Yep, here's the next chapter. Tell me what you think of the poem, kay?

Chapter 2: First Reading

Hermione plopped down onto the bed in her room, the one she’d have to herself all year. A small smile crept across her lips. That would be nice. She had her own room, made up of Gryffindor red and gold, a common room, a small kitchenette, and a large bathroom. The common room was in Gryffindor colors, but she had seen that to make up for it, the bathroom was in Slytherin silver and green.

She rolled over on her side, curling around one of the pillows. Draco was being Draco, holed up in his room without a word to her besides the passing insult or two. But, that was okay. He was getting better after the war, and right now that was all that mattered. Even if she couldn’t be the one that helped him in the process.

She sighed. This love stuff really was strong. How long would it be before she got the urge to confess to him, even though she knew the immediate answer would be no?

Hermione got out of bed, reaching to her trunk to pull out the small, leather bound notebook inside. She wrote poems, songs, and other things in there. It was almost like a diary, but with fewer personal thoughts. She used this as a means to release stress, and take the edge of her feelings.

She moved to the desk where her quills and an inkwell sat ready for use, dipping one of them in to start writing. She knew that if it weren’t for this, she would have already screwed herself over years ago and confessed to him without thinking some random day. Thank God it worked.

But, as Hermione pressed the tip onto the page, words already forming in her head, she couldn’t help thinking that given the current situation, even this wouldn’t be able to help for long…

She’d been right. Not even three weeks later, Hermione was on the verge of an emotional break down. There were several occurrences where she’d nearly blurted it out-and in front of people, no less! What was she going to do, if the poetry and song writing was no longer working?!

Hermione pushed around the food on her plate, a deep sigh that she couldn’t voice aloud echoing in her head. Harry and Ron were chattering aimlessly about Quidditch, Ginny was sitting on Harry’s lap, head nestled in the crook of his neck and appeared to be asleep. Draco, she’d noticed through a few peripheral glances, was currently looking bored with Pansy Parkinson hanging on his arm.

She pursed her lips. There were times when she felt, loathe the word, jealous of the girl.

And what a sickening thought that was.

Sighing mentally once more, she turned to the front of the Hall as Dumbledore stepped up to the podium and asked for silence.

As the room quieted, Dumbledore smiled. “Good evening students, and I hope you’ve enjoyed your dinner thus far.” A few murmured consents followed. “On behalf of the staff and I, we have proposed a,” he searched for a word, “challenge, of sorts, for you students.”

I perked up in my seat. Challenge, aye? Well, this may be interesting.

“We have been recently looking over the essays and other assignments you’ve all been turning in, and have come to the conclusion that while you all may have skills when it comes to writing business-like and, basically, boring, works, but we have yet to see your creative works.” The tell-tale twinkle entered his eyes. “It has been decided that every night at dinner, starting tomorrow night, we shall have poetry readings. From there we may extend into short stories, if the participation is high enough.”

The Great Hall burst into a sea of whispers and excited exclamations, but there were also some pessimists stating that it would be too embarrassing to do such a thing, reading your works to people. Especially if it wasn’t any good.

Dumbledore, as though expecting these numerous reactions, waited for the fervor to die down before finishing. “Of course, we realize that some of you are hesitant to speak in front of others,” there were several assertive nods, “and so we have a solution. All works are to be submitted anonymously through a penname. To submit, tap any fireplace in the school three times with your wand. When the fire turns blue, throw your work in and it will be transferred to my office with all the others. The teachers and I will read them, and the best will be enchanted to read themselves aloud at dinner. The penname shall be announced as well, so that credit can be given where it is due, even if it isn’t known who exactly they are. You can submit anytime between the end of dinner, and an hour previous to dinner the next day.”

The students appeared happy with this idea, and Hermione seemed intrigued. She confessed to Draco in her poetry all the time, and if it was read anonymously, where no one would know it was her or who it was she was confessing to, then perhaps…

Hermione smiled. It seemed she’d just found a possible answer to her problems.

Hermione tapped the edge of the desk with her quill, mind racing in her skull.

She had her poem written, and even if she hadn’t been able to write one now, she had plenty in her notebook that would work just fine. It was the penname she was having trouble with, however.

