The Perfect Storm

Stoneheart

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 07/05/2006
Last Updated: 07/05/2006
Status: completed

Following the resurrection of Lord Voldemort, Harry examines his four years at Hogwarts and comes to the startling realization that he has been unconscionably blind to things which those around him have seen quite clearly all along. But when he tries to remedy this profound oversight, he discovers that the object of his newly discovered feelings wants no part of them. Ultimately, Hermione is compelled to flee the castle to escape Harry's unrelenting attentions, only to be caught in the worst blizzard to descend on Hogwarts in a century. As night falls with no sign of Hermione, Harry proceeds to brave the storm to bring her safely back. But there is more than one tempest a-brewing, and in the final aftermath, nothing will never be the same.

Chapters

1. untitled

1. untitled

b

As I continue to hammer away at new chapters for future stories, I present here another early work from the spider-haunted vault (did I just hear Ron scream?) of unposted fics. I hadn't looked at it in a while, but I knew it would need a bit of plastic surgery before it could show its face in the cold light of day. It was written just before OotP came out, and it contains basic elements which, alas, did not appear in that book as I had hoped. This alone would not have prevented the story's posting, since it was never intended to toe the strict canon line. I made a few small changes, such as transferring Harry's prefect badge (the one he should have had, darn it!) to Ron, which actually improved the flow of the story. And I changed the title to something with more punch (necessitating a minor tweaking of the dialogue at key points). But even with those revisions, I still couldn't post the result, for a simple reason.

It wasn't good enough. Oh, I was satisfied with the premise, and the core events came off exactly as I envisioned. And the "hook" I devised remained viable as a means to steer the story toward its desired conclusion. But try as I might, I couldn't find a way to employ that hook to achieve a believable, non-saccharine ending. Since I am loathe to post a story I wouldn't enjoy reading if I were on the other side of the screen, all I could do was set it aside and hope that a means of resolution would come to me over time.

It wasn't until HBP splashed cold water in my face (and sent a corresponding chill down my spine) that I found the ending I was seeking, one grounded more in reality than in romantic fancy (not that there's anything wrong with that). Here, then, is the final version. I did as much as I could to bring it up to scratch. Ultimately, I leave it to the readers to judge if it was worth the bother.

* * *

Disclaimer: Everything pertaining to the Harry Potter universe belongs exclusively to J.K. Rowling, may the hair on her toes never fall out (no, wait -- that's Bilbo Baggins). This story was written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, nor will any profit be realized through this or any subsequent posting.

* * *

The Perfect Storm

Harry dashed down the boys’ staircase and into the Gryffindor common room, his Firebolt in his hand and his Quidditch robes whipping about his feet. Sparing no glance to left or right, he lunged toward the portrait hole, his free hand extended to fling open the painting of the Fat Lady. Hurtling headlong like a runaway Bludger, he was only narrowly able to avoid a bone-jarring collision as the portrait suddenly opened of its own accord, admitting Fred and George, who barely had time to step to either side as they each caught a fistful of Harry’s robes.

“Hold on, mate,” Fred said as Harry jerked to a halt. “No need to hurry.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry said breathlessly. “I was due at Quidditch practice ten minutes ago – hang on – “ Harry blinked in confusion at Fred and George. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you on the pitch? Angelina will have all our heads for Quaffles!”

“Not today, she won’t,” George grinned. “That’s what we’re trying to tell you. Practice is cancelled.”

“What?” Harry said, looking back and forth between Fred and George. “Why?”

“Look out the window,” Fred said as he and George released Harry’s robes.

Harry sprang to the nearest window and threw back the curtains. A swirling mass of blinding whiteness dazzled his eyes, which he immediately squeezed shut against the glare. Frowning, he cupped his hand over his eyes and squinted. Concentrating with all his might, he was only just able to make out the shapes of the nearest Quidditch goalposts. Off to one side was a murky triangle which he knew must be the front of Hagrid’s cabin. Apart from these disparate objects, the world outside the castle seemed to have vanished in a gray-white fog.

The scene was a striking contrast of darkness and light. Did he not know it was nine o’clock in the morning (he had overslept, having stayed up half the night doing an overdue homework assignment with Ron), he might easily believe he had slept through the entire day and awakened at dusk. The clouds of snow whipping about in the wind were overshadowed by a heavy, sullen sky the color of dirty wool. His heart sinking, he watched as the darkness descended, swallowing up the topmost Quidditch goal ring like a child devouring a stick of candy.

“Angelina was determined to keep us on the pitch,” George laughed. “She says Wood wouldn’t have let a little thing like a blizzard cancel practice. Madam Hooch had to yank her out of the air with a Summoning Spell. When we left the field, they were still arguing.”

“Not that you could hear them over that bloody wind,” Fred added. “The WWN says it’s the biggest storm in a decade. No telling when it’ll blow over.”

Harry wondered for a moment how Fred had managed to hear a WWN news report. The nearest radio was in the village, and this was not a Hogsmeade weekend. But he realized at once that such questions were best not entertained, much less voiced, where the twins were concerned. Even so, he would not have been surprised to look behind the statue of the one-eyed, hump-backed witch on the third-floor corridor and find fresh footprints leading directly to and from the trap door beneath Honeydukes Sweet Shop.

“On the positive side,” George grinned at Harry, “she’ll probably blow off all the steam she was going to vent on you for being late, so you won’t have to hide from her all day.”

His fingers relaxing their grip on his broomstick, Harry pressed his face despondently against the glass and peered into the dazzling whiteness. As he stared at the thick clouds of snow that were now obscuring the two lower goal rings, his eyes drifted toward the dark outline of Hagrid’s cabin, which huddled like a squatting troll a short distance from the field. Suddenly his narrowed eyes opened in surprise. He turned around quickly (dark spots exploding before his eyes) and spied Dean, who was sitting in a chair by the fire with his Transfiguration textbook open in his lap.

“When did Hagrid get back?” he asked Dean.

“He isn’t,” Dean said. “I asked McGonagall earlier, and she said he’ll be another couple of days yet.”

“There’s smoke coming from Hagrid’s chimney,” Harry said in a questioning tone.

“Oh,” a new voice said very quietly. “That’d be Hermione.”

Harry turned his back on the window and saw Ginny descending the girls’ staircase. He cast her a questioning look, and her freckled face seemed to cloud over in imitation of the weather outside.

“She’s studying,” Ginny said as she crossed the common room and approached the portrait hole.

“At Hagrid’s?” Harry said in confusion. “Why isn’t she studying in the library, or here in the common room?” Ginny coughed lightly.

“She said there would be…fewer distractions.”

Ginny avoided Harry’s eyes as she pushed open the portrait and left the common room, presumably to have a late breakfast in the dining hall. Looking around, Harry noticed suddenly that everyone in the room was looking away from him now. Even Fred and George averted their eyes as they trotted after Ginny in pursuit of their own delayed breakfast. Harry stood in silence for what seemed a full minute before sighing heavily.

Upon returning to Privet Drive for the Summer holidays following Fourth Year, Harry had quickly fallen into a deep, introspective moodiness in which he would brood for hours on end over the events of the preceding school year, and ultimately of his life in general. The terrible ordeal surrounding the resurrection of Lord Voldemort had forced him to examine his life as he never had before. He knew it was only by the grace of God and the intervention of his friends that he had survived to tell the tale of the events occurring in the cemetery in Little Hangleton. He began to examine those people upon whom he had come to depend for support and friendship, and something proceeded to stir unbidden inside him. His four years at Hogwarts unfolded before him like a multi-chapter play in which he was both spectator and principle player. And as he examined the events which had shaped his life since his entry into the wizarding world, the spotlight fell with startling clarity not only on himself, but on those who had shared with him nearly every minute of those four turbulent years. The result was an awakening as of water from a glacial lake being dashed into his face.

