Hogsmeade
The Hogsmeade village was absolutely crawling with students, something that mildly annoyed Hazel every time. The younger students ran through the streets as if they’d never been let out in public alone before, and the older students were mostly looking for semi-private spots in which to snog and otherwise behave inappropriately. If Hazel had her way, each year’s students would have their own Hogsmeade weekend, and then she wouldn’t have to put up with anyone who wasn’t in her year.
Of course, that would mean she still had Johnny along on her Hogsmeade visits, so the plan had its flaws.
Hazel settled into a tiny little table wedged against the wall near the fireplace in the Three Broomsticks where she hoped to be left alone, and ordered a butterbeer. Once that was on its way, she glanced around the pub and accidentally made eye contact with one of the members of the Charms Club.
Oh, bugger, she thought dourly as Perla approached her little table and drew a chair over from another larger table.
“Hi, Hazel,” said Perla with a friendly smile. She set her purse on the table in front of her, and Hazel tried not to resent the disturbance of her quiet spot.
“Hi Perla. All right?”
“Oh, it’s a lovely day.”
One of the reasons Hazel had always liked Perla was that she usually got right to the point. Today was apparently no exception.
“I was surprised Johnny Lupin came to Charms Club, but he does know his way around a nonverbal charm.”
“He does,” Hazel allowed grudgingly. “And he wasn’t too much of a distraction for everyone. You know what a showoff he is.”
Perla cocked her head at her curiously. “I’m a little surprised you think so. I heard a rumor that you’re, you know, Johnny’s girl.”
“I’m not!” exclaimed Hazel. She could feel a blush climbing up her face. Being the subject of school-wide gossip, inaccurate gossip at that, was horrifying. “Do people have nothing better to do around here than gossip? Why is everyone talking about that?”
“Because it’s Johnny,” Perla said simply. “But I also heard you’re his life coach, and at Charms Club I thought you weren’t acting like he was your boyfriend.”
“He’s not. He’s just a friend. People ought to stop gossiping about me,” she added in a mutter.
“If you hang out with Johnny, people are bound to talk about you. He’s the most popular boy in school, after all.” Perla rose gracefully and hitched her purse onto her shoulder. “Everyone always talks about Johnny.”
“Yes, but they never talked about me before,” Hazel said, sliding a nervous glance around. A few second-years were looking at her interestedly, and she frowned at them. She didn’t want to be talked about by everyone like Johnny was. Possibly dropping him as a friend would stop that, if there was no new fodder for the gossips, but she didn’t want to drop him. She’d promised to be his friend, and to help him stop being such a twat. She couldn’t stop now.
It probably wouldn’t help anyway, she told herself.
“I wanted to borrow that Miranda Goshawk biography from the Charms Club library,” Perla told her. “Have you nearly finished it?”
Honestly, she’d borrowed it two weeks ago and hadn’t even opened it yet. What with one thing and another, Hazel hadn’t been able to focus on starting the educational extracurricular reading. Might as well pass it on and try another time to read it. “I’ll bring it to you at dinner tonight.”
“Thanks, Hazel.” Perla waved cheerfully and walked off.
Once she was alone at her little table by the fire, the pub felt a lot more exposed. Hazel determined to brazen it out and pulled out the book she could concentrate on, a deeply fascinating Muggle novel she’d found in the swap shelves about alien spores taking over people’s bodies in a small American town. It was a very old book, and quite short, and Hazel was totally absorbed by it.
She had finished her second butterbeer and completely forgotten both her surroundings and the fact that most of the school was gossiping about her and Johnny when someone said her name loudly enough to break through her intense focus.
“You interrupted me at a good bit,” she informed Johnny testily.
“Sorry. What are you reading about?” He sat down beside her and put a hand over hers, moving the book so he could see the cover. His hands felt cold; he must have just come inside. “The Body Snatchers? Are they kidnapping people?”
“In a manner of speaking. It’s about aliens.” Hazel eyed him. He wasn’t surrounded by his usual cloud of admirers, and his cheeks were flushed and eyes bright. He looked very attractive, and she kicked herself for even thinking so. His hand was still on hers, and she didn’t even mind how cold his skin felt. It was starting to warm to hers anyway.
