She dreams in color. In front of her are beaten beleaguered faces distorted with petrified glass eyes, and they look like her friends but it can't be real because reality is more than just shades of craven piss-yellow and mud-blood-red and cryptic black. Reality is so much more than just fear in three colors, so she makes herself know that their dead faces aren't dead at all and shakes herself free of the whiteness stretched taut over that terrible necropolis and she wakes up.
Ron is asleep in the bed beside hers and his soft snoring makes her think of things like doing homework by the fire or sneaking down to the kitchens. The partitions that were separating them last night are now drawn back and she can clearly see the bruises under his eyes and the weals on his arms. They are at that halfway point between knitting themselves back together and still being open rawness, and they are yellowish scabs webbed around bits of pink. She feels a weight against her leg and she looks up to see that it is Ginny's head rested against her.
It is one of those chilly, indistinct summer mornings when you can't be too sure of what's real and what's just residue from your kaleidoscope dreams. It is a perfectly balanced combination of soft sounds and shadows that forces her back under the covers.
She is woken by a soft breeze smelling faintly of laundry detergent and grass. She cracks her eyelids open, shuts them again at the unexpected intrusion of sunlight, then opens them with considerably more caution. Madam Pomfrey has opened all the windows and it is turning out to be a ludicrously pleasant day outside. One of those blissful days that meld into a blur of fragrant sunshine and melted marshmallow gauze in a blue so profound it hurts her eyes. Leaves a-rustle, lake a-sparkle, laughing students a-gambol and all that rot. Ginny has disappeared and Ron is still asleep, his back turned to her so his arms aren't visible anymore. His snores are low and even. She counts the seconds between his next snore's strident beginnings and its softly sputtering end. Seven seconds, with four-second intervals in between. She wonders if his snoring is always this perfectly rhythmic, and if so, if Harry has ever noticed.
Soon Madam Pomfrey comes bustling out of her office carrying a tray supporting five tall, glass vials. Another tray with the same amount of vials floats along behind her. She is surprised as the Mediwitch sets both trays on the table beside her bed, having thought that the other potions were for Ron. The sun bounces happily off the thick glass encasing something that looks like bottled pus, with the pinkish streaks of blood and bits of mucous and everything.
"Now, Miss Granger, it is vital that you take the prescribed dosages of these potions for the next three days. The dark curse you were struck with was less effective than it would have been had the incantation been said aloud. Nevertheless, there is quite enough damage to be going on with."* She speaks with her customary adroitness, with that military efficiency in her movements, nary a trace of moisture in her eye. Hermione is grateful for this return to familiarity. She nods obediently.
"Professor Snape has been so kind as to brew these for you last night. Unfortunately, nothing can be done about their flavor without compromising efficacy..."
Ten different potions later, Hermione finds herself thick-tongued and groggy. The combination of clashing tastes and smells has left her mouth feeling bristly and sour, and no amount of water could get rid of it. Madam Pomfrey collects the vials with a swish of her wand. They clink together as they follow her back into her office.
Her vision is rapidly blurring at the edges. Little fuzzy dots float in front of her eyes, similar to those glowing specks of dust found in streams of sunlight. When she was much younger, she remembers her parents laughing at her as she tried to capture those specks with her fingers. She remembers wanting a pet quite badly, but they couldn't get one because of her Dad's allergies and her Mum's general aversion to untidiness. So one day, she had a brilliant idea, and smeared her palms with glue with the intent of finally possessing one of the pretty little floating animals. She had been greatly upset when it didn't work.
A soporific warmth starts just below her belly button and spreads out into her chest, her arms, her legs. The bed is the most comfortable bed she has ever lain down on in her entire life. She pats the mattress affectionately.
"Hermione?"
She ignores the voice, thinking that the potions are messing with her perception. She hears rustling, then squeaking as the mattress on the bed next to hers bounces under the bulk of a fidgeting Ron.
"Hermione?"
