Chapter Text
Prisoner of Azkaban. October 31, 1993. Third year.
The staircases felt unusually still as Hermione followed Harry and Ron up toward the Gryffindor Tower. She and Ron had just returned from Hogsmeade, Harry having hung back at school due to not having a permission slip (which Hermione argued was ridiculous).
The trip had been admittedly fun, albeit a little exhausting. Ron had dragged her into practically every shop, saying, “Look, Hermione!” at least a dozen times, and just when she went to look, it was always something rather silly.
Like Dungbombs (courtesy of his brothers, of course), and Fizzing Whizzbees—she swore she’d seen a bit of drool fall from his mouth just from looking, all for a lump of sugar that levitated—along with new fancy gadgets he’d been swooning over forever, like the Firebolt broom.
She’d never truly understand it—Quidditch, that is. It seemed quite pointless to her. How could anyone find risking their lives on a wooden stick fun? All for the sake of catching a tiny winged ball that was impossible to find, or even smacking a bludger with a bat?
She seemed to be the odd one out as nearly the entire school was obsessed with the game. Maybe it did have some merit. Hermione would still say no if anyone asked, though.
So yes, it had been somewhat fun. Going into Zonko’s Joke shop she hadn’t done often, but found herself rather intrigued by what they sold, or more-so at other people being intrigued at what they sold. The Weasley twins, for example.
Nose-Biting teacups? “Bloody fantastic!” they’d said.
They’d been the catalyst for Ron, egging on his inquisitive, easily entertained nature. Hermione had just given them a questioning look, only for Fred to grin and say: “What? You’ve never wanted tea and a near-death experience all at once?”
Oh, sure. How could potentially getting your nose bitten come anywhere close to a near-death experience? So she’d said that.
“Bit far, don’t you think?”
“Bit of fun, I think.” He’d responded with a wink.
Her response had been to just roll her eyes and watch as he, George and Ron started fooling around with the cups, a shocked ouch leaving Ron’s lips as the cup chomped at his nose. She hadn’t been interested in the teacups, but at that, a giggle did escape her.
Back at Hogwarts, she walked up the stairs with Harry and Ron, taking note of a strange commotion happening outside of the Gryffindor common room. A large group of students surrounded the portrait entrance, frantic chatter ringing out between them.
“What’s going on?” Harry asked. Hermione just furrowed her brow, confused as well.
“Neville’s probably forgotten the password again,” Ron joked to Harry.
Neville’s voice came from behind them with a gasp. “Hey!”
Ron turned to him just as Hermione did. “Oi, when’d you get—”
His words were cut off as Percy Weasley started shoving through the crowd, his voice billowing above the rampant chatter. “Excuse me, let me through! I’m Head boy,” he reached the top of the stairs, Hermione watching him, “Get back all of you!”
Suddenly, Ginny came rushing down toward them with a shocked face. “The Fat Lady, she’s gone!” She exclaimed in a hurried voice, before turning back toward the portrait.
Hermione’s brow shot up at that, now understanding where the commotion was coming from. But, gone? How exactly was a person who was magically contained to a painting, gone?
Ron let out a huff next to her. “Maybe she’s gone for a walk? Merlin knows she needs it—” Hermione shot him a glare, not finding the joke funny considering this seemed to be serious. “Okay… fine…” he trailed off quietly.
She turned away from him to focus back on the matter, spotting Fred and George leaning against the banister just a few steps ahead of her. She stood on tiptoe to get a closer look, and finally her eyes landed on the painting.
Three long, clean cuts raked through the painting, the background—green leaves at the top, and bright, calm scenery at the back, with stone stairs on the bottom—the same, except for one, very obvious missing piece.
The Fat Lady.
The absence of her felt almost as bizarre as the Fat Lady herself, and Hermione’s confusion grew further. It wasn’t simply that she was gone, no, it looked like something had ripped her out. But what?
