Preparations

Phoenix Song, Chapter five : Preparations

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute. Where dialogue from the original Harry Potter books is quoted by me, the relevant text is marked with an asterisk.

I'd like to thank my betas: LAxo, for her way with words and wayward commas, and WriterMerrin, for giving me the chance to use a correctly placed semicolon.

Hermione was released from the hospital wing three days before the end of term. She hadn't seen Professor Snape since their late-night conversation, but several times she woke with the feeling that she'd just missed him, and on one occasion she found a neat pile of books beside the healing potions on her bedside table. The scar across her chest had faded significantly. Madame Pomfrey had left her with a cream to apply every morning and a potion to be taken once a week, but had warned her that it was unlikely ever to fade entirely. Hermione didn't mind. She felt that she'd got off lightly and had developed a habit of rubbing at the newly lumpy skin up near her collarbone. Touching it made her feel stronger somehow, less lost and more determined.

She spent the first two weeks of the holidays at home with her parents. Her mother had taken time off work, and even her father managed to spend a couple of afternoons away from the practice. He was delighted with her newfound interest in running and couldn't stop talking about it. He gave her copious instructions about long runs and tempo runs and easy runs and stretching, he loaned her several books and showed her a number of websites that made it easy to calculate training plans and target speeds to run at. Furthermore, he ran with her, happily modifying his speed to her slower pace and holding-up both ends of the conversation whenever she ran out of breath (which at first, was frequently).

Hermione had dithered for a long while as to how much she should tell her parents about the events of the preceding year. Hogwarts had odd policies concerning Muggle parents and magical injuries. Quite rightly, the Grangers had been furious at the end of Hermione's second year to discover that she had spent much of the year in a coma, with them none the wiser. They had threatened then to put an end to her magical education, and it took a fraught meeting with Professor McGonagall full of dire warnings about the awful consequences of living with an untrained witch to change their minds. Still, they needed to know about the return of Lord Voldemort, for their own safety as much as anything else, and she was pretty certain that they would be less furious about her new scar if they heard it first from her. Eventually, she obfuscated slightly: she told them of Dumbledore's confrontation with Voldemort at the Ministry (leaving out her participation along with that of Harry and the others), and attributed her injury to an accident during "duelling practice." "Given the war, Mum, they've been taking self-defence really seriously; and Professor Snape healed me straight away so there wasn't anything much to worry about . . ." It left her feeling a little nauseous that her parents found her lies so convincing, but she just rubbed at her scar surreptitiously and kept her mouth firmly shut.

Once her mother went back to work, Hermione began to spend most of her time at the Burrow, returning home only on the weekends. Several years earlier, Mr Weasley had had the fireplace in her parents' bedroom attached to the Floo network, which made commuting back and forth very easy. Harry was staying at the Burrow, too, and the crowded Weasley household was much more fun than rattling around a London terrace by herself. Still, she was often a little relieved to get away from the noise and bustle on the weekends, and the long runs that she went on with her father each Sunday morning became an increasingly precious part of her summer routine.

Hermione was following a running schedule meticulously. Professor Snape had been correct: the math and logic of learning to run fascinated her, she could run by herself and she could learn from a book. Quidditch was another matter entirely. Though she gritted her teeth and played two-a-side with Harry, Ron and Ginny every time they suggested it, she was a pretty dire player and improving only slowly. The game seemed to move too quickly, and she almost always felt humiliated by the end of each match. Even with the height limitations that were imposed by playing in the back yard of the Burrow, the empty air between her and the ground left her dizzy with anxiety. If you can't be brave, Granger, she told herself, be stubborn. Professor Snape would probably say that there's no difference.

She was also practicing the mental exercises Snape had set her. Before leaving Hogwarts, she'd charmed the covers of the books he'd loaned her to look like back-issues of Arithmancy Today. Only Bill might have evidenced any interest in opening such a publication, and he was so caught up in flirting with Fleur that she'd been able to keep them close to hand without concern, had even read them through several times in the kitchen of the Burrow. In fact, she'd realised that the figure of Hermione Granger lost in a book was, to most intents and purposes, invisible. As long as she didn't move suddenly or look up, the adults would talk as if she were not there at all, dropping small titbits of information concerning other Order members or news of another Death Eater attack. Snape's name, in particular, always caught her attention. Hermione had told no-one of his role in healing Dolohov's curse or of their odd night-time conversation. The only time she'd even wanted to was when Harry had mentioned his upcoming lessons with Dumbledore, though she was certain that Ron and Harry would have been far less enthusiastic about her lessons with Professor Snape than she was. Snape's commitment to teach her was a little like her scar...new, lumpy, hidden from sight; she kept touching on the memory of it like a talisman. The idea scared her and yet reassured her; next time she would fight better, next time she would be stronger.

