Precious

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/55529950.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley
Characters: Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley
Additional Tags: First Kiss, Fluff, Pining, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Horace
Slughorn's Christmas Parties, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party,
Christmas, Friends to Lovers, not exactly ron bashing, just not really ron
praising
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-04-28 Words: 8,071 Chapters: 5/5
 Precious
by neptunesyellowsands

Summary

Harry stared at her for a moment; then, without forethought, he asked, “Who are you going
to Slughorn’s party with?”
She sniffed sardonically, shooting a half-glance at Ron down the table. “No one.”
“Why don’t we go together, then?”

What if, instead of finding separate dates, Harry and Hermione went to Slughorn’s Christmas
party together?

Notes

So, I wrote this three years ago, never finished it, and then found it again! I definitely went
down the Harmony -> Dramione pipeline, and I have been actively resisting this fandom to
avoid the obvious and inevitable continuation into the black hole that is Drarry (I only have
so much time to read fanfiction) (who am I kidding, I'll get there eventually) but I figured
HEY this exists and I should post it! Did I have ideas for more story? Yes. Will I ever write
them down? No idea. If I do, will I extend this into more chapters or a series? Absolutely, but
don't hold your breath. Anyway, I hope you enjoy my first and only HP fic I've ever written!
 Chapter 1

“I can’t believe you’ve wriggled out of another one!”

Ginny's voice lifted in an impossibly prim impression of Hermione's. Ron shoved her,
laughing when she whacked him with the tail of her broom. Harry had avoided yet another of
Slughorn's stuffy parties, to Hermione's consternation, by strategically rescheduling this
evening’s Quidditch practice as soon as he had seen the ribbon-adorned invitation winging
his way during the morning post.

“How long do you think McClaggen'll hold off now they're closeted up in there together, eh?”
Ron snorted. Ginny swung her hair around, laughing in the setting sun as they all walked
together to the pitch. Harry caught a hint of the flowery smell he had detected in Slughorn’s
classroom, the one he knew had been present also at the Burrow. The recognition was,
however, strangely at odds with his instincts. The look upon Ginny’s face as she mocked
Hermione’s disappointment was not cruel, but it was also not what he would expect to see in
a potion tailored to his own attractions, as Hermione had said it should be.

He did feel guilty for leaving her to it alone, and she was already annoyed by his continued
use of the Half-Blood Prince’s book. In fact, the only time Hermione had been really pleased
with him all term was on their first day, when Slughorn had repeated Harry's description of
her - “the best in our year.” She had beamed at him then, flushed pink with gratitude. “Oh,
Harry!” she had whispered, laying a hand on his and briefly squeezing the fingers. He
imagined her stuffed away in Slughorn’s office, circling the outer edge of the room and trying
to avoid as many crystalized pineapple slices as she could while maintaining politeness. Still,
he grinned a little at the image in spite of himself.

“Oh, she'll live,” said Ginny with a smirk in Harry’s direction as she took her place in the
circle of seven and the team awaited their instructions for the evening. “Smart girl, that
Hermione.”

The path to the castle was wet beneath Harry’s boots. Seven pairs of feet could be heard
slapping the muddy grounds, with an occasional splash followed by muttered curses breaking
the prickly silence. Practice had gone badly - so badly, in fact, that Harry thought he might
have made the wrong choice. Perhaps, if he’d played his cards right at the Slug Club, he
could have slipped into a corner to investigate a few of the things preoccupying him this year
- Malfoy’s behavior, for one, or the reason for Slughorn’s recruitment back to Hogwarts,
which Dumbledore had still not shared with Harry.

Or, perhaps, the Amortentia. If he could find the vial tucked away in the cupboards of
Slughorn’s study, he could try to place the flowery smell that he knew he’d encountered
before - possibly at the Burrow? He occasionally caught the scent briefly inside Hogwarts,
but never consistently enough to identify its source, and it bothered him. It was an unsolved
mystery, and that always bothered him.

“Plimpy.”
Harry started as Ron growled the password to the Gryffindor common room, forced to back
up as the Fat Lady’s portrait swung quickly outward to admit them. He had no recollection of
the last fifteen minutes’ walk, but the rest of the team had trickled away, possibly to the Great
Hall in the hopes of leftovers from dinner. Or maybe they just wanted to get away from Ron.
Before Harry could say anything, Ron was halfway up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory.

Harry entered after him, warmth emanating from the hearth to his left, and removed his
jacket. It hung crumpled behind him in midair for a moment before drifting upward and
hanging itself on the coat rack to dry. Removing his glasses with one hand, he scrubbed his
face with the other, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. As much as Harry hated to
admit it, Ron was becoming a real problem for the team. His years of training told him that.

As captain, Harry knew his job involved more than calling shots and scheduling practices. He
needed to lead - to inspire the team to work smoothly as one brain when it mattered most.
Ron was a weak link, not for his abilities - he was excellent at keeping when he had the
confidence - but for his abysmal attitude. The only player who had equalled Ron’s
performance in tryouts, however, was McClaggen, and his aggressive ambition was definitely
worse than Ron’s defensive outbursts.

Ron was his best friend - but Ron was becoming a problem.

