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.

...

6: Oxygen.

I elbow my way through the crowd after breakfast, trying to stay close to Ginny, Neville and the rest of our Gryffindor year. They are less than three metres ahead, but it is so hard to keep up while I am constantly being pushed back. 'I'll—' I call, but stop when I know I have no chance of being heard. I am being pushed and shoved by the excited student body, so, somewhat angrily, I retreat to stand under the tall, wooden benches and wait for the crowd to pass. I will fight them later; Ginny will save me a spot at the front.

Breakfast was strange. The team is obviously feeling the pressure to keep the Cup, and not only earning pointed looks from years one to seven, but beyond as well; Oliver was reciting to Ron last minute reminders and secret tricks of the Keeper trade. I had been listening to his deep voice, something, I am ashamed to say, is very definitive in my mind, and shook my head when he advised, 'Loop the hoops and, when they're close enough, loop the Slytherins too. Give 'em a good shove if Hooch isn't watching. A little kick won't hurt 'em either…' Ron did not regain any colour to his grey face.

But more than his voice was his ogling. When he was not living through Ron or Harry or Angelina, Oliver's stare was fixated upon me, absolutely shameless from across the table. I wondered just what it was Fred and George said to make him so confident. I refused to stop eating and reveal my heated cheeks, not even when Angelina came and hurried them all off, her voice stunted as if she were nauseous. 'Let's check out conditions and change.' Oliver brushed past, closer than necessary, and I definitely felt the teasing tug left on my red and gold scarf. All I saw was porridge. I encouraged Ron, though I did not feel very hearty, and loyally warned Harry about the horrible badges, giving them each a kiss on their cheeks and my wish for their good luck.

Then I sat to finish my porridge and decided that maybe I should not be sitting at the Gryffindor table, wearing Gryffindor colours with Gryffindor friends, eating Gryffindor food. I do not feel brave. Not brave at all.

I can see the front of the changing rooms from here. Harry and Ron are no where in sight and I am not sure that is a good thing. Ron has me worried because he is so backwards today. It must be chaos in there. I would bet five whole galleons that Angelina is trying, borderline hysterical, to reassure them that the Cup is still within Gryffindor's grasp in her pre-match talk. I briefly wonder where Oliver is before I see him running back and forth behind the change rooms. I stare. He slows to a stop when he sees me and lifts his hand in a wave and I wave back, praying he thinks my blush is the cold, wondering why he is so friendly. We smile at each other, stupidly until he shakes his head and disappears. I stare at the spot where he was, simultaneously near and far.

'Hermione,' says a dreamy voice behind me. I turn and almost yelp with fright. Luna is wearing her terrifyingly realistic, life sized lion-head hat, which I am instantly hoping will not roar any time soon, smiling serenely and looking off into the distance. I had momentarily forgotten about the fearsome headgear.

After recovering, I greet her properly, 'Hello Luna. Are you sitting with Ravenclaw?'

'No,' she laughs softly shaking her head, along with her trademark radish earrings, despite the large mass on its top. 'I'm sitting with you.'

'Oh.' I notice the crowd has thinned, 'Shall we go?' Luna turns silvery grey eyes to me and her hair sways from under the hat in the wind. I take that as her form of assent.

We walk in silence. Since Harry introduced us to the Ravenclaw, observing has been my main affection toward her because her quiet spontaneity forces me to be constantly wary whenever she is near. Despite this, I increasingly find I do not mind her at all. 'Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure,' Luna whispers constantly under her breath. I have given up glancing at her by now, used to her philosophical sighs and odd comments.

At the top of the stairs, just before we are about to brave the short throng of people to the group, Luna stops and places her hand in front of her. 'Be brave,' she says quietly. I blink. 'Be like the lion.' I do not jump when her lion gives a very loud roar. I do not move my head or eyes when Luna calls out, 'Hello Ginerva!' and drifts away through the astounded, ogling and snickering crowd that has parted for her like the Red Sea to Moses.

Bloody hell, I think, astounded. Luna 'Loony' Lovegood has just given me advice, possibly relationship advice. I am shocked. I am troubled. I do not move.

The game has begun. Lee's matchmaking resonates across the length and breadth of the Pitch. I can hear the screams, jeers and rhythmic 'Weasley is Our King' verses chorusing from the Slytherin supporters. Gryffindor is deafening, but it is dulled because I am not listening. I had followed Luna and am currently standing between her and Ginny. I am trying to watch five boys at once.

