A/n: I'm glad you all didn't up and abandon me after it took so long for me to update. To make it up to you guys, I got straight to work on this chapter, which is very much another half to Chapter 8. I'm very much looking forward to the chapter after this one, it's going to be huge. But anyway…I hope you guys enjoy this one as much as you joined Chapter 8.

K, my British reader: Wow, I have a British reader! I wanted you to know that I really really appreciate your comment and your corrections. As soon as I get a chance to, I'll go back and change them. I'm actually gonna visit London next April, so maybe then I might get more used to everything in British terms. =P

WMG: Just wanted to say that JKR mentioned, on that chat she had on World Book Day (I think it was that…anyway, it was a huge chat), that Ginny's middle name was Molly and that her first name was Ginevra, not Virginia. But thanks for noticing that I put that name in, cuz it means a lot (since I know you're paying attention :::wink:::).

To the rest of you—I love you to death, and I wish I could make a comment to each of you, but this little bit (I know, I should get on with the chapter…) is to just let you guys know that it really does mean the world to me when you comment. So please keep doing it. Hehe.

Disclaimer: I wish.

NSH

Chapter 9: Hiding

Harry

Masquerade

Paper faces on parade

Masquerade

Hide your face so the world will never find you

--The Phantom of the Opera, "Masquerade"

          They were at it again. Both of them miserable, keeping as far away from each other as possible, avoiding a solution but all the while thinking of one anyway. They were at it again.

            Harry walked into the Grangers' library, slamming the door behind him. They really pissed him off, Ron and Hermione, when they started fighting. They always had all these stupid rows about equally stupid stuff. According to what Lennie had told him, Hermione was jealous. He laughed weakly under his breath.

            It served them right, for dancing around the subject for so long.

            He paced around the library, glancing at the bookshelves on all the walls, trying to understand why he was so mad at them. Well, he knew, but he didn't understand entirely why it bothered him so much.

            Lennie had just left, and so he had no one to talk to. But he didn't think talking it out could help too much. He sank into an armchair next to a small table and closed his eyes.

            There were always little things that nagged at the back of his mind. He hated them. They usually consisted of things he would have preferred not to think about: Sirius, the prophecy, the mirror, Snape's memory, Voldemort…everything that made him squirm, or hate himself, or hate everything. But the worst part about them was that not thinking about them didn't work; they still bothered him and made him want to rip his head from his body so he wouldn't have to associate with them.

            A sigh shook his body as he was consumed by thoughts of the dark present. It wasn't even the goddamn future and it was already dark. He scowled; he was used to it, and he hated that, too. His entire life had been shitty, so he really couldn't complain about the present. Except, of course, for the fact that he knew he was either the murderer or the murdered.

            His hand became a fist, and it came down on the arm of the chair, hard and angry. He kept himself in that position, his fist pressed down against the tough leather of the chair, his head down, his breathing heavy, for many minutes, all the while trying to get rid of a lump that was forming in his throat. He felt all the energy from his body flowing to where his fist met the chair, and it seemed like it was a door of escape, because soon he felt drained and weak.

            He always felt weak.

            The fingers in his hand softened from the grip he had them in, and his hand went limp on the arm of the chair. With his other hand, he wiped the sweat on his forehead and then let it sit in his lap.

            He hated how everyone thought that he was so strong. He wasn't. He wasn't strong. And nobody could even start to see that, not even Ron and Hermione. Everyone thought he was strong and brave, this right little soldier for not crumbling about Sirius' death. Like the Weasleys weren't brave because a member of their family had died, but he was because he hadn't killed himself or something over Sirius' demise. It was ridiculous and he hated that description of himself, "strong." The word was nothing more than a physical description that everyone thought was emotional, but it wasn't. It was just a stupid word and it could never, would never, describe him.

            He stood up, and then wanted to sit back down. He didn't. He just stood, feeling how tense the muscles in his body were, how he was so alert about everything, even though he didn't always have to be.

            But he did.

            He didn't like when they fought. After everything that had happened, he'd thought Hermione would have been sensible enough to understand. Ron should have understood perfectly after Bill's death. But they didn't. They thought that it was a guarantee that they could just close their eyes and be able to open them again when the sun streaked in past their eyelids the next morning. They thought it was a guarantee.

            But it wasn't.

            It wasn't for anyone.

            Voldemort, maybe.

