Hermione looked up from her place on one of the Gryffindor couches. Her suitcase sat primly at her feet, and she was still dressed smartly in her Hogwarts robes, her red and gold tie offsetting her shiny Prefect's badge. The rest of her, however, was a wreck. Her straggly hair had formed a frizzy halo around her head, and her nose and eyes were red-rimmed from crying. She looked absolutely exhausted.

Everything flew out of Harry's head at once and was replaced by concern – Hermione never fell apart like this. Well, at least not around him...and what was she doing back so soon?

"What's wrong?" he blurted out.

"Oh, Ron!" Hermione bawled, rushing towards him, a mess of tears and tangled hair and reaching arms.

"Err," Harry managed to stammer, and before he could get out another word, her arms were around his shoulders, her lips finding his.

"NO!" Harry's brain screamed, and he abruptly pulled away, holding her by her upper arms, as ice-water flooded his trunk. His stomach flip-flopped uncomfortably. It had only lasted a second, but his whole body rejected the experience. His lower lip was moist, and he found that rather than pleasant, this was extremely disturbing.

Hermione looked up at him, tears still lingering in her eyes, a stricken expression on her face.

"Oh, Ron, don't! Please? Don't make me beg...I'm sorry, alright? There, I said it first. I just, when you didn't say anything, and...oh the whole thing was a disaster, Ron."

"Uhhh..." Harry stammered, a high-pitched, panicky whine running through his head. He felt as though somebody had pushed "pause" on his brain.

This was bad. Really bad. How was he ever going to explain this, now?

"We have to break it off," she said abruptly.

"What?!" Harry blurted.

The squirming, uncomfortable feeling in his stomach intensified...this was all his fault, somehow.

"Ron, please!" Hermione said desperately, tears blurring her vision, "Don't make this any harder than it is!"

"You can't – err, we can't," Harry stammered, "Why?!"

"Can't you see that this is killing Harry?" Hermione said, turning away from him, and plopping dejectedly on the couch, "It's as though he thinks we're going to run away and abandon him...He feels so betrayed that we kept this from him – and if he realizes we did it to protect him, he'll be even angrier. We can't desert him now, not when everything is about to happen."

She had articulated his secret fear...and the solution. It was exactly what Harry had been hoping for in his most selfish daydreams, but now that she had handed it to him so selflessly, he felt like an absolute heel.

"He's...he's alright," Harry said, hesitantly, "He'll come around."

Hermione sighed, and put her head in her hands.

"What did we say, when this first started between us?"

"Uhhh..." Harry stammered, "Well...we said a lot of things." Rats. How was he going to come up with anything?

Apparently though, this is exactly what Ron would have said, because Hermione simply rolled her eyes, and found his, an exasperated expression on her face.

"Harry comes first," she said, quietly but firmly, "You know that, Ron."

Harry felt something constrict in his chest. The three of them had said it to each other before – that they would do anything for one another. But this wasn't like taking a curse for him, or going on a dangerous mission...it wasn't his life at stake this time. He couldn't believe that Hermione, or Ron for that matter, would be willing to make this deep of a personal sacrifice for him...not to save his life, but just to make sure that he was happy, and that their friendship remained strong.

"We'll be able to pick up where we left off," she said, almost pleadingly, "As soon as all this blows over, and Harry gets used to the idea. Ron?"

Harry's mind raced. He had to find a way to stop this.

"I think...I think Harry would just want us to be happy," he said, slowly.

"Well of course he would – even if it means he's miserable," Hermione said, with an exasperated sigh. Suddenly, she looked up at him, with a curious expression on her face. Harry shifted nervously.

"Do you have a cold?"

"Uh...maybe," Harry said evasively.

"You sound a little different," she said, shaking her head as though to dismiss the idea. She sighed deeply, and Harry stood there, every heartbeat thrumming audibly in his ears. Any minute now, she was going to put two and two together...any minute now, and our friendship is over forever...

She looked up at him, her expression pleading, exhausted.

"Do you hate me?"

Harry felt the familiar warmth and affection spreading through his chest. He smiled down at her.

"Who could ever hate you?"

Hermione's eyes opened wide, and her eyebrows leapt towards her hairline, as she looked at Harry with a bemused and slightly dubious expression.

"I mean, don't be stupid," Harry added, trying to emulate Ron's casual, reassuring tone of voice.

"What am I doing?" screamed a voice in the back of his head, "What on earth is wrong with me?"

"You still love me?" Hermione asked, insecurely, looking up at Harry. Harry had never heard her sound so...young – not even when she was a first year...At the same time, he felt distinctly nervous, as though a trap were slowly closing around him.

"'Course," Harry said, evasively, his eyes darting towards the staircase.

Hermione's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Say it again."

"I...love you," Harry said.

