Spin Me Around
by IfICanBeAstonishing
(A/N: Hi. How are you? As much as I would like to say something here that's witty, clever, and charming, I'm afraid I cannot. You see, I've been thrown out of the We're Witty, Clever, and Charming Committee WWCCC and to say something to that affect would be scandalous. Instead, I must beg you not to expect anything remotely witty, slightly clever, or a hint charming. Do expect me, however, to use characters that I do not own and who, instead, belong to a Ms. JK Rowling. Understood? Well, we're off!)
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In life, one uses all sorts of metaphors. They are used to compare anything and everything and, at some point in time, one will probably use a metaphor to make a point about one's life. And no, "I'm a hot, sizzling sauage!" is not going to cut it.
Take me, for example. My life, as I've just realized, is remarkably similar to dancing. One step here, another there; learn these three steps and thread them together for the bigger picture. Leap, pas de chat, and perhaps end it in a nice double pirouette.
But it isn't just the way I learn, and have always looked a life, that is like dancing. It's the way I feel, as well. In a dance, a partner is often needed to do the heavy lifting, and even just to spin you around. Sometimes you need a hand to hold onto, rather than a barre.
Already, I'm getting ahead of myself. There would be no reason to use this life-is-like-dancing metaphor unless the events of the past week happened. Which they did, unfortunately. Or maybe not so unfortunately…after all, what would dancing be without a little magic?
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Tuesday, October 9th …Jazz Square, also known as the Box Step.
I'm going somewhere, but technically not leaving the spot. In fact, my feet end up right back where they started.
'I could seriously injure my neck if this keeps up any longer,' I think to myself. I've been sitting here for the past ten minutes, waiting for an owl to deliver my copy of The Daily Prophet, which will hopefully bring news. Not that The Daily Prophet can be counted upon to provide any sort of information, especially with that vile Skeeter woman still on staff.
"Finally," I mutter as a peck of owls swoop into the Great Hall, bringing with them a musty smell of outdoors and bird-droppings. Lovely. A great barn owl drops a copy of the Prophet into my lap, clipping my goblet of pumpkin juice with its wing. The goblet totters for a moment, but thankfully doesn't tip over.
I unfold the paper, already scanning the front page. I let out a sigh of relief; there have been no prominent deaths overnight. If something had happened to Harry, it surely would have made the front page.
Ron appears behind me and without taking my eyes off the page, I clear the spot next to me on the bench. He slides in next to me and reaches for the paper, jaw clenched. I watch him as he scans the headlines, blue eyes darting about, and he finally relaxes.
"Nothing, then?" he says as he sets the paper down. I shake my head.
"No. It doesn't look like it."
This has been our routine for since we arrived at Hogwarts for our seventh and final year. Harry has been gone, searching for Horcruxes, since Dumbledore's funeral this past June. Ron and I begged to go with him, but he was adamant that the Horcruxes were something he needed to find and face alone. He's left us, and Ginny, with no idea of what's to come. Meanwhile, we wait and try to ignore the constant fear that buzzes underneath the surface of our day-to-day movements.
I'm beginning to really worry about Ron. I know that he's fearful for Harry, and that he's just as worried as I am, and he's trying so hard to hide it. He wants to be strong for Ginny and I. I can tell by the way he watches me when he thinks I'm not looking, a sort of worried, pained and nostalgic expression all at once. To top his overprotectiveness off, he's taken to haunting the common room at night. I discovered him down there a few weeks ago when I had a horrible nightmare, just sitting and staring into the fire.
--
"Ron?" I rub my eyes, slowly padding down the steps from the girl's dormitories. "Is that you?"
He turns his head so fast I'm surprised he didn't break his neck. "'Mione?"
I blush. For some reason, he's been calling me that a lot lately. "What are you doing up so late?" I ask him, settling myself on the sofa next to him. It's got to be well past midnight.
"Nothing, nothing, just couldn't sleep. You?" He rubs his eyes and tried to stifle a yawn. Suddenly I wonder whether he was waiting down here for me. Shaking my head slightly, I push this ridiculous thought from my mind.
"Nightmare, the usual. It's nothing," I add as he reaches toward me. I look away and expect him to retract, but unexpectedly I feel his arms around me, encasing me in a hug. With an inward sigh, I lean back into his arms.
"Thanks," I say softly, getting up after what seems like ages.
"I'm always here, 'Mione," he says. Amazingly, my fear from the nightmare has passed, and so I leisurely climb the stairs back to bed.
--
I've had a few more nightmares since then, and every time I do, I peak my head around the stairs to see if Ron is sitting in the common room. And he always is.
Sighing with this thought, I reach for my goblet and look down to discover a large brown owl feather in it. Just peachy, that is. I reach across Ron and steal his goblet instead, which turns out to be full of lukewarm coffee. Giving into the fact that today is not my day, I down it anyway.
"Hey!" he says indignantly.
"I'm thirsty," I retort. He rolls his eyes and stuffs a piece of toast into his mouth. I open the Prophet again and flip through it, just the usual raids that (of course) turn up with nothing. I'm just turning to the centerfold as Ginny makes her way into the Great Hall. She's a mess, and has been since Harry left. She put up a brave front for him, but it tumbled down like building blocks once he was gone. Her hair is in a messy ponytail and her eye makeup is smeared slightly; she looks like she's slept in her clothes. Ginny sits down across from Ron and I and looks up at me wearily.
"Any news?" Her voice is shaking slightly, the poor thing.
Shaking my head in the universal sign for no, I glance down at the centerfold. It's a collection of letters from the readers, voicing their opinions on McGonagall's opening the school. Parents are worried that Hogwarts isn't safe anymore, what with last June's attack. However, McGonagall feels that life should go on as normal, and as Headmistress she has the right to keep the school running.
Ron nudges me in the ribs, and I look over at him.
"We've got to do something for Ginny," he says quietly, as I take and nibble on his forgotten toast crust. "I can't stand seeing her like this, it's driving me bloody mad."
"It's not her fault, Ron," I whisper back.
"Well, I'm her brother, I can't just sit here and not do anything."
"What are you planning on doing, exactly?" Honestly, Ron needs to start thinking things through, instead of plowing on without any plan. Most of the time this tendency annoys me, as it is today, but once in a while I'll find it slightly endearing.
He glances over at Ginny, who is now gazing longingly at a blueberry muffin as though it were Harry. "I love you, Harry," she mouths to it.
"I don't know, Hermione. But I've got to come up with something." Ron rises and stalks out of the Hall, knocking over my forsaken goblet of pumpkin juice in the process. I stare after him, not even noticing the juice as it drips onto my lap.
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(A/N: For those of you who are not dancers, forgive the dancing terminology. I'll try my best to make it painless. For now, could you possibly click that lovely little lilac/blue/I'm-not-sure-what-color-that-is button? Oh, drat. Here comes the WWCCC to take me away!)