DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter and am not making any money with this fic.

A/N: This is a re-write of Words Unread. I was going through the original to correct some errors and ended up re-writing a significant portion of the story. The tone ended up slightly different than the first, which I had not intended. My original plan had been to replace that story with this one, but because this one is so different, and because some people may prefer the first story, I am posting this one as it's own story.

Harry and Hermione both managed to get OOC but – considering what happened while they were officially in character – I'm not that upset about it.

I apologize for any and all spelling/grammatical mistakes. Ditto the Americanisms. I just can't seem to help them – but that's probably because I couldn't point one out if someone paid me to.

H/H Forever!!

Words Unread II – Chapter 1

I blame my current situation on the demon liquor. It is certainly what brought me here, to this place on life's journey where every slightly pathetic person must walk at least once. That place where common sense and higher brain functions can't exist. A place where the concepts of consequences and ramifications cannot be understood. To the addled brain of the thinker they are little more than nonsense words, useful only to babble at babies. Certainly they hold no interest for me, not in a brain currently swimming in alcohol.

Not quite forgotten, but willfully ignored, my right mind screams in protest for the pride and dignity that I have shed by coming here. It begs me to leave this place and preserve what little of those personal commodities I have left. But my wrong mind, the one currently in control, has no intention of listening. I have been primed by hours of overly sentimental introspection, prodded by the irrefutable knowledge that the one person I want to spend the rest of my life with is well on her way to marrying another man. Following a train of thought I am certain I will not agree with in the morning, I have come to give her an alternate choice. I will tell her of my feelings with the hope that, once she realizes her choices are not limited to one man, she might reconsider her present course of action.

But it is here that my courage starts to falter because most people would not consider this as me putting my best foot forward. And I really should be putting my best foot forward considering the circumstances. Unfortunately, that is not to be. Not if I have to convince Hermione of my devotion here and now, as I feel I must. In the first place, I have had more than my fair share of alcoholic beverages at a dingy, smelly pub. The stink of stale cigarette smoke clings to every part of my body and I release a small cloud of the smog with each lurching step I take. In the second place, I look a mess. Rain has drenched my clothes and tightened the curls nervous fingers have twirled in my hair into fuzzy knots. My trousers are splattered with mud and I know from a horrified glance in a mirror that my eyes are bloodshot. The effect with my green iris's is actually rather festive, but perhaps not appropriate for the occasion.

Wet, dirty, and drunk I stand at Hermione's door, looking not at all like a man come to profess his love should. I am the romantic anti-hero, really. I have neither wooed nor adored her like as a good lover should. I have dated other women when she was right in front of me and claimed her to be like a sister more than once. I have let familiarity blind me, damned her as a friend, and denied her appeal. But worst of all, I am late. Far too late. For now, when she is most likely well and truly beyond my reach, I have allowed myself recognize everything I am about to lose.

Hermione has been engaged for thirteen weeks. For thirteen weeks she's worn Viktor Krum's ring on her finger and every time I think of it, every time she mentions it in a letter, I want to scream, smash my hand into the nearest solid object, and destroy cities with a well placed curse. I've never actually done any of those things, but restraining myself has been a miracle of self-will. Instead I force myself to smile, to be happy for Hermione, and to write about the upcoming nuptials in language so flowery it would cause a lesser man to vomit. I do it because Hermione deserves those things, she needs them, and because if Krum is the man she wants then there is nothing I can do but accept it.

Until that last shot of Jack Daniel's I thought I'd be able to do it with mostly good grace and a minimum of disaster.

For the last three months I've avoided Hermione. Not completely, of course - I've written her letters, even spoken with her on the phone a few times to maintain appearances. But I've systematically avoided any place she may physically be. I've scheduled vacations, pretended to be swamped at work, even claimed to be on an expedition to find long-lost Potter relatives. It's been an exercise in self-preservation really, because I'm not sure what I may do or say if I were to actually see her. Insults to Krum's familial heritage, more than normal orneriness, and inappropriate confessions of love all come to mind. Up until about fifteen minutes ago, none of those options were at all acceptable as they would most likely result in varying degrees of damage to my friendship with Hermione.

