Conflicting Emotions

Chapter Two - Stress and Memories

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Hermione scribbled the final sentence of a History of Magic essay, about how the role of slavery may have changed the fate of the Goblin and Troll wars in the era of ancient Rome. Glancing it over with a disapproving frown, Hermione then rolled it up, and placed it in her bag. One down. Glancing over her diary, in which she had written that week's homework, she crossed off History of Magic, then decided to work on her Astronomy charts, seeing as they were due the soonest. The previous year's sevenths certainly hadn't understated the amount of work that would be piled on them. Hermione had barely been at school three weeks, and already the pressure was similar to what was in the last hurried weeks of their sixth year.

At the very least, this common room of her own was the greatest blessing. No disrespectful third-years making unnessecary noises and pulling pranks on the older students - Hermione swore, that year was by far the worst, and she had had one hell of a time keeping them under wraps as a prefect. The second years weren't much better, having such poor role-models, but still... Hermione was sure that their year was never that disrepectful to the seventh years. Hmmph. Just they wait until they were in seventh year, and had this much work to do.

Hermione also found herself wondering how Harry and Ron were coping with the load. They were never very good at time management, and as she glanced out the wide windows that took up the entirety of one wall, flooding the room with sunlight, she spotted the red and gold figures of Gryffindor's Quidditch team practising off in the distance. Harry had made Captain this year, much to his delight and Hermione's chagrin. Extra duties. Just what he needed. And Ron was putting in extra hours to prove himself to both Harry and the team. She sighed, and wondered how much longer they could cope with both Quidditch and school work. If they were even coping in the first place.

Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to her Astronomy work, which was proving more difficult than she expected. It was extra work, but Hermione prided herself on handing back absolutely everything she had been assigned, extra or no. Now was not the time to start slacking off. She barely noticed when a dark figure pushed open the door to the common room, and slid down into the other chair, dropping his books most unceremoniously on the table. He glanced at her, his expression unreadable, before peering down at his books to get to work on his own homework. Hermione was aware of his arrival, but didn't notice his glance - this bloody Astronomy chart wasn't making any sense. With a sudden, wordless snarl of frustration at herself, she got up suddenly, toppling the chair over, and stormed off into her room. Zabini turned and stared after her, a little apprehensively, before glancing down and across at her work, nodding to himself, then back to his own - a Charms essay.

Hermione took a few deep breaths in the privacy of her room, resisting the urge to hex something. Stop it, Hermione. It's just a piece of homework. Her nerves were so bloody frayed, lately, and she didn't have the faintest idea why. A few moments later, now much calmer, she re-entered the common room, and moved back over to her seat. Zabini didn't appear to have shifted at all from where he was working, bent over his books. Strangely enough, for some reason she couldn't fathom, she felt her anger beginning to rise again, before she took a deep breath, shoved it away, and righting the chair, before sitting down. Why on earth should she care if he noticed or not? Taking a silent breath, then exhaling it, she regained her composure, ignoring the other thoughts. Right, she was going to do this. Astronomy. It couldn't be that difficult. Let's start again.

When Hermione scrunched up the third piece of parchment in a row, and threw it onto the floor, Zabini looked up and at her. She glared back at him, challenging him to make some sarcastic remark, but he didn't. He merely smiled, although it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Do you need some help?" he asked mildly, lacking any real sympathy in his voice. It was merely a question.

Hermione felt herself getting angry again, and before she could help herself, she snapped back, "Why would I need your help, Zabini?"

Zabini's eyebrows raised, but otherwise he gave no indication that she had snapped at him. "No need to get angry, Granger," he said in the same mild tone, returning his attention to his work.

"I-" Hermione immediately regretted snapping at him, taking a deep breath to calm down. "I'm sorry. I just- this bloody Astronomy chart is giving me grief, and on top of everything else. I don't know why. Normally Astronomy is no problem at all." She knew she was babbling, and finally got herself to stop, but now she felt even worse. Distracting Zabini from working on his own homework - how could she be so selfish?

But Zabini glanced up, and smiled his faint smile again. It seemed to reflect some of the same weariness she felt. "Let me see," he said, and she pushed her chart over to him. His dark blue eyes scanned the parchment, nodding occasionally, although far before he was done, his eyebrows had risen considerably. Eventually, he handed it back to her, saying nothing.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something - apologise, perhaps, but Zabini shook his head. She closed her mouth, surprised that she instinctively followed his quiet commands so easily. The next moment, she was bristling at the thought - how dare he ... control her like that! Again, she thought about saying something, but he had already spoken, and she found herself leaning a little closer to hear him as he murmured.

"This in an exceptionally difficult chart, Granger. I would be surprised if you were not having difficulties. But I think-" he said, running a thoughtful finger down a line she had drawn, "if you shift this," he pointed to a group of stars, and a set of calculations beside them, "and change that. I think it will work out."

