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 Six

               “I guess it’ll be easier if I just read these out loud,” Harry suggested.  “Right, then.  We already read the first few, Ron, but they weren’t very interesting.  You weren’t missing much.  I’ll just start with the fourth, shall I?”

            He met with no objections, and unfolded Lily’s fourth letter.

           

Dear Rose,

Our new house is nice.  I miss you.  My sister doesn’t like it.  But she never likes anything.  I don’t have a friend yet.  I talk to Mum mostly.  I don’t mean to write a sad letter.  Is my letter making you sad?  I hope not.  I’ll write you again when I have something better to say.

Love,

Lily

            “Poor thing,” Hermione sighed.  “Can you imagine having to live with Petunia?”

            Harry laughed.  “I wish I only had to imagine it!”

            “I wasn’t talking to you, silly,” she grinned, playfully punching him in the arm.  “Read the next?”

            Harry picked up the next letter and unfolded it.  All four of them started as a little girl’s voice hung softly in the air—“Can you hear my voice?  I hope this works.  I love you!” 

            Ron’s mouth fell open, and Hermione and Ginny seemed to have stopped breathing.  “She did it again,” Harry murmured.  “Recorded her voice.”  He knew that the words were meant for Hermione’s mother many years ago, but he couldn’t help feeling that his mother was speaking to him as well.  “I love you!” she said.  The words were for him.  He had to hear them again.  He refolded and unfolded the letter, but only silence greeted him.

            “It only works once,” said Hermione, looking at Harry with sympathetic eyes. 

            “But the book can play over and over,” he replied, confused.  Maybe he’d done it wrong.  He folded the letter and unfolded it.  Nothing. 

            Ginny spoke up.  “Just think, Harry . . . if Hermione’s mum had opened the letter, you would never have heard that message.”

            Hermione was still musing over the technicalities of the thing—“The book must be an actual recording, while the letter was . . . I don’t know.  Her voice captured in one moment of time?”  Her eyes widened.  “Don’t you see?”

            Ron swiped his hand over the top of his head and whistled.  “Erm, no.”

            With a haughty Wingardium Leviosa glance in Ron’s direction, she explained, “In a way, it’s better because the book, why, it’s sort of like playing a song over and over.  But her voice in the letter was . . . her actual voice.”

            Harry stared at her, unconvinced.  Ron and Ginny seemed just as baffled.  Hermione sighed and said, “Wait a minute.”  She jumped up, and Harry saw her disappear into the hall.  She came back with a tape recorder, very similar to Dudley’s before he’d eaten it. 

            “Look,” she demanded.  She pressed “Record,” waited a moment, and said, “Hello.”  She rewound the tape and played back her voice.  Then she pressed stop, looked at them intently, and said, “Hello.”

            Harry understood her and stared down at the letter, where his mother’s voice had been waiting for almost thirty years.

            Ron voiced everyone’s opinion: “Wicked.”

            “I’ll go crazy unless I figure out how she did it,” said Hermione, wrapping her arms around her knees. 

            “You’ll never figure it out,” Ron said.

            “What?”  Hermione looked offended, and Harry braced himself for the inevitable battle.

            “I didn’t mean it like that,” said Ron quickly.  “I meant . . . I don’t think it’s something you can figure out, like a spell or anything.  She wouldn’t have known.  I think she just . . . did it.”

            “Well, if it’s something that can be done, no matter how one does it, it has to be in a book,” said Hermione firmly.

            “Hush, you two!” Ginny exclaimed, motioning to the stack of letters.  “Let’s see what the other ones have in them.”

            The next letter disappointed them, however.  And the next.  And the next.  The ninth letter didn’t have a message either, but proved interesting in its own right:

           

Dear Rose,

We live by a nice family.  They have a boy who is 7 like me.  He is fun to play with.  He likes to play the same kind of games.  His name is Sirius. 

            “Now wait just a minute!” Ron burst out.  “That can’t be . . . the same . . . our Sirius?”

            “Why not?” Hermione asked sensibly.

            “Good point,” said Ron.  “Read on, Harry.  Sorry for interrupting.”

That’s a funny name.  I teased him about it when we first met.  He didn’t mind.  I like him.  Petunia says he’s weird.  Are you ever going to write me back, Rose?  I miss you so much.

Love,

Lily

            “Poor thing,” Hermione said again.

            Harry opened the tenth letter slowly.  If any more of these letters held his mother’s voice, he didn’t want to miss a word.  And there was the voice of Lily Evans—“Go on, Sirius.”  And a boy’s voice—“How do you know it’s working?”  That was it, but it was enough to render the four of them silent for a long time.  Harry swallowed and read aloud the letter that accompanied the message.

           

Dear Rose,

Today Mum and I went shopping.  I needed some new clothes.  Also today I played with Sirius.  I told him about you.  His voice is in this letter.  Did you hear it?  Will you write me a letter to show him?  I miss you.

Love,

Lily

            So the letters went for almost two years, though none of the others played Lily’s voice.  Harry was rather impressed that a little girl could be so persistent.  Mrs. Evans had written a few letters to “Rose” as well—most of them expressing concern for her because she had never answered them. 

            The most fascinating thing about the letters, apart from the few seconds of his mum’s voice, was undoubtedly the many references to Sirius Black.  He had known Lily long before they went to Hogwarts.  Perhaps Sirius had introduced Lily to James!  Harry thought of the possibilities, and wondered why Sirius had never mentioned any of this.  Then again, he and Sirius had never actually had a chance to talk about matters that didn’t involve life or death.  Another thought raced into Harry’s mind.  What had Petunia thought when Sirius Black was in the news two years ago?  She probably wouldn’t remember the name. 

            Harry slowly opened the last letter and read aloud:

Dear Rose,

We are going to move again.  Dad always wants to move, and I never know why.  Today I said goodbye to Sirius.  I’m tired of saying goodbye to people.  I hope he writes to me.  I always wish that you had.  But I know that something must be wrong.  If you ever get this letter, I want you to know that I will always be your friend.  I’m going to stop writing to you once we move.  Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!

Love always,

Lily

            Harry was the first to break their long silence.  “Hermione, your mother should keep these letters.”

            “But she wants you to have them!” Hermione protested.  “I doubt she’ll even think of keeping them.”

            “They’ll mean more to her.  That is . . . they mean a lot to me.  More than I could ever explain.  But they were written to your mother, and I want her to keep them.  At least some of them.  Where is she?”

            Hermione smiled.  “She’s at work, Harry.  Remember?  She and Dad left right after breakfast.”

            “Right.  Sorry.”

            “Why don’t you and Ron play chess?”

