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The air inside the castle is frigid, winter still holding strong halfway into February. Torches light the path through the corridors, flames reflecting flickering light on the dark windows. It’s silent other than the tapping of her school loafers pacing the floor as she makes her way back to Gryffindor Tower.
Hermione had spent as long as she could in the library, hiding in the stacks until Madam Pince finally banished her to her common room at curfew. Even then, she had taken the long way through the castle, wasting as much time as she possibly could before ending her journey to the castle’s tallest tower. She doubts anyone has noticed her absence anyhow. The only students in Gryffindor even speaking to her are Neville and Percy, though Ginny has taken pity on her a time or two, sitting with her by the fire to silently work on homework. Hermione hasn’t been so lonely since before she came to Hogwarts. She has spent weeks isolated from her peers, frozen out by her best friends. Even Professor McGonagall, despite being partially to blame for her predicament, has been short with her at times. And all over a sodding broomstick.
Hermione would laugh if the thought of the bloody broom didn’t send a pang of regret through her chest. If she hadn’t ratted on Harry for his mysterious Christmas gift, she would be sitting in the common room with him and Ron at this very moment, the three of them writing their Charms essays, or at least attempting to. The trio doing homework together always leads to Ron asking some off-topic question that leads Hermione down a rabbit hole, her two friends not far behind. As much as she values her grades, she’s always valued knowledge itself more. It’s why the Sorting Hat came so close to sending her to Ravenclaw. Apparently her supposed potential bravery and chivalry must have outweighed her wit and penchant for learning. It’s no wonder that she and her boys have found themselves following mysteries in the library time and again in their years at Hogwarts; researching dragons, infamous wizards, dangerous magical creatures, and more.
Even so, while she may long for the company of her friends, she cannot find it in herself to regret caring for Harry’s safety. For Merlin’s sake, the boy is a walking magnet for trouble without the added escaped murderer apparently hunting him down. What if the Firebolt he received is in fact from Sirius Black and cursed to finish the job he started twelve years ago by betraying Harry’s parents to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? No, Hermione would have never forgiven herself if such a thing were to happen and she hadn’t done anything in an attempt to stop it. Lonely or not, at least she can find some peace in the knowledge that Harry is safe, even if he hates her for the rest of his life. She just wants to make sure that her friend is alive to hate her.
Her even steps come to a stop in front of the portrait of Sir Cadogan and Hermione has to force herself to repress an eyeroll as she observes the stout knight in the portrait with his equally stout pony. She will be so relieved when the Fat Lady is finally ready to return to guard the entrance to the common room. Hermione would take twenty operatic solos over the haughty knight’s stories of his supposed adventures. Sir Cadogan reminds her of Professor Lockheart in a way that makes her skin crawl.
“Dragon’s Blood,” Hermione finally cuts the knight off in the middle of his demonstration of his supposed sword fight with a hydra.
“Yes, yes, but before you go, let me finish my tale!” The painted knight raises his sword high above his head. Unfortunately, for him, his sword is almost as long as his torso is tall, the motion throwing him off balance and landing him straight on his back side with an audible ‘oomf.’ Thankfully, the portrait swings open at that moment and Hermione scurries through the hole before she can allow any giggles to escape at the painting's bad luck.
The portrait closes with a small thud behind her, but Hermione barely registers it as she finds herself making eye contact with Harry and Ron across the common room as soon as she steps inside. The two sit on one of the sofas in front of the fireplace, Neville with them and Seamus and Dean on the settee across from them. Their conversation peters off as the other three Gryffindor boys take in her best friends’ sudden silence. Neville looks up, wincing slightly when he sees Hermione, but at least manages to offer her a strained smile. If she weren’t so focused on the daggers Ron is glaring at her and the conflicted expression on Harry’s face, then she would feel more thankful for his attempt at offering her some form of olive branch in the middle of a hostile war zone. Ugh, she feels as if she’s still just the friendless little girl in primary school that had nothing but her books for company. That thought is what sends her a few steps forward, toward her friends.
Before she can make it further than a couple of meters, Ron is launching to his feet, dragging Harry up by the sleeve. The other three boys are scrambling up as well, glancing between their two dormmates and Hermione with wide eyes.