"Wha—" She turns to look at him and her head spins from the sudden movement.
"Ro... Ron? Thought... you... sleeping..." Her jaw feels strange. The words come sluggardly through lips that feel stiff.
"Yeah, I was just waiting for Madam Pomfrey to go away. I thought you could tell. I heard you counting."
"No, no, I thought... I thought you were just a very... a skilled snorer..."
"A what? Did you just say a skilled—never mind. Listen, how are you feeling?" The look he gives her is intense and she feels compelled to answer him through the haze settling in her brain.
"Fine... I'm fine, Ron. Wha-what about you?"
"I heard you last night. I was out of it, but I heard you screaming. They gave me Dreamless Sleep, but I felt like I could still hear you."
She doesn't know what to say.
"I thought you were going to die, Hermione."
Her brain clears a little. The atmosphere between them swells into one of mutual embarrassment as the seconds tick along. She feels as if he has pulled her across some line, somehow, this line that she refuses to see. It is an odd feeling whose source she can only grasp at but can't really understand yet. Nevertheless, she senses the need to bring them both back into familiar territory. She makes a supreme effort to wrinkle her nose and give him a don't-be-silly kind of smile.
"Come... oh, come off it... it was nothing. I'm fine now, I told you. Tell me about you."
He shifts under his blankets, tucks them firmly under his chin, and clears his throat. He stretches his arms, perhaps a little too emphatically, judging by his grimace of discomfort.
"A couple of bruises, nothing serious. Madam Pomfrey told me I might have some scarring, but that's it. I don't even know why I'm still here, actually. But if it means I don't have to go to class..."
"Wha... what happened to you, anyway?"
"You remember that tank of brains back there?" He jerks his chin over his shoulder, as if the Department of Mysteries is right behind him. "Harry told me I tried to summon one or something incredibly daft like that. He was here when you were asleep. I don't really remember, but apparently the brains had tentacles," he snorts.
He pulls this face, all shiny teeth and innocent charm, and flexes his biceps at her.
"But see, I'm feeling rather fine now. Bloody fantastic, if you ask me," he grins.
Normally she would think this sweet. Normally she would laugh and try not to look flattered at the look of self-satisfaction on his face. But this morning in the Hospital Wing, with her chest still bound and ten different potions coursing through her veins, she can see how easy he takes things. How far he has to fall if he doesn't act seriously for once. He always tries to pull this sort of rubbish, trying to play it off, flashing those big smiles whenever he's happy and sticking out his bottom lip when he's upset. It's like it's the only way he knows how to do things, with everyone in the bloody room to see exactly what he's feeling. Normally she would let it go, normally, normally. But this isn't normal. This whole thing is something puked out of a bloody kaleidoscope, something wrenched out of a dream. This time she feels something close to panic.
"It's not funny, Ron."
"Sure it is, can you imagine what I probably looked like wrestling one of those brai—"
"Shut up, Ron. It's not funny. It's not funny."
He looks hurt and puzzled. "What are you on abou—"
"Look, just stop it! You look so thick, laughing about things like that! It doesn't work, alright? If you want to pretend that everything's fine, that's not how you do it, because you look so thick. Can't you see? Everything's falling apart, Ron! We all know what's happening... and if you still... if you still want to make jokes..." She hardly knows what she's saying anymore. The artificial pull of potion-induced sleep has never been stronger.
"We've got to sort things out, Ron. We've been really careless. It isn't a game anymore," she slurs.
To her surprise Ron's response is calm and measured, a side of him that will become more perceptible in the years to come.
"I know that. I know it isn't a game, Hermione. I know what we did was stupid, and maybe it was Harry's fault for not listening to you, maybe it was our fault for not trying to stop him hard enough, I don't know. Everything's going to start soon. I mean, really start. I was just... I thought you were going to die."