            “Without my chessmen?” Ron asked.  “How?”

            Harry thought it kind of strange that Hermione, knowing what Ron had done for her, would bring up the subject of chess.  But Hermione had never been timid, had she? 

            “Well,” said Hermione, somewhat cheekily, “there is such a thing as regular chess.  We have a chess set in the closet.  Shall I get it for you two?”  Before Harry or Ron could say anything, Hermione disappeared and returned with a chess board and a wooden box.  “Come on,” she coaxed them.  She put the board on the living room table and set up their pieces for them.  “Come on,” she said again.  “They won’t bite . . . they won’t do anything, for that matter.”

            Harry looked at Ron and shrugged.  They went to the table and Ron said, “You take white.  I’ll beat you anyway.”

            Hermione and Ginny sat watching on opposite sides of the table.  Ginny folded her arms and rested her chin in them, while Hermione leaned forward on her elbows.  After several minutes, Ron groaned, “This is so boring!  What’s the point of playing chess if you can’t . . . interact with your men?”

            Hermione could not stifle a laugh.  “Interact?” she repeated.

            “You know what I mean,” said Ron, going red. 

            Hermione reached over and took a pawn.  “Come on, Ron!” she said in a deep voice from the corner of her mouth.  “Let’s get going!  Get that rook into play!”

            Ron grabbed the pawn and put it back on the board.  “Shut up,” he grumbled.

            Harry wondered how Ginny could possibly think that Ron liked Hermione.  But the very next second, he decided that there might be something to it after all—Ron advanced his rook.

            Harry took his turn, and Hermione said to Ron in the same deep voice, “We’re at a tough moment in the game, Ron.  Should we beat Harry quickly or prolong the game for more enjoyment?”

            “We can’t end the game quickly,” Ron argued with her, in spite of himself.  “Look at the board.”

            Hermione grabbed the pawn before Ron could stop her, and she danced it in front of his face.  “You look at the board.”

            Ginny laughed.  “You should listen to your pawn, Ron. See how Harry’s bishop is on—”

            “I can’t play without my men,” Ron sighed, flicking his king over with his finger. 

            Harry watched Hermione’s face and caught the fleeting look of guilt.  She probably wanted to laugh just as much as he himself did at Ron’s perfectly serious way of referring to his “men,” but she put the pawn back on the board and said soothingly, “Ron, you’re winning.  Of course you can play!”

            “If he’s winning, then I’m the one who needs help,” said Harry, exasperated.  He picked up his queen and held her in front of his nose.  “Look here,” he spoke to the piece, “what am I supposed to do?”

            “There’s nothing you can do now except to lose with dignity,” said Ginny in a very squeaky falsetto. 

            Harry looked from the queen over to Ginny.  “Thanks a lot,” he grinned.  He turned to smile at Ron, but his friend was still downcast, staring at the board.  Hermione appeared to notice it as well.

            “I just remembered something . . . that I have to do . . . upstairs,” said Ron. 

            Harry watched helplessly as Ron left them yet again and disappeared upstairs.  He looked at Ginny and Hermione, who were both staring at him as if they were waiting for him to do something.  “I’m going after him,” he said.  He took the stairs slowly, racking his brain for something to say.

            He pushed the door open to find Ron sitting on the floor, reading a textbook.  Shutting the door behind him, he stood there for a second, still trying to decide what he could say.  He couldn’t say that he’d come up for something, since it was fairly obvious that he had come up after Ron.  Best to say something safe.

            “Are you actually doing homework?” he asked with forced levity, hopping onto his bed.

            “Yeah,” Ron replied.  “School starts in less than a week, you know.”

            “But if you do all your homework now, what are you going to do the night before?”

            “Laugh at you while you’re doing yours,” said Ron with a grin.

            Someone knocked.  “Yeah?” said Harry.

            “Can I come in?” asked Hermione’s voice.

            Harry looked at Ron, who shrugged.  “Sure,” Harry answered.  She opened the door and stepped in.  Harry saw that she was holding her bookbag, and he had a good idea what was inside. 

            She swallowed.  “Harry, do you mind if I talk to Ron for a second?”

            “Erm, no,” he said.  He needed to talk to Ron—find out about this liking Hermione business.  But she definitely had something more important to say.  He squeezed her arm on his way out, and shut the door softly behind him.

**

            Ron watched as Hermione sat down across from him, her bookbag in her lap.  This was turning into a strange day, indeed.  Twice in a bedroom alone with Hermione.  “History of Magic homework?” she asked.

            “Yeah.”

            “Ron,” she said slowly, “I . . . I have something for you.  But you musn’t ask where or how I got it.”

            “As long as you promise me in advance that it’s not from Hagrid,” Ron grinned, “I won’t ask any questions.”  He was dying of curiosity now.  She was opening her bookbag and pulling out . . . . . . how odd.  That looked like the box that contained his chessmen.  It was the box that contained his chessmen.  He threw aside his textbook and reached for the box.

            “Wh—”  He stopped.  Not allowed to ask that.  “H—”  Nor that.

            “Where and how aren’t important,” she insisted.

            Ron looked down at his chessmen, then looked up at Hermione’s face.  She was smiling at him, and she was so pretty when she smiled.  It wasn’t a gloating smile, or a wry smile, or a teasing smile.  It was a real smile, and it was only for him.  Her eyes were smiling too.  And her cheeks were pink.  Was she blushing?  For him?  He reached up slowly and touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers.  Her eyes widened at his touch, and she drew a rather shaky breath, but she did not try to stop him.  For a moment, he felt a rush of panic.  Now what? 

            “Thanks,” he whispered, letting his hand fall back onto the chessmen.  Then he felt her hand on top of his.  She separated his fingers from the pieces and entwined them with her own.  The chess set was forgotten.

            “You’re welcome,” she murmured.  She leaned closer to him.  Ron felt unnerved by her gaze—this look in her eyes was unfamiliar, frightening, and wonderful—but he could not look away from it.  What should he do?  He felt his hand being lifted.  Hermione held it up between them and touched her lips softly to his fingers, which were still twisted through hers.  She lowered their hands again. 

            Then he knew what to do.  How could he ever have doubted it?  With his free hand, he cupped her face again and drew closer to her.  He stopped for a moment.  What if she didn’t want him to do . . . whatever it was he was about to do?  Her fingers tightened in his in silent consent, and she smiled at him again.  Ron swallowed and tucked a few stray hairs back from her face and behind her ear, then slid his hand down her arm.   He leaned closer still. 

            “Ron.”  Her breath was warm and sweet.  “It’s okay.”  She dropped her gaze for the first time, staring down at their hands.  “I . . . I want you to.”

