Choose One Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven

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Part One

            "Hermione, I have another box!"

            Hermione’s head snapped up at the sound of her mother’s voice.  "Coming, Mum," she called, rifling quickly through the box she’d just carried down from the attic.  She and her mother were taking advantage of a lazy Saturday afternoon to do a bit of summer cleaning in the attic, and it was Hermione’s job to sort the contents of the boxes into organized piles. 

            This particular box was filled with photographs, and Hermione knew that her mother would have to go through these.  None of these faces looked familiar.  She lifted a stack of photographs and stared into the faces of an old man with a large mustache and pipe, a laughing woman, a little girl, and a . . . Hermione paused and went back to the photograph of the girl.  Brow knitted, she studied it for several minutes.

            The little girl had red hair, curled adorably into little ringlets that framed her face.  She wore a green dress and smiled up at the camera, eyes closed, clutching several daisies in her hands near her nose, as if inhaling their scent. Her nose and cheekbones were sprinkled with freckles.

            Hermione grinned.  "Mum?"

            "Yes, dear?"

            "Where did you get a photo of Ginny Weasley?"  Hermione turned the photograph over, but there was no name or date.  It also struck her as strange that Ginny Weasley would appear in a non-magical, still photograph.  There could be no doubt, however, that the toddler was Ginny.

            "A photo of whom?" her mother called back, raising a small cloud of dust as she looked down from the attic.

            Hermione climbed the stairs and handed the photograph to her mother.  "That’s my friend, Ginny Weasley," she told her mother.  "I was just wondering how on earth—"

            "No, darling, this is a picture of my best friend," Mrs. Granger replied.  "She does look remarkably like Ginny, though, doesn’t she?  Do you know, when I saw Ginny that day we went shopping for your supplies, I thought she looked familiar?"

            "So this girl was your best friend?" Hermione repeated.

            "For a few years," her mother explained with a smile.  "She lived next door for a short time, then her family moved again.  We were as inseparable as two five-year-old girls could be," she said wistfully, placing the photo into her pocket.  "Your grandfather took that picture.  I had just picked those flowers for her."

            "It’s uncanny how much she looks like Ginny," Hermione mused.  "But it was silly, really.  I don’t even know what Ginny looked like before she was eleven.  I’ll get that other box now."

            Several hours later, the small family sat together at dinner.  Mr. Granger expressed his pleasure at the progress that they were making in the attic.

            "We should be done tomorrow," Hermione’s mother replied.  "It’ll be lovely to have everything up there organized.  And you never know what you’re going to find!  Why, today, Hermione found a picture of Lily."

            Hermione’s fork paused in mid-air.  "Who, Mum?"

            "My friend.  The little girl in the picture you found."

            "Do you . . . er, do you remember her last name?"

            "Evers," replied Mrs. Granger.

            Hermione exhaled and almost laughed at herself.  To think that her mother—

            "Pardon me, Evans.  It was Evans."

            Hermione’s jaw dropped.  "Your best friend was Lily Evans."

            "Yes, but why do you look so pale, Hermione?  Dear, are you ill?"

            "No, Mum.  Erm.  Where did you put that picture?"

            Mr. Granger was looking confusedly at his wife and daughter as Mrs. Granger replied, "Oh, somewhere.  There were a lot of photographs in that one box.  Hermione, I wish you’d tell me what’s bothering you."

            "Mum, Lily Evans was Harry’s mother!" Hermione exclaimed. 

            "That mate of yours with the scar on his forehead?" her father asked.

            "Yes, Harry!"

            "Are you certain it’s not a coincidence?" asked Mrs. Granger.  "I’m sure Lily Evans is a common enough name . . ."

            "But Harry’s mum had red hair," Hermione insisted, her supper forgotten entirely.  Neither of her parents looked convinced.  Hermione thought for a moment, then asked, "Did Lily have any brothers or sisters?"

            "Well, now . . ."  Mrs. Granger looked thoughtful for some moments.  "Yes.  She had a sister.  A horrid sister.  I only met her once or twice."

            "Her name?" Hermione managed to croak out.

            Mrs. Granger laughed.  "Her name was Petunia!  I remember now, because I always teased Lily about their flower names . . . Her mother loved gardening, and even gave me a lovely little flower book for my birthday."

            "Oh, do you still have it?"

            "Somewhere, possibly.  Are you sure we’re speaking of the same person?"

            "We must be," said Hermione excitedly.  "Harry has to live with his nasty aunt and uncle . . . and his aunt’s name is Petunia!"

            "Perhaps Harry would like to have that photograph," said Mrs. Granger generously.  "And I do have other things lying about here and there.  When her family moved, Lily gave me a letter and a locket.  I’m sure I’ve spotted the locket somewhere recently.  And her mother gave me several books and wrote me the sweetest letter."

            Hermione beamed, imagining the look on Harry’s face.  As soon as she could get away from the table, she bolted to her room and pulled out her quill and parchment.

Dear Ron,

            You will never believe what happened today!  My mum and I were cleaning out the attic, and I found a photo that looks just like your sister.  But wait, you won’t ever guess!  It’s Harry’s mother!!!  She was best friends with my mum when they were just little girls.  Mum’s going to try to find some more things she has, like a locket that Harry’s mum gave her, and some books and a letter that Harry’s grandmother gave her.  Do you think I should tell Harry now, or wait and see what we can find?  Oh, I’m so excited!  It’s almost like reading Hogwarts: A History for the very first time!!

Bye,

Hermione

            Hermione woke Pig, who was still almost comatose from having to deliver a box of Chocolate Frogs from Ron.  The poor little owl didn’t look pleased when Hermione sent off the letter.

**

            The following day yielded more treasures than Hermione could have wished for.  At breakfast, Pig arrived looking miserable.  Two letters in twenty-four hours was a little too much, even for a hyper owl like Pig.  Mr. and Mrs. Granger watched with their usual mixed fascination and befuddlement at this method of delivering mail.  Hermione smiled as she unfolded the parchment to read Ron’s messy scrawl.

Hermione,

            First off, how many times have you read Hogwarts: A History?  I personally think that once is too much for anyone with anything resembling a LIFE.  The fact that you may have read it more than once troubles me deeply.  Second, that is so cool about Harry’s mum!  I think you should find as much stuff as you can, then give him a big surprise.  You should wait till we get back to school, because those nasty people might take everything away from him.  And you should give it to him when he can look at the stuff alone, cause he might start crying or something.  What do you mean, the picture looks like Ginny?  So anyway, who else have you been writing to this summer?  It’s not that important, really.  I was just wondering.

Ron

            Hermione smiled, refolded the letter, and put it in her pocket.  "Mum, are you ready to go up to the attic?"

            Mrs. Granger raised her napkin to wipe her mouth.  "Certainly.  I’m a little excited about all this myself!  I looked around for this yesterday evening," she said, producing the photograph of Lily Evans.  "I think there’s a lot more to find!"

            A few hours later, mother and daughter were sitting cross-legged on the attic floor, both going through boxes and boxes of trash and treasure.  Hermione opened one box and looked up quickly, wrinkling her nose  at the dust that flew into her face.  When the dust cleared, she looked over at her mother, whose thick brown hair was gradually falling from a clip as she sifted through the contents of a box.

