A/N:

Just going to drop a light trigger warning... if discussion of sexual assault isn't your thing, skip from the interruption of the chess game to the following POV break. Or don't, I ain't your boss.

VII

Light of a Waxing Moon

The first patronus lesson had not been what Hermione would call a success. She was similarly hesitant to call it a failure, because they simply hadn't done anything. Professor Lupin had talked her through the history of the spell, which she already knew, and the wand movement, which she already knew, and the incantation, as if learning six syllables took more than as many seconds. Then he had her spend the rest of the half hour he had free meditating and searching for her happiest, most hopeful memory.

The second lesson, a week later, bore no more fruit.

"Your wand motion still needs work," Lupin commented.

He was not harsh with his words, but Hermione gave a little growl of frustration all the same.

"Here, let me help." - a hand took hers and guided it to a higher position - "First, the height is more important than one might expect. Summon your patronus like you are hailing a cab - you won't get any attention with your hand down at its usual level. Then, we move through the circle. It must be complete; a fort is not sound if the rear wall has not been built. Some find the casting is better if they draw their wand close as they swirl, bringing the magic close to shield them. Others may thrust outward, pushing the power forward to face the threat. You will have to discover your preference for yourself."

"So what am I getting wrong?"

"You are not feeling the motion. Your circle is near perfect," he complimented, moving her hand in such a motion, "but such perfection is forced. Instead, you should follow the flow of your body, and instinct, to create a ring which is unique to you."

He released his grip and bade her try again, now standing off to her side of her. Taking a deep breath and shrugging her shoulders to loosen them, she swirled a lazy circle in the air.

"Good! Good; but now your circle is incomplete. Something to practice."

She almost threw her wand across the room, and might have, were it not so damn hard to find the thing the last time she did similar.

"Gah! This is ridiculous! Why does the wand motion even matter so much? I thought competent wizards could cast without it?"

"Exceptional wizards, with years of practice, can cast many spells without moving their wand," Lupin gently corrected. "It is entirely possible you will reach such a point, and the patronus, being intent based, is indeed a spell for which this is feasible, but you are a long way from that point."

"I can't afford to be a long way from that point! I need this spell!"

What she didn't need was Lupin's gentle guidance and empty platitudes. Better that she be pushed to the limit, if it got her there even a little sooner. It wasn't as if she lacked time to practice between sessions… if only she were allowed to tell him that.

"And you will get it; far faster than any of your peers would, I believe. Your determination, and your natural inclination to this type of spell… I must confess, before we started, I expected you to fail. Now, I would bet on you succeeding by Easter."

"Natural inclination?"

That sounds more promising.

"Has Flitwick not told you about intent versus technique?"

"Yes, but… I'm an intent caster?"

That did not seem to gel with what Hermione believed about herself. She was always organised, trying to be precise and correct, not… loose, or fluid, or any other wishy-washy words she could come up with. She'd constructed a memory palace, for Christ's sake, and it was a library running on the Dewey system! It was such a construction she'd used it to repel an assault by Voldemort's angsty teenage ghost, just by wanting him gone.

Just by wanting it. No technique required.

"…believe so," Lupin was saying. "Professor McGonagall tells me your transfiguration work is powerful, and carries a certain flair - a sign of pliable magic, conferring its property of flux onto the objects it transforms. Professor Flitwick has expressed his admiration of your commitment to charms lessons, but notes that you struggle to hold spells for long durations. When your magic gets bored, wanting to move onto other things, you may lack the instinctive control to maintain it in a steady fashion."

And if Hermione thought he sounded uncomfortable telling her she had a 'lack of instinctive control', he was outright nervous to voice the rest. "Then there is the bout of accidental magic in the great hall. Children whose magic is less… connected to their emotion have it fully under their thumb by your age."

"So, I don't have control of my magic?" she seethed.

