'Hiya Harry,
I know it hasn't been long since I wrote last but there's not much to do here anymore. Hope the muggles are treating you right. Hermione arrived here about two weeks ago, but we got in a bit of a row her first night here. She hasn't spoken with me since. I know I took a bit of my anger and emotion out on her, but really? I've tried to apologize, but she just won't hear it. I hate women. She and Ginny have kept to their bedroom, making things here quite dull. (By the way, I saw Ginny writing a letter to you? What was that about?)
Harry you've got to get here, I've been begging with Mum, and she reckons you'll be here soon enough. What's that supposed to mean? Can't you write to Dumbledore and ask him or something? Because, Harry, I really can't stay here by myself.
Just the other night I was out for a walk so I could think over...things, and I spy Hermione through the tree hedge. She was out on the quidditch pitch, on a broom! Hermione on a broom, snogging, with...with that jerk, Viktor Krum! Do you remember him? She's seeing him, reckons they're 'in love'. Well I told her she's off her rocker. I suppose she's been having secret meeting with him in my backyard for quite some time now. Who does she think she is? Doesn't she realize he's scum? I don't know if you read Witch Broomstick or not, but he's always in there, they say he has many different girlfriends!
You better get here soon mate, I don't reckon I can make it through the last two weeks before Hogwarts alone, and I'm sure that being alone with those nasty muggles isn't helping you out either. I just hope you know that Sirius...is bugging all of us as much as you. Well Pig is getting anxious so I better end here.
Hope to see you soon,
Ron
P.S I hope Pig doesn't annoy you and Hedwig too much!'
Harry Potter let out a sigh releasing the parchment from his firm grip. He watched the yellowish paper float to the ground. It was just like Hermione and Ron to get in a fight so soon. They were always bickering. Harry just hoped they hurried up at figured it out so he wouldn't have to endure their yelling matches this year at Hogwarts. He missed his friends a lot and couldn't wait to get out the hellhole that he had to call home every summer.
Harry was forced to live with his aunt and uncle (his only living relatives) every summer, but Harry knew where his real home was, and it was as far away from the Dursley's as possible. He was sick of the silence that haunted him in this house. Since Dementors had attacked Harry's cousin Dudley at the end of last summer, the Dursley's weren't too happy to have Harry back. They blamed the attack on him. They had hoped that Harry would have died during the school year so that he wouldn't have returned, but unfortunately it hadn't been Harry who'd died.
'Don't think about it,' he told himself, letting his eyes wonder over his messy room, looking for something to distract him.
The only time his room wasn't silent was when Harry was remembering how Sirius had died a few months ago. Almost immediately Harry's mind filled, with his own voice crying out for Sirius, as he fell beyond the veil, his back arched, his deep dark eyes as cold as the stone floor. Harry shuddered as he saw clearly in his mind, the image of Sirius dead.
Harry let himself fall back onto his bed. As he lay there staring up at the ceiling, he felt the familiar weight of guilt settle on him. If only Harry hadn't been so stupid, if only he'd realized that it had been a trick. If Harry hadn't fallen for the hero's act, or practiced Occulmency like Hermione had begged him to, Harry would still be receiving letters from his faithful godfather. Harry wouldn't be at the Dursley's. Harry would be living with the closest thing to a father he had ever had. Harry ran his fingers up his warm face, and grabbed a fist full of his messy dark hair.
Albus Dumbledore (the Headmaster of Hogwarts) should have taught him Occulmency. That was the problem. Dumbledore was the reason that Harry was stuck here, with muggles, who hated him. Dumbledore was the reason that Harry was separated from his friends and the closest thing to a family he owned. Dumbledore was supposed to be the best wizard in the world, but he had failed; something Harry never though he'd do. Dumbledore hadn't saved Sirius from dying. Dumbledore hadn't told Harry everything he needed to know until it was too late. Harry stopped himself. Dumbledore was a good man. He'd protected Harry since he was one year old, since Harry's parents had died. Since Lord Voldemort, the darkest wizard in a century had murdered his parents.
