Author's notes: Ron and Gabrielle are actually kinda cute! I've aged Gabrielle a year, just because her age in canon hadn't been established yet. Harry had assessed that she could be no more than eight in his fourth year, but then she could've easily been nine. Gabrielle's going to be a sweetheart, so don't get any notions that she'll be a bitch everyone will hate. Haha!
::Does the happy dance for Lady Diamond while singing:: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…
Standard disclaimers apply.
Chapter rating: R
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Chapter Seventeenth: Reminisce
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Hermione grinned ever so slightly as she watched Lucien haul in the last of his trunks. The look on Harry's face was priceless, like he couldn't believe a man would drag around so many clothes.
Her room in the dungeon looked the same as when she last left it, down to her dressing table and armoire. Whatever she expected, it hadn't been this. She thought initially that she would be coming back to a barren room, all the furniture that had once been in it thrown away, or at least redistributed throughout the house. Had Harry left it here all these years or had he simply returned the furniture from all over Grimmauld Place back to this room?
She had many, many questions, actually, all of which had to do with how Harry has been living his life these past five years. The problem being she was a bit afraid of the answers. That was unacceptable, since she had managed to convince herself, before this night, that she had completely gotten over him, her relationship with him, and everything else in between.
It was devastating when, seeing that werewolf clock him, she had felt a whine of panic rise from within her. Without even considering how it looked, she had shoved both Lucien and Solomon aside so she could check Harry herself, and oh, how his skin felt under her fingertips was most astonishing. The simple, innocent touch had shot bolts of electricity beneath her skin.
It's his looks, she had told herself. Seeing Harry for the first time in five years was a somewhat pleasant surprise. She had left a seventeen-year-old boy behind. He had been developing quite well, then. His years in Hogwarts and the tender loving care he had gotten from those like Molly and herself had made up for the eleven years of negligence he had suffered from the Dursleys, but Hermione had always believed that that negligence would forever be marked by a permanently boyish breadth and bone-structure.
Now, at twenty-two, Harry wasn't the broadest of men, but man he was. His shoulders and body weren't as wide as Ron's (who was huge, by the way), and really, he wasn't going to grow any more than his near-six-foot frame, but the toughness and strength of Harry Potter had been apparent when he fought that werewolf and when she managed to cop a feel of his shoulders and arms.
Harry's been eating his wheaties, she remembered thinking with feral delight.
She had scrapped that thought hastily from her mind, of course, no matter how difficult it was to focus when those beautiful eyes of his stared at her. It was bad enough when the flash of attraction and desire in his eyes sent pleasant tingles down her back, but when those same eyes took on sheer desperation, she felt like she was falling into that void again; that agony she felt when she first left him five years before.
And how was it that in spite of those awful looking glasses, she still thought he was the handsomest man she'd ever had the pleasure of seeing? She had seen many good-looking men. In the vampire world, the only thing someone had to worry about when it came to looks was being a ten in a room full of elevens. Vampire men were just divine. If they didn't exactly have Greek God faces, they were elegant, or sophisticated, or sexy, or beautiful, or powerfully interesting. Harry was not elegant or sophisticated or even beautiful. His good looks were not, by any means, Wizard Quarterly cover material, but he was so unaffected by it, so unbothered by his easy-fit, rumpled clothing and battered trainers, that it just made him so damn attractive, especially after seeing him fight that werewolf. She didn't know whether to mother him or demand that he make a woman out of her.
She had decided on neither, of course. It just wouldn't do to let on that she was still feeling things for him that should have withered away in the last five years of their separation. The purpose, after all, of staying away from him, was to get both of them to move on with their lives; realize in no small way that it was possible to go on without each other. He was supposed to have moved on to better things; found a beautiful girlfriend he had plans of marrying so he could have a bunch of beautiful kids with her. It was as much Hermione's dream to see him happy as it should have been his.
But those eyes…
She had wished he would stop switching between anger and longing. It was confusing her, and it wasn't supposed to be that way. And because he was being uncooperative, she was finding difficulty in sticking to her supposed resolve. So naturally, she did everything she could to start pushing him away. She tried to be cold and unfeeling. She believed she managed it quite well, but she felt that there were times she had slipped, and that he had seen. It didn't help that Lucien was being a sadistic son of a bitch. Lucien thought her whole history with Harry was hilarious.
That mixed CD was vicious.
Well, har-de-har-har, Lucien.
If she didn't adore Lucien so much, she'd have kicked him out of the Coven years ago.
Solomon was much more understanding about it. He always was nicer and he was, as she described him, a teddy bear. He was comforting and so very dependable. Lucien was great fun, but Solomon was a shoulder to lean on when the more important things like heartache cropped up.
Solomon had his work cut out for him this night.
"Hang on," said Solomon, frowning at Lucien. He kicked the trunk's lock with his reinforced-toe boot and it sprung open like a jack-in-the-box. Inside was a pile of beauty and bathroom products. Solomon picked up a bottle of astringent. "Oy, we talked about this! You weren't going to buy anymore of this junk because you're a vampire. You don't get acne!"
Lucien grabbed the bottle out of Solomon's hand. "Do I tell you what not to buy? Do I tell you that you shouldn't buy boxer briefs because you should be buying a thong?"
"Let's get something straight," said Solomon. "I never have, and never will wear a thong-"
She sighed, rolling her eyes. Her gaze caught Harry's.
His eyes conveyed a kind of alien caution, like he hadn't yet decided whether to kiss her or slam the door on her face. She hadn't decided herself what she wanted, even if her mind was telling her that his anger was preferred.
Willing herself to address him in spite of her mixed feelings, she walked up to him and said, "They get this way whenever we move. Lucien brings too many things and Solomon nitpicks. They'll settle down in a few hours."
Harry's gaze roved briefly to Lucien and Solomon. "Solomon seems nice."
Hermione arched an eyebrow, keeping her expression even. "Lucien grows on you, I swear."
Harry was unresponsive for a few seconds. "Oh?"
Overhearing them, Lucien broke from his argument with Solomon. "What'd I ever do to your ex-boyfriend that he hates me so much?"
Solomon grinned. "Oh, shut it with the complaining. You love it when they hate you."
"Well, I do admit it's a dreadful turn-on…"
"Lucien," she warned, glaring at him. "Heel."
Lucien scowled. "Me? Solomon started it!"
Solomon gave a smug smile. "Well, it's not your fault I'm her favorite."
"Puleez. You're delusional. I've never seen her ask you to take her shopping. So it's me who's her favorite, not you."
