Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.

...

3: Spark

The Fat Lady slows us down when the staircases did not. I am hunched over, my hands on my skirt-covered knees, gasping and trying to regain lost oxygen from running up a whole sevenfloors. 'You, girl, look awful,' she says. I stare at her. 'Your hair looks like brambles and your skin… what an odd colour!'

'You—' I say through gritted teeth. I puff heavily and look at the twins. I am glad to see their fists clenched.

The Fat Lady looks at her nails. 'I imagine you can't sing, either. Disgraceful.'

'Excuse me?' I retort.

'That's our friend you're insulting there,' George cautions. She turns her old, ugly eyes to the twins and I smile at their chivalry, but then I can only think of that photo, of trying to breathe, of getting into shape if I am going to war one year.

'Not forgotten what Gryffindors are known for, have you?' asks Fred warningly.

She sticks her nose in the air and asks, 'Password?' in her old, croaky voice that she thinks sounds regal.

'Animus,' George answers and the Fat Lady nods stiffly, her door swinging inwards. I stumble over the stone portal after the twins' loping gaits.

'Where is it?' I pant to Fred. We do not travel far.

'What the bloody hell?!' It is Ron's yelling and cursing, coming from the boy's dormitories, very, very loud. I do not think as I rush forward through the common room, throw open the door and start leaping up the stairs, probably looking like a crazy cat-lady as I notice Crookshanks' orange blur in my peripheral vision. I can hear Fred and George at my heels, chuckling whilst they run.

They think this is funny?! I slow down so they can pass me, slapping my hands against the stone walls of the tower's spiral staircase, because I have not a clue where I am going. They fly through the fifth door and I fall through after them.

We manage to arrive in a record time of less than ten seconds, skidding to a halt at the turmoil before us. Ron is staring at the photo in horror, his tight grasp crinkling the edges and his short, flaming red hair standing on end. He looks up as we burst through and locks his eyes on me. 'Is this true?' he bellows, holding it up and shaking it. 'This really happened?'

I am frozen, deliberating whether to lie and say I do not know what he is talking about, tell the truth, that I have fancied the Quidditch jock since third year, or accuse Fred and George of a rather harsh joke, all this even though I have no clue what the photo actually looks like.

The twins are not focused on Ron, however. Their Weasley Wizard Wheezes box is open on the table between their two outrageously decorated beds with its contents strewn across the floor in a jumbled mess. 'What the bloody hell are you doing in our stuff, Ron?' Fred yells. George shouts out his indignation at such a violation of their property and the two rush around the central fireplace, shoving Ron out of the way and stumbling forward. They bend to pack it all up, shooting glares at their raging brother.

'I was just looking for some new Extendable Ears when I find this! This… this… thing! It is true?' He grasps the picture in his hand and stares at me with his blue eyes dark like a thundering sky, and I feel the rock in my stomach turn into a knot and that knot tighten.

But I decide to stand up for myself, be a Gryffindor and be brave. I raise my chin, haughtily summoning the photo to me with Accio and watch as it is wretched away from Ron's slack grasp. My eyes scan it briefly. Oliver and I, the afternoon after Harry fell from the Dementors, running through the rain. My hand is in his and when we stop, he turns to me, and that look... that look was when I...

'Well?!'

'What do you think you are doing going through Fred and George's private things?' I snap, folding the photo carefully and placing it in my skirt pocket. Ron is silent as he glowers. I continue in a low voice to ask, 'Something to say, Ron? Can't handle the truth?'

Fred and George stop their packing, their heads shooting up to look at me from the floor surprise. I wink to them as Ron moves to close the door. I turn to keep him in my gaze, watching as he paces around the central fireplace.

There is a pregnant pause as the wheels turn in his head. Then he explodes, listing off all the things that are wrong with Oliver, and how my involvement would make them worse. Fred and George have finally remembered their magical abilities and are now sitting on their beds, leaning back against the headboards with their ankles crossed and I am getting tired of standing up for such a long lecture, the absence of adrenaline leaving me drained. So, when Ron arrives to his fourth point, yelling, 'Oliver's not even at school. A long distance relationship? Please!' I motion for George to move his feet over and sit at the end of his bed. He smiles as I sink gratefully into the mattress and absently listen to Ron tramp around the circular room so much that I am surprised he is not dizzy.

