Chapter Text
Harry hardly got any rest before he woke up. It felt like he had only closed his eyes for a few minutes before the gray light of dawn began to seep through the dormitory curtains. He kept twisting and turning, tangling his legs in the sheets, but sleep refused to take him back.
Ron's sleeping patterns were also a completely different story. As he lay across the room, Ron was snoring with an almost rhythmic, chainsaw-like sound that it seemed was vibrating the floorboards themselves. Each snore seemed to grate against Harry's nerves bringing his mind back to the yelling match the night before, to the image of Cho walking away, to the feeling of being utterly drained.
Giving up, Harry kicked the covers off. He dressed quietly, grabbing a thick jumper to ward off the castle’s morning chill, and slipped out of the room.
Harry descended the spiral staircase down to the common room, his footsteps muffled by the carpeting. He figured the room would be empty at this time, the only thing stirring at this hour would be the house elves working in the kitchens downstairs.
He stopped halfway down the stairs; his hand froze on the banister.
The room wasn't empty. Hermione was there.
She was curled up on the squashy hearthrug in front of the fire, her knees pulled up to her chest. A thick book was balanced on her knees like always, and she was reading with a ferocity that suggested she was planning to read the entire thing in one go. Beside her sat a small, crinkling packet of what looked like leftover festive biscuits. Crookshanks was weaving between her legs, his brush-like tail twitching in clear anticipation of a crumb falling his way.
Harry hesitated. Part of him wanted to return to the dorm under the comfort of his blanket. But the floorboard creaked under his weight.
Hermione glanced up sharply. Her eyes locked with Harry’s.
There was no smile. No friendly wave. Her expression was completely unreadable, her eyes slightly puffy, as if she hadn’t slept much better than he had. She held his gaze for a second, then deliberately turned her head and went back to her book, flipping a page with a sharp snap like no one has descended the dorm.
Harry stood there for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. The silence in the common room felt heavier and he didn’t know the reason, because it was clearly Ron’s fault for provoking her, he had just been a spectator, who wasn’t paying any attention to the drama taking place.
He considered going back to bed again. He really did. Dealing with this required an energy he didn't feel he possessed, especially after the short sleep and broken emotions from last night. But the thought of lying in bed staring at the ceiling while Ron snored was worse.
He let out a quiet sigh and walked slowly toward the couch.
"Morning," he whispered, testing the waters.
There was no reply. The only sound was the scratching of Crookshanks’ claws against the rug and the turning of another page.
Harry rounded the sofa and sank into the cushion next to her trying to be not too close, but close enough to show he wasn't intimidated. He stared at the fire, then drifted his eyes toward the book in her hands. It was a heavy, leather-bound volume, complicated diagrams of wand movements dancing across the parchment. He knew what she was reading clearly..
But he had to break the ice. He had no idea how the ice was there in the first place. He hadn't been the one shouting at her, after all, but he felt the chill all the same.
"What are you reading?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
Hermione didn't look up. She didn't even pause in her reading.
"Charms," she said.
It was just one word, delivered in a tone so flat and unfriendly it might as well have been a hex. She stared resolutely at the text, refusing to acknowledge his presence any further.
Harry stared at her profile, his own irritation flaring to match the cold set of her shoulders. He didn't know what to say, and the silence was stretching into something unbearable, thick with the dust of the dying fire. The argument last night had been between Ron and Hermione. Loud, public, and embarrassing. It had been about Krum, and jealousy, and things Harry frankly didn't want to understand. What did he have to do with any of that? He had just been sitting there, trying to nurse a headache.
A flicker of annoyance crept up his forehead, fuelled by his exhaustion and the dull throbbing behind his eyes. He felt unfairly targeted, like how he was unfairly selected as the fourth champion.
"You know," Harry said, his voice struggling to stay even but failing, the edges sharp with anger, "you don't have to take your frustration regarding last night's drama out on me. I wasn't the one yelling."
Hermione turned toward him slowly. It wasn't just a glare, it was a look of such profound, crushing disappointment that it made Harry want to squirm deeper into the sofa. But he was stubborn too.
