Chapter Twenty: Some Poetical Justice

27 February

Oh no. I am not starting this nonsense again.

Didn't I give one of my firm *solemn vows* last year that I'd never do this again, this stupid fancying that I was in love, this idiocy where I wondered if perhaps some people were right and Ron and I were – and I snort – "meant to be"?

It's annoying, that's what it is, but you just can't suppress this! I'm getting those silly feelings again, only it's… different. It's not the giggly sort of don't-let-him-know thoughts I had last year, the manipulations and stupid daydreams that I covered from the world. This has turned into a more solid, sure conviction that just won't *leave*!

I wish we hadn't staged that fight; it trigged all this whimsical fluttering of the stomach. No, I wish it was just whimsical fluttering of the stomach! Instead, it's deeper, it's something so strong I just can't escape it, and it's *aggravating*!

See, we did exactly what we had planned at dinner today. Ginny was there, so I knew I would have to just ignore her, but luckily Sara, who was still furious, was on her date with Snape – one less problem. Parvati and Lavender were deep in a conversation about the latest issue of *Teen Witch Weekly*, and Dean and Seamus were out of the Hall already with some big plan, and Neville was… well, you don't see Neville around very often, lest of all since he started dating Cho.

The first part of the skit went off perfectly. Ron and I made some changes to the "script" to perfect it, so Ron tripped *me* instead. I suggested it so Ginny wouldn't strangle me, but I told him it was because the Slytherins would be more sure that he was as furious with me and I with him.

I trip and fall. So far, so good.

I pull myself up from the ground and turn to Ron, shouting something or another. Well, I know exactly what I yelled, but it sounds hopelessly immature on paper, so I don't want my grandchildren to read this and have such a poor opinion of me.

Ron sneered something in reply, rather loudly, something I would record (why, my grandchildren shall have a poor opinion of him *anyway*, between the rest of this diary and if Ron is still alive then) but it makes me feel really, really low, even if I know he didn't really mean it.

This sort of circular dialogue goes back and forth a few more times when my next line comes, when I was supposed to swat at Ron (I planned to miss him, but if I did hit, Ron told me it didn't matter if it was a hard swing or not, saying if I could take it from the Slytherins he could take it for me) and shout: "I *detest* you and hope you *die*, Weasley!"

So I take a hard swing at him, and open my mouth to deliver the line just as Ron, despite his words, stiffens and moves his face away, dodging the blow out of reflex, and all the sudden I was looking into those brown eyes, his familiar face… and I realised that I wanted to protect him, just as much as I ever wanted to protect my parents, just as much as Harry and Ginny.

*And I couldn't say it.*

How on earth could I possibly say that? That was beyond lying; that was denying one of the Great Truths of Life, put quite dramatically. I forced my mouth around the words, or at least tried, but they did not move.

Ron's eyes turned from innocent and… well, deep, or whatever the word to describe them would be – to frantic. The Hall was greatly silent, waiting for our fight to continue – rather excited to hear what I'd say, in fact. His eyes egged me on, reminded me to say something…

But I could not, just could not, say I detested him and hoped he would die.

"I think you're an attention-starved *prat*!" I yelled lamely, although it didn't seem to arouse suspicion (but probably wasn't as satisfying to our spectators as what they'd hope I would have said, or "I detest you and hope you die, Weasley", but why am I trying to please a crowd who enjoys watching two people fight, anyway?)

We finished up the shouting match and ignored each other the rest of the night. Now we must be very careful to not see anyone let us meet, and so will probably avoid each other a few days until we're positive we're safe. I'll miss them (although it's very nice to know they understand). I'm just worried they might ask why I didn't follow the makeshift script. I guess I'll just have to tell the truth – I couldn't bring myself to say it.

29 February

It worked, all right. I was yet again cornered by the Society (isn't "cornered" an ugly word?) But this time, with the plan of gathering information in mind, I didn't feel nearly as frightened as was usual. In fact, I felt an irrational sort of calm.

