Where Does the Good Go?

attica

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 15/08/2005
Last Updated: 31/08/2005
Status: in_progress

PreHBP. With Harry still trying to erase Sirius’s death from his mind, 6th year exceeds his expectations. A dead Crookshanks, almost skinny-dipping, love, and a soul collector on campus, “exceeds” doesn’t even begin to cover it. A Harry and Hermione romance.

Chapters

1. Death Day

2. Talking Down To a Grave

3. Dividing Lakeside Blues

4. The Woes of Party-Planning

5. The Initials H.P. Stand For How Pathetic

6. Trust With a Dangerous US

1. Death Day

Where Does The Good Go?

By attica

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling is queen of all things Harry Potter. The title is based on `Where Does the Good Go?' from Tegan and Sara - of which whom I am not associated to in anyway.

Summary: Pre-HBP. With Harry still trying to erase Sirius' death from his mind, 6th year exceeds his expectations. A dead Crookshanks, almost skinny-dipping, love, and a soul collector on campus, “exceeds” doesn't even begin to cover it. A Harry&Hermione Romance.

oooo

Important A/N: This fic was written before the release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, so names/facts/situations may be incorrect.

oooo

Chapter One: Death Day

“I'm a car crash, but I have to get up, and every morning is a clean-up.” - Tegan and Sara, Underwater.

On Thursday morning Harry Potter awoke with a spot on his chin. On Thursday morning Ronald Weasley was discovered on the couch of the Gryffindor common room with a letter crumpled up in his hands. On Thursday morning Hermione Granger found out that Crookshanks, her cat, had been thrown over the staircase and therefore brutally killed.

Harry had yawned and stretched inside his bed, his warm covers sliding off his body as he raised his arms heavenwards and lolled back his head. He then reached over to his side dresser and patted down the wooden surface for the familiar wires of his glasses. Finding it, he positioned it on his face and looked `round the dormitory. Some were still asleep as he recognized lumps underneath the crimson-and-gold Gryffindor sheets. But he could see that a majority had already gotten up - their beds were empty and unmade.

He got to his feet, his mind set on getting to the loo so that he could clean himself up. He was still groggy from last night's Exploding Snap contest. He had heard Seamus had won, but his head felt a bit light and remembered drinking the butterbeer that Fred and George had sent over and from the haziness of his vision and the unsteadiness of his feet, he was sure they had added something in there that was responsible for the half-naked riot after they had declared Seamus Finnigan the King of Exploding Snap.

He'd joined in the night's festivities but did not stay for the riot. He'd heard Dean and Neville grumble about it after they said that it had mostly been the blokes who had stripped down to their knickers - “Not such a pleasing sight,” they had reassured Harry. Harry had gone to bed unusually early that night, despite the objections of Ron and Seamus. But he'd been feeling quite drowsy and aloft after his first glass of butterbeer and had enough mind to know that it wouldn't be smart of him to stick around. He'd had a suspicion something like a half-naked riot was going to happen.

His heart wasn't in the celebration. It had been fun, yes. But there had been something odd, something missing. His thoughts had wandered to darker, menacing things, and that had washed away any possibility the giddiness and jubilation his peers tried to rub off on him would. The noise made his ears ache. He couldn't think because everywhere people were sloshing their butterbeers all over his clothes and telling him - shouting was more like it - to join the fun. He'd retired untimely that night, sticky and with ringing ears, but only slept when everyone else had dragged their bodies back into their dorm.

It was after his morning shower that he noticed the spot on his chin. He had just towel-dried his hair and put on his glasses (Hermione'd charmed it so that the lenses wouldn't fog over). He wiped over the mirror, looking at his scar, and that's when he had first seen it.

He didn't get much time to finish up in the bathroom, however, as a loud banging had then filled his ears. Somebody was trying to knock down the door, by the sound of it. He jumped.

“Who is it?” Harry called out.

“It's Neville! Harry, you'd better come down to the common room, right now! It's Ron - and he doesn't look so well!”

Sensing the urgency in his housemate's voice, Harry quickly slipped on his shirt and dashed out, his hair still damp and water trickling down his back.

He hurried down the stairs and saw a crowd gathering around one of the couches. He rapidly joined them, trying to see what it was they were fussing over.

“It's Ron,” revealed Neville, as Harry saw an unconscious and muddled-looking Ron on the couch. He was a mess: butterbeer stains all over his shirtfront, his hair sticking up like he had just been electrocuted to death, and there were bits of paper adorning his ginger nest-of-a-hair. Some people - like Seamus - had resorted to poking him with a quill. “We've tried waking him up… but nothing's worked.”

“We don't think he's dead,” squeaked Colin Creevey. “He still has a pulse.”

Harry rushed ahead and grasped Ron by the shoulders. He shook him.

“Ron? Ron? Can you hear me? Wake up!”

Ron's face distorted. He was scowling, but Harry thought he looked as if he was about to cry.

“Ron, if you can hear me… say `toad.' ” It had been the first word Harry could think of, but it seemed to have worked, as a deep, hoarse grunt cracked from Ron's throat.

“Oooaaad.” His voice was husky and gravelly, as if someone had forced him to swallow rocks or sand.

“So he can hear,” said Seamus. “If you can do something else, mate, like jump up and down on one leg without a limb or eyeball falling out, then we'll get a full sign that you're still alive. Zombies moan and groan, you know - that doesn't mean they're still entirely alive.”

“Ron,” Harry grunted, grabbing his arm and slinging it around his shoulders. “Get up. Come on, we'll get you to the bathroom. Seamus, lend a hand, would you?”

Seamus got a hold of Ron's other arm and saddled it around his neck as the two boys supported him. The crowd moved out of their way with scattered mumbles as Harry and Seamus tried to get Ron out of the common room, up the stairs, and into the bathroom to clean him up.

Seamus was the one who insisted on putting Ron's head in cold water. He said it'd worked for his always-hideously-hung-over cousin Martyn and so he had told Harry to try it. Though Harry was skeptical, Seamus grinned deviously as he filled the sink with ice-cold water.

“Oy, mate, you're going to get a laugh out of this,” he chuckled as they both watched the water level rise. Finally, when there was enough, they turned the faucet off. Droplets dripped from the valve.

“All right, on my count - wait, grab his hair, Harry, yeah, just like that. On my count, we put his head underwater. And then when he starts to move, you know, wriggle his shoulders about and tries to strangle us with his hands - then we lift his head back up as fast as we can without snapping his neck. Got it?”

Harry nodded, still uncertain of Seamus' method, but nothing else had worked. Not even the smell of chocolate frogs.

“Okay. Wait for it… make sure you're gripping his hair… One… two… three - go!” They plunged Ron's head underneath the water.

Even Harry shivered when he felt the icy water reach his knuckles. He looked at Seamus worriedly, doubtful. They could drown him.

Fortunately, within half a second, Ron's body jumped, startled by the sudden freezing water. His body aggressively twisting, Harry and Seamus elevated his head as quickly as they could.

Ron was sputtering, coughing, his red hair dark and sticking to his face from the water. He was spitting water all over Seamus and Harry. His mouth was open, taking in deep, rapid breaths and his chest was heaving.

“What-what are y-you tr-rying to do?” he stammered, his eyes wide. “That w-water is fr-reezing! S-Seamus, I'm-m g-going to kill you!”

“You're welcome,” tartly quipped Seamus.

“You wouldn't talk, Ron,” said Harry, concerned. “You wouldn't even open your eyes.”

“And you'd t-think p-people would res-spect that!” he exclaimed, snatching the towel out of Harry's hands and wiping down his face. “Honestly,” Ron continued. His voice was muffled by the towel. “C-can't a bloke snub some social contact for a l-little while?”

“What is it, Ron?” asked Harry, concerned. “What happened last night? What was that letter you were holding?”

“And you don't look your best, either, party boy,” mumbled Seamus.

Ron's head snapped up, his spine rigid. He took off the towel, looking at Harry with wide eyes. He looked angry and shocked.

“The letter!” said Ron. “Who took the letter? Who took my letter, Harry?”

“I did,” answered Harry, confused. He took it out of his pocket. “I put it in my pocket.”

Ron grabbed it from his hand, suddenly giving Harry a paper cut. “Did you read it?”

“No,” Harry replied, feeling the small cut on his index finger starting to sting, glancing at Seamus, who was shaking his head. “Of course not.”

“Good.” Ron shoved the crumpled parchment down the pocket of his trousers. He gave him a menacing, warning look. “Don't.”

“You don't want to talk about why you didn't head up to the dormitory last night?”

“No.” His answer was firm and there was a foreboding darkness deepening inside his blue eyes that told Harry how gravely he felt about this mystery ordeal with the letter. “And I don't want anyone to try and pry into my business. Spread the word.”

With a scowl on his face, Ron then turned and left the loo.

Feeling helpless to his friend's sudden motion of giving him the cold shoulder, Harry looked down to his finger. A small strip of blood was slashed across the very tip. The blood was starting to pool up.

Seamus sighed from his corner.

“You shouldn't have asked, Harry.”

“Why?” questioned Harry, wiping the blood on his trousers. “Do you know what happened last night?”

“Yeah.” Seamus fidgeted uneasily, as if uncertain to tell him. “Ron… he's nursing a broken heart.”

Harry gaped at him. He knew something had happened, but he didn't expect for it to be that. Never that. “What?”

“Lavender handed him that letter before she headed up to her room, right before the riot. He read it, and… well, you had to be there. He was devastated. I'd never seen him that way before. It was… disheartening.”

“Lavender broke up with him?”

“Yeah. I've heard the letter was especially brutal. You know, the whole `I hope we can still be friends' rubbish. He downed glasses of butterbeer after that. He even started singing `cos he was so pissing drunk.”

Harry frowned. He felt a tugging on his heart. He'd never thought he'd see the day when Lavender would be the one to break things off. He'd thought they'd been so happy together. There hadn't been a moment when Harry looked at the pair of them when they hadn't been smiling. Or snogging.

“Did she say why?”

Seamus shrugged. “He won't let anyone read the letter, he won't talk about it. Lavender refuses to step out of the girls' dormitory. It's all a very blurry mystery.”

oooo

Harry found Hermione talking to Madam Pomfrey on their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. He noticed the nurse was holding something familiarly orange and furry and looking a bit mangled in her arms.

He approached them with Ron by his side. He remembered that she hadn't been in the common room this morning when they had found Ron. He caught Hermione talking as they stopped behind her, and she sounded upset.

The tone of her words clearly hinted to them that she was immensely distressed. “… I'm sure it's all a very big mistake, Madam Pomfrey. I wasn't aware—”

“Miss Granger,” said Madam Pomfrey, her lips disappearing into a stern line. There were bags underneath her usually unyielding eyes. “I'm afraid there's nothing we can do. We don't know much about pets, nor do we know how to bring them back to life.”

Harry and Ron exchanged puzzled looks.

“But please,” pleaded a desperate Hermione. “Please, if you could just look up a few spells that could even - look, I think I have some in here,” she said, looking flustered as she fumbled with the clasp on her book bag.

“Miss Granger,” the Medi-Witch said sternly. “It is time for breakfast. Crookshanks is dead, and I apologize for such a tragedy. Just get something to eat and you'll feel better. We can have a burying ceremony later on in the week if you'd like. Invite anyone you'd like.” Then she started to walk away, her stout heels clicking a bit more sharply against the marble floors than Harry had ever heard.

“But—” protested Hermione, looking desperately at the nurse's back.

“Hermione,” said Ron, surprise very evident in his voice. “What?”

She sighed heavily in defeat. Harry could see she looked very sad and even a bit confused.

She turned to look at them, and that was when he saw the dark bags underneath her dull eyes. He wondered if she and their school nurse had been up all night.

“Crookshanks,” she said sadly. “He's… he's dead.”

“Dead?” echoed Ron, dumbfounded. Even Harry was having a hard time believing it.

“Yes. Apparently, he fell off of one of the moving staircases.” She pursed her lips, a sudden star of defiance shining in her eyes. “But the claw marks on the rails speak for themselves. I think somebody picked him up and threw him down.”

“To his death?” Ron was having a very hard time believing this.

“Who found him?” asked Harry, also shocked at the news.

They started to walk towards the Great Hall. Hermione looked very depressed. He didn't think he'd ever seen her so dispirited before.

“Ernie Macmillan. He was downstairs when he spotted Crookshank's body on the floor. But it was too late to save him… you know, broken spine, internal bleeding, and whatnot.” She looked nauseous as she reflected on the details.

“But don't cats have nine lives?” asked Ron. “Has Crookshanks been killed before?”

“This is already terrible without your cruel jokes, Ronald Weasley,” snapped an edgy and tense Hermione. “Crookshanks is dead.”

“Who said I was joking? They honestly don't have nine lives?”

“Of course not!” she snipped. Glaring daggers at Ron, she then stormed ahead to the Great Hall, leaving them behind.

Harry sighed, shaking his head. “Crookshanks? Dead? I almost don't want to believe it.”

“Me neither.” Ron looked noticeably green and queasy.

“What is it?” asked Harry.

“Well…”

“Come on, out with it,” prompted Harry. He thought Ron was going to tell him about what had happened between him and Lavender. He felt guilty, especially since everyone else knew more about it than he did and Ron was his best friend.

“All right, Harry, but you've got to swear you're not going to tell Hermione.” There was a hopeful look on his face.

Puzzled, Harry nodded and said he wouldn't. What would it have to do with Hermione? Unless… Lavender had broken up with him because of Hermione. Did Ron have feeling for Hermione again? Remembering what had happened last time, Harry felt knots form inside his stomach and his mouth go dry. He hoped that wasn't the case.

Summer had been a hard one; especially when there was an overly hormonal Ron who had seemed to be extra keen on finally telling Hermione how he felt. Harry remembered the anxious and fraught look on his face. He thought his poor friend was going to explode.

And he did tell her, and they confessed their long subdued feelings - right in front of him. Thinking about it almost made him feel woozy because of that dizzying, chaotic day. They had been arguing again, with Hermione throwing her books at him and yelling at him about his impertinence, the sound of books crashing everywhere while Harry was jumping every which way from getting hit by one of them. And then it happened. In all of its audacity. And then after a few moments of questions of reassurance and certainty, they blushed a siren-bright crimson.

But it faded soon after, because it was then that Ron discovered the very attractive Penny Kinny next door. And Hermione - Hermione discovered the Undisturbed by Muggles: The Complete Works Of William Shakespeare in a vintage bookshop. It certainly lightened the load of heartbreak for the three of them.

It actually amazed him. Their feelings had faded into nothing but the mutual “friendship” feelings again within hours after their confession and it was if nothing had happened at all.

Ron's voice lowered. “I think I drank too much of Fred and George's butterbeer last night, and, well, I remember Crookshanks wouldn't leave me alone and the mangy cat even followed me out when I wanted to be by myself for a while… and… well, I think I was the one who threw him down there.”

Harry's eyes bulged out of their sockets. This was just too hard to believe. “What? You're the one who killed Crookshanks?”

“I think I did. But, you know, if you think about it, I only did it because I was drunk out of my wits from the twin's spiked butterbeer. Had I been of clear conscience and mind, I never would have hurt Crookshanks a bit. Wouldn't have laid a finger. Sure, probably a swift kick in the arse for being so sodding annoying, but never… never that. So, if you think about it, they're the ones who killed Crookshanks. Not me.”

But as Harry could only gape at him and Ron seemed to be mentally preparing himself for his doom, they knew even that excuse could never save him from the wrath of Hermione Granger.

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2. Talking Down To a Grave

Where Does the Good Go?

By attica

Chapter Two: Talking Down To a Grave

“There's more to life than love and being together.”- Tegan and Sara, You Went Away.

“So, when are you going to tell her?” whispered Harry as soon as Hermione had left to get another book.

“I don't know,” answered Ron. He peered around them to see if anyone was listening. “When d'you reckon I should?”

“Never.”

“Winning answer, Harry.”

“But she's going to find out, sooner or later. Then she's going to murder you.”

“Not if she can't reach me. D'you think anyone's ever slept on a broom before? Y'know, while it's still in the air?”

“No.”

“Right, then. But how could she possibly find out?”

“I don't know. Ernie might've seen you.”

“That prick. I knew he was a rat.” Ron then looked up as Hermione returned and sat back down in front of them. She was holding a ratty A Hermit's Guide to Herbology. She still looked a bit sad but Harry could see that while she was distraught from Crookshanks's death, nothing could really pull her away from her studies. If anything, it would only make her study harder to distract her from it.

“Hullo Hermione,” said Harry.

“Harry,” she nodded back. She looked pale. She stole a glance at their parchments. “What are you boys up to?”

“Nothing,” Ron said quickly. “Y'know, Potions is a drag.”

“Yeah,” added Harry when Hermione quirked one of her brows.

“Well,” said Hermione a-matter-of-factly, “if you two spent as much time studying as you did complaining, you wouldn't be complaining.”

Ron wrinkled his nose. “What?”

Hermione sighed. Her face crumpled up in her woe for a quick second. “Nothing,” she said flatly. Harry could see the agony written all over her face and he glanced at Ron. While Crookshanks's death could not pull her away from her studies, it had to be at least slightly bad if it seemed she had suddenly lost the will to scold.

“I'm sorry about Crookshanks, Hermione,” said Harry. His voice was quiet. He hoped it sounded soothing. “He was a good cat.”

“Me too,” quickly added Ron. “He was a good cat. He chased Scabbers - who was actually Petter Pettigrew in disguise - around. You could tell he had a good judge of character,” he swallowed.

Hermione was softly frowning. Harry noticed the gentle creases that formed between her brows and on her forehead. “I just can't believe someone would throw him over the staircase!” she said. “The utter nerve! The inhumanity of the person who did that!”

“But are you sure Crookshanks didn't just fall?”

“Yes. Ernie said he saw someone that night, hurrying away.”

Ron's face paled. “Did he say who it was?” he managed to croak.

“No. He said the person was gone before he could really recognize him. I just don't understand why anyone would want to do such a cruel thing - it's murder! If I ever find out who it is that threw Crookshanks, you can be sure I'm going to make certain he gets expelled.”

Ron was as white as a sheet. “Maybe… maybe it was Malfoy.”

Hermione sighed sadly. “Maybe.” Then with one last forlorn look, she turned back to her book.

Harry looked at Ron.

`I'm dead,' mouthed Ron.

`I know,' he mouthed back.

oooo

Ron still hadn't told Harry anything about him and Lavender by the end of lunch. Harry had tried to steer the conversation toward her when they were eating, but Ron always managed to change the subject. However, Harry did catch the longing look on his face when Lavender sat down at their table. The look then slowly eased over to one of resentment and sadness. By then, Harry was getting frustrated.

“Ron, are you sure there's nothing you want to talk about?”

“Yeah. Quidditch practice is still on tomorrow afternoon, am I right?”

“Yeah, it is. But… are you sure? Nothing you want to talk about? At all?”

Ron looked over at Harry. His gaze was firm. “There's nothing to talk about, Harry. It's over.”

Nodding slowly, Harry understood what he meant. The dimness of his blue eyes was a clear message. The topic was completely closed for discussion.

He sighed. It sounded so very final that he had no choice but to believe it. He just couldn't deem the fact that two things had died on the same evening: Crookshanks, and Ron and Lavender's relationship.

As they were filing out of the Great Hall, Hermione caught up to them.

“Crookshanks's burial is tomorrow afternoon by the lake. I expect you two will be there?” she said anxiously.

“Hermione, we've got Quidditch practice tomorrow afternoon,” said Ron. “Didn't you remember? We handed you a copy of our Quidditch schedule last week.”

Harry almost couldn't stand the look on Hermione's face as Ron told her. He looked down, feeling a cold tingling in his stomach and a heavy, scratchy stone inside his throat.

“Oh.” Disappointment was written all over her face.

Harry exchanged glances with Ron.

“We'll try to leave Quidditch practice early,” offered Harry. “We really do want to be there for his funeral.”

“Yeah,” reassured Ron. “We do. Unless… you can reschedule?”

Hermione's head snapped up. Her brown eyes were sparkling with anger. “Look, Crookshanks's burial is going to happen with or without you.”

“Hermione, I—”

“I'll see you two later,” Hermione said coldly before walking away and heading to her Ancient Runes classroom.

“Reschedule?” spat Harry. “What were you thinking? Do you want her to kill you earlier?”

“I know,” groaned Ron. “I'm sorry. I'm such an idiot.”

Harry snorted in response.

“Look, we'll talk to Bricks in the locker room. We'll ask him - beg him to let practice end early. Then we can make it to Crookshanks's burial and Hermione can untwist her knickers, all right?”

“I just feel terrible. You kill Crookshanks and then -”

“Sssshhh!” said Ron, twisting his neck around to see if anyone had overheard. “Not so loud, mate. Blimey.”

“—We can't even make it to the burial,” continued Harry in a quieter voice. “Did you see her face? I'd never seen her that way before.”

“Except when I accidentally got ink all over her Hogwarts: A History,” quipped Ron. “Don't worry, Harry. Within a week, she'll be back to her normal, scolding, bossy self.”

Harry could only hope that he was right. Anything was better than having a miserable Hermione strolling around.

oooo

The next day Harry and Ron approached Leroy Bricks, their new Quidditch captain, in the locker rooms. Leroy was adjusting his Quidditch robes and strapping on his protective gear.

“What is it, Potter, Weasley?” he asked them, his gaze moving from Harry to Ron. “You two are looking especially grim.”

“Leroy, we've sort of… got a favor to ask.”

Leroy straightened up, eyebrows high up on his forehead. “A favor? Look, I'm sorry, but I can't let you bring your wands out to the field to turn Malfoy's robes pink. I already told you that—”

“No, it's not that,” said Harry quickly. “It's about practice.”

Leroy face brightened. “Practice! Well, you needn't worry about that, mates. I've just been sent the old plays my great uncle Bernard used when he went here, and Good Merlin are we going to make sure Slytherin lands on their arse! We've got to practice hard today, though—”

“We were sort of hoping that we could leave early today,” Harry managed to get out.

Leroy froze. “What? Leave early? But this is our first match of the year! If we have to, we're going to practice until our body collapses from exhaustion!”

“But, Leroy!” objected Ron. “Hermione's cat died and today's the burial!”

“Hermione's cat?” repeated Leroy, almost incredulous. “You want to leave early at today's practice to go to a cat's funeral?”

“It's really important to her,” Harry explained, feeling slightly pathetic that he had to say why out loud.

“Can't she reschedule?”

Harry threw up his hands while Ron answered.

“I already asked. No, she can't. I think.”

“I'm sorry,” Leroy sighed. “Everything is riding on our first match. This practice is important, more important than some cat's funeral. Besides, Granger'll get a new cat, and it'll die as well. You can go to that funeral. Just make sure it's not the same time during our Quidditch practice, all right?”

Harry was not in a good mood when they finally walked out into the lush Quidditch field. It seemed that Leroy had inherited Oliver Wood's fanatical obsession on their Quidditch games and practices. He hated to think that maybe if Wood was still here, he'd've given them a bit of slack and actually let them go, even if it was just a few minutes early.

“Harry, what's the big deal? So we miss it. Hermione'll understand - I mean she'll be angry with us for a bit, but she will. Besides, why do you care all of a sudden?”

His question struck a chord inside of him. Why did he care? His best friend kills his other best friend's cat and then he's suddenly so keen on going to the burial that he was willing to blow off Quidditch practice?

