A/N: The author is pretending that she remembered to put a disclaimer on
chapter four. The author instructs her readers to do the same (one might
notice that the author is also indulging herself in pretending that the
author has readers). She apologizes to the few who bother to read this
fanfic for the long delay in updating. So, basically, just look at the
disclaimer on chapter one and apply it to all following chapters. Get it?
Got it? Good. On with the "story."
*~*~*~*
Hermione spent the whole night thinking. She would have much rather spent the night dreaming a terrible nightmare. That way, at least, she could have woken up and tried to convince herself that it was "all just a dream."
As it was, she could not pry her mind from the thought of Harrieta. Thoughts of the ill-timed (but is there any way it could have been well- timed?) meeting of Harrieta, Dobby's message, and her conversation with Lavender all jostled around in her head, strangling one another for room in her consciousness and generally giving Hermione no rest.
On top of it all, she was beginning to have strange love fantasies about herself and Draco Malfoy. Was there NO peace?? Finally she decided that she needed food to settle her stomach and, after dressing, made her way toward the Great Hall for breakfast.
The Great Hall would be fairly empty, after all, it was 6:00 in the morning, Hermione peered into the room and, oh God, Harrietta was sitting at the Gryffindor table enjoying an early breakfast (MUST she be so virtuous as to be a natural early riser as well?).
At risk of being spotted, Hermione spun around and fled the vicinity. So much for breakfast.
Now, where could she go that Harrietta wouldn't think to go? Common room? Yeah, right. Library? Heck no. The grounds? No. With Hermione's luck, Harrietta was an amazing flier, already exempt from the first-year-no- broomstick rule as well. Hermione wasn't about to chance Harrietta coming out to practice (a.k.a. "show off") her flying technique. Not even Hagrid's hut was sounding safe. Was there anywhere Hermione could go?
After thinking for a moment, Hermione had her first lucky break. She was struck with an idea that sounded fairly foolproof. Traversing the corridors and staircases briskly, Hermione soon reached her destination.
Having known the location of the kitchens since fourth year, Hermione had gone there several times for various reasons, a few of them being to ease the seemingly ever-present hunger pangs of Ron's and Harry's stomachs. The house elves were unnervingly eager to serve her slightest wish, and, despite her repulsion at their "slavery", Hermione sometimes took comfort in the routine. She certainly did now.
There were bonuses to coming here too. First of all, she had solved her hunger problems; second of all, she knew the house elves would hide her if she asked them. Knowing that Harrietta had just eaten, Hermione decided that she make do with the assumption that the girl would not journey to the kitchen if she already had a full stomach.
Taking precautions had never hurt anyone, though. After politely asking the elves if there was any way that she could be alerted (and hidden) if anyone stopped in front of the painting, and being answered with an eager all-you-have-to-do-is-ask answer, Hermione allowed herself to relax just slightly.
Dobby wasn't in the kitchens and Hermione wondered where he was. Even though Harry was only in potential life-threatening danger, she was still curious about the cause of such a disturbance. She contemplated these things as she allowed herself to unwind in the safety of the kitchens.
Reluctant to leave, Hermione lingered for almost an hour after she had finished eating, staring into space and thinking, too distracted even to discuss House-Elf liberation with the victims. After receiving numerous uncertain side glances from the elves, and tired of turning down all of their attempts at hospitality, she rose and left the room.
It was now going on seven thirty. Classes did not start for another hour and Hermione wasn't sure what to do with this extra time. Feeling rather lost without the assured safety of the library, she decided to return to the Great Hall not to eat, but to check for Ron and Harry.
Walking down the corridors for what seemed like the millionth time that morning, she directed herself towards her destination (what a concept). Behind a half-open door (the Charms classroom, to be precise), she heard a low groan. For once (this truly was an unusual two days for Hermione) curiosity won over common sense and, as she passed by, she looked inside.
Inside, heads huddled together, were Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. The groan had come from Lee Jordan. He followed it up with a more intelligible complaint.
"Do we hafta' use dungbombs? You'd think, after all the times we've snuck into Zonkos the fanfic authors would be able to think of something a little more creative."
"Tradition IS tradition," reasoned George. "I think Draco'll be truly evil before they think of something better."
"You mean to say he still falls in love with Hermione?" Lee Jordan sounded awed. "Wow."
At this, Hermione started and nearly fell into the door. Luck was with her as the author conveniently wishes to continue the dialogue.
"You're so slow, Lee. Of COURSE he does, it's the most unlikely and unreasonable thing to occur, so it happens."
"So anyway," Lee continued, "where should we stick the dungbombs?"
"Filch."
"Oh, right, should've known that."
*~*~*~* (A/N: time for a DREAM -you will note the random placing-! Heh heh . you KNEW it was coming SOMETIME! You will have to forgive the lack of italics- I don't know how to put them in.)
*Deep gray competed with warm brown. The two colors swirled and fought until perfect green arrived. Then, like a child to the piper, brown sauntered off, leaving just enough to make a worthy love triangle.
Bunnies hopped and ate rice . . . wait . . . n/m.
She was torn over things that only niggled at the back of her brain. Her heart, her head, was splitting into millions of pieces over a problem she couldn't name. Tears of fire and ice were running rivulets down her cheeks. She couldn't move.
All of a sudden she was being attacked by a million needles. It was Crookshanks, he was attacking her the way he attacked Dobby. This is what she got, she supposed, for forgetting to feed him.
