He dives under a desk, panting, the thrill of fear battering against his ribs, even through the drugged fuzz of his brain. He slaps his hand over his mouth and tries to breathe steadily and inaudibly.

"Harry James Potter!"

He stops breathing altogether, frozen.

"I know you're in here, you prat," she growls, and he sees her feet stalking past him. "I know you hid Hogwarts: A History, and I swear I'll hex you even further into next week unless you show yourself right now."

He decides that little mercy is better than none at all, and shuffles on his knees until he can stand.

Hermione spins round, fixing both a hefty glare and her wand upon him.

"Hi, Hermione," he says, grinning sheepishly.

"Oh, you git, I swear," she huffs. "You're trying to make me unhappy."

"Hermione, I'm trying to make you relax," he protests, but she continues to stare him down.

"I like reading, Harry, that does relax me," she explains, her voice slow, as if she is addressing a child.

"But, Hermione," he moans. "It's such a nice day."

"Harry," she raises an eyebrow. "It's been raining for three hours."

"Shh, hush now," he says, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Let's just...be calm."

She stares at him for a long moment. "Ron's been feeding you that Dream Powder again, hasn't he?"

"No, no," he dismisses, his hand movement a tad too lethargic. She places her hands on her hips. "But it makes everything so pretty."

"And it also makes teenage boys both insane and also slightly randy, might I add," she drawls.

Harry smiles goofily. "It makes you pretty," he coos.

Her nonplussed expression suddenly drops, leaving her face bewildered and slightly hurt. "You don't think I'm pretty?"

"It makes you all – beautiful, and stuff," he rambles, clearly ignoring her question. "And that makes my stomach all weird and floppy and – and..."

She flushes, recognizing exactly what he is describing.

"And I wish I could hug you, and say nice things to you, and have faith to kill Vold...Voldyface, and then when I get back I could snog you, in a really, really small broom cupboard," he explains in an alarmingly matter-of-fact tone. "Just 'cause it's fun."

"Oh, Harry," she breathes. "Harry, I – me too."

He blinks, and then hugs her very tightly.

"Why?" he murmurs, apparently half-sober. "I'm so – I'm not even sure I'll make it through this year."

"You've got me," she whispers, hoping that it will comfort him.

"I do?" he mumbles. It seems that even boys high on questionable substances are sad and worried.

"Ever since the troll, Harry," she says, nose buried in the crook of his neck.

When he pulls away the slight insanity is still clear in his green eyes. "Do you want to dance in the rain? It sounds really cliché and romantic; want to try it?"

She laughs, and takes his hand, and maybe it was always this easy.