Harry opened his eyes, which he'd realized were clamped shut. Sweat had dampened his face. Harry pulled himself to his feet, wanting to stop thinking about this. It was an endless cycle that left Harry drained. Harry walked towards his most prized possession, his racing broom, the Firebolt. Sirius had bought it for Harry for Christmas two years ago, and just holding it was something of a release to him. It calmed him; because touching the Firebolt made Harry reminisce the feeling of soaring through the air out on the quidditch pitch where he belonged. Before he reached the shelf, on which it was lying, he paused in front of a floor length mirror.
Harry stared at himself, his tall skinny body still shaking at the memory of Sirius's pale face, his untidy black hair lying flat against his forehead, and yet the scar, his curse still showed. Harry reached up slowly, and began running his fingers over the red skin that had formed a lightning bolt shaped scar on Harry's forehead. It had been with him almost his whole life. It had been with him, plagued him. Many sought him out just to stare at it. The scar of course was legendary. Harry had received it the night the Voldemort had killed his mother and father, and then turned his wand on Harry. Nobody knew why, but Voldemort's spell rebounded off of the baby and hit him instead, and now Harry was cursed with Voldemort's presence. He was the only known survivor of the Killing Curse, and the one who relinquished an evildoer, and for this Harry was famous. Many had loved him until Voldemort had come back into power, and all of his servants had flocked back to him. Harry was haunted by Voldemort's malicious servants, which littered the world. It was Voldemort who had kick started Harry's miserable existence, as a child with no parents.
Harry had been haunted for to long by his mother's screams, but now they were replaced. Her blood curling screams had been replaced with Harry's own cries for Sirius. Voldemort again had been the reason, that Harry had lost everything once more. As he stared at himself in the mirror, a hate, far stronger than any hate he'd ever felt before rose in the pit of his stomach. He felt his hands clench at his sides as he stared at himself. His knuckles turned white rapidly, his breathing becoming ragged. If Voldemort hadn't chosen Harry, his parents, and Sirius would all still be alive, and suddenly Harry heard a new voice inside his head.
"We'll take the cup together!" Cedric Diggory insisted.
Harry's insides curled; two deaths, two murders, at the hands of Lord Voldemort, all for Harry. Harry was responsible. Cedric's mangled body at the graveyard clashed with Sirius's at the Department of Mysteries. It was his fault they were dead.
Suddenly Harry was staring right into Voldemort's beady cruel black eyes. He saw Voldemort in himself; his eyes reflected Harry's. Harry Potter was a murderer, or he was intended to be. One day Harry knew he would have to stoop as low as Voldemort, become just as hateful. It was Voldemort's fault he saw the Dark Lord inside himself. It was Voldemort's fault that there was nobody around for Harry, Voldemort's fault that a large amount of guilt, grief and responsibility had been draped over Harry's shoulders like a cloak. It was Voldemort's fault that it was smothering him.
Harry reached behind him, clutching the first thing he could find on the crowded desk in his clammy hand. With tears smarting in his eyes, Harry lunged his broom servicing kit as hard as he could at the mirror. It shattered into a billion pieces with a loud crash. Harry sank to the floor. All the pain and evil in the world, it all revolved around him and now the only person who had ever understood him was dead, and it was his fault. He was already responsible for two deaths. How many more would there be? How many innocent lives were sufficient enough, until Dumbledore gave up his fight against Voldemort, until Voldemort would win and murder Harry? It was a hopeless battle that he didn't want to fight. Much of him wished he had perished with is parents nearly fifteen years ago. If one more person he cared for died at the hands of the Dark Lord because of Harry, he knew that he was willing to give it all up, and just let Voldemort kill him. The lives of those he cared for and the innocent just weren't worth it. He knew he was the key to Voldemort's demise, but Dumbledore wasn't the best wizard in the world for nothing. Dumbledore was a smart man, he'd figure some other way out.