As he replaced his glasses, his attention flickered to the figure curled up on what looked to be
a small sofa by the fire. A second glance revealed that it was Hermione, returned from the
latest get-together in Slughorn’s office. She sat cozily in her favorite of the squashy armchairs
that littered the Gryffindor common room, but she had enlarged it for the evening to make
room for her many books and the beginnings of an essay for Professor McGonagall. Her curls
were pulled back from her face and loosely plaited down her back, and she gave the
impression of being well and truly settled.

“You’re back early,” Harry said, walking toward her.

“You’re back late,” she replied, eyebrows raised.

“Thought I’d give him a little more time...” Harry muttered under his breath as he approached
the fire. She moved a book to the floor, creating a small space for him to join her in the
oversized cushions. “...but it only made it worse. I don’t know what to do.” He sat, closed his
eyes, and leaned his head back until it fell into the cushion of the chair.

Hermione frowned at the dormitory stairs. “I just wish his first response wasn’t hurling his
anger at everyone else. I mean, I thought it was a good idea to invite him to the Christmas
party, you know, to make him feel included there. But now… well, I’m not keen for a repeat
of the Yule Ball. He was horrible then, too.” Harry nodded, remembering their row in fourth
year.

“I’m worried about him,” she said, sighing as she spoke.

“He’s fine,” said Harry, a hard edge to his voice as annoyance flared suddenly. Hermione’s
face at the Yule Ball, raw with hurt and anger, swam before his mind’s eye. Tears had fallen
onto her dress robes, staining the periwinkle satin where they’d landed. “He’ll either get over
it, or he won’t. How was it with Slughorn?”

“Oh, fine.” She paused. “Well, no, actually, it was a bit miserable. McClaggen is so arrogant,
I’d almost rather put up with Malfoy for three hours. At least he refuses to touch me, seeing
as how I’m a ‘filthy mudbl–.’” She didn’t finish the word, having caught the sudden, stern
look on Harry’s face. His mouth opened to speak, but she cut him off.

“Anyway… McClaggen doesn’t seem to have eyes at all. He just feels his way around like a
blind squid.”

“Right,” Harry said, scowling. He was somehow feeling worse now than when Ron had
flubbed his fifth save of the night on the field an hour ago.

“Sorry I left you to it like that. Really,” he said when she raised an eyebrow, “I think I would
have had a better time fending off the squid with you than the practice we had tonight.”

“Hmm. If you go to Slughorn’s, though, then Ginny has to go, too. She wouldn’t be happy…”
Hermione pointed out.

“Let’s see,” Harry mused. “Battling a randy squid plus getting hexed the next day by Ginny.”
Hermione giggled. “And we’ll still probably lose the next match, no matter how much we
practice. Excellent points, Hermione. Still, it might have been worth it tonight.” He cast a
weary eye at Hermione’s stack of books. He still needed to finish his own essay for
McGonagall.

“Glad I make the cut,” she said quietly, not taking her eyes from her work. He looked at her.
“Bring your essay down and we’ll finish them together,” she said to her parchment.

“What?”

“Bring your own quill, I haven’t got a spare,” she said, a knowing grin spreading across her
face as she looked up at him.

“Ah, Hermione,” he said with relief. “That would be fantastic, thanks.”

He returned a minute later clutching his books, having retrieved them stealthily from his
trunk as preposterous fake snores rose from Ron’s four-poster. Hermione shifted her books
and papers to make room for him on her massive armchair.

As she tossed a crumpled quiz into the fire, Harry reached across the oversized chair for her
bag. Her reaction was quicker than lightning.

"I told you, I don't have a spare quill!" she said, swatting his hand away from her bag with a
grin. “Go back upstairs and get your own!”

"Liar," he snorted, leaning further over her to route her attempts to bury the bag in the
cushions. "Hermione Granger not prepared? Never!" He lunged for the inner pocket, but
Hermione blocked him with her shoulder. She was giggling, making the enlarged chair shake
them both as they scuffled, each determined to win. Harry’s fingers closed on his target, and,
victorious, he raised it between them with a flourish.

"Can I borrow your quill?" he said, cheekily.

Their eyes met, the feathered end fluttering in front of their noses, and Hermione's face was
flushed with the effort of the play battle. Eyes narrowed, she lifted her hand silently and took
the quill back as he relinquished his hold on it. Her fingers brushed his, causing them to
tingle slightly.

"Fine," she said quietly. "But not this one."

She turned to rummage through her bag for the backup quill he knew she always had on
hand, and Harry noticed the flush continue down the back of her neck. She had a few freckles
there. He had never noticed them before.
 Chapter 2

White noise filled Harry’s ears. The beech tree swayed with a gentle early summer breeze in
the afternoon sun, casting an ever-changing shadow on the lakeshore lawn. It lifted his hair,
briefly exposing the deep lightning scar on his forehead. Harry stared at the lake, the steady
ripples in the water lapping the smoothed stones that dotted the waterline. He remained still,
allowing the grass and sand to irritate his ankles where they met abrasively. After all, this
was the way of life. Pain happened. To him, to everyone. What was the point of trying to
change it? Wasn’t that what it meant to be fated? To have a destiny?

And he had tried. He had risked everything he had, everything his friends had, to try. He had
tried to change the future, as he and Hermione had changed the past two years ago; in the
end, though, he had bought Sirius only two more years of life. Of freedom, mere months.

“Harry?”

A familiar voice broke his thought. It was Hermione. He heard her approach the beech tree,
slowing as she got nearer.

“Harry?” she repeated. She was kneeling close beside him now. There was a long pause
before she whispered, “Can I touch you?”