Maybe it was because he knew a thing or two about loss. But Harry wasn't feeling quite as tolerant as he normally would be to Ron's ignorance of their friend's feelings.

“It's important to Hermione,” snapped Harry. He somehow couldn't understand how Ron could be so breezy and carefree while their best friend was going to be alone at her cat's funeral - that he had killed. “She's our best friend, Ron. How could you not care?”

“I didn't say I didn't care,” interjected Ron, shifting his broom on his shoulder. His voice offered a sharp hint of offense at Harry's quick retort. “I'm just saying that maybe Leroy has a point.”

“So you're choosing our match against Slytherin over our best friend?” Harry asked, setting his slight glare at the abundant blanket of azure set above him instead of the boy next to him.

“No!” exclaimed Ron. “It's just that… well…”

“Ron, you saw how Hermione was today. She was heartbroken.” It wasn't a typical sight, and it felt unsettling to him. He never did like it when girls mourned - crying was one thing, but mourning over a loss? He could maybe cope with a crying Cho Chang now, knowing what he did, but Hermione was a different case in itself. She was always so headstrong, so unflinching, this intractable weapon of defense always on guard…. He felt odd now that a dart of casualty had actually affected her. After Sirius, of course. But even that seemed ages away now, though still painfully near whenever a single thought threaded towards the terribly sensitive subject.

It was, beyond anything… unsettling.

“Well, I am too,” Ron harshly said. “But you don't see me holding some last-minute funeral and getting angry over the physical lack of moral support.”

Harry was shocked. “I didn't mean—”

“I know you didn't. Look, just play your hardest and maybe Bricks will cut us some slack. We'll run all the way over there if we have to. Maybe Bricks'll even get injured in the first ten minutes of the game and we can go after all. Just don't worry about Hermione and Crookshanks.”

“All right,” said Harry. But he had a churning feeling inside his stomach that told him Leroy wasn't going to get injured today, nor would they get to reach Hermione in time for Crookshanks's burial.

oooo

Harry reached the side of the lake in a mess of ragged, sharp breaths and a shooting pain in his side. His face was masked in a sheen of sweat and his wild raven hair was sticking to his forehead, almost masking his scar. His glasses were crooked.

Ron soon caught up, flushed in the face. He was holding his side.

“Harry… did… we… really have… to… run… all the way… here?” he breathed. His face was contorted from exhaustion and pain.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Where's Hermione?”

Ron pointed out the figure sitting by the tree.

“Oh. Come on, then.”

They ran as quickly as they could to her. She looked up when they finally reached her, their palms on their knees, trying to breathe.

“We're here,” wheezed Ron. “We're here.”

Underneath the shade of the tree, Hermione's face looked even sadder. Even her ever-shining prefect badge seemed to be hopelessly solemn, as it did not gleam and shine as it usually did. Harry noticed she was looking down at their feet with an odd expression on her face.

“Ron—”

“Where is he? Where's his grave?” he said, looking around.

“You're stepping on it.”

Ron jumped, as well as Harry.

“Blimey, Hermione!” he exclaimed. “Why didn't you tell me? It's bad luck to step on someone's grave!”

She didn't respond and looked away. One of the Giant Squid's tentacles reached up above the glittering water for a second, as if it was waving to them.

Harry gave him a look, composing himself. He fixed his glasses on his face as he sat down next to her. Ron followed suit.

“We're sorry, Hermione,” said Harry guiltily. He really did feel horrible about missing Crookshanks's funeral. He'd refused the urge to “accidentally” hit Leroy over the head with his broom and instead got changed and ran through the hallways and to the lake in record time. He felt ridiculous to be taking a cat's funeral so seriously, but he knew what it felt to lose someone, and though Crookshanks could never compare to Sirius, he held great sympathy for her. “We tried talking to Bricks so that we could leave practice early, but he…”

He trailed off. He figured Hermione already knew, anyway.

“We're really sorry,” said Ron. “Bricks was being a prick. He almost even hit me over the head with a Quaffle, that one.”

Hermione was wringing her hands as she sighed. “It's all right.”

“No, it's not all right,” Harry said, seeing the look on her face. “We really wanted to be here, Hermione. But we just couldn't because Bricks was too concerned over our first match with Slytherin.”

There was silence, and Harry never thought he could feel so bad about missing a pet's funeral in his life. He could feel the strangling knots in his stomach.

“Who was here?” he asked quietly.

“Me,” answered Hermione. Her voice was so delicate and soft that Harry felt slight fluttering in his stomach. He'd never heard her speak that way before. She even sounded a bit… fragile. “And Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore?” repeated Ron.

“Yes, Ronald. Dumbledore. Ernie stopped by for a bit, as well.”

“But doesn't Dumbledore have better things to do than go to a cat's funeral?”

Harry wanted to knock some sense into Ron. He shook his head, marveling at the utter stupidity over his friend sometimes. So he really did know what to say when someone was grieving over the death of someone very close to her and her best friends had missed the burial.

He shot Ron a glare.

“What?” asked an offended Hermione. Her brunette brows were furrowed.

“I meant…” Ron faltered. “What did he do at the funeral?” he mended.

“He paid his respects,” Hermione answered brusquely. Her brown eyes were dark and cold, her tone cutting and sharp. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

“Look, Hermione, that isn't fair,” retaliated Ron. “We tried our best to make it, all right? We made the effort. It isn't our fault Bricks didn't let us out early to go to your sodding cat's funeral!”

Hermione stood, livid. “How dare you, Ronald Weasley? I understand you tried to make it, and maybe that'd make it all okay if you'd only have the decency to show some sympathy!”

“Hermione, he didn't mean—” Harry tried to interfere, but Ron had gotten to his feet as well.

“I'm sorry, all right? I'm sorry if I'm too busy to cry over your stupid cat!”

“Ron!” shouted Harry, pleading for him to stop. He just couldn't understand why Ron had to open his mouth to unleash such rudeness - even at a funeral! Had he literally lost his marbles?

“I wasn't asking you to cry!” yelled Hermione, tears welling up in her eyes. Harry felt something collapse into rubble inside him to see the chaos of the scene before him. He wished he could stop it - but how could he? The colliding of two of the most stubborn people in the world? They would be shooting fire from their eyes if they could! “Not even for a tear! I was just asking you to be human!”

And he was also faced with the very terrible debacle that was a crying Hermione. He'd know what to do if it was some other girl that was crying in front of him - reassure her that everything was going to be just fine, then give her some thinking space - but a crying Hermione stunted him.

Absolutely stunted him.

He knew Ron was still upset over Lavender as well, which made things worse. Both were experiencing tremendous sadness, pain, and loss. But he just couldn't get a grasp on why they had to take it out on each other.

“Human?” Ron scoffed. “You're not human! A funeral for a cat! Really!”

This really hurt Hermione. Harry could see it in her eyes and face. Her brows were cast downward and she was biting her trembling lip. Her face was twisted in her rage and sorrow. Ron had really struck home on that one. He wished he could push Ron in the lake and then do something to make Hermione feel better - maybe even give her a hug. Anything to make that look on her face disappear. It tore at his insides.

Harry didn't think he'd seen her so hurt, and, in a way: it hurt him too. It reminded him of when he had gone off on the both of them in Grimmauld Place. She looked just as hurt, just as guilty. He'd been so angry that day, so bitter and so resentful… maybe that was how Ron was feeling right now.

“Hermione,” Harry started, standing up to join them. “Please don't cry.” But he realized that what he had said was too late because a tear no later rolled down her cheek. Harry turned to Ron, desperate for a way to end all of this on a good note.

“Ron, please. Just… apologize.”

“Why?” he scoffed. But Harry could see that even Ron could not take Hermione's tears. His face softened for a second but his pride had hardened it right back up again.

Harry really felt like pushing him into the lake.

One glistening tear that clung onto her bottom eyelashes fell in silence. There was intensity all around them. Even the breeze that swept by that usually sought to calm - making the tree's leaves rustle melodically - could not soothe the frayed and burning edges of both their losses.

One last glance at the both of them and Crookshanks' grave, Hermione walked away. She did not exactly storm away like she usually did when Ron criticized her in some crude way, but it was a sort of walk that emphasized just how miserable and wretched she was feeling.

Harry felt like running after her and saying something. Anything. That Ron was an idiot. That he'd buy her a new cat - a better cat - if she wanted. Just something that would make this feeling of uselessness vanish from the pit of his stomach. But as he just watched her walk back to the castle, raising her hands to wipe away her tears with the back of her hands every now and then, he too felt a feeling of loss, himself. Granted, it couldn't be considered to be in the same boat as Ron and Hermione's loss, but it was still something.

Harry heard the soft shuffling noise as Ron fell down at the foot of the tree. His eyes were cast down to the ground, two of his fingers smoothing down a blade of grass. Harry observed the look on his face and he saw that Ron was feeling wretched, as well.

“What you did was uncalled for,” Harry said in a tone of voice he hadn't ever thought he'd use when it came to Ron. It was frigid and constricted, just like how his throat felt. He didn't want to speak to Ron this way, but he couldn't help it. “It was cruel. Downright cruel.”

“I know,” agreed Ron. “I'm sorry.”

“You shouldn't be apologizing to me - you should be apologizing to Hermione!”

“Mate, I know, okay? I know!” he yelled. “I don't know why I went off on her the way I did. It was unfair. It was malicious. I don't know, Harry.”

“I know you're upset about Lavender, but you've got to find another outlet for your pent-up rage, all right? Hermione's cat died and she's feeling just as miserable as you are! You two should be consoling each other - not making each feel worse!”

“You're right!” shouted Ron, his face twisted in agony. “Is that what you want to hear? You're right, Harry.” He sighed desolately, looking back down at the ground.

Harry, abruptly feeling remorseful because of his unreasonable and sudden outburst, ran his fingers through his hair before sitting down next to him. The grass tickled his palms.

“It's just…” Ron looked too pained to speak. “I saw her today, and… it's worse than yesterday. You should have read what was in the letter, Harry. She was nice about it. Completely nice. She still wanted to be friends. That was the worst part. And then… you saw it; you were there. She started speaking to me again like nothing happened. Like everything was the same.”

Harry was looking at his friend. There was something very heavy in his throat. It almost felt as if someone had shoved some prickly, coarse pebble down his gullet. It wasn't the most pleasant feeling. Over his rocky years here, he had come to associate it with shame.

But he knew what Ron was feeling. He knew what it felt like to feel down over a girl. Of course, there hadn't been anyone else after Cho (Harry didn't feel like dealing with another jerk of the female species and, even if he had, he hadn't found someone quite… adequate and worthy to go through all of that pain for), but he sympathized with the feeling. It couldn't feel too good. Harry even remembered the day Ron had been so cheerful and happy when Lavender finally said yes. Nothing could've brought him down that day.

He recalled that even he himself felt a bit jealous of Ron one time or another, seeing him that way. He hadn't felt that way for a very long time. Sure, his resentment and bitterness from the year before had plummeted… but not really. He had just taught himself to hide it better.

“I saw.” Harry pressed his lips together. The air was prickling cold and chilly. He knew it would start snowing soon. “Look… I'm sorry, I really am. I knew you really… had gotten attached.”

“Yeah,” scoffed Ron. “My mistake, right?”

“It'll fade away, Ron. You know it will. It just takes time.”

Ron didn't say a word about Harry's statement. Instead, he went back to the topic of Hermione and Crookshanks. “I'll apologize to her before dinner. She'll need an hour or so to cool down a bit, I s'ppose. It's just… I feel horrible. I kill Crookshanks and then yell at Hermione, telling her she's not human… I really am a prick.”

“No, you're not,” said Harry, although a few minutes ago he wouldn't have disagreed. “You… you just act like one sometimes. But who doesn't? We all have our moments.”

Ron nodded, leaning against the trunk of the tree. His hands were behind his head, looking up at the sky, his prefect badge shining for one quick second. “We don't argue as much as we used to, right?”

Harry was surprised by his question, but answered it anyway. He thought hard. He realized he hadn't really noticed. “Well… not as much, yeah, I suppose.” He remembered that after Ron's affections had tided over to Lavender, he and Hermione hadn't been bickering as fiercely with each other like before.

“That's good.” His face had slowly descended into a vague expression, as if he was calm but thinking and uncertain of what he was feeling, all at the same time.

“Why do you ask?” asked Harry, curious.

“Just curious. I just remembered how we used to be, you know. I always got jealous of you because she fussed over you more than she fussed over me. And then… we found out we fancied each other - which was great. But we weren't ready, and it just faded. Back into that mutual friendship thing.” He shifted his gaze to Harry. “Ever wonder what it'd be like if it never faded? If we were ready? Oh, never mind,” he quickly said, looking away. His cheeks were rosy. “That was a stupid question. Don't answer that. Ignore me. I think I'm still drunk from last night.”

Harry wanted to tell him that he did wonder, an unnaturally vast amount, at that. He did wonder how the three of them would be now if their feelings for each other hadn't faded. If he was going to be left alone while Ron and Hermione went off somewhere. For a while, after finding out the more-than-friends-feelings were reciprocated between the pair of them, he felt odd when he saw them. There had been this strange twisting in his stomach, a wallowing, watery movement in his skull that had sort of made him queasy.

It was as if he had been expecting change and he was refusing it. No, he didn't want things to change. Even though everything in his life had always somehow been turned upside down, distorted, shifted, and stretched like a piece of indestructible taffy every year, he never wanted the breeze of change to affect his two best friends. They had been the only constant things in his life, the only people he could count on to stay the same, and he didn't want to lose that.

He had even felt slightly bitter and angry when he had thought about it. His two best friends had found each other… but what about him? Were they to leave him behind to go traipsing off, snogging in broom closets? It made him fear what their feelings would slowly convert into.

He also thought about what would've happened if they did merge into a relationship and then things fell apart. Their friendships would be scarred forever. He might not be able to be in the same room as Ron and talk to Hermione, or vice versa. Most of all, despite all of the echoing fears floating around in his brain, he was afraid of that.

“Hermione fusses over everyone, Ron,” said Harry, disregarding his thoughts.

He laughed, shaking his head. “That's true, but not as much as she fussed over you. She still does it, too. It's like she's the mother and you're the child. She cares for you so bloody much and she's not afraid to show it. A bit brave, you know? Especially after Rita Skeeter started to write those sleazy articles about you two.”

For some unknown strange reason, Harry felt slightly nervous when Ron said this. “Yeah.”

The sun was starting to go down, and Harry felt uneasy when he thought of the possibility Ron would want to talk more about him and Hermione. It was - to him - very anomalous territory. It even frightened him a bit, although he didn't know why.

He stood. “C'mon, let's go. We'd better head back inside. They might be looking for us. Dinner's in an hour and we've still got to find Hermione.”

With Ron agreeing and brushing himself off, they started to head back to the castle. But not before Ron stopped Harry, right in front of Crookshanks's grave.

“Well, Crookshanks,” Ron ruefully said, looking down at the small lump of soil and the teeny headstone. “I'm here to pay my respects. I'm real sorry I killed you. I really am. I didn't mean to. It's all Fred and George's fault.” He paused. Harry could tell talking to a pet's grave wasn't one of his day-to-day activities. “Anyway, Hermione misses you a lot. She's going to murder me once she finds out. But, hey, maybe we'll meet up and share a spot of tea.” Ron suggested this in a casual manner.

And then the two boys headed back to the towering and vast castle of Hogwarts, stomachs growling and with a hope that the evening will end on good terms - with no cats dying, break-ups, spiked butterbeer, or half-naked riots.

-->

3. Dividing Lakeside Blues

Where Does The Good Go?

By attica

Chapter Three: Dividing Lakeside Blues

“If I could tame all of my desires

Wait out the weather that howls in my brain

`Cause it seems it's always changing, the wind's indecision, the sorrowful rain.” - Bright Eyes, Train Under Water.

Hermione was nowhere to be found before dinner. They'd looked everywhere: the library, the common room, the corridors, staircases, and even Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. They'd even asked around. No one knew where she was.

“That's odd. I wonder where she could possibly be,” Harry breathed, looking around him. He swept the hair sticking to his forehead to the side, feeling the slight perspiration that clung on to his fingers when he did so.

Ron was clutching onto a suit of armor a few paces behind him. Finally, he caught up. His face was pink and there were diamonds of sweat forming at the base of his hairline. “Harry… dinner's in ten minutes. I'm starving; you're starving. Everyone's starving. So why don't we just go along to the Great Hall and I'll apologize to her afterwards?”

Harry could not disagree with him. His stomach was beginning to hurt from running all over the place with no rest looking for Hermione, and the hunger that was roaring from his stomach did not help matters, either. He was beginning to smell roast beef and he was almost a mile away from the Great Hall.

“All right,” he said, finally giving in. “But when you see Hermione in the Great Hall, you've got to ask her to meet us in the common room.”

“Yes, officer.” Ron looked relieved as they finally turned around and started their way to the Great Hall. “Merlin, is it just me or is that girl always making us run after her?”

“No, it isn't just you. But where could she be?”

“I don't know. We looked inside the library twice. Maybe we could've tried pulling out each of the books and opening them, just to see if she had gotten sucked in and trapped. And, y'know, considering how much Hermione loves books - she probably wouldn't even have protested if such a thing did happen. She's a madwoman.”

When they finally reached the Great Hall, all of the students had already filed in and started their supper.

The scent that pervaded Harry's nose as soon as he had stepped inside was mouthwatering and smelt so good that he was convinced it was almost lethal to his brain. He was so hungry it reminded him of when he had been back at the Dursleys'. He quickly sat down with Ron at their table, shoveling food onto their plates: mashed potatoes, roast beef, tarts, honeyed ham, and anything that made their stomachs lurch violently just at the sight of it.

“Good God,” commented George in awe as he saw their plates. Fred, Seamus, and Dean were also sending them bewildered looks. “Where have you two been?”

“We've been looking all `round the castle for Hermione,” said Ron, his mouth muffled by food. “But we thought we'd take a break.”

“No kidding,” snorted Fred. “I s'ppose looking for people really does make you hungry. By the end of this meal, you two are going to be looking like Crabbe and Goyle.” George gave him a high-five.

Harry let out a dry laugh as Ron rolled his eyes, calling them a number of not-so-friendly names under his breath.

“So you two still haven't found Hermione?” inquired Ginny.

“Nope.” Ron gave her a full view of roast beef, mashed potato, and ham inside his mouth as he said this.

Ginny cringed, looking away. “Ugh! Ronald!”

“So he's finally shown you what he's made of?” the twins commented.

Ron only shrugged, ignoring them, and continued to eat.

Harry was looking around at their table, looking for a head of familiar bush-like hair. “Hermione's not here, either.”

“Maybe she's having tea with the troll that tried to kill her your first year,” sniggered Fred.

“Would you two shut up?” Ron asked irritably. “You're like a broken record.”

“Ohhh, are we making ickle Ronnikins angry?” they cooed. “Well, big bad prefect, why don't you show us who's boss?”

“Why don't you get a life?” he lashed out at the pair of them.

“When you get a brain,” they answered in unison.

While Ron glowered, Ginny went on as if they weren't there at all.

“Yeah. She hasn't had much of an appetite these days, if you two had cared to notice,” said Ginny, taking a bite of her tart. “She's real depressed about Crookshanks. Horrible what happened. Who would kill a cat? And by throwing it down the staircases? Brutal!”

“I don't know, Gin,” said Fred. “Cats are awfully nasty. Especially Hermione's. Maybe it just went mad - and, you know, I wouldn't have doubted if that cat was suicidal.”

“He,” corrected Ginny. “And Crookshanks was not suicidal, Fred. It was murdered.”

“Maybe it was self-defense,” blurted out a defensive Ron.

Ginny looked at him with an odd look on her face. “From a cat? What? Was Crookshanks clawing them to death?”

Fred and George burst out laughing.

They then started to make cat-clawing noises and then lapsed into more hysterics, pounding the table and making their plates and goblets rattle and the rest of their housemates to look over.

“Well, I don't know!” exclaimed Ron. “I wasn't the one who did it! For Merlin's sakes, Ginny!”

Meanwhile, Ginny looked at him as if he had just glued a pair of Snape's knickers to his head.

“One point for Ginny, zero points for Ron,” George said, looking ridiculously serious and acting like a sports commentator.

“You haven't seen her yet?” Harry asked Ginny. He was starting to get really worried. The last time she had chosen to miss out on supper was on Halloween and a troll had just happened to break in that day (just as Fred and George had managed to joke about, though to Harry it was no laughing matter). She would've almost been killed if he and Ron hadn't gone after her.

Ginny shook her head. “Did you two try the library?”

“Twice,” answered Ron. He was still chewing, and bits of his food splattered all over Ginny's face.

Ginny, fed up with his lack of meal etiquette, started to yell at him whilst wiping her face off with a dinner napkin.

“Oooh,” said Fred and George, smirking. “Four points for the screamer, two points for open-mouth chewer. But an A for effort.”

Harry, taking one last look around the Great Hall, went back to his meal.

oooo

They went back to the common room after dinner along with the rest of Gryffindor House. The seventh years had just started a fire inside the hearth as they sat down on the couch.

“Why would Hermione miss supper?”

Ron let out a belch. “I don't know. You heard Ginny. `She hasn't had much of an appetite these days, if you two had cared to notice,'” he said in a high-pitched, awful imitation of his sister.

“Aren't you starting to get worried?” asked Harry.

“No. She disappears all the time. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd gotten herself some secret boyfriend.”

Harry's eyes widened. “Boyfriend?” Somehow, the concept of Hermione and a boyfriend seemed very surreal to him. His head even felt a bit light and strangely disconnected when he thought of it. He'd just never… well, she did have that thing with Viktor, but he'd never thought she'd have a boyfriend. She'd endlessly insisted they were only friends, after all.

“Maybe. I don't know. You'd think she'd tell us that little insignificant detail but girls usually only tell that sort of personal stuff to other girls. And, see, if Hermione told Ginny, then Ginny would certainly tell me. Unless, o'course, she told Ginny not to tell us. So, in conclusion: I don't know.”

Harry then remembered something. “She mentioned Ernie coming by at Crookshanks's funeral. D'you think—?”

Ron let out a loud snort before Harry could finish his sentence. “Ernie? Hermione? That's impossible, Harry. Think of how their children would be like!”

“Children?” Harry managed to choke out. Was it just him or were they discussing Hermione's possible love life at a very fast pace? Boyfriend, and now… children? It was a bit too much for him to drink it all in at the same time.

“I know, tell me about it. The horror, right? Ernie's almost just as bad as she is. They'll be like… I don't know if there's even a word for it yet. It's just too ghastly. Think of the horror and pain the future generations of Hogwarts students would have to endure with them!”

Harry swallowed down hard, his brows furrowed. He remembered Ernie was a bit on the fanatical side when it came to studies and academics, just as Hermione was. Was that what Hermione looked for in blokes?

It felt strange to be asking and pondering about such things. He'd never thought of Hermione this way before. To him, Hermione'd just been… Hermione. No-boyfriend Hermione, always-studying Hermione, snapping-and-scolding Hermione. It made his stomach almost cripple over with uneasiness.

“Yeah.” He didn't know what else to say. He didn't think Ernie would be right for Hermione. They were too… perfect for each other.

“D'you reckon we should start looking for her again?” Harry asked absentmindedly, trying to shake away the thoughts of the Hufflepuff and Hermione.

“No need, mate. She's right here.”