Ah, yes. That damn penname. What could she call herself? 2Smart4U? Happily Ever After? Lioness? Gryffindor Princess? Bush-E Hair?

Dragon Lover?

She shook her head. No, none of those would work. They didn’t sound right. She needed something cool, that wasn’t conspicuous or would give out anything about her, but at the same time summed up her feelings without being corny. What did that leave?

She sighed, letting her head fall back. She couldn’t think of anything, so she would let her mind drift. The answer would come eventually.

Unsurprisingly, her mind wandered to Draco. His eyes were her favorite thing about him. Such a beautiful color, that silver blue. So much like moonlight, cool and calculating, but still soft if you caught them at the right moment. So different from her own chocolate brown ones, that she knew must melt every time their gazes meet, even if it was only from the inside where no one else could see the effect he had on her.

Suddenly she snapped forward in her seat, the perfect penname lodged in her head. She dipped the quill into the ink and scribbled the name onto the bottom of the page, a satisfied smile quirking her lips.

This described it perfectly. Every emotion she felt near him, every thought that ran through her head about him, every zing of pleasure he gave her could be described with this simple phrase.

She grabbed her wand and picked up the paper, running downstairs as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the sleeping Draco. It was three in the morning, after all. At least he wouldn’t know she’d done this, though. She could keep her submitting a secret from everyone. If her friends knew she’d entered, they’d want to know what pieces were hers, and she couldn’t tell them about that. It would most likely bring up questions as to their nature, and assumptions about who the love ones were written for. Even if she had a façade of loving Ron, she didn’t want him, Harry, Ginny, or anyone else thinking she’d publicly declare it like that.

Standing in front of the fireplace now, she tapped it with her wand three times and watched the flames become a magnificent sapphire blue. Then, she tossed in the parchment, a small smile on her face as it began to fade, the words at the bottom that was her penname sticking in her memory.

When Moonlight Meets Chocolate

The next day Hermione sat in the Gryffindor common room by the roaring fire with Harry, Ron, and Ginny. Ginny sat on Harry’s lap in one of the red plush chairs, while she and Ron shared the couch. They were sitting idly while awaiting dinner, and it happened that the subject she most wanted to avoid was broached.

“Harry?” Ginny asked, snuggling closer to him.

“Yes, love?” Harry replied, rubbing small circles in her back.

“You know that poetry thing they’re doing at dinner?” He nodded. “Did you enter anything?”

Harry laughed, “No, I don’t have a poetic bone in my body.”

Ginny pouted. “Oh…”

He was suddenly wary. “Why?”

“Oh,” she repeated, snuggling a bit closer, if that was possible, “I just thought maybe you’d written something for me.”

Harry’s eyes grew wide, but Ginny, snuggled as she was, failed to notice. Hermione and Ron, however, had a nice view of the happenings and could see quite clearly the sudden panic in his expression.

“I mean, it’s common knowledge that a guy writes poetry for the girl he loves,” she continued, poking his chest with her finger.

The panic became terror as she watched, and she felt her mental self grow an amused smile.

“So I was just wondering-”

Terror became sheer loathsome fear, and Harry was breathing a bit shallower.

“-if you’d write a poem for me? Just one, please?”

Hermione couldn’t stop the actual small smile that quirked her lips, and her inner self was rolling with laughter at this point.

“Um…” Harry trailed off, and she saw that Ginny’s fingers had pressed into his chest a bit more forcefully, the nails digging into the clothe, “Y-yes.” It sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Yay!” Ginny pulled away rapidly from her snuggling to kiss him fully and forcefully on the mouth, then began to prance away. “I have homework to do, love you Harry! Can’t wait to read the poem you write me!”

Harry gulped thickly once she was gone, and Ron broke down in laughter, no longer able to contain it, while Hermione permitted herself a small chuckle.

“You’ve really gotten yourself into it this time, mate!” Ron roared through frame-rattling laughter.

Harry groaned. “I don’t even read poetry, how does she expect me to write it?”

Ron managed to hold back a few more chuckles and actually ponder the question. “Well…” his eyes strayed to me.

I glared at him. “No. No, no, and once again, no. I will not do it for him.”

