A/N:  Thanks for the feedback!!!

Disclaimer:  I don't own them!

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Dear Professor Lupin,

          How is your summer?  Mine is okay.  The Dursleys aren't being too horrible, just mostly leaving me alone. 

          I just wanted to know if The Daily Prophet is telling the truth.  Did Kingsley really get fired?  Are Tonks and Mr. Weasley going to be?

          I hope you're well.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

Harry stared at the letter he'd just written.  He wanted certain information about the subject, not the second-hand information that Fred and George had recently given Ron and Hermione.  The form of the letter, though, bugged him.  It sounded like something a seven year old would write, all formal and boring-like.  Only Harry didn't know how else to sound.  It was strange writing to a teacher, even if Lupin hadn't been a professor for over two years now. 

And it didn't matter that Lupin had been one of his father's best friends. 

If anything, that made it all the more awkward.  Especially since he wasn't even sure that Lupin would want to hear from him.

Harry was, after all, the reason Lupin was now the sole survivor of a friendship of four.

Harry counted off the other three members in his head.

'Dad, my fault just because I was born...  Peter Pettigrew, my fault because I let him go...  Sirius Black, my fault because he followed me to the Ministry...  All my fault.'

And it was true, of course.  All of those things had been Harry's fault.  He couldn't even begin to imagine what it would be like to be the last of his friends.

Actually, he could imagine it.  And quite easily at that.

He just simply didn't want to imagine it.  He didn't want to acknowledge what was so obviously a major threat.

His own best friends could easily end up as two more victims on the list of people's deaths that Harry was responsible for. 

Ron Weasley, Dead Because He Happened Into the Wrong Train Compartment When He Was Eleven.

Hermione Granger, Dead Because the One Thing She Didn't Know Was How to Safely Choose Friends.

Yeah, it was just a bit too easy to picture.

There was so much to think about now, so many things that were threatening.  Harry couldn't imagine that he would ever feel normal again.  He couldn't even imagine that he could even begin to feel remotely cheerful again.

His whole world was like a fucking nightmare.

And everything he touched turned to shit.

That was what it all boiled down to in the end.  It was like signing your own death warrant if you wanted to get close to him.  Sirius made that mistake, and look what happened to him.


He was dead.

Dead.

Dead.

Harry realized that no matter how many times he kept repeating this to himself, he never fully let it sink in.  It was just still too unreal to believe. 

He tried to picture the day his parents had asked Sirius to be their baby's godfather.  Then he tried to imagine how the conversation would have gone if they'd been True Seers.

"Sirius, we want you to be Harry's godfather.  But before you answer, please keep in mind that we will die and you will spend twelve years in Azkaban.  Oh, yeah.  And then a couple of years later, you'll die, too.  So, what do you say?"

Harry somehow didn't think the answer would have been the same.

Sighing to himself, he folded up the letter and tied it to Hedwig's leg.  She was waiting patiently, holding out her claw professionally, probably trying to prove that she was a much better animal than the other owls that had been frequenting his bedroom.  Between Pig and Luna Lovegood's owl, Sonar, Harry was surprised his uncle hadn't come upstairs with a shotgun.

He didn't have a clue as to whether Lupin would write back.  Perhaps he blamed Harry as much as Harry blamed himself; perhaps he would simply glare at the letter before chucking it in the fire.

Who knew anymore?

As Hedwig flew off through the window and into the dark night, Harry caught glimpse of the stack of letters piled on the edge of his desk.  There had certainly been no shortage in word from his friends this summer; he got at least a letter a day, and most of the time, he got more.  It was nice, of course, but Harry couldn't really bring himself to keep up the conversation.

It wasn't like he wanted to completely blow off Ron and Hermione, but he didn't want to let them in on what he was feeling, either.  Maybe it was a rude thought, but he couldn't help but think that neither of them could even possibly come close to understanding.

It was nice that they wanted to try, he supposed.  But it was useless.

Luna, on the other hand, understood a bit more- at least she did about growing up without a parent.  Of course, she still had her father, and her mother's death certainly hadn't been her fault.  Still, though, she understood what that was like.  It was, for some reason, quite comforting conversing with Luna; they'd exchanged a few letters, and Harry always found them amusing and even a bit soothing. 