Great. How am I meant to become a strong enough witch to deal with the likes of dementors and werewolves if I can't get a handle on my own magical strength.
"Not so; it is only that your emotions exert a greater portion of control. Do not feel you are any less by being this way; there is no right way to access one's magic."

That was reassuring, in the same way his everything else he said was: Not sufficiently.

"But why am I like this? Why can't my magic just listen to me properly?"

Lupin tapped his foot - something he tended to do when he was thinking, she noted.
"When you were a child - when you first began experiencing magic, in ways you did not understand, what did you do? Did you try to suppress it?"

"Yes."

She wasn't awfully proud, telling a wizard she had tried to deny what she was, but… it was true.
"Were you afraid of it?"

"No. It was just… it was inconvenient. I didn't want people to think I was any more different."

"So you pushed your magic down, rationally, yet emotionally accepted it as part of yourself?"

"I suppose."
"And now you wonder why it connected to your emotions rather than your rationale?"

She let him have the jestful tone with which he asked that question, because it wasn't like he was wrong. He psychology books and therapist agreed; bottling up and ignoring problems never made them go away. Usually it just made things worse. A thought did occur to her, though; a counter to the hypothesis.

"Wouldn't that make most muggleborn this way?"
"If they all reacted as you do, yes. But things are always more nuanced. Suppressing ones magic is much like caging a dog. Some dogs will be cowed, and learn obedience. Harry seems to be an example of this; I am told he can hold a lumos steady for hours when he desires. Others' magic will accept the confinement, but on release it will run riot. If caged too long, or too harshly, it will turn upon itself; the frustration is too great. That is how an obscurial is formed."

Hermione hadn't heard of an obscurial, but understood that detail was not the point - look it up later.

"So my magic is romping around because I opened the cage?"

"Precisely. And much like a crazed puppy, it will grow calmer with time."

She considered his words, compared them to her experience, and came to an unpleasant conclusion.

"It doesn't seem to be. If anything, it's getting harder to control."

"Then perhaps you must learn to work with it, rather than ordering it. Your magical core is strong, and growing stronger as you age. The dog is now straining at the lead; you will both be better off if you can find a way to let it off safely."

"You seem to know a lot about this."
"I have to. My magic is… I have caged my dog, because it is more a wolf. It cannot be let out. I have no choice in the matter, but I suffer the consequences all the same."

Hermione couldn't imagine having to hold it all in like that. When she connected with her magic, it was like a bird taking flight; her wand sung odes to freedom with every spell. To constrain that feeling, as harshly as she had in her childhood, having felt the high it could bring…

"I'm sorry."

"Whatever for?" Lupin chuckled, as a man who had deflected the sentiment a thousand times. "But let us not go down that particular tangent. Your wand… dragon heartstring, yes?"

"Who told you that?"

It certainly wasn't me.

"I guessed."

"How?" she asked, increasingly impressed by the unassuming man's talents.

"A wand's match is to its owner's magic. Yours is wild and powerful, thanks to its rebellion against confinement. Still, very few muggleborns match to heartstring; the only way to tame a dragon is to raise it from the egg. Dragon heartstring reserves itself for those born to powerful magical heritage, who have the early guidance and self-assuredness to handle its wild nature… or, in rare cases, it finds a witch with the strength of will to succeed without such advantages."

"What does that mean?" she snipped, growing tired of his sage words - or at least the flowery, metaphorical ways he couched them. Or maybe she was just annoyed she was having to stand and talk, when she wanted to be casing a patronus already.
"It means, Miss Granger, that your wand has absolute faith in your ability to find a healthy balance with your magic. And you should too. You will do great things with that wand, if that is your intent."

"And intent is everything," Hermione agreed; precise or fluid in its application, she knew that much. "But none of this is helping me with my patronus, is it? Basically, you are telling me I should be perfectly suited to his, and yet I cannot even conjure a mist!"

"This is a NEWT level spell Miss Granger. Many students graduate charms and defence with high grades but no corporeal patronus. And it is not only intent, nor is it solely power - power which you should expect to struggle with given your immature magical core. I suspect the truth of your issue is the memory you are using."

