* * * *
Chapter 4: A Sort of Antipathy. . .* * * *
"HAH!" Hermione cried triumphantly. Several seventh years glared in her direction. Apparently their N.E.W.T.S. studying was not going well. Harry looked up from the book he was unfortunately immersed in.
Ron raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"Harry, did you say that it was a parchment—was it just a piece of paper or was it like a scroll?" She looked at him expectantly.
Harry furrowed his brow. "Um. I think . . .scroll—probably an unrolled scroll."
"Then I've got something. You said that the trees seemed to be important—and that sounds very Druidic to me—so this fits pretty well, then." She pushed "Collections of the Ministry of Magic: An Overly-Long Guide" towards the boys. They looked at it, nearly knocking heads as they did so.
"Cy Nous Dit:"The common name for a late medieval era set of Muggle scrolls based on the legends of King Arthur. Each short tale in the
series ends with the Old French phrase "cy nous dit. . ." translated "so we are told," and a description of a moral that the collector of the stories wanted the reader to be aware of.
Modern wizarding research, in particular that completed by the great Newton Herschodotus, has found evidence that these Muggle scrolls may actually be based on a set of Druidic scrolls that had the power to influence outside events through what was written upon them—the phrase on the Muggle scrolls indicates not only the moral, but also the outcome of the tale. Such magic would have been extraordinarily complex, even for the Druids, as the parchments appear to influence probability of future events, although their exact mechanism remains unknown. Attempts to replicate their effects on modern scrolls have, as of this edition, been unsuccessful. Whether the scrolls might also work retrospectively is not known, due to both the fact that almost all of these parchments have, sadly, been lost, with the exception of a few extant fragments kept in the Special Collections of the Ministry of Magic's Archives Department, and also to the fragile condition of these fragments, limiting the extent of practical research possible.
These fragments are available for viewing by researchers in the field of Magical Mechanisms and historians with special permission from the Minister of Magic. Applications for the viewings are available at the Ministry.
"So what does that mean?" Ron looked a bit puzzled. "What does it really tell us?"
"Well, it says that the scrolls affect probability. And if they're like other magical items, they lose power over time, which means you couldn't force someone to commit murder, if they weren't the kind of person to do such a thing, for example. But if you had someone who was already very powerful and just needed a slight push to get ahead, and that person found say, an entire scroll, then . . ."
"Then that person could tip the scales just enough," Harry said. "That's why the Death-Eaters would be after it. They're trying to tip the scales."
Hermione nodded. "Just enough to win.'
"Is there a time frame for this kind of thing, Hermione?" he asked.
"Before them—I don't know. The Druid calendar—I should know this. The power of most of their creations waxes and wanes over the course of a solar year." She sighed, exasperated. "The Druids always enchanted things for specific purposes."
"Oh, right, and wizards today don't do that." Ron rolled his eyes.
"Have you talked to the twins lately?" She went on. "Anyway, it would depend on what kind of scroll we were dealing with as to what time of year it would be most powerful. I don't know what kind of scroll you're seeing, Harry."
"What good are you, then, Hermione?" Ron grinned at her. She gave him a look. "I'm kidding. You found this, didn't you?" It seemed to be enough, because Hermione, rather than getting into another argument, just went back to reading.
"Now we only have to find out when. Did you find anything there, Harry?"
"Not yet. I'm not having a lot of luck with it. Can you narrow it down?"
"I've got this," she said and indicated a paper on which she had scrawled what appeared to be a calendar with a few calculations on it.
"It's a start." Harry said yawning. "Let's go to bed. We'll finish in the morning."
As they went up to Gryffindor, Harry noticed that pumpkins lined the hall, ready to be brought in for the feast the next evening. He wondered if the house elves carved them, or if they were done magically. He decided not to ask Hermione if it was one of the elves' responsibilities. He doubted that the spiel he'd receive would improve his mood much.
* * * *
Had one been an outside observer the following day, it would have appeared that Harry Potter was actually doing his Divination homework. His mind, however, was in fact drifting over a thousand things, not the least of which was the nearly incomprehensible calendar that Hermione had scrawled down. He didn't even hear her try to remind him about their practise session for Charms later that night, after the Halloween feast, and he was startled, though glad, when Ron's much louder voice break into his thoughts.
