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Chapter Text

The common room was still. Late enough that most of Gryffindor had gone to bed, early enough that the fire hadn’t yet burned to embers.

Harry sat on the couch, legs stretched out, half-watching the flames dance and half-listening to the scratch of Hermione’s quill. She was curled in the armchair across from him, a stack of books towering precariously on the table between them. Every so often, she’d sigh loudly — not the casual kind, but the deliberate kind that meant she wanted him to ask what was wrong.

He didn’t.

Because he already knew.

The Potions textbook sat at his side, closed now, but its presence might as well have been shouting. The Half-Blood Prince. His new secret weapon. His shortcut. His cheating, according to Hermione.

She’d been irritated ever since Slughorn had praised Harry’s perfect Draught of Living Death. No matter how many times he’d said it wasn’t a big deal, that it didn’t mean anything, she wouldn’t drop it.

Tonight was no different.

"You're not even pretending to study," she said flatly, not looking up.

Harry blinked. “I wasn’t aware I had to.”

“You do if you want to pass your exams without relying on someone else's scribbled instructions,” she snapped, flipping a page with unnecessary force.

He frowned. “It's not like I’m failing. You saw that potion. Slughorn said it was textbook perfect.”

“That’s the problem, Harry. It wasn’t your textbook. It wasn’t your work.”

Her voice trembled at the end, barely, like the anger was balancing on something more fragile.

He met her eyes. “You think I’m cheating.”

“I think you’re taking advice from someone whose name you don’t even know. And you’re trusting it more than you trust me.”

Silence settled between them again, thicker this time. The fire crackled, but it didn’t feel warm.

Harry broke it first.

“You know, it’s a bit rich hearing that from the same person who jinxed Cormac McLaggen during Quidditch tryouts.”

Hermione froze. The way someone might if they’d just been caught with their hand in a very magically-sealed cookie jar.

“I— I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said quickly, eyes darting back to her notes.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because I was pretty sure I saw your wand slip behind your sleeve just before McLaggen forgot which way the goalposts were.”

“That could’ve been anything,” she mumbled, avoiding his gaze entirely now.

“So it’s cheating if I use the Prince’s book, but not if you Confund someone to help Ron make Keeper?”

“That’s different,” she said, but even she didn’t sound convinced.

“Sounds like a double standard.”

Hermione didn’t respond.

She stared down at her notes, jaw tight. The fire popped, but she didn’t flinch.

That silence — it got under his skin.

“You know what, forget it,” Harry muttered, leaning forward. “You can break the rules when it suits you, but if I do it, suddenly it’s dangerous and selfish and stupid.”

“That’s not fair—” she started.

“Isn’t it? You helped Ron cheat. You Confunded someone. I use a few better instructions in a textbook and you act like I’ve gone dark.”

“It’s not the same—”

“No. Of course it’s not. Because it’s Ron, right?”

That did it.

Hermione blinked, stunned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her eyes were wide now, not angry — just startled, like she genuinely didn’t understand.

Harry looked at her for a moment, the words stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.

He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it. The Ron thing. It had just slipped out. And now it was sitting between them like something sharp.

He looked away first.

“I don’t know. Forget it.”

Hermione didn’t.

“What does Ron have to do with this?” she asked again, gentler this time.

“You Confunded McLaggen so Ron could win a tryout. You told me I was cheating just for using a different book.”

“That’s not fair. It’s not about Ron. It’s about you. I was worried. I am worried.”

He looked up at her again.

There was no fire in her voice now. Just frustration. And something else — something like hurt.

Harry was feeling something he hadn’t quite felt before.

It wasn’t anger, not exactly. Not the way it usually hit him — fast, hot, and loud. This was different. Quieter. Slower. A strange tightening behind his ribs every time Hermione said Ron’s name, every time she leapt to his defense without even thinking.

Was it jealousy?

He wasn’t sure.

But the thought of Hermione being more forgiving, more willing to bend rules for Ron — it stirred something in him. Something he didn’t know how to name and definitely didn’t want to look at too closely.

He dragged a hand through his hair and stared into the fire. “Forget it,” he said again, this time more to himself than to her.

“I’m not going to,” Hermione replied softly, still standing there, books clutched awkwardly to her chest. “If something’s bothering you, just say it.”

He looked at her then — properly looked — and saw not just the stubborn set of her mouth, but the worry flickering behind her eyes. She really did care. About him. She always had. That had never been the problem.

The problem was that lately, she seemed to care about Ron more.

And he didn’t want to say that out loud, because he didn’t want to be that person, bitter and possessive over things he didn’t even understand himself.

“I don’t want to argue with you,” Harry said, voice low. “I’m just tired.”

Hermione hesitated. Her grip on the books tightened for a moment before she nodded.

“Okay.”

It wasn’t agreement. It was permission — for now.

She turned to head toward the girls’ dormitory, then paused.

“I only ever wanted you to be careful. That’s all.”

And then she was gone, leaving Harry alone in the firelight with nothing but the flicker of his thoughts and a feeling he didn’t quite know what to do with.

Chapter Text

Hermione lay still, the curtains of her four-poster drawn shut against the flickering moonlight, the blankets twisted loosely around her legs. The air inside felt warm and stale, but she hadn’t moved.

She was too busy thinking.

Harry.

She ran their conversation again in her mind — each sharp word, each silence. The way he’d looked at her when he said, “Because it’s Ron, right?”

It had thrown her.

Because Harry didn’t get jealous. Not like that. Not over her.

She was his best friend. She knew him better than anyone — knew the weight he carried, the silences he lived in, the way he’d shoulder everything without ever asking for help. But she’d never seen him like that before. Not accusing. Not wounded.

Was it jealousy?

She didn’t want to believe it. But something about the way he’d said Ron’s name — like it tasted bitter in his mouth — made her wonder.

Of course, it was true that she felt... something for Ron. A crush, maybe. He was one of her best friends, after all. He made her laugh when she needed it. He could be infuriating, yes, but he had a way of making the world feel less heavy.

And ever since the Yule Ball — ever since Ron had been jealous about Viktor — she’d suspected he felt something too.

She wanted to be in a relationship. Something real. And Ron had always seemed like the most sensible choice. He was funny, loyal, safe. Familiar.

But Harry...

She frowned up at the canopy.

Harry was different. Always had been. He was the brave one, the reckless one. The one everyone looked to, and the one she watched more closely than she liked to admit. But she’d never thought of him that way. Not seriously. Not... really.

Sure, she’d wondered. Once or twice. Quiet little thoughts she dismissed as quickly as they came. He liked girls like Cho — soft-spoken, pretty, delicate. There had even been something strange in the way he’d looked at Ginny this summer at the Burrow. A tension she hadn’t quite understood but hadn’t missed either.

She didn’t belong in that picture.

Harry had never shown any sign. No glances, no stammering, no awkward brushes of fingers like there were sometimes with Ron. Nothing.

So why had he sounded so... hurt?

Hermione turned onto her side and pulled the blanket up around her shoulders. Her chest felt tight with something she couldn’t name.

Whatever it was, it had changed something between them.

She just didn’t know what yet.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke earlier than usual.

The dormitory was quiet, the air cold against her skin as she shifted beneath the covers. But she couldn’t fall back asleep. Her mind wouldn’t let her.

Because it’s Ron, right?

Harry’s words from last night kept echoing, unsettled and sharp. She hadn’t meant to hurt him — and yet, she had. There was something underneath his anger she couldn’t quite name, and it left her feeling… restless.

After a while, she gave up trying to sleep. She pulled on her dressing gown and quietly slipped down the stairs, careful not to wake anyone.

She didn’t expect anyone to be up this early.

But there he was.

Harry sat cross-legged in front of the fire, his Firebolt balanced across his knees. He was polishing it slowly, with a kind of practiced care — the kind he usually only gave to things that let him stop thinking.

Hermione paused on the bottom step, watching him.

He looked different in the morning light. More grown-up somehow. The fire caught along the edge of his jaw, and for the first time in a long time, she noticed how much he’d changed.

Over the summer, he’d filled out — taller, leaner, stronger. There was something more confident in how he moved now, even when he was quiet. Even the way he sat had changed. Quieter. Steadier.

And everyone had noticed.

Parvati and Lavender whispered about him constantly — “He’s so mysterious now,” Lavender had said once. Even some Ravenclaw girls had asked her if Harry was dating Ginny, or Cho, or anyone.

It wasn’t just the fame — though being the Chosen One had certainly helped. It was that people were finally seeing him the way she always had: as brave, loyal, thoughtful, quietly funny. A little tragic. A little too good for anyone to truly understand.

But now, for the first time, Hermione wasn’t sure where she fit in that image.

He looked up suddenly and caught her watching.

His mouth tugged into that familiar, crooked smile — small, tired, and somehow still warm.

“Morning.”

She crossed the room and sat down across from him, legs tucked under her dressing gown.

“Morning,” she returned. A beat passed. “About last night…”

Harry interrupted, eyes still on the broom.

“Hermione, it was my fault. Let’s just forget it, yeah?”

She blinked, surprised — and a little touched. His voice wasn’t cold. Just… weary. Like he didn’t want to drag it out. Like he’d rather move forward than backward.

She smiled back. “Alright.”

But somewhere in her chest, she still felt like they should have talked. Like words would’ve cleared the air better than silence ever could.

Still, she let it go.

“Need help?” she asked, nodding to the broom.

“Have you ever polished a broom before?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

“First time for everything,” Hermione said with a small laugh, reaching for the handle.

He handed her a cloth. “Your broom kit really came through, by the way. That polish — it's brilliant.”

Her fingers paused on the bristles, a flicker of warmth in her chest.

“Well,” she said, trying not to sound too pleased, “I do know what you like.”

Harry looked at her then — really looked — and for a moment, neither of them said anything.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. Easy.

And in the soft golden light of morning, with the scent of broom polish between them, it almost felt like everything was okay again.

Chapter Text

The trio was off to breakfast as usual.

Ron walked ahead with an extra bounce in his step, still basking in his Quidditch tryout win over McLaggen. He’d barely stopped grinning since.

“I told you,” he said for the third time, “McLaggen was too cocky. I knew I had it.”

“You barely made it,” Hermione muttered beside him, but there was a small, fond smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She didn’t say it cruelly — more like she enjoyed having something to scold him over.

They reached the Great Hall and slid into their usual seats. Toast appeared, sausages sizzled, and students trickled in slowly around them. The castle buzzed with the sort of energy that always followed early in the morning.

Harry spread marmalade across a piece of toast without really tasting it. Ron was still talking. Hermione was quieter than usual.

Harry set the Prince’s potions book and began reading while eating, careful to keep it low so Hermione wouldn’t notice and start another argument.

He glanced up once and caught her looking at Ron.

Not just looking — there was something soft in her expression. Thoughtful. Hesitant. Like she was working up the nerve to say something.

Harry looked away.

Across the table, someone mentioned Slughorn’s name, and the words drifted over: “—his Christmas party—only the Slug Club, obviously—”

Ron snorted. “Figures I wouldn’t get an invite. Not famous enough.”

There was a beat.

Then Hermione cleared her throat. “You could still come, you know. As someone’s guest.”

Ron blinked. “Wait—really?”

Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, yes. I mean… if you wanted to. With me, I mean.”

Harry’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.

Ron turned red — not Weasley red, but genuinely flustered. Then he broke into a grin. “Yeah! Sure! That’d be brilliant!”

Hermione smiled back, just a little. “Alright then.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He just returned to his plate, chewing slowly.

But in his chest, something tightened.

What just happened?

Maybe he’d known for a while. Ever since the Yule Ball, really — when Ron couldn’t stop glaring at Krum, and Hermione couldn’t stop pretending not to care. It had been there, quiet but persistent.

So why did it feel like the room had shifted around him?

He glanced at Hermione again. She was buttering her toast now, eyes on her plate, as if nothing had happened. Ron was already mid-rant about what he’d wear — “Nothing too fancy, yeah? I’m not showing up in dress robes again.”

Harry listened to them talk.

But he couldn’t quite focus on the words. His thoughts felt sluggish, like they were moving through water.

He didn’t understand why it bothered him.

But it did.

He imagined them at the Slughorn party.

They were going to be together, and he… would go with someone else. Anyone else, really. He could invite anyone.

But who?

He was closest to Hermione and Ron. Always had been. And now, with the two of them paired off — even if it wasn’t official — he felt like the third wheel. On the outside. Left behind.

But it wasn’t just that.

He didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit.

Ron and Hermione were going together

Not laughing yet — not quite — but getting there. Ron, slowly growing more confident around her. Hermione, softening in ways she didn’t around just anyone. The kind of closeness that only ever deepens, until one day it’s just there — natural, expected. Inevitable.

And him?

He’d go with Luna, if she agreed.

She was kind. Interesting in her own odd way. He liked that about her — the way she didn’t care what people thought, the quiet confidence she carried without even realizing it.

It wouldn’t be terrible. In fact, it might even be nice.

But it wouldn’t be the same.

He hadn’t asked her yet, but he would. Going alone felt worse than going with someone who understood at least part of his world. Luna didn’t need explanations. She’d show up, be herself, and that would be enough.

Still, whoever he stood beside, whoever enjoyed with him at Slughorn’s party — it wouldn’t be her.

Pretending it didn’t feel like something had shifted underneath him.

Like something small but important had quietly slipped out of reach.

Hermione.

It always came back to her.

She and him had always been closer — since the beginning. From troll-saving to Triwizard drama to everything that came after. She got him. Not because he was famous, but because she actually listened. Pushed him. Stood by him when it counted.

And somewhere along the way this year, he’d let her drift.

Or maybe he was the one who drifted.

Was it the Prince’s book? The missions with Dumbledore? Or just him not noticing fast enough that she was… somewhere else now? With Ron, more often, spending more time with him.

He didn’t resent her for it.

He wasn’t even sure what he felt.

He just knew it made his chest tight in a way that didn’t quite go away.

And Ginny? She was with Dean now. And maybe Harry had liked her because it was simple. She was funny, sporty, confident. Easy to admire from a distance.

But right now, it all felt… far away. Surface-level.

He didn’t want surface-level anymore.

A bell rang somewhere above, loud and sharp. Students began to shift around him.

Class. Right.

He shut the book, stood up, and forced his thoughts to quiet — or at least bury themselves deep enough to carry on.

Chapter Text

The castle had grown colder overnight.

Frost slicked the windows of the Gryffindor common room, and the fire had become more than decoration — it was necessity. Scarves and jumpers were worn indoors now, and most students claimed chairs closest to the hearth as soon as they returned from lessons. Even Crookshanks had taken up permanent residence on a rug by the fire, stretched out like royalty in exile.

Hermione sat tucked into her usual corner near the flames, knees drawn up beneath a thick blanket, her books open but long since abandoned. The glow of the hearth shimmered across the pages, but she wasn’t reading. Her quill dangled from her fingers, forgotten, ink drying on the tip.

Her thoughts had drifted far from Arithmancy — to Ron.

She’d actually asked him. To Slughorn’s Christmas party. And he’d said yes.

Just remembering it made her smile. He’d looked so startled at first, blinking like he thought it was a joke. And then he’d smiled back — wide and clumsy and so Ron — and she’d felt… oddly proud. Like she’d done something brave. Silly, maybe. But still brave.

They were going together.

And a part of her felt a sense of rightness in it—the deep, bone-weary comfort of the familiar. He was, besides Harry, the other pillar of her world at Hogwarts, a constant presence through every terror and triumph. She knew his flaws intimately, the maddening insecurities that could flare up without warning, but she also knew his heart. And lately, she'd found herself hoping—or perhaps, simply choosing to see—the beginnings of something steadier in him. It wasn't based on any grand gesture, just a quiet shift she thought she'd felt between them. Taking a chance on that feeling, on the possibility of a normal night that could lead to something real, felt like a risk she was finally willing to take.

She hugged the cushion tighter to her chest.

But her thoughts — traitorous as ever — didn’t stop there.

They drifted to Harry.

He hadn’t said much that morning. Just nodded when Ron brought up the party again. No teasing. No grin. Not even a sarcastic comment about Ron needing to borrow proper dress robes. Just a quiet sort of stillness that didn’t quite fit his usual tiredness.

At first, her mind drifted to the most logical explanation: Ginny. Over the summer at the Burrow, Hermione had noticed a change. For years, Harry had barely seemed to register Ginny as more than Ron’s little sister. But this past summer was different. She’d caught him watching Ginny with an unfamiliar intensity—when she was laughing at the dinner table, when she was flying her broom across the orchard. There was a current between them, a low hum of unspoken something that Hermione, for all her cleverness, couldn't quite decipher. And if she were being honest with herself, it hadn't sat right with her. Of course, she would be supportive—Ginny was wonderful, and Harry deserved to be happy. But it felt… rushed. Unexpected. A chapter in Harry's life she hadn't seen coming and didn't quite know where she fit. She supposed it made sense. Ginny was beautiful, a brilliant Quidditch player, and fiercely confident—precisely Harry's type, if his disastrous infatuation with Cho Chang was anything to go by. Perhaps he was just disappointed that he'd missed his chance, with Ginny now so thoroughly with Dean.

And yet… that didn’t feel right, either. His quietness wasn't pining; it was something sharper, more distant.

A new thought occurred to her, so absurd that she almost dismissed it with a snort of amusement. Was he upset because she’d asked Ron? Impossible. Harry didn't think of her like that. They were… them. Harry and Hermione. It was a fact of life, as solid as the castle walls. The idea of him being jealous over her was ridiculous.

But then, his own words from their argument echoed in her mind, sharp and cutting.

"Because it’s Ron, right?"

The memory landed with a heavy thud in her chest, stripping away her amusement and leaving a trail of unease. He hadn't just been angry about the Prince's book that night. There had been something else in his voice, something raw and accusing that she had refused to examine too closely. Now, his quietness in the face of her and Ron’s news felt like an aftershock of that same tremor.

Her thoughts began to spiral. Was she really that biased? She'd justified Confunding McLaggen because Ron deserved a fair shot, free from his own nerves and McLaggen's bullying. She'd condemned Harry for using the Prince's notes because it felt dangerous and dishonest. In her mind, the two situations were entirely different, governed by different rules and motivations.

But were they?

From Harry's perspective, had it just looked like she was bending the rules for one friend while holding the other to an impossible standard? The thought made her skin prickle with a defensive heat, but she couldn't shake it.

He wasn’t sulking. He wasn’t annoyed.

He was quiet. Detached.

And maybe it wasn't about Ginny at all. Maybe it was about her. The uncomfortable possibility settled in her stomach like a stone: that in her excitement to finally take a step toward something with Ron, she had been careless with something far more fragile. That she had made the trio feel, for the first time, like two against one.

Had he felt… left out? The thought lingered, heavy and unwelcome. Because the truth was — she hadn’t considered him. Maybe what he needed was her.

The portrait hole creaked open, breaking her train of thought.

Harry stepped inside, flushed and windblown, still in his Quidditch robes. The portrait door swung shut behind him, muffling the sounds of the castle and leaving only the crackle of the fire. He ran a hand through his dark, messy hair—a familiar gesture—but the sight of it, combined with the cold-rosy color of his cheeks and the way the firelight caught the dampness of his robes, was different somehow.

For a long moment, the bustling thoughts in Hermione’s own head simply… stopped. All her carefully constructed anxieties about Ron and the party and Harry’s silence seemed to recede, leaving only the quiet hum of the fire and the sight of him standing there. It wasn’t a new sight, but it felt… sharper. Like a familiar painting she’d walked past a thousand times, only to stop one day and see a startling, captivating detail for the very first time.

A slow, quiet warmth spread through her chest, a feeling that had nothing to do with the hearth.

She blinked, and the spell was broken. Her gaze dropped abruptly to the meaningless scrawls on her parchment as a flush of heat crept up her neck. She didn't know what to make of that feeling, only that it felt intensely private.

Pull yourself together, she scolded silently.

Harry spotted her and gave a small smile as he made his way over, sinking into the seat beside her with a sigh.

“Practice?” she asked, the edge of a smirk in her voice.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, rubbing his shoulder. “Ron’s still out there. He said he won’t leave until he can block every shot like Oliver bloody Wood.”

Hermione laughed softly. “Typical. He’ll give himself frostbite before he admits he’s cold.”

Harry gave a tired chuckle, then leaned back against the couch, eyes drifting toward the fire. The crackle and pop of the flames filled the brief silence.

“He’s excited,” Harry said after a moment. “Don’t think I’ve seen him this hyped since the last time he ate three desserts at the Burrow.”

Hermione smiled, glancing down at her notes. “I think he’s just happy he made the team.”

Harry’s eyes didn’t leave the fire. “Or maybe he’s just happy you asked him.”

The words were spoken so quietly, almost to the fire itself, that for a second she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. Her quill stopped moving, hovering over the parchment. There was no teasing in his tone, only a flat, unreadable statement of fact that felt heavier than any joke.

She looked up. “What?”

Harry didn’t reply. He simply bent down and began unlacing his shoes, taking his time with it. Hermione watched him, her own question hanging unanswered in the air between them. He was doing it deliberately, she realized; the careful, focused way he pulled at the laces was a clear signal. He was shutting her out.

Her mind scrambled to form the words she couldn't say out loud. It wasn't a choice between them. Harry was already in the Slug Club; he didn't need an invitation. Ron was the one who would have been left out otherwise. Of course she would have wanted Harry there, too. But she knew, even as the thoughts formed, that the logic felt flimsy and self-serving in the face of his cold silence. It wouldn't soothe whatever was actually bothering him.

A part of her still wanted to press him, to lay out her perfectly reasoned argument. But another, more cautious part recognized the defensive posture—in both of them now. Pushing would only lead to a real argument, and she was tired of fighting with him.

So her mind, desperate for solid ground, did what it did best: it seized on the simplest, safest explanation for his mood. It couldn't possibly be about her and Ron. That was uncharted, dangerous territory. It had to be about the other obvious thing, a theory she'd been entertaining all evening. It was safer. It was easier.

Eventually, she broke the silence, her voice softer now.

“I know you wanted to go with Ginny.”

Harry glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

Hermione gave him a knowing look. “You’re my best friend, Harry. I know what you think.”

Harry chuckled, the sound low. He wondered what she’d say if she knew just how conflicted his thoughts had been lately.

“Maybe I did want to,” he admitted. “But we can’t do anything about it now, can we?”

Hermione tilted her head. “So… who are you going with?”

“I was thinking of asking Luna,” Harry said. “She’s fun. Good company. If she says yes.”

Hermione blinked. A fleeting thought crossed her mind—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on—but she pushed it aside. Luna and Harry did get along well. That made sense.

She looked over at him. He looked exhausted, the weight of the world seemingly settled in the slump of his shoulders. The words between them felt tangled and insufficient, so she did something simpler. Without thinking, she reached out and ruffled his already messy hair.

Harry flinched in surprise, but then a genuine laugh—the first real one of the evening—burst out of him. He leaned away, a wide grin finally reaching his eyes. “What was that for?”

“Just checking for Nargles,” Hermione said, a playful glint in her eye.

This made him laugh again, the sound lighter this time as he shook his head. “Right. Well, whatever you were doing, you’ve gone and made it worse,” he teased, running a hand through his hair, which only served to make it stick up in a new direction.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” she grinned back. “It has a mind of its own.”

Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, something warm passed between them—quiet and familiar. A glance that said more than words could—comfortable, familiar, and quietly charged with something neither of them could quite name.

Then Harry pulled away, standing with a stretch.

“I’m going to take a shower. See you later?”

“Yeah, I’ll be at the—”

“Library,” Harry finished for her, smirking as he turned and headed toward the stairs.

Hermione watched him go, the corners of her mouth twitching upward.

She didn’t know what that was, exactly.

But it stayed with her long after he was gone.

Harry's POV:

Harry took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs. He didn't slow down until the door of his dormitory was firmly shut behind him. He leaned against it, closing his eyes.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

He replayed the scene in his head. The way he’d let the bitter comment about Ron slip out. The flicker of hurt and confusion in Hermione’s eyes before he’d cowardly looked away. He'd immediately regretted it, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. Panic had seized him, and his only defense was to retreat, to focus on the stupid, muddy laces of his boots. He had shut her out, and he knew it was a rotten thing to do, but he didn't know how to explain the tangled, frustrating mess of his own feelings when he didn't even understand them himself.

And then she had ruffled his hair.

The gesture was so simple, so unexpectedly gentle after the tension between them, that it had shocked a real laugh out of him. And her joke about Nargles... for a second, everything felt normal again. Easy.

Until their eyes met. That one, single heartbeat of quiet understanding had felt more intense than the entire argument. It was too much. He'd felt exposed, and he'd done the only thing he could think to do: he ran.

