Ch. 3 – Exhausting

Hermione did not bother searching the house for anyone else this time. She knew she was alone for the moment. Why—how—had she forgotten? It seemed unfathomable that all the new information she had acquired, considering the subject matter and how much time she had spent in that room, could have simply vanished from her head. And as the door of the reading room had disappeared shortly after she had entered, there had been no willing exit. Instead, it was as if some otherworldly energy sensing that she should not have been there had forced her ejection, kicking her back out to her own world where she belonged.

But now, she had found her way back. She remembered the pile of books, four of them still yet to be read and was gripped with a new determination, suspecting that there was going to be significantly less nostalgic and pleasant reminiscing this time around.

She ran out of the kitchen and into the room where her trunk was, hurriedly grabbing a bag and stuffing into it rolls of parchment, bottles of ink, quills, and her wand. Seconds later, she stood breathing heavily before the cupboard and crawled back into the welcoming darkness, her bag repeatedly hitting the soles of her shoes as it was dragged behind her. The voice she had heard before returned as well, punctuating her trek with ephemeral whispers. Just as before, the hallway expanded as she moved forward and soon, she reached the red door and turned the knob.

Almost everything was as she remembered. The fire still burned just as bright, casting its glow throughout the room. On the armchair was the book she last remembered clutching in her arms before she had drifted away. And beside the chair, there was still the small stand that carried atop it the remaining four thick books she had not yet read. She then turned her head to the part of the room she had scarcely paid attention to last time: the giant hourglass. As Hermione eyed the increasing amount of sand in the bottom half (close to a third had already flowed down), she understood. She quickly set her bag down before moving the pile of remaining books to the edge of the stand to make space for her parchment and ink bottle. She opened the fourth book, cover flashing the words Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and began to read, taking care this time to jot down notes and scribble reminders to herself, studying it with a sense of importance and much more enthusiasm than she would any other book.

Initial confusion was forced down as the story began not with Harry, but with an old Muggle man named Frank Bryce. It was the first passages since the Philosopher's Stone that Harry was not present. But as Hermione found, he was still very much at the center of things. Mr. Bryce had met his demise after overhearing Voldemort's conversation with Wormtail and Hermione was soon reflecting on how fortunate it had been that at least part of Voldemort's plan had gone awry.

It had been a dream Harry had. No—she corrected herself. Not a mere dream, but a vision. And this one, at least, had been real. She cast aside the foreboding sense of dread that had materialized at the thought of the many other visions she knew Harry would have. The description of her shrill and panicky imagined response to Harry's scar hurting was hastily passed over and Hermione instead focused on his hesitant tendency to keep these matters to himself. Her lips curved down to form a frown. She had noticed in the text with Dumbledore in the second book, with Lupin in the third. They had both asked Harry if something was on his mind, at times when very pertinent concerns were floating within him. And he had elected not to tell them, worried about how he would come across to them—weak. She remembered how much later it had been when he had finally told her and Ron about his scar hurting over the summer. Even now, as she read his letter to Sirius, he had only mentioned that his scar had hurt and completely neglected to mention the dream because he didn't want it to look as though he was too worried.

"Well, Harry," she spoke into the air. "You're lucky you have me to notice some things at least and force it out of you." Yes, it would take something very distracting indeed, to keep Hermione Granger from noticing things about Harry Potter. But this conviction faltered when she silently admitted to herself a moment later that she could not possibly know everything about him. Mildly cursing her lacking omniscience, she once again glanced with burning curiosity at the two bottom books on the stand.

She read over Vernon and Petunia Dursley's panic over their son's sudden tongue enlargement and though she did not laugh as the others had, found herself not feeling sorry for them at all. A scowl appeared on her face as the details of their past abuse resurged in her head, and her expression only grew darker when her character was introduced, the book mentioning her rather large front teeth once again. She ran her tongue over her now "normal-sized" teeth, feeling grateful that at least, those descriptions would cease in the future.

They were soon at the site of the Quidditch World Cup, and despite her earlier suspicions that there would be less pleasant reminiscing this time, Hermione found herself recalling with amusement at how she and Harry, with minimal camping experience (none in his case, actually) between the pair of them, had ended up taking the lead when putting up the tents that they would stay in; the others had been beyond clueless. And although she doubted she would ever have to construct a tent again (she wasn't much for the outdoors), it gave her something else to think about. She read as Harry considered the potential problem of how their large party would all fit in just two small tents and how he recognized that Hermione seemed to have spotted this problem too; she gave Harry a quizzical look. In all the chaos of the tent construction, Hermione realized that she had for a minuscule moment—amazingly and inconceivably—forgotten about magic. Nobody else besides her and Harry had shown any surprise whatsoever upon going inside. She had been drawing more on her Muggle background at that moment, something that seemed to be becoming an increasingly rarer occurrence. Seeing the inside of the tent had been a reminder of the wizarding world to which she belonged. As the years passed, she was being pulled further and further into it; she hardly talked to her parents about her school happenings now as she had done in the past. And here she was, not even two weeks since the beginning of summer vacation and spending the rest of her holidays, not with the two people who had raised her from childhood, but with another family—a magical family.