"That's only because you've got a queer eye, straight guy. It's all about the moves, baby. Who does she prefer to dance with? Answer the question, White Boy. That's right, she likes dancing with me, because you're an embarrassment."
"Oh, yeah? Well, she lets me arrange her underwear draw."
Hermione's eyes widened in shock and she momentarily forgot about Harry. "Lucien! I have never let you arrange my underwear drawer! Solomon, did you know about this?"
Solomon shot Lucien an evil grin.
"Bugger," Lucien hissed. "I reckon I shouldn't have said that."
"I'll let you finish up here," muttered Harry, ignoring Lucien. "I'm going to wait upstairs. Let me know when you're done."
She watched him go, wondering if it meant he'd decided he hated her. Harry was so difficult to read.
Well, that's what happens when you lose touch over five years.
Touche.
When his footsteps waned, Solomon snorted softly.
"If I didn't know you any better, Hermione, I'd think you desperately wanted to suck his blood."
Lucien grinned. "I don't think it's his blood she wants to suck, Solomon."
Hermione glared at him. "Why did I see that coming a mile away?"
Solomon sat himself on one of the many scattered trunks. "Are you going to talk to him?"
She gave a haughty sniff. "Of course I will. Sometime soon. Before the next century. Before I die… or get slain… a second time. We're undead, aren't we? So technically we have to re-die…" At that point, she was unable to hold the tiny little squeak that escaped her. She was feeling that feeling again: the one that made her unleash canaries at Ron and say awful things about Hagrid. And here she thought she'd outgrown it.
Solomon saw right through her turmoil. "Are you going to be alright?"
She cleared her throat, struggling to get a hold of herself. "Why won't I be?"
"Well… you seem to be…"
"What, Solomon? I seem to be what?"
"A bit… out of sorts when you're around him."
It annoyed her when Solomon read her so accurately. "It's awkward, yes. We were very passionate then and we were each other's world. It's no surprise that this new, unfamiliar situation requires… adjusting. I'll be fine, in a while."
Solomon's eyebrow arched. "And him? Is he going to be alright? He seems awfully aware of you."
"Aware? What does that mean?"
Lucien smirked. "I think it's cute. And really, Hermione, I think he's actually quite good looking… in a swotty sort of way."
"You sound like one of my dorm mates in Hogwarts."
"I also think he desperately wants to fuck you."
"Now you sound like a complete jackass."
Solomon looked thoughtful. "Well he wants to do something with you. I'm just not sure what. Fuck you, slap you, both… it's a jumble."
Lucien doubled over and laughed.
She stared at Solomon, shocked. "Solomon! How can you-? You're usually on my side!"
He sighed and rolled his eyes, dismissing her protests with a wave of his hand. "Oh, shut it. I am so on your side, so don't 'Solomon!' me. We're not virginal teenagers anymore. We can talk about these things openly."
"Well, sure! Because my personal life and the sex in it is always open for discussion."
"Or the lack of sex thereof," Lucien chimed in. "When was the last time you got laid?"
"Nine months, one week and four days. Give or take a few hours. What's your point?"
Lucien threw back his head and laughed.
Hermione felt he had lured her into that trap. "My conscious decision to abstain is completely irrelevant to this discussion!" she cried, her face flaming.
"She calls it a conscious decision!"
"It is conscious! I've decided that sex and the desire for it impairs one's judgment, messes with one's mind and turns friends into nosy little twats! So I'm swearing off sex!"
"Yeah, let's see how long that idear's going to last."
"Forever!" Hermione cried, pausing momentarily afterwards. "Okay, maybe not forever. Maybe until I become dreadfully randy and if I really, really love him."
"Love him?"
"The bloke I'll have sex with."
"Oh, just call him Harry, won't you?"
"There's the question of whether he still finds sex with me appealing, Luce. I did a bunch of unforgivable things to him, remember? And even all that's beside the point. It doesn't necessarily have to be Harry!"
"Ugh! Please don't call me Luce. How lazy can you be, shortening my name? How would you like it if I called you Her? Or Harry, Har? Or Ron, Ro?"
"Solomon lets me call him Sol."
"Well, it fits with him."
She shot Lucien a playful sneer in spite of herself.
Solomon spared Lucien a slanted look. "Hermione, luv, don't pay any attention to Lucien. Whatever it is you want to do, don't even factor anyone else's opinion into it. What's important is what you think."
"Thank you, Solomon," she said, pointedly ignoring Lucien. "And I do appreciate your support, but nothing's changed from what I told you before. It's imperative that Harry and I go our separate ways and it's out of the question that I pick up where we left off."
"Where he probably thinks you left him hanging, you mean?" Lucien supplemented.
She stiffened momentarily before accepting it with what dignity she could muster under the circumstances, even if she was painfully aware that Solomon hadn't said anything to contradict Lucien. "Yes, that's what I meant. So sex for the sake of sex is a no-go!" She directed her last words to Lucien, who had started laughing again.
"Like I said." Solomon held his hands up. "Whatever it is you want to do."
"That's right," she said haughtily. "Now, are we done discussing my personal life? Because I'd really like it if you two got a move on and brought in the coffins."
Solomon and Lucien exchanged looks.
"I'm staying down here to unpack," she continued, turning to her trunks.
"Sure," said Solomon and Lucien together as they left.
She rolled her eyes. I hate it when they get that way… acting like they know me.
But they did know her. She had known Solomon for five years now and Lucien for four. At four years, Harry and Ron meant everything to her, perhaps one meaning a bit more than the other. At five years, Harry was her life. And while she had stubbornly resisted the first few years losing her heart to Lucien and Solomon simply because she refused to have Harry and Ron sharing that place with anyone else, she gave in eventually, and she found that it wasn't a matter of Harry and Ron having to lose some of what she gave them to accommodate Lucien and Solomon, it was a matter of realizing that having deep friendships with one friend didn't mean that her feelings for other dear friends would diminish.
Her thoughts fell to Ron. No matter how cold she seemed a while ago, it hurt to have Ron sounding so angry. She couldn't blame him, of course, but she wasn't so far gone as Yasmin ibna Omar al-Khwarizm's protégé that she could actually feel nothing when she looked it. Yasmin has had five hundred years to perfect not-caring. Hermione, at five years, could only pretend she didn't care.
She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised. He was the one who watched her walk out on them. He was the one who had appealed for her to stay, and he was the one she had denied. Ronald Bilius Weasley had a lot of things to be angry about with her, but wretchedly, it didn't make his harsh rejection of her hurt any less. She would have to talk to him, too. Hopefully, he'd be more receptive to her when she was ready to try.
