Chapter Six: Onboard the Hogwarts Express
HERMIONE
Hermione rolled over in her sleep and promptly toppled out of bed in a tangle of bedsheets and freshly-laundered robes.

“Good morning,” Ginny said, with a giggle at Hermione’s predicament, though she quickly sat aside the bundle of robes she was holding to help Hermione to her feet. “’Bout time you woke up. I’ve been up for hours, of course, thanks to your cat.” She cast a sidelong glare at Crookshanks, who was curled up in the windowsill, purring contentedly. “He was trying to dispense with Arnold again. He’s a right menace, Crookshanks. Arnold hasn’t done a thing wrong.”

Like owner, like pet, Hermione thought wryly. “Why didn’t you boot Crookshanks out and go back to sleep?”

“It’s September first, Hermione. The first day of school.”

“The first day of school?” she repeated drowsily; it took a minute for the information to register, before – “— Ginny! Why on earth – why didn’t you wake me up? How am I ever to get ready in time?!” 

“Honestly, Hermione. I thought that much was obvious.  You simply don’t need as much time to get ready as I do. There’s your hair, for one thing. You can just roll out of bed – as you’ve done just now – and – well, you see, don’t you? I don’t mean to offend—”

Hermione knew that there was no time to argue the point. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done—” Ginny opened her mouth to speak, but Hermione snapped, “Never mind. Whatever it is, I don’t care to hear it.” 

She tossed a bundle of robes and a handful of eagle feather quills into her trunk atop the stack of NEWT books. All in all, Hermione Granger was glad their summer sojourn at the Burrow was drawing to a close.  Though to an outsider, the past days and weeks would seem a haze of lazy afternoons spent by the lake and evenings best spent dining and reclining in the outdoors, Hermione saw their time there differently. She saw the good times, punctuated by snippets of bad news and (Harry suspected) misinformation, dispatched every hour on the hour over the WWN; she felt strained by her friendship with Ginny, her courtship of Ron, and her – well – her whatever-it-was with Harry. As she threw the one last pair of kneesocks into her trunk, the call came from Mrs. Weasley for them to embark for King’s Cross, and as she dragged her trunk over the rickety floorboards and out into the brilliant late summer sun, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever be back.

* * * * *

“Hurry – nearly there – you first, Ginny – walk straight at the—”

“Ma!” Ron cried out in exasperation, as his sister disappeared through the barrier between platforms nine and ten, “We’re seventh years, there’s no need to boss us around!” He turned sharply on his heel and marched through the barrier without a backward glance. Mrs. Weasley clucked nervously and scurried after him, grabbing hold of Harry and Hermione’s arms as she walked so that they disappeared through the barrier together.

“She’s just worried, Ron!” Hermione snapped, catching up with Ron several minutes later as he hefted his trunk onto the train. “Can’t you just give her this bit of consolation?”

“She doesn’t think we can look after ourselves! I mean, it’s hard enough going back as it is without all her…drama,” he said testily.

In the end, though, his tender heart won out over his hot head, and he permitted Mrs. Weasley to hug and kiss him farewell. “And a kiss from Auntie Muriel, too!” she exclaimed throatily, planting a kiss on his forehead. “She’s been ever so concerned and sends you all her best!” She clutched her daughter for a long moment and when they parted, fat tears that she had been struggling to hold at bay were streaming down Mrs. Weasley’s face.

“I’ll be fine, dears, don’t worry about your poor old mother,” she sobbed, waving a sodden handkerchief at them as they scampered aboard the train. She stood brokenly before them, starting blankly at the train for a moment before retreating back through the barrier. As she disappeared, Luna Lovegood and a man who could only be her father appeared, looking as though they’d found themselves at the train station quite by accident. The similarities between father and daughter were striking and Hermione couldn’t help but smile.

Harry and Ginny led the way down the corridor.

“Nice that we don’t have to sidestep the usual convoy of snot-faced little first-years,” Ginny said brightly. “I’m glad I never was one.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and laughed. “Will you lot save me a place to sit? I’m not sure if I’ll be busy the whole train ride or not…”

“Here’s an empty compartment,” Harry called, sliding open the door and wheeling his trunk inside, Neville Longbottom trailing along behind.

“And, blimey, here’s another, in case the first one doesn’t suit us,” Ron said, a look of concern passing over his face.

“And another,” came Luna’s dreamy voice. “Hogwarts doesn’t seem like a very popular travel destination this year. Daddy says—”

“D’you reckon much of anyone will be coming back at all?” Neville murmured, looking shiftily up and down the largely deserted corridor.

The train whistle sounded shrilly – as though vainly summoning the students who wouldn’t be returning – and Crookshanks clawed his way out of his wicker basket and took off down the train, Hermione hot on his heels.

