This is Us
Howdy folks! This story is a sequel–prequel to This is Real. In that story, Harry realized his feelings for Hermione after Ginny kissed him in the Room of Requirement, but he kept this revelation to himself — and those who have read it know it was a nightmare. In reality, Harry did reveal his feelings, and they got together. Well, this story is a snippet into our favourite couple's newly blossoming relationship, set weeks after they have gotten together.
CHAPTER 1
At first, it was endearing—everything about him. The hesitant backward peeks, inching closer to her at every opportunity, the shy smiles that formed little dimples on the lower half of his cheeks, trailing behind her whenever he could, the sidelong glances he thought she didn't notice, the subtle attempts to make contact—whether under the table in the Great Hall, in the classroom, or on the common room sofa— only to pull back because his courage always failed him.
But over time—less than a month—her endearment shifted, first into frustration, then into vexation.
He never goddamned progressed!
She kept waiting and waiting and waiting, but he remained hesitant, timid, and never moved forward.
So, Hermione decided enough was enough. It was time to take charge, like she always had whenever he was concerned. And goddammit, this time it concerned her directly, too.
They were following the path towards The Three Broomsticks on a cold, snowy evening when she made her first move. Looping her arm around his elbow, she pulled him to her side and laid her head on his shoulder as their feet trudged along. She immediately felt him tense, and though that reaction made her self-doubt and insecurities rise, Hermione didn't let them deter her and intensified her hold on his arm.
Though the tension ebbed somewhat, he never fully relaxed, and Hermione's first thought was that it was due to Ron's presence, that he didn't want to create an awkward tension in their dynamic—but then she remembered that Harry himself had broken the news, and apart from his initial taken-aback reaction, the redhead had given Harry an awkward pat on the back and a stiff yet happy nod in her direction.
He has always been shy about displaying any sort of physical closeness with anyone, but she hadn't expected it to carry over into their newly developed relationship.
As she peered up at him and noticed his clenched jaw and gaze fixed resolutely ahead, Hermione scrapped her original plan of coaxing him into affection – she feared it might scare him away entirely – and resolved to tackle the situation as expected of her: through thorough research and carefully calculated measures.
They reached the pub in silence and Hermione's heart melted when Harry held the door open for her.
"Thanks mate."
She knew it was meant for her—his blushing cheeks said as much.
As they stepped inside, a wave of warmth and noise enveloped them. The air was thick with the sweet scent of butterbeer, mingling with the savory aroma of roasted meats and the faint smokiness of the crackling fireplace. Laughter and chatter echoed off the wooden walls, and the clink of tankards rose above the hum of conversations as cloaked witches and wizards crowded around worn oak tables, their breath fogging the air near frosted windows.
"I'll put in our order. You two go find a table," Ron called over the din before disappearing into the mass of moving bodies.
Hermione turned to Harry, their eyes meeting in a shared understanding. Though she appreciated the gesture—and she suspected Harry did too—their lanky friend had never been one for subtlety. Normally, the task of placing orders fell to Harry, an unspoken arrangement they'd all settled into without discussion. Ron rarely had spending money to spare, and Hermione, if she were honest, was usually skint by Christmas, her allowance drained on quills, ink bottles, parchment, and revision books. Harry, with the steady supply from his vault, had simply assumed the role.
Yet every so often, she'd catch something flicker in Ron's gaze as Harry shouldered his way through the crowd—a fleeting shadow of something that might've been shame—and, in those moments, a twinge of guilt would rise in her chest as well.
But tonight was different. Ron had gone willingly, and as Hermione watched him weave through the throng, she knew he'd simply wanted to give them a moment alone.
Luckily for them, a group of seventh-year Hufflepuffs had just vacated a table tucked into the corner.
They slid in on one side of the table. Harry moved until his shoulder pressed against the wall, leaving a space between them. Hermione, startled, hesitated before sitting at the edge of the bench. Hurt flared in her chest.
Her eyes dropped to her hands resting atop the table, fingers twisting together as seconds dragged by. The muffled hum of laughter and clinking glasses around them only seemed to sharpen the tension settling between them.
Unable to help herself, she turned her head—and her heart stumbled when she found him staring at her. His green eyes widened, and he quickly looked away, his cheeks tinting red.
Some of the tightness in her chest eased. He's just embarrassed, she thought, recalling the way she'd clung to him outside. Still, she wished he hadn't pulled away so quickly.
