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Chapter Text

Upon seeing the towers and lights of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry come into view, Harry Potter felt a strange swooping sensation in his stomach. He wasn't quite sure if it was joy at returning to what he now considered his home, or dread at returning to where he had experienced part of the worst night of his life.

A great deal of change had occurred in the two months since he had landed back on the Quidditch Pitch with Cedric's lifeless body, surrounded by cheering—and then screaming and crying—students, teachers and parents.

Dumbledore had proceeded to make the rounds at the Ministry of Magic, implementing plans to be set in motion to safeguard the Wizarding World from Voldemort. Fudge—after his shocking tirade and initial refusal to believe Voldemort had returned—had consented to view Harry's memories in the Pensieve. As he could hardly accuse Harry of fabricating his own memories—as a fourteen year old wizard he could no less have created such a vivid memory than beaten Dumbledore in a duel—he had no choice but to accept that Voldemort had indeed returned to power.

The most pleasing aspect of the unstable situation was that which concerned Harry's godfather.

After a lengthy discussion, Dumbledore had at last convinced Sirius to do as Harry had done—go forth before the Ministry and present his own memories, while under the influence of Veritaserum. The Ministry had seen chaos the day Dumbledore walked Sirius into the Atrium.

"They'll murder me on sight!" Sirius had shouted at first, when Dumbledore had first proposed the idea. "They've been chasing me two years now, what do you think they'll do when I walk through the front door?"

"I will not allow them to harm you," Dumbledore had assured him. "Sirius, think of what this will do. I am vouching for you, and I tell you, you did not receive what we could ever call fair treatment before your incarceration. Once I convince Cornelius that you are within your rights to stand trial, he will see reason. With Harry on the stand, we can have you cleared. Think about it. You can be free."

Sirius had agreed—"For Harry," he'd said—and two weeks later he had stood trial before an incredulous committee and a very tired, stressed Fudge.

After both Harry and Sirius' testimonies while under the influence of Veritaserum, and the memories of Wormtail's betrayal and escape, Fudge had placed his head in his hands, and mumbled, "Cleared. Of… all charges."

Harry had hardly dared to believe it. He looked over at Sirius and saw the look on his face—like a fog lifting. His eyes glimmered with tears and he blinked. Then he had looked over at Harry and the smile he gave him went a long way in mending Harry's tortured mind.

The rest of the summer passed quite as usual—Harry, moping in his bedroom at Number 4, Privet Drive. He wrote to Sirius, Ron and Hermione every week, and occasionally, Lupin. For the time being, Sirius was staying at Lupin's place, while he tried to sort out his life. He had promised Harry that when he had settled all his accounts and got his life under control, they could live together. Harry had that to look forward to at least. In the meantime, his only other contact with the wizarding world was with his shadow; someone was keeping watch over him in Little Whinging.

He noticed his watcher first when he was on a walk on a hot afternoon along Magnolia Crescent. He didn't see them, but he distinctly heard footsteps behind his—he changed his pace without warning and heard the person behind him step just out of time with him before they adjusted their pace, too. Since then, he'd had the feeling of being watched. He'd even heard the soft crack of what he knew to be someone Apparating, every now and then.

He was hardly surprised. After all, Voldemort was back, his whereabouts unknown, and he knew that he desired nothing more than to kill Harry after he had again thwarted him and denied him his revenge. Dumbledore must have sent an Auror to watch over Harry, make sure he was okay. Even so, he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable about the whole situation.

And his scar would burn horribly every now and then. At the most random times: once, when he was doing the dishes for Aunt Petunia, again, when he was at the park sitting aimlessly on a swing set, and once more when he was trying to catch some sign of his stalker. He wrote to Sirius about it, but his godfather had nothing more to say than to suggest that now that Voldemort was back, this would simply and unfortunately be a common occurrence.

He felt it prickling again as he sat in the carriage that brought him, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and the strange girl called Luna Lovegood through the castle gates and up towards the Great Hall. He ignored it and tried to respond normally to a question that Neville had asked about what was likely to be in the Herbology O.W.L exam.

The carriage came to a stop, and they got out. Harry walked slowly behind the others, passing those skeletal horses with wary, morbid interest. Why was it, that the others couldn't see them? Luna had said she could… perhaps he ought to talk to her about it, when the others weren't listening. Then again, Luna had said so many ridiculous things that he wasn't really sure that talking to her would make him feel more or less sane.

Harry kept his head down as they joined the flow of students heading into the Entrance Hall. He still heard the whispers and felt the stares. He was, of course, used to this by now. He had endured them especially in Second Year, when he had been accused of being Slytherin's heir. This time, however, the attention made him sick instead of angry or embarrassed, because he knew they were talking about Cedric and Voldemort, about how Harry had been the only witness to Cedric's murder, about how he had supposedly duelled Voldemort and escaped. He didn't need reminding of it; he certainly revisited the graveyard in his nightmares every night...

Harry was so intent on avoiding everyone's stares as they entered the Great Hall—only kept from wandering into a wall by watching Hermione and Ron's feet beside his own—that he was completely blindsided when Hermione gasped, "Lupin!"

Harry's head shot up and he stared at the staff table. Sure enough, sitting calmly beside Hagrid and drinking from a bronze goblet, was Remus Lupin. He looked as shabby as ever and there was more grey in his hair than there had been the last time Harry saw him, over a year ago, but he was smiling as he spoke to Hagrid. As he set his goblet down, his eyes fell on Harry and the others, and he nodded a greeting.

Harry smiled in surprise and happiness—one of the first true smiles he had had these long, painful weeks. He felt reassured—Lupin was the teacher Harry had been closest to in all four years at Hogwarts for many reasons, not least of which that he had been a close friend of Harry's parents and Sirius at school, and he had taught Harry the Patronus charm, which had gone on to save both his and Sirius' lives. He had also given Harry a lot of chocolate, whenever he had the opportunity.

"Dumbledore must have reappointed him!" Hermione was saying. "After Moody, he must have wanted someone he could really trust. This is so good, Harry!"

"It's more than good," said Ron heartily. "It's excellent! I can't wait to see him make fun of Snape again. Remember the Boggart?"

"Yes, well, I was thinking more about our education, Ronald," said Hermione peevishly. "Lupin was by far the best Defence teacher we had. Although it was a shame about my exam that year…"

"It's not his fault you're so neurotic about exams that your greatest fear was failing them!" said Ron, laughing.

The look Hermione gave him sent Ron scurrying over to sit at the table ahead of them.

"Come on, Harry," sighed Hermione, grabbing his arm and leading him over. Harry looked down at Hermione's hand in surprise as he allowed himself to be pulled to the Gryffindor table. Hermione had been rather physical in the past few hours—she had been touching his arm when she spoke to him on the Hogwarts Express, and in the carriage they had sat side by side, and she had not tried to prevent herself continuously bumping into him as the carriage jostled along the path to the gates. He put the thought out of his mind as Hermione let go, reaching across her body to drop her book bag onto the wooden bench.

Harry sat on Ron's right, and Hermione sat by his. Barely a second later, Ginny plonked herself heavily in front of them and instantly downed a goblet of pumpkin juice, slamming the empty cup heavily down on the table when she finished it.

"What did that goblet do to you?" Ron asked in amusement.

"What's wrong, Ginny?" asked Hermione, more sympathetically.

Ginny sniffed. "Oh, nothing."

But her face was so sullen that the three of them stared at her until she relented.

"Oh, alright, then. I just got dumped."

"Oh, no," said Ron carelessly, but Harry distinctly saw him perform an enthusiastic fist pump under the table. "Don't worry, Gin, it's for the best. Corner's a great big jerk anyway."

Ginny glared at him. "No, he's not. He's actually very sweet. He was crying when he told me."

Ron scoffed in disbelief. "Yeah, right, probably cut up an onion first to sell the act."

If looks could kill, Ron would be more unequivocally dead than Harry's parents.

"You—you—" Apparently not finding words strong enough to express her outrage, Ginny got up and stormed down the Gryffindor table, seating herself next to Dean Thomas, who looked up in surprise at her sudden arrival.

Ron grinned at Harry. "How's that, eh? Thought I'd be having to campaign to break them up this year, but they've gone and done it themselves!"

Harry could not muster Ron's enthusiasm on the matter. As it stood, he was vaguely concerned that now that Ginny wasn't attached to Corner, that her affections would return to Harry himself, as they had been focused in almost all the time he had known her. He fiddled with his knife and fork as he waited for Dumbledore to make his usual start of term speech.

"Your attention, please!" Dumbledore's voice rang out a moment later.

Silence fell quickly.

"Welcome back," said Dumbledore, "to another year at Hogwarts." Dumbledore was wearing clothes more muted than his usual extravagance, and he looked a little older and tireder than when Harry had seen him last.

"Just a few announcements, before we begin the feast," Dumbledore continued. "First of all, I'm pleased to welcome back Professor Remus Lupin, who has kindly consented to return to his post as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Harry, Ron and Hermione applauded and whooped very loudly as Lupin stood and bowed modestly. Harry clapped extra hard and Ron even stood up and clapped his hands above his head. There was an unspoken agreement between them that they had to do their best to support Lupin, because, as Harry looked around, apart from the Gryffindors, hardly anybody else was applauding, and he knew why. Everyone, of course, now knew that Lupin was a werewolf. He could see the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws muttering to each other and looking worried, and the Slytherins were looking mutinous.

Lupin was not at all bothered, although Snape—sitting at the other end of the table—looked livid. Lupin took his seat and Dumbledore resumed speaking. Harry pulled at Ron's robes to get him to sit back down.

"Secondly, I wish to inform you that there is a new garden on the slopes beside the Herbology Greenhouses," said Dumbledore. His voice grew a little heavy, as he added, "This has been named the Cedric Diggory Memorial Garden."

The Great Hall, which had still been filled with mutters about Professor Lupin, fell silent, and Harry felt his gut clench and he tried to stop the memories flashing through his mind.

"I was walking through this garden the other day," said Dumbledore, "and found myself thinking of Mr Diggory, of his spirit, his vigour, and his love for his friends. I'm sure that many of you will do the same. In this way, I hope, he will remain alive in us."

There was a long pause in which Harry stared fixedly at the light reflecting off his knife's handle.

"These are dark times we live in," said Dumbledore. "Yet I wish to assure each and every one of you that while you remain at Hogwarts, no harm will befall you. That being said, curfews will be remain as strict as they were. The Forbidden Forest remains—exceedingly so—out of bounds to everybody, unless accompanied by Professor Hagrid on a Care of Magical Creatures class."

Hagrid—who had seemingly been dozing off—snapped to attention at the mention of his name. He nodded and caught Harry's eye. Harry smiled back lightly and Hagrid winked.

"But enough chat," said Dumbledore briskly. "I'm sure you're all as famished as I am on this rainy day. So, let us eat!" He clapped his hands and the tables were filled to each corner with delicious, mouth-watering food.

Harry piled shepherd's pie half-heartedly onto his plate, while Ron emptied a bowl of chicken wings onto his. Hermione, however, did not move, but opened a large book and began reading.

"Not hungry, Hermione?" Ron asked, between mouthfuls of chicken.

"Of course I am," said Hermione without looking up. "But I'm simply not eating anything Hogwarts serves us. I refuse to partake in the wizarding world's slave-trade. I've a home-packed dinner I shall eat when we go upstairs. After that, I plan to cook my own meals this year."

Ron looked at her with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "You're not still on about SPEW, are you?"

"S.P.E.W, Ronald," said Hermione. "Honestly, I must change that acronym."

Harry shrugged as he ate. He thought it was rather admirable that Hermione was taking a stance like this, and it wasn't really harming anyone—with the possible exception of Ron's regard for Hermione—so he didn't offer any argument. He saw Hermione's eyes flicker to him from the pages of her book, and then back, just as fast. Harry looked back down at his plate and hid his smile.

The truth was, ever since the return to London two months ago, when Hermione had so suddenly and surprisingly kissed him on the cheek, Harry had occasionally recalled the memory with fondness. She had never done that before, and he wondered if it might become a regular thing, along with her patented bone-crushing hugs.

"Harry?" Ron was saying.

"Hug—I mean what?" said Harry, startled.

Ron looked at him strangely. "I said, are you going to eat that?" He pointed to Harry's untouched chicken drumstick.

"Go ahead," said Harry vaguely.

"Thanks."

As Ron seized the drumstick as though it were a wand and he needed it to defend himself from Voldemort, Harry looked at Hermione again, to find her looking right back at him with concern. He blinked.

"Are you alright, Harry?" she asked, peering at him.

"I'm fine, thanks," he said. He grabbed blindly for his goblet and spilled pumpkin juice along the table.

"Oi!" exclaimed Ron, jerking his arm off the table. "Watch it!"

"Sorry!" said Harry, whipping out his wand. "Evanesco!" he muttered, and the spillage cleared. "Sorry," he said again.

"That's fine," said Ron, but he was eyeing Harry suspiciously.

"Are you sure, Harry?" Hermione persisted.

"Yes," said Harry, his face growing flushed. "Fine." And he faced his plate again, determined not to make a fool of himself.

He got the impression that Hermione was a little affronted at his brusque manner. She sniffed lightly and resumed reading, and didn't speak to him for the rest of the meal. Harry was a little upset by this, although he didn't bring it up.

When the meal was over, Ron and Hermione apologised to him as they explained that they had to organise the first years, but he brushed it off.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'll see you in the Common Room." And he fought his way through the stream of students to the front of the Hall, hoping that Lupin had not left yet. Thankfully, he found him talking to Professor McGonagall.

"Thank you, Minerva," he was saying.

"Don't mention it, Remus," said McGonagall. "It's good to have you back."

Remus inclined his head. "Good to be back."

McGonagall turned and saw Harry. "Potter! Good, I was just about to look for you."

"Erm," said Harry awkwardly. It was never a good sign when your Head of House wanted to speak to you before term had even begun.

"Don't worry, Potter," said McGonagall. She was speaking to him less sternly than she had in the past, and he relaxed a little. "I simply wanted to inform you that Professor Dumbledore wishes to see you in his office tomorrow afternoon. The password is Fizz-Whizz."

"Oh," said Harry, feeling even more apprehensive now. "Okay." He couldn't help but wonder, why did Dumbledore not pass along this message himself?

McGonagall nodded curtly and swept away after the crowds.

Lupin was lingering by the staff table still and Harry approached him.

"Good to see you, Harry," said Lupin. "Enjoy the feast?"

"Yeah, it was great," said Harry distractedly. "Listen, why didn't you tell me you were coming back? I would've had something to look forward to!"

Lupin smiled. "And ruin the surprise? No, Harry, even I did not know I would be returning. Professor Dumbledore reached out to me only last week. He said that while he knew I had parted on, well, rather poor terms with the school, and—" he looked around before continuing "—Professor Snape in particular, he would consider it a great favour if I were to return to teach. And, well, my reputation being what it is now, I was unlikely to find employment elsewhere, so I was in fact grateful for the request."

Harry didn't know what to say. He could not imagine how difficult it was for Lupin to not be able to get a job just because he was a werewolf. "Well, I'm, er, I'm glad you're back. It'll be nice to have a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who isn't trying to kill me."

Lupin laughed, but it sounded forced. Harry had to remind himself to tone down his humour, which had grown rather bleak in the weeks he had been locked up in Privet Drive with no one for company but himself. Sirius' sense of humour was similarly black—Harry almost smiled at the unintentional pun and reminded himself to convey it to Sirius in his first letter to him.

"Well, I shall see you first thing tomorrow morning, then, Harry," said Lupin. "You'd better be off to your dormitory."

Harry turned to notice that he was the last student in the Great Hall. "Oh, right. Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight, Harry." Lupin sounded a little sad as he said this, but he picked up his travelling cloak and walked over, disappearing through the side door beside the staff table.

Harry half-jogged to the Entrance Hall and up the marble staircase. When he reached the tail-end of the crowd, however, he slowed. He didn't want to immerse himself with the other students. Didn't want to endure their questions about last term. About Voldemort. He shivered.

No, he told himself. I'm not thinking about him. But naturally, Voldemort was all he could think about as he walked alone up to the Gryffindor Common Room, barely noticing when he almost walked straight into the Fat Lady's portrait.

"I say!" said the Fat Lady. "Watch where you're going!"

"Sorry," said Harry.

"Well?" said the Fat Lady impatiently, and Harry realised that nobody had told him the password, and he was the last Gryffindor left outside.

"Uh," he said. "Please let me in?"

"No password, no entry," said the Fat Lady sternly.

"You've known me four years!" he argued. "I think you know I'm a Gryffindor!"

"No exceptions, boy! The Headmaster asked me specifically to keep up security, you know. Can't be too careful. The Ministry's letting off murderers like Black, and with You-Know-Who back, anybody could be under the Imperius Curse!"

"Sirius was proven innocent!" Harry almost shouted.

"A trick!" screeched the Fat Lady. "He's a murderer! I haven't forgotten, you know, when he carved me up two years ago! He had madness in his eyes!"

"You spend twelve years in Azkaban knowing you're innocent and didn't get a trial, see how sane you are!" Harry shot back angrily.

The Fat Lady glared at him. "Never heard the likes of this before! I won't stand for it. Find your own way inside." And she waddled out of her picture frame, leaving behind an empty meadow and a lone buffalo that glared at Harry as if he had insulted it, too.

Harry kicked the wall angrily. "Ow!" he muttered, regretting this instantly. He began pacing. Perhaps he would spend the night out here. He wasn't exactly upset that he wasn't inside in the thick of things, surrounded by his classmates, asking questions about Cedric's death.

He had his Invisibility Cloak in the pocket of his robes—he had taken to carrying it around, even in Little Whinging, as a precaution. He felt safer with it. He'd use it tonight, then. Find a little nook, maybe an unused classroom with a comfortable armchair, and crash there for the night. It'd be peaceful without Ron and Neville's snores. Yes, that was a good idea.

He was walking away from the portrait when he heard it swing open and someone said, "Harry?"

He turned around. "Hermione!"

Hermione was grasping the edge of the portrait tentatively, looking at him in concern. "I thought you'd be back before us—where were you going?"

"Erm, just—" he gestured vaguely. "I didn't know the password," he muttered, distinctly embarrassed.

"You could have knocked?"

This thought had not occurred to him at all. "Right."

"Are you going to come in?"

"In a moment," he said quietly. He was straining his ears to try and gauge the level of conversation in the Common Room.

"Everyone's gone to bed," Hermione said, as if reading his mind. "It's just Ron and I. Fred and George are in the corner, though."

A little more at ease, Harry allowed Hermione to pull him inside, noticing that she grabbed his wrist this time, rather than the crook of his arm. She let go when the portrait was closed once more and he resisted the strange urge to take her hand back.

"Where'd he wander off to this time?" Ron asked, sitting by the fire with a sheaf of parchment in front of him.

"I didn't—"

"We forgot to tell him the password!" said Hermione. "I'm sorry, Harry, that's my fault. I've really got to get a hang of this prefect thing—I was too worried about the first years."

"It's fine," said Harry, although—and he would never admit it, even to himself—he felt a pang of jealousy that Ron and Hermione were both prefects, with all the privileges that came with the job, and he was not. He pushed the unworthy thoughts aside as he sat next to Ron, who was looking at him with more than his usual interest. Harry had the vague suspicion that Ron's mum had asked him to keep an eye on Harry. Ron and Hermione's letters to him over the summer had been cautiously worded, inquiring into how he was feeling. He thought they might have formed a 'Harry's Wellbeing' club, of sorts.

Harry found the attention unnerving, and gestured to the parchment Ron had been reading. "What's that?" he asked.

Ron snorted in disgust. "Study plan. Hermione's made one for you, too." He handed Harry a similar parchment.

"Hermione," he said, "term hasn't even started yet!"

She huffed and sat down next to him. "It will in less than twelve hours!"

Harry looked at the study plan with dismay. It was full of notes, addendums and very precise timings. The only day which he had almost entirely free was Saturday, on which Hermione had scribbled, Quidditch! Despite the heavy schedule, Harry felt a pleasant squirm in his stomach. He hadn't gotten to play his favourite sport at all last year, what with the Triwizard Tournament on. The Quidditch Pitch had been transfigured into a maze for the Third Task, but he had caught a glimpse of it on the way inside and it seemed back to normal. It would be good to get on a broom again and fly… with the wind in his hair and nothing around him but sky… And, he thought, it was nice of Hermione to remember how much Quidditch meant to him…

"How come I don't get Saturday off?" Ron scowled.

"You don't have Quidditch," Hermione pointed out.

Ron's ears went pink and he didn't say anything.

Hermione pulled out her own study plan, which was more colourful, more detailed, and noticeably more busy. Harry noticed, however, that she had left Saturday free as well, but with no note explaining why.

Now, Ron, spoke up. "You, too!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean by that, giving yourself and Harry a day off, and me none?!"

Now, Hermione turned pink. "I just—I fancied a—fine, you can have Saturday off, too."

"Bloody hell," said Ron. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a little strange sometimes?"

"You, as a matter of fact," said Hermione, with dignity.

"Oh, right," said Ron. "Well, I'm off to bed. Better get some sleep before this tyranny begins." He folded the study plan roughly and stood up, stretching. "Coming, Harry?"

Harry, who had been up in the air on his Firebolt, catching the Golden Snitch, snapped back to the Common Room. "Hm? Oh, you go ahead. Be up in a minute."

Ron shook his head in confusion and left Harry and Hermione sitting by the fire.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then—

"Harry—"

"Hermione—"

They both stopped.

"No, you go," said Harry.

"No, you," said Hermione.

"No, you," said Harry.

"No, yo—oh, alright then."

Harry grinned sheepishly.

"Did you speak to Professor Lupin?" Hermione asked.

"Oh," said Harry, who hadn't been expecting her to ask this. "Yeah, I did. He seems glad to be back. Said Dumbledore only asked him a week ago to come."

Hermione seemed to find this particularly interesting. "Wonder why he didn't ask earlier? Was he looking for someone else?"

Harry shrugged. "Does it matter? Lupin's back. Moody—uh, Crouch—is, well…" Harry trailed off as he remembered that Barty Crouch Jr was now a soulless husk of a man, having been giving an unexpected, unauthorised Dementor's Kiss.

"What were you going to say before, Harry?" asked Hermione.

Harry had forgotten. Luckily, he was saved from having to come up with something by Fred, who sat himself on the armrest beside him.

"Harry," he said cheerfully. "Hermione," he added, a little less so.

George appeared on the other armrest.

"We were thinking—" said Fred.

"What with this being our last year," said George.

"Our future's bright with the joke shop," said Fred.

"But we want to make the most of our remaining time at Hogwarts," said George.

"We wanted to start a club," said Fred.

"And we were hoping you'd be our mascot."

"The champion of the Triwizard Tournament, and all."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. Though the twins meant well, their need for humour sometimes meant Harry was the unwilling butt of their jokes. He, of course, did not see himself as the true winner of the Tournament. And even if he was, he'd give it up in a heartbeat if it meant that Cedric had not been murdered.

"Cedric is the champion of the Triwizard Tournament," he said, before he could stop himself.

"Oh," said George.

"Right you are," said Fred. "Sorry, Harry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," said Harry.

"Anyway," said George.

"We wanted to form a secret Quidditch team," said Fred.

"Another one?" asked Harry. "But we've got Quidditch back this year! We can play again."

"Yes, well," said George, frowning slightly. "Angelina's our captain now, and mind you, she seems to have inherited Wood's spirit. Someone ought to check if he's been killed or something, I reckon his ghost has possessed her."

"That is to say," said Fred, "that we were thinking of something a little less formal, with none of the pressures of the House Cup resting on your skinny shoulders, Harry."

The idea did hold some appeal for Harry. Hermione, however, was frowning.

"I don't think Harry will have time for any extra Quidditch," said Hermione disapprovingly. "We've OWLs this year, after all."

Fred rolled his eyes. "Owls, Schmowls. We're at school to have fun, Hermy!"

"Don't call me Hermy," Hermione snapped. "And no, we're at school to learn, and prepare ourselves for our future careers. Harry wants to focus on his studies, doesn't he, and he's got a study plan laid out and everything—"

"I could use a little fun," said Harry quietly.

Hermione blinked and stopped speaking, looking for all the world as if Harry had slapped her in the face.

"That's the spirit, Harry!" said George bracingly.

"Knew you'd pull through," said Fred happily. "We'll be in touch, mate."

"We'll let you know the details when we have them," said George.

The twins went off to bed, leaving Harry and Hermione once more alone in awkward silence.

"I'll be off to bed too, then," said Hermione, sounding hurt.

Harry wasn't sure what he had done wrong. "Hermione—"

"It's fine, Harry. See you in the morning."

He stared helplessly after her as she ascended the stairs to the girls dormitories.

Finally, he worked out what he had done wrong, and jumped up and ran after her. He had got no further than three steps up the staircase, however, when his feet were swept out from under him as the stairs transformed into a sheer slide and he fell backwards, spilling back out onto the carpet in the Common Room. He heard a squeal and a second later, Hermione came zooming down after him, tripping over the carpet and sprawling on top of him.

"Oof!" The wind was knocked out of him and he gasped, grasping at nothing and accidentally whacking Hermione on the head.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry," Harry wheezed.

"No, I'm…" Hermione trailed off as she looked at him. "Um."

Harry became aware that Hermione was lying flat on top of him on the floor in a manner which might have raised some eyebrows had there been anyone left in the Common Room. Her hair fell down and tickled his chin and their legs were hopelessly entangled.

"Um," he said, and Hermione clambered off of him quickly, kneeling beside him as he sat up, breathing hard.

Hermione reached up and attempted to straighten her hair—it was, of course, as bushy as ever, and resisted her attempts as much as Harry's hair would resist his own ministrations.

He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I didn't know—what just happened?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, all awkwardness gone, and he saw the familiar glint in her eyes which meant she was about to explain something that only she knew. "Boys can't climb the girl's staircase, silly! Haven't you read—of course, you haven't."

"But," he said, getting his breathing under control now, "you've been up to our dormitory before!"

"Yes," said Hermione, frowning. "It's a rather old-fashioned security system. Boys are traditionally thought of as less trustworthy than girls, I'm sure you know."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but couldn't find an argument.

"Not to mention, more sexually driven," Hermione added. After she said this, her face flushed a little more and she once more tried to tame her hair.

"Right," said Harry awkwardly. He had never heard Hermione use the word 'sex' in a sentence before. The effect was similar to if she had cursed very loudly in the middle of Potion's class.

"Um, what were you running up the stairs for anyway?"

"Oh, I was—" Harry didn't know how to frame his apology now. "I just—you seemed upset. Sorry. I didn't mean to throw your study schedule out the window like that, with Fred and George, I just… thought I'd accept and see what happens."

"Oh!" Hermione looked quite mollified. "That's quite alright. I'm not the boss of you, after all."

"Now, Hermione," said Harry, grinning. "That's not true at all."

Hermione smiled patiently. "In any case, you can join their club if you want—I actually think it's a good idea."

"You do?" Harry asked in surprise.

"Well, to tell the truth, when they approached you like that, I thought they would propose something rather more mischievous, you know."

"Right…"

"And something like this might help relieve some of the stress, too. After all, I know you love Quidditch, but you have to admit, those high-profile matches create very bad blood between the houses, not to mention placing a lot of pressure on you."

Harry was about to argue that Quidditch was a team-building sport, then thought of playing against Malfoy over the years and shut his mouth again. "I suppose you're right," he admitted.

Again, Hermione seemed quite pleased. "Well, we'll see what they come up with, I suppose."

"I guess we will."

They sat for a moment, then Hermione gathered herself and stood up. Harry joined her and they stood by the staircase, which had returned to its normal form, now.

"Well, goodnight, Hermione," he said. "Sorry, about, you know." He gestured at the stairs.

"Don't worry about it Harry. I'm actually glad I got to see the stairs in action—I'd only ever read about it in Hogwarts: A History and wasn't sure if the charm was still in place, it was in 1850 that they enchanted it, although before that there was a different charm that prevented—" She stopped and grimaced. "I need to stop doing that, don't I?"

Harry grinned. "Would you be my Hermione if you did?"

My Hermione? My Hermione? Why would you say that?

Hermione looked at him somewhat shyly, hoisting her book bag onto her shoulder.

"Goodnight, Harry," she said. And then—to Harry's surprise and pleasure—she leaned over and pecked him on the cheek.

And she dashed up the stairs before he could say anything more.

Dumbly, Harry touched his cheek where she had kissed him, staring at the wall. "Huh," he said.

Shaking his head to clear it, he started forward up the stairs—only to realise just in time that he was heading for the wrong stairs. He course-corrected, only imagining what Hermione would say if he sent her careening down a slide and on top of him for the second time in as many minutes, and as a result of that, he tripped over himself and ran into a portrait on the wall.

"I say, watch it!" said the elderly man in the portrait angrily. Then, smirking, "She really blew your bulb, didn't she!"

Blushing, Harry ran up the stairs to the boys dormitory. He entered the room, already filled with Neville's loud snores. Without even getting changed, he slid into bed, still thinking about the scene downstairs.

"What kept you?" Ron's voice asked to his left.

"Oh, um, Fred and George," Harry said, not untruthfully. "You know, explaining their madcap ideas."

"Right," said Ron. "Well, goodnight."

"Night, Ron," muttered Harry, taking his glasses off and placing them on his nightstand.

He lay back, staring at the shards of moonlight across the ceiling. As he drifted off to sleep, he fancied he could still feel Hermione's lips on his cheek…

For the first night since the Third Task, Harry had very pleasant dreams.

Chapter Text

Monday morning dawned bright and clear and Harry yawned as he stretched his arms above his head.

He couldn't quite remember what he had dreamed about, but he was still smiling, so he was sure it had been good. It felt novel and new, to awaken fresh and rested and with the sun spilling in through the window instead of sweating and shivering in the early hours of the morning, images of Lord Voldemort and Cedric flashing through his mind.

He was the first one up—Neville was still snoring and Ron was in a bleary half-sleep, while Seamus and Dean had their curtains closed—and he decided to wait for Ron to wake properly and go down to breakfast together.

As it happened, however, Ron did not seem in a hurry to get up. Harry eventually slid out of bed and went to brush his teeth, trying half-heartedly to flatten his hair as he looked at himself in the mirror.

"You're very handsome, dear," said his mirror sleepily, "but there's no fixing that mop you call hair."

"Thanks," gargled Harry gruffly.

Back in the dormitory, Ron was finally sitting up.

"Morning, Ron," Harry said.

Ron grunted and Harry grinned. Ron was definitely not a morning person. Harry opened up the window, breathing in the fresh air. The grounds looked simply glorious. He saw Hagrid by his hut, planting fresh fertiliser in the pumpkin patch. He waved—Hagrid straightened up and craned his neck, shading his eyes as he looked up at Gryffindor tower. The half-giant waved back, scattering fertiliser everywhere. Harry's smile grew wider. He felt an immense comfort, being back at Hogwarts. So far, things had been quite pleasant. He already felt distanced from last year's dreadful events and the languid, depressing summer.

He turned away from the window and beat Ron over the head with his pillow. "Spot of breakfast, mate?"

Ron groaned. "Stop it, Harry! I'll come down in a minute."

Harry went down the stairs into the Common Room. There were a couple other early risers—seventh years already studying for NEWTS—and he nodded his greetings as they looked at him. As he sat and waited for Ron, however, they continued to eye him curiously, so he decided to go down to breakfast alone.

The Great Hall was almost deserted, save for a few Ravenclaws talking cheerfully at one end of their table. Harry sat and helped himself to cereal and orange juice. He glanced up at the staff table. Professor McGonagall was writing a letter, and Snape was reading the Daily Prophet, his beady little eyes sweeping from one side of the paper to the other. His eyes flickered up to Harry's, and narrowed so far that Harry thought they might disappear entirely. He returned his attention to the paper and Harry sighed. Just the sight of Snape was enough to ruin his good mood.

"Morning, Harry!"

Hermione sat down next to him, placing a stack of books next to her breakfast plate. Ron ambled along after her and sat heavily beside her.

Harry swallowed his cereal. "Morning, you two. Sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you." Hermione reached into her bag and opened up a Tupperware container, taking out a sweet bun and some fruit.

"Hermione," he said, "how are you going to eat your own meals all year? Where are you going to get all the food?"

"Mum and Dad are going to send me packages when I write to them," she said cheerfully, "and besides, now we know how to get into the kitchens, I can actually ask Dobby to prepare me some meals, since he's actually paid to do it. I thought I'd go down tonight, actually, and help the house elves cook! Want to join me?"

"Um," said Harry, trying to look as though he was sorely tempted by the offer. "Sounds great, but I have to meet Dumbledore, sorry."

"Oh!" said Hermione. "No, that's much more important, you'd better see him."

Harry grinned. "Yeah. But next time, okay? Be nice to see Dobby, to tell you the truth."

Ron had, by this point, wolfed down some eggs and sausages, and so had perked up considerably. "I'll go with you, Hermione," he said, with his mouth full as usual.

But Hermione viewed him with suspicion. "Are you sure you're not just coming along for the extra food? The stellar, enslaved service and the sweets the house elves offer you on a silver platter?"

"No," said Ron unconvincingly.

Harry laughed.

At the staff table, Professor Lupin sat beside Snape—much to Snape's apparent dismay. Harry watched as Lupin struck up a conversation quite pleasantly. Snape appeared to mutter one-word answers, his lip curled in dislike.

"What do you suppose they're talking about?" he asked no one in particular.

"Probably Lupin's asking Snape to brew him that Wolfsbane Potion," Hermione answered at once. "Full moon's coming up next week."

Ron swallowed audibly. "I reckon we keep an eye on Lupin," he said. "I still wouldn't put it past Snape to slip some snake venom into the cauldron."

Harry agreed. Snape seemed even colder to Lupin than usual—it must be a huge blow to him, to be denied the Dark Arts position in favour of Lupin yet again. Harry found himself thinking, not for the first time, about where Snape had gone after Voldemort had returned. Dumbledore had commanded him to do something; what it was, they could only guess, but Harry assumed that Snape had gone directly to Voldemort to resume his operation as a double agent. The mere thought that Snape may have been in contact with Voldemort made Harry's skin prickle unpleasantly.

Professor McGonagall was coming down the Gryffindor table, handing out timetables. She reached Harry, Ron and Hermione.

"Potter, here you go," she said, handing him his timetable and shuffling through the stack in her hands. "Weasley, Weasley, no that's your sister, that's the twins, ah, there you go, Weasley. And Miss Granger, that's yours."

"Thank you, Professor," said Hermione pleasantly.

Harry was viewing his timetable with interest. Just as Lupin had implied, they had Defence Against the Dark Arts first thing, followed by Herbology, then Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, and finally, Potions.

"Don't forget your appointment with Professor Dumbledore, Potter," McGonagall reminded him. "Five o'clock sharp."

"Yes, Professor," said Harry, and she swept off to hand the twins their timetables.

"Look at that!" Ron groaned. "Can't say I'm looking forward to Fridays… double Potions, double Transfiguration, and Divination! I'll need a few shots of Firewhisky after that…"

Harry was similarly dismayed, but was consoled by the fact that he would have Quidditch to look forward to the next day.

"Come on," he said, watching as Professor Lupin left the staff table. "Let's go to Defence early so we can talk to Lupin."

Harry had another reason for wanting to leave the Hall. It was now almost full of students, many of which were castling him looks that he supposed were meant to be subtle, and leaning in to whisper to their friends.

Harry and Hermione left the table and practically had to drag Ron after them; he was gazing longingly at the remains of his breakfast.

Before they could leave the hall, however, Harry found himself face-to-face with Angelina Johnson, Chaser and current Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.

"Morning, Potter, Weasley, Granger," she said.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her formal address. "Johnson," he responded in kind.

"Try-outs for the team are next Thursday," she said. "Everyone has to try out, even if they were already on the team."

"Okay," said Harry, feeling slightly nervous that he would be a little rusty. If he didn't make the team and someone else became Gryffindor Seeker, what would Malfoy say?

"Listen," she said, "You still got your Firebolt?"

"Of course," said Harry. Along with his Invisibility Cloak, his Firebolt—gifted to him by Sirius—was his most prized possession. During the summer, he had spent many long hours polishing and grooming it to perfection using the Broomstick Servicing Kit Hermione had given to him for his thirteenth birthday.

"You'll need it," said Angelina very seriously. "Malfoy seems to have bought himself onto the team again, and he's got the newest model: the Blackbolt."

Ron swore quite loudly, scaring a couple of first-years walking past. "The rich slimy git! Suppose a thousand Galleons is pocket money for the bloody Malfoys."

"Don't worry, Angelina," said Harry. "He's still no match for us in skill."

Angelina smiled approvingly. "That's the spirit I want to see this year, Harry! See you later."

The trio arrived at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom a few minutes later. They entered and Harry was glad to see it was looking like it did in third year. Additionally, Lupin had put up several new posters with diagrams on wand movements and spell pronunciations, as well as informative posters on dark creatures.

"Good morning," said Lupin, who was sitting behind the teacher's desk.

"Professor!" said Hermione. "It's so good to have you back."

"Good to be back, Hermione," said Lupin, smiling.

They went up to him and he stood behind the desk, perching himself on the corner.

"How're things with the Order?" Ron asked.

Harry had been told of the Order of the Phoenix by Sirius and Lupin, in their letters. Although Harry, Ron and Hermione were strictly forbidden from becoming members, they always eagerly asked for updates on the situation with Voldemort.

Lupin's face darkened slightly. "Could be better, if I'm honest with you. Although, if you don't mind, we'd better not discuss it just now. Why don't you three pop by my office at some point this week?"

They nodded—students were beginning to file in. Harry, Ron and Hermione took their seats at the front of the class.

What followed was a very enjoyable lesson. Lupin taught them the Shield Charm, which was effective against jinxes and light-level curses. Hermione, of course, mastered the spell almost straight away, but Harry was not far behind—he had already practised this spell last year in preparation for the Third Task. He had also spent some time in the holidays reading from the book Hermione had given him for his fifteenth birthday: Protective Charms and Counter-Curses: a Conducive Guide. As such, he managed to conjure a strong shield on his second attempt. Lupin had a few helpful tips for him to strengthen the shield across stronger hexes.

Ron finally managed to conjure his own thin shimmering shield as the bell went, turning red from the exertion of repeatedly shouting, "Protego!" and looking a little worse for wear after having Harry cast jinxes at him through his weaker attempts at the Shield Charm for the past hour.

Ron was grumbling to himself as they trudged off to Herbology. Harry decided to remain silent, while Hermione went on about the possible uses of the Shield Charm, and whether it might be effective against stronger spells like a Reductor Curse.

Herbology was a pretty standard affair; Neville was the star of the class, as usual, even outbidding Hermione for number of questions answered correctly, and was the first to repot his Snargaluff plant.

After a short break, they had Care of Magical Creatures with the Hufflepuffs. Harry was very thankful they did not share the class with the Slytherins this time; he did not think he would be able to restrain himself from leaping at Malfoy if he made any jibes at Hagrid. After seeing Lucius Malfoy in the graveyard two months ago, Harry's stomach churned whenever he thought of Draco and his sneering confidence.

Hagrid's lesson was on Thestrals. Harry heard Hermione exclaim, "Oh!" very quietly when Hagrid told them.

Harry did not share her excitement until a few minutes later, when those skeletal horses entered the forest clearing they were in.

"That's the horses!" he said. "The ones that were pulling the carriages!"

"Right you are, Harry," said Hagrid. "But the rest o' you might be wondering why you can't see anything. Well, these invisible beauties can only be seen by those who've seen death."

Harry looked around; everyone was looking around in different directions for the Thestrals, except Neville. He met the other boy's eyes and a sad understanding passed between them.

So, with the satisfaction that he was not crazy or hallucinating, but with the uncomfortable sensation of feeling older than any fifteen-year-old has any right to feel, Harry went off to Divination with Ron. As expected, especially after his time in the Tournament last year and the highly publicised news about his duel with Voldemort, Professor Trelawney made a point to predict Harry's death every other minute. From being jumped by werewolves in the Great Hall, to Voldemort himself laying siege to the castle, to falling asleep and drowning himself in his cereal bowl, Harry was admittedly impressed with her ability to devise scenarios in which he might die horribly. He could not find it in himself to laugh at them, though. He shivered as he wondered what might happen if Voldemort did happen to throw caution to the winds and attack Hogwarts. But he wouldn't get past the front door… As long as Dumbledore was here, Harry was safe.

Harry picked at his lasagna over lunch, trying not to let Trelawney get to him. Hermione seemed to know why he was being sullen, and tried to cheer him up with tales from her Ancient Runes classroom. Unfortunately, Harry found Ancient Runes about as interesting as the soles of Filch's shoes, and could not join in her one-sided conversation with any ease. As it stood, however, he simply looked at her as she spoke animatedly. Her eyes went very wide and her hair shook back and forth as she gestured to make her point. It was kind of mesmerising.

"Harry? Harry!"

"Hair-Herm-huh?" he stuttered guiltily.

But Hermione didn't seem to be suspicious. "Don't let it get to you, Harry. I've told you all along, Trelawney's a fraud who gets pleasure out of reading death omens in everything. Cheer up!"

But Harry, though appreciative of Hermione and her hair and her lips and her cute little nose—No! he thought, of her kindness and her energy, that was better—could not cheer up much, because next up was Potions.

Unfortunately, they were still with the Slytherins. Malfoy seemed especially cocky.

"Surprised you're still walking about, Potter," he drawled, in the line outside the dungeon classroom. "I had my bet on you to be dead before August."

"Shove off, Malfoy," said Harry, not very creatively. He found it hard to keep calm around Malfoy, still picturing his father in the Death Eater's garb, watching Voldemort cast the Cruciatus Curse on a screaming Harry, while Cedric's dead body lay just metres away…

He felt a hand slip into his and he turned to see Hermione looking at him. He calmed down at the sight of her reassuring face and found the strength to turn his back on Malfoy in the middle of his gloating about his Blackbolt broomstick.

Snape opened the door and jerked his head, and the class filed in.

Harry, as usual kept his head down. Ron, as usual, kept his head pinned to his arms on the desk. Hermione, as usual, attempted to answer questions, and as usual, was completely ignored by Snape. Harry glared at the Potions Master behind his cauldron, picturing ways in which Snape might be indisposed to teach for the rest of the year… perhaps a run-in with the Vanishing Cabinet on the second floor… or a few drops of snake venom in his morning coffee…

"Potter!"

He sat up, alarmed.

"Show me your Deep Sea Draught," Snape commanded.

Harry pushed his cauldron forward as Snape approached. Snape's nose wrinkled as he looked down at the contents, recoiling. "Pitiful, Potter. You missed part 3 of the instructions. I would have thought your glasses would help you see, not become so blind that you can't distinguish 'chop' from 'crush'." And with a wave of his wand, he vanished the contents of Harry's cauldron. "A zero. Excellent start to the year, Potter," said Snape sarcastically. "Stellar work."

Harry again felt Hermione's hand touch his on the desk as Snape walked away, and it was by focussing on that that he restrained himself from saying anything that might lose Gryffindor points or land him in detention for the rest of the week.

Finally, class ran out, and it was almost time for Harry's appointment with Dumbledore. He dumped his things in the Common Room, started and failed to continue the essay Snape had set them, and then bid farewell to Ron and Hermione, who were still planning to visit the house-elves in the kitchen.

Dumbledore began the meeting by broaching the subject of Sirius. "Harry, Sirius wishes me to inform you that he has taken up residence in his family's old house, which is now abandoned. So that you may write to him, the address is, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry.

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place," Dumbledore continued, "is also, I must tell you, the new headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix."

Harry became even more interested.

Dumbledore, seeing him perk up, said, "Yes, Harry, but I must warn you not to spread this information to anyone, with the exceptions of Mr Weasley and Miss Granger, as well as Professors Lupin and McGonagall, who are also in the Order. Oh, you can always confide in Hagrid too, of course."

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Now, Harry, you must be expecting me to have something important to tell you, am I correct?"

Harry started. "I suppose, sir. You have that sort of important air about you, and all that."

Dumbledore smiled appreciatively. "Why, thank you, Harry. I'm glad you see it that way. I'm afraid Professor McGonagall does not share your opinion when I dangle a ball of string in front of her in the staffroom over lunch."

A grin broke onto Harry's face. He could picture the scene in his mind—McGonagall glaring at Dumbledore sternly, but also, with a trace of longing in her eyes. He filed the mental image away happily to tell Ron and Hermione later.

"But as it stands, Harry," said Dumbledore. "I simply wish to ask you how you are doing."

Harry's smile faded. "I'm—I'm fine, sir."

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "And your scar?"

Harry hesitated. "It's been, well, burning on and off, sir."

"I see." Dumbledore looked at him very closely behind his steeped fingers, leaning his elbows on his desk.

"Sir… did you have someone follow me over summer?" Harry asked carefully.

Dumbledore nodded, after a short pause. "You must forgive me, Harry, but given the state of things, I'm sure you understand. Your shadow over the summer was Nymphadora Tonks, a first-rate young Auror who has been spending quite a bit of time with Professor Lupin. I assure you, she's a very charming, if clumsy, young woman, who did not infringe upon your privacy at any time."

"Oh," said Harry, "right. Thanks for—for telling me."

"How were your classes?" Dumbledore asked.

"Not bad," said Harry. "It's great to have Professor Lupin back, sir. He's the best Dark Arts teacher we've ever had."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Certainly one of my wiser appointments, although many parents do not agree, but I stand by my statements. And your other classes?"

"Fine," said Harry. "Professor Trelawney's still predicting my death, and Snape—I mean Professor Snape, gave me a zero. Though my Deep Sea Draught was better than Malfoy's, whose looked more like a Shallow Pool Draught."

Dumbledore looked amused. "I must have words with both of them, on your behalf, then."

"Oh," said Harry, feeling a little embarrassed yet pleased that Dumbledore felt strongly enough about his wellbeing that he would reprimand other teachers for him, "No, sir, don't worry about it. I'll deal with it on my own."

Dumbledore paused. "You're sure?"

"Yes, sir. You know me. I like to fight my own, er, my own battles."

Dumbledore looked at Harry with something approaching pride. "I'm sure. Do not forget, however, to lean on your friends when you need them. They care for you a great deal, you know. As does Sirius, of course. And Miss Granger in particular, seems very fond of you."

Harry stared at Dumbledore suspiciously. "How do you mean, sir?"

"Oh, nothing of importance," said Dumbledore. "I'm sure things will become clear to you this year, say, before Christmas?" He might as well have winked at Harry—he got the distinct feeling that Dumbledore knew much more about Harry's recent thoughts than he had any right to know.

"Okay, sir," said Harry slowly.

"One last thing, Harry," said Dumbledore. "I'm sure you must have wondered, at some point, why I did not make you a Prefect?"

Harry started guiltily. "Um, not really," he said untruthfully. "Maybe a little. But it's fine, sir!"

Dumbledore looked apologetic. "I confess I rather thought you might have enough on your plate to be going on with."

Harry had to agree. "I understand, sir. But Ron and Hermione are the best ones for the job."

Dumbledore smiled. "I'm sure they appreciate your support. Now, Harry, I must get some things done before dinner. Thank you for coming to see me. I'm glad to hear you're doing well. Don't forget, if you have any concerns, well, you know the password."

Harry smiled, thanked Dumbledore, and left the office. He felt a little lighter than he had upon entering—he had been sure Dumbledore would grill him about the importance of staying safe, or focusing on his studies now that Voldemort was back, or even about the rampant publicity he had been receiving. Quite the contrary, it had almost been a simply enjoyable conversation, the likes of which he had never shared with the Headmaster.

When he arrived at dinner, he saw no sign of Ron and Hermione. Remembering that they had gone to the kitchens, Harry hurried down a narrow corridor, down a short flight of stairs, and stopped next to a painting of a bowl of fruit. Looking around first, he then tickled the pear in the painting, and the hidden door revealed itself.

Ron and Hermione were talking loudly inside. Hermione seemed to be elbow deep in flour and pastry, while Ron sat at a table treating himself to a large pie.

"It builds character, Ron!" Hermione was saying. "You really get to learn the art of food when you make it instead of just wolfing it down like you do."

"Food was made to be consumed," said Ron through a thick mouthful. "If I wanted art, I'd be a painter."

Hermione muttered something under her breath as she kneaded the dough rhythmically. Harry watched her work for a moment, then announced himself.

"What're you making, Hermione?"

"Oh, Harry!" She turned, knocking a bowl of flour to the floor. "Oh, darn." She kneeled to pick up the bowl, but stuck her foot in it by accident and sent it sliding along the floor, leaving a long trail of white powder. She straightened up awkwardly, shaking out her foot over the stone floor. "Oh," she said casually, "just a base for the pie I'm going to make myself for dinner. Ron's just finished eating the first one I made, although I remember telling him to leave some for you…"

"Oh," said Ron, licking his fingers clean. "Sorry, Harry." But he looked distinctly queasy.

This was a new one for Hermione—actually cooking with the house-elves, who were running this way and that, setting dishes onto the long tables that mirrored the ones directly upstairs.

"Have you seen Dobby?" Harry asked.

"Yes," said Hermione. "But he's gone to try and put Winky to bed."

"She's still drinking then?" Harry said sadly.

"She's moved on to Firewhisky, now," Ron piped up. "Harry, they've got bottles and bottles of the stuff in the back—want to try some? I've always wondered—"

"You—are—a—prefect!" Hermione hissed at him, flicking her powdery hands at him with each word so that he was now coated head to chest in flour.

"Right," said Ron, taking out his wand to Vanish the flour. He was, unfortunately, a little too casual in his movement, and his left eyebrow disappeared as well.

Harry and Hermione roared with laughter as Ron panicked, attempting to return his eyebrow to its rightful place. Eventually Hermione took pity on him and showed him the correct wand movement, and his eyebrow returned, a little ruffled and perhaps a little thicker. Ron mumbled his thanks.

"How was your meeting with Dumbledore, Harry?" asked Ron, trying to direct attention away from himself.

Harry watched Hermione place the base into the oven before speaking. "It was fine. He wanted to know how I was."

Ron went quiet and exchanged a not-very-subtle look with Hermione. "And—erm, you're okay, then?" he asked nervously.

"I guess," said Harry. "I told him about my scar. He didn't really have anything to say. But he did tell me something secret."

Ron and Hermione leaned in. Harry enjoyed dangling it over their heads for a while, before saying, "Sirius's new house is the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix."

Ron and Hermione were impressed.

"That's your house, Harry!" said Ron. "You're going to live in the thick of it!"

Hermione was, of course, analysing the situation. "Sirius must have got lots of protective spells on it, Dumbledore wouldn't make it headquarters if it wasn't secure…"

But Harry was stuck on Ron's words. Was it really his house? Sirius had not yet sent him an invitation to live there. He had actually offered the house to Dumbledore before he had offered it to Harry, his godson. Had his offer to Harry two years ago been false, then? Did he not really want to live with Harry?

The oven timer went off, and Hermione dived to take out the bread. She put it on a plate and offered it to Harry, looking a little nervous.

Harry broke off a piece and juggled it for a moment until it cooled down. He took a bite and nodded appreciatively—although the bread was a little too tough and the texture was more akin to thick cardboard. "It's good!" he gasped, after choking down the first mouthful.

Hermione beamed at him. "You really think so?"

"Yeah!" Harry lied.

Hermione went off to lay out the other ingredients for the pie, conferring with the house-elves as she did.

Harry looked doubtfully at Ron's empty plate, and moving a little closer, muttered, "You actually finished the thing?"

Ron looked nervously at Hermione. "I had to! I kept saying how hungry I was so Hermione would have been suspicious if I didn't!"

"You could have left some for me like she asked," Harry whispered. "Then we'd both only have to eat half a pie instead of a whole one." For Hermione was laying out two new pies—apparently, one for herself and one for Harry.

"Sorry, mate," said Ron. "But if I have to, so do you."

Harry looked at Ron balefully. "Oh, well," he said. "Guess Hermione can't be good at everything."

"What was that?" Hermione asked, and he realised he had said this a little too loud.

"Just—just wondering how is it you're good at everything!" Harry called back.

Hermione beamed again, very pleased. "Oh! I'm not really, but well, if it seems that way, I just work at it! Lots of reading, you know."

Harry and Ron nodded, smiling along, but Harry was dreading the moment when his pie would be ready…

An hour later, with his stomach very full of unfortunate pie, Harry sank into an armchair by the Common Room fire, pulling out his notes from Potions. He stared at the paper for a long time, trying to work up the willpower to start the essay.

Once more, the twins saved him.

"Harry," said Fred.

"Hermione," said George, appearing beside his twin.

"Ugly," said Fred at Ron, who threw his quill at Fred, who caught it and spun it between his fingers.

"We've got a plan, Harry," said George.

"This year, for the first time in history," said Fred dramatically.

"We shall host… drum roll, please."

Harry drummed obediently on his knees and Ron thumped Fred on the shoulder.

"The Hogwarts Midnight Quidditch Club!" Fred announced.

Harry and Ron were very interested; Hermione was very critical.

"I hope you don't mean that literally," she said. "You know that even us prefects aren't allowed out of the Common Rooms after eleven."

"Oh, but when else would anybody have the time?" said Fred. "What with your study plans having their noses to the grindstone from dawn til' dusk."

"We're just trying to accommodate you, Hermione," said George, more kindly. "What would you say if we planned it to be in the middle of your Ancient Runes skull-session?"

Hermione looked a little grateful for the thought. "Well, I suppose, well thank you."

"You're welcome, Hermy," said Fred, dodging to one side when Hermione threw a cushion at him.

"Now," said George, "of course, nobody can find out about this who isn't involved, especially not McGonagall."

"So we've devised a very special form of concealment," said Fred.

"You know your Invisibility Cloak, Harry?" said George.

Fred hopped up onto the armrest. "We've invented an Invisibility Marquee."

"How?" Hermione demanded. "That must be—"

"Incredibly difficult," said Fred. "Yes, took us nearly all summer. Thank Merlin we're of age now, and can do magic out of school. We accidentally made a whole farm vanish one day. Dad had to Obliviate a few Muggles. He wasn't pleased."

Harry stared at the twins in wonder. He knew that they were more intelligent than others might assume, but this seemed a marvellous feat.

"We bought the marquee with, um," said George. "Funds that we accumulated through…"

Harry was shaking his head subtly at them. Ron and Hermione didn't know he had given the twins his Triwizard Winnings. He could only imagine what Mrs Weasley would say if she knew—she'd probably mail him all the gold back.

"Our first earnings," Fred saved. "The joke shop plan is going swimmingly; we've loads of interested customers already. And we've been charming the Marquee all summer. Now, the spell only runs for two hours at a time."

"But we've enlarged it so that it covers the whole Quidditch stadium," said George.

"But," said Hermione, "as impressive as that is, won't the Professors find it a tad suspicious if the Quidditch Pitch just vanishes?"

Fred's mouth hung open.

George took a breath and frowned.

"As it happens," said Hermione helpfully, "there's another enchantment you might add to the Marquee to project a still image. So that the Quidditch Pitch appears normal to observers, but still hides its occupants. I'll show you the book explaining it tomorrow."

Harry stared at Hermione. "You're helping us?"

Hermione shrugged awkwardly. "I think it could be good for, you know, morale. As long as we stay alert, I think this could be… fun."

"George, we've done it," said Fred in disbelief. "We've finally corrupted her."

"Just watch," said George, "she'll outdo us both one day."

Hermione looked embarrassed but quite pleased at Fred and George's pride in her willingness to break the rules for no good reason. Apparently, however, she could not let it go without one final word. "But if at any point I see any flaws in this," she warned, "if you go too far, I shall have to report you. I am, after all, a prefect. Although, I am also your friend—all of you. I want you to have fun. But I have one other condition."

"Go on," said Fred warily.

Hermione cleared her throat. "I'd like to play."

"What?!" Harry and Ron said incredulously.

"Hermione, you hate flying!" said Ron.

"Yes, but I want to join in," said Hermione. "Flying is a useful skill that everyone should know, and I unfortunately haven't mastered it. It was the one class I miserably failed in first year, and I don't intend to let that be the end of it."

"Alright, Hermione," said Fred. "Anything else?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "We have to be careful about who we invite. I would like to include students from other houses—this would be a really good idea to create inter-house connections and morale—but we might have to hold off on that until we see who's trustworthy or not."

"Right you are, Hermione," said George.

"You've got yourself a deal," said Fred. He thumped Harry on the shoulder, blew Hermione a kiss, and knocked Ron on the head with his bag, and he and George went upstairs. "We'll be in touch!" they both called back behind them.

Harry was still staring at Hermione. This was so unlike her, so brash, so reckless, so—dare he say it—fun, of her.

"What are you looking at me like that for, Harry?" asked Hermione, trying to straighten her hair.

"What's gotten into you, Hermione?" he said.

"Yeah," said Ron, "I thought the day you make a plan with Fred and George would be the day you kiss Snape at breakfast in the Great Hall."

"Ron!" Harry yelled, his eyes shut tight. "Did not need that mental image!"

Ron turned pink. "Oh. Sorry." He looked distressed for a moment, before Hermione responded, a little haughtily.

"I thought you'd appreciate it," she said. "Both of you," she added, a little upset.

"I do!" Harry rushed to say. "That is, we do." He gestured to Ron and himself. "But… I mean, what if we're caught?"

"Harry, you sound like me," said Hermione, amused.

"I'm serious! I mean, I'm not worried about me, but you've got a spotless record! I don't want to land you in detention, or even, get you expelled!"

"Harry," said Hermione. "I have set Professor Snape's robes on fire. I have snuck out with you at night to smuggle an illegal dragon out of the castle. I have brewed an illegal Polyjuice Potion to sneak you into the Slytherin Common Room. I have flown on an escaped Hippogriff with you to break out a mass-murderer from the highest tower in Hogwarts. And, don't tell anyone, but, this morning, I saw two sixth years vandalising a painting of Cornelius Fudge, and I didn't stop them."

"In order of severity, right?" said Ron, laughing.

"Point is, Harry," said Hermione, "You should know by now that I'm perfectly willing to break the rules when it's for a good cause."

"Quidditch is a good cause?" asked Ron incredulously. "I mean, it is, but, let's see: saving Harry's life, getting Hagrid out of trouble, and rescuing an innocent man from having his soul sucked out—yeah, but Hermione, Quidditch?"

Hermione looked quite taken aback and took a while to respond. "Maybe I have been too hasty… Oh, no, Fred and George will be planning more right now! What if we all get expelled! This is a terrible idea! Terrible! What have I done? When McGonagall finds out—"

"What's she going to do, Hermione?" Ron put in. "Expel us all? There won't be a Gryffindor house left for her to be Head of! And she won't ever lose you, you're her star student! Her pride and joy! I've heard her talking to other teachers about you, she raves about you like you're going to be the next Minister for Magic!"

"She does?" Hermione asked quietly, in wonder. "But she never—I never knew…"

"Anyway," said Harry, trying to steer the conversation back into stable territory. "We're not doing anything yet. Who knows, Fred and George might come up with a better time to do it, so we don't have to hide it. You can relax for now. And by relax, I mean, write your Potions essay." He added this last part hopefully. If Hermione wrote her essay before going to bed, he and Ron might be able to copy it if she left it behind.

"You're right," she said. "Yes." She smiled tentatively at him.

Harry felt something flutter lightly in his stomach as he grinned back.

"I love a happy ending," said Ron cheerfully.

"Now that's sorted," said Hermione. "On to the Potions essay!"

Hermione was in such a good mood after Harry's reassurance that she allowed Ron and Harry to almost directly copy her essay, although reminding them to change their phrasing and drop some of her more ingenious, extracurricular ideas so as to not raise Snape's suspicions.

Harry went to bed exhausted but happy. As first days at Hogwarts went, it hadn't been all bad. Ron and Hermione didn't seem to be bickering all that much, Lupin was as good a teacher as ever, Dumbledore had let him in on secret information, and Hermione was going to help them break school rules!

Harry's dreams started very pleasantly. McGonagall the cat featured in the first. Hermione was stroking her affectionately, saying "If I give you a belly rub, can I get an Outstanding?" And then McGonagall transformed back into a fully grown woman, still in Hermione's arms, and said, "Miss Granger, I've given you an Outstanding because you've broken the school rules by organising this secret Quidditch Club! Well done!"

Next, he was in a beach house in a tropical area. Oliver Wood was playing football with the Weasleys and Lupin was walking Sirius in his dog form. Sirius the dog looked at Harry and said, "How do you like our new home, Harry? Harry?"

"Harry…" The voice hissed, like a snake. "Harry Potter…"

It was a cold, gloomy dungeon. There was a single flickering candle in the corner. "He will be mine, Lucius. You know what you must do…"

Lucius Malfoy was sitting in a wooden chair against the wall, looking terrified. "Yes, My Lord," he whispered. "Of course."

Lord Voldemort stepped out from the shadows and bared his teeth, and Harry's scar seared with pain and he fell out of bed, gasping and panting. Shocked awake, he blinked hard, pressing a hard against his throbbing skull.

Harry should have known good things couldn't last…

Chapter Text

"Tell me again, Harry," said Hermione.

Harry leaned his head against the seat of the comfortable sofa. "Voldemort was—stop it Ron, it's only a name—he was giving Lucius Malfoy a job. He said 'you know what you have to do.'"

Hermione was pacing, soon to wear a hole in the already threadbare hearthrug. Harry and Ron were sitting side by side on the floor, leaning against the sofa. It was late on Tuesday night, and they had all had a very busy day at school and hadn't had a chance to properly discuss Harry's dream. The Common Room had cleared out early tonight, thanks in part to Fred and George accidentally setting off a smoke bomb that enveloped the entire room; they had been demonstrating a product for their joke shop which apparently was not yet perfected.

"What job?" Hermione asked, for the third time. "If Malfoy was terrified it's got to be something serious."

"You called?" said a voice from the fireplace.

"Sirius!" Harry gasped, leaping forward and practically sticking his head in the fireplace.

"Hello, Harry," said Sirius, grinning while the flames flickered around his head. "Ron, Hermione."

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, pulling back a little so Ron and Hermione could crowd in around him.

"Answering your letter, Harry. My hands a little too sore for writing at the moment, so you'll forgive me for not letting you know in advance."

"Why's your hand sore?" Ron asked curiously.

"Never mind that," said Sirius. "Harry, tell me again about the dream."

With a sense of déjà vu, Harry once more explained what he had seen and felt.

Sirius took a long time to respond. "So Voldemort has chosen Lucius Malfoy for a mission… something that terrifies him right down to his bleached roots…"

Harry hadn't told Sirius—or Ron and Hermione—that he was very certain that Voldemort had been talking about him, Harry. In any case, it ought to be obvious even without him saying it.

"Harry, these dreams of yours," said Sirius, "I don't think you should read too much into them."

"But it felt so real… And last year, they were really happening. Who's to say the same isn't true now?"

Sirius seemed lost in thought for a moment. "If it happens again, tell Dumbledore. Other than that, I don't think there's a lot we can do just now."

Harry shifted awkwardly. "I could try to get something out of Draco."

Sirius frowned. "That's not a bad idea, actually. If you get the chance."

"We'll come up with a plan," said Ron confidently.

"There we go," said Sirius, his expression clearing. "Now, you said you had something else to tell me?"

Harry quickly relayed Fred and George's plan to form a secret Quidditch league. Sirius—to Harry's surprise—was delighted.

"That sounds splendid!" he said, his eyes coming alight. "I wish James and I had done something like that in school. Midnight Quidditch—nothing better. 'Course, we spent a lot of long nights running around in the forest with Moony… just as fun, if you ask me."

"So you're okay with it?" Harry asked. "You're not going to ask me to stay in the castle like last year? Now that Voldemort's back and all—Ron, seriously, stop it—don't you want me to follow the rules and not go off at night?"

"Harry, last year, all the evidence pointed to the fact that there was someone inside the castle trying to kill you," said Sirius. "This year, we know that there's someone outside the castle who'd like to kill us all! I think that as long as you're always with a group, and as long as Dumbledore's at the school, there's no chance anyone will be able to get to you. And," he added with a grin, "you've got the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher Hogwarts has seen in years! You'll all be able to defend yourselves in no time!"

"That's true," said Harry.

"I'm aware of who I'm talking to when I say this," said Hermione, "but don't you think that it's a little… reckless?"

Sirius let out his trademark bark-like laugh. "Of course it is! That's what makes it fun!"

Hermione muttered something like, "Ask a stupid question..."

"Harry," said Sirius seriously, "and you too, Hermione, Ron. School should be about enjoying yourself. Yes, Hermione, study when you can. Get the best grades you can. But don't forget—you're fifteen, all of you! These are the best years of your lives. Make the most of it! Fred and George have the right idea—and there are certainly worse places in the world than Hogwarts to do something like this. Dumbledore's really ramped up the protective enchantments. If anyone who isn't meant to be there tries to get into the grounds, they'll be turned to ash. You're as safe as can be."

"Should we at least let Lupin in on it?" Hermione asked, still thinking hard. "That way one adult will know where we are. Besides you, I mean."

Sirius frowned. "I don't see why not. Moony can be a stickler for rules like you, but the things he let me and James get away with in school! The stories I could tell you!" Sirius beamed reminiscently for a long while. "Listen, when's your next Hogsmeade visit? We can get together then, now I'm no longer wanted for murder."

"Two weeks from now," said Hermione.

"Excellent!" said Sirius. "I'll arrange it with Remus."

"Sirius," said Harry, reminded of what Lupin had said yesterday, "how're things with the Order? Dumbledore told me your new house is headquarters."

Sirius' face darkened. "Things are okay. It's good to be involved with things again. But this place, Harry. This place. I don't know if you know much about my family. This house was my mother's house."

"You ran away from home, didn't you?"

"Yeah. I went to James'. I was always welcome at the Potter's."

"So why not move somewhere new?" asked Ron.

Sirius sighed. "Because this is the best place for the Order. It's unmappable, it's very secure, and there's space for our operations. I'm to be the host, and I'm perfectly fine with that. I'll live between here and Moony's, for now. But Harry, when you come visit this Christmas, we'll have a talk about what we'll do after that."

Harry nodded, feeling very warm inside. So Sirius had not forgotten about his promise to let Harry live with him! He just needed time, that was all.

"Well, I've got to go, you three," said Sirius. "I'm expecting—ah, that is, I've got to go."

Harry raised an eyebrow, but Sirius uttered a hasty goodbye and withdrew his head from the fire, with a soft pop!

Harry sat back against the wall with a sigh.

Hermione sat beside him and Ron fidgeted with his wand.

"You okay, Harry?" she asked.

"Fine," he said, not meeting her eyes.

But she didn't relent.

"I'm just—I know I was never going to have a normal year, but I'd hoped for at least a couple weeks of quiet on the Voldemort front."

Ron and Hermione seemed to have gotten used to him saying the name—for the first time, Ron didn't jump in alarm.

"You could still have it," said Hermione. "You-know-wh—I mean," she steeled her courage, "Voldemort, may not make a move."

"Yeah, Harry," said Ron bracingly. "You stumped him, mate, by escaping that night. Now everyone knows he's back, it's going to be harder for him to get a grip on things."

"We can have that normal year, Harry," said Hermione softly.

"Yeah, right," said Harry, thinking fervently of a future when Voldemort had been run over by a truck or something on his way to a Death Eater meeting, and when he, Harry, would be living in a house with Sirius, somewhere in the country, or on a beach. He was so wrapped up in these wistful thoughts that he didn't notice Hermione looking upset until she had already said goodnight and gone to bed.

Everything was too complicated. His thoughts were a jumble, he wasn't sure what he felt about anything—about Sirius, about Cedric, about Hermione… Why couldn't everything just be simple for once?

Apparently, the universe had its own twisted agenda for him, because the next day brought Harry face to face with Cho Chang for the first time since before the Third Task.

He was heading into the Great Hall for breakfast with the others when he met Cho and her friends leaving. They could hardly pretend not to have seen each other, so they stood awkwardly for a moment, their respective friends even more so.

Harry felt very guilty at this point. He had not spoken to Cho since Cedric died—hadn't offered her any words of comfort or any apology for what had happened. After all, Cedric had been her boyfriend…

"Hello, Harry," said Cho quietly.

"Cho," said Harry. "It's, um, good to see you."

Hermione mumbled something about catching up with Harry later, and she pulled Ron away to the breakfast table. Cho's two friends did the same, and then it was just the two of them.

"Did you, um, have a good summer?" Cho asked.

"It was… fine," said Harry, thinking about the nightmares and the days spent doing nothing but re-reading Daily Prophet articles about Voldemort's return. "You?"

"Fine," said Cho. She looked like she would rather be anywhere but here, talking to him. "Anyway, I'd better—"

"Cho," said Harry. "I'm—I'm sorry."

"What for?" asked Cho, although she had tears in her eyes.

Harry didn't know what to say. "For Cedric. I haven't even talked to you about it…"

"Oh," said Cho, blinking hard. "That's okay, Harry, I know you've been busy."

"Right," he said, mentally hitting himself on the head. "But—but let me know, if you need to, I dunno, to talk about it."

"Thanks Harry," she said. "But I'm fine. I'll see you around." And she walked out.

Harry watched her go. It was interesting that seeing Cho no longer gave Harry that swooping sensation that it had in the past. Wanting to impress Cho belonged to a past version of Harry that had died the night Voldemort returned. She was a stark reminder of Cedric… Harry felt very guilty for thinking this way. From what he had heard, Cho had spent most of her time back at Hogwarts crying her eyes out.

He sullenly sat at the Gryffindor table next to Hermione, vaguely noticing that she had already laid out his breakfast on a plate for him, and was now opening up some food that she had made in the kitchens the previous night.

"How is she?" she asked casually.

"Oh," said Harry, who really wasn't sure. "She seems, well…"

"Are you still interested in her, mate?" Ron asked through a mouthful of sandwich.

"Ron!" scolded Hermione. "Now's not the time for that!" But she glanced at Harry. "Erm, are you?" she added meekly.

"Um, I dunno," said Harry, a little alarmed at the question. An unfathomable expression crossed Hermione's face and she turned and drank deeply from her flask. "When did you start drinking coffee?" he asked, changing the subject.

"This summer," said Hermione. "It helps me focus."

Harry nodded vaguely, feeling very mixed-up.

"Morning," said Ginny as she slid into a seat opposite Harry. Catching sight of Harry and Hermione's faces, she asked, "Geez. Who died?"

Harry bit into his sausage stonily.

Ginny blinked. "Oh, sorry, Harry," she said, turning red. "I—I meant, um…"

Harry nodded again, hardly listening.

"Well, I'll just, um, go," said Ginny, sliding herself and her plate along the table with a considerable lack of grace.

"Ginny," said Harry suddenly, "have you seen Fred and George?"

"Oh!" She slid back over, almost knocking over her plate. "I don't think they're up yet, they've got a free period now."

Harry nodded. Hermione was looking at him strangely, but somehow he could not bring himself to look at her. He had had a strange dream last night after their conversation with Sirius—nothing like the dream with Voldemort, quite the opposite.

They had been on the Quidditch Pitch, and Harry and been teaching Hermione to fly. Except they had been on the same broomstick, and Hermione had had her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He had flown through one of the goal hoops and looked back to check if Hermione was okay, and she had kissed him on the cheek in response. It wasn't the most scandalous or frivolous of dreams, and certainly not strange at all when he really thought about it. It was how he felt about it that was strange. He had woken up in a state of, well, excitement, that he had instantly felt ashamed about.

His eyes must have glazed over or something, because Hermione was whispering in hushed tones to Ron. Harry caught the words, "Hospital Wing" and "Pepper-up Potion" and he blinked his eyes to attention and cleared his throat.

Hermione stopped talking and Ron looked over at Harry.

Harry forced a grin onto his face and launched very enthusiastically into a conversation with Ginny and Ron about the recent 423rd Quidditch World Cup, determined to appear cheerful, like nothing in the world was wrong with him or his thoughts or anything.

But Hermione kept a close watch on him nonetheless.

That afternoon saw Harry, Ron and Hermione drinking tea in Lupin's office and discussing Harry's dream and the Order of the Phoenix. Like Sirius, Lupin, too, recommended that Harry put it out of his mind unless it happened again. He did not, however, approve of the plan to try and get information out of Draco Malfoy.

"I don't think it wise," said Lupin. "If Draco Malfoy knows you've been seeing things you shouldn't, he might tell his father, who might tell Voldemort, who might be unaware of the whole thing. It's too risky."

"There's always—" Ron started, but stopped midsentence.

"Go on," said Lupin curiously.

"Well, in second year, we sort of… Polyjuiced ourselves into Crabbe and Goyle to get into the Slytherin Common Room to see if Malfoy was the heir of Slytherin."

Lupin nodded. "Of course you did. And how did that plan go?"

"Well," said Ron, "he wasn't… and Hermione turned into a cat."

Hermione sulked a little, before changing the subject. "Professor, you were going to tell us about the Order."

"Not much to tell, Hermione," said Lupin. "As Sirius told you, his family house is now headquarters. Irony, if I ever saw it." At Harry's blank expression, he added, "Sirius' family was notorious for their pure-blood mania. His cousin, Bellatrix, well—"

"Bellatrix Lestrange?!" Harry burst out.

"Yes, well, you can see why Sirius does not like to talk about his family. He was, effectively, removed from it."

"Right," said Harry. He had remembered that Dumbledore had asked him not to tell anyone else about what Bellatrix had done to Neville's parents, and fell silent.

"What's that, Professor?" Hermione asked, pointing to a parchment on Lupin's desk that seemed to have a lot of numbers and names on it.

Lupin started and moved to hide the paper, but Harry recognised a few scrawled names, in different handwriting, including: Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, Sybil Trelawney, and—most bizarrely—Dobby. "It's nothing," Lupin said unconvincingly, "just a spare bit of parchment."

But Harry, having used that excuse in the past, called Lupin's bluff. "That's about as much a spare bit of parchment as the Marauder's Map is," he said flatly.

Lupin looked more panicked than Harry had ever seen him. "It's nothing Harry. Just a report—from Professor McGonagall. Teacher stuff."

"Lupin…" Harry said warningly.

Now Lupin stood straight. "Potter," he said formally, "don't take that tone with me. I'm a teacher, and you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir' at all times."

"What's on the paper, Professor?" Harry demanded.

Lupin had managed to extract his wand and with a flick he Vanished the parchment to destinations unknown. "Nothing which need concern you," he said. "Now, you'll excuse me for cutting this visit short, but I've lessons to prepare. I'm quite enjoying getting to work for a living, and I won't have you interrupting that process."

As he shut the door on them, Harry turned eagerly to Ron and Hermione. "I've never seen Lupin so worked up!" he said. "It must be something really important, something to do with the Order, that he's not telling us!"

"Maybe," said Hermione doubtfully, but Ron shared Harry's views.

"So, how are we going to get our hands on it?" Ron asked.

"Ron!" said Hermione, scandalised. "We're not going to steal a Professor's private documents! It was rude of me to even ask him what it was!"

"Right, Ms Set-Snape's-robes-on-fire. It's totally immoral."

But Harry was thinking. It wasn't like Lupin to keep something from him—and to even grow upset and rude, even in a joking manner. He was obviously hiding something that either embarrassed him, or he wasn't allowed to share it with anybody.

But Harry had inherited his father's talent for trouble—as Lupin himself had told him—and, in recent times, a bit of Sirius' recklessness. The recklessness had begun to take over.

The aforementioned recklessness seized the chance to express itself that night in the kitchens.

