Angelina found herself doing this a lot over the past few weeks, ever since Harry had uttered to her what this boy had told him. Staring at Draco Malfoy. It was not merely that she felt uneasy or that when she looked at him her heart gave a lurch. It was his attitude. Yes, she had rightly suspected him of stealing her things, and yes she knew that if given the chance he would lie just to see Harry squirm. But this somehow felt different. It was the boldness of that lie and his silence about it afterwards that troubled her most.
So yes, she watched him.
Her eyes bore into his blond head and callous smile like probes searching for some revealing gesture or word. She didn't know what exactly she was searching for, or why. She just felt…for instance: her dream. It had been about Harry pounding his face in, as she had described, but that was not all. Angelina had left out the strangest part; it bothered her somewhat more than Umbridge brandishing a whip and cackling madly. In the beginning of the dream there was only Angelina and Draco.
They were on the Quidditch pitch, and he stood facing her. The night sky hung over their heads; the bleacher stands looming silent and empty. He looked angry but panic-stricken. She felt numb all over. He was aiming his wand at her. There was no movement, no words between them. It was as if the universe had paused; fastened in place on a scene that was in mid-play. Though they looked at each other; her face hot with rage and his trembling with that odd combination of fear and malice; they did not speak or move perhaps because they could not. She knew this…somehow she knew this. They could not…there was something missing, but instead of unfolding in her mind it remained in a perpetual state of stillness. His wand remained pointed right at her, and for her there was nothing but that elusive feeling…
And then Harry had shown up, leaping out of nothingness like some wild-haired apparition and pouncing on Malfoy. They rolled around for a moment and then Harry grabbed a handful of Draco's white-blond locks and yanked his head back. "You trying to kiss my girlfriend?" he snarled. And than—SLAM!—he drove his fist right into Draco's face, causing Angelina to cry out. She watched, horrified, as Harry began punching his enemy, hard. He punched once, twice, three times…and again. And again. She screamed.
"Harry, stop it!"
"Oh, no, Potter, do please continue…" Umbridge was there, now, her whip curling at her feet like a sleek black snake, her eyes alight with evil; her nasty smile so wide and inhuman that she looked like some sort of demented clown. "Hit him again!"
"No!" Angelina tried to run and stop Harry, who was whaling on Draco like the dickens, his fist slamming repeatedly—awfully—into the other boy's bloody, unrecognizable face. Umbridge grabbed her, her hold like an iron vise, and would not let go.
"Yes, you little brute; harder! Harder!"
Angelina turned and twisted around in her bed, trying to free herself from Umbridge's grip, whimpering for Harry to stop. She's going to get you—she's going to hurt you so bad, Harry, please stop!
She woke up to the explosion of the last blow, which in her dream had broken something in Malfoy's face with a loud crack, drenched in sweat. Her chest was heaving mercilessly, her eyes flew all over the room, she was so afraid. Katie stirred, but did not wake. Angelina sat there in bed for a long time, calming herself.
"It was just a dream," she whispered against her roommate's snoring. Just a dream…
Still, she could not go back to sleep. She didn't want to. She wanted to be close to Harry. This realization clicked very subtlety, like the way a person realizes they are hungry and could eat something. She simply needed to be held by him, the boy with the stunning green eyes and bashful smile. She left her roommates to their own dreams and went to the boys' side of Gryffindor Tower, prepared to have to wake him. Prepared, even, to be rejected.
Through her panic about her nightmare arose a rather keen daring when she was with Harry that manifested itself in quite an interesting way. It almost reminded her of her summer visit with the Weasleys, and Fred's tiny little chuckle of surprise when she said that she didn't mind if he wanted to kiss her. And he had. It was curiosity, more than anything…innocent curiosity. He kissed her, and they kissed for a long time, and when it was over he said that it was nice but he would rather go and play a game of Quidditch. And she had agreed.
It was the same, sort of, with Harry—her actions were the result of curiosity, but quite a different kind. A kind less innocent and more intense; a kind more sensual in nature. Angelina's curiosity about Harry's reactions to her affection towards him motivated her to do more; allow him to see and feel more; in order to satisfy her own need to witness the effect on him. She had not expected him to cry, of course. From the looks of him, neither did he. He seemed ashamed of it. She understood why.
She had heard; from various sources that included Fred, George, and Hermione; about the way he was raised. He grew up with Muggle guardians who despised anything 'abnormal' (that meant magic, she knew) and who mistreated him awfully. "They treat him like shite; me and George sawr'it with our own eyes," Fred had told her once when she asked why they had stolen their father's flying car to pick him up. "There were bars on his windows and he hadn't had anything to eat—you should have seen him at breakfast…poor lad."
From the small details of things she had heard over the years, it sounded to Angelina like down right abuse. She hesitated, however, in ever asking Harry anything about it. That night had been the closest she had ever come to broaching the subject with him—and his response? A pitiful, heartbreaking little sob that angered him to let go, she could see. She decided that then wasn't the time, and eventually (hopefully) they could talk about it at length.
There was another matter, after all, that needed attending to.
