All Bets Are On...

Filch walked right past the Gryffindor Common Room, too busy crooning a bedtime lullaby to Mrs. Norris to hear a single thing coming from within the place. The refrain of "Cradle Will Fall" echoed down the hall and naturally, into the aforsaid common room. Hermione, George, and Fred had not shut the door behind them hard enough, they had been in such a hurry to get out of Filch's and Mrs. Norris's line of eyesight. Therefor, the door was standing wide open, allowing the song's refrain to be heard.

Fred got up to shut the door, shutting out the noise while he, George, and in what seemed to be a rare occasion, Hermione all snickered over what they had just heard.

"Wonder if he dresses Mrs. Norris in doll clothes and plays tea party, too?" questioned Fred.

"Nah. Probably too busy marrying him off to malibu barbie," said George.

"Now there's an ideal union. Where would she live? Inside his stomach?"

Hermione knew a good deal about the nature of cats and sizable plastic things. Empty candy bags from Honeydukes and Crookshanks certainly didn't mix. (Neither did Lavender's Wimpy Wiild Warlocks cd and Crookshanks, but then that hadn't exactly been an "accident.")

"I was thinking more along the lines of Bermuda. A few swims in the water would do that cat good," said Fred.

"It could drown!"

"That's the point," said George. "Fred did say it would do Mrs. Norris good, didn't he?"

"Oh, lay off the poor cat," snapped Hermione, so intent on arguing with them that she half forgot the reason she was in the common room-after curfew, no less- with the Weasley twins in the first place. "What did she ever do to you?"

"That's a bad question to ask-" said Fred.

"-Unless you want to be here until five in the morning," added George.

"Sure that wouldn't interfere with your usual schedule?"

"No. We don't have a schedule," George stated at the same time as Fred said "yes."

"So you just basically commit acts of mayhem on a random basis?" asked Hermione.

"Basically," answered back both twins, smiling and making Hermione have a strange feeling she was going to be sitting in that common room for awhile before she found out just what they wanted to talk to her about. ( Not that they didn't talk to everyone. They even practiced their jokes on the rusty sets of armor from time to time. ) They had said that they wanted to ask about Ron. Hah! She very much doubted that. Since when did Fred (or George, for that matter) hand out advice on ornery best friends? Never. But then the twins were unpredictability itself.

All she knew was that if it had anything to do with using Crookshanks to carry dungbombs or any other explosives to the faculty bathroom, her answer was going to be a most emphatic "no."

************

Just her luck. The Gryffindor Common Room door would have to spelled so that ghosts couldn't glide through it. On top of that, it was locked to boot. Myrtle stared at the wooden door in immense frusteration, tapping it with her wand.

If only she could remember that spell for picking locks. "Amoramantis," said Myrtle out loud, giving her wand an experimental wave, but to her dismay, nothing happened. Come on, she told herself desperately. It was only fifty years ago!

"Ahola," she tried again. Still no effect upon the rusty door knob. Myrtle refused to give up, trying out several more combinations of letters and phrases, in the hope that one of them was correct.

"Ahola morit? Ahola boris? Aloha?"

"What are you trying to do, transport us to Hawaii?" asked Nick irritably, rolling his eyes, an expression that along with an fed up look was beginning to become uniquely his own, thanks to being in the company of Myrtle and Peeves for far too long. "Really, the spell for unlocking doors is quite easy. I can't believe you don't remember it."

Myrtle sniffled, still waving her wand around aimlessly (and, along with Nick and Peeves, not realizing that it was just such aimless wand waving that would get all three ghosts into trouble.) "Well, if you're so smart, what's the spell, then?"

Nick's confident and superior look vanished almost instantly. "Umm..ermm..I don't remember."

Myrtle and Peeves snickered (or snorted, seeing as both ghosts were covering their mouths with their hands so as not to make too much noise.)

Myrtle stopped snorting and turned to Peeves, who was still going on stifling his laughter. He tended to be the sort who would go on laughing for hours- even after he forgot what he'd been laughing about-just to annoy people.

"What about you?"

Peeves' nose wrinkled in disgust. "I don't remember anything from school-"

"-Except how to blow rasberries," pointed out Nick.

"It's a very useful skill," said Peeves, sounding hurt. "And at least I didn't forget my teachers' names."