Percy, and someone she didn’t recognize, started shouting above the loud chatter: “Keep calm!” and “Ravenclaws, get back to your common room!” while Hermione could only watch as those words did nothing to control the situation.
She took a step forward up the steps, trying to get a better look, and found herself glancing around at the other paintings. Just in case, somehow, the Fat Lady was in them.
It was chaos. In one, a baby kept crying, to which the mother tried to soothe—failing to do so—and in another, actually, several of them, a woman flew across the paintings on a broom, shouting words Hermione couldn’t make out.
Not spotting the Fat Lady, she turned back to the other chaos—the several students lingering around still chatting in concerned voices.
“Reckon we should ask her to try out for Chaser?” Fred chuckled from the step in front of her, his gaze fixed on the woman flying around in the paintings.
“Drives me mad enough already from her own portrait, thanks.” George snorted. The two laughed, before Percy sent them a glare, shutting them up.
It was typical, the Fat Lady was gone, the students and paintings were in chaos, and the twins were holding tryouts for a hysterical woman in a painting.
She scowled at the joke, though part of her wanted to laugh at just how absurd they could be. Leave it to the twins to turn a potentially dangerous, confusing situation into Quidditch recruitment.
Footsteps sounded from behind Hermione, breaking her train of thought. “The Headmaster’s here!” Percy announced, his voice loud and authoritative.
Dumbledore pushed through the crowd, racing up the steps, yelling, “Move!” as he went. Filch followed behind with Mr. Norris in his arms, the long haired cat who was always at his side. Glued together even more than the twins were, she thought.
The Headmaster reached the top, his mouth agape, and slowly walked toward the painting, arm stretched to trace over the gashes. The students had gone silent as he examined it, but the cries of the baby still rang loud, the mother still trying to console it.
Dumbledore turned to Filch after a long, pensive moment. “Mr. Filch, round up the ghosts, tell them to search every painting in the castle,” he said, a serious expression on his face.
But Filch wasn’t looking at Dumbledore. He’d turned already, eyes focused far up, opposite the Gryffindor common room.
“There’s no need, Professor.” Filch spoke in a low voice, his arm raised to point somewhere in the distance.
Hermione turned to where he was pointing. Students started murmuring, then pushing. The crowd quickly started flowing up the stairs in that direction.
She felt herself get swept away in the sudden change, marching up quickly along with the crowd. Percy’s voice sounded again throughout the mess, irritated and loud: “Mind where you’re going! You listen, I’m Head Boy—” But Hermione couldn’t even focus on it, hand tracing over the railing as she travelled up the steps.
The crowd came to a stop as they reached another painting. Hermione could barely see; too many people stood in front of her blocking the view. Her short height certainly didn’t help either, and she wound up behind Fred, again, somehow too.
He towered over her, leaving her no choice but to come up close behind him, her eyes narrowing, zoning in on the miniscule gap between him and another—she didn’t bother to see who it was—to make out what was happening.
Then, almost as if he’d felt her presence, Fred moved further to the right, widening the gap. Her head swiveled up, about to thank him, but his head was simply facing the painting. She closed her lips, swallowing her thanks.
Finally able to see properly, she could make out that the painting was filled with… hippos? And the Fat Lady cowered behind one before popping her head up, leaves sticking out of her hair, lopsided and messy. Her eyes were wide with fear.
Dumbledore, in a concerned, shocked voice, asked her who did this to her. The Fat Lady only sobbed, a whimper escaping her lips before she started to explain.
“It’s him, Headmaster! A soul as dark as his name… the one they all talk about. He’s somewhere in the castle—Sirius Black!” She proclaimed, her voice frantic and uneasy, another whimper falling from her lips as she ducked behind the hippo once more.
Everyone stood frozen at the Fat Lady’s words, Hermione included. The plenty of papers she’d read, what everyone had read, clearly, flashed through her mind. A dangerous, escaped convict who was supposedly trying to get into Hogwarts. But now the Fat Lady was saying he’d already managed that? Hermione shivered as a chill ran down her spine.