Angelina's thoughts, from the moment she set foot in the common room that Tuesday night after practice and every day since, were clouded and unsure. Confusion was not the word. She had come to this conclusion after a few days of thinking hard: there was a period of time between her sealing the jinx on her locker and her seeing Harry waiting for her in the common room where no images or feelings appeared in her memory other than blank darkness. She must've walked back by herself; she must have seen the sky, felt the breeze of the chilly night air, thought about Harry or the match or something. She must have spoken the password to the fat lady or even seen a student or two hurrying back to their dorms to catch curfew but no…she couldn't remember doing any of that.
There was just nothing there of what she had done, seen, or said after pointing her wand at that locker or before seeing Harry's weary smile as she entered the dark common room. Aside from that gaping emptiness there was her slightly uneasy recollection of not wishing Harry to touch her or say too much. His questions annoyed her and it was all she could do not to snap at him. Holding his hand, though she felt she ought to want to, was less like it should've been and more like holding the sweaty, clammy hand of some ridiculous little kid…
This feeling faded, of course (bringing with it an appropriate amount of confusion), but the fact that it had been there at all suggested something strange. His questions, though annoying, were right on point, which further annoyed her. Why was her Quidditch shirt torn? And what was with her dirty knees and the dirt she had washed out of her hair? She remembered the practice drill completely—no one grabbed her and she hadn't fallen to her recollection.
The worst evidence, however, had to be the bruises on her wrists, which she guessed that Harry hadn't noticed. But she had…she'd stared down at them for the longest time in the shower, her mind drawing a complete blank. They were tender and had faint marks on them. She breathed hard, the water running over her eyes and hair and body…she felt as if these wounds were an indication not of Quidditch but of struggle. Struggle? She could make out faint…fingerprints…that didn't make any sense!
The more Angelina thought about it, as the days progressed, the worse she felt. The harder she tried to remember any small detail of those minutes between jinx and crackling fire, the more her cold, slinky panic grew.
And then: "Malfoy said some stuff…about you. He said—Angelina he said he knows why I like you now…said you two had 'fun'…" Harry's anger was genuine and his eyes were full of dread. "You would tell me if he tried to put his hands on you-?"
Would she tell him? Would she…? Well damn it she didn't know, now did she? Because there was nothing there! But his words to her rang and echoed in her mind, and they became stuck there in her thoughts and filled her with coldness and she remembered those tender marks on her wrists and that blank, blank spot in time. Why would Malfoy say such things? She tried to dismiss his actions just as much to herself as to Harry. She tried to pass it off—he was just being Malfoy. It was just like the practice drill. Yes, yes. No truth to the tale whatsoever.
What Harry did not see as they were leaving the Great Hall that night either, was Malfoy, who had not come down to dinner. Standing a good way ahead of them, watching the students pass from the shadow of some corridor, his hands in his pockets, leaning. He was waiting for Crabbe and Goyle to reach him in the fray so they could walk together, probably. Harry had been whispering with Hermione. Angelina was not paying attention to them. She was thinking…and her eyes caught sight of him at the same time his caught sight of her. He looked at her so…there wasn't quite a smile on his face but the shadow of that familiar sneer could be seen. That wasn't what bothered her. The look in his eyes…they burned. They burned with the same mixture of fear and malice that she would later see in her dream. He watched her, and she watched him…and then he slipped into the crowd of students and for the next few weeks there was no word from him to her at all. He did not tease her. When he was with his friends, he let them taunt her and whoever she was with, but he did little more than laugh quietly or smirk. Though he stood quiet, his eyes remained burning into her as they did after dinner that night.
So she watched him. And she dove into her game. When she wasn't blowing her whistle on the pitch or pouring over homework or kissing Harry, she was watching Draco. He acted normal for the most part-his actions did not change around Harry or any of her other friends, but with Angelina they became uncharacteristic. This gave him away.
"Hermione, can I ask you something?"
There was a night in which Angelina had one of those 'click' moments. It had been after one of their D.A. meetings. After personally escorting Angelina, Ginny, Hermione, and some other Gryffindors back to the common room, Harry had gone back to make sure everyone else got out safely. The girls had spent a while talking about how good Harry was and how nicely everyone was coming along. They'd started comparing him to some of the other teachers they'd had, saying that he could easily be as cool as Lupin, or even Moody. Someone brought up Gilderoy Lockhart. "To think he ended up losing his memory when he'd taken it away from so many others! Stupid, really." Ginny had said, ignoring the fact that she'd had a little crush on him. "What an imposter he was…"
Angelina participated in the conversation, but her brain was buzzing frantically. Memory charm…Lockhart's memory charm. She thought. And thought. And thought. And finally a couple of days later she found Hermione in the library after being very distracted at Quidditch practice and asked her: "How much do you know about Memory Charms?"
The fifth year girl frowned thoughtfully. "Only what I've read. Why?"
