Harry Potter and its characters, story, and everything else is © J. K. Rowling.

Brilliant but Scary

▼ Chapter Thirty ▼

Hermione rather felt like burning the offices of the Daily Prophet to the ground.

Well, she already wanted that, after their coverage of the World Cup, after what they'd done to Sirius, and by extension what they'd done to her Harry. That had driven Harry to depths she'd never seen, never really wanted to see; a part of her, one she was not too proud of, had felt a tad giddy when she felt him grasping for her, begging her to never leave (and she never would, of course,) she felt more a cold rage against all the people that seemed to conspire against Harry.

Things had seemed rather nice, really, following the selection of the Champions, the teachers seeming still high strung at times, but at least less so in most of her classes. The fact that no Durmstrang or Beauxbatons students were in her classes were likely part of this; her original suspicions that some might be around her age had been off by at least a year, and she was thus saved from several potential headaches there. No teachers trying to play things up, no students trying to show off, and no distracts from attractive foreigners deemed exotic or some such nonsense.

Without that, things had been rather interesting, really.

Professor Moody has given a lesson on several dark curses he'd encountered, often crafted to make up for a lack of power or ability to cast the killing curse, or perhaps for simple interest or sadism. The point of the lesson was far more about adaptability and observation, but had given her several ideas as well. She had begun toying with some spells of her own, only in theory of course. She scribed them away in one of her books, maybe for later when she was older and more likely to get away with such things.

Meanwhile, in Charms, Professor Flitwick had them working on the summoning charm. That had been something that she had been doing seemingly naturally for some time, and yet she was still learning when it became clear things she'd done as a child were little more than crude evocations of the true charm. The range and potential of the true charm was staggering, and she was pleased that she and Harry both had shown an aptitude for it.

And so the week had passed, largely uneventful outside of classes. Sparing, of course, that she noticed Viktor Krum was spending an inordinate amount of time in the library, exactly when she was. Thankfully, Harry had also noticed, and had made a point of making rather open displays whenever the older boy was around, even if they were chatting rather amicably about one thing or another. She rather liked that she hadn't even had to do anything, assuaging the part of her that felt rather terrible about wanting to rile Harry up just to see his reactions.

Which was doubly good given what followed after. She worried something was coming after the day Rita Skeeter, that loathsome insect, had shown up on campus.

I hadn't been a very interesting day at first. The classes had been normal, if not her favorites. Potions with Professor Snape was not the most engaging. As a Head of House, Snape was perfectly fine, good even, and his willingness to lend her texts spoke of a sort of favoritism that she was more than willing to use. However, his way of teaching usually fell on rote memorization rather than true understanding of the material, and his temper was near legendary, though almost never on someone of his own house.

The class had been simple and tedious and Hermione had been thinking far more about what to do after classes and her studying time when they'd left. Harry had gone to do something with Blaise, and agreed to meet up afterwards to spend time together, understood by her to mean a bit of reading and a snog. When they had met up again, though, he had a story about how Rita Skeeter, apparently here to cover something about the champion's wands or some such thing, had rather ambushed him and pulled him into a closet.

Hearing that had made Hermione want to bump the slag from merely the list of people she'd be happy to see dead to ones she actively wanted so, and might be inclined to assist on their way.

However, that the dreadful woman had then asked some very invasive questions before Harry could escape her clutches had made things worse still, with the results apparent the next day when several students had passed on copies of the Daily Prophet. Harry, Hermione, and Blaise had left breakfast rather quickly after that, retreating to the common room, exceptionally thankful it was a weekend.

They took up a section of it, Hermione sitting with Harry while Blaise sat across from them, trying hard to ignore the whispers and murmurs of others in the room.

"If you call this journalism, I swear by Merlin that I will hex myself right here," Blaise had said as he stared at the page, shaking his head. Harry was sitting with her, going over the article once again, his green eyes growing very dark at certain points. Thankfully, the article, for all its manifold failings, had mentioned his godfather only in passing.

Of course 'former Azkaban inmate Sirius Black' was hardly flattering, and she'd noticed Harry dwell on that one more than once.

For her part, she was far more annoyed by, well, everything else.

"'The young and handsome Harry Potter was reluctant as he spoke to the reporter from the Daily Prophet, clearly full of emotion,'" Blaise read aloud, voice full of false decorum, "'When the topic of his parents deaths and if he felt driven to succeed because they were watching him from beyond was brought up, he grew very quiet, and this reporter could just tell that he was driven by the very same."

