Neither Harry Potter nor Fullmetal Alchemist belong to me in any way, shape, or form.

Here Nor There

Harry found no respite in Potions class, wherein Snape continued his crusade to ruin Gryffindor lives with renewed vigor. No doubt some residual bitterness from having lost the Defense Against the Dark Arts position to ex-auror Moody fueled his efforts; Neville could attest to this—or rather, his gut-covered hands could. All of this after a particularly mundane period of History of Magic, and Harry was past ready for Tuesday to end.

"Heiderich's really rubbish at charms," concluded Hermione, a hint of a winning smile on her lips when she found them for dinner. "He was in the library for lunch again, and I saw him jumble up Wingardium Leviosa. His wand just spouted a couple of fizzy red sparks." A pause as the aforementioned smile truly took hold of her face. "Not unlike a Blast-Ended Skrewt now that I think about it."

Ron snorted. "And you did the charm for him?"

She blinked owlishly back.

"Of course I did!"

"You two seem to be catching on bloody well then," he joked bitterly, "considering how badly you'd gotten off and all."

Hermione frowned at his tone of voice. "Well, I only do it out of basic human decency. He's not a blood purist, but he was insufferable during lunch today." She crossed her arms, and the look on her face said that she had a lot to get off her chest about the blonde Slytherin. "He's too sarcastic and pleased with himself."

Ron grinned, and he looked about ready to say something, but Hermione continued before he could get a word in.

"And antisocial," she groused. "Doesn't like talking much, zones out too often, which is fine by me most of the time, but I asked him where to find the book he was reading—by the way, he had this book I've never seen in the library before, and naturally, that made me curious—but he just ignored me! Infuriating brute just kept reading like I hadn't even said anything. And it's not like he didn't hear me."

She paused, and Ron opened his mouth again, but she cut him off after her short breathing intermission.

"I called his name several times, and he never even looked up!" ranted Hermione. There was no stopping her. "Eventually, I got his attention, but he was nothing but rude in his answer. He insulted my intelligence! The nerve!" She huffed. "And I don't quite know what he's doing in the library if he's not reading the books. He flips through far too quickly to actually be reading."

Ron gave her a look, the grin on his lips so quickly gone that it was worth asking if it had ever even been there.

She exhaled, offput, "What?"

"Do you ever go to the library to actually bloody study anymore?" questioned the red-head, with perhaps slight hints of irritation. "Something other than Heiderich, I mean."

Wednesday Charms and Thursday Transfigurations were uneventful. Harry received his syllabuses and the like, but the (rather disappointing) highlight of the two days was when a student pointed out the faint stench of manure in the classroom (which had been there for the whole day) to Professor McGonagall. The Transfigurations instructor sighed and attempted once more to purge the odor from her room, but alas!—to no avail. Perhaps it showed how even the most skilled witches or wizards could be bested by the smell of poop.

Chuckles tickled across the classroom, but the room fell to silence as the elderly professor saddled them with a piercing, disapproving look.

As the students exited, Harry heard Professor McGonagall muttering under her breath.

"Why did he bring so much of that foul substance," she whispered, "for such a small item?"

What?

"Furthermore, why did he bring anything at all?" The woman gave one long, elegant sweep of her wand, and the smell was banished at last. "I could have just as easily made it out of, say, a quill, but Hagrid just had to try out his new wheelbarrow—of course, of course."

...Oh.

Harry almost laughed as he made it out the door. The words would have been funny enough considering he was one of two who had the slightest notion of the context, but Professor McGonagall's perfectly calm delivery clinched it. As it was, he barely scraped by with a big, goofy grin that earned him a concerned look from Hermione.

Ron sidled up to the prodigal Gryffindor who, after having spent a majority of lunch in the library, joined them again for the last quarter. "Thought you were going to lock yourself in the library?"

She shook her head. "That was the plan, but Madame Pince kicked me out for trying to skip lunch."

"Figures," stated Ron plainly. "I don't know what you're working on so hard."