Surprised, Harry looked up at Ron and then trailed his eyes at where his gaze was directed. He watched as Hermione stepped in the common room from the portrait hole, holding something that looked like a Muggle shoebox in her hands.

Her face looked calm, but her eyes were a gentle pink around the edges. She was shivering as he looked down at her hands clutching the box. Her fingers were curled tightly around the edges but they were slightly quaking. Her hair looked windswept and face was flushed from the cold.

“Oy, Hermione!” Ron called out.

Hermione froze and looked over at the mention of her name. Her gaze was still and unmoving on Harry and Ron for a moment, as if she was trying to think something out, before she slowly made her way towards them.

She sat down on the chair in front of them, right in front of the fireplace. Harry watched her as she let out a steadying sigh.

“Harry, Ron,” she acknowledged them. The fire sent beams of dancing lights; some shining off of her prefect's badge and some making a halo appear around her head. Harry felt his mouth to be quite dry when he noticed this. It was quite a remarkable sight.

“Where've you been, Hermione?” he finally asked in a quiet voice.

“Nowhere.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Exactly. So that's why we've been scurrying all over this massive castle and couldn't find you. We are such idiots.”

Hermione was looking at Ron. Harry was surprised, as her eyes did not become fierce as she continued to look at him. Instead, her features were soft, compassionate, and understanding. She did not get even a tad bit upset from Ron's sarcastic remark, and while Harry was indeed grateful of that, he didn't recall her ever looking that way before. Not at Ron.

Only at him.

His heart lurched.

“I was at Hagrid's for a while.”

Harry wanted to smack himself on the head. That's where they had forgotten to check! Hadgrid's hut! He looked at Ron and his expression told him that he was thinking the exact same thing.

“Oh. We sort of… didn't think to look there. But we did look everywhere else. The library, the corridors, the staircases, Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, the library—”

“Look,” she finally sighed. “I know it wasn't fair to force you to go to Crookshanks's burial. I didn't check with you if you could. I… apologize.” She almost looked like it hurt her to apologize, and Harry wondered why.

She was then silent, just looking at them both.

Ron had his mouth open. Harry refused the urge, though he was just as astonished at what had just happened. Hermione had never been the one to apologize so quickly before. Harry then knew that someone had told her about what had happened before Ron and Lavender. That had to be it. That look on her face… she sympathized with him, too.

But when her brown orbs finally met his, he noticed that the fire behind her caused a little light to flicker inside her eyes. He thought it to be extraordinary. He felt a little flip in his chest.

“I… I'm sorry, too, Hermione,” Ron said, at last. He looked uneasy saying this to her and he glanced at Harry, asking him with his expression if it was really necessary for him to do this. Harry gave him a firm look, and he hesitantly continued. “I… I really didn't mean to yell at you like that, especially when Crookshanks had just… passed away. I was… upset.”

Harry thought it was highly amusing that Ron looked slightly nauseous.

Hermione nodded, looking down at what she was holding on her lap.

Curious, Harry made up his mind to ask her what was in the shoebox. “What're you holding, Hermione?”

“It's a shoebox.”

“Well, that's obvious,” interjected Ron. “What's in it?”

“Crookshanks's things. I was going to dig a hole right beside his grave and bury it, but it was too cold. I figured I could do it tomorrow, after classes. It's going to start snowing soon, so I have to do it when I can.”

They nodded. It was odd having nothing to talk about. It was tense and uncomfortable.

Harry looked at Ron, nudging him. Ron looked at him and Harry gave him a look, nodding his head towards Hermione.

`Tell her,' he mouthed. `Tell her now.'

Ron's eyes widened as he furiously shook his head, his mane of red hair flying along with the motion. `No.'

`Why not?'

`Because.'

Harry let out a silent breath of air, shaking his head in disapproval. He knew delaying telling someone the truth would only make things worse.

He looked at Ron pityingly.

He nudged him.

Ron looked over to him again, giving him a questioning look.

`I'll be sure to tell them to bury you right next to Crookshanks.'

At first, he wasn't certain Ron had gotten his message as he seemed confused, but he then scowled at him, and he knew he had read his lips just right.

oooo

It was getting chillier each morning. The skies outside were no longer even the faintest hint of blue but dulling over with rolling, nippy grays. Even the air outside had become frosty and was increasing in its drop in temperature every week.

In Transfiguration they had progressed onto the more difficult spells. They were first reading and studying about Transfiguring larger mammals, and then they were to go on to human Transfiguration towards the middle of the term. McGonagall had even warned them with a mischievous smile of the chaos and disorder that awaited them when the time came for the advanced spells. It had even seemed as if she was anticipating them with great excitement.

When Harry's curiosity finally got to him, he flipped ahead to the middle of the thick textbook and his eyes widened at the graphic pictures of the rather grotesque side affects of improper human Transfigurations. He shuddered visibly and immediately tossed it shut before Hermione and Ron asked him what he had seen.

“What is it?” Ron asked nosily. “Are there naked girls?”

Hermione gave him a fierce reprimanding look, huffing. She looked as if she wanted to slap him. “Honestly, Ronald. If you spent as much time at least attempting to study, you'd become clever enough that you wouldn't have to be filthy pervert. There are more productive, fulfilling, clean activities than thinking dirty thoughts. Like reading. At least it'll get you somewhere.”

“If I did become more `clever,' I'd figure out a spell on how to make a girl's clothes fly off of her with a snap of my fingers,” he snapped.

Harry knew that Ron had only said that to annoy her even more.

Hermione's eyes narrowed at him. “There are no naked girls in our textbooks. Get over it.”

“In your textbooks,” he corrected nastily. “You've always got to rain on a bloke's parade, haven't you, Hermione? Always trying to kill the excitement. Just because no one else but you get excited over books about on how to be boring - not that you need anymore tips. You're already as boring as it is!”

Harry looked bemusedly at Ron to the side of him. Where had that come from?

“You brainless little twit,” she lashed out.

“Oh, I'm so frightened,” he feigned to whimper. “What are you going to do - bore me to death? Oh, wait a minute - you already do!”

“There are moles in the ground who can come up with better comebacks than you, Ronald Weasley!”

“There are blank walls more interesting than you!”

“Will you two shut up?” shushed Harry, noticing how their eyes had just transformed into threatening, angry slits on their faces. Hermione looked surprised at his interruption while Ron scowled, leaning back on his chair. Harry watched McGonagall continue writing on the board on the corner of his eye. It was a miracle she hadn't heard them shooting insults at each other yet.

“Who died and made you a pacifist?” snorted Ron.

Harry paled. His fists impulsively clenched and he felt a burning inside his chest. A clear image of Sirius flashed inside his head at Ron's remark, making his muscles painfully tighten and his jaw clamp down in his mouth.

“If you would've just shut up about the naked girls,” Hermione scolded, “we wouldn't have distracted Harry.”

“Harry didn't get distracted by the naked girls - he likes naked girls! It's you who distracted him with your boring Holier-Than-Thou, Reading-Is-What-Makes-The-World-Go-Round babbling!”

The rest of their insult whispering shootout trailed on indistinctly to his ears. Anger and guilt flared throughout his whole body. Pain ripped through his upper body and his throat suddenly felt as if it had been twisted and knotted, restricting his breaths and cutting them up into sharp, ragged pants. There was a roaring inside his chest, so acidic and poisonous that he also felt as if his skull was set into a boiling cauldron.

Images flashed through his mind. They all brought forth pain, pain that he had tried so hard to erase…

“Would you two just shut up?” he suddenly bellowed. He felt something snap inside his hand.

He had forgotten they were still in class. He had forgotten they had been anywhere. All he knew was that he suddenly felt as if he was going to be sick and explode all at the same time. His skin was unbearably hot. There was an icy crawling inside his veins, an agonizing drilling inside his brain.

The class was silent, open-mouthed. Ron and Hermione were looking at him as if they had just been electrocuted or maybe deafened by his unexpected outburst.

His peers recovered after a second or two, as the Slytherins quickly started to snicker. Harry, still breathing heavily and feeling as if his heart was being brutally crushed underneath his lungs and ribs, hesitantly looked over to the front, where Professor McGonagall quickly composed herself from surprise and sternly looked over to him.

Her thin, arched eyebrows were drawn towards the middle of her forehead. “Mister Potter, is there a problem?” she asked, a cold and strict edge to her voice.

“No,” he gulped. He quickly tried to settle the strangling feeling combing through him and wash away the lingering ache pulsing vociferously inside him. His hands felt cold and sweaty. “No problem at all.”

His face did not heat up as he thought it would, as was usual when thirty pairs of eyes were attentively staring at him like a frighteningly alert guard dog. He was too miserable, too angry and too depressed to be embarrassed.

He had an abrupt urge to tell her that he wanted permission to head out of class to speak to Dumbledore and instead just head back to the dormitories or somewhere where he would not be bothered, but he swallowed it down.

The severe lines on her face softened only slightly. “Very well, then. Ten points from Gryffindor from the unnecessary class disruption.”

She then finished with the directions on the board and called the class's attention.

“Please turn to page one hundred seventeen,” she instructed them.

The sound of thirty students flipping through their books rustled through the room.

Harry felt Hermione and Ron fidget nervously beside him.

“Read through one hundred seventeen to one hundred nineteen and summarize the history, theories, side affects, and directives.”

The class lapsed into a complete and concentrated silence once again.

Harry let out a shaky, silent sigh, ducking his head down to read. But it was just then he felt something warm and feathery tickle his palm. His head snapped up.

Hermione's big brown chestnut eyes pooled him. They were warm, apologetic and guilty and it flooded through his lungs. His anger towards her wavered.

He looked questioningly at her before he looked down, awkwardly very sensitive to the physical contact to his palm. He watched with furrowed brows as he watched her slender and dainty fingers tug at his enclosed fist, feeling their pleasant warmth against his suddenly chilly hand. He couldn't help but notice how soft they felt against his fingers, her full hand now caressing his, but still very, very confused at what she was doing.

“Hermione, what—” he whispered in his bewilderment, before he finally opened his hand and saw what she had been trying to tell him.

She plucked off the two separate pieces of his quill from his palm and held it up to him for a quick moment before setting them aside to probably throw them out when class ended. He noticed the firm indentation of them on his skin because of his past angry flare up of force.

Yet as he stared at the two broken pieces of his quill she had pushed to the side of the table beside a crumpled parchment, he felt a lasting tingling sensation on his palm that slowly began to creep up his arm, somehow making him want to shudder.

And strangely, in a good way.

“Oh,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling very uneasy around her. He fished out another quill from his bookbag and began to work.

oooo

Harry had forgotten all about Crookshanks's death until he had heard Hermione talking about it to Hannah Abbott in Herbology.

“Off the staircase? That's awful!” the Hufflepuff girl gasped in horror.

Harry felt Ron beside him cringe.

Trying to tend to his assigned plant while Ron was trying to flip through their Herbology textbook to see exactly what it was they were trying to do, he saw Hermione's brown coils sway slightly as she shook her head.

“I know. Animal cruelty, that's what it is,” she said with a bitter tone in her voice, though Harry still found himself dry-mouthed at the fact that she was still overwhelmingly sad over his death.

“I can't believe… who would do such a thing? Who could be so heartless and so malicious—?”

“All right, all right,” Harry heard Ron say, halting the two girls' conversation. Harry looked up to see lines of annoyance tightened across his friend's face. “Will you two forget about the cat for a second? I can't concentrate and Harry and I are supposed to have completed step three by now - and, besides, if Crookshanks did happen to have nine lives like every other cat is supposed to, he wouldn't be buried in a hole in the ground right now.”

Both girls gaped at him before Hermione shot him a look, tilting her chin up. But Harry had seen the hurt blanket over her eyes for a quick second and he felt pity for her.

“Is everyone else under the impression that cats have nine lives?” she asked him coldly. “Because then I'd be going to school with complete idiots.”

“Oh, touché, Hermione,” Ron retorted. “Your head's getting so big your brain's starting to feel real small. And that dead, shriveled up bush on your head doesn't help in covering it up, either - just makes it even bigger.”

“Beats that peanut you call a brain.”

“Oh, yeah, beaver?”

Harry sighed, closing his eyes in frustration. How had he been able to cope with them bickering before? Had it really been much worse than this? It was torture! They were driving him mad with their constant squabbling!

“Would you two give it a bloody rest?” he snapped.

They both quieted down, and the quiet chatter of the rest of the greenhouse filled Harry's ears.

Harry found Hermione looking at him. She looked even more miserable then before, and her eyes offered an evident apology.

Her lips were pulled together, looking quite hurt. “I'm… I'm sorry, Harry. I can't believe… I'm sorry for both times. In Transfiguration and now.” Her eyes brightened slightly. “I'll buy you a new quill if you'd like - the sort that's made from strong plastic so it'll be harder to break. Or do you want the one that's made of rubber so it can bend?”

He almost found himself smiling at her predictability. He also discovered that it was now more difficult to be sore with her than it had been before, remembering his torching anger with her and Ron back in the start of fifth year. She meant her apology. She always did. Her eyes hid nothing.

He only then realized that that was what he liked about her. There were no secrets with Hermione - and he'd come to despise secrets from all of the upturning events. He could look into her eyes and know the exact truth.

He wondered if he always had the ability to read her this way, and if so, why had he just noticed it now?

She was still giving him a compromising look when Ron spoke up, as well.

“Yeah, mate… I'm sorry, too. I know I… shouldn't have said what I said.” He sounded as if he knew he was the one at fault for Harry's outbreak of anger and the ten-point deduction. And Harry, while he had felt scorn for his friend for his unthinking remark, felt it slightly lessen. He knew Ronald had a quick tongue and let things slip out from his mouth before it could even be fully processed and considered in his brain, and he'd gotten fairly used to it…

… Except the topic of Sirius and his death was never something he could ever get used to. He knew this. Ron knew this. Hermione knew this. They all knew it. That's why they had made a silent vow not to talk about it unless completely and truly necessary.

“It's all right,” Harry said weakly.

He suddenly felt exhausted, as if hearing them argue continuously with each other and thinking about Sirius's death and how much he missed him and wondering how things would have been now if he hadn't died had completely deflated his entire soul and sucked out all of his energy. All of those painful thoughts took a hard toll on him. It made his body hurt, his heart hurt, his brain hurt - his soul hurt.

He could sense Hermione beside him giving him a kind look as he felt her gently caress his arm in an attempt to comfort him. He could only stare at the bare spot on the table in front of him. He wished he could look up at her, but he felt that vast twisting knot inside his abdomen again.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered again, and Harry didn't know whether she was sorry about their uncontrollable bickering or Sirius. He had a feeling she meant both.

The warmth radiating from her touch and the softness of her tender contact gradually vanished from his arm as his surreal dizziness was sluggishly drained from his system.

He shook it off and tried to moisten his mouth by swallowing, trying to help Ron locate the directions in their textbook.

Fifteen minutes later, there was restless shuffling and loud conversations as they cleaned up. Harry took off his weighty, worn-out protective overcoat and dragonhide gloves while Ron offered to hang it up on the racks. Catching a quick glance at the heavy skies from underneath the glass of the greenhouse, he then remembered that Hermione had told them she was going to head out to bury Crookshanks's belongings.

He looked around, catching Hermione lightly talking to Hannah again. He wanted to do something nice for her to maybe cheer her up, considering that Ron was still giving her a hard time about Crookshanks's death because he was still not too keen on being named her cat's murderer. Harry realized with a grim face that he was being overly sensitive and touchy about it, which was the cause of at least three of their spats this week. And the fact that Hermione had no clue and was confusing Ron's defensiveness and sensitivity for just cruelty made it all ten times worse.

Filing out of the greenhouse, Harry saw that Ron was preoccupied with talking to Seamus about a recent Chudley Cannons game. He also looked behind him and saw that Hermione was also preoccupied in conversing with Ernie Macmillan. Lost in the crowd, he sidestepped quickly and grabbed a stalk of small daisy-looking flowers from one of the pots. He tried to remember if it was poisonous in any way, but figured that it wasn't since his hand hadn't broken out in boils, rashes, or had started to burn from any invisible acid just yet. And, for further reassurance: it looked pretty harmless.

He stuffed it inside his robes and made his way out with the rest of the class.

The breeze was nippy when he stepped out into the grounds. He shivered, not recalling if it had been this cold before, but headed on. He recognized a small sitting figure of a girl with tangly brown curls with her back to him right beside Crookshanks's grave, just as he had expected.

He walked towards her, feeling an unsettling stir inside his stomach for a quick second. He passed it off as a side affect of the chilly weather as he approached her, the fine details of her brunette locks spilling down her back and her small movements becoming more focused in his vision.

He stood behind her for half a minute, not knowing what to do, before he kneeled down right next to her.

Hermione jumped, surprised at the sudden company. One of her hands - gloved and dirtied - went to her chest, trying to steady her breaths back to their regular pace again.

“Harry,” she shakily said, still trying to overcome her shock, but said it with a smile. She looked pleased and delighted to see him, and Harry felt faint shivers shimmy up his body. “I wasn't expecting anyone to come over here.”

“I just thought I'd stop by…” Harry said slowly, not having really planned out what he'd say. “… Further extend my condolences to Crookshanks.”

Hermione smiled a soft smile, grateful. Her brown orbs faintly sparkled. “Well, thank you, Harry,” she said quietly. “I'm certain Crookshanks is smiling down on us right now.”

Harry nodded, inspecting the rather deep hole she had managed to dig for the box. He saw a small gardening spade in front of her.

“Are you sure this is wide enough?” he asked her, tilting his head to further scrutinize the cavity before them.

“Well… I don't really know,” she answered hesitantly. “I made calculations, I measured… and it doesn't help I never was much of a gardener or a genius with a mini-shovel, at that.”

“Here,” he said, scooting closer to her and grabbing the shovel. Their bodies were pressed close to each other for a minute before she moved away a few inches, giving them some comfortable space. Harry felt a subdued flip in the midst of his chest. “Let me help you.”

“S-sure,” he heard Hermione say as he quickly started stabbing away at the edge of the hole, watching as the soil gave away and fell to the bottom of the gap. He continued to widen it before shoveling out the dirt and piling it onto the small mound she had already started.

When he was done, he raised his arm and wiped the sweat that had been forming above his brow. The stench of soil and the earth pervaded his nose.

“Well,” he said, looking at the much bigger hole he had created. “I think it's certainly big enough now.”

“You're quite right,” laughed Hermione.

Harry only grinned boyishly as she thanked him and grabbed the box from her side. She carefully placed it inside, looking a tad bit sad as she did so. She sighed heavily, turning her head towards Harry, who then shifted his gaze towards her, as well.

She was looking at him with a calm look on her face. It was kind and serene - but that wasn't why Harry was suddenly feeling a rolling tumble inside his stomach. He couldn't understand why his mouth had been perfectly hydrated a few seconds before and was now very arid and dry. His stomach also felt very warm: a very foreign feeling he didn't finger ever getting used to.

A sad smile gently tugging at her lips, she turned back to the burial of Crookshanks's box and got a hold of the shovel, scooping the dirt back in.

After smoothing out the soil to make it look undisturbed, there was a peaceful silence between them. A bitter breeze came and went, and he noticed Hermione tremble for a swift second. He looked closer and also saw her cheeks a bit pink from the cold.

He rashly thought of taking off his robes and offering it to her, but he felt uneasy just as he was going to tug it off.

“I thought you had plans with Ron,” she suddenly said, interrupting his vortex of spinning, whirling thoughts.

“What?” he blurted out. “Oh,” he rapidly said afterwards, realizing how stupid he must've sounded. “Well… he and Seamus were rather engaged in a game of Wizard's Chess and Neville already started a betting pool going on who's going to beat who, so my plans were magically whisked away for the evening until their endless rounds of rematches are over.”

“Ah,” said Hermione, nodding her head in familiarity of the situation. “I see.”

Harry then remembered that he had stolen flowers for Crookshanks's grave from the greenhouse. Panicked, he quickly reached inside his robes and felt petals all over his garments, before taking out a muddle of half-naked mini-daisies. He sighed disappointedly.

“I… brought these for Crookshanks,” he said weakly, feeling like a fool. “But they didn't used to look like this, I assure you. I have proof,” he said, taking his other hand and showing her the inside of his robes. Yellow petals adorned the dark inner-material as well as his sweater-vest.

Hermione giggled softly, taking the flowers from Harry's offering hand.

“Thanks, I…” She sobered abruptly.

Harry suddenly became alarmed, looking from her to the flowers. “What's wrong?”

“Aren't these poisonous?”

Harry's face paled in record time. “W-what?”

To his surprise and fortunate luck, Hermione laughed. Her eyes were adorably squinted in her amusement. “I apologize,” she said, her peals of laughter momentarily dominating their conversation. “I was only joking. Thank you for the flowers. I saw you take them from the greenhouse.”

Harry blushed, feeling his face catch on fire.

She set them down right beside the tiny headstone. “To be honest, I actually thought you were going to give them… I don't know, to a girl, perhaps.” She smiled, but Harry could see that she was reddening, too.

He only flushed brighter, not knowing what to say to her comment. Instead, he opted to change the subject. “So,” he said, trying to sound casual, “find out who threw Crookshanks down the stairs yet?”

Harry immediately regretted his poor choice in words, however, knowing that had sounded very ignorant. But what else could he have said? “Find out who killed Crookshanks yet?” wasn't a very appealing choice, either.

Shockingly, she didn't look as upset. She only looked contemplative.

“Actually… no. I was having second thoughts about it before you came. Maybe he did just fall,” she shrugged. “I was just so upset and surprised that when I heard… I couldn't believe it. It was overwhelming. I needed a few hours to let it sink in.”

Harry felt a bit solemn himself, talking to her about this. “I don't blame you. When—” he immediately stopped himself, knowing what he had been going to say. `When Sirius died,' he had been going to tell her. He felt that same fierce yet stifled feeling in his gut, churning around. It felt as if someone had just stabbed him in the chest with a dagger and was twisting it around, pushing it deeper, penetrating it through his lungs and heart.

Thankfully, she didn't ask him to go on. From the worried and understanding look she sent him, she knew exactly what he had been going to say.

They were silent for a few moments.

Her voice was almost a whisper when she spoke again. “What do you think, Harry?”

Harry was confused, knitting his brows together. “What do I think?” Hermione nodded. He swallowed hard. “What do I think…?” He remembered that they had been talking about whether Crookshanks had really been murdered or if he had just fallen. “I think… maybe a Slytherin did it.”

He couldn't tell her that Ron did it. It was foolish enough that he told her that he thought someone had intentionally killed her cat. Hermione was clever - with Ron's constant defensiveness each time she brought up Crookshanks's death and with Harry even somewhat confirming something about it (he knew that she knew Ron told him almost everything), she would eventually figure it all out. She was that clever. It would have been creepy if he hadn't been so used to it by now.

She was softly frowning. “That's what Ron said. You two might be right.” Or lying, Harry thought cynically. “But, I don't know. I don't want to just point my finger at any Slytherin who wanders about at night. I don't want to blindly accuse them solely because of their reputation.” She said this a-matter-of-factly as usual because she knew for certain that it was morally correct, but she also sounded a tad bitter although he knew that she attempted to hide it. He wondered why.

Merlin, Harry thought. She was so good. Anyone would've settled for blaming the Slytherins.

“Although that forked-tongue Malfoy is really wearing on my last nerves,” she sighed. Harry noticed she looked and sounded very exhausted.

