The Last Time

Chapter 15

Fred Weasley never missed an excuse for a party. That evening, after the game, he and Angelina smuggled several cases of butterbeer and assorted snacks ("Courtesy of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, of course!") into Gryffindor Tower. By the time the team had showered, changed, and made their way back to the castle, the party was in full swing. Professor McGonagall came up to tell them that former students were not allowed to throw parties, but Fred handed her a butterbeer and turned on his Weasley charm - which she could not combat by taking points from him anymore - and finally she rolled her eyes and put a Silencing Charm on the portrait-hole to keep from disturbing the rest of the castle, with strict instructions that the party was to end by eleven o'clock.

"Excellent work today, Mr. Weasley," she said fondly to Ron, as she left. "Never let them score a single goal. Brilliant."

After that, the party got very noisy. Lavender Brown had a wizarding radio, which they turned to the Wizarding Wireless Network. A few of the boys pushed most of the common room furniture to the walls, and soon half of Gryffindor was dancing madly.

"So who was that man you were talking to after the game?" Hermione asked Ron.

"Simon? He's the manager of the Tutshill Tornados. It's a professional Quidditch team," he said.

"I know it's a Quidditch team," said Hermione. "What did he want?"

"Oh, he just wanted to ask me if I'd thought about playing Quidditch after leaving school," Ron said, trying to be casual, but his blue eyes were bright with excitement. "He invited me to come and play with the team a little over the Christmas holidays, you know, just to see what it's like."

"That's incredible, Ron!" said Hermione. "Remember what I told you yesterday? I was right, wasn't I?"

"Well, maybe so," said Ron. "He's not exactly offering me a job or anything, but it's a good sign."

Hermione excused herself to get something to drink, and when she returned Ron was in a deep discussion with Fred, Angelina, and Natalie McDonald about the merits of various Quidditch teams. Since she had no interest in Quidditch unless Ron and Harry were playing, she didn't have much to add to the conversation and let her mind wander.

Harry was sitting in the corner holding an unopened butterbeer. There were two empty bottles on the floor beside him.

He's not spending the party in the corner sulking, she thought, getting up and going over to him.

"Good job today, Harry," she said, sitting down.

"Yeah, I suppose," said Harry.

"Are you all right?"

Harry snorted. "Sure. Absolutely wonderful. Why does everyone keep asking me that?" He opened his butterbeer and took a very long swallow.

"You just aren't yourself," she said.

"I wonder why."

"Harry - "

"Shouldn't you be over there with your boyfriend?" There was an edge to his voice that Hermione didn't like.

"I was with him a while ago. Right now, I want to be over here with you."

"Do you really?"

"I'm sitting here, aren't I?" she said.

He shrugged and drank the rest of his butterbeer.

A hauntingly melodic song began to play on the radio. Hermione looked up to see that Fred and Angelina had left the Quidditch discussion to dance, but Ron and Natalie were still talking intently. His bright head and her dark one were bent over a book of Quidditch plays, studying and analysing. Though she knew it was an innocent conversation between two teammates, she felt...odd...and even a little left out, to see Ron talking so animatedly to the younger girl. Her first thought was to go over and ask Ron to dance - but something stopped her. He probably wouldn't appreciate her interrupting his conversation.

She turned to Harry.

"Come on, let's dance," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't dance."

"Sure you do. I saw you at the Yule Ball." She held out a hand.

"No, what you saw was me standing in place and Parvati Patil steering me in circles," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Well, come stand in one place while I steer you around, then," she said. Seeing that he wasn't going to go willingly, she grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet, dragging him over to an empty space. He didn't appear too thrilled, but he didn't object either.

It was not the best song for dancing - a little too slow and almost sad, but beautiful nonetheless, the exotic sound of the singer's alto voice echoing off the stone walls of the common room and blending with the mellow sounds of cello and piano. Harry put his arms in place clumsily, stiffly holding her away from him and touching her no more than necessary. He wasn't looking at her; he seemed to be focusing somewhere just beyond her left ear.

When the dark wood fell before me

And all the paths were overgrown,

When the priests of pride say there is no other way,

I tilled the sorrows of stone.

Hermione took his hand, idly rubbing her thumb along the back of it. His hands were strong and long-fingered, lightly callused from years of gripping his broom in Quidditch.

I did not believe because I could not see

Though you came to me in the night.

When the dawn seemed forever lost

You showed me your love in the light of the stars.

Cast your eyes on the ocean,

Cast your soul to the sea,

When the dark night seems endless,

Please remember me.

Ever so slowly, he relaxed his arms and shoulders, and moved with her instead of fighting her. One of his hands rested at the small of her back, gently pulling her closer to him. She found she didn't have to do quite as much steering as he said she would.

Then the mountain rose before me

By the deep well of desire

From the fountain of forgiveness

Beyond the ice and the fire.

Cast your eyes on the ocean,

Cast your soul to the sea,

When the dark night seems endless,

Please remember me.

It felt strangely right dancing with Harry. Hermione wanted to look up at his face, but suddenly found she couldn't do it, so she concentrated very hard on a tiny piece of lint that was stuck to the shoulder of his robes. She tried very hard not to think about how warm he was, or how the fresh scent of soap from his post-game shower tickled her nose.

Though we share this humble path alone,

How fragile is the heart.

Oh give these clay feet wings to fly

To touch the face of the stars.

Breathe life into this feeble heart

Lift this mortal veil of fear.

Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears

We'll rise above these earthly cares.

Hermione's feet didn't want to move anymore, and apparently neither did Harry's; they moved slower and slower until they were standing still. She was afraid to move or breathe or even blink.

