Scrap Parchment

He didn't want to see her, or so he told himself; apologizing was just the gentlemanly thing to do.

'You keep on telling yourself that,' said the voice in his head he was so determined to ignore. 'But you and I both know that's not the case.'

Walking into the library he found her almost instantly. A familiar mane of bushy brown hair smiled back at him from the far corner of the room where Hermione Granger sat slumped over an array books, parchment and quills.

Harry walked up before her, and peered over her shoulder in hopes of catching a glimpse of what held her attention so efficiently. The book laying open on the desk was large; its pages darkened and tattered by age and experience. The text, faded at the edges, cried out in a language Harry couldn't recognize; but it wasn't, he noticed, what had caught Hermione's eye.

A torn piece of parchment lay sprawled out on the page in front of her, tattered and crumpled. Harry couldn't make out the writing from his view atop her shoulder, but the handwriting looked distinctly familiar...

"Hiya Harry!"

Harry and Hermione jumped at the voice calling his name from behind- Neville Longbottom. Harry waved at him tiredly and turned to face Hermione, who was looking up at him with what could have been construed as either curiosity or disapproval, depending on which part of his brain was making the determination. The little voice in his head that he liked to ignore prayed it wasn't the latter.

"Hi," he said weakly, scratching the back of his head.

"What are you doing here, Harry?" she asked quietly.

"I was looking for you," he replied nervously.

"Oh," she said, turning around. "Well, are you going to sit down then?" Harry walked around the desk and took a seat opposite her, leaning into the hard back of the wooden chair.

"What's that there?" he asked, pointing to the crumbled bit of parchment she held in her hands.

"N-nothing" she replied quickly, pocketing the object. "Just a bit of scrap parchment, that's all."

"Oh," he said simply, watching her eyes shoot around in all directions, purposely avoiding his. Ignoring the incessant nagging in the back of his head, the one that wanted to ask her a million times why her eyes hung so low, he came to the point of his visit.

"I came here to apologize."

"For what?" she replied, turning her attention to the large book in front of her.

"Well, I was a bit of a git earlier, after potions," he said apologetically. "Shouldn't have thought you wouldn't have understood me."

"Don't worry about it Harry," she said, closing the book before her and getting up out of her chair. "Now if you'll excuse me-"

"Where are you going?" he asked uneasily, feeling a pang of dejection in his chest. Was he unhappy that she was leaving, or was he unhappy that she didn't share the same desire for his company?

"I need a shower," she replied, gathering her things. "It's been a long day."

She moved from the desk without so much as a look and left. The minutes, laughing as they crept slowly by, pointed and chuckled at the mess of raven hair and dolorous defeasance that had once been a boy on the verge of manhood.

Long after she had gone, the little voice in his head- the one that he liked to ignore- was still begging him to follow her. He wondered during that time if a charm didn't exist that could wipe clear certain aspects of one's conscience.

The scalding water beat relentlessly against her as she continued to scrub. Her skin felt crass and raw under the seething shower and her body begged her from relief as she continued the hellish ritual she had created. Finally, feeling not like she had accomplished anything worthwhile, but having more a sense of an impending feinting spell, she grasped the crystal knob before her and turned the water off.

Having dried herself as best she could, her battered skin not taking well to the rough material of the Hogwarts towels, she pulled on her robe, sighed heavily as the large door to the prefect bathroom creaked open, and took her place before one of the mirrors to examine her alien reflection.

"What do you want, Harry?" she asked dryly, running a towel over her hair.

"It's not Harry," came a new voice that caused Hermione to jump where she stood, towel falling to the floor. Whirling around to face its origin her eyes narrowed in anger.

"Honestly, Ron," she said in an annoyed tone. "Are you trying to scare me to death or something?" She bent down and picked the towel up, noticing the mask of bitterness adorning the face of the red haired boy before her.

"Curious," Ron said darkly. "You weren't scared when you thought it was Harry."

Hermione clucked her tongue and returned to her reflection, bringing the tan cloth once again to her auburn locks. "What are you doing here, Ronald?" she asked.

"I came to find out what's wrong," he replied.

Anger filling her, she spun around and eyed him indignantly. "Not you too," she said sternly.

"You can't lie to me, Hermione," Ron responded coldly. "I know something's bothering you." After an uncomfortable moment, he added, "he knows, too." Hermione rolled her eyes and faced the mirror once more. Padding her hair with the towel, she could see his expression in the foggy mirror. It wasn't one of friendship or consonance; rather, his features were contorted with contempt, bitterness, and disappointment.

"And what if something is wrong?" she asked, watching the foggy eyes in the mirror raise slightly. "What would you do about it?"

"I'd help you," he said more compassionately, taking a step forward. "We'd help you Hermione." She chuckled slightly and shook her head.

"No. No one can help me."

"Hermione," Ron pleaded. "If you'd just tell me what's wrong..."

"I can't do that Ron," she said honestly, turning to face the dejected boy.

"Why not?" he questioned. His voice held a hint of anger, betrayal.

"Because you'll tell him," she said with a deep breath. "And he has enough to deal with before any of my problems." Unblinking, Ron stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. Finally, he let a sigh escape his lips.

"It always has been about him, hasn't it?"

It wasn't a question, not really. Not when they both knew the answer so well. The betrayed look on his face shifted to something sullen, tenebrous, and lost. Her eyes misted unwittingly at the sight, and a cruel drop of honesty made itself known; falling down her cheek, breaking the silence on the cold marble floor. He walked out without another word.

There was a familiar coldness in her chest; a tightening that always accompanied the overwhelming sense of filth that consumed her, tortured her very core. She clutched herself and let a soft, barely audible whimper escape her lips. Letting the terry cloth robe slip quietly from her shoulders, Hermione walked back into the shower, and reached for the crystal knob.

A hastened retreat could be heard in the empty corridor outside; that is, had anyone been around to hear it. For, as all great wizards know, invisibility cloaks can hide entire men with the greatest of ease, but hold no defense against the incessant scuffing of angry feet.

And the minutes laughed on as they crept slowly by; pointing and chuckling at the mess of raven hair and dolorous defeasance that had once been a boy on the verge of manhood.