“Why?” he asked, though he already knew Malfoy wore on everyone's nerves. He hadn't heard Malfoy insult her… unless he had caught her when she was alone. Harry gulped.

Though he knew Hermione could take care of herself, Malfoy had gotten incredibly nasty this year. He'd resorted to more physical threats than taunts and elementary teasing and bullying.

Her gaze stayed on the lackluster skies. She looked like her normal self but as she continued speaking, he could see that she was trying to conceal the fact that Malfoy had really bothered her. “Oh, you know, patrol.”

“What about patrol?” he asked. He suddenly felt very protective of her.

She shook her head. “It's silly, Harry. There's no need to concern yourself with it - I don't even know why it bothers me. He's just an insufferable prat. All these years… and he only manages to get worse and worse. It astounds me, really.”

“Yeah. He's roughened up since his father was sent off to Azkaban.” Harry couldn't help but say the last part with a proud, triumphant smirk.

Hermione looked at him with cloudy eyes. “Yeah, but don't you think… don't you feel a bit… sorry for Malfoy, sometimes?” Harry saw the apparent strain on her face and knew that it had been rather hard for her to say that to him. “I mean—”

“Lucius Malfoy deserved to go to Azkaban,” Harry said coldly. “He deserved worse, but he got lucky.”

Hermione was silent. “I just hope… maybe there's hope for Draco. His father's gone. There's bound to be less pressure, right? I mean, he's incredibly intelligent and we could very well use him on our side—”

Harry snorted. He realized he was now glowering at the scenery before him. Anger was pounding in his veins. “Hermione, don't waste your time. Draco's going to be just like his father - a bastard. He's going to end up in Azkaban right along with him. And I think he's well on his way there.”

He couldn't look at her - didn't want to, not right now, but he could sense her gaze on him. Her innocence and persistence to find “good” in even the worst people frustrated him at times. She even held a small flickering candle of hope for the most hopeless, the ones who were already guaranteed a place in the fiery pits of hell, and he just couldn't understand it.

She remained quiet this time.

They sat still for a while. Unspeaking, motionless. Another breeze tangled around their necks and through their hair, placing icy kisses underneath their robes. Harry then pressed his palms to the ground and helped himself up, brushing off his hands. He turned around, scanning their gloomy atmosphere, before he looked down on her.

“We'd better get back to the castle,” he told her. “Ron might be looking for us, and we've got to study for that Herbology assessment.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I've got a prefect meeting. And I suppose Ron's forgotten all about it, so I've got to remind him to avoid the problem we had last time.”

He held out his hand to her, and she took it, giving him a thankful look. She dusted off her robes before they made their way back to the castle.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?” He only noticed how close they were walking beside each other when her hand brushed against his, feeling a familiar velvet-like heat swish against his fingers.

“Thanks. For the flowers. For sitting out there with me and helping me. For… not being so cold.”

Harry didn't quite understand what she had meant by “not being so cold,” but there was a heavy weight that was forming inside his skull that told him otherwise. Suddenly, he felt ashamed.

“Yeah,” he told her, only looking ahead. “No problem.”

-->

4. The Woes of Party-Planning

Where Does The Good Go?

By attica

“I'm two quarters and a heart down

And I don't want to forget how your voice sounds.” - Fall Out Boy, Dance, Dance.

Chapter Four: The Woes of Party-Planning

Harry managed to wait up for Ron and Hermione in the common room. There was a strong fire in the hearth that warded away autumn chills and the light it provided was not as dodgy as it usually was as he continuously tended to it. He kept himself preoccupied by trying to study for Herbology, but found himself glimpsing at the clock every two minutes or so and wishing that time to move along faster.

It was almost curfew when his two friends finally stepped through the portrait hole. His eyes immediately flickered up at the sound of the noise, watching as the pair stepped into the room, deep in conversation. The golden prefect badges pinned on their robes winked boldly at him.

“Harry,” said Hermione as she was the first to notice his presence. Her eyes were radiantly sparkling and her lips drew into a wide, brilliant smile. “You're still here.”

“I did say I'd wait for you two,” he reminded her.

Meanwhile, Ron had already plopped down next to Harry, his head lolling back against the cushion of the plush couch. “Hey, mate,” he said tiredly.

“What happened?” asked Harry, his eyes cautiously shifting from Ron to Hermione.

“Oh, nothing,” she said breezily. She made her way to the armchair beside them, sitting down. “It's just that we were informed we've got to plan this costume party for Halloween, and all the prefects have got to help in setting it up.” Her face was glowing. Harry could tell she was very excited about it.

“Oh,” said Harry. He felt a pinch of jealousy as he thought about all the time his best friends spent together in those meetings.

“It's not as brilliant as she says it is,” remarked Ron. He looked weary and said it with a sharp contemptuous hint in his voice. “It's rubbish - planning and setting up the bloody Great Hall… If only it wasn't so massive…”

“Don't listen to Ronald,” said Hermione brightly, dismissing his grumbling. “It'll be great. We've already sorted out the decorations and duties and everyone else is so thrilled to think about who they'll be dressing up as.”

“…I hate prefect obligations. They never give us a break. It's like they don't actually expect that we have lives,” Ron continued to grouse.

Hermione continued to ignore him.

“Does everyone have to dress up?” Harry asked, feeling nervous. To his utter dread, Hermione nodded. And she did it with a jolly quality as well, which only made it ten times worse.

“Yes. Oh, but don't you think it'll be fun?” Hermione asked him eagerly. “Think of all the wonderful costumes! And there's even a costume contest at the end of the party! People get awfully creative this time of year.”

Despite his conflicting emotions about the Halloween costume party (he'd never had a knack for dressing up as someone else), he felt a cord of thrill thread through him as well, seeing Hermione so excited. She needed something to ease the loss of Crookshanks and he was fairly glad it occurred so timely.

“So, basically, that's when the most expensive costume wins!” Ron mocked enthusiastically. Hermione glared at him and he only snubbed her look of annoyance.

“And what are they rewarded?” inquired a curious Harry.

“Well, we haven't exactly worked that part out yet, but there's House points involved. That and another big prize. Seventy points, I think.” And then she sighed distantly and dreamily. Harry could see she had high hopes for this party. He just hoped that she wouldn't be disappointed.

“Do that again and you're one step closer to becoming Loony Lovegood.”

Hermione's wistful gaze turned defiant, her gaze turning to the redhead beside him. “I wish you didn't have to make fun of her all of the time. She's a very nice girl.”

“I don't care. She's weird.”

Hermione shook her head in disapproval. Then she stood up, smoothing out her skirt. “Well, I'm going to head up to bed. I'll see you two in the morning. G'night, Harry,” she said, looking at him. “And Ron, please congratulate Seamus for me.”

“Sod off, Hermione,” Ron instantly snapped, his temper flaring at her mention of his Wizard's Chess loss to Seamus. Harry had to hold back a snort of laughter as he recalled what Neville had told him about their contest. He couldn't get the image of a red-faced Ron throwing the chessboard at Seamus and then furiously chucking all of the individual pieces at him as a congratulatory present.

She only gave him a mocking, innocent look before she smirked victoriously. “Good night, you two. I hope you sleep well.”

She walked out of the common room, her shoes making a padded noise on the carpet before she soon disappeared up the stone spiral staircase to the girl's dormitories.

“Bloody Hermione,” Ron sniped. “She thinks she's so High-and-Mighty and she can't even play Wizard's Chess.”

“She's only teasing you.”

In return, Ron scoffed.

“Besides, I heard you practically stoned Seamus to death after you lost.”

Ron sighed, a lazy smile creeping across his face. “Yeah. Best part of my day. You should have heard him scream - even Ginny doesn't scream as girly as he does.”

oooo

Halloween was just a week away, and Harry still hadn't thought of whom he'd go to the party as. Dumbledore had announced the special occasion just last week, and already almost all of the school knew what significant character they would be dressing up as. Or, in some people's case: what they'd be dressing up as. He'd overheard some Hufflepuff girl telling her friends that she'd be going as a teapot. The reason why anyone would want to go as teatime china was beyond him, but who was he to talk? He still didn't have a single clue what to dress up as.

It was a Hogsmeade weekend and the all of the other undecided students that were in his boat were going along to look for a costume. Harry was getting quite desperate - he did want to go to the costume party, but he still hadn't found anything he fancied to wear. Now only Neville shared his anxiety of finding a costume as Ron, Dean, and the rest of the Gryffindor boys he bunked with had already decided. Ron was going as his favorite Chudley Cannons player and Dean was going as his favorite West Ham United football player.

Seamus had chosen to be secretive when Harry asked him, and Hermione told him that she had an idea but wasn't so sure about it yet.

And so Hermione had agreed to accompany him to look for their costumes while Ron begrudgingly tagged along.

“Look, Ron, if you don't want to look for costumes with us, then just go away,” said an irritated Hermione not-so-calmly. “You're holding us back and this is our last visit to Hogsmeade before the party.”

Harry couldn't help but agree. Ron wouldn't know their pain: he had known what he had been going to be the day he found out about it and had bought his costume at a local Quidditch shop the weekend after.

Harry also found that with Ron's constant complaining and his tense desperation to just get a costume and get it over with, he was feeling quite irritable and cross.

“I'm helping Harry,” he retaliated. While Harry, if asked, would have begged to differ.

“You're doing nothing but complaining about your feet and wanting to go to Honeydukes. So just leave us and go if you can't shut it. I'll help Harry.” Her face was twisted into an aggravated scowl.

“Fine,” Ron answered frigidly. He turned to Harry while still glaring daggers at Hermione. “Harry, good luck with Miss Twisted Knickers while I go off and have fun.”

Hermione gave him another fierce look while Harry only nodded and told him that he'd see him later. Ron quickly turned and walked back towards Honeydukes.

Harry heard Hermione let out a frustrated sigh. “That intolerable brute,” he heard her mumble.

“Hermione, what about there?” Harry pointed up ahead to an antique-looking store with a deep purple sunshade. He could make out the gold cursive on the glass: Geraldina's Odds-N-Ends Shoppe.

“Yeah, I suppose that should do. Good eye, Harry,” she complimented him, and he felt that dip in his stomach again when she turned to smile at him.

They entered the shop, instantly taking in the eccentric atmosphere of the store. It certainly was an Odds-N-Ends shop. Harry spotted a pair of bright orange trousers, half a hat with a twittering leopard feather, and magenta gloves with yellow felt teeth.

“We should have a look around before we judge anything,” Harry said in an undertone, scanning the place for its shopkeeper. He had a lurking feeling in the back of his mind that someone was watching him. There were multi-colored Chinese lanterns hanging for the ceiling to light the dimly lit store and everything seemed overshadowed by everything else. He also saw tea lights floating around in the corner, emphasizing their return policy that read:

What you purchase and what you buy

Can be brought back to return in thirty days' time

But if it's wrecked, or torn, or slaughtered

Out you go because we won't bother.

He looked beside him and found an empty space where Hermione had been. Instead, the tile she had been standing on (lime-green with an image of an eye) stared back at him and winked. Harry moved on, focusing back on his objective to get a costume and not the oddness of this store.

He saw the dangling signs up ahead and headed for the Unordinary Costumes section. He peered through the shelves and mounds of things to look for Hermione, but she was nowhere to be seen. So he just moved on, thinking that she had noticed the sign as well and marched towards there.

As he passed he saw a pair of neon-pink horn-rimmed glasses that reminded him of Rita Skeeter. He also encountered a spotted mink coat that purred when he passed, a pair of tatty white gloves that waved at him before they flew off (Harry jumped when they did this, thinking that they were going to attack him) and slipped themselves onto the plastic hands of one of the displayed mannequins - making it dance and wave -, and an exploding jewelry box. He also saw two wooden marionettes snogging as he strolled by.

After seeing the peculiar commodities on sale, he finally found himself in the costumes area - which was not unlike the rest of the shop. There, he found Hermione scrutinizing a lacy red corset that looked suspiciously like a scanty piece of lingerie.

Harry blushed, an image of her wearing the corset instantly flashing through his mind.

“Hermione—”

She jumped, looking up to where he was standing. He could tell she had noticed the blush on his face that he was trying his best to hide, as she immediately pushed it away, rapidly taking the rest of the other piles of clothes and burying it underneath. “Harry,” she squeaked. “I…” Her face was a hot shade of crimson. “I didn't see you there.”

“Yeah,” he croaked, suddenly feeling very ill at ease. He tried to shake away the mental picture of her in that corset out of his mind, knowing that it would only make him glow an even brighter red. But the fact alone that he could even imagine her in such a gaudy, revealing piece of provocative attire made him feel ashamed, incredulous… and strangely fascinated. Which only made him feel even more humiliated.

He wasn't even aware he could think of her that way. He wasn't - hadn't been aware that it was even remotely possible. Because, well, she was… Hermione.

“I was sort of preoccupied, and, er - lost.”

She laughed nervously. “I know what you mean. This place is a bit… distracting.”

He wanted to make his way next to her, but his feet felt rooted to the ground. He knew he wouldn't feel safe if he was still thinking these thoughts and he made to stand closely beside her.

She cleared her throat, trying to smile at him. “Well, have you found anything yet?”

Harry only looked at her. “What?”

“Your costume,” she clarified. “Have you found anything you like?”

“Oh,” said Harry, feeling idiotic. “No. But I've still got to look.”

Hermione nodded, moving further down the row. Harry's gaze was glued to the pile of clothes she had buried the corset under. “I saw some… good ones over here,” she said. Harry knew that by “good” she meant “not so strange.” “I thought… Here,” she said, her voice rising in volume. Harry was thrown out of his daze, centering his attention back on her. She was holding up a white outfit. “I found a cop costume.”

“It looks… a bit small for me, don't you think?” asked Harry.

Hermione looked back on the garment, her eyes running up and down, studying it. “All you need is a stretching charm. An enlargement charm if it's too small.”

Harry shook his head, feeling his face go back to its normal temperature again. A wave of relief passed through him, cooling his head. “No, it's all right, Hermione,” he said. “Thanks anyway.”

She folded the cop suit and put it back on the pile.

Harry ambled to the other side of the table bin she was already working her way through, watching Hermione as she shuffled through the rest of the costumes and each time folding them back neatly and setting them to the side. He felt a faint flutter beside his lungs as he recognized her charming, meticulous ways.

Disregarding his mixed thoughts about finding a costume and his best female friend, he busied himself and sorted through the many peculiar garments. He couldn't help but smile as he came across a loud clown outfit. He felt a button on the inseam of the sleeve, and curious, he reached in and pressed it. Intrigued and amused more than anything else, he chuckled as the green and purple stripes started to race across the whole ensemble. The ruffles on the collar and sleeve also blinked red, orange, and blue.

“A little outrageous, but it helps if you want to make a statement about yourself,” commented a thoughtful Hermione across from him. “Or the society. Your pick.”

Harry only grinned, setting it down. “I don't know who would buy this stuff.”

“People like different things,” said Hermione. “You never know. And they have some quality things.”

Harry immediately looked down, trying to hide his face as that mental illustration of her in that corset paraded through his head again.

“What about this?”

Harry looked up and saw the white leotard she was holding up, feeling his face scrunch up in disgust. He saw the look on her face that told him she knew she had spoken too soon before she had actually seen or known what she was talking about. “If you want to be…” She fingered the rainbow of ribbons hanging the side of from the creamy spandex. “…An ice dancer.”

“No,” answered Harry. “No. No thanks.”

She nodded, folding it and putting it in another pile.

“What about… Would you like to be a cowboy?”

Harry looked up and saw her putting on a brown cowboy hat on her head. It was adorned with golden sequins. He scrunched up his face again.

“A fancy cowboy?” she suggested, trying again.

Harry laughed. “No thanks, Hermione. But that hat does look adorable on you.”

Harry froze, suddenly aware of what he had just said. His gaze was cemented on the bejeweled, silver satin gloves in front of him. He felt his stomach do a complete turnover.

He didn't know why he had just said what he had said. He thought it, yes, and it was the truth - but he hadn't thought of actually saying it. It had just slipped, without his consent whatsoever.

He was mortified.

Attempting to control the heat generously spreading all over his face, he gulped down hard to hydrate the desert of his mouth and looked up, both anxious and nervous to see her reaction. She had been looking at him but quickly looked away and absorbed herself in a feathery showgirl outfit that quacked like a duck.

Harry pressed his lips together, noticing the soft pink staining her cheeks.

They chose to search quietly, with Hermione piping up once every few minutes or so to show him some outfits she thought he might like.

After they had spent half and hour rummaging about the place, Harry was feeling rather weary. And hopeless. They hadn't anything here he liked. He'd seen bunny costumes (that were pink), golden trousers (that bellowed Elvis songs), festooned tiaras (that turned your hair copper-colored), and musical neckties (that wouldn't stop singing), but nothing. Nothing at all. He was feeling so desperate that he was even thinking second thoughts about that cowboy costume she had previously recommended.

“Find anything?”

Harry found Hermione standing next to him.

He sighed heavily. “No. Not a single thing.” They'd gone to all of the costume stores in Hogsmeade and he didn't find a single costume he'd liked. He felt a prickle of dread when he thought of the possibility that he just might be too picky.

“Well.” She sighed as well. “That's all right, Harry. We'll think of something, I'm certain of it.” She turned towards him, and he found himself staring right into her brown eyes. He felt comforting heat flood through his body, making him want to shiver. “Though, it'd help if you knew what you wanted to dress up as.”

His mouth was painfully dry. “I…” His voice came out cracked and coarse. “I don't know.” He looked down in shame. “I'm not one when it comes to costume parties.”

She nodded. Harry noticed how slender and dainty her fingers were. She was twiddling with them on a bloodied army fatigue she had folded. “That's unfortunate.” Her voice had lowered into a quiet murmur and the softness of it made his ears feel pleasantly fuzzy. “But I'm sure we'll think of something. I'll try my best to help you. Maybe I can convince the Heads to allow some students to bend the rules a little.”

Harry was grateful for Hermione. She always did her utmost best to try to help him. But as he thought further on it, he discovered that she had changed a bit. Barely, but enough. He didn't know how, or when, but she was more sensitive to his feelings now. She kept back her smarty remarks when he knew it was obvious how bitter his face looked. She'd never once hesitated before, because of her know-it-all and bossy nature.

It astounded him how he could recognize such a change. It seemed minor, but at the same time it was a massive deal to him.

He had also noticed that she had warmed to Luna. Harry recalled precisely that Hermione hadn't been too keen on Luna their year before. He wondered what had caused that particular change.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said, really meaning it. He looked up at her. “I'd appreciate that.”

She smiled, and he felt that heartening deluge of heat again. “Anytime. Now, I think we should meet Ron over by the Three Broomsticks. Maybe he's cooled off by now. Maybe not. But I have a strong feeling he's drowning himself in butterbeer in one of the booths right this moment.”

“Right,” agreed Harry. “Three Broomsticks.”

They walked through the maze of materials with Hermione leading the way. Harry was oddly attentive to her rambling about the Apparating lessons she was soon to take.

Just then, just as they were about to leave the shelves and head straight for the door, a woman appeared in front of Hermione.

Hermione instantaneously halted, startled, and Harry bumped into her, feeling the slender mold of her body against his for a very quick second. He also caught a lovely whiff of her brown locks, the scent of vanilla and lilacs filling his nose and lightening his thoughts.

“Hullo.” The woman was smiling at them. She looked like a full-sized porcelain doll with flawless pale skin, big eyes, and red lips.

Harry noticed that she was wearing bright yellow tights underneath patched, eclectic leopard robes. A distracting shade of blue was peeking out from underneath them and everything else was distracting about her as well: her shiny pleather skirt, her flashing trainers. She was wearing an old-fashioned velvet hat with a strip of lace as a veil and her bizarre light-bulb shaped earrings almost blinded him.

“H-hullo,” Harry and Hermione said in unison, quite distracted by the woman's attire.

“I'm the owner. Geraldina,” she said, introducing herself. Her voice was syrupy and attractive.

It didn't take much effort believing her. She certainly looked like the owner. She looked like she dressed herself with what she sold.

“I hope you don't mind, but I couldn't help overhearing that you were looking for a costume.”

“Yes,” said Hermione. Harry was feeling quite uncomfortable, now that the mysterious lady's eyes did not stray from him. “We are. It's a school thing.”

Her almond eyes widened in fascination. “Hogwarts?”

“Yes, Hogwarts.” Harry certainly admired how confident Hermione seemed. She didn't seem to think the woman standing before them was the least bit strange at all.

“Oh. Smashing. I've also noticed you didn't find anything here to your fancy,” she said, looking down at their hands. Harry heard the hint of disappointment in her voice as she said this. “But I do have this catalogue that I'm certain will help you.”

Harry could hear from Hermione's voice that her interest was piqued. “Oh?”

“Yes. Would you like to see it?”

Hermione nodded, and they followed the shopkeeper to the front desk. Harry unknowingly inched closer to Hermione while looking around him at all the strange trinkets she had on display. She had a striped flamingo that cracked chestnuts and a small tiger fountain that squirted water at his face. Candles were floating in random places and Harry was afraid he'd bump into one of them and catch fire.

After wiping off his glasses, Harry peered over her shoulder as she handed Hermione the book and she began to swiftly flip through it. He only glimpsed pages and pages of woman costumes.

“It's only for women, o'course, but it should do.” She looked expectant, looking at them with bright eyes. “Are you pleased?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, to Harry's surprise. “I'll take it.”

“Excellent,” the owner beamed. Her earrings seemed a bit brighter than it had been before. “Sending off for a costume is easy,” she informed Hermione as she rang it up. “Just owl in your order and money, and it's sent off to you. They have a rule and it's that your ordered purchase can't arrive any later than two days after you owl off the receipt. It's real handy for last minute costume shopping.” Hermione paid and she took it, punching it into her spotted cash register. She gave her back her change.

“Thank you,” said Hermione mannerly, taking her bag.

“Thank you, Miss Granger,” she smiled, and Harry, mystified at how she could have known her name, only remained silent as they exited the store.

They heard a jingly La Cucaracha as Hermione pulled on the door and they both stepped out, slightly trembling in their jumpers as they were back in the frosty air. She clutched the glowing yellow plastic bag beside her. It was labeled Geraldina's Odds-N-Ends Shoppe in fancy black cursive that floated about as if it was in a fish tank.

“That was… interesting,” stated Harry.

“I agree. I really liked that store,” she smiled merrily, and Harry looked at her in surprise and bafflement.

“Really?”

“Yes. They sold things that no one else sells. It was… different. `Interesting' is a very suiting word.” She looked contemplative as they passed a group of Slytherins licking their cones that cared enough to halt their activity for a second to scowl at the pair of them. “I wonder if Luna's been there. I bet she'd love it.”

“Yeah, I bet she would,” said Harry. “But you didn't find anything, either?” The image of her in that corset popped up in his mind again. He was just thankful it was so cold his face was stinging and that he was too numb to actually flush again. “I mean, if you wanted to try something on, I wouldn't have minded waiting for you—”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, Harry. I'm just going to look through the catalogue. From the looks of it, I might just find something in there.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

They were approaching the Three Broomsticks. The streetlamps were on outside, setting an eerie glow amidst the nippy fall night sky. Eager to escape from the cold, they walked inside, letting out a shaky sigh as the warmth of the pub enveloped their bodies. They quickly scanned the place for a head of ginger hair.

Hermione tugged on his arm. “Look - there. There's Ron with Seamus and Ginny.” Eyes trailing their three friends, they zigzagged their way through the crowds. Laughter filled their ears and mixed, undecipherable conversations blended against the friendly ambiance.