Chapter Text

The chatter of students echoed off the high stone walls of the seventh-floor corridor, mingling with the distant, cheerful clang of the castle bells signaling the end of the period. A chilly draft snaked its way up from the grand staircase, a sure sign that November was tightening its grip on Hogwarts. Hermione barely noticed, pulling her wool robes tighter around herself as she walked, her thoughts a tangled mess that had nothing to do with her Arithmancy homework.

Her mind, as it so often did these days, had drifted to Harry. It wasn't just the huge, terrifying weight of the prophecy that sat on his shoulders—a burden he tried to hide but that she saw in the tired lines around his eyes. It was the smaller, sneakier things. The constant whispering that followed him, the way groups of girls would dissolve into giggles when he passed. He had a new, troubling fan club this year.

Just yesterday, she’d stepped into the girls' bathroom near the Great Hall, simply to escape the lunchtime noise for a moment of peace and quiet, when she'd overheard Romilda Vane and her friends making a plan. They were trying to figure out the best way to slip a love potion into his drink. They'd talked about it so casually, like it was a fun joke and not a horrible thing to do. A surge of hot, fierce protectiveness had shot through Hermione. The urge to storm out and hex them all was almost too much to handle.

And in that moment of fierce loyalty, her own recent nagging felt incredibly petty. She’d been so fixated on the ethics of the Half-Blood Prince's book, so determined to be the voice of reason. She made a silent promise to herself, right then and there. She would try to be less critical. He was dealing with enough already. Maybe... maybe it was time to put her own stubborn pride aside and actually listen to his suspicions about Draco Malfoy. To consider, properly, that Harry might be right.

She was so lost in this new resolve that she almost didn't see them until they were right there. Harry and Ron were coming from the direction of the Great Hall, looking rested after having had a free period.

“There you are,” Ron said as they fell into step on either side of her. “Where’ve you been?”

Hermione gave him a pointed look. “At class, Ronald,” she said, her tone exceptionally dry. “It’s called Arithmancy. Some of us have to attend them to pass our N.E.W.T.s, unlike those who spend their free periods lounging about.”

Ron just snorted. “Not my fault you chose to take every difficult class in the castle. Some of us like having time to breathe.”

Harry just shot her a small, sympathetic smile over Ron's head, a silent acknowledgment of her workload. It was a tiny gesture, but it made Hermione's defensive posture soften instantly. He understood.

She gave him a grateful look back before turning her attention to him more fully. “Slughorn cornered me after Arithmancy,” she began, “He’s having another Slug Club meeting this week and made it very clear he expects both of us to be there.”

Harry groaned, the sound laced with genuine exhaustion. He ran a hand through his hair. “Another one? Honestly, I was just going to skip.” He looked at her then, his green eyes serious, his next words quiet enough that only she could really hear them. “I’ll only go if you’re going.”

The statement was simple, a plain and honest condition, and it sent a jolt right through her. Her first thought was immediate and logical: But Ginny will be there too. Slughorn had been very specific about inviting Ginny—he was still impressed by that Bat-Bogey Hex she’d performed on the train. Yet Harry's condition hadn't been about whether Ginny would be attending; it was a single, pointed requirement. Her. The implication of that—that her presence alone was the deciding factor—caused a sudden, dizzying warmth to bloom in her chest.

Ron, standing right beside them, shifted his weight, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face at their private exchange.

“Well, I’ll be there,” Hermione said, her voice a little breathless as she held Harry's gaze. “So I suppose you have to go now.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across Harry's face. “Suppose I do.”

“Right, well, we’re going to be late,” Ron cut in, his tone suddenly brisk. He started walking again, forcing them to hurry to catch up. The moment was broken, but the feeling of it—that small, undeniable pact between her and Harry—lingered as they rushed toward the Charms classroom.

The moment they stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the room washed over them. The Charms classroom always felt like a pocket of perpetual summer, a welcome relief from the castle's drafty halls. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, illuminating swirling dust motes and making the various enchanted objects on Professor Flitwick's shelves glitter. The air was warm and smelled faintly of beeswax and old parchment. At the front of the room, Professor Flitwick stood on his usual stack of books, beaming at the arriving students. "Settle in, settle in! We have much to practice today!"

As Flitwick began his lecture on the intricacies of non-verbal spell-casting, Hermione found her gaze drifting to Harry. She watched the way his gaze seemed to be fixed somewhere over Flitwick's head, his expression distant and bored. The memory of his smile in the hallway—the one that had been just for her—was a warm, persistent hum beneath her own thoughts.

"...and so, for today's practical work," Flitwick chirped, "I want you to get into pairs!"

The room erupted in the familiar shuffle of students grabbing their bags. Ron glanced over at Harry and Hermione, expecting to have to sort out the usual three-way-pairing negotiation. But before he could even speak, he watched Hermione stand up and walk with a straight-backed purpose directly to Harry's desk.

Ron blinked, surprised. Huh, was his only thought. Well, that settles that, then. He saw Seamus Finnigan looking around for a partner and gave him a short nod, trying to act as if that had been his plan all along. But he couldn't help but shoot one last look at Harry and Hermione. He watched her offer Harry a smile that seemed brighter than usual, and a familiar, nameless irritation pricked at him. He knew it was jealousy, but he would not admit it.

Across the aisle, Romilda Vane was getting to her feet, a predatory glint in her eyes as she looked straight at Harry. Hermione remembered the conversation she'd overheard in the bathroom, the casual, awful talk of love potions. An immediate, fierce wave of possessiveness washed over her. Absolutely not.

The thought was so sharp and instinctive it startled her. Her earlier, softer desire to be near him suddenly sharpened into a needle-point of determination.

Before Romilda could take a single step, Hermione was on her feet. She crossed the small space between their desks in a heartbeat. Harry looked up as she stopped beside him, his expression shifting from neutral curiosity to open surprise.

She didn't need to say anything more than one word, letting her warm, unwavering smile convey the rest. "Partner?"

For a second, he just stared, perhaps taken aback by her suddenness. Then, the surprise in his eyes melted away, replaced by a slow, spreading grin that was so full of relief and genuine warmth it made her own heart give a happy little squeeze. "Yeah," he breathed out, his voice soft with feeling. "Definitely."

He immediately moved his bag to make space for her, a simple gesture that felt profoundly welcoming. As she sat down, she risked a quick glance back at Romilda, who was now sitting back down with a look of pure venom on her face. A small, uncharitable flicker of triumph went through Hermione, a feeling she promptly decided not to analyze.

Professor Flitwick beamed. "Today, we will be practicing precision and concentration! Before me is a collection of enchanted glass balls, each swirling with the colors of a Hogwarts house. Your task is to non-verbally summon a single ball of your own house color, without disturbing any of the others. A fine test of focus! Off you go!"

A low murmur went through the class as students squared their shoulders and focused on the collection of swirling glass orbs at the front. Hermione leaned forward slightly, her eyes scanning the jumble of colors, her mind already breaking down the magical theory. Beside her, Harry let out a small sigh.

“Alright, Granger,” he murmured, giving her a sideways grin. “You first. Show me how it’s done.”

Hermione accepted the silent challenge, a small, confident smile playing on her lips. She raised her wand, picturing a single Gryffindor-red ball, isolating it in her mind from the others. She imagined its weight, its smooth surface, its path to her hand. With a clean, decisive flick of her wrist, the ball detached itself from the pile, spiraling gracefully through the air before landing softly in her waiting palm.

"Show off," Harry muttered, but the smile in his voice was genuine.

"Your turn," she whispered back, her own grin widening.

Harry took a deep breath, his eyes zeroing in on a swirling crimson and gold ball. He tried to focus, but his aim was a little off. His magical intent, lacking the pinpoint precision required, latched onto the nearest object that shared the same prominent crimson color... a small, forgotten pot of bright red correction ink sitting on the edge of Flitwick’s desk.

Instead of the glass ball, the ink pot shot off the desk. It zipped through the air, did a wild wobble, and came to an abrupt halt right in front of Harry's face, splashing a perfect, comical blot of red ink right on his nose.

Harry froze, his eyes wide in surprise. He slowly crossed them, trying to see the red blot on his own nose.

Hermione stared for a second before a loud, happy laugh burst out of her. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Harry!" she said, trying to catch her breath as she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. "Of all the things to summon."

"I was aiming for the ball!" he insisted, though a grin was spreading across his face as he watched her laughing.

"Hold still, you menace," she said, her voice full of amusement as she leaned in close. Her touch was gentle as she dabbed at the ink on his nose. He went very still, his eyes fixed on hers.

Her thumb brushed against his skin as she wiped away the last of it. The air between them suddenly felt charged, and she pulled her hand back, breaking the spell.

He touched his nose, now clean. "My good looks are restored?" he asked, a teasing glint in his eye.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she couldn't suppress a fond smile. "Honestly, Harry," she retorted playfully, "between the 'Chosen One' business and Slughorn's flattery, your ego is getting big enough to need its own school trunk."

He let out a real laugh at that, a bright, open sound. "Alright, maybe a small one," he admitted, nudging her with his elbow. "For that, you still have to explain the ink pot to Flitwick."

"Not a chance," she grinned back. "That disaster was all you, Potter."

The easy, comfortable banter felt like coming home.

Chapter Text

Ron's POV

The room erupted in the familiar shuffle of students grabbing their bags as Professor Flitwick told them to get into pairs. Ron glanced over at Harry and Hermione, expecting to have to sort out the usual three-way-pairing negotiation. But before he could even speak, he watched Hermione stand up and walk with a straight-backed purpose directly to Harry's desk.

Ron blinked, surprised. Huh, was his only thought. Well, that settles that, then. He saw Seamus Finnigan looking around for a partner and gave him a short nod, trying to act as if that had been his plan all along.

As he started working with Seamus, he couldn't help but shoot one last look at Harry and Hermione. He watched her offer Harry a smile that seemed brighter than usual, and that familiar, nameless irritation pricked at him. It had been like that a lot lately. With Harry being made Captain and suddenly getting all this praise from Slughorn, Ron had been feeling a step behind all term.

He tried to focus on his own task, but his eyes kept drifting back to their table. He saw Hermione flawlessly summon her glass ball on the first try and heard Harry's quiet, impressed "Show off." Ron found himself smiling. Blimey, she's brilliant, he thought with a familiar mix of awe and exasperation. He supposed he should be used to it by now; for six years, she’d been the one keeping them on track, reminding them about homework, and generally stopping him and Harry from being complete idiots. She was always so bloody capable.

His fond thought was interrupted a moment later when a ripple of laughter spread through the class. Ron looked over again to see that a pot of red ink had somehow zoomed across the room and splattered all over Harry's nose. He couldn't help it—he let out a real laugh himself. It was objectively funny.

But then the moment stretched.

He watched as she leaned in close, dabbing at Harry's face with her handkerchief. He saw the care in her movements, the gentleness of her touch. He saw the way Harry went still, his eyes fixed on hers. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he saw their private smiles, their quiet banter, the easy way they existed in their own little bubble.

It wasn't the ink that bothered him; it was the easy intimacy of it all. The way she’d leaned in to wipe his face, the way Harry had let her, the quiet joke that had passed between them right after. It was a private moment, and he’d been on the outside of it.

He quickly looked away, forcing himself to focus on Seamus, who was now complaining about his wand. She asked you to Slughorn’s party, Ron reminded himself fiercely, the thought a familiar, comforting shield. She asked you. And Harry didn't see her like that anyway; everyone knew that. They were just friends.

It was the only thought that could console him, the only thing that kept the ugly, coiling knot of jealousy from tightening in his gut.

A day or two later, the weight of Dumbledore’s words felt like a physical cloak draped over Harry’s shoulders, heavy and cold. He walked through the corridor, his eyes scanning the familiar parchment of the Marauder's Map, the cheerful chatter of students passing by him like a language from another world. He'd been trying to find Malfoy, but once again, Draco's tell-tale dot had simply vanished. It was as if he'd disappeared into thin air, and the impossibility of it made Harry's suspicions burn even hotter.

He folded the map, his mind a swirl of dark thoughts. The glimpses into Tom Riddle’s past—the cold orphanage, the cruel Gaunt family—were unsettling secrets that now lived inside him. It felt like pieces of a horrifying puzzle, and he knew Dumbledore believed Professor Slughorn held the most important piece of all; a memory Harry had so far failed to retrieve. He felt older, burdened. How was he supposed to survive a war against an enemy whose history was so steeped in monstrosity, especially when a new one was brewing right under his nose?

His thoughts drifted, as they always did when things got too dark, to the people he’d lost. To Sirius. A familiar, sharp ache pulsed in his chest. Then, unbidden, the memory of Hermione at the Ministry, crumpled and silent after Dolohov’s curse, flashed through his mind. His stomach clenched violently at the image. No. He would not see her like that ever again. He wouldn't be able to bear it.

But he knew she was reckless, at least when it came to him. She would jump into danger at his side without a moment's hesitation. The thought, terrifying as it was, drew a small, sad smile to his face.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't see the figure coming around the corner until it was too late. He collided with someone with a soft 'oof', sending a cascade of books and parchment scattering across the flagstones.

“Oh—watch it—” a familiar voice started, then changed its tone. “Harry!”

It was Ginny. She was already kneeling on the floor, her long red hair falling over her face as she scrambled to gather her things.

“Sorry! I wasn’t looking,” Harry said, immediately dropping to his knees to help her. “Completely my fault.”

He started gathering up loose pages of notes, his hands brushing against hers as they both reached for the same textbook. He looked up at her then, really looked at her as she pushed her hair out of her eyes, her gaze meeting his for a heartbeat longer than necessary. He saw the weird, conflicted feelings he’d had about her over the summer surface again. He’d watched her at the Burrow, with her witty and sarcastic personality, he felt a definite pull. He’d loved flying with her, the way she moved on a broom with such confidence. She was also, he had to admit, quietly beautiful.

But as he looked at her now, he tried to grasp the feeling, to give it a name. It wasn't the same as how he'd felt about Cho—that had been a frantic, head-over-heels crush. This was quieter, more comfortable. But it also lacked the gut-wrenching, terrifying weight of the feelings he had whenever he thought about… well, about Hermione.

His thoughts seemed to be diverting to her more and more lately. He wasn't sure why. He remembered blurting out that he would only go to the Slug Club meeting if she was there, and a hot, internal blush crept up his neck at the memory. He hadn't meant to say it, but it had been the honest truth.

"Earth to Harry?"

Ginny's voice cut through his thoughts, and he blinked, realizing he'd been staring blankly at her while holding a copy of Advanced Rune Translation.

And Ginny's with Dean, he reminded himself firmly, handing her the last of her books.

Ginny took them, and as she stood up, a faint blush rose on her cheeks under his steady gaze. Her expression softened from surprise to a deeper, more genuine concern. “You really are a million miles away,” she said, her voice a little softer now. “Everything alright?”

The simple, friendly concern was a welcome relief. “Yeah, fine,” he lied easily. “Just… a long meeting with Dumbledore.”

“Ah,” she said, her voice full of understanding. She fell into step beside him. “Walk with me?”

The offer was so simple, so free of complications. “Yeah,” Harry said, a real smile touching his lips for the first time since leaving Dumbledore’s office. “Alright.”

They fell into step together, the bustling noise of the corridor a welcome distraction.

"So," Ginny said, once they were walking. "Was it really alright? The meeting with Dumbledore?"

"The usual," Harry said with a shrug. "Confusing. Secretive. The kind of thing that gives you a headache."

She nodded, wisely choosing not to press. Instead, she changed the subject to safer ground. "So, Captain," she began, giving him a sideways glance. "Are you going to run us into the ground again at practice tomorrow? I think my arms are still sore from the last one."

Harry couldn't help but smile. "It wasn't that bad"

"Just don't break your new Keeper before our first match," she said, her voice softening with genuine concern. "How is he, really? He's trying to act all confident in the common room, but..."

The ease between them made it simple to tell the truth. "He's a nervous wreck," Harry admitted with a sigh. "He's brilliant when he thinks no one's watching... but the second he knows people are judging him, he falls apart."

"He's always been like that," Ginny said with a knowing sigh of her own.

"Speaking of the team," Harry started, his tone carefully casual. "How are things with Dean?"

It was at that exact moment that Hermione pushed open the heavy library door, her arms laden with books. She started down the corridor, only to freeze a few paces on. Ahead of her, walking slowly, were Harry and Ginny. Their heads were inclined toward one another, their pace unhurried. As she watched, Harry said something, and Ginny’s expression turned flat for a moment.

"...He's fine," Hermione heard Ginny say as she drew closer, her soft-soled shoes making little sound. "A bit loud. We're fine."

There was a pause. Hermione slowed her steps, feeling like an intruder.

"Anyway," Ginny's voice was brighter now, changing the subject. "You are going to Slughorn's meeting tonight, aren't you? It would be awfully boring if I was the only Gryffindor Quidditch player there."

Hermione’s steps faltered. Ginny was talking about the Slug Club meeting as if it were a casual event for the two of them.

"Yeah," she heard Harry's voice, firm and clear. "I'll be there."

That was all she needed to hear. All her earlier resolutions vanished, replaced by a hot, possessive sting. She closed the final distance between them.

“Fancy seeing you two here,” she said, her voice a little too bright.

Harry and Ginny both turned, surprised. Harry’s smile was immediate and genuine when he saw her. “Hermione!”

“Where are you both off to?” she asked, her eyes flicking between them.

“Oh,” Ginny answered, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Harry was just walking me toward my class.”

The innocent statement, combined with the conversation she'd just overheard, sent a fresh wave of jealousy through Hermione. She looked directly at Harry, her expression pointedly sweet.

“How nice of you, Harry,” she said. “But you must be careful with the time. You wouldn’t want to be late for the Slug Club meeting tonight.” She let the pause hang in the air before adding, her gaze unwavering, “You did tell me you would only go if I was going.”

The words landed like a physical blow in the quiet corridor. Harry’s face instantly flushed a deep, embarrassed red. He looked from Hermione's challenging expression to Ginny's, whose own smile had vanished, though not before Hermione caught a distinct flicker of annoyance—and maybe even jealousy—in her eyes.

Ginny recovered first, giving a small, tight smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Right. Well, a promise is a promise, I suppose.” She adjusted the books in her arms. “My class is just around the corner. I’ll see you both at the meeting later.”

And without another glance, she turned and walked away, her posture stiff.

After a long moment, Hermione broke the silence, her voice laced with a brittle playfulness that felt sharper than any shout.

“So,” she said, a small, bitter smile on her face. “You were walking her to class?”

He finally met her gaze, looking flustered. “I just bumped into her and she asked me to walk with her.” His voice was quick and quiet, a simple statement of fact. He wasn't sure why it felt so important to clarify, only that he didn't like the look in her eyes.

His immediate need to explain himself sent a fresh wave of something dizzying through her—part guilt, part triumph. She couldn't believe she'd gotten so jealous. This was Ginny. The same Ginny she had personally advised, years ago, to relax and just be herself around Harry. And now here she was, acting like a possessive harpy, staking a claim she had no right to. She had no idea why she’d done it, only that the sight of them together had felt fundamentally wrong.

Shaking her head to clear the confusing thoughts, she took a step back, needing to put some distance between them. “Right. Well, I need to get ready for the meeting.” Her tone was brisk now, a wall going up around her own turmoil. “I’ll meet you in the common room in a bit.”

And before he could say another word, she turned and walked quickly away, her cheeks burning.

Harry watched her go, the flustered heat on his neck slowly fading, replaced by a feeling of profound amusement. She’d been jealous. Fiercely, undeniably jealous. And instead of being annoyed by her possessive move, he found he didn't mind it at all. He watched her until she rounded the corner, a slow, unconscious smile spreading across his face as he found himself, not for the first time that day, admiring the view.

Chapter Text

Hermione stared at her own reflection in the dormitory mirror, a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck for what felt like the hundredth time. The memory of the scene in the corridor was vivid, playing on a loop in her mind: the possessive, demanding tone of her own voice, the shocked, shuttered look on Ginny’s face, and worst of all, the deep, embarrassed red that had stained Harry’s cheeks. She wanted to sink through the floor and bury her face in a pillow for a week. What had she been thinking?

“Blimey, Hermione,” a voice said from behind her, full of amusement. “If you stare any harder at that mirror, you’ll set it on fire. What’s on your mind?”

Hermione jumped, turning to see Parvati Patil sitting on her own bed, applying a fresh coat of kohl to her eyes. “Where are you off to, anyway? You look nice.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, smoothing down the front of her robes. “It’s not a party, not really. Just another one of Slughorn’s Slug Club meetings.”

Parvati’s eyes lit up with interest. “Really? Who’s going to be there this time?”

“The usual, I expect,” Hermione said, trying to sound casual as she listed them off. “Me, Harry, Zabini, Belby… Ginny, I think.”

Parvati gave her a knowing smirk. “Oh, a little party for you and Harry, then? How romantic.”

“It is not a date, Parvati,” Hermione said, her voice a little too sharp. “It’s a teacher’s event. It’s practically extra credit.”

“Right,” Parvati said, drawing the word out. “Extra credit with the Chosen One. Poor you.” She winked, turning back to her mirror.

Flustered, Hermione turned to her wardrobe, deciding she couldn't continue the conversation for another second. She pulled out the simple, pale pink crushed-velvet dress she’d set aside. It wasn't formal, but it was prettier than her school robes. After changing quickly, she gave herself one last, critical look in the mirror before heading downstairs.

She descended the spiral staircase into the common room, her eyes scanning for Harry. She spotted him at a corner table, already getting to his feet as he heard her approach. He was quickly folding a piece of parchment and shoving it into his bag. As he turned to face her fully, Hermione’s own thoughts stuttered to a halt.

He wasn't in his usual school robes or a worn jumper. He was wearing proper black dress robes that fit him well, the crisp white shirt underneath making the green of his eyes seem even more vivid. He looked older, more put-together, and—her mind supplied with a jolt that made her cheeks warm—incredibly handsome.

She was still processing this new view of him when he finally spoke, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “Wow, Hermione,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “You look… really nice.”

A lovely blush immediately spread across her cheeks, and she looked down for a second before meeting his gaze again, a new, appreciative glint in her own eyes. “You look pretty handsome yourself, Potter,” she retorted, her tone light and teasing.

Now it was Harry's turn to feel the heat rise in his own neck. He wasn't used to her saying things like that so directly. He just gave a small, flustered laugh.

It was this scene that Ron saw as he sat slouched deep in an armchair by the fire, the spine of his Potions textbook digging into his ribs. He’d been trying to read, but his eyes kept flicking up toward the staircase. He saw them standing there, saw Hermione in her dress—she looked nice, and that fact settled in his stomach like a lead weight. He saw Harry’s stunned, goofy grin, and her answering blush.

The familiar, ugly feeling of being second-best, of being the spare part, coiled in his gut. The thought of his own Quidditch nerves, of Harry's captaincy, of Slughorn's constant praise for his two best friends—it all boiled over. He couldn't stay quiet. As they turned to leave, he spoke, his voice low and laced with a resentment he didn't bother to hide.

"Have fun with the Slug Club," he muttered.

He felt their footsteps halt. He looked up from his book to see them both turned toward him.

"Guess some of us just aren't good enough for Slughorn," he continued, unable to stop himself now. He looked from Harry's suddenly tight expression to Hermione's. "You have to be the Chosen One, I suppose. Or a genius."

The words landed in the quiet common room with a heavy thud. Harry looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Hermione stared at him, and the happy, excited look she'd had just moments before crumbled, replaced by a mask of deep disappointment and hurt.

"That's a horrible thing to say, Ronald," she said quietly, her voice trembling slightly.

Ron's anger immediately deflated, replaced by a swift, hot pang of regret. He hadn't meant to hurt her. He opened his mouth to take it back, to say something, anything, but she just gave a small, sharp shake of her head.

"Let's go, Harry."

She took Harry's arm and led him firmly out of the portrait hole without a backwards glance. The portrait swung shut, leaving Ron alone in the sudden, heavy silence. He stared at the empty space where they had been, the echo of his own bitter words hanging in the air. He slumped back into his chair, the victory of having gotten a reaction feeling hollow and stupid. He had just wanted them to see him, to acknowledge him. Instead, he'd just pushed her away.

The portrait hole swung shut behind them, plunging them into the relative quiet of the seventh-floor corridor. For a few paces, they walked in a tense silence, the only sound the soft swish of Hermione's dress against the stone floor. Harry didn't dare speak, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

It came as they turned the corner.

"Why does he have to be like that?" Hermione burst out, her voice a low, furious whisper as she dropped Harry's arm and began to pace. "Why does he always have to be such a complete and utter git?"

