Free Agent

FREE AGENT

"I never promised Hermione anything," Ron mumbled. "I mean, all right, I was going to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with her, but she never said... just as friends... I'm a free agent..." (JK Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince)

"I'm a free agent," I had told Harry, but I had been wrong. Actually, I had been lying.

Still, Hermione had no right being mad at me - it wasn't like I had cheated on her or anything. I had the right to "date" Lavender Brown if I wanted to. But, like it or not, Hermione is one of my oldest friends, and there was just something about the way she boldly declared, "you've got dirt on your nose" the first time I met her that makes me laugh in remembrance. She had also been accusing me and Harry of fighting when, in truth, my rat Scabbers had been "defending," or whatever one would call it, me and Harry from the Big Bad Malfoy. She had sounded like a know-it-all, of course, and I wished I had known something worth hexing her. But now that I think about it, there was no way I could have raised a wand in her general direction. Not when she was somehow channeling Molly Weasley. I hold my mother in very high regard.

She was rather annoying, though. I made her cry. A bit. But she made up for being a nightmare by taking the blame for the Troll Incident. (She had better.) I mean, Harry and I was trying to help her, weren't we? When she was trapped in the bathroom with the troll and she had thanked me with a "Now, don't forget, it's Locomotor Mortis." Like I didn't know the spell! Well, actually, I didn't, but still.

"I know," I had muttered. "Don't nag." Mum, I had added silently.

When second year rolled around, I had become quite fond to her. Of course, by that time, she was "outlining Lockhart's notes with little hearts." Of course, as a typical twelve-year-old boy, the feeling most associated towards that relationship was not jealousy; it was simply disgust. In reaction to the Get-Well card from Lockhart she had lugged under pillow, I had made a face. "You sleep with this under your pillow?" I had asked, incredulously.

The aforementioned Malfoy had become more of a bully. For calling Hermione the M word, he deserved a good hex. Unfortunately, I still didn't know one then, or rather, my wand didn't. However, the only regret I still harbored about belching slugs was the fact that I was the one doing it, not Malfoy. Honestly, if I could do it again, I wouldn't mind the slugs so much.

When the whole ordeal - erm, year - was over, even though she is my little sister and she had been possessed by a diary, Ginny wasn't the first person on my mind. Hermione was; the very same Hermione who had turned herself into a cat and nagged me every minute since we had met. She was the one who had been severely Petrified, so I had been worried what life would be like without someone who fussed and fought with me every step of the way.

I did honestly wonder about Hermione's boggart during third year. "A piece of homework that only got nine out of ten?" I had joked, but that couldn't have been it. I had really wanted to know what it was and strangely, that was so I could protect her from it.

Just like I had wanted to protect her from Snape's bold accusation of "being an insufferable know-it-all." Sure, she was a know-it-all, but she definitely wasn't insufferable and Snape had no right to name her as such. After all, I had survived her for nearly three years. When had she evolved from being a busybody to being my friend? I had no idea.

Fat load of good that did me. Scabbers got eaten, or rather I had thought he did, by Hermione's cat Crookshanks. The thing that had really infuriated me about the situation wasn't the fact that Scabbers was eaten, it was that at first Hermione had denied the allegations. As if I would have lied to her! Of course, Scabbers had turned out to be Peter Pettigrew and I now spend all of his days wishing that Crookshanks had indeed eaten him.

Another person on my list of People-Crookshanks-Should-Eat was Rita Skeeter. That horrible woman had written some pretty awful things about Hermione during the Triwizard Tournament. And Harry, too. But since when did Harry become important? Hermione could probably be accused of aiding and abetting the witch. Why, she and Viktor Krum were practically all over one another. And she hadn't really liked him to begin with! "He looks really grumpy," had been her accusation.

"Really grumpy?" I had repeated in disbelief. What was wrong with this girl? "Who cares what he looks like? He's unbelievable! He's really young, too." There I was, spilling my affections on a bloke who was about to steal my girl! Well, technically, Hermione hadn't belonged to me or anything. But still . . . she was a GIRL.

"Just because it's taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn't mean no one else has spotted I'm a girl!"

