A Night of Surprises
Neville sat at the kitchen table, the owl’s letter still in front of him, though he had stopped reading it. The words blurred together in his mind, his thoughts racing faster than he could process. The invitation to the St. Mungo's charity gala was something he'd received every year for as long as he could remember. But this year felt different. This year, he was expected to attend alone.
His usual companion, Luna Lovegood, was far away in Portugal, tracking down a rare magical creature called the Whisperwing—an elusive bird known for its ability to predict the weather with remarkable accuracy. Luna had explained it all to him in her usual whimsical way, but now, weeks later, she was nowhere near returning. That left Neville in the uncomfortable position of attending this gala by himself.
The thought of attending the gala by himself—surrounded by faces he didn’t always know, the elegant yet intimidating atmosphere—made his stomach twist. He was already drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the table. He could feel the irritation building up, but he forced himself to breathe through it, not wanting to show it.
But it was hard to hide. Hermione was sitting across from him, quietly sipping her tea, and he knew she could probably hear the quick rhythm of his fingers tapping against the wood. He always hated that about himself—how easily his emotions betrayed him. It wasn’t like him to dwell on things like this, but tonight, he couldn’t help it.
Hermione put down her cup with a quiet clink, her fingers grazing the rim as she tilted her head, a subtle shift that seemed to echo the way she always seemed to sense when something wasn’t quite right. The silence in the room was thick, and Neville’s drumming fingers—the rapid tapping against the wooden table—hadn’t gone unnoticed. He had hoped it would. He had hoped she wouldn’t catch it, wouldn’t see through the distraction he was trying to create. But, of course, she did. She always did.
“You’re drumming your fingers again,” Hermione said softly, her voice quiet but unmistakably observant. She spoke as though it were a gentle observation, but Neville could hear the faint note of concern beneath it. It wasn’t an accusation, just an acknowledgment of the tension that had wrapped itself around him. She knew him too well. She always had.
Neville shifted slightly in his seat, trying to suppress the growing frustration that was threatening to break free. He hadn’t meant for this moment to feel so heavy, so uncomfortable, but it did. And despite the warmth in the room, despite the comfort of the space they were in, he found it hard to escape the sense of unease that clung to him. He didn’t meet her eyes, knowing she would see it in his face, in the slight clenching of his jaw. He wasn’t ready to share that much yet—not with her. Not with anyone.
“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, trying to sound casual, trying to brush it off as if it were no big deal. He knew she wasn’t buying it. She never did. “Just the letter.”
“The letter?” Hermione repeated, her brow furrowing ever so slightly, the curiosity in her voice undeniable. The way she said it, as though the very mention of the letter was a prompt for something deeper, made him hesitate.
Neville picked up the letter again, though he wasn’t really reading it now. His eyes skimmed over the words as if they might suddenly rearrange themselves into something less bothersome, less stressful. He could feel the weight of them—the expectation, the responsibility, the reminder of everything that had changed. His fingers brushed over the parchment as though the touch might somehow erase the unease building within him. “St. Mungo’s is holding that gala again,” he said, his voice a little more guarded now. “They’re expecting me to attend.”
Hermione’s head tilted further, her gaze fixed in his direction even though she couldn’t see him, couldn’t track his every movement with the precision she once could. She still seemed to know, though—still had an uncanny ability to notice when he was tense, when something was bothering him. She kept silent, waiting for him to continue, but there was a soft furrow between her brows, as though she was already trying to piece together why the mention of this gala had shifted the atmosphere in the room.
“But… I don’t have anyone to go with this time,” Neville muttered, the words escaping his lips before he could stop them. The confession felt strange, almost absurd, as he spoke them aloud. The realization that he wouldn’t have Luna by his side at the event this year settled like a stone in his stomach. “Luna’s in Portugal right now,” he added, though the explanation didn’t seem to make things feel any lighter. “She’s looking for a magical creature called the Whisperwing.”
Hermione’s fingers paused, and for a moment, Neville thought she might ask more about the creature, might inquire about its elusive nature. But instead, she just gave a soft, thoughtful hum, as though processing the information and the subtle disappointment in his voice. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of his unspoken thoughts. He shifted again in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position, but it felt like nothing would ease the tension.
“It’s this bird,” Neville continued, his voice quieter now, as if the more he spoke, the more he felt exposed. “It can predict the weather—really rare. She’s off searching for it, and she won’t be back in time.” He let out a long breath, staring at the letter in his hands without really seeing it. The words were meaningless now—just reminders of the emptiness of going alone.
Hermione didn’t immediately respond, but Neville could sense her presence beside him, her quiet attentiveness like a balm against the sharp edges of his frustration. She didn’t push, didn’t question further, but he could tell she was still waiting for him to finish. To explain.
“I guess I’m just… supposed to go alone,” he said finally, the words tasting bitter as they left his mouth. It was silly, wasn’t it? He was a grown man, an experienced healer, and yet the thought of attending that gala alone seemed impossible. It wasn’t the crowd or the formalities. It was the loneliness. The reminder that everything had changed in ways he wasn’t ready to accept. He shifted again in his seat, feeling like the walls of the room were closing in on him. The silence between them wasn’t comforting now. It was suffocating.
Hermione’s voice broke through the quiet, soft yet steady, like a quiet hand reaching out. “So, you’re stuck going alone?” she asked, her words gentle but probing.
Neville nodded, though she couldn’t see it. His fingers drummed against the table again, betraying his discomfort. “Yeah. Not exactly thrilled about it,” he admitted, though it felt like he was confessing more than just his unease with the gala. There was something about the way he said it, as though he had been forced into a situation he couldn’t control.