Angelina made up an excuse about being curious after their conversation about Lockhart (which was the truth, really) and Hermione told her what she knew. "They're complicated, even though they seem simple. A person has to really know what they're doing for them to work properly. I expect Lockhart spent a lot of time perfecting his," she said casually. "You can use them to wipe out a small piece of someone's memory, or weeks, months, even years…but if you're not careful you could end up really messing up the mind. That's why people have to be specially licensed to perform them. You know, Aurors and Obliviators and such…"
"Well what if I was to do one? Or you…? Or just any old kid?"
"Um…" Hermione smiled uncertainly. "I doubt it would be very smart to attempt it at our level. We'd likely end up really hurting someone—like scrambling their brains…"
"But what if we didn't?" Angelina pressed.
"Well…I suppose then that unless we're really talented (or just really lucky), the most we could do is wipe out some memory temporarily. I don't think the charm would be very strong if one of us tried it. It might only last for as long as the mind was willing to accept the memory loss."
Angelina's pulse raced and she felt as if her brain were jumping up and down with excitement. "What do you mean, 'if the mind is willing to accept…'?"
Hermione looked at her funnily for a beat, then excused herself and went off into the stacks. Angelina thought for a second that the girl was going to fetch Madame Pince and tell her that her friend needed to go to the hospital wing, for she knew she was acting strangely but she couldn't help it. She was so close to understanding what was happening to her. Hermione did not return with the bitter old librarian but she did have a copy of a textbook entitled "The Mysteries of the Mind and Memory Alteration."
"Let's see…" she thumbed through some pages familiarly until she found what she was looking for and then gave a happy little "Aha." She turned the book around so that Angelina could read and pointed to a passage on the left page somewhere in the middle. "There it is."
Angelina read.
"The mind cannot be fooled easily. Though many inexperienced wizards incorrectly believe that simply evoking the magic necessary to alter another's memories—indeed their very feelings and thoughts during any given period of time—will serve the purpose fully and without complication, there is still the matter of will. Great concentration and power is needed to bend a person's mind to one's will, and while this implies the use of the dark principles present in such curses as the Unforgivable Impirius, it does not inherit them. The Memory Charm "Obliviate" and its brother "Oblivia Maximum" (which is used by most Obliviators to wipe away years of memory and is not recommended for use by unqualified wizards), will only work if the wizard casting them is in total control of his own magic and emotion during the incantation and assertion of the spell.
"This means more than simply speaking clearly and performing the right wrist movement. This means extreme concentration and dedication—that is follow through. Uncertainty or hesitation leads to disaster, and the result could seriously harm the mind. The two ends of the spectrum are: the most extreme being addled brains, loss of identity or ability to function properly, and the most benign (though still harmful, given the necessity to use the charm in the first place) being the mind's resistance of the spell."
Angelina's finger was pressed so hard on the page as she ran it along each line, completely engrossed, that it was turning white. She read, her eyes growing narrow with concentration and her mouth moving silently, as Hermione looked on.
"The charm; if cast without follow through and concentrated intent; over time could wear off, or become weak and fade away. One does not need to explain the dangers of such an occurrence. For most, the memory that was Obliviated will present itself subconsciously at first—in a strange feeling of nostalgia or loss or mystification. The person becomes aware that there is something they are forgetting, which leads to scrutiny of his or her own mind. This need to account for the unexplainable absence of thought or action in a particular time frame grows more intense and more persistent as time progresses, and soon the mind's struggle to retrieve these memories manifests itself in other ways. These ways can be dreams (Angelina audibly gasped), words or images or even smells from the wiped memory surfacing at odd times, and even fragments of the memory itself appearing unbidden."
Angelina thanked Hermione and immediately checked the book out. As she read it, she learned that the spell castor could use the charm to suggest what memories (or hints of something like memory) would replace the erased one. All Angelina remembered of that night was that she had been tired, and that she just wanted to go to sleep. She saw Harry, became annoyed by him, and went off to take a shower. Her dream was beginning to make sense, as did her mind bringing to her the idea of struggle when she looked at her wrists. And Harry's words. She read that only a very strong-willed person or a person who practices Occlumency can resist (and therefore reverse the effects of) a Memory Charm. If there was one way of describing Angelina, it was strong-willed. There were a whole chapter dedicated to 'Occlumency' but Angelina discerned from glancing through it that it was not a skill easily mastered—and in any case it would not help her to attempt it now. The memory was gone.
The stillness of that image—her and Draco standing on the pitch; his wand aimed at her; his eyes filled with panic—would not go away.
She made up her mind that she would confront to him. She didn't know when she would do this, but it had to be done. She hoped that he would laugh at her, call her insane, and go on teasing her like he had before all of this. His silence and his intensity towards her lately…it was disturbing, quite frankly. But, Angelina could not claim that her own duality over the weeks was lost on her. Yes she was two different people during winter's descent. The Angelina that worked hard at Quidditch and laughed and held hands with her boyfriend—and the Angelina that mulled in dark thoughts about a boy that was almost certainly the reason for them.
Would she tell Harry 'if…'? Would she?
Yes without hesitation; because, as she would come to find out, Harry was not to be underestimated. That was Malfoy's mistake as much as hers.