Harry looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. He realized Uncle Vernon must have heard the crash of the mirror but he didn't care. There was so much clouding his mind, that the pain Vernon Dursley thought he was licensed to dish out to Harry, would not be felt. He let his head fall back heavily on his desk. A leather bound book fell from the cluttered space and landed face down the floor. Harry picked it up gingerly and turned it over to see his parents at their wedding, and their best man, his godfather laughing in the background.
It was then that a sob rose in Harry throat and even though Uncle Vernon was making a fast approach at his door, Harry wasn't worried about his pride any longer; all he wanted was to be someone else. He was Harry Potter, son of murdered parents, cursed by the darkest lord that was ever known and he was alone. He longed to have somebody who would care about him, and understand him like Sirius, but that could never happen. Harry couldn't care about anyone, those he cared for always wound up dead. Harry winced as his uncle, who had successfully unlocked all 12 locks on Harry's door, entered his room.
'Bet they wish they could see famous Harry Potter now,' he thought as tears fell down his face.
Hermione sat cross-legged on her shabby mattress, gazing up at Ginny with amusement playing across her pretty facial features.
"So then Dean hands me all these flowers, and oh 'Mione, I thought I was about to burst!" Ginny gushed.
They'd been talking about their boyfriends for quite some time, Hermione and Ginny. Dean Thomas seemed to really care for the pretty redhead.
"So how's Ron taking it?" Hermione asked, picking at her fingernails.
"Well, you know Ron," Ginny sighed, "To protective and jealous for his own good!"
"Yea, I know only too well," Hermione groaned, "Your brother is a bit touchy when it comes to Viktor,"
"Viktor?" Ginny questioned, but after a few moments of silence comprehension lit her face, "Is that why you two aren't talking?"
Hermione nodded sullenly.
"Oh, 'Mione," Ginny sympathized, "Another row about him? Wow that's got to be a record, honestly. And Viktor used to be one of his favorite quidditch players. You don't think..." She paused glancing around her for any signs of Fred and George's extendable ears, "You don't think there could be other...motives behind that do you?"
"Other motives?" Hermione laughed, "Ginny, your brother is just an idiot, who gets stupid over a lot of things, especially when he believes he's right!"
"Well surely Hermione, you've noticed," Ginny insisted, "I mean he isn't exactly subtle is he?"
"Subtle?" Hermione asked.
"You're supposed to be clever!" Ginny protested, "What are you playing at? You must have noticed, everyone else has!"
"Ginny, lets not beat around the bush, just tell me what it is you are talking about!"
"Well everyone, has noticed – er – it seems like it anyways – don't get to riled up, I mean I'm not sure if its true..."
"What is it?"
"Well Ron, he's always jealous of Viktor, and well, I – Hermione, I think Ron likes you," Ginny breathed.
Hermione felt her stomach clench. Butterflies suddenly fluttered, around every inch of her body. Ron like her? As more than a friend? Ha, Ginny must be out of her mind. It was getting pretty late. Ron couldn't like her – like that - could he? Hermione drew in a deep breath.
"Of course he likes me Ginny, we are best friends," she said calmly.
"What about romantically?" Ginny asked, blushing slightly.
Hermione felt her mind go berserk. What was going on? The sudden jealously, the petty fights all flashed through her mind.
"Ginny, there's no way he feels – that way about me, I mean gosh, me and him can't even be in the same room for five minutes before we start arguing, and we have nothing in common, plus," she added bitterly, "He doesn't look at bookworms,"
She felt her heart beating in her ears. Why was she getting all sweaty? She rubbed her clammy palms on her pajama pants as Ginny bit her lip nervously. Ginny was just guessing anyway. Maybe she was trying to hard at being matchmaker.
"Hermione," Ginny began cautiously, "Can I ask you a question?"
Hermione looked up at her with large brown eyes. She regulated her breathing and stroked back her hair repeatedly attempting to distract herself from the wild emotions chasing themselves around her body. She pursed her lips,
"Sure,"
"Do you – Well Hermione, do you like my brother?" Ginny asked, pulling her head inwards, as if waiting for Hermione to reach out and hit her.
