Dilapidated buildings blocked most of the golden sunrays from the inside of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Yet, some stray beams fell through scummy windows, which were in need of a cleaning, onto the warped floorboards, straying across a stack of new books, quite out of place in the shabby room.


Long, frizzy brown locks fell into the face of the girl sorting through this horde of books. She quickly alphabetized them, by author, before packing them down into one of her trunks. Deep, piercing brown eyes searched over her room, making sure she hadn’t forgot one. Along with the books, she’d throw in a bundle of parchment on which she had taken notes.

Her detail extended to her school wardrobe of black, gray, and beige skirts, although today she wore jeans and a buttoned blouse. She carefully packed her knee high socks and crisp, white blouses. Carefully polished black shoes sat on the floor, ready to be placed on the books, and a pile of freshly folded robes rested on the bed, waiting to be placed on the books.


Hermione paused, for a brief second, hearing frantic steps in the hall. The footfalls came towards her door, and she looked up from her meticulous work. The door burst open as Ron Weasley entered, Hogwarts robes in a wrinkled mess in one hand, the binding of a book in the other. “Hermione, help me pack!” His blue hazel eyes pleaded with her brown ones.


“Honestly, Ron, you’re almost sixteen, why can’t you do this?” For a moment, her irritation almost got the better of her, but they both knew what she would do. Rolling her eyes, Hermione marched Ron down the hallway.


The little golden rays of light revealed a disheveled room, almost as grungy as the ancient house. Piles of ripped, food stained parchment laid piled around the unmade bed. Piles of socks, shirts, jeans, and a bundle of robes and sweaters lay piled in heaps near the trunk, which was held together with rusted metal hinges.

“Okay, you fold these,” Hermione threw Ron part of the clothes heap. “I’ll put your books and that glob of parchment in order.” Hermione briskly made for the parchment, afraid most of the underwear might not be clean.


She grabbed old essays, notes, and tons of parchment filled with Ron and Harry’s tic-tac-toe games. She began pitching. “Hermione! Why are you throwing those away?”


“They’re worthless, Ron,” she told him frankly as she tucked her hair futilely behind her ears before it fell in her face again.


“They’re priceless parts of history,” Ron sulked from the clothes blob.


“They’re tic-tac-toe games.” Hermione pitched the last one. “Don’t worry, I saved your essays.”


“Oh, you can toss those,” Ron said and shrugged, trying to match his socks. Hermione began on another clot of paper. Half afraid to find rats in this one, she poked it first. When nothing attacked, she dug head first, finding more tic-tac-toe games.


“Can you throw anything away, honestly?” Hermione muttered to herself. Plenty of Chocolate Frog cards and wrappers got mixed into the mess, and she promptly disposed of those.


“My cards!” Ron raced towards the trashcan, fishing out his cards. “You monster, you threw away my chocolate frog cards!” Ron’s face contorted in unbelievable horror as if Hermione had commited sacrilege.


“They’re worthless, Ron, and at least I’m a clean monster.” Hermione picked up an aged piece of parchment. For Ron’s standards, it was in good condition. She unfolded it, squinting at faint ink lines.


“Umph!” Hermione toppled back as Ron yanked the paper away. “What was that for? I was looking at that.”


“It’s mine, and you should keep your nose out of my stuff!” Ron pulled the paper close like a pet. He stroked it, glaring at Hermione.


“If you want to get packed, your stuff is my business!” Hermione clenched her fists, standing up. The blood rushed to her cheeks, as she became thoroughly frustrated.


“Ger'of!” Ron took a step back, tripping over the trashcan. Hermione lunged at the paper, falling over Ron. She dug her short nails into the paper. In one swift moment, she tugged it from his grip, rushing down the stairs. “HERMIONE!”


Ron took the stairs three at a time, jumped the last four, and caught Hermione scrambling around the staircase. He pounced at her legs, tripping her in mid-flight. Hermione’s body collided with the doxy eaten rugs. Ron climbed over Hermione’s legs, grasping for the paper.