            Hermione smiled, feeling suddenly grateful for her mother.  This made her think of Harry—Harry, whose mother had died for him.  She knew that her mother would do the same, but was thankful that she’d never had to.  Her eyes welled, but she blamed that on the dust.  "Mum?" she murmured.

            Mrs. Granger did not look up, but replied, "Mmmm?"

            Hermione swallowed.  "I’m . . . I’m so glad I have you," she said softly.

            At this, Mrs. Granger did look up.  She bit her lip and stared at her daughter.  "Oh, sweetheart."

            "It’ll be so nice . . ." Hermione paused as her voice caught.  "It’ll be so nice if we can find some of these things for Harry."  With a renewed purpose, Hermione gave a few sniffles and returned to her work.

            Their efforts weren’t rewarded for another hour, when Mrs. Granger said, "Hermione, I found some things.  Here is Mrs. Evans’ letter."  She handed the yellowed paper to her daughter, who took it eagerly.

Dear Rose . . .

            Hermione looked up, puzzled.  "Rose?"

            Mrs. Granger chuckled.  "Her nickname for me."

Dear Rose,

            I’m sorry we have to leave the neighborhood so soon after arriving here, especially when Lily has such a true friend in you.  But Harry has to . . .   

            "Harry’s named for his grandfather," Hermione murmured.        

           

            "I noticed that," Mrs. Granger replied.  Her eyes sparkled.  "Keep reading."

Harry has to go where his job takes him, I suppose.  Watch out for my small garden for me, won’t you, dear?  I know you are very young.  Your mother might be reading this letter to you.  But I want you to remember us.  I have a feeling that your path will cross Lily’s again, though I can’t know how.  Your friendship is something special, the kind that lasts forever.  Goodbye, dear one.  

Virginia Evans

            Hermione’s hand fell into her lap as she stared at her mother.  "Harry’s grandmother was Virginia?" she said in a voice that was no more than a whisper.

            Mrs. Granger’s eyes shone as she replied, "We—all the neighborhood children—called her Mrs. Ginny."

            Hermione could not swallow the lump in her throat.  She wanted to hug Harry, and she wanted to ki . . . hug Ron.  "Is there more in that box?" she asked.

            "Oh, yes."  Mrs. Granger reached into the box and held up a small heart-shaped locket.  Hermione took it with trembling fingers and opened it.  Inside was another picture of Lily Evans, smiling up from the tiny photo with flaming hair and bright green eyes.  Hermione snapped the locket shut and put it with Mrs. Evans’ letter.

            "What else?" she asked eagerly.

            No more of the items were quite as intensely personal, but there were several children’s books, as well as the child’s gardening book that Mrs. Granger had spoken of already.  Memories of more than thirty years past came to Mrs. Granger, and she told Hermione the story of how Lily had come to give her each book. 

            Hermione ached to give these things to Harry, but knew that Ron was right.  She should wait until they got back to school, or wait to see if Harry went to the Burrow at the end of summer. 

           

            They tidied up the attic and stood looking at their handiwork.  Mrs. Granger suddenly raised her hands to her face and started crying softly.

            "Mum!" Hermione exclaimed, embracing her mother.  "What’s wrong?"

            Mrs. Granger stepped back a little and asked the question she must have been aching to ask for some time.  "What . . . exactly . . . happened to Lily?"

            Hermione swallowed and told her mother everything she knew about Lily Evans, which wasn’t much.  How she had gone to Hogwarts and befriended four mischievous young men, finally marrying James Potter and having Harry.  How she had died begging for Harry’s life.

            "And this person who killed Lily . . . this is the same person you’ve been frightened of all summer?"

            "Yes."

            Mrs. Granger enfolded her daughter tightly in her arms.  "Hermione, you have made us so proud.  I want you to be careful this school year.  I couldn’t bear to lose you."  She drew a deep breath and tried to regain her composure.  Smiling broadly through her tears, she said, "I want Harry to have every one of these things.  Lily would be furious if she knew that I kept them from him.  And Lily had some temper, let me assure you."

Dear Hermione,

            I know I’m sending you two owls in one day, but I forgot to tell you that I was just kidding when I said you’re disturbed for reading that book all the time.  And it’s none of my business who you’ve been writing to this summer, but if you wanted to tell me, I wouldn’t mind that much.  You can just send Errol and Pig back together if you want.  If you want, you can write me two letters and give one to each owl.  I don’t want to have to read all that much, but it would make sure one owl wasn’t jealous of the other one.  Anyway, you know what I’m trying to say.  I hope you find a lot of things for Harry.  Let me know.  It’ll probably take a really long letter to tell me about everything you find, won’t it?  That’s okay.  It’ll be a nice break from reading Hogwarts: A History.  

Ron

P.S.  I’m not really reading H: AH. . . . But I don’t think there’s anything wrong if some people like to read it.

            Ron turned pink and quickly stuffed Hermione’s letter into his pocket.  She thanked him!  Said she had no words for the books!  Invited him to her house!  He forced himself to remain calm—it was only Hermione, after all—and returned to his breakfast as if nothing had happened. 

            Fred and George, however, had seen everything and could not be so easily fooled.  “Who’s that letter from, Ron?” Fred asked.

            Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were too occupied with the Daily Prophet to stop the teasing, but Ron noticed the warning look that Ginny shot the twins.

            “Nobody,” said Ron, paying close attention to his toast as he buttered it.

            Before Fred or George could respond to this, Ginny said suddenly, “Bill, what time do you have to be back?”

            At the sound of his name, Bill jerked his head up.  He had never been a morning person, and was dangerously close to falling asleep.  “What’s that?” he said, massaging the back of his neck.

            Ginny opened her mouth to repeat the question, but shut it again when Mr. Weasley banged his coffee mug on the table in disgust.  “I knew he would deny it,” he muttered.

            “Now, Arthur . . .” Mrs. Weasley replied.  “No one can prove that he was there.”

            “Harry said so.  Don’t you believe Harry?”

            Mrs. Weasley raised the newspaper, and both of them lowered their voices.  Ron had grown accustomed to this behavior upon his return from Hogwarts.  He had no memory of the days before Voldemort attacked the Potters, but he was beginning to get a good idea.

            “We need to add that to our list of things to invent, George,” Fred continued, as if there had been no interruptions.  “The Official Weasley Letter From Nobody.  Think how many we’d sell!  ‘Fool your friends, dazzle your relatives . . .’”

            “Aw, leave him alone, Fred,” said George, though he couldn’t suppress a grin.  “Poor Ronniekins.”

            Ron decided right then to give each of the twins a Blast-Ended Skrewt for Christmas. 

            “Eleven,” mumbled Bill.

            “What’s that?” Mr. Weasley asked, turning to look at Bill.

            “I have to be back at eleven.”

            “Well, I know that, son.  Are you going to eat that bacon?”

            Ron cleared his throat.  “Dad?”

            “Mmmm?” his father replied, stealing Bill’s bacon.

