I remember lying on the bedroom floor
You were holding me little honey, kissing my soul
- - -
Harry Potter was a sore winner.
The reluctant star of the magical world, he was now the wretched hero who seemed to desire nothing more than to hide beneath a rock and be forgotten, like all great hermits. But then his life had been put under a microscope since his tragic loss before he had even known what love from parents meant.
Ginny Weasley understood, to a certain degree that Harry Potter had overcome more than his fair share of horrors through his seventeen years of life. To say she was suspicious of the was the least of her concerns. Harry just wasn't paying attention to her the way he used to. It wasn't the worst part, though. As the youngest Weasley, she'd been accustomed to being overlooked by her brothers' antics, relegated instead to waiting in the dimness of their shadows.
What bothered her was his distance. He wasn't letting her get close enough to know what ailed him, to know how to heal him.
She waited, just as before, when he'd run off with her brother and Hermione to save the world. He'd excluded her on purpose during that time. For her safety, he had said in three concise words. That meant he cared about her, right? In retrospect, it now sounded like she'd been condemned, a sentence she was paying for although she had yet to understand the nature of the crime she'd committed.
She found herself believing in it then, but she noted the change in his demeanor upon his return. He barely paid attention now, when the heroes had won and the story had given them a happy ending. She was waiting for that part to happen to her. And he . . .
In her eyes, he was moping instead.
While she could not begin to fathom the scope of loss that made up his melancholy, she also couldn't help that nagging feeling that she was being ignored on purpose despite herself.
She'd never seen such a wretched hero. Here was the sore winner before her and she wasn't quite sure how to react to that. It was a fairy tale gone wrong. She scoffed at the idea of being a damsel in distress. Instead, she was the unwanted princess, a long suffering yet discarded love interest.
But there was a certain way of handling the Boy-Who-Lived and she hadn't quite mastered that at the moment, which very much reminded her of a petulant child throwing a tantrum. One that she couldn't handle, by the looks of it. Rather, she tried to be supportive, she did. Encouraging words and smiles did not seem to have much effect as he dwelled in a never ending misery that hadn't let up even if he did triumph over the ultimate evil of their generation.
Still, part of her just wanted him to snap out of it. And soon. Especially with the more than sympathetic attention he'd warranted from a number of girls with delusions of cheering him up in not-so-innocent ways.
If only he'd listen.
In the meantime, she shared a laugh with Neville Longbottom, at the first breakfast of the official Hogwart's term in the Great Hall.
She noticed Harry how had attempted a half hearted clap to show he was paying attention at dinner the previous night. The first year could have gone to Slytherin for all he cared, as he unenthusiastically put his hands together after every new student exited the dais.
Patience, her mother had advised her. Every girl had to have patience when it came to a boy.
While it was not generally her strongest suite, (as Molly Weasley had often proclaimed of her last pregnancy and how she was born a week earlier than expected and made quite a bit of fuss in the womb while she was there), she'd try.
She hoped he'd notice too.
He had to.
-
- - -
-
Harry Potter lay with his arms behind his head, staring upward at the space between the four posts of his bed. He could tell that it was too early to get up and too late to go back to sleep without the aid of a clock. He was stuck. An in-between of dreams. The no man's land of consciousness and lethargy.
The dawn of Hogwart's new term had never looked so bleak in his eyes, even compared with the year when lots of unexpected rain fell in just about every Care of Magical Creatures class.
At the moment, he couldn't wipe out the feeling that early mornings had left in his memory. Perhaps the discomfort of sleeping with a book under his pillow had made waking up less than ideal when he realized he had a stiff neck.
Still, he swore he could feel her lips between his brows months afterward.
But she'd been there, hanging on to him. He supposed that the moment she let go, he started clinging to the hope that they could figure out what had transpired before that night. He'd seen something in her eyes several times – the common room, the beach, Grimmauld Place. Those little bits that he could recall that made him hope. At his worst moments, he cursed them, while at his best, he tended to contemplate them. He daydreamed, even.
