Slughorn did not seem to notice the sadness in Hermione’s eyes as he entered the classroom. He strutted past us as if we were photographs, something to be looked at later. Others, however, had begun to turn their heads and stare at the silently sobbing girl cradled in my arms. Ernie Macmillan coughed as if to ask me what was wrong with her. I merely shook my head and motioned for him to turn back around. There was a soft hum escaping from the room, and I knew that it was from various whispers and questions. Hermione sensed it. I felt her tense beneath my fingers. Her back straightened and she drug herself up and out of my grasp. I wanted to pull her in again, only for the mere fact that I felt she wasn’t ready, but she was up and out of my reach. She wiped the small bit of water from underneath her eyes, straightened her clothes ever so lightly, and sat up as if nothing had happened. Slughorn was scratching a word on the board as she came back into herself. I watched him turn around, and his eyes went directly to her.
“Well, Ms. Granger, aren’t we looking upset today,” he said, and if there had been one person in the class who hadn’t observed her at all, their eyes were now drawn toward her seat. Slughorn smiled sympathetically, unable to realize that he just needed to stop talking about it. Instead, he continued. “Care to tell us all what happened?”
I found myself looking down at the desk table, unable to even comprehend what was going through Hermione’s mind. This was public humiliation, nearly equal to that of the stocks or the rack. I could almost feel physical pain as Slughorn’s words drove into her like an axe. I waited for her to burst from the room, hoped that she would merely shrug off his words and come back into the cradle of my arms.
But she would seem weak that way, I thought, I don’t want her back in my arms.
I was disappointed in both aspects. She didn’t buckle under the pressure and run from the room, and she didn’t cry into me again. She sent up a small chuckle and shrugged slightly at him.
“It’s totally ridiculous, actually,” she told him, “I stubbed my toe on the way in here, and I had to use Harry as a way dull the pain.”
“So Mr. Potter cradled you in order for the pain to go away?” Slughorn asked, unconvinced. I could have killed him.
“No,” Hermione answered briskly, “No, he was merely holding me back so that I wouldn’t hit him again. See, he tried to help me inside, and I was so aggravated with the pain that I just whopped him right across the face.”
That sold Slughorn. He gave a tiny giggle and looked over at me, his eyes twinkling. I shot daggers at him with my own.
“She have a hard slap there, Potter?” he asked me, amused at my supposed misfortune. I allowed him to be.
“Very hard, sir,” I answered, “Nearly sent me into the wall.”
There was a sweeping laugh that wavered across the students in the room. Most believed the story that Hermione had contrived. Others were more skeptical, but we let them be. The stifling atmosphere had been slightly cooled, and we left it to dissipate on its own. Slughorn turned his back and returned to the front of the classroom, gesturing out towards the cauldron. I shot a sideways look at Hermione to inquire whether she was okay. Her eyes told me to wait until later. Steam rose over Slughorn’s hands as I turned my attention finally to the class itself.
“Angst,” Slughorn said, and heads shot up, “For teenagers, it is possibly the most…well, most felt feeling of all. I remember myself as a teenager…so grumpy and moody. I could hardly stand any of my teachers, I was so angry.”
“Angry?” I heard Dean Thomas mumble behind me, “The man’s a walking Mr. Smiley.”
I swallowed my laughter.
“Mood swings are the sort of thing that end friendships,” Slughorn continued, “They break people’s hearts, they ruin a day, they impose hatred upon a person that you generally get along with. Who honestly enjoys hanging out with a moody person?”
“Should I raise my hand, Harry?” Hermione whispered to me lightly, and I saw a small, sad smile spread across her face. I playfully kicked her under the table.
“Yes,” the professor continued, “Moods are something that get in the way of life. And yet, they spice it up a little, too. Imagine if you couldn’t express sadness. Imagine life without anger or anxiety. No happiness, either. Is that world the same?”
No one answered him. For the first time in a while, he was making us think about his words instead of dread them. He was imposing thought, and we all found it extremely strange.
“Any thoughts on the subject?” he asked us ironically, and Hermione’s hand shot into the air. Of course she had something to say. Slughorn nodded at her.
“I don’t think that all moods are bad,” she said simply, “They make life unpredictable and change it up a bit. That’s always a good thing. But I think that if you can deaden certain moods and heighten others, it would make life a whole lot easier for people around you.”
“Am I correct to assume then, Ms. Granger, that you know what potion we will be looking at today?” Slughorn asked.
“I do.”
“And?”
“It’s called Animus Essencia. The Essence of Feeling.”