"My memory is a perfectly happy one."

She had actually tried a few memories, all of them nice and pleasant.

"Remember; the actual importance of the memory is the emotional state it brings you to. Theoretically, the patronus can be cast without use of any particular memory, though I have never had success with such attempts. Whatever memory you are using; does it make you happy to relive it?"

And there, it seemed was the crux of her struggle laid bare. Much as she wanted to bottle up this particular emotion, she wanted to keep Harry safe just that tiny bit more, and so…

"Nothing seems to make me happy lately."

"I will not claim to understand the troubles you may be facing, but I will say that I have felt similarly." - depressed werewolf, got it - "What helped me the most - aside from having friends to pull me through - was confronting my troubles. I suspect you would benefit from the same."

"How am I meant to do that?"

"I am organising a voluntary extra credit session for students, in which they will be invited to face a boggart. After my… regrettable decision to expose the second years to such an experience, the session is limited to fifth years and above, but I will arrange special permission with Dumbledore for you to attend. The extra credit will mean little on a third year exam, but it may help you identify the root of what is troubling you."

Hermione saw two questions arise from Lupin posing such an idea. Lesser, and therefore first:

"Why did you put the second years in front of a boggart?"

"It was shortly before the fullness of the moon. I am… not at my best on such days."

One question down… big one to go:

"How is a boggart meant to make me happier? Wouldn't I be better avoiding stress?"

Lupin moved back to adjusting her wand, bringing her up to a ready stance as he imparted one last bit of world-weary wisdom.

"Sometimes, happiness must be fought for. Some troubles cannot be ignored - we submit to them, or we triumph. There is no peace to be found in compromise."

The boggart lesson was to be held sometime in early November - Professor Lupin was breeding a new boggart for the purpose, though he refused to detail how that was done. Hermione left her patronus practice with two promises to the professor: One, to face her fears made real, that she might overcome them somehow; two, to trawl her mind's library for a memory which elicited feelings of happiness, hope, and protectiveness.

Everything pre-Hogwarts was ruled out quickly. She had been a bullied girl in school, and all her magical outbursts were born of stress or fear. Her parents were brilliant, but very busy in their jobs, and all too happy to take a hands-off approach with a daughter who appreciated the space and never went seeking trouble. For as long as she could clearly remember, her parents had simply been there for her if she needed them; as a stubborn, quiet child, she had not taken up the unspoken offer. The end result of such an upbringing was an unshakeable knowledge that she was deeply loved, but no singular incident emotive enough for her purposes.

Hogwarts wasn't providing much either. Her first year had been one long struggle, with nobody close to give her the emotional support she desperately needed. Her second year held so much more happiness, but it all came back to one root cause: Harry. The boy who was currently, somewhat justifiably, refusing to talk to her. The friendship she had monumentally bollocksed up.

Every happy thought of her friends was tainted; every joyous moment tinged with sadness. That was the burden of the knowledge that she had cruelly stripped him of something precious, and lost the same in turn.

Quid pro quo.

So, it was a dejected, lonely Hermione who trudged back into the tower that mid-October evening. Mid October; she hadn't even been able to wish Harry a happy birthday. Her present for him still sat unwrapped under her bed. Leaving it on his had been out of the question; she was not going to fail to give it to him in person. Not after her other failures.

Loneliness was a new emotion for Hermione. She had been alone before, but had never truly known what she was missing. She had never felt the hole in her life until she knew how it felt to have it filled. Now it was a wound, open and weeping. The twins, bless their souls, tried to close it up with their incessant joviality, coming over at once to greet her and get her 'marvellous mind for magic' involved in some prank or another, but she was not in the mood for their company. She craved something quieter; something more thoughtful. Failing that, she wanted to bash someone's head in.

Fortunately, there was one person in Gryffindor who might just be able to provide whichever she went for.

"Where's your brother?" she interjected into the middle of George's rambling.