Her voice was so tender that he finally turned his head a little, if only to reassure her.
Instantly, his neck protested, stiff from his long stillness. The pain caused the muscles in his
face to twitch, pulling the skin where dried tracks ran down to his chin.

Hermione moved so he could see her clearly, meeting his gaze as she settled by his knee. Her
eyes were rimmed with pink. She reached up, taking his glasses from his face, and cleaned
them with a charm before setting them aside.

He could no longer see the lake without his glasses. The bright world was a blur, with only
Hermione clearly visible in front of him as she examined his scar with concern. Her fingers
grazed it and she raked his face with her eyes in a methodical assessment.

“Do you want to be alone?” she asked. He shook his head. Her expression softened.
“Good,” she said, and, crawling to his side, she curled up against him like a cat, warm and
soft.

---

“Oppugno!” Hermione screeched, magic crackling from the tips of her curls as she turned on
her heel with a sob of frustration.
“Finite!” Harry shouted. The conjured yellow birds froze in mid-air, bodies still arched in
positions of attack around Ron’s head, and then with a slight poof and a flutter of tiny
feathers, they disintegrated. Ron looked livid, staring at the empty doorway as though it had
been his attacker rather than several fluffy canaries.

“What in the bloody hell is she- ”

“Well done, Ron,” said Harry, his temper flaring slightly.

“Wha… are you actually defending her after that?” said Ron, his tone rising in turn as he
wiped a trickle of blood from his eyebrow. A retort rose to Harry’s lips, but he checked
himself. Ron had not been tactful, it was true, but kissing another girl was not enough to
justify an attack that could have blinded him.

“Sorry. Are you alright?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” said Ron, checking himself over for injuries.

“Ron?” Lavender’s head was visible as a silhouette against the brighter corridor behind her.

“Come on,” said Harry to Ron. They moved toward the door. “You should get your eye
looked at by Madame Pomphrey, just to be safe,” he continued, reaching Lavender in the hall.
She gasped dramatically upon seeing them, holding Ron’s arms up to examine them closer.

“What on earth?!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with alarm.

“Go,” Harry insisted, and Ron, still looking furious, was dragged down the stairs leading
toward the hospital wing by a flustered Lavender. Harry watched them disappear beneath the
banister, then he turned on his heel and ran in the opposite direction, determined to find
Hermione again. He did not know what he would say, but he knew how it had felt in fourth
year when Cho had chosen someone else, and he could not stand to watch Hermione feel
discarded, diminished. Not when she was… what? He asked himself, turning a corner at
speed.

He found her sitting on a stone bench in front of a large stained glass window, three corridors
away. It was chilly, and the torches along the wall were dark, leaving the space to be lit palely
by the moon alone as its light trickled onto the stone floor.

“Hermione?”

The light spilled over her curls and onto her hands, which were laced around her knees as she
gazed through the dusty pane. Her face was dry, but drawn. He wished she would look at
him.

“I just thought,” she said quietly, as though continuing a conversation from the middle, “he
would have had the decency to say something to me before running his hands all over another
girl.” Her jaw was set, her mouth a thin line of frustration.

“I mean,” she looked at him, “it wasn’t as though we were together or anything, but I got the
impression he was interested in a proper date, you know?” Her expression of disappointment
was quickly giving way to one of rankled indignance. “Why on earth did he say he would go
with me to that stupid party,” she emphasized the word, “if he fancied another girl? Because
he wants that badly to be in the Slug Club?” She scoffed, looking down at her knees as she
hugged her legs closer.

Harry listened as she talked herself into silence. Anger at Ron bubbled inside him as he
watched Hermione examine her own sleeves. He had no idea what to say to her. He wished
he could find the words he needed to drive away the incomprehensible notion that anything
could belittle her. She was Hermione Granger, for Godric's sake, the girl who laughed in the
faces of people like Rita Skeeter and Draco Malfoy when they tried to strip her of her own
worth.

“Is Ron alright?” she asked in a small voice, guilt settling visibly over her like a cloak. “He…
I think he was actually bleeding.”

“Hermione,” Harry began, but she looked at him and he paused. “You were out of line,” he
admitted, “but he'll be fine.” Her eyes found his shoelaces as he stepped closer.

"Hermione," he tried again, kneeling at the bench and placing a hand on her knee. "You know
you're brilliant, right?"

Her eyes met his, tender and a little sad. Her mouth twitched into a tiny grin, and Harry was
distracted by the shape of her lips. She leaned forward and his stomach seemed to lurch into
his throat, but she reached her arms around his neck and settled her chin on his shoulder.

Harry wrapped his arms around her, pressing her close. Truth settled slowly within him.
Precious, he thought. That’s what she is. To me, anyway. Precious.

"You're my best friend, Harry," she murmured into his shoulder after several long moments.

"Always," he said.
 Chapter 3

The Great Hall was glowing.

Nearly three weeks had passed since Hermione’s bird attack. Ron maintained that their plans
had been to attend Slughorn’s Christmas party as friends, and he was, in his words, a “free
agent,” with the right to date whomever he wished. Hermione agreed. After her initial
irritation with him, Ron’s attitude seemed to have confirmed for her that it was, in fact, all for
the best. He was immature and insensitive, she claimed, and it would only have complicated
matters in the end. Harry thought she had a point.

