Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - J. K. Rowling [111]
Ron, whose hands and forearms still bore scratches and cuts from Hermione’s bird attack, was taking a defensive and resentful tone.
“She can’t complain,” he told Harry. “She snogged Krum. So she’s found out someone wants to snog me too. Well, it’s a free country. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Harry did not answer, but pretended to be absorbed in the book they were supposed to have read before Charms next morning (Quintessence: A Quest). Determined as he was to remain friends with both Ron and Hermione, he was spending a lot of time with his mouth shut tight.
“I never promised Hermione anything,” Ron mumbled. “I mean, all right, I was going to go to Slughorn’s Christmas party with her, but she never said … just as friends … I’m a free agent. …”
Harry turned a page of Quintessence, aware that Ron was watching him. Ron’s voice tailed away in mutters, barely audible over the loud crackling of the fire, though Harry thought he caught the words “Krum” and “can’t complain” again.
Hermione’s schedule was so full that Harry could only talk to her properly in the evenings, when Ron was, in any case, so tightly wrapped around Lavender that he did not notice what Harry was doing. Hermione refused to sit in the common room while Ron was there, so Harry generally joined her in the library, which meant that their conversations were held in whispers.
“He’s at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes,” said Hermione, while the librarian, Madam Pince, prowled the shelves behind them. “I really couldn’t care less.”
She raised her quill and dotted an i so ferociously that she punctured a hole in her parchment. Harry said nothing. He thought his voice might soon vanish from lack of use. He bent a little lower over Advanced Potion-Making and continued to make notes on Everlasting Elixirs, occasionally pausing to decipher the Prince’s useful additions to Libatius Borage’s text.
“And incidentally,” said Hermione, after a few moments, “you need to be careful.”
“For the last time,” said Harry, speaking in a slightly hoarse whisper after three-quarters of an hour of silence, “I am not giving back this book, I’ve learned more from the Half-Blood Prince than Snape or Slughorn have taught me in —”
“I’m not talking about your stupid so-called Prince,” said Hermione, giving his book a nasty look as though it had been rude to her. “I’m talking about earlier. I went into the girls’ bathroom just before I came in here and there were about a dozen girls in there, including that Romilda Vane, trying to decide how to slip you a love potion. They’re all hoping they’re going to get you to take them to Slughorn’s party, and they all seem to have bought Fred and George’s love potions, which I’m afraid to say probably work —”
“Why didn’t you confiscate them then?” demanded Harry. It seemed extraordinary that Hermione’s mania for upholding rules could have abandoned her at this crucial juncture.
“They didn’t have the potions with them in the bathroom,” said Hermione scornfully. “They were just discussing tactics. As I doubt whether even the Half-Blood Prince” — she gave the book another nasty look — “could dream up an antidote for a dozen different love potions at once, I’d just invite someone to go with you, that’ll stop all the others thinking they’ve still got a chance. It’s tomorrow night, they’re getting desperate.”
“There isn’t anyone I want to invite,” mumbled Harry, who was still trying not to think about Ginny any more than he could help, despite the fact that she kept cropping up in his dreams in ways that made him devoutly thankful that Ron could not perform Legilimency.
“Well, just be careful what you drink, because Romilda Vane looked like she meant business,” said Hermione grimly.
She hitched up the long roll