Ron glides to the goalposts; he is whiter than a sheet while Harry immediately starts lapping the Pitch widely, glancing at Ron every so often. The only confident players for Gryffindor on the Pitch are the twins. Fred and George have split up and are currently swinging their beater bats wildly above their heads and bellowing excitedly. Directly across the Pitch in the parents and teachers section of the stands sits the last boy-of-my-heart. Oliver is cheering next to Professor McGonagall, who is trying to threaten Lee maliciously enough so that he will stop asking Angelina for dates, and is leaning forward with eyes alight. Even from this distance, such a very long way away, I can tell that he is clenching his fists and screaming orders as if this were his team. Is that intuition, or is it because suddenly I cannot take my eyes off him? Not so suddenly, his gaze has descended upon me, and he grins for a split second before turning back, shooting red and gold sparks from his wand and hollering.

These quick glances make me beam uncontrollably.

Ginny, noticing my travelling sights, winks and grins roguishly. As I try not to blush, it strikes me, yet again that she is very much like her twin brothers. Even their build is the same, their mischievous personalities, and as a result, they are incredibly close. My mouth falls open as Draco Malfoy's silver and green blur whizzes past, and I quickly snap it shut, narrow my eyes.

The game is going terribly in more ways than one. The singing from the Slytherins is making my blood boil with each repetition of the horrible verses. While Ron looks like he is about to pass out, Harry and Malfoy battle it out neck and neck at high speeds and heights, merely feet from the ground at the Slytherin end. The crowd holds its breath as they spin together, left, right, back…

And they cheer as Harry holds up the Snitch, bellowing in triumph at a successful Gryffindor win…

And they scream as Harry is hit directly into his back by Crabbe, falling forward over his broom and colliding with the ground with the Snitch clutched in his hand. My shriek of 'Harry!' and Ginny's cry of 'Foul!' and Neville's furious, incoherent words of indignation are lost in Luna's lion's roar.

I react immediately, disregarding the cold, bitter wind stinging my cheeks and the way my scarf keeps getting caught on the railings and tops of people's heads; I know I lost the scarlet rosette long ago. I can hear thundering footfalls directly behind me; we are the supporting quartet.

But we slow at the foot of the bleacher's stairs, because Angelina is shouting, 'We won, Harry, we won!' and the team is touching down one by one with their fists pumping the air. Looking round at each other and smiling in our individual ways and we speed eagerly forward again to congratulate them all. We are the first of the Gryffindor supporters spilling over the seats toward the Pitch.

Abruptly Harry is restraining George and Fred is trying to fight off all three Chasers. Malfoy is laughing and backing away at the same time like the snooty coward he is. 'Or perhaps you can remember what your mother's house stank like, Potter, and Weasley's pigsty reminds you of it—'

The boys are gone and Malfoy is hidden behind their fuming bodies. Fred is yelling louder than ever, the girls screaming for them to stop, crying, 'Harry! HARRY! George! NO!' Luna initiates her Lion to roar at full ferociousness and Neville runs as fast as he can toward Madame Hooch, at least one hundred metres away.

I feel him before I see him, and as he rushes past, I grab his shoulders and try to hold him back. 'Oliver! No!' I plead. His head swings around to stare at me, to find reason.

'The git insulted my friends!' Oliver retorts his eyes dark and flashing dangerously.

'And he's paying for it!' I yell back over the chaos. Oliver glances around, taking everything in, and I feel him tense up. I notice Ginny is trying to edge closer to pull George off. Oliver starts forward again, but I dig my heels into the dirt and grasp onto the back of his cloak. 'You could lose your job, Oliver!'

'But I'm a Gryffindor!' He is trying to shake me off, pushing me away with his hands. In a last ditch effort, I wrap my arms around his neck, feeling the texture of rippling muscles and broad shoulders and jump onto his back, like Ginny used to do to the twins, taking them by surprise and laughing. But I am not laughing. I am yelling unfinished words to try to reason with him and I lock my arms around his neck, hoping he will not choke. Oliver instinctively reaches underneath my thighs and leans back to stop overbalancing, and I am all too aware that I am wearing a skirt with stockings rather than pants. 'What are you doing?' he yells.

I lean around and talk into his ear. 'Stopping you from making a big mistake,' I answer heatedly. 'They're students, so they are protected. But if you beat him up, his slimy father will not only have you apprehended for assault, but you'll lose your job, taint your name and only Merlin knows what else the cockroach could do.'