His name was rarely mentioned, and then only in passing: "Snape will be at the Order meeting tomorrow," "Snape said to make sure Dumbledore speaks with Minerva." Unfortunately none of the meetings were held at the Burrow itself, and Hermione was sorely disappointed that she hadn't seen him.

In fact, she rebuked herself sharply the morning after Harry's birthday, when she found herself lying in bed thinking about her absent professor, you're fast developing an unhealthy obsession with the man! Slipping out from under the covers, she grabbed her running clothes and snuck out without waking Ginny. Before leaving the Burrow, she Disillusioned herself and stuck her wand into a sweatband so that it sat flat along the inside of her arm. She ran almost four miles through the farmland outside the village. The sky was clear with a pleasantly cool breeze; Hermione felt wonderful. Just in the last week or so, the running had become easier. In the home stretch she pushed herself, bursting back into the Burrow yard with her legs pumping and chest heaving.

"Who's there?!" Harry frightened her as much as she'd obviously just scared him. He had frozen into a duelling stance, his wand pointed directly towards her.

"Whoa, Harry! It's me, Hermione." Hurriedly, she de-Disillusioned herself, the warmth of the counter-spell trickling down her back.

"Bloody hell, you gave me a fright," he replied, running his hand back through his fringe and flopping back down onto the ground.

"Yeah, you too." Hermione leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees. She struggled to get her breath, fighting the combined effects of her run and the adrenaline rush triggered by Harry's sudden appearance.

The relief on Harry's face had faded into annoyance. "I wish I could leave the yard," he remarked bitterly.

Hermione had the grace to look a little guilty. "I, er, um, didn't exactly ask permission," she responded, then added lamely, "I had my wand."

Harry looked at her in surprise. "That's not exactly your style, 'Mione," he commented. "In fact, exercise isn't exactly your style, either. What's got into you?"

Hermione took hold of one foot and stretched out her quad. "Well, I, er, read somewhere that improving your physical strength improves your magical strength. I guess I was kind of disappointed in my DADA mark." She pulled a wry smile at Harry and switched to stretching her other leg. "Next year I want to do better. Next time we fight the Death Eaters I want to do better."

At her last words, Harry sat up a little straighter. The grumpy look that so-often sat across his face lifted slightly. "You're amazing, Hermione."

"Nonsense." She sat down beside him. "You saved my life at the Ministry, Harry. And if I had been a bit better at DADA, I would have Stupefied Dolohov, not silenced him. I might not have got injured at all."

Harry's face darkened once more. "It's my fault that any of you were even there! You said yourself that I've got a thing for saving people. If I hadn't believed Voldemort..."

"Harry! Voldemort tricked you. He tricked you because he's evil, and you fell for it because you're fundamentally good. That is nothing to be ashamed of! If you let his actions change you, then you're letting him win."

"God, Hermione," Harry had pulled his knees up towards his chest and buried his face in the gap between his thighs. "You sound like Dumbledore."

Hermione deepened her voice as much as she could. "My dear boy," she replied in a passable imitation of the headmaster's bemused tones. "I always have been a dab hand at Polyjuice."

The snort of laughter with which Harry greeted her feeble joke left Hermione feeling ridiculously pleased. He had been far too prickly since Sirius' death for her to take his laughter for granted. "Come on," she laughed back, leveraging herself to her feet and holding out a hand to haul him up. "I bet Molly's got breakfast well on the way."

As he took her hand, Harry paused for a second, his eyes narrowed as he regarded the generous expanse of leg revealed by her running shorts. "You know, Hermione, I'd say you're getting a few secondary benefits from that strengthening program you're following!"

"Watch out, Harry James Potter, I don't take that kind of cheek from anyone!" Despite her argumentative words, Hermione flushed with pleasure. It was nice to know that one of her two best friends had noticed she was a girl, even if she'd rather it had been the other one.

