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Chapter 16 - A Sigh Is Just A Sigh

Two hours later, Harry and Hermione lay on his divan, spooning and holding each other, watching a warm fire in the sitting room of Harry's under-hill home, their bellies comfortably filled from Dobby's French toast, while Harry finished telling the story of how he had come to be living there. She had nodded, quite solemn, when he told her that none of this information could be shared with anyone.

"So, you see," Harry said. "None of this has been about a spoiled little rich kid throwing a tantrum and not wanting to play nice anymore."

"Harry, I just don't think it's a good idea to hide from your problems," she said.

"Critical thinking, love; you're smarter than that," chided Harry.

"What do you mean?"

"I have been back at school for precisely fifty days. Think about what you have seen me do, and the issues you have seen me manage." He spoke gently, and could see that she really was thinking about them. "Do those seem like the actions of aman who is hiding from his problems?"

"No, I guess not," she said. Considering all that had happened in the last fifty days, Harry had directly confronted, and dealt with, more problems than anyone else in the wizarding world had handled in over a year. "Then--" she stopped, obviously wanting to think things through before speaking again.

Harry noticed and smiled, happy her back was to him so she wouldn't be embarrassed.

Then she gasped, her body lurching against his in interesting ways. "You've been emancipated!"

"Yes, as I said."

"But... if you're an adult, and you're rich, why did you come back to Hogwarts? Why bother getting grades from people who don't matter?"

"I had some things to resolve. I couldn't walk away from that bad situation and know that my friends were still in it. And I wanted to see the look on that old bastard's face when I took him down a peg or six."

"Harry... believe it or not, I still haven't talked about what I came to see you for in the common room."

Harry squeezed the arm around her, drawing her even closer. "Were you too scared?" he breathed just behind her ear.

"No. I mean... well, somewhat, but that's not why," she said. "I wanted to talk to you about Ron. I just can't figure out what's going on with him right now."

Harry sighed. He knew exactly what was going on with Ron, but had held off bringing it up. "I know. I wasn't going to say anything until either you or he brought it up. But I know exactly what is going on with Ron."

"Is it a secret? Or is it something I can help with?"

"No, neither. It's not a secret because Idon't think he knows himself, yet. Ron is staying away from you, and has been for a couple months. Right?" He waited for her nod. "That's because of two things. Firstly, because he's a blood supremacist."

Her snort was loud and quite un-ladylike. "That's just silly. Ron?"

"Yes, in a dangerous and difficult way. Difficult, because he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Ron has been a good friend, but he isn't one of life's great thinkers. He has taken for granted his entire life that wizards are 'better' than other folk. Without considering it, he just 'knows' that wizards are better, and pure wizards are better than non-pure."

"But Harry, he's never said anything like that around me! What makes you think he's like that?"

Quietly, he said, "He's never been around muggles at all, in his mind. In the mind of Ron Weasley, he's around wizards right now. As long as he's at Hogwarts, the folks around him don't impinge on his consciousness as different-- everybody at Hogwarts must be a wizard or they couldn't get in. But deep down inside where it seldom sees the light of day is that belief. And it's dangerous because he doesn't think about it."

Hermione thought about that in silence for a bit. She knew just how secrets could hide and grow or fester inside, surfacing for trouble at inconvenient times. "So that's why he's been avoiding me?" she asked.

"No, Hermione. The second reason is that he has a crush on you."

"I don't understand. Why would he avoid me if he likes me?"

"Because he doesn't know how to reconcile those two things. They confuse him, love. He wants you, but he knows your parents are muggles. Inferior beings who had a kid who is better at witchcraft and wizardry than he is. He's a pureblood. Although his parents would never intentionally teach him prejudice, they inadvertently did so just by their way of raising children.

"On top of all that, he saw what I did to Pansy Parkinson last week, and he knows why I did it. So he doesn't know how to talk to you right now, and he's /deathly/afraid he'll say the wrong thing and I'll make him a squib."

"But--" she began to say, and then started over. "Okay. I was going to say that's silly, and there's no reason for him to think you'd do it. But again, he's not one of life's greatest thinkers. What can we do to help him? To get him back?"

"I don't know, Hermione. For one thing, he's going to go spare when he learns that you and I are a couple. For another... well, for another, I don't know anything besides a blow to the head that'll make him think about it and think hard without throwing a wobbly. He's a hothead. Any attempt to discuss the topic will anger him."

She knew he was right. Ron had a full dose of the infamous Weasley temper from his mother's side of the family. Like his mother, Ron rarely thought; he just reacted. And there was often no telling just what the reaction would be.

The two lapsed into silence, looking into the fire and gaining comfort from the closeness of each other's body.

***

Hermione woke slowly. Her eyes still closed, things impinged upon her consciousness one at a time, in sequence. The warmth of being held by Harry. The firmness of his chest against her back. The slow tickle of his breath on the back of her neck. The strength of his right arm around her, high enough up to rest snugly against the bottom of her left breast.

Then a slow smile when she noticed an altogether different kind of firmness against her bum. New, and strange, and yet... familiar in a way that was as old as time. Pulsing in time with his heart rate. How could she help but smile? Pressing against her was a warm proof that he wanted her. Hermione's bookish side remembered how it used to be called the "gallant reflex"; while her womanly side was thinking of it in words like"throbbing". Gracious, she thought with a grin. If that much blood moved to another part of my body, I'd probably faint!

Harry hadn't turned on the charmed windows, so there was no way of knowing what time it was outside. She didn't care. Somehow, still without opening her eyes, she knew he was awake. She whispered,"Harry?"

"Yes, love?" he answered in a voice that was leagues deeper and huskier than normal.