"Of course not!" Hermione protested, "I have never, ever once even thought about Ron in that way,"
Hermione racked her brain, thinking of several moments she'd been alone with Ron and gazed into his big brown eyes, or longed to stroke his red hair. That was normal though, wasn't it? I mean it was natural for any girl to be attracted to a boy. Her mind raced back to the moment when she'd kissed Ron's cheek. He'd been so pale and frigid that day before his first Quidditch match, it had only been for moral support...right? Plus she'd hugged and kissed Harry's cheek tons of times. It had all been on a very platonic level. Besides, she was with the most wonderful man.... a wonderful quidditch player...he was famous...what was his name? Hermione was horrified with herself. How could she forget his name?
"Besides," Hermione continued indignantly holding her nose high, "I am with ...someone – already,"
Ginny nodded, she seemed satisfied enough; Hermione however did not. After another moment of silence Ginny spoke.
"Hermione, do you think you love Viktor?"
That was his name!
"I think, I think I might," Hermione whispered.
Ginny grinned, lapping up that sappiness of Hermione's whisper. Ginny always fell for this sort of romance. That was probably why she'd had such a taking with Harry. He was the hero, so much like the knight, and Ginny longed to be his damsel-in-distress, and she'd almost gotten her wish when she'd been down in the Chamber of Secrets with Tom Riddle (A memory of Lord Voldemort at age 16 preserved in a diary). Harry was so passionate about everything he did, and yet so quick to jump the gun, that he fit into Ginny's fantasies very well and yet nothing had ever happened between them. Harry had never shown interest, but then again, he had a lot more on his mind to deal with then sappy teenage romances. She was with Dean Thomas now anyways.
Hermione listened to the ruffle of Ginny's bedspread being shifted, as Ginny slid underneath, preparing to go to sleep. Hermione followed her, and soon the girls were tucked under their covers snugly, and both had their head position just right on their pillows.
"Gin?" Hermione whispered.
"Mmm?"
"Do you still think about Harry?"
"Sometimes," Ginny answered honestly, "But I'm not sure why..."
It was some time before either girl fell asleep, because both were thinking uneasily of two very special boys, neither of which were their boyfriends.
"It's working," Lord Voldemort laughed merrily.
"What is my Lord?" Fat, blonde, Peter Pettigrew asked, absent-mindedly stroking his silver hand.
"The boy, he's thinking about Sirius Black, he's feeling guilty." Voldemort spat angrily at his thick servant.
"What is your plan?" Peter squeaked under the gaze of Voldemort's malicious eyes.
"My plan?" Voldemort wheezed, wrapping his dark robes more closely around his frail body, "Well, I've noticed how well Sirius's death is having effect on him."
Peter forced a grin, something nearly impossible to do when you were sitting in front of an evilly corrupted man in a dark place, with no light but the calm flickering of fire.
"So you are saying we kill more people?" Peter clapped his hand together.
"We need to know what that prophecy said, Wormtail," Voldemort snarled, closing his gnawed fist tightly around his ebony wand, "And if Potter won't tell us, we'll make him!"
Peter gulped at the sight of his master's wand,
"Veritaserum?" Peter suggested.
"If the boy is out of our clutches how do we give him Veritaserum?" Voldemort flared, wheeling on Peter, who had sunk into the shadows of the room.
"Well then how do we get him to tell us?" Peter asked dumbly.
"We make him feel guiltier," Voldemort, said slyly, "We make him suffer, until he wants to tell."
"And how will we do that?"
"We attack those who aren't as protected," Voldemort hissed, "We attack those we already despise, those already distanced from the wizarding world, those unworthy of magic knowledge, those close to Potter's heart."
"The mudblood?" Peter asked, with large fearful eyes.
"Precisely!" Voldemort cried, throwing his gaunt head back and laughing his hollow, horrible evil laugh.
