Harry James Potter took pride in being reasonably smart. Really, there was no shame in admitting that mind-blowing brains were not a priority of his, and neither were sigh-inducing muscles. No, Harry Potter knew to recognize defeat when the time was right, and after the (crazy in hindsight) decision to be the best wizard ever when he first came to Hogwarts resulted in a miserable failure on his behalf (courtesy of Potions and History of Magic), he settled with being the average Joe – average looks, average grades, and average, well, everything.
Yes, he often daydreamt about being average, but due to a streak of bad luck, poor Harry was nothing short of exceptional at practically everything. Boohoo. The only thing he really, undoubtedly, fortunately was average at was his intelligence. His intellectual one, that is. I mean, no-one could accuse him of not being quick on his feet, or not having a spell ready before his opponent even breathed in and out and said What? (which truly is a lot less than it sounds), but when it came to deciphering old runes, or tampering with potions so as to give them different properties, he was – happy sigh – average. And he was okay with it. In fact, he was more than okay – one might even say he was just peachy.
Except for that one time…
It was the Christmas break in Sixth Year. Harry's two comrades were keeping him company for the most part of the holidays, and he would be joining Ron and his family for Christmas at the Burrow, while Hermione would be going home. Although everything seemed to be going great – awesome, actually, if he really thought it through, thanks to a pretty redhead – , Harry couldn't help but give into old habits: sighing, groaning and grunting to himself, he scolded his dumb mind for never, for one second, believing there was no other shoe to drop.
Really, there wasn't. Uhm… right?
Harry glanced around, suspicious, looking for nothing in particular and everything in between. They were sitting on a bench in the garden. Ron was chatting animatedly with Hermione, who had her lips pressed into a disbelieving smirk. Harry chuckled inwardly as he locked eyes with her. So, according to Ron's incredibly truthful predictions (which, to that day, had never, ever come to life), the Chudley Cannons would come in second that year. Which would be quite an accomplishment, since they were currently only above the Gurgling Guppies, with 3 points out of a possible 35. Yes, Harry thought fondly, that was Ron. The eternal dreamer: even when all hope had abandoned the ship, Ron held on to the tiniest bit of rope – which, yes, meant he could argue stubbornly with someone to death. Seriously; both Harry and Hermione had become believers after Seamus Finnigan fell suddenly ill following a very heated (and prolongued…) discussion on the very same topic. Seamus would indeed win the argument, since the Harpies went on to win the championship, but he never once bragged. Fear of one's life tends to do that to you, you know.
A very frightened, almost to the point of becoming green from the nerves, first year Ravenclaw approached the Trio, snapping Harry from his introspection.
"Her-Hermione Granger?" The little girl stuttered, and as the three of them acknowledged her presence with a kind smile, she all but tripped on her very still feet. Ron chuckled, and Hermione smacked his arm.
"It's me."
"Oh. Okay, then. I have something for you, Miss."
Hermione smiled warmly. "Please, call me Hermione." And she accepted the letter from the trembling hands of the tiny girl, who promptly ran away, all the while mumbling her polite goodbyes.
As both Ron and Harry curiously peeked over Hermione's shoulder, Harry found himself wishing he was indeed more a bookworm. Hermione's letter consisted in a set of runes drawn with a red pen in a green background.
"Wow… someone's feeling Christmassy." Ron whistled at the obvious corniness of the sender. Harry, however, shook his head, amused, as he recognized a jealous frown on his best friend's face.
"Yeah. How unoriginal." He agreed, more vehemently than he had initially intended. Oh, the lengths he would go not to leave his redheaded, short tempered friend stranded in a sea filled with uninviting jealousy. He sighed.
"Oh, shut it, you two."
At her tone, however, and contrary to what one Mr. Ronald Weasley actually did (involving continuous pestering and silly attempts to steal the letter), Harry did indeed shut up. And he observed. He was, after all, not book smart, but his observing skills were off the charts (inner happy dance, culminating with a barely supressed yay that earned him a confused look from Ron). And he did just that.