            “I need to ask you and Mum if . . . if Ginny and I can go somewhere.”

            Mrs. Weasley lowered the newspaper.  “Could you be a bit more specific about where ‘somewhere’ is?”

            “Where Nobody lives,” Fred murmured, and both twins erupted into laughter.

            A big Blast-Ended Skrewt.  An adult.  Each.  “Erm.  One of my friends invited me to stay with her—him for the last week of summer.”

            “Herhim?” asked George, sending himself and Fred into another fit of laughter.

            “Honestly, you two,” Mrs. Weasley snapped.  She turned back to her youngest son.  “Ron, do your father and I know . . . him?”

            “Yes.”

            “Ah.  Why don’t we talk about this later?  Your father and I should discuss it first.”  She winked at him, and Ron knew why she had dropped the subject.   

            He left the table a few minutes later.  He wanted to bolt to his room, lock the door, and read Hermione’s letter again . . . maybe read all her letters . . . or maybe just read the best ones more than once.

            “I hope we can go to Hermione’s,” came a voice from behind him.

            Ron stopped in the hall and turned around to face Ginny.  “What do you mean?”

            “Oh, come off it!”  she laughed.  “You can be honest with me, Ron.  Of course that letter is from Hermione.”

            He shrugged.  “Yeah.”  The pattern on their carpet was interesting.  He had never noticed.

            “It would be fun, don’t you think?”

            “Maybe.”  It was very intricate, like millions of circles all twisted together.

            “Her parents seemed nice that day we met them.”

            “Yeah.”  Someone must have spent a lot of time on it.

            “What about Harry?” Ginny asked suddenly.

            “What do you mean?”  Oh.  No.  Did Hermione like Harry?  He didn’t care especially, but he’d appreciate it if his friends told him these things.  So he could be prepared.  It was simple courtesy.  The wallpaper in the hall had four different kinds of flowers on it.

            “Well, wasn’t Harry planning to come here?  He’ll be awfully disappointed if he has to stay with his aunt and uncle.”

            Oh.  “Hermione’s inviting him, too,” Ron replied.  A yellow flower, a red flower, a white flower, a purple flower.

            “That might not be a good idea.”

            “Why not?”he asked, finally meeting her eyes.

            “Does Dumbledore know about it?  I mean, it’s not really safe for Harry to be going wherever he chooses, is it?”

            “I don’t think Hermione would do anything against the rules,” said Ron.  Except steal stuff out of Snape’s office and brew forbidden potions over a toilet. 

            “She might not have really thought about it,” Ginny continued to muse. 

            “Hermione thinks of everything.”

**

            Hermione had stayed at home just in case Ron and Ginny arrived while her parents were gone.  Besides that, she was worried that the Dursleys might recognize her from the train station, and she didn’t want anything to ruin Harry’s chances of getting away.  She ran up to the attic to get the box of Lily’s things and carried it downstairs, then discovered that she had nothing left to do but wait.

            Fortunately, her friends didn’t keep her waiting long.  Some ash stirred in the fireplace, and Ginny stood there seconds later.  She came out to hug Hermione warmly, then brushed the soot off of her socks.  Seconds later, both girls backed away from the fireplace as something landed with a thud, sending small poofs of ash into the room.  Their coughing was quickly replaced with laughter when they realized that the “thud” had been Ron. 

            He groaned and crawled out, hitting his head with another groan as he did so.  “That’s a nice, crooked fireplace you’ve got there, Hermione,” he grumbled, rubbing his head.

            “It is not crooked!” she said defensively.  “Maybe you should learn how to use that stuff properly.”  Right then, Hermione thought of the chessmen and softened her expression.  She stepped closer to him and asked, “Are you all right, though?”

            “Yeah.”

            Their trunks tumbled down a minute later, and Hermione helped them carry their things to their rooms.  Ginny would be sharing Hermione’s bedroom, and Harry and Ron would be sleeping in the guest room.  One of the first things Ginny did when they were alone was to give Hermione the wooden box of Ron’s chessmen.  Hermione bit her trembling lip and put the box in her desk.

            When they had settled in and cleaned up, Hermione led them to the kitchen and gave them each a glass of chocolate milk. 

            “Well?” said Ron, gulping down everything in his glass.

            “Well what?” Hermione asked.

            “Are you going to show us that stuff that belonged to Harry’s mum, or what?”

            “Oh!” she exclaimed, laughing.  “I completely forgot!”  She ran to retrieve the box and set it down on the table.  She showed them the photograph of Lily holding the flower (“That does look a little like me when I was very little,” Ginny confessed), the locket, the letter from Mrs. Evans, and some of the more interesting books.  Both Ron and Ginny were amazed that young Lily had been able to put her voice inside the book of fairy tales.

            “Harry won’t know what to look at first,” Ginny sighed.  “I’m so happy for his sake.”

            “Me too,” Ron agreed.  “I like his grandmother.  Wonder whatever happened to her?  She must have died pretty young if she was already gone when Lily was killed.”

            “I’ve thought about that too,” said Hermione.  “Not to mention his grandfather.”

            “Harry Evans,” murmured Ron.

            Hermione gathered Lily’s things together again and put them back into the box.  “I better put this stuff away before Harry gets here,” she said.  “Should I give him everything tonight, do you think?”

            “Yes,” said Ron and Ginny together.

            When Hermione returned from the hall, she poured another glass of milk for Ron; Ginny had drunk only half of hers.  She sat down with them again, staring absently at the window.  She felt peaceful, safe, and content, sitting here in her house with her close friends.

            Ron was the first to break the comfortable silence.  “Don’t you think it’s strange that Lily never wrote to your mum?”  

            Hermione looked at Ron.  “She was only five or six, though.”

            “But she could write,” Ron insisted.  “At the very least, her mum could have written.”

            He had a point.  Hermione frowned and ran her finger around the rim of her glass.  “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that,” she confessed.  “It is rather odd, isn’t it?”

            “Maybe she did write,” Ginny suggested practically, “and your mum doesn’t have those letters anymore.”

            “And if they did write to each other,” Ron continued to muse, “when did they stop, and why?  It would have been neat if Lily wrote to your mum from Hogwarts.”

            “Very neat,” Hermione agreed, “but it won’t work.  When I got my Hogwarts letter, my parents were mystified.  They’d never heard of it.”

            The three lapsed once more into silence, but Hermione’s brain was now racked with questions.  Ron’s question was a good one.  Why hadn’t either Lily or Virginia written?  And if they had written, there was still the problem of when and why the letters stopped.  It must have been before Lily went to Hogwarts.

**

            Petunia Dursley whisked her feather duster over the shelf above the kitchen sink, humming to herself.  She kept her eye on a neighbor across the street; Annie Yates was burying something in her front yard.  Petunia stopped dusting and leaned closer to the window.  Right.  A sprinkler.  One could never be too careful, though.

            “Mummy, I want another bowl of ice cream.”

            She walked over to the table where little Dudley was sitting and reached for the bowl.

            “Mummy!  You’re standing in front of my favorite show!”

            “Sorry, Angel.”  She opened the freezer.  “What do you want this time?  Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, cookie, or banana split?”

