Entwined Love

Chapter Two

Hermione looked around again, still unable to believe her eyes. The room was softly illuminated by a number of candles floating along the walls, their flickering flames making shadows dance on the deep red backdrop. The ceiling and floor were dually ornate, all mahogany and gold. It reminded her a bit of the Gryffindor common room, actually, though devoid of anyone but herself. She supposed it was comfortable, but there was no warmth from a fire nor squashy armchairs nor vast windows showcasing the Hogwarts grounds.

She looked down at herself, oddly expecting to look different—how, she didn't really know—but there was no visible change she could see. Same shoes, same uniform, same black robes.

Glancing around the room to take in more of her surroundings, she noticed a large, oval mirror half-hidden by cobwebs. "Diffindo," she murmured, her spell effectively vanishing the spiders' work.

Again she expected to see something altered, but again there was nothing. Her hair was perhaps a bit frizzier from the harrowing travel, but otherwise, all was the same. She sighed, half-thinking she could perform the same spell she had for the Yule Ball to straighten her hair out, but dismissed it. She wasn't here to look nice; she was here to help Harry.

She picked up her book bag that was filled to the seams with whatever materials she could fit into it—better safe than sorry, she always said—including a few potion ingredients she hadn't used. Figuring she wouldn't need them here, at least not for the immediacy, she placed them on a table beside her.

Somehow she knew where she was, that the potion ingredients would be in the same spot if she returned. The room looked nothing like the versions she'd seen in times past, but the air of mystique was the same. As before, she could almost feel the hundreds, thousands even, of other appearances this room had depending on the person. Although it wouldn't happen for many years to come, she could envision the room substantially emptier, with chests and mirrors and all other manners of magical objects scattered about; filled with students intent on usurping Professor Umbridge; transparent Patronuses darting about, harmless for the moment but fierce in front of a Dementor.

The Room of Requirement.

Harry finally stood up from the now imprinted sofa as the previously raging fire dimmed down to glowing embers. He had been vaguely aware of the people passing to and from their destinations, some bidding him hello, others feeling it best to leave him alone. Even his best friend, Ron, had been one of the smart to let him wallow in his sadness and desperation. Still, in his time to think, there were times he wished there were someone there to talk to him, or just listen to his problems.

Like Hermione, Harry thought, caught in between doldrums and realization that, really, he never had given her enough credit. People seemed to only view her as brainy, and not as someone who would tell you all the right things to make you feel better.

He frowned then, suddenly aware that he hadn't seen her since the library. It's not like the three of them exactly kept tabs on where one another was every hour of every day, but he couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't just meandering around the castle. In his mind, he replayed their earlier conversation, noticing this time that her face had been more analyzing and calculating than normal. What this meant he didn't know, but she had seemed a bit too determined to help him get over his moodiness.

He hated to jump to conclusions—for that matter, he didn't even have a conclusion, just a feeling, which was worth jack squat—but he had a decent track record in the hunches department.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself. He hardly dared to imagine what she could have gotten herself into on his behalf. The rational part of his mind (what was left of it anyhow) told him he was more than overreacting, but the rest of him decided there wasn't any downside to being concerned.

"Ron!" he yelled suddenly, easing himself up from the chair. Hermione was his best friend, too, after all; even if nothing had happened to Hermione, he wouldn't want to be left unawares. No matter how little a feeling it was that Harry had, he would want to know.

A moment passed and then Ron came ambling down the stairs, yawning. "Yeah?" he asked, coming to a stop opposite Harry. He too frowned when he noticed the ailed look on Harry's face. "What's going on?"

Harry hesitated for just a second, wondering if perhaps he should have decided to deal with this on his own. It was him, in any event, that would have caused her to go and do something drastic, not Ron.

That thought died immediately though, and he said quietly, "It—It's Hermione."

Ron stared at him blankly; Harry hated that expression. It was so unpredictable. Whether red would flush up his face in anger and he would start yelling, or whether it would blanch and he'd sit down with his head in his hands. In this particular scenario, either would be expected.

Harry didn't have to wait long, however, to find out which one. "What about Hermione?" Ron asked with a bite to his words.

"It's probably nothing," Harry said placatingly. Seeing Ron was having none of that, he continued with a sigh, "She's—She's gone. I think. I haven't searched the castle or anything, but I have a bad feeling." Ron continued to stare at him, eyes narrowing. "We were in the library a while ago, and I was having trouble with that Transfiguration essay, and she was trying to make me feel better about it. She just—I don't know, now I think back on it she looked like she might be wanting to do something drastic."

"Drastic like what?" Ron asked skeptically.

"Dunno," replied Harry, sitting back down in the armchair distractedly. Ron mirrored his actions, his muscles tense.

"You don't know," repeated Ron, staring at his best friend. "What do you mean you don't know? You can't just drop something like that, say you think she's—she's disappeared, and then say you don't know!"

Harry slightly nodded his head—Ron had a point. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have mentioned it in the first place. I'm sure it's nothing. She's probably just practicing in an empty classroom or something."

"At eleven at night?"

Harry's eyebrows rose and he looked at the clock on the wall which read quarter-past. He hadn't realized it'd gotten so late. "Er…maybe?"

"Well we need to find her then, don't we!" Ron exclaimed. Harry winced at the volume; he hoped the entire dormitory didn't awaken.

"Where do you suppose we start, Ron?" Harry asked at a loss. "Never mind that she might just be fine, how do you figure we should go about looking for her?"

"You tell me," Ron snaps. "You're the one who obviously said something to her to make her want to go off on some pity mission!"

Harry clenched his jaw. "That's not fair," he said. "I care about her just as much as you do. I want to find her just as much as you do."

A slight bloom of pink appeared in Ron's cheeks, and for a split second Harry wondered if perhaps his statement was wrong, if perhaps Ron cared about her a bit more than he did. Or, at least, in a different capacity.

"We could check the library I guess," proposed Harry. "Hope that maybe she left a book there that could help us."

Ron merely shrugged in terse agreement.

"I'll get the cloak."