Note:

This one's a bit of a fluff ball. Perfect way to wrap up 1944. (Originally this was going to be part of the last chapter but I'd decided to split it up.)

I had so much fun writing this :)

Slughorn was all smiles at the end of their last Potions class for the term.

"My dear," he said, his wide face splitting into a grin, "how thoughtful you are. Of course, I was about to suggest it myself. It would benefit both of you to attend, the two brightest students of your age. Are you quite sure you're not related to Hector Dagworth-Granger? No? Shame, he's the founder of the Society, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if you were distantly related. You never can be sure of these things. I'd know. Oh- I've heard both of you are staying at Hogwarts this winter?"

Hermione nodded, although she hadn't known Riddle would be also. Her parents had insisted she stay here, even if it meant missing Christmas with her family. Germany's hold was weakening but they were still putting up a fight in France. For her parents and for other doctors and nurses, the casualties of war were unending. They saw past the propaganda, the rhetoric about bravery and duty and were witnesses instead to the depravity of the human condition. A recent letter from her mother had told of young injured soldiers, not much older than Hermione, carted from the frontlines, missing limbs or eyes, crying out in the hospital at night; splintered beings who begged for pain relief and for home. Your father and I, we must do all we can, Hermione. You will be safer at Hogwarts; it will do you no good to witness what is happening here.

Slughorn was of course unaware of why they would be staying instead of going back to their families (or in Riddle's case, she thought with an unexpected pang, the orphanage). People in the wizarding world never kept abreast of current affairs in the Muggle world. What did they care if millions of non-magical people were currently embroiled in yet another world-wide war? If a Muggle government was on a mission to exterminate millions of their own kind? They had their own war with Grindelwald.

"Excellent. We shall meet here and travel to the conference together. I've been sent a special Portkey for this occasion. Ministry-approved, of course," he said, smugly.

He dismissed them both from the classroom with cries of Happy Christmas and a request not to partake in too many sweets. As if he wasn't the biggest threat to crystallised pineapple.

She was walking with Riddle down the corridor to the last class of the day, Defence, when suddenly Hermione halted mid-stride, as if she had suddenly run into an invisible barrier. She tried to step forward again but failed. Nor could she go backwards, she realised. Beside her, Riddle had stopped also. He turned to her with a confused expression.

"What did you do?"

"Me? Why do you always think it's my fault?" she huffed. "Finite Incantatem. Bollocks. What on earth is happening–"

She looked up and gasped. "No."

He followed her horrified gaze. They were standing under a sinister-looking ball of mistletoe suspended by a festive ribbon.

"I've heard about these," he mused. "There were a few last Christmas at Malfoy Manor. Only, those foisted you up in the air and refused to let you down until you–"

"We are not kissing."

"We'll be late to Defence."

"I don't care."

"I am not missing my favourite class. Besides, it's not as if it won't be the first time–"

She looked around wildly in case anyone was nearby. "Shut up! I am not kissing you. We can wait until a professor comes by."

He glared. "Most girls would want to be kissed by me."

"Oh yeah? Well I don't."

They stood facing each other, arms crossed.

Hermione glared back, and without breaking eye contact, she pointed her wand up into the air above them. "Incendio."

"That won't work."

She broke eye contact so she could turn her glare up at the mistletoe, which was infuriatingly intact. "Bombarda."

Nothing.

"It's warded."

"Surely, the 'two brightest students of our age' can come up with something."

He smirked. "Have you discovered it yet?"

Somehow, Hermione knew exactly what he was talking about and it wasn't the mistletoe.

The cost. He had been the one to inform her that there was a cost to using the shield spell, something other than the use of her vitality. But he had been wrong, hadn't he?

"There isn't one. You were wrong."

His eyes narrowed. "Are you so sure?"

Hadn't the white-haired woman in the Forest said so? Although, perhaps she hadn't actually detailed the consequences of practising the ancient form of the Dark Arts, only that they existed. Surely if there had been some other cost to using ancient Dark magic, something other than vitality, she would have mentioned it?

"I am." She tossed her hair back, with as much arrogance as she could muster, knowing this would irritate him.

"By the way," she added, "why did you save me in the infirmary? Why did you lie to your Knights–" A hand clamped over her mouth. This time it was Riddle who looked around furtively.

He hissed at her, "Be quiet!"

She tore his hand away. "While we're here, you might as well tell me."

Riddle looked down at her, his dark eyes furious. The curl at his temple had slipped over his brow and his lips were pursed in frustration. "If you died from your own stupidity, it would have been suspicious. There would have been an investigation. Last time someone died, the school almost shut down, or don't you remember?"