            “All of them.”

            She returned the bowl to Dudley a few minutes later, along with a short celery stick.  “Eat that too, Duddy.  You must try to stick to your diet.  Remember what—”

            There was a knock on the door.  She quickly looked out of the kitchen window again.  Annie wasn’t in her yard anymore.  Most peculiar.  She went to the door and opened it cautiously, revealing two strangers—a man and woman who seemed normal enough.  The woman was looking at her a little strangely, though.

            Petunia pulled back the chain lock and opened the door a little wider.  “Er, may I help you?”

            “Mrs. Dursley?” the man asked. 

            “Yes.”

            He extended his hand to her.  “I’m Henry Granger.  Pleasure to meet you.”

            She took the offered hand weakly and quickly let it go again.  “Er.”

            “And this is my wife, Mrs. Granger.”

            His wife nodded pleasantly and said, “Call me Rose.”

            “Er.”  Something wasn’t quite right.  She peered beyond them.  They had a nice car.  “Is there something you want?”

            The man smiled and put his hands in his pockets.  “Actually, we were hoping to get Harry.”

            Petunia’s eyes widened and her lips thinned.  “Who?”

            “Harry Potter does live here, doesn’t he?”

            “Oh, Harry,” Petunia said.  These normal-looking people wanted to see Harry?  Why?  Should she let them in her house?  She took another look at their car, which looked quite expensive.  She stood aside and managed to say, “Come in.”

            She led the couple to the living room.  “Lovely home you have here, Mrs. Dursley,” the woman said.

            Petunia stared at her.  She looked very familiar.  “Do you mind if I phone my husband?”

            “Not at all.  We’re in no hurry,” said the man who called himself Mr. Granger.

            Petunia went quickly to the hall and dialed Grunnings, tapping her fingers impatiently on the wall as she waited to be connected to Vernon.

            “ThanforcallGrunningVernonspeaking.”

            “Hullo, dear.  It’s me.  Erm, there are two people here who want to take Harry, and—”

            “Let them.” 

            There was a click.  “Vernon?”  Petunia shrugged and hung up the phone.  She went back to the living room and stood awkwardly in the doorway, staring at the couple.  “I suppose it’s all right if you take Harry,” she told them as casually as she could.

            “That’s wonderful,” said Mrs. Granger.  “Is he upstairs, Petunia?”

            Petunia started and narrowed her watchful eyes.  “How did you know my name?” she demanded.

            Mrs. Granger hesitated, then gave the most obvious answer.  “Harry told us.”

            Petunia wasn’t sure if she believed the woman, however normal she looked and whatever her car had cost.  Then she suddenly realized where she had seen the face.  It had aged a few decades, but she was sure that she was looking at Lily’s old mate.  “I know who you are,” she hissed.  “’Call me Rose’?  I should have known then.”

            Mrs. Granger smiled uncomfortably.  “Yes.  I was Lily’s friend.”

            Petunia couldn’t explain why she did it, but she left them without a word, stalked to her bedroom closet, and took something down from the highest shelf.  Then she marched back into the living room and slammed the bundle into Mrs. Granger’s hands.  “These are yours,” she snapped.

            Mrs. Granger stared down at a pile of letters held together with a blue rubber band.  She gasped.  “Wh—?  I don’t understand.”

            Petunia crossed her arms.  “It was my job to take care of the mail.”

            “You . . . you . . .” Mrs. Granger sputtered.  “Are these from Lily to me?”

            “Yes.  My mother wrote you some as well.”  Petunia smiled.  “They always wondered why you didn’t write back.”

            Mr. Granger put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.  “I think we better leave,” he said.  “Could you have Harry come down, please?”

            “Yes, take him,” Petunia shrugged.  “HARRY!” 

            There were a few thumps upstairs, followed by a voice.  “What is it?”

            “Pack your things.  You’re leaving now.”

            “Okay.”  The door shut again.  Petunia took a calming breath to suppress her rage.  Apparently, Harry was expecting these people.  But he didn’t see fit to notify his aunt and uncle, did he?

            Mrs. Granger said softly, “You should have given these to Harry long ago.”

            “As if food and a roof weren’t enough?” Petunia said dryly.  “Just be glad I never burned them.  I should have.  There’s no telling what sort of nonsense she and my mother wrote.”

            “How long did it take for them to stop writing me?” Mrs. Granger asked.

            Petunia drew herself up.  “Oh, they were quite determined—but so was I.  The letters finally stopped after a year or two.”

            Before the Grangers could reply, Harry came trudging down the stairs.  He was dragging his trunk behind him and carrying that ridiculous owl.  So he had been ready to leave.  Had been planning this for weeks, no doubt.  Petunia wanted nothing more than to get him out of her sight.  Those horrid green eyes always mocked her.  She noticed that Mrs. Granger slipped the bundle of letters subtly into her bag.

            Petunia knew then why she had returned the letters.  She wanted Lily’s friend to know that she had picked the wrong sister.  She, Petunia, was the clever one.  The normal one.  It was a small triumph, but it brightened her day.

**

            The trip from Privet Drive to Hermione’s house passed quickly for Harry, who was so eager to see his friends again.  He had looked forward to seeing them at the end of every summer, but none so much as this one, when the previous year’s events weighed so heavily on his mind and conscience.  He always tried to picture Cedric as he was before they entered the maze—looking happy at the Yule Ball or racing around the Quidditch stadium on his broomstick.  Not only did he picture Cedric as he was before the maze; he tried to picture his life as it was before the maze.  It seemed very long ago, and Harry wondered if he could ever be as content as he was then, when his chief concern was asking Cho Chang to the Ball, or laughing with Ron as they made up silly predictions for Professor Trelawney.

            “Did you get all your summer homework done, Harry?” asked Mr. Granger, looking at Harry through the mirror.             

            “Most of it.  I’m sure Hermione’s all done,” he smiled, forcing himself to shake off his gravity.  “I should thank you both for my birthday present,” he continued.  “Hermione said that you helped her pick it out.”

            “It was her idea,” Mrs. Granger said with a wave of her hand.  “But you’re quite welcome, Harry.”

            They lapsed into silence again, but only for a few minutes.  Harry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as they pulled into the drive of the Grangers’ home.  In minutes, he would be with the two people he cared about most.  And Ginny would be there too.

            As he stepped out of the Grangers’ car, he noticed three grinning faces peering at him through a window.  The faces disappeared, and the next second, Ron flung the door open and ran out to meet Harry, with Hermione and Ginny close behind him. 

            “Harry!” Ron exclaimed.  For a moment, Harry thought that Ron was going to hug him, but Ron stopped short suddenly and extended his hand instead.  “Glad to see you again!”

            Hermione was not so bashful.  She flung her arms around Harry’s neck, and Harry noticed that Ron’s ears had gone pink.  “We’re all together again,” she sighed as she stepped back.  She draped her arm around Ron’s shoulders and grinned.  “Aren’t we a sight for sore eyes, Harry?”

            Harry’s eyes were much more interested in the expression on Ron’s face at that moment.  He looked as though he were claiming the Cup for the Cannons. 