His eyes fell on the piece of parchment settled at the top of the stack.  It was Hermione's latest letter, telling him how she'd gone to Diagon Alley with her mum and run into Ron and Ginny.  She told him all about the twins' store and their flat, and she'd explained what they had said about Fudge only wanting to take Dumbledore down.  Harry couldn't help but feel a bit jealous that his friends were all traipsing through Diagon Alley without a care in the world while he was stuck on Privet Drive with nothing to entertain him except Mrs. Next Door Neighbor's new workout regimen, which she took up each afternoon in her backyard. 

Granted, she was a rather pretty woman, and her working out did happen to be a bit entertaining.


But still.

It was just one more thing that wasn't fair.


Harry wanted to hit himself for sounding so terribly self-pitying.  He didn't want anyone's pity, least of all his own.  But then again, he didn't usually get what he wanted.  It was one of the lovely perks of being Famous Harry Potter.

Harry rolled his eyes and shoved his chair back away from the desk, standing up and pacing his room for what felt like the millionth time that summer.  There was homework to be done, sure, lots of it at that.  But Harry wasn't in the mood; he just wasn't in the mood for anything really.  It didn't seem as if the summer would ever end.  In just under a week, he'd be sixteen, but he felt as if he should be forty by now. 

The summer was never going to end.

He would have liked to simply sleep the days away, but he found himself falling asleep late at night and waking up in the early morning.  It was his subconscious hiding from the nightmares, this he knew.  The nightmares were awful, worse than ever, and Harry hated them.  All he saw when he closed his eyes was death and destruction and pain and sadness.

If Hermione were around, she would undoubtedly be nagging him to practice the Occulmency Snape had attempted teaching him.  But Harry would rather have done anything practice that shit, and that's what it was, too- total shit.  It could have saved Sirius's life, but it had failed.  All it was supposed to do was one simple thing, and it hadn't succeeded.

Damn Snape.


Harry wasn't sure where all his anger toward Snape was coming from.  True, he'd never liked the Potions professor, but now there was a burning rage of heat in his stomach every time he thought of the greasy-haired bastard.  If Snape had just followed Dumbledore's instructions, if he'd only forced Harry to learn the procedure, Sirius would still be alive.

Of course, Snape was probably laughing it up in private that both of his own Hogwarts rivals were now dead.  He had made no secret of hating either Harry's father or Sirius, after all.


Harry couldn't believe he'd almost felt sorry for Snape after watching his memory in the pensieve.  Snape had undoubtedly deserved everything he'd ever gotten- every tease, every taunt, every hex.

Everything.

"Harry!"

Harry jumped at the sound of his aunt's voice, so loud and demanding.  She was yelling at him from downstairs, and he knew well enough not to keep her waiting.  Dropping Hermione's letter, he hurried out of his room and to the top of the stairwell.  Aunt Petunia was staring up at him, one hand resting impatiently on her hip.

"Yes?" he asked warily; for some reason, he figured she'd found some reason to tell him off.

But to his surprise, she just huffed a tiny bit before saying, "You've got a telephone call."

Words couldn't express the surprise that Harry felt as the words registered.  He could never remember getting a phone call, except, of course, for the time before his third year when Ron had attempted.  He wasn't sure how to react to the news, so he just simply nodded and tried to appear as nonplussed as possible.

"I'll take it up here."

"Don't talk long," she said shortly.  "Those calls aren't free, you know."

Harry nodded wordlessly and waited until his aunt disappeared again before turning and heading for the upstairs' hall phone.  He had no idea how to have a proper telephone conversation and even less of an idea as to who would want to have one with him.  A brief feeling of dread settled in his stomach before he pushed it away and realized how silly it would be for Voldemort or a Death Eater to be calling him at Privet Drive.

"Er, hello?" he asked uncertainly as he picked up the receiver and heard the click that signaled that the downstairs extension had been hung up.

"Harry?"  The voice was familiar, though it, too, seemed a bit uncertain.

"Hermione."  He hoped his voice didn't sound disappointed because he wasn't disappointed, not really.  It was just... strange.

"Yeah, it's me," she said quickly.  For some reason, Harry got the feeling that she wasn't all that used to having telephone conversations, either.  She seemed very businesslike and straight to the point.  But then again, that's how she was ninety percent of the time anyway.  "Hey, listen.  I just wanted to call and make sure everything is okay.  Because, you know, you haven't written in a couple of days."

"I know."  Harry studied a tiny speck of chipped paint on the wall and vaguely wondered if Aunt Petunia had spotted it yet.  She would probably have already had the entire upstairs repainted if she had.  "I've been busy."  It was a lie, of course, but he didn't want to tell her any other reason.