"Only so you could know which classes to skip. I remember that," said Myrtle haughtily. She and Peeves had been at Hogwarts during the same time. Alive, that was. Not that they had changed a smidgen since their school days.

Peeves gave a chesire cat-like grin. "We had classes?"

Nick threw his hands up in the air. "I give up!" (He had said these words on a regular basis since this morning, mind you.) "Let's just go torture the house elves and call it a day, shall we?"

"No, wait a minute." Myrtle appeared to be deep in thought. Though, the fact that she was still waving her wand around without purpose ruined the whole contemplating pose a bit. "I remember now. Learned the unlocking spell in Professor Binns class, fifth year."

Nick sighed hopelessly. "In Professor Binn's class? No wonder none of us can remember it."

"Ooh! I remember him!" said Peeves. "That was my favorite class!"

"Exactly," said both of the other ghosts.

"Sort of like naptime for the older set," said Myrtle reflectively as she tried out muttering yet another slew of phrases. When those too didn't work, she hit herself in the head with her wand, which led to the peculiar image of it sticking through her head, seeing as she was transparent.

"So if neither of you remembers the spell, how are we supposed to go in and get rid of the twins?" asked Nick.

"I have an idea," said Mytle, who seemed to be on some sort of ingenious streak. Or that was what Nearly Headless Nick thought until he saw her so called "idea."

Backing up about five feet, Myrtle ran straight for the door to the common room. Then , at the last second, doing a funny sort of dive to the floor, she attempted to use the dive to slide through the crack underneath the door.

Attempting was the most accurate word to use to describe what happened next, as well. Myrtle looked as if she was actually going to squeeze her way through the door (all those years of living in the toilet pipes had payed off.) Her head and stomach had dissapeared from view, presumably, now on the other side of the common room door. However, her slithering through the space between the door and the floor came to an abrupt halt the minute she tried to wedge her bottom half through.

Mytle, was, in short, undeniably and inexcusibly...

stuck.

Peeves, ever the gallant gentleman (hey, after all, he did wear a bow tie-even if it did have yellow polka dots) rushed over right away to try and help Myrtle out of her predicament.But he accomplished nothing except to make the whole thing worse than it already was.

Taking out a honey jar from who knew where (actually, from who didn't want to know where) Peeves poured the contents of it all over the lower half of Myrtle that was still on the ghost's side of the door.

"It'll help her get out easier," he explained to the much horrified Nick.

"That's grease that does that, not honey, you dimwit!"

Peeves grinned wickedly. "Same thing. Besides, pimply wimply's pimples give her all the grease she needs."

Nearly Headless Nick, feeling defensive of Myrtle for some reason, walked over and did what he thought Myrtle would have done if her arms could have reached Peeves. Well, what she would have done besides strangle the polegerist.

Namely, Nick took the jar of honey and stuck it over Peeves' head (amazingly, it didn't go right through him.) "Don't worry Myrtle," he said reassuringly. "Just stay quiet so they don't notice you and we'll get you out."

"Don't notice me?" whispered Myrtle's voice from somewhere on the other side of the door. She didn't seem to even be so much as shedding a tear, though she was definitely on the verge of hysteria. "I look like a mutated corpse! My legs and bloomers are on the other bloody side of the door!"

Nick, realizing her panic, (and resisting the urge to chuckle, unlike Peeves, who was back to his amused chuckling) took action in the form of pounding the door with his fists in hoping that it would open. Of course, with all his strength, that was the equivalent of banging against a brick wall with a fingernail. A clipped fingernail.

*************

Not so much as a peep of the pandemonium and noise going on outside reached the twins and Hermione's ears. The Gryffindor common room doors were spelled to muffle all sound for just such a result. This was for the benefit of both those inside the place, and occasionally, when there was nowhere else for the lurkers-Astronomy Tower was crowded or Filch was on a particularly meticulous watch for students violating curfew-those outside.

Indeed, Hermione and the twins were talking as if nothing had happened, their backs turned towards the door and Moaning Myrtle.

"Okay," said Hermione, jumping to conclusions as she seated herself on a stool beside the twins (who were next to each other on the frayed couch.) "What did you bring me here to talk to me about? And if it's that you intend to blow up the school building, count me out."