“Sounds like a fun story,” Johnny said, dropping his hand from hers. He rubbed his hands together to warm them up, and Hazel realized she’d felt a twinge because his hand wasn’t on hers any more and told herself to knock it off.
She tucked her bookmark between the pages and set the book on the table. “I don’t know if fun is the right word,” she admitted. “I had a nightmare from it last night.”
“But you’re still reading it?”
“Of course.” Hazel was shocked by the suggestion she might stop reading the book before the end. “Once I finish it, I’ll know what happens and I won’t have more nightmares.”
Johnny looked intrigued by this statement. “You read scary books and stop being scared when you get to the end?”
“At the end, the scary thing is destroyed, or caught,” she explained. “So it’s not scary any more. I have to get to the end so I can read it happen, even though I know it will somehow, if that makes sense.”
“It makes sense.” Johnny’s eyes were on her, the blue looking deeper in the firelight, like a still lake. “Stories should have a satisfying ending. Speaking of stories…” He pulled something from his pocket and held it out to her.
Hazel glanced down at the folded-up sheets of parchment warily. “What’s this?”
He started unfolding the parchment while he spoke. “Well, you said I could probably write novels, but I thought, nah that’d take too long. So I’m writing a story, and I’ll just publish each chapter as I finish it. The literary magazine said they’d be happy to add it in, but I thought maybe you’d want to read it first?”
Hazel took the small stack of parchment from him, staring at him in astonishment. He looked rather pleased with himself, but then he usually did. “You wrote a story? Like, fiction?”
“Yeah. A detective story. A murder mystery.”
“And you want me to read it right now?”
“Sure. You read fast, it won’t take you long. It’s just the first chapter. I’ll give it to those literary club kids tomorrow, but you’ll be the first one to see it.” He gave her an encouraging nod, and Hazel realized he wanted to see her response.
Oh, bugger, she thought with a sigh, anticipating a literary critique in her future, and began reading. By the end of the first page, she couldn’t even hide the exasperation that was filling her. It was good. It was very good. He wrote in the same way he told stories, and the words on the page had the same enthralling effect as his voice. She went on to the next page, and then the next. Johnny was watching her eagerly the entire time, taking in her expressions and looking hopeful every time she raised an eyebrow.
When she finished it, she handed the pages back to him in silent consternation. Johnny took them without looking away from her face, still eager to hear her evaluation of his work.
“Well?” he asked.
“Is there anything you’re not good at?” Hazel demanded.
Johnny grinned. “You liked it.”
“It’s very good, you charismatic twat. When are you going to have the next chapter done?”
“As soon as I finish it, I’ll let you read it.”
“I can’t believe you’re that good at it the first time you wrote something,” she grumbled. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Johnny looked very pleased with himself, practically glowing with self-satisfaction. “I do like to tell a story, and it turns out it’s still fun telling a story on paper.”
Hazel had never had the urge to write herself, but she did love to read, so she knew talent when she saw it. And of course he was a good writer. He was a good storyteller, and frankly he was good at everything. She watched him folding the pages of his story back into a little square which he stuffed in his pocket.
“I’m surprised you even had a quill to write that with,” she told him. “You never have one in class.”
Johnny flashed a grin at her. “I borrowed it off one of my dormmates.”
“Of course you did. What time is it?” She glanced over at the window and was shocked to see it was already twilight. “Oh no, we’ll be late back.”
“Come on then, I’ll walk you back. Nobody ever says anything to me when I come back late from Hogsmeade.”
Hazel stashed the book in the little pouch she used to protect the pages and covers of books so she could toss them in her handbag, and then gathered her things quickly. She pulled the thick knitted jumper on that she’d taken off while sitting by the fire, and wished she’d brought her cloak. She hadn’t meant to be out past nightfall, and the temperature was probably falling like a stone.
Johnny walked beside her in silence as she hurried toward the castle, wisely dressed in a thick flannel and leather jacket, and when a gust of wind hit her, she shivered and walked a bit faster. He kept pace with her easily, even though he was talking the whole time, since he was taller than her and naturally athletic. Hazel huddled into her jumper and pulled the sleeves down over her hands, listening with half her attention to his story about a Quidditch match last year where he had apparently been the savior of the game and last year’s Cup. She was too cold to tell him to shut up.