            His heart leapt.  Hermione wanted him to kiss her!  She—the smartest person he’d ever met—the most stubborn—the most infuriating—the most impatient—she, who could have chosen a world-famous Quidditch player—who stole potions from Severus Snape, cheated time to take three classes at once, and rode a Hippogriff—who stood over him last night, watching him sleep—the person who drove him absolutely mad—and the only one he’d ever want to kiss.

            He whispered her name, as if to remind himself that she was tangible and true.  When he first touched her lips with his, he kept his eyes open.  Oh, yes, she was very real.  He closed his eyes, put his hand at the nape of her neck, and gently pulled her closer.  When she sighed against him and returned his kiss, he believed that nothing in his life—nothing, ever—could be better than this.  They separated for a moment, but he was compelled to lean back in quickly and take one more taste of her bottom lip before he pulled back from her.  He kept his hand on her neck and looked into her eyes.

            What if she hadn’t liked it?  It had been so wonderful to him—how could she not have liked it?  He might have done something wrong, and he would try to think of it later when his mind was capable of coherent, logical thought.  Maybe he had . . . Oh.  She was saying something.  Ears still working?  Check.

            “Wow, Ron, that was really . . . really nice.  Do you . . . do you want to . . .”  She leaned closer, blushing.  “Do you want to kiss me again?”

            Did he want to kiss her again?  Was that a real question?  He took her flushed face in both hands and gave her his answer.  Why did she like him?  Why was she letting him put his mouth on hers—allowing him, insignificant Ron Weasley, to stop up all the brilliant things she might say?  Her lips parted beneath his, and he wished he had some idea what he was supposed to do next.  Hermione always knew what to do.  

            “Ron,” she said softly, “are you afraid of me?”

            “Yes.”  Terrified would be a better word, really.

            Then she was wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him to her.  She was bold.  He had to compliment her on that sometime . . . mmmm . . . sometime when he trusted himself enough to string words together.  He put his hands on her waist, gradually circling them around her as their kiss deepened.  They were no longer sitting on the floor; somehow they were both up on their knees, holding on to each other tightly.

            “Why do you like me?” he managed to ask.  Very good.  Complete sentence.

            “Because,” she replied breathlessly.  Ron, kissing the corner of her mouth, decided that this was as satisfying an answer as any, but she continued, “Because you are the most likely person to ask that question”—she pressed her lips quickly against his—“and the person with the least reason to ask it.”

            He would have to think about that later . . . too many words.  Rational thought was definitely overrated—and definitely impossible when Hermione Granger’s lips were so inviting. 

            They jumped apart, however, at a loud clatter.  Ron grinned sheepishly.  He had knocked over his box of chess pieces, and now they rolled all over the floor, trying to fight with each other.  Ron and Hermione managed to gather the pieces together quickly, but the strange spell had been broken. They both stood up, a meter apart from each other.  They blushed furiously, each trying to avoid the other’s eyes.  How could they be so uncomfortable and awkward now, when they had just . . . oh, very easily. 

            Ron cleared his throat.  “I guess we better go back downstairs now.”

            “Yeah,” said Hermione.  She picked up her empty bookbag and would not look at him.  But as they walked through the door, she turned around suddenly and pulled him back down to her.  She kissed him firmly, grinned, and led the way downstairs.

**

            Hermione waited until Harry had trudged halfway up the stairs before she whispered to Ginny, “I think I’m going to give your brother his chessmen.”

            “How?” Ginny asked.  “Did you think of a way?”

            Hermione jumped up and turned around at the foot of the stairs.  “Not exactly,” she replied.  “But this can’t wait any longer.”

            She ran up just as Harry closed the door, raced into her room, and shoved Ron’s chess set into her bookbag.  Then, composing herself, she stood outside the guest room and knocked.

            “Yeah?” came Harry’s voice from inside.

            She took a deep breath.  “Can I come in?”

            There was a brief pause, then Harry called, “Sure.”  With another bracing breath, Hermione opened the door and entered the boys’ room.  Ron was sitting on the floor, pretending to be engrossed by a textbook.  Harry was on his bed.

            Her throat suddenly felt dry, and she tried to swallow.  “Harry, do you mind if I talk to Ron for a second?”

            “Erm, no,” he said.  He looked as if he did mind.  Hermione felt a little sorry—he might have really wanted to talk to Ron.  But she felt that this couldn’t wait.  As Harry walked past her, he squeezed her arm gently, and she gave him a grateful smile.  He shut the door again, and Hermione forced herself to be calm as she walked over to sit across from Ron.

            She could see the title of his textbook now.  “History of Magic homework?” she asked.

            “Yeah.”

            Okay, here goes.  “Ron,  I . . . I have something for you.  But you musn’t ask where or how I got it.”  She had been formulating so many creative ways to return the chessmen, and this was all wrong.  But she didn’t care.

            She felt relieved when Ron smiled at her.  “As long as you promise me in advance that it’s not from Hagrid, I won’t ask any questions.” 

            Hermione opened her bag and withdrew the box.  Ron stared at it dumbly for a moment, then recognition dawned on his face.  He threw his textbook across the floor, and all the pages landed at horrible angles; Hermione had to bite her tongue not to fuss him about it.  He reached eagerly for the box, and she handed it over.

            Then he started stuttering.  “Wh— H—”

            “Where and how aren’t important.”  She hated having to say something so stupid.  Of course it was important.  Ron, however, didn’t seem to want to ask any more questions.  He was staring down at the chess pieces, and Hermione felt a sudden rush of—something.  She was aware that her face had brightened into a huge smile.  Just to see the rush of joy on Ron’s face!

            Then, just as suddenly, Ron was staring at her.  He took her by surprise.  He had nice eyes . . . beautiful eyes.  She had never noticed.  Thankful that he couldn’t read her thoughts, she knew that she must be blushing scarlet.  Before she had time to register what he was doing, he was touching her cheek.  She tried to remember to breathe.  This was it . . . she was going to be kissed. 

            But then his hand was gone—back on his chess pieces.  He thanked her in a voice that was barely audible.  No!  It couldn’t end like that!  It couldn’t!  She wouldn’t let it!  Hermione could hardly believe her nerve as she reached down and took his hand, clasping it in hers.

            “You’re welcome,” she said aloud, though she was thinking, “Kiss me!”  His hand was warm and comfortable—just like him, really.  She lifted it up and kissed it.  Instantly her mind froze and she lowered his hand again.  What had she done?  He would think she was ridiculous.  She thought she was ridiculous.  But no . . . he seemed to like it.  He was moving towards her, touching her face again.  Then he stopped.  Was he waiting for her to do something?  She squeezed his hand and smiled at him.  That seemed to work, for now he was playing with her hair . . . then his hand was on her arm, and he was even closer.