It was mid-November, and Harry was headed into dinner after a long day of classes. The light
of the candles floating above the tables was warm, the atmosphere wholesome. Stars pierced
the clear black ceiling above, and festive dishes flowed with food and drink on every surface,
celebrating the magic of the harvest. Harry was slightly late, due to a quick glance at the
Marauder’s Map after class. He had thought Malfoy might take the chance before dinner to
disappear again. He was wrong, however; Malfoy was at the Slytherin table, sulking slightly
apart from the others at his section and looking distinctly grey. Utter frustration rose in
Harry’s stomach as he glared at Malfoy’s dark circles and barely-touched plate, but he was
eventually out of sight as Harry approached his place at the Gryffindor table.

Ron and Hermione were already seated, an obvious place saved for Harry between them.
When he swung his legs over the bench, Ron shifted his arms to shield his plate of chicken
thighs from Harry’s robes.

“Oi! Wharch it!” said Ron, mouth already full of chicken.

Harry shoved him a little, intentionally taking up too much room momentarily and causing
Ron to be squished through Nearly Headless Nick, who floated away with a huff.

“Aggh!” said Ron, “You git, my chicken’s all frozen now!”

Hermione was smirking.

“Won-won!”

Lavender bee-lined for Ron, squeezing him from behind before spinning him around for a
distinctly slurpy greeting. “I told Parvati we’d sit with her today!” she chimed, dragging him
to his feet before he could protest. “Come on, Wonny!” Spluttering, Ron headed off to the far
end of the table, and Harry set to filling his plate. A flutter of movement to his left made him
look around to see Hermione turning the page to a tome she held in her lap beneath the table.

“Come on, Hermione,” he said, setting the serving spoon back into the dish of glazed carrots.
“We just got out of class. What’s so important that it can’t wait an hour for dinner, eh?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, glancing significantly down the table toward Lavender, but she
marked her place and closed the book. Harry leaned toward her to read the cover, taking the
opportunity to breathe deeply.

“From Pensieves to Potions: Alternative Methods to Memory Modification? Thinking of

obliviating someone in the near future?”

“It doesn't matter,” Hermione said, running her fingers over the filigree. “I'm just learning the
theory. We might not have the DA anymore, but I still want to keep expanding my defense
skills.” She chewed her lip, a nervous habit of hers.

“But… surely this was in the restricted section?” Harry teased, tossing her a crooked grin.

“It was,” she said, a tinge of smugness to her voice, “but McGonagall gave me a permission
slip for research purposes.”

She tucked her book into her bag at her feet and turned her attention to the candles floating
above their heads, a barely-there sort of weariness still lingering in the corners of her
expression. Harry noted how her light brown eyes reflected the flickering orange light,
making them look like tiny flames in the dark hall. A moment passed, and she finally looked
down to meet his gaze.

“What?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“What?” He had been staring. “Oh, just… you should eat. Maybe it’ll keep your head out of a
book for a few more minutes.” He looked vaguely around the hall. “I wonder what’s for
dessert?”

“Oh!” Hermione had begun to dunk her roll thoughtfully into her soup but seemed suddenly
to remember something. “Speaking of dessert, I thought I heard a few girls whispering about
you and some chocolate cauldrons earlier today. Have you- ”

Whoosh. With a glow of light, the tablecloths all fluttered dramatically as the contents of all
the food dishes were replaced with pies, puddings, cakes, and tarts.

“What have I got to do with chocolate cauldrons?” he said, dipping a spoon into the
chocolate pudding in front of him. With a plunk, he tapped it onto his desert plate, adding a
strawberry from a nearby bowl, as Hermione slid a piece of the treacle tart by her elbow onto
her plate. Wordlessly, they swapped.

“Probably has to do with Slughorn’s Christmas party. It’s only four weeks away. They’ll be
trying to get you to invite them somehow, I’m sure.”

Harry stared at her for a moment; then, without forethought, he asked, “Who are you going to
Slughorn’s party with?”

She sniffed sardonically, shooting a half-glance at Ron down the table. “No one.”

“Why don’t we go together, then?”

She looked at him sidelong, turning her head only slightly. The words had leapt from his
mouth of their own volition, and Harry was now catching up to them with a building sense of
panic.

“I told both you and Ron a long time ago, Harry. I’m not interested in being anyone’s last
resort.” He saw a flash of annoyance cross her face.

Panic was quenched instantly by confusion. Last resort? What was she talking about?

“Besides,” she continued, “I thought you’d have your date sorted by now.”

Harry was now totally bewildered. “What?” he asked, dumbly.

“Oh come on, Harry!” Hermione hissed conspiratorially. She looked both exasperated and a
bit amused now, despite her clear annoyance with him. “If you want to ask Ginny, just ask
her! Don’t waste the evening with me just because you’re nervous. I think she’d love to go
with you. We’re Gryffindors! Aren’t you supposed to be brave or something?”

“But,” Harry felt ridiculous now. “Isn’t she with Dean?”

“Not exclusively,” said Hermione with a shake of her head. She looked past him toward the
door.

“There she is now,” she said, a challenge in her voice.

“But…” She was nudging him out of his seat, a grin beginning to form on her freckled face.

“Nn… But…” he spluttered incoherently. She poked him hard in the rib, producing a yelp
before he reflexively grabbed her wrist in self-preservation and said, much too loudly,
“Hermione, I don’t want to go with Ginny!”