            No, not even him. He was still some figment of a human. He was still some sort of Tom Riddle. Why else would Dumbledore call him that? Despite his transformations, despite all the magic, he was still another half-blood wizard, another man, another life. Piece of shit of a life, that was true. But a life nonetheless. A life that could be taken.

            His scar stung.

            A life that could be taken. Only by him, that is, only by Harry Potter. It was all because of some damned prophecy that old bat had made. She wasn't even a real Seer, with the exception of those two occurrences, but he still had to arrange his life to fit her stupid prophecy.

            The murderer or the murdered.

            He really didn't think he would be on the good side of that. He'd be at the wrong end of the wrong wand, his brother wand. And there would be no phoenix song, no golden threads, no translucent silhouettes of dead people—his dead parents—, no Dumbledore, no gravestones. Only Voldemort, Tom Riddle, You-Know-Who, the Dark Lord, whoever the hell he was, all in front of his, killing him and laughing and winning and killing.

            And Ron and Hermione found it all right to have another little row, despite it all.

             He turned and kicked his right foot into the armchair, hard and angry, a grunt issuing from his mouth. His scar still prickled, but it always did, it was its way to breathe and show him it was still alive and would be and he would probably die before it did, and even when he was dead he would still have the dreadful thing on his forehead, still proclaiming him the Boy Who Lived For A While, the dead hero who let down everyone who had believed in him, and it would be known everywhere for what it had stood for, and people would be awed by it, but disgusted at the mention of his name.

            A shudder took him, just as the force of his kick to the chair sent it skidding back, knocking the side table over. A box that had sat atop the table hit the floor with a deafening clang that hurt Harry's ears; it seemed to hurt his scar, the noise was so loud.

            He stood panting, his hands in fists, his leg still out where he had kicked the chair. The box lay on the floor, still closed. It must have been locked. It lay there, and he watched it. And he decided to open it.

            He flung himself on the ground, knocking his own breath out of his chest so he coughed and had to hold a stitch in his side. I hate breathing. He reached for the box. When his hand found it, he brought it to his lap and set it there to examine it.

            It was mahogany, with no intricate design, but with a small monkey on top. He was surprised he hadn't noticed the monkey when it had fallen to the floor. The monkey wore a red vest and hat, and on his hands were tiny cymbals. It stared out ahead, not looking at him. Good. The monkey wouldn't know him. The monkey wouldn't see him.

            The little box had a latch at the very front. He'd thought it was locked, but when he tried the latch, it opened easily. He lifted the top of the box and realized it must be a music box about a second before the music started playing.

            It was a nice melody, happy, very suitable for a music box. In the middle of the box was a monkey like the one on top of the music box, but much smaller, and when the music started, it clapped its hands together so that the cymbals made a tiny clink. There were words engraved into the bottom of the lid of the music box. He started reading them when the voice began to sing.

Masquerade

Paper faces on parade

Masquerade

Hide your face so the world will never find you

            A low voice was singing, a voice that sounded like it wanted to be sinister but was very hurt. Kind of how he felt. Like he wanted to hit everyone, to knock sense into them, to make them understand that they should quit messing with their problems and start enjoying whatever life they had before it was taken away.

            But he was indeed very hurt.

            He closed the music box. There seemed to be something lodged in his throat, something that made it hurt and hard to swallow. A lump, Muggles called it, a lump in his throat. Like it was trying to bar his breathing so he would hurt more than he already did.

            Every single time he closed his eyes he could see the darkness that everyone else saw. But seconds later he'd see a green light, so blinding he wanted to close his eyes and see darkness, except his eyes were already closed, and no matter how tight he shut them, the light was still intense and blinding and green. And then he'd see himself. Just himself, standing right in front of him, just like if he had been looking in a mirror.

            And he had.

            He was the last thing he had seen in that mirror, and so it was the only thing he could see when he stopped looking at everything else. Himself. He looked like his father, he looked like James Potter, and everyone said so, and everyone knew so. But he wasn't James, he wasn't anything like James, he hated knowing James because he wasn't James. And then his eyes. His green eyes, almost as green as that light. "Your mother's eyes," everyone always told him. But they weren't her eyes. She hadn't seen what he had seen. She'd seen so much worse and so much better. He wanted her eyes, but he didn't have him. The eyes were his, and they were what let him see that reflection, and he hated them. And then his scar. The lightning bolt shape engraved into his skin, his skull, his mind. It would always be there, and it seemed to be the only thing that was really his. And he hated it. So whenever he would notice it in his closed eyes, whenever he perceived it so clearly he must be looking in that mirror again, he opened his eyes and pulled his bangs down over it. Then he'd sit there and hoped he would stop looking like James or that James would be a different person, and that he could take the green out of his eyes and give it back to his mother's sightless ones so maybe she could see him again.