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

She grabbed a couple of food items and began to eat. They had what? Ten minutes? Harry was almost done and ready to reach their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class early, but he would probably have to wait for Hermione too.

"So," Ron began. "Anything new on Pretty Boy?"

She immediately opened her mouth as if to begin another rant.

"Stop," interjected the redhead. "Don't start that again. I mean information."

Hermione scoffed, but her eyes immediately cast towards the Slytherins, where Heiderich slipped quietly into a seat beside Goyle. "Well, I just saw him fail a transfiguration this time."

"What happened?"

Hermione shrugged. "Sparks, and then nothing."

Ron blinked.

"Wow," he murmured. "He's just...really bad, huh?"

"Well, that's the thing." She paused to take and swallow a bite of food, deliberating. "On the technical side of things, his process was, if such a concept could exist, flawless. Correct wand movements, correct timing..." She frowned with painfully grudging respect. "By all means, it should've been a perfectly functional spell."

Harry looked up from his plate, taking his time to chew and contemplate. He then broke temporarily from his eating-enforced silence to state, smartly, "That's odd."

"Don't speak with your mouth full," reprimanded Hermione in an almost knee-jerk reaction. Harry's mouth clicked shut. "But yes, it is odd."

Ron hmmmmm'ed. "Charms and transfigurations...Well, I guess he's just rubbish at magic in general then."

"Seems like it," replied the girl. "Although, I've yet to see him try a hex or a curse." The tone of her voice implied, I can't wait to see him fail a hex or a curse.

"I wonder how he expects to pass the year," mused Harry. "Actually, I wonder how he managed to pass the last three years at that." Hogwarts curriculum required successful spell demonstrations. Heiderich couldn't even do a simple levitation charm.

"Maybe the schools in Germany work differently," Hermione suggested in passing.

Ron shook his head. "That 'German transfer' thing's got to be a load of hogwash, 'Mione."

A blink. "What makes you say that?" she asked. Then, in a grumble, "He definitely reads German just fine."

Harry made sure to swallow his last bite of food this time before butting in. "He and Hagrid are so buddy-buddy," he pointed out. "How could he have come all the way from Germany?"

"Germany's not that far."

"You think Hagrid would travel all the way there just to visit an 'old friend?'"

"Floo powder."

"He has a job."

"Summer."

"Heiderich's our age, 'Mione," Harry stated with finality. "Does Hagrid visit you just to chat over the summer?"

She frowned. "No."

"And," he continued, "you live closer." Some part of him preened at having so quickly out-logicked Hermione. "And anyways, even if he did somehow come from Germany, the fact that he and Hagrid talk like old chums still doesn't make sense with how old he's supposed to be."

Ron nodded. "What he said."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at the smug redhead, but raised her arms in relent. "Fine," she admitted. "I suppose so."

"And here I thought you two didn't get along very well," Ron muttered.

"Just because I don't like someone doesn't mean I automatically assume they're hiding some dark secret that has something to do with, of all things, not actually coming from Germany," replied Hermione hotly. She shot the redhead an accusing look, but it died away not long after. "I will admit it's rather..." She considered. "...strange though, now that you mention it."

Harry shrugged. "At least he isn't that much of a threat to anybody if he's as bad at spellcasting as he seems to be," he concluded, leaning back away from his plate. That discovery alone assuaged much of the suspicion he previously felt for Heiderich, which had initially spawned from the boy's insistence on hiding from Moody. But, he thought as Ron and Hermione moved on to some other topic, I guess wanting to hide something isn't always bad?

An odd little half-limp, a foggy history, an ignorance towards modern wizarding slurs; Edward didn't add up.

And he supposed that if the blonde couldn't throw anything more harmful than a smug smile their way, a secret that Hagrid both knew of and was actively participating in wasn't worth this much suspicion—

Well perhaps the point on Hagrid was a little less than valid, considering both Fluffy the three-headed dog and Norbert the dragon hatchling had been legitimate threats to the student body. Harry grimaced. He was thinking himself into circles.

