Palimpsest Chapter 14, a harry potter fanfic

I do not own, or receive any benefits from, the Harry Potter Properties.

Palimpsest

The Travails of Scholars: Chapter 14

By Larry Huss

It was after the Halloween Feast … her stomach uncomfortably bulging… that Hermione lay on her bed and tried to aid somnolence by reading something in German. The sooner she got to sleep, the sooner her digestive tract could get to work undisturbed and deal with the House Elves' delightful exercise in excess. She was not fully at home in German, and an open bilingual dictionary was next to her on the bed. Every ten or fifteen minutes the Lumos spell she had put onto one of the posts of her bed would start to dim, and she would have to reapply it. It was a sort of a snooze-alarm, in the reverse, when she finally dozed off the light would be turned off automatically, as it were.

The book she was reading, Dark Wizards and their Spells by Heinrich Rotschimdt, probably deserved to be translated, or at least be used by a German speaker if read in the original. She could get the feeling it was well written, but the finer points of style were too close to the absolute limit of her ability to push their way through the language barrier. If she hadn't been at the section where Grindelwald's career and repertoire was being discussed she'd have just called it a night and turned in, but the connection to Dumbledore was clear enough (they had been boyhood friends as well as each other's nemesis later on) and she felt she had to get through at least that section before she could finally close the book's covers for the night.

It was on page 138 that she saw, mentally translated, wrote down, and then worked the translation again word-by-word with the dictionary at hand (not that it was very complicated) what she had looked for in vain for several years:

Vile and obsessed as he may have been, the roots of Grindelwald's early idealism remained with him to the very day of his defeat. He never succumbed to engaging in the vile and murderous ritual of ensuring his personal survival, while his allies and subordinates daily risked theirs, by creating for himself the delusional immortality of a Horcrux. A murderer he may have been, a monster he was not.

From that point on there was no possibility of sleep that evening, and as dawn broke Hermione was completing the last of her letters. One was to the Librarian at Durmstrang (reputed in Britain to be a bastion of the study of the Dark Arts):

Dear Sir,

I am a student at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and find myself in a dilemma. I have a paper due on the subject of real versus imaginary methods of longevity and immortality, and find that the Library here is ridiculously poorly stocked with materials on that frequently encountered literary trope. The need for information on actual possibilities is, of course, to contrast the vivid imaginations of the romancers with the cold, hard reality which we real-life practitioners of the Magical Arts must deal with.

Our own Librarian is somewhat touchy about the holes in her collection, and is not inclined to answer any questions that point up the shortcomings of the selection of materials purchased or discarded during the period of her administration. She is also disdainful of the materials available at the other notable Magical establishments of Europe.

I wonder if it would be too much to ask if perhaps you might be willing to ask a suitable student, perhaps learning the valuable skill of Librarianship, perhaps only doing volunteer work for the love of working around books, to check you shelves and perhaps prepare a number of excerpts and citations from the less common (at least in Britain) sources on the topic? I would be ever so grateful.

Enclosed is a SASE for your convenience.

Yours truly,

Hermione Granger

One was to Professor Rotschmidt at the address listed on the fly-leaf:

Dear Doctor-Professor Rotschmidt,

I recently purchased a copy of your recent work, "Dark Wizards and their Spells", and was struck with a certain comment you had made on page 138 of the first edition, printing of 1989. You mentioned, in connection with Gellert Grindelwald that he had purposely avoided engaging in something called a Horcrux, a word that not only have I never heard of before (myself only a student, of course), but which seems completely absent from any of the references available in the Library here at Hogwarts.

If it would not be too inconvenient I hope that you could spend a small part of the hour and enlighten a devoted reader.

Does the Horcrux create invulnerability to injury, or perhaps it grants accelerated healing, and so protects the user/creator? Or does it give long life (barring injury or disease) as its primary function?

From my reading of your work, and forgive me if I misunderstand, not being a native speaker of German, it seems as if a Horcrux is an object to be worn in order to gain its advantages. Is that so? In which case; is there a particular appearance for such a thing? I'd like to know how to stay away from anyone who has such a bauble, if it is created in as evil a manner as you have alluded to.

Which, as one question always spawns another; when you mentioned a murderous ritual… you weren't being poetic about it, were you? Without getting into too many specifics (lest I lose the ability to sleep from shock), or particular instructions or language involved, what makes the enactment of this particular ritual or the creation of this particular type of artifact so horrid? The true degree of Grindelwald's rejection of the low path is still somewhat unclear to me.

