Hermione rests her head in her hands, secretly wishing for a hole to open up and swallow her; but quashing the impulse to actually whisper it because the likelihood of it happening is just a little too high for comfort. Beside her, Ron is shifting awkwardly in place, his eyes skittering all around the room, looking at anything except Professor McGonagall. Eventually, the teacher stands, drawing her pupils’ attention. “It’s almost time for curfew,” is all she says. Her reluctant guests stand, gathering their belongings, and exit the office with heads hung low. Her amused chuckles are just loud enough to reach them as they escape down the corridor.
“I can’t believe you did that!” Hermione scolds, her embarrassment quickly transmuting to anger. The accusatory tone in her voice puts Ron automatically on the defensive. “We were in that together,” he tells her, only barely keeping his voice at a normal volume. He is unprepared for her abrupt change in attitude and melting gaze; having intended only shared blame, he finds he has acknowledged their relationship. He is smart enough not to say this.
They enter the common room on the tail end of the influx of students racing to beat curfew. Having not yet announced their new status to their friends, they stand a small distance apart and part with a brief mutter and no touching. Hermione is relieved to make it to her dorm without seeing Ginny – while she enjoys the company of the younger girl and appreciates their frequent discussions, it can be awkward for her when she remembers that her friend is also the sister of her secret boyfriend. Unfortunately for Hermione, the girls in her dorm are wakeful and gossiping, making a concerted effort to appear normal. Parvati in particular has avoided all mention of the war, channelling her energies into Divination, makeovers and flirting.
Hermione knows that it is not a war – it is closer to terrorism – but she feels distinctly uncomfortable with their attempts to ignore it, and has made several scathing comments to her core group of friends about the “head in the sand” approach that many people are applying. Her own feelings of helplessness are drowned in excessive attentiveness to classwork and extra-curricular research which is probably useless. She knows that she is drowning herself in work to avoid feeling. She knows that she is being unfair to those closest to her, and leaning on Ron to a dangerous degree; but she tells herself she will stop, as soon as she’s sorted it all out.
She lies down and covers her head with a pillow, knowing from experience that asking for a cessation of conversation will simply draw their attention and pull her into the discussion. She doesn’t want to talk. She just wants to sleep.
In the morning, she wakes to the sound of horrified gasps. She wonders why they were surprised. True, this is only the third time it has happened, but she can see the pattern emerging. It is the only time the fear is acknowledged in this, their sanctuary. Monday morning, another person hurt or dead. There’s a mild curiosity in her to know how they managed to use Imperio to kill someone – assuming, correctly as it turns out, that they are working their way through the Unforgivable curses. Lavender tells her. The forced public suicide of an Auror. Last week, it was a family with three Squib children, all placed under the Cruciatus curse. Next week will most likely be Avada Kedavra again, she thinks, and wonders why she isn’t more worried about the prospect. It probably has something to do with the fact that the attacks appear to be moving steadily away from Hogwarts, where she is safe. It may also have something to do with shock, she decides.
At breakfast, she sits quietly with her friends; the four of them an oasis of eerie calm while their classmates whisper and panic. Harry greeted her with a simple, “You heard?” and she nodded in return. The last to arrive in the Common Room, she led the way to the Great Hall and directed their seating arrangements. She is at the end of one side of the table, with Harry opposite her for easy surveillance, Ron beside her for comfort’s sake, and Ginny cati-corner just to even it up. They do not talk. They barely acknowledge the existence of the outside world. They simply look at each other and take solace in the knowledge that these are true friends.
The group has to split up for classes. Hermione is alone in Arithmancy, and this disturbs her far more now than it ever did before. She thinks, perhaps, that the rest of the school could be destroyed without their noticing. She knows it is ridiculous, but she cannot always control her fleeting thoughts.
In the break between classes, she takes the opportunity to spend a little time with Ron. “We should tell them,” she instructs, knowing that he will understand her semi-cryptic statement. He sits, heavily, on the nearest desk. “I suppose you have it all planned out,” he says dryly. She matches his tone, and then exceeds it in saying, “Actually, I thought perhaps we could talk about it.” He is obviously surprised, and she wonders what that says about them. “We can grab them at lunch?” he tentatively offers, “Take two minutes at the end to have a bit of a talk then we have to split for classes.” She picks up on his train of thought with little effort; “Giving them time to get used to it and us a break before we have to defend ourselves – if we do have to.” Smiling at her, he reaches to draw her into his arms. “They’ll be fine with it, you know,” he reassures with a small kiss. The break is over, though, so they reluctantly break apart before walking to their next class, unwilling to be seen touching in public prior to their announcement. He carries her bag, a courtly gesture that makes her smile when he cannot see.
At lunch, the three fifth years enter together and sit in their usual places. It surprises all of them each time they realise that the group they comprised for most of four years no longer satisfies them. Their conversation does not fully relax until fifteen minutes later, when the fourth seat is filled. “Damn,” Ginny says as she settles herself, “Snape gets worse every day.” Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat and makes an apologetic expression. “He is… you know,” he attempts. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can’t criticise him for holding the whole class back because…” She stops, and acquiesces with a sigh and a shrug. “So what’s up with you lot?” she moves on, and grins slightly at the guilty look that flashes between her brother and her best female friend. “Hey, Hermione,” she continues, “can you help me trim my hair later? Can’t seem to get the back even.” Three pairs of eyes automatically turn to the nape of her neck. “It looks fine to me,” Harry thoughtlessly compliments, earning a kick under the table from his best friend and a speculative look from both girls. Hermione replies easily, though, and the pair fall into the arrangement of a ‘girly evening’, leaving the boys to happily discuss sport and other such things that are suitable for boys to talk about.
