Honestly, Hermione

Chapter Seventeen: Flying Lessons

On her first day back in the Great Hall, Hermione was showered with well-wishes and supportive smiles. She tried to accept it all quite graciously, but all she could think about - all she'd been able to think about for days now - was Ron. All day long she was distracted in her classes. Someone must've threatened her Slytherin students, because not one of them put a toe out of line. This was uncommon - she was, after all, a former Gryffindor, and of Muggle parentage at that! She made a mental note to thank Snape at the next staff meeting, then scratched it, knowing he'd just sneer and pretend he hadn't done a thing.

Nevertheless, she was grateful. The last thing she needed to deal with was sniggering students and childish hexes.

Somehow she made it through the day. At last, her seventh year all-house Advanced Arithmancy class was over. She stood wearily and dismissed her students. Her mind raced in a hundred directions, trying to figure out just how she could speak to Ron again. She was barely paying attention to her students, and didn't notice their whispers, or the giggles from the girls.

"How's your first day back, Professor?" came the cheery lilting voice she'd begun to know so well.

She looked up, and smiled at Oliver, who was leaning against her doorway, looking for everything like a GQ ad. She shook her head. "Just fine, Mr. Wood. And your flying lessons?"

He grinned, then sauntered in - yes, Hermione thought, sauntered was just the right word for that "I'm-a-famous-Quidditch-star" swagger (Viktor Krum had done it a couple of times, she remembered) - and took the stack of books from her arms. "Brilliant. You ought to try it sometime." At her unladylike snort, his grin widened. "Nothing like a new challenge to get your mind off old troubles, 'Mione," he told her. "Think how impressed they'd be."

They?

"Flying a silly broomstick around the Quidditch pitch isn't likely to make me forget anything, Oliver," she answered sharply. "And I'm not out to impress anyone."

He raised an eyebrow, obviously not believing a word she said. "Oh no? Then what's this about?" He levitated a scrap of parchment from his pocket and waved it her way. Hermione caught it as they walked down the hall, and read it:

***

Arithmantic Equations in the Ming Dynasty

by Dr. Hermione Granger

See the Brilliant Witch in Person!

Ask her your Questions!

Get some Answers

From the Smartest Witch in Britain!

Flourish & Blotts

19 February

Order Your Copy Today!

***

She stopped walking. Her jaw had dropped to the floor. She didn't remember agreeing to any personal appearances. She didn't remember the question even being asked! Then, before her eyes, the ink on the parchment swirled around and reformed into a very...becoming...pen-and-ink drawing of the "famous" Dr. Granger. She could feel her face turning red as embarrassment flooded her veins. She dropped the offending parchment in disbelief.

"They - they - I can't...Oliver, this is ludicrous! I am not embarking on a signing tour for a book that no one but historians and spectacularly bookish wizards will want. What is this madness? I have to go. I'll speak to Dumbledore. He'll take care of this, this - nonsense!"

Oliver chuckled. "Ah, don't get your knickers in a twist, Professor. 'T's all in good fun. Likely Dumbledore knows. These things are up all over Hogsmeade, and London, too. I saw them myself, when I was in Diagon Alley looking at new brooms. It's good for the school, to have a famous author like you teaching the next generation of witches and wizards." The look of horror on her face told him she didn't believe any good could come of such blatant commercialism. "And think," he finished, "it'll give you a chance to see Ron Weasley again."

That silenced her. Professor Granger was almost immediately lost in thought. Oliver was right, she knew. This book signing was the perfect excuse for her to go to London. And while she was there, it made perfect sense that she would see Ron. She had to see him. She needed to know, to have him wipe away her insecurities. She needed to hear him say that he still loved her, still wanted her, even without the baby.

***

Ron sat back from his desk with a grimace that would frighten small children. He looked around at the office he shared with Harry and sighed. Being an Auror in Britain wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He wasn't the head of his sector - Harry was. He wasn't given special assignments - he was too new to the department. His opinions weren't requested in strategy sessions - "This isn't America, Weasley." Harry tried to run interference for him, but Ron had spent his entire childhood being overshadowed by the Boy Who Lived. Back in the States, he'd been respected on his own terms. For once, he hadn't been the sixth Weasley. For once, he hadn't been Harry Potter's Best Friend. For once, he'd been the one in the spotlight.

He missed it.