She froze and stared at him for a long moment. Suddenly, her eyes flicked up and a voice
rose from the aisle directly behind Harry.

“Nice that the whole hall knows.”

Ginny was behind him, arms crossed and hair swinging. “Thanks for the consideration,” she
continued sarcastically, “but I’ve got other plans. Oh, and by the way, Hermione, that
shampoo is lovely. Who knew muggles did it better?” She fixed Harry with a severe look as
she moved past them and headed toward Dean at the center of the Gryffindor table, where
Ron now stood over a bowl of potatoes with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

Hermione’s hand was still suspended in midair, held up by his grasp. Realizing this, Harry
avoided her eyes and released her, clearing his throat as he did so. He would apologize to
Ginny later. She would probably hex him, just to cover her bases. He inwardly admitted that
he would probably deserve it.

Hermione used her newly freed hand to tuck a loose curl behind her ear.

“Um,” she said, now grinning into her chess pie. “Right. Together, then,” she said.

---
A string of curses flowed freely from Harry’s reflection as he pointed his wand resolutely at
his left eyebrow. “Crinus Muto,” he growled through gritted teeth, attempting once again to
turn it from yellow back to black.

“You’re seeing Hermione in five minutes, mate. Just have her fix it,” Ron called from his
four-poster. A thudding sound came repeatedly from his corner, where he was lying fully
clothed and tossing a quaffle up to the canopy of his bed to catch it again.

“I can’t go down like this!” Harry said slightly desperately. He was standing at the dormitory
mirror, dressed in his best bottle-green dress robes and feeling quite nervous.

“I can have a go at it, Harry,” said Seamus, poking his head through the washroom door. “I
did alright at eyebrows, once I stopped…”

“...stopped scorching them off, yeah,” said Harry, cutting in. “I’ll pass, thanks, as I really
need to have eyebrows tonight.”

Seamus shrugged his shoulders and returned to the washroom, where he was helping Neville
extricate the larger warts on his Mimbulus mimbletonia with an oddly satisfying pop. Harry
took off his glasses and began to clean them on his robes.

“What are you doing tonight, then?” he asked Ron. “Hanging out with Lavender?” By
‘hanging out,’ he had, of course, meant their standard pastime of ‘snogging each others’
brains out.’

“Nah,” Ron replied. “Dean and I are gonna do a few practice laps on the pitch before we go
home tomorrow. He’s hoping he’ll stay on the team after Christmas.” He tossed the quaffle
again. It hit the canvas roof above his bed with another soft thud.

“Isn’t Dean going to the party tonight? With Ginny, I mean?”

Ron caught the ball and looked over, meeting Harry’s eye. “Nah, she didn’t invite him. Broke
it off with him last week, as a matter of fact. Thought you’d have heard. Bad timing, mate.”
Ron was eyeing Harry with raised eyebrows, a twinkle in his eye. Harry rolled his eyes,
picked up his wand, and headed for the door. “Try not to regret taking Hermione, though,”
Ron called after him, a knowing grin sweeping across his face as he tossed the quaffle again.
“She’ll set a herd of flamingos on you or something.”

Harry reached the landing, straightened his robes hastily, and descended the stairs, stumbling
slightly on the last step as he looked up from his watch at Hermione.

“Sorry,” he said, hurriedly. “I..”

Hermione stood beside the portrait hole, chatting with Parvati while she waited for Harry to
arrive. She wore an inky blue dress that sparkled subtly in the firelight, as though she had just
walked in from a light snowfall. The top portion of her brown curls was gathered in a loose
half-up knot, leaving the rest to cascade around her shoulders and down her back, and her
cheeks and nose were faintly rosy in a festive way. She smiled at him, plucking nervously at a
loose bead on her handbag, and then chuckled goodnaturedly as he got nearer.
“Hi,” Harry said, dumbly.

Hermione drew out her wand and raised it gently, pointing at his face. “Crinus Muto,” she
said with a complex twitch of her wrist, and she looked satisfied. “Hi,” she said, grinning
again.

“Er, thanks,” Harry stammered with a grimace. “You’ll have to show me how you managed
that later.”

Hermione glanced at Parvati, who raised her eyebrows as she scooted away. Harry stood
awkwardly for a moment. “Hermione, you look...” he searched for words, but his mind
seemed oddly blank.

“Thanks,” she said, pausing for a moment. Stunning. “Oh, come on,” she said, glancing again
at Parvati with a widening grin. She took him by the forearm and led the way out of the
portrait hole. Harry followed her, taking the cue and stiffening his arm to act as her support.
They walked quietly together down the tower toward the entrance hall.

“So,” Hermione began. “What did you do with those chocolate cauldrons of Romilda’s? I
saw her give them to you last night.” She looked at him and winked dramatically, making
herself laugh.

Harry grinned. “I locked them in my trunk, safe and sound. Did she really need to give me a
whole box of them?”

“She was desperate,” Hermione shrugged.

“So,” Harry said, feeling anxious as he had not felt around Hermione before. “I heard Ginny
and Dean split up last week.”

Hermione looked up at him sharply. “Yes, you didn’t know?”

“Not until about five minutes ago, actually.”

Hermione looked straight ahead.

“What do you think happened?” Harry continued conversationally.

“Oh,” said Hermione, “I… well, they were rocky for ages, really. Harry,” she said. “I’m
sorry. You must be disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

They had reached the sixth floor. As they neared Slughorn’s office, they began to hear sounds
of laughter, music, and loud conversation emanating from within.