"Really?" asled Fred. "Your loss, then."

George shook his head. "You should have told our secretaries first. This completely messes up our plans."

Both saw the serious look on her face. "We're joking."

"I knew that. So get to the point. Do you even remember why you dragged me in here to begin with?"

"What, besides Filch being about ten feet away from us all?" asked Fred.

"Besides that."

"You tell us, Miss Granger," said George in mock graveness, his chin propped up in both hands and staring at her with concern that caught Hermione by surprise. Until she saw Fred grab a pair of someone or other's glasses left on the coffee table and put them low on his nose, getting out a notepad and pretending to be ready to scribble notes on it.

Snap out of it. They're just both pretending to be shrinks, Hermione told herself crossly. Cross at George or herself? Of that she wasn't sure.

"Miss Granger? So you are planning on blowing up the school building. I knew it!"

"You appeared to be troubled about something earlier," said Fred, giving her his most studious look. "What seems to be the problem?"

If only someone would be that concerned about her and be serious about it. Lavender, when she heard Hermione confess as much, always said that Hermione was being influenced from reading one too many romance novels. But on the contrary, Hermione never read any romance novels-she HATED them. All of her idealized rations about her dream guy (Lavender's choice of words, not hers) were all her own. Basically, she just wantd someone, anyone, to need her as a friend as much as she needed them. (With Ron and Harry, it sometimes seemed she was needed for one reason and one reason only. Her brains, and thought that was nice sometimes, it was also annoying at times, as well.)

Hermione privately had decided that after today's events, not confusing her would be at the top of her list. Because the normally staid Hermione was confused. She wasn't going to tell the twins that, though. No way. They weren't exactly on her list of people to trust-but still, George seemed to be less likely to tell someone than Fred ( perhaps because the former was the more thoughtful and trustworthy of the two, not going to tell gossip just for the sake of a joke- though he'd do alot of other things for a one.)

"Besides being up past curfew, nothing," said Hermione in response to Fred's earlier question, regretting how much like a teacher she sounded. Being stereotyped as the smart one all the time definitely had its drawbacks-mainly, that you started to become such even more than you were to begin with.

George raised his eyebrows as he recalled the way his younger brother had stamped up the stairs, his face matching his paisley pajamas. "Nothing? Ron seems to be thinking along a different line."

Hermione wasn't surprised to hear that. To be honest, the problem was more the exact opposite of "nothing." In Ron's eyes, anyway. Hermione had far more on the mind than just Ron-though he was, admittedly, part of it all.

" I know he is," she said with a sigh, deciding to tell the twins after all. This wasn't a bad move considering that true to Hermione's thoughts, George wouldn't tell-and he'd stop Fred from telling. "He thinks anyone who spends fifteen minutes alone with me isn't to be trusted again-and I suppose that's why he's hardly saying a word to Harry. It's stupid. Nothing happened! Harry told him as much and so did I."

"You mean yelled at him," stated Fred with a sincere nod that had Hermione trying hard not to laugh. George and him sitting there so seriously was, well, pretty funny. (They acted like a set of clowns escaped from the circus turned monks.)

"Okay, okay, yelled at him," she admitted. "But it was only to get the point across! He wouldn't listen when I just talked. Grr.. his views must be encased within a thick layer of cement."

"That's one explanation for why his head is so hard," agreed George.

"And why the time you cracked your beater's club over his head on accident after a quidditch game, Ronniepoo's noggin didn't so much as get a dent," said Fred.

"Oh right. And I suppose you're always running into walls in the middle of the night when you sleep walk hasn't done anything to YOUR head? Should be squashed flat as a pancake now, if I'm one to judge."

"Well, he does look remarkably like Dobby from the side," observed Hermione, actually enjoying talking to twins. They could be infuriating, sure, but they kind of reminded her of some strange clash of both Ron's and Harry's personalities (with a mix of Peeves thrown in for good measure.)

"True. Already has the socks look down," said George, noticing his brother's mismatched socks (one grey and one white.) He spoke to Fred. "All you need now is a tea cozy."

"And a thick pair of yellow galoshes," added Hermione with a laugh, the image of Dobby running around trying to keep from catching a cold by holding a leaf over his head forever engrained in her memory.