Dumbledore turned to Filch. “Secure the castle,” he spoke in a low voice, then turned to the crowd, exclaiming, “and the rest of you head to the Great Hall!”
His words seemed to break everyone’s daze, their attention falling from the painting. The students started to swiftly move back down the stairs, the combined heavy footsteps echoing loudly.
Hermione cast a glance toward Harry, only to find him still staring at the painting, clearly caught up in the moment.
“Let’s go, Harry,” she said softly.
Harry turned to her, nodding, and the three of them followed the mass of students down the stairs and toward the Great Hall.
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Later that evening. October 31, 1993. Third year.
The Gryffindors rushed into the Great Hall, the other houses following shortly behind them, creating a blend of anxious voices that filled up the large room. Hermione felt anxious too—the thought that a criminal was roaming somewhere in the school, who could attack at any moment, created an uneasy knot in her chest.
Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Flitwick, closed all the doors to the Hall, turning to the students with stern, measured faces.
“Settle down, everyone. The teachers and I will conduct a thorough search of the school,” Dumbledore declared. “For your own safety, I’m afraid you’ll have to spend the night here. Prefects—you will guard the entrances, and in our absence, I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge.”
Dumbledore flicked his wand, the long tables flying to the edges of the hall, and with another flick, replaced them with hundreds of sleeping bags on either side of the room.
More murmurs rose as he, and the other professors, left with the doors falling shut behind them with a click. It was now just the students, including prefects of course, and that only seemed to pour fuel on the already buzzing chaos of the Hall.
“Everyone, quiet down! The lights are going out soon, so go to your sleeping bags!” Percy’s voice rose above the chatter, and several students dispersed but still spoke in hushed voices.
Hermione turned to Harry and Ron.
“Do you think he’s still in the castle?” She asked, the three of them moving to a section of sleeping bags to sit.
Ron crossed his legs, brow furrowing. “Maybe. But how did he even get in?”
She didn’t reply, the question weighing heavy in the air, one she also didn’t know the answer to. From reading Hogwarts: A History, she knew that the castle was protected in various ways. Apparition was impossible from the wards, and the dementors outside would make it impossible to enter through flying. It made no sense.
Unless… someone had helped him enter? The thought made her shiver.
Hermione cast a glance at Harry, only to find him staring at the floor, clearly thinking about it all. He seemed more shaken than the rest of them, and she wondered why that was—did Harry know something about Sirius Black that they didn’t?
A plop sound came from nearby, and she glanced over to find the Weasley twins settling down on sleeping bags near them.
Hermione listened in as the two spoke to each other.
“Bet he didn’t do it alone. You don’t just stroll into Hogwarts with a knife and a grumpy face.” Fred, who always seemed to have a more mischievous spark in his eye, spoke quietly to George.
Her eyes widened. She’d thought the same thing. And before she could stop herself, she turned to face them, mouth already moving.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. There’s no way he got in without help.”
The twins’ heads swiveled quickly toward her, and Hermione froze for a short moment, realizing she’d been eavesdropping on their conversation, and had just foolishly revealed that. She cursed herself for being so curious.
But they didn’t seem to mind, quickly jumping back into the conversation, except this time, glancing at her as they spoke.
“Maybe he Apparated right into the castle. Poof—” George said, gesturing his hands as if describing an explosion, “—middle of the bloody staircase.”
Fred’s expression turned into an inquisitive one, but she could notice a flicker of amusement dance in his eyes. “Maybe he sweet-talked the portraits. That knight near the Charms corridor? He’d let Black climb right through his frame if he promised to teach him a decent joke.”
They both let out a chuckle. Hermione rolled her eyes, starting to understand that the twins really never took anything serious at this point.
“Honestly, am I the only one who’s read Hogwarts: A History?” Hermione huffed. Fred and George just shrugged, clearly oblivious.
