A/N: Back again, surprisingly early. Hello and welcome. Have fun on your stay. Whatever.
***
Hermione, fully dressed at six-thirty, found Rita's jar in her trunk, just before breakfast. Carrying it like a grenade, she left her room and hurried down three flights of stairs, then through the kitchen and out the back door.
It wasn't raining yet, though the air had the consistency of mud. Heavy, warm mud at that. Hermione found it a bit hard to breathe, and resolved to make this fast.
By the time she reached the pond, Skeeter had awakened and had her little buggy face pressed up against the side of the glass. If it was even possible, Hermione would have said the beetle looked profoundly hopeful.
Skeeter twitched her antennae at Hermione, who didn't respond and sat by the edge of the green, froggy pond. "Now look, Rita. Remember what I told you? Keep your quill to yourself for a year and then you're free. If I find a single untruth by you in the Daily Prophet, I'm going to the Ministry." She shook the jar for emphasis. "I'd suggest flying as soon as you're out. The frogs are awake, and they look hungry, don't you agree?"
She knew it was mean, but Hermione couldn't resist. Bringing the jar a bit too close to the water for comfort, she could barely avoid breaking into laughter when Rita started scrambling over and hugging her leaf, seeing a few bulbous yellow eyes.
In a quick movement Hermione unscrewed the top of the jar and let the leaf and the twig fall into the pond. Rita scrabbled frantically, then took to wing and zizzed free of her glass prison. Flying straight at Hermione, buzzing loudly and irritatedly, the one-time reporter turned at the last possible second and soared away.
Hermione shrugged, recapped the jar, and ran back inside, just escaping the first few raindrops.
Mrs. Weasley jumped as Hermione came in and closed the door. "Oh, dear, you gave me a fright! Breakfast is in ten minutes…go see if Ginny's awake, would you?"
"Of course," Hermione said. "Good morning." She left the room quickly and replaced the jar in her trunk, then knocked at Ginny's door.
"G'way'm'tired…" came the sleepy moan. Then, "T'day's H'gw'rts, i'n't?"
"Wake up," Hermione said loudly, walking in. "Come on, Ginny, yes, today's Hogwarts."
Ginny groaned. "Crud." Then she sat up, grabbed a comb, and started attacking her tangled hair, which floated around her head in a kind of nimbus. "Close the door, would you? And give me a hand with this mess, please, Hermione?"
Grinning only slightly, Hermione pushed the door shut and helped Ginny with her hair. "Breakfast's in ten minutes, by the way."
"Okay…I'll be breathing by then…where's my watch?" Ginny cast around on her bedside table, tossing books, hair ties, and various other bits of her life in a pile on the bed, then found her watch on her wrist. "God, it's too early…ow!"
Hermione had hit a snarl based right at the top of her friend's head. Ginny snatched the comb out of her hand and started figuring it out herself. "You go on," she told Hermione, as Mrs. Weasley yelled that breakfast was ready. "I'll resign myself to being late."
Shrugging again, Hermione left and went in the general direction of the kitchen, stopping several times on the stairs to avoid being run over by, in quick succession, George, Harry, Mr. Weasley, Ron, and lastly Fred, who barely avoided tripping over Crookshanks and managed to jump down the last seven stairs, landing in a crouch right in front of the kitchen door. Then Hermione had to sit and cuddle Crookshanks, who was a bit miffed at having six or so feet of male human vaulting over him after what appeared to be a bad hunting night.
Finally she was allowed to go downstairs without a cat around her ankles or someone a foot behind her trying to break his neck.
"…news yet?" George was asking Mr. Weasley eagerly.
"Give me some time to look and I'll tell you," Mr. Weasley returned calmly, examining the front page of the Daily Prophet. He took a sip of tea—and choked on it as his eyes found an article midway down the page.
"Dad!"
He just pointed. Hurrying over, Hermione read the headline over Ron's shoulder as he started reading it aloud. "'Kidnapped Ministry worker discovered unconscious outside Little Hangleton….' 'At four twenty-six the morning of the first of September, Ministry clerk Isabelle Stone was found lying unconscious just outside of the Southern England village of Little Hangleton. The twenty-two-year-old woman appeared to be battling the Imperius Curse, one of the three Unforgivables…'"
"Damn," Fred said vehemently.
Mrs. Weasley glared at him. "I'll have none of that language, young man—but is she all right?"
