Ballad for the Lost Romantics

BALLAD FOR THE LOST ROMANTICS

CHAPTER 3

~*~

I mean, there I was earlier that night, tossing and turning about whether or not people would like my column, and then I wake up to find that everyone not only liked it, but loved it. It was very disconcerting.

~*~

But not everyone liked it, I later found out. I never really thought I'd ever say this, but thank God for Severus Snape. Professor Snape, bless his twisted little heart, was positively enraged when his seventh year advanced class did not even look up at his dramatic entrance, since both Gryffindor and Slytherin students respectively were talking about my column.

"If I so much as hear one more syllable so much as pertaining to that wretched Romance column, the one uttering it will find themselves hanging by their toes in the depths of these very dungeons, do I make myself clear?" he muttered in his dangerous, silky soft voice all the more lethal for its quietness.

A chorus of 'yes sirs' and contrite nodding met his threat.

"Good," he spat out. "Now," he adopted his terse, teaching voice. "Today we will be working on the Draught of the Living Dead. Copy these notes down from the board and then pair up to brew the potion. I want absolute silence in this class. I should be able to hear the sound of Mr. Longbottom's brain not working," he cruelly threatened.

My heart ached for poor Neville, it truly did. After all, he was a very sweet boy, just a little clumsy at times. And he was quite smart when he didn't have to worry about Snape's berating at the smallest, simplest mistake.

I leaned over to whisper some encouraging words to him when Snape sneered, "And don't even try to whisper sweet nothings into his ear, Miss Granger. You will be paired up with Mr. Malfoy for this assignment."

And that was that, apparently. The discussion, if you could call it that, was over, and I had no say in it whatsoever. Gritting my teeth and pretending the blank piece of parchment before me was Snape's ugly face, I literally stabbed my quill down and scratched out the notes. By the time I had finished, most of my anger had cooled off, and I smiled apologetically to Neville as I gathered up my things to go over to Malfoy, for I knew that he'd never deign to come to me.

He sat there in the back of the class wearing a familiar smirk and I was quite surprised to see he wasn't choking on that haughty air around him.

"Hurry up, Granger, I don't have all day," he drawled.

I felt my anger prick, but wisely pushed it away.

But then Malfoy had to stupidly speak again. "Come now, Mudblood, you better get started if you want to finish my potion before the end of class."

Lord, how I hated this boy. "Perhaps you should shut your hole, Malfoy. Your constant bickering might distract me and I might 'accidentally' sabotage your potion. And we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

His eyes flickered for a moment before they turned condescending once again. "You wouldn't; it's your grade as well," he confidently threw back.

The little snot was right, of course, but I wasn't about to tell him that. I smiled brilliantly for good measure as I announced, "Well, I already have perfect marks in this class, so if one potion is botched, it will hardly affect my grade," I threatened indirectly.

After that, Malfoy, thankfully for my sanity, held his tongue since he was not willing to test me. We worked for the rest of class in silence, or really, I worked for the rest of class. By the time the potion was completed (and correctly, I might add) he was practically asleep with his eyes open.

"I see you have finished here, Mr. Malfoy," Snape began expectantly, coming up from behind us.

Malfoy flinched in surprise before regaining his composure. "Yes, sir, I have."

Snape glanced down at the perfect potion. "Correct, as usual, Draco. Ten points to Slytherin for excellent work."

I knew better than to point out that I was the one who brewed the potion; after all, arguing would only get points taken off of Gryffindor.

Class ended soon after that and the day seemed to fly past me in a flash. Before I knew it, I was sitting alone in the library and curfew was a mere thirty minutes away.

Tiredly I put my book back on its rightful shelf and trudged my way to the Gryffindor Common Room. Being Head Girl, I had my own rooms, but they were still in Gryffindor Tower, and besides, I loved going through just to say 'hi' to some of the younger students.

It was really late, though, and I doubted anyone would be up. Ron was probably in his dorms, cramming for the Transfiguration test we had tomorrow, and Harry would no doubt still be out on the Quidditch pitch. So, I went towards the Common Room with the prospect of waiting for Harry to return to remind him to study for that test.

Giving the Fat Lady (who wasn't all that fat, I now notice) the password, I crawled inside, feeling my stomach promptly drop to the floor.

I had been wrong before, not everyone was in their rooms. Sitting pensively in front of a friendly crackling fire was a very thoughtful Oliver Wood.

"Professor Wood," I gasped, faintly noting how odd it was to be calling the man I loved 'Professor.'

He flinched in his chair and turned his wide brown eyes to look at me. "H-H-Hermione?" he asked doubtfully.

My blush could rival one of Ron's. I nodded to him, chewing slightly on my bottom lip. "The one and only," I confirmed lamely.