“Probably,” Ron cut in from beside her, Hermione not realizing he’d been listening. “Why’s that matter?”
Hermione cast him a glance before turning back to the twins. “The castle is protected with wards, making Apparition impossible, and even if he did somehow win over the portraits, which is highly unlikely, how’d he get in to do so?”
“Clearly he got inside help. I’m not saying it’s Percy, but—” Fred’s lips curled up into a smirk, and his eyes glanced over to where Percy was, who was still trying to get people to quiet down.
“—I’m definitely saying it’s Percy.” George finished, matching Fred’s grin.
She rolled her eyes again, but didn’t bother correcting them. Percy was many things—smug, a walking rulebook—but a traitor wasn’t one of them. She didn’t know much about their relationship with Percy, but they probably didn’t like how stern he was as Head Boy, and Hermione didn’t blame them; she knew being strict could make anyone unpopular.
Their conversation was cut short by the room being plunged in darkness, lights cutting out—except for a small glowing light above, and Hermione glanced up, only to find the ceiling now enchanted as a dark, glittering starry filled night sky. With that, everyone shuffled into their sleeping bags.
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A few days later. November 6, 1993. Third year.
Harry laid in the hospital bed before her, subtle scratches littering across his cheek. She, Ron, the twins, and several others stood around, watching as Harry’s eyes slowly fluttered open.
“Harry! How’re you feeling?” Fred said light-heartedly.
Harry jolted upright, inhaling sharply. Hermione heard someone gasp at the sudden movement.
She examined Harry with concerned eyes, the memory of his fall still fresh in her mind—the way the sky had roared with thunder, how Harry had disappeared from view high up in the sky, only for his body to come tumbling down moments later, broom nowhere to be seen.
She remembered the way her heart jumped out of her chest at the scene, and had rushed so quickly to the Quidditch field she’d felt out of breath for several moments after.
Harry had been alright when she arrived, thankfully. Just unconscious. She’d seen Dumbledore cast a spell just before he fell, which had slowed his fall; otherwise, she didn’t know if he would’ve been alright. The thought of it terrified her.
Harry turned to Fred, then to everyone else. “What happened?”
“You fell off your broom,” Fred explained. “Must’ve been… what, fifty feet?”
“We thought you’d died,” Alicia chimed in, her shoulders shaking.
Harry’s brow furrowed, a conflicted and confused look forming on his face. “But, what about the match? Are we doing a replay?”
Silence followed after. Hermione gave everyone a look, not wanting to bare the news herself, but it seemed nobody else wanted to either. She was about to speak up, even with her reluctancy, before someone else beat her to it.
“Diggory got the snitch,” George said, his voice solemn. “Just after you fell. He didn’t realize what had happened, and when he looked back and saw you on the ground, he tried to call it off. Wanted a rematch. But they won fair and square... even Wood admits it.”
At his name, Harry started glancing around the room as though in search of him. “Where is Wood?” Harry asked.
“Still in the showers,” Fred said. “We think he’s trying to drown himself.”
Hermione’s head turned sharply to find Fred’s lips curled into a smirk, clearly proud of his joke. His gaze met hers, as if sensing her staring, and she looked away quickly, not wanting to give him any more satisfaction.
Harry put his face to his knees, his hands tightly gripping his unruly hair. Fred grabbed his shoulder and shook it roughly. “C’mon, Harry, you’ve never missed the Snitch before.”
“There had to be one time you didn’t get it,” George said.
“It’s not over yet,” Fred continued. “We only lost by a hundred points.”
At the mention of points, Harry and them went on to talk about how Gryffindor could still be in the running toward winning the House Cup, and if so and so won against a certain house they’d be able to catch up on points, but Hermione couldn’t pay much attention, too lost in thought.
Afterwards, Harry just sat there in silence, like he still couldn’t grasp what had happened. Hermione couldn’t either—it had all happened so fast, and she still didn’t know what really happened, only the chilling, unforgettable sight of dementors flying high in the sky remained vivid in her mind.