“Oh, but come on ’Mione,” Ron pleaded, give her a patented ‘wounded puppy dog’ look. “You’re the smartest one, surely you can write poetry?”

She increased the intensity of her glare. “I never said I couldn’t”, she hissed. “I’m saying I won’t do his work for him. Ginny wants a poem written especially for her by Harry. If I write it, it won’t have any meaning.”

Ron pouted, and slumped back in his seat like a toddler who’s just been told he can’t have a cookie, whimpering piteously.

She rolled her eyes as Harry said, “She’s right, Ron. I’ll have to do it myself.” He gave a long-suffered sigh and turned his attention to Hermione. “So, did you enter anything into the poetry reading?”

She’d been expecting the question, and quickly raised a disbelieving brow at him as she answered, “No.”

Harry nodded, reclining back into his seat as he stared at the fireplace.

Hermione felt a quick pang of guilt for the blatant lie, but quickly reminded herself of her earlier logic. If she told them they’d want to know what poem was hers if it was read, and then they’d think she liked someone, and they’d assume it was Ron, and everything would go downhill from there. This was for the best. After all, lying shouldn’t be that hard for her anymore, she’d been using an ‘I love Ron’ façade for years now, and it had all become second nature to her anyway.

Dinner came around and everyone made their way to the Great Hall, a tangible air of excitement surrounding all present. Harry, Ron, and Hermione took their usual places, with Ginny sitting on Harry’s and Hermione on his right. Ron sat across from them. The meal magically appeared-earning a few startled gasps from first years still unused to the magically appearing food.

As everyone ate they made light conversation, not really paying much attention as they waited for the real reason behind their excitement. Finally, after dinner was gone and desserts were being served, Dumbledore stood behind the podium and raised his arms for silence.

His eyes sparkled in the light as he smiled at all his students. “All last night and throughout today, we have received several entries for our readings. So many, in fact, that it has been decided that we shall only have one reading a week, otherwise we’d never be able to read them all in time and pick the ones to be read.” A few groans were heard, but many simply chose to agree with him on that note. “Now, we shall commence with the reading of some poetic masterpieces we have encountered through your entries.”

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She doubted there were any poetic masterpieces written in this school. She didn’t even think her own works were that good. She sighed silently. She began to doubt that her work would even be read.

Slumping, not enough that anyone would notice, she watched as Dumbledore opened an envelope that had been enchanted to read itself upon opening in a certain voice or tone. As she suspected all were. This was a corny love poem that was read in the voice of a little girl, all lovey dovey. It was quite frightening. But the next one, a piece Hermione actually quite liked despite it’s topic, was read in a male’s voice and was about Quidditch. The voice it was read in set the mood quite well.

Gotta love magic.

As it seemed dinner would end, Hermione felt her heart slowly begin to drop into her stomach when her work still hadn’t been read. She shouldn’t have been surprised, though. She was smart, but that didn’t mean she was an literary genius. But still, she’d thought that hers was at least better than that crappy love poem at the beginning…

Hermione was driven from her negative thoughts when Dumbledore opened another envelope and it was none other than her poem being read. She remembered vaguely choosing a soft, musical female voice to read her poem, which was actually her singing voice, so the poem sounded like a song.

“Entitled, My Oxymoron,” the voice read,

“Your fists are clenched

Eyes hard and blazing

Your mouth opens

Spewing daggers and cruel words

Trying to harm

An already mangled soul

And my heart breaks

But at the same time

A smile comes

Unbidden to my lips

At the sound of his voice

But I don’t say a word

I glare back

Expression filled

With false hatred

As I yell back at you

Trying desperately to hide

These feelings

That I shouldn’t even have

Then you walk away

And I stare after you

My gaze loathing

But inside I’m torn apart

With mixed emotions

Wanting to cry

Yet laugh

At the same time

I love you

I hate you

Because you hold my heart

In your hands

And you don’t even know it

Written By ‘When Moonlight Meets Chocolate’”

Hermione’s face was stoic and expressionless as she waited to see how it would be received by the others. There was a pause, and the hall filled with silence. She could see odd looks on some people’s faces, and others were blank. Not a sound could be heard in the hall.