“It’s late. Let’s head upstairs, mates.” Ron says it loudly enough for half the common room to hear, pulling Harry behind him as they head for the stairs to the boys dorm. Neither of her friends look at her as they pass, acting as if she’s not standing there at all. Seamus and Dean aren’t far behind, scurrying up the staircase without a backward glance. Neville hesitates at the bottom of the steps, casting her a pitying look.
“Night, Hermione,” The blonde boy offers her another small smile, but he too is heading up the stairs before she can respond.
She stands there for a moment, blinking rapidly and ignoring the eyes of the room’s other occupants on her. Hermione takes a deep breath before turning to the stairs that lead to her own dorm, but hesitates. Her own roommates, Lavender and Parvati, are undoubtedly already upstairs, evidenced by the lack of Witch Weekly magazines spread out on the small coffee table that the two girls usually work at in the evenings. If Hermione was to go up now, she would have to deal with two more people intentionally ignoring her for the rest of the evening. At least down here, she can claim a space to study and pretend that she is ignoring everyone else instead of it being the other way around. Yes, that’s what she’ll do.
Hermione spins on her heel, beelining for the small desk with uneven legs in the darker corner of the common room. It’s rarely used by anyone but her, no one having bothered to use magic to fix the wobbly piece of furniture or recasting the flame charms on the torches in that corner. It’s the perfect place for her to sink into a book and imagine that her only problem is what she will have for breakfast in the morning or if she will manage to read through all of her checked out books before their due back to the library. So, that’s what she does, for a while at least.
Most of the other torches are gone out and her housemates have headed up to bed when the words of her Charms textbook begin to blur in front of her tired eyes. Hermione scrubs her fists into her eyes, yawning so wide her jaw cracks. Letting out a weary sigh, she looks up to find herself alone in the dark room, her jar transfigured from a broken quill and filled with her signature blue bell flames casting a cool glow over the small area she occupies. Tiredness settles into her bones as she finally turns her attention away from her third draft of this particular essay. She begins to pack up her things, rolling up her parchment and closing her textbook. All of the items find their way neatly into her school bag. Even after she has everything packed away, she can’t find it in herself to move to the girls staircase, instead leaving her wobbly desk behind to drop her bag onto the rug and flop onto the love seat in front of the mantle, the same one her friends had sat at earlier, coals barely flickering with small flames within the fireplace. She curls up on the settee, bringing her knees to her chest as she stares unseeingly at the smoldering coals.
The first few tears fall silently, sliding down her cheeks without her notice. It goes on like that for a few minutes before the building pressure in her chest finally forces itself up and out of her throat in a broken sob. This seems to be the dam breaking for her emotions, the weeks of turmoil bubbling behind her ribs making itself known. Salty tears cascade down her face, sobs shaking her shoulders as Hermione holds herself even tighter, as if she could hold the broken pieces of herself together if she squeezes tight enough.
Why couldn’t her friends see what she saw? The danger that is right in front of their faces. Harry has already faced off with the Dark Lord that murdered his parents three times in the thirteen years he’s been alive and been lucky each time to keep breathing. The killing curse, a wraith, a bloody basilisk! That’s not even to mention the accidents he’s had on brooms in the past; Quirrel hexing his broomstick in their first year in an attempt to murder him or Dobby sending a cursed bludger after him last school year in some misguided attempt at keeping him safe. This year they find out that a notorious mass murderer and Azkaban escapee is not only Harry’s godfather but the wizard that orchestrated his parents’ deaths and his first attempted murder, what was she meant to think when an expensive broomstick showed up for Harry on Christmas with no note and no one claiming to have sent it to him? It was such an obvious attempt on her friend’s life that she can’t understand how he and Ron couldn’t see it. Even Professor McGonagall agreed despite obviously wanting Harry to have such a nice broom for Quidditch.
Despite all of the evidence and her solid reasoning, she is the one as seen as overreacting, to not care about Harry.