The moment was broken as Madam Pomfrey entered the room, asking everyone to let him rest. Hermione watched as the twins, and several others, started exiting the room, Fred getting in at the last moment: “Don’t beat yourself up, Harry. You’re still the best seeker we’ve ever had.”
Hermione’s heart warmed at the sight of him trying to cheer Harry up, and she turned, giving Harry a sympathetic look—Fred was right, Harry was still brilliant at Quidditch, and she just hoped he thought so too.
The door shut behind them, leaving just her, Ron, Harry, and Madam Pomfrey. She stepped closer to Harry’s bed, her hand gently resting at the edge.
Desperate to break the silence, she thought of every detail she remembered at the time of his fall, hoping to make it clearer to Harry what had happened.
“Dumbledore was really angry,” Hermione started, voice shaking slightly as she replayed it in her mind. “He ran onto the field as you fell, managing to slow you before you hit the ground. Then he whirled his wand at the dementors, and they flew off the field. He was furious they’d come onto the grounds—”
“Then he magicked you onto a stretcher—” Ron added.
The rest of the time spent in the hospital went over the demise of Harry’s Nimbus broom, which had unfortunately been quite brutally destroyed by the Whomping Willow.
When she’d opened the bag of its remains, and the dozen shards of wood clattered onto the bed, Harry’s face fell so completely that Hermione wondered if he’d just lost a friend rather than a broom.
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Four months later. Saturday, March 5, 1994. Third year.
Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles lay on her lap, which, might seem quite silly as she was a muggle herself, but in her defense, it had been assigned and was to be read by Monday. But even so, she would guarantee to everyone that it was more interesting than they’d think.
The Weasley twins, however, were the exception.
“Not havin’ fun, Granger?” one of the twins’ voices perked up over the loud music.
Hermione reluctantly pulled up from her book, only to spot the two of them hovering over her, one on either side. She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes.
“This is my fun,” she said.
“Fun?” the left twin said. He snatched the book out of her lap in a swift movement, turning it over in his hands, inspecting it.
“Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles?” He repeated the name on the cover in a lilting voice. “Blimey, Granger. We’ve clearly got very different ideas of fun.”
“Come on, Granger. Celebrate with us!” the right twin piped up excitedly, poking at her shoulder.
“I am celebrating,” Hermione huffed, quickly turning and snatching her book back from Fred. She’d always known it was him—he always seemed to be the first of the two to joke (and, curse her, she was being petty).
“Now, can I read in peace?” She added with raised brows, the words coming out a little harsher than she’d meant.
As if sensing her agitation, they both put their hands in the air in a ‘giving up’ sort of way. “Alright, alright.” They both said.
“Thank you,” Hermione hummed, softening her voice, head turning back to the book in her lap.
“But, next time, when you’re ready for our kind of party—just say the word.” Fred tossed the words over his shoulder as he and George drifted away into the chaos of the party.
Their kind of party. Yeah, sure. Hermione couldn’t help but smirk at that—the kind of party where rules were suggestions, and the only one that reigned above the others, if any, was chaos. Not exactly her scene, but maybe that was the point. Maybe it was the kind of place where she could let loose, just a little. But would she really want to?
She found herself quite comfortable reading, but still, there was something almost tempting about the idea—about how tempting the twins could make it—to see what all the fuss was about.
But for now, she’d rather watch it all unfold as she stayed in her quiet corner.
After Gryffindor’s match against Ravenclaw—where Harry caught the Snitch despite Malfoy and his posse trying to scare him by dressing up as dementors—the twins had loudly exclaimed that they were going to throw an after party in the Gryffindor tower.
So that was where Hermione was, sat in the corner by the fireplace, absent chatter and upbeat tunes playing in the background as everyone mingled together around her.
Hermione kept her eyes fixed on the book in her lap, though the words had long since stopped making sense. The chaos around her made it quite hard to focus.