She turned under his arm until her front was pressed against his, her weight half atop him. She finally opened her eyes, noticing that he had transfigured the divan into a bed while she slept -- with silk sheets and fur blankets. She looked into his eyes and saw the desire there; desire kept under tight reign by his sense of honor and right.

She moved to kiss him, pressing her breasts into his chest, and sliding her mound against him.

"Hermione," he spoke against her lips. "Don't start anything you don't intend to finish."

"Harry, you've known me for six years. I'm obsessive. I always finish what Istart."

***

That next morning was bright, sunny, still, and quite cold. The two wanted very much to walk back to the castle, but they understood just how bad it would be if they were seen returning by any student or staff member. Especially since this wasn't a Hogsmeade weekend. Even though they were both adults in the wizarding world, they knew it would be trouble.

Disconcerting as it was to Hermione, Harry solved the problem neatly. When they were both dressed and ready to go, they stood in his living room. "Dobby?"

"Yes, Master Harry."

"My home is still a secret, Dobby," Harry said, seeing the elf nod. "Hermione is the only person I have told. No one else is to know without my permission first. Okay?"

"Of course, Master Harry, sir." Dobby looked quite serious, which he was. He prided himself on being a good house elf, and house elves were magically bound to keep the secrets of their masters.

"Thank you," Harry said to him. "I knew you'd understand. I have to get Hermione back to the school now, but I'll probably see you tonight."

Harry gestured, and a large oval-shaped darkness grew quickly before him. Like a hole in the middle of nothing. He changed it to behave like a big viewing portal, showing the inside of Hogwarts' library. Like a window in reality, which was exactly what it was. When he was satisfied that nobody was watching that part of the library, he took Hermione around the waist and stepped into the portal. When the two arrived -- silently -- in the library, Harry waved his hand and the portal shrunk quickly to nothingness, as if the gate had never been.

Hermione's eyes widened and she looked about to speak, when there was the sound of student voices nearby. He touched his finger to her lips and she stopped herself just in time from asking him. She desperately wanted to know what kind of magic it was that allowed him to make rift-doors. And the knowledge that he had power to do what she had always believed impossible changed her gaze quickly to heavy-lidded desire. She took his finger into her mouth, licking him and letting him know in no uncertain terms that she wanted him right there in the library.

Harry smiled, replaced his finger with his lips in a quick but intense kiss, and took her hand to walk from behind the stacks -- only to be confronted with awide-eyed Colin Creevey.

"Merlin, Harry!" he exclaimed. "You'bout frightened the life outta me!"

"Hey, Harry," said Dennis, his brother standing to one side. "Did McGonagall ever find you?"

Harry answered, unphased, "No, Dennis. When was she looking for me?"

"All morning, Harry," answered Colin while both boys grinned. "Something about a board meeting. You might wanna check in with her if you're through."

Hermione was holding her head up haughtily, as if above such petty concerns as the Creevey brothers knowing about her and Harry. The effect was completely ruined by her furious blushing.

Scant moments later, Harry was standing in the doorway of Professor McGonagall's office. "Can I help you, Professor?"

She started at his voice, then scowled at her own reaction. "Mr. Potter," she snapped,"Would you mind telling me where you have been?"

Harry very quickly slammed down the doors of his face, turning off all emotion. He was getting very good at it. When he spoke, his voice was so devoid of emotion it was almost mechanical. "I see, we're back to the 'Mr. Potter' now, are we? Very well, then. Yes."

"Yes, what? Where have you been?"

"Yes, the answer to your question. You asked if I would mind. My answer is yes, I do mind." He remained standing, gazing at her and leaning on his staff.

"Mr. Potter, I have the responsibility for the students under--"

"No," he said quietly.

"No? What do you mean, 'no'? I have to know and be sure of--"

"No," he said again.

"Mr. Potter, I am not pleased at your interruptions--"

"Then stop talking crap," he said. He raised his hand when she began again. "No. You are afraid of something right now. Being afraid makes you ashamed. Being made to feel ashamed makes you angry. Being angry is clouding your judgment. You may call me when you're ready to talk without bullying." He rammed the end of his staff against the floor, making McGonagall blink. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

Professor Minerva McGonagall plopped back into her chair, agape and aghast. It had been many, many years since she had been told off so thoroughly. And by astudent, yet! The gall. The utter temerity!

She fumed without speaking, alone in her office, wondering what she was going to do. There was no getting around it, she was in a pickle.

"Oh, Harry," she spoke, tired and exasperated. "Just what are we going to do with you?" She hung her head and rubbed her temples.

It was as if she could hear his voice in her head. But that's the whole problem, Minerva. I am not yours to do anything with.

"Ach," she said, her brogue thickening in times of dire stress. "I really was trying to intimidate you, wasn't I?"

Yes.

"And you really are talking to my mind, aren't you?" She still spoke aloud; it was the only way she knew.

Yes.

"I'm sorry, Harry. Please come back, we have a problem."

Immediately, there he was, standing once more in the doorway. "Next time," he said, "please start with that."

"Harry, you and I have been summoned to appear before the Board of Governors. It's about Pansy."

He didn't need to ask; he knew exactly what they wanted, and what was going to be said. "When?" he asked.

"One o'clock."

"I imagine you're being called on the carpet as well, correct?"

"In a manner of speaking," she said. "There are those on the board who do not approve of me holding the headmaster's position. Even though it has been made plain that my position is temporary, some want me removed."

"I see," said Harry, and he did. A few more things fell into place in his mind; things that made it just as clear what he had to do. "Professor, Ishall meet you at the door of the board room at just before one o'clock. Will that be satisfactory?"