"It took all of my self control not to curse her," Harry said, and Hermione noted the anger in his tone. It was different than other times in a way, colder.

"I rather wish you had," replied Hermione, "She certainly deserves it."

"She wasn't worth it," he said back, shaking his head, and at that Hermione wondered how many times she'd told him the same thing. He was right, of course; she could only imagine what Rita's article might have been had he told her he was tired of her disingenuous assertions and actually hit her.

Blaise decided this was a good time to continue to read aloud.

"'Young Harry, already known for his talents as a seeker and as heir to the Potter fortune, is also considered a very eligible bachelor at Hogwarts,'" he continued, voice still holding that mockingly serious tone, "'When asked about his love life Harry named no one, but others spoke about his attachment to a muggleborn witch by the name Hermione Granger. Perhaps Harry's reluctant to speak up is a sign he may still be looking for his other half, however?'"

The sound that Harry made was something Hermione had never heard from him before, a sort of low growl, dangerous. He muttered with it, "I told her it was none of her business."

"Honestly, it'd almost be impressive if it wasn't so pathetic," Blaise said, shaking his head as he threw the paper onto a nearby table, "She wrote an article about the champions that is about half as long as the one about you, Harry, and has managed to portray you as both a cocky showoff on one hand and strangely humble and sensitive on the other. You're the heartthrob for everyone, my friend, you must be so proud."

"Glad someone finds this amusing," he muttered, attention turning to the pile of letters they'd been ignoring. There were a dozen at least that had been delivered, and those were just the ones from Hogwarts students. The trio were quiet for just a moment, all eyes looking at the pile of envelopes. Finally, Hermione moved to pick one up.

"You're going to read them?"

Her hand halted, hovering over the pile as she glanced back. Harry was looking at her, an eyebrow quirked. She stared back at him, confusion giving way to a strange worry and tightness in her chest.

"Do you not want me to?" she asked, trying hard to keep the hurt out of her voice. Did he not want her to? Did he think it was presumptuous, that she'd read these letters. They were from girls, that much was obvious based on the paper chosen and the script on the outside, and the fact they'd only shown up after that damnable article. She wanted to know who it was that was sending her

It wasn't clear if Harry understood the rush of fear and worry that had shot through her or not, but he blessedly stopped it in its tracks.

"I was just going to get rid of them," Harry said, eyes searching. He could tell, she saw, he could tell something had gotten to her, but it left after that. Of course he was just going to get rid of them, of course they meant nothing. She was being silly, very silly.

But…

They could be useful?

"Might be fun for a laugh?" she said, picking the letter she'd been hovering over. It was a poor excuse, a silly one, and she mentally kicked herself for trying to use it, and the dubious look Harry gave her was the just reward for being such an idiot.

"I don't know about that, but might be useful information in them anyway."

Both Harry and Hermione's heads turned to look at their other companion. Blaise, placid as the Black Lake on a windless day sat with a leg crossed and fingers steepled. Hermione had a flash of envy and annoyance at how free he was from the emotional turmoil of the moment, wondering if Harry ever felt the same about their stoic friend. Simply seeing it seemed to make her even more flustered, but she was saved by Blaise all the same.

"Girls can be very cruel," Blaise explained, as if revealing some great truth. The way his eyes found hers, just for a moment, though, reminded Hermione that Blaise was far more clever and observant than he sometimes let on, beyond the smugness and wit, "It'd be nice to know who you have to look out for, or really who Hermione has to look out for."

The look that crossed Harry's face, however, was singularly dark. Hermione felt herself pulled into into him, arms wrapped protectively, possessively around her, and she felt a soaring feeling rise up in her. When he spoke he nearly spat out the words, "Anyone thinking they're going to get close to me by hurting who I love is stupid, but would learn to regret it quickly."

Ah.

Hermione realized that in all the years they'd spent together, all the countless moments they'd shared, every bit of it, they had never actually said something, Or maybe they had, but she'd forgotten? That thought was terrible to her, that she might have missed something like that. It wasn't as if she didn't know it, of course. Harry knew as well, didn't he? He had to know… but she'd never said it, had she? He had, though, just now, in this moment, pulling her close, as if to steal her from the world for him and him alone.

Love.

It was rapturous.

