Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps

Thursday Evening

The torches in the Great Hall flickered to life all at once, casting long shadows over the students as they filtered in—murmuring, yawning, still clutching half-written essays and ink-stained fingers.

Hermione Granger walked with purpose, already scowling. “I was in the middle of compiling an annotated index for the Arithmancy archive. This had better be important.”

Harry chuckled beside her. “It’s probably just McGonagall needing to remind everyone to stop hexing Filch’s mop again.”

They slid into seats at the Gryffindor table. 

“What’s going on?” Harry asked. 

“Dunno,” Ron shrugged. Similar looks of befuddlement were shared by Ginny, Neville, Seamus and Dean.

“I just hope this doesn’t take long.” Hermione was fretful. “I’ve got to finish that Potions essay before bed.”

Harry smirked. “The one due the week after next?”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by a bell ringing for order.

Professor McGonagall stood at the front, hands clasped in front of her tartan robes. When the last student settled, she cleared her throat and—was that a twinkle in her eye?

“Thank you for your attendance at this unusual time. I have an announcement to make.

“After consultation with the staff,” she began, “we have decided that, in light of your continued academic excellence and overall resilience, a bit of a reprieve is in order.”

Across the hall, eyebrows lifted. Neville perked up from his spot beside the other 8th-years. Dean gave a low whistle.

McGonagall continued, “All of us know that this has not been an easy year. We have all lost loved ones and the staff is concerned that we have all lost a little bit of our ability to experience joy.”

Now her voice broke slightly, “One of the most joyful people I have ever had the privilege of knowing was Mr. Frederick Gideon Weasley. His birthday would have been this Saturday on April 1 - yes, on April Fool’s Day. In memory of Fred, and in hope for further healing, we have invited his twin brother George to make a special announcement. “

A tall figure, hair a little shorter than it used to be, smile just a little sadder sauntered up beside McGonagall. George Weasley gave her a theatrical bow and turned to face the crowd of startled students.

He surveyed them with a practiced showman’s eye and grinned.

“Blimey. This many young minds in one room and not a single dungbomb? Fred would’ve been appalled .”

Laughter rippled through the Hall—uneven, but real.

George’s smile gentled. “Right. So. For those of you who didn’t have the dubious honor of knowing my twin brother, Fred was the better-looking, slightly louder half of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. He had a knack for blowing things up and somehow making it feel like a gift.”

He paused, hands resting on the lectern.

“Fred believed that laughter was a kind of magic. The good kind. The kind that sticks with you, even when things go dark. And after everything we’ve all been through, it seemed only right to spread a little of that around.”

He turned and nodded to McGonagall, who conjured a swirling scroll into the air beside them.

“Which brings us to the official launch of the very first—drumroll, please— Restorative Recess! ”

Magical trumpets blared overhead. A large scroll appeared in the air. Confetti cannons erupted as the scroll  unfurled dramatically, revealing:

RESTORATIVE RECESS A Weekend of Wonder, Wit, and Whimsy
March 31–April 1

 

The Hall broke into surprised cheers. Even the Slytherin table looked intrigued.

George continued, “Starting tomorrow, all classes are canceled for the day—”

Hermione made a strangled noise.

“—and instead, you'll have your choice of delightfully ridiculous activities. Some examples: magical mini-golf in the Astronomy Tower. Reverse charades with ghosts. A prank lab run by yours truly—sign a waiver. Seriously.”

Laughter again.

“And on Saturday, in honor of Fred's birthday, we’re holding two events. First: a Talent Show —Fred’s Follies. No talent required. In fact, it’s discouraged. And second: a proper Spring Gala, complete with floating lights, formalwear, and an enchantment that plays a trumpet fanfare anytime someone kisses on the dance floor.”

McGonagall coughed sharply.

“I’m joking,” George said, grinning. “Probably.”

He glanced out over the room, eyes scanning the crowd. “But seriously—this weekend is about a time to be a little foolish, a little silly, and for those of us who do remember Fred - doing it the way he would’ve wanted: with joy, with laughter, with slightly irresponsible use of magic. And with all of us still here, still standing, still dancing.”

He stepped back. “So go on. Have some fun. That’s what Fred would’ve done.”

A hush settled for just a moment. Then someone—probably Seamus—let out a whoop, and the Great Hall exploded into cheers.

The fire crackled low in the hearth of the 8th-year common room, casting a golden glow across worn armchairs and mismatched rugs. It was the kind of quiet that only came after a surprise like that—after cheering, after laughter, after remembering someone too well to stop smiling even when it hurt.

Ginny sat cross-legged on the hearthrug, toasting a marshmallow on the end of a wand. Ron was flopped sideways in an armchair with a Chocolate Frog balanced on his forehead. George had claimed the faded corduroy sofa, boots kicked off, a Butterbeer in one hand.

“I’ll say it,” George muttered. “That was lovely. Touching, even.”

Ginny looked up. “You’re fishing.”

George smirked. “Of course I am.”

Ron snorted. “It was good. Weird, but good.”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes.

Ginny sighed. “You know what I’m missing? Aside from the obvious, I mean, is a proper prank.”

“Yessss. A Fred-level prank,” George agreed.

Ron perked up. “Like the time he convinced Percy he was being headhunted by goblins.”

“Or when he made Mum’s clock show all of us in ‘perilous courtship.’”

“That one nearly got him killed,” George said fondly.

They were laughing now—low and genuine. But then Ginny’s voice softened.

“I just… miss that part. Not just the jokes, but the surprise. The chaos. Something big and stupid and brilliant that no one saw coming.”

“On someone who would fall for it,” Ron said, nodding.

They looked at each other, realization dawning.

“But who won’t hex us into next week afterward,” George added slowly.

There was a pause.

And then, in perfect sync:

“Harry and Hermione.”

In the corridor Harry and Hermione froze as they heard their names invoked with laughter by the Weasley sibs. 

Harry put a finger to his lips and motioned for Hermione to flatten herself against the wall. The voices floated towards them from the other room.

“We set them up together…”

“Hermione’ll be furious.”

“She’ll get over it. Eventually.”

