Come Together
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
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Chapter Three: Tumbling Dice
yeah, we all need someone we can dream on
and if you want it, baby, well you can dream on me
- -"Let it Bleed," The Rolling Stones
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Origin Alley flat was sparkling with fairy lights, and the latest pop album by Duncan Filbigger was playing on the wireless, drifting over the chatter of the crowd. House elves dressed smartly in clean, starched pillowcases were replenishing a long table with silver trays full of mushroom puffs and shrimp sandwiches. The guests seemed to have stepped from the pages of Witch Weekly; they were tall, slender, wearing slinky skirts or the latest in dress robes, black and violet and emerald green.
It was the perfect night to be a young witch or wizard out on the town in London, and this was the perfect party on this perfect night. Hermione sipped her drink, an ethereal concoction of Samotha, Fogblatt's, and lime, and gazed at the spangled city lights visible through the large windows of the flat.
She couldn't wait to get home.
She couldn't believe she'd agreed to come here in the first place. Somehow, she'd been caught up in the moment, intoxicated by a blissful afternoon in Harry's company. Ron had come upstairs for dinner, and they'd all laughed endlessly over soup and fresh meat pies, as if they were back in the Great Hall glancing over their shoulders at the Slytherin table. Ron was quite smitten with the gaggle of girls who had come by that afternoon, and he'd gotten down on his knees begging Harry and Hermione to go with him to Risa's party. It had been such a comical and heartrending performance that Hermione had found herself agreeing on the spot, forgetting all thoughts of the atrocious girls themselves. And now, she was in the flat of all flats, at the party of all parties, feeling as out of place as a giant squid on a Quidditch pitch.
Harry had disappeared hours ago, which was bitterly unsurprising. Risa Talbot had snagged him firmly on one arm as soon as he'd walked through the door, and Hermione's stomach had dropped straight through her shoes as she watched Risa lead him away. She still hadn't quite recovered from the sight. Thankfully, no one at the party seemed to notice her, and she'd been able to retreat to a quiet corner and attempt to convince herself that it was really perfectly okay that Harry was gadding about with a snotty, pea-brained princess.
It wasn't working.
Hermione finally spotted Ron's tall, red head in the crowd, somewhere between the hors d'ouevres table and the dance floor. He was chatting animatedly with two lovely blonde witches, looking as if he'd just been given a pile of chocolate frogs for Christmas. Hermione sighed. She loved Ron too much to pull him away from what was clearly the best time he'd had in a decade.
"What're you drinking?"
A low voice at Hermione's shoulder made her jump and almost spill her drink. She turned quickly, knowing who it was before she saw green eyes and glasses. Her heart thumped once before lodging firmly in her throat.
"Oh, it's you," she breathed, realizing she sounded hopelessly grateful. Harry grinned and inclined his head towards a shadowy corner; Hermione followed, her head suddenly light. "This is a Foglifter. Samotha and Fogblatt's."
"Can I have a try, then?"
"Of course." Hermione offered him the glass; he took a sip, smiled, and nodded.
"Thanks. That's quite good, isn't it?"
Hermione nodded. "I love lime."
"Me too." Harry motioned towards the long table. "Tried any of the, er, mushroom whatsis?"
"Not yet."
"I've had too many. I think one of the house elves fancies me. Every time I look down, someone with big ears is offering me pastries."
Hermione giggled; Harry's face split into a wide smile, and he peered at her. "You doing all right, then?"
As usual, in Harry's presence, Hermione's thoughts spilled out before she could stop them. "I'm okay," she found herself saying. "Not great. I feel a bit out of place."
Harry nodded. "Yeah. Same."
Hermione blinked. "You? You're, you know, The Boy -- "
" -- who Saved the World from Quidditch, or something, I know," Harry said, nudging her with an elbow. "And you're my famous best friend who helped me do it. You're quite high-profile too, you know." He raised an eyebrow teasingly.
Hermione smiled. "I don't feel high-profile. Or look it, either." She gestured at the crowd, then at her own clothing: jeans, a black v-neck sweater, black Mary Janes.