They had just rounded a bend in the road when he interrupted himself.
“You’re shivering.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I didn’t mean to be out past dark, and anyway it’s colder than the almanac said it would be today.”
“You’ve got to switch to weather-tracking the Muggle way. Far more reliable. Stop, stop. Here.” He stopped walking and Hazel stopped a pace ahead of him, watching as he took off his jacket and held it out to her.
Hazel shook her head. “No, I can’t take that.”
“Hazel, you’re cold. I’ve got on a woolen jumper, I’ll be fine until we get back. Really.” He stepped closer and wrapped the jacket around her. She slid her arms into the sleeves, feeling a little silly.
Once she’d got into it, buttoning it quickly and letting the residual warmth of his body heat warm her up, she let out a little sigh. It really was better, and she snuggled into the soft flannel of his jacket lining. Johnny was watching her with a smile.
“Thanks,” she said, smiling back at him.
“Happy to help,” he said in an odd voice, but then he seemed to remember himself and gestured toward the path back to the school. “Come on. Don’t want to miss dinner, right?”
*
“What the hell is this?” Dora brandished a copy of the school literary magazine under her brother’s nose.
Johnny had already seen it in print, but he made sure he looked at it as if he hadn’t, just to annoy her. “It’s a story I wrote. The first chapter. Did you read it?”
“Of course not. Cliodna told me about it.”
Johnny grinned. “Did she like it?”
“I hate you,” said Dora with a scowl that Johnny interpreted to mean her friend had raved about his writing. “Why are you publishing stories? Don’t you tell enough bloody stories already?”
“It was Hazel’s idea, sort of. She said I ought to write a novel instead of tell stories. But then I had the idea for the plot so I started writing. It’s fun.”
Dora pursed her lips and looked him over slowly as if she were searching for flaws. “I can’t decide if Hazel is making you better or if you’re just annoying in different ways.”
“You should read my story,” Johnny told her. “It’s really good.”
“I’m not reading your damn story,” she informed him with lofty condescension.
“Everyone else is.” He smiled smugly. “Natalie from the literary club already told me they had to print extra copies of the new edition. If you don’t read it, you’re going to be left out.”
Dora narrowed her eyes and then flung the magazine at him.
As she stormed away, Johnny called after her, “Let me know how much you like it when you read it!”
He heard a little shriek of rage from his sister as she left the dormitory and chuckled to himself. He didn’t have time to savor irritating her for very long, though, because he was due in the library for another life coaching session.
Hazel wasn’t wearing her school uniform when he saw her just inside the library, or even a set of informal robes. Hazel did not wear robes in her down time. He knew her father was a Muggle, but she didn’t talk about that at all and he’d always had the impression that Hazel lived very much entirely in the magical world. Johnny was almost never around Muggles himself. His parents rarely dressed Muggle, favoring wizard robes at almost all times. Johnny was a big fan of Muggle clothing, though, particularly jeans. There was nothing so all-around comfortable as a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
Hazel, though, had her own all-magical style, in tailored wool trousers in deep jewel tones with intricately knitted jumpers and stylish blouses. There was always something rather formal about Hazel’s clothes, even when she was dressed down as she was today, since it was Sunday morning. He wondered what sort of clothes she would wear to a party. A lot of the girls dressed in what his sister referred to as ‘club outfits’. He couldn’t see Hazel turning up in the sort of short dresses her friend Tink wore to parties.
Unfortunately.
“How come you weren’t at the party last night?” he asked as they took a study carrel at the back of the library. “Tink was there, drinking and dancing with Lucas.”
She looked surprised that he would even ask. They were right under a window, and the deep peacock teal of her jumper brought out the green in her eyes in the morning sunlight. “What, the Hufflepuff party? I never go to parties.”
“I noticed. Why is that?”
“What would I do at a party?” she asked, sounding genuinely bewildered.