Ginny’s voice: “Fake love notes…”

“Ooooh, I love pulling one over on Harry Potter,” 

“He’ll pretend he’s mad, but you can see the exact moment he decides it’s fair play.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

George: “They’re perfect. Gullible, suspicious, always trying to save each other.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped in indignation.

“They’ll never see it coming,” they heard Ron say.

All three Weasleys were cackling now.

An incredulous smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Well. That’s flattering,” he whispered.

He was still pressed against the wall with an irate Hermione. 

Hermione’s voice was low and dangerous. “They think they can trick us?” 

He turned to find her snapping with angry magic— face red, eyebrows knitted together in rage. 

Harry grinned. Angry Hermione was fun when it wasn’t directed towards himself. “Apparently we’re the perfect marks,” he shrugged.

“Oh!” she huffed, as quietly as Hermione Granger ever huffed. “I’m going to kill—”

But Harry’s hand caught her wrist before she could take another step towards the Common Room.

“No, you’re not.”

“Harry—!”

“Nope,” he hissed, already pulling her down the corridor. “Come on.”

“To what? Hide?”

“To plot.”

The 8th-year dorms were smaller and quieter, a concession to privacy and healing. Each student had their own room now, with wards keyed to their comfort and space to just breathe .

Harry’s room smelled like cedar and lemon soap. A small charmed window showed the stars. Quidditch posters lined the walls. Hermione stood in the center of the room, arms crossed. “You’d better have a good reason for dragging me away from a perfectly good confrontation.”

Harry leaned against his desk, arms folded. “They want a prank? Let’s give them one.”

Hermione blinked. “You want to prank them?”

He nodded, grinning now. “Let’s make them think they succeeded. Let’s pretend they actually caught us falling for each other.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You want us to fake a relationship? Just to mess with them?”

“Not just any fake relationship. A slow-burn, library-whispering, shared-scarf, can’t-keep-their-eyes-off-each-other fake relationship. Let them believe they’ve uncovered our deepest secret. ”

Hermione gaped at him.

Harry shrugged. “Come on. You’re the best actress I know.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are enjoying this.”

“I’m enjoying the idea of outmaneuvering Ginny and George Weasley. Yes.”

Hermione crossed the room slowly, considering. She walked to the bookshelf  where his photos stood: the photo of Harry, James, and Lily that came from the scrapbook Hagrid had given him; a photo of Ron, Hermione, and Harry, taken at the Burrow sometime before the war and another featuring the DA, still waving sleepily; one of Harry and Hermione, her throwing her head back in laughter as he grinned at her in a constant loop. 

She picked it up. “I don’t remember this one. Where was it taken??”

“This summer in Diagon.”

“Oh, yes,” she murmured, thoughtful. “That’s Fortescue’s behind us.” 

She replaced it softly and turned to him.

“You realize we’ll have to commit.” She shifted slightly, fidgeted a bit. “Full performance. As though it’s a long game.”

Harry’s smile turned sly. “That is what you’re best at, isn’t it?”

She arched a brow. “And what exactly will you be contributing to this performance, Potter?”

He held up his hand and ticked off his fingers one-by-one. “1. Brooding and sighing in your general direction. 2. Quiet yearning. 3. Hand-holding. 4. Attentive, smitten boyfriend behavior.”

“And 5…” Hermione prompted.

“5. Unbridled lust.”

She swallowed.

Then she took a breath. “Fine,” she said. She held out her hand, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Partners in prank?”

He clasped it. “Warriors in absurdity.”

Friday Morning

The next morning dawned clear and crisp. Hermione held the note she’d found attached to her dorm room door in her hand. It could pass for his handwriting.

Meet me at the lake. 

xH

She scanned the area, trying to figure out where the Weasleys were concealed without giving away that she was looking for them.

Harry crested the hill. Their eyes met.

Without a word, both their expressions shifted—smirks tugging at the corners of their mouths, eyebrows raised in unspoken mischief. Hermione tilted her head as though asking, "Ready?"

Harry nodded once. Showtime.

He waltzed toward her, looking only at her the entire time. He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her slightly toward him, like they’d done this same move a hundred times. He glanced over her shoulder, where the hawthorn trees swayed just slightly.

Hermione, playing her part perfectly, draped her arms around his neck and gazed into his face with an expression he could only describe as dangerous. "They’re definitely here," she whispered. "Hawthorn bushes. Are you up for it?"

"Go big," he murmured. His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing over her lips. "Make it look like we’ve been carrying on for months."

Hermione’s lips twitched. "Bold." She closed her eyes and pressed a kiss onto his thumb.

He pulled her closer, then slid his hand slowly up her arm to find hers where it rested around his neck. He twined his fingers with hers and brought them deliberately to his mouth. "I’ll hover close."

He held her gaze and began kissing along each finger.

Hermione inhaled sharply. He was watching her.

"You look at me adoringly," he prompted.

She blinked, came back to herself, then arranged her face into a tiny smirk. "I always look adoring," she said, deadpan.

Harry smiled wickedly. His arm tightened around her waist. He placed her hand back around his neck, letting his other hand trail slowly down her side, over her hip.

"And now I’ll grab your arse."

She blinked. "You’ll what?"

His hand moved lower.

Hermione's knee snapped up with surgical precision. Whump.

Harry wheezed, doubling slightly. "Oof—!"

" Harry James Potter, what in the world do you think you’re doing?!"

Still grinning, he tried to catch his breath. "What?! We spent half a year living in a tent together. You think I don’t know your arse is grabbable?"

He didn’t pull away, still holding her close. From where the Weasley siblings were hidden, it likely looked like a sultry, often-rehearsed exchange.

Her cheeks burned. He leaned in, mouth hovering near her ear.

"We can play it off like this is flirty foreplay."

Time held for a second, breathless and stretched thin. Even the wind stilled.

Hermione shivered.

Behind the hawthorn bushes, George choked on his biscuit.

Ron made a sound like a throttled kneazle. "Blimey," he croaked. “Gods. Harry’s actually quite smooth!”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. "It’s too good. Too smooth. Too convincing..."

She leaned forward and examined the scene critically. “Too clean. No stammering. No glasses fogging up. I smell a plot.”

Back by the lake, Hermione tried to glare murderously, but Harry was radiant.