"Oh."  She sounded slightly disappointed in his answer, but she recovered quickly.  "Well, I just wanted to make sure because, well, I was worried.  And Ron was worried, too."  She finished very hurriedly.

Ron was worried, too, eh?  Well, he certainly didn't sound too worried about anything in all of his letters about how much he hated having to do all the work around the house and how Ginny was such a brat and how his mother was going mental and how his dad was working all the time and how the twins were doing so great with their shop and how he was positive that the Cannons were going to make their comeback this year. 

In fact, he sounded just like a normal sixteen year old should.

Real worried, huh?

"Yeah, well, I'm fine," Harry lied smoothly.  "Just busy is all."

Hermione didn't say anything for a moment, and Harry knew she could tell that he wasn't telling the truth.  She always seemed to know when he was lying, and he couldn't help but think that it was a rather annoying trait of hers.  Finally, though, she sighed a tiny bit and said, "Okay."

Then there was another moment of silence.  It was sort of awkward, just standing there on the telephone with nothing at all being said.  Harry was just about to suggest that they better hang up, as, after all, calls weren't free, but Hermione interrupted him.

"You aren't having any nightmares or anything, are you?"

Harry really couldn't stand her sometimes.  She just knew too damn much!  He hated the way she always figured everything out.

"Of course I'm not," he said sharply.  "Don't you think I'd be telling someone if I was?  I'm not stupid, you know."

"I know," she said bracingly; Harry could imagine her private eye roll.  "I'm just making sure."


"Well, I'm not, okay?  So, don't worry about it."

He would have liked nothing better than to take his own advice and not worry about it.

"Okay, Harry, but promise me that if something like that does happen that you'll tell somebody.  Because it's really important."

"I had no idea."

"You don't have to be rude," she said haughtily.  "Excuse me, if you will, for being concerned."

Harry glared at the wall.  He knew perfectly well that he was being sarcastic and that it was rude, but he couldn't really force himself to feel bad.  "Well, do yourself a favor, Hermione, and don't be concerned.  I'm fine and perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thanks."

"Okay, fine.  Whatever, Harry.  Have a good summer.  Bye."

And then she hung up.


Harry stood in half-shock, staring at the telephone in his hand, which was now emitting a loud, rather annoying, high-pitched dial tone.  He grumbled to himself and slammed the receiver back down, stomping off to his bedroom.  He ignored his aunt's chiding about making too much noise and slammed his door, locking it from the inside.  He wasn't in the mood to deal with the Dursleys.  He wasn't in the mood to deal with his friends.

He wasn't, at the moment, really in the mood to deal with anyone.

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Dear Ron,

          I just called Harry on the telephone, and he basically told me to shove off.  I really don't know what his problem is.  I mean, we put up with him all last year and didn't ever complain when he was so mean to us, but this is just ridiculous.  We're not even trying to do anything except make sure he's okay, and it's like he hates us sometimes for caring.

          Well, excuse me, but I have to care.

          I don't know what to do, Ron.  What if he's never normal again?  What if he spends the rest of his life being this resentful and bitter and never spends a day without worry.  Trust me, I know he's got a lot on his mind, but it's just difficult when he acts like such a prat.  To us, of all people!  You and I have been there for him forever, and he knows that.  That's probably why he thinks it's okay to treat us this way- because he knows we'll still be around if he needs us.  And, Ron, you know that I would always be there for him, and I know you would, too, but sometimes isn't it just hard to stand by and take this?  He doesn't appreciate us at all, and it's not fair to be taken for granted.

          Maybe I'm just being too over-analytical.  I should be used to this by now, shouldn't I?  After all, Harry's been acting like this for awhile now.  I don't want to act all naggy and everything, but I'm worried.  And I can't help that.  I love him, and I just wish he would realize that instead of always assuming I'm just trying to be his mother.  Because I'm not trying to be his mother.  And I'm not trying to be yours, either.  I know I bug you sometimes about work and stuff like that, but it's only because I want you to do well.  I know you can, if you just try.

          Oh, I need to stop before I write a whole novel on all the things I do and explanations for them all.  But just know that I only act like that because I care about you.  And I only try to help Harry because I care about him, too.

          Anyway, write me back if you want.  I'll be here...

Love from,

Hermione

Ron stared at the letter in his hands.  All the words seemed to blur together except for three.

'I love him.'

Hermione loved Harry.  She'd written it out right there in her own handwriting and everything.  She loved Harry.

Ron wanted to burn the damn piece of parchment.

