Jezebel Malice told me to update this. So I am. Sorry if it causes any of you to attack whatever's closest to you in frustration. I know I'm a horrible person.

WARNINGS: macking, Hagrid speak, overanalytical Hermione, and scremo lyrics.


The storm is letting up,
But it won't die.
If you weren't wrong, was I?
Your picture still remains,
But I wonder are you still the same?
- Finch, Without You Here

The Wrong Shade of Red; Part Three

Eight.
"Hey," she said, a weird grin on her face. "You're really pretty."

I disappeared beneath the blankets, hiding my face – teasing. She laughed and wiggled into my haven, pressing her nose against mine.

"We should get married someday," she whispered. Her eyes were bright with honesty.

I smiled and nodded. "That would be nice." We kissed and our bodies melted together.

"So meaningless," I hiss to myself, opening my eyes before the memory can become too involved. "It's been three years, Hermione. Why do you continue to torture yourself?"

Our relationship had been perfect. We understood each other. We were there for each other. We had similar tastes in music, movies, decorating. Our bodies fit perfectly together. Every touch was always, always electricity. We rarely fought.

I can hear Harry telling Draco about it in the living room. They had started by talking about last night, thinking I was still asleep, thinking I couldn't hear them.

"Who is Hermione still so hung up over?" Draco had asked. "It can't be that bitch Hannah."

"Of course not," Harry had replied, exasperated. "Who has it always ever been? Ginny. It's always been Ginny."

He gave the same explanation as I did. And Draco asked the same question I always have.

"So what happened?"

Harry sighs here. I do the same, and curl up on my side, hugging the blankets to me.

"Hermione said that they started fighting a lot. Ginny started leaving, for clubs or bars, she never knew, and then would call her later and say she fooled around with some other girl, but she'd be home to talk about it within the hour. They'd make up, and things would be okay for a few days, maybe even a week, but it would all start over again…"

I can still hear the slamming doors.

"Finally, it escalated to the point where neither of them could take it anymore. Ginny brought home a girl one night and Hermione left, ended up running into Fleur Delacour – you remember her? She took Hermione back to her apartment, got her drunk, to 'drown away her sorrows', and then came onto her. You know how Hermione gets when she's drunk – she can be talked into doing anything."

"So they fucked, is what you're saying," Draco interjects flatly.

If you could call it that.

"Mm... When Hermione realized what had happened, she left and caught a cab home. Ginny was home, but the girl had left… Ginny said that they hadn't slept together, that she couldn't, because she loved Hermione too much to do something like that to her. Of course, Hermione had to admit that she had slept with someone else…"

"Let me guess. Ginny didn't take the news that well."

"Of course not. The Weasley Rage instinctively took over. They fought, said nasty things to each other, Hermione blamed Ginny for what had happened, because she wouldn't have done it if she hadn't thought that Ginny was cheating on her in the first place… So Ginny left.

"I got a phone call from Hermione later that day. She was absolutely hysterical, asking if she could move in with me. She didn't tell me exactly what had happened until months after the fact. It just had hurt her so bad."

"Did you ever hear how it happened from Ginny?" Draco asks. I freeze. I don't want to hear this part. But I do. I want to know what I did wrong.

"Yeah." I grip the sheets tightly in anticipation for the sting. "She said she had started going out because Hermione had started demanding too much from her."

"I suppose that's lesbian for she stopped getting action as often and was starting to nag about it."

Harry snorts. "I heard it was a part of that. They both were working too much, and not being able to spend as much time together. They were both exhausted at the end of the day, and Ginny couldn't keep up with it all. But Hermione still wanted everything to be the same as it was when they did have the time and energy for each other. And Ginny couldn't deal with it."

Demanding too much? I don't hear the rest of what Harry says, or Draco's response. My brain sticks on this idea that I was demanding too much, pushing too hard; I don't understand. How could just asking her to come home a little earlier every once in a while, or asking her to come out to dinner with me, or just staying at home with me to snuggle, make love, talk together, be demanding too much?

And how could just not coming home be the right answer?