Still, despite the cocky attitude and standoffish I'm-not-paying-attention-to-you-right-now zoning out habit, Heiderich was just a stranger. Maybe Harry was being paranoid in his initial suspicions.

He paused mid-thought.

Why was I looking for a problem in the first place?

A groan escaped his lips, and Ron and Hermione looked up from their brief squabble over, once again, elf rights.

"You alright there, mate?" Ron asked.

Harry returned to his meal. It had to be the Death Eater attack on the tournament that had given him that much paranoia, but he was determined to have a conflict-free year this time.

...Unless he was put in danger.

Unless it put others in danger.

Unless Sirius was in danger.

Unless—

He cut that train of thought off where it was.

"Peachy," Harry finally replied.

He would keep an eye on the Slytherin, but resolved it would be out of...curiosity, not suspicion.

And then he remembered how wary Moody had been with the boy during the Feast.

Fine, he thought, defeated. Maybe just a little bit of suspicion.

As it turned out, they made it to DADA just a few seconds before the bell had rung, barely on time or—according to the other Gryffindor fourth years already eagerly queued up at the door—late. The spectacle on Monday evidently fueled much anticipation for the ex-auror's debut lesson. Harry himself was very interested in seeing how the eccentric man functioned in a classroom environment, especially considering Hogwarts' long track record of...intriguing Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers.

The class pulled out their books and waited with surprising diligence for something to happen. Professor Moody was running slightly late. Harry looked down, at the brand new copy of The Dark Forces: A Guide To Self-Protection that sat upon his desk. The room was unnervingly quiet.

Fortunately, that didn't last very long. The heavy clunk of the ex-auror's carved wooden leg was the first and only sign of the man's approach, echoing eerily in the hallway just out the door. The uneven, heartbeat rhythm of his stride was reminiscent of Heiderich's, but at least, and this was a rough figure, ten times worse.

The grizzled ex-auror entered with little ceremony, not even acknowledging his students' presence. It seemed most of his focus was on march-limping to his desk without falling. It was when he finally arrived at the front of the class that he took a look around the room, his crazy eye swiveling from one young face to the next. His posture was still held ramrod straight, his clothes as mottled and his hair as untamed as ever.

Moody's good eye fixed on the book on Neville's desk, and his other on Harry's. The boy felt himself give an involuntary jolt as electric blue irises stared piercingly in his direction.

Murmuring, and silence.

"...You can put those away," stated the professor slowly, sinking into his seat with an oddly cathartic fwooof. Harry watched the man look around and meet each curious stare thrown at him (Harry's own included). Eventually, Moody sighed in defeat and clarified, "those books. You won't need them."

Harry caught Ron's eye as they shared a wide grin and put away their texts. That, he believed, put this class off to a great start.

Role was taken, with that unnerving eye darting from each student as they answered Moody's call. The man haphazardly threw the register somewhere on his desk before straightening in his seat.

"Right then," he began. From a fold in his coat, he produced a thin, off-white envelope with a red wax seal and pulled a paper from it. "I've had a letter from Professor Lupin about this class." He showed them the paper, for emphasis, Harry supposed. "Seems you've had a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures—you've covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks, grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves," he looked up, "is that right?"

Werewolves.

Harry let out a soft sigh as something vaguely resembling an agreement came from the rest of the class.

Moody nodded, scanning over his letter quickly once again. It was tucked back away into his coat when he spoke.

"But you're behind—very behind—on dealing with curses," he stated. No dissent from his students; it was simply fact. "So I'm here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I've got one year to teach you how to deal with Dark—"

"What, aren't you staying?"

Moody and, well, the entire class turned towards Ron, who jolted ramrod straight in his chair, eyes meeting the professor's warily. Harry could almost feel the apprehension in Ron's shoulders.

The couple tense seconds slid by like minutes, but then Professor Moody grinned at the redheaded boy. Something about the latticework of scars on the man's face made the gesture look wholly unnatural, like he simply wasn't built to smile. Nevertheless, the gesture itself was enough to release the tightness in Ron's shoulders. The man was human. That was nice to know.

