Chapter X

At the risk of sounding arrogant, it came as little surprise to me when I was chosen to be a prefect. (Though, to be fair, it was no surprise to Harry or Ginny or the twins either, and the latter pair used my recently acquired title to tease me about how I would deduct House points for them merely sneezing.) In my four previous academic years at Hogwarts, I had not seen a mark lower than "Exceeds Expectations" and my behavioral record was impeccable. When I was not tending to my prefect duties with Dean Thomas, the chosen male Gryffindor prefect, my free time was split between Harry and Ginny, writing to Ron, and, of course, studying for the impending O.W.L. exams that were set to take place during the final month of school.

However, despite my various preoccupations, I couldn't help but harbor a twinge of jealousy at the witnessing of the blossoming romantic lives of Harry and Ginny. Cho Chang and the recently graduated Cedric Diggory had apparently broken up over the summer, leaving Harry with the opportunity to openly flirt with her, and the two were dating before Christmas. Meanwhile, Ginny and Michael Corner had become "official"; although, even by teenage romance standards, the two did not last long: she broke up with him following his sore reaction to Gryffindor beating Ravenclaw in the last match before the winter holiday, deeming him a "bad loser".

"I was thinking," my female friend later confessed to me. "Perhaps I rushed into a relationship with him to try to … you know, get over Harry. He's really not that pleasant to be with for any extended period of time."

I comforted her during the period of tender soreness that followed almost all break-ups, although it didn't take long for her to resume her usual chipper self.

At Christmas, along with my other presents for the Weasleys, I sent Ron a framed picture of the current lineup of the Chudley Cannons players, which I had acquired at a Quidditch memorabilia shop in Diagon Alley. What was most pleasantly surprising to me amongst the bunch of presents I received in return, however, was the most unusual bottle of perfume I had ever seen. It came from Ron. By no means did it smell bad, quite the opposite, actually; it was just the kind of smell that didn't consist of the vanilla-slash-fruity-slash-flowery aroma usually associated with women's fragrances. Instead, it was exceptionally alluring, like the kind of smell one would expect a fairy or angel or nymph to possess; not entirely human. The bottle it came in itself was a mystery: a strange, almost impractical star shape, pink and transparent. The peculiarity of the perfume was not what was most emotionally jarring to me, but rather the fact that Ron had purchased for me something so intimate and feminine, and when I visited the Burrow a few days following Christmas I had no idea how to thank him.

"It's very … er, unusual, Ron."

"Unusual?" he asked with a frown. "In a bad way?"

"No! I rather like it. I'm just concerned about how much you paid for it, that's all. Because it smells … expensive."

"That's none of your business, young lady," he replied playfully.

"I'm serious, Ron."

"I paid what I could afford ... May I?" he added hopefully, leaning forward.

"Please."

I held my chin upward and pushed my French plaited pigtails behind my shoulders. Ron inched his face toward my exposed neck, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

"Brilliant," he said softly. He reached out and took one of my intricate plaits in his hand, stroking it affectionately. "I like your hair like this."

It would have been so easy to kiss him, the slightest movement of less than five inches. But even my supposed Gryffindor courage would not allow me to press my lips against his; to take what I had wanted for quite some time now. And I wondered—had Ron even had his first kiss? Even if he had made it clear that he wasn't romantically involved with anyone at his school, that didn't mean that there hadn't been plenty of opportunities for a beautiful Muggle girl to capture him in an innocent union of the mouths. As selfish as it was, I dearly hoped that wasn't the case.

On my third day at the Burrow during the latter half of the winter holiday (as always, I was invited to sleep over), I reached a decision regarding what to do, and I invited Ron to have an afternoon tea with me at the Rosa Lee Teabag in Diagon Alley. We ordered a plate of biscuits to go with our beverages, and when Ron eventually excused himself to go the loo, I utilized my compact mirror to ensure my hair looked acceptable and that there were no crumbs on my face.

This was it. I was going to ask him.

