Hermione sighed and laid down her quill.

“Well, obviously, she’s feeling very sad, because of Cedric dying. Then I expect she’s feeling confused because she liked Cedric and now she likes Harry, and she can’t work out who she likes best. Then she’ll be feeling guilty, thinking it’s an insult to Cedric’s memory to be kissing Harry at all, and she’ll be worrying about what everyone else might say about her if she starts going out with Harry. And she probably can’t work out what her feelings towards Harry are, anyway, because he was the one who was with Cedric when Cedric died, so that’s all very mixed up and painful. Oh, and she’s afraid she’s going to be thrown off the Ravenclaw Quidditch team because she’s been flying so badly.”

A slightly stunned silence greeted the end of this speech, then Ron said, “One person can’t feel all that at once, they’d explode.”

“Just because you’ve got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn’t mean we all have,” said Hermione nastily picking up her quill again.

“She was the one who started it,” said Harry. “I wouldn’t’ve—she just sort of came at me—and next thing she’s crying all over me—I didn’t know what to do—”

“Don’t blame you, mate,” said Ron, looking alarmed at the very thought.

“You just had to be nice to her,” said Hermione, looking up anxiously. “You were, weren’t you?”

“Well,” said Harry, an unpleasant heat creeping up his face, “I sort of—patted her on the back a bit.”

Hermione looked as though she was restraining herself from rolling her eyes with extreme difficulty.

“Well, I suppose it could have been worse,” she said. “Are you going to see her again?”

“I’ll have to, won’t I?” said Harry. “We’ve got D.A. meetings, haven’t we?”

“You know what I mean,” said Hermione impatiently.

Harry said nothing. Hermione’s words opened up a whole new vista of frightening possibilities. He tried to imagine going somewhere with Cho—Hogsmeade, perhaps—and being alone with her for hours at a time. Of course, she would have been expecting him to ask her out after what had just happened… the thought made his stomach clench painfully.

“Oh well,” said Hermione distantly, buried in her letter once more, “you’ll have plenty of opportunities to ask her.”

“What if he doesn’t want to ask her?” said Ron, who had been watching Harry with an unusually shrewd expression on his face.

“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione vaguely, “Harry’s liked her for ages, haven’t you, Harry?”

He did not answer. Yes, he had liked Cho for ages, but whenever he had imagined a scene involving the two of them it had always featured a Cho who was enjoying herself, as opposed to a Cho who was sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder.

“Who’re you writing the novel to, anyway?” Ron asked Hermione, trying to read the bit of parchment now trailing on the floor. Hermione hitched it up out of sight.

“Viktor.”

“Krum?”

“How many other Viktors do we know?”

Ron said nothing, but looked disgruntled. They sat in silence for another twenty minutes, Ron finishing his Transfiguration essay with many snorts of impatience and crossings-out, Hermione writing steadily to the very end of the parchment, rolling it up carefully and sealing it, and Harry staring into the fire, wishing more than anything that Sirius’s head would appear there and give him some advice about girls. But the fire merely crackled lower and lower, until the red-hot embers crumbled into ash and, looking around, Harry saw that they were, yet again, the last ones in the common room.

“Well, night,” said Hermione, yawning widely as she set olf up the girls’ staircase.

“What does she see in Krum?” Ron demanded, as he and Harry climbed the boys’ stairs.

“Well,” said Harry, considering the matter, “I’s’pose he’s older, isn’t he… and he’s an international Quidditch player…”

“Yeah, but apart from that,” said Ron, sounding aggravated. “I mean, he’s a grouchy git, isn’t he?”

“Bit grouchy, yeah,” said Harry, whose thoughts were still on Cho.

They pulled off their robes and put on pyjamas in silence; Dean, Seamus and Neville were already asleep. Harry put his glasses on his bedside table and got into bed but did not pull the hangings closed around his four-poster; instead, he stared at the patch of starry sky visible through the window next to Neville’s bed. If he had known, this time last night, that in twenty-four hours’ time he would have kissed Cho Chang…

“Night,” grunted Ron, from somewhere to his right.

“Night,” said Harry.

Maybe next time… if there was a next time… she’d be a bit happier. He ought to have asked her out; she had probably been expecting it and was now really angry with him… or was she lying in bed, still crying about Cedric? He did not know what to think. Hermione’s explanation had made it all seem more complicated rather than easier to understand.

That’s what they should teach us here, he thought, turning over on to his side, how girls’ brains work… it’d be more useful than Divination, anyway…

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Hermione gave Ron a look of deep disgust and returned to her letter.	\|	Neville snuffled in his sleep. An owl hooted somewhere out in the night.

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