"What, Perce? Who'd want to speak to that tosser?"

"No, the other one."

"Ron? Merlin, what'd he do now?"

"Nothing, actually. Is he here."

"Yeah, over in the corner," Fred said, turning her to face the right way. "If I didn't know better-"

"-I'd say he's doing his schoolwork."

"He does actually hand in his assignments," Hermione begrudgingly defended the boy, on the principle of being correct. "It's just that they tend to be terrible."

"Too true, that. I'd suggest you help him out-"

"- but no way can he afford your rates."

"You make me sound like a- well, you know."

"Nah, not at all," George contested. "If you've got it-"

"-flaunt it. And if you're flaunting it-"

"-charge for the privilege!"

"Right. Anyway, if you'll excuse me."

She didn't mean to be short with them, she just couldn't come up with a properly polite way to end the conversation. Or couldn't come up with the wherewithal to come up with one; it amounted to the same thing. She approached the table Ron was apparently sat at, and could have sworn the room got just a little quieter as she did. Really? The idea I might try talking to the prat isn't that exciting, is it?

"Ronald?"

"Granger?"

She hated when he called her by her last name. It was the same ridiculous pureblood 'civility' Draco engaged in, with the same insulting tone behind it, even if Ron didn't audibly sneer. How those two boys could hate each other so much, then act so similarly at times, was a puzzle Hermione had already written off as unsolvable.

"Are you busy?"

"Why?"

"I was wondering if you would play a game or two of chess against me."

"Huh." He did not sound enthused. "Thought you didn't like me? Why would you want to play a game with me?"

"Not with, Ronald. Against. Chess is a war game, played between opponents."

"Well, if you want to get thrashed, sure, pull up a chair. Say, can you even play?"

She took the invitation and found her way to the chair opposite him. "I know the rules, I assure you."

Hermione had been a member of chess club. She hadn't been great at it, spending much of the time in the club reading books (some of them about chess) while others played, but it had been a good place for a nerdy girl to spend her lunch breaks. Nobody in chess club picked on others for being smart or quiet. Picking up the rules and some basic strategy whilst she there was inevitable.

"Sure. Totally what I meant," Ron muttered, taking the out with as much subtlety as a dying elephant.

"No, go on, speak your mind. Why would you assume I can't play such a fundamentally simple game?"

"Because you can't see the pieces!" he trumpeted.

Now the common room really did hush. Hermione knew well her reputation, and was sure it had only grown in the wake of Lockhart's (un?)fortunate demise. Perhaps it was time to reign that in a little. Purely for her own sake.

"My visual impairment will not be an issue here, so long as we are not playing touch-move."

"Touch move?"

Hermione felt a brief flash of annoyance at herself for overlooking that they would, of course, be playing the utter ridiculousness that was wizarding chess. What place mindless violence had in a game of thought and strategy, she had no idea, but it was completely prevalent, at least amongst Gryffindors. She idly wondered if the Slytherins appreciated the sophistication of not bludgeoning your opponent's pieces as you took them, or having your own shout at you if they disagreed with a move.

"Never mind. Are we playing or not."

"Yeah, sure. Just don't be a sore loser when I whoop your arse."

It turned out Ron carried a chess set with him wherever he went, which Hermione was not surprised to learn; if she were good at only one thing, she would keep it close at hand too. The game was ready in a short minute, and Hermione claimed white before Ron could have a say.

She needed to control the flow of the game. For all her exercises in spatial memorisation, keeping track of the whole board whilst considering potential was going to push her to the limit, and likely beyond. The shorter the game went, and the more pieces she could eliminate early, the less chance she would lose track entirely. That meant driving the game into aggression right off the mark, and that meant playing white.

She reached out for a piece, again forgetting just for a moment she was playing wizarding chess, then bashfully withdrew it and ordered: "pawn, e4."

"c5."

Sicilian defence? Very well.