"You'll be Arthur Weasley's son, eh?"

Ron nodded.

The ex-auror expelled a reminiscent breath. "Your father got me out of a very tight corner a few days ago...Yeah, I'm staying just the one year." He waved a hand dismissively. "Special favor to Dumbledore...One year, and then back to my...quiet retirement."

A bark of dry laughter escaped from the man's throat at that, but then he rose from his seat and gained everyone's attention with a loud, ringing clap of his leathery hands.

"So," he began. "Straight into it. Curses!"

Hermione was more than just a bit offput with Professor Moody's lesson. The spiders...Well, she wasn't exactly happy about the use of the spiders, but it was nothing compared to the sheer audacity of performing the three Unforgivable Curses right in front of their very eyes. She would be lying if she said she had not been engrossed, even if it had been morbidly so, for everyone in the class had been watching attentively—much in the same way one would watch the makings of a murder.

He'd asked for the names of the curses. She'd been eager to deliver each time.

Neville had been the one to suggest the Cruciatus Curse, and the quiet, flat timber of his voice had unwittingly betrayed the stigma the topic held with him. Hermione had sat there and watched the boy almost break his own fingers in terror as the spider did its twitching tango of agony upon Moody's desk.

But it had been she herself who gave him the name of the final Unforgivable Curse.

She'd seen the far away look in Harry's eyes as the spider stilled.

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Moody had snarled, startling them out of their daze. "This is what you're up against. That's what I've got to teach you to fight. You need preparing. You need arming. But most of all," and he'd paused, to meet their eyes (she recalled distinctly the nervousness she'd felt when his magical eye had focused on her), "you need to practice constant, never-ceasing vigilance."

She remembered there had been a silence as the man pulled his chair out from behind his desk to the front of the room and sat down.

"Get out your quills," he'd muttered behind steeped fingers. "Copy that down: Constant. Never-ceasing. Vigilance."

The rest of the period had been spent in quiet, vigilant note-taking.

And then the professor had found them on the way out, and Neville had stayed behind for a chat and tea, and Harry had looked so out of it. Hermione had left them after a scarfed dinner.

And that was how she found herself at the library once more, perhaps to blow off some steam. She tried in vain to cast the memory out of her mind, but it was bothering her more than she liked to admit. What about that class struck her wrong? She honestly couldn't tell. Maybe it was the unapologetic demeanor with which Moody had performed the curses, but the things he'd said to them after class had seemed heartfelt enough, like he'd been doing it with no ill intent.

No. That wasn't what bothered her.

She thought.

It was probably the ease in which the spider had just...ceased.

(And thought.)

Ceased.

She stopped before she could accidentally crinkle a page. With a shiver and resigned sigh, she shut her book. She was hardly reading it in the first place.

In her daze, she'd picked up a book she'd read before in the first place. She moved to put it away.

The library was mostly empty, like she expected it to be. Sometimes, during lunch, there was a sluggish trickle of students in and out, but dinner was another story entirely. There were—what?—two, maybe three other people in here besides Madame Pince, who stared out at them and her treasury of tomes with some sort of protective animosity.

She found the shelf from which she'd obtained her book and, under close scrutiny from the unfriendly neighborhood librarian, slid the volume in exactly where it belonged. Madame Pince watched her carefully line the book up even with its shelf-mates. Hermione stepped away, and the librarian gave her a long look before returning to her work, grudgingly satisfied.

The girl released a breath she hadn't been aware of holding before a spray of red sparks caught her attention. At a table to her right, a blonde-haired boy stood with a wand raised at chest height, a frown affixed obstinately on his lips. Ah, she thought bitterly, Heiderich.

That was definitely odd. Madame Pince had kicked the Slytherin out of the library last time for attempting his "spell experimentation" on her books, but here he was again, wand at the ready, pointed at a volume of Hogwarts: A History covered in a thick coat of dust.

Given, he had a full set of bookshelves between him and the librarian's desk, but the point still stood.