Ron said vaguely, "Quiet, Mum, I'm getting to that part. 'Ms. Stone is in stable condition at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, but your Daily Prophet reporter was told she was not up to an interview.'…So she's okay!"
"Is there anything about the wand or the kidnapper?" Harry demanded tensely.
By then Mr. Weasley had managed to swallow his tea. "No, I looked. The Ministry starts going to smaller wand experts today…they should really get this all on record, it's such a bother to go chasing after these people who're all wasting time trying to catch unicorns…maybe I'll start a petition…"
And Fudge will torch it before he looks at it, but at least you can try, Hermione thought, sliding into her seat.
Ginny made her appearance then and everything had to be explained again. Gradually, though, as they all looked away from the paper and started eating, the room relaxed and they started talking about normal things.
"How are we getting into the station?" Ginny asked after she'd woken up a bit more over some toast. The little matters—like how on Earth they'd get to the train—were usually left to the last minute. The last second of the last minute, to be exact. No one knew ahead of time, but every one of them dearly hoped Mr. Weasley would say Ministry car. That time, in Harry, Hermione, and Ron's third year, had been by far the best.
Mr. Weasley poured himself more tea as he said, "I managed to get a few cars. Ministry, of course…decided to hire early because of the mess last year…"
"And a good thing, isn't it?" Mrs. Weasley chimed in, throwing a glance out the window. Heavy drops of rain splattered it and ran down the glass almost sluggishly, and thunder rumbled ominously just after her statement. "It'll be pitching buckets by the time you're at Hogwarts—"
Of course. It's not like we've ever actually had a good day for the first day of term, Hermione thought. That'd just ruin the experience.
"Speaking of that," said Mr. Weasley, looking at the clock, whose hands hovered between Time to leave and You're early (for once), "I told them to be here by eight-thirty. Better make sure you're packed."
Fred and George, who'd been finished for nearly five minutes, jumped up and left, walking in step.
"Where's Percy?" Ron asked suddenly, mouth full of toast and marmalade. "'E's never late…"
Mrs. Weasley answered, sounding strained though she smiled cheerfully, "Well, he deserves a bit of a lie-in…he's been working overtime of late, poor boy…"
Exactly then, Percy Apparated into the kitchen. All of them jumped and Ginny just caught her glass of milk before it tipped. "Is breakfast ready?" he asked politely. "Good morning, Mum, I'm running late…why'd you let me sleep in? My alarm clock malfunctioned—" and here Percy looked decidedly irked, that some dumb machine had dared to make him ten minutes late—"and I've got a very busy day planned at the office…"
He seemed proud. Hermione suppressed a shudder. As Percy started going into a rundown of his schedule, she caught Ron's eye and jerked her head towards the door. He nudged Harry, and, all three of them snitching one last piece of toast, they muttered excuses and left the kitchen.
"I let Rita out," Hermione said without preamble, as soon as they were out of earshot.
Harry asked hopefully, "I wouldn't suppose a gnome ate her?"
"No," she returned frostily. "However, keeping that wish in mind, I pretended to drop her in the frog pond."
"Almost as good," he said, shrugging, as Ron started to laugh.
"What?" Hermione demanded, glaring.
Ron shook his head, laughing too hard to talk. When he'd recovered enough to speak, he said, "I just had a vision of you, sitting next to the frog pond, holding Rita over the pond and giving her a good lecture…"
Feeling herself go red, Hermione was infinitely glad her room was right there. "Right, that's funny, ha-ha. Now if you'd excuse me." Before either of them could say anything, she opened the door, slid through, and closed it behind her.
If Ron didn't stop teasing her, she'd hit him with a Confusion Charm, Hermione promised herself. He wouldn't be able to tie his own shoes for a week or four. Leaning her head on the door, she was hit with the sudden feeling that she was just pretending to be annoyed.
"Oh, none of that nonsense!" she cried, exasperated, and stamped flat-footed over to her mirror. "You tell me," she shot at her reflection. "Ron's an annoying—annoying—"
For once her bewildered reflection was helpful. "Big clumsy annoying git?"
"Yes, exactly. Thank you." Hermione turned away and started checking her trunk for the fourth time since the night before. She'd memorized everything's exact position—the books in the cauldron, the clothes in neatly-folded piles, her spare pair of sneakers and her dress shoes in their own shoeboxes, and the box of miscellaneous odds and ends. The entire trunk—the dear old trunk, carved with her initials just below the lock—was absolutely immaculate. The Weasley boys would be sickened.
