NOTE: Please accept my sincere apologies for the late update. I got seriously stuck on this chapter and then I realised it was because it's actually an important chapter (not the fluffy one that I had planned to release on Valentine's Day) and I needed to re-evaluate my plan for these characters that I love so much.

Tomione is still very much end-game. But it's the journey that, I hope, remains interesting.

Hope you like this instalment - now that I've sorted through the plotting, the next update should be a lot sooner :)

x

"Did you know today is actually the day that Saint Valentine was killed?"

"Mm?" said Claire, who was digging through the clothes in her trunk.

Hermione resumed charming her hair in the mirror. "He was beaten up and had his head cut off, back in the third century."

The sound of rummaging stopped as Claire stood up, her hands on her hips.

"And?"

"Just thought it was interesting," said Hermione innocently. "Not very romantic, is it?"

"Hermione Jean Granger."

"Yes?" She met Claire's blue eyes in the mirror. They were narrowed dangerously.

"You're wearing what I'm telling you to wear."

Hermione smirked. "Yes sir."

She dodged the hairbrush Claire threw at her with ease.

She was getting better at dodging things. Being nimble was an important part of duelling, or so said Hacthyon's Practical Guide for Hit Wizards, a book she'd found in the library. It'd been an obvious revelation but a profound one: sometimes, instead of reacting with a defensive spell, physically dodging the opponent's spell was better because it allowed time for a counter-attack. More advanced duellists could Apparate around their opponent instead of dodging, but she couldn't do that yet. Only students who had turned seventeen could take the test to get their license. (But she had a sneaking suspicion that some purebloods had already learnt at home within their family wards, where the Ministry had no oversight. None of the Slytherins looked any queasy coming out of the practice sessions, whereas most sixth and seventh years reported vomiting and splinching on their first few tries.)

To think that she'd been approaching duelling with an academic mindset, believing that perfect recall of the exact counter-spell to every spell was the optimal way to fight … she'd been so naive. And stupid. In real life, people didn't take turns to cast spells like they did in class. No. In real life, whoever had the upper hand made sure that their opponent was constantly on the defence. Because someone who was constantly defending, as the book pointed out, could not attack.

Hermione drilled herself daily, dodging and rolling practice spells from the duelling dummy in the Room of Requirement, which had transformed from a cozy reading room into a room with intimidatingly high ceilings and bizarre wizarding fitness equipment. By the end of the sessions, she was always supremely out of breath, clutching her sides and wheezing pitifully. It was actually quite embarrassing, how very unfit she was. Sometimes, by the second or third drill, she was so exhausted she couldn't even move. Every step felt like wading through mud.

And so the next step in her training regimen had quickly become painfully clear: physical training.

This was how Hermione Granger, the swot who only ever ran if it was to get to class or to the library before closing, who regarded Quidditch with disinterest (and slight contempt), began daily runs around the Great Lake.

The weather had slightly warmed, though it was still miserably cold and it rained more often than not. One morning, when she'd returned to their dorm, tired and sweaty, Claire had blinked up at her blearily from bed before jolting awake with wide-eyed horror – "What are those? Are you wearing … male underwear?" Hermione had in fact been wearing running shorts and an old pair of tennis shoes. Apparently, this was very scandalous, and not the sort of thing a 'proper witch' would wear. Amelia had woken up also to ask her whose boxers she'd stolen and why, before telling her that if she needed new underwear, Madam Pomfrey kept some in the infirmary. Then, Claire had finally taken note of Hermione's red face and breathless state and her mouth had dropped open, whispering if she'd spent the night in someone else's bed, to which Hermione had finally had enough and roared, waking up the entire dorm, that she was wearing running shorts because she'd been running, thank you very much.

Despite all this, Hermione had continued on with her morning runs, throwing back the covers at dawn with grim determination. After a week, she could manage an entire lap around the Lake without stopping or slowing down, though she still finished very much winded, her calves feeling like hot jelly and snot streaming out her nose. It was not a very attractive sight but it didn't matter. She could feel herself improving, if only a tiny bit, day by day.

Claire interrupted her musings. "It's time to show you my favourite charm," she said gleefully. Hermione watched through the mirror as her friend began to advance with her wand in her hand. It would have been menacing if Hermione didn't know any better.

She sighed only a little begrudgingly. Sometimes Claire took too long with this. She wondered if this was what it was like to have a sister. Even if a part of her still felt it was slightly silly, it felt nice to have someone care. Claire was actually quite talented at Charms, it was her strongest subject after Herbology. And although her essays often fell a little short of the mark ("You can't just abruptly conclude by saying 'The End', Claire"), her wand movement was confident and precise.

