My Head. . . . But My Heart

~My Head. . . . But My Heart~

by Keelie

From my head to my heart
I feel the distance standing here next to you
I don't want to keep you waiting, but I've been waiting too

Hermione Granger hated him. Hated him, hated him, hated him.

He was a stupid, ignorant, prejudiced, son-of-a-Death-Eater prick that deserved to rot in Azkaban.

Or so said her head.

She was rational, logical, calm. She got top marks at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, delighted her parents with her knowledge of all things Muggle and magic, and was known to her friends as "the Smart One."

That should have meant her head and her heart where on speaking terms.

They weren't.

She'd told herself a hundred-- a thousand-- a hundred thousand-- times he was vapid and shallow and evil and perfect matieral for the Jr. Death Eaters Club. The message didn't seem to be making its way down to her heart.

It doesn't help that we have Potions with the Slytherins, mused Hermione as she peered at herself in Parvati's gold gilt mirror. The Gryffindor fifth year girls' dormitory was empty, except for her. A little primping couldn't hurt.

She pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail and tied it with a narrow black velvet ribbon. There. All done. She grabbed her black leather bookbag and tucked her gold-and-red "Gryffindor Lions" pennant inside. She never passed up an opportunity to cheer for Harry-- Seeker-- and Ron-- Keeper-- on the Quidditch pitch, even if it was a blood match against Slytherin.

And even if her heart did want her cheer for someone else.

Hermione shook her head firmly-- which, of course, did nothing to clear her heart-- and hurried out of the dorm. Ron and Harry were waiting in the empty common room, both sporting their Quidditch robes and smiles. She forced a happy grin as they headed from Gryffindor Tower to the Great Hall, but luckily they chattered together about how much they wanted to beat Slytherin.

She was just about to form a suitable reply when, in an instance she was sure would never happen, her head and her heart did something in perfect unison-- stopped.

There he was.

He was sitting at the Slytherin breakfast table, a bit apart from everyone else, wearing Quidditch robes that somehow made him look as though he should be posing on an Abercrombie & Fitch bag. . . .

Green Quidditch robes.

Green for Slytherin. Green for the house that separated her from him. Green for the envy she felt whenever Pansy Parkinson-- a bonafide witch-- rubbed her foul hands all over him. Green for the ferns she'd grown in their garden together if they sidestepped Fate and realized they loved each other. Green for the emerald-- Hermione's favorite stone-- that she'd overheard was his birthstone.

And green that was the most different color from the little red T-shirt she wore.

Harry and Ron are laughing about something, Hermione realized dimly, and forced herself to chuckle along. Harry pulled out a chair for her at their breakfast table-- the Gryffindor table-- and she sat down a little too quickly, with a smile still cemented on her face.

It dropped as Pansy flounced into the Great Hall, resplendent in robes of Slytherin green dripping with lace, over to the Slytherin table and plopped into the empty chair next to him.

Of course. He was saving a chair for her.

Hermione tossed back her ponytail, faintly aware of the fact that she should make it seem like she was a functioning human being. Pansy was cooing a greeting, snapping her fingers for a nervous first-year to bring her something because "Drakikins needs his strength, dammit!"

Even as Harry passed her a piece of toast and Ron handed her a goblet of pumpkin juice, both beaming, she couldn't stop one damn thought from chasing itself around inside her head-- once again, not on speaking terms with her heart.

Some day if I get there and you want me too
We can see it through