"We said we’d be all in," he said, looking far too pleased with himself.

"I can’t believe you did that," she muttered.

"I’m a red-blooded man, Hermione," he said, louder now.

She scoffed.

Then quieter, just for her, "If you really were my girlfriend, I’d be grabbing your arse as often as you’d let me."

Her face flamed. He laughed.

"Stop making fun of me, Harry. It’s borderline mean," she pouted.

Still grinning, he leaned in. "Oh, I’m not making fun. You have a very nice bottom, Hermione. Empirically. Round. Pert. So, so grabbable."

She shook her head slowly, watching him with something between exasperation and awe. She puzzled at what she was seeing then realized— Harry was having fun—truly, openly, the way she hadn't seen in ages. Not since before the war. Not like this.

And somehow, in the absurdity of it all, she felt herself relaxing. Letting go.

She let out a soft laugh that started deep in her chest. "Oh, for Merlin's sake," she murmured, grinning now. She fake-swooned. "How shall I ever deny your charms?" she intoned.

He winked. "You don’t have to."

She smiled and let him pull her into a hug, resting her head on his shoulder. They stood there, just a moment too long.

He glanced at the bushes. "Should we head back? I’ll put my arm around you. You call me something ridiculously sweet and titter like I’m the cleverest, funniest bloke you know."

She nodded, gave a convincing giggle, and they turned to walk back hand in hand.

As they approached the path that would lead them by the hawthorn bushes, Harry arranged his arm over her shoulder, pulling her to him. She looped her arm around his waist and he dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss into her hair. Hermione's breath hitched at the warmth of it, but she managed to keep smiling.

Her grip didn’t loosen.

Her shoulder brushed against him as they walked. She could feel the warmth of him through layers of wool and uniform and nerves. She glanced up at him from under her lashes, trying not to look obvious. He was focused ahead, but there was the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

She blinked slowly, trying to summon a thought. Any thought.

This was Harry. Harry. Her best friend.

And now her heart was pounding in time with her footsteps.

She licked her lips, barely aware she was doing it. Her cheeks felt hot.

Something was happening. She wasn’t sure what. But it had weight and heat and it was moving too fast to name.

She clung tighter to his waist as they neared the bushes, not because she needed balance.

She needed something to hold on to.

His voice in her ear was warm. "Pretend I’m saying something devastatingly sexy." Then he leaned in again, slower this time, his breath stirring the hairs just behind her ear. His lips brushed the spot just below it—a kiss so precise, so intimate, that her whole body jolted like a live wire had run through it.

Her knees nearly gave out. She faltered for half a step and tightened her grip on his waist, fingers clutching the fabric of his jumper. Her stomach gave a traitorous flutter.

He was still trying to walk beside her like nothing had happened. Calm. Collected. Like he hadn’t just short-circuited her brain.

Hermione could barely breathe. She was going to combust.

He nudged her. She forced a laugh and said, far too high-pitched and breathy, "Oh, Huffly-bun-buns, you’re so funny."

Even as the words left her mouth, she winced. Harry looked at her, stricken.

They reached the castle doors.

The moment they stepped inside, Harry turned. "Huffy-bunny-what-buns?! What the hell, Hermione? I take back everything I said about your acting ability."

At the Gryffindor table, Hermione dropped into a seat and buried her face in her arms. "I’m sorry."

"What happened? We were doing so well!"

She groaned again "I KNOW!"

Then she sat up suddenly and smacked his shoulder. "This is hardly all my fault! You are way too convincing! That voice—low and slow and sexy. And kissing my neck?! What the fuck, Harry?!"

Her eyes snapped with fury. She leaned in, hissing, "I didn’t realize you were so good at fake seduction. Give a girl a chance to get her armor on, why don't you?! I panicked!"

Inches from him now, breath hot between them, she was lit from within—flushed, glaring, alive. Her words vibrated in the air like magic freshly cast.

Harry didn’t move. Couldn’t. Something in her expression stopped him cold. The outrage, the vulnerability, the way her chest rose and fell like she was trying to catch up with her heartbeat—it undid him.

He blinked. He watched a single tear roll onto her cheek. He tracked it with his eyes as it slid past her mouth and disappeared near the curve of her jaw.

Her lips parted, just slightly. His gaze dropped. She was looking at his mouth too.

His pulse surged. Every part of him was tuned toward her.

She smelled like shampoo and sun and...rosemary? Lavender? His hands twitched. He wanted—

It would be so easy to just lean in. Just once. Just to see.

"Oh my gosh, you two!"

Ginny, smiling broadly, looking a little manically intense.

Hermione and Harry snapped apart, blinking.

"Ron, George, and I saw you! You’ve done it! You’re finally together!"

Hermione recovered first. "Um, yes. Yes, we are. Definitely. Together." She grabbed Harry’s hand. "So glad we don’t have to pretend any longer."

Harry surfaced from his haze. "“Yes. No more pretending. We’re… together. Obviously." He looked at her for a moment. "So happy.”

He let go of her hand and stood. "I’ve got to… um… run back to the room… umm, Love. Forgot about the… thing." He stumbled. "Sorry. I’ve got to… Sorry."

Hermione and Ginny watched him flee.

Ron plopped down. "Well, I’m happy for you two. About damn time."

Later, Hermione excused herself. Ginny watched her go, arms crossed.

"They’re faking it."

"What?! That's real, Gin," Ron said. "Neither of them are good enough actors to pull that off."

George snorted. "Nobody fakes that kind of chemistry."

Ginny shook her head. "Nobody says honey-huffy-boobookins or whatever that was. That was classic Hermione panic. And then Harry fled. They’re faking it and they got scared."

"Why does it matter?" Ron asked. "Even if they think they’re pretending, maybe they’ll stop mooning about like lovesick flobberworms."

Ginny didn’t answer. She was already scheming.

"You fled."

Hermione knocked once and cracked open the door. "You fled," she said again, now accusing.

Harry lay diagonally across the bed, an arm over his face. "I panicked."

She stepped in. "You panicked?"

"You said Huffly-bunny-butt or whatever!"

She sputtered.

"And when you’re angry you’re just so…" He groaned. "I think I blacked out. I saw myself from the ceiling."