"You look great, Hermione. It's not like I'm the picture of fashion." Harry chuckled and looked down at himself. He was in typical-Harry garb: jeans, a green jumper, and well-worn Doc Martens, his hair standing up defiantly in several directions. Hermione had the sudden urge to run her hands through it, and immediately turned a bright shade of pink at the thought.
"You look great too," she mumbled.
Harry's cheeks flushed to match Hermione's. "Thanks," he said quietly.
Hermione's pulse quickened.
"There you are!"
And then Risa Talbot was at Harry's side as if she'd Apparated there, stunning in a blue satin slipdress, her glossy hair swept back on one side with a jewelled comb. Hermione's insides felt like ice.
Harry blinked, startled. "Risa. Sorry, I, er, didn't see where you went."
Hermione began to breathe again. She knew Harry, and she could tell from the look on his face that Risa might have been the reason he'd escaped into a dark corner.
Which was good. Better than good, in fact. Hermione hid a smile.
"It is crowded in here, isn't it?" Risa said, ignoring Hermione. "Why don't we go out on the balcony, and you can fetch me another drink on the way?"
Hermione felt a bit sick from this remark; she took a quick sip of her drink, attempting not to choke. When she looked up, she saw that Harry was trying to catch her eye with what was clearly his Play-Along-With-Me glance. She knew it well; it had saved them both from detention several times in Potions. Her heart skipped. She looked back at him and gave a slight nod.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Risa," Harry said, slipping an arm protectively around Hermione's waist. "I've been looking for Hermione. We've got plans to go to Exploding Snap. It's her first night out in London, and I promised I'd take her there after we stopped in at your place."
Hermione was sure her pounding heart could be heard over the blaring music. She leaned slightly into Harry and tried to pretend this wasn't news to her, that it was perfectly normal for Harry to be holding her close while trying to escape from a gorgeous girl who clearly wanted to shag him.
"A bit of dancing sounds like a wonderful idea," said Risa, her almond eyes glittering in the fairy lights.
Harry smiled. "It should be fun. Thanks ever so much for inviting us. Sorry we can't stay."
Hermione was suddenly enjoying herself immensely.
"That's quite all right. I was thinking of slipping out of here myself, but it is my party, after all," Risa said breezily.
"Right then. Lovely party, as usual. I'm sure I'll see you soon."
Harry waved and began to steer Hermione away, but before they could turn to go, Risa took his arm again.
"Say," she said, as if the idea had just occurred to her. "Would you mind terribly if I came with you? The rum punch will be gone in twenty minutes, and then this place will be as dull as a library."
Hermione felt Harry's arm tense around her waist. "Er -- "
"Fabulous," beamed Risa. "I won't be a moment. Let me get Ron for you."
Hermione and Harry stood, awkwardly frozen, watching Risa bob through the crowd towards Ron. It seemed like an age before either of them spoke.
"Exploding Snap?" Hermione managed, her tongue numb.
Harry dropped his arm from Hermione's waist. She missed it instantly.
"I am so sorry," he said, shaking his head. "She is so bloody persistent. Exploding Snap is a dance club. It's the only thing that popped into my head -- all the boys on the team are always going on about it. We don't have to go, really. I can say you're not feeling well -- "
"No, that's really okay. I don't mind." Another awkward pause. "Risa doesn't really... seem like a friend of yours," she said, regretting the words as soon as she heard them.
But Harry didn't seem surprised. "She's not," he said quietly. "Well, not exactly. Risa's mother is some sort of Muggle royalty, a baroness or something. Her uncle owns Quality Quidditch Supplies. She's got a thing for Quidditch players -- always hanging round the shop. I met her when I moved to London." He shifted uneasily. "I still seem to be on her permanent invitation list. She does throw a good party though. I thought it would be a bit of harmless fun."
"It is quite the party, it's true. And Ron is having such a good time."
"Yeah," Harry grinned wryly. "I mostly came to watch Ron. Knew he would love it. Unfortunately I haven't gotten to see him much."
He grew quiet, as Risa was making her way back towards them through the crowd, Ron and the two blonde girls by her side.
