Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.

...

1: Rebirth

'Oliver—

'Hermione—

We have waited too long.'

My name is Hermione Granger and I am watching Oliver Wood, Hogwarts' best Keeper, ex-Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and ex-Gryffindor housemate. I wish I were lavished in eternal fire once more. I have been in piteous embers for years, empty, desolate, confused. I wish for those past days, for my unending burning because, though it hurt, though it pained me, my love for him is fuel.

But now—

Now?

My thoughts, sensations, dreams and actions—

Oliver, you must know! It must be obvious, you must understand...

I burn for you.

I hold a torch to you.

You are my rebirth!

I quiver as I watch. All I need is to look at him and my mouth is dry. He is east to me from my place in the common room. My stomach is in knots and my rune translation is forgotten on the desk before me. I jump whenever the door to the girls' dormitory opens but, though this jars me, I do not, cannot, stop thinking about him. His looks, though perfection, are not what draw me to him, a puppet on strings. It is his dedication. He is scribbling on parchment as he has done for years, diagrams filled with noughts and crosses, lines and curves – I studied their meanings in secret want of a connection.

He is the personification of more than Quidditch. He is diligence and he is dedication. It takes drive and maturity to focus on something so intently, a lot of passion— I choke on the word and swallow my sudden cowardice that makes my breath hitch in my throat. I am so insecure, so naïve. All I have is my intellect and my assiduousness nature. My determination... is this enough?

I sigh. It is laughable to think that gives us something in common. That I, a bibliophilic reader and workaholic, with an attention span ten times the circumference of Hogwarts' walls, hold virtues of stubborn fortitude equal to the determination required to be labelled a Quidditch fanatic. I am not brave. I do not have a brave heart and I do not hold or reside in his.

Still, I watch and swallow and look and suddenly taste the thirst of one lost in an arid wilderness.

He is back. I thought he had left me in peace. I thought I was free of this torture. And yet, and yet I think I—

I start, violently. My gold quill is momentarily strangled in my fist as an echoing bang explodes from my right. My head whips around in shock – Oliver mirrors my reaction (a sign?) – and I narrow my eyes as I see the Weasley twins' faces black with soot. Their red hair is pushed back, their eyes shocked and mouths agape. They immediately start laughing and point their wands at each other, instantly clean and identical. I rise up from my seat, slyly glimpsing Oliver as he shrugs and goes back to his parchment, whilst I, in irrational anger, march over to the two trouble makers in front of the fire. They have noticed my approach and are standing in front of the coffee table, hands behind their backs, grinning. I tear my eyes from the literal image of my internal dilemma.

'Hermione!' the one on the left says. 'To what do we owe this great pleasure?'

I put my hands on my hips. 'To what—?' I sputter, disbelievingly. I wave a finger at them. 'That massive explosion, perhaps!'

'Did you hear an explosion, George?' asks Fred, turning to his seemingly ignorant brother.

'No, I don't think I did, Fred. Did you hear an explosion?' Their eyes glint mischievously.

'Well I did,' I snap, 'and I'm certain the Slytherins in the dungeon did too!'

The twins look positively gleeful. 'Wicked!' they cry, and clap their hands together in a high-five.

I smirk and cross my arms. 'I thought you said there was no explosion.' I feel smug now. It radiates from me in waves. Maybe Oliver would be proud of me?

They glance at each other, and their grins only spread wider. 'There was none. We're simply flattered that you'd think we could do something like that.' Fred winks. 'Any more high-praises from you, dear Prefect, and we might just have to give you a kiss.'

I am quite sure they got what they wanted. My cheeks have started to burn and I cannot help but smile nervously, even though that patronising tone makes my skin crawl with every syllable. I like the twins when they are not causing mayhem to the point of being dangerous. No one can deny that they certainly are charming. But their words have forced my mind to flicker back to the days when I would dream about such an occurrence... but not with them...

(Dream from embers: his hands at my neck, his lips slanted over mine, the planes of his chest rock hard against my breasts, confused as to where one ends and the other begins, and white, hot fire burning, burning, burning...)