            Ginny approached Harry more quietly, blushing furiously.  “Hi, Harry,” she murmured, smiling up at him.

            “Hi, Ginny,” he replied.

            “Come, let’s get inside,” said Mrs. Granger cheerfully.

            They piled into the house, and Mr. Granger exclaimed, “Hermione, what have you been cooking?  It smells heavenly!”

            “Actually, Dad,” Hermione replied, “Ron cooked most of it.  I just helped with the—just a few things.”  Harry watched her smile at Ron, who now looked badly sunburnt from the neck up. 

            “Well done, Ron,” said Mr. Granger, putting a hand on Ron’s shoulder.  “I’m starving.”

            Ron carried Harry’s trunk up to the guest room while Harry released Hedwig through a window.  He noticed that Mrs. Granger had pulled Hermione aside in the hall and was talking to her quite seriously.  Hermione seemed very affected by what her mother said, and covered her mouth with her hand.  Harry turned away, not wanting to intrude.

            A short time later, all six of them crowded noisily around the Grangers’ small table.  Harry had stayed at the Burrow often enough to know that Ron could cook, so he tore into his supper with no trepidation.

            “Thanks for taking care of supper, Ron,” said Mrs. Granger.  “It was very sweet of you.” 

             Harry knew that the “few things” Hermione helped with probably had to do with showing Ron how to work a stove.  He smiled.

            “Why, Harry,” said Mrs. Granger suddenly, “you have green eyes!”

            Bemused, he could only respond, “Yes, I do.”

            They had dessert in the living room.  Mrs. Granger scooped ice cream in the kitchen, and Mr. Granger carried the bowls out to the young people.  When he had served the four of them, he disappeared into the kitchen with Mrs. Granger.  They were obviously leaving the four friends alone to talk. 

            There wasn’t much to say.  Ron had spent the summer playing Quidditch with his brothers (“And your sister!” Ginny interjected); Hermione had completed all her homework and had done a bit of extra reading on the side; Harry had been driven mad by the Dursleys.  Sitting there with them, chatting idly about their boring summers, Harry could forget Cedric and Voldemort.  He felt grateful and light. 

            “I have something for you Harry,” said Hermione, surprising him.

            “What’s that?” he asked.

            “I have to do a bit of explaining first.  See, my mum and I were cleaning out the attic recently, and we found photographs of one of her childhood friends, as well as some books that had belonged to her.”

            Harry nodded, wondering where this was going.  He felt he should make some response, so he said, “That’s neat.”

            Hermione glanced sideways at Ron, then took a deep breath.  “Harry, it was your mother.”

            Harry blinked.  “What do you mean?”

            “My mother’s best friend was your mother, Lily Evans.  They were only five or six when they knew each other, but my mum has two photographs, several books, and a pile of letters that have never been read.  Your mother’s voice is recorded in one of the books.” 

            She paused to allow Harry to respond, but he only stared at her as if the wind had been knocked out of him.  This was simply too much to take in . . . his mother, Hermione’s mother . . . childhood friends.  His mind raced to try to process what she had said. 

            Hermione continued, “My mother never responded to the letters because—they were sent to the wrong address, and she was only recently able to get them back.  Besides the letters from your mother, there are also a few from your grandmother.”

            Hermione stood up and went to a nearby closet, from which she took a box.  She returned to Harry and set the box on his lap.  “All of this is yours now, Harry,” she said softly.

            Harry swallowed and looked down at the box.  His mind felt numb.  “Do you—”  His voice came out hoarsely, and he cleared his throat.  “Do you mind if I go upstairs?”

            “Want me to stay down here, Harry?” Ron asked. 

            Harry nodded.  He glanced at Hermione and Ginny, whose eyes were shining.  “Go on, Harry,” Hermione murmured.  “First door on the left.  We won’t disturb you.”

            He gripped the box with hands that felt alien to him and walked away from them with feet that didn’t feel like his own.  He climbed each step one by one and pushed open the door of the dark guest room.  After he switched on the light, he sank to the floor with the box and pulled it open.

            On top was a bundle of papers held together with a blue band.  He put these to the side to be read later.  Beneath that was a photograph of a pretty red-haired girl holding a flower.  He ran his fingers over her face and set the photograph aside.  There was a small gold locket under the photo, and Harry picked it up and opened it.

            “Mum,” he whispered as his own green eyes looked back at him. 

            He unfolded the piece of yellowed paper under the locket and found himself reading a letter written by his grandmother.  Her name was Virginia.  Virginia Evans.  And he realized that he was named for his grandfather.  He had seen his grandparents in the Mirror of Erised.  It had been years ago, but he still remembered every detail of every face.  Two stood behind James, two behind Lily.  Virginia Evans was a slender woman with blond hair and a mischievous smile.  And she had written this letter.

            Several books lay in the box.  As he looked through them, Harry found his mother’s name, a short note, and a childish drawing of a cat.  His mother’s handwriting.

            The last was a book of fairy tales, in which either Hermione or her mother had marked a page.  He opened to the selected page, and a little girl’s voice spoke to him. 

            “Hi.  My name is Lily.  This is my book.  I hope you like it.”

            She wasn’t screaming, “Please, not Harry!” in his memory.  The shadow of her voice wasn’t comforting him as his whole body was racked with physical and mental pain.  She was only Lily Evans, a little girl who discovered that she could preserve her voice in a book.  And the little girl’s voice replaced the scream and the shadow.

**

            “He’s asleep,” said Ron to Hermione and Ginny, who stood behind him in the hallway.  “Asleep on the floor.”

            “Do you want me to wake him?” Hermione asked, looking concerned.

            “I’ll do it,” said Ron. “Good night, you two.” 

            They disappeared into Hermione’s room, and Ron went back into the guest room.  Quietly and carefully, he stacked Lily’s things back into the box.  Then, he took the blanket off of Harry’s bed and covered his friend.  Grabbing the blanket from his own bed, he switched off the light and crept downstairs to sleep on the sofa.

            Part Four

Another person’s sleep is the acid test of our own sentiments.

 –Dorothy L. Sayers, Gaudy Night

            Neither Hermione nor Ginny felt like sleeping, so they talked late into the night.  Hours after they’d said goodnight to Ron, Hermione wrapped her arms around her knees and yawned.  "Maybe we should check on Ron and Harry," she suggested.

            Ginny agreed to this readily, and they walked quietly across the hall to the guest room.  Hermione turned the knob and pushed open the door.  The light from the hall was enough to reveal that Harry was sleeping silently on the floor, curled up on one side and covered with a blanket.  Ron was nowhere to be seen.

            "Where’s my brother?" Ginny whispered, though she was staring at Harry.  He still wore his glasses.

            "He must have gone downstairs," Hermione replied.  She stepped backwards and shut the door gently.  "I’ll go down and see about him.  Be back in a minute."