The joviality cannot be sustained, and they turn to the topic of the attacks sooner rather than later. They choose to place their trust in Dumbledore, and hope that he will find a way to resolve the situation. Harry mentions his godfather and the possibility of his involvement in the plans that are undoubtedly being put into action. Ron reminds him that most of the Weasleys are unlikely to turn away from the fight. Hermione says nothing; but realises that she feels guilty for having only her friends to sacrifice. The subject is uncomfortable for all of them, and they are glad to abandon it at the end of the hour.
As they leave the Great Hall, Ron and Hermione put their plan into action, pulling their friends into a quiet corner. “Um…” one says. “Well,” the other continues. The pair of them wince in synchrony and glance desperately at each other. “So you’re together then?” Ginny questions with a tone that implies her total lack of surprise. Hermione nods. Harry shakes his head at his own blindness. “Why didn’t I notice this?” he asks, finding his reply in the eloquent raising of eyebrows around the group. “So, um…” Ron swallows nervously, “You guys are OK with… this?” Harry opens his mouth to reply, but halts when Ginny lays a hand on his arm. “Let us get back to you on that,” she says with an inscrutable expression, and then pulls the dark-haired boy away with her.
Ron sinks back against the wall, dread crossing his face. “They’re not,” he states dully. Hermione rests next to him, dropping her head against his shoulder. “They really are, you know,” she says quietly; “she just wants to make us sweat.” With this new angle on events, Ron cheers up. “That little… she’s learning,” he says with barely restrained pride. Hermione’s soft giggles degenerate into a laughing fit for the two of them which only ends when they realise the time and run to their next class.
Later, Hermione forgoes her usual pre-dinner research in favour of a friendly chat in the corner of the Common Room, and revels in her newfound freedom to indulge herself in leaning against her acknowledged boyfriend. Ginny’s teasing disapproval lasted about two minutes – as long as it took her to realise that the couple had been sure of her true opinion. Harry, of course, is not there. His absence is regretted, but it is part of what is now normal. The fact that he is working harder than any of them are causes the odd twinge of guilt, but it is his cause that he is working for and it is his fear that is the driving force.
He meets them at dinner, and talks with them for a while, updating them on the progress he has been making, both working alone and under the tutelage of various of the Professors. In turn, they keep him grounded with stories of class tests and inter-house pranks. The unsettling age in his gaze recedes when he laughs, quiet though his chuckles may be. He is forced to leave by a prior appointment, and once he exits the Hall his friends have another topic of discussion open to them.
“So,” Ron says, “is he worse now?” Ginny rakes her fingers through her hair and glances up at her brother. “He’s driven,” she demurs, “but he’s not obsessed.” Hermione nods in agreement and places a reassuring hand on Ron’s arm. “He wants to prevent more deaths, but he’s realistic about his prospects,” she tells him. Looking at the resolved expressions on the girls’ faces, Ron accepts defeat. “I’m still worried about him,” he says with a defiant hint of aggression. His statement is quietly accepted as truth, and they attempt to move on to another, less emotional topic.
Later, Hermione lies wakeful in bed and wonders how many others are in the same condition. Her roommates are all sleeping peacefully – the quiet rasp of their placid breathing echoes around the dorm, broken only by an occasional mutter from Parvati, who talks in her sleep now. It’s probably stress. Harry is most likely awake and working – he doesn’t sleep much at all these days, and it shows in the shadows beneath his eyes and lines around his mouth. Ron tells her that he stays up later than he used to, just waiting until his dorm has its full complement of inhabitants; so he’s probably asleep, passed out as soon as Harry entered the room. Ginny doesn’t talk about her sleeping habits.
They wake up slowly over toast and cereal, purposefully ignoring the glances they all seem to draw. Today, Hermione and Ron are in for the most scrutiny, as they sit just a little too close together after walking in with his arm around her shoulders. The attention on Ginny and her lucky survival – the mysterious circumstances are far from well publicised, with only her close friends and a few adults trusted by Dumbledore knowing the whole story – has died down in the weeks following the attack. Harry walks in late from an early morning tutorial with Professor Flitwick, receiving the standard group sneer from the Slytherin table and admiration from elsewhere.
“You look wrecked, mate,” is Ron’s tactless greeting, which earns him two quick kicks from two different directions. Harry nods as he sits and almost smiles; before leaning forward with a conspiratorial gesture. “They think,” he starts, and winces slightly at his too-loud voice. “They think,” he murmurs, “that the Mark,” he indicates Ginny, “is to do with what happened three years ago.” His expression implies that this is of momentous consequence, and Ron nods with a look of dawning realisation. The girls look at each other in disbelief, then simultaneously push away from the table and stalk out in disgust.
“I cannot believe,” Ginny spits as soon as the door closes safely behind them, “that they… sweet Merlin, what else could it have been?” Hermione, slightly more levelheaded, guides her friend to a quieter spot. “I know,” she mutters, equally indignant, “I would have talked to them about it if I’d thought they were daft enough not to bloody well see!” Ginny drops her bag and sighs heavily. “They’re not stupid,” she continues in a calmer tone, “and I guess they’ve had other things to think about, but honestly! Voldemort says I’m… you know, and when did I have dealings with him? In the diary. It’s obvious.” Hermione giggles suddenly. At the strange look she receives, she explains: “I just realised they probably don’t know why we stormed out, either.” Ginny smiles fondly to take the sting out of her confirming “Idiots.”
They part to go to their separate classes, and Hermione mentally adds an investigation of the process of creating that diary to her research list, heart dropping as she realises that this extra project will take up the small amount of free time she has left. Ron will understand, she tells herself. He might even help, because it’s his sister in danger. And it’s all in a good cause. It might just win them the not-quite-war. She enters the classroom, sits, and forces the thoughts out of her conscious mind. She works.