There it is again, the sudden bashfulness, the feeling of intruding upon something big, the feeling of leaving something behind them. It is the same feeling she gets when her eyes pass the last word on the last page of a book she dearly loves. She is at a loss for words and so she just sits there twiddling with her blanket. They might have gone on that way forever. She is grateful for the edges of her vision bleeding together, the colors consuming each other, until she just can't keep her eyes open anymore. She exaggerates her yawn a little bit so he won't think that she's just avoiding conversation. He yawns too.
"I suppose I should let you rest, then. I expect those potions are doing a right job on your head," he says, and if his words seem a little artificial to both their ears, she doesn't say anything about it.
Later, when she is older, she will recall these little incidents when she, Harry, and Ron would veer too close to something they've never touched upon before. It started around third year, maybe a couple of times in second year. At the time she wouldn't realize it, but later, she will recognize the signs: the awkward silence, the confused hesitation, the same reluctance to let go of some vague idea that they all shared, before someone suddenly changes the subject to something a little too silly, something a little too childish, and the moment is gone.
Harry makes some half-hearted excuse to leave the room. He smiles and scratches the back of his head, apologizing for interrupting the conversation. Ron looks surprised and starts to say something, but Ginny gives him a little pinch on the toe and he falls silent.
Sirius Black is the third casualty. He is a roguish smile on an old wedding photo. He is the faint echo of thirty-year-old Christmas carols wafting through the tacky, mold-caked panelled walls. He is an absence in a shard of glass. He is regret in a moment too quiet. He is the charming laugh you always expect to hear after a raunchy joke, a laugh at once boyish and jaded.
Three days later she is permitted to leave the Hospital Wing. There is a slight ache around her ribcage, and she isn't supposed to do any heavy lifting or move excessively, but she feels more or less patched up. She had made her excuses, saying something about being behind on last-minute knitting for the house-elves, slipping away before Harry and Ron could think about her alibi too closely. She would have loved to knit more socks. She purses her lips at the image of a quivering Dobby with what looked like all her hats on top of his head and her socks worn as makeshift sleeves, knobby green hands sticking out through holes punched into where the toes ought to go. She hadn't noticed it at the time, thinking of nothing but the need to get away from Umbridge. Later, she remembered. She figures that Harry had probably known this, but he hadn't told her. He probably didn't want to hurt her feelings. No, he probably found it funny. The prat.
Just the same, she would have given up on her knitting even if she hadn't found out about Dobby pilfering all of her hard work. The whole thing smelled too much of entrapment for her tastes.
She finds herself wandering down her patrol route. She isn't keen on returning to her dorm. She's been partially packed for two weeks now, with only her school books and uniform stored outside of her trunk. If she were honest with herself, she would realize that she is avoiding the possibility of running into Ginny. She doesn't really feel like rehashing the events of that night. She knows that Ginny will want to talk to her alone without having to dodge around certain parts for fear of bringing up things that Harry isn't quite ready for at the moment. If she were honest with herself she would realize that maybe it is she who isn't quite ready. But she's feeling a little achy, and she hates acknowledging her own selfishness, and so she convinces herself that the reason she doesn't want to go to her dorm is because she's more than halfway done with packing.
She surmises the time to be around noon or so. The hallways are mostly empty. A few stragglers, mostly in the younger years, nod or smile at her as she passes them. She gives them her best 'Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Prefect' smile. The other students are probably either in class or having lunch at the Great Hall.
And then she reaches that tricky set of steps that had her flailing her arms in September of last year.
Then his classroom.
Then the alcove she sat in that time she fled from his bitter barbs.
And then, before she knows it, she is standing before his office door, her fist suspended in front of her, her knuckles just brushing rough wood.
Over and over she had gone through this moment while convalescing in the Hospital Wing. She would march into the dungeons and up to his office, her stride confident and purposeful. Then she would knock firmly. Not too insistently, mind, but loud enough that he would know that she shan't taking no for an answer. He would make her wait but then he would eventually decide that letting her say what she came to say would be easier for both of them. Enter, he would pronounce stentoriously, and she would square her shoulders and push his door open. She would keep her face pleasantly neutral, keep her back straight, her hands clasped in that professional-looking, don't-mess-with-me sort of way behind her back. Thank you for saving my life, Professor. Then she would be on her way.
