"I don't care, Ginny, he was my last one. Never again will I spend over a year without ingesting either caffeine or alcohol. For my good and the good of soshiety." Thus spake Hermione Weasley, nee Granger, shortly before the toll of 2009. She was leaning heavily against Ginevra Potter (formerly Weasley), her partner in crime and conversation, head on her own forearm, which bridged her friend's tented knees, ribs lolling against shins.
Harry Potter, Hero and Legend, had decided to hold a New Years party in the Shrieking Shack for the alumnae of the DA, marking the tenth year after the Battle of Hogwarts. The party had been a smashing success, both literally and figuratively, especially given that no one was sober, and there was very little in the venue that could be destroyed. Attendance had been of the highest priority to those invited, partially for the honor involved, and partially to show how well they had all coped after living through truly horrific months in their most impressionable years.
"Darling, you preach to the choir," responded Hermione's fire-headed friend. Ginny was in the enviable position of being vaguely propped up by the comfortable half of a chaise, a coupe of champagne dangling elegantly (if precariously) from her hand. "After all," she continued, " Harry and I'd have to start naming them after my family next, and I refuse to have enough to do them all the honor." This prompted a laugh from the bushy-haired brunette. "It's a pact, then? We'll love the ones we've got and not try for any more, perfect though they may be?" "A pact," agreed Ginny.
They managed to look at each other very solemnly while clinking their glasses and sipping, though it was a near moment there, when the bubbles reached each of their noses at the same time. The giggles arrived, closely followed by Dean Thomas. "Five minutes to midnight, ladies…better stand next to your lucky blokes. I'm first in your queue, otherwise." His charm had gotten even more palpable in the years since Hogwarts, eliciting more giggles from the two most formidable witches of their generation.
The women hoisted each other off the chaise, only slightly sloshing their champagne, and staggered into the parlor to meet their husbands and count the seconds to midnight. Hermione stood, Ron's arm around her, her head on his shoulder, staring with every shred of focus at the whisker-thin hand making its way around the face of the grandfather clock, when the door of the shack swung open. It was Zacharias Smith. And he'd brought a date. A date who would always be identifiable, because there wasn't enough concealer in the world to disguise Marietta Edgecombe.
It was as though the air had gone out of the room, or as though all the champagne had gone instantly flat. "Smith," Harry had stepped forward, hand extended, smile in place, "What a surprise, mate. Can I offer you a drink?" Hermione saw the moment all very clearly, yet slightly distorted, like a bubble in her glass. There was Ginny, her hand absently stuck in the crook of Harry's elbow, shining in an emerald satin sheath. There was Ron next to her, she could smell the spice of his cologne and feel the nap of his tweed jacket where it reached through the silver lace of her own dress. There was a slender gold chain dripping? floating? on her wrist, the color of the champagne in her wide, shallow glass. And there, above the edge of her glass, were Marietta Edgecombe's eyes, shooting daggers into her own.
Smith looked at Harry's outstretched hand as though discerning if it were, in fact, an adder protruding from the cuff of his dinner jacket. "Come on," said Harry, "You'll accept my invitation, but not my hospitality?" "Very well," sighed Smith as he clasped Harry's hand, "Have you got any Firewhiskey left, or has this lot drunk it all?" Instantly a glass materialized and the bottle was summoned, and with a hearty laugh, the fun resumed and the countdown to twelve began again.
In the meantime, Marietta had eased her way to Hermione's side. "Mrs. Weasley," she began, but was promptly interrupted. "Oh, please, never let anyone hear you call me Mrs. Weasley. We've known each other far too long for that nonsense. Hermione. Please." "Very well, Hermione," began Marietta again, in a voice that called to mind glaciers. "I just wanted to ask you if you had ever discovered a counter-jinx to the one you inflicted upon me when we were children? I've grown a bit tired, you see, of having spots that spell "Sneak" across my face."
The night was too far along for all this, thought Hermione, in the part of her mind that was still dimly forming thoughts. A chorus of voices penetrated the fog she was trying to think through, gleefully shouting, "Ten! Nine! Eight!" She reflexively began seeking her husband, while trying to offer what she thought were consoling looks to her petitioner. "I'll be right back," she shouted over her shoulder.
Hermione found Ron just as the revelers shouted "One!" "I was wondering where you'd got to," he said with a smile. "Happy New Year, darling," she whispered. She tilted her face up and closed her eyes, but their kiss was stopped abruptly by a sound like a feral animal.
"That CUNT refuses to tell me how to get rid of this ridiculous curse that has been ruining my life for TWELVE FUCKING YEARS!" Marietta had gone beyond red in the face, to something splotchy in purple or puce, doing nothing for her ever-present spots. Sparks were shooting indiscriminately from her wand, and Zacharias Smith was standing near, but clearly too terrified to subdue her. "WHAT did you just call my wife?" raged the youngest Weasley male, drawing his own wand and turning a similar variety of colors. The crowd converged around the two combatants surprisingly quickly, shutting Hermione out, leaving her drowsy and confused. She looked at the shimmering colors of cocktail dresses, trying to figure out how to get in and make things better. She could make things better, she knew she could, she just didn't know how to get to Marietta.
She tried to pry her way into the crowd with her one free hand, and circled around, seeking a weaker spot. It didn't occur to her to put down the champagne. "New Year's, after all," she thought. But the sounds of the contest within the circle were getting to be too much for her, and she kept trying to find a way in. Suddenly, through the fog, a new arm was around her shoulders. Well, not new. Wholly familiar. "Come on," whispered a comforting voice, "Let's get you a portkey home." She stumbled outside into the sharp January air, guided by the arm, the scent, the voice, and suddenly she knew that this was what she'd always sought.
"Harry." She'd turned to face him and said it like she was giving him a flower. "I always feel safest when I'm with you." The emerald eyes twinkled at her in the starlight as he vanished her glass and took her hands in his. "Hermione Granger, you know I couldn't go on if anything were to happen to you." Somehow they were shockingly close—she could see the stubble on his chin because he'd shaved so many hours ago. "Hermione Weasley," she whispered. And somehow their lips were there together, their arms around each other, their friendship somehow culminating to something beautiful and perfect, but impossible.
They broke apart, eyes locked, glittering at one another, breath turning to icy crystals in their mouths. A kiss, that was all. In the haze of the champagne, they might still believe it was only friendly, but Hermione knew better. "I have to remember," she thought to herself. "Don't forget, please brain, you have to remember." Hermione felt a moment of warmth on her hand and looked down to see a piece of a banister glowing blue. "Happy New Year," said Harry, still and shocked. Hermione felt the familiar hook behind her navel, joining another odd sensation in her stomach. "Happy New Year," she whispered.
A/N: Clearly, I don't own anything or anyone here. I am vaguely thinking of turning this into a longer fic. Anyone out there interested in reading it?