Harry watched her, his own discomfort forgotten in the face of her anger. "Hermione—"

"No, really!" she insisted, rounding on him. "It's so unfair! I know he feels left out of the Slug Club, which is precisely why I invited him to the Christmas party, so he would feel included! So he wouldn't feel like we were leaving him behind! And he just—he throws it back in our faces with his petty, jealous insults! I sometimes cannot deal with him, Harry, I really can't!"

Harry listened to her words, but he paid more attention to the raw hurt in her voice. She could give a perfectly logical reason for inviting Ron, and he believed that she believed it. But no one got this upset, this passionate, over just trying to be inclusive. He let out a quiet, internal sigh, a wave of weary resignation washing over him. Yeah, he thought, the conclusion forming with a dull certainty. She feels something for him, alright.

She finally ran out of steam, her chest heaving, her eyes bright with angry, unshed tears. Harry sighed, a sound of profound weariness that seemed older than his years.

"Remember fourth year?" he asked quietly.

She blinked, the non-sequitur throwing her off. "What?"

"The Yule Ball," he clarified, a small, sad smile on his face. "When he spent the entire night sulking because you went with Krum. And when he wouldn't talk to me for a month during the Triwizard Tournament. He gets like this, Hermione. His jealousy is like a troll in a dungeon—it's big, it's stupid, and you just have to wait for it to blunder its way out."

Hearing him put it into historical context, framing it as just another chapter in the long book of Ron's insecurities, seemed to drain the immediate sting from the moment. It felt less like a personal attack and more like a predictable, if frustrating, pattern.

"A troll in a dungeon?" she repeated, a flicker of her old, analytical amusement returning. "That's a terrible metaphor."

"I know," he said, his smile widening. He offered her his arm. "You'll help me come up with a better one on the way."

She laughed, a real, watery laugh, and took his arm. As she did, he looked down at her, his expression turning serious for a moment. "And for what it's worth," he added quietly. "You look really nice tonight."

The sincere compliment, coming so unexpectedly, made her cheeks warm. They started walking, the warmth of his arm a steady presence beside her.

"So," Harry asked, his voice returning to normal. "Who all is going to be there?"

A mischievous glint appeared in Hermione's eye. She bumped him gently with her shoulder. "Oh, so this is your 'first time', is it?" she teased.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across Harry's face, one that was far more suggestive than the wry smile he'd given her before. It made her stomach do a nervous little flip.

Hermione’s own smile faltered. Oh. That wasn't the smirk that acknowledged their private joke about the pact. That was a different smirk entirely, one that hinted at things she most certainly had not meant. Her cheeks instantly burned with a hot, mortified flush.

"The Slug Club meeting!" she clarified in a rush, her voice a little too high. "I meant it's your first Slug Club meeting! Obviously! What did you think I meant?"

Harry just chuckled, the sound low and full of amusement at her embarrassment. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Granger," he said, his eyes still dancing with mischief.

"Come on," she grumbled, pulling him along as they continued their walk to Slughorn's office. They arrived just as the door was opened by a house-elf.

Inside, the room was dominated by a large, round table lavishly set for about a dozen people. Slughorn, beaming from his place at the head of the table, spotted them at once. "Ah, there they are! Harry, my boy! Miss Granger! Come in, come in, we've saved you spots!" he boomed, gesturing enthusiastically to two empty chairs right beside him.

As they took their seats, Harry settled in next to Hermione. As the house-elves served dessert, Slughorn raised his glass.

"I'd like to make a toast," he began, his eyes twinkling as they landed directly on Harry. "To Mr. Potter here! A natural talent in Potions I haven't seen since his mother, I must say! Absolutely brilliant!"

A smattering of polite applause went around the table. Harry felt his cheeks burn, sinking a little lower in his seat.

"And that's not all!" Slughorn continued. "Defeating a Basilisk in his second year! Winning the Triwizard Tournament in his fourth—an incredible achievement!"

The praise was relentless, and Harry wished he could slide under the table. It was at that moment he felt a sudden, soft pressure on his knee. He glanced down. It was Hermione’s hand, offering a small, firm, and secret gesture of comfort.

It was then that the office door creaked open, and Ginny Weasley slipped inside, murmuring an apology to Slughorn for her tardiness. Harry saw that her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. She glanced at Harry and Hermione sitting together, her expression unreadable, before she moved to take the only remaining empty seat next to Marcus Belby.

Slughorn, momentarily distracted, turned his attention to that side of the table. "Not to worry, Miss Weasley, not to worry! You're just in time for dessert! Speaking of which, Mr. Belby, I was just telling your father's old friend Tiberius that you were showing a real flair for Charms!"

Belby looked up from his treacle tart, looking terrified. "My... my father and my Uncle Damocles don't speak, Professor," he mumbled. "Not after their big row."

"Oh, dear," Slughorn said, looking disappointed that the connection wasn't as useful as he'd hoped. He quickly scanned the table for a more promising subject and his eyes landed on Blaise Zabini. "And Blaise! Your mother is as charming as ever, I trust? I still remember a magnificent party she threw in '87..."

Zabini looked up, a bored expression on his face. "She's fine," he said coolly. "Her new husband is very generous with his gold, which keeps her happy."

Slughorn chuckled, undeterred by the lack of enthusiasm. "A formidable woman! A formidable woman." He then turned his gaze to Ginny. "And Miss Weasley! Still terrorizing your classmates with that Bat-Bogey Hex, I hope?"

"Only when they deserve it, Professor," Ginny said with a small, confident smile.

As the conversation lulled, Harry felt Hermione shift uncomfortably beside him. He followed her gaze and saw Cormac McLaggen staring at her from across the table with a hungry, possessive look that made Harry's own jaw tighten.

Slughorn, oblivious, seized on a new topic. "Quidditch! Harry, my boy, a fine team you're building! Though I hear you had some stiff competition for the Keeper position!"

This was the opening McLaggen had been waiting for. He puffed out his chest. "Well, I was a shoo-in for the spot, naturally," he said loudly, directing his comment toward Hermione. "Potter here was just lucky Weasley had a decent day."

Before Hermione could even form a polite, dismissive reply, Harry spoke, his voice dangerously quiet. "Lucky? I don't know, McLaggen. From where I was standing, you flew in the opposite direction of the goal post. I didn't even have to 'consider' you after that awful performance."

A stunned silence fell over the table. Cormac's face flushed a deep, ugly puce. Then, Hermione made a small, choked sound, trying to hide her own laugh behind her hand.

Slughorn, desperate to smooth over the moment, clapped his hands together and turned his beaming, if slightly strained, smile on Hermione. "Well! Speaking of brilliant Gryffindors! Miss Granger, your parents are Muggles, are they not? What do they do for a living?"

"They're dentists," Hermione said politely, shooting Harry a grateful, amused look.

Slughorn looked utterly baffled. "And what is that, exactly?"

"They're doctors for teeth," Harry clarified with a small chuckle.

"Fascinating!" Slughorn beamed. He looked between them. "I expect I'll be seeing you both at my Christmas party? Together, of course!" He gave Harry a conspiratorial wink. "You're a lucky man, Harry. A brilliant and beautiful witch like Miss Granger... she reminds me so much of your mother, Lily. You are lucky to have her."

The entire table went quiet. Harry felt a hot blush spread from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears. Beside him, he could feel the heat radiating from Hermione's own mortified face. He opened his mouth to correct him, to say something, anything— "Professor, we're not—"

But at that exact moment, the office door creaked open again. Argus Filch stood there, whispering urgently into Slughorn's ear.

Slughorn gave a quiet sigh of annoyance before waving him away. "Apologies, my dears! A minor magical mishap." He launched into another long story, and a short while later, finally dismissed them.

Harry, Hermione, and Ginny left the office together, stepping out into the relative cool of the empty corridor. It was Hermione who broke the silence, gently touching Ginny's arm.

"Ginny, are you really okay?" she asked, her eyes full of concern.

"It's just Dean," Ginny admitted, her voice low. "We've been constantly fighting."

Hermione immediately moved to console her. Harry just stood there awkwardly. Instead of heading back, they found a quiet, stone bench in a small, moonlit courtyard. Trying to lift the mood, Harry started recounting the ink pot incident from Charms. Soon, all three of them were laughing, the easy, familiar sound echoing in the quiet courtyard.

After a few more minutes, Ginny wiped a tear of laughter from her eye. "Thanks, you two," she said, her smile genuine now. "I needed that." She stood up, gathering her things. "I should get back. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you, Ginny," Harry said.

He and Hermione watched her go. And then, they were left alone together in the quiet, moonlit garden.

The silence that settled between them wasn't awkward, but it was heavy with unspoken things. Harry stared out into the darkness of the grounds, his mind replaying the evening.

"Slughorn's a right character, isn't he?" Harry said finally, breaking the silence with a small, amused huff.

Hermione, who had been watching him, gave a soft laugh. "That's one word for it. I think 'collector' is more accurate." She paused, and he could feel her looking at him, a teasing glint in her eyes even in the dim moonlight. "He certainly thinks you're lucky to have me."

The playful jab sent a fresh wave of warmth through him, but this time it wasn't embarrassing. It was... nice. He turned to face her on the stone bench, moving a bit closer. The amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by a raw sincerity that made her own smile falter.

"What he said was true, you know," Harry said, his voice low and serious, completely devoid of jokes. "I am really lucky to have you. I may not say that often... or at all... but you have no idea how grateful I am. For everything. For sticking with me when no one else did."

He held her gaze, his expression open and honest, and laid bare a truth that had sat between them for years.

Hermione stared at him, her heart hammering in her chest. His words, so simple and sincere, completely disarmed her. All the clever responses and teasing retorts she usually kept at the ready vanished, leaving only a raw, overwhelming wave of emotion. Her eyes welled up with tears she couldn't stop, blurring the sight of his earnest face in the moonlight.

Words failed her entirely. So, instead of speaking, she did the only thing that felt right.

She closed the small space between them on the bench and, without a single thought, wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in the warm, familiar space of his shoulder. She felt him go rigid with surprise for a heartbeat before his own arms came up, circling her waist and pulling her closer in a firm, steady embrace.

He didn't say anything else. He just held her.

And in the quiet, moonlit courtyard, surrounded by the comforting weight of his arms, Hermione felt a feeling she couldn't name. It wasn't just safety, and it wasn't just comfort. It was something deeper, something warmer, something that felt dangerously close to the one thing she'd always told herself she could never feel for him.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat at a dusty, forgotten table in the far corner of the library, the scent of old parchment and beeswax thick in the air. A copy of Advanced Rune Translation lay open in front of her, but she hadn't read a single word for the last ten minutes. Her mind was a battlefield, replaying the events of the past few weeks, the past few years, all of it swirling around a single, undeniable focal point: Harry.

All she could truly feel was the ghost of his arms around her from the night before; the comforting weight of his dress robes, the steady, solid beat of his heart against her ear. It wasn’t just the hug itself, but the raw sincerity that had led to it. He had been so sweet to her. After Ron's bitter outburst, he hadn't brushed it off or told her to forget it. He had listened. He had understood. And he had comforted her.

She leaned her forehead against the cool, musty cover of the heavy book, her thoughts spiraling backwards. She tried to pinpoint when things had become so impossibly complicated. For so long, her feelings for Ron had seemed like the logical conclusion. She remembered the long, stuffy summer before fifth year at Grimmauld Place. While she had been sick with worry over Harry's upcoming hearing at the Ministry, Ron had been her constant, steady presence. They had spent weeks together in that dusty, gloomy house, playing endless games of explosive snap that ended in laughter and soot-stained fingers, helping Mrs. Weasley battle doxies and cleaning spells, and just… being together. He had been sweet to her then, caring in his own clumsy way, a solid support to lean on when the anxiety became too much.

She knew, even then, that her bond with Harry was a thing unto itself—an unbreakable, foundational part of her that she could never replicate with Ron. But what she had with Ron was unique, too. Their bickering was a language of its own. And she had fallen utterly in love with his family. The chaotic, unconditional warmth of the Burrow felt more like a home than anywhere else in the world. Ron, with all his flaws, was familiar. He was safe. He was the sensible path.

Then Harry had come back into the picture, always at the center of some new storm. He'd arrived at Grimmauld Place that summer, so full of angry, righteous fire, lashing out at them for being kept in the dark. That whole year, it felt as though he was behind a wall of his own making, grieving for Cedric and carrying the weight of the world.

She remembered the sharp, crushing disappointment she’d felt when the Prefect letters arrived. She had been so sure it would be Harry. A part of her she refused to acknowledge had been looking forward to it with a breathless anticipation—to spending more time with him, working with him, a team, just the two of them getting back to the easy partnership they’d always had. But no. The choice had pushed her closer to Ron, a partner in authority, while Harry drifted further away into his own dark moods.

Then came his weird, all-consuming obsession with Cho Chang. Hermione had watched him spend countless hours staring at Cho, and it had annoyed her to no end, an irritation she would never have admitted was rooted in something other than concern for his studies. The day he’d told them he’d kissed Cho, she remembered feeling a strange, hollow numbness, like a light had been switched off inside her. She’d blamed it on their growing distance, on her worry for him, on anything but the truth.

But even then, through all the distance and anger, her loyalty had been absolute. She vividly remembered the horror of seeing the words I must not tell lies carved into the back of his hand by that evil woman, Umbridge. She remembered his stubborn refusal to tell Dumbledore, and her own fierce, immediate determination to help, brewing Essence of Murtlap in secret to soothe the painful, bleeding cuts. After Sirius had died, he’d drifted even further, lost in a grief she couldn't touch. And now, this year, after the fiasco with the Prince's book, he had finally called her out: "it's Ron, right?"

For years, it was as if some force—Dumbledore, fate, Harry’s own trauma—was constantly trying to push her away from him and toward Ron.

But that wasn't the case anymore.

Her thoughts drifted to the Slug Club meeting, to Slughorn’s final, mortifying assumption that they were a couple. She groaned softly, hiding her burning face behind the tall stack of books. It wasn’t the first time, was it? Rita Skeeter had painted her as a "scarlet woman" toying with two champions. Viktor had been so quietly, intensely jealous of Harry. And even Cho, with her sad, resentful glances. They had all seen something she had spent years refusing to see.

As she sat there, she let her mind wander back into that dangerous territory. She imagined being in Harry's arms again, not in a brief, comforting hug, but at the Christmas party, swaying to the music. She pictured him smiling down at her, that warm, easy grin, and leaning in to kiss her.

A sharp, thrilling jolt went through her, and she immediately sat up straight, shaking her head as if to physically dislodge the image. Those were forbidden thoughts. But were they? Her heart hammered against her ribs. Last year, she would have pushed them away instantly, knowing he was infatuated with someone else. But now? After the last few weeks?

Her mind suddenly replayed the evidence in a dizzying rush. His jealousy when she asked Ron to the party. His quiet, firm voice in the hallway—"I'll only go if you're going." The easy, comfortable banter they'd shared in Charms. His fierce, immediate defense of her against McLaggen. Her own hot, possessive jealousy when she’d seen him with Ginny. The way he had comforted her after Ron's outburst. The way Slughorn had mistaken them for a couple. The sincerity in his voice when he said how grateful he was to have her. The feeling of his arms around her.

No one had ever made her feel the way he had these past few weeks. It was terrifying. It was nothing like the safe, comfortable feeling she had for Ron. This was raw, deep, immeasurable, and possessive. It scared her to the core.

But as she sat there in the quiet library, surrounded by the wisdom of ages, she acknowledged a new, unshakeable truth.

She wanted more of this. More of him.

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At the other side:

Ron stormed through the corridor, his knuckles white where he gripped his Cleansweep Eleven, Harry trailing a few steps behind him. Practice had been a complete disaster. He’d let in nearly every goal, and the memory of his own teammates' frustrated glares was still burning in his mind. He was fuming, his mood a toxic combination of public shame and private anger. As he rounded a corner, still muttering about a missed save, he froze mid-step.

Ahead of them, half-hidden in an alcove, were Ginny and Dean Thomas, locked in a passionate embrace.

"Oi!" Ron roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

Ginny and Dean sprang apart. Dean, looking pale and completely bewildered by the interruption, immediately took a step back. "I'll... I'll just see you later, Gin," he muttered, looking embarrassed before making a hasty retreat down the corridor.

Ginny, however, stood her ground, her eyes flashing with anger. "What?" she demanded.

"I don't want to find my own sister snogging in a public corridor!" Ron bellowed.

"This corridor's deserted!" Ginny retorted. "And it's none of your business!"

"I'm your brother!"

"And that's just my misfortune!" she yelled back. "What's the matter with you? You see me kissing my boyfriend and you act like I've never been kissed before!"

"I haven't seen you!" Ron said, his face turning purple.

"You have!" Ginny shrieked, her rage boiling over. "You saw me with Michael, and you saw me with—"

"I didn't want to see you with Dean, either!"

"He's my boyfriend! And if you don't like it, you can look the other way!" Ginny jabbed a finger toward him. "And what about you? Who've you been snogging? You're just jealous because you've never had anyone to snog in your life!"

"I have!" Ron insisted, his ears now a shade of bright red.

"Oh, right," Ginny scoffed, her laugh sharp and cruel. "Or are you counting Auntie Muriel? You know," she continued, her voice rising with furious indignation, "Harry's snogged Cho! And Hermione snogged Viktor Krum! It's only you who's acting like it's some disgusting, dark art! You're just jealous you're the only one in our group who's never had a proper snog!"

The words hit Ron like a physical blow. He stood there, completely shattered and humiliated, unable to form a single word in response.

Ginny gave him one last withering glare. "Pathetic," she spat, before turning on her heel and storming off in the opposite direction, leaving Ron and Harry standing alone in the empty corridor.

Harry waited a moment before taking a tentative step toward his friend. "Ron?" he said quietly.

Ron didn't look at him. He just gave a small, sharp shake of his head, his gaze fixed on the spot where Ginny had been standing.

"Come on," Harry said gently, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Let's just... go."

Ron flinched away from his touch but started walking, his shoulders hunched, his Cleansweep Eleven dragging slightly on the stones. They walked the rest of the way back to the Gryffindor tower in a heavy, miserable silence. The castle corridors felt vast and empty around them.

As they approached the portrait of the Fat Lady, Ron finally spoke, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"Did she? Did Hermione really kiss Krum?"

Harry stopped, feeling deeply uncomfortable. He looked away from Ron, at a tapestry depicting a particularly ugly troll in a tutu. He could lie, he could try to make something up to soften the blow, but looking at his friend's miserable, pale face, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"I don't know, Ron," he said honestly, his voice quiet. "I wasn't there if she did."

Ron didn't say anything to that. He just stared at the portrait in front of them, his expression grim. After a moment, he muttered the password, and they climbed through the portrait hole into the silence of their common room.

The portrait hole swung shut. Without another word, Ron stormed off toward the boys' dormitory, leaving Harry standing alone in the middle of the room. Harry sank into an armchair by the fire, the echo of Ginny's words still ringing in his ears. Hermione snogged Viktor Krum.

He felt a familiar, unpleasant knot tighten in his stomach at the thought. It disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. But then another thought surfaced: Ginny had been furious with Ron. It was entirely possible she’d just said that to mess with him, to hit him where she knew it would hurt the most. Deciding that was a much better explanation, Harry pushed the thought away and, seeking a distraction, pulled the Half-Blood Prince's Potions book from his bag and started to read.

A few minutes later, Hermione arrived from the library, humming softly to herself. She spotted Harry by the fire and a cheerful smile lit up her face. But as she got closer, she saw the familiar, tattered textbook in his hands, and her smile faltered. She opened her mouth, a sharp retort already on her lips, but then she paused, remembering her silent promise. He was dealing with enough already.

Instead of scolding, she found herself just watching him. She admired the intense way he was concentrating, his brow furrowed as he deciphered the Prince's spidery handwriting. A small, fond smile replaced her frown.

"Still reading that book, Harry?" she asked, her voice soft and teasing.

Harry sighed, not looking up, bracing himself for a lecture. He finally turned toward her, expecting to see a stern, disapproving face, but was surprised to find her smiling at him, a look of genuine amusement in her eyes. "What?" he asked, completely thrown.

"Well," Hermione said, her smile widening. "I was just enjoying watching you concentrate so hard on that fishy book of yours."

Harry was stunned by her light tone. "I'm surprised you're not mad," he said honestly. "That I'm trusting the book more than you, like you said."

Hermione laughed, a real, warm sound. "You just love to annoy me, don't you?" she teased.

The easy, comfortable banter between them felt restored, a welcome relief after weeks of tension. The laughter faded into a comfortable silence. Harry looked at her, really looked at her, as she was there smiling, the firelight catching the warm honey tones in her eyes. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she wasn't looking at him with suspicion or disapproval.

And in that moment, he felt a sudden, fierce pang of regret for the distance that had grown between them. He hated it. He hated that this stupid, brilliant book had become a wall, pushing away the one person whose opinion he valued most. He missed his best friend. He missed this.

He knew, with a sudden clarity, what he had to do to tear that wall down.

Then Harry did something that surprised them both.

"Here," he said, his voice quiet but firm as he held the book out to her. "I'll tell you what. You take it. For a few days. Read it, analyze it, do whatever you want with it. If you find anything you think is genuinely dangerous, you're free to do as you please."

Hermione stared at the book in his outstretched hand, then back up at his serious, trusting face. He was giving it to her. He was trusting her judgment. A surge of elation so strong it almost took her breath away went through her.

Before she could overthink it, she sat down on the couch next to him and, on a pure, unthinking impulse, leaned over and gave him a quick, tight hug, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. He was rigid with surprise for a second before his hands came up to rest awkwardly on her back.

She pulled back just as quickly, her face beaming with a brilliant, happy smile.

"I'm so proud of you," she said, her voice full of genuine warmth.

Harry's answering grin felt like it was splitting his face. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt a moment of such simple, uncomplicated happiness. It was just one sentence, but coming from her, it felt like he’d just won the Quidditch World Cup. He just sat there, beaming at her, their knees almost touching on the sofa, completely forgetting they were in the middle of the common room.

Hermione, however, had already accepted the book from him and was immediately engrossed, her brow furrowed in concentration as she flipped through the first few pages. He loved seeing her like this—so happy and excited about a new puzzle to solve. It reminded him of the previous year, when she had gotten so excited thinking he had been made a prefect, only to be disappointed when she learned it was Ron. A sharp, unbidden sense of elation erupted in his mind at the memory, a feeling so triumphant he immediately pushed it away, his cheeks growing warm.

"Oh, this is fascinating," Hermione was muttering, tracing a line of the Prince's spidery script with her finger. "The way he's annotated the counter-curses here is unorthodox, but it's not technically dark magic. It's just... a completely different way of thinking about it."

She turned to him, her eyes bright with intellectual fervor, and started explaining something she found odd in the text. But Harry wasn't really concentrating on the words. His own thoughts were a chaotic, buzzing mess. He was just looking at her—at the way the firelight danced in her bushy hair, turning it into a chaotic halo around her focused face. He was looking at the way her eyes lit up when she was passionate about something, at how fiercely loyal and caring she was, at how incredibly, undeniably beautiful she looked sitting there beside him on the worn Gryffindor sofa.

He was so lost in this silent admiration that he didn't realize she had stopped talking. The only sound in the room was the soft crackle of the fire. The silence stretched, pulling taut between them, and he knew, with a jolt, that she had caught him staring.

Her own words had died on her lips. The academic excitement in her eyes softened, replaced by a quiet, questioning curiosity. Her gaze flickered over his face, as if she were trying to solve a puzzle far more complex than the one in the book on her lap. He didn't look away. He couldn't.

It felt like a spell had been cast over them, rooting them to the spot. For a long time, they just held each other's gaze. The air between them grew thick and charged with all the things they hadn't said all year. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Hermione began to lean closer to him, her eyes searching his for an answer to a question she hadn't asked. He felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest, a frantic, thrilling rhythm, and his own body mirrored hers, closing the small distance between them.

Her scent—old parchment and a faint, sweet smell that was just her—filled his senses. Her lips parted slightly. The world narrowed to this single, terrifying, perfect moment.

Just as the space between them had shrunk to almost nothing, a loud, clumsy cough echoed from the direction of the boys' dormitory staircase.

They sprang apart as if they'd been hit with a Stunning Spell.

Harry's head whipped around to see Neville Longbottom standing on the last step, looking absolutely horrified, his face the color of a ripe tomato.

In a blind panic, Harry immediately grabbed a nearby copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6, and opened it to a random page, pretending to be deeply absorbed in a chapter on Aguamenti. Beside him, Hermione suddenly found the patterns on the Oriental rug to be the most fascinating thing she had ever seen in her life.

"Sorry!" Neville squeaked, his voice an octave higher than usual. "I—I just forgot my... my toad tonic. For Trevor. Sorry!"

He practically scrambled back up the stairs, leaving a mortifying, ringing silence in his wake.