Harry stared at the tattered notebook that Fred was holding out to him. "What's this?"
The twins exchanged meaningful looks and chimed: "Our pride and joy." Fred lovingly stroked the green leather, which was so misused that it seemed to groan in protest. Harry tilted his head to read an inscription on the bottom corner: W.W.W. He knew that stood for Weasley's Wizard Wheezies. He wanted to ask just how long the two of them had been at this whole joke shop thing, but judging by the looks of that ratty book, it appeared that they had this dream for years– possibly even since before they first started Hogwarts.
"Now we're going to show you something, Harry, but understand this is not something we ever do." George warned.
"I understand."
"No, swear you'll never reveal the secrets of this sacred text." Fred demanded. "Swear that if you ever do, you hope your nose falls off."
"Um…I don't think I want my nose to fall…off…"
"'Fraid you've got no choice, mate. Swear it," said George. The pair of them were looking at him quite seriously. Harry sighed and rolled his eyes, muttering 'I swear' under his breath. "Well done. Fred, you do the honors."
Fred opened the book and found a page, marked by a beat-up looking Drooble's Chews rapper. "Ah…here we are. Our list of Homemade Hexes."
The twins had bewitched Frisbees and all kinds of novelty items that they'd produced, including fireworks and goodness knew what else. But among all that, they had maintained an ever-growing collection of what they called Homemade Hexes that they planned to publish one day for "misbehaving young witches and wizards everywhere".
"We want you to use some of these."
"Me?"
Fred nodded, his grin spreading ala-Umbridge, curling up deviously. "You see, we know us, and we know you. You're a fighter, Harry. Well we are too, don't get me wrong, and that's why we'll be there to back you up, but what we really want is to see these babies tested out by someone other than ourselves. Someone with skilled hands. Who better than you?"
"I don't get you…" Harry stared at them both, his eyes flickering from one twin to the other. He thought he had an idea, but rather than elaborating just then, they only gestured, in unison, to the book in Fred's hands.
Harry took the book from Fred and squinted down at either his or George's tiny, irregular writing. His eyes ran down a list of hexes and jinxes and spells that the boys had invented, organized by date and time of conception, name, and side-effects. His eyes caught one named The Silly Slapper. He chuckled. This one was a spell that caused the victim to feel a good, sharp slap to the face every time he took a step, no matter what direction. There was a comical little sketch right next to it that showed a stick figure turning in all directions and being knocked back by some invisible force. "That one's not bad…" Harry said to himself.
"Take a look at this one!" Fred pointed.
Harry read the underlined word Jackass. He laughed aloud. "What…?"
"Just read it, it's a doosie."
Harry read about the Jackass Jinx. It basically did just as the title indicated: it gave the victim of the jinx long, pointy ears, big teeth, a swishy black tail, and the unmistakable neigh of a donkey. The effects were written to last for a long period of time, and side effects included an extreme craving for hay. Harry pictured Malfoy eating hay.
"Yeah, we tried that one a couple of summers ago. Blimey that could've been a disaster—luckily all I had to do was pretend to be George so he could recover, but it was damned hard work walking in and out of rooms twice all the time and remembering whose name I was supposed to answer to and all that. Sheesh, and all that hay…he couldn't stop munching on the stuff." Fred said casually.
"Hey, the Eat Slugs hex! You guys came up with that one?" Harry asked, looking up from the book. They nodded, adopting looks of scandal.
"Yes we did. It pained us to see our dear brother try to use it with that shoddy wand he had."
"But it was quite funny to see him vomiting up all those slugs!"
Harry had lost track of which one was talking. He kept skimming over their list, letting out little sounds of intrigue when he came across something particularly interesting or clever. There was one called The Giggle Box (pretty silly, that—it made the victim giggle uncontrollably, no matter what anyone said, until they were quite literally blue in the face), and something called #307. There were a bunch of question marks next to this number, as if they hadn't come up with a good name for it yet. It was a chew (they loved candy and gum, these boys, for most of their potions came in chewable form), that made the eater's voice sound like anyone's. He was puzzled by this but then read on. According to the twins, if you can do an impression of someone, you could sound exactly like them if you ate one of their chews. "Hey, this one looks really useful," he said, pointing it out to them.
"Ah, number three hundred and seven. Not quite finished with that one yet. For now we can only make it sound like Mum," said George. "Or maybe it's that we can't do any other proper impressions…we'll have to test it out on you, maybe. Your impressions are pretty good, I hear."
"So, what do you think, Harry?"
"I think you guys should've been using these all along! I could've used The Silly Slapper at the practice drill."
Fred shrugged. "We only just got that one right. Before it would only slap you when it wanted to, and you'd go 'round thinking the spell had worn off and then all of a sudden you're attacking first years in the hall 'cause you think they've pelted you with something."
