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Chapter Seven

Hermione had been up all night studying. She had rifled through every book in the library (or so it seemed by the trail of books she had left out) and showed no signs of stopping. She knew there had to be something in the library about love potions—there had to be. She was sure of it. Still, as she reached for her thousandth book of the night—well technically now it was morning—and surveyed the grim prospects it offered, she couldn't help but feel a little defeated. Maybe love potions were considered too much of a danger; they were after all one of the highest forms of necromancy. Manipulating one's emotions so that they were controlled by forces outside their own body was a serious offense. Some love potions were even dangerous, killing not only the inflicted through unrequited love, but the object of desire as well. Hermione shuddered, silently praying that it wasn't a strong potion. It may not even be real, Hermione told herself, brushing away the stray hairs that had fallen out of her hasty ponytail and now framed her face. I wouldn't put it past Fred and George to have slipped him a pretend potion of theirs—it has probably already worn off! Hermione mused to herself, but even she was having a hard time accepting that as the solution. Fred and George didn't try out their products on family members that often—that honor had mostly been reserved for Snape. Now that they didn't go to Hogwarts however, Hermione couldn't be sure who their next victim had become. They always did like teasing Ron, Hermione thought but it still didn't quite make sense. They weren't even at the pub that night.

A noise behind Hermione caused her to jump up quickly, Harry's invisibility cloak slipping from her shoulders. She went to grab it but she wasn't quick enough.

"Miss Granger?" She looked up into the stony face of Professor McGonagall. Headmaster McGonagall, Hermione corrected herself quietly. Several months into their seventh year and Hermione still couldn't quite accept the fact that Dumbledore was no longer the headmaster of Hogwarts. He had been such a large part in her schooling—he had been such a large part of the school itself—that it still seemed foreign to refer to Professor McGonagall in his place. "What are you doing here?" Hermione blushed, trying to hide the books she had pulled out with little success. They were everywhere; their self-explanatory titles giving away her intentions.

"I was going to put everything back. I—I was studying for an extra credit essay and I got a little carried away." Hermione stuttered, hurriedly scooping up an armload of books and distributing them in the correct order on the shelves. McGonagall regarded her curiously, her face poised and stately. Hermione glanced nervously from the headmaster to the books, wondering at her intentions. Dumbledore at least had never been able to conceal a smile of amusement at her antics or even a frown of discern. With McGonagall she never knew what she was in for. After a minute or two, Headmaster McGonagall turned to leave, her long black dress robes swishing around her ankles. Hermione watched her go with a feeling of confusion. No questions? No scolding? What's going on? Shouldn't I be docked points for breaking the rules or given points for being so studious? Hermione asked herself. She had never expected that it would be over just like that. She had never expected that her actions would merely be ignored.

As if sensing Hermione's discontent, Headmaster McGonagall paused at the doorway of the library, thinking something over. Finally, Hermione heard her sigh loudly, finally deciding upon a course of action. Here it comes, Hermione thought bitterly, my punishment. Instead however, McGonagall merely cleared her throat, never turning back to face Hermione. "Once you have finished cleaning up in here I would suggest you go down to breakfast. After that is finished you may come up to my office—I think you'll find more books for your," McGonagall paused, "studies."


Hermione raced through her schoolwork later that day, her mind reeling at a hundred miles per hour. She had, of course, been in Dumbledore's office numerous times, but given the circumstances to most of her visits, she had never been able to make a thorough examination of his office. She had always been too preoccupied with the fact that a) she was about to be expelled or b) Harry had just narrowly escaped some heinous death. It hadn't left much time to peruse his selected readings. Still, Hermione was sure that whatever was offered in the office would prove much more helpful than whatever the library had. Plus, McGonagall must have moved her things into the office now; she was sure to have some books containing interesting subject matter.

"—Hermione!" Hermione jumped at the sound of her name, so close at her ear. She turned to see Ron staring at her with a confused expression playing across his freckled face. She felt a pang of guilt at having neglected to tell Ron and Harry about her open invitation to McGonagall's office, figuring that she would be able to get more work done without Harry poking around for notes or images that Dumbledore left and without Ron being—well, without Ron acting like himself, love potion or not. "Hermione are you okay?" Ron asked for what was obviously not the first time. Hermione nodded quickly, mostly to shake her thoughts into place but consequently sending a shower of curls and frizz down around her shoulders.

