The Gala
The St. Mungo's Gala was in full swing, the grand ballroom brimming with the hum of conversation, the soft clink of glasses, and the gentle rustling of satin gowns and polished shoes against the marble floors. Chandeliers overhead cast a warm, golden light that reflected off every gleaming surface, illuminating the space with a glow that felt almost magical in itself. It was an evening dedicated to celebrating the healing arts, and the room was alive with the presence of doctors, healers, researchers, and dignitaries from across the wizarding world. Everywhere Hermione looked, she saw individuals whose lives revolved around mending, curing, and advancing magical medicine, each one engaged in quiet discussion or raising a toast in honor of their noble profession.
Yet, for all its beauty and purpose, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that she was somewhat out of place. She respected the work done at St. Mungo’s, admired the dedication of its healers, but her mind was elsewhere. No matter how much she tried to focus on the present, she kept drifting back to her research—the ruins, the energy that had pulsed through that ancient chamber, the runes that had seemed to whisper their significance in a language she could almost, but not quite, comprehend. And, of course, the lingering effects of her last adventure. She had been away from work for too long, yet the mere thought of returning to that chamber sent an unsettling shiver down her spine. She was still a researcher in name, but it felt like ages since she had truly belonged in that world.
“So, Hermione, when are you planning on returning to work?” Anthony Goldstein’s voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back into the present. His brow furrowed slightly as he adjusted his glasses, the glint of the chandelier’s light catching on the lenses as he studied her with quiet concern. "You know we’ve been waiting for you back at the office, right? It’s just not the same without you.”
Hermione hesitated for only a moment before answering, her fingers absently tracing the delicate stem of her empty glass. "I do want to return," she admitted, her voice quieter than she intended. "The work never really leaves my mind, you know? But I don’t think I can go back to that chamber. Not yet."
Anthony studied her for a long moment, his sharp gaze assessing her over the rim of his own drink. Though he wore an easy smile, there was an understanding in his eyes that told her he knew exactly what she meant. "Because of what happened?"
She nodded slowly, exhaling a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "I don’t know what’s still lingering from it, Anthony. The runes—whatever that energy was—it’s still on me, in some way. The healers can’t detect anything, but I feel it. And what if stepping back into that place makes it react?" She shook her head, forcing herself to push away the creeping unease curling at the edges of her mind. "I can’t risk it. Not yet."
Anthony frowned slightly but didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded, taking a slow sip of his drink before speaking again. "That’s fair. But you do still want to come back to the department?"
"Of course I do," Hermione said without hesitation, the words coming easily despite the doubts that gnawed at the back of her mind. "Research has always been—"
She cut herself off abruptly, her words faltering as a warmth—unfamiliar yet instinctively reassuring—settled against the small of her back. It was firm, steady, an anchor grounding her in a way that felt almost inevitable, like something falling into place without effort. The sensation was so natural, so familiar, that she didn’t even need to look to know who it was. There was no hesitation in the touch, no uncertainty, just a quiet presence that she recognized in her very bones.
A second later, a delicate glass of sparkling cider appeared before her, the cool stem pressed gently into her fingers. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, her thoughts scattering as she glanced down at the drink in her hand. It was only then, as she registered the weight of the glass and the crisp scent of the cider, that she fully became aware of Neville standing beside her.
She hadn’t noticed him approaching, hadn’t seen him making his way through the sea of elegantly dressed witches and wizards. But here he was, standing close enough that the warmth of him seeped through the fine fabric of her gown, close enough that she was acutely aware of the space they shared. His fingers had barely brushed hers as he handed her the drink, a fleeting contact that left behind the ghost of a sensation, something that lingered longer than it should have. And then, just as effortlessly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, his hand settled at the small of her back.
It was a simple touch—light and unobtrusive—but it sent a subtle, electric awareness through her. His palm was warm against the smooth satin of her dress, fingers resting with just enough pressure to make his presence known. It wasn’t a possessive touch, nor was it a casual one. It was just there, steady, grounding, offering something that she hadn’t realized she needed until that very moment.
She didn’t consciously think of it as a claim, didn’t let her mind put a name to what it meant. But the message it sent wasn’t lost on anyone watching.
Anthony’s gaze flickered downward for the briefest of moments, his sharp eyes catching the placement of Neville’s hand. It was barely perceptible—the way his lips quirked, the faintest ghost of amusement passing over his features before he smoothly took another sip of his drink. He was too astute not to notice, too perceptive not to understand. But if he had any thoughts on the matter, he chose not to voice them.
