A Dance Without Sight
Neville had mentioned it casually the other day, as though it were just a passing thought, but it had lodged itself in Hermione’s mind like an insistent, unavoidable truth. The Gala, with its glittering, bustling crowds, had once seemed so distant—just another event on the far horizon of her life. But now, with the night of the gala just a week away, it was a looming presence in her thoughts, larger than life itself. For Neville, the event wasn’t just an opportunity to socialize; it was a professional obligation. He had mentioned, almost nonchalantly, that he would be expected to open the dance alongside the heads of various departments—an act of formality, a gesture of leadership. But there had been no real pressure, he’d said, no real weight to it. “They’ll understand if I skip it,” he’d shrugged, waving the idea aside like it was no more important than any other minor task.
Hermione couldn’t shake the thought that clung to her. No, she thought firmly. They would have to dance. And they would have to do it in front of an audience. There was no running from it, no escaping the reality of the situation. There was no way she could stand on the sidelines, not when Neville’s role—and her role, by association—had such an obvious place at the centre of it all. And as the days ticked down toward the gala, the question kept nagging her: How was she supposed to dance without sight? She could hardly begin to imagine how she could move in sync with Neville when she couldn’t see the rhythm, couldn’t read the unspoken cues that would usually guide her. Every movement, every step, had always been so instinctive, a product of years of training her body to interpret what her eyes told her. Without that, it was like trying to navigate a maze in the dark.
It wasn’t until Neville arrived that evening, his voice warm and familiar as it filled the room, that Hermione’s thoughts solidified into something more tangible. The room felt just a little quieter as she gathered her thoughts, a stillness in the air that seemed to hold its breath for what she was about to say. She could almost feel the weight of it before the words left her lips. Her heart was beating faster than usual, and there was a tightness in her chest that made her throat dry. But she couldn’t back down now. “I need to practice,” she said, her voice more steady than she felt. There was no turning back, no second-guessing herself. It wasn’t just a request, it was something she had to ask. “We—well, I—need to practice for the gala. For the dance.”
She could hear the pause on the other end of the room, Neville’s footsteps stopping in place as he processed the words. There was a weight to the silence, a moment of realization as he tried to make sense of what she had just said. “Dance?” Neville repeated slowly, as though he were still testing the concept in his mind. “You want to… practice dancing?” His voice was full of that familiar mix of surprise and confusion, but it softened quickly as the reality settled in. The pause stretched just long enough for Hermione to feel her own unease creep up again. She forced herself to breathe, to stay calm. “Yes,” she said, her voice firm even though her heart was thudding in her chest. She didn’t wait for Neville to ask any more questions, to search for the right words. She didn’t have the luxury of time to explain it all in a way that made sense to him. She had to act on instinct. “I know it sounds odd, but you mentioned that we would have to open the dance, and well… it’s different now. I can’t just see what to do.”
She let her words hang there in the space between them, feeling the weight of them as they settled in the quiet air. She could hear the soft shuffle of Neville’s shoes, the faintest sound of his robes brushing against the floor. She steadied herself, forcing her fingers to stop fidgeting with the sleeve of her cardigan. “I need to feel it,” she added, her voice growing smaller despite her best efforts. “Can you help me?”
There was another pause. Longer this time. Then Neville’s voice came again, softer but undeniably sincere. “Of course,” he said, his words wrapping around her like a blanket. There was a quiet understanding in the way he said it, an unspoken promise to be there, to help her through this. “Let’s do it, then.”
Hermione felt her heart settle a little, her breath evening out. She didn’t realize how much she had been holding her breath until the weight of the moment lightened. She heard Neville’s footsteps move closer to her, the steady rhythm of his movements so familiar to her ears, so comforting. The soft scuff of his shoes across the floor, the slight rustle of his robes brushing against the furniture—it was all so familiar, grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. She was afraid. Terrified, even. But Neville’s presence, steady and unwavering, helped calm the storm inside her.
Hermione stood up slowly, feeling the gentle tremor in her legs as she adjusted her balance, reminding herself that this was just another step in learning to move in this new world of hers. She held her breath for a moment, waiting for Neville’s touch, his strong hands, to steady her, to guide her through what came next. The room felt smaller now, the air thick with anticipation, but she found herself feeling less and less afraid the closer Neville came.
“Do you want to start with a waltz?” Neville asked gently, already reaching out to take her hand. His voice was calm, though there was an edge of uncertainty in it—perhaps a silent question hanging there, unspoken: Are you sure you want to do this?
Hermione nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I think we should,” she answered quietly, her voice steadier than before. The words felt right. The waltz, something she had always known, was familiar, but there was something about this moment that made it feel entirely new. She placed her other hand gently on his shoulder, feeling the slight shift in his posture as he adjusted to the change in proximity. His body was solid beneath her palm, his muscles shifting with each subtle movement.