Hermione was cooking mince pie this evening. She kept offering servings to the house-elves—"Someone ought to cook meals for you for a change"—but they all steadfastly refused. Only Dobby had some, and he beamed at Hermione—which Harry found unbelievable; he had hardly made it through three mouthfuls before scraping the contents of his plate into the bin when Hermione was looking the other way; house-elves must be made of sterner stuff than wizards—and squeaked, "Thank you Miss! Dobby is most pleased! Dobby has never had anyone cook him food before. Although, Dobby's old masters gave Dobby a dog-bone once…"

"Dobby," said Harry suddenly.

"Yes, Harry Potter, sir?"

"Earlier today, we saw a piece of parchment on Professor Lupin's desk. It had your name on it. Do you know anything about it?"

Dobby's eyes—which usually were round as golf balls—somehow grew even wider. "No, Harry Potter, sir!" But Harry could see his fingers twitching and recognised the sign as Dobby wanting to punish himself somehow.

"Dobby," he said sternly. "Tell the truth."

Dobby squealed, threw his arms above his heads, and Disapparated with a loud crack!

Harry was very confused, and a little angry.

"You shouldn't have spoken to him like that, Harry," said Hermione apologetically. "That's something the Malfoys would have said."

Harry turned his glare on her and she wilted. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"So," he said, "let's get this straight. A piece of parchment that Lupin had but really didn't want us to see. It has the names of the Headmaster, other teachers, and a house-elf. How are they connected? What do they have in common?" He stroked his upper lip thoughtfully, realising as he did so that he needed a shave.

Hermione laughed, and then stopped herself. "Sorry, Harry, but you really reminded me just now of this detective in these old movies my parents love."

Harry was taken aback. "Poirot?"

"You know them?" Hermione looked delighted. "I didn't know you—"

"Uncle Vernon watches them when Aunt Petunia isn't watching," Harry said absently. "The way he changes the channel when she comes in, you'd think he was watching porn or something."

Ron laughed, but looked a little confused. "Changes the channel? How do you mean, Harry?"

"On the telly, Ron," Hermione explained. "You see, there's different channels for different content—"

The kitchen door swung open and Fred and George poked their heads in.

"Well," they said together. "There you are."

"How long have you three been meeting here?" asked Fred.

"Just the last few days," Hermione said. "And we're not meeting—I'm cooking my own meals—well, I've barely eaten any of it, really, I give it all to the house-elves—that is, Dobby, I mean."

"I thought he was looking a little less bony than normal," said George.

"Anyway," said Fred, closing the door behind him. "Friday night."

"The Marquee is ready?" asked Harry.

"Thanks to our brilliant Miss Granger, yes," said Fred. "That Illusionment charm worked a treat, Hermione. Thanks again."

"That's alright!" Hermione said, in a higher pitch than usual.

"So, midnight?" Harry confirmed. "Who else is coming?"

"You three, Katie, Lee, this Hufflepuff bloke called Jason Phelangie—he's really cool, you'll see—and—"

"Ginny," said George, a little sourly.

"Ginny?" asked Ron incredulously.

"We know," said Fred. "But she overheard us talking and wouldn't let us hear the end of it. Threatened to write Mum if we didn't let her. Don't know what business she has with Quidditch, though."

"She's been breaking into your broom shed for years," said Hermione, "and taking you and your brothers' brooms out in turn."

"Oh," said George, looking faintly impressed. "That explains it."

"Angelina heard about it," said Fred. "We wanted her to come along, but she wouldn't hear it. Says it undermines her authority as Quidditch captain. I tried to sell it to her like it was just extra Quidditch practice, though, and she said she'd think about it."

Harry shrugged. "She might come around yet. So, shall we meet you at the pitch or go down together?"

"Better leave in twos and threes," George suggested. "Fred and I have been working on Disillusionment charms. We can charm the others, too. You've got your cloak, of course, Harry."

"Yeah," said Harry, patting his pocket unconsciously. "Where is the Marquee, anyway?"

"Well, we had to hide it somewhere people wouldn't discover it, obviously," said Fred.

"I was walking along a corridor on the seventh floor on Tuesday," said George, "and there was this door I'd never noticed before. I went through it. Inside was this huge room that I'd never been in before. I walked back out, thinking it was an unused classroom, or something, and the door disappeared."

"So we watched," said Fred, "and other people walked past, but the door didn't appear to anyone but us."

"So we stored the Marquee in there," said George. "Naturally, we can transfigure it when we take it out to the pitch, but while we are magical geniuses—nothing compared to you of course, Hermione—we can't quite contain it for very long."

"So," said Fred, "that'll be our storage room for the week, and we'll go and get it before midnight on Friday."

"Sounds brilliant, guys," said Harry. He was truly excited. He hadn't ridden his broom since before the summer. He couldn't wait to get back in the air again.

"Naturally," said George.

"You said this room was on the seventh floor?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, opposite the painting of Barnabas the Barmy," said George, "why?"

"Just curious."

"Just curious?" said Fred. "Keep your secrets, then, Hermione."

"We're off," said George. "We'll be upstairs, eating a real dinner, if you want to talk more."

"See you later," said Harry, as they left them behind. His spirits were greatly lifted. After all that had been going on, he felt relieved to actually be in the know in something, even if it was just Quidditch. Hermione, however, looked concerned, and Harry thought he knew why.

"Cheer up, Hermione," he said lightly.

"Yeah," piped up Ron, "It's only the first week, we won't be too set back by a couple hours of flying. Worst case, we sleep in the next day. You've given us Saturday off anyway!"

"I'm not sure I ought to go," said Hermione quietly.

"Come on, Hermione," Harry urged. "We'll do all our work this week, by your schedule!"

"Oh, all right," Hermione relented.

Harry could have cheered. He restrained himself, however. He, Hermione and Ron ambled easily up to the Great Hall, and Harry was in such a good mood he could even ignore all the stares—which were less frequent, anyway; the novelty seemed to have worn off somewhat for the other students.

He did, however, have to abstain from eating a full dinner, remembering that he had supposedly had a full serving of Hermione's mince pie. He did not like to think what she would say if she knew he had thrown it out. Ron didn't eat either, for a different reason. He had, in fact, eaten the mince pie, but he seemed to be a little off-colour as a result of it, and the sight of all the food on the table made him go so quiet that Hermione stopped talking about OWLS and asked if he needed to go to the Hospital Wing. As it was, he excused himself and went up to bed.

"Wonder what's wrong with him?" asked Hermione.

Harry shrugged, trying to keep a straight face. "Everything's Ron with him. He's Ron. Get it? He's Ron!"

"Harry, you are incredibly lame," said Hermione, although her lips twitched slightly, contradicting her words.

"Yeah, but you love me anyway."

The words were out of Harry's mouth before he knew what he was saying. Hermione was staring at him with something close to panic. Harry, had, of course, meant it in an affectionate, joking manner, but he only just now realised how it sounded. Or was it anything to be concerned about? Hermione had, after all, been writing the word 'love' in her letters to him for years. They both meant it as a friendly 'love,' of course. Friends loved each other. Harry loved Ron, although he would never say it to him. Just like that, Harry would never say it to Hermione. That was why he had shocked himself, and her, he reasoned. They simply never said it out loud.

They had both gone lengthy seconds without saying another word, and Harry turned back to his plate and spooned pudding into his mouth, forgetting he was supposed to be full of horrible mince pie. Next to him, Hermione opened her Runes textbook and flipped to her marked page. When he chanced a look over at her, however, her eyes were unmoving, not flickering rapidly from side to side as usual.

The awkwardness passed when they went back up to the Common Room. Ron had actually fallen quite ill; Harry and Hermione went up to look for him and found him in the dormitory bathrooms, bent over the toilet bowl and retching.

"We've got to take him to the Hospital Wing," said Hermione. "I don't understand, he was perfectly fine an hour ago."

Harry did not know how to tell Hermione that her cooking had made Ron sick: Ron, who ate everything under the sun that wasn't nailed down.

"Maybe he's caught a bug," he suggested. "I thought I saw Padma Patil looking a little green, and she passed nearby to say hello to Parvati at dinner."

"That's one fast-acting bug, then," said Hermione frowning. "Come on, let's go."

They made out of the portrait hole when Ron vomited spectacularly over the entrance.

"Eeeurrrgh!" exclaimed Dean Thomas, who had just walked past.

"Someone get a picture!" yelled Seamus, and Harry and Hermione vanished the vomit and rushed Ron away before Colin Creevey could turn up with his camera.

Madam Pomfrey was not at all concerned. "Just a little case of food poisoning," she said, not noticing Harry's desperate attempts to communicate wordlessly with her not to say anything about the food poisoning. "I'll give him a Soothing Draught and he'll be right as rain, although I'd like to keep him here for the night."

"Food poisoning?" Hermione echoed, as Madam Pomfrey walked away. "But… that would mean…"

"It could have been lunch," Harry suggested. "I thought those potatoes looked a bit undercooked."

"But you ate them, too," said Hermione. "And it can't be my pie, because you had just as much as Ron, and you're fine!"

Harry hastened to nod, but something in his expression must have given Hermione reason to doubt him.

"Harry?" she said very quietly. "Did you throw out my pie?"

Harry knew the game was up and he looked down, ashamed of himself. "Uh, just a little. Well, half. Most of it. All of it…"

Hermione looked close to tears. "Why didn't you tell me if it was that bad?"

"I didn't want to—"

"Hurt my feelings? You think I'd prefer having my best friends suffer through awful food than take a little constructive criticism?"

Harry didn't say why he really hadn't told her—that Hermione rarely took any form of criticism well, mostly because in most cases she was truly exceptional at whatever she did. "Sorry," he said, hanging his head.

But Hermione was still upset. "You look over Ron for a while," she said. "I'm for bed." And she left the Hospital Wing, leaving Harry alone in the dim room with a feebly moaning Ron.

Harry sat heavily in the chair, wondering how things could have gone so wrong so quickly. He had been looking forward to a relaxing evening with Ron and Hermione. He had had something very amusing he wanted to say to Hermione, too. What a shame that he'd probably not get the chance to say it. This was it. This was the end of his friendship with Hermione. She was a bad cook, and he hadn't told her, and now she'd never speak to him again.

At that moment, Ron heaved himself to the side of his bed, and Harry—too occupied in his thoughts—reacted too late as a stream of vomit landed squarely in his lap.

Harry sat, with vomit dripping into his socks, quite miserable. "Wonderful," he said.

Chapter Text

Harry lay in bed a long while trying to think of how to make things up with Hermione. It had only been a few hours since she had walked out of the Hospital Wing, but he felt as if he had lost her over a very trivial thing.

There was no way he could sleep. He sat up in bed, reached over and picked up the Marauder's Map.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," he whispered, tapping the map with his wand. He put on his glasses and scanned the map. He saw his own name, along with the other boys. Above that and to the right was the girl's dorms. Hermione's name lay quite still in the corner of the room. He scanned the rest of the map. Filch was over by the Astronomy tower, doing who knew what, while Snape was standing outside Dumbledore's office. Dumbledore was pacing upstairs.

Harry slipped out of bed, grabbed his Cloak, and tip-toed out of the door. Sliding the Cloak over himself, he snuck out of the Common Room and into the quiet castle corridors.

After a while, he stopped trying to be quiet and increased his pace; the Map ensured that he wouldn't bump into anyone. Before too long, he was at the library.

"Lumos."

He scanned the shelves quickly, coming to a little nook which he knew to be Hermione's personal safe haven. And on the shelf next to the window: Hogwarts: A History: Revised Edition.

Sighing, Harry, slipped the book from the shelf, settled in by the window, and began to read…

Harry was awoken rudely by somebody sitting on his head. The person squealed and leaped up immediately and Harry opened his eyes to see Hermione in front of him, peering right through him and looking very frightened.

"Huh?" he said blearily.

Hermione's eyes were knit together and she looked around wildly. It was then that Harry realised he still had the Invisibility Cloak on. He fumbled to take it off and Hermione stared at him.

"Harry! What are you—why are you—"

"Sorry, sorry," muttered Harry, sitting up in the nook by the window, which was now letting in a brilliant sunrise. "Must've fallen asleep. What time is it?"

"Almost eight," said Hermione, recovering from the shock. "Why are you here?"

The book was still under the Invisibility Cloak. Harry had gotten to page fifty before he had succumbed to sleep, which he was rather proud of.

"No reason," he said dumbly.

"Right," said Hermione, biting her lip. "Fine. Don't tell me. That seems to be the status quo nowadays."

"Wait—Hermione, no!" But she had already walked away and Harry was still tangled in the Cloak. Swearing, he tripped and fell from the seat and to the ground. "Damn."

Instead of fixing things, he seemed to have made them worse. He took his glasses off—the wire frame had bent under Hermione's weight—and took out his wand.

"Oculus Reparo," he uttered, recalling with fondness the first time Hermione had used that spell—the first time he had met her, he realised. The metal straightened out and he replaced the spectacles on his nose. He realised that repairing glasses was an odd spell for an eleven year-old muggle-born witch who didn't wear glasses to learn, before even attending any classes. Had Hermione known somehow that she would be meeting Harry, that his glasses would need fixing? He shook his head at the ridiculousness of this thought. Even Hermione wasn't that smart, and she scoffed at Divination. He was being stupid.

With not much time before classes began, Harry wasn't able to go to the Hospital Wing to check up on Ron, but he needn't have worried; Ron looked healthy—and hungry—as ever as he wolfed down a breakfast in the Great Hall. Hermione, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"You alright, then, Ron?" Harry asked as he sat down.

"Never better," said Ron. "And does Hermione, um…"

Harry let himself fall onto the table, leaning his forehead against the hard wood. "She's not talking to me because I threw out her pie."

"Oh," said Ron. "At least it's out in the open now that she's an awful cook."

"Yeah, but she seems really upset. Going on about how I'm not telling her things."

"Who's she to complain about that?" said Ron indignantly. "She had a Time-Turner all third year and didn't say a word!"

Quietly, Harry agreed.

Hermione did not sit with Harry or Ron in Transfiguration that morning, but beside Neville, who looked a little surprised but quite happy about it—he hadn't been doing very well in class so far.

When McGonagall checked attendance, Harry saw her eyebrows raise just a fraction when she saw that Hermione was separated from Harry and Ron. Was it his imagination, or did their Transfiguration Professor look a little worried about something?

The torture continued into Defence Against the Dark Arts, where Lupin, too, frowned at Hermione's behaviour. However, he had packed up his briefcase and left the classroom before Harry could once more jump at the chance to ask him about the mysterious parchment.

Harry took the chance at break to continue reading Hogwarts: A History, much to Ron's disbelief.

"Harry," he said, "Have you and Hermione swapped bodies, or something?"

Harry ignored him. He wanted to finish the book as soon as possible. Maybe then, he could prove to Hermione how badly he felt about last night, how badly he wanted things to be okay between them.

He stayed up all night in the Common Room, forcing himself to read page after page of mind-numbing history—although there were a few interesting points—until, at last, when Friday dawned and sunlight landed on his tired, sleepless face, he turned the last page and closed the hardback cover with a satisfied finality.

It was fortuitous that Hermione chose that exact moment to come downstairs.

Upon seeing him, she made to turn right around, but she saw the book that lay in his lap, and started forwards.

"I don't believe it," she said, as if she had just witnessed one of Luna Lovegood's many imaginary creatures performing a waltz in 4/4 time, while Snape played the flute.

Harry looked at her. Maybe it was just his sleep-deprived brain, but Hermione looked especially beautiful today, with the sunlight turning her hair golden, her robes rumpled, and the buttons done up wrong on her shirt. He blinked the tiredness away and set the book on the table in front of him.

"Harry?" she whispered, asking for an explanation without actually uttering any more words.

He smiled tiredly. "I finally did it, Hermione. I have read Hogwarts: A History cover to cover."

"You're lying," Hermione said.

"Try me," he said.

Hermione perched on the armrest, wringing her hands. "Alright, then. What year did Armando Dippet become Headmaster?"

"1945," said Harry.

Hermione moved a little closer. "That was too easy. How about this: why did Rowena Ravenclaw take a short hiatus three years after the school's opening?"

Harry thought quickly. "She travelled to Italy to help with a plague that had sprung up."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "What was the name of the Slytherin Quidditch player who went missing in 1822?"

"Genevieve Strazincski."

Hermione edged towards him, now leaning forward, her arm on the back of the sofa. "The school that first hosted the Triwizard Tournament?"

"Hogwarts, of course."

"The Valentine's Day scandal of 1922?"

"The Astronomy Professor was caught, ah, examining, a seventh-year in the Clock Tower."

"Harry, I can't believe you!" Hermione squealed. "You—actually—you really read it!"

Harry grinned. "I don't know why you're surprised. You've been going on about this book since I met you, so I figured, why not read something that means so much to you?"

Hermione's eyes grew wide, and without warning, she threw herself at Harry and wrapped her arms around him fiercely.

Harry was startled into inaction for a second, but quickly responded in kind. He found his face buried deep in her hair. She must have just had a shower, because it was damp and smelled of honey. He realised that he was inhaling very deeply and stopped that, but Hermione didn't notice. She pulled back and looked at him.

"I'm sorry for ignoring you, Harry," she said. "I did put you in an awful situation, it's my fault. It was so silly."

"It's okay," said Harry, surprised at her willingness to take the blame. Maybe I ought to read more books, he thought. "No, it's—let's say it's no one's fault. Deal?"

"Deal."

Hermione's eyes flickered to the book and she curiously lifted it off the table and opened it. "Harry, there's no stamp here." Her eyes widened once more—this time in horror. "Harry, tell me you actually checked this out of the library and didn't just take it."

"Erm—"

"Harry!" She looked scandalised.

"I'm sorry?" he tried. The truth was, in the shock of having Hermione sit on his head first thing in the morning yesterday, he had completely forgotten the minute detail of the actual purpose of a library, and had taken the book along with his Cloak without borrowing it officially.

Hermione's expression softened. "I've ruined the moment, haven't I?"

"No, don't worry, I'll take it back after breakfast. Madam Pince will never know it was gone." But Harry was thinking to himself, What moment? She thinks there was a moment?

"We'll take it back now," said Hermione decisively. "Come on. And," she added brightly, "if you ever want to read it again, you can borrow my copy! Just ask!"

Harry, who thought he would sooner run his hands through Snape's hair than read that book for a second time, simply said, "Thanks, Hermione." It was, after all, the thought that counted. And to Hermione, this particular thought seemed to hold a great deal of value.

Their timetable for Friday was, as Ron had said, completely horrible, but Harry managed to get through it all with the happiness that came with making up with Hermione. The day that she had not spoken to him had been one of the longest of his life.

In a more literal, sense, it really was one of the longest days of his life, because it hadn't really ended yet. Running on absolutely no sleep, he was beginning to get delirious and felt like the last thirty-six hours had been some sort of fever dream.

Luckily, in their double-Potions class, Snape assigned them a Wideye Potion. Hermione allowed Harry to covertly drink a flask of her finished product while Snape was busy berating Neville for melting a hole in the desk. Harry had no trouble staying awake after that.

During their double Transfiguration class, he could not help shooting her little grateful smiles and got a thrill whenever she returned them.

Professor McGonagall seemed to be in a good mood, too. She awarded Gryffindor twenty points when both Harry and Hermione managed to give a very detailed answer to a question she raised about the limits of the Transfiguration of body parts. When they left her class, she had begun scratching out an impassioned letter to an unknown recipient, her thin lips curled upwards in one of her rare smiles—unless Harry was much mistaken, it was one of triumph.

Divination could not dampen Harry's spirits, either. Professor Trelawney seemed to be acting a little strange—that was, more than usual. Like always, she focussed a lot of attention on Harry, but instead of predicting his death, she told him that he would soon find love in the last place in which he might have thought to look. Harry didn't quite know what to make of that, but Professor Trelawney was extremely enthusiastic. When he said that he didn't think that he would 'find his one true love and fall helplessly into an impassioned kiss while slow-dancing in the moonlight, under a sky full of shooting stars, by the next conjunction of Mars and Jupiter', she grew stern and snapped, "You will, Potter. I have seen it foretold in the Great Eye!" At that, he nodded awkwardly, smiling in the hopes that she would move on to predict somebody else's fortune; he was quite unused to her predicting anything other than his untimely demise. It was a good thing Hermione had quit Divination. He wouldn't have been able to keep from laughing while watching her constant eye rolls and sighs of exasperation.

At long last, Friday night came, and Harry was sitting restlessly in the Common Room, checking his watch every now and then to see it coming closer to midnight. Ron was very excited, too. Ginny was talking to her friends in the corner, and she grinned at them when they saw her. Fred and George were nowhere to be seen.

Finally, it came half past eleven, and Harry muttered to Ron, "Shall we head out?"

"Let's get the Cloak," came Ron's muttered reply.

With the impending weekend, most of the Gryffindors had seen fit to stay up talking and playing Wizard's Chess and Gobstones. Luckily, Seamus, Dean and Neville were part of a group of students watching a talented second-year girl draw a rather crude picture of Snape in drag, using magical ink that sparkled and danced on the paper.

"Look at her go, Harry," said Ron fondly, stopping to view the drawing from a different angle. "Our legacy is in good hands."

Harry grinned and ducked upstairs. Hermione was going to meet them outside; she was finishing up her prefect rounds (which Ron had skived off). Harry threw the Cloak over Ron and himself, as well as his Firebolt, and they carefully made their way through the lively Common Room.

They found Hermione waiting nervously outside.

"You ready?" Harry asked, which he regretted. He made it sound like they were undergoing a very serious operation, and Hermione looked very pale.

"Uh-huh!" she squeaked, ducking under the Cloak.

There wasn't much room under there with three of them as well as Harry's Firebolt; all three of them had grown considerably in the past five years. Ron's feet and ankles were visible at almost all times unless he bent double.

"But people don't expect to see disembodied feet walking around," said Hermione. "We should be okay."

"This is Hogwarts, Hermione," said Harry. "Disembodied feet wouldn't be the strangest thing we've seen here."

Harry was very aware of both Hermione and Ron pressed up on either side of him, and the fact that they were sharing each other's breath under the constricting Cloak. Ron's was a little stale but Hermione's smelled minty; she must have been chewing gum while doing her rounds, but that thought didn't quite seem right. Hermione, chewing gum while on duty?

They almost ran into Professor Flitwick halfway down a dark corridor, and paused to wait as he opened the door to the staffroom. The Hogwarts teachers must have been having a party of their own, because the sounds of animated conversation leaked out to their ears.

"Another glass, Albus?" came Professor Sprout's jolly voice.

"Just a small one, thank you, Pomona," said Dumbledore politely.

"Ah, Filius!" they heard Professor McGonagall's voice say. "Come in, come in."

"Minerva," squeaked Flitwick, "what's this about an update? What is it you know?"

"Come in first, Filius, we don't want Peeves eavesdropping on us."

Flitwick went inside and shut the door. Under the Cloak, Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Hermione.

"An update?" Ron whispered. "What do you suppose that's about?"

"Could be anything," said Hermione.

"McGonagall seemed quite happy about it, so can't be anything bad," muttered Harry. "Come on, we don't want to be late for Fred and George."

The oak front doors were closed and locked securely but they unlocked a window and climbed out carefully, Harry checking the Marauder's Map to make sure there was nobody around.

They passed by Cedric's Memorial Garden on their way down the slopes, and Harry suddenly stopped in his tracks, feeling guilty that he had not visited before.

Hermione and Ron awkwardly stopped, a few inches in front of Harry, so that the Cloak was pulled up to Harry's waist and his legs appeared in the warm night's air.

"You alright?" Ron asked, before realising where they were.

"I feel like I should say something," Harry muttered.

"Well, go ahead," said Hermione softly.

After a short hesitation, Harry ducked out from the Cloak and went up to the picture of Cedric that had been erected at the garden's entrance. It was a pretty garden, full of flowers and plants of pleasing colours and scents.

Harry looked up at Cedric's smiling face and started awkwardly, "Hey, Cedric. We're, um, we're just on our way to a midnight Quidditch practice. Wish you could join us—then I'd have a competent Seeker to play against." Feeling very self-conscious, he nodded to Cedric as though he could see him. "Well, um, I'll see you… around, Cedric."

He was clearly not very good at any of this, but Hermione told him that it was good of him to say even that much. He did feel some comfort in the fact that Cedric would probably have been as enthusiastic about this idea as he, Harry, was.

They walked through the night in silence until they reached the Quidditch Pitch. It looked just like it always did, though shrouded in darkness. They approached the usual entrance through a tunnel in the stands, and walked straight into what Harry assumed was the Invisibility Marquee.

"Oh!" exclaimed Hermione, stumbling into Harry as her foot tangled with the hem of the Cloak, pulling it off of their heads. "Sorry, Harry."

"S'fine," he mumbled, glad she couldn't see him blushing in the darkness—the back of her hand had ended up hitting him quite resoundingly on his left buttock.

"Psst! Harry!"

Out of thin air, a pale hand emerged. It was quite an eery sight to be seeing in the darkness, until the rest of Fred's body emerged. He was holding back an invisible flap for them. "Come on in," he said.

Harry led the way in, tucking the Cloak away into the pocket of his robes and hoisting his Firebolt over his shoulder.

His jaw dropped. It was like entering another dimension. The darkness was replaced with light—lots of it. The lights around the stands had been lit up, and dancing in the middle of the pitch were flaming orange letters that continually spelled out: Midnight Quidditch Club. George was on his broom, practising his barrel rolls. The scoreboard was displaying two unnamed teams, both at zero points. There was a boombox on a seat nearby, playing a tune that Harry thought he might recognise from the radio. What was the band called? Nirvana, that was it.

Fred let the flap fall shut. "Welcome," he announced loudly. "To the first Hogwarts Midnight Quidditch Club Meeting."

Even Hermione was impressed. "Well done, Fred," she said simply.

Fred looked very pleased. "Thank you, Hermione. It's not much, but well, it was a lot of fun to set up. We had to set off a Dungbomb to distract Filch and get out the door."

George swooped down to join them, dismounting easily at a run. "I cracked the lock on the broom shed," he announced. "Plenty to go around there. There's a trunk of Bludgers, Quaffles and Snitches, so we're all set."

"Excellent, George," said Fred.

"I'm going to get a broom," said Ron, running off to the shed, eager—Harry assumed—to get his hands on the best broom before the others arrived.

"Sound suppressor charms?" Hermione asked, still in an undertone, eyeing the boombox.

"Of course," said George. "Even threw in a light Muggle Repellent just for fun. Ought to keep Filch out, the miserable Squib."

"Good idea," said Harry fervently, imagining what kind of punishment Filch might beg Dumbledore to allow him to carry out on them.

"Fancy a race around the pitch, Harry?" said Fred. "While we wait for the others to arrive."

"You're on," said Harry, grinning.

"On three," said Fred, and Harry mounted his Firebolt.

"One—"

"Two—"

They shot off the ground, Fred leading the way. Harry soon caught up with him, but had to do a loop-de-loop to avoid a Bludger. He looked around wildly. Ron was down by the broom shed—he appeared to have knocked over a trunk full of the damn things, which were now zooming around the Pitch wildly. One nearly unseated Fred, flying ahead of Harry.

Oh well, he thought, what's an extra challenge?

He poured on the speed, zooming around the first set of goalposts and hugging the turn, keeping one foot steadily planted on his tail piece at all times. He dodged around another Bludger and heard Fred swear in front of him. Harry's Firebolt began to easily outstrip Fred's Cleansweep, so that by the next set of goalposts, they were neck and neck. An oncoming Bludger forced them to split in opposite directions, but Harry came out in front, the Firebolt allowing him to revert back to course faster than Fred.

Harry landed a few seconds before Fred, breathing hard and feeling very windswept, and very alive.

"No hard feelings, Fred?" he said.

"None at all, Har," said Fred lightly. "Though we might have a word with my clumsy brother."

Hermione was helping Ron charm the Bludgers to calm down and return to the box. George was setting up a Quidditch game trunk, with the usual two Bludgers, a Quaffle and a Snitch.

"Fred?" they heard someone call behind the Marquee. "George?"

Harry went to the entrance and pulled back the flap to reveal Ginny, with Katie Bell.

"Hello, Harry," said Katie. "Exciting, this."

"Hey, Katie," said Harry. He was rather fond of Katie—they had been on the team together since his first year; as she was the youngest on the team apart from him, she had made him feel at ease earlier than any of the others. She gave him a hug as Ginny sidled awkwardly past.

Not long after that, Lee Jordan and the Hufflepuff called Jason Phelangie arrived. Hermione went to let them in—for some reason she had not met Harry's eye when he tried to talk her through the basics of riding a broom, and she was acting a little cold to Katie, too.

"Wow, guys," said Jason, after he had been introduced to everyone. "Good soundtrack, too," he added, nodding to the music.

"Jason's Muggle-born," Harry heard Hermione whisper to him. He nodded slightly in response.

"All right, everyone," said Fred, turning down the music with a rotation of his wand.

"Thanks for coming," said George. "We'd like to mention Miss Hermione Granger for her contributions in making this possible."

The small group applauded Hermione and she blushed modestly.

"We're starting off small," said Fred, "but if you have anyone you think would be interested—who we don't hate, preferably—and who won't squeal to the teachers or the prefects, present company excluded, of course, let me or George or Harry know and we'll think about it."

"Yeah," said George. "It came to our attention that there's quite a few people who try out for House Teams every year and never quite manage to get in. Maybe we can give them a shot here."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Hermione said, impressed.

Fred flashed her a smile. "We're not all jokes and curse words, Hermione," he said charmingly.

"Right," said George, having set up a small selection of broomsticks against the nearest bench. "Everyone pick a broom, let's go for a few laps."

Ron had, as Harry predicted, grabbed the newest and cleanest looking broomstick. Hermione was last to pick hers—Ginny, Katie, Lee and Jason had practically leaped at the line-up—and so she was left with a spindly, cobweb-laden old thing that looked as though it might snap in a strong wind.

"Here," said Harry, handing her his Firebolt. "Swap."

Her eyes widened. "Harry, I couldn't possibly—"

"You could. Possibly. Definitely."

"But this is your Firebolt," said Hermione. "I don't want to break it!"

"Hey," he said, having remembered something he'd been meaning to bring up, "I never really thanked you for what you did in third year, when I was angry at you for telling McGonagall that Sirius might have sent it. You were just trying to protect me. And now I'm doing the same. No offense, but you don't really know how to ride a broom, and if you use that old thing, it'll probably kill you. I've been taking good care of this—using the kit you gave me—and it'll be much easier for you."

"Oh, alright," said Hermione, looking quite touched. "But you'll still have to walk me through it."

An image flashed through Harry's mind of the dream he had had the other night, with Hermione riding behind him through the hoops. He blinked it away and smiled, "Sure I will," he said, and Hermione beamed.

Everyone was taking to the skies—Ron a little clumsily, Ginny very gracefully—and Harry walked Hermione over to the grass.

"Alright," he said. "Mount it."

Hermione did so.

"Keep both feet on the tailpiece, okay? That's your anchor if you feel yourself slipping."

Hermione obeyed, looking down to check that both her feet were directly in the centre of each rod on either side of the broom's shaft.

"Okay," said Harry, mounting the old school broom, wishing he'd brought gloves—it was liable to give him splinters by the end of the night.

"On three, we kick off together?" said Harry.

"What foot?" asked Hermione, sounding petrified.

"If you were pushed from behind, what foot would you step forward with?"

"Right foot," said Hermione.

Surprised that she hadn't even needed to think about it, Harry looked at her.

"I've been pushed a lot," she said meekly.

Harry felt a hot surge of pity. He didn't know what to say. "Oh..."

"It's okay, Harry, let's go. Three."

"Two," said Harry.

"One."

They both kicked off, Harry wobbling slightly as the school broom shook with the strain. As he had thought, Hermione had kicked far too hard—she shot past him and very high into the sky, her hair streaming out behind her.

Harry urged the school broom to greater heights to catch up to her.

"How do I stop?!" Hermione was screaming.

"Relax your grip!" he called, as he drew level with her. "Lean back a little. That's it. Come on, loosen up!"

It took Hermione a minute or so to stop her forward rush, by which time she and Harry had actually done a loop of the Pitch. Harry was breathless—controlling the school broom was a lot harder than he'd thought.

"Look at that, Hermione," said Harry. "You just did your first circuit."

"I did?" Hermione asked in disbelief, looking around.

"Yeah," said Harry. "You didn't even realise—you were guiding it, I didn't do anything. Your instinct led you around the Pitch."

"Wow," said Hermione breathlessly. "I'm starting to see how this could be fun… eventually."

Harry grinned.

The Weasleys were hovering below them, looking up. When Harry looked down at them, they all looked away casually—a bit too casually, he thought, narrowing his eyes.

Hermione wasn't sure how to get herself down—Harry had to admit that it was a lot harder than kicking off—so he held on to the Firebolt's handle as they descended, guiding her down to the grass where she fell off, her knees wobbling. She leaned on him for support and he grabbed the Firebolt before it fell to the grass—letting her fly it was one thing, but he treated his broomstick with something close to reverence, and didn't want it mistreated in any way.

"Well done, Hermione," said Ginny happily. "That was excellent."

"R-really?" stammered Hermione.

"Yeah," said Katie, "was that your first time flying? And on a Firebolt, too!"

"First time since first year, I think," Hermione admitted. "If you could call what I did then flying."

"Right," said Fred. "Since there's only nine of us, I thought we'd have a team of five and four. No Bludgers—it's safer that way, especially since only George, Harry, Katie and I are experienced in dodging and hitting them. We don't want to have to explain to Madam Pomfrey what we were doing if someone's bones get broken."

"Ron," said George, "Katie, Jason, you're with me."

Fred looked around. "That leaves me with Harry, Hermione, Lee, and Ginny." He nodded to himself.

The teams formed up, Fred and George taking charge. Harry found himself thinking that leadership looked good on them. This was the longest he'd ever heard them go without cracking a joke.

George and Katie were to be chaser for George's team—which they had named the 'Fleabags'. Meanwhile, Ron would play Keeper and Jason would be Seeker.

On Fred's team, called 'Pigfarts', Fred, Ginny and Hermione would be Chasers, while Lee was Keeper and Harry, of course, was Seeker.

Harry let off a bit of steam by performing a few experimental—if clumsier than normal—barrel rolls and 360s, and Fred called out to him, "Show-off!"

They started by practising a few stationary passes—Hermione dropped the Quaffle the first couple of times and Fred swooped in to grab it before it hit the pitch. The third time, however, she caught it, but was so excited she almost fell off Harry's Firebolt.

Ten minutes later, they moved on to flying while passing. Ginny was very good; she threw the Quaffle accurately to each team member and never missed a return pass. Before Fred had even told her, she finished off a stellar catch by using her momentum to propel the Quaffle across twenty metres or so of the Pitch and directly through the centre goal-hoop. Lee whistled, impressed, before dashing to retrieve the Quaffle.

Twenty minutes later, they began the game—George had enchanted the scoreboard to count off goals, leaving out the Snitch's absurd 150 point scoring system—Harry and Jason weren't particularly competitive; after all, the House Cup wasn't on the line, here. The older Hufflepuff Seeker was very easy to get along with, very aloof and easy-going. He reminded Harry a bit of Cedric.

Harry alternated between Chaser and Seeker, catching and returning the Quaffle if it passed by him. He made the third goal of the night, slipping by a flustered Ron on his way to pursue the Snitch, which he had seen fluttering behind the goalpost. Jason got to it first, however, grinning as he snatched it out in front of Harry's face.

"Nice one," Harry admitted, returning to the centre of the pitch.

Ron's form improved through the night. His first save was particularly impressive; Ginny had lobbed the Quaffle at the left hand ring while he was guarding the right from a feint from Fred. Ron shot over in a blur of red hair and kicked the Quaffle away to Katie, who caught it in surprise.

Harry spent so much time watching his friends that Jason caught the Snitch once more before he did. Ginny made four more goals, but Ron saved just as many from Fred and Hermione (the latter's attempts never came within a five-metre radius of any of the hoops, but Ron good-naturedly made a show of 'just' managing to grab them. "Whew!" he said, after 'saving' one particularly horrible throw. "That one almost got in, Hermione!" he said.

Harry grinned to himself, just then catching sight of the Snitch behind Katie's left leg. It led him on a merry chase as he weaved between the twins—George marking Fred as he looked for a teammate to pass to—past Lee, guarding the posts, back around and past Hermione, clutching tightly to the Firebolt handle, until he finally closed his fist around the fluttering golden sphere close to the stands, performing a very sharp brake so that he felt the tail-twigs of the old school broom crack against the wood of the construction.

Harry checked his watch as Katie, George and Lee applauded his skilful save. To his surprise, it was just gone two in the morning. "Fred," he called, "how long did you say the Invisibility Charm will last?"

Fred checked his own watch. "Good call, Harry. There's probably only a few minutes left. All right, everyone!" He withdrew a golden whistle from his robes and blew it. Everyone stopped mid-air except Ron, who made quite a spectacular dive to grab the falling Quaffle. He didn't pull up in time, and skidded along the ground, losing the broom and rolling head over heels. He came to a stop with the Quaffle raised above his head, groaning.

"Well done, Ron," said George happily. "That's how you play Quidditch, prioritising the Quaffle over your own life! You might make us proud, yet!"

Ron looked embarrassed but pleased as he stood up, the Quaffle under his arm.

"What do we think?" Fred asked eagerly. "Had fun?"

Everyone chorused their agreement, even Hermione, though a second behind everyone else.

"Brilliant," said Fred. "Well, same time next Friday? Try-outs are Thursdays, of course, but even if you don't get on the House team that way we'll still be able to play together."

Once more, everyone agreed. Ron looked particularly happy about this.

"Don't forget," said Fred, "everyone think of at least one person they want to add to the club, but tell George or Harry or I first. Maybe we can play two teams of seven next week."

The others thanked Fred and George and Harry—though Harry deferred all credit to the twins—and went to replace the brooms and balls in the shed, making sure to lock the door again so Madam Hooch would not be suspicious.

Fred and George set about turning off all the lights and dismantling the Marquee—Harry watched as they muttered a complex spell and the Marquee lifted into the air and began to fold itself neatly above them just as the Pitch fell into darkness. The scoreboard displayed: Fleabags, 80, Pigfarts: 110, just before the score was wiped and it powered down. Nobody really seemed to care about the score anyway—it was all very friendly, which was unlike any game of Quidditch Harry had ever played. He had always played with his pride and Gryffindor's reputation on the line, against a sneering Malfoy, a skilled Cedric, or a distracting Cho Chang. It was more liberating than he could have imagined to just play with a group of friends.

"You know," said Hermione beside him, also watching the twins. "I'm very impressed with those two. I never would have guessed they were so good at magic. Maybe even better than me."

Harry looked at her, amused. "Jealous?"

"No," said Hermione, smiling. "Happy."

Harry grinned back. He couldn't explain how good it felt to him that Hermione had had a good time. He patted her on the shoulder affectionately and drew his Invisibility Cloak out. "Shall we?" he said.

She nodded, and he drew the Cloak over them and the Firebolt. Unfortunately, Harry had completely forgotten about Ron—Hermione swept the cloak over him as well afterwards—and Harry felt guilty. How could he have forgotten Ron? Thankfully, Ron didn't seem to notice—he had a goofy grin on his face as he recounted to Harry and Hermione a few of his more impressive saves.

The unease soon faded from Harry's mind. Sneaking up across the shadowed school grounds in the middle of the night, with his two best friends under the Invisibility Cloak with him, all of them sweaty and exhausted but exhilarated, Harry felt as though all was right with the world.

Chapter Text

A week and a half into the first term of fifth year, life at Hogwarts was good.

Hermione was top of almost every class, as was the rightful order of things. Annoyingly, however, Harry continued to excel in Defence Against the Dark Arts. She had him beat in Shield Charms, but his jinxes and hexes were much stronger than hers, and he'd even managed a non-verbal Stunning Spell that morning which had knocked Ron across the classroom and into the pile of cushions Lupin had placed on the floor. Harry had lowered his wand, surprised at himself, and Hermione had felt a mixture of envy and admiration.

There was more of the admiration, these days, for Harry. It was only natural, Hermione supposed. Harry had become the stuff of legend over the past few years, even more so than when he had defeated the Dark Lord as a baby. It was hard to believe sometimes that she considered him her best friend.

So what did that make her to him? Someone to copy homework off of? A Prefect who would bend the rules to the point of breaking for him, against her consternate, neurotic nature? Hermione was, of course, underselling herself. She did that a worrying amount, mostly because she had learned the hard way not to oversell herself.

She was very aware that she had two great friends that she would undoubtedly die for, good grades, and a beautiful school of which she was a proud Prefect and advocate for house-elf rights. So what was missing?

She could answer that.

No, she couldn't.

But yes, she could.

But no, she didn't want to.

But... last Friday night, when Harry had taught her how to fly, when he had lent her his Firebolt… A vacant smile came to her face as she remembered how he had held the broom alongside her as he helped her get down to the ground. Their hands had touched but neither had moved away. Harry, of course, had been focused on making sure Hermione didn't fall off, but she had been busy noticing the way that their index fingers lined up perfectly to the first knuckle joint.

She also didn't want to admit why she had been so hurt that he hadn't liked her cooking—before realising that she was truly horrible at it—and that was because she had thought if she made him enough nice meals, started dropping hints here and there, he might start to see her as something other than just his bushy-haired, bookworm best friend… she had hoped to hear him say something like, "Yum, Hermione." Maybe a little mmm of appreciation as he chewed, eyes half-closed, licking his lips...

"You alright, Hermione?" asked the very wizard whom she was thinking so ardently of.

"Yum-yeah!" she stammered, realising that she had sat on the couch staring at the fireplace for the last few minutes, fingering her chin subconsciously. "I'm good. Divine, in fact."

Harry grinned. "Alright, then. Just out of interest, is there any book that you don't own?"

Hermione frowned. "I'm not sure. I haven't got a catalogue of every book ever made."

Harry shook his head in wonder. "What about stationary? You all good, there?"

"Erm, yes, actually," she said, very confused. What was Harry getting at with these questions?

"Right. Um, so, you haven't got any plans for the Hogsmeade weekend, right?"

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Could Harry possibly be about to—?

"Do you?" Harry prompted.

"No," she said, coughing lightly—her throat still refused to work. "No, I don't."

"Good," said Harry. "We've got to meet Sirius and Lupin, that's why I asked."

"Oh," said Hermione, hiding the fact that she was disappointed. "Of course. That'll be good, won't it?"

"Yeah," said Harry, looking at the empty fireplace. "It'll be weird to hang out with Sirius in a place that's not a cave or the Shrieking Shack. But good weird."

Hermione nodded absently, watching Harry's expression very carefully. At first glance, he appeared calm and at ease. But she had known him for over four years. She could practically hear the gears working in his head.

Harry was planning something, she knew that much.

She also knew this: Harry wasn't much of a planner.

Almost everything that had ever happened to Harry, he had just had to roll with it; he had no choice. But this year… so far this year, Harry had been astoundingly proactive in his school work, and with organising the Quidditch club with Fred and George, and Hermione admired him for that.

He had changed; he had to, hadn't he, after all he'd been through? He was still her Harry, of course, but he felt older, now. He felt closer to Hermione in maturity. That wasn't to say Hermione was a thirty-year-old in a fifteen-going-on-sixteen year-old body—despite what others might say or think about her—but that Harry seemed to be putting more thought into things instead of just cruising along.

"I'll be back later," Harry was saying, getting up. "Fred and George wanted to see me."

"Oh, alright," said Hermione, again disappointed, for some reason. "See you in a bit."

Harry gave her that trademark Potter smile that was beginning to look remarkably similar to the pictures she'd seen of his father, and made his way out of the Common Room.

Hermione decided to allow herself some downtime. She was on top of all her work, nearly two weeks in advance, after all. She pulled out a book from her bag, furtively looking around to make sure nobody was watching her, and opened it up, finding her page straight away.

A happy twenty minutes passed, engrossed and entranced by the novel, before she became aware that there was someone standing in front of her.

Hermione quickly hid the book that she was reading under a cushion, hastily rearranging her face to present it to whomever was standing before her.

Unfortunately, it was Harry, back very quickly from what she had thought would take him considerably longer.

"What were you reading?" he asked her. "I mean, before you decided to be a good friend to the cushion and let it read, too."

Furiously wishing her facial features would control themselves, she said, "A book!" in a very high voice, sure that she was very red.

"I gathered," he said, grinning as he sat beside her once more. "Anything I'd know?"

"I don't think so," said Hermione truthfully. But then again, Harry had surprised her before.

"Well, let's see, then," said Harry.

Did he really have to pick now of all times to actually become interested in books? Hermione thought furiously. She slowly shifted in her seat so that her wand slipped out of her pocket and into her hand, under the cushion. But Harry was right in front of her—he'd hear if she even whispered a charm. She knew she should have practised every spell they learned this year nonverbally, no matter that they didn't do that until sixth year! Landing on the only solution available to her, Hermione fake-sneezed. At the same time, she exclaimed, "Mutatio Liber!"

"Bless you," said Harry, looking at her strangely. "Are you coming down with something?"

"No, I'm fine, just felt a breeze," lied Hermione. She now deemed it safe to reveal the book—its cover had now been successfully changed.

Harry took the book from her and read the title, "Beginner's Guide to the World of Ancient Runes." He frowned. "But Hermione, you've been studying Runes for two years—surely you're an expert by now?"

Harry was being annoyingly perceptive. Hermione's brain scrambled to come up with a suitable lie. "I just wanted to know what it would be like to—to learn it, if I hadn't… learnt it…"

Harry shook his head. "You're an odd one, Hermione," he said, tossing her back the book, which she gratefully took and placed on her other side.

"Yeah, but you love me anyway," she said.

Harry froze in the middle of changing his position on the sofa. Hermione tensed, panic coursing through her body. Thankfully, after a second. Harry sat back down and smiled easily, and Hermione relaxed.

Good. He thinks you meant it as a friend. Friend good. Good friend. After all, he said it first, right? I'm just returning the favour. A favour for a friend. A favour for a friend that I've been picturing in my head while reading this damn book. Damn it, Granger!

Ron came in, saw Harry and Hermione on the couch, and made straight for them.

"Hey, Ron," said Harry easily.

But Ron spoke directly to Hermione, "McGonagall wants to see us," he said.

Hermione went pale and began over-thinking the whole thing. "You don't think she knows about…"

"Dunno," said Ron, a little off-colour himself. "I got the message from Neville, who got it from someone else."

Hermione exhaled sharply. If McGonagall really knew about what they'd done on Friday night, she was sure she'd have come and found them herself, shouting herself hoarse. It must be something else, then. Prefect business, probably. She stood up with dignity.

"See you later, Harry," said Ron, and they left the Common Room behind.

Hermione struggled to find something to talk about with Ron as they walked down the first staircase—which changed direction when they were halfway down.

"Are you planning to try out for the Gryffindor team?" she settled on.

Ron frowned. "Couldn't hurt, could it? But I don't play too well in front of a crowd, to be honest with you." He looked a little embarrassed.

"You did alright last Friday," Hermione pointed out.

"Thanks," said Ron, a bit pink in the face from the compliment. "Well, that was among friends, wasn't it? I don't think I could take the pressure of playing for the whole school."

"I understand," said Hermione. "I don't know how Harry does it."

Ron laughed. "It's Harry. What can't he do?"

Hermione laughed as well. She felt the same way. "How're your brothers?"

They were coming up on the Transfiguration classroom where McGonagall had apparently asked to meet them.

"You remember Fleur?" said Ron.

"Oui," said Hermione.

Ron smirked. "She's come back to London while Bill's at Gringott's. They're working together, but Bill's been giving her private Eenglish lessons."

Hermione giggled.

"Charlie's still in Romania, and Percy—"

Hermione never found out what Percy Weasley was up to. The second they entered the Transfiguration classroom there was a sound like ginormous balloon popping, and she screamed as a mass of goo and feathers dropped on her and Ron, coating them from head to foot.

Ron gasped and spat out goo.

Hermione held her arms out by her sides, feeling the stickiness seeping into her clothes. There were bird feathers all over her arms, her face, her clothes.

Ron swore. So did Hermione. On the inside. After all, one had to remain dignified, even and especially if one had just been nastily pranked.

Someone was going to pay.

Harry again felt a twinge of jealousy that he hadn't been included along with Ron and Hermione. Not that any summons by Professor McGonagall was ever a good thing, but it was the principle of it all, really. Even when they got into trouble, it was always the three of them together, whether they were caught by McGonagall, Snape or Filch, at least most of the time. Now, Ron and Hermione were prefects, with their own privileges, and they had been spending more time together as a result.

Harry opened his bag with more force than was necessary and his books spilled out over the floor.

It wasn't as if he thought that Ron and Hermione might get together, or anything, he thought, as he leaned down to pick up the books. Or did he? What if Ron and Hermione's constant bickering and frustration with one another actually somehow translated as flirting? Didn't everyone always say, Prefects and Head Boys and Girls nearly always ended up dating? Those long nights patrolling the corridors, the exclusive Prefect Bathroom… Harry's skin turned cold at the thought, and he began to feel panicked.

But, he thought, in the part of his mind that so often took on Hermione's voice, I have no reason to feel panicked. What's it to me if Ron and Hermione end up together?

Everything! said the part of his mind that spoke in Sirius' voice. Ask her out, Harry, before someone else does!

Why should I ask her out? said the 'Hermione' Harry.

Because you haven't stopped thinking about her for a minute since you got back to Hogwarts! said the 'Sirius' Harry.

Really now, said the Hermione-Harry, that's just because we're best friends. We spend so much time together I'm bound to have her in my thoughts.

And in your dreams, said Sirius-Harry. Yes, very innocent, platonic thoughts and dreams about Hermione's hair, and her soft lips, and cute nose, and the way her sweaters sit on her shoulders and how she nibbles her bottom lip and pulls at fraying threads when she's concentrating, about how her legs look when she's lying by the fire after a long day, reading, and not just her legs, Harry, yes, Hermione's developed quite nicely past this summer, don't lie to me, you've been sneaking a lot of looks at her b—

"Shut the hell up!" Harry said loudly.

Everybody in the Common Room looked over at him, including the Head Girl, whose name Harry had forgotten.

He chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his neck. When everyone looked away quickly, apparently worried that he was losing his marbles, he threw his head into his arms and counted slowly to ten. When he raised his head again, his mind was somewhat clear. He was still thinking about Hermione, of course, but not in that way anymore. No, sir. He was thinking about something very innocent. Nothing more innocent than a birthday, was there? It was in the name, wasn't it; 'birth' day, that meant nothing but innocence.

For Hermione's birthday was coming up on the Hogsmeade weekend, and he had no idea what to get her. He had asked Ron what he was getting her, but Ron had looked alarmed and said he'd put in an order for a book or something. He'd added that there was still loads of time.

But Harry wanted to plan ahead. And he wanted to get something bigger than a book. What was bigger than a book? Two books? A whole library? No, he'd better not; then it would look like he was trying to show Ron up. It had to be something different, something unexpected, but something still quintessentially Hermione. He'd been popping random questions all day, trying to see if there was anything she really wanted or needed, but unfortunately she seemed content with most everything at the moment. Not that it was unfortunate that she was happy, but Harry could have used a hint or something.

After sitting a few minutes with no progress in his birthday-present quest, he sighed and took out his Potions textbook, quill, ink and parchment. There was something about Potions that was just impossible to concentrate on. Snape had perfected the art of choosing the most arduous, hard-to-research topics for essay-writing. Harry knew that he must do this essay, or Snape would give him another zero, but it just wasn't the same without Hermione there to force him to do it, or Ron there for moral support.

"I'm the Boy Who Lived," muttered Harry to himself, "and I can't even do my homework alone." His mind scattered, he thought a little more cheerfully of what would be the second Midnight Quidditch Club meeting that Friday night. They had try-outs tomorrow, and practice on Saturday. Harry would get to fly three days in a row, starting tomorrow, if only he could get through this damn essay.

His bored glance fell upon the Runes book Hermione had left behind. An idea came to mind. Hermione had shown a lot of gratitude to Harry—she still did, really—just for reading Hogwarts: A History. Perhaps, if he familiarised himself a little with one of her favourite subjects, she might be inclined to let him copy her Potions essay…

His mind made up, he grabbed the book and sat back against the armrest, stretching his legs out across the empty sofa. He opened the book—he had a feeling he could read at least a chapter before Hermione came back, and how hard could it be? He'd read hundreds of pages of incredibly boring historical facts only last week, after all.

It was a few sentences into the first chapter, however, that Harry began to get a little confused. Sure, he didn't know much about Ancient Runes, but he had the inkling that they were to do with language, and artefacts, and old buildings, and stuff. This book didn't seem to have anything to do with any of that. The first page read:

"The tower was dark, and quiet, and the young woman on the bed was terribly lonely. Her blonde curls tumbled down her back and her jewellery shone in the silver moonlight…"

He checked the cover of the book—it was indeed Beginner's Guide to the World of Ancient Runes—and, still confused, skipped a few pages ahead.

"His hands were firm on her, but also tender. Biting the nape of her neck, he whispered her name. It was too much for her. With an uncontrolled, passionate moan belying a surfacing animal desire, she slipped her hand down the front of his robes and grabbed hold of his—"

"Oh," he said very softly, as his eyes widened immeasurably and he felt very hot all of a sudden. "Hermione…?"

He found himself reading on for a few minutes out of a kind of lurid entrancement, intrigued by the incredibly inappropriate material which he had never seen the likes of before, and he was just realising that he should probably put the book down before Hermione and Ron returned—and there they were. He threw the book aside, sat up straight and pulled his Potions Essay over his lap, panicking as he realised that he had a situation on his, or rather below, his hands.

"The foul git," Ron was muttering angrily.

Both Ron and Hermione were covered head to foot in white bird feathers, which were stuck to their bodies by some sort of magical glue. Harry raised an eyebrow in question.

"Somebody," Hermione seethed, "sent us a fake summons from McGonagall to go to the Transfiguration classroom, where a bomb went off, and coated us in… this. Only we can't get it off without burning ourselves to death. Professor Flitwick said it would wear off in an hour or two."

"Three guesses who set us up," Ron muttered.

"We don't know if it was Malfoy."

"Who else would it be?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Ron, it's just going to make me more angry." Hermione turned to Harry. "You're very quiet, Harry. Oh, I see, you're starting the essay. I'll read your introduction for you, shall I?"

Before Harry could react, Hermione was taking hold of the parchment in his lap. He tugged back reflexively and Hermione was pulled toward him.

"What's wrong, Harry?" she said, "I thought you'd want me to." She pulled back again, and the back of her hand collided with the part of Harry which he had been trying so hard to conceal.

Hermione's eyes went very wide and she flushed as she apparently realised Harry's exact circumstances. She drew her hand back as if he had stung her, averted her eyes and looked the other way. While Harry covered himself again and wished for any one of the hundreds of absurd deaths that Professor Trelawney had envisaged for him—preferably whatever was quickest—Hermione struck up a conversation with Ron about nothing in particular, in a high-pitched voice, going to such lengths not to look at Harry that her sitting position looked quite uncomfortable.

Harry's problem went away a few minutes later, but he had spent that time thinking of feasible ways to leave the country, and possibly the universe, so he would never have to look Hermione in the eye again.

He excused himself and went up to the dormitories to take a shower, leaving Hermione's erotic book behind—still innocently disguised in the fake cover—and thinking of the unfairness of it all. He had just wanted to read a little about Ancient Runes…

Hermione went to bed that night thinking about Harry's state of arousal. In a curious, concerned way, of course!

She shouldn't have been surprised, after all, Harry was fifteen. Things happened. It had caught her off guard, that was all. You didn't expect to touch, well, that in the Common Room, especially when he had been working on his Potions Essay, which was the least stimulating thing she could think of for Harry to be doing.

Not at all related to her thoughts, Hermione opened up Carnal Delights at Durnside Castle, now freed from its false cover. Strangely, the book opened at a page much earlier than where Hermione had stopped last; a few of the pages were bent in the corner, as if someone had carelessly thrown it aside… she surely hadn't done that herself, but who else would have been reading it…?

Hermione's horrible realisation came a moment later, and she actually let out a cry, clamping her hand over her mouth even as she did. Lavender rolled over in her sleep in the next bed.

She groaned quietly, covering her face with her hands.

Harry Potter knew that she, Hermione Granger, top student and Prefect, prissy and well-educated, spent her down-time reading erotic fiction. Her reputation! Her pride! Her dignity! All gone!

But, a different part of her pointed out, he was obviously enjoying it!

She titled her head and peeked out through her fingers at the book's cover. If she unfocused her eyes, the shirtless man on it bore a slight resemblance to Harry…

Hermione grabbed the book, threw it into her trunk, and threw herself back onto her pillow. Deciding that that was not a strong enough action to resemble her emotions, she flipped over and slammed her face down into the pillow, trying to burrow right through her bed, and maybe to the core of the planet.

Much better, she thought.

The next day, Harry and Hermione had reached an unspoken agreement not to mention what the both of them knew. It was a matter of saving them both the embarrassment. Harry even managed to forget it—mostly—though he observed Hermione's usual reading material with much more attentiveness.

Thursday afternoon saw a stellar turn-out for Gryffindor Quidditch trials. Harry, Fred, George and Katie all returned to the team, to the pleasure of a satisfied Angelina. Ron tried out for Keeper, but was only just outplayed by a sixth year boy called Cormac McLaggen. He was a little disappointed for a while, but, when Harry reminded him of their midnight session the following night, cheered up considerably. The last member of their team was Ginny, as the third Chaser (Alicia Spinnet, though surprised at Ginny's performance, admitted that the younger girl had flown much better, and confessed to being too busy with NEWTS to continue with the team anyway). Angelina remarked that the team was now almost half-Weasley, but what could you do—everyone present had seen that they were the best Gryffindors for the job.

Even better, Angelina came up to Harry, Fred and George to tell them she'd come along to the Pitch tomorrow night.

"This managing lark's more stressful than I'd thought," she admitted. "It'll be nice to blow off some steam just playing a friendly game."

"Our thoughts exactly, Angie," said Fred suavely. "You'll have a blast—Weasley's honour."

Angelina nodded cautiously. "I'm sure I will," she said. "See you then."

The second Midnight Quidditch Club meeting was even more fun than the first. Harry arrived early with Ron and Hermione and stepped into the Invisibility Marquee to find that Fred and George had experimented with a lot of lighting spells: currently the Pitch and stands were bathed in a lurid shade of red, then magenta, then purple, blue, green, yellow, orange and on and on it went. The boombox was playing an upbeat number tonight. Harry scanned his memory for the song name. He knew it was by ABBA—he'd seen the record out on the pristine marble kitchen counter at Privet Drive when he'd once witnessed Aunt Petunia dancing to this very song, when Dudley and Uncle Vernon were out and she'd thought Harry was locked in his room.

Hermione seemed to be having some sort of PTSD flashback. Harry nudged her. "You alright? You're not epileptic, are you?"

"Wha—?" She looked as though she had just been sucked deep out of a memory. "No, this just reminded me of, just a dance I went to in Primary School."

Harry only had a second to picture a ten-year-old Hermione Granger standing under a disco ball in a school hall, carrying a book and wearing knee-high socks, before Fred and George landed neatly in front of them.

"Excellent," said Fred, "you're early. We're down one player; Jason's busy snogging his girlfriend. But we've got a few new people today, wanted to run them by you."

"Who are they?" Harry asked. He had put forth Dean Thomas as his elected member. He had been hesitant to do so, because he suspected that there was something going on between him and Ginny. Ron seemed unaware so far, but Harry feared for Dean if he ever found out. However, there wasn't anyone else he could think of who he'd be comfortable with joining just now, and Dean had played well at try-outs.

"This nice bloke in Slytherin," said George jokingly. "Name of Malfoy."

"Not funny, George," said Ron grumpily; he had been thinking of ways to get back at Malfoy for his prank, running them by Harry and Hermione every couple of hours.

"Very tough crowd," said George. "Fine. We've got fifth year, Susan Bones."

"She's cool," said Ron. "She can stay."

"Very quick to answer, little bro," said Fred. "Someone got a crush?"

Ron flushed red. "None of your business."

"Your business is mine, but have it your way. We've also got Lee's and our friend, Dom. He's a Beater, like us. A bit pig-headed, but competition can't hurt."

"We also have Looney—I mean, Luna Lovegood," said George.

"What?" said Hermione incredulously. "Who invited her?"

"Ginny, she wouldn't stop pestering us, threatened to write Mum again. But Luna's nice enough, Hermione, once you get past the fact she's crazy."

Right on cue, Luna entered the Marquee, looking for all the world like she had wandered in by accident.

"This is quite impressive," she said to Ginny, who came in behind her. "But you seem to have a Nargle infestation, look, by those giant earring hoops."

"Goal posts," Ginny corrected her in a mutter, exchanging an amused look with Harry.

Susan turned up next. Harry gave her a wave, which she returned. They had arrived together at Hogwarts via the Great Lake in First Year, but they never exchanged more than a few pleasant greetings in the corridors after that, though Harry had noticed that she was one of the few girls that Hermione was quite friendly with, especially in Second Year. Hermione had been right, Harry realised; it would be good to build more connections outside Gryffindor House. The twins' friend, Dom, arrived with Angelina and Katie, and Alicia Spinnet. Harry grinned. Now, they had almost all the original Gryffindor team together.

Dean arrived last, a Cleansweep Eleven over his shoulder, looking around with wonder. He cocked his head to the music, and looked at the twins. "ABBA? Really?"

"Really, Dean," said Fred.

They now had exactly fourteen players—perfect for a real match.

The Fleabags tonight were composed of George and Lee as Beaters, Angelina, Dean and Ginny as Chasers, Harry as Seeker, and their Keeper was Hermione (who whispered pleadingly to him to ask George if she could be with him, which had caused Harry no small amount of happiness). Meanwhile, Pigfarts welcomed players Fred and Dom as Beaters, Katie, Luna, and Susan as Chasers, Ron as Keeper and Alicia stepping into the role of Seeker.

After what now seemed like would be the usual warm up of five laps of the Pitch, everyone trying to outrace the other—and Hermione again flying Harry's Firebolt—they practiced a few passes and a few of them took turns either beating Bludgers or chasing the Golden Snitch. Ginny proved to be a surprisingly decent Seeker—she snatched it out of the air before Ron could get his hands on it. Ron, meanwhile, performed an excellent Bludger bash, sending it clean across the pitch and through the centre goalpost.

Luna was even worse at catching and throwing the Quaffle than Hermione had been last week, but only because she was constantly distracted while trying to carry out a one-sided conversation with Ron, who she seemed to have developed a clinical interest in.

Fred and George had planned ahead and brought several healing potions should anyone be injured, while Hermione had quickly mastered the bone-mending and laceration-healing spells.

So it was that they took to the sky above the pitch, seven vs seven, ready for a friendly match, to the soundtrack of 'Super Trooper' by ABBA.

Harry didn't think he'd ever had such fun at Hogwarts.

Susan turned out to be an excellent Chaser—"I played with Mum a lot when I was younger," she said—and scored no less than five goals for Pigfarts in the first half hour.

Dean was a good Chaser, but he had a tendency to go cross-eyed watching Ginny fly, only to react too late when she passed him the Quaffle. Ron watched with narrowed eyes, which meant he let in a goal he could easily have blocked. He did, however, make more impressive saves later on.

Poor Hermione was no match for Katie Bell's unerring speed; five times she squeaked in fright as Katie lobbed the Quaffle through the goal posts, throwing her hands out in front of her with her eyes closed in the hopes that she would save the goal and not be hit in the face. Luna and Susan were much more sympathetic; Susan's goals were quite lightly thrown, and though she got a few past, Hermione managed to save two. Harry could see she was much more at ease hovering in one spot rather than flying about the pitch. On his search for the Snitch, he dropped by a few times—particularly when Katie was trying to score—to kick or punch away the Quaffle as it shot towards her.

They had decided to make the Snitch a fifty point ball rather than one-hundred and fifty, which everyone agreed was much more reasonable. And catching it no longer ended the game—otherwise it would have been over ten minutes in, when Harry snatched it from near the ground. Instead whichever team caught it three times then ended the match, thus keeping its traditional one-hundred-and-fifty points, but making sure the match lasted longer and allowed both Seekers a chance to catch it.

Alicia caught the Snitch not long after Harry, bringing the total score to 130-100 in Fleabags' favour.

Harry was taking his time again. He could have caught it twice more in the next twenty minutes, but everyone was having so much fun he didn't want to end the match prematurely. Once, he assisted Dean and Ginny in performing a Power Play, in which they all rushed headlong to the other players to distract them, while Angelina broke from the pack amidst the confusion to shoot. Another time, he pulled Hermione to one side to help her avoid a Bludger that almost broke her arm.

Ron received a fair few blows from the Bludgers, and had to go off an hour in and allow Hermione to heal his bruises.

To Harry's pride, he performed a perfectly executed Wronski Feint before an admiring Hermione. Unfortunately, Alicia had very good eyesight and was not fooled at all, but everyone else watched as he pulled up just a metre above the ground, zooming back up to take the Quaffle from a distracted Luna. He was, however, blocked by Susan, who stole the Quaffle and sped along to shoot against Hermione, who saved the goal but almost fell off the Firebolt.

Approaching one-thirty in the morning, Harry caught the Snitch, making the score 220-170. A few ruthless goals from Katie later, he caught it for the final time, bringing the final score to a nice 300-230.

"Well done, Harry," people called out to him as he landed back on the Pitch.

"No, you guys were great," he said, speaking to the group at large as they touched down on the grass. "Nice to play friends for once instead of bloody Slytherin."

Everyone heartily agreed. "Thanks for organising this," said Susan fervently. "I tried out for the Hufflepuff team three times and never got in, so it's great to play on the Pitch for once."

"Can't imagine why," said Ron hopefully, "you're a great Chaser!"

"You're not such a bad Keeper, yourself," she said, looking quite pleased.

Hermione finally landed, having learned how to descend properly, though she still almost fell over upon dismounting. She handed Harry back his broom, but stopped, peering at him.

"Harry, your nose is bleeding!" she told him.

He raised his hand to check; sure enough, it came away bloody.

"Sorry, Harry," said Dean. "Think that was when I accidentally flew into you."

Harry suppressed his smirk; Dean had been staring at Ginny again at that time.

"Here, Harry," said Fred, "there's a healing potion left, you have it."

"No," said Harry, looking at Katie, who had a swollen eye which would probably soon turn black. "Katie's hurt, too, give it to her."

"You take priority, dear boy," said Fred jokingly. "No offense, Katie, we still love you. But we've got to have the Wizarding World's best interests in mind. Harry's the Boy Who Lived, after all."

"You could say that about any currently-alive boy in the world," Harry grumbled, a little tired of the title.

"Yes, but 'The Boy Who Didn't Die When Attacked By The Dark Lord' doesn't have the same ring to it."

Harry had to agree, but he still insisted on giving Katie the potion, thinking that Hermione might be impressed with his chivalry. Unfortunately, she didn't make a mention of it. However, her hand lingered on his shoulder as she performed a quick Episkey! on his nose.

They said goodbye to everyone—the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws went their separate ways, with Harry watching over them on the Marauder's Map, which he was realising would make a formidably terrible tool in the hands of a stalker or someone like Filch or Snape. He grinned to himself near the front door as he remembered Fred and George's reaction when they found out that Harry's dad, godfather and Professor Lupin had been the Marauder's to whom they owed so much of their mischief-making and rule-breaking. Since then, they had become even more affectionate of Harry, almost worshipping him as the sole heir to the gods of mischief, and becoming very interested in meeting Sirius and pestering Lupin about his school days when they got the chance.

The Gryffindor players returned to the Common Room in groups of twos and threes near two-thirty in the morning, still excited and energetic and not particularly desirous to go to bed just yet. When Fred and George returned from stowing the Marquee safely in their mysterious secret room, they Accio'd fourteen Butterbeers from their trunks upstairs and cracked them open, passing them around. Harry took one, downing half in one go—Quidditch was a thirsty business and it was a surprisingly warm night.

A few minutes later, he was sitting on the couch with Katie and Angelina, talking lazily about what would be the official Quidditch practise tomorrow afternoon, and how they would probably sleep in, have brunch, and go straight back to the Pitch. He looked around to see where Ron had got to, wanting to convey this very important and thought-out plan, and saw him in the corner at a table, hunched over.

Curious—Ron, doing homework at 3 AM while there was Butterbeer to be drunk and sleep to be slept?—Harry got up and walked over, and stopped, two metres away.

Harry stared in disbelief. Ron was writing on a sheet of parchment—and not just any sheet of parchment. It was the one Professor Lupin had hidden from them last week! What on Earth was Ron doing with it?

"Ron!" he said loudly.

Ron jumped up and hid the parchment behind his back. "Harry!"

"Weasley…" Harry said, scaring himself at how much he sounded like Professor McGonagall, "hand me that parchment."

"What parchment?" said Ron, looking around without moving his arms from his back.

"The one behind your back. The one that Lupin tried to hide from us!"

"Why would I have it?"

"That's what I want to know; why do you have it?"

"I don't know!" said Ron, panicking.

"So you do have it!" said Harry.

"No!" said Ron, looking around as if searching for help.

Harry strode up to him, grabbing at his arm. "Give it here!"

"No, Harry!" Ron yelled, pushing Harry away. "It's nothing."

"Nothing—why, you—"

Harry lunged at him and they grappled with each other, falling to the Common Room floor, both vying to get or keep their hands on the parchment. Harry got a knee in the ribs and Ron got a palm in the face. The Gryffindor members of the Midnight Quidditch Club gathered round.

"Fight!" said Fred.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!" the call went up, even amongst the portraits on the wall who had woken up to join in the merriment. Only Ginny and Hermione didn't join in.

Ginny, unseen by Harry and Ron, stood over them, waiting for the right moment. When the parchment was thrown up by Ron's floundering hand, Ginny snatched it away and retreated away safely.

Harry stopped struggling when he realised Ron no longer had the parchment. He looked up.

"Ginny!" he said. "Ginny, give that here!"

But Ginny took out her wand, muttered a spell, and the parchment vanished.

Harry stared at her. "What the hell is going on here?"

Ginny shrugged, obviously trying to keep a straight face. "You got into a fight with Ron."

"Because he wouldn't show me the paper! How is this—what the—wait a minute—you're in on this, too?" He looked at the others. "Who else? Who else has seen this bloody thing?"

Fred and George startled whistling, looking up at the ceiling.

"Well, I'm for bed," said Katie quickly.

"Me, too," said Lee and Angelina at the same time.

Everybody cleared out. "Guys!" said Harry angrily.

Finally, it was just him, Ron and Hermione. Ron got up from the floor, rubbing his jaw.

"Ron," said Hermione, "are you alright?"

"Harry hit me," he said.

Hermione smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "And so will I, if you don't tell us what that parchment is about."

Ron looked from Harry to Hermione and back to Harry and back to Hermione, and then he did the only thing that he could have done. He ran for his life—up the stairs and into the dormitory. They heard the door slam.

Harry and Hermione looked at each other, both just as confused and annoyed by this turn of events. Harry felt quite betrayed. He couldn't understand how everyone could keep this from him—it must be something very important. Maybe to do with the Order, or maybe—and this seemed more realistic judging by the fact that it was clearly important they not let him see it—something to do with Harry, and maybe Voldemort. Something bad. Something he must know, either way.

"Hermione," he said slowly, an idea coming to him.

"Hm?"

"Do you know where Snape keeps his Veritaserum?"

Chapter Text

Harry and Hermione caught sight of the mysterious parchment a few more times that week. At Quidditch practise Saturday afternoon, Harry had to resist the urge to fly right into the stands in the middle of catching the Quaffle; he had seen two fourth-years he recognised as Ginny's friends bent over it, talking earnestly. He thought he even saw money exchange hands, for whatever reason.

The almost mythical parchment exchanged hands with the most unlikely people over the next few days; Harry saw Anthony Goldstein with it on Sunday, the next day Colin and Dennis Creevey. The day after that, much to his alarm, he saw Pansy Parkinson scanning it with her narrow little eyes.

Hermione told Harry that she had seen Parvati and Lavender giggling over it at lunchtime on Monday. No less than an hour later was it spotted on the desk of her Arithmancy Professor.

The parchment seemed to grow wider and longer each time they saw it, as its users grew more and more numerous.

Hermione was, needless to say, completely infuriated by it all. She attempted a Summoning Spell, which didn't work at all. She also attempted to confiscate it off a frightened third-year, but the parchment mysteriously Vanished before her eyes—she told Harry she suspected an anti-thieving jinx cast by its original creator, similar to the anti-reading one the Marauders had cast on the Map.

"But that would mean, Harry," said Hermione, "that whoever created that parchment specifically sees me as someone who shouldn't read it! How can it be that Ron is allowed to read it when I'm not?!"

Hermione seemed to take that as a personal insult—as far as she was concerned, the right of reading everything under and beyond the sun belonged solely to her, and this was a severe breach in the regular nature of the universe. The space-time continuum may as well have imploded.

It was this indignation at the supreme unfairness of it all that she agreed brashly to cooperate with Harry's plan to sneak into Snape's storeroom and sample a small flask of the potent Veritaserum. "After all," she reasoned, "this is a matter of school security. If it's important information, it should hardly be passed around to so many people—what if Malfoy got his hands on it and gave it to his father?"

They undertook the covert operation under cover of the Invisibility Cloak late on Tuesday evening, when Harry had checked the Map to see that the Potions Master was far away and a few floors up.

Snape had placed a strong anti-Alohomora charm on the door, and it took Hermione a few minutes to dismantle it. They slipped inside and shut the door, taking the Cloak off. Harry looked up at jars and vials of greasy liquid and unidentifiable body parts.

"Up there," Hermione whispered, pointing at the very top shelf, where the small dark bottles stood.

"Give me a hand up," Harry muttered. He set his wand down on a shelf and hoisted himself up.

Hermione held his legs as he stood precariously. He tried to ignore her hands, which were dangerously close to the inside of his thighs, and reached up to pull a bottle from the shelf.

Hermione shifted her hands for a better grip and Harry gasped as she brushed against his backside—the bottle he had been holding fell from the shelf and shattered on the floor.

They both froze, ears perked for sign of movement.

"Anything on the Map?" Harry whispered.

Hermione glanced over—"Filch is coming!" she said in a hushed, panicked voice.

Harry grabbed another bottle quickly and jumped back down, steadying himself on Hermione's shoulder. He grabbed the Cloak and threw it back over themselves.

"Evanesco!" Hermione muttered, and the mess disappeared. They slipped out the door, the Map in hand, and shut it. Hermione cast a quick locking spell and they stepped back against the opposite wall, stock-still, as an ugly, haunted-looking Filch came down the corridor, holding an oil lamp out and peering through the dark.

"Anything, my sweet?" he muttered.

Mrs Norris slinked about, tail upright. She looked directly at Harry and Hermione, and they held their breath, Hermione gripping Harry's arm very tightly.

Filch tried the door, which was of course, locked, then pressed his ear to it. Apparently satisfied that no one was there, he stepped back, and walked away after one last suspicious look around.

When he had gone, and Mrs Norris had retreated as well, Harry became aware that Hermione's grip might soon turn his bones to powder.

"Hermione?" he asked. "Erm, would you mind loosening your grip?"

"Oh! Sorry, Harry." And to Harry's disappointment, she let go completely. He had said loosen, not let go, but of course, he didn't mention it. Why should she keep holding onto him? He could suggest that she did, to help them keep their balance as they walked under the Cloak, but it seemed a very desperate thing to say.

With the precious Veritaserum secured in the pocket of Harry's jeans, they slowly made their way upstairs. Unfortunately, distracted by their success and close call, Harry—for the second time in as many years—forgot to skip the false step in the staircase that had caught him last year with Moody, Snape and Filch standing so close, and the Golden Egg on the floor.