Ron watched the scene longingly, a deep pang of lust reaching out to his friend. Hermione was just so achingly beautiful that he could hardly contain himself. He could feel a whirring in his head—like when he had seen her earlier—and focused solely on capturing her attention. He sat next to her easily, draping his arm loosely around her shoulders. Instead of the warm greeting he had expected though, he was met with a cold, dismissive glare.

"Oh come on Ron, I'm busy enough as it is without," Hermione paused, trying to assess exactly what was going on, "this." She concluded finally, shrugging his arm off her shoulders and scooting away, nearly tipping over a bottle of ink. At her resistance Ron sobered up considerably. The initial giddiness of the potion seemed to be wearing off as the tonic entered his bloodstream. Hermione had read enough about love potions to know that this was how they worked. Even the vaguest explanations of love spells had included an insertion about how they came to overtake the body, which was usually straight through the bloodstream. That way the body could never truly be rid of the potion, leaving the only method of treating it as death.

Ron stared at her; obviously wounded. Yesterday she was just as eager as I was, Ron thought to himself, hurt cascading through his body. What happened? Was it something I did? What's wrong? Hermione read the confusion behind Ron's expression easily and automatically felt terrible. She remembered reading in one of the books that most people under the influence of love spells were completely unaware of their predicaments. He has no clue why I'm turning him away, Hermione reflected remorsefully. He thinks I hate him. Hermione bit her lip determinedly to keep herself from consoling Ron. You have to be strong, she told herself, Ron will never be cured if you give in to him. Still, the urge to envelope him into a hug of comfort was almost overpowering.

It was then that Ron stepped forward, grasping Hermione roughly by the shoulders. She was so close to him that he could smell the freshness of her body. It was an oddly intoxicating medley of soap and cinnamon. A lethal combination apparently—at least to Ron. Hermione froze when he grabbed her, her features becoming guarded and questioning.

"Ron really, I don't think we should be doing this. We shouldn't—we can't—continue this type of relationship—," Hermione began but never got to finish as Ron's mouth came crashing down on hers. She reeled with surprise, wilting in his grip like a plucked flower left too long in the sun. She wanted to hate it—it's just a spell, she reminded herself—but it was so hard not to enjoy it. He tasted sweet, like pumpkin pasties and butterbeer.

Ron's hands slid from Hermione's shoulders, separating to opposite parts of her body. One hand slid down her arm and around her back, pulling her warm body against his own. The other hand slid from her shoulders to her hair, running his fingers through Hermione's wild mane. She moaned, pressing her body into his. She couldn't help taking pleasure in his touch, the feel of his heart palpitating wildly against her chest, the sensation on her scalp as his fingers massaged her temples. Ron's kiss evolved slowly, becoming hungrier and more passionate with each passing second. It was as if he were trying to take in every ounce of her body, all at once. Hermione let herself be swept away by the kiss, reciprocating his advances with pleasure. Suddenly, something in Hermione's mind clicked and she pulled away so quickly that both Ron and herself went sprawling in opposite directions. Ron let out a painful whine as if he were a whipped dog, and slapped his forehead with his hand.

"Damnit Hermione!" He bellowed, still reeling from the experience of being so forcefully ripped apart. He struggled to his feet, agitation plaguing his tone. "Damnit! Damnit! You just—ugh!" He cried, slapping at his forehead. Hermione blanched.

"Me?" She cried defensively, "You're the one who grabbed me!" Ron stood, color rising in his cheeks.

"But you—you're the one who keeps leading me on! God Hermione, you act like you like me but then you keep turning away! What the hell is going on with you?" Hermione struggled to answer, wondering if she should tell Ron her hypothesis about his current condition. She didn't want to upset him further but she felt that he aught to know. She glanced around helplessly, realizing suddenly that Harry had never even come in with Ron. This in itself was troubling. Harry was always with Ron—and was more likely to be rooted at his side 24/7 now that Ron was in potential danger. The fact that Harry had left his friend alone served to confuse Hermione.