Hermione was well versed in the openings found in books. It was when things went off the rails later that she knew she would struggle. Sicilian should be good for her; it led to short, scrappy games with early exchanges. Then again, if Ron was playing it willingly, that suggested he favoured those sorts of games as well. Or he thought winning was a foregone conclusion, and wanted to take his opponent apart in quick and humiliating fashion.

If he wants to underestimate me, he is more than welcome to do so.

The match that followed was a short and violent affair. Hermione developed her pieces aggressively, neglecting pawn structure more than she knew she should have in the face of Ron's response, which matched her well and even stole the momentum from her in the course of their early exchanges. The decisive moment was a combination of a discovered check and knight-threatened queen. Three moves later; down the most crucial piece; lacking defensive developments; and struggling to recall every piece's position, Hermione toppled her own king.

Ron's reputation was one well earned: He had taken her apart.

"Bloody hell, 'Mione. Didn't know you could play that good."

"What do you mean? I lost."

"Played good though," Ron mumbled, like it hurt him to say it now he was thinking about the words coming from his mouth.

"Really?"

"Yeah; only people who give me games that close are upper years, and they ain't got the time for it usually. You give up pretty fast though. Still could've won from there."

"Do you honestly believe I could win from this position?"

"Ok, so probably not, but it's still way too early for resigning."

"How is giving up when my chances are gone 'too early'?"

"Well, you should carry on, you know? It's not right to quit."

"Not right?"

"Not very Gryffindor, is it? Backing out's more of a Slytherin thing."

"How on earth do you twist your mind into believing any part of that?"

"Gryffindors go down fighting! That's what courage is: Fighting on, no matter what!"

"What do you know of courage, Ronald Weasley? What do you know of 'going down fighting'?"

"Enough."

"Really? Do elaborate."

"Why should I? Thought you came over to play chess?"

Hermione wasn't as much in the mood for head-bashing as she had been before the game. The challenge had calmed her somewhat; another round might calm her further. Another hundred and she might get a decent night's sleep for once.

"Very well. e4."

"Nuh-uh. My turn to be white. e5"

Hermione lost that game as well, after misremembering the position of one of her bishops. She lost the next one too, to an opening tactic she was unfamiliar with which created a trap she simply didn't spot - she knew the position of every piece just fine, and still missed it. It was right as she about the pull the trigger on a dubious series of exchanges in the next that their little war was interrupted.

"Hey, Hermione?"

She didn't recognise the voice, but it was definitely an upper year girl. It had that timbre to it, even if it was oddly lacking in confidence for an older Gryffindor.

"Yes?"

"Can I talk to you a sec?"

"Sure. Ron?"

She jerked her head to indicate the boy should find somewhere else to be.

"Hey! This is my table."

"I don't see your name on it."

Chess must have had the same effect on her opponent as on her, as Ron grumbled, but left. The newcomer took his seat and scooted it in close. The table creaked as she leant on it. She smelled like juniper.

"Mind if I silencio us?"

"If you need to," Hermione agreed.

The girl apparently did, as the room's sounds fell away, far more completely than when Hermione used the spell. Something else to work on, if she could find - (Make? Steal?) - the time.

"I, um, I just wanted to say thank you."

Hermione checked her brain for some favour she had done the girl, but as she didn't even know her voice, it came back unsurprisingly blank.

"What for?"

"Getting rid of L-Lockhart."

Hermione went straight to her standard response when talking about the man she had killed - avoid taking any credit, without denying some sort of responsibility. So far, it seemed to have kept her from being called a murderer in the corridors.

"That wasn't exactly my choice."

"Yeah, no, I get that. Not - not having a choice. That's… Look, this is really tough for me to, uh, to say. But it's meant to help, so I'm trying. Am I rambling? Oh Merlin I'm already just talking nonsense aren't I?"

Hermione wouldn't and didn't disagree with the self-assessment, but she did lean in; whatever was coming at the end of the ramble was clearly important.