But after hours at the Three Broomsticks, I'm no longer completely convinced my silence is beneficial to anyone. Vague memories of real or imagined events have made me question my good intentions. Didn't she always support me over Krum during the Triwizard tournament? Didn't she appear to enjoy kissing me more than little bit two years ago when we were caught – not quite accidentally, I'm ashamed to say – beneath the mistletoe? And I seem to recall some well aimed jibes at Ginny as recently as six months ago, when I was still dating her.

Based on all this, is there really any harm in telling her how I feel?

My hand hovers above her door, a half-curled fist of indecision. One inch, one sharp movement, and she will be right in front of me. I will see her face for the first time in more than three months. Her voice – prim and proper - will wash over me and the scent of her skin – ink and ancient books - will surround me. For one moment I will be in heaven. If I'm not careful my heart may explode from my chest, unable to cope with the ecstasy of it all.

But what if she tells me to go to the devil? What if she looks at me with nothing but disdain or, worse, pity in those dark brown eyes? The thought leaves me cold with fear.

I wish I'd accepted Ron's offer to hang out tonight. As the only person I'd dared breathe a word about my feeling for Hermione to, he would have been able to tell me what a stupid idea this was. He even might have been able to convince me not to go through with this mad plan. Or, if not, he's more than friend enough to petrify me for my own good. He could have floated me back home, thrown a blanket over my immobile form, and left me to sober up.

But, no. I'd decided I'd rather drink alone. Never a good idea. Usually a very bad idea, actually. Especially when one is already wallowing in self-pitying despair.

I flatten my hand against Hermione's painted metal door and lean my weight against it. By slow degrees my head falls forward until my forehead is pressed against the smooth surface, the coolness a relief to my overly warm skin. The fire that had burned in my gut and strengthened my will when I first arrived has been extinguished. Surprisingly, and probably for the best, I am bombarded by second thoughts.

Hermione doesn't care for me. If she did she would have said something by now. Sixteen years is certainly long enough to build up the courage. Anyone else would know what to make of this situation.

But.

But what if she thinks that same thing about me? What if we both love each other but neither of us ever has the courage to say anything? Hermione's never lacked for courage, though, has she? And she seems perfectly happy with Krum. But what if she'd rather be perfectly happy with me? The questions seem endless.

"Who's there?" A voice thick with sleep, but unmistakably Hermione's, jerks me from my thoughts. I take a stumbling step backward and stare incredulously at the door. How did she know I was there? Has she been watching me? Does she know how long I've been here? The thought is more than faintly humiliating.

That's when I become aware of the dull pain in my forehead. I put a hand across the throbbing spot and stifle a groan. Apparently I'd been pounding it rhythmically – and apparently loud enough to rouse Hermione – against the door.

"Who's there?" she repeats, this time her voice is edged with annoyance.

"It's me. It's Harry," I answer her hastily. The last night I need is Hermione thinking I'm some sort of prowler and cursing me as a precaution.

The door flings open and Hermione is there. Her eyes are pink and puffy and they blink at me in sleepy confusion. She is wearing a well-worn robe of pale blue that is wrapped tightly around her waist with a knotted sash. She must have been sleeping on her couch because a mesh pattern is imprinted in her cheek and, by the look of her hair, I wouldn't be surprised if she'd recently stuck her finger in an electrical socket. The overall effect is predictably devastating and it's almost impossible to control myself. The urge to put my hands in her hair is overwhelming. I wonder if it will feel as as soft as it looks and whether the curls close to her head will be warm from sleep.

Thankfully, Hermione asks me a question and forces me to speak. Otherwise, I may still be staring at her.

"Harry, what on earth are you doing here? Are you alright?" She sounds confused, but happy too. If she were more awake I'm sure she'd be mostly happy so I allow myself to be wildly pleased.

"I'm fine. I just felt like visiting," I lie.

"You just felt like visiting? After midnight?" She opens her mouth to say something else and then looks hard at my face. Without an attempt to hide what she's doing, Hermione leans forward and sniffs the air around my mouth. "Are you drunk?"

"Yes." There is no reason to lie, so I don't. Hermione, being the bright witch she is, would figure it out anyway.

Hermione's eyes slowly take in the state of my clothes, my hair, and the overall haggardness of my appearance. Concern tugs at one corner of her mouth.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Positive," I assure her. To prove the truth of my words I smile winningly and move to rest my hand on the door jam. Possibly because I'm drunk, possibly because I'm not looking, the only thing I manage to rest my hand against is thin air. For half a second I struggle valiantly to remain upright but too much of my weight has shifted. With a noise too embarrassing to describe, I pitch forward.

