Testing the Waters
Padma was due to arrive any minute, and Hermione could feel the tension building in her chest. She had only just managed to talk herself into this mad plan, and now that it was time to put it into action, her confidence was starting to fray at the edges. It wasn’t like she’d never walked in heels before—before everything happened, she’d worn them to events, to dinners, even a wedding or two. But now, everything was different. The world she had known was no longer the same, and her body had to relearn its own movements, its own rhythm. That was difficult enough on a flat surface, but with heels?
Hermione could hear Padma’s footsteps approaching the door. The soft click of her shoes on the wood floor, the familiar swish of her cloak. Hermione rose from the settee, adjusting her cardigan around her shoulders, even though the room wasn’t particularly cold. She had become increasingly aware of how disoriented she sometimes felt in the silence, especially when Neville wasn’t home to keep the air from growing too still.
The door swung open, and Padma stepped inside, carrying a large bag. “Hello, Hermione,” she said warmly. Her voice had a comforting quality to it, the sort that instantly put Hermione at ease, despite the nerves building in her stomach.
"Hi, Padma," Hermione replied, the smile in her voice obvious even if her lips didn’t exactly show it. She extended her hand, and Padma took it, the cool touch of her fingers grounding Hermione once again.
“I’ve got them for you,” Padma said, setting the bag down on the table in front of Hermione with a soft thud.
Hermione nodded and let out a small breath of relief. "Thank you. I... I’m still not used to this, you know?" she said softly, tapping her fingers lightly on her knee, her gaze falling on the empty space in front of her. "How’s the curse? Is it... moving?"
Padma hesitated for a moment before replying, as though considering the best way to explain. “The lines haven’t really changed much," she said, her voice soft but careful. "But they are still noticeable. They’re a bit more... vine-like, I suppose. Twisting around your skin like branches growing from the inside out. It’s strange to look at." She paused, unsure of how to put it in a way Hermione could imagine. "I’d say it’s like golden ivy, but thinner—almost delicate, but still there, you know?"
Hermione’s fingers brushed over her arm, tracing the faint golden lines she could feel beneath her skin. She could imagine what Padma meant, even though she couldn’t see it. She had felt the way they crawled up her limbs—light but persistent. Like something foreign, growing on her, taking root inside her. A strange, intimate reminder of her own helplessness.
“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Padma added gently. “It’s still not spreading. Just... there. In this... dormant state, I suppose. But, I know it’s frustrating.” She glanced at Hermione, clearly unsure of how to help, though her tone was steady and sincere.
Hermione nodded slowly, absorbing her friend’s words. It wasn’t exactly reassuring, but it was better than hearing that the curse was growing more active. She could feel the texture of the golden lines—thin as strands of silk but slightly raised—when she ran her fingers over her arms. She could imagine the way they looked, the vines crawling up her skin in delicate spirals, but she didn’t need to see them to know what they symbolised. They were a reminder of everything she couldn’t control. And for the first time in her life, Hermione Granger felt helpless.
Padma seemed to sense the shift in Hermione’s mood, the way her posture stiffened. She took a seat next to Hermione on the settee, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “How are you feeling?” she asked gently, her hand brushing Hermione’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture.
Hermione’s voice faltered for a moment before she answered. “It’s frustrating,” she admitted. “Everything is still so... out of reach. And now this gala... I’m supposed to look the part, but with everything going on, I don’t even know where to begin.”
Padma smiled, though Hermione couldn’t see it. “Well, we’re getting there. One step at a time, right?” She patted the bag on the table. “I brought the heels, like you asked. You’re going to be fine.”
Hermione laughed softly, despite herself. “I’m not so sure about that,” she said, her voice tinged with self-deprecation. “But I’m going to try.”
“Good,” Padma replied, her tone light but firm. “Because we both know you can do anything once you set your mind to it. But don’t let it hold you back from everything else. Alright?”
Hermione nodded, though Padma couldn’t see it. “Thanks, Padma,” she said quietly. She gave her friend’s hand a quick squeeze before Padma stood, gathering the bag and making her way to the door.
“Oh, wait,” Padma called as she paused by the door. “I brought something else for you.” She turned, her footsteps soft as she moved to the cupboard. “I know you’re probably not thinking about dresses right now, but I brought one of yours. It’s the green one with the lace trim, the one you liked last year.” She paused as she opened the cupboard, placing the dress carefully on the shelf. “It’s simple but elegant. Just in case you want it for the gala. You know, just to make sure everything feels right.”
Hermione felt a small flutter in her chest. “You really didn’t have to do that,” she said, her voice soft but touched by the gesture. “I can manage on my own.”
