Between the Lines.
For Hermione Granger, it was all about logic. For example, she had known there was no such thing as magic; she was a smart girl. That sort of thing belonged in the fairy stories her father used to read her at bedtime. That was why when the strange owl came with the letter to Hogwarts, her entire system got a sort of electrical shock. Suddenly, all the things Hermione had been taught, had been absolutely sure of, were being challenged. She was a witch? She could do magic? What had happened to her world, and where had all the sanity gone?
But as she became immersed in it, she grew to love it. Grew to love the people in it, too—the quirky teachers, the students who laughed in the corridors between classes, and her best friends, the best, only friends Hermione had ever had. She loved the books, the spells, the classes—and she was good at all of them. She had never been stupid, never anything less than her very best, but here, it was if she were a flower being allowed to bloom—in all of her Muggle schools, any "special talents" she had, she had restrained, scared of being too different, too strange.
She learned so much at Hogwarts—about spells and magic and the world in which she belonged. But mostly, she learned about reading between the lines. She had to do it all the time. She did it with Snape: he did not write a scathing comment at the top of her paper, therefore, he was pleased with her work, but would not dare say so. She did it with the House Elves: well, honestly, they couldn't very well SAY they wanted pay if they had been taught that they were no good, could they? And most of all, most of all with anything, she did it with Ron: he called her a know-it-all, but he smiled at her like that. He said he'd rather do anything than study this stupid stuff, so he sat with her by the fire and they talked.
Yes, they all taught her a lot, more than they knew. Harry was literally her brother, the one boy she knew who loved her completely platonically, unconditionally, and without trepidation. He did not fear death, and he taught her not to fear it either, but merely to look at it, as Dumbledore had once said, "as the next great adventure." Ron was a different story—she did not understand her feelings for him, or his for her, but she did know that she loved the redheaded idiot, and she wouldn't ever stop.
And that was why when she had been surrounded, it had been the first natural thing for her to call out to him. Not to Harry, The-Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, but for Ron. Her Ron. And he came, just like she had always known he would. They had flown in separate directions now, and Hermione was glad of it—she could not bear to be near him, and not hold him, not sob over him, not have him assure her everything was all right…
"Hermione!" She jumped, startled out of her reverie, to see Ron in front of her again, his eyes panicked.
"Ron? What—? I thought we just…?"
"I'm not leaving you again," he said firmly, his face so white Hermione could hardly bear it.
"What happened, Ron?" she whispered. "What did you see?" He shook his head wordlessly, looking away from the left. Hermione turned, and stared. It appeared that Remus had found Tonks. Tonks was not moving; she was ghostly pale. Like death. She had been there for a long, long time.
"Dead," Ron whispered. Remus stayed over Tonks, and let out a piercing howl, chilling and simultaneously heartbreaking. Hermione had never wanted to cry more than she did now. Remus exploded to his feet, rage distorting his features, his wand shooting spells haphazardly left and right.
"Ok," Hermione whispered, backing up with Ron as they spotted more Death Eaters. "We'll stay together."
Ron wanted to make sure she was safe, because if he didn't, he could not live with himself.
Hermione always had been good at reading between the lines.
ooo
Reviews? Please? Next: Overlooked.