Harry laughed and gave the book back. He supposed that Fred and George had their reasons for making him wait so long just to look at a list of Homemade Hexes. He supposed, even, that it would be great fun to watch Malfoy get slapped in the face every time he took a step, or giggle uncontrollably in Snape's class, or (his favorite) suddenly sprout donkey ears and big yellow donkey teeth. But…all this seemed rather more like Fred and George and less like Harry. What would Harry do to Malfoy given the chance? He supposed he didn't rightly know. His fury from the night he confronted Angelina was diminished somewhat, especially since she had come around.
"Okay, so where do my 'skilled hands' come in?"
The twins once again exchanged meaningful looks.
"You're gonna challenge Malfoy to a duel!" George gushed.
"A what?" Harry didn't know whether to be extremely pleased or horribly surprised. He opted for both. "But…I haven't dueled since second year when that git Lockhart had that club."
"Yeah, and it was fun wasn't it? And you were good, from what we hear." Fred said quickly, in a hushed whisper. Madame Pince was lurking a few paces away, eyeing them darkly. "And who's been teaching us, you know…defense against the Dark Arts? You!"
Harry sat thinking carefully. If he had been thinking straight at all instead of being mired by blind rage, he supposed that he could have challenged Malfoy from the off. But, then…if Malfoy had proven anything to him in their years of knowing each other, it was that he usually avoided confrontation with Harry one-on-one. He only taunted, teased, and insulted Harry when a teacher was somewhere in the vicinity, didn't he? Well, not all the time, but certainly enough for Harry to deduce that Malfoy would just as soon take Harry's challenge to Umbridge or Snape. He said as much to the twins.
"Yeah, we thought of that." They both said. Fred continued: "That's part of why it took us so bloody long to come to you. We may be a bit cheeky by appearances, but we've got sharp minds under these gorgeous locks, mate." Fred tapped the side of his head with his finger. Harry wanted to mention their OWL exams but decided against it.
"Understand, Harry we thought it best not to let you in on this part, just in case." George supplied. "You see, we don't especially care for the administration this year, so worrying about getting in trouble doesn't seem to hinder us as much as it used to."
"Yeah," said Fred. "First we had to use this." He carefully pulled a brand new-looking quill from the folds of his robes as though he didn't want a single eye outside their group to fall upon it. The quill tip was red.
"What's that?" Harry asked, intrigued.
"Our other pride and joy." The boys chimed.
"It's a quill that mimics handwriting." Fred whispered, and as a demonstration he took hold of Harry's parchment and traced the last few words of a sentence he'd been writing with the quill. He then found a clean sheet and began writing on it. Harry stared in amazement as Fred wrote "I love Angelina Johnson" on the parchment in exactly his sprawling, scratchy handwriting.
"Wow…" he breathed, watching as Fred wiped the parchment clean with his wand. "Okay, so who's handwriting did you mimic with that?"
"Malfoy's, of course." George answered as if it should've been obvious. "That's what took so long. We had to get a sample of his chicken scratch." He beamed. "Finally got, it, though. A few days ago. Bribed this brilliant little beast of a first year to nick it and bring it to us." He showed Harry a piece of parchment that had been brutally attacked by erratic, unclean handwriting. He squinted at some of the words. It looked like Malfoy hadn't been paying attention in his History of Magic class with the Ravenclaws. He drew little people scurrying about under a big black boot that was going to crush them. There was what looked like a Dementor lurking around in the middle of an unfinished paragraph on the Goblin Wars. He'd written barely recognizable words in tight, strung together sentences. Harry thought he caught Angelina's name. He snatched the parchment from George. There was Angelina's name, alright, written and crossed out over and over again across the bottom of the page. And right beneath it was a rather curious sentence.
I like her…?
Harry's heart sped up, pumping double fast as he re-read this ugly writing a few times more. Malfoy had crossed out the word 'like' twice and replaced it with 'hate' but Harry was not fooled. He felt bitter all over and his wand hand was itching. So he likes my girlfriend, does he? Harry thought coldly. "That little shit…" he whispered aloud.
"Knew that would get your goat, lad," Fred said seriously, prying the parchment out of the boy's hands. "Me and George planned this pretty carefully. Now, it could probably blow up in our faces, but if you're in we'll tell you what's next." Harry's lips were tight with anger but he nodded that he was in. The twins went on telling them about their plans, and he listened, growing more and more dedicated to the idea as they talked. What they had done was very risky, in the sense that as Fred put it, it could blow up in their faces and they'd all be in big trouble. "But, we know guys like Malfoy. And we know tight-arsed disciplinarians like Umbridge," Fred went on. "And if there is anything they are, it's predictable. They'll do it like we planned it and then Malfoy'll be so riled up and humiliated that he'll take your challenge just to prove he's no yellow belly."
"Which he is, and a fool to boot," George added.
"All we ask is that you get in a few of these gems…" Fred patted the tattered notebook paternally again. "…while you fight. We're trusting you to make us proud, Potter. Think you can handle it?"
"I think I can handle it." Harry calmed himself, setting aside his anger for better use later. The twins had proven themselves to be quite a bit more than trouble-making clowns—they were scheming, kind of brilliant inventors, and he was glad to have them on his side.
"Good!" they chimed.
