"One, two, three, one, two, three…"
"Oh god, is maths a part of dancing? Hermione, you know I- Ow!"
He stopped watching his feet for a second to tease her a bit and at that exact moment, slid a foot under her heel.
"Oh! Are you alright?!"
"Bad time for a joke. This dancing is going to kill me," he said, lifting his leg and rolling his ankle, wincing as it popped softly.
"A rather fun way to go, if you ask me," she replied primly, waving her wand at the small phonograph sitting on top of a table in the corner of the room. The music stopped with an audible scratch. "But we can take a break now. Maybe that's enough for today."
She cast a concerned look to his ankles.
He grabbed her hands, making sure to grip them correctly, his hand on the bottom with her's on top. He took a second to look at them and noticed a small smudge of ink on the outside of her thumb. Had her hands always been this small? His own seemed to almost swallow them.
He remembered her once complaining as she massaged her hands that they were always cold but now, he felt anything but. So small and yet still so warm, almost hot against his palm.
Hermione must have noticed his silence because she cleared her throat. "Really, Harry, it's alright for today. The Ball is still a while off."
His ankles screamed at him and his back was beginning to ache but complain as he might, he didn't want to stop. If they stopped, then there would be no reason to stay in this empty classroom. Beyond the door, he couldn't stop to wonder at how small her hands were. He couldn't pause to watch the way her lips wrapped around each word.
Outside this room, people would get in between them and divide their attention.
But here, it was just them.
Surely his ankles could last one more round.
He knew quite a few things about Hermione by now. Like how when she was worried, she pressed a hand against her neck as if to hold back panicked words.
Or like how she picked at her quill when she was thinking deeply, sometimes not stopping until she had plucked the whole thing.
Right now, she stood, hand curled into a fist which she pressed against her lips. Her pose was carefully casual, her head tilted slightly and one arm around her front as if she were considering an interesting piece of art.
And Harry knew she was desperately trying not to laugh.
"Hermione."
"You look great," she said, her voice strained as if she could barely breathe.
"Hermione."
She nodded, pressing her fist tighter to her lips. "Looks nice."
He frowned and in one swift movement, threw his arms up and allowed the frilly ends of the sleeves to fly into the air before flopping back down to hang from his horizontal arms. With a distasteful glare, he noted how heavy the entire sleeve felt with its overly long ruffles as they hung down to his knees.
"I-I'm sure it's-" That was as far as she got before she doubled over, laughing so hard she wasn't making any sound. He scowled at her or at least, tried to until her laugh rang out, making him chuckle along.
She tried to compose herself, stepping forward to fuss with the rippled label. But every time she would take a calming breath, the giggles would get her again.
With a reluctant smile, he said, "So you like them?"
Another fit overtook her and she leaned her head against his chest, her shoulders shaking up and down.
It was a miracle that she was able to get herself under control but a smile still lingered on her face. He sighed and stepped over to the mirror she had conjured to stand at the foot of his bed.
Missus Weasley had told him, after giving him the robes as a wrapped-up present, the green would compliment his eyes.
Now Harry liked Missus Weasley. She could be a bit overbearing and smothering but as a boy that had grown up without much affection, she was the closest thing to a mother figure that he had. She was kind, doting and she was always willing to lend a shoulder or an ear to whoever needed it.
With all this considered, Harry had to admit; she had absolutely horrible taste.
He had accepted the robes without a fuss, too touched by her thoughtfulness to refuse but now, he sort of wished he did.
The under robes were frilly and white with too many laces that kept itching at him. He scratched at his neck as the high collar irritated his skin.
The outer robes were a bright lime-green and made from silk, which made the cloth shine in an almost sickening way. The thick, ruffled cuffs poked out of the loose sleeves and when his arms were at his side, they almost reached the floor. The lapel, too, was frilled and the fabric clumped around each button like cotton balls.
He looked like a silky green pillow that was about to burst at the seams. "I cannot wear this."