“Hermione…”

“It’s okay, Harry! Let’s go in… look, they’ve got Butterbeer on tap…”
Before he could say anything more, Hermione slid her hand to his, leading him through the
door.
 Chapter 4

A massive gramophone sat in the corner of the room, producing jazzy, festive songs which
elevated the tone of the room while also making it cozier. It felt easy to be there, and any
awkwardness usually created by gaps in social circles seemed smoothed, though Harry
couldn’t tell if that was because Slughorn held everything together by his woven strands of
acquaintance or because the music functioned as a social tonic. The ceiling was draped with
colorful hangings, and beneath the chandelier was an ornate fountain which was foaming
with what Harry knew to be Butterbeer. Pipe smoke wafted from the corners of the room,
obscuring the occupants of the overstuffed chairs that dotted the walls.

A house elf stood with a tray of butterbeers hovering over its head, and Harry grabbed one
for each of them as they passed on their way to a table.

“Thanks,” said Hermione, as Harry handed hers over. “Are you hun-”

“Harry, m’boy!” boomed Slughorn, almost as soon as Harry and Hermione had squeezed in
through the door. “Come in, come in, so many people I'd like you to meet!” A low groan
escaped before Harry could stop it, but it went unheard by all but Hermione.

“Harry, I'd like you to meet Eldred Worple, an old student of mine…” Harry shook hands,
first with Worple, then with Sanguini, his vampire companion. He was only half listening as
Worple leapt instantly on the prospect of writing a highly profitable biography of Harry’s life
and childhood. He watched in glances as Hermione took a sip from her drink, waiting
patiently as Slughorn edged her out of the circle of conversation. “I’m definitely not
interested,” Harry was saying, when suddenly a familiar, carrying voice drifted dreamily in
through the door.

“Oh, yes, the dirigible plum is highly beneficial.”

Harry spun around, nearly knocking Sanguini to the ground, and he heard Hermione choke
slightly on a swallow of butterbeer. Luna Lovegood stood in the doorway, wearing a set of
brilliant silver robes and a pleasant, distant expression, tucked into the elbow of none other
than a radiantly defiant Ginny Weasley. Ginny scanned the room, nodded with a grin toward
Harry and Hermione, and moved with Luna toward a nearby cheeseboard. “They’re excellent
for broadening the scope of possibilities in your mind, accepting the extraordinary, you
know,” Luna continued.

Hermione was gaping. Harry took the opportunity to squeeze himself past Worple and nudge
her with his elbow. She blinked, handing him his butterbeer and clearing her throat. “Sort of
makes you wish you had one, doesn’t it?” Harry asked.

“One what?” Hermione replied, nonplussed. Harry moved closer and murmured into her ear.

“A dirigible plum.”
Hermione bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “I’m joking,” Harry said, grinning down at her and
slipping his hand into hers. “Let’s go say hi.”

Grateful for a destination, Harry pulled her through the stuffy room toward the food table.
“Luna!” Hermione exclaimed, “I’m so glad you could make it!” She looked questioningly at
Ginny.

“I invited her,” said Ginny, stating the obvious.

"You look wonderful, both of you," said Harry, beaming.

"I've never been asked to a party before," said Luna, showing much more animation than
usual out of sheer excitement. "AND I've never met a real vampire. I wonder if he knows
Rufus Scrimgour?" she added, considering.

"Why don't we go ask him?" said Ginny goodnaturedly, smiling down at her. Luna's eyes
widened, and, taking Ginny by the hand, she led the way toward Sanguini, who was eyeing a
nearby gaggle of girls with rather a hungry look.

A scuffle near the back corner distracted Harry. Filch's greasy head was visible from where
they stood, and he was dragging someone toward Slughorn - someone with slick, white-
blonde hair. "Malfoy?" Harry muttered, just loud enough so Hermione could hear. She
followed his gaze and, without another word, they moved through the crowd together to see
what was going on.

"...lurking in an upstairs corridor," Filch was saying to a visibly befuddled Slughorn. "He
claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you
issue him with an invitation?” Filch asked, jowls quivering in his excitement.

Harry looked at Hermione, who was watching his expression closely. “Harry,” she whispered,
dubious, “you don’t know the circumsta-”

“Hermione, don’t tell me this doesn’t look suspicious!” he shot back at her.

“Now, Severus,” said Slughorn, hiccuping again, “it’s Christmas…”

Hermione seemed to feel a reply would not be productive. They watched as Snape’s bat-like
figure moved in front of Malfoy. “Follow me, Draco,” he said, and Malfoy, looking resentful,
made his way to the door in his wake. Half a moment passed before Harry turned to
Hermione. “I’ll be back,” he said. “I want to know-”

“Oh, no you don’t!” she hissed back. “If you’re going, so am I.”

“Fine,” he said urgently, and he grabbed her hand again as the tips of Malfoy’s robes swept
out of sight. “Come on.”

They walked quickly, trying to keep their movements casual, and stepped into the corridor.
Harry dove into an inner pocket of his robes and withdrew the invisibility cloak, throwing it
over himself and Hermione. “This way,” breathed Hermione, and they set off in the direction
Snape and Malfoy had gone, their feet muffled by the sounds of the party still issuing from
Slughorn’s office door.