He had made her laugh. George felt immensly proud of that, as if it was some sort of wonderful accomplishment. Hermione was usually way too serious for her own good, in his opinion. Lightening up was just what she needed.

"And a long flannel nightdress," added George, laughing too at the indignant look on his twin's face. Usually, his twin and him were the ones with the biting sarcastic comments-not him and someone else. (Another reason to ask Hermione out-or to become better friends with her. They really weren't all that different in some matters.)

"You really must be in S-P-E-W overtime, because you certainly know alot about Dobby's nightwear. A little TOO much," said Fred to George, realizing at last exactly what George had been trying to keep from him. Nice try, but how long could you keep something from your twin? A day was stretching it.

"You sure that's not just part of his usual daily attire?" asked George.

"That's something I dearly hope never to find out." Fred gave a shudder.

"If it weren't for insensitive people like you, he'd probably be going around naked."

"Now there's an unappealing thought," retorted George.

Hermione suddenly picked up an embroidered pillow on the couch (which was dangerously near Fred's head.) "Ooh..I'm soo mad."

George wasn't sure if she was talking about Ron or in response to his comment (he hoped it was the former.) "Whoa, watch out. In angry Hermione, that's code speak for she's one step from punching us in the eyes."

"Or reciting part of Hogwarts, A History," said Fred.

"Close. Very close," said Hermione, grinding her teeth in frusteration. "I was going to go find Ron and bash his head into both of yours."

"Don't do that," protested George. "You'd be losing the only sensitive souls that will listen."

"So what's your advice, oh sensitive shrinks?"

Fred, getting a sudden idea (about as keen as Myrtle's early one) gave an evil smile. "Make that shrink. You'll just have to ask George's opinion on the matter. I've got places to go. You two kiddies play nice now."

That git! thought George angrily. How'd he find out? For George knew exactly why Fred was leaving-and it was for one reason only. One reason sitting across from him. Ugh. Fred made a horrible matchmaker. George resolved to put something unpleasant in in his brother's bed soon. Very soon. Something along the lines, of oh say, all of his dirty laundry. No, scratch that. All of his dirty underwear.

Ignoring his brother's glares and Hermione's questioning glance, Fred got off the couch, opened the door, and-- stopped. He took one look at Moaning Myrtle lying there and walked right on past, saying as he went by, "mistook the common room for the boy's dormitories, eh?"

************

"So then, tell me. What's the solution?" asked Hermione at length.

"Oh, I'll tell..if you come and get a butterbeer at Hogsmeade sometime with me."

Hermione didn't look the least bit shocked. George was just teasing, as always. His light hearted tone stated that clear enough. Thinking it was just a joke, she joked right back.

"You're that desperate?"

"Yes," said George. "And no." He looked directly at her, his hands till resting on his chin in the "shrink" pose. He just hoped that what he was saying made sense-normally, being alone in the same room with Hermione was comfortable-but when he was anticipating something not so pleasant, it was nerve wracking. And that was saying something, because George didn't get nervous easily, if at all.

What he planned on asking her took guts. Especially considering...

But disregarding the thoughts he had had on the matter at breakfast that morning, George decided to not wait until after either Ron or Harry had said they liked Hermione for him to say as much. Hey, she either liked him or she didn't. That was all there was to it.

George launched right into his impromptu speech, wondering all the while as he spoke "what am I saying?"

"I think you ought to know that I like you alot. I'd even read all that poetry stuff Malfoy said-well, maybe not the swearing every other sentence and the threatening bodily harm part, but all the rest."

Hermione blinked. Twice. Not a good sign, thought George. She was busy thinking up a proper reaction. One that preferably didn't involve falling over sideways from pure shock. The first words out of her mouth were a "ah." Her thoughts were even less coherent.

He couldn't possibly-he just-he couldn't. Could he? Did he? But then how did she feel? About? No. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. They didn't know each other well enough.

"What are you? From the twelfth century?" muttered a voice in the back of her head. "Wish he had been introduced to you when you were toddlers so you could find out if his diapers were fashionable or not? Hah!"

"Oh be quiet," she told it, her temper rapidly shortening. Going schizophrenic in the middle of trying to think was NOT a good thing. That was it. George was joking. Of course he was! Wasn't that just what he always did?