By the time she returned, with the distressed cat wriggling in her arms, Zacharias Smith had arrived, bringing discord with him. He seems to be setting himself up to usurp Malfoy’s position as Supreme Git, Hermione thought grimly. Harry had turned a cold shoulder towards the bothersome Hufflepuff, Neville was engrossed in searching for his toad (who had predictably gone missing in the luggage) and Luna had disappeared behind a copy of The Quibbler, but Ron and Ginny had squared off against him. Hermione saw Ginny’s hand twitch towards her wand, a sure warning sign.

“He’s not worth it, Ginny,” Hermione said coolly. “Smith, out.”

“Hermione!” Ginny wailed as Smith stalked away, throwing a disgruntled look over his shoulder, “If you won’t let me jinx him, can’t you at least give him detention?”

“Don’t be silly, term hasn’t even started yet.”

“You’re Head Girl, Hermione. You can get away with assigning whatever punishments you like. If I were you, I’d make Smith disembowel horned toads in the dungeons with Snape—” She stopped short, eyes wide as saucers. “—with Slughorn, then. With Slughorn.”

It was too late to take it back. Ron’s face fell and Harry’s eyes blazed with fresh anger as he glared determinedly out the window. Hermione winced. She hated seeing Harry so torn between revulsion and despair.

“Take Crookshanks, will you, Harry?” she asked softly, lowering the skittish cat into his lap. He nodded, not looking at her.

“Hermione Granger! What a pleasure to see you!” Ernie Macmillan appeared at her side and, before she had fully registered the gleaming Head Boy’s badge pinned to the front of his robes, he had seized her hand and was shaking it pompously.

“Nice to meet you too, Ernie,” she said, tongue in cheek.

“Yes, yes. Knew you’d be Head Girl, of course, and I must say, I quite approve of the administration’s choices this year. Reopening the school was a bold move to be sure, but isn’t it fortunate for the two of us? Naturally, I’ve been hoping to be chosen for years.” Ernie beamed at her and she smiled edgily at him. As they began to patrol the corridors, it became painfully obvious that they wouldn’t be presiding over very many students this year…

Ernie, undeterred by her silence, used the uninterrupted airtime to regale her with tales of his summer internship at the Ministry of Magic.

“—Rufus Scrimgeour, you know, the Minister, said I’d make a stellar Minister myself one day. It’s good to be connected, start things off on the right foot. Of course, once Professor Slughorn learns about my summer activities, I’m certain he’ll be pleased. Quite the bloke, Slughorn—”

Summer activities, Hermione shook her head and smiled inwardly, thinking that Ernie’s internship had most likely involved filing unimportant documents and fetching coffee for the higher-ups. At the same time, however, she wished that her own life was so blasé. As it was, she had no time or energy to look into her post-Hogwarts options.

“—it’s very hands-on at the Ministry now, and I must say, their approach seems to be working. Not about to let another war rage on for decades, the Ministry. I do think Scrimgeour is certainly going about the right course in these difficult times—”

“Do you?” she asked sharply.

“Well, obviously, it’s no walk in the park, this, but if the Minister receives full support in everything he undertakes, we’ll be in the clear in no time at all.”

“And did the Minister mention Harry at all, in these grand schemes he’s concocted?”

“Harry Potter is the talk of the Ministry!” Ernie said, nodding curtly. “Of course, Scrimgeour remains convinced that he’ll come around eventually, sooner rather than later. It’s his duty, or so the Prophet says—”

“The Minister doesn’t care what happens to Harry, does he? It’s his duty, is it? To save all our sorry skins?” Hermione demanded, fighting back the bitter diatribe she longed to throw at Ernie, Scrimgeour, anyone who thought of Harry Potter in such callous terms.

“No – I didn’t mean – don’t take this the wrong way, Hermione, but it’s Harry’s life or all of our lives. Be honest, which would you choose?”

“I daresay you’ve forgotten just who it is you’re speaking to,” she snapped, and without a further word, she stormed away, leaving a bewildered Ernie Macmillan cowering in her wake.

* * * * *

HARRY

“What a bunch of sorry mingers. Romilda Vane will be a sight for sore eyes after this lot,”* Ron muttered as his eyes fell upon a gaggle of fifth-year girls. “I always hoped we could transfer to Beauxbatons and this might just be the year…”

“Don’t be so vulgar, Ron,” Hermione rejoined, gathering up Crookshanks in her arms. “Just be glad there’s anyone here at all.”