His left leg sank into the floor and he pulled Hermione with him. She was forced to a kneeling position beside him, the Cloak falling off and spreading across the floor.

"Damn," he muttered. "A little help?"

Hermione tugged at his arm three times, each time a little harder, and finally he came loose, falling forward, knocking her off balance so that they fell down onto the steps, Harry on top of Hermione.

"Ow!" said Hermione, her back pressed against the edges of the stone steps.

"Sorry," said Harry painfully. He tried to get up, but his leg was deadened. Their faces were very close together… Hermione's nose twitched and he could feel her breath on his lips; it would take just a slight movement to bring her lips into contact with his…

Footsteps, at the top of the staircase! A cascade of faces of people whom Harry would least like to see him lying on top of Hermione in the middle of the night fell through his mind in a split-second—MalfoySnapeRonGinnyChoFilchMcGonagall—and he and Hermione looked around guiltily to see Professor Lupin standing there, his wand alit. His eyes widened as he saw them.

"Ah," said Lupin. "Harry, Hermione." His expression of surprise turned to one of amusement, and possibly even delight. "Sorry to… interrupt."

"Interrupt what?" Harry said stupidly. Hermione shifted under him and he rolled off awkwardly, now leaning against the wall with his dead leg in front of him.

Hermione scrambled to her feet. "Professor!" she gasped, running her fingers through her dishevelled hair, very red in the face. "Harry was just—just helping me, do my—my rounds. Prefect rounds!"

Lupin raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. It's almost midnight, Hermione. I assure you, there are no students out of bed. Which you might know, seeing as you have my ingenious map with you. I must say, it would be about time that Map was used to enforce some rules rather than assisting in breaking them."

The Marauder's Map had fallen out of Harry's pocket. Lupin descended the stairs smoothly and picked it up, handing it back to Harry, who still sat on the floor, massaging some feeling back into his leg.

Lupin didn't seem angry; quite the contrary, he looked as though Christmas had come early. "As, er, much fun as you two seem to be having, might I suggest you continue this rendezvous in the Gryffindor Common Room? Filch is prowling about, and has been talking of the chains and shackles in the dungeons all week. He's itching to use them on someone, especially since he can't use them on me now I've got Severus' Wolfsbane Potion every month."

"Yes, Professor," said Harry, standing up and hobbling towards Lupin. "But before we do, I wanted to ask you again about that parchment."

Lupin cleared his throat and assumed his best authoritative stance. "It's late, Potter, and you're lucky I don't send you straight to Professor McGonagall, seeing as you're not a Prefect and have no right to be out this late."

"Please, sir," said Harry. "I don't understand. I've been seeing it everywhere; why does everyone know about it, if it's important Order stuff?"

"Harry," said Lupin tiredly, "there will come a time when I will tell you about it, and that time may be coming very soon, very soon indeed… but for now, I must insist you go to bed. I'll see you in class tomorrow. Goodnight." He turned and walked off, leaving Harry and Hermione standing beside one another in a state of confusion.

"Well," said Hermione. "We'll know soon enough." She steeled herself, then said, "Who should we give the Veritaserum?"

Harry looked at her in wonder. Seeing Hermione's rebelliousness come to life this past week or two had been something to behold indeed.

"Ron," he decided. "I doubt we'd be able to sneak it to Lupin, and we'd surely be expelled for spiking a teacher's drink, even if he is my dad's friend…"

"Tomorrow at breakfast, then," said Hermione, and they picked up the Cloak and made their way back to Gryffindor Tower, neither one mentioning what had occurred on that staircase, though it was on Harry's mind all night, and in his dreams, the scene continued uninterrupted, with Hermione raising her head slightly to brush her lips first against his cheek, then sliding them slowly and sensually over to his lips…

Hermione watched Ron carefully as he ate his breakfast, but he was, as usual, extremely focused on the act and his eyes didn't leave the table. She nudged Harry under the table with her foot.

"Look, Snape's snogging Trelawney!" Harry invented wildly.

Ron looked around so fast Hermione heard his neck crick. Just as fast, she reached over the table and poured a portion of Veritaserum into Ron's goblet of pumpkin juice.

"Very funny, Harry," said Ron, turning back as Hermione dropped her hand below the table again. "And thanks for making me picture that while I'm eating, you skinny pervert."

"My pleasure," said Harry, smirking at Hermione.

To her delight, Ron took a deep draught of juice and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "What've we got first?" he asked after a soft belch.

"Transfiguration," said Hermione. Then, in a measured tone, "Did you do your homework?"

"Of course not," said Ron, before widening his eyes in shock. "I mean, no. Hermione, I swear, I didn't do it! Damn!" He looked momentarily confused, and Hermione decided to plough on before he caught onto the fact that he could not lie.

"Ron," she said deliberately, "what exactly is on that parchment that everyone is passing around?"

"Nothing," said Ron blankly. "It's just a bit of parchment. Nothing special about it." The answer seemed scripted and very deliberate.

Hermione stared at Ron, and then Harry, who looked just as shocked as she.

"Ron," said Harry slowly, "what did you write on that parchment last Friday?"

"Nothing," said Ron.

Hermione could not believe it. Was it possible that the Veritaserum was faulty, improperly brewed? But no, Snape—as much as he was an unfair teacher and a bully—was an excellent Potion maker, he couldn't have got it wrong…

"Who do you fancy, Ron?" Harry asked.

"Susan Bones," he said dreamily. "Though, mind you, Luna seems very interested in me. She's quite pretty, Luna," he went on, "once you get past the earrings and the huge eyes. But the baps on Susan! Sweet Merlin…"

Harry grimaced and Hermione huffed indignantly. The Veritaserum was clearly working; why hadn't Ron spilled the secret of the evasive parchment? Who was powerful enough to enchant it with spells that Vanished it when she and Harry tried to get hold of it, and also somehow prevented its users from telling people of its secrets, even while under the influence of the most powerful truth serum known to wizardkind?

Ron was looking embarrassed at how much he had unintentionally revealed, and stuck his face into his meal once more.

Hermione looked helplessly at Harry. Somehow, their plan had failed.

Ron's truthfulness continued all through Transfiguration. To a bemused and irate McGonagall, he admitted that he had not done his homework because he had been sketching doodles of the Boggart Snape in his notebook and daydreaming about snogging Susan Bones. The hilarity didn't last long, however, as Ron started to say something about the upcoming Midnight Quidditch session.

Hermione had to step on Ron's foot very harshly, causing him to shout "Ow, Hermione, that hurt!"

Professor McGonagall turned her irritated eyes on Hermione, and took ten points from Gryffindor for the both of them and assigned Ron detention. This injured Hermione's pride—she rarely ever lost points for her House. She felt little sympathy for Ron, she was not too sad to admit.

Thankfully, Ron kept quiet from then on, and Hermione and Harry made a point not to ask him any questions at all. The serum wore off in time for their next class, and Ron, though looking at them suspiciously, did not question them either, most likely due to his embarrassment at the entire class having heard him confess to daydreaming about Susan. His next few hours were spent undertaking damage control, going round to everyone from class in turn and saying things like, "I was joking! You know how McGonagall loves a laugh… I wasn't actually, you know… that'd be stupid!" But the inherent weakness of his argument that the stern, taciturn McGonagall 'loves a laugh' didn't give anyone reason to believe him.

At recess, Hermione's thoughts turned to last night as she nibbled on a light snack that her parents had sent her with their last letter. She had felt shivers all down her body as Harry had lain on top of her, unable to move. She had seen his eyes dart to her lips, felt his breath quicken—could it be that he had wanted to lean toward her just as much as she had? What would have happened had Lupin not chosen that unfortunate moment to appear? Granted, it wouldn't have been the most romantic of first kisses, lying on the hard stairs with Filch on the prowl nearby, but Hermione was getting a little impatient. She longed for some confirmation from Harry, even if it was that he didn't want her to be, well, that, to him.

A very insane and awful thought occurred to her; she still had most of a bottle of Veritaserum… what if she slipped some to Harry and subtly asked him if he liked her? She entertained the thought for all of three seconds before banishing it from her mind with no small amount of shame. She couldn't do that to Harry, it would be indecent, immoral and an abuse of their friendship. Ron was a different matter—he was purposefully hiding something from both of them, which itself was an abuse of the bond between the three close friends… She was also worried that Harry would say too much under influence of the potion; what if he confessed that he found her repulsive and would rather snog McGonagall with the whole school watching than ever be with Hermione romantically? She would simply combust on the spot. No, better to suffer in silence and second-guess her every move and overthink everything that Harry said and did while within fifty yards of her.

Hermione's mind had been so busy with schoolwork and OWL preparation, her thoughts full of Quidditch and of Harry and the blasted parchment, that she had almost forgotten she was turning sixteen that Sunday. 'Sweet Sixteen', her parents called it. She didn't have any plans to celebrate; she and Ron were going with Harry to meet Sirius and Lupin in Hogsmeade, which would be celebration enough. She would also allow herself the day off from studying, which was acceptable given she had done all her assignments for the next week already.

That evening, Hermione returned to the kitchens with Harry to see the house-elves; Ron had detention with McGonagall and so was busy tidying the shelves in the Transfiguration classroom. Now, Hermione felt a little guilty for being the cause of his misfortune. Only a little, though.

Hermione was going to give cooking another try. Helpfully, Harry offered to participate, so it was with excited anticipation that she watched him whisk a dozen eggs to a fine foam in a large bowl. He was very good with his hands; mesmerised, she watched his arm work in circular motions, watched his tongue protrude from his lips as he focussed on not spilling any yolk out of the sides.

"Hermione?" he said, having noticed her staring at his arms.

"Arms—erms—eggs!" she stuttered. "Whisking the eggs!" She hurried to resume her activity, spilling a good amount of yolk onto the tabletop.

"When you're done," he said, seemingly unperturbed by her strange behaviour, "pour them into the middle of the mix, into that hole we cleared."

"Yes, sir!" she said, hoping to get a chuckle out of him. She succeeded and had to restrain herself from jumping in celebration. "How come you're so good a cook?" she added, somewhat sulkily. Yet another thing Harry was better than her at, adding to a list that was growing unacceptably long...

"The Dursleys," said Harry, and his face darkened. "I grew up cooking almost all their meals. Lots of helpful—and unhelpful—criticism there, so I learned fast."

Hermione felt like giving him a hug. It was so unfair, she thought, that someone so loving and so caring and so fundamentally kind should have suffered so much growing up, at the hands of his only remaining blood relatives…

"You won't be going back there, Harry," she said forwardly.

"I really hope not," said Harry fervently.

"We'll see Sirius on Sunday, he'll ask you to go live with him next summer, you'll see."

"Yeah," said Harry. "We'll see. Speaking of, I have to… meet someone in Hogsmeade before that, on Sunday. So, you'll have to go with Ron to the pub. I'll meet you there."

"Oh… okay." Hermione made a mess of the dish as she poured the eggs in. Harry, meeting someone else, on a Hogsmeade trip? On her birthday? Who? It had to be Cho Chang, of course… she had seen them talking that day in the Great Hall… he must still like her… of course he did, and with Cedric gone (she felt guilty for prioritising her love life over the dearly departed Hufflepuff boy), Harry had a clear field to date Cho, who he had liked for ages. Her heart plummeted somewhere below her abdomen as she pushed around the sludge that was supposed to soon be a flaky eggplant pie. She wasn't surprised, no, but it was with an inevitable feeling of deep hurt that she pushed the dish over to him for his perusal.

"Not bad," said Harry, though she had the feeling he wasn't being entirely truthful. "Little watery, but should come out fine after the oven. We'll use medium heat, it'll take about half an hour, but that way the top won't get too crispy too fast. The rest should harden up."

At the words 'harden up' Hermione's filthy mind naturally jumped to the Carnal Delights incident last week, and she flushed with embarrassment again. Luckily, it was warm in the kitchen, and both she and Harry were already sweating with the exertion.

She nodded at his advice, and they placed the dishes into the oven and set the timer.

"Great," said Harry, straightening up. "Well done, Hermione."

"Thanks, Harry," she said. "And thanks for helping me… It's good to learn properly, now I know I'm an awful cook."

"Hey," he said, grinning, "my pleasure. How about we finish up that homework while we wait?"

Harry was growing more and more attractive with every passing day; he was teaching her how to cook, reading the books she liked, and now he wanted to do homework in the kitchens before dinner? Yes, she thought fondly as she got out her notes and pretended to write—she had, of course, already finished the homework—yes, I could really get used to this Harry…

Word had somehow got out about the Midnight Quidditch Club. Seamus came to Harry Thursday night to ask if he could come along Friday. Taken aback, Harry said yes before thinking to ask Fred and George first. But when he did find the twins, he found they had let in a couple more students from the upper years. The very same two of Ginny's friends who had been reading the vexing parchment last Saturday came up to Harry excitedly, saying that they would see him tomorrow night on the Quidditch Pitch. Lavender Brown was also to come along, although she professed that she would merely like to watch.

"We'll have to have bigger teams," Fred mused thoughtfully. "That, or take turns. Two matches, maybe start earlier… We've managed to strengthen the charms so they last longer, too, so shouldn't be a problem with the Marquee…"

When Ernie MacMillan and Hannah Abbot approached Harry, Ron and Hermione Friday morning, saying that Susan had told them to talk to Harry about that night, Hermione told Harry that they should keep a list of everyone who was involved, make them sign a declaration of secrecy.

Though Harry thought this rather an alarming idea, making the whole thing sound a lot more serious than it really was, he happened to agree. Everyone ought to be reminded that what they were doing was strongly against school rules. He surprised himself a little at this very Hermione-like thought.

When they arrived at the Pitch at eleven that night, Hermione had a thin leather-bound book with her; she, Harry and Ron had already signed their names on the front page. Fred and George signed with a flourish without any reservations, and Hermione waited by the Marquee entrance, greeting everyone with the book and asking them to sign.

Ernie was hesitant—"Ah," he said, "I don't know, Hermione, if this book was found, and well, you've put the name right there—Midnight Quidditch Club—I mean, we are prefects, after all…"

"Ernie," she said sternly, "you don't seriously think I'm going to leave this lying around for McGonagall to see, do you?"

"Well…" Ernie signed it carefully and passed the special-looking quill to Hannah Abbott.

"It's enchanted," Hermione whispered to Harry later, when all twenty-four members had arrived and signed their names. "If anyone says anything they're not supposed to, well, let's just say they'll be in the Hospital Wing and not wanting any visitors for a few days."

Harry was surprised, and somewhat impressed, with Hermione's newfound deviousness, and uttered a distracted reply.

"Welcome, Midnight Quidditch fiends," said Fred loudly over the boombox, now playing a soft rock ballad about someone called Tony Danza.

"To all you new people," said George, "I don't know how half of you found out about this, but we're glad you're here."

Harry stepped in, and the twins looked to him as he spoke, "Remember, everyone," he said, feeling very self-conscious with all eyes on him, "to state the obvious, this is a secret club." He felt that they should at least have some warning, lest some carefree player let slip something they shouldn't and find themselves victim of Hermione's curse. "If any teachers find out, we'll be in trouble. So, try not to talk about this outside of the Pitch, and tell the twins or me, Ron or Hermione first if there's anyone you want to add, and we'll do our best to include them. But, uh, have fun, yeah?"

"Well said, Harry," said Fred jovially. "Alright, those of you with your own brooms, let's fly! Those without, pick an old school broom and try not to die!"

It was very chaotic, but very exciting, with more than twenty people in the air, passing Quaffles and whacking Bludgers every which way. In the first ten minutes, three people had to go to Hermione to get bruises or bleeding noses fixed. Luna Lovegood and Lavender Brown seemed content to sit by and watch Ron keep goals.

With eleven players to a side, Fleabags and Pigfarts had never been less cohesive in their playing, but it improved as the night went on. With no feasible way to have more than two Beaters without the night turning into a massacre, there were eight Chasers a team, which didn't turn out as badly as it might have; there was a lot more room for clever group tactics and tricks, which the two teams organised in quick huddles between goals.

At midnight, Ron came up with a clever way to cull the herd. There was to be an elimination system; when a Keeper let in five goals, he or she was to sit on the side-lines and let someone else replace them. If a Chaser dropped the Quaffle three times, they were likewise to sit out until the game ended. If a Beater was tagged by a Chaser with a tap on the shoulder, they were eliminated. Likewise, if a Seeker was tagged by a Beater, they were gone, too. It was a stroke of genius on Ron's part, adding a complexity to the game Harry had never seen before, but it didn't mess things up too badly; everyone now had a secondary goal and had to be more careful in their playing.

It did mean that the eliminated (mostly the less skilled, newer players) were a bit grumpy, so when the match finished at twelve-thirty (Ginny, playing Seeker—having replaced Harry, who was tagged by Fred after catching the Snitch twice—caught the Snitch for the third and final time, ending the first match), those who had been eliminated returned to the Pitch—to their delight and excitement—and those who had finished the first match took a break and ate snacks that Ron and various others had brought, some drinking Butterbeer pilfered from the kitchen or smuggled in from Hogsmeade.

Harry and Hermione—who had, of course, dropped the Quaffle three times before the first half of the first match—returned to the Pitch, refreshed and ready to go.

It was just after Harry made the second Snitch catch of the second game that somehow, things went very wrong. He partially blamed the school broom, but the truth was, he was busy watching Hermione to make sure she was okay zooming around on the Firebolt (though she had improved in leaps and bounds, so really he was just watching the way her hair streamed out behind her as she flew; it was rather majestic).

He was caught off-guard by a well-placed Bludger from Ernie—who used his Beater's bat with a forceful, trigger-happy hand—and performed a Sloth-Grip roll in a last-ditch attempt to evade it. Unfortunately, his hands were sore from gripping the rough wood of the old school broom, and he yelled in panic as he felt himself lose his grip and fall from the underside of the broom.

He was aware for a second of everyone shouting his name, and falling rapidly to the grass twenty metres below. He tumbled head over heels, bracing for the bone-shattering impact—

—when barely two metres from the ground, he collided with someone on their broom, breaking his fall but derailing their flight, sending them both crashing to the ground, rolling to a stop and moaning in pain.

"Harry!" said someone above him.

"Did you see—"

"Oh, Merlin—"

"Are they okay?"

"Harry, Hermione, are you alright?"

Harry lifted his head from where he lay and saw with absolute shock that it had been Hermione who had broken his fall—she lay beside him on her back, the Firebolt rolling along the grass next to her. She arched her back, seeming to be in great pain, reaching across her body with her right arm.

Harry clambered to his knees and leaned over her, touching her shoulder tentatively. "Hermione! Are you okay?" He, himself, was miraculously unscathed.

"Fine, Harry—ow! Fine!" But she didn't seem fine at all.

Ernie touched down next to them, looking stricken. "Harry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Yeah, right!" said Ron's angry voice. "You hit that Bludger at him like he was about to win the World Cup, and you were two hundred points down! I ought to—"

"Move!" said George urgently, landing clumsily and pushing past Ron and Ernie to kneel on Hermione's other side.

"Did you see how fast she moved?" Lavender was whispering behind them. "She was a blur—I've never seen someone fly that fast!"

"I heard something crack," said Jason Phelangie quietly. "Anyone know the bone-mending spell?"

"Hermione," said Fred, kneeling with George and Harry, "where does it hurt?"

"Shoulder," Hermione gasped. "Arm."

George ran to the stands for a potion.

Harry removed his hand, which had been on the very shoulder of which Hermione spoke of. "Don't try to move," he urged her. "Just lay still. You're going to be fine."

George pushed his way through the group with a flask. "Drink this, Hermione—no, don't sit up, just let me…" He poured a mouthful of the potion into her open mouth. She swallowed with difficulty, and after a second she relaxed.

"No more pain?" asked Ron, who was kneeling anxiously as well.

"No," said Hermione, her voice strangely misty, "I'm good. Great, actually." She looked at Harry. "Harry, har-har—you broke my shoulder."

Harry, in his stricken state, felt even more guilty. "Hermione, I'm sorry—"

"I've always wanted to have a Quidditch injury," Hermione went on. "Can't let you and the boys have all the fun… bit of a change, me lying here with you looking down at me… you all look so funny and upset, ha-ha."

Harry exchanged a concerned glance with Ron.

Fred looked a bit guilty. "Sorry," he said awkwardly, "I might have got the strength of this potion wrong, it isn't supposed to make her delirious."

Harry had learned a low-level bone-mending spell earlier that week, but he wasn't sure he could pull it off, and didn't think it would work on a shoulder; it was more suited to noses and fingers. Luckily, Susan was there to help.

"My aunt taught me the advanced spell," she said, pulling her wand out. "Thought she was being overprotective, but I see now it comes in handy… Ossium Emendo!"

(Harry vaguely registered that the spell differed from Gilderoy Lockhart's failed incantation that had unfortunately removed his bones in Second Year.)

Hermione sighed happily as a warm glow surrounded her left shoulder. They heard the unnerving sound of bones shifting into place, and Susan lowered her wand.

"Better?" Harry asked anxiously.

Hermione met his eyes and reached up with her mended arm to touch his cheek. "Better," she said drunkenly. "Loads better. Harry, your glasses broken again. Honestly, the amount of times I've had to fix them for you… someone give me my ward… I mean, my wand…"

Harry grinned in relief and pulled out his own wand, pointing it at his face. "I can do it myself, now. Occulus Reparo!"

To his shock and dismay, Hermione's eyes filled with tears. "Harry," she choked, full of emotion, "I'm so proud of you."

Ron let out a shaky laugh and stood up. Fred leaned back on his haunches and exhaled heavily. George wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand and set the flask aside. They remained there on the ground for a long moment, sharing their relief.

With Hermione's shoulder—and the tension of the last few minutes—mended, the group of fliers gradually broke up, people coming over to make sure Hermione was okay (Ernie MacMillan looking very guilty) then heading over to replace the brooms and balls; it was clear that the night was now over. With everyone satisfied that Hermione was okay, though, the mood went from that of a solemn funeral to that of a party that has ended a little abruptly. Harry heard Seamus and Dean anxiously asking if they were still on for next week, and George's affirmative reply. Fred, meanwhile, was berating Ernie for his ruthless Beating.

"Thank you, Susan," Harry said quietly.

"Not a problem, Harry," said Susan kindly, straightening up. "Look after her, huh?"

Harry nodded mutely, his eyes still on Hermione. He was vaguely aware of Susan lingering a moment by Ron... of course, she must have heard about his declaration in Transfiguration by now... but then she was gone.

Slowly, everyone left them alone, except Ron.

"Shall we try and get her back to the tower, Harry?" asked Ron.

Hermione was still delirious from Fred and George's overly-strong pain-numbing potion. "Ronalddd," she slurred, "'try and get her'…? Who do you think I am? I am Hermione Jean Granger. I need no man to help me stand." And despite Harry's protests, she got to her feet, stumbling slightly. He kept his arm out, ready to grab her should she fall. But after a moment, she seemed steadier.

Ron picked up Harry's Firebolt, and together, they left the Marquee, Harry uttering a quiet thanks to Fred and George for their help on the way out.

It was difficult trying to get Hermione through the castle quietly; she seemed to find everything quite amusing, and while under the Cloak, expressed a strong desire to go and find Filch and lend him her wand so she could watch him attempt to cast spells. Harry kept a firm grip on her arm, despite her protests. Eventually she relaxed, seemingly exhausted, and allowed him and Ron to lead her up to Gryffindor Tower.

They were faced with a dilemma, then. All the girls had gone up to bed, and Harry and Ron could not go up the stairs; Harry explained to Ron what had happened when he had tried it, barely registering Ron's surprise and curiosity over the exact circumstances. Harry privately thought Hermione incapable of getting up the stairs on her own in her addled state; the fifth year dorm was quite a way up. Finally, they decided to lay Hermione to rest on the longest sofa, propping her up with cushions and covering her with a soft throw-blanket.

"I'll stay with her to be sure," Harry told Ron, "you get some rest."

Ron hesitated, but nodded. "See you in the morning. Shout if you need me, yeah?"

"Sure. Thanks, mate."

With Ron gone, Harry pulled an armchair over and sat by Hermione. She seemed to be half-asleep, but she turned her lidded eyes over to him when he quietly said her name in a tentative question.

"Harry," she murmured drowsily.

"Hermione," he said softly. "You saved my life."

"Nonsense," she whispered.

"No, really," he said. "I was careless and you saved my butt. As usual."

"When you put it that way…"

Harry chuckled. "You really got the hang of flying fast, huh?"

Hermione looked at him quite soberly for a second. "When it's your life at stake, Harry, I would get the hang of just about anything if it meant I could save you."

Harry's next words caught in his throat. "Hermione, I—"

But Hermione's eyes had closed and her head lolled onto the cushions. Within seconds, she was breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling steadily under the blanket.

Harry looked at her for a long while. Finally, he brushed a few locks of her bushy hair off her face gently.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he murmured, and on an impulse, he leaned down and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

He saw a light smile appear on her lips as he sat back in the armchair.

Harry made himself as comfortable as possible, and closed his eyes. What a night… Some minutes later, he, too was fast asleep. He dreamt that he and Hermione were holding hands… Had he awoken at any point in the early hours of the morning, he'd have discovered that this scenario was not, in its entirety, a dream.

Chapter Text

Hermione's shoulder throbbed dully, forcing her into consciousness.

She lay still on her side for a moment, hoping that she might fall back to sleep. Sadly, it was not to be.

She cracked her eyes open and was presented with a view of Harry's knees. It was then that she noticed that the tips of her fingers and Harry's were lightly touching in between the sofa and the armchair. There was something about it that just looked... right.

Hermione opened her eyes fully, taking in the sight. She didn't move, but looked at their not-quite conjoined hands as she mentally reviewed the events of a few hours ago. The window outside presented a pale, pre-dawn light.

She remembered seeing Harry fall from his broom, but she couldn't quite remember what she had done then. She must have flown to him, but it had been purely instinctive. Now she thought about it, she'd have been much better served if she'd pulled out her wand and cast a spell to cushion his fall. But she hadn't been in much of a state of mind to perform a reasonable action such as that. No, in pure Gryffindor fashion, she had instead urged the Firebolt forward to try and catch him from his forty-foot plummet.

Her memories between the collision that resulted and George feeding her a pain-numbing potion were hopelessly blocked by the sheer pain, but she remembered feeling very addled and silly afterward… the potion had been too strong, and she hadn't been at all in control of what she said or did. Wracking her brains, she tried to remember if she'd said anything too embarrassing.

Coming up empty, she returned her attention to Harry. His glasses hung lopsided from only one ear and nearing the tip of his nose. He was snoring lightly.

As she watched him, he muttered something in his sleep.

It was so soft that she had to hold her breath to hear it—he said her name.

Her name, in his sleep. Hermione kept her ears pricked, urging the dormant Harry to elaborate, but he remained woefully silent. He shifted in his sleep, and his hand fell to his side, falling away from the light contact with Hermione's fingers.

Trying not to feel too disappointed, Hermione struggled to sit up. Her shoulder still ached, so she settled for getting her head to lean against the armrest of the sofa, so she was only a little of the way along her journey to a vertical state.

Saturday morning was fast approaching. Hermione felt severely unrested, but comforted herself with the realisation that she had the day off from studying, and could lie about all day. Right now, however, she had to deal with her throbbing shoulder.

Someone had mended her bones, but the pain-numbing potion had worn off and the muscle trauma that came with a broken bone was affecting her badly. The sensible thing to do would be to go to Madam Pomfrey. However, Hermione seemed to be full of insensible ideas and actions, these days. She took out her wand, pointed it awkwardly at her left shoulder, and muttered, "Pulsur Subsisto!"

To her pleasure, the throbbing ceased, though she still felt very tired. She looked longingly back at the cushions she had been lying on. What could it hurt? she thought.

She lay herself back along the sofa, positioning herself so she had a good view of Harry's sleeping face. As the first rays of Saturday's sunlight came into the room, her eyes fluttered shut and she fell back into an easy sleep.

When Hermione woke up again, it was not Harry in the chair in front of her, but Ron, much to her disappointment; in her half-asleep state she had been expecting to see Harry. So when she saw Ron, she said, very eloquently, "Oh."

"Hermione!" he said, swallowing the rest of his Chocolate Frog. "You're awake!"

"Unfortunately," said Hermione.

"You're not feeling better, then?"

Hermione sat up slowly. She wasn't too badly off; her shoulder wasn't throbbing, but was now feeling a bit like a dead weight. "Better, yes," said Hermione. "I should be fine by tomorrow. Think I'll stay in here all day. What time is it?"

"Just gone two in the afternoon," said Ron. "Harry's gone to House practise, but I said I'd stay with you."

"You didn't have to do that, Ron," said Hermione, quite touched, yet also alarmed she had slept well past midday.

Ron shrugged. "You gave us a good scare, Hermione. Harry wanted somebody to stay with you til you woke, and I figured, he spent all night and morning with you, why shouldn't I do my part? Besides, I needed to be here to tell people off for staring at you; everyone's wondering what happened to you."

"Well, thanks very much, Ron," she said. "Shall we see if we can see the practice out the window?" She got to her feet and Ron followed. As she walked over, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window pane and grimaced. Perhaps it was just as well Harry wasn't here.

From what they could see, Angelina was arguing with the new Keeper, whose name Hermione had forgotten. Everyone was hovering around awkwardly, and Harry floated high above them. Hermione waved, but he didn't see her. She winced; she had unthinkingly waved with her wounded arm.

"Listen," said Ron, "you should probably go to the Hospital Wing, just in case. Susan did a great job healing your shoulder, but—"

"So that's who it was!" said Hermione. "I must thank her…"

"But," Ron resumed, "Fred and George said there could be long-term side-effects if you don't get it treated properly."

"I'm fine, I cast a Soothing Charm on it when I woke briefly before dawn."

Ron hesitated. "Well, if it gives you anymore trouble, don't keep it to yourself, yeah?"

"I won't," Hermione promised. "Have you had lunch?"

"Of course," said Ron. "But I asked Dobby to save you some, hang on. Dobby!"

Crack! The house-elf appeared. "Hello, Wheezy sir! Hello, Miss Hermy!"

"Hello, Dobby," said Hermione, letting the slandering of her name pass, because she was very hungry. "I'm very sorry to bother you, but I'm not quite up to a trip downstairs, and I was wondering if you would be able to bring me some food?"

"Yes, miss!" said Dobby. "Right away!" And with another crack he was gone.

Ron was shaking his head, grinning. "Look at you, Hermione. Using a house-elf for your selfish needs. What would the founder of SPEW say?"

"Shut up," Hermione snapped, returning to sit on the sofa.

Dobby reappeared, bearing a giant silver platter of food.

"Thank you, Dobby," she said.

"Anything, miss!" said Dobby. "Anything for Harry Potter's Hermy!"

Hermione looked at him. "Dobby," she said carefully.

"Yes, miss?"

"Dobby," she said, making sure to keep her tone kind. "Remember what Harry asked you last week in the kitchens, about that piece of parchment?"

Dobby picked at his T-shirt, which looked like an old one of Ron's that had shrunk. "Miss…"

"Would you tell me what's on it?"

"Miss, Dobby cannot, Dobby has sworn… it concerns Harry Potter and—" Dobby grabbed a spoon off the platter and started whacking himself in the forehead.

Ron grabbed the house-elf's arm and wrestled the spoon from him. "Take it easy, Dobby!"

Breathing heavily, Dobby said, "Thank you, Wheezy, sir. Must be going now! Enjoy the food, miss!" And he was gone.

Hermione shoved half a sandwich in her mouth grumpily. "He's been ordered not to speak about it," she thought aloud. "By who? The only master he has now is Dumbledore."

Ron was looking uncomfortable, and Hermione decided to exploit his guilt.

"Ron," she said, "just a question for you."

"Yeah?" he said apprehensively.

"Say Harry and I had both died last night," she began morbidly, "and you hadn't told us about that parchment you and half the school seems to be hiding, how would you feel?"

Ron looked around as if for an escape route. "Sad, of course," he said.

"Regretful? Maybe you'd feel like you'd betrayed me and hadn't been able to make it up before I died?"

"No," said Ron. "No, don't think so."

"You're impossible!" said Hermione, setting her cup down heavily so it splashed juice out onto the table.

Just then, Harry entered the Common Room, Firebolt over his shoulder.

"You're back early!" said Ron, glad of an excuse to change the topic.

Harry looked very grumpy. "We had to call off practice. The new Keeper, McLaggen, picked a fight with Fred and George, after Angelina criticised his form."

"McLaggen still alive?" Ron asked curiously.

"Unfortunately," said Harry. "I had to help the others stop Fred and George, but honestly, I wanted to jump him, too."

"He did seem a bit overconfident at try-outs," said Ron.

"Yeah," said Harry. "I told Angelina we should kick him out, but she says to give him one more shot. But if he screws up, I told her I want you on the team."

"Me?" asked Ron incredulously.

"You played next best at try-outs," said Harry.

"Yeah, Ron," said Hermione, "and now you've been practising on Fridays with us you're improving loads."

"For sure," Harry agreed. "You'd be well on your way to being as good as Wood was, if you joined the House team, too."

"Well, thanks, Harry," said Ron, turning pink.

"Hermione, how're you feeling?" asked Harry, turning to her.

"Fine," said Hermione, having quite forgotten about trying to get Ron to tell her about the parchment. "Just fine." She realised then that she hadn't freshened up: hadn't washed her face or brushed her teeth or her hair; she must still look like death incarnate.

"Great," said Harry. "Listen, I tried talking to you last night, but you were—"

"Drugged up," Hermione finished.

"For lack of a better term," muttered Harry. "Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks—again. You really saved my butt. Everyone said you flew to get me faster than anyone they'd ever seen. I just really... I owe you. A lot."

"I remember what you said, Harry," said Hermione. "And I meant what I said."

Harry simply grinned and for a long moment Hermione smiled back shyly.

"Well, I'll be back soon," he said, standing up.

"Where're you going?"

Harry hesitated. "I've got to send a letter."

"To whom?" Hermione asked suspiciously; Harry looked nervous.

"My parents," said Harry quickly.

Ron and Hermione stared at him. He seemed to realise a moment later exactly what he had said.

"Oh, uh, just a joke," said Harry, laughing at himself. "Gotta go!" And he threw himself out the portrait hole.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Ron, who shrugged. She sighed heavily. Harry might have been disgusted with how she looked after not making herself presentable at all; that was reason enough for him to leave the room so quickly. But there was something else going on...

She asked, "Ron, you don't know what he's up to, do you?"

Ron started. "No!" he very obviously lied. "No, no idea." He changed the subject with alarming lack of grace. "You fly well, Hermione. Maybe you should try out for the team next year, too! The three of us on a team, can you imagine?"

Hermione muttered a response, her thoughts with Harry. First, a secret was kept from the two of them, and now she felt like he was keeping something from her. Oh, well. At least she had her birthday to look forward to tomorrow…

Well, so much for a good birthday. Harry had left for Hogsmeade before she had woken up, presumably to fit as much time in with Cho Chang as he could before he unfortunately had to see Hermione's ugly face.

Instead, she was stuck with Ron, who made no mention or occasion of the day except a mumbled "Happy Birthday" at breakfast. Not exactly what you expected from your close friend of five years.

At least it was a nice day; the skies were clear and it was still relatively warm, so Hermione left her jacket behind. She was wearing a simple long-sleeved striped shirt and jeans. She had barely bothered trying to get her hair into shape. If nobody was going to make an occasion out of her birthday, she wasn't going to either.

Hermione was only half-paying attention to Ron as they walked to Hogsmeade together directly after an early lunch; her thoughts were with Harry, somewhere in the village, on his date with Cho Chang… She could only imagine what they could be doing. They were probably at Madam Puddifoot's, the classic date-spot for Hogwarts students, probably holding hands over the table, leaning in, their lips touching, then snogging madly, their hands all over each other.

Hermione kicked the ground, sending a loose stone flying across the street to hit a carriage with a shockingly loud metal clang.

Ron looked at her with some surprise. "You alright, Hermione?"

"Fine, Ron," she said grumpily. "Let's go to the pub, already."

Ron raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.

Upon arriving at the Three Broomsticks, Hermione walked in and ordered two Butterbeers; seething with jealousy and bitter disappointment was a thirsty business.

"Some ginger in mine," she told Madam Rosmerta.

Next to Hermione, Ron was running his hands through his hair as he leaned on the bar, making eyes at Rosmerta. Hermione turned away from the distasteful sight. To her surprise, Professor McGonagall was sitting in a corner, her eyes on a folder of documents. She looked up, saw Hermione and gave her a curt nod—was that a smile?

Hermione waved back awkwardly. She scanned the rest of the room, not having done so upon entering. She nudged Ron and nodded her head to a table in the corner; Sirius and Lupin sat with their heads together, half-empty Butterbeer glasses on the table at their elbows.

Hermione and Ron collected their drinks with 'Thank-you's to Madam Rosmerta—Ron's very ardent—and headed over.

"Ron! Hermione!" said Lupin. "Hello, sit down, sit down."

Sirius beamed at them. He had cut his hair shorter and combed it back, and in the month or so since his trial he had evidently started eating more; his face looked more full and healthy. "Good to see you two! That is, not in a cave or in the fireplace."

Hermione's grumpy mood vanished quite entirely. "It's great to see you, Sirius," she said earnestly. "How's freedom treating you?"

"Excellent, thank you," said Sirius. "To walk through the street, not a care in the world… I want to say it was all worth it for the relief of it all, but I don't quite think I could. It's close, though… People don't even recognise me, because I don't look like an axe murderer anymore."

"That's contestable," Lupin muttered.

Sirius ignored him. He seemed insatiably happy, and Hermione couldn't help smiling as he spoke. "I'm beginning to look quite handsome again, wouldn't you agree? I thought I might have turned some admiring female gazes on the way, just like in school…"

"You dated a lot in school, then, Sirius?" asked Ron, amused.

"For lack of a better word," said Sirius reminiscently. "Those summer days by the lake, with James playing with a Snitch he had caught at a game… He was the star of course, the athlete, but I was the hotter friend, so I was almost as sought after. Oh, look, Moony! Minnie's over there! What a sight for sore eyes, I missed the beauty…"

And before any of them could stop him, he called, "Minerva! Minnie!" He waved enthusiastically. "Over here! Come join us!"

McGonagall looked up from her documents and made a show of sighing heavily. Gathering up her things, she glided over with a dignity that only she was capable of.

"Mr Black," she said. "I see you still insist on calling me that derogatory nickname."

Sirius grinned even wider. "You know you love it. Come on, sit down! Have a drink with two washed-up old students of yours."

McGonagall pulled a chair over and sat. "I must say, Mr Black, you certainly seem to be enjoying yourself."

"And how!" said Sirius. "To be sitting here, drinking good Butterbeer, seeing you, it's like I'm back in Third Year!"

"I'm inclined to agree," said McGonagall. "What nefarious schemes are you two getting up to now? I'm sure your pranks and shenanigans must be updated now, to match your mature age. Then again, perhaps not."

Lupin cleared his throat. "We were just discussing our school days, Minerva. The joys of your classroom, to be exact."

Sirius smirked. "Oh, yes, Moony. Joyous indeed. Remember when we set all those mice free? The look on old Kingsley's face when one burrowed straight into his trousers! We must get together with him and apologise for everything… him being our roommate for seven years must have taken its toll… better check St. Mungo's Insanity Ward…"

Hermione watched Sirius, Lupin and McGonagall reminisce with amusement, sipping from her Butterbeer. They had had an awful lot of fun in their school years. Fun that Hermione sadly didn't think she could match. She spent far too much time studying or worrying to live with such abandon. Though, there was the Midnight Quidditch Club, now—which they had started calling the MQC; it was quicker and less identifiable if they were overheard—which Sirius himself had been overjoyed to hear about. Hermione thought if there had been one while Sirius was at school, he would be first to sign up. Who was she kidding? Sirius would have been co-founder along with James.

But somehow even there, life-and-death stakes seemed persistent to follow her and the others. Maybe they were just cursed…

And, thought Hermione bitterly, nobody seemed aware that it was her birthday today… Where the bloody hell was Harry? Had he had enough of snogging Cho Chang yet? If he walked in and wished her Happy Birthday very loudly, surely the whole tavern would hurry to join in to curry favour with the Boy Who Lived? Hermione allowed herself a moment to feel very ashamed of her selfish thoughts, then brought herself back to listen to the conversation at the table.

"—Mr Filch still has several of your more, ahem, dangerous, creations, in his drawers downstairs."

"Ah, he can keep them," said Sirius, unbothered. "I'm a changed man, Minerva. No more pranks, no more troublemaking, just clean and easy living from here on out."

"I confess myself disbelieving," said McGonagall. "But… it is good to see you, Mr Black. And back together with Remus, as well. If only James and Lily could be here…"

Lupin nodded sombrely, but Sirius was frowning.

"How come he's Remus and I'm Mr Black?" he demanded.

"I'm Minerva's colleague," said Lupin tiredly. "There is a modicum of respect, here."

"Respect, my furry butt!" said Sirius. "You can't fool me. I see what's going on between you two. How long have you been running around together? Remus, you knew how I felt about her, how could you?!"

Ron and Hermione were laughing and McGonagall's thin lips were suppressing a smile. The Transfiguration Professor checked her watch covertly.

"Sirius, then," said McGonagall pointedly, and Sirius beamed radiantly at her, "did you happen to see a paperclip on the floor on your way in? It was a red and gold one, I must have dropped it from my folder."

"I don't think so, Minerva," said Sirius happily. "Why don't we send one of the young ones to check? Hermione, would you mind?"

A little startled, Hermione put down her Butterbeer and got up. "Not at all," she said with dignity. "Ron, join me?"

Ron looked awkward, and said, "No, I don't think so, sorry. Good luck!"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but obediently walked to the door. Nothing there… perhaps on the outside. She went through, letting the door shut behind her. Nothing there, either… no, wait, there it was! She bent down and picked up the paperclip, red and gold, just like McGonagall had said. Just then, she heard a great commotion coming from inside, like everyone was fighting over the last Butterbeer.

"Shut up!" someone said in a carrying whisper. Then, there was silence.

Hermione hesitantly pushed the door open and re-entered the pub.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HERMIONE!" The cry went up from at least two dozen throats; it deafened her and made her jump and drop the paperclip.

Hermione's hand went to her mouth as she stared around at the Three Broomsticks. The half of the room in which Sirius and Lupin had sat was now decorated with balloons, banners and streamers, criss-crossing from the beams overhead. The largest banner, drawn above the largest table, read, "HERMIONE'S SWEET SIXTEENTH," with a love heart of red and gold paint next to it.

Sirius and Lupin were smiling with fresh Butterbeers raised in a toast to Hermione, with Ron and McGonagall standing by them. Next to them were Fred, George and Ginny, wearing lurid orange party hats that clashed awfully with their hair. Fred and George had made god-awful T-shirts with Hermione's stern face printed on them; the caption read: Hermione for Minister. Lavender, Parvati, Susan and Luna stood together, waving streamers. Then Katie, Alicia and Angelina, blowing party horns. Next, Dean, Seamus and Neville. Hagrid, of course, stood the breadth of three people and the height of two, yelling "Happy Birthday, Hermione!" Wonders of wonders, Mr and Mrs Weasley stood side by side—Mrs Weasley holding a beautiful, tall birthday cake of violet, with books painted in the icing and sixteen candles aflame. And then Hermione did a double take, because her parents were here, looking very out of place but smiling nonetheless.

And, standing closest to her, grinning sheepishly, was Harry, waiting expectantly for a reaction.

Hermione squeaked, no words coming to her.

Everyone laughed.

Harry stepped forward, put a hand on her arm and guided her over to the long table, which Mrs Weasley was placing the cake upon. "Here, sit down, Hermione," he said.

Hermione sat down, feeling very light-headed. "Harry, what—?"

But Harry turned his back on her and raised his wand. He then conducted a rousing chorus of 'Happy Birthday' like a conductor to an orchestra. It was horribly out of tune, and Hagrid rumbled along under everyone else, while Hermione sat awkwardly waiting for them to finish. When they did, everyone looked at her expectantly.

Hermione made a very private wish, and blew out the candles. More applause.

But Hermione had some questions before she cut the cake. "Mum, Dad, how on earth did you get here?" she said.

Her mother beamed as Harry quickly took the candles out of the cake. "Harry here sent us an owl. Organised for us to be able to come and see you on your special day."

"Sixteen, already," said her father affectionately. "Seems only yesterday you were yay-high, on a beanbag at home reading a giant stack of books in one sitting."

"Think you'll find not much has changed, Mr Granger," said Ron, and everybody laughed.

"Go on, Hermione," said Mrs Weasley. "Make the first cut."

Hermione, remembering a certain Muggle tradition about cake-cutting she had witnessed at the only birthday party she'd been invited to in primary school, wondered if Harry had heard of it as well. She doubted it.

Nonetheless, she took the knife and carefully slid it into the gorgeous, smooth cake. She did so very slowly, careful not to nick the corners as she drew it out. Everybody cheered. They were doing a lot of that today. It made her feel quite giddy. She rarely ever got applauded for anything.

Mrs Weasley patted Hermione's hand affectionately, said, "I'll take care of the rest, dear," and drew her wand, slicing the cake into two dozen pieces. Mr Weasley levitated plates out for her to serve them on. He seemed to be attempting to strike up a conversation with Hermione's parents about rubber ducks and their household utility in the Muggle world.

Hermione, meanwhile, stood and simply stared at Harry. "This—this is what you were doing? You weren't meeting—I mean, the person you were meeting was my parents?"

"Yeah," said Harry, grinning. "Why, who'd you think it was?"

"Nobody," said Hermione quickly. "Harry, this is—this is—"

"I take it you're pleased?" said Harry, looking worried. "Or did I—maybe I overstepped, maybe it was too—"

"No, you idiot!" said Hermione, suddenly feeling tears prickling behind her eyes. "This is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me!" And she threw herself into his arms. A second later, she felt him relax and wrap his arms around her in turn. An eternity could have passed just then and Hermione would not have wanted to let him go. As it was, there was only so long a girl could hug a boy. She released him slowly, then—spurred by impulse—kissed him on the cheek.

Everybody cheered again and Hermione blushed and stepped away quite quickly, remembering how many people were watching. Even the other occupants of the Three Broomsticks who were not part of the party were looking over and smiling.

"Presents!" said Sirius excitedly, like a child at Christmas. "Let's do presents!"

Lupin waved his wand and a large stack of presents appeared on the table. Hermione could not believe it. A surprise party, a cake, and now presents?

"Mine first," said Ron, tossing a wrapped package to her.

Hermione caught it and seated herself once more as people ate cake. Ron perched on the table and watched her expectantly.

Inside the package was a very nice printing of The Paradigm of Uncertainty, a novel Hermione had heard of but never read. "Thank you, Ron!" she said, reaching out to give him a quick hug.

Ron shrugged. "I figured a novel might break the old studying routine a little for you. That is, if you wanted to."

"I'll start it tonight," promised Hermione, and Ron looked quite pleased with himself.

Hagrid had given her a giant box of chocolates—much to her parents' displeasure (they asked a confused Hagrid whether they were sugar-free)—and also a miniature Hippogriff figurine that could fly. Hermione thanked him and made a mental note to give it to Harry or Ron later.

The presents that followed from her fellow Gryffindors were very nice; more books of course, a journal and a box of what the twins were calling Weasley's Wizard Wheezes products, including sweets that were supposed to rapidly increase the speed at which one could write. Hermione thanked them and assured Professor McGonagall she would never use them for an exam.

From Sirius and Lupin she got a rather old-looking book called The Art of Spells. "It teaches you all about how to make your own spells," Sirius explained. "James, Remus, and I used that thing to death when we were trying to make the M—"

Lupin had apparently stood on Sirius' foot and he yelped in pain; he had apparently forgotten that McGonagall was still present.

"Ah," said Sirius, "what I meant to say was, ah, that I do hope this goes a small way in repaying you for saving my life. And of course, helping clear my name."

"Oh!" said Hermione. "Well, I absolutely adore it, so shall we call it even, Sirius?"

"Absolutely not!" said Sirius. "You're not getting out of it that easy."

Hermione was truly very thankful; she had always wanted to create her own spells before. She could think of a few things she might try…

There was a healthy stack of newly opened books and sweets on the table now. Wrapping paper was strewn everywhere, but Madam Rosmerta helpfully picked it up as she bustled around, checking if anybody needed refills on their drinks. Hagrid, of course, was drinking from a giant tankard next to McGonagall, who was having a cup of coffee.

Her parents got her a very nice writing kit, primarily for letters, as well as a cookbook. Hermione raised her eyebrows at her parents.

"Harry told us about your kitchen disasters," said her mother. "We thought you might like to learn more about cooking."

"That way," her dad cut in, "you can whip up some meals for us when you come home for Christmas!"

"Thanks, Mum, thanks Dad," said Hermione, placing the gifts on the table. "And thanks for telling them about my shoddy cooking, Harry. Just what I needed."

Everybody laughed once more.

Finally, there was only one present left. Hermione had known it was Harry's simply by the wrapping; she had watched him wrap presents before and he always taped the flaps down with the tape criss-crossing them in an 'x'. It was messy and charming and she loved it, and that was why she had saved it for last.

For some reason, everybody grew quiet as Hermione unwrapped it; even though she was neatly and carefully peeling the tape off rather than tearing the paper, it was practically the only sound in the room.

Finally, the wrapping paper fell away to reveal a small box. Hermione tentatively tugged it open—to reveal the most beautiful wristwatch she had ever seen. Its strap was silver and its face was adorned with beautiful crystals, the centrepiece being the most calming pale blue she had ever seen.

"I tried to get one that wasn't too flashy," Harry was saying, "because I know you don't wear jewellery, but I thought you'd like the blue and silver—but—but if you don't I can take it back and you can pick something else out."

Hermione strapped it onto her left wrist and admired it. "Harry, I love it! I simply love it!" And I love you, she longed to say, shocking herself at the realisation.

He grinned, evidently relieved. "Really?"

"Really," she said, and gave him a very tight hug. She made sure to pull back quickly this time, however, and had to exercise a lot of self-control not to kiss him again. A peck on the cheek would hardly suffice, either... she wanted nothing more than to snog him senseless...

Everyone seemed to be holding their breath; Hermione glanced sideways to see Sirius rearranging his face hurriedly and Lupin looking away, and she cleared her throat and simply patted Harry affectionately on the shoulder.

Small conversations gradually broke out and Hermione finally started eating her cake, reassuring her parents she would only have the one slice; after all, sugar and dentists didn't mix, and the cake was the most delicious, sweet, sugary thing she had ever tasted. She kept admiring the watch on her wrist. Surely, she thought, it hadn't been cheap. And all Harry had done today—he must have been organising it all week, and she'd hardly noticed! That was impressive in and of itself. The amount of people involved... friends, parents, teachers—Hermione found herself surprised that she was quite glad McGonagall was there; they rarely saw her outside of class, and Hermione was right in thinking that she would be quite easy to get along with in a relaxed atmosphere.

It was a merry party, all in all. Madam Rosmerta proclaimed that all Butterbeers for the birthday guests were on the house, which flattered Hermione very much, until she realised that it was probably Harry's reputation pulling weight; sure enough, the Three Broomsticks became much more packed than usual as visitors came in, some of them trying to talk to Harry about the return of Voldemort.

Fred and George seized the chance to introduce themselves to Sirius. Both of them wringing his hands enthusiastically, they told him and Lupin all about how much the Marauder's Map had helped them wreak havoc in their first five years of school. Sirius was simply delighted. "I'm glad to see our legacy in such good hands," he said. "Mind you, I remember being worried when we never broke into Filch's office to steal it back... but then you two rascals would never have gotten your hands on it! And now Harry, of course. So it all worked out perfectly!" He promptly bought the twins two shots of Firewhisky, which they downed quickly before Mrs Weasley could see.

Hermione had the amusing suspicion that Mr Weasley had come mainly because Harry had told him Hermione's parents would be there; he had apparently satisfied his fascination with the rubber duck conversation, going on to inquire about what exactly a dentist did. Hermione's parents looked taken aback but quite pleased at the interest. She watched them happily and finished her slice of cake.

McGonagall excused herself a little after one to go back up to the school. Fred and George were next to go, having 'business' with Zonko's. Hermione shook her head in amazement at their T-shirts, flattered in a kind of amused way. Only the twins… She made sure to thank them quietly for taking care of her when she had been injured, as they went out the door.

Harry and Sirius were doing some much-needed catching up; Hermione left them to it; the two of them talking happily with Lupin bore an uncanny resemblance to a photograph she had seen in Harry's treasured photo album, in which James, Sirius and Remus had sat in this very pub laughing together.

The party broke in twos and threes over the next hour or so, people coming up to Hermione to wish her Happy Birthday once more. Hermione made sure to thank Susan (again in a low voice) for mending her shoulder, before she left.

Unfortunately, Hermione didn't get an opportunity to talk to Harry again at the party; her parents asked her if she would show them around the village, and Hermione could hardly refuse, after all, they so rarely visited any part of the wizarding world.

So, once almost everybody had left, she told Harry and Ron that she would be back soon, and went with her parents for a stroll around the village. It was quite enjoyable, really; Hermione never got to see her parents during school term, and it was nice to talk about what had been happening instead of writing it in a letter—she left out the Quidditch Club, of course—and show them the magical shops and knick-knacks that were on sale within them. Her father bought a dark blue quill and ink set, and her mother purchased a self-knitting kit that would work quite well without its user supervising it with a wand.

Eventually, they had to return back to their practices in London. Apparently, Harry had somehow managed to set them up with a Floo connection for today only, so they were able to hop into the fireplace in the local hostel and travel straight back to London (although her mother groaned at the prospect; apparently, her stomach had not taken kindly to hurtling through fireplaces.)

"We'll send you some more healthy snacks soon," said her mother, brushing some fluff off of Hermione's shoulders in that way mothers do.

"Thanks, Mum," she said. "And thanks for the presents, both of you."

"You stay safe, this year," said her father. "And we'll see you at Christmas."

"I will, Dad."

"And," her mum said, "thank Harry again for us."

"Of course."

"He's a very special boy, you know."

"I know, Mum, he's the Boy Who Lived."

"That doesn't mean anything to me. But this does; he's in love with you."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "No, he isn't!"

"That beautiful watch on your wrist tells me otherwise."

Hermione's dad was frowning. "That's true. You don't give a girl something that nice if you're just friends."

"You're mad, the both of you!" exclaimed Hermione indignantly. "He is just my best friend."

"Mad we may be," said Hermione's mother, "but not as mad as you are about each other."

Hermione glared at her, but her cheeks were very warm. "Didn't you have to be going?"

"Yes, yes, well, I hope we've given you enough to think about. Happy birthday, sweetheart."

After a few more hugs and last parting words, Hermione watched them go. She stood alone for a while, then began a slow walk back to the pub. Could it be that her parents were right? She looked again at the watch. It could just as easily be Harry's way of thanking her again for saving his life. That must be it, right? It didn't mean he was in love with her, right? Right?

But… now that someone else besides Hermione had acknowledged what had been at the forefront of her mind for months now, she began to allow herself to feel a little more hope. Harry hadn't, after all, been on a date with Cho. He had spent the morning instead preparing Hermione's birthday party… He had cared enough about her to lend her his precious Firebolt… had taught her properly how to cook a decent meal, had been so worried when she was injured, and—she remembered with more enthusiasm—had tried so hard to get them back on speaking terms that the madman had actually read Hogwarts: A History in a single night! And, of course, there had been that night on the stairs, when they had lain so closely together and she had been sure he had looked longingly at her lips, and she had willed him to make the move and just kiss her...

Feeling a lot more cheerful, if dizzy with daydreams, Hermione re-entered the Three Broomsticks to find Harry, Ron, Sirius and Lupin roaring with laughter, sitting amongst the last remains of the party.

"What's the joke?" she asked as she rejoined them.

Lupin was wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "Just an old Marauder's tale, Hermione. We've got plenty of them."

"So," said Harry, "had a good time?"

Hermione met his eyes and simply looked at him for a long while, as if by staring she could force him to blurt out his heartfelt and undying love for her. As it was, he looked very confused, so she said quickly, "A great time. Thank you, all of you."

"This was the greatest party I'd been to in fourteen years," said Sirius fondly. "'Course, I haven't been to any party in fourteen years…"

Hermione smiled tolerantly, and the five of them spent another happy hour or so talking about the past and all its memories, the present and all the gifts it gave, and the future, and the mysteries and wonders it held...

After dinner in the Common Room that night, Hermione asked Harry if she might have a private word. Looking surprised, he suggested they go up to the boy's dorm; the Common Room was very crowded and boisterous (Fred and George had returned from Hogsmeade laden with Zonko's products to show off).

In the fifth year boy's dorm, Harry sat on the edge of his bed and Hermione perched herself on Ron's. She looked around curiously; she rarely ever came in here. Though girls were not forbidden from entering the boy's dorms, it was generally frowned upon. Harry had a few pictures on the wall by his bed: a picture of his parents, one of the Marauders (Peter Pettigrew was carefully cut out) and one of himself, Ron and Hermione in Second Year, taken by Colin Creevey.

"So, what's up?" Harry asked.

Hermione observed him carefully before answering. "Well, I'd like to really say thank you. I said it before, but Harry, I honestly can't believe how thoughtful what you did was. My parents were so grateful, it was so nice of you to include them; they always feel left out of my school life and all the wizarding stuff…"

"That's what I thought," said Harry sheepishly, "I mean, it wasn't too hard, really. I just had to owl them, then write a request to the Ministry, then sneak out to Hogsmeade to talk to the owner of the hostel, then get him to write the Ministry too saying it was okay to set up the Floo, then write your parents again, then meet them and bring them in... So, no trouble at all."

Hermione shook her head in wonder. "Harry, you are so ridiculously modest sometimes. Could it hurt you to just say, 'you're welcome, Hermione?'"

Harry grinned. "Fine. You're welcome, Hermione."

She grinned back. At times like these, she was very glad she'd taken the opportunity last year to shrink her teeth… She felt Harry would have difficulty ever seeing her as something other than a friend if she had been grinning at him now with those hideous old things sticking out at him. She only wished she had made more of an effort with her appearance today, but she had had no idea of what would happen...

"Um, Harry…" she began.

"Um, Hermione," he copied her.

"Stop that," she said sternly. "I wanted to ask you… the watch you gave me—" she raised her arm to show it off; it sparkled brilliantly "—it's so lovely. So lovely I know that it must have cost you no small amount of gold."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "It wasn't, I mean, well, it was… affordable…"

But Hermione continued to eye him unrelentingly.

"Look," he said, "it's not a big deal. I wanted to get you something nice, my parents left me the gold, I'm sure they would've wanted me to spend it on my friends."

Hermione got up and slowly moved to sit next to him on his bed.

"Is there—" Hermione's left hand started shaking and she placed it firmly on the bedsheet behind her. "Is there another reason?" she asked very softly, inwardly impressed at her boldness. There was something powering her now, perhaps her parents' words, or perhaps simply the way Harry had made her feel today…

Harry looked deeply into her eyes. "Another reason?"

"Yeah," she murmured.

"I suppose..." he said thoughtfully, "I suppose I was thinking… about how you've always been there for me, and I hardly ever acknowledge you for it… and how you saved my life just two nights ago, and all the times before it. A fancy watch hardly seems a match for your… your friendship."

"Oh, right," said Hermione. So, that was it. Was that what he was saying? That he had only got her the watch and organised the party out of friendship? But Hermione was feeling very reckless—she had had a few Butterbeers, they were alone in his room, and they were sitting very close together…

But she had to be sure, once and for all of something, before she could even hope to tell him how she felt. "Harry," she began tentatively, "you and Cho, you're not...? That is, you aren't...?"

Harry looked bemused. "No, of course not. Why do you ask?"

"Oh! I thought maybe..."

"It was just a crush, Hermione," said Harry. "Those things fizzle out. I guess... anything I might've had with Cho died the night of the Third Task, with Cedric."

Hermione looked at him sadly. "Oh, Harry..."

He smiled bracingly. "It's alright, Hermione. I'm fine. It's good."

She laid her hand on his. "Harry, you are so amazing."

Harry's lips parted in surprise. "I don't know about that."

"You are," she insisted. "You're the bravest person I know, you're kind, and thoughtful, and you're good at so many things, one of them being making me very happy."

Harry stared into her eyes and Hermione's heart began to beat very fast. "Hermione..." he said.

"Harry, I want to tell you—"

"There you are!"

Hermione let go of Harry's hand in shock and looked at the door; Ron had chosen that inopportune time to barge into the room.

"It's madness down there! A couple first years got their hands on Fred and George's fireworks and accidentally set off the ones that don't go out unless you swallow them… oh." He seemed to notice that Harry and Hermione were sitting together on the bed, quite close. "Sorry, was I... interrupting?"

"Of course not," said Hermione, moving away from Harry and trying to hide her disappointment. "Is anyone hurt?"

"No," said Ron, still looking a little awkward—and a little guilty?—"A couple people are vomiting, though, the smell was awful…"

"Let's stay up here awhile, shall we?" said Hermione, allowing herself a mischievous smile. She felt quite close to both Harry and Ron, today. The moment with Harry was gone for now, anyway; now that Ron was here, he might as well stay. Besides, any time she still got to be with Harry was fine by her, today.

"How about a boy's night in?" she suggested to the two of them.

Ron looked amused. "Hermione, you know well by now that we have realised you're a girl."

"Yes," said Hermione, "thank you. But I think it a privilege to also be able to call myself one of the boys. A term of camaraderie if there ever was one."

Ron grinned and sat on his bed. "So you're going to join in on our talks about girls?"

"You have talks like those?" Hermione couldn't help herself from asking.

"Oh, sure," said Ron, "mostly in the middle of the night. You're welcome to stay and take part. Though Harry likes an early night whenever we do, don't you, Harry? So, Hermione? Fancy some 'guy-talk?'"

Hermione huffed. "As scintillating as that would be, I meant it more like how Harry's mum was an honorary Marauder, you know."

Ron grinned, and Hermione hid her horrified expression; she had unintentionally implied that she, Hermione, was like Harry's mum, in that she was dating one of the Marauders, namely James, or in this case, his son, Harry. Fortunately, however, neither of the boys noticed.

They spent a couple of happy hours up in the dorm talking, playing wizard's chess and thinking about what spells they would most like to use Sirius and Lupin's gift to create.

As Hermione went to bed that night, a cheerful stack of new books on her bedside table and the watch Harry had given her standing proudly in its display box, she smiled. She had never had a better birthday—it had been everything she never could have imagined to dream of.

If only she had been able to finish telling Harry how she felt, and how she had been thinking about him… but would she have been happy to hear his response? Perhaps it was just as well that Ron had interrupted, before Hermione had ventured over the point of no return. Harry had said after all, that fateful word: 'friendship'...

What if that was truly all there was? Had Hermione manifested her thoughts, fooled herself into thinking that he could possibly feel the same way she had gradually come to feel this year—that they were meant to be together, that Harry James Potter and Hermione Jean Granger made as much sense as the sun rising and setting, as the tide coming and going, as the world spinning round?

Hermione Jean Potter, she experimented in her mind. Huh, she thought, realising that if they married, they would have exactly the same initials… H.J.P.

Stop, she told herself, you're only going to hurt yourself more when he breaks your heart.

But she could not, in truth, imagine Harry breaking her heart, nor could she stop herself from picturing exactly what she wanted to picture... kissing Harry ardently and at length, flying with him on his Firebolt... perhaps going on a date in Muggle London in the Summer…

Thinking such lovely thoughts as she looked back at the watch on her bedside table, settling herself more comfortably amongst her pillows, her dreamy smile returned to its usual pride of place on her lips.

He loves me… he must.

And with that thought, Hermione fell happily asleep. She didn't even realise that—in contradiction to her self-ascribed plans—neither she nor the boys had studied at all, today. Such trivialities were hardly important to Hermione Granger when she was in love.

Chapter Text

Harry was not having nightmares anymore. Dreams of Voldemort and Cedric seemed no match for the positive deluge of images of Hermione that flooded his mind.

He had just awoken from a particularly pleasant dream on Tuesday morning, although he'd have sooner stuck his head in a toilet than reveal it to anyone. In the dream, he had been lying on the grass with Hermione's head on his chest. She traced circles around the buttons on his shirt, murmuring soft words to his heart.

He allowed himself a minute to wonder if these dreams and thoughts about his best friend were getting out of hand. But the Hermione-like voice inside his head that so often warned him against this was drowned out by the Sirius-Harry, who was whooping for joy.

Every new day, there was something to look forward to. Just knowing he would see Hermione regardless of anything that happened was enough to get him through anything, even the worst of Snape's lessons.

It was colder today than it had been for a while; Autumn was settling fast and the trees in the ground were shedding orange leaves.

With a vacant grin that seemed permanently affixed to his face for now, Harry got dressed, pulling on a Hermione for Minister T-shirt—the twins had been selling them for two sickles, although they didn't seem to be taking off the way they'd hoped; so far, Harry had bought one for himself and Ron, while Neville had declined, muttering something about how Hermione would probably kill them, and he, Neville, would attend their funerals but stand quietly in the back, making sure to keep out of sight of a remorseless Hermione...

The shirt was a very snug fit, and he looked down at himself to see Hermione's upside-down face glaring back at him.

With a carefree smirk, he buttoned his school shirt over Hermione's face—the world (and McGonagall) may not have been ready for him to wear that shirt to class—and pulled on his robes.

He met Hermione in the Common Room and went down to breakfast—Ron had decided to go back to sleep—talking happily about the books Hermione had been reading. With a pleasurable squirm in his stomach, Harry noticed she was wearing her watch. Oh, how he hoped she'd get asked about it, and hoped she'd respond by saying something like, oh, Harry Potter gave it to me for my birthday. He organised my birthday party, you know, Harry did. Oh yes, he's so thoughtful and kind… yes, we're dating, did you know? I, Hermione Granger, am Harry Potter's proud girlfriend…

He watched Hermione as she ate her pre-packaged breakfast, licking that damned-lucky fork clean… oh, how he wished he was that fork right now…

Hermione saw him watching her and looked very self-conscious. He averted his gaze hurriedly. As a result, he completely missed the coy smile she threw his way.

When he turned back to her, she had put the fork down and was drinking from her goblet, saying hello to Ron, who had just arrived. As such she missed the adoring look her gave her.

And so began a series of near-misses.

For every look one gave the other, the other missed it.

Harry and Hermione were like trains on parallel tracks with a large cloud of fog moving along between them. If only they both looked at each other in the intervals when the fog cleared…

Ron watched with careful incredulity. The proof was incontrovertible. His two best friends were completely and hopelessly in love with each other, but neither seemed likely to make a move on the other anytime soon.

That wouldn't do. If there was one thing Ron prized above his love of food and the Chudley Cannons, it was his two best friends. And with their happiness in his best interests, it was his solemn duty to ensure they ended up happily married, preferably before Ron was six feet below ground from the anticipation of it all.

Ron first brought up the topic with Harry in Divination. Professor Trelawney—or as Ron preferred to call her, Eyeballs—was now rhapsodizing to the class about how Harry would fall in love just before his untimely death, thus cutting short what should have been a long and happy relationship. The old fraud had been mixing up the usual death predictions with a bit of the old romance, and thankfully, Harry seemed mostly oblivious as to why.

As Trelawney moved over to consult with Lavender and Parvati, Ron leaned over the table to Harry.

"She might have a point, you know," he said in a low voice.

"About me dying? Thanks, Ron," said Harry, miffed.

"No," said Ron. "Well, that too, I suppose. But about you falling in love."

Harry looked quite startled. "What on Earth are you talking about?"

Ron raised an eyebrow in what he hoped was a knowing, conspiratorial manner. "Hermione."

A flurry of expressions passed across Harry's face and Ron had to hold his breath to keep from bursting out laughing.

Finally, Harry settled on repeating his last sentence, but louder: "What on Earth are you talking about?!"

"You know," said Ron knowingly. "Hermione."

"What are you implying?" asked Harry cautiously.

"I've seen the way you look at her, you idiot," said Ron affectionately. "You're head over skinny butt for her!"

"That is so far off from being true… She's my friend, Ron. Just like you. Or do you think I'm head-over-butt for you, too?"

Ron smirked. "You wish."

"You are barking," said Harry, peering at him as though he might be a werewolf who hadn't quite realised it yet.

"Come on, Harry," said Ron, giving up the playfulness; it clearly wasn't working. "She's been making eyes at you for over a year, and you're telling me you've never noticed?"

"Come off it," said Harry. "Over a year? She was with Krum not three months ago! And she doesn't 'make eyes at me'. She's never seen me that way, still doesn't, in fact. She sees me like you. Like that annoying best friend."

"No," said Ron, "trust me, I'm the annoying best friend, and you're the best friend she wants to snog, and definitely a lot more. You saw how worried about you she was last year, like she'd keel over if you so much as got a papercut in the Tournament. When you got back from the graveyard, I thought she'd combust, she was so stressed. And don't think I didn't see that kiss on the cheek she gave you… Ever see her pass those around to anyone else? It's a prelude to a snog, Harry, you daft idiot!"

Harry stared at him, though Ron noticed he was breathing a little harder than his current circumstances demanded. "No offense, Ron, but you're hardly the most perceptive of wizards. I really doubt you're right."

Ron felt a little hurt, but had to admit that Harry was right… Therefore, a second (or third, or hundredth) opinion was needed. And he knew just who to ask for one…

"Susan!" he called out, once classes had run out for the day.

The tall, shapely blonde girl turned around in the corridor he had been chasing her down. When she saw Ron, she smiled. "Ron! How are you?"

"Good, good, you?"

"Great!"

"Excellent," said Ron. "Where're you headed to?"

"Common Room," said Susan, jerking a thumb.

"Oh, good!" said Ron. "I was just on my way to the kitchens. I'll walk with you til there, if you want?"

"Oh, yes," said Susan. "I've always heard about that secret entrance… Mind showing me?"

Trying to refrain from whooping for joy, Ron nodded eagerly. "'Course! It's just behind this painting of fruit… anyway, I wanted to ask you something."

"Oh?" said Susan, looking interested, as they walked down the corridor.

"Yeah, it's about, well, about Harry."

"Oh."

"And Hermione. You know Hermione well, don't you?"

Susan frowned. "I wouldn't say well, but we've always been friendly. Though we Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors don't often spend much time together… there was that nasty bit of bullying quite a bit of our House put poor Harry through last year just because his name came out of the Goblet after Cedric's…"

At the mention of Cedric's name, Susan's face fell. Trying to revive the mood, Ron said, "Well, let's hope to change that this year. After all, we're all friends now, thanks to the Quidditch Club!"

"That's true!" said Susan. "Anyway, what were you saying?"

"Right. In no more than one word, do you think Harry and Hermione like each other?"

"Yes," said Susan without hesitation.

Ron let out a short laugh. "Hah! Knew I was right. 'Imperceptive', my foot. I'll show you imperceptive, Harry…"

"Well, it's kind of obvious," said Susan. "So obvious, in fact, that obviously, everyone thinks the same thing. You know what I'm talking about..."

"'Course I do," said Ron. "Just wanted to hear it from someone, um, someone like you."

"Like me?" said Susan curiously.

Ron shrugged awkwardly. "Like, someone who knows what's—what's going on, you know. Oh, here's the painting." He tickled the pear, and the frame swung open to reveal the kitchens.

"Oh, wow," said Susan, looking around in awe. "So this is how all the food ends up on the tables."

"It's great down here," said Ron happily. "The house-elves'll give you anything you want, they're jumping to give away food. Erm, don't tell Hermione I said that. She doesn't approve."

Susan laughed. "So, this is where you three go when you disappear from the Great Hall at mealtimes?"

"Yeah—" Ron looked at her. "Hang on, how come you noticed we're not there?"

Susan blinked. "Oh! Just… I don't know, you three have such a presence, you know, and when you're not there, that presence is, well, not there…"

Ron smiled slowly. "Right. We're something of a legend at Hogwarts, am I right?"

"Well," said Susan, "to be frank, yes. The things you three have done these four years are the talk around town, you should know."

Feeling quite flattered—he had only been joking about them being legends—Ron gestured to the pantry. "Hungry?"

Susan hesitated a moment, then nodded. "I could eat."

"Well, then, Ms Bones," said Ron enthusiastically. "The kitchen is your oyster!"

Grinning, the two of them went on to pillage the pantry for everything it was worth, Ron doing his best to flirt all the way through their meal—though he knew less about flirting than he did Ancient Runes—delighted with himself for what he considered a stroke of genius for approaching Susan, in a year beginning to prove itself as a year full of strokes of genius for Ron.

Now, secure with the knowledge that he was, in fact, right about Harry and Hermione, Ron was determined to keep a close eye on the smitten pair, and maybe, just maybe, give them a nudge in the right direction should they need it.

Things were going quite well for Ron so far this year. His parents were extraordinarily pleased that he was Prefect, the twins weren't making fun of him as much now he'd showed them he was good at Quidditch, he was mostly staying above dangerous waters in school thanks to Hermione's study guide, and even Percy seemed chummy with him, from the few letters they'd exchanged.

Now, Ron saw a golden opportunity to get Harry and Hermione together. And if he, Ron, managed to successfully ask Susan out, all the better for him. All the better for everyone. Yes, sir, things were looking up indeed…

He just hoped that things wouldn't go disastrously wrong, as they so often did.

Harry felt as though he was carrying around a secret talisman in his chest through the rest of the week, keeping him functioning and keeping his thoughts happy and blissful. Hermione had never been more affectionate to him and he had never found her more beautiful.

He had begun to have hope that she really did like him in the same way he liked her. For starters, she went out of her way to walk with him at least part of the way to his next class, even when she had class in the opposite direction. Hermione Granger potentially arriving late to a lesson was a sure sign that something was out of the ordinary.

Secondly, she allowed him to copy her essays without her usual reprimands at him for leaving the work to the last minute, and she didn't even make any comments about him skiving off her meticulously crafted study plan to play Exploding Snap with Ron. He was quite sure she was actually watching the game with amusement, although when he looked up at her she quickly returned her attention to her book.

Lastly, and most pleasingly, he overheard her talking to Susan Bones as they left the girls bathroom—not that Harry was waiting outside for Hermione, or anything, that would be creepy, no, he had just been standing around, examining a very good portrait of a witch who left her frame when he had stared at her for over two minutes straight—saying that yes, Harry had given her the most beautiful watch she had ever seen, and yes, she wore it to sleep.

Struggling to keep the grin off his face, he innocently said hello, gave a polite nod to a smirking Susan, and promptly escorted Hermione to her Arithmancy class.

Harry was not the only one obsessing over what may or may not be blossoming between them. There was a curious—and slightly alarming—amount of student interest in Harry and Hermione's relationship. More than once, he heard some students in lower years refer to Hermione as 'Potter's girlfriend'. Even Malfoy had begun taunting them—"You're actually dating a Mudblood, Potter? Like father, like son, eh?" he said with a smirk outside Potions one day, and most unfortunately, Snape overheard and gave an infuriating smirk of his own. Luckily, Hermione was there to calm Harry down—the anger he had felt every now and then since Voldemort's return threatened to rise up and smite down Malfoy and Snape, and he had actually plunged his hand into his robes to grab his wand before Hermione grabbed his arm and he was distracted from his violent intentions.

"Ignore them, Harry," she whispered. "They're just sore, as usual. We're so much better than them." Harry couldn't help but notice, however, that she never went out of her way to correct anyone who assumed they were dating. So, neither did he.