            Ginny turned to go back to Hermione’s room, but stopped as Hermione’s footsteps disappeared down the stairs.  She went back to the guest room and opened the door. Harry had not moved.  Ginny stepped gingerly through the door and knelt down beside him.  Slowly, carefully, she reached over to remove his glasses.  Her finger grazed his forehead, and he shifted a little.  Ginny froze, wondering how she could ever explain her situation if he woke up.  He didn’t, however.  She eased his glasses away from his face and set them on his trunk, which rested right under the light switch.  Unable to resist the urge, she separated the hair on his forehead to reveal the famous, horrible scar.  He moved again, and Ginny knew that she had to go.  She rose silently to her feet and crept out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

            Hermione, meanwhile, found Ron sound asleep on her living room sofa.  So she had checked on him—and she could go upstairs and get some sleep.  But her feet seemed to move toward him, not away from him, until she finally stood directly over him.  Erm . . . why are you standing here? her tired mind asked her. 

            Ron lay on his back with his right arm draped over his stomach and his left arm dangling off the edge of the sofa.  His head was turned slightly to his left.  His shocking red hair was tousled, just like Harry’s.  His shoes were on the floor at the end of the sofa, and his feet, in their white socks, poked out from the end of the blanket.

            Hermione stood there for several minutes, and spent the entire time trying to discern why she was standing there.  She thought of a scene in a book she’d read once, about a man and woman at university . . . they were on a boat, floating down a river.  The man had fallen asleep, and the woman watched him sleep for two hours.

            Ron sighed and stirred a little.  Hermione jumped back.  "Hermione?" he said.

            Her heart stopped.  Did he know how long she’d been standing there?  How long had she been standing there?  She couldn’t decide whether or not she should answer him.  Perhaps she could back away—he would never know. 

            But her eyes strayed over the freckles on his nose, and she answered him.  "Ron?"

            "I thought that was you."  He still hadn’t opened his eyes.

            "I was just checking to make sure you were okay," she whispered.

            "I know," he replied, running a hand through his unruly hair.  "Thanks."

            "Good night," she said, turning to go back upstairs.

            "Hermione?"

            "Yes?" she asked, facing the sofa again.

            Ron propped himself up on his elbow and twisted around so that he could see her.  "Did you, erm . . . did you really like those books I sent you?"

            Hermione’s heart raced.  "Oh, Ron," she murmured, wringing her hands.  "I loved them."  She picked up the special edition of Hogwarts: A History from the table by the stairs and went to kneel on the floor beside the sofa to show Ron.  "It’s beautiful.  I wasn’t sure if you really got to see it when you—found it in the attic."

            "And the other books?" he asked, looking at her earnestly.

            "I laughed so hard at the Lockhart book!  But, you know, it actually turned out to be very informative.  Did you know that—"

            "What about the other book?  I mean, I know it’s too late, really, for you to use it this summer, but—"

            "I won’t need to use it ever," Hermione replied without thinking.  Then her brain caught up with her mouth and she added, "I mean, it will be a valuable reference book."  Why had she said that?  Why?  Now he would think that she didn’t appreciate it!

            From the look on his face, however, she guessed that she had given the right answer.  "Ever?" he asked.  His eyes were wide and bright.

            "Well, maybe Bulgaria will be a possibility someday.  Foreign countries provide such a wealth of knowledge about other wizarding cultures . . ."  She stopped, realizing that she was rambling.

            Ron reached down and took the book from her hands, setting it on the small table behind his head.  "It’s late.  We’ll be dragging you out of bed at noon if you don’t get some sleep."

            "Okay," she murmured.  She stood up, went back upstairs in a kind of daze, and fell asleep surprisingly quickly.        

**

            Harry shifted his position and opened his eyes.  His whole body ached, and he wondered how long he’d been asleep on the floor.  A glance in the direction of the window revealed that it was still night.  Someone had draped a blanket over him.  He rubbed his eyes and felt the light pattern pressed onto his face by the carpet.  Where were his glasses?  Groaning, he sat up and rubbed the elbow on which he’d been lying.  Every muscle in his body seemed to complain as he stood up and stretched his arms over his head.  He moved carefully to the wall and switched on the light.  His glasses were resting on top of his trunk by the door.  Whoever covered him had also replaced Lily’s things in the box.  Ron’s bed was empty.  With a great yawn, he sat down on his bed and pulled off his shoes.  He went to the door and slowly opened it; it moved without a sound.  He tiptoed to the stairs and descended them quietly.

            Ron was snoring lightly on the sofa, his socks sticking out from the end of the blanket.  Harry grinned.  "Ron?" he whispered, touching his friend’s shoulder.

            "Arwasha," Ron mumbled.

            Harry shook Ron’s shoulder gently.  "Ron!  Come upstairs."

            "Um."

            "Come on, you’ll be a lot more comfortable."

            "I already studied that chapter."

            Harry grinned again.  "That’s great.  Now come on."

            "It’s a boggart."

            "Right."

            Harry sighed and collapsed onto a nearby chair, and this finally made Ron sit straight up.  "What was that?" he muttered.

            "You said it was a boggart," Harry replied, smiling as Ron turned around quickly.

            "Harry, you scared me to death," Ron grumbled.  "What time is it?"

            "I don’t know.  Why don’t you come upstairs and sleep in your bed?"

            "Too much trouble," said Ron, lying down again.

            "Thanks for . . . you know, covering me up and everything."

            "Welcome."

            "Why did you come down here instead of getting in your bed?"

            "Didn’t want to bother you."

            "Oh."

            Harry said nothing else and assumed that Ron had drifted off to sleep again.  Just as he was about to go back upstairs, however, Ron asked, "So, erm . . . what did you think of all that stuff?"

            "It was a lot to take in.  And I still haven’t read that pile of letters."  Harry suddenly felt very tired again. 

            "Hermione showed us some of the things while we were waiting for you and her parents to get here.  I couldn’t believe it."

            "I still can’t," Harry confessed. 

            Ron turned on the sofa so that he could see Harry.  "Are you okay?"

            "Yeah." 

            There was another long silence, then Ron sat up again and swung his feet around to touch the floor.  "I guess I’ll go up to bed now," he said.

            "Good idea," Harry murmured.  His eyes strayed to the small table by the sofa.  "Hey—is that your book?"

            "What book?" Ron asked, yawning.

            "That special edition of Hogwarts: A History."

            "It’s Hermione’s, actually," replied Ron.  Harry could see his face flushing, even in the semi-darkness.  "I, erm . . . sent it to her."

            "Why?"

            "I don’t know.  Founditintheatticandstuff.  Well, I’m going upstairs.  You coming?"

            "Er—yes."  Harry was very curious about the fact that Ron had sent Hermione a book, but he was not foolish enough—or awake enough—to press the matter.  Ron wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, picked up his shoes, and led the way up the stairs.

                 Part Five

            "Ron!"

            Someone was shaking him. 

            Ron pulled his blanket over his head and mumbled something that sounded remotely like, "Leave me alone."

            "Come on, Ron."  It was Harry’s voice.  "Mrs. Granger made us a huge breakfast.  You don’t want to hurt her feelings, do you?"

            "Urf."

            Ron groaned as Harry suddenly yanked off the blanket.  Daylight flooded the room, turning the insides of his eyelids bright orange.  He forced his eyes open, and Harry slowly came into focus. 

