair of trousers from the wardrobe. Knotted his tie. Shook Ron awake. Pulled his school robes from their place on the back of an armchair in the corner. Shoved his feet into trainers. Ran fingers through wet, tangled hair. Walked out the door.
Much the same as he'd done yesterday. And the day before, and the day before that…
For some, such a routine may have been considered boring, monotonous, dull. For Harry, it was a peace that had been a long time in the making. Only now, after seven years of waiting, worrying, and preparing had come to an end, could he relax. He'd waited. He'd worried. He'd prepared like there was no tomorrow, and it had paid off. Voldemort was gone. For good.
So he was collecting his dues - rest, and quiet, and normalcy.
He'd settled into the routine unintentionally in the beginning, comforted by its presence and security. Schedules were predictable. Schedules were safe. There was nothing menacing or uncertain about them.
And Harry liked that. Subconsciously, perhaps, he'd been intrigued by their simplicity; by the way life could be controlled so easily when a set time-frame was involved.
…He was turning into a bloody Ravenclaw.
Not that it was necessarily a bad thing - Hermione was practically one of them herself, after all, and he certainly had nothing against her - but really. What had happened to that Gryffindor courage? Gryffindor bravery? Gryffindor spontaneity? Procrastination? Disregard-for-deadlines?
Er…perhaps that was just he and Ron.
Still. If things took a turn for the worst - if he began writing lists on parchment or completing assignments more than three days before their due-dates - he'd draw the line. Do something drastic.
He would.
And anyhow, this wasn't entirely his fault. By the time the realization that he'd brushed his teeth at the same time every morning for nearly an entire semester had struck, new habits were `new' no longer - they had become ingrained and instinctual, trapping him in their repetitiveness. Going back was futile.
So it continued. Something inside woke him unfailingly each morning, and he'd roll out of bed. Stretch. Reach for his glasses. Wash up. Dress. Cut across the common room and climb through the portrait hole.
Much as he was now.
Make his way to the Great Hall.
Much as he was now.
Sit at the empty Gryffindor table, in the seventh seat on the far side, completing unfinished schoolwork or working at Quidditch plays while waiting for Ron and Hermione. Much as he was -
-Not.
Hermione.
She was sitting in his seat. Sitting. Reading a library book. In his seat. His seat. Just…sitting. There. In his-
Well. That wasn't important. The point was that she belonged on the bench across from his, where she always sat. This…this…game of musical chairs was certainly not part of The Plan. And The Plan was set. The Plan was meant to be followed. The Plan was practically law, for Merlin's sake.
She looked up. Grinned at him, holding out a section of the Daily Prophet and gesturing to the seat beside her. "Morning, Harry."
His resolve weakened and he accepted.
Gryffindor forgiveness, and all that.
"Morning."
Even if she had stolen his place.
She took a sip of pumpkin juice and pushed a plate of toast toward him absently, brow furrowing as she flipped through pages.
It may have been that she was sitting to the right of him instead of across. It may have been in the way the light was playing at her features. It may simply have been the earliness of the hour and fatigue. Whatever the reason, he was thrown off, which was rather odd, considering the fact that they spent nearly every day like this - in classes, at lunch, dinner, studying in the common room… Each and every moment - save those when they were sleeping and (generally) these before breakfast - spent in one another's company, yet there was a niggling at the back of his mind, signaling that something was…off. Different. Awkward, maybe. He couldn't quite place it, but whatever it was, he knew that he, personally, felt uncomfortable.
He glanced at Hermione, searching for any sign of unease on her part. Naturally, she seemed to be perfectly calm; immersed in her reading, somehow managing to slice a banana and let pieces fall into a bowl of porridge to the side of the book without losing a finger. An eyebrow quirked and she shook her head almost imperceptibly, hair swaying ever-so-slightly.
Harry turned back to his toast, scooting a bit farther from where she sat, not quite knowing why.
Five minutes passed…ten…and he slid further down. The way she kept moving about was rather unnerving, not to mention distracting. He willed himself to pay attention to his reading. The news was important, after all. Surely he couldn't become a completely well-rounded person if he didn't finish this bit on…what was it, again? A human-interest piece, by the looks of it.