The Society and I have entered a certain circular way of verbal and mental sparring. See, as I discovered today, the problem is that they are not quite sure whether I really do now detest Ron and Harry and Ginny (I've got to get out of the habit of putting Ron's name first), or whether I'm just staging this. This is an obstacle for them, especially when I'm saying very loudly (and I think convincingly) I wish they'd save me the trouble and go ahead and kill them. They are not sure whether harming them would be a good or a bad thing as far as I am concerned.

Meanwhile, I'm just as wary, not knowing if they are leaning toward one belief or another more. I don't want to egg them on to hurting the others too badly, or they just might do it; yet I want them to believe I don't care. So now there's a little less beating and a lot more interrogation on their part, with severe punishments when I annoy them, which is often. (I'm very proud of myself for annoying soon-to-be Death Eaters.)

So therefore today I didn't get a great deal of useful information. I couldn't seem to glean anything that might help. I hope when I discuss it with Ron tomorrow that he has an idea on how to provoke them into saying the right things. With such a large family, he ought to be an expert with this sort of thing.

What I did find out was something Baddock said – he mentioned "not having Drothl around very much longer". This was when Peterson was saying "Drothl'll cover for us". I assume Baddock is saying to not get dependant on Drothl.

The fact that Drothl is in the league with them doesn't come as a great surprise, but a little worrisome all the same. Dumbledore ought to know about this, but whenever we try to get the password, Professor McGonagall gets irritated and heads us off. We'll have to find some way to relay this information and quickly.

30 February

Today during –

This morning –

I can't believe this –

How could someone do this to –

I'm sad –

There's no way to write this. It can't be transferred to a diary.

3 March

I thought that perhaps there was the faintest chance that, given time, this just might be easier to write.

All that's happened in three days is that it's finally *real* to me, and that there's now things that are both awful *and* numerous to record – so many that the thought of writing it all scares me. I've never been this scared of a quill (or pen). I've been working out thoughts in my head, vaguely with the intention of putting them in my diary, but sitting down and doing it…

What my heart wants to do is make a big philosophical statement, an eulogy of sorts, since I doubt he has one (well, okay, he does, but I swear it won't be good unless Dumbledore writes it). What my cold mind wants to do is write this the proper way.

I'll listen to my mind. It doesn't hurt as much.

The news came to me yesterday at lunch. And oh, boy, did it ever come. It seems a dozen people wanted to be the first to tell us three, and they all got there within a few minutes of each other.

Seamus waved Ron, Harry, and me over to him at lunch, while we were still tired from a long Potions session with Snape, looking very worried and shaken. "Oy! Harry – Ron –" He hesitated and then sort of sneered: "Hermione, too. McGonagall wants to see you lot pronto."

I pretended to make a big fuss about going with the boys, but we were heading to her office when an owl swooped down with a letter for Harry.

"It's Snuffles."

"Not now," I said to him, apprehensive about what McGonagall was about.

"Stick it in your pocket before someone sees," Ron advised.

Harry grimaced in frustration and did so. Then Percy, of all people, turned up and rushed over to us, breathless.

"Ron – Harry – Hermione – listen –"

"Not now, Perce, McGonagall wants to chew us off," Ron replied, and then suddenly seemed to remember that it wasn't everyday you saw Percy around. "What're you doing here?"

Percy was still panting. He seemed to have been running nonstop for some time. "Last – Last night – letter – from last night –"

"We've gathered it's from last night, Perce," Ron replied.

"Listen a moment! I need to tell you this – privately –"

"After McGonagall. Come on," Ron waved a hand, indicating us to follow.

"One would think you had a fancy for McGonagall or something, the way you're so eager to get to her," Percy snapped irritably.

Harry's and mine jaws dropped and we exchanged incredulous glances. Since when did Percy Weasley make remarks like that? Then I laughed slightly.

Ron looked a little nonplussed as well. "Erm…"

Then Malfoy has to stick his pencil-pointy face into everything by coming straight over to Harry. "Hey, Potter," he sneered, and went through the entire "Scarhead" routine, before dropping the bomb, despite all of Percy's attempts to quiet him.

"Your little – well, not little – giant friend is dead."