Cast your eyes on the ocean,

Cast your soul to the sea,

When the dark night seems endless,

Please remember me.

The words faded away as the music ended; but Hermione had ceased to hear anything but her heartbeat echoing in her ears. Their faces were very close together, and he was looking at her, his green eyes bright behind his glasses.

"Thank you." It was the barest hint of a whisper. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

Then he turned abruptly and headed for the stairs.

Hermione had to sit down - she felt rather dizzy. Must be from the butterbeer, she thought. She looked around and spotted Ginny sitting alone, and went to sit with her.

"Having fun?" Ginny asked, looking irritated.

"I suppose so." Hermione couldn't figure out the reason for Ginny's tone of voice.

"Hermione?" Ron had appeared at her side. "Where'd Harry go?"

"Oh - well - I guess up to bed," she babbled, not even listening to herself.

"I guess he's still in his mood," said Ron.

"Ron, I love you, but you've got to be the most gormless idiot on the face of the earth," said Ginny exasperatedly.

Ron's mouth fell open. "What the devil are you talking about, Ginny?"

"Harry," she said. "Hermione told me what's going on."

Ron rolled his eyes. "God, Ginny, not you too. When are you going to give it a rest, Hermione?"

"Will you shut up and listen, Ron?" Ginny's eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed. "You mean well, you really do. You think you know what's best for Harry, but you're wrong. You're doing what you would want someone to do for you if you were in his shoes. When you get mad, you want people to leave you alone and let you sulk it off yourself. Merlin knows I've seen you do it enough. But Harry's not like that. He's too - " She paused, trying to think of the right word.

"Dark," Hermione said.

"Yes, exactly," said Ginny. "You can't leave him alone to stew. It just gets worse and worse. He sits around and feels sorry for himself and wallows in it He needs you, and Hermione, to help him. Get him to talk. At least let him know you're there."

"When did you get to be such an expert on what Harry needs?" Ron asked.

Hermione jumped in. "She's not, Ron, but she is an expert on...problems. When she had the diary...none of us noticed. We should have. She could have died, Ron."

"That's not my fault!" said Ron, as his ears turned red.

"No, no, Ron, I'm not saying it is, and neither is Hermione!" said Ginny, hugging him tightly. "It was nobody's fault but Tom Riddle's. All I'm saying is, just watch out for Harry. If something happens to him, and you look back and say 'I could have done something' - "

Ron hugged Ginny back. "I'm sorry about the Chamber, Ginny, really I am. I wasn't a very good brother to you, was I?"

"You are, Ron, you are," said Ginny. "And you're a good friend too."

"Yeah, well, I try," said Ron, letting go. "So what am I supposed to do now?"

"Just go talk to him," said Ginny. "Now's the perfect time."

"Okay," said Ron. "But if he hexes me into oblivion for pestering him, you better come around and pick up the pieces."

*****

Whatever happened between Ron and Harry that night, Hermione had no idea. But the next day, Sunday, Harry joined them for breakfast without being forced into it, and spent the rest of the morning studying with them in the common room. He wasn't very talkative, but it was fine with Hermione; at least he wasn't sulking off by himself somewhere. They helped her with the Potions notes she'd missed, and she scolded them for faking their Divination homework, as usual.

After lunch, he and Ron went off to Quidditch practice with the rest of the team; Harry always scheduled a practice the day after a game, so that they could analyze their previous day's performance. Hermione sometimes went to watch their practices. She enjoyed seeing them play for the fun of it when she could watch without being worried that one of them was going to fall off their brooms or get hit in the head with a Bludger. Today, though, she stayed back in the common room, because she needed to study. The day she'd skipped Potions, Snape had assigned a three foot essay on the uses of a potion he'd taught them about in class, and she needed to get to work on it.

Hermione studied the chapter in the textbook carefully, making detailed notes in her tiny, efficient writing. She looked over Ron's notes from the class, which were unusually complete (usually, his Potions notes consisted of a few scribbled sentences and a multitude of doodles of stick Quidditch players on stick brooms defending stick goalposts from showers of circles that could only be Quaffles) and then set to work on her essay.

She always wrote at least two drafts and a final copy of her essays. The one thing she found inconvenient about the wizarding world was writing with quill and ink instead of pencils or pens. She hated not being able to erase what she'd written when she made a mistake, and for a moment she thought about Tippex, the correction fluid Muggles used to cover up their mistakes and write over them. When she was home for the summer, she often worked in her parents' dental office, filing paperwork, setting appointments, and updating records, and she'd used Tippex without a second thought. Too bad wizards didn't have anything of the sort. Most of her teachers (not Snape or McGonagall) didn't mind a scratch-out or two on a paper, but Hermione despised the look of crossed out words and black blotches, and had been known to re-write an entire page just because she didn't like the look of a word she'd written.

This particular essay was giving her fits. She was on the third draft and somehow she knew it wasn't going to be good enough for Professor Snape. There was a dull ache behind her eyes that threatened to bloom into a full-blown headache, so she laid the essay aside and sat back in the chair with her eyes closed. It was quiet in the common room, as the other Gryffindors were either at Quidditch practice, the library, or enjoying a Sunday afternoon nap, and she could hear rain beginning to beat against the windows.

She dozed off at some point, and was snapped awake by the sound of laughter coming from the portrait hole.

Ron and Harry were back from practice. They were soaked from the rain, their hair was plastered to their heads, and their boots were muddy, but she thought they looked wonderful. The best part was that both of them were actually smiling.

Ron kissed her cheek before going upstairs, and Harry scraped a bit of mud from his sleeve and flicked it at her with a silly grin.

It was just like old times again.

*****

Author's note: The song quoted in this chapter is Dante's Prayer by Lorenna McKennitt.