“I know,” Padma replied with a smile in her voice. “But I wanted to. And... you’re not alone in this, Hermione. You’ve got me. You’ve got Neville. And you’ve got yourself. Don’t forget that.”
Hermione felt a wave of warmth flood over her at her friend’s words. It was more than she’d realized she needed, and it made the weight of the situation feel a little less heavy.
“Thanks,” Hermione said again, this time her voice steady. “I appreciate it more than you know.”
Padma gave her a soft nod, then with a final squeeze of Hermione’s shoulder, she exited the flat, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts.
Once the door clicked shut, the silence of the flat settled around Hermione again. The brief, comforting presence of her friend had softened the edges of the world, but now it was time. She had no more excuses. She had made the choice. She had to do this, for herself.
The heels. She had to get used to them. She had to make sure she looked the part.
Hermione took a slow breath, running her fingers along the soft, smooth material of the shoes Padma had brought her. The leather was supple beneath her touch, the straps thin yet sturdy, and when her fingers grazed the underside, she felt the sharp, elegant incline of the stiletto heel. She couldn’t see them, but she didn’t need to—she knew the ones she had asked for. A classic pair of black heels, sleek and timeless, the kind that would make her posture a little straighter, her steps a little more refined.
She had worn heels before, of course, but that had been before everything changed. Before her world had darkened into something unknown, something unpredictable. She had walked through battlefields, braved curses and wars, but the idea of stepping into a crowded room now—looking polished, looking composed—felt like its own kind of challenge. One she had to face. One she had to win.
Hermione lowered herself onto the floor, reaching down to slip off her work shoes. Her fingers brushed against her bare ankles as she set them aside, and then, carefully, she guided her feet into the unfamiliar curve of the heels. The fit was snug but not uncomfortable, the shape moulding against her as if they belonged there. She pressed the soles of her feet against the floor experimentally, adjusting to the strange tilt of her weight, the shift in balance.
For a moment, she just sat there, feet planted, grounding herself. Then, with slow deliberation, she placed a hand on the table’s edge and pushed herself upright.
The first second was precarious.
Her ankle wobbled, and instinctively, she grabbed at the back of the nearest chair, steadying herself before she could stumble. A frustrated huff escaped her lips, her fingers tightening around the wood.
Come on, Hermione. You’ve done harder things than this.
She exhaled through her nose, determined not to let a pair of shoes defeat her. Slowly, carefully, she straightened her back, adjusting to the strange new height. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, rolling onto the balls of her feet, testing the limits of her control.
And then, with as much grace as she could manage, she took a step.
Her heel touched the floor first, then the ball of her foot, then her toes. The motion was stiff, unsteady. She clenched her jaw. Another step. The second was slightly better than the first, but it still felt awkward, as though her body was resisting the movement. She reached out, fingertips barely skimming the back of the settee for reassurance.
“You’ve walked in heels before,” she muttered to herself. “You can do this.”
She took another step, then another, her movements slow, measured, cautious. The trick, she reminded herself, was not to overthink. Not to hesitate. She focused on the feeling beneath her feet—the smooth wooden floor, the way the heels clicked softly against it.
“Just focus on the ball of your foot,” she whispered under her breath. “Heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe.”
She let her feet guide her forward again, inch by inch. After what felt like an eternity of concentrated focus, she finally made it across the room. She didn’t feel graceful, didn’t feel confident—but she was standing. She was walking. The heels didn’t seem quite so foreign now, and she found herself smiling with quiet satisfaction.
She wasn’t perfect yet, but the idea of walking smoothly—gracefully—was starting to seem achievable. She could imagine herself at the gala now, moving effortlessly through the crowd, her heels clicking confidently as she made her way beside Neville. She wouldn’t be a burden. She could do this.
Just as she took a particularly bold step, feeling the weight shift under her feet, the Floo flared to life behind her, the sound of crackling green flames filling the room. Hermione’s balance wavered, and before she could steady herself, her heel caught on the edge of the rug.
She tripped.
One moment, she had been standing tall, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, determined to master the unfamiliar height of the heels. The next, she felt the rug shift treacherously beneath her sole, the sharp tilt of her ankle sending her pitching forward. There was nothing to grab onto, nothing to anchor her, just the lurching sensation of losing control, the rush of air around her as her body tipped into empty space.
Her breath caught in her throat, a sharp gasp escaping her lips, instinct urging her to brace for the impact. But before she could even register the inevitability of hitting the floor, something solid—warm, steady, strong—intercepted her fall. A pair of firm hands caught her arms, gripping just tightly enough to halt her momentum without jolting her. It happened so quickly that she barely had time to process it, her mind still catching up with the sudden shift from falling to being held.