"Are we going dancing then?" Ron said brightly, offering an arm to each of the blonde girls. Hermione watched as Risa edged towards Harry; he wrapped an arm around Hermione's waist again. Hermione tried to act nonchalant while her heart performed somersaults.
"We are," said Harry, giving Ron the Play-Along look he'd used earlier. "Exploding Snap, remember?"
Ron knew that look too. "Oh, right," he said, cottoning on. "Forgot what time it was. By the way, Harry, Hermione, meet Bridget and Bianca."
They shook hands all around until a small house elf wearing a pink pillowcase edged shyly up to Harry holding a pile of cloaks.
"Harry Potter would like his cloak, sir?"
"Oh, yes please," Harry said, nudging Hermione. This must be the smitten elf. The house elf blushed furiously and fumbled with the heavy cloaks; when Harry bent down to help her out, the elf could hardly meet Harry's eyes. "Oh, thank you, sir. Harry Potter is really too kind," she mumbled, giving cloaks to Bridget and Bianca, pink to the tips of her bat-like ears.
Hermione knew how the house elf felt.
Harry bent again to retrieve Hermione's cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders before putting on his own. "Right," he said, giving the house elf a smile that sent her scurrying backwards and bowing low. "Shall we?"
And so Hermione found herself escorted into the cold, clear London night on Harry's arm, warm to the tips of her toes with the feeling of her hand wrapped in his, wondering how her best friend could cause her head to spin just by walking beside her.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The entrance to Exploding Snap turned out to be inside an old Wizard pub called the Stone Wolf, near the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley. A giant statue of a stone wolf stood in a side room near the back of the crowded pub, and if his nose was rubbed, a wall sprang aside to reveal a dark, smoky hallway thick with heat and music. Risa strode into the hallway as if she'd been there a ten times already that evening, but Ron seemed suitably impressed.
"Gryffindor tie around the doorknob, right?" he whispered to Harry and Hermione, grinning wickedly as he ducked into the hall. Earlier that evening, the three of them had decided that a school tie knotted around a doorknob would serve as a signal for privacy, and it seemed as if Ron was hoping to have an excuse to use it. Harry rolled his eyes and gave Hermione a sideways grin as Ron disappeared from view. "Well, at least we're out of that stuffy party," he said quietly, taking her cloak and motioning her forward.
"Right," Hermione said, her head feeling like it was made of champagne bubbles. "Definitely a good plan."
The club was packed, lit with tiny red and yellow flames trapped in glass globes, with a large dance floor surrounded by tables and an old wooden bar at one end of the vast room. Hermione could recognize some people who had been at Risa's party earlier in the evening, but the crowd was more casually dressed than Risa's partygoers, and most of them were dancing uproariously to an unidentifiable rock song that pounded through the floorboards.
Harry deposited their cloaks at one of the few empty tables, then glanced uncomfortably at the dance floor. "I'll get drinks. Back in a moment."
Ron was grinning as Bridget and Bianca urged him towards the feverish crowd. "All right, I'm coming. Come on, 'Mione!"
Joining Ron on the dance floor would mean leaving Harry alone with Risa, who had just seated herself at the table and was now beckoning to several of her friends across the room. "No thanks. I'm just going to watch a bit first."
"Suit yourself." Ron draped an arm around Bianca. "But I'm coming back for you if I don't see you out here in ten minutes." He waggled a finger at her.
"Fine, fine." Hermione settled into a chair and watched Ron edge onto the dance floor, head and shoulders above most of the crowd. Someone sank into the chair next to her; it was one of the girls from Risa's party, a leggy redhead wearing a short black dress and not much else. Risa's girlfriends were appearing as if from nowhere, swarming the table like a cluster of vapid butterflies. Wonderful. "Bugger this," Hermione muttered to herself.
"Pardon?" The redhead turned and blinked inquiringly at Hermione.
"Er... nice place, this," Hermione amended lamely.