He observed Hermione.
Her eyes were all but engulfing the entire letter in one excited look, her mouth muttering words that were incomprehensible to mere mortals as Ron and him – or, as others might call them, people-who-did-not-pay-attention-in-class. And by others, I obviously mean Hermione.
So, Harry was happy to state he could safely say Hermione was excited over the mindboggling tangling of runes (she always was a bit on the weird side). More than that, he could also, with complete certainty, make out a bad attempt at a nonchalant look on her face. Uhm… Hermione wanted them to think it was nothing out of the ordinary. Interesting. He stared at Ron pointedly, to see if he had come to the same conclusions as him, but he merely shrugged, too busy pouting and sulking to actually get some thinking done.
Well, too bad. Harry was going to get to the bottom of it if it was the last thing he did.
Deciding to drop it for the time being, he pulled a snitch out of his pocket and convinced Ron to go play with him for a bit, while Hermione rejoiced in her newly acquired solitude.
Both boys ended up soaking wet from falling into the fountain, and Hermione had refused to cast a drying spell on them – which they were too cold to perform themselves, since all the teetering and shivering would probably give them antlers before it warmed them up. Scowling at a very amused Hermione, they made their way to their dorms and each took a blissfully hot shower. December was definitely not the month to be running around in wet clothes and dripping hair.
Right before dinner time, Harry decided he would go visit Hagrid. Ron politely declined, stating a deep-rooted fear of beast-related injuries, and since Hermione had yet to come back, he decided this would be a solo trip – although he probably should inform someone of his whereabouts in the very likely case that something happened to him. It really would be a shame if he were to die at the hands of an over-enthusiastic Fang merely two days before Christmas.
Just as he was about to make a turn near the Five Purple Squids' portrait, a voice made him stop in his tracks and hide in the nearest shadow.
"Drop the act, Malfoy."
Hermione. And Malfoy. Harry clenched his fists as he thought about his best friend and the immediate danger the green ferret represented, and he would have jumped out of his hiding place to save her had the slimy Slytherin git not decided to speak at that very moment.
"I don't know what you mean, Granger."
Oh, my. Harry's forehead became severely wrinkled as he attempted to discern what Malfoy's tone really was… because, let's face it, how likely was it that Malfoy, of all people, was being… playful? And there you go; Harry got a headache: that's how improbable it was.
"I know it was you. Why do you keep trying to lie to me?"
"Trying? My, my, aren't we cocky today?" And now he sounded a bit threatening, but perhaps threatening was not the word he was looking for. He was definitely more intense, and Hermione's resulting silence just reinforced his theory. Malfoy was working an angle.
"Really, Malfoy, you should just admit it." Hermione's sweet tone sent a shudder down his spine, and Harry knew, he just knew she was smirking her best, and most cutting smirk. "Why should such a good deed go unseen? It was even, I might say, beautiful."
"Then it definitely wasn't from me, my little Mudblood. Beautiful… as if." He snorted, and Harry was surprised to see that two could really play at that game. Was it possible that Malfoy had just managed to give a flirty (bloody hell?) connotation to a widely hated term? And why on Merlin's freaking beard did he sound like he was flirting with his best friend?
"You sell yourself short, then. I would recognize you handwriting anywhere."
"Well, then, pushing aside the fact that it's indeed quite refreshing to see so much commitment on your behalf, allow me to be happy for a moment that whatever you are so eloquently chatting about is related to Runes, and not calligraphy." Draco sniggered, but Harry had a bad feeling Hermione would win this round. Hey, wait – seriously, what side was he on? Bad Harry.
Hermione's delighted laughter echoed throughout the empty corridor, and Harry groaned to himself. She always did like to win a little too much. "And how, little ferret, would you know this particular piece of information – which I purposefully did not disclose to you?"
