Harry POV

Another Ministry ball. Joy to the bloody world.

Harry stood in the midst of hundreds of people from around the globe, all there to exchange the same lame pleasantries from last year, and get the same answers, for the most part. There were at least three young women he knew he'd have to dance with, at his godfather's request. Sirius was always trying to find him a girl, and the matchmaking schemes only increased at the Christmas ball, and he'd pick two or three girls for Harry to meet. Normally, this was a task he viewed only as mildly tedious. Tonight, he was dreading it like a child dreaded the return to school.

How pointless it all was! How hypocritical! If only he could leave, just run away from this hell, without anyone noticing. But he couldn't. He'd promised Sirius he'd stay at least for an hour, and dance with those three women, though he knew the chances of him finding even the smallest interest in any of them was below zero. Lately, the only woman who occupied his thoughts was—

No! Stop thinking about her Harry! She's dangerous! She's not interested! She's—

She's right over there.

Harry's breath caught as his eyes drank in the beautiful sight before him. There was Hermione Granger, at the top of the marble staircase leading into the ballroom, an absolute vision in a strapless red, floor-length gown. The skirt flowed and rippled with her every step, and the fitted bodice hugged her curves in an all-too pleasing manner. A small, silver headband crowned her head, holding back the thick, caramel colored tresses, which hung in loose, pretty waves down her back. She completed the ensemble with simple jewelry, and elbow-length, white silk gloves.

Bloody hell.

He had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Without thinking, he began making his way over to her, but stopped when he saw her take the arm of the man beside her. Harry didn't recognize him, but there was something rather familiar about the red hair and freckles. Ah, yes; he must be related to Hermione's friend, the Weasley girl. Violent jealousy erupted within him like a volcano, and he found himself rooted to the spot, unable to look away, though the sight was nearly unbearable.

At that moment, she turned, and her eyes locked on his. He thought he saw her cheeks turn faintly pink, but he dared not trust his own eyes. Surely they'd been conspiring with his heart, and had decided to play a cruel trick on him. Yet, he did not look away, but met her gaze shamelessly, and dared her to avert her gaze. She didn't. At least, not until the red-haired man addressed her, and escorted her onto the dance floor.

A thousand thoughts and feelings raced through Harry's mind and soul. He couldn't read her expression, but it certainly hadn't been one of hatred, or of anger. That was a good sign... wasn't it? Did this mean she had forgiven him?

Hermione POV

"Oh, it's beautiful!" Ginny gushed as they entered the hall. Hermione smiled as she commenced in pointing out every little bauble and candle that lit the impressively decorated ballroom. She caught Ron's eye, and noticed he, too, was grinning a bit. In a moment of impulsiveness, she looped her arm around his. He jumped a little, but the smile remained.

"Who's that?" Ginny asked suddenly. Hermione turned to her friend, then followed her gaze to a man speaking with the Minister. His skin was the color of caramel, and his black hair was cropped short. There was something... almost sinister in the way he stood, smirked, and spoke (though she couldn't hear his voice, she guessed it was probably an arrogant drawl). Instantly, Hermione was disposed to dislike him.

"That's Blaise Zabini," Draco informed them, and she could hear the loathing in his voice. Well, at least she wasn't alone. "He's over the curse-breakers. He's been in Lithuania for the past year. A right piece of work, that one," he added, the venom in his voice increasing.

"He looks it," Hermione droned, meeting her friend's eye. He smiled at her, obviously appreciating her shared opinion. Unfortunately, Ginny's opinion was different.

"He's handsome," she murmured.

Draco's face fell, but he tried to hide it, muttering something about having to find his parents. Hermione sighed inwardly; she felt bad for him. It certainly couldn't be easy watching someone you care for flirt with other men, but how much more difficult if she were to make eyes at someone you hated! Poor Draco.

The back of Hermione's neck prickled as though someone was watching her, and she turned around to see Harry Potter staring at her. Her insides squirmed as our eyes connected; she hardly knew how to act. He didn't seem to be turning away any time soon, so she supposed she should. And yet, she found herself quite unable to do so.

For a few moments—or it might have been several minutes—they stood, eyes locked, each unwavering in their gaze. His was searching, pleading, and she was certain hers was a blank, unintelligent-looking stare. How lovely.

Wait... why did she care? He already thought the worst of her... even if he did love her... she was so confused!

"Hermione?"