“I didn’t lump you among them, if you didn’t notice—”

Harry heaved a sigh of resignation and adjusted his course so that a handful of fourth-years could come between him and his best friends. He’d always hated it when they fought, but lately, it had been irritating him more than usual. Once the swarm of students reached the Great Hall, Harry chose to sit beside Neville, Dean Thomas, and Seamus Finnigan, preferring their talk of Quidditch and West Ham United to Ron and Hermione’s infighting, but even without their incessant bickering echoing in his ears, it was difficult to enjoy the feast – the first conducted without Albus Dumbledore. After the Sorting Ceremony, McGonagall stood up to say a few words, but was so overcome with emotion that she sank back into her seat and buried her face in her tartan handkerchief.

To cover the awkwardness of the moment, the feast magically materialized before their eyes. Dean and Seamus immediately began cramming their mouths full of Welsh rarebit and Yorkshire pudding, but Neville took his time, picking morosely at his dinner with a rather doleful look on his round face.

“Had a good summer, Neville?” Harry asked, feeling that the dour look on his friend’s face was probably answer enough.

“Not bad. I was only thinking of Mum and Dad. We went to visit them day before last, you know, and Gran’s right,” he said stoutly, recouping a bit of his usual cheerfulness, “I ought to be proud of them.”  

Harry felt a twinge of sorrow for the boy sitting beside him. When Neville seemed to have nothing else to say, Harry let the conversation drop, turning his attention to the other Gryffindors. Ginny was regaling the Muggleborn Creevey brothers with news of the latest attacks; Colin and Dennis were hanging on her every word, but Harry found their morbid fascination over it all tiresome. His gaze drifted down the table to where Hermione was sitting, looking strangely subdued. Twice, Harry tried (and failed) to catch her eye; even a loud belch from Ron – who had broken off their argument in favor of enjoying the magnificent feast – failed to draw any response.

The chattering voices echoed strangely in the Great Hall; at moments, the entire Hall seemed to lapse into silence. Harry could never remember it looking so empty…so deflated. It had been a long summer, marked by deaths and disappearances. Lavender Brown sat farther down the table, flirting half-heartedly with Ritchie Coote, while Parvati Patil sat beside her, looking supremely bored.

Harry chanced a glance at the Slytherin table, where large gaps separated the few students who had returned. Blaise Zabini sat alone, as strikingly handsome as ever, and Pansy Parkinson, surrounded by a gaggle of dark-haired girls, was eyeing him hopefully. The four other Slytherin boys in their year were nowhere to be seen. Harry’s mind drifted to Draco Malfoy, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. The last time he’d seen Malfoy, he was being half-pulled across the Hogwarts grounds, urged along by Snape. Harry gritted his teeth. Wherever Malfoy and the murderer were now, they were gaining ground, and he, Harry, was wasting time.  

Slughorn sat at the Staff table, chatting amiably with a stone-faced Argus Filch as he downed tankard after tankard of pumpkin juice spiked with mulled mead. Slughorn alone appeared unaware of the gloomy atmosphere in the Great Hall. By the end of the meal, he was gesticulating with such jollity and gusto that even the good-natured Madam Sprout was casting him dirty looks.

After what felt like hours, the prefects and new Head Boy and Girl rose from their seats and ambled up and down the aisles rounding up the dwindling number of first years for their first tour of the castle. With Hermione otherwise occupied and Ron off chatting to Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot at the Ravenclaw table, Harry slipped out of the Great Hall unchecked and set off for the Gryffindor Common room alone. Only when he reached the Fat Lady did he realize that he did not know the password, but the Fat Lady gave him a sympathetic smile and swung open regardless.

Harry looked around the Common Room. The last time he’d seen it, it had been teeming with tearful students, the armchairs and poufs occupied by sobbing girls and stony-faced boys. Now it stood empty. He approached the merrily crackling fire and paused to stare into its depths. He felt an unwarranted pang of longing. Sirius should be here. How many times had his godfather sat in front of this fire or visited Harry through it, when Harry needed his guidance most? It was all so mangled and confused in his mind. Sirius, Dumbledore…and the more distant ache that he always associated with the early loss of his parents. He felt a chill pass through him, despite the heat radiating from the fire in the grate. And I’ll be next, he thought. There’s no other way.

He could hear Ginny’s voice carrying down the corridor on the other side of the portrait hole. As though taking a cue, Harry Potter hastened up to the boys’ dormitories and flopped onto the old four-poster bed. When the others arrived, he would feign sleep, and when true sleep would evade him as it so often did these days, he would retreat to the Common room, to pace that well-worn rug before the Gryffindor fire.

* * * * *

*My best friend, who’s spent some time in Britain, tells me that a “minger” is an unattractive girl, but if he’s having me on, please let me know what it really means! *laughs* I wouldn’t put it past him.

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