            It was the last thing he'd seen in that mirror.

            That's why he'd shattered it. He knew, even as he said Sirius's name, that he wouldn't see him. He would be behind the mirror, because he was behind the veil. So he knew, and when Sirius did not come, he was not surprised. He was angry, hurt, upset, yes, but not surprised. But he'd still waited, because maybe Sirius hadn't liked it behind the veil, the whispering had bothered him, there had been too little light, so he'd come back and he'd talk to Harry through the mirror. He'd waited, just like he had in the Death Room. But just like in the Death Room, Sirius hadn't come. It had just been Harry, taking up all the space in the mirror so Sirius couldn't get in even if he had come. It had been Harry, looking like James and trying to see like Lily and being the murderer or the murdered.

            That's why he'd shattered it.

            But even shattered he could still see a distorted image of himself in it, lying on the ground in all those pieces. He opened the music box again, though he must have had his glasses off (but he knew he didn't, because they were heavy on the bridge of his nose) because everything was blurry and his eyes hurt.

            It had been him in all the shards, each one something that he'd shattered, that he'd destroyed. Each one a life that he'd taken, involuntarily.

Masquerade

His parents, gone, maybe waiting for him behind the veil or in Priori Incantatem or in a memory in a secret Pensieve.

Paper faces on parade

Snape, a little boy in the corner, crying, a boy trying to mount a bucking broomstick, a man with a mark he hated but couldn't get rid of, a hero, and his name wasn't Harry Potter.

Masquerade

Sirius, lost somewhere he didn't know, a dog with no footprints, alone without Remus or Harry or James, locked in Azkaban again, dead and innocent but still looked upon as guilty.

Hide your face so the world will never find you

Harry. He could still see his face in the broken mirror. He closed the music box, and then hid his face in the white palms of his hands.

Neville And I am flawed

But I am cleaning up so well

I am seeing in me now the things you

Swore you saw yourself

--Dashboard Confessional, "Vindicated"

            The small glass ball sat on its stool on his desk. It had been there since his third year. He hadn't wanted to use it anymore. It had been a gift, yes, and it had been very expensive. But he didn't want to use it, ever. He didn't need something to tell him what he had to do, or to remind him of just how rarely his brain decided to function.

            He'd stopped using it in third year. The day after Sirius Black broke into the Gryffindor dormitory, he had almost shattered the Remembrall. It had been in his fingers, shining bright red, and this time he did remember what he'd forgotten. He had stood in front of the lake with the Remembrall in his hand, his arm raised, ready to fling the cursed thing into the dark water. But he didn't. Because he knew he was still absentminded, even if he hated being that way. So he kept it, but he didn't use it. He'd brought it home that year and left it, to collect dust on his desk.

            Even now, sitting back against his pillow on his bed, he glared at it. Every single time he looked at it he thought of himself sitting in St. Mungo's next to his parents' beds. He looked at the Remembrall and saw the way he couldn't remember the things that he himself did. He looked at it and wished that maybe he could one day forget what had happened to his parents, and if he held the Remembrall, it would turn red, but he still wouldn't remember.

            They didn't remember him. He didn't have to remember them.

            He drew his hand across his face, feeling tired despite the fact that it was only midday. He always felt tired, lately. Just because he was trying so hard.

            Life sucked. Most of the memories he had of life were being humiliated at school by everyone, even those who tried to be nice to him, or of being in St. Mungo's, hiding away and trying to make his parents look at him instead of his new jacket and whatnot. He really didn't have a nice outlook on his life. It all was a blur of things he'd rather forget. But, apparently, he couldn't forget that either.

            Things were starting to look up, though. All because of the DA, really. He had Harry to thank, for believing that such a stupid kid like him could learn spells that Harry had used against You-Know-Who himself. Harry had always been nice to him, either out of pity or just because it was in his nature. Heroes were supposed to be kind to those inferior to them.

            Every time he cast a spell now, he actually believed he had magic in his blood. It was like he could feel it. Performing magic now made him think that maybe he could be some of the wizard his father had been before the torture, that maybe he had some form of power in him. He'd worked hard all the time the previous year in the DA, thinking of his dad and the possibility that he could live up to the man whose wand he had used.

