DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this twisted so-called "plot".
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The sixteenth time Theo cast a wary glance at her, Hermione cracked.
"Yes, Ron is currently seeing Lavender Brown. I feel fine. Please stop staring at me like you're expecting me to explode."
"Sorry."
Working on ancient runes assignments with Theo was becoming a regular part of her life.
"Are you sure you're fine, though?"
"Theo," she rumbled.
"What? You can't expect me not to ask!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, alright. I wasn't fine. But now I am. Definitely fine."
"Okay."
"I sicced some murderous canaries at him."
His grin was like the cat that ate the canary. "Excellent. Hey, Hermione?"
"What?"
"I can't make sense of a single rune on this page."
"Show it here," she said, overplaying her exasperation.
And that's how Harry Potter found them some time later: in hysterics over Theo's bizarre translation of 5th century druidic tenets, which he, by some impressive means, had turned into an autobiographical account of a plimpy's search for existential fulfillment.
Harry cleared his throat – loudly – and said wryly, "Time for lunch, Hermione."
After two beats of silence, Theo was packing his books up.
"This was fun," he said with his customary waggishness, "I'll see you later." And in a move that Hermione was sure was entirely for Harry's benefit, he dropped a light kiss on the top of her head.
Harry waited until Theo had disappeared from sight, before falling into the chair he had vacated.
"Well. That was unexpected."
"Um..."
"This is brilliant! I should have known you'd come up with something like this. Could have told me though! Is he a Death Eater too? How much have you got out of him so far?"
Hermione stared at him angrily and said, "That is not what's going on here, Harry. I'm not using Theo to cement your crazy conjectures, nor to extract information."
"Oh come now. Is he a Death Eater?"
"No more than I am!"
"But his father-"
"He is not his father!"
"His father," Harry pressed on, "is fucking savage! He's right in the inner circle! Hermione, have you lost your mind?!"
"Harry Potter, Theo is not his father. That man is in Azkaban, and Theo is very glad about that. Now, if we start judging people for who their parents are, we're no better than the other side. So stop being so fucking unreasonable and trust me on this, because you know full well that I am not a naive idiot!"
She definitely wasn't using her library voice.
"... But...!"
"He's a very dear friend, okay? I will not entertain you casting such awful aspersions on his character."
Harry's mouth fell open a little. "How long has has been a very dear friend?!"
"Since... the beginning of term."
"Whaa—how on earth have I not noticed?" he demanded.
"Well, Harry, you haven't exactly been around much, have you?"
He looked endearingly sheepish at that. Regret shaded his eyes, and Hermione reached out to gently touch his arm.
"It's okay, Harry. I understand. Just lay off Theo, please? He's a good person."
He scoffed. "I don't like this."
"And you don't have to. Do you trust me, Harry?"
"Look, this isn't about that..."
"It is," Hermione urged, "I trust him, and you have to trust that I know what I'm doing. So tell me, Harry – do you trust me?"
"Yeah," he said, ruffling his hair awkwardly.
"Then leave Theo alone."
They left the library and walked slowly towards the great hall.
"Ron's going to blow a gasket, you know?"
"Ron's already blown a gasket," said Hermione dryly.
"Well he'll blow another gasket."
"Bully for him."
"Um, listen... do you think you could maybe..." he began hesitantly.
"No, Harry." Hermione's inflection was emphatic enough to get him to abandon his weak plea.
"Okay. Just promise me one thing," he ventured.
"What's that?"
"Promise me you aren't secret friends with Malfoy."
"Good god! First, I am not secret friends with anybody. Secondly... Malfoy, Harry? Are you insane?"
"I just need to be sure, Herms."
"I am absolutely not and absolutely never will be friends with Draco Malfoy. And I will not be friends with you either, if you ever call me that abominable nickname again."
Harry grinned. "Okay Herms. Sorry, Herms."
She shoved him into a particularly tacky Rococo tapestry.
"Fucking ouch, HERMS!"
Hermione was pulling her hair into a ponytail, and was determined to have it look neat – an exercise that invariably caused her arms to ache from being held aloft for a long stretch of time. She gave up when the pain got too sharp, dropping her arms and slouching her shoulders in defeat. Multiple curls simultaneously sprang loose like jacks-in-the-boxes. She knew that if her locks had faces, they would be laughing jesters.
A swarm of locusts – pardon me – a group of girls pranced into the bathroom, chattering madly. They didn't notice her standing in front of the corner sink, so engrossed were they in their discussion.
One girl with perfectly straight blond hair (who Hermione was almost sure was called Martha) had an intensely off-putting whiny undertone to her voice.
"I mean, if he just knew me, I'm sure we'd be together!"
"Oh please," said a rail thin girl with beautifully braided hair, "he wouldn't look at you twice if you approached him in toffee-covered knickers."
The rest of the girls broke into giggles, while probably-Martha scowled. The next one to speak was definitely called Romilda, and she had waves and waves of glossy black hair.
"Harry talks to me, you know. I can tell he's intrigued!" she tittered inanely, "All he needs is a little push..."
"You're sure these Weasley potions work?" asked a girl with smooth coppery curls: possibly-Viola.
"They do," replied definitely-Romilda.
"And how exactly will you make sure he gets a dose?" snarked a girl with long straight coffee coloured hair... Aisha-maybe?
"Oh, Aisha, (-ding ding ding-) I've spiked a number of little delicacies. Harry can pick whichever he likes."