The next Quidditch night was much more successful than the last; nobody fell off their broom and almost died. Helpfully, Fred and George had somehow procured a magical safety net that they placed in the centre of the pitch; in an emergency, they could whip out their wands and move it to wherever someone happened to fall. The reassurance must have helped the nervous fliers, because nobody did fall. Harry knew from experience that half the problems that nervous fliers faced was worrying about falling. So, with that fear taken care of, the only thing left to do was, well, fly.

The club had welcomed five more members since last week, three third-years and two excited first years who were someone's relatives, Harry didn't quite know whose. In truth, he was terrible with names, and had to rely on Hermione's helpful book with its list of members to call upon people. Fred and George, however, excelled in this, and through a combination of gentle teasing and friendly camaraderie, made their new members feel very much at ease.

For the first time, the team Harry was playing on lost the overall game. Dean blamed it on the awful music Fred and George had chosen: some apparently 'god-awful' band called 'the Bee-Gees'. Harry voiced his agreement, but found himself swaying in time to the beat, cocking his head to the falsetto lyrics, and flying the school broom in a more dance-like manner than usual. He did, however, stop this when Fred made a remark uncannily like Malfoy's, when he asked if Harry hoped to become a ballet dancer.

Ron had improved his Keeping form spectacularly, so barely any of Katie's usually difficult-to-block goals made it through. Also helping the Fleabag's efforts were the spectacular goals made by Susan and Dennis Creevey.

Fred and George continued to play on opposite teams; everyone agreed that they were the best Beaters in the school and it would hardly be fair on the other team if both played as teammates.

Meanwhile, Hermione seemed to have claimed the Pigfarts' Keeper spot. While she was nowhere near as good as Ron, she definitely was much more comfortable in that position, and even blocked a hard shot from Angelina that very nearly unseated her; Harry was already halfway to her position before she thankfully managed to regain her balance.

Ginny continued to excel; tonight she played as Seeker against Harry, and won, catching the Snitch three times as opposed to Harry's two.

He congratulated her and smiled indulgently at her post-match celebrations—"In your face, Potter! What's that, Fred? I couldn't hear you over my pure skill! High-five, Ronniekins! You're moving up in the list of my favourite brothers, but don't get ahead of yourself."

What Harry didn't tell a euphoric Ginny was that he could easily have caught the Snitch the third time, but he had been rather busy by the goalposts showing Hermione how to perform a handbrake on the Firebolt. He got a thrill out of placing his hands just above hers on the shaft and helping her to twist the broom to one side while he hovered closely beside her.

Things with Hermione were going very well, indeed. Harry even privately thought he might just work up the courage to damn it all and ask Hermione out the next weekend.

Unfortunately, as things were so often wont to do, they started going downhill.

Sunday night, Harry, Ron and Hermione were feverishly studying—Snape had promised a quiz on a surprise topic that Monday afternoon, and they spent most of the night theorising on what that topic would be, and what horribly obscure questions he would be asking.

It was around nine that Harry realised Hermione wasn't working along the same lines he and Ron were. While they were consulting their Potions books and Hermione's lengthy class notes, she was writing a long letter, the scroll of parchment rolling up over the table as she worked her way steadily down to the bottom. It appeared to be double-sided, too.

"Who're you writing the essay for?" asked Harry curiously, shoving his textbook to one side with disgusted finality.

Hermione started and moved the parchment to hide the name at the top. "Um… parents."

Harry looked at her suspiciously as she bent over the table. He got the feeling she was not being entirely truthful… but he let it slide. It might have been something embarrassing. But Hermione should know, it was him. She was allowed to be embarrassed around him. Just as he was allowed to be embarrassed around her. That was practically the natural order of things. People got embarrassed. Embarrassment was just a part of… What had Harry been thinking about…?

He massaged his temples. His scar had begun to prickle unpleasantly and he looked around for something to occupy himself with, to distract him from the uncomfortable sensation.

Luckily, Ron had also given up trying to figure out what Snape would test them on—"The git's just going to give us all zeroes anyway," he said—and they spent a happy hour playing chess, after which Harry lost spectacularly.

Not at all surprised, but still nursing his injured pride—he had put up a rather good fight, he thought he might have been able to win had he only managed to hold a straight face as Ron observed the state of play—Harry quickly excused himself; Ron had noticed Harry glance just a little too long at a focussed Hermione and was now waggling his eyebrows at him suggestively. Harry feared that his usually-so-ignorant friend was becoming too observant for his own good.

Sitting alone up in the dorm, Harry pondered his dilemma. It should be a simple thing, to ask someone out. But Harry, in truth, had never done anything of the sort before, and never found himself in a situation where he truly wanted to. True, he had asked Cho to the Ball last year, but that hardly counted. Thinking of this rather miserable failure, however, certainly didn't instil great amounts of confidence in himself that Hermione would return his feelings. And this was a very different matter. He had had, at most, a strong crush on Cho. But Hermione… he didn't know what to call what it was he felt for her. It was definitely not a crush. No… this felt distinctly different to what Cho had ignited within him. This seemed to be consuming him, mind, body and soul… But how could he even act on whatever it was?

For starters, Harry and Hermione had known each other for over four years. Spent almost every day out of ten months of every year together, studying, talking, relaxing, adventuring, almost dying... To out of the blue turn that friendship into something romantic would take nothing short of a miracle. How many people successfully dated their best friend? It simply didn't happen, and if it did, it wouldn't work, would it?

He tried to picture the two of them dating, holding hands in the corridors, kissing in broom cupboards, strolling through Hogsmeade arm in arm… To both his pleasure and dismay, such fanciful images came far too easily.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry managed to ignore the twinging of his scar again—he had more important things than Voldemort to concern himself with…

That Tuesday, Hermione received a long letter at breakfast, presumably in reply to the one she had written on Sunday night. She spent so long poring over it that Harry was the first to notice that if they didn't leave for Transfiguration soon, McGonagall would be quite livid.

"Hermione, shouldn't we be going?"

"Hm? Oh!" She hurriedly wolfed down the rest of her breakfast and slung her bag over her shoulder. As she stuffed the letter in her pocket, Harry caught a glimpse of the name signed at the bottom in an ugly scrawl.

"Krum?!" he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Ron froze and looked at the two of them.

"I mean," said Harry, "you're still writing to Krum?"

Hermione turned pink and hid the letter properly. "We're pen pals. You know, it's nice to hear what's going on up in Bulgaria. He's very interested to hear about what's going on at Hogwarts, too…"

"Right," said Harry distractedly. "Right…" But he felt as if something very dear had been ripped from him. Of course, he thought angrily as they got up and walked quickly out of the Hall. She still liked Krum, of course she did. He had seen her at the Ball with him, seen how smitten she was. Krum was a world-famous Seeker who was also the first boy who had asked Hermione out, it only made sense…

Harry spent a tumultuous hour in Transfiguration thinking angrily of Krum and his ugly squashed face and his brutish, dull manner, picturing scenarios in which he, Harry, beat Krum thoroughly in a game of Quidditch. Harry was surely the better Seeker, Krum was nothing but an overrated star who had somehow fumbled his way into the top tiers of the game… He was a predator! Harry realised. He was eighteen by now, way too old for Hermione. But maybe that was Hermione's type; older guys who said the right things, made the right moves, had the confidence that Harry never had. Harry was only fifteen, he was probably like a little brother to Hermione…

He was so angry and bitter that he snapped at Hermione when she asked him to pass him his ink in class—"Don't you have your own?" he said, before slamming the ink down in front of her. Barely noticing her shocked, hurt expression, when the bell went, he left the classroom grumpily without realising he had left his wand on his desk.

Krum hadn't organised any sort of party for Hermione. He hadn't given her any silver watches. Who had done that? It was him—Harry! All Krum had done was take advantage of her and take her to that stupid bloody Ball, when Harry had been sitting on the side-lines, moping over Cho, eavesdropping on a smitten Hagrid with Ron beside him in the bushes like a pair of creepers, worrying about what Snape and Karkaroff were up to, when really he should have been inside, pushing aside Krum and sweeping Hermione off her feet, swaying with her in time to the music, letting the world fade out around them, then leaning in slowly, and snogging the living daylights out of her…

Now, it was too late.

"Harry!"

Harry kept walking, shouldering his bag and speeding up on his way to Lupin's class.

"Harry, wait!"

It was Ron. He caught up with Harry at the door to the classroom.

"What the hell, mate?" said Ron.

"Hell is right," said Harry gloomily.

"What's wrong with you?" said Ron crossly. "You've never been so rude to Hermione! What gives?"

"Nothing gives, Ron," said Harry as he took his seat at the back of the room.

"Well, I'll give you a piece of my mind," said Ron, "and you'll let me if you want your wand back."

Harry felt inside his pockets; sure enough, his wand wasn't there, but in Ron's hand, held out of reach.

"Give me my wand, Ron," said Harry, teeth gritted.

"No. You need to apologise to Hermione."

"Not now," said Harry, in the middle of picturing himself punching Krum in the face. What if he used the Gryffindor fireplace to Floo himself over to Bulgaria to give Krum a thorough beating? He'd Petrify him in place and then punch him in the jaw, the stomach, the balls… serve him right, the ruddy pumpkin-head…

"Harry, you are being so… like me," said Ron.

Confused, Harry forgot to be angry, the image of Krum's bloody face flitting from his mind. "How do you mean?"

"Grumpy about Krum, that's what I mean. Get over it!"

"No," lied Harry. "That's not it. My scar hurts, that's all." This last part was, at least, true. It had begun throbbing slowly, building up a headache that was more annoying than painful.

"Don't play the damn scar card again," whispered Ron—Lupin had walked in. "You're jealous."

"Why the hell would I be jealous?" said Harry mulishly.

"Because you think Hermione still likes Krum! She doesn't!"

"How would you know?"

"I just do!"

"You know," said Harry savagely, "coming from you, that means absolutely nothing."

Ron stared at him for a long moment, then threw Harry's wand at him. It hit Harry in the head before he managed to catch it with his supposedly legendary Seeker reflexes. Ron stood and moved himself to the front of the class, where Hermione had just walked in. She didn't look at Harry, but slumped down in her seat, resting her chin on her arms on her desk.

With two best friends now upset with him, Harry felt the first twinges of guilt. But, he thought, why shouldn't I be angry? They both lied to me… nothing but liars, the pair of them… and I thought Ron would be on my side! He wouldn't stop ranting about Krum's advances on Hermione all last year! What happened?

Lupin looked so concerned to see Harry separated so far from Ron and Hermione that he began the lesson quite distractedly, forgetting Seamus' name and misquoting a spell incantation that resulted in Neville casting a long-nose hex instead of a Stunning Spell.

Harry let Ron and Hermione leave before him, and walked alone to the courtyard for break. Sitting on a bench, he pulled out one of his textbooks and pretended to study. He was now fully regretting what he had said to both his friends. Just then, a sharp stabbing pain in his scar caused him to gasp and reach up to touch his forehead, as if he could somehow soothe it. As quickly as it had come, it began to disappear, though the slow, dull throbbing remained.

As the worst of the pain receded he looked up in surprise as Susan Bones sat beside him.

"Hello, Harry," she said pleasantly.

"Hi," he said shortly.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Um," said Susan, taken aback by his cold manner. "I just wanted to check with you about adding a friend of mine to the MQC."

"Sounds great," said Harry unenthusiastically.

"Are you sure you're alright, Harry? You look a little ill."

"Yes, fine, thanks."

But Susan moved closer. "Is it about Hermione?"

"Of course not," said Harry defensively. "Why would you think that?"

"No reason," said Susan quickly.

They sat in silence for a minute, before Harry's common sense won out. He had already upset two friends in a very short time, he couldn't afford another. Particularly one who hadn't done anything to him at all.

"Sorry, Susan," he said. "Rough morning, I think."

"That's quite alright," she said, quite dignified.

"How're your classes?" Harry asked in an attempt to be more friendly.

"Not bad," said Susan, "Defence is probably best, though most of my class still thinks Lupin is going to transform mid-class and eat us all."

Harry frowned. "Full moon passed last week. He's completely harmless, besides, with the Wolfsbane Potion. Couldn't and wouldn't hurt a fly."

"That's what I've told them," said Susan sadly. "But some prejudices run too deep."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. Something needed to be done, he thought, to get the rest of the school on Lupin's side. Harry owed the man that much, at least.

"So," said Susan, in a manner that often precluded gossip. "I heard what Ron said in class the other week. You know, about wanting to snog me."

Harry grunted in what was almost laughter. Almost, but not quite. "Funny guy, Ron."

"You think he meant what he said?" asked Susan idly, picking at her robes.

Harry, knowing full well that Ron had been under the influence of Veritaserum when he had professed the desire, lied and said, "I don't know, maybe."

"Oh. He—he took me to the kitchens the other day."

Harry snorted. "Well, Ron sees food as the great romance of life. Take from that what you will."

Susan smiled with amusement and hmm-ed lightly.

The bell signalled the next class, and Harry and Susan stood up.

"You know, Harry," she said, "we really don't hang out enough. I always thought, I mean, when we arrived at Hogwarts, and I saw you, you were so friendly, so unlike the image I had built up of you in my head, I dunno, I kind of pictured us becoming friends. But then we got sorted to different houses, and funnily enough, hardly anyone in this school is friends with people from other houses. Hermione was one of the few Gryffindors I really spent any time with."

Harry found himself agreeing. "I thought the same. I guess that's one good thing about the MQC."

"Yeah," said Susan enthusiastically. "It'd be cool if it was an official Hogwarts club. We don't really have anything like that."

Harry laughed. "I don't think even Dumbledore would give the go-ahead for this."

Susan shrugged. "Just a thought. Nice talking to you, Harry, see you later, maybe…"

Harry and Susan parted ways and he made his way to Herbology. He, too, would like to be good friends with Susan… He remembered, now, that when Hagrid had first found him and told him he was a wizard, he'd said that Voldemort had killed the Bones—her parents. She lived with her aunt, who was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement... of course, Harry owed her—Amelia Bones had given the go-ahead for Sirius to be freed...

To no surprise at all, both Ron and Hermione were ignoring him resolutely in Herbology. Without their usual help, Harry received a dozen cuts from the living nightmares that Professor Sprout liked to call plants, and Neville liked to call pets. He thought he saw Hermione give him a sympathetic look, but he was a little preoccupied with getting to the Hospital Wing before he died of tetanus.

The rest of the day saw Harry's scar continue to throb and his misery continue to plunge him into a dark depression. This couldn't go on, he realised. He remembered what Dumbledore had told him in his office… Lean on your friends, he had said… Miss Granger, in particular, seems very fond of you…

It was the memory of these words that forced Harry at last to make an effort to talk to Hermione alone that night.

"Hermione," he said awkwardly, making her look away from her conversation with Lavender, "could I have a word?"

She looked surprised. "Alright."

She followed him to a secluded corner of the Common Room where they sat tentatively. Harry was vaguely aware of Lavender and Parvati putting their heads together to whisper conspicuously.

"I'm very sorry," he said shortly, "for being so rude earlier today. I was upset and that was no reason to take it out on you. And Ron," he added.

"Oh!" said Hermione. "That's—that's quite all right, Harry."

"I just want to know one thing," Harry went on.

"Anything," said Hermione, though warily.

"Why did you lie to me?"

"Lie?"

"You told me on Sunday you were writing to your parents! When really it was bloody Krum! Don't deny it," he added quickly, when she drew breath to speak.

Hermione looked embarrassed. "Okay, fine, I lied! But I didn't want you to get all 'big-brother' on me like Ron did last year. I know you both hate him."

"That's not true," said Harry flatly, although it was. "And I don't get all big-brother on you. When have I ever? Besides, we're both younger than you." Please don't say you think of me like a brother, please don't say you think of me like a brother…

"Okay, maybe it isn't true," Hermione admitted.

Thank the lords! Okay, good.

"But you are acting a bit like Ron, even you have to admit."

Harry frowned. Not so good. "How?"

"Well, just—assuming the worst, that's all! Viktor is a perfect gentleman, and he was always very nice to me."

"Yeah," said Harry, "because he was in love with you, wasn't he!"

"That's not true, Harry, and stop putting words where they have no place."

"Well, it's partly true," he muttered.

"Why does it matter to you so much, Harry?" Hermione asked, her voice softening a little. Was that a hopeful expression on her face?

"It doesn't," Harry lied flatly. "I just… I don't want to see you hurt. Krum was never, I mean, sure, he said nice things to me, too, but you know, he's not exactly the kind of guy that, well…" Harry lost his point somewhere, and gestured with his hands in the hope that they would find it and present it for him.

"Okay, Harry," said Hermione presently. "I'm going to be honest with you. Cards on the table. Yes, Viktor and I went to the Ball, together. Yes, I enjoyed it, simply because he was the first male to really notice that I was a member of the opposite sex, and to be attracted to me that way. I was young and inexperienced and had no idea what I was doing, only that I felt better about myself than I ever had. And yes, we—we kissed. Once."

"Once?" said Harry incredulously, his stomach now writhing with anger as he pictured an unrelenting Krum pinning Hermione in place and smothering her with his tongue. "You were spending an awful lot of time together in the library, don't tell me that you—"

"That is what I'm telling you, and it's the truth!" said Hermione, now getting angry for the first time. "After it happened, I realised that I just didn't see anything happening with him. I apologised, and told him that, he was very understanding, and we decided to remain friends. That's what we are now. Friends."

Harry looked at her a long while. Slowly, his anger receded. His scar, which had started aching again, returned to its usual state of simply disfiguring his forehead.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'm sorry, Hermione. It's been a rough day. I shouldn't have—"

"It's quite okay," said Hermione, quite pleasantly. "I suppose it's partly my fault, for not telling you more when it happened. After all, you are my best friend… but I just thought you'd laugh at me. Or Ron would. Or you both would."

"I don't think that we would," said Harry.

"No," said Hermione softly. "No, I don't either."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment; he felt quite tired. When he opened them, Hermione was looking at him. Unlike the other times, however, she didn't look away.

"There's something else, isn't there, Harry?" asked Hermione. "You seemed awful down today, and I don't see how me writing to Krum would have you so upset. What is it?"

Harry scrambled to think of an excuse; it wouldn't do for Hermione to find out that the sole reason he had been angry and depressed all day was, in fact, due to finding out that she was still writing Krum.

"Oh, I was just... you know, I was just thinking about my parents, you know, and how they died. I have dead parents, Hermione. Well, I don't anymore, because they're dead," Harry said lamely, inwardly begging said parents' forgiveness for using them as an excuse for his rampant acts of seething jealously. Surely, Dad, you understand… Sorry, Mum.

But Hermione seemed disarmed. She placed a hand on his and looked at him carefully. "Harry," she said worriedly, "I don't know how you'll take this, but well, have you ever considered therapy?"

Harry stared at her blankly.

"Not that I think you need it!" she added hurriedly. "But if you maybe wanted to talk to someone about what has happened to you, and how you're feeling, you know, someone professional, someone not me…"

Harry gave her a lopsided smile. "Hermione, you're all the therapy I need."

She blushed. "Stop it, Harry, I'm serious."

He nudged her lightly. "So am I."

Hermione finally smiled, and looked down at their hands. "Well, it is my sincere pleasure to be the personal therapist to Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lives."

Harry cocked his head. "It's 'The Boy Who Lived.'"

Hermione leaned back in the sofa. "'Lives' sounds so much more positive, doesn't it? It's in the present, because after all, you are alive, Harry."

Harry had to agree; sitting there with Hermione so close to him, their arms sharing each other's hands, he felt very much alive.

To his dismay, Hermione cut their hand-holding short.

"I'm going to catch some shut-eye," she said tiredly. "Been a long day."

"Right," said Harry, extracting his hand from under his. "I probably will, too, soon enough."

"Good," said Hermione vaguely, looking at him inscrutably. After a pause, she leaned forward slowly and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodnight, Harry," she said, as she withdrew.

"'Night, Hermione," murmured Harry, watching her go up the stairs to the girl's dorm.

How 'bout that? he thought happily. She had kissed him on the cheek again. For the, let's see here, for the fifth time, not that he was keeping track or anything. But then again, it was always a good idea to keep count of the number of times ones best friend has kissed them in that area, so close to the lips and yet so far away… And, he realised with even more happiness, she wasn't angry with him for being mad at her for no good reason, they were back to normal, weren't they? If normal was a thing that applied to them…

"Oi, Harry!"

"Ron," said Harry guiltily, snapping around to see Ron standing next to him. "Hey. Listen, I'm sorry about today—"

"Never mind that," said Ron, sitting quickly next to Harry. "So, you and Hermione seem good again."

"Yeah," said Harry, relieved. "But, we are too, aren't we, Ron?"

"'Course," said Ron, and Harry felt a surge of affection for his friend. For him to so easily forgive Harry was a very pleasant thing to see. "But, Harry, you've got to be careful. You rack up too many pity points with Hermione and, in love with you as she may be, you may well end up in the friendzone."

"What are you talking about?" said Harry, suddenly getting annoyed again. "What pity points? And she's not in love with me, don't bring that up again!"

Ron laughed. "I heard you! You were playing the dead parents card again, so Hermione'd feel sorry for you!"

"Shut up, Ron," said Harry brashly.

"Oho! Not denying it, I see!"

"Shove off!"

"Really, Harry, I'm very sorry about your parents, and all, but talking about them all the time isn't going to make Hermione desperate to shag you."

"Ron," said Harry coldly, although his mind was now filled with deranged images of what Ron had just said, "you are making absolutely no sense. I'm going to bed, before you say anything that might result in a lot of pain for you."

But Ron laughed again. "See? You're even starting to sound like Hermione! Couples that spend too much time together, and all…"

"Goodnight, Ron," Harry said firmly, and he stood and walked away.

Stop thinking about it! he told himself angrily. Stop thinking about her like that! Agh! Think clean thoughts. Soap, and showers, and Hermione in the shower, with you… No! No, think of Snape, and his ugly face… yes, that's better…

Unfortunately, though, picturing the Potions Master so vividly and thoroughly made Harry angry again, and he went to sleep with his scar aching yet again.

The nightmares returned that night.

However, amidst all the screaming and murder, and another terrifying appearance from Lord Voldemort, there was a nicer dream, buried somewhere in the noise… a dream in which Harry and Hermione were unrestrainedly snogging on the couch in the Common Room, Hermione's ministrative hands wandering under Harry's robes, and then his trousers, and his hands unbuttoning her shirt and reaching within, spurred on by her moans and whispers of encouragement…

But then the dreams of Voldemort returned and Harry woke in a cold sweat in the early hours of the morning, scar throbbing with pain, yet somehow, disturbingly aroused, and wondering, not for the first time—not by a long way—why things could not be simple, why one thing must always come with another, worse thing.

But things could not be simple. Not for Harry Potter… not in this lifetime, at least.

Chapter Text

This is getting out of hand, thought Hermione, watching the thirty-six members of the Midnight Quidditch Club flit happily around the Pitch.

It had all started out so innocently. Just a small group of friends, getting together for a friendly game.

Now they had people from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff involved, and one quiet third-year Slytherin called Astoria Greengrass, who looked so frail that a strong wind might topple her, let alone the rush of air that one continually faced while flying. Nonetheless, the girl loosened up after the first hour or so and seemed quite surprised to face almost no direct animosity from the rest of the Club. Some of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had expressed some reservations, but seeing at how tentative and shy she was, most of the group seemed quite content to take her in as one of their own. Hermione had a suspicion that the girl didn't have many friends in her own house, or many at all. It was just as well, she supposed. After all, Hermione had been the one to suggest they build more connections and friendships between the houses. But she didn't expect it all to happen so soon, and with so many people!

She watched as Ron saved a goal from Alicia with ease, tossing the Quaffle over to Ginny, who zoomed down the Pitch single-mindedly, scattering Colin Creevey, Jason Phelangie, and Seamus Finnegan with her sheer speed. Rapidly, she approached Hermione and shot, braking to a halt to watch the results of her pitch. Hermione urged her broom up to the centre goalpost and managed to snag the Quaffle with one hand, almost dropping it. Pleased with herself, she threw it over to Dean, who took it back down the other end.

Hermione comforted herself with the fact that she had, at least done the right thing, in a way. That was to say, she had managed to make herself less wholly responsible for the whole thing should it all go to hell. Which she knew was a very selfish thing to do. But she had been shaken by the whole incident with Harry that week and she needed to do something to make herself feel secure. So much of this year, and the year before, was out of her hands, out of her control. And if Hermione despised one thing, it was not feeling in control. So, she had taken it upon herself to make a decisive action earlier that afternoon.

"Professor," she said, knocking lightly on Lupin's open office door. "May I have a word?"

"Hermione!" Lupin greeted her pleasantly. "Come in, come in, I'm just finishing up for the day, you've come at a good time."

She shut the door and took her seat, wringing her hands, very conflicted about what she was about to do. She knew Sirius had said it would be okay, but she couldn't be sure… Professor Lupin was, in his own way, quite like her. Which meant it was likely that he'd be as angry about the whole thing as she would have been had she not known about it, and had she not been corrupted with the boys' rebellious attitudes.

"So, Hermione," said Lupin, sipping from his tea and pushing his papers to one side. "What's bothering you?"

"Bothering me?" squeaked Hermione. "Why would you say that?"

Lupin raised a polite eyebrow. "You just jumped about a foot. You're wringing your hands, and you seem to be speaking in a register where only werewolves can hear you." He chuckled. "My little joke, forgive me. But what's wrong?"

"Oh, um." She did not know where to begin.

Lupin leaned forward a little. "Is it to do with Harry?"

"No! Well, a little, perhaps."

She saw Lupin's lips struggling to turn down. "Go on," he said.

"Okay, Professor, well, the thing is, you know me. I don't break rules at all if I can help it."

Lupin again raised an eyebrow. "Harry told me you set Snape's robes on fire in First Year. Then there was the Polyjuice Potion Ron mentioned in Second, not to mention freeing Sirius from the tower in Third… I could go on."

Hermione flushed. "I don't break rules if I have a choice," she amended.

Lupin acknowledged the truth in that.

"But this term, well… we've sort of been…"

"Would this have anything to do," said Lupin with a wolfish smile, "with the Midnight Quidditch Club?"

Hermione's tongue flapped uselessly as the words she had been about to utter lost themselves between her brain and mouth.

Lupin chuckled. "Hermione, you're speaking to the man who spent seven years at this school with James Potter and Sirius Black. I'm well in practice at noticing when students are up to no good, and very good at pretending not to notice, at least when I consider said no-gooders to mean no harm."

"But—" Hermione stammered, now a little injured that he had somehow found out about it. "But we were so careful! All our charms and concealments, and nobody would have told you, I made them sign a contract! I'd know! How?"

"Ah, Hermione, I have my ways." Lupin smiled at her for a long moment in which she stared back at him, and then he relented. "That, and Sirius told me at your birthday party."

Hermione's jaw dropped in indignation and she folded her arms crossly.

Lupin held out a placating hand. "You're right, you did a very good job. The Invisibility Marquee, eh? Catchy. You could make a fortune selling that idea. And the Illusionment Charm, very nice touch. But I suppose you're expecting me to reprimand you in some way for breaking a dozen school rules, force you to disband the Club, or perhaps invite me to join? After all, what could you stand to gain by telling me?"

Hermione kept her arms crossed, but remained deeply confused. "I just—I wanted to tell someone responsible. Someone like me."

"And now you have. Do you feel better?"

"A little. But Professor, you really don't mind? I mean, now you know, you have to keep it a secret from the other teachers. I mean," she hastened to correct herself, "not that you have to, I wouldn't ask you to do that, but well, now you're in the know, you take on some of the responsibility, not that I'm asking you to, but—"

"Hermione, Hermione," said Lupin, and she stopped speaking. He tilted his head to one side kindly. "You remind me of myself a little, at your age."

Hermione was both flattered and embarrassed.

"I, too, agonized over whether I should turn my friends in for their countless misdeeds, until I eventually gave up and participated in their supposedly fiendish schemes. I owed it to them, after all, nobody else had expressed a desire to be my friend. And I imagine I realised that they were just trying to have fun. After all, that is what people at your age should be doing. I just wish I realised it sooner. But, the odds were always stacked against me. I'd hate to see you make the same mistakes I did, when you clearly have such fun-loving friends."

Hermione looked at him with a softened gaze and forgot to keep her arms crossed. "I—well, Sirius said something similar."

"I imagine so," said Lupin, amused. He also looked quite wistful.

"He also said that you probably would be okay with it. He's been right about a lot of things, you know. I guess I should start taking Sirius more seriously…"

Lupin chuckled. "I'm sure he'd be both delighted and very amused to hear you use those particular words."

Hermione allowed herself a wry smile. "Since you're not turning us in, and if you aren't busy Friday nights, you are welcome to come along. I think everyone would feel safer with a teacher there. You're probably the one Professor that most of us feel comfortable around outside class."

"Irony at its finest, Hermione," said Lupin, but he looked quite pleased and surprised. "I'll think about it. Perhaps you could benefit from a good referee…"

"I think we'd like that," said Hermione.

"I do appreciate you coming to me about this," said Lupin.

Hermione nodded quickly.

"Anything else on your mind?"

Hermione made a show of thinking about it, then shook her head. "No, sir."

"Are you sure?" said Lupin curiously. He seemed to be egging her on to mention something, and Hermione had the distinct impression it was about Harry.

"Well, now you mention it," said Hermione, determined to turn the tables on him, "there is, of course the matter of that parchment… don't think Harry and I have forgotten about it, just because it seems to be kept hidden more safely these days, and not flashed about. It started with you, so I can only return to my investigation there, that is, here, at the scene of the crime."

"Well," said Lupin loudly as if she had not spoken, "thank you for visiting me, Miss Granger, it's been grand, but I've just got one more paper to mark, so…" He gestured to the door.

Hermione resisted the urge to shout at him—she knew Professor Lupin liked her very much, but he was still, of course, a Professor, and probably wouldn't take kindly to verbal abuse in his own office—and stood with dignity, seeing herself out the door. She did make sure to shut it with just the right amount of finality and authority.

"There," she muttered to herself. "That'll show him." And feeling a little better about everything, she walked off, ready for another night of the Midnight Quidditch Club, now with the blessing of one Professor R. J. Lupin.

Now, Hermione hovered on the school broomstick in front of the goalposts. For the first time, Harry had reclaimed his Firebolt, with Hermione's assurance that she had improved enough to sit on the school broom. Watching him flit around the pitch, she realised how much he had been held back these past few weeks. Now, the Fleabags stood no chance against his unerring speed and skill.

The thirty-odd players had settled into a comfortable routine, and each person seemed to have selected a side, becoming quite loyal to their team. There was now a little of that competitive spirit that seemed so important to Quidditch. Not too competitive—it was still very friendly—but there was a little less holding back now everyone had settled in. Harry was putting no stops out tonight. He ended the first game after just thirty minutes, leaving the score at 300-140, in Pigfarts' favour. In fact, Hermione got the distinct impression that Harry, usually so modest and humble, was showing off.

Hermione had managed to save more than her usual share of goals, even on the school broom (Harry had arrived early and set aside the best one for her), and dismounted onto the Pitch with more grace than she had been able to manage thus far.

"Good game, Harry," she said to him, as he dismounted beside her.

"Game?" said Seamus Finnegan grumpily. "What game? All I saw was Harry kicking our butts."

Hermione smiled patiently at him. "Guess the Fleabags will just have to up their game for the second match."

Seamus, George, Ron and the rest of the Fleabags seemed to take that as a challenge. The next match was considerably closer. It was so long that both teams switched out players multiple times, some going to rest on the stands and cheer everyone else on.

Hermione recognised the song playing through Fred and George's boombox. 'To Love You More', by Celine Dion. Hermione loved the singer, although she would never admit it to Harry or Ron. Her parents had introduced her to Dion's music earlier that summer, and one of her records had been on a loop for quite a few days as Hermione tried to stop thinking about Harry, which was a very counterproductive activity. She had subsequently spent a lot of time hugging her pillow to her chest while lip-syncing to the countless love songs (not singing; she wouldn't subject anybody to listen to that, especially not herself).

Now, she sat on the side-lines and watched Harry soar up to the goalposts to score one of his rare Chaser goals. The Quaffle slipped past Ron, who swore loudly. Harry did a victory lap, passing by Hermione with a whoosh of air and a carefree grin. She waved at him as he went, but he didn't notice.

She had hoped that her earlier assertion that she was not with Viktor in any sense of the word would urge Harry on to finally ask her out, now he had a clear field, so to speak. Sadly, it was to no avail. He seemed to have lost a little of his confidence, if ever it had existed in the first place. Granted, she had been rather upset and confused with his actions earlier that week, but a little flattered nonetheless at what was so clearly a reaction of jealousy. Or was it jealousy? Was it really that he just didn't want to see her get hurt? She had asked him, hadn't he, why it had mattered to him so much. And he hadn't said what she had so longed to hear...

"You were my strength when I was weak,

You were my voice when I couldn't speak.

You were my eyes when I couldn't see,

You saw the best there was in me."

Suddenly she found the music very irritating. She didn't need Celine Dion there reminding her that she was in love with Harry, who for all intents and purposes, didn't love her back. She was quite glad when the ballad was replaced with 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.' Because Hermione wanted to have fun. She stood and went over to the drinks station that Lee Jordan had set up and grabbed herself a Butterbeer, taking a long draught as she watched Ginny perform a little dance on her broomstick, taunting Dean, whom she had just scored against.

The game stretched out, and Hermione occupied herself with drinking, sometimes joined by other players, but mostly sitting and watching Harry. She was feeling down, for some reason, and drank mostly for an excuse not to talk to anyone, and to have something to do with her fidgety hands. Before Hermione knew it, it was one-thirty in the morning, and she had had five Butterbeers, and Harry's team had just won spectacularly yet again.

"Well done, Harry!" one of Ginny's friends called out. Hermione watched closely; the blonde girl seemed to be throwing herself at Harry as they descended to the ground, talking to him admiringly. Hermione felt the strong desire to throw her empty bottle at her. Harry seemed quite flattered by the interest, which increased her grumpiness.

The energy was high after the match, and nobody seemed desirous to go to bed. Fred and George suggested an afterparty, here on the Quidditch Pitch, which everyone responded to with cheers. They had plenty of Butterbeer and snacks, and even an evil looking bottle of Firewhisky which Ron was eyeing carefully.

"Hey, Hermione!"

Hermione turned to see Susan approaching her. "Susan!" she said, painfully aware that she was a little tipsy. "Well-played tonight, my friend."

"Thank you!" said Susan, quite pleased. "I didn't see you out there much tonight."

"I've been drinking," Hermione announced.

Susan raised an eyebrow and looked at the bottles littering the benches by Hermione. "So I see," she said, amused. "You doing alright?"

"Doing fine," said Hermione carelessly, accidentally knocking over a bottle to the grass. "Nobody does fine like I do, Susan. Susan, Susan, Susan…"

"That is my name," said Susan.

"Yes, it is," said Ron, who had just joined them. "Can I get Susan a drink, Susan?"

Susan giggled. "I'd like that. Come with, Hermione?"

Hermione stood a little unsteadily—Ron raised an amused eyebrow—and followed them over to the table, which was besieged by thirsty Quidditch players. Susan and Ron grabbed their first Butterbeers and Hermione grabbed her sixth. Harry joined them and cracked open his own bottle. His hair was very windswept, and even more messy than usual; it was very attractive.

"Harry," said Hermione quite suddenly.

"Yeah?"

"What was that girl saying to you?"

Harry frowned. "Oh, Janice? Nothing much, just stuff about the game."

So, Janice, was she? First name basis, are you? "How nice," said Hermione, and took a swig of Butterbeer.

"Well, cheers, I guess," said Harry, drinking from his own bottle.

"Yes, cheers," said Hermione vaguely.

Ron looked as if he was having a hard time keeping a straight face. "Harry," he muttered in what was apparently supposed to be a furtive manner. "Firewhisky, Harry, over there: how about it?"

Harry looked wary, and looked at Hermione. "Er, really? Now?"

"Why not, mate?"

Hermione noticed that Harry seemed to be awaiting her approval, so she voiced it. "Firewhisky!" she said loudly. "Let's all do one!" And she led her way over to the bottle, where a few short glasses were lined up. Clumsily, she poured out three glasses and handed Harry and Ron one each.

"What are we drinking to, Hermione?" asked Ron, who looked as though Christmas had come early.

"To Celine Dion," slurred Hermione. "No, to Quidditch. No, to Lupin, the miserable fink… why didn't he come along tonight?"

"You asked Lupin to come here?" asked Harry in disbelief.

"Yes, why should we have all the fun?"

Ron shrugged. "He'd be welcome, I suppose."

"Anyway," said Hermione, getting back to the drinking. "To—to Hoggy-Warty Hogwarts!"

"To Hogwarts!" Harry and Ron chorused.

They downed their shots.

The spirit burned Hermione's throat but she held it down. The boys spluttered, faces going red, and they slammed their glasses down on the table. Susan laughed at their reactions.

"Sweet Merlin," Ron gasped. "So that's what all the fuss is about…"

"That was almost as bad as the Polyjuice Potion," Harry coughed.

Hermione looked at them smugly. "That was nothing," she said confidently. "Orange juice has more of a kick. Bartender!" She waved vaguely at Fred. "Another!"

Fred came over, holding in his laughter. "Think you'd better let it settle a while, Hermy."

Hermione slapped him good-naturedly on the arm. "You," she said, "Gred. Or Forge. Fredge. what did I tell you about that name?"

"That you love it?" said Fred cheekily.

"That I love it," Hermione agreed.

Harry and Ron burst out laughing.

"What a time to make your drinking debut, Hermione," said Ron mirthfully.

"I've drunk before," snapped Hermione. "I'm not a prude. I have imbibed the alcohol."

"Uh-huh," said Harry, tears in his eyes from laughter. "I think we'd better stop you imbibing any more tonight, though."

"You can't stop me," Hermione claimed. "Nobody shall stand in my way. Unless you want detention, Potter."

"What if I do?" asked Harry playfully.

Hermione's addled brain tried to compute what he had just said. Was that flirting? She decided it was. "You dirty flirt," she said, poking a finger into his chest, feeling the firm muscles within with surprised excitement. "You've given me no choice. Ten points to Gryffin-drawer. I mean Gryffindor. And you'll address me as Professor, Potter. Or else."

"Yes, Professor." Harry seemed to have turned red, although perhaps that was still the Firewhisky.

Be careful, Granger, Hermione told herself. You've got to restrain yourself. What were you thinking, drinking so many Butterbeers, taking a shot… but then, why shouldn't you? Yes, Lupin was right. It's time to have some fun.

And so Hermione had fun. Lots of it. She didn't remember much of what happened next, but she knew that music was involved, and drunken flying, and silly games, and dancing, somehow, and dancing with Harry, or someone she thought was Harry, and Fred and George setting off fireworks, and Dean and Ginny snogging behind the stands where they thought nobody could see.

So this, thought Hermione to herself, is what it's like to be a teenager. This is what it's all about.

Harry swayed awkwardly with a drunken Hermione, holding her waist with one arm, and his other hand on her shoulder. How had they ended up here?

He'd had another couple of Butterbeers, and a second shot of Firewhisky with Ron—he'd had to stop Hermione from having another, though he thought she might have snuck one when he wasn't looking. He was beginning to feel the effects, and he wasn't sure if he and Hermione were actually swaying in time to the music or if it was the Pitch under their feet that was tilting back and forth.

His left hand was on Hermione's waist just where her shirt and jeans met. He could feel the heat of her skin below, feel the contour of her body. He wondered if his hand was in a place where it shouldn't be, but he looked down to where Hermione's fingers were pressed firmly to his chest, tracing circles, and decided that he wasn't.

Two singers crooned a duet from the boombox:

"I'll hold you close, in my arms...

I can't resist your charms...

And I, I'd play the fool, for you, I'm sure...

You know I don't mind..."

Harry closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of Hermione's shampoo and the strong alcohol, feeling quite blissful and very lucky to have her here, in his arms. He would gladly be a fool for Hermione; he was a fool. But he didn't mind...

It was coming to three in the morning. Almost all the non-Gryffindors had gone up to their dorms. He vaguely remembered saying goodbye to a smirking Susan, a vacant Luna, and an amused Hannah Abbott. Everyone seemed to be whispering about Hermione—it was a rare sight, to see her so sloppy and unceremonious. Harry just hoped they wouldn't spread the news; he wasn't sure Hermione's hex on the list of members extended to simple gossip.

Ron was livid; he had discovered Dean kissing Ginny behind the stands and had got into a raging row with the two of them. Harry had let them fight it out; Hermione seemed very interested in him right now and it would be churlish of him to refuse her his company. Not that they did much coherent speaking—that seemed beyond both of them right now. But it was nice to just sway here, in the aftermath of it all.

Harry was wondering why none of them had ever drank before. Heavily, that was. Everyone had been in such a good mood—even people he didn't usually get along with were perfectly friendly—and Hermione was so interested in him that he thought briefly about telling her how he felt. But as he looked down at her, her eyelids fluttering shut as she murmured something unintelligible into his shoulder, he knew now was not the time. She probably wouldn't remember it the next day, and he didn't think he'd get the courage up to say it again.

George yawned loudly over on the benches. "Time for a kip, I reckon," he said.

Harry heard Fred shushing him, and then a whispered conversation. He looked over at the twins from beyond Hermione's hopelessly frazzled hair. They quickly looked away from him. Harry decided that he'd better end his and Hermione's 'dance' just now. He had no idea how long they'd been swaying here together, nor how many people had seen them. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Or whose idea had it been? Hopefully Hermione's…

"Hermione," he muttered gently.

"Hmm…"

"Hermione, we should be going…"

"But this's so nice…"

"It is," Harry agreed. "But sleepy-time… I mean, time for sleep. Bed, is what I mean."

"Bed," Hermione agreed. "Lesh-go."

Harry slowly manoeuvred them over to the Marquee's exit. "Come on, out we go, watch yourself."

They clumsily stepped through the tunnel and out of the Marquee's flap, even as Fred and George were turning off all the lights and music and dismantling the Marquee. Ron was out behind them, muttering about Dean under his breath.

"Give it a rest, Ron," said Harry, walking now with Hermione clinging to his arm, barely upright.

"Rest?" snarled Ron. "You saw the bugger, tongue down my sister's throat. I ought to…"

"Let's deal with it tomorrow," yawned Harry.

"Fine," muttered Ron, none too steady on his feet himself. "Good games tonight, huh, Har?"

"Great games," said Harry absently. He had been showing off, tonight, hoping that Hermione would notice and say something of his incredible ability. Unfortunately, he had attracted attention from all the wrong people, instead.

They were almost at the front door of the castle before Harry realised: "Cloak!"

"Cloak?" said Ron.

"Invisible," said Harry tiredly. "We need to be, quiet. Quiet." He drew the Cloak out of his pocket and flung it clumsily over the three of them.

Hermione muttered a protest. "'S hot, Harry…"

"Yeah, but I think Filch is around. Be quiet, guys…"

"You be quiet," retorted Ron lamely, and Hermione giggled.

Harry sighed.

By a stroke of luck, they came across no one on their journey to Gryffindor tower, which was just as well. Harry supposed even the teachers and Filch had to sleep sometime; they could hardly wander about all night and still function all day, too.

"Come on, Hermione," he said, when they arrived safely inside the Common Room. He let go of her arm tentatively. "Think you can make it upstairs?"

"Yes," said Hermione confidently, and promptly fell over.

"Hemione!" said Ron, and they knelt beside her, trying to pull her upright again.

"'M fine," she insisted, rolling onto her back, "fine, let's just stay down here…"

Harry and Ron looked at each other and shrugged. They lay beside Hermione on the carpet between the smouldering fireplace and the sofa.

"Ah, floor," said Ron. "So underrated."

Harry had to admit it was very comfortable. He looked up at the ceiling, which was unfocused. He reached up to check he still had his glasses on, but surely enough he did. "Ron!"

"Harry!"

"Is the ceiling moving for you, too?"

Ron looked up. "Yup. Funny, that."

"Ron, we're drunk," Harry said, with clarity.

"Yes, we are."

Harry laughed. Ron laughed. Hermione mumbled something.

"What've we done?" said Harry, when the laughter had subsided.

"Something stupid," said Ron happily. "Or something genius."

"Let's say the latter," mumbled Hermione, her face now pressed into the foot of the sofa.

"Yes, Professor," murmured Harry.

Hermione reached over blindly and swiped at his face. Her palm found his cheek and she slapped it lightly. "Goodnight, Potter. Weasley."

"Goodnight, guys," yawned Ron. "I mean, morning. Oh, whatever…"

Harry was about to say goodnight, too, but before he got the words out, he was spinning down into the floor, into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Harry cracked one eye open. Sunlight was beginning to stream into the room, landing on his eyelids and forcing its way into his sleepy vision. It pained him, sending sparks into his skull, and he shifted his position so as to get out of its way.

As he shifted, he encountered another body. Something very warm and soft. He opened his other eye, and found himself very close to Hermione's sleeping form. He almost jumped up in shock, but didn't, for fear of waking her.

Her face was turned towards him, her legs nestled up against the side of his thighs, somewhere down there. A cushion was under her head and her arm was somewhere between her body and Harry's ribs. Above her on the couch was Ron, snoring softly, one leg up on the couch armrest and another leaning against the couch back, his lanky right arm dangling down towards Hermione and Harry. He must have got up in the night and moved up there.

Slowly, Harry remembered how they had crashed here just a few hours ago. He felt like death itself. Surprisingly, though, he didn't have the famed first hangover that everyone always talked about. Mostly, he was just sensitive to the light, but otherwise, he was simply exhausted. A Pepper-up Potion would go a long way in helping him, he thought, wondering if by chance someone might've left one lying around.

Hermione shifted in her sleep, moving closer to Harry. He froze as her head found its way over to his shoulder. Then he settled, as she showed no signs of waking. Something about her head there, so close to his, just felt right.

Her body was very warm, which was very comforting; it was a chilly morning. Birds were chirping outside. The fire had completely gone out and the scent of burning wood filled his nostrils.

Harry felt Hermione stirring beside him and quickly closed his eyes, wanting to give her a chance to extract herself without embarrassment from this position if she wanted to.

She groaned lightly and he felt a twinge of sympathy. Clearly, she was feeling distinctly worse than he was right now.

"Harry?" she said, very softly. He felt her breath on the side of his neck. When he didn't respond for a moment, she lay back into his shoulder.

Harry, delighted, made a show of sighing deeply in his supposed sleep. He felt Hermione breathing on him, the scent of alcohol still quite clear.

There was a brush of something on his chin, where the smallest traces of facial hair had annoyingly started to grow. In his sleepy state, he wondered why he was touching his face when he had made no effort to do so.

Another brush, closer to his lips, moving to his cheek! And then Harry realised: Hermione, the madwoman, was caressing his face while she thought he was asleep!

Good lord, he thought, as her light fingers danced their way down his neck. His breath hitched in his throat as they reached a particularly sensitive part of his jugular. He craned his neck slightly to bring her fingers into more solid contact with him. Seemingly spurred on by his movements, she stroked his skin more confidently.

Unfortunately, she stumbled upon a particularly ticklish spot under his jawline and he giggled, unable to stop himself.

Hermione froze. "Harry?"

He opened his eyes, and found himself looking right at her forehead. He directed his gaze lower and saw her eyes on his, wide and embarrassed, her fingers still on his chin.

"Morning," he said lamely.

Hermione drew her hand back hurriedly. "Harry! I wasn't, I swear—I was just, just you had something on your—on your face."

"Really?" he muttered, quite aware how close they were. He could take in every detail of her face, every fleck of brown in her eyes. "Well, thank you."

"You're welcome," said Hermione. "Um, why exactly are we lying on the floor?"

"You tell me," said Harry. "You seemed to think it was a bed."

Hermione groaned, closing her eyes. Her eyelids were remarkably smooth. He wanted to reach out and brush them gently, or perhaps even kiss them.

"Please tell me I did not do anything too mortifying," said Hermione. "I can't believe I allowed myself to get that drunk."

"You were fine, Hermione," said Harry. "Better than fine, you were hilarious. Not in a bad way, but it was nice to see you so—so happy."

Ron gave a loud snort and woke up. "Whassat?" he said blearily. "Whas goin' on?"

Hermione started and pulled away from Harry, to his disappointment. "We should be, um, getting up, before anyone comes down."

Unfortunately, Fred and George had just entered the Common Room.

Harry jerked his head up and forced himself into a sitting position.

Fred smirked. "Well, look at the three Sleeping Beauties."

"Adorable, Fred," said George. "Had ourselves a little slumber party, eh? Tsk tsk, what would McGonagall say? Two prefects and the star of the Wizarding World, nothing but a trio of washed-up drunkards…"

"We walked past you earlier," said Fred, "but you looked so happy, we didn't want to disturb you. Hermione, did you know you were using Harry as a pillow?"

"No!" said Hermione, shocked. "I was not!"

"Oh, yes you were," said George, "but perhaps you'll believe me when the photos come out."

Hermione's eyes widened further, which Harry would not have thought possible. "Photos?" she said in a small voice.

"Photos," Fred confirmed. "Colin had his camera at the party last night, and we borrowed it. Just some candid shots of a very memorable night."

"Fred," said Hermione dangerously, struggling to stand up. "You will destroy those photos immediately, or so help me, I will hex you into next week."

"Please," said Fred, "I'd love to skip practice today, I could sleep for two days."

Hermione staggered, leaning against the sofa, one hand on her forehead.

"And you don't look too hot, either, Hermione."

"Is this how it always feels?" Hermione moaned. "I still feel drunk, but I want to throw up."

"Aw, Fred," said George, "Miss Granger seems to be experiencing her first hangover. What a pity."

"A pity," Fred agreed. They allowed themselves a moment more of savouring their taunts, before George pulled out a flask from his pocket.

"Here, Hermione," he said, tossing her the flask. "That'll help with the nausea and the headache."

Hermione didn't manage to catch it, and it landed in Ron's lap.

"Ow!" said Ron, sitting up more sharply than Harry had ever seen him do at this time of the morning. "Blimey, George. Here." He passed the flask to Hermione, who uncorked it and downed the contents in one go. She sat heavily on Ron's legs.

"In all seriousness, Hermione," said Fred, "drunk Granger was a joy to behold."

"Yeah, glad you had fun," said George earnestly.

"Thanks," Hermione muttered. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to have a shower and wash the alcoholic shame off of me." She got to her feet and stumbled up the stairs to the girls dorm.

Ron smirked at Harry as the twins made their way to their usual corner of the room. "He's right, you know," he said knowingly. "I got up around 5 to go to the loo—Hermione seemed very comfortable on your chest, Harry."

"Shut up, Ron," said Harry, but his breathing had quickened. Had Hermione really lain on him? She had, hadn't she? And she'd really been stroking his face just then, too! What did that mean? Had she just still been drunk, or… could it be she really was attracted to him? After all, didn't everyone say that being drunk brought out your true self, unrestrained by your inhibitions?

The photos came out later that day. Some of them were very blurry, or had a finger blocking most of the view, but they were happy memories that the good ones painted. Harry quickly nabbed a couple for his photo album before Hermione inevitably destroyed them. Among them were a picture of the three of them, apparently singing drunkenly, arms around each other, a photo of Ron twirling Harry around, a jubilant expression on his face and a terrified expression on Harry's, and a picture of Harry and Hermione dancing together, arms entwined so closely it was hard to tell whose was whose. He looked at this last one for a very long time. He had an irrational urge to show the pictures to his parents. He thought they'd quite like to see them, had they been here.

Mysteriously, the picture the twins had described of Hermione sleeping with Harry was nowhere to be found… Harry tried not to feel too disappointed, but at the same time he was worried that someone else had got their hands on it.

The Gryffindor Quidditch practice was a difficult affair. Harry felt he'd rather be in his bed, but Angelina was working them hard; she clearly hadn't drunk at all last night. Cormac McLaggen continued to be a complete arse, and Harry hoped very much that Angelina would throw him off the team sooner rather than later.

As seemed to be their usual custom, Harry and Hermione didn't speak about what had happened that morning, but there was a little more affection in the way they acted around one another, a closeness that Harry was very pleased to experience.

There were a few giggles at the tables in the Great Hall—thankfully, restricted to members of the MQC. Hermione was mortified; her reputation was threatening to run away from her as Dean and Seamus recounted her drunken adventures. Thankfully, Dean shut up when Ron reminded him that he was still plotting his murder, in repatriation for Dean violating Ginny.

Harry was feeling something in his chest, a feeling he couldn't explain if he tried. The feeling expanded in him every time he looked at Hermione. It wasn't sadness, it wasn't happiness, it was a strange mixture of the two, like his heart was both leaping out and crushing itself. It was quite alarming.

He privately thought to himself that he wouldn't complain at all if he ended up waking up with Hermione beside him more in the future.

There were a few dark tidings in the Daily Prophet that day. There had supposedly been an attempted Death Eater break-in at the Ministry last night. Luckily, however, the two Death Eaters—Augustus Rookwood and Antonin Dolohov—had been apprehended, and were awaiting trial. Harry put the newspaper aside and ate his dinner, mulling over it. At least, he thought, the Ministry seemed to be taking the threat of the Death Eaters seriously, now. Voldemort's whereabouts were still unknown, but he hadn't made any terrifying appearances, hadn't, to their knowledge, killed anyone else. Maybe Ron had been right, maybe by escaping the graveyard Harry really had ruined his plans…

And maybe Harry really could have that normal year he had always longed for… although, it was shaping up to be anything but normal—but in a much more positive light than previous years.

That night, Hermione spent a couple hours studying, bemoaning the fact that she had neglected her work in the past couple of weeks. She seemed mostly recovered from her hangover, but was very tired, and gave up on her essay approaching nine in the evening. Harry and Ron, meanwhile played yet another game of chess, which Harry yet again lost.

After the fierce but doomed battle between Harry's bishops and Ron's side-castles, Crookshanks curled up in Harry's lap and he watched with amusement. Hermione's cat had so far kept his distance from Harry; in fact he had hardly seen Crookshanks in the past few weeks. The cat didn't seem so ugly, anymore. The squashed orange face was somewhat endearing, and he stroked Crookshanks' fur absently, allowing him to shed on his lap.

Harry sat, quite content to have given up on studying and playing chess for the night, listening to Hermione and Ron bicker about the mental benefits of chess. Ron argued that it improved strategic and critical thinking. Hermione argued that such thinking could easily be learned by reading, but Ron countered that the actual practice of planning moves was much more productive, especially for non-readers like him.

Hermione, having lost the argument spectacularly, chose to go to bed and sleep off the remaining effects of the Firewhisky. Harry was hopefully awaiting a peck on the cheek from her, but she seemed particularly miffed, and simply uttered a 'Goodnight', before scooping Crookshanks off Harry's lap and striding away.

Harry, disappointed, and feeling electricity course through his body—Hermione's hands had, as they were wont to do, had brushed against his body in a way that seemed to inevitably drive him mad—looked over at a triumphant Ron.

"Look at me," said Ron happily. "Won an argument with Hermione without any help from anyone."

Harry raised his eyebrow. "You want a medal?"

"That'd be swell, Har, you got one?" Ron chuckled at himself, then his jaw dropped as he looked back over at the fire. "Sirius!"

Harry whirled around. Sure enough, there he was—or rather, there his head was—grinning up at the two of them from within his fiery dwelling.

"Sirius!" said Harry, crouching down by the fire. "How are you?"

"Doing quite well. And you two?"

"Great," said Harry and Ron. "What's new?" Harry added.

"Little things, here and there," Sirius said vaguely. "Nothing life-changing. What's new at school?"

"Not much," said Ron, but with the air of someone holding in a great joke. "We had a party after one of our Quidditch games, and Hermione got smashed!"

Sirius roared with laughter. "Oh, I'd have loved to see that. And you two?"

"Yeah, we weren't too far behind, were we, Harry?"

"No, we definitely weren't," said Harry, and Sirius looked very proud. "It was fun, though. That Firewhisky, that stuff's dangerous."

"Very," said Sirius. "Many a nights did James and I pass out with an empty green bottle between us."

Harry laughed. "Oh, Sirius, Lupin knows about the MQC, now, and you were right, he doesn't mind at all. Seems to agree with you it's a good idea."

"Of course he does!" said Sirius proudly. "Convinced him myself! So, you're welcome."

"Oh," said Harry. "Oh, I didn't know you told him."

Sirius rolled his eyes in a very Hermione-like manner. "Of course I told him! He's my best friend, nowadays. Who else am I going to tell interesting stuff like this to?"

"Right," said Harry.

"I hope he's enjoying himself," said Sirius. "He deserves it, the miserable bastard. Think he's finally come around to the spirit of James and I, only a couple decades late. But all the better for him, now he's a teacher! The stuff he could get away with!"

Harry and Ron laughed, and they spent a happy while talking about the potential pranks Lupin could pull on the Hogwarts staff, in particular Snape. After they had exhausted the topic, Ron excused himself to go up to bed—it was approaching midnight, and all the other Gryffindors had gone to bed. But Harry wasn't tired; his sleep schedule was quite out of whack after their very late Friday night.

Now alone with Sirius for the first time since before term began, Harry found himself with a rare opportunity. Sirius, surely, he could confide in about this… He was becoming that rare mixture of both fatherly and brotherly, and he was a safe space, he wouldn't tell anyone Harry wouldn't want him to.

"Something on your mind, Harry?" said Sirius, as if reading said mind.

"I suppose there is," Harry admitted.

"Go on, spit it out."

And Harry did, quite slowly, and very vaguely. "Well, Sirius, you see, it's this thing that I've been, well… I've been wondering, well not wondering, but thinking a lot about this, well… It's girl stuff."

Sirius smiled knowingly, and Harry could tell he was thrilled to be confided in about such a topic. "You've come to the right man! So, when are you going to ask Hermione out?"

"Hermione?!" Harry almost yelled. "What makes you think it's about her?"

"Harry, Harry," said Sirius patronisingly. "Don't even think about trying to pull one over on me."

"Alright, fine," said Harry grudgingly. "I guess I was just wondering… is it possible for two close friends to—to build something that is more than a friendship?"

Sirius cocked his head. "Is it possible? Is it possible? Harry, the best relationships are born out of friendship first. Romance is a friendship set to the most magical music in the world. Romance is something that almost cannot live without the friendship it brings with it, or the other way round. The two are inextricably linked."

Harry considered his enthusiastic godfather. "Sounds like you've given a lot of thought to this."

Sirius looked a little embarrassed. "Well, I wasn't just twiddling my thumbs for twelve years in Azkaban. When I wasn't doing crossword puzzles, I became quite the philosopher. Lily would have been proud." A sadness passed over his face for a brief moment, the fire sending shallow shadows into the few lines on his forehead and around his mouth.

"Right… so you think that it can be, then?"

"Do I think… Yes, I very much believe it. And there is such huge potential for you and Hermione, Harry. I've seen the way you two are together. You'd be unstoppable. You'd be the couple to rule all couples. The king and queen of Hogwarts, with Ron as your royal jester. And me, the proud old fart who will sit at your world-famous wedding, watching as you snog madly before embarking on your two week honeymoon in Paris."

"You're exaggerating, Sirius. I'm just asking you a theoretical question. It's not like Hermione likes me in that way, not even that I do. Just a question."

"Just a question, eh? So, tell me, that party you threw her, all that effort, all that gold for the gift, that's just something that you, as a friend of hers, did?"

"Sirius—"

"My godson is in love," said Sirius fondly. "Happy days…"

"I am not," said Harry crossly.

"Ah, Harry," said Sirius reminiscently. "You're just like James… Blind, in more ways than one, and in love with a fiery Muggle-born Prefect twice as good at magic as you. And you're both equally as stupid about the whole thing."

"Come on, Sirius," said Harry, pained. "Fine, I like her in a way that I can't call strictly friendly, but in love with her? Don't be stupid."

But Sirius' grin grew even wider. "James was also in denial about Lily. 'Evans', he called her, when he made fun of her. Pretended it was just a matter of pride that he wanted to get her to go out with him. But all the stupid things he did to get her attention just proved to me he was madly in love. You don't obsess over someone like that for it only to be a crush."

Harry was both very eager to deflect attention away from himself and Hermione, and to hear more about his parents (he certainly wasn't going to mention how he and Hermione had slept on the floor of the Common Room together). "And my Mum? Did she love him at the same time?"

Sirius hummed thoughtfully. "I wouldn't say so. Or rather, she probably realised it a little after he did. All that annoyance, all that fire, it had to go somewhere, and when James stopped acting like a prat, and started turning into a real man, that fire turned into, well, love." Sirius looked pensive. "Love is a fierce and fickle thing, Harry. It sometimes comes out of nowhere, sometimes in the place you last expect it. It rarely ever makes sense unless you admit to yourself that it doesn't make sense."

Harry pondered his words for a long moment. "Were you ever in love, Sirius?" he asked quietly.

Sirius was quite taken aback. He hesitated, then said, "I think so. Just once."

"Who was she?" asked Harry curiously.

"She?" said Sirius, looking a little alarmed. "Yes, she was… she was, let's say, unavailable. It didn't work out."

"Oh. Sorry to hear that."

"It's alright. That wound has… healed. Real well. Very well." Sirius cleared his throat. "In any case, I had my share of, well, let's call them flings."

Harry felt a strong affinity with his godfather just then, and his dad. So they were all hopeless at the whole thing! He wasn't alone… but he had something here with Hermione, surely… Maybe he could be the first in the family to see success, sooner rather than later. As Sirius said, make the most of it while he could…

"Sorry to cut this short, but I've got to get going, Harry," said Sirius, after a long pause, though he was still looking at Harry with a mixture of pride and concern. "There's an Order meeting in a few minutes, even Dumbledore is coming."

Harry perked up. "Is it about what was in the news today? What were Rookwood and Dolohov after? Anything you can tell me?"

Sirius hesitated. "Not just yet, Harry. But don't you worry. It's nothing huge, I'd tell you if it was. Just keep your eyes peeled for any more news."

"Okay," said Harry, resigned. He trusted Sirius, after all, he had never let him down before, never kept him in the dark without good reason. "See you later, Sirius."

"Bye, Harry. Think about what I said, alright? Make your move, and make it smart, and soon. Hermione may not be in love with you forever…"

Harry watched as Sirius withdrew his head from the fireplace, and then he was left alone in the Common Room.

Forever… What a word. Was love really not forever? It had been built up as such a powerful, mythical thing in Harry's mind these past few years. Everyone spoke to him of love, but before the age of eleven, Harry had never known the meaning of the word.

Dumbledore spoke of his parents' love for him, that protected him even now… Sirius, about the fiery romance of James and Lily, and his own mysterious lost love… And Ron and half the school seemed adamant that Harry and Hermione really were madly in love with one another.

Hermione may not be in love with you forever…

But could love really last on such a magnitude of time that it transcended all time itself? How could anything truly last forever?

Harry supposed that if someone really was in love, they would see it as forever. The question was not, he reasoned, if that love would, unequivocally, last forever. Nobody could answer such a question.

The real question to ask was: do you look at the person you may be in love with, in the here and now, and see yourself with them forever?

Harry stared into the fire. And he slammed his palm into his forehead.

"I'm in love," he whispered to himself. "I'm in love with Hermione…"

He stayed in the Common Room a long while before going to bed, just thinking, his mind oddly clear. He was in Love. That thing that had eluded him most of his life was finally here, and he hadn't known it until now. How could he not have known it? It seemed so obvious, like it had been beating him over the head with a Cupid's arrow for the past month. Sure, it made absolutely no sense, but it also made all the sense in the world. He knew, somehow, that he and Hermione were meant to be. That was the feeling that had been within him all day, and perhaps much longer. That he looked at her, and he saw a forever. Their forever.

Love.

Harry stood up slowly, but he paused before heading upstairs. He looked at the dying fire, and said softly:

"Thanks, Sirius."

Chapter Text

Harry performed a double barrel roll high above the Quidditch Pitch while an up-tempo rock song reverberated from below. He looked down to see Hermione waving her silken cape at him. He grinned and felt the butterflies in his stomach flit around in a way that was both pleasant and unnerving.

Harry had struggled very much to keep his epiphany to himself that week.

Now that he finally knew he loved Hermione, he had to figure out what he was going to do about it. He didn't want to rush things, but he was also still worried that Hermione might not feel as strongly as he did, if at all. He had been watching her closely all week but seen few signs that she returned his affections; mostly she just asked him if he was okay (staring at her tended to give him an unfocused, bleary expression, apparently). He didn't want to take things too slowly, either. But things didn't seem to be happening slowly at all…

Time was passing at an alarming rate; they were somehow well into October, and the first official Hogwarts Quidditch match was approaching: Gryffindor vs Slytherin. Was this what everyone meant, when they said 'Time flies when you're having fun'?

Because what with Midnight Quidditch, regular Quidditch, the gigantic workload and busy study plan, talking to Sirius, and obsessing over Hermione, Harry realised that he had hardly had any time to be depressed or worry about Voldemort. And that was how it should be, he realised. A busy mind, a busy life, was a happy mind, and a good life, and all that, or whatever the saying was.

Tonight's game saw a turnout of over forty players and spectators. Harry had met with Fred and George earlier in the week to plan around the swelling of the ranks.

Harry descended from his warm-up to join the rest of the group, who had congregated in the middle of the Pitch. Quite a few of the newer members had been watching him, he noticed; a couple of the Second Years looked quite star-struck. He gave them an awkward smile to hopefully put them at ease, but he was not quite sure it worked.

It was around eleven-thirty, and Hermione was quickly checking her list of names with the people present. She nodded to the twins in confirmation that everyone who had signed up was present.

"Alright, you muppets!" called Fred, and everyone came to attention.

"We seem to have an inflation of the ranks," said George. "As well as our heads. So, we need everyone to pick a team and stay on it from now on, so we don't confuse each other anymore than we already do. Fleabags will wear these armbands." He held up an armful of bright red armbands.

"And Pigfarts will wear these lovely capes," said Fred, holding out an armful of waist-length, gold silk capes. "We do need somewhat even numbers, so don't just go for what you want to wear, or your favourite twin, either, because let's face it, you'd all be on Pigfarts with me. Alright, go! Sort yourselves!"

There was a little more order tonight than there had been so far; there had to be, with that many people.

Each team ended up with two Seekers; Harry and Jason would be Seekers for Pigfarts, while Ginny and Alicia were Seekers for Fleabags.

They had upped the Beaters to three per team, which left one Keeper and the obscene number of fourteen Chasers per side. As such, they decided to introduce a second Quaffle and a second Snitch to the game.

The actual numbers for the match ended up being a little lower than this, in any case. There were a few people sitting out at any one time; although the large majority of the forty members had come to play (particularly those who hadn't made House teams), there were quite a few who were also very happy to relax and watch—Quidditch was, after all, a very entertaining spectator sport, and part of the attraction of the MQC was simply the thrill of breaking school rules and being out-of-bounds in the middle of the night. That, and the twins had made an enjoyable habit of throwing parties afterward.

Neville—who had just recently joined—wasn't going to play at all, but he would be the Game-Master and unbiased referee, while Colin and Luna were commentating.

The teams were set and everyone was rising into the air expectantly.

Harry urged his broom over to Hermione. "Give me a hand tying this?" he asked hopefully, gesturing at the cape which he had apparently failed at fastening around his neck.

Hermione nodded, leaning over to tie a quick, neat double bow knot that secured the cape safely. In truth, Harry should have had no problem tying his own cape; he simply wanted to feel Hermione's hands on his neck again, and she didn't disappoint. She patted the cape gently so it sat snugly against his back.

"Thanks, Hermione," he said, meaning two things. Her fingers sadly left his neck and back and his skin tingled with hopeless longing.

"Don't mention it. Good luck, Harry."

Harry nodded. "You, too. You sure about playing Chaser tonight?"

"I'm sure," said Hermione. "There's so many of us, I probably won't have to do much. I can just fly around and follow the game, and keep an eye on you."

Harry frowned. "What makes you think I'll need keeping an eye on?"

Hermione coughed lightly. "Need I count all the times you've almost died here? First Year, when Quirrell jinxed your broom. Second Year, when Dobby jinxed a Bludger. Third Year, with the Dementors. And let's have an honorary mention for the time you faced a Hungarian Horntail with nothing but a broomstick."

"That last one was entirely your idea," Harry muttered. "Fine, you can be my… personal lifeguard, or whatever."

Hermione beamed. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Harry jostled her affectionately and she pushed back against him, resulting in a strange sort of mid-air hug which Harry enjoyed very much. He thought he saw a camera flash out of the corner of his eye, but when he located Colin he was innocently looking the other way in the commentator's booth.

"Teams!" roared Fred suddenly over the boombox, which was playing 'Want You to Want Me.' "Form up! Like we practised!"

"See you later," said Harry, pushing her gently on her way over to the team.

"It's inevitable that you will," replied Hermione smoothly, and swung over to complete the line-up of Pigfarts Chasers. The ten Chasers were lined up in two interlocking rows: four fliers hovering above, behind, and spaced between the other six.

Two Beaters positioned themselves above the Chasers, leaving a space in the middle. Fred was hovering level with this space, but a little ways in front. Harry soared above all of them to join Jason at the peak of their mid-air human pyramid. He fist-bumped Jason and muttered, "Keep an eye on Ginny. She doesn't often play Seeker, but she's surprisingly good, and fast. Alicia's new to it, so she plays pretty standard moves."

"Will do, Harry," said Jason casually. "Good luck."

"Same to you." Harry turned to face front, where the Fleabags were lined up in the exact same formation. With the teams formed up, the Keepers at their respective goalposts, and Captains Fred and George facing each other in the middle, they were all set.

"Ready, Pigfarts?" said George.

"Ready, Fleabags," said Fred. "Game-master, release the balls—on three!"

"One!"

"Two!"

"Three!"

Neville let loose the Bludgers and the two Snitches, held a three second count while they flew around the pitch, then hurled the two Quaffles into the air, shouting, "Match start!"

Thirty-two Quidditch players spurred themselves forward, and soon, in addition to the music, the night was filled with excited whoops, grunts and the sounds of the air being split by speeding broomsticks and balls.

"It's another exciting game of Pigfarts vs Fleabags!" Colin's voice rang out over the nearly empty stands. "And it's complete chaos tonight, as for the first time, we play sixteen players to a side, with two Quaffles and two Golden Snitches. Remember, players, one single Snitch catch is worth fifty points. And now, with two Snitches, each team, regardless of which Seeker, needs to catch any Snitch a total of six times before the match ends! And it looks like Harry's already seen one—he's zooming down the West end, look at him go. Yes, I see it too! He's almost got it—almost—look out, Harry!"

Harry braked sharply as two Bludgers came hurtling at him from both ends—he pulled back and they collided just in front of him, before continuing their mad, random pursuit. He lost sight of the Snitch in the confusion.

"Phew! An excellent dodge from Harry. Now for the Chasers—we've got one Quaffle approaching Pigfarts' goals and one on Fleabag's. Luna, you watch that end, I'll watch this one. We've got Katie for Fleabag, passes to Susan! Lee is Keeper for Pigfarts, he's weighing up the situation… which hoop will Susan go for? Luna, what's happening on the other side?"

The players heard Luna Lovegood humming absently into the megaphone.

"Luna?"

"Oh! Ron seems to be adjusting his trousers while waiting for the ball to arrive. I wonder if he's got a Nargles infestation down there…"

Laughter rang out across the Pitch. Harry grinned. If only Luna could commentate at House matches for the whole school. The looks on McGonagall and Snape's faces would be priceless…

"Good luck, Ron!" Luna went on. "And he saves it! Well done, that was a hard one, Angelina was quite mean there, but you did it!"

"And Susan Bones scores for Fleabag!" shouted Colin. "We're now at 10 all, people! The twins are having a Bludger war, it seems. Be careful, guys… watch out, Alicia!"

Alicia just managed to pull off a Sloth-Grip Roll and avoid the two Bludgers. "I'm on your bloody team, George!" she shouted angrily.

"Sorry, honey," yelled George. "Didn't mean to! It was Fred's fault!"

"You all look very stylish," said Luna from the stands. "I like the capes, the armbands are a bit rogue for my tastes. Harry wears the gold very well, did you know that, Harry?"

"Thanks, Luna!" Harry yelled out, just as he spotted the Snitch again. He spurred on his Firebolt, accelerating from nought to a hundred in a second. He manoeuvred past three Fleabag Chasers who tried to block him; they scattered in fright or from the force of the wind he brought. He came close to the stands, reached his hand out—the first grab, his fingers brushed it and sent it further away. Pouring on even more speed, he caught up to it by Ron's goalposts, looping around them just as he finally got his hand on it.

"Harry makes the first Snitch catch, to no one's surprise," said Colin from the stands. "Meanwhile, Hermione managed to slip a goal past Ron, who looked to be trying to stop Harry catching the Snitch. Bad move, Ron, bad move… And now, Katie scores for Fleabag, stay focused, Lee! We're at 80-30, people, in favour of Pigfarts. 80-30! Alright, Luna, take over for a minute, I'm going to take some photos."

The Commentator's booth was silent for a moment, and Harry looked around. Neither of the Snitches were making an appearance so soon after his first catch. But he spotted one of his Chasers in trouble. They had the Quaffle, but were cut off from their teammates by a wall of six Fleabags, pushing her back.

As Harry let his broom carry him down, he saw that it was the young Slytherin girl, Astoria. Shrugging—sometimes a Seeker must help his teammates—he divebombed the group of six, scattering three of them and making the others wince. This was enough of a distraction for Astoria to zoom over their heads and make a pass to Angelina, who took it down the Pitch and shot—and Ron saved it.

"Good job, Ron!" said Luna cheerfully.

Ron looked pleased with himself, tossing the Quaffle out without much care who caught it; Susan had made her way over to the goalposts, and they seemed to be having a conversation.

Harry smirked. "Gotta keep your head in the game, Ron… Angelina! Dean! Over here! Two more Chasers if anyone's free!"

Dean, who had a Quaffle now, joined Harry and Angelina as they flew down the Pitch, three abreast. Seamus and a Ravenclaw girl whose name Harry had forgotten joined their group. Their other Chasers were trying to stop Fleabag from shooting with the second Quaffle, at the other end.

"Going for the Juggler, Harry?" asked Angelina.

Harry nodded confirmation as they approached quite leisurely. Ron was now apparently demonstrating to Susan how to make a save with the tailpiece of the broom.

"You heard her," Harry told his fellow players. "Juggle!"

Dean grinned. "Heads up!" he said, and tossed the Quaffle over Harry's head to Seamus. Seamus flicked it down to Angelina, who tossed it to Harry, who tossed it to the Ravenclaw girl. By the time Ron noticed they were coming, the Quaffle was moving between the five of them like a hot potato. Ron went cross-eyed trying to track its progress and figure out who was going to shoot.

That was when Dean got the Quaffle and without any hesitation shot it to the left hoop. Ron dived, and missed.

"Nice!" said Harry, giving Dean a high-five.

"Good call, Harry," said Angelina, smirking.

"That was very mean, Harry," said Luna from the booth. "Poor Ron! He did look very funny, though, with his eyes all crossed like that."

Harry looked around distractedly. "Where's Colin?" he asked nobody in particular. And then he spotted him in the Gryffindor stands, his camera pointed out at the match, taking a photo every once in a while. Harry smiled sheepishly as Colin took one of him, then shook his head to clear it. The Snitch. Without Colin's clearer commentary, Harry had lost track of the overall match.

And there was one of the Snitches, being pursued by Ginny, her red hair streaming out behind her as she leant over her broomstick. Harry moved to chase her, but then he saw that Alicia was chasing the second Snitch, on the other end of the Pitch. Harry couldn't go after them both…

"Jason!" Harry yelled. "Get Alicia!"