They finally arrived in front of their booth. Harry stood closely to Hermione as many people accidentally elbowed him, laughing boisterously and clutching their drinks.

“Hullo Ronald,” greeted Hermione. “Ginny, Seamus. It's nice to see you both. Did you both have fun? I saw the pair of you crowding over by the Quidditch store.”

“Well, look who it is,” said Ron, before Ginny could get a word in. “Miss Why-Don't-You-Get-Lost-If-You-Can't-Be-Agonizingly-Boring-Like-Me.”

“We couldn't get anything done with you complaining,” she said, attempting to reason with him.

Ron appeared to be more irrational than he usually was. “That's rubbish and you know it. You only wanted time alone with Harry,” Ron shot back.

Harry looked at Ron in disbelief. He'd have looked at Hermione to see her reaction, but he found himself not wanting to. He heard her answer to be calm and collected - completely unfazed.

He knew he shouldn't have been so surprised, considering the fact that she had probably already gotten used to the accusations and rumors of their relationship crossing over into something more (spread entirely by gossip columns and hokey newspapers, as well as some of their peers that weren't so well-acquainted with reality), but when Ron had mentioned Harry, something had jumped inside his bones. For Ron was the one who knew how incredibly false those rumors were more than anyone else.

“Now that's nonsense.”

Seamus and Ginny were looking at both Ron and Hermione with raised brows, obviously untold of their current situation. “Look,” said Seamus, starting to get up, “if you want the booth to yourselves, we can just—”

“That'd be excellent, Seamus, thank you,” said Hermione, never once taking her eyes off Ron.

Looking like he didn't even want to know about their state of affairs (Harry couldn't blame him), he scooted out with his mug in his hand with Ginny following close behind.

“Bye Harry, Hermione,” the young Weasley said. “I'll see you later.”

“See you, Ginny,” Harry absentmindedly said.

“Are you mad?” asked Hermione as she sat down across from Ron. Harry was just about to sit next to Ron, but strangely hesitated, looking at a bothered Hermione, before finally deciding and scooting in next to his sour-looking friend.

Ron ignored her. “Did you two have fun? Wait, what am I thinking - of course you didn't. You were with Hermione.” He purposely dragged out her name while Hermione's eyes narrowed at him. “Hermione Granger. If you look it up in the thesaurus it means the same as: boring, bossy, dull, mind-numbingly dreary, unexciting in every possible way….”

“Oh, yeah, like you'd know anything about thesauruses,” she snapped. She turned to Harry, looking annoyed. “Are we going to get some butterbeer or what?” she demanded.

Harry was taken aback by her sudden feistiness. “Sure, if you want one.”

“Don't get her one, Harry,” objected Ron. “Make her get one herself since she's so bloody—”

“Do you really want to finish that sentence?”

“Do you really want to ask me questions you already know the answer to?” said Ron. “Now, as I was saying: so bloody capable of doing everything in the whole sodding world. Go get one yourself if you're so super.”

Hermione sighed, raising her hands to massage her temples with her fingers. “I cannot believe this… I simply cannot believe you're still acting like a git….”

“Yeah, well, some people never change,” he spat venomously.

Harry was surprised at why Ron had attacked Hermione so quickly on their arrival. He also felt a bit defensive, not knowing his friend's motives for eagerly quick starting another argument. He was just glad Hermione seemed too tired to plunge her hand in and take the bait. If they continued spitting at each other like this another year, he was certain he'd grow up to be hearing them argue continuously inside his ears with no escape. Even if they weren't in the same room.

Suddenly, as he glimpsed up, he caught sight of something. He slowly looked back up, tracking his gaze, and felt his heart slightly shake, realization dawning on him. He knew why Ron had savagely pounced on Hermione like he so.

Lavender was in the booth right across the room from them. She was easy to spot. She and her new fling: the Captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team.

He comprehended exactly why Ron was feeling angry and rotten. He knew the gut-wrenching pain. He even understood why he felt like picking a fight with someone. He was angry - more than angry. He needed release. His temper was too great. But why, out of all people, did he have to take it out on Hermione? She'd done nothing wrong but be helpful to Harry in all of his horrendous costume searching.

In all honesty, he felt sorry for her. He abruptly apprehended that he had taken her for granted all this time. Dealing with a wound-up Ron drained more energy than was actually considered necessary. It was a miracle how she still had enough energy to study - but, then again, she'd always had the energy to study, no matter what the circumstance.

He felt great admiration for her swelling up inside his chest.

“Ron,” said Harry cautiously, not wanting to spark his temper, “Do you want me to get you another butterbeer?”

“Yeah. Get me a whole crate. And then shatter the ends of the empty bottles and blind me.” Harry had a feeling that Ron would have actually begged him to do so if he wasn't feeling so wretched.

Harry noted with great empathy that his friend almost looked as if he was about to cry. He wanted to maybe propose that the pair of them go over there and do something, maybe ask Lavender and her date to leave, but he figured that probably wasn't the best idea when Ron was already livid, brokenhearted, and not as sane as he usually was. At least, not nearly as sane.

He also had the idea of suggesting that they leave to get cones or just go to Honeydukes, but he remembered that it was too cold to get cones and Honeydukes was always full with crowds of their peers. The three of them didn't have as high a tolerance for big, tight-knit crowds like normal people. They got quite claustrophobic - especially him. He figured that being in that terrible cupboard for almost all of his life had mentally altered his psyche for worse.

With Ron's remark, though Hermione was clearly feeling quite fed up with him, she dropped her hands down and looked at Ron concernedly. She exchanged looks with Harry, and Harry pointed his gaze to behind her. Hermione slowly turned around in her seat and saw what the two boys had seen. Harry watched her body heave as she let out a weighty sigh.

She turned back to them with a grim look on her face, but her anger had seemingly vanished. Harry knew that she had fit in all of the pieces and identified Ron's reason for unjustly trying to bite off her head.

She looked at Ron with pity in her eyes. While Ron, now oblivious to his surroundings but bitterly sulking, stayed quiet and was glaring at the moisture ring Seamus's mug had left on the table.

“A round for everyone,” said Hermione, looking up at Harry. “It's on me.”

oooo

The week sprinted by in a vague blur.

They had mounds of homework that only existed to grow and grow, and Snape had had a Decrease Gryffindor House Points Day where he had relentlessly deducted their points with a nasty smirk as if one was on a killing spree. Of course, it didn't help that both Ron and Neville had managed to melt down their Potions table when they spilled their cauldrons either, downsizing them to a mere fifty points.

Now they were in fourth place. Slytherin was in first with a hundred twenty five points, Ravenclaw with one hundred twenty, and Hufflepuff just above them with seventy points.

“We could really use those seventy points right about now,” grumbled Ron as they trekked towards Transfiguration.

“Well, if you'd propped up your cauldron like I'd told you we wouldn't even be having this problem,” said Hermione, not even glancing at Ron.

“I apologize if I purposely tune out my ears whenever you start talking,” Ron said back.

“Carry on with your bigotry and the whole Gryffindor House will rip out your ears for convenience altogether - it's not like you actually even use it.”

“Oh, real mature,” he drawled.

“Are you two like this all the time?” asked Harry. He was just grateful that Ron had cooled down ever since that Three Broomsticks incident. And Hermione, while still bantering with him, always caught herself in time before they went into a full-fledged spitting contest.

“No,” answered Hermione, about the same time as Ron had said, “Yes.”

Harry nodded. “Ah.”

“It's complicated,” she pointed out.

“It's only complicated because she makes it complicated,” Ron said.

“But you're the one who starts it all the time,” Harry blurted out.

Ron looked at him in disbelief. “Bloody hell, mate, whose side are you on?”

Harry blanched. Truth was: he didn't know whose side he was on. He'd always been on Ron's side because he'd always thought Hermione acted as if she was too smart for her own good… but now, things had changed. He didn't know what, or possibly how, but there was a fleeting thought that raced across his mind like a mini-racer that told him things had most definitely changed since then.

“There are no sides, we are all on Harry's side,” Hermione said firmly as they neared the McGonagall's classroom. “And we will try to stop arguing.”

“The more you say that doesn't mean it'll actually become true,” Ron told her as they entered.

Hermione ignored him.

oooo

On the day of the Halloween party, Harry was feeling rather glum. He'd still no costume and Hermione had already tried to persuade the Heads and other prefects to excuse some students, but they had refused. Even Hermione herself had found a costume.

It was lunch when the topic had managed to pop up again. Ron was chewing noisily while talking at the same time to Seamus, alternating conversations between his two friends and Seamus and Dean, while Hermione tried to reassure Harry that he'd find a costume.

“You still have time to think of something,” she told him, stirring her porridge. “They canceled all our classes after lunch so everyone could get ready - we have hours until the party.”

“I've been thinking for two whole weeks, Hermione,” said Harry wearily. “What makes you think I'll be able to think of something in a few hours?”

She shrugged. “You never know. Some of the best works were done last minute.”

“Yeah, and who told you that?”

Hermione slyly smiled. “It's possible.”

Harry sighed. “That's not likely.”

“I understand it's a real downer on the spirits but you're not going to be able to think of anything if you're just moping around. Ask around - get some ideas. You're clever, Harry. Use your imagination. There are no limits to creativity - except, of course, make sure it's appropriate. We've assigned people to inspect everyone at the door to make sure it's… suitable.”

“Are you two still talking about his costume?” Ron asked, throwing himself back into the conversation.

“What's it to you?” asked Hermione, though she sounded more thoughtful than anything else.

“I don't know. It's just old news,” he shrugged.

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly.

“Look, mate, I'll help you. Maybe… maybe you can be a Muggle!” he exclaimed. “Perfect! You're going to the party as a Muggle. It's easy and all - you've got the clothes already.”

Harry thought it was a stupid idea.

“Good idea,” he lied unenthusiastically.

“We'll just meet you in the common room,” said Hermione. “Ron and I have to help with decorating the Great Hall. We can't get ready until afterwards.”

“Yeah, it's such a drag. All they're going to do is chipper on about what they're going to wear, where they got it from, whose is the best, and act as if they didn't already tell each other our previous meetings before,” carped Ron.

“That's not true,” huffed Hermione.

Oddly, Harry couldn't help but feel that pang of jealousy towards Ron again. He didn't know why, but just the idea of both his friends spending time together without him made something in his stomach insistently churn.

And so Harry left with Seamus and Dean to head up to the dormitories to ready up. He tried to drown out all of the excited chatter around him but realized, with a blunt pounding in his head, that it didn't work so well.

Harry collapsed on his bed while the other boys started to talk about something amusing that had happened in one of the Ancient Runes classes. He felt exhausted. He tried to think of a costume that he could somehow just conjure up, but even when the other boys he bunked with started suggesting ideas, none seemed the least bit appealing.

He lay motionless for an hour and a half. After a bit Seamus, Dean, and Neville gave up and began to dress. His eyes were glued to the ceiling but his thoughts were just floating about in his head, like formless clusters of mist or cloud.

Ron's arrival at the dormitory snapped Harry out of his trance-like state.

“Harry, are you still not dressed?” asked Ron as he made his way to his bed, which was right beside Harry's. “Don't tell me you're still sulking around and trying to think of a costume! I thought you were going as a Muggle! We've only got an hour left. So just get dressed and hurry up, slow coach.”

Harry's face drew down into a scowl. “Yeah, I suppose then.” He took off his robes and rummaged through his trunk for his clean “Muggle” clothes.

“How was the Great Hall?” Harry asked, feeling curious, as he yanked out one of his shirts that had gotten stuck to the bottom.

“Boring,” Ron snorted. “Hermione was the one who did everything. Strange one, you know - she's usually bossing me about like I'm her slave but today I just borrowed McNealy's toad and saw how fast it could find a peanut cluster and she didn't even notice.” He tugged off his shirt and started to pull on his costume. “I've got to hand it to her, though - she really dressed up the Great Hall. With wicked spells, too. I didn't know she knew any decorating spells.”

“Really?” asked Harry, now eager to see the Great Hall.

“Yeah. Impressive girl, our Hermione,” Ron grinned at him, and Harry couldn't agree more.

Dean was kicking a football around by the time he and Ron were finished dressing. It was then that Seamus appeared before them in black menacing robes and a long, dark wig.

Ron scrunched up his face while Harry tried to keep back his laugh. “And who are you supposed to be? A girl? Because you're missing a body part or two - very important body parts, might I add.”

“Oh, wait a second.” Seamus quickly got something flesh-colored from his pocket. He then ducked his head down, his fake raven locks swaying towards the floor, fixing it to the middle of his face. When he finally put down his hands and straightened, Harry and Ron burst out in peals of laughter.

Seamus was wearing a gigantic hooked nose. He puffed out his chest, flicking his long hair. “Twenty points from Gryffindor!” he bellowed in an uncanny mockery of Severus Snape.

And Neville, who was two beds away, jumped.

oooo

Seamus and Dean left before Harry and Ron, eager to show off their costumes especially after Seamus had pretended to be a stripper whilst still acting like their loathed professor. He had even said the most dastardly, naughty things in the best Snape drawl he could muster, and all of them had been brought down to their knees in tears.

Ron and Harry made their way down the spiral staircase, Ron's orange Chudley Cannons robes making Harry feel quite envious. There was no denying he felt pathetic dressing up as a Muggle.

They were crossing the common room when a flushed Hermione scrambled out of the portrait hole. She spotted them with already bright eyes that were noticeably shining with happiness.

Harry felt his throat quickly dry out at the sight of her rosy cheeks and sparkling brown eyes.

“Are you only just coming back?” gaped Ron, surprised. “The party starts in twenty minutes!”

She was out of breath. “Yes. I made some changes. Oh, I really do hope you'll like it - the Great Hall looks fantastic. You'll be blown away.” She was talking excitedly, her gaze flickering from Ron to Harry every short second.

Ron seemed unaffected by her glee. “Well, hurry up and get dressed. We'll wait for you.”

“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “You two go ahead to the Great Hall. I'll meet you there. Smashing costumes, by the way.”

Then she hurried past them to the dormitories with Harry staring after her, feeling slightly woozy. He was convinced she'd have skipped her way there if they weren't still here.

“Well, you heard the girl,” said Ron. “Let's go.”

Harry recovered from his momentary dizziness. “Right.”

And they crossed the common room and out the portrait hole, eagerly anticipating their Halloween night.

-->

5. The Initials H.P. Stand For How Pathetic

Where Does The Good Go?

By attica

“And you're just the girl all the boys want to dance with
And I'm just the boy who's had too many chances.” - Fall Out Boy, A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More “Touch Me.”

Chapter Five: The Initials H.P. Stand For How Pathetic

The word fantastic was an understatement. The Great Hall didn't look fantastic at all - more like: brilliant, amazing, gouge-my-eyes-out-gorgeous. Needless to say, if Hermione Granger's abilities hadn't been noticed until now, its earth-shattering impact resembled somewhat like a very hard slap in the face.

After Ron and Harry had gotten through the so-called “Security” of the party who were checking everyone's costumes to make sure they were appropriate and “first-year-friendly,” they had walked in through the Great Hall's massive oak doors and their jaws had completely unhinged from the rest of their face and dropped down to the marble floors.

Harry couldn't tell if Hermione had done big magic for the Great Hall. It certainly seemed like it. He couldn't believe someone their year was capable of creating such a thing, but he supposed Hermione was an exception. She had always been very different and extraordinary to start out with. A tad bit annoying at the most unfortunate times, yes, but nevertheless still very unique in the ways of the mind.

He was too shocked and in awe to notice the rest of his peers stumbling through the doors and becoming just as wide-eyed as he himself was, freezing at the sight of their party.

Upbeat music was thumping and the lights were dimmed down to help contour the haunting atmosphere. There were beams of multi-colored neon lights chasing across the room every random second and he felt a rush of air above him, hearing the sound of fluttering bat wings. There was a very sinister but festive shriveled tree that shook its branches and swiped at people every time they passed by, trembling and giving out a loud cackle. It had glowing yellow eyes and a wide, squinty mouth, and Harry was struck with familiarity from all of those Muggle fairytales, remembering that some had very memorable settings of scary forests and animate trees.

It had a very Graveyard motif. The Great Hall's sky was very dark and ominous, but thrilling flashes of lightning branched across it, all the while accentuating the evocatively milky moon. There was a scatter of stars drifting about, giving it a dreamy, wistful feel and softening the midnight graveyard tone. She had somehow even charmed the floors to make it seem as if they were walking across one vast, glittering, silver spider web lined up against complete darkness. Harry felt oddly disconnected just looking at it, almost feeling as if he was floating. The air was invigoratingly cool and bitter, just as refreshing as night air - a small detail that Harry was grateful for.

But he noticed that every person had a hovering sphere of light beside them, illuminating their faces and anyone else's within three feet of them.

Just as he was still taking in his surroundings, Peeves swept down through him while still drunkenly screeching, and Harry sputtered aggressively, coughing. He made a face as he shook his shoulders, feeling as if someone had just dumped musty cobwebs all over him; trying to brush away the faint hint of mildew Peeves had left on his clothes.

Harry shuddered, feeling his skin crawl. He quickly composed himself as he continued to look around, the tempo switching into a faster beat and the bass pounding through his body.

“Is that real?” gaped Ron, and Harry turned to see that Ron was pointing at the tree, which was now spanking someone in a cat suit who had apparently poured her drink all over its trunk.

“I don't know. Maybe she borrowed it from one of the greenhouses,” Harry said over the noise.

Just then, a girl appeared in front of them. A floating ball of light followed her, allowing Harry to see her face and recognize her. She was a Ravenclaw prefect. She was holding a carrier bag that seemed to be bulging with orbs and she was dressed in a fitting, shimmering fairy costume with fluttering, clear crystal wings. Harry thought her ensemble to be quite magnificent.

“Hullo you two,” she said, revealing a very pretty smile. “Nice costumes. Ron, you're one of the Chudley Cannons blokes, and Harry…” she squinted at his outfit, thinking hard. “You're…”

“A Muggle,” Harry said quite pathetically.

Her blond brows shot up. “Oh. Well,” she smiled again, reaching into her bag, “I don't know if you've noticed, but it's quite dark, so we're issuing one of these Glow Globes to each person. To avoid any confusion, you understand.”

Both Harry and Ron nodded as she handed them to them.

“Press the button in the center and you'll be good to go. When the party's over we'll have bins over by the door where you can return them. Have fun,” she winked playfully, and strutted away.

Harry risked a glance at Ron and rolled his eyes. He could even make out the bright blush scalding his freckled face in the dark. Silently, he searched the globe with his two hands and found the button. He pressed it and it instantly lit up, shooting out of Harry's hands and drifting around above him.

“You might want to hold off on turning your Glow Globe on if you're going to look like that the rest of the night,” Harry told Ron with a smirk.

Ron finally detached his gaze from the striking fairy and looked at Harry with a glazed-over look in his eyes. “What was that?”

Harry only shook his head. “Turn on your Globe and let's go. Maybe we can find Seamus and Dean.”

They wound through the crowd, greeting some of the people they knew, and each time - as Harry saw everyone else's costume - he felt his self-confidence sink lower and lower.

I feel wretched as a Muggle, he sourly thought to himself as they made their way to the refreshments table. And Ron wasn't helping, either. He just beamed proudly as he chatted with Ernie about his costume, while Harry could only look on and feel even more dismal when Ernie looked at him expectedly when he asked him what he had dressed up as. The two-worded sentence (“A Muggle”) had become one of the phrases he most despised and it was only about fifteen minutes into the party.

And as Ernie continued to croon over his friend's outfit, he couldn't help but bitterly think that Ron's costume wasn't all that original, anyhow.

Harry was relieved when the Hufflepuff boy finally left them alone.

“You look like you just wet your knickers.”

Harry looked at Ron, scowling. “Your idea blows. A Muggle? Is there anyone else who has a costume as stupid as that?”

“Have you seen the teacup girl? Besides, don't get shirty with me,” Ron reprimanded. “It's Halloween. We're supposed to look stupid. It's our excuse to wear anything we want and pretend it's actually something for one night.”

“Well, it's a stupid holiday and I don't even understand why we have it here,” said Harry. “It's an American tradition.”

“Oh, shut up. Don't you lecture me on geography.”

Then suddenly, two figures appeared in front of them. One was dressed as Albus Dumbledore and the other with thick glasses and layered garb and frizzy hair - an unmistakable Sibyll Trelawney.

“Hullo Ronald, couldn't miss you in the orange there.”

Harry and Ron both squinted at them, though it had nothing to do with impairment of the vision.

“Fred and George?” they gaped in unison.

They both nodded, looking mischievous.

“Genius, isn't it?” said Fred, affectionately stroking his Albus Dumbledore beard with his fingers. George's eyes looked enormous behind the glasses. It seemed as if the glass had magnified it ten times its original size, making them exactly bug-like. “I was going to dress up as Snape, but Seamus had already swiped the idea. That horrid little bugger. I rather think I'm going to feed him some of my Mucus Muffins someday soon.”

“And I was going to go as Professor McGonagall,” commented George. “But she is just too unique. Besides, I thought your little friend Hermione might have already picked up on the idea. You sixth years really are festering turds.”

“Bit rich, coming from you,” snorted Ron. He was shaking his head, chuckling at the sight of the pair of them. Even Harry couldn't get over it.

“Anyway, we're hoping to win the contest. But with Seamus, we know there's competition. We're off to sabotage him. We'll see you children later.” And then they marched off, weaving through the crowd until they disappeared.

“I wouldn't be surprised if they were poofs,” laughed Ron.

“Have you seen Hermione anywhere?” asked Harry, looking around. He was feeling anxious and he was suddenly feeling as if being in Hermione's company was better than being in Ron's. One: he had seen Ron eyeing that Ravenclaw prefect fairy across the hall for the last ten minutes, and he knew people were going to be dancing soon and he didn't want to just sit on the sidelines and look even more pathetic than he already was when his friend finally went to go ask her for a dance. And then to probably save himself from humiliation, he might ask Ginny for a dance and then feel like a self-righteous prat because he didn't really want to dance with her in the first place and only did it to avoid looking too pathetic.

Hermione would stay with him. He knew this. She wouldn't leave his side just to dance with some girl dressed up as a fairy as Ron would. He would strike up conversation and people would then look at him and see that he was far too busy having fun talking to his best friend than to dance.

Besides, he was just about the worst dancer ever.

Ron's eyes scanned the place, though he and Harry could only see dark figures from outside their three feet of light. “D'you really want to ask me that?”

“There's no harm in asking.”

“She'll be here, don't worry. Just look for someone dressed as a book - that's her.”

Harry looked at him. “She told you what she's coming as?”

Ron scoffed. “No. I just know. She's just dreadfully predictable.”

Harry, suddenly remembering the Yule Ball in fourth year, wanted to disagree. But he felt that flipping inside his stomach again and he felt too discomfited to utter a word aloud.

Fifteen minutes later, the two boys watched as the lights suddenly flickered on. Their Glow Globes lost their point and everyone looked around and saw everyone else.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. But that was before he realized that now everyone could see how he was dressed - and not just the people who just happened to come within three feet of distance in front of him.

By some odd occurrence, it was then that they found the twins roguishly standing in front of them again.

“That means break time,” said George. “Or someone was trampled over because of the darkness. I like the second one better.”

Fred agreed.

“Still can't miss you in the orange there, Ronald,” grinned George.