And, this is truly my last question in this letter; why is a Horcrux a delusory path to immortality?

In any case, let me thank you for all that your writings have already done to illustrate the seductive nature and utter necessity of rejecting the dark path, regardless of the promises it makes of easy success and fame.

Your Devoted Reader,

Hermione Granger.

SASE enclosed.

Another missive was to Auror-Trainee N. Tonks:

Hi Tonks!

Is Greengrass working out for you? I thought you said that dating a fellow Auror wasn't usually easy to schedule in the long run, what changed your mind?

Do you have a picture?

No, even with the re-starting of Hogsmeade weekends (the mysterious Beast having become a distant memory somehow over the summer so they've started them up again), no dates on this end. Group voyages to Honeydukes, and something non-House-elfish for a change at the Broomsticks, and a lot of promenading up and down and seeing who's desperately in Wuv with each other this week, but no dates. I feel like a female battleship who spends all her time being guarded by a flotilla of escorts too efficient to ever let her get into delicious danger. How can I tell them? Danger Is My Business! At least that sort of danger. But no one else asks, and the Boys are such fun anyway, who could resist them?

I came across this thing, in my non-ciric reading, and I wonder if you could give me a hint or something. What's a Horcrux, and how are they made? Are they big or small, or blue or yellow, that sort of stuff. It's not vital or anything, but you know, when I get the curiosity bug nibbling at me it does become quite a bother. I would appreciate your checking the manuals or records or case files or whatever you call them. But there's no need to annoy any of your instructors or superiors, their probably ticked enough at you from some perfectly unexplainable reason anyhow. Like their favorite coffee mug going unspellably missing (Lav is using it to start a dwarf aloe plant).

Oh, the Twins thank you for your observations on their Canary Cremes effects and duration. They especially are happy that even the Forensics Team couldn't recover information from the test subjects (or should we be candid and call them victims?). People think you're clumsy, but I notice you're never actually caught at anything you want to get away with.

Dawlish is working out well, at least he's the best any of the Third Years and under have seen. And so far there have been no disasters, explosions (and with Snape harassing the Firsties as he does that is a minor miracle) or mysteries for us to ponder. Unlike that thing you mentioned in your last letter, is it post-moot yet so that you can talk about it?

Yrs, Granger (if you write to more than one person in the family, doesn't it get hard to tell them apart if you only use surnames? Maybe you should have them use numbers and codes or something. Granger-gen1 no1?).

One went to the bookstore from which Professor Rotschmidt's book had been ordered, and one was in an envelope separately sealed in another, and the covering envelope sent to her parents (with instructions to hide it, as it contained information that must not be forgotten). It is easy enough to imagine how pleased the elder Grangers were with that development. They could only hope that Hermione was reading mysteries again; they tended to make her a trifle dramatic.

No amount of morning tea managed to keep Hermione going after noon had rolled around that day, and she was unceremoniously dumped in her bed by her dorm mates after she had nearly drowned herself dozing off into the soup that had led off their luncheon.

Hermione brought the book to her next meeting down by the Lake with the Twins, and briefed Fred and George (whose researches into the Horcrux matter had so far occupied a good part of their time, and brought them little profit) on her efforts, and promised to share any further information that her letters brought in. Then, on the verge of tears, she demanded that they pull the memory of that briefing, and her decisions about informing them, from her mind. She was so ashamed of her joy when they admitted that they hadn't been studying the art of mind-messing and couldn't oblige her.

When she had got safely away (and out of hearing range), a worried conversation took place:

"Hidden Heart?"

"Keyed to a killing?"

"Seriously sick."

"Very Voldemort."

"You just said-"

"Some things must be said. And it's not as if he can hear us, after all."

"Are you sure?"

"Hmm?"

"Anyway, 'Evil Horcrux Vold made.' Is Horcrux a singular or a plural?"

"No idea. With that bloke it's probably wise to take the worst interpretation."

There was a long and pregnant silence after that, full of intense lack of speech and the odd quick glance into the dark corners of the area. Neither Fred nor George was happy… now that they had worked things out up to that point… with their current knowledge of either the Dark Lord's auditory abilities, or of the limits of the Hidden Heart ability. At least now they, for the first time, believed the Fairy Tale motif might be more than an invention for children's stories to include in order to complicate the hero's journey. If Hermione had discovered it (and she'd obligingly left the original source material for them to do their best on) it was too likely to be true for it to be ignored.