I had rehearsed before Ginny's vanity at least a dozen times that morning. "Ronald," I had said to my reflection, in a sweet yet confident voice, "we've known each other for some time now, haven't we? And I think, if it is not too bold of me to say so, that we share a connection that has the potential to be something that's a bit … well, beyond friendship. And I was wondering if you possibly felt the same?" It sounded so practical and straightforward, without being overbearing too. I could only pray that I could repeat it to him as perfectly as I had rehearsed it.

He returned and sat down across from me. We were in an intimate little booth in the back corner of the building. The fireplace crackled lowly, and the shop was actually quite busy, which was perfect. (I was reminded of a quote from The Great Gatsby, one of my favorite pieces of Muggle literature, about large parties providing more privacy than small parties.)

I inhaled deeply in preparation.

"Are you all right, Hermione?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine. More than fine," I smiled somewhat hesitantly, reaching out to take his hand. He didn't resist. "Ron, there's something I want to tell you."

"Yeah?" He leaned forward attentively. I briefly closed my eyes, bringing forth the recent memories of my successful rehearsals in the mirror. I could do this. When I met his gaze again, his blue eyes were so exquisitely piercing. He looked eager; hopeful, even. "What is it, Hermione?"

"Well, Ron," I began slowly, a smile playing with the corners of my mouth, "you and I have been friends for some time now, haven't we? And … I was thinking that, perhaps—"

"Is that HERMIONE GRANGER?" an unexpected voice, high and bubbly, sounded from a few feet away. I turned to the source: Lavender Brown, clad in a stylishly faded pair of denim that hugged the curves of her thighs, a long sleeved, pink flower-patterned top, and a matching hair ribbon that held her blonde waves behind her ears, from which dangled a small pair of gold hoop earrings. She was gorgeous.

She approached Ron and I in a kind of skip-walk motion, her hair bouncing behind her.

"Oh … erm, hi, Lavender."

She placed a hand on my shoulder. "And what might you be doing here?" she asked innocently.

"Just out with … a friend," I said, motioning to Ron.

"Really now? I was here to get a box of Cauldron Cakes to go. It's my parents anniversary, you see, and they love Cauldron Cakes." She turned her aqua blue gaze to Ron and held out her delicate, manicured hand. "It's very nice to meet you …"

"Ron," I supplied. "His name is Ron."

"Hi," Ron said softly, taking her hand in a friendly, albeit brief shake.

"Ron," the girl repeated with a flirty, upward inflection. "How long have you known Hermione?"

"Umm …"

"Over two years," I said.

"Two years?" Lavender repeated incredulously. "But why haven't you mentioned him, Hermione?"

"Er …" (Because we rarely speak to each other?) "I'm sure I have at least once, Lavender."

"Nooooo …" she said, beaming across the table at the confused looking Ron. "I would have remembered him."

"Order for Lavender!" one of the shop employees spoke from the counter. Lavender sighed.

"I guess I'll see you two around," she said, never taking her eyes off Ron. "Bye Hermione. Bye Raawwwwn." She turned away from us in such a manner that her long hair nearly slapped me across the face, leaving the overbearing scent of her flowery perfume in her wake. I watched until she obtained her box of cakes and left the shop before I turned back to Ron, who stared at me wide-eyed.

"She seems … nice."

"That's a way to put it," I replied grumpily.

"She's in your year?"

"Yes, I room with her too," I confirmed. "We're not exactly friends, though."

"Oh."

"Yeah." I took a long sip at my tea, my insides stewing.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"You … well, you said you wanted to tell me something?"

"I did." I sat my half-empty cup down, sighing. I knew there was no point in trying now: the burst of confidence I had mustered up from my rehearsals had been destroyed the moment Lavender Brown had approached in all of her bubbly girlishness. "What I wanted to tell you was … um, I just noticed you've got a smudge of dirt on the side of your nose."

"Oh, I do?" Flushed, he ran his index finger around the side of his nostrils. "I was helping Mum with the garden earlier; guess I didn't wash up as good as I thought. Did I get it?"

"You did."

"Um … is there something else you wanted to tell me, Hermione?"

I met his gaze—his beautifully penetrating gaze—and saw the twinkle of hopefulness deeply set in his neon blue. But I sighed, licked my lips, and shook my head.

"No."