Even as he said it, the words rang hollowly, and he finally understood. Of course he loved Hermione – of course he did. He just didn't...love Hermione. He'd been so confused – after all, he'd never really had any true family before Ron and Hermione – the Durlseys certainly hadn't provided him with a good model of familial affection. And he'd never had any friends before Ron and Hermione either...It was probably a miracle that he even had the capacity for a friendship this strong. He'd never felt the kind of warmth and sense of belonging that Ron and Hermione gave him, especially after all they'd come through together...of course he would assume...

"How am I expected to figure all this out?" Harry thought, desperately.

"Ronald," Hermione said, and the floor of Harry's stomach seemed to drop down to his toes as he was jerked uncomfortably out of his musings. Her eyes were now narrowed into angry slits, and she had one eyebrow arched crossly, her arms folded across her chest. He knew what this meant – he'd never been on the receiving end of one of Hermione's blazing rows with Ron, and he didn't care to start now. He began inching towards the boy's staircase, feigning a yawn.

"I, err, better get off to –"

But Hermione reached into her sweater, and, tugging gently on the golden chain around her neck, shook out her bushy hair, slipping the necklace over her head. For one panicked, crazy moment, Harry thought she was going to pull out a Time-Turner. But she reached back, and flung a small, gray object at him from her spot on the couch. His Seeker instinct took over, and he snatched it nimbly out of the air – it felt cold in the palm of his hand.

"Bugger," Harry said out loud, examining the pendant in his hand.

It was the Veritastone necklace Ron had given her – and it was ice cold.

"We need to talk," Hermione said, flatly.

"Oh, bugger," Harry thought, desperately.

"Why have you been lying to me? Have you been lying this whole time? Do you not love me anymore?"

"No, Hermione, I—"

"And why are you calling me 'Hermione?'," she asked, standing slowly as the volume of her voice swelled ever so slightly, "You always call me 'Mione' when you're trying to get away with something."

"I...I said 'Mione,' didn't I?" Harry lied swiftly. The stone grew even colder in his grasp. Bugger.

"I don't even need the stupid stone, Ron, I know when you're lying to me," she said, fiercely, "Something is going on, and I'm going to figure it out, so you better give me an explanation right now."

"Listen," Harry said, desperately, one foot on the stairs – Hermione had already backed him up to the foot of the staircase, "You're right. Something is up."

"Of course it is," Hermione said, and she folded her arms in a superior way. Harry had to struggle to keep a smile down, despite the awkward situation – he knew that if he just soothed Hermione's intelligence a bit, he might be able to get out of this...

"I haven't...been myself, lately," he said, haltingly, "I'd...Let me sleep on it. Ask me again tomorrow, alright?"

He held the Veritastone out to Hermione. She didn't take it, but eyed him with the same wary, quizzical expression, her arms still folded defensively.

"It's a stare-down," Harry told himself, in a slightly panicked voice, "Like a hippogriff...Don't look away...don't blink too much...Keep eye contact..."

She squinted suddenly about an inch above Harry's eyes, "What's that on your forehead? Did you get into a fight? Is that was this is about?"

"Mione," Harry said, desperately, holding out the pendant for her to take, "I'll explain everything tomorrow. Just... please!"

He didn't dare cover up his scar. He tried turning his head slightly away from her to hide it. He desperately hoped that the dim light and the freckles would keep her from realizing what it was – thank goodness he'd been practicing Occlumency so diligently lately – it wasn't nearly as red and raw as it had been last year. And thank goodness he'd left his glasses in his pocket...

She took the Veritastone from him.

"I told you the first time we kissed, Ron," Hermione said quietly, "I don't know whether to believe you or not. I still don't know if you understand yourself how you really feel. I thought that maybe when you gave me this..."

She trailed off, leaving her conclusion unsaid. Harry's heart wrenched. He looked into Hermione's scowl, and he realized just how unsure she really was...she walked around like she knew everything, but in a way, she just couldn't believe that Ron had finally come 't believe that he could want her, love her...

Harry sighed, looked her in the eyes, and said the truest thing he could think of:

"I know I've been really mixed up lately. But really, I...I just want you to be happy, Hermione. I want the best for you...I want you to have all the things you deserve, and not have to worry all the time...I just want you to be happy."

There was a long pause, where Harry tried desperately to read Hermione's expression, beads of sweat prickling his back, and the back of his neck.

"We'll talk about this tomorrow," she said quietly, her stony gaze melting slightly. Harry had to fight not to heave a sigh of relief – he knew the stone had gone warm in her hand.

"But we are going to talk about it," she said sternly.

Harry nodded mutely. How was he going to fix this?

"Well, goodnight," she said petulantly, turning her head to the side.

For a second, Harry wondered why she wasn't going anywhere. Then, he realized, and stumbled down the steps again to give her a quick peck on the cheek. When Hermione turned to face him again, she was smiling slightly, despite herself.

"You great prat," she said softly, a gentle, somewhat pained expression on her face, "Go to bed."