Hermione gave a relieved smile in George's direction. "You're joking, right?"

"Would it make it easier if I said it was?" Something in the way George said this was all wrong. Ohoh. And then some. He didn't sound like he was joking anymore.

"Yes," said Hermione, not even thinking before she said it-not that she could think at the moment. Lack of sleep and the crazy antics of that day had turned her to kaput.

"Then it is." Hermione was surprised by George's tone. He didn't sound upset, either. Just matter of a fact. But weren't you supposed to argue or throw things at times like these?

Nah. That was just Ron, thought Hermione fondly. She shook her head, confused. She hated fighting with Ron. It was so annoying, but yet...

George stood up and walked off towards the door, stopping just as Fred had when he saw Moaning Myrtle stuck there. But just like Fred, he didn't help. Unknown to Hermione, he was upset. Very. He was also excellent at hiding it. Yeah, almost as good as Ron is at hiding his feelings for Hermione. Nice going.

George swung open the door and left, forgetting to close it behind him. It was this that gave Moaning Myrtle hope.

Free! I'm finally free! Wooh-

Her joyous thoughts ceased as George turned back around and slammed the door. Hard. So much for being nonchalant.

Hermione winced at the loud scraping noise of the door shutting. "Oh, that really helped. Thanks alot! You were supposed to clarify things, not make them worse!" Hermione argued nonsensically with the embroidered pillow she was holding (though the pillow certainly was not what she was talking about.)

Stupid boys. First year, I could have gone around in my pajamas all day long and all any of them would have had to say was that they needed help on their homework or that I had forgotten to wear slippers. Now-ack, I don't even want to think about now.

"I hate hormones!" she yelled at the door before she too slammed out, failing to notice Myrtle (and stepping on her head while she was at it.)

"What am I?" called a fed up Myrtle after her, having now been stepped on by no less than three people. "A bearskin rug?"

But there was no answer, Hermione was already turning off on the staircase to the girl's dormitories, having passed the other two ghosts without noticing them, either.

Moaning Myrtle, still stuck despite Nick's best efforts, began churning her fingers on the cobblestone floor impatiently.

One hundred piles of towels by the pool, one hundred piles of towels. Take on down, pass it around, only ninety nine soaked prefects by the pool...

**************

Nick was still trying to get Myrtle unstuck, albeit half heartedly. Peeves was most certainly not helping, now rolling around on the floor laughing (he sounded twice as scary as usual with a honey pot still stuck on his head.)

But even Peeves ceased his guffaws when he saw the person that was standing, hands on hips, scowling at all three of them (or two and a half of them, depending on your view of Myrtle.)

Professor McGonagall was apparently quite fond of taking midnight strolls.

Nick and Peeves stared at her in horror.

McGonagall used the same tone on them that she would have used on a group of incorrigible students. "And what exactly do you think you are you up to?"

"Absolutely nothing," answered Peeves innocently, putting a halo around his head (or rather, around the honey jar stuck on top of his head.)

He might as well have had the halo held up by a set of horns for all the good it did him. "Stop trying to get me out! They've all left to go somewhere," Myrtle called through the door, not knowing Professor McGonagall was standing there. She was rewarded with a hefty kick in the shins from Peeves.

"Who's all left to go where, Myrtle?"

As soon as Myrtle heard that voice, she shut it fast. "Oh, no one," she lied.

"So no one has left to go somewhere? Most interesting."

All three ghosts gulped.

"And what's your excuse for being up?" Professor McGonagall continued, looking just as stern as ever-in spite of the fact that she was wearing a plaid bathrobe and a set of fluffy bunny slippers.

"Umm..we're someones going nowhere?" Nick ventured and was privy to yet another kick in the shins from Peeves (Peeves didn't seem to realize that since both ghosts were transparent, the kick had absolutely no effect.)

"I suppose the explains your hooligans regarding a certain Miss Granger as well? We will debate that in my office. Now."

"But-but that's like detention!" exclaimed Peeves, who actually sounded in awe. Apparently, detention was something he had been trying to achieve for ages. Hmm..maybe he should make bets more often.

Nick was abashed at McGonagall's words. "I've been dead for over three hundred years! Isn't that a little old for detention?"