Hermione stalked to his bed. She sat down with a huff and folded her arm. He opened his eyes. 

She was mad. "No. No, no, no. You are NOT putting this on me, Potter.” She jabbed him with her finger. “You’re the one with the sexy little moves. You’re the one kissing my neck. You’re the one grabbing my arse!"

"I didn’t grab it. I approached it."

She arched both eyebrows.

He sat up. "Okay. Poorly timed. I was going for comedic effect."

"It was a little too effective."

They looked at each other, then away.

Time held, suspended between them like a breath neither had taken.

"I haven’t...been with…” Hermione began, then trailed off. "Not really. Since the war."

Harry nodded. "Me neither."

She was quieter now. "When you’re pretending someone likes you... and then they say something warm, or flirtatious, or completely idiotic but sincere... it does something."

Harry looked at his hands. "Yeah. It’s easy to forget it’s fake."

Silence.

Hermione finally stood. "We’re just... a little attention-starved."

Harry nodded. "Exactly."

A small silence. He sighed. “Are you sure you're ok with doing this?” 

She watched him for a moment. Then she nodded.

Her voice was soft. “I am.” 

Another pause. "Are you?" she asked.

He nodded. "I am."

She turned to go, then paused at the door.

"You were right, though."

Harry blinked. "About what?"

She winked at him right before she closed the door. "My arse is very grabbable."

Ginny was all sunshine and sincerity at lunch.

“Oh my Merlin, you two are adorable,” she gushed, plopping down beside Hermione and Harry at the long table. “I love that you’re not even trying to hide it anymore, are you?”

Hermione blinked. Her heart stuttered. Ginny was laying it on thick—too thick. Was she being tested? She glanced quickly at Harry, but he was already responding.

“We’re not ashamed of it,” Harry said, smoothly, taking a calculated bite of treacle tart.

Ginny beamed. “Love it.”

Her eyes narrowed. Just a tick. Anyone who didn’t know her well wouldn’t have noticed the difference.

She beamed again. “Now that Hogwarts’ Favorite Couple is finally out in the open, I’ve signed you both up for a few things.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose, but she kept her voice even. “Things?” Her mind was racing. If Ginny was baiting them—and of course she was—what did she already suspect?

“Partnered activities!” Ginny beamed. “We’re making the most of Restorative Recess, remember?”

She unrolled the list:

• Enchanted Egg Toss
• Tandem Broom Obstacle Course
• Two-Wand Baking Relay
• Charmed Charades (Comedy Theme)
• Quiz (Public Edition, Hosted by Luna)

Harry blinked. “That’s… a lot.”

Ginny waved it off. “All in good fun. And optional, of course.”

Hermione tilted her head. “But you already signed us up.”

“Well, yes. But I knew you’d want to! I mean, you’re so in sync, right?”

Harry stared at the list. “What exactly is an Enchanted Egg Toss?"

“Oh,” Ginny said, eyes glittering. “Just you and your partner passing an enchanted dragon’s egg back and forth while it whispers secrets into your ears. If it senses distraction or you drop it, it goes off.”

“Goes off?” Hermione asked faintly.

“Just some sparks and maybe a minor hex or two. Nothing permanent.”

Harry looked over at Hermione.

She smiled at him. He smiled back. Sweetly. Dangerously.

They turned to Ginny.

“Sounds perfect,” they said in unison.

Ginny blinked. “Really?”

Hermione folded her arms. Her expression was cool, but her pulse was anything but. “We love a challenge,” she said, aiming for defiance and praying Ginny couldn’t see the flicker of panic just beneath.

Harry slung an arm casually around Hermione’s shoulders. “We’re unbreakable.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes.

“Well then,” she said slowly. “I suppose we’ll see about that.”

She turned on her heel and swept out.

Harry sobered, watching her retreating form.

“Something wrong?” Hermione asked.

He turned to her slowly. “She knows.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“She knows that we know they tried to set us up. She knows we are faking it.”

Hermione straightened, lips parting.

“She’s trying to make us break,” Harry said. “She’s trying to get us to be so over-the-top we’ll cave under the weight of it.”

Hermione’s expression turned steely as she looked toward the spot Ginny had just left.

Then all at once, the fight drained from her. She folded down into her arms, voice muffled. “We’re going to die.”

Harry didn’t answer at first. He watched her in amusement. Then he shifted closer, the bench creaking under the change in weight. One warm hand found the middle of her back, his thumb drawing slow, steady circles through the fabric of her jumper.

She exhaled, the sound soft and shaky. His touch didn’t stop. She didn’t ask him to.

He leaned in a bit more, close enough that she felt the curve of his shoulder brush hers. His fingers skimmed her curls, and he caught one between them, twisting it gently.

She turned her face toward him, still half-folded on her arms. Her eyes searched his, as if measuring how serious he was about all of this.

He didn’t look away. The circles on her back never paused. He kept her curl twined between his fingers.

Her voice, when it came, was low. “You really think we can fake our way through an egg toss that speaks secrets?”

“Sure,” he said. “They may not be secrets. Maybe jokes. And I think that part is just to distract you from the tossing. You know I’m good at catching things. And I remember you played rounders or whatever you had growing up, that Muggle catching game something.”

Hermione gave him a look.

Harry leaned in. “Besides… I think it’s kind of fun.”

Her lips twitched.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s show her what we’ve got.”

Friday Afternoon

A crowd had gathered on the south lawn, drawn by the promise of mildly dangerous magical entertainment.

Harry and Hermione stood in the grass amid dozens of other pairs of students. The whole south lawn buzzed with excitement and nervous energy. Some were in dating relationships. Some were best friends. A few siblings were on the lawn, too. Hermione felt a bit of relief that it wasn’t just romantic relationships here. Whatever this was, she and Harry could do, even without the pretense of a fake romance.

Between them stood a floating podium, a basket of shimmering, iridescent eggs levitating above it, each one pulsing faintly with a faint pink glow.

Professor Flitwick stood beside the basket, beaming.

“This is a classic egg toss with one big difference. “These eggs are charmed to test your teamwork and focus,” Flitwick said, eyes twinkling. “They may reveal truths, absurdities, private thoughts—anything to distract you. If your connection falters—” he gave a cheery laugh, “—well, let’s just say a few sparks may fly.”