"Anyway, I was saying… I was saying thank you, because, because; look, Lockhart, he was worse than people realise. I suppose you've got a better idea, but I hope you don't actually know, you know? I hope this is news to you, because if it isn't then… I guess it would explain why you killed him. I know I wanted to."

"Sorry, not to be rude, but are you getting to the point here?" Hermione finally asked, figuring one of them had to get the girl there.

"Right, no, right. I suppose you don't even want to know this, do you? Thank you would be enough. You don't need my baggage too. I'm sorry. I'll leave you to it."

"Oh, that is not fair!"

"What?"

"You cannot seriously come over here, dangle that carrot in my face, and then not give me it. I'll be up all night wondering!"

"Sorry?"

"Why did you want to tell me, whatever it is?"

"I thought it might - it's silly, but I thought maybe you'd be feeling, I don't know, remorseful or something? And I wanted you to know you shouldn't. You really shouldn't. That bastard got what he deserved."

"You're sure about that?" Hermione asked, remembering the man's dying gasps. He got what he asked for, that much was true, but did he honestly deserve that? Could anyone?

"Did he suffer?" the girl asked, apparently thinking along the same lines.

"Yes. Yes, he suffered."

"Then he got what he deserved. You shouldn't feel bad about what you did. If you do."

"But why?"

"Because. Did you know he obliviated people?"

"Yes. He was going to do it to me and Harry. And all his stories; he stole those from the people who actually did the deeds."

"Right. Right. Well, it wasn't just stories he took. He, um… I can't actually prove this, because I don't remember it, but I had a detention with him one time, and I don't remember it so I know he must have obliviated me, but my friend knew where I had been, and then the next morning I found… I found… bruises. In places. You know? Places."

"Are you saying he-"

"Ah!" the girl interrupted, for fear of the word on Hermione's lips. "Yeah. Yeah, I think he did."

Hermione was sickened. To think that man had been in the castle all year; to think Dumbledore had allowed such atrocities to pass unnoticed right under his nose. Not that one wasn't unconscionable enough, but how many other girls might the vile bastard have done similar things to? Girls who wouldn't remember enough to be suspicious? Would it be kinder if they never knew?

A memory took her away from the present, just for a moment.

"I'm afraid I stumbled upon you this way, and it's a good thing I did. Who knows what might have been had I not been here to save the day!"

She batted him away, ineffectually, wondering why he wasn't using a wand for this and if he really meant to slide his hand that far up her skirt.

How long had she been out cold at the bottom of those stairs? How much time had Lockhart wiped from her mind; how much time had he had to possibly-

She threw up in her mouth. Her hands balled into fists, and her legs closed themselves so tightly her knees hurt, as if that would somehow help. The phantom sensation of a hand riding up her leg-

"Hermione? Are you ok? Are - oh, no. No. He didn't. Say he didn't."

Hermione swallowed the vomit, not knowing what else to do with it, and being unable to breath properly around it. The vile taste kept her anchored to a sense other than the tingling in her skin threatening to take hold of her and set her to uncontrollable shaking.

"I don't know," she whispered, grabbing her arms across her chest. "I don't know."

Would it be kinder if I never did?

…

No.

"Merlin I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to.. I didn't even think he might have… I thought you were too young."

"I almost felt bad," she ruminated aloud. "I almost felt bad for what I did. I thought - I thought I should have felt bad, only I didn't, and I felt bad for not… I should have trusted myself. Did I know? Did some part of me know? He botched the spell; I remembered other things, in the end. Just, just twinges at first. Just little hints. Is that why?"

"You don't know that he did."

"I don't know that he didn't. I'm sure he thought about it. I'm sure of that."

'She felt like she could fall asleep right there on the cold hard stone. There was a reason not to, she was sure, but it wasn't presenting itself so it couldn't be all that important. Just a quick nap; sleep it off.'

A reason not to. Like part of her knew. Or was that just paranoia talking? Would Lockhart really have done that to a fourteen year old who was covered in blood and ranting about a basilisk? Was anyone that depraved?