Hermione had found herself listening to his voice, not his words, but when he fell silent and returned to writing an essay of his own in elegant, sloping handwriting, she looked down at her chart, and recalled his suggestions. Her eyes widened, as it made sense. "How-" she started, but was cut off by an almost amused look from Zabini, though it was free from any cruelty or derision. Again, she found she bristled as she once again obeyed, but this time she was less offended. As she watched him, turning back to his work yet again, she realised just how perfect he was for the role of leader. Quiet, but he didn't need to be loud. Instead - calm, confident, handsome, he embodied many a students wish. Prominent enough to be looked up at in awe and admiration, but dark of complexion, and slightly mysterious, so that one felt they could never really know who he was, get his full measure. And then his manner - his body language, his glances and nods, all were simple, easy to understand, and in itself, his confidence in being obeyed by the other students guaranteed that they would, indeed, do what he requested. She wondered if the teachers would do what he said, if he asked them to. Far, far too late, she realised she was staring at him, wearing a look similar to that of a puppy, fawning after it's master.

Without a second thought, she snapped her gaze back to the parchment beneath her hands, steadfastly ignoring the boy near her as best as she could. Oh, damn it. How many times was that? Three times, he had caught her staring at him. Shit. Now he undoubtedly thought she was some sort of stupid, lovesick, idiotic, addle-brained, giggling- as her brain went furiously through all these names, her corrections turned into sharp strikes with her quill, taking her anger out on her work. When finally the quill broke from her repeated, forceful strikes, ruining her work with a large blot of ink, she cried out in frustration. Once again, her nerves, which should have been rested over the holidays, were tense and brittle. A few more weeks of this and she'd be unable to look at a book again. But what else could she do? There was schoolwork to be done. Damn everything. If she hadn't been so worried about how Harry and Ron were, over the holdidays, maybe... But there was no point in wishing. What was, was. And now, now she was fuming.

This stupid, bloody afternoon. What a damned waste. And it was all his fault, that- that- Zabini sitting so calmly and nonchalantly over there. How could he!? Balling her hands into fists, she pulled out her wand to clear away her ruined parchment, and the number of ones thrown onto the floor, then snatched up her books and headed for the library.

Many hours later, when the sun had long since set, and after Hermione had slowly made her way back from the library, having completed the Astronomy chart in addition to a full three more pieces of work for her classes, she was laying on her bed, feeling triumphant. It was friday night, and she had the entire weekend to do her last piece of homework - a relatively minor translation for Ancient Runes. She had counted on the Arithmancy chart taking much longer than it had - indeed, without Zabini's input, she may have taken much longer that even she had expected. As much as she hated to admit it, she was grateful to him. He was very intelligent - if Hermione had been more assured of her own intelligence, she might have compared the two of them. But it didn't occur to her, and so they remained uncompared.

And not only intelligent, her mind continued. He's good-looking, and polite, confident... At this point, however, she realised just what she was thinking about, and quickly shoved the thoughts away, staring up at the ceiling with a frown.

Why, Why was she so damned obsessed with him? He'd speak only a single word to her in prefect meetings, yet she'd find herself considering it for the entire next day, how his slight accent made the word sound so much more than it really was. And now, after this afternoon - she felt she could contemplate what was said for a month or more. He'd never spoken so much to her. But, for goodness sakes, she didn't care about him or anything! He wasn't worth thinking about, he was a damned Slytherin! But... why was he so un-Slytherin-ish towards her, then? She was a muggle born, something he was supposed to hate. And yet, he didn't hate her. She was sure of that. Was it just Malfoy and his gang, tainting a decent house's image? Or was Zabini a minority?

Hermione decided that Zabini thought of her as just another student at the school - as Head Girl. An equal. More than that, she hoped, she desperately hoped, although she tried to quash the thought the very moment it crept into her head.

He was just being civil because we're Head Boy and Head Girl. We have to get along. If we don't, the whole school'll be in trouble, we can't have that. Yes, that has to be the reason. The only reason.

She denied the thoughts that crept up, angrily. She couldn't like him, besides. She liked- she loved Ron! She knew how much it would gut the redhead if she.. if she.. but she wasn't! He probably didn't even like her back! That is, er, if she liked him in the first place, which she most certainly didn't. But this, between her and Zabini - it was so different to what she had in Ron. She loved him, she was sure, but all she wanted to do was hug him and sit beside him. She couldn't imagine... what the other 'couples' got up to - it would just be far too strange, and embarrasing, at least. Like getting close to a brother. How could she go out and act normal again after... after... She pushed the thought away with more anger and desperation than her thoughts about Zabini, but still they came, unbidden.