“Fantastic,” Harry muttered. “Nothing like recreational hexing.”

Hermione adjusted her grip on his forearm. “We’ve faced dragons. We can handle enchanted honesty.”

“Speak for yourself,” he said. “I’m pretty sure the egg’s going to tell you about that time I cried during Little Women.”

Hermione grinned. “Beth’s death is objectively devastating.”

Ginny watched them from a distance, arms crossed. George stood beside her, chewing a licorice wand and taking it all in.

“They’re too relaxed,” she hissed.

George glanced over. “They look happy.”

“They’re pretending to be happy.”

“Ok, sure,” he said around the licorice. “But even if so, it’s good pretending.”

Ginny rounded on him. “Aren’t you running this event? You can’t tweak the eggs a little?”

George raised an eyebrow. “I’m not interfering with Flitwick’s magic. Do I look suicidal?”

She groaned. “Ugh. Just watch. This’ll be it. Nobody survives the egg toss.”

Hermione shifted. She and Harry were standing 10 feet apart in a line with the other pairs. She pulled out her wand, twisted her hair into a bun, and slid the wand through it in a practiced motion—absentminded, efficient, and entirely unaware that across from her, Harry had gone still.

He raised an eyebrow.

Then, with unhurried precision, he unbuttoned his sleeves to roll them up. She blinked. The sinews of his forearms moved under skin as he rolled his sleeves with deliberate care. Her stomach gave a little flip. Oh, god. He had no idea, did he? At least he hadn’t unbuttoned his shirt at the top— no wait. No mercy for her. She groaned inwardly as his fingers slid through the buttons and his collar loosened.

A throat cleared near her. Hermione dragged her attention away from her very fit partner. An egg bounced lightly against her hands. Flitwick was looking at her holding a levitated egg waiting to be placed into Hermione’s hands. She blushed and opened them. “Sorry!” she yelled to Flitwick as the egg settled into her palms and pulsed warmly.

She looked up at Harry. He was looking at her oddly. “You alright?” he mouthed.

She set her mouth in a line and nodded.

“Begin when ready!” Flitwick chirped.

Hermione took a deep breath, then lobbed the egg gently.

Harry caught it.

The egg glowed—and spoke in a silvery, echoing voice directly into their ears only,

“Sometimes I dream about her showing up at my door, saying she was wrong about everything.”

Hermione blinked.

Harry turned the egg over in his hands.

“What was that?” she asked.

Harry smirked. “No idea. Egg’s just trying to get in our heads.”

He took a step back and tossed it to her.

Hermione caught it. The egg whispered:

“He looks at me like I’m made of starlight and idiocy.”

She snorted.

Harry laughed.

She took a step back and tossed it again. He caught it with ease. The egg glowed brighter.

“Sometimes I think I’m already in love and she just hasn't noticed.”

This time, neither of them laughed.

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

Harry looked down at the egg.

A step back. Another toss.

“God, his forearms.”

“She always smells like parchment and sugar.”

“He’s the only one who makes me forget to overthink.”

“I wonder what she’d do if I took out that wand while kissed her in the restricted section.”

Each whisper landed heavier.

Now there was no smile, no laughter, just tension—like static crackling in the charged space between them them. They were oblivious to the energy around them; whether other pairs were still in the competition meant nothing. Their whole attention was concentrated on the other.

Hermione caught one more toss and heard the crowd cheer. She looked up. She and Harry and a Ravenclaw prefect and his little sister were the only two pairs left.

Flitwick’s voice came through, amplified. “We are down to our final toss so we will take turns. Mr. Hendricks, Miss Hendricks, you may go first.”

Harry and Hermione didn’t watch the toss. They were still gazing at each other. But they couldn’t ignore the loud crack or the quaver in the air when the other pair’s egg sparked and sent firecrackers shooting along the pitch. The crowd groaned. The Hendricks siblings had dropped the egg.

Harry turned to her again.

The egg pulsed red in Hermione’s hands.

They locked eyes.

Another step back.

“I want to know if she tastes like her tea.”

Hermione’s breath caught. Her fingers slipped. The egg left her hand too early, the arc too shallow, the trajectory wrong. She gasped. It was too short and wild. There was no way Harry would catch it.

Harry had begun running when he heard the secret. Now he dove forward sliding under the egg to catch it right before it hit the ground. He came up triumphant like he had caught a snitch.

The crowd cheered.

He turned to her, breathless.

She hadn’t moved. Her hand hovered where the egg had been. Her eyes were wide. She looked like she might cry. Or bolt.

Ginny let out a strangled sound.

George arched an eyebrow. “They did well.”

“They flirted through it!”

“They flirt well.”

Ginny groaned. “I need a drink.”

George patted her shoulder. “Maybe just a nap.”

The Tandem Broom Toss tried Hermione’s every nerve.

Harry glanced at Hermione as he adjusted the tandem broom’s harness. “You ready?”

“Absolutely not,” she said.

He laughed, wrapping one arm around her waist from behind. “Then hold on.”

They soared forward, weaving through floating hoops. Wind tugged at their robes, Hermione’s terrified laughter echoing.

Her knuckles were white on the broom’s shaft. Every loop felt like betrayal. And Harry was laughing like it was the best thing in the world.

“You’re enjoying this!” he shouted.

“I’m really not,” she shouted back. “But you are, right?”

“Of course I am!” he yelled. “You’re pressed against me, I’m flying—what’s not to love?”

She flushed. “You’re impossible!”

“I’ve been told I’m irresistible.”

Hermione elbowed Harry away from dipping into the frosting at the bake-off event.

“Stop eating all the frosting!” she frowned. “What sort of help are you? You’re not even stirring!”

“I’m providing emotional support.”

“Harry.”

He leaned in. “Your hair smells like vanilla.”

Her hand stilled in the batter. “Focus.”

He dipped his pinky into the frosting and offered it to her. “Here. Taste.”

Her eyes gleamed with the challenge. She took his finger into her mouth. Held his gaze. Let her lips close around him—slowly. Her tongue flicked against the frosting. She sucked gently, deliberately.