Eventually, he notices that I am not standing up anymore, but sitting platonically with his brothers and looking through their files. He stomps over, 'What the hell are you doing?'

I turn the parchment over, casually shrugging while listening to the twins trying to stifle their sniggers. 'Waiting for you to grow up.'

'I'm the same age as you!'

'You're acting like a three year old!' I yell, throwing the file to George and jumping up, advancing toward him. 'Holding a room hostage with a temper tantrum when you don't get your own way is not the way to go. I don't need your approval because it's my life and not yours!' I push him backwards. 'As my supposed best friend I'd expect you to understand that.'

He rights himself from where he had fallen against the bars of the metal fireplace and accuses, 'If I was your best friend, how come they knew before me? Or Harry, huh?'

'Because we're much smarter than you, Ronnikins,' Fred speaks up behind me, 'and Harry hasn't exactly been around much, has he?'

Ron scowls harder. He has always been wary of his brothers and the constant pressure to relive their glory days, how he can never seem to be good enough. Though getting Prefect was a worthy achievement, was it not? 'This is what you've been doing while we've been busy trying to stay alive, is it Hermione? Reeling in any hot-blooded male toward you and your bed?'

Where did that come from?

The twins are either side of me now. I can hear their heavy breaths and I know their fists are clenched at their sides. Without taking my eyes off the teenager before me, I put a hand out to each side as they step forward, stopping them and whispering, 'Let him speak.'

'Under her charm, are you?' Ron laughs something hollow, bitter and empty that seems so foreign coming out of his mouth. 'Oliver sure isn't. Saw him talking to Katie Bell this afternoon. Looked pretty cosy.'

How can things turn so wrong so quickly?

'Get out,' the twins seethe. I cannot speak, my breath coming out in shallow gasps, my eyes to the floor. It's not true, it's not true, don't cry. You insecure girl, it is nothing. He's lying… Ron nods to them and, laughing, throws the door open.

I snap my eyes up at a screech and a burst of orange fluff as Crookshanks launches through the opening, attacking Ron's face, his hands, scratching and scraping with his sharp claws. 'Get off, you stupid furball!' he yells.

I rush around their tussle to stand with my back to the door and watch the spectacle for a moment in a kind of grim pleasure as Crookshanks works destruction. Fred and George are cheering, moving to stand behind me, yelling, 'Get him, Crookshanks! You bloody wicked cat!'

'Stop hurting him!' I squeal as Ron starts to beat Crookshanks with his fists.

'Get it off! Get it off! Get it off me!'

Then, almost reluctantly, I allow Ron a loud and clear proposition. 'If you stop acting like such a baby, you might see something else!' I yell haughtily.

'All right! All right!' His frantic declaration is muffled against the cat on his face. 'Just get the mangy thing off me!'

I regard him for a moment, before sighing and asking my half-kneazle to remove his claws, saying, 'Come on, my dear Crookshanks, that's enough.' He is a marmalade blur that jumps and runs under the nearest bed, his large, yellow eyes glinting in the shadows. 'Now, apologise and swear not to breathe a single syllable about your findings.'

Ron scrambles up and stares indignantly at the three of us. His hair stands on end, scratched fingers shakily running through it and his pale face is a mess of red and raw cuts. 'Tell a soul,' Fred says from behind me, 'and you'll have more to worry about than a half-crazed cat.'

Ron's eyes are shifting between us, his body poised for a fight. 'Oh, Ron,' I snap, crossing my arms. 'Go to Madam Pomfrey already. She'll have some ointment for you and your scratches.'

'Sure thing, Malfoy,' he mutters as he pushes past us, intentionally hitting George's shoulder with his own. The door closes and I immediately feel drained. I collapse on Fred's bed and look up at the star-charmed canopy. 'You like stars, Fred?' I muse absently after a moment, staring up at them. Tears are wet on my cheeks. Where did they come from?

'Great for the imagination,' he says, sitting down next to me to wipe the tears away. 'George's got clouds. Did you see them?'

'Y-yes... very n-nice.' I roll over, away from them so they cannot see me cry and hear the photo crumple in my pocket. I am suddenly awash with anger at Ron, anger at myself and an infinite depression that seems to ensnare whatever hope I had. Must be PMS, I think absently. Fred lays a hand on my shoulder and I turn to see he and George, who is sitting on his bed, looking at me pensively. I narrow my eyes and wipe more tears away. 'What?'