She closed her eyes as Claire instructed and felt the magic wash over her skin.

When Claire finally stepped back, Hermione examined her face in the mirror. Her eyelashes were darker and longer, and her eyes seemed larger. Her skin looked radiant, despite the smattering of tiny freckles across her cheeks (Claire often left those, saying they were 'cute').

"This particular charm was my mother's favourite," Claire said, turning to do her own eyelashes. "Over time, it becomes more permanent and you don't have to reapply."

It was rather brilliant, actually. Such a small change and yet …

Hermione could admit now that beauty charms were useful. Instead of feeling silly and vain, Hermione felt slightly more confident, as if the charms were a layer of protection, armouring her against the unknown …

She wondered if that had always been the appeal of it all, the reason why witches like Claire loved it.

"I don't really know what to expect," Hermione was saying, as they walked downstairs to the common room. "How do double dates usually go?"

"It's very easy. You take the flowers and say thank you. Then we go to lunch."

"Is that all?"

"Oi, Dubois!" said Charlie, who was lounging on one of the couches, his feet up on the table. It was a Saturday, so there were no classes. "Whose your date?" he asked Claire with a roguish grin. Then he did a double take.

"Hermione? Is that you?"

She scrunched her nose in confusion. "Who else would it be?"

"You look … different?" he said uncertainly.

She looked down self-consciously. She was wearing a simple blouse and knee-length skirt. "In a bad way?" she asked.

"No," he said, swallowing. "Not really."

Claire rolled her eyes. "Just realised Hermione's a girl, have you?"

She dragged a bewildered Hermione ("…Of course I'm a girl?") out of the common room. "Come on, they'll be waiting for us."

Madam Puddifoot's tea parlour was a place Hermione had previously vowed never to step foot in. The exterior was painted bright pink and lace curtains adorned the windows, currently displaying an array of seasonal cakes. They all looked nauseatingly sweet: too much buttercream frosting and overladen with colourful sugar flowers. The glimpses she saw of the interior through the windows did not improve her initial assessment – teenagers holding hands, either giggling or staring infatuatedly at each other, sharing little bites of cake and drinking tea from oddly mismatched teacups.

"Here? Are you sure?" she asked Claire, again.

"Where else would we go for Valentine's Day? The Three Broomsticks?" Claire snorted as if it was the most ridiculous idea.

"That would have been perfectly fine," Hermione grumbled to herself but she was drowned out by a chorus of wind chimes as they entered.

She immediately recoiled at the shop's strong perfume. If the colour pink had a smell, this would be it. It was intensely floral and sweet and powdery all at once with an undercurrent of musk. Hermione wondered if there were such things as invisible Bubble Head charms.

Inside, the tea parlour was already full with customers. Golden cherubs floated in the air, periodically throwing down handfuls of confetti. If she really squinted, the cherubs looked like Transfigured gnomes and they seemed a little too gleeful instead of angelic. The wallpapers were striped green and pink, the wainscoting a dark cherry wood. Previous patrons were photographed and immortalised on the wall, blowing kisses at each other. Swathes of red silk were draped along the beams of the low ceiling.

Hermione breathed through her mouth as she followed Claire to the back of the cramped shop, squeezing past the tables, to where James and Sirius waited.

Hermione's own nausea was writ on their faces. James was brushing confetti from his hair exasperatedly and both of them were too tall for the small chairs, their knees uncomfortably wedged under the tiny tea table.

Their expressions brightened when they saw them. The table jolted as James stood up and he righted the toppled table vase with a sheepish grin. Sirius manoeuvred himself out of the little chair slightly more elegantly and they both presented to them each a bouquet of roses.

Hermione took hers and inhaled deeply. The smell was fresh, and not sweet, almost green. It was a welcome break for her nose.

"Thanks James," she said with a smile. Her uncertainty had dissipated the more she saw that they were just as uncomfortable.

"What happened to your knuckles? Did you get into a fight?" asked Claire, who was looking at Sirius' hand. The knuckles were swollen, though the skin was unmarred.

Sirius moved his hand away into his coat pocket and cleared his throat. "Bit of housekeeping," he said cryptically. But they didn't have time to ask him what he meant when Madam Puddifoot suddenly appeared. She was a thin, severe-looking woman, rather at odds with the overly feminine decor.