"Oh, Harry," she murmured, and turned into him, wrapping arms about the boy. She let the letter she'd snatched up in shock, the one whose writing she very much recognized, even if the author had gone through lengths to hide it. Was she watching, sitting in the common room? She suspected several of the authors were, but one in particular… was she watching? Watching as Harry held her, as he chose her. The poor girl, trapped by Harry's wonder, it was almost tragic.

Knowing she was there, though, watching them was such a wicked delight. Hermione did not force her to continue her silly attempts, Ginny brought them on herself, and so as long as the younger girl did than Hermione would never stop reveling in the moments. Others? They would be handled, in their own ways, but Ginny? For all her attempts, she would suffer in an entirely different way.

Hermione hoped Ginny was watching.

She looked into his eyes and felt something run through him and out of him, tension seeming to relax, and there was such a triumph in it. She kissed him, then, deeply, not caring at all who was watching. Idly, she seemed to think she heard Blaise shift as if to look away, to give them some semblance of privacy maybe, not that Hermione wanted it.

Harry was hers. She loved him, and he loved her, and she nothing would come between them.

Or else.

The last few weeks had been trying on Harry's nerves, and he wondered how much of things were new and how much were simply things he'd never noticed until now. Had Hermione noticed all of this before, all the attention and looks and glares at Hermione and all of it was just so damn infuriating. Everything seemed strange now, to look back and wonder how many things he'd missed. There had been hints, he realized, jokes made that he passed off as nothing.

Now though? Now he felt on edge about everything. Well, not everything, he supposed. Blaise was a source of stability, a constant if biting reminder that no, not everyone was trying to steal Hermione away, or steal him from her. Through grand irony, Draco, in all his resplendent tossery, ended up being a stable point as well; he hadn't to worry about that git stealing Hermione; it would be a cold day in hell before Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger would be something other than enemies, and certainly never lovers.

In a strange way, Mafalda served a role as well. The young and enthusiastic girl could be a handful, but was oddly comforting in the way she seemed to have just boundless joy about him and Hermione, but also about Hermione and him. It was actually a bit odd at times, really, but he took it anyway.

Ginny, though, he felt strangely conflicted about. She was a friend, he'd say like a sister but he repeatedly realized he had no idea what that meant, but he began to notice things, small things, things that made him worry and wonder. Those also made him worry he was overreacting, noticing things that weren't there. He did not like paranoia he felt, constantly worried that there was something hiding behind a comment or a smile.

Still, he had his friends and associates to keep him balanced

And, of course, his girlfriend, his Hermione. Had he always thought of her as his? Was it right to think of her that way? That was a strange thought too, something he'd never seemed to consider.

At first, he'd wanted to be seen with Hermione, as if somehow he hadn't been already, but he'd begun to make a spectacle of things, of displays of affection. Yet, at the same time he also wanted to be anonymous, to hide away from the looks and hopeful eyes and glares of envy he seemed to see everywhere. The contradiction was making his chest hurt. Slowly, bit by bit it had eased away, the natural hustle of school managing to assuage his apprehension Mostly, at least.

It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, and he'd eagerly stepped out, hand in hand with his girlfriend, the person he loved, for the first weekend trip of the year.

Now though, as they walked into Hogsmeade, Harry felt the conflict surge back into him. It was busy, as it always was during the weekend trips, and many seemed far more interested in their own dates or activities, but Harry couldn't help but feel as if even some of them seemed to be glancing his way. Was he being paranoid? He felt paranoid. Was Hermione watching, too? What was she seeing, what was she thinking? He found he was glancing often, but she seemed so… tranquil. Was that a good thing?

"I feel like I should have brought the cloak," he joked with false humor, giving Hermione's hand a squeeze. To his surprise she simply giggled and smiled at him.

"Oh Harry," she said in a wistful voice, sighing and shaking her head. She continued before he could begin to overthink that too much and work himself into any more mental knots, "I don't mind it, I understand it. You're brilliant, you're handsome, you're famous, you're rich. And most of all, you're special. I knew it from the start, and other people are noticing it now. You don't need to worry."

She paused for a moment, a strange little smirk growing on her face, "Though I appreciate that you do."

Harry wasn't really sure what that meant, but if Hermione liked it he took it as a good thing. The teen boy sighed, mostly in relief, trying to let the tension and anxiety, and a bit of it did go, which was good. They continued their walk into the town, and he found that as the crowd grew he felt a bit better, really, able to be lost in it. Folks weren't looking now, or maybe they weren't before. It felt so strange, though. He'd feared losing Hermione before, but this was an all-together different sort of worry.