Harry felt for Malfoy. He truly did. Had he come to Harry first, he would have told him it's practically impossible to sneak something by Hermione. She could smell a lie a couple hundred miles away, all the while with a stinking sock covering her nose and Dung bombs exploding all around her. That, and she was also frighteningly smart. Book smart. Street smart. And all kinds of smart.
Harry decided he had to see Draco's impending demise with his own eyes, relieving his poor ears from the hefty task previously relayed upon just them. As quietly as he could, he turned around and took a peek at the unlikely scene.
Hermione and Malfoy were both standing completely still, a good three meters of floor between them. Although the girl's stance was certainly more confident – no doubt empowered by her most recent win - , Malfoy's was not as submissive as Harry would have expected. He could see that the Slytherin had finally succumbed to resignation, and his face was sporting something that scarily resembled a sheepish grin. No, Malfoy wasn't grinning – scratch that: you see, years of inbreeding actually removed the grinning gene from any future inbred generations, which included the blond boy currently on a staring match with Hermione. What in Merlin's pants was going on?
Oh, Harry, stop whining and pay attention. Eyes widening in anticipation, he saw Hermione tone down a bit in the bragging front, and smile expectantly. Daringly. Hermione was smirking daringly at a boy who could very easily Crucio her into oblivion in a matter of seconds. Wincing at Hermione's apparent lack of judgement, he groaned at her advancing steps and Malfoy's increasingly confused frown.
Then, out of the blue, Hermione balanced herself in the tips of her toes and kissed Malfoy's cheek – a kiss that went perhaps for a bit too long than necessary. Really, how long did it take to kiss someone's very pale, very unwelcoming cheek? Not long, Harry gathered, while trying to supress an annoyed grunt.
"Thank you. It truly was beautiful, but your secret's safe with me." She smiled softly and patted his shoulder playfully.
Was Malfoy sporting a fever? Harry rolled his eyes at the blatant sarcasm of his own mind. The Slytherin cleared his throat and merely nodded in agreement. "How noble of you. How very Gryffindor of you."
"Always." Hermione grinned.
"Unfortunately." Uhm. Now what did he-
"Merry Christmas, Ferret." Oh, Harry thought fondly, good old Hermione.
"Merry Christmas, little know-it-all."
Ha! Harry threw a metaphorical fist into the air. So, his knowledge in ancient runes was still the same as before: a little bit less than zero. Nevertheless, he had managed to solve the mystery without having to resort to any studying at all. Harry, you old chap, you deserved it: go get yourself some Firewhisky and butter cookies.
However, as he walked into the Great Hall half an hour later, all thoughts of visiting Hagrid forgotten in light of recent events, he couldn't help but grimace as he realized he had only scratched the surface of a very, very deep painting.
"So, Mione, d'you ever find out who sent you that horrid card? If you could even call it that, right, Harry? Tacky if I've ever seen one." Ron nudged Harry as he sat beside him. Harry just mumbled something incomprehensible and waited curiously for her response.
"Oh, shut it, you two."
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Had Hermione been Ron, Harry would have slapped him until he finally saw straight. But no, Hermione had to be a girl, and so Harry would just have to content himself with sitting around in the hopes of talking her out of it.
But he wasn't holding his breath. By the size and depth of the crimson wave that flooded her cheeks at what Harry knew to be the memories of her previous encounter with the Slytherin bloody prince, he knew not even a slap would work. Not even a bucket filled with ice-cold water falling over her head every time she mentioned the slimy git (conditioning at its best…). Not even… well, nothing.
They were screwed. Hermione, the smartest of them all, just had to go and do the dumbest-thing-ever. She had to go and fall for the bloody ferret.
If that was book-smart, then he thanked all Gods and Merlin that only Hermione would ever have to worry about its outcome.
A/N: Hihi, another small one-shot, this time with Harry as the intermediary. Because it's always funny to see his wheels turning… and his amazingly unprejudiced mind link all the facts.
I hope you enjoyed it! Please, review if you feel like it. I know I would very much love to hear your thoughts.
Kisses***