Founded only four months previously, it had been one of Hermione's larger
and more successful attempts to cope with Draco in absentia. She had
presented the idea to the Headmaster as a sort of inter-House study group.
Hermione felt he had seen past this, but Dumbledore had agreed to extending
library and curfew hours on Thursday nights.
Study group it was not, although study they did. Composed of mostly sixth- and seventh-years, the Council was more of a combination Toastmasters and magical discussion group. The ten members were of varied temperaments and magical persuasions, but Hermione had found kindred spirits in them all. After all, they had a common desire: For good to triumph and Hogwarts to be preserved.
Hermione took her seat in one of the four empty ones. "Where's Ben?" Ben Macgregor, a sixth-year Hufflepuff, had been one of the group's charter members. A Tolkien fanatic, he had been begrudgingly allowed to name it.
"Detention," George said sweetly, as half of the table glared at him. "What? Somebody had to check the anti-Apparation barrier. Ow!" It was George's turn to glare: at the doe-eyed blonde beside him.
Hermione sighed, aware that this would not be one of their more productive meetings. "Fi, stop kicking George." Fiona Warbeck, in addition to being a witch at Arithmancy, had inherited her famous mother's charms. She also fancied Ben. "We have work to do."
"I now call the sixteenth meeting of the Coun-"
"Lay off, Geoff. That's Hermione's job."
"'You' lay off, Sue. I wrote the bylaws."
"And a very good job you did, too." Hermione let Harry continue; he could usually restore order by reputation. "New business? Reports from the front? Have you heard from your brother, Terry?"
Although normally quite merry for a Ravenclaw, Terry Boot now shook his head soberly. "No, but his wand's still in one piece, or the Ministry would have contacted us." Laurence Boot, twenty and an Auror, had been MIA for over a month.
On the opposite end of the table from Terry, Susan Bones raised her hand. Harry caught her eye and gave a tired smile. In the year since Cho Chang had left Hogwarts, Susan and he had become great friends. They were in the same boat, really: her entire family had been killed by Death Eaters only two months before the Potters. Ten-month-old Susan had been bundled into a closet by her mother and had survived, only to be packed off to Muggle relations.
"Susan?"
She stood up. "It has occurred to me that we have one very distinct advantage over Voldemort." No one at the table flinched. Ron Weasely, not doing his homework two tables away, did. "An advantage that he would never consider using: Mug- nonmagic technology. Certainly it can't be used inside Hogwarts, but we can work on that. And what about outside Hogwarts? Voldemort can intercept owls, but can he intercept e-mail?" Susan sat down pinkly.
"Why on earth didn't we think of this before?" Hermione wondered aloud.
"Because we were merely thinking, not observing," George muttered. "I think it's ruddy brilliant; Dad'll have a fit."
"Even it does nothing more than keep us in touch after Hogwarts. Mind you, though," Claris McClellan, in Slytherin and from a pureblood family almost as old as the Malfoys, blushed, "someone will have to teach me how it's done."
"Not e-mail, so much," Susan felt her example had rather backfired, "but certainly everyone needs to pay more attention in Muggle Studies."
"All right, assignments." Hermione leant forward. "Research one Muggle invention that could prove useful against Voldemort and be ready to report on it at the next meeting." She would have said more, but George raised a finger.
"'Mione, we're already ten minutes over. Madam Pince is going to kill you."
Hermione spared the clock a glance. "Good heavens, yes. Anything else, very quickly?"
George again. "Who needs books from the Restricted Section?" Susan, Terry, Geoffery, Fiona, and Harry raised their hands. "I said 'needs', Geoff, not 'wants to hex their dorm mates with.'" He scrawled his signature on five scraps of paper while the rest of the members packed up.
Hermione walked around to Harry. "How's my Head Boy?"
"I'm okay." He brushed still perpetually messy hair out of his eyes.
"Is Ron still . . . ?"
"Yeah." Ron was packing up his books, but that wasn't what she meant.
"They won't let me near you, Harry. Ron or Neville or Dean or any of them. It's like I'm not safe anymore."
Before he could answer, Ron appeared at his shoulder and said in a loud voice, "Why don't we go, Harry." He ignored Hermione. Ron, now easily two meters, could look over her without difficulty, as Hermione had always been short of his shoulder.
"Hallo, Ron." Hermione met his eyes, wondering what she had ever seen in their chocolate depths.
"Hello, Hermione." She wondered if she should tell him how much like Percy he sounded. Three years ago, she might have, but Draco and all he entailed had replaced some of Hermione's Gryffindor fire with Slytherin tact.