“Did you even come to the match?” Harry’s voice from in front of her made her flinch, but she didn’t look up.
His voice brought back all the thoughts she didn’t want returning.
After Scabbers had disappeared, with blood soaked bed sheets left behind and Crookshank’s fur somehow intertwined, Ron had wildly claimed Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers. Hermione thought this was ridiculous, and had said so, only for well, obviously Ron to disagree, but even Harry had too.
So yes, she was a little upset. And Crookshanks would never do that!
What made it worse, too, was that Ron wouldn’t see her point at all, and had been making it perfectly clear that she wasn’t going to be forgiven any time soon.
Reading had been her way of distraction. Yes, to keep up with classes, but the real reason was it allowed her to avoid Harry and Ron. Until now, that is.
“Of course I did,” she said, her voice coming out higher than she’d meant it to. “I’m glad we won. You were brilliant. But I really need to finish this by Monday.”
Her eyes darted across the same line for the third time. She just needed to pretend to be busy, really—anything to avoid the conversation of Ron coming up.
“Come on, Hermione,” Harry said gently. “Come and have some food.”
She didn’t want food. She wanted things to go back to the way they were. She wanted Ron to stop glaring at her like she’d murdered his pet. Or that Crookshanks even did, which he didn’t.
“I can’t, I’ve still got four hundred and twenty-two pages to read,” she added quickly.
She made the mistake of glancing over at Ron, who was leaning against the edge of a nearby table, one hand jammed in his pocket while the other absently tossed a Fudge Fly. His face was stony, unreadable.
“He doesn’t want me there anyway,” she mumbled, half to herself.
Right on cue, Ron’s gaze flicked to hers, and his voice rang out, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “If Scabbers hadn’t just been eaten, he could’ve had some of these Fudge Flies. He used to really like them—”
That did it.
Her vision blurred. She clutched the heavy book to her chest, stood up fast enough to make her head spin for a brief moment, and fled from Harry before the sob caught fully in her throat.
She didn’t know where to go, the tears welling in her eyes blurring her vision, and mindlessly went in the direction of the girls’ dormitories. Weaving in and out of the crowd, she finally reached the staircase, slumping against the top stair, the slight curve of the staircase half-hiding her figure from the rest of the common room.
Hermione couldn’t believe how easily Ron kept blaming Crookshanks like that. As if Scabbers disappearing was some stupid accident and not a huge deal to her. She knew he loved that rat, but he refused to see logic. He didn’t get it—didn’t get her.
She let out a sharp, heavy exhale, rubbing fists over her eyes to rid the tears. But they didn’t seem to stop, like they had a mind of their own.
“Stupid, stupid—” Hermione muttered as she continued to prevent the tears from falling, failing to do so. This was utterly stupid, she thought over and over again.
She heaved a shaky sigh. Her chest felt tight, and her head spun from the combination of exhaustion, frustration, and the sharp sting of unfairness.
A voice echoed from down the stairwell, but Hermione didn’t focus on it. Someone was probably just talking near the stairs, she thought. But then, the voice came again, a bit louder this time.
“Granger.”
Her stomach twisted. She blinked, wiping the tears away again before looking up from her knees, only to find Fred at the bottom of the stairs, hand braced on the wall to support himself.
Hermione felt her face flush with embarrassment at how this all must look. Usually she was composed, ready to challenge anything, but right now, all she felt was exposed. And of course, it was one of the twins. Just her luck.
He was sure to ridicule her at any moment, or at least make a joke about it, and Hermione wouldn’t be able to handle any of it. She stood quickly, moving up the stairs to put distance between them and hide where nobody could see.
“Wait!” Fred called out.
Something in his tone, the urgency, perhaps, made her pause.
Truthfully, despite her stomach in a twist, part of her did want to hear what Fred had to say. He wasn’t exactly on her side—he clearly thought Crookshanks had done a number on Scabbers—but he had tried to calm Ron down. If she remembered correctly, when Ron had been going on and on about Scabbers, Fred had quipped, “Come on, Ron, you were always saying how boring Scabbers was.”