She sat on her dressing table stool and noticed how clean the dressing table was. It was freshly polished and her heart pinched at the thought that Harry had prepared the entire room for her.
He hadn't changed. At least not so much that it would affect his true nature. He was still basically the boy she had left behind; the boy she had loved. Nothing-not war, nor heartache, had ruined him. He was amazing.
He was-
"Merlin," she muttered, shutting that thread of thought down. She turned to her trunk and popped it open, digging into it so she could start to unpack. She yanked one of the drawers open and stuffed her toiletries in it.
What am I even doing here? Why the hell did I agree to stay here? My parents' house was perfectly serviceable, give or take the risks we ran getting staked through the heart by our enemies while we slept in the day… sometimes I wonder if getting staked through the heart by some ghoul isn't better than punishing myself like this…
"Bullocks," she grumbled. "Tactical my pretty little behind…"
She tried not to think about the implications of her agreeing to stay by focusing on her work.
She saw her face on the mirror of her dresser and frowned.
Stop stalling. Speak to Harry first. Mark the boundaries. If you truly care about him, then make him think… that you don't.
The very thought of it was enough to suck her soul, but she wasn't going to let five years of her sacrifice go to waste.
Several minutes later, she heard Lucien and Solomon returning. They were arguing again, this time about how ugly the other one was.
"You're so ugly that when you got into the sandbox as a kid, cats tried to bury you," said Solomon.
"You're so ugly," Lucien countered. "That when you were born, the term Shit Happens was invented."
"You're so ugly, that when you were born, the doctor took one look at you and slapped your parents."
"You're so ugly that when your parents saw you, they promised never to have sex with each other, ever again."
"You're so ugly that when you were kidnapped for ransom as a child, your parents paid the kidnappers to keep you."
"You're so ugly that when your parents brought you to see a freak show, the show manager gave you an application."
"You're so ugly that when you wank off, your hand complains it has a headache."
"You're so ugly…"
They were hopeless.
They lumbered into the cavern with three shrunken coffins. They were dripping wet where they stood.
Hermione took out her wand and flicked a drying spell in their direction. "Goodness, when did it start raining?"
"Was raining when we got up there," Lucien said. "Hermione, you're so ugly-"
"Tell me how ugly I am, Lucien," she said sweetly. "I want you to." If there was one good thing about her vampirism, it was her gaining a true appreciation of her looks. She might not have been much to look at as a human, but as a vampire, she was most assuredly stunning. While vampires retained their basic looks from their human selves, vampirism brought out one's best assets while slowly scraping off the worse. The porcelain quality of one's skin, the intensity in one's eyes, the grace of movement was just part of it. Hermione had realized that through the years, the bush of her brown hair had become glossy, flattering locks of waves and curls, that she was aware of her good looks and that her vampiric vanity compelled her to pick the right clothes, the right shoes-heck, even the right accessories.
Modesty aside, there was simply nothing ugly about her anymore. She had even-on occasion-managed to force herself to use her feminine wiles to get certain Coven missions accomplished. She had found it surprisingly easy to befuddle the senses of men using her looks; it was the principle of the thing that made the Delilah-shtick hard to swallow. "Well, Lucien? I'm waiting."
"Erm… I would be lying, of course…"
Solomon sneered. "Kiss ass. Hermione, your boy out there looks terribly forlorn. This seems like a good time to talk to him."
She frowned. "My what?"
"You heard me. Get up there and see if it doesn't thaw that cold little heart of yours."
"My heart is not cold. It's warm and filled with rainbows and butterflies."
Lucien gagged.
Solomon just arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Well, if you say so."
Rising from her seat, she turned her nose up at him. "Humph. This is so typical of you, Solomon," she grumbled as she walked past him. "You tell me it's my decision then you come to me with little gems like, 'He's so forlorn!', 'Have a heart!', 'Don't be mean!' Blah, blah, blah! That makes you worse than Lucien. At least he puts it out there. You resort to deceptive, malicious, underhanded, cheap devices."
"Oy!"
"What?" She snapped. "What, Solomon?"
"I am NOT cheap!"
She dealt him a potent glare before she left them in the cavern. She'd show them.
She walked briskly through the dungeon hallways and up the stairs. Reaching the ground floor, she went in search of Harry.
It was easy to find him. She still remembered Grimmauld Place; still remembered where Harry went to brood. He liked brooding on the window seat of the living room.
She watched him for a moment as he stared out of the window.
As much as she hated to admit it, Solomon was right. Harry did look terribly forlorn.
She felt an aching need to ask him what was wrong and comfort him; tell him everything was going to be okay, but that would make the boundaries come crashing down. It wouldn't do to show him she cared. It wouldn't do to tell him that seeing him again made her distracted and… attracted.
Stifling a sigh, she made a sound so as not to startle him.
He didn't turn to look. For what it was worth, at least he hadn't developed a fear of her. She had wanted Harry to move on, but she had hoped that he would never think she'd ever hurt him. It seemed that at least in that, she had gotten what she wanted.
"Cold night," she said, walking up beside him on the seat.
At first, he didn't pull his gaze from the window, then his eyes were upon her, and they were taking her in, as if noting every detail: the red highlights in her hair, the flawless pale skin, her own eyes…
He shifted in his seat and she saw him tuck his wand deeper into his house robes. He had changed into more comfortable clothing. She could see nylon gym pants peeking at the bottom. His rubber shoes were worn out, but they looked comfortable. She wondered what he was going to do. He looked like he was going for a workout.
Maybe he goes to bed in gym pants. Kinda hot. Athletic Harry.
If she could scold herself, she would have. "You should be asleep at this hour," she said, setting her own gaze to the window. She watched the droplets of rain sliding down the glass. "The boys and I will guard the house."
Surely, that was the only reason he was awake.
"I don't sleep at night anymore."
She remembered back then, how he had reversed his hours so he could be with her. It was terribly sweet of him, and she didn't have the heart to tell him to do otherwise. She had wanted to be with him, too. She had wanted to be with him always.
When she first left, missing him had been agony. She kept wishing that everything, from the time of Bill and Fleur's wedding onward, was a bad dream she just hadn't woken up from. And when she realized it was real, the hollow feeling in her heart thrummed with pain. It was uncanny how the littlest sound, the faintest scent, would remind her of him. How, when she heard someone climbing the stairs of the strange new house she was living in, she always fantasized it was Harry, come to rescue her from herself. Every knock on the door, every bespectacled human that crossed the threshold of the Coven mansion, every dark-haired, medium built man whose back was to her, was potentially Harry, finally finding her again. It was like that for several months, and by that time, she had formed some kind of friendship with the young man named Solomon who was, as of yet, completely oblivious to her suffering.