"Ron," she said firmly, "this cannot continue. I still consider you my friend, even if you don't feel the same way. Now we're all sane mature adults here and--"
"Yeah, 'Mione. When you look me in the eye and say you don't miss Draco Malfoy."
Hermione refused to let the flood of tears fall. "Ron, I will not-cannot do that. Because it's not right. And it's not true."
"Ron," Harry warned.
"Oy, Ron!" George, at a volume Madam Pince must have been wincing at. Ron turned, directly into his brother's almost friendly headlock.
"Gerroffme, George." Ron struggled out of habit, although George was now much shorter.
"When you apologize to the nice witch, Ronald."
Ron suddenly remembered that George 'was' a teacher and 'could' take points off him. "Sorry, 'Mione," he muttered. George released him and, grabbing his book bag, Ron hurried out of the library.
"You didn't help anything, George," Hermione said gently.
"That's Professor Weasely to you." George's voice sounded oddly hoarse as he shouldered his own bag and followed his brother's trajectory.
Hermione sat at the now vacant table, put her head down in folded arms, and began to cry softly. 'I don't cry,' she thought.
It was true. She had not cried when Lucius Malfoy found out exactly what stood between her and his son, or when her House deserted her, or when she found that Draco had gone, without even saying goodbye. But now Hermione wept, without quite knowing why. 'What have we given up, Draco, and what have we lost?'
Someone touched her shoulder and Hermione shuddered. She raised her tear- stained face, praying it wasn't Harry.
It was Blaise, last night's messenger. "Oh." He took in her soggy face. "D'you want me to go?"
Hermione sniffed. "No." She looked hopefully around for a parchment.
Blaise pulled something from his sleeve. A handkerchief. He offered it to Hermione, who blew her nose and generally cleaned herself up. "Thank you."
He sat down. "Are you all right?" Hermione's eyes betrayed her. The tears flooded again. Blaise looked extremely distraught and then, to Hermione's great surprise, responded by hugging her, hard. "Draco won't mind," he whispered. "He used to do the same thing for me."
Hermione regained some of her composure and Blaise let go. "Is there a letter?" she asked.
He held a sheet of parchment out to her. "This was a miracle. Merlin brought it."
"Draco's owl?" Hermione read the parchment with growing dread:
My love, I was wrong. They are coming. So are we. Draco
Study group it was not, although study they did. Composed of mostly sixth- and seventh-years, the Council was more of a combination Toastmasters and magical discussion group. The ten members were of varied temperaments and magical persuasions, but Hermione had found kindred spirits in them all. After all, they had a common desire: For good to triumph and Hogwarts to be preserved.
Hermione took her seat in one of the four empty ones. "Where's Ben?" Ben Macgregor, a sixth-year Hufflepuff, had been one of the group's charter members. A Tolkien fanatic, he had been begrudgingly allowed to name it.
"Detention," George said sweetly, as half of the table glared at him. "What? Somebody had to check the anti-Apparation barrier. Ow!" It was George's turn to glare: at the doe-eyed blonde beside him.
Hermione sighed, aware that this would not be one of their more productive meetings. "Fi, stop kicking George." Fiona Warbeck, in addition to being a witch at Arithmancy, had inherited her famous mother's charms. She also fancied Ben. "We have work to do."
"I now call the sixteenth meeting of the Coun-"
"Lay off, Geoff. That's Hermione's job."
"'You' lay off, Sue. I wrote the bylaws."
"And a very good job you did, too." Hermione let Harry continue; he could usually restore order by reputation. "New business? Reports from the front? Have you heard from your brother, Terry?"
Although normally quite merry for a Ravenclaw, Terry Boot now shook his head soberly. "No, but his wand's still in one piece, or the Ministry would have contacted us." Laurence Boot, twenty and an Auror, had been MIA for over a month.
On the opposite end of the table from Terry, Susan Bones raised her hand. Harry caught her eye and gave a tired smile. In the year since Cho Chang had left Hogwarts, Susan and he had become great friends. They were in the same boat, really: her entire family had been killed by Death Eaters only two months before the Potters. Ten-month-old Susan had been bundled into a closet by her mother and had survived, only to be packed off to Muggle relations.
"Susan?"
She stood up. "It has occurred to me that we have one very distinct advantage over Voldemort." No one at the table flinched. Ron Weasely, not doing his homework two tables away, did. "An advantage that he would never consider using: Mug- nonmagic technology. Certainly it can't be used inside Hogwarts, but we can work on that. And what about outside Hogwarts? Voldemort can intercept owls, but can he intercept e-mail?" Susan sat down pinkly.