Of course, there were still people—would always be—who felt as if she did not belong to this world and were disgusted by her mere presence as she would be reminded not long after putting up those tents. People like Lucius Malfoy who, right before the beginning of the world cup match, had curled his lip with contempt upon seeing her (she had made sure to not break away from his gaze); his son Draco, who, in the aftermath of the match, had told her with a sneer, "Granger, they're after Muggles…" (she had summoned an especially disgusted look for him alongside Harry and Ron's angry retorts). It had been two years after the bookstore incident, a little less than that after she had been called a Mudblood for the first time, and she had had far less patience that time. She was going to be—already was—a part of this world, no matter what people like Lucius Malfoy and the rest of his ignorant family thought. They would have to cope. She was not leaving.

Her thoughts returned to the actual match, another pleasant memory. She recalled sitting besides Harry and getting caught up in the excitement of everything that had happened—reproachfully pulling Harry back into his seat after he had seen the veela, jumping up and down as the green and scarlet-robed figures became speeding blurs around the stadium, being filled with fright as Viktor (who had simply been Krum to her at the time) and Lynch blitzed towards the ground, giggling as she pulled on Harry's arm to point out the foolish referee.

Everything about the Quidditch match soon faded however, overtaken by the sickening feeling in her stomach accompanied by the memories of the terrified screaming coming from the floating Muggles. It had been mere amusement to the hooded figures in masks—their idea of a good time. She had briefly imagined her own parents being dangled in the air by them that night, and now that Voldemort had returned, the sudden fleeting possibility seemed much more likely to become reality.

She came across the unjust treatment of Winky and had to momentarily restrain herself from diving into a raving tirade no one could hear. Amos Diggory had not even bothered to address Winky by name; she was simply 'elf' to them all. It had ignited a fire of rage in her, witnessing the complete disregard of Winky's mental state and emotional well-being and the disgusting manner in which she was undoubtedly looked down as lesser. It was certainly relatable to some extent.

They were soon back at Hogwarts, the school whose employment of slave labor was well hidden, where the Triwizard Tournament was to be held. She passed over Harry's boyish fantasy of winning the tournament as he grinned into his pillow, exceptionally glad that Ron couldn't see what he could, a stark contrast of how she knew it would conclude.

She reached Moody's—the imposter's—class on the Unforgivable Curses. The strange thought occurred to her that although he had turned out to be a Death Eater in disguise, he had provided her with ammunition against Draco Malfoy by turning him into a ferret and had been a surprisingly effective teacher. But then her face turned pink as she remembered what he had made her do under the Imperius Curse during one of the lessons and she was convinced he was really just an evil git after all. She was eternally grateful that none of her classmates had ever mentioned it again. They had perhaps caught on that it was a sensitive matter and she was relieved to find that not even the book, with its apparent access to Harry's thoughts, had a single word about it. That matter would be going with her to the grave.

Soon, still attempting to put out of mind everyone's lack of enthusiasm over S.P.E.W., Hermione reached the selection of the champions. She read as Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, and Cedric Diggory headed out of sight from the crowd as their names were called. And then…Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out — "Harry Potter."

She had been just as shocked as everybody else. But the dumbfounded expression on Harry's face had instantly told her he had no idea what was happening either. So she had snapped out of it for the moment and spurred him forward. He had slowly walked away looking lost, until he too, was soon out of sight.

Harry came back out from that small room, now officially a Triwizard champion and Hermione read his desperate, pleading thought at the time: Was anyone except Ron and Hermione going to believe him, or would they all think he'd put himself in for the tournament? An awkwardness came over her as the memories flooded back. She had turned to Ron immediately after Harry had gone and he had given her a curt nod in response when she had told him about the stunned look on Harry's face. But it seemed that during that short time he had been away from her, he had let his envy consume him.

For her part, Hermione had been in her bed, attempting to drown out the sounds of the raucous party in the common room. The rest of the Gryffindors had been ecstatic that Harry was to compete, treating the whole affair as a superb accomplishment. She, on the other hand, had buried her face in her pillow, frustrated and distressed that it was going to be yet another year that Harry Potter was going to find himself in danger. It was simply exhausting at times. Something was always happening to him through no fault of his own and she cursed whatever force out there had made it so that Harry Potter could not ever enjoy a relatively uneventful school year. Feeling rather overwhelmed (and guilty for feeling so, for she knew Harry had to be feeling much worse), she had consoled herself by thinking that by heading off early, she would be better prepared to give him her full support the following morning.