"Trial two of test group six," she barely heard the boy murmur to himself. Was that irritation in his voice? "Floating charm on one point three seven five kilogram tome; positive control wand—flexible willow, eleven inch, dragon heartstring."

...What does that...?

It sounded vaguely like something she'd once read out of a collection of magical study abstracts.

Hermione watched the short blonde close his eyes in concentration, left hand holding his wand out steady. With a breath, he guided the tip through the necessary motions, and, softly, whispered.

"Wingardium Leviosa."

His hand seemed to hang there for a solid second, shaking, as if some unknown, unnamed force was physically exerting itself upon himself and his arm. Hermione found herself holding her breath.

Sluggishly, sleepily, the book rose a centimeter, and then two. It crawled into the air, stopping a good twenty centimeters off the table.

She exhaled.

But Heiderich's shoulders were still tense, his arm falling tentatively to the side. Hermione couldn't help but wonder; what was he waiting for? The book was floating, the charm had evidently worked—

With a piercing, painful whump, the tome returned to the surface of the table, and all color drained out of the Slytherin's face. Something akin to pain stole over his eyes as he dropped his wand unceremoniously on the floor and clamped a hand over his mouth, emitting soft gagging sounds barely audible to where Hermione stood. With shaky hands, he found a chair and sunk into it, tilting his head back. She could see him fighting against nausea, swallowing sporadically, rubbing at his forehead. And boy, he was cursing like a sailor.

Madame Pince had stood from her desk, roused from the commotion, and, hastily, before she even knew what she was thinking, Hermione peeked around the bookcase, grabbing a random tome from a chest-level shelf, and pantomimed the dropping of a book onto someone's foot. The woman shot her a venomous glare.

Sorry, the girl mouthed back, not really sorry. She ducked back behind the bookcase. Why on earth had she done that for the boy? Was it so necessary for her to exonerate someone she found so wholly insufferable? It was the troll fiasco from first year all over again.

She collected herself and found Heiderich giving her what would've been an incredulous look if his face weren't so drawn from nausea. She put her book prop back and took a seat across the table from the boy, Hogwarts: A History lying crooked between the two.

She paused, considering what would be appropriate to ask out of concern she wasn't aware she possessed for Heiderich. She gave him a few minutes to recover before finally speaking up.

"...Are you alright?"

The boy shuddered, clutching at his right temple. Finally, he mustered the composure to answer.

"Miss...Granger, right?" His voice was still shaky. "You saw that?"

She nodded.

He sighed. "Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered, looking very not fine. A weak shadow of his Slytherin Smirk flashed across his lips. "I was anticipating this reaction, after all. When I can actually manage magic like this..." He frowned. "Well, it's not pretty."

She cocked her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. "You knew it would make you feel terrible," she began slowly, not quite understanding his thought process, "and yet you still tried."

He nodded. "Yeah."

"...Why?"

"Why not?" Some of the color returned to his face as the genuine article of infuriating Slytherin Smirk appeared. With a breath, the smile left as quickly as it had come, and a far away look took over his features. "I've just been testing out my...spellmanship for a very long time. Y'know, to see if things change." He crossed his legs in his chair, making himself comfortable. "It's a long-running experiment."

"And this has happened every time?"

"Yeah," replied the Slytherin. His smirk shifted briefly to a genuine grin. "All of this consequence for levitating a book only..." His eyes blanked, for the shortest of moments. "...twenty-five point three six centimeters, was that? For...five point seven seconds." A shake of his head. "Where's the equivalence in that?"

A pause as that sunk in.

Those numbers have to be fake.

"So," she began carefully. "You have very...weak magic?"

He shrugged. "Something along those lines."

Ugh. What was that supposed to mean?

"But why does it make you feel sick?" she asked.

A pause, and then, again, he smiled.

"You," he stated, "wouldn't be able to keep up with my explanation."

It took a full second for her to finally fully absorb what had just been said.

"Excuse me?"

She fumed, fully aware that her face was probably beginning to flush. He'd said something similar just yesterday after she'd finally tapped at the table hard enough to annoy him into acknowledging her question. She'd just been curious about the book he'd been reading—a lovely leather-bound tome with a cover scrawled over with runes and numbers...