The months had turned to years, and many, many things happened to her between then and now, but Harry persisted in her thoughts; in her heart. She found herself constantly wishing that the next corner she turned would have her face to face with him, yet she dreaded it, too. Of course, it was never Harry, not even when they got to London.
Good Lord, she still missed him. Even standing right next to him, the urge to hold him; to touch him; was so strong that she wouldn't, because if she did, she would completely lose it.
She forced a smile to her lips. "Try a coffin. Makes sleeping in the day much better."
He stared at her, obviously a bit shocked, if not wondering if she was serious. Maybe she was half.
The soft chuckle that escaped him felt like a feather down her back.
"And I thought Lucien and Solomon had a twisted sense of humor," he said.
He must have heard them telling each other how ugly they were. How embarrassing. "Oh, they're consistently better at it than I am, but you always brought out the best in me, Harry."
The moment she said it, she wished she could take it back.
Way to go with those boundaries, Hermione.
Her Freudian slips were going to be her undoing.
"Did I?" he asked. "Do I still?"
Tell him no. But she couldn't. She couldn't stop the surge of despair, especially seeing that wonderfully hopeful look in his eyes. How she wished she could give in to it. Throw her reservations to the wind; take what she wanted; be with him forever. She didn't think she would ever feel a pain more potent than that day she left him, but now she realized that there was worse pain in loving someone and denying one's self from showing it.
His eyes filled with desire. She could see it; remember it from those years when they would fall into each other's passionate embrace, touch in the most intimate way and then finally come together to completion.
The ache in her heart traveled way down below where she could feel her yearning for him coalesce. The instinctive burst of pheromones threatened to overcome them both and she stopped it just before it perfumed the air around them.
Set the boundaries. Do it, before you lose it completely.
She began to speak in a whispered tone. "There is raging violence inside me. I'm not afraid of blood. I'm not afraid of death. And sometimes… I'm not even afraid to kill. That changes a person forever, Harry. I'm Hermione on the outside. I might even be Hermione on the inside. But my core… my soul… it's not Hermione anymore. I'm a vampire; a monster. Some might say I'm condemned to hell."
He shook his head. "You're not a monster."
Frighten him. Do what you have to do. Listen to his heart; his blood. You're a vampire, aren't you? So lust for his blood, already!
She listened for his pulse; followed the flow of his life. She heard it; felt it; and she wanted it.
"Harry… right now, I can hear your heartbeat. I hear your blood coursing through your veins. And I want to taste it so badly…" She was unable to stop that plaintive little plea from tainting her tone. She gave a sigh of such desperate longing that the pheromones escaped.
He saw him suck in a breath. He had felt it, and her own breath caught. It was overwhelming to see him needing her.
It's not real. It's just the pheromones. It's just sex. Dammit!
She swallowed, berating herself for her moment of weakness.
His fascination for her was palpable. Was it just because it was her? Or was it also because she was a vampire?
She had heard the rumors about Harry immersing himself in London's vamp-circle. By all accounts, there were no reports of his being a blood flunky, but London vamps seemed to have a grudging sort of respect for him, like he was some kind of dangerous human enigma.
He knew things about them, said the vamps. He played their game, said others. He's not afraid of us, said many.
She wondered just how much Harry knew. She was certainly surprised when she heard about Henry's association with Harry. Henry was Yasmin's Guy Friday, and while Hermione never really bothered to get to know him more closely over the years, he was a constant presence. Now, knowing that Harry frequented Henry's club, she had to wonder just how long the two had known each other.
Hermione was a bit afraid to know the answer. There were too many implications that she wasn't sure she was ready to face.
She met his gaze and resisted its pull. She smiled to mask the panic in her heart. "It's just vampire pheromones, Harry. You don't want me. You just think you do. Lucien and Solomon can make you feel the same way if they wanted to, fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, they don't swing that way."
"You don't need to use pheromones on me."
She took his hand and he laced his fingers through hers, pulling her to him. "Feel that? My skin is cold. It does that when I need to feed. I warm up when I've drank."
He knew this, of course, but he had to be reminded.
"Hermione, I-"
Oh, God. Don't say it! She acted fast, her fingers hovering lightly over his lips. "Don't say anything. Just don't."
She had said those words before; long ago, at number 4 Privet Drive. He was going to make love to her, and she was afraid that what he was going to say would shatter the intimacy they had let themselves share. Now, she was afraid his words would pull her back in, where she couldn't turn back.
She slid her hand from his grasp. "I'm sorry, Harry, but it can't ever be the way it used to be."
And she had said it. It tore her up inside, but she had said it.
The look in his eyes did not make things the least bit easier. He looked so… devastated.
Oh, Harry, no…
How could he? After all these years? How could he love her still? After everything she'd done. After the abandonment… what was wrong with him?
Nothing's wrong with him. He's Harry. You fell in love with him because he was solid, and true, and he kept his promises…
She couldn't deal with this right now. There was more to say; more to talk about, but that would have to wait for later, when she had a firmer grasp of her emotions; when she wasn't in danger of crumbling inside and giving in to him.
Turning, she fled, leaving him in the cold and darkness of the living room.
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Hermione only realized she was headed for the library when she got to the fourth floor landing. It amazed her that five years away from Grimmauld Place hadn't diminished her old habits in the least.
Well, that's just another habit you haven't gotten rid of.
Stifling a sigh, she made for the library anyway. She was feeling terribly depressed and she needed comfort.
I could probably try to meditate… that would help.
She used to date a vamp; his name was Adrian, and he was into new age therapy: Meditation, Zen gardens and Tantric sex. She really thought she fancied him. She thought he was sensitive and selfless. Lucien thought he was gay. Solomon thought she was using him.
It turned out Solomon was right (Lucien was wrong) and that she was only into Adrian because she needed the meditation, Zen gardens and the sex (which was only Tantric up to a certain point, after which even Adrian would say, "Oh, sod it, let's just screw.")
It had never been like that for her when it came to the men she dated. She never used them like that. When she chose to have a relationship with these men, it was because she fancied them; could see herself having a relationship with them. She never was quite into casual sex. She'd had one of those and promised herself she would never do it again. She had felt terrible after she woke from it, and she had come home crying her heart out to dependable ol' Solomon.