Malfoy said something else, but I don't remember it. White swirling mist seemed to settle in my head like a crystal ball. Hagrid. Hagrid was dead. No. No, he couldn't. Hagrid couldn't die. Hagrid was going to see Norbert. Hagrid was our friend. Hagrid was dead…

I couldn't wrap my mind around it. The concept simply refused to make itself believed. It was *impossible*… but hadn't I worried it would happen?

I couldn't speak, and apparently the boys couldn't either. Even if I had been able to make my mouth open properly, I could not have found a thing to say. Ron's and Harry's face mirrored mine, stricken.

Percy's lips were pressed tight in frustration and anger. "Malfoy, that was unnecessary."

Malfoy looked up at him… only it didn't look as if Malfoy was speaking up to Percy at all. "Oh, really. What're you going to do, Weasley?"

"Quit it…" I murmured, feeling paralysed. "Please, just quit it, I don't want to hear it…" My voice was on the shaky edge of tears.

"No…" Ron whispered, and then, more loudly: "No! Perce – Perce, how could – no –"

"It's – It's true, Ron," Percy said, and you could tell it was killing him to have to say that. "You shouldn't have found out that way – Ron – Ron!" Ron glanced up, having been in a sort of trance. "Char – Charlie CommuFired me this morning… Ron, please don't fall on me!

"Monster."

This hiss was from guess-who.

Harry turned to face Malfoy sharply, eyes practically shooting fire. That's when Professor McGonagall came and prevented any bloodshed by sending Malfoy to Snape (it angered me that Malfoy would get off scott- free) and leading us to her office.

"P-Professor… may I – may I take Ron?" Percy asked hesitantly, eyes wide, as if knowing the reaction that would greet his inquiry.

We stared at him, and Ron looked uncertain a moment, before turning to McGonagall as well. "Can I?"

McGonagall seemed a little caught off guard. "Not 'can I', it's 'may I', Weasley," she corrected absently, and then continued gently: "Yes, I suppose so. Percy, you are responsible for him. Ron, you are excused from your next class, but mind you make up your work."

Ron came back to us that afternoon, still looking shocked but calmer. Meanwhile, she ushered Harry and I inside and talked more softly than I had ever heard her.

"I'm sorry you had to find out that way… Hagrid did die this morning; I don't have all the details yet – I know you were very fond of him…" To my numb amazement, McGonagall excused herself, turned away, and blow her nose in a handkerchief. "It was hard not to be, wasn't it?" she asked chokily.

I felt like glaring at her. Why was she speaking in past tense? It was only then that this began to sink in. Hagrid *was* dead…

It was still too hard to believe.

She continued on about funeral arrangements and such (I wanted to downright *slap* her – looking back on it, poor Professor McGonagall, receiving this sort of abuse just for being the messenger of bad news) before finally excusing us. Harry left in a daze, and I forgive him wholeheartedly for not noticing when I didn't follow him. I felt paralysed in my chair.

"Miss Granger, you may leave now…"

Leave? Not a chance. The next thing I remember doing is laying my head down on her desk and starting to cry uncontrollably. This may have lasted a good few ten minutes. I think it stopped when McGonagall stroked my hair. This was so astounding that I managed to swallow my next few sobs, although then of course I choked and was in desperate need for water.

I've written billions of "and then the nearest and dearest died" scenes in my fiction writing before, and it always had a strange, tragic allure to it. I've even liked to hear about other real-life experiences of this. Not anymore. There is nothing fairy talelish about death, and there is not a shred of poetic justice comfort in Hagrid's.

All during class, when I think I'm beginning to concentrate, awful thoughts suddenly occur to me. Such as in Astronomy, it hit me that Hagrid had never even seen Norbert once more before he died. I started crying silently all over again, but the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors pretended not to notice.

Dumbledore gave a short speech to the school about Hagrid the morning after his death, but I didn't hear it. I was heading down when Lavender asked Sara and Parvati: "Aren't you coming?"

"No," Parvati said flatly, falling on her bed stubbornly.

"All those Slytherins are going to be sniggering over Hagrid and I'm going to lose control and hex them all into next month," Sara growled, snatching a copy of *Six Ashwinder Eggs* and reading with such fury I knew she barely understood the words.