She did remember. Myrtle Warren, a shy girl with mousy brown hair and large round glasses, had been killed by an Acromantula. Before the student responsible had been found and expelled, there had been a palpable atmosphere of fear. Parents had begun to pull their children from the school; every morning an army of owls had pelted the breakfast tables with anxious letters (along with a flurry of feathers).

Poor Myrtle, she had been mercilessly bullied by her housemates, dying so tragically young, and yet, no one even talked about her now. She was forgotten.

"And rest assured, I haven't forgotten what you did to my friends. If I hadn't been impressed–" he cut off sharply.

"Impressed?" she prodded, a sly grin spreading across her face.

He didn't continue. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Then again, it wouldn't be too hard to look impressive, not against the likes of Malfoy," she offered when he remained silent.

The silence stretched until it became unbearably awkward. Merlin, she almost preferred arguing with him until her face turned blue, anything other than this.

He was looking away from her, a spot of colour on his cheeks. From anger or embarrassment, she didn't know. Honestly, was it so hard for him to pay her a compliment? He had plenty for everyone and everybody it seemed, especially Professor Slughorn.

Then again, had she ever complimented him? There were, admittedly, some things to be complimentary about. His intelligence for one. Riddle was the only other student who offered any serious competition in class. And she supposed he was actually handsome, in a cold way. Not that she couldn't see past it of course. His arrogance, his false charms, his manipulativeness. Those were things that weren't handsome at all. Still, he had been her first kiss. And she his. Quite an extraordinary secret, really. No one in the entire school knew, just them.

(How soft his lips had felt. From the things he said and the spells he knew, she would have thought his lips were cold and hard.)

She was staring at his mouth now, she realised. She hurriedly looked away.

Coughing slightly, she hastened to break the silence. "I'll cast a Patronus to- to send a message to Professor Volanthen. Inform him we're running late and ask him to rescue us. Yes, I'm sure he would know how." She cleared her throat again. "Alright, I'll do it right now." She stopped herself from babbling any further by drawing her wand from her sleeve where she always kept it.

She relayed the message in her mind: Professor, Riddle and I have been subjected to a horrible prank – we're unable to free ourselves from under a ball of mistletoe in the fourth-floor corridor. Would you please help us?

Her otter nodded solemnly before swimming away. Riddle glared after the otter. Hermione briefly wondered what his Patronus was, she'd never seen him cast one.

Enduring another unbearably long silence, where Riddle refused to talk, a shimmering Patronus finally appeared before them in the form of a rather large and shaggy wolf.

"Miss Granger. Mr Riddle. I am in the middle of teaching. You should know that your predicament has been heard by the entire class. My deepest condolences, I am certain you will survive the mistletoe." The words dripped with sarcasm and the wolf bared its sharp fangs fearsomely at them. "If the two of you do not appear in my class in the next ten minutes, I will take fifty points from each of your houses. I am certain that both of you, as bright as you are, can handle a minor prank. Do not trouble me with this sort of thing again. Patronus messages are for emergencies only." The wolf bounded away.

Hermione closed her eyes in mortification.

"You've made us look like idiots," Riddle snarled.

"Ugh." She looked around hopefully, to see if any professors would chance upon them at the last minute. "Is there really no other way to free ourselves? Does it have to be a kiss? What about if you kiss me on the cheek?"

"I won't be kissing you, actually."

"Excuse me? Did you not just hear–"

"No, Granger. If you want to get out of this mess, you kiss me."

Hermione felt her stomach drop to her feet. Riddle then smirked coldly, before crossing his arms again.

"And if I don't?"

"Well, I guess we'll miss our last class of the term and lose fifty points each."

"And you don't care if that happens?"

"No. I do not."

He'd changed his bloody mind apparently. Hermione huffed and considered her options. Well, there really wasn't any choice was there? Between a quick peck (on the cheek, hopefully) and missing class …

"Don't worry, I don't actually want to kiss you either," Riddle drawled. "You don't seem to be very good at it."

Outraged spluttering ensued. "You kissed me that time. You're the one–I was not a participant!"

Riddle merely raised an eyebrow and looked at her as if she really was an idiot.

"Fine. Fine." Hermione surged onto the tips of her toes and gave him an angry peck on the cheek.

When she found that they were still not free, she growled in frustration.

Grabbing his face, not at all gently, she pressed her mouth furiously against his.

His lips were parted in surprise and he stiffened next to her.