She had thought (hoped) it would take her much longer to get here. The sheer solidity of the door in front of her puts her off, almost. Has it always been this big? Merlin, the thing's a hefty chunk that reaches almost a meter above her head. It almost puts her off. Almost, almost.
There really is no room for error in the little scenario she'd planned. She takes a breath and draws her wrist back to knock on the door. It swings open in front of her. Because, obviously, he already knows she's here, and that she's been standing here for the good part of five minutes.
Because he is the most distrustful man she knows and the air is practically buzzing with the strength of his wards (his wards, his bloody wards, damnit Hermione!).
Her fist just manages to connect with it, producing a pathetic thump that isn't at all close to the deliberate knocking she had envisioned.
"Miss Granger, what are you doing here?"
He is sitting behind his desk, scribbling into a piece of parchment. She can just make out his spiky script from where she is standing. A missive, perhaps. Maybe an order addressed to an apothecary for more ingredients for the next school year.
"Er... Good afternoon, Professor. I came here because I wanted to thank you, sir. For sav—"
Suddenly, thank you for saving my life sounds so... mundane, to her own ears. So very insipid and insincere. She bites her tongue, furrows her brows. What the hell is she supposed to say now?
He looks up at her from his letter. There is a smidge of ink on his thumb, a tiny smear right by the fingernail. She wonders if he tried to rub it off with his finger, or if he hadn't yet noticed its presence. He quirks his brow at her and she notices twin echoes of the ink smear polluting pale white under his eyes.
"I believe you wish to express your gratitude to me for saving your life. Am I correct?" He doesn't wait for her answer and instead resumes writing, every angle of his body, the forward tilt of his head to the parchment set to the tone of dismissal. "You are welcome, Miss Granger."
You're welcome?
She frowns.
How very... not difficult.
She certainly hadn't expected that. Where is the sneer, the piercing stare, the bite of words far too close to her own thoughts? She had expected him to say something along the lines of 'save your breath, ensuring your continued existence isn't quite the act of virtue that you imagine'. She shuffles her feet uneasily.
"What are you still doing here, girl?" Ah, there it is. The impatience, the diminutive address of girl intended to make her feel like some pre-pubescent irritant. The familiar expression of hell-hounded vexation on his face strikes a chord within her. She recalls the heavy heat of his hand on her bare chest. I need to know in a hot breath, branded into her mouth. I need to know. I won't let you, but I need to know.
Suddenly it is surging through her system, tingling in her tongue, the need, the urgency to let him know just how much it meant, what he did for her. Because he didsave her life and she doesn't have enough words but he must know. He must know. Her mouth opens before she can carefully measure her words and her voice is breathless, her fingers wringing the hem of her shirt.
"I just—I wanted to let you know that I am truly, sincerely grateful for what you've done. I know you probably don't think much of it, but I—"
"Yes, yes, spare me your platitudes of appreciation. You may leave now."
"But sir, I don't think you understand just how—"
"Miss Granger!" he barks, setting his quill down. "Has the curse migrated to your ear canal, or are you simply refusing to comprehend my words? I see being inches away from death has done nothing to impair your disregard for authority. I said, you may leave. Now."
"But -"
"Did you come here thinking I would commend you for what you and your lot tried to pull off?" The way he says this, the way he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, the way the muscles of his throat twitch as he tilts his head back, the way his voice suddenly sounds flat and worn to her ears forces her own voice into silence. His anger is pulled from the room in one big whoosh and now there is nothing but exhaustion in the lines around his mouth.