'Fine,' I relent, forcing my mind to return. 'No testing on the first years, remember? That still stands.' They nod, crossing their hearts comically. 'And do try to minimise the explosions.'

'Yes, Mum,' they chorus, rolling their eyes, and return to their smoking cauldron.

'Thank you,' I say and then their products lying innocently on the table come into my gaze. It is expected that I would not be able to stop myself from looking, too unavoidably curious about what they create and how they make it for my liking. I do realise that most of their products are clever, and sometimes ingenious. Fred and George get good marks when they want to and everybody likes them. If Ron could figure that out, surely I can admit it, even after talking with them more from third year.

They must have caught me watching because one looks up and, still grinning, remarks, 'I think she's afraid we'll burn the common room down.'

I sit down in the seat facing one, the other beside me, stop and say, 'The two of you must start wearing Mrs. Weasley's jumpers again. Who's who?'

'For you, we'll be truthful. George.' He points and across from me, the twin gives a wave. 'And I'm Fred.'

'Thank you.' I look at them, my eyes searching for something. I need to talk to someone about this, or that, or everything. It is weighing me down, and it is not just because I have a ceaseless infatuation with someone who has never looked twice at me. They have it. The understanding shines brilliantly through their blue eyes. I sigh, dropping my head in my hands to rub my forehead tiredly. 'No, not afraid, I'm just… worried.' And burning, burning, always burning. I fancy I feel his eyes on me.

'About the first years?' There is comical, funny Fred.

'No.' I nudge him with my knee, smiling with a small upturn of my lips. 'Not the first years.'

'Oh, well it can't be us.' The tone of his voice is laughing, and I look over at George to see him leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, the order forms discarded on the seat to his left.

'It is, just a touch… First there's the Quidditch game and it is impractical for the two of you to be doing this rather than training.' I say it in a hurry, loudly, hoping he will be proud. Then I deflate. 'And second... The two of you do realise how dangerous what you're doing is, don't you? Here, especially. Umbridge might hear or see and then... aren't you worried? That's what I'm worried about. Umbridge and her rising influence.' I peer at their hands, noting the harsh words scratched into them, scars from the mutilation. 'What she's been doing to students, to anyone' – Not him, not him, please not him – 'without reason or cause is... it's an injustice.' I pause, suddenly feeling white hot rage course through me and I spit, 'She's a sadist!'

They nod, slightly more sober than I have ever seen them. 'We know,' George says quietly.

'But she's not going to stop us. We've got something planned, anyway.' I raise my eyebrows. 'We can't say, but you won't forget it.' Our group stays silent for a time before Fred winks to George and he says cheerfully, 'Hermione, I think we're going to have to make something special for you.'

'Why?'

George moves from his couch and sits on my other side, shrugging. 'Just because.'

'What would you like?'

'Nothing for me, thank you,' I say, shaking my head, then pause. 'Or maybe a self-inking quill. That would save a lot of time.' I swivel around, holding onto the back of the couch for support, my arms outstretched as I turn to their smiling faces. 'A quill such as that would be a fine way to speed up essay writing.' I smile. 'Thank you, but I've got a rune translation that is calling my name.'

'Oh, really?' asks Fred in jest. 'I don't hear anything.'

I glare at him, 'Funny. I have to finish it.'

'It's probably due in about two weeks, can't possibly wait.'

George earns a glare as well. 'Three, actually.'

'George, I think she's mocking us.' Fred says with mocking appal on his face.

'She is. And what're we gonna do about that?' They both grin and before I know it I am falling backwards, about to hit my head on the coffee table, shrieking shrilly, until they grab my arms again, jolting me so much my hair breaks free of its ponytail. I let out a shaky breath. The twins leave me hanging, mercifully holding securely onto my wrists as they laugh. But my eyes drift over to the corner table and I turn my head to the left and catch sight of Oliver in the corner, raising his eyebrows at the interruption. Chills travel through my spine at the thought of his anger. The twins haul me upwards, each taking my back as well.

