March 2, 1997
Hermione lay in bed, staring at the red velvet canopy. Hagrid had escorted her and Harry from Ron's bedside in the hospital wing earlier tonight, and she had gone to bed immediately but couldn't sleep. Her mind kept replaying everything that had happened between her and Ron over the last four-and-a-half months, everything since she'd asked Ron to Professor Slughorn's Christmas party, and landing on Ron calling her name.
He had called her name, hadn't he? He was ill and unconscious, but when he heard her voice, the first time she'd spoken since entering the hospital wing, he had said her name. Hermione's eyes welled with tears. How could she have let this go on for so long? Ron had been trying to make up with her for ages, since the beginning of term. What if—what if Harry hadn't been there when Ron was poisoned? What if the bloody Prince hadn't written about bezoars in that bloody book? What if she never had the chance to tell Ron—
Tired of crying about it, Hermione threw back the covers and opened her bed curtains. Parvati and Lavender were sound asleep. Hermione felt a twinge of guilt; as far as she knew, no one had told Lavender that Ron had been poisoned. Hermione pulled her robes on over her nightclothes, made sure her prefect badge was straight, put her wand in her pocket, and left the dormitory.
It was well past midnight, and the common room was deserted. She paused, staring at the back of the Fat Lady's portrait. Hermione had been out after curfew several times before, but she was used to the protection of the Marauder's Map or Harry's Invisibility Cloak, or even both. She hadn't been out, defenseless, at night since—since that night in her first year when Malfoy challenged Harry to a duel. She had got locked out of Gryffindor Tower and gone with them, and Ron (she sniffed wetly), Ron had argued, first with her and then with Peeves. She frowned at the portrait hole. The last time she went out after curfew without magical assistance, she had nearly been caught by Filch, had been caught by Peeves, nearly caught by Filch again, and almost eaten by a giant three-headed dog.
Well, it couldn't be that bad, could it? And she was no longer a first year. Hermione Disillusioned herself.
She felt some of her despondency lift as she retraced her steps to the hospital wing. She always felt better once she acted. Freed from immediate decision-making, her brain returned to the problem at hand. What did it mean, that Ron called her name? He recognized her voice, of course. Hermione allowed herself a wry smile. As much as she had talked over the last several years, Ron wasn't likely to forget the sound of her voice in a few short months. So he recognized her. Maybe he was glad to hear her, to know she was around. But glad as in, "my best friend is back," or something more?
She had thought it was something more. All that time at the Burrow last summer, prefect duties, that day in Herbology . . . she had thought they were going somewhere. That finally, after the squabbles, the arguments, the fights; the discussions, the worry, the adventure; the teasing, the games, the laughter; the long looks, the special smiles, the tentative touches, finally they were moving towards a romantic relationship. She thought about their defining moments: first year and the troll, second year and the Acromantulas, third year and the Shrieking Shack, fourth year and the Yule Ball, fifth year and the perfume at Christmas, and this year—
Hermione teared up again. Which should she choose? The changing rooms after the Slytherin match? Ron's first kiss with Lavender? The canaries? That horrible day when Ron imitated her in Transfiguration? Hearing from Professor McGonagall that Ron was poisoned? She clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling a sob. She could not let this year be marked by nothing but fighting with Ron. She had been given another chance, and she was taking it, rules or no rules.
Hermione wiped her eyes. She didn't need to think about how to get to the hospital wing, but she did need to see where she was going. Sniffling as quietly as possible, she continued downstairs.
But what did it mean, that Ron had called her name while unconscious? Everyone had heard him. Ginny had given Hermione a knowing look. Ginny said Ron didn't like Lavender at all, not even as a friend and definitely not as a girlfriend. Ginny said Ron fancied Hermione. Ginny said Ron was only with Lavender because—well, Hermione didn't like to repeat that part of what Ginny said, even in the privacy of her own mind. Hermione frowned. Maybe Ginny knew what it meant, and she should have gone to talk to Ginny. But it was too late now.
Hermione pushed open the double doors to the hospital wing.