They found them at the end of the narrow corridor, their voices muffled by the closed
classroom door. Harry crouched behind Hermione, leaning over her slightly to peer through
the gap in the hinges.

“For the last time, I didn’t do it, okay?” Malfoy’s voice was angry. “...don’t look at me like
that!”

Harry had never heard Malfoy speak to Snape this way. Normally, he showed him deference,
respect… he even seemed to genuinely like Snape. From what he could see, Malfoy looked
paler than ever, though still defiant.

“Ah…,” came Snape’s voice. “Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see. What
thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?”

Harry looked down quickly at Hermione, whose eyes were wide. They were very close, and
in the dim light he could see lines of confusion wrinkle the space between her brows.

“Listen to me,” said Snape. “I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect
you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco --”

Hermione’s breath caught, too quietly to be heard through the door, but Harry put a hand on
her shoulder in warning. The argument within was getting louder. When the door opened they
would be behind it, crushed against the cold stone. With a squeeze, Harry began to stand,
pulling Hermione silently up with him as he continued to listen.

“They're not the only ones, I've got other people on my side, better people!” Malfoy was
close to shouting.

"Then why not confide in me, and I can --"

Hermione, catching on, turned so that her back was to the wall as Harry did the same. They
were now shoulder to shoulder beside one another, both listening in silence beneath the cloak.
Should the door swing open, they would hopefully block it with their hands if their corner
proved too small for them to fit before it hit the wall behind them.

“I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!” came Malfoy’s voice again.

There was another pause, then Snape said coldly, “You are speaking like a child. I quite
understand that your fathers capture and imprisonment has upset you, but --”

Two stomping footsteps came from within, then bang! The door burst open, hard. Hermione
gasped, clapping her hand to her mouth as she did, but fortunately the sound of the ancient
hinges on the door masked the sound. Harry’s hands were raised in front of him as though in
surrender, ready to catch the door, but it was not necessary. As Malfoy’s cloak disappeared
around the corner, Harry looked over to see Hermione's knuckles whitening over her mouth
as she held her breath, eyes shut tight. Snape took several seconds to leave, eventually
walking thoughtfully back to the party down the hall. When he was finally out of sight,
Hermione released her breath in a whimper.

“What?” said Harry, looking down at her. He took her by the shoulders, steadying her, while
trying to keep their feet hidden. “What’s wrong?”

With a grimace, Hermione hissed, “That damned door! It hit me right in the toe!”

Were the circumstances less grim, Harry would have found it hard not to laugh. “Are you
alright?” he asked her.

“Of course I am,” she said, distractedly. “Well? What do you think?”

He didn’t have to ask what she meant.

The scene they had just witnessed proved without a doubt that Malfoy was up to something
serious. Harry resisted the urge to gloat, though he planned to recount every time she and
Ron had claimed Malfoy’s innocence that year when they briefed Ron later on what they had
just seen.

“I think I’m glad we followed them,” Harry said. “What do you think he meant by ‘your
master?’”

“I think there are a lot of possibilities,” she replied, predictably. His mouth opened to protest,
but Hermione cut him off. “I'm actually more concerned about the vow Snape was talking
about. That's a massive risk to take."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you later. I have a feeling I already know what you’ve got to say about all this, but it
can wait,” she said, cocking an eyebrow knowingly.

“Right,” Harry said. He was lost in thought for a moment, replaying the conversation in his
mind and trying to commit it all to more permanent memory. His hands were still resting
loosely on her shoulders, the invisibility cloak tickling his fingers as it rustled with their
movements.

“Harry?” Hermione whispered, bringing him back from his thoughts. She was so close to him
that he could feel her breath as she spoke, breaking the confined air between them under the
silky fabric.

“What?” he said, distracted now by freckles on her nose.

“I think it’s safe for us to leave,” she whispered. “If we don’t go back soon, Snape will
probably notice and suspect that we followed him. I’ll go first, then you follow.” They didn’t
move. “Right?” she said.

“Right,” he replied again. He stepped aside and allowed her to pass him by, watching as she
emerged from beneath the cloak into the visible world.
 Chapter 5

“What time do you call this?” the Fat Lady asked scandalously.

“Hungarian Horntail,” Harry repeated, annoyed.

“We were at the Christmas party,” Hermione provided.

“Hmmm…” The Fat Lady moved forward on her hinges and allowed them to enter, shooting
them disapproving looks as she swung out of sight.

The common room was dark. It was past one o’clock, and no one seemed to be up. The fire
was lit, but low, leaving the room chilly near the staircase. As they approached it, Hermione
turned to him.

“Thanks, Harry,” she said, smiling at him and adopting an oddly business-like tone. “I had a
wonderful time. Tell Ron about what we heard and we can all discuss it after break, okay?”
The words were rushed, as though she was trying not to linger.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to end here, with Malfoy
fresh on their minds. Something was telling him to speak, but he didn’t even know what he
wanted to say.

He wanted… her. To stay. He wanted her to stay.

She turned away and began climbing the stairs to the right, her dress swishing a little as she
progressed. An impulsive abandon seized him and, before he had quite decided to, he took a
step forward.