“Give it back!” Ron ripped the unfurled paper away from Hermione.


“Get off!” Hermione craned her neck around, coughing up dust. “Ron!” Realizing he was in a provocative position, Ron stumbled off Hermione. “I swear, Ron . . .”


“Ronald, what’s going on?”


Mrs. Weasley, sweat all over her face, stormed out of the kitchen. Her cheeks, ruddy from working none stop in the basement kitchen, were accented from yelling at Ron.


“Mum, we’re just . . .”

“Packing, Mrs. Weasley, it’s just that . . . we played a quick game of tag,” Hermione stammered, slightly blushing as she smoothed her blouse. “I was helping Ron pack.”


“Good,” Mrs. Weasley smiled, already going back to the kitchen. “Good girl, Hermione, and Ronald, don’t you give her trouble!”


They ascended the stairs, Ron giving Hermione squinty death looks. Back in Ron’s room, where the mess had barely improved, Hermione shut the door. She paused, checking for any Extendable Ears. “Ron, you drew that?”


Ron’s freckled face looked like a tomato’s cousin. He stuffed the paper in his tattered jean pocket. “Y-yes, but only in my first year,” Ron stuttered. He quickly turned, trying to fold a shirt.


“Ron, that’s better than I’ve ever drawn in my whole life,” Hermione stood fixed by the door. She took a step towards Ron. “Ron, you’re not folding that right.”


Proceeding to fold the shirt, Hermione left Ron gazing at his feet. “Hermione, don’t tell anyone ‘bout that, okay?” Ron’s face flushed again. “Please?”


“Ron, it’s lovely!” Hermione held out her hand, now free of the shirt, for Ron’s paper. He handed the crumpled piece of paper to her. She unfolded it, staring at the sketchy, remarkably similar cartoon figures of Harry, Ron, and herself.


“It’s nothing,” Ron snatched it back. “I’ve done better, really. I’ve always wanted to paint a picture, in the castle.” At this, Ron hung his head to keep Hermione from noticing his crimson completion.


“I barely draw stick figures,” Hermione laughed, plopping down the tangled blankets. “Really, Ron, it’s interesting, especially if you did it during the first year.”


“It’s nothing compared to all those O.W.L.S. you’ll be getting,” Ron sank down beside Hermione. “I’m lucky if I can take a N.E.W.T. class.”


“You can always be an artist,” Hermione folded another shirt compulsively. “You’re good enough.”


“What do you want to be?” Ron fixed his eyes on Hermione’s. With a frown, and a bite of her lip, Hermione took extra long in folding the shirt.


“I don’t know, Ron,” she whispered, staring back at him. “I’ve been thinking about it forever, and I thought I knew, but I don’t.”


Ron’s jaw dropped. “YOU don’t know?” Ron gaped as if staring at a corpse brought back to life.


“Yes, Ron, I don't know because there is so much I could do,” Hermione smiled slightly at his stupid gaze. “Yes, Ron, I don’t know. It’s weird, to think our letters will be here in a couple days.”


“Yeah, a week and we’ll be back on the train,” Ron grinned, rubbing his hands in excitement. “More chocolate frogs.”


“Our fifth year, Ron,” Hermione’s melancholy sigh got Ron’s attention. He snapped out of the chocolate frog reverie to gaze at the spacey stare of Hermione. Her vacant expression stared at some thing else, long in the past.


“Do you remember when we first got our letters?” Hermione whispered, remembering the day quite well herself. Ron paused, thinking of the day the pack of Weasley letters smacked into the window with Errol. He smirked.


“Oh yeah,” Ron nodded, and Hermione sighed. For a moment, they were lost in common memories. However, sounds below them in the house, which accompanied the faint smell of Mrs. Weasley's cooking, brought them back to reality.

"If you want to keep things, go through the papers, Ron," Hermione told him, her normal voice coming back. Now, her gaze focused down on the pile of shirts and robes. She yanked a robe out of the pile and began to fold.