How was I supposed to have noticed anyway? Did she not realize how hard it was to notice someone when she's right there? Heck, I had been there through the awkward phases: when she had turned into a cat, when Malfoy had "accidentally" hexed her two front teeth to be increasingly larger than the other, when she had started SPEW. (Hermione's protest had been, "It's S.P.E.W.")

I personally didn't think the idea of being appointed treasurer of the stupid club fair while Viktor Krum who had hardly shown any interest in the whole idea was "getting her drinks" because it was "hot." Of course it was hot! They had been swaying about the dance floor in the middle of the crowd. Why, Hermione was "fraternizing with the enemy!"

"The enemy!" she had barked, almost strong enough for me to back down, but I had forced myself to firmly glance her in the eye. "Honestly! Who was the one who was all excited when they saw him arrive? Who was the one who wanted his autograph?" Don't remind me, I had pleaded silently, but she had continued, "Who's got a model of him up in their dormitory?" Ron had simply glared. "The whole Tournament's supposed to be about getting to know foreign wizards and making friends with them!"

"No, it isn't!" I had shouted back. "It's about winning!" Hey, I may have won the row that night but it still didn't change the fact that Viktor Krum had won the girl.

"Well, if you don't like it, you know what the solution is, don't you?" Hermione had asked a while later.

I did not. I had stared at her blankly. "What's that?" I had asked.

"Next time there's a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!" came the reply.

Perhaps that's the moment I truly stopped being a free agent - in all sense of the word. Of course, the 'moment' may have been long before that but I am hardly someone who would have noticed. It may have been when she had sent Lockhart all those Valentine cards or maybe when she had inaugurated me into S.P.E.W. or when she had stopped eating for the sakes of the house elves. Somewhere along the way, I had known that I wanted - no, needed - her opinions and her approval. Of course, I had hardly received either when I became prefect. She had been happy. For Harry.

And absolutely crestfallen when she had realized that the badge belonged to me, not Harry.

"It's my name on the letter," I had told her, frowning.

Hermione had blushed hard. "Well done, Ron. That's really - Wow! No it's not . . . Ron's done loads of - "

Or when I was made Keeper of the Quidditch team. Oh, I remember that vividly. She had fallen asleep! "She said she was pleased when I told her," I had tried to convince Fred, George, Harry - and myself.

Apparently, she had lied. Because after the first practice, me and Harry came rushing into the common room with sullen expressions and a memory of a lousy practice, she had tried to console me with, "It was only your first one."

I had blinked suddenly. I knew that she was trying to make me feel better, but I couldn't help but feel belittled. "Who said it was me who made it lousy?" I had snapped.

"No one," she had returned, looking surprised. "I thought-"

"You thought I was bound to be rubbish?" I had filled in.

"No, of course I didn't!" And that was all the confirmation I had needed. I would have smiled then, but I had remembered that I was still mad at her, so I had quickly voiced to Harry, "I'm going to get started on some homework." Homework? It had been a lame excuse, but it was the only one I could have came up with on second's notice. When had I ever done homework willingly?

Homework always seemed to disappoint. Even with Fred and George's Spell-Check quills, I was still suffering over the essay I was currently working on. "How d'you spell 'belligerent'?" I wondered, squinting at the parchment in front of me. "It can't be B-U-M-"

"And I don't remember you changing your name to 'Roonil Wazlib' either," Hermione mumbled over my shoulder.

I glanced at the parchment with disdain. I should have known that Fred and George's junk would not last. "Don't say I'll have to write the whole thing out again!" I cried.

"We can fix it," she declared. 'We' as in Hermione. Alone. Everyone in the immediate vicinity knew that Hermione could and would fix the essay on her own. She might as well have written it.

I sighed with pleasure, thinking of what to say. Somehow 'thank you' doesn't seem enough. I watched her, wondering why I didn't realize one thing when she had been sitting in front of me for six years.

Being with Lavender was easier because I didn't have to prove myself to her, but it was also quite uneventful. Sure, we snogged, but that's all we did. Hermione, on the other hand, poked me, chided me, aggravated me, calmed me, helped me . . . The list was particularly endless. Here it was, the reason why I wasn't a free agent: "I love you, Hermione."