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“Let’s play a game.”
Her eyes narrow, though she doesn’t look up, and the book in front of her takes the brunt of the withering stare that’s really meant for me. “No.”
It’s the most she’s said to me in days, so I decide to take it and run with it. Harry’s just gone out on watch, and Hermione seems inclined to read through every book she brought with us in one night, and I’ve barely slept at all since I came back, so now seems as good a time as any to try and get her talking.
“Come on. You’ve been working all night. Just take a break with me.”
“I’m not here to entertain you, Ron,” she snaps scathingly.
“I didn’t say that.” I sit across the table from her, and she glares at me. If looks could kill . I swallow hard, almost losing my nerve. “Five minutes.”
Hermione huffs and shoves her book aside to give her full, unrelenting consideration to me. “What sort of rubbish game do you expect to play in five minutes?” she asks, and I long for the days when she might have said this to me in the library or something, only feigning the irritation that she’s now got in spades at my having interrupted her.
I shrug, trying to keep things light, even though the mood is far from it as she’s still staring daggers at me. “Dunno. Twenty questions.”
She lets out a sound that’s part laugh, part scoff, and reaches for her book again. “I’ve got a million questions for you, Ronald, and not a damn one of them has to do with guessing the animal, or food, or potion that you’ve got in your head.”
She’s turning the pages, trying to find her place again, and I know I’m about to lose the sliver of her attention that I have. I put a hand on top of the book, my little finger just barely touching hers. The contact wasn’t intentional, but I don’t move my hand, and neither does she. “Okay,” I say thickly. “Ask.”
Hermione frowns, but doesn’t lift her eyes from the book. “I mean about you leaving,” she explains in a rush, “and...about the locket. And about... us .”
The fact that she thinks there’s still the remotest topic of us , even just as a question she needs answered, makes my heart soar and gives me the confidence to slide my hand over to cover hers, totally intentional this time. “I figured,” I say gently. “Go on. Ask.”
She slowly pulls her hand away from mine, and I know better than to try again. But she closes the book and slides it to the side again, and she’s wearing just a hint of a smile as she asks, “So do I still only get twenty?”
I shake my head and reply sincerely, “As many as you need.”