Harry Potter consulted his watch. It was an old analogue watch with a cracked screen and a scuffed leather band. A cast-off from Dudley that Harry had never bothered to get rid of, even after the war.
Harry stood alone in the shadows of Grimmauld Place, near the front door. A single lamp was on, sitting on the side table by the door where they tossed their keys. The light was warm but cast long shadows over the room.
Harry was waiting for one of his best friends, Hermione Granger. She'd been in a fairly miserable mood lately.
An invaluable member of the Ministry of Magic, Hermione had risen through the ranks. But not without being worked into the ground by the Ministry.
Hermione's birthday had been two days ago, but due to an urgent project at the Ministry, had bailed on dinner with her friends and worked through the night instead.
She'd had to do that a few times with her personal life.
Harry scratched his chin, a shadow of a beard burgeoning in the dim lighting of the apartment.
This time Hermione had promised she wouldn't bail. Harry had met Hermione earlier in the day between meetings. She'd looked exhausted, dark marks under her eyes. She'd had a hell of a week and needed to spend some time with her friends, she'd said.
Harry checked his watch again. Hermione was never late. But now it was 45 minutes and counting.
Perhaps he should have come up with a better suggestion than joining him to watch a local Quidditch match…
There was a scuffling at the door.
Harry waved his hands distractedly at the shadowy room before rushing over to open the door.
He had barely opened it when Hermione stumbled in, still looking bone tired and distinctly smelling of wine.
"Sorry I'm late," Hermione mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck, "I was, er, doing stuff."
There was something different about her, besides the drunkenness, but Harry couldn't quite place his finger on it.
Hermione's brunette and curly hair was a little tousled and she tugged at it before smoothing down her clothes. She was wearing a plain white shirt, black jeans and a burgundy jumper, slightly askew.
Before Harry could shut the door behind her, another figure pushed through the door, smelling even more heavily of wine.
"I'm 'stuff!'" Fleur Delacour announced, uncharacteristically bubbly.
Harry stepped back a moment, his jaw slackening as he processed the words of the pretty blonde now sidling up to his best friend.
Fleur Delacour was beautiful, inhumanly so. She was wearing a casual dress, her silvery blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She was standing awfully close to the tired-looking Hermione, playing with the sleeve of the brunette's jumper.
Surely not…
Hermione yawned, frowning slightly.
"Aww, so sleepy. Come on, ma chérie," Fleur purred, "Or do we need to take you home so I can cheer you up some more?"
Harry felt blood rush to his face. He needed to say something. But damn it if his throat wasn't choked up at the surprise turn of events.
"Surprise…" A haphazard cheer rang out as someone lit the remaining lights in the room and a variety of figures jumped out from the shadows. Various Weasleys, Neville, Luna, Tonks, Lupin, Shacklebolt…
Harry tugged at the collar of his shirt. From the looks on all their faces, they had heard the surprisingly affectionate words between the two girls.
"We… Er… Planned you a belated birthday party, 'Mione," Harry explained awkwardly, "It was supposed to be a surprise…"
"For Pete's sake, Harry," Hermione said softly, looking less than pleased at the turn of events. She was eying the crowd of people in the room that were staring at her and Fleur.
Fleur, for her part, couldn't be more oblivious to the onlookers, now cuddling into Hermione's shoulder.
Harry tried to spur his brain into action as Molly Weasley stepped forward, a dangerous look on her face.
Think, Harry, think… You can fix this…
"Molly!" Harry said a little too-loudly, stepping between the Weasley Matriarch and Hermione, "I heard you've cooked up some lovely treats for us to snack on tonight!"
Molly pushed the Boy Who Lived to one side, nodding dismissively at him.
"Fleur," Molly greeted tersely.
The drunken blonde, quite firmly attached to Harry's best friend's side, cocked her head to one side curiously. Harry had never seen the usually-reserved blonde so open and relaxed. But then, before today, he hadn't seen her drunk before.
"Molly," Fleur replied.
Hermione had put her arm around Fleur's waist now, looking between Fleur and Molly cautiously. Her frown was growing.
"Is this why you and Bill separated?" Molly asked dangerously, raising an eyebrow. She had planted her strong hands firmly on her hips. Though short, she cut an intimidating figure. The drunk Veela seemed unaffected, smiling widely.
"Non, Molly," Fleur replied in a playful voice, "Hermione is a new development."
She played with Hermione's unruly curls as she spoke.
"Molly, I—" Harry began, trying to save the girls from the Weasley mother.
"Fleur, how do you feel about helping me put out the food, dear?" Molly asked dangerously.
A drunk Fleur innocently nodded, disentangling herself from Hermione. She followed behind Molly, a little unsteady in her usual high heels, reminding Harry very much of a baby deer walking.