After all, she had identified Pettigrew (and wisely left his actual capture to them), helped destroy the most complete prat of a teacher (even surpassing Snape in so many ways) in recent memory, and was evidently turning Ron into something more than the berk they had always feared he would turn into. Either they should believe her, and follow up on the lead she'd given them; or they should reconsider their early dismissal of her potential for future great evil. A Dark Lady Hermione might have been able to plant all the clues they had seen over the last few years, and then deftly lead them to certain inevitable conclusions. If so, dare they not continue as they had been going, staying on as her assistants and co-conspirators? Getting her angry at them could have… disturbing consequences.

And even if she wasn't going into the Dark Lady business, just getting normal Hermione angry at them was not something to be lightly contemplated.

Oddly enough, even her occasional vulnerabilities seemed to create interesting and profitable avenues of inquiry. She'd proven last year that even Percy was useful if approached properly. And Percy had access to the highest levels of the House of Swots. That offered an interesting way to cross-check her reasoning.

As spells and blocks were flicked out in the gathering dusk, Draco Malfoy did a rolling dive to a kneeling position and managed to slip a Lumos past Potter's guard and onto his left foot. The "attacks" had to be innocuous, though any protective charms or physical blocking materials had to be at full power or weight. House rules, and good ones from Draco's perspective; he might have trained up enough to stop one of Longbottom's Bone-Breakers, but being knocked back arse-over-teakettle even by a successful counter was no fun. Now he was concentrating on avoiding Granger's sniping in the Grand Mêlée that tended to start as the Student Group (the latest nomenclature for their amorphous get-togethers) wound down from teaching/critiquing new spells, and generating novel ideas on the application of old ones.

At the end he was among the last tapped out (three successful strikes against), and, unusually, Patil carried off the laurels for the day. Still, not a bad workout, and in the earlier part of the meeting he'd been able to get a handle on detecting active spell triggers (Potter's contribution to their meeting) and the Nothing Important Here charm had been introduced(that's how Patil pulled it off!). Evidently his lack of interest in something so mild and modest had been a mistake that had to be dealt with.

Between the running around in the cool air (was it true Granger went swimming in the Black Lake in this season?) and the expenditure of magic for so many spells, Draco was eager for the chance to get to dinner. Since the Granger-brokered Armistice with Greengrass's lot had come into effect there was a far more relaxed atmosphere at the Slytherin table, and a vastly reduced chance of some odd potion being slipped into your soup. Unless the Weasley Twins were doing the hell-brewing they called "research," of course.

He wondered… should he tell Patil (this one Parvati) that over the summer holiday he'd got Mother to take him into a rather decent place that served Indian food, and he'd tried some that had been interesting (in the 'good' sense)? It might seem a bit… condescending. And he didn't want anyone with such lovely eyes to think that of him. From what he seen during the Mêlée she had a very decent set of pins on her, also.

The letter was in Harry's pocket. He hadn't destroyed it, because every now and again he would (when he was certain he was alone) take it out and re-read it. Because it was too unbelievable to be true, and its allegations were also from a source too credible for it possibly to be false. Ordinarily, something this disturbing (at least for the last few years) would have been a topic for a hurriedly called meeting of the Boys, which naturally enough always included Hermione. But this time it was Hermione who was the topic of concern. Not for something relatively trivial as a little mutually agreed upon oblivation and memory extraction between consenting students. This was serious.

Considering how rigid Tonks was on enforcing the serious parts of Wizarding law (though she was refreshingly relaxed about doing any of the petty harassment that certain Aurors found essential to the proper care and maintenance of their egos), the urgency of her request was as close to a snarling order as he had ever heard her deliver, even when drilling him over the summer on his alertness, spell-casting, and physical conditioning. That Sirius… rule-bending (at the least) and anarchic to a sometimes disturbing degree… had endorsed his niece's request vividly emphasized the importance and urgency of the whole affair.

Hermione Granger was researching magics so evil and forbidden that they weren't even listed as Unforgivable, all knowledge of them being suppressed instead. She was corresponding (perhaps in code?) with experts on Grindelwald's use of the most fearsome magics, and should be kept under surreptitious observation until what were her full connections with the Sebastopol Group (evidently some secret bitter-enders still hanging on from Grindelwald's War) and their evidently still active campaign of infiltration of the Wizarding governments of Europe.

Not his most trusted friend, not even his Head of House or the Headmaster should be informed of this surveillance, lest they give her a premature warning of some sort. From Tonks' formality, Harry got the impression that a high level of Auror attention was being given to the matter, and they were dead serious.