Lavender wasted no time in asking about Ron the moment we returned from the winter holiday.

"So he's a Weasley?" she asked as I changed into my nightwear after dinner. "But … he's about our age, isn't he? Why isn't he at Hogwarts?"

"He's a Squib."

"A Squib?" She batted her eyes. "But … they're rather rare, aren't they?"

"It's estimated that Squibs occur in only one of every three hundred births in the wizarding world," I stated flatly. "Or so I've read."

"Wow …" the attractive girl breathed, her glossy lips glimmering in the low light of the dormitory. "That makes him very … interesting."

"Interesting?" I asked with a quirk of my brow. "He doesn't really like to talk about it, Lavender. I mean—he's not ashamed of it, but, naturally, it makes him feel kind of alienated."

"Does he have a girlfriend?"

"Um … no," I answered truthfully.

"Do you see him at all during term? Does he visit you at Hogsmeade?"

"Well … yeah. Sometimes."

"Hmm."

"Will you two hush?" said Parvati Patil. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, writing a letter while using the cover of a book as a support. "Some of us are actually tending to relationships that are already established."

"You're still talking to that boy from Beauxbatons?" Lavender giggled. "I didn't think it would last this long."

Parvati stuck her tongue out at her best friend.

"Why wouldn't it last long? He's an absolute gentleman and showed me a great time at the ball—unlike my actual date."

"Was Harry really that bad?" Lavender asked.

"Noooo. He was just a little awkward."

"Seamus was awkward too," said Lavender. "It was kind of cute, really. And speaking of cute …" she turned her attention back to me, "are you still in contact with Viktor Krum, Hermione?"

"I write to him every so often."

"And?" Parvati urged.

"And we're friends."

The two girls seemed to realize that they weren't going to get any juicy details from me, for they turned away and allowed me to peacefully settle into my four poster bed. I pulled the privacy curtains closed to ensure I would remain undisturbed for the rest of the evening, and hours later, when they thought I was well asleep, I heard them speaking softly, so softly that I almost could not discern their voices:

"Is he cute?"

"He is," Lavender excitedly confirmed. "He's got that red hair that all of the Weasleys seem to have, but … he's very unique looking at the same time. His eyes, Parvati, I swear I saw them gleaming at me from across the shop."

"Are you sure they weren't gleaming for Granger instead?"

"Hermione has got a famous Quidditch star waiting for her," said Lavender confidently. "She's not messing around with Ron too. No … that'd be cruel of her. And she said they've known each other for over two years. If something were to happen between them, it would have happened already."

I closed my eyes and clamped my lips shut as a single tear threatened to dampen my pillow.

Ron's smiling face happily distracted me from The Lavender Problem when he met me at Hogsmeade a few weeks later. We had a round of butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks with Harry and Ginny before splitting up to explore different parts of the village. Ron and I walked, side by side, away from the main streets until we were heading down a path that I knew only led to one place.

"And just where do you think you're taking me, Granger?" Ron finally asked.

"Where's your sense of adventure, Mister Weasley?"

"In the chocolate section of Honeydukes."

"Do you think of anything other than food?"

"Yes, I think of lots of things!"

"Such as?"

"Such as where the hell you're taking me."

I giggled and grabbed him by the hand, ushering us forward on the snow-covered path until we were past the last bunch of bushes and high trees. Finally, an old run-down and boarded up house came into view, and I set forward with intense curiosity. Ron halted at my side.

"That's someone's house," he said.

"No. It's been abandoned for decades, Ron. Haven't you ever heard of the Shrieking Shack?"

"No."

"It's said to be one of the most haunted places in all of Britain!"

"I try not to familiarize myself with such things."

I turned away from him and stared ahead, past the ancient fence and up the small hill where the house sat, mysterious and undisturbed.

"Would you like to get a little closer?" When Ron only looked at me curiously, I added: "To the Shrieking Shack, I mean."

"Are you mad? We'll get in trouble!"

"No one's occupied that house in years, Ron. Come on, it'll be fun!"

"I dunno, Hermione …"

"Fine," I said with a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Let's just go to Honeydukes and find Harry and Ginny …" I walked past him, my head hanging low. I only made it three steps before I heard him grunt in defeat, and he grabbed me by the arm.

