Chapter Five: A Slip of the Tongue

Setting: Gryffindor common room, Monday evening at eight o'clock. Harry is away on yet another meeting with Dumbledore.

A/N: I have this fic planned to be around nine or ten chapters, but I might do a sort of prequel or sequel, if I have enough ideas for them not to bicker all the time. (aHEM—ideas, anyone?)


Harry's a bit anxious over Dean and Ginny, isn't he?

Why shouldn't he be? I mean, he can't have any more Quidditch trouble than he already has, can he?

You believe him, then?

Believe him? Is there any reason why I shouldn't?

Do you realize we have been speaking in questions for the last minute or so?

Do you have any answers, Hermione?

I would, if you had any clue of what I'm trying to communicate.

I know more about Quidditch than you will ever want to. I don't think even you can argue with that.

Still think this is about Quidditch, don't you?

(Pause)

I'm a patient man, Hermione, but I wish you would get to the point!

I see that there is no reward in pursuing this topic.

Dean and Ginny?

If you think so.

(Pause)

This is another one of those times, isn't it?

Another one of what times?

Another time when you know something I don't but you're dying to talk about it, but feel guilty about sharing.

If you don't know, then you never will—at least, not soon, anyway.

Dean and Ginny, then. What about them?

You know.

They're about to break up?

Stop looking so happy.

Stop looking so happy?

When your smile threatens to overtake your eyebrows, I do get concerned.

You're concerned for me, are you?

More than you will ever understand.

(Pause)

S o o o . . . Ginny's going to break with Dean. And Harry's worried that his Quidditch team will get torn apart again if this happens. Please tell me that this is all there is to it, Hermione.

That's all there is to it.

No, there isn't!

You just asked me to tell you that that's all there is to it.

Oh. Well, it's one of those rhetorical questions that you're supposed to get annoyed about and start answering for the heck of it.

Why do I get the sense that we're spending far too much time together?

Six years, 'Mione. Six years.

I quite needed the reminder, thanks.

You are predictable.

(Pause)

You know what?

What?

I'm just not going to think about Dean and Ginny and Harry. This way I won't have to torture myself to consider using Veritaserum on you.

Good.

Why did you go and have to open your mouth, anyway? It's almost like an excuse for you to pity my confusion and lack of understanding. Honestly, sometimes I wish you like Lav . . . er . . .

(Silence like a tomb)

Care to repeat that?

No . . . uh . . .

Then I'll clear it up for you. Sometimes you wish I wouldn't open my mouth. Sometimes you wish I was more like Lavender—giggly, always ready for a snog, but who otherwise has nothing to contribute that actually gets you seeing something beyond her lips. Sometimes you wish I would just sit and look pretty, smiling and nodding at all the wrong places, but a doll to look at, nonetheless. Sometimes you wish I wouldn't make you have to scratch your head in order to think about something other than sex

Hang on! What do you mean by that!

Wait—there's spittle on your nose—WHAT DO I MEAN BY THAT? WHAT DO I MEAN BY THAT!

I don't constantly sit fantasizing about Lavender, or any girl, for that matter. I'd appreciate it if you didn't see me as a blob of teenaged hormones.

Oh, but you are. Why else would you have that vacant expression every time you're supposed to be doing homework with me, hmm?

It's harder than you think!

Ron, of all the people to say that to, it should never be me. It's harder than I think to do homework? I'm doing all of my own studies and practically doing Harry's and yours, too—

It's harder than you think to sit here by you for hours doing nothing but looking up ridiculously detailed facts about—about—

No, I'm doing nothing for hours except looking up those ridiculously detailed facts. You haven't even started on that Herbology essay. Three guesses as to why not.

I'm not going to copy off of yours.

Of course. You're going to copy Harry's as soon as I finish writing it up for him.

(Silence)

I'm sorry, Hermione.

What?

I'm sorry—why are you raising your wand—and why are you checking my temperature; I'm perfectly fine, thank you—and why are you lifting up my hair?

To check the roots. Ah. Red. Very clever—why are you pulling at my hair?

To check the roots. Ah. Brown. Very clever. What the bloody HELL are you doing!

(Pause)

You never apologize to me.

Yes, I do.

Don't start arguing with me. Not at times like these, anyway.

And what is a time like this?

When we start bickering about something stupid. You only apologize when it's something serious.

This isn't something serious?

No. I'm no monster; I don't make enemies out of a little slip of the tongue.

That was a little slip of the tongue?

Well—no—and you're not the only one who has to apologize. I really shouldn't talk to you as if you're a blob of teenaged hormones. You're right.

I'm right?

Let's stop with the questions, shall we? Yes, you are right. I highly doubt you sit here fantasizing about Lavender all the time. My thoughts would kill your thoughts without us even knowing it.

I'm never right.

You are seriously going to argue about whether you're right or not? And take the offensive?

No, no—I—

I'm sorry. You're sorry. It's looking very good right now. Don't ruin it.

Um . . . sure . . .

(Pause)

I also take back what I said from the beginning.

About Dean and Ginny? They're not going to break up?

It would be kinder not to let you know.

(Silence)

What you said about it being harder than I think—that had nothing to do with homework, did it?

(Pause)

It would be kinder not to let you know.


A/N: Sorry it took longer than normal, but I had a tiny case of writer's block. Next chapter will be more enjoyable for me to write, hence quicker—Ron and Hermione attend a practice session in Hogsmeade for Apparition tests.

Preview: Madam Rosmerta really didn't laugh at Ron's joke about the hag, the healer, and the Mimbulus mimbletonia.