“Just… lead me,” she murmured, her voice smaller now, more vulnerable than it had been in the moments before. “And I’ll follow.”
Neville’s hand pressed against her back, a gentle guide, and the music began to play softly in the background—an imaginary tune that swirled in Hermione’s mind like a whispered memory. It wasn’t much to begin with, just the steady, gentle movement of her feet against the floor, the soft brush of the fabric of her trousers as she shifted and turned in the space between them. Neville’s other hand held hers firmly, but gently, anchoring her to him with an almost reassuring strength. The contact between them felt familiar, yet somehow different in this new, intimate moment.
They moved, slowly at first, each step measured and deliberate. Hermione felt the sway of her body, the subtle shift in her balance, as Neville led her through the first few movements. His presence was a constant, solid and comforting against her. She could sense the rhythm now, the way the beat seemed to pulse under her feet, felt it in the slight pressure of his fingers against hers, in the subtle movement of his chest beneath her palm as they began to find a flow. It was different from the dances she had performed before, where sight had been her guide, her anchor. But this wasn’t impossible. In fact, it felt strangely liberating. She wasn’t seeing the steps unfold in front of her, wasn’t watching for any cues from the world around her. But she was feeling it. Each shift in Neville’s weight, each gentle nudge in his movements that silently instructed her on which direction to turn, which foot to place next. It was all about trust. Trust in Neville, trust in her body’s ability to adapt, to learn this new language of movement.
They danced like that for a while—slow, measured, the tempo rising gradually as they grew more comfortable in each other’s presence. The steps became more fluid, their movements more synchronized. Hermione began to feel the music moving through her bones, not through her eyes but through the space between them. The rhythm was in her feet, in the sway of her body as she leaned into the movement, finding a familiar beat despite the absence of sight. Her body began to learn the dance in a way that was as natural as breathing. She didn’t need her eyes to see the way the music swirled around them, weaving its way between them, pulling her forward with every step. She could feel Neville guiding her, his hands steady and sure, each movement between them more confident, more assured than the last. She could feel her body aligning with his, each step more fluid than the last as they found a rhythm together.
And then, unexpectedly, Neville shifted his grip on her waist, and before Hermione could even register what was happening, he dipped her.
Her breath caught sharply in her throat, a startled gasp escaping her as her body was pulled backward. Her arms instinctively reached out for him, hands seeking his chest, her pulse quickening as her heart raced in tandem with the sudden motion. She had danced this way before—she had done this in the past, in moments of grace and confidence. But never like this. Never without sight. Never like this, with the strange, electric awareness of Neville so close, his presence almost overwhelming in a way that left her momentarily breathless. Her heart was pounding in her chest, louder than the music ever could be. His warmth was all around her now, the scent of his skin, the steady beat of his pulse under her palm, so close she could almost feel it in her bones.
His voice was a low murmur near her ear, warm and familiar. “Got you,” he whispered, the sound of his words brushing against her like a soft wind. His grip was firm as he held her steady in the dip, his strength both comforting and intimate. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. It felt like everything around them had faded into the background, leaving only the two of them suspended in time. Her head tilted back, her body poised in his arms, as if they were the only two people in the universe. The closeness was electrifying, a magnetic pull between them that neither of them could deny. She could feel the tension in the air, could almost taste it—something unspoken, something new, something fragile between them.
Hermione’s breath faltered as she tried to focus on the sensation of the moment, on the feel of him holding her, the closeness of his breath against her ear, the warmth that seemed to envelope them. She was acutely aware of everything now—the press of his fingers on her waist, the subtle shift of his hand against the curve of her back, the slight tilt of her body in his embrace. She could feel the flutter in her chest, the way her heart pounded faster as the space between them seemed to narrow, the air thick with tension, with something she couldn’t quite name. She didn’t know if it was the dance or something else, something in the way his touch lingered for just a moment longer than necessary.
“I—Neville,” she whispered, her voice soft, a mixture of breathless surprise and something else she wasn’t sure how to define. She wasn’t sure whether she was asking him to pull her back up, to end the moment, or if, somehow, the moment had already carried her to another place entirely.
With slow, careful movements, Neville lifted her back to her feet. His hands remained steady, gentle, as he guided her back into an upright position, his arms still encircling her waist, as though he were reluctant to let her go, even for the briefest moment. “All right?” he asked softly, his voice barely more than a breath against her ear. His warmth was still close, his breath just inches from hers, a steady, comforting presence.
Hermione nodded, her heart still racing in her chest. She couldn’t find the words at first. Her voice came out as little more than a whisper, fragile in its uncertainty. “I think... I think I’m getting it.”
