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She'd had that dream again. Actually, she'd had that dream four times now, which meant that it was getting harder and harder to dismiss the idea that perhaps part of her brain was trying to tell her something.
Last night she'd woken up from the dream, and instead of being horrified, of being disgusted, of wanting to know what the hell was going on, she'd just been bitterly disappointed that she'd been ripped out of that world. She'd wanted more, wanted to be in that safe space again, with arms around her, and lips pressed against her own, wanted to crawl back into her dream and throw herself into Pansy's arms again, to trace her lips with one finger before kissing her, softly, then more urgently, needing her, wanting her, desiring her –
Desiring Pansy Parkinson. Pansy Parkinson. Of all the people. Of all the girls in the world, of all the girls at Hogwarts, her subconscious mind seemed to be insistent on overwhelming her with erotic dreams about the one she absolutely could not stand.
Pansy Parkinson had been utterly hateful towards her for five years. Pansy Parkinson had sided with Umbridge. Pansy Parkinson's idea of a nice boy was Draco Malfoy, for God's sake. Pansy Parkinson wasn't even attractive. She was ugly.
All right, so maybe she wasn't ugly, as such; if she didn't have her face contorted into a perpetual sneer she'd actually be all right looking, but that wasn't the point, was it?
The point was, Hermione thought, more than a little panicked, was that she was having fantasies about Pansy Parkinson, and that definitely wasn't a good thing.
Bad enough that it was a girl, but Pansy Parkinson? What was she thinking?
She was terrified someone would find out. Ginny had mentioned something about Hermione murmuring in her sleep, but when Hermione had asked – trying desperately to be casual about it, trying to act as though the words she might have mumbled wouldn't have revealed her sudden secret life – Ginny had shrugged and said she hadn't been able to make it out.
But what if Ginny was lying? What if she knew? What if Hermione had been calling out – oh God – Pansy's name in her sleep? Things had been slightly awkward between them ever since she arrived at Grimmauld Place, though Hermione supposed part of that was due to the fact that she was wary about how she behaved around Ginny now. A hug that lasted for too long, an inappropriate physical gesture, or a gaze interpreted the wrong way – she was terrified of sending out signals, of it being obvious to the world that she was having these bizarre thoughts, that she wasn't normal, that she was having dreams about being intimate with another girl, and worst of all, despite the fact that she actually hated this girl in real life, she liked the dreams. She liked her dream-kisses, her dream-embraces, her dream-lover.
And she hated that she was – internally, at least – a complete and utter mess over this. She was tolerant. She was open-minded. She was completely supportive of equal rights for everyone, of banishing prejudice and promoting acceptance. If Ron suddenly turned to her and declared that he was actually thinking about asking Harry out – well, she'd be supportive, wouldn't she? It'd be a little odd, perhaps, but she wouldn't think of him any differently, would she?
Part of her was relieved that no one could tell that part of her mind was always whirling, trying to sort out these complicated feelings and thoughts. Another part of her wondered why no one could tell.
Of course, the person everyone was really paying attention to at the moment was Harry, so maybe it wasn't surprising that no one had noticed what was going on with her. Harry alternated between being quiet and being angry – angry ostensibly because he didn't want people asking him questions and fussing over him, but Hermione knew that it was probably just his way of dealing with his anger over Sirius's death. It had to be hard on him. She couldn't understand, and that was the frustrating thing. Of course, she was never going to understand Harry, not properly; she'd never be able to relate to him when it came to his special status as the Boy Who Lived, and even now, she couldn't relate to the loss he'd experienced. And she didn't want to have had gone through it, didn't want to know what it was like, not in that way, but some part of her wished that she had - so then she'd know, so then she'd finally have an insight into what he was going through, and so then she'd actually feel like she had something relevant to say to him, instead of statements that always sounded so clichéd and hollow when they left her mouth, even though she tried to imbue them with her need to make him feel better.
