A Summer of Reflections

Chapter 3

"Why did you tell Harry to ‘make a wish?’" Ron asked Hermione as they, Harry, and Ginny were climbing the stairs later that evening, heading for bed.

"It’s a Muggle tradition. Even I know that," said Ginny, rolling her eyes at her brother before bidding the others good night at the door to her room.

She was not sharing a bedroom with Hermione this summer, nor was Harry with Ron for that matter. Since Fred and George were now living in a loft above their joke shop, and more than one hidden room had been discovered on the third floor behind a faded old tapestry of what Harry thought was a very sad looking couple wearing silvery blue robes and no smiles, it was determined that everyone could have separate bedrooms this year.

"So what did you wish for, mate?" inquired Ron after they said their good-byes to Ginny.

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Hermione cut him off.

"Harry’s not allowed to say," she said rather pointedly. "Or his wish will never come true."

"Well, that’s pretty stupid, if you ask me," replied Ron. "How is Harry ever gonna get his wish if he doesn’t tell anybody what it is?"

Harry thought Ron had a fair point until he heard Hermione whisper under her breath, "Because it will be up to Harry to make his own wish come true."

Harry glanced at Hermione questioningly, wondering if she had intended him to hear her statement, but her eyes were not turned in his direction. In fact, her expression was quite impassive as she stared at some ubiquitous spot on the wall beside her.

Not having heard Hermione’s words, Ron changed the subject and said, "Fred and George certainly made your birthday memorable, didn’t they, Harry?"

From the look on Ron’s face, Harry had the distinct impression that Ron wasn’t solely talking about his bursting Snitch ice cream cake. Fred and George had also surprised him with a dragon skin jacket similar to the ones they now sported on a regular basis, only Harry’s was jet black – made from a Hungarian Horntail, they’d proudly informed him – instead of lurid green. Having felt that they had done too much for him already, and clearly spent too much money (as Ron had been quick to point out), Harry had tried to refuse the gift, but the twins would hear none of his protests. ("Nothing but the best for our number one investor!") In fact, everyone – including Ron – had agreed that Harry, above anyone else, had certainly earned the right to wear it.

Still, Harry was afraid Ron was feeling a bit jealous at the moment, even though Ron had made fun of the twins’ jackets at every given opportunity. Having lived in a poor family his entire life, Ron had always been rather touchy about money. And though he had never acted as bitter toward Harry as that time in their fourth year when they’d had a falling out over Harry’s entrance in the Triwizard Tournament, Harry couldn’t help but feel that Ron resented him at times. And while nearly all of the attention Harry received was largely unwanted – which Ron did realize – Harry couldn’t really blame his friend for feeling as he did on occasion; though he did wonder quite often how Ron would react if he knew about the prophecy. Something told Harry that his best friend would not be quite so envious of him if he was aware of the truth.

Hoping to appease him, Harry turned to say something conciliatory to Ron, but Hermione, once more, beat him to it.

"I think your gift was much more practical than that jacket, Ron," she said. "I mean, honestly, where is Harry going to wear it? He can’t use it at school. Personally, I can’t imagine what Fred and George were thinking when they bought it."

Hermione eyed Harry with a small smile as some of the frown left Ron’s face.

"Hermione’s right," added Harry. "I’d much rather have my own Gobstones set than that old jacket any day."

"Well," said Ron, his shoulders puffing up a bit. "I thought my idea was a good one. Now we can play without bothering the bloody Gobstones Club for a spare set. I thought I was getting pretty good at it last year. Though we all know wizard chess is a much better game… "

Harry grinned at Hermione as Ron rambled on about one of his favorite subjects (other than food and the Chudley Cannons, of course).

The truth was, Harry had loved all of his birthday gifts: from Mrs. Weasley’s hand-knit quilt to Mr. Weasley’s Wizarding tool-set (which the older man had informed him was not nearly as interesting as a Muggle tool-set. Harry had thought otherwise when he’d opened the lid of the small box and the hammer had flown out, nailing tacks into the kitchen table without warning.) It was not that long ago, after all, when his supposed family had not even acknowledged his birthday. Now, Harry had friends who were family to him far more than the Dursleys would ever be.

Hermione, to his surprise, had given him something that looked largely like a crystal ball until he’d given it further inspection. Knowing her general dislike of Divination, he found that the round-shaped glass was instead a working model of the galaxies. Harry recalled seeing something similar to it once in Diagon Alley and the temptation he’d felt in wanting to buy it at the time. He also couldn’t help remembering it had been expensive, but Hermione – like Fred and George – had not let him protest. She said with their luck, they’d both need it after failing their Astronomy O.W.L.s.

Not that Harry believed for one second that Hermione had failed that or any other exam, despite being rather distracted – though with good reason – during that particular test. He, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure he’d come out of it as well; he’d only completed about two-thirds of his Astronomy exam. Hogwarts students were supposed to receive their O.W.L. results in July, but seeing as it was the end of the month and no letters had come, it appeared as though they would not be getting theirs on time. Harry and Ron, of course, were not nearly as worried about this delay, or the reasons for it, as Hermione, who was going more ballistic each successive day their O.W.L. scores did not arrive.

Harry’s other birthday gifts had been really great as well. Ginny, along with Luna Lovegood, had paid for a year’s subscription to The Quibbler at a very reasonable rate from the kindness of Luna’s father.