"Why on earth didn't we think of this before?" Hermione wondered aloud.
"Because we were merely thinking, not observing," George muttered. "I think it's ruddy brilliant; Dad'll have a fit."
"Even it does nothing more than keep us in touch after Hogwarts. Mind you, though," Claris McClellan, in Slytherin and from a pureblood family almost as old as the Malfoys, blushed, "someone will have to teach me how it's done."
"Not e-mail, so much," Susan felt her example had rather backfired, "but certainly everyone needs to pay more attention in Muggle Studies."
"All right, assignments." Hermione leant forward. "Research one Muggle invention that could prove useful against Voldemort and be ready to report on it at the next meeting." She would have said more, but George raised a finger.
"'Mione, we're already ten minutes over. Madam Pince is going to kill you."
Hermione spared the clock a glance. "Good heavens, yes. Anything else, very quickly?"
George again. "Who needs books from the Restricted Section?" Susan, Terry, Geoffery, Fiona, and Harry raised their hands. "I said 'needs', Geoff, not 'wants to hex their dorm mates with.'" He scrawled his signature on five scraps of paper while the rest of the members packed up.
Hermione walked around to Harry. "How's my Head Boy?"
"I'm okay." He brushed still perpetually messy hair out of his eyes.
"Is Ron still . . . ?"
"Yeah." Ron was packing up his books, but that wasn't what she meant.
"They won't let me near you, Harry. Ron or Neville or Dean or any of them. It's like I'm not safe anymore."
Before he could answer, Ron appeared at his shoulder and said in a loud voice, "Why don't we go, Harry." He ignored Hermione. Ron, now easily two meters, could look over her without difficulty, as Hermione had always been short of his shoulder.
"Hallo, Ron." Hermione met his eyes, wondering what she had ever seen in their chocolate depths.
"Hello, Hermione." She wondered if she should tell him how much like Percy he sounded. Three years ago, she might have, but Draco and all he entailed had replaced some of Hermione's Gryffindor fire with Slytherin tact.
"Ron," she said firmly, "this cannot continue. I still consider you my friend, even if you don't feel the same way. Now we're all sane mature adults here and--"
"Yeah, 'Mione. When you look me in the eye and say you don't miss Draco Malfoy."
Hermione refused to let the flood of tears fall. "Ron, I will not-cannot do that. Because it's not right. And it's not true."
"Ron," Harry warned.
"Oy, Ron!" George, at a volume Madam Pince must have been wincing at. Ron turned, directly into his brother's almost friendly headlock.
"Gerroffme, George." Ron struggled out of habit, although George was now much shorter.
"When you apologize to the nice witch, Ronald."
Ron suddenly remembered that George 'was' a teacher and 'could' take points off him. "Sorry, 'Mione," he muttered. George released him and, grabbing his book bag, Ron hurried out of the library.
"You didn't help anything, George," Hermione said gently.
"That's Professor Weasely to you." George's voice sounded oddly hoarse as he shouldered his own bag and followed his brother's trajectory.
Hermione sat at the now vacant table, put her head down in folded arms, and began to cry softly. 'I don't cry,' she thought.
It was true. She had not cried when Lucius Malfoy found out exactly what stood between her and his son, or when her House deserted her, or when she found that Draco had gone, without even saying goodbye. But now Hermione wept, without quite knowing why. 'What have we given up, Draco, and what have we lost?'
Someone touched her shoulder and Hermione shuddered. She raised her tear- stained face, praying it wasn't Harry.
It was Blaise, last night's messenger. "Oh." He took in her soggy face. "D'you want me to go?"
Hermione sniffed. "No." She looked hopefully around for a parchment.
Blaise pulled something from his sleeve. A handkerchief. He offered it to Hermione, who blew her nose and generally cleaned herself up. "Thank you."
He sat down. "Are you all right?" Hermione's eyes betrayed her. The tears flooded again. Blaise looked extremely distraught and then, to Hermione's great surprise, responded by hugging her, hard. "Draco won't mind," he whispered. "He used to do the same thing for me."
Hermione regained some of her composure and Blaise let go. "Is there a letter?" she asked.
He held a sheet of parchment out to her. "This was a miracle. Merlin brought it."
"Draco's owl?" Hermione read the parchment with growing dread:
My love, I was wrong. They are coming. So are we. Draco