It was hard on all of them, trying to get through to him, and inevitably failing. Being a good friend to Harry at the moment was a struggle, and part of Hermione – only a small part, but a part nonetheless – did want to slap him and tell him that they were trying to help him, and would it really be too much effort to try to smile every once in a while? Then the rest of her remembered that he was suffering a lot, and that she really did have no idea what he was going through, and she berated herself for being so selfish at a time like this.
She was sitting on her bed staring into space when Ginny came in and asked if she was okay.
"Yeah," Hermione replied vaguely, and then explained, "I'm just thinking about Harry, that's all." Well, it was partially true.
"You seem upset," Ginny noted. "He's not being fair to you or Ron, Hermione, why are you letting him act like this?"
Ginny's exasperation didn't surprise Hermione; they'd been having variations of this argument ever since Harry arrived.
"Because he's been through a lot," Hermione said, sighing. She decided it was best to change the subject. The arguments with Ginny, even though they were short and didn't appear to be doing any permanent damage to their friendship (she hoped; and besides, if anything was going to do permanent damage to their friendship it would be the knowledge that she was fantasising about Pansy Parkinson, not a silly disagreement about how to deal with Harry), wore her out. "The OWL results should be here tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? Wow. Are you nervous?"
Hermione shook her head. She hadn't had time to be nervous. But then, in a tidal wave of anxiety, it flooded her mind. The exams. The important exams that she hadn't even been able to concentrate on properly because of that horrible Umbridge and everything that had been going on, and it wasn't as though anyone was going to take those facts into account when they were deciding what mark to give her. What if she failed something? What if she failed everything? If people did terribly, truly terribly in their OWLs, they left Hogwarts; there was no point in them staying when they clearly didn't have the ability to be there. It didn't happen often and it was done quietly, but she knew, she'd read about it. If she was lucky Professor McGonagall might put in a good word for her and she'd end up in a job that wasn't as terrible as it might have been otherwise, under the circumstances, and she'd watch Harry and Ron and Ginny and everyone else go on and finish school and get better jobs and have them feel sorry for her. She was supposed to be the smart one, but what if she wasn't? What if these tests, the first ones that weren't marked by her own teachers but by people who didn't know her, proved it?
Suddenly, the dreams didn't seem quite so important. These results meant something; they could affect her whole future, and what if it had all gone horribly wrong and she'd done disastrously?
"Yes. Yes, I am," she corrected herself, and Ginny looked at her sympathetically.
"Don't worry, it's going to be all right. You're the clever one, remember?" Ginny was trying to comfort her but that only made it worse. You're the clever one. People had expectations of her, Hermione realised. They all thought she was going to do well, and if she didn't –
She didn't even want to think about it.
That night, she couldn't sleep. She looked over at Ginny, who seemed to be sleeping soundly, and then tiptoed out of the room, and all the way downstairs to the kitchen, where Professor Lupin sat, drinking a cup of cocoa and staring blankly at the wall.
It took him a moment to realise she was there, but when he did, he smiled slightly, and conjured up a cup for her. She took a sip and sat down next to him.
"Worried about the results?" he enquired.
She nodded.
"It'll be all right," he said, and then sighed. "You've heard that before, I'm sure. It probably doesn't help."
"Not really."
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Hermione wanted to ask him questions. Mostly she wanted to ask him how he was, how he was doing, but even that felt too personal; he was a teacher, and those kinds of questions were inappropriate. Talking about school and even politics was acceptable. Other things were not.
"Reading anything interesting at the moment?" he asked her. Books, too, fell into the category of things that could be discussed. They were safe. Mostly.
"A biography of Oswald Beamish," she said. That wasn't safe, and she knew it. But she wondered what he'd say. He was a teacher; he had to have read lots of books and know about things like historical figures having homosexual affairs.
"Ah," he said thoughtfully. "A great man."
She nodded.
"It was a tragic ending, though," he continued. "If he'd been living today – well, things might have been different for him. Though perhaps not."