She rapped her wand briskly on the edge of the table and several menus appeared. The variety of tea available was astounding and Hermione poured over the list until she noticed Madam Puddifoot's lips thinning more and more as she took too long to order.

Claire came to her rescue, ordering them all hibiscus tea and lemon honey cakes.

"So," said Claire, as soon as Madam Puddifoot had left, "Who did you beat up?"

She was never one to let go of an issue, much like Hermione herself.

James coughed embarrassedly when Sirius didn't answer.

"A few Slytherins were having a go at Remus," he explained.

"What for?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, the usual. His robes, his second-hand books, his family," said James darkly. "Slytherins aren't very creative."

Remus' family wasn't exactly impoverished but they couldn't seem to afford him new robes every year. As a consequence, Hermione had taken to extending his robes for him and repairing the holes. But she was no Madam Malkins. She couldn't do anything about the threadbare patches on his elbows, nor could she enhance the fabric so that it didn't look so worn. His Hogwarts robes were almost gray instead of black.

But it wouldn't have been the first time Slytherins made fun of Remus. She wondered why Sirius didn't send them off with a Tripping Jinx with his wand instead of getting into a physical fight.

Sirius scowled. "They were only having a go at him to rile me. But then they started on Regulus …" His expression blackened.

"It was during detention yesterday," James explained. "Filch confiscated their wands so they could scrub the cauldrons."

Hermione grimaced in sympathy. Cauldron scrubbing without magic would have to be one of the top five worst school punishments.

"Regulus? Your brother?" asked Claire. She looked confused. "He's in Slytherin as well isn't he? You don't even talk to him."

That was true. Regulus was a year below but ever since Sirius had been burned off the Black family tapestry, he'd become downright hostile, glaring at him coldly whenever they passed in the corridors.

Sirius looked away, running his uninjured hand roughly through his dark hair. His face was unreadable.

He said nothing.

James turned to Hermione. "You look … beautiful," he coughed, embarrassedly.

Hermione felt warm inside. "Thanks, you look nice too. That blue really suits you." She gestured to his jumper. He blushed but smiled widely. "Although I wish we'd gone to the Three Broomsticks instead. We don't have to go here because it's Valentine's Day, you know."

Claire harrumphed.

James laughed. "How did you two become friends? Weren't you at each other's throats until recently?" he asked curiously.

She side-eyed Claire who sniffed. "I suppose Hermione has some admirable qualities, even if she grumbles like a constipated Grindlylow sometimes."

"Hey!"

Claire's haughty expression dissolved into a fit of laughter which they all joined in on, except for Sirius who only smiled a little. He seemed to be preoccupied, stirring his tea and staring off into the distance.

"Look," he said, suddenly, jerking his chin towards a table somewhere to their left.

She turned and her stomach clenched uncomfortably when she realised who else was at Madam Puddifoot's that day.

It was Riddle, sitting with his hands clasped neatly in front of him, opposite a blonde girl whom she recognised as Victoria Swindle, the girl whose father was Assistant Minister for Magic. Victoria was currently giggling at something he'd apparently said. Hermione's eyes lingered on her hand, which was resting on top of Riddle's arm.

"Don't you think it's odd that all the Slytherins defer to him?" asked Sirius.

Claire shrugged, turning back to her slice of cake. "He's nice. I don't mind him."

Hermione itched to tell them what she knew about him being Slytherin's heir. But as soon as the thought entered her mind, she felt her skin prickle alarmingly. The muscle of her heart spasmed, as if was contracting around air instead of blood. She let out a quiet gasp.

"Are you alright?" asked James. He placed his hand on her shoulder, peering at her face in concern. She reached up to brush his hand away, insisting that she was fine, when just then, Riddle's dark eyes flicked to hers.

All at once, it felt like the room had gone quiet, his gaze locking her in place. Intuitively, she wondered whether he had realised that she had strayed close to the limits of the blood pact – if he had felt an echo of it himself somehow.

She finally managed to look away and raised her teacup to her lips, sipping the now lukewarm liquid to disguise her discomfort.

"I'm alright. It's a bit stuffy in here," she said.

Sirius agreed and stood up. "Let's go do something fun," he said, his usual good humour apparently having returned.

James stood up also and Hermione drew a few Galleons to leave on the table when he stopped her. "Don't worry about that, it's taken care of," he said. As Madam Puddifoot passed them, she gave him a nod and bustled to ready the table for the next patron.

"Did you pay before we ordered?" she asked, confused.

He ran a hand through his hair, glancing at her. "Well, not exactly. Of sorts. We - um - my family has an account–"

"James!"

