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A beam of morning sun peaked in through the sheer layer of bed curtains and the black behind her eyelids turned into a warm red. With a groan, she flipped over and buried her face into her pillow, trying hard to chase her fleeting dreams. Blurry images of her father at a piano and her mother playing a jaunty Christmas tune on her violin disappeared. The sweet scent of hot chocolate and the dizziness from twirling about too much remained a moment longer, but those too, ultimately slipped away. With a tight squeeze, Hermione kept her eyes closed, hoping she could somehow trick her mind into falling back into a deep sleep. And perhaps it would have worked, if the sudden sensation of whiskers on her nose hadn’t scared the living daylights out of her.

“Crooks!” she gasped, as she shot upright. The half-kneazle trilled softly and took the opportunity to claim the newly-created lap. He started to knead for a more comfortable sit-down, careful not to dig his claws into her thighs.

Despite exhaling a disapproving huff, Hermione’s hand went straight to his head, and she began to scratch behind his ears. She had failed to convince herself that she disliked Crookshanks’ new habit of startling her awake every morning—mostly because he had been uncharacteristically absent the past week. Instead of his routine of curling up with her as she read a book before bed, he had been sauntering in at around three or four in the morning. He would then pin her feet and nap as she slept until he finally decided it was time to whisker her face, or worse yet, yowl into her ear. The last time he had disappeared to this extent had been during her third year, when he was stalking Wormtail with Padfoot; therefore, his recent change in behaviour had worried her.

“Crooks, you’d tell me if an evil lump like Pettigrew were running about the castle again, wouldn’t you?” she asked apprehensively. He replied with a bump of his head to her hand and a loud purr. She exhaled softly, recalling the constant squabbles caused by Crookshanks hunting ‘Scabbers’ and how they had led to countless sleepless nights and distress. It felt quite reminiscent of her current situation. Both involved stress and Ron at least.

“You would have been proud of me, you know. I finally apologised to Ron yesterday, and even though it ended in complete disaster, I’m feeling much better,” she whispered to the cat whilst giving him one last under-the-chin scratch and a quick hug. She had missed him.

It had been over a week since the incident with Ron and cornering him for conversation had been like trying to catch smoke in a fishing net. The first time she had been able to find him alone, they were interrupted by a lost first-year Hufflepuff girl who needed help finding Professor Flitwick’s office. Ron took the opportunity to bolt off to Quidditch practice leaving Hermione to guide the girl to the seventh floor. Apparently, he didn’t take his Prefect duties as seriously as she did. Git.

The second time couldn’t have been helped as Harry had entered the common room in a right tizzy just as she was about to broach the subject. His constant spewing of conspiracy theories about Malfoy and Death Eaters was leaving Ron and Hermione feeling helpless. Harry’s borderline obsessive tendencies were pushing them to try anything in order to calm him down. At least Ron had developed the emotional range to realise that his best friend needed some attention or grounding or something, lest Harry go off on another rant. They had both tried various diversion tactics with little to no results. Finally, Ron had started using a new method of distracting Harry with scrolls of Quidditch strategies and it had worked well enough; the only consequence being Hermione and her conversation were forgotten for the night.

Luckily, the third time had been the charm. Hermione had finally been able to talk to Ron the following day when she happened upon him in the common room, miraculously alone; she expected that Lavender must have been in Divination. ‘NEWT-level Divination,’ she thought disapprovingly as she shook her head with a mental tut. She approached the sofa in a slow, slightly crouched posture, as if she were approaching an injured animal, afraid she would spook him with any sudden movements. Ron was listlessly dragging his quill across some parchment with a strained look upon his face. Sitting down carefully, she glanced over his shoulder; he was working on his potions essay, which was due the following day.

“Peppermint oil can’t be added to Everlasting Elixirs for better flavouring, it would deteriorate the compound that makes them everlasting,” she corrected in a volume just over a whisper, unable to stop herself.

Ron stiffened. He looked over his shoulder, throwing her an annoyed look, but it was half-hearted and quickly faded. She pointed to another part of his essay.

“And you only need 13 stirs anticlockwise when brewing Essence of Insanity, not 18. That many would cause the beetle eyes to become unstable and possibly explode,” she added in a matter-of-fact tone.

With a sigh of resignation, Ron handed over his essay and quill. For the next five minutes they did not speak as she made every necessary correction and redaction. She gently handed the essay back to him and their silent, tension-breaking apology ritual came to an end.

“Thanks ‘Mione,” he said with sincerity and, surprisingly, he did not move to leave. If she were being honest, Hermione had expected him to take off as soon as she finished correcting his essay. She offered him a small smile and he let out a breath as he relaxed into the sofa. It was now or never.

“Ron… About what you said after the match,” she began with a certain hesitance. The curly haired Gryffindor had been on the receiving end of his blow-ups too many times; she had learnt the hard way that this sort of circumstance required the utmost skill to navigate properly.

“I won’t take it back, ‘Mione, you didn’t believe I could play without the help of a potion, and the worst of it was that you didn’t trust Harry,” he said, his voice laced with a mixture of hurt and frustration.

Hermione wanted to point out that Ron had believed that Harry had given him Felix Felicis just as much as she had, and that it was a bit hypocritical of him to lecture her, but she held her tongue. She was here for peace. The avoidance and bitterness were torturing her and with Harry slowly slipping into madness, everything was becoming too much to bear alone. She just wanted her best friends back.

“You’re right, I should’ve trusted you. I should’ve trusted you both, and I didn’t. I’m sorry, Ron,” she apologised. Ron looked at her like she had sprouted two additional heads.

“Wha-? Right…I-...Well, just as long as you understand, then,” he replied in a weak voice, clearly uneasy with her unexpected apology. Hermione grimaced and decided to change the subject to something a bit lighter.

“So… You and Lavender, hm? You’re all she ever talks about before bed,” she offered another smile. The uncomfortable foray into a new topic had her wringing her hands.