They'd been together sharing each other's company, once upon a time. Though it had been far from ideal or romantic, he'd grown attached to the shape of her beside him, tired after keeping vigil for so long. She'd been warm and soft as they'd shared the covers.
Once upon a time. Like a fairy tale. A twisted one (even before the villain had permanently exited the story). Because that was the way his world revolved and he didn't really bother to question it. He turned to his side, imagining her there. His hand reached out to the empty space along the mattress.
You should be here.
It wasn't as if anything had happened between them. It was never an issue he'd addressed because he'd simply assumed she'd be there when the time was right. And again, he let the opportunity slip through his fingers like he'd done in the past and there was no way of denying this latest slip up.
The question lingered on the tip of his tongue, infuriating and persistent. She had to know.
The sheets fisted in his hands.
It was as if she was denying that the aftermath of the war had never happened. That she no longer needed him, or wanted any part of his life once their roles in the fighting ended.
Despite the brighter sunlight growing crawling across the ceiling, he grew more tired. The silence in his room didn't help, especially when he was the only in it. So much for Head Boy and all its perks.
His head hurt though it had nothing to do with the scar. He got out of bed.
And he found Hermione much the same way as every year since they'd attended.
It was quite typical, really, he supposed, the way the universe revolved to drive him mad. Again, he didn't question it.
-
- - -
-
Ronald Weasley had little tendency to smile (virtually none) when it came to early classes.
Waking up at the crack of dawn was an evil punishment in and of itself, he thought as he fumbled around in the slowly brightening room and slipped on his school robes. The early morning deadened his senses, especially those dealing with depth perception, so it didn't come as a complete surprise when he stubbed his foot on the corner of his trunk.
"Bloody hell," he muttered thickly after the initial hiss. "Shit."
Despite this early morning blunder, he figured he was decent for the rest of the day, after hobbling his way to the door.
"Ron," he heard Dean Thomas say. "You realize that you're wearing a bath robe, dontcha mate?"
It cut through the moment of sleep-numbing bliss. He rubbed his eye lids, intending to clear up his vision.
A second and possibly third, "shit" emerged in the silence of the room when he looked down at what he wearing.
He dug around in the reliable old school trunk, only to wake up, half panicked and somewhat more blinded with adrenaline like he'd felt during fights alongside Harry, when his robes didn't immediately appear. He pulled out old books, several ties and seemingly all left foot shoes. Nothing.
Several layers of clothes later, it was halfway empty.
When he finally saw black cloth, he pulled it out triumphantly, as if he'd just won the TriWizard cup, despite the wrinkles.
And before he tossed back the things he'd pulled out in haste, a glint of light shined in his tired eyes. His arms put down the load he carried when he decided to inspect what he saw. A mirror perhaps, which he supposed might have been one of Ginny's that somehow wound up in his things.
His fingers pulled an old sock out, one that no longer had a pair, a scrap of white cloth, lonesome with constant wear from a time he barely remembered. He saw an old tin box, one that he'd apparently forgotten about. It was rusting in some spots, like the corners and parts of the bottom. Inside, he found a piles of collectible cards and scraps of neatly folded paper. It smelled of chocolate.
He'd never been so annoyed to wake up so early and to have that drowsy feeling taken away so suddenly.
The first day of term wasn't supposed to be like this.
-
- -
-
For Hermione, all beginnings were not supposed to be tense, especially with anything dealing with school. She was used to the occasional wonderings aloud of her fellow classmates about the courses to follow that year and the amount of the workload, which they all prayed was lesser than the previous. She'd seen some of them light candles with the expectations that they would be heard somehow and be made to do less. A few even prayed the rosary in the hopes that divine intervention would do the trick. Others had made figurines with a suspicious resemblance of the most disliked professors.
Of course, neither of them worked. At least for her, she wished the work would never end. It occupied her, at the very least and any distraction was welcome.
Usually, the first day of term was one of the best of the year. She liked waking up in the morning to the silence of the newly risen sun. The first morning of nothing to do, no worries and no disappointments. Not yet.