Inside they found not only Molly and breakfast, but Ron, Ginny and their Hogwarts letters. Hermione opened hers and skimmed the cover letter...congratulations on your OWLs, welcome to sixth year, beginning of NEWTs, once again prefect, all pretty standard stuff...and turned quickly to the book list. Wow, these Arithmancy books look excellent! She'd wanted a copy of Advanced Practical Applications of Arithmantic Principles for simply ages. As her eyes skimmed down to the bottom of the page, her heart skipped a beat. There, appended to the end of her booklist were three extra titles in the distinctively spiky script of her Potions professor: Elemental Warding, Defending the Mind and Body and Exercising Caution: Improving Magical Reflexes. This is for real, she thought. Her heart was racing, and she unconsciously reached up and rubbed gently at her scar.

A shout from Harry interrupted her reverie. He had his own letter open and was holding a gold and red badge in his hand. Hermione looked at it stupidly for a second. Was he a prefect, too? Harry held it out towards her, a delighted grin on his face: Quidditch Captain.

"That gives you equal status with prefects!"* remarked Hermione with real pleasure. "You can use our special bathroom now and everything!"*

Over the next few days, Hermione tried not to look at her booklist too frequently. Though salivating over books was typical behaviour for her, she didn't want either of the boys noticing Professor Snape's handwriting and asking her about it. When they finally did go into Diagon Alley to do their shopping, however, she couldn't hide her disappointment at Arthur's suggestion that the group split up.

"Molly, it doesn't make sense for all of us to go to Madam Malkin's,"* he remarked. "Why don't those three go with Hagrid, and we can go to Flourish and Blotts and get everyone's schoolbooks?"*

Hermione surrendered her booklist reluctantly, to Ron's evident amusement.

"Come on, Hermione," he laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "You can visit the book shop some other day when we have more time up our sleeves. Besides, all too soon you'll be back at Hogwarts and you can spend as much time as you desire in your blessed library."

"Really, Ron?" she tried to maintain her grumpiest voice, but couldn't help the edge of laughter that crept into her tone. "You will let me spend as much time as I want there? You won't ever try to drag me outside?"

"Only when it becomes absolutely necessary for your health!" Ron protested. "It hurts me a lot more than it hurts you."

"You can say that again!" Hermione giggled and punched him lightly in the ribs.

Afterwards, Hermione reflected that the trip to Diagon Alley was no more eventful than life with Harry tended to be. Draco Malfoy was definitely up to something; his behaviour in Borgin and Burkes was far from innocent. She certainly didn't disagree with Harry on that point. Hadn't she gone into the shop and tried to find out more? But still, there was something disturbing with the obsession Harry had developed. Even Ron had noticed. Sometime on the third or fourth day after the shopping trip, the two friends caught each other's eye in the middle of one of Harry's tirades, and later that day, Ron cornered her alone in the staircase.

"Hey." Ron caught hold of her elbow as she passed.

"Hey, yourself." They were standing really close together, and she could smell the faint scent of him, sweet and summery, like freshly-cut grass.

"D'you reckon Harry's okay?"

She felt bad talking about Harry when he wasn't there, but there was something nice about it too. For one thing, Ron had such an adorably concerned look on his face, and for another, they were his best friends: who else had a right to be worried about him?

"You mean the chosen-one thing...or the look he gets in his eyes when he talks about Malfoy?" They were both speaking very quietly, and she leaned in a little closer still.

"Both, really. He's acting weird about Malfoy, for sure. Like it's personal . . . or he's got everything out of proportion or something."

"Oh, Ron. I'm glad that we've both noticed. He gets that same look on his face whenever anyone mentions Sirius, too. All closed-up and angry." Hermione chewed on her lower lip briefly. "What do you think we should do?"

"God, I dunno. Let's just downplay the whole Malfoy thing. I don't think we should encourage him."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Hermione felt reluctant to end the conversation. There was something really nice about standing so close to Ron and talking so softly.

"Well, um, I, er, guess I'll see you round."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Wow. How can a conversation go from so comfortable to so awkward so quickly? Hermione flushed a little and ran up the stairs towards the room she shared with Ginny as quickly as she could. The youngest Weasley was already there, and Hermione threw herself onto her bed and picked up a nearby textbook, pretending to read. The sooner next semester starts, she thought, the better!