Neville, for his part, remained composed, as unassuming as ever. If he was aware of the weight of what he had done, of how effortlessly he had changed the dynamic of the moment, he gave no indication. His expression was open, easy, his voice warm as he finally spoke, breaking the brief silence between them.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, his tone casual but with an underlying warmth that made Hermione’s chest tighten in an inexplicable way. “I thought you might want a refill.”
She glanced up at him then, still holding the glass he had handed her. For a beat too long, she simply looked at him, taking in the way his eyes—steady and familiar—watched her with that quiet kind of attentiveness he always had. Something settled in her at that moment, though she wasn’t sure what.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice softer than she had intended. She took a sip of the cider, letting the familiar crispness of the bubbles settle her mind.
Anthony chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in his own glass before lifting a brow at Neville. “You’ve got impeccable timing, Longbottom. We were just discussing Hermione’s return to the department.”
Neville’s brow lifted slightly, but there was no surprise in his expression. His gaze flickered toward Hermione, curiosity evident but tempered with something else—something unreadable. “Oh?” he said, tilting his head just slightly. “Planning on diving back in?”
Hermione hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around the stem of her glass. The thought of returning to work was something she had wrestled with for weeks, something she wanted but couldn’t quite bring herself to face. And yet, standing here, with Neville beside her and Anthony waiting for her response, the weight of the question felt more real than it had before.
“I want to,” she admitted finally. “I miss it. I miss the research, the work—all of it.” She exhaled slowly, glancing down at the golden liquid in her glass. “But I can’t go back to that chamber. Not yet.”
Neville didn’t react outwardly, but Hermione, attuned to him in a way she didn’t want to analyse, felt the slightest movement—the way his fingers flexed just briefly against her back. It was so small that she might have missed it, so fleeting that she could have ignored it entirely.
Anthony nodded in understanding, his sharp gaze thoughtful as he swirled the liquid in his glass. “That’s what she was just saying. The runes—whatever that energy was—it’s still affecting her.” His voice held no judgment, only careful consideration, as if he were piecing together a puzzle with the same methodical precision he brought to their research. “And until she knows what lingering effects there might be, it’s too much of a risk to step back into that place.”
Neville’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly, the muscle feathering for the briefest moment before he nodded in quiet agreement. When he spoke, his voice was even, steady, betraying none of the concern Hermione suspected was just beneath the surface. “That makes sense,” he said simply. “No need to rush back into something dangerous.” Then, as if sensing the weight of the conversation pressing too heavily upon her, he glanced down at Hermione, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in that easy, familiar way of his. “Besides, research isn’t just about the fieldwork. There’s plenty to do without throwing yourself into another cursed site right away.”
A small, breathy laugh escaped her before she could stop it, and just like that, some of the tension in her shoulders eased. Leave it to Neville to find the most practical, grounded way to remind her that she didn’t have to push herself too soon. That there were other ways to contribute, other ways to engage with the work she loved without putting herself in harm’s way. “That’s true,” she admitted, tilting her head in consideration. “But let’s be honest—I’ve never been good at staying away from a mystery for long.”
Anthony grinned at that, raising his glass in an almost triumphant gesture. “That’s exactly why we need you back, Granger,” he said, amusement laced through his voice. There was something undeniably fond in the way he said it, something that spoke of camaraderie built through years of shared research, late nights buried in texts, and the thrill of discovery.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but the exasperation was entirely for show, a familiar dance between colleagues who had long since learned each other’s rhythms. Before she could offer any retort, though, she felt it again—the weight of Neville’s hand shifting ever so slightly at the small of her back. It was nothing overt, nothing dramatic. Just the lightest of movements, as if he were reminding her, without words, that he was still there. That he had never moved.
It was steady and warm, something both protective and quietly possessive, though she didn’t allow herself to put a name to it. But Anthony noticed. She could tell by the way his smirk deepened just slightly, by the glint of knowing amusement in his eyes. Still, he didn’t comment on it, didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. Instead, he simply took another slow sip of his drink, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Finally, he set his glass down and smirked. “I’ll let the team know you’ll be back soon—though maybe not to any ancient, cursed chambers just yet.”
Hermione laughed, lifting her own glass in a mock toast, the crisp cider catching the light as she tilted it slightly in his direction. “Not just yet,” she agreed, the words carrying an unspoken promise. She would return. She would find her way back to the work she loved. Just not today.
Neville didn’t say anything, but his hand remained right where it was. And even as the conversation continued, that silent, steady touch never wavered.