I try to muster up some anger, some justifiable emotion for these unanswerable thoughts, but I can't. Somehow, I can't blame her. Ginny can't deal well with the pressure of too many commitments. Coming home was the easiest commitment she could get out of; after all, if she didn't go to work, she would be fired. If she didn't do all that she was asked of for her job, well, she would be fired because of that, too. Ginny's the best Auror the Ministry has had working for them since Moody was in his prime. Of course they would demand a lot from her.

Was I too much on top of that?

I can't, I can't think about this right now. I know it's nothing but circles, a cycle of thoughts that I could get caught up in for the next year. And I have a class to teach in two hours.

I banish Ginny Weasley from my mind and head for the shower.

Nine.
The train ride to the castle is uneventful. I change into my Hogwarts staff robes halfway through the trip, just as we used to do during our school years, and then enchant them to look like nothing more than a long overcoat to a Muggle's eyes. I imagine a woman with red hair out of the corner of my eye, but it's just nostalgia. I try to push it to the back of my mind, and start reviewing in my head what Minerva asked me to cover in class today. The poor woman is too burdened by her responsibilities. After Dumbledore's death and the reopening of the school the following year, she never found another Transfiguration professor – or, at least, no one else ever applied for the position. Hogwarts, after all, though still renowned, was now thought to be haunted by old memories. In the opinion of some, old memories best left buried. And yet every year, the students keep coming…

The train comes to a stop and I exit onto a platform of a small station outside of the town of Meade's Hollow. I smile to myself and swing my bag as I walk through the wall between platforms two and three; platform three-and-three-quarters is there waiting for me, at the station of Hogsmeade.

"'Ermione, o'er here," calls a booming voice outside the station, and my smile widens. Hagrid still lives at Hogwarts, and is always there to take me to the castle when I have classes to teach. His hair is greying a little in spots, but his eyes are still as youthful and happy as they were during my first year. We hug, his strong arms making my ribs feel like they're going to crack, before he sets me down like a rag doll next to him in the open carriage, putting my bag behind us.

"How are classes going, Hagrid?" I ask pleasantly, enjoying the familiar scents of Hogsmeade, the familiar surroundings. Fred and George's second shop sits at the corner of town next to Zonko's, though I know the twin redheads aren't there. They stay mostly at their shop at Diagon Alley, letting Lee Jordan handle the affairs at the Hogsmeade location.

"Oh, I've 'ad t' take some time off from m'classes, unfortunately," he replies. "Fang's sick, y'see, so's I've b'n takin' care o' 'im."

I frown. "Have your classes been cancelled, then?" Despite my reservations, to this day, of Hagrid's teaching ability and the topics of his lessons, it's still a big deal to me that Hagrid is not teaching. All the hard work Ron, Harry, and I put into making sure Hagrid remained in his well-deserved (and I use that term loosely) position, just to find that his classes were cancelled, or even worse, taken over by someone with a lacking sense of "adventurous teaching"…

But Hagrid laughs reassuringly. "O'course not! No Grubbly-Plank's goin' t' be teachin' m'classes." He says this last bit a bit gruffly; it's obvious that the years haven't yet healed the wounds left open by Rita Skeeter's article my fourth year. Considering how damaging it was to his career that year, I don't blame him. "No, I han'picked m'replacement, thank ye very much, on Headmistress McGonagall's orders."

I want to ask who. I don't even know why it's so important to know. The red-haired woman on the train – it couldn't be –

"Well, we're here." And we are. I shake my head to clear it and get an eyeful of castle. Even now, this castle seems huge. "I best be gettin' back to Fang. Ye just come back t' m'cabin when y're done, all right, 'Ermione?"

I put on my best smile and nod. Hagrid pats my shoulder (it feels like a full-grown cow nudging me) and I hop out of the carriage, reaching for my bag once my feet hit solid ground. I wave goodbye and try not to think about the coincidences swirling in my head.

Ten.
I yawn loudly after my second class of the day gets out and watch fondly on as the stragglers rush to get their books back in order. This last bunch was fourth years – preparing for O.W.L.s, already talk of the Yule Ball, though it's still two months away; they remind me of what my fourth year was like. I even see the new Golden Trio, though lacking its honest-and-true Wizarding celebrity; this new generation of Harry, Ron, and Hermione is just the same. Miss Smith always raises her hand, is the first to get her transfiguration correct, and always helps the class afterwards.

It's a little annoying, really.