The fight is over. Harry and George are marching from the Pitch, leaving a whimpering Malfoy curled up on the ground with a bloody nose and multiple bruises, and a disgruntled team in their wake. Neville is panting in the background, Luna nowhere in sight, along with Ron. Ginny is staring at her brother, reaching out a hand to touch Fred's shoulder but he jerks away. Oliver lets me down with a great, heaving sigh and brushes himself off while I straighten my skirt, worrying if Harry and George will be okay, burning from the physical contact. I quiver all over, tremble and tingle. 'At least we won…' Oliver murmurs, more to himself. 'No more mistakes. No more. We'll talk later.'

I do not know what to do as he rushes off. All I want is to look after my boys.

-x-x-x-

I walk the corridors as if a ghost. I currently haunt the steps of the ground floor, near the Entrance Hall, after I made my way from the Pitch to the common room and from there to aimless destinations around the castle. I walk because I cannot seem to stay in one place and bear not knowing and watch no one else cope either. Fred is beside himself. Pacing in front of the fire, he had thrown the coffee table over repeatedly until Ginny pushed him on the couch and sat on him. Fred put his head on her shoulder and listened to her sweet, comforting, understanding words that only she could give to him and I left them to their sibling connection, simply placing a kiss on the top of Fred's hair and telling him it will work out somehow. Somehow. Somehow seems better than maybe.

It has been less than an hour since the match was won and no one is thinking about celebrating. My promise, though fulfilled, seems invalidated. There are no happy, joyous twins for me to accompany on a mission to smuggle food from the kitchens, neither happy, joyous fans to eat it. I think I should do something worthwhile. I may go tell Jaala that we will not be needing the multitude of cakes that he has undoubtedly prepared for the night, or go find Ron, or…

I need to think. I am thinking… but somehow I am not; thoughts are only a series of questions without answers. We'll talk, he said. What Oliver? Why would we talk? Are you angry? Are you grateful? Are we talking about Quidditch, about you, or me, or us? Is there even an 'us'? I wouldn't mind if there was…

I find myself crunching through the frosty grass and heading out to the Pitch again. The seats are empty, everyone had left long ago – there are no prints or signs of their comings and goings – and the flags look almost dismissal, disappointed. Their colours are dull, and it is not because of the dreary weather either.

Oliver is on the Pitch, pacing back and forth, like Fred was, and running his hands though his hair. He is stressed about the match, about the outcome or about something else. Maybe he is stressing about stress itself. I stop at the front gate, watching with my hair and scarf flying in the wind, gloved hands in the pockets of my cloak, keeping it close to my body. I am very cold all on my lonesome.

After he turns around for the third time, he lifts his head and stares at me, as if he cannot quite believe I am here. I begin to get uncomfortable and shift my feet, calling, 'Hi! Are you all right?'

He shakes his head. 'Yeah,' he calls. 'It's the team you should worry about.'

Despite the sobriety of the situation, I crack a small smile and raise my hands still gloved in my pockets in disbelief. 'You're as much a part of this team as they are.'

He walks forward again, leaving his broom on the frost. I shiver. From the cold, I tell myself. You're a fool who just let in a blast of cold air.

'Angelina was complaining about some boxes that needed to be moved from the stands to the changing rooms. You want to help me?' I know what he is really saying: We need to talk and I need to calm down. Distract me.

'Of course,' I agree, and I almost whisper. He is close to me, less than two feet away. Suddenly I am not very cold. I want to reach out to touch him, can barely restrain myself from the action of comfort or selfish wants, but I hold back because romance is not what we need.

He nods. 'They're underneath, in some nooks. It's about three hundred metres between.'

'I'll manage.' We walk in silence. I notice he smells faintly of sweat, as if he been sprinting back and forth rather than pacing. His hands are in his pockets. I know that gesture well. I am doing it right now. It is a gesture humans do when they do not know what else should be done. Confusion because of the situation and these are about as confusing as they come.

The boxes are medium size, made out of wood. 'What's in them?' I ask, trying to peer through the cracks because they are tightly sealed. Not nails; must be magic.

'Not sure. She doesn't like them much.' Oliver hoists two into his arms, and I manage one. I could levitate three, as could he, but I think we need something solid to do, to take our minds off the pending punishment.

But Oliver is the first to bring it up. 'I hope McGonagall goes easy on them. Wish I could smooth-talk her into something that won't jeopardise their Quidditch.'

'It's Professor Umbridge we have to worry about,' I say. 'She always sticks her nose in these things. If she does…' I trail off, unable to voice how Umbridge could ruin their lives with but a word.

'That bad, huh?'

'Yes,' I say, squaring my shoulders again, 'and Professor McGonagall may like Quidditch, but she's strict. Surely you must know that.'