"I can't believe I did this, Sol," she had said through her tears. "It had no MEANING, and the first thing I thought when I woke up was that if I did it, then surely Harry would have A HOARD of witches in his bed… and it hurts to think that he would do that when making love used to mean so much to US." It was the first time she ever spoke to Solomon about Harry, and since then, Solomon knew just how hung up Hermione was on the Boy Who Lived.
And so that was it as far as one-night-stands for her went, and the men she dated had come and gone. She'd broken up with them or she'd gotten dumped, and for the same reasons, too: She was holding back; she was distant; she wasn't giving everything of herself. Poor Adrian was the only one who got dumped because she was using him. It was after Adrian that she supposedly made that "conscious decision" to abstain.
So far, she still believed the decision was "conscious". But she had to wonder if she hadn't lost her mind and unconsciously resolved to punish herself for what she had done to Adrian and her other ex-boyfriends.
Harry falls in that category, doesn't he?
"Oh, God," she muttered. If she wanted to punish herself for something, it would be her trespasses with Harry that would be at the top of the list.
She reached the library and went straight to her favorite table. Smiling fondly, she sat on one of the huge carved chairs as she ran her palms reverently over the glossy surface. There were a few books stacked on one side and she trailed her fingers down the spines.
It then occurred to her that the books were ones she'd never seen before.
Artifact Magic: The Correlation of Magic With Objects, The Meaning of Magic, Chronicles of Godric Gryffindor, and The Dark, the Light and the Gray: Magic In All Its Shades.
It had to belong to Remus. There was no other explanation.
Yet, she couldn't help but wonder otherwise. Remus had always done his work in his study, so any books that he might have acquired would be stacked there, not in the library…
"They're Harry's," said a voice from the door.
She turned, astonished that Ron had managed to let himself in without her knowing.
"He's some kind of big reader, now," Ron continued, walking further into the library. He rounded the table and stood across her, leaning his elbows on the high backrest of the chairs. "A lot of things about Harry have changed since you left."
Hermione wondered if she should just sit there and let Ron talk. If he started calling her nasty names, she would take it. But her curiosity was piqued, and she was just glad Ron was speaking to her again, even if the topic was potentially explosive. "He's read all of these?"
"I don't think he's done with all of them yet. Chronicles of Godric Gryffindor, I know he's done with. See? It's all flagged and marked. The other books he got because he had to crosscheck many things from Chronicles. I'm sure he'll read through all of them, anyway. When Harry's not working and doing… his other stuff, he stays here and reads."
She hesitated and thought that if she was going to let Harry think she didn't care about him, shouldn't she be consistent and let Ron believe that same thing? But then Ron… she had no feelings of romantic love to hide from him.
"I'm sorry," was what she said next. "I'm sorry I left, but I'd do it again if I have to."
He glared at her and his eyes sparkled with such anger that she thought perhaps she should duck and hide beneath the table, but then the anger from his gaze waned, and he gave a weary sigh. Miserably, he sat himself down on one of the chairs and leaned back, frowning at her. "I know you're sorry. You said that to me when you left, right here in the library, and you said it to me in your letter. Now you're saying it again. I get it, alright? But I'm still angry with you. When I think about what you did, and what it did to Harry… and to me, it just makes me so mad. I want to keep telling you off, cutting you down, giving you shit for everything, but I've got a hoard of ladies I care about that would object to my behavior. There's mum, and Tonks, and Ginny, and Fleur, and Gabrielle and Luna… blimey, the thought that they'd all lecture me for it is enough to make Voldemort stand in the corner and think about what he's done!"
Hermione was astonished on so many levels. Fleur, Gabrielle and Luna? When did these women start to matter to Ron? Then again, it has been five years. And he called Voldemort by name!
Things have changed.
"I can't even begin to describe to you what you should be sorry for, Hermione," he continued. "But believe it or not, I understood why you did it, even if I think you could've decided otherwise, which is the root of my anger, of course."
"Ron, that's the difference between you and me, isn't it? You thought I had an option. I didn't see it that way."
"Obviously."
She was about to apologize again, but she bit her lip. "These five years haven't been easy for me either."
"Oh, really?"
Take it. You said you would. She nodded. "At least you and Harry had each other, and you had your family and everyone else… I was alone. I had no one."
And that was true. That reality had driven her to very dark thoughts more times than anyone thought possible of her. To be alone and be aware of it so acutely was powerfully destructive. She had befriended Solomon, yes, and eventually Lucien, but the fact was they were apart from all of it, because they came after, and they couldn't have possibly understood the depth of her pain. Solomon sympathized, and Lucien had experiences of his own, but they didn't know who Harry was, or what he meant to her. They didn't know Ron, or Remus, or McGonagall, or her parents…
Ron was quiet for a while. "You didn't have to be alone. You could've gone back to us. We would have happily taken you back in."
"Of course I knew that," she replied softly. "So many times, I was tempted, but having promised my complete devotion to the Coven was the least of it. I told you why I had to go, in my letter. I told you why I had to stay away. My reasons haven't changed."
Ron sighed and shook his head. "They were just words to us, Hermione. It might have been a bit different if you told us to our face-"
"I couldn't Ron. I didn't have the strength to sit and explain everything to you and Harry, then take up my trunk to walk out the door as if it were all so easy. Leaving was essential; it had to be done, but if I was going to go, I had to go without the heart-to-heart talks, or else I never would have been able to leave. You tell me if you can walk out on Harry when he-when he has that look on his face. You know that look, don't you? That thing in his eyes that tells you he loves you, and that he would never hurt you, so why would you hurt him?"
Ron rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "Yeah. I know that look. He'd used it on me once before, when I told him-when I told him to move on and forget about you."
She felt a stab of pain from that, but it was something she would've wanted said to Harry. She nodded. "I loved him so much, so you explain to me how I was supposed to walk out on that without losing my resolve."
"And so it was easier to walk out on me," he said softly.
She gave him an apologetic look. "I wasn't supposed to see you, either. But then you showed up. It wasn't easy, but I had to admit, having you hex me distracted me enough to walk out of that door."
"That's just great."
"I didn't love you any less, Ron, just differently. You understand that, don't you?"
He scoffed softly, but he didn't say anything contrary.
"And now I'm back," she said. "And if it had been up to me, I wouldn't be here, but Yasmin is a bitch with a sick sense of humor, so here I am."
"Why do you follow her, then? If she's so terrible?"
"Because a lot of the time, she stands for what I believe in. She may be cold, and conniving and twisted, but she keeps things in order. I've been ordered to execute rogue vampires, save human lives and keep the human-vamp balance."