"Exploding Snap, anyone? Hermione, that essay's not due for another week. Put it down and play. It's Halloween. Relax."
"No, I've finished my essay already. I'd like to finish what I'm doing now though before we start, all right? Only take a minute." Hermione was scrawling on a piece of parchment that she had propped up in her Transfiguration book.
"Oh, then far be it from us to keep you from your pressing letter-writing." Ron didn't look up from the cards he was shuffling. "I'm sure Vicky needs the update on how his little woman is doing."
SLAM!
The Transfiguration book hit the table, hard. Harry jumped. The last time he had seen Hermione get this angry, Draco Malfoy had ended up with a black eye and a bloody nose. She leaned across the table, seething. She was almost nose-to-nose with Ron.
"That's it. I've had it. What do you want to know about Viktor and me?" Hermione's voice was deadly. "Come on, Ron. Ask me. What. Do. You. Want. To. Know?"
Ron was silent.
Harry felt like he'd rather be under the table, or indeed, anywhere else but where he was right now. The Forbidden Forest, detention, in the path of the Whomping Willow. Any of those would do. He sank down in his seat, trying to avoid the line of fire.
"Want to know if I went to Bulgaria? Yes. With my parents. For a week. It was lovely."
Ron looked at her, eyes slitted and arms crossed. Hermione went on.
"That's not interesting enough for you. I see. Want to know if I've kissed him?"
Ron's eyes widened and then narrowed again.
"What else do you want to know? WHAT ELSE?" Hermione's voice rose sharply. "Heard enough, have you? Don't want to know more? Don't want to know about fraternising with the enemy? Why can't you just leave me alone?" Her voice cracked as it got louder and higher.
The entire common room was watching now. Neville Longbottom looked terrified. Harry slunk lower in his chair. Ron was ghost-white, staring furiously at her. He didn't say anything.
Hermione sat down again. The outburst had drained her, and her voice was barely above a whisper.
"You idiot. You complete idiot. You don't know anything. Stop. Please just—" and she seemed to change her mind.
"No. Go on," she said, "say what you like. Doesn't matter to me. Not anymore."
Hermione looked at Ron with such sad eyes that Harry couldn't see how insulting her more would be anything less than kicking a puppy.
"Really." Ron's tone was icy. "Well, that's a comfort." Carefully, Hermione got up, pushed her chair in and walked up to the girls' dormitory.
Harry wanted to grab his best friend and shake him.
"What is your problem, mate?"
"Nothing." Ron's face assumed that mulish look it took to adopting every so often since last year's Yule Ball.
"Well, then if there's nothing wrong, leave her alone about Krum." Harry glared at Ron.
"She hardly needs a knight in shining armour to protect her, Harry. We are discussing the girl who can hex anyone in a three-mile-radius. And she certainly can fight back." Ron snapped. "Did you not notice the scene she put on only thirty seconds ago?"
Harry tried another approach.
"Ron, d'you ever think that maybe this isn't just about Hermione?"
"And what else would it be about, then?" Ron shot Harry a look that could bore through steel. Harry switched tactics again.
"You know, Viktor doesn't seem to have been anything but nice to Hermione. Ron, he came from a school where we know the headmaster was a former Death Eater and certainly was an unpleasant human being in all other respects. It must have taken some nerve to bring a girl from a Muggle background to the ball. I think it says a lot about him that he liked Hermione enough to risk that." From the expression on Ron's face, Harry knew that this was probably not a good approach either.
This was quickly getting nowhere. He sighed.
"Are we going to play, or not?" Ron shrugged and dealt the cards.
They had been playing for only a few minutes when, in the heat of the game, Harry knocked a book off of the table with his elbow.
"Oh," he said, "Hermione left all of her things down here. You think she's coming back?" Harry knew that the answer was probably no. The bushy-haired Prefect was probably gone for the evening.
"Oh! Um, I'll bring them up to her." Ginny Weasley, who had been unfortunate enough to be sitting on a nearby sofa when Hermione and Ron had started fighting, got up and reached quickly for Hermione's bookbag. But she reached too quickly, and the bag toppled. A box with a scroll attached to the top tumbled out of it, along with a pile of parchments and books. Ginny dropped to her knees and began to pick up the scattered supplies.
