"Why do you do that?" Hermione asked, fitting a bookmark between the pages of the thick novel she was reading.
Beside her, Harry glanced up from the Snitch he'd knicked from the Quidditch pitch. "Do what?"
They had managed to find a quiet moment to themselves in the warm spring weather, lounging under the shade of a great oak by the lake edge. He was skipping out of Binns, and with some goading, charm, and blackmail, he had convinced her to join him.
"That," she repeated, as he lifted his hand to drag it through his hair, puffing up the unruly black stands even more than before.
Harry shrugged. "Dunno. Habit, I guess."
Hermione, being Hermione, didn't accept that vague answer. "But why?"
"It... I dunno Mione, Merlin. Why do you care?"
"People think it makes you look conceited." she told him bluntly. He frowned. "And I care why?"
"I know you don't. I just want to know, Harry. That's what I do; know things."
Harry sighed loudly and crammed the Snitch in his pocket. "It just... It covers it."
"Covers-"
"The scar." he mumbled. "It covers it. Keeps people from staring."
Hermione pursed her lips in thought. She exhaled and leaned gently against his arm. "It makes it more obvious when you do that, though." she whispered. "You shouldn't be ashamed of it."
"Hmph. Right."
"I'm serious," she huffed, poking his shoulder. "It's part of you. Hiding it won't make it go away." He glanced at her, but didn't say anything.
The next day, when she saw him in Transfiguration, his long bangs were cropped short. He turned away from her blinding smile with a grunt, but she giggled to herself at the flush on the back of his neck.