Well. Those were awfully important, weren't they? No use participating in the Wizarding community at all if one wasn't willing to take an interest in the latest issues.
He adjusted his glasses. Local -
Rustle, rustle. He caught her movement out of the corner of his eye.
Ignore it. Local Poti -
She shifted in her seat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Right. Focus. Local Potions Regulations Department Prohibits Brewing of Fluxweed - Hags Outraged.
Oh, for Merlin's sake. What was this rubbish? There had to be something better.
Goblins Protest Government Influence in Banking.
Value of the Galleon on the Decline.
Weasley Makes Waves in Cauldron-Bottom Safety?!
He snorted in disgust and dropped the paper to the table, spearing a link of sausage with his fork and shoving it into his mouth. Students were trickling in through the doors to their seats and he took to watching them.
A Slytherin muttering to a classmate two tables away…
Three Hufflepuff fourth years chatting far too animatedly for 7:00 in the morning…
Hermione adjusting her tie.
A Ravenclaw copying passages from a dusty tome…
A Gryffindor first year farther on down the table…
Hermione absently twirling a quill between fingers.
A Prefect.
Hermione.
The Head Boy.
Hermione.
Her hair had grown rather long over the years, he noticed idly, but remained wild as ever. He could hardly even see the small clip she'd used to secure the top portion - lost as it was in a seemingly endless sea of waves and curls.
At the moment, she was attempting to keep a loose wisp in place behind her ear. She'd tuck it back, and it would fall forward. She'd tuck it back again, eyes never straying from the book in front of her, and forward it would come, once more.
He could fix it; he could remove the clasp and pull the strand back and out of the way, perhaps allowing his fingers to skim over her shoulder in the meantime, and -
"Oi! Harry!"
He blinked, startled to find a familiar red-headed blur directly in front of him.
"What?"
Ron regarded him with an odd, puzzled look, and Harry wondered vaguely how many times he'd called his name.
"-the mash?"
"Sorry?"
Ron snorted, shaking his head and enunciating slowly, "Will. You. Pass. The. Mash? Honestly mate, what's gotten into you? …And why's your hand hanging in the air like that?"
"My wha-?" The sentence trailed into nothingness as he glanced over and found his arm dangling uselessly in the air, fingers seemingly reaching for…
Hermione. And her hair.
A cough. A nervous laugh. A sheepish grin and a hand dropped into his lap.
Ron was looking at him as though he were mad. He was beginning to agree.
"Harry?"
"Hmm?"
"The bacon, too." He pushed a plate across the table, carefully avoiding eye contact.
Hermione, meanwhile, was ostensibly oblivious to it all.
"And the kippers…"
She sat there, reading her bloody…whatever it was, completely ignoring the fact that something very strange was taking shape.
"…the eggs…"
Didn't she notice?
"…the toast…"
How could she not?
"…the salt and pepper…"
If he could sense it, and she, of all people, couldn't, what did that mean? That it wasn't important? That it didn't matter? Maybe `it' wasn't anything at all; maybe he was wrong. Maybe -
"And, Harry?"
"What?"
"The, er…pumpkin juice, too?"
"Honestly, Ron," Hermione said, snapping her book shut and passing a jug in his direction, "I don't know where you put it all."
Ron shrugged, gesturing with toast in hand. "Mmph gumph mmph -"
Bits of half-chewed bread flew across the table and Hermione wrinkled her nose, flicking crumbs from the cover of her book.
"You know very well that I can't understand a word you're saying."
He swallowed, managed an "It's nice, isn't it?" and promptly shoved a forkful of egg into his mouth.
Hermione turned to Harry, rolled her eyes and made a face.
And it was then that he knew. In that moment, sitting in the Great Hall, spoon halfway to his mouth, he understood. The stilted conversation, the awkwardness, the feeling in the pit of his stomach that refused to go away…it all became painfully clear.
He, Harry James Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, Boy Who Lived (Boy Who Was Too Thick to Sort Out His Own Emotions, more like)…fancied Hermione Granger.
And there was no going back.
~*~*~
A/N: This is the part where I refrain from adding another insanely long comment, and instead sink to my knees and beg you to review.
Body language is so much more effective, don't you think?
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