Hermione buries her face into a throw pillow to muffle the rather loud sob that wracks her body. How could anyone ever claim that she doesn’t care about Harry? Harry and Ron are her best friends. She values their opinions over even her parents’ sometimes. Obviously she wants them to be happy, but she wants them to be safe even more. She remembers in their first year, seeing Ron sacrifice himself on a giant chess board so that her and Harry could make it to the stone, the fear in her chest had been almost painful at the sight of the ginger lying so still on the floor of that chamber. Then, just in this past term, watching Harry come so close to Dementors that he free fell out of the sky and almost became a splatter on the quidditch pitch. The dread of thinking that she was going to see her friend die right before her eyes had only been amplified by the presence of the prison guards playing house guests at Hogwarts. She still has nightmares of both events on top of dreaming of the yellow eyes that froze her for those few months last school year. The thought of Harry and Ron having gone down to the Chamber of Secrets, that Harry almost died down there, chills her heart with fear. How could anyone ever accuse her of not caring for the only two friends she has ever had?
The sound of the portrait hole opening startles her, causing Hermione to shoot up into a sitting position, frantically wiping at her eyes and cheeks. Excited whispers and barely stifled laughter echoes around the silent common room, causing her to look up at the new occupants. Fred and George come stumbling inside together, the portrait swinging shut behind them. The twins shove each other with wide grins on their faces as they head toward the dorm stairs. George notices her just before they make it to the steps, stopping both himself and his brother in their tracks.
“Hermione?”
She goes to answer but her voice cracks, causing her to flush and clear her throat before trying again, “Yes?”
“What’re you still doing up?” Fred speaks this time, making his way back across the room and toward her sofa. She shrugs in response, casting her eyes down to her knees. Fred and George sink on the cushions on either side of her, sitting quietly for a moment. She can imagine the silent conversation they are sharing in only facial expressions over her head, having seen the twins speak to one another without actually using words countless times before.
“Do you- er,” She glances up at George sitting to her left, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
Hermione sniffles, ducking her head and swiping at her eyes once more. She shakes her head with force, whispering, “No.”
“Well…” Fred trails off to her right, shifting in his seat. She watches out of the corner of her eye as he reaches into his bag to produce a pack of…something. “Want a Sugar Quill, then? Out of our personal stash! They’re a bit crushed but-”
“-Definitely still taste great.” George finishes, reaching over her to snatch the small bag of sweets from his twin. He reaches inside, grabs one of the broken pieces, and pops it into his mouth. “And they definitely aren’t hex, charmed, or cursed.”
“Just regular old sugary goodness.” Fred snatches the candy back, stealing a piece for himself before offering the bag to her once more. “So?”
Hermione waffles back and forth for a moment before straightening up and taking the offering. She slips exactly three broken pieces of what does indeed look to have once been Sugar Quills from the pack before handing the sweets to George when he holds out a hand.
“Are Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum still being idiots?” Fred asks around the piece of candy he is obnoxiously sucking on.
“Tweedle Dee and Dum? Isn’t that what Professor McGonagall calls you two?” Hermione tries to joke but it falls a bit flat with her voice raspy from tears.
“No, no, no. Gred and I are Thing One and Thing Two!” George knocks his elbows with hers, smiling down at her as he passes the candy to her again.
“Or, just plain old Misters Weasley when she doesn’t like our fun,” Fred adds.
The three fall into a comfortable silence after that, passing the bag of sugared sweets between them. Hermione enjoys the company, but can’t quite understand why the twins are here with her. As far as she’s known, the entire Gryffindor quidditch team has practically been out for her blood since Christmas. Why the sudden change of heart?
“You are the loudest thinker ever, Granger,” George groans as passes the pack back to her once again. Hermione glances down at the candy to hide the embarrassed blush crawling up her neck. She finds that there’s only one more piece of broken Sugar Quill inside the bag.
“Go ahead and take it,” Fred nudges her knee with his own.
“We’ve got more stashed in the dorm,” George adds.
“Thanks,” she offers them a smile before tossing the final piece into her mouth. George takes the empty pack back, banishing it with a quick flick of his wand. They sit in silence once again. It only takes until her last sweet has melted away for her curiosity to get the better of her. “Why are you two here?”
“Well, we are Gryffindors,” Fred grins. Hermione rolls her eyes.
“You know that’s not what I meant. Why are you down here with me? Hardly anyone has spoken to me in weeks, let alone any of you quidditch lot.”
Fred shifts under her expectant gaze, turning away after a long moment. Hermione looks to George instead. He breaks much quicker than his brother, “Because you needed someone.”