Not telling anyone was easy enough. The person he'd have usually discussed something so important and complicated with would have been Hermione, of course, and that was dead out. Then there was Ron, who Harry was absolutely sure had a serious crush on her. There was Neville, who'd say it was a low thing to spy on one of your best friends (and be right, of course). Certainly there were others he liked and paled around with, but they weren't part of the inner circle that he absolutely trusted. The closest were the Twins, and to tell the truth, they were on better terms with Hermione than they were with their other brothers in school. Or their sister for that matter.

If this sort of thing was part of the Auror way of life, Harry was starting to reconsider his earlier enthusiasm for the career.

Harry moped considerably for the next several days, and tried (unsuccessfully) not to be short-tempered and curt with his friends. He noticed he was quietly keeping an eye on Hermione, and noting her comings and goings, and even using his Cloak to keep track of what she was reading in the Library. But, of course, a Third Year wouldn't be allowed to get at any of the really good (make that Bad) stuff that resided on the shelves of the Restricted Section. She probably kept the worst materials on her, or hidden so cleverly that no one else could find it. After all, she's the one who had figured out about the Basilisk just by tracing where things had to be. And since it was Hermione it had to have a literary angle in it somewhere, so what was she reading?

At last, on Saturday afternoon, Harry felt that he was going to do something extremely stupid (he hadn't decided quite what yet) if he didn't blow off some steam, so he trudged up to the Owlery and persuaded Hedwig to take an afternoon flight. Transforming into his Animagus form, he raced her to the edge of the Forbidden Forest (winning easily), and then lost three games of tag in a row as she proved that it doesn't pay to try to out maneuver an owl in the shadows and shifting light of a bough-filled forest.

At last, she somehow managed to impress on him that she really, really, had to go, as she had a social engagement later that evening, and departed for her perch and a light repast. Harry decided he wanted a little more quiet time for himself, and landed on the forest floor to transform back into his more pedestrian shape… taking into account the lessons Tonks had drilled him in he made very sure he was not in one of the Acromantula breeding areas or hunting grounds. Of course, his being one of the party that discovered Quirrell may also have given him incentive to be thorough about checking out his landing spot.

He hurried a bit, as the light was starting to go, and being in the Forbidden Forest in the dark, under the gloom of the trees on a moonless night before all the leaves were down was just the least bit terrifying, even for a Boy-Who'd-Lived-So-Far. As a result, as he broke into a dignified trot when he saw a definite brighter area ahead, signifying the end of the forest, he was just a little less observant of his surroundings than he had been even a few moments earlier, and tripped and did a header into the cloak-wrapped form of Luna Lovegood who had decided the clear night air would be a good chance to refine her astronomical observation skills away from the lights and interruptions of the interior of the school.

The collision didn't do her any good either ("Ow! Damn it!"), or the small telescope and tripod which was knocked over with a 'click-clack-clang'. And then a 'crack' as the front lens of the apparatus developed three long cracks, from one edge of the tube to the other edge.

For the first time in his memory Harry saw Miss Lovegood with a good mad on.

"Daddy just sent me that telescope, and you have to go break it! You owe me, Potter, you owe me!"

"Ahh, spells. There are lots of repair spells that'll fix it up. Not to worry, Luna!"

"Well, then do it!"

"Ahh-"

"You're saying that a lot, Potter. Is there a problem?"

"Smallest one possible: I don't know any. So… let's carefully gather up all the pieces before it gets too dark, and get them all to someone who does. Know them, I mean."

Grumbling, she carefully took out a handkerchief from her robe and wrapped it around the front end of the 'scope, detached the tube from the spindly tripod, inspected that, and handed the heavier portion to Harry, who took it with the resignation of the guilty and caught. It wasn't that heavy, anyway.

"Are you still losing your shoes?" Harry asked, wishing for a bit less of a grimly silent walk back to the castle.

A strange and almost impish grin flickered over her face, before being replaced with the mild, benign, and quite unworldly faint smile that was her usual shield pointed to the outside world.

"Hermione suggested I ask the Twins for help with tracking spells, which was very practical of her, but unrealistic for me. After all, my dorm-mates are being so helpful in teaching me tracking and observation for when I go out into the big old, mean old, world. Besides, I'd feel so… parasitic always going to them for help with my little problems without being able to pay them back in some way. So I offered to give them lots of kisses and hugs, but they got all embarrassed or something and just said I was too young for that stuff. But, Harry, if I can think of doing that, I really must be old enough, don't you think?"