If the Prophet was to be believed about Sirius Black, the answer to the last was yes.

"Excuse me; I need to go throw up."

She hurried up the stairs to the dorm bathroom, barely making it before the urge overwhelmed her and she hurled into the shower cubicle. In a daze she cleaned used the shower to clean up, then stepped into the enticing water, so eager to be clean she left all her clothes save her robes on.

Several minutes later, under the blisteringly hot water, it occurred to her she had never learned the girl's name. Another thing she didn't know. Now, she hated not knowing, on sheer principle, so much more than she had an hour before. Not knowing was once an annoyance; now it was painful. Now, it was unconscionable.

With Halloween looming, Harry had continued avoiding Hermione for a month. At first it had been easy, both logistically and emotionally. Then it had become progressively harder as an annoying little part of him rebelled at the rest, and the friends who had been helping him maintain his space started to turn against him too. The twins no longer ran interference when she entered a room. Neville had gone from stoically neutral - excepting that one conversation - to actively trying to snare him in places Hermione might run into them. Even Ginny wasn't fussed about the affair any longer; she was just, out of nowhere, annoyed at Harry. Which was rich, considering she was on thin ice after last year.

It increasingly seemed his friends thought he was the one in the wrong, but carrying on with what had become routine seemed far better than having to confront the chasm which had opened between his best friend and him. Former best friend.

Word was she was still seeking him out to apologise, not to give him a piece of her mind as he suspected she somehow would, but even then he didn't think he was ready to accept any apology she wanted to give. Apologies were just words after all; her actions had spoken far louder. What possible excuse or reason could she have for what she had done?

Avoiding her without help was challenging because it seemed the girl was everywhere. The library became a no-go zone, as Hermione practically lived there, and in the silence she would be sure to pick out his voice. Gryffindor common room held too many people who, these days, might help her find him, thinking this situation would be improved by talking about it. He took to sitting at the Ravenclaw table with Luna for meals. For the first time he was glad Hermione and he were in different years, as she was in none of his classes, but still he had more close calls in the corridors than he thought he should have.

If she had the ability to find him by sight, he could never have kept out of her way; or rather, he would have had to spend half his life under his invisibility cloak. He refused to allow himself to be thankful she was blind, but the thought did cross his mind before he discarded it with disgust.

All in all, it took a lot of effort not being on speaking terms with Hermione Granger, and Harry had the niggling feeling he wouldn't be able to keep it up indefinitely. Not that he intended to, really; he just needed more space. More time. He would let her in again at some time, just not now. Not yet.

Luna was brilliant as a replacement for company, but still she made it repeatedly clear, as she had from the start, she did not approve.

"Talk to her," she urged one morning, pulling down the quibbler he was reading to make eye contact. "Let her make things right."

"We've been over this. How can she?"

"I don't know, Harry. But I believe you would be happier if you found out. Not knowing is an unpleasant way to live your life."

"If she wants to talk to me, she can find me."

It wasn't like he was impossible to find; if Hermione really wanted to make things up that badly, she would have found a way to corner him, despite all his efforts. Wouldn't she?

"You can be so silly sometimes," Luna chided.

"If she can't make time to find me, that's her problem."

The rebellious voice in his head called him a hypocrite for that one. His only answer was telling it to shut up.

"Time is not Hermione's friend this year, I fear," Luna muttered.

Harry liked Luna, but he occasionally wished she would make more sense with her worldly wisdoms.

"What?"

"Does the clock tell the time, or does the time tell the clock? If you wind back the hands, does time come back for you? Or are you only left further and further behind?"

Her other-worldly wisdoms were even harder to follow. Sometimes, he really had to wonder what was going on in the girl's head.

There were more wrackspurts around Harry than Luna had ever seen. It made Luna sad to see, but if he wasn't willing to talk to Hermione, nor wear any of the protective jewellery she offered him, what could she do? At the very least, the species was at no risk of extinction; Harry's colony alone could repopulate the country should something disastrous happen.