"On it!" he heard Jason's voice from somewhere below him.

Harry urged himself towards Ginny, reeling in the distance between them. Ginny was on a school broom, it was no match for the Firebolt. But somehow she was still ahead of him! How was that possible?

"Oi!" he yelled desperately.

Ginny looked back and grinned. "Too quick for you, Potter?"

"Not bloody likely," muttered Harry, and streamlined himself, leaning so low over the broom it might have been part of him. He edged closer and closer, he could reach out and grab Ginny's foot if he wanted, then he was level with her waist…

But it was too late. Ginny closed her hand around the Snitch. Harry wheeled around, quite ashamed of himself. He was so rarely beaten out by other Seekers when he was really trying his hardest. He had only ever lost a fair game to Cedric, in Third Year, and that had been because of the Dementors.

"Wow!" said Luna. "Two Snitches caught at once! Ginny caught one, beating Harry. I do like Ginny, she's very nice… That cute Hufflepuff boy, Phelangie, caught the other."

"Score?" someone yelled.

"Luna, what's the score?!"

"Dunno, check the board!" said someone else. This person grunted, apparently having taken a Bludger to the stomach. Harry looked down to see Dennis Creevey falling to the ground, having toppled from his broom—Harry whipped out his wand as fast as he could, but Fred and George were closer—they yelled a charm, and the safety net moved to where Dennis fell. He landed and bounced very high, shouting for his life.

"Colin's brother took a fall," said Luna, "but the safety net's saved him. Well done, Fred and George… I do think we should have a safety net in normal games, too…"

"Alright, Dennis?" Harry called, grabbing the abandoned broomstick from the air and descending to the net.

"Alright, Harry," said Dennis, grinning. "Thanks." He took the broom from Harry, mounted it awkwardly, and was off again.

A whistle pierced the Pitch. "Foul!" Neville called.

"What happened?" someone said.

"Seamus, you can't tug at the back of a player's broom like that!" said Neville. "Fleabags, take a penalty!"

Harry was impressed. He didn't honestly think Neville would have had it in him to be a strict referee, but he seemed to be taking his job quite seriously; Harry got the feeling he was determined not to mess up, since they had asked him to do something important when he so often was left out. "Good for you, Neville," he muttered.

Katie took the penalty, and scored easily against Lee, who swore very loudly and said, "Maybe I'll take a break, commentate instead."

There was a chorus of assent—Luna's commentary was not as endearing to everyone else as it was to Harry. With Lee off the Pitch, Seamus stepped into the Pigfarts Keeper role.

Harry caught the Snitch for the second time five minutes later, at the base of the Pigfarts hoops, with Hermione watching him from above, living up to her role as his personal lifesaver.

"Well done, Harry!" yelled Lee, now in his usual spot in the commentator's booth. "Another stellar catch… At the same time, Seamus lets in a goal from Susan, that makes Pigfarts at 240 and Fleabag at 180! Three Snitches caught for Pigfarts, and only one for Fleabag, oh, no, here we go, there's another! Alicia's chasing, chasing, chasing, she catches it! Alright, 240-230! Blimey, it's close now… good girl, Alicia, let the Snitch go, give it a minute… remember, Seekers, when you let the Snitch go you have to look away as it escapes, and you can't catch the same Snitch within five minutes… Neville will be watching and I'm sure he has stern punishment for whoever cheats, don't you Neville?"

Fred and George's friend Dom seemed to be targeting Harry solely with the Bludgers.

"Fred!" Harry yelled as he just avoided a nasty collision. "Take your mate down a peg!"

"With pleasure, Harry!" yelled Fred, whacking a Bludger that forced Dom to jump from his broom, holding on to the shaft with one hand as the Bludger flew through the air above him. He tried to clamber back onto his broom as Harry flew past—Harry had seen Ginny diving madly in the middle of the Pitch—he couldn't let her get another catch on him, no way…

Harry plunged into a steep dive after Ginny. They got closer and closer to the ground, but Ginny didn't pull up, and Harry couldn't see past her to the Snitch…

Without warning, Ginny pulled up. Harry, caught by surprise, only just managed to level up sharply. There was no Snitch. Ginny had been performing the Wronski Feint.

Ginny laughed at him. "Gullible as a lamb," she called.

Harry glared at her, but had to admit, "Nice one." Luckily for him, Jason caught the real Snitch at that moment, uttering a cry of triumph as he beat Alicia to the punch.

"Fantastic, Jason!" yelled Lee with excitement. "That's four Snitches down for Pigfarts, two for Fleabags! The score sits at 320-240! Ernie MacMillan unseats Seamus with a Bludger, ouch! Seamus hits the net, you alright mate? Good… Ginny seems to be lording it over Harry after that excellent Wronski Feint… Luckily Harry's the master of dives, so he's still in the game…"

Ginny caught another Snitch for real ten minutes later. Harry had been far away helping Hermione and Astoria attempt a goal at the time—Hermione shot and just missed. Ron retrieved the Quaffle, but at the same time, Harry passed Astoria the second Quaffle, which he had concealed under his arm so Ron wouldn't see it. Astoria lobbed it through the middle hoop just as Ron turned back, aghast. Hermione and Astoria high-fived and Harry grinned, wheeling around. "That's just mean, Harry!" Ron called behind him. "Dirty tactics, two bloody Quaffles…"

By this point, the match was nearing an hour long. Neville blew the whistle—they had agreed that if the timer hit an hour and no end was in sight, they would call a timeout for ten minutes to rest.

It was in this ten minute break that someone extraordinary happened.

The Invisibility Marquee was partially translucent around its light red folds, like Harry's Cloak, so they had a clear view of anyone approaching. When Ron spotted a lone flier approaching from over the Forbidden Forest, he shouted, "Who's that?"

Everyone looked up at the flier overhead, who was wearing a blue uniform. They descended over the Marquee but landed on the far side, next to the tunnel and the Marquee entrance.

"Looks like they know about the Marquee," said Fred, worried.

"Anyone invite somebody?" George asked, but nobody answered.

The Club held their breath as they waited for the figure to come through the tunnel. Finally, they emerged into the light.

Harry's jaw dropped.

"I don't believe it," said Fred, shellshocked, looking as though he'd been transported back years in time.

"I must be dreaming," George agreed. "Possibly a nightmare," he added under his breath.

"Wood?" Harry exclaimed in disbelief, as his old Quidditch Captain walked out onto the Pitch. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"There's Quidditch that needs playing, Harry," said Oliver Wood seriously, that familiar glint in his eyes that could spell triumph or madness. "Where do you expect me to be?"

"But who—how did you know about this—how did you get in—the protective enchantments—" Harry stammered.

"Quidditch, Harry!" said Wood, as if that explained everything. "What're we doing, just standing around? Let's play." And without further ado, Wood took to the skies, taking up his old post by the Pigfarts hoops, waiting expectantly for everyone to join him.

Harry stared around at the others; everyone was trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

"The Prodigal Son returns home," said Fred, shaking his head in awe.

George merely shrugged, and the twins mounted their brooms and flew up.

Gradually, everyone took flight to join an excited Wood, and the two teams resumed their formations. Wood eagerly waited for the game to recommence, sitting straight and holding the shaft of his broom tightly.

Seamus was now Chaser again, and Hermione, Dennis, Susan and Astoria had decided to sit out this part of the game to let a few of the bystanders onto the Pitch. They traded out their capes and armbands to the fresh players and sat, cheering their friends on; Harry saw Hermione enter a very engaged conversation with Astoria. He quite liked the Slytherin girl; she reminded him a bit of a mix of younger versions of Neville and Hermione.

In the initial few minutes, there was a flurry of attempts by people to score on Wood. Everyone seemed to be testing his mettle; not even the Pigfarts members tried to go to his aid. Everyone watched, as he saved goal after goal from ten consecutive Chasers.

Looking smug but a little offended by the deluge of attempts to get past his defence, he did a fancy sort of twirl and faced front. "What is it, beat on Wood day?" he asked everyone. "You'll have to be a little quicker than that to catch me with my trousers down…"

"Oh, Oliver," said George fondly. "You always know just what to say…"

Much to Wood's delight, Harry made his third Snitch catch of the night right in front of his face ten minutes later, after an elaborate chase.

"Fantastic, Harry!" Wood yelled. "You know, you might write me a letter before you graduate… I might be able to get you into Puddlemere… You're still the most talented Seeker I've ever played with, by far."

Harry grinned, inordinately happy. It was just like Third Year again. If only Sirius and Lupin were here to watch...

Wood made a special Keeper's run a little later, zooming down the Pitch when he was sure the second Quaffle was already at the other end. Harry watched as he timed his goal exactly to Angelina's, so the two Quaffles soared through the left and right hoops as a very put-upon Ron flitted anxiously from side-to-side, unable to pick which goal to go for. Wood and Angelina high-fived when the two Quaffles went through and the scoreboard flickered upwards in Pigfarts' favour.

"Fantastic play, Oliver and Angelina!" Lee yelled. "This is why we play with two Quaffles—that was genius! Hard luck, Ron… everyone seems to be ganging up on you tonight, I wonder why…"

Ron made a rude gesture at nobody in particular.

"Oliver, you maniac," said Fred affectionately. "We're going to win this match thanks to you. Better knock on wood to be sure." He rapped his knuckles firmly on Wood's skull.

"Get your beautiful butt back by those goal hoops," George commanded, slapping Wood's rear.

"Watch it, Weasleys," Wood snapped. "I may be your friend but I am also your prior Captain and professional Keeper for Puddlemere United. You can't molest me like that."

But Wood returned to the goalposts nonetheless, ready to resume his vital role with gusto.

"Oliver Wood, everybody!" Lee yelled. "He's a Keeper, ladies! No need to jump to his aid, he can definitely hold his own!"

A rock song was playing on the stereo. It was rather catchy.

"Oh, I can't take another heartache,

Though you say you're my friend,

I'm at my wit's end…"

Harry zig-zagged across the Pitch, past Fred, past Angelina, past Dom and Jason, over to Ron, then returned and zig-zagged back where he had come, scanning the Pitch all the while. The Snitches were in hiding. He passed Dean, who was singing badly along to the song:

"You say your love is bonafide

But that don't coincide

With the things that you do…"

"No!" Harry said to himself, cursing and whacking his leg angrily. Alicia had just caught the Snitch while he had been distracted with Dean's bad singing. "Stupid song..."

"We're at five catches for Pigfarts, and four for Fleabag! It's heating up, people. Everyone's getting some action... Wood, you are one crazy, beautiful man. You've grown a little longer, I mean taller, since I saw you last…"

"Cruel to be kind, in the right measure

Cruel to be kind, it's a very good sign

Cruel to be kind, means that I love you, baby…"

With Wood there, everyone was stimulated and inspired, and put their best efforts forward. Harry was determined to prove to him that he was still as good as he'd been when Wood was Captain, and he wasn't the only one; everyone seemed to be upping their game to compete with the Puddlemere United player. Indeed, Wood was an even better Keeper than he'd been while at school. The only time anyone managed to score against him was when George and Dom sent simultaneous Bludger Backbeats that forced him to do a few evasive loops, while Katie threw the Quaffle into the left hoop, very nearly committing a foul by coming so close to shoot.

"Oof! Well done, George and Katie... That was hard on Wood, very hard, Wood…"

Luna continued to seem more interested in talking about things like what everyone had probably had for dinner, and comparing Ron's and Oliver's effective Keeping motions to that of some non-existent wild animals. Lee managed to wrestle the megaphone back from her and remained in charge of the commentary from then on.

"Let's hope Wood never forgets the school where it all began… must be good to be back, eh, buddy?" Wood nodded an assent to Lee—he was focused on the two Bludgers coming once more for his position. He rolled upside down to dodge them both.

"George and Dom almost had him there, look at him, upside-down! The blood's rushing to Wood's head, he's going red! Now he's erect, er, I mean, upright, again… he saves a shot, well done!"

After almost half an hour of playing, and Lee rhapsodizing about Wood's skill and making accidental-or-otherwise double entendres with his name, Neville called for a short break and reset—one of the Quaffles had been punctured by someone's tailpiece and needed to be re-inflated. The score stood at 480-390, in Pigfarts' favour.

Harry took the opportunity to go over to talk to Hermione by the tables. As he helped himself hungrily to some food, she struck up a conversation with him about the song that had just been playing.

"You know, the phrase 'cruel to be kind', from that song, you know that was coined by Shakespeare?" she asked, in that way she often did when she had a bit of trivia to share.

"I did not know that," said Harry, taking a bite of a small sandwich square that he thought Hermione might have prepared for him.

"Yes," said Hermione, breaking into her stride. "Imagine that. Imagine writing something so iconic that hundreds of years later, people use it day-to-day, and hear it on the radio while playing Quidditch, and don't even know you wrote it."

"I can imagine," said Harry. "Sometimes I think the things you say will be like that hundreds of years from now."

Hermione's eyes shone bright. "Harry! You can't say stuff like that and expect me not to hug you!"

"Well, go on then," said Harry cheekily.

Hermione hugged him tightly. "You are so stupidly nice, you know that?"

"I know," he said, very pleased with himself.

Hermione let him go and ruffled his hair affectionately. Harry had to try very hard indeed not to take her into his arms and kiss her; there was a lot of adrenaline coursing through him.

Ron and Oliver were talking about the game's structure. Oliver was praising the improvements that they had made to cope with the larger numbers. Ron suggested to everyone they play elimination for the remaining time of the match, to show Oliver how they had been doing it, but he was shot down; everyone seemed to want to play, and no one wanted to be kicked off the Pitch and not be able to finish what had so far been a high-octane, competitive match.

The key change made now was that Oliver and Ron would switch teams. The Fleabags were resentful that Pigfarts had already had half an hour with a world-class Keeper at their posts, complaining that Fleabags were at a huge disadvantage ("You have me!" Ron said indignantly, but no one paid him any attention). And so, the switch was made, and thirty-odd brooms and people rose into the air yet again.

This last third of the match was quick and vicious. Two more people fell into the safety net within the first five minutes. Three more went off to the medical station Hermione had set up, to chug Potions and allow Hermione to heal their bruises and other injuries. Hermione had proclaimed herself their official Club Medic, retired from active duty for now.

Harry just needed to catch the Snitch once more, and the match would be over… The Fleabags were still a catch behind them.

He chanced a glance at the Chasers. As was to be expected, Pigfarts now didn't stand a chance against Wood's prowess, while Fleabag got the odd Quaffle or two past Ron. If Pigfarts were still going to win tonight, Harry needed to catch the Snitch for the fourth time (six in total for Pigfarts) before Ron let any more goals in, and before Wood saved any more.

There it was! Very high above the centre of the Pitch, the Snitch flew through the air, reflecting the light from the lamps…

Harry pulled the shaft of his Firebolt towards the very peak of the Marquee's translucent red underbelly and poured on the speed. The sneaky little Snitch flew just under the Marquee, leading Harry down its length towards the stands, where, unfortunately, both Ginny and Alicia were. Seeing him zoom past in hot pursuit, they quickly joined the chase. Ginny was right on Harry's tail and Alicia wasn't far behind.

"Look at that!" Lee shouted. "Three Seekers on the chase, Harry takes the lead!"

Harry pulled to one side to dodge around a spectator tower, performing half a barrel roll, then a reverse. The Snitch weaved in and around towers, going up, then down, then around, left, right… It was as if the Snitch knew this was Harry's moment, and wasn't going to make it easy for him…

He wasn't worried about Ginny and Alicia catching up—his Firebolt was almost at its maximum speed. His surroundings were a blur and he couldn't hear a thing over the wind and the sound of his cape flapping behind him. But the damn Snitch was only just outpacing him; he had never seen it fly this fast before. He glanced at the scoreboard, just managing to make out a series of zeroes and a five… no, two fives… they were at 500 all. It was now or never, he had to catch the Snitch.

It was time to do something very dangerous—a manoeuvre Harry had read about in a Quidditch magazine earlier that week.

He leaned back slightly on the broom, preparing himself. Then he pushed down hard on the front of the shaft and let himself fly off of it as it pushed him forward, catapulting ahead towards the Snitch. Losing contact with the broom but propelled by its momentous force, he reached out with a wild hand and caught the Snitch as he tumbled over it, flipping over in mid-air.

And now he was falling, spinning downwards without a broomstick, not towards the grassy Pitch, but to the wooden stands.

Fred and George were nowhere nearby, the safety net was still in the middle of the Pitch, no one would be able to move it to the stands in time. Hermione was shouting his name, but she was too far away to help, on the other side of the Pitch.

Harry was not panicked. He plunged his hand into his robes and yelled, "Accio Firebolt!" brandishing the wand to the sky as he continued to plummet.

The Firebolt caught up with him a few metres above the wooden seats, and he got his leg over it and pulled up, pushing his foot hard against the tailpiece as the twigs of the broom just scraped the bench. An intense rush of exhilaration coursed through Harry's body.

People were applauding, but just as many of them were looking quite frightened. It had been a very close one.

Harry was gripping the shaft of his broomstick with the Snitch still snugly trapped in his right hand. He held it out and shook it, and Pigfarts cheered in jubilation. A relieved Neville announced the end of the game: 550-500 to Pigfarts, four snitches to Harry, two to Jason, and two each to Ginny and Alicia.

Harry made his way back to the ground and everyone landed around him, shaking his hand, patting him on the back, asking if he was okay.

Hermione sprinted over and whacked him on the arm. "Do you have a bloody death wish?!"

"Erm," said Harry, "Congratulations? We won?"

"You said you were going to be more careful! I almost had a heart attack!"

Harry grinned. "I'm sorry. Can sixteen year-olds have heart attacks?"

"I'll be the first," snapped Hermione, "and it'll all be your fault."

"I'm sorry, Hermione, it won't happen again."

"Better not."

Wood seemed supremely unconcerned that Harry had almost died. Quite the opposite, he looked immensely proud of Harry's dangerous stunt.

"This is nothing, Hermione," he was saying, "remember Third Year, with the Dementors? He fell at least a hundred feet. At least he actually caught the Snitch, first, this time, and what a catch, Harry! Almost never seen that manoeuvre pulled off successfully, the Catapult, it's a tricky one, though I have to say you cheated a bit by using a Summoning Spell, but the execution! How long did you practice that—"

Wood finally noticed Hermione glaring at him and had the common sense to shut his mouth.

"Yeah, Oliver, I've been wanting to try that out for a while—would never use it in an actual match, of course, but it's all thanks to Hermione." He turned to her. "You taught me the Summoning Charm back last year, remember? You saved my life yet again. You, Hermione, are my personal lifesaver."

Hermione looked placated. "Well, I suppose, since you put it that way…"

Harry grinned at her and patted her arm fondly. "There, you see? Everything's perfectly fine."

"Potter!"

The recognisable voice rang out clearly through the night, and everybody froze. Someone yelped in fright, and as Harry felt a chill down his spine, he heard Ron mutter, "Oh, we're dead."

Professor McGonagall stood at the edge of the Quidditch Pitch's entrance tunnel, dressed in dark green robes. She glared sternly at the celebratory crowd, at the tables full of Butterbeer and assorted potions, at the fireworks exploding overhead spelling PIGFARTS VICTORY and POTTER RULES, and the two teams of sixteen players, all clad either with a bright armband or silk cape. Her eyebrows shot up into her hairline as she noticed Wood, standing stiffly beside Harry and Hermione, clad in his blue Puddlemere attire.

"Come with me, Potter," said McGonagall.

Harry felt as though he was plodding along to his death as he forced himself to walk slowly to his angry Head of House, shamefully pulling his cape from around his neck.

"Good luck, Harry," muttered Susan as he passed her.

The crowd parted for him. "Nice knowing you, Potter," said a Hufflepuff boy Harry had forgotten the name of.

"It was good while it lasted," said Jason quietly. "Great catch, Harry."

"Harry," said Fred, intercepting him. "We'll talk to her, we'll take the blame, it was all us, Harry."

"Don't worry, guys," said Harry, though he was, indeed, worrying. "I'll take care of it. You get everyone to bed." He pushed past the twins and continued his walk to the gallows that were surely awaiting him.

Finally, Harry reached the edge of the Pitch and stepped into the darkness of the tunnel.

"The rest of you," called McGonagall to the crowd. "Pack up. Off to bed, and no dawdling. Wood, kindly return home. Expect a letter from me tomorrow."

Harry heard the Club muttering fearfully behind him, but then McGonagall ushered him out of the Marquee flap and the Sound Suppressor charms blocked it out.

He held his Firebolt over his shoulder as he trotted along behind McGonagall up to the castle, trying and failing to come up with a route out of this terrible situation.

This is it, he thought. The worst had finally come. Professor McGonagall was going to expel them all or give them detention all year, and it was all Harry's fault.

It took them five minutes to navigate upstairs to McGonagall's office. They didn't speak a word the whole time. Professor McGonagall lit the lamps within and sat behind her desk.

"Sit down, Potter," she said.

Harry leaned his Firebolt against her desk and took his seat.

"So, Potter," said McGonagall briskly. "Let me get the facts of this straight. You, along with the Weasleys, and Miss Granger, have taken it upon yourselves to form a secret clandestine Quidditch Club that operates in the middle of Friday nights, under cover of this 'Invisibility Marquee'?"

"Oh, no, Professor," said Harry, determined that if the ship was going down, he be the sole figurehead that went down with it. "It was all me. My idea entirely."

"I see. But, you do not deny having formed said Club, and that said Club has been operating—without teacher permission or supervision—since the first week of term? And that not only does it include students as young as First Year, you allowed Oliver Wood, no longer a Hogwarts student, into the grounds?"

Harry blinked. "Actually, Professor, Wood just sort of… showed up on his own. Said something like 'I had a feeling there was some Quidditch to be played.' I don't know how he knew or got in, to be honest with you. The man's got a kind of sixth sense about Quidditch, I reckon."

"I see," said McGonagall humourlessly. "But the rest of my accusations, they are correct? You do not deny have formed this—this so-called 'Midnight Quidditch Club?'"

Harry hesitated. "No, Professor, I don't deny it."

McGonagall nodded grimly, then gestured to the tartan tin on her desk. "Have a biscuit, Potter."

Harry stared at her. "Have a—what?"

"A biscuit," she said, opening the lid and pushing the tin towards him, still rather sternly.

"I'm alright, thanks," he said, feeling it must be some sort of trick.

"Don't be ridiculous. You must be hungry, after flying about all night. That last catch, in particular, was very risky, Potter. You need to be more careful; skill will only get you so far. Now, have a biscuit."

Grudgingly, Harry took a biscuit and chewed slowly, careful not to spread any crumbs on Professor McGonagall's carpet. At the same time, he was wondering: exactly how long had she been watching before announcing herself?

A long silence passed, during which McGonagall examined him clinically from behind her narrow spectacles. Finally, she drew breath to speak, and Harry braced himself.

"I have reached a decision, Potter."

Harry swallowed his biscuit and almost choked. "Yes, Professor. I'll disband the Club and take whatever punishment you deem fit."

McGonagall looked at him even closer and shook her head vigorously. "Potter," she said. "If you disband the Midnight Quidditch Club, I will have no choice but to give you detention."

"Right, Professor," Harry mumbled. "What time do you want me to—?" It was then that her words imprinted themselves fully in his mind. "Wait—what?" he gasped, staring at her.

"You heard me, Potter," she said. "I forbid you from discontinuing the Midnight Quidditch Club."

"Professor," he gaped at her, "are you feeling all right?"

She looked at him quite sternly, but her eyes were warm. "I'm quite well, thank you, Potter. But there, you have my decision. Don't disappoint me. I shall see you this Sunday at the match, and I expect a Gryffindor victory after all this extra practice. I've grown quite used to having the House Cup in my office"—she nodded to where it stood proudly in a glass cabinet—"and I'd quite like to keep it here."

Harry pushed his chair back but didn't stand. He felt sure there must be some sort of mistake. Perhaps Sirius had broken into Hogwarts and Polyjuiced himself into McGonagall. But no, there was no mistaking that look on her face. That was Minerva McGonagall through and through.

McGonagall had looked down at her papers, but now looked back up to see Harry still sitting there. "Potter, I do not mean to be rude, but the hour is very late, and I must bid you goodnight, now. Enjoy your weekend."

"Right," muttered Harry, standing and picking up his broomstick. "Listen, Professor… thank you."

McGonagall inclined her head slightly and actually smiled.

As he left the office, he looked at her one last time as if he had never really seen her before. He knew she loved Quidditch—he still remembered the fateful day in First Year when he had thought he was to be expelled, and she instead appointed him Gryffindor Seeker and gifted him a world-class Nimbus Two Thousand. He remembered her words from four years ago to this day—he had been very touched and surprised to hear her tell him: Your father would have been proud. He was an excellent Quidditch player himself.

But for Minerva McGonagall—stern Head of Gryffindor and Deputy Headmistress—to not punish him for breaking countless school rules and helping organise an illicit midnight club, and to even go so far as to endorse his actions…?

Dimly wondering if everyone was determined to surprise him that year, Harry made his way up to Gryffindor Tower, confused but quite relieved.

Needless to say, the reaction to Harry's revelation that McGonagall had given permission for the Club to continue was stupendous. Hermione had to cast a Silencing Charm on the Common Room to avoid waking the other students, when everybody shouted their shock and delight.

"Knew McGonagall was a Quidditch nut at heart, but this just takes the cake!" said Ron. "We've got to be nicer to her in class…"

"Wonder how she found out?" Lavender wondered.

"How long d'you think she was standing there?" Colin said. He was in the process of taking film out of his camera; it seemed he'd got quite a lot of shots.

"I think a while," said Harry, "she seemed to know a bit about the match, but she didn't see when Wood came. She thought we'd asked him to."

"But this is insane," said Hermione, clearly still in disbelief. "Is Wood somehow part of the Club now? And what is this Club now, anyway? I can't imagine what McGonagall will say to the other teachers—is this still a secret club, or do we have permission to make it a proper one, or is that permission inherently only in maintaining the secrecy, which means it's not permission at all?"

"Hermione," Ron groaned, "it's three in the morning. Let's puzzle over it tomorrow. For now, I'd like to make an offering to the Great One, O' Minerva McGonagall." He tossed the rest of his sandwich into the fireplace and yawned hugely.

"Bed," agreed Harry, standing up, "sounds very good."

"Night, Hermione," said Ron.

"Goodnight, boys," she said quietly.

Harry paused a little, letting Ron go ahead. "Hermione," he said. "Sorry again. I shouldn't have risked the Catapult, especially since I knew you were worried."

Hermione looked at him strangely. "It's okay, Harry. I guess I knew, really, that you'd done it deliberately this time. I just couldn't see how you would pull it off."

Harry shrugged. "Well, I did, somehow… but thanks."

"For what?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Just thanks," said Harry. "Goodnight…" From where he stood above Hermione, he put a hand on her shoulder where she sat on the couch, then—his heart beating fast—he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

He pulled back—her eyes had closed and now fluttered open again.

"Um," stammered Hermione, "Goonight—I mean, night—good-night, Harry…"

Harry went up the staircase, distinctly more pleased with himself than he had been feeling half an hour ago.

He entered the dorm, where all the other boys were already asleep.

"What a night," he muttered, and without further ado, collapsed onto his own bed, and within seconds, he had joined the others in unconsciousness.

The following afternoon, after the final House practice before the match on Sunday, Hermione waved Harry over to join her where she and Ron sat in the stands.

Harry was very sweaty, but he sat by her. "Hey."

"Look at this," said Hermione, beckoning Harry and Ron to lean in, as she drew something out of her book bag. "After last night, I did some research, and this morning I wrote a letter to a bookseller I know who went to Hogwarts at the same time as McGonagall… He's very nice, you know… anyway, he sent me a copy of this."

It was an old magazine entitled 'The Hogwarts Insider', labelled as a May 1954 issue.

Hermione opened the magazine to the front page. The headline read: 'Slytherin foul, but win House Cup over Gryffindor.' Jill Turpentine reports.

Hermione read aloud: "Today's Quidditch match was nothing short of brutal. Slytherin and Gryffindor pulled out no stops for the final match of the year, which lasted a lengthy three hours.

Following a nasty foul from the Slytherin Beater Michael Kaflan in the second hour, Seventh Year Gryffindor Chaser and Head Girl Minerva McGonagall suffered a serious concussion and several broken ribs, and had to be rushed off to the Hospital Wing at the end of the match. She did however, attempt to continue playing before being sedated and removed from the Pitch by Madam Hooch and Headmaster Dippet. She is expected to make a full recovery by Monday. Before she fell from her broom, Minerva scored no less than eleven goals for Gryffindor House.

Lying in her hospital bed soon after being revived, with several healing potions in a tray on her lap, and worried friends standing by, Minerva McGonagall says, "Never mind my injuries—I'm perfectly fine! The match—who won?"

It was my sad duty, fellow students, to inform my friend Minerva that Slytherin had emerged victorious."

There was more, but Hermione stopped reading, passing the magazine to Harry to peruse more carefully. There was an image in the bottom corner of a seventeen year old McGonagall and the Gryffindor team. In the photo, McGonagall—a very pretty brunette young lady—smiled radiantly as she held the Quaffle in one hand, her other arm around her blonde teammate.

"It all makes sense now," said Harry, amazed. "Her love for Quidditch, her dislike for Slytherin that she has to conceal all the time… I never knew."

Ron looked awed. "McGonagall, a Chaser! Eleven goals in the first hour of a match… Imagine that…"

Harry continued to skim the article, while he said, "That's why she's always so determined to see us crush Slytherin. She lost to them in her Seventh Year and never got the satisfaction of avenging her team's defeat… It even explains why she gave me the Nimbus Two Thousand and let me on the team in First Year… And now, why she's letting us continue the Club. Says here she was being eyed by several teams to play professionally… but it looks like she gave up the game after this match."

"Blimey," said Ron. "I'm seeing old McGonagall in a whole new light."

"Thinking of asking her out, Ron?" teased Harry.

Ron nodded slowly. "I just might, Harry, I just might…"

"We can't mention that we know about this," said Hermione. "I don't want her to be embarrassed. But you know what you have to do, don't you, Harry?"

"What's that?" asked Harry.

"Thrash Slytherin in the match tomorrow for her."

Harry smiled slowly. "Piece of cake. After all our extra practice this year, they'll never know what hit them."

And they didn't. Slytherin was completely and utterly obliterated by the Gryffindor team that Sunday morning.

Harry passed by the teacher's tower a few times to see an ecstatic Professor McGonagall on her feet, waving a red and gold flag, to the displeasure of Snape, who was sitting stock-still, glaring at Harry as he out-manoeuvred Crabbe and Goyle (who had somehow—probably at Malfoy's bidding—become Slytherin's Beaters).

Lee was commentating, and Harry could tell he was having a hard time not referencing events of the Midnight Quidditch Club, and pretending that this was the first Quidditch action the school had seen all term.

Gryffindor was a well-oiled machine. Almost everybody on the team was in the Midnight Quidditch Club, and now had a wealth of new tactics, moves and styles at their disposal. Cormac McLaggen, while still overconfident, seemed determined to stay in line so as to not get thrown off the team. Ginny and Katie were superb, Fred and George were immaculately precise as usual, and Angelina was a complete blur the entire time, shouting orders as she flew past her teammates, performing perfect passes and goals all the while.

Harry was fouled by Malfoy twenty minutes in; he had seen the Snitch and had been pouring on the speed, when Malfoy flew straight into him, the end of his Blackbolt broomstick hitting Harry on the shoulder and actually leaving a large gash which led to a timeout, in which Ginny took the penalty and Harry was tended to by Madam Hooch, and Alicia raged at Malfoy from the sidelines (she had stayed on as a reserve Chaser, and Angelina had told her she wanted Ginny and Alicia to alternate between matches).

It was another twenty minutes later that Harry caught the Snitch right in front of Malfoy, by the teacher's stands. He was now thoroughly unused to the first Snitch catch ending the match so soon, and was therefore quite surprised when he heard Madam Hooch blow her whistle and announce: "280-50! Gryffindor win!"

Harry did a victory loop-de-loop and ended up level with the teacher's stands. He looked at McGonagall, who was applauding fiercely along with most of the school below.

Harry sat up straight on his broom and saluted McGonagall, the Golden Snitch fluttering cheerfully under his thumb as he did so. McGonagall wiped a tear from the corner of one eye with her flag, and gave Harry an emotional nod of approval.

A second later, the rest of the team caught up with him and enveloped him in a chaotic group hug.

Harry laughed. He had never seen Minerva McGonagall so happy. He was so thrilled that he didn't notice that on the empty seat behind her was the mysterious parchment that had eluded him and Hermione all term.

Arm in arm, the Gryffindor Quidditch team descended victorious to the Pitch to greet their housemates, who flooded the ground to lift them all onto their shoulders and chant a victory cry.

Harry, meanwhile, was wading through the crowd, searching for a particular bushy-haired witch… When he found her, the smile and congratulatory kiss on the cheek she gave him was the only thing that could have made the Quidditch-filled weekend even better than it already was.

Chapter Text

The week before Halloween, at the end of her Thursday night Prefect rounds, Hermione finally took the time to venture up to the seventh floor, to where Fred and George were storing the Invisibility Marquee each week. She didn't ask either of the boys to accompany her; this was a theory she wanted to test out on her own.

She walked back and forth in front of the blank stretch of wall opposite the painting of Barnabas the Barmy.

What do you need, Hermione? What do you require?

She thought hard and closed her eyes, focussing all attention on her task.

I require a room to profess my love for Harry James Potter… I require a room to profess my love for Harry James Potter… I require a room to profess my love…

She opened her eyes. There was now a door in the centre of the blank wall. She felt a thrill of excitement course through her. Quickly glancing around to make sure she was quite alone, she opened the door and stepped timidly inside.

Inside was a bedchamber filled with the largest assortment of candles Hermione had ever seen, hanging from the domed ceiling in silver and gold brackets, and lining the walls around the biggest, plushest bed imaginable, dressed in red velvet sheets. Scattered on the floor, on the dresser, and on the bed were dozens of red roses, with no thorns. The scent alone was beautiful enough to make Hermione sigh happily.

A gramophone in the corner was playing a song that Hermione recognised.

"I can't fight this feeling any longer,

And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow…

What started out as friendship has grown stronger,

I only wish I had the strength to let it show…"

Hermione did a slow twirl, taking in every corner of the room. Her keen eyes spotted a bowl on a study desk in the corner (of course, she thought with a touch of self-loathing, even when all she wanted to do was tell a boy she loved him, studying had to be a factor). She went over to the desk and was absolutely shocked to find it full to the brim of condoms of all assortments.

"Really!" she whispered admonishingly to no one. "I said, profess my love, not make love…"

But as she turned her gaze back upon the bed, she could not help picturing her and Harry lying there together, kissing, and slowly, tenderly undressing one another…

"Stop it," she told herself. "You know the Room of Requirement is here, you know how it works, that's enough."

But she could not help herself from walking over to the bed and sitting on it, letting herself sink into the soft mattress.

This was, after all, her way of testing her theories, was it not? She would be irresponsible if she did not make use of the facilities the room had so kindly rendered for her…

She slid back against the headboard, leaning on the seemingly infinite pillows. She picked up a rose and twirled it absently between her fingers.

"And even as I wander, I'm keeping you in sight…

You're a candle in the windle on a cold dark winter's night…

And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might…"

She plucked petals from the rose and held them up to her nose before tossing them aside.

"He loves me… he loves me not… he loves me…"

The flickering candles were having a soothing effect on her. It had been a long day, a long week as a matter of fact. What could it hurt to have a quick nap before heading back to the Common Room? Nothing, that was what, it couldn't hurt at all…

"He loves me…"

And Hermione sank deeper into the comforting bed, subconsciously turning on her side and pulling the pillows close to her. Within seconds, she was fast asleep, dreaming sweet dreams of the boy she loved.

"Ron!" Harry said urgently. He shook Ron's shoulder aggravatingly.

"Go away, Harry…"

"Ron, wake up! Hermione's missing!"

"Use a Summoning Spell… Accio Hermione, or whatever…"

"Ron, you know that doesn't work. Get up!"

Ron slowly and blearily sat up. "What time is it?"

"Seven-ish," said Harry. "Ron, did you hear what I said? Hermione's missing!"

Ron stared blankly at him. "She's asleep, Harry. See, normally, people like to do this little thing called resting, before we have to get up. You should try it sometime."

Harry glared at him heatedly. "She's not in the dorm. She never returned from her Prefect rounds last night. Which you should know, if you'd actually been with her doing them."

Now Ron had the grace to look guilty.

"I waited up for her," said Harry, "but it got to midnight and I went to bed. Thought maybe she'd got caught up busting wrong-doers, you know. But Lavender's downstairs, she said Hermione never came back."

"Did you check the library? Might've fallen asleep there."

"Yes," said Harry, "no sign of her."

"The Marauder's Map!" said Ron brightly. "We can find her on there."

"Already checked," said Harry tiredly. "I don't get it; it's impossible. For her not to be on the Map, she'd have to have left the school, and I don't see how or why she could or would have."

Ron scratched his head. "Well, there's nothing for it, is there? We've got to go to McGonagall."

Harry sighed heavily. He did not want to. But they had no choice. "Suppose you're right…"

Twenty minutes later, Harry and Ron sat in McGonagall's office, a pot of tea on the desk between them.

"I see," said McGonagall, looking concerned. "This is most puzzling. And neither of you have any idea of where Miss Granger was last night?"

Harry and Ron shook their heads.

McGonagall stood and put on her hat. "I shall have to inform Professor Dumbledore. If you two think of anything, do let us know. I'm afraid I have to insist you go to classes, but thank you for telling me."

Harry nodded mutely. He had no intention of going to classes, especially since it was double-Potions first up.

"Tell Snape I'm sick," he told Ron, then made to rush off to begin his search.

"Well, hang on," said Ron. "You can't skip Potions without me, you'll leave me all alone! What do you think Snape will do to me when you two aren't there?"

"Fine!" said Harry angrily. "You take the bottom three floors, I'll take the top. She's got to be somewhere… I'll keep track of you on the Map."

"Got it," said Ron. "We'll find her, Harry."

For two hours Harry searched high and low, far and wide, for Hermione. He came across a teacher every now and then, but to his surprise and gratefulness, none of them stopped to tell him to go to class. He barely stopped to register this oddity; he was starting to get really worried. What if she had run into some sort of real trouble? He knew Hogwarts was safe, but what if maybe, just maybe, someone had managed to slip in? Someone who knew how important she was to him, someone who wanted to get to him through her? He could never live with himself if he was the reason she was hurt—or worse.

By the time Harry reached the seventh floor, he was running out of options. He paced alongside a painting, thinking furiously. Where are you, Hermione…? Where are you? Where are you?

Harry heard a rumbling sound next to him, and he turned in surprise. Had that door been there a second ago? He looked around, and saw that on the wall opposite was a painting… something that rung a bell. Of course! He was on the seventh floor, wasn't he? Yes, it added up… this was the mysterious room that Fred and George had been using for the Marquee storage. But why would Hermione have come here on a Thursday night?

He pushed the door open and stepped eagerly inside. And stopped, staring, taking in the adorned chamber with amazement. The gramophone in the corner emitted soft classical music, the sounds of a piano and a harp forming a background cadence as the candles flickered over the bed, where dozens of roses lay.

Someone was breathing deeply; Harry stepped closer to the bed to see Hermione deeply embedded within no less than ten pillows, her face pressed against them so that only her hair was visible. He watched her for a minute, then gently sat on the bed and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Mmm."

"Hermione…"

"Huhhhh…"

"Hermione, wake up…"

"Harry…" She nestled herself deeper into the pillows and did not wake, but sighed happily.

"Hermione," said Harry, a little louder.

"Yes… Harry, yes…" Hermione was whispering breathily. Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed his hand, still asleep. "Oh, Harry…"

What on Earth was she dreaming about? Could it be… but no… Harry was very tempted to wait and see what else she would say in her sleep, but he reasoned that had it been him, he would much prefer to be woken before he embarrassed himself unknowingly.

Harry shook her shoulder in a more solid effort to wake her up. He succeeded; she awoke with a snort, flailing about, confused.

"Here." Harry helped extricate her from her queendom of plush pillows and she sat up quickly, brushing her hair out of her face.

"What… Harry, what, where… ah." She looked around and realised where she was, then sank back against the headboard with embarrassment and sheepishness.

"So," said Harry, now amused, "half the teaching staff are running around the school trying to find you, and here you are, having a nice snooze in this… what is this place, anyway?"

"It's the Room of Requirement," said Hermione, averting her eyes from his. "Also known as the Come-and-Go Room. I thought it must be, when Fred and George told us about where they'd been storing the Marquee… but I don't see the Marquee anywhere here. Anyway… I came here to check it out for myself… I didn't mean to fall asleep, but it's so comfy…"

Harry looked around. "It is very nice. You know… I think Dumbledore told me about this last year… he said he'd walked in needing the loo and found the room full of chamber-pots."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "That sounds about right."

"So, 'Room of Requirement', you say? So it can literally become whatever you need it to be?"

"Essentially, yes."

"So, you must have really needed a nap," said Harry thoughtfully.

"Yes," said Hermione quickly. "That's what I needed." And then she seemed to fully take in what he had told her a minute ago. "Oh, no! What time is it? Are the teachers really looking for me?"

"It's ten thirty," said Harry. "And yeah, we were just about to put up Missing posters. I was going to use the picture from the Hermione for Minister shirts."

"Don't joke about this, Harry!" snapped Hermione. "I've missed Potions! Snape will be livid!"

Hermione jumped out of bed and would have fallen over if Harry hadn't grabbed her by the crook of her arm.

"Careful," he said. As he did, he caught sight of a bowl on the desk beside him. "What the—"

Hermione pulled him away with haste. "Let's go, Harry!"

"Wait a minute," said Harry, staring at the bowl. "Are those—"

"No!" Hermione almost screamed, dragging him to the door. "Anyway, we've got to come up with an excuse for my disappearance!"

Still distracted, Harry said, "You want to lie to the teachers?"

"Yes!" said Hermione loudly, then looked quite ashamed of herself.

Harry grinned. "Okay. Peeves was throwing ink bottles at you near the Divination classroom last night and you fell behind a tapestry and twisted your ankle. You passed out from the pain. I found you, and healed your ankle, and voila! Piece of cake."

Hermione shrugged with her mouth (Harry could not describe the action any better; what else would you call that expression?)

"Huh," she said. "You lie with such ease."

"That's what they call me," said Harry. "The Boy Who Lies. Now, come on."

They left behind the bed chamber and closed the door. Almost straight away, the door vanished and the blank wall was blank once more. Harry thought Hermione was looking back rather wistfully, but she quickly turned and marched down the corridor. Harry shrugged and followed her, chuckling to himself.

After Harry told McGonagall what had supposedly happened, and once she had made sure Hermione was okay, she had whisked off to find Peeves. Harry was relatively confident that their story would hold up; Peeves lied all the time, and it wasn't like McGonagall could pin him down to hold an interrogation. He was an easy scapegoat. Harry allowed himself just a moment to feel ashamed of himself for his deviousness. It didn't last long, however; the rest of his time that day was spent feeling sorry for Hermione.

For Hermione Granger was the talk of every classroom that day, much to her dismay and frustration. McGonagall had made an announcement at breakfast asking anyone who might have knowledge of her whereabouts to come forward. Suffice to say, the rumours were ridiculously rampant. From being abducted by Voldemort himself, to having fled the school after a mental breakdown, to having magically literally disappeared into one of the thousands of books in the library, Harry was once again impressed at the radical imaginations of the students.

"Oi, Granger!" Malfoy called out at lunchtime. "Thought you'd finally come to your senses and left the school. Pity, you really don't belong here."

Harry glared at Malfoy, one hand on his wand in his pocket. "She belongs here more than you do, you ugly ferret."

Malfoy's face went white with rage, and he seemed on the verge of cursing Harry right there in the Great Hall. Fortunately, Professor Sprout chose that moment to walk by and both the boys sat back at their House tables, backs to each other.

Unfortunately, Snape stopped them from leaving the Great Hall after lunch.

"Potter," he said nastily. "So, you and your friends now see it as unbefitting of you to even turn up to my classes."

"We were searching for Hermione," said Harry angrily. "She was hurt, we had to help her."

Snape's cold gaze probed Harry's face and he fought to keep his features unreadable.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor," said Snape.

"What for?" Ron burst out.

"For lying to a Professor," said Snape. "And all three of you shall serve detention with me tomorrow evening." Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away.

"Bloody hell," said Ron. "How'd the git know?"

Harry did not answer. He'd long harboured a suspicion that Snape could quite literally read minds. But there was no solid proof beside his gut feeling.

Things didn't improve for them after that. Transfiguration class saw all the students whispering about Hermione. Harry was quite sure that Parvati had been convinced somehow that Hermione had spent the night in the boy's dorm with Harry; at least that was what he overheard in whispers when McGonagall left the room briefly to have a word with one of the seventh year Prefects. Add this to the rumours about Hermione's drunkenness that were still hovering in the air at Hogwarts, and her reputation was starting to run away from her. For the first time Harry could remember—and probably McGonagall too, judging by the concerned expression on her face—Hermione did not raise her hand to answer or ask a question once in the whole lesson.

It was Harry's idea to return to the Room of Requirement after classes to run some experiments. He thought it might cheer Hermione up to have something to focus on, and to mull over the theory of it all.

The three of them took it in turns to pace alongside the wall, with a different wish in their mind each time.

Ron's efforts yielded a kitchen to rival the house-elves' domain, an indoor Quidditch Pitch, and the biggest bathroom Harry had ever seen. Hermione's specific thoughts conjured a library with comfortable beanbags and armchairs—though the books all seemed to be copies of those already in the Hogwarts library—a cosy café, and what she told them was her bedroom at home. Harry wanted to stay longer in her room and see what it was like, but she hurried them out and told him to have his turn, and thereupon the room became a larger replica of the Gryffindor dormitories, a Defence Against the Dart Arts obstacle course similar to the one Lupin had set up in Third Year, and a gigantic ballroom with a stunning chandelier.

Ron was ecstatic. "The possibilities are endless… the stuff we could do here! We could throw parties, we could practise Defence—hell, we could probably even hold MQC matches in here!"

"Don't get carried away," said Hermione. "There'll be a catch…"

"Not that I can see," replied Ron. "It's brilliant. I love Hogwarts, sometimes…"

After that, Ron became fixated on the idea of wishing for a bank vault filled with gold to appear in the Room, and forced them to try it out. Sure enough, the Room filled itself with mountains upon mountains of gold. Unfortunately, as Ron soon discovered, when any of the gold was removed from the Room, it vanished within a short time.

"Figures," he muttered. "Knew it was too good to be true…"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "What were you going to do? Just take it all?"

"Well, yeah," said Ron, as though that were obvious.

Hermione shook her head and walked off. Harry watched her go with concern. She had been very grumpy all day—and understandably so. Harry got the feeling there was something she wasn't telling him, though.

Feeling concerned for Hermione, but happy about having discovered another of the magical school's many secrets, Harry followed her to dinner. Unsurprisingly, she chose to go downstairs to the kitchens rather than face the school in the Great Hall. She was so unfocused that her cooking returned to its inedible state, and Harry and Ron ended up just asking Dobby to whip up something while Hermione threw a frying pan angrily into the sink.

That night, the Midnight Quidditch Club had somehow grown even larger, though there were more spectators now. They were now approaching fifty or sixty members, and Hermione had even stopped keeping track of her enchanted list.

Fred and George were playing with the lights again. Red and gold bathed the Quidditch Pitch, flashing excitedly and giving Harry a headache. Many of the players were on their brooms overhead, warming up. A rock song played on the stereo:

"You're the real tough cookie with a long history

Of breaking little hearts like the one in me…"

Ron and Hermione were having a row. Ron was disgruntled still about the Room of Requirement's false gold: "What a tease! Showing us all that gold, then having it vanish."

Hermione had pointed out that he would be stealing Hogwarts gold if he was able to take it out of the Room. Ron said, "So what?"

"So," said Hermione, "that gold would be better put to use paying the poor house-elves a fair wage."

"Hermione, how many times do I have to tell you? They don't want to be paid! You think if Dumbledore could he wouldn't pay them? They're happy in slavery!"

"And you think you're more deserving of the money?"

"I didn't say that! And why're you angry at me? I spent all morning trying to find you!"

"Right! As if you didn't jump at the chance to skip Potions!"

"That's besides the point! Anyway, it's your own fault isn't it? Falling asleep out of your dorm, you're asking for trouble. And now we're all in detention with Snape because of you."

"Take that back, Ron!"

"Hit me with your best shot,

Why don't you hit me with your best shot

Hit me with your best shot

Fire away…"

A crowd had started to gather round, and they began shouting over the music.

"Fight!" shouted Fred.

"Fight!" yelled Seamus.

"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Hermione pulled out her wand and everyone cheered. Neville, however, backed off, looking frightened.

Harry anxiously ran over. "Hermione," he said, panicked. "Calm down, it's—"

"Back off, Harry!" she shouted over the music. "Ron, draw your wand."

"Wha—what?" stammered Ron, looking frightened.

"Draw your wand! Let's duel."

"Hermione," Harry implored, but she was single-minded.

"Stupefy!" yelled Hermione, without warning.

"Protego!" shouted Ron, whipping his wand out impressively fast and countering the Stunning Spell. "Stupefy!"

Hermione wordlessly cast a Shield Charm. "Petrificus—"

"Rictasempra!"

Hermione sidestepped the jinx and cast back-handed—"Tarantallegra!"

Ron's legs started flailing about and he lost his balance, falling to the ground. He managed to point his wand and cry, "Expelliarmus!" But the spell wasn't aimed correctly and all her did was jinx a Butterbeer out of Dean's hand.

Wordlessly, Hermione disarmed Ron; his wand flew out of his hand and she caught it. She raised her own wand again, ready for another spell, but stopped mid-motion, suddenly aware of the audience watching with rapt attention.

Coming to her senses, she dropped Ron's wand in shock and slid her own into her back pocket.

Harry looked between the two of them. Everyone was applauding and whooping, and now Hermione looked quite shame-faced. Harry let his admiring gaze rest on her for a moment; she had been quite frightening, casting spells so mercilessly, but undeniable attractive. The way her eyes narrowed, the way she squared her shoulders and her hair whipped back and forth, and the way she moved nimbly on the balls of her feet...

Harry tore his gaze from Hermione and went over to Ron, deciding his needs were greater just then.

"Finite," he muttered, casting at Ron's legs, which stopped flailing. He clasped Ron's hand and pulled him to his feet.

Ron steadied himself. "Wow," he said, looking carefully at Hermione, who looked apologetic. "Well done, Hermione…"

"Well done?" she asked incredulously, amazed that he was not angry anymore.

"For kicking my ass! Felt good, did it?"

Hermione stared at him. "Are you feeling alright, Ron?"

"Not really, but you must be."

"Well, a little, but, oh, I'm sorry, Ron!" she cried, running over to him. "I lost my temper, it's been a rough day." She hugged him and he held her awkwardly, patting her shoulder. "You know I wouldn't—well, yes, sometimes I really would like to hex you, but you didn't really do anything wrong, I was just—"

"It's alright," said Ron, as she pulled back. "Harry and I kind of figured you needed to let some steam off."

Hermione looked at Harry. He shrugged. "Sometimes you just need to jinx somebody to feel better."

Hermione made a pained face. "Violence should never be the answer."

"Well, what's a little violence between friends?" asked Ron bracingly.

Harry laughed. Hermione finally smiled grudgingly.

"You know," said Harry, anxious to leave all the tension behind them, "I've actually been thinking, we should form a duelling club, like Lockhart did back in Second Year, but, you know, better."

Ron nodded slowly. "Not a bad idea, actually."

Hermione frowned, back to her usual clinical self. "Another club? Isn't this one quite enough?"

"But why stop here, Hermione?"

Everyone turned around. It had not been one of the students who had spoken, but Professor Lupin, who was limping onto the Quidditch Pitch, looking quite tired. Harry remembered full moon had been earlier that week.

"Professor!" said Ron. "You came!"

"You invited him?" someone asked.

"First McGonagall, now Lupin?"

"Relax, everybody," said Lupin. "I'm not here to turn you in. I simply wish to enjoy my Friday evening and have a Butterbeer or two."

"You'll find the beer over there," said Fred. "Maybe take a shot of Firewhisky with us?"

Lupin laughed. "I shall pretend I did not hear that. But do carry on, everybody. I came here to watch some Quidditch, although admittedly watching a good duel was just as entertaining. Well done, Hermione, Ron."

Harry went up to him. "Professor, you should referee tonight!"

Everyone chorused their agreement. Lupin looked embarrassed but pleased. "Oh, I don't know, I haven't… Oh, very well, then."

As Lupin went with Fred and George to go over the details of the match, Harry resumed their prior conversation.

"We could hold the Duelling Club here," he said. "I mean, we're all here, anyway, and it's not like everyone can be in the match at the same time. We can have a separate area for duelling. I think everyone would like to, especially with… well, you know. All that's going on."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "True enough. And with Lupin here, even better."

"Excellent," said Ron eagerly. "We can start next week. Blimey, I just realised, it's Halloween on Tuesday…"

Harry too, was surprised. He had barely realised October was nearly over… and still he had not told Hermione how he felt. Time was slipping away, ever elusive. But there never seemed to be a singular right moment. By now, it would take an extraordinary event for him to finally admit his feelings. But perhaps, the key pieces were slipping into place, perhaps he could engineer such an event… perhaps...

As he rose into the air on his Firebolt and Lupin released the Bludgers and the Snitches, looking quite ecstatic to be included in the illicit midnight affairs, the gears in Harry's mind began to turn.

Detention with Snape was an awful affair.

The entirety of Saturday afternoon, the sallow-faced Potions Master sat at his desk while Hermione, Harry and Ron dismantled the intestines of several small disgusting creatures, without gloves.

Hermione whimpered as she dipped her fingers once more into the carcass and extracted the long cord of flesh.

She heard similar utterances of disgust from Harry and Ron. Harry was, of course, unable to attend House practice, much to Angelina's chagrin. Hermione felt very guilty for this. That, and for doing her very best to jinx Ron last night.

She was a mess. There was something very wrong with her life at the moment. This was so unlike her. If she had to pin it on something, it would have to be where it all began: that fateful night she had agreed to help with the Midnight Quidditch Club. This was OWL year, and yet here she was, in detention for having slept out of bounds and having missed a class. She had spent every Friday night this term out on the Quidditch Pitch in an illicit club. Her reputation was being driven off a cliff, ever since she had so foolishly gotten drunk in front of the whole Quidditch Club, and now, after her idiotic night spent in the Room of Requirement. And she had spent so much time thinking about Harry that for the first time in four years, she was not ahead in her classwork, but operating merely as the work came, just like Harry and Ron. Well, she thought, casting a sideways glance at Ron as he dropped an animal heart in disgust and accidentally stepped on it as he tried to retrieve it, perhaps not that bad just yet. But still, unforgivable.

They found out later that day that Angelina had finally kicked Cormac McLaggen off the team. He had apparently tried to take over the entire practice, and had insulted every single member, past and present.

Ron was cheered considerably when Angelina and Harry informed him that he was to be Cormac's replacement as team Keeper.

"Angelina," he gushed, "thank you. This is—"

"Don't thank me yet," she said. "You're going to need to put in the work. We're winning that Cup this year."

Ron nodded fervently. "I won't let you down," he said.

Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "Congratulations, mate."

So, Ron was having a much better time of things. Harry seemed mostly unperturbed by that week's events. And where did that leave Hermione?

She returned to the Room of Requirement a couple more times before Halloween. It became her safe haven, when things grew too hectic. It always seemed to offer her just what she needed when she needed to relax, study in peace, or just reflect.

Each time, she tried to get up the courage to ask Harry to come with her, to say she had something important to show him. It would be so easy to bring him along on the weekend, take his hand and enter the Room together… But she had already ruined it. He'd seen the Room and what it had been, where would the surprise be?

Hermione slept each night with something by her bed. She cast an Invisibility Charm on it each morning so that no one could possibly find it but her.

It was the photograph of her and Harry on the floor of the Common Room, with her head on Harry's chest and his hand resting possessively on her arm. She'd placed it in a gold frame and looked at it each night before sleeping. It was the closest she could get to actually sleeping with him again (and she meant that in an innocent kind of way, of course).

Lying in bed on Monday evening, Hermione opened her journal. She had started to keep one a few weeks ago, writing her general thoughts down. Somehow, everything seemed much simpler when it was on paper. Especially when things were as chaotic as they were now, it helped to tell it to someone, even if that someone was an inanimate thing made from dead trees.

She had abandoned her rambles for the night and had begun absent-mindedly doodling her name alongside Harry's. She had spelled out H&H in all manner of directions, within love hearts and miniature books and Golden Snitches. Upon looking at the paper, she realised that their names just looked… like they fit. Harry and Hermione…

Upon further introspective inspection, she realised that 'H' was the eighth letter of the alphabet. If she turned an eight on its side, she got the symbol for infinity. She drew them beside their initials, looping them carefully and elegantly. Two infinities, just interlocking, dovetailing… Yes, it was very contrived and over-romantic, but that was just what Hermione had become. Because to her, Harry was her infinity.

Damn it all, Harry. What are you doing to me?

Perhaps, she just had to let it go. She had been harbouring these feelings for Harry for so long now, nigh on half a year, and nothing had happened. Maybe, it was time to let them go. And then, only then, maybe she could return to the old Hermione Granger, the one who was in control of her life, the one who always knew what to do, the one who Harry saw only as a bossy, annoying friend…

But do you have the strength to do that, Hermione? Do you have the willpower to give up that infinity? Just how important is it to you to be in control all the time?

Very important, she reasoned.

More important than Harry?

More important than Harry…

Nothing was more important than Harry.

Nothing.

Chapter Text

"Dress up?" asked Ron, through a slice of toast. "What on earth d'you mean?"

"It's a Muggle tradition," Harry explained. "Each Halloween they dress up in spooky costumes and knock on people's doors, and say, 'Trick or Treat!'"

It was breakfast on Tuesday the 31st of October, and Harry and Hermione had been discussing their prior experiences with Muggle Halloween. Hermione had never gone trick-or-treating; she had had no friends with whom to go with and her parents detested candy and the concept of Halloween, so she had spent those October days, of course, reading. Harry, meanwhile, had had next to no happy Halloweens. All his years at the Dursley's, he had been in his cupboard under the stairs, listening to Uncle Vernon shout at unassuming kids who had wandered into Privet Drive in the hopes of finding candy.

And each Halloween at Hogwarts, there was always something terrible going on, whether it be Hermione nearly being killed by a troll, Nearly Headless Nick's awful Deathday party and the Basilisk attack, Sirius breaking into Gryffindor tower, or Harry's name coming out of the Goblet of Fire. He was very much hopeful that this year would not follow the trend, that for once, he could have a very different kind of Halloween.

"The Muggles are barking," said Ron, confused. "That's completely mental."

"The people who answer the door give them sweets if they dress up," said Hermione, watching Ron carefully.

Ron perked up. "But then again, sounds like fun! Shall we do it tonight, then?"

Hermione laughed. "Oh, yes, let me just get my vampire costume out of my trunk, I've been waiting all term to wear that."

Harry looked at her, interested. He was picturing Hermione wearing a dark red gothic-styled cloak with high collars, perhaps a nice necklace, and a slinky black dress underneath.

"Harry!" exclaimed a scandalised voice.

"Whuh—Hermione!"

Hermione was looking at him in offended disbelief and Ron was letting out muffled hysterics through his hand, which he had clamped over his mouth. Harry realised he had been staring rather obviously well below Hermione's face, in his efforts to imagine her in her Halloween outfit.

His face went red and he examined his breakfast very closely. There was very frosty silence at the table for a long moment.

Ron cleared his throat, now looking more sympathetic. "So, Harry, erm, what would you dress up as, mate?"

Harry chanced a glance to his side to see that Hermione was examining him clinically. "I think Harry would do well as a ghost," she said matter-of-factly.

Harry gulped. "Because I'll be dead?"

Hermione smiled humourlessly. "You catch on quick."

Harry grimaced and moved on, eager to leave his rather perverted moment behind them. "Anyway, I don't imagine the teachers will appreciate us showing up to the feast tonight out of uniform."

Ron scoffed. "You kidding? Dumbledore would be over the moon!"

Harry mouth-shrugged. "There is that… I would like to see McGonagall's face…"

Hermione seemed to be struggling with herself about something. "It was just a thought," she muttered. "I didn't mean for you two to take it seriously, I was just making conversation…"

But Harry and Ron were eagerly discussing costume ideas, specifically the most outrageous ones.

Ginny had overheard and sidled over to join the conversation.

"You could dress up as the teachers!" she said helpfully. "Harry would be a great Snape, Ron could do Dumbledore, and you would would be an excellent McGonagall, Hermione."

Hermione frowned at Ginny. "And why is that?"

Ginny back-tracked carefully. "Oh! I mean, you could really pull off the… Um, or, you could dress up as me!"

"Oh, no," said Ron. "One of you is quite enough, thank you very much. Anyway, Harry was saying it has to be something spooky, you know, that's apparently the whole point of Halloween."

Harry poked at his food and suggested, "We could dress up as my parents, who died on this day."

Hermione stared at him and Ron choked on his cornflakes. Ginny's eyes were wide.

Harry grinned. "Joking, guys, just joking…"

"You can't joke about that stuff, Harry!" said Hermione sternly. "That's really horrible."

"Come on, Hermione," said Harry, "my dad would've found it funny."

"Harry, you keep this up and I'm going to recommend therapy for you again…"

"Fine, fine," Harry grumbled. "Just trying to be cheerful, Dr Granger."

Hermione huffed indignantly. "The nerve of you, honestly!"

And she turned away and stuck herself into her breakfast. Harry wondered if he had somehow gone too far.

"Let's talk to the twins later," said Ron. "They're bound to have something."

"Good idea," said Harry. "Hermione? Hermione, come on, it'll be fun!"

She looked back at him, a strange look in her eyes. "Fun?"

"Yeah," said Harry uncomfortably. "That thing that you've been participating in the last couple of months."

Hermione seemed to be having an internal struggle of some sort. "Fun… Fine," she said grudgingly.

Harry smiled. "Great! We're on, then! Time to look like complete fools, and we can't do that without your help."

"Oh, Harry," said Hermione, "you're an idiot if you think you need my help to look like a fool."

"Thanks, Hermione," said Harry, grinning. "So what's the plan, Ron? Ron?"

But Ron was not listening anymore. His eyes were directed to the front of the Great Hall, where the morning post was arriving. Amongst the different-coloured owls was a long narrow package, with one end considerably wider than the other.

"That looks like a broomstick!" said Ron, watching the package descend upon the Great Hall, held between three owls. "Wonder who the lucky person is?"

But the owls dropped the wrapped package at Ron's place at the table, scattering his cereal.

"For me?" he said incredulously. Sure enough, the letter had his name on it:

Dear Ronnie,

Congratulations on your appointment to Gryffindor Keeper! Dad and I are so proud—Prefect and Quidditch player, just like Charlie!

Here's your reward—don't worry about the cost, Dad just got a pay raise (will write more on this later).

Enjoy, but be careful out there!

Give Harry and Hermione some kisses from me, and tell Ginny to be careful around that Dean boy.

Love, Mum.

Ron looked at the package, and then at Harry. He was so excitedly nonplussed that he didn't even make a jab at Ginny about Dean.

"You'll forgive me for not kissing you," said Ron, "but you up for a quick fly before class, Harry?"

Harry grinned. "Always, Ron. Come on, let's unwrap it on the Quidditch Pitch. Hermione, come with?"

"Not right now," said Hermione distractedly. She had received her usual Daily Prophet, and was reading it with a frown.

Harry shrugged. "See you in class, then."

It was a mark of Ron's excitement about the broomstick that he left half his breakfast untouched. He unwrapped the package on the Pitch a few minutes later just as the morning fog was lifting from the grounds.

"Wow!" said Ron in a hushed tone, carefully lifting a Nimbus Two Thousand out of the packaging.

Harry whistled appreciatively. "Nice one!"

The Nimbus model was now nearly five years old, but Ron was over the moon; it was still a very good broom compared to the Cleansweeps the twins had. Harry had to admit it brought a rush of memories back to him; it had been his first broom, after all. He retrieved his Firebolt from his personal locker in the team room, and he and Ron spent a happy ten minutes doing circuits of the Pitch, Ron able to keep up with Harry for the first time.

When the boys arrived at class five minutes later, windswept and exhilarated, Hermione seemed to be in better spirits, although she concentrated studiously in every class; the teachers had announced that in preparation for OWLS in the summer term, they would be springing a series of surprise trial exams in the next two weeks.

Later that evening, Harry and Ron donned their costumes in the boy's dorm, with help from Ginny, who had chosen not to join their Halloween efforts, but to simply laugh at their ridiculousness.

Ron had decided to dress up as Nearly Headless Nick. He had done a remarkably good job. Ginny had done the makeup, making him look white and deathly and painting blood along the line she had drawn across his neck. He was wearing his dress robes from the Yule Ball, frilly ruff and all, enchanted to be white and ghostly, and torn in places (he said that desecrating the robes was a therapeutic experience). Finally, he wore a fake moustache and goatee that Fred and George had found lying around somewhere, and had sprinkled flour through his red hair to turn it grey.

Earlier that afternoon, Harry had managed to convince Hermione to follow her original (albeit joking) suggestion; she had become a vampire. A very attractive vampire, Harry thought privately.

She had attached two of Fred and George's blood-coated vampire fangs to her own teeth and applied generous dark eyeshadow. The white shirt she wore under her dark black-red silk cloak (Harry wanted to ask where she had got the cloak, but she seemed very embarrassed, so he let it be) was tighter than anything he'd ever seen her wear, though most regrettably she wrapped the cloak tightly around herself self-consciously.

He wondered if Hermione had worn such a tight shirt in response to Harry ogling her that morning… she had never worn anything of the sort before… No, it can't be, that'd be mad… as if…

Uh-oh, I think she noticed I'm looking down there again—eyes up, Potter!

Harry, meanwhile, had dressed up as Sirius as he'd appeared on the Wanted posters two years ago. Ginny had somehow procured a long wig for him that looked disgusting, matted with fake blood, and he wore striped rags (which were actually torn, stained, old clothes of Dudley's) and chains on his hands. The chains had been lent to him by Lavender for the night (Harry did not have the nerve to ask her where she had got them or why she had them). Ron had helpfully found a fake moustache for Harry to wear and had drawn stubble on his chin, remarking with amusement that Harry wasn't too far off needing the fake stubble at all.

Before they went down for the feast they got hold of Colin and asked him to photograph them. Harry did his best mad Sirius impression, shaking his chains, while Ron stood tall with one hand on his supposedly half-severed head and the other on his hip, and Hermione pretended to be sneaking up on the two of them to bite them. Harry asked Colin to make a copy so he could send the photo to Sirius later. He did wonder if Sirius might be offended or hurt that he had dressed up as him in his Azkaban days, but he thought that his godfather might get a good laugh out of it instead. He did, after all, often display his black humour, and was unlikely to think too seriously about it.

"You both look ridiculous," said Hermione, as the three of them stood awkwardly in the Entrance Hall ten minutes later, the chatter from the Great Hall leaking out to them. The candlelight flickered ominously, making Hermione actually look quite spooky.

"You look ridiculous-er," retorted Harry.

Hermione giggled, which the fangs made rather difficult. "I can't believe we're going to do this. I'm a Prefect… and here I am, dressed as Draculette."

"So, you're doing your part to give everyone a laugh! It's not every day it's Halloween. And not every year Halloween comes around without something awful happening. Or any year, for that matter."

"Yes, but I told myself I was going to be more sensible from now on."

"Hey," said Harry, holding her by the shoulders, trying not to let his eyes stray as her cloak parted around her body. "You are sensible. And just like sometimes it's good for Ron and I to be reasonable and organised, sometimes it's good for you to let loose a little. If we get in trouble, I'll say it was all my fault, as usual."

"That's the spirit, Mister Potter," said Ron, in a posh affected voice. "Shall we, my dear friends?"

Harry removed his glasses and set his face in a murderous snarl to complete the Sirius look, and arm-in-arm with Hermione and Ron—mostly so he would not trip over and face-plant while hopelessly vision-impaired—he walked through the tall doors.

The silence that fell in the Great Hall was sudden and momentous. The faces on their fellow students ranged from shocked to bewildered, to amused. Even the giant carved pumpkins positioned around the Hall looked surprised.

Harry, Ron and Hermione stood together like deer caught in headlights, with every face in the hall turned towards them.

"Happy Halloween?" said Ron uncertainly to the Hall at large.

Nearly Headless Nick rose out from the Gryffindor table and observed Ron haughtily. They heard him harrumph in indignation, but Harry thought he might look quite flattered under his white beard.

Someone wolf-whistled. Harry saw Malfoy and the Slytherins in complete shock or disgust; some were trying not to laugh.

At the staff table, Dumbledore slowly stood up, gazing serenely at them through his half-moon spectacles. He raised his hands and clapped, once, twice, and then building to an applause. His face crinkled into a proud, amused smile. On Dumbledore's left, Snape glared at them venomously and looked as though he'd quite like to deduct a thousand points from Gryffindor. On Dumbledore's other side, McGonagall did not applaud, neither did she appear angry, but she shook her head disbelievingly and stared at them with a half-smile as though seeing far into the past—and Harry had a good idea who they might have reminded her of. Lupin looked quietly amused; he caught Harry's eye and winked.

Someone laughed. Susan stood up at the Hufflepuff table and joined Dumbledore in clapping, and then Dean and Seamus and Neville and Ginny, and other students were joining in, and then all of Gryffindor and the MQC members were standing up and cheering as Sirius-Harry, Dracula-Hermione and Nearly-Headless-Ron walked down the Hall to take their seats at the table.

"How about that," said Ron quietly. "Standing ovation."

Harry grinned and nudged Hermione. "Told you. The vampire look is a hit."

Hermione dug an elbow into his ribs. "It certainly seems to work wonders on you."

Harry choked on his pumpkin juice. "Wha—whad'you mean?"

Hermione stopped holding the cloak around her body and it fell away from her chest again. Harry's gaze automatically flickered downward in appreciation before he wrested control of his eyeballs and directed them back at Hermione's face.

But Hermione wasn't angry. She was smirking.

This was a very different kind of Halloween, indeed...

Fred and George, with Hermione's help, had improved the Invisibility Marquee's charms so much that it could almost stay enchanted indefinitely, and they never had to worry about suddenly being exposed by anyone who didn't know the way in. Which, at this point, was a much lower number than what Hermione was comfortable with. Harry, on the other hand, was glad that the twins' and his efforts had been so successful. He felt like finally he was doing something worthwhile for the school and his friends and fellow students, instead of simply existing and going through the motions of school life.

The Duelling Club ran on one side of the Pitch during the first, smaller match of that Friday night after Halloween. Many MQC members were eager to participate, so the match overhead only had seven players a side, as per normal Quidditch.

Harry beat out almost everyone he faced. Ginny, however, cast one of her infamous Bat-Bogey Hexes which his Shield Charm did not work against. Only when he had yielded, bats streaming out of his nose, did she lift the spell and proclaim victory over the Boy Who Lived.

Ron duelled Susan, with whom he had been spending a lot of time with. He lost to her, though Harry thought privately it had been very obvious that it was on purpose.

Hermione was the champion, beating out all the winners of the previous rounds with her cool, calculated Shield Charms and her impressive mastery of a wide range of jinxes that she, Harry and Ron had learned over the past year or so. Professor Lupin awarded her a large block of chocolate.

The subsequent Quidditch match passed in a haze of inappropriate thoughts on Harry's behalf. He caught the Snitch twice in the first hour, but lost focus after that. He kept thinking about how Hermione looked when she duelled; he found it more attractive than he could ever have thought possible. The sight of her pummelling her foe with the most creative jinxes possible, a fixed look of determination and focus on her flushed face… It was enough to distract any man from what he was supposed to be doing.

Feeling a little regretful that he had lost to Ginny, Harry was disappointed he had not had the chance to duel Hermione. He was quite curious who would come out the better for it. Though, he had a feeling that in the moment, he would not try too hard to win, and not be displeased at all to have Hermione beat him to the ground, standing over him proudly with a coy smile, flipping her hair back off her face.

"Harry, look out!" yelled Wood, who had returned once more to Hogwarts to play (Harry had heard that McGonagall had written to him, requesting he come back and demonstrate to them the finer workings of professional Quidditch).

Harry looked around sharply and swerved past Susan, Katie and Alicia, who were flying in a Hawkshead Attacking Formation to make a goal on Wood, who saved the shot easily with a stylish Starfish and Stick, hanging upside-down from his broom with one hand and foot and outstretching his remaining limbs to beat away the Quaffle.

The thing with Hermione… the thing with Hermione was that sometimes the possibility that she liked Harry was very high indeed, but at other times it wasn't clear at all. There were those times when she simply said that he was her best friend. Or when she gave him that reproving look when he had said something not to her liking or not done his homework. And the 'Love, from's and 'your friend's in her letters which spoke only of a strong platonic relationship.

But now Harry thought about it, the probability had begun to swing greatly in favour of the other argument to be made. Moments like when she hugged him so tightly he thought she might crack his ribs. Like those gentle, caring kisses on the cheek. Like when they had danced briefly together while drunk on the Quidditch Pitch, and the fact that she had been touching his face when she thought he was asleep. Like when she glanced his way while reading, a distraction from the literary art so unspeakable that Harry knew he had to be worth at least as much to her as Hogwarts: A History (only quite possibly). Like how she had smirked at him that Tuesday when she had caught him staring at her breasts.

Harry was so busy thinking about Hermione and picturing her sultry smirk for the umpteenth time that he caught the Snitch quite by accident, just as his Firebolt met the wrong end of a Bludger Backbeat from George, and he tumbled off of his broom to the ground. Luckily, he fell only a metre or two; he had been hovering near the ground, not too far from Hermione's Medical Station. He looked over to see her clapping politely, but also looking a little exasperated that he had fallen off his broom again. She was wearing a sweater, but it was quite a tight sweater, wasn't it... what was with the tight clothes, these days? Was he mad for being the only one to notice?

"That's the third Snitch catch! Pigfarts win: 430-310!" called Lupin, blowing his whistle. "You alright, Harry?" he added, jogging over to where Harry was sitting up, looking away from Hermione and down at the Snitch in his hand, somewhat befuddled by how it had come to enter his grasp.

Lupin reached out to grab the Firebolt, which was hovering above Harry. The broom seemed to look at Harry with bemusement, like, Why'd you go and fall off me for? Thinking about Hermione again, weren't you, you rotten scoundrel?

The other players were descending and dismounting, but others stayed in the air, chatting and continuing to toss around the Quaffle. Fred and George were playing around with newly created fireworks that burst into prancing lions.

"Here, have some of this," said Lupin, taking some chocolate from an inside pocket of his robes.

Harry took the chocolate but looked at Lupin in wonder. "I'm sorry, wait," he wheezed; some of the wind had been knocked out of him. "Do you just keep chocolate in your pocket at all times?"

Lupin smiled. "Only when someone might need it. Which, mind you, is a lot of the time, and is, more often than not, you. So let's say, yes, I do."

Harry took a bite of the chocolate and felt it bring warmth to him.

"Better?" asked Lupin.

"Better," said Harry, his breathing under control.

"Good," said Lupin. "But my god, you're just like James. So focused on the girl he's in love with that he quite literally catches the Snitch without realising it."