            This was maddening.  He seemed so uncertain—she should say something to him.  “Ron, it’s okay.”  What was okay?  She couldn’t be more specific.  She broke eye contact with him and continued, “I . . . I want you to.”  Now she could only hope that he would fill in the rest of the sentence and spare her the humiliation of saying anything further.

            “Hermione,” he murmured, moving closer.  She shut her eyes and felt tingles shooting through her as he finally kissed her.  This was far better than any magic.  Or maybe this was magic, and the rest was just . . . spells.  His hand was warm on her neck, and he was pulling her towards him.  She sighed, responding to him as much as she knew how.  He started to draw away from her, but came back to kiss her bottom lip.  Then they separated, though his hand was still on her neck. 

            He was staring at her with a look that was new.  She tried to connect this Ron with the Ron who so infuriated her.  She knew that she should say something; assure him that she thought the kiss—that he—was wonderful.      

            “Wow, Ron,” she breathed.  “That was really . . . really nice.”  More than nice.  Then she was shocked to hear herself saying,  “Do you . . . do you want to . . . Do you want to kiss me again?”

            What if he didn’t? . . . He did.  He took her face in his hands and kissed her again eagerly.  The same lips that smirked at her, teased her, or frowned at her—they were good for something else.  Very good.  She was vaguely aware of the fact that she had parted her lips, offering him more than what he was taking.  But he didn’t deepen the kiss. 

            “Ron,” she murmured, brushing her lips lightly over his, “are you afraid of me?”

            “Yes,” he replied.

            She wanted to laugh at this confession, which she knew she could never mention.  More than that, though, she wanted to hold him even closer . . . to at once deny and affirm the idea that he should be afraid of her.  She put her arms around his neck and brought him closer.  He responded by putting his hands on her waist and kissing her with much more, erm, confidence.

            Oh, he was good at this.  Harry had Quidditch, she had her books, and Ron could use his mouth in ways she’d never imagined.  She had finally found his special skill, and it gave her a selfish little thrill to know that it wasn’t a spectator sport—she was the only person who would ever know it.  She had decided that much already.  Ron’s kisses were hers from now on.  They were kneeling close together now, and Ron’s arms had gradually inched around her until he was holding her tightly around the waist.     

            Somewhere in the vast jumble of her thoughts, she heard Ron ask, “Why do you like me?”

            Only Ron—sweet, self-deprecating Ron—would ask that question.  Ron, who allowed a giant chess piece to beat him over the head, chased after gigantic spiders for her, and stood up on a broken leg to defend Harry against Sirius Black.  Ron, who sold his most valuable possession for her.  Ron, whose red hair, freckles, and smiling lips were maddeningly adorable.  Her voice was shaky as she answered, “Because . . .”  She wasn’t done yet, but he kissed the corner of her mouth and distracted her momentarily.  “Because you are the most likely person to ask that question . . .”  There was more to say, but he was irresistible.  She stole another kiss and continued, “. . . and the person with the least reason to ask it.”

            Talking was all very well, and Hermione was fairly certain that she would once again be able to appreciate it—later.  Right now, she only wanted to be kissed by this stubborn, hot-tempered, red-headed boy. 

            Then it ended.  There was a crash, and the two of them flew apart.  Ron’s chessmen were scattered all over the floor, and Hermione crawled around, helping to pick them up.  When the chessmen were safely back in their box, she stood up to face Ron.  She couldn’t do it, however.  The space between them seemed like an invisible barrier.  She could not meet his eyes.

            “I guess we better go back downstairs now,” he said awkwardly.

            What else could she do but agree?  “Yeah.”  She picked up her empty bookbag, still unable to focus her eyes on anything but the carpet.  But she couldn’t leave it at that.  She stopped in the doorway and turned around suddenly, almost bumping into him.  She reached up to put her hand on the back of his neck, bringing him down to her again.  Her kiss was quick, but firm.  With a smile, she released him and headed for the stairs.

  

               Part Seven

  Ron peeked into the girls’ room and grimaced to see them reading silly magazines.  Then again, if they had an article with kissing pointers . . . no, Hermione certainly didn’t need that.  She was scary enough already.  They giggled, and Ron decided to find Harry.  Fast.  He went downstairs and, hearing voices in the kitchen, looked in.  Harry was just sitting down with Mrs. Granger, his photograph album tucked under his arm.

            Ron sighed and ambled into the living room.  He collapsed onto the sofa and stared out of the window for a long time. 

            "Oy, Ron!"

            He jumped.  Mr. Granger had come up beside him and clapped him on the shoulder.

            "Erm, hi," he replied.

            "Lost all your friends?" Mr. Granger asked cheerfully.  "Let’s you and I have a chat."

            Oh no.  Hermione’s dad knew about the snogging.  But how?  Did he have spies?  Did Hermione tell him?  Please, no.  Please, please, no.  Ron smiled awkwardly as Mr. Granger settled comfortably in the chair across from him.

            "It came to my attention recently," Mr. Granger began, "that you’ve been sending my daughter sweets.  Is this true?"

            "Erm.  Yes, sir." 

            "Are you aware, Ron, of how bad sugar is on the teeth?"

            Ron’s brow crinkled.  He had no idea how to take this.  He studied Mr. Granger’s impassive face, searching for some hint.  Ah—there it was.  The corner of his mouth was tilting upward. 

            "Well, sir," said Ron, emboldened, "I think she’s in good hands."

            Mr. Granger’s face broke into a true smile.  "Ron, it was very nice of you to send her all those things.  I wish you could have seen her face when she got that big package."

            He had to ask.  And he had the feeling that Mr. Granger wanted him to ask.  "What did she do?"

            "I’ve never seen such a big smile on her face . . . that is, before she started crying."

            Ron was satisfied with both reactions.  All he could think to say was, "Really?"

            "Yes, indeed," Mr. Granger nodded.  His smile disappeared, though his expression was still encouraging and pleasant.  "My daughter thinks a lot of you, Ron.  And she’s the smartest person I know, so I don’t question her taste." 

            The air of the room suddenly felt very cold on his face and neck, and he knew that he must be the color of a Quaffle.              "Well," said Mr. Granger, standing up abruptly.  "I have work to do."  He offered his hand, and Ron stood up to shake it.         Ron exhaled deeply when Mr. Granger left.  He stood in the center of the living room for a moment, then raced to the kitchen.  He needed Harry, and it was no longer an option.

