Opening Salvo

Not By The Grace of God Nor Man (X-Men drabble, Jean/Logan, X3...ish?)

2006-01-23T22:52:54Z

Logan stood transfixed by the figure in the middle of the lake, absently rubbing his eyes to clear the film of sweat and sudden tears. The sound of laughter lilted everywhere, familiar and strange. He felt his chest heave and his throat choke. He would know that laughter anywhere, alive or dead.

He almost halfway to the middle of the lake before he realized it, long smooth strokes that cut through the water like a knife, heedless of the weight of his thick-soled boots and leather coat. The figure turned, long hair whipping around her face, and regarded him with unreadable eyes as she skimmed and skated over the water like a water nymph.

"Jean...?" His voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper, but it seemed to echo in his ears as the forest around him fell silent. His hand reached out to her, fingers splaying in an eager haste to touch her.

She reached down and touched his hand with delicate fingertips, a smile playing over her lips as her face was framed by a curtain of flames. Electric impulses sizzled down his arm and made his heart start to beat double time, his vision swimming with dark spots as his limbs grew tired and heavy.

"Wh-who are you?" he groaned, seeing her in shadow, in light, in duplicate, triplicate...so far away.

"I am everything," she answered softly, smiling as the darkness of the water closed over his face.

Whiskey Tango Ghosts (Firefly, Mal/Inara)

2005-10-31T20:17:25Z

Somehow the Firefly bug bit me this morning while I was in the shower, and I had the presence of mind to write it down before I forgot it all.

"That’s my whiskey," Mal said gruffly, his bulky shoulders filling the doorway and filtering the dim light coming in off the deck.

"This is my shuttle," Inara replied, reclining on the one soft seat she’d left behind when she left Serenity. There had been no room to pack it, and Kaylee had told her she’d put it in her room. It was still there when they had fled from the assassin planetside, not covered in a fine layer of dust as she had expected, but with a distinctly Mal-shaped dent in the cushion.

"It hasn’t been your shuttle since you left, ‘Nara. It’s mine again, too."

She sighed, draining her tumbler and setting it on the side table with a crash. "This is an old, tired dance, Mal. Have a drink...at least that’s a language we both understand."

"Is that your way of saying I’m not fancy enough for you, Inara? Not enough brains to make out your kind of love poetry and high-falutin’ speeches?" Mal quirked an eyebrow, lifting her crystal glass in his roughened hand. She watched him warily as he poured three fingers of whiskey with a neat flick of his wrist.

"No, Mal, that’s not what I’m saying. It's my way of telling you you're a mystery to me. I’d just forgotten how everything on Serenity belongs to you, no question." Her voice was rough and low, deepened by the liquor and the way the faint scent of leather and gunpowder made the pit of her stomach drop.

"Not everything, ‘Nara. Not everything."

His eyes met hers in the second before he tossed back the drink, and if he’d lingered another second she would have gone to him. But he turned away from her, stalking back out onto the deck and leaving her alone with his whiskey, her tears, and their ghosts.

(cross-posted to my journal, divajess)

Many Things to Many People (MWPP)

2005-08-10T02:34:45Z

I wrote yaycoffee a present!

Many Things to Many People

A Birthday Fic for yaycoffee

By divajess, AKA openingsalvo

Sirius Black was many things to many people. His various titles included: A Bitter Disappointment, Record Holder for Most Sausages Ever Eaten At Breakfast, Mr. February in the House Quidditch Calendar, and Thickest File in Filch's Office. To Remus Lupin, Sirius usually hovered somewhere between Well-Meaning But Completely Nutters and Most Likely To Cause A Pounding Headache. But today was different--today marked a pinnacle in all that Sirius ever was and ever would be in the wizarding world. Today, Sirius was Officially of Age and Looking to Get Pissed.

On Sirius' birthday, Remus had planned to have the house elves put together a small cake that he could bring back up to Gryffindor Tower and share with the other boys before he gave Sirius a carefully chosen book in honor of the solemn occasion of turning seventeen.

That was, of course, before he stepped into the portrait hole to see that all hell had broken loose in the Gryffindor common room, courtesy of James Potter and Ogden's Original Firewhiskey.

Someone (whose name probably rhymed with Eter Ettigrew) had drawn a sloppily-lettered sign proclaiming "Heppy Birftday Sirus Blck!" and hung it over the stairway to the boys' dormitory. It was tacked to the wall by some kind of sticking charm that had also attracted most of the lint from the ancient, overstuffed couches, as well as two brassieres and a pair of mismatched socks.