"A prefect with fangs."
She chuckled. "You can say that. I get things done because she gets things done. She's brilliant, and while I admit, I have no idea what drives her, exactly, she's got solid principles. It makes her both reassuring and frightening."
"You admire her."
"To a certain extent. I have to believe in what she does so that I can believe in what I'm doing, Ron. If I didn't believe in all this, I wouldn't be in this career."
Ron laughed. "Career. That's one way to call it."
She could appreciate the humor of it. "And you… what's your career?"
He raised an eyebrow, instantly letting her know that he knew she was trying to steer the subject to safer waters. "I keep dragons."
That surprised her. "Like Charlie?"
"Like Charlie. It's an interesting job. It pays reasonably. And it's flexible enough that I could be on-call with the Order. One second I'm rounding up Chinese Fireballs and the next minute I'm in Diagon Alley hexing Death Eaters and werewolves."
"I always thought you would join a Quidditch team."
"Oh, did you? You never thought much of my Quidditch skills."
She blushed. That was true, but it didn't mean she wouldn't have supported him if he wanted to try to get into a team. "Well, you don't have to be a player… a manager, maybe. You'd make a brilliant coach."
It was his turn to blush. "Yes, well… it seems silly to have a Quidditch career in the middle of all this…"
"Other people have gone on with Quidditch careers anyway."
"I'm in too deep in this war, Hermione. My… my whole family's involved in it. Percy's dead and Fred's been in a coma for a year…"
She never knew that. Oh, my God. "Oh, Ron… oh, Ron… dear, I'm so sorry…"
"Don't call me dear. You never showed you cared in the last five years, so no, you don't get to use endearments."
Hermione pursed her lips. Boy. He wasn't kidding when he said he was still mad at me.
"But thanks," Ron grudgingly added. "Percy was a prat, but he was still my brother. Didn't realize it until he died, yeah, but oh well…" The sadness in his voice was evident. "And Fred… George swears he's improving, but… honestly, Hermione, I haven't noticed the difference. The healer told us that if Fred ever wakes up, his mind might be irreparable anyway. George is… I listen to him sometimes, talking as if Fred were still with us. George celebrates their birthday in the hospital… it's-it's rather heartbreaking, to tell you the truth. None of us want to admit it, but we've all accepted Fred's condition, that he might never wake up. George is the only one who really believes anymore. I'm just afraid how George will take it if-if the worse happens, you know? I've been spending a lot of time with him, just to make sure he doesn't get pushed off the deep end-" He suddenly stopped, and he stared at Hermione in amazement.
Her brows knotted, jolted by the sudden silence. She had been listening so intently; feeling sympathy and compassion for Ron's and George's plight. "Is there something the matter?"
For a moment, Ron sat still, saying nothing. Then he sighed, shaking his head as he slumped in his seat. "I'm telling you these things and I just realized… it feels good to talk to someone-to you. Merlin, I missed you, Hermione. I missed you."
It warmed her so much to hear him say it. "I missed you, too, Ron."
"I'm still mad at you, though."
That was fine. She was just grateful that he still felt friendship for her. "Yes, yes. You're completely entitled to that."
"Just so we're clear."
"Crystal clear."
"Around here… well, we're all men, and Tonks' feminine attributes are all directed at Remus, not to mention the fact that there's a constant danger of getting mocked by Malfoy… talking seems emaciating."
"Don't you mean emasculating?"
"That, too."
Hermione stifled a roll of her eyes. Nice to know some things have stayed the same. "Well, you could always talk to Ginny, right?"
"I talk to her about a lot of things, but she's coping with the whole George and Fred thing, too."
"Ah, yes. Co-dependence can be a bitch."
"What did you call it?"
"Co-dependence, but that's not important right now. I understand what you mean."
Ron nodded, satisfied. "Luna listens, but sometimes, she's so yampy I'm not sure if she's seeing the entire picture, you know? Still, I have to admit, she's really been there."
There it was again: Luna Lovegood. Sure, she went with them to the Department of Mysteries, but since when has Ron-
Five years, Granger. Remember?
Right.
"Then there's Gabrielle."
Hermione was again confused about where Gabrielle fit into all this, but she continued to listen. She was just glad Ron was opening up to her again so soon.
"She's very compassionate of the entire situation. She always sends George homemade French pastries. She's so sweet. But I don't feel like I ought to be saddling her with these things. She insists that I can talk to her about it, but I'd rather not. I don't want her carrying the burden with me. You understand why you're different, don't you, Hermione? You understand why it was so difficult to have you gone. It's not just because we needed you, but because you were part of us. The three of us, remember? We were going to stick to each other until the end…"
It pained her to listen, but she wouldn't hurt him again for the world and tell him she didn't want to talk about it. "Things changed when I died, Ron. Things changed when I became a vampire."
"They sure did," he said quietly.
They fell silent, and Hermione was most pleased to note that it wasn't as uncomfortable as one would expect.
"Aren't you going to ask me about Harry?" he suddenly said.
No, because I'm rather afraid of the answers. Yes, because I want to hear you tell me he's fine, and that he was able to do important things because I wasn't there to hold him back.
"What's he been doing?" she asked softly.
"He's an auror. Did you know that?"
She smiled slightly. "Just recently, actually. It's what he always wanted, isn't it?"
Ron shrugged. "He's really good at it. I think he would've wanted to pursue a Quidditch career, but being an auror works out for him in many ways. He's amazing. He does things ten times better than everyone else and he's not afraid of anything… well, he did admit he ran away from a vampire with a sword, once, but only because a vamp with a sword-"
"It's suicide. He's using his head. That's good."
"Yeah. I think that's what sets him apart the most. He's really intelligent when the situation calls for it. He doesn't act so much on impulse as he once used to, but he's got the sharpest wits I've ever seen in the direst of circumstances. There was this one instance where a werewolf caught Charlie. I swear I thought I was going to lose another brother, Hermione. But Harry just-I'm not sure how he did it, but he used magic to levitate a motorcycle. Whacked it right at the wolf. I mean, I've never really seen anyone levitate anything to hit someone with. Sure, some have tried, but there's this accuracy problem, usually. Harry just had it under control… moving his hand about as if-you know how those puppeteers hold the strings? It was like that, the way Harry moved that thing around. He beat the werewolf with it, just before Harry finished him off with a sword."
Hermione stifled a shiver at the thought of Harry in full-battle, sword and magic moving with him. "I've seen him use that sword. He knows how."