Hermione, bless her, makes a grab for my shoulders but I rocket past her. Somehow she does manage to get an arm around me but the result is basically a headlock. A surprised grunt gurgles from my throat as my head is jerked backward by Hermione's grip. I only have time to clutch at Hermione's elbow before both of us slam to the floor. Hermione, maneuvering herself advantageously, lands on top of me and the force of impact rockets the air from my lungs. I want to double up in pain but the logistics of my position, Hermione on my back, and her arm still wrapped securely around my throat, make it impossible. All I can do is close my eyes in an agony of pain and wheeze.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione jumps to her feet and scurries forward to kneel at my head. "I'm so sorry! Nothing feels broken, does it?"

I shake my head, unable to say a word without any breath in my body. One of Hermione's hands rests on my back and for a few minutes she doesn't speak, presumably waiting for me to catch my breath. Getting the wind knocked out of me has always been one of my least favorite experiences. Right up there with having all the bones in my arm disappear.

But as the pain and discomfort recedes, I realize I am in a kind of heaven. Or hell, I suppose. Depending whether I'm feeling glass half full or glass half empty a strong argument could be made for either location based on the current facts. But with Hermione's attention focused solely on me, her voice quietly murmuring my name, and her hand touching me, I'm not inclined to be too upset.

"You're not going to fall asleep on me, are you?" Hermione's voice is unexpectedly close to my ear and I start, surprised to realize I had begun to do just that.

"No." I shake my head and start to sit up.

"Here, let me help you." Hermione takes hold of one of my arms and gently helps me to a sitting position. "Do you want me to help you into the kitchen?"

"That might be best, at the moment." With Hermione's help I struggle to my feet. I sling an arm across her shoulders, probably leaning more of my weight on her than I have to, and together we make our way into the kitchen.

Based on my clumsiness, I'm definitely more inebriated than I thought. The room is spinning slightly and a queasy feeling is building in my stomach. I begin to marvel that I made it to Hermione's in one piece.

"You smell like a pub, Harry." Hermione settles me in a chair with a groan. "And you're a lot heavier than you used to be."

Heavier? I don't know whether to be offended so I say nothing, content instead to throw a mock glare in Hermione's direction. She probably doesn't mean anything by it. Nonetheless disturbed, I poke a finger in my stomach to assess the situation. Nothing too alarming.

A glass of water appears on the table in front of me. "Drink up," Hermione orders. "I'll be back, I left my wand at the door."

I gulp the water greedily, and consider how best to extricate myself from this situation without losing any more face. I decided almost as soon as Hermione opened her door that I can't tell her about my feelings. The probability of success seems far too low and I am fairly certain Hermione will not be flattered by my drunken attentions. So, I have to leave. The odds of Hermione just letting me walk out the door in my condition are not good. But the odds of me not saying something that would be better taken to the grave are even worse. And made exponentially so the longer I stay in Hermione's den.

By the time I finish the water Hermione is back in the kitchen, her wand shoved securely in the sash at her waist. Without asking, she takes the glass from my hand and fills it again, getting one for herself as well.

"It feels like I haven't seen you in ages, Harry." Hermione sets the glass in front of me. Condensation formed on the outside drips down the sides and drops onto the table. I pretend to be fascinated by it. "What are you really doing here?"

I glance up to meet Hermione's gaze and instantly know it is a mistake. Hermione's eyes are like lasers, penetrating my brain, and I know I should look away but it is impossible. She has always had the unsettling ability to know what I am thinking and she knows it without having to probe my mind with magic. That she might divine my most forbidden thoughts just by looking at me is a very real fear.

"Were you asleep?" I ask, hoping to direct the conversation in another direction.

Hermione takes the bait easily. "Yes. And very soundly, thank you very much."

"On the couch, I imagine."

She smiles in surprise. "How did you know."

I gesture toward her face. "Your cheek. I looks like a road map."

Hermione rubs hard at her cheek and I think she might be a little embarrassed. "No, don't." I wave my hands. "It looks great."

"Drink your water, Harry."