           

**

            Harry walked into the kitchen, where Mrs. Granger was going through her mail at the table.  Under his arm he carried the album of photographs which Hagrid had collected for him.  She tucked a few contrary strands of hair behind her ear, and Harry could see Hermione in the features of her face.     "Erm, Mrs. Granger?"

            She noticed him and smiled.  "Harry.  How are you?  Enjoying yourself?"

            "Very much.  Thanks for having us over."

            "You’re quite welcome."

            "I . . . erm . . . wanted to show you something.  I just thought you might like to see, er, what my mum looked like."

            Mrs. Granger laid a letter down slowly.  "You have pictures?" she asked, eyes widening.  "Of Lily as an adult?"

            "Yes, ma’am."

            She cleared a spot on the table and motioned for Harry to sit down with her.  Harry sank into the chair and laid the album on the table.  Mrs. Granger leaned forward anxiously as Harry opened it.  She smelled like toothpaste—but in a nice way.

            He cleared his throat.  "This is a picture of her with my dad," he explained, turning the album so she could see better.

            Mrs. Granger looked at him with an expression he had only seen on Mrs. Weasley’s face on the night Cedric . . . "Oh, Harry," she murmured.  "She grew up to be very—very beautiful, didn’t she?"

            Harry bit his lip and nodded.

            "And you look just like your father," she went on.  "The resemblance is uncanny."

            He turned page after page in the album.  They dwelt for some time on the wedding picture.  Harry stared at Sirius, marveling yet again at what Azkaban had done to him.  "That’s it," he said, turning over the last page.

            Mrs. Granger leaned back in her chair, swiping her index finger under her eyes.  "I’m so glad you showed me these pictures," she said.  "It meant a lot to me."

            Harry took a deep breath.  "Mrs. Granger, I want you to keep those letters."

            She looked horrified.  "Oh, Harry!  I could never—"

            "Some of them, at least," he insisted.  "I would feel better if you had something to remember her by.  And she did write those letters to you."

            "I’ll keep one letter, Harry," she assented.  "You just pick the one."

            "I’ll pick a good one."

            She smiled at him.  "I’m glad Hermione has such wonderful friends . . . you and Ginny and Ron.  Have you ever noticed how much your friend Ginny resembles your mother?"

            "They both have red hair, I guess," Harry shrugged.  What did Ginny have to do with anything?

            "It’s not so much their actual facial features," she mused, "though that was the case in Lily’s childhood photograph.  There’s something else."

            Ron came dashing into the kitchen. "Harry!" he exclaimed.  "There you are!  Listen, the girls are upstairs looking at rubbishy magazines.  Care for some chess?"  He had certainly been in a good mood all afternoon.  Ever since Hermione had returned his chessmen.  When they had come downstairs together ten minutes after Harry had left them, Ron had looked as if he had just been invited to join the Cannons. 

            Harry stood up and pushed the photo album towards Mrs. Granger.  "I guess I’ll go," he said.  "I’ll just leave this with you, shall I?  You can look through it again if you want to.  I, erm . . . I do that a lot.  I never get tired of it."

            "Thanks, Harry," she said.  She paused as if she wanted to say something else, but her voice said only, "Have fun."

            He followed Ron into the living room.  "What did Hermione’s mum think of those pictures?" Ron asked him.

            "She really liked them," Harry replied.  "I think I’m going to give her one of them.  I already convinced her to keep one of my mum’s letters."  They sat down on the floor and began to set up the chess pieces.  "I just have to decide which one to give her."

            "Give her the last one.  Do you want white?"

            "Yes.  I’m not afraid to admit that I need the advantage."  He grinned.  "Anyway, why the last one?"

            "Because that’s the one where your mum said goodbye.  It’ll be more special to her than any of the others."

            Harry frowned suddenly.  "I wish she had been able to hear my mum’s voice in those letters.  They were for her."

            "I think it’s better that you heard them," Ron said.  "You heard your mum say ‘I love you.’  Mrs. Granger would have wanted you to hear that instead of herself."

            "Yes, but my mum didn’t know she was talking to me."

            "So?  Besides, now you have a nice memory of your mum’s voice . . . instead of her screaming, I mean."

            "I sent an owl to Sirius a little while ago.  I don’t know when he’ll be able to reply, with everything that’s happening, but . . ." Harry sighed.  He didn’t want to venture further into this topic.

            "Harry, does Dumbledore know that you’re here?" Ron asked suddenly.

            "Yes, I sent word to him when I got Hermione’s letter."

            "Good.  Ginny was worried about you before we came.  Check."

            "So, erm . . . what did Hermione say when she gave you your chessmen?"

            Ron went scarlet.  "Not much."

            "She must have said something," Harry pressed.  "You were up there for ten minutes."

            "Yes, well . . ." Ron shrugged.  "We spent most of the time just, er, looking at the chessmen."

            "So how did she get them if Fred and George made them explode?" Harry asked, feigning ignorance.

            "Oh, that.  That’s not actually what happened.  I, erm . . ."  He coughed and said "sold them" at the same time.

            "What was that?" Harry asked, fighting a smile.

            "Sold them.  Check."

            "Again?" Harry looked at the board and sighed.  "Why did you sell them?"

            "I bought some stuff at Diagon Alley."

            "Oh."  Ron seemed surprised that Harry didn’t ask anything further, and Harry tried not to show how much he was enjoying this.  He promised Ginny not to tease Ron, and he wouldn’t dream of it to begin with.  He only wanted the information—directly from his friend.  "Like that special edition of Hogwarts: A History?"

            Ron flushed again.  "Yeah."

            "That was nice of you," Harry said.  He wasn’t sure if he should ask, but he did anyway.  "Do you . . . erm . . . like her?"

            "’Course I like her.  Don’t you?"

            "That’s not what I meant."

            "I know."

            "Well, do you?"

            "Yeah."

            "Thanks for telling me."

            "Are you mad?"

            "No.  I think it’s great."

            "Oh, okay.  Checkmate." 

            "I play the loser!" Ginny called from the stairs.  She walked over to them and stood over the board.

            "That’ll be Harry," said Ron.  "But you already knew that, didn’t you?"

            "Maybe some people have faith in me," Harry laughed.

            Ron and Ginny looked at each other and smirked.  Ron reached over and put his hand on Harry’s shoulder.  "Hate to tell you this, mate, but no one has faith in you when it comes to chess."

**

           

            Ron grinned as he went upstairs.  What a day.  Hermione bringing him breakfast, Hermione hugging him, reading the letters from Harry’s mum, Hermione kissing him, playing cards, eating supper, talking to Mr. Granger, beating Harry at chess (again), Hermione, Hermione, Hermione . . . Hermione.  There she was, sitting on her bed with a book, while Harry and Ginny were downstairs playing chess . . .