Why, then, did she want to pull Zabini close to herself, feel his breath on her skin, wrap her arms around him and press her body up against his? Why did she feel the urge to grab him and kiss him so soundly it would make everyone around them stop and stare?

Why? Damn it, she'd never really gotten close to anybody before. Krum slipped out of her life as soon as he left Hogwarts in their fourth year. She never did make it to visit him in the summer. After that, it was just a few letters... But she was only fourteen, back then. Far, far too young for a relationship like that. Long distance, with an international Quidditch star? What was she thinking?

But now, she was nearly seventeen, and she'd never so much as looked at someone in that way since. Except for Ron, but that was different. Different. So, importantly, vitally different. And yet, she felt that she could never explain that to him. She knew he wouldn't take it well, and she couldn't put him through that - not purposely, knowingly. She couldn't. And now, with Zabini, she suddenly felt so strange whenever he looked at her. It didn't make any sense, she couldn't like him, she couldn't.

She couldn't.

Couldn't.

Once again, Hermione wrenched her thoughts right out of that alley, and set them on a more innocent path. If she couldn't stop thinking about Zabini, she would just have to deny she liked him. She couldn't think about how she held her breath whenever he looked at her, how she wanted to-

I do not have any damned reason to care for Zabini. None. Whatsover. And I don't care about him. At all. I don't look at him at anything more than a fellow student. He's Head Boy, and so I work with him. Cooperate only. Because we're told to. Have to. Not because I like him. Not at all. I don't. I can't. He is a Slytherin, for god's sake. And I'm a Gryffindor. That can't work out, ever, between us. Even if there was something between us, but there's not! There's nothing between us! Never has been, never will!

She kept repeating the argument over in her head, trying to find different ways to argue with herself about this matter. She didn't like Zabini, and that was final. Besides, why on earth would she want someone like him? The traitorous little voice in her head rose to argue, ready to point out a hundred reasons, and Hermione realised she couldn't keep denying it's argument. And so she ignored it, so steadfastly and completely, staring so hard at the ceiling that she could have burned a hole through it.

She couldn't.

Harry and Ron caught up to her as she left the Great Hall after dinner on the first day of October, and she smiled faintly to them as they grinned back at her.

"Hermione, we've barely seen you since school started," Harry said, and Ron nodded vigorously, adding, "And we've missed you, of course!"

"Missed me helping you with your homework more likely," Hermione murmured, but she was almost smiling. It was nice to be talking with her best friends again. She hadn't realised she missed them so, wrapped up in her homework and Zabini. Her throat went dry as she remembered what she was trying to forget, but she quickly turned her attention on the three of them, who were headed out of the Entrance Hall, and onto the grounds. The sun had already set, but the evening was looking beautiful nonetheless. Hermione sighed, and smiled, the expression now more genuine.

"You know that's not true!" Ron protested. "Well. Maybe just a little."

"Ron!" Harry reprimanded, a grin on his face showing he didn't mean it.

"Well, we only ever see you for meals and classes, and even then it's limited. Like, that other day you only talked to Ginny..." Ron said. Clearly, he had been paying closer attention to Hermione than she thought. She sighed.

"I just don't have any more free time, it seems. Our workload is horrendous, if you haven't noticed. Besides, I'm not going to tromp all the way up to Gryffindor tower just to sit and study," she said with a scowl, although it was lighter than it might have been otherwise. The atmosphere was getting to her. She did indeed miss them. After the holidays, school's supposed to be where they saw more of each other. Instead, it seemed like less. "Plus, it's much quieter down in my commons. You guys ought to come down and visit me."

"Really?" Harry glanced at Ron, and the two exchanged a glance, before he continued. "We, uh, weren't sure if you wanted us to come visit you."

"Harry, are you mad?" Hermione was surprised. Not want them to come and visit her!? What had given them that idea? "I'd love to see you both down there."

"We'll promise to come visit you soon, then. You just seemed, well, very stressed these last weeks." Harry continued, softly, comfortingly.

"It's just my extra Head Girl duties, I'm fine." Hermione lied, hurriedly. She didn't know why she had been as bad as she had. Even she had noticed her own additional stress levels. Normally, she was oblivious as she fretted and nattered about an upcoming exam. Now she was fretting and nattering twice as bad, and the closest exams where months and months away.

"God, I miss having all three of us here, without having to worry about... certain things," Ron said quietly after a few minutes of silence stretching around them, expressing what they all felt. Hermione gave him a warm smile, and put her arms around both boys' waists. They were both far too tall for her to lay her arms over their shoulders. Soon after, Ron's arm crept around her shoulders, and Harry's looped gently around her own waist. They walked that way for some time, esconced in silence, accompanied by the shimmer of the liquid silver moon, tinting everything they passed in an incredibly beautiful shade of silver.