This made good sense to Lavender and I, and we agreed instantly, without words, to stay until breakfast had started as well.

The Society for Purity has a rest. Probably, I've decided, celebrating or plotting, because they have their heads together in huddles, talking in low voices. I'm almost glad I can't overhear them. I'd snap and slap them all.

Fleur and Grubby-Plank have taken over Care of Magical Creatures. We need two teachers with the Gryffindor/Slytherin classes. I'm sure there would be casualties if the two weren't watching over us.

Oh, before I close this, we read Sirius's letter. He, of course, had been trying to tell us about Hagrid as well. He also wants to see us next Hogsmeade visit. Unless anything happens that signals danger, our next visit is on the 15th.

5 March

I was able to go the funeral, along with some of the other students who got permission from parents and staff. I don't like writing about funerals…

Madame Maxime was there, silent and vacant-eyed. It was so stifling inside that later I stepped outside. I was sick of seeing those sneers. If those people didn't care for Hagrid, they shouldn't have been there. I hated them. I despised them. Other than the sneerers and Madam Maxime, the funeral is awfully fuzzy.

She was sobbing uncontrollably in the garden outside of the Respects Home.

"M-Madame Maxime?" I asked hesitantly. I had seen her inside, of course (hard not to) as she had accompanied Fleur. French witches are still a little old-fashioned when it comes to unmarried women…

I expected her to be regal and bitingly civil and dismissive at being caught crying. Instead, she looked up at me. "Should I know you?" (only she said it in that unwritable French accent).

"I'm a Hogwarts student. I remembered you from last year… I was a friend of Hagrid's," I said quietly, uncertain.

Maxime had quieted when we began to talk, but at the sound of Hagrid's name the tears ran down faster.

"Do you need anything? – I… I won't mention this to anyone, of course. I don't expect you'd like anyone to know."

She looked at me (even sitting, she was taller than me) with red eyes. "What's your name?"

"Hermione Granger."

That started her off again, silently. "Hagrid" ('Agrid) "mentioned you over the summer… always told of that clever girl… was so proud to know you… trusted you so much…"

I sat down on the bench next to her and kept quiet, letting her have her cry out.

"I was such a fool," she said brokenly, bitterly, after a few moments. "…wouldn't even consider it. After he said that, I refused to even be friendly with him – left as soon as possible, didn't owl him like we had planned – I couldn't be seen having a known half-giant gameskeeper flirting with me… You know what?"

"What?"

"Hagrid was the first person in a long time who listened to me, really listened to me… I have never realised how alone I was for so many years, driven by ambition – he was the first friend I have possessed in a long while…"

Suddenly she stopped and hugged me tightly. "Thank you so much. I deeply regret if I had caused Hagrid any pain. I would not be surprised if you hated me…"

"No. No, I don't." Not anymore, in any case. I had suddenly seen a different sort of Maxime – a woman so determined to overcome her own bloodline that she had long since forgotten how to feel love and friendship. Before we parted, I screwed up the courage to ask: "What did you mean when you said you 'wouldn't consider it'? He didn't ask you to – to –"

"No, no." She smiled, shaking her majestic head. "But I saw he might. The day I stopped being companionable with him – it was the day he asked me to call him 'Rubeus'."

I gaped at first, and then cried all over again.

7 March

Harry went berserk today. He and Ron were wandering aimlessly around outside, taking a break from studying (one of far too many!) and enjoying the spring that has settled over the grounds. I was curled up with my own studies under a tree near Hagrid's cabin. Speaking of which, Harry says Dumbledore is not going to take it down or move it – "It's a part of Hogwarts, indeed, a part many of us have held dear."

That's when Malfoy comes over. Since the breeze was favourable for eavesdropping (it seems this is my new talent), I heard every word. I don't even want to write them. Let's just say he was mouthing off, as usual, rubbing it in about Hagrid's death.

