A/N: My dear smile7499: Please update your cat on its shots. I have no desire to be attacked by a mad cat, but if this desire cannot be met, than I would rather have a mad cat attack me with its shots than without them. Because, as I have stated before, I do support H/Hr pairings. And, as many other reviewers have commented, I have just set this story up to be an H/Hr story. You fill in the details. My apologies that your preferences are unlike my own, but if you would like, I will state why I think Harry and Hermione should be together, and why I'm doing it the way I am. (There will be NO spoilers in what I am about to say. If you don't wish to read this, skip down to the story part.) Smile7499 was right about something. People say that Harry and Hermione's relationship is good, because they don't argue. This is incorrect. As my mother, (who happens to have a masters degree in physiology,) would say, a healthy relationship must have arguments. I honestly don't think Harry knows Hermione as well as he think he does, and therefore, they don't argue as much. However, if they are forced together everyday, there will be arguments, (as you have already seen.) I see that Ron/Hermione pairings are inevitable, and so included it in my story. But I do not think that they will stay together for very long. Healthy relationships have arguments, however, they do not have arguments all the time. Can you imagine what would happen if Hermione and Ron lived in one house together; look at how explosive they are in one school. They would drive each other mad. It would not be a peaceful marriage, as some people depict it to be. There would be a divorce within three months. They do not have compatible personalities. Some say opposites attract, but that is hardly true. You must be somewhat similar in order to get along, and I think Hermione and Harry's personalities are much more compatible than Hermione and Ron. With Hermione and Harry, he can tolerate her nitpicking, while getting her to do something fun. She would be able to keep him in line, and go along with whatever he had in mind. (After all, she did think up the polyjuice sceme all by herself.) I believe that their chemistry can change, once he gets over Cho. Those are my reasons, and I find them good ones. Tell me what you think.
Disclaimer: Nothing related to Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling, Warner brothers, or Bloomsbury publishing belongs to me. The rest of the world, however, does. :)
Dedication: To the people who saved lives, risked their lives, or gave their lives, to September 11, last year. And to Smile7499…so she will love me anyway, and not set her attack cat on me. :)
In the beginning,
There was the cold and the night,
Prophets and Angels, gave us the fire, and the light,
Man was triumphant,
Armed with the faith and the will…
That even the darkest ages couldn't kill.
~Billy Joel. "Two Thousand Years.'
"No, no, no, Hermione, do it again. You can pick it up, I promise." Harry ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. "Listen, it's like a summoning charm, except you don't have a wand. You don't even have to say anything. You just beckon to it. Look," He waved slightly. An inkbottle came sailing across the room, landing neatly in his hand.
"I'm not a mage, Harry," said Hermione for what seemed like the zillionth time that day. "Maybe I just got lucky. I can't do any of this."
"You promised," said Harry firmly, glaring at her. "You said you'd practice. I may have to threaten you with a dragon if you don't learn this." Hermione gave a wan smile, acknowledging the irony of the situation, their roles being reversed.
"I've done nothing except accumulate a blistering headache in the last fifteen minutes." She put her head in her hands. "I'm not a mage." Harry walked over and put a hand on her head.
"Heal," he said brusquely. Hermione looked up bemusedly.
"Wait…" her jaw dropped in amazement, making Harry laugh in spite of himself. "How did you…what…my headache's gone," she said helplessly, not knowing what else to say.
"It's a healing charm," said Harry, "It can't do anything large, like cure a tumour, unless you really concentrate, but it can heal sprained ankles, headaches, broken bones, things like that. I found it in this," He lifted up a ratty old book, one that looked fit for a dustbin. In peeling gold letters, the title proclaimed, Pages of Mages through the Ages. "You just stick your hand over whatever hurts and say 'heal.' Not very complicated, is it?" Harry grinned.
"Well that will come in useful," said Hermione.
"Good, why don't you try it on me?" Harry grinned again. It was a very James-like grin. One that meant they were headed for disaster. One that meant they were headed for calculated disaster. One that meant about four people and a grindelow were going to get sent to the hospital wing within the next fifteen minutes, whether or not plans went awry. "Come on," he said, hopping up. "I'll do something that will give me a headache, and you can fix it."
"No," said Hermione firmly.
"Oh, it'll be fun."
"No," said Hermione again.