"...What language is that in?"

"German." The 'duh' went unvoiced.

"What's the title in English?"

The boy almost answered, but with a short pause to revise his response, he began again.

"Even if it were in English," he stated flatly, "you wouldn't be able to comprehend it."

She blinked. "Was that an insult?"

"No." He was the embodiment of stoicism as he stated, "It was simply truth. Now may I please go back to reading?"

Rebuking was futile; he wasn't paying attention anymore.

She silently raged as he continued his idle skimming (for there was no way he was reading that quickly).

He had some nerve.

"I'm not stupid."

"Surprisingly, very few people are," he said evenly. "There is, however, a difference between not stupid and intelligent."

"What makes you think I can't—," she stumbled, flustered. "What makes you think you're that much smarter than me?"

"And do you not think the contrary?" questioned the boy, cheekily. "Do you not think that you are, in some way, smarter than me? Do you expect to understand so quickly a concept that I've struggled to experiment on for a good portion of my life?" He chuckled. "Is that any better than my supposed assumption?"

"I don't—," she stopped herself and sighed. This was amusing him; that grin of his was nearly crossing the fine line between "smug" and "Cheshire." And fine, if he wanted to drive her away with roundabout, impertinent responses and slip back into his reclusive, antisocial, daydreaming Slytherin ways, who was she to try to stop him? She'd only been, oh, concerned for him after all. "You know what? Never mind."

"Hm?"

At least he was better now. The jerk. Feeling unappreciated, she made to leave. The sound of her chair pushing out prompted him to look up and swear softly under her breath. She stood and turned.

A grumble, and then a frustrated sigh from behind her.

"Wait," the boy called, and she stopped. "I admit that was..." A pause, for him to think. "...less than respectful."

She scoffed.

"Okay, sorry," he conceded, holding his hands up in defeat. "I admit I was being a bit of a prick..." That was something Hermione could agree with."...But as much as I'd love to end this encounter, and indeed perhaps the entirety of our short acquaintance, on the wrong foot," she rolled her eyes, "I've found that that usually doesn't end well."

"I wonder why," she stated flatly.

He sighed once again and gestured at the flimsy chair across him at the table. "Sit back down please."

"Telling somebody what to do," she muttered, "is a poor accompaniment to apology."

Silence.

He bit his lower lip as the heated conversation mercifully lapsed and, after a long pause, stuck out his left hand.

She looked at him, incredulous.

"...What is this?"

"Truce," he requested.

What?

She deliberated. She wasn't particularly bothered by he prospects of a truce—after all, a ceasefire hardly meant surrender—but she wasn't very kindly disposed towards the blonde at the moment either. But what was there to lose? Besides...dignity. She sighed. Awkwardly—for who shook with their left anyways?—she took his hand and gave a firm shake.

A moment's pause, and the two studied each other, challenging their adversary to be the first to break contact.

"Let's make a deal," the boy began slowly when nothing happened, voice low. "I, Edward Heiderich, will strive to be less of an insufferable arsehole," he proclaimed, straight-faced despite his uncouth language, "whether it be on accident," Hermione twitched at that, "or not."

Despite having forgiven it, she still remembered the "Miss Mudblood" incident from Monday.

With those words, he gave her a meaningful, expectant look.

"...What?" she asked, grudgingly taking back her hand. "Am I supposed to say something?"

He snorted. "Yes," answered he. "I stated my side of a deal. It's only equivalent if you state yours."

She frowned. An odd turn of phrase, that. Was the word 'fair' not perfectly formal and sufficient?

"Equivalent," she grumbled. The syllables felt unwieldy on her tongue. "I was under the impression that not being a standoffish ingrate fell under the category of 'basic human decency,'" she slowly lowered herself into her chair again, "not deal-making."