And that was just too bad. Hermione pushed the lid down and locked the trunk again with a final-sounding, satisfying clack, slid her wand into one pocket, checked the bag of books she'd bring on the train, and put her cloak in the bag as an afterthought. It looked like she'd need it by the time the train stopped in Hogsmeade.
Five minutes later, she was the only one by a far cry who was actually ready for the cabs in ten minutes. Fred and George were making systematic checks through all the rooms—"Are you sure you don't have any room left in your trunk, Hermione? It's just a bag of Dungbombs…they're even spelled not to activate…"
George was getting so frantic that he offered to pay rent. "Five Galleons and I'll buy something for you off the cart," he begged.
All right, this is getting really desparate. "What?" Hermione said, pretending to be shocked. "Did I actually hear a Weasley twin offering money?"
He just looked at her pleadingly.
"Fine," she said, and pulled a few more books out of her cauldron to put in her bag. "Put them right there."
"Thanks, Hermione…you're a lifesaver…"
"And it's all right about the money. I don't need it," she said, which was the absolute truth.
George immediately went normal. "Okay. Got any room for Hiccup Sweets?"
"No."
He shrugged. "All right—I'll go bribe Ginny—thanks—" And then he left.
"What's he trying to pack, an entire joke shop?" Hermione demanded of her empty room. The mirror sneezed in response.
And then, besides Fred and George trying to rent space in other people's trunks, Ron had misplaced his bag of new spellbooks, Harry couldn't find the handle polish for his Broomstick Servicing Kit (a birthday present from Hermione before third year) and Ginny only just then discovered that her three favorite hair clips were missing.
Hermione became a sort of gopher for the three of them, finding—after a lot of confused searching—the spellbooks under a pile of Martin Miggs comics, the handle polish in the linen closet, and Ginny's hair clips in a sort of stash that Crookshanks had been keeping under the kitchen sink.
"Is ANYONE ready?" Mr. Weasley roared at eight twenty-seven and thirteen seconds. "Besides Hermione?"
The reply—a collective, perfectly timed "NO!" almost knocked him down the stairs.
"The cabs are here!" he yelled hopelessly two minutes and forty-seven seconds later. "Hurry, would you please…"
Finally, Ginny hurried as fast as she could down the stairs, lugging her trunk with difficulty and carrying a school bag slung over her back. Slowly, over the course of the next five minutes, the four boys trickled down the stairs, heaving overstuffed trunks and cages containing, in Harry's case, a resigned Hedwig who hooted sleepily, and in Ron's case, Pig, who…well…anyway.
The drivers, who looked rather like Hedwig except a bit more energetic, helped them drag the trunks out to the two waiting dark green cars. Hermione, remembering the cabs the year before, kept her arms clamped around Crookshanks (after weeding him out of his hiding place under the kitchen sink for the last time).
And finally—finally—the seven of them piled into the cars—then piled back out again so Mrs. Weasley could dispense hugs, farewells, and warnings. "And listen, boys, it's your last year, don't mess it up too badly, would you?" she said shrilly.
Fred said contritely, "We'll try, Mum."
"And Hermione dear," she said next, and Hermione squirmed, "don't study too hard. Give some of your habits to Ron here, if you could." She was joking, but still. For the exasperated umpteenth time Hermione felt her face go hot, and knew she went bright red.
Of course, Ron went pink around the ears at that, too, so she wasn't alone. After one last hug from Mrs. Weasley, she was allowed to retreat to one of the cars.
After ages, the cars started up. Ron was next to her and Harry on his other side, with Mr. Weasley in the front, and they could just see Ginny being sandwiched between Fred and George in the other car.
They reached the station at ten-thirty, which gave them quite enough time for Mr. Weasley to become thoroughly overexcited at the sight of a parking meter. Harry pulled him away explaining the process carefully as the seven found carts and started navigating Kings' Cross, which was crowded despite the weather.
Right between nine and ten was just as crowded, but it was a different kind of crowd. In the heavy, warm rain, Hermione could just make out crowds of sodden Hogwarts students pushing carts and carrying caged owls and cats. "What's going on?" she asked one of them—who turned out to be Mandy Brocklehurst, a Ravenclaw in their year.
"It's something with the platform, or the train," she said eagerly. "They're not letting us through yet because of—"
A sixth-year Hufflepuff nearby interrupted. "Mechanical difficulties, and for God's sake it's a magic train! I ask you, how can a magic train spelled for endurance and against problems experience mechanical difficulties?"