"Harry—" she began, her voice soft beneath the noise of the pub.
"Y-yeah." Scratching the back of his neck nervously—a habit she was all too familiar with by now—he tried to appear calm, though the deepening blush on his cheeks betrayed him.
Sighing, Hermione scooted closer until her thigh brushed his. Harry stiffened as if struck by a jolt of electricity.
"Stop it," she admonished, her brows knitting into a scowl when his eyes went wide with fear. "And stop looking so scared."
"I-I'm not—"
"Yes, you bloody well are," she cut him off, her voice firm but not unkind. "You're behaving like I will bite your bloody arm off."
"Well... you are... scary—"
Hermione's nostrils flared indignantly.
"—sometimes!" he added hastily.
"If that's how you feel—fine!" Hermione scooted back to her previous spot, arms folded tightly atop the table as she stared straight ahead, her jaw clenched.
"Don't be like that, please."
This time, he slid over to her, and Hermione let out a small gasp of surprise as his palm landed on her leg. But like the idiot he was, he immediately misconstrued her reaction and yanked his hand away.
Hermione grabbed his hand and pulled it back, firmly.
"Don't you get it?" she whispered. "I don't want you to pull away."
Her tongue darted across her lower lip, moistening it as her gaze flicked to his mouth. Then, meeting his eyes, she tried to convey what she felt too mortified to put into words.
Harry swallowed hard, the lump in his throat bobbing visibly. A faint, hollow click echoed from his throat—a sound barely audible over the surrounding noise but unmistakable to her ears.
"Y-you don't?" he asked, his voice rough like it had scraped against something on the way out.
Hermione shook her head. "Not at all." Then, frowning, she asked, "Why would you think I would?"
His gaze dropped to his lap, fingers twisting the hem of his jumper. "Dunno. Just...This is all so new to me – "
"It's the same for me, too."
"I know!" He lifted his other hand and wrapped it around hers. "I know," he implored, his voice thick with emotion.
Hermione's breath hitched as the warmth of his hand seeped into hers, grounding her. His thumb grazed the back of her knuckles, still hesitant but deliberate.
"I just—" His voice faltered, rough with emotion. "I don't want to mess this up. Not with you."
"You won't – you can't. Nothing you do can."
For a moment, the words hung between them, but then his face shifted. His pupils dilated, and his expression became unreadable. She couldn't read him. The warmth that had been there a moment ago, was gone, replaced with something impenetrable.
Her stomach twisted, unsure of whether she had crossed a line, and the silence pressed in around them, thick and heavy. She had said something wrong. She had to have. But what? She couldn't tell.
And then his voice broke through the silence, low and rough, but controlled. "Don't say that. You don't know what that does to me."
Hermione froze, unsure of how to respond. Her throat made the same clicking sound as she swallowed, trying to steady her breath, her fingers curling into her palms. "Tell me," she said, her voice almost a whisper.
His gaze didn't waver, his expression still unreadable. He didn't give her anything, no shift in his posture, no flicker in his eyes. "You don't want to know."
The words felt like a challenge—her chest tightened, her pulse quickened—and she met it head-on as she repeated, "Tell me."
There was no hesitation, no shift in his expression. His voice was calm, but the weight of it made her pulse race. "It gives me free rein."
Her breath caught. His words were like a spark, setting something off inside her. She needed to know more, needed to understand the meaning behind his stoic facade. "And?"
He didn't move, didn't blink, didn't flinch. "And I don't trust myself with that."
His voice was so even, so composed, that it made her feel the intensity of his restraint. "I do."
For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze steady, unyielding. His face was a blank canvas, but something inside his eyes—something dark—shifted ever so slightly. "Are you sure?"
She twisted her hand out of his grasp and reached up, curling it around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. There was no softness in the gesture, no hesitance—just a quiet certainty. She arched up slightly, her lips brushing against the edge of his ear, her breath warm and deliberate on his skin. Her voice was soft, but heavy with intent. "Very much."
A door, five tables across from where they sat, led downstairs into a cavernous storeroom stacked high with monstrous wooden barrels. The smell of Firewhisky hung thick in the air, swirling around them like an intoxicating haze. In the far-right corner, a small space was wedged between two towering barrels, hidden from view, its shadows inviting and secretive.
Not thirty seconds later, after that charged moment, the couple found themselves in that very spot.