There's a cat in the doorway, waiting for the last student to exit before sauntering in. I smile in its direction as I gather my materials. It mews once, then changes into the form of an elderly witch in emerald green robes.

"How was it today?" Minerva asks, not anxiously, not worriedly – just curiously.

"Just fine," I reply. "Robert's still having trouble doing animal to object transfigurations, but I had Madeline help him out today. She's coming along nicely."

She smirks. "Of course she is; she's just like you." We both laugh. "I don't think I could ever stress enough how grateful I am that you've agreed to teach in my absences this year."

"It's an honor, really," I reply honestly. "I love teaching."

She continues as if I hadn't spoken, though I know she heard me. "I have a proposition for you, actually." The sentence lingers in the air for a few moments, the thought waiting to be finished.

I buy in. "What's that?"

She smiles at me again, in that kind, elderly manner. Minerva, despite her somewhat severe features, is still probably one of the nicest women I've ever met, second only to Molly Weasley. "Hermione, I'm fully aware that you have another job with the Ministry, but we really need you here. I'm getting too old for all that I have to do; I can understand why Albus gave up teaching once he was elected into the position of Headmaster. It's an extremely demanding office, especially when following the footsteps of such a great man." She lapses into a brief silence – in remembrance, or simple effect, I can't be sure. "What I mean to say is, Hermione, I'm offering you a fulltime position as Transfiguration professor at this school. You are, of course, more than welcome to stay in your current living space, and Hagrid will continue to drive you back and forth to the station at Hogsmeade for your classes."

I'm in shock. My mouth is gaping open and I'm staring at her like she's insane. In return, she's looking back at me as if she knows I have no reason to refuse.

And I don't have any reason to refuse. Hogwarts is one of the few places that makes me feel at ease. It was my home for seven years; it was the place I longed for over the summer. The happiest and most life-changing years occurred at this school. And teaching is the most fun I've had in a long time. I always look forward to these lessons, just as I did when I was a student.

"I accept," comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, along with the accompanying grin.

"It's settled, then," she replies, a matching grin on her face. "You will become fulltime once the new year starts, as I'm sure you'll have plenty to work out with your job at the Ministry." We shake hands, then hug. She's mostly bones until the robes, but it's still very warm. "We'll discuss your contract and the fine details once it gets closer to that date." She pulls away and starts walking out of the classroom. "I'll see you Thursday morning."

"Have a good night, Minerva," I call to her, voice light and slightly faint.

Eleven.
Hermione Granger, Transfiguration Professor. The title swishes comfortably through my head as I walk across the grounds towards Hagrid's hut; despite how early it is after classes, there's already Quidditch practice going on – Hufflepuff. I giggle menacingly to myself and can't help but think that they probably still need all the help they can get.

I feel so light, like all the pain and baggage I've been carrying for years has been taken from me, if only for a short while. I am fresh-faced and just stepping off the boat the first day of my first year; I am slightly care-worn, but excited to finally be graduating; the first time I ever performed a spell, the first time I talked to Harry and Ron without being ridiculed, the first time I punched Draco… A laugh bubbles in my throat. Life is wonderful.

"Hagrid!" I call as I reach the cabin, door slightly ajar. I push the door open wider to allow myself room to enter. "You won't believe…" My voice dies as soon as my eyes focus on the scene – automatically, damn my eyes, on that head of red, the perfect shade, that perfect body, dressed in a black t-shirt and dark jeans, teaching robes tossed casually off the back of her chair, sitting at Hagrid's table, a cup of tea sitting in front of her – my mind goes blank. Or rather, it becomes overflowed with memories and emotion, our first kiss, our last fight, her fingers touching me, all those perfect moments…

"'Ermione, I was just 'bout t' see if y'were done," Hagrid says uncomfortably from his chair.

I nod, once, suddenly shy. "Minerva offered me a fulltime position, starting after the new year," I say lightly.

"Congratulations." Her soft voice carries to my ears like a bittersweet melody. Her eyes flicker up to me. I wonder what she knows about me now. I wonder if she knows someone fucked me last night. I wonder if she knows about Hannah and the other girls who I tried so desperately to replace her with, and how they all failed. I wonder if she knows. I wonder if she even cares.

"Thank you." I struggle for breath. "You look well."