She started, and turned toward Ron, who had spoken. "Yes?"

"Would... you like to dance?"

Smiling, she nodded. "I'd be honored," she said, and he led her onto the floor. Ron wasn't as skilled of a dancer as Draco, so they settled for swaying slowly to the beat of the song. She smiled up at her companion.

"You look beautiful," he said suddenly, and his face turned red.

The sweet, simple satisfaction she'd felt before in knowing she'd broken past Ron's walls, was now replaced with a gnawing feeling of dread. Ron was shy; he didn't say things like that. And he blushed a lot more than usual when he was around her. Did he... fancy her?

"Thank you," she replied quickly, hoping he didn't notice her sudden change in demeanor. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he was just trying to be more brave.

"Mind if I cut in?" a voice asked.

They both turned, and Hermione felt herself scowling as her eyes met those of Blaise Zabini. He was even more sinister-looking up close, and she could feel the arrogance radiating from him. Yes, she'd been absolutely right about him.

"Er..." was Ron's response.

"You can wait until the next dance," Hermione snapped, attempting to lead Ron in the opposite direction. She didn't want to be anywhere near this man.

"Oh, come now," he chuckled, "it's not even a whole song. You can go back to your little friend in a minute or two."

Hermione hated the way he'd said "little friend." She hated him already. But, sadly, she knew the rules of propriety required her to be polite. She turned apologetic eyes to Ron, who just shrugged, and sauntered off. Hermione turned to the handsome, conceited stranger, and allowed him to take her hand. However, she had to correct his other hand's position, when he tried to place it a little too low.

"My waist is here," she pointed out.

His eyes twinkled with mirth. "You don't like me," he said, cocking his head slightly to the left. "You don't know me, but you don't like me."

"Smarter than you look, eh?" she shot back.

Infuriatingly, he merely laughed. "Oh, I like 'em fiery!"

Hermione scowled. "Listen here, Sparky," she whispered menacingly. "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but trust me when I say that you do not want to get on my bad side. I've mastered every defensive spell in every book, and even some that you've never heard of. And I'm a member of the press, so I have the ability and the authority to dig up every last piece of dirt on you, and paste it on the Prophet's front page." She leaned a little closer, dropping her voice further. "Cross me, and I will make your life a living hell."

The song ended then—thank Merlin!—and she stepped away from him as quickly as she could. But as she turned around, she nearly ran into someone else. "Sorry," she muttered, then looked up, and her jaw dropped. Shit!

Must it always be Harry Potter?

"May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice smooth, though his eyes were hard.

She should say no. She should tell him she couldn't, and hurry back to Ron, who may or may not be sulking in a corner. The thought made her sad. But then she remembered Harry's accusations and insults. If she just rejected him, point blank, it would be stooping to the level he'd mistakenly placed her at. And she thought about his letter. Could she really be so cold and uncivil, when he had made an honest and sincere effort to rectify his behavior?

Damn.

"Yes, you may," she replied tonelessly, and took his hand.

As he led her away from Zabini, she thought she saw him toss a scathing glance at the arrogant douche. Before she could question it, though, he'd pulled her into the traditional dancing position, and all her thoughts came to a halt. His hand, positioned carefully on the small of her back, seemed to burn her skin through the fabric of her dress, while the other caused a tingling sensation in her hand. One thumb managed to lightly graze the bare skin above the dress, leaving a trail of fire, and causing her to subtly arch her back. She gulped; what was this man doing to her? She met his eyes questioningly, but found no expression to gauge. He just stared blankly back at her, as they waited for the next song.

At length, the music began to play, a soft, sweet number by Chopin, an he guided her into a waltz. His steps were precise, calculated, and for once, Hermione found herself actually being led by a man, rather than steering him, or sharing the lead. The feminist in her told her she should despise the feeling, but... she actually felt... strangely exhilarated to know she was dancing with a capable male lead.

The dance became more elaborate, and he twirled her a few times, before adding some intricate steps. They spun and swayed together, in perfect harmony, until the music slowed, and quieted, drawing to a poignant end, with the two of them facing each other, holding hands above their heads.

Hermione felt as if time had stopped. In that moment, the only thing that existed for her was this strange, inscrutable man before her. His expression remained blank and unreadable, but she thought she could see something flicker in his eyes. Something akin to the spark she'd noticed in them when he kissed her.