'I do. She's a stickler for rules; like you too, huh, being a wicked Prefect and all?'

I heave the box up further. It is heavier than I thought. 'I'm very much a Prefect,' I say slowly, 'but sometimes Harry gets into trouble and, well, I've been breaking them since my first year. Only some. Sometimes they're not right.'

'Well I'm glad you knew the rules… back then. I need to keep my job. Lost my head.'

An apology: I smile my sincerity. 'It's understandable. Friendship and bravery are the most important.' My cheeks flood when he looks at me. I duck my head, ashamed of my philosophical musings, my jealousy at the ease of others. I catch sight of his jaw clenching and try to distract him, asking, 'Are you going to come to the common room when we find out what will happen?'

'No… I'd – er – rather find out from the grapevine.' My trembling slows. He wants to keep his explosion to himself. 'Are you?'

I nod. 'Yes, as are Fred and Ginny. I don't know about Ron though. No one's seen him.'

'Disappeared, has he?'

'I gather he walked off.' I look up, glad to see his gaze looking ahead. I would not be able to bear the weight of it. 'Does he play well, do you think?'

Oliver does not answer for a long time, enough that I wonder if he heard me. 'He needs to work on it,' he concludes finally.

'What about Harry?'

His voice holds hints of enthusiasm. 'Harry was brilliant, is brilliant. He's one of the best Seekers I've ever seen, up in league with Charlie Weasley even. Let's hope he doesn't go chasing after dragons too, huh?'

'The legendary Charlie.' I say, not at all bitter, 'and the boy-who-lived Harry Potter. Seekers born and bred. And the legendary Keeper, Oliver Wood. Never lets the Quaffle in!'

Oliver cracks a grin and some of the tension leaves his face, 'And the best friend of Harry Potter, top-of-her-class, pretty bookworm Hermione Granger. She who can do anything.'

'Oh,' I breathe, my heart skipping. Pretty? 'Right.'

But he starts at my dejected tone, understanding that there is something behind it. I try to hide my cowardly, mostly low self-esteem behind a shrug but he persists. 'What's that mean?'

'Well… the fact is, I can't do anything, and I don't carry any weight in the world.'

'But you're Hermione Granger. You're—'

'Harry Potter's friend, the bookworm.' I shrug my shoulders, jostling the box. 'A name means nothing: it's barely a title. There are a lot of things that I can't do: dance, sing. I have no musical talent whatsoever. I'm horrible at anything illogical: jokes, pranks, general mayhem, no matter what the twins try to teach me.'

I bite my lip, feeling his gaze locked on me. 'Sports, running, flying. I can't fly. Well… I can, shakily. It's rather playing dangerous games of Quidditch and heights than anything…' The words are just tumbling out unheeded. The pressure has mounted too high and I fall to hurried mumbles. 'Can't fight. Physically, I mean,' I continue. 'No kicking, no punching, flips, defence. I'd be minced if anyone tried to hurt me in close combat. Can't cook anything more complicated than pasta…'

'But—'

'No,' I interrupt him again, raise my head and meet his concerned brown eyes for a split second before I drop my gaze, afraid of what I see and what I know he could with time. We have both stopped. I heave the box up further and talk softly whilst running my eyes along its grains. 'Being able to memorise useless facts about Goblin wars and wave a wand is hardly notable compared to what Harry does, the famous wizards in Hogwarts: A History and…' I peek up at him, 'and those who inspire others wizards with a celebratory status.'

My legs act of their own accord and rush to walk faster. I refuse to acknowledge that it is fleeing my confessions and the bitterness that seems to plague me. Though Oliver follows me, he seems speechless compared to his earlier state, asking, 'Back there, after the game? What'd you think of that?'

I instantly think of jumping on his back, the slip-slide of his warmth against mine, the illicit thoughts that passed near subconsciously. But it is the fighting of a different sort he talks of. I shrug. 'I understand why they did it, not why it was necessary.'

As we place the boxes just inside the room, ready to be used, he asks, 'And now?'

I turn to walk back with my hands deep in my pockets, feel the photo of the past skim my fingers, my steps slowing with thought. 'I guess… I just don't want to be left behind.'

Oliver smiles sadly. 'No one does.' He powers on ahead.

I nod and continue on, falling into step slightly behind him. His hands are in his pockets, like mine, and he glances over his shoulder at my pensive face. 'Come on,' he says. 'Let's get to it.'

I smile in relief. That is something in common; tact over emotion. Get the job done! Don't start something and leave it unfinished!

