It's been a month, and the world has had time to adjust. Not that they're adjusting very well.
Hermione gets up, and ignores the cold stares of her dorm mates. She can feel the 'righteous' indignation rolling off them; how dare she betray her own kind? Not that it matters that they prattle about the merits of Corner's biceps.
She goes to breakfast, sits with them, and ignores the heated stares of the entire school. How dare they break a code of fellowship as old as Hogwarts itself? No matter that the code was created out of ignorance, of mistrust.
She contemplates this as she spoons porridge into her mouth, not quite glancing at Blaise as he pats her knee. It's nice to know, though, that someone is on her side.
She goes to class, and ignores Ron and Harry. They glare at her in burning fury, although Ron seems to radiate heat. Harry merely looks lost, which Hermione doesn't quite fathom. Why would he feel lost?
Sometimes, Hermione does at well. She walks around the castle, and ignores the whispers of passerby, the rumours of scarlet women and nights spent being groped by them.
Sometimes, she feels like all she does is ignore them.
Hermione and Blaise wander the grounds of Hogwarts, idly making circles in the thick green grass as they move in circles. The sun is bright today, and the wind warm, but Hermione feels a bit chilly inside, like a bad memory that keeps you up at night and sears your bones with regret.
She had been explaining to Blaise about her life as a Muggle child, before Hogwarts, and recalls the taunts of fellow students at her school would tease her endlessly about the books she so loved. Hermione the book-lover, they'd taunt, throwing sticks at her when she refused to respond. Hermione, the reject. Hermione with hair so thick and frizzy that the sticks would lodge in the mass of brown wire. They used to tell her that her hair looked like an abandoned spiderweb that collects dust in a dark, forgotten corner.
Blaise says nothing, but makes soft, comforting noises and pats her arm, looking above her head and into the setting suns brilliant light. Hermione smiles, looking at her feet, and they begin to walk back to Hogwarts.
They have gathered in a large booth at the dark end of The Three Broomsticks. The weather is fine, the drink is fine, and for a moment, they have some peace.
All things can be shattered. Pettiness and envy creep through the cracks of life like spiders scuttling for safety.
Ginny, Ron, Seamus, and Harry descend on the laughing group, irritation on their faces. They have decided that they want the large booth, and no matter that there's no other open table large enough to fit Hermione and her friends.
"Still consorting with the enemy, eh Hermione?" asks Ron, bitterness lashing like silken strings in his voice. Hermione ignores him, merely sipping her drink. Blaise, however, stares directly at Ron, his darkly glittering eyes shooting streaks of fury at the gangly red-head.
It is Ginny, however, who gives off wafts of sheer fury. She glares at Hermione, then at Dean, and back again.
A thousand strands of random information come together to form a web, and Hermione suddenly understands.
"Come on, guys," says Neville jovially, standing up and helping Padma to her feet. "I remember promising Orla we'd being her back some sweets. Let's go get some."
"Yes," says Dean through gritted teeth, obviously annoyed at being stared at, "let's." The group stands up, and they are serene as they leave. Blaise doesn't quite look at Hermione, but he can feel her sadness, etched into her bones.
Dean saunters over to Hermione, and as soon as they are out of earshot, he explains to the group. Hermione remembers that Ginny had 'picked' Dean as her next boyfriend. Dean, however, had not been informed of this, and did not pick back, and Ginny is infuriated at being spurned. And it is humiliation that spurs Ginny on; it bites at her ankles and rankles her, that a boy would turn her down. Seamus called Dean stupid for turning down a date, and Dean did not appreciate it.
Every argument pulls together into cohesion. The golden ratio transforms randomness into a coherent pattern, beautiful if somewhat disturbing. Hermione's mind is full of spinning threads that intersect, intertwine, falling apart only to be pieced back together into the finest lace. She stares at Dean.
Dean shrugs, and they enter the candy store.
Today, Hermione turns seventeen. At their table, a heap of presents stand, and Harry feels suddenly guilty, realising that he's never gotten Hermione a thing for her birthday. He never even knew when it was. Ron merely scowls, and Ginny looks torn between anger and abashment.
Hermione is surprised, but is pleased that someone has remembered. Neville presents her with a gift certificate to Flourish and Blotts. Orla, who hero-worships Hermione, blushingly offers her a stack of parchment, each with the words "From Miss Hermione J Granger" written painstakingly at the top in Orla's loopy script. Soon, books, and quills, and sugarless candy and an odd assortment of other things surround Hermione.
The last present, however, is from Blaise. It's merely a small envelope, with a letter inside. She opens it up, and the sun's rays light up the letters words, written in black ink that flashes bronze as it catches the sun's light.
Even the oldest cobweb is beautiful when it's covered in dew and seen in the morning light. Take heart, Farfalla, we can see it. - Blaise
Out of the letter falls a small necklace. It's a butterfly on a spiderweb, the butterfly made of delicate aurora borealis crystals and the web white gold. Blaise silently takes it from her hands and fastens it around her neck, where it swings daintily on her sternum.
"I can," he whispers in her ear. "All the time."
They smile.
Hermione's birthday is wonderful. She is loved, laughed with, and the day is simply grand.
Until she goes to her dorm, and finds her belongings everywhere.
Books are scattered, pages torn. Crookshanks mewls angrily in a corner, licking some wound on his front left paw. Ink bottles have been upset all over her bedspread, and her scarf, still bright in bleeding red and molten gold, has been picked apart, the thick wool frayed and burnt.
