Disclaimer: Hehehehehehe, me no own anything...hehehehehe...

Dear, dear readers! We're sooooo sorry we haven't written in so long! If it makes you feel any better, chapter 12 is already written!

Anyways, between homework and volleyball and track and squerills...u know how it is, there's just not much time for life. It's been so great writing Harry and friends again! We heart them!

Blah...not much else to say. We're sorry! We may/may not update soon-but it will be in the next month!

CHAPTER 11

HarryRingo sat in the library, looking a bit on the downside. "I can't believe Snape gave us so much homework on the first day back! It's bloody murder!"

"I know! And with Quidditch starting soon…" Ron trailed off after seeing the look on HarryRingo's face. The poor, sad little hero still didn't know if he could play Quidditch.

Hermione, on the other hand, seemed to have much more free time than the two idiot delinquents. Why? Who would know? Maybe it was because she actually concentrated on her work, or maybe it was because her hair magically absorbed her class-work, or maybe some special conscious reason we don't hear about until chapter 58 and a half. Who knows? And how is it relevant to the story?

"I've been thinking, Harry…" said Hermione.

"Well, that's new," mumbled Ron, rolling his eyes, which it actually wasn't, and he was just being stupid.

"Ahem," Hermione ignored Ron," I've been thinking, Harry, you have so much publicity, Harry," continued Hermione, pausing to pose for one of the paparazzi who had just poked out from behind a nearby bookcase," with you being the boy-who-lived and recently incarnated Beatle…you should give back to the community. And S.P.E.W. could use a celebrity backing it up," said she solemnly.

Harry looked thoughtful. As thoughtful as a self-absorbed teen can get. Without thinking about acne or girls or chainmail.

Ron was disgusted. "Harry, you're not going to support spew, are you? Of all the stupid things…"

Harry looked confused. "Wh-what? I was thinking about chainmail…"

Hermione sighed patiently and repeated her suggestion.

Harry nodded. "Hm…I agree with you, Hermione. I've been meaning chainmail to distort my public chainmail image into that of a caring, loving, miss-understood chainmail celebrity instead of the angst-ridden teenager I really chainmail have chainmail been for a long chainmail time chainmail now." Harry's eye twitched.

The other two looked at him oddly.

He smiled, "But let's call together a DA chainmail meeting though; we'll want to know the Public's chainmail opinion."

That said, he put on a pair of sunglasses (as to confuse the media) and stalked spastically out of the library (the Potters don't strut), leaving Hermione and Ron alone. He twitched every now and then.

A minute of awkward silence ensued, in which Hermione pretended to be very intent on finishing some of her knitting, and Ron just sat there, as he often does, and looked stupid. He felt out of place(and stupid) and pretended to be occupied(and not stupid, which was difficult, because he was stupid). Finally he couldn't take it any longer.

"I can't take it any longer!" he shouted. "Hermione, there's been something I've been meaning to tell you for a long time." He fumbled on his words. "I, well, I didn't want to tell you in front of Harry. I thought it might be a bit embarrassing to me…to us...to you…to…him…them…me?" He grimaced and paused, attempting to remember last year's damned grammar lessons.

"Yes, Ron?" said Hermione tentatively, gazing romantically into his green/blue eyes (what color are they?) and puckering her lips ever so slightly.

"I've been sure about it since the beginning of last summer. I wasn't sure before…I mean, I kind of knew. Maybe I was just avoiding the fact. But after leaving you that summer, I couldn't pretend any longer. I just can't keep this kind of feeling inside."

Hermione smiled, "I think I've known all along."

Ron looked a bit disgruntled. "Oh. Oh, ok. Good. Um, 'mione?"

"Yes, Ron?" Hermione was positively auditioning for a place as a Victoria's Secret model.

"Erm…will you?"

"Oui, Ronalde?"

"Will you?"

"Yes, Yolanda…I mean, Ronniekins?"

Ron glanced about nervously, his face red, then hissed, "Will you give me a new DA coin? I lost mine at King's Cross, and it looks like I'll be needing a new one."

"I DO!"

The awkward teenager jumped and then looked around nervously, as several people were staring at the bushy-haired girl who had just apparently attacked him, leaping from her seat and enclosing him in a huge bear embrace. And stayed there. And stayed there. And stayed. The people seemed just as startled at this PDA as he was.

Ron struggled to breathe. "Um…so, can I have it, then?"

"Have what?" said Hermione dreamily, sounding much like Luna. She gasped excitedly. "Ooo…have it?"

