Chapter IV

"Hermione," said Ginny, her voice dramatically low. "I have to tell you something. It might be the most important thing I ever tell you."

"Okay," I replied.

"There's a pig's tail growing out of my bum. I really think I need to get it checked out by a Healer."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm also planning to go on a cockroach diet. I'll only eat cockroaches for the next six months. Blended cockroaches for drinks too."

"That sounds nice."

"I was also considering dyeing your cat's fur purple. That would suit him, don't you think?"

"Yes, very much."

There was a brief pause.

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Ginny?"

"Did you listen to anything I said?" I looked up from my parchment, blushing guiltily. "I thought not," Ginny supplied, "because you just agreed to let me turn Crookshanks purple … What are you writing?"

"A letter."

"Who's it for? Wait, let me guess—your future husband?" She giggled and reached down from the overstuffed red sofa to collect my recently acquired feline companion in her arms, bringing him into her lap and petting him affectionately. Crookshanks, the orange-furred half-Kneazle, was a gift from my parents upon their return from Spain—even though I told them I had already purchased the supplies needed for school, they had insisted on another last-minute trip to Diagon Alley to get me "something special". It was love at first sight, really—the cat was independent, intelligent, and intuitive (all of which were traits I admired in any companion), but he was also not above the frequent cuddle session on the couch in the Gryffindor common room or affectionately rubbing his head against my legs as I worked on homework.

I watched with a smile as Ginny gently stroked the top of his head, to which he purred appreciatively, and she smirked at me as she waited for me to address her question. Indeed, Ginny's playful teasing on the matter of Ron and I's friendship—which had continued strong throughout the first two months of term through semi-weekly letter writing—was more than ironic. She constantly referred to Ron as my "future husband", not knowing anything about the "arrangement" between her brother and I that dictated that, yes, that was exactly what he was.

Admittedly, the second that the term had begun I had semi-successfully flushed out all thoughts of Ronald Weasley—at least those pertaining to the strange feelings he had awoken in me when he plaited my hair that one night, or when he took me outside in his backyard and told me he liked me enough to want to spend his adult life with me … I didn't have the time to ponder on the what if's? or the what did he mean's? of the situation, not when there were essays to be written and books to be read. If anything, Ginny and the twins were the ones who constantly brought the youngest Weasley brother to the forefront of any conversation I was involved in, dissecting every single interaction they had observed between Ron and I and extracting "proof" that we were secretly boyfriend and girlfriend. I dismissed all of the accusations, of course, because Ron and I were friends (friends that had basically said "let's get married one day", but friends nonetheless) and our relationship was completely platonic. Even his letters to me were decidedly innocent, composed of the standard "how are you?" and "I hope you are well" and "school is going fine" and the like.

"A-hem," Ginny cleared her throat, waiting for my answer.

"For your information, this letter is for my parents," I said with a flourish of my quill. "I replied to Ron's letter earlier today, actually."

"A-ha!" she exclaimed. "See, you didn't correct me when I referred to Ron as your future husband. So that means that you admit—" Ginny suddenly went dead silent, and I looked up at her with a concerned frown.

"Ginny, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all," she said. Gently setting Crookshanks next to me, Ginny rose from the couch and stood awkwardly, her eyes focusing on something on the other side of the room. "Er, it's getting late, Hermione. I think I'll go to bed."

Glancing down at my Muggle wristwatch, I remarked: "It's not even nine."

"Yeah, but … Goodnight, Hermione." Without giving me a chance to respond, she turned and fled up the stairs leading to the dormitories in a flash of red hair, leaving behind a pleasantly pungent aroma of strawberry shampoo and whatever fragranced lotion she had been wearing.

Curious, I turned my head and followed the path of her stare to one of the tables pushed against the wall, which had been unoccupied only a few seconds ago. Now, leaning back in the wooden chair and focusing intensely on a piece of parchment, was a boy in my year. His brow was furrowed in concentration, a small frown forming in the corners of his thin lips. I knew who he was. Everyone at Hogwarts knew who he was, being that he was the youngest Seeker the school had seen in over a century. Was he really the reason Ginny had suddenly been stricken with such crippling shyness? Ginny, the headstrong, assertive, and confident younger girl that even the twins did not tease excessively, suddenly stripped of all her powers because of a boy? I bit my bottom lip, analyzing the issue in my head as I idly stroked Crookshanks, and became so lost in thought that I failed to notice that the very subject of my scrutiny had, in fact, approached me.

"Hello?" he asked for what must have been the second or third time. "Are you all right?"