Several scared kids huddled together, whispering to each other…the firsties, bonding quickly in the face of unprecedented problems.
"No idea," Harry told the sixth-year. "I know," he said quietly to Ron and Hermione. "Someone cursed it."
"That's the obvious answer," Hermione said worriedly, keeping her voice down, "but I could swear I remembered reading somewhere something about how the train's covered by a sort of force field against malevolent spells…"
Ron muttered, "Yeah, then explain our little hex-happy vendetta with Malfoy on the last day of term."
"I mean against the train itself," Hermione specified. "There's no spell strong enough for what you're talking about."
And, speak of the devil, Malfoy made his appearance then, carrying his scornful-looking eagle owl in a large brass cage and looking irritated.
Fortunately, he didn't spot them through the rain.
"You know he'll never forgive us for that one," Hermione whispered.
"You wanted him to?" Ron demanded, and "Of course not," Harry said.
"What's going on?" asked Colin Creevey, who'd just arrived with his little brother Dennis, now going into second year. "What's going—hiya, Harry!"
Harry said automatically, "Hullo, Colin." He shut his mouth with an almost audible snap, looking stubborn.
"Really, what's the holdup?" Mr. Weasley said loudly. "You can't have all forgotten how to get through—"
"It won't let us, sir," yelled an earnest-looking and very small Ravenclaw third-year. "I tried and I sort of bounced…"
Somehow this struck Hermione as hilarious and she burst out laughing.
Mr. Weasley gave her a slightly annoyed look as he considered the milling crowd of underage wizards—nearly a hundred of them. Seeming to make a decision, he forced his way through to the barrier and leaned against it. And there he stayed, leaning against the barrier, and nothing moved.
He stared at it, tapped it with his wand, and tried again. Nothing. Meanwhile, the hundred of them were getting soaked in the ponderous, warmly uncomfortable rain. "Right, I'll see you soon," he said, and Apparated, looking ruffled.
He wasn't the only one. Several people started complaining then, whining about the weather and they were getting wet and their poor pets and they were tired…
Hermione, Ron, and Harry formed a small huddle, keeping the owls and Crookshanks (now several shades darker, skinny, and in a monumentally horrible mood) to the inside. "What d'you reckon about the barrier?" Ron asked.
"Someone fiddled with it, maybe? They've done it before," Harry said. "Remember Dobby."
"But that was only for a minute, and this has been going on for at least a quarter of an hour," said Hermione. "I've read about blockers—they're hard to hold up for any longer than maybe five minutes."
Ron and Harry gave her disparaging looks. "You read too much," Harry said.
"Hey, wait," Ron said suddenly. "I know what happened. The train got hijacked by a crew of rogue house-elves and they're holding the barrier as revenge for their enslavement. Hermione, this is right up your alley."
Hermione stamped her foot. "Oh, shut up, with our luck it is, poor things, and they'd deserve a bit of fun. Besides that it's impossible, but whatever you say."
"Either that or the platform's been taken over by little green men from Mars," Harry said musingly. "Which would you rather take, a horde of house-elves or a bunch of laser-weilding Martians?"
"Knowing you, Hermione, you'd start up a campaign for Martian rights on the spot," Ron said. "I'll take the elves. What are lasers?"
Harry started explaining Star Wars. In that time, three someones showed up—the other two Gryffindor fifth-year girls…and Lizzie Thomas.
"Hermione! What's going on?" Lavender asked in a high, shrill voice. Then she saw Seamus and Parvati picked up smoothly where her friend had deserted. "Why is everyone crowding around? Especially in the rain. Hi, Harry, Ron. Have you met Lizzie?"
Lizzie was pulled forward by one wrist. She grinned at Hermione, then smiled questioningly at Ron…and then Harry.
She froze.
Parvati had gone on talking. "This is Lizzie Thomas. Lizzie, Ron Weasley's the one with red hair and the other one's Harry Potter." She turned back to Hermione and beckoned her a little bit away. "Okay, Hermione, so what's up? Why isn't everyone on the platform yet?"
Hermione gave her a short rundown. "The barrier won't let anyone through, for no discernible reason. Ron's dad just went for help, I guess. He just Apparated."
"Oh…" Parvati looked up and then down quickly as a drop of rain hit her in the eye. Blinking hard, she leaned forward and muttered, "And, between you and me, Lizzie is annoying. To put it lightly."
"How do you mean?" Hermione asked neutrally.
Parvati shifted her shoulders uncomfortably. "She's just…sweet. Sugary. Like she's trying too hard to be nice."
