Harry Potter stared at the back of Seamus Finnigan's head in their D.A.D.A. class. What was Dumbledore playing at, letting Snape teach it? Didn't he know the bloke only wanted to further enhance his knowledge of the dark arts? Harry felt mutinous for the way Snape spoke so reverently of the dark arts. It was as if he were caressing them with a tender stroke of his finger; something to love and bathe in affection, not defend oneself against. No wonder Harry didn't buy the fact that he was a good spy for Dumbledore. Sure, Snape had been cleared of his charges but from the Occlumency lessons he had had the year before, Harry had delved further into the knowledge that Snape longed for the dark arts; that he romanticized them.
Harry was incensed that Dumbledore gave the job posting to Snape. Snape didn't need the lucrative title of being the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor; Harry was under the impression that he already practiced the dark arts. And Sirius – had he still been alive and how that sent a pang through Harry's heart – would be livid to know that Snape was teaching D.A.D.A. The way he talked about the dark arts – it was nothing short of poetic and Harry wondered when Dumbledore had lost his mind. Or if he had been senile for a while and it was finally starting to show through. When the bell rang, dismissing them for their afternoon break, Harry picked up his school bag, following Ron and Hermione out of the classroom as he threw a murderous look in Snape's general direction.
Harry stared at the back of Hermione's head as they walked, wondering how his friend was doing. It was the third day of classes and so far, she hadn't had to miss any. She showed up every morning at breakfast on time and still able to do her prefect duties. He wondered if she was giving herself time to grieve, had had the time to grieve, or was simply ignoring her pain in favor of her studies. If that was the case, he was going to have to have a long talk with her. He didn't do anybody – least of all himself – any favors when he tried to pretend like Sirius hadn't died. He had to have the grieving period. Sure, it was…lonelier than normal because he didn't tell the Dursley's his godfather had been murdered – hadn't felt the desire to, but he knew better than to let Hermione ache on her own.
Ron was saying something to her and Harry noticed that Hermione wasn't keeping eye contact with him; that she wasn't trying to engage into the conversation. Need to change the topic. "Ron, is this Saturday a good day for Quidditch tryouts for you?" Harry asked.
"Uh, yeah, mate, that sounds good," Ron replied as he thought over Harry's question. Hermione threw Harry a quick and grateful smile so he knew he had done the right thing by intervening. He winked at her in a friendly mannerism and then the three friends fell quiet as they walked back to Gryffindor common room. Once there, Hermione headed over to the good armchairs by the fire and Harry and Ron followed her, Harry taking off his school bag off his shoulder as he did so.
"May as well make a start on Slughorn's essay," Hermione said, and Harry nodded his head, feeling shame burn through him at the thought of whoever the Half-Blood Prince was. Hermione had been right: he wasn't practicing Potions off his merit alone. He – whether he wanted to admit or not – had utilized an aide while making the potions in their last class. Did that mean he was going to give up the book? He didn't think so but he could still feel a squirm of guilt about it too – knowing Hermione deserved the recognition for her hard work.
He opted not to say anything to her and just nodded his head, pulling out a sheet of parchment and his quill. The sound of scratching quills could be heard all over the common room and knew that fifth and sixth years alike were hard at work on studying. Harry knew that he didn't take his N.E.W.T.s until next year but he was already preparing for them this year. McGonagall had been right – sixth year wasn't a year to slack off.
He glanced at Hermione, noting the way a deep sadness etched itself across her features and he knew she was still missing her parents, despite pretending otherwise. He didn't blame her. He had only been with his parents for the first year of his life – not nearly enough to remember them by – so he felt for Hermione. To have had her parents for seventeen years and then to not have them at all anymore…that was unfair.
As Hermione's quill scratched against the parchment, he wondered how she handled their funeral. She had said she didn't want anyone to be there with her when she buried them and she went back to muggle London to bury her parents on her own. It had made Harry, who would have been more than all right with going, sad to know that she thought she had to do it on her own. They had been best friends since first year and he would always be there for her, in the way she was there for him. Just then, Hermione spoke up. "Have you decided to definitely hold tryouts this Saturday?"
"I think this so," Harry replied, tearing his eyes away from her profile to look back down at his essay. "McGonagall's passed along the hopefuls to me."
Hermione nodded as Ron didn't say anything and Harry understood that he was nervous. He knew that Ron had a set of bad nerves whenever he played Quidditch but hoped winning the house cup had helped him sort some of those out the year prior. He was a good Quidditch player – just nervous. Harry didn't ask if he was okay; he didn't want to draw more attention to it then necessary. "Okay, Hermione. I hate to ask but have you squared away expenses from the funeral?" Harry knew it was a prying type of question to ask but he didn't want Hermione to have to dip into her saving for it; he'd be willing to help pay with the small fortune left from his parents.
"I'm all right," she assured him gently, a knowing smile on her lips and Harry knew he had been caught. He smiled sheepishly.
"Right, well if you need any -," his sentence was cut off because Hermione's eyes grew wet in the corners and Harry sighed softly, knowing that Hermione was having a hard go of it. "Hermione."
She rubbed at her eyes, trapping the tears there. "I'm all right."
It was a soft reassurance but Harry knew better than to believe it. Hermione was not all right.