A new day, a new year – she could almost taste hope on her tongue and the excitement of a job well done once the inevitable exams and assignments were completed. It offered promise.
But today, she felt no such adrenaline. Instead, she felt the aftertaste of coffee in her mouth during her grandfather's funeral. It was the last time she'd ever drank the stuff. Even in memory, it was bitter.
She skipped breakfast, preferring instead to stay in her room, staring at the single she had been assigned for the rest of the year. Head Girl had its perks, but she found the solitary nature of a sole bed within those walls a very lonely thing. It was an isolating thing, especially without any fellow human being beside her.
She had been looking forward to sharing a room with her classmates. Well, in a way. She had hated the sloppiness of her previous roommates - all boy-talk, lipstick and strong perfume. But she likened it as a part of the Hogwarts experience – it was something she was readily expecting.
So she wallowed a little in the pale sunlight, which gradually threatened to burn her eyes. She turned away when it became too strong for her stare to match its intensity. It was going to be a long day, no doubt.
Eventually, she made her way along the empty corridors, heading along with purpose to make it to class on time, despite her misgivings.
She paused at the door that led to Charms. Her breath held on to her. The doorknob was cold against her palm.
Through the glass, she could see him, before an open window. He was leaning his arms on the windowsill, busily contemplating the outdoors for no apparent reason whatsoever.
She observed him as he turned his head to better look at a flock of birds flying diagonally across, the window being sliced in half with him in front of it all. Her hand gripped the handle of strap of her book bag and she could not deny the sick feeling welling up inside her.
Definitely not the first day she was used to experiencing.
"Ms. Granger."
She spun around to find one of her teachers looking directly at her.
"Professor McGonagall," she answered. "I – excuse me, but you gave me a bit of a fright."
An eyebrow raised very subtly on behalf of her former teacher. By the way she readjusted her bag and tucked her hair behind an ear, she was the picture of nervousness, a simple school girl and not someone who had just been a protagonist in a recent war. Moody's, "Constant vigilance!" rang in her mind. Apparently that lesson hadn't stuck. Even she, the most astute of students, hadn't picked up on it. She wanted to laugh. Almost.
Professor McGonagall would not find that amusing in the slightest.
"Ms. Granger, I need to speak to you."
"Yes, professor."
As she followed behind the headmistress, she wondered if she'd make it to class on time.
-
- - -
-
He stared at the empty desk in front of him. Too early he attended class, even before any of the professors had even begun to seek out the vicinity of the classrooms.
Though he would have usually gone to the Quidditch pitch for air, the idea of reaching the place seemed a rather tiring prospect, especially since he was forbidden to disapparate within school grounds. He'd always gone there to be alone, to ponder things when he dwelled on them too much and to ignore the increasing pressures when they became burdens . . .
He sighed, staring at a flock of black birds flying in formation. One in particular, with a few white feathers in its wings lagged behind. It seemed to struggle to keep up.
The longer he looked, he made his way over to the window, resting his elbows on the sill, hoping to study the flight pattern of the wayward bird a bit better.
The flock continued southward. Autumn would be arriving soon. He could almost taste the chill in the breeze sometimes. He supposed it was something he picked up from playing Seeker, having to fly so high and the close calls the game entailed.
The bird landed on a branch instead.
His gaze went on to the retreating figure of birds. They went on, as if nothing had happened. He rested his chin on his hand.
It seemed that the longer he waited, the more nothing happened.
Silence.
It stretched on around the classroom, invading the vacant seats, bouncing off the walls and sticking to every corner. He imagined some stuck to some empty part of his heart.
He was still waiting. The bell didn't ring and no one dived in to the desks.
He slid a hand behind his neck, mussing up his hair. Not that it mattered what it looked it anyway. He'd been told it was a perpetual mess. Hermione had said so once. He didn't help his appearance with the general lack of upkeep.