            He stood in her doorway and tapped on the frame.  She looked up at him and blushed.  "Hey," he said.

            "Hey."

            "Can I come in?"

            She turned redder, if that was possible.  "I guess."

            He walked in and stood awkwardly in the center of the room.  "You have a nice room," he said stupidly.

            She smiled.  "Thanks."

            This would require tact.  He had to be subtle.  He couldn’t just say, "Please snog me again."  Although this was his ultimate goal, he must let on that he had some other reason for being here.  Perfectly logical.

            "So," he said.

            "What?"

            "Erm.  What are you reading?"

            In reply, she held up the Bulgaria travel guide.  Wait a minute . . . !  Be calm.  Be calm.  Be—

            "Why are you reading that?" he asked, a little more abruptly than he intended.  Actually, he hadn’t intended to ask at all, but words did have a tendency to come out.

            "Why shouldn’t I be reading it?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.  She closed the book, laid it on her bed, and crossed her arms.  Not good.

            "Well, what’s the point?  I thought you weren’t ever going there."

            "I might.  Besides, you’re the one who gave me the book.  Now you don’t want me to read it?"

            "I don’t care if you read it or not.  Have you decided to go to see Vickie after all?"

            Her lips thinned, and he couldn’t help thinking of Professor McGonagall.  "Would you like me to visit Viktor?" she asked in a low, dangerous voice.

            "Not really."

            "Why shouldn’t I?"

            "Because I want you!" he blurted.  Oh no.  She would never speak to him again.

            But she was smiling.  "You do?"

            "Well, I mean . . ." he stumbled.  "Sort of."

            "Sort of?" she repeated, looking up at him with that teasing smile.

            Words seemed so pointless and time-consuming, not to mention the fact that they were too hard to put together.  He covered the short distance between them, leaned down, and kissed her, quickly and fully.  "A lot," he mumbled, putting his arms around her.

            She laughed into his shoulder.  "Did you come in here just to do that?" she asked.

            "Yeah."

            "Don’t waste so much time in future."  She leaned back from him.  "That’s enough, now.  The door’s open, and the last thing we need is for Harry or Ginny to catch us."

            "They’re playing chess, and I’m not done yet," he murmured a centimeter away from her mouth.  He closed the small space with a kiss that made Hermione sigh.  He loved when she did that!  She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away, though not with much conviction.

            "Ron, we really shouldn’t," she said.  She stared at him for a moment, then moved her hands from his shoulders to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him back to her.  The movement was sudden, and his laughing at her drastic change of heart didn’t help—he lost his balance.  Hermione moved her arms in an attempt to catch him, but it was too late.  Trying not to fall on her, he went backwards and landed flat on the floor.

            "Ow."

            Hermione clutched her stomach and laughed, then slid off the bed to kneel beside him on the floor.  "Are you"—she paused for another burst of laughter—"okay?"

            "Maybe.  Thanks for the sympathy anyway."    

            She leaned over and kissed his cheek.  "All better."

            "Hey!  That’s not the kiss I fell down for.  I seem to recall it starting off something like this . . ."  He took her arms and put them around his neck.  "Now.  What were you going to do?"

            With a grin, she showed him.  "Oh," he said at his first opportunity to breathe, "that was worth it."

            "I’m glad," she said.  "Now please get out of here before either our best friends or my parents catch us."

            "All right," he sighed.  They stood up together, and he noticed the Bulgaria book on her bed.  "You’re not going to, erm, read that anymore, are you?"

            "If you must know, I was researching something for homework."

            "Oh.  Don’t I feel like a prat."  He grinned sheepishly.

            "Not for the first time," said Hermione, returning his smile.  "Now get out of here before I kiss you again."

            "You’ll kiss me again if I stay?" he asked hopefully.

            "No!" she laughed.  "That’s not what I meant, and you know it."

            "Okay, okay, I’m going."  He started to leave, then turned on her suddenly, grabbed her around the waist, and kissed her quickly.

            "Mmmm . . . now out!"

            He stepped out into the hall and heard her laughing behind him.

**

            "I just know they’re up there snogging," Harry mused as he lost his bishop.

            "Yeah," said Ginny.  "Let’s just stay down here until it’s safe."

              Part Eight

     Hermione turned a page of the book that she was pretending to read and glanced over at Ron.  He, too, was holding a book, and she could tell that he, too, was pretending to be engrossed.  A smile slipped across her face.  They were in the living room, sitting on opposite ends of the long sofa.  Her parents were at work, and Harry and Ginny were outside in the Grangers’ pool.  She could hear them splashing and laughing.

            "I thought you did your History of Magic assignment yesterday afternoon?" she asked slyly, noting the title of his book.

            Apparently relieved to do away with the reading charade, he snapped the book shut and grinned at her.  "Yeah, well, I got a little distracted yesterday afternoon."

            Hermione blushed, but said, "Really?  Professor Binns won’t be pleased."

            "Why not?  I’ll just tell him that I tried very hard to concentrate on my assignment, but that ‘Miss Grant’ kept wanting me to snog her."

            Hermione laughed out loud and threw a sofa pillow at him.  "You wouldn’t!  Besides, I bet he doesn’t know your name, either."

            "And what were you reading?" he asked.

            She laughed again.  "I don’t even know!"  She closed the book to look at the title.  "An Exhaustive History of Mandrakes in the Seventeenth Century.  Oh.  I’ve already read this, anyway."

            Ron made a face.  "Sounds great." 

            They looked at each other and smiled.  This was nice—being able to stare at someone openly for no reason—even if he was across the sofa.  She could study him freely, flushing with the knowledge that he was doing the same.  He had his father’s eyes, as did Ginny.  He, like the twins, had Mrs. Weasley’s thick hair.  He and Percy shared Mr. Weasley’s long nose.  He had Mr. Weasley’s smile.  Beyond his physical appearance, though, she could see other traces of his family in him—Percy’s masked insecurity, the twins’ mischief, his mother’s temper, his father’s earnestness, his older brothers’ rumored intelligence, and Ginny’s consideration and sweetness.

            But this was what people had been doing to him all his life, wasn’t it?  Comparing him to the other members of his family?  "Is he going to play Quidditch as well as his brothers?"  "Is he going to be Head Boy?"  "Is he going to get as many O.W.L.s?"  He was "another Weasley."  Oh, but he was so much more than that!  He didn’t know it, though, did he?        

            She wanted to ask the question she’d had in her mind for years.  She swallowed.  "Ron?  Why did you become Harry’s friend?"