"No! I didn't... I just wanted to thank you—"
"What you did was foolish, Miss Granger. Potter was selfish for dragging you all into it, but that was to be expected. After all, nothing is more inevitable than Harry Potter trying to play the hero. You, however." He fixes her with a stern look. "You were stupid and naive for going along with him, arrogant for thinking that you could handle this on your own. Have you any thought for the consequences of your actions? For what this means for the Order? Did you consider, at any point during your little rendezvous, the implications of your death? Of Potter's death?"
"I know—"
"You do not. It may come as a shock to you, but for once in your life, you do not know. You could have died. Your friends could have died. Yes, yes, it would have been a greatly lamentable tragedy. But if Potter had died... Do you understand what that means?"
"Sir, I... but no one died - I mean, well, Harry didn't..."
"I see Potter hasn't told you of the contents of the prophecy. What a surprise," he says, an ironic twist to his lips.
"Prophecy? You mean that orb? But surely prophecies are..." Preposterous? False? She thinks of watery eyes magnified by thick spectacles, bangles and beads and scarves around a neck resembling a chicken's, scarlet poofs and crystal balls in a room drenched in the scent of incense. The very idea of some... some vague omnipotent force directing all their actions and fates makes her scoff.
"Ah, yes, I recall your particular distaste for Divination." He leans forward in his chair, his mouth curving into a coldly amused smirk. "But you must be younger than I thought, if you believe that any of us are truly free."
We are all bound, aren't we? We of the wicked calling.
She shakes the image from her head.
"But sir, what prophecy are you talki—"
"Never you mind, you silly girl," he sneers, all traces of amusement vanished. "The point is, your actions have resulted in months of work and preparation unravelled, in the loss of life. Sirius Black is dead. Dead, do you understand that? Because of you."
"How dare you? I regret Sirius' death as much as anyone! You hated him! You—you goaded him about how useless he was! How can you sit there say that I don't know what his death means?"
He speaks as if he hadn't heard her.
"Do not labor under the delusion that his death was somehow noble or poetic. It was a pointless death, an entirely avoidable death, and as narcissistic and juvenile as he was, he did not deserve it. I am not impressed with you, Miss Granger."
And it hurts, this knowledge that he is right. There isn't anything that he can tell her that she hasn't told herself when she lay in bed in the dark Hospital Wing. But somehow, coming from his mouth, with his eyes like three-inch rust-covered nails in her own, it is much, much worse. She is disappointed in herself. And maybe a little disappointed in him too, because after he saved her, after that night when her life clung to a silk-spun thread tied around his finger, she had thought...
What, exactly?
She no longer knows.
"Then why did you save me at all?" she mutters. And she is aware of how she sounds like a resentful child. She crosses her arms, bracing herself. "Why? Why go through all that effort if everything was my bloody fault anyway? You should have left me to die, if I'm such trouble to everybody!" The whinging words coming out of her own mouth appall her.
The look he gives her is frigid. Impassive. She feels even smaller.
"Is that what you wanted, then?" he says quietly. "Rest assured, had I known, then I would gladly have let your organs melt into a bloody froth in the Hospital Wing."
I won't let you die tonight.His breath on her cheeks, his eyes boring into hers. He is lying. The certainty of this knowledge surprises her, but it remains to stay. He wouldn't have let her die there, no matter what he says now.
God, I'm such an idiot.
"I'm... sorry. I'm really sorry," she sighs defeatedly. "That was... inexcusable, and grossly ungrateful of me. I shouldn't have said that." She ought to have known that anything she might have planned would inevitably be shot to hell if Professor Snape is involved. She lets her arms drop to her sides.
"I'm glad you didn't let me die, Professor Snape. Thanks for your time, I'll let you get on with your letter now."
She turns to leave, avoiding his eyes. She winces at the sudden movement and puts a hand to her side.
"Miss Granger, come here."
"Sir?"
"Come closer, Granger."