“Very good,” Slughorn remarked, “Ten points to Gryffindor for that. And it does exactly what Ms. Granger said.”
“Which is what again?” Dean asked, “I wasn’t…er…I wasn’t paying attention.”
“It is a potion that amplifies a certain mood in a person,” Slughorn explained, “Let’s say you’re feeling particularly mean and nasty one day, Mr. Thomas. Harry there….well, he doesn’t like this grumpy Dean at all. So, to counteract your foul and egregious mood, he chooses the emotion he wants you to feel and slips a bit of this potion into your drink to make you feel the way that he chooses you to feel.”
“And do I know what’s going on at all?” Dean wondered.
“You have no inclination of what has happened except for the sudden feeling of happiness that suddenly washes over you.”
“Oh,” Dean said, “Ok, then.”
“Please open your books up to page 545,” Slughorn ordered, “There, you will find the recipe for The Essence of Feeling potion. Read over it carefully and gather your ingredients.”
I grumbled as I reached for my book. Since the new year had dawned, I almost missed the Prince’s book and the power that it had given me. Slughorn had thought me flawless, and was as proud of me as he had been of my mother. But now, he was beginning to discover how horrible I was at Potions. And he had begun to see that I had been cheating last year. Still, I tried my best. And though it had been nice to be the top student, that grimy book deserved to waste away in a dark corner forever. It had been Snape’s, and if I ever touched it again, I would surely destroy it. I stared down at the ingredients list. Hermione, already three steps ahead of me, had risen out of her seat as if preparing to grab what she needed. I forced her back down gently with my hand.
“I’ll get it,” I told her, and I knew that in other circumstances she would have argued. Now, however, she was more than happy to allow me to get her her things. She thanked me with a solemn nod, and I scanned the list for the ingredients and made my way to the cupboard. I grabbed the eye of newt, and the two small vials labeled “Root of Ginger.” The potion called for three drops of water from the inside of a Mimbulus Mimbletonia, and it sat perfectly sliced into little bunches in the corner. I grabbed two handfuls and turned around to return to the table. Hermione smiled at me thankfully, and looked back up at Slughorn, who was passing around various colored containers.
“In these containers is what you will need to create the mood,” he told us, and he placed one in between Hermione and me. We opened it up to shakers full of salt, pepper, sugar, and cinnamon. I shot a quizzical look at Hermione, who jerked her head in the direction of Slughorn.
“The pepper imposes the mood of agitation. Salt is anger and scorn. Sugar, of course, is happiness. Cinnamon is excitement. Mix them together in various ways and you should be able to create intermediate moods. But only put a large amount of one in and a dash of the other. If you have an overexcited, agitated, scornful person on your hands, you’re setting yourself up for injury. Clear?”
There was a small mumbling of understanding that burst out of the class. Slughorn chuckled lightly, and gestured for us to start. We bowed our heads over the potion, our fingers running along the page of our books. Slughorn gazed at us all inquisitively, and then made his way over to our table. I looked up at him and gave him a friendly smile.
“’Lo, Professor,” I said, and I nudged Hermione to get her attention. She looked up quickly and then mimicked me.
“Hi, Professor Slughorn,” she smiled.
“Harry, m’boy!” Slughorn exclaimed, “And Ms. Granger! How are we really doing today?”
“Great,” Hermione said a little too quickly, but he didn’t seem to notice, “And you?”
“Oh, can’t complain,” he said, “Just wanted to come and tell both of you of the little party I’ve got planned for Friday night. You’re both welcome to come. It’s going to be sort of a dance, if you will.”
“A dance?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “You know…couples only.”
Hermione’s hands balled into tight fists, but she said nothing.
“I thought we could all use some…well, some happiness,” Slughorn stated, “After all of the tragedy that occurred at the end of last year, we could all use a night of fun, couldn’t we?”
“Yeah, we could,” I said, trying to get him to leave. Hermione was growing more uncomfortable by the second. I could tell by her wrinkled profile.
“You just bring yourself and a girl, Harry,” he told me, and then he looked to Hermione, “And you bring that little boyfriend of yours, Ms. Granger.”
“I will, Professor Slughorn,” she said, and she suddenly became entirely focused on her potion. Slughorn looked back at me.
“Eight ‘o clock in the dungeons then, Harry,” he told me.
“We’ll be there,” I assured him. And he left us to our potions. I glanced over at Hermione, who was swirling the eye of newt into her concoction.
“You all right, Hermione?” I asked her.