"I know," said Harry cheerfully. "I'll change all of the walls in Sirius' room to pink. I haven't worked on changing objects yet, just hair and eyes and stuff. Plus, he hates pink."
"No," said Hermione. Harry wasn't listening. He was already out the door.
"Bugger," said Hermione. She could feel her headache coming back. Or maybe that was just the feeling of calculated disaster, coming her way.
~**~
By the time Hermione had found Harry, there was flamingo-coloured paint splattered on two of the walls, the ceiling, and he was wincing.
"Harry," said Hermione in horror, looking around. "Harry, this isn't…"
The door opened.
~**~
Harry had no idea Professor McGonagall's mouth could open that wide. Or that her lips could completely disappear, when she finally composed herself to press them together. Or that so much controlled fury could be in one place.
"Just what do you think you are doing, Mr Potter?" she asked dangerously, her nostrils flared.
"I…um…" Harry couldn't think properly, his head was killing him. "I wanted to play a little prank on Sirius," he said weakly.
"Do you think Mr. Black comes into my office often, Mr Potter?" Professor McGonagall's voice was extremely soft, even more dangerous than a scream. Harry braced himself.
"I thought that this was his office, Professor," he said, hoping he looked innocent.
"Never, in all my years teaching here, never has the student had the audacity to ruin my office! And yes, Potter, including your father!" Her voice was piercing. Harry hoped for the sake of his headache that it would stop soon.
"I regret that I can no longer take points from your house, since you are no longer enrolled in this school," she said, her voice soft again. "However, you will be receiving a detention. Tonight."
"But Professor," started Hermione, horrified. If they had detention tonight, there was no way Harry could teach her that summoning thing.
"And you as well Miss Granger!"
"Hermione didn't…" Harry started.
"But she watched you do it, and did not stop you," countered Professor McGonagall.
"Well, she tried," Harry began again.
"Only one detention Professor?" Hermione asked, surprised.
"Just one," said the Professor. "Do you like divination, Potter?" Harry was thrown. What did that have to do with anything?
"No," he said warily.
"Good," said Professor McGonagall. "Because that is where your detention will be. You will sort through all the prophecies in the divination tower and alphabetise them." Hermione looked horrified.
"But Professor…Professor Trelawny keeps every prophecy a student writes! You can't expect us to…"
"I can and I will," said Professor McGonagall sternly. "Both you and Mr Potter will be up in the divination tower tonight until the task is done. I will see to it that Professor Trelawny does not bother you."
Calculated disaster. That's all it was, thought Hermione gloomily. Calculated disaster.
~**~
"You did what?" James laughed so hard, he had to sit down.
"Accidentally painted some of Professor McGonagall's office pink," said Harry apologetically. "I thought it was Sirius' office!"
"That wonderful!" James cried, tears streaming down his cheeks, "That's…absolutely…how did you do it?" He roared again with laughter, pounding on his bed with his fist.
"You're not angry that I got a detention?" Harry asked, slightly surprised. All fathers he knew would be horrified if their son painted a professor's office pink.
"Are you joking?" James sat up suddenly. "You are talking to the man who holds the record for largest amount of detentions in one month. I want to know, how you did it! I wish I had thought of that back then. Why didn't you take me with you?" He asked, suddenly petulant. Harry stared at him, before realising exactly how young James was. Someone only eighteen years old would have to appreciate a Professor office suddenly pink. A normal dad would not. But then again, James was not a normal dad.
"Oh, I just planned ahead a bit," said Harry airily, "Just enough to realise that Professor McGonagall is not thick enough to believe that there are two of me and only one of Hermione."
"Ah, I suppose so," said James with a sigh. "So, what are you doing for detention?"
"Sorting through all the divination prophecies and alphabetising them." James grimaced.
"I had that one once. In fourth year. I don't quite remember what I did, but it was five in the morning when I went to bed," he smiled, "I'll give you the morning classes off, just for the sheer brilliance of your plan." Harry gaped again. How many fathers would give their children school off for a brilliant plan that got them a detention?
"Thanks Dad!" he said, smiling happily. "Thanks a lot."