How could he not have seen it before? Through all his trials, in his times of blackest despair, one person had always been there for him, never abandoning him. Not Ron, with his petty jealousies, his resentment of Harry’s fame and of his vault full of gold. Hermione. If Harry could be forgiven for being blind for his first three years, there was no excuse for last year. When virtually everyone at school had turned their backs on him – including his “best mate,” Ron – Hermione had stood by him, helped him – believed in him. And when presented with the opportunity to demonstrate to Hermione just how much he valued her by asking her to be his partner at the Yule Ball, what had he done instead? Made a fool of himself over Cho Chang, leaving Hermione to be snapped up happily by Viktor Krum.

Admittedly, Cho was very pretty and extremely popular. But what was that compared to what he and Hermione had shared over the preceding three years? Even not knowing that Hermione would appear at the Ball looking positively radiant, her normally bushy hair shining like burnished satin and her oversized teeth shrunk down to normal size, should he not have preferred the inner beauty of her soul to Cho’s obsidian eyes and knee-weakening smile?

Harry could not change the past. Even Hermione’s Time-Turner from two years ago was inadequate to redress so much stupidity as he had evidenced of late. But if the past were set in stone, the future was a clean slate, and Harry was determined not to compound the mistakes of yesterday by repeating them today.

But was it already too late? This had been Harry’s greatest fear ere leaving Privet Drive for the Burrow, and when Hermione appeared shortly after to accompany the Weasleys and Harry to the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, his fears appeared destined to come to full flower. For, heart-wrenchingly, Hermione resisted Harry’s greatest efforts to develop their relationship beyond the borders of the friendship they had nurtured since Halloween of their first year.

That was not to say that Harry gave up. After all he had faced, all the obstacles he had overcome, in the last four years, he was not going to allow his own shortsightedness to defeat him in such a crucial endeavor. Changing his tactics upon their return to Hogwarts, Harry began to take a greater interest in Hermione’s pursuits. He offered his services to her at every opportunity, and when she tendered her own support in turn, whether helping him with his homework or advising him in everyday matters ranging from his appearance to how to avoid confrontations with Malfoy, Harry accepted her help with overt gratitude.

It became apparent to those within Gryffindor Tower (and a good many without) that Harry was engaged in what could only be described as a covert courtship ritual. And, clever witch that she was, Hermione could not fail to see this as well. To Harry’s growing dismay, her response was a subtle coolness which repeatedly slammed the door on any hopes he continued to nurture of altering the nature of their relationship. And as his persistence showed no sign of faltering, an increasingly exasperated Hermione had begun to distance herself from Harry, first emotionally, and, ultimately, physically.

Harry sighed deeply now as he released the curtains, which fell together to obscure the clouded image of Hagrid’s cabin. You really did it this time, didn’t you? a voice in his head said reproachfully. Drove her farther and farther away until you finally drove her straight out of the castle! Even Malfoy never did her that badly! He moved torpidly toward the boys’ staircase, his Firebolt dragging limply along the floor. He decided to skip breakfast this morning. There was already a large, heavy lump in his stomach that left no room for food.

* * *

When sunset finally came, the difference either inside or outside was scarcely noticeable. A blizzard-induced dusk had settled over the castle since before noon, with the flickering light of lamps, candles and torches serving in place of proper daylight.

Harry sat alone in the fifth-year dormitory, staring out the window into the clouds of swirling snow. The storm’s intensity had scarcely diminished since morning, and Angelina had fretted all day over their lost Quidditch practice only a week before their first match against Slytherin (“If the storm doesn’t blow over by tomorrow, I don’t know what we’ll do!”). Dean and Seamus were downstairs doing the Potions essay Harry had already finished (thanks to pressure from Hermione). Neville was in one of the dungeons, helping Professor Sprout with this week’s Herbology project (a particularly virulent strain of mushroom). Ron was off making his prefect rounds, no doubt with Hermione. He had not seen her all day, and he was feeling an emptiness unrelated to his having eaten not a morsel of food in twenty-four hours. His mind thus both distracted by his musings and muddled by hunger, Harry did not hear the plodding steps of two very large feet on the staircase behind him. He realized that he was no longer alone only when the owner of those feet spoke in a low, worried voice.

“You missed supper, Harry,” Ron said as he pulled off his cloak and shook great, heavy snowflakes into the air.

“Hmm?” Harry said absently, his eyes still fixed on the swirling snow outside his window.

“For that matter, so did Hermione,” Ron continued.

Harry’s head jerked up and away from the window. “What?”

“Missed prefect rounds, too,” Ron said as he hung his cloak on a peg next to the door. “That's why I'm so late – had to do Hermione's rounds in addition to my own. I didn't say anything to anyone – didn't want to get Hermione in trouble. I was sure she'd turn up eventually. But now I'm getting worried.”

“When’s the last time anyone saw her?” Harry said sharply.

“Dunno,” Ron said. “I thought maybe she’d got deep into an essay or something up in her dorm and lost track of time – Madam Pince already told me she hasn’t been in the library today. But Lavender just told me Hermione hasn’t been in Gryffindor Tower all day.”

“Have you been to see McGonagall?” Harry asked anxiously.

“Not yet. I’m on my way now. I thought you should know first.”

“Don’t tell McGonagall,” Harry said as he leaped from the window and threw open his trunk.

“What?” Ron said.

“If she hasn’t turned up,” Harry said as he rifled through his trunk, “there’s only one place she can be. She’s still at Hagrid’s.”

“You’re not going out there?” Ron said unbelievingly. “A ruddy mammoth couldn’t get through that! I ought to know, I just finished securing the greenhouses with Professor Sprout, and we barely made it back to the castle.”

Ignoring Ron, Harry pulled his heaviest cloak around him and fastened the silver clasp. He then unfolded another cloak, one which shone with a watery iridescence in the light of his bedside lamp. An instant later, Harry was nothing but a disembodied head floating before Ron.

“You do know I’m a prefect,” Ron said timidly. “I could order you not to go – even give you a detention to keep you inside.”

Harry shot Ron a defiant look.

“I mean,” Ron amended quickly, “I should be the one to go. All part of wearing the badge, isn't it? That’s what Hermione would say.”

“No,” Harry said firmly.

“How do you know she’s even out there?” Ron argued reasonably in a change of tactics.

“I can check the Marauder's Map if you want,” Harry said tersely. “No one's seen her since she went to Hagrid's, have they? And you just said she never turned up for supper. She probably fell asleep doing her homework. You've seen how hard she's been working this year, studying for O.W.L.'s. It’s okay if Hagrid wants to kip right on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, but I’m not too keen on Hermione being out there all night. If someone doesn’t go fetch her straightaway, it’ll be too dark to travel and she’ll be stuck there till morning.”

Ron was about to ask, “But why does that someone have to be you?”, but he thought better of it. Instead, he said, “Even with your Invisibility Cloak, you’ll have a job getting out of the castle undetected.”

“Then it’s lucky my best mate’s a prefect, innit?” Harry replied. Ron groaned. Harry pulled the hood of his Invisibility Cloak over his head. Ron saw the door open, and a bodiless voice from the doorway said, “Come on, then. You need to open the portrait so I can leave without arousing suspicion.”