Across the room, Parvati Patil giggled. "Oooh. Hermione got cauuught."
Ron glared at her. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing." replied Parvati in a tone implying that she knew, or at least she thought she knew, very well there was, in fact, something that she was talking about. Ron let out an exasperated sigh and reached down to collect some of the things on the floor. He picked up the book that Hermione had been using to hold up her letter, and the parchment fluttered out. He caught it and was about to examine it when—
"Hey! Give that here," and Ginny grabbed at what her brother was holding. The parchment tore and Ron was left with only a small bit of it.
"What?" Ron snarled. "I'm just trying to help, that's all. I don't care if it's some stupid letter to Vicky. Whatever. . ." and he trailed off as he actually looked at what he held in his hand. Suddenly he crumpled it up. "Here." he said shortly, and handed it to Ginny. She kept glaring at him as she shoved it into the pocket of her robes. She took the box next and slipped it into Hermione's bag. Harry saw the front of the box clearly for a moment. It was just a box of sugar quills. Didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary—just late-night study food, probably. Parvati was certainly one of the weirder people Harry knew, and given his experience, that was saying a lot.
Hermione appeared at the entrance to the common room.
"Oh! My things!" she exclaimed.
"I know," Ginny said a bit ruefully. "I was going to bring them up to you—but I managed to knock them over. See what comes of being around boys your whole life—you lose all of your natural feminine grace."
Hermione giggled. "Terrible things, boys are." She stopped smiling. She and Ginny finished putting her bag together and Hermione stood. She took a deep breath and touched Ron's shoulder. He looked up at her from where he was kneeling.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have yelled like that. I was angry. I mean—you didn't have any right—but neither did I."
"Well—I shouldn't—" Ron sounded awkward. "I mean—I'm sorry, too."
Hermione shrugged. "It's okay. I mean, I really wish you wouldn't. But it's okay."
Ron smiled a little. "Okay." He looked at her again. "Wait. Why are you down here so early? Normally you just go off and sulk for a long time." Hermione pursed her lips. "Erm—you, you know, anyway—you never come back. Why'd you come back?"
"Detention." Hermione looked sour. "I didn't want to leave my books here for the whole time I was gone."
"Oh, the Prefect got detention? On her own? Without the assistance of her best friends?" Ron said mischievously. "Amazing. I'm never taking all the blame for getting in trouble again." Hermione really did glare at him this time.
Harry was curious. He'd just been sitting there quietly, adopting his usual policy of non-interference, but he wanted to know what was going on. "What did you do, Hermione?"
She shrugged, the sour expression still on her face. "I went out for a walk the other night after lights out. Needed the fresh air before I went back to studying. Filch caught me. Now I've got to help clean out the unused dungeons."
"Of course," Ron shook his head. "It was about studying. Couldn't even get into proper trouble, schoolwork-free. Not Hermione." Hermione flushed.
"Shut up, Ron. Anyway, I need to get down there. Don't you two forget about our practise after, in the Charms classroom." She left the common room, her bookbag slung over her shoulder.
"Lucky she's got that box of sugar quills to get through the ordeal. Shame she has to miss the Feast, though." Harry said. Ginny shot him a look that he couldn't quite read. He had a feeling that he'd done something wrong, but he wasn't quite sure what. He moved on "Next thing you know, she'll be getting hauled into McGonagall's office every day like the twins."
"In there with Fred and George. Can't you just see it?" Ginny smiled at the thought. She rolled her eyes and went over to join some fourth-years who were playing a raucous game with a pair of enchanted dice. Harry looked to Ron to see what his best friend thought about that idea.
Ron wasn't paying attention. He was staring into space. Harry raised an eyebrow at him.
"Something bothering you, Ron?"
Ron's head snapped up. "Huh? No—it's nothing. Never mind. It's just—was that a box of sugar quills? Hermione doesn't eat sug—never mind. It's not anything." He looked away, at the floor this time. "Those dentists . . ." Ron trailed off. "Nothing. Sorry. Play cards again before we go down?" Harry shrugged.
"Why not?"
Harry won that round.