Ron looked mildly alarmed. "Erm…The DA coin. Can I have the DA coin?" He struggled against her vice-like grip. "Hermione, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

Puzzled and then angered by this terrifically complete and utter failure at romance, Hermione let go of Ron, slapped him, and took a gold coin out of her bag, throwing it at him. It hit him in the forehead, giving him a temporary scar in the shape of a yellow submarine. She grabbed her books and left the table, leaving behind a thoroughly bewildered Ron.

A few passing students noticed Ron's temporary scar and gasped. "Look! HarryRingo dyed his hair and got his face smashed in! I WANT AN AUTOGRAPH!"

More students stopped, then began screaming as well, rushing down onto the terrified HarryRingo impersonator.

Hermione stopped a few feet later, at the large archway that led into the main hall. She turned around, and Ron-who-was-not-HarryRingo noticed a few dramatic tears lingering on her face, but couldn't hear them in her voice when she shouted to him over the screaming mass of HarryRingo fans, which is an amazing feat. She must have had lessons from Harry. "I like Harry, Ron, and he likes me! And he's much more handsome then you!" She turned, flipping her abundance of hair, and stalked out of the Great Hall. It may be advantageous at this time to mention that Hermione's stalking is not at all like HarryRingo's stalking, because HarryRingo is very strange and his style of walking, and, indeed, going about anywhere, is interestingly unique and should be given its very own name and home somewhere safely on a deserted island far, far away. As a matter of fact, the authors may have already been beaten to the deed. The term is generally known as insane.

However, it may not be particularly advantageous at this time to mention that Harry was at that moment more than a little drunk and snogging a fifth year in the astronomy tower while visions of chainmail floated through his head…but let's not put Hermione in a worse state. God knows what might happen.

Millions of miles (or was it a few inches?) away, Tom Riddle was having his own girl problems. Well…they were not so much problems as…hurricanes…

"NO!" Bellatrix shrieked. She hurled her goth hairbrush at the supreme Dark Lord Voldemort, who at that very moment was frantically attempting to burrow a hole in the solidly ignorant wall underneath a darkly ornate table. The hairbrush hit him firmly on his terrified derriere, and he squeaked shrilly.

"NO, DAMN YOU!" Bellatrix screamed. "HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU! YOU DON'T OWN ME, RIDDLE! I'M NOT JUST ONE OF YOUR MANY TOYS! DON'T YOU SAY I CAN'T GO WITH OTHER BOYS!" Veins stood out on her neck and spit flew from her mouth.

Harry Potter's arch-nemesis huddled under the table, shivering with terror. He had tortured and killed hundreds, ordered the deaths of a thousand more, established his reputation as a legendary figure of dark lore that would linger for all of eternity, but when it came to hormonal females, he was a kid with a squirt gun. A terrified kid with a squirt gun. A terrified, scared-shitless kid with a suddenly wimpy-looking and stomach-churningly diminutive, plastic squirt gun. Made in China. With a crack in the side. That kinda sputtered weakly even though you squeezed the damn cheap trigger till you were buff enough to pass as a steroid addict. Damn. Where was I?

Voldemort flinched painfully as Bellatrix threw her head back and let out a truly terrifying howl of anger. The noise seemed to pierce his skull like a red-hot poker, and he clamped his trembling hands to his ears, half-expecting his fingers to meet blood. He rolled over from his protective fetal position, breathing hard, his eyes wide. "Belly, honey, I didn't mean to suggest-"

Bellatrix's facial complexion turned from a lovely, hearty cherry-red, to a dark and sultry rose-crimson. "DIDN'T MEAN? DIDN'T MEAN? WHY, YOU BASTARD! YOU DON'T OWN ME! DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO SAY! AND WHEN I GO OUT WITH YOU, DON'T YOU DARE PUT ME ON DISPLAY! CUZ YOU DON'T OWN ME, RIDDLE, WHATEVER THE BLOODY HELL YOU THINK YOU CAN ACHIEVE SIMPLY BECAUSE YOU'RE THE MOST TERRIFYINGLY POWERFUL LORD OF DARKNESS EVER TO TERRORIZE THE WORLD OF MAGIC! I DON'T CARE IF LUCIUS IS MARRIED! HE IS MINE! EVEN HE ADMITS IT! IF YOU WANT A GIRLFRIEND, GO SNOG…GO…GO SNOG…" Bellatrix paused, searching for something truly scathing, and then smiled wickedly. "GO SNOG GRANGER."

Moldie Voldie burst into tears.