Harry saw Hermione emerging from the stacks, arms full of books, and cleared his throat in warning. "So, dinner is a fine time to do it, don't you think, George? Lots of people in the Great Hall." Fred said conspiratorially.
"Yeah I reckon that's a good place to start. So see you at dinner, Harry?"
Harry blinked unsurely, but nodded. "Okay…"
"Great. See ya, Granger." Fred and George acknowledged Hermione as they left, but did not attempt to help her with her books. She rolled her eyes and gave Harry an exasperated look.
"What are those two doing in the library?"
"Dunno—just passing through, I guess." He stood up to help her, taking some of the books from her arms. As he stacked them up on the table, he frowned, reading through the titles. He picked up a book called Escaping Obliviation. "What's this for?"
"Oh, I thought I'd give that one to Angelina," Hermione said casually. "She's taken an interest in Memory Charms."
Harry stared at the cover. "Why?"
"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"
He thought about it for a second, but reasoned that Hermione was the go-to girl for just about any piece of information one could think of—the girl lived in the library. It wasn't out of the ordinary at all to ask her about something, and it was rather sweet that she had taken the time to fetch Angelina the book.
"What are all these?" he asked, picking up a copy of The Fundamental Elements of Transfiguration and thumbing through it.
"I picked those up for you and Ronald. He's spending so much time with Quidditch, he hasn't studied much, and we've got exams coming," she explained, sighing and taking her seat. Harry put the book down and gave her a knowing look as he settled himself back into his own seat. "What?" she made a face.
"Nothing…" Harry picked up his quill and went back to his Astronomy essay. Hermione stared at him for a long while, and he resisted as long he could before she snorted defensively and he laughed aloud.
"What?"
Harry looked at her finally, enjoying that it was his turn to speak to her patiently as if she didn't get something, because usually she was the one with that role. "Hermione, you are so obvious," he said, echoing something Ginny had told him about himself a while ago.
"Excuse me? What, exactly, am I being obvious about, then?"
"You and Ron have barely spoken to each other since he kissed you-" she made a pained noise but he ignored it, "-but I see the way you look at him, and I see the way he looks at you, and all this getting him extra books and what you did last night, washing off his Quidditch boots-"
"They were filthy!" she hissed defensively.
Harry continued as if she hadn't interrupted him. "All of it is rubbish, if you ask me. Just tell him you like him!"
"I…" Hermione bit her lip and shook her head, tapping her quill against her leg anxiously. "I-I just can't, Harry!"
"Well, why not?" Madame Pince appeared again, seemingly out of nowhere, her stern gaze moving from Harry to Hermione, daring them to raise their voices. Harry went back to his Astronomy and Hermione stiffly opened a book and stared at the page until the woman moved on. When she was gone, Harry immediately abandoned his parchment and looked over at his friend expectantly. "Well…?"
Hermione sighed miserably. "Because I like Viktor."
Harry rolled his eyes and groaned, despite himself. "You can't be serious, Hermione."
"I am, and don't you dare make fun of him, Harry. He's really very sweet. He writes such lovely letters." She smiled wistfully.
Harry stifled a chuckle. "Oh yeah? What's he got to say? 'Dear Her-mya-ninny, it is very cold here all the way over in Bulgaria, but to think of you make-it-me very warm, like when I am putting on my big, fur coat. The end, Love Viktor.'" Hermione gave him a stony glare at his impersonation of Krum's halted English. "Okay, sorry, that wasn't funny." The amused twinkle in his eyes remained, however.
"English is Viktor's fourth language, I'll have you know, and when you get past his grammar mistakes, you'll find that he is very poetic and the letters he writes me are quite romantic."
"Okay, fine. But what about Ron?"
"He just doesn't understand! I'm not doing this to spite him!"
"That's not what I meant. And yes, you are, but what I meant was that you said yourself that you wanted to kiss him back that day."
Hermione shrank in her seat and nodded without looking at him. She gave another pitiful sigh. "I know…I did. I do. I like Ronald, too. That's why this is so difficult."
Harry thought for a moment. Then began, gently: "Well, what do you really know about Viktor? Aside from the fact that he likes writing poetry and can speak four languages (maybe some better than others…)?"
"Well…" Hermione frowned thoughtfully and tapped her quill against her lips. "Um…well when he was here we didn't talk much. He just sort of…sat and watched while I studied or stared into my eyes and things…" Harry stifled another chuckle. "But in such a sweet way!" She added.
"Does he do anything in those letters of his besides tell you how pretty your eyes are?"
"Um…he tells me he misses me. He wants to come back to visit, though I don't know when he'd find the time with the Quidditch season and his studies and everything."
Harry sighed patiently, running his hand through his hair and then turning to a new, clean piece of parchment. Hermione watched him dip his quill in his ink jar and then write: VIKTOR at the top right corner and RON at the top left. "Okay." He wrote the number one. "So, he writes poetry, speaks four languages, and is very sensitive."
"Harry, what are you doing?" Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.