"Ugh, let's check this place out, then."

"Really?" I asked, excited.

"You really know how to play with a bloke's emotions. But I swear, the moment I see a spider—"

"We're about to enter the most haunted house in all of Britain, and you're worried about spiders?"

"Well, now that you mention it …" he began warily as we passed through one of the openings in the rickety old fence, "… why is this place said to be haunted, exactly?"

"The exact story seems to change with each generation. The most pervasive one that I've read is that the original owners were a family of werewolves. Their loud transformations frightened the villagers—hence calling it the Shrieking Shack."

"What happened to the family?"

"No one knows for sure. They were most likely run out by the villagers. Although, there is another version that says they all ended up killing one another during one of their transformations …"

"How lovely."

"Very!"

The small ascent to the boarded up front side of the house seemed to last an eternity, but when we got there, there was no denying the menacing air of mystery that hung over the establishment, and for a moment even I wondered what the hell I was doing.

"Hmm," I said, examining the impeding wood. I produced my wand from the pocket of my coat. "Abrete Sesamo should be able to get us through …"

"Oi!" Ron objected. "Won't you get in trouble for using magic outside of school?"

"Article 528/2 of the 1714 Edict," I began authoritatively, "Prefects and the Head Boy and Head Girl are permitted to freely use magic within the specified spell limits of Hogsmeade village, and/or any other school regulated outing to an all-wizarding premise or site. Any other instance of underage magic is justifiable only in the case of life-threatening situations."

"So … what you're saying is?"

"That, as a prefect, I am at perfect liberty to do this." I held my wand out to the boarded up door. "Abrete Sesamo!"

All at once, the tightly screwed nails that held the various planks of wood in place flew away, revealing a decrepit wooden door, partly hanging off its hinges, which immediately flew open to grant us entry.

"Bloody hell!" Ron said, looking around us frantically. "What if someone saw that?"

"I doubt anyone has been this close to the house in years, Ronald." I stepped forward and tentatively poked my head through the doorway, feeling like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Finally, the rest of my body caught up to me, and I fully stepped into the Shrieking Shack, the front door of which opened to dusty hallway. "Come on!"

"You know," Ron said as he followed me inside. "If I could use a wand, I would pull it on you right now."

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm not sure you're Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger wouldn't be doing something this barmy right now."

I rolled my eyes. "Step aside, would you?"

He pressed his back against one of the dusty, peeling walls.

"Reparo," I said, aiming at our place of entry. The door slammed shut and, from the outside, I could hear the boards replace themselves and the screws work back into place. "Now, if anyone were to come by, they won't see any evidence of someone having entered."

"Brilliant, you are."

"Thank you."

I casted a series of room illuminating charms before Ron and I ventured any further into the house, as it was naturally quite dark given that all the windows were covered with wood. What we found during the first half hour of our visit was that, while the site had certainly been reduced to that of a "shack" from decades of neglect, it was actually the ghost of what must have once been a happy family home. A two-story affair, the main hall led to a living area with a faded, moth-ridden sofa and armchair with a fireplace, a coffee table, and two smaller tables with lamps. The other side of the hall provided entry to a small and equally depressing kitchen, while upstairs there were two bedrooms and a wash area. Several mice scurried away in horror at the unexpected human presence.

"Blimey, Hermione," said Ron. "Come look at this."

I followed his voice into the smaller of the two bedrooms, which was occupied with a full-sized four poster bed, two side tables, and a vanity dresser with a dirty, cracked mirror. What had caught Ron's attention though was what resided in the corner of the room: a miniature crib, fit only for a very young baby. It was covered with a torn blanket, and he gingerly pushed it aside to reveal a dirty mattress and a porcelain doll with a yellowing white dress, her eyes closed in eternal slumber.

"I don't like this," he said suddenly, throwing the blanket back in place. "It feels like we're grave robbing or something."

"Yes, I understand the feeling ... We won't take a single thing. But …" I looked around at the gloomy place, "… it wouldn't hurt to clean up a bit."

"Clean up?"