With a defeated sigh, Ron followed Harry’s footsteps downstairs and into the common room. As they passed assorted students engaged in a variety of activities, Dean looked up and said, “Off again already, Ron?”

“A prefect’s work is never done,” Ron shrugged innocently.

“In your case,” Seamus smirked, “truer words were never spoken. From what I’ve seen so far this year, Hermione does her work and yours.”

Ron gave Seamus a sour look as he pushed open the portrait with deliberate slowness, exiting only upon feeling the slight breeze which marked Harry’s passage. In the outer hallway, Ron hissed, “You there, mate?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Thanks, Ron. You know, there are definite advantages to you being prefect instead of me.”

“Some days I’d chuck you the badge in a second if I didn’t think Mum might take back my present,” Ron smiled thinly, referring to the Cleansweep 11 racing broom his mother had bought him to celebrate his being named prefect.

Harry pulled his hood back just enough so that he could give Ron a wink and a smile. Then the hood fell back into place and Ron heard the soft sound of Harry’s footfalls receding down the stone corridor.

* * *

Harry had no difficulty dodging his way through the passageways until he reached the Entrance Hall. But a new problem now presented itself. Though the Entrance Hall itself was deserted, the moment Harry opened one of the great oak doors even a crack, the powerful winds (which he could even now hear beating against the stout wood panels) would tear the door from his grasp and fling it wide. No one would be fooled into believing that a locked door had suddenly opened of its own volition. Harry needed a distraction. He hadn’t wanted to bring Ron along, fearing that his presence would draw undue attention, jeopardizing Harry’s mission (in addition to getting Ron in trouble – he didn't need another Howler from his mother). But who was to help him now?

The answer came unexpectedly, presaged by a long, hoarse shriek of unbridled fury.

“PEEEEVES!”

Harry jumped back and pressed his shoulders against the cold stone wall. Argus Filch burst from a side doorway into the Entrance Hall, his eyes bulging, his curled lip baring teeth the color of old ivory.

“PEEVES!” Filch shrieked again. “I know you’re here, Peeves! That window didn’t open by itself! I know, because I latched it myself! I’ll be up all night mopping up all that melted snow! When I get my hands on you…”

This was more than Harry dared hope. He glided silently before the front doors, drawing his wand as he clutched the Invisibility Cloak tightly about him. Keeping his back to Filch, Harry extended the tip of his wand from the folds of the Cloak and whispered, “Alohomora!”

The front doors burst wide amidst a roar of wind and an avalanche of swirling snow!

“PEEVES!” Filch shouted in a pique of fury as snow began to pour into the Entrance Hall. Harry plunged ahead, fighting the wind with every step. He stumbled in the drifting snow, which was hip-deep in places, and lay still as the heavy flakes quickly covered him. Invisible he might be, but the thick snow clinging to him would turn him into a very visible snowman if he remained standing. Perking his ears, he heard voices behind him, muffled by the roaring wind. A teacher must have come along and asked Filch why the front doors were open. Harry lay in a half-circle of golden light pouring out from the open doorway. Beyond this perimeter, the snow lay dull and gray in the twilight. Two shadows suddenly appeared in the golden oval, stretching out from the doorway across the place where Harry lay hidden. The unknown teacher (Harry hoped it was not Snape) was helping Filch to shut the doors with the aid of magic -- one of the shadows was waving an arm which doubtless held a wand. Slowly but surely, the arc of golden light narrowed until, with a dull thud, the great doors slammed shut behind Harry. Darkness closed around him, wrapped in a roar of wind that was strangely akin to absolute silence in that it completely smothered all other sound in its crushing embrace.

Harry struggled to his feet with difficulty. Behind him, the outline of the castle was a dim, charcoal blur in the pearl-gray twilight, marked by an occasional rectangle of light from a curtained window. Harry forged ahead, giving no heed now to his Invisibility Cloak. Anyone chancing to look out a window in his direction would see naught but clouds of snow obscuring all. Discovery was no longer his greatest worry. That had been replaced by survival. Ron was right, he must be barmy to brave such a storm as this. But there was a greater storm raging inside him, and it drove him on like a taskmaster’s whip.

Harry stopped abruptly and looked all around him. He could see nothing but gray-white clouds in every direction. There was no way he could find Hagrid’s cabin by sight alone. But he had not embarked on his mission without a plan. Drawing his wand, he balanced it on his palm under his heavy cloak, which his left arm extended tent-like in front of him.

“Point me.”

Harry’s wand spun around once and stopped, pointing due North. Fixing the Hogwarts grounds in his mind, Harry turned slightly and waded through the snow toward his destination. He used the Four-Point Spell every minute or so, and after a seeming eternity he discerned a deep, shadowy barrier ahead of him. Surging forward, he pocketed his wand and held both hands before him. At length his palms encountered a solid wall of rough wood. He edged to his right, and his hand encountered a depression which proved to be a window. A few more lumbering steps brought him to what was unmistakably Hagrid’s front door.

Hoping that Hermione would not have felt the need to lock the door by magic, Harry grasped the heavy handle and turned it. He felt rather than heard the latch click, and he flung himself against the door, which opened ponderously on well-oiled hinges. A gust of wind smote Harry on the back even as it pushed the door in. He fell on his face, scrambled up and jerked himself around until he was behind the door. Fighting the wind, he pushed the door shut and sighed gratefully as he heard the latch click, the sound audible in the sudden quiet filling the inside of the cabin.

Exhausted from his ordeal, Harry sank down with his back against the door, breathing heavily. He both heard and felt the wind hammering on the door, which groaned under the onslaught but held fast. Looking up now through watering eyes, Harry took in the familiar details of Hagrid’s cabin. Harry knew the Hogwarts gamekeeper was traveling the continent, searching for his giant brethren. None knew precisely when he would return, except perhaps Dumbledore, who was doing no talking on the subject.

Harry saw Hagrid’s huge bed in the far corner, so vast that it would have filled Ron’s entire bedroom at the Burrow. Harry smiled as he saw that the bed was neatly made up, clear evidence of Hermione’s presence (Hagrid’s housekeeping skills were scarcely better than his culinary talents). He could not see the surface of the bed from where he sat. Might Hermione be kipping thereon now? Possible, but not likely. A huge table sat nearby, and it was here where Harry expected to find Hermione, her head pillowed on an open textbook, her mind filled with dreams of homework getting full marks, or perhaps of their O.W.L.’s which they would take at the end of the school year.

Harry stood up, his body aching from his fight against the forces of nature. As he stretched, his eyes fell on a short row of pegs on the wall between door and window. Harry pulled off his cloaks, which were heavy with caked snow, and hung them side-by-side. Melting snow dripped from the hems and puddled on the floor underneath. It was only when the faint echoes of the dripping water registered on Harry’s wind-numbed ears that he noted the uncanny silence permeating the cabin. Was Hermione sleeping so soundly that she had not awakened even from the noise of Harry’s entry? Harry peered expectantly toward the table. Even standing, he could not see the top of the table, nor its far edge. But surely his original supposition must be right.

But when Harry walked around to the other side of the table, his heart sank. He saw Hagrid’s great chair, upon which Hermione had evidently made a sort of cushion from one of Hagrid’s enormous blankets (folded many times over) so that she could reach the top of the table to work. Craning his neck, Harry could see a couple of open textbooks, several rolls of parchment, a bottle of ink and a quill, and a wand which he recognized immediately as Hermione’s. But of Hermione herself there was no trace.