Hermione closed her eyes, immersed in the moment, the bittersweet nostalgia. Of carefree days gone by, innocent friends laughing in each other's company, having nothing more to worry about than a grumpy Potions teacher docking house points. But now, now they were so different. So much closer, but so much further apart. They had their seperate lives, as attatched to each other as they were, and many secrets swarmed between them. They even had friends of their own, but they were friends on the outside of the circle, friends that would always have to be second-best to the bond shared between these three.

Harry, who was certainly no longer a boy, skinny and tall, with his low, masculine voice and carefree, ebony hair. He appeared as young as his seventeen years. But inside, he was hardened, having seen so many die, so many gone. Having faced his worst fears, again and again, without relent. And still, Voldemort stalked his consciousness, both awake and asleep. He could never be the innocent boy that arrived at Hogwarts those many years ago. The boy that Hermione's eleven-year-old self fell in love with. Not in the complicated, romantic stuff that so confused her now. No, it was an innocent, pure love, the sort that you find between happy, loving, contented families. He was a boy of honesty and nobility, with a heart so impassioned that only the coldest could not love him. And so she did, still, and forever more. Their love was a friendship, so strong that all who knew them could only stare and watch, and be jealous. Hermione loved Harry with all of her heart, and she knew he loved her back, even though the glow of his heart had dimmed, and become hidden behind memories of pain and loss.

And then there was Ron. Dearest, dearest Ron. There were no words to describe Ron. She loved him more than she loved Harry, as impossible as it sounds. He was always the gangly, not-quite-handsome one, grown up in the midst of a brood of overacheivers. He was the average boy, poor of gold but rich of heart, gifted with a supporting and loving family that was more precious than any amount of metal. Both Harry and Hermione lacked a family quite like Ron's, and yet the Weasleys had opened their arms and brought the two in. Now, they were just like an additional brother and sister. Hermione's family - she loved them, of course, but they could never quite understand her world.

Now, Ron too was a man, his teenage awkwardness replaced by a modestly handsome appearance and his teenage lankiness grown an effortless grace. And his untrainable temper, his fiery enthusiasm, his loyalty, ever a part of him. Ron Weasley was one of a kind. Come from obscurity, he had far, far surpassed what he had been expected to do by all around him, if only by his strength of spirit. And his love towards Hermione was of the same fiery sort that made up every fibre of his being, the passion that could not be removed without the destruction of his very soul. He loved her so intensely, with such pride, protectiveness and honesty, that she couldn't help but love him back, desperately hoping for more than what they had.

They were Gryffindors in every sense of the name, all the connotations, every fault and every gift. The two she called her best friends. The two that made up their three. As close as they were, they could never be complete without their third, Hermione. Suddenly, ominously, like the thrum of the bow after a fateful arrow has flow, Hermione realised, as she already knew, in a seamless progression of logical thought, that one day, the very intensity of their love for each other would someday rip their seamless friendship apart. And as much as she tried to deny it, she could already feel the cracks forming. She was the fault.

The cracks were clear - there were many between her and Ron. He was patient with her, had been so far, but she knew it could not last much longer. He could not contain his feelings this way - it was against the very fibre of his being. In the past, when he had hid his true feelings, things just escalated, usually into unpleasant outbursts of anger.

She had the choice - If she refused, if she drew back from his love, she knew that it would cause an unsealable rift between herself and the redhead, a rift of suspicions, accusations, one that would never truly heal over, no matter what she did or said. But if she was drawn into his passion for her, if she loved him as he did her, it would be Harry who would be torn. With his best friends closer to each other than he was to either, he had faced enough loss and betrayal to instinctually withdraw into himself, denying their friendship to be as open as it was now. Again, it would destroy them. And then, should she and Ron fall out, later on? Something that may be prematurely caused by Harry's own reaction? Then she'd be alone, both friends lost. She couldn't do something like that to Harry, any less than she could do that to Ron. Any less than she could do it to herself.

And then, and now there was another crack, caused by her alone. Zabini. She didn't know what to make of him, only that it couldn't be positive. It couldn't be.

Her mood descended so quickly, from an ethereal awe of realisation so intense with passion and love for her two friends, to the deepest depths of torment as she knew, she knew that she would be the one who caused them to fail. Falter, break, and in the end, destroy the very hearts she admired so much.

It was at that moment, also swept up in the moment and the beauty of their surrounds, that Ron leaned down slightly, intending to give Hermione a kiss on the top of her head. However, her thoughts were elsewhere - on the fact that she would be the one to destroy them, failing to notice him lean closer to her. She took a shuddering breath, and pulled herself out of both of their embraces, stumbling forward, and for a moment turning back to stare at them with a tortured look, before running off into the darkness.