I know it hasn't been long since I wrote last but there's not much to do here anymore. Hope the muggles are treating you right. Hermione arrived here about two weeks ago, but we got in a bit of a row her first night here. She hasn't spoken with me since. I know I took a bit of my anger and emotion out on her, but really? I've tried to apologize, but she just won't hear it. I hate women. She and Ginny have kept to their bedroom, making things here quite dull. (By the way, I saw Ginny writing a letter to you? What was that about?)
Harry you've got to get here, I've been begging with Mum, and she reckons you'll be here soon enough. What's that supposed to mean? Can't you write to Dumbledore and ask him or something? Because, Harry, I really can't stay here by myself.
Just the other night I was out for a walk so I could think over...things, and I spy Hermione through the tree hedge. She was out on the quidditch pitch, on a broom! Hermione on a broom, snogging, with...with that jerk, Viktor Krum! Do you remember him? She's seeing him, reckons they're 'in love'. Well I told her she's off her rocker. I suppose she's been having secret meeting with him in my backyard for quite some time now. Who does she think she is? Doesn't she realize he's scum? I don't know if you read Witch Broomstick or not, but he's always in there, they say he has many different girlfriends!
You better get here soon mate, I don't reckon I can make it through the last two weeks before Hogwarts alone, and I'm sure that being alone with those nasty muggles isn't helping you out either. I just hope you know that Sirius...is bugging all of us as much as you. Well Pig is getting anxious so I better end here.
Hope to see you soon,
Ron
P.S I hope Pig doesn't annoy you and Hedwig too much!'
Harry Potter let out a sigh releasing the parchment from his firm grip. He watched the yellowish paper float to the ground. It was just like Hermione and Ron to get in a fight so soon. They were always bickering. Harry just hoped they hurried up at figured it out so he wouldn't have to endure their yelling matches this year at Hogwarts. He missed his friends a lot and couldn't wait to get out the hellhole that he had to call home every summer.
Harry was forced to live with his aunt and uncle (his only living relatives) every summer, but Harry knew where his real home was, and it was as far away from the Dursley's as possible. He was sick of the silence that haunted him in this house. Since Dementors had attacked Harry's cousin Dudley at the end of last summer, the Dursley's weren't too happy to have Harry back. They blamed the attack on him. They had hoped that Harry would have died during the school year so that he wouldn't have returned, but unfortunately it hadn't been Harry who'd died.
'Don't think about it,' he told himself, letting his eyes wonder over his messy room, looking for something to distract him.
The only time his room wasn't silent was when Harry was remembering how Sirius had died a few months ago. Almost immediately Harry's mind filled, with his own voice crying out for Sirius, as he fell beyond the veil, his back arched, his deep dark eyes as cold as the stone floor. Harry shuddered as he saw clearly in his mind, the image of Sirius dead.
Harry let himself fall back onto his bed. As he lay there staring up at the ceiling, he felt the familiar weight of guilt settle on him. If only Harry hadn't been so stupid, if only he'd realized that it had been a trick. If Harry hadn't fallen for the hero's act, or practiced Occulmency like Hermione had begged him to, Harry would still be receiving letters from his faithful godfather. Harry wouldn't be at the Dursley's. Harry would be living with the closest thing to a father he had ever had. Harry ran his fingers up his warm face, and grabbed a fist full of his messy dark hair.
Albus Dumbledore (the Headmaster of Hogwarts) should have taught him Occulmency. That was the problem. Dumbledore was the reason that Harry was stuck here, with muggles, who hated him. Dumbledore was the reason that Harry was separated from his friends and the closest thing to a family he owned. Dumbledore was supposed to be the best wizard in the world, but he had failed; something Harry never though he'd do. Dumbledore hadn't saved Sirius from dying. Dumbledore hadn't told Harry everything he needed to know until it was too late. Harry stopped himself. Dumbledore was a good man. He'd protected Harry since he was one year old, since Harry's parents had died. Since Lord Voldemort, the darkest wizard in a century had murdered his parents.