"Kindness!" Hermione had snapped, holding up the postcard Luna had sent from Sweden informing them that she and her father had seen no trace of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks yet. "Harry is the reason The Quibbler is outselling every other magazine two-to-one these days!"

Lupin had added another two books to his set of Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts. Tonks had given him a working model of a Nimbus 2000 – after hearing the fate of his former real-life broomstick – to go along with the miniature Firebolt she’d bought him the previous Christmas. Hagrid had sent something in a large cardboard box, which Harry had yet to open, since it snapped at him every time he attempted it, along with a tin of treacle fudge. Even Neville Longbottom had sent him a birthday card along with a box of Honeydukes chocolates.

Harry and Hermione said their farewells to Ron – who was still mumbling on about wizard chess – on the second floor, and slowly climbed the next flight of stairs. Ron was staying in that old bedroom with the portrait of Phineas Nigellus again this year, and while Harry had never minded sharing a room with Ron, he was rather glad he didn’t have to put up with the portrait’s incessant snickers this time around. The last time he had seen the wizard with the pointed black beard, sharp eyes, and even sharper tongue was when the man had strolled out of his portrait in Dumbledore’s office to find out if it was true that his great-great-grandson was really dead. Harry seriously did not want to deal with Phineas’s snide remarks and piercing glares right now and had no doubts the old wizard would blame him for the fact that the last in the line of noble Blacks was gone.

When they reached the doorway to Harry’s bedroom – the one Fred and George had occupied the previous summer – Hermione stopped, to Harry’s somewhat surprise, instead of moving on to her own room, which was down a long corridor from his on the third floor. She stared at him with an uncertain smile and Harry found himself looking at his feet.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

The night had been good, his birthday pleasantly memorable for once. Yet, here he was again, standing side by side with one of his best friends, feeling as if he didn’t know which way was up and which was down.

Harry wanted to say something to Hermione, had wanted to say something to her all night – beyond the light banter and typical conversation that had flooded the evening – but found he had no voice with which to speak; it seemed to have left him on the landing below. So Harry simply stood there, staring at the floor, when he was struck by a startling thought.

Why did he suddenly feel – standing like this, with Hermione so close at his side – as if he was coming home from a date?

Not that Harry had much experience in the matter. He grimaced at the thought of his truly dismal track record with females; there was certainly nothing to brag about in his past.

Fourth year, he had escorted Parvati Patil to the Yule Ball, but she had left him – not that he’d particularly minded – by the end of the night. And his one official "date" with Cho Chang had not exactly ended on a good note either. He had never quite made it to the point of walking her back to her door, so-to-speak, for she had stormed out on him before they had even neared such a scenario.

But now, as Harry stood outside his own bedroom doorway with Hermione, he wondered if the feeling would have been similar to this; for he rather felt like he was holding a spinning compass in his hand, not knowing in which direction the arrow was going to fall. It was an uncertain feeling, and yet – at the same time – Harry was curious to know exactly where he was supposed to go from here.

For he didn’t know… not truly…

And all the reminiscing in the world, even on mistakes he’d made in the past, was certainly not going to help him now…

Not when the one person standing before him meant more to him than…

Harry halted that thought and instead pondered if he had any choice in the matter, or if it was all dependent on the girl standing in front in him, when he noticed Hermione watching him with half-open eyes. She didn’t appear tired, but on the contrary looked incredibly vibrant considering how late it was in the day. And she was still smiling at him, but with much more certainty than she had a moment ago.

It was this more than anything else that gave Harry the courage he needed. He cleared his throat again.

"Uh, Hermio –" he attempted to say, but was surprised when she suddenly leaned forward and kissed him softly on the cheek.

Not having anticipated that at all, Harry turned his head and found Hermione’s face incredibly close to his own. Her eyes were bright and radiated warmth. Her lips looked shimmery and inviting. Her entire image was a deep contrast to the shadowy confines that made up the drafty, dimly lit hallway, and Harry found himself being drawn into her.

Closing his eyes just as he moved slightly closer to her, he found her lips meeting his in a kiss that was so entirely unexpected and yet completely welcome, Harry was sure he had been waiting for it a very long time.

He had never really thought about kissing Hermione like this… not truly… not seriously…

But this was as real, as true, and as serious as could be, as his lips moved over hers, as he tasted the fullness of her against him in such a sweet, soft, beautiful moment that nothing else in the world could have possibly mattered but kissing Hermione like that.

When he felt her start to pull away, Harry raised his arms to stop her, but Hermione put her hands on his chest and broke gently from their kiss. And when he gazed at her a second later, he saw his own wonder reflecting in her shining eyes, which were glowing in such a brilliant way that he was certain she must have felt the same things he had…

It was a long moment they stood in a half embrace – his hands on the tips of her shoulders, her palms flat against his chest – staring at each other, their bodies swept up in a warm, sweet engulfing halo, before Hermione leaned in and placed one more light, brief kiss on his lips.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," she whispered a little breathlessly, and Harry felt himself smiling back at her.

Again he wanted to tell her something, but the words wouldn’t come. And before he realized what was happening, Hermione was gone, out of his arms, the imprint of her hands still burning on his chest. His hands fell limply to his sides, empty of the treasure they had held such a brief moment before.

It was a long time after that Harry stood outside his bedroom doorway – thinking, wondering, and reliving each emotion as the scene replayed over and over in his mind – light-headed from the girl who had kissed him good night.