starn / storm / stern
Dedication
This is an extension to my last confession; for the woman who works in the library. Here is aver / ever, and other words to describe my love.
From the turret on Gryffindor tower, Hermione could find the north starn, trace the lines through the great bear, and be unheard as she heaved a great cry. She could even uproot the pins from her hair and transfigure them into starlings, watch as they fled from her; doomed to untransfigure eventually, their semblance of life not enough. They'd fall. Like stars.
Some things look like other things. Some things look like things they are not.
Some girls look pretty in periwinkle, in flowing fabric with furls and ruffles. But they are not pretty. They are pretending.
Hermione knew she was pretending. She snuffled some more, wishing. That's what stars were for, right?
Go and catch a falling star…
Why did girls have to prove themselves? Why was it always a quest? Do this, do that, look like this… be smart, but don't speak up. Ride ten thousand days and nights—
"Hermione?"
Her hair whipped round from where the half-sleeked curls were coming undone, looking to the source of the sound in the dark.
His hair moved too; some sort of breeze, a gentle wind…
"Thought it was you. Wasn't sure, with the hair," said Fred, still in his dress robes. He raised his eyebrows as he gestured inarticulately with his hand, vaguely moving it about. He wobbled back and forth on his feet.
Snarling from her throat, a rumbling, riotous sort of ringing, she said, "Oh, laugh then! I suppose you came up to do just that; mock the swot!" One of the hairpins-turned-starlings flew out the window, fleeing from the change in air pressure Hermione's crackle of magic made. She looked at a wall, not seeing it through the dark, still knowing the Hogwarts crest was there. The shield — the timbre in the middle was so familiar — lion, snake, badger, eagle. It was a much better focus for her than the teenage boy in front of her.
"What— I… No. I came up to say… something," Fred chuckled, the air leaving him in huffs as he did. "I don't know what. To tell you not to listen to my brother, I suppose." How chivalrous.
She looked at him, thoughts swirling for a moment, and then she deflated, "Oh no. I suppose everyone in the hall heard, then?" She hid her face in her hands, clutching and wrinkling the folds of her dress.
"I'm sure some of those stuffy ministry officials are hard of hearing."
Hermione only sniffled in response.
"You looked pretty tonight." When she still didn't answer, he continued, "like a cloud in that dress. Spinning 'round like a tornado… 'Course, you're always a bit of a whirlwind."
"Thanks, Fred," she deadpanned, "I'm a terror. I get it."
"No, I mean… I mean in a good way. I don't know," Fred sighed, "You're like a thunderstorm. You like thunderstorms, don't you? You sit by the window and watch them, sometimes. I think you like them." He was being weird. The way he was talking, something wasn't normal…
"I do like thunderstorms," she allowed, eyes narrowing at his fingers, which picked at the buttons on his robes.
"Right! See, good things. Compliments."
"Are you… drunk, Fred?"
"I might've spiked the punch and then have drunk a little too much punch, yes."
She made a noise of dawning comprehension, but she didn't understand; not really. She'd never been drunk herself.
Fred continued, "What are you doing up here? Other than being a storm."
"Looking— you can see the north starn from here."
"Those darn starns…" Fred said, mounting himself on the seat next to Hermione, craning his neck to peer outside. With the natural light, Hermione could see the reddish tint to his cheeks. He really did need to sleep this off. She should say something to that affect.
"Yes,—"
"What's a starn?"
"Wha— oh. A star. Star and starn. They're the same word, but not really. It's a doublet. Two words, from different places, that sound the same. Mean the same. Do you understand?"
"No. It's strange how words sound so much like each other."
"Yes, I suppose sometimes it is," Hermione sighed, "I should probably get you up to bed."
"Starn sounds like storm too. And stern. I like it. It's sort of like you."
"Like me?" Hermione asked, hoisting him up, giving a great heave as she tried to get the gangly boy to help get himself to bed. "How so?"
"Starn / storm / stern," Fred said in a low timbre, as if that explained anything. "Like you."
"Okay, Fred. Let's get you up to George."
"There's others too, I bet. Words for you. Words that are almost other words. Like warrior!"
"Worrier?"
"Yes! Warrior / worrier; warrior-worrier-warrior-worrier-warrier-worrior. Like that."
"I'm not sure I understand you," said Hermione, balancing her weight and Fred's with the banister.
"You should've had more punch," quipped Fred, wit sharp even as he nearly fell down the stairs (/ stares / stars).
They made it up the stairs with more of Fred's mindless blabbering: a constant wave of sounds which sounded the same. By the time Hermione had dumped him in his room, she wasn't sure if he had started to make sense or if she had had more of the punch than she thought.
What a strange night (/ knight).
Some things sound like other things. Things they are not. (starn / storm / stern)
Some things look like other things. Things they are not. (hairpins / starlings)
But some things sound like things they are. (stars / starns)
And some things look like things they are. (pretty / storms)