"Oh, it's average." The redhead looked down her nose at Hermione, seeming to notice her for the first time. Hermione was reminded instantly of Pansy Parkinson. "We heard this was where everyone would be tonight," the girl said. "We're quite good friends with Harry Potter, he's expecting us here, you know." She gestured at the girls who were now crowding around the table.
"Really," Hermione said genially, trying to maintain a smile. It was painful.
"I don't suppose you've met him," the redhead continued. "I haven't seen you hanging about before."
"Oh, I've met him," Hermione began.
"Well isn't that a surprise! I'm Ashley, by the way." Ashley gave her a conspiratorial smile and slid her chair closer to Hermione's. "So, did you meet him at Risa's? Do you know anyone else who plays for England?"
"I've known Harry for quite a while, actually," Hermione said, but Ashley began to shake her head.
"Haven't we all," she smiled, rolling her eyes. "Everyone's got a story."
A familiar voice interrupted them; the sound of it made Hermione's ears go pink.
"Here you go, Hermione," Harry said, setting a pint of bitter on the table in front of her. He had his wand in one hand, and a heavy tray of full pints was levitating near one of his shoulders. With a flick of his wrist, the remaining pints settled themselves unsteadily onto the table. "Sorry. I've just brought enough for six."
"Thanks." Hermione sipped her ale and watched Ashley's eyes go wide as Harry lifted a chair from another table, slid it close to Hermione's, and sat down, looking uneasy at the sight of their now-crowded table.
"Sorry about this," Harry muttered in a whisper only Hermione could hear. "One drink and we'll get out of here." She nodded in assent. Harry looked thoroughly hassled; his hair was standing up as if he'd raked his fingers through it repeatedly. His scar stood out in sharp relief, a dark line across his pale forehead in the hazy light of the club, so obvious it nearly made Hermione cringe. She was seized by an urge to reach out and smooth a dark strand of Harry's hair over the angry mark, the jagged line that advertised his fame like a flashing billboard. Harry reached for his own pint glass and took a large swig.
When Hermione looked up she saw that Ashley was staring at her as if Hermione was something putrid she'd found on the bottom of her tall strappy heels. "Harry," Ashley cooed. "Great to see you again."
"Oh, hi," Harry said, sipping his drink again. There was an awkward pause. "Er, sorry, you do look familiar, but I've forgotten your name."
"Ashley. I'm sure you meet so many people." Ashley's smile remained brilliantly frozen beneath her pert nose.
"Right." Harry was beginning to look as if he was being pursued by a Blast-Ended Skrewt. "Where's Ron?" he said quietly.
As if on cue, the crowd parted, and a breathless and flushed Ron Weasley was back at the table, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his dress shirt and beaming at everyone.
"Hullo, everyone. This my pint?" He picked up a glass at Harry's nod and raised it, looking around at Risa's entourage. "Cheers, then!"
"Ron," Harry began, but Ron was past noticing; his eyes were too busy taking in the cluster of girls at their table. Ron set down his glass again, and with a broad grin, offered his hand to Hermione.
"Up with you,'Mione!" he said jovially. "Or I'll lift you out of that seat myself. I need a dance with my best friend."
Hermione couldn't refuse. She held out her hand, and Ron pulled her to her feet; she knew that Ron meant well, that he probably thought he was doing Harry a favor by leaving him alone with the gaggle of girls. Her stomach dropped when she saw Risa get to her feet and approach Harry's chair.
"That's right, this is a dance club," Risa said, all innocence and long lashes. "Harry, may I have the honor?"
Harry went pink; he was never one to refuse an invitation. Hermione was sure he was inwardly cursing his Gryffindor chivalry at this very moment. "Er, of course," he said, getting to his feet.
"It's hot as blazes out there, Harry. Best leave your jumper," Ron said, his arm around Hermione. Harry nodded ruefully and lifted his jumper over his head. Now, in a white t-shirt and jeans, with his hair even more unruly than usual, he looked like little-boy-Harry again, painfully awkward on the arm of Parvati Patil.