She had turned to him and was intensely but amateurishly putting on the vamp, perhaps a bit too hard, but not without at least some effect. To get away from that awkward moment, Harry continued his part of the conversation before his blush would become too visible, even in the fading light.

"So that didn't work out? I wouldn't want to recommend threats or anything-"

"Ginny swore that boys melt at that look… what am I doing wrong? I mean… first the Twins and now you." Luna interrupted. Her voice took on a plaintive note: "I am… really so unfeminine? Will I leave Hogwarts never having seen the inside of a broom-closet except to get cleaning supplies for my detentions? How will that look in my memoirs?" Luna asked stridently.

Harry's gallant Gryffindor nature couldn't stand the yo-yoing of emotions she was displaying; something had to give. Either he had to arrange a broom-closet rendezvous with her, spank her on the spot for being so… Luna, or find something incredibly witty to say. Before he had made up his mind they had arrived to a castle door. Luna handed him the tripod, opened the portal, and gave him his marching orders:

"Get that fixed, and get to me by Tuesday evening before my Astronomy Class. And test it first! It's on your head, Potter; on your head!

"And Harry… I've decided you're much too nice to ruin, so don't worry."

She patted him on the cheek, and with that she was through the doorway and on her way to wherever she had plans to spread chaos next. Harry just shook his head back and forth a few times briskly, and then set out to see about learning a repair spell for fine optics. Hmm, perhaps just break the glass down to powder and Transfigure it into a perfect lens? Creevey knew something about lenses, didn't he?

Anyone spying (and he took great pains to avoid the possibility of that) on Albus Dumbledore pacing and muttering in his chambers that evening prior to going down to the Great Hall for dinner would have seen someone very much removed to the normally composed and genially amused persona he presented to the world.

That afternoon he had succumbed a bit to his advanced age, and while sitting in his Lazi-Wizard reclining chair with his feet up (the chair had all of the current options in regard to padding, vibrating, warming/cooling, positions, and calming background music) he had dozed off for an unusual Sunday afternoon nap. He had finally awakened a goodly two hours or more before the evening meal from a no-worse-than-usual nightmare.

Instead of another replaying of that horrid day his sister died (sometimes after his desperate attempts to change the course of events that had led to the tragedy), it was just Quirinus Quirrell, dried up like a raisin after all his internal flesh had been turned to fluids by the spider venom, and all of his juices then sucked out, moving around and alternating moans for vengeance, mercy, and cackling threats. For someone who had seen so much of the world, and so much of what he had seen being horrible, the dream had been very tolerable. Not pleasant, but tolerable.

The funeral (which Dumbledore had, of course, attended) had been a closed casket one for that reason; a desire not to appall the parents with the nearly unrecognizable face of their son. It simply would have been too cruel for them to have that as their last glimpse of him.

As it did so often, the thought of how things might have been made better spurred the Headmaster's quicksilver mind into speculations on how things could have otherwise been arranged.

Well, dried out by chemical means (like those Bog People Muggles were always digging up) after all the bloated bodily fluids had been drained like a grape with the juices sucked out. Wrinkled and raisinized, and then tanned into leather. Would just adding fluids to the right level have restored the face to some better semblance of its former shape and contour? Dumbledore mentally replayed his memory of Quirrell's ruined face, imagining them with the features puffed up a bit. Hmmm, a definite improvement; it would have made him recognizable at the least, if not attractive.

From there it was the merest whim that mentally reorientated Quirrell's corpse so that the unexpected face on its rear came into view. The same mental processes went into effect and gave a far more fleshed out appearance to the mysterious parasite. Contemplating it for a moment, Albus Dumbledore was silent… followed by another of his occasional outbreaks of obscenity. He ran to his fireplace, threw some Floo Powder into the always lit flame and called out a name. When he received an acknowledgment he hurriedly grabbed his Pensieve, the artifact that could hold and show memories, and stepped into the green fire, to appear in the guarded chamber of one of the few men he could trust to confirm his surmise, or else trust to dismiss his fear.

His return an hour later was not with the jaunty air of someone whose uncertainties had been relieved by happy news.