            Then he'd gone and gotten that wand broken. He had felt like a failure, a disgrace to his father, even if he could never recognize him. He could still remember the day that his grandmother had passed the box to him, the day after he had bounced and shown "his first signs of magic." The box had been elegant, made of blue velvet, and he hadn't known what to make of it. He had just stared at it, and then stroked the velvet, and when he'd opened it and found his father's wand, legendary in his family, he had held it forever. It had all just hypnotized him, to know that he was magical after all, that he wouldn't stain the name of the all-magical Longbottom family. So it had made him motivated from that moment; he would be a wizard that his family would be proud to speak of, proud to acknowledge as their family member.

            And there he had gone and done the opposite.

            He'd let himself be stupid enough to deserve a Howler. He'd been vulnerable enough to let people hex him and embarrass him for fun. He was terrible in class and forgetful all the time, and constantly, he would have people laughing about it, at him. He'd become exactly what his father wasn't. He was what his grandmother hadn't wanted him to be. She'd raved about her son countless times; sometimes, she would tell the same story three nights in a row in the summertime, and he would have to sit through them, gritting his teeth and hating who he was.

            Flawed, completely flawed. None of what he was expected to be.

            But he had grown really tired of it. He wanted so desperately to have his family praise him, instead of shooting him looks of disgust at Christmas parties. He wanted to cast a spell and have it work, not turn into a disaster. So he'd worked as hard as he could in the DA, ignoring everyone's expectations of failure for him. And it had actually worked, most of the time. He'd mastered some spells in the DA, and now, he'd manage to learn a complex one, all by himself, one he knew he would use on the next Death Eater that tried to hurt his friends or family. He had gone and found how to perform the spell that one Death Eater had used to hurt Hermione, all so he could show those bastards that he wasn't some pathetic, worthless kid. He was Neville Longbottom, and he was finally accepting it without shame.

            He was starting to show the world that, despite all the doubts and fears, he meant something and he could make himself proud, even if he didn't make anyone else proud. He could look in the mirror now and not have to hide from whatever it was that he did not want to see. He could close his eyes and see himself immersed in the magical world, holding a wand, feeling magic ooze through every part of him, and know that no mark left by the horrors of his parents' state could stop him from being what he had always aspired to be.

            Now, finally, he could hold his own wand, knowing that it was his and he could be somebody. He knew that know he was some sort of young man that his grandmother had seen in him before he'd become the humiliating Neville. Now, finally, he was able to see those qualities in himself.

            He wasn't hiding, and he wouldn't hide ever again.

            There would always be a hurtful past for him to look at, and his parents would always be forgetful children with no Remembrall powerful enough to help them recover. But he could finally accept that he was Neville, and would always be Neville, and that he could be much more than anyone would think, even if the entire world doubted him.

            He was free.

            He was strong.

            He was real.

            He was Neville, and he wasn't hiding.

Lennie

Wherever you go, go with all your heart.

--Confucius

            Lennie Hunter drew the branches of the bush away from her face. The snow that had been dwelling on the branch tumbled down onto her lap, dampening her dark jeans. She wiped them away and looked up. Her mother was still fumbling in the frozen garden, trying to clear the snow for her plants to flourish. Lennie rolled her eyes. She didn't quite understand why her mother did it; there was no point, the snow would just come back later, and sooner or later she'd get tired of cleaning it.

            But then, she was also rolling her eyes at herself, hiding in a bush in front of her own house from her own mother. She had good reason too, despite the ridiculousness of the situation. She hated spending time with her mother mid-afternoon, when all she could do was try to clean up the house in time for dinner or talk about how happy she was that her brother had just been praised yet again at school. So when her mother had made her way outside half an hour before, she'd come and sat behind the bush.

            She leaned back against the brick wall of her house, terribly cold from the surrounding snow. The sky was slate-gray, almost white; it was a little hard to look up at it for too long. Against the sky, the snow looked almost brown. She looked down at her hands, sitting on her lap in their purple mittens. She had awoken that morning with the purpose of visiting Hermione and helping her sort things out. There was a part of her that had known that Harry would be there for her one way or another, even if it wasn't right away, and that he would help Hermione make amends with Ron. They always did.

            The other part of her, though, really missed being able to give Hermione advice. She missed given advice entirely, since her family never asked it of her, always saying she was too reckless to give good enough advice. She'd thought perhaps Hermione would welcome her advice with open arms, she knew she would. She always had.