~**~
He was not, however, smiling later that night. Harry and Hermione sat in a pile of papers, which, apparently, had not be organised since James had last did it. And it looked like he didn't do a very good job. Haphazard chunks of paper lay around the room, stacked in boxes, closets, trunks, and several were hidden beneath the cushions of the poufs. Hermione even found a few crumpled into a broken crystal ball.
"We're never going to finish this," Harry groaned. "Look at it all! There must be millions of papers here. I don't even know if we got them all."
Hermione glared at him.
"This isn't my fault you know," she snapped. "I wasn't the one who got the brilliant idea to paint Professor McGonagall's office pink."
"Well I didn't know it was her office, did I?" said Harry equally annoyed.
"Well if it wasn't your fault, whose was it?" Hermione asked angrily.
"It was…" Harry picked up a piece of paper and cleared his throat. "A conjunction of Venus and Jupiter, subdivided with the stars of urethra's dogs."
Hermione giggled slightly. "What kind of rubbish is that?" she asked. "Urethra's dogs? Who is Urethra?"
"I don't know," said Harry, "but apparently someone important. They got an 'A' on this one."
"Listen to this one," said Hermione, picking up a new paper, "The night when the bubblehead smacks…and when the…treacle tart…thwacks…I can't even read this. It's scribble…" She laughed. "It got an 'A+!'"
"And this one is complete rubbish," said Harry, grinning as well, "When Venus is in the two hundred and eleventh house…"
"Two hundred and eleventh house?" Hermione asked, laughing even more.
"Yeah," said Harry, "When Venus is in the two hundred and eleventh house I will get trampled by a rampaging bug bear, and afterwards get eaten by a carnivorous flobberworm…hey wait a minute!" He squinted at the name at the top of the page. "I wrote this one!" Which made Hermione fall over from laughing.
"Here, this one failed!" she said, picking up another one. "I wonder what they wrote. Professor Trelawny said…" Hermione squinted at the cramped handwriting, "'Not vague enough! This is divination, not a poetry contest! I wonder what they wrote…" she cleared her throat and began to read. "The flower and stag's death begin the quest…" She suddenly frowned, reading the rest of the paragraph. "Harry," she said, paling slightly, "this is a real one…this one's about you."
"Rubbish," said Harry, laughing, "You must be mad to think that you could have me on like that."
"No," said Hermione soberly. "Listen."
The flower and stag's death begin the quest,
Their boy who lived finishes the rest,
And brings about the dark lords fall,
After the rat betrays them all.
The dog is innocent of the rat's crime,
But is imprisoned, until the time,
The wolf begins to teach at last,
While the one who lived finds out the past,
The rat betrays yet once more still,
The wolf, the dog, must wait until,
The rat's true sins can be atoned,
While the one who lived faces dark alone.
"It's third and fourth year…most of it anyway," said Harry. "Fancy that…if only Trelawny had paid attention to that, she could have taken credit for it."
"There's more," said Hermione.
A trio, one son of the marauding four,
A boy who lived, whom worlds adore.
Must face the ending to the quest,
The twain of light and dark-a test.
A clever one, whose wits and skill,
Will keep them from impending ill.
A hero, one who's brave and bold,
Will save all, after one who's old.
A side-kick who will play the part,Of a martyr's role, and a diviner's heart.
Yet still one more will join the three,
Of dark and light conflicting he.
And yet, a hero in his own right,
If he does try to side with light.
Two will fall for the clever one,
The hero and the seventh son,
One will love much and will let go,
One will love more, and live, and grow.
"Well that's cheerful," said Harry sarcastically. "It describes us to a tee…except Ron. Maybe he's the fourth one…"
"I don't think so, Harry," said Hermione, shaking her head. "I don't know where Ron is in this."
"Well…maybe the second bit's wrong," suggested Harry hopefully.
"No," said Hermione with a sigh, "If one part of a prophecy is right, then it is all right. You can have wrong prophecies, but not ones that are half wrong."
"Oh," said Harry. "Well, maybe it's a hoax. Maybe it was written this year. What's the name of the person?"
"Someone named…Kaitlyn Rebboltz." Said Hermione, frowning at the signature.
"Any date on it?"
"No, but we can find out the date anyway." Hermione tapped the parchment with her wand. "Ad," she said simply. "If the date is before 1986, we'll know it's not a…" she stopped. In flowing red letters, written at the top of the page, stood a date. They sat and stared at it.
1981.
~**~