The actual testing by a spell for 'evil' was of course a mere myth; that subject of magecraft was (if it existed) more in the line of certain rumored Eastern schools of magic. But in a dozen ways Quirrell's reaction to things he had never noticed (or at least refused to respond to before) had indicated a new controlling entity inside the poor man's head when he had returned to take up is new post that past September. That oddity Dumbledore had noticed in the days before the school term had begun promised no good at all. Hurried plans were accordingly composed and put into effect. That Voldemort would have been so desperate, so bold, and so very, very, odd as to attempt to sneak into Hogwarts had never occurred to Dumbledore.

The rumor of the Philosopher's Stone had merely been one of series of ploys (though the first set in the school itself) and slights of hand that Dumbledore had used to test the waters over the years to see if there was a revival of the dreadful politics leading to the War. One previous gambit had enabled a corrupted Unspeakable to be gently removed from that sensitive position. Another had ended up in curtailing the Sebastopol Group's access to Sarsen Stone energies. Very pretty invisible feathers in his cap that he could never mention lest his subsequent schemes end up being ignored by their intended victims as too likely to be a trap. He didn't like think of the large number of tripwires which had either lain there unsprung, or had miscarried; he was someone who liked to be positive if at all possible.

But the affair of the Stone should probably negate any joy he could take from all those previous successes. He'd been baiting his hook for a nice Brook Trout, and caught a shark. And in the end he hadn't landed the shark. The poor unicorns that had died while he had waited for some connection to be made to criminal contacts, enduring the fears he had had that that some of the students might have been at risk, wasted. If only he'd stretched his imagination to thinking it was Tom come again for the position he'd lusted for as a young wizard, there would have been no way Dumbledore would have allowed Riddle to get so close to Potter, the person Riddle must surely hate more than all others!

But… Dumbledore had to admit he hadn't done a lot of innovative thinking lately; even identifying Riddle's distorted visage (looking like a poor copy of a copy, and done again and again until it was a rough sketch of a face) had been a possibility he'd unconsciously rejected.

In a fairish theatrical baritone, Dumbledore began to sing:

"It's hard to be humble, when you're as great as me

Best damn Wizard as far as the eye can see

Master of the Art of Thaumaturgery

Or at least that's how the word I think should be

It's so hard to be humble if you're me

It's hard to be modest, when you're as good as me

Impossible is easy, quick as one, and two, and three

I can make it happen, whatever it will be

I'm the soul of modesty, as you can see

It's so hard to be humble when you're me."

He should sing that childhood song every morning, he thought. It would remind him of exactly how he always risked putting his foot in it when he was being ever-so-clever. Probably having people during your schooldays tell you that you were a genius next to Merlin himself wasn't exactly the best preparation for the real world, where power and speed in casting spells meant nothing if you were acting like a complete fool in the first place. If he was so damned intelligent, why did it take him forever to learn that he was often too smart by half?

Then a smile broke across his face. Tom was at least as arrogant as he was, and from the imprint on Quirrell it was obvious that at least some of his plans had also gone seriously awry. There should have either been a perfect face on the poor victim, or none at all. Tom had lost his way. He was still powerful, still dangerously without moral limits, still daring in his desperation. A dangerous, dangerous, dangerous monster. But the evidence that the path he'd taken was breaking him down was clear.

Next time… next time the traps would all be ready. Strong and hair-triggered, not hare-brained like last time. One must be positive, or lose hope; and a life without hope was wasted. With all his strong will Albus Dumbledore ignored the little gnawing thought that much the same line of thinking had led him into setting up things so ineptly two years ago.

Ron wondered what was wrong with Harry. He was acting so odd, snapping at people (and then, being Harry, profusely apologizing before running off), and oddly enough, staring at Hermione when he thought she wouldn't notice. She probably didn't, Ron decided. In general her situational awareness was less than optimal, and her mind was usually so full of thoughts she was storing away or putting in new and incredible configurations that she'd probably bring out at just the right moment for some surprise, that she didn't notice the hundred side-long glances and quick peeks over the tops of a book or around a corner as she trundled along her normal paths to the Library, the Lake, or to the classrooms, or Great Hall.

It couldn't be that he was getting interested in her, could it? That would be… awkward. Harry was his best mate. Not that Neville was a stranger, but… Harry.

Ron took a deep breath. He was a Weasley: a hereditary Gryffindor. Maybe not the sharpest block in the drawer… no, that wasn't right. No matter; Weasleys' don't shilly-shally, they act! He turned and set off with a determined tread to the Library.

Now that she thought about it… now that she had time to put her thoughts in order, she was… thrilled. And apprehensive. She'd never had much in the way of friendships before she'd come to Hogwarts and now she was putting two of them at risk.

She knew that Lav had sent Ron a Valentine.