            He started.  "Why wouldn’t I?"

            "It’s just that . . . all your life, you’ve been overshadowed by all your brothers, and I know how much that bothers you.  I know that you’re the best of them all . . ."  She paused and smiled at him.  "But then . . . when you came to Hogwarts, you became Harry’s friend, even though that would mean . . ."  She trailed off, uncertain if she should continue.  Perhaps she had said too much already.  She didn’t want to get too personal.

            Ron, however, seemed to want to talk about it, and he completed her sentence.  "Always being looked over whenever he’s around.  Always known as ‘Harry Potter’s friend.’  Not much of an improvement on ‘Bill Weasley’s brother,’ is it?"

            She shook her head.  "Why?  I mean . . . why not be best friends with Dean or Seamus or Neville?"

            Ron thought for a minute, then spoke slowly, "I liked him well enough when we met on the train.  Told me that he had worn hand-me-down clothes all his life.  He just wasn’t like I had always pictured Harry Potter.  He wanted to know me, and not just the other way around.  But he also did something, and after that . . ."  He stopped for a second and looked away from her.  Hermione read his feelings and fixed her eyes on the ground.  "Malfoy came in.  Insulted me, as usual.  Offered his hand to Harry.  He wanted to be Harry’s friend!"

            "I didn’t know that," Hermione murmured. 

            "Yeah.  Malfoy told Harry not to go around with the ‘wrong sort.’  And I thought, right then, ‘Well, it was good while it lasted.’  Now famous Harry Potter will realize that he doesn’t want to be friends with the youngest Weasley.  He’ll go around with the important people."  Ron stopped again.

            "And?" she prompted.

            "Harry didn’t take his hand.  Famous Harry Potter wanted to be friends with me.  Hermione, the most famous boy in the world wanted me to be his friend.  Me, with my horrible old robes and dirt on my nose and—"

            "You were so funny-looking with that dirt on your nose."

            "Yeah, thanks."  He laughed.  "It’s a little thing when I talk about it, and Harry probably doesn’t even remember it.  But right then, I was his friend for good."

            "I don’t think it’s a little thing," said Hermione.  "And I also think that Harry’s very lucky."

            He turned back to her suddenly, eyes wide.  "Harry’s lucky?"

            "That you were the one who sat with him on the train."  She smiled at him.

            Ron mumbled something, but she couldn’t hear a word of it; it didn’t help that he was staring down as he said it.  Then he looked up at her for a response.

            "I’m sorry, Ron," she said.  "I couldn’t hear what you said."

            His ears turned pink, and he cleared his throat.  "I said . . . I love you."

            Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat as she focused on Ron with wide eyes.  The distance between them on the sofa suddenly seemed like a huge waste of space.  "Love me?" she asked weakly.

            "Yeah."  He now seemed to be stifled by the effort required to tell her such a thing, and sat in embarrassed silence.

            Should she say that she loved him, too?  Did she love him?  She wasn’t even fifteen yet.  Did she really have any idea what she was talking about?  Then she thought of the huge chess board, the slugs, the giant spiders, the broken leg, and the chessmen.  She thought of the hand-me-down robes and the broken wand.  One good look at Ron confirmed to her that she knew exactly what she was talking about. 

            She tried to keep her voice steady.  "I love you, too."

            "Why?" he blurted, clearly not expecting her response.

            She wanted to laugh, though her heart ached that this question should still be so important to him.  "I’ve already answered that," she replied.

            The front door opened, and two laughing voices moved into the hallway behind them.  Hermione and Ron twisted around on the sofa to see Harry and Ginny standing there, dripping wet.  Harry had a towel around his shoulders, and his hair was even messier than usual.  Ginny’s towel was wrapped around her waist.  Her red hair hung in wet, tangled strings.

            "Hey!" said Harry.

            "Hey," Ron replied.  "Have fun?" 

            "Sure.  Thanks to Harry, I have about four gallons of water in my nose," Ginny giggled.

            "You started it," Harry retorted.

            Hermione wanted to join their laughter, but found herself incapable of it.  Even Ron’s grin looked very forced. 

            "We better get upstairs," said Ginny, rubbing her hands briskly over her shivering arms.  "I have the shower first!"

            "We’ll see about that!" protested Harry.    

            Hermione watched them disappear noisily together up the stairs, then turned back to Ron.  They stared at each other dumbly.  Either Harry or Ginny started a shower above them.  Hermione moved herself to Ron’s end of the sofa, leaned her head on his shoulder, and took his hand.  "My parents will be home in a few minutes," she said.

            "Yeah."

            She raised her head again and reached over to hand him his History of Magic textbook.  "You better get back to this."  She smiled at him, but his face was impassive.

            "Okay."

            "What’s wrong?" she asked, squeezing his hand.

            He looked at her with wide, almost fearful eyes.  "Did you . . . did you mean what you said to me just now?  Or were you just . . . you know, trying to be nice because I, erm, said it first?  I know I’m not really good enough for you, and all that."

            She leaned back against him and draped an arm across his chest to rest her hand on his other shoulder.  "Ron, don’t you ever say that again.  I don’t want any other boy at Hogwarts.  I don’t want one of your brothers.  I don’t want ‘famous Harry Potter.’  I want Ron Weasley." 

            "And you’re supposed to be the cleverest girl in our class."  She could hear the smile in his voice.

            The front door opened again, and they quickly separated. 

            "Hi, kids!" came Mr. Granger’s cheerful voice.

            "Hey," said Ron and Hermione together, each of them now absorbed in a random page of their books.

**                                           

            Harry’s reply from Sirius had arrived that morning at breakfast.  He had been thrilled, naturally, to learn that Harry had found so many keepsakes from his mother, and had seemed certain that he "must have mentioned" being friends with Lily before Hogwarts.  He had instructed Harry to wait by the Grangers’ fireplace at seven o’clock.  Harry sat down in Mr. Granger’s chair, his hair still damp from the shower he took after his swim.  Sirius’ face appeared in the flames promptly at seven.

            "Hi, Harry," he smiled.

            Harry grinned back.  "Hey."

            "Had a good summer?"

            "Since I came here," Harry replied.

            "Dumbledore knows you’re here?"

            "Yeah."

            "Good.  Now tell me more about what you’ve found of Lily’s."

            "Two pictures, some books, and a bunch of letters.  Her voice plays over and over again in one of the books, and she also had it in several of the letters.  But they only worked once."

            "And she mentions me in the letters?" Sirius asked.

            "Yeah.  She had your voice in one of them.  I wish I could make it play again for you."