“I’m fine, Harry,” she assured me. And she squeezed her Mimbelus Mimbletonia so hard, it flew across the desks and splattered onto the back of Ernie Macmillan’s head.
“A DANCE!” Hermione exclaimed as we exited the dungeons, “A COUPLE’S DANCE!!! Why does it have to be a COUPLE’S DANCE?!”
“I…er…I don’t know of any other kind,” I said to her matter-of-factly. She ignored me as if I had just been a simple puff of wind.
“It’s ironic, don’t you think?” she asked me, “The week I get broken up with is the exact same week Slughorn throws a party that I should bring Ron to? I mean, can I be any more unfortunate?”
I stared at her.
“Don’t answer that,” she warned me. I gave her a friendly smirk. We continued walking.
“You know, you don’t have to go,” I told her. She laughed at me as we rounded around a corner.
“Oh, that looks brilliant!” she said, and I could see tears bubbling in her eyes again, “The girl stays home because her boyfriend crushed her! She’s weak and depressed and distraught!”
“But you are depressed and distraught!” I reminded her.
“BUT I DON’T HAVE TO LOOK LIKE IT!” she bellowed, and a few heads turned in the hallway. I gave one girl an apologetic smile as Hermione breezed by her and nearly knocked her to the floor. She glared at me as if I were Voldemort himself. As I turned away from her, I had to break into a small jog to catch up to Hermione. She was halfway to the Great Hall by the time I was walking back at her side.
“Hermione, I think maybe you need to…to go take a break,” I said softly, “Don’t…don’t go in there and eat lunch. I’ll get you something and bring it up to you. I’ll even eat with you in the common room.”
“Oh, and that way I can make it look as if I’m upset in front of Ron?” she snapped, “I can make it look like it pains me to be in the same room with him?”
“I’m just saying that it might hurt more than you think it’s going to,” I said, “You…you haven’t had time to process it yet. I…I just think you might want to rethink eating lunch near him.”
Hermione huffed in agitation and impatience. But she had stopped walking. I had gotten her to turn around and look at me just before she went through the doors and into the hall itself. She stared at me for a moment or two, and then began to walk slowly over to me. I heard her shoes click against the stone floor.
“I will not look defeated in his eyes,” she told me as she brought her nose level with mine. I felt my face go red and my palms sweat as her chocolate eyes locked onto mine. I saw anger there, mixed with contempt and scorn. But in the corners were sadness and heartbreak, and I knew that she thought I could be right. She refused to let on to it, refused to admit it to herself, but she knew that everything I was saying made sense. She didn’t want to be in the same room with Ron right now. It would hurt too much. All she wanted to do was escape into the common room and wallow. But her female pride wouldn’t let her. And no matter how much the lump in her throat would hurt, no matter how hard the pressure of the tears would be, she would eat at that table. She would sit across from him and act unaffected and coy. It would be torture. It would be agony. But she would do it because she was Hermione Granger and you could expect nothing less of her.
“All right then,” I said, “If this is what you want, then I’m not going to hold you back from it. But at least let me sit with you. You could probably…use a friend right now. Am I right?”
She sighed, arguing with herself. And then grudgingly, I saw her head go up and down in a nod. And she wrapped her arms around me in a hug that would somehow strengthen her. And I gave her all of the strength I had in me. Then, taking a deep breath, she gave herself a last reassurance in her own mind and walked into the hall.
And Ron wasn’t there.
“Well, there you go,” I said to her, and I felt her punch me. She collapsed into the chair, her arms crossed and her face contorted in frustration. There was a basket of rolls sitting on the table, and she made a grab for one and stuffed it in her mouth. She chewed as if she were biting into Ron’s skull.
“Careful you don’t chip a tooth there,” I teased. But she wasn’t listening to me. Her eyes were on the ceiling, lost in bitter thoughts. I took a roll and placed it down onto the plate in front of me. I cut it into two pieces and spread a small amount of jelly onto it to give it some taste. And as I looked up from my food, I noticed him.
He was a boy I had never seen before, merely sitting in the corner absorbed in a book. His face was shrouded in shadow, and his long dark hair hung down to obscure his face. I cocked my head, trying to see if his profile matched any that I knew. But it didn’t. He was a stranger, some new person who had only just arrived at the school.
“Hey, look over there,” I told Hermione, and she brought herself out of her own thoughts to follow my gaze. She spotted him too.
“Who is that?” she asked me. As if I should know. I shrugged my shoulders. She turned back around to look at him again.
“Awfully pale, isn’t he?” she remarked. I gave a sardonic laugh.