She knew that school relationships (or at least romances) had a mayfly lifespan in general. And breakups could be bitter. It would have been wiser to reject his idea outright, and hurt him cleanly and at the start before anything worse could happen. Or maybe tell him that only as a joke, because she never had feelings like that herself for anyone, especially him. It would be a lie, of course, but maybe a noble one, like in the books. Except she hadn't been strong and had said yes so quickly.

It wasn't like Ron was the only boy who made her… 'No need to go there right now,' Hermione thought. He had been a frequent presence in her mind and… 'Nor there, either.'

Her discussion with Lavender Brown went as well as could be expected; that is, very poorly. No spells, or even harsh words were spoken. Well, not too harsh words. But there was a definite coldness in their farewells when they parted, and the unspoken agreement that the likelihood of carefree get-togethers and giggling informal gossip sessions were a thing of the past. Both of them were, at the end, a bit angry and also close to tears of either anger or sorrow. It was very confusing for Hermione, and probably for Lav, also. Only by acting cold and as they imagined adults would in such a situation did they manage to get to a civilized "Goodbye, then."

"Yes, goodbye," was the only possible reply. Hermione's stomach ached. Trying to be happy shouldn't hurt so much.

It was raining, so wandering aimlessly around outside was just stupid. She couldn't end up down by the Lake and complain about the problems of mammalian mating to an audience that would be completely objective about the subject. After all, once the Squid mated, it would die. Puts a whole new perspective on the topic, when you think of things that way. And it was raining, anyway.

She wandered aimlessly around the castle, instead. Not her usual haunts, or even where the ghosts seemed to congregate the most. Instead, up and down obscurely placed staircases that were so astounded by having company that they were barely even trying to shuttle around and confuse her; down rarely used corridors and pathways that were lit by a general, dim phosphorescence that owed nothing to outside illumination or even magic. She slowly became sure that Hogwarts was one of the best gloomy-day places to suffer in that could be found.

It did need a better soundtrack than the faint plop, plop of her shoes in the stone flooring, though.

Finally, even Hermione had had enough of the endless wandering and stopped moving.

"I wonder where I am. Even more, I wonder how I can get back to civilization. Or at least to dinner, it should be pretty soon." A subtle flourish of her wand, and a bold "'Point Me toward the Great Hall!' Back this way then."

"That looks very useful; could you teach it to me?" asked a voice from an unseen source. Hermione twitched herself a foot off to the side, and six inches vertically without even wanting to.

Miss Lovegood cancelled the Disillusionment Charm from herself, then looking at a small bundle of cloth in her left hand, quickly put it behind her and dropped it.

"Just Hilary's jumper and clean skirt… I've recently read this terribly interesting book on how apes can play tit-for-tat to deal with their social interaction, and decided to see if she's as smart." She finished with a slightly guilty tone. It was a little embarrassing to let someone know you were using your dorm mates as experimental animals. But with her current funding, what else could she do?

"You were invisible," Hermione said.

"Well, Disillusioned. More of a camouflage than invisible, really. Daddy taught it to me for when we got out on holiday to find interesting beasts and things.

"Not that I'm calling you a beast or anything! It's just why I originally learned it. I was making sure Hilary wasn't able to follow me and get her stuff back too easily, and just ran across you and wondered where you were going. I am a bit lost, I'm afraid. Marking a trail back would have compromised the Charm."

Hermione enchanted up a set of floating blue flames, and sent them up the corridor, particularly inspecting the more isolated niches and corners for other small cloth bundles. Luna, having spent a good deal of time with Hermione lately, grasped what she was doing quickly.

"Oh, I put most of her stuff in really isolated little piles, not all together in a big cache. She's being a very slow learner I'm afraid. My other roommates learned much quicker than she has. They hardly ever borrow my things, and if they do they usually return them. Poor Hilary… do you think that she has a learning disability?"

Hermione appeared to ponder that for a moment; in reality she was trying to fit this small revelation into the occasional snippets of conversations about her social situation Luna had vouchsafed over the summer. Evidently one of the books on Muggle animal studies she'd recommended had found its way into Luna's hands, and given her an excuse to start being proactive about protecting her things. The girl wouldn't admit to getting back at her bullying roommates for reasons of anger or revenge, but for science it was evidently an entirely different story. Well, if the effect was the same, it seemed small-minded to argue about things.

Feeling the tug of the spell, and wanting to get to the more familiar parts of the school before it weakened and vanished, Hermione grabbed Luna's hand followed the urgings of her magic. After a few moments of companionable silence Luna poised a question.