"Oh," I gasped, choking on my own embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I was deep in thought."

"Nothing to fret over." He smiled at me, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. Now that he was standing right in front of me, I could fully appreciate his appearance: he possessed unkempt jet-black hair, flawless floral white skin, and emerald eyes that were dazzling even through his round spectacles. "I was wondering if I could borrow that?" He pointed to Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles, which sat next to me among the other various books I had stacked amongst each other. "I'm afraid I spilled ink all over my copy the other day."

"Did you try a cleaning spell? Scourgify, or perhaps Terego?"

"No, I hadn't thought of that." He looked down, and I felt bad for embarrassing him.

"Maybe I could help you with that sometime." Smiling, I handed him the book.

"Thanks." He gently removed the volume from my grasp, but to my surprise, instead of taking it back to his table, he actually gathered his belongings and joined me before the fireplace. Crookshanks stirred in suspicion, but soon decided the boy harmless when he opened my book and began writing on a fresh sheet of parchment.

"Which assignment are you working on?" I asked curiously.

"The uses and benefits of electricity. And, er—" He flipped over his blank sheet to look at the one beneath it, where several notes were sloppily scribbled in every direction. He turned it sideways, eyeing one line: "—its impact on Muggle culture."

"Wasn't that essay due last week?"

"Professor Burbage was willing to give me an extension due to the Quidditch game." I gave a sort of involuntary "humph" and the boy offered me a nervous grin. "You don't approve?"

"Oh, no, it's not that," I flushed. "I suppose I have always believed homework should come before extracurricular activities." I averted my gaze from those strikingly green eyes, fearing he would take offense.

"That explains a lot," he chuckled.

"Explains what?"

"Why you're the top of every class, Hermione."

I blinked at him several times in incredulity. "You know my name?"

"Of course, we've had classes together for the past two years. You don't think I've picked up on your name yet?"

"We've never sat close enough together to justify starting a conversation," I reasoned. "That and I've always assumed I've been more on the anonymous side."

"It's kind of hard to be anonymous when you raise your hand to answer a question before the professor has even finished saying it, don't you think?" He released a breathy little laugh, but upon noticing my lowered gaze, he added, "I'm only taking the mickey, Hermione. Everyone thinks you're a genius."

"Oh, well … thank you, Harry." It was the first time I addressed him by his name, and when he looked up from his paper to smile at me, there was a distinct warmth to his presence that immediately allowed me to recognize that there was much more to him than the Gryffindor Quidditch star I had previously known him to be.

29 November 1993

Hi, Hermione.

I'm sure Ginny has already told you this, but my parents have invited your parents over for Christmas—which includes you too, of course. I look forward to meeting them. And to seeing you too, obviously. I'll try to tell Dad to actually let them enjoy their time here instead of asking them a million questions about 'a traditional Muggle Christmas' or whatever, but there's only so much you can do with that man.

School is going fairly well over here; I have to read Emma for my English final. The main character sort of reminds me of you. I mean that in a good way. She's kind of snobby but she's also really smart. Not that you're snobby, I only meant the smart bit of it. Gods, I'm rambling now, aren't I? I can't even write a simple letter to you without rambling. Sorry. I don't know if you've ever read the book (although I have a feeling you have, because you've read everything, right?) but Emma is definitely an interesting character. How is school going for you? I reckon I already know the answer (great, fantastic, outstanding, or any similar adjective) but it's always cool to hear about how magical education works too.

Mum has already finished making a sweater for you. I hope you like maroon. I don't, but I'm sure it'll look pretty on you.

Good luck on your finals (not that you need it) and I will see you soon.

Ron

Grinning from ear to ear, I held the letter close to my chest and turned away from Ginny so she could not witness my reddening expression. I had not the slightest idea (or, at least, not in my conscious reasoning) what it was about this particular letter from Ron that made my stomach erupt with such a maddening case of the butterflies, but the pleasant warmth that burst from my heart and spread throughout the rest of my body whenever I read it was distracting enough to cause me to put off replying to it for an entire week. Perhaps it was his complimenting of my literary knowledge (yes, I had indeed read Emma), or maybe him making me privy to the fact that I had a lovingly homemade article of clothing awaiting me that Christmas (the "it'll look pretty on you" line didn't help my heart beat any slower either). The real answer, however, was actually quite clear in the back of my head: in this short letter alone, Ron had brought to my attention the glorious reality that I was going to see him again—that the connection we had established during the previous summer we shared together was more than a mere involuntary response to the fact that I was living in the same house as him at the time; no, there was something genuine between us, a special link that existed even independently of my friendship with Ginny. Looking back on it, my reaction seems rather silly now, but when you're a young teenager, a friendship that survived several months of not seeing each other (especially considering that we were under no formal obligation to continue communication with one another at all) was a true friendship indeed, and I pressed the letter even closer to my sweater-clad chest, crinkling it slightly.