James was seated in front of the door to Lily Evans' private room, the one luxury afforded to the Head Girl of Hogwarts. They had engaged in a brilliant row during lunch in the Great Hall, wherein Lily had loudly proclaimed him a giant git and dumped her pumpkin juice over his head. His shirt was still bright orange in places and his messy dark hair was peppered with tiny bits of pumpkin pulp. New stains of an unknown nature had joined the pumpkin juice, most likely from the half-empty bottle James was flinging about. He was obviously quite contrite and apologetic about whatever it was he had done. However, judging from the way he was drunkenly caterwauling outside of Lily's quarters, she was the one most likely to be sorry--perhaps sorry she had ever started dating him in the first place.

"I didn't mean to huuuuurt youuuu! I'm sorry that I made you cryyyyyyyyyyyy." James' voice was unsteady and off-key, but he kicked off of his chair and landed on his knees in a move that would make any rock star jealous, though Remus didn't really think it appropriate for the Lennon oeuvre. "Oh no, I didn't meaaaaaaaaan to hurt you....I'm just a jealous guyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!"

Remus highly suspected that Lily had cast a silencing charm on her door. He silently applauded her as James passed out on the carpet.

The cake box dropped from his hands and the book hung limply from his grasp, forgotten. His eyes scanned the room, landing briefly on a heap of giggling girls crowded around an empty butterbeer keg and Frank Longbottom having an animated conversation with Alice Black, who was passed out on his shoulder. He still hadn't spotted Sirius, but suddenly and without warning...

"S'MOONY!" screeched Sirius, throwing a fourth-year girl off his lap and flinging his arms wide. He lurched drunkenly toward Remus, but as he reached him he tripped over the prone form of Peter, who had long since passed out after his first shot of anything stronger than butterbeer. After hauling himself to a standing position with the help of no less than ten pieces of furniture, Sirius looped one companionable arm around Remus' neck and braced himself in the frame of the portrait hole with the other, in order to remain mostly upright.

"Moony, Moonymoooooony, I am so GAD...so GAD..." Sirius grinned sloppily. "HAPPY you're here. We've been waiting for you for HOURS."

"You certainly smell as if it's probably been a few hours," Remus said archly, ducking his head to avoid the whiskey-scented kiss Sirius aimed at his cheek.

"D'you want a drink? We had butterbeer, but James did a keg stand. We had Ogden's, but s'my birthday and I drank it all 'cause I'm of age and officially kicked out of the Black household!" Sirius was too drunk to notice Remus' slightly startled look. "Yes sir, I got a letter. A letter and I don't care! Fuck the lot of them, fuck 'em right in the ear! S'my birthday and I have my Moony and my Prongs and my Wormtail and..." he patted the empty bottle of Ogden's in his pants pocket. "My firewhiskey. Oh, Moony, if it was a girl I'd shag it right proper."

"Yes well, I'm sure the firewhiskey would feel the same way if it were not both empty and inanimate. Let's sit down before you pass out and vomit on yourself," said Remus, steering Sirius towards the nearest unoccupied seat.

"I already did THAT," Sirius said conspiratorially. "All over my shirt and my jacket and my shoes. And all over Peter too!"

Remus dropped Sirius to the couch with an unceremonious thud and looked disdainfully down at his own shirt and threadbare sweater. He had already been forced to burn one sweater and one jacket since the beginning of term. Damn the firewhiskey and damn Sirius Bla--

"REEEEEEEEEMUS!" Sirius giggled from the couch, gesturing wildly. "Reeeeeeeeemus, Moony old friend, old pal, old chap, is that a present for me?"

Remus looked down at his hands, having forgotten about the book in the nuclear aftermath of Sirius' party. "Oh, yes...Happy birthday." He tossed the book into Sirius' lap, who tore into it with gusto.

"S’a book, Moony."

Sirius glanced up at him questioningly from under a fringe of black hair, then looked back down at the volume in his lap. "Portrait of The Artist As A Young Man" by James Joyce, one of Remus' favorite books, now bequeathed to Sirius Black on the occasion of his seventeenth birthday.

"Yes, Padfoot, it's a book. One of my own books, actually. Read the inscription."

Remus knew that Sirius didn't read much outside of The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler and the occasional copy of Quidditch Monthly, but he hoped now that Sirius was A Grown-Up Gentleman he might see the delight in reading for pleasure.