"You are never to old to learn from your mistakes," said McGonagall firmly as she pointed her own wand at the common room door and opened it to behold a sticky and thoroughly disgruntled Myrtle.

"This is criminal injustice, I tell you. Criminal!" howled Nick as Professor McGonagall suddenly turned and dragged both him down the hall by his ears and Peeves down the hall by the handle on the side of the honey pot on his head (she wouldn't do as much to Myrtle, seeing as she wasn't keen on gettng any more honey all over her bathrobe, but Myrtle followed, nonetheless.)

"Weren't you a criminal in your past life, anyway?" questioned Myrtle of Nick.

Nick somehow managed to look pompous even as he was getting dragged down the length of the hall by someone shorter than him. "Not criminal. Thief," he corrected her.

Peeves, in spite of getting pulled by the jar on his head, gave a giggle (but then, Peeves was always giggling, particularly at the most inopportune times.) "Another words, you only got hung by your thumbs instead of your neck."

Nick turned a deep shade of scarlet. "That's not true! Errm..not mostly, anyway."

"Look at it this way," said Myrtle as she followed behind Professor McGonagall's hapless victims, for once being the comforter and the comforted. "We're making history! The first ghosts to ever get detention."

"Already made history once," said Nick gloomily.

"How?"

"Involved an axe and my-"

"-Neck," finished Peeves, thought it came out more like necK due to the fact that the honey jar he was wearing kept bumping the back of his head most unpleasantly as McGonagall pulled him along.

"Why does everyone always assume that? Honestly, how can one make history when they're dying? It was my foot," said Nick, much aggrieved.

"Oh. Sorry."

"You could tell that to the axeman if you ever see him. I hear he haunts Durmstang these days. Harumph, not good enough to get a job at Hogwarts, of course, what with his bloody record and all."

"He was an executioner," Myrtle pointed out. Professor McGonagall just rolled her eyes. The ghosts certainly weren't acting very pentulant about all the crazy things they had done that day.

"Still," said Nick stubbornly. "He could have strangled people or something instead, couldn't he? Nice, nonbloody form of death. But noo, he had to use a stupid blunt axe..."

Professor McGonagall wasn't sure who the detention was going to be more punishment for, her or the ghosts.

**************

Just as McGonagall had been turning into the hall Hermione had been in, Hermione had taken a side corridor that led to a set of stairs, narrowly missing the professor.

However, there was more than one person up at that time of night. Hermione spotted a figure (and worse, a male one at that) coming around the corner of the stairs towards her, going down just as she was going up.

I told you you should have just stayed in bed this morning, but did you listen? Oooh, Of course not," a voice nagged Hermione.

You're also the one that told me Ron would never get jealous of Krum, she shot back.

"'Mione?" said Harry, recognizing her.

Inwardly, Hermione gave a groan. This just was not her day. At all. It wasn't that she minded meeting up with Harry, but getting so much as within a foot of him, Ron, Draco, or George led to disasterous (in her mind's eye, anyway) events. If she so much as ran into one more wall, fell in one more puddle, saw one more vision of Santa Clause's disembodied head...

"What are you doing up?" asked Harry before she could ask the same of him.

Hermione rubbed her temples. Her head hurt badly. It was a headache trying to keep up with both Ron and George's flying off the handle-not to mention that both were causing another headache on top of that one for a different reason, entirely. Thank goodness Harry wasn't the sort to blow up at her. At least there was one person that she could still figure out.

"Oh, you know, the usual. Arguing with George in the middle of the night about arguing with Ron arguing with me."

"You aren't making any sense," pointed out Harry with a smile.

" I think my senses are having an off day," said Hermione, not caring how stupid she sounded.

"I think you're just having an off day, period."

"That too," agreed Hermione. "I think after this morning's events, I'll take up eating breakfast Japanese style on a cushion."

"Cushions can be enchanted, too."

"I learned that about the time Ron flew a pillow into my forehead."

"At least you weren't the one that got feathers stuck up your nose when he whammed it into your face," said Harry.

"So what are you doing up?" asked Hermione at last.

"Oh that." Harry gave a very uncharacteristic mischevious kind of smile-one that made Hermione wish she possessed a blindfold to wear whenever he got near. That would have helped things out considerably. "I was going down to raid the kitchens for milk and cookies. Care to join?"

