In Which Hermione Reads A Bedtime Story
It was dark. The moonlight shone through the trees, lighting a path for Hermione to follow back to the tent. She had just finished warding the campsite for the night. Harry was in the tent cleaning up the remnants of their meager dinner when she entered.
"Hey, Harry. Just about done?"
"Yeah," he replied, "I'll put this back in your pack, and then probably turn in for the night."
The two continued to tidy up, chatting amicably and successfully ignoring the sparkly dragon in the room. It only lasted for a short while, however.
"I wonder how Ron is doing..." she trailed off as she put away the last dish. Noting the change in his expression (his bright green eyes becoming darker with despair and betrayal at the mention of their once-companion's name) she quickly shut her mouth.
"Let's not talk about him, all right?" Harry said.
Hermione complied, not wanting to push him further. There was a lot on his mind, and she didn't want to be the one to make him snap. There was a moment of tense silence before Harry spoke up again.
"Is there anything else to do around here? I'm sure you've got to have something in that never-ending pouch of yours that we can use to, pass the time," Harry said, taking a seat on his bed. "Do you have any cards? We could play a round of exploding snap or something. Eat chocolate frogs."
"I may have something, give me a moment," she replied after a moment's hesitation. She then pulled out her mokeskin pouch and rummaged around in it a bit, sticking her arm in as far as she could reach. Harry watched her in silence from his seat, wondering what she had in mind.
"Aha! I found it!" she exclaimed, pulling out her prize.
Harry took a moment to look at what it was she had removed from the bag.
"A book, Hermione? Really? Isn't there anything better we can do? — Wait, that was a stupid question to ask. The only thing you ever want to do is read books," he teased.
"Harry!" she said, exasperated. "This isn't just a book! It's been in my family for generations. My mother read it to me often when I was a child, and gave it to me when I turned 15." Hermione looked down at her feet, sorrow creeping into her expression at the remembrance of her mother.
"Sorry. I didn't know."
Harry took a closer look at the book. It had obviously been read quite often, as evidenced by the dog-eared pages and worn, red leather cover. The title, "The Labyrinth," was etched in a beautiful gold script across the cover. No author's name was given.
"What's it about?"
"Oh, Harry, it isn't a story that can be summarized so easily—"
"Then maybe you could just read it to me?"
Hermione paused, looking over at him from her spot at the small table, and thought for a moment.
"All right," she said. "I'll read it to you, just give me a moment to settle down."
Hermione walked across the room to the bed adjacent to his, sat down, and cracked open the book as Harry laid down and closed his eyes, just listening.
"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young girl whose stepmother always made her stay home with the baby. And the baby was a spoiled child, and wanted everything to himself, and the young girl was practically a slave. But what no one knew is that the king of the goblins had fallen in love with the the girl, and he had given her certain powers..."