He cracked a smile then, his shock melting away as if he had known I had been there the whole time. "My, it's been years since I've seen you."

Three years, five months and 24 days; not that I was counting or anything.

"Look at you, you're all grown up. Head Girl and everything, not that's its any surprise," he chatted amiably.

I gritted my teeth. There I was, seeing the man I loved for the first time in years, and he was speaking of me as if I were still a child.

"What are you doing here?" I responded.

Oliver blinked, slightly taken aback by my defensive tone, no doubt. "Well, I was just waiting for Harry to get back from practice; he said he wanted to talk to me about a few plays he had come up with for the team and wanted my opinion on them."

Silence followed.

"What are you doing out so late?" he asked, trying to fill in the awkward void of speech.

"It's not past curfew," I hastily assured him, mentally smacking myself on the forehead because of how stupid I know I must have sounded.

He smiled again and I noticed he had a slight dimple on his left cheek. "Don't worry, I'm not going to take any points away from you or anything," he guaranteed.

I gave him a tentative smile. "I just got back from the library," I explained.

"Ah, I see, well I guess some things will never change," he joked.

I gave a nervous laugh; that was true in more ways than he knew. "That's for sure. I was going to wait up for Harry to get back from practice to make sure he'd study for a test tomorrow..." I felt obliged to explain; he was still a professor, after all.

"Well, good then, you can keep me company while we wait and we can catch up. Here, have a seat," he gestured to the chair beside him.

I felt my legs weaken as I slowly went to take his proffered seat. Okay, relax. Just breathe, I muttered mentally to myself. It's only a seat; we're only going to talk- you know, talk. When you open your mouth, remove your foot, and try to string words into a sentence? I really was a bit harsh on myself.

I slumped into the chair, sitting stiff backed and waiting for a topic to present itself. Luckily, Oliver had no problem with the concept of talking.

"So, did you read the paper?" he began on what I suppose he thought was safe ground.

I bit my lip. "Yes and no," I muttered.

He frowned curiously, "How's that?"

"Well, I just kind of scanned through it. I only really read one article," But that doesn't count since I wrote it, I added silently to myself.

Oliver smiled knowingly. "Let me guess: Lady Rowena's Ballad for the Lost Romantics?"

I blushed. "Yes, just to see what the big deal was about, of course" I admitted.

He nodded. "Oh, yes of course. And, what did you think?"

I lifted my shoulders into a lazy indifferent shrug. "Nothing special," I announced nonchalantly.

Oliver looked surprised. "You mean you didn't feel as though it was the most 'tragic thing you'd ever heard'?"

I'm surprised that my lip didn't start bleeding from how hard I bit it. "Well, it was sad, I suppose. But it sounded as if there was nothing she could really do, so why dwell?"

"I suppose you're right," he allowed, turning his head away from me and looking intently into the flames once again. "Still, I'd give anything to know who she is," he confessed.

That's when I noticed the wistful glaze to his eyes as he stared into those lifeless flames. I felt my throat tighten and my stomach convulse painfully. It was as if I had been hit with a bludger to my gut and was about to vomit. And, to make things worse, that's when I saw it.

As Oliver looked into those flames, envisioning things that only he could see as he wishfully spoke softly about Lady Rowena's precarious situation, he had that same exact look on his face that he did on that morning, oh so many years ago, when he looked at me. As he spoke of Lady Rowena, his eyes lit up with a beautiful inner fire that I knew would always keep me safe and warm if he'd only look at me that way.

But he was talking about Lady Rowena when he got that look; wishing for Lady Rowena. Not Hermione. He wanted Lady Rowena, and not Hermione, and yet I was both of them at the same time.

I felt the bile in my stomach rise up to choke me. My heart restricted painfully and suddenly I wished that Lady Rowena would die a terrible death one hundred times. I couldn't believe it; I was jealous of myself.

And I'd like to say, chaps, that I confessed everything to Oliver right then and there. I wish I could tell you that I told him I was Lady Rowena and that the man I wrote about was him; but I cannot for the simple reason that I did not. It would have saved us both a lot of heartache if I did, would have made things loads easier, but, as we've already established, love is never easy.

So what happened? Well, as I opened my mouth to speak (and I have no idea what I would have said) the portrait hole swung open and in marched a sweaty, muddy Harry Potter, fresh in from his Quidditch practice.

"Harry!" I jumped up from the chair, taking the easy way out. "I just wanted to remind you about the Transfiguration test tomorrow, and now I did, so I'll just be off. Okay, goodnight," and I ran up the stairs to my rooms, thankful for my escape.

That's right, everyone. Hermione Granger ran away from love for the second time that night.