Harry strove not to panic, but the effort was foredoomed. Though Hagrid’s cabin was sizeable by human standards, it was still only a single room framed by four walls. One had but to glance about to see that, save for Harry, the room was deserted.

Harry’s eyes sought out the fireplace. A few red-gold coals glowed in the hearth, giving off a feeble heat and even less light. Clearly, the fire had not been tended for several hours.

Hours?

In the almost supernatural silence, the dripping from Harry’s cloaks seemed to resound in his ears like the boom of kettle drums. Suddenly his eyes flew wide. He whirled in the direction of the wall of pegs. A path of wet footprints led to where his cloaks hung, dripping like stalactites in a cave. His cloaks! Where was Hermione's cloak?

“Bloody hell!” Harry croaked. “She’s out there!”

Harry lunged for his cloak, shook it out in a spray of melted snow. As he whipped the cloak about his shoulders, his mind was working with all speed. If some need had compelled Hermione to go outside, she would not have used the front door. The wind was blowing against it so fiercely that Harry had only just managed to force it shut. She would have used the back door, which was shielded from the wind by both its direction and its proximity to the Forbidden Forest. Indeed, she had probably entered the cabin from that direction, something Harry had not thought to do.

Harry sprinted across the room and jerked open the back door. A roar of wind and clouds of swirling snow smote him, but there was more sound than fury therein. As he stepped across the threshold, Harry felt the door thump against his heel, drawn by the suction of the wind blowing between the cabin and the shouldering wall of the forest. Planting his foot firmly in the doorway, Harry was certain that, if Hermione went out through this door, it must have closed behind her in like manner as it now strove to slam shut on him.

But where was she? As he stood looking in all directions, he could see no trace of her. Harry was suddenly gripped by a dread colder than the wind tugging at his cloak. Were the fears he had avowed to Ron regarding the Forbidden Forest become horrific reality? Had some nameless, slavering thing lurking in the shadows crept up on Hermione unawares and –

“HERMIONE!” Harry bellowed. “HERMIONE!” Though he shouted until his throat ached, the sound of his voice scarcely penetrated the roar of the storm on all sides. The wind worrying his cloak was but a ghost of that through which he had struggled during his trek from the castle. In the narrow space between the cabin and the dark forest wall, it was as if he were standing in a glass jar that muffled all sound within it while amplifying that from without. He took a step, cupping his hands to his mouth as he drew breath to call out again. The door slammed shut behind him, and from the eaves high above, a long, wickedly-pointed icicle snapped free and caught Harry a glancing blow to the head. The impact was partially deflected by his hood, but he fell as if clubbed by a mountain troll, sprawling senseless in the snow.

With the return of consciousness, Harry’s first sensation was that of numbing, bone-chilling cold. He wallowed in the drifting snow, his thoughts muddled. He sought for a spot to place his hands as he braced himself to rise, but his left hand encountered a hard object from which his palm slid awkwardly so that he lost his balance again. Rising once more, he turned his head to see what had impeded his efforts to get to his feet. By its color, the object appeared at first to be a small log from Hagrid’s nearby woodpile. But it was too smooth to be a log. Harry squinted his eyes, and he cried out in horror.

It was a shoe!

“HERMIONE!”

Scrambling forward on his knees, Harry swept away the drifting snow with numb, desperate hands. A patch of black appeared in the midst of the whiteness. School robes!

Fighting back a scream of anguish, Harry flung snow in every direction until a cloud of bushy brown hair appeared. Hermione was lying face-down. A battered kettle lay near her hand. She had evidently ventured outside to fill the kettle with snow as a prelude to making tea. This seemingly irrational act was oddly in character for Hermione. While most anyone else would have remained inside and produced water by magic, Harry had heard Hermione comment more than once that magical water didn't taste as good as the natural variety, especially when making tea. That not even a violent act of nature could override that steadfast belief was no more than Harry would have expected from one as willful as Hermione. Harry turned her over, and immediately he saw a patch of dried blood on her forehead. Whether she had been struck by a falling icicle as had he, or had slipped and hit her head on the edge of the woodpile, Harry neither knew nor cared. He scooped her up and cradled her in his arms, tears biting at his cheeks. He brushed her hair away and slapped her face gently, but she did not respond.

Harry dragged himself and Hermione toward the door. He turned the handle and flung himself forward. The door fought him as the suction strove to slam it in his face, but Harry interposed himself between door and jamb and squirmed through, his right arm locked about Hermione. After a seeming eternity he managed to drag Hermione’s feet over the threshold and out of the door’s path. The wind sucked the door closed, and Harry heard the reassuring click as the latch caught.

Now, in the calm silence of the cabin’s interior, Harry’s panic rose up in all its terrifying fury.

“Don’t be dead,” he croaked as he sought for some sign of life. His voice was hoarse and strained. “Please, Hermione, don’t be dead!”

She was cold as ice to the touch. Her eyes had not so much as fluttered once. Harry pressed his hands to either side of her neck, and he sobbed with relief as he felt a faint pulse. She was not dead! But in such a state, how long would she survive?

Heat! She needed heat! Harry turned toward Hagrid's hearth, and his heart sank. The last flickering coals were even now winking out like stars before the coming of the dawn, leaving only dead ash in the grate. The woodpile outside was heaped high, but there was scarcely time for him to trudge back and forth through the drifting snow to fill the hearth. Hermione needed to be warmed up immediately. He would have to use magical fire. That was a temporary remedy at best, as such flames had to be renewed constantly. Once Hermione was out of danger, Harry could fetch wood and kindle a proper fire.

A wave of dizziness passed over Harry as he drew his wand. He shook it off, feeling his head throb dully from the impact that had felled him quite literally at Hermione's feet. He felt as if a heavy weight were oppressing him, crushing both body and spirit. In addition to his injury, his lack of food over the previous day was taking its toll. Moreover, he noted as he raised his arm that his robes were nearly as sodden as Hermione's. The sooner he kindled a fire, the better for both of them. His hand shaking slightly, Harry pointed his wand at the fireplace. But when he tried to speak the spell, the only sound that came from his throat was a dry, hoarse rasp.

Harry’s free hand clutched at his throat. His voice! What had happened to his voice? The answer struck him almost at once. Shouting with all his might in the freezing air outside, followed by his lying who knew how long in the snow, had left his vocal cords raw and swollen. He swallowed painfully, felt the burning in the back of his throat. He tried again to speak, producing not so much as a whisper.

Pushing away his encroaching panic, Harry tried to clear his thoughts to attempt a non-verbal spell. He'd had no proper training in that area – according to Hermione, that would not come until their sixth year – but he had to try. It was only a simple spell, after all. How difficult could it be? But strive though he would, he could not summon the proper focus against the throbbing in his head. Tiny wisps of flame spurted from his wand, only to flicker and die.

Harry turned desperately toward the back door. He knew the woodpile was full. Faced with no other option, he might be able to manage a few trips, carrying what he could. But even if he filled the grate to capacity, how was he to set it alight? There was no non-magical means in sight by which to kindle a fire – Hagrid always used magic (though he was nominally forbidden to do so), employing the battered pink umbrella in which the pieces of his old school wand were concealed.

Feeling completely powerless, Harry wanted to bury his face in his hands and cry. But there was no time for such indulgences. Self-pity would not save Hermione’s life. But what in Merlin’s name could?

With a touch of dread, Harry realized that there was only one viable answer. It was unthinkable. But it was the only way. Hermione was half-frozen and clinging to life by a thread. She needed heat, warmth. In the whole of Hagrid's cabin, there remained only one source of warmth – Harry himself.