"Harry, what the bloody hell—" Hermione started waspishly, before the rest of the group rushed forward to hug her. She was quickly swamped by friends, unable to continue her discussion with Harry.
Harry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. He inwardly thanked Merlin for the distraction of multiple well-wishers clapping Hermione on the back and demanding her attention.
Maybe he could sneak off somewhere. At least until his tired and cranky best friend calmed down a little.
Hermione could be a little temperamental at the best of times, perhaps catching her off-guard with a surprise party was not the best of ideas when she was so rundown.
Harry's head was spinning a little at just how much he had inadvertently dropped his friend in it. In his defence, never in a million years had he ever expected to find Hermione cuddling up with Fleur Delacour.
Sure, Harry had never thought of Hermione as the straightest arrow in the quiver… But she'd always been so private about her personal life. She'd never let on about any potential love interest, man or woman.
"Did… Did I hear that right?" Ron asked, coming to stand by Harry, "Hermione and Fleur? Fleur Delacour?!"
"Yep," Harry replied hoarsely.
"And she wasn't planning on all these people finding out?" Ron replied, his voice laced with utter shock.
"Nope," Harry replied in a deadpan voice.
"Bloody hell," Ron exhaled heavily.
The redhead had shot up in height even more after the war and was slightly less gangly. He was still lean, though, and extremely freckly. Moreso after the war. His hair was too long at the moment, hanging over his ears like a mop.
He looked even more shocked than Harry. Ron couldn't stop flicking his eyes from the brunette fielding questions from a cluster of friends, to the blonde clumsily helping his mother set up some small tables of food and drink. Harry knew Ron had always held a flame for Fleur. He also rather suspected Ron had always had a bit of a thing for Hermione, too. The situation was probably too much for the redhead to even process.
"She's going to be even more pissed than the time we accidentally destroyed her final Potions essay in Seventh Year, isn't she?" Harry groaned.
"She hasn't exactly been in the best of moods lately with all the stuff going on at work for her," Ron concurred. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, "Well, it was nice knowing you, mate!"
"Hey! This is on all of us!" Harry called after Ron, as the tall redhead wandered off to get some food, "I didn't plan this alone!"
Harry sighed helplessly as Ron shrugged.
For the remainder of the night, Harry played a careful dance. He remained close enough to noticeably be involved in the festivities, but flitted often so that he would never be close enough for Hermione to speak to him one on one.
His friend looked exhausted, she looked unhappy, she looked more than a little mortified at being caught out with Fleur.
Harry felt bad.
It was supposed to be a nice surprise after Hermione's bad week.
After a while, Harry decided he should probably just apologise to Hermione. She'd probably tell him off a little bit, but it would be worth it to make things right with her. He'd just explain that he and Ron had thought it would be a great idea. That it was the thought that counts, right?
Harry stepped around one of the old leather couches of Grimmauld Place, walking up to Ginny.
"Hey, Gin, have you seen 'Mione around?" Harry asked, tapping the athletic redhead on the shoulder.
Ginny turned around, her straight auburn hair flicking across her face. She tucked it back behind her ear, distracted. She was deep in conversation with Luna Lovegood, and didn't appear to appreciate the disruption.
"Think she went off to the study," Ginny replied quickly, before turning back to Luna.
Harry nodded, walking towards the study of the late Black family. It made sense, Hermione always withdrew to places full of books when she felt—well—felt any kind of way, really. The study of Grimmauld Place was quite stunning too. Wall to wall of bookshelves. Plus, no bigoted portraits somehow permanently affixed to the walls.
Harry made his way slowly down the hallway, coming to a stop outside the study. He took a deep breath. It was fine, he could turn this around. He could make sure Hermione had a good birthday celebration after all.
Harry reached out and tried the door handle. Locked?
"Alohomora," Harry muttered, pulling out his wand.
He tried it again. Locked.
Strange.
Then Harry heard it. Muffled by the door, but audible all the same. Hermione was on the other side of the door, making a strange noise.
Harry, in a reflex he had never quite dropped since the war, felt himself immediately panic for his friend's safety. He pressed his ear to the door.
"Ohhhh, Merlin, Fleur," Hermione was moaning, "Yes- Gods, yes!"
Harry froze, blood rushing to his face (and other areas) so fast it was dizzying.
"Oh, Fleur, baby, you have such a talented tongue—"
Harry ripped his ear away from the door, stumbling back across the hallway and into a coat rack. He fell to the floor, hard, the coat rack tumbling on top of him.
His friends on the other side of the door seemed oblivious, the muffled noises continuing.
Well… At least I know she's definitely having a good night after all… Harry thought to himself.