She turns to him. He is standing now. She walks over to the front of his desk, keeping her eyes on her feet. She watches as the tip of a boot appears at the left corner of her vision, then a hem of black. He is standing in front of her now and goodness, she hadn't even heard his footsteps. She watches as he lifts his right hand from his side, as his hand approaches her face (What? What is he doing?) and she can almost feel the warmth of his thumb pressing against the hollow beneath her bottom lip, his knuckles against the sharp rim below her chin, forcing her eyes to look into his. But before his fingers even touch her skin he jerks his hand away as though burnt. It lowers in a fist down at his side.
"Are you still in pain?" She feels his breath on the top of her head.
"What? Er—no, no, I'm fine, " she stammers, glancing up briefly but looking down before she can meet his eyes. She focuses instead at a spot of fluff on his shoulder.
"Look at me." She tilts her head up slowly, taking in the tightness of his jaw, his slightly chapped lower lip, the line of his nose before her gaze comes to a brief rest on his eyes. He is pale, paler even than Malfoy. The whitest shade of pale almost crassly offset by a glint of obdurate black. She opens her mouth to speak, but he interrupts her.
"Don't lie to me, Granger."
"Just a little... When-when I move too suddenly..." she confesses.
He stalks off. She continues to stare at the spot where his shoulder had been, her cheeks warm. She isn't certain if he'd dismissed her or if he expected her to wait in his office.
The slamming of a door to her right makes her jump. He doesn't stand in front of her but instead returns to sit at his desk, placing a squat glass jar at its center. He raises an eyebrow at her.
"Why the devil is your face so red?"
"Oh, is it? I just—do you feel that? It just got really warm all of a sudden. Strange, seeing as we're in the dungeons and all, even considering that it's June. I mean, it doesn't get warm here, does it? I suppose the internal temperature of Hogwarts is very well regulated, but the dungeons are always cold. Which is why I find it so strange that I feel so warm all of a sudden." She pinches her mouth tight, willing the onslaught of nonsense to stop. He gives her a strange look.
"Indeed." He pushes the jar closer to her, his eyes on her face. "This unguent will help ease the aching, as well as help with the scarring. Once a day until the pain is gone. I prefer to use it at night, as the odor is quite... unpleasant. Rub a liberal amount into your ribcage and chest. I shall supply you with more if you run out."
She picks up the jar and screws off the lid experimentally. The ointment is pristine white but is rather redolent of mothballs and old fruit. She wrinkles her nose. She wonders if this is the same stuff he uses whenever he is in pain from his... extracurricular activities. She looks up to find him looking at her, that strange look still on his face.
"Yes, my... extracurricular activities tend to take their physical toll once in a while."
Her eyes widen.
"I'm sorry! I didn't realize I, er, said that aloud... That was terribly intrusive of me." She holds the jar to her chest.
"Well?"
"Sir?"
"Are you waiting for me to demonstrate its application?"
His hand on her chest. Large and warm. Right between her breasts.
"No! Er, I mean... no, thank you, sir, that won't be necessary. I just—I'll be going now, Harry and Ron are probably wondering where I am. Anyway... er, thanks again," she says a little hysterically, walking backwards. "They really should do something about the thermostat charms down here," she adds, before turning at the door and walking briskly back to the Gryffindor tower.
"Hey, you." Lavender perches herself on Hermione's bed and watches as she zips around their room, trying to do some last minute tidying up so the house-elves won't have to do everything.
"Oh hi, Lavender. I'm sorry I've been so spare lately, I know you've been wanting to talk. I've had loads of prefect duties now that term's almost done, and I've been trying to catch up on my knitting and packing—"
"Hermione. I know you've given up on knitting since the D.A. went down. And you've been packed for ages. Term is ending in just three weeks, Lavender, you should really start packing!" she says in a sing-song voice.
Hermione huffs.
"Well, I'm sorry I reminded you to pack before it's too late, but if you're coming to me for hel—"
"Hermione, I'm really sorry."
"—got my own packing to—what?"
Lavender's tone is carries a strange solemnity that startles her. "Hermione, I didn't come up here to ask you to help me pack."