"A book. Why would you buy me a book, Moony, I don't--a BOOK! A BOOK! You're brilliant, Remus, brilliant I always say. A book, s'just what I wanted! A nice, thick book with a squashy cover and everything! Love it, really," slurred Sirius, yawning heavily and fixing Remus with a pair of tired and slightly unfocused eyes. "Thanks...it'll be perfect."

"Perfect?" Remus couldn't help but smile. "Well, I thought of giving you something other than Joyce, but it certainly wouldn't have been as appropriate as--"

His voice trailed off into silence as Sirius dropped his head onto the aforementioned squashy cover of his new book and began to snore. Remus sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the pounding headache just behind his eyes, and hauled Sirius' feet onto the couch with the rest of his lanky body.

"Happy Birthday Pads, You Drunken Idiot," Remus muttered, shaking his head and starting the long walk up the stairs to bed.

Thick Like Mud (Draco POV drabble)

2005-07-13T03:43:47Z

Draco Malfoy didn't know why he wanted her, only that he hated her and somehow that made his hands itch to touch her skin. He knew only that it would make his father very angry, that it would cause centuries of Malfoys to turn in their opulent graves, that it would cause Harry Potter to go mad and Ron Weasley to have an aneurysm. He wanted her because she was not glittery and bright like all the other girls that turned his head, but because she was dull and bookish and pretty on the night of the Yule Ball. He wanted her because it was wrong, and because she was the one thing he could never have. She would never let him touch her, and he would never let himself try. She made his blood run slow in his veins, sticky like syrup and thick like mud, and that only made him hate her a little bit more.

Sensory Perception (Ron drabble)

2005-05-23T18:29:38Z

She smells of cinnamon and spilt ink, her hair a fragrant tumble of wildflowers and the late spring air. Hermione doesn't wear perfume, but Ron wishes he could buy her by the bottleful and smell her when he is away.

At night after everyone is asleep, he sits alone in his room at The Burrow, his chest feeling tight. He misses her so much it feels like his heart could be breaking, like he might be in love with her if he forgets that she's his friend for the smallest of seconds.

The Grey and Fog of London (H/Hr/R angsty drabble)

2005-05-23T18:27:23Z

A drabble I wrote last night just before I went to sleep. Don't know where it came from, but it sure made me kind of sad.

The days dawned cold and grey now, all of London reflecting the bleak heaviness that had settled in Hermione's heart. They were fighting a war, as they had always been and perhaps always would be, but the battles of late had struck too close to home.

She had lived on the edge of fear for years, selfishly hoarding every bright moment of happiness she could find in case it might never come again. She found a measure of peace in Ron's hand caressing her face, his arm slung across her hip in sleep, his lips as familiar to hers as the taste of butterbeer or the scent of new books. She knew joy in Harry's smile, so rarely seen these days, and Ginny's carefree laughter, and the love of Molly and Arthur when her parents had been taken in the war.

The one day the brightness that was Ron dimmed and faded, leaving Hermione in the grey and fog of London with only Harry to console her, both of them wild and mad with grief. It seemed only natural that they would turn to each other for comfort, but only Molly knew that they both still sighed her son's name every night as they fell asleep.

COOKIE: Opening Salvo, Chapter 1

2005-05-22T20:38:28Z

As I have mentioned, I am working on a Marauders-era fic trilogy about the original rise of Voldemort and his subsequent defeat by the original Order of the Phoenix. The first fic is called "Opening Salvo," and is set in the Maurauders (and Lily's) 7th year. There's a prophecy, action, friendship, and eventually some romance. I'm not quite done with Chapter 1, but here's a cookie for all two of you that are waiting with breath that is bated.

She had seen a three-ring circus once, with her parents and Petunia before she received her Hogwarts letter. It travelled lazily up and down the countryside that summer, advertising the world's strongest man next to fierce-looking lions and agile Chinese tumblers.

She imagined James as a ringmaster, brandishing a chair and whip while Sirius and Remus swished their tails insolently at his feet. He was brash and irreverent and cocky, and no matter how hard Lily tried, she could never look away. He was in the center ring, and he knew it.

Lily could not see the Great Hall without him in it. Every picture in her mind's eye featured James in the foreground, running his hands through his already messy hair, copying Remus' homework, horsing about with Sirius under the baleful glare of Severus Snape.

