OMG, thanks for the reviews!

And I'm SO SORRY it's so short, but whatever.

Chapter Eight: Intelude

When the Weasleys came to pick up Hermione, she didn't tell Ron that she knew he had kissed her.

When they arrived back to the Burrow, and the Trio sat in the backyard on the picnic table, tossing around Bertie's Beans and swapping jokes, she didn't tell him.

That night at dinner, when their hands brushed while he was passing her the mashed potatoes, she didn't tell him, even though she longed to.

And at midnight, while Ginny was fast asleep and her amulet pulsed against her heart, Hermione thought of that amazing first kiss.

Oliver, meanwhile, wanted to kill the youngest Weasley boy. At dinner he clutched his meat knife a little too tightly as Ron passed Hermione the potatoes and she gave him a sweet smile. If she knew Oliver had kissed her, would she have smiled like that at him?

Probably not.

Oliver lay on the mattress, his hands tucked under his head so he wouldn't spring up and strangle Ron. Generally Oliver wasn't violent (only on the quidditch field), so he wasn't used to the urges to bash Ron over the head.

He still didn't know why Hermione thought it was Ron. She was a logical girl, and must have known that Mrs. Weasley wouldn't have let Ron out of her sight after the attack.

But love is blind.

No, dammit. He thought. This isn't love. This isn't love.

Is it?

NO, DAMMIT.

I hope not.

Hermione was asleep, dreaming again and again of that kiss, and the jolt of electricity, and the soft hair on her bare forehead, and glow of brown eyes between her fluttering lashes.

Those were perfect eyes. Deep chocolate, soulful eyes.

The amulet was pulsing harder on her chest, almost moving with the force of the light, and Hermione felt strange. She was sweating, and her heart was racing, then slowing, then racing again.

Was she falling in love? And if she was, was it with Ron or with his kiss?

Oh, that kiss.

Perfection. She could feel her whole life with that.

Ron was asleep, dreaming about potatoes.

Harry was not asleep, but very still, with his breathing even. When he was little, and still in the cupboard under the stairs, he used to amuse himself by seeing how long he could stay still, and keep his breathing even. He used that now.

Two seconds in, three out. Two in, three out.

If he didn't watch himself, he would jump up and race out to check on Hermione, to make sure no one had tried to attack her.

She was his sister.

When she had collapsed, he had stopped for a moment. Everything. His heart, his mind, his body. All of it shut down as the snake had withdrawn her fangs, and Hermione had gotten that funny look on her face.

It's my fault, he thought. All of it.

Albus Dumbledore sat in his study, watching the swirling gold machines. Voldemort was getting stronger everyday. He hadn't told anyone that four Order members were dead after being tortured for information. Magically, they were protected.

But Voldemort used Muggle things, pincers and tweezers and little scalpels to twist away the flesh, so when he asked his questions they raced to answer.

But no one could know.

The moral would dive. Everything would take a nosedive. He couldn't (wouldn't) let Voldemort get to his people.

And Tom Riddle stared into the stone grave of his daughter, Gemma Riddle.

Well, this was my interlude. Like a peek into everyone's head.

It's short, but at least I updated, right?