Harry and Hermione sat there for what felt like an eternity, neither daring to look at the other, both of them blushing furiously. The charged, intimate bubble had been violently popped, leaving only overwhelming awkwardness. Finally, feeling like he was going to suffocate, Harry cleared his throat and stood up. He had to say something, anything, to fix this.

"Hermione, I—" he started, not even knowing how the sentence was supposed to end.

But before he could get another word out, she stood up too, closing the space between them in a single, decisive step. She rose up on her tiptoes and gently, deliberately, kissed him on the cheek. Her lips were soft and warm.

Just then, the sound of distant chatter and footsteps echoed from beyond the portrait hole. She realized their privacy was about to end. "We'll talk about it later, okay?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

And then, before he could react, she turned and walked quickly toward her own dormitory, leaving Harry standing alone by the fire, stunned, blushing, with the phantom feeling of her lips still warm on his cheek.

Chapter Text

Harry woke slowly, the pale morning light filtering through the high dormitory window. For a few blissful moments, his mind was quiet, the usual weight of his worries not yet settled. Then, the memory surfaced, not with a jolt, but as a slow, spreading warmth from the center of his chest.

Hermione.

He remembered the scene from the previous day: the charged silence in front of the fire, her leaning closer, Neville's mortifying interruption, and then her final, brave gesture. He could almost still feel the soft, warm press of her lips against his cheek.

A slow, warm blush crept up his neck at the memory, and he couldn't stop the small, secret smile that touched his lips. He replayed her whispered promise—We'll talk about it later, okay?—and the warmth spread, a quiet, hopeful hum beneath his ribs.

But the feeling was immediately complicated by a familiar, cold lurch of anxiety in his stomach. It was the day of the Quidditch match.

He sat up and looked across the room. Ron was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed and staring at his scarlet Quidditch robes as if they were his executioner's uniform. He looked pale and distinctly green.

Harry got dressed, the silence in the room heavy and uncomfortable. Dean and Seamus were already bickering about who would get first use of the bathroom, and Neville was searching frantically for his toad. Finally, the other boys left, leaving Harry and Ron alone.

Harry was about to say something encouraging about the match when Ron spoke first, his voice rough.

"Harry," he mumbled, still staring at the floor between his feet.

"Yeah?"

Ron took a deep breath, looking up at him, his face a mixture of shame and misery. "Listen," he started. "I know I’ve been a right git the past few days. I... I just wanted to say sorry."

Harry was completely taken aback. "It's... it's alright, mate."

"No, it's not," Ron insisted, shaking his head. "It’s just… all that stuff with Slughorn’s stupid club. You and Hermione are always off at his parties, and I’m just... not. It makes me feel like a spare part, you know?" He finally met Harry's eyes. "And then Ginny... saying all that stuff yesterday… it just... well, it didn't help, did it? Hurt my ego a bit, I guess."

Harry looked at his friend, at his rare, painful honesty, and felt a wave of deep affection and understanding. "You should have just said something, Ron," he said gently. "The Slug Club is a load of rubbish. Honestly. It's boring. You're not missing anything, I swear." He gave a small smile. "And don't listen to Ginny. She was just angry and trying to hurt you."

Ron managed a weak, lopsided grin. "Yeah, well. She did a good job." He stood up, looking slightly less green. "Right. Breakfast?"

The tension between them had completely vanished, replaced by the familiar, easy friendship they'd shared for years. But as they left the dormitory, Harry knew the bigger problem remained: Ron's confidence for the match was still at rock bottom.

"Yeah," Harry said, his own smile returning. "You go on ahead. I'll be down in a minute."

Ron nodded and headed out of the dormitory, leaving Harry alone with Neville, who was hovering by the door and looking like he was about to be sick. Just as Harry was about to leave, Neville took a deep breath and squeaked, "Harry, wait!"

Harry stopped, turning to face him.

"I just wanted to say," Neville began, wringing his hands, "that I am really, really sorry about last night. In the common room. I didn't see anything! I swear! It was very dark, and I was just looking for Trevor's tonic, and I would never-"

"Neville, it's fine," Harry cut in, trying to put him out of his misery. "Honestly, don't worry about it."

"No, I do," Neville insisted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's just... well, it's brilliant, is what it is! I'm really happy for you both."

Harry just stared at him. "Happy about what?"

"You and Hermione, of course!" Neville said, a huge, earnest smile breaking out across his face. "It must be a relief to not have to hide it so much anymore. You've been so careful ever since the Yule Ball, it's really impressive."

Harry's brain came to a screeching halt. Since the Yule Ball? That was two years ago. "Neville," he said carefully. "What exactly do you think has been going on since the Yule Ball?"

"Well, you know," Neville said, nodding knowingly. "You two. Together. It was pretty obvious when she showed up with Krum just to make you jealous, and then you spent the whole night looking grumpy. Very clever, the way you both pretended to like other people."

Harry felt a headache coming on. "Neville, I can promise you, that is not what was happening."

"Oh!" Neville said, his eyes going wide with a new understanding. "Oh, I see! You had a big row and broke up? And last night... you two were making up! That's even more intimate!"

"No, that's not it either," Harry said, feeling increasingly desperate. "We weren't making up because we never broke up because we were never together in the first place!"

Neville just looked at him with profound sympathy. "It's alright, mate," he said, patting Harry awkwardly on the shoulder. "You don't have to tell me. I get it. It's complicated. Keeping a secret relationship going for two years under all this pressure... it must be really tough." He nodded again, his expression full of misplaced wisdom. "My lips are sealed. You have my word."

Harry just dropped his head into his hands, letting out a groan that was half frustration and half laughter. "Thanks, Neville," he said, defeated. "That's... really great."

"Anytime," Neville said proudly, before heading out of the room, leaving Harry to wonder if he was losing his mind.

Harry let out a long breath, the laughter from Neville's absurd misunderstanding fading. It was a welcome distraction, but it didn't solve the real problem. He looked over at Ron's bed. His best friend was a nervous wreck, and they had to face Slytherin in a few hours. A captain couldn't let his Keeper go out on the pitch looking like he was about to be sick.

His own confusing feelings about Hermione would have to wait. His duty as a friend—and as a captain who desperately wanted to beat Slytherin—was clear. Ron needed help.

An idea, brilliant and reckless, that had been forming since the fight with Ginny now solidified into a concrete plan. It was deceptive, yes, but it was for Ron's own good.

Harry walked over to his trunk, his movements now full of purpose. He rummaged around until his fingers closed around a tiny, corked vial. He pulled it out, the golden liquid within shimmering like captured sunlight. Felix Felicis.

He wouldn't actually use it, of course. That would be cheating. But Ron didn't have to know that.

A determined grin spread across Harry's face. He pocketed the vial and headed down to the Great Hall for breakfast, ready to stage a little performance.

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Ron walked through the corridor on the way to the Great Hall, feeling like he was marching to his own execution. His stomach was doing flip-flops, and he kept picturing a hundred Bludgers flying at his head. He was so lost in his own miserable thoughts that he didn't notice Luna Lovegood until she was walking in step beside him.

He groaned internally. The last thing he needed right now was a conversation with Loony.

"Hello, Ron," she said in her usual dreamy voice. "You look a bit pale."

"I'm fine," Ron grumbled, not bothering to look at her.

"It's just," she said, completely unfazed, "your head is full of Wrackspurts. I can see them buzzing all around your ears. They make it hard to think clearly."

Ron stopped and finally looked at her, his temper flaring. "What are you talking about? There's nothing buzzing around my ears!"

"Not usually," Luna agreed with a serene nod. "But you're very worried today, so they've come out. It's alright, though." She gave him a small, unexpected smile. "I don't think they'll bother you for long."

And with that, she drifted off down a different corridor, humming softly.

Ron stood there for a long moment, watching her go.

Bloody hell, he muttered to himself. She's completely mad. Wrackspurts. He shook his head in disbelief. And yet... she was right. His head was muddled, and he was worried. And as bizarre as her comment was, it was the only remotely supportive thing anyone had said to him all morning.

It didn't make him feel any better about the match. He was still terrified. But as he continued his walk to breakfast, he was no longer just thinking about Quidditch; he was also thinking about how incredibly weird Luna Lovegood was.

Ron finally reached the Great Hall, his brief, bewildering encounter with Luna already fading, replaced by a fresh wave of stomach-churning dread. He spotted Hermione already sitting at the Gryffindor table, a book open beside her plate, and made his way over, slumping onto the bench across from her. He looked pale, a slight green tinge to his face, and he couldn't stop his hands from trembling where they rested on the table.

Hermione looked up from her book, her own expression guarded. But as she took in the state of him—his pallor, his shaking hands—her look of cool indifference melted away, replaced by one of pure, unadulterated worry.

Forgetting completely about their arguments over the past few days, she leaned across the table and covered his trembling hands with her own.

"Ron, you're shaking," she said, her voice soft with concern. "You have to eat something. You'll make yourself sick."

It was at that exact moment that Harry arrived at the entrance to the Great Hall. His eyes scanned the room, looking for his best friends. He saw them immediately: sitting across from each other, Hermione's hands covering Ron's, her face a mask of earnest concern.

As if she could feel his presence, Hermione's head turned, and her eyes found his from across the vast hall. Their gazes interlocked, and the memory of the night before—the almost-kiss, her lips on his cheek—crashed down on both of them with the force of a physical blow. A deep, mortifying blush crept up Harry's neck, and he saw an identical flush spread across her own cheeks.

She quickly turned her head away, pretending to focus on Ron again.

Harry stood there, frozen for a moment. There was so much they needed to talk about, but seeing Ron's terrified face and Hermione's worry, he knew now was not the time. The match is more important, he told himself firmly, pushing his own confusing feelings aside.

With a new sense of purpose, he walked the length of the hall and slid onto the bench next to Hermione, right across from his miserable-looking Keeper..

Ron looked down at his empty plate, his face turning an even more alarming shade of green. "I think... I think I need the washroom," he gagged, before abruptly getting up and practically sprinting out of the Great Hall, leaving Harry and Hermione sitting alone in a sudden, mortifying silence.

Neither of them knew how to break the ice. The memory of the previous night hung between them, thick and heavy. Harry chanced a glance at her. She was sitting beside him, staring out at the Great Hall, and the morning sun streaming through the tall windows caught in her bushy hair, turning the brown into a cascade of warm, honey-gold curls. It cast a soft glow on her face, highlighting the determined set of her jaw and the faint smattering of freckles across her nose that he'd never really noticed before.

As if she could feel his gaze, she turned to face him, offering a small, shy smile.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, his voice quiet.

She nodded, a faint blush on her cheeks. She looked toward the doors where Ron had disappeared, her expression full of concern. "He's going to make himself ill with worry."

"I know," Harry said grimly.

She turned back to him, her expression shifting to one of fierce, unwavering support. She reached out under the table and her small hand found his, her fingers lacing through his own. The touch was warm and sent a jolt right up his arm.

"I'll be watching you from the stands today," she whispered, her gaze serious now. "I know you can win this, Harry." Her hand squeezed his.

A teasing grin broke out on his face. "Watching just me?"

A real giggle escaped her, light and happy. "Oh, you know what I mean, you prat." Her expression softened again into one of genuine concern. "Just... come back in one piece, okay? No reckless heroics."

"You know me," he joked back, though her worry made his chest feel warm.

The easy warmth between them settled into a comfortable, charged silence. Her hand, still holding his under the table, began to fidget, her thumb nervously tracing circles on the back of his hand. She was pointedly staring at a crumb on the table as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Harry," she mumbled, her voice so quiet he had to lean in to hear. "About... about what happened. Last night."

Harry's own smile faltered, his heart starting to hammer in his chest.

She finally chanced a quick look at him, her cheeks bright pink. "I just... I think... well, we should probably talk about it like I mentioned. Yesterday." Seeing the surprised look on his face, she seemed to panic slightly. "Later! Not now, obviously! That would be a terrible idea before a match." She seized on this as a lifeline. "So... that's it, then. We'll talk. But only if you win. So you have to win," she finished in a rush, sounding more like she was giving herself an order than him.

She chanced one last look at him from under her eyelashes. "It's... good motivation, right, Captain?" Her voice was small, but her eyes were dancing with a teasing light.

Harry's answering grin was so wide it felt like it was splitting his face. He watched her, completely flustered and blushing furiously at her own bravery, and felt a surge of pure, uncomplicated happiness. She wanted to talk. She had just made their first real conversation about... them... a reward for him winning the Quidditch match.

He now had no idea what he was supposed to focus on: the most important Quidditch match of the season, or Hermione

Just then, Ron returned from the washroom, looking just as green as when he'd left. As he slumped back onto the bench opposite them, Harry and Hermione quickly detached their hands, both suddenly finding the contents of their plates fascinating.

A moment later, a cloud of cloying perfume descended.

"Good luck today, Ron!" Lavender Brown said, placing a hand on his shoulder as she passed by. "I'll be rooting for you!" She gave him a bright smile and continued on her way.

The brief interaction did nothing to lift Ron's spirits. Harry glanced at Hermione; her brow was furrowed in a look of deep irritation. He knew how much she disliked Lavender, seeing her as one of those giggling, empty-headed girls.

Seeing that Ron was still a complete nervous wreck, Harry knew that even Hermione's promise of a talk wasn't enough to get his own head in the game. He had to act.

Making a great show of looking around, he pulled the small vial of liquid from his pocket. He uncorked it and, shielding his actions from view, pretended to tip a few drops of Felix Felicis into Ron's pumpkin juice.

Hermione saw him. He knew she did. He saw the horrified, disapproving look that flashed across her face.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice sharp with warning. "You could get him thrown off the team."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry whispered back, quickly corking the vial and putting it away. He gave Ron a pointed look. "Drink your juice, Ron. You need it."

Ron, who had watched the entire exchange with wide, disbelieving eyes, now looked down at his goblet as if it were the Holy Grail. A new, radiant confidence began to spread across his face. He grabbed the goblet, drained it in three large gulps, and slammed it back down on the table.

"Right," he said, a huge, confident grin on his face as he finally started piling food onto his plate. "I'm ready."

Chapter Text

Harry stood up, ready to lead his team out, but as Ron swaggered ahead with some of the other players, Hermione put a hand on Harry's arm, holding him back. Her expression was no longer horrified, just deeply disappointed.

"I can't believe you did that, Harry," she said, her voice a low, unhappy murmur so no one else could hear. "That was his moment. He was terrified, yes, but he could have faced it. You took that away from him."

"He was going to fall apart, Hermione," Harry argued quietly. "It was for the good of the team."

"That's not the point," she insisted, though her voice lacked its usual fire. "It's cheating. And it's not right."

She looked at him for a long moment, her brown eyes full of a complicated mix of disappointment in his methods and unwavering loyalty for the person using them. She let out a small, frustrated sigh. Then, her expression softened into one of weary adoration.

Before she could stop herself, she reached out and gently ruffled his already messy hair. It was a gesture that said everything she couldn't: You're a reckless idiot, but you're my reckless idiot, and I can't stay mad at you.

"Just... win," she said finally, her voice soft as she let her hand drop.

And with that, she turned to head up to the stands. Harry stood there for a moment, watching her go, the feeling of her touch still warm on his hair. The disappointment in her eyes had stung more than he wanted to admit.

I'll tell her after the match, he promised himself fiercely. I'll show her the vial and tell her it was all pretend. She'll understand.

Clinging to that thought, he shook his head and ran to catch up with his team.

The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a wave of sound that hit Harry as he led the Gryffindor team onto the pitch. The weather was miserable—a cold, biting wind and a constant, drizzling rain that made visibility a nightmare. It was classic Quidditch weather, but as Harry kicked off into the grey sky, a fierce determination burned in his chest.

His first glance wasn't for the Snitch, but for the scarlet figure guarding the Gryffindor goalposts. Ron, who had looked green and terrified at breakfast, was a completely different person. He was soaring in front of the hoops with a relaxed, almost lazy confidence, giving the crowd a thumbs-up. Harry almost laughed out loud with relief. The trick had worked.

"And it's Gryffindor in possession," droned the voice of Zacharias Smith, who was commentating the match. "That's Chaser Ginny Weasley... she's not bad, I suppose, though you have to wonder if Potter's just playing favorites..."

Harry gritted his teeth, urging his team on. The Slytherins, as usual, were playing dirty, and their Captain, Urquhart, was leading a brutal offensive. The Quaffle shot toward the Gryffindor goals. It was the first real test.

Ron moved with a sudden, fluid grace. He didn't just block it; he caught it one-handed with a casual flair before punting it perfectly back to one of their own Chasers.

The Gryffindor stands erupted. The familiar, booming chant began to build, a thunderous roar that shook the stadium: "WEASLEY IS OUR KING!"

A massive, proud grin split Harry's face. He turned his attention back to his own job, his eyes scanning the grey, rainy sky. The game was brutal. But every time he risked a glance back, he saw Ron, a steadfast guardian, making one spectacular save after another.

"...and another save from Weasley!" Zacharias Smith's voice echoed, dripping with reluctance. "I have to say, I'm surprised... it's almost as if he's a completely different player today..."

Harry watched as Ron blocked a sure goal with the tip of his broom, and felt a surge of something more than just a captain's pride. It was a deep, fierce affection for his best friend. Seeing Ron not terrified, but full of the confidence he deserved, felt like a victory in itself.

Just then, Ginny, who had been flying exceptionally well, was cut off by a Slytherin Chaser. "And that's a blatant foul!" Smith failed to comment. Ginny, furious, flew straight at the commentary box, crashing her broom into the side with a loud thud that made Zacharias yelp in surprise. Madam Hooch's whistle blew shrilly, but the Gryffindor crowd roared its approval.

It was in that moment of chaos that Harry saw it.

A tiny, fluttering glint of gold hovering just beside the Slytherin captain's ear.

He urged his Firebolt forward, the wind and rain whipping at his face. Urquhart saw it too and gave chase. They were neck and neck, the Snitch zipping erratically ahead of them. A Bludger came screaming towards Harry. He pulled up sharply, letting Urquhart surge ahead, then dove, a perilous, stomach-lurching descent. The Snitch dropped with him. He flattened himself against the broom handle, pushing it for every last bit of speed.

His fingers closed around the cold, struggling Snitch just as the muddy ground rushed up to meet him. He pulled up at the last second, the whistle blew, and the world was nothing but the roar of red and gold.

Gryffindor had won. And as his teammates mobbed him, the only thing Harry looked for was Ron's face in the crowd, wanting to share the moment of pure, unadulterated triumph.

The Gryffindor common room was a chaotic sea of roaring, cheering students. At the center of it all was Ron, being hoisted onto the shoulders of a few burly seventh-years, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph on his face.

In a slightly quieter corner near the window, Harry found Hermione. She was watching the celebration, a small, complicated smile on her face.

"He was brilliant, wasn't he?" Harry said, coming to stand beside her.

"He was," she agreed, her voice soft. She looked at him, her expression turning more serious. "That was still a reckless thing you did, Harry. Both of you could have been banned from Quidditch for life, if anyone found out about you using the luck portion."

Harry met her gaze, a grin playing on his lips. "About that," he said quietly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tiny, corked vial. He held it up for her to see. The golden liquid of the Felix Felicis was still inside, untouched.

Hermione stared at the vial, her eyes going wide with disbelief. "You didn't...?"

"No," Harry said with a small smile. "I didn't. He did it all on his own."

A look of stunned, profound admiration washed over her face. "Oh, Harry," she breathed. "That was... that was an incredibly clever thing to do."

Just then, Ron, having finally been set down, came swaggering over, a huge, triumphant grin on his face.

"Told you!" he said loudly. "I knew that lucky potion would work!"

Harry shook his head, still smiling. "There wasn't anything in your pumpkin juice, Ron."

Ron gaped at him for a moment, his grin faltering. "But the weather was good... and Vaisey couldn't play... I honestly haven't been given lucky potion?"

"I faked it," said Harry. "You saved everything because you felt lucky. You did it all yourself."

Ron stared at him, stunned. Then, he rounded on Hermione, a furious, triumphant look on his face. "See! I can save goals without help, Hermione!"

"I never said you couldn't!" Hermione retorted, her face flushing with anger and hurt. "Ron, you thought you’d been given it too!"

But Ron had already turned his back on her. He was still stinging from her words, high on his victory, and the memory of Ginny’s taunt—Hermione snogged Viktor Krum!—was still ringing in his ears. He saw Lavender Brown pushing through the crowd towards him, her eyes shining. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed her by the front of her robes and kissed her, a long, passionate, and very public kiss, right in the middle of the crowded room.

The party erupted in a fresh wave of whoops and catcalls.

Harry’s smile vanished. His eyes immediately darted to Hermione. He saw the look of raw, wounded shock flash across her face.

Before he could even process it, another figure pushed through the cheering crowd, her red hair like a beacon. "Harry, you were brilliant!" Ginny Weasley cried, her face alight with a fierce, triumphant joy that was aimed entirely at him. She didn't slow down, launching herself at him and throwing her arms around his neck in a hug that was so enthusiastic it nearly knocked him off his feet. He was enveloped in a dizzying whirl of red hair and the faint scent of bonfire smoke from the party.

A fresh round of wolf-whistles and cheers went up from the students nearby. When Ginny pulled back, her cheeks were flushed with victory and excitement, and on a wave of pure celebratory impulse, she leaned in and gave him a quick, loud kiss on the cheek.

Harry felt his own face flush, completely taken by surprise. But even in his flustered state, his eyes instinctively searched for Hermione over Ginny's shoulder. He watched, as if in slow motion, as her expression shifted. The initial shock from Ron's kiss was now compounded by the sight of him and Ginny, wrapped in their own celebratory embrace. The raw hurt on her face didn't just crumple; it hardened. Her jaw tightened, and the wounded look in her eyes was replaced by a flash of furious anger.

Then, just as quickly, it all vanished. Her expression went completely blank, shuttered and cold. She wasn't just heartbroken over Ron, he realized with a jolt. She was angry at him, too.

She didn't run. She didn't cry. She just gave him one single, unreadable look that chilled him to the bone, then turned with a stiff, unnatural composure, and walked silently out of the portrait hole, leaving the noise and the triumph of the party behind her.

Chapter Text

The sound of the cheering felt like a physical blow against her back, each roar of celebration a fresh wave of humiliation. Hermione didn't run. She didn't cry. She walked with a stiff, unnatural composure out of the portrait hole, leaving the noise and the triumph of the party behind her. She didn't stop until she reached an empty, torch-lit corridor, where she finally sank onto the cold stone steps of a forgotten staircase, her shoulders trembling.

Her mind was a battlefield.

First, there was the sharp, bitter sting of Ron. She was hurt, of course, when he had rounded on her in the middle of the party. She had only been trying to look out for him, and he had twisted her concern, mocking her. But to then kiss Lavender, in front of the entire common room, with his eyes locked on her… she was sure that had been his purpose. It was a deliberate, cruel act designed to spite her, to humiliate her. And it had worked.

All her efforts for him, her asking him to Slughorn's party because she thought he was the safer, sensible choice, the way she had felt herself getting closer to him last year when Harry had been so distant. All his affectionate glances and their easy bickering. She had really thought they had something, a comfortable, familiar path forward. Now, it all felt like a lie, a foolish miscalculation on her part.

But then there was Harry. And that, somehow, was worse.

She replayed the sight of Ginny, triumphant and flushed, running past everyone to throw her arms around Harry's neck, kissing his cheek. The image was a brutal confirmation of her deepest fears, a painful end to the fragile hope that had been building inside her. She knew Ginny had only settled for Dean because she couldn't get Harry. She had seen the way they awkwardly interacted at the Burrow all summer, the way Harry's eyes would sometimes follow Ginny when he thought no one was looking.

Any other year, she would have been glad for them. But not now. Not after these past few weeks, where something new and terrifying and wonderful had begun to bloom between her and Harry.

She didn't know if the feeling had always been there, a dormant seed buried deep inside her, but it had certainly woken up the night he had accused her of bias over the Prince's book. When she had realized he was jealous of her and Ron, a secret, thrilling happiness had fluttered in her chest. Harry had never shown that kind of interest in her before, but that night had changed her perception. When she’d asked Ron to the Slughorn ball, she had seen the jealousy in Harry's eyes, and it had felt like a forbidden, wonderful secret between them.

Since then, her feelings had only amplified. Their easy banter in Charms class, the quiet, firm way he'd said he would only go to the Slug Club if she was there, the sincerity in his voice when he told her how important she was, the ultimate trust he’d shown her by giving her the book, and then... the almost-kiss. That moment by the fire, so full of unspoken things, had left her breathless.

She had been so full of emotions, knowing that what she felt for him now went far beyond friendship. She had kissed his cheek, a promise that they would talk, that they would finally face this new, fragile thing between them.