"You're so lucky you're in the same house as him," grumbled probably-Martha. "I don't know how I'm supposed to get him to eat anything."
The entire lot of girls burst out laughing at the unintentional innuendo.
"Sweets, you couldn't get any bloke to eat anyt-"
"Ooh, you're such a bitch, Emily..."
Hermione had heard enough.
"Excuse me," she adapted her most prissy, commanding manner, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to confiscate those Weasley potions you're in possession of. Strictly contraband, you see."
Eight pairs of vacant eyes blinked at her in shock.
"We're not in possession of any potions," chirped possibly-Viola.
"Really?" Hermione drawled, doubtfully.
"It's true!" recently-confirmed-as-Aisha said, raising her arms, "You can check!" she gestured down her body with her chin.
More giggles ensued.
"Actually," purred definitely-Romilda, "You can get your friend Harry to frisk me."
And then they were all delirious with giggles.
Hermione sneered and left the bathroom. Once outside in the superb giggle-free passageway, she let her hair down; the erratic heap of spirals and frizz tumbled down her back, and she swore she could hear it snarling and hissing a little. But that was okay. Those girls may have lovely soft hair, but at least she had a half decent brain under hers.
Dusk was a strange time. It was such a pronouncedly in-between time, so ambiguous and murky; the rich array of blues and purples it threw out induced a deeply poignant melancholy.
Even though she was walking with Harry, having an absurd conversation about Filch and Madam Pince's alleged love affair, Hermione felt terribly alone.
She was participating in the banter, but her mind was far away. The castle lamps had been lit- luminous orbs of yellow, juxtaposed beautifully with the swaths of navy and prussian and plum that bloomed within the windows they bracketed. It was a palette worth of Van Gogh.
"I'm telling you, they're having a hot torrid affair right under our noses. Why do you think Filch trained his mangy cat to patrol the corridors at night? It's so that he could sneak into Pince's personal corridor..."
"Harry! Yuck!" Hermione gasped.
He sniggered.
At least he was making an effort these days. He'd spent the whole afternoon with her in the library. Hermione chose to believe it wasn't to watch out for Theo, or perhaps simply because Ron's mouth was attached to Lavender's, however much her pragmatic side told her that it was so.
Still... it grated. The way he had immediately assumed she was being reproachful when she sought to warn him about the squad of femme fatales panting after his... ahem, affections... had stung.
Hermione Granger: forever the nag.
She only ever felt like a tedious and sanctimonious bore when she was around Harry and Ron. Theo certainly never made her feel that way. Nor did Neville or Ginny. Even Luna, with whom she would often butt heads. And Padma...
Okay. Perhaps she should go down a couple of notches. Even Dean and Seamus seemed to think she was alright. Hermione thought it was all down to the protective sentiments Harry brought out in her. She worried for him so very intensely that it was only inevitable it would come out in her behaviour around him.
And she could never please Ron anyway.
When they arrived inside the Gryffindor common room, she found it far too full of bodies and activity. Hermione, in (vacant or in) pensive mood yearned for the bliss of solitude. To think about daffodils, or whatever.
Romilda Vane accosted Harry immediately, shoving all manner of eatables in his face.
"Told you," Hermione said, haughtily. "Sooner you ask someone, sooner they'll all leave you alone and you can-"
Down by the fireplace, Ron and Lavender were cuddled up in an armchair. She was sitting on his lap, playing with his hair, while he nuzzled her neck. Hermione's stomach clenched horrendously.
"Well, goodnight, Harry." She needed to get out of there.
The dormitory was, thankfully, deserted, and Hermione went and stood in front of the large arched window.
It was true what she had said to Harry- Ron could kiss whoever he liked. He didn't owe her anything. The unsaid pull that existed between them wasn't a promise of any sort.
She'd had a fling herself a few months back. Pete Hughes, the son of her new neighbours, a student of History at Oxford, had come home for the summer. He modelled his look on Kurt Cobain, and smoked like a chimney while quoting Chomsky. Hermione was smitten.
She didn't know where things stood with him. On their last evening together, he'd laid her out on his olive green duvet, peppered kisses down her body, and then torn her apart with his mouth. It was the lone sexual experience in her register – innocent kisses with Victor didn't really count – and it had been... wonderful. Pete hadn't asked for any reciprocation. Instead, he had simply curled up beside her and fallen asleep. She'd woken up to a packed suitcase, and a deep kiss that smelt of smoke and aftershave. And then he had gone.
Sitting on the window seat, Hermione pulled in her rampant thoughts.
The point was this: No matter how badly it shredded her heart, Ron was free to kiss whoever he wanted. He was not free, however, to treat her like dirt; like she was disposable and dispensable. He was not free to make her feel like the shittiest toerag there ever was... especially since he had the power to make her feel brighter than the brightest star in the sky.
"Oh, Sirius..." she whispered, as she spotted his namesake twinkling through the window pane. And just like that, the eternal cliché of gazing at an open sky for perspective reasserted itself.
The life and death of Sirius Black – now that was a true tragedy.
She pressed her palms against the glass. It had become dark enough outside for her to be able to see a hint of her reflection. Her face faintly superimposed onto the firmament... Hermione in the sky with diamonds.
What was that line from Thomas Hardy's poem?
White stars ghost forth, that care not for men's wives,
Or any other lives.