Harry made a sound that might have been a word. Or a prayer.

“Oh, you’re very supportive,” she said, voice low.

“Exactly.”

Their cupcakes came out half-burnt.

They got second place.

"Movie,” Hermione said, pointing to herself.

Harry nodded.

She mimed… something. A dramatic turn. A fall. A spin.

He guessed. “Twilight? The Princess Bride? Sense and Sensibility?”

She rolled her eyes.

Then she stepped forward, placed a hand on his chest, and brushed back a curl of his hair. Her fingertips lingered. They froze, faces inches apart. The air between them seemed to thrum.

His breath caught. “Strictly Ballroom.”

She smiled. “Correct.”

Ginny muttered under her breath behind them. “Too perfect.”

Friday Evening

The courtyard was set up like a whimsical quiz show—chalkboards and cushions scattered in pairs, the last bit of sunlight dappling through enchanted streamers. Luna floated between the teams with a stack of cards and a dreamy smile, asking questions aloud to the whole group.

Most pairs whispered frantically, scribbling answers on parchment, laughing, nudging, correcting.

But Harry and Hermione didn’t write anything down.

They sat shoulder to shoulder in the grass, knees brushing, half-turned toward each other. It wasn’t that they ignored the quiz—it was that Luna seemed to be asking them something different.

She drifted past, eyes thoughtful. “What’s Hermione’s biggest fear?” she asked—not to the group, not off a card, but gently, like she already knew the answer.

“Failing the people she loves,” Harry said at once.

Hermione turned to him so fast her hair swung. “That’s not… listed on the quiz.”

“Doesn’t need to be,” he said softly.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Luna had already drifted on.

“Next question,” she called to the wider group, voice carrying. “What’s the most ridiculous thing your partner’s ever worn?”

Laughter erupted around them. But Luna, without turning back, asked in a quieter voice, just for them, “What color are Harry’s eyes in direct sunlight?”

Hermione didn’t look away. “Green,” she murmured. “But they go gold at the edges when he’s about to say something stupid.”

Harry laughed, flushing. She noticed.

Ginny, halfway through answering her own group’s question, paused and narrowed her eyes.

Across the grass, George gave her a pointed look. “Still think they’re faking it?”

Ginny didn’t reply. She just watched.

Professor McGonagall approached them near the edge of the courtyard, where the light was beginning to dim.

"Miss Granger. Mr. Potter."

They turned, still holding hands from the last challenge.

"I’ve been informed that your partnership has been a highlight of the day," she said, dryly.

Harry blushed. Hermione cleared her throat.

"For Fred’s Follies, I’d like to extend you the honor of performing as our closing act."

Harry simply said, "We’d love to."

Hermione’s head snapped toward him. "We’d—what?"

McGonagall gave her a thin, diplomatic smile that somehow managed to be both indulgent and unyielding. "Oh, excellent. I’m sure you’ll surprise us," she said, and swept away before Hermione could form a proper objection.

They stood in silence for a long moment, the courtyard golden around them with the last stretch of evening light.

Hermione exhaled, slowly. "Do you have some plan to redeem our reputation when we try to do a juggling act or something?"

Harry turned toward her, one corner of his mouth lifting. "We could do a dance."

She blinked. Then again.

"A dance," she repeated, not quite a question, not quite an objection.

He held her gaze, something quiet and daring in his eyes.

"Perhaps?" he murmured.

Hermione felt her breath catch. The world around them narrowed to the space between their hands. She looked into his eyes, searching for what she hoped she would find there.

"Perhaps," she whispered back.

They didn’t plan to leave the castle, not really.

But after the flying, the baking, the charades, the quiz, the air in the Great Hall had started to hum with too much closeness, too many eyes.

So when Harry glanced at Hermione and tilted his head toward the corridor, she just nodded and fell into step beside him.

No questions. No plans.

The night welcomed them with open arms.

The Black Lake glistened in the moonlight, its surface a ribbon of silver glass. The air smelled like moss and woodsmoke. Spring frogs sang from somewhere nearby, soft and insistent.

Their hands brushed once, twice, then didn’t part.

A little farther along the trail, Harry stopped abruptly. Just off the path, a cluster of glowing magical wildflowers shimmered beneath a tree—tiny blooms pulsing gently with pale blue light.

“Wait here,” he said, and stepped into the grass.

Hermione watched him kneel, carefully selecting one from the center. It was delicate, petals like spun silk and a faint scent like moonlight and mint.

He returned, both solemn and grinning, and held it out to her with both hands like an offering.

“For you, fair maiden,” he said with mock gravity. “From your devoted knight.”

Hermione dipped into an elegant curtsy, head bowed. “Your chivalry honors me, brave sir.”

He tucked the bloom gently into her hair, just behind her ear. His fingers brushed her temple.

She looked up, cheeks glowing.

“Do I get a kiss from the princess?” he asked softly, eyes not leaving hers.

Her smile faltered—not in rejection, but something quieter, more reverent.

“Not yet,” she whispered. And something in the way she said it made it sound like not yet truly meant soon .

Harry nodded, as though the answer were the most natural thing in the world.

They walked on. Their pace was slower now. Neither of them seemed eager to reach the castle again.

The rest of the path curved gently back toward the castle, lined with blooming bushes and firefly-like wisps that floated lazily above the grass. They said nothing, but sometimes their arms touched. Their steps matched. Every once in a while, their fingers would brush. Catch. Let go. Catch again.

When the castle lights came into view, Hermione sighed—barely more than a breath.

They moved through the hallways quietly, not stopping in the Common Room until they were at the place where they would part for their rooms.

Neither moved.

Harry reached out, slow and unthinking, and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

Her hand came up—stilled his—and she leaned her cheek into his palm, eyes fluttering shut.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was whole.

When she opened her eyes again, she smiled. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

She stepped back, one last moment of hesitation… and then slipped away down the hall, barefoot-quiet.

Harry didn’t move until the last whisper of her robes had disappeared.

The magic lingered long after she was gone.

Hermione lay curled on her side, the moonlight casting lacework shadows across her blanket. Her room was quiet except for the soft tick of her enchanted clock and the distant echo of a frog’s song through the glass.