Inside, Hermione began to panic. Was it really that bad? Was she that horrible that there wouldn’t even be a small bit of applause? Hell, there’d even been applause for the cruddy love poem!

Hermione once again felt herself drift into the negatives, only to be brought back again when thunderous applauding filled the Great Hall.

Her eyes widened just a bit, not very noticeable, and also began to clap meekly with the others. She saw the others had started smiling, so she too smiled, praising her own work, though the others weren’t aware of that. She just didn’t want to be conspicuous.

When the clapping died down, Dumbledore stood at the podium with a smile on his face. “I take it that last was your favorite?” Whistling and more applause met his statement. He chuckled. “Well, that was the last for the night. You are free to leave when you want to head to your beds.”

With that, he stepped down and returned to his seat as Hermione faced Harry, Ron, and Ginny.

“What was your favorite?” Ginny asked Harry, who had somehow come to be cradling her in his lap during the meal.

“I liked that last one,” he replied with a smile.

“Well, I think it could have been better,” Ron sniffed, making Hermione inwardly grimace.

Ginny furrowed her brows. “Why’s that Ron? I thought it was good.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “It didn’t even rhyme!”

“That’s because it was free-verse poetry, Ron,” Hermione spoke up.

Ron gave her an odd glance. “Free-what?”

She rolled her eyes. “Free-verse Ron. It doesn’t have to rhyme.”

He grimaced. “I still think it should have. And besides, who calls their poem ‘My Oxymoron’? That doesn’t even make sense!”

She resisted the urge to slap him upside his red head. “Actually, it does. An oxymoron is when two things that are contradictory are paired together.”

He gave her a dubious look. “And how the bloody hell does that come into the poem?”

She clucked her tongue, aggravated. “In the poem it said she wanted to laugh, but she wanted to cry as well. And then she went on to say that she loved him, but hated him. Two extreme mediums being felt at the same time. Those are just the more noticeable oxymorons in the poem, but if you look closely there are others. The entire poem is about her actions, her feelings, being contradictory. The whole thing is one giant mass of oxymorons!”

Ron, Harry, and Ginny looked taken aback at her sudden outburst, but it was Ginny who spoke up. “How do you know it was a ‘she’ that wrote the poem, Hermione?”

Cursing herself in her mind for the slip-up, she quickly masked her expression with an ‘it should be obvious’ look. “The penname. Do you honestly think a boy would go by ‘When Moonlight Meets Chocolate’? Plus, doesn’t it just sound like something a girl might write?”

Hermione resisted the urge to sigh in relief when Ginny nodded her head in ascent, agreeing with her logic. “Yeah, I suppose. But seriously, I liked it.” Ginny glared over at Ron. “If you didn’t like that poem the most, then which one did you like?”

Ron blushed suddenly and looked down at the table. She bit back a laugh when Ron muttered, “the love poem.”

Ginny and Harry did not show this same self-restraint, however, and began to laugh like bloody morons.

Hermione’s gaze drifted as Ron yelled at his friends, and it came to rest on none other than Draco. He was looking at the table, expression thoughtful, eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. Even though she knew it was impossible, Hermione couldn’t help wondering if maybe, just maybe, it was her poem he was thinking about.

Suddenly, as though sensing her eyes on him, Draco’s eyes shot up and met hers, and that familiar mind numbing, heart racing feeling shot through her system once again. Their eyes held for a moment, and she wondered why he didn’t look away, until a strange look passed over his moonlight orbs the oddest expression of confusion, wonder, and curiosity contorted his beautiful features, and she found herself not caring why.

The moment lasted but a few seconds, but it felt like much longer to her, and then she blinked, and the connection was lost. Both seemed to come back into themselves, and Draco smirked at her, his trademark grimace, and looked away again.

Hermione sighed, standing to leave as the others did, the sensations fading as quickly as they’d come. When she said goodnight to her friends and made it back to the Head’s dorm, immediately going to her room and plopping onto the soft, plush bed, a small part of her couldn’t help questioning if the moment had happened at all.

Okay, I know I'm not the best poet, so tell me what you honestly thought of the poem. Next time I'll make it rhyme, maybe that would help . Ne? Read and Review so I know! Please!