Even knowing he had no choice, Harry hesitated. How could he do this to Hermione? But, Merlin help him, how could he not? Even as he picked her up and carried her to Hagrid’s bed, the chill wetness of her robes, and of the flesh beneath them, reinforced his conviction. He heaved her up onto the bed and climbed after. His hands shaking from a combination of cold, fear and weakness (his day-long fast was telling now on his exhausted body), Harry untied Hermione’s robes and drew them over her shoulders. He stopped, his eyes burning with tears of self-reproach. Do it! his mind screamed. Modesty be damned! She’ll die of hypothermia if you don’t! Slowly, tremblingly, Harry pulled Hermione’s robes off. He untied her shoes and tugged them off her feet. Her socks followed, making a wet splat as they landed on the floor.

Emboldened now, he lifted her up and managed to get her slip up and over her head. The heavy fabric was soaked through, drenched with chill dampness. Her small, unconfined breasts were exposed, and Harry jerked his eyes away, his insides writhing with guilt. Only her knickers remained, and his hand halted above them indecisively. Might he leave them on, spare her this final shame? But an investigative touch found them soaked with icy wetness. Moreover, their snugness was cutting off her circulation. Cursing himself silently, Harry peeled them down her legs and off.

Very gently, Harry slipped his arms around Hermione and slid her up to the head of the bed. He drew the covers back and tucked Hermione under them. Then, his whole body shaking with acrimony, Harry doffed his own soaked robes and flung them aside savagely, dry, rasping curses echoing inarticulately in his throat from the depths of his embittered soul. After drawing a few calming breaths, he slid from the bed and picked up his robes. He spread them across the stones of the hearth, to which a residual warmth still clung. That would fade quickly in the absence of a steady fire, making it an unsuitable place for the two of them to await the dawn. When the stones cooled, they would leech the remaining heat from his body, leaving him nothing to impart to Hermione. Already he was shivering uncontrollably, the wooden floor at the edge of the hearth ice-cold beneath his bare feet. No, his original plan was the only tenable option. When the last of his undergarments had been spread, he fetched Hermione’s clothes and arranged them in similar fashion. Then, steeling himself, he walked back to the bed and climbed under the covers.

Harry nestled himself against Hermione, horrified by how cold her skin was. As he pulled her against him, he whispered in her ear, “Don’t hate me, Hermione. Please don’t hate me. But even if you do, it’s worth it. Just as long as you’re alive to hate me.”

Was it his imagination, or did he hear a mumbling sound from Hermione? He never knew, for the combination of physical and emotional exhaustion finally caught up with him. He drifted off to sleep, his last thought a prayer for Hermione.

* * *

Harry felt a stirring against him. His eyes opened slowly. Where was he? Was he dreaming? He must be. He was lying in a soft, warm bed with his arms wrapped around Hermione, feeling her soft skin against his, her gentle breath warm on his chest. Surely it must be a dream. And just as surely it was the most wonderful dream he had ever had.

He heard a sound. A voice? His eyes snapped open. He remembered everything.

“Hermione?”

Hermione’s body was pressed snugly against his. Her flesh was soft and warm. Tears of joy and relief burst from his eyes. He felt her squirm against him. He realized that he was still holding her in a vice-grip. He relaxed his legs, which were locked around hers. His arms were encircling her back, and he loosed his hold and brought one hand up to her face. He stroked her cheek, which was pink and warm. He smiled. Her eyes opened slowly, straining slightly as they sought to focus properly.

“Hermione, do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?”

Hermione blinked. “H-Harry? What...where...”

Suddenly Hermione felt the heat from Harry’s body as it pressed against hers, and her face exploded with horror.

“It’s okay, Hermione,” Harry said as he wiggled back to separate himself from physical contact with her. “I found you outside, unconscious in the snow. There was no fire in the hearth, and I had to warm you up – ” Hermione continued to regard Harry with horrified eyes. “I – ,” he stammered, “I think everything will be okay now. It sounds like the storm has passed. I can carry you back to the castle and let Madam Pomfrey take over.”

Sliding out from beneath the covers, Harry scampered over to the hearth and dressed hurriedly in the early morning light. His clothes were cold but dry. Too weak to move, Hermione followed Harry with her eyes. Though her vision remained blurred, Hermione could see enough to understand her situation – especially when she spied her own school robes – and her undergarments – lying on the hearth next to Harry’s. The images around her blurred still further as tears of shame began to fill her eyes.

As Harry pulled his robes over his head, he felt his wand where he had left it in his pocket in his haste. It was only then that he realized that he had spoken aloud to Hermione. His voice was normal again!

Now fully dressed, Harry carried Hermione’s clothes over to the bed. Too weak to turn her head, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look Harry in the eye.

“Can you get up?” Harry asked.

Hermione’s face strained with the effort of forcing her muscles to respond. At length her head lolled defeatedly upon Hagrid’s gigantic pillow, which was of a size to cover a living room sofa. Harry jumped onto the bed and pulled back the covers. As her nudity was revealed, Hermione’s pained eyes reflected her helplessness even to lift her hands to cover herself.

“No,” Hermione squeaked weakly as the cold air kissed her bare skin.

“I understand,” Harry said gently. “But I can’t take you back to the castle starkers. There’d be no end of gossip, especially from the Slytherins. Knowing Malfoy, it’d be on the front page of the Daily Prophet by tomorrow morning. This is the only way.”

Harry tugged the covers all the way down, and Hermione’s eyes grew round as gold Galleons, pleading with him through her tears. The shame in Hermione's eyes pierced Harry like daggers of ice, imparting such pain as he had not experienced since the basilisk’s fang had pierced his arm in the Chamber of Secrets. He knew at once what he had to do. Very slowly he drew his wand, looking away as he pointed it at Hermione.

“Stupefy!”

* * *

Hermione awoke suddenly. She sat bolt upright, and as the covers were flung away, she saw with relief that she was wearing her pajamas. Had it all been no more than a horrible dream? But when she looked around, she saw that she was not in her dormitory. She was in the hospital wing. With an anguished sob, she flung herself down, jerking the covers up and over her head.

Hot tears poured from her eyes as her insides churned and writhed with an indescribable dread. How could she ever show her face at Hogwarts again? The whole story of her and Harry’s night in Hagrid’s cabin must be all over the school by now. And Harry – could she ever look into his eyes again, knowing what had passed between them? Her tormented sobs brought Madam Pomfrey from her office, and the Hogwarts Nurse sat down in a chair and placed a motherly hand on Hermione’s covered head.

“There’s no need to cry, child,” Madam Pomfrey said comfortingly. “The crisis is past. Mr. Potter brought you to me in time. It was a tricky business, but no damage has been done. You will recover completely, never fear. You shan't lose even the tip of a little toe.”

But Hermione merely pulled the covers more tightly over her head. Madam Pomfrey rose from her chair and bent over her patient, but at that moment a sound of sharp footsteps was heard from the other side of the ward.

“And how is my fifth-year prefect doing this morning, Poppy?” inquired Professor McGonagall in her crisp Scottish burr.

“Very well, Minerva,” Madam Pomfrey replied as she stood up and straightened her starched hospital robes. “Ah, you’ve brought Miss Granger’s homework, have you?”

“Dobby was kind enough to go fetch it for me from Hagrid’s cabin,” Professor McGonagall said. She sat down in the chair just vacated by Madam Pomfrey and placed books, ink, quills and parchment on the bedside table. “Come, Miss Granger,” she prompted. “This is a splendid essay you have begun. I couldn’t help but glance it when Dobby delivered it to me. It would be shame if you lost out on receiving full marks by turning it in late. I daresay Professor Snape will make no allowances for your having nearly died last night.” She smiled feebly, and it was clear that her humor was strained.