Satisfaction hangs thick and grim in the Gryffindor Common Room. Hermione does not know who did this, and why, and she doesn't care. All she sees are her carefully-copied notes torn to pieces, a hurt pet, and her pride lying in an undignified heap, torn apart by someone who doesn't care to know.
She turns and runs, her beloved cat at her feet. She doesn't acknowledge the snickers of the knowing and the grins of the guilty. She merely runs, runs, runs, out the door and into the hall.
Luna is waiting for her at the bottom of the tower.
"I know," is all she says, and slips her hand into Hermione's for comfort. Hermione shakes, not knowing if she wishes to cry, or scream. Perhaps she can kick everyone in Gryffindor Tower until confessions are made. She's not afraid of spilling a little blood in the name of justice.
"Why?" asks Hermione.
"Because," replies Luna, squeezing their hands and leading her away from the desecration. "But we'll get through this, Hermione. People like us, we always do."
And she's right.
Neville is furious.
All he wants to do is start hexing people, and chivalry be damned. He'll hex every damn person in Gryffindor. No one hurts his friends and gets away with it.
Padma walks with him, in deep contemplation. She is rational and cool under fire, her greatest gift. She allows Neville to rage, letting her own deep-seated anger to siphon itself off into the growling, chubby boy next to her. Her mind is her greatest power, and she is determined to uncover the miscreants of Ravenclaw Tower. She sniffs softly; what wise and witty person would stop to such preschool levels? As well I'm not really one of them anymore is the only thing that stays constant in the every growing web of thoughts in her head.
"Ideas?" she asks. Neville grunts; he knows that strategy is not his forte. But bravery is.
"I think it was a group of people," he mutters, fingering his wand.
"Probably," says Padma, nodding thoughtfully. She smiles wryly. "But won't Dumbledore be pleased?"
"What?" gasps Neville. Perish the thought.
"They obviously planned it together, the Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws," she points out, stabbing the air for emphasis. "We're contributing to House Unity. Dumbledore must be having fits of joy."
Neville gapes at her, then surprises her with a deep, booming laugh, deeper than the sky and warmer than the sun. "Probably," he chuckles. "Although I don't think he planned it quite this way."
Padma laughs, coolly but nicely, and nods. They giggle for a few more moments, then continue walking, both minds melding together as they begin to unravel the web of conspiracy.
Blaise leans against a wall, putting his head on Hermione's shoulder as they watch the shy, sweet Gryffindor and the whip-smart, pretty Ravenclaw walk into the courtyard together, whispering conspiratorially as they start to pluck apart the suspects.
Blaise and Hermione just smile, and not just for Padma and Neville. Blaise finds Hermione's shoulder surprisingly soft, and Hermione finds Blaise's body heat somewhat... home-like.
They watch for a few more moments before turning around and parting ways, Crookshanks walking jauntily behind them.
Susan scampers around Hogwarts, trying to find Theodore. She fell asleep in History of Magic again, and Theodore is the only human being other than Hermione who can actually stay coherent in Binns' class.
She continues to zig-zag across Hogwarts until she runs straight into Dumbledore, bouncing off his back and falling to her knees.
"Sorry, Headmaster," she mumbles, and gets up to run.
"Miss Bones," intones Dumbledore, motioning for her to stop. "A word with you, if you please."
Susan sighs; she likes Dumbledore as much as the next person, but she'd like to get her notes now. "Yes, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore regards her thoughtfully, and Susan's back stiffens. The inevitable has come, and the staff has decided it is high time to stick their noses up their sleeves and interfere with something sacred.
"How has your year been?" he asks, and Susan blinks before steadying herself. Not what she expected, but this is Dumbledore.
"It's been, Headmaster," she says politely, just barely keeping herself from running from his sight.
"I see you've made new friends," he continues, smiling like a slightly demented, but kindly grandfather.
"Yes," she bites off, now impatient. "It's quite nice not to be a shadow anymore."
"Pardon?" asks Dumbledore.
"It's nice not to be a shadow anymore," she repeats, trying to hurry the conversation along. "My House may hate me now, but at least I'm with other people. I'm not a dark figure in the corner, gathering dust and cobwebs in some forgotten room."
"I don't think you were an outcast," says Dumbledore, almost primly. Susan snorts.
"I was a Hufflepuff, Headmaster, and not a well-known one at that. D'you know what it's like to be the only Hufflepuff who stood up for Harry Potter my second year, after Ernie had everyone convinced that he was the Heir of Slytherin? Do you have any idea what it's like to be an outcast of an outcast, ignored by your own kind? They may hate me now, Headmaster, but at least I know who I am."
With that, she stomps off, tiredness and anger washing away any remorse or horror she might have felt at telling off a professor, let alone the Headmaster.
Dumbledore watches her march away. "What am I missing?" he asks himself faintly.
"A lot, I suppose," answers a wispy voice. He turns around, and Orla is there, staring at him defiantly. If Hermione can stand up to him (and she has, in her mind and in her actions) and if Susan can, then surely Orla Quirke can as well.
"Pardon, Miss Quirke?" asks Dumbledore.
"You say you want House Unity," she says waspishly, "but you have always favoured your own. If I had flown a car into a tree, I would have been expelled, as I am not a lion. You cosset Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, and protect them and shelter them. But who protects Hermione? Oh, clever Hermione, she can hold her own. Doesn't matter if she's lonely at the end of the day. No, you must make sure that their friendship endures- but only so Harry Potter can stay alive."
She walks away, her golden hair catching light like strands of purity and honesty.
And Dumbledore understands.