"Why not? I think you look rather dashing," Hermione said, peeking around his shoulders to peer at him in the mirror. He gave her such a severe look of disapproval that he was surprised the mirror didn't crack. Hermione hid her smile behind her hand, her eyes sparkling as she examined the robes closer.
"Okay, okay!" she said, turning him away from the mirror. "We'll find you something else."
"If I show up like this, people aren't going to recognize me." His fingers went to his neck and started trying to find the buttons to unfasten. "Prolly start thinking 'how'd this pretty girl end up with a leprechaun?'"
He was so focused on trying to find the blasted button that he almost missed Hermione's shocked face.
"Oh come on, Hermione, I look like a walking lime."
Her face flushed and her hands knotted together in front of her. "No, no. You said… pretty."
His fingers soon found the button and nearly tore it off in his haste to get the itchy collar away from his skin.
"Er, yeah. Pretty," he mumbled distractedly as he tried to find the next one.
He paused as her face grew even redder. "You really think that?"
"What, that you're pretty? Of course, I do."
Her head ducked and she took a step back nearly bumping into Ron's fourposter. "Really? I-I mean, I-I understand if you didn't, I know I'm not the nicest to look-"
He gave up on the buttons and stepped toward her, grabbing one of her small hands in his. He traced her fingers slowly, smiling as he found yet another ink stain on the inside of her wrist.
When he looked back up, Hermione's eyes were on him, scrutinizing every detail of his face. He had no idea how anyone could think her plain.
His eyes were drawn to her lips and like he was under a trance, he leaned in. About half-a-second later, his mind caught up with his body and quickly redirected his lips to her forehead. He had no clue if she would want to kiss him again and he wasn't about to start taking chances.
But even the soft, feather-light touch had his hair sending on end.
Reluctantly, he pulled and smiled shyly. "I think… you're really… beautiful, if-if you don't mind me, er saying so."
Her chiming laughter filled the room, and Harry thought he could listen to it all day without getting tired of it. She leaned her head against his chest, resting her forehead. "No, I… don't mind at all."
They stood there for a few moments and ever-present itching made itself known again. With a sigh, Harry let go off her hand and went to fiddle with the buttons again. "I don't think this bloody thing'll come off."
The door to the common room creaked as it opened and Neville's long face peeked in. "Oh, Harry, Hermione! I thought I-"
As he opened the door wide, he caught sight of the robes. For a long moment, he stared at the horrible green thing that swallowed up his friend. And then, without a word, he stepped in the room, shut the door as quietly as he could and asked, "Why are you wearing Salazar Slytherin's nightie?"
Hermione muffled a snicker with her hand.
"You're hilarious, Nev," Harry deadpanned.
"Thanks. But you're not wearing that to the Ball, are you?"
"Well, I don't want to but I can't find the stupid buttons so I might be stuck in this forever."
"Can't let that happen," Hermione said, pulling her wand from her sleeve. "How about we slice the fluff off and try then?"
"Just don't cut me."
"I'm not going to cut you!" Hermione said, rolling her eyes and Harry cast a doubtful look over to Neville, who only shook his head in response. With a muttered spell, the gratuitous ruffles fell to the floor. Thankfully, the small buttons were easy to find after that and Harry quickly stripped the robes off, leaving him in his t-shirt and joggers.
"So what are you going to do?" Neville asked, picking up the discarded outer robe with obvious distaste. "Where'd you even get this thing?"
"A gift," Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck guiltily. "I still have to pay Missus Weasley back for it."
"And think of a reason you can't wear it," Hermione chimed in as she stepped around the pair and vanished the mirror at the end of Harry's bed.
Neville's eyes flicked over to her, then to Harry before examining the robe with great interest.
At that moment, Harry realized he never really saw Neville's reaction the day before, when Ron had suggested that he go with Hermione.