Ron was now tugging Hermione towards the crowd; Harry and Risa followed, and soon the four of them were crushed against a sea of writhing bodies as they made their way onto the packed dance floor. Ron gave a whoop and spun Hermione around to clear a bit of room. Hermione couldn't help smiling; it was primarily due to her own efforts that Ron had gone from despising the dance floor to loving it unreservedly. She had stubbornly forced Ron to dance at every Hogwarts ball and gala until he'd finally begun to enjoy himself, and even Harry had joined in eventually. Watching Ron and Harry dance never failed to make Hermione feel a surge of love for them both: Ron, with absolutely no rhythm, making up for his lack of coordination with infectious enthusiasm; Harry, naturally athletic, able to keep a beat but far too shy to show off.
She gave a yelp of surprise as Ron pulled her close, dipping her backwards; Harry caught her eye and smiled. He was clearly attempting to keep Risa at arm's length and failing, as Risa'a arms kept slipping up around his neck and twining around his waist.
Ron's dancing was too distracting, however, and Hermione soon found it impossible to watch anyone else as Ron imitated the other dancers, wrapping his arms around her and urging their hips together. Soon they were grinding against each other, giggling like a couple of second-years. When the song was over she relaxed into Ron's arms; he was about to twirl her into another dance when she felt a soft tap on her shoulder.
"Excuse me." It was Harry, who was holding Risa at arm's length. "Mind if I snag a dance with Hermione, Ron?"
"Of course not, mate," Ron said, squeezing Hermione's hand as they broke apart, and offering a trademark broad smile to Risa. "Fine idea. I take it this lovely lady will be free?"
"I suppose so," Risa demurred, letting go of Harry's hand with great reluctance. And with that, Ron pulled Risa into his enthusiastic grasp as Harry put a hand around Hermione's waist.
"Thanks again. You've saved me twice now," Harry whispered, his gentle grasp sending tremors through the tips of Hermione's fingers. The music began again, slower, rhythmic, and a whoop erupted from the crowd: The Rolling Stones, "Tumbling Dice." Harry took Hermione's hand, Hermione suddenly conscious of the bodies churning around them, the groping arms and sliding hands and --
"Oh, come on, you two! This isn't the Great Hall." Ron, twirling Risa with one hand, had stopped in mid-twirl to give Harry and Hermione a disapproving look. Without warning, he leaned over and pushed them close together, like he'd held Hermione. He put Harry's arms tightly around Hermione's hips, moved Hermione's hands to Harry's waist, then nodded in satisfaction, dancing all the while. "That's more like it."
Harry had flushed scarlet. "Er, thanks."
Hermione's heart was now beating so fast she was sure Harry could feel it right through the fabric of his thin t-shirt. She didn't dare look at him; she was almost faint with the feeling of his arms around her, the soft scent of his shirt. He smelled faintly smoky, like ale and candles, like Harry -- and then Hermione realized what the Harry smell really was. He smelled like the scent of a spell in the air: the faintly charged crackle of Incendio, the afterglow of a Cheering Charm, the imperceptible whiff of Lumos. Harry smelled like magic.
He was nearly a head taller than she was, and her eyes were drawn upwards to meet his, deep green, shining softly, framed by dark rakish eyebrows and familiar round glasses. She knew the lines of his features almost better than she knew her own, and yet she found herself trying to memorize them, his lopsided smile, the strength in the set of his chin, the fine pale scar at his left cheekbone that Hermione knew to be a souvenir of the Defeat. Warmth was spreading through her from somewhere near her abdomen, making her palms feel damp. Hermione noted absently that she'd had no trouble dancing so closely with Ron, that it was absurd, and funny, and brotherly, but now --
Harry laughed shyly; his breath was warm and sweet. "Well then," he mumbled.
They began to move awkwardly, bumping against each other, their proximity almost painful, so distracting that Hermione could barely move. They'd never been this physically close before. And then gradually she began to notice how they fit together, how he was guiding her with imperceptible movements, how she somehow knew what he was about to do. This was Harry, after all. She took a deep breath and looked up again, smiling.
Harry's face split into an awkward grin. And then they began to dance.