Still Hermione did not emerge from beneath the covers. Professor McGonagall cleared her throat as she lowered her voice to a more friendly tone.

“You have many visitors waiting to see you. Ron and Ginny are outside just now, and of course, Ha – ”

“No!” Hermione squeaked, her voice muffled by the covers. “Not Harry! I don’t want to see Harry! I – I can't!”

“From what Madam Pomfrey told the headmaster,” Professor McGonagall said quietly, “it is my understanding that Harry saved your life. I would think you would want to thank him personally.”

“You don’t understand,” Hermione sobbed as she emerged at last and peered red-eyed over the edge of her blanket.

“No,” Professor McGonagall said, “I’m afraid I do not. Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

Hermione flashed a look of wide-eyed terror at Professor McGonagall, who finally sat back in her chair and sighed.

“Well, if you are not going to tell me, then I’m afraid it will remain a secret, being as there is no one else who can do so. And that includes Harry.”

Hermione’s blanket fell with a jerk, her face morphing from moribundity to astonishment so quickly that it was if she had just exchanged one carven mask for another.

“As I say,” Professor McGonagall resumed, “I do not know what happened in Hagrid’s cabin last night. And if Harry did know, I think I can safely say that he no longer has any memory of last night’s events.”

Hermione continued to stare open-mouthed at Professor McGonagall, who smiled warmly down on her favorite student.

“As soon as he was assured that you were out of danger, Harry went straight to Professor Flitwick and virtually demanded that a Memory Charm be placed on him to wipe out everything that happened over the preceding twelve hours.”

“Harry...did that?” Hermione said incredulously.

“It was necessary for Professor Flitwick to secure permission from the headmaster, of course,” McGonagall said. “And Dumbledore felt that I should be informed as well, as you and Harry are both in my House. But none of us knows precisely what memories Harry wished to erase. Ultimately, it was Dumbledore’s decision to trust Harry’s judgment in this matter and not press him for details.

“Once the spell was engaged, Harry returned to his dormitory, wherein none was yet awake, and went directly to bed. He awoke late this morning believing that he had slept straight through the night. Moreover, Harry implied that Ron Weasley might know a bit more about last night’s events than he was telling. Thus, Professor Flitwick put a special twist on the Charm so it could be transferred to another by a simple touch. Acting on a subliminal command, Harry simply touched Ron as he slept before climbing into bed himself. Since Professor Flitwick’s Charms have never been known to fail, I believe I can say with certainty that, as of now, neither boy remembers anything pertaining to Harry's mysterious ‘adventures’ outside the castle between last night and this morning.

“It was I who informed your schoolmates over breakfast that you fell asleep at Hagrid’s and, with the coming of night, wisely elected to wait until morning to make your way back to the castle,” Professor McGonagall concluded. “You are now the only person who knows precisely what – if anything – happened in Hagrid’s cabin last night. And now, I believe I have kept your friends waiting outside long enough.”

Hermione sat speechless as Professor McGonagall left the hospital dormitory, to be replaced by an anxious Ron and Ginny.

“Blimey,” Ron said with undisguised relief, “I sure am glad you got back okay. We were in a bit of a dither, Harry and I, when you didn’t turn up for supper. It’s a good job you had the sense to wait until morning before coming back to the castle. No telling what could have happened in a bloody great storm like that one. McGonagall said she’s never seen one like it, and as old as she is, that’s saying something.”

Ginny, who had seated herself in the chair vacated by Professor McGonagall, was now appraising Hermione’s Potions essay as she held the scroll of parchment unrolled before her.

“This is great stuff, Hermione. It’s more than twice as long as the first draft you showed me yesterday morning. The footnotes alone are longer than Ron’s entire essay.” She smirked at Ron, who responded with a slightly offended look, before declaring, “Snape will have to give you full marks. Do you want to finish it now, or wait until later?”

“Now, I think,” Hermione said, a tranquil smile spreading across face. “Would you hand me my Potions textbook, please?”

* * *

Harry was sitting before the common room fire, polishing his Firebolt, when Ron and Ginny climbed through the portrait hole. The Broomstick Servicing Kit Hermione had given him for his thirteenth birthday lay open on the table before him.

“Where’d you run off to, mate?” Ron said. “I thought you were going to visit Hermione after Ginny and me? When we came out to send you in, we saw you’d gone.”

Harry shrugged. “I changed my mind. After all the trouble she went to to get away from me, spending the whole night at Hagrid’s in the middle of a blizzard…” He sighed heavily, his green eyes dark and shadowed as the deepest recesses of the Forbidden Forest. “I guess I’ll just have to get used to the fact that Hermione doesn’t fancy me the way I fancy her.” He sighed again as he went back to polishing his broomstick with slow, languid strokes devoid of any trace of enthusiasm.

An odd look passed across Ginny's face as she stood staring down at Harry. She seemed to be struggling inside, as if wrestling with some dilemma. She opened her mouth, but before she could utter a sound, Ron announced energetically, “We’re here to take you down to lunch, mate. I didn’t see you eat a bite yesterday, and you slept through breakfast this morning.”

“I’m not – ” Harry began, but Ginny spoke over him.

“You can’t go on like this, Harry. It isn’t healthy. Don’t you know people are worried about you?”

“Who?” Harry returned without lifting his eyes.

Ginny hesitated, then said, “The Quidditch team. The first match is next week, you know. How are you going to beat Malfoy to the Snitch if you haven’t the strength to stay on your broom?”

“Good point,” Ron joined in. “You know, I could order you to come with us. I am a prefect. I could even give you a detention.”

Raising his head, Harry looked at Ron quizzically. “That sounds oddly familiar,” he said.

Ginny employed Harry’s hesitation to take the cleaning rag from him. He turned his attention from Ron to Ginny, and he saw for the first time the strange look in her eyes. But before he could ponder the matter, Ron took him forcefully by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

“Up you get,” he said cheerfully. “You’re coming down if I have to put a Body-Bind on you and levitate you down to the dining hall.”

“Right,” Harry said, looking amused as he surrendered to his friends’ concern. “Let’s go, then. Only I have to take my broomstick and Servicing Kit upstairs first.”

When everything was safely locked in Harry’s trunk (Harry had been careful not to leave his trunk unlocked since the time when a possessed Ginny had ransacked his personal space in search of Tom Riddle’s diary), the trio went down to the dining hall and found seats at the Gryffindor table. While Ron loaded his plate and tucked in with hurricane force (“Had to do Hermione’s rounds again along with mine,” he mumbled through a mouthful of roast beef), Harry ate sparingly. Ginny was also eating rather listlessly, casting glances at Harry whenever his attention was focused elsewhere. Ron was just filling his plate for the third time when Harry looked up absently and caught sight of Dumbledore, sitting in his high-backed gold chair at the High Table. The headmaster was engaged in animated conversation with tiny Professor Flitwick, who was seated on a floating cushion so that his head was nearly level with Dumbledore’s. Just as Harry was about to return his attention to his plate, the two professors turned their faces toward the Gryffindor table. They averted their eyes a moment later, and Harry had the feeling that they had been looking directly at him, turning away when they saw that he was also looking in their direction. This suspicion increased when Dumbledore rose from his chair and glided across the dining hall until he was standing behind Ron and Ginny, from which position he smiled down at Harry.

