A/N: Ok, a fairly happy chapter. A short one, but a happy one. Thank you for putting up with me. And by the way—someone told me I have some kind of restriction on my reviews section. Anyone know what that's all about! Let me know. And thank you, thank you, thank you for being so patient!
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling should rule the world.
"I can't possibly go," Hermione insists, studying the invitation. "I'm pregnant!"
"Hermione, you have to go!" Ron says, his eyes wide. "It's Ginny's birthday, all right? She really wants you there!"
"This is absurd, Ron. It will be embarrassing for me, and you know it!"
"Why on earth would it possibly be embarrassing?"
Hermione raises her eyebrows and points at her hugely protruding belly.
"Well, yeah, it is kind of obvious at this point, but everyone who is going to be there already knows."
"Oh, great, that makes me feel so much better," Hermione snaps sarcastically.
"Hermione, you're being ridiculous. Just come. It would mean so much to Ginny."
Hermione doesn't say anything, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Just think about it, all right?" Ron rises, kissing Hermione on the forehead. "I've got practise—I'll tell Krum you've changed your mind, that you do want to marry him, shall I?"
"Very funny," Hermione says, allowing herself to smile a little. She can't help it—Ron does make her feel better.
"Say hello to Harry for me, yeah?"
"Of course," Hermione says, and Ron smiles a little before walking out of the door into the Wizarding World.
Hermione sighs, sitting back down, trying to ignore the pain in her stomach. She looks down at the invitation, written in Ginny's loopy scrawl. She rests her hands on her belly.
Ginny had written a little note in the margin.
I know you're expecting and all that, but it is my birthday, and I'd love it if you could be there.
Well yes, that's all sweet and cute, but—the baby! And besides, she has nothing to wear. Hermione sighs. She could blame it on the clothes, really. Say she didn't have time to find something. Or she could just admit that the reason she's hesitating is because she doesn't really want people pressing their ears to her stomach and telling her how great she looks considering how far along she is. Or asking her—asking her when she and Harry are going to tie the knot. Because that, most certainly, is never going to happen.
Hermione sighs. She's being stupid. She knows she is. She heaves herself up again and walks slowly, carefully down the hallway. It's almost ridiculous how much time it takes her just to get to her room. Honestly. She's practically sweating by the time she reaches the opening into her closet. Her dress robes she owns are tucked in the back. She tugs them gently off of their hangers and walks back into her room. Taking a deep breath, she slides her current, everyday robe off and shimmies into the top dress robe. Or rather, she attempts to. The material will simply not go over her stomach.
Stupid, Hermione tells herself angrily as she takes it off again (with some difficulty), picking up her wand and pointing it at the robe. "Accidius!" she cries. She watches the pale green fabric stretch with some satisfaction, finally putting it back on again. It fits perfectly.
Hermione looks in the mirror and frowns. The dark, blotchy spots on her face have disappeared, which is a good thing. In fact, her skin is pretty darn clear. But … oh, she knows she shouldn't be feeling like this, that it's typical in pregnancy, but … she feels fat. And that doesn't feel very good at all.
Hermione points her wand at each of the robes on her bed, muttering the charm over and over again. She sets the first robe on the ground and pulls the next, a red one over her head. It's even worse than the first, and the neckline is completely wrong. She shakes her head and tries on the next. No good.
Hermione feels tears stinging her eyes, and she doesn't even know why she's crying. They're just dress robes, for crying out loud! She looks down at the maroon satin dress, her stomach sticking out, and her tears drop onto the fabric as she collapses on the floor.
The front door slams shut, but Hermione doesn't hear it as she continues to sob into her hands. And she doesn't hear Harry's footsteps.
But she does hear his cough at the doorway, and she jumps up as fast as a girl eight months pregnant possibly could.
"Hermione? What's wrong?"
Harry drops his bag to the floor and walks swiftly to her. He circles his arms around her waist, surprised at his boldness. But—since he returned, he's been surprising himself quite a bit.
He's more surprised that she never pulls away.
Hermione sniffles a little, refusing to lift her head. "It's just—I tried on all of these robes, for Ginny's birthday party, and they just look—they look terrible."
Harry forces himself not to burst out laughing. "I'm sure it's not that bad, Hermione," he says, trying to keep a straight face.
"No, they really do," Hermione insists. "I look like a fat pig with a terrible complexion and unruly hair and -"
"Hermione, don't you think you're being just a wee bit hard on yourself?"
"No," she says firmly, pouting her lips.
Who would've thought Hermione Granger would be like this? Harry wonders. He can't help it. A small smile comes across his mouth.
"You know I'm right!" she cries, pulling away. "I look horrible. Horrible, horrible, horrible." She wads up the red dress and tosses it into the corner for emphasis.
"Hermione, you're being ridiculous!" Harry takes her wrists to stop her from grabbing the other dresses. "You're pregnant. And, quite frankly, I think you're beautiful just the way you are."
Hermione looks up, surprised. "You—you think I'm pretty?"
Harry nods.
How did he get so audacious?
"Now," he says quietly. "Are there any dresses you haven't tried yet?"
Hermione wipes her eyes and nods. "Just two." She gestures towards the robes still folded on her bed. Harry picks up a blue one and studies it, frowning slightly. It's pretty, sure, but it's not Hermione. He sets it back on the bed and lifts the next. It's deep purple, with a delicate trim of lace.
Harry turns to Hermione. "This," he says.
"Harry, last time I wore that, Ron told me I looked like a cow," Hermione says. Stubbornly, Harry presses the robe into her hands. "Then again, Ron has no taste," she adds, smiling a little.
Harry nods, turning his back to her. "Put it on," he says over his shoulder.
Hermione studies his back before quickly pulling off the maroon robe and stepping into the purple dress. She can't zip it up all the way. "It's on," she says softly.
Harry turns slowly, sucking his breath in while trying to make sure it doesn't sound like he's sucking his breath in. But he can't help it.
She looks positively amazing.
"Is it that bad?" Hermione guesses, her eyes beginning to water again. "Turn around, I'll take it off -"
Harry finds his voice. "No!" he says forcefully. "No, it looks—it looks great, actually."
Hermione studies his face. Has he ever looked at her like that before? "You mean it?"
"Yes, I mean it. Look at yourself."
Hermione turns towards the mirror. Despite the fact that her hair is greasy and her face is oily, her skin is glowing in a way that it never had before. The material clings to her body in all the right places, loose in the places that need to be hidden.
It's perfect.
"What do you think?" Harry asks her after a few moments.
Hermione tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "It'll do," she says softly. They both laugh. "Ok, you were right. It's great." She smiles. "Thanks, Harry," she adds quietly.
"Any time." He clears his throat. "So we are going, then? Now that your outfit problem has been fixed?"
Hermione shoves him. "Yes, we're going."
Harry grins, and then shuffles his feet, pretending to be bashful. "Well, Miss Granger," he says shyly. "I would, um, love it if you would, um, attend this, um, party with me. Only if you'd like to, of course."
Hermione hits him playfully. "Of course, Mr Potter. That would be wonderful."
"Fantastic." Harry grins again. "I'll pick you up next Saturday at six."
"It's a date," Hermione agrees.
Harry leaves her room, promising that dinner is on the way.
Hermione sits down on her bed, shaking her head.
Was he flirting with her?
Harry pulls a pot out of a drawer.
Was she flirting with him?