"Hang on a second, shush. On the other hand, though…" he finished writing the last of the things he'd named off, and then dipped his quill again. "He can't speak English very well, he lives in Bulgaria, and you never see him because he's an international Quidditch star."
"Harry-!"
"Oh, and…" He stuck his tongue out like a toddler, writing out the last of his points. "Even if you did see him, all he would do is stare into your eyes for hours and hours and who needs that? Bit uncomfortable if you ask me."
"Well, no one asked you, and you're being a bit of a prat. Now if you don't mind, I need to finish my essay-!"
"So what about Ron, then?" Harry's quill was poised over the parchment. He pretended to think. "Ah yes. Ronald is your best friend—and mine—and you've known him since first year. That's a good one."
"Yes, well, you're my best friend and I've known you since first year, too."
"But you don't want to kiss me, Hermione. Oh, that reminds me—was it a good kiss?"
"You little fungus!" Hermione's cheeks grew red and she swiped at him with the Transfiguration book. Madame Pince cleared her throat loudly from across the room, her beady eyes staring hard at them. Hermione leaned in and hissed: "That is none of your business!"
"I'll take the blushing as a yes, then." Harry scribbled on the parchment. "Okay…best friend…good kisser…" Harry muttered seriously as if he were working on an Arithmancy problem. "Oh, and you see him every day, that's good."
Hermione shook her head in defeat. "And I love his hair…"
"What?" Harry's smile sort of leapt onto his face, such was his astonishment that she was admitting this to him.
She nodded and looked as if she had just given away the key to her soul. "Yes, yes, I've confessed. I love his red, shiny, long hair and I constantly want to run my fingers through it but seeing as how he isn't speaking to me at the moment, I can hardly go off doing that, can I?"
He grinned. "What else?"
"Urgh this is so juvenile. Um…his laugh, I suppose." Harry jotted this down. "And…and I like how his cheeks get all flushed when he's angry. He sort of pouts a bit, too. Very cute. Maddening, but cute. And his posture, when it isn't annoying, can be rather attractive; the way he sort of swaggers about. Not like Viktor. Viktor's a bit duck-footed…"
Harry had stopped writing. Hermione was lost in her own thoughts, and it pleased him to know that if he had continued his absurd little list Ron's side would be far longer than Viktor's in the positive qualities department. After she realized that he was simply listening to her rattle off all the things she loved about Ron she smiled and rolled her eyes.
"All right, all right, you've made your point."
"So you'll tell Ron you like him, then?"
"What about Viktor?"
"Hermione I hate to say it like this, but that guy has probably got loads of birds throwing themselves all over him every day. He'll get over you. You know you like Ron."
Hermione dipped her own quill into her ink bottle and set off doing her essay again, not responding to his assertion. He felt a bit disappointed, but decided that he had done all he could, and it was up to her after that. He discarded the list and dove back into his Astronomy work. As they were leaving the library, Hermione turned to him and said, "I was going to finish the letter I started to Viktor tonight. I suppose…well, I suppose I should tell him that I've met another boy and that he's really sweet but I don't see us going anywhere."
Harry smiled and wrapped an arm around her, giving her a squeeze before letting her go. "I think he'll take it well, trust me."
"He'll probably be devastated, but I'm willing to deal with that." She made a face at him. "You've gotten yourself a girlfriend and you think you're an expert on matters of the heart, do you?"
"Well, yes, of course." Harry said slyly. He noticed that she was carrying Escaping Obliviation and held his hand out for it. "Hey, I'll take that. I'm going to meet Angelina before dinner; I can give it to her."
"Ooh, thanks, one less to carry." Hermione handed it over. "I hope she finds it useful. You know it's nice that she's taken an interest in extra reading. Strange topic to pick, though…"
"Well, she's smart like you," Harry said proudly. "She's probably gearing up for her NEWT exams. Maybe she needs it for after she graduates—her grandfather was an Auror, you know. I could picture Angelina as an Auror. She's tough. I love that about her..." He realized he was rattling away as Hermione had done earlier and trailed off, his cheeks growing warm.
"Oh it's so cute how you gush over her, Harry!" She teased him about Angelina all the way back to the common room, but he didn't mind. He was just glad he had gotten his point across about Ron.
Yes, Harry had gotten himself a girlfriend.
Despite everything that had happened to him, he had finally managed to do something right, and for himself. Slowly, ever so slowly, he became comfortable with himself when he was with her—both in public and behind closed doors. It was more than just holding hands, or kissing her when he felt like it. It was allowing himself the freedom of not caring that everyone could see them; it was the freedom of letting her touch him, hug him, snuggle against him and believing that she wanted to.
A few instances: Angelina often liked to play a game where she would steal his glasses from his face and would not give them back until he obliged her with a kiss. Since he couldn't see without them, he always gave her what she wanted. Kissing her gently on the lips as she sat on his lap in the Great Hall during lunch would certainly have petrified him before, but now he just used his blindness to ignore the hundreds of other students around them. Once she actually held out, keeping them behind her back so he couldn't reach and demanding another kiss.
"Give 'em back…" he muttered against her soft lips.