“Ah,” Dumbledore said with a pleased expression. “Having a hearty lunch, I see. Splendid. Minerva mentioned at the staff meeting that you had been – how did she phrase it? – ah, yes – ‘off your feed’ of late. She wondered if something was worrying you. I believe she may have been concerned that you would not be at your best in the upcoming Quidditch match against Slytherin.”

“No worries, Professor,” Harry said. “Ron and Ginny are looking out for me, aren’t you?" Ron returned Harry’s grin brightly (as well as he could with his mouth full of potatoes). Ginny smiled weakly before lowering her eyes to her plate, which was nearly as full now as when she started.

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said. Turning to Ron, he inquired, “And how have your combined duties been going, Mr. Weasley?”

Swallowing hurriedly, Ron said, “No problems, Professor. All the same, I’ll be glad when Hermione’s back in form.”

“As will we all,” Dumbledore agreed, and again his eyes flickered onto Harry.

“She’s lucky to be alive after being caught in that storm last night,” Ron went on. “Bloody awful, it was – cancelled Quidditch practice and everything.”

“Awful?” Dumbledore repeated mildly. “Oh, I do not believe I would describe it in such terms, Mr. Weasley.”

Ron looked surprised. His fork pausing halfway to his mouth, he asked, “What would you call it, Professor?”

After a thoughtful pause (during which Harry again felt those bespectacled blue eyes fix him piercingly), Dumbledore said, “If called upon to describe it in a single word, I would say it was...perfect.”

“What?” Ron responded in surprise. “A perfect storm? There’s no such thing, is there?”

“That, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore said while regarding Harry from the corner of his eye, “depends entirely on how you look at it, does it not?”

Bowing to his students, Dumbledore strode off and disappeared through the entryway. Ron turned and gave Harry a quizzical look.

“That’s nutters, isn’t it?” Ron said, careful lest the headmaster hear him even at a distance. “I mean, how can there be such a thing as a perfect storm?”

“Dunno,” Harry said as his hand hovered before his face with an impaled bit of potato on his fork. “It’s funny, you know, but I feel there’s something I should remember about last night – something having to do with what Dumbledore said – but I can’t get a hold on it.”

“Maybe you were dreaming,” Ron suggested. “You slept long enough last night.” This last comment was not without a sense of longing, reflecting the many hours of sleep Ron had lost to his prefect duties, not even counting his double rounds during Hermione’s absence.

“Maybe,” Harry said. “I wish I could remember...”

Deciding at last that he had eaten enough (and no doubt wanting to leave room for dessert), Ron pushed his plate away and said, “Now that you’ve had a proper meal, I think it’s past time you went and visited Hermione.”

“I don’t think she'd want to see me,” Harry said as he pushed his own not-quite empty plate away. “It’s my fault she’s in the hospital wing. I reckon it’s better if I wait until Madam Pomfrey releases her. That way, she won’t feel trapped into anything. If she doesn't want to talk to me, she can just turn down a corridor when she sees me coming. She's done that often enough in the last month, hasn't she?” Looking thoroughly dejected, Harry stood up and left the table without another word, leaving Ron to stare helplessly after him.

Turning to Ginny, Ron said in a low voice, “Harry’s really taking this hard. I think he ought to go visit her straightaway, you know, clear the air. The sooner they work things out, the better it’ll be for everyone. What do you think?”

Ginny was staring intently at the open doorway through which Harry had disappeared. At last she turned to Ron and said, “Yes, I think so, too.” And with that she was off, leaving Ron to dive into the dessert plates that had suddenly appeared in place of the main dishes on the table.

Ginny caught Harry on the stairs leading up toward Gryffindor Tower. Just as she was reaching out to grab his sleeve, she let out a squeal as her foot sank into the trick stair that Neville Longbottom was forever forgetting to jump. Harry turned quickly and helped Ginny to free herself.

“You know, that’s the second time today that step’s got me,” Ginny said with a strained laugh as she extracted her leg with Harry’s help.

“You okay?” Harry asked.

“I’m fine,” Ginny replied, wiggling her foot to show that it was not injured.

“Want me to help you?” Harry offered.

Ginny hesitated for a moment before shaking her head. “You go on,” she said with a forced smile. Returning Ginny’s smile, Harry resumed his climb – but before he had taken three steps, Ginny blurted out somewhat breathlessly, “Harry, I think you should go visit Hermione.”

“We’ve been through this,” Harry said wearily, turning to look down at Ginny. “Hermione’s made it clear she doesn’t want to see me. I heard Lavender telling Parvati that Hermione’s that close to asking for a transfer to Beauxbatons.”

“So now you’re listening to Lavender’s gossip?” Ginny said caustically. “I thought you had more sense than to believe her rubbish.”

Looking calmly defiant, Harry said, “It’s not rubbish that Hermione got caught in a great honking blizzard and had to spend the night in Hagrid's cabin because she couldn’t bear to be in the same castle with me. It’s my fault she’s in the hospital wing now instead of doing her prefect rounds with Ron.”

There was a trace of bitterness in this last remark that made Ginny recoil slightly. As Harry turned and resumed his trek toward Gryffindor Tower, Ginny’s face reflected again the turmoil that had plagued it earlier in the common room, and more recently in the dining hall. All at once, she bolted back to Harry’s side and caught his sleeve, arresting his ascent.

“Ginny,” Harry said with growing annoyance, “I’ve told you – ”

“Harry,” Ginny said, the words seeming to come with great difficulty, “Hermione wants to see you.”

“Right,” Harry said dully. “And Filch wants to ask Peeves to tea.”

“She does,” Ginny said with a quiet affirmation.

“She told you that, did she?” Harry said, disbelief etched into every syllable.

“It wasn’t what she said,” Ginny said cryptically.

“Then what – ” Harry began. But his question was cut off as he stared intently into Ginny's face for the first time. He saw a tempest in her eyes such as he had not witnessed since the time she had tried to confess to him and Ron that she was the one who had been strangling roosters and painting the walls with blood at the command of Tom Riddle three years ago. “Ginny?” Harry said with genuine concern. “What is it?”

In answer, Ginny reached into her robes and pulled out a piece of parchment, which she regarded with a glassy, unblinking stare. Looking up at last, she said, “You remember I said this was the second time today I tripped over that trick step?” Harry nodded. “The first time was when I was taking Hermione’s books back up to her dorm this morning. My mind was elsewhere, and when I tripped, everything fell out of my hands and tumbled down the stairs.”

Ginny fell silent, and Harry now saw clearly the storm raging behind her soft brown eyes, beside which the tempest that had pummeled the walls of Hogwarts castle the previous night paled. He looked at her inquiringly, and she responded with a small, thin laugh. Harry waited patiently until she was composed enough to carry on.

“Hermione was working on her Potions essay,” Ginny resumed. “Her book was crammed with papers, and when I picked it up, this fell out.”

Ginny handed the page to Harry, who stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“Potions notes?” he said. “But what does that have to do with – ”

“Turn the page over,” Ginny said faintly. Harry did so, and he gasped, the paper nearly falling from his hands.

“I don’t understand,” he said, his eyes flickering back and forth incredulously between the parchment and Ginny. “Hermione drew this?”

“You’ve seen her writing at least as often as I have,” Ginny replied in a flat voice.

Indeed Harry had. Hermione had corrected his homework more times than he could count, and after all that time he could not fail to recognize her elegant script at a glance.

“But what does it mean?” Harry said.

“I should think even a thick-headed berk like Goyle could see that,” Ginny said with surprising sharpness.

