A/N: Like the title says, this is a series of drabbles written for the HMS Harmony Discord (link: discord dot gg/2GcXw8R).

Harry sighed as he checked his watch. Dean Thomas' party had started a half hour ago, but thanks to apparition, he'd still only be fashionably late.

It's not that he didn't want to go. But Halloween parties had never been a thing for him growing up. The Dursleys hadn't even dressed up Dudley much, seeing as how Halloween costumes embraced everything they abhorred—a love of the magical, the spooky, the unreal.

And while Harry usually relished taking part in everything he couldn't when he was a kid—the ski trip to Austria with Hermione and her parents had been the best vacation of his life, and he finally understood Dean's fondness for football after his old schoolmate had taken them all to their first professional game last year—Halloween costumes never really appealed to him.

Perhaps because they always seemed to involve some form of tights.

He sighed and rummaged through his closet looking for something suitable to wear before landing on his old Gryffindor seeker robes.

A bit of a cop out, probably, but it was the best they were going to get. Besides, what were the chances everyone else would go all out?

He changed into the scarlet robes—they were a bit tighter than they'd once been, but they'd do all right—and apparated himself into the party.

As soon as he got there, he realized his mistake. Ron, clad in an authentic knight costume, was eating pumpkin pasties next to an extremely regal looking Lavender. George and Lee had attended as Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump, while Neville was a particularly frightening Devil's Snare—blimey, had he used a real plant for his costume?

He passed by Parvati and Seamus—dressed as a fairy and Peeves, respectively—and scores of zombies, goblins, vampires and unicorns, all meticulously dressed, feeling incredibly self-conscious.

Lavender raised a skeptical eyebrow at him and his faded old robes as he approached her and Ron.

"Best you could do, Harry?" she asked, shaking her head at him.

Ron snickered, but looked at Harry in commiseration. Harry was certain if he didn't have to face his girlfriend's wrath, Ron would be in old quidditch robes too.

Harry stared at Lavender awkwardly, unsure what to say.

And then he heard a voice over his shoulder.

"Honestly, Lavender, I don't think our costume is that bad."

It was Hermione. She was standing behind him, but from the astonished look on Lavender's face, her costume must be something special.

Harry turned.

Well. Lavender had undersold it.

Hermione was a vision. She was dressed all in gold, a form-fitting dress that left nothing to the imagination, with dazzling wings that flapped on their own accord. Her hair was piled high on her head, a few curls falling down to frame her face, held in place with a headband in the form of a snitch.

But it all paled in comparison to her smile—victorious, ecstatic and enchanting.

For a moment he forgot to breathe.

If he were being honest with himself, that had been happening quite a bit around her lately. They'd always been best friends, but more and more, he'd found himself looking for excuses to pat her arm, losing himself in her chocolate brown eyes, resisting the urge to tuck an errant curl behind her ear.

She slid her arm through his, turning them to face Ron and Lavender, and he realized he'd done it again. He shook his head slightly, forcing himself to focus on their friends, even as he found her presence beside him intoxicating.

"What do you think?" Hermione asked the other girl, her face shining. Somehow, she'd gotten her skin to glitter as well.

Lavender beamed. "Well done," she agreed. "You two might even win the contest."

She pulled Ron toward the dance floor, and Harry turned to Hermione.

"What's this?" he asked, his voice squeaking a bit, much to his annoyance, as if he were still some 12-year-old boy with his first crush.

Hermione smiled cheekily. "What I do best," she said airily. "Saving you."

"My costume is fine," Harry grumbled.

Hermione shot him an incredulous look. "Your costume is barely a costume, Harry, honestly," she retorted. "Luckily, I know you well enough to know you'd do this."

She waved her arm up and down to indicate his lackluster costume.

"But next to me, you look…"

She trailed off, smiling slightly, running her hand down his arm. She eyed him mischievously, and Harry felt a little off-kilter. They'd always been best friends, but there was something different in her eyes tonight—something… flirtatious almost?

Impossible. Hermione had never shown any interest in him. If she'd wanted something to happen, surely it would've when they'd spent months sleeping next to each other in a tent.

"Of course," she continued, eyeing him up and down, "you'll have to catch me first."

She gave him an impish grin, walking off—no, floating off… she'd gone and levitated herself… Merlin, she was brilliant—and Harry was left with the distinct impression that she had been flirting.

She didn't have to tell him twice.

With lightning-fast reflexes he'd honed on the quidditch pitch, he weaved in between couples and friends, following in her path. He caught up to her near the butterbeer table, which was next to a convenient corridor.

He grabbed her lightly by the hips, pulling her into the darkened hallway, twisting her around in his arms.

"Haven't you heard?" Harry asked, leaning closer to her, as she tipped her face up to him. "I was the youngest seeker in a century."

Hermione wound her arms around his neck, her fingers playing with the ends of his hair. "I'm not sure how good you are," she said casually. "It's taken you a good few years to catch this snitch, hasn't it?"

He studied her face—she was no longer joking. Her expression was serious, her eyes watching him hungrily.

"Let's rectify that, shall we?" he asked.

He pulled her flush against him and their lips crashed together, unleashing emotions and needs Harry hadn't realized he'd had. His hands traveled along her waist, her back, up her neck and into her hair, cupping her cheek, an exploration that felt familiar and new all at once.

Merlin, he was stupid. Why hadn't he done this in that blasted tent? This felt like coming home.

He wasn't sure how long they stood in that corridor, but when he pulled away, she was breathing heavy, her eyes closed, her lips looking thoroughly kissed.

She opened her eyes, those mesmerizing brown eyes he wanted to get lost in, and offered him a brilliant smile. She stood on tiptoe, her cheek brushing against his, her lips tantalizingly close to his ear.

"150 points, Potter," she whispered.