The words felt strangely quiet in the space between them, like something she wasn’t entirely sure she had the right to say. But Neville’s hand lingered on her waist, just a second longer than necessary, his fingers tracing a light path along the fabric of her trousers. Hermione could almost feel the tension in his touch, the same unspoken things swirling around them. His hand tightened briefly around hers, his grip firm, almost like a lifeline. The air between them felt charged now, thick with something both familiar and unknown. She didn’t need to see it to know—it was there. She could feel it in the way his body seemed to draw nearer to hers, in the subtle shift in his stance, in the way his breath seemed to pause, waiting.
“You’re doing great, Hermione,” Neville said softly, his voice warm and encouraging, but there was a different edge to it now. Something had shifted between them—something unspoken, barely perceptible, but undeniable. He didn’t need to say it, not yet. Neither of them did. But Hermione could feel it in the way his hand held hers, in the way he was looking at her without needing to see.
With a deep breath, Hermione smiled, the pulse of the music beneath her feet starting to feel familiar again, not just in her body but in the space between them. This time, the rhythm wasn’t just in the dance. It was in everything. In them.
As the music continued to flow between them, the rhythm carrying them through each movement, Neville’s hand tightened just slightly around her waist. The air between them felt even more charged now, as if everything—the dance, the tension, the unspoken words—had led them to this moment. Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest, and it wasn’t just the dance anymore. It was the way Neville was holding her, the closeness of his breath, the subtle weight of his touch against her skin.
For a moment, everything seemed to slow. The music, which had once felt like a steady pulse, now felt like a wave that carried them forward, leaving the world outside their little bubble. There was only Neville, only the way his arms encircled her, the way his presence enveloped her, and the steady, gentle movements of the dance.
Then, before Hermione could even fully comprehend what was happening, Neville dipped her once more. This time, his grip was a little firmer, pulling her back, guiding her into a deep bend. She gasped softly as her body fell backward in his arms, her hand clutching onto his shoulder for balance. But as she tilted her head back, just slightly, there was something in the way Neville’s gaze softened—something in his expression that sent a shiver down her spine.
Her breath caught in her throat, her pulse quickening as the world seemed to disappear around them. She didn’t need to see to know what was coming. The heat in the air between them, the way his hand rested gently against her back, the slight tremble in his fingers, all of it felt like an undeniable pull toward something she couldn’t avoid. Her chest tightened with anticipation, her heart beating faster with every passing second.
And then, it happened.
Neville’s lips brushed against hers—soft, tentative, like a question being asked without words. It wasn’t a grand, sweeping kiss. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture. It was something quieter, more intimate. Something that was felt more than seen. His kiss was gentle, a soft press of warmth and familiarity against her lips, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to disappear entirely. She was lost in the feel of him, in the way his body held her steady, in the way his breath mingled with hers.
Hermione’s mind seemed to scatter for a moment, and she instinctively leaned into the kiss, her free hand reaching for him, fingers brushing the side of his neck, feeling the beat of his pulse, steady and sure under her touch. The connection was deep, more than just physical. There was a thread between them, something they hadn’t fully understood until now, but which had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged. The kiss was brief but intense, filled with the weight of everything unspoken, everything that had been simmering just beneath the surface.
As he gently pulled back, his hands still holding her, Neville’s breath was warm against her cheek. Hermione’s heart was still racing, her body flush from the unexpected intensity of the kiss. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the soft pressure of his hands on her back, and the way his chest rose and fell in time with her own rapid breaths.
He didn’t speak right away. Neither did she. The words seemed unnecessary, as if the kiss itself had already said everything they hadn’t been able to put into words. They were standing there, suspended in time, the music still swirling around them like a soft echo.
Finally, Neville cleared his throat softly, and when he spoke, his voice was rough, almost uncertain. “I—Hermione… I didn’t mean to—”
But Hermione stopped him, her fingers gently touching his lips. Her voice was quiet, but steady, as if she had found some strange, unexpected clarity in the moment. “It’s okay, Neville,” she whispered. “I think... I think I needed that.”
The words hung in the air, a soft understanding between them that needed no further explanation. Neither of them moved at first, just holding each other in the stillness that followed the kiss, the quiet intimacy between them feeling more real than anything else. The music played on in the background, but it felt like the only thing that mattered was the shared space they occupied, the connection that had deepened in that one, simple moment.
Neville’s hand lingered on her waist, his thumb brushing softly against her side, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Hermione felt completely at ease, completely grounded in the knowledge that whatever happened next, they would face it together.
She smiled softly, her fingers brushing through the fabric of his robes, feeling the warmth of his body beneath her touch. The air between them was still charged, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was familiar, comforting. And in that moment, Hermione realized that this—the closeness, the trust, the intimacy—was something she had been waiting for without even knowing it.
And with that, Hermione knew—without needing to see it—that everything between them had shifted. The dance wasn’t just about the steps anymore. It was about the trust, the connection, and the certainty that, whatever came next, they would face it side by side.