He wasn't sure why that phrase made anger coil in his stomach or why he felt betrayed, of all things.  It just didn't make any sense.

Okay, so most of that was a lie.

He did know why he felt angry and betrayed, but it still didn't make any sense.  And he hated himself for acknowledging that he knew why it made him feel the way it did.

Why did it always have to be about Harry?  Everything in the whole bloody world seemed to revolve around the Boy Who Lived.  And, honestly, what was so special about a damn scar anyway? Ron had more than few scars on his body; it was a given growing up with five older brothers.  But did anyone make such a big deal about them?

No, because they weren't a big deal.


Nothing about Ron was a big deal.  He wasn't very smart like Percy or very attractive like Bill.  He was funny sometimes, but it was nothing compared to the way Fred and George could make people roll with laughter.  He definitely didn't have the Quidditch power that Charlie had, even if he was improving a bit.  He wasn't really anything special at all.

Just number six in a line of seven siblings.

Just number three in a trio of friends.

Harry was the hero, and Hermione was the brains.  It didn't really leave much for him to claim, so he always just dealt with being what he was.


The sidekick.

And just as in true Muggle fairy-tale fashion, the sidekick was, well, kicked to the side while the hero got the girl.  And Ron felt sick all over again thinking about how much this bothered him. 

Why did he have to like her anyway?

Hermione Granger, of all the girls in the world, he had to go and fall for that one.  The one he could never have because she loved his best friend.

She'd said it herself.

But it wasn't like he asked to fall for her anyway; hell, he wasn't even sure how it had happened.  And he still hated himself for feeling that way about her because it just wasn't right.  He wasn't supposed to like her.

He didn't even want to like her.

She was Hermione Fucking Granger, for crying out loud!

Ron tossed the letter aside for what seemed like the millionth time.  He kept picking it back up, though, and rereading it, just to make sure he hadn't dreamed it.  But it was always there.

'I love him.'

Slumping down onto his bed, Ron thought about everything.  He'd tried for so long to pretend that nothing was there, tried to ignore the hot prickling feeling he got behind his ears whenever she sat too close.  This whole school year, he'd made a conscious effort just not to make anything too obvious to her because he was positive that the very worst case scenario was that she would realize how he felt.  And that would be horrible.

What would she think if she knew some of the nasty little thoughts he'd had about her over the past couple of years.  Or some of the dreams- that would be a disaster.  He himself hated to remember them sometimes, not that they weren't pleasant enough because, bloody hell, they definitely were pleasant.  It was just humiliating to think that his subconscious mind could dream up such things, much less put Hermione into the mix.

Especially since she obviously did not feel the same way and most certainly did not share the same sort of dreams.

Ron had considered the possibility of Hermione liking Harry before.  After all, nearly everyone at school linked her with the Boy Who Lived; it was just the most natural pairing.  They were a lot alike in many ways- both raised by Muggles, both somewhat sensitive towards other people, stuff like that.  And he wouldn't lie and say that he hadn't believed what Rita Skeeter had written about Harry and Hermione when they were fourth years.

Of course, he was probably just looking for another reason to be pissed off at Harry, but still.

Then again, it was all too weird to think about.  Harry and Hermione?  Neither one of them had ever shown the slightest sort of interest like that toward each other.  They always seemed much more like just good friends, which is what Ron had always thought they were.  Until now.

'I love him.'

She didn't just like him, she fucking loved the bastard.

Ron was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't even notice Pig pecking at his bedroom window.  Hell, he hadn't even noticed that Pig had left.  Still scowling, he rolled closer to his window and undid the latch, letting it up just enough for the tiny owl to zoom inside, hooting loudly as always.

"Oh, shut up," Ron said hatefully, snatching at the bird and managing to catch hold of its neck so that he could bring it down and get the letter that was tied to its leg.  Once he managed this feat, his face turned down slightly.  It was another letter from Hermione.  "How do you just know?" he asked Pig, releasing him with no idea how the little bird just always seemed to know when someone wanted to send him a letter. 

Ron shrugged and slit open the second letter from Hermione in a single day.

Ron,

          I forgot to write this in the other letter, so I hope Pig isn't too worn out from making another trip.  He's adorable, really, always shows up when I need him.