Hands moved in a blur, desperate to find purchase, shifting constantly as lips, teeth, and tongues moved out of sync in a frantic, tangled rhythm. Low, needy grunts filled the thick, intoxicated air.
The tight space between the barrels became a prison of passion, every inch of their bodies pressed together with nowhere to go. Hermione's back hit the cold, uneven stone wall behind her, the roughness of it pressing into her skin, adding to the sensation of heat that was rapidly building between them. The impact's shock momentarily pulled her focus from the haze of desire. She gasped, but Harry was relentless, his mouth trailing hot kisses along her jaw, down her neck, biting at her skin with a mix of hunger and impatience.
Their elbows knocked together in the tight confines, the sharp sting of the collision quickly forgotten as they both shifted and readjusted, trying to get closer, to feel more of the other. Hermione's knees brushed against the edge of a barrel, the thick material of her trousers offering little relief as the hard wood pressed into her legs. Despite the winter chill seeping through the stone walls of the cellar, the heat between them made the space feel suffocating, her skin flushed from more than just the cold.
Their movements were clumsy, awkward, each shift and adjustment a misstep as their bodies tried to find a rhythm, but the frustration only spurred them on.
"Come on," she whined, her voice strained with desire, her fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer as if she couldn't get enough of the feeling of him, the heat of him. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she tugged at his hair, the sensation sharp and satisfying.
Harry's lips found her shoulder, mouthing through the thick wool of her sweater before he yanked it down, exposing the soft curve of her shoulder bone. His teeth sank into her skin, biting down hard, the sting making her gasp his name. He eased the pressure almost immediately, his tongue following the path of his bite, soothing the sharp ache.
Hermione moaned softly, her head tilting back as she breathed, "Ohh…" the sound escaping her lips as his tongue lingered on her skin, igniting a new wave of heat through her body.
His hands slid down her sides and beneath her sweater, fingers brushing over the fabric of her t-shirt before sneaking under it. They made contact with her skin, squeezing the soft flesh of her waist, pinching it roughly, causing another pained gasp to escape her lips. But he didn't relent, the pressure of his touch only intensifying as he continued to slobber over her shoulder, each movement of his mouth heated and frantic.
"Harry!" Her voice came out sharp, desperate, as she yanked his hands away, her own skin still tingling from the roughness of his touch. His mouth lifted off her shoulder, leaving a trail of saliva that sent a shiver through her, the cold air of the cellar striking her exposed skin.
They both froze, eyes locking, their breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. The warmth of their bodies pressed together still lingered, but the cool air now felt jarring against her heated skin, a stark contrast to the intensity of what they'd just shared. Her shoulder ached where he'd bitten, the sensation still sharp.
"You—You're being too rough," Hermione murmured, breathless, her voice trembling with the aftershock of the moment.
Harry immediately pulled back slightly, eyes wide with concern. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's okay," she whispered, her hands already pulling him closer again, the desperation in her touch betraying her. "Just take it easy."
Their mouths met again, slower this time, hands gliding over fabric, skin, the urgency replaced by a simmering heat that built between them. Kisses were gentle at first, tentative, as if they were relearning each other, tasting and savouring every soft brush of lips. But within seconds, the pressure of their mouths deepened, each kiss growing more urgent, more insistent. Her lips parted in invitation, and his followed, a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue that shot through her like a live wire, sending a rush of heat and desire pulsing through her veins. The tentative touches morphed into something more demanding, and then they were back again, hungrily going at each other, lips crashing together with desperate need. The shift was sudden, each kiss faster, harder, as if they couldn't get close enough. The slow burn from before was forgotten, replaced by an urgent, unrelenting pull that left them both breathless.
Hermione's elbow once again slammed into the hard wood of one of the barrels caging them, the sharp impact making her hiss in pain. The sound escaped her before she could stop it, and in the rush of reflex, she bit down on his lip hard.
Harry groaned in response, drawing back, his chest rising and falling with every breath. Hermione's eyes widened as she saw the small cut forming on his lower lip, a thin trickle of blood beginning to seep out. Her heart raced, the sight of him like that something she couldn't explain.
Before she could think, something took over. She leaned upward, her body on its tiptoes, and gently licked the blood from the dip of his chin, trailing her tongue up to his lip. She softly sucked on the wound, the wet, intimate sound making her pulse thrum in her ears.