It spiked, just a bit, when he spotted Neville in the distance, the boy walking with some girl Harry didn't know. He thought Ginny had mentioned she'd heard a rumor he was going on a date with a Ravenclaw girl, so maybe that's who he was with. The Hufflepuff hadn't spotted them, thankfully; something about Neville rubbed him wrong now, something he hadn't noticed before. Was it really there, or was he just seeing things? Maybe he had just let everything get to him...

"You know, Harry," Hermione said suddenly, and oddly playful too, "It's actually known that girls find boys that are taken to be more attractive."

"What?" replied Harry, rather quickly glancing down at his girlfriend, expression puzzled, "That seems absolutely mad, though?"

"Not really," Hermione said simply, "If they're taken, it's seen as a sign they're worth something as a partner."

A strange feeling flared up inside of him. That made sense in a very bad sort of way to Harry, and he didn't like it one bit. It seemed so unromantic, as if a relationship was just something to be shopped for. Maybe that was how some people approached it? He didn't like it. He hadn't liked the timing either, after seeing Neville.

"I love you, Harry."

Harry halted mid step, jerking Hermione to a halt as he did. Thankfully the crowd was not so pressed that anyone ran into them, but there were a few odd looks of frustration, and Harry let himself be pulled off to the side.

It was in this moment that Harry Potter realized that in his fourteen years on Earth, or at least in all the years he could remember, he'd never once heard anyone tell him that. That. He couldn't even think the words it felt like, so strange it was. Never in his life had he needed something so much and never known until he received it. He'd known, too, really had known that she loved him. Hermione loved him, he'd known it, he really had known it, and yet to hear it. Why did that matter so much?

Moments later, Harry realized apparently they were sitting down on a bench somewhat off the main thoroughfare, and Hermione was simply holding onto him. There was a strange look in her eye, an odd worry Harry didn't understand or like. It was as if she'd been holding something back, and now it came spilling out, all at once.

"I'm not going anywhere, Harry, I love you, and only you and I don't want anyone else and I don't care that folks are noticing you or if folks like me I only want you," she said, tone low and fast, so fast it was hard to understand at first, "I know you've been worried and it's sweet but I'm not going and I don't care and I just love you so don't worry, just don't worry…"

"Hermione…"

"And I love you and I should have said so before and I know you do too, I know you love me and we belong together so don't worry, I'm not going anywhere…"

"Hermione."

"And I know you're not either, that's why you've been so worried, right? But you don't need to, you don't need to worry about anything, I'm..."

"Hermione!"

His voice was raised, and she seemed shocked to see such a fierce look in his eyes. It wasn't anger, just a sort of consternation. Then he was laughing, pulling her in and letting the absurdity replace the anxiety. She was quiet though, and from the look on her face very confused.

"I love you too," he said, but didn't really know what else to say. In the moment, though, the worries fled, the concerns seeming to matter less. They were still there, he could tell, but distant, as he'd travelled away from them for awhile. Maybe they'd catch up again, maybe not. For now, though, there was just Hermione and love and it was good. It was enough for him. Hermione seemed to need a moment; where he would wind himself up tight and then shatter, she seemed to be more like a container that would rapidly become a sieve, everything flowing out in a manic rush.

It was a moment, it passed, and the pair simply sat there for awhile, not thinking about anything, not thinking about the world. They didn't need it, they had each other, he had her. There was something there, really, a realization of something he already knew, deep down. The world was cold, the future was unknown, but she, she was not. He had her, she loved him, she wasn't going to leave, and so he would be fine.

Everything would be fine.

"I hope I am not intruding."

The voice was somewhat high, and foreign in accent. It reminded Harry of Krum's accent, and yet somehow different. The person in question was not someone he'd expected to encounter, today or perhaps at all; Igor Karkaroff was standing just a bit away, arms folded behind his back and a conciliatory expression on his face that looked oddly out of place. He was dressed in his fine satin robes and sleek silver furs, and up close Harry could see the long goatee was there to hide a weak chin.

Apparently, the man took silence as an invite to speak.

"I've heard a lot about you," the man said, nodding towards Harry, "Both of you, actually. You've made an impression, that much is for sure, yes. Some of the best students of your year."

"That must be surprising for you," said Hermione, and Harry found her tone was… odd. It was… presumptuous, commanding, and had an eerie sort of feel that reminded him of Professor McGonagall or even Snape. Igor seemed surprised as well as Hermione continued, "Seeing as they don't allow muggleborn students in Durmstrang."