            "All right, all right," Ron mumbled.  He sat up and yawned.  "What time is it, anyway?"

            "Eight."

            "Eight?!"  Ron flopped back down, and the air rushed out of his pillow with a woosh.

            "Oh, no, you don’t," Harry laughed.  He grabbed Ron’s arm and started to pull him off of the bed.  "Get . . . up . . . you lazy . . . git."

            Ron joined Harry’s laughter and tried to pull himself away.  He twisted himself around and tried to push Harry away with one of his feet.  Harry grabbed the pillow and started hitting Ron with it.   

            "What’s going on in here?" came an amused voice from the doorway.    Harry and Ron stopped struggling and looked towards the door.  It was Hermione.  She carried a tray in her arms and walked over to the bed, laughing.

            "What are you doing?" Ron asked.

            "I could ask you the same question," she replied, staring pointedly at the way he was still sprawled haphazardly on the bed.  "This is your breakfast."

            Ron sat up immediately.

            "Hey!" Harry protested, tossing the pillow back onto the bed, "I didn’t get breakfast in bed."

            "You weren’t in bed," Hermione retorted.  She held out the tray to Ron, who was staring at her.  Her hair was damp from her morning shower—and it still carried the scent of her shampoo.  Then he suddenly remembered the night before . . . how he’d heard someone coming down the stairs.  How the someone had stood over him for several minutes.  And he’d known that it was Hermione.  And she had said something wonderful.  What had it been?

            "Ron?" Hermione said, holding the tray closer to him.

            "Yeah . . . sorry," he said.  He took the tray and balanced it on his lap.  "Thanks."

            Hermione sighed and sat down on the end of Ron’s bed.  His fork paused in midair.  She was sitting.  On.  His.  Bed.  Well, technically, it was her bed, since it was in her house . . . but that would mean that he was sleeping in her bed.  Both prospects were strange and kind of interesting.  Then . . . what?  She was leaning over, still laughing at him.  Her fingers were in his hair, trying to make it lie flat.  He dropped his fork with a clatter.

            "Hey," he mumbled, reaching up to grab her wrist.  "You’re not my mum."

            "Sorry," she said.  She pulled away from him quickly, and she wasn’t smiling anymore.

            Ron thought up many names for himself at that moment, none of which should be recorded here.  Why had he done that?  Not only had he hurt her feelings, but . . . well . . . it had been kind of nice . . . her fixing his hair.  He picked up his fork again with shaking fingers.

            "You’re lucky you didn’t break your glasses last night," she was saying to Harry.  Ron swallowed his eggs and picked up a piece of bacon.

            "What do you mean?" Harry asked.

            "You know, when you were asleep on the floor."

            "Oh!  No, they were okay.  Ron took them off for me."

            "Nodiden," said Ron through his food.  He looked up at Harry, who seemed confused.

            "But when I woke up, they were on top of my trunk," Harry explained.

            Hermione shook her head.  "I don’t know how they got there.  When I looked in last night, you had them on . . . and Ron was already sound asleep on the sofa."  She paused.  "You say they were gone when you woke up?"

            "I’m positive."

            Ron turned to Hermione.  He knew her well enough to see that the expression passing over her face was one of sudden understanding, but she said only, "Oh.  I must have been mistaken." 

            It was Bulgaria!  He suddenly remembered what she had said that had made him so happy.  Something about not needing the Bulgaria travel guide—ever.  She wouldn’t go to Viktor Krum ever!          

            "I hope you enjoyed looking through those things," said Hermione, glancing at the box beside Harry’s trunk.  "I was so excited when we found them."

            "It’s unbelievable that this stuff was just sitting up in your attic," said Harry in awe.  "And all those letters!  I can’t wait to read them."

            "Do you mind if we look at them with you?"

            The three of them turned to see Ginny standing in the doorway.

            "Sure, Ginny," Harry replied.  "I didn’t think that you three would be interested.  But if you want to . . . sure."

            Ron suddenly felt stupid.  How long had they been awake?  It was only eight, after all!  He set the tray down between himself and Hermione.  "Well," he said, "I guess I should get dressed and everything."  He realized that he still wore his clothes from yesterday.

            Ginny disappeared again, and just as Hermione was standing to go as well, Harry said, "Hurry up.  I’m in the mood to get beaten at chess."

            Ron watched as Hermione leaned over to pick up the breakfast tray, her damp hair falling to hide her face.  "I don’t have my chess pieces with me," Ron said, finally getting out of bed.  His elbow bumped Hermione’s.  He thought of her in the living room last night, clasping her hands, telling him how much she loved her books.  And that she wouldn’t use the travel guide . . . ever.   

            "Oh, come off it," Harry laughed.

            Hermione paused at the door and turned around.  Ron glanced at her and didn’t regret the fact that his chessmen were sitting on a shelf in Diagon Alley.  He looked at Harry again.  "No, really," he said, forcing a casual grin.  "I don’t have them."

            "What happened to them?" came Hermione’s voice from the door.

            Ron thought quickly and laughed, "Fred and George made them explode.  Long story."  That was pretty good!  He was rather pleased with himself.

            Harry grinned.  "You’ll have to tell me about that sometime."

            He heard Hermione’s voice again.  "I hope they felt sorry for it," she said softly.  "Weren’t your chessmen kind of valuable?  I mean, I know they were valuable to you."

            "Sort of," Ron shrugged.  "Anyway, I . . ."  He looked at Hermione.  "I don’t miss them very much."

            Hermione slipped out, and Harry followed her, closing the door behind him.  Ron stood motionless in the center of the room.  At that moment, he felt that if he looked into the Mirror of Erised, he would not see himself with the Quidditch Cup.

            He took a quick shower, got dressed, and raced downstairs to find Harry, Hermione, and Ginny sitting on the floor.  Inside their circle were the letters and several boxes of candy.  They all turned to look up at him.

            "It sounded like Peeves was kicking a desk down the stairs!" Harry exclaimed. 

            "I try to make a graceful entrance," said Ron, kneeling down beside them.  "I was beginning to think that you started without me."

            "Erm.  We did," Harry confessed.  "But we only read a few," he added quickly.  He handed Ron the letters they’d already seen.  "You’re not mad, are you?"

            "No."  Mad wasn’t the word exactly. 

            "Do you want a Frog?" Harry asked, offering one.  Ron looked at the boxes of candy.  They were the ones he’d bought for Hermione in Diagon Alley.  Ginny was sucking on one of the Sugar Quills.  Why should it upset him that all the others were eating Hermione’s candy?  Of course, she would share them with her friends.  But . . . his chess set had bought that candy—for her!  Then again, she didn’t know that.

            "Ron?" Harry repeated.  "Do you want a Frog?"

            "No, that’s okay," he replied.  He looked at Hermione, but she was staring down at the letters. 

            "More for us!" said Harry cheerfully.  "Where’d you get all of this candy, anyway, Hermione?  I know your parents didn’t buy it."

            Hermione lifted her head to answer Harry, but her eyes wandered to Ron instead.  She looked at him as if she were trying to read something in his face, then turned back to Harry.  She blushed deeply and said, "Erm . . . Viktor sent it to me."