"Unngguhhhh," Ginny groaned obnoxiously from my bed. "Hermione, you have to help me or else I'm going to die!"

I shook my head, inconspicuously slipping the letter in between the pages of one of my journals placed on one of the several dressers in the dormitory. Turning to Ginny, I assessed her condition and deemed her a lovelorn soul indeed: her hair, spread out on my bed like a splatter of red paint, her eyes melancholy and her lips forming a pout. She idly flipped the pages of the Witch Weekly edition she was holding up, sighing every so often.

"You know, if you actually stuck around whenever he came by instead of making up an excuse to run away, you'd find he's rather easy to talk to," I tried.

"That's easy for you to say," Ginny scoffed, flipping another page and pausing on a particularly attractive image of Kirley Duke (the lead guitarist for the Weird Sisters), who winked appreciatively at her. "You have things in common with him."

"Oh yes, so many things. Let's see: we're both in the same House—which you also have in common with him, as well as the hundred other Gryffindors in our House, we're both in the same year, like the dozens and dozens of third-years currently attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and we both have Muggle ancestry—just like the current census indicates eight in ten wizards born past 1950 does—considering that his mother is a Muggle-born like me. Yes, so many things!"

"And you're both only children."

"So?"

"So … well, it's a conversation starter at least!"

"He only started talking to me because he wanted to borrow my book. He didn't approach me and ask for my life story."

"But now?"

"Now what?"

"Now you two talk about more than books and homework, don't you?"

"Of course we do. He's my friend. And he would be your friend to if, like I said, you didn't disappear every time he walked into the room."

"Ugh," Ginny moaned in frustration, comically placing her open magazine over her face. "He's so cute," she said, her words slightly muffled against the glossy paper.

"He's really nice too. Granted, he could use some more motivation when it comes to his study skills and essay writing, but he can be pretty brilliant when he applies himself too. I'm meeting him soon to study for our Potions final, as a matter of fact. Would you care to join us?"

"I think you know the answer to that," Ginny sighed, standing up from my bed. She sauntered over to the door and leaned against the rounded frame. "Look here, Granger," she began again, grinning at me, "I've neglected washing my hair, so I'm going to tend to that now. But first, I should tell you, the last time Ron wrote to me he wanted me to figure out what you would want for Christmas. I'm supposed to be really subtle about it though so you won't expect it."

"You're doing a great job."

"I know." She giggled, twirling a ginger lock around her index finger. "But seriously Hermione, what would you like? You can already expect a sweater or something from my mother and a card from the rest of us—and of course I'm going to chip in too—but I reckon Ron really fancies the idea of making an … individual contribution."

I rolled my eyes at the suggestive inflection she placed on the last two words of her statement, although I couldn't deny, even to myself, that Ron wanting to personally give me something for the upcoming holiday was beyond flattering—it was downright adorable. However, my parents had raised me with a healthy emphasis on humility, and I would never be so presumptuous as to think to explicitly tell a friend what to get me for a holiday.

"Tell him not to get me anything," I said. "Although I find it to be an admirable gesture."

"Not even a set of fabric book covers? The updated edition of Hogwarts, A History?"

"No thank you, Ginny."

She crossed her arms over her chest and gave me a questioning quirk of her eyebrow. "You know he's not going to accept that, right? Ron's stubborn like that. He's going to gather up whatever money he can to get you something." On that note, Ginny wished me goodbye and disappeared from the doorway, leaving me to ponder on my own hypocrisy. How could I, Hermione Granger, in any logical justification, think it inappropriate of Ron to get me something for Christmas, when the decorative homework planners I had bought for both he and Ginny had been sitting on my desk at home waiting to be wrapped since my parents took me back to Diagon Alley? Obviously, a part of my reasoning had to do with the fact that I knew the Weasleys were not exactly financially abundant, and I wouldn't want Ron to spend whatever allowance or birthday money he had to get anything for me. It was only considerate, right? At the same time, I didn't want him to think that I thought of him as helpless or incapable. How could I communicate to him that being at the Burrow surrounded by the warmth of the Weasley family was more than enough, especially without inherently giving away that Ginny had made me aware of his intentions to begin with?