"Well, what do you want then?" Her tone is rude, but she hopes her undeniably frazzled appearance will do the explaining for her.
"I'm sorry, Hermione."
"What? Stop apologizing, you haven't done anything," she snaps.
"I'm really sorry," Lavender says earnestly.
"Oh, Merlin, what have you done now?"
"I'm sorry the D.A. didn't work out, and I'm sorry you had to go through what you did in the Ministry," she blurts out in one breath. Hermione stills at her task. Lavender continues talking. "That was you lot, wasn't it? They said the Death Eaters broke into the Ministry last week. That's why you were in the Hospital Wing for so long. Ron and Neville too."
"How did you—"
"I know what you think of me, but I'm not that stupid, you know," she bristles.
"I didn't think..." She trails off at the skeptical look on Lavender's face. "Yeah..." she finishes lamely. She turns and busies herself with the clasp of her trunk. For a while the only sound is the tinny click-clicking of her Muggle combination lock.
"I know we aren't exactly friends, Hermione. But we can tolerate each other, can't we? You probably think that Parvati and I say nasty things about you behind your back, but we don't really. There was this one time we tried to come up with a charm for your hair, but we honestly just wanted to help you. I just—" Lavender's voice cracks. "I dunno. I feel so horrid about the whole thing... I mean, we've all been living together for five years, and all of you could have died," she whispers wetly. Hermione looks at her in surprise. She settles next to her on the bed, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. She opens her mouth to speak, falters, and tries again.
"Well, we're all fine, aren't we?" No we aren't! the voice in her head sneers, but Sirius Black isn't her secret to tell. "You shouldn't feel so bad about it, Lavender. Any of it. Really."
"Yeah? Even about the hair charm thing?"
"I suppose so. Yeah. Fine, even about the hair charm thing. Look, I'm sorry I was so short with you. I just had all these lists to compile for next year's lessons, I had to go around and ask our Professors for a brief outline of what they plan on covering for next—"
"No one has to do that."
"I'm just a little stressed out, is what I'm trying to say," she replies patiently.
"So you're feeling alright, then?"
"Perfectly. Just... er, a tiny scar, is all, nothing to worry about."
"Alright. Are you heading to the feast?" Lavender gets to her feet and checks her face in the mirror hanging by her bed, tucking a stray strand of impossibly shiny blonde hair back behind her ear. She looks back at Hermione. Whatever it was that just occurred between then, there is no trace of it ever happening in Lavender's smile. Any solemnity that she might have betrayed earlier is carefully enfolded and placed back upon its shelf.
"Yeah, er... sorry, I can't just now. I still have this stuff to do." Hermione makes a vague gesture to indicate their room.
"You know the house-elves actually want to take care of it, don't you? I suppose you don't," Lavender sighs. "I guess I'll see you next fall, then."
They have their own friends, their own compartments in the Hogwarts Express. She's never missed Lavender before. She wonders if this summer will be different.
"Alright, take care, Lav."
It is a mark of how much Mr. Granger missed his daughter that he presented her with a chocolate bar upon their arrival at their home.
"Oh, did you want this?" he asks her offhandedly, dangling the chocolate bar from the corner of its wrapper with his thumb and forefinger.
"One of the boys who came in for wisdom tooth extraction, Johnny Hailsham, do you remember him? He left this on the chair. I don't know how it ended up in my pocket, actually." On his face is an expression of uncaring distaste, as if to imply that he couldn't care less if she took it and that he had been about to toss it in the bin when the idea of offering it to her occurred to him.
Hermione knows better. Neither of her parents are big fans of sugary treats and her father is about as skilled in the art of subterfuge as she is. But he seems determined not to make a big deal out of it, so she says nothing and simply smiles at him.
"Thanks, Daddy."
* Taken directly from canon.
This chapter is largely inspired by a scene in Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. Anyone get the Hailsham reference?