Was there a chance that Neville would attempt to ask Hermione to the Ball? Neville was a timid fellow but Harry knew he could be rather bold when he wanted to be. And he had to be an idiot not to be drawn to Hermione, an intelligent, pretty girl with a smile whose brightness rivaled the sun.
So, yes, there was a possibility that Neville would ask Hermione. Harry was fairly confident that she would turn him down but that damned voice in the back of his head whispered that she might not, that she would want to go with Neville.
And Harry was absolutely not going to let that happen, no matter how friendly he and the other boy were.
He cleared his throat and attempted to take on a tone of nonchalance. "Hermione, what colour's your dress? We do have to match , after all."
He peered at Neville out of the corner of his eye and his heart calmed when he noticed the boy gave no outward reaction.
"Periwinkle." Hermione sat down on his bed. At his blank look, she clarified, "A very light blue. Almost purple."
"Definitely won't match, then," Neville said as he tossed the robe onto Harry's trunk. "You know, there's a dress shop in Hogsmeade. You could try there. Worst comes to worst, you'll just hafta order something."
His total non-reaction had Harry feeling a little guilty for mistrusting his friend's intentions.
Just a little.
"I suppose so. There's a trip this weekend, right?" He very nearly suggested they ask Ron to come along, as his pinkish robes were even worse (if that was even possible) but then Harry remembered his flippant dismissal of Hermione the day before.
And he kept his mouth shut.
"Well, then, you best get started on your essay if you want to go," Hermione said, gathering the robes from the trunk and folding them quickly. She laid them on the bed before walking to the door. "It's due tomorrow and I have no doubts that Professor Snape would just love to give you detention on a Hogsmeade weekend."
Harry sighed but nodded. "Help me out?"
She scoffed and tried so very hard to appear reluctant but a smile pulled at her lips. "Well… I did want to go to Hogsmeade with you. I suppose I'll get my books. Do you need help too, Neville?"
"Ah, no, thanks, Hermione," Neville said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I'll be waiting in the common room then."
"You're the best," he called to her back as she left the room. He shrugged on his normal cloak and popped his trunk lid, sifting through tossed textbooks and broken quills to pull out a new roll of parchment.
"Hey, Harry?"
He jumped, nearly knocking his head on the open lid. He had almost forgotten the boy was there. "Um, yeah?"
Neville shuffled over to Ron's bed and took a seat on his old trunk. His face paled slightly as he examined his own hands with great interest.
When he didn't speak for several moments, Harry cleared his throat. "Nev?"
The other boy shook his head as if to clear out whatever he had been thinking of. "Er, yeah, sorry. Listen… have you talked to Hermione about yesterday? With Ron?"
A vice tightened around his chest. Had Harry been wrong to assume that Neville wasn't interested in Hermione? He tried to keep his growing annoyance of his voice. "Not yet. Why?"
Neville didn't seem fazed by Harry's sudden change in attitude. "You… you don't think that she thinks I think that?"
"...Excuse me?"
"She's my friend, you know and I'd hate to think that she thinks that."
"... What? "
Neville nearly jumped to his feet, his face askance. "I don't want her to think that I th-"
His sentence was cut off as Harry slammed his trunk lid closed.
"Neville. Stop saying 'think'," he said slowly as he stood. "What are you trying to say?"
"Well, you know, what Ron said yesterday! Or, er, what he didn't, I guess? He made it sound like nobody wants to go to the Ball with Hermione and… well, I don't agree. Anybody would be half as lucky to go with her and I don't want her thinking I agree with him! She's been a good friend to me, you know?"
Now Harry felt incredibly guilty about doubting his friend's intentions. "She doesn't, trust me. When we talk about it, I'll make sure she knows, alright?"
His face sagged in visible relief. "Thanks, mate. I don't know how to bring it up without it bein' awkward. You're sure she's not, like, mad at me?"
The image of her furious eyes popped into his mind. Even the memory of their piercing gaze made his heart skip a beat.
"Nah, mate. Trust me, you'd know."