Ron and Harry had their fists clenched, but Ron was remaining silent, for once. I think he had some sort of plan for our spying. But when after three minutes by my watch, Malfoy remarked that it was better that we were rid of that bloodthirsty murdering monster anyway –

Harry snapped. I had glanced up in anger at Malfoy's words and was just in time to see Harry lunge forward, tackle Malfoy to the ground, and then start to thoroughly beat Malfoy up. I was horrified. I never imagined Harry, of all people, to start hurting anyone so badly (unless of course they were evil, what I mean is he'd never hurt anyone just out of annoyance). He punched and kicked and swung and slammed and shoved Malfoy's head into the ground. Ron held Crabbe off from returning Harry the favour.

I pretended not to see and went back to my work, although my stomach was twisting. Suppose Harry got expelled? No, they'd never do that to the Boy Who Lived, and if I did, the Society would be awful upset, maybe enough to finally carry out their threats. Still, it did look as if Harry would kill him.

Eventually someone saw this and ran for McGonagall, who arrived in a fury and separated them with a rather painful-looking levitation charm. She didn't even start to yell. Malfoy was sent straight to the hospital wing, a complete mess of dirt and blood. (How fitting, I reflected smugly.) Harry was sent straight to Dumbledore, a mess of tears inspired by rage and grief.

McGonagall came over to me and demanded why I didn't stop this or get her sooner.

"Malfoy is seriously injured."

"It was about Hagrid," I said flatly.

"Malfoy could have died."

"I didn't notice it, Professor," I said, tight-jawed. McGonagall took fifteen points from Gryffindor.

Harry lost a few more points than I did and received two detentions. I was amazed he got off so easily. He was no longer crying when he entered the common room, but from the look on his face, I wished he was.

"That was very foolish, Harry, and –" I began.

"Be quiet, Hermione," he snapped. "Malfoy had it coming to him. I can't stand him. How dare the little…" Then Harry did another thing I never thought he would. He proceeded to call Malfoy every unrepeatable thing under the sun. I never though I'd see the day he was swearing. Then he added what he would have liked to do to Malfoy.

"The first one is impossible, the second one is very expensive and requires a lot of skill, I don't even want to think about the third one, and the fourth sounds very painful," Sara spoke up. Just as Harry shot her a poisonous glare reminiscent of Snape himself, she added: "I'm so glad you gave him what-for. Words cannot express how satisfying that is. I want someone to do it again tomorrow. And the day after."

Cheers of agreement from most of the Gryffindors.

8 March

Something is to be said for the way Blustovadk can spread her fierce enthusiasm around. Today about twenty of us, from all Houses (including Chelsea Smythe from Slytherin) showed up when Harry was five minutes into his detention, which was cleaning out the dusty broomshed by hand, no magic, and demanded to be allowed to help.

McGonagall turned us away at first, but then we hung around so long that she relented, claiming it was only because she had a headache, and we all grabbed rags and polish and set to work.

"I was thinking about the first time I had ever met Hagrid," Harry told me as we swept cobwebs off the walls. "He gave me my Hogwarts letter…"

I looked at him in surprise. He continued: "He had been sending these forever, but the Dursleys kept getting at them, and, of course, when they knew what they were, they didn't allow me to so much as breath on one." He laughed and related a morning where hundreds of them flew through the chimney. "It was brilliant. Uncle Vernon got so spooked that he packed us all up and drove all down the motorway the entire day… Dudley was whimpering and Aunt Petunia didn't dare say anything, and I just wanted to know who was writing to me. We ended up on this tiny little island in a miserable old hut, no fire, no food – worth speaking of… middle of the night.

"I was counting down to my birthday on that hideous old neon watch of Dudley's when Hagrid knocks on the door, and Dudley wakes and asks where the cannon is!" Harry laughed heartily, yet sadly, at the memory. "And in comes Hagrid, taking the door off of the hinges and ordering Dudley off the couch… he turned Dudley into a pig, later."

I stared. "No. No."

"Yes, yes. It was brilliant! Only it didn't work right, so Dudley only got a tail. I wonder what the doctors at that private hospital in London said when they saw that. The Dursleys took him there to get it off…"

"Probably 'Shall we don white coats?' in toneless voices of numb shock," I suggested, grinning as well – I couldn't help it.

"He was the first person ever – that I remember – to show he cared about me," Harry said, so quietly he was speaking to himself.