"Where's Harry?" Hermione asked quickly before she could think of the affect of the words on Ron. Almost immediately he paled, as if suddenly seeing the truth. Then, all at once, color returned to his face in such a flash that Hermione was mildly surprised he didn'tseem dizzy or faint at the head rush.

"Harry?" Ron screeched incredulously. "Harry? Is he all you care about? Harry?" Ron's voice was becoming more irrational by the minute. "Well go then! Go to your precious Harry! God knows what he's up to! Probably saving the world or something like that!" Ron shrieked. He kept saying 'Harry' like it was a bad word or something. Hermione paled, a sick feeling rising in her stomach. She and Ron had had their fair share of rows over the past few years but none had been as bad as this. He had never just yelled and yelled at her; he had never acted so hurt.

"That isn't what I meant!" Hermione cried defensively but her cries fell on deaf ears. Ron showed no signs of letting up on his rant.

"Harry isn't here for you whenever you need him ("That's not true!" Hermione had interjected) and Harry doesn't love you like I do Hermione! He'll never be able to love you like I do!" Hermione was surprised to find that her cheeks were suddenly wet with tears.

"You don't love me Ron!" She cried, choking back sobs. She didn't want to cry in front of Ron, she didn't want to give him an excuse to take her in his arms. She knew that if she gave in now she wouldn't be able to stop any of his advances. "You can't love me! It's all fake!" Ron paused with his tirade, taking in deep, ragged breaths. He looked confused.

"Of course I love you Hermione," he said softly. "I always have." On that note, Ron turned to leave, stalking loudly out of the common room.


Hermione stared out the window, her eyes as glassy and cold as the windowpanes. Rain coated the ground, the sky drowning the school grounds with its bitter tears. A single tear graced Hermione's pale cheek, running slowly down her jaw like the raindrops running down the school building. Hermione sighed heavily, a breathy sigh escaping her lips. She pressed her head against the cool glass, resolving to stay like that until Ron forgave her—or at least spoke to her. A sudden noise from behind caused Hermione to rethink her notions as she wiped blindly at her cheeks, mopping up all evidence of her despair.

"Yes?" Hermione asked, slightly startled, turning to face the unexpected visitor. It was Harry, his slim frame swaddled in robes, filling the doorway. His breathing was loud and haggard, and he drew it in with short, choppy gasps. His hair too was a mess, poking up in all directions. Hermione stared at her friend, momentarily forgetting her earlier sorrow. Harry's robes were twisted messily around his lanky frame and his glasses stood out against his pale face like the eyes of a raccoon. Make that a rabid raccoon.

"Harry—what's wrong?" Hermione pressed, all traces of her pain having been replaced by her concern for Harry. He stared at her, shakily making his way over to a spare chair. He sat slowly, attempting to regulate his breathing. Hermione guessed that he had just come from Dumbledore's—ahem, McGonagall's—office. It was a safe assumption considering that ever since Dumbledore's death he had spent his fair share of time in there. Once when Hermione had asked him about it, he had said that McGonagall allowed him to come in sometimes when he needed to talk about Dumbledore's untimely demise, although Hermione guessed that Harry didn't just talk while in the office. After McGonagall had extended the invitation to Hermione earlier, she couldn't help but wonder if she had made the same proposition to Harry. No doubt Harry had been poking through Dumbledore's things for months, trying to decode some hidden meaning among all of it. From the looks of it, Harry's persistent digging had paid off.

"Harry—what's wrong? Are you okay?" Hermione demanded, leaning in so that she was eye to eye with him. He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. He licked his lips as if preparing to talk and then wiped absently at his mouth. His feet tapped against the cold stone floor. He was fidgety—unable to concentrate on one thing for very long. Hermione felt like shaking him to draw him back in to his senses but she guessed that it might shake him up even further. Finally, he calmed down, the mind numbing shock of his latest discovery momentarily exiting his system. He stared intensely at Hermione, so deeply that her own gaze faltered.

"Hermione," He began, his tone breathy and quiet. Hermione leaned in so she wouldn't miss whatever he was going to say. "Hermione, I—I found another horocrux."