'He's lying, you know.' George says quietly. 'Oliver might have been talking to Katie, but he doesn't fancy her, and she doesn't fancy him either.'

I do not ask how they know what Oliver does and does not like. Tears are still streaming down my face, tears that do not seem to stop. 'Why are you two so nice to me?' I sob, burying my face in Fred's pillow. 'I'm nothing but horrible to you… try to stop you killing yourself with your Puking Pastilles by being bossy… I don't understand.'

George grins. 'We know you're just jealous.'

'I am not!' I huff, bolting up, and almost hit my head on the wooden headboard.

''Course you are,' Fred says, patting my shoulder. I lie back down and curl on my side, clutching his pillow in my fist. Its familiar smell is comforting. 'But we've decided last night to remedy that problem and let you help us, like you did with the Ears.'

'And in return, we get you Oliver. It's a fair deal.' George's blue eyes twinkle from under his fringe as he beams.

I am rather doubtful that it is fair, or that I want Oliver to know, but with these two on my case there is not much choice. And before, I cannot believe that I acted as if Oliver was somehow promised to me. What kind of person would do that, take away the choice from another person, imply something untrue in such a rotten situation? I was just as in the wrong as Ron was.

'Did you see the photo?' Fred asks. I nod and pull it out. 'See what we see?'

He turns to me and that look... That was the day I fell in love with him.

'Yeah,' I say hoarsely. George rubs my back. 'I see it.' I put it away, back into my pocket. The memory gives me my rebirth.

Sighing, I ask, 'What's the time?' George reaches into his inner cloak pocket and produces a bright gold pocket watch and shows it to me. The hands circling the face are bells, like those of a joker's hat, on a blue background. 'Five in the evening,' I mutter, sitting up.

'Good, we're starving.'

'I am more,' Fred mutters. 'Least you got to finish your sandwich.'

'I'm still starving!'

'And so am I!'

'You both just ate,' I cry, astounded at the male ability to digest food so fast. The twins forget their quarrel and pat their stomachs.

'Ron's always been a bit of a handful. We were about to give him two knuckle sandwiches before you stopped us. And we did it right out of the goodness of our hearts.'

'Ickle Ronnikins better watch his back,' George threatens darkly. He moves, kneels beside the bed and takes my hand while Fred drops from the bed, kneels and takes the other. 'He was one step away from calling you a… you know.'

My mouth sets hard, and I look down at their hands, Umbridge's sadism still a strong scarlet. 'A slut, I know.' I burst into tears.

'Right. He's dead.'

'No!' I cry, grabbing onto their shoulders. 'I just… it's not even that. I'll get over it.'

The twins nod solemnly. After a moment, Fred says, 'We think you should tell Harry.'

'I will,' I promise. 'Why… Why is no one bursting in the door? He was louder than a mandrake!'

'Oh, that. Silencing charm. Not surprised you didn't hear it, are we Fred?'

'Not at all. He's as good as yelling as he is at ignoring the need for table manners. We know that's what gets us girls.'

I grin at that and suddenly my stomach rumbles. 'I'm famished,' I say, looking down in surprise.

Fred and George jump from the floor and hold out their arms. 'Then let us escort you!'

I smile as they pull me off the bed and take my hands. They wipe the rest of the tears away, assure me I look more than presentable, and I allow myself to be pulled down the spiral staircase. Crookshanks follows after us, slinking low to the ground and purring.

-x-x-x-

Dinner was a sordid affair. Ron kept shooting glares at me from across the table and Harry was unusually quiet. Something was not quite right in the way he pushed his food around with his fork. He seemed pensive, not sad or angry as he so often was this year, simply pensive. Oliver was nowhere to be seen and I was glad when it was over.

Now, at seven o'clock, sitting at the library's back table and finishing off a book about human transfiguration before it closes, I am free from glares, idiots and attractive Quidditch jocks and am surrounded by the smell of new parchment, old books and, most of all, knowledge. No distractions from my work.