I chuckle and raise the glass to my lips. This is what I can't sacrifice, I think. Her friendship, the camaraderie. If I make things awkward between us then there would be no more this. No more easy friendship, no more conversations with just the two of us in an empty kitchen. The void in my life would be unspeakably huge.

But other fears quickly intrude. Will I have to share these moments of conversation with Krum? Will Hermione and I ever be alone again? In a few months he will be her husband. Everywhere Hermione goes he will be there, too. Like a parasite. A gigantic one that cannot legally be exterminated. It is a horrendous thought, made more so by a sudden paranoia.

"I didn't wake Krum, too, did I?"

I don't know what devil made me ask it. If Krum is waiting for Hermione in her bedroom I have no wish to know it. And if he is spending his night somewhere it will be very cold comfort. They will still be engaged, Hermione will still belong to another man.

"No." Hermione smiles softly and the water in my stomach begins to bubble. "He's visiting family in Bulgaria this week."

I nod, sorry I asked because her answer implies that he does spend his nights here. With her. In her bed, beneath her sheets, with her body curled next to his. It is information I've always avoided knowing about Hermione's love life. At first because I didn't care, then because I never thought her boyfriends were the long-haul type, and most recently because I didn't want to know. I still don't want to know and curse my damnable mouth.

Because, now, Hermione being with Krum is all I can think about. Visuals run rampant through my brain as my tortured inner self screams in silent agony and claws helplessly at my overactive inner eye. I see the brute sleeping with her, greeting her as she comes out of the shower, making love to her in every room. Probably even on this kitchen table. Unconsciously my hand grips the table's edge in a white-knuckle grip. Is it sturdy enough? Would Krum be that adventurous? He might not have a choice if Hermione decided – I groan and drop my head into my hands. I am in a very bad place right now and it will only get worse if I let it continue. It's time for me to leave. Time for me to stop living in denial, forget all my half-formed hopes that Hermione might secretly care for me and move on. Or, at the very least, move away from this thrice-cursed table.

Abruptly I push myself to my feet. The movement is a little too sudden and I wobble on my feet. Across the table Hermione jerks back in surprise, slopping water on her robe.

"Harry?"

"I have to go," I tell her. I smile and pray to whatever supreme being may be listening that I don't sound as desperate as I feel.

Hermione puts on her McGonagall face and shakes her head. "You're in no condition to be going anywhere."

"I'm fine." I prove it by walking a straight line, each step slow and deliberate, to the kitchen sink. I set my glass beside it without accident and smile charmingly at my own success. Sober is as sober does.

"Right." I'm not looking at Hermione but I can hear the roll in her eyes.

"Look, Hermione, I'm sorry for dropping in like this." I sidle toward the entryway without meeting Hermione's eyes. It's like playing Russian Roulette. "But I think it's best if I get a cab."

"Harry, don't be ridiculous. In your condition I don't trust you enough to give the correct address." She grabs my shoulder and tries to steer me toward her couch.

I plant my feet firmly and shake my head.

"Thank you, but no." My agitation is growing worse. Not only have I had clear and unwanted visions of Hermione having sex with Krum in the kitchen, now I have to do everything in my power to ignore the thought of them on the couch she wants me to sleep on.

"Harry -"

"Hermione." My voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. "I will be fine. I know my own name." I pause to consider. "I know where I live, and I am very good at defending myself."

Hermione does not look convinced.

"Besides, I thought you were sleeping on that couch."

Hermione doesn't appreciate my gently teasing tone. She glares at me, shakes her head, then stomps toward the door. She throws it open and looks pointedly at the hallway. "Fine. Go off in your condition. But don't come looking for sympathy from me if you end up in Knockturn Alley and find yourself chained up in a hag's den for the next six years."

I burst out laughing. I can't help it, the idea is too absurd. If I were more myself I might have been able to squelch the urge but tonight I have no chance. I clutch one hand against my stomach and put the other on Hermione's shoulder to keep myself upright. Surprisingly she doesn't shrug me off or throw me to the floor so I indulge my amusement and laugh until I can't anymore. She lets me laugh so long that I think maybe she sees the humor in it, too. But I'm disabused of that notion the second I can focus on her through the tears in my eyes. She is seething. Whoops. Instantly I try to make amends.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. I shouldn't have laughed, I know you're just looking out for me." And I mean what I say.