A shrug. "Know what else falls under 'basic human decency?'" he asked, resting his chin on the back of his returned hand. The nauseating, magic-induced illness was apparently gone now. It had subsided awfully quick in her opinion, Heiderich having recovered all of the subtle confidence present in his posture and demeanor. Hermione had never met anyone, excluding perhaps the few goblins she'd seen, who could carry less than five feet of height so impressively.

"What?" She would play along.

Heiderich raised an eyebrow, that infuriating smile there again, before stating simply, "Helping out the magically crippled."

She almost laughed.

"I'd just like you to keep helping me get books off the higher shelves. I..." He hesitated, then continued quieter, looking towards the bookshelf separating them and the library's front desk. "...uh, don't want to interact with that crone of a librarian."

Despite her whole-hearted agreement with that sentiment, she reprimanded, "Don't talk about Madame Pince that way."

"You know it's true."

She opened her mouth, and then closed it again. There was no denying that. "Still," she insisted.

It was with a particular brand of I-don't-really-care-but-okay-fine that he shrugged. "But anyways," he began, "do we have a deal?"

She considered. It wasn't that much of a bother. She would be doing it anyways, if only to rub it in—err...help.

"Fine," she said, and slowly stuck out a hand. "It's a deal."

She saw him stare at her, hesitating. Looking him straight in the eye, she dared him to make her switch sides.

"Let's shake on it," she prompted.

She'd originally assumed his previous lefty shake was a social dominance tactic (she'd read it in a book—to think it would actually become applicable!); he set the rules, he selected the basis of the interaction in disregard of others' discomfort. He looked considerably more troubled than Hermione'd thought he'd be if that were the case. There was a solid interval of her silently and awkwardly offering her right-handed handshake until slowly, finally, he raised his arm and took it.

She noted the odd, unyielding firmness of his hand underneath the glove, the chill of his fingers, and the jerky movement of his arm as they shook, a stark contrast to the grace and control of his left. Filing that detail away for later, she released her grip and stood to leave.

Heiderich nodded at her, eyes unreadable.

She managed to keep her face straight until she was on the other side of the bookshelf, and then her brow finally furrowed in confusion (and more than just a little frustration). Through the thick tomes and wood, she could hear speech from Heiderich back at the table.

"'Interact with your housemates, or at least the other students,' he said," the boy grumbled softly, voice dropping into mocking baritones as he quoted someone's words. "'You're not doing any good if you lock yourself up in the library, Edward. Talk to people!'" He gave a bark of derisive laughter. "Look at how well that's going, Albus! You're going senile if you think I can be pleasant to my peers for that long."

With that line bouncing around her head, she left the library. Dinner was almost over anyways.

She found Harry and Ron in the common room and, animatedly, recounted her library experience. Surprisingly, it was not a rant. Despite her deepest desire to rant, it was sometime during the walk towards the common that she realized she couldn't afford to react to Heiderich. In many ways, that was his method of winning.

(Besides, she thought, he did say 'sorry.')

The relay of information effectively distracted her from her own homework (which would be done shortly; she was, after all, a diligent worker) and the two boys from their rather asinine Divinations assignment. The confirmation that Heiderich was, in fact, capable of performing magic didn't alarm them all that much, followed as it was by a description of what she assumed would always happen afterwards.

"He admitted that his magic was just that weak."

"What's the point of being able to do magic if it makes you puke every time you try?" questioned Ron, twiddling his thumbs, because no, he wouldn't (Read: not couldn't) talk and work simultaneously "The O.W.L.s are going to be his personal hell this year."

"I almost feel bad for him," Harry admitted quietly. At least he was trying to get something done while they spoke.

Hermione shook her head. "He didn't seem too down about his inability to cast spells properly," she said, "after he was done with his nausea, of course."

"Thing is, I dunno why he was acting so bloody superior before then," muttered Ron. "He's practically a squib!"

Hear, hear, she couldn't help but think.

The conversation died soon after. Some time during their work, Crookshanks crawled into her lap, and she finished before either of her friends.

Their companionable silence was broken with a tapping at the window. Hermione watched Harry's eyes shoot up towards the creature perched impatiently on the sill.