“I mean, I guess you could read a book,” he began with a grin, and she whacked him across the arm with the notebook she was holding. He laughed and went on, “You could dance, and have a drink, and relax a bit.”
“Lots of people and noise hardly sounds relaxing to me.” Hazel sat at the carrel and turned her chair so she could face him, crossing her legs and setting the notebook on her thigh. Her trousers today were velveteen in a fuchsia so dark it was almost burgundy. When she leaned back in the chair, picking up her quill, she reminded him of a therapist.
“You could hang out with friends and have a laugh,” he pointed out.
She heaved a sigh. “I don’t want to go to a party, Johnny.”
She hadn’t wanted to go to Quidditch, either, but she’d done it anyway. He decided to drop the subject for now, but was determined to get her to agree to come to the next Gryffindor party somehow. He wanted to see what Hazel was like when she let loose.
“I want to talk to you about how it’s going practicing empathy,” she said, jotting the date down at the top of her notebook page. “Have you been trying to let other people get a word in edgewise when you talk to them?”
He actually had been making an effort about that on occasion, though it didn’t come naturally to him. His first instinct was to tell stories and showboat. “Sure. Working on that.”
She arched an eyebrow at him that said she didn’t entirely buy that. “I was doing a bit of research and one of the methods that can help grow empathy is actually reading fiction. It helps you put yourself in someone else’s shoes, especially someone very different from you. Do you read at all?”
“Nope, completely illiterate.” When she rolled her eyes at him, Johnny grinned and added, “Not very often. So I should read a book? What about writing, doesn’t that count?”
“I’m sure it helps. But you should read a book also. Step Three, read about someone very different from you. Here.” She pulled a slim little novel from her handbag. He recognized the cover as she held it out to him, the book she’d been reading at the Three Broomsticks. “I finished it last night.”
Johnny took the battered old novel and set it on the desktop next to him. “I’ll read it. Promise. When I’m not at Quidditch practice or writing, anyway.”
She eyed him a moment, and he thought she must have thought of something to critique, but instead she asked, “Did you finish the next chapter of your story yet?”
“Nearly. I’ll bring it to you to read as soon as I do,” he promised.
“Hmm.”
“Everyone’s reading it,” he remarked. “I’ve already had about fifty people come up to me to tell me how good it was.”
“I wish I could say that was surprising,” Hazel retorted waspishly, but then she softened a bit. “It really is good, Johnny. And I think it’s healthy for you to channel your storytelling into writing instead of just being obnoxious. But maybe you could try being humble about it.”
“Why should I be humble about something I’m good at?”
She threw him a look. “That. Right there. That is obnoxious. You should be humble because not being humble makes you a twat.”
He really didn’t understand why self-confidence was a bad thing. Before he could express himself about that, she’d continued speaking, apparently reading his mind.
“I’m not saying don’t be confident in yourself, but don’t be a raging egomaniac. How do you like it when Dora tells you how good she is at something or brags about being pretty?”
“That is kind of annoying,” he admitted. “All right, I guess I see your point. I’ll work on being more humble.”
“Good.”
She bent over her notebook, jotting something down, and he couldn’t resist adding, “Can I still be an egomaniac in my head, just to myself? And maybe to you? You already know I’m a twat.”
Hazel snorted and looked up at him. “I suppose. On special occasions.”
Johnny leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs and regarded her very seriously. “There’s a party in Gryffindor Tower next weekend, a Christmas send-off. Will you come?”
She looked at him askance. “I don’t like parties, I told you.”
“Just for a little while. Tink will be there. Dora will be there. I’ll be there.” He hoped that last one was a selling point for her. “It’ll be fun, I promise. Please?”
Hazel sighed, her gaze on her hands, staring down at the quill she was holding as if it had the answers to the universe. Finally she said softly, “I’ll think about it.”
That was probably the best he could hope for. “What if I promise not to do a handstand, or climb on any tables? I won’t even yodel.”
She smiled at that and looked up at him. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
Her voice sounded a lot surer now. The first time she’d said it, it had sounded like no, but this time it sounded a lot more like yes. He smiled back at her, giving her a firm nod. “Okay.”
“Okay,” she echoed, but she was still smiling at him.