Harry sat, alone again, in the common room. Charms had been so uneventful. Tiny Professor Flitwick had fallen off his desk with excitement a few minutes into class, and had to go to the Hospital Wing for a broken ankle and three broken fingers. He had remained there the entire class period, in which time Harry realized how utterly immature sixth years could be sometimes.

Now, though, Harry was glad of their antics. It kept them busy, and away from him. Hermione sat brooding in the corner, her schoolwork spread over an entire table. Harry watched her carefully, noting the subtle way she brushed her hair from her eyes when she was concentrating extremely hard. He caught himself looking at her, and turned his eyes to Which Broomstick?, which was lying unopened on his lap. He stood, the magazine dropping to the floor, and headed up to his dorm.

When Harry opened the door, he expected no one to be in there, but he distinctly heard a noise coming from Ron's bed. A sound, rather familiar to Harry... the sound of a quill scratching quickly and angrily on a sheet of parchment.

"Ron?" asked Harry unsurely.

"Hm... Yeah? I'm here," answered Ron, then under his breath he mumbled, "Damn women... can't live with them..."

"Got problems, mate?" asked Harry, plopping onto his bed, reaching over, and pulling the curtains on Ron's bed. Ron sat with a sheaf of parchment on the bed in front of him, and holding another up in his left hand while furiously writing with his right.

"Girl problems. Blasted Giselle... She's met a French International Quidditch player and now she and Fleur are spending Christmas holidays with the team in there 'ski hide-away'."

"And she told you all this?" Harry said, confused.

"No, Bill did. Fleur's left him, temporarily he says, for another of the damned Quidditch players. I'm a Quidditch player!" Shouted Ron.

"I know mate, don't yell at me... So, Giselle's calling it quits, is she?"

"No!" cried Ron. "She hasn't said a word to me about it!"

"So... you're calling it quits, then?"

"Well... no," sighed Ron.

"Why not!?"

"Erm... I'm not exactly sure. She's beautiful, Harry. She's beautiful and funny, and I love when she says words wrong, and her accent's cute..."

"You love her..." answered Harry, a bit reluctantly.

"I don't think so," replied Ron. "I just don't want to be without her."

"Know what you mean, mate." said Harry, his mind drifting back downstairs to where Hermione sat studying.

"Are you still on about Hermione?"

"Of course I am..." said Harry, but really, he wasn't sure. He missed being able to stay up at night talking to her after Ron had become boring, or had fallen asleep. It didn't feel the same anymore.

"But you've got your eyes open for someone else, don't you?" asked Ron slyly.

"Not really," Harry answered quickly, as Ginny's face unwittingly flashed into his mind. It had been ages since the incident on the train, but Harry was still angry. He couldn't let himself like Ginny.

"Sure..." smiled Ron. "But... you know, about Giselle... I think I'll just tell her that I'm spending Christmas holidays with Hermione. She doesn't know Hermione's my friend. Maybe it'll make her jealous."

"Or it'll make her happy that she doesn't have to tell you about that Frenchman."

"Either way, I win," grinned Ron. Harry simply shook his head.
Draco had snuck out of the armchair shortly before Fiona came back from Charms, demanding where he'd been.

"Well, you know... here and there," he answered.

"Well, you didn't miss anything. How's Blaise?" asked Fiona, looking at Blaise's lifeless looking body, hunched over in the chair.

"Decent. She'll probably be waking up soon, d'you think she's up for going to the Great Hall for dinner?"

"I don't know why you'd care," snapped Fiona. It would take a while for her to forgive him, even if Blaise had. Though Fiona and Blaise had been friends since childhood, as had Blaise and Draco, Fiona's mother had never held much stock in Lucius Malfoy, and had never let Fiona play with Draco. The only times they'd seen each other as children were when the two of them both happened to be at Blaise's at the same time, and Fiona was certainly glad those times were few and far between. They'd never gotten along at all.

"I care because, even though you don't believe it, Blaise is my friend."

"Then treat her like one!" shouted Fiona angrily.

"Don't you shout at me, you insolent half-blood!"

"Hmm? Heard my name?" Blaise mumbled, sitting up. After a moment to clear her head and look around, she asked, "Arguing again?"

"If you weren't such an insufferable prat, I wouldn't have to shout at you! And how dare you say that to me!"

"Why? Scared of the truth?" sneered Draco.

"No, I dislike how you think you're superior, just because your pure-blood. At least my father isn't in prison."

"At least I have a father," Draco snapped.

"If I had a father like yours, I'd wish he were dead. Having no father is better than having a father like Lucius." Fiona spat.

"Got to agree with that one," said Draco, his tone conceding that he'd given up.

"Draco..."

"I'm sorry, Blaise. I didn't hear you," said Draco, turning as though she'd only just spoken for the first time. "Did you want to send for something to eat, or did you want to go down to the Great Hall?"

Blaise sat, definitely confused. Draco hadn't raged like that in ages, and he'd recovered from it so quickly. His voice when he spoke to her was sweet and affectionate, as though he actually cared what she'd say.

"Erm... I suppose I'll go down. I don't want to trouble anyone."

Draco offered her his arm, and with a quick backward glance at Fiona, he led Blaise from the room.