Sirius was waiting impatiently at the front of the shop near the door. He shook confetti from his face and glared at the passing cherub before motioning for them to hurry up.

James rolled his eyes but he seemed eager to leave as well. Hermione followed him out, squeezing past the tables and taking care to avoid one in particular.

They paused outside Spintwurtle's Sporting Needs. James and Sirius pressed their faces against the window, apparently in awe of the latest broomstick - the Cleansweep 7000. Claire scrunched her nose. "And what's different about this model exactly?"

James was quick to reply. "It can go faster, it turns faster, it's more responsive - it's brilliant."

The newest model had apparently drawn a crowd. A tall dark-haired girl nearby, whom she recognised as a Ravenclaw's Quidditch captain, Angelina Rory, piped up excitedly: "Viktor Krum has one! It can go two hundred miles an hour easy."

"My father has already bought one for every member of our team," someone was saying.

It was Malfoy. She'd recognise that arrogant drawl anywhere.

"Well, if it isn't little Brax," sneered Sirius, his black eyes glittering. "Is that how you ended up on the team this year? Dearest Father bought you a spot?"

Malfoy's lips went white with suppressed rage. But he didn't lash out immediately, surprisingly. He sneered back instead, before turning to the slender girl on his arm, Dahlia Parkinson (a Slytherin in their year who never smiled). "Green doesn't suit him, don't you think?"

Parkinson frowned and glanced at them disinterestedly, her eyes flitting between their faces and lingering on Hermione's hair. "Confetti isn't a hair product, you know," she said coldly.

Hermione glared, shaking the offending particles from her curls. Parkinson's own hair was perfectly straight and shining, an ostentatious jewelled pin tucked by her ear.

Malfoy's pale grey eyes observed the four of them standing together and he smiled maliciously. "A double date? How quaint. Why, Granger, what a motley crew you've gathered for Valentine's. A Black, a Potter and a Dubois. And you. Reaching up are we? I'd say you were, but then again, given that they're blood-traitors…"

James and Sirius' hands both leapt to their pockets for their wands. But before an all out brawl ensued in the middle of Hogsmeade, Hermione spoke.

"Malfoy. Or should I say, Malfwah? I hear that's how it's pronounced over in France. Isn't that where your family originated? Sounds a bit foppish. Mal - foi. Bad faith, it means, doesn't it? Just like how you got on the Quidditch team?"

Claire let out a peal of delighted laughter. James looked as if he had been Stupefied.

Malfoy's face flushed beet red and Hermione felt herself smile unpleasantly. "Come on, let's go," she said to her friends. "I'd like to check a few shops before we leave."

"Oh why haven't I seen you go head to head with Malfoy before? That was wildly fun, so much more fun than I'd imagine knocking him off his broom would be," crowed James, as they entered Honeydukes.

"Mate, if you don't knock him off his broom next week, I'll have to hex him from the stands," said Sirius, grinning.

"It was so satisfying. Malfoi? I'll never stop calling him that," said Claire. Her cheeks were still rosy from laughing. "Did you see Parkinson's face? She looked like she couldn't comprehend what was happening. Imagine being engaged to a twat like Malfoy."

"Engaged?" Hermione asked, in surprise.

"Didn't you see her hairpin? That's a courting gift."

Sirius snorted. "They've been engaged since they were two. Hardly news."

"Since they were two years old? That's …" Hermione began.

"It's just the way some old families are," said James.

"Are you engaged too?" she asked.

"What? No! My mother would never allow that." He looked horrified and bewildered for a moment, staring down at her.

Sirius nudged him slyly. "He's a free man, is what he's trying to sa-"

He was cut off by a shove from James.

Hermione suddenly remembered what she'd promised to do the next time she came to Hogsmeade. "I'll just be a moment, I forgot I had to check something. Won't be long!"

"What do you want to ch–"

She ran out the store and onto the main street, weaving her way through the crowd, filled disproportionately with students.

She arrived at the vacant lot where Jolanda's Antiques had been and heaved a disappointed sigh. Hermione hadn't really expected it to be there but a part of her had still hoped. Whilst she'd read the book she'd purchased, Dark Arts of Old, cover to cover, there were no hints as to older forms of magic.

A tabby with yellow eyes stared at her from the entrance to the alley. She ignored it and turned around to head back.

"It's far too nice a day to stay indoors," Claire said.

Early February though it was, the sky was blue and clear. The sun had deigned to show itself finally, after a week of near constant rain.