A loud crash sounds from the library's entrance. I poke my head out from behind my tower of books and parchment and watch a male, slightly tall with brown hair and a dark blue cloak, pull themselves up from the floor, and find myself scowling at the interruption of the peace. I am not the only one: Madam Pince has her sharp nailed hands on her hips and her feather duster clenched tight in her fist and her black hair in its extremely tight bun shines menacingly. I consider myself lucky that I am not on the receiving end of her wrath. She looks like a raven Medusa.

Though, this is a library.

Just as quickly does that thought appear that it vanishes and is replaced by a deep desire to apparate as far away as possible: Oliver Wood is in the library. In fact, Oliver Wood is less than five metres away. Blushing behind my fort of books, it briefly crosses my mind that he could be looking for me… it is quickly squashed. Looking for me? Now that is a laugh.

'Hello.'

I suppress the urge to squeal.

'I'm looking for a book.' He is standing next to the table, peering at me over the tower.

'We,' I clear my throat, trying to lower my voice an octave. 'We have a librarian.'

Oliver smiles and rubs the back of his neck. 'Yeah, we sure do. Though, Fred and George told me you sleep here and I thought you, rather than the librarian, were my best bet.'

'Fred and George are lying,' I say, managing to breathe enough to uncurl my shoulders and sit taller, holding my hands tightly. 'Contrary to popular belief, Madam Pince does not have a bed in the back for me. She wouldn't tolerate it, at any rate.'

'She is rather strict,' he laughs, his hands disappearing into the folds of his cloak. 'I thought she might beat me with her feather duster for a minute there.'

The words fall out before I can catch them and I ask, 'Are you okay?'

There is a pause where he seems to look me over, and I shift slightly in my seat under his intense gaze, my stomach on the floor, my mind crying, stupid, stupid, stupid. My blush has crept from my neck to my cheeks, a deep, slightly blotchy red that makes me look flushed and hot. Oliver's eyes flick again and he clears his throat. 'Yeah, thanks. About that book. Don't worry,' he adds quickly, mistaking the twist of my lips from nerves for a grimace, 'nothing 'bout Quidditch. It's a novel, I think. Arnold Hunterberry's Godsend. Heard of it?'

Thankful for the distraction from his close proximity and the butterflies flitting about in my stomach, I ponder for a moment before smiling and crying, 'Oh! Yes I have, read it, that is.' I rise and try not to touch him as I talk. 'Action adventure wizarding novel, protagonist Edwin. Rather nice characterisation.'

'Good book?' he asks, grinning at my enthusiasm. I look at him and note his laughing eyes that dance with mirth.

I have to turn away. 'I'll show you,' I say and we walk in silence and I hear every sound he makes, the thudding of his big boots, the rustle of our cloaks, my tight breathing, even his breathing when we stop and he seems to be alarmingly close. If I stepped back, I would run into him. If I moved my knee, it would brush his and if I turned we would be close enough that I could lean forward to kiss him and he me. And yet, since we are at the small wizard novels section, dwarfed by the masses of non-fiction texts of the Hogwarts library, I step away to bend down and search for the author. I pull it out when I find it. 'Here you go,' I say, proud of myself for not stuttering, and hold it out for him.

I am back to a bundle of nerves as his fingers brush mine and my breath hitches. Oliver says, 'Thanks,' and pauses.

We do not move and I quickly lower my gaze. This is different than with Harry or the twins or Ron, even Viktor last year against these shelves.

'Are you coming to the game this Saturday?' he asks. Now I do look at him. A small smile touches his lips.

I nod, trying to quell the blush on my cheeks unsuccessfully. 'Who isn't?'

'Yeah, good point. Well… I'll – er – see you there.' He clears his throat and strides away, clutching the book. Dazed, I manage to stumble back to my table and fall into the seat. It is almost eight o'clock when Madam Pince rings her bell, signalling any stragglers to get out of her domain or, Merlin help her, they may not make it out alive. And what have I been doing all this time? Staring out the window through glazed eyes with my chin resting on one hand, an elbow propped up on the table, and my mind on replay of those last events, enough for me to come to the conclusion that I am an idiot. Or, someone smart who is easily tongue-tied. Maybe shy. I pack up and try to ignore Madam Pince's thin, vulture-like face and her withering stare as I hurry away.

In the corridors, I decide I need to talk to Harry.

-x-x-x-

Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading.

-AA-