Harry opened his eyes, which he'd realized were clamped shut. Sweat had dampened his face. Harry pulled himself to his feet, wanting to stop thinking about this. It was an endless cycle that left Harry drained. Harry walked towards his most prized possession, his racing broom, the Firebolt. Sirius had bought it for Harry for Christmas two years ago, and just holding it was something of a release to him. It calmed him; because touching the Firebolt made Harry reminisce the feeling of soaring through the air out on the quidditch pitch where he belonged. Before he reached the shelf, on which it was lying, he paused in front of a floor length mirror.
Harry stared at himself, his tall skinny body still shaking at the memory of Sirius's pale face, his untidy black hair lying flat against his forehead, and yet the scar, his curse still showed. Harry reached up slowly, and began running his fingers over the red skin that had formed a lightning bolt shaped scar on Harry's forehead. It had been with him almost his whole life. It had been with him, plagued him. Many sought him out just to stare at it. The scar of course was legendary. Harry had received it the night the Voldemort had killed his mother and father, and then turned his wand on Harry. Nobody knew why, but Voldemort's spell rebounded off of the baby and hit him instead, and now Harry was cursed with Voldemort's presence. He was the only known survivor of the Killing Curse, and the one who relinquished an evildoer, and for this Harry was famous. Many had loved him until Voldemort had come back into power, and all of his servants had flocked back to him. Harry was haunted by Voldemort's malicious servants, which littered the world. It was Voldemort who had kick started Harry's miserable existence, as a child with no parents.
Harry had been haunted for to long by his mother's screams, but now they were replaced. Her blood curling screams had been replaced with Harry's own cries for Sirius. Voldemort again had been the reason, that Harry had lost everything once more. As he stared at himself in the mirror, a hate, far stronger than any hate he'd ever felt before rose in the pit of his stomach. He felt his hands clench at his sides as he stared at himself. His knuckles turned white rapidly, his breathing becoming ragged. If Voldemort hadn't chosen Harry, his parents, and Sirius would all still be alive, and suddenly Harry heard a new voice inside his head.
"We'll take the cup together!" Cedric Diggory insisted.
Harry's insides curled; two deaths, two murders, at the hands of Lord Voldemort, all for Harry. Harry was responsible. Cedric's mangled body at the graveyard clashed with Sirius's at the Department of Mysteries. It was his fault they were dead.
Suddenly Harry was staring right into Voldemort's beady cruel black eyes. He saw Voldemort in himself; his eyes reflected Harry's. Harry Potter was a murderer, or he was intended to be. One day Harry knew he would have to stoop as low as Voldemort, become just as hateful. It was Voldemort's fault he saw the Dark Lord inside himself. It was Voldemort's fault that there was nobody around for Harry, Voldemort's fault that a large amount of guilt, grief and responsibility had been draped over Harry's shoulders like a cloak. It was Voldemort's fault that it was smothering him.
Harry reached behind him, clutching the first thing he could find on the crowded desk in his clammy hand. With tears smarting in his eyes, Harry lunged his broom servicing kit as hard as he could at the mirror. It shattered into a billion pieces with a loud crash. Harry sank to the floor. All the pain and evil in the world, it all revolved around him and now the only person who had ever understood him was dead, and it was his fault. He was already responsible for two deaths. How many more would there be? How many innocent lives were sufficient enough, until Dumbledore gave up his fight against Voldemort, until Voldemort would win and murder Harry? It was a hopeless battle that he didn't want to fight. Much of him wished he had perished with is parents nearly fifteen years ago. If one more person he cared for died at the hands of the Dark Lord because of Harry, he knew that he was willing to give it all up, and just let Voldemort kill him. The lives of those he cared for and the innocent just weren't worth it. He knew he was the key to Voldemort's demise, but Dumbledore wasn't the best wizard in the world for nothing. Dumbledore was a smart man, he'd figure some other way out.