Harry nodded, and raced up the stairs, his heart thudding painfully his ribcage – he felt as though he might faint.

He paused by the door to the sixth year boy's room, his ear against the oak – he could distinctly make out Neville's snore, but he couldn't hear Ron's. Hermione must have gotten in from Bulgaria a short while ago – she obviously hadn't seen Ron yet. Where was he?

Beginning to worry, and at the same time, hoping not to get caught should Ron be sitting awake, Harry pushed the door open slowly.

Luckily, everyone had already gone to sleep. Harry tiptoed across to his bed, and crept inside the covers. He shoved his glasses roughly back onto his face, noticing how strange they felt on his re-shaped ears, took the Marauder's Map out of his pocket, and cast a hastily whispered "Silencio!" around his curtains.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he unfolded the map, tapped it with his wand, and recited, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good. Lumos!"

His wand tip flared to light and life, as the feathery black ink crept, spider-like, across the page.

"Show me Ron Weasley," he said.

All the moving spots suddenly disappeared, and Harry saw one dot, restlessly walking back and forth at the Owlery.

"Show me Ginny Weasley," he said, and Ginny's own feet showed up near Ron's, taking three steps for every one of Ron's angry strides. Harry reckoned they were probably arguing – Ginny calling him on the carpet, perhaps, for missing the D.A. meeting. Harry began to feel badly that he'd sent Ginny after Ron – if he was up in the Owlery, he obviously wanted his space to think things over, or perhaps to send an owl to his brothers. He could probably count on the fact that Hermione would be asleep before he got back.

"At least he's speaking with his family," Harry groused to himself, and was suddenly startled by the paleness and length of his freckled hands.

"This probably wasn't a good idea," he muttered aloud, turning his hands over and over. He wasn't even sure if he'd be able to go completely back...did he have to fix each feature, one by one? Would he "reset" himself overnight? After all, his eyes hadn't changed back...

More importantly, what did this mean? It seemed impossible that he could add yet another extraordinary ability to his already-unusual roster. Yet here he was, staring down at Ron's hands where his ought to be.

"As if I haven't had enough to think about," Harry thought, desperately.

Think about...

With a sudden panic, Harry realized he'd have to be extra careful with his Occlumency exercises tonight – this was one ability he didn't want Lord Voldemort to find out about. Come to think of it, he didn't want anyone to find out about it. He much rather wished he'd never found out he was a Metamorphmagus. He knew that he ought to tell Dumbledore straight away – but that would mean more lessons, more questions, more raised eyebrows – more attention. Besides, Hermione was bound to put two and two together – he just hoped it would take long enough so that all this would seem a bit more laughable and a bit less gut-wrenching. Ginny might have already guessed. If only he could just shrug, say, "who cares?" and go on with his life for the next few months.

The next few months...he might be dead in the next few months...

"Stop that," Harry said aloud. Time to focus on getting his own face back.

Laying back on his pillow, Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He concentrated on the reflection he'd seen in the mirror that night, in the Room of Requirement – his father's scruffy black hair, his scar, his thin nose, scrawny frame, his mother's emerald green eyes...

When he opened his eyes, he was inordinately relieved to see that his hands had gone back to their normal shape and color. As for the rest of him, he couldn't really say. He reached into his bed-side table, and took out a small framed photo of his parents. Holding it up to the wand-light, he could just make out his reflection superimposed onto their shining, laughing faces.

His reflection – right down to the fresh-pickled eyes. Harry heaved a sigh of relief, and flopped backwards again. Apparently going back to your true appearance was much easier than trying to deviate from it.

Harry felt a brief pang as his mind wandered back to Hermione's stricken expression, her red-rimmed eyes...and then, with a feeling of suppressed anxiety, remembered her arched eyebrow, and suspiciously narrowed eyes...

Harry shook his head, and began to breathe deeply – he'd have to clear his mind. He had no other choice. He had to let it go for tonight, or it would be easy to find...

But mind insisted on wandering back to Ginny, in the Room of Requirement...the lamp light making streaks of gold leap out in her hair...the warmth of her breath on his face, the smooth softness of her skin...

Harry shivered involuntarily, and found himself grinning like an idiot at his bed hangings. A second later, he felt a bit disgusted with himself – he had, after all, just kissed his two of his best friends in the past twelve hours (although one wasn't technically his fault).

That was yet another thing he'd certainly rather not share with anyone. He could just imagine what Rita Skeeter would do with all this.

He stifled a frustrated groan. Ginny had been right to push him away – he was an absolute mess. But at least he finally knew where he stood with Hermione...now where did he stand with Ginny?

"You're probably going to die in two months, anyway," he reminded himself, somewhat detachedly, "Can we please focus here?"

"Must do some m-more goblin research," he muttered through a stifled yawn, "Another letter to Orkishun...fin' Ron 'bout...Quidditch..."

He yawned again, clearing his mind determinedly. Enough for one night.