But now... Ginny.

She knew it wasn't Harry's fault, or even Ginny's. It was just a burst of celebratory joy. But a surge of raw, animalistic possessiveness had washed over her in that moment. She couldn't bear to see him with Ginny, or with any other girl for that matter. But she figured now that Harry knew for certain that Ginny liked him, he would gladly take her. And he wasn't wrong to. Ginny was amazing, beautiful, and shared so many qualities with Harry. They would be a good match.

And she... she was just Hermione. Bossy, studious Hermione. The girl who had put in so much effort to look good for the Yule Ball, just to make the boys see she was a girl, and had been left feeling like an afterthought. Harry liked a certain type of girl, she knew. Girls like Cho and Ginny, who were pretty and popular and good at Quidditch. She was none of those things.

She had wanted to talk to him about their almost-kiss. She had wanted to know what he felt, to maybe, just maybe, come to a conclusion about her own chaotic heart.

But as she sat there on the cold stone steps, shivering, it felt like that was a conversation they might never have now. The sensible path had just been blocked by Lavender Brown, and the path she truly wanted, the one that led to Harry, was now occupied by Ginny Weasley. And she was left completely, utterly alone in the middle.

.
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Back in the common room, the roar of the party turned to white noise in Harry's ears the moment Hermione disappeared through the portrait hole. The triumphant scene around him might as well have been a painting. Panic, cold and sharp, seized his chest. He knew that look—that cold, shuttered composure. It was the look she got right before the real storm, the one that meant she was hurt so deeply she had to lock it all away just to keep from shattering. He had to find her. He had to explain, even if he didn't fully understand what he was explaining himself.

He felt a hand on his arm and looked down. Ginny was still there, her face a mixture of celebratory joy and a new, dawning confusion. "Harry? What's wrong? Where did Hermione go?"

He looked at her, at her bright, happy face, and felt a pang of guilt. But it was distant, muted. The only thing that felt real was the urgent, screaming need to go after Hermione. He gently but firmly unwound Ginny's arms from around his neck.

"I have to go," he said, his voice tight.

"Now? But we just won!" she cried, bewildered.

"I know," he said, already backing away, his eyes fixed on the portrait hole as if he could will Hermione back through it. "I'll be back."

He turned and pushed his way through the throng, ignoring the slaps on his back and the calls of "Good game!" They were all background noise. All that mattered was the quiet, determined witch who had just walked out of his life.

The corridor outside was empty and silent, a jarring contrast that only amplified the frantic hammering of his own heart. Where would she go? He started with the only place that made sense, the place that was as much a part of her as her own skin: the library.

He raced through the stacks, his footsteps echoing in the vast, silent space. He scanned every table, every secluded alcove, his eyes desperately searching for the familiar mess of bushy hair bent over a book. He found nothing. The library felt wrong, a hollow, soulless place without her in it. Madam Pince gave him a suspicious glare from her desk and shushed him for his heavy breathing. He left, a knot of real fear tightening in his stomach.

He took the staircases two at a time, his mind a chaotic mess. He was no longer just searching the castle; he was searching his own memory. He thought of her crying in the girls' bathroom after the Yule Ball. He thought of her crumpled and silent at the Ministry after Dolohov's curse. Every time she had been hurt, it had felt like a failure on his part. This felt worse. This felt like his fault.

He was heading along a chilly, torch-lit corridor two floors down when he finally saw her. She was just sitting on the cold stone steps of a forgotten staircase, her shoulders trembling. The sight of her, so small and so alone in the vast emptiness of the castle, broke something deep inside him.

He approached her slowly, his footsteps echoing. "Hermione?" he called softly.

She stiffened but didn't turn around. She just hugged her knees tighter. "Go away, Harry," she managed to say, her voice a broken whisper.

"No," he said, his voice quiet but firm as he came to sit on the step below her, giving her space but making it clear he wasn't leaving. "I'm not going anywhere."

For a long time, the only sound was her quiet, hiccuping breaths. Finally, the trembling subsided.

"I'm sorry," he said into the silence.

She finally turned to look at him, her eyes red-rimmed and full of a pain that made his own chest ache. "For what?" she asked, her voice as cold and sharp as ice. "There is nothing for you to be sorry about."

"For..." Harry started, the words catching in his throat. Where to even begin? For Ron's cruelty? For Ginny's impulsive kiss? For his own stupid obliviousness? The list was too long to even start. "Just... for everything."

Her laugh was a sharp, bitter sound that held no humor. "You have nothing to apologize for. You can't help it if Ginny likes you." Her voice grew more heated, the words spilling out. "And she's beautiful, isn't she? Cheerful and popular, and not nearly so... complicated as me. You don't have to pretend. I'm not blind, Harry."

"You are wrong!" Harry burst out, his own frustration flaring. "I'm not pretending anything! Ginny... it's not..."

"And then Ronald," she cut him off, her voice cracking as she finally gave voice to the other betrayal. "To do that… in front of everyone… It was a performance, and I was the punchline. But I suppose that's what I get for being so stupid. For thinking either of you..." Her voice faltered, and she took a shaky breath, the words pouring out now in a torrent of pain and disillusionment. "I just thought he had matured enough. We really did grow close when you had cut us off last year, and he was there for me. And with all his jealousy and everything, I just felt we had an understanding. I wanted to start something, so I asked him to the Slughorn ball. Yet he is still just as immature, insecure, and jealous."

She looked away from him then, her gaze fixing on some distant, torchlit stone as if seeing a future that was crumbling to dust. "And you..." she whispered, her voice softening into a deeper, more profound hurt. "I never tried to see you that way, Harry, because I knew you would never reciprocate those feelings. I didn't mean to feel this way, yet here I am, sad over you and Ginny." She let out a small, watery chuckle devoid of any real humor. "You know, I was the one who gave Ginny advice to be herself and less uptight around you. Funny, isn't it?"

Her voice dropped even lower, thick with memory. "You never showed any signs, ever. Not when we went to save Sirius together, not when we were working on the first task, not during the entire Yule Ball. But these past few weeks, I... I thought something was changing. When you were jealous, when you said you’d only go to the club for me... the way you looked at me last night... I actually let myself believe that maybe... maybe it wasn't just me." She shook her head, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. "I see now how foolish that was."

"Just spare me the list of her virtues," she said quietly, her voice flat and defeated as she got to her feet. "I'm... I'm going to bed."

She was trying to leave, to shut him out and walk away. But just as she turned, the sound of loud, drunken laughter echoed from the end of the corridor.

The door burst open. To Harry’s absolute horror, Ron came in, laughing, pulling Lavender by the hand.

"Oh," he said, drawing up short. Lavender giggled. "Oops! Looks like you two are busy!"

Ron's smile vanished as he took in Hermione's tear-streaked face. Harry shot him a desperate, pleading look—Not now, just go—but Ron, oblivious, just looked confused. "What's going on?"

Hermione stared at him, all her pain and hurt solidifying into a cold, hard fury. She looked at him, and a look of pure disgust crossed her face.

"Go now, Ronald," she said, her voice dripping with ice. "You shouldn't make Lavender wait."

Then, she raised her wand. A flurry of golden light erupted into existence.

"Oppugno!" she shrieked.

The flock of canaries shot toward Ron like a volley of golden bullets. He yelped and covered his head, bolting back out the door with Lavender's screams trailing behind him, muttering, "Bloody hell, she's mental!"

The birds vanished. The corridor was silent again, the only sound the faint echo of Lavender’s shrieks. The anger drained from Hermione as quickly as it had come, leaving a vacuum in its place. Her expression, so wild with fury, crumpled completely.

She turned, her face unreadable, and started to walk away.

"Hermione, wait," Harry pleaded.

She didn't stop. He scrambled to his feet and, before he could lose his nerve, he shot out a hand and grabbed her wrist, his grip gentle but firm. "No," he said, his voice quiet but full of a new, unwavering authority. "You can't leave. Not this time. We're going to talk."

Hermione froze, her back rigid, the warmth of his hand around her wrist a shocking, tethering force in the cold corridor. For a long moment, every instinct screamed at her to pull away, to wrench her arm free and flee to the safety of her dormitory. But his grip, gentle as it was, held an undeniable conviction. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. Slowly, hesitantly, she turned back to face him. The fragile mask of defiance she wore finally shattered, and a choked sob broke from her lips as the tears she had been holding back began to fall freely.

Harry’s heart ached at the sight. He instinctively closed the small distance between them and reached out with his free hand, gently brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb. Her skin was soft, and she flinched slightly at the contact but didn’t pull away. He just held her gaze, waiting until her sobs quieted into shuddering breaths.

He let go of her wrist, a silent signal that he wasn't trying to trap her, only to make her listen.

"Hermione," he began, his voice low and urgent. "Listen to me. You're not foolish. And you weren't imagining things. Something has changed."

He saw the raw pain in her eyes, and knew pity was the last thing she needed. "When all that was happening… with Ron, with Ginny… none of it mattered," he said, his voice earnest. "The only thing I saw was the look on your face. And seeing you hurt… it felt like I was the one who'd been hit. My first instinct wasn't about the party or the win. It was about you. I had to find you."

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "You're right. For years, I didn't show any signs. I was an idiot. I was a kid dealing with… with everything, and I didn't see what was right in front of me. But I see it now." His voice dropped, becoming a raw confession. "Only when I saw you drifting towards someone else, I realized how much I needed you around me. I realized I couldn't stand seeing you with anyone else, not even Ron. I found myself craving your smiles, your laughs… just… you."

He reached out again, his fingers gently tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "You said you're not the popular girl, not the Quidditch player," he said, his voice thick with an emotion he could no longer name as just friendship. "You're right. You're not. You're the one who stood by me when the whole school thought I was a liar. You're the one who is so brilliant you scare half the teachers." His gaze softened, becoming impossibly tender. "And you are beautiful. I don't know when I started to notice it… maybe it was by the fire, or at Slughorn's party… but lately, I can't seem to look away."

He let his hand drop, his gaze intense. "I don't want someone who is cheerful and popular. I don't want someone easy. I want the person who challenges me, who makes me better, who I can't imagine my life without." He finally said it, the simplest, most terrifying truth. "I want you, Hermione."

The words hung in the silent corridor, stark and undeniable.

"When I saw you walk out of that common room," he whispered, his voice shaking slightly with the force of his admission, "it felt… wrong. Like the room was suddenly empty, even though it was full of people. Like I had let the most important part of it leave." He held her gaze, vulnerable and completely open for the first time. "So please… don't walk away from me again."

Hermione stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs so loudly she was sure he could hear it in the echoing silence of the corridor. His words, each one a soft, devastating blow against the fortress of insecurities she had built around her heart, had left her completely disarmed. Every carefully constructed reason for why they could never be, every painful memory she used as proof of her own inadequacy, had been systematically dismantled by his raw, simple honesty.

She saw no pity in his eyes. Instead, she saw a desperate sincerity and a familiar glint of fierce determination—the same look he got when facing a dragon or a Dementor, only now, it was directed entirely at her. He wasn't just saying the words; he was fighting for them. Fighting for her.

Her mind replayed his confession: I found myself craving your smiles… I can't seem to look away… I want you.

The thought that he saw her, truly saw her—not as a sidekick, not as a living encyclopedia, but as someone beautiful, someone desirable—was so overwhelming that it left no room for any other feeling. The hurt from Ron, the sting of Ginny's unintentional victory, it all faded into the background, becoming distant and muted noise. The only thing that felt real was Harry, standing inches away, his green eyes full of a terrifying, wonderful truth.

Words failed her entirely. She couldn't form a single coherent thought, let alone a response. So, instead of speaking, she did the only thing that felt right, the only thing her heart was screaming at her to do.

She took a small, shaky step forward, closing the last inch of space between them. Rising up on her tiptoes, she cupped his face in her hands, her touch tentative, as if she were afraid he might vanish. His skin was warm beneath her palms. She looked into his eyes for a heartbeat, seeing her own reflection there, before she leaned in and gently pressed her lips against his.

It wasn't a kiss of triumphant passion or desperate relief. It was quiet, soft, and hesitant—a question and an answer all in one. It was the taste of salt from her tears and the scent of the cold stone corridor, a moment of impossible tenderness found in the wreckage of the evening.

Harry’s breath hitched, and for a second, he was frozen in stunned disbelief. Then, as if waking from a trance, his own arms came up, circling her waist and pulling her closer, deepening the kiss with a gentle pressure that spoke of years of unspoken longing. He held her as if she were the most precious, fragile thing in the world, pouring every feeling he had just confessed—his fear, his regret, his overwhelming need—into that single, perfect connection.

It was everything the almost-kiss by the fire had promised to be, and more. It was a silent pact, a quiet homecoming. In the middle of the cold, empty corridor, surrounded by the ghosts of their own pain, they had finally, finally found each other.

They broke apart slowly, reluctantly, the silence of the corridor settling back around them, though it felt different now. It was no longer heavy with unspoken tension, but filled with a fragile, shimmering warmth. Hermione rested her forehead against his, her eyes closed, her hands still cradling his face. Harry’s arms were still wrapped securely around her waist, holding her steady.

For a long moment, they just breathed each other in, anchoring themselves to this new reality. The world had irrevocably shifted on its axis in the space of a single kiss.

A small, shaky smile touched Harry’s lips as he looked at her, truly looked at her, without any shadows between them. He broke the silence, his voice a low, wondrous whisper.

"Good talk?"

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, and a real, radiant laugh escaped her, light and free. The last of her tears seemed to evaporate in the warmth of her smile. She leaned forward, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his lips.

"Good talk," she confirmed, her voice full of a happiness she never thought she'd feel tonight.

Chapter Text

A small, shaky smile touched Harry’s lips as he looked at her, truly looked at her, without any shadows between them. He broke the silence, his voice a low, wondrous whisper.

"Good talk?"

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, and a real, radiant laugh escaped her, light and free. The last of her tears seemed to evaporate in the warmth of her smile. She leaned forward, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his lips.

"Good talk," she confirmed, her voice full of a happiness she never thought she’d feel tonight.

.
.

The raw honesty of her expression, the simple fact that this was real, seemed to make the adrenaline finally drain from Harry’s body. For a boy who had faced down dragons and Dementors, nothing felt more terrifying than the silence after he had willingly, completely, shown her his heart. A hot blush crawled up his neck, and he had to look away, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on his sleeve.

"I just… I don't think I've ever said that many words about… feelings… in my entire life," he mumbled, the confession rushing out in a quiet, unsteady stream. "It all just sort of… fell out of me. I feel like I've turned myself inside out."

He was braced for her to laugh, or to dissect his clumsy words with logic. Instead, when he chanced a look at her, he saw only a profound and fierce affection that made his breath catch. This was her Harry. Not the Chosen One, not the Gryffindor Captain, but the awkward, earnest boy who had just laid his heart bare for her. Hermione felt her heart pounding in her chest. He was standing so damn close to her, and he looked so damn adorable with his messy hair and those sleepy, half-lidded eyes… She took a shuddering breath, trying to collect her thoughts. She bit her lip, trying (and failing) to act like she wasn't completely flustered herself.

"A bit, yeah," she teased gently. "But for what it's worth, I'm glad you did."

They stood in a comfortable, if slightly awkward, silence. They were teenagers who had just crossed a line they never thought they'd approach, and neither quite knew the steps to the new dance.

Finally, Harry let out a long breath, the exhaustion of the day settling deep into his bones. "I'm knackered," he admitted.

"You have every right to be," Hermione said, her voice softening with a sincerity that made him look up. "I know Ron will be the hero of the match for all those saves—and he deserved it, he was wonderful. But I was watching you." Her eyes were full of a deep, warm admiration that seemed to glow in the torchlight. "The way you led the team, Harry. Through the awful weather and all the pressure... you were the calm in the storm for them. And that final dive..." She shook her head, a small, awestruck smile on her face. "It was completely and utterly reckless. My heart was in my throat. But it was a captain's move. You weren't just our Seeker today; you were their leader. I was so incredibly proud of you."

A cheeky grin spread across Harry's face, the last of his embarrassment melting away in the face of her earnest praise. "Well, I did get the rewards for it," he said, his eyes glinting with meaning. "So it was definitely worth it."

Hermione's jaw dropped in mock indignation before she broke into a wide smile. Her hand connected lightly with his arm in a playful smack.

"Don't get used to it," she said, her tone full of teasing warmth.

And in that moment, as the familiar, easy dynamic settled back over them, Harry realized something profound. Nothing had fundamentally changed. This affection, this easy back-and-forth, had always been there, hiding in plain sight in the library, on the Quidditch pitch, and in this very corridor. The only difference was that now, finally, they were allowed to acknowledge it.

A wave of contentment so pure washed over him that he felt he could have stayed there all night. But it was Hermione who, despite the soft, happy smile on her face, brought them back to reality.

"As much as I want to stay here with you," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "you need to get some rest. You look like you're about to fall over."

"I'm fine," Harry protested immediately, though his words were undermined by a massive yawn. "Just a bit longer."

"No," she insisted, giving his hand a squeeze before letting go, the loss of contact making him feel instantly colder. "Don't be difficult, Harry. You're exhausted. Go to bed."

He was reluctant, every part of him wanting to prolong this perfect, quiet bubble they had found. But she was right. He was utterly exhausted, and arguing felt pointless when all he wanted was to agree with her. He nodded. "Alright."

They walked together, the comfortable silence returning. When they reached the corner of the corridor, just before the turn that would lead them back toward the more populated areas of the castle, Harry stopped. Acting on an impulse that felt both terrifying and completely natural, he slipped his hand into hers again.

Hermione gasped softly, her eyes dropping to look at their joined hands. For a second, she just stared, and Harry’s heart leaped into his throat. Then, a slow, brilliant smile spread across her face, and she laced her fingers firmly through his. The silent message was clear: This is real. This is us.

They continued their walk, hand in hand, until the distant sound of a closing door and a snatch of laughter reminded them they weren't alone in the castle. As they neared the portrait of the Fat Lady, a silent, mutual understanding passed between them. With a final, reluctant squeeze, they let their hands drop, separating a few feet apart before entering the common room.

The party had finally died out. The room was empty and smelled faintly of butterbeer and bonfire smoke, discarded banners lying on the floor. It was completely deserted, except for one person.

Neville Longbottom was sitting on the sofa, a book open on his lap, though he was clearly just watching the embers of the fire. He looked up as they entered, and a slow, knowing smirk spread across his face.

"Right," Neville said, closing his book with a snap and standing up. "I'll give both of you some alone time, then." He gave Harry a conspiratorial wink before heading straight for the boys' dormitory, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

Hermione turned to Harry, her eyebrows raised in complete bewilderment. "What on earth was that all about?"

Harry couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, the absurdity of the situation breaking the last of the tension. "It's a long story," he said, shaking his head in amusement. "Apparently, Neville thinks we've been secretly dating since the Yule Ball and that we just had a massive row and made up tonight."

He grinned at her, his eyes dancing. "Quite a scandal, right?"

She stared at him for a second, processing the ridiculousness of it all, before a real, happy laugh bubbled out of her. "Two years? He really thinks… oh, Merlin."

They shared the laugh, their first inside joke in this new chapter of their lives. The sound echoed warmly in the quiet room. The pull to stay, to just sit by the fire and talk for hours, was immense. But the day's exhaustion was catching up to them both.

They parted at the base of the staircases, neither wanting to be the first to turn away.

"Good night, Harry," she said softly.

"Good night, Hermione."

Feeling bolder than he had just minutes ago, he closed the small space between them and gently pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was a gesture of pure affection, a quiet promise of care. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with soft surprise, before that brilliant smile lit up her face again. With one last look, she turned and walked up the stairs to the girls' dormitory. He watched her go, feeling more content than he had in a very, very long time.

.....
.....

The first pale light of morning was just beginning to filter through the high windows of the Gryffindor dormitory when Harry woke. He didn't stir at first, lying still in the quiet of the room, a slow, unconscious smile spreading across his face. The night before came back to him not in a rush, but as a series of warm, perfect snapshots: the look in Hermione's eyes in the torchlight, the feeling of her hand in his, the soft, sure press of her lips, the easy sound of their shared laughter.

He replayed the forehead kiss in his mind, the way she had looked up at him with that soft, surprised smile. It was real. It had all been real.

A fresh set of questions immediately flooded his mind. So, what did this mean for them? Were they… dating now? A couple? The thought sent a nervous, thrilling jolt through him. They hadn't talked about any of that, not really. One thing was for sure, though, as he stared up at the crimson canopy of his bed: whatever this was, whatever they were, he was falling for her more and more with every passing second.

"You're up, then."

Ron's sullen voice cut through his thoughts. Harry turned to see his friend already dressed, pulling on his shoes. The cheerful energy from the Quidditch celebration was gone, replaced by a sour, defensive mood. Harry noticed faint, thin scratches covering Ron's hands and forearms.

"Your hands alright?" Harry asked, sitting up.

Ron shot him a dark look. "They're fine. Just her stupid birds. She's mental, you know that? Completely mental." Before Harry could respond, Ron launched into the speech he had clearly been rehearsing in his head all morning. He started pacing, his tone low and bitter.

“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, every muscle in his jaw tight as he listened to Ron try to justify his cruelty. He wanted to scream, to defend Hermione, but he forced himself to stay quiet, his mind racing.

“I never promised Hermione anything,” Ron mumbled, stopping to grab his bag. “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.” He finally looked at Harry, daring him to disagree. When Harry said nothing, Ron scoffed.

Harry had every intention of keeping his mouth shut, of just nodding until Ron left. But hearing him dismiss Hermione and what he’d done so easily, it was too much. The frustration bubbled over.

"Are you still going on about that, Ron?" Harry asked, his voice sharper than he intended. "It was years ago. It’s a silly thing to be angry about."

Ron's head snapped up, his ears turning red. "Oh, here we go!" he accused, his voice rising. "Taking her side again, are you? Of course you are.

He stood up abruptly, grabbing his robes. "You know what, I don't have time for this. I'm getting late. I have to meet Lavender."

Without another word, he stormed out of the dormitory, leaving Harry sitting alone in the sudden, tense silence.

He watched the door swing shut, a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. What would Ron say if he knew? What would he do if he found out what had happened last night between him and Hermione? The thought of that inevitable, explosive fight was exhausting.

But as the fear surfaced, something else rose to meet it—a hot, stubborn resolve. He was tired of it. Tired of walking on eggshells, tired of being caught in the middle, tired of putting his own feelings last. He'd had enough darkness and misery to last a lifetime. He deserved some happiness. He deserved her. She was his happiness, and for the first time, he felt a fierce, selfish determination to not let anything, not even his best friend's jealousy, get in the way of it.

A small, humorless smile touched his lips. It was almost funny, really. Ron was going to all this trouble, tying himself in knots to make Hermione jealous, and she wasn't even interested in him anymore. She had been in his arms just last night. The irony was so thick he could taste it.

Shaking his head, Harry pushed himself out of bed. He had a class to get to. He felt the last of the dread fall away, replaced by a quiet, steady purpose as he went to freshen up.

The morning classes felt unusually long. Hermione had Arithmancy first thing, a subject Harry didn't take, leaving him with a free period he now shared with Ron. They hadn't had a single chance to be together, and the quiet contentment from the night before was starting to be replaced by a restless impatience. He had to fight the urge to go find her.

He and Ron settled into a pair of armchairs by the fire in the common room, and Ron immediately grabbed a Cauldron Cake from a nearby plate. The moment they sat down, Ron’s eyes began scanning the room. Harry followed his gaze and saw Lavender Brown waving enthusiastically from a sofa on the other side of the room, patting the empty space beside her.

Ron shot to his feet with a goofy grin, not even bothering with an excuse. Harry felt that familiar, hot spike of irritation. He opened his mouth to say something, to complain, to stop him—but then he closed it again. What was the point? Arguing with Ron when he was like this was pointless; he wouldn't listen.

He just watched as Ron practically skipped over to Lavender's sofa and was immediately pulled into a cloying embrace.

A hot spike of irritation went through Harry. He knew Ron was an insecure, lovable, gullible idiot, but he was his best friend. He hated the way Lavender was constantly snatching him away, isolating him from the two people who knew him best. He wasn't sure what her intentions were, but he didn't trust the simpering way she hung on Ron's every word.

The annoyance was still there, a low thrum under his skin. But as he sat there alone, another, much stronger feeling pushed through it: relief.

That gave him the perfect excuse to do what he’d really wanted to do all morning.

A slow smile spread across Harry's face. He wasn't going to waste another minute feeling annoyed. He was going to go find his own piece of affection.

With a newfound sense of purpose, Harry stood up, grabbing his bag. He didn't give Ron and Lavender another glance. He left the Gryffindor common room, his restless impatience from earlier completely gone, replaced by the much more pleasant feeling of hopeful anticipation as he headed towards her.