Somehow I cannot bring myself to yell at them. It is not that I am not angry, for I am very angry. Lucky for them, it is overridden by the fact that I have once again seen Oliver and found myself woozy and all I can think about is that he seems more attractive upside down than right side up. The twins stop laughing, flick their eyes to Oliver, to me, and back again before grinning once more. Oh no, I think, oh, no, no, no, no!

'Are you blushing, Hermione?' they chorus, cocking their heads to the right.

I stand up, careful where to place my feet in case I step on one of their rogue inventions. 'You did just cause all the blood to rush to my head.' I cross my arms across my chest, scowling at them. They shift closer together, a small space between them where it is suddenly not so safe to be.

'You didn't tell us, Hermione,' Fred says, pouting.

George observes, 'Since you're standing up you should be completely fine.'

'But you're not.'

'And that can only mean one thing.'

'We're going to tell!'

My eyes widen as I wildly dive forward, clamp a hand over each of their mouths and land in that dangerous spot. Their traitorous words are muffled as I hold their lips closed, staring at the two in horror. I cannot believe I am so easy to read, or that they were about to yell it across the common room to the one person who can never find out.

'Are you crazy?' I hiss, flicking my eyes between the two. I can feel their smirks against my hand, and then something else. Their mouths open, hot air escapes and they start to lick my hands. Disgusted, I pull my hands away and wipe their saliva off onto their own cloaks just as Fred wraps his arms around my waist whilst George seizes my legs, and, in one movement, shove me back to sitting between them. I am rather annoyed that I cannot struggle my way away from their stocky bodies.

'How long?' asks Fred. I stubbornly shake my head. I have not told even Harry or Ron. As if he could read my thoughts, Fred continues in the same reasoning tone. 'You'd never tell Harry, and Ron would have been the very last person to find out, not including your boy over there.' I open my mouth. 'If you haven't told Harry or even Ginny, then there's no way you'd've told the man in question. So just be glad we found out.'

'Somehow I am not feeling very glad,' I mutter bitterly.

'And you should be flattered that we're going to help you.' George adds, nudging my leg.

I eye them, realising it would be pointless to tell them to forget it, and even more so, to mention the fact that there are age, interest and extreme personality differences standing in the way. Instead, I ask suspiciously, 'Why do you want to help?'

'Because,' George answers, 'if Oliver gets a girl then he might lighten up… or at least change his speech.' Fred winks and yawns dramatically.

'Might save those Puddlemeres a few eardrums,' Fred continues. 'And if we help you, then it's a guarantee. Oh, and Hermione, we want to see you happy.'

'I do not need a male hanging off my arm to be happy, thank you very much!'

The twins exchange their strange glances, their eye roll unsuccessfully hidden. 'If you say so. But if you've been mooning over him as long as we think, then that fancy you got going is enough to make him a possible "better half", even though you are so bloody good by yourself, Hermione.'

Despite myself, I smile as George nods and Fred beams. 'I'm not sure,' I say, dropping my shoulders and attitude a little, relaxing into the soft cusioning of the couch. 'I'm not even sure he knows I exist.'

They grin as they so often do, 'Don't worry,' Fred says. George finishes for him, 'We can help with that.' I am unsure if I like the sound of that.

'Listen… I think I'll just… observe.' Fred tuts, shaking his head, his long, red hair brushing my shoulders.

'No, Hermione. It might interfere with your school work!' I suddenly pale at how right they are. 'That's right,' continues Fred, 'think of the schoolwork. This is time for action. George?' He nods to his twin.

'Fred.' George nods back and they stand and pull me up onto my feet, as if I weigh nothing more than a rag-doll. 'Sleep on it'

'But what of Quidditch practice?' I try. 'Angelina will maim you if you even think of relaxing.'