He looked away and found the bird still perched atop the tree. In the distance, he could barely make out the fading figure of birds. They were dots at that point. He'd seen a painting like that before. All tiny dots making up the bigger picture. Pointilism. It sounded like a canvas being poked with a brush.
It made sense now. But back when she'd shown it to him, he didn't know what she meant with that soft smile in her explanation.
He was saddened by watching the bird, lonely as ever, and he supposed it was probably gazing forlornly at the lack of companions.
Poke, poke.
Just one dot in the bigger picture. And apparently, as expendable as any.
Poke.
A flutter of wings passed before him.
Poke, poke.
He thought he had heard voices somewhere behind him. But the door was closed and no one stood in the corridor. He turned back and looking up, he found a pair of birds sharing the same branch.
Before he could think it over much, Charms, the first class of the day, officially began.
Poke.
-
- - -
-
She made it class on time after all.
And spent it staring at the messiest head of hair she'd ever laid eyes on. It was both a comfort and an annoyance.
-
- - -
-
The rest of the week fared much the same way. It was always awkward speaking to her fellow classmates. Somehow, it translated over to her friends.
"Is Hogwarts, A History longer or something this year?" Ron asked.
"It's a new edition, Ron." To soften the curtness of her response, she bumped shoulders with him lightly.
"What did you do for the rest of the summer holiday?" his sister asked, looking at the list of assignments that week.
"Nothing," she lied. "Just here and there."
"Is that why you didn't write?"
She schooled her features and forced herself to smile. It didn't quite reach her eyes, but the Weasleys didn't seem to notice.
"Well, there isn't much to tell. It was quite boring," she replied, flipping through the pages of the newest thick volume. Chapter four waited for her patiently.
She could hardly wait.
Ginny simply nodded in agreement.
-
- - -
-
Hermione seemed distant.
Harry noted, much to his dismay, how her eyes avoided him carefully. That she looked at him briefly and just long enough to turn away before it became inappropriate outright staring. The way she figured, it was so he would not reproach her for not acknowledging him.
Upon closer inspection, he concluded that she was distant.
To her, it was some progress.
But he got the distinct feeling that she didn't really see him at all. At least, not in the way he wanted her to. She seemed to stare, unaware of anything that wasn't in print and thoroughly researched by experts of vast and distant fields. All professionals. Not amateur sleuths like them. Like the trio they were.
At least that was the way he persisted to believe it was.
-
- - -
-
The class wore on endlessly. For her, even with infinite patience, Professor Binns could really push the limit.
She stared at a corner of parchment left untouched by her writing. A clean slate. She decided it to fill it with nonsense and make a mess of the only neat part of the paper.
I miss you. I'm sorry. I want . . . (and scratched this out). She began again. I hope.
But she wasn't exactly sure what she asking for. She left the classroom feeling agitated, though it was difficult to point out what exactly bothered her so.
Liar.
-
- - -
-
Professor McGonagall called her to the office once more before lunch. She didn't eat much anyway, so she cut the break short and trudged her way down the hall.
"Weeping willow," she said to the statue.
It seemed even McGonagall hadn't stopped mourning. Not yet. It figured the passwords should contain some reminder of that void. Her hand pressed against the exposed brick in the wall before making the climb up to the headmistress' chambers.
-
- - -
-
"I trust your summer went well, Ms. Granger?"
"As well as can be expected," she replied, frowning slightly at the headmistress's attempt at small talk. The woman was known for being straightforward when it came to meetings.
"And would you care to tell me what the meaning of this is?" she asked.
She didn't have to wait long before the inevitable, at least. She stared at her fingernails, uneven at the ends. They needed to be filed down.
Minerva McGonagall held a slightly crumpled note, which Hermione recognized as her own handwriting.
At the student's silence, she glanced at the wall of past headmasters, her eyes lingering on the latest portrait on the far right.
"Judging from the beginning of this note, it reads like a resignation letter."
Hermione decided that her nails did look ragged indeed.
"Yes ma'am."
"And as you know, the time period allotted for resignation is three months into the school term, regardless of year. Although it is a little strange that you sent it before arriving."
