Instances

For days-- weeks more likely-- I had been completely unaware of what was happening around me, lost in a world of scenarios and doubts, of scenes and desperate questions. Was he out there, somewhere? Were they looking for the key to it all? Was he wishing I was there? Was he secretly glad I couldn't nag him anymore? Was he sitting by my side, hoping I'd awake? Was he relieved I wasn't harassing him and Harry anymore? I wanted to tear out part of me and throw it farther than my arms could ever hurl anything, remove it from me. It ached and I wondered and worried and hoped and cried inwardly.

Later, I heard stories . . . stories of hours spent by my hospital bed, hoping something would happen and I'd awake. Stories of hours searching for the answer, hours spent wishing and wondering and wanting, until they found the paper, curled up in my hand, and they'd known. Madam Pomfrey had told me more. He'd been there even more often - sitting, watching, hoping, and looking forlorn and lost. Wishing I was there. Every time I remember the picture that memory conjured, my throat tightens, and yet, I want to sing for joy that he was there.

Madam Pomfrey leaned over me, poured a bit of potion down my throat. She waited anxiously, bent over me, and prayed I'd come around. I began to stir. I sat up then, bleary-eyed, dazed, and confused. She could only hug me and laugh. "The feast is beginning," she said. "Hurry and join the others! They've been waiting for weeks."

I smiled and nodded, then carefully got up and walked just a bit stiffly out of the hospital wing. My legs began to pick up speed. I began to run, sprinting down the familiar path to the Great Hall. Suddenly, I stopped at the big, open doors. Noise and light and happiness filled the place My smile was so big it nearly swallowed up my face. I saw Harry and Ron turn and see me. Smiles enveloped them as well. They stood up and I ran . . . ran towards them. I threw my arms around Harry, who'd barely survived. I turned to Ron - and could only laugh and blush a bit uncertainly.

He stuck out his hand a bit stiffly, and I took it. "Welcome back, Hermione." I was shriveling up inside and, for a split-second, wondered why. Did I expect him to hug me too? Did I expect him to kiss me? I almost burst out laughing, mortified at my own thought. I wanted so . . . so quite badly, so badly, to wrap my arms around him and squeeze the breath out of him, then laugh and just be happy. But I looked at his face, and there it was - the old awkwardness. I was resigned, disappointed, hurt, torn, but I smiled in spite of all that. As the noise, light, and the splendor of the feast came back into focus, I felt happy.

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It was the time. It had come.

We'd known it was going to happen. We'd hoped against it, worked against it, studied and researched, written and hoped . . . just prayed it wouldn't happen. But finally it'd come: the day Buckbeak . . .

It was too terrible. Was Voldemort gaining footholds, gaining power even now?

They came outside. He was draped in black, an evil menace, the representation of all that was evil, conquering our world. He raised it. I was shaking so bad, so bad, so bad I was afraid I'd fall and tumble down the cliff, fall under his blade. I turned my head the littlest. I thought it was my mum, or Ginny, or someone - I don't know, I thought it was anyone but who it was. Thinking back, I'm glad it was - no, I don't know. But I think I'm glad it was who it was.

I turned and put my arms up - around. My eyes were welling up, and I felt the hot tears drip onto him as I hugged him and cried.

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My heart was thumping faster then I knew was possible. Butterflies . . . butterflies so crazy and big that I had never felt before were threatening to choke me. I considered being sick, but I was happy, excited, sick, and nervous. I couldn't wait, and yet, I was afraid of what I might - what could or would - happen.

I shook. I finally turned, put my hand on the wall, and looked out. Sea of people. There he was - no. No. What could have possibly gone wrong and made the whole thing terrible as it had. For it wasn't him. Then I saw a different face, blurry among the sea, that I realized was waiting for me. Gently brushing aside the thought of when it would be that other face, I stepped out.

I smiled shakily and concentrated on not tripping. I thought of him, his realization that "you're a girl", and I rocked between sudden tears and anger. A Granger. I composed myself and, seeing his jealous face, remembered what everyone - all the girls, that is - had told me, and tried to settle myself with dignity and what little beauty the girls claimed I possessed. I felt like I was shining, radiating in a way I thought I never would. The faces turned to me, and they didn't believe it. The girls' shocked looks at me - the plain girl, the one who'd never looked at a boy, and at whom a boy had never looked - was beautifully, gorgeously pretty and had the date they all had dreamed of. It was the girl they all dreamed of being stepping out of the girl they all disdained. That moment, the look on their faces, the feel of the dress clinging to my skin, the coolness of pins arranged through my hair, was worth the world.

I moved my arm to his and took a breath.

We talked and danced, and I couldn't see the end of the whispers, gasps, and compliments directed my way. I was thrilled, the butterflies were flapping around a bit, but in a very pleasant way. Viktor kissed my hand before leaving to get something to drink, and I couldn't stop grinning in a most unusual way as I giggled and spun. Then I saw Harry, sitting with him. The wonderful evening had me rashly reconciled, and I joined them with an invitation to get drinks with us.

It was then that everything went horribly wrong. "The enemy," he called Viktor, "too old for you - more then friendship in his mind." He approached me again after Viktor left. I stormed out of the hall, but he followed, insulting and insinuating. I couldn't stand it.

"You know the solution then, don't you?" I demanded. Then I continued. "Next time there's a ball, pluck up the courage and ask me before anyone else does!"

All he could do was sputter and stammer. And he muttered, as I yelled at him and Harry to go to bed. "They get scary as they get older."

I couldn't stand it; I couldn't stand it at all. All I could say was, "Ron, you spoil everything!" I crumpled and cried. It was all ruined . . . all in pieces.

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Watching him and Lavender was torture. There's nothing I can think of to describe what they did all day long. It was sickening, a torture. I didn't dare to think he loved me, really, but I thought he at least liked me a bit more then he did the average girl. I thought we were okay . . . I almost thought we were closer in a way. Till he and Lavender . . . I was sick all day, every day. There were occasional moments. One day, he said it. He said it! And it was so strange. I suppose it was a passing comment, but I couldn't help but hope it won't be the last time I hear him say the words "I love you, Hermione." Listening to Harry and Ron discuss how to ditch her, I felt like silly butterflies were flapping around inside me. Then they split up, and we were friends again, just okay friends. When Harry and Ginny happened, I wanted so desperately to be Ginny and for him to be Harry, even though I told myself over and over about how stupid that was. To be there, standing against the wall, laughing and talking and hugging, to be able to be possessive of him, to hear him talk to me like he wouldn't to any other girl, to kiss him like nobody would ever. It was stupid, but I had to try not to cry sometimes, wishing I could be there too.