            "I vaguely recall her asking me to say something for a letter," he said thoughtfully. 

            "But Sirius, how did she do it?  It’s driving Hermione crazy."

            Sirius grinned.  "I have no idea.  I was just a kid.  I suppose the same way you could make the snake come out of the glass at the zoo.  Just . . . powerful feelings."

            "I thought you had to be angry or something."

            "No, no.  Any powerful feeling will do it."

            "Have you heard from Professor Lupin?" Harry asked.

            "Once or twice.  He’s very busy with some assignment from Dumbledore—wouldn’t even tell me."

            "Well, if you see him again, tell him I said hi."

            "I will."  He paused.  "Are you certain that I never mentioned knowing Lily before Hogwarts?"

            "I’m positive," Harry nodded.  "So did you introduce her to Dad?"

            Sirius smiled broadly.  "Yes, I introduced them.  I met James on the Hogwarts Express, and then I spotted Lily right before the Sorting.  It had been a few years since I’d seen her, but we’d written to each other.  Remus and . . . Peter . . . we would meet later.  We were all Sorted into Gryffindor, and the rest is history.  We were inseparable.  She had another good friend, though . . ."

            "Who?" Harry asked eagerly.

            Sirius’ mouth was a grim line.  "Severus."

            Harry swallowed.  "My mum was friends with Snape?"

            "Oh, yes.  She used to be so funny at Quidditch matches, wanting to cheer for both Gryffindor and Slytherin."

            "This is so weird," Harry muttered.

            "Their friendship didn’t last long.  The more she became attached to us—especially James—the more hostile Severus became.  After the unfortunate event in the Whomping Willow, he stopped speaking to her altogether."  Sirius was thoughtful for a moment.  "But he always cared about her safety.  Left the Death Eaters when Voldemort targeted the Potters."

            Harry was dumbfounded.  "That’s why he left Voldemort?"

            "Yes.  I suppose it’s time for you to know all these things.  He volunteered to be their Secret-Keeper . . . insisted that no one would think of questioning him. In the end, though . . . well."  Sirius cleared his throat.  "You know what happened.  No sense bringing that up."

            "No," Harry agreed.

            "I must go," said Sirius abruptly.  "I’ll be at Hogwarts at the end of September.  See you then?"

            "Yeah.  I’m looking forward to it."

            "Be careful, Harry.  Keep in touch.  Tell your friends I said hello."

            "I will—on all three."

            Sirius disappeared, and Harry slouched in the chair.  He could almost feel the weight of this new information heavy on his shoulders.  After some minutes of quiet reflection, he went upstairs to find the others.  They were playing a Muggle card game in Hermione’s room.

            Ron looked up at him as he walked in.  "How’d it go, Harry?"

            "Fine.  Sirius says hello."

            "So did we guess right—was he the one who introduced your parents?" Hermione asked, laying her fanned cards on her lap.

            "Yeah.  He also told me that my mum was good friends with Snape!"

            Ron looked as though Trevor the toad had jumped down his throat.  "What?!" he bellowed.  The card game was forgotten.

            Harry sat down cross-legged between Ron and Ginny.  "Yeah."

            "I wish I knew more about Snape," Hermione mused. 

            Ron smirked.  "I know all I want to know, thanks very much.  Let’s start over so Harry can play."

**

            Ginny stared up at the dark ceiling of Hermione’s room, willing herself to fall asleep.  She was so grateful for their time here, where they could relax and forget about what was really going on in the world around them—they would be plunged back into that dark world in less than a week.  She also appreciated the fact that Ron and Hermione often wanted to be alone together, since that provided her with time to be with Harry.  Just the two of them, for the first time.     "Ginny?" Hermione whispered.

            "I’m awake," she replied softly.

            "Good.  I can’t sleep."

            "Me neither."

            They lay in silence again until Hermione asked, "Did you have fun swimming?"

            Ginny grinned and blushed; she knew that Hermione could see neither.  "Yes."

            "I feel bad because Ron and I keep forcing you two to fend for yourselves.  I’ll try not to let that happen too—"

            "It’s okay," said Ginny, a little too quickly.  She shut her eyes and bit her lip.

            Hermione was quiet for a moment.  "I see."

            What was the use of pretending, when Hermione already knew?  "You know how I feel about him," Ginny murmured.  "And for the first time, I get to do things with him—just us.  It’s not like trying to say something to him in the Great Hall, with Gred and Forge laughing about everything I do.  Or in the Tower, where he just wants to talk to you and Ron.  He pays attention to me now."  She paused and frowned.  "But I guess he has to, as you say."

            "I don’t know about that," said Hermione.  "He was in an awfully good mood when you came in from swimming."

            "Really?"

            "Yes.  Tell me, why do you like him so much?"

            Ginny smiled cheekily, even if Hermione couldn’t see her.  "I know he’s not such a catch as my brother . . ."

            "Hush!" Hermione said.  She was laughing.

            "I used to think that maybe I liked him only because he was famous," Ginny continued seriously.

            "Oh, that’s not true!" Hermione insisted.  "You never stopped liking him when everyone thought he had opened the Chamber of Secrets."

            "That’s because I knew he didn’t do it," said Ginny.

            "It doesn’t matter.  He was still unpopular then.  And what about last year, when everyone hated him because they thought he had put his name in the Goblet?  Even Ron wouldn’t speak to him."

            "I suppose," Ginny shrugged. 

            "Are you the one who took off his glasses the other night?"

            "Yes."

            "I thought so.  Don’t give up on him, Ginny.  Boys are a bit thick."

            "I won’t give up, as long as I think there’s some chance that he’ll love me as much as my brother loves you."

            "Your brother doesn’t—"

            "Oh, yes, he does." 

            They were quiet for a long time.  Ginny thought of Harry, still trying to understand why she felt so strongly about him.  He was thoughtful and kind and brave, of course, but wasn’t there something else?  By those qualities, she could just as easily like Cedric Diggory.  But thinking of Cedric brought another image to her mind: Harry crumpled on the ground in physical and mental anguish, sobbing, clinging to Cedric’s lifeless body as if he could somehow bring him back.  She thought of Harry in the hospital bed, crying in her mother’s arms.  Yes, she had been there—standing in the corner where he couldn’t see her.  How could she not be there?  Harry was hurt and vulnerable, and he needed her.  And she needed him for some reason she hadn’t worked out yet . . .

            "Hermione?" she whispered.

            There was no reply, so Ginny sighed and focused again on the ceiling.

**

            "You and Hermione still getting along?" Harry asked sleepily.

            "Yeah."

            "That’s good.  ‘Night."

            "’Night."

 

                

Part Nine