"Well, she's new," said Hermione. "Give her a little time or space or whatever."
"Lavender told me you got annoyed too…and now you're defending her?"
Hermione shrugged. "Why not? Like I said. She's new. She's probably dead confused…along with all this mess." With that, she turned back to Ron and Harry and found Lizzie standing a little way off, fixing her hair as well as she could and shooting Harry little glances.
Oh, good God. The new girl likes Harry.
About then, Mr. Weasley popped back into existence at the station. And he wasn't alone.
Several armed Ministry workers accompanied him, all wearing bright-yellow waterproof jackets that reached their knees—and rain hats of the same color. They brandished wands like swords.
"Right then, we'll cover from here," one of them said to Mr. Weasley. And, disregarding the fact that it was impossible to get through the barrier, the whole mass of them—seven or eight—trooped through the crowd and to the barrier.
And through it, too.
Hermione blinked. "That—this is getting really weird—"
"Yeah, who cares?" Ron asked. "We're used to mayhem. We're just getting it a bit early, is all…"
Which made sense as a view but wasn't what Hermione wanted to hear.
Harry asked in an undertone, "Did you see them doing anything?"
"No—just holding their wands," Hermione said back. Then she understood. "Oh—but Harry, it might be dangerous!"
"And?"
There was no response for that. Harry got out his wand and hurried around the mass of kids and to the barrier.
He went through.
"Ron—come on!"
"What—where's Harry?"
Hermione said, "He's just gone through—he figured that the Ministry wasn't doing anything except holding their wands. Come on!"
He looked ready to protest. "Yeah, but—our stuff—Pig—"
"Leave him. Crookshanks will guard it. Won't you?" she asked her cat, who was looking more draggled by the minute and exceedingly upset. At the attention, though, he straightened, stared up at Hermione, and then made a sound like a tractor revving up, which might have been his interpretation of a purr. It was good enough for Hermione, who hugged him once and then hurried after Ron.
One foot away from the barrier, though, the upper half of Mr. Weasley popped out, and she realized how very odd it must be to see someone walking through a brick wall. Someone sticking half out of it looked completely bizarre.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "ALL OF YOU, TAKE OUT YOUR WANDS AND GET IN HERE WITH YOUR LUGGAGE! WE NEED HELP!"
Must be bad if they need help from a bunch of kids, Hermione managed to think as she ran back to her cart, picked up Crookshanks (who clung to her bag and refused to move), and maneuvered into the flow of students and carts and confused-looking, terrified first years. Ron managed both his and Harry's carts, helped by Dean, who'd just arrived and looked entirely bewildered.
The first-years weren't really allowed to stop and get scared. They were just propelled to the barrier and then through, holding their wands in one hand and pushing carts with the other.
The platform was in total anarchy. A good three-quarters of the over-fourth kids stopped their carts immediately, pushed up their sleeves, and started into the knot of wizards—who were under attack by a huge swarm of something small and blue—
"Birds?" Ron asked, straight into Hermione's ear. "I can't really see—"
Feeling a bubble of laughter starting, she yelled back, "Pixies! They're Cornish pixies! Like Lockhart—"
She and Ron hurried to leave their trunks by a wall and raced into the fray. "Just freeze them for now," roared Mr. Weasley to them and everyone else. "Tell the first-years to get out of the way!"
The firsties didn't need to be told. Clueless, frightened, and soaked, they huddled together in the rain and watched the swarm of electric-blue tiny people pelting the older wizards with acorns and rocks and generally trying to wreak as much havoc as they could.
Everything was confused. No one had a single idea of what to do.
At least, until someone came storming through the barrier, took one look at the melee, took a huge breath, and roared, "CUT IT OUT, ALL OF YOU!"
Every single solitary person froze—including the pixies. The only sound was the rain hitting the bricks and the good old Hogwarts Express, steaming and scarlet and familiar.
"All right," the person yelled, "clear off, pixies, back to Cornwall with you. They can handle you there."
Immediately—as in, that second—the pixies were gone. They'd just disappeared, and the rain suddenly splashed loudly into the space where they'd been.
Somehow it was much easier to see, and Hermione realized for the first time exactly how many creatures there had been. She looked at her watch—nearly eleven.
Mr. Weasley hurried over to the person who'd ridded them of the pixies and started talking to him, her, or it in a low voice. One of the Ministry members set off at a run to the front of the train and spoke to the conductor, then came back and shouted, "The train's still leaving on schedule; you'll want to start loading up!"