Like daddy said, it was best to see the positives in things. Especially when positives were hard to come by; a candle is most useful in a dark room.

The wrackspurts around Hermione were a sadder sight by far, because the poor girl was trying to deal with them, but her best friend wouldn't let her. Even the 'spurts knew what was best - a few had left their respective heads to dance and frolic together high above the tables.

Worse than the wrackspurts, though, worse by far… Hermione had a Snarlagoffipus wrapped about her throat. It was stealing her sleep, and her waking hours too, and wrapping them all up to form a nest. When it left her, it would take all that time with it, leaving her confused, disorientated, and possibly slightly sticky.

Then again, considering she was using a time machine on a daily basis, only picking up one stowaway was pretty good going so far. Luna made a mental note to make sure her friend didn't run out of prunes, lest she run afoul of something nastier.

She toyed with the idea of telling Hermione why she needed prunes, but ultimately thought it better not to. It was obvious the turner was meant to be a secret, and it would make Hermione unhappy to know she hadn't kept the secret perfectly, whether she trusted Luna with it or not. So the secret would not leave Luna's lips - not even to the one whose secret it was. (Dropping hints to Harry didn't count, because in the art of noticing subtleties he was dense as a lead brick.)

What Luna did do with the secret was run distraction. One morning, the turner had slipped out of Hermione's robes, and Luna had to pretend to see a blibbering humdinger to get everyone to look the other way until it was stashed away. It felt so good being able to help, all the mocking comments slid right off. Having friends was a joyous thing; it made you so much stronger than being alone.

"If you don't talk to her soon, she'll give up on you," she warned Harry, saddened by the truth her mouth was spilling.

"Good. That way she won't kiss me again."

Sometimes the stupid things he said made her really quite cross.

"That is already the case, Harry Potter, and you know it. I do wish you would cease this silliness."

"Silliness?"

"That is what I said."

"Fine. I'll talk to her. After Halloween, I'll… I'll talk to her. Then you can all shut up about it, yeah? Specially if she doesn't show up. Again."

"She had her reasons for that, you know."

"No, I don't know."

"Well, if you were speaking to her, you would."

"What reasons?"

"Why not ask her yourself? I'm certain she would be happy to tell you."

"That's sneaky."

"I have no idea what you mean, Harry Potter," Luna said sweetly, raising her Quibbler to hide her grin.

She would get through to him yet; that much was inevitable. And then Hermione would have the chance to apologise, as she sorely needed to. Harry might get the impression Luna was on his friend's side - as if something like this had sides - but that was far from the case. That girl had breached a serious trust, and had some equally serious grovelling to do. Luna was only still friendly with her because she wasn't the one who deserved said grovelling.

"It does occur to me, you didn't avoid Ginny this much when she kissed you."

"After Halloween," Harry repeated to himself, and Luna's grin broadened.

Inevitable.

A/N:

One thing to address in detail as a review suggest I didn't specify/explain it well enough: I changed how time turners work significantly. To use one, the wearer first turns the glass to set their 'return point', and specify an amount of time. After that time passes, the wearer is transported through time and space back to the return point. This creates a short time loop, but the start of the loop is the instant after they initiate the time travel. You cannot go into your past unless your past self has already set you up to do so... Hermione could not travel back and attend her meet with Harry unless she realised she was going to miss it before it happened.

Another thanks to reviewers, y'all are great.

To Brian: Hermione learns through a combination of the kinder professors taking extra time to work her through things, and sheer perseverance of will to study. Mostly the latter. Also study groups and such things not interesting enough to be covered in a story without pushing a million words. The time turner is more a crutch for the extra study time it grants her than the ability to be in two classes at once.
To Stevem: Canon Harry is way too naive for a victim of abuse. My Harry is in some ways more broken, yet that which broke him made him harder to break again. He grew up, for lack of another option.