"What?" Harry asked, his voice rising, cracking slightly under the tension. "Okay, fine. If you don't want to talk, then just go back to reading the bloody Charms book of yours. Forget I said anything."
Thump.
Hermione slammed the heavy book shut.
The sound echoed loudly in the quiet common room, startling Crookshanks, who bolted from the rug. She didn't look away. She turned fully on the sofa to face him, her knuckles white where she gripped the leather cover. Her expression shifted from cold detachment to a trembling, volatile intensity.
"Yes, I will read the Charms book," she said, her voice shaking slightly, low and dangerous. "The same book I stayed up until midnight reading to find a way to keep you alive. The same book I used to teach you the Summoning Charm. Do you remember that, Harry? We stayed up until two in the morning in empty classrooms. I broke school rules, I risked detention for you."
She took a shaky breath, her eyes glistening in the dying firelight.
"I didn't sleep a wink the night before the First Task because I was so terrified, so absolutely sick with fear that I was going to watch my best friend die in that arena."
Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, to say of course I remember, but she ploughed on, her voice gaining strength, sharper than a curse.
"And the next day? After you so heroically managed to fly past that dragon? No one was more relieved than me. No one screamed louder. But did you know that? What did I get in return?" She let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that had no humor in it. "Nothing. Not even a small 'thanks,' Harry."
Harry blinked, stunned by the sudden onslaught. The memory of the First Task flashed in his mind, the roar of the crowd, the adrenaline, Ron’s face...
"As soon as Ronald came back and apologized, it was like I ceased to exist," she continued, the words spilling out fast, hot and biting. "You forgot I was there. Do you have any idea what that felt like? I watched the two of you make up, watched you hug him, laugh with him, clap him on the back like he was some returning hero. And I just... stood there. In the corner of the common room, waiting."
Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed through.
"I kept thinking, 'Any minute now, he'll turn around. He'll remember. He'll come over and say something.' But you never did. The party went on for hours, Harry. Hours. Everyone celebrating you, and Ron back at your side like nothing had happened. And I stood there like a ghost, watching my best friend completely forget I existed."
She let out a bitter, shaky laugh.
"I told myself you were just overwhelmed. That you'd been through so much, nearly died, of course you needed time. 'Give him a minute,' I thought. 'He'll come find you tomorrow. He'll say something then.' So I let it go. I went to bed and told myself it was fine."
Her hands were trembling now, and she gripped the book tighter.
"But tomorrow came, and the day after that, and the day after that. And nothing changed. You had Ron back, and that was all that mattered. I've been begging you, begging you, Harry, to work on the Golden Egg. Not because I want to nag you, not because I enjoy being ignored when I'm trying to help, but because I'm terrified. I'm terrified that you're going to walk into that second task completely unprepared and I'm going to have to watch you drown or worse."
Her voice rose, sharp with frustration.
"But you've been too busy staring at Cho across the Great Hall, or messing about with Ron, or playing Quidditch, or doing anything except preparing for the thing that could kill you. Do you think I enjoy sounding like a broken record? Do you think I like being the one who's always worried while you two treat this like it's all some grand adventure?"
She wiped roughly at her eyes.
"I'm exhausted, Harry. I'm so tired of caring more about your survival than you do."
She took a sharp, shaking breath, her hands flying up in exasperation.
"And as for Ron..." She paused, shaking her head with a mixture of exasperation and resignation. "Honestly, I almost expect this from him. He can be so thick sometimes. He didn't even think to ask me to the ball until he had run out of every other option. Do you know what that feels like? To know that you weren't even on someone's list? That you only got asked because everyone else said no?"
Her voice wavered but she pressed on.
"To him, I'm just... I'm just part of the scenery. I'm 'just Hermione.' The girl who's always there, always helping, always available. Why would he need to ask me early? Why would he need to make an effort? I'll always be there, won't I? Like a piece of furniture."
"And now he's decided to turn on Viktor. Viktor! His own hero, Harry! He had posters of him in the dormitory that he used to show everyone! He doesn't actually hate Viktor. He's not defending you out of some noble loyalty. He's just being petty and childish because he feels foolish, because he's embarrassed that I said yes to someone else. That's just Ron, though. That's who he is. He acts without thinking. He says horrible things when he's upset and then regrets them later. I know that about him."