"I understand."
"You have had a record of following school regulations, judging from your past decisions that have allowed you to rise as a prominent student. I cannot see why you would want to leave that, Ms. Granger," she went on. "But I will leave that decision up to you now, and if you feel the same way in three months, you may leave then."
The silence stretched on in the office, even while Fawkes the phoenix groomed himself.
"Have you decided?"
Head inclined slightly downward, she had a clear view of her shoes. Laces, patent leather, toe and sole. One could have been a mirror image of another had it not been for the minor scuff mark on the inside of the left one.
"Yes," followed by a nod.
"And you're sure about this?"
No.
"Miss Granger?"
If Harry has taught her one thing over the years, it's how to lie. With the amount of practice, she wasn't burdened by it any more.
Bravely, she raised her eyes to level with McGonagall's and smiled a little.
"Yes."
-
- - -
-
A sigh.
"Can you believe how boring this term is starting?" she heard a sandy haired fifth year say.
"Considering the scares all of last year, you'd think it'd be more interesting around here," his darker haired friend replied. "My mum freaked and demanded that I go home immediately when the war broke out."
"It's rather disappointing, not to have been there to see any of it happening. You know, like a muggle action film."
"I heard He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was seven feet tall. I wonder who would play him in a movie."
"And compared to Harry Potter, it must have been just like David and Goliath, no?"
"I would have wanted to be there to see it firsthand."
"You would have pissed yourself and begged for your mum."
An indignant huff.
"Would not!" said the skeptic.
"You have. Remember Nightmare on Elm Street?"
And then,
"But don't you wonder how exciting it would be to be in that situation?"
"Must be nice to be the hero. You get all the attention, all the praise . . ."
"All the girls!"
-
- - -
-
Hermione couldn't escape the bits of gossip floating around. All of it about the war. Harry's courage, his revenge, his moment of glory. The actor who would play him in a muggle film. The biographer who would chart his life. She figured she'd play a minor role in either of those productions. Not that she cared either way. The truth of it would never be truly comprehended, but sensationalized, dramatized. All of it faked in some way.
The rumours bothered her nonetheless. It needled into her side, annoying and persistent. There was no end of it since the term had started a week ago. Girls kept asking what Harry's favourites were. Song, colour, book, and candy, among other things became the object of obsessive speculation. She gave all the wrong answers. Boys kept asking about his Quidditch statistics, usually about who exactly had given him Firebolt. She hadn't the foggiest, but managed an answer that revolved around an obscure relative.
Perhaps not so far from the truth, as the image of Sirius floated in her memory, reminding her of his loss.
It seemed that not a lot of people could appreciate what effort they had gone through that summer. Horcruxes were just the beginning. Dealing with the Death Eaters and Voldemort had been something she never wanted to relive. Ever.
If only any of them had known how it had really happened. How badly she and Harry had been shaken up by the whole ordeal. How close they had nearly cut it that time. It wasn't awe inspiring. It was absolute fear that drove her.
They wouldn't hear it from her though.
She pointed her wand from behind the usual desk.
"Silencio," she whispered.
-
- - -
-
He pretended not to care if she defended him or not.
It was a lie.
Because it did matter to him when she did denounce the latest rumours being spread about him. Even Ginny and Ron couldn't explain the strange smile that surfaced on his face after they'd heard that Hermione had cursed a pair of fifth years in the library.
"Slander," Hermione had said in the most shame inducing tone that he was sure would make his aunt and uncle cower in embarrassment.
It cost Gryffindor twenty points. Ten for the curse. The other ten were for not setting an example to her fellow peers as Head Girl.
He wasn't around to hear her laugh into her pillow. At first, she was hoping to muffle the irrational laughter that bubbled up inside of her. Instead, it took on a different form and she found herself nearly suffocated by the downy filled cushion. When she became aware what the wet marks were on the fabric of the pillow cover, she realized she had been crying.
It's only the first week, she thought miserably.
