the lucky one

just friends

august 6th, 1995

five months later

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Miranda flops down on her bed in the quaint room she shares with Hermione, a cloud of dust releasing from the dark velvet coverlet. The draperies are of a similar shade, in fact, everything in this dreadful house is dank and depressing.

    Hermione and her have grown accustomed to the faint odor of mold and must, and the way the baseboards creak beneath their feet each time they cross the threshold.

    It had been an exceeding long summer at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, and they were all going crazy cooped up in here. Plus— they haven't seen Harry in months, and she's not been allowed to write to him or Draco.

    "So he's really coming?" Miranda props her chin up on her hands, glancing up at Hermione. "I thought Dumbledore wanted to keep him away from all the Order stuff. Wasn't that the whole point of us practically shunning him?"

    Hermione presses her lips together in thought, "Apparently, there was some incident with dementors? At least that's what Tonks told me, before Mrs. Weasley hushed her up."

    "That boy," Miranda rolls over to her back, staring at the peeling wallpaper above her. "It's like he wants to die."

    Hermione raises a pointed eyebrow at her, pulling a jumper over her head.

    "What?" Miranda huffs disagreeably. She knows that look far too well. And she's right to be afraid of it.

    Hermione settles on the mattress beside her, "Miranda, I know there's something going on between you. I'm not daft." She pats Miranda's arm, "You're my two best friends."

    "What about Ron?" Miranda retorts cheekily, poking her tongue out.

    Hermione laughs, swatting her, "No changing the subject! Out with it."

    "Hermione," Miranda lets out a large exhale, "there's really nothing to tell." She twists her hands together self consciously, keeping her voice light, "I thought maybe he liked me, and I suppose we had a— moment, after the Ball, but nothing ever came of it. "

    Hermione eyes her skeptically. Damn her intelligence. Miranda can't sneak anything past her.

    "Honest Hermione, we're just friends."

    "If you say so..."

    Several floors below the chattering girls, Harry gingerly walks through the pitch black passageway. Behind him, the others file in, Lupin and Tonks carrying his trunk and Hedwig's cage. While Moody limps inside.

    "In you go," he whispers gruffly, shoving Harry along.

    He wanders through the narrow corridors, when he runs into a woman with short dark hair who mildly resembles a face he's been picturing all summer. Harry feels he must be going mad, for this hasn't been the first time his dreams have entered reality.

    "Oh!" the woman jolts slightly at his sudden appearance. "Goodness!"     "Sorry," Harry mutters, stumbling a bit over a bump in the moth eaten carpet.

    Recognition flashes over the woman's face, "Oh— oh—! They told me you were arriving tonight, we didn't expect you here so soon though—"

    Harry's confusion mounts at this revelation, "Er— have we met?"

    "My, you look just like James, don't you?" she continues, barely hearing Harry. She chuckles lightly to herself, "I can certainly see why my daughter likes you. And those eyes— it's like Lily staring back at me."