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The common room was loud that evening, though not unusually so. Laughter bounced off the stone walls, firelight flickered warmly, and somewhere, someone was attempting to charm a set of gobstones into singing. Harry, however, was not paying attention to any of it.
He was sitting hunched over a piece of parchment, staring at the same sentence he’d written ten minutes ago:
Will you go to the Yule Ball with me?
It looked pathetic.
“Another one?” Ron asked, dropping heavily into the chair opposite him, helping himself to a Chocolate Frog. “Who’s this for?”
Harry sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “No one yet.”
Ron snorted. “Brilliant strategy. Write the speech first, find the girl later.”
“It’s not funny,” Harry muttered. “Everyone’s already paired up. I asked Parvati—she said she’s going with Dean. Lavender giggled for five straight minutes and said no. Even Romilda Vane looked at me like I’d asked her to wrestle a troll.”
Ron shrugged, entirely unsympathetic. “Told you. Should’ve asked earlier.”
“Helpful,” Harry said dryly.
Hermione, seated nearby with a stack of books, didn’t look up immediately, though Harry could have sworn her lips twitched. “Perhaps,” she said eventually, “it might help if you tried asking someone you actually talk to.”
Harry frowned. “I do talk to them.”
“Occasionally,” Hermione said, turning a page. “Usually about homework, or because you need directions to the library.”
Ron snorted again.
Harry slumped back in his chair. “This is hopeless.”
Hermione finally looked up, her expression softer now. “It’s not hopeless. You’ll find someone.”
He gave her a weak smile. “Easy for you to say. You’ve probably already been asked loads of times.”
Hermione hesitated—just for a moment—and then returned her attention to her book. “Something like that.”
Harry didn’t think much of it at the time.
The realisation came quietly and rather inconveniently.
A few nights later, Harry found himself alone in the common room, unable to sleep. The fire had burned low, casting everything in a soft amber glow. Hermione sat at the long table, scribbling furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration. A strand of hair had escaped her usual attempts at neatness, falling across her face.
Without thinking, Harry walked over.
“You’re still awake?” he asked.
Hermione jumped slightly, then relaxed. “Oh—Harry. Yes, I’ve got a bit of reading to finish.”
“You’re always reading,” he said, pulling out a chair.
She smiled faintly. “Someone has to.”
There was a comfortable silence then. Not awkward—never awkward with Hermione. Just… quiet.
Harry watched her for a moment. Really watched her.
The way her eyes lit up when she explained something complicated. The way she chewed her lip when she was thinking. The way she never gave up on anything—or anyone.
And suddenly, it hit him.
Not like a Bludger—more like a slow, dawning warmth that spread through his chest.
Oh.
Hermione looked up again, catching him staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, far too quickly.
She raised an eyebrow. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”
He hesitated. His heart began to pound, ridiculously loud in his ears. “I was just… thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime,” she said lightly.
Harry huffed a laugh, but his mind was racing now. The idea had taken root, and it refused to leave.
Hermione.
Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
The next few days were… difficult.
Harry found himself acutely aware of Hermione in a way he never had been before. Every laugh, every glance, every offhand comment suddenly seemed important. Meanwhile, his courage seemed to have taken an extended holiday.
Ron, of course, noticed something was off.
“You’re being weird,” he said one afternoon.
“I am not.”
“You are. You’ve been staring into space all day. And you nearly called Snape ‘sir’ twice.”
Harry grimaced. “I did not.”
“You did.”
Hermione glanced between them. “What are you two on about?”
“Harry’s gone mental,” Ron said cheerfully.
“I haven’t,” Harry protested.
Hermione studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, whatever it is, I hope you sort it out soon. You’ve got that ‘about to do something reckless’ look.”
Harry swallowed. “Do I?”
“Yes,” she said. “You had it before you followed the spiders in second year.”
“That’s reassuring.”
It took him three days.
Three days of overthinking, second-guessing, and nearly backing out at least a dozen times.
Finally, one evening, as they sat by the fire, Harry decided he’d either ask her now or spend the rest of his life wondering.
“Hermione?”