He shook his head. That wasn't completely true. Sure, he missed the autonomy he'd had there, but he could manage without it. It was good working with Harry again. And he liked being back in England, where the tea was strong and fragrant, where the women didn't feel the need to put on their makeup with a trowel each morning, and where he could cross the entire country in an afternoon, instead of a week. No, what he really missed had nothing to do with work.

He missed Hermione.

Hermione. She was going to be in London. He'd seen the flyers that were suddenly everywhere. Not that she'd told him about it. He figured she was still upset with him for not taking better care of her. But he wouldn't let that stop him from seeing her. Come February, they were going to work this out, once and for all!

***

Christmas at Hogwarts had always been full of secrets and adventures for Hermione. This Christmas, however, was poised to be the worst one on record. She was away from all her friends, away from Ron (not that that was anything new) and still felt the lingering effects of post-partum depression. She had spoken to Dumbledore, who happily admitted to conspiring with Flourish & Blotts about her book signing. Though she agreed in principle that it would be good publicity for Hogwarts, since when did Hogwarts need good publicity in England? Everyone in the magical community knew the place, and most of them had either passed through its hallowed halls, or would in a few years. The event only added to Hermione's fatigue and lack of Christmas spirit.

But twenty-three students had remained at Hogwarts for the holidays. Nearly all of them were Muggle-born. Snape (who by some miracle continued to act as a spy on the Dark Side) had warned Dumbledore of an impending Death Eater attack on the Muggles, and the Headmaster had chosen to keep as many of his students alive as possible. And that meant that, along with everything else, Hermione (with the rest of the staff) had twenty-three rather anxious students to put at ease and share the holidays with. And when she discovered the truth of why so many students had remained at the school, she worried. For Ron, and Harry, and Percy (who still worked in the Ministry), and Ginny and baby Jamie, and...

All of this being true, Hermione did not wake up Christmas morning with any sort of childlike glee at the sight of the pile of presents at the end of her bed. She did manage to work up some enthusiasm, however, when she opened the first one. A Magical History of the Far East. She had a copy, of course, but this one was far superior, with gilded pages and a tooled leather binding. She opened it eagerly and sighed at the pleasant sound of never-opened pages crackling apart. Was there any better sound in the world? She would have to send Ron a thank-you owl. She knew how difficult it must have been for him to select such a book for her, when they weren't even speaking.

The rest of her gifts were pleasant as well. A sweater and some fruitcake from Molly Weasley (who had never stopped knitting Christmas sweaters for her family and now spent nearly all year with a skein of yarn and knitting needles charmed into knitting even when she wasn't), several other books from friends and fellow professors, and a token good for one free treatment at the Inner Eye, Lavender and Kendra and Grainne's fortune-telling shop. That, at least, made her laugh. Especially when the profile on the token winked at her.

And at the bottom of the pile was a package that looked suspiciously familiar. Hermione narrowed her eyes as she read the card. It was from Oliver. She clenched her jaw. No need to unwrap it to know what it was: a broom. The card said that her flying lessons would begin the following afternoon.

***

She was smiling once more when she appeared in the Great Hall that evening, and the twenty-three students shared a mutual look of relief. Professor Granger was difficult enough when she was at her best. Ever since "the accident," she'd been pretty near unbearable. Almost as dour and dreary as Professor Snape...though not as obviously biased.

Her fellow teachers, too, were relieved to see the young professor back to her former self. Though it would be a long time until she had healed completely, seeing Professor Granger with a smile on her inquisitive face was a welcome Christmas gift.

While the Hogwarts staff and students pondered her return to the land of the living, Hermione remained blissfully unaware, and slid into her seat at the head table. "Happy Christmas, Hagrid," she greeted the aging giant seated on her right.

"'Appy Christmas, 'Mione," he replied, already deep into his cups.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Wood," she said to the teacher on her left. Holidays or not, Hermione felt compelled to use proper titles in front of the students.

"Happy Christmas, Professor Granger," he returned, biting back a grin. "Pudding?" he asked, passing her a dish.

"Thank you, no," she told him. Instead she reached for the mashed potatoes. She had intended to demand to know what he meant by giving her a broom for Christmas, but now she realized that such an approach would be rude, to say the least. Instead she mulled it over while feasting on the efforts of the house elves. Oliver, she noticed, didn't say anything, just watched her with that annoying grin and refilled her glass whenever she emptied it.