For a moment, there was nothing but the soft sounds of the house—distant birdsong, the occasional rustle of the curtains. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but the air between them felt thick with things unsaid, emotions left hanging in the space.
And then Hermione’s voice came again, this time softer but imbued with a warmth that made Neville pause. “Well, you don’t have to go alone,” she said, and though she spoke matter-of-factly, there was something in her tone—a quiet, unexpected warmth—that made him stop drumming his fingers. Her words weren’t just casual; there was something more behind them.
Neville blinked, momentarily stunned. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard her correctly. “What?” he asked, his voice sounding almost like a whisper. He felt a strange heat rising in his chest, an unexpected reaction. “Hermione, I—”
Neville blinked, his breath catching slightly as her words sank in. For a long moment, he didn’t know what to say. His heart thudded unexpectedly, his thoughts scattered. He had been so focused on the idea of going alone, so wrapped up in his own discomfort, that her offer caught him completely off guard. It wasn’t just her willingness to help—it was the way she said it, so matter-of-fact, so natural. Hermione—blind, yes, but still herself in ways that he couldn’t begin to describe—offering to accompany him was more than just a kind gesture. It was an unspoken understanding, a moment of connection that he hadn’t anticipated. She was offering because she truly wanted to, and not because of pity or obligation. She simply saw him—saw what he needed in a way he hadn’t even realized.
He had expected silence—expecting her to offer some sort of sympathy, some polite gesture to make him feel better. But this? This was something else. She wasn’t offering out of pity, he realized. She wasn’t offering because she felt sorry for him or because she thought he needed rescuing. She was offering because, for whatever reason, she genuinely wanted to help. She genuinely wanted to be there for him, no strings attached.
It wasn’t just about helping him get through a night that now seemed like an impossibly awkward, isolating affair. It wasn’t about putting on a brave face and enduring the stares of people who would glance at him as he moved through the gala without Luna by his side. No, it was about making sure he didn’t have to face it alone, about the comfort of knowing that someone who understood him—someone who knew the challenges and the struggles—would be with him. She would be there, not just for the evening, but in a way that made everything feel more bearable, even if they didn’t speak the same language as everyone else at the event.
The realization hit him all at once, and the pressure that had been building inside him seemed to release, just a little. His chest loosened as he sat back, trying to process her offer. But doubt crept in. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice a little more incredulous than he intended. He wanted to believe it, wanted to accept it fully, but part of him was still hesitant. "I don’t want to drag you into this if it’s not something you want to do."
He could hear the certainty in her voice, but he had to ask—had to make sure that this wasn’t some gesture she might regret later. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel obligated or uncomfortable.
Hermione didn’t hesitate for a moment. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to,” she said firmly, the words falling into place like they were always meant to be there. “And besides,” she added with a soft, almost teasing chuckle, “it’ll be fun. We’ll make it work. You won’t be stuck with just me, you know. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of people to talk to.”
Neville couldn’t help but laugh, though it came out a little breathless. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate her offer—it was the fact that she had managed to turn what was a rather overwhelming prospect into something lighter, even humorous. And somehow, that felt like exactly what he needed. It didn’t feel like an obligation, not in the least. It felt like an invitation to something new. A new chapter, perhaps, or at the very least, a moment where he wasn’t simply dreading the evening ahead.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted quietly, shaking his head slightly. The knot in his chest hadn’t completely gone away, but it was beginning to loosen. The pressure was ebbing away in the wake of her words, and he felt a sense of relief he hadn’t realized he was holding onto. “I really appreciate this, Hermione. More than I can say.” His voice softened, carrying an earnestness that he couldn’t hide even if he tried.
There was a moment of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with a sense of understanding, a quiet agreement. Hermione’s voice, when it came, was warm and sure. “It’s nothing, Neville,” she said, her tone light but grounded. “Besides, you’re always there for me. It’s the least I can do.”
Neville’s heart gave a small, unexpected thump in his chest at her words. It wasn’t the grand declarations that usually moved him, but the simplicity of what she had just said. She didn’t make it a big deal. She didn’t expect anything in return. It was just... her way of being there. And it was enough.
The room was quiet for a few moments, the world outside still in a gentle murmur, but Neville’s mind raced. He hadn’t realized how much he needed this—how much he needed to feel like he wasn’t completely alone in this moment. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the connection, the unspoken understanding between them.
He had been so wrapped up in the fear of attending the gala alone, so focused on the discomfort of facing it without Luna, that he hadn’t even considered that someone else might offer him the comfort he needed. Hermione’s offer, so simple, so straightforward, was the kind of gesture that made him feel seen—not just as a colleague or a friend, but as someone she genuinely cared for.
“Alright,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet resolve now. He sat up straighter, feeling the tension begin to lift from his shoulders. “I guess it’s settled then. We’ll go together.”
Hermione’s response came with an easy laugh that carried a sense of playfulness he hadn’t expected, but it felt grounding, like a reminder that even the most daunting events could be made lighter with the right company. “Absolutely. We’ll make sure it’s a night to remember,” she said, her tone a little brighter now, like a weight had been lifted from both of them.
And for the first time that evening, Neville felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Maybe this gala wouldn’t be as daunting as he had originally thought. With Hermione by his side, there was a newfound sense of calm settling in. The evening might still be filled with its challenges—awkward small talk, crowded spaces, the weight of too many expectations—but it no longer seemed quite as overwhelming. She had given him something that he hadn’t even realized he needed: the promise of a familiar presence, a steady hand to hold onto in a world that still felt uncertain.