“I don’t understand,” Harry repeated blankly. "You’re sure Hermione didn’t say anything?”

Ginny shook her head. “If that hadn’t fallen out of her book...”

“What should I do?” Harry asked.

“For starters," Ginny said, “I’d go down and visit her in the hospital wing.”

The parchment crackling uncertainly in his hands, Harry said, “Should I ask her about – ”

Ginny snatched the page from Harry’s fingers.

“When she wants you to know,” Ginny said wisely, “she’ll tell you.”

To Harry’s utter surprise, Ginny suddenly wrapped him in a gentle hug. The parchment in her hands crackled behind him as it pressed against his back. When Ginny drew back, Harry saw a tear in her eye.

“Ginny?” Harry said. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Ginny said quickly. “Only I think I may have twisted my ankle after all when I tripped just now.”

“Shall I take you down to see Madam Pomfrey? I can carry you if you can’t walk all the way.”

“No,” Ginny said, though she looked sorely tempted by Harry’s offer. “It’s nothing. I’ll have a lie-down. It’ll be fine.”

“I can come up with you, help you through the portrait hole,” Harry offered. “Only you’ll have to get one of the girls to help you from there,” Harry chuckled softly, remembering the time the girls’ staircase had collapsed under Ron’s feet, precipitating him arse over tit into the middle of the common room.

Ginny’s face twitched for a moment before she smiled and said, “No, you get along and visit Hermione. I’ll keep.”

With a last look at Ginny, Harry turned about to retrace his steps down the staircase. He turned to look over his shoulder and found Ginny staring down at him. A sudden understanding seemed to come over him, kindling a soft light in his lambent green eyes.

“Thanks, Ginny,” he said, smiling faintly. “You’re a good friend.”

“Yes,” Ginny said, so softly that she herself scarcely heard the words. “That’s me, isn’t it? Harry Potter’s ‘good friend.’”

* * *

When Harry entered the hospital wing, he saw that Hermione was lying back on her pillow with her eyes closed. He turned to leave, not wanting to wake her, when a voice brought him around just as he was about to cross the threshold.

“Harry,” Hermione said quietly. “Come in.”

“I – ” Harry said haltingly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Hermione said. “I was just...thinking.”

As Harry walked across the room and stood at Hermione’s bedside, he lowered his eyes and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Hermione repeated.

“You know,” Harry said. “About last night.”

“Last night?” Hermione said, her voice catching with a touch of alarm.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It’s my fault you were caught in that bloody storm and had to spend the night alone in Hagrid's cabin. If I hadn’t driven you out of the castle...”

“Oh.” Hermione relaxed against her pillow with a quiet sigh of relief.

“And I’m sorry for the way I've been acting,” Harry said. “I never meant – I mean, I never wanted – ”

“I know,” Hermione said.

“Our friendship means a lot to me,” Harry said.

“It means a lot to me, too,” Hermione said. “But it seems that things have changed between us since last year, and I – I don’t know how I feel about that yet.”

“I understand,” Harry said. “I didn’t mean to push so hard. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“I think we need to have a long talk about – things,” Hermione said.

Harry nodded, doing his best not to let the hope in his heart shine too brightly in his eyes.

“When is Madam Pomfrey releasing you?” Harry asked.

“Tomorrow,” Hermione said.

“Maybe we can get together – you know, after class,” Harry said tentatively.

“That depends,” Hermione said with a touch of uncertainty. Harry stiffened for a moment before Hermione went on: “Is your homework all done?”

“Yes,” Harry said, trying not to laugh. He added, “A good friend made sure I didn’t leave it until the last minute.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Hermione said with the hint of a smile. “So, where shall we meet?”

“Um,” Harry said hesitantly, but Hermione spoke again before he could gather his thoughts.

“How about Hogsmeade?”

“But,” Harry said, “this isn’t a Hogsmeade weekend. And tomorrow’s Monday.”

“All the better,” Hermione said, her lips curling slyly. “Prefects can get special permission from their heads of House to visit the village at any time, as long as it doesn’t clash with their schedules. I’ve already told Ron I’ll take his prefect duties next weekend to repay him for covering for me the last two days. He’s promised to bring me a box of sugar quills from Honeydukes. And I’m sure he’ll bring back something horrible from Zonko’s for Fred and George,” she sighed despairingly. “As for tomorrow” she resumed, her smile returning on the instant, “I know it’s a bit unusual going on a weekday, but if I ask her properly, I’m sure Professor McGonagall will allow me a brief ‘convalescent leave’ after classes as a special favor.”

“But what about me?” Harry asked. “I’m not a prefect.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Hermione smiled. “Special visitors are each allowed to bring one guest. We’ll be able to talk without any interruptions from the usual crowd of gossipy students. But,” she said with narrowed eye, “under these special conditions, all prefects must personally guarantee that their companions will act with proper decorum at all times. So, do I have your promise that you’ll conduct yourself in a suitable manner as my guest?”

“Cross my heart and hope to eat stinksap,” Harry said with exaggerated solemnity, pressing his right hand to his chest as Hermione stifled a giggle.

“Smashing. It’s a date, then?”

Suddenly unable to speak because of the lump that had lodged in his throat, Harry nodded dumbly.

“Just to be on the safe side,” Hermione said, “I’ll write you a note.” Hermione pulled a piece of crumpled parchment from the bedside waste bin and smoothed it out with the unused side facing up. Lacking quill and ink, she took up a small pencil from the table and held it poised over the parchment as she took a moment to compose the message she intended to write. When Harry flashed her a questioning look, she smiled and said, “In case I get delayed – you know, if I have to give Fred and George a detention for something pertaining to those foul Skiving Snackboxes of theirs – ” her eyes narrowed meaningfully, “you can show this to Filch. He’s been on the warpath lately, and he might not want to let you out of the castle.”

Harry watched Hermione’s steady hand with a kind of fascination as she wrote out the note authorizing him to leave the Hogwarts grounds as her guest. Even in pencil, Hermione’s script was graceful and polished, flowing from her fingers like wisps of smoke from an invisible flame. As the words danced across the parchment, Harry’s inner eye saw again the page Ginny had shown him on the stairs, beheld the images boldly inscribed in Hermione’s elegant hand on the reverse side of her Potions notes. Though Ginny had taken the page back to return it to Hermione’s textbook whence it had come, the image of what he had seen would remain burned into his brain – and his heart – forever. He still could not believe what his eyes had beheld: Two hearts, intertwined – and in the center of each heart, an ornately wrought letter H, their lines joined into a single ideograph so that they became a unified symbol representing something greater than the sum of its parts. His own heart leapt again at the memory, and he fought to keep his face from twisting into a grin that Ron would have been hard-pressed to match on his best day. Summoning all his force of will, Harry kept his face politely impassive as Hermione finished the note and handed it to him.

“Now,” Hermione said with a resolute nod, “if anyone tries to stand in your way, they’ll have me and Professor McGonagall to deal with.”

Still not trusting himself to speak with anything approaching coherence, Harry nodded again, smiling his thanks.

“And just before we set off,” Hermione added with a smirk, a very Marauderesque gleam in her eye, “I’ll visit the third floor corridor and put a Locking Spell on the one-eyed witch so Fred and George can’t pop in on us, on the off-chance that they’re not in detention. How does that sound?”

As Harry stared into Hermione’s soft brown eyes, feeling a lightness in his chest as if a levitation spell had been cast on his heart, he reached down inside and recovered his voice long enough to speak a single word. But that one word said everything.

“Perfect.”