She took a shaky breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, more wounded.
"I've known him for four years. I know he doesn't mean half of what he says when he's angry. I know he'll probably apologize in a week and expect everything to go back to normal. That's just... that's just Ron."
Her eyes locked onto Harry's, and the anger seemed to drain out of her entirely, replaced by something much softer and much more painful. Something that looked almost like grief.
"But you, Harry..." Her voice broke on his name. "I thought you were different."
The words hung in the air between them, somehow worse than all the anger that had come before.
"I thought you saw me. I thought I mattered to you, not just as someone useful, but as... as me. As your friend. I thought when someone accused me of betraying you, of helping your competition, of choosing someone else over you, that you would say something. Anything."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"I didn't need you to fight Ron for me. I didn't need some grand gesture. I just needed you to say 'That's not true' or 'Don't talk about her like that' or even just 'Hermione wouldn't do that.' Just... something. Something to show that you knew me. That four years of friendship meant you knew I would never, ever betray you."
Her chin trembled as she fought to steady her voice.
"But you didn't. You just sat there. And that's when I realized... maybe I was wrong. Maybe I'm 'just Hermione' to you too."
It felt like getting his soul sucked from the dementor all over again. The words hit Harry with a physical force, knocking the wind out of him. The image of the Great Hall returned to him, Ron screaming, people staring, and Harry... just sitting there, playing with his butterbeer cork, wishing the noise would stop and Cho would stop dancing with Cedric bloody Diggory.
He had thought he was staying neutral. He had thought he was just staying out of the line of fire. He hadn't realized that when your best friend is being yelled at for no reason, silence is a side.
"Hermione..." he started, his voice coming too late, rough with sudden, dawning horror.
She cut him off. She stood up abruptly, her hands clenching into fists at her sides to stop them from shaking. A single tear slipped free, tracking down her cheek, followed quickly by another.
"Do I matter so little to you?" she asked, her voice breaking on the last word. "Is my friendship really that disposable the moment Ron decides to talk to you again?"
She didn't wait for an answer. Perhaps she was afraid of what the answer might be. Before Harry could process the question, before he could find the air to speak, she turned and ran toward the girls' dormitory stairs. Her footsteps pounded against the stone, fading away, leaving Harry alone in the terrible, suffocating silence he had helped create.
The silence that followed was worse than the shouting. It settled over the common room like a heavy blanket, stifling the crackle of the dying fire.
Harry didn't move. He couldn't. He remained frozen on the sofa, staring at the empty archway where Hermione had disappeared. The echo of her voice seemed to hang in the air, bouncing off the stone walls, repeating the accusations he wanted desperately to deny.
Disposable. Not even a small thanks.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes until he saw stars, trying to scrub away the image of her crying. He wanted to feel angry. He wanted to feel indignant, to tell himself she was overreacting, that she was just emotional because of Krum and Ron. It would be so much easier if he could just be angry.
But the anger wouldn't come. Instead, a cold, sinking dread pooled in his stomach.
He searched his memory, frantically rewinding the last month. He thought of the library sessions, the late nights, the way her voice had cracked with exhaustion as she drilled the Summoning Charm into his head. He remembered the feeling of the Firebolt in his hand, the rush of survival.
He remembered hugging Ron. He remembered laughing with the other Gryffindors.
He tried to find the moment where he had turned to Hermione and said, Thank you. He tried to find the moment where he had told her he couldn't have done it without her.
He couldn't find it.
It wasn't there.
The realization made him feel sick. She was right. She had pulled him back from the edge of the abyss, and the moment he was safe, he had turned his back on her to laugh with the boy who had abandoned him.
Harry slumped into the cushions feeling smaller than ever. The sun rose higher in the sky and the long, pale rays of sunlight spread out across the carpet, lighting the way for the dust particles floating in the air to dance with each other. It was time for the castle to awaken. When the portrait hole swung open students would pour in, chattering and arguing over homework like always, but Harry would never be the same.
He looked at the empty spot on the rug where she had been sitting. The Charms book was gone, but the impression of her remained.
For the first time in four years, Harry sat in the Gryffindor Common Room and felt entirely, completely alone.