Hermione was flying . . . flying . . . falling. She was screaming without a voice, hopelessly . . . helplessly . . . and then it stopped. She felt safe, warm. Someone was holding her, someone was kissing her and it was perfect. The feelings shooting through her were indescribable. But what color were his eyes?*
*~*~*~*
Hermione spent the whole night thinking. She would have much rather spent the night dreaming a terrible nightmare. That way, at least, she could have woken up and tried to convince herself that it was "all just a dream."
As it was, she could not pry her mind from the thought of Harrieta. Thoughts of the ill-timed (but is there any way it could have been well- timed?) meeting of Harrieta, Dobby's message, and her conversation with Lavender all jostled around in her head, strangling one another for room in her consciousness and generally giving Hermione no rest.
On top of it all, she was beginning to have strange love fantasies about herself and Draco Malfoy. Was there NO peace?? Finally she decided that she needed food to settle her stomach and, after dressing, made her way toward the Great Hall for breakfast.
The Great Hall would be fairly empty, after all, it was 6:00 in the morning, Hermione peered into the room and, oh God, Harrietta was sitting at the Gryffindor table enjoying an early breakfast (MUST she be so virtuous as to be a natural early riser as well?).
At risk of being spotted, Hermione spun around and fled the vicinity. So much for breakfast.
Now, where could she go that Harrietta wouldn't think to go? Common room? Yeah, right. Library? Heck no. The grounds? No. With Hermione's luck, Harrietta was an amazing flier, already exempt from the first-year-no- broomstick rule as well. Hermione wasn't about to chance Harrietta coming out to practice (a.k.a. "show off") her flying technique. Not even Hagrid's hut was sounding safe. Was there anywhere Hermione could go?
After thinking for a moment, Hermione had her first lucky break. She was struck with an idea that sounded fairly foolproof. Traversing the corridors and staircases briskly, Hermione soon reached her destination.
Having known the location of the kitchens since fourth year, Hermione had gone there several times for various reasons, a few of them being to ease the seemingly ever-present hunger pangs of Ron's and Harry's stomachs. The house elves were unnervingly eager to serve her slightest wish, and, despite her repulsion at their "slavery", Hermione sometimes took comfort in the routine. She certainly did now.
There were bonuses to coming here too. First of all, she had solved her hunger problems; second of all, she knew the house elves would hide her if she asked them. Knowing that Harrietta had just eaten, Hermione decided that she make do with the assumption that the girl would not journey to the kitchen if she already had a full stomach.
Taking precautions had never hurt anyone, though. After politely asking the elves if there was any way that she could be alerted (and hidden) if anyone stopped in front of the painting, and being answered with an eager all-you-have-to-do-is-ask answer, Hermione allowed herself to relax just slightly.
Dobby wasn't in the kitchens and Hermione wondered where he was. Even though Harry was only in potential life-threatening danger, she was still curious about the cause of such a disturbance. She contemplated these things as she allowed herself to unwind in the safety of the kitchens.
Reluctant to leave, Hermione lingered for almost an hour after she had finished eating, staring into space and thinking, too distracted even to discuss House-Elf liberation with the victims. After receiving numerous uncertain side glances from the elves, and tired of turning down all of their attempts at hospitality, she rose and left the room.
It was now going on seven thirty. Classes did not start for another hour and Hermione wasn't sure what to do with this extra time. Feeling rather lost without the assured safety of the library, she decided to return to the Great Hall not to eat, but to check for Ron and Harry.
Walking down the corridors for what seemed like the millionth time that morning, she directed herself towards her destination (what a concept). Behind a half-open door (the Charms classroom, to be precise), she heard a low groan. For once (this truly was an unusual two days for Hermione) curiosity won over common sense and, as she passed by, she looked inside.
Inside, heads huddled together, were Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. The groan had come from Lee Jordan. He followed it up with a more intelligible complaint.
"Do we hafta' use dungbombs? You'd think, after all the times we've snuck into Zonkos the fanfic authors would be able to think of something a little more creative."
"Tradition IS tradition," reasoned George. "I think Draco'll be truly evil before they think of something better."
"You mean to say he still falls in love with Hermione?" Lee Jordan sounded awed. "Wow."
At this, Hermione started and nearly fell into the door. Luck was with her as the author conveniently wishes to continue the dialogue.
"You're so slow, Lee. Of COURSE he does, it's the most unlikely and unreasonable thing to occur, so it happens."
"So anyway," Lee continued, "where should we stick the dungbombs?"
"Filch."
"Oh, right, should've known that."
*~*~*~* (A/N: time for a DREAM -you will note the random placing-! Heh heh . you KNEW it was coming SOMETIME! You will have to forgive the lack of italics- I don't know how to put them in.)
*Deep gray competed with warm brown. The two colors swirled and fought until perfect green arrived. Then, like a child to the piper, brown sauntered off, leaving just enough to make a worthy love triangle.
Bunnies hopped and ate rice . . . wait . . . n/m.
She was torn over things that only niggled at the back of her brain. Her heart, her head, was splitting into millions of pieces over a problem she couldn't name. Tears of fire and ice were running rivulets down her cheeks. She couldn't move.
All of a sudden she was being attacked by a million needles. It was Crookshanks, he was attacking her the way he attacked Dobby. This is what she got, she supposed, for forgetting to feed him.
Hermione was flying . . . flying . . . falling. She was screaming without a voice, hopelessly . . . helplessly . . . and then it stopped. She felt safe, warm. Someone was holding her, someone was kissing her and it was perfect. The feelings shooting through her were indescribable. But what color were his eyes?*