“Hermione…”

Several things happened at once. Hermione stumbled, flashing a wide-eyed glance over her
shoulder. Harry followed her gaze with his own to where his right foot rested on the bottom-
most stair to the girls’ dormitory. For half a second, their eyes met in shared panic as their
comprehensions dawned. Harry's foot was suddenly suspended in midair and quickly fell
thudding downward with a lurch. All this in a moment, and then Hermione began to slip
backward toward him along the perfectly smooth slide that had replaced the stairway at his
touch. She flew backward in rapid chaos, clawing at the banister but unable to claim a grip,
and crashed magnificently into Harry’s shins at the bottom of the slide.

Harry, who had been teetering on the edge of balance, toppled instantly over her, trying to
avoid hitting anything vital with his knobbly knees. They were a tangle of shoes and dress
robes, hair and limbs. Harry sat up as quickly as he could and reached clumsily for
Hermione.

“Oh god, are you okay?! Hermione, I am so--”

Suddenly, she emerged from beneath a sleeve and released a roar of pure, joyous laughter. A
grin began to form on Harry’s face as it infected him, and he attempted to straighten his
glasses as his own hilarity mounted. Tears of mirth were forming in Hermione’s eyes, and she
was paralized on the floor, unable to make sound or draw breath. She gripped his arm,
leaning into his shoulder for support, and Harry began to laugh in earnest alongside her as
she began to wipe her eyes and push her hair from her face.

Harry stood and, gripping her right hand in his left, he took her by the other elbow and gently
lifted her to her feet. They were still chuckling as Hermione dusted her dress and tried to
tame her hair. She had pink patches on her cheeks, and a nervous energy seemed to buzz in
the room.

“Sorry,” he said, eliciting a snort from Hermione.

“Well, that’s one way to keep me here,” she said, still smiling. “What on earth were you
going to say? I hope it was important!”

“I…” he panicked. He hadn’t had a plan at all. “I don’t believe we- I’ve… had the pleasure of
a dance tonight,” he said, inventing wildly on the spot. He smoothed the moment with a silly
face, waggling his eyebrows at her suggestively. She laughed again, clearly surprised. There
was something in her expression Harry couldn’t quite identify as their eyes met, though she
mostly seemed to be considering a riddle, trying to unlock a puzzle. It was so familiar to
Harry, so endearing, that he felt the wild urge to lift his hand to her hair and brush it from her
face.

“You want to dance? Here?” she said.

“Right here,” he said. She considered him. “What do you say?”

“Okay…” she said slowly.

There wasn’t any music, but Harry didn’t care. He reached for her waist, raising the hand that
held hers to shoulder height. She laughed as they began to sway back and forth, finding a
slightly clumsy rhythm and revolving within their own space and time. Occasionally, one of
them would step on the other’s toe, making them both laugh again. The only sounds were
their footsteps on the muffled carpet and the gentle crackling of the dim fire.

“I’m glad we went together,” Harry said after a minute or two.

“You are?” she asked, her smile fading slightly.

“Of course…” he said, looking at her, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Why
wouldn’t I be?”

She was watching the fire over his shoulder. Lights from the embers reflected in her eyes,
yellow and dim.

“You were disappointed, I think. When Ginny broke up with Dean after you’d asked me. I’m
sorry you missed your chance.”
“I - Why do you still think I wanted to go with Ginny?” Harry asked, now utterly flummoxed
and a little frustrated. “I asked you because you’re who I wanted to spend time with tonight.
And not as a last resort,” he said quickly, cutting her off before she could interrupt. She
looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I remember,” he said. Her face fell slightly in
surprise.

“At the Yule Ball,” he continued, “I didn’t ask you then because I was stupid, but I swear,
Hermione. I didn’t bring you with me tonight because I couldn’t ask someone else. I just…”
He considered a moment, trying to find words. “I just want to dance with you.”

Hermione’s dress glittered in the light from the embers. She blinked at him.

"You are dancing with me," she whispered.

"Right," he said.

But he wasn’t. At some point, they had stopped moving, and for a long moment they simply
stared at each other. Not for the first time, Harry wished he could see the myriad of thoughts
clearly whirring in the brilliant mind behind those brown eyes. His breathing became careful,
as though he were winded and trying to hide it. They were closer now than they had been
even an hour ago under the invisibility cloak. The air in the room seemed suspended as they
stood, an awareness spreading through Harry's whole body that he was unwilling to break.

They were too close to keep each other in focus, and their noses brushed against one another.
Harry leaned forward experimentally, and when Hermione didn’t pull back, he followed his
curiosity. Their lips met, sweetly and cautiously, and, as the kiss was gently broken, Harry
inhaled, feeling the air in his lungs, and he realized he had not been breathing.

A scent flooded his brain, familiar and floral, and Harry felt a shock wave ripple through his
nervous system. He felt stunned as he slowly drew the conclusion he had never considered
before - not really. The mystery scent, the one he had pondered for months now without
finding its source, was unmistakable. It was her. He breathed it in like it was oxygen, and he
felt heady as everything in the world made sense. Precious. Hermione was looking through
her lashes at his shoulder, but, as Harry noticed this, her gaze traveled - over his throat, his
ear, his cheekbone...

A faint pop made them both jump. The stairs had returned to their proper shape, and a few
portraits were gazing pointedly at them with a rather stern air of authority. Harry’s right hand
had drifted up and wound itself in Hermione’s hair. She reached up and, turning her face so
that his fingers brushed her cheek, she lowered his hand to the side and took a small step
backward.

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” she said, and she slowly began to climb the dormitory steps,
meeting his gaze one more time before turning the corner with a swish of her dress.
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