Hedwig.

"Hedwig!" the boy shouted, echoing her thoughts, before hastily dashing to the window and opening it. The snow-white barn owl flew into the room and landed on top of Harry's Divinations assignment, scattering a few papers helter-kelter on the floor. The boy was elated, and she and Ron could hardly call themselves proper friends if they didn't share in his rejoice.

There was a paper attached to the bird's leg.

Sirius.

"What does it say?" she asked breathlessly.

Harry unrolled the parchment carefully, frowning at what he saw (the handwriting, she presumed). With a breath, he began to read:

Harry—

I'm flying north immediately. This news about your scar is the latest in a series of strange rumors that have reached me here. If it hurts again, go straight to Dumbledore—they're saying he's got Mad-Eye out of retirement, which means he's reading the signs, even if no one else is.

I'll be in touch soon. My best to Ron and Hermione. Keep your eyes open, Harry.

Sirius

The look in his eyes was unreadable. Hermione shared a look with Ron.

"...He's flying north?" she whispered to break the silence. A hint of incredulity stole into her tone. "He's coming back?"

"Dumbledore's reading what signs?" asked Ron quietly, clearly perplexed. "...Harry—what's up?"

Harry looked furious with himself, his hands gripped so tightly around the letter that it crinkled around the edges. Hermione looked on in concern as he hit himself on the forehead with his fist.

"I...I shouldn't've told him!" Harry growled, startling in the previous quiet of the common room.

Ron blinked. "What are you on about?"

"It's made him think he's got to come back!" exclaimed Harry furiously. "Coming back, because he thinks I'm in trouble! And there's nothing wrong with me!"

Hermione's eyes widened as the pieces started to fit together. Harry bickered momentarily with Hedwig, causing the owl to fly off indignantly.

She put a hand on his shoulder. "Harry," she began softly. He couldn't beat himself up about this. It was no fault of his, no fault of anyone's really.

He shook his head and brushed her hand off.

"I'm going to bed," he muttered quietly, deflated. "See you in the morning."

And he trudged off, shoulders slumped, disconsolate.

Hermione sighed and brushed off her robes. Ron was sitting there with a look of bemusement (or was that worry?) on his face. As she began to pick up the Hedwig-scattered papers, he spoke.

"...What was that all about?"

She paused, straightening the thin sheaf of parchment she held. Placing it down on the table, she looked Ron in the eye.

"Sirius is coming."

"I gathered that much," stated the redhead shortly. "Why was Harry so upset though?"

She frowned. "He's coming because Harry's scar has apparently been hurting," she elaborated. "And Harry's upset because he thinks since he told Sirius about it—or at least, I assume that's what he did—Sirius will get caught trying to help him."

Silence. Hermione assessed the mess of a work space they had, looking at the book and work Harry had left strewn on the table.

Ron spoke quietly. "He thinks it'll be his fault."

She nodded. "Right," she replied. She closed Harry's book over his work in a way that the papers functioned as a makeshift bookmark, so he would still have his place in the morning. She handed it to Ron. "Take this up to him?"

"...Sure."

Then she turned and shut the window.

The curtains were closed in the girl's dormitory, but the light of the moon cut through the gaps between the thick falls of fabric. With the day's excitement, she could hardly sleep. Her frustrated mind thought, perhaps inappropriate given the severity of Harry's situation:

I completely forgot about S.P.E.W.

...It was late. She would have to work on that some other day.

A/N: Hello! So...no, that wasn't a hiatus. This is the regular update schedule. Yep. Um...I would say sorry, but I'm not really, because it takes a lot of conscious effort for me to not write like shit, so the time is sort of justified? I guess? Anyways, nothing major to say, besides a sincere 'thank you' to my two editors, Abigaming and she who flies for being patient with me and donating what little free time they have, and to you, the readers, for reading. :D

Thanks for clicking!

~Promelius

(P.S. If at all possible, please review under an account if you have a thought-evoking criticism or comment. I'd like to talk to people without shoving more and more words into these end segments that people barely read.) :D