“Sod off,” Ron told him.

“Has anyone seen—?” asked Harry, before his question was answered by none other than the person he was looking for.

“Seen who?” asked Hermione, who had also just miraculously appeared before them.

“My, my, my,” said George, looking at the sight that was Hermione Granger. “And who might you be, Senorita?”

Harry's eyes were bulging out of their sockets. Ron seemed just as startled, but quickly composed himself - something that Harry was not able to do.

“Who… who are you supposed to be?” Ron asked, astounded.

Her face was bright and her hair was tamed into charming curls, a satin black ribbon in her hair. She was wearing a sky blue dress with a white apron that looked frighteningly familiar. And though Harry's heart was somehow attacking itself inside his ribcage, he could still recall his fairytales and he remembered that she must have dressed up as—

“Alice,” Hermione said simply, looking jubilant. “You know, Through the Looking Glass? Alice in the Wonderland? It was one of my favorite books as a child.”

“Really? I thought you'd go as a librarian or something, like Madam Pince.”

Hermione's smile descended into a scowl, looking at him. “Oh, and you look just great in orange, Ronald,” she said dryly, clearly not meaning it and meaning the exact opposite of her statement.

Ron responded by glaring at her.

“Hullo Fred, George,” she said, finally acknowledging the two grinning idiots standing in front of her in a beard and in a dress. “I like your beard. And… I like your… wig.” She tilted her head, squinting her eyes and slightly pouting her lips, scrutinizing George's costume. “You look exactly like her, you know.”

Fred smirked seductively. “Hullo Alice,” they both said in unison. “You look smashing.”

Hermione smiled modestly, her cheeks flaring a rosy tint. “Thank you.”

She then turned her gaze and looked straight at Harry, who quickly closed his mouth. She gave him a sincere smile, and he felt as if someone had just reached into his tummy, yanked it out, bounced it around, and roughly put it back in. His heart was also doing very odd things.

“Hullo Harry. I like your costume.”

Harry could swear he heard singing in his ears. A violent jerk happened in his chest and he wondered if anyone else had seen it, or perhaps, heard it.

“Hullo… Hermione,” he weakly said, trying to moisten his throat and mouth that had lapsed into a dry famine. He knew she was lying but he found it so hard to care. “I-I like yours, too. Very original.”

She beamed at him. “Thanks.”

Harry didn't know why he was feeling the way he was. She was dressed in a simple ensemble. Granted, her hair looked better than usual and she was wearing an actual dress (the first he'd seen her wear ever since the Yule Ball), but it wasn't as if it was anything special. It was no shimmering, fitting fairy outfit - that was for sure. So why was it that his conscience had seemed to dissolve down into a flimsy puddle when he'd first seen her? Even now?

He figured it was the whole dress thing.

Yeah.

The dress thing.

“I hear this is all your fault,” said George, motioning towards the whole hall. “Congratulations. I have never been more tempted to beat up one of my own House - and one of my brother's best friends.”

Hermione laughed. “Thanks. It was nothing, really. Just a few spells. I altered a few, especially for the floor,” she said, looking down for a second. She was thrilled and he knew this because her beaming face gave everything away. “See, what I did was, I took the—”

“See, I didn't ask for an explanation,” said George again. He was grinning again. “I reckon I can do just fine without it. Thanks, anyway. Maybe you can tell Ron.”

“What took you so long?” said Ron. He pointed to her dress. “This took you nearly half an hour?”

“No,” she answered. “I… well…”

“Forget it,” he said, raising his hands and shaking his head. “I don't even have the will to want to know. But I think it's time for the dancing to start so just stay here with Harry while I go ask that fairy over there—”

He trailed off as he disappeared into the crowd. Hermione laughed, walking to where Ron had been, standing closely to Harry. Somehow, he was more aware to this and so was his entire body as it reacted a tad bit differently than before. He suddenly felt… warm.

“Having fun?” she asked him. Harry could see her looking at him from the corner of his eye. He could smell her dizzying natural fragrance and that didn't help so good, either.

Feeling a bit awkward to actually look at her right now, he fixed his eyes on the cat ears of someone in the crowd. “Yeah…. No. I'm not,” he admitted. “Not at all.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Well, it's not over yet, you still have some time. Why don't you ask someone to dance?”

“I don't like dancing,” he told her. “I hate it.”

“Are you hungry? There are some snacks and refreshments—”

“Not really.”

Harry didn't know why he was acting like this. He seemed cold. He seemed rude. He seemed very detached. And he had no idea as to why. He couldn't even look at her because he could already feel his face flooding with heat.

Oh, how he wished the lights were turned down now.

“Harry?” He was startled as he suddenly found her face hovering too close to his. His breath stopped short in his throat, taking a step back.

Her face shrunk as she lengthened the distance between their faces, suddenly sidestepping in front of him. He was forced to look at her now, and he felt his face grow hotter.

If this wasn't humiliation, he didn't know what was.

“Are you feeling all right? You're-you're all flushed,” she said, and she pressed one of her hands to his face. It felt cool and soft to his cheek, yet he felt a pool of warmth submerge from inside his belly. Harry shivered, his eyes locked on hers and he experienced a feeling of nervousness and fright start to flower inside his chest.

He wanted to avert his eyes to anywhere, anywhere except those adorable brown eyes of hers… but it was unfeasible. Since when had it become so impossible to look away from his best friend's eyes? Since when had they become adorable? Since when had she affected him like so?

It was the dress.

Definitely the dress.

“I'm-I'm fine,” he stammered. “Just great.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking skeptical. “Did you drink or eat anything that Fred and George offered you? Because if you did, then I positively think we should get you to the hospital wing straight away—”

“No, no,” said Harry. “I didn't eat anything at all.”

“Oh.” She looked at him carefully. “Maybe that's it, then. You're getting awfully skinny.”

She reminded him of Mrs. Weasley. Always fussing over his clothes, his health, and anything else that concerned him.

They fell into silence as Harry watched Hermione suddenly get a faraway look in her eyes. He felt uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, not knowing what to say to her but indeed knowing that this silence was almost really killing him.

“Are you… are you going to ask anyone to dance?” he found himself asking.

Her eyes regained their focus and zeroed in on him. She smiled sincerely. “Maybe. I don't know. I haven't danced since fourth year at the ball, and I'll feel sort of foolish….”

“If it helps, you can always look at Ron,” suggested Harry. “You won't feel as big a fool then.”

Hermione laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Even so, it'll be difficult. I do like your suggestion, though. But let Ron overhear it and he'll rip your head off.” She was looking at him intently. “What about you? Certainly you can't just be standing here all night.”

“I won't. I'll be sitting. Right over there,” he pointed, directing his finger to the seated area. He could feel his face turn back into its normal temperature and he was all too glad of that.

“Oh, don't be ridiculous, Harry,” she insisted. “You've got to ask someone to dance. And I know you don't like dancing - but that's not even as nearly a good excuse as it once was. Maybe… maybe you can ask Ginny,” she said, brightening. “I've heard she's a great dancer. Good and coordinated on her feet, you know.”

Harry felt something in his body slump. He didn't want to dance with Ginny and he guessed it showed on his face because she then mended her proposition.

“…Or, someone else to your fancy,” she added on. “Anyone else. I just want to see you have fun. I don't want all my hard work on this night render useless because you're being a coward and won't even risk stepping out into the dance floor.”

“Thanks,” said Harry sarcastically. “I'll be sure to remember that.”

She tried to smile reassuringly at him, but that was when the lights dimmed down again. It wasn't as dark as before - he could still see Hermione and everyone else, even Ron, who was chatting up that Ravenclaw prefect across the Hall - but the ambiance of the place had instantly turned romantic in a very subtle descent. Harry looked around above him, observing the surging and flashing lightning above him and then the immense illusion of a spider web beneath his feet. It still expressed that same dizzying infinite darkness and frailty that made him feel faint just by looking at it.

“All right, ladies and gents,” boomed a familiar voice through the Hall. It was Lee Jordan, and Harry figured that they had asked him to be the emcee of the event, which didn't surprise him at all. He had a suiting personality and voice for it. “It's time to get groovy and to step on those toes of your partners. I assume now you've already got a dancing partner, and I say: good for you - Yes, to you too, George. Now let's get this party started.”

The music was turned up, releasing a poppy, melodic beat. A thick, striking voice blended along with the song and Harry and Hermione only watched as the mob of their peers started to move along to it.

They were quiet for a few moments, just watching the throng of bobbing heads and bodies.

“I finally see what you were saying,” said Hermione. “Ron is a terrible dancer. He looks like a confused ape with epilepsy.”

Harry laughed. “You should've seen him before. I think he's actually improved from last year.”

Hermione smiled.

After two songs of making remarks of the so-called “moves” of their peers, they retired to a table while sipping their butterbeers.

Harry felt more comfortable now, and he was entirely grateful for that. Though he did notice that his heart participated in a knee-deep plunge every time she smiled at him or laughed, or even just locked eyes with him. It was really starting to creep him out, but after an entire mug of butterbeer, his body's internal reactions started to simmer down. He began to think that maybe it was just because of a new perfume she was wearing - though he thought she certainly didn't smell any different.

But she was. Different. She just was, somehow. Maybe it was because he hadn't seen her this happy since Crookshanks died, or wear a dress since the Yule Ball. Or seen a black satin ribbon in her hair since… ever. But she was just different. Different.

Somehow, he just couldn't figure out the word.

The bass-pounding beat switched to a catchy slow melody and Harry's eyes trailed Hermione's lips as it stretched into a dreamy smile.

“I love this song,” she told him. “It's beautiful.”

Just then, as if Fred had been just standing by and eavesdropping for the perfect opportunity to ask her for a dance, he swooped on down, almost pouncing on her.

“Hermione - I mean, Alice,” he said, tuning his voice to sound suave and very professional. “Couldn't help overhearing—” Yeah, no kidding, Harry bitterly thought. “—But I need to tap dear Ronald on the shoulder for a quick second and I even get near to him without—”

“Would this, by some chance, have a point in sight, Fred?” Hermione asked him.

“Albus, Albus Dumbledore,” he corrected her. “And yes, yes it does. I was hoping you'd want to ditch Muggle Potter for a few minutes to dance with me - and maybe trip Ron on the way.” He was smiling impishly.

“You're up to your old tricks, then,” Hermione said amusedly.

“I hardly think `old' is the appropriate word. `Original' is more like it. So, what do you say? I don't think small talking Harry here would be quite as fulfilling as dancing with me.”

Hermione craned her neck around. “Where's George? Why don't you dance with him?”

Fred looked thoughtful, stroking his white beard. “See, I thought of that. But we're brothers and even if we're in costume it'd still just be too strange and horrible and wrong on so many levels.”

“And dancing with your youngest brother's best female friend isn't?”

He shook his head. “No, not nearly as that, no. Come on, aren't you fond of charity? Helping people out? I heard about that SPEW thing and I really want to trip Ron—”

“It's S.P.E.W.,” she hastily corrected.

“My brother's a rat and you know it. So just dance with me until I get the chance, fulfill my destiny in making him look like a clumsy fool in front of his fairy, and then I'll even let you off scot-free by saying you had nothing to do with it.”

She wrinkled her nose. “But don't you think it's a bit… I don't know -mean?”

He waved his hand. “ `Mean' is only a point of view.”

Hermione looked at Harry, looking doubtful. Harry realized that he didn't really want her to dance with Fred, but who was he to say such a thing?

She turned back to the waiting faux-Albus Dumbledore. “No, I apologize,” she told him. “I won't do it.”

He made a disgusted noise from his nose. “Well, you don't fancy him anymore, do you? What have you got to lose?”

Harry saw Hermione noticeably tense. Her face seemed blank for a moment before he could see the lines of strain embed on her face. She narrowed her eyes at him, giving him a teeth-gritting scowl. “Integrity. But I highly doubt you'd know what that word even means.”

Fred pretended to flinch. “Ouch. Well, nice chatting with you children, but time's a ticking,” he said cheerily. He turned away, his back to them. “Oy! Patil! Come here a second!” And then he whizzed out of their view.

“They live to rub that in my face, I'm sure of it,” she grumbled.

Even Harry himself had felt more than a tad bit queasy when Fred had brought it up. “Yeah. It never gets old,” he managed to say; though a big part of him wanted very badly for it to - in fact - get very old very fast.

Then another figure appeared before their table. It was Ernie Macmillan dressed as one of the Three Stooges, which made Harry then remember that he was a Muggle-born.

“Hullo Harry, Hullo Hermione,” he said politely. He was grinning underneath his bristly mustache.

“Hullo Ernie,” said Harry and Hermione consecutively.

“Hermione, I was just wondering if you'd want to… dance with me,” he asked.

Hermione looked surprised. “Oh,” she said, quickly glimpsing at Harry. “Harry, you don't mind, do you?”

“No, of course not,” he answered very quickly, though there was a mild squirming in his stomach that very much disagreed.

“Great,” she smiled. “Thanks. I'll be right back.”

She stood, smoothing out her dress and hair, taking Ernie's arm as he thanked Harry and giving him one last look as they headed out to the dance floor.

And as Harry watched them, watched as Hermione laughed and Ernie made her laugh, the pair of them having clean old fun out there, he suddenly decided that: yes, he did mind, and an awful lot too, at that.

Though he couldn't figure out why. His best guess was that he had come to some assumption that Hermione would just sit there with him and keep him company while keeping him from looking like a total loser - and not leave him just to go off dancing with an attractive fairy as Ron had. But he noted somewhat sourly that he was quite wrong. She had left him not for a fairy - but for a Stooge. Things could not get any lower than that.

When she had finally returned, rosy-cheeked and looking absolutely over the moon, she hadn't even had the chance to take her seat when Seamus Finnigan appeared by her side. Harry found himself actually refusing the urge to glare at him.

“Greetings Harry, Hermione,” he said merrily. “I just wanted to ask Hermione here for a dance.”

Again, Hermione looked utmost surprised. Harry didn't feel so delighted his friend was suddenly getting a crate-load of attention from the opposite sex.

“Um, sure,” said a flustered Hermione. Harry found himself feeling faintly disturbed at the fact that this time she hadn't asked his permission to go traipsing off with his bunkmate.

And then he was left all alone again, with only his empty glass of butterbeer to keep him company. He watched Hermione and Seamus for a few moments before he turned away. He felt sick seeing her with him.

I think it's all the butterbeer I drank, he silently groaned to himself. It's making me feel ill.

What Seamus failed to tell him was that he would be dancing with her for not one - but two whole songs, and that left Harry feeling rather perturbed. Both Ron and Hermione having fun and not him? Not only was he feeling laid up with jealousy but it was also maliciously unfair.

And when she did return to their table and a stuttering Neville arrived with a smoldering shade of red plastered all over his face, Harry was fed up.

“Hermione, I-I w-was j-just going to ask y-you for—”

“Yeah, what a surprise,” muttered Harry. “Why don't you go ahead, Neville,” Harry spoke up. “Hermione'll dance with you.”

“Not that it was your offer to accept,” said Hermione, “but thanks.”

“No problem,” he said, his voice giving out a slightly cold edge. “Now, excuse me. I have to go ask Ginny for a dance.” He stood up, his wooden chair scraping against the tile floor, and he made his way to the cluster of girls beside the fountain where he had spotted her before.

When he finally found her, he was hesitant, but he pushed on. “Ginny?” he called through the music and the chattering of her friends. “Ginny!”

He tapped her on the shoulder and she turned around, smiling. She was wearing a mask that looked like cat on the top of her head with glowing green eyes. She was shocked to see him. “Harry,” she said. “Are you looking for Ron? Because he's dancing with that Elsa Bel—”

“No, I'm actually not,” said Harry. He felt awkward and nervous. “I was just wondering if you wanted to dance with me.”

Her friends quieted down and stared at them. Harry wanted to tell them to sod off and forcefully shoo them out in another direction so they could give them some privacy.

“Really?” Her voice was high. “I mean - yeah, I'd love to.” She was blushing and her friends looked lethally envious.

“Great,” said Harry, though he knew someone who would strongly disagree: himself. He led the way as she followed behind him until they finally made it to the dance floor. He stopped, swallowing down hard in his throat, as he turned around. She was standing before him, smiling expectantly. She was wearing a slinky black leotard that hid nothing of her figure - a provocative number that he knew Mrs. Weasley would throw a hysterical fit over were she to ever see her daughter's outfit that she actually wore in public.

“Well… I suppose this is where we're supposed to start dancing.”

Someone bumped into his shoulder, and his eyes were darting around for a sign of Hermione and Neville. “Right.”

He awkwardly moved closer to Ginny and he observed that she looked completely at ease. She placed her hands on his shoulders and he tentatively put his hands on her waist.

It was a slow song and he scolded himself for his bad timing. Had he been quicker he would've caught a fast song and they wouldn't have needed any physical contact at all.

“Are you having fun so far?” she asked him as they swayed to the music.

Cruel as it was, Harry didn't really care if he stepped on her toes or not. He realized this as he watched her wince as his uncoordinated feet waltzed all over hers and didn't feel the need to apologize so rapidly. He did feel pity, though. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding as if he meant it at all. A picture of Hermione with Ernie, Seamus, then Neville bounced into his mind. “No, not really,” he answered truthfully.

“Oh. And why is that?”

Harry just stared at her. He knew he couldn't tell her why (he himself wasn't even certain why) but she was waiting for his answer. “I…I don't know.”

“Well, maybe you should dance more.” She winced again as Harry felt her foot underneath his. “Or maybe not. But I've seen Hermione dance with Ernie and Seamus and you've just sat there.”

Harry suddenly felt defensive. “Is it a crime to feel tired and just sit down?”

Ginny looked taken aback by his aggressive tone. “N-no. Not at all. I was just trying to say that you should take advantage of this night.”

Harry held back his snort.

Thankfully, their dance was a short one. He did feel guilty because all he did was look around for Hermione and Neville and didn't even try not to trample all over her feet, so he sincerely apologized for his bad dancing (if it could even be called that) and she only nodded, politely saying that it was all right, before she limped back to her friends.

He wearily made his way back to his table. His empty glass of butterbeer was gone and he figured that someone had picked it up and put it away. He leaned back on his seat, closing his eyes. His body felt heavy. He didn't know where Ron was for reason that he hadn't seen him all evening after he had taken off after Elsa the Ravenclaw, he didn't know where Hermione was—

“Harry?”

He opened his eyes and discovered a concerned face staring back at him.

Oh. There she was.

Her brows were cast downward, her lips pressed together with worry. “Are you all right? You look tired. Do you want me to take you back to the dormitories?”

“No,” he said. “No. The party's not even over yet.”

“Well, I can see that. But you aren't looking too good.”

“That's rubbish.”

She was unconvinced. “If you say so.”

Oddly, as he sat there with Hermione again (she declined every offer to dance after Neville, which greatly relieved Harry) and they talked and watched everyone else dance, he felt better. More than better. He felt… great.

He even laughed at some of her jokes. Hermione was actually quite funny if she wasn't surrounded by her studies her books. And she was also quite… well, charming in Harry's eyes and he thought that to be peculiar for he'd most definitely never considered anyone to be “charming” before.

Maybe it was only because she looked so pretty tonight.

Yeah.

That was it.

The fast electronic song was momentarily silenced as Lee Jordan's voice dominated throughout the Hall again.

“All right, lads and lasses,” they heard him say. “This is the last song for the evening before the costume judging. So let's make this worthwhile - and, no jiggling your bum, all right, George? For Merlin's sakes, let's keep it clean - but if the ladies want to get down and dirty, then I have no authority to object—”

Another slow song overlapped his voice and Harry could almost hear Professor McGonagall scolding Lee again as they watched her snatch the microphone from his hand.

But as Harry turned back to Hermione, he saw her gazing longingly at the dance floor. Her arms were folded on the table and her brown eyes were faraway and thoughtful. He gulped, looking down at the surface of the table, feeling his throat itch.

Her voice was quiet when it broke through his barrage of dazed contemplation.

“Harry?”

His head snapped up, locking eyes with her. Her brown orbs were uncertain but hopeful.

“I was wondering… since it's the last song… would you like to dance?”

Now, Harry hated to dance. He absolutely did. He hated the coordination of it that he completely lacked, the fact that every little step had to be done a certain way, and the awkwardness of it all. It was annoying and he hated it. If he had his way, he'd never have to dance again in his entire life.

But as she waited for his answer, looking hesitant but utmost earnest, he came to find that the word “No” had been swiped clean from his vocabulary. He couldn't turn her down - and the worst part was: he didn't want to. He actually did want to dance with her, no matter how horrible he was or how much he hated dancing. He knew it was because he was much more comfortable with her than he was with Ginny or with anyone else in this room, and so he knew there was no way it could be as uncomfortable as it had been with Ginny.

She was Hermione. His friend. She knew him almost as well as he knew himself. She knew he was a bad dancer, yet she was asking him. She was welcoming his clumsy feet, his terrible lack of synchronization. She knew the trouble she was getting herself into.

He felt his heart flutter violently.

“Okay,” he finally said.

She was immensely relieved. “Splendid.”

They both stood and he followed behind her as the slow harmony and the yearning, velvety voice filled their ears when they stepped into the land of slow-dancing couples. She leisurely came to a stop and slowly turned around, facing Harry with a small smile on her face. He could see that she was slightly nervous and he understood completely - he himself wasn't exactly so calm, either.

He came towards her until their bodies were only a foot apart and he gently laid his hands on her waist while she placed her feather-light and dainty hands on his shoulders, making shivers creep up his spine and weird sensations to buzz through his entire body.

She was only a few inches shorter than him and so he could easily look into her eyes without having to completely duck his head. She was smiling at him so softly, so tenderly as they swayed to the song that he unknowingly wound his arms around her waist, bringing her closer to him.

He'd never been this close to her before, and as he could see the dark flecks in her eyes and the adorable freckles sprinkled across her nose, it made something in his chest - his heart, his lungs, his ribcage - flop aggressively. He could smell the intoxicating, heavenly scent of her hair and he felt that rush of lightheadedness fluidly sashay across his skull again. Even his kneecaps felt a bit weak, as if they suddenly weren't strong enough to hold him up.

He saw her face twitch in pain as he felt his feet crush her own. His face heated up, mentally telling himself to mind his foot coordination, though he had never really had any at all.

“Sorry,” he quickly said to her, embarrassed. “I… I told you I was horrible.”

“It's all right,” she reassured him. She smiled wryly and Harry could almost make out the pink tint of her cheeks. “I was prepared for this.”

Though after the subsequent four more times he had managed to flatten her toes, he could have sworn he had reached new levels of blushing profusely. He'd never been so mortified and ashamed by his non-dancing skills before. He'd been more caught up in more serious matters than to actually consider taking dancing lessons… but right now, in an impulse just to impress her, he wished someone had taught him, even if it made only little difference.

Trying to avoid stepping on her toes again, he tried to focus on the pattern of their motion. Soon, he found his feet safely stepping down onto the tile floors. He hadn't noticed when she had suddenly strayed her gaze from his, but when he finally realized that he was no longer looking into her eyes and instead distantly looking at a point somewhere beyond her head, he discovered that she was now leaning her head against his shoulder. He was then overcome with a flurry of different sensations, his hand clutching her delicate hip and then brushing against her slender waist, the soft fabric of her dress sweeping against his warm fingertips.

