Ariana was seated in the Gryffindor common room, her mind a placid lake of concentration as she read a complex treatise on the magical properties of moon phases. The ambient noise of the room—the crackle of the fire, the distant chatter of a card game—was a muted, irrelevant hum. Midnight, in her graceful panther form, lay asleep at her feet, a breathing shadow of absolute peace. The recent tension with Harry and Ron was a known variable, a temporary and predictable emotional storm that she had decided to let pass without intervention. She had faith in Hermione's intellect and fundamental sense of justice; the situation would resolve itself in time.
The resolution, however, came sooner and more dramatically than she had anticipated.
Neville Longbottom, who had witnessed Hermione's tearful flight from the Charms corridor, came rushing into the common room, his round face pale with distress. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on Ariana.
"Ariana!" he said, hurrying over, his voice a panicked whisper. "It's Hermione! She's… she's terribly upset. Ron and Harry said something, and she just ran off, crying her eyes out!"
Ariana's head came up from her book. Her periwinkle eyes, which had been calm and focused on ancient text, sharpened with a sudden, intense clarity. Her placid internal sea stirred. The problem was no longer about Harry and Ron's foolishness. It had escalated. It was now about Hermione's pain.
Without a word, she closed her book, marking her page with a silken ribbon. She rose from her armchair in a single, fluid motion. Midnight lifted her head, her violet eyes blinking open, instantly alert to the shift in her companion's demeanor.
Just as Ariana started towards the portrait hole, Harry and Ron came stumbling in, their faces a mixture of guilt, shame, and bewilderment. They looked utterly lost, like two boys who had just realized the game they were playing had real, painful consequences. They saw Ariana approaching, and Harry opened his mouth to say something, perhaps an apology, perhaps an excuse. Ariana's gaze swept over them. It was not angry. It was not disappointed. It was far worse. It was completely, utterly dismissive. She looked at them as if they were nothing more than obstacles in her path, two pieces of furniture to be navigated around. She didn't slow down. She simply glided past them, her focus absolute, her purpose clear. Their drama was irrelevant. All that mattered was
finding Hermione.
The two boys were left standing in her wake, the unspoken apology dying on their lips, the cold weight of her disregard a more potent punishment than any detention.
Ariana knew, with an instinct born of empathy and pattern recognition, where Hermione would be. Not the second-floor lavatory, the site of the troll attack and a place now freighted with traumatic memory. She would have sought out the other haunted bathroom, the one on the first floor, a place so steeped in its own misery that no one ever went there. Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. A sanctuary of sorrow.
She found it easily. The familiar sounds of gurgling pipes and the spectral wailing of the resident ghost were audible from the corridor. Pushing the door open, she stepped into the chilly, damp room. The air was thick with sadness. And there, huddled on the floor by a line of sinks, was Hermione. Her shoulders were shaking with great, gulping sobs, her face buried in her arms.
Moaning Myrtle was floating nearby, looking uncharacteristically sympathetic.
"Oh, look," Myrtle wailed softly. "Another one. He broke your heart too, did he? Boys are just awful…"
Ariana ignored the ghost. She walked over to Hermione and knelt on the cold, wet flagstones beside her. She didn't say anything at first. She simply placed a gentle hand on Hermione's shaking back, a quiet, solid point of contact in her storm of misery.
Hermione flinched, then looked up, her face tear-streaked and blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed and full of horrified guilt. "Ariana!" she choked out. "I… I'm so sorry! I told them! I told them everything you said! I didn't mean to, it just… it all came out, I was so angry with them, and I betrayed your trust! I'm the worst friend in the world!"
She dissolved into a fresh wave of sobbing, burying her face again.
Ariana waited patiently for the wave to pass. Then she spoke, her voice soft but firm, a clear, steady note in the cacophony of tears and ghostly wails.
"Hermione. Look at me."
Slowly, hesitantly, Hermione lifted her head.
"What did you tell them?" Ariana asked, her tone calm, almost clinical.
"Everything," Hermione whispered miserably. "About you knowing who Flamel was. And… and about why you didn't help them. About trust being a currency."
"I see," Ariana said. She was silent for a moment, and in that silence, Hermione braced herself for the anger, the cold disappointment, the end of their friendship. What came next was something she never could have predicted.
"Hermione," Ariana said, her periwinkle eyes holding an unwavering sincerity. "Did you tell them because you wanted to hurt me?"
"No!" Hermione cried out, the denial instant and absolute. "Never! I told them because I wanted to defend you! I wanted them to see how wrong they were, how wonderful you are!"
"Then you did not betray my trust," Ariana stated, as if it were a fundamental law of physics. "You acted out of loyalty. Your methods were… emotionally compromised, perhaps, but your intent was pure. There is a difference."
Hermione stared at her, utterly bewildered. "But… but I told your secret!"
Ariana reached out and gently tucked a stray, tear-dampened curl of hair behind Hermione's ear. "It was not a secret, Hermione. It was an observation. A piece of information I shared with you. My trust in you is not so fragile that it can be broken by a moment of emotional distress. It is built on something stronger. It is built on the knowledge that, at your core, you are a good and loyal person."
She then pulled Hermione into a hug. It was not like the brief, reassuring embrace after the troll. This was different. It was a full, encompassing hug, a protective circle against the world. Hermione, starved for comfort and forgiveness, clung to her, her sobs finally quieting into shaky, exhausted breaths against Ariana's shoulder.
"I will never be angry with you for something like this," Ariana murmured, her voice a soft, steady anchor. "Especially not with you. You are my best friend, Hermione."
The words, spoken with such simple, profound certainty, were the most powerful magic Hermione had ever experienced. They healed the fracture in her heart, calmed the storm in her mind. My best friend. It wasn't a casual platitude. Coming from Ariana, it was a declaration. A vow.
Moaning Myrtle, who had been watching the entire exchange, let out a loud, watery sniffle. "Oh, that's so beautiful," she sobbed, before diving headfirst into a toilet with a loud splash.
Ariana helped Hermione to her feet, conjuring a soft, warm cloth with a silent, wandless spell to dry her friend's tear-stained face.
"Come on," she said. "Let's go back to the common room. I believe there is a chapter on alchemical resonance that will be far more interesting than hiding in a lavatory."
As they walked out, Hermione felt… lighter. The guilt was gone, replaced by a fierce, protective loyalty that dwarfed anything she had ever felt before. She had been offered a grace she didn't feel she deserved, and it had forged her bond with Ariana into something unbreakable. She finally understood. Ariana's friendship wasn't about keeping secrets; it was about understanding intent. It operated on a level of logic and empathy so profound it was almost a different language. And Hermione, the brightest witch of her age, was finally beginning to learn how to speak it.