He was everywhere, strutting through the tables in his Quidditch gear before a game, chewing on the end of a quill while Sirius mainlined pumpkin juice, watching her from across the Gryffindor table. His face was always wreathed with gold and red, and his eyes always made her feel like firecrackers were popping in her blood. He drove Lily crazy, and he knew it.

Seventh year started out no differently than it always had, with her mum and dad kissing her goodbye outside Platform 9 and 3/4, Petunia sulking in the car and refusing to see her off. Lily pushed her cart through the barrier and nearly collided with Peter Pettigrew, who was hanging back to watch Sirius Black and James Potter levitating their trunks for the awestruck first years that hung about them like a fan club.

"You'd think they were a rock band and not just barely seventeen and out from the underage magic ban," said Remus Lupin at her elbow, the corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile as he watched the antics of his best friends.

"Hello, Remus," said Lily, reaching up to fold him in a quick hug. Of all the Gryffindor boys, Remus was her favorite. He was intelligent and quick, sometimes quiet but always kind. He did not torment her like James and Sirius had done since they'd been small, and she always felt like he tried his best to keep them in check. His best, of course, was never enough, but she appreciated the gesture.

"Hello Lily," he replied, hugging her back. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to be seen," she joked, letting her eyes wander over the scene on the platform. She could scarcely believe that this was the last time she'd stand waiting for the train to begin another year at Hogwarts.

"I think Mr. Potter over there agrees with you," Remus laughed, noticing James' eyes light up as they landed on Lily.

She sighed in annoyance, seeing James gesture to Sirius and let his trunk unceremoniously drop to the ground, nearly squashing an errant first year in the process.

"Why, Miss Evans, I do believe you grow more lovely with each passing year," said James smoothly, tossing his head so that his hair fell in messy waves about his face. He took her hand in his, making as if to kiss it, but Lily snatched it away from him and held it close to her own chest.

"I've survived seven years without your lips landing anywhere on my body, Potter, and I intend to continue that winning streak," Lily snapped, her green eyes flashing at him in the afternoon sun. "Besides, you'll do well to remember that you should treat the Head Girl with respect." She pushed her hair back over her shoulders to better showcase the shining gold badge that was pinned high on her robes. "I don't want to have to take house points for you being fresh before we ever get on the train."

James' smile changed from teasing to sly in an instant. "Well, Miss Evans, I suppose you'll do well to remember that the Head Girl should also be respectful to those she's working in close quarters with." He moved his Gryffindor scarf to the side to show off another golden badge very similar to Lily's. "I do so look forward to this year.'

Lily's eyes widened in astonishment. "James Potter, Head Boy? That is...ridiculous! Clearly a mistake in the owl post. Either that, or Dumbledore and McGonagall have gone barking mad! You weren't even a PREFECT last year!"

Minerva McGonagall turned to look at Lily from her post next to the Hogwarts Express, amusement clearly written between the lines of her austere expression. "I quite assure you that I have all my faculties about me, Miss Evans," she said sternly, fighting the smile twitching at the corners of her lips. "Don't you and Mr. Potter have a Prefects' meeting you should be attending to in the lead car?"

"HONESTLY!" Lily grabbed her schoolbag and marched towards the train, her auburn hair streaming behind her like a Gryffindor banner. She breezed past McGonagall, who fixed her eyes firmly on James.

"Mr. Potter...I believe you should be following her. And I suggest you keep your hands to yourself lest you find yourself in detention before the Sorting Feast even begins." She turned and swept into the train after a group of first years, leaving the Marauders standing dumbfounded on the platform.

"Potter, are you in for it now," breathed Sirius. "We're not going to get away with a bloody thing this year."

"I think you forget that I am Head Boy, Padfoot," said James. "I suspect we'll get away with quite a lot, thanks to their lack of scruples in assigning me the post."

"If Lily doesn't kill you first," laughed Remus. "My money's on or before the first Hogsmeade weekend. You in, Wormtail?"

Peter snickered. "I bet ten knuts he doesn't even get past the Sorting Feast."

James looked put out as he gathered up his things and started for the train. "It wounds me deeply that you have so little faith in me, my friends," he said, affecting a sad pout.

"It's not that we have so little faith in you, my boy," said Sirius. "It's just that you've never learned one of life's key lessons..."

"Never take the piss out of a redhead," the boys chorused together.

"Especially when she's Head Girl," said Peter.

"Especially when she's Lily Evans," said Remus. "You're playing with fire there, Prongs."

"And I look forward to getting burned," grinned James, climbing onto the train. "This is going to be a great year."