          Anyway, I want to know if you can meet me in Diagon Alley next weekend.  I know that's the day Ginny's going to the football match with Dean, so I didn't figure you were doing anything.  Mum and Dad are going to France for a few days, so I can get away easily; the Floo is still hooked up to my fireplace.  We need to get school supplies and all of that, but mostly I just want to see you.  I miss you, and I feel like you're the only real friend I've got.  I mean, I know that's wrong; Harry is still my real friend, but I'm so annoyed with him right now.  And plus, I miss you.

          Anyway, write back with your answer.  I really hope you can come.

Love from,

Hermione

Ron read the letter over again to make sure he hadn't misread.

She missed him.

She'd said it not once, but twice.  She missed him. 

Maybe when she used the word 'love' in the other letter, she hadn't meant it like, "I want to marry Harry Potter."  Maybe she meant it more along the lines of, "I love him like a brother."

Yes.  Like Ron loved Ginny.

Surely, that's what she meant.

Ron couldn't mask the sudden uplifting feeling he was getting inside of him.  Maybe things weren't so rotten after all.  Maybe Harry wasn't a bastard.  Maybe he wouldn't have to pummel him to death now.

And maybe, just maybe, Hermione him, Ron, in the way she really couldn't possibly like Harry.

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Hermione paced her bedroom, twisting her hands together nervously.


She couldn't believe she'd just sent that letter.  It had sounded so... mushy. 

'And plus, I miss you.'

Oh, god, Ron was probably having a huge laugh right about now.  He was probably on the verge of tears, he was so humored.  Would he tease her? 

"Of course he will," she answered herself out loud.  "Has he ever passed up a chance to tease you about anything?"  She threw her hands up in the air.  "Great, now I'm talking to myself."

That was all she needed, to go completely mental and start rambling to herself when she was already well on her way to the nuthouse anyway.  After all, sending a letter that almost said so much to Ron Weasley didn't say too much for her sanity. 

But who are you kidding, silly little girl?  Hermione grimaced as that stupid little voice she was so used to hearing crept into her head.  She had, in fact, been concerned more than once for her sanity after having battling little conversations with that voice.  He already knows everything.  Everybody already knows everything.

Hermione turned on her CD player full blast, not caring for one second that her parents were downstairs or that she didn't know the song that was playing.  It was noise, and noise was exactly what she needed right now.  She needed something, anything, to distract her.

The music was blaring and quite annoying, but Hermione had never heard such wonderful sounds.  With such loud noise, she could barely think about anything, much less what a complete and total idiot she was.

"Hermione!" 


She winced as she heard her father's voice just barely over the music; he was apparently outside of her door and pounding on it, no doubt wondering what had gotten into her.  For a second, she thought about ignoring him; after all, she could easily lie later and say she just hadn't heard him calling.

Then the pounding got louder.  "Hermione!"

Sighing, she crossed the room to her door and opened, smiling innocently at her father, who was staring back at her, quite red-faced.  "Hi, Dad," she said casually.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" he asked exasperatedly.

Hermione wondered if he'd gone momentarily stupid, perhaps from the noise.  "I'm just listening to some music."

"Turn.  That.  Down."

It was his warning voice; Hermione had heard it a few times before on the brief occasions she'd attempted to test her parents.  It never resulted well.  Still...


"But this is my favorite song."

"Hermione."  He had now done the eye-narrowing thing that almost always spelled trouble.  When she was younger, she'd been quite afraid of it.  Now, though, for some reason it just wasn't having the desired affect.

Not really having any clue why she was pushing him (perhaps it was just something to do), she tried again.  "Yes, Daddy?"

He stared at her in blank shock.  She herself was in blank shock.

"Turn it down now."

"I will when this song is over."  She still had no clue what song it was, but apparently that didn't matter.  Her last statement seemed to seal the deal for her father.

He marched right into her room and yanked the plug from the wall roughly, causing Hermione to jump slightly in shock.  He turned back to her and spoke very calmly, though his tone left nothing to question.

"I suggest you rethink who you're speaking to next time, young lady, or you will be very sorry indeed."

And with that, he left her room and went back downstairs.


Hermione stared after him, for some reason mildly amused.  She would be very sorry indeed, huh?  What was he going to do?  Ground her?  There wasn't really any place she had any desire to go anyway, except for Diagon Alley, of course.  But even if she did happen to get grounded, it wasn't like her parents would be able to stop her.

No, they were far too busy to be bothered.

After all, she heard that Paris was simply lovely this time of year.

Without caring one bit that she had just pissed her father off, she flopped onto her bed and opened a book.  She couldn't help but notice that she was in a slightly better mood now that she'd had a mini-row with her father.

It certainly took her mind off of other things.

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