* * * *
It was quite late when Hermione met them in the Charms classroom. She asked about the feast and Ron and Harry nearly fell over laughing as they described how Seamus had accidentally managed to make a pumpkin floating over the Head Table fall directly onto Professor Flitwick, and how the tiny wizard had squeaked furiously for five minutes until the other teachers could get his new, overlarge head off of him. She brushed off questions about the nature of her detention, saying only that it was "not fun," and went straight to drilling Harry and Ron on the charms they were supposed to use on the exam.
A good fifteen minutes later, it was obvious that the session was not going well. Hermione was antsy, and she was becoming less and less tolerant of what she thought were lapses in her best friends' magical repertoires.
Ron fled to the dormitory, mumbling something about needing another book, and that he'd be right back, but Harry secretly thought it was just a way to escape Hermione's iron fist.
"HARRY! Can't you pay attention properly for once?" He looked at her. After the miserable failure that was his last attempt at a Quondamus enchantment, he wasn't in a mood that was any better.
"You think this is so easy, you should be the one shooting the targets. You make them harder than Flitwick will. Yours move too much."
"So what you're saying is that you only care about the grade and not whether or not these spells will even be useful to you, right?" She stamped her foot. "THESE are NOT just for a grade. What if you actually NEED them?" Finally she rolled her eyes. "Fine. If you don't want to, we won't. But if you can hit my targets, you'll be sure to hit all of the ones Professor Flitwick uses and you'll probably get top scores and that will make up for whatever mediocre grade you get in Potions. How's that for a good reason?"
Harry shrugged. "Whatever, Hermione." He stood across the room from her, arms crossed. A twinge of guilt hit him. Hermione, bossy attitude and all, was just trying to help, and she was already pretty upset between all of the fighting and the detention. He didn't need to add to that, and if taking on extra-difficult Charms assignments was the way to help her feel better, then fine. He'd do it. "One more batch," he relented. "Then I'm going to bed. The exam's in two days and if I'm sleep-deprived during it, I won't pass anyway."
She smiled broadly. "I knew you'd keep at it, Harry. You'll do wonderfully on the test. You'll be brilliant." Hermione practically ran to her position, bumping the half-open door to the classroom so that it swung all the way back on its hinges and stayed there. "Turn around!" Harry sighed, but faced the wall obligingly. "Aviatriseum!" He thought he heard the small pop from the end of her wand. Internally he began to count . . . 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . Go!
Harry spun around. His wand pointed at the new target.
"Scopolamia!" The target dropped with a surprised hoot. A little puff of feathers drifted around it.
Hermione's eyes were round. She and Harry looked at each other and then at the tiny owl on the floor.
"Congratulations, Harry. You've got it. But you've just taken out Pigwidgeon."
* * * *
"What's Pig doing here?"
"I don't know—he's Pig. Probably got all mixed up and lost."
"Can't we reverse it?"
"Not exactly."
"'NOT EXACTLY'?!"
"Well, it's not permanent; it wears off. But you just have to wait it out. That would be why we were using charmed targets. Honestly, Harry, don't you ever read?"
"Not the point right now, Hermione. How long does it take to wear off?"
"Eight hours, more or less."
"EIGHT HOURS, MORE OR LESS?" Harry lowered his voice. "What," he muttered, "am I going to tell Ron? 'Sorry, but your poor spastic owl happened to wander into our Charms practice and, well, he got whacked. Don't worry, though, he'll be fine in EIGHT HOURS, MORE OR LESS.' "
"That's one option. The truth." Hermione glared at him. Then her gaze softened and she gave in. "Or you can tell him you had to borrow Pig for the mail and just hide the poor little guy for the night." Harry didn't look thrilled with that idea. "Fine. Tell him I did it accidentally. He can't get any angrier with me than he is already."
"I can't say that. It's not true. And it's not fair to you. Anyway, Ron's not really angry with you anym—" Hermione cut him off.
"He thinks I would do it anyway. Just say that we were practising blind attacks. I was standing like so," at this she faced a wall, wand out. "I heard what I thought was the next target so I spun around." She pantomimed the action. "And I Charmed it before I realized it was Pigwidgeon."
Harry was about to say he'd rather come clean to Ron when there was a gasp behind them. Someone had come into the room. Ron dropped his book bag with a clunk.
"You did WHAT?!" he roared. "Pig!? You've KILLED my ruddy owl." He hurried to the red and gold scarf in which Pig was nestled.
"He'll be all right in eight hours or so," Hermione sounded chagrined.