"Do you think he'll ever start seeing anyone?"

Somewhat surprised at the girl's choice of topic, but far from ashamed at her circumstances Hermione replied: "Well, yes. He's asked me to Hogsmeade this weekend."

She wasn't expecting for Lovegood to stop in her tracks, and her fair complexion to turn paler. A sudden, and obvious, train of thought started, and reached its terminus with commendable speed.

"I, I didn't realize. Of course… you were always over… young girl growing up… it would just be natural to…"

At the same time Luna was speaking her piece: "I can't blame you, he's so sweet and nice, and I never really thought he was real in a way, just Ginny's fantasy-"

"Hold on! What! Ginny's fantasy? What's going on at the Burrow, anyway? What have I been missing?"

"Of course Ginny's fantasy! She's practically whipping off her knickers and waving them around every time he comes to visit!"

"…. Visit? Doesn't he live there?"

"Of course not. He's living at some secret place you don't trust anyone to know about!"

Luna's voice had risen in volume quite a bit at this point in the… conversation. There was no mooncalf references to her usual six impossible things. Hermione went into a fugue of Deep Thought, ignoring the increasingly shrill statements and comments of the younger girl. Luckily she came out of it before things escalated to the physical level, or even worse, the magical one.

"You're talking about Harry, right?"

"Yes, you, you-"

"I wasn't," Hermione said simply.

A moment passed silently. Luna's colour came back to its normal shade.

"Oh," replied Luna. "Cross-talking? Missing each other's point, much?"

"Ron's asked me to Hogsmeade this weekend."

"I am so happy for you!" Luna exclaimed.

"And I don't think Harry has ever asked, you know, just one person-girl out. But, I'm certain he'll start asking someone sooner or later. Perhaps you should let him know… something?"

"I don't have Ginny's… assets. And I'm odd, and people talk about me behind my back, even after I've taught them not to take… Yes, there is an element of retaliation in my experiments with my dorm mates. And I'm too young and can't even go to Hogsmeade this year. So how can I let him know? How I… "

"Luna," Hermione said firmly, grasping her by the shoulders, "I've known you since you were an immature little Firstie, and yes, you often seem very odd to me. And to Harry. And Nev and Ron also. And probably everyone who knows you, except maybe your father… or maybe not. But anyway, to the point, you're not annoying. And for Harry, even with her assets, if you want to call tits that, Ginny frequently is.

"You can be a little wet, and you should do something about that. But, Luna, assets can catch the eye, but I hope that they aren't the only things boy's can like about girls, or we're both in for a long, lonely time. So… be smart, be strong, and always be Luna. And don't be clingy, whiney, or vampy. While it may not work, and Merlin knows I'm no expert, for Harry I think those things count more than… assets."

"Or tits. I hope," Luna finished.

"So, let's get to the Great Hall before they finish serving dinner."

"Yes, I'd hate to miss the sweets course."

Two days later a very standard, mid-sized Postal Owl landed besides Hermione as she was eating her breakfast with The Boys, and it began to do a dance of great vigor (and to one who was by no means an expert on avian behavior, much agitation) on the table. Feathers flew and landed in plates of eggs (done three ways), sausage and bacon, bowls of porridge, and mugs of cocoa and glasses of milk. It was the most eye-catching exhibit by a Postal Owl not carrying a fuming and explosive Howler from an irate parent to their erring child that anyone there that day in the Great Hall had ever seen. Even up at the table, where the staff members (about two-thirds on this occasion) were sipping coffee and swapping cautionary warnings about the latest round of Weasley Twin experiments, considerable attention was immediately fixed on the Gryffindor table. Speculations and conjectures were immediately the order of the day, while Hermione turned to the person who was obviously the best suited to dealing with a feathered problem.

"Harry, do something!" And she then grabbed something from a platter with sausages that would in its current state be unlikely to be used for human consumption before a thorough washing, and handed him a short string to use as a peace offering for the offended bird. After a few moments of calming sounds and gentle gestures (and the proffering of meaningful amounts of nourishment) the bird allowed itself to be gently stroked, fed, and examined.

"Odd, "said Harry. "Its collar tag is all in German. I bet it's an International Postal Service Owl. Doesn't have any letters or packages with it, though. Wonder why?"

Only those who very close to Hermione, in both distance and relationship, noticed how her face took on a look of alarm, and her breath puffed out all of a sudden.