Her hands, in turn, landed on something equally solid—broad shoulders, warm through the familiar texture of a wool jumper. Her fingers curled slightly, not out of fear, but because her body was still trying to find its bearings. The scent of him—clean, familiar, tinged with something earthy, like damp soil after rain—filled her senses, grounding her in a way that was almost too much, too close, too present.
“Easy there,” came Neville’s voice, low and steady, though she could hear the faint thread of surprise beneath the calm. His breath was warm, close enough that she could feel it against her cheek, close enough that she could tell he had only just arrived, the scent of floo smoke still lingering faintly on his robes. “You alright?”
Hermione’s heart was hammering so violently against her ribs that she was sure he could feel it. She let out a breathless laugh, an attempt to dispel the sudden rush of heat creeping up her neck. “I’m fine,” she managed, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. “Just… testing the waters.”
Neville didn’t let go immediately. His grip remained firm, his presence solid and unwavering. He wasn’t restraining her, but he wasn’t pulling away either. It was steadying, grounding, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced she wouldn’t collapse again the moment he let go. His hands, large and warm, spanned the length of her upper arms, fingers barely flexing but still there, a silent reassurance in their weight.
For a moment—one long, stretched-out moment—neither of them moved. She was still leaning into him, hands still braced against his chest, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath beneath her fingertips. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t gauge his expression, but she felt the shift in the air between them, the sudden awareness crackling at the edges of the silence.
“I don’t know if I’d call that ‘testing the waters,’” he murmured, amusement lacing his voice, though there was something else beneath it, something softer, something hesitant. “More like diving in headfirst.”
She huffed out a laugh, shaking her head slightly, though she made no effort to pull away. “I almost had it,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, the teasing note fading into something more uncertain. “But… it’s harder than I thought.”
“I can see that,” Neville said, but his tone lacked the teasing sharpness it might have held if the moment had been different, if they weren’t standing like this, hovering on the edge of something unspoken. His hands didn’t leave her arms, and she found herself hyper-aware of the way his thumbs had shifted slightly, the faintest brush against the fabric of her sleeves. It wasn’t intentional—it was barely anything at all—but the sensation sent a shiver down her spine, not from cold, but from something far more electric, something she couldn’t quite name.
And then, slowly—almost reluctantly—he began to move, his fingers loosening, his touch fading as he guided her upright. The warmth of his hands lingered for a moment longer before he finally let go, but even as his grip disappeared, Hermione could still feel where it had been, imprinted on her skin like an afterimage.
Except—
They hadn’t stepped apart.
She was still there, standing just close enough that she could hear the quiet hitch in his breath, just close enough that her hands remained where they had landed, palms flat against his chest. She should have moved them by now, should have taken a step back, but she didn’t. Neither did he.
The air between them had changed, thickened into something weighted, something she hadn’t expected but wasn’t entirely surprised by. She didn’t need to see him to know how close he was, didn’t need to look at him to feel the pull that had settled between them. Her own breath had gone shallow, her body caught in a strange, breathless stillness, as if one wrong move would break whatever fragile thing was balancing between them.
For one reckless second—one foolish, impossible second—she thought he might kiss her.
Worse still, she thought she might kiss him.
The idea sent another rush of heat through her, but it wasn’t fear that made her hesitate. It wasn’t uncertainty. It was something deeper, something she couldn’t quite name, something that made her lips part slightly in anticipation even as she willed herself not to move.
And for a moment, just for a moment, she thought he might close the distance.
She could hear the slight shift of his breath, the almost imperceptible tilt of his body toward hers, the lingering hesitation that felt like it could tip over into something irreversible if either of them dared to push it just a little further.
And then—
Neville stepped back.
It wasn’t sudden, wasn’t abrupt, but it was enough. Enough to remind them both of where they were, enough to make the moment dissolve like mist in the morning air. He let out a quiet chuckle, one that sounded a little too forced, a little too much like he was laughing at himself, and cleared his throat.
“Don’t worry, Hermione,” he said, his voice light, a little too casual, as though he hadn’t just been standing too close, hadn’t just been seconds away from something neither of them was quite ready to name. “You’ll get it. Just… maybe don’t practice while I’m in the room next time.”
It was a joke. A way to smooth over whatever had just happened, to push it aside before either of them could look too closely.
Hermione exhaled sharply, forcing herself to match his easy tone. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, as if her pulse wasn’t still thundering in her ears, as if she wasn’t still acutely aware of the way his presence had wrapped around her like something tangible.
She heard him move away, the rustling of fabric, the quiet shift of his boots against the floor. The tension still clung to the room, lingering in the space between them like a whisper of something unfinished.