:::Dirty Blood:::
"Have you seen today's paper?" Harry asked his friends at breakfast.
A week had gone by, and the routine of life at school was already starting to sink in for everybody. Classes were in full throttle, homework was already piling up, and the start of quidditch season was only a few days away.
Hermione had picked up her usual habit of delving headfirst into study—a half-effective way of distracting herself from the memories, from the lies…
And from the truth.
"No," Ron said, munching on a scone. "Why? What's it say?"
Harry was frowning down at that morning's Daily Prophet. "Three rookie Aurors have gone missing," he answered, his eyes scanning the page. "Erin Green, Franko Pedrini, and Logan Brenner."
Ron swallowed, shrugged. "Not too unusual, I guess. It's risky work—especially if you're new at it." His eyes widened, then narrowed. "You don't think it has anything to do with…" He leaned in. "With You-Know-Who, do you?"
Harry scratched his neck. "Can't know for sure," he said quietly, pushing the black and white pages away and taking a bite out of his biscuit. He couldn't be sure of anything, not when Voldemort was out there somewhere, scheming, watching, waiting to strike. He wouldn't feel comfortable with anyone going missing, especially Aurors, not with the possibility of an attack looming all the time. No one was safe with that monster on the loose—not anyone, but especially not him.
He turned his gaze to Hermione. She was staring off again, obviously in a world far away from this one. "You okay, Mione?" he asked her. She didn't respond. "Mione?"
"Hm? Oh… sorry, what?"
Harry placed a gentle hand on her back. "You okay?" he asked again.
She nodded. "Fine," she told him. "Just… thinking."
Harry smiled dryly. "You always did do too much of that."
She heard the humor, braved a smile. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Come on," Ron said, standing from the table, dusting his hands together to rid them of stray crumbs. "We're about to be late for Potions. As usual."
Don't expect anything different.
Draco had said the words. Why, then, was he dissatisfied when she so willingly carried them out? He walked into their common room and she immediately walked out of it. He went out onto the balcony and she moved back indoors. He passed her in the hallway, spotted her in classes, but she never so much as glanced his way. He saw more of her damn cat than he actually did of her!
But that was what he'd wanted, right? To forget that strange interlude on the balcony, to go back to the silent indifference they'd always shared…
It should have been easy. Should have been comfortable. But it was neither. He told himself to leave her alone, to push her from his mind. But his eyes moved of their own accord, following her as she walked past him, watching until she disappeared from sight. His gaze was on her, always her, all the time: when she sat with her friends in the Great Hall, did her schoolwork in the library, read her books on her balcony chair.
And as he watched, he began to see her—really see her—for the first time. The outspoken know-all he'd had her pegged as couldn't have been more different from the truth. She was reserved now, almost withdrawn, as if her thoughts were somewhere else, on another plane of existence where only ghosts and spirits lived. The eager student was quiet and calm, her avidness softer now. The effervescence that had so annoyed him annoyed him nowbecause it was gone. And when he thought back, he couldn't remember the last time he had seen it. His boyhood perception of her was long outdated—if it had ever been true at all.