As Harry headed towards the Arithmancy classroom, he couldn't help but feel a nervous excitement fluttering in his chest. The thought of seeing her again, of just being near her after their conversation the night before, was a powerful pull. When he arrived, the other students had already left, and through the open classroom door, he could see Hermione talking animatedly with Professor Vector, gesturing to a complex chart on the chalkboard.

A fond, amused smile touched Harry's lips. Of course, she was the last one here, squeezing in one more question. She was so intelligent, always curious, a pool of endless knowledge, and in that moment, he couldn't feel more proud of her. He leaned against the stone wall of the corridor, content to just watch her as she debated a fine point with her professor.

A few minutes later, the conversation concluded. As they started walking out of the classroom, Hermione’s eyes caught his, and her lips instantly curved into a brilliant, happy smile. Professor Vector gave Harry a polite nod as she passed, leaving the two of them alone in the empty corridor. The castle was quieter than usual; most students were busy with last-minute packing or enjoying the early holiday freedom.

"Hi," Harry said, his own grin spreading across his face as she moved towards him.

"Hi," she replied, her smile making her eyes sparkle. They stood there for a moment, just staring at each other, the comfortable silence filled with everything that had passed between them.

It was Harry who broke it, a teasing light in his eyes. "Couldn't resist, could you? Had to get one last question in."

A light blush touched her cheeks. "It was about the underlying principles of the Arithmantic theorem of magical chance. Professor Vector thinks it might be applicable to..." She cut herself off, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Sorry. You don't care about that."

"I care that you care," he said simply, and the honesty of it made her smile widen. He took a step closer. "Well, since you're free now... fancy a walk?"

"I'd love that," she said.

As they started down the corridor, Hermione glanced at him. "So, did you have a nice, quiet free period?"

Harry let out a humorless laugh. "Quiet? Yes. Nice? Not exactly. It was agonizing, actually."

Hermione looked at him with concern. "Agonizing? Why?"

"Because," he said, his voice dropping with mock-seriousness, "I spent the entire fifty minutes trying not to climb the walls waiting to see you, while simultaneously being forced to watch Ron and Lavender practically swallow each other on the sofa across the room. It was a unique form of torture."

A soft, delighted laugh escaped her. "Poor you," she said, her eyes dancing. "That does sound dreadful."

As they rounded a corner into a less-traveled, dusty corridor lined with old stone arches, her laughter subsided into a soft, mischievous smile.

"You're impossible, you know that?" she said, giving him a sudden, playful shove.

Harry stumbled back in surprise, his back hitting the cool stone of an archway. "What was—"

He never finished the sentence. Hermione closed the distance between them in a single step, her playful expression softening into something else entirely—something focused and wonderfully deliberate. She placed a hand lightly on his chest, rose on her toes, and pressed her lips to his.

This kiss was nothing like the hesitant, questioning one from the night before. This was confident and sure. The playfulness of the moment vanished, replaced by an intensity that stole the air from his lungs. Her lips were soft but firm, moving against his with a gentle, searching pressure that he answered without a second thought. His mind went blissfully, completely blank, all thought erased except for the overwhelming reality of her. The feeling of her hand on his chest, the faint sigh she let out against his mouth—it was enough to make his knees feel weak. Acting on pure instinct, his own arms circled her waist, pulling her flush against him, deepening the kiss and chasing away the last of the corridor's chill.

She pulled back slowly, leaving him breathless and dizzy, his mind blissfully blank. He stared down at her, a wide, dazed grin spreading across his face.

"What," he managed, his voice a little hoarse. "Was that for?"

Hermione’s own smile was full of playful triumph. She didn't say a word. She simply lifted a hand and pointed directly above his head.

Harry's eyes followed her finger. Dangling from the peak of the stone archway was a small, ancient-looking bunch of mistletoe with pearly white berries.

"Mistletoe," she said, with a little shrug as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It's tradition, isn't it?"

Harry let out a real laugh, a sound full of disbelief and pure happiness. "Is it? Funny, I've never noticed that tradition before." He leaned in, his grin turning mischievous. "Maybe we should do a full survey of the castle... you know, for educational purposes. To find any other traditions we might be missing."

"I think one tradition is quite enough for now," she retorted, though her cheeks were pink. "Besides, I still have reading to do for Charms."

"The library, then?" Harry suggested, his heart feeling impossibly light. "We can... study."

"We can try," she agreed, her eyes sparkling.

As they turned to leave the corridor, Harry reached for her hand. This time, there was no hesitation from either of them. Her fingers laced through his easily, a comfortable, assumed connection that felt more real than anything he'd experienced all day.

They found a quiet, secluded table in the back of the library, hidden behind towering shelves of books on Ancient Runes. The air smelled of old parchment and dust, a scent that had always meant comfort to Harry, but now it felt different. As they sat down, their knees brushed under the table, and instead of pulling away, they let them stay, a small, secret point of contact.

They worked in a comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the scratching of their quills and the soft turning of pages. It felt so normal, yet everything had changed. Finally, Hermione looked up from her book, her expression more serious.

"So," she began quietly. "You'll be at the Burrow for Christmas, then?"

"Yeah," Harry admitted, sighing. "But you won't be there, will you?"

She shook her head, a sad smile on her face. "I really miss my parents. I feel like I've hardly seen them. I told them I'd come home for Christmas." She paused, her gaze softening as she looked at him. "But I was hoping we could spend more time together before the holiday."

Harry’s heart did a little flip. "So... Slughorn's Christmas party, then?" he asked, trying to sound casual and failing completely.

Hermione’s expression shifted, a playful, challenging glint appearing in her eyes. She leaned forward slightly, staring at him intently. "Are you planning to go with other girls, Potter?"

"What?" Harry said, completely flustered. "No! Of course not. I meant... are we..." He fumbled for the words, trying to ask if they were going together without sounding like a complete idiot. "Are we going...?"

He never finished. She leaned across the table, closing the small distance between them. Before he could process it, she pressed a quick, soft kiss to his lips. She pulled back, a triumphant, affectionate smirk on her face.

"Like you had to ask, idiot," she whispered.

Harry just stared at her, a slow, dazed smile forming on his face. In that single, perfect moment, the ever-present weight on his shoulders—the prophecy, the looming war—seemed to lift, just for a second. It wasn't that the danger had vanished, but for the first time, it felt manageable. With her smiling at him like that, calling him an idiot with more affection than anyone had ever shown him, the darkness didn't seem quite so consuming. He felt a profound sense of clarity, a quiet strength settling deep in his bones. He could face anything, as long as he had this.

Chapter Text

The library was their sanctuary. They had found a secluded carrel in the Ancient Runes section, hidden by towering shelves that smelled of dust and old magic. For a few hours, the only sounds were the soft rustle of turning pages and the scratching of their quills against parchment, a rhythm that had defined their friendship for years. But for Harry, everything was different now.

He found he couldn't concentrate. His Potions essay lay half-finished as he watched Hermione, her brow furrowed in focus over a complex Arithmantic chart. The low, golden light of the late afternoon slanted through the high window, catching the stray wisps of hair around her face and turning them into a halo. She chewed thoughtfully on the end of her quill, a habit he'd seen a thousand times, but it now sent a warm, protective feeling through his chest that was so intense it was almost unnerving.

The silence between them wasn't just comfortable anymore; it was charged with unspoken things. He felt it in the way his knee brushed against hers under the table, a point of contact neither of them moved to break. He was her boyfriend. She was his girlfriend. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying, precisely because it had only ever been a thought. The nagging uncertainty became a weight he couldn't ignore any longer.

He set his quill down with a soft click.

"Hermione?"

Her own quill paused, hovering over the parchment. She finished a final, spidery number before looking up, her expression shifting from academic concentration to gentle curiosity. "Yes?"

Harry cleared his throat, the question suddenly feeling monumental. "What are we?"

The furrow between her brows returned, deeper this time, and a small, surprised look crossed her face. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Harry felt a familiar heat creep up his neck, and he rubbed it self-consciously. "I mean," he started, the words feeling clumsy, "Like... are we dating? You know."

For a long moment, she just looked at him. The surprise in her eyes slowly melted, replaced by an amused glint. A smile started at the corners of her mouth, then spread, crinkling the corners of her eyes as she leaned back in her chair.

"Oh, I see," she said, her voice laced with playful mischief. "So after kissing me multiple times in the castle corridors and confessing all those wonderfully sweet things, now you're asking for official clarification?"

A wave of relief so profound it was almost dizzying washed over Harry, and he let out a laugh. A wide, pleased grin broke across his face as he reached out, his hand closing around the back of her wooden chair. He pulled it closer with a soft scrape against the stone floor, until their knees were firmly pressed together.

"Well, it was just for assurance, you know," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that was just for her. He looked from her sparkling eyes to her smiling lips. "It's just... I still can't quite believe I have a beautiful girlfriend like you."

The playful look on her face faltered, replaced by a soft, flustered warmth. A lovely shade of crimson bloomed in her cheeks, and she looked down at her notes as if they held the answer to a different sort of problem. With a soft gasp of mock outrage, she rolled up the parchment she'd been writing on and gave him a light thwap against the side of his head.

"Idiot," she whispered, the word full of affection as she finally met his gaze again, her brilliant smile making his heart feel impossibly light.

After a few more moments of comfortable silence and a few more soft, stolen kisses over dusty books, Harry found another, more practical question weighing on his mind. He pulled back slightly, his expression turning serious.

"So," he began, his voice hesitant. "Do we... do we want to keep this private? Or, you know, public?"

Hermione looked at him, her smile softening. She seemed to consider it for a moment, her gaze thoughtful as she reached out to place her hand over his on the table. "I'll leave it up to you, Harry," she said quietly, her trust in him absolute.

Harry nodded, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. He thought about it, his mind flashing back to the relentless gossip of their fourth year , when Rita Skeeter had painted Hermione as a "scarlet woman" toying with his and Viktor's affections. He remembered the whispers, the glares she'd had to endure. The idea of putting her through that again, of making their new, fragile relationship a subject for school-wide speculation, made his stomach clench with a fierce protectiveness.

"Keeping it under wraps for now might be for the best," he said finally, his voice low. "Just until... well, just for a bit. I don't want you to be exposed to all that again. The rumors, everyone talking..."

She nodded, understanding immediately.

"But," he added, meeting her gaze, a small smile playing on his lips, "I'm not going to be too strict about it. If a few people happen to catch on, I don't think I'll mind."

She squeezed his hand in agreement, a warm, grateful smile on her face. "Okay," she whispered. "Private, but not a secret. I like that."

The subject was settled, and a new, comfortable silence enveloped them. After a moment, Hermione’s gaze dropped to her bag on the floor, where the corner of the Half-Blood Prince’s Potions book was just visible. Her expression shifted, becoming more serious, a little guilty.

"Harry," she began, her voice soft. "About the Prince's book..."

Harry braced himself instinctively, but she just gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm still going through it," she said, looking back up at him. "And... well, I haven't found anything to say it's truly dangerous. Not yet, anyway. There are some non-verbal curses I don't recognize, but nothing that screams 'Dark Magic'." She took a breath, her eyes full of sincere regret. "I just... I wanted to say I'm sorry. For having so many rows with you about it this year. I was so worried, and so certain I was right, that I didn't listen to you properly."

Before Harry could even respond, to tell her it was okay, she shifted on the chair beside him, turning her body fully towards his. He watched, slightly bewildered, as she moved closer, her face earnest and impossibly close. Her hands came up to gently cup his face, her touch tentative and warm.

"This," she whispered, her lips gently pressing against his forehead, "is for being so stubborn about the Draught of Living Death."

She tilted his head slightly and kissed one of his cheeks. Her voice was a soft murmur against his skin. "This is for all the other times I lectured you when I should have just listened."

She moved to his other cheek, pausing for a heartbeat. Her eyes, full of a deep, warm affection, met his. When she spoke again, the apologetic tone was gone, replaced by a soft, shy honesty that made his heart skip a beat.

"And this one..." she whispered, before pressing a light, lingering kiss to his remaining cheek, "...is just because I want to."

That simple confession, more than the apology, completely disarmed him. He felt his breath catch in his throat. Before he could process the pure, thrilling joy of her words, she leaned in and captured his lips. The kiss was slow and soft, no longer just an apology, but a quiet affirmation. Harry felt his eyes flutter shut, his mind going blissfully blank as he melted into her touch.

She pulled back slowly, her thumbs gently stroking his jawline. "There," she said, a small, satisfied smile on her face as she remained close.

A dazed grin spread across Harry's face. He looked at her, his mind still reeling from her confession. "Is that all?" he managed to ask, his voice a little hoarse.

Her smile widened, but her expression turned serious again. She didn’t move away, her voice dropping to an intrigued whisper that was just for him. "No. I'm not finished with it yet. And there are a few... other things. Spells. Strange, never-heard-of-before things. They're not dark, just... unorthodox. I want to test them out."

Harry blinked, the last vestiges of the kiss-induced haze clearing slightly. He was still processing the feeling of her lips on his, the simple, heart-stopping honesty of "just because I want to," and she was already planning magical experiments. A low, happy chuckle escaped him. Of course, she was. It was so perfectly, wonderfully her.

“Speaking of potions,” she said, her tone suddenly grim as she leaned closer across the library table, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was just passing an empty classroom and I overheard some of the fourth-year girls... they're trying to decide how best to slip you a love potion. They’re all desperate to be your date to Slughorn’s party.”

“And you didn’t confiscate them?” Harry asked, a grin playing on his lips. He loved how fiercely protective she sounded.

“They didn’t have the potions on them,” she said scornfully. “They were just discussing tactics. Apparently, Fred and George are sending them disguised as perfumes and cough potions through their Owl Order Service.”

“You know a lot about it,” Harry noted, raising an eyebrow.

“It was on the back of the bottles they showed Ginny and me over the summer,” she said coolly. “The point is, Harry, you need to be careful. And since you’re already going with me”—she said it with such a matter-of-fact confidence that it made Harry’s chest feel warm and tight—“the others are getting frantic. They don’t know we’re going together, of course. If anyone asks, we’re just going as friends.”

“Let them get frantic,” Harry said, feeling pleasantly smug. His eyes, however, narrowed in thought. “Hang on. If they can get potions in disguised as something else… that’s how Malfoy could have done it. The necklace that cursed Katie. She said she was delivering it to someone at Hogwarts, but couldn’t remember who. It must have been Imperiused. It’s the only way.”

“Oh, Harry… not that again,” she sighed, though she patted his hand reassuringly. “Look, Secrecy Sensors detect powerful curses, like the one on that necklace. They wouldn’t register a love potion that’s just been put in the wrong bottle. It would be down to Filch to realize, and let’s be honest, he’s not the most competent wizard…”

Hermione stopped dead, her eyes widening. Harry had heard it too. A shadow fell over their table.

The vulture-like face of Madam Pince appeared, her skin like parchment, her hooked nose illuminated unflatteringly by the lamp she was carrying. “The library is now closed,” she said, her beady eyes sweeping over the two of them sitting so close together. “And this is a place of learning, not some deserted corridor for snogging.”

Harry and Hermione both flushed a deep, embarrassed crimson. Before either could protest that they were just talking, her gaze zeroed in on Harry’s book.

“What have you been doing to that book, you depraved boy?” she hissed.

“It isn’t the library’s, it’s mine!” Harry said hastily, snatching his copy of Advanced Potion-Making as she lunged for it with a claw-like hand.

“Despoiled!” she hissed. “Desecrated! Befouled!”

“It’s just a book that’s been written on!”

Seeing that the librarian looked as though she might actually have a seizure, Hermione grabbed Harry by the arm and frog-marched him away with surprising strength.

“She’ll ban you from the library if you’re not careful!” she whispered furiously once they were in the corridor, though Harry could see she was fighting a smile.

“It’s not my fault she’s barking mad,” Harry retorted. “Or d’you think she overheard you being rude about Filch? I’ve always thought there might be something going on between them.”

“Oh, ha ha,” she said, rolling her eyes, but she didn’t let go of his arm. They argued playfully about the scandalous possibility of a Pince-Filch romance all the way back to the common room, the easy, familiar banter feeling richer and more precious than ever before.

“Baubles,” Harry said to the Fat Lady, who swung forward with a roguish grin.

The moment they climbed through the portrait hole, however, the mood changed.

“Hi, Harry!” Romilda Vane chirped, stepping directly into his path, holding two glasses. “Fancy a gillywater?”

Harry felt Hermione go still beside him, her hand tightening on his arm.

“No thanks, Romilda,” Harry said quickly. “I don’t like it much.”

“Well, take these anyway,” she persisted, thrusting a box of Chocolate Cauldrons into his hands. “They’ve got firewhisky in them. My gran sent them to me, but I don’t like them.”

Before Harry could even stammer out a thank you, Hermione stepped forward slightly, positioning herself more firmly at his side. Her voice, when she spoke, was as sweet as honey and as cold as ice.

"How thoughtful of you, Romilda," she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. She took the box of chocolates from Harry's hands herself. "We'll be sure to enjoy them."

The emphasis on "we" was a perfectly aimed spell, and it hit its mark. Romilda’s confident expression faltered.

"Right," Hermione continued brightly, turning her back on the other girl completely. "Come on, Harry. It's getting late." She tucked her free hand through his linked arm and, with a clear and final purpose, led him away toward the staircases, leaving a stunned and defeated Romilda Vane standing in her wake.

Once they were safely in the relative privacy of the stairwell, Harry stopped and looked down at her, a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face.

“Wow,” was all he could say.

A faint, triumphant blush touched Hermione’s cheeks as she handed the box back to him. “Well,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “She was being rather obvious. I was simply making the situation clear.” She looked at the box in his hands. “Careful, don’t eat it. It’s yours to throw out or do whatever you want with.”

“You were jealous,” Harry teased, his heart feeling impossibly light as he took the box.

“I was not,” she sniffed, though she couldn’t hide her smile. “I was merely protecting my investment. It wouldn’t do to have my date for Slughorn’s party befuddled by a shoddy love potion, would it?”

He laughed, a real, happy sound. “No,” he agreed, squeezing the hand that was still linked with hers. “It wouldn’t do at all.”

"So, are you heading to bed then?" Harry asked, his voice hopeful. "It's not even that late."

She looked up at him, a playful glint in her eye. "Alright," she conceded softly. "Only because you asked for it. But don't forget, the party is tomorrow night. We both need our rest."

Happy with the small victory, he followed her back toward the common room. The moment they stepped inside, however, the easy warmth between them was replaced by a familiar tension. Ron was sitting slumped on the sofa, looking sour. Hermione’s expression hardened, and she shot him a glare so cold it could have frozen fire before she turned her back on him completely, spotting Parvati Patil by the fireplace.

"Parvati!" she said, her voice bright and cheerful as she walked over, leaving Harry to deal with Ron.

Ron watched her go before turning to Harry, his expression a mixture of sullen and curious. "So," he started, "who are you going to the party with?" He kept glancing over at Hermione, who was now deep in conversation with Parvati. Before Harry could figure out what to say, Lavender Brown came bouncing over.

Squeezing herself in between Harry and Ron, Lavender flung her arms around Ron’s neck. "Hi, Harry," said Parvati who, having joined them, looked faintly embarrassed by her friend's behavior.

“Hi,” said Harry. “How’re you? You’re staying at Hogwarts, then? I heard your parents wanted you to leave.”

“I managed to talk them out of it for the time being,” said Parvati. “That Katie thing really freaked them out, but as there hasn’t been anything since…”

Her voice trailed off, her gaze shifting to Hermione. Hermione was no longer pretending to talk to Parvati; her attention had drifted back to Harry. She was watching him with a soft, unguarded admiration, a private smile on her lips. It was a look that went beyond friendship, a warm, appreciative gaze that drank him in, and Parvati’s eyes widened with curiosity.

"So who are you going with, Hermione?" Parvati asked, her voice alight with interest.

The question broke Hermione’s reverie. A flicker of a thought crossed her face—a decision being made. Her gaze flickered from Harry back to Parvati, a new, brilliant confidence blooming in her smile. "Oh," she said, stepping away from the fireplace and crossing the small distance to Harry. She took his hand in hers, the touch both a shock and a comfort in the public room. "Me and Harry are going together."

The statement, so simple and clear, landed in the middle of the group with the force of a revelation. Harry’s heart gave a great leap. It was one thing to agree to it in private, but to have her claim him so publicly, so possessively… it was terrifying and wonderful.

"Wow," said Parvati, her jaw practically on the floor as she looked at their joined hands. "You like your Quidditch players, don’t you? First Krum, now Harry…"

At the mention of Harry and Krum, Harry felt Hermione flinch beside him and saw a muscle tighten in Ron's jaw. A hot, mortifying blush crept up Harry’s neck, and he saw an identical scarlet bloom on Hermione’s cheeks. He instinctively ducked his head, desperately hoping Ron wouldn’t see the depth of his reaction.

"We're just going as friends," Hermione said quickly, her voice a little too high. It was their agreed-upon story, but hearing it now, after her bold gesture, felt flimsy and thin. Feeling the sudden weight of everyone's eyes on them, she gave Harry's hand a final, reassuring squeeze. "Actually," she announced, "I think I'm feeling sleepy after all. I'll see you tomorrow. Good night." She waved to the stunned group and made a hasty retreat up the stairs to her dormitory.

The moment she was gone, Lavender and Parvati descended on him.

"Just friends?" Lavender scoffed, detaching herself slightly from Ron. "I don't think so! I always knew there was something more going on with you two. The way you used to look at each other all the time? Those hugs she gives you."

"So are you actually together?" Parvati pressed, her eyes wide. "Is that why she was looking at you like that? You have to tell us!"

"No, it's not like that," Harry mumbled, avoiding their gazes and trying to discreetly pull his hand back, though the warmth of Hermione's touch still lingered. "We're just friends. She said so." His denials felt weak even to his own ears. He risked a glance at Ron, who was staring blankly into the fire, his expression unreadable, utterly ignoring the drama unfolding beside him. It was as if he had retreated somewhere deep inside himself.

Finally, seeing they weren't getting anything more out of him, the girls gave up. "Fine, don't tell us," Parvati said with a sigh, pulling Lavender up. "We've got Divination homework to finish anyway."

As they left, a heavy, suffocating silence fell between the two boys. After a long moment, Ron turned towards Harry.

"So, you're going with Hermione?" Ron asked, his voice carefully neutral. He stared at a loose thread on the rug, unable to meet Harry's eyes. His face was a strange mask, trying to project indifference while a storm of other emotions—jealousy, curiosity, hope—swirled just beneath the surface. It looked like he was fighting the urge to use Legilimency on Harry right then and there.

Harry took a seat beside him.

He sighed, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. There was no getting out of this without a story. He didn't want to tell Ron the truth, not yet. He pictured the scene in his mind: the accusation, the shouting, the inevitable, explosive fight that would make the rest of the term unbearable and ruin Christmas at the Burrow. He couldn't face it.

"Yeah, Ron," Harry said, forcing a casual tone and crafting the lie with a smoothness that could have cut basilisk hide. "She was talking about going with Cormac or someone else just to have a date, and… well, you know what he’s like. I told her that was a terrible idea and said it was better if we just went together. As friends. She agreed."

The effect was instantaneous and profound. Ron’s head snapped up, the tension visibly draining from his shoulders as his jaw unclenched. A wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over his face, and he finally smiled, his old, easy grin returning.

“Ah, I get it,” he said, his sullen mood completely vanishing. “Blimey, yeah, that’s loads better than having her go with Cormac. He’s a right git. Good on you, mate.” He let out a relieved laugh, but as it faded, a shadow of doubt returned. The image of Hermione taking Harry’s hand earlier, the way they had both gone scarlet when Parvati mentioned Krum… it didn’t quite fit. It makes sense, Ron told himself, trying to force the pieces together. Harry's just being a good mate, looking out for her. Nothing wrong with that. But the doubt was a stubborn, coiling thing in his gut.

He paused, the smile faltering slightly as he sought one last piece of reassurance. "You are just going as friends, right?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "Just to be sure."

The repeated question, poking right at the fragile structure of his lie, made Harry’s patience snap. The guilt of deceiving his best friend and the pressure of the secret suddenly boiled over into anger.

"I thought that's what I just said," he shot back, his voice sharper than he intended, the words a clear warning.

Ron, surprised by the flash of Harry's infamous temper, immediately held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, fine!” he said, quickly dropping the subject.

An awkward, heavy silence fell between them, thick with unspoken accusations and the guilt of Harry’s lie. The only sound was the crackle and pop of the dying fire. Harry stared into the embers, feeling miserable. He hated lying to Ron, but he hated the thought of fighting with him even more. Beside him, Ron shifted uncomfortably in his armchair, clearly desperate to restore the peace.