“Yes?” she said, not looking up from her book.
“Can I—er—talk to you? For a minute?”
She closed her book immediately. “Of course.”
They moved a little away from the others, settling into a quieter corner.
Harry took a deep breath.
“You know the Yule Ball,” he began.
Hermione smiled slightly. “Yes, Harry. I am aware of the Yule Ball.”
“Right. Well. I was wondering if you—if you might—maybe—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, exasperated but not unkind. “Just say it.”
Harry blurted it out. “Will you go with me?”
Hermione blinked.
For a moment, Harry was certain he’d just made a terrible mistake.
Then, slowly, her expression softened into something warm—something that made his chest feel oddly light.
“Yes,” she said.
Harry stared. “Yes?”
“Yes,” she repeated, smiling now. “I’d like that.”
Relief flooded through him so quickly he nearly laughed. “Brilliant. I mean—great. That’s—good.”
Hermione laughed softly. “You’re terrible at this.”
“I know,” he admitted.
They sat there for a while longer, talking—really talking. About nothing and everything at once. The ball, their classes, what they thought it would be like. At some point, Harry realised he hadn’t felt this happy in… well, ever.
The night of the Yule Ball arrived faster than Harry expected.
He fidgeted with his dress robes, tugging at the sleeves. “These are ridiculous.”
Ron looked equally miserable. “At least yours fit properly.”
Harry barely heard him.
Because Hermione had just entered the room.
For a moment, everything else faded away.
She looked… different. Not just in the obvious ways—the elegant robes, the way her hair fell in soft waves—but in something deeper. Something that made it impossible for Harry to look anywhere else.
“Wow,” he said, before he could stop himself.
Hermione blushed, but she smiled. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
Ron made a strangled noise.
Harry ignored him, offering Hermione his arm. She took it without hesitation.
They walked into the Great Hall together—and, for once, Harry didn’t feel like everyone was staring at him because of his scar.
They were staring because of them.
They danced. Awkwardly at first, then less so. Hermione laughed when Harry nearly stepped on her foot, and he grinned when she misjudged a turn. It didn’t matter. None of it did.
They were having fun.
That alone made it perfect.
The trouble, inevitably, came from Ron.
“You could’ve told me!” he snapped later, dragging Harry aside. “You knew I was going to ask her!”
Harry blinked. “You never did, though.”
“I was going to!”
“When?” Hermione cut in sharply, stepping between them. “After the ball?”
Ron flushed. “That’s not the point!”
“It is the point,” she said firmly. “Harry asked me. You didn’t.”
Ron looked betrayed. “So you’re just—what—going with him now?”
“Yes,” Hermione said simply.
Ron turned to Harry. “Some friend you are.”
Harry frowned. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No,” Hermione said, her voice cool now. “He didn’t. He had the courage to ask. That’s more than you managed.”
Ron opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly at a loss.
“Come on, Harry,” Hermione said, taking his hand. “Let’s go.”
And just like that, they left him behind.
The castle grounds were quiet, the night air crisp and cool.
They walked side by side, their hands still linked, neither of them quite willing to let go.
“That could’ve gone better,” Harry said.
Hermione sighed. “Ron will come around. Eventually.”
“I didn’t mean to upset him.”
“I know,” she said. “But you’re allowed to… choose things for yourself, Harry.”
He glanced at her. “Including you?”
Hermione smiled softly. “Including me.”
They wandered without a clear destination, talking in low voices, until they found themselves in an empty corridor just inside the castle.
The silence settled around them—not uncomfortable, but charged.
Harry looked at her.
Hermione looked back.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, almost at the same time, they leaned in.
The kiss was gentle at first—tentative, like they were both still figuring it out. Then it deepened, just slightly, warm and real and entirely new.
When they pulled apart, they were both smiling.
Hermione let out a soft laugh.
Harry laughed too, a bit breathless. “Well.”
“Well,” she echoed.
He hesitated, then grinned, a little nervous again. “So… are you my girlfriend now?”
Hermione laughed—properly this time—and instead of answering, she kissed him again.
Harry decided that was a perfectly acceptable answer.