Lupin smiled reminiscently, seemingly in the middle of a happy flashback. Harry decided not to bother trying to convince Lupin that he was not in love with Hermione. She was currently talking to Ron and Susan, but he thought she might be shooting him brief glances in between words.

"Professor," said Harry suddenly, remembering that he'd wanted to ask Lupin something. "I was talking to Sirius a couple of weeks ago. About—well, don't laugh—but about relationships and stuff."

"Oh?" Lupin's interest was piqued. He sat down beside Harry on the Pitch, sighing as he stretched out his legs on the grass, laying the Firebolt carefully to one side.

"Yeah, Sirius told me about Mum and Dad, but he also said he was in love with someone, years ago, but they were unavailable… do you know who they were?"

Lupin looked as though he'd seen a ghost, though for the life of him Harry couldn't see why it would shock him so much. "Ah, Harry, I don't really know… Sirius saw a lot of, well, a lot of women, in his youthful years…"

"Right," said Harry vacantly. "Well, I just wondered what it means when someone's unavailable. Does that mean they don't want to date, or they can't, or they do want to, but can't?"

Harry was wondering if Hermione was in a similar position. If perhaps, she didn't want a boyfriend and instead wished to commit to her studies until graduation. If, maybe, her parents had forbidden her from dating. Or if she had been put off boys altogether by her experience with Krum, and from hanging around Harry and Ron every day. All of these scenarios seemed quite likely.

Lupin fiddled with the Quaffle. "It can mean any of those things, Harry. Sometimes things can get in the way of love."

"But what?" said Harry. "Isn't love supposed to be this thing that beats all other things?"

Lupin smiled tentatively. "You've been spending too much time around Dumbledore, Harry. There are things that can mess very effectively with love, prevent it from blooming, or dampen that bloom. It's not always as simple as boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl, boy and girl get married."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "But sometimes, it is?"

Lupin looked very pensive. "Yes, sometimes, very rarely, mind you, but sometimes, it is…"

"And if it is," Harry went on, "shouldn't we just… go for it?"

"Go for it?" Lupin sat back and leaned on his arms. "Yes, I suppose we should."

Harry smiled and decided to take a small leap and tell Lupin what he was thinking.

"I think I'm going to go for it, Professor," he said.

Lupin smiled in surprise. "I think that's great, Harry. Good luck."

"Thanks, Professor." Harry grinned sheepishly, and he thought that Lupin looked a little embarrassed, but pleased as well.

Student and teacher sat there for a while, each with a lot to think about, until Fred dive-bombed Lavender and Ginny, who were standing nearby, possibly eavesdropping, and Ginny cast a Bat-Bogey Hex on Fred that she refused to remove. She promptly walked off and headed back to the castle, a spring in her step.

It took Lupin over half an hour to remove the Bat-Bogey Hex from around Fred's head.

Mid-November approached, and the trio endured the series of trial exams set by their Professors. Luckily, they were all well prepared. Hermione had put a stopper on her 'fun' side for a week or two, and made sure to keep Harry and Ron's noses so close to the grindstone that Harry complained his eyesight was getting worse (it wasn't; Ron had cast a blurring spell on his glasses in an attempt to relieve the boredom, and Hermione punished him by setting him three practice essay questions on the troll wars of the 1630s).

In the end, though, Hermione somehow succeeded in getting the boys through the trials. Even McGonagall was pleased at the standard they set.

Ron miserably failed Potions and Divination, but did quite well in the other subjects. Hermione aced each one, and Harry, as expected, achieved the top mark in Defence Against the Dark Arts, much to Lupin's pleasure. To Hermione's anger, however, Harry had brewed a perfectly adequate, if watery, Wide-Eye Potion for Snape's exam, which Snape had declared unusable, and given Harry a 'Dreadful'.

As she always did after a series of impeccably-completed exams, Hermione allowed herself some time off studying to read some light novels, and even returned to Carnal Delights At Durnside Castle, volume 2 in the evenings. It was from this book that she had gotten the idea to dress as a vampire for Halloween.

Hermione would never admit it to anyone, but she had very much enjoyed the sense of power she had held over—or under, she should say—Harry's head, by wearing that form-fitting shirt. The look on his face as he struggled to keep his eyes on her face was almost worth any punishment the teachers might have handed out. She had made sure, however, to let the cloak fall open when only Harry was looking. At least, she hoped. But even that had made her feel a little ashamed of herself, so she'd thrown herself into her work and even passed on going to a MQC match for the first time that term, opting instead to knit hats and socks for the house-elves and leaving them out in the Common Room. To her delight, the next day, the clothes she had knitted had been taken. Proof to hang over Ron's head if there ever was, that S.P.E.W was something worthwhile, that house-elves did really want to be free. She was grateful that Harry seemed inclined to be supportive of her efforts, even going so far as to offer to help her knit when he wasn't as busy.

Coming out the other end of exams with her sanity still intact and with control over most of her life, Hermione allowed herself to relax a little afterwards, and returned her attention to the still-burning torch she held for Harry, thinking of setting herself a date by which she would have to tell Harry how she felt, or set fire to all her books. She gave up on this; it pained her too much to even think about it.

In the wake of all the hard work, one afternoon by the fire as Hermione multitasked—reading 'Persuasion' by Jane Austen while knitting a woollen scarf—Harry and Ron had a reckless idea. Harry had ignited the spark after mentioning Ron's suggestions of what they could use the Room of Requirement for.

"So, let's throw a party," said Ron loudly.

"A party?" Hermione sat up from where she had been lying on her belly by the fire. "What do you mean?"

"We mean a gathering of people to make merriment," said Ron.

"Don't be snarky. Why should we throw a party?"

"To celebrate," said Harry. "Think about it—we could use the Room of Requirement, we'd fit the whole Quidditch Club in there, probably all Gryffindor House—and we wouldn't even have to decorate. We could use the ballroom that it became that one time. It'd be like the Yule Ball, but more private, and more fun."

Hermione had to admit the idea held some appeal. Like the Yule Ball… Did that mean they would bring dates? She watched Harry closely but he didn't make any mention of dancing partners.

"We could call it: The Fool's Ball," said Ron, sweeping his hand out over his head as if outlining the text. "You know, because it's like the Yule Ball, but we're all fools. Except you, of course, Hermione."

Hermione shrugged. "The Fool's Ball. Sounds perfectly adequate."

With Hermione's permission as good as granted, the boys set about planning, and Hermione's mind set about whirring. Planning a party was so unlike Harry—but then she remembered her sixteenth birthday. Could it be that this Ball was Harry creating an opportunity to get together with Hermione? But no… it couldn't be. He was simply taking Sirius' message to heart, and enjoying himself. But a Ball? Harry hated dancing… Come to think of it, so did Ron. Hermione also had a vague suspicion that the two of them had pre-arranged to start that conversation with her in earshot. But it couldn't be... Harry and Ron, planning, together?

Ron persuaded Harry to use the one-eyed witch's hump to get into the secret passage and smuggle drinks and snacks in from Hogsmeade under the Invisibility Cloak. Hermione was hesitant, but she reluctantly consented to allow it to happen—and to even help organise a time for them to pull off the caper—when Harry made puppy-dog eyes at her. How could she ever say no when he did that?

The invitation list for the Fool's Ball was generous. Each member of the Midnight Quidditch Club was invited to come along and bring one date, if they weren't already going with someone in the Club. However, they would all—dates included—have to sign Hermione's magically protected list, which she had now renewed with a stronger intent. After all, just because she had decided she would be 'fun' again didn't mean she was willing to relinquish her share of control over the proceedings, or run the risk of getting into detention. After all, McGonagall may be predisposed to allow Midnight Quidditch to continue, but Hermione had the feeling she wouldn't be as forgiving about a large party.

Amidst hushed whispers in the Common Room and the Great Hall over the next few days, Hermione learned that Dean was, of course, going with Ginny. Ron asked Susan during dinner one night, and she said yes immediately. Ron was so shocked and delighted that he forgot to eat his dinner, coming back to attention only when the meal was replaced with the dessert course. Fred was going with Angelina, and George with Alicia. And so on and so forth, everyone partnering up, some with fellow MQC members, others with those outside the Club. Meanwhile, Hermione fretted. She was one of the last remaining dateless. Had Harry not asked her yet because somebody had got to him first? Or did he not plan to ask her at all? But she hadn't heard anything from anyone confirming whether Harry was going with anyone, so she had to assume he was in the same position she was.

Eyeing him across the room on Wednesday evening before the Ball on Friday, Hermione made a resolution to be bold. After all, she reasoned, Harry had to at least be somewhat interested in her—there was too much proof now for Hermione to have any reason to delude herself anymore just to spare her own feelings. So, she walked over to him, just, it seemed, as he had made the decision to walk over to her. They met in the middle, stopping mid-stride.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," said Harry.

They stood for a moment, each seemingly unsure of what to say next. Then:

"Hermione—"

"Harry—"

It was not the first time they had tried to speak simultaneously and accidentally cut each other off.

"So, who's it going to be?" Harry asked mirthfully.

"Let's toss a coin," Hermione suggested.

Neither of them, however, had a coin on them.

"I have another idea," said Harry.

"Oh, yes?"

"On three, we both just say whatever it was we were going to say. And we see what we can make of that mess."

"I like that idea," said Hermione, but really she didn't like it at all. What if he had been about to say something completely unrelated, like 'Can I borrow your quill?' or 'Do you think Filch and Pince are having an affair?'?

But she had already committed. She had no choice.

"Do you mean on three, or after three?" said Hermione, just as Harry drew breath to count down; she didn't want to blurt her question out ahead of him.

Harry looked confused. "On three. After three would be four."

Hermione wrung her hands. "Yes, but when people say 'on three' they sometimes mean, one, two, three, go! Not one, two, go!"

Harry looked amused. "Alright then. One, two, three, go, it is."

Hermione nodded and prepared herself. Here I go...

"One," said Harry.

"Two," they said together.

"Three!"

Hermione took a quick breath, and blurted, "Will you go to the Ball with me?"

There was a strange echo behind her words, but an octave lower.

It took her a little over two seconds to realise that Harry had said the exact same thing at the exact same time.

Hermione flushed with pleasure, hardly able to believe her ears; surely she was mistaken. But Harry had that sheepish smile on his face, and she knew it had really happened.

"Yes," they said, again at the same time.

And then they laughed at each other, and themselves.

"Well," said Harry happily, "that went considerably better than I thought it might."

Hermione grinned at him, feeling quite light-headed. "I thought maybe someone had already asked you," she admitted.

Harry shrugged awkwardly. "Well…"

Hermione stared. "Who?" she demanded, wondering if it would be an abuse of her authority to put the guilty party on cleaning duties for the next week.

"Uh," said Harry, scratching his head. "Just some Third Year in the Club… Romilda somebody. You might've seen her, she doesn't play much, just sits and watches…"

"Oh, right," said Hermione, a little put out. "Just her, then?"

"Well…"

"Harry…" she said warningly, a little worried now.

"And Ginny's friend Janice," he continued, "and Janice's friend, Lulu, and that blonde girl who hit Ron on the head last week with the Quaffle…"

"Is that all?" asked Hermione sarcastically.

"Almost," said Harry, most maddeningly. "But I said no to them, because, really, I wanted to ask you. I mean, come on, who else would I be going with but Hermione Granger?"

And at this, the smile came back to Hermione's face in full force, and all traces of jealousy vanished. She ignored the whispers of Lavender and Parvati on the couch behind them, and started talking about what they would wear, and if they would match outfits, a conversation which Harry (to Hermione's delight) engaged with enthusiastically.

Hermione could even find it in herself to ignore the fact that following their arrangement to go to the Ball together (which somehow became common MQC knowledge over the next day or two) the mysterious parchment resurfaced, making several appearances in the Common Room, their fellow students engaging in excited—and sometimes heated—conversations over it.

None of that mattered. After all, Harry Potter had asked her—Hermione Granger—to be his date to the Ball. Or she had asked him... Or they had proposed to go together… Suffice to say they were going together! Sure, it was literally called the 'Fool's Ball', and sure, it wasn't an official event, or anything, and sure, they would again be breaking countless school rules… but she could not find it in herself to care much at all about such fickle trivialities.

I'm going to the Ball with Harry, I'm going to the Ball with Harry! The words formed a rhythmic tune in her head and she had to resist skipping on her way to her classes for the next two days.

The Fool's Ball was looking to be a very magical evening, indeed.

Chapter Text

Hermione, Harry, Ron and Susan arrived at the Room of Requirement a little past eight-thirty on the evening of Friday the 17th of November, dressed in their uniforms and carrying their schoolbags so as to avoid arousing suspicion. The rest of the party would join them after curfew, sneaking out in small groups.

Hermione had skipped dinner to do her hair, applying Sleakeazy liberally but stopping short of the sleekness she had achieved for the Yule Ball; she felt that had been a bit much. Nothing fancy tonight. All she wanted to do was make it look a little less like a bird's nest. She was glad that Harry noticed when he met her after dinner, though he had simply said, "Nice hair." Oh well…

The quartet now concentrated hard in front of the blank wall on the seventh floor, each focusing on their own thoughts and what they wanted, though with a general pre-discussed plan in mind.

Hermione thought vividly of hundreds of candles, of a marble floor that would still be suitable for dancing, of a set of mirrors along the walls so she could check on her hair, and of, perhaps, a little secluded nook in one corner where she and Harry might share a quiet moment, or twenty.

"Wow," said Hermione, when the doors cracked open and they beheld what the Room of Requirement had created for them.

The Ballroom was smaller than the Great Hall, but Hermione liked that. It felt private and exclusive, and more cosy, like a club hangout with a dance floor. The floor, as per her request, was white marble, patterned with obsidian black circles and stars at aesthetically pleasing intervals. There were tables and chairs set up at the sides, and one table in the middle, carrying a bowl of punch, many bottles of Butterbeer, wine, and Firewhisky, and a huge chocolate fountain. In three of the corners were small dim lounge areas with a couple of couches and armchairs. In the farthest left corner was an area hidden behind a flowery pink screen. The extraordinarily large crystal chandelier cast flickering light from its countless candles, emitting shimmering glows across the spectrum of colour. On one of the tables on the right was an old gramophone and a wizard's stereo set, playing an old wizarding love song by Celestina Warbeck. The ceiling, like the Great Hall, displayed the starry night sky high above them. The far wall displayed: The Midnight Quidditch Club Proudly Present: The Fool's Ball, written in huge, elegant silver text.

"The Room's outdone itself this time," said Harry quietly. He exchanged a glance with Hermione and they smiled.

Ron was grinning widely, looking around in awe. Hermione watched him carefully. He had been very busy over the last couple of days. All sorts of people seemed to have been approaching him, but he always had his conversations out of Hermione's earshot. She had the impression he had been a little stressed, but she didn't think much of it. He was probably more popular now because he was on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. She let it slide.

They spent a few minutes exploring the Ballroom, and then decided they might get changed into the clothes they had brought along. A door on the left hand side of the room led them through into an adjoining chamber. Here, there were two separate dressing rooms, for boys and girls.

"Well, see you in a bit," said Ron, and he and Harry strolled into the boy's dressing room.

Hermione and Susan stepped into the opposite door. Their dressing room had floor to ceiling mirrors and large wardrobes filled with the most exquisite clothes. Hermione spent a good while going through each gown and dress, holding them up to her body in turn. In the end, though, she decided to simply go with the one she had brought along in her bag. She had bought it over the summer holidays on a rare shopping trip with her parents. It was more of a Muggle dress, really, but it wouldn't be too out of place.

She changed slowly, taking off her uniform, folding it neatly, and slipping into the dress carefully. It was a modest midnight blue maxi dress. It had curved flowery lace patterns from the waist up, the neckline descending from the shoulders just low enough for her to wear a necklace with a shining star. Below the sash tied around the waist, the dress flowed down in folds to her feet. The sleeves were long, the lace partially translucent over her arms. On her left wrist she wore the watch Harry had given her.

The back of the dress was very fiddly, with a criss-cross pattern that she had to lace through the slots. She couldn't seem to get it right; her first attempt she didn't close it up properly and she could feel the skin on her back through the lace, which wasn't right.

"Susan?" she said uncertainly.

Susan popped her head into Hermione's compartment. "Oh, wow, Hermione! I really love it!"

"Thanks," said Hermione, pleased. "I just need a little help here, if you don't mind… I like your dress, too, by the way, very nice."

Susan had chosen to go with a slinky silver dress that amplified her, well, assets. She wore hoop earrings and a matching necklace.

"Thank you," said Susan, beaming, as she stood behind Hermione and started doing up the lace. "You know, Hermione, I'm thinking of kissing Ron tonight."

Hermione snorted before she could stop herself. "Sorry. Right. Well, go ahead, I suppose."

"You don't mind?" Susan asked.

"Of course not," said Hermione. "It'd make his night, his month, his year, and probably his life. Go right ahead."

Susan finished lacing up the dress and Hermione turned her back to the mirror and peered over her own shoulder.

"Thank you," she said, satisfied with how it looked. She sat down and put on her dress shoes: sensible silver, with low heels.

"And, um," said Susan, "what about you and Harry?"

Hermione fumbled with the left shoe. "What about us?"

"Can I expect to see you sharing saliva tonight?"

Hermione frowned. "That is a rather unsavoury way of putting it, but I don't see why you should, Susan." That was a lie. Hermione was fully intending to kiss Harry tonight, whether he liked it or not.

"Oh," said Susan. "Well, I thought, seeing as he's your date."

"That doesn't mean he's my boyfriend," said Hermione defensively, but secretly she was thinking, does it? Oh, I hope it does.

They spoke no more on it as they did their makeup together. Hermione wasn't nearly as skilled as Susan in that department, and opted for a simple light foundation and a subtly sparkling highlight, as well as some clear lip gloss.

"Right," said Susan, when they had finished double-checking themselves in the mirror and making sure everything was where it should be. "Shall we show ourselves off to the menfolk?"

Hermione stifled a giggle. "We shall," she said.

They left the changing room and walked through the chamber into the Ballroom. Inside, Harry and Ron were standing against the far wall by the snacks table, talking in low tones. Ron seemed to be egging Harry on about something, eagerly shaking his shoulder to make his point. Hermione didn't much care what Ron was saying. She only had eyes for Harry.

It was amazing, really, how a sharp set of dress robes could somehow make Harry even more attractive than he already was. After all, when she looked at his face, it was still the same old Harry, smiling awkwardly, his hair as spectacularly messy as it always was. But his bottle green robes complimented him well, his white silk shirt providing a nice contrast, and his black bow tie fitting snugly under his collar. He looked taller, older, more mature, somehow. His jawline seemed to pop out at her as he spoke to Ron, who was wearing black and white dress robes (without any dodgy lace or collars). Harry's green eyes seemed to shine infinitely brighter as he turned from his conversation to look at her, and to Hermione's delight, his jaw dropped.

"Wow, Hermione," said Harry, mouth open wide. "You look—wow."

Hermione flashed him a smile, swooning inside, even though 'wow' was hardly a coherent compliment. There was something to be said, wasn't there, for someone not being able to form their words at the sight of their date?

"Thank you," she said, glad that her light makeup would go some way in hiding her blushes. "You too, by the way. Wow, that is. I really, uh, your robes are really nice. Brings out your eyes." She turned away from him to Ron, feeling that she was making her infatuation rather obvious. "And Ron, these robes are much better than what you wore last year…"

Ron shrugged, but looked distracted, his gaze directed at Susan, who was beaming at him. "Fred and George bought them for me in the summer… Come to think of it, I don't know where they got the Galleons for them."

Harry changed the subject rather quickly. "You two took your time," he said. "Ron and I have been ready for twenty minutes. People will be arriving soon."

"Let's have a drink while we wait," said Ron, grabbing a bottle of mead.

"Why not," said Susan.

Hermione was hesitant; she did not want to get drunk. But Harry was accepting a glass from Ron and she threw caution to the winds. If she had a maximum of three glasses tonight, and drank water at regular intervals, she should be fine. Besides, just a small amount would help boost her courage, wouldn't it?

"To a night to remember," Ron toasted, raising his glass.

"Cheers to that," said Harry.

The four of them clinked glasses and drank. Harry and Ron seemed to have expunged Celestina Warbeck from the Fool's Ball's music catalogue; there was now a Muggle rock song playing softly from the stereo.

Not long after that, Fred and George arrived with Angelina and Alicia, already in their dress robes.

"Lovely," said Fred, taking in the sight of the Ballroom.

"Very nice," George agreed. "Though I wonder what happens to our Marquee when the Room changes..."

Hermione had some thoughts about that too. "It's still here," she theorised, "but not here. The Room probably sends all its objects to some pocket dimensions to wait until the user chooses to recall them."

Angelina went straight for the alcohol; it had apparently been a tough day for her. Either that or Hermione was boring her with her theorising.

Ginny and Dean arrived next. Ginny wore a black strapless dress and Dean wore a Muggle tuxedo.

"Wow!" gushed Ginny. "You all look amazing! Not you, Ron. But Hermione, that dress is stunning..."

"Thank you, Ginny," said Hermione happily. "You look great, too!"

Ginny grinned and thanked Hermione and Harry for organising the Ball (she ignored Ron). But behind the smile, Hermione thought Ginny might look a little worried about something. She didn't have time to think about it much longer, though.

The rest of the party arrived in twos and threes over the next half hour. Hermione busied herself with greeting her friends and making small talk, and explaining how the Room of Requirement worked. As one of three hosts, she felt it was her duty. Harry and Ron did the same thing, so she didn't get much of a chance to talk to Harry alone.

Before too long, the room was lively and full of Midnight Quidditch Club members and their dates: maybe around seventy people in total. Some couples were already dancing; Hermione saw Ginny and Dean near the chocolate fountain, seemingly trying to hide from Ron behind it. Seamus and Neville were taking a shot of Firewhisky together (Neville seemingly against his better judgement). Colin was with a fourth year Ravenclaw girl, having a snack in one of the lounge areas. Jason Phelangie was madly snogging his girlfriend by the gramophone.

Hermione engaged in quite cheerful pleasantries with Susan and Hannah for a while, as she struggled to get up the courage to ask Harry to dance. She had been practising in the dormitories when the other girls were away that week. She had even read a book on ballroom dancing.

With so much potent alcohol present, and no adult supervision, people were already starting to get drunk. Katie Bell was singing loudly alone to the stereo, using a fork as a microphone. Lee Jordan was apparently attempting to perform a backflip off one of the armchairs. Lavender was having a fit of the giggles as she danced with Luna Lovegood, who seemed to think that Lavender's dress was infested with Nargles.

Before Hermione could locate Harry, however, Ron had stood up on a chair and was tapping his spoon on his glass to get everyone's attention. "Silence," he called cheerfully, "silence for Parry Hotter, the Boy Who Loved—I mean Lived!"

And there Harry was, glaring at Ron from beside the chocolate fountain. "What're you doing, Ron?"

Ron raised his hands, like, duh! "Time for your speech, Harry! This is your party, isn't it?"

Harry started protesting, but the call was taken up around him: "Speech! Speech! Speech!"

Sighing, Harry went up and took Ron's place on the chair. Ron jumped down, handed Harry his glass, and sat, eagerly awaiting Harry's speech. From above somewhere, the Room of Requirement cast a dazzling spotlight. Harry blinked, but everyone was cheering, calling his name.

"I hate you, Ron," Harry mumbled, and everyone laughed. Colin snapped a photo. Hermione wished he hadn't; Harry looked nervous already.

Harry looked around at everyone anxiously. "Hello, everyone. Thanks for coming, it's really, really great to see you here. Sorry that we're not playing Quidditch tonight (though I have a feeling Fred and George are going to try to anyway once they get a few Firewhisky shots down."

"Spot on, Parry!" yelled Fred, and everyone laughed.

"Great," said Harry, "So I should probably say the usual stuff about how this is a secret Ball, and no teachers or other students should know about it, but you know all that, Hermione already told you when you signed. So instead I'm going to say something else."

Harry smiled, his nervousness gone now. Hermione stared at him. Seeing him standing up there, dressed like he was, talking like he was, Hermione realised for the first time that Harry was becoming a man. Not that she didn't know before, but it was just clearer now. He was growing up. He'd had to, hadn't he, after everything? But she was proud of him. He had come out the other end and was still smiling. And she hoped she would always be able to be there with him from then on, through whatever else might happen.

"Firstly," he said, "thanks for organising the Fool's Ball must go to Hermione and Ron, who are just as much a part of anything I do as I am, and sometimes more."

Hermione flushed with pleasure and Ron looked touched to be mentioned.

"We're with you all the way, Harry," said Ron happily.

Hermione nodded her agreement; Harry met her eyes and she didn't trust her voice to speak. Seeing him in this light was having a rather strange effect on her.

"Secondly," said Harry, "to the Weasley Twins, for being mad enough to put together the MQC."

"Yeah, Fred!" "Yeah, George!" There was a smattering of applause and the twins bowed exaggeratedly.

"It's been really great getting to know and hang out with you all this year," Harry continued. "Thank you for making this term the best I've had at Hogwarts so far." He paused for a moment and Hermione saw a shadow pass over his face. "After all that's... happened... I couldn't have imagined ever enjoying school again, but you've all made it possible. So thanks for the Quidditch, and the fun, and the friendship. I hope you've all enjoyed yourselves as much as I have."

"Hear hear!" shouted Ron.

"And now," said Harry loudly, raising his glass, "time for more fun!"

Everyone applauded and cheered as Harry drank deeply, then handed the glass back to Ron and jumped down from the armchair. Their friends went up to him, clapped him on the back, thanked him for everything. Hermione smiled. She was very happy for him. She took a sip of her own drink, standing awkwardly. She didn't want to go up to him now, when he was in the middle of everything, so she looked around for a while, a smile fixed on her face.

The music was cranked back up, and couples rejoined on the dance floor, bopping energetically to the song:

"The Love Shack is a little old place where

We can get together

Love Shack, ba-a-by."

Hermione was a little distracted by Fred and George's synchronised shimmies and booty-shakes and Lee Jordan picking up Katie and swinging her back and forth dangerously, so she lost sight of Harry amongst the crowd for the next few minutes. She somehow ended up talking to Luna.

"Enjoying yourself, Luna?" Hermione asked politely.

"Oh, yes," said Luna, who was wearing a radiant sundress and her radish earrings. "I've never been to a Ball before. You know, these events are typically haunted by evil Snarck-fiends, they attach themselves to kissing couples and cut off their tongues..."

Hermione laughed, but Luna looked quite serious. "Oh," she said, deciding to play along. "Well, Harry, Ron and I thoroughly cleaned out the room and cast anti-Snarck-fiend charms, so don't you worry, Luna, no tongues are being ripped out tonight."

Luna looked delighted. "I didn't think you believed in this stuff," she said.

Hermione shrugged. She didn't, as a matter of fact. "Oh, it helps to have an, ah, an open mind."

She was getting a little uncomfortable with lying to Luna, who was a nice girl, really, just with some strange ideas. Hermione finally spotted Harry across the room talking to Parvati and she stopped what she was saying to watch carefully. Harry met her eyes across the room and politely excused himself.

Hermione quietly extracted herself from her conversation with Luna and went to meet him as he walked across the marble floor. She admired him as they slowly approached each other. She thought that his dark green and her dark blue outfits went together quite well. She wondered if they might get hold of Colin to get a photo at some point.

Most strangely, Seamus intercepted Harry across the room, talking to him and seemingly trying to usher him in a different direction. But Dean hurried over and grabbed Seamus by the arm and led him away, against his protests.

Harry gave them a curious glance, but returned his eyes to Hermione and continued walking.

The song played and Hermione timed her steps to the beat.

"'Cause we're living in a world of fools

Breaking us down, when they all should let us be

We belong to you and me…"

Harry smiled at her when they met.

"Enjoying yourself?" asked Hermione.

"Yes," said Harry, "though, I thought I'd come see how my date is doing."

Hermione grinned sheepishly. "That's very thoughtful of you. I thought your speech was really nice."

"Bloody Ron," Harry grumbled, "he knows I don't do well with public speaking."

Hermione nodded her understanding. "You did well, though. It helps that most people here are our friends."

Harry smiled at that. "There is that. Listen, I wanted to ask you something…"

Hermione's heartbeat elevated instantly. "Yes?" she asked casually.

"May I have this dance?" Harry asked awkwardly, proffering his hand formally.

Hermione had to refrain from giggling stupidly. "You may," she said in a posh voice.

He grinned, and took her hand, and they walked to the dance floor. Hermione was vaguely aware of camera flashes lighting up the room, and she thought she saw some people watching them closely, but she was extremely focused on the way Harry's fingers were intertwined with hers.

"You, uh, you may have to lead," said Harry, scratching his head, as they stopped to one side of the chocolate fountain.

Hermione chuckled. How could he be so adorably awkward? "I can do that. How hopeless are you at dancing, anyway?"

"You don't want to know that," said Harry. "Not if you value your toes."

"Well," said Hermione, laughing lightly," hold my hand like this, that's it, and I'll take your waist…"

Somehow they ended up in a position somewhat suitable for dancing. Hermione urged him into step gently and he followed, and they stepped into a smooth, unhurried rhythm, their hands intertwined and their bodies very close together.

"I believe in you,

You know the door to my very soul

You're the light in my deepest, darkest hour

You're my saviour when I fall…"

Dancing with Harry was simply an experience that Hermione wished she could freeze forever, to hold and cherish the moment. If she could use a spell to paralyse the time and observe it from every possible angle, she would. If she could use a Time-Turner to go back a few minutes to the start of the dance and do it all again, she would do it until the Time-Turner's hinges were rusted and useless.

She found it difficult to put her feelings into words. She settled on saying, "This is nice."

Thankfully, Harry responded to that particularly eloquent statement by agreeing, "It is nice."

"How about a twirl?" she asked.

"Oh," said Harry, "I'm not really sure how to—"

But Hermione was lifting his hand up above his head and before he could protest had twirled him round. He spun back round to face her.

"Did you seriously just twirl me?" he asked indignantly, as he took hold of her waist again and they stepped to one side, and then back, their entwined hands held out to their right.

"You asked me to lead," Hermione pointed out.

Harry reddened. "I guess I did."

"You liked it, didn't you?" she teased him.

"Just a little," he mumbled, and she grinned.

Gradually, their dance transitioned into a simple swaying motion, and Hermione leaned closer into Harry, letting her chin rest on his shoulder. Oh, she could simply stay here forever, through all the songs in the world. Unfortunately, no song or dance could last forever, as much as she might like it.

When the song finished, she stepped back from him slightly, but left her hand in his and kept her other hand on his waist possessively.

"That wasn't so bad," she said. "You're not a terrible dancer."

"Gee, thanks," said Harry. "You're pretty good, though I shouldn't be surprised."

"I read some books about it," said Hermione, shrugging.

Harry looked at her with a strange light in his eyes. For a second it looked as though he was dying to say something, but a commotion from the centre of the room interrupted his thought; she saw his lips fall back together as he turned to see what was going on.

There were excited exclamations and a substantial amount of applause. Harry and Hermione pushed through the crowd to see two figures under the chandelier, though at first glance she might have thought it was just one figure with eight tangled limbs.

Ron was snogging Susan so messily that spittle flew from their lips and dripped down their necks.

"Oh my god, I just threw up," said Fred, having come up behind Harry and Hermione.

Hermione looked at him. "Where?" she asked, confused.

"In my pants," said Fred, looking horrified. "Out of my butt."

Hermione let out a pft! But looking back at Ron as he engaged in some messy tongue punching with Susan, she had to agree with Fred's sentiment. It was a rather untasteful sight. And what did the git mean by snogging Susan like that, when Hermione still had not kissed Harry? Were he and all the other couples in the room determined to make Hermione feel inadequately single?

Feeling depressed, she wandered away in search of a drink to occupy herself with, leaving Harry and Fred to ogle the animalistic display in the centre of the Room.

She had to do what Ron had done, it was as simple as that. Though, she planned to do it in a more tasteful way, of course. This was, after all, the perfect time for Hermione to finally tell Harry how she felt. The ballroom, the music, the drinks, their outfits… If there was ever a time, this was it.

She picked up a glass of red wine from a table and swirled its contents vacantly. "Yes," she said to herself. "Tonight. Right now. It will happen. I will make it happen."

After all, though Hermione possessed many of the qualities of a Ravenclaw, the Sorting Hat had placed her in Gryffindor for a reason. And that reason was to ask Harry Potter out, whether he turned her down or not. Sometimes, she realised, you had to have the courage to take a blind leap, even if you had no idea where or if you would land. Sometimes, you had to risk everything, so that, in some small possible future, you could have everything.

And Harry was everything, to her.

Harry had lost track of Hermione after their short dance, but his mind was already actively replaying the time they'd had together, linging on the moment when she'd twirled him around, remembering the sensation of their bodies pressed together afterwards...

Ron and Susan were engaged under the chandelier for some time, and Harry found himself talking to Colin by the lounge.

"I got some great shots of you and Hermione, Harry!" said Colin, his camera hanging from one shoulder. "I'll get them to you this weekend."

"Thanks very much, Colin," said Harry.

"No, thank you, Harry," said Colin earnestly. "For organising all this, I didn't get to go to the Yule Ball, so this is really nice."

Harry shrugged awkwardly. "No problem. Ron and Hermione helped, too."

"About Hermione," Colin said pointedly. "Are you two going to—"

Harry cleared his throat. "Uh, sorry, Colin, I've just seen, um, I've got to…"

With that pitiful excuse, he wandered away in no particular direction to no particular person. He looked around for someone else to talk to, but he didn't have to look far; Ron pranced excitedly over to him, his tongue seemingly having finished its tantalising tango with Susan's mouth, at least for now.

"I snogged Susan," Ron announced proudly, with lipstick painted all around his mouth.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Yes, it was rather hard to miss, seeing as you did it in the middle of the room for ten minutes and shared enough spit to flood Moaning Myrtle's bathroom ten times over. How was it?"

"Extremely wet and slimy," Ron said happily.

Harry mimed throwing up and Ron smirked.

"So, it's your turn," said Ron pointedly.

Harry glared at him.

"Come on," said Ron, slurring his words slightly. "You said you would."

"I did not!" Harry declared. This was true. He had simply listened while Ron explained in great detail how this was the perfect night to tell Hermione how he felt. And though he was annoyed at Ron for taking such a great interest into what Harry considered a private matter, he quietly agreed.

"Mate," said Ron, "I organised this whole bloody Ball so you and Hermione could finally get together… make my efforts worthwhile?"

"We organised this Ball," Harry corrected him. "And are you sure it wasn't so you could get with Susan, instead?"

Ron frowned. "No. But it is an added perk! Come on, Harry, I thought we'd been through this…"

Harry looked at Ron for a while, and decided enough was enough; there was no point arguing anymore. The time had long passed for pretending that he did not like Hermione. "Fine, Ron. Fine. Sure, I like Hermione, and yes, I think she might like me too. You were right, you happy?"

"I'll be happy when wedding bells are ringing," said Ron.

"Ron…" said Harry warningly.

"Harry," said Ron seriously. "You can do it, mate. You've beaten Voldemort three times. You've fought for your life every year since you were eleven, and won. You can definitely kiss a girl who wants to kiss you as much as you want to kiss her, so… kiss!"

Harry sighed. "Don't suppose you'll stop pestering me until I do…"

"Never," said Ron cheerfully. He gave Harry a shove. "Now, onward, brave warrior! Go forth and snog!"

Harry walked away, traversing the room slowly as he looked for Hermione. He had last seen her somewhere by the punch bowl, talking to Ernie MacMillan and Hannah Abbott.

Harry had spoken to Dean earlier about the playlist for that night. Dean's knowledge of Muggle music was unmatched, and he had made a mixtape full of popular love songs, as well as uptempo jams for the more enthusiastic (or drunken) dancers.

The song now reverberating around the room was something Harry might have recognised from the radio. It was one of those songs he remembered from years ago, something he'd heard when he was younger, something trivial that he'd never understood. But now, hearing it here, at this party, with four years of knowing Hermione Granger behind him and many more ahead, he understood every part of the song with every fibre of his being.

"How I love the way you move

And the sparkle in your eyes,

There's a colour deep inside of them

Like a blue suburban sky…"

And there she was. Even though he had already seen her multiple times tonight, each time felt like the first. Once again he allowed himself to marvel at how incredible she looked in her midnight blue dress, how every move she made exuded the grace and character that only Hermione had. Some of her curls had separated from the rest of her hair to fall down, curving, past her eyebrows and cheekbones, framing her face. Harry wondered if it was intentional. It certainly seemed that way.

Harry had always thought Hermione was beautiful in a subtle way, like somehow he was the only one who could see it. But seeing her now, beautiful in every sense of the word, he felt his heart inflate in a way that was almost dangerous. It wasn't like she was a different person or trying too hard or anything, either. This was Hermione with the volume turned up, Hermione bathed in magic, Hermione as her own work of art. Hermione Granger, beautiful inside and out.

They met eyes across the room at the same time, and started forwards as one, bridging the gap between them slowly.

"I don't need to be the king of the world…"

Harry felt as if he was walking into the future, into something so bright and brilliant it made him want to shy away. But he didn't. He kept walking, towards the most beautiful girl in the room, the girl who had come to mean more to him than oxygen.

"As long as I'm the hero of this little girl…"

Harry walked past the Patil twins, distractedly picking up a glass of wine from one of the tables. He held it between his index and middle fingers as he approached, swirling the wine slowly in the glass. Across from him, Hermione did the same thing with her glass.

"Heaven isn't too far away

Closer to it every day

No matter what your friends might say

We'll find our way…"

"Hello again," said Harry, when they had met in the middle, both smiling nervously. "Lost track of you after our dance."

"Hello," said Hermione sheepishly. "I was just, ah, talking to some people."

Harry nodded. "Ah, yes. Hermione Granger, the social butterfly."

"Hush," she said. "It may have escaped your notice, but I'm at least more sociable than you."

"Oh, really?" said Harry, though he knew it was true.

Hermione shrugged. "Not my fault people don't tend to like me. I'm an extrovert at heart, really, though I just like to talk about stuff no one else is interested in, which tends to cast me out from the flock, so to speak…"

"I'm interested," said Harry dumbly. "In what you talk about," he clarified.

Hermione beamed at him. "Oh, Harry! That's so nice… I may not have said before, but well, you look, um, dashing."

"So do you," said Harry. "If dashing is a word that applies to girls, I mean, women. Not that I see you as a woman, or as a girl, but as well, a female, that's the word isn't it, and a very good-looking female at that—"

"Harry," Hermione stopped him.

"Yes?"

"Let's say we both look good and leave it at that?'

Harry smiled sheepishly. "Yes, Professor."

Hermione giggled. "Are you seriously going to call me that from now on?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "You asked me to!"

"I did not!"

"You did," Harry insisted. "Or, drunk Hermione did."

"Oh, she did now?" challenged Hermione.

"Yes," said Harry matter-of-factly. "Drunk Hermione, well, she's a bit of a flirt, I'll be honest."

"Then I apologise for her."

Harry shook his head, smiling. "Don't."

Hermione smiled that adorable smile of hers: the one she smiled when Harry knew she was both amused and flattered, and was trying not to appear too pleased. A very specific smile, but he knew it all too well by now, just like all the other smiles she had ever been so kind as to give to him.

"Well," she said, holding up her glass of red wine. "Shall we make a toast?"

"I think so," said Harry. "What to?"

"How about… to a normal year?"

"To a normal year," Harry agreed, raising his own glass.

"And a normal life," said Hermione. Their glasses clinked.

They drank deeply, watching each other over the rims of their glasses. And at the same time, they made a face.

"Bleurgh!" said Harry. "So this is red wine."

Hermione grimaced. "It's awful, isn't it?"

"Tastes like werewolf piss," Harry agreed.

"Had much experience with that?"

"Hush," said Harry, putting his glass aside. He didn't want to drink too much, anyway. He didn't want to mess this up.

"So, is this normal enough for you, Harry?" asked Hermione, gesturing around at the room.

Harry let his gaze wander. Ron was continuing his snogging session with Susan underneath the giant chandelier. Dean and Ginny were feeding each other crackers in one corner, looking quite glad that now Ron had his own pair of lips to attach himself to, he didn't seem interested in keeping them apart anymore. Luna was dancing alone, spinning through the room, her radish earrings swaying from side to side. Fred and George were doing an energetic tango with Angelina and Alicia, cutting a swath through Seamus, Neville, Lavender and Parvati, who were eating pies from their napkins. Astoria Greengrass was talking shyly to Colin Creevey, who was showing her how to use his camera and snapping photos of Katie Bell, who was apparently modelling for them in various poses, currently looking as though she was miming riding a broomstick.

"I wouldn't say normal, actually," he said. He walked a little ways. Hermione fell into step beside him. Even that, the simplest act of her strides matching his, he saw as the most amazing thing. They did a circuit of the room, looking around at everything.

"So what would you say?" asked Hermione curiously.

Harry stopped walking in a dark corner, sheltered from the rest of the room by a tall paper screen decorated with pink hearts. He allowed himself a moment to wonder if the room knew just what he wanted by placing it here, then answered her question. "I'd say extraordinary."

"Extraordinary," Hermione agreed. "Not normal, but still good."

"Better than good," said Harry, moving around so he could see her in a better light. She complied without a word, following him as he circled her. The chandelier cast crystallised lights that flecked across her face, reflecting off her irises and her lip gloss.

"Better," agreed Hermione. "But don't you want normal? That is, after all, what we just toasted to a short time ago, if you could call that a toast."

Harry grinned. "Hermione, any time I spend with you isn't normal."

"Oh?"

"No," he went on, "because you aren't."

She frowned, apparently not sure how to take that.

"Because you," he said, "are extraordinary."

Hermione blushed. "Harry! Since when did you become such a smooth-talker?"

He shrugged modestly. "Oh, you know, Sirius has been giving me lessons in wooing the female species."

"Is that so?" said Hermione, humour shining in her eyes along with the crystal lights. "And is there a particular member of that elusive species you are trying to woo?"

"Now you mention it, Hermione," said Harry shakily. "I want to tell you something." The moment was now, and he was going to tell Hermione how he felt, or he wasn't a Gryffindor. "I've been—I've been thinking."

"What about?" asked Hermione.

Harry steeled his courage, and plunged on. "About you. Quite a lot, actually."

"Thinking about me?" Hermione said quietly, hanging onto his every word.

"About you," he repeated, "and how—how incredibly beautiful you are."

Hermione stared at him. "Harry, stop pulling my leg, it isn't funny."

"Hermione, I'm not. I could if you want, though," he added, trying to inject some levity into the conversation.

"You—you really think I'm beautiful?" she asked, looking at him in wonder.

"I really do," he said. "Wouldn't say so if I didn't."

"But—but I'm so—so—"

"You're Hermione," said Harry earnestly, "and you're this whole other world of beautiful. No one can compare, you're just—you. Every look, every laugh, every remark, everything you do. And your smile… your smile is like all these different types of suns and stars. The morning sun, the midday sun, the cool afternoon, the afterglow of the sunset… even the moon. A Saturated Sunset, Among Other Types of Smiles. If I were to write a book about you, that'd be the title."

"Harry! I—I can't, that is just the most…" She looked very emotional, and Harry found it in himself to be amused that just the mention of books could navigate him so deep into her heart. Of course, he didn't take into account that his other words might had some sort of hand in it.

"Harry…" There were tears behind Hermione's eyes. "Are you saying what I think you're saying? You're not drunk, are you?"

"Just enough to have the courage to say this," Harry admitted. "But—well, what do you think I'm saying?"

Hermione bit her lip and moved a little closer. "I suppose I think you're saying… that you want there to be something here."

"Here?"

"Here." Hermione took his hand and carefully moved it to rest on her waist. She hooked her own hands around the back of his neck, playing with his hair. There was almost no space between them now, except the space left for them to travel, to take them through to where they both longed to go.

"I think you're right," murmured Harry, staring deeply into her eyes, his heart beating twice as fast as it had any right to. Maybe it was just his imagination, because he knew enough about the human body to know it couldn't be, but he fancied he could feel Hermione's pulse from where his hand held her waist. And it really couldn't be, but he did fancy it was pulsing in time to the beats of his very-loud heart.

"Harry," breathed Hermione, and something in Harry's heart fluttered—he felt as though butterflies had taken up residence in his chest, flitting around inside him, trying to distract his heart from its very important task.

"Yeah, Hermione?" he whispered.

"Can I ask you to do something for me?"

"Anything, always."

Hermione made a little sound—something between a muted sigh and a hopeful squeak. "Kiss me?" she breathed.

Harry nodded dumbly. "Kiss you. I could do that."

Hermione let out a small shaky laugh and licked her lips. She closed her eyes and parted her lips slightly. They were glistening enticingly at him. It was the most incredible sight Harry had ever seen, and he'd seen some incredible sights in his life. It wouldn't do to keep her waiting…

Harry cupped her face in his other hand, and stroked her cheek with his thumb. Her eyelids fluttered but remained lightly closed, and she sighed, her breath tickling his chin.

Harry was just leaning in to kiss her, to cross that incredible, fantastic, short divide between them, to go where he had never gone before, when he heard someone squeal behind them. Harry cringed, but he kept going, determined to kiss Hermione. Unfortunately, her eyes snapped open, her lips snapped closed in a frown, and she tilted her head to look past him.

Resigned to the fact that the kiss was ruined, Harry reluctantly turned around to see Lavender there, pointing at them.

Harry was very irritated, and very embarrassed; he had thought they had been in a rather quiet corner of the party. Why couldn't Lavender have waited just one more second? Wasn't it obvious that anyone hiding behind this pink privacy screen wanted just that: privacy?

"Lavender," he said, trying not to sound too annoyed, or too devastated, as Hermione's arms retracted themselves from around his neck. "What is it?"

"HARRY KISSED HERMIONE!" Lavender yelled at the top of her voice. "I WIN!"

The Room of Requirement burst into whoops and applause, all the smartly-dressed residents rushing over within far too short a time and uttering their congratulations, all at once. Harry and Hermione stood together in shock, unable to get a word in, as everyone shouted exuberantly (and some angrily):

"Finally!"

"—knew it! Did I call it, or what?"

"Yeah, you, and all Wizard Britain!"

"—so early, though! I must have missed out by a month—"

"They did it! They really did it!"

"No fair," said Katie drunkenly, leaning on George's shoulder. "How was I s'posed to know a month ago we'd have a Ball... wish we could change it after we signed..."

"I won!" Lavender was still saying. "Friday 17th November in the middle of the night!"

"I had tonight too!" said Ron heatedly.

"Oi!" said Seamus angrily. "You're the one who organised this stupid Ball! You think we didn't know what you were up to, trying to get it to line up perfectly!"

"Harry and Hermione organised it themselves!" said Ron defensively.

"Rubbish!" said Seamus.

"Shut up, Seamus," said Dean. "You almost forfeited, trying to intervene earlier. You know that's against the rules."

"Excuse me, but I had it almost to the minute!" said Jason. "And I didn't organise this or break any rules at all!"

"Right," said Fred loudly, "but you only signed on after you heard Harry'd asked her to the Ball. Fine time to jump on the good ship Harmony, just in time for the plunder!"

"Hold it!" Harry shouted. "Shut up!"

"What are you all shouting about?" Hermione asked, crossing her arms. She looked as disappointed and uncomfortable as Harry felt.

"Well," said Ron proudly, stepping forward, looking like an idiot with all the lipstick all over his face. "Finally happened, didn't it? All thanks to me, right?"

"What, exactly, is thanks to you, Ron?" said Harry coldly.

"You kissed Hermione, you beautiful little rascal," said Fred.

"I didn't!" Harry insisted.

"Aw, ickle wickle Harrykins is shy," said George.

"No," said Harry, "we didn't kiss. No, shut up—really, guys!"

"We really didn't," argued Hermione, joining his protests.

"But I saw—" Lavender stammered. "You had just kissed, I saw it—"

"Well, we were about to, weren't we!" yelled Harry, before he knew what he was saying.

The silence in the room was deafening.

"What?" said Lavender in a small voice.

Harry glared at her. "Forget it. Nobody is making sense."

"Wait, you really didn't—"

"No!" shouted Harry and Hermione together.

"Oh, man," said Ron, his face white, all pride and happiness gone, the lipstick looking more like blood and battle scars. "What have you done, Lavender?"

"Don't blame me!" Lavender retorted. "They were—I mean, I thought they were, from behind, it looked like—" She changed tack. "Well, who was it insisting I sign the stupid Bet! Who was it talking up tonight like it was the greatest night for romance in the history of the world?!"

"It wasn't my idea!" said Ron defensively. "It was Ginny who started it!"

"Please," said Ginny dryly, "I only found out about it from Lupin! Really, it was Dumbledore who started the whole thing, blame him, if you dare!"

"Well, doesn't matter now, does it?" asked a nervous Dean. "They were about to kiss, weren't they? The Bet's as good as done, isn't it? They've practically done it! Now we just, er, go back to our business, while they get back to, well, their business."

"Excuse me, I'm awfully sorry to interrupt, but what, pray tell, is 'The Bet'?" Hermione demanded.

"It's that parchment, isn't it?" said Harry, piecing things together. "The one that all of you have been writing in all term. Well? Speak up, come on, spit it out!"

"Harry, you're a little scary right now," said Ron, stepping back.

"Good," said Harry savagely. "Someone fess up now, or you'll get more than an 'Expelliarmus' from me."

"Harry," said Neville, much to Harry's surprise. Of everyone here, he'd have suspected Neville last to be the one to speak up. "We're really sorry. It's a bet that everyone's made. About, well, about you and Hermione. 'Harmony', they call it."

"What's the Bet?" demanded a shrill Hermione, her curls shaking around her face in her anger.

"Well," said Ron, seemingly bolstered by Neville's courage. "It was about when you two would get together. Your first kiss, to be exact. Half the school's in on it, it's not just us."

"And that makes it not your fault?" said Hermione. "You kept this from us for weeks! We thought it was something really serious! Harry almost died and you still didn't tell us! We even spiked your drink with Veritaserum and couldn't get anything out of you!"

Ron's eyes went wide. "You did what?"

Hermione inhaled shakily, smoothing down her dress. "Nothing."

"You did what, Hermione?!"

"Nothing, Ron, forget it."

But Ron was now quite as angry as Hermione had been just a minute ago, shaking with rage, his face turning almost as red as the lipstick. "That's why I told McGonagall what I did that day, in class! I got into detention because of you two! Everyone was making fun of me! Even Snape heard about the drawing I did of him, and docked fifty points! How could you do that to me?"

"Well, we wouldn't have had to do it if you'd just been honest with us!" Harry said, jumping to Hermione's rescue.

Ron's jaw dropped. "If I had, you'd never have gotten together, once you found out!"

"Well, congratulations, Ron!" yelled Hermione. "Because now, we never will!"

Harry was so angry that Hermione's words took a long moment to penetrate his skull. "We never—?"

But Hermione was running for the exit, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

"Hermione?" he said in an unanswered, lone question, his hand held out to her retreating form.

Hermione paused with her hand on the doorknob. She was breathing heavily. She looked for a moment as though she might turn around. Then she opened the door sharply and walked through. Harry thought he might have heard a sob escape her before the door slammed loudly, echoing around the shocked Ballroom.

In the silence, everyone avoided Harry's eyes, and he looked at his shoes. Suddenly, he didn't feel like being angry at anyone anymore. He just wanted to chase after Hermione, to continue what they had been about to do just a few minutes ago. But what she had said…

Because now, we never will.

The party was continuing around him—people were clumping in groups, trying to carry on their conversations as though nothing had happened, doing their best to ignore Harry, to leave him to his misery.

He felt a physical pain in his chest—he thought he might be having a stroke, or something. He was aware of Ron standing awkwardly by, and had the impression he might have opened his mouth to speak. But Harry was walking away, the pain in his chest intensifying.

He went to the door and left the party. Without a direction, he wandered the corridors, dragging his feet.

It might have been hours that he walked aimlessly around the castle. When he checked his watch, however, it told him that only twenty minutes had passed. He looked around for the first time since beginning his solitary journey.

He had ended up at the staircase leading to the Astronomy Tower. Whether his empty mind had subconsciously led him here, or whether it was by chance, or that strange thing called fate, he did not know. All he knew was that someone was upstairs, crying.

He ascended the staircase slowly, reaching the top of the tower after a minute. Upon entering the room, he found Hermione sitting and crying on the floor, taking off one of her shoes.

Harry slowly walked over and sat beside her.

She looked at him, and just as quickly looked away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. The silver watch Harry had given her sparkled at him as her arm moved back to rest heavily in her lap. It had just gone past midnight.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, just spectacular," choked Hermione.

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry, stupid question."

They sat in silence for a long while. Harry looked out the open windows at the starry sky. It was very beautiful. How could something that beautiful still exist when everything lay in pieces?

"Hermione, it doesn't matter what they said."

"Doesn't it?" Her tears had stopped, and her eyes were very red and sore-looking.

"No," said Harry. "It doesn't matter about the stupid damn Bet. What matters is us."

"Us," said Hermione. "Us, the us that everyone, apparently, has been seeing all year, talking about us, betting on us, on our feelings… everyone but us."

"Well," said Harry awkwardly. He was not very good at this. He wanted to hold Hermione's hand, but she had it firmly in her lap and was turned slightly away from him, staring miserably at the starry sky. "Well, we both didn't know there was an us, did we? But now we… do?"

Now she looked at him. The hurt was all too clear. It made Harry want to cry, too. He never wanted to see her like this.

"Harry, this is ruined for me, can't you understand that?"

He stared at her. "Ruined? How? We were—it was going to—"

"We were going to! And then, we didn't. God, this always happens. Always! I'm just cursed, Harry, don't you see?"

"Can't we just—pretend like that never happened? Can't we go back to twenty minutes ago, and just… pick up where we left off?"

"Where we left off?" Hermione said in disbelief. "Where did we leave off? We never got on!"

Harry was feeling very desperate. "But we almost did…"

"Well, we can't very well do it now!" said Hermione.

"Whyever not?" Harry asked, aghast.

"Because, then we'll never know if it was because of everyone betting on us getting together or us getting together just because that's what we want! Or even if, God forbid, someone slipped us love potions so they could be sure of winning the Bet!"

"This seems needlessly complicated," Harry muttered. "So," he said carefully, weighing every word with as much weight as he felt within him, "so you don't… want… to be with me?"

"Not like this!" said Hermione angrily.

Harry hung his head. Where had everything gone all wrong? How could Hermione be saying this?

"Alright," he said, although everything was the unequivocable opposite of anything that could even be considered alright, in any world. "Let's forget it then. I'll see you tomorrow, Hermione… Goodnight."

He stood up and turned to go.

"Harry… Harry, I…"

But he was already walking dejectedly away, thinking that the Fool's Ball really had been as ill-advised as it sounded. Why had he thought that it would be a good idea? When had something like this ever gone well for him? I'm never going to a ball again, he thought determinedly.

As he walked slowly down the stairs and back to the dormitories, the song that had played earlier came back into his mind, unbidden and unwanted.

Now the lights are going down, along the boulevard

Memories come rushing back, and makes it pretty hard

I've got nowhere left to go

And no one really cares

I don't know what to do

But I'm never giving—

"Shut up," Harry told himself. "Stop it. Song's over. It's done."

The song in his head silenced itself.

Harry didn't know if music would ever play for him again. And if it did, it would seem so empty, so hollow, without the light of Hermione's smile. Without that saturated sunset, or that silver moon, or those twinkling stars.

Without her.

Chapter Text

Hermione's pillow seemed determined to offer her no comfort at all.

She flipped it no less than five times, lay on her left side, then her right, then her back, then her stomach. It stubbornly grew more uncomfortable. She missed her bed back home. She didn't often, while at Hogwarts, but she did now. And she missed her parents... sometimes, when nothing felt right, a hug from Mum or Dad went a long way in making things better.

Glumly accepting she would never get to sleep, she stared up at the ceiling as birds began to chirp outside, and the sky gradually faded in from darkness to a velvet blue, and then a pre-dawn light.

She didn't want to get up. She just wanted to lay here all day. And what would stop her? She didn't have anything to do. She couldn't bring herself to study if she tried.

The only thing on her agenda for the foreseeable future was figuring out what she was going to do about Harry.

She looked at the framed photo on her bedside table, of her and Harry sleeping peacefully on the Common Room floor.

She had instantly regretted what she had said to him in the Astronomy tower. Of course she wanted to be with him! She had thought of almost nothing else all term! But couldn't he understand that this wasn't how she wanted it to be?

She remembered now all the whispers, all the stares and smirks of the Club members, even those odd late night gatherings the teachers had, where they discussed 'updates' to the 'situation', even McGonagall writing those hurried letters, probably to Dumbledore, undoubtedly about her and Harry and what they had done in class, how much closer they were getting to becoming boyfriend and girlfriend...

It was ridiculous, was what it was! How hard was it for two teenagers to start a normal relationship?

She cast the usual concealment charm on the photograph, crawled out of bed and got out of her dress; she had simply fallen into bed without getting into her night clothes. She sadly took off Harry's watch and laid it on her nightstand. She vaguely registered that someone had brought up her bag for her, and stumbled into the shower, hopefully to wash the awful night away. But it hadn't been all bad… She'd had such a wonderful time with Harry, and he had said such lovely things, and finally, she knew for sure that he liked her, maybe even loved her... Was he right, though? Could she just pretend that the last ten minutes of the Ball never happened? Could they really pick things back up?

She dried off and got dressed, her hair dangling in awful damp rings down her face. She saw Lavender sleeping, her curtains drawn partially back, and felt a surge of anger, followed by a surge of guilt. She didn't know exactly which was stronger.

She went down to the Common Room and sat by the dead fire, not really knowing what she was going to do now she was up. It was Saturday. She had, of course, given herself today off in her planner so she could go and watch Harry's Quidditch practice. She didn't think she could go today.

Oh, what was she going to say to him?

There was the sound of footsteps coming down the staircase. She whipped her head up—it was Harry himself, looking as though he'd slept about as much as she had.

"Oh," he said, sounding mortified. "Sorry, I didn't—" And he turned right around and walked back up the stairs.

Hermione groaned and threw her head into her hands.

Not long after that, Ron came down. Hermione wondered if Harry hadn't told him she was sitting here alone.

"Hermione?" he asked tentatively.

"Hello, Ronald," she said. She wasn't really sure she wanted to talk to him, or even yell at him. She had the slight inclination to jinx him, but she had learned already that violence was unbecoming of her. That, and she had unfortunately left her wand upstairs.

He stepped closer and leaned on the armrest. "Look," he said, "I'm sorry for what happened. You've got to believe I didn't mean for it to happen like that."

Hermione looked at him, not bothering to disguise how upset she was. "What do you mean you didn't mean for it to happen? The only reason you helped us organise the Ball was so you could get a fat load of gold for the Bet."

"No!" said Ron, aghast. "You've got to understand, the Bet wasn't about the money, well it was a little, but not entirely! We wanted you and Harry to be together because we could see how much you liked each other."

"Right, but mostly so you could finally afford to wear pyjamas that fit," said Hermione, eyeing Ron's exposed ankles with distaste.

Ron turned red, but he didn't shout at her like she thought he might, and may even had hoped he had. "Okay, I deserved that," he said calmly.

Hermione grunted, feeling guilty now for even saying it; she knew he was sensitive about anything to do with money.

Ron sat tentatively beside her. "I've been a ruddy fool, I know that," he said. "You and Harry are my best friends, and I want you to be happy. You deserve that. I just thought that the Ball would be the perfect time…"

"Ron," she said tiredly, "I'm… I'm not angry with you." It was only partly true. Part of the reason for saying this was because she felt guilty about her own misdeeds.

"You're not?" he asked, surprised.

"Not really," she said. She looked at him furtively. "Are you—are you still mad about the Veritaserum?"

Ron shook his head. "No. It's not a big deal. I'd have done the same thing, honestly. Besides, any time you steal from Snape is a worthy cause in my books."

Hermione gave a weak smile. "Thank you. I appreciate it. I don't want to fight with you anymore, Ron."

"Me too," said Ron quickly. "I really—"

"Let me finish," she interrupted, and he shut his mouth. "I said I don't want to fight, but I don't much feel like talking to you either, if you understand me. So, leave me alone?"

Ron nodded immediately, but looked disappointed. "I understand. I'll… see you later." He got up to leave.

Hermione restored her face back to its rightful place in her hands once he was gone. This wasn't something Ron could fix, she knew. It was up to her. She had made the mistake. Harry was the one who had tried to mend things, and she had shot him down. The only question was how…

She needed the truth of the matter. And—she jerked upright with a start—she had a way to get it.

She hurried back up to the dorm, where Lavender and Parvati were stirring, grabbed her bag from under her bed, and left the room. She headed straight for the Room of Requirement, walking quickly through the deserted corridors and staircases.

She reached the blank wall on the Seventh floor and paced alongside it. I need a place to face the truth, I need a place to face the truth, I need a place to face the truth…

The door appeared and she opened it. Inside was a simple office, with a blank blackboard on the wall above a desk, a piece of chalk on top of it. A sign above it read: I ask you your innermost questions. So approach, Wonderer, and answer yourself.

Hermione barely allowed herself a second to be surprised at the Room's innovation. She shut the door and took out the nearly full bottle of Veritaserum she still had corked.

Without hesitating, she took a quick gulp of the clear liquid. It didn't taste like anything, and she didn't feel any different, but she knew it was working.

She went up to the blackboard, and said, "I need to answer some questions." Her hoarse voice sounded very loud and lonely in the empty room.

Incredibly, the piece of chalk levitated off its ledge, put its point to the blackboard, and wrote: What is your name? Hermione wondered just how the blackboard worked. She tossed the inquiry out of the metaphorical window; as logical as she mostly was, sometimes you had to discard logic in order to appreciate magic.

"Hermione Jean Granger," she said confidently. "My parents named me after the character in A Winter's Tale. It's also a feminine derivative of the Greek God Hermes. Jean is my mother's name." Even now, she had to laugh at her own silliness. Apparently, truth serum only amplified her need to go above and beyond in answering the simplest questions.

The blackboard erased itself, then wrote, the chalk scratching with a regular rhythmic pattern: What is something you have never told, and would never tell, anyone? This, apparently, was the magical blackboard's idea of an icebreaker.

Hermione cringed, but was forced to answer, blushing: "My first accidental use of magic was after I wet the bed. I cleaned and remade the covers without touching them."

With that embarrassing prelude out of the way, the blackboard asked: How are you feeling?

Hermione sat on the hard chair in front of the desk. "Terrible," she said. "I'm tired, and upset, and angry at myself."

Why are you angry at yourself?

"I'm angry because I told Harry I didn't want to be with him, when I really do. Angry that I have to resort to truth-serum-induced self-therapy to sort myself out."

The blackboard took a little longer to write the next question: Can you be with Harry if everyone is constantly talking about you?

"Yes," said Hermione. "As long as Harry is with me, everything will be okay."

Is that enough for you to be happy?

"I think so," she said. "I hope so." The words were coming to her with more strength, the serum granting her clarity.

Do you blame Ron, Lavender and the others for what happened?

"Yes," she said. "I can't understand how betting on something like this was ever a good idea to them. If they hadn't, I'd be with Harry right now."

Can you forgive them?

"Yes," she said again. "I believe that they, or Ron at least, do really care. And honestly I'm flattered, if discomfited, by the interest. And Lavender was drunk when she interrupted; she didn't know what she was doing. I've been there. I can't blame her fully."

Do you want to be with Harry?

That was an easy one. "More than anything, more than getting good grades, more than wanting to be included, more than anything I've ever wanted. I want that thing, the thing I've never had, but only read about. I want that with Harry."

Can you have that with Harry?

"I hope so… But things always seem to be stacked against us." The Veritaserum forced her to be realistic, and she said, "We still don't know what Voldemort is planning, we don't even know if we'll all be alive by the time we graduate... And everything that happened last year, with Viktor and that Skeeter cow—oh, I am so glad I blackmailed her into shutting up—and the supposed love triangle, finding out that half the school has been gossiping about Harry and I all term again more than stings—it hurts, like I've been violated somehow. But I think I know how we can have what we want. It needs to be just us. No fancy Balls, nobody trying to 'help'. And I need a little time to be ready to open myself up again. Time always helps, whenever I'm upset. How long, I don't know."

She knew that after some time had passed, you felt the dreadful thing become smaller and smaller until it became a part of you, and less obtrusive. But did she have that elusive concept called time anymore? She had stupidly said that she didn't want to be with Harry, 'Not like this', she had said. He would take that to heart; she had seen how hurt he had looked, seen him back away so quickly when he'd come down and seen her this morning… What if he was going to give up on her? What if he already had?

"I can't let this die here," she said, without the blackboard prompting her.

And there she had it. She could not—would not—let it die.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, letting it tip back on two legs as she wiped tiredness out of her eyes.

"You're going to fix this," she said to herself. "You've just got to."

The chair tipped backwards and she yelped as she and it hit the ground with a crash!

"Ow," she moaned, rubbing the back of her head and rolling off the chair to lie on the floor. "So that's why people always say not to do that. You know, for the brightest witch of your age, sometimes you can be a real dumbass, Hermione Granger."

"Sorry, mate," said Ron, sitting back on his bed as Harry played with the curtains idly. "No dice."

Harry looked at him tiredly. "Right."

"She's not angry at me or you," said Ron quickly. "I think she just needs a little time."

Harry nodded. "Time to get over me."

"No!" said Ron, a little too loudly; Neville rolled over in his sleep. "No, Harry," he said, softer, "what she needs, what you both need, is time to yourselves. Without all of us prying into your business."

Harry looked surprised. "That's… I don't know, Ron… I don't fancy talking about it. Especially not with you."

You're not the only one, Ron thought in annoyance. "Right," he said. "Sorry again, Harry. I swear to you, I—"

Harry shook his head angrily. "Don't bother. You've done quite enough already."

And Ron had to admit that was true.

Things didn't improve for Ron after that. Right from breakfast, he had a hard time fending off angry betters. Somehow, everyone blamed him for what had gone wrong.

But it wasn't his fault, was it? If Lavender hadn't stupidly interrupted them, Harry and Hermione would surely have kissed. How hard was it, really, to take a moment to check if someone had actually kissed another person or not? How hard was it to contain your excitement for a few more lousy seconds? But, Ron wondered, if they had kissed, and everyone undoubtedly congratulated them, would they not still have been angry? Would that still have driven the rift between them? It was hard to know, but Ron suspected that it might have, especially once they found out about the Bet. Hermione's pride and need for control and stability—and Harry's reluctance to be in the spotlight—were a dangerous combination when you took into consideration how thoughtless all their friends (and Ron himself) had been in crowding and teasing them like that.

There was a solemn air amongst the Midnight Quidditch Club members that day. It went unspoken, like no one wanted to talk about it, but it dampened the spirits of everyone Ron spoke to.

Ron didn't even want to think about the Bet anymore. It didn't matter, especially now he'd definitely lost. But he hadn't yet given up hope. Harry and Hermione still loved each other. Ron just had to stay out of their way and let them work it out themselves.

The other thing that was threatening to throw the school into chaos was the Midnight Quidditch Club itself. Following the Fool's Ball, many of the members' dates had undoubtedly told more people about it. Mysteriously, once they did, they broke out into a bad rash that had them running for the Hospital Wing. But it was too late. The people they told then told other people, and these students were not bound by Hermione's list, so suffered no consequences. The situation was threatening to run away from them, since Hermione and Harry were in no state to chase up those who had snitched. Ron knew it was only a matter of time before more Slytherins, and eventually Snape, would find out. He wondered if McGonagall and Lupin would rise to their defence, then.

Fred and George weren't worried. When Ron brought it up, Fred said, "We've got Minnie McG on our side! No one can take this away from us, little bro, you'll see."

"Incidentally," George added uncertainly, "I suppose in light of what happened, we should forgo our plans for the Stay-Under-Me-Mistletoe we were going to levitate over Harry and Hermione on the Quidditch Pitch?"

Ron's one consolation was his new relationship with Susan. After their brilliant, impassioned snog at the Fool's Ball, they both agreed to take it a little slower. After all, you couldn't rely on alcohol and lowered inhibitions to get through your first relationship. There had to be other stuff there, like common interest, and actual friendship, didn't there? So, they got to know each other. Susan came to watch Ron's practice that day on the Pitch, and they cooked a simple meal in the kitchens at night.

So, maybe Ron had a second consolation. And that was finally being on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. It was going well, especially now he finally had a Nimbus. Though, Malfoy saw fit to show up to practice that afternoon and start up a chant with the Slytherins on the side (Weasley was born in a bin—Weasley cannot save a thing), causing Ron to fumble a goal, to their celebratory jeers. Thankfully, Ginny irritably cast an impressive Silencing Charm on the Slytherins after that, threatening to follow up with her now infamous Bat-Bogey Hex, and Ron had found it a lot easier to ignore them.

Practice had still gone poorly; Harry was distracted the whole time, the poor fellow, looking towards the stands, perhaps hoping (or dreading) to see Hermione there. After he'd been hit in the head by the Quaffle for the fourth time in an hour, Angelina kindly told him to go and get some sleep. He didn't complain, but trudged off the pitch miserably without a word.

It was just as well that the game next week was Hufflepuff vs Slytherin; the Gryffindor team wouldn't be playing until January. Ron shuddered to think of the reputation they would get if they played a public match with Harry in this condition.

"It isn't your fault, Ronald," said Susan, as they ate a large meal in the kitchens. It was very different when Susan called him Ronald as opposed to Hermione; Susan said it sweetly, even flirtatiously.

"Are you sure about that?" asked Ron.

"Yes. Well, partly. Urging Harry to organise the Ball and then getting him to try and kiss Hermione, that was cheating. And manipulative."

"Right. So you're not sure about it."

Susan rolled her eyes. "What I meant to say was that Harry and Hermione are a little daft about themselves, but quite smart when it counts. They both know they like each other now, it's only a matter of time before they get over their hurt feelings and get together. We all just have to wait. And try not to argue about the Bet in the meanwhile."

Ron looked at her. "You had your bet on next week. You sure this isn't all going according to your plan?"

Susan smiled mysteriously and laid a finger on his lips as he chewed. "And what if it is? Do you really have anything to complain about?"

As Susan kissed him, while he still had a mouth full of chicken, Ron found that he didn't.

Unfortunately, not even the food and kisses from Susan could keep Ron from dwelling on his mistakes. As she sat back and drank her pumpkin juice, he continued to mediate on it all.

Things had been civil enough between him, Harry and Hermione when they did inevitably come together, but what had been there for four and a half years had been damaged. There was none of the closeness, none of the affection, none of the comfort, that they had enjoyed these past years. They talked of insignificant things like the weather and OWLS, and found it hard to look one another in the eyes. There wasn't any anger there… it was just misery.

Ron truly wasn't mad at them anymore about the Veritaserum. Who he was mad at was himself. Why had he thought he could get them together? In what world had any of his plans ever worked? Had he thought he could play with their feelings as easily as pieces on a chess board?

Yes, you did, he thought to himself. But you've learned your lesson. Stay out of it from now on, and let it run its course.

But Ron could not quite leave it there. Once Susan had left for the Hufflepuff Common Room down the hall, he sat on the bench and crafted a detailed letter. On his way to Gryffindor Tower, he stopped by the owlery and called Pigwidgeon over—the tiny owl fluttered to him excitedly, twittering—and sent him off into the cold night air with the letter tightly rolled and attached to his skinny leg.

Feeling a little better, like he had done some small but unobtrusive part in repairing everything, Ron undertook his Prefect duties in patrolling the corridors, allowing Hermione to finally catch up on sleep. All the while, he thought longingly of going back to the dorms to sleep off the enormous meal he and Susan had eaten. He did, however, obtain no small amount of pleasure from catching Ginny and Dean snogging behind a tapestry and scaring them senseless by roaring at them to go off to bed: separate beds.

Harry was fine.

Completely fine, as a matter of fact. That was what he told everyone, even what he told himself.

"I'm fine," he said, over and over again, to everyone he 'talked' to—mostly very guilty looking MQC members—sounding like a broken record.

He had, however, at breakfast on Saturday, snapped at Lavender as she tried to apologise.

She had been talking with Parvati in hushed tones in the Great Hall, and had then walked up to Harry purposefully.

Before she spoke, he had said angrily, "Having a little gossip about me, were you? Can't say I'm surprised."

Lavender looked scared. "Harry, I wanted to apologise. I was drunk and ruined everything."

"Glad you can see that. I wasn't sure your eyesight was working," he said savagely. Just then, Hermione entered the Hall behind them.

"Harry, you can still get together with her," Lavender hissed conspiratorially. "She still loves you, she even keeps a picture of you and her by her bed, you just have to—"

"Forget it," said Harry, as Hermione slid into her seat further up the table. "Just… forget it, Lavender. It's fine, I don't need you or anyone trying to tell me what to do or get in my way anymore. It's fine, leave it be."

But no matter how many times he said it, he could not make it fine, because it wasn't. It couldn't be. Not with the thing between him and Hermione unresolved. Not over—it wasn't over. He didn't know how he knew, he just did. Because, after all, Hermione did want to be with him. No matter what she had said, he knew it. It was in every occasional look she gave him, where she would look away once more. He knew it like he knew the sun would rise. And, he thought, she keeps a picture by her bed? Could it be that very picture that had gone missing from Colin's roll?

But before he tried to talk to Hermione about anything, and probably ruin things even more, he needed advice. Fortuitously, that Sunday was another Hogsmeade visit, and Harry was going to see Sirius at the Three Broomsticks. Harry had written a short letter to Sirius after the pitiful Quidditch practice, asking to meet. Sirius wrote back some time in the middle of the night; Harry woke early on Sunday morning to find that Hedwig had left the responding letter on his pillow. He had had haunting dreams of a strange dark corridor, but for the life of him couldn't see why that should make his scar burn horribly for the first time in weeks.

He left Gryffindor Tower before anybody else in the dorm had gotten up. He grabbed his scarf and gloves and went out the portrait hole, passing the Creevey brothers, who sat on the couch playing an early morning game of chess. Colin called out his name, but Harry pushed on forwards. He didn't want to see the photos from the Fool's Ball just now.

He slipped his gloves on and wound the scarf around his neck as he reached the entrance hall.

"Potter!"

Harry groaned inwardly, and turned around. "Yes, Professor?" he said.

Professor McGonagall frowned at him as she left the Great Hall. "Surely you're not leaving the castle?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Professor. Hogsmeade visit today, you know."

"Potter, it is seven-thirty on Sunday morning. Students don't usually leave until after breakfast."

"Is there a rule against me going now?" Harry asked.

Professor McGonagall hesitated. "Strictly speaking, no. But Potter, surely you understand that given the current state of things, I cannot allow you to go wandering off outside the school grounds by yourself."

Harry shuffled his feet. "I suppose so."

"Where are Mr Weasley and Miss Granger? Surely you were going to visit the village together?"

"Not today, Professor," said Harry.

Professor McGonagall's left eyebrow raised just a fraction.

Harry didn't know how to feel about McGonagall just then. He knew she was in on the Bet, she may well have even placed one of the initial wagers. But he doubted it was her fault that it had got blown into such huge proportions… She definitely wasn't the type to spread such things to students or indulge in idle gossip. In any case, the last thing he wanted to do was let her know that he knew about her involvement.

She took her pointed hat off and held it in front of her like someone might do after a dear friend has just died. She said, somewhat apologetically, "I'm afraid I must insist you refrain from leaving the grounds until other students have begun to leave."

Harry sighed. "Fine, Professor. I'll just take a walk around the grounds. That's okay, right?"

Professor McGonagall nodded curtly. "Make sure you do remain inside the gates, Potter. If you stray out of bounds, I will not hesitate to come and fetch you myself."