Hermione agreed and they set off towards the Great Lake, their pockets full of Honeydukes sweets and, in James and Sirius' case, Zonko's products.

She transfigured a handkerchief into a large red blanket and laid it on the slightly damp grass. Sitting down, she marvelled at the beauty of the nature around them.

The Lake, having finally thawed, gleamed in the afternoon sun. It was vast, stretching further than she could see from her vantage point. Birds flew by, skimming the surface. A cold breeze ruffled her curls and she tipped her head back, smiling. The castle loomed above them, a sight that always took her breath away. Hogwarts was beautiful. And this magical place was … home.

Claire sat down next to Sirius who immediately sprawled on the blanket, crossing his ankles and letting out a sigh of contentment.

Something whistled in the air towards them and James leapt up as something thudded into his outstretched hand.

It was his broomstick.

Grinning, he extended his other hand down towards her. A clear invitation.

"No, not on your life," Hermione said immediately.

James smiled mischievously, his cheeks dimpling.

"Is the great Hermione Granger afraid of flying?"

"I'm afraid you'll do one of those crazy turns and send me flying into the Great Lake," she replied.

"I won't let you fall, I promise," he said.

He looked so sincere then, before his green eyes suddenly crinkled with mirth. "Besides, I think these two want to be alone," he said, nodding at their friends.

Sirius grinned devilishly and winked at his best mate. Hermione wondered what could possibly fuel such confidence. She rather envied the lighthearted nature of it, a self-assured ease that she didn't find arrogant, though some may have. It was the sort of ease that was the mark of confidence in oneself rather than in others - like it didn't matter what other people thought. Quite the opposite of someone she knew …

"Pshh. Don't leave me alone with this rake," said Claire, though she was smiling. Seeing this, Hermione relented.

She took James' hand and allowed him to lead her away, closer to the Great Lake. They stood on the pebbles of the shore.

James mounted his broom and gestured for her to hop on. She approached slowly and sat on the handle. She was about to swing her leg over to straddle the broom when they suddenly took off.

Gravity pulled at her insides. She repressed a scream. James had leaned over her to grip the handle of the broomstick, his broad shoulders and arms caging her in. But, sitting sideways, her bottom had only so much purchase on the handle; her knuckles went white as she tightened her own grip on the broom, desperately wishing she'd never agreed because it was so stupid, if she slipped off, she wouldn't be able to hold on with her arm strength, she had never been strong enough to do that, it would be a few seconds of agony and terror before she'd eventually let go and fall straight into the Lake and then she'd finally figure out whether there was a Giant Squid after all–

"Relax, Hermione." James sounded like he was biting back laughter.

The ascent slowed and they hovered in the air, high above the Lake. Claire and Sirius were two dots on the ground below, sitting on a splotch of red.

"If you'd only waited just a second, I'd have been prepared," she grumbled. She took the momentary pause in flight to swivel and bring one leg over to the other side.

"But now I can't see your face," James said.

She turned her head, glaring. "Would you rather I fall off and die?"

It sounded dramatic, even to her ears, but the sensation of being so high up in the air, with only a flimsy broomstick and nothing to cushion her fall … she dimly wondered what sort of spell she could cast to avoid breaking every bone in her body. Would Immobulus work on oneself? What if she missed and the spell hit the water instead? She'd go splat.

James fought to keep a smile off his face. It looked like it took tremendous effort.

"What do you like so much about flying anyway?" she asked, her voice brittle.

He leaned back then, letting go of the handle to spread his arms up into the sky. The broomstick lurched dangerously and she gave a startled scream.

"Freedom," he said simply. She looked back to see that he meant it. He closed his eyes briefly and breathed in deeply through his nose, as if he were trying to fill his lungs with the sensation of it.

Freedom. What would James Potter need to be free from? He had everything. He didn't need to prove himself, like she did. He could get by on Passes and Acceptables and he was still the heir of an old pureblood family, unencumbered by bigotry - it was as if he had the best of both worlds. Though labelled a blood traitor, his family was neither poor like the Weasleys nor were they any less respected than the Malfoys. But it was a different kind of respect: the Malfoys were feared, almost, whereas the Potters were loved. His father was a famous Auror, now head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He was known to be a fair man, even to half-breeds and werewolves whom the Ministry (and society) seemed to dislike.

"Me? I find freedom in my mind, in books."

James smiled fully now, in a way that made her feel warm inside. Cherished.