Harry looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. He realized Uncle Vernon must have heard the crash of the mirror but he didn't care. There was so much clouding his mind, that the pain Vernon Dursley thought he was licensed to dish out to Harry, would not be felt. He let his head fall back heavily on his desk. A leather bound book fell from the cluttered space and landed face down the floor. Harry picked it up gingerly and turned it over to see his parents at their wedding, and their best man, his godfather laughing in the background.
It was then that a sob rose in Harry throat and even though Uncle Vernon was making a fast approach at his door, Harry wasn't worried about his pride any longer; all he wanted was to be someone else. He was Harry Potter, son of murdered parents, cursed by the darkest lord that was ever known and he was alone. He longed to have somebody who would care about him, and understand him like Sirius, but that could never happen. Harry couldn't care about anyone, those he cared for always wound up dead. Harry winced as his uncle, who had successfully unlocked all 12 locks on Harry's door, entered his room.
'Bet they wish they could see famous Harry Potter now,' he thought as tears fell down his face.
Hermione sat cross-legged on her shabby mattress, gazing up at Ginny with amusement playing across her pretty facial features.
"So then Dean hands me all these flowers, and oh 'Mione, I thought I was about to burst!" Ginny gushed.
They'd been talking about their boyfriends for quite some time, Hermione and Ginny. Dean Thomas seemed to really care for the pretty redhead.
"So how's Ron taking it?" Hermione asked, picking at her fingernails.
"Well, you know Ron," Ginny sighed, "To protective and jealous for his own good!"
"Yea, I know only too well," Hermione groaned, "Your brother is a bit touchy when it comes to Viktor,"
"Viktor?" Ginny questioned, but after a few moments of silence comprehension lit her face, "Is that why you two aren't talking?"
Hermione nodded sullenly.
"Oh, 'Mione," Ginny sympathized, "Another row about him? Wow that's got to be a record, honestly. And Viktor used to be one of his favorite quidditch players. You don't think..." She paused glancing around her for any signs of Fred and George's extendable ears, "You don't think there could be other...motives behind that do you?"
"Other motives?" Hermione laughed, "Ginny, your brother is just an idiot, who gets stupid over a lot of things, especially when he believes he's right!"
"Well surely Hermione, you've noticed," Ginny insisted, "I mean he isn't exactly subtle is he?"
"Subtle?" Hermione asked.
"You're supposed to be clever!" Ginny protested, "What are you playing at? You must have noticed, everyone else has!"
"Ginny, lets not beat around the bush, just tell me what it is you are talking about!"
"Well everyone, has noticed – er – it seems like it anyways – don't get to riled up, I mean I'm not sure if its true..."
"What is it?"
"Well Ron, he's always jealous of Viktor, and well, I – Hermione, I think Ron likes you," Ginny breathed.
Hermione felt her stomach clench. Butterflies suddenly fluttered, around every inch of her body. Ron like her? As more than a friend? Ha, Ginny must be out of her mind. It was getting pretty late. Ron couldn't like her – like that - could he? Hermione drew in a deep breath.
"Of course he likes me Ginny, we are best friends," she said calmly.
"What about romantically?" Ginny asked, blushing slightly.
Hermione felt her mind go berserk. What was going on? The sudden jealously, the petty fights all flashed through her mind.
"Ginny, there's no way he feels – that way about me, I mean gosh, me and him can't even be in the same room for five minutes before we start arguing, and we have nothing in common, plus," she added bitterly, "He doesn't look at bookworms,"
She felt her heart beating in her ears. Why was she getting all sweaty? She rubbed her clammy palms on her pajama pants as Ginny bit her lip nervously. Ginny was just guessing anyway. Maybe she was trying to hard at being matchmaker.
"Hermione," Ginny began cautiously, "Can I ask you a question?"
Hermione looked up at her with large brown eyes. She regulated her breathing and stroked back her hair repeatedly attempting to distract herself from the wild emotions chasing themselves around her body. She pursed her lips,
"Sure,"
"Do you – Well Hermione, do you like my brother?" Ginny asked, pulling her head inwards, as if waiting for Hermione to reach out and hit her.