Checkmate, A Valentine (R/Hr fluff)

2005-05-20T16:52:54Z

While I finish up the first chapter of the Numbers trilogy, I will leave you with a bit of Valentine fluff that I wrote about Ron and Hermione. Enjoy!

Valentine's Day had dawned on a wet and shivering Hogwarts, a raging storm pouring down icy sheets of rain without any sign of letting up. Hogsmeade was clearly out of the question, as no one wanted to venture outside for fear of floating away. No one wanted to be in the Gryffindor Common Room, either, for fear of much worse things.

Harry was nowhere to be seen, and it was no surprise to Ron, really. He and Hermione were in the middle of a vicious row and Harry obviously enjoyed still being the Boy Who Lived, rather than the Boy Who Died in the Middle of One of Hermione's Bossy Boots Tantrums.

"Honestly, Ron, I can't BELIEVE you."

"Hermione, come on! You're being ridiculous."

"I'm being RIDICULOUS? Better ridiculous, I suppose, than an insensitive prat!"

"'Mione, all I said was 'Have you any Valentine's from anyone today?' and suddenly you were in a flying rage! Harry asked Ginny the same thing and she didn't go off all barking mad!"

"Like I said, Ronald Weasley, you are an insensitive PRAT!"

"Better an insensitive prat than a BARKING LUNATIC!"

"HONESTLY!"

Ron stared at Hermione, who had been yelling at him for the better part of a quarter hour. She looked as she normally did when she was angry--eyes snapping, cheeks flushed a dark rose, lips parted with the most adorable indignant expression. But there was something about her eyes that Ron was not used to seeing from the always-stoic Miss Hermione Granger. Was she...crying?

He felt instantly contrite, the tips of his ears reddening in shame. She WAS crying, and it was his fault. His tune changed on a dime.

"'Mione, I'm sorry, honest I am. I didn't mean to--I'm sorry...Please don't cry!"

He awkwardly gathered her shoulders towards him with one arm, holding her as if he were unsure how they were supposed to fit together. Hermione solved that problem for him by melting against his chest and letting loose a torrent of tears into his shoulder. Ron jumped, startled by the first choking sob, and tightened his arms around her impulsively. He had never seen Hermione like this before, and he definitely did not like it. It made him feel even more out of sorts than when they were fighting and he ran into that split second when he was certain that she would never make up with him again.

"Shhh, don't cry, Mione. I'm sorry I'm such a prat." His lips just brushed the shell of her ear and he could have sworn he felt her shiver. Certainly it was just the force of her crying that made her body shake against his.

"Mrphrbleprt," she mumbled against his sweater. He tucked a stray curl out of her eyes and loosened his hold on her just a little.

"What was that?" he asked. "I'm not sure I heard you right."

"I said, inSUFFERABLE prat."

Despite himself, Ron chuckled. "Yes, I suppose I am, aren't I? Making girls cry."

Hermione tried to hide a small smile. "You most certainly are, Ron Weasley. And a right dense one, as well."

It was Ron's turn to look indignant. Who was she calling dense? Just because she was the most brilliant witch in their year didn't give her the right to...

...why was she looking at him that way? Hermione was supposed to glare at him or laugh with him or roll her eyes at him, not look up at him from underneath a fringe of thick lashes. She was certainly not supposed to look like he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, which he suddenly wanted to do very much.

"Dense, am I?" His voice felt choked and tight. "What exactly am I being dense about?"

"Valentine's Day, of course." A small measure of Hermione's normal self had returned. "You have been an insufferably dense and insensitive prat all day, as I believe I have mentioned."

"What about Valentine's Day?" he asked crossly, not really paying much attention to her words, as all his focus was centered on the softness of her lips and the way they parted just so.

Hermione sighed deeply. "I asked you to go to Hogsmeade, you giant git."

Ron shrugged, trying not to reach out and trace a finger down the curve of Hermione's cheek. "So? You always ask me and Harry to go to Hogsmeade. It's just too rainy to go today, unless you want to hitch a ride into town on the giant squid." What was wrong with him? He was usually able to ignore the beating of his heart but at the moment it felt far too big for his chest.

Hermione sighed again, tears fighting their way back to her eyes. Ron really was even more clueless than Ginny had said. She had been forward and honest and he still didn't quite get it.

"But I didn't ask Harry, Ron. I just asked you."

Ron felt all the blood drain from his face to concentrate in the very tips of his ears. Oh, dear Lord, she was RIGHT. He hadn't even realized that the thing he'd been thinking about since the Yule Ball in fourth year had happened. HE was the barking lunatic, not Hermione.