“Fancy a game?” Ron finally asked, his voice hesitant. “Wizard’s chess?”

It was a clear peace offering, a retreat to the familiar ground that had been the foundation of their friendship for years. Harry looked up and saw not the suspicious interrogator from a moment ago, but his best friend, looking awkward and just wanting things to be normal again.

“Yeah, alright,” Harry agreed, relieved.

Ron fetched the worn, battered board, and the familiar clatter of the stone pieces setting themselves up was a comforting sound. They began to play, the violent little battles of the chessmen—knights trampling pawns, a bishop smashing a rook to pieces—a welcome distraction from their own conflict.

For a while, Harry lost himself in the strategy, but as the game wore on, his mind began to drift. Every move on the board became an echo of the turmoil in his head. He watched Ron sacrifice a pawn to set up a future attack and was reminded of Ron’s own reckless bravery. On one hand, every quiet moment was filled with the new, wonderful reality of his relationship with Hermione—the memory of her smile, the feeling of her hand in his, the soft, shy honesty in her voice when she’d whispered, "...just because I want to." It was a secret, brilliant warmth he wanted to protect at all costs.

But on the other hand, there was Ron. He was more than a friend; he was the closest thing Harry had ever had to a brother. Remove the towering insecurities, the childish jealousy, and he was the most loyal, protective person Harry knew. The image of the bars on his window at Privet Drive flashed in his mind, and the overwhelming, life-altering relief he’d felt seeing Ron’s freckled, grinning face appear in a flying car. He remembered the dark, dusty Shrieking Shack, and Ron, pale with pain and his leg twisted at a sickening angle, hobbling to stand between Harry and a presumed murderer, his voice shaking but resolute as he said, "If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us too!"

That loyalty was a bedrock of Harry’s life. He couldn't ruin that. Not yet. The weight of his secret felt immense, but for now, he decided, he would have to carry it. He would push it all aside, just for a little while. Because tomorrow was a special day.

He and Hermione were going to a party. Together. This might even be considered his first proper date.

The thought, so simple and so full of uncomplicated happiness, broke through his anxiety like a ray of sun. A slow, unconscious smile spread across his face.

"What's that, then?" Ron asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at Harry's happy expression. He glanced down at the board. "You've found a way to beat my knight defense, haven't you? You're cheating!"

Before Harry could respond, a pillow flew across the small space between them and smacked him squarely in the face.

"Oi, you git! No cheating!" Ron roared with laughter.

The tension of the last hour shattered. Harry laughed, grabbing a cushion of his own and launching it back at Ron, starting a playful, chaotic pillow fight in the dying light of the Gryffindor common room.

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Hermione woke slowly, the pale morning light filtering through the scarlet curtains of her four-poster bed. For a moment, she was suspended in the quiet bliss of sleep, but then a single, thrilling thought surfaced, and her eyes snapped open. Today was the day of Slughorn's party. And she was going with Harry.

She whispered his name into the quiet of the dormitory, the sound a soft, wondrous thing. She still couldn’t quite believe they were dating now. It had to be a dream. She, Hermione Granger, was dating Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the person who had saved the school countless times, the most famous wizard in the world. Yet, in the quiet moments that truly mattered, he wasn’t any of those things. He was just her Harry. The shy, stubborn, impossibly handsome git that only she and a few others truly knew.

She thought of the person the world didn’t see. How deeply caring he was for his friends, a quality she'd once teased him about, calling it his "saving people thing," yet secretly, it was one of the things she admired most about him. The way he remained humble, even after being crowned the "Chosen One." The memory of that brave, reckless, idiotic boy climbing onto the back of a mountain troll to save her, without a single thought for his own safety, was as vivid now as it had been five years ago. She thought of how strong he remained after losing so much, never complaining about the crushing burden that had been placed on his shoulders.

A wave of affection so powerful it made her chest ache washed through her. She remembered the raw sincerity in his voice when he had confessed all those feelings for her, the way he’d called her his "beautiful girlfriend." Oh, he really was bad news. She was falling even further for him with every passing second, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it.

Careful not to disturb her sleeping dorm mates, she slipped out of bed, freshened up, and made her way down the spiral staircase. The common room was mostly empty, save for a few anxious-looking juniors cramming for a last-minute Charms test. The fire was already crackling merrily in the hearth.

“Hermione!”

She turned to see Ginny Weasley waving from an armchair by the fire. Hermione’s heart gave a slight lurch. She walked over with a faint hesitation, a polite smile fixed on her face, desperately hoping to avoid another round of questions about her and Harry going to the party together.

“Morning,” Ginny said, her voice casual as she gestured to the spot on the sofa next to her. “Sit down for a minute?”

Hermione did, perching on the edge of the cushion, trying to appear relaxed. “Morning, Ginny. Is everything alright?”

“Fine,” Ginny said, offering her a friendly smile. “Just trying to avoid thinking about my Charms essay. Are you all packed for the holidays?”

“Almost,” Hermione said, relieved by the easy topic. “Just trying to decide which books are absolutely essential.”

“Right,” Ginny chuckled. “For you, that’s probably half the library.” A small, comfortable silence fell between them before Ginny’s tone shifted, becoming more pointed. “So, I heard you’re going to Slughorn’s party with Harry.”

Hermione’s defenses went up instantly. “Oh. Yes, we are.”

“As friends, I suppose?” Ginny said, not waiting for an answer. She leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. “You know, you could have taken someone like Cormac McLaggen, or even Ernie Macmillan. That would have really made Ron jealous.” She leaned back, looking satisfied with her strategic advice. “But I’m sure you and Harry will have fun.”

Hermione gave a tight, noncommittal smile.

“I was just a bit surprised to hear it, is all,” Ginny said, her expression turning more serious as she searched Hermione’s face. “Speaking of which, after the match the other day… you ran out of the common room so fast. You seemed really upset. Was everything okay?”

The question was direct and sharp. Hermione decided a partial truth was better than a lie. “It was Ron,” she said, her voice tight. “He was being a complete git. I just… couldn’t stand to be in there.”

Ginny’s expression immediately softened into one of genuine, sisterly sympathy. “I know,” she said, lowering her voice. “He can be an absolute prat when he’s jealous. But you know he really likes you, Hermione.” She gave Hermione’s arm a light pat. “He’s just an idiot. He’ll come around.”

Hermione felt a wave of discomfort. This was not the conversation she wanted to have. “I don’t know, Ginny,” she started, trying to be gentle but firm. “I don’t really think about Ron like that anymore…”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Ginny interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “You’re just saying that because you’re angry with him right now. You two have been doing this dance for years, everyone knows that.” She let out a frustrated sigh, shaking her head as if exasperated with her brother’s behavior. “Honestly, sometimes he’s just so immature. He’s not like Harry, is he?”

The comparison, born from her frustration with Ron, felt natural yet still caught Hermione off guard.

“I mean, look at Harry,” Ginny continued, her voice softening into one of simple, admiration. “He’s the "chosen one" as they are calling him, he is so mature despite all he went through, and he still manages to be decent and brave. It’s no wonder all the girls are after him.”

Hermione felt a familiar protective instinct rise up. “Careful, Ginny,” she said gently. “Dean might hear you.”

Ginny let out a short, humorless laugh, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I don’t even care, Hermione, to be honest,” she said, her voice suddenly small. “We’re fighting a lot. Maybe… maybe it’s for the best if it ends.” She looked up at Hermione with a sad smile. “Me and Dean… we just don’t work out. He’s not what I was expecting, you know?”

Hermione looked at her with a questioning gaze, staying silent.

“He’s not like Harry,” the words slipped out of Ginny’s mouth before she could stop them, a raw and honest confession.

A complicated mix of pride and unease settled in Hermione’s stomach. She didn’t know what to say. After a moment, she gave a small, quiet nod of agreement. “Well… yeah. There’s no one like Harry.” The words were simple, but they were full of a deep, personal pride in her boyfriend. It was clear from the look on Ginny’s face that she still hadn’t gotten over her childhood crush.

“What should I do, Hermione?” Ginny asked, her voice pleading and sad.

Hermione was trapped. She had no reply. Every possible answer felt like either a betrayal or a lie. She shifted uncomfortably on the cushion, her gaze flicking away.

Ginny seemed to realize the impossible position she had put her in. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “That’s not fair. It must be weird, given how he’s your best friend.”

Well, technically my boyfriend, Hermione thought, but she kept her mouth firmly shut.

“I’m sorry,” Ginny said again, standing up abruptly as if she couldn't bear the awkwardness. “I’m going to be late for class.” And before Hermione could respond, she grabbed her bag and rushed away, leaving Hermione alone by the fire with the heavy weight of her friend’s confession.

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Hermione sat curled on the large, comfortable sofa by the fire, the book in her lap long forgotten. She watched the flames dance, a soft, secret smile on her face. Today was the day of Slughorn's party, and she was going with Harry. Her Harry. She consciously pushed the unsettling conversation with Ginny to the back of her mind, refusing to let anything spoil the simple, thrilling happiness that bubbled inside her.

She heard the familiar creak of the boys’ dormitory stairs and looked up just as he appeared. His hair was a chaotic mess, and he was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, looking younger and more vulnerable than the hero the world saw.

He spotted her and his sleepy expression broke into a warm, lopsided grin. He walked over and sank onto the sofa next to her with a contented sigh, the old cushions dipping with his weight.

“Morning,” he mumbled, leaning his head back against the sofa and closing his eyes.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she whispered, her smile widening. “Are you excited for tonight?”

He answered without opening his eyes, a sleepy smile playing on his lips. “Definitely. Just need about five more hours of sleep first.” He gave a huge yawn and, in a gesture of complete, thoughtless comfort, let his head roll sideways to rest on her shoulder.

Her breath caught. She looked down at the top of his messy dark hair, feeling the surprising weight of his head, the warmth seeping through her robes. The simple, trusting intimacy of the gesture made her heart ache with a feeling so strong and fierce it almost overwhelmed her.

She glanced quickly around the common room, seeing that the few juniors present were completely engrossed in their last-minute studying. The coast was clear.

Acting on a sudden, giddy impulse, she reached out, her fingers tentatively closing around the soft fabric of his jumper. She gave a gentle tug, pulling him just enough so that his face turned toward hers. He opened his eyes, his green gaze questioning and still hazy with sleep. Before he could speak, she leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to his lips.

Just as quickly, she let him go, her heart hammering against her ribs. Flustered by her own boldness, she immediately turned back to her book and picked it up, pretending it was the most fascinating thing she had ever read as she felt a hot blush creep up her cheeks.

She felt him stir, his head lifting from her shoulder. She kept her eyes glued to the page, intensely aware of his gaze on her. A slow, lazy grin spread across his face as he looked at her, at the way she was trying so hard to appear nonchalant.

“That,” he said, his voice a low, teasing murmur that sent a shiver down her spine, “is so unfair to do to a man early in the morning.”

She risked a peek over the top of her book, her cheeks still warm. Seeing the lazy, affectionate grin on his face, she couldn't help the smile that tugged at her own lips. Instead of a witty retort, she just giggled, the sound bright and happy in the quiet room.

She stood up, pulling gently on his hand. "Come on, sleepyhead," she said. "I'm starving."

Grateful to be pulled along, Harry allowed himself to be led to his feet. As they passed the table where his bag lay, he quickly and discreetly snatched the worn piece of parchment that was the Marauder’s Map and shoved it deep into his pocket.

The castle corridors were quiet and deserted in the pale morning light. As they started the walk toward the Great Hall, Harry’s hand found hers, their fingers lacing together in a gesture that had already become a comforting, second habit.

Hermione filled the silence, her voice full of a nervous excitement. "My parents were a nightmare about tonight, you know," she said with a fond eye-roll. "They insisted I buy a proper dress. Mum said I couldn't keep turning up to events in my school robes. It's... well, it's a deep cranberry color. She said it would bring out the..."

She kept talking, but Harry wasn't really concentrating on the words anymore. He was just mesmerized, watching the way her eyes lit up as she spoke, the soft curve of her smile, the easy way her hand fit in his. The thought of two whole weeks without this, without her, suddenly felt like a physical ache.

"...and I'm not even sure about the shoes, but—"

"I'm really going to miss you during the holidays," he blurted out, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Hermione stopped walking, her own chatter ceasing. She turned to face him, the playful light in her eyes softening into something deep and sincere. She looked into his eyes, her expression full of a mutual, unspoken longing. "Me too," she whispered.

That was all it took. The air between them grew thick and charged. Harry glanced down the empty corridor, then back at her. His eyes landed on the slightly ajar door of an unused classroom just beside them.

"Breakfast can wait," he said, his voice a low murmur.

Before she could respond, he was pulling her into the dusty, sunlit room. The door clicked shut behind them, plunging them into a quiet, private world. He didn't let go of her hand, but gently backed her up against the nearest wall, his other hand coming up to rest on the stone beside her head, trapping her in the most wonderful way. And then he kissed her.

It was nothing like their other kisses. There was no hesitation, no shyness. This was a kiss born from a sudden, sharp ache of impending separation. It was deep and desperate and utterly breathtaking. Hermione’s hands, which had been at her sides, came up to tangle in his messy hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The cool, solid stone of the wall was at her back, but everything else was the warm, grounding presence of Harry.

He poured all of his unspoken feelings into the kiss—his fierce, protective affection, his giddy happiness, and the profound, terrifying realization of just how much he was going to miss her. His hands slid from her face down to her waist, pulling her flush against him.

The kiss deepened, and just when Hermione thought she couldn’t breathe, his lips left hers and trailed a fiery path along her jaw. She let out a soft gasp, her head instinctively tilting to the side. He took the invitation, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of her neck, and a delicious shiver wracked her entire body. He murmured her name against her skin, the sound a low vibration that made her fingers tighten in his hair.

They broke apart slowly, reluctantly, both of them breathless and dazed, resting their foreheads together in the quiet, sun-dusted room. Harry’s hands were still holding her firmly at the waist, and hers were still tangled in his hair.

“Wow,” she whispered, her voice shaky and weak.

A slow, crooked grin spread across his face, his eyes dark with emotion. “See?” he murmured, his voice low and a little rough. “Breakfast could definitely wait.”

She let out a breathless laugh, a sound full of pure, uncomplicated joy. It took all of her willpower to find her voice. “Okay, but it can’t wait forever. We’re going to be late, and I need to eat.”

“Bossy,” he teased, but he leaned in and gave her one last, soft, lingering kiss on the lips. “Alright. You win.”

He took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. After a quick peek to ensure the corridor was still empty, they slipped out of the classroom, their shared secret now sealed with a new, searing intensity. They continued their walk to the Great Hall, hand in hand, the earlier anxieties forgotten, leaving nothing but the simple, joyful anticipation of the day, and the date, ahead.

Chapter Text

The afternoon before Slughorn’s party was a strange, restless time. Hermione had retreated to her dormitory hours ago, already fussing over her hair and robes with a level of nervous energy Harry found both amusing and incredibly endearing. Left to his own devices, he found a quiet spot in an empty armchair by a tall window in the Gryffindor common room, the incomplete charms assignment lying forgotten on the floor beside him.

He was just gazing out at the Hogwarts grounds, watching the winter sun cast long, purple shadows across the pristine white snow. The lake was a sheet of dark, polished glass, and the Forbidden Forest was dusted with a layer of white, silent and imposing. It was a beautiful, peaceful scene, and for a few minutes, Harry allowed himself to just feel the simple, uncomplicated excitement for the night ahead. His first real date. With Hermione.

A quiet pop beside his chair made him jump. A house-elf was standing there, bowing so low its long, bat-like ears brushed the carpet, holding out a small roll of parchment tied with a purple ribbon.

"For Mr. Harry Potter, sir," the elf squeaked.

Harry’s good mood evaporated instantly. He recognized the elegant, sloped handwriting at once. He unrolled the parchment and read the familiar words:

Harry,
I would be grateful if you would join me in my office at your earliest convenience.
Albus Dumbledore

His stomach did a nervous flip. It had to be about Slughorn. Dumbledore wanted a progress report on the missing memory, a mission on which he had made absolutely no progress. With a heavy sigh, he stood up and headed out of the common room.

He walked toward the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office, his mind racing. "Fizzing Whizbee," he said to the gargoyle, the password feeling absurdly cheerful given his anxious mood. The gargoyle sprang aside, and he rode the spiral staircase up to the familiar circular office.

"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said, smiling at him from behind his desk. "Thank you for coming. Lemon drop?"

"No, thank you, Professor," Harry said, taking the seat opposite him.

“And how are we proceeding with Professor Slughorn?” Dumbledore asked, his voice gentle but direct. “Have you had any success in persuading him to share his memory?”

Harry’s face fell. “No, sir,” he admitted, feeling a familiar wave of frustration. “I’ve tried to bring it up a few times, but he just… shuts down. He changes the subject or finds an excuse to leave. He doesn't want to talk about it at all.”

“I see,” Dumbledore said, steepling his long fingers. He did not look disappointed, merely thoughtful. “This is, as I suspected, a most difficult piece of magic to retrieve. But it is essential that we do. We must not fail.”

“I’ll keep trying, sir,” Harry said, though he felt a bit hopeless.

“I know you will,” Dumbledore said, his expression kind, before the topic seemed to shift. “But these matters of the past are not all that occupy a young mind, are they?” Dumbledore said, his bright blue eyes twinkling. “Tell me, what else is on your mind, Harry?”

Before Harry could even think of a response, Dumbledore continued. "You seem to be spending an awful lot of time with Miss Granger lately. I can't help but wonder..." He let the sentence hang in the air, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Harry froze, his mind going completely blank with panic. He felt a hot, mortifying blush creep up his neck. How? How could he possibly know? Did someone see them in the classroom? Was it Neville?

"I-I don't know what you mean, Professor," he stammered, a truly pathetic attempt at a denial.

Dumbledore’s smile was gentle. "Harry," he said softly. "I know more than you think."

Of course he does, Harry thought, a wave of resignation washing over him. The man probably knew what he was going to have for breakfast tomorrow. There was no point in lying. He looked down at his own hands, unable to meet the Headmaster's knowing gaze.

"Honestly?" he mumbled, his cheeks burning. "Yes, Professor. We're... sort of... Well, we're... together. I suppose. It's new."

"I see," Dumbledore said, and the warmth in his voice made Harry finally dare to look up. The Headmaster was beaming, his eyes twinkling with genuine happiness for him. "That is wonderful news, Harry. You could not have found a better person to have by your side."

He leaned forward slightly, his expression full of a deep, fond respect. "I have observed Miss Granger for six years. She is, of course, the most brilliant witch of her age, but I have always been more impressed by her profound loyalty and her immense capacity for empathy. Her heart, Harry, is every bit as formidable as her mind.”

Harry felt a surge of pride so intense it almost took his breath away. He had never heard anyone describe Hermione so perfectly.

"We decided it was best to... keep it quiet for now."

"A very wise decision, Harry," Dumbledore said, his expression turning serious again. "In your unique position, we do not want Miss Granger gaining the wrong sort of attention from the wrong sort of people." He paused, his gaze full of meaning. "Protect what you have found, Harry. It is a rare and precious thing.”

Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment, a look of profound affection in his eyes. “You have grown so much this year, Harry. You are facing your burdens not just with bravery, but with a maturity that is well beyond your years. Learning to find happiness in dark times… that is a great and powerful strength.”

The Headmaster’s words settled over Harry, not with a heavy weight, but with a profound sense of clarity.

"Thank you, Professor," was all he managed to say, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name.

Dumbledore simply smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Off you go, Harry. I believe you have a party to attend. Do not be late."

Harry nodded, and with a final look at the Headmaster, he turned and left the office. He walked down the spiral staircase and past the stone gargoyle in a bit of a daze. Dumbledore's words echoed in his mind.

Protect what you have found, Harry. It is a rare and precious thing.

Finding happiness in these dark times wasn't a distraction; it was a strength. And Hermione was his.

.
.

It had been a while since Harry had been summoned by Dumbledore. Hermione was in her dormitory, supposedly organizing her trunk for the holidays, but in reality, she was just replaying the morning's events in a blissful, continuous loop.

She could still feel the surprising weight of his head resting on her shoulder, a gesture of such thoughtless, easy trust. A warm glow spread through her chest as she remembered her own giddy impulse, the shocking, wonderful feeling of his lips under hers. And then, the classroom. That had been something else entirely. The memory of the cool stone wall at her back and the searing heat of his kiss on her neck sent a delicious shiver down her spine. She touched her own lips, a soft, secret smile spreading across her face. Everything was different now. Their years of friendship had been charged with a new, thrilling current, and she found she was impatient for every single second she could spend with him. She just wanted to see him.

Hoping to find him, she descended the spiral staircase into the common room. Her eyes immediately scanned the familiar, cozy space, searching for a tell-tale mess of black hair. Instead, her gaze landed on Ron.

He was sitting by himself at one of the corner tables, a half-finished essay for Transfiguration in front of him, though he was mostly just staring out the window, looking bored. Lavender was nowhere to be found. He looked up just as she saw him, and their eyes met for the first time in what felt like days. He gave her a small, uncertain nod of acknowledgment.

Hermione’s face remained a cool, neutral mask. She ignored the gesture completely, the memory of his actions still too fresh. Deciding the common room was a lost cause, she turned to head straight back to the safety of her dorm.

She had one foot on the bottom step when his voice, quiet and rough, stopped her cold.

“Hermione.”

She paused, her back rigid, but didn’t turn around. She had no desire to speak to him, to hear any pathetic excuses or justifications. She took another step up.

“Please,” his voice came again, strained this time, almost desperate. “Just… listen to me. For a minute.”

The plea in his tone made her freeze. Every instinct told her to keep walking, to retreat to the safety of her dorm and not look back. But she hesitated.

She knew their bond—the one forged between the three of them in fire and loyalty—was something so unique that it would likely never be broken. And despite her anger, despite everything, Ron was still one of her best friends.

The anger was still there, a hot, tight knot in her chest. He had the gall to accuse her of not believing in him, when she had been so worried about his chances that she’d cast a Confundus Charm on McLaggen just to help him. She had only ever wanted what was best for him. She had even asked him to Slughorn's party—a memory that now felt like it belonged to another person, a version of herself from a lifetime ago who was still entertaining a liking for him.

She realized with a sudden, startling clarity that she had never really had genuine feelings for Ron. It had been a form of recency bias, a safe and familiar port in a storm. It was a way to cope with the fact that she and Harry had grown so distant last year, a way to soothe the insecurities that had gotten the best of her. It wasn't real. Not like what she felt for Harry.

With a deep, steadying breath, she slowly turned around. Her expression was no longer just cold, but weary and resolved. She would listen, for Harry’s sake, and for the sake of the friendship that used to be. She met his gaze across the quiet common room.

“What is it, Ron?”

“Please,” his voice came again, strained this time, almost desperate. “I want us to be on talking terms again. This matter got out of hand.”

The words, so full of understated blame. “Oh, I guess it was my fault that it got out of hand?” she snapped, her voice sharp with anger.

The retort was on the tip of her tongue—the sharp, cruel words about how he wouldn’t have even been on the team if it weren’t for her Confundus Charm. But she stopped. She saw the flash of hurt in his eyes, and something inside her deflated. It would be going too far. It would wound him deeply, and she was just so tired of playing that game, of the constant bickering and the one-upmanship.

She wanted things to be back how they were.

A memory, clear as day, surfaced in her mind: the three of them in the corridor outside the Potions classroom, Slughorn cheerfully greeting her and Harry, fumbling to remember Ron’s name. The expression on Ron’s face—a perfect mixture of indignation and bewildered humor—had been so funny that she and Harry had been trying not to laugh all the way to their next class. They were a unit. A chaotic, dysfunctional, but unbreakable unit.

Despite how things were between them now, she was sure it would be resolved. It always was. And she knew Harry was caught in the middle of it all. He missed Ron. He wanted his best friend back, and she knew her anger was preventing that.

With a deep, weary sigh, she let the fight go out of her. The anger was still there, but it was overshadowed by a profound exhaustion. She was tired of fighting. For Harry's sake, and for the sake of the friendship they once had, she would listen.

"I am listening," Hermione said, her voice carefully neutral, her expression giving nothing away.

Ron seemed to take this as the victory it was. He took a hesitant step closer.

"I just want us to speak freely again," he said, the words coming out in a rush. "I want us to hang out like we used to do." He had so many things on his mind—the image of her with Krum that Ginny had planted in his head, the sting of her thinking he'd cheated to win his position, the lonely feeling of being left out of the Slug Club meetings. All those grievances had built up into a toxic mess. He couldn't explain all that, not now. Instead, he just looked at her miserably. "I know I said a few things I shouldn't have, and I'd take them back if I had the chance, but... what's done is done."