Hermione had been out dancing plenty of times. She'd even had a few romantic interludes on the dance floor. And she'd certainly danced with Harry more times than she could count. But apparently that hadn't really been dancing. None of it had. Now she felt like her head was spinning and her body was on fire, burning where Harry's hands held her as they swayed and rocked and moved together, somehow moving closer and closer until there seemed to be no space at all between them, because they didn't need space, because it felt too good, and nothing in the world had ever felt like this. Harry moved so easily, his body warm and strong and light, the gentle curves of her body somehow perfect under his hands, and it was impossible to tell where his body ended and hers began -- you can be my partner in crime -- you've got to roll me --
Hermione was vaguely aware of the crowd around them, pushing in close, then giving them room, as if they were all breathing together. The music slowed into a new song, lapsing into a sinuous lick of guitar, and they slipped even closer together. Hermione realized she'd wrapped her arms around Harry's neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world, his hands were sliding gently over her waist, his touch sweet and tentative -- I've walked for miles, my feet are hurting, all I want is for you to make love to me -- she couldn't believe they were this close, she couldn't believe this was her life, this was Hermione Granger, forgetting herself so completely in someone else. She couldn't believe it was Harry.
The lights went up and the music was over with a painful shock. Hermione couldn't seem to move. She felt Harry's chest rise and fall next to hers, could feel both their hearts pounding, his arms still tightly around her, hers still twined around his neck. This hadn't just happened. She was not about to look into her best friend's eyes with his lips so close to hers, while they were wrapped together like Devil's Snare. She hadn't just danced like that with her friend Harry.
But his eyes were waiting, and she felt his hands move uncertainly, and she had to look up.
Harry's gaze was unreadable, soft and questioning, startled, intense. His face was flushed, his glasses slightly askew.
"Well done!"
Hermione jumped as if she'd been burned with a hot poker, her hands flying from Harry's neck to tremble at her sides. Ron was grinning at them, one arm around Bianca. Risa must have left at some point, and Hermione hadn't even noticed. Great Merlin's Ghost.
"I've got to hand it to you both, those were some wicked moves. Didn't know you had it in you," Ron said, chuckling. "Closet dance club fiends, the both of you."
Oblivous, wonderful Ron. He thought they'd just been dancing.
Well, they had just been dancing. Suddenly Hermione wasn't at all sure what had happened. Because nothing had really happened. Had it?
Harry's arms were still around her waist, as if he'd forgotten they were there. A pit of fear lodged in Hermione's stomach. What if he'd forgotten because it didn't mean anything to him?
"I've, er, got to go to the washroom," Hermione blurted, backing away and stumbling over Harry's foot.
"Hey, all right," Ron called. "We'll be at the table, I guess?"
Hermione felt the crowd envelop her as she fought her way towards the tables, her hands shaking, still warm with Harry's touch. She wanted to disappear.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The water running over Hermione's face and hands was shockingly cold, but not nearly cold enough to clear her mind. Having a muddled mind was not something Hermione enjoyed; it was certainly not something she had extensive experience dealing with. She was distinctly accustomed to knowing the answer.
Harry's face blazed in her thoughts, the opaque look in his eyes a shrouded question. Had he felt the same things she had, or had he been confused by her reaction after what he thought was a dance between friends?
He'd certainly danced with dozens of women. Lord knows what he'd been doing since he moved to London; he'd casually mentioned a few flings, but Harry had never been one to divulge the intimate details of his romantic life, even to Hermione. It could be that he was experienced with that type of dancing, that he was just humoring Ron. It could be that he was trying to show her a good time because he was using her to get away from Risa.
He had even thanked her for that. Not that she minded. But it didn't help to clarify things one bit.
She looked warily at her reflection in the mirror, blurry at first as she rubbed the water from her eyes. Long brown curls, tamed with a dab of Sleakeasy's, but still spilling around her face in overly energetic waves, making her features look small and almost elven. Brown eyes, slightly red-rimmed, a bit on the large side, with lashes that made her appear too young to be in a place like Exploding Snap in the first place. Dark, arched eyebrows, nothing like the fine pencilled lines on the faces of Risa's partygoers. Lips that had lost their thin coating of Lickworthy's Berry Gloss hours ago. A wide smile. Not too bad, really.