"Sure. If we're going to be here for a while, we might as well make it fit for human habitation." I held my wand out at the bed: "Terego." The dust vanished from the faded blankets and pillows. "Reparo." The cracks in the vanity mirror vanished. "Scourgify." The numerous cobwebs in the corners of the walls disappeared into thin air, and within the following hour the rest of the house received the same treatment. Ron stood at my side during the entire process, surprisingly mesmerized by the simple cleaning spells that I was sure he observed Mrs. Weasley perform on a daily basis.

"Gods!" he exclaimed as he took in the restored master bedroom. "Blimey, Hermione—you're amazing! I'm serious, you're probably the brightest witch of our age! If it weren't for the boarded up windows it almost looks like someone could actually sleep here!"

"It looks like someone recently has … if you know what I mean," I said through a small chuckle, motioning to a patch of messy writing on the mended wallpaper that read, in a curly script: Lola + Davey. Forever in love. 1972.

"Ew!" Ron said, making a face. "We don't know if they came here to do that," he said as I continued to giggle at my suggestion. "Besides, 1972 isn't exactly recent, Hermione."

"It's still pretty cool to think we aren't the only ones who have explored here. And now it's ours." I plopped down on the aged blue duvet, now impeccably clean, as if it were fresh out of a Muggle washing machine. I leaned back and rested on it completely, like it was my very own bed. "We can live here, Ron. We can stay here forever and ever and have kids."

"How many kids would we have?"

"Twenty-two. We could have eleven of our own and then adopt the other eleven."

"Why twenty-two?"

"It's a nice even number, don't you think?"

He laughed. "You're mad, Granger."

"Come here, would you?" I said, making a grabby-hand motion at him. He sat down next to me. "Lie back."

"What are you up to?" he inquired as he rested his head next to mine.

I nuzzled closer to him, grabbing his closest arm and wrapping it around my shoulders. The side of my face now rested against his chest, and I closed my eyes. "I missed this," I sighed. "I missed you."

"I missed you too, Hermione." He looked down at me. "Is something wrong?"

"No, it's just … with Harry and Ginny dating now, I can't help but feel a little …"

"Left out?"

"Yeah. I mean, even since she's broken up with Michael, boys are still asking her to hang out all the time. Ginny, she's—she's grown into quite an attractive girl, you know. She invites me to come with her, but I don't want to be a third wheel. I know those boys want to hang out with her, not frumpy old Hermione Granger. And … oh, I'm sorry, you probably don't want to hear about your little sister's romantic life, do you?"

"It's okay," he shrugged. "And you are not frumpy, Hermione."

"I'm not as pretty as Ginny."

"You and Ginny are pretty in different ways."

"If you say so."

"Why are you so stubborn?"

I didn't answer, but instead played with a button on his shirt, enjoying the quiet serenity of our little place, where I was with him, and I could be with him until the end of the time if I so wished.

"May I tell you a horrible secret?"

"What? You once turned in a library book a day after it was due?"

"No," I replied as he chuckled. "The truth is … I often find myself wishing that you were a wizard, Ron, so you could be at Hogwarts with me and I wouldn't have to wait so long to see you. That's horribly selfish of me, isn't it?"

He sighed heavily. "No, it isn't. I feel the same way."

He stroked my hair, and we stayed like that for a while, on the cleaned inside of the abandoned house with wooden boards covering every window and door. It was Our Place now.

By the end of term, Cho and Harry had broken up on civil, mutual terms (Harry later told me that he believed her still existing feelings for Cedric prevented them from truly connecting) and Ginny had started dating Dean Thomas, which I believed accounted for several of his unexplained absences from our scheduled patrols of the corridors as prefects.

During the first month of summer I kept consistent contact with my friends, and when I was invited to spend the latter half of August at the Burrow, it was with an excited haste that I packed my trunk and said goodbye to my parents, who, by that time, had developed a tender understanding for my desire to spend at least some time at the Burrow during each holiday, and I swore by the look my mother gave me that she was well aware that I went for more than to spend time with Ginny ...

When I arrive, Ron is the one who greets me, and his sapphire eyes linger appreciatively on every inch of my face.