She shook her head. "Another kiss first."
Other times he would initiate things, having learned this from being attacked by her on several occasions and not being prepared for it. He liked to tickle her-seems juvenile, but the boisterous, spirited laughter that flew out of her when he did this always made his heart soar. He was happy and he wanted everyone to be just as happy as he was.
But there were the ubiquitous problems of Malfoy and Umbridge. The latter simpered and purred her way through class after class and it took all of Harry's willpower to restrain himself when in her grating presence. There was yet no sign of her delivering her end of the bargain with Malfoy, and as a result the other boy's behavior became increasingly inscrutable. Harry almost took this as satisfactory payback for his wrongdoing, but then decided not to be fooled by it in the least. He had wondered, as the weeks passed and nothing happened, if Malfoy would still go to the Minister. But hearing what the twins had done, Harry now knew that Malfoy would pay for his hesitation. Hell, he would pay for even having the nerve to try to blackmail Delores Umbridge.
"We thought about what you told us, Harry…" Fred had said in the library, referencing what Harry had told them about Malfoy's 'deal' with Umbridge. "Didn't seem fair to us that he could get away with something like that."
"Umbridge didn't seem happy about it, either, but he sounded like he really had something on her." Harry had responded darkly.
"Yeah, well, maybe he does, but old Delores ain't the type of person to just roll over for a pipsqueak like Malfoy," George countered. The lanky Weasley twin shrugged when Harry asked him how he figured that—he had heard her rolling over with his own ears. "We did a bit of deductive reasoning. See, Umbridge needed a good push, is all."
"A push?"
"Keep up with us, now…" The twins chanted.
A push—that was where the magicked quill and nicking Malfoy's scribbles came in. They needed the scribbles to forge a note. A note which they would deliver to Umbridge, in Malfoy's handwriting, that read something like:
You still haven't done what I told you, Delores. I'm getting impatient.
You've got another week, and then I want to see a decree up or I'm going to the Minister.
Tick tock.
-D.M.
"Ooh, she doesn't like people calling her anything but Professor Umbridge," Harry had shuddered with a grin. There were a number of things, in fact, that he knew she would not like about that note. Her first name being the last on the radar, and the nasty ultimatum being the very first.
"'Course not," said Fred. "And Malfoy is just the sort of arrogant arse that would do something like that when he thinks he's got the upper hand. But," he lifted a slender finger in warning. "Here's where it gets tricky—this is the part that could backfire."
The part that could backfire—the twins knew from seeing it first hand that there was only one person, aside from Snape, that could make Draco feel small, humiliated, and angry enough to fight.
His father, Lucius Malfoy.
"Blondie is just a snot kid. Daddy Malfoy and Umbridge are adults and therefore they believe they know best who can blackmail who. So they had some sort of understanding? So they did some rotten stuff? D'you think Daddy Malfoy wants his son rattling off his dark deeds to the Minister? He'll put little Draco in his place…"
Harry ate this up like his favorite dessert. The twins had obviously thought this out and planned it very carefully. They explained that in doing this they were essentially killing two birds with one stone: they were giving Malfoy motivation to fight and making it so that he could never gain power from Umbridge to abuse as he pleased. Less room to move around; less means to sniff out the D.A.
The sheer recklessness and danger of the situation made his heart flutter—in a good way. He had many questions.
"Yeah, but how do you know his dad'll do anything? What if he doesn't come? And where are we supposed to do this? We can't exactly go dueling on the tabletops in the Great Hall like last time. We'd be expelled for sure."
"All planned, mate, all planned," was all they would say. "Best not to give you too many of the details. The less you know the better. So stop badgering us and trust that the big kids have got it under control."
Did they? It seemed so, though they all maintained: it was very, very risky. If caught—if any part whatsoever of their plan went awry—they could kiss their time there at Hogwarts goodbye. Harry seemed to be the only one who gave weight to this notion. The twins merely shrugged. "If that's what happens, then so be it. We've got bigger fish to fry—we've got ambitions beyond this old place. It's been good to us, but we can let it go if need be. But you, Harry-" they added chummily, "-you need your education, lad. So we're gonna protect you in any way we can. But we want to do this. You want to do this?" Harry wanted to do this. "Good."
The plan was set. All he had to do was wait. He recognized that this was happening, and he was flooded with conflicting thoughts and emotions; the more prominent being righteous anger at Malfoy. Just underneath, however, lay anxiousness about keeping this from Angelina and the others. "They'll cluck like hens if they found out what we're up to," the twins had warned. They even advised against telling Ron right away. Also there were teachers and rules to worry about. They were doing something very wrong. With a little help from his friends, he would soon exact his revenge on Draco Malfoy in the only way that suited him. The very idea of it filled him with excitement.
Harry was fast becoming a new version of himself: one that strode forward and assumed the role of leader in the D.A., growing more and more confident about his abilities with each passing week. One who was maturing in sexuality and embracing his powerfully passionate nature. And also one who was realizing that being good was not always being the winner; at least not where this was concerned.
A DUEL!
His wand hand tingled all day.