Maybe the dance had been real.
She'd never felt that comfortable in her own skin before. She took a tentative step back, surveying her small frame. She'd never been a great fan of her own body, though Ron had always been sweetly enthusiastic about it while they were dating. A bit shorter than average, delicate, but slightly curvy; certainly curvier than Risa and most of her friends. Her chest was nothing to write home about, but her waist was small, and her legs were slender. Her hips were probably a bit more rounded than they needed to be, but tonight --
Tonight she'd felt wonderful.
Something about Harry's touch had melted her self-consciousness, made her thrill in the feel of her own body, made her distinctly aware that she was far more than just a mind. She'd always been Hermione, the smart one, the brain, her physical self completely forgotten. Harry was the athlete, after all, quick and agile, stronger every year she'd known him. And Ron was so tall, with dogged determination that had earned him a spot on the Quidditch team from their fifth year onward. Hermione had always been a spectator.
Until tonight.
The door of the women's washroom clicked open; Hermione immediately dove towards the sink, splashing more water on her face. She stood again, groping for a towel, and opened her eyes to see Risa and Ashley's long, lanky forms reflected in the mirror.
"Hermione!" exclaimed Risa, with a thinly veiled smirk of delight. "I was wondering where you'd gone."
"Hello again," said Ashley, smiling prettily.
"Just washing my face," Hermione said brightly, scrubbing faster with the towel.
Risa took a tube of lipstick from her purse as a silver hairbrush rose from her open handbag and began smoothing her glossy hair of its own accord. Hermione was on her way to the door when a look from Risa made her stop short.
"Would you like to borrow anything? You're still a bit -- wet."
Hermione blinked.
Risa rubbed her lips together and offered the tube to Hermione. "Take this. Or maybe a hairbrush?"
"No, no thank you -- "
"I saw you, you know," Risa said offhandedly, taking a pink powder puff from her purse and leaning forward to examine herself in the mirror. "Dancing with Harry. Wasn't that sweet!"
"Mm," nodded Ashley, applying her own lipstick. "He's so nice to dance with you that way."
Hermione's mouth went dry.
"I know. Such a good friend," Risa added. "It did look like you were enjoying yourself. Too bad you're just not his type, eh? But I'm sure you know that already, being his friend and all."
Hermione's brain screeched to a halt. "What?"
Risa put a sisterly arm around Hermione, tilting her towards their reflection. "Take it from an ex," she said, winking sweetly. "Harry likes women who are just a bit more... how to say it... put together."
"Right," Ashley said, leaning in to place a hand on Hermione's curls. "Maybe tame this a bit?"
"Oh yes," Risa said. "I've got the name of a lovely hair-witch if you'd like."
Hermione blinked.
"And a bit of powder here, wouldn't you say, Reese?" Ashley tapped Hermione's nose with a fingernail.
"Definitely. And I'd try cutting back on supper, so you'll lose a bit of this." Risa patted Hermione's midsection. "Then we can find a dress that might fit you nicely."
"I'm not sure she's tall enough for him, though." Ashley closed her purse and peered at her own reflection.
"Well, one can't help that," Risa smiled. "But we can help you, dear, if you like." She beamed at Hermione in the mirror.
Hermione felt as if all the blood was draining from her head. She shifted away from Risa's grasp. "I don't want -- "
"Of course you do," Risa said. "I saw how you were looking at him. It's quite obvious; no need to be shy about it. I'm just offering my experience -- I've seen him date quite a few girls."
Words failed Hermione. The tiny part of her that wasn't completely frozen wanted to hex Risa Talbot into a thousand glittering pieces. Unfortunately her wand seemed to be controlled by the frozen part of her brain.
"We should get back to dancing, Reese." Ashley was smiling broadly.
"Well, do let me know, won't you?" Risa gave Hermione's shoulder a friendly squeeze. "Always happy to help."
