harry.exe has stopped working ━ hp x tmr | lv

14.

Chapter Fourteen: 

In the library there are soft murmurs and hushed conversations, every few seconds a page is turned over in a book and quills are scratched over parchments. In the corner of the library, tucked between two shelves, Harry sits with his chin placed in the palm of his hand, eyes slowly going over the words in his Astronomy book. Opposite him, Hermione Granger is reading some thick tome about poisonous plants — Neville Longbottom’s doing, no doubt. Those two seemed to be… associates. Friends wasn’t the right word to use for those two. Not yet, anyways. 

Harry has been coming into the library every day for the past two weeks, exactly an hour after all classes have finished. He sits in the corner, joins Hermione in whatever she’s doing, reading, writing, doing homework, sometimes he even takes an impromptu nap, much to the females dismay. They never talk. There’s no greeting, no farewell, no nod of acknowledgement — just silence. Harry isn’t sure what he’s doing, but he knows he’s doing it very, very well.

It's times like these he wishes he wasn't so god damn socially awkward or that Hermione was more open about, well, anything really. It's sort of hypocritical coming from himself -- a pot calling the kettle black type of situation. The silence between them is also starting to slowly but surely kill him. Sighing, Harry pulls out a spare piece of parchment from his bag. He frowns when he notices that he must have left his quill in one of his classes. Placing the parchment over his Astronomy book, he leans across the table and grabs Hermione's quill - she doesn't notice, doesn't even glance up from her book, too absorbed in the tiny printed text -- so Harry taps the end of 'his' quill against his bottom lip in thought. And then it comes to him -- an absurd idea. An idea like no other. 

Grinning, Harry sketches out a cartoonish version of his dear Voldy. He's the epitome of sass, one hand on his hip, the other one held up beside his face, his pointer finger swaying from side to side in a show of 'no.' He's dressed in his usual dark robes that billow and twirl around his legs. Snickering, Harry decides to add some thin but eccentric eyebrows and oh, he mustn't forget the hearts. He finishes it with a sign of his name. He holds back a laugh when he sees the finished piece. It brings a certain warmthness to his being that has him looking down at the parchment with fondness. 

A giddy giggle passes from between his lips. He grabs another parchment and holds the borrowed -- ahem, okay, stolen -- quill over it, suddenly pausing. The ink drips down onto the yellowish paper and Harry blinks, slow and owlish. Hold on, he internalises. Hold the fuck on. 

Why… why was he feeling all nice and shit… about… about…

Harry crushes the quill between his fingers. The black ink drips across the palm of his hand and he panics. "Ah, fuck," he curses, hurriedly pushing his drawing of Voldemort out of the way, brows furrowed and expression slightly worried. 

"Language," comes Hermione's voice, quiet and disinterested, gaze still held on her tome about poisonous plants. 

For a moment, Harry is still and then he moves, shoulders hunching and lips forming a scowl. "Language," he imitates, making his voice as bored as he can. He's not surprised, per say, he's… glad that Hermione has finally caved and opened her mouth to say something. Of course it would be about Harry's open use of curse words, though. His scowl deepens as he uses his non ink covered hand to stuff Cartoon-Voldy into his bag, out of sight, out of mind. He hopes. 

"I'd rather like that quill back," Hermione's eyes move from left to right, reading the words in her book. "Fixed." 

Sighing, Harry concentrates his magic on the broken quill, it vibrates for a few seconds and then the broken pieces shift together and the ink runs back inside it. He places it down in front of Hermione, eyeing the way her hands form fists and her teeth bite at her lips in frustration.