            Ron felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.  What?  No.  No.  What?  His mouth felt dry, and he felt like he would start belching slugs any minute.  Of course, Hermione was the reason he had belched slugs to begin with.  Hermione, who had just told Harry and Ginny that her candy was from Viktor Bloody Krum.

            "I’m going upstairs," Ron mumbled quickly.  He jumped up and took the stairs three at a time, trying not to slam the door of the guest room in his frustration.  This wasn’t his house, after all.  He sat down on the bed and looked out of the window.  He still couldn’t believe it.  He had sold his chessmen for her . . . had not doubted the decision until now.  What was that she said about not going to Bulgaria ever?  She obviously hadn’t meant that.  She was only trying to spare his feelings.  Well, she certainly hadn’t spared them now. 

            How could she say that his presents to her were from Viktor?  He had never seen this side of Hermione.  It was almost spiteful.  She wanted Harry and Ginny to like Viktor.  That must be the reason.  He jumped at the sound of a knock on the door.                    

            "Who is it?" he asked.

            A very small voice answered, "It’s me."

            He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to Hermione right now.  Blast it, of course he wanted to talk to her.  "Come in," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

            The door swung open and Hermione walked in.  She shut it behind her.  It was strange being in a bedroom with her—alone.  "Ron, don’t be mad," she said softly.

            "Why would I be mad?" he asked dryly.  "If you want Harry and Ginny to know that your boyfriend’s a nice guy, why should I care?"

            "He’s not my boyfriend," she said firmly.

            "Then why did you say that?" Ron asked her, much more loudly than he intended.  He stood up to face her.

            Hermione backed away a little, her lip trembling.  "Because I thought . . ." she stumbled.  "I thought you would be embarrassed."

            Ron blinked.  This had nothing to do with Viktor?  She had been thinking of him?  His heart felt lighter, but he couldn’t let her off yet.  "What?  Why would I be embarrassed?"

            "I was afraid they would tease you if they knew . . . if they knew that . . ."

            Ron shoved his hands in his pockets.  "If they knew what?"

            "That you had sent them to me.  That’s all."

            "Ginny knew," he pointed out.  But Ginny didn’t know the whole story.  Ginny didn’t know about the chessmen.

            "Harry didn’t."

            "Yeah."  He didn’t know what else to say, and neither, apparently, did she.  She clasped her fingers together and stared at the window.  Ron cleared his throat.  "Fred and George gave it to me, you know," he said.  "Like I said in the letter.  So, erm, there was really nothing for me to be embarrassed about."

            She looked at him with an unreadable expression in her eyes.  "That’s true," she murmured.  "I’m sorry, Ron."

            "It’s my fault," he insisted.  "I shouldn’t have run away from everyone like a prat."

            "But you had every reason to!  There I was, just telling Harry and Ginny that your present was from someone else.  Someone I don’t even care about."

            Again, Ron felt like someone had punched him in the stomach.  But this time, the sensation was a little more on the pleasant side.  Was she implying that she did care about him?  Well, of course she cared about him.  They had been best friends for four years.  What a dumb thought.

            Then she did something even more surprising.  She walked up to him and hugged him.  "I’m sorry, Ron," she said again. 

            He wondered how he could be expected to talk when Hermione’s arms were around his neck.  He circled his own arms around her and pulled her closer to him.  This was nice.  There was that great scent of her shampoo again . . . When she pulled away a few seconds later, swiping tears from her cheeks, Ron wanted to say, "Hey!  I wasn’t done yet!"

            "Come back downstairs?" she asked.  He nodded, still incapable of speech.  She started to walk out, but turned around.  "Harry shouldn’t have started to read the letters without you.  I was in the kitchen getting your candy, and when I came back to the living room, he and Ginny were in the middle of the second.  I guess he just assumed that we aren’t really that interested."

            "That’s okay," he managed to say hoarsely. 

            Again she moved to the door, and again she turned around.  "Are you mad that I shared the candy?"

            "No," he assured her.  "It’s—it’s only from Fred and George, after all."

            There was that strange expression again.  What was it?  She provided no hints.  "Okay," she replied.  When he continued to stand there, staring at her, she asked, "Are you coming down with me or not?"

            "What’s that?  I mean . . . yeah."  He forced his feet to move to the door, but he stopped out in the hall.  "You don’t care about Viktor?" he asked suddenly.

            Hermione blushed and focused her eyes on his.  "No, Ron," she replied.  "I don’t."

**

            "I wish I knew what’s going on with those two," Harry muttered when Hermione disappeared upstairs.  "You must already know that Ron sent her a book—a really nice, expensive-looking book."  He picked up one of his mother’s letters and turned it around in his hands.  "Do you know what’s going on, Ginny?"

            She shrugged.  "He did send her a lot of stuff."

            "A lot of stuff?" Harry repeated.

            "I’ll tell you, but you better not ever tease him about it, Harry."

            "I won’t."

            "Promise!"

            He looked her in the eyes.  "Do you really think I would?"

            "No," she said softly.  "Ron sold his chess set"—Harry gave a loud outburst here, but Ginny held up her hand and continued—"and bought Hermione some books and a lot of candy."  She looked around them.  "This candy, in fact.  I suspect that’s why he ran upstairs like that.  You know, when Hermione said it was from Viktor Krum.  I got the impression that she didn’t want him to be teased, but boys are so . . ."  She looked at Harry again.  "Boys are so blind sometimes."

            "Wait a minute," said Harry, shaking his head.  "Ron sold his chess set to buy books and candy for Hermione?"

            "That’s what I just said, isn’t it?" asked Ginny, with a hint of the Weasley sarcasm.  "Bill went to Diagon Alley with him.  But while Ron was in one of the shops, Bill snuck back over and bought back Ron’s chessmen.  He left them with me to give to Hermione, and now she has them."

            "Don’t you think it’s kind of weird?" Harry asked.  "Does Ron like her or something?"

            Ginny smiled.  "He’d be a dolt if he didn’t.  Anyway, you musn’t ever mention it.  He told Hermione that he found the books in our attic, and that Fred and George gave him the candy.  He doesn’t know that Hermione knows the truth."

            "I won’t say anything," Harry assured her.  "But how is she going to give them back?  She’d have to tell him that Bill gave away the secret, wouldn’t she?"

            "Hermione isn’t at the top of your class for nothing, Harry.  She’ll think of something."

            "I just can’t believe it," Harry breathed, pushing up his glasses.  "Those were his favorite things in the world."

            "Kind of like you giving up your Firebolt for someone, isn’t it?"

            "My Firebolt isn’t my favorite thing in the world," Harry replied thoughtfully.  "But I’m thinking of my favorite thing, and I’m not sure that I would give it up."

            "Wouldn’t you?" she asked.

            Before he could reply, they heard voices upstairs.  "They’re not fighting," Harry whispered.  "I guess it went well."

            Hermione and Ron appeared a minute later.  They sat down as if nothing had happened, and Harry and Ginny were content to pretend that nothing had.  Besides, they were sitting around a pile of letters from Harry’s mother . . . letters that had never been read. 

Continued in Part Six...