"Of course not!" Hermione protested, "I have never, ever once even thought about Ron in that way,"
Hermione racked her brain, thinking of several moments she'd been alone with Ron and gazed into his big brown eyes, or longed to stroke his red hair. That was normal though, wasn't it? I mean it was natural for any girl to be attracted to a boy. Her mind raced back to the moment when she'd kissed Ron's cheek. He'd been so pale and frigid that day before his first Quidditch match, it had only been for moral support...right? Plus she'd hugged and kissed Harry's cheek tons of times. It had all been on a very platonic level. Besides, she was with the most wonderful man.... a wonderful quidditch player...he was famous...what was his name? Hermione was horrified with herself. How could she forget his name?
"Besides," Hermione continued indignantly holding her nose high, "I am with ...someone – already,"
Ginny nodded, she seemed satisfied enough; Hermione however did not. After another moment of silence Ginny spoke.
"Hermione, do you think you love Viktor?"
That was his name!
"I think, I think I might," Hermione whispered.
Ginny grinned, lapping up that sappiness of Hermione's whisper. Ginny always fell for this sort of romance. That was probably why she'd had such a taking with Harry. He was the hero, so much like the knight, and Ginny longed to be his damsel-in-distress, and she'd almost gotten her wish when she'd been down in the Chamber of Secrets with Tom Riddle (A memory of Lord Voldemort at age 16 preserved in a diary). Harry was so passionate about everything he did, and yet so quick to jump the gun, that he fit into Ginny's fantasies very well and yet nothing had ever happened between them. Harry had never shown interest, but then again, he had a lot more on his mind to deal with then sappy teenage romances. She was with Dean Thomas now anyways.
Hermione listened to the ruffle of Ginny's bedspread being shifted, as Ginny slid underneath, preparing to go to sleep. Hermione followed her, and soon the girls were tucked under their covers snugly, and both had their head position just right on their pillows.
"Gin?" Hermione whispered.
"Mmm?"
"Do you still think about Harry?"
"Sometimes," Ginny answered honestly, "But I'm not sure why..."
It was some time before either girl fell asleep, because both were thinking uneasily of two very special boys, neither of which were their boyfriends.
"It's working," Lord Voldemort laughed merrily.
"What is my Lord?" Fat, blonde, Peter Pettigrew asked, absent-mindedly stroking his silver hand.
"The boy, he's thinking about Sirius Black, he's feeling guilty." Voldemort spat angrily at his thick servant.
"What is your plan?" Peter squeaked under the gaze of Voldemort's malicious eyes.
"My plan?" Voldemort wheezed, wrapping his dark robes more closely around his frail body, "Well, I've noticed how well Sirius's death is having effect on him."
Peter forced a grin, something nearly impossible to do when you were sitting in front of an evilly corrupted man in a dark place, with no light but the calm flickering of fire.
"So you are saying we kill more people?" Peter clapped his hand together.
"We need to know what that prophecy said, Wormtail," Voldemort snarled, closing his gnawed fist tightly around his ebony wand, "And if Potter won't tell us, we'll make him!"
Peter gulped at the sight of his master's wand,
"Veritaserum?" Peter suggested.
"If the boy is out of our clutches how do we give him Veritaserum?" Voldemort flared, wheeling on Peter, who had sunk into the shadows of the room.
"Well then how do we get him to tell us?" Peter asked dumbly.
"We make him feel guiltier," Voldemort, said slyly, "We make him suffer, until he wants to tell."
"And how will we do that?"
"We attack those who aren't as protected," Voldemort hissed, "We attack those we already despise, those already distanced from the wizarding world, those unworthy of magic knowledge, those close to Potter's heart."
"The mudblood?" Peter asked, with large fearful eyes.
"Precisely!" Voldemort cried, throwing his gaunt head back and laughing his hollow, horrible evil laugh.