Hermione rears back as if he had slapped her. “Excuse me?”
“You needed someone and we’re who’s here,” George repeats as if the concept is that simple. Hermione glances over to Fred and he nods in agreement.
“We may not have been happy about the whole broom thing, but I think the whole ‘freeze out Hermione’ thing has gone on long enough. Now it’s just sad.”
She opens and shuts her mouth a few times before pursing her lips. Hermione can feel her heart pick up speed in her chest. “You think I’m sad? That I’m just poor, pitiful Hermione. She can’t function without friends.” Her eyes burn with the familiar feeling of tears as she jumps to her feet, face red.
“No, I just meant-,” The twins stare up at her with wide eyes as she stands before them. She is quick to cut Fred off from an explanation that will just humiliate her more.
“I’m doing fine on my own, thank you very much. If Harry and Ron don’t want to be friends anymore, that’s up to them. It’s none of my business who they choose to talk or not talk to.” A lump forms in her throat. “I don’t need you or anyone else taking pity on me.” Hermione’s face burns as more cursed tears begin to escape, trickling down her face without her consent. She clenches her jaw to hold back the sob that’s desperate to escape.
Ever so slowly, George stands from the settee, hands held out in front of him as if he’s approaching a wounded animal. “We don’t think that of you, Hermione. Freddie just meant that it’s sad to see this of all things tearing your friendship apart.”
Seeming to find confidence in his twin’s words, Fred nods fervently, standing as well, “Right. Besides, after a while, when we stopped being upset, we kind of understood why you did what you did.”
“You just wanted to protect Harry.”
That’s the final straw for Hermione’s resolve, George’s words snapping whatever inside her had been keeping the sobs at bay. Even as her shoulders shake and she’s unable to force words, she nods her head. She just wants to keep her friend safe.
She can hardly see past the tears, but after a moment two pairs of arms wrap around her and Hermione finds herself the victim of a ‘Weasley Twin Sandwich’ as Ginny had dubbed her brothers’ double hugs. Usually it’s another Weasley sibling falling victim to the too tight hugs in addition to jibes the brothers would throw. This time, it’s Hermione who is tucked between the twins, though they just give her a normal hug, so similar to ones she’s received from Harry and Ron before that she sobs even harder for a few seconds.
The three of them stand there for several moments, hugging in the dying light of the common room fireplace. Eventually, Hermione is able to regain control over her emotions, forcing deep breaths through her lungs. It’s not until she begins drying her face that the twins step back. She clears her throat.
“Th-Thanks. For that.”
“Anytime, Granger,” the twins say together.
“Though, girls don’t usually cry when I hug them,” Fred tosses her a teasing wink. She manages to choke out a laugh in response.
When she’s no longer trembling and her cheeks are dry, Hermione smooths down her riotous curls, even more unruly from her earlier crying jaunt on the sofa, and lugs her bag up from where she had previously abandoned it on the floor. She looks at the twins once more, managing a slightly shaky smile.
“I mean it, though. Thank you. For the sweets, too,” her eyes flick toward the boys dorm unthinkingly and her stomach drops. She looks at the Weasleys with pleading eyes, “Please don’t tell them I cried.”
“Your secret’s safe with us, Hermione,” George assures her with Fred saluting beside him. She lets out a relieved breath, the pressure in her chest lightening.
“I better get to bed.”
“Us too!” Fred snatches up both his and George’s school bags from the sofa.
“Pranks to plan and plans to prank early in the morning!” George grins deviously.
Hermione laughs at them again, shaking her head with a smile. She turns and makes her way to the girls’ stairs, stopping at the bottom to look back. She finds herself looking at the twins in a new light.
“Goodnight, guys,” her words are soft and she hurries up the stairs before either of them can respond.
Hermione’s dorm is dark, the only sounds being Lavender’s steady breathing and Parvati’s soft snores. She moves quietly about the room, quickly preparing for bed. She takes an extra few moments washing her face, ridding herself of any evidence of her tears. By the time she is pulling her bed curtains closed, exhaustion is weighing her down, her eyelids only feeling as if they weigh two tons each. She curls up under her blankets, snuggling into her pillows.
Perhaps, tomorrow will be a bit better. Perhaps, she can even say she has two more friends.