The washroom door swung closed. In the mirror, Hermione's face was pale and blotchy. Her nose was red. Underneath her tousled hair, she looked very small.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In the hours to come, Hermione knew she would think of a thousand wonderful, scorching things to say to Risa Talbot when she replayed that scene in the washroom in her mind's eye. She knew she would think of even better things to say tomorrow. She knew with bitter certainty that she would be thinking of things to say to Risa Talbot in the Exploding Snap washroom for the rest of her life.
It was not a comforting thought. Hermione slumped against the cold floor of the toilet stall. At the very least she should Apparate out of here -- but she'd had two drinks that evening, and though she couldn't feel their effects, she knew better than to try Apparating without the confidence of total sobriety.
Why had she let those girls get to her? She'd been tormented by Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin cronies for seven years at Hogwarts. They'd certainly muttered worse things under their breath in the hallways, and she'd always turned her nose up. She'd slapped Draco Malfoy. She'd wrestled Millicent Bulstrode. She'd stood up to Rita Skeeter. She'd helped defeat the Dark Lord nearly seven times, for Merlin's sake. She had Harry and Ron as her best friends, and that thought alone was enough to keep her head high. But now, somehow, Risa's words had eroded that facade. She'd hit Hermione in a spot that hurt too much to think about, in a place that made her question everything.
"Hermione?"
A fist was pounding on the washroom door, rattling the handle. Hermione had recovered the use of her wand shortly after Risa's departure, and in commemoration of this event she'd cast a rather powerful locking charm on the washroom door. She knew it probably wasn't the most mature course of action in a crowded club, but it was a marginally satisfying way to let off steam after what had happened. Her locks were good enough to be virtually unbreakable by all but the most powerful magic.
A flash, and a puff of dust, and the door flew open.
Of course, she also happened to be friends with one of the only wizards alive who could break her spell.
The door to her toilet stall popped open with another flash and Harry was there, standing over her with his wand out and looking grave enough to distract Hermione completely. He was wearing his cloak again, and it loomed out behind him like a black banner.
"What are you doing in here?" he managed, his voice strained.
Hermione suddenly felt eleven years old.
"I was upset," she whispered.
"It's been over an hour. We've been looking for you everywhere. You have no idea -- "
For a moment Hermione thought Harry was going to turn and stalk out of the room in anger. It was something Ron might have done. But instead, his eyes clouded. He pocketed his wand.
"Was it -- " He swallowed. "Did I -- "
"No," Hermione said, then realized she couldn't stop the tears that were slipping down her cheeks. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't you."
Harry's shoulders slumped with relief. He sank to the ground, but seemed wary of coming closer.
"You haven't locked yourself in a toilet since first year," he said quietly. "What happened?"
A thousand words of explanation readied themselves in Hermione's mind. I'm in here because I feel something for you that I've never felt before for anyone else. I'm in here because of the way we were dancing. I'm in here because I don't know how you feel, because I think my heart would break if I did know. I'm in here because I know I'll never be anyone you want as more than a friend.
She told all the truth she could.
"Risa and Ashley came in while I was freshening up. They... said some things about the way I look."
"They did what?" Harry's eyes flashed. He slid next to her, peering into her face.
"I'm being stupid again," she said, her breath hitching in her throat. "Really stupid. I don't know why I let them bother me."
Harry's arms were around her now, and in their warmth Hermione could no longer hold back. She dissolved into sobs, her tears soaking into Harry's cloak as he rubbed her back gently.
"I know you," he said, as her sobs began to quiet. "You don't get upset over nothing. I want to know what they said."
Hermione tried to straighten up. "I can't. It's embarrassing."
"Hermione." Harry's voice was steel.
"Well, they might have suggested that I improve some things. Obvious things, really."
"Obvious how?"
"My hair." Hermione couldn't stop the words now. "My figure. The way I dress."
"WHAT?"
Harry's anger was astounding. As upset as Hermione was, it seemed like nothing compared to the look on Harry's face. He shot to his feet.
"You?" he said, his voice cracking slightly. "You're perfect, you're -- "
Hermione's eyes went wide. "Harry -- "
Before she could even stand, Harry was out the door, wand in hand, his cloak flaring behind him like a curtain.
Hermione struggled to her feet in disbelief.
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