            She hadn't gone, though. She'd been planning it all day but she hadn't done it. Oh, she knew why well enough, but she really did not feel like admitting it to herself. Why cause more headaches when she was trying to minimize them?

            "Lennie!"

            Her eyes widened. The sharp voice cut through her thoughts. She looked up to see her mother with her hands on her hips, her trowel in her right hand. There was a scowl on her face and snow in her hair.  She won't like that, Lennie thought, but didn't say anything. She just waited with almost boredom for her mother to scold her. She was used to it.

            "What in the name of the Lord are you doing, sitting behind that bush? Shouldn't you be doing some of the homework you have for holiday?" Her mother, even, sounded bored by the process. But she still did it because Lennie was the child to be scolded. That was the way her mother had let it become.

            Lennie sighed. "I'll do it later. There's not much of it to do anyway."

            "Still!" her mother said shrilly. "'Don't put off till tomorrow what you can do today.'"

            Lennie suppressed herself from throwing her mother a withering look. She didn't understand why her mother used phrases that she herself hated. But she did.

            "Yes, I could do it today," Lennie answered. "I just choose not to." She gave her mother an utterly fake smile and went back to observing the snow. Her mother would give up, sooner or later. She never "wasted" too much time on Lennie anyway.

            "I hope your father's right, Lennie, and this is just a phase. I'm getting very tired of your reluctance to take any advice that I give you."

            Lennie stared at her gloved hands. Her mother had stopped giving her advice a long time ago, when she'd decided to play football rather than become involved in the debate team at her school. But she still remembered the days when her mother would suggest what she should eat and she would do it. Her mother used to tell her to get dressed and she would try to find an outfit that would almost match her mother's. She had been very small then, though, and hadn't figured out who she was. She hadn't known that she didn't have to be told what to do, that her mother did not have to arrange her life for her.

            Her mother was a good person, even if she was so cold to her. She was always making the decisions that would affect her children the best. The spring break holidays she always planned accommodated everyone, even if she didn't spend too much time accommodating them herself. But she tried, so Lennie didn't hate her. Not at all. But she always wished that her mother could maybe understand some of the things that went through her mind without doubting them right from the off.

            She'd never been one to understand why Lennie loved her favorite movie, A Little Princess, quite so much, just because the movie was so fused with magic. Her mother had always said, when Lennie tried to find a shining, glowing gold robe to wear, that she wouldn't wake up to her room in golden drapes and hearty meals; that it would still be the same room. Lennie would insist though, but her mother wouldn't listen. She never did.

            She inquired about her school life, though. It intrigued her; the teachers, the kids, the material. Lennie told her about it all. It was her means of talking to her mother, and, however primitive, she appreciated it. She just wanted more of it, and wanted less of it to involve such a superficial subject as school.             

            "Lennie, get up out of the snow, you'll catch a cold." Her mother's voice again cut through her thoughts, but this time it was softer, not quite so scolding. She looked up to see her kneeling before her, trowel at her feet.

            "I've got my scarf and jumper. I'll be all right."

            Her mother shook her head. "It's too cold out. I wouldn't mind you walking around the yard but, Lennie, just sitting there? You'll catch a cold."

            Vision blurry, Lennie answered, "I—was going to go to Hermione's soon."

            Her mother's eyebrows knitted together. "Why? Weren't you there just yesterday?"

            She blinked; she could see clearly again and felt no cold trails on her cheeks. She was quite good at this, after so much practice. "Mum…I haven't spent time with Hermione since her first year at boarding school. She's going back in eight days. And it's Christmas Eve."

            Her mother nodded. "Christmas Eve is a time to be spent with family. Your brother will be home soon!"

            "Hermione is some family to me, Mum!"

            She patted Lennie's hand awkwardly and said, "You can see her tomorrow."

            "No," Lennie said. "I'm going today. You just said yourself, mother, 'Don't put off till tomorrow what you can do today.'"

            Her mother looked slightly taken aback by her retort. She looked at Lennie for a moment, then picked up her trowel and stood back up. She wiped the knees of her pants before she spoke. "Very well, then. Just…be home for dinner, all right?"

            Lennie tried to say something, but her throat was closed. She almost nodded, but she saw an image of Hermione playing a game of chess with Ron, Harry at her side, and she knew that her old friend didn't need her now. All she needed was to figure things out, and nobody except herself could really help her figure out what she needed to do.