Hermione looked at her watch again. "Harry—Ron—it's five minutes to eleven. Where's Mr. Weasley?"
A number of redheads separated themselves from the crowds and ran to him, though, pinpointing him. Harry, Hermione, and Ron raced up as well. "Ah, good," he said, glancing at them. "Professor O'Malley, these are the Weasleys—Fred, George, Ron, Ginny—this is Hermione Granger and Harry Potter. All, meet Professor O'Malley, the new Defense teacher."
Professor O'Malley was much shorter than Hermione had thought at first. "Greetings to all," she—the voice was definitely female, now noticeable because she wasn't screaming her head off—said, a bit hoarsely, which was understandable. "I'd better be off now. See you at Hogwarts!"
Mr. Weasley went through a more downplayed Mrs. Weasley for the farewells. He shook hands all around, renewed his wife's warnings to his sons, and hugged Ginny once. Then he sent them off.
They only had two minutes now, time spent mostly in pulling carts across to the one empty car—the last one—and pulling trunks aboard. Crookshanks, being smart enough to stay out of the way, remained clawed to Hermione's bag and endured the rain.
Finally—somehow—all the trunks were stored in various compartments and they distributed themselves over the others. Fred and George left after a little bit, and Ginny did too, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione by themselves.
"The only thing I want to know," Hermione started as the train began to move and they all waved one last time to Mr. Weasley out the window, "is where the pixies came from."
Ron answered. "Someone booby-trapped the train, probably."
"But why?"
Harry shook his head at Ron. "No, I don't think so—did anyone actually figure out what happened to Lockhart's pixies?"
"They probably went with him," Hermione said slowly, "to St. Mungo's—"
"Well, here's my guess," said Harry. "The pixies escaped again and holed up somewhere in the forest, then managed to get on the train somehow and have been waiting around to scare someone."
She replied, "Maybe—but how'd they get on? And nobody's said anything about the blocked gate yet—"
"Do pixies have magic?" he asked shrewdly. "We know they're strong—could they have held it shut somehow?"
Hermione opened her mouth, thought about it, and then said, "That might—it's a possibility."
Ron said, "I still think a bunch of house-elves showed up and—"
"Ron, shut up."
Surprisingly, he did.
Lavender appeared at the end of the car and made her way down to them, with Lizzie in tow. "Hi, guys! I can't stay long—there's a prefects meeting in the first car, did you know?--but, well, Parvati's with her sister and so could Lizzie sit with you?"
Just then it occurred to Hermione that she'd forgotten completely about prefects. "You're a prefect, Lavender?" she asked, trying hard to keep her tone light.
"Well yeah," Lavender answered, smiling. "I'd—oh, but you're—you should be, Hermione, you really should have been," she continued, a bit vaguely. "Sorry. Bye, Lizzie!"
She disappeared and Hermione, seething, didn't notice Lizzie sitting down next to her, very slowly and a bit shyly.
Third year. Third year and second year. That's all, Hermione thought, realizing it angrily. Two bouts of rulebreaking that ultimately saved the school and they give the prefect badge to Lavender. Some preppy, fluff-headed idiot.
Meanwhile, the compartment sat in uncomfortable silence. Lizzie was as out-of-place as could be, and furthermore she knew it.
Finally, she stood up and just said, "Excuse me." And hurried away.
They breathed again. "Shy, you think?" Ron muttered.
"Just a bit," Harry returned.
Hermione didn't say anything.
"Erm…Hermione? What's up?" Ron asked.
She said quietly, "There's no justice in the world."
"Huh?" They were both staring at her.
"Well, think about it," she said. "I'm not a prefect, and I bet it's because of what happened in second and third year with the potion and going off school grounds. But all that practically saved the school. But it broke the rules…and so…"
"So Lavender's it," Harry said. "Sorry, Hermione."
"Yeah—you'll get it next year, definitely, when they realize she's an idiot," Ron said.
"Still."
There was another awkward silence and then Harry said, too brightly, "Hey, Ron, are you trying for Quidditch this year?"
As the atmosphere relaxed again, Hermione just looked out the window at the rain, listening to the Quidditch talk and thinking vaguely about finding Ginny. They needed another girl.
One who wasn't Lizzie Thomas.
***
A/N: It's twice as long as my last chapter. And in my opinion, pretty okay. What think you—because that's the important thing?
Chocolate Frogs and Drooble's Best,
~Flamewing