And then, he spoke.

"You really should be more careful with whom you associate," he said.

It took her a moment to realize he meant Zabini. She couldn't stop the bubble of words escaping her throat. "I can't stand him," she muttered, then felt her cheeks grow warm. "But in any case," she attempted to save herself, "what's it to you who I spend my time with?"

His eyes tightened, and instead of replying, he just gave a little nod of the head, and stalked away. Hermione watched him, all the more confused. Did he really love her? Was she being unfair to him? And why did she bloody care? Since when did she feel pained by the possibility that she'd hurt his feelings? And when did she start getting butterflies in his presence, and reacting in such a way to his touch?

Simply put, what the hell?

The next morning—Christmas—was spent at the Burrow. Hermione smiled her best for the Weasleys and Draco, thanking them all sufficiently for their gifts. Ginny's was a type of makeup (she wasn't trying to say anything, she just didn't know what else to get her), Draco's, a first edition Faulkner (!), and Mrs. Weasley gave her the usual Weasley sweater. This year's was an emerald green, with a gold "H" on the front.

Ron's gift was the most surprising. He'd bought a small gold locket, nothing fancy, with her initials engraved on it.

After dinner, Hermione excused herself, wishing a Merry Christmas to them all. Then she disapparated, going to the place she only went once a year: London cemetery.

With a wreath of white roses in her hand, Hermione passed the many ornate graves and tombs, housing the deceased people of England. There were only two names she recognized, only two she cared to see. Even so, as she neared them, she slowed, approaching the graves with trepidation. As her eyes rested on the names, her heart gave a little clench of pain, as it always did. They were barely visible beneath the snow; she brushed the icy water away. As she did, it began to rain, and the water washed away the little bits of debris and dirt that had accumulated since her last visit.

John and Elizabeth Granger

Loving Parents and Friends

Died Jan. 1st, 1999

"Hey, Mum and Dad," she whispered hoarsely, resting the wreath on their grave. "I wish you were here.

A tear escaped Hermione's eyes as she looked down at all that remained of her parents. She always missed them, but... for some reason, she felt it more keenly at this moment than she had since they died.

"What happened?"

She gasped and whirled around, only mildly surprised that it was Harry Potter who had spoken. He stood a few feet away, leaning against one of the taller tombstones.

Swallowing thickly, she faced the grave again. "Car accident," she said. "I was at Draco's. He'd invited me to his parents' annual New Year's celebration, and I went there, instead of my own family's party. They were on their way home, and a drunk driver slammed into them, head on. Killed them instantly."

He was quiet for a moment, then she heard the crunching of the snow beneath his feet as he moved toward her. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

Hermione faced him, surprised at the honesty in his voice. He was surprising her a lot lately. "Thank you," she replied.

After a brief silence, he spoke again. "My parents were on an assignment over the holidays, five years ago," he told her. "I'd arranged to come home, instead of staying at school, like I usually did. They didn't tell me about it until I got home, right before they were supposed to leave. I threw a royal fit," he chuckled mirthlessly. "I told them they were horrible parents, and other horrid things befitting a scorned, seventeen year old boy. They told me to grow up, and then they left." He paused. "They died on Christmas day," he added. "Since then... Christmas just hasn't felt the same."

Hermione was shocked to find tears trickling down her face at his story. How close his story was to her own! Without thinking, she put a sympathetic hand on his arm. He started, facing her with obvious astonishment, and then an emotion that would be foreign to her... except, she was pretty sure she was feeling it, too. What it was, she couldn't say. Only that she had an inexplicable longing to comfort him, and to be comforted by him.

As if he'd read the tenor of her thoughts, he began moving closer. But as he did, she felt a spasm of fear. Would he kiss her again? Did she want him to kiss her again? If he did, would she kiss him back? How did she feel about him? Drops of rain mingled with her tears, and she could feel them increasing, but she couldn't seem to look away. He was getting closer...

Just when she thought she could count every single eyelash framing those striking, emerald eyes, her cell phone rang. They both jumped apart, and she eagerly began rummaging through her purse for the object in question. When she found it, she frowned at the name on the caller id, but answered.

"Draco? What is it?"

"It's Ginny," he said, his voice shaky. "She's missing."

A/N: *gasp* Dun, dun, DUUUUUHNNNNN! What's happened to Ginny? Find out, next chapter! Please leave a review! Loves!