He floated back to Earth to find Hermione beet red and babbling, words like "friendship" and "attraction" and "stupid" and "sorry" coming out of her mouth in an unintelligible stream.

"Hermione!" He shook her shoulders gently and she stopped talking, but he could still see everything she was saying in her eyes as the last few days all snapped into place.

Ron, will you go to Hogsmeade with me on Saturday?

Sure Hermione, I need to go to Zonko's anyway. We'll have a butterbeer after.

She had looked red-faced, and she had looked pleased, but he had ignored both those things and went on playing chess with Harry, who had looked stoic and...smug? Ron decided he might have to have a talk with him later.

"Hermione, are you saying that you were...asking me out on a date?" Ron's voice shook, jumping from octave to octave as he struggled to contain the emotions currently running through his veins like firewhiskey. Elation and surprise and shock and fear were the most curious combination.

"Y-yes, Ron. If you like," stammered Hermione.

I just made Hermione stammer, he thought to himself. Merlin's Ghost.

Without answering her, Ron turned away from Hermione and began to rummage in his pack for something he had tucked away months ago, forever meaning to gift it for Christmas or birthday but never quite feeling brave enough to go through with it.

When he turned back, Hermione's face was as predictable as the ending to Hogwarts: A History. She was scared and hopeful and even a little happy, just like he was. And she was waiting. For him. At long last.

He shoved the crudely wrapped package into her hands, unable to meet her eyes.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Hermione."

She opened the box carefully, folding the tissue back to reveal a tiny pendant on a fine silver chain. It was a delicately detailed castle, a perfect chess miniature. Hermione's breath caught as she looped it carefully through her fingers.

"Ron...I...It's beautiful," she whispered, not trusting her voice.

"It reminded me of you," he answered. "We were in Diagon Alley, and it caught my eye. That night...you were so brave. And strong, like always. I couldn't have done it without you."

He spoke of the chess game so long ago, when they had helped Harry on his journey to the Philosopher's Stone, when he had sacrificed himself to save Harry and to save her.

Hermione fumbled with the catch on the necklace, reaching beneath her bushy curls to clasp it around her throat. Her heart stopped briefly when she felt Ron's warm hands close over hers.

"Let me," he said gruffly. He pushed her hair away from her neck and fastened the catch on the chain, letting the pendant nestle into the hollow of her neck.

Her hand fluttered up to touch it, her cheeks uncomfortably warm and her stomach feeling all fuzzy. "It's lovely, Ron."

"Um, well, I'm glad. That you like it, I mean. I wasn't sure."

"How long have you had this, Ron?" She asked him. The edges of the wrapping paper were worn and stained with ink, as if it had been in his pack for weeks.

"Since before the end of last term," he muttered, ducking his head and not meeting her eyes.

Hermione's hand curled around his and squeezed. "Thank you."

At the touch of her fingers in his, Ron felt a rush of Gryffindor courage. "Um, Hermione, would you, I mean, with me, next time...would you go to Hogsmeade with me?"

Hermione smiled, squeezing his hand once more. "I would love to."

Just then, Harry thundered down the stairs into the Common Room. "Is it safe in here yet, or should I go seek asylum with Voldemort?"

Ron and Hermione jumped apart guiltily, putting as much distance between their hands as possible. Harry, however, was no idiot, having spied the necklace Hermione was wearing the moment he came down the stairs.

"I like your necklace, Hermione," he said, poking Ron in the side. "Ron only went back to Diagon Alley four times before he finally bought it."

Hermione blushed prettily and Ron looked fit to kill. "Shut it, Potter, you nosy prat. I don't see you giving Cho Chang any necklaces, for all your big talk."

Ginny tripped down the stairs and drifted up to Harry's side, a mischievous smile ghosting around her lips. "Why would Harry be giving Cho Chang anything other than the time of day, Ron?"

Ron's eyes narrowed as Ginny wound her arm through Harry's. It was Harry's turn to look guilty and Hermione looked as though she could hardly keep from laughing.

"Let's go down to the kitchens and see if the house elves have some snacks," said Hermione, tugging at Ron's arm. Harry and Ginny fairly shot out of the Common Room, wanting to escape the scrutiny of Ron's heightened curiosity.

Ron reached over and took Hermione's hand as they stepped through the portrait, and though Harry turned back to look at them, this time he did not let go.