"EIGHT HOURS?!?! What did you do to him?"
"It wasn't her," Harry tried to say. "I was the one who put Scopolam—"
"Don't even try to cover for her, Harry! It won't work," snapped Ron. He turned on his heel, carrying the tiny owl. As he slammed the door, they heard him growl, "What is her trouble with other people's pets?" Hermione gave Harry a weak smile.
"See? Problem solved." She gathered up her books and shoved them in her bag.
Harry was reminded yet again how much he hated it when his friends fought. Sighing, he picked up his own things and followed Hermione back to Gryffindor.
He went up the stairs to the boys' fifth year dormitory and promptly got himself deep in the middle of a debate with Ron, who was lying angrily on his bed, facing the canopy ceiling of his four-poster. The unconscious form of Pigwidgeon was cuddled up, quite cosily, Harry thought, on Ron's pillow, still wrapped in Hermione's scarf.
From the way their conversation was starting off, Harry didn't think he had much of a chance of winning. He kept trying anyway. "Ron, look, you don't understand—it wasn't like that. I was the one wh—"
"Oh, shut UP with this nobility thing already, Harry! You know damn well she did it, and I'm certainly not going to give in and back down just on your say-so." Ron turned and glared at the wall. "I'm not the one with the potential Death-Eater for a boyfriend. I'm not the one who made a huge scene in the common room. And I'm not the one who tried to kill my supposed friend's pet owl. Can't even blame it on—" Ron suddenly stopped speaking.
"Crookshanks didn't actually kill Scabbers." Harry had trouble saying the name without open bitterness in it. Ron turned back from facing the wall.
"Better if he had though." He bit his lip in thought. "Harry . . ."
"Look, that wasn't your fault, okay?" Harry shook his head. "I didn't know. There wasn't any way you—"
"The cat did. God, I wish . . ." Ron pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, that's not the point here, is it?" He raised his head. "But PIG, even Crookshanks knew he was nothing but a tiny annoying owl . . ."
"Ron, I am trying to explain here. Just listen." His best friend folded his arms again.
They went on like that for quite awhile, Harry trying to reason with Ron as Harry dug out his pyjamas and got ready for bed, while Ron just kept shaking his head.
Finally, Harry made his last attempt. "Look, it's not fair to make me be the go-between here. Do you want this to be like third year all over again? D'you remember that?"
The redhead's expression changed, and a flash of what looked like regret passed over it. But "Hrmmph," was all he said. Harry glared at him.
"Fine. If you're willing to say 'sod off!' after five years of friendship, I'm not getting in your way anymore." He threw his dressing robe on over his pyjamas, left the fifth years' room and walked down the stairs. He didn't notice the slouching figure that followed him a few moments later.
A series of yawns overtook him as he entered the Gryffindor common room. He stifled them. He could sleep in, as long as nobody (well, nobody meaning Hermione, who would never let him or Ron live that sort of thing down) cared if he skived off his first class tomorrow, and he figured he'd better talk to Hermione. He had no idea how he ended up feeling like the Great Negotiator in their friendship. Well, except for fourth year, when he and Ron had kind of forced Hermione into that role. He winced at the memory, and pushed it from his thoughts.
Hermione was curled up on the couch, staring at nothing. She was wearing her pyjamas and a pair of slippers. She didn't seem to see him come in to the otherwise empty room.
"What's up, Hermione?" Harry sat down beside her. She looked up, smiling faintly.
"I don't know. One of those weird 'white nights,' I suppose. I just can't get rid of this feeling that something awful is going to happen."
Harry looked at her for a minute. He understood that feeling better than he hoped she ever would. Hermione caught the look in his eyes and grimaced as the implications of what she'd said to him hit her. Trying to cover the awkward moment, Harry teased "Well, we are at Hogwarts. So far every year we've been here, something has happened and we've managed to be involved. And this year Voldemort is out there, alive, again. Plus, we've already got this weird paper thing to figure out . . . I don't know, Hermione, Trelawney may be right about you and your lack of an Inner Eye. It doesn't take a Professor of Divination to read between the lines." She scowled at him, but Harry thought he saw a bit of a smile buried under it.
"I know that. It must be the dark. Things always seem more foreboding at night."