You wouldn't believe what happened when Lisa Turpin overheard our whispered conversation. I was annoyed – it was awfully personal – but she didn't reveal the contents to everyone. Instead, she said: "I remember when I was in a huge fight with my roommates. I was wandering around outside and Hagrid found me and invited me into that cabin of his. I was scared at first, but I found he was just the nicest person… he made me feel so much better."

"He saved my life once," Justin Finch-Fletchey said. "It was stupid of me, really, but someone had thrown my watch on that little bitty piece of land in the middle of the moat on the west side of the castle, and I had started to swim over to get it –"

"You crazy?" Terry Boot demanded.

"Sure sounds like it," Desmond Feth said.

" – but anyway," Justin continued with great dignity, or as much as he could get on his knees scrubbing the floor, "my boots were too heavy and I started sinking, and if it hadn't been for Hagrid I would have drowned for sure."

Naturally, we all had a Hagrid story to tell. Finally, some poetic justice did ensure. It was very novelish and romantic, as if it were a story, really, and by the end of it, we were nearly all crying, even a couple of the boys, but I, for one, felt ten times better. It was just wonderful to know that we all remembered such good things about him.

"You know," Susan Bones said after telling her story about when he persuaded her not to give up Arthimancy, "I can remember all this great stuff about him now, but when he was… er, alive… all I could think of was his Blast-Ended Skwerts and such. Isn't it funny? They barely matter now."

"We always see the good things of people after they're dead," Blustovadk agreed thoughtfully. "It's silly. When they're dead we ought to complain about them, since they can't hear, but when they're alive, we ought to tell them how much we appreciate them. Especially now, with the war and all."

" 'Professor Sna-ape'," Fred began, with large, innocent eyes. " 'I want to tell you' –"

"Excepting him," Des said quickly.

"There's got to be something good about Snape," I said, thinking of the charm around my neck.

"Yeah," Sara said dubiously. "But we're just learning. Let's stick with someone a bit more realistic… McGonagall, for instance."

"She listens," Chelsea offered. "No snappy decisions with her. No favourism."

It was amazing, some of the things we found. I remembered how Fleur had cried over her younger sister. Cho Chang noticed how Filch cares so deeply for that little beastly cat – "Well, he loves something". George made Ron's day (although he tried not to show it) by saying that Ron was almost the twins' equal with wit. Susan had something good to tell about Draco Malfoy – yes, Draco Malfoy – "He sticks up for Crabbe and Goyle."

We stared at her.

"What?" she demanded. "If he didn't, then I'd think there wasn't an ounce of decency in him, but at least he's loyal. And he socked a sixth- year boy in the mouth when he said something about Professor Lupin."

Another awkward silence.

"Who's Professor Lupin?" Sara asked, looking from one hesitant face to the next.

"Taught Defence two years ago," Terry said glumly. "But he had to leave."

"Of course he did," Justin sniffed. "He was a werewolf."

I glared at Justin, but Cho spoke up instead: "Lupin's always been good to me – same as to the rest of us. He helped me train after my injuries, even though he was a Gryffindor supporter."

That broke the ice enough for Susan to add her two cents, and then Terry, and then me, and then Harry, and then Fred, and then Des, and then Lisa. I made a mental note to tell Remus this.

"While we're on former Defence teachers, I have one!" George spoke up brightly. "Professor Cato."

The older students raised eyebrows while the rest of us looked at each other and shrugged.

"Taught a year before you sixth-years, two before the fifth lot," George explained.

"What did she do?"

"Provided comic entertainment!"

There were a lot of laughs. "That's not fair," Sara managed between gasps as Cato's old follies were dredged up. "She was nice."

"You couldn't understand her – she spoke English," Fred explained to the rest of us, "but she was French, and had a bit of an accent." He snickered.

"She spoke French with a heavy English accent," Sara agreed solemnly, causing more giggles. "She also taught me everything I know about Defence, so lay off."

"I have one for Lockhart," Ron spoke up seriously. We glanced at him in surprise, and I felt shaky. If he told everyone about how I fancied him – well, let's just say he should count his blessings. Such as how black and blue doesn't clash with red hair. "He taught me how to love myself."