"Well, I'd be a sight better at it if you'd ever actually let me look out for you." She crosses her hands over her chest and glares at me accusingly.

"I know." True, drunken remorse floods me. I sigh and grab one of her hands. It takes some effort to get her to actually uncross her arms, but eventually she relents. I give her hand a tentative squeeze and look as earnest as I can in my condition. "I don't like it when you're mad at me, Hermione. Will it help if I apologize some more? I'm sorry for coming here, I'm sorry for waking you up, and I'm sorry for acting like a complete prat." I hunch my shoulders up around my neck and stare down at the floor. "I don't have an excuse except...except I'm going through a rough patch right now and I'm not handling it very well."

The anger draining from Hermione's body is a physical sensation. Her shoulders lose their rigidity and I feel her fingers relax and actually curl around my own. I look up into her face. Concern – mingled with a good dose of curiosity – rolls off her and I am reminded how much of a better friend she has always been to me than I have ever been to her. That alone is reason enough for me to walk out of her flat and never say a word about my feelings for her ever again. The less trouble I can cause for her the better.

"I was worried something was wrong." Hermione puts her other hand on my shoulder. "You've been acting strangely for months."

There is relief in her voice, like she's happy I've finally admitted my recent derangement out loud. It's a little insulting because up until three seconds ago I was sure I'd managed to act at least as normally as I usually do. But leave it to Hermione to figure out there was something not quite right with me. If it had been a paying job, Hermione could easily make a living off interpreting my moods.

"I know. I've been a prize idiot of late." I shrug and squeeze her hand. I can't seem to stop doing it. "It'll go away eventually."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

They are the words I have been dreading. I knew she was going to offer, as soon as I crumbled and admitted that something was bothering me the question became inevitable.

"No, no. Definitely not," I tell her, but I smile to take any sting from the words. Conspiratorially I lean toward her. "It's a guy thing."

"A guy thing?" She has rarely sounded more skeptical. "Is that why you came to my flat drunk out of your gourd? Because you'd rather talk to Ron about whatever it is that's bothering you?"

Erm. Leave it to Hermione to not let the subject drop after I hint that it's something of an uncomfortable nature.

"Well, you admit I'm rather inebriated." I poke her nose with my finger to make sure she remembers. "Using logic to explain my actions is probably a hopeless business."

"Logic can explain anything, Harry. Even you."

I don't like the sound of that so I lurch forward and wrap Hermione in what I hope she takes for an extremely drunken bear hug and not a diversionary tactic. She makes a squeaking noise and I give her an extra squeeze. Ignoring the shame of it, I even take the opportunity to press my nose into her hair and inhale the scent of her. I hope she doesn't notice.

"Goodnight, Hermione," I say when I pull back. "I hope you don't have any trouble falling back to sleep."

Hermione smiles and shakes her head. Clearly she doesn't know whether to feel exasperated or amused, or if some combination thereof is more appropriate. I take her hand and press a hard kiss to her knuckles in what is probably no where near the gallant gesture I imagine it to be. But I am sure she is convinced, to a relatively certain degree, that my higher brain function is capable enough to find my way home. And so I am free to leave her flat without further protest.

I stride into the hall like a man without a concern in the world. I congratulate myself on managing to extricate myself from a potentially lethal situation without losing too much face, destroying my friendship with Hermione, or putting myself in a life threatening position. Hermione is none the wiser about my feelings, my secret is safe from all but my loyal friend Ron, and Hermione is still engaged to her fiancé. And he, on the plus side, has no reason to hunt me down.

All in all a very successful evening. I could not have expected better. Except that I am still very much in love with Hermione.

My footsteps slow.

Perhaps I have been too hasty. There is no reason to think that Hermione cannot care for me if given the opportunity. I am reasonably attractive, have a good job, and most people think I'm pleasant. Being my best friend, Hermione must find my company at least as enjoyable as Ron's. And she dated him. Krum may be romantic, but I've seen no evidence of a sense of humor. Hermione definitely appreciates a good joke now and again. Does she really want to marry a man who doesn't make her laugh?

I stop my retreat altogether and put a finger to my lips.