Finally, when the dessert course appeared on the tables, she sighed heavily and spoke to him. "I must thank you for your gift, Mr. Wood." She felt a sharp twinge of guilt as the words came forth in a stilted, decidedly ungraceful tone. "I mean -"

"No need, 'Mione," Oliver interrupted - much to Hermione's relief. Then he winked. "Will I meet you out on the pitch tomorrow? Half two, say?"

She blushed; then, realizing she was blushing, and realizing nobody ever made her blush like this but Ron, blushed even brighter. "Mr. Wood, you must realize I -" He interrupted her again, this time just by holding up his hand to her tumble of words. "What?"

"Call me Oliver, won't you? We're not in class now." He continued quickly, before she could refuse. "You've heard rumors that I read, and I've heard rumors that you can fly. But I don't believe I've ever seen it. So come with me tomorrow. I'll see what you can do, and give you a couple of pointers so you won't be so afraid."

"Who says I'm afraid?" He gave her a look that would have garnered a sharp retort, had Ron or Harry or one of her students done it. But it was difficult to lose her temper with Oliver. He was just too obliging. She settled for a sort of grimace. "Fine. So I'm afraid. So what? You try growing up Muggle and then see if you're so eager to get on a flying stick and zip about, a hundred feet above the ground. It's only logical to be a bit...nervous."

"Brilliant!" With that, Oliver dug into his plateful of pudding with the eager greed of a little boy. Hermione watched him for a moment, wondering if she would ever completely understand this seemingly simple man who always seemed to know just what to do.

***

"Well, there's your problem," Oliver said the next afternoon. Hermione felt utterly foolish, clutching her sleek new broom, and trying to remember everything she knew about flying. And already Oliver Wood, Quidditch pro, was criticizing her approach.

"I haven't even kicked off yet, Oliver!" she half shouted. Then she muttered, "I swear on the soul of Madam Hooch and all the Chudley Cannons - he'd better not let me fall."

The handsome flying master chuckled, having heard every word. "Don't worry, 'Mione. You're not going to fall. Now look at the way you're holding your broom. You've got it in a death grip! Flying is like riding a horse. The broom can sense your fear, you know."

She snorted. "I knew the Quidditch-mad Oliver Wood of the past was in there somewhere. Really, you and Ron should get together and form a society devoted to the love and proper handling of the ever-skittish modern broom. I can't tell you the number of times he's fed me that line of rubbish."

"Well, if you've heard it before, why don't you believe it, Professor?"

"Well, Mr. Wood," she returned with a heavy dollop of sarcasm, "because this broom is inanimate. It is a piece of wood. Not living, not breathing, not feeling."

He laughed. Hermione couldn't believe it. He laughed! She began tapping her foot. "Ah God, Hermione. That's wicked funny." She wasn't laughing. He sobered a bit, but couldn't manage to chase the lopsided grin from his GQ face. "You're not in earnest...are you?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He guffawed. "Because you're a witch! Every magical person knows that everything - animate, inanimate, everything - is affected by the witch or wizard wielding it. It's basic magical knowledge - first year stuff. D'you not remember buying your wand? Testing a few? Remember how they all worked differently, until you landed on just that right one?" She nodded, a bit unwillingly (Hermione still hated to be wrong). "Well, a broom's the same. Anybody'll have a bit of a bad time of it on those old Hogwarts brooms. What you need is a broom you can trust - and a broom that trusts you. You can't clamp onto it like a vise and expect it to work well." She just rolled her eyes. "What?" he asked in a slightly injured tone. "Don't you believe me?"

"Oliver," said Hermione in her teacher voice, "please give me some credit. I have read up on the subject of flying. Do you honestly think I wouldn't have tried to perfect my technique long ago if it would make any difference at all? I've read nothing that says a broom can sense the feelings of its owner, that it can think." He made a particularly rude noise. "What is it? Are you telling me that all of those books - including a Chudley Cannons guide featuring yourself - are wrong? That you alone hold the key to proper broomstick flying? Have we overinflated our ego, Mr. Wood?"

He shot her a withering look. "You know that Muggle saying 'Those who can, do'?" She nodded impatiently. "Well, those who can't, write a bloody book about it."

Her foot stopped tapping. Suddenly, the pitch was achingly silent. Oliver knew he'd said the wrong thing by the hurt that welled up in those pretty brown eyes. Immediately the Flourish & Blotts parchment rose up in his mind. Before he could remove his foot from his mouth, the lovely young professor turned on her heel and walked off the Quidditch pitch. "Hermione!" he called, reaching in the direction of her receding back. He took one step and tripped - over the broom he'd given her the day before.