A/N: Would they "fall for" each other this fast in the course of a real evening? Perhaps not, but this idea
for a mini-fic occurred to me while I was in Developmental Psyche class (*snore*) and wouldn't let me be. I ended
up writing mostly ALL of it in class. If there are random references to Piaget that I haven't deleted, that's
why ;). Romantic disillusionment (on the Harry/Ginny side) is the order of the day.
Hopefully, Hermione's part will be up soon, but no promises. My Mom's going in for major surgery on Tuesday and plainly, all my energies will be focused on her and her recovery for awhile thereafter. :(
On a totally unrelated note, it's all of -15 below (with wind chill) here! Someone save me.
* * * * * * *
Long before the confetti had settled and the spirits run dry, the Weasley-Delacour wedding was written off as a roaring success. The bride was inexpressibly beautiful, the groom handsome beneath his mask of scars, the host family gracious far beyond their modest means, and the visitors quaintly foreign in their ways.
Fred and George went through the receiving line four times each, making increasingly outlandish statements in honeyed, well-wishing tones and finally culminating with "Lord Voldemort sends his compliments," to which the blushing bride said "'ow lovely," and the flush-faced Molly Weasley "how sweet of you to say so," and the groom "it's about time!" And so it continued down the line until a highly affronted Madame Delacour caught onto their little joke and cuffed them over the heads with her parasol.
Harry Potter laughed half-heartedly before the gravity of his impossible quest sank back in, reaffirming itself in his very being. In the awkward silence left by his stifled guffaw, his eyes roamed over the crowd, taking in Mad-Eye Moody, who was nursing a drink from his hipflask, and a buoyant-spirited Monsieur Delacour (who proclaimed, with a sweeping bow, that "Young Monsieur Weasley" was the "second happiest man in the world"), and the swarming mass of revelers.
"Looking for Ginny?" The twins had appeared on either side of him, massaging their aching temples but looking just as keen on wreaking havoc as ever.
"No-no. Really," he added, taking in the disbelieving looks on their faces.
"Ah-I see. You're not looking for Ginny." Fred winked and nudged Harry in the ribs.
"Fred and I aren't looking for trouble either," George interjected.
"She's right over there, mate. She's posing for pictures with the rest of the wedding party."
"Erm, okay. Thanks, George - er, Fred."
He veered off in her direction before Fred could say another word, but swung a sharp right angle once he'd passed the punchbowl and found himself face-to-face with Hermione Granger. She was looking very pretty, with brown curls tumbling down her shoulders and an endearingly melancholy look about her.
"Will you dance with me?" he sputtered, not quite sure what had made him say it.
She smiled - a sliver of a smile but a smile nonetheless - and he felt the craziest sensation of indescribable gratefulness, for that smile and that tender look in her eyes.
"Strange year, wasn't it?" he said, taking her hand and guiding her onto the improvised dance floor as the goblin orchestra struck up a soulful number.
"I want to apologize, Harry, for everything I did - or, didn't - do last year," she said softly, staring down at their gracelessly entwining feet, going through the movements of a stately sarabande. "I should have trusted you. You deserved better." Her eyes drifted reluctantly to Ginny, who chose that particular moment to readjust the straps of her glittering confection of bridesmaid's dress and cast a simpering smile in Harry's direction.
Hermione's cheeks flushed, embarrassed for the both of them, and she stepped back, letting her arms fall limply
to her sides.
"We shouldn't be doing this. Dancing," she said flatly, as though there was any question of what they were doing with their arms around each other, swaying slowly in the middle of the Weasley's garden paddock.
"Hermione-why?" But he felt it too…the creeping notion that he was - that they were - cheating. He quickly dismissed the notion as nonsense. "Hermione-it's a wedding. People dance. Ginny understands."
"Does she?" Hermione murmured, and Harry found himself wondering the same thing as Hermione allowed him to pull her back into an andante triple time. Could Ginny Weasley ever grasp at the truths Harry himself was only beginning to uncover?
"She knows we'll always be - friends," he said haltingly.
"Yes, how could I forget?" She forged a brave smile that didn't quite reach her downcast eyes and he knew instinctively that he had said exactly the wrong thing. He'd never exactly been smooth-talking, least of all around pretty girls. Hermione is a pretty girl. He seized on this tangent -
"You're beautiful," Harry said swiftly. Too forward. "I mean, tonight," he amended. "You look beautiful tonight - always."
Her fingers scrunched up against the nape of his neck in unspoken gratitude as they revolved slowly on the spot. Each lilting step carried them farther and farther away from the celebratory fray until the singing and strains of a half-dozen minute violins faded to naught but a whisper in the leaves. He thought guiltily about Ginny and Ron and famous Weasley tempers and tried -- somewhat feebly -- to reassure himself that they weren't doing anything objectionable. Just dancing. Hadn't he caught a glimpse of Nymphadora Tonks and Charlie Weasley, dancing close with Remus Lupin off to the side and not minding one bit?
It's over, Ginny and me, he told himself firmly and calling Ron's words to mind, he thought, I'm a free agent. And it's Hermione. Just Hermione. Buck-toothed, bushy-haired, insufferableknowitallHermione.
It was fine logic…except for the fact that she was no longer buck-toothed, and that he found nothing whatsoever repulsive about her uncontrollable mane of hair and that he had never found her know-it-all-ness insufferable and that she was on the verge of becoming so much more. It all made sense in a way that raging hormones and mindless snogging never could…
"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, thinking that he ought to get himself a foaming tankard of firewhiskey to have on hand as an excuse in case they were caught. Drinking was, after all, permissible. Forgivable. Something they could laugh away over the hard months to come. Dancing with your best friend's wished-for girl was not.
Before Hermione could answer, a coldly amused voice interrupted them --
"Warm weather we're having, don't you agree?"
Ginny Weasley was leaning against one of the ancient apple trees, fanning herself with a wedding program and wearing a poisonous smile.
Hermione leapt back as though struck by a current of electricity. Before Ginny had a chance to elaborate - and before Harry had a chance to ask her to stay - she had turned on her heel and dashed away.
"Now where were we?"
"I was just asking you to dance," Harry said, mechanically. But even as Ginny Weasley stole back his attention and promenaded him back to the rest of the merrymakers and the overflowing fountains of second-rate gin, he knew something else was beginning.
* * * * *
Hm…it sounds rather like Harry's been doped with a Love Potion there at the end…oh, the possibilities!
Anyway, please let me know if this is worth continuing. It's fun to write, that's for sure.
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