"Yes, Professor," said Harry, and turned to go.

"Potter?"

He turned back. "Yeah?"

She seemed to be struggling with herself about something. "Are you alright?" she finally asked.

Harry stared at her. He didn't think, in all his years of being her student, she had ever asked such a personal question. "I'm—I'm fine, Professor," he stammered. "Fine."

She nodded, but he could tell she didn't really believe him. "Very well," she said. But before she turned to leave him alone, she said, "Have a hot chocolate when you get back in for breakfast, Potter. It's quite delicious."

Harry smiled lightly. "Sure. Thanks, Professor."

She gave him a tight-lipped nod, and they parted ways.

Harry wrapped his scarf tightly around him and shoved his hands in his pockets. Winter was definitely on the way.

He didn't think about much as he roamed the chilly, dew-covered grounds. His mind was oddly blank. Eventually, he realised that it was too cold for an early morning walk. But, some sick part of him wanted to suffer. It felt right, just then. So, he stayed outside another half hour, watching Thestrals soar above the Forbidden Forest. His scar began to ache, and he breathed in the cold air deeply in an effort to expel the pain.

He headed back to the castle, sitting alone at the Gryffindor table. A few other early risers had come down for breakfast. He bit unenthusiastically into lukewarm toast and had a sip of the hot chocolate that had magically appeared as he sat down.

McGonagall was right; it was delicious. He felt instantly soothed and comforted. If a drink could give hugs, that was what this one gave him. The ache in his scar obediently receded, and not for the first time that term, he felt a strong surge of affection for Minerva McGonagall.

Once he'd eaten and drank his fill—which didn't take long—he got up and left the Hall again, eyes on his feet as he walked. He bumped into someone at the door, and didn't realise it was Hermione until he heard her little exclamation of surprise.

"Oh!" she said, her arms full of books. "Good morning."

"Good morning," said Harry stiffly, feeling his heart wrench to one side violently. But he wasn't going to ignore her. Whatever she had said, whatever had happened between them, he never wanted to do that.

Hermione bit her lip, then said, "Where are you going?"

Harry gestured vaguely. "Hogsmeade," he said. "Sirius. You?" He realised as soon as he said this that it was a stupid inquiry; she was clearly heading into the Hall for Breakfast.

"Breakfast," she said. For a moment it looked as though she was going to say something else, but she glanced around at the sparsely populated Hall and seemed to lose her nerve. "Well… I'll let you get to it, then…" She looked away shyly and Harry stood miserably in the entrance as she walked over to the table.

He watched her go, and his eyes fell on the staff table, where Lupin was sitting, looking as tired and as miserable as Harry felt, reading over a letter he had apparently just written, with one hand supporting his pale face. Harry was tempted for a minute to go over and say hello, but found he didn't much feel like talking to someone who was as depressed as he was. Especially since Lupin, from what he understood, had been the one to really spread the Bet around to the students.

So Harry set off for Hogsmeade, reasoning that McGonagall wouldn't really come after him if he left just a little earlier than the other students… surely, she had better things to do. Besides, he had arranged to meet Sirius soon; he didn't want to be late.

It was very lonely leaving the castle in the cold and silence by himself. He wasn't sure what he wanted to tell Sirius, but he knew that his godfather would have something helpful to say. He had never let Harry down before, never kept him waiting, had always had something to say to make him feel better…

Harry entered the Three Broomsticks fifteen minutes later. It was completely empty apart from Madam Rosmerta behind the bar, cleaning out an empty Butterbeer barrel.

"Harry!" she said, her surprise evident. "You're here very early, dear."

"Morning, Madam Rosmerta," said Harry glumly. "I'm meeting Sirius in a minute."

"Oh, yes," she said, flashing him a smile. "He's very handsome, by the way, that godfather of yours, now he's had some time away from Azkaban. Can't tell you how relieved I was to hear that he was innocent. I could never imagine that he would have done what everyone said he'd done."

Harry gave a weak smile, and felt a little warmer as he took off his gloves. "I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear you say that."

Rosmerta chuckled. "I remember seeing him in here all the time with your father and Professor Lupin, when I was still young and gorgeous. The way they'd flirt and joke with me!" She beamed reminiscently.

Harry's smile strengthened. "You're still gorgeous," he said boldly.

She patted him on the shoulder affectionately. "You're too cute. Oh, Sirius!"

Harry turned around; Sirius had just come in. He looked troubled, but he smiled at the both of them when he saw them.

"Harry!" he said brightly. "Rosmerta, my dear! Good morning!"

"Good morning, Sirius," said Rosmerta. "What can I fix the two of you for?"

"Maybe two cups of coffee, first," said Sirius. "I haven't got up this early in ages…"

"Sorry, Sirius," said Harry, feeling guilty.

"Not at all," said Sirius smoothly. "Probably good for me, to be honest."

Rosmerta gave them their coffees, and they went to sit in the corner. There was a soft jazz tune playing on the radio that hung from the ceiling above the bar.

"Thanks for coming, Sirius," said Harry.

"Of course, of course," said Sirius, waving away his thanks. "By the way, I thoroughly enjoyed the photo from Halloween... very amusing... you certainly looked uglier than I did when I was in Azkaban... Anyway, James, Remus... Peter... and I, we used to get up to similar antics. James had a penchant for dressing in drag, much to Lily's horror. I would be the goth, and Remus would—the funny, ironic little bugger—dress up as a wolf."

Harry gave a faint smile but said nothing. He wasn't much amused, somehow. Usually, any mention of his parents made him eager to hear more. Not today.

Sirius noticed Harry's silence and changed the subject. "Anyway, enough of my nostalgia... How're you feeling, Harry?"

"I'm—" he started, but Harry could never lie to Sirius. "A mess," he finished.

Sirius nodded. "You look it, too. Ron wrote to me, told me what happened."

"He did?" exclaimed Harry, shocked.

"Yeah," said Sirius. "He's worried about you. And very sorry."

"Right…"

"And... I'd like to apologise, too."

Harry looked at him. "What for?"

"I was in on the Bet, too. One of the first, actually. Dumbledore was trying to cheer me up at Grimmauld Place, and we got to talking about you and Hermione. One thing led to another..."

Harry found he wasn't really surprised, but found himself angered nonetheless. "Right," he said sharply. "So, what was your bloody bet, then?"

Sirius shrugged, looking awkward. "I had ten Galleons on you kissing Hermione after the first Gryffindor Quidditch win. That was what your parents did, in Seventh Year… But that's not important right now. What's important is how you're feeling."

Harry didn't speak for a while, but when he did, he didn't stop for some time. He let the anger at Sirius and the others fall right away, and he went on and on about what had happened, how he and Hermione had danced, drank, and he had told her how he felt, how they had so very nearly kissed, and the chaos that ensued, and their talk in the Astronomy Tower at midnight.

"—and she said, not like this. And I left. What else could I have done? I tried everything, didn't I? Tried to make her see that we could still make it work. But she didn't want to."

Sirius sighed. "Of course she said that. She's hurting. Just like you. When you feel like that, it's very hard for any logical thought to come to your voice."

"You're saying I'm being illogical?"

"Yes," said Sirius. "And that's fine. You're fifteen years old, Harry. Everything you're going through right now probably feels downright apocalyptic. Sometimes you need to take a step back and realise the world isn't coming to an end. Granted, that might still happen, the way things're going… but not because of this. In any case, once you've taken that step back, you're on the road to a step forward, to realising that this can be fixed."

"How, Sirius? How, in what possible universe, can this be fixed?"

Sirius looked at Harry as though he thought he might be daft in the head. "She asked you to kiss her, Harry! She said she wanted it just as much as you did!"

"Yeah," Harry said heavily, "but then she didn't."

"Hermione's a sensitive girl," said Sirius reasonably. "I don't know her as well as you, but from what I know, she likes her books, and her quiet, and her order, and so often, there's so much chaos going on that it overwhelms her. If you find a quiet moment, just the two of you… Things will go naturally. I'm positive of it. Think of what makes her, her. Think about the most natural thing for the two of you to be doing. That's what will get you back on track."

Harry nodded slowly. "I can try."

Sirius smiled. "Attaboy."

"But, Sirius, she was so upset… How can I make her see it's going to be okay?"

Sirius sighed and took a long draught of hot coffee. "Give her a couple more days. Make her feel comfortable in the meantime, don't ignore her. She may even make the first move, if you do that. Her feelings were hurt because of your friends, and, well, unfortunately, that includes me. Honestly, the Bet was a foolish idea! I have no idea how it became so huge. Well, Dumbledore and I should have taken that into consideration, I suppose, but we never thought you'd find out, the spells he placed on it to ensure that… But if anything, it's all my fault for convincing Moony to sign the damn thing in the first place, and encouraging him to try to be buddy-buddy with the students…"

"Sirius, you're not helping," said Harry warningly, feeling his temper rise again.

"Sorry," said Sirius. "What I meant to say was this: you love Hermione, and she loves you. And sometimes what seems so complicated is really that simple."

Harry was angry enough to pull out a card he'd been holding to himself the past week or two. "Oh, yeah? So why isn't it that simple with you and Moony?"

Sirius spluttered, spraying coffee everywhere and staring at Harry. "What—how—what do you mean?"

"I'm not an idiot, Sirius," said Harry. "I'm a teenager brought up by the most aggressively conservative Muggles alive, but I'm not blind. I've seen how you two are together, I mean, blimey, Sirius, when Lupin found us in the Shrieking Shack after you dragged Ron in, you guys hugged so intensely… I thought it was a sort of brotherly hug at the time, but now in hindsight, it should've been obvious. You're all the other talks about. And when I talked to you each alone about all this stuff, you got the same wistful look on your faces. Plus he jumped about a mile when I mentioned your 'lost love'. Then he went on and on about how 'stuff gets in the way of love', etcetera etcetera. I assume he's talking about the little werewolf thing, which isn't a problem at all as I see it."

Sirius had clamped his mouth shut as Harry listed off the evidence. He had clearly not expected Harry to piece things together so coherently. Harry allowed himself a savage kind of satisfaction at this.

"So, Sirius?" he pressed him. "Who're you to tell me it's that easy and simple? Why aren't you and Remus together, if it is?"

"Harry," said Sirius, his voice shaking, "it's not quite the same. Remus and I are, well… let's just say neither the Muggle nor the Wizarding World has quite come up to scratch on accepting non-conventional forms of romance. With the reputation both of us already have, if people were to find out, things would be… difficult."

"It can't be any worse than you being thought a mass-murderer for twelve years," Harry argued.

"Well, there is that," said Sirius quietly. "The fact remains, it was Remus' decision for us to not… It's up to him, not me. He has more to lose."

Harry looked at his godfather. "Sirius, you've both already lost so much. If you can gain this one big thing, even if it's risky, wouldn't it be worth it?"

"Maybe… yes…" Sirius mulled it over for a minute, taking long swigs of coffee until his mug was quite empty. "But we were talking about you, Harry. Don't try and distract me."

"No, Sirius," said Harry stubbornly. "I want you to be happy. You bloody well deserve it, after all you've been through."

Sirius looked touched. "And so do you, Harry, so do you… How about this: if I work things out with Remus, you work things out with Hermione. No stupid Bet, no schemes. Just two miserable, down-on-their-luck guys sitting in a pub, agreeing to sort out their hopeless love lives. How's that?"

Harry finally smiled. "Sirius, you've got a deal."

They shook hands, and ordered some Butterbeers as the November sun came shining through the windows. Harry allowed himself to feel hopeful again for the first time since the Fool's Ball. And so what if it was a foolish hope? That's all anyone ever had, wasn't it? Just a fool's hope. After all, what was the point of that strange concept called hope, if you didn't allow yourself to feel it in the face of the impossible?

Chapter Text

Hermione sat back in her chair at the Medic's table at the edge of the Quidditch Pitch, tapping her foot to the music, trying to hear it over the shouts of Lee as he commentated, Lupin as he refereed, and the players and spectators as they flew and cheered.

Hermione had played Chaser in the first half tonight, and made two goals against Ron. She had the strong suspicion that he had let her, though, in an effort to get back on her good side, if ever he was there in the first place.

Everyone had quietly agreed that tonight was not the night to attempt to start up the Duelling Club again—they all looked fearfully at Harry and Hermione when Seamus had the courage to bring it up, and nobody said anything more on it.

Hermione had thought for a long while about staying in Gryffindor Tower alone tonight, but decided against abstaining. Someone had to be here as Club Medic, after all. Besides, at the end of it all, they were her friends, and they had been trying to make amends over the week. And friends were a luxury that Hermione had not fully afforded herself often before and even since coming to Hogwarts, and at this point, after how close the MQC had grown this term, she didn't think she could bear to push them away.

The shouts blended into a cacophony of words:

"Watch out, Ron, that's a Hawkshead Formation!"

"Pass, Angelina!"

"And Ron saves it! He's doing mighty well tonight, tell you what. Ouch! That bludger from Fred almost unseated Astoria… careful, we don't want to give Nurse Granger too much business…"

"Ginny sees the Snitch!"

"Where?"

"You're going down, Pigfarts!"

The shouts of the thirty-odd players and the cheers and encouragement of the fifty-odd spectators created a noisy spectacle that threatened to overwhelm Hermione's senses. The music filtered through in the background, and she listened as best she could, closing her eyes against the lurid red and gold lights the twins had conjured. She knew the song from when her parents would play it at home on Sunday mornings. It reminded her of a simpler time. Quite sure that no one could hear her, she sang along softly, in that almost whispered, light head voice that one sang in when they didn't want to be heard:

"Yeah, Brandy used to watch his eyes

When he told his sailor stories

She could feel the ocean fall and rise

She saw its ragin' glory

But he had always told the truth, Lord, he was an honest man

And Brandy does her best to understand…"

Hermione opened her eyes and felt quite melancholy for a moment as the third verse was lost under all the noise of the game.

She watched as Ron saved another goal, only for Dean to catch him off-guard with a second Quaffle. Fred zoomed down the Pitch, weaving around the Fleabag Chasers to beat a Bludger at Ginny, who performed a barrel roll to dodge it.

Hermione stretched, and as she craned her neck, she caught sight of someone up in the stands, high above the rest of the spectators, that made her snap around so fast she almost fell off her chair.

Professor McGonagall sat in the stands with a pile of marking and a red and gold mug resting on the bench beside her.

Hermione stared at her. She knew McGonagall had allowed their Club to continue, but actually showing up for the matches, in the middle of the night? What was the world coming to? But Professor McGonagall looked more content and peaceful than Hermione had ever seen her, watching eagerly, but with a relaxation that there never was at a school match. She turned, met Hermione's eyes, and raised her mug to her before drinking.

Hermione gave a light wave. Smiling slightly perplexedly still, she turned back to the game.

"Foul!" Professor Lupin called from where he stood refereeing in the middle of the Pitch. "Fleabag, take a penalty! Dom, you've got to be more careful or I'll have to send you off… Maybe a detention will do nicely… Ha! Joking, of course."

Susan took the penalty, and scored against Seamus, who was Keeping for Pigfarts tonight. Wood had been unable to make another appearance; apparently his coach was drilling Puddlemere especially hard this month.

Soon enough, Hermione had to feed Ginny a Calming Drought as she shuddered through the pain of a sprained ankle inflicted by a more successful Bludger from Fred. Hermione mended the ankle soon enough, and Ginny was back in the air after a few minutes. Not long after that, Lupin saved Seamus from a nasty fall by levitating the safety net over to him under the goal posts.

Sighing at all the chaos and danger, Hermione sat back again, her eyes falling on Harry. He was chasing the Golden Snitch by the opposite stands. He was close, his hand reached out… and he fumbled. The Snitch escaped.

Hermione stared. She had never seen Harry miss a catch like that before, when no one else was trying to stop him. Even in the most arduous situations, even with a rogue Bludger trying to break his bones or Quirrell jinxing his broom, Harry had always managed to catch the Snitch as long as he was conscious and had a clear run at it.

She saw him shake his head in frustration, then wheel around and speed back down the Pitch. He managed to catch the elusive golden ball ten minutes later, but it was a close call between him and Ginny.

Ginny made the defining catch twenty minutes later, making it a Fleabag victory. She didn't gloat, however, but looked at Harry with a concern that Hermione felt.

"Fleabag win!" called Lupin, blowing his whistle. "Well done, Ginny… 400-280!" Lupin seemed inordinately cheerful, especially considering full moon was coming up in just a couple of days. Beaming at everyone as he was, he looked younger than he had the whole time Hermione had known him, smiling at the players as they came down to ground, shaking hands and patting people on the back, offering tired players endless amounts of chocolate from his seemingly self-replenishing coat pockets.

Hermione allowed herself to feel happy for him, whatever it was that was making him that way. She did have her suspicions, but didn't want to voice them on the off-chance that she was wrong.

Lupin had taken Hermione aside before the match to apologise for his part in the Bet.

"It was very irresponsible of me," he'd said regretfully, "not to mention deceitful, to participate and then conceal it. I hope you can forgive me."

Much to Lupin's relief, Hermione found she could, quite easily. Thankfully, he didn't push the matter any further.

But it was watching Harry's poor Quidditch performance tonight, more than anything else, that led Hermione to remind herself that she had to fix things with him as soon as possible. She told herself that if she didn't do it by the end of the weekend, she'd burn Hogwarts: A History. She really would, this time. It was that important. Because she hated to think that Harry had been feeling awfully for a week just because of her and her stupid pride…

Hermione was ready. She had gotten over the stupidity of the Bet, and even allowed herself to feel somewhat flattered at the interest… That no one was resentful of her, unlike last year's publicised love triangle debacle, made her feel better about it all. Add that to all the heartfelt apologies she'd been receiving, and assurances they'd had her best interests at heart and weren't discussing it among themselves anymore, and she found it a lot easier to be civil about the whole thing.

She had been surprised and pleased that Harry took his normal seat next to her in classes through the week. On Tuesday, he had wordlessly cast an engorging charm on one of the Slytherins after they had done their best impersonation of Hermione trying to answer a question. Their hand had grown twice the size of their head and they had been forced to run to the Hospital Wing.

Since then, Hermione and Harry had exchanged a few polite conversations, even the odd joke here and there. She had the impression that his meeting with Sirius on Sunday had done something to set him at ease, but she didn't pry. He seemed to be trying to act as normal, and even to comfort her in some ways. Things with Ron were well on the way to being mended, too. Much to his promise, he appeared to be staying out of things that didn't concern him, keeping to his Quidditch and his food and his Susan.

McGonagall and Lupin left early after the game's conclusion, talking amicably as they walked up to the castle together. Once the game wound down, the spectators slowly disbanded, too, talking excitedly on their way up. There was no party on the Pitch tonight, but the Gryffindors were planning to hang out in the Common Room, and stayed back to pack up the mess and leave the Pitch together once the other members had gone.

Hermione and the Gryffindors traipsed slowly back up the grounds to the castle. There was no longer much effort at all to remain inconspicuous; McGonagall herself had come to the match, so what point was there even trying? It felt odd, just strolling along in the middle of the night, but Hermione seriously doubted whether she could convince any of the members to quieten down.

Her indifference got the better of her.

Hermione was ambling along in front of her fellow Gryffindors, approaching the entrance, thinking of going back up to the Common Room first to freshen up a little and make the decision about speaking to Harry tonight. Once she turned into the Entrance Hall, she heard a gleeful, drawling voice:

"Well, well," said Draco Malfoy, stepping out from behind the doors of the castle, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. "Look who's out of bed."

"You three?" Hermione asked coldly.

Just then, the rest of the Club caught up with her. Seeing Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, everyone tensed and fell silent. Fred and George dropped the shrunken, Transfigured Marquee they held between them and reached out to hold the younger members back, leaving Hermione to take charge of the conflict, at least for now. Harry stopped closest to her, his fists clenched as he glared at Malfoy.

Malfoy looked shocked into silence by their numbers for a moment, then said, "You'll all be expelled." Glee came back into his voice at the prospect. "I overheard about what you lot have been doing all term. You'll be out of Hogwarts by morning. There won't be a Gryffindor House when we're through with you."

"We're?" said Hermione sharply. "You may have somehow become a Prefect, Malfoy, but you can't deal out punishments. And, even if they expel us, they'll have to expel one of your Slytherins, too." She waited a moment before saying, "You know, little Astoria? She's one of us, didn't you know? And she's loads better at Quidditch than you."

Malfoy seemed stunned again.

"Besides," said Hermione, the presence of the others behind her giving her confidence, "Professor McGonagall has given us permission to continue. Won't be long before Dumbledore does, too. Then you'll be the only ones in the school not in on the Club, because, well, you were never invited. Stings, doesn't it?"

It seemed a childish thing to say, but it looked to affect Malfoy greatly.

"How dare you—"

"Oh, I dare," said Hermione recklessly. It felt oddly therapeutic to say such things to Malfoy. "Now, if you'll excuse us, you're blocking the Hall." She made to walk past him.

"You know it's only a matter of time," said Malfoy cruelly. "Now the Dark Lord's back, Mudbloods will be the first to go." He pushed her, hard, as she walked past him, and she stumbled, almost falling. "And you'll be the—"

But before he could get another word out, every single one of the remaining Midnight Quidditch Club members behind Hermione drew their wands as one and levelled them at Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle.

Ron and Harry stepped forward beside Hermione; Harry was shaking with rage but Ron looked quite calm, as if he had been waiting for this moment.

"Oh, do go on, Ferret-face," said Ron easily, his wand unwavering. "What were you going to say?"

Malfoy's face had turned even paler than it already was. "You—you can't attack me," he said, "twenty against one, when Professor Snape hears—"

Harry stepped closer and pressed his wand into Malfoy's throat. "I couldn't care one bit about Snape," he said vengefully, "and any punishment he gives me will be worth having jinxed you so hard you'll be searching your trousers for your nose all week."

Malfoy looked down Harry's wand frightfully. Crabbe and Goyle stood stupidly to one side, eyes flickering between the MQC members.

"Your hand's shaking, Potter," said Malfoy, in an attempt at bravery.

"Maybe it is," said Harry, his voice hard, looking down at his trembling wand, "but are theirs?" He jerked his head back at the MQC members. Malfoy's eyes flickered over to Ron, Fred and George, all looking murderous, then to Lavender, Colin and Ginny, looking coldly down the length of their wands at him. A dozen more Gryffindors stood behind, backing them all up.

"So give us a reason, Malfoy," said Harry. "Please. Twenty wands, I'm sure one of our spells will find your face. And when I say find, I mean obliterate."

Trembling now as much as Harry's hand was, but for very different reasons, Malfoy whimpered and raised his hands in surrender.

Harry let his wand press into Malfoy's neck a little deeper, then scoffed in disgust and lowered his arm. Ron, however, kept his raised.

Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle backed off. For a second it looked as though Malfoy was going to say, 'My father will hear about this', but then he seemed to find some small iota of common sense. The Slytherin trio turned tail and hurried away.

The Gryffindors held their wands a moment longer. At a nod from Harry, they stood down.

Hermione let out a shaky breath and turned to her friends, who were looking at her with some concern.

"I swear, if Malfoy uses that word one more time..." muttered Ginny darkly.

"You alright, Hermione?" Lavender asked.

"I'm okay," she said quietly. After a pause, she added, "Thanks, everyone."

Harry and Ron looked at each other, then at her. Without a word, they nodded. There didn't need to be anything said. Hermione allowed herself a small smile, and the three of them led the Gryffindor members of the MQC upstairs, walking quietly, but calmly, together.

The mood in the Common Room that night was bittersweet. The Weasleys were gleeful at Malfoy's cowardice, but everyone else was worrying about what would happen when Malfoy inevitably told Snape about the Club. But Hermione was feeling quite warm inside. That everyone had been so quick to back her up had truly meant the world to her.

Harry was quiet; she could tell he was shaken after what Malfoy had said. She knew that Lucius Malfoy's presence in the graveyard at Voldemort's return was not an easy thing to forget. But somehow, he managed to meet her eyes by the fire and give her a weak smile and a comforting nod. There was more to that than any words he might have said.

Everyone stayed up late wondering about the fate of their not-so-little Club, and Harry ended up going to bed before anyone else. Hermione was not far behind; she was exhausted, and fell asleep almost as soon as she hit the pillow. Tomorrow, was her last thought, I'll talk to Harry tomorrow...

She went down to watch the Gryffindor team practice the next afternoon. Harry's performance had returned to his usual grace, and Ron was on top form, too.

Hermione smiled at them both as they approached her after practice.

"That was great!" she said supportively, finding she didn't have to try hard to muster her enthusiasm.

"Thanks, Hermione," said Ron cheerfully. Harry didn't say anything.

"Shall we go see Hagrid?" Hermione suggested. "Since we're not studying today."

Harry shrugged. "Sure. Why not."

He and Ron shouldered their brooms and Hermione led the way over to Hagrid's hut.

"Hello, you three!" said Hagrid, welcoming them inside for some cake that he'd made himself.

Hermione had a polite bite, but decided she'd better leave it at that or she'd have to explain to her parents why her teeth were chipped.

It was a jolly enough visit. Hagrid seemed particularly happy: "Oh, Olympe's doin' great, she's fiery, tha' woman… mus' be the French in her…"

Hermione smiled politely while Ron made gagging motions from behind Hagrid's massive frame.

"How's Buckbeak?" Hermione asked, keen to move the conversation away from Hagrid's affection for Madame Maxime.

Hagrid beamed. "He's doin' great! I bin visitin' him at Sirius' place, Dumbledore said he's gonna make it so he can come back to Hogwarts, under a new name. Witherwings, we thought we'd name him."

"That's great, Hagrid," said Harry. Hermione was glad to see him smile. At that moment, Hedwig soared through Hagrid's open window.

"Hello, Hedwig!" said Hagrid cheerfully.

Harry held out his arm and Hedwig landed lightly, offering him the small scroll tied to her leg. "Thanks, Hedwig," said Harry. The owl hooted happily, and jumped off Harry's arm to peck at the birdseed Hagrid had just got out.

Harry opened the scroll, holding it purposefully in front of his face so the others couldn't see it. He read it in just a few seconds and hurriedly put it away, but Hermione—against his best intentions—had been able to read the note in reverse through the paper; the afternoon sun was shining through the window at such an angle that it made it quite transparent. It had read:

Harry,

All done. Your turn.

Happily yours,

Padfoot.

Harry seemed deep in thought after that, a smile edging across his lips despite his apparent attempts to restrain it. Ron, who hadn't managed to read the note, looked confused, but said nothing. Meanwhile, Hagrid resumed his rhapsodies about 'Olympe', until Ron changed the subject to dragons, which Hagrid took up with almost equal enthusiasm, though Hermione worried that Hagrid was getting the idea in his head to try and adopt another Norbert.

After Hagrid's, they went back up to the castle for dinner, where Hermione ate a sandwich she had made after lunch in the kitchens.

All done… your turn… Hermione turned the words over in her head, wondering what on earth Sirius could have been writing about that was so short and cryptic. Her mind fell on an answer that seemed at once probable and implausible.

Harry kept shooting Hermione furtive looks over his dinner plate when he apparently thought she wasn't aware. Boldly, she met his eyes and saw his eyebrows go up in surprise. He promptly stuck his fork into Ron's hand instead of his sausage.

"Ow! Bloody hell, Harry, you trying to murder me?"

"Sorry!" said Harry hurriedly. "Sorry, Ron."

But Ron didn't look angry. "It's fine," he said, as he looked from Harry to Hermione with an odd expression, like he was remembering a long ago memory.

Hermione thought she might know what Ron was thinking about. Harry had just forcibly reminded her of how he had acted on the first few days of their return to Hogwarts, when—and her heart skipped a beat as she realised it—he must have harboured a crush for her.

"So," said Ron, massaging his hand, "what's the plan for tonight?"

Hermione chose her words carefully. "A quiet night," she said deliberately. "I was thinking of doing some knitting for the house-elves if either of you wanted to help."

Ron groaned. "Count me out. Harry, you'll have to help her…"

Harry looked alarmed, but said, "Oh, sure. Yeah, I'll help..."

Hermione smiled at him and felt a thrill when he returned it.

The Common Room was quite energetic that night. After the incident with Malfoy, and with Harry, Ron and Hermione now almost back to normal, and no angry Snape threatening to expel them all just yet, the Gryffindor MQC members seemed encouraged back to their usual cheerful selves. Fred and George demonstrated Wizard Wheezes products while Dean turned up the wizarding stereo set in the corner; he had inserted his own muggle tapes into it and it played a song that was quite nostalgic.

Hermione worked on knitting a new pair of socks she was planning to leave for the house-elves later that night, and listened to the gentle chaos around her, tuning it out every now and then whenever she reached a difficult part of her work.

Setting aside the completed socks close to midnight, she finally let her eyes roam around, and realised with surprise that she, Harry and Ron were the last three in the Common Room, like so many nights before that.

Ron had just beat Harry at their first game of chess since before the Fool's Ball. He and Harry were looking much more relaxed than they had all week. There was that old comfort back that had been missing, and Hermione was grateful for it. They hadn't had a talk or anything, the three of them, to sort it out officially. That look last night upon returning to the castle had spoken volumes, and Hermione knew them and their friendship well enough after all these years to know that when things felt right like this, it was best to just appreciate it.

"Well," said Ron, looking around at the empty Common Room. "I'm going to hit the sack. See you two tomorrow."

"Night, Ron," said Harry.

"Goodnight," said Hermione. As Ron left, quite casually, Hermione noted that he gave her an encouraging smile. She returned it hesitantly.

When Ron had gone, Hermione started work on a new knitting project; it was meant to be a scarf, though she was having trouble with a more ambitious weave she was trying to learn how to do.

After a few minutes, Hermione sneaked a glance at Harry over her knitting. He had got out Quidditch Through the Ages and was reading studiously, his eyes moving from one side of the page to the other. It was a new illustrated edition, with fold-out pages. He was currently examining what seemed to be a tapestry of the origins of the Golden Snitch, which was originally a real live bird.

Harry's favourite book seemed as good a way to start the conversation as any.

Hermione licked her lips before speaking. "Hey, Harry?"

Harry looked up and over at her. "Yeah?"

Hermione looked back down at her knitting and fiddled with the needle. "This may sound a very odd and uncharacteristic thing for me to say, but… I didn't enjoy reading that book." She nodded at Quidditch Through the Ages.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry look back down at the book, then up at her. And as she raised her eyes to his, he grinned; the first full grin she had seen from him all week.

"Oh, please don't—" she started.

"Hermione Granger," said Harry gleefully, "didn't like this book, which I—Harry Potter, notorious slack-off—have read at least ten times?"

"Shut up," she said. "I just… I only read it that one time to try to prepare for the first flying lesson, all the good it did me. I gave it to you so you could play your first game. I told you that I was lending it to you… but I'd already returned it to the library at that point, after the lesson. I went back and borrowed it again so you could have it to prepare for your first match."

Harry's eyes widened and he looked at her for a long time, seeming to be struggling with a decision. Then, wondrously, he licked his lips much like Hermione had hers, and said, shakily, "Would you—would you like to read it with me, maybe?"

Hermione hesitated, then said, "Could you read it to me?"

He looked at her in surprise.

She explained, "I might enjoy it more than last time if it's coming from you. You know I'm only interested in Quidditch because it's your favourite thing about the Wizarding World…"

Harry looked faintly pleased at her proposition. He tucked a leg beneath him and turned halfway to face her. "Alright, shall we start at the beginning?"

"Of course," said Hermione, sitting a little further back on the sofa, trying to relax. It felt odd but very encouraging to be enjoying each other's company again.

Harry smiled, a little nervously, cleared his throat, and began to read: "Chapter One: the Evolution of the Flying Broomstick. No spell yet devised enables wizards to fly unaided in human form. Those few Animagi who transform into winged creatures may enjoy flight, but they are a rarity. The witch or wizard who finds him- or herself Transfigured into a bat may take to the air, but, having a bat's brain, they are sure to forget where they want to go the moment they take flight. Levitation is commonplace, but our ancestors were not content with hovering five feet from the ground. They wanted more. They wanted to fly like birds, but without the inconvenience of growing feathers."

As Harry continued to read to her, his voice grew in strength and confidence. The Common Room was empty and it was just the two of them. Dean had left his stereo on; it played a gentle song in swing time:

"…I fooled around and fell in love…

I fooled around and fell in love…"

Hermione let the quiet music and Harry's soothing words wash over her, preparing herself for what she was about to say.

Harry had just finished describing the first known game of 'Kwiddith', played at Queerditch Marsh.

"The addition of the fourth Quidditch ball did not occur until the middle of the thirteenth century, and it came about in a curious manner."

Hermione gently stopped him with a hand on the book. He looked up, an unasked question in his eyes.

"Can we talk?" Hermione asked softly.

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "I'd like that," he said. He put Quidditch Through the Ages to one side and Hermione set down her knitting.

They sat in silence for a while, closer together than they'd been since the Fool's Ball. Hermione couldn't find the words she had prepared so thoroughly. Hundreds of them were running through her head, but stubbornly, they wouldn't find that elusive passage to her mouth. Finally, she realised there was only one thing to say first, something she'd wanted to say since that night in the Astronomy Tower. And it was a very simple thing, without any complex overthinking required. She opened her mouth.

"I'm sorry—" She stopped. Harry had said the same thing at the same time.

Hermione laughed and Harry smiled, and it was like nothing had changed.

"Who's it going to be this time?" he asked mischievously, a little of the old light back in his eyes.

Hermione didn't respond for a few long seconds. "This time," she said slowly, "this time, I'd like to go first, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind," said Harry, though apprehensively.

"I have a lot to say that I should by rights have said a week ago," she began, feeling as though she was taking a step into a deep ocean. "First of which is, I'm sorry, about what I said after the Fool's Ball. Oh, I certainly was a fool…"

Harry was gazing intently at her, but she couldn't read his expression.

"I was hurt," she said heavily. "Not by you, because up until Lavender interrupted us, you had said such wonderful things, and all my dreams were coming true, and it was looking like that was the time when finally, at long last, I would get to kiss you, and we could be together, together in a way that means… something I've never had, but can't imagine with anyone but you.

"And then what happened, happened, and all of a sudden it was like every bad experience I've ever had came rushing back. I kept thinking about how everything always gets ruined for me, and I know that's an awful selfish thing to say, but I couldn't help it. I've never been well-liked, or tolerated, you know that. From the years before Hogwarts, when I never had what you could ever call a friend, to when I finally came here, to find that I wasn't wanted, by everyone from Malfoy to Snape to even you and Ron at first. To when everyone got annoyed at me for always being that bossy know-it-all, to being ridiculed by that awful Skeeter woman… Even at the Yule Ball, with one person, namely Viktor—if you'll forgive me mentioning him—being happy with me, Ron was not. We all know how that ended, and what we went through. The Bet and the arguing over it took me right back to all those times, and I didn't know what to do. After us chasing that parchment all term, to find out it was something stupid like that wasn't a relief. It made me feel violated. Because what we had started to explore together turned out to not just belong to us; it apparently belonged to all these other people."

Hermione was finally getting all her thoughts out. They weren't at all what she had prepared to say; she was simply speaking as she felt, which felt like the right thing to do. She didn't look at Harry, but closed her eyes and spoke to the back of her eyelids. It was easier that way; Harry's gaze had a way of making her words lose their way.

"I like to be in control," she admitted. "And finally, with you, I felt like I could lose a little of that control, because when we're together, I feel like all we need is us. That's why I helped form the Midnight Quidditch Club, that's why I allowed myself to get drunk, why I dressed up with you and Ron for Halloween, that's why I helped organise the Fool's Ball. Even when I kept telling myself not to, telling myself to regain a little bit of that control, I kept going.

"And then… for it all to blow up like that at the Ball, it was like my worst fears came true, not for the first time, not by a long shot. I don't blame the others anymore, after I'd already yelled at them, I was more upset with, well, me, for allowing myself to get so caught up in everything. And I felt empty, like I had failed myself, failed you. I didn't even feel that angry after a while, just... hollow. After a lot of self-reflection, I realised why I was feeling that way, and what I needed to say to you. And once last night happened, I realised that every single person who raised their wand on Malfoy is my friend. And that's worth more than anything else I may have valued, and I saw just how much we've achieved this year. I don't know if you remember what I said to you, before you went after Quirrell four years ago… that there are things more important than books and cleverness, and now I see that they're more important than pride and control, too. Friendship. Bravery. And… what I meant to say, but didn't, the third thing… was love."

She heard Harry take an audible breath in and Hermione shivered slightly, though it wasn't because it was cold.

"So, I'm sorry, again," she continued. "I shouldn't have said that I didn't want to be with you last week, because I do. More than anything. And what I said: 'not like this'… I said it because I wanted us… to be us. In that special place, here, where we can relinquish that control, because we don't need it. Because it's just us. And that's the way I want it, and Harry, I do so hope you want it too."

Hermione finally opened her eyes to see Harry still looking at her. He didn't blink or look away. His green eyes were startlingly piercing, and a little moist.

Hermione was breathing a little heavily after her long speech. She tried a small smile to show Harry that she had said everything she wanted to.

He tentatively but tenderly took her hand in his. "You don't ever have to apologise," he said ardently, in a way that made her shiver again.

"Because it's me and you," he continued, squeezing her hand lightly to punctuate his words. "I'm sorry you had to go through all that, and I wish I could have helped you more. And I know you said this whole speech, and it was very good, but I could never say anything to match it. I said everything I wanted to say last week, and I meant it all, very much. And you know me, I'm not great with words like you are. So all I have to add to this is… You're a catch, you know that, Hermione?"

Hermione blushed. "Is that so?"

"Yes," said Harry, "and a great one at that."

"Well, then," said Hermione, "you're the Seeker. Isn't it your job to catch me?"

"Hermione… it would be my absolute pleasure." Harry sat forward a little and Hermione licked her lips in anticipation.

"But," he said, "since you asked me last time, I think it's only fair for me to ask now… Can I kiss you?"

Hermione nodded, her throat constricting with emotion. Thoughts were rushing through her head… how are you going to kiss him? Will you tilt your head to the right or the left? Will your top lip be on his? Where will you put your arms?

But as they both leaned in towards each other, and as Hermione's eyes fluttered shut as Harry brushed his lips ever so gently against hers and they finally kissed, she didn't have to worry about any of that; it just happened, and it happened beautifully, and wondrously. And, for what felt like the first time in months, or even years, Hermione's mind was quiet and empty, the chaos inside her finally beaten back and overwhelmed by the pure magic that was kissing Harry.

Harry thought his heart might burst. Hermione was both electrifying and soothing, the fantastic touch of her lips sending waves of pleasure through him.

They stayed that way for a long, wonderful moment, and Harry felt warmth spreading from his lips all the way down to his toes. The entire world seemed to fall away and for all he felt, the two of them were all that existed. He was aware of his hand moving to cup Hermione's cheek as they kissed, and her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer to her as they lost—and found—themselves in each other.

After what felt at once like several eternities and half a second, they pulled apart, their lips lingering for a moment with the lightest, tenderest parting contact.

They found each other's eyes again in the silent aftermath of that massive leap, that thing that they had finally just done, that thing that was sure to change everything.

Hermione giggled.

Harry snorted.

They cracked up. There was nothing particularly funny about the situation. But they laughed anyway. It felt good.

When they stopped laughing they simply smiled at each other.

"Well," said Hermione matter-of-factly, "that was…"

"Yeah," agreed Harry. "It was."

"Worth the wait, was what I was going to say."

"I'd say. Though a couple of weeks or months earlier wouldn't have been so bad either."

Hermione looked a little anxious now that the kiss had happened. "This is… this is going to change everything, isn't it?" she said.

Harry mulled over all those words Hermione had said before they kissed, finding the meaning in them as he looked at her admiringly. She had said it more eloquently than he ever could have thought it, and he felt as though a great revelation had finally come to light.

"Will it?" asked Harry thoughtfully.

"Well, I…"

"We're still us," said Harry. "You're still my best friend. We're just… something else, as well. But we don't have to think about it just now if you don't want to."

Hermione relaxed at that, and sat back in the sofa."You know, they always say a relationship is a friendship set to music."

Harry cocked his head to the stereo that was still softly playing in the corner. "Sirius said something similar. We've heard a good share of music this term. Thanks to the twins, and Dean, I suppose. And the Room of Requirement, of course. I quite liked it all. I loved that one we danced to when we got drunk on the Pitch, how does it go… 'I'll play the fool, for you, I'm sure… you know I don't mind.'"

Hermione smiled at his mock singing. "Music to my ears," she said.

"Well, it's true," said Harry. "I'd gladly play the fool for you, Hermione. And I have. And will probably continue to. Just a fair warning."

Hermione laid a hand on his arm and stroked him affectionately. "And I can't wait. Harry, I don't know how much music the Dursley's let you hear, but… if ever you wanted to listen to some, I'm sure we could do it together… In the Room of Requirement, or maybe… if you wanted, one day in the holidays, at my house. I was never one to listen to a lot of music, but my parents love the old tunes. I'm sure they'd be more than happy to have you, they love you, you know, after what you did on my birthday."

Harry felt a thrill of excitement. He had always wondered what the Granger household was like, especially Hermione's room. "I'd like that," he said sincerely.

Hermione's smiled broadened. "What do you want to do now?"

Harry shrugged. "We could keep reading; you need a proper education in the noble art of Quidditch, my dear."

Hermione giggled: an act of hers that was becoming more frequent.

"What?" asked Harry, frowning.

"You called me 'my dear'," said Hermione sheepishly.

Harry laughed. "I did, didn't I? Well, we could do your knitting, I suppose, if you want. Unless you want to go to bed." (Please say no, please say no, he thought.)

To his pleasure, she shook her head. "I'm not ready for bed just yet. If you want, you could keep reading your favourite book to me."

Harry grinned and shook his head in wonder.

"Oh, Hermione," he said fondly, "maybe it's just as well the Fool's Ball was such a fiasco."

"Really?" said Hermione, now with a touch of worry again. "Why is that?"

"Well," said Harry carefully, trying to say exactly what he meant, "it's not exactly us, is it? Not that you didn't look amazing that night or anything, but I quite like you as you are, if you know what I mean. And throwing a party, dressing up and having a go at ballroom dancing, drinking fancy wine… That really wasn't us."

Hermione seemed to agree, and turned a light shade of pink at his words. But she asked, "Then what is… us?"

Harry gestured, spreading his hands over the sofa where they sat comfortably. "This. Right here."

Hermione smiled shyly. "This," she said, with the air of someone clearing up a matter. "Sitting in the Common Room in the middle of the night, you reading Quidditch Through the Ages to me, while I knit an awful scarf, that's us?"

Harry grinned and felt confident enough to put an arm around her. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Hermione sighed happily and snuggled up against him. "Me too, Harry. Me too."

Harry let the happy moment rest for a while, playing with the ends of her hair.

"Now," he said, reaching out for the book he had set aside. "Where were we? Oh yes, did you know, Hermione, that the Golden Snitch was originally a bird called a Golden Snidget? Of course, once they became endangered, using them for games was outlawed. Here we go… The invention of the Golden Snitch is credited to the wizard Bowman Wright of Godric's Hollow—just proving that Godric's Hollow produced some of the best wizards in history, of course, including yours truly—ow, Hermione, just kidding! Anyway… While Quidditch teams all over the country tried to find bird substitutes for the Snidget, Wright, who was a skilled metal-charmer, set himself to the task of creating a ball that mimicked the behaviour and flight patterns of the Snidget…"

And so he read to her while she leant against him. He made odd comments here and there that either made her laugh or slap his chest in annoyance.

Come one in the morning, Hermione had had enough of Quidditch, and decided to get out Hogwarts: A History. Harry made a show of groaning, but really, he had come to like the book nearly half as much as Hermione did. It had become so intrinsically associated with her that every time he so much as heard it mentioned, his mind immediately jumped to thoughts of her, sitting curled up like she was now, reading it with that excitedly avid look and the fire shining flickering light upon her face.

Come two in the morning, they gave up the reading entirely and Harry helped with her knitting; they worked on opposite ends of it, starting from the centre and working their way outwards, spinning the wool (both quite slowly; it turned out this wasn't a skill either of them possessed in large amounts). Half an hour later, with the aid of the impatient magic knitting needles, they had finished a rather ugly, misshapen red and gold scarf with illustrations of vague wriggles that were supposed to be Snitches and books. It was long enough to wrap around both their necks twice over.

Of course, with the scarf around their necks, they were very close together, and so, determined not to miss any more opportunities that presented themselves, Harry seized the chance to kiss Hermione again, at length and with great enthusiasm.

I could get used to this, he thought happily, feeling that finally, everything had all been worth it.

Neither of them wanted to sleep at all. This was their time; after all, no one else was around, and they could be themselves. They didn't have to worry about anything else. No Dark Lords, no Slytherin bullies, no interfering but well-meaning friends, teachers, or relatives… Just them.

So, when Harry suggested tentatively between kisses that they sneak out for a quick fly, Hermione agreed. Grinning, Harry got up excitedly. This had been his original plan, to take her outside and maybe land on the Quidditch Pitch, just the two of them, for a long talk. But he found himself quite happy with the way it had turned out, all in all. Sirius had been right on the money; just a quiet moment had been all it took for Hermione to make her move. And what a move it was.

Harry got his Firebolt and Hermione pushed the window of the Common Room open. Some snowflakes fell in. They pulled on their gloves and jackets tightly.

"You sure?" he asked her. "It is very late…"

Hermione smiled. "I'm feeling quite awake. And I don't want to miss any more moments, any more adventures, with you, Harry."

Harry grinned stupidly, not sure what to say to that. Then he realised something. "Oh. We only have one broomstick… I could go and get Ron's, maybe…"

Hermione stepped a little closer. "I thought we could… share yours."

Harry could hardly believe his ears. "That—that sounds nice. So, you… you want to get on behind me?"

Hermione nodded.

Harry mounted the Firebolt and slid a little further forward than he normally would. Hermione put her hand on his shoulder as she stepped over the broom behind him. As an afterthought, she picked up the ugly scarf they'd knitted and wrapped it around their necks again.

"Ready?" Harry asked, when he felt Hermione settle behind him, her arms wrapped snugly and pleasantly around his waist, the scarf keeping their necks warm and making sure they were sitting close together.

"Ready," she said softly.

Harry grinned, and kicked off. They soared smoothly through the open window and out into the cold. There was the lightest of snowfalls coming down. A few lights out in Hogsmeade twinkled in the distance, and the stars smiled from above. The moon was very nearly full, bathing Hogwarts in a silver glow.

Hermione did not tell him to slow down or take it easy, so Harry sped them through the spires of the castle, weaving in and out and above with ease.

It was very peaceful out here in the middle of the night. They watched owls fly here and there, and listened to the silence and watched the stillness, enjoying the feeling of flying together on one broom.

"I had a dream about this," he found himself telling Hermione as he slowed the broom to a more relaxed pace.

"Really?" said Hermione behind him, as they soared over the highest turret.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Just like this, almost, with one other thing."

"Can I guess what that is?" Hermione sounded like she was preparing for something.

He turned around to respond, and she leaned forward and kissed him.

Hermione pulled back and Harry opened his eyes, which he had not realised had fluttered closed.

"How close was I?" Hermione asked, smiling.

Harry stared at her deeply. She looked incredibly beautiful in the dim light of the moon, the light wind sending tiny snowflakes spinning into her hair. "In the dream, you kissed me on the cheek," he murmured breathlessly. "But that was loads better."

Hermione's smile widened. Then, so did her eyes. "Harry!"

He whipped back around to face front to see a castle spire coming up. "Hang on!" he said, and swerved to avoid the spire, coming to a sharp halt and feeling the broom's tail twigs brush against the castle.

Harry laughed nervously as they hovered high above the grounds. "You okay?" he asked.

She laughed too. "I'm fine. Quite fine."

She was still hugging Harry tightly around the middle. An idea coming to him, he swung his right leg over the broom shaft and sat sideways, now shifting to face Hermione as she held onto him.

"This is better," he murmured, and kissed her again.

Hermione didn't say anything—nor could she—but he felt her nod as she kissed him back enthusiastically. With a thrill, Harry felt her tongue flick out against his upper lip. He was quick to return the favour, and his efforts were rewarded with the little moan she gave against his mouth.

Flying high in every sense of the word, with his hands tangled in Hermione's hair and his lips engaged with hers, while the moonlight shone down on them as they sat together on his Firebolt, Harry didn't think he'd ever been so happy in his whole life.

Chapter Text

It became clear to Harry and Hermione that even though they were no longer angry about the Bet—and even found it amusing, to some degree, now that they had seen it to its completion without anyone knowing—they would have to pick the moment to reveal their relationship very carefully indeed.

They decided to—for now, at least—keep the fact that they were a couple a complete secret, sneaking notes and quick smiles of happiness and struggling to maintain a platonically friendly demeanour whenever they were in company, then rushing off to the Room of Requirement—and even the odd broom cupboard or two—between classes, to continue their exploration of each other's mouths and exchange soft, hurried words of affection. They stayed up late almost every night reading and knitting together, going on the odd midnight fly around the castle.

Although it was hard for Harry to appear around others as though everything was normal and he and Hermione were nothing but friends (though it seemed quite easy for her), it was the best secret he had ever had the pleasure to keep. For years now, Harry had had secrets kept from him. For years, he had been the talk of the school, always for something quite awful that he wanted nothing to do with. Now, something fantastic and lovely had happened to him, and he and Hermione were the only ones to know. It felt right. It felt fair. And he wasn't ready to let go of that wonderful secret just yet.

The only person who seemed to suspect anything was Ron, but he kept to himself besides the odd curious glance here and there. The rest of the MQC kept their distance too, the events of the Fool's Ball not forgotten, but well behind them. Undisturbed and not pressured by anyone, Harry found that he was quite comfortable with exploring his relationship with Hermione.

"You're my girlfriend," he found himself saying, on multiple occasions, as if to confirm that they really were involved in that way.

"I'm your girlfriend," Hermione agreed on Tuesday night, when everyone had gone to bed and they cuddled together in front of the fireplace. "And you're my boyfriend." She shook her head in wonder and her hair brushed over his cheek. He liked it when she did that; her hair was very soft.

"It feels a little surreal to say it," Hermione added. "I wanted it for so long, I can hardly believe it's come true."

"Me, too," said Harry. Hermione leaned her head on his shoulder while he put his arm around her. He added, "D'you think anyone knows?"

Hermione had made a habit of tracing invisible lines across Harry's arms and chest. She seemed to be drawing flowers at the moment. "I don't think so," she said. "We've been careful. Besides, they're all walking on eggshells around us. Even if they did suspect anything, they wouldn't say it."

Harry chuckled. "We scared them at the Ball, didn't we?"

"Maybe a little," said Hermione anxiously. "But I think we'll all be okay. I was thinking... We can't keep this secret forever—should we tell Ron, first?"

"Why?" Harry asked, frowning.

"I just—I still feel horrible about what we did to him, with the Veritaserum. It wasn't a very nice thing to do to our best friend. It was a horrible breach of trust."

"It was," Harry agreed, feeling a little of the guilt come back. "But Ron seems okay about it. He even said he'd have done the same thing."

"Still," said Hermione, "I told him I don't want to fight with him any more, and it's true. At the very least, I want things to stay normal between the three of us. And when I say normal, I mean preferably with less bickering. We've gone through too much to be angry with each other ever again."

Harry caught her fingers from where they traced what seemed to be a rainbow over his shirt. "Hey," he said, "We'll be alright. We'll tell Ron and the others when we're ready. And Ron first, he does deserve that. But... just for now..." He tilted his head to kiss her on the cheek. "It's nice to have more of these quiet moments, just the two of us."

Hermione smiled. "You've never kissed me on the cheek before," she said.

Harry grinned. "Yeah, but you've done it to me. I was keeping a tally in my head of all the times you had. I kept wondering what you meant by it, after we got back to London in summer. That was an important question. All summer, it was: 'When will You-Know-Who strike again?' and 'Why did Hermione kiss me on the cheek?' You know, the usual mysteries."

Hermione's smile turned sheepish. "Well, now you know what I meant by it."

Harry cupped her cheek and closed in for another kiss, this time on the lips. "Yes, I do."

An hour later, Harry went to bed happily, and rested easily, as was the pleasing norm that week.

Unfortunately, the next day had planned a rather unpleasant distraction from what were just a few days of romantic bliss. Harry supposed he should have expected it, after the encounter with Malfoy last week. But he had been so preocuppied with the incredible thing happening with Hermione that it had slipped his mind.

Snape stopped Harry, Ron and Hermione from leaving Potions class on Wednesday, just as they were headed out the door.

"Potter! Weasley! Granger!" spat Snape. "What's your hurry?"

Harry and the others turned back slowly. "We've Herbology next, Professor," said Harry, quite politely. "We've got to be going or we'll be late." Next to him, Hermione and Ron nodded defiantly.

"I'm sure Professor Sprout can excuse your absence just a moment longer," said Snape. He looked dangerously gleeful about something. "This will only take a moment, it's quite a simple matter…"

But Snape seemed to be savouring the moment. Impatient, Harry asked, "Well, what is it? Sir," he added, a second later.

"Mr Malfoy has informed me of a most unlawful occurrence this term," said Snape. "Do the words 'Midnight', 'Quidditch' and 'Club' sound familiar to you?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "They're all… words, sir. So, yes."

"Don't get snarky with me, Potter," snapped Snape. "Multiple sources have confirmed that you three are the ringleaders behind all this. Out of bed in the middle of the night every Friday, illegal games of Quidditch, drawing your wands and threatening defenceless Slytherins… I'll have you out, Potter, I'll have you all out of here."

Harry struggled to appear indifferent. "Alright, sir, we'll get out, then," he said, and turned to leave the classroom, followed quickly by Ron, who was struggling to keep a straight face, and then Hermione, who seemed reluctant to anger Snape.

"Potter!" hissed Snape venomously. "Don't you turn your back on me!"

"I quite prefer it this way," said Harry airily, not turning around. "You said you wanted us out. We're out. Good day, sir."

"Why, you insolent, arrogant little—"

"Good afternoon, Severus," said McGonagall's pleasant voice.

Harry turned just as Snape also whipped around to see McGonagall standing calmly behind him.

"Professor McGonagall," Snape said, his voice deepening into a forcedly polite tone. "How fortuitous. I have been informed by a reliable source of enough information to have these three and half of Gryffindor house expelled."

"Is that so?" asked McGonagall tolerantly. "Well, as I recall, as Head of House, the decision for expulsion lies with me."

Snape's lip curled. "When you hear what they've been up to, I'm sure you'll reach that very decision."

"Be that as it may, Severus," said McGonagall, "I'm sure Professor Sprout will be wondering where her students are, so if you don't mind…. Potter, Weasley, Granger, off to class. Go on, quickly, now."

Never three to look a gift horse in the mouth, Harry, Ron and Hermione hurried off to Herbology, quietly discussing what had just occurred as they heard McGonagall and Snape's raised voices following them all down the dungeon corridor and up the stairs.

"You think she's going to cover for us?" whispered Ron.

"I think she might," said Harry. "Wonder what she'll come up with…"

"I can't see McGonagall lying to another Professor," said Hermione worriedly.

"This is Snape, though," said Ron. "She hates him as much as we do, she just has to pretend not to."

They didn't wonder for long; their questions and concerns were answered at breakfast the next day.

Harry and Hermione went down early to sneak in more time together before classes. They didn't talk about anything in particular; just being alone together was enough, somehow.

"Pumpkin juice, Harry?" Hermione asked politely from where she sat across from him. Her calm tone of voice betrayed no hint of the fact that her bare foot was currently running over Harry's thigh under the table. Harry's breath hitched in his throat as saw the look she was giving him, a look he had seen before: a look of triumph and control, like she knew she was driving him mad and dared him to do something about it.

Hermione had made a habit of this expression of affection over the last few late nights in the Common Room, while they sat on opposite ends of the couch, reading or talking or knitting. It was relaxing, and rather innocent. But here in the Great Hall, under the table, it felt distinctly more illicit, and somehow suggestive.

"Yeah, I'll have some juice," said Harry, casually as he could. Hermione passed him the jug and their fingers intertwined over it. Harry didn't let go straight away; Hermione's foot had just pushed farther up his leg than it had thus far, and he was thinking about how best to one-up her boldness.

But out of nowhere, Ron appeared and sat down in front of them, seizing a stack of toast with vigour. Hermione quickly took her hand back. Harry cleared his throat and drank deeply, feeling her leg retreat under the table. He heard the distinct sound of her pushing her foot back into her shoe.

Looking away from Ron's suspicious gaze, Harry cast his eyes up to the staff table, searching Snape's face for some hint of their fate, some hint of whatever he had done to try to get them expelled. The Potions Master had his eyes set on the morning paper, looking more murderous than usual. He seemed determined not to look up.

Professor Dumbledore stood up quite suddenly, spreading his arms out to the school.

"Your attention, please!" called Dumbledore.

Everyone fell silent.

"Given some recent events, I must make an announcement."

Harry, Hermione and Ron exchanged worried glances. Dumbledore almost never addressed the entire school at any times other than the opening and closing feasts. Could it be Snape had gone straight to him after his argument with McGonagall? Was Dumbledore going to oust the entire MQC and ban them from playing anymore?

But Dumbledore was smiling. "For the first time, next Friday, Hogwarts will see its first ever fully student-hosted spectacle… the Midnight Quidditch Cup!"

Hermione made a high-pitched exclamation and Ron let out a cry of delight. The Great Hall was plunged into chaos as almost everyone cheered and talked excitedly over this unexpected announcement.

Dumbledore spread his hands again for silence, which fell immediately. "Anyone and everyone is welcome. The teams for the match have already been formed, and they are called: Fleabag and Pigfarts! This is, of course, very exciting, very exciting indeed. Perhaps in time Hogwarts may host more games like this… I, for one, would love to install a ten-pin bowling alley beside the Quidditch Pitch…"

McGonagall cleared her throat quite loudly and Dumbledore was shaken out of his wistful wish. Snape, meanwhile, stabbed a fork into his egg so hard yolk splattered onto poor Professor Flitwick's moustache.

"Ahem, yes," said Dumbledore. "If you wish to watch the Midnight Quidditch Cup Final, it would be wise to arrive at the Quidditch Pitch at eleven next Friday night. There will, of course, be no punishment for being out of bed. The teachers will see to it that everyone who wishes to attend arrives safely. That is all. Now, off to class, pip-pip!"

Harry turned to look at Ron and Hermione. "He's mad!" he said delightedly. "Making the MQC official, that's—that's mad!" he finished, unable to find another word.

Hermione frowned. "He had to, didn't he? Otherwise Snape would've continued to treat us awfully."

Ron looked sceptical. "Don't think that's going to stop the git from doing that, Hermione. It'll be even worse now he can't expel us."

Harry agreed, but could not find it in himself to be worried. "But how did Dumbledore know everything, even the team names? I didn't tell him, did you?"

Hermione nodded her head subtly to the staff table. Harry turned and his eyes fell on the seat next to Dumbledore, where Professor McGonagall sat, drinking her morning tea. She inclined her head slightly to the three of them, and Harry was sure she was smiling into her mug.

Harry gave her a wide smile and turned back to Hermione and Ron. "This is great! McGonagall loves Quidditch so much she's got Dumbledore to change the rules for us! I never thought I'd see the day…"

They heard people from other Houses talking; someone was asking why Dumbledore had said it would be the 'final' game, and they wondered what other midnight matches had been going on. Those in the know looked on smugly and exchanged gleeful looks with Harry, Ron and Hermione.

Fred, George and Ginny came down the Gryffindor table to find them.

"Brilliant," Fred said fervently, "the old man's brilliant, just amazing…"

"This changes everything," said George frenetically. "We'll be playing for the whole school… we'll have to think about how we're going to organise it… Dumbledore didn't reach out to you, did he, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. He, too, was thinking about how best they would present the MQC to the school. "He said teams were fixed… wonder what he means?"

Ginny perched on the table. "I think it should be the original members, from the first few weeks. We can't have teams of thirty, it'll be madness."

Ron shrugged. "Maybe add in a couple of our better, newer players, too. We can always have reserves if more want to play."

"Wonder if any Slytherins will come to watch?" Hermione wondered.

Fred scoffed. "Let's hope not. Little Astoria must play, though… it'd show everyone she's really cool, actually."

They had to go off to classes, then, and didn't get a chance to discuss it until that night in the Common Room, where the noise was boisterous.

The Gryffindors who either hadn't known about the Club or had not made it to games were talking excitedly about what the Midnight Quidditch Cup could possibly entail. Cormac McLaggen was sullen, muttering under his breath that he should have been asked to play. No one paid him much attention. They were all talking about how there had never been a solely student run Quidditch Cup at Hogwarts. Hermione was asked if there had ever been such a thing described in Hogwarts: A History, to which she uttered a firm negative.

Harry and the twins agreed to keep things between them until the actual match; Dumbledore had made no mention of them by name, and it would be best to keep out of the spotlight until they actually appeared on the Pitch.

They planned the formation of the two teams carefully, weighing up each player's strengths and weaknesses. Finally, after much thought, and consulting with the Club members on what positions they'd prefer, and with some, if they'd be okay to sit out and watch, they came up with a list that they passed on to Lee. The original members had been switched around from the usual line-up. Harry had insisted that he be able to play with Ron and Hermione—who would be relieved of her Club Medic duties by Madam Pomfrey.

Hermione was hesitant to play. "I must be the worst on the team, surely you'd be better off with someone else as Chaser."

But Harry told her, "Don't worry. The whole point of the Club was getting people who didn't usually play at House matches to join us—it's all for fun, it's not like it's the World Cup or anything… And Ron and I will be on your team, you'll be fine. We want you, don't we, Ron?"

Ron hastened to agree. "Sure we do," he said bracingly. "It'll be great to play with you guys for a change..."

Most of the students at Hogwarts who wanted to play Quidditch had already signed up earlier in the term, through word of mouth and friendly recommendation. But there was no shortage at all of people who wanted to watch—Hogwarts was running short on exciting, free-to-watch spectacles this year, especially after the bar the Triwizard Tournament had set, and the fact that the first two public Quidditch games had been over very quickly (the Gryffindor vs Slytherin game had been under an hour, while Cho had caught the Snitch just twenty minutes into the Ravenclaw vs Hufflepuff game).

It was complete and utter madness, and the Weasley twins wouldn't have had it any other way. From what they heard, it sounded like the entire population of Hogwarts, aside from most of Slytherin House, would be congregating at the Quidditch Pitch at midnight next Friday. The few Slytherins who had chosen to come were being bullied by the rest of the house, in particular Draco Malfoy, who saw Dumbledore's decision to ignore the MQC's rule-breaking as a slight against him and the whole of Slytherin House. Harry noticed however, that Malfoy went quiet whenever in the presence of Astoria.

Harry hadn't even realised that Christmas was approaching. The first half of fifth year had passed in a blur of O.W.L preparation and Quidditch games, but Harry had never had a better time. He finally felt as though this was how things should be; no one attacked, no Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers trying to kill him, no escaped murderers trying to break into the castle, no deadly tournaments he had not entered in… no one had died, and that warmed Harry's heart more than such a thought should ever affect a schoolboy of fifteen.

And now, his and the twins' hard work on the MQC would be paying off. To be accepted and encouraged by the teachers was an odd but very pleasing turn of events. Harry overheard Professors Sprout and Flitwick talking about how Hogwarts had needed something like this to bolster morale for ages.

The MQC members who wouldn't be playing in the final next week had their last hurrah that Friday.

Luna Lovegood took to the Pitch for the first time since her first week in the Club. She had a tendency to drift away from everyone else, rising higher into the sky and further from the Pitch until she reached the Marquee's cover. "I see things better from afar," she said airily, when Harry asked if she was going to come down.

Harry wasn't playing tonight; he lent his Firebolt to Ginny and relaxed on a Cleansweep Eleven, floating around and helping Lupin to referee. Hermione, meanwhile, was practising playing as Chaser. She had become comfortable on the school's best broom, a Comet 64, which Harry and Ron had ensured she would get.

Ginny's performance was instantly elevated by the Firebolt, and Fleabag thrashed Pigfarts thoroughly with the help of Ravenclaw House captain Roger Davies.

Harry was surprised to see that Cho had come down tonight to watch. She had found out about the MQC some weeks before, but from what Harry heard from Luna and the other Ravenclaws, had refused to join. But Harry was glad to see she was smiling as she watched them play tonight.

After the match, when everyone was relaxing and drinking Butterbeers, enjoying each other's company, Harry and Professor Lupin flew above the stands and tossed the Quaffle to one another while Fred and George—in between firework displays—dismantled the Marquee (there would be no need for concealment next week; they would be playing under the open sky for the first time).

"You seem happy, Professor," Harry said, as he tossed the Quaffle underhanded towards Lupin. He looked over to see Ron on his Firebolt, whooping with joy as he flew at breakneck speed around the Pitch. Hermione, on Ron's Nimbus, tried to keep up, laughing as Ron attempted to perform a barrel roll.

"Well, it's a lovely night," said Lupin breezily, rising above Harry to drop the Quaffle back down to him. "Next week's looking like fun, there isn't a full moon for ages, and Severus is severely put out by Minerva's refusal to expel you all and fire me. I've also picked up enough about the intricacies of the Wolfsbane Potion to successfully brew it myself, so hardly need his help anymore. So, yes, Harry, I'm quite content right now."

Harry didn't know how to bring up Sirius; he knew that they had gotten together somehow, at least that was what Sirius' note implied, but he couldn't think of a way to ask Lupin about it that wouldn't lead to him asking Harry about Hermione, and Harry wasn't quite ready for the participants of the Bet to find out about that just yet.

"I'm glad," Harry decided to say eventually, reaching up to grab the Quaffle as it soared overhead. "It's been great having you part of it all. Maybe next term you could lead the Duelling Club we tried to start."

Lupin considered the proposition for a long moment. "I'd quite like that."

At that point, Fred and George accidentally set fire to the Marquee, and Hermione had fly over to extinguish it: "Aguamenti!" she said in an exasperated tone.

Harry and Lupin grinned at each other, and went to put the Quaffle away with the other balls, as Ron touched down and passed Harry his Firebolt, looking windswept and exhilarated.

"Blimey!" said Ron suddenly, looking over at the entrance to the Pitch.

Harry turned around and his eyes widened.

"Dumbledore!" Hermione gasped.

Professor Dumbledore ambled over casually, dressed in midnight blue robes. "Good evening," he said pleasantly to the group at large. "Or should I say morning? Oh, doesn't matter... Enjoying ourselves?"

There were murmurs of assent. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I'm sure you must all be wondering about my decision to make your little Club public. Suffice to say that I think Hogwarts could benefit from a bit of fun. I trust you won't disappoint. And, of course, you have such an excellent companion in Professor Lupin."

Lupin bowed his head awkwardly.

"Harry," said Dumbledore, "might I have a word with you?"

"Sure, Professor," said Harry, a little apprehensive as he followed Dumbledore over to the base of the goal hoops.

Dumbledore placed a hand on the metal pole and waited for the conversations to resume behind them before speaking. "Had a good term, Harry?" he asked.

"Really good," said Harry. "And not even a peek of Voldemort, sir, do you think he's—"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, I do not think he's given up. But he's finding it harder than he thought he might to figure out what to do with you. I've said it before; you did very well to escape him before summer; his plans were derailed, especially since we've successfully alerted and warned the Ministry and much of the Wizarding World. Even now, I sense he's frustrated. But you needn't worry about it just now, Harry. Once you go home with Sirius over Christmas, there are things we can fill you in on. This next week or two, I simply wish for you to enjoy yourself, as you have done all term. That's more important than anything."

Harry looked at Dumbledore carefully. "Sir, you don't mind? About the Midnight Quidditch Club? I mean, we have been breaking rules and all, and you're okay with that?"

Dumbledore looked around vaguely. "Harry, I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean. As far as anyone's concerned, I have hand-selected a few predisposed students to participate in a special Quidditch game. In my eyes, nothing untoward has happened."

Harry grinned and was so grateful he could even forget about Dumbledore's pioneering of the Bet. "Yes, sir," he said.

"If I am to leave you with anything to think about," said Dumbledore serenely, "it will be this: to keep a secret is sometimes necessary, and can preserve something that you wish to remain yours, and only yours. But to share that secret, well, that shows considerably more trust, and is not as frightful as you sometimes may think."

"I—" Harry started. He did not know whether Dumbledore was talking solely of the Midnight Quidditch Club, or if he somehow knew what had happened between him and Hermione these past weeks.

But Dumbledore simply smiled, as if taking pleasure in Harry's confusion. "Goodnight, Harry," he said, walking away and entreating Lupin to join him on his way up to the castle.

"Goodnight, Professor," Harry muttered, feeling, as usual, that Dumbledore was some kind of mind-reader.

Fred and George had kept a log of the results of each MQC match that term, and Pigfarts and Fleabag were currently tied for victories. That meant that next Friday was the deciding match of the so-called Midnight Quidditch Cup, even if the spectators weren't aware of it. As far as those outside the Club were concerned, the match would be a one-time event.

Though Harry had been encouraged by Dumbledore's words, and that the upcoming game was met with positivity and excitement from all, he felt a small pang of disappointment that their Club was no longer a secret. He had quite enjoyed keeping it discreet, almost in the same way as keeping his relationship with Hermione hidden. But, as Ron told him that weekend, "We know. It still belongs to us. We're the ones who started it, and we can all still get together on different nights in secret next term if we want. If Hermione's O.W.L study schedule will allow it, of course."

And Hermione added, "And this was what it was all about, anyway, wasn't it? Improving House relations, giving people a space to have fun… and even better, now we're not breaking any rules! Oh, this is so good!"

Harry had to agree.

It was with mostly the original members of the Club that Harry, Ron and Hermione would be playing with, while the others would join the alarmingly swelling numbers of spectators who would cheer them on.

The announcement was made, through various channels, that the prizes for the respective team (and the members who weren't playing) who won the final would be: (in addition to a large golden goblet not dissimilar from the Triwizard Cup) free Weasleys Wizard Wheezes products for all members of Pigfarts, and a hug from Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, for each member of the Fleabags. Needless to say, Harry kicked up a bit of a fuss, but was quickly overruled. Somehow, the award seemed satisfactory, even exciting, to many of the players. Harry even heard a girl in Pigfarts saying that she was thinking of trying to switch teams for the final match. Harry did, however, decide that he was not going to lose, so shouldn't have to worry about hugging half the MQC in front of everyone.

Hermione shared his conviction, as she told him during one of their now-regular broom cupboard rendezvouses after classes the next Thursday afternoon.

Hermione shut the door and turned to Harry with a strange kind of determination. "We have to win tomorrow, Harry," she said.

Harry smiled, bemused. "I know. We will."

"I don't care that no one knows about us, I'm not watching you hug all your fan girls; who knows who might take advantage of you! That Janice on Fleabag has had her eye on you since Ginny first brought her on, not to mention Romilda Vane, and all the others."

Harry chuckled. "Hermione, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous."

"I'm not jealous," Hermione snapped. Then she took a deep breath. "Sorry. I just… it's selfish, but I like having you to myself, that's all. And since we're not officially together, I can't warn other girls to keep their hands off you."

"But you do have me to yourself," Harry assured her. "Right here, in this dingy old cobweb-ridden cupboard, I'm all yours. And trust me, we're going to win." And with that affirmation, Harry promptly snogged her thoroughly, at least until they heard someone come to a halt right outside the broom cupboard.

"Ah, Professor Lupin!" It was McGonagall. "Do you have a moment?"

Harry froze, his lips somewhere between Hermione's cheek and lips and his arms encircling her waist.

"For you, Minerva, always." Lupin sounded cheerful, as seemed to be the norm these days. They heard him step closer to the broom cupboard and Harry tensed.

"Madam Hooch says she's quite happy for you to referee tomorrow night," said McGonagall.

"Oh," said Lupin, evidently pleased. "That's very gracious of her… but I don't know… The whole school's going to be there, won't they?"

Hermione's hand was trembling as she looked anxiously at the cupboard door—she had been tugging on Harry's tie before the interruption and he felt himself being pulled down.

"They undoubtedly will," said McGonagall. "This is an excellent time for them to see how supportive you are. It's high time the rest of the school respected you as much as I do."

"I, well..."

"Consider it, Remus," said McGonagall.

"I will," said Lupin. "Thank you, Minerva."

Harry heard McGonagall's footsteps recede. Lupin was still there; they heard him sigh shakily, then mutter to himself, "If only you could see me now, James…" And then he, too, was gone.

Harry let out the breath he had been holding, though there wasn't much breath left to expel. "Erm, Hermione," he choked, "you're kind of strangling me."

"Oh!" Hermione let go of his tie. "Sorry. That was close, wasn't it?"

She met his eyes. At the same time, they both laughed quietly in relief.

Hermione stroked Harry's cheek slowly. "Are you alright keeping this a secret?" she asked. "You know, slipping into dingy broom cupboards, staying up at ungodly hours each night just to have some alone time..."

Harry shrugged. "Honestly, it's kind of fun. It's definitely a lot more enjoyable than organising meetings with my criminal godfather, sneaking out to see the dragon that's going to try to kill me, or sneaking Polyjuice Potion ingredients into the girl's bathroom."

Hermione let out a small laugh. "There is that. But I just want you to know that whenever you're ready to, well, not sneak around anymore... I am, too. I know things like this haven't gone well for us in the past, and with the Bet and everything, it's tricky... but I'm here, and I think—it'll all be okay."

Harry put a hand on the small of her back, and drew her even closer. "Thanks, Hermione," he murmured, and kissed her once more. Hermione tangled her hand in his hair and responded with enthusiasm.

After a few minutes of snogging, Hermione opened the broom cupboard and checked that the coast was clear. She went out first, smoothing down her shirt. Harry counted to ten, then followed.

When they encountered Ginny, Luna and Colin halfway down the hallway, there were thankfully no questions raised about the fact that they looked as though they had either just got out of bed or had been attacked by Devil's Snare, or possibly both. It was a rare occasion on which Harry was thankful for his naturally messy hair; Hermione could run her hands through it all she wanted and it would look no different. And how he loved it when she ran her hands through his hair...

It was lucky that the others seemed to only want to talk about the Midnight Quidditch Cup; it meant they didn't notice Harry and Hermione exchanging smirks and playful smiles.

"Excited for tomorrow, Harry?" Ginny asked, as they ducked through a tapestry to a hidden staircase.

Harry let Hermione pass through first, then answered, "Very. Colin, you'll be playing, who's going to take the pictures?"

"I am," said Luna. "Colin's lending me his camera."

"Oh?" said Hermione, shooting Harry an amused look. "Well, be sure to get some good shots, Luna. I think tomorrow's going to be a night to remember..."

"Hermione," said Harry, savouring the shape of her name in his mouth (it really was such a beautiful name, he realised), "I don't think you've ever been more right in your life. And you've been right almost as much as I've been wrong."

"Harry! You're silly!" Hermione slapped his arm lightly and Harry grinned goofily.

"I was being serious," he said conciliatorily, "it really is going to be a night to remember."

Of this, Harry was quite sure.

Chapter Text

The excitement for the Midnight Quidditch Cup reached a fever pitch at dinner on Friday night. Everyone from the Prefects to the Professors to the ghosts and portraits were frantically discussing what was to come.

Harry, Hermione, Ron, and the twins had their meal at the big table in the kitchens, quietly discussing the plans for the night. There was a kind of unspoken peace amongst them, a strong bond that had come into being sometime over the last few months.

Tonight was the night their tight-knit club would be blown wide open. Tonight, the whole school would see what they had done this term.