It was a clumsy, imperfect attempt at a truce, a classic non-apology, but she saw the genuine regret in his eyes. Her own anger softened, replaced by a weary resignation.

"I was in the wrong too," she admitted quietly, the words tasting strange. "I shouldn't have... attacked you. With the birds." She paused, her mind supplying the real reason for her outburst. "I had other things on my mind, and I... I took my frustration out on you."

Suddenly, the memory of what came after that horrible scene flooded her thoughts: Harry finding her, his raw and honest confession in the cold corridor, the feeling of his arms around her... a delicious shiver ran down her spine, and she felt a light blush creep up her neck. Not wanting Ron to see her expression, she looked down at the floor. The memory was so sweet; the way he had just gone on and on about how he liked her, and then... the kiss. Okay, Hermione, focus. We are getting out of the subject here, she scolded herself.

She looked at Ron again. "I want us to be on civil terms as well," she said, finally looking up with a small, genuine smile.

Ron’s face broke into a relieved grin of his own, glad that they had at least patched something up. "Good. Great."

"So," Hermione said, her tone turning lightly teasing, "where's Lavender? I thought you two were inseparable these days."

"Ah, she's packing for the holidays," Ron said, a faint blush on his cheeks. He opened his mouth as if to say more. "Hermione, her and me, we're not like that..." he started, then went quiet, realizing how difficult that would be to explain.

Hermione’s curiosity was piqued, but Ron quickly changed the subject, latching onto the only other thing he could think of. "So, Harry and you are going together to the party, then? As friends, right?" he asked.

Hermione was trapped. The desire to just admit the truth, to state the wonderful, simple fact of it, was overwhelming. But she remembered her conversation with Harry, his reasons for keeping it quiet. With a pang of guilt, she gave a simple, "Yeah."

An awkward silence fell. "It's just," Ron continued, chuckling nervously, "Lavender thinks there's something going on between you two. I told her she's been getting daft ideas."

The word hit Hermione with a surprising, physical force. Daft. Silly, foolish, absurd. She had been living in a quiet, thrilling new reality for days, a world sealed by secret, passionate kisses and heartfelt confessions, and Ron, in one casual, dismissive word, had just called it all a joke.

The fight drained out of her, replaced by a profound and sudden weariness. She didn't have the energy for a clever retort, for the witty, weaponized agreement she’d been about to deploy. What was the point?

She finally looked up at him, and the cool, guarded mask was gone. For the first time, he saw the raw, unshielded hurt in her eyes.

"Daft," she repeated, her voice barely a whisper, the sound fragile and thin. "Is that what you think it is, Ron? A daft idea?"

He was completely thrown. He was not prepared for this quiet, wounded look.

"No! I mean, not you," he stammered, immediately backpedaling. "I just meant... you know... Lavender. She doesn't get it. It's us, isn't it? It's always just been the three of us. She's looking for something that isn't there."

He was trying to fix it, trying to retreat to the safety of their shared history, but every word just dug the knife in deeper. He rushed to add more evidence, desperate to convince her—and himself.

“Even Harry said so,” Ron blurted out. “He told me you were thinking of going with Cormac or someone, and he just asked you as a friend so you wouldn’t have to go with anyone else.”

Hermione froze, her hurt expression flickering with surprise. Harry had said that? A perfect, elegant lie, crafted on the spot just to keep the peace. A wave of deep, warm amusement washed over her, completely eclipsing her previous frustration. Oh, how every single moment seemed to remind her of that silly, stubborn, messy-haired boy. She had to physically stop herself from smiling.

She looked at Ron, her expression softening into one of thoughtful agreement. "You know, he was right," she said, playing along seamlessly. "I just realized Harry is the best option for me anyway. I was stupid to even think about going with McLaggen or anyone else." She let out a small, dismissive scoff. "Can you imagine? Listening to Cormac talk about himself all night?"

She saw the relief spreading across Ron’s face and decided to lean into it, just a little. Even though they were hiding their relationship, it didn't mean she had to completely compress her feelings.

"And honestly, we would actually enjoy the boring party if we went together," she continued, a genuine warmth in her voice. "He's just... easy to be around, you know? No drama. And he’s a much better person than half the people Slughorn invites. So when he asked, I was like, 'Yeah, why not?'"

Ron’s transformation was not one of simple relief. He was completely thrown. He watched her, a deeply confused and uneasy expression settling on his face. First, she had looked utterly wounded when he’d called Lavender’s theory ‘daft,’ as if he’d personally insulted her. Now, she was cheerfully agreeing with the ‘just friends’ story and rattling off compliments about Harry. The two reactions didn’t add up, and he was left feeling strangely wrong-footed, like he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

He just nodded along dumbly, his own relief warring with a new, unsettling feeling of being completely outmaneuvered.

“Oh. Right,” he mumbled, trying to find his footing. “Yeah, well, McLaggen’s a total prat, everyone knows that. So… good.”

The truce had been formed, but it felt fragile and strange. Ron was no longer angry, but he was left with a lingering, profound sense of confusion that he couldn't quite shake.

Just as Ron was left standing in a state of profound confusion, the portrait hole swung open. Harry stepped inside, back from his meeting with Dumbledore, his expression thoughtful but calm.

His eyes immediately found Ron and Hermione standing near the fireplace. Seeing the awkward distance between them and the strained look on Ron’s face, his first thought was a familiar, sinking feeling: Did they fight again?

He started walking toward them, his own good mood from his talk with the Headmaster beginning to evaporate. But then he got closer and heard Ron's quiet, slightly dazed agreement. He saw that while Hermione’s face was unreadable, she wasn’t actively glaring at Ron anymore. So, did they make up? he thought, a surge of hope rising in him.

“Did you guys finally decide to talk?” Harry asked, a wide, relieved grin on his face. He came up beside Ron and gave him a hearty pat on the back, and over Ron's shoulder, he shot Hermione a quick, conspiratorial wink that his friend couldn't see.

Hermione met his gaze, and the corner of her mouth twitched into a tiny, secret smile just for him, a silent acknowledgment of their shared world. The sight made Harry’s heart feel impossibly light.

Ron, startled by the pat on the back, just grunted. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Something like that.” The truce was too new and strange for him to explain.

“Well, good,” Harry said cheerfully.

“Right,” Hermione said, seeing her perfect opportunity to escape. “Now that that’s settled, I really need to go and get ready for the party.” She gave Harry one last, meaningful look. “I’ll see you down here later.”

Harry watched her walk up the stairs, his smile softening into one of pure, unadulterated anticipation. He turned to Ron, who still looked a bit dazed but was no longer sullen.

“Well,” Harry said, clapping him on the shoulder again. “I’d better go get ready too.”

He left Ron by the fire and headed for the boys' dormitory, his mind no longer on his friends' arguments, but on the evening ahead. On his date.

.
.

In her dormitory, surrounded by the cheerful chaos of Parvati and Lavender packing for holidays, Hermione found herself in a quiet, pensive bubble. She stared at the deep cranberry red robes laid out on her bed, a knot of guilt tightening in her stomach. They hadn't told Ron. She had let Harry's lie stand, had even built upon it, and while it had secured a fragile peace, it felt dishonest.

She had no idea what Ron was really thinking.

She knew Ron liked her—or at least, had liked her. His jealousy at the Yule Ball had been a painfully obvious, blundering thing. But now he was with Lavender, and if he still held any feelings for her, then kissing another girl so publicly was just a cruel, manipulative act designed to wound. The thought made her frown.

And she, in turn, had developed feelings for him. She couldn't deny that. She remembered the long, stuffy summer at Grimmauld Place, when Harry, lost in his own grief and anger, had been so distant. In that oppressive darkness, a connection had grown between her and Ron. It was a feeling born of shared anxiety and proximity, a flickering candle in a dark room. It was shelter. It was a safe, logical measure against the loneliness they both felt.

But what she felt for Harry... that wasn't a candle; it was the sun. It wasn't shelter; it was the sky itself. It wasn’t a logical choice made in a moment of quiet desperation. It was a brilliant, terrifying, life-altering force that had grown silently within her for years, a truth so fundamental that she had spent all her energy trying not to look at it directly.

To compare the two feelings was like comparing the faint reflection of a star in a puddle to the star itself, blazing in the heavens. One had been a temporary comfort against the dark; the other was the light.

She looked at Ron in her mind's eye, at his clumsy jealousy and his new relationship with Lavender, and felt a pang of something close to pity. He was still playing a game in that small, candle-lit room, not knowing that she had long since stepped outside into the blazing, unconditional light. And with that thought, her anger finally, truly faded, replaced by a sad sort of resolve. She just hoped, for the sake of the friendship they had all shared, that Ron wouldn't get too burned when he finally learned the truth.

Shaking her head, she decided to let the thoughts go. Tonight wasn't about Ron. She picked up a small, elegant bottle from her bedside table and poured a few drops of a glossy, fragrant liquid onto her palm. Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. She worked it through her bushy hair, which immediately became smooth, heavy, and glossy, easily tamed into an elegant twist. Admiring her reflection in the mirror, her thoughts inevitably drifted.

Would he like her look?

"Oh, Harry," she whispered to her own reflection, the name a soft, happy sound against the quiet hum of the dormitory. The girl looking back at her was different tonight. Her eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were soft at the edges, full of a light that had nothing to do with her books. It was incredible how that boy had completely invaded all of her thoughts, rearranging the very furniture of her mind.

Her gaze fell upon a small, moving photograph on her nightstand, a picture of her and Harry from their second year, standing outside the greenhouses. They looked so young, so impossibly small, squinting in the bright sunlight, Harry's arm thrown carelessly around her shoulder in a gesture of easy friendship. She had no idea then. No idea that the small, skinny boy beside her would become the steady center of her entire world. No idea she would end up in a relationship with the same boy who would, a year later on the frozen edge of the Black Lake, chase away a hundred Dementors with a blinding silver stag, creating a light so powerful it felt like a new sun in the suffocating darkness. The same boy who would blindly jump to the aid of any of his loved ones without a second's thought.

He had no idea what he did to her. When they had almost kissed by the fire, a small, insecure, and terribly logical part of her had been certain it couldn't be real. It had to be a projection, a longing for Ginny, or just a messy surge of teenage hormones. It was a self-protective theory, designed to shield her heart from a hope that felt too vast and too dangerous to entertain.

But then he had found her in that cold, empty corridor and laid his heart bare. And she was so, so glad she had been wrong.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she shook off the last of her anxieties, a final, confident smile blooming on her face. She turned to the bed where her deep cranberry red robes were laid out. She slipped them on, the soft, elegant fabric settling around her like a newfound courage, feeling less like a dress and more like the beginning of a new chapter. Giving herself one last look in the mirror, she knew she was ready.

She turned and left the dormitory, descending the spiral staircase into the warm glow of the common room.

They had decided to meet near the Entrance Hall to avoid any further suspicion or questioning in the common room. The party was just down the corridor in Slughorn's office, and Harry had arrived a few minutes early, his stomach doing nervous flips that had nothing to do with Voldemort.

He had put more effort into his appearance than he ever had before. He was wearing a set of formal black robes that, at his request, had been tailored to resemble a Muggle three-piece suit, complete with a crisp white shirt underneath. His hair, as always, refused to be completely tamed, but he had done his best. He felt a bit foolish, but also a bit hopeful.

He heard the soft, hesitant click of footsteps on the stone floor and turned.

Hermione was walking toward him, and the sight made the air leave his lungs. Her hair was swept up in an elegant twist, with a few loose curls framing her face. She was wearing a simple, floor-length robe of a deep cranberry red that seemed to glow in the torchlight. She wasn't just pretty; she was beautiful, and his brain promptly ceased to function.

She saw the stunned look on his face, and a lovely, shy blush bloomed on her cheeks as she came to a stop in front of him. "You're staring," she whispered.

"Wow," was all he managed to get out. He cleared his throat, desperately searching for a better word. "Your… robes are very red."

A small, amused laugh escaped her. "Thank you, Harry," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Yours are very… black." She stepped closer and straightened the collar of his robes, her fingers brushing against his neck for a thrilling instant. "Ready to go?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he took a small step closer, his own smile fading into an expression of pure, unadulterated awe. His hands came up to rest gently on her waist, the gesture both confident and incredibly tender. It was a good thing no one was around; the Entrance Hall was deserted.

"How did I get so lucky?" he murmured, his voice a low, sincere whisper that was just for her.

The directness of the question, so different from his earlier clumsy compliment, stole the air from her lungs. She felt a hot, lovely blush spread from her neck all the way to the tips of her ears. She was momentarily speechless, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked down for a second, then met his gaze, her own eyes full of the same wonder. Her hands came up to rest on top of his where they circled her waist.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," she whispered.

A slow, genuine smile spread across Harry’s face. He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

"I wouldn't mind taking a detour before we go in," he murmured, his voice full of mischief.

Hermione laughed, a bright, happy sound that echoed in the quiet hall. She gently pushed against his chest, her eyes sparkling. "No, absolutely not. You'll have to wait, mister. We don't want to arrive at the party looking even more suspicious than we already will, do we?"

Harry let out an exaggerated groan, though he was still smiling. "You're no fun."

"I'm all the fun," she retorted. "Just also very practical."

He sighed in mock defeat. "Alright, then," he said, his hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together. "Let's go."

The corridor grew warmer and brighter with every step they took, the muffled sounds of the party resolving into a wall of noise—music, laughter, and a dozen booming conversations all crashing together.

The moment they stepped through the doorway, the scene resolved into a glittering, overwhelming chaos. Slughorn's office was impossibly large, the ceiling and walls vanishing behind opulent drapes of emerald, crimson, and gold that made the entire space feel like the inside of a vast, magical tent. A great, ornate lamp bled a warm, crimson light over everything, and within its golden cage, a dizzying constellation of real fairies fluttered, each a brilliant, pulsing speck of light. The air was thick and stuffy, smelling of pipe smoke and rich food. From a distant corner, the cheerful, singing notes of mandolins tumbled through the din , while tiny house-elves navigated the forest of knees like determined, roving tables, their silver platters held high.

“Harry, m’boy!” a voice boomed, and Slughorn materialized out of the throng, a chaotic vision in a tasseled velvet hat and smoking jacket. His eyes lit up as he spotted Hermione. "And of course, the wonderful Miss Granger!". "Come in, come in, so many people I’d like you to meet!”.

Before Harry could even respond, Slughorn’s hand clamped onto his arm with the tenacity of a man about to Disapparate. As Slughorn began to pull him purposefully into the crowd, Harry’s own hand shot out reflexively, his fingers finding and locking with Hermione’s, pulling her with him as he was dragged into the heart of the glittering chaos.

Slughorn introduced Harry and Hermione to Eldred Worple, an author and old student of his, and Worple's vampire friend, Sanguini. Worple, a small, stout man with glasses, shook Harry's hand enthusiastically while the tall, bored-looking vampire merely nodded.

"Harry Potter, I am simply delighted!" Worple said, briefly acknowledging Hermione before launching into a businesslike pitch to write Harry's biography, suggesting a series of four- to five-hour interviews and promising a great deal of gold. As he talked, his vampire companion, Sanguini, began to edge hungrily toward a group of nearby girls, forcing Worple to sternly call him back and stuff a pasty into his hand.

Cutting the author off mid-sentence, Harry said firmly, “I’m definitely not interested, and I think my date is getting bored." He took Hermione's hand, pulling her away from the bewildered author and back into the relative anonymity of the noisy crowd. They snagged a couple of miniature steak pies from a passing house-elf and were quickly drawn into a cheerful, if slightly awkward, conversation with a beaming Neville Longbottom about the party's decorations. For the next half hour, they moved through the party, allowing themselves to actually enjoy it. They listened to a loud, off-key song performed by a warlock with a mandolin, shared a whispered joke about Professor Trelawney, who was telling Slughorn’s fortune in a corner, and politely declined a dish of what looked like Dragon balls

Once they were alone, Hermione looked up at him with an amused, exasperated expression. "That was rather harsh, don't you think? Dismissing the author like that" she said, a smile playing on her lips.

Harry just shrugged, unapologetic. "He wasn't listening. Besides," he added, a grin spreading across his face as he looked at her, "my date was getting bored. I was just being honest."

She rolled her eyes, but a genuine, happy smile spread across her face. "Oh, you were, were you? And how could you possibly tell what I was thinking?"

"I'm very perceptive," he said, his grin widening as he leaned a little closer.

Just as she was about to reply, a familiar voice cut in. "Hiding out, are you?"

They turned to see Ginny Weasley standing there, holding a drink and looking at them with a strained but friendly smile. The raw, awkward conversation from that morning hung in the air between the three of them.

"Something like that," Harry said, feeling the mood shift. "Just trying to avoid any more biography proposals."

"Don't blame you," Ginny said with a small, genuine laugh. "It's a bit of a circus, isn't it? Slughorn parading around all his prize students." She took a sip of her drink, her gaze flicking between them before settling on Hermione. Her smile softened into something more serious.

"Look, Hermione," she said quietly, her voice full of sincerity. "About this morning... I'm sorry if I made things weird. I was out of line. It wasn't fair of me to put you in that position."

Hermione was taken aback by the direct apology. She saw the genuine regret in Ginny's eyes and her own defensive posture relaxed. "It's okay, Ginny," she said softly. "Don't worry about it."

"Right," Ginny said, giving a small, sad nod. She looked at them standing together, at the easy way Harry stood protectively by Hermione's side, and a final look of resignation crossed her face. "Well... try and have some fun, you two." She gave them a final, tight smile that was full of a complicated, bittersweet acceptance, before turning and melting back into the crowd.

The easy, lighthearted feeling from a moment ago had vanished, replaced by a more thoughtful silence. Harry looked at the spot where Ginny had been standing, then back at Hermione. He saw the flicker of anxiety in her eyes, the same one he'd seen that morning.

“What was all that about?” Harry asked, his voice a low murmur.

“Girls’ secrets,” Hermione dismissed quickly, but she saw the look of concern on his face and sighed. It wouldn't be right to share the details of Ginny's confession about Dean and... well, about him. It would make the holidays at the Burrow impossibly awkward for everyone. But she could give him a part of it.

"She was just going on about me and Ron," she said, her voice full of weariness. "She still thinks that I'm just angry with him and that we'll make up eventually. The same old story." She shook her head. "Let's just enjoy tonight. I'll tell you later, I promise."

Harry nodded, understanding. He could see the conversation had drained her, and he felt a sudden, fierce urge to get her away from all of it—away from the crowd, from the prying eyes, and from the ghosts of conversations with their friends. He looked around the crowded room, his eyes landing on a nearby, deeply curtained alcove.

"You're right," he murmured, his hand finding hers. "Come on."

He led her into the secluded space, shielded from the rest of the party behind a thick, emerald velvet curtain. The noise of the party instantly faded, leaving them in their own private, quiet world.

"Okay," she said, a genuine, relieved smile spreading across her face. "Where were we? Oh, yes. You were being 'perceptive.'"

"I am very perceptive," he said, pulling her closer so that their bodies were almost touching.

The amusement in her expression suddenly shifted, melting into something more intense and confident. She closed the final inch of space between them and looked up at him from under her lashes.

"Is that so?" she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, thrilling whisper that did things to his insides he didn't know were possible. "My very perceptive date... what do you think I'm thinking now?"

Harry's own smug grin evaporated. He was left completely and utterly flustered, his mind, which had felt so sharp and clever a moment ago, now a complete and utter blank. He was on the back foot, totally outmaneuvered, and had no idea what to say. He just stared at her, his mouth slightly agape.

A slow, triumphant smile bloomed on her face. She loved seeing him like this. She rose on her tiptoes, her lips brushing against his ear.

"I was thinking," she whispered, "that you talk too much."

And then she kissed him.

It started with a laugh, but the sound was consumed the moment their lips met, the playful energy instantly melting into something deeper, more intense. A jolt, electric and overwhelming, shot through Harry.

His response was instant and instinctual. One of his hands slid from her waist up her back, pressing her impossibly closer, while the other slid into her hair, his fingers tangling in the impossibly soft, smooth strands. He tilted her head back slightly, angling her face up to his, taking control of the kiss and deepening it.

The feeling of her body molding against his, the soft, yielding press of her lips, the sound of her small, breathless gasp against his mouth... it was a dizzying, overwhelming heat that flooded his senses, threatening to drown him.

Hermione was on the same wavelength. She melted against him, her arms snaking around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeline. His name fell from her lips in a husked, broken whisper, a breathless, wanting sound that nearly sent him over the edge.

He was about to kiss her again, to lose himself completely, when a sudden commotion from the party outside their sanctuary pierced the intimate silence. The music faltered, followed by a collective gasp from the crowd.

They sprang apart as if electrocuted, blinking in confusion, their chests heaving. The passionate haze that had enveloped them shattered, replaced by adrenaline and alarm. They exchanged a wide-eyed, questioning look.

Hermione was the first to react. She crept to the edge of the alcove and carefully pulled back the heavy velvet curtain just enough to peer out. Harry looked over her shoulder, his own heart now hammering for an entirely different reason.

He saw Argus Filch, his face triumphant and malicious, dragging a pale, furious-looking Draco Malfoy by the arm into the center of the room.

“Professor Slughorn!” Filch rasped, his voice echoing in the sudden quiet. “I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party, but he’s not on the list!”

“All right, I wasn’t invited!” Malfoy snarled, pulling free of Filch’s grip. “I was trying to gate-crash, happy?”.

Slughorn, in a burst of festive generosity, waved away Filch’s protests and invited Malfoy to stay. But as Malfoy composed his face into a smile and thanked the professor, Harry watched him closely. It was the first time he had seen Malfoy up close in ages; he looked ill, with dark shadows under his eyes and a distinct grayish tinge to his skin. Harry also saw Snape looking at Malfoy with an expression that seemed both angry and... was it possible?... a little afraid?.

“I’d like a word with you, Draco,” Snape said suddenly, his voice cutting through the party chatter. Overriding Slughorn’s objections, Snape stated curtly that as Malfoy’s Head of House, he would deal with him. He then led a resentful-looking Malfoy from the room.

The moment they were gone, Harry’s decision was made. He turned to Hermione, his expression grim. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Hermione grabbed his hand, her own face a mixture of anger and worry. "Harry, don't be foolish," she pleaded, her voice a fierce whisper. "I know you're going to follow them."

His gaze softened as he looked at her. He reached up with his free hand, running it gently through her hair. "I've got to, Hermione," he said, his voice quiet but full of an unshakeable resolve.

She looked into his determined eyes, and her own expression hardened. She grabbed his hand more firmly, not to stop him, but to join him.

"I'm coming with you," she said.

He knew he would waste precious time arguing, so he just gave her hand a grateful squeeze and nodded. Together, they slipped out of the alcove, leaving the noise and light of the party behind them as they stepped into the dark, quiet corridor.

The warmth and noise of the party vanished the moment they slipped into the corridor, replaced by a sudden, tomb-like silence and a biting chill. The only sounds were the distant, muffled beat of the music behind them and the sharp, angry clicks of Snape's and Malfoy's footsteps echoing from up ahead.

Harry didn't hesitate. His grip on Hermione's hand tightened, and his walk quickened into an urgent, near-silent run, towing her along in his wake. His eyes were locked on the corner they had just disappeared around, his entire focus narrowed to a single, burning point.

They slowed as they approached the turn, pressing themselves flat against the cold stone wall. Peeking around the edge, they saw Snape shove Malfoy into an empty classroom, the door slamming shut with a loud click that echoed in the silence.

Without a word, they crept towards the door. The wood was thick, but there was a large, old-fashioned keyhole. Harry knelt, pressing his ear to it, and Hermione crouched beside him, her head close to his, their shoulders touching as they strained to listen.

Snape's voice was a low, furious hiss. "…do not be foolish, Draco. You have been careless, allowing Filch to catch you."

"I don't need your help!" Malfoy's voice shot back, high-pitched and full of a fear he was trying to disguise as anger. "I know what I'm doing!"

"Do you? This is not some schoolboy prank. You are in mortal danger. He will kill you if you fail," Snape said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I made an Unbreakable Vow to your mother. I am trying to protect you."

"I don't want your protection! This is my task, and I will do it!"

There was a sudden sound of movement from inside, the scraping of a chair. "We are leaving," Snape said, his voice now cold and final.

Harry and Hermione scrambled back from the door, their eyes wide with panic. They ducked into a dark, recessed alcove just as the classroom door was thrown open. They held their breath as Snape swept past, his black robes billowing, Malfoy trailing resentfully in his wake.

Once their footsteps had faded, Harry and Hermione stepped out of the shadows, the full, terrifying weight of what they had just heard settling upon them. They looked at each other in the dim torchlight.

It was true. Malfoy was working for Voldemort. And Snape… Snape was involved. The war had found them again, right here in the quiet, empty corridors of the castle.