"The book was in the Restricted Section," she said.
He sighed. "It would be. Some people would prefer if that part of Beamish's life was forgotten about completely."
She had finished her cocoa, but she wanted to stay. "Why are people – why are they like that?" she asked urgently.
"People can't help who they fall in love with. For some people, that means people of the same sex. It's not unnatural, Hermione, no matter what you might have heard. Just different."
"I meant the people who'd prefer that we forget about that part of his life," she said quietly. It had been an impassioned defence. Suddenly she was uncomfortable.
"Oh. Well – some people do think it's wrong. To – to love someone of your own gender. They don't understand that it's still love."
It should have reassured her, but instead she wished she hadn't brought it up. It was too personal, too intense, too much for her.
Besides, he was talking about love. It was easier to accept the idea of people loving other people of the same gender. The hard part was the desire. It felt sordid.
She said goodnight and left, and it was only as she was walking upstairs that she realised. Sirius. Oh God. They hadn't been just friends, they'd been –
But in the next minute she dismissed that idea. She didn't even know if Lupin was gay. She was just looking for someone else, someone not-normal in that way, and he'd been there, and not horrified by the notion of it. He was just a liberal open-minded person, that was all. He understood what it was like for people to be ostracised for something they couldn't help because he had that in his life, as a werewolf. It didn't mean that he liked sleeping with men, or that he and Sirius had been lovers.
Another thought occurred to her. Maybe he'd noticed her awkwardness. Maybe he hadn't been trying to enlighten her, maybe what he'd been doing was trying to reassure her. He was saying that it was okay.
And it was okay. It was all okay, people being gay. She just didn't want to talk about it or maybe be that way herself.
Hypocrite, she told herself angrily as she crawled into bed.
Neither the cocoa nor the talk had helped, and she was still tossing and turning by dawn. She could hear movement downstairs, and eventually forced herself to give up on the idea of getting any sleep, even though she knew she'd be exhausted before dinner time.
The owls arrived early, before even Harry or Ron had woken up. Hermione contemplated waiting, and then slowly opened her post while Mrs Weasley went to tell them that their results had arrived.
She stared at the sheet of parchment blankly for a moment before it sank in. She hadn't failed. Quite the opposite, in fact. She went through the subjects one by one just to make sure. Yes. Twelve of them, twelve O's in a row.
She sank into the nearest chair in relief, and then felt her mouth stretch into a grin.
Both Harry and Ron had got on well, and they spent the day having Mrs Weasley fuss over the three of them, and the others offering congratulations. A bottle of Firewhiskey was produced in the evening, and Ron took an enthusiastic gulp, only to find his eyes watering.
"That stuff's strong," he said dazedly.
Ginny knocked back a considerable amount of the stuff before Mrs Weasley realised what she was doing, and moved the bottle over to the other side of the table. Hermione's glass was still mostly full. It tasted horrible, and yet she was oddly fascinated by it. Something so horrible had to produce amazing results; otherwise why would people drink it? She wasn't able to drink it as quickly as the others, merely taking small sips at regular intervals, but she was relieved of that fact when, as she put down her glass for the last time, Ron bolted from the room, looking decidedly green.
"I'd better go see if he's all right," Hermione said, standing up.
Harry nodded, and Ginny, looking as though she was coming part out of concern and part out of need to throw up herself, followed her out. The three of them huddled outside the nearest bathroom, where Ron was – from the sounds of it – being very, very ill indeed.
"All right, Ron?" Hermione called.
"Yes, I'm bloody spectacular," he snapped, before vomiting again.
"I was only asking!" she said, finding it all quite amusing. She started laughing, and Harry joined in. It was good to see him happy. Ginny laughed, too, so hard that she slid from her position leaning against the wall, and ended up slumped on the floor. This only served to make them all chortle even more.
"I can't get up!" Ginny announced, which seemed to be the most hilarious event of all.
