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.
Bingo.
"It's not that hard," Harry says. "All you have to do is concentrate on your magic and instead of letting your wand take over it, take over the magic yourself."
Hermione finally raises her gaze, matching it with Harry's own. "Take over...my magic?" She asks, tone skeptical. "Isn't it already mine?"
"Mhhm," Harry hums. "I'm not really sure how to explain it better. It doesn't work the same way for everyone, you just need to find your own way of using wandless magic. Oh, but not everyone can do it nonverbally, so maybe you should start by saying the spell but not using a wand?"
Top lip curling in distastefully, Hermione returns her attention back to her tome, evidently no longer interested in a conversation.
Smiling, Harry packs up his things, slings his bag over his shoulder and gets to his feet. "I better check up on Ron and Draco, see if they're both still alive. Bye, 'Mione."
Harry tries his damn hardest not to laugh when he hears the girl choke, surprised and probably flustered.
----
For Christmas, Harry sends Hermione a book about magical cores. He also adds the first volume of, 'Are We Friends?' if only for a laugh. He gets Draco a new potions kit, filled with obviously illegal ingredients. Ron gets a vintage poster from the Chudley Cannons. Harry even gets a few gifts for his other friends. He gifts Pansy with a nice, silver bracelet that lights up whenever someone talks badly about her behind her back. This way, she'll know exactly who to hex. He gets Blaise a monthly subscription to, 'How to Manage Murder.' It's a lovely magazine, fits him quite perfectly actually. Theodore gets an assortment of special Christmas sweets that taste like shit and for Tracey, Harry decides on getting her basic hair clips. To hold back her bangs while she leans over her books and reads.
Finally, Harry decides on making Greengrass a cute photo of Draco and Ron holding hands as they walk down the corridors. There's a simple, 'Sorry,' written above them in loopy letters.
It's Harry's most finest work to date, if he has to say so himself.
The angry letter he receives on Christmas morning from the girl is something he expects. He barely pays attention to her carefully crafted words -- there's an insult almost in every line. Harry's quite proud of her, actually. He grades her letter with an A and sends it back to her, rumpled. She can obviously do better. A letter from her younger sister on the other hand, isn't something he'd been expecting at all. He lounges across his bed, flat on his stomach with his legs raised behind him, ankles crossed. Except for Nimmy and Verde curled up together on one of his pillows, the bedroom is empty. Draco, Theodore and Blaise had packed whatever they needed and then left to go home for the holidays.
Humming, Harry reads over the younger Greengrass's letter. Her words are smeared and there are blotches of ink around the parchment, so unlike her sister's. Perhaps the girl had been in a rush to write it? Or maybe she was genuinely a mess when it came to transferring her thoughts onto parchment, just like himself? Smiling, Harry realises the girl hadn't even managed to write a, 'Dear Potter,' simply preferring to jump straight into her musings.
'Thank you for the cute picture! Daphne said she didn't like it and ended up throwing it away. I got curious and decided to save it. I've grown slightly attached to it and have perhaps pinned it up in my bedroom.' Here she crosses out several lines that Harry can't decipher. 'I know it's rude of me to ask… but could you possibly make dracofallinlovewiththeweasleyquicker?'
The letter then abruptly ends, almost as if she had been embarrassed to write anymore. Harry burrows his face into his hands and laughs.
Between dealing with his dear Voldy, trying to befriend Hermione and avoiding Dumbledore… Harry certainly had some free time to speed up the process of Draco falling further in love with Ron and vice versa. He could already imagine the chaos left in his wake - the utter dismay left on some people's faces. It makes him feel all giddy inside.
"Master, you smell delighted." Nimmy voices, slithering down the pillows and closer to him. "I'm not sure if I should be glad or worried."
"Worried?" Verde shakes his little head from side to side, "Please. Master knows what he's doing." And then quietly, he adds, "I hope."
Harry doesn't fall for the jibes, instead he reaches for his other Christmas presents. They're all spread around him. Some of them are neatly wrapped, others not so much. There are extravagant bows and glittering wrapping paper. Harry carefully opens the closest one to him, it's adored in orange polka dots. His heart swells when he peels apart the wrapping paper and sees a Weasley sweater. It's wooly and scratchy, dark green with a silver 'H' on the front. Harry blinks away his tears and quickly slips it on, relishing in the feeling of something so achingly familiar. There's a slip of paper between the wrapping and Harry picks it up, reading over Molly Weasley's neat handwriting.
'Merry Christmas! Ron said you wouldn't mind a sweater, so I made you one as well. Hope you like it! - Molly Weasley.'
He does. Harry likes it very much. He awkwardly places the slip of paper onto one of his pillows and moves onto the rest of his gifts. From Hermione, he gets a special quill that apparently makes his chicken scratch look neater, much more readable. Draco gifts him an ever colour changing wand holder -- apparently to match his hair. He rolls his eyes fondly when he sees it. Ron gets him a nice a pair of gloves along with a scarf. His name is stitched into all the items, silvery and lopsided. Harry loves them.
From Pansy, he gets a large jar of Acid Pops. They all have insults carved into them. Blaise gifts him a subscription to, 'How to Manage Murder,' which Harry finds hilarious. Great minds think alike, after all. Theodore gets him the same assortment of shit sweets and surprisingly, Harry finds a pretty hair clip in his presents as well. It's from Tracey.
Two snakes curl around each other, one green and one red, their eyes are closed but their tongues are sticking out. Harry pulls his bangs back and clips them to the side.
"What do you think?" He asks.
"Pretty." Nimmy and Verde answer simultaneously, not a hint of a lie tracing their voices.
Harry blushes. "Shut up," he grumbles. He clears his throat and then goes for his last two presents. Undoubtedly, one is from Dumbledore. He's right, because he opens it and sees the same dumb note as the first time. He scrunches it up between his fingers and throws it across the room, not caring. The invisibility cloak is as soft as ever and Harry sighs, running his fingers up and down the silk like material. He carefully places it to the side and reaches for the last gift.
It's a small, velvet box.
Curious, he gently pries it open. Inside lays a slip of parchment. And in loopy handwriting Harry knows all too well, the letters spell out a simple, 'thank you.'
Voldemort.
Feeling heat prickle at his skin, Harry pushes away the slip of parchment to see what's underneath it. His lips curl into a shaky grin when he finds a splinter of the Philosopher's stone.
That night, Harry sleeps content with the knowledge that he's going to fuck up a lot of people's lives.
1986 words//unedited.
++++
harry: F R I E N D S H I P
hermione: p O W E R
harry: but its the same thing!!!!