Disclaimer: See chapter two. It applies.

Hermione says that I should refer to you by some title and that entitling each letter "to whoever left me the poem" is no longer adequate. I don't know what to call you, so I guess I just won't.

Hermione also says that the part about me being aware of an absence soon is a threat. That you're going to inflict some kind of harm on me or somebody else that I know.

I don't think that's what you mean at all.

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not touch you
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth
As all things are filled with my soul
You emerge from the things
Filled with my soul
You are like my soul
A butterfly of dream
And you are like the word: Melancholy

I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage
I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.

Hermione scrutinized the newest poems. "He is…inside a lion…" Ron observed bemusedly.

"It's metaphoric, Ronald," Hermione said sharply. Harry suppressed a groan. Today was not a good day between Ron and Hermione, as fight upon fight had chipped away Hermione's already-thin good mood.

"Maybe he's saying that he is a Gryffindor?" Harry contributed. Hermione hmmed but did not say anything else. Ron merely looked away scowling.

"H-hello, Harry," Harry heard a small voice say from behind him. He turned around to find Neville standing there. "Ron, Hermione," he quickly tacked on.

"Hiya, Nev," Harry greeted warmly. An awkward minute was spent between the two, as Harry was waiting for Neville to continue with whatever he wanted to talk about. But when Neville did not continue, Harry told him, "Have a seat," and pulled out the chair next to him.

Neville sat, and Harry smiled at him, trying to coax it out of the nervous boy.

"I'm going to go sleep," Ron announced. Without saying any other goodbye, he got off of his chair and walked up the steps. Harry looked over at Hermione.

Her eyes shining with frustrated tears, she rebuked, "Well, if he isn't going to put any effort into this, neither am I!" She stormed up the opposite staircase and disappeared behind a slammed door.

"Looks like it's just us," Harry commented.

Another awkward moment passed, and Harry started, "Well, Nev-" while Neville began to say, "Well you see, Harry…"

"You go first," Neville said, cheeks tinged pink with a blush.

"No, you go," Harry insisted.

"Well, I was going to ask you if you'd be willing to tutor me in Potions," Neville mumbled, embarrassment showing through his otherwise muddy-sounding garble.

"Oh, is that all?" Harry asked with evident relief. The way Neville was asking, you'd have thought that his Gran had died or something. "Sure, what days work for you?"

Neville bit his lip to stop himself from admitting that every day of the week would work for him. "Well…" he began, calculating in his head when Quidditch practices occurred, days Harry would not be available on, "Tuesdays and Thursdays are the best…but I suppose if you were too busy then Saturday nights would work as well…" He mentally winced as he added Saturday, the day predominantly known as "date night".

"Tuesdays and Thursdays work fine for me," Harry agreed.

"Thanks so much, Harry," Neville said.

"Anytime, Nev. What're friends for?" Harry replied, chuckling slightly.

Neville studied Harry's face intently. Harry turned away. It was his turn to be embarrassed now; he wasn't very fond of too much attention. "I'm exhausted," he told Neville, "I think I'm going to bed too."

"Good night, Harry," Neville told him as Harry gathered his things.

Harry left with a wave of his hand.

"I don't like what I've been hearing about you and the Boy Wonder," a pretty brunette told Blaise as she sat down beside him in the library. Her pale hand went to grasp Blaise's dark one. He let her, and she interlaced her fingers with his.

"What have you been hearing, exactly?" Blaise inquired. He dipped his quill in the inkwell with his left hand, the one not currently occupied, and began to curl letters onto the page before him.

"That you and Potter were chatting it up in the boy's bathroom. That Draco found you two and broke up whatever lovefest was going on in there," she informed him matter-of-factly. "And there has been a serious debate between my little sister's first year friends as to who is taking it up the duff."

Blaise spluttered, and his face reddened. "Excuse me?" he asked. "As if that debate should even be occurring. They very obviously don't know Potter well enough to know that he would most obviously top."

She grinned. "That's what I told them exactly. But then they got onto the whole overly emotional ordeal that he went through last year…lets just say that even though you aren't exactly the prime specimen of masculinity, you're above that."

Blaise frowned. "Harry was going through a difficult time last year. People gossiping are despicable, anyway." He cleaned his quill's tip of any remains of ink. "And who says that a dominant male can't have emotions?"

"What I want to know," she said, "is if you're interested in him. I know the rest is complete and utter bull."

Blaise scanned the library. The only other people there were two lone souls sitting on the opposite side of the room. He looked back at his friend. "Daphne," he began, "I think I'm in love."

Daphne raised a tweezed eyebrow. "If this Honeyduke's employee kind of love?"

"Tim had a hot ass, you've got to admit. But no. I really like him, Daph, I really do," Blaise admitted.

"Then talk to him," Daphne said, stressing the 'talk' part.

"I did. That's what Draco overheard. Me talking to him," Blaise defended himself.

"Please don't stalk him," Daphne begged.

"I don't stalk," Blaise replied coldly.

"Yes, you do," Daphne repeated. "And one of these times it could end badly. Tell me, what exactly are you doing this time?"

Blaise looked away and let go of her hand. "I'm leaving him poems," he muttered.

"Aww," Daphne crooned, "That's actually quite sweet. Sickeningly so, but still quite nice. Just poems? Nothing else?"

"He likes to reply with little notes. In the beginning it was a "who are you? What do you want?" kind of response. But now they're…I don't know. It's as if he doesn't mind that I'm doing this. Like it doesn't completely creep him out."

"I demand to see these love letters immediately," Daphne informed him, a possessive touch in her tone could be heard.

"Just as soon as you show me your love notes to Hannah Abbott," Blaise returned.

The first poem is written by Pablo Neruda, and the second is written by Shel Silverstein.