And that was something, at least. He’d tried to deflect the conversation away from her, after all. It was nice to have someone not pile it on her, when in the moment, it had felt like everyone had been against her. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Just enough for her to entertain what he had to say.
“Why?” Her voice came out, raw and tired.
There was a pause. She heard him shift on the floor below, and imagined him rubbing the back of his neck—that thing he did when words didn’t come easy. It wasn’t obvious, but she’d noticed it more than once.
“You’ve been reading to steer clear of them, haven’t you?” His tone was casual, light, but not mocking.
Hermione didn’t move, nor did she climb higher.
“Look, I’m not great at this part,” Fred continued. “But if you’re hiding up here because of Ron, well, he’s an idiot. Give it a few days, and he’ll probably apologize with a handful of Fudge Flies while staring at the floor.”
A breath escaped his lips. Not quite a laugh, but close.
She didn’t say anything. Just stood there, staring at the banister like it had answers. Silly, really. She wanted to stay angry, or sad, or whatever this was. But Fred’s words lodged somewhere in her and refused to leave.
“That’s not the point!” She snapped. Realizing how loud she was, she quickly lowered her voice. “Well, he is being an idiot, that’s true. I mean, surely you see my side? Crookshanks—”
“—Is a scheming devil but wouldn’t do that?” Fred finished for her, and if he hoped that was going to help, well he was certainly wrong.
“Right. I’m leaving,” Hermione started to climb the stairs. “I knew you were just here to laugh at me.”
“Wait, no. I’m just saying there’s no point—” Fred said hurriedly.
“—in being this upset about a rat?” She whirled around, fury stopping her mid-step. “Is that what you were going to say? That I’m overreacting?”
“Blimey, can I get a word in?” Fred muttered.
She noted that he didn’t look smug, or amused like boys usually were when they thought they’d caught her off guard. Especially since it was Fred, too, who she hadn’t really considered to ever be serious.
He really just looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than on a staircase with a crying girl, yet he wasn’t leaving, for some reason.
“Ron’s being a git. I’m not saying he isn’t,” Fred said, his hand dropping from the wall to his pocket. “He’s dramatic about that rat because it’s the only thing he’s got that’s his, even if it is a useless bit of fluff. But he’ll run out of steam. He always does. You’re just making it easy for him by hiding up here.”
Hermione pursed her lips, her chest still hitching slightly. The anger wasn’t gone, it was far too deep for that, but the logic of what he was saying started to seep through her misery.
“He’s just so… loud,” she admitted, the word coming out as a tired whisper.
“‘Course he is. I’d know,” Fred shrugged, a ghost of his usual grin returning. He paused, then tilted his head, his eyes crinkling. “Besides, you look ridiculous crying over a rat, Granger. Honestly, you need a laugh.”
She let out a breathy, reluctant sound, not really a laugh, but the sob was gone. “...Thanks, Fred.”
“Y’know, I’m actually George,” he said, his face going perfectly blank.
She rolled her eyes. “No, you’re not.”
“Thought I’d keep you on your toes.” He pushed off the wall, giving her a quick, two-finger salute, before turning and disappearing back into the noise of the common room.
Hermione stayed on the stairs for a moment longer, feeling the cool stone underneath her. Fred was right. Ron was being a git—exactly as he’d said—and by hiding in the stairwell, she was effectively handing him the win. She was letting his anger dictate how she was spending her evening.
Which should’ve been one of celebration.
She let out one last, shaky breath, wiping at the dampness from her cheeks with the back of her hand. She wasn’t happy, she was still furious with Ron and worried for Harry, but the suffocating weight of the argument didn’t feel so pressing anymore.
Slowly, she smoothed out her skirt, and made her way to her dorm, her bed and a nice, relaxing book calling to her, her steps lighter, and her tears finally spent.