Oh, but it was … pleasant. The way his mouth fit against hers, their noses brushing. The feel of his lips, smooth and warm and soft. Nothing about Riddle was soft, so it was almost fascinating – the contrast of it all. She marvelled at the sensation.

Hermione found herself moving her lips, moulding them against his, angling their faces so their noses no longer touched. Her hands crept up of their own accord, into his hair. His hair should have felt stiff and full of whatever hair product she was certain he used but instead it felt wondrously silky between her fingers. She ran her fingers deeper through his hair and that was when his shoulders began to relax.

A warm hand curled around the back of her neck, his thumb tracing her jaw and suddenly, he was kissing back.

Why was he so soft? Why did it feel good? Why did he smell like … like sandalwood and something else so entrancingly masculine, instead of something horribly clinical like disinfectant?

Hermione pulled away from him, gasping. His hair was now completely mussed, his lips reddened, his pupils dilated. Those dark eyes were currently now roving over her face as if completing his own analysis at the same time.

She turned and sprinted to the classroom.

When she burst through the door, wild-eyed, to her horror the whole class collectively sniggered. Ignoring them, she flapped a hand and announced, a little too loudly, that a passing prefect had saved them. "Apologies, professor," she'd said with as much dignity as she could scrape together.

Moments later, Riddle arrived. Calmly, as if nothing had happened, which was infuriating because Hermione was pretty sure she looked like had tumbled off a cliff. His hair had returned to its original, neatly combed state and he apologised coolly before taking his seat. (However, Hermione noticed, his lips were still reddened.)

Hermione fought a blush and scurried to her own desk.

Calm yourself! You're acting like a fool. She steeled herself and wordlessly cast a cooling charm over her person.

She cast a disdainful, unimpressed gaze over the rest of the class, daring them to presume, and drew out her parchment and quill.

So focused was she in trying to appear normal, that she did not listen to a word all lesson.

By dinner, the rumours had spread. Perfect Tom Riddle had become ensnared under a ball of enchanted mistletoe with Hermione Granger.

"We did not kiss!" Hermione exclaimed loudly, as soon as Claire began to open her mouth.

"A seventh year prefect helped us out and we made it to Defence. Honestly, do any of you have nothing better to do?"

Hermione scowled as she speared her roast chicken. She felt her curls rise in the air, crackling with the force of her magic. "If any of you say one more word, I swear to Merlin I will hex you and you will regret it." She glared pointedly at Claire. To her relief, she nodded. The girl seemed a little terrified.

Good.

Josephine, the dullest witch of their age, sighed. "I wish I'd been the one under the mistletoe."

Hermione's wand flew into her hand so fast that the Gryffindors around her jumped back in alarm, the sound of cutlery dropping to the floor.

Josephine was fine. Really. Madam Pomfrey would regrow her eyebrows back in a heartbeat. But next time, she had threatened to the girl, her wand sliding back into her sleeve, it would be more permanent.

The boys were howling with laughter in the common room that night.

"Oh, you should have seen Josie's face!" Nuben slapped his hand on his knee, eyes crinkled with mirth.

Sirius prodded her in the stomach. "You, Hermione, are absolutely terrifying when you are mad." His eyes were wide, even though he was smiling.

James and Remus both agreed, chortling.

"I mean it. You remind me of my mother sometimes, and that's saying something."

As the rest of her housemates packed their trunks, James found her curled next to the fireplace, reading her book.

"Hermione? I heard you're staying in the castle this break."

"Mm? Yes I am. My parents don't want me going back into the Muggle world at the moment."

He sat down next to her, carding his fingers through his sandy hair. He was still in his school robes and he looked at her with a fond expression, taking her hand into his own rough, calloused one.

"Will you write?" He asked simply.

"Of course! I suppose I might miss all of you, as bratty as you are."

"I'll miss you too," he said, smiling. His green eyes were suddenly mischievous. "You'll miss me the most, right?"

She swatted his arm, laughing.

He continued to look at her, and something like shyness passed over his features.

Her heart thudded in her throat.

Maybe all boys had soft lips? Maybe it was one of those surprising things about boys that she was yet to discover. She had a sudden urge to find out but she remained still, a little petrified.

"OI, POTTER! Come look at this! Longbottom's got himself a Remembrall! But he can't remember what he's forgotten!" The shout, followed by laughter, broke the moment. She felt her heart sink back down, safely into her chest as James broke into a smile, turning his head to yell back.

"I'll see you around, Hermione," he said, standing up. His hand brushed her face briefly before he left.

"See you around."