Deciding to ponder on the matter on another day, I gathered my essentials and headed to the library. It was about a half hour earlier than the time I had agreed to meet Harry there, but I figured I could use the extra time to myself to prepare and obtain any needed books. When I arrived, however, I was surprised to see Harry already sitting at our usual bench, his book bag seated next to him and his materials spread out across the table. He looked up as I approached.

"You're here early," I said softly as I took a seat across from him, carefully avoiding disturbing the hypersensitive ears of Madam Pince.

"Thought I'd try to beat you here for once," he smiled back at me.

"In that case, I think I've had a good influence on you, Harry Potter."

"Perhaps so. Does that mean I'm rubbing off on you too at all? Will I be able to convince you to try out for the Quidditch team next year?"

"Not a chance," I chuckled under my breath as I removed several books from my bag. Harry watched me.

"Listen," he said, drawing my attention back to him. "Before we start, I was hoping I could ask you something."

"Sure."

"Well … it's about your friend. The one with the red hair ... Does she not like me or something?"

I gave a nervous smile, mentally strategizing how I could possibly tiptoe my way around this inevitable conversation. "Why would you think that?" I asked innocently.

"She practically runs out the room every time I come around! Haven't you noticed? Just last week when I found you two in the common room to invite you to come watch Quidditch practice—remember that?—she got away from me so fast you would have thought I had dragon pox!"

"Ginny's … shy," I reasoned; the words tasted unpleasantly foreign in my mouth, because "Ginny" and "shy" did not belong in the same sentence.

Despite appearing skeptical and not completely satisfied with my answer, Harry dropped the matter and allowed us to proceed with a productive hour of study, after which we headed back to Gryffindor Tower in a friendly chatter that I wished Ginny would have partaken in.

My final morning at Hogwarts preceding the winter holiday was met with a particularly enthusiastic Harry tapping on my shoulder as I entered the common room following a hearty breakfast in the Great Hall. Ginny stayed behind after insisting on another helping of porridge, and I was merely hoping to check my trunk to ensure I had everything packed for the impending trip home.

"Hey, I was hoping to catch you before we boarded the train," he said. "I would share a compartment with you but I promised Neville I'd let him instruct me on how to care for the potted Mimbulus Mimbletonia he's given me for Christmas. Apparently there's a special method to avoid getting sprayed with that green gunk they produce … Anyway—" Harry turned away from me, going over to the sofa before the fireplace and grabbing something. When he faced me again, I saw that he was holding a small rectangular package, wrapped in a simple crimson paper with a gold bow placed on top. "—this is for you," he said, extending it to me. "You've been such a great help to me this term and I knew I had to get you something."

"Oh … Oh, Harry," I said, taking it from his hands. "This is incredibly kind of you, but I'm afraid I didn't think to get you anything!" I felt the uncomfortable heat rise in my cheeks. I knew Harry and I were friends, but I hadn't considered that we had reached the 'give-each-other-presents' level of friendship in the short amount of time we had come to know each other this term, and I felt incredibly rude as I held the lovely box in my hands.

Harry, bless him, only smiled and gave an understanding shrug. "Don't worry about that, Hermione. The marks you've helped me earn this term are more than enough."

I rolled my eyes. "You're giving me too much credit. You're a fine student on your own, Harry."

"But far too invested in extracurricular activities, right?" he suggested, mimicking my tone from the first time we spoke. I stuck my tongue out at him, and he chuckled as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me.

My parents, Crookshanks, and I arrived at the Burrow on Christmas Eve with the intention of staying until the morning after Boxing Day. As Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ushered my parents around the house, I took Crookshanks upstairs and comfortably settled back into Ginny's room, my eyes ever alert for a certain redheaded boy. When Ginny left me alone for a trip to the loo, I seized the opportunity to remove my gifts from my overnight bag and made my way downstairs.

The Weasley's Christmas tree was an enormous spectacle in the living area, lovingly decorated from top to bottom in ancient, colorful ornaments, and a magically subdued gnome dressed as an angel on top. The space beneath it was already filled with at least a dozen presents, and I discreetly placed my own contributions amongst the bunch with a satisfied sigh.

When I stood up and turned in the direction of the kitchen, however, I jumped at the unexpected sight before me: Ronald Weasley, looking at least two inches taller than the last time I had seen him, with his ginger fringe handsomely brushed to one side of his face, his back pressed against the doorway with an overly browned piece of toast in his hand. As he greeted me with his signature lopsided grin, I noticed that there were a few crumbs dusting his lips, and his tongue darted out to catch them. My breath hitched in my throat.

"Hi, Hermione," he said smoothly, and my heart did several somersaults.