"And you call yourself a Gryffindor? Lucky that you have such manly friends to keep their eyes on you." Hermione swiped at him, but Harry ducked. She was laughing.
"What would I do without you around to put things in perspective?" Her voice turned serious. "I do love you, Harry, you know that, don't you?" She reached over and squeezed his hand. He grinned back. "You're one of the best friends I've ever had."
" 'Course you love me. All women love Harry Potter. Comes with the scar," he said, tapping his forehead knowingly. She laughed again and dropped his hand.
"You are a good friend, Harry. Thank you." She hesitated, looking down. "It's just this thing with Ron. I'm at the end of my rope. I can't do this anymore, Harry. I'm sick of it. Every time I turn around, it's another comment. It gets to me. Then I go off and say things that I don't even want to say. Things that I don't even really . . ." She stopped and ran her hand through her hair. An unreadable expression flickered across her face. "I mean, is he blind? Can't he see that—that Viktor and I are not a couple?" Harry had the unmistakable feeling she had been about to say something else, but he just sat there, patting her shoulder. "I hate it so much."
Neither of them noticed the figure in the doorway leave.
Hermione turned towards her friend, looking at him closely.
"You know, you should talk to Cho Chang, Harry, really you should."
The abrupt subject change startled him. He was speechless. Harry avoided looking at Hermione as he gathered his newly scattered thoughts and responded.
"I don't know if I can, after Cedric."
"I think she'd appreciate it. When you lose someone that close to you, well, it hurts more than you think anything could ever hurt." Harry was apprehensive.
"I don't know, Hermione. It seems . . . weird. Wouldn't that be taking advantage of her? I mean—I like her." He blushed as he said the last part quickly and softly.
"Harry, you don't like her. You like who you think she is. You barely know her. I know her even less. But I can tell you Cho needs to talk to someone who understands. You're the person who probably understands what she's been going through the most."
She sighed impatiently. "Look. I'm not saying hit on her. As a matter of fact, as a girl standing up for a member of my gender and as your friend, I say don't do that. I'll come after you with some very unpleasant hexes if you even think about doing that. But talk to her. I think someone making the extra effort to be friendly would mean a lot to her."
Harry hadn't thought of it that way. "Well, we'll see," was all he said. A thought occurred to him.
"Hermione?"
"Mmm?" She was staring into the fire, lost in thought.
"Did you kiss Viktor Krum?" She smiled mischievously.
"Yes. Once." Harry gaped at her. "Oh, stop it, Harry. You're not my father. It was last year. It was . . . nice," she finished. Then she giggled. "Fun, too. But it wasn't right. After that, I knew I didn't feel the same way that he did about me. We've just been friends since." Her gaze softened. "He is incredibly kind, though." She got up. "Think I'll try for a few hours sleep. Good night."
Harry wasn't sure if he'd really helped. He hoped so.
* * * *
He was in the same room in the tower. But for some reason, instead of merely seeming otherworldly, the room had a new, nastier sense about it. As a matter of fact, where he was seemed damned unpleasant, even though he couldn't yet put his finger on why.
He could hear a scratching, the sound of a quill on parchment. Harry turned, trying to find where it was coming from. There was another person in the room—but he knew it wasn't the girl. Where was she? Something about this was wrong. No one was supposed to be here now.
The light shining on the desk let Harry see what the person was doing. Something glinted in the light. It was a silver hand, holding the parchment down. It seemed to be shimmering again, but the colours were all wrong—it was a violation of what he had seen the last time. A familiar scrawl appeared, trying to overwrite the ancient script Harry has seen. He couldn't make out what it said. He squinted, but the images were fading too fast for him to read. A cold voice came from behind the scribe,
"Failure again, Wormta—?"
Harry's eyes snapped open. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, for a moment. Great. It was morning and the room was empty except for Ron and himself. Ron was still snoring peacefully in the bed next to him. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to banish the memory. God, he loathed these dreams. This one wasn't so terrible—at least no one had been murdered—but he hated that so much of the time he was supposed to spend resting was devoted to the people who were pretty much the reason he would want to have nice escapist dreams.
Shakily, he got out of bed and put on his robe. Maybe a shower would clear his head and remove the remnants of unease that were twisting in his stomach. He walked down the hall and into the boys' bathroom. He stripped and got into the showers. The steam rose up around him and he leaned back against the tiled walls.