She looks better than well. Her hair is cut shorter, to curl just a little under her chin, and bangs fall gracefully in front of one eye. Her mouth looks used to laughter and those half-smirks she used to get me every time with. She still bites her fingernails. Her eyes are still gorgeous. They're so dark, midnight blue; I wonder if they were lighter before I walked in. I wonder if I make her sad.

God, Ginny, I'm sorry.

She shrugs a little. "You do, too." Her eyes linger on me, but only briefly. She's trying not to look too hard. Her eyes flick back to mine and then my leg. She's asking a silent question about my habits, but I try to become unreadable.

"So you're the substitute for Hagrid," I say, trying to keep us talking. "How did you get the Ministry to let you off work?"

"Actually, Hagrid just asked me if I would continue working as Care of Magical Creatures professor for the remainder of the year," she tells me. "He's already approved it through the Headmistress."

I nod a little, and look away. "Congratulations yourself, then."

"'Ermione, I should take ye t' yer train," Hagrid interjects anxiously.

"Why don't I get a lift with you two, then?" Her eyes never leave mine. They're burning into me, as if she's trying to read into my soul. "I'm riding on that train, anyway."

"You're doing this on purpose," I breathe. She only smiles a little in the reply.

We don't speak on the way there, but her body is constantly bumping into mine. The carriage is small – after all, it's only carrying two, instead of its usual twenty. I get the feeling she's doing this all on purpose; to taunt me, to tease me, to make me admit that I still want her, long for her, need her…

Ginny, I love you.

It would be easy, wouldn't it? But so would rejection. Silence is better. Pretending is harder, but much easier to keep digested.

We say our goodbyes to Hagrid and walk together through the wall to the Muggle platform. Silence is better, but…

"Why are you doing this?" I ask her, point blank.

"I just wanted to see you again," she says, a bit wearily. "I thought you would've come with when I invited Harry and Draco… Maybe I'll try harder next time."

We're on the train. Our compartments are on completely opposite sides of the train from each other. I start panicking internally: what if this is it? What is this, anyway?

"Well, now that you've seen me, what do you think?" I question boldly.

I become disoriented when she presses her body into me, against the door of my compartment, her breath warm against my lips. Her mouth is centimeters from mine, her eyes melt into one. Her closeness awakens the passion and need that only she has ever been able to invoke, and I'm shaking against her, afraid of what's going to happen, afraid that it might not at all.

Her only answer is to press her lips into mine, fierce and quick, tongue nudging my lips open, our breathing quick, her hands cupping my face, mine buried in her hair, that gorgeous hair, and she's making me crave more from her: our naked forms somewhere, right here, right now, pushed together, screaming into each other's mouths, calling for more, more, more…

And then she's gone. I hear and see nothing but the door of the car closing in a hurried slam. I stand in the aisle dumbfounded for a few more moments, hand pressed to my kiss-bruised lips. My eyes catch on a flash of red wrapped around my fingers. I look harder, and see strands of her hair. I grasp them tightly and retreat to my compartment, unable to find anything to push Ginny Weasley out of my head this time.

Twelve.
I see her once more when I exit the train, Hogwarts robes stuffed into my school bag. She's flagging down a cab, and gives me a pointed look: come closer. You know you want to.

My body's still on fire from our kiss. I touch my lips again unconsciously; not even my most vivid memory could reproduce this. She grins when she sees me, but I'm well aware of the red tint to her cheeks.

What do I do? It would be simple enough to cross this distance between us, get into the cab with her and let whatever happen, happen. It would be simple enough to drive myself insane with wanting her and just walk away. Wait for the next move she makes. See if she makes one at all.

How do I want to present myself? Would it be weak to go? Would it be weak not to? Does it show that I'm desperate, that I've just been waiting for her all this time, that I've never moved on? What if she's just using me? She's always been good at manipulation, getting what she wants from people without them even knowing. Maybe she doesn't even want me for anything more than sex, when she's bored, when she's horny. Maybe she doesn't know what she wants. Maybe she's trying to prove to herself that she's not in love with me anymore. Maybe this is all a game she's setting up for me to lose.

I don't think I could take another heartbreak from her. But maybe…

I can't take that chance. I cast my eyes away from her and Apparate home.