At breakfast, it had not taken long for her to hear Harry's name being scathingly mentioned several times. She had known how he was going to feel—had known he would dread the prospect of making such a public appearance after last night's debacle. So she had resolutely placed a stack of toast in a napkin and was on the way back to Gryffindor Tower when she had run into Ron…

"Come on," she said to him.

"Where are you going?"

"We're going to see Harry. He won't want to be around all those people who think he's some attention-seeking prat who somehow cheated to enter himself into a dangerous tournament."

From the look on Ron's face, Hermione knew something was wrong. It was some time before he spoke again.

"…Yeah, right."

Her brow furrowed. "What is this? What are you doing?"

"You really believe he didn't put his name in?"

"Oh, honestly. You're not saying you think he did?"

Ron only stared blankly at her in response.

"You don't believe he did. Not really!" she said in exasperation. She was not asking for confirmation but informing him.

"He told you something?" he asked.

"What? No, I haven't seen him since his name was announced! But, he shouldn't have to tell us otherwise for us to believe him. I told you, the look on his face when Dumbledore called his name…"

Ron stayed silent for a while before his mouth opened again. "Fine. Go then," he said before walking past her to sit down at the table. She stared at his back with pity before leaving him in the Great Hall.

The following days had been hard for Harry, she had known. He had needed Ron's support but trying to get them to talk to each other was like pulling teeth. Her own teeth meanwhile, had been hit by Malfoy's hex and had grown beyond the "rather large" description that was typically applied to them. Snape's cruel response of "I see no difference" had convinced her more than ever that she needed to take care of the matter as soon as possible. Her parents, as she had predicted, had not been pleased.

To make matters worse, Rita Skeeter's article fabricating Harry's comments had appeared shortly after. Hermione read over Rita's first words about her: Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is one of the top students in the school. Hermione had frequently been next to Harry as passersby had hissed quotes from it at him and she knew all too well how much it had bothered him. They had directed some comments towards her as well but she was pleased to read that Harry was full of admiration for the way she was handling the situation. Well, she'd had plenty of practice ignoring that sort of thing. It had been happening to her even before Hogwarts, after all.

Far more maddening than Rita Skeeter however, had been Harry and Ron. Hermione's patience had been pushed to her limit. She had felt as if she was losing her mind trying to force conversation between her two idiot friends, a rare reversal of her role in the dynamic of the trio. Afterwards, she distinctly remembered feeling a rush of appreciation for Harry, who had been in that position many times before when she and Ron had set each other off over relatively minor issues.

She returned to reading about her frustrations of that time. Hermione was furious with the pair of them. "Too right," she said in a low voice. She continued but suddenly froze as a certain passage caught her eye. A feeling of strange discomfort rose in her as she read: Harry liked Hermione very much, but she just wasn't the same as Ron. There was much less laughter and a lot more hanging around in the library when Hermione was your best friend. She reeled back, not with shock, but with something halfway to it, as she now held the book at a distance. She brought the pages back close to her face and read over the words again. And then a third time. She raised her head with a faraway gaze in her eyes, as if she had been blindsided by a stunning revelation.

…He "liked her very much."

Of course, Hermione knew the manner in which it had been meant. She was unquestioningly very fond of him in that way as well. It was something unspoken that everybody knew. And they both shared that same feeling towards Ron. But still… She abruptly shook her head to halt her train of thought, suspecting that she would not be having this sort of silly reaction if she had not just read these books about him. They had affected her in an unusual way it seemed. She turned her focus back to the words on the pages.

But then again—she remembered furtively trying to gauge Harry's reaction that year once Rita's article had come out saying he had "at last found love" with reference to her. It had of course been nothing but intellectual curiosity. There had not been a reaction of note from him, so she had then put it out of her mind. But then again—he had been infatuated with Cho at the time… What about now?

"No," she said out loud. Pointless thoughts, really.

But she let her mind wander a bit longer before finally moving on to the second part of Harry's thought: that she "just wasn't the same as Ron."

"I should certainly hope not," she muttered. She then read again: There was much less laughter and a lot more hanging around in the library when Hermione was your best friend.

What had Ron told her just that day? That she wasn't really the "funny" type? She shrugged. She didn't need to be. She knew the relationship she had with Harry was different from what he had with Ron. For one thing, Harry didn't need two people who were constantly joking around with him. He needed someone to keep him in check, someone who wasn't afraid to stand up to him at times, someone to push him past his self-doubts, someone to help him reach the full extent of his ability, someone who he could seek out at his lowest points, someone to watch over him when he would undoubtedly find himself in those situations where his life was at risk, someone he could share absolute mutual trust with, someone who would never, ever, abandon him.

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. A sniff escaped her and she smiled, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

He was exhausting.