They only shake their heads and usher me away toward my rune translation. I sit back down, and deliberately stare out the side window at a black sea of diamond stars with cloud tendrils flowing through. I sigh. Images fill my head, those which I will never admit to. I would rather burn at my stake than risk death by embarrassment.

No more work can be done tonight. I pack up my ink and parchment, stuff it hazardously into my book bag and swing around toward the fire. Fred and George look up, wink at me and nod their heads toward Oliver. I turn and see he is packing up as well.

I start and stare, pausing with my hand clutching the spine of my textbook. Oliver pushes his papers into his shoulder bag and looks around for anything he forgot. His eyes land on me and I feel my stomach tighten and my eyes widen imperceptibly. I burn. My throat is tight. He smiles, a hint of his weariness in the lines of his mouth, hidden underneath the blinding fact that he is smiling at me. I smile back, goofily, giddily, clutching my books to my chest. He turns away and I crumple, my foundation gone. I pack up my things.

Making my way around the desk to open the door to the girl's dormitory is hard and I sigh again because I am tired, because my bag is so heavy, and because I can feel eyes on my back. It is a battle not to turn around to see if it is the twins that seem to be a burning a hole through me. I foolishly hold a hope that it is him looking at me, that I am not invisible – that I have a chance, that the very thought of me sends shivers down his spine – and shake my head. You're crushing like a school-girl. I tell myself.

I forget to mention that I am one.

-x-x-x-

The grass is green and covered in icy dew on the Pitch, and the Gryffindor Quidditch team whoosh to and fro up above. Katie, Alicia and Angelina are practicing drills. They appear to be dodging an opposing Chaser and passing the Quaffle at the same time, though who am I to to know? Fred and George are teasing a Bludger to come at them, an idea I personally think is rather foolish, and Harry is high up above the rest, a black dot in the sky that is chasing after an invisible Snitch. Oliver is coaching Ron, momentarily distracted from his task on the ground and looking up into the sun at the frivolous Weasley twins

'Oi, Weasleys! Get to work!' he roars, cupping his large hands around his mouth. No one seems to be brave enough to mention that he is not the Captain anymore, not even Angelina. Next to Oliver, Ron is leaning on his broom for support against his fright, seemingly quaking in his boots with apprehension. His freckles on his neck and face stand out remarkably against the white pallor of his skin, even from the large distance between their positions and mine where I sit in the lower stands. I am trying my hardest to concentrate on the Charms text open on my lap, but the winter's wind keeps flipping the pages and my hair around. Of course, it is the season's fault that my thoughts have strayed and I am not studying. It could not possibly be the very loud, eager and frustrated ex-Captain pacing the Pitch. I am not watching the way his hands move or the whipping of his brown hair. I am not focusing solely on these things for more than a half hour.

But I am and it is how the twins sneak up on my left and right to scare the living daylights out of me when their combined breaths tickle my ears.

'Distracted?'

I jump, the heavy book almost falls from my lap, my hand shoots up to my chest and I bite my lip to stifle my shriek. 'Don't do that!' I reprimand them, angrier at myself that I was caught than at them for frightening me.

Teasingly, they say, 'Couldn't resist.'

George laughs. 'What could possibly tear her away from a book?'

Of course they know. I cringe and mutter, 'Am I really that obvious?'

'Well,' ponders Fred, 'you're like… a wildfire whiz-bang. With a vanishing spell: definitely can't miss 'em.'

'Comforting, Fred. I feel so much better now.'

'That was genius. A real winner.'

He beams at his brother and I, crying, 'Thank you!' and dramatically wipes away an imaginary tear as George claps a hand on his shoulder.

'That is not even funny,' I mutter and hang my head in my hands.

Angelina remembers she is the Captain and suddenly yells, 'You two! Stop fraternising!'

'That's our cue.' George says, mounting his broom.

Fred swings a leg over his too, winking at me. 'And don't worry, we have a plan.' He brandishes his bat over his head in a salute. My head falls again and I realise, with the twins plotting for me, I just might die before I reach seventeen. Merlin, help me.