"Of course you do," he said. "But I'm no good with books or cleverness. To the disappointment of my father, I know. But what I am good at, is this–"

The broomstick dropped several feet in the air and then it suddenly lunged forwards in a tight corkscrew. She was too terrified to even scream, the muscles in her throat too tight.

James laughed breathlessly as they soared higher and higher, till it felt like they were closer to the clouds than the Great Lake.

"Open your eyes," he said.

She shook her head. She felt cold and white with fear.

"Doesn't this look heavenly?"

At the reverence in his voice, she cracked open an eyelid.

The afternoon sun had begun to set, bleeding gold and crimson. Little white fluffs of cloud had formed in the previously clear sky.

"Looks like popping corn," she said, gesturing up.

He laughed again, but the sound was quiet this time.

The last hours of sunlight touched the rows of little clouds, lighting them on fire. Hovering in the air, she suddenly felt she understood the meaning of the word 'celestial'. There was no other word for it. Between the vastness of the sky before them and the vastness of the Lake below, she felt small. Even the great castle seemed insignificant, its man-made beauty paling before the sublime.

She turned to look at James.

"I see why you like it. Though this view isn't always available on the Quidditch pitch."

He disagreed. "You can feel the rush of air as you dive and swerve. The green and the blue mix together, grass and sky, you're just a singular force. All the sounds tune out, and it's quiet like it is now, until you catch the Snitch and then suddenly, it all comes roaring back - the feeling can't be explained. "

She felt a smile tug her lips. "You really love Quidditch."

"I do," he said.

"Is this what you want to do? After we graduate?"

He looked away then. "Yes and no."

She was puzzled at this. She swivelled so that she was sitting with both her legs to one side so she could take a better look at him. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing would make me happier than to play Quidditch professionally. But my father expects more of me."

"So what does he want you to do instead?"

He shrugged, looking morose. She found herself oddly wanting to brush his sandy hair off his brow, to see him smile again.

"I suppose he wants me to become an Auror. Fight for the good side."

"Can't you do both?"

He looked up. "What do you mean?"

"We'll only be eighteen when we graduate. Most Aurors start in their late twenties. You have a few years to travel, discover what you like, before you settle down." Actually, she was describing what she herself wanted to do. She hurriedly continued. "You can try out for a team, and if you're really good enough, which I think you might be, youngest Seeker in a century and all, you can play professionally and by then you might be too famous for him to stop you."

James' eyes were wide. Then he grinned bashfully. "You're right. You're so right. I could do that. I'd only have to endure a few years of grumbling from the old man about how I'm wasting away my heritage before I retire from being a Quidditch star and 'settle down' as you put it. Most professional players retire by their late twenties anyway."

She rolled at her eyes when he said 'Quidditch star' but she found herself grinning back. "There. All sorted!"

They sat for a moment in the air, grinning at each other, the light of the dying sun bathing them in gold, until she noticed his grin start to fade. His green eyes turned serious and he leaned forward, reaching up a hand to tuck a curl behind her ear.

"Hermione," he said softly.

"Yes?"

"Can I- Can I kiss you?"

Her amusement dissipated and she stared at his face, wondering how it was that they had reached this moment. She'd wondered if his lips would be soft, as Riddle's had been, hadn't she? But she suddenly found that she was almost afraid to discover whether they would be.

"I don't know," she whispered.

"Would you want it?" he whispered back.

"Maybe, I don't know," she said again, but she didn't lean away.

His breath tickled her cheek. "Do you want to find out?"

She didn't move, didn't want to move, as he slowly, bravely, moved closer, giving her every opportunity to break the moment if she wished. When his lips brushed against hers, she didn't let herself breathe. She felt him swallow nervously, his throat bobbing, before he pressed a light kiss against her lips. It was gentle but searing. And his lips were soft. Not quite as soft, but enough.

She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck and he melted against her, as if relieved. His hands surged to her face as he kissed her with more certainty.

It felt so strange; she felt rather discombobulated. Whether it was because they were suspended in the air, the wind rippling through their clothes, or whether because she was uncertain of how to feel, she didn't know. She didn't understand boys like James, rugged and boisterous as he was - but also gentle and kind. If she let herself be free for a moment, if only she could, she'd find that the kiss was sweet, something entirely innocent and precious, a memory she'd treasure years later.

End note: We'll see more of Tom soon, not to worry! He's never one to be in the shadows for long. Despite his absence, this chapter is somewhat a turning point, in more ways than one.

And I'll have to add, this won't be a love triangle situation, where Hermione is forced to choose between two pining men or anything like that. I find those hard to write and harder to read, personally.