"Yourself?" Harry quipped.

"Yes. Next to him, I decided I was an upstanding and special citizen. And I also learned to not trust everything I read."

"He taught me about the value of Tickling Water," Sara replied.

"And that trolls are claustrophobic," Des smirked, "and that werewolves are allergic to pumpkin and have purple eyes, and that goblins cannot glide across any water except that which is found in the English channel without the aid of a bronze rowboat."

Sara turned to him, innocently startled. "Why, Des, those were the things he was right about."

By this time we had finished the broomshed, which was probably for the best, because our caring conversation was getting a little degrading. I'm still treasuring the more serious parts of it… although we were all laughing pretty heavily by the time we made our way up to the castle.

9 March

Woke up in the middle of the night after our shared detention. I had been replaying the conversation in the broomshed over in my head, still getting warm fuzzy feelings (I'm so hopelessly soft) when I got to one innocent remark and straightaway sat bolt upright in bed.

"Who's Professor Lupin?" – what Blustovadk had asked. And then I realised something incredible. I don't know why I never saw it before. I guess I just never thought about the two of them in the same train of thought. But now that I did, I pictured both of them in my head – and Remus Lupin and Sara Blustovadk resemble each other beyond coincidence. They look almost exactly alike (well, with a few obvious differences). And the timeline for them is perfect.

I hesitated a moment, but then slipped from our dormitory to the boys (and didn't get caught by some amazing fortune). Listening at the door, the boys didn't sound quite sound asleep – shuffling and snoring and tossing – so I lost my nerve. After staying awake a few more hours, unable to sleep, I got dressed and waited in the common room so I could talk to them first thing in the morning.

I must have fallen asleep over The Arthimancy of Greater Milky Way, because it was Lee Jordan who found me in a little curled up ball on the armchair and awoke me the next morning. Impatiently, I signaled Ron and Harry to fall behind before sneaking into my empty dormitory, the two of them looking awkward yet excited at their whereabouts. Honestly.

I had ordered Harry to bring his scrapbook. He was handling it tenderly. I remembered that Hagrid had put it together for him and got teary-eyed all over again.

"I want to find a picture of Remus," I said without any sort of preamble.

Harry blinked and exchanged a glance with Ron. "If you say so." We checked the wedding pictures first. Remus was in none of them – "Didn't they mention in their stories that Remus liked to take the pictures?" I asked – but even I loitered a little over the pictures. Harry's parents just looked so happy. I felt I knew them well from making Harry's little booklet, and very close to them.

I have to admit, there was one picture with Sirius, and my heart nearly stopped a moment. He was drop-dead gorgeous.

"What're you looking at?" Ron demanded, a little more harshly than normal.

I pointed at the beaming Sirius on the page. "Harry has one good- looking godfather."

Ron scowled. Harry grinned behind Ron's back at me.

"He might be in one of the earlier pictures," Harry suggested, tactfully diverting the subject. "Any particular age?"

"Oh, fifteen, maybe," I suggested with a smile.

"What for?" Ron asked suspiciously.

Then I remembered Sara was two years older. "Seventeen, I mean." Ron still looked skeptical. "There's Sirius again," he said, as casually as he could, as we flipped through the pages.

In this picture, Sirius was maybe fifteen or sixteen, and not yet fully grown. He was cute, no doubt, but had an awkward look around him that he'd shed in a few years. "Goodness, he looks like he doesn't know what to do with his arms and legs," I said, just to pacify Ron. It seemed to work.

Poor Ron. We finally discovered the one picture of Remus in the book – it was his fourteenth birthday (close enough, it turned out), and the reason it was included in the book was because Lily Evans was being tossed in the air by two girls, one of whom I vaguely registered must be Linda Lou Fairchild, James, and Remus. I forgot for a moment about Sara.

"Who are you staring at now?" Ron asked heatedly.