"Sure. I could use a nice, normal conversation. One that doesn't involve people throwing things, yelling, or slamming doors."

"I don't think it's possible to have a nice, normal conversation when you're about to fall asleep standing," said Harry, observing as Hermione swayed in place, trying to fight off sleep.

"Then I can have a nice, normal conversation falling asleep sitting," responded Hermione. And that decided it. She turned around on the stairs and began going down them again with Harry.

"Just don't talk about Ron or George, please," warned Hermione as she and Harry walked off towards the kitchens together.

"How's Krum doing?"

"Not him either. Just don't talk." Hermione didn't exactly realize how brusque that sounded until it came out of her mouth and by then, it was too late. That wasn't exactly how she had meant to say it...

Harry didn't take offense, though. "So you plan on having a nice, normal conversation between yourself and the cookies, then? Wouldn't that be a bit hard? I reccomend talking to the milk instead."

Hermione tried to explain. "Sorry Harry. Didn't mean it like that-it's just.."

"It's okay," Harry assured her hurriedly. "So let's see, no mention of Ron, Krum, or George. Anyone else?"

"Yes." Hermione yawned. "A word of advice, stick to cookies," she teased.

"I'll do that. But I'm warning you, they aren't very responsive."

"Diffiicult to be when you're eating them, isn't it?"

***********

Hermione and Harry sat in front of the cheerfully crackling fire in the kitchen's hearth, drinking hot chocolate. (They had decided against milk. The castle didn't have central heating and being in the middle of winter, well, suffice to say, the milk left out on the counter had all been frozen over.) Taking a precautious sip of the steaming liquid, Hermione asked Harry a question.

"So, what woke you up in the middle of the night in the first place?"

She knew very well how mother hen-ish that sounded, but she had always been that way about Harry and Ron.

Harry shrugged. "I had a nightmare."

At this, Hermione turned sympathetic. Harry often had nightmares of Voldemort-and worse. He'd told her as much before often enough, but never Ron. Perhaps because Ron, good of a friend as he was, would have overreacted, and that was not what Harry needed. Hermione was more calm, though inwardly she worried as much as Ron would have in her place, though she didn't show it.

"The same one?"

"No. Quite different."

Very different, thought Harry. And perhaps not entirely a nightmare. But still, dreaming of Hermione and Ron getting married, with Ron in the wedding veil and Hermione trying to put Dobby on Ron's hand as a wedding ring, was not exactly what Harry called pleasant. I will never fall asleep chewing Drooble's Best Chewing gum again for as long as I live.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Oh."

Harry could tell Hermione was upset about that, but he couldn't help it. This was one dream/ nightmare that he was not telling.

"Well, I'm sure it can't be as scary as waking up next to Trevor's face every morning like Neville does," said Hermione soothingly.

"Oh, I don't know about that. Have you ever seen Seamus's face at one in the morning when he's still in his chicken pajamas? Duck and Run comes to mind."

The image of a disgruntled Harry trying to hide under his covers came to Hermione's mind and she privately thought it a rather cute one (but, of course, said nothing of this matter to Harry.)

"At least you aren't in a living one," muttered Hermione into her hot chocolate rather than directly to Harry, who frowned.

"Listen, I know Ron has a bit of a temper and you guys haven't exactly been seeing eye to eye lately, but--"

"He's part of it," said Hermione. "But not all."

"Let me guess. Krum, George, and all the rest are?"

"Yeah. Them and all the other wierd stuff that happened today. Slipping in puddles, getting zoomed across the room, midnight trysts; it all wears a tad heavily on a teenager's schedule."

"You forgot to add trying to study for the O.W.L's, being chased by two girls who want your autograph on their foreheads, being stampeded by a bunch of really burly seventh years, and having two best friends who refuse to talk to each other," added Harry.

"I'll talk to him--when he apologizes."

Harry stirred the contents of his hot chocolate around, the marshmellows in it dissolving. "He said the exact same thing when he skulked into the dormitories not that long ago. Don't expect me to be your official interpeter at breakfast. I am not telling Ron to please pass the butter or you to hurry up and finish your oatmeal."

