Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling.

The Dool Tree

Chapter 8

On Hermione's second day at Hogwarts, she awoke to the heavy ambrosia of fresh flowers. She thought about poking her nose between the bedcurtains to look for the source of the odor, but as she lazed, she realized no one else was moving about yet, and when she glanced at her watch around the bedpost, she discovered that she'd awoken half an hour too early.

So, instead of rising, she remained in bed, wondering anew about her serious predicament and seriously wishing that something could be done about it.

Ronald, Ronald, Ronald. His visage was in her mind and his voice was in her heart all the time. Hermione had not hitherto realized the truth in the judgment that absence could 'make the heart grow fonder'. Now she did, and found herself in a hopeless emotional mire. She'd ceased already to go down the list of his faults, for she forgave him them all. If only doing so would bring her closer to him!

She felt like a little girl as she stuck her hand between the curtains, groped through the drawers of her bedside bureau, and withdrew her bulkiest, manliest maroon wool sweater, only to wrap it around a spare pillow and hug the arrangement close to her. Granted, it wasn't his sweater, and it didn't smell like him; she'd picked it out while shopping with McGonagall because it reminded her so of the ones he received from his mum. (Which he wore, despite himself.)

It wasn't really enough, for what material non-living objects could replace the intimate physical brush with another's life that a lover's embrace was? But it felt nice, and it was something.

And Hermione felt she was on the verge of tears, because she'd never, ever gotten the chance to hold Ron this way, ever. She'd given him hugs over the years, but nothing that indicated how much she felt for him, how much she cared. Moreover, as she explored her memories, trying to think of times when she had the chance and just didn't take it, she wondered if he would have responded in kind--or dumped her immediately, feeling too claustraphobic, too limited by her adoration. That was something she could see him doing, not being able to sort out how he felt about her immediately.

Or maybe it wouldn't even be an issue of sorting things out--maybe he just didn't like her in that way.

This is the crippling thought brought Hermione to her incoming tears. Her eyes turning glassy, she buried her face into the scratchy fabric of the sweater, telling herself that the wet spots from her eyes were not real tears, instead the kind that one got when exposed to too much light after being asleep, or the kind that one got when one was too sleepy to stay awake. At the same time, she knew she was pulling her own leg, because she knew that those kinds of tears did not accompany the intense, horrible feelings in the pit of her stomach and the tightness of her throat muscles.

I have to just get up and go about my day, she insisted, throwing the pillow and sweater to the foot of her bed, where it teetered briefly on the edge and then plummeted to the floor. Lily, who slept directly across from her, muttered something at the sound of the faint thud, and Hermione heard her stir awake.

Straighten up, go take a shower, time to get ready for the day, Hermione told herself, trying to shove her grief into the little box in her heart marked 'do not open'.

This was made easier by a distraction: she heard a shriek of surprise and disgust from Lily's part of the room.

"Mary! Mary, wake up!"

"Hmm?"

As Hermione grabbed her comb from the bureau and started to work its way through her bed-head mess, she listened with faint interest to the other girls' exchange.

"Mary, look at this!" Lily's voice was awed and yet almost horrified.

"It's enormous," replied the drowsy friend dispassionately.

"I know. It is enormous. Now who do you think it's from?"

Ah, that explains the flowers, Hermione thought, realizing they were probably talking about a bouquet.

Their voices dropped to whispers, but rose again quickly.

"So you haven't talked to him yet."

"No, I haven't."

"You really ought to."

Lily sighed. "I know, I know, I know. Ugh! Just...I will, all right?"

Mary's voice was serious. "I'm not trying to harangue you, Lily. It's your funeral if you don't make up with him. Probably his too, given the fact that he's so close to-"

"-Are you two in a conspiracy or something?" replied Lily in an antagonistic fashion. "Because white lilies certainly look like a funeral. It's the kind of flower that you put around a mausoleum, or on gravestones or something."

Quiet, Mary said, "You always told me you loved lilies. For years. Remember that conversation we had in first year about how I thought you'd hate lilies because of your name? I'm sure he knew that you loved them too. That's probably why he sent them."

Lily's voice was frigid, but it was becoming warmer as she calmed down. "All right, you win, Mary. I used to love lilies. I adored them. But not today. Today, I hate them, and I don't want to see them anymore."

There was a pause, and suddenly Hermione's curtain was jerked open. "Hey, Aussie," Lily greeted Hermione, tearing a handful of flowers out of the enormous bouquet in her arms, "here, have some."

"Who are they from?" Hermione asked, not hiding the fact that she'd been listening.

"A friend," Lily stated, and it was clear that the information was on a need-to-know basis only.

Hermione shrugged, taking the flowers she'd been given and spreading the wet stems out at the foot of her bed. They were simply lovely, and cast with preservative charms so that they would stay fresh for weeks.

"I think I'll wear one today," she mused aloud, snapping one pretty bud off its stem and trying out how it looked when placed behind her ear.

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