I reddened. "Remus – that is who I'm looking for, remember?" Truth was, Remus was an attractive teen, despite the fact that in this shot, since his birthday was 2 July, near a full moon, he had those pronounced circles around his eyes. But shoot me before I reveal that to Ron. I remembered why I had searched for this in the first place and examined him again, reminding myself sternly that both Sirius and Remus were about twenty years older to me and I was being silly.

Blustovadk looked decidedly enough like Remus for my suspicions to be confirmed in my own mind. I relayed my theory that Sara was Remus's daughter to them eagerly, and they considered it for a moment.

Harry looked shocked but intrigued. "Could be – this could be cool – how d'you think we could find out for sure?"

"Er," Ron spoke up tentatively, "um, you, er, do remember how you, uh, get a baby, right?" There was a pink-faced silence as Harry and I remembered. "And, well, I don't have anything against Lupin, really, so don't look at me in that tone of voice, Hermione – I really don't – but, er, he isn't fully human…"

"He could have children just the same," I said defencively.

"Yeah, but we've only found that out just recently, right?" Harry pointed out. "I came across it in some book or another –"

Ron looked at the two of his and pretended to groan, muttering: "More books!"

" – it's only been researched in the past few years. And I don't see Remus doing, er, that if he thought there was any sort of risk."

"True," I agreed, nodding, trying to figure if there was enough years for them to be second cousins or whatnot, when it hit me – when Sara said that her parents hated her because she looked exactly like her uncle, who had done something "apparently disgraceful".

It all fit. Ron and Harry agreed on that score, when I told them what I was thinking now.

"It's perfect," Ron nodded eagerly, "I'd bet Sara's parents ensured Lupin would be kept from contacting her –"

"Oh, that shall be amended," I smiled. "Soon it'll be amended."

We secretly sent a letter to Remus that very afternoon, asking him to meet us in the Great Hall Wednesday evening. And I absolutely cannot wait to tell him.

But now I've just been thinking as I write this… if Sara Blustovadk is Remus's niece, and Remus is not only Sirius's best living friend but hiding him from the Ministry at his home, and Sirius is Harry's extremely devoted godfather, and I'm one of Harry's best friends… oh, joy. I thought goodness was supposed to be its own reward.

Someone else is going to visit us soon, by the way – Charlie Weasley is coming on Tuesday, and says he has something important to tell us. We've figured it's about Hagrid, and I can only hope it's not something us terrible. I can't see what can be so dreadful – he is already dead – but I have a feeling things can always get worse.



A/N: I am so incredibly sorry this is taking so long. Remember the good old days when I apologised if it took a *full* week? Yeah, I miss them, too. I was doing dishes on Thursday when I realised it had been a full month – and the last chapter took from the 13th to the 13th, too! *groans* So apologies again, but I plan to finish it this summer. In compensation, this is a long chapter – three pages longer than you usually get! I even braved the Word Document Format for this… so watch, the ** mean italics.

A most, most, most sincere thanks to reviewers: Ayla Pascal, enoimreH, Lavander Ice, Le Chat Qui Garde La Lune, Silent Onion, Sorensen, Tarawen, and Voltora

I am so, so sorry for that. Would it help if I said I laid awake nights trying to screw up the nerve and wording to kill dear Hagrid? *pouts* That was extremely painful… darn plotline. *kicks stray can*

If you are interested in the continuing plotline concerning Sara, and now Remus, you might want to check out "Longing to Fly", on this account page, which holds more hints on this.

I've noticed while reading fanfic that sometimes I reach the end and want to review, but am not quite sure what to say. I've noticed while writing fanfic that sometimes I want opinions on specific things but no one mentions them. Trying to make life easier for everyone involves, I've instituted a poll at the end of most of my future chapters.

This one is: Original Characters in "From the Diary of Hermione Granger – Year 5". And let's go beyond Sara, she gets too much attention in reviews as it is. I'm also looking at Skylark, Chelsea Symthe, Josie, John, Alyn, Hermione's parents and the Robertses, etc. and perhaps other characters that are canon that I've fleshed out. Any particular favorites? Any you think are unbelievable and stilted? Any that are just frankly annoying? Anyone you would like to see more of? Any comments are appreciated.

Thanks again so much for your support. Words can't express that sort of gratefulness.