He'd never danced like this with a girl before. He'd always been tense and awkward and at an arm's length, but with Hermione it felt… normal. How he could possibly distinguish what felt normal from something he had never done before, he hadn't a clue, but besides the light and flighty current state of his brain and the hot flipping of his stomach like it was a hotcake over a pan: it felt nice. Nice. She was soft and warm and smooth and he had never thought holding a girl could ever be such a mind-boggling experience.

His chin was beside the top of her head; her downy, gentle curls pressing against his face.

His heart was booming like a bomb ticking to its destruction. It made his throat unbearably dry all over again.

With the soft lights dimmed down and his heart beating in muffled thuds against his chest, having the sudden urge to close his eyes and soak in the moment, there was a flighty feeling inside him. One that made him curl his fingers against the material of her costume and his stomach partake in a How Warm Can You Get? Contest.

A feeling of pleasantness misted inside his brain and inside his lungs. The smell wafting about her almost made him want to bring her closer and just inhale that divine fragrance that made the rhythm of his breaths become languorous and savoring.

He didn't look much into the dreamy sensations that overtook his body while he was out here dancing with Hermione - his best friend. Because then that would involve thinking. And right now, right at this moment, all he could think about was how soft she felt, how lovely she smelled. And, oddly, how grateful he was that she had asked him to dance.

When the music slowly faded and the sound of Lee Jordan's voice echoed throughout the Hall despite the protests of one certain professor, all of the couples pulled apart. Harry and Hermione slowly did so, with Hermione grinning at him. Harry actually found himself smiling back.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said. She extended her hand. “You're not too bad a dancer, I think. Have you had a few private lessons from someone? It certainly seems like it.” Her eyes were sparkling radiantly.

He shook her hand. “If I said yes then I'd be lying.”

Her smile firmed its place on her face. “I wouldn't have believed you anyhow. It's a natural talent, dancing.”

Trying to ignore the rowdiness of his heart, they left the dance floor with a joyous Hermione on his arm.

And as Seamus beat Fred and George by a handful of cheers in the costume contest (infuriating the real Severus Snape), watching and laughing as Fred took his fake hooked nose and the twins dashed away with it, he couldn't help but think that this was the best party he'd gone to in a very long time.

Leave no doggy poo - instead leave a nice review!

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6. Trust With a Dangerous US

Where Does the Good go?

By attica

“I won't tell one soul.” - Tegan and Sara, Downtown.

Chapter Six: TRUST With a Dangerous “US”

November passed in a shroud of dead leaves and frigid, snowy mornings. They were nearing their winter holidays now, and there wasn't a corridor in sight that wasn't humming with the thrum of excitement and thrill.

The trio's holiday plans were officially decided on a Wednesday morning on their way back to their dormitories from a tiring round of classes. They were weighed down with - once again - a heavy load of coursework, which Hermione had happily raved on about for a straight seven minutes before Ron had told her to shut up before he made her eat hers, his, and Harry's homework combined.

“Is it a crime to be excited about homework?” she asked him, irritated.

“No, but it's a crime to tell other people about it!” snapped Ron. “Keep it in your head if you can't suppress it from its whole existence.”

Even Harry's nerves were getting a bit dodgy when it came to Hermione rambling on about their assignments. The professors had made sure to be generous in their distribution, especially now that they knew most of the students would be gone to celebrate their holidays with their families until the start of January.

Harry was feeling quite glum and bitter about the subject. He knew he was going to be stuck here in the castle again. But he tried to look on the bright side, telling himself that at least he wouldn't be returning to the Dursleys more than once (summer) a year and recalling that the food they served those two weeks were much better than the meals they served on normal days. He'd heard Seamus and even Neville were also going to stay behind, so maybe he could just make the effort to get to know them a little better.

Somehow, during the time he was lost in his thoughts about the holidays, they had eased their discussion to that area.

“… Well, Gin and me and Fred and George are going to France to visit some distant relatives we haven't even heard from since I was three months in me mum's womb. They came out of nowhere, I tell you. They've invited us all to a wedding because their eldest son, Geoffrey, is getting married.”

“Oh.” He was envious of Ron's Christmas plans. “Well, I'll just be staying behind again. As usual.” He didn't know if let his bitterness show through in his gloomy voice, but he did see the look Ron and Hermione shot each other.

“My parents are going to be up in Germany to visit my grandmum,” said Hermione, adjusting her bookbag on her shoulder, looking ahead. “So I'll be staying in the castle as well.”

That relieved Harry. At least he wouldn't be totally alone. Spending time with Seamus was an appealing notion, but it was the idea of spending time with Neville that made him slightly nervous and precautious. But, he figured, as long as they kept him away from any potions, potion making, boiling cauldrons, and Snape, then there was hope that all of them would escape their two weeks without any injuries.

“Great. You can keep Harry company.”

Harry didn't say anything. He knew exactly what he meant, and found that he didn't so much as appreciate the comment his friend had made.

“I'll be owling as much as I can,” continued Ron. “With any luck, Geoffrey's had a secret mistress and she'll run in and crash the wedding.” His eyes twinkled mischievously.

Hermione made a disgusted sound from her nose, looking away before vocally scolding him about his behavior and expectations.

While Harry, sighing heavily, just tuned out both of his friends again.

oooo

Harry and Hermione were in the common room when Ron finally came down with his luggage. He was dressed in a maroon sweater Mrs. Weasley had made him and sleeves of clothes were peeking out of his suitcase. He was flushed and breathing heavily.

“Where have you been? We were getting worried. The train leaves in ten minutes. We thought you'd gone AWOL,” said Hermione. “Ginny and the twins were looking all over the place for you.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, yanking out his scarf from his suitcase. “Luna cornered me…”

“What?” said Harry, not hearing what he had said.

“Lu - never mind, it isn't important,” said a flustered Ron, wrapping the tatty scarf around his neck.

“You'd better hurry,” said Hermione. “We don't want you to miss the train. Have you packed all of your textbooks and assignments? We've got four essays due at the end of—”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Ron hurriedly, obviously ignoring Hermione. “I'll see you two in two weeks. Harry,” he said, turning to him, “remember: hide all of her books and homework. Hermione,” he said, his gaze flickering over to her, a smirk spreading across his face, “good luck because you're never going to find them.” And before Hermione could start yelling at him and ask just what on earth he was talking about, he ran out of the common room, out the portrait hole, and out of their sight.

“What was he talking about?” huffed Hermione, looking at Harry with stern eyes.

“To be honest, I have no idea,” replied a confused Harry. He didn't remember Ron telling him to hide her books at all.

She sighed beside him on the couch, letting her body relax and melt into the comfortable cushions, releasing all of the tension from her muscles. Her gaze was directed at the playful fire inside the hearth. Harry could feel her arm against his arm, and though it was utmost an innocent touch of physical contact, he felt his mind swarm with those thoughts again.

After the Halloween party, things had gone back to normal. His odd feelings he had experienced that night had rapidly plummeted, but he did feel a flutter every now and then when she did so much as simply touch him, smiled at him, or felt his knee brush against hers underneath the table.

He was relieved that he did not feel those stomach-turning sensations as he did that night. He just didn't think he could live that way. It was… disturbing. She was Hermione. His friend. It wasn't right.

But now, realizing that they were now completely alone in the common room, he felt ecstatic movement deep inside his body. His skin tingled where she was touching him and her mind-intoxicating scent ensued in making his head feel dangerously light again.

“At this rate, he's going to grow into someone worse than Fred and Geroge - Fred and George combined,” whispered Hermione. Her soft, gentle tone tickled the inside of his ears.

“Yeah,” said an uneasy but fuzzy-feeling Harry. He realized he liked sitting like this with her. It felt different. He'd sat with Ron many times before and he remembered being completely at ease. With Hermione he wasn't at all completely at ease but his limbs felt like a distant cousin of jelly and his brain had turned into something similar to putty, making his thoughts seem frighteningly dream-like.

His skin felt pleasantly warm. Her arm had conjoined with his and was now filling him up with holy, sacred warmth.

However, catching himself and slightly shuddering, he shifted in his position, sitting up. He quickly glanced at her, and she was looking down at her feet. He trailed his eyes down and noticed that she had gotten new trainers.

“Do you suppose Ron's gotten over Lavender?” asked Hermione suddenly. Her voice was clear but quiet and concerned. “He seems to have. Whenever she enters the room he no longer freezes up and makes up an excuse to go outside and try to punch his fist into a wall only to chicken out at the last minute and miserably sulk by his self.” She turned her neck and her eyes connected with his. “I mean, as much of a prat Ronald is, I would hate him to go and suffer from a broken heart for too long.”

“He seemed fine at the Halloween party,” shrugged Harry. “And you're right - I noticed the normality of things. It's still tense, but that's about all there is to it. Thing is, he seems enamored by something else…”

A smile blossomed on her face, startling Harry. “I've noticed it too.”

Harry looked away, feeling peculiarly nervous. “Maybe it's that Ravenclaw prefect he met at the party.”

“Maybe,” agreed Hermione.

He watched her sigh from the corner of his eye.

They sat in silence for a moment or two, and he felt her foot brush against his leg, making his heart jump for a quick second.

“Lunch is in ten minutes. We can get to the Great Hall early if you like.”

This surprised Harry. Hermione'd never been early to any meal before - if anything, she was always about twenty minutes late. But Harry and Ron always managed to drag her, so it reduced down to thirteen minutes on a good day. Still, he didn't let his thoughts linger around the subject too long, for he knew during the holidays there wasn't much to do around the castle except go outside (where it was freezing), or do the assignments their cruel professors had given them. The library was also closed this year, for Madam Pince had decided to go visit her daughter in the States. He knew that when Dumbledore had announced this piece of news Hermione had been greatly disappointed and all of her winter holiday plans had been tread upon by the great boot of misfortune.

Hearing that Hermione's personal haven had been closed for these two weeks had relieved Harry. Not that he didn't want his friend to enjoy herself, it was just that he had had a feeling that all she would do was stay in there day and night and Harry would be forced to stay there and read with her or go out with Neville or do something drastically similar. And knowing that every one of his peers were all out there opening presents and having as much fun as they possibly could, he also wanted a bit of fun himself, even if it could not match up to theirs the slightest bit.

No offense to Hermione, but he knew for a fact that no one read as many deathly boring books as she did. Though, he had to hand it to her, some of it had come in handy at times - and not just for livening up the fire in the fireplace, as Ron would put it.

Even though Harry really just wanted to sit here with her and had the very odd urge of just wanting to hear her speak, he nodded, getting to his feet almost as fast as his heart had reacted to his rash thoughts about his best friend.

“Sure,” he replied. He thought that being in public surrounded by people was what he needed right now. Being alone with her even made his rushing blood waltz against his bones.

Hermione followed after him through the portrait hole and soon caught up beside him, talking to him about what she had read in one of her books about Salazaar Slytherin.

As important as Salazaar Slytherin was, Harry only found himself concentrating on the sound of her voice and not all of the things she had actually said, though he clearly already knew that it was probably something very clever and “fascinating.” That is, if his mentality and brain capability was on the same level as hers.

When they reached the Great Hall, adorned with massive holiday decorations and singing Christmas trees that chanted carols, they sat beside Seamus and Neville and a fifth year named Jemma Eisley.

Harry remembered her face and immediately thought that she was one of Ginny's friends. But before he could ask her, he noticed the color of her cheeks that were brightening by the minute and thought better of it. Instead, he turned back to Seamus, Neville, and Hermione.

“Seems quiet, doesn't it?” said Seamus.

“I happen to like it,” said Hermione, helping herself to the roast beef. “Besides, a little quietness never hurt anyone.”

“I dunno, it seems sort of odd, but I suppose Hermione's right,” said Harry, realizing how close he seemed to be sitting next to her. He wanted to scoot away but something in his head noisily objected that made him stop from doing so.

“You… you don't suppose Malfoy and his Slytherins are going to try something, do you?” Neville nervously twittered, cautiously glancing behind him.

Harry watched as Hermione's gaze rested to the top of the Slytherin table where the remaining Slytherins that had stayed behind were bunched up. Her stare stayed there awhile, her eyes acquiring that faraway sheen inside them again.

Meanwhile, Harry didn't know why it was that she was looking over there for so long and wondered what it was that she was thinking. He wanted to ask her, but he bit it down and opted to ask her later, when they were alone - God forbid, whenever that would happen again before he started to feel all wobbly again.

Malfoy seemed to have noticed her stare and gave her a defensive cold look, but just as he was to open his mouth and say something witty and terrible, he seemed to think better of it and didn't. Harry watched as instead he and Hermione shared a quick glance before he went back to his cronies.

Feeling something boil inside him, he impulsively grasped Hermione's hand beside her eating utensils, where it had been lying still and motionless. Her head snapped in Harry's direction at the realization of bodily contact as their eyes met, and then trailed down to see Harry's pale hand overshadowing her own.

Swallowing hard, and mentally scolding and asking himself just what in the hell he had been thinking, he swiftly withdrew his hand and resorted to awkwardly busying himself with his plate of food.

Hermione smiled nervously as she looked up to see Neville and Seamus staring at them in silence. Both of them looked lost and very, very bewildered. Harry could vaguely see her wiggle her fingers on the table before lowering her hand down to her lap when she spoke.

“No, I don't think so,” she clarified for Neville. Harry could've sworn he had heard a weak tremor in her voice but was convinced his mind was only playing tricks on him. “But you'd still best stay out of their way because I can't guarantee you anything in that department.”

“Yeah, Neville,” said Seamus, giving both Harry and Hermione an odd look as he reached over for a pumpkin tart. “Haven't you heard, mate? The Slytherins are an entirely different species.”

“That's not true,” said Neville.

“You don't believe me? Why don't you ask Malfoy? He'll tell you exactly what I'm telling you right now: they're made of snails, ogre bogeys, horse turd, giant's mucus, Snape's bodily discharge, sewer water, serpent entrails, blast-ended skrewts, and just about every disgusting, revolting thing you can think of,” smirked Seamus. “He'll tell you. Except, o'course, with much less nice words.”

Harry and Hermione, however, remained clumsily quiet for the rest of their meal.

When they left the Great Hall, Seamus and Neville were with them and were engaged in a rather interesting but ghastly conversation about which Hogwarts professor would end up with who.

“It's Dumbledore and McGonagall, hands down,” said Seamus.

“No, it's Dumbledore and Trelawney.”

“Trelawney?” choked Hermione. “You must be joking!”

“What about Dumbledore and Madam Pince?”

“Or Madam Pomfrey?”

They all made disgusted faces. Seamus made a gagging sound and Neville turned green.

“Pass,” said Harry, and they all enthusiastically agreed.

“Think about their children!” laughed Seamus.

“I thought we made it clear that we were no longer to elaborate on that couple, hmm?” said Hermione as they ascended the stairs.

“It doesn't hurt to explore,” mumbled Seamus.

“What about Snape?”

“Oh, no,” said Neville, paling in the face.

“Relax, Longbottom, it'll be good for you. Like that time you pictured him a velour green dress. That was tasteful,” remarked Seamus. “Now, let's see, Big Bad Snape… what about that sleazy article lady? Rita Skeeter?”

Harry laughed at Hermione's expression. Her face was twisted in bother and revulsion. “They'll birth absolute monsters!”

“Yes, with bad eyesight so that'd make them have to wear horrible red glasses, and they'd have scales, greasy hair, and tentacles!”

They all burst into laughter.

“Seriously, though, think about it,” said Seamus when they sobered, “Old bat McGonagall. Uptight, anal. Spinster. But she has a soft side for Dumbledore. Doesn't that tell you something? Five knuts says they get married within the year.”

“I'll take you up on that bet,” piped up Neville.

Seamus smiled devilishly as they shook on it.

“I don't know,” said a skeptical Hermione. “McGonagall? Dumbledore? It just seems a bit too obvious…”

Seamus brightened. “What was I thinking? Of course it's too obvious! Because it's Snape and McGonagall!”

They all halted in their step to look at Seamus.

“What?” they all exclaimed in unison.

“Think about it,” insisted Seamus. “McGonagall loathes Snape. But maybe she only despises him to cover up the physical attraction she feels for him. Or to fool all of us. Oh - I just remembered! I was out late one night, and I saw two professors go into one of the deserted Ancient Runes classrooms, and I could've sworn I'd heard Snape's greasy drawl and seen McGonagall's topknot in the distance! It was them!”

While Harry and Hermione could only gawk at him, Neville collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

oooo

“I could spend hours marveling at your sick and twisted imagination, Seamus,” said Hermione as they made it to the Gryffindor corridor an hour later. They had taken Neville to the hospital wing only for him to then gain consciousness. Madam Pomfrey had seemed preoccupied (with what, they couldn't possibly know, but she'd never forced out a patient before) and shooed them out with a swaggering Neville following behind.

“I think it's Neville who deserves that comment,” said Seamus. “He's the one who fainted - nobody else fainted except him, and so that means he had to have thought something exceptionally nasty and X-rated.”

Neville groaned, clutching his stomach and head. “Shut it, Seamus.”

“Yes, please do,” quipped Hermione. “Before you make him faint again. Look at the poor boy, Seamus.”

“He seems fine, Hermione,” said Harry.

She looked at him and he could see that she was genuinely worried. “I just don't understand why Madam Pomfrey had to kick us out like that. She didn't even check Neville's health! What is her problem?” she heatedly ranted.

“That is a question I have been asking myself ever since she stuck a spoon down my throat that time I spit tonic all over the curtains,” Seamus thoughtfully said.

“Can you honestly blame her?” snapped Hermione.

“Yes, I can! That hurt - and, she could've almost killed me!” exclaimed Seamus, trying to reason with her.

“Oh yes, and Neville falling to the floor while unconscious and hitting his head, almost bashing his skull open isn't a form of pain?”

Neville moaned again.

“You did say he was unconscious,” muttered Seamus as they finally reached the Fat Lady's portrait.

“Pecan Petal,” said Seamus.

The Fat Lady was smiling mischievously, which Harry noticed and exchanged looks with Hermione. “All right then, step right on in…”

The portrait swung open, revealing a hole-like passageway to their plush common room. Seamus went in first, heading to the couches, before Harry and Hermione started to walk in, side by side. But it was then that a squeal filled their ears and they both jumped, startled by the horrible noise.

“You! You two!” said the voice of the Fat Lady. Harry and Hermione were bewildered at how she could still see them. “Look up! My goodness, how you couldn't have noticed is beyond me, but look up! You're standing underneath mistletoe!” she shrieked excitedly.

Harry was almost afraid to do as she said, but when he did, he felt his heart give out a violent shake.

She was right. He and Hermione were standing right underneath mistletoe. He felt fear and overwhelm and anticipation overrun his body.

Seamus let out a low whistle, his eyes twinkling with laughter, while even Neville seemed to have stopped his moaning.

“Do it, you must do it,” said the Fat Lady's voice. “You must kiss her! It's tradition!”

He was standing dangerously close to Hermione. Her eyes were wide but he watched as she consciously licked her lips, her gaze suddenly filled with panic, but there was another indistinct emotion blooming inside her chestnut orbs that he didn't recognize.

“Kiss her, Harry!” shouted Seamus. “It's tradition!”

Even Neville seemed to be encouraging him. “Kiss her, Harry,” he said in his usual nervous and quiet voice.

Hermione wasn't protesting. Neither was he. But the fact that his chest was pounding so hard he could almost swear they could see it, and his mouth had gotten so dry in such a short amount of time and his stomach was dancing around with his skin burning from all of the attention, he didn't know if he could.

But he wanted to. It was tradition after all, wasn't it? He had to kiss her… had to… because it was tradition… and he didn't want to be known as the foolish one who broke tradition….

He was leaning in, and he watched as her eyes fluttered closed, leaving him to observe her long, dark eyelashes. She wet her lips again, tiptoeing up to meet him, Harry gently gripping her arms… He was going to kiss her, he was… He was going to kiss her….

Her lips were right under his, and it seemed as if everything in his body had frozen still to feel the entire impact of the softness of her mouth against his, and he could even feel that each of his nerves and muscles and tendons were aching just for him to just kiss her….

… Except, when the time came, he didn't. Instead he froze, panicked and incredulous. Her face was hovering dangerously close to him, her rare, soft breaths delicately brushing against his face and making him shiver from inside out. He wanted to kiss her, so very badly - and that's what had made him freeze up on the last second.

He wanted to kiss her. Hermione Granger. His best female friend.

Worse: he hadn't even known how much he wanted to until now.

Which was: very, very much.

Confused and frantic, he pulled away, letting go of her in a hurry. Glancing at a mystified Seamus and a puzzled Neville, he stepped back; almost stumbling over himself, and hastily ran to his dormitory, quickly slamming the door behind him.

Seamus sighed, collapsing back on the couch. “What a coward,” he breathed aloud.

Hermione opened her eyes in time to catch Harry run away from her. Her cheeks were aflame with humiliation and foolishness and she herself felt like cowering away in her dormitory until their two weeks of winter holiday had ended. She was so embarrassed and mortified she felt as if she was burning up with an exceptionally nasty fever.

“If you want,” suggested Seamus, “you can kiss Neville.”

Hermione laughed nervously, before escaping very quickly to her own dormitory.

Seamus shrugged. He turned to Neville. “Better luck next year, mate.”

Neville gave him a begrudging look.

oooo

Harry avoided Hermione for the rest of the day and the day after that. Even Hermione herself seemed all too tentative about being in his presence, for which he didn't blame her at all. He could tell she was embarrassed - and, worse: he had embarrassed her. He felt ashamed of himself when that fact had enough courtesy to stab him in the gut. Which was about - oh, let's say, twenty-five times a day, at most.

He felt he was not ready to face her yet with his new realization. He didn't think he fancied her at all - he didn't feel like this at all with Cho Chang, after all. That had been, well, chaos and utmost beastly, but Hermione was far too different from Cho. They were two completely different girls - almost entirely opposite. Like fire and ice. So dissimilar.

He thought maybe that he was only attracted to her. He was a teenage boy with raging hormones - it made sense. And Hermione was the girl he'd looked to almost all of his years here at Hogwarts, and he trusted her, he cared for her. And they were alone. Here. At Hogwarts. No Ron, no anyone else, with the exception of Seamus and Neville but they were as good as gone as they were usually out doing rubbish or dead asleep in the dormitory for twelve whole hours.

Obviously there was no denying that Hermione was a very pretty girl. She was attractive. She had a charming smile, striking features, and a clever brain. Wasn't that what all men wanted? The perfect girl? Was Hermione a perfect girl? On paper, it certainly seemed like it.

But was there even the slightest possibility of him fancying her? Thinking about the simple idea alone scared him. He couldn't like Hermione - no, not in that way. What would people say? What would Ron say? What would Hermione say? What if Hermione got a boyfriend and Harry was stricken with jealousy? Would he act like an arsehole just like Ron did when he had found out about Viktor Krum? He didn't want Hermione to despise him as she had despised Ron in their fourth year.

However, as he had resorted to taking his plate and eating it on his bed the last few meals, he couldn't help but think that this wasn't how he'd planned to spend his Christmas at all. He was supposed to have fun, supposed to spend time with Hermione. Not hiding out like some paranoid creep with a phobia of mistletoe and kissing his girl best friend.

Chewing the last of his cookie, he fell back on his bed, sighing.

Tomorrow, whether he was ready or not, he would face her.

Just for the sake of Christmas.

oooo

It was a magnificent, snowy morning when Christmas day dawned.

