It was the last straw, seeing him with his lips glued to Lavender's in the middle of a cheering crowd of raucous Gryffindors. How thick could he be, that Ronald Weasley? And why, in Merlin's name, did she care? He was oblivious, the prat – thoughtless and hurtful and, and … unworthy. He was unworthy of the tender feelings, the care she'd tried time and again to extend to him. And in that moment, she decided – she was done being disregarded, overlooked, and taken for granted. She was done.
Her feet carried her without conscious thought to the seventh-floor hallway, where she paced on auto-pilot in front of an innocuous length of empty wall. When an equally unassuming door appeared where none had been before, she grasped the handle and stepped impatiently across the threshold. Scanning the space to see what manner of accommodation the Room had decided she required, Hermione stilled. She was not alone.
Dark eyes fixed on her with laser focus; nostrils flared in displeasure. Scrambling to explain herself before he could eviscerate her with some cutting remark, words tumbled from her lips in a breathless torrent. "I'm sorry, Professor – I didn't know – obviously I didn't know you were here! It shouldn't have – it's not supposed to – the Room ought to be closed when it's occupied. I don't understand…" her voice trailed off as she wrung her hands anxiously together. "It ought to be closed," she repeated, more to herself than to him as she turned, looking for a door that had disappeared.
Fully expecting to be on the receiving end of a caustic comment, a blistering rebuke, or at the very least, a baleful glare, Hermione shrugged helplessly at the absence of an exit and her subsequent inability to beat a hasty retreat. "I'm really very sorry, sir," she offered again. "It seems the Room is disinclined to let me leave. I could just… maybe I can just sit somewhere out of the way?" She glanced around, hopeful that the Room – having effectively confined her here - would at least provide an appropriately inconspicuous corner in which to shelter from his disapproval.
Despite her expectations, neither the corner nor the remonstration materialized. Not because he hadn't intended to berate the witch, for in fact that was his immediate, reflexive, even visceral response to an unexpected intrusion into his space. A space in which he was neither spy nor scapegoat, hero nor villain, a place where he existed only as himself. Yet the reasons he had to chastise the chit were the same reasons he ultimately tamped the impulse down, for would he not otherwise become the stereotype that he was here to escape? Instead, a weary exhale accompanied a desultory wave toward a wrought iron bench across the way from the one on which he himself sat. He watched with some amusement as she bit her lip and waffled indecisively before finally straightening her spine and marching to her designated seat, giving him a wide berth in the process.
Not yet brave enough to meet his gaze, Hermione peered over the rim of a small fountain that lay between them, brightening when she spied the colorful koi darting about in the water. What a curious place to find her professor! More curious still that she was even able to find him, for she certainly hadn't been looking… And now he was here and she was here, and what did that mean, exactly? She risked a glance at him, briefly considering just asking him for his thoughts on the matter. Surely he had some. Yet she hesitated, uncertain of precisely what question she even wanted to ask.
He studied her contemplatively, well aware of the argument she had with herself in her head. One needn't be a mind-reader, after all. He snorted – mind reader. How ridiculous. He was mildly impressed that she'd restrained herself from spewing a baker's dozen questions in his direction – so far, at least. Some he couldn't answer, and some… he wouldn't. When he finally spoke, breaking her out of her internal monologue, his words must have seemed a meager offering. "Founders' magic." But the witch nodded thoughtfully, as though they somehow explained - well, certainly not everything, but at least something.
"Did you know that Muggles have magic too, Professor?"
He merely raised an eyebrow while she rummaged in a pocket for Merlin knows what.
"They do! It's not like ours, of course, but – ha!" She raised a coin triumphantly. "Have you a sickle, Professor?" In another time or another place, she would have never dared to ask. But she was here and he was here, and surely that must mean something. Leaning forward, she waited expectantly for him to answer.
He realized at once what she intended and scowled at the memory that crept upon him – there was his mother smacking his hand furiously away from the shiny coins he'd tried to scoop from the bottom of the fountain. He remembered how his lips trembled and his eyes filled with tears, knowing only that someone had just left them there for the taking, and there were surely enough to buy a carton of eggs. Maybe two! But Mother had frowned and scolded him, saying that he must never steal the Muggles' wishes, for that was all the magic they had.
Hermione's smile faltered when the shadow crossed his face. "I expect I have another if -" He raised a hand to cut her off and inclined his head toward the fountain.
"I am… familiar…with the custom."
"Really? When I was small – before I knew there were such people as witches and wizards, or such a place as Hogwarts - I used to wish that magic was real."
He could see that it was his turn – he was expected to say something, and so he said, "I see that worked well for you." But that wasn't the right answer - not the one that she wanted, and after a moment he growled, "I wished for eggs." If he failed to mention that he never once dropped the penny in – it being of much greater use to him in his pocket – well, she didn't need to know.
"Eggs!" She stifled a giggle, and her eyes were as bright as the coin in her hand. He found himself strangely reluctant to disparage her whimsy. After all, it was now, not then, and he was here, not there. And so was she. That must mean something. So instead of demanding that she cease her foolish coin waving, he searched through his own pocket and extracted one for himself. Offering it up for her inspection, he was… gratified by her approval.
They stood on either side of the fountain, each with a sickle in hand. "Are you ready?" she asked breathlessly, hardly daring to believe it. He gave a sharp nod, took a deep breath -
They tossed the coins in.