Autumn set in with all of its magnificence, a fortnight or two later, spreading its mighty, scarlet-tinted arms across the vast grounds and turrets and pillars of Hogwarts.

The moss running up the stone walls faded into orange, with trees hanging their heads down and shedding their leaves. Reddish barks with reddish leaves stretched far and wide and, altogether, it was another time of loveliness.

“Aren’t you happy we can enjoy every season in full flow at Hogwarts?” I asked Harry and Ron as we trudged through a pile of fallen, gold and crimson leaves, their steady crunch beneath our feet and in our wake. “Summer, autumn, winter, spring. Each in its entirety, each as majestic as –”

“Seems someone’s been reading the dictionary,” Ron said loudly, cutting me over. “Come on, Hermione, talk normal.”

My insides shrivelled in embarrassment. I was not really using any out-of-the-ordinary words, when you came to think of it, but Ron was right: Usually, I was not so descriptive. And, usually, I did not praise the weather, either. [I confess, too, that I had been reading Seasons and Colours in bed last night, and the book had impressed me more than routine, descriptive, muggle-written books.]

No wonder I couldn't help feeling a little humiliated at Ron’s comment. I blushed and, to cover this up, quickened my pace and marched ahead of them, head held high and looking what I hoped was highly dignified.

The ‘look’ however, did not go as I had planned: I looked more furious than dignified, more snappish than uncaring. Because, as the wind blew a little stream of stray, orange leaves my way, I heard Harry half shout – and not in a very friendly way, either – at Ron:

“You prat! It’s all your fault she’s angry and gone. Can’t you keep your mouth shut for once?”

It sounded a comment as unlike the Harry I knew as I had ever heard.