“Mmm,” Hermione agrees, without really registering what she is or is not agreeing to.
“It just makes no sense,” Harry complains, throwing the copy of The Prophet into the fire and delighting in the furious momentary crackle that comes from the new fuel; his truce with The Prophet is apparently under thread now that Rita Skeeter is writing about him, and he will simply have to take his business elsewhere. “I keep coming out of broom cupboards. With boys from my house.”
Witch Weekly, perhaps, that might work. Or even The Quibber.
“Mmm,” Hermione agrees without looking at or really hearing him, concentrating on her book. A few people glance at Harry with varying levels of disgust for the sake of having a Slytherin in their common room, but he ignores them, and Hermione does not notice them. She’s gotten good at tuning these things out.
“I mean, Slytherin boys are the exact opposite of you, Hermione.” Harry says, considering how dull the wizarding world as a whole is.
“Mmm,” Hermione agrees, and considers the application of Boomslang Skin in explosives and how it was a popularly used catalyst in the 1920s.
“I just don’t understand why people would think we’re together.” Hermione does hear this, and she moves her book up, looking down at her Slytherin friend where he lies across the sofa, his head laid on Hermione’s knees.
“No,” Hermione says slowly, and with a dry tone, “it just makes no sense.” She regards Harry with a raised eyebrow.
“Exactly!” Hermione opens her mouth, just for a second, and then looks back to her book.
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