"He doesn't like it much, though. He prefers using a crossbow, but then crossbows have a tendency to run out of arrows."
She chuckled. "Crossbows… how archaic. Why not use guns?"
"The magic makes them do crazy things. Even when we spell them to resist magic, it only works for one or two rounds. After that, the gun goes berserk and actually breaks down from within. It can't take the magic."
She nodded. "That's true, which is why vamps fashion their own guns. None of those muggle-made manufactured ones. It's expensive, but it's necessary. Besides, Yasmin could afford it."
From the start of production to its completion, the guns were designed to resist magic. The materials used to make the guns repelled the destructive effects of magic. After the parts were assembled, the guns were 'cured' just before they were enchanted and prepped for use. The guns last for about a year to a year and a half, but that was still a lot better than one or two rounds.
Ron shrugged. "We don't like guns, anyway. We all feel we can't trust them."
"Oh, well. Whatever works. So, Harry's some kind of a Super-Auror."
"Well, not super. Brilliant, yeah, but a lot of times, the most amazing things he does doesn't even involve magic. So, he gets hurt a lot. He's gotten hurt more times than any of us because he takes these insane risks. One time, he had to pretend to be a Death Eater hostage. This junior D.E. wanted out but we needed him to lead us to a key Death Eater, and Harry would be his bargaining chip. You know what Harry did? He stabbed himself just to make it seem believable. I mean-Harry's crazy. Not the first time I wondered if Harry didn't want to get done in for real…"
Hermione wasn't sure if she knew what to say about that.
"But he gets the job done. It's like-It's like he thinks outside of the box. He's unorthodox and… and he's just mental."
She couldn't help but smile with a certain amount of pride. "That's Harry…"
Ron grinned. "Ask me who his partner is."
She chuckled. "I thought you were."
"Oh, that's a given, but I mean officially. In the auror department."
"Who?"
"Seamus Finnigan."
Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "You're joking."
"Nope. I'll tell you, he's a lucky bastard. If it weren't for Harry, bloke would've been dead a long time ago."
"That doesn't sound as if Seamus is very competent."
"Now, that's just mean, Granger."
"What! But you said-"
"Well, perhaps I was being unfair to Seamus. Seamus wouldn't be stumbling in the path of danger so much if his partner wasn't so bloomin' insane."
Hermione paused to give it a thought. It was interesting how Harry looked nothing like this daredevil, super-skilled, fearless evil-fighter.
He walks around in worn trainers, for goodness' sake! And baggy pants!
But then back in their Hogwarts days, he had been all those things, hadn't he? Just that it seemed, or perhaps he made it seem, like he was just terribly lucky to get out of it alive. Perhaps now that he was properly trained, he just looked so much more put together about it. She certainly saw how willing he had been to take on five werewolves. He had shown no signs of backing down. He was going to take them on. She couldn't fathom how he was going to do it without having at least one limb torn off, but Harry had apparently believed he could manage it. He probably could, anyway, whether she believed it or not. Too bad she was unable to stand by and watch.
"Surely," she began nonchalantly. "He gets his just rewards for all that, doesn't he?"
Ron peered at her questioningly, his eyebrow raising. "Just rewards?"
"Well… commendation…"
"Are you kidding? He's got half-a-drawer-full of Ministry-issued plaques in his room!"
"He keeps them in a drawer?"
"Inside his armoire. Third one from the top."
"That's hilarious."
"Oh, you know Harry. If he could, he'd stay under his invisibility cloak all day, everyday."
"That's true. But I didn't mean medals and recognition and such."
"What did you mean, then?"
"Well… surely he has… admirers for being all that…"
Oh, dear God, Granger. You DID NOT just fish for information… oh, well.
Ron's eyebrow arched again before he cleared his throat. "I reckon you have to ask him about that."
"You don't know?"
"It's not that I don't know. It's just that I'd rather it didn't come from me, is all."
Hermione's breath hitched. She tried not to associate this new piece of information to that time she broke down about her one-night-stand. She had asked the question, therefore she should accept the answer, whatever it was. "That many, huh?"
"Many? I wouldn't call it that. I'd really rather not go into detail. You should really ask him. I'm sure he'd be most willing to tell you… if you care, that is…"
Hermione glared at him. Oh, no, you don't. "It's not important, really. I was just curious."
"Curious is fine, I guess. Just make sure he understands that your curiosity doesn't mean anything. Are you getting me, Hermione?"
She stared at him, realizing there was an undertone, now.
He glared at her. "I won't let you hurt him again."
"I'm not going to."
"You're not hearing me. I had to tell him you'd left him. I had to make him realize that you didn't want to come back. I had to watch him struggle with the insecurity of everyone he loved getting hurt, or dying, or leaving. Do you understand?"
She'd never seen Ron with so much controlled conviction. In the past, Ron would come out with bursts of righteous indignation, but this was different. He had given this a lot of thought, and now he was laying it out like terms on a negotiating table. She nodded gravely. "I understand, Ron. So you don't have to worry about me."
"We'll see if you understand. I'll be keeping a close eye on you, and if I see that you don't understand, I'm going to make Harry understand that you are being a bitch and that you don't care about him at all."
She trembled with rage at Ron's harsh assessment of her, and she wanted to yell at him, tell him he had no right to say such things to her, but then she had called this upon herself, hadn't she? Ron was being Harry's best friend, because she had relinquished that privilege of being Ron's best friend five years ago.
She took hold of her anger and stamped it down, calming herself. "Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Ron."
He nodded, rising from his seat. "I've to go. I've an early day tomorrow."
"Good night, then."
Ron left, and when Hermione heard the door to the library close, she leaned over the table and buried her face in her arms. When had Ron learned to tell her off? This was the sort of thing she hadn't been looking forward to when Yasmin told her this mission was hers.
It happened two days ago.
Yasmin simply stated that she wanted Hermione to meet up with Harry in Cicero's old office building. Hermione had, up until that point, employed every means necessary to be careful that she and Harry didn't accidentally run into each other while she was in London. She had been successful all three and a half weeks, and she thought that the only thing that could possibly change that winning streak was ill-humored fate. Well, fate wasn't just ill-humored, it was a goddamn fucking bitch in fishnet stockings and silver-plated stilettos.
The fury Hermione felt when Yasmin told her was so potent that she actually let loose a string of explosive magic; mostly accidental, but certainly driven by an intent to inflict pain. Hermione thought she might have destroyed seven hundred years worth of history as she exploded Ming vases all around; she was that angry. In response, Yasmin had, quite calmly, knocked her back to her senses with a right hook that would have broken a human's neck. Hermione, being a vampire, had merely staggered at the blow, silver spots dancing in her line of vision.