Her eyes closed—but her mind slipped backward to their Fourth Year.

The Gryffindor common room had thinned out by half-past ten, students drifting upstairs in clumps of tired laughter and last-minute homework complaints.

Harry sat near the fireplace, curled into one of the deep armchairs with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a long-cold mug of cocoa in his hands. The fire was low now, embers shifting softly. He hadn’t spoken much since the First Task.

Hermione knew he was brooding.

She slipped in quietly, holding a dusty Muggle DVD case. She didn’t say anything—just set it in his lap.

He blinked at it. “Strictly Ballroom?”

She sat down beside him, folding her legs under herself like she’d done it a hundred times. “It’s ridiculous,” she admitted. “And wonderful. And I figured you needed to just feel happy for a few minutes.”

Harry glanced at the glittering, rose-gold lettering on the case, then back at her.

“We don’t have a player.”

“I charmed it,” she said, with the faintest smile. “Thought you deserved a proper Muggle film now and then.”

He gave a soft laugh—more breath than sound. “Are there explosions?”

“Sequins.”

“Close enough.”

They watched in quiet—Hermione occasionally humming under her breath, Harry slowly uncurling as the story unfolded.

When Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps began to play, Hermione stilled. Harry did too. They watched the dancers circle one another—uncertain, electric, aching with things unsaid.

Hermione murmured, almost to herself, “It’s not really about the dance.”

Harry’s eyes stayed on the screen. “No. It’s about the waiting.”

She didn’t answer. Just leaned the barest bit closer.

By the time the credits rolled, the tension in Harry’s shoulders had eased. But something in him had shifted. Quietly. Permanently.

Hermione stood to stretch and gather her jumper. “We could probably learn that dance, you know,” she said lightly.

Harry scoffed. “Not unless you want a broken toe.”

Hermione just smiled. “You might surprise me.”

They never danced it.

But they watched it again the next year. And the year after that.

And tonight Harry had looked her dead in the eye and said—

“Perhaps?”

Hermione knew exactly what he meant.

Saturday Morning

Harry was up before the sun.

He hadn’t been able to sleep.

Her hand in his. The way her breath had caught when she said perhaps. It played in his head like a refrain.

So he got to work.

He conjured a fresh parchment, rewatched the Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps dance scene on his enchanted mirror (thank you, Hermione, for leaving it behind one summer), and took notes—timing, steps, tension, glances.

Then he threw on a jumper and made his way to the kitchens.

He returned fifteen minutes later with two mugs of coffee—hers lightly sweetened, just a splash of real cream.

He knocked on her door.

Hermione opened the door a few minutes later in pajama bottoms and a long cardigan, hair in a loose plait, blinking sleepily.

“You’re up early.”

“I brought coffee,” Harry said, holding it out. “And choreography.”

She blinked again. “You did what?”

“I watched it again,” he said, almost shy. “Took notes. You were right—this dance is about what they’re not saying.”

Hermione took the coffee and inhaled. “Is this… real cream?”

He gave her a look. “Do you think I don’t know how you take your coffee?”

Her heart fluttered, but she just sipped.

“Alright then, Mr. Potter,” she said, stepping back into her room. “Let’s dance.”

They claimed a quiet corner before breakfast. The Hall was still and quiet—just a few enchanted candles flickering as they stood on the smooth stone floor.

Harry pressed play on the enchanted mirror.

The music began.

They stepped forward. Hands touched. They circled, closer and closer.

At first, they giggled.

Then they didn’t.

Her hand in his. Warm. Certain. Like it belonged there.

His eyes on hers. Unspoken things humming between them.

Their bodies moved like memory.

They missed a beat. He stepped on her foot. She swore.

They laughed, breathless—and tried again.

Ginny had gone looking for Harry, intent on roping him into an afternoon prank detail.

Instead, she found them in the Great Hall.

Dancing.

Not laughing. Not performing.

Just moving together.

She stepped back into the shadows.

She’d meant to mock them. Tease. But now… now it looked like something else entirely.

She chewed the inside of her cheek and walked away.

Saturday Late Afternoon

The Great Hall had been transformed again—this time into a cozy stage space lined with floating lanterns and conjured velvet curtains. Laughter spilled from every corner.

Acts came and went—Luna with her ethereal harp, Ron with a magically exploding accordion. Tears were shed when a boy soprano from Hufflepuff sang “Oh Danny Boy.” Their bellies hurt from laughing at Dean and Seamus’ comedy routine.

Then McGonagall stepped forward.

“And now,” she said, lips twitching ever so slightly, “closing tonight’s festivities… Mr. Potter and Miss Granger.”

The Hall fell into a hush.

The music began.

The Great Hall was uncharacteristically still. No laughter. No whispering. Just expectant silence as Harry and Hermione stepped onto the makeshift stage.

Hermione wore a simple dress—sapphire blue, her hair swept up, the glowing blue flower from last night still tucked behind one ear.

Harry was in black dress robes with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open. Bare. Honest.

🎶 You won't admit you love me,
And so how am I ever to know?
You always tell me—
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps... 🎶

Their hands found each other on instinct.

A turn.
A breath.
A heartbeat in rhythm.

The audience fell away.

He circled her, their fingertips barely touching. She pivoted, caught his gaze, retreated—then returned. He placed a hand on her back. She let him.

Their movements told a story: tension, proximity, denial.

The steps were familiar now, but the heat behind them was new.

🎶 A million times I've asked you,
And then I ask you over—again—
You only answer
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps... 🎶

Hermione reached for him. He caught her, spun her, dipped her low. Her hair brushed the stage.

They rose, faces close.

🎶 If you can't make your mind up,
We'll never get started... 🎶

Hermione exhaled, eyes on his mouth.

🎶 And I don't want to wind up
Being parted, broken-hearted... 🎶

Harry’s hand slid to her waist. His other came up, cradling her cheek.

She didn’t pull away.

He leaned in.

So did she.

Their noses brushed.

🎶 So if you really love me, say yes...
But if you don't, dear, confess... 🎶

He spun her away one final time and as they turned into their final embrace, she rested a hand on his chest.