Out of Hermione's calming influence the alcohol has begun to bend my mind to it's will once again. Years and years of heartache stretch out before me, my life a barren wasteland all because I was too much of a coward to give Hermione the option to choose. If she knew that I loved her maybe she would tell Krum to pack his bags and move back to Bulgaria. Maybe she would decide that Granger-Potter sounds infinitely more pleasant than Granger-Krum. And, perhaps, she would realize that a life with Harry Potter would at least be as attractive as a life with the dullard Viktor Krum.

Perhaps I am being a bit harsh on Hermione current flame, but I'm in no mood to admit that Krum may have good qualities. That he may have more good qualities than myself is outside the realm of possibility. Determined, I whirl on my heel – as well as I am able – and stomp back down the hall to Hermione's door. Bursting with purpose I rap firmly on her door and stand with my back straight and my chest sticking out.

When Hermione's head pokes out in the hall I launch into my diatribe before she can get a word in.

"You were right, Hermione. As usual. I have a problem and you are the person I want – need – to talk to." I lick my lips and hurry on. "You see, I realized something, years and years ago. Or maybe it was recently. I've probably always known it and, I don't know why, but I pretended it wasn't true. I ignored it and put it off until – until right this minute, really." I stop to take a breath and wipe a hand across my suddenly damp forehead. "I'll be the first to admit that a certain amount of blindness has ruled my life. Some of it's been willful, I suppose. Some of it's been a result of circumstances. But this -" I shake my head. "This..."

I look up at the ceiling, searching for a way to make her understand what must seem to her like my sudden feelings. I need to get this right.

"It's like a book, really." Yes, that will do. I nod firmly and look back to Hermione.

She is staring at me wide-eyed, her head still poking out from behind the door. She looks like someone who has no idea what is going on – but as I've never seen quite that expression on Hermione's face I'm not confident enough to say for certain that's what it is. But considering the speed of my speech and that I myself have little idea of where I'm going with this, I think a strong argument can be made in favor of the supposition.

"A book?" she asks, her brow furrowed.

"Yes, a book."

She's still confused but at least more intrigued than she was a mere moment ago. I brace myself, take a deep breath, and plunge recklessly ahead.

"I haven't read many books, Hermione, and I don't always notice things. But there was one book, a book that's been on my shelf for years and for a long time I thought I'd read it cover to cover."

"Harry..."

"I'd read it so often I was sure I had every word memorized. Then one day I woke up and realized there were pages, hundreds of pages, I'd never seen before. But before I got the chance to read it again, and I did want to read it again, I lost it. When I wasn't looking it got away from me and now it belongs to someone else. Someone who will be able to read those pages and memorize all the words I'll never see." The words spill out of me faster than I can say them clearly. "And I'll admit it makes me jealous, and angry, and...and empty. And I don't know how to stop feeling this way. I don't think I can."

I don't think I am making much sense and take a deep breath to clarify myself when I look at Hermione, really look at her. If I thought I'd need to expound upon my analogy I was wrong. Completely so. Hermione, brightest witch of our age, understood every word perfectly. Unfortunately that doesn't mean it's a good thing. She looks straight into my unblinking eyes. Her brow is furrowed and her mouth works like she wants to say something, but speech is temporarily beyond her power.

I wait until she presses a hand to her forehead and shakes her head, then I admit the truth. There is no happiness in her expression, no dawning of cautious hope. She is flabbergasted, probably soon to be horrified but she hasn't made it to that stage just yet. The enormity of my mistake, my foolish selfishness, is instantly apparent. Hermione's never entertained any romantic thoughts about me, she's never secretly wished we could be together. I have disrupted her happy existence with an unwelcome declaration, pitted her piece of mind against my pathetic desires and made myself the villain of the piece. Two things occur to me in that split second: my conceit apparently knows no bounds and, par for the course, Krum deserves Hermione far more than I ever could.

Failure and humiliation eminent, I do the only thing I can do. I make a bold, reckless statement and flee like a coward.

"I came here tonight to tell you I was leaving. I don't know where I'm going or for how long, but I can't be here for what comes next. I wish I was a better friend to you Hermione, Merlin knows you deserve it. I'm sorry."

I don't give Hermione the chance to say a word. Despite her rejection, anger, and discomfort all being forgone conclusions, I don't want to witness any of them. I have some unexpectedly urgent packing to do. Drunk as I am, I still have more control over my magic than most wizards do sober so, despite the danger, I disapparate. The last thing I see is Hermione's mouth forming my name.