When Harry had first come to Hogwarts it had taken some time for him to learn what some looks meant. Many he'd known, simply by habit; anger, disgust, frustration, rage, disappointment… the Dursley's had well acquainted him with those. More positive things had to be learned, but he had, fairly well, over the years. Teachers, friends, and most of all, Hermione had been invaluable to this. Yet the expression on the Durmstrang headmaster's face was one he couldn't place, at least not exactly so. It was surprising, and wary, and curious all at once, like discovering something new and dangerous yet potentially exciting. It lingered for a moment, and then passed as the man seemed to consider his next words.

He let out a small snort of amusement after awhile and nodded, "No, we don't. It is an old tradition."

"You're the headmaster," she said, "You could change it if you wanted. Unless you had a reason to want to exclude them."

"Think that, do you?"

Igor seemed to be contemplating his next words, but Harry's eyes narrowed as he thought about what Hermione had said, both now and weeks ago, at the arrival of the foreign schools.

"You used to be a minion for Voldemort," he said, finding grim amusement when the man flinched when he named his former master, "He wasn't fond of muggleborns either, was he?"

"Not particularly," the man said slowly, "But that didn't stop him from trying to recruit your mother."

Harry tensed up at the man's words, and he must have noticed given how his voice took on a very conciliatory tone, "Your father and mother were both talented and powerful, which the Dark Lord valued more. They refused, of course."

"So, the blood purity talk was all for show?"

Igor shook his head at Harry's question, but he was clearly uncomfortable; Harry suspected the man hadn't intended the conversation to go this way at all, "No, he believed it, but it was far less important to him than it was to many, particularly the old families. The Lestranges, the Notts…"

"The Malfoys," Hermione said, conversationally but with a rather wicked grin. Igor demurred diplomatically.

"Lucius Malfoy claimed to be under the influence of the Imperius curse. But you're not wrong; his family had a long history of blood purism, like the Blacks and the Greengrasses."

"And you? You're not British, are you? Why would you become Voldemort's lackey?"

Igor looked rather like he'd just tasted something particularly foul, and Harry wondered if he should feel bad about enjoying causing the man so much discomfort.

"The Dark Lord was an incredibly powerful wizard, with knowledge to match. He attracted more than a few foreigners to his service. In my youth, I thought it would be a way to gain power of my own. A new Grindelwald he seemed, from a distance."

"Grindelwald lost. Seems rather stupid to follow another one," Hermione quipped, and Igor managed to not scowl.

"I did not say it was a good decision. It wasn't one. By the time I realized that it was far too late. There was no leaving the Dark Lord's service."

"Is that your excuse?" Harry bit out, anger seeping it. He had felt oddly calm during this, despite the person in front of him, despite what Harry knew; perhaps he was still riding high from not long ago, or perhaps it was the man's mannerisms. Still, there was that ember on the inside, a small anger that flared up ever so much.

Yet Karkaroff did not flinch or demure, he simply shook his head.

"No, I make no excuses, only explanations. I did what I did, I am who I am. I did not come seeking forgiveness or understanding."

"Why did you come, then?" Hermione asked. Harry realized he'd been so caught up in things that he hadn't even considered the why. That had been silly of him.

"To invite you to meet with some of my students, actually," the man replied, "You may find what you can learn from them very interesting, and they may be able to learn from you as well. I'd not have such hubris to think I could entice you to transfer to Durmstrang, but the TriWizard tournament is about foreign bonds, after all."

There was a moment of silence as Harry considered what the man had said. He looked over at Hermione, who seemed curious but wary, her lips pursed. Harry rather thought it looked cute, in a way, but tried not to let himself get too distracted by that.

The offer. It meant something, didn't it? Durmstrang had a reputation for a specific sort of magic, after all.

"Are you offering to teach me dark magic?" Harry asked, somewhat hesitant, and Igor paused, considering his reply.

"There is more to Durmstrang than curses and the dark arts."

That sounded exceptionally diplomatic. There was another silence, Harry finding himself rather unprepared for the way this conversation had gone, to say nothing of it happening at all. Karkaroff seemed strangely uncomfortable at times, lips tight, "I will leave you be, then. The offers stands."

And then the man left, and Harry was left with the very curious idea that a former Death Eater was offering to teach him how to curse people, and he hadn't the slightest idea why.