“Who in England isn’t?”
“No, Harry. I mean…extremely pale. Almost blue.”
I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Must be a trick of the light from your angle,” I told her, “He looks perfectly normal to me. You girls looks at things way too closely.”
“And boys never pay attention enough to see anything for what it really is,” she retorted.
“You’d be surprised how blind you can be sometimes,” I said, and I didn’t mean to. It was just something that slipped out accidentally.
“And by that you mean what?” she asked. I couldn’t answer it, and I took a drink of water to keep myself quiet. She took another look over at the boy.
And I saw him look up. And look. At her. His eyes were a vivid blue, almost milky white. Eerie.
She didn’t move for a few moments. I thought he had her locked in some kind of silent spell, and to this day, I don’t know what passed between them in those moments. All I know is that she sat there, staring into him as if he could solve all of her problems. She was rigid, like stone, and I grew anxious at her stillness. I reached out an arm to touch her. She came alive at the feel of my fingers.
“You alive there?” I asked her. She just nodded, and pushed her hair back behind her ears.
“Bit odd, wasn’t that?” I suggested.
“Yeah,” she said, “Yeah, it was.”
I took a bite of the small sandwich that I had made for myself out of the bread and condiments left on the table. Then, swallowing it down, I asked her.
“What exactly just happened there?”
“I…I’m not sure,” she said, “Whatever it was, it’s gone now. Probably just one of those moments where your brain just catches itself and stops working.”
“Maybe,” I remarked. That wasn’t what had happened, but I let it be the explanation for now.
“Where’d he come from, do you think?” she asked, gazing back at him, one more time. I tapped the table to pull her away.
“Probably some other Wizarding School,” I said, “Maybe Durmstrang. Looks like he might be their type.”
“Mm…”
There was silence between us for a moment. Her thoughts were either centered on the strange boy in front of us or on Ron. I couldn’t tell. I merely took another bite of my sandwich and waited for her to say something. Didn’t matter what, really. I just knew I was there for listening. She deserved that much.
And then, five minutes before the bell rang, he showed up. Ron walked in, Lavender following close behind him, her eyes twinkling. Seamus wasn’t far away either, merely two steps behind Lavender. Ron shot a look over at me, as if to say “Hello,” without using words, and then sat parallel to us with his back turned. I watched Hermione melt in front of my eyes. Her solid expression softened into that of an emotional mess, and her lips quivered. I watched behind her as the boy stiffened in the corner, his eyes drawn to her again. I looked from him to her and, without thinking, grabbed her hand.
“It’s okay,” I told her, stroking the top of her fingers, “It’s all right. You’re strong, remember? You’re strong.”
She nodded, but I heard a small sob escape from her. Her shoulders sagged as she stared at Ron’s unmoving back. He couldn’t see her, which was good. Still, his presence was unraveling her rope. Once an unlighted and clean wick of a candle, she was quickly becoming the wax that dripped from the sides.
“Do you want me to take you out of here?” I asked her, and the boy in the corner must have read my lips. He moved as if to get up and follow us. I gave him a quizzical look to tell him to stay away.
“Hermione,” I asked her, “Do you want to leave?”
And I saw her nod ever so slightly.
“Okay,” I said, and I let her get up first. It would grant her a bit of dignity to appear to be the one who initiated the leaving. I thought I saw Ron turn slightly to look at her, but I couldn’t be sure. What I did know was that the boy in the corner watched us leave. I saw his eyes follow Hermione, and I felt his gaze on the back of my neck as I walked out. And it was as if icicles were shooting into my head.
We were on the staircase when she looked at me and spoke again. And there were no tears, for she had forced them away. She just looked at me, a pool of sadness and pain.
“Can you tell me what I did wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said, “Nothing at all. He’s just…he’s Ron and you’re Hermione. And maybe…maybe it wasn’t meant to…”
She looked at the wall, refusing to believe anything else that I said. I could almost see Slughorn’s party sitting on the surface of her mind. It was there, floating just above her head. And she fought back the temptation to cry when she thought of how lonely she would be. I saw what she could see. She was picturing herself laughing with her arms around Ron, knowing that she would never have another moment like that again with him. And before I knew what I was doing, before another thought went into it, it was coming out. I tried to hold my tongue, to hold myself back from jumping into the abyss, but my feet were off the ledge already.
“Go to the dance with me,” I told her quickly. It was so quickly she couldn’t understand me.
“Hm? I didn’t catch that.”
“Go to the dance with me, Hermione.”