This meaningful dream thing was not all that people thought it was. He'd gladly trade them all for an everyday nightmare about being naked in a final examination.
So now Voldemort is involved now for certain. Fabulous.
He closed his eyes and let the water wash over his face. Ron's words came back to him.
(You're the hero . . .)
Yeah, fat lot of heroism I'm good for.
All I've ever done is let things happen . . .
Ron and the chess match. . .Hermione getting Petrified . . . Wormtail getting away. . . Cedric. . .
And worst of all. . .
(No, not Harry, please not Harry)
(A tiny hand reaching out)
(Mumma?)
His eyes opened.
Oh God.
Every time he heard his mum's last minutes in his head, it felt like he remembered a little more.
Maybe I don't remember it at all . . . maybe I'm just trying to remember anything and so my mind's making it up.
The entire pleasant train of thought trailed him back to his room, and he dressed automatically, lost in speculation. He gathered up his books and threw them violently into his bag.
Why do I have to keep thinking about this stuff? Why can't I just let it go for even five bloody minutes?
Harry walked down to the Great Hall. He wasn't very hungry, but at least there'd be people there. It was slightly later than he was accustomed to going to breakfast, so he was surprised to see people still at the tables. He took a deep breath, letting the last of the unpleasant dream slip to the back of his mind and looked around to see who was at the Gryffindor table.
Hermione was not sitting in her usual place at breakfast. In the absence of other company, she had scooted down to sit across from Ginny, and the two of them were chatting animatedly about something that Harry couldn't quite catch. Ginny was laughing at something Hermione had said. Hermione grinned back at the younger girl. She seemed to be much better this morning. Maybe the talk had helped. Or maybe Ginny had been able to provide some "girl" support. He didn't know if he was very good with that kind of thing. He was glad that, for whatever reason, Hermione looked like she was back to herself.
Ron was even later than Harry. He plunked himself down next to the shorter boy and began to butter his toast. He absently started eating as he looked over a gigantic, slightly evil-smelling tome, the likes of which could only indicate a Potions text. Harry wrinkled his nose.
"Lord, Ron, instead of inflicting that on us, get Hermione down here after breakfast to help with that assignment. It'll go faster than you struggling through those eight chapters on your own and the rest of us won't have to endure that awful odour."
Ron kept flipping through stained pages. "Even if I'd forgiven her about Pig—which I'm not saying I have, by the way—it wouldn't matter. She's still upset."
"How do you know? She seems like she's doing fine—look at her over there with Ginny. I talked to her last night and I think she just needed to get it out of her system. You know how she gets—she gets her nose out of joint and then she calms down and it all sorts itself out."
"Harry." Ron's tone was odd, half-"Are you an idiot?" and half-something that Harry couldn't put his finger on. "She's not eating anything." Harry looked at Hermione again. Ron was right. There was no tray, empty or otherwise in front of Hermione. And was it a trick of the light or were her eyes were slightly shadowed? Was there a strain in her smile? He looked again, and the shadows had disappeared. Must have been his imagination.
"Maybe she's just not hungry. Maybe she can smell that book down there."
"The last time she skipped a meal was during the spew crisis of 1994. She never misses breakfast unless something's really wrong. Most important meal of the day." Ron sounded exasperated. "Like clockwork, that one." He glowered at his coffee and went back to the vile book in front of him. He didn't seem open to further conversation.
Harry rolled his eyes. He turned his attention to the girls at the end of the Gryffindor table and called
"Hey, Hermione! Didn't you say you'd help me with my Transfiguration essay before class?" She looked surprised, but a bit grateful.
"Yes, of course I'll help." Her eyes flickered to Ron and then down at her book bag. "I'll grab some stuff from my room. What if I meet you in the common room in fifteen minutes or so?" Hermione left the Great Hall hurriedly.
Ron hadn't even looked up once from his book.
Harry raised his eyebrows. "Look, I'm going to go get some studying in. If you feel more friendly later on, you should come too."
Ron snorted. "No thanks. I'll keep what's left of my owl safe instead."
Harry couldn't resist a parting shot. "All right, don't come. But you two should really work this out." He gathered up his things and left. As he traipsed down the corridor to the common room, Harry wondered why he hadn't realised that Hermione never skipped breakfast.