Harry felt a familiar buzzing in his body, the nervous excitement he usually felt before games. But this one was different. This one felt more... hopeful.

Ron looked jittery, Fred and George were boisterous, and Hermione was very quiet.

"I'm very nervous," she finally admitted to the group at large, after George asked her three times if she could pass the sauce, to no answer.

The others were quick to put her at ease. "Don't worry, Hermione," said Fred bracingly.

"Yeah," said George, "look, we've got Lupin as referee, we've got the safety net, no one's going to get hurt. Nothing's going to go wrong. Unless Snape turns up and tries to butt in."

"McGonagall would hex him before he took a step onto the Pitch," Ron said hopefully.

"Besides," said Harry, jogging Hermione gently with his elbow, "you're a great flier now."

"That's true," said Ron sincerely, " I guess once you got past the fear, you took to it as easily as anything else you put your mind to."

Hermione looked faintly embarrassed by the praise. She seemed to be thinking deeply about something.

"Thank you, boys," she said quietly, after a meditative silence. "For this term, for letting me join you... It really is a lot of fun, breaking the rules, isn't it?"

Fred and George exchanged delighted open-mouthed stares. They were speechless, which was no common occurrence.

Harry and Ron grinned at Hermione.

"If first-year Hermione could see you now," said Ron, chuckling.

"I know, I know," said Hermione, and she took a long draught of juice.

"Well, now we're no longer breaking any rules," said Harry, "we'll have to find something else illegal to do next term."

Hermione scoffed. "Like what? If Dumbledore makes the Club legitimate, that works for everyone, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but see here, Hermione," said Fred, pushing his empty plate away from him (a house-elf materialised by his elbow and cleared it away and Hermione looked vaguely put out), "it's not the act itself, but the rush, that we seek."

"Yeah," said George, "it's all about the idea of breaking rules that gets us going."

"Really?" Hermione arched an eyebrow. "So, say, if studying for NEWTs was illegal? Would you be rushing for the library?"

Fred frowned and George opened his mouth, but had no answer.

Harry laughed cheerfully. He observed his friends happily through the rest of the meal, feeling quite at peace. He watched Ron flicking peas at Fred while George attempted to juggle three goblets of pumpkin juice with his wand. Meanwhile, Hermione was as quiet as Harry was. They met eyes over the table. Like they so often did these days, Harry's lips tugged upwards in a smile. Hermione returned it. This one was a smile of gratefulness. It was like a kiss from the moon.

Soon enough, it was time to go. They said goodbye to the house-elves (Dobby would be coming down for the game, though) and left the kitchens, heading through the Entrance Hall, then out the open great doors and into the grounds. Harry felt his excitement mounting and he couldn't stop grinning. Especially when he looked at Hermione. She was still so nervous; it was extremely adorable. He was trying to figure out a way to talk to her before the game, but Ron and the twins were stuck to their sides for now.

All the players and the rest of the core MQC members met in the Changing Rooms not long after, and they spent a happy while placing wagers on the outcome of the match and playing the odd game of Exploding Snap. Soon enough, spectators started to head down to the Quidditch Pitch; they heard chatter and footsteps pass by outside.

"Right," said Fred, calling the meeting to order as the Pigfarts players were pulling on their gold silk capes. They weren't wearing Quidditch robes, but mostly Muggle clothing—most players found it more comfortable to fly in just a sweater and jeans.

"This is it," said George dramatically.

"This is where we show the school how cool we are," said Fred. "This is the climax of our great efforts."

"You guys sound like Wood," said Katie teasingly.

"Take that back," said Fred, offended.

"She's right," said Harry. "You guys are the Captains, and we're your acolytes."

George beamed at him. "You said it, not me. Now, a back rub, acolytes?"

Ginny cleared her throat noisily and Fred resumed the pep talk while George pouted.

"There aren't any losers here," said Fred. "No matter who wins, we've all played both teams, we're all in this together. There's no pride here, just fun."

"So have fun," said George. "We don't know if Dumbledore will let us continue next term, but even if he doesn't, I don't see why we can't have our meetings in secret again. But if this is the last hurrah… let's make it count."

"Hear-hear!" everyone chorused.

"Alright, arms in!" said Fred, and everyone crowded around. Harry jostled up beside Ginny and Hermione and everyone struggled to get their hands in the middle, some of them standing on benches to lean over and in.

"On three, what this Club is all about!" said George.

"One—"

"Two—"

A cry went up in the Changing Rooms, a mess of different words and phrases from which Harry distinguished: "Fun", "Quidditch", "Friends", "Mischief", and "Breaking rules". He heard someone shout "Harry's bum", but as he craned his neck over the group he couldn't distinguish who. He let it slide.

"Alright, settle down, you rascals," said Fred, as everyone chattered excitedly. "Harry, anything to add before we head out?"

Harry hesitated, then, at Hermione's urging, hopped up onto a bench. Everyone looked up expectantly.

"Fred and George already said it all," he said loudly, "but I suppose… I just want to say thanks again, for a great term. You guys are all amazing players. And great friends." He paused, then added, "And that's worth more than any disagreements or disasters that might happen. So let's have fun out there tonight. And if you see Snape or Malfoy in the stands, try and accidentally get a Bludger sent their way, yeah?"

Everyone cheered again at that.

Harry hopped back down as the group left the room to follow the stream of excited spectators. He was looking around for Hermione—he had lost track of her during his short speech and was still hoping for a quiet word.

He was passing the darkened shower room when an arm shot out, seized his sweater, and tugged him inside.

The door slammed shut and Harry blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light. When they had focused, he only saw a mane of bushy hair rushing at him as if in a ferocious attack.

"Hermi—"

A pair of lips clamped themselves tightly over his and he shut up. When he had been well and thoroughly snogged, the fist in his sweater released its grip.

"Sorry," said Hermione mildly, stepping back and wiping her mouth on her sleeve self-consciously. "Don't know what came over me." She smoothed down her shirt and cleared her throat.

Harry grinned, cocksure. "It's just my natural magnetism, I'm sure."

Hermione rolled her eyes and whacked his chest lightly. "I just wanted to give you a kiss for luck."

Harry pulled her close again. "If that was for me, then what about your luck?"

And he gave her a much softer kiss that made her sigh contentedly.

"I am lucky," she whispered against his lips. "I'm the luckiest girl in the world."

"'Course you are," said Harry softly. "And so am I."

Hermione giggled. "You're the luckiest girl in the world?"

Harry frowned. "That's not what I… oh, hell, whatever." He kissed her once more.

He pulled back slowly and looked into her eyes. "Continue this after we win?" he asked hopefully.

"You'd better believe it," Hermione promised.

"You going to be alright playing Chaser?" he asked, as they left the shower room.

"I'll be fine," she said. "I'm just more nervous than I've ever been."

"I felt the same way before my first match, but you've had a whole term of playing with the best fliers in the school! You've definitely picked up more than I had at that point. When even the twins say you're a good flier, you know you're not bad at all. And once you get up there and start having fun, the anxiety fades away."

Hermione seemed consoled.

"You sure I can't lend you my Firebolt again?"

"I'm sure," she said. "You need it. Besides, you already got me the best school one. It's even on par with the Cleansweep Ginny got sent over from the Burrow."

"Alright," said Harry, and pushed the door to the Changing Rooms open. He stepped out backwards, one hand holding Hermione's and the other gripping his Firebolt. "Ready?"

"Ready," said Hermione, and she stepped out after him, holding the school's Comet broomstick.

Harry heard a loud, excited bark, and he looked down to see a great shaggy black dog sitting outside the door, wagging his tail happily.

Harry grinned. "Hullo, Padfoot."

Sirius transformed back into his human form. He wore an outrageously ugly winter sweater and he had shaved; his smile shone out brighter than Harry had seen yet.

"Well, well," said Sirius proudly. "If it isn't the two lovebirds, sneaking in a snog before the match."

Harry shushed him. "No one knows yet, Sirius. How did you get into the school, anyway?"

Sirius clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Dumbledore and Remus invited me, I Flooed over. I haven't seen you play since Third Year, you know… As your godfather, it's my duty to support you at games. Even unofficial midnight ones."

At that moment, none other than Remus Lupin sidled along down the path leading from the castle.

Sirius turned and saw him. "Moony," he said casually.

"Padfoot," said Lupin, nodding, as one might do when greeting a colleague.

Harry looked between them expectantly. As the moment dragged on, the smiles on their faces broke through, and the two men embraced—not like brothers, as Harry had first thought in Third Year—but as lovers.

Sirius gave Lupin a quick kiss on the lips, and drew back. Lupin cheeks turned pink; he turned to Harry and Hermione, who were beaming at him.

"Yes," Lupin said sheepishly, as Sirius slid his arm around his waist. "This is… a thing, now."

"Congratulations," said Hermione warmly. She was looking as though nothing could have made her happier, and Harry wondered how long she had known about them; he certainly had made no mention of it out of respect to Sirius and Remus. But Hermione, Harry had realised over the years, was very perceptive when it came to other people's feelings.

"No, Hermione," said Lupin, looking relieved at their reactions, "the congratulations must go to you."

Harry frowned and looked at Sirius. "You told him?"

Sirius shrugged awkwardly. "I had to! Besides, he's seen how you two've been the last two weeks, those little looks and notes, and hurrying off after classes."

Lupin nodded emphatically. "You may as well have had a shower of Cupids above your heads, the way you've been carrying on. I kept waiting for you to break out into song and dance during Defence."

"It's not that obvious, is it?" Harry asked, aghast.

Lupin mouth-shrugged. "Perhaps not to everyone else. But I spent the better part of my school years with James and Lily. The broom cupboards never saw so much action as in our Seventh Year…" At this, he looked at them knowingly and Harry's jaw dropped. He wondered if Lupin somehow possessed latent werewolf powers when he was human—perhaps super-hearing.

Sirius looked around covertly. "Look, we're all being sneaky here. Please, Moony and I aren't—well, we're not…"

Harry understood. "Don't worry, Sirius. We won't tell anyone."

Sirius beamed. "That's our Prongs Junior! Now, I'm going to be sitting with Dumbledore, but I'll be Padfoot for the game—don't want to be swamped by my avid fans, you know."

Harry grinned. "Yes, you don't want that. I can tell you it's not all it's cracked up to be."

Lupin looked as though he was struggling to turn down the broad smile on his face, but Harry quite liked to see it. He'd never known him to look so content.

"We really must thank you, Harry," said Lupin.

"Me?" said Harry, bemused. "What did I do?"

Sirius placed a hand on his shoulder. "You made us both see that if something really is as simple as it was… then we just have to… how did he say it, Remus?"

"Go for it," said Lupin, as Sirius nodded. "And we did go for it."

"And at it," Sirius muttered cheekily.

"Sirius!" shouted Harry, screwing up his face. "Did not need to hear that!"

"Sorry," said Sirius abashedly.

Lupin cleared his throat loudly. "Anyway… thanks, Harry."

"You did what James and Lily never quite managed to," Sirius went on, "and I hope that, wherever they are now, they're happily exchanging a proud high-five."

Harry smiled. Quite suddenly, he felt a prickling behind his eyes. But it was a good prickling: the kind full of warmth and solidarity, brimming with unexpected bliss, though perhaps with a side of wistfulness. If only Harry's parents could be here now with all of them...

"Now, if you'll excuse me," said Lupin, shaking Harry out of his thoughts, "I've got to go off and prepare. Good luck for the game."

Harry shook Lupin's hand enthusiastically. "See you on the Pitch… Moony."

Lupin gave a wolfish grin, squeezed Sirius' hand, and then he was off, a distinctive pep in his step.

Sirius was still looking at Harry and Hermione fondly. "So, everything worked out in the end… I know I've said this before, Harry... but you truly are your father's son. And Hermione..." He beamed happily at her. "As the brightest witch of your age, I'm trusting you to keep Harry's head from getting too big. The odd snog wouldn't go amiss. But I see you've got that well in hand already."

Hermione played with her hair as she gave Sirius a shy smile. "I suppose I do."

With a final grin at Hermione and one last squeeze of Harry's shoulder, Sirius transformed into the black dog, dropped his front legs to the ground and bounded away towards the Quidditch Pitch. Hermione and Harry exchanged a happy glance—no words were necessary, and Harry couldn't quite come up with any, either, so he just poured all his feelings into his biggest smile yet—and then they too, hurried down the path.

It was a little past eleven, and the noise from the Quidditch Pitch sounded especially loud at night. Fireworks were going off overhead, and they heard the bass of the thumping music within. Over the stands, Harry saw Wood performing a triple barrel roll alongside the twins, Angelina, Katie and Alicia: the original Gryffindor team. Lurid lights flashed around the Pitch, leaking out into the dark night sky.

Ron was waiting for Harry and Hermione in the tunnel leading to the Pitch, holding his Nimbus with one hand.

"Ron," said Harry casually, leaning his Firebolt against the wall.

"Hey, you two," said Ron. He looked for a moment as though he would quite like to ask them something, but seemed to think better of it.

The three of them waited in the tunnel together, sharing a quiet moment before heading out to face their teammates and the cheering crowd.

Lee Jordan was speaking, his voice magically amplified.

"Hello, Hogwarts!" he called. Cheers and whistles answered him, and a rock song blared behind his words through several magical boomboxes placed throughout the stands.

"Welcome to the first ever Midnight Quidditch Cup! Tonight we will see Pigfarts play Fleabag! But first—our referee, Professor R.J. Lupin!"

There were substantial cheers and Harry smiled happily as he saw Lupin look around wondrously from where he stood by the Medic's table.

"Professor Lupin is aided by Neville Longbottom, Madam Hooch and Madam Pomfrey!"

There were more cheers; Neville looked completely nonplussed by the attention.

"And joining me to commentate tonight is none other than Hogwarts graduate, ex-Gryffindor Team Captain, and world-class Puddlemere United Keeper—you saw his incredible stunts just now, let's hear it for Oliver Wood, ladies and gentleman!"

The applause intensified. Harry heard cries of Wood's name, and one girl screamed above everyone else, "Oliver, sign my breasts!"

"But tonight could not be possible without the efforts of some of our favourite Gryffindors," said Lee happily. "I am of course speaking of those madcap mischief men of derring-do, whose idea this all was: Fred and George—the Weasley twins!"

More cheers. Fred and George high-fived as they flew past each other down the middle of the Pitch.

"Not to mention that close-knit heroic trio, who will be joining us any second—Miss Hermione Granger! Mr Ronald Weasley!"

Whistles and shouts of their names joined the noise.

"And last but not least, Mr Harry Potter!"

The noise was now deafening. Harry heard the Gryffindors chanting his name: Harry! Harry! Harry!

Hermione and Ron seemed nonplussed by the support and cheer the crowd was giving them. Harry, who was no stranger to this kind of excitement after the Triwizard Tournament, was much more pleased to hear his name being chanted for Quidditch instead of for his duel with a Hungarian Horntail and almost certain death. Hermione looked petrified, while Ron had turned pink with pleasure. He peeked out through the tunnel, running a shaking hand through his red hair so that it looked interestingly windswept.

"I can't believe what we've done this year," said Ron wondrously. "And you, Hermione, you've come a long way since being Miss 'Needs-to-sort-out-her-priorities." He looked at Hermione proudly.

"Oh, Ron," said Hermione tolerantly. "When are you and Harry going to learn, I've got it all sorted out now… You are my priorities."

Harry looked at her in adoration. It was very hard to resist kissing her again, but Ron was right there…

But Ron was looking at her with a similar, though not equal, adoration. He said reminiscently, "Hermione, remember when Harry and I were talking about the midnight duel with Malfoy back in First Year? You know we're very sorry for telling you it was 'none of your business', right?"

"Yeah," said Harry fervently. "Because our business is yours. And look at you now. Still in our business, and we wouldn't have it any other way."

Hermione looked very touched. Surprising both Harry and Ron, she swept them into a strong three way hug.

When she let go, Ron made a show of rubbing his arm. "You know, you could enter some sort of wrestling championship, Hermione, if Quidditch isn't your thing… that grip is no joke."

Hermione smirked. "I'd thrash both you wimps."

"There's no question about that," Harry agreed. Hermione eyed him somewhat salaciously and he wondered what was going through her mind.

But Ron was looking at them curiously again, an unasked question hanging on his lips.

Harry decided then and there that Ron had earned the right to know what they had been keeping secret. He sent Hermione a question with his eyes, and she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Harry cleared his throat. "Ron," he said, "we need to tell you something. Hermione and I, well, we're..." He left the statement unfinished.

"I know," said Ron, grinning. "I knew it from the night I left you alone in the Common Room two weeks ago."

Hermione frowned. "But you didn't say anything."

"Well, I didn't want to pry," said Ron, shrugging modestly. "Besides, it didn't matter much to me. And I didn't want to get you mad at me again. Besides, if you knew I knew, who knows, maybe you'd try and Obliviate me (which didn't go too well the last time someone tried that on me), but I wouldn't put it past you after the Veritaserum thing."

"Sorry again about that," Hermione muttered.

"So, you didn't tell anyone?" asked Harry, disbelieving.

"No," said Ron, without a trace of annoyance. "I get it. Your first kiss, you want that to be something special, something private, something to keep between yourselves. Not talked about by all us nosy buggers."

"Right, private," said Hermione, "like your snog under the chandelier with Susan at the Fool's Ball."

Ron flushed a little. "Yes, well, we're all different in our own way, aren't we?"

Harry shrugged. "Thanks, Ron. For being so cool about it."

Ron stood a little taller. "I am cool, aren't I?"

Harry laughed and Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"Thanks for telling me," said Ron, serious again. "It means a lot. I want you to know how happy I am for you. And... we're all good now, aren't we? Back to normal, or the new normal, I suppose?"

"I am if you two are," said Harry.

"We are," said Hermione, and the three of them looked at each other fondly.

They moved a little closer to the entrance, listening as Lee went on to outline the modified Quidditch rules that they had implemented to cope with the larger number of players.

"In the spirit of being spectacularly mad," said Lee, "we've gone above and beyond for this game. So you're not confused—we have ten players a side tonight! Six Chasers per side means we're playing two Quaffles! Two Seekers—two Snitches! Double the chaos, and all the better for it! Never before have you seen a game like this, I promise you!"

When Lee had almost finished, Harry said, "Shall we, then?"

Ron nodded.

"We shall," said Hermione, and together, the three of them stepped through the tunnel and onto the Quidditch Pitch.

The Marquee was, of course, absent, and there was a light snowfall coming down, but otherwise the open-air conditions were perfect: no wind, and it was cold enough to be refreshing, but not cold enough to freeze everyone. The stands were full of cheering spectators: students, teachers, ghosts, guests, house-elves... The stands weren't quite as full as a regular match would be, but considering this had all started as a group of nine students gathering one Friday night, it hit home to Harry just how much of an impact Fred and George's idea had had this term.

The cheering got louder as Harry, Ron and Hermione reached the centre of the Pitch. Lee had done a great job of working everyone into a state of frenzied excitement. The students weren't wearing house colours, so Harry found it hard to pick them out; they all seemed to be mingled amongst each other. He recognised a fair few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws amongst the Gryffindors, while Cho Chang was with her friends in one corner. He also picked out a few of the younger Slytherins (Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were thankfully nowhere to be seen).

Some of the spectators had banners, hats, and flags adorned with the Fleabag and Pigfarts logos that Dean had drawn and multiplied over the last two weeks. Giant fleas and gaseous pigs greeted their eyes, and Harry laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

Oliver Wood had flown up to sit in the commentator's booth with Lee and McGonagall. Everyone had agreed that it wouldn't be right for him to play for a team; he was too skilled, and besides, this was a student run organisation, and he was two years out of school. He was, however, pleased to co-commentate with Lee as a guest of honour. On a pedestal in front of them sat the golden trophy that would be awarded to the winning team.

Not far below the commentators booth were Professors Dumbledore, Flitwick and Sprout. Sitting by Dumbledore's knees was Sirius in his dog form. Harry nudged Ron and pointed: Bill and Charlie Weasley were waving from under Hagrid's elbow.

"Wow!" said Ron, waving energetically to his brothers. "I didn't think they'd come, they're so busy... Harry, you'd better put on a good show; Charlie's heard so much about your Seeking, you don't want to let him down..."

"Hogwarts, make some noise for your players!" yelled Lee excitedly, looking down on the two teams with pride as they stood in the middle of the Pitch.

Fred called Harry, Ron and Hermione over for a team leader's group huddle as the crowd continued to cheer. A few metres away, Katie, Ginny and George did the same.

"All set?" asked Fred excitedly, his arms around the three of them, his gold silken cape fluttering out behind him as the light snow landed in his red hair.

"Yes, and we're going to win," Harry told them. "I'm not hugging a hundred people tonight, that's a stupid prize."

"Wouldn't mind seeing that, though," Ron muttered to himself.

"We're winning," said Hermione emphatically, glaring at Ron.

"Yeah," said Ron cheekily. "'Course, the only person Harry will be hugging is you, Hermione, if all goes well." He seemed bold enough to be able to tease them again, and Harry realised that he and Hermione had not conveyed to Ron that they were still keeping their relationship a secret. Fred looked over curiously but said nothing.

Hermione whacked Ron on the arm. "You're not careful, mister, I'll give you a hug, too, except it'll be a death hug, because I'll be strangling you." And with those supportive words, she left the huddle and went over to talk quickly to Neville.

"Stamp your feet and clap your hands, Hogwarts!" Lee shouted.

The rock song was amplified as the students of Hogwarts stamped and clapped obediently:

"We will—we will—rock you!" blared the music, and the Muggle-borns in the crowd sang along with reckless abandon.

"These are the teams!" Lee called. "For Fleabag!"

The Fleabag members strapped their red armbands on and took to the skies one by one as Lee announced them.

"Our Chasers are: Bell! Bones! Creevey! Davies! Cadwallader! And Thomas!"

Katie, Susan, Dennis, Roger, Patrick, and Dean rose into the air.

"Beaters—Branson and Weasley!"

Dom and George took to the skies, looping around each other.

"Keeper: Finnegan!"

Seamus flew up and hovered beside Dean.

"And our two Seekers: Phelangie and Weasley!"

Jason and Ginny joined their teammates. The Fleabags did a round of the Pitch, lapping up the applause.

"We will—we will—rock you!"

"Harry, your cape!" said Hermione, tapping him on the shoulder.

Harry looked back down to her in surprise. He hadn't realised he'd forgotten to fasten it.

"Here," she said, reaching around his neck to tie it for him. Her fingers brushed pleasantly against his neck as she fumbled with the knot. When she was done, she patted his chest affectionately.

"Thanks," he said, grinning. Ron looked at them, smirking, but returned his attention to the commentator's booth as Lee resumed his introductions.

"And now for Pigfarts!" yelled Lee, his voice breaking with excitement. "Chasers: Greengrass! Abbott! Creevey! Goldstein! Granger! Johnson!"

Astoria, Hannah, Colin, Anthony and Angelina soared up. Hermione squeezed Harry's hand tightly and gave him a wide but nervous smile before mounting her broom and joining them. He watched her go proudly. She hardly needed his tutelage anymore; now she'd long-ago gotten over her fear of flying, she had truly taken to it at a remarkable pace. This was one thing Harry and Ron could no longer hold over her head as something she was not good at.

"The Beaters: MacMillan and Weasley!"

Ernie and Fred rose up; Fred did a barrel-roll, to the crowd's applause.

"Show-off," said Lee gleefully. "Keeper: another Weasley!"

Ron gave Harry a grin, mounted his Nimbus, and kicked off with gusto.

Harry heard a strange squealing sound that carried clearly across the crowd. Looking around wildly, he located Luna Lovegood standing calmly in front of the rest of the MQC members spectating tonight. She had on an enormous hat that was a pig's head, squealing like a wounded boar. She had Colin's camera and was taking photographs of the teams. Harry shook his head in wonder, laughing, and gave her a wave. The camera flashed as Luna waved back.

"And finally, the Pigfarts Seekers: Spinnet and Potter!"

Harry kicked off alongside Alicia and they joined their teammates. Harry did a loop-de-loop and came to hover between Ron and Fred.

"That's our Harry… Look at that Firebolt—beautiful as the day he got it!"

"Teams, form up!" roared Fred.

They entered their match formation: Ron and Seamus retreated to the hoops, while the six Chasers on either side formed two rows facing each other. The two Beaters per team did the same above. Harry lined up with Alicia to face Ginny and Jason. He gave them a casual wave; Ginny stuck her tongue out and Jason winked.

"Let's have the team chants!" said Lee.

"Pigfarts, battle cry!" roared Fred, urging his broom forward to conduct his team.

The Pigfarts chanted loudly (as did the supporters in the stands, who had memorised the words upon arriving):

"Pig—farts—smelly-farts!

Scarier than a Boggart!

We'll eat you up and fart you out,

So hold your nose while Pigfarts shout!"

"Fleabags!" shouted George in response. "Let 'em hear it!"

"Flea—bags—dirty-rags!

We've got this game in the bag!

Fleabags fly into the sky!

We'll put some dirt into your eye!"

The two teams let out one last challenging battle cry, and then Lupin opened the trunk of balls.

"The Bludgers are out!" yelled Lee, as Lupin let them go. "And now the Snitches!"

"Players, prepare yourselves!" shouted Lupin, as he held one Quaffle while Madam Hooch held the other.

Everyone tensed.

Lupin and Hooch threw the balls up—"Let the match—begin!"

Twenty players were whipped into action.

Harry swerved straight up out of the way of the two Bludgers; one caught Dennis a blow to his shoulder and the other nearly unseated Astoria. The two Quaffles changed hands between Katie, Angelina, Hermione, Dean and Anthony Goldstein. This was all in the first five seconds.

"It's bloody chaos out there!" Lee shouted, voicing Harry's own thoughts..

"Language, Jordan!" they heard McGonagall reprimand him.

"Sorry, Professor, but look at that! Harry's staying well away from it all, smart man… Jason Phelangie's marking him… Ginny's searching the Pitch… And we've got a Quaffle going down each end! Wow, look at that! Thomas taking it to Pigfarts, Johnson to Fleabag—and they both score! 10-all! How do you feel about that, Hogwarts!"

The noise was so deafening it was hard to tell whether the school approved or disapproved of having two Quaffles and Snitches. Lee seemed to take it as approval.

"Another attempt at goal by Katie Bell—and Ron saves it! The youngest Weasley boy's quite the Keeper, very good indeed."

"Phelangie's seen the Snitch!" Wood interrupted.

Everyone turned to watch as Jason plunged into a steep dive—but Fred sent a smart Bludger his way and he was forced to pull up. Looking around in the aftermath, Jason had lost the Snitch.

A few minutes later, Harry had to zoom over to Hermione; she had nearly been knocked over by Dom and was struggling to stay upright.

"Here," said Harry, helping her balance as he held the broom steady.

"Thanks very much, kind sir," said Hermione, leaning on his shoulder as she got her leg back over the shaft of the broom.

"Don't mention it, my lady." Harry gave her a grin.

"Harry!" Wood roared, seizing the megaphone. "Stop making eyes at Hermione, the Snitch is right over here!"

Harry spun around guiltily, but if Wood had indeed seen the Snitch, it was already gone. His face burning, he left Hermione to chase the Quaffle with Angelina and rose higher, his eyes scanning the Pitch carefully.

"Careful, Oliver," they heard Lee say, sounding anxious. "Impartial, remember… you can't help your star player anymore..."

"Right, right," said Wood gruffly. "Anyway, after Potter's hormonal distraction, he's high above the game… He's being marked by Ginny Weasley, a new talent to the Gryffindor team who can play both Chaser and Seeker… What a family, those redheads, produces one phenomenal player after another!"

"Look!" yelled Lee. "Granger, Johnson and Greengrass in a Hawkshead formation, taking one of the Quaffles to Finnegan!"

"Ron's in trouble, too, on the other end!" said Wood, leaning over to speak into the megaphone. "The second Quaffle's with Bones and Bell! Come on, Ron!"

Ron tensed; Susan shot.

Ron saved the goal with an outstretched hand and tossed the Quaffle back out to Hannah Abbott, who passed it to Colin.

"Ron makes the save!" Lee called. "He appears to be apologising to his girlfriend, Bones… get your head in the game, Ron, there's no place for chivalry in Quidditch!"

Ron, blushing fiercely, made a rude gesture at Lee.

Professor McGonagall seized the megaphone. "Weasley!" she yelled, outraged. "Five points from Gryffindor!"

But everyone was laughing. Lee took the megaphone back and said, "Meanwhile, Johnson passes to Greengrass, passes to Granger… Come on, Hermione! She shoots—she scores!"

Harry cheered and saw Hermione—looking surprised but pleased with herself—wheel around and return to the middle of the Pitch.

"Our Miss Granger's come a long way," said Lee proudly. "Course, must be all those private lessons with Harry."

Harry spun round and glared at Lee; he was pushing his luck. But his glare was interrupted as something golden flitted, almost too fast to be seen, in the air twenty feet in front of him.

He accelerated quickly and the Golden Snitch led him on a chase through the Chasers and over to the stands.

"Harry's on the hunt!" yelled Wood. "Look at him go, that Firebolt still amazes! The new Blackbolt's all well and good, and certainly faster, but the Firebolt is still unmatched in handling—look at that sharp turn!"

Harry whizzed past one of the wooden spectator towers—Hagrid, who was there with Fang, shouted: "Go, Harry, go!"

He caught up with the Snitch near the Fleabag goalposts and closed his hand around it triumphantly.

"Yes!" he cried, pumping his fist.

"And Potter makes the first catch of the night! Fifty points to Pigfarts!" yelled Wood. "Trained Harry myself, you know, taught him everything he knows… 'course, that only brought out what talent he already had, and what a talent he is!"

The crowd was going wild—"Har-ry! Har-ry! Har-ry!" they chanted.

Dumbledore absent-mindedly conjured fireworks with his wand while Padfoot allowed him to pat him on the head.

"Remember," Lee reminded the crowd, as Harry let the Snitch go and looked the other way as it made its escape, "with two Snitches on the loose, and two Seekers per team, there has to be a total of three Snitch catches by one team to end the game. Each catch is worth 50 points! Stroke of genius on Harry and Fred's part, coming up with that, by the way. We don't want another Ravenclaw vs Hufflepuff tonight, do we? The night is young…"

The snow was coming down a little more heavily now, but it didn't interfere that much; as it fell, it broke into small, diamond shaped flakes. Harry looked back at Dumbledore in the stands; the Headmaster's wand moved surreptitiously by his side, manipulating the snow so it didn't impede the players.

The scores quickly tallied up. With only one Keeper per side, but six Chasers, Ron and Seamus were getting worn out by the rapid state of play that the two Quaffles induced.

Ginny made a spectacular Snitch catch twenty minutes later—Harry had been distracted by the second Snitch, which had led him and Jason on a tantalising chase while Alicia tailed them. Unfortunately, with Harry and Jason trying to one-up the other, the Snitch changed direction sneakily and slipped through Alicia's fumbling fingers. Harry cursed himself. He should have told Alicia to go after Ginny, or better yet, go himself. Ginny was fast becoming an excellent Seeker, possibly the best in the school besides Harry himself. She would bear watching.

"And Ginny Weasley gets fifty points for Fleabag!" yelled Wood. "Fantastic! Better watch out, Harry!"

"We're at 150-140 in Pigfarts' favour!" added Lee. "Blimey, it's a very close match…"

Harry looked down at the stands to see a large banner with his face smirking at him; the banner read: Potter Rules. He allowed himself a self-indulgent laugh, thought briefly of Cedric and what he would think of all this, and then sped off to help Hermione make a play at Seamus' goals, intercepting the Quaffle as it passed between two Fleabag Chasers.

"Potter would make a great Chaser," Wood was rhapsodizing. "Look at that steal! Flawless! 'Course, the boy's innately gifted, I still remember the first time I trained him, he made a solid Bludger bash, too, the boy can work magic on the Quidditch Pitch, I tell you. A great team player, though tends to be a little gentlemanly when it comes to—"

"Wood, are you starting a Harry Potter fan club?" McGonagall demanded. "Get on with the commentary!"

"Right you are, Professor," said Lee, taking control of the megaphone. "And Granger passes to Greengrass, this is little Astoria's first year on the Quidditch Pitch, she deserves to be on the House team, really, but they seem to value muscle over brains, oh don't look at me like that, Professor, only the cool Slytherins are here tonight, and you know I'm right… and Greengrass scores! Superb play! Hard luck, Seamus—oof! Dean Thomas takes a Bludger to the stomach—he's falling! Ref—"

Lupin levitated the safety net over and Dean was caught safely, bouncing back high enough to grab hold of his broom again and swing a leg over.

"Thank you, Professor Lupin! Dean makes a superb recovery… tell you what, we should have the net at all matches, really, really helps… And Cadwallader takes the second Quaffle—he shoots—he scores!"

Ron dived to retrieve the Quaffle and booted it out over the Pitch. Angelina caught it neatly and zoomed off to the Fleabag goal, where the other Quaffle was waiting.

"And a double play here," said Wood excitedly. "If there's one challenge about this new form of Quidditch, it's blocking against two Quaffles! The Fleabag Chasers look like they'll be too late to intercept... Pigfarts makes the play: Johnson to Creevey, Creevey to Abbott—and Abbott and Goldstein shoot! Seamus, good luck—oh, he's saved one, but the other's made it through. That's 200-180! And—my word—Harry seems to be ordering Alicia to chase the Snitch—but he's flying the other way now—could it be, both Snitches at once again? Look at them go! Alicia's diving!"

Harry flew fast away from the Snitch as Alicia dived to get it. It was a risky play, but as he looked over his shoulder he could see it had worked. Ginny was hot on his tail while Jason lagged behind Alicia far away.

He hadn't really seen the second Snitch. All he had wanted to do was drag Ginny away; she had been too close to Alicia and he knew she would have overhauled her. But Jason was on a slow broom and would have a much harder time reeling Alicia in. Harry kept flying, approaching the goalposts, stretching his arm out in a feint—and to his relief, he heard Wood say:

"Spinnett makes the catch, while Davies makes a goal! 250-190! And what's Harry doing? He's wheeling around, smirking at Ginny—oh, well played, Harry, you devil, you! You fooled her, didn't you? Dragging her away so Alicia could make the catch! That's two catches for Pigfarts, one for Fleabag!"

"Prat," Ginny called at him, before she resumed her search for the second Snitch.

Harry grinned back. "Gullible as a lamb," he said, recalling her words to him last time she had feinted.

"Nice one, Harry," Ron chortled, right before the second Quaffle soared through the goal to his left.

"Keep your head in the game, Ron!" Dennis Creevey called confidently. Ron cursed and threw the Quaffle out to Hermione.

Harry watched as Hermione soared down the Pitch, just avoiding Roger Davies and Hannah Abbott. Her hair and cape flew out behind her, wet with snow. She looked quite nice from back here, leaning forward over the broom with the Quaffle tucked under her arm… She seemed more confident now, but very focused. He liked it when she got like that; it meant she truly cared for what she was doing. He grinned; he had achieved what had to be a seemingly insurmountable feat; he had gotten Hermione Granger to enjoy Quidditch.

Hermione passed the Quaffle to Angelina, who returned the pass over Katie's head. Hermione grabbed it back, almost fumbled, but managed to keep hold, and then passed to Colin, who shot and scored.

Harry clapped happily and looked away from Hermione, scanning the Pitch. The crowd was deafening: he heard chants and calls of individual player's names, and the music still blared under it all, energising everyone.

"And Jason's diving!" yelled Lee.

Harry whirled around, startled. Urging his Firebolt into a dive, he plummeted, the wind threatening to pluck his cape from around his neck.

"Harry's catching up!" yelled Wood. "If he beats Jason, Pigfarts will win! They're neck and neck—oh, no, look out!"

Harry rolled upside down—a Bludger from George just skimmed the shaft of his broom. By the time he had resumed his position on top of the Firebolt, Jason was rising back up, the Snitch held tightly in his grip.

"That's Phelangie for Fleabag!" yelled Lee. "Amazing! Well-timed Bludger from George Weasley there… It's good to have the twins on separate teams, at least now I can tell their mugs apart… It's 300-280! Come on, people! One more Snitch catch per team—who's it going to be?"

Right next to Harry, Seamus took a Bludger to the chest. He let out a pained cry and slumped over his broom, drifting down to the snow-laden grass.

"Uh-oh—Seamus is down… he's being carried over to Madam Pomfrey, looks like a time-out—No, Madam Pomfrey's fixed him in a jiffy, he's back in the game! That woman can work wonders... That's two goals made in the meantime, though… Bell and Bones are going after Ron—they score! Seems Fleabag's trying to catch up through goals in case they can't get another Snitch…"

Harry drowned it all out and searched for the Snitches, ignoring the cheers and the sound of the scoreboard ticking up as goals were made. He dodged Bludgers when they came near, clearing a swath through the players on his hunt. Something shiny caught his eye and he turned—but it was just the golden goblet, resting in front of McGonagall.

He turned back around—a Snitch!

He accelerated faster than he had ever done before, arcing around Ginny and Colin down towards the Snitch as it whizzed away. A camera flash from Luna almost blinded him. He blinked but kept going. The Snitch dodged around Hermione's legs and he ducked under her—she raised her legs up as he whooshed past, rising higher as the Snitch flitted above him.

"Go, Harry!" he heard Hermione whoop, and he grinned as he continued his pursuit. Just knowing she was there cheering for him—like usual, and he hoped she would always be there—made him certain, beyond a doubt, that he was going to do this.

He sensed someone behind him, but he didn't look back; he couldn't be distracted. The Snitch was as good as his...

"Blimey!" said Lee. "The other three Seekers are after Harry, are you seeing this, everyone?! That's not one, not two, but four Seekers on the chase, weaving up and down—looks like it's going to be close! Phelangie and Spinnett are trying to block one another, Weasley's on Potter's tail—"

"But Harry's outpacing them all!" Wood interrupted. "Look at him go!"

The world was a blur around Harry. He stretched out his hand as he curved past a spectator tower. The Snitch was a foot in front of him.

"Come on, Potter!" he heard McGonagall shout, all neutrality apparently forgotten.

Harry was close—no one was behind him—his fingers were outstretched, he was leaning as far forward as he could—a Quaffle shot by him but he ignored it. Susan and Dean tried to distract him by dive-bombing just in front of him, but Harry pulled his broom up and flew over them easily. A Bludger just skimmed by his tail twigs; he urged his Firebolt to greater speeds.

The Snitch changed directions, shooting downward.

Harry plunged into a dive. He approached the ground at breakneck speed, diamond-shaped snowflakes swirling in his wake. His hand was still stretched out—just a few inches away... two inches... one inch...

Finally, he brushed one, two, three fingers against the Snitch—and then it conceded defeat, fluttering weakly as he closed his fist around it. He braced his legs against the Firebolt's tailpiece and pulled up sharply just above the ground, his feet drawing a trench in the snow as he levelled out.

"Yes!" Harry shouted triumphantly, pumping his arm to the sky as he soared back up to the centre of the Pitch.

The crowd—which had been going wild for some time now—went wilder. The noise was deafening.

Neville blew his whistle and Lupin shouted—"390-330! Pigfarts win!"

"Well done, Harry!" Wood screamed.

"Yes, calm down, Oliver," said Lee mildly. Then, he too shouted, "Well done, Harry! Fantastic, one of your best catches yet! The king of Quidditch dives, everybody! That's a Pigfarts victory—Pigfarts win the Midnight Quidditch Cup! Professor McGonagall's going down to the Pitch, she's got that beautiful golden trophy, look at that!"

Harry descended slowly, savouring the moment, the Snitch held above his head. He high-fived George in mid-air and fist-bumped Jason.

"No hard feelings, guys?" Harry called.

"None," said Jason and George.

"A few," said Ginny, but she was jesting. "Nice one, Harry."

"Potter, that was excellent!" he heard McGonagall shout as she held the golden Cup out to an ecstatic Fred.

Harry had the widest grin on his face; Dumbledore was clapping placidly amidst a display of golden fireworks, Hagrid was bellowing his praise, and Padfoot seemed to be trying to give Fang a sloppy kiss. Wood was jumping up and down with joy, pointing at Harry and shouting something about him being the best Seeker he'd ever met. Lupin smiled serenely at Harry all the while.

Harry touched down and dismounted, waving the Snitch above his head like a madman. Hermione and Ron had landed and were running towards him, Fred was raising the golden trophy into the air, and the rest of the MQC were flying and running down from the sky and the stands…

Hermione reached Harry first and threw her arms around him. At that moment, Harry had no choice; he had to do it.

He kissed her, in front of everyone.

To his euphoria, he felt her returning his kiss passionately, their lips moving in their own instinctive rhythm, probing each other's mouths, leaving no corner unturned. Harry felt Hermione moan into his lips and he breathed deeply through his nose, grunting slightly in response to her fierceness. Their broomsticks fell to the ground, forgotten. Hermione's fingers were running up and down Harry's back and he had one hand on her waist and another tangled deep in her mane of hair, the Snitch fluttering happily amidst her brown curls.

They broke apart as suddenly as they'd come together and Harry tried to catch his breath. He came to his senses and realised fully—seemingly at the same time as Hermione, whose eyes were glazed over and whose lips were red and swollen—what they had done and where they had done it and who they had done it in front of.

He also realised that there was a wall of sound around them, coming back into focus much like Hermione's eyes were. It took Harry a second longer to recognise the wall of sound as hundreds of people cheering, applauding and whistling.

Ron, Dean and Susan smirked cockily from beside them. Ginny had a hand over her mouth (she quickly checked her watch, for some reason) while next to her, Astoria giggled. Fred and George fist-bumped, and Lupin winked at Harry. Lavender and Parvati were wolf-whistling in the stands and Colin had grabbed his camera back from Luna and was taking photo after photo. Professor McGonagall seemed to have misplaced her handkerchief; Fred was allowing her to use his cape to dab at the corners of her eyes under her spectacles. Dumbledore, who was drinking from a small goblet, raised it towards Harry and Hermione, the twinkle of his eyes reaching Harry even down here. Next to him, Sirius reared back on his hind legs and clapped his paws together, barking madly.

Harry returned his eyes to Hermione, where they so rightfully belonged.

"Harry," she whispered urgently, her face still quite close to his. "You know we just kissed in front of the whole school?"

"Sorry," muttered Harry. "I couldn't help myself."

"Don't be sorry," said Hermione, her eyes glinting brightly. "Just wanted to check."

"Well, good..." Harry articulated. "Fancy a walk before the victory party? Though I'm glad it's out in the open now, I don't fancy being mobbed by jealous guys who wanted to get together with you first."

Hermione pressed her lips together—those damn lips, Harry thought—to suppress a smile. She nodded, and threaded her arm through his as he tucked the fluttering Snitch away into his pocket.

Ron thumped Harry on the back and pushed him on his way. The Midnight Quidditch Club—though all applauding along with the crowd—parted for the couple, allowing them to leave unhindered, which Harry greatly appreciated, and he knew Hermione did as well.

Arm in arm, leaving their broomsticks behind, Harry and Hermione left the Quidditch Pitch together, with so much to talk about and just as much to remain unsaid, but deeply understood.

Behind them in the stands, excited conversations and arguments were had, and the majority of the population at Hogwarts reached levels of excitement unknown to the school since the Triwizard Tournament, and maybe even surpassing that. While the match had been spectacle enough, Harry and Hermione's kiss was the cherry on top; it was all anyone was talking about.

But Harry didn't care. Everyone could bet and theorise and argue all they wanted, now… but they would all be wrong. Harry allowed himself a triumphant smirk as he and Hermione ducked into the tunnel and left the noisy Pitch behind. Because while they may have just snogged passionately in front of the whole school, their real first kiss still belonged to them, and only them, and that was all that really mattered.

Chapter Text

The very common knowledge that Harry Potter was now finally dating Hermione Granger came as a relief to many and a source of annoyance to some, but a surprise to absolutely no one.

Hermione and Harry discovered that weekend the complete enormity and meticulous detail of "The Bet".

A happy Ginny approached them early on Sunday morning while they snuggled together on the couch, and passed to them—finally—the parchment they had searched for over so many frustrating weeks.

Apparently, Saturday had been a busy day for Hogwarts, with letters being passed here and there, arguments being had, and savings accounts being emptied or filled. Hermione and Harry were not aware of this; they had spent Saturday enjoying each other's company in the Room of Requirement.

Hermione pored over the parchment for at least an hour, while Harry played chess with Ron. Even though she had known the enormity of it, Hermione was still shocked at just how many names, notes and bets that had been placed: the parchment was even bigger than the Marauder's Map when it had been completely folded out.

What amounted to thousands upon thousands of Galleons had been placed in the final pot. As the results of the subject of the bet were contestable, the initiators of said bet—none other than Albus Dumbledore and Sirius Black—saw fit to divide it between those who had been closest in their predictions. Hermione had to admit she wasn't too familiar with the intricacies of betting pools, and couldn't quite wrap her head around exactly how Dumbledore had distributed the winnings to the betters in a fair and incontestable way, but that seemed to be what he had done.

Minerva McGonagall received a tidy sum, for anticipating that Harry would kiss Hermione after winning a Quidditch game, and that Hermione would come running towards him after he landed, and they would hug first, but then Harry would kiss her.

Sybil Trelawney, to her consternation, received considerably less; she still stuck by her moon-and-star-lit midnight rendezvous, and while it did indeed occur at in those conditions, the timeframe was considered too vague to hold much merit, and Harry and Hermione had certainly not been dancing at the time.

Dumbledore himself, of course, was triumphant in his Christmas setting, with snow falling down on their heads. Unfortunately for him, Filius Flitwick pointed out that while it had indeed been snowing, Christmas was still over two weeks away. Dumbledore had thus conceded part of his sum to him.

Dobby, to Hermione's delight, had won twenty Galleons for his bet, with the correct date. He was simply delighted, though said he would put the money into the savings vault he had started in Gringotts—being the first house-elf to have such an account.

Lupin—and this was the only other person Hermione felt considerably happy for about all this—won over a hundred Galleons through a risky bet that, when the kiss did happen, it would last exactly twelve seconds, and he was right on the money. He did, however, take Hermione aside and offer to give her the gold. "After all," he said, "we both know your first kiss wasn't really at the match."

"No, you keep it," Hermione told him. And she told a half-truth: "Besides, the real first kiss, I wasn't counting or anything, but twelve seconds sounds about right."

Lupin seemed mollified, but he ended up splitting the sum with Sirius, since Harry's godfather had in truth been a rather crucial part of the puzzle that led to Hermione getting together with Harry.

Ron had bet a small sum that Hermione would be first to initiate things, but this was a very contestable claim; Hermione did tell him in private that she had indeed been the one to start the fateful conversation, but in regards to their actual kiss, Harry had been the initiator. Besides, Ron had stacked his Galleons on them getting together on the night of the Fool's Ball, so he lost that gold. He accepted this philosophically; he seemed truly happy that Hermione and Harry had finally gotten together ("Though I warn you," he said, "keep it decent around me; just because I'm your best friend doesn't mean I want to see all that stuff, well maybe a little of it, but not that other stuff…" Hermione and Harry then pelted him with cushions).

Fred and George had somehow managed to get past Dumbledore's anti-amendment charm on the parchment, and changed their bet after the Fool's Ball. "You can't prove anything, little bro," they told Ron when he accused them of their deceit. Their new bet was close to the date and time, however missed out on the real prize because they had bet that Harry and Hermione would do it in the locker room after the match. Yet they weren't altogether wrong, but Harry was hardly going to tell them that.

Ginny however… she had everything, down to the time—one-thirty-four in the morning—the date—December the ninth—and almost, the score of the game—she had predicted 380-320, but it had come out 390-330. While she hadn't placed a large sum of money by any means, the sheer accuracy of her bet meant that she received plenty of gold from those who had lost.

After a short period of shell-shock followed by no small modicum of triumph-partying, Ginny sent Mr and Mrs Weasley half the money, saying she had won a lottery draw in a local magazine. She placed orders for new broomsticks for herself, Fred and George, and sent gifts to all her other brothers. Ron, she gave a small roll of magic lip balm; "You need it," she told him, "look, your lips are all chapped from snogging Susan. And not another word about me and Dean, you filthy hypocrite." The rest of the money she hid away somewhere to presumably save. Good for her, Hermione found herself thinking.

As far as anyone knew, the only people involved in the pool who had bet against Harry and Hermione getting together were Ginny's friend, Janice, Romilda Vane, and Cho Chang. Hermione felt both vindicated and amused by this.

When she was done with the parchment, she passed it to Harry, who also spent a long time looking over it. Hermione watched him and the parchment carefully over the rim of her book.

The large, elegant title at the top of the parchment read:

The Harmony Pool, by A.P.W.B.D and S.O.B

Regarding: The First Kiss of H.J.P and H.J.G

—followed by the initial bets, which had multiple columns in which placers of bets could add additional criteria and addendums. Each note was summarised with one or two words, that expanded into a more comprehensive view when tapped with a wand. It was all extraordinarily well done, Hermione had to admit.

The list of names was in order of who had placed their bets first. Without the expanded, detailed view, the first few lines read:

A.P.W.B. Dumbledore: 100 Galleons—Christmas—Quidditch. Bonus: Snow.

S. Black: 50 Galleons—first Quidditch match—on the Pitch. Gryffindor win.

M. McGonagall: 30 Galleons—Quidditch match—an embrace which leads to a kiss.

R.J. Lupin: 15 Galleons—12 second snog, with tongue.

Dobby: 5 Galleons—Friday, 8 th December, Midnight.

G.M. Weasley: 10 Galleons—9 th Dec—Pigfarts win 380-320—1:34 A.M.

Hermione watched Harry begin to skim-read as he got further down the list, muttering names aloud to himself, some of which belonged to people outside of Hogwarts.

F. Weasley… G. Weasley… L. Jordan… S. Bones… A. Spinnet… K. Bell… A. Johnson… D. Thomas… S. Finnegan… N. Longbottom… L. Brown… P. Patil… P. Patil… F. Dunbar… R. Weasley… S. Trelawney… F. Flitwick… P. Sprout… P. Pomfrey… R. Hagrid… K. Shacklebolt… N. Tonks… S. Vector… C. Burbage… B. Bathsheba… A. Sinistra… M. Hooch… I. Pince… L. Lovegood… C. Creevey… D. Creevey… A. Greengrass… D. Greengrass… H. Abbott… E. Macmillan… J. Finch-Fletchley… T. Boot… M. Corner… A. Goldstein… L. Turpin… R. Davies… O. Wood… J. Phelangie… D. Branson… C. Weasley… B. Weasley… A. Weasley…

And it went on and on and on. Eventually, Harry folded up the parchment and tossed it back to Ginny, who caught it easily with a smirk.

"So, this is the end of all that, then," said Hermione at last, closing her book with what could hardly be called a gentle force and with no small amount of satisfaction. "No more bets, no more talking about Harry and I behind our backs, no more of that ridiculousness. We can leave all that behind us, now that Harry and I are actually together, no thanks to you lot."

"What are you talking about?" asked Ginny incredulously. "This bet's over, yes, with me the uncontested victor, but we've just started a new one."

"Yeah," said Ron, "but don't go peeking into it or it might change the outcome. And you can't get mad this time, because we're telling you about it now."

"You're kidding," said Harry, deadpan. "What is it this time?"

"When you'll get married, silly," said Ginny happily.

Hermione let out a cry of indignation and looked despairingly at Harry. But he didn't seem to share her frustration. Quite the contrary—was he looking at her with a twinkle of inspiration in his eyes?

Harry seemed to realise Hermione was staring back at him, and he shook his head in what appeared to be vexation. "Really, guys?" he said half-heartedly, turning his aggrieved expression on the Weasley siblings. "I'm fifteen, Hermione's sixteen... That's hardly a... You can't just... I mean, I can tell you now…"

"What can you tell them now, Harry?" Hermione asked innocently, leaning forward.

"Erm… Never mind, forgot what I was going to say," said Harry unconvincingly.

Ron and Ginny exchanged gleeful smirks, and Harry quickly changed the topic to O.W.Ls, which was a very uncharacteristic thing to do.

But Hermione thought she knew what he was thinking. Though this was hardly the time to think of such things, she could not honestly imagine herself marrying anybody else in her life but Harry. Who knew what might happen over the years? Maybe they wouldn't last, maybe one of them might die before they got the chance… But Hermione somehow knew with a strange, external certainty that if she was ever going to get married and start a family, it would be with Harry. Not that she was going to tell him any of this anytime soon; that would be incredibly inappropriate. No, best to live in the moment, and see where things led. They had years ahead of them, at any rate. Or that was the goal: the gold standard to which Hermione would strive above and beyond, as she did in all things. And this was such a very important thing to strive to, so she planned to go that little extra distance for it.

Over the next week or so, every time someone would discuss the Bet within earshot of Harry and Hermione, the couple would look at each other, exchange a secret smile, and go about their business with a cheeky satisfaction. Nobody but them knew the reason for these mysterious exchanges, and that was precisely how they wanted it.

As for the original Midnight Quidditch Club members, they all decided that a party this Friday and then a final night on the Quidditch Pitch at the close of term would do quite nicely before the Christmas holiday began on December 22nd.

From the way students, teachers and ghosts carried on about last week's match, Hermione could already tell that the Midnight Quidditch Cup would become the stuff of legend. There was even talk among teachers, students and ghosts that it might be made a hallowed Hogwarts tradition, a department in which the school was surprisingly lacking in. Ron suggested that Fred and George would probably get their names printed in the future release, Hogwarts: A History, The 21st Century Edition. He later regretted bringing this up, because Hermione launched into a long spiel about similar occurrences of famous students in the book.

Hermione was both glad and sorry that her relationship with Harry was now public. Thankfully, the Daily Prophet hadn't heard anything about it yet, but still, there was a lot more attention focused on her at school than she was comfortable, perhaps even more so than when she had gone to the Yule Ball with Viktor.

It was a relief to not have to hide it anymore, though Hermione was still a little hesitant about public displays of affection. Thankfully, the Room of Requirement was always there for them when the attention got too much and they needed to be alone. Also thankfully—Weasleys aside—there wasn't too much teasing. Apart from the odd (now usual) insult from Pansy Parkinson and the Slytherins, or the odd jealous glare from Romilda Vane and the other members of the 'I love Harry' Fanclub—as Hermione had chosen to call it—everybody seemed genuinely happy for her and Harry, and that warmed her heart to no end.

Besides, with each loving look Harry gave her, each squeeze of her hand, with each tender or impassioned kiss, Hermione knew that Harry would only give that to her. And she would only give that to him. She loved him so much, her heart felt like it might burst through her chest whenever he entered the room. And just knowing that he felt the same way—as he was want to tell her just that—only increased that exhilarating sensation.

On Thursday night, Hermione decided to write to her parents and finally tell them the news; it had been far too long since her last letter. At least this was a piece of good news, in a year full of the like. She couldn't remember any time before this year at Hogwarts where she hadn't had to be careful when writing letters not to betray any of her anxiety at the dangers she was facing.

Dear Mum and Dad.

School's wrapping up, and I cannot wait to see you for Christmas.

Professor Dumbledore allowed Harry, Ron, the twins and I to host a late-night Quidditch game last week. I know you wouldn't expect it, but I actually played. I was, of course, the worst player on our team, but I scored a few goals, and we won!

I was wondering, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, if Harry could come and stay with us for a few days after Christmas? I don't want him to go back to the Dursleys, and his godfather is still trying to sort out their living arrangements, and I want to make sure Harry feels like he has a place to go in the meantime, since not many of us are staying at Hogwarts. I also want to make sure he studies for our O.W.L exams next year.

Oh, and Harry is now my boyfriend.

Hope to hear from you soon.

Love, Hermione.

Yes, Hermione thought as she read the letter over quickly, that seems an apt way to tell them. With any luck, they would skim the letter and miss that particular sentence entirely. And then, they could hardly complain she hadn't told them about it; after all, it was right there, in very small, slightly smudged and nearly indecipherable print.

Hermione grinned to herself, rolled the letter up and went off in search of Harry—yes, her boyfriend, Harry—to ask him if she could borrow Hedwig.

The Friday before the last week of term arrived, and the fifth-years rejoiced at the prospect of finally getting a break from their heavy O.W.L workload. Everyone eagerly discussed their Christmas plans, but the MQC were all excited to get the Quidditch Pitch back to themselves.

Fred and George disappeared after dinner to rig up the Invisibility Marquee once more, and Ginny went along with them. Harry, Ron and Hermione returned to the Common Room to relax for a little while (although Hermione was quite insistent on tackling her Arithmancy essay).

Harry and Ron whiled away an hour playing hangman on a scroll of Hermione's notes, their actions hidden behind a stack of books on the sofa.

Harry won; his final word was 'ecumenical', which Ron claimed was not a word. Hermione barely raised her head from the table, but uttered, "It is, Ron, it's to do with the Muggle religion."

Harry let out a triumphant cry and Ron sulked.

"Harry, where're my notes on the vectors of spell-casting angles?" asked Hermione, flipping through her various notebooks and tomes in search of the parchment that sat, quite desecrated, between Harry and Ron's thighs. "It's a twelve-inch scroll with a red heading."

"Uh," said Harry, making a show of scanning the stack of books as though the parchment might be hiding amongst them.

Ron jumped to his feet. "I think I heard the twins calling me," he announced.

Hermione looked at him curiously. "From the Quidditch Pitch? My, Ron, I wasn't aware you were Superman."

Ron cocked his head.

"Never mind," Hermione muttered. "But have you seen my notes?"

Ron twisted around and put a hand to his ear. "What's that, Fred? Okay, I'm coming, brother mine!" And he hurried out of the Common Room before Hermione could throw her quill at him.

She turned her beleaguered eyes on Harry. "Harry? Have you seen them?"

Harry slipped the hangman-covered notes into the crease between the seat cushions. "Nope," he said casually, standing and sauntering over to her. "But forget about that, we should be heading down soon, everyone's starting to go. We don't want to miss the fun."

"I don't know that we should, Harry," said Hermione. "There's plenty of time for all that after the last week of term. This celebrating thing is a little premature, if you ask me."

"Hermione, come on," Harry whined, plonking himself down on the table. "We've been slaving away every weekday for the past—I've lost count how many weeks. We deserve it."

"We may deserve it, Harry, but my essay certainly doesn't deserve being smothered by your buttocks," stated Hermione, trying to pull the scroll of parchment out from under said buttocks.

"Let it enjoy it for a moment," smirked Harry, and Hermione huffed indignantly.

"Tables are designed to rest books, and pens, and important documents on," Hermione insisted. "If you want to sit, sit on the thing that was expressly designed for sitting on, that is, a seat. Take a seat," she finalised, moving over on her armchair to create a small space where Harry could sit.

"Since you put it so nicely," said Harry, and moved to sit beside her. It was a tight fit, but as usual, the feeling of being so close to her—so close that their bodies were completely lined up from shoulder to knee—was thrilling. He put an arm around her and smiled contentedly as she finally laid her quill to rest and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"See you in a minute, guys!" called Dean, as he and Seamus left the Common Room.

Lavender shook her head in wonder as she strolled past them. Harry waved to her flippantly and she giggled as she joined with Parvati on their way out.

"Are we going to tell them all someday?" Hermione asked placidly, once the Common Room was close to empty and midnight was coming close. "That the Bet actually concluded two weeks before they think it did?"

Harry looked down at her. "One day," he decided. "But for now, let them think they've got it all made. We know the truth. Let them be in the dark about us for once. I mean, no one was there, when it really happened. There won't be anything for them to work off of but our word. And by the time we do tell them, the Bet will be old enough that it'll be impossible for them all to sort it out… it'll be over."

Hermione lifted her head off his shoulder, and after a pause, she smiled. "Oh, that is such a devious thing to say… but I agree." Her breath hitched in her throat. "And—you say, by that time, the Bet—the first one, at least, god forbid they actually continue with the second… You say that it will have happened long ago… that means you—you really do see us being together for that long?"

Harry smiled nervously, shifting so that he faced her. Their legs curled together in the squashy armchair, Hermione's thigh crossing his lap pleasantly.

"Yeah, I do," he said finally. "We spent enough time, too long, in the dark. It's time we had a long, happy time in the light."

"I couldn't agree more, Harry," said Hermione. After a short hesitation, she said (and it was the most wonderful thing she could have said), "I love you." After she said it, she blinked, her cheeks turning pink. "I—oh, it was probably too soon to say that, you don't have to—I mean, no need to say it back, is what I mean…"

But Harry felt as though his insides were dancing for joy. He leaned forward to kiss her, to silence her ramblings, and just before their lips made contact, said, "And I love you, Hermione Granger."

And they kissed, that wondrous act that never failed to give Harry such a fantastic swooping sensation in his stomach, making him feel loved like he'd never felt loved before.

It seemed such an obvious thing to say that he had hardly thought to say it before, but now he was glad that they both had. Because of course he loved Hermione. He loved her like gravity loved the ground. He loved her like a tree loved the sun. He loved her like the sea loved water. No, a sea was water… He had lost his train of thought. What mattered was that he loved her, and he had never said it before because it went without saying. Saying it, however, was just as exhilarating as he never imagined it could be.

He, Harry Potter, was deeply and madly in love with her, Hermione Granger. And he wanted to be with her for as long as life would allow, and definitely longer, and definitely through a lot more of these lovely kisses, and sweet Merlin, how long is this kiss going to last, and please don't let it end, let's just kiss for hours and hours and days and days and years and years, and let Hermione's tongue run up my lips like that over and over, and slip into my mouth, and good lord, she's practically on top of me now…

"Harry," gasped Hermione into his mouth, her tongue rubbing along his upper lip, her breath hitting the back of his throat.

"Yeah?" breathed Harry, the word barely recognisable.

"Is that your wand in your pocket?"

Harry stopped kissing her. Hermione opened her eyes and put her tongue back into her own mouth where it unfortunately belonged.

"Erm," said Harry, very aware that it was not his wand, and it was not in his pocket. "In a manner of speaking. Sorry."

But Hermione smiled. "It's fine. Oh, I'll be meeting Harry Junior one of these days, don't you worry." Her face flushed an interesting shade of pink at her boldness.

Harry, taken aback by her words, said, "Harry Junior? That's kind of… derogatory, isn't it?"

"You tell me," said Hermione, shifting her leg slightly on his lap.

Harry gasped. "Hermione, don't do that..." he groaned.

"You'd better calm down, Harry," said Hermione admonishingly, which was all well and easy for her to say, in Harry's opinion.

"I said," Hermione continued, "'one of these days', meaning anytime but today, though preferably between a year or two from now… I didn't say today… I am still very sensible, you know. We've got to go about this kind of thing the proper way, at the proper time."

"I know you're sensible," said Harry, trying hard to distract himself, "though, just look at what you've done this year…"

Hermione smiled ruefully at that. "Well, what about you? This year you've read a number of books that you wouldn't have been caught dead with a year ago."

Harry shrugged, and then froze. Did she know—?

"Yes, Harry," said Hermione, "I know you were reading my copy of Carnal Delights at Durnside Castle."

Harry reddened at the memory. "Sure, but you were reading it first. You told me it was a book about Runes, didn't you? How was I to know that was what you read in your downtime, and that you'd Transfigured it so I wouldn't know? I was just trying to read up on Ancient Runes so I could impress you, I didn't expect... that."

Hermione looked both flattered and embarrassed. Just then, Harry had a sudden thought, and wondered if it was too bold a thing to ask. But, going off what they had been talking about, perhaps not.

"Er, you know that vampire costume?" he asked sheepishly.

Hermione frowned. "Draculette? What about it?"

Harry scratched his head and looked at her. "I was wondering if sometime… only if you wanted to… you could wear that again, while we, you know, make out."

Hermione stared at him for a long moment, and then, slowly, but surely, a familiar sultry smirk appeared on her lips. "Why, Mister Potter… I had no idea your tastes were so… eccentric…"

"Eccentric, that's me," said Harry, nodding eagerly. "And, you could use all those big words you like using…"

Hermione's smirk broadened into a devilish smile. "It's apparent that you're in admiration of my verbiage. Well, amongst all the vicissitudes of our relationship, you can always rely on me to be undoubtedly, unapologetically loquacious. A sesquipedalian, if you will."

Harry leaned a little closer to her. "Mm-hmm," was all he could think of to say. He liked the way she said that word, 'loquacious.' He didn't know what it meant, but it rolled off her tongue very nicely indeed. He moved further forward, his lips eager to resume their exciting activities.

"Uh-uh!" Hermione placed a finger to his lips before he could kiss her. "You made your request, now I must extend one small, trifling entreaty to you."

"Whassat?" Harry mumbled.

"If I'm in the vampire costume, could you…" Hermione blushed again but kept going. "Could you wear your Quidditch uniform? The summer one, you know."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "The tight one, you mean."

Hermione giggled shyly.

"You're on, Professor," said Harry roguishly, and Hermione grinned.

And with that arrangement settled, Harry and Hermione continued to snog each other senseless, then rushed off to get the Invisibility Cloak and head to the Room of Requirement, to do more of that sort of activity, dressed very oddly indeed.

Surely, the Midnight Quidditch Club could afford their absence for just a little while longer…

Chapter Text

Midnight, Friday December 22nd, 1995. Hogwarts' Winter break.

The Quaffle sailed through the sky, spinning rapidly, and fell neatly into a pair of gloved hands. Ginny Weasley hefted the ball over her shoulder and threw it over Fred's head to Dean Thomas, who pivoted on his broomstick and lobbed it past Seamus' outstretched hands and through the centre goal hoop.

Snow fell on the Invisibility Marquee, visible through the partially translucent pale red fabric.

The air under the Marquee was cold but not freezing, thanks to an expansive heating spell the twins had mastered.

Harry, Ron and Hermione stood on the sidelines watching their friends soar through the air. Harry held his beloved Firebolt in front of him like a staff, a faint smile on his lips as he watched Astoria snatch the Quaffle in the middle of a well-executed backwards pass from Katie to Angelina. Behind the joyful sounds of an energetic Quidditch match, the boombox played a power ballad from the 80's:

"Lookin' in your eyes I see a paradise

This world that I found is too good to be true

Standin' here beside you, want so much to give you

This love in my heart that I'm feelin' for you..."

Harry let out a deep, contented sigh.

"So, last night of term," said Hermione conversationally.

"Last night," murmured Harry.

"I feel like it's the end of an era," said Ron, his broomstick under one arm.

"I know what you mean," said Harry quietly.

"It's only Christmas break, though," rationalised Hermione, looking between the two boys quickly.

"We know," said Harry. "It's just… this term has been…"

"The term of Quidditch," Ron finished for him. "Let's face it, once we come back from holidays you're going to have us all-out studying for OWLs, Hermione, we'll hardly have any time to get back to the Pitch outside of House games and practices."

"Maybe so," admitted Hermione. "But you've had a great term, haven't you? Probably the first we three could say has been anything approaching normal."

Harry threw her a grin. "We have a strange definition of normal. I'd go as far as to say this term's been abnormal. Feels weird without anyone trying to kill us."

"Does a bit, doesn't it?" said Ron, scratching his head.

"Oi!" yelled Fred, and they all looked up as he batted a Bludger away in mid-air. It sailed across the Quidditch Pitch and flew through the centre ring that Ron was supposed to be guarding.

"Is this the Midnight Debate Club?" Fred demanded, gesturing towards them and their broomsticks. "What're you doing?"

"Yeah, when are you three going to join us?" Susan called. "We need you up here so we can pummel you!"

"In a minute!" Harry called back. "Carry on!"

Susan blew Ron a kiss. Ginny looked down at the three of them curiously as she soared overhead. Fred and George shrugged and wheeled back around, rejoining the friendly warm-up game.

Ron had cocked his head to the music. "This Muggle stuff, it's not bad," he said. "Better than the wizard radio Mum's always got on."

"It's an 80's classic," said Hermione. "My parents love this one." She hummed along to the melody as the song continued:

"Let 'em say we're crazy

What do they know?

Put your arms around me, baby, don't ever let go

Let the world around us just fall apart

Baby, we can make it if we're heart to heart..."

Harry shook his head in wonder as he looked around the Pitch, reflecting on what was going to happen after tonight.

The Winter holidays were looking bright indeed. Tomorrow, Harry was going to stay at Grimmauld Place with Sirius and Lupin (though Sirius warned him they would have to clean out some nasty cupboards). Mr and Mrs Weasley had invited them all to the Burrow for Christmas Day, and after New Year's, Harry was going to Floo over to Northern London and make his way to Hampstead to stay at Hermione's for a few days, at the invitation of Mr and Mrs Granger. It would be the first holidays he spent away from Hogwarts since starting school, but for once he was very excited to do so.

"We're going to be studying, though," Hermione had been sure to warn him, the day she'd given him the news that he'd be staying at her house.

"Right," said Harry, not fooled. "Studying." He winked carefully.

Hermione looked appalled. "I'm serious, Harry! OWLs are coming up in just a few months!"

"Sure, Hermione, sure," he had said. But she had continued to remind him of the responsibility he had to himself and to her to study hard. All this constant talk of exams was annoying, if he had to be honest. But also oddly endearing, coming from Hermione. Besides, Harry enjoyed finding new ways to distract Hermione from her academics. It was a challenge that he was more than eager to pursue.

Now, he looked at her. Her lips were pink from the cold and the rest of her face was quite pale, and her hair was even more wild than normal thanks to the strong winds and moderate snowfall they'd braved on their way down here, but she looked quite beautiful. Harry didn't think she ever managed to be less than beautiful. It didn't seem possible.

He placed his Firebolt safely on the ground. "Don't suppose your parents would take well to us playing Quidditch in your backyard?" he asked.

Hermione looked amused. "Don't expect so, no," she said. "How about Frisbee?"

Harry laughed. "I've never played Frisbee before. That'll be... an experience." He turned to face her. "I'm a little nervous. I've never really spoken properly to your parents before, except on your birthday. What if they don't like me? What if they don't like that we're together now?"

"Harry, please," said Hermione, rolling her eyes. "They love you. And if I was going to date anyone, you're the best candidate in their eyes. They'll be thrilled."

Harry looked into her eyes. "Not as thrilled as I am to be with you."

"Oh, Harry…"

Harry grinned, pleased with himself, and leaned in to kiss her. He felt her move a little forward to meet his lips and put her hand on his chest.

But Hermione pulled back quickly after her initial response. Her lips parted with Harry's with an interesting wet noise and she turned away from him to look guiltily at Ron. Harry started; he had almost forgotten Ron was still there, watching them.

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Don't stop on my account."

"Okay," said Harry flippantly, and turned Hermione towards him, pretending he was going to kiss her once more. But Hermione pulled back again and stepped away decisively.

"Ron, you're a pervert," she said. "You're worse than Peeves, honestly, how irritating can one person be?"

Ron's grin broadened. "Kissing is a perfectly healthy, natural thing for a boy and girl to be doing. Dunno why you're so embarrassed. Harry's clearly not."

This was not entirely true, but Harry didn't object. It was Ron. Ron would be Ron. And Harry and Hermione would be… well, Harry and Hermione. Harmonious, as Ginny was want to say. It did have a nice ring to it, Harry had to admit.

"Fine," said Hermione, turning away from the both of them and staring resolutely at the Creevey twins as they hovered in the middle of the Pitch. "Harry, new rule," she announced. "No kissing me when Ron's around."

Harry was dismayed. "But Ron's always around!"

Ron smirked and Hermione fumed.

"Well, we'll just have to find ways to keep him occupied!"

Harry shrugged. "Suppose so. Shouldn't be too difficult… some food… ask Susan to distract him… get Ginny to play him at chess…"

"I'm right here, you know?" said Ron, offended.

"Did you hear something?" Hermione asked, looking around and shading her eyes with her hand.

"Nothing," said Harry. "Must've been the wind."

"Must have been," Hermione agreed. "How very strange. I could have sworn that wind sounded awfully like our best friend Ronald Weasley... but how could it? He's busy, not bothering us, while we share a quiet moment. He should appreciate that, after all, he made such a great effort to get us together... We really should thank him, shouldn't we?"

"I suppose we should," Harry agreed.

Ron looked between the two of them. His keen gaze settled on Hermione, and he peered at her, apparently trying to determine if she was still poking fun. The corners of Hermione's lips betrayed her—the beginnings of a grin flickered there, and her eyes blazed with a fierce warmth.

After a moment, a wide, unrestrained smile came to Ron's face and he let out a laugh.

Harry's own grin broke out, followed shortly by Hermione's.

The three friends didn't say anything more. So often with them, words weren't really needed for them to know exactly what they wanted to express. They simply smiled at each other.

Harry pulled Hermione and Ron close to him and rested his hands on their shoulders. He looked side to side at them, and quite suddenly felt a strong emotion welling up in his chest. He didn't quite know how to identify or quantify it, all he knew was that he was the happiest he had ever been. The music seemed to reflect and increase this feeling inside of him:

"And we can build this dream together

Standing strong forever

Nothing's gonna stop us now

And if this world runs out of lovers

We'll still have each other

Nothing's gonna stop us

Nothing's gonna stop us now..."

Harry looked steadfastly out at the game of Quidditch in front of them, and was surprised to see that his vision was slightly blurred with tears. He blinked rapidly and it cleared, though the very warm sensation in his chest remained. He dropped his left hand from Ron's shoulder and slipped it into his jacket pocket; there, he felt the cold metal of the Golden Snitch—the one he had quite accidentally taken from the Midnight Quidditch Cup. He closed his hand around it and drew it out.

He held the Snitch between forefinger and thumb and watched its wings flutter on either side, the gold sheen reflecting the vivid lights Fred and George had conjured. And then he let it go. It buzzed happily and flitted from side to side, and then it zoomed away into the mass of players. Harry watched it go, losing it in the chaos. But that familiar anticipation rose in his gut: the eagerness that he always felt, knowing that he would soon get on his broom and chase it down again, and make the catch. It was always the catch—that feeling as he closed his hand around the speedy golden ball was comparable only to the way Hermione made him feel.

But before he made a move to mount his broom, Harry took one last look around the Quidditch Pitch, watching the Midnight Quidditch Club fly and throw and bash and block and laugh and shout and cheer. He listened to the hopeful song playing on the boombox and blinked at the bright colourful lights that flashed around the stands.

He was home, here. Here, where he felt most comfortable, here, where he came alive. It had always been here, on this Quidditch Pitch. Up in the air on his broomstick, the wind in his face and the ground far below him. From the first time he had flown to the first match he had won, and to all those after.

Here, Harry didn't have to worry about being the Boy Who Lived, and the dangers, woes and calamities that came with it. He didn't have to worry about Voldemort, or anything that he didn't want to think about. That would all come later. This was a safe haven for Harry. Here, he could just be himself, surrounded by his closest friends, and his beautiful girlfriend. He could soar to his greatest heights, with Hermione and Ron beside him, as they always had been, and as they always would be.

He became aware of the silence that had fallen between them. Hermione and Ron were both looking at him with a curious concern.

"Harry?" said Hermione softly, slipping her hand into his.

"You good, mate?" asked Ron tentatively.

"Yeah," Harry breathed, and he truly meant it. He was better than good. Much better.

He nodded to affirm his response, but still didn't take his eyes off the wondrous scene in front of him. "I'm really good," he said. "I'm just… taking it all in."

Ron clapped him on the back affectionately and Hermione squeezed his hand, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek.

Harry grinned, watching Ginny score a spectacular goal while Fred and George performed simultaneous loop-de-loops on opposite ends of the Pitch. Fleabag cheered, and fireworks exploded overhead as the music boomed triumphantly.

With Hermione and Ron by his side, Harry mounted his Firebolt and kicked off, soaring above the snowy Quidditch Pitch, in search of that elusive Golden Snitch.

The End (but nothing ever really ends, does it…?)