            And maybe she shouldn't leave the house today. Maybe something would shift and her mother would want to her about her next football tournament or the boyfriend that had just broke up with her or the poem she had written the other day. Maybe her mother would decide to look in her for once. Maybe she wouldn't have to hide behind a bush and wait for her mother to find her before she noticed her. Maybe sometime in this day she would let Lennie sit in her lap wearing her old gold robe and she would let her tell her all about the magic that she could sense about her, and she wouldn't be skeptical. Maybe she should stay, just in case all of it happened. Even if it didn't, she would know she had been there and hadn't missed it. She'd wait. Someday, her mother would get it right.

            "Mum." Her mother stopped walking away, and turned around.

            "Yes?"

            "I—I think I'll just say Happy Christmas to Hermione tomorrow. I'll stay here and wait for Eric with you." She gave her a small smile, and it didn't feel like a frown she'd turned upside down. It felt like a smile.

            Her mother returned it; not fully (yet, Lennie thought), but she returned it nonetheless. She nodded and said, "I'll be inside in a minute."

            Lennie nodded as well and said, "I'll be there." She would. She'd keep some figment of her family with her, and she wouldn't regret it.

            She never did.

            Crookshanks sat at his mistress's closed window, purring softly. His mistress had been lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling, ever since she'd closed the window after seeing the redheaded boy. Crookshanks swished his tail back and forth. The redheaded boy had already gone back inside the house, but he had not come upstairs to make friends again with his mistress. Crookshanks despised when he avoided talking to her. His mistress didn't like it much either.

            The cat turned his ginger head to look at his mistress. Her head was placed on top of her pillow, her hair flying in tangles around her. She was lying sideways but facing up, and her eyes were glazed over from staring at one spot for so long. It would be night soon, and she would have to rise for the family's Christmas dinner. Crookshanks let his tongue hang out; he always got a nice Christmas dinner, even when his mistress stayed at the castle.

            A scuffle near the door made his ears prick up. He jumped down from the window and slinked to the door. There was a person moving outside the door, he could tell. Their shadow was moving back and forth. Crookshanks caught a glimpse of the shoes in the crack between the door and the floor; they were the redheaded boy's trainers. Crookshanks meowed. He knew it would get his mistress's attention.

            Sure enough…"What is it, Crookshanks?" she said, lifting her head slightly off the pillow. Crookshanks meowed once more. Hermione didn't get up, but asked, "Is there someone out there?"
            Crookshanks sat in front of the door, exasperated with his mistress. He did not understand the purpose of her questions; he would never be able to answer anyway, so she shouldn't waste breath asking in the first place. Nevertheless, he meowed in a last attempt to get her up. She didn't move, just lay her head back down on the pillow. "Let them knock if they want to come in," she muttered.

            Suddenly, a piece of paper—an envelope—shot in through the space under the door. Crookshanks jumped back, startled, and hissed at it. He looked back at the door and saw that the shadow had gone, and only light streamed in. Crookshanks had always thought the redheaded boy had been a bit of a coward.

            Knowing his mistress wouldn't get up off the bed, he grabbed the envelope in his mouth, disgusted with himself for being such a terribly domestic animal. But, hey, it got him food and attention, so it was worth it. He jumped up onto the bed and padded over to his mistress's head. Her eyes followed his trajectory, looking curiously at the envelope in his mouth.

            "What's that, Crookshanks?"

            Again with the questions!

            He dropped the envelope on the bed and attempted to rid his mouth of the taste of paper. In the meantime, his mistress had picked up the envelope, carefully avoiding the damp spot where Crookshanks had held it. The cat licked his paws as she turned it over and saw whose writing was on the envelope. Crookshanks wasn't too interested, but he knew his mistress would be.

            She sighed. "Honestly, Ron…"

            Now she talks to herself…Crookshanks finished licking his paws and made his way back to the window. It was no surprise the letter was from the redheaded boy; Crookshanks had seen his untidy writing addressing the envelope to Hermione.

            At the window, Crookshanks sat and watched a bird flitting around the bare branches of his mistress's tree. A nice, fat sparrow. He took a look at his mistress. Soon enough she'd get out of bed to go find the redheaded boy, and he could go find the fat sparrow.

            It all worked out.

A/n: There it is, guys, a little faster than the previous one. I hope you liked it and I can't wait to write the next chapter; I know you'll all like that one…review please! 8)