"I don't think butter and oatmeal are on the menu for breakfast tomorrow. It's french toast and pumkin juice."

"You know what I mean."

"Fine. First thing tomorrow, I'll apologize."

"So I can expect Ron to forgive you sometime around lunch, then? He was really upset, Hermione."

"I know that," said Hermione groggily. "Just tell me, is the Gryffindor boy's dormitory door still in place?"

"Yeah. He didn't slam it this time."

Hermione gave a half smile. "Good, maybe that means--"

She was cut off by Harry. "Though, he did throw the figurine of Krum against the wall again. And he did appear to be trying to smother himself underneath his blankets, afterwards. He should have just saved himself the trouble, marched over to the Slytherin dormitories, handed Draco his blanket, and then told Draco that he was a no good git that wore hair curlers to bed, but Ron wasn't exactly in a mood to listen to me."

"Ouch."

"He really likes you, 'Mione. You know that, right?"

"How did we get to talking about Ron?" demanded Hermione, not very comfortable on the topic. "I thought he was going to be left out of this."

"Can't be, can he?" said Harry, going on about something else entirely, though Hermione didn't realize it. "After all, we're all best friends. And if you two don't make up somehow or other I will seriously consider--"

"We will. I already said we would. Why are you so worried about it?"

Harry munched on a chocolate chip cookie off of the platter the house elves had brought 'round. "No reason." I make a terrible liar. "And I mean not just make up from the latest fight. Make up from whatever has been causing you two to fight lately."

"That leads to the unmentionable one."

"Aha, Krum--and Lavender?"

How did Harry know? It was a bit uncanny.

"Ugh. She's unmentionable now, too."

"Oh."

Harry abruptly switched the topic-to what Hermione would rather have not talked about at all. "Hermione, I'm serious. You have to to choose between either George or Ron."

And me, added Harry silently. He didn't want to break up the friendship between the three; him, her, and Ron, not unless Ron had had a chance to ask her first. He deserved to get something. Harry always got most everything; the fame, the glory, etc (quoted by Rita Skeeter's down to the last syllable) and as many times as Harry tried to tell Ron he hated all of that, it was true, it still wasn't fair...and that was just they way things were.

Not that Hermione should have been something to "get". She wasn't some trophy, Harry reprimanded himself, disgusted at his earlier line of thought. Just letting Ron have her because he wanted to play fair and so Ron would finally stop thinking he was just the sidekick. Basically, because he didn't want Ron to resent him any more than he possibly already did. How stupid. Hermione couldn't solve Harry's problems for him.

Hermione was just Hermione. And you're just Harry and Ron's just Ron, but that doesn't change things, does it?

No. Makes them more complicated.

"What? But there isn't--" started Hermione.

"But both want there to be."

"Oh, for goodness sakes," said Hermione, having had way beyond her fill of melodrama. "And what if I don't? The word'll explode?"

"No. But Ron probably will," said Harry, thinking back to his friend's livid face as he entered the dormitories earlier.

"And what if I don't want to date anyone, then? What if I think the whole thing is just stupid and I would much rather not?"

"Then don't choose anyone," Harry responded. He smirked as he finished off the last of the cookies. "Don't want you going out with Dobby just because you feel you have to."

"I could have gotten better advice from a textbook."

"You talk to textbooks?" questioned Harry, still wearing the same maddening smirk.

Hermione threw her hands up in the air, copying Nearly Headless Nick's style. "Oh never mind."

Harry drained the last of his hot chocolate and waited while the sleepy house elf (whose tea cozy had fallen around the back of her head to form a twisted kind of bonnet) cleared it from the small table. "Well, I'm off to bed. Quidditch game in the morning."

Hermione stood up as well, giving an enormous yawn as she put her cup in the sink (she refused to let the house elves do the work.) "Good luck tomorrow," she told Harry as he left.

"Why are you wishing me good luck? You'll be there."

"Oh yeah."

Suddenly feeling very awkward, Hermione busied herself rinsing out her mug of hot chocolate, stopping to grab a sugar cookie to munch on before heading up the stairs to bed, herself.

Oh, she could figure out Harry, alright (or she thought she could.) The only problem now was figuring out herself.

Boys. They made good shrinks..

but they were also the reason you needed to see them.