"Come on," Hermione said, offering her a hand and helping her up. "You should probably get to bed," she added, realising that Ginny was the most inebriated of the lot of them – except, perhaps, for poor Ron.
"I don't want to go to bed!" she shrieked. "You can't make me."
"Let's go up to mine and Ron's room," Harry suggested. He knocked on the door of the bathroom. "Ron, you finished in there, mate?"
After a moment, the door opened, and a paler Ron emerged. "Yeah. Better out than in, right? Worse than the slugs, it was."
Stumbling and leaning on each other considerably, they made their way to the boys' room. Ron threw himself on his bed right away, while the other three arranged themselves on Harry's. Hermione and Ginny were side-by-side, leaning against the wall, while Harry propped his feet on Hermione's lap.
"Hello, feet," she said, giggling.
"Hello, Hermione," he said, wiggling his toes at her.
She was conscious of Ginny's head resting on her shoulder, but it made her less uncomfortable than it normally would have. So what if she had a close female friend? Didn't mean anything. Just because she thought about some girls in romantic ways didn't mean that she was into every single girl she encountered, did it? Happy to have reached this conclusion, Hermione relaxed, and smiled. Everything in the world was all right. She'd done well in her exams, better than even she had hoped, and everyone was happy, and Harry was smiling, and it was all just wonderful.
"This is nice, isn't it?" she said. "Us – all here – isn't it?"
Harry laughed. "You're drunk," he proclaimed.
"I am not," Hermione said indignantly. "I only had one glass."
Ginny giggled. "No you didn't. We kept topping it up when you weren't looking."
Hermione found this hysterical. "That's why it took so long to drink it! I just thought it was because it tasted so rotten…"
"Heh, he's asleep," Ginny interrupted her, pointing over at Ron.
"Awww, that's sweet," Hermione said fondly.
"Yeah, it's sweet he's passed out," Harry snorted.
She tickled the soles of his feet in punishment for that, and he squirmed so much that he fell off the bed. Even his indignant "Hey!" didn't stop the girls from laughing. He stayed on the floor, pushing himself to a sitting position, and looked up at them.
"You two look sweet, too," he commented. "Like a picture."
"Now who's drunk?" Hermione said.
"Harry is," Ginny said decisively, and then yawned and curled up even closer to Hermione. The red tendrils were falling onto her own shoulder. Hermione pushed them away, and began tucking them behind Ginny's ears. It was a soothing routine.
She wasn't sure which of them moved first, but suddenly they had moved, and their lips were touching, were pressed against each other. Her eyes closed automatically, but at Harry clearing his throat pointedly, they opened immediately, and she was jolted back to reality.
"I could let you have the bed, but I don't think Ron'd be too happy to wake up to find you two…" Harry began, half-smiling.
"It's okay, we're going to bed," Hermione said, and then bit her lip. "Not – not like that."
Harry didn't look as though he believed her.
They didn't talk as they went back to their own room. Ginny seemed too sleepy to need to, and Hermione was perfectly content to be silent. She didn't know what she would say. Had they really just – kissed? Her and Ginny?
In front of Harry, too? Once they reached their room, they crawled into separate beds, murmured goodnight, and turned off the lights. Hermione could hear Ginny snoring softly within a matter of minutes, but sleep seemed to be eluding her once more that night. She'd kissed Ginny, or Ginny had kissed her, or however it had happened, and Harry had seen. If only she could turn back time, she thought desperately. If only she still had her Time-Turner. She could warn herself not to do anything stupid.
Memory modifiers, she thought, feeling hopeful for a moment before realising that she wasn't nearly knowledgeable enough to handle them, certainly not one specific enough to block out a single memory and nothing more. She'd seen what memory modifiers gone wrong could do to people. She wouldn't risk it.
Maybe no one would remember the next morning. Or maybe everything would be okay, maybe they'd just all agree that people did silly things when they were drunk, and no one would think any more of it. It was this hope that let her finally drift off into unconsciousness, and she fell into what was thankfully a dreamless sleep.