Shortly after she regained her senses, Yasmin took her by the collar of her shirt and slammed her up against the wall while she held a scroll in front of Hermione's face. They were the details of the mission and Hermione was expected to follow it to the letter. "You will undertake this mission. Believe it or not, I'm making you do this because you're the best one for the job. Your sappy, ill-fated romance and the emotional chaos it will create is just a perk-for me, at least. Now quit throwing a tantrum and do as you're told."
Hermione hadn't said anything to counter her, of course. It was a tad difficult to raise an argument when Yasmin was tossing her around like that, but a million thoughts, particularly concerning Harry and Ron, raced through her head. She wanted to yell at Yasmin and say, "How the hell am I the best one for this job? Do you know how much emotional baggage will need to be unloaded just so this whole mission doesn't get fucked up from the get go?"
The operative word at the time was "wanted", and as the saying went, "We don't always get what we want."
She said nothing, and she took the mission (as if she had a choice), raging and ranting at Lucien and Solomon when she got back to their flat. She wasn't sure if they even listened to her. They were watching a recording of their favorite Soap Opera Women of Manchester. Apparently, Hermione's drama was nothing to Woodrow Longshank's affair with his secretary who was the former girlfriend of his daughter (secretly a lesbian and using Heathe Mansfield, their next door neighbor's son, as a cover for her sexual orientation) and was deviously conspiring with his wife to catch him in the act of infidelity, thus turning him into Dead Meat when the divorce settlement came around. Lucien had cardboard signs rallying for H.L.A. (Hot Lesbian Action) as if they were in some football game and Solomon was renouncing the sordid manipulations women inflicted on their men.
In retrospect, perhaps both Lucien and Solomon had heard enough about what Yasmin called her "sappy, ill-fated romance" with Harry.
This is only the beginning, she told herself as she rose from the solace of her arms.
Wearily, she left the library, cursing Yasmin's good name as she went.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hermione sighed to express her exasperation and stopped in the middle of the dark hallway. She had been walking around the house for a little bit more than hour now just trying to clear her head. It had helped a little, and now she was ready to be her domineering self again.
She cocked her hip and mounted her hand on it in her irritation. "For God's sake, Lucien, what's with the cloak and dagger, shite? It's not like I couldn't sense you, you know?"
No reply came.
"Lucien, I don't have time for this."
There was silence for another heartbeat before a distant voice finally broke through. "Oh, sure. Don't want to interrupt your spectacularly busy schedule. It's such a job strutting aimlessly down hallways."
Hermione waited for him to finish and emerge. He did.
"How did you know it was me?" he asked, pouting. "I so turned off my aura."
She rolled her eyes. "For the last time, turning off your presence is not your vampire power."
"I swear, I have it! I used to, at least."
"Whatever. Why are you stalking me?"
"For practice."
She kept her temper in check. "Okay… did you want to talk to me, besides?"
"As a matter of fact, I did! You're so smart. No wonder you're our leader."
"I swear, Lucien, if you don't start telling me what it is-"
He laughed, pleased with himself. "I saw your boy on the fifth floor."
"You and Solomon have got to stop calling him that. He's not my 'boy'. He's Harry, and he's not my anything. Not anymore, at least."
"Yes, yes. Whatever. He's got a gym up there, did you know?"
Her eyebrow arched. The gym was new. "No. And how is this my business?"
"Don't you want to see him all hot and sweaty?"
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "I've seen him hot and sweaty. We used to have sex, remember? He was beautiful. What's your point?" If Lucien was going to be an ass, she wasn't going to make it easy for him.
Lucien chuckled, probably seeing right though her, but as was his wont, it didn't seem to bother him in the least. "You're right. He is beautiful, so I watched him, like the voyeur that I am."
"Lord… I swear, Lucien, no one can creep me out like you can. I'd hit you, but that'll only turn you on."
"For what it's worth, it's scary that you know me so well. Shall I go on?"
"God forbid… but sure. Go on."
"I caught him warming up. When he was done with that, he animated a dummy. Used it to spar with."
She nodded. It was impressive, to say the least. Spelling a dummy for sparring was no common skill. It required combinations of algorithmic arithmancy, transfiguration and charms that would enable an inanimate wooden replica of a person to move, strike and block. The spell was designed to have the dummy respond to the caster and no one else. This was the reason why dummies couldn't be used in battle to make armies, but they were handy for practice. Hermione could understand why Harry would find the spell useful.
"That's nice," she said nonchalantly. "Was he any good?"
Lucien chuckled. "Quite. You should go see for yourself… it would be useful for what you were sent here to do, wouldn't it?"
She frowned. She hadn't told Lucien about that part of the mission. How the hell did he know? Then again, he may just be fishing for information. "I don't know what you're talking about. Quit wasting my time and go back to the dungeon."
"It's boring down there."
"Not my problem."
"There are more humans in this house… I'm thinking I'd like to scare a few of them…"
"Absolutely not." Then she remembered Draco. "Though it would be nice if you find the pretty platinum blonde one and scare him shitless… you know what? Never mind. Leave them all alone."
"Oooh! Back story! Did he used to be yours?"
"Ugh. Not nearly."
"So can I-"
"No. Behave yourself, Lucien. And I do mean behave in the real sense, not the naughty sense. Be good."
He grinned, fangs and all. There was no escaping the blasted sexual innuendos. "Oh, I am, chica. I'm very good."
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes… now off you go. I've things to do."
Lucien was gone.
When she couldn't feel his presence any longer, she paused and gave what he told her some thought.
There were many reasons for her to watch Harry in training, the least of which was because he was dead hot when engrossed in such exertions.
She had to see how he moved; gauge his skill; see what he could do. She had to be prepared for him, after all. And when she had assessed him thoroughly, understood the extent of his capabilities, she would take him on, one on one.
He wouldn't stand a chance in hell.
Aside from all that, this seemed like the perfect opportunity to try this talking thing again, preferably without her losing control and unraveling at the seams.
You can do this, Granger.
Try this ONE MORE TIME.
And… here we go.
She hastened to the fifth floor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/N: Okay, so I started with the "talk" in this one, but it didn't pan out exactly the way Hermione planned (what, you thought it would happen in one nice talk? Absolutely not! Hehe). So the next chapter will have her trying again. The talks that will follow after this will be mostly unplanned. And we finally get to the horcrux-war-Voldie stuff in the chapters after this one.