I watch the twins as they fly away, holding their bats aloft and searching for their rogue Bludgers. Who knew I could tolerate their presence? Who knew that they could tolerate mine? I am glad for them, though. Maybe not their hasty plans, but for them, yes. Maybe they will hold my fire for me one day.

The book is resting dejectedly on my lap, slowly falling forgotten from my grasp; for once I do not want to read. I am not even going to bother, and instead start searching for Harry. I look up.

It is not Harry, I find. It is a brown dot in the sky, increasing in size as it comes closer, rapidly toward me, spinning in the air.

I scream and dive out of the way as the Bludger pelts right through the seats, creating a solid hole where I was. Frantic and uncomprehensive, I catch sight of Fred and George chuckling and grinning, looking toward Oliver. Instantly, my own eyes involuntarily flicker toward him. He is standing with his back to me, but I can see Ron's astonishment, plain on his ghostly face. At least he noticed. Harry has vanished – too high, too pensive, too involved in his task, or disappeared.

The twins have started yelling. 'Time out, time out!' they call. They are flying around in loops and three-sixties, scowling in Oliver's direction and indicating my shocked form.

'What is it now?' Angelina yells, annoyed. I am annoyed too. Am I so unimportant? Why so invisible?

'Those!' I yell, jabbing a finger toward the twins, 'Those weasels! They shot a Bludger at me! It missed me by an inch!' I am shaking with rage. 'An inch!,' I emphasise, holding my out my fingers, agonisingly close together, glaring at them. This was their plan? To get me killed? They just earned themselves an enemy.

'Hermione, I'm sure it was an accident.'

What?!

The girls have already gone back to their activities by the time I spin around. Angelina's voice is ringing in my head as I look up to the twins as they laugh and joke together and I reason that she is blind. My mouth is hanging open, my fists are closed and the book lies where it landed, somehow, safe, remaining forgotten.

Or at least, I thought it was.

He clears his throat, and I immediately reach for my wand, thinking it is Umbridge, but stop myself just in time. This is loud, sure and deep, not like the sniffle of 'ahem ahem' that makes us snicker so. I am afraid to turn around. Don't be such a coward, I tell myself. I turn, my bones grating together with the effort, and the first thing I see is his feet. They are nice feet; enclosed in brown dragon hide work boots, quite solid. How did I miss him coming? Pants are black, and I could swear they are denim, but I did not know the wizarding world had jeans… and there is my book held out, its gold cover complementing the red shirt he is wearing for practice instead of a billowing cloak, reminding me he was a Gryffindor, and that I used to sit in the common room and watch him like I was last night, that in bed I would do sinful things with his name on my lips...

Oliver... Oliver...

My mouth is quickly shut as I realise I am staring.

'Hello.'

'Hi.' I cough, nod and stutter a thank you without looking at his face. My cheeks and my ears are burning.

'Pleasure,' says he. 'Watch out for those Bludgers, Hermione.' My name? He knows my name? My head shoots up and suddenly our eyes are connected. His are large and deep brown, they stare into me, see me, reel me in. I feel like I am drowning, and am saved when, a second later, he ducks away, jumps on his broom and flies off before I realise that he has not sought me out or asked anyone. He read it on the name tag I wear for regulation purposes, one of the few who does. I suddenly have the urge to rip it off, tear it up, throw it into the common room fire and watch it smoulder with my self-pitying rage.

Fred and George come over but I refuse to speak to them. The Charms tome is clutched to my chest, my eyes are hard on the place where the hole was. Briefly, it occurs to me that the benches repair themselves, that that is an extraordinary piece of magic which I would usually want to perfect and it is strange that I am not thinking about it. My thoughts are roaming free, seeing his brown eyes. I decide they are the colour of a strong tea with a small amount of milk. I think about my eyes, how they are unremarkable and plain to match me, Plain Jane, or Jean. My hands are still shaking when Harry touches down, puts a hand on my shoulder and tells me training has finished. I follow him without a word.

-x-x-x-

Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading.

-AA-