🎶 And please don't tell me—
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. 🎶

In the beat of silence before the applause erupted, the velvet drapes swished shut with a soft whoosh, muffling the cheers, catcalls, and scattered applause still echoing through the Great Hall.

Hermione took a half-step back, her hand still resting lightly on Harry’s chest. Neither of them said anything. Their breathing was uneven, the air between them thick with something that had not been part of the choreography.

Hermione stared at him, dazed.
Harry gave her a weak smile. He was looking at her mouth again.

He laughed—quietly, unconvincingly. It slipped out like a lifeline he wasn’t sure would hold.
“We should get an award. For Most Committed to the Bit,” he stammered.

Something flickered across Hermione’s face. Her breath hitched. The air shifted.

“Oh,” she said softly, as if remembering where she was. Her eyes dropped to her hand on his chest.
She stepped back. “Right. The bit.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. He took a step forward. “No, wait—Hermione—”

But the moment was already cracking.

“Ohmygod, I’m SO sorry—!”

Ginny, appearing like a detonation.

She rushed forward, stopping short when she saw their faces—flushed, uncertain, too close to something raw.
She opened her mouth, then faltered. “I didn’t think—I mean, you were really—”

Hermione moved first. Two full steps back. Hands clasped tight in front of her.

“We were pretending,” she blurted, too quickly.

Harry blinked. His eyes were still on her.

She wasn’t looking at him.

He swallowed. His chest tightened. He’d misread it. Maybe he’d pushed too far.

“Yeah. All fake,” he said. This time, flat.

“We overheard you three in the Common Room,” Hermione added. Her voice had found its footing again—cool, rehearsed. “Just wanted to mess with you. That’s all.”

Ginny turned to Harry, eyebrows knitting.

He dropped his gaze, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good laugh.”

Silence.

Then Hermione cleared her throat. “Well. I should get ready. The gala’s in an hour.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I need to change.”

“Touch up my hair.”

“Meet you there?”

“Of course.”

They turned at the same moment.

And bolted away in opposite directions.

Ginny stood frozen in the center of the now-quiet room, blinking as though she’d just walked into a scene halfway through and missed the part where everything fell apart.

Saturday Evening

Harry’s room was quiet, save for the rustle of dress robes and the occasional hum of a soft cleaning charm.

He stood in front of the mirror, half-tying his tie, half-lost in thought.

Hermione’s laugh echoed in his ears. The glow of lantern light on her cheek. The soft way she’d leaned into his hand.

He exhaled.

They weren’t pretending.

Not when she looked at him like that. Not when they danced. Not when the whole world slipped away and it was just them.

She had always been his constant. His anchor.

The one who saw him. Who fought beside him. Who knew his temper and his trauma and still handed him books and butterbeer and that look that said, Try again. Try harder. I’m here.

He loved her.

Of course he did.

But if he told her—and she didn’t feel the same? If he broke the thing that mattered most?

He let out a shaky breath.

“No rush,” he murmured to the mirror. “Just… be there .”

He straightened his collar and left the room.

Hermione stood in front of her small mirror, one earring in her hand, the other already on. Her hair was pinned back in soft curls, the glowing flower from last night woven just above her temple.

She looked lovely. And unsure.

A knock.

Ginny stepped in, already dressed, looking sheepish.

“I just came to say…” she rubbed the back of her neck, “I’m sorry.”

Hermione blinked. “For…?”

“I thought you were faking it,” Ginny said. “All the affection. The spark. I thought it was some prank-reversal. I pushed too hard.”

Hermione swallowed. “Gin, you heard what we said. It was fake.”

Ginny crossed her arms and stared at her.

“Brightest witch of her age, my ass.”

“Gin—”

“Nope,” she held up her hand. “I know what I saw, Hermione. That wasn’t acting. That was two people in love who haven’t said it yet.”

Hermione tried to laugh. “You’re being ridiculous—”

Ginny cut her off. “Be brave, Hermione.” 

Then softly.“Be brave.”

Hermione looked at her reflection again.

And this time, she smiled.

The Hall was transformed into a dream: floating candles dimmed to gold, the ceiling enchanted to reflect the starlit sky, soft music spilling from unseen instruments.

Harry stood near the punch table, surrounded by Dean, Seamus, Luna, Neville, and Ron. He held a drink, untouched.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

“She’ll be here soon,” Ron said.

Harry glanced up. “Hmm?”

“Hermione. You always do that mouth thing when you’re waiting for her.”

Harry gave a weak smile.

Ron leaned closer. “I’m really glad for you, mate. You two… it works.”

Harry hesitated.

Then, softly: “We heard you. In the Common Room with George. We knew it was a prank.”

Ron blinked. “Wait. What?”

“We decided to turn the tables,” Harry said. “It was never real.”

Ron studied him a long moment. Then smiled. 

“Oi, mate. It’s always been real. You two just didn’t know it until now.”

Harry looked at him. “I’m not sure she—”

“Be brave,” Ron said.

And then everything went still.

The group fell silent.

Harry turned slowly.

And there she was.

She stood just inside the door, bathed in candlelight.

Her dress was shimmering pale gold, soft and sweeping, catching the starlight in a way that made her glow.

But it wasn’t the dress.

It was her.

And Harry felt it in his chest like a spell he hadn’t known was cast.

He crossed the floor toward her.

Everyone stepped aside like they were parting a tide.

His pulse thudded in his throat. Every step felt like falling.

Hermione smiled, unsure but luminous.

They stood facing each other, inches apart.

“It was never a joke, Hermione.” Harry said softly. “Nothing was ever fake.”

Her breath caught.

“Not the way you smiled,” he continued. “Not the way it felt to hold your hand. Not the way I missed you when you weren’t there.”

Hermione’s eyes shimmered. “I think… I stopped pretending before we even started.”

He reached up, slowly, reverently, and tucked a curl behind her ear.

She caught his hand again.

Held it there against her cheek. Closed her eyes and then turned her head to press a kiss into his palm.

The Hall was silent.

And then—

Love is in the Air began to play, soft and sparkling, rising around them like magic.

The crowd burst into cheers and laughter.

Harry leaned in.

“May I have this dance?”

Hermione smiled.

 “You may.”

Their lips met, soft and sure.

The room spun around them.

They didn’t notice.