I suppose that makes me a hypocrite. Again. And I suppose it worsens this fact that my eyes have strayed from his broad shoulders down to his ankles and everything in-between. I instantly scold myself, blushing strongly, horrified that this is what I have been reduced to: jumping from melancholy to hypocrisy. I want to grow closer to him. I want to know about him, so my feet stop and I ask, 'What's it like to fly, without fear?'

He turns around. 'Like love. Like you can't live without it.'

It is a mistake to watch the ground as I continue on with our task. I am alone in this activity. I hit him square in the chest and all I can think is, Hermione, you are really thick.

'Hullo there,' he says. I tremble because his voice is suddenly deeper than the Black Lake and the mood has changed drastically. Another jump: I turn to lust. My heart is thunder and my mouth a desert. I can smell him: sporty cologne, just how I always thought, and the sweat that I swear must be constant in such a Quidditch fanatic. The air is warm from our bodies. He is very, very close. Too close.

'Hi,' I breathe. I cannot look at him, cannot raise my head. But then there is a lazy tug on my hair so I know I missed his hand reaching up to grab the loose strand. My beanie has failed to protect me. Another tug and an urge to which I do not want to comply to but for some reason I do. I look up.

It is the same look. It is like my dream. I walk backwards and Oliver follows. I stumble, he lunges. He has not torn his gaze away and nor have I. We pass the walls of the Pitch, we pass the stairs leading toward the changing room and I know what is coming and but still I keep walking and still he follows.

My back hits the wall. My body is jarred; I swallow and fail to breathe enough air. Then his lips crash on mine and I start, kiss him back fiercely before he pulls away. It lasted a mere second, but I have already fallen from time. I am light headed from escaping the world of only us. His hands are braced on the wall, either side of my head. Why do I like it?

My mouth is open and his eyes are too dark and he is too close and his words too low with mine too high. His fingers creep onto my neck, splay against the core of my throat and skim around to cup the back of my head. They are icy and elicit the most sensual feeling I remember to date.

I swallow. 'We should get back—'

'Because of George and Harry?'

'Yes,' I lie, 'because they need us.'

'I thought you were honest.'

Caught. I shudder. Anticipation races through me.

He leans forward, his chin brushing against my cheek. 'I heard you, Hermione,' he whispers in my ear. 'Heard you say it.' His lips graze my lobe and my eyes flicker closed of their own accord, my hands moving to the collar of his warm jumper. Without thinking, I shudder again and the desire is reflected in the hitches that part my lips. He presses his mouth to mine and his movements are raw and expert and send my senses into overdrive.

I quiver and my lips quiver and I kiss him back hard before my hands push him away. He stares into my eyes and his are the colour of woodland. I cannot help but grasp his collar as he, confused, leans in again and I lightly brush my lips with his, begging him to stay and hoping he will leave, because too much of him has flown into my senses. It is an overload that my arsenal of inexperienced fumbling cannot take. What are you doing? a voice yells in my head. He heard you talk to Harry, he heard you confess. He knows!

'And I…' he stops and swallows. I watch his Adam's apple bob up and down, slowly track my wide eyes over his strong chin. My blood is on fire and I know it is the desire for more contact coursing through me, making me blush. His hand is burning my neck. It scares me to my core. My brain will not turn off and I become fearful with worry and what-ifs. I do not wish to get this wrong. I do not wish to disappoint him. The torture sets in my stomach.

'Oliver?'

'I want—'

'Wait.' The trembling sneaks into my words. 'I... I can't.'

He stares at me, his hand moving from my neck to my shoulder. 'You kissed me back,' he says, but his uncertainty makes it sound like a question.

What can I say? I'm not as brave as you? I don't deserve you? I love you, but I'm not ready? 'I'm afraid,' I say instead.

He frowns. 'Of me?'

'Of this. This... I'm not brave enough.'

He stays silent, stroking my hair. I let him because it feels like the last time. He places a tendril behind my ear and meets my drooping gaze. 'I came back for you, you know?'

I squeeze my eyes shut. 'You don't know how long I've waited to hear that,' I whisper. 'You don't know.'

'So?'

'I'm scared. What if...? I need to think about this.' Oliver's face falls and I choke back a sob. 'I'm sorry. I need to think.'

Now he is angry and rejected. Another jump. A cloud passes over the winter sun that transfigures his face from the royalty of gold to blue-grey. His hands drops, he steps back and I am lost.

'Go on,' he says quietly. I reach out for him but he shifts away an looks at the ground. 'I think I can take the rest.' Oliver spins around, jogs down the steps and over the icy ground. I watch.

It feels like goodbye.

-x-x-x-

Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading.

-AA-