Harry yawned, feeling the bitter sting of the air as he budged in his sheets. He tried to rub the sleepiness from his eyes while his other hand patted down his side dresser for his glasses. When he finally fixed them on the bride of his nose, he looked around to find the room empty. Neville and Seamus, he guessed, were probably already downstairs with their gifts.

Stretching, he got up from his bed and made his way to the loo, his mind set on taking a nice, warm shower to start out such a beautiful day.

However, just as he was in the shower, savoring the feel of the warm water rattling against his tired muscles, his mind suddenly skittered across the dream he had last night.

A lazy smile spread across his wet face as a picture of Hermione began to construct inside his mind. But it was then that he felt obvious heat trickle down from his stomach and start to throb intensely in the area between his legs, and he felt a slight jerk, making him widely open his eyes. He looked down, and he groaned, squinting his eyes in pain and agony.

“Oh no,” he said, as he reached out his hand and turned the knob of the faucet until he felt the water become frigidly cold.

When he got out of the shower, feeling slightly relieved and shivering a bit, he ran his hand through his damp hair, his towel in his hands. His feet left a moisture trail as he plodded across the wooden floor to the boy's dormitory.

He entered the room, sighing and closing his eyes for a moment, before he opened his eyes and jumped, dropping his towel, surprised at who it was sitting on his bed with a pile of crimson-wrapped gifts by her side.

“Hullo Harry,” she said cheerily. “Happy Christmas.”

“H-Hermione,” he stammered, confused at why she was here. He bent down to retrieve his fallen towel. “What are you doing here?”

He saw a flicker of apprehension inside her eyes. “You hadn't come down yet. I was worried.”

“I overslept,” he said quickly, his dream of her popping up inside his mind again. “Sorry,” he said timidly.

He hesitated, but walked over to where she was, dropping his towel beside his tangled sheets. He tried his best not to meet her eyes.

He could feel her watching him, and he felt his stomach tie itself over in painful knots. He walked over to his trunk and tried to find some clothes for today, trying to ignore the sensations her presence was causing for him to feel.

“I brought your gifts,” she said. Harry glanced over at her and caught a glimpse of the bare flesh of her legs, noticing the burgundy corduroy skirt she had on. He tried to furiously shake it away as he felt tremors break out from his skin and send a river of heat flow through his body.

Harry was feeling increasingly uncomfortable by her company in the dormitory, considering the fact that they were the only ones there.

Then tension between them made the air feel strangely foreign.

“Great,” said Harry, finally picking out a dark shirt. “I have yours, too… somewhere. Maybe we can open them later on tonight.” He sent her a forced smile, but he could see that she wasn't impressed, nor convinced.

He was well aware that he was giving off the impression that he didn't want her there, which wasn't the case at all. Or, actually: he didn't want her there because he felt nervous and scared that she'd look right through him and know that he'd had a very inappropriate dream about her last night and storm right out. He wanted to assure her that he didn't want her here because he didn't like her - but for an entirely different reason altogether.

Getting the hint from the weak answers he was giving her (rather sparingly, at that), she tried to reassuringly smile at him before brushing off her skirt, standing up. Harry cemented his gaze at her nose - not at her lips, for that would make him feel even more unstable, not at her eyes for then he would reveal his ridiculous anxieties, and not any further down than her chin because then his stare would be magnetized to her legs, which she'd notice right away just because she was anything but dense.

“All right then, I'll leave to you to your business,” she said. “I'll see you when you get down.”

He nodded forcefully, not saying anything, as he didn't bother to watch her make her way to the door and walk out.

He clutched his head.

How had he not seen her like this before? Why was he seeing her like this now? Was it an overnight curse?

He dressed himself, his conflicting feelings about her now in an all-out war.

oooo

Harry went down a few minutes later, feeling his damp hair plaster against the nape of his neck and water droplets drip down to the collar of his jacket. He tried to keep his thoughts off of Hermione by thinking of Ron and the Weasleys and how their visit to France was going, or how he was going to possibly finish those four essays by the time their classes had started up again. He only came to the predicted conclusion that he would have to cram by staying up all night again before his eyes glimpsed at the figure lying down on the couch with a book shielding her face.

He gulped down hard, wanting to run back up the stairs and hide in his room until he was convinced he was well again. His eyes could not detach themselves from her long, lean legs displayed on the couch. He had even noticed the crinkle and fold of her skirt near the crotch, riding it up in that particular area.

“Harry?”

His eyes tore themselves away from the creamy sight before him and rocketed to her face. He tried to refuse the blush that would soon be making its appearance on his face.

Her face was expectant. He was relieved that she had not noticed him staring. She marked her page in her book (leather-bound and titled Mad About Mammal Transfiguration in wispy silver letters) and closed it, laying it down on her lap. “Are you ready?”

He shook his head, trying to mentally shoo away those bothersome shivers. “Yeah.”

“Smashing,” she beamed, getting up and smoothing out the wrinkles in her clothes. Harry denied the impulse to see if that crinkle had been straightened out. She took hold of her book and gestured for him to come along.

He walked to catch up with her, and as soon as their strides were equivalent to one another's, he found himself tangled inside her flavored scent again.

“Hermione?” said Harry, looking at her.

“Yes, Harry?” she replied, turning her head as they headed out of portrait hole.

“Happy Christmas.”

She grinned widely. “Happy Christmas, Harry.”

oooo

For dinner, spirits had certainly livened when they entered the Great Hall. Snow was falling from the ceiling that vanished without a trace before it made it to the tops of their heads, and the noise level had surely skyrocketed up from before. Almost everything sparkled - the massive Christmas tree ornaments, their silverware, Albus Dumbledore's hat.

They started their meal right after their headmaster's cheery holiday message, where Seamus and Neville had occupied the seats across from them again. They filled their plates in a quick two minutes and ate it twice as fast.

Their tables were filled with food that made Harry's eyes glaze over and his mouth water. Roast beef, chicken, buttermilk rolls, mashed potatoes, roasted duck, lemon meringue pie, raspberry tarts, chocolate pudding and fudge cake with strawberries and ice cream frosting the tops and sandwiched in between, and many other plates and plates of delicacies that made a roar of hunger rumble deep from inside his stomach.

Harry's and Hermione's awkwardness and intense discomfort from their past situation quickly dissolving against the warm atmosphere and the hearty laughs and the taste of a sweet, sweet Christmas, they laughed all they could and spent their meal in completely jolly spirits.

After they had stuffed themselves and filled their stomachs up to its fullest capability, the four Gryffindors trekked back to the common room telling stories again - this time, without discussing their professors and their private lives, which Harry could tell immensely relieved Hermione.

They were all bubbly and grinning so widely their jaws had started to become sore because of the almost lethal amounts of butterbeer they had ingested. Their bodies felt dangerously light and their limbs flew with overenthusiastic gestures as they spoke, not even getting to finish a sentence before bowling over with loud, rambunctious laughter.

They reached the common room with sore lungs and aching mouths, but still exploding with laughter with every little thing anyone said. They collapsed on the couches of the common room, the fire rapidly erupting from the black and dusty floor of the fireplace and blazing as soon as Hermione announced the spell aloud, making their bodies feel even warmer. Seamus was on the floor still doubled over in laughter, Neville on an armchair, and Harry and Hermione lying together on the couch, breathlessly laughing.

Glowing orange embers swooped out of the fire, glowing like little fireflies, before it died and blew away in the air.

“I think we're intoxicated out of our wits,” said Hermione, still trying to catch her breath. Her head was on Harry's stomach and her brown curls spread all over the dark material of his jacket like a fan. He could feel her body heave and shake as she lapsed into another fit of giggles.

“I agree. Drunk silly.”

“Drunk silly as hell,” agreed Seamus.

“But doesn't butterbeer…” trailed off Harry, before his expression descended into one of confusion. “I honestly don't know where I was planning on going with that.”

And they laughed again, Harry feeling a shot of electricity and heat race through his body as he felt Hermione begin to vibrate with giggles against him.

Twenty minutes later, they had finally gotten their breathing patterns back to normal and they had calmed themselves down. Though they were still bubbly and feeling very flighty and disconnected from the rest of their bodies, a little of the butterbeer's effects had worn off.

Suddenly, right out of the blue, Neville's body shot up, as if he'd just been burned by a coal brander on his bum. “Trevor!” he squeaked. “Bloody hell! I forgot him! I forgot him!”

“What?” asked Hermione, wrinkling her nose, biting her lip to keep herself from giggling.

Neville wobbled as he stood on his feet, swayed a bit to the right, before he grasped the arm of the chair and steadied himself. “Trevor! I brought him to the Great Hall! And-and now I don't have him!” He was twitching, diving his body down to the rug, swiping his hands underneath the chair, looking beneath the cushions. He was bug-eyed and mumbling very fast under his breath.

Harry and Hermione looked at each other.

“Look, Neville, maybe you should get some sleep—” said Hermione, straightening herself up from Harry without even noticing the very peculiar position they had been in.

Harry, however, immediately noticed the lack of pressure and softness against his stomach and body and felt strange as he squirmed in his place, trying to clear out his head from all of the nebulous thoughts vacating it.

“No! I've got to find Trevor!” He stood up from his knees so quickly that Harry thought he was going to fly right out of his shoes to the ceiling, and darted out of the portrait like Scabbers being chased by Crookshanks on a bad day.

Hermione had turned her body around and was staring at the portrait hole. “Harry, maybe we should—”

“No need, Hermione, I'm on it,” said Seamus. He stood on the floor very slowly, furiously blinking his eyes for a few seconds, before following after Neville.

Hermione sighed; turning back around and closing her eyes, letting her head roll back against the settee, exposing the bare and smooth whole of her throat to Harry.

Harry felt himself become slightly feverish, his body uneasily shifting again. There were throbbing joints all over his body - even in the very back of his skull. His fingers buzzed as he curled them into a fist and out again.

When she leveled her neck again, she looked at him. Her eyes were dreamy but he could tell she was fighting to regain control of her head. Harry knew the feeling. He wasn't feeling like himself. He felt like he was a cloud, a seamless spring breeze, a soaring bird… until he shook himself out of it and came back into focus with the scene before him. Hermione.

She was closer now. He hadn't remembered her moving, but he sat up, clearing his throat, looking at her. Her eyes had a luster to them and it looked as if she was trying to decide something as he noticed the white bone of her teeth biting into the mound of flesh that was her lip, but Harry knew that she was not herself, either. Her expression was light and she was looking at him so welcomingly, so warmly, so affectionately.

And he himself felt his chest rattle and shake his basket of ribs inside his upper body. His mouth became dry as he stared into her eyes, a deep brown that managed to melt every single thing inside him like hot summer wind, and his vision became hazy and dreamlike. In a matter of seconds, she looked as if she glowed and her hair had been spooled from glittering silk. Harry felt his breaths release sparingly, his veins pulsing with immeasurable force.

It was so quiet in the room. He could only hear her breathing, saw the subtle rise and fall of her chest underneath her navy jumper from the corner of his eye. His eyes flickered down to her lips and he felt his heart skip a beat as he saw them to be deliciously moist.

He could feel his spine rigid and his limbs felt frozen, but the warm, squirming cluster inside his belly made him want to inch closer to her until he could brush his mouth against hers and feel just how deliciously moist it was.

“Harry… do you trust me?” Her words seemed to reach his ears a moment later than he had watched her mouth form them.

Startled, clarity swept over his vision and he looked at her uncertain eyes. “Yes,” he told her, though he didn't understand why she had asked him such a question. Of course he trusted her. She was one of his best friends. “Yes, I trust you.”

For the first time in a very long motionless period, she looked down and shifted nervously in her seat.

“Why?” he asked, finding himself whispering it to her.

She couldn't meet his eyes. “I just… I really… No - never mind, I'm an idiot, I'm going to bed—” she got up abruptly and Harry watched as she trembled on her legs for a second. On impulse, he reached out and snatched her hand, trying to steady her. She breathed a sigh of relief, telling him thanks, before she tried to tug her hand away. Harry didn't let go.

“You can tell me, Hermione,” he said to her. She was silent, and she sat back down beside him.

“You're going to think I'm an idiot. That I'm trying to pry into your privacy—”

“I won't.”

She sighed, looking down. She was smiling awkwardly. “It's just that… have you ever been kissed?

Surprise darted across his face. “Have I-have I ever been kissed?”

Slowly, as if her neck was stiff, Hermione nodded her head.

Harry never favored personal questions. Most particularly this one. His cheeks flared with a vicious blush. “I… yes, I have.”

“I mean… a real kiss,” elaborated Hermione, saying the words as if they were foreign to her.

Harry's expression drew into one of pure bafflement. “I… I don't know.” The questions she was asking him were making his mouth salty, coarse and arid, as if he had just attempted to eat sand.

She was hesitant to speak on, but she did. “You know when they pointed out the mistletoe that day… and we almost… but we didn't…” Harry nodded in a robotic-like fashion, never once taking his eyes off of her. He felt that spade of shame again, dipping inside his chest.

She looked up and met his eyes. The curiosity in them dazzled him. “Tell me - was it only awkward because everyone was watching?”

Harry was in a daze. Was it only awkward because everyone had been watching? Or was it awkward for different reasons? Was it because he had just found out that he was actually attracted to his best friend and that was a very, very bad position to be in, especially now?

Her eyes were earnest, but as he opened his mouth and couldn't even stammer out a single syllable to answer her with, she shook her head again, looking down. “I know I'm going to sound like the biggest selfish fool in the world, but I was just… well, I… never mi—”

He didn't how he could know what she was asking him. But there was just something about her - her fidgety motions, her uncertainty, her flushed cheeks, her darting eyes… she was flustered, and Harry had never seen her that way before. She had always been witty Hermione, the Hermione who had answers for everything - she was never confused or uncertain. She was headstrong and unyielding. But now she wasn't. It was if he was seeing a completely different side to her.

He didn't even know how his bubble of silence had finally burst to allow him to let out a sound, but it did. “Okay,” was what he found himself saying.

Hermione froze. She stayed that way for a few moments than looked at him with wide eyes, blinking once, twice. “What?” she whispered. “I mean - are you-are you sure? You're completely sure?”

He steadied his eyes on her. He was sure. He was certain. His heart was beating along with the two fitful, fleeting syllables of the word. He said it again, trying to keep in the quiver as he did so. “Okay.” He heard her take a very shaky sigh. She looked doubtful now.

“Oh, Harry. I don't want you to be doing this because you feel obligated to. I mean, it is a very stupid and selfish request to begin with, and we aren't level with our heads because of all the butterbeer we poisoned ourselves with. I don't want to do it if you're going to end up regretting it. It'll be simple. Innocent, completely innocent, between two friends. Sort of like… experimenting.” She said the word and it lingered. On her lips, in his ears, in the air. “Experimenting.”

Shock was still dancing against his bones. He had never thought he'd see the day when Hermione Granger was asking him for such a favor. Then again, he'd never thought he'd actually say yes. But he wanted to. Maybe it was just the butterbeer. They had ingested gallons more than they had ever drank before - maybe this was a side-affect. Wanting to kiss one's best friend.

And, like she'd said: it was completely innocent. Just between two friends. Nothing more. It wouldn't be awkward. It would be simple. Innocent. Experimenting.

“Are-are you sure about this?” She asked him this in a gentle and nervous breath. He could see the stars of anxiety burning bright inside her eyes. “I really don't want to push you—”

“It's completely innocent, isn't it?” said Harry. “You said so yourself. There's nothing to worry about. It's innocent.” Somehow, the word never clung on.

“Right.” She let out another sigh, one that made her nostrils flare. “Right.” She then scooted closer to him. Tentatively at first, stopping to see if he would back away, and then she inched until he could feel her soft and warm body against his again. Even that made him swallow down hard as if he'd just salvaged a drink of water in a desert.

Her voice was trembling. “I'm going to take your glasses, all right, Harry?” He nodded wordlessly, and she reached for his face. Her hand brushed against the front of his bangs, sweeping it to the side; before he felt her velvet-like fingers touch the sides of his face. She slowly slid off his glasses.

Harry couldn't move. He was hopelessly frozen. He was rooted to this spot.

He suddenly felt very naked as he looked around, watching her set his glasses aside. It made a quiet “clink” on the table. Yes, he felt very naked indeed. It felt strange without his glasses. Everything seemed blurry and his surroundings were just hazy blots and blotches of colors and indefinite shapes. But, as Hermione was just positioned right in front of him, he could see her just fine. The light freckles peppered across her nose, her warm chestnut eyes with wrinkled, worried, perfectly arched brows hovering right above it.

“Are you… ready?” Her voice almost seemed distant and feathery to him. He mentally tried to shepherd all of his wandering thoughts and focused on her. On her expression, her face, her emotion. Yet all it did was make him feel listless again. But the thought of kissing her and trying to deny that he truly, truly wanted so much that it made him feel guilty and ashamed and unworthy to be her friend made him look on with a calm appearance.

Which he thought was rather funny. Because he wasn't calm at all.

He nodded almost barely. “Yeah,” he said in a single breath. Then, suddenly, he found her face nearing his. He unconsciously moved towards her too, and he noticed that her eyes had trembled closed before he unknowingly closed his eyes as well. And then they kissed. Softly at first, hesitantly and apprehensively, but they soon began to melt into it. Hermione's mouth molded against his and he felt her fingers settle just below the nape of his neck. Harry's hands found themselves snaking around her waist to tangling inside her curls, and before he knew it, he was kissing her furiously, his tongue darting out to greet her in a sensual exploration.

In one mere moment, their innocent kiss had turned into something… well, not-so-innocent.

Harry felt a tumble of heat roll down through his stomach to the tip of his toes, sparking something entirely rash and unthinking and ferocious inside him. Every thought was too complicated, too unwanted, and so his mind was swept over by the simple, almost animalistic urges of the satisfaction and yearning that surged through his veins from the feeling of her reciprocate his kiss. There was a taste to her; a spark that ignited deep in his bosom as their lips connected and he had felt her heat aggressively transfer over to him.

He felt her clutch tighten on his neck, and he felt tremors shake his body and skin when he felt the trails of her slender fingers as they slid into his hair, sending a wave of hunger to hammer down into his skull and drill further down through his shoulders, through his ribs, through the bones of his hips.

He felt warm. Feverish. And there was a madness about him, the way his fingers griped at her, the way he tried to hold her as close as he could. He never knew such a wild rush could tear through him with such speed and power that not even his brain could not attest to. For the first time in his life, here was an experience where there was no pain, no memories. Just intensity and feeling. Tenderness. Love.

Their bodies were pressed close. So close he could almost feel every curve, every pulse. He felt something soft yet solid against his chest, compressing against his broad and wide frame, felt the impact of her kisses as she responded, felt the natural warmth generating from her body colliding with his.

When they pulled back for air, it was only then that the full reality of what they had done crashed down upon them.

Her lips were swollen and her hair was mussed, even after Harry had untangled his hands from them. Harry was smart enough to know that he didn't look any better. He could feel a fire on and inside his mouth and could oddly still taste the distinct tang she had left behind.

His hands fell limp at his side, breathing hard, not believing what they had just done. Hermione was silent, her face contemplative then panicked and alarmed. Her eyes widened at him, those lips he had just been kissing parting slightly in surprise, her hand to her mouth as if she'd just realized what they had done - and how non-innocent their kiss had really been.

So non-innocent it made Harry's head spin.

Her breathing got even more ragged and heavy, and Harry wanted to scoot away to give her (and himself) some space before they went mad out of their wits, but he couldn't. His shoulders were taut; his spine was like a stiff wooden ruler. Even the breaths he was trying to squeeze out from his lungs seemed restricted beyond obvious repair.

A few moments later, he had seemed to gather enough moisture inside his mouth to crack out a word to break the silence. “Hermione, I—”

“It's not your fault, Harry.” Her voice shook. She was looking at the table where his glasses lay and wringing her hands, her skin tightly stretching across her knuckles that it turned bone-white. “It's not your fault. It was mine. I made up the stupid proposition. And I actually had enough stupidity to ask you. I just…” She trailed off in silence. When she spoke again, she had adapted her stern voice again, albeit the nervousness that rattled it. “Obviously, no one can know about this.”

Harry unknowingly flinched.

“After all, it was a one-time thing. And we must - must not let it get in the way of our friendship. That would be… that would be horrible.” At the word “Horrible,” she looked up and met his eyes. She tried to emphasize it by saying it again. “It would be… horrible.”

As if repeating it didn't help, Harry heard it chime again in his mind. Again. Again. Again. And again.

“Harry? I'm so-I'm so sorry. I know it's going to be strange between us for the next few weeks and it's all my fault, but these things fade away soon enough. I'm so sorry. You're not-you're not going to tell Ron, are you?”

“No,” said Harry, feeling as if his soul had been lifted straight out of his body and thrown away into some illusory horizon. “No, I won't tell Ron.”

Not like I could, he thought bitterly. Remembering that he still couldn't see a thing, he reached over to the table and fumbled as he felt the table for his glasses. When he found it, he felt a wave of relief as he put it on and the splotches and fuzzy shapes of color transformed into furniture and designs on the rug.

She let out a sigh of relief. “Look, I'm so sorry, Harry. I really am.” Her eyes were pleading at him. Then, suddenly, she got up and crossed the room to where their Christmas tree was. It was decorated with gold griffins, red bows, and some socks that Dobby had given him. She got down on her knees and grabbed presents from underneath, standing with two boxes in her hands. She turned towards him and Harry only watched her as she sat back down on the spot she had been sitting before. She was smiling, and though Harry could see that the ruined state of their evening had managed to shake her up a bit, her smile was still genuine.

“Happy Christmas, Harry.” She held out the two crimson boxes to him. There was a gold satin ribbon on each of the boxes that he didn't remember seeing this morning, and so he figured she had done it when she had been waiting for him.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said. His hands felt clammy as he reached out to retrieve them. It was then his turn to get up and get his present for her from underneath the tree. He returned with a box in simple scarlet wrapping paper - with nothing special like gold ribbons like she had bothered to put. He held it out for her. “Happy Christmas to you too.”

Smiling gratefully and Harry's heart enacting an extra violent beat at the twinkles in her eyes, she took it from him. “Thank you.”

They both looked down at their gifts, silent and ill at ease with each other.

Harry was the first to speak. “Well, I should head up to bed,” he said, standing. “Thanks again for the gifts.” He couldn't help but hate it that now there was this unneeded bulky wall between him and Hermione. It was a perfect way to end his Christmas.

Really.

“I'm going to stay here and read a bit,” she said, but lowered her eyes as she did so.

Harry nodded, feeling an unwelcome constricting inside his throat. There was a bothersome fidgeting inside his belly. “All right, then. Good night, Hermione. Happy Christmas.”

“Good night, Harry. Happy Christmas.”

Giving her a smile, he left her and ascended the stone staircase to the boy's dormitory, wanting to repeatedly pound his head on the wall until he had no further recollection of this evening.

But with still-burning lips and still-burning hands and an overheating skull, he only collapsed on his bed with his eyes squinted closed, as if he was in pain. The image of her looking regretful and frightened had been engraved into his mind. The memory of the succulent, pillowy tips of her mouth as it pressed against his sent fires thriving through his entire being.

He curled up on his bed, taking off his glasses and setting it on his side dresser with her gifts. He shut his eyes closed tight. The butterbeer made the world whirl around him that he felt a dull pounding in the back of his head that almost made him nauseous. He reckoned he would just open her presents in the morning when he wasn't feeling as if he was so near to the brink of his sanity.

Reviews are highly appreciated and good for the soul!

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