She pulled away slowly, and in that moment, the world seemed to still. Harry's pupils were blown wide, dark with desire. Their chests brushed with each breath—and then she felt it. A firm, unfamiliar weight against her right thigh. Her breath caught, heat flashing through her as the realization hit, sharp and electric. Her gaze dropped before she could stop herself, and the sight of the strain beneath his jeans sent a fresh jolt of heat through her veins.
The bulge curved in a sideways arch, taut against the denim, and looked mighty uncomfortable. In her seventeen years of existence, it was the first time Hermione had witnessed such unmistakable evidence of desire directed at her.
Her arousal skyrocketed, and before she could comprehend what was happening, her right hand drifted into her field of vision, moving with a mind of its own as it glided toward its intended target. Hermione watched, spellbound, as if caught in a trance.
The moment hung in the air, suspended, until finally, her fingers pressed against the base of him.
A sharp exhale escaped Harry, cutting through the thick, suffocating air.
Her fingers tingled at the contact, the pressure and warmth nearly overwhelming as she made contact with him.
Instinctively, her hand moved, fingers tracing the length of him, stopping when she met a subtle ridge at the edge. Her thumb shifted, dragging the flat of her nail slowly but insistently over the ridge, the fabric of his jeans making a soft, rasping squeak under the pressure, resonating with Harry's hissing.
"Too much…!" Harry groaned, his voice strained, pushing her hand away.
Her head snapped up, her eyes locking onto his face as his expression twisted with discomfort, his eyes clenched shut.
"I'm so sorry!" she whispered urgently, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. "Did I hurt you?"
Harry exhaled shakily, his eyes still closed, but his voice softened as he reassured her. "No, it's... it's just too much, Hermione. It started to hurt." His eyes opened, and a wry smile crossed his lips. "In a good way, but it felt like too much pressure." He grimaced and pulled the fabric of his jeans away from his crotch. "Too sensitive," he added with a sheepish smile.
Hermione nodded, the tightness in her chest easing as a wave of relief washed over her. She blinked up at him, still flushed and breathless, her heart hammering in her chest. The awkwardness of the moment weighed heavy in the thick, whisky-scented air between them.
Slowly, she peeled her hand from his shoulder and looked around—anywhere but at him. Her gaze darted across the dim cellar: the towering barrels, the dripping stone walls, and the narrow, shadowed passage leading towards the staircase.
Harry followed her gaze, shifting slightly so he could turn his head. His movement brushed their hips together again, making Hermione jump slightly, a fresh burst of heat rising to her cheeks.
She looked back at him—at his face—and immediately regretted it. His hair was a complete mess, sticking up wildly where her fingers had tugged it; his lips were kiss-swollen, still stained faintly red; and his eyes—those stupid, stupid green eyes—were glassy and dazed, struggling to focus.
Hermione gulped.
A laugh—sharp and nervous—escaped her before she could stop it.
"I can't believe we thought this was a good idea," she blurted, the words tumbling out far too fast, high-pitched and trembling with embarrassment. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, mortified at how shrill she sounded.
Harry stared at her for a second, his expression caught somewhere between stunned and stricken.
Then—to her absolute horror—he laughed, too. A short, rough sound, like it had been punched out of him against his will.
"Yeah," he said, his voice still hoarse, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Brilliant plan, really."
Their eyes met again, and for a moment, the ridiculousness of it all—the barrels, the freezing cold, the bloody elbow bruises—hit them both at once.
Hermione doubled over, laughing helplessly into her sleeve, her body shaking with the release of pent-up tension. Harry leaned his forehead against the stone wall, his shoulders quaking with quiet, choked laughter.
When Hermione finally managed to straighten up, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, she found Harry already looking at her.
His smile was small, crooked—and somehow, painfully sweet.
"Next time," he said, nudging her gently with his elbow, "maybe...I dunno. Somewhere with a mattress?"
Hermione snorted, a thoroughly unladylike sound that echoed loudly in the small space.
"Somewhere with heating," she said, her teeth chattering slightly as the cold began to seep back into her awareness.
"Right," Harry agreed, shivering as he tugged his jumper down awkwardly, clearly trying to...rearrange certain issues without drawing attention to them. It didn't work. Hermione's eyes flicked downward—and then immediately jerked back up to his face, her cheeks burning.
Harry caught her glance and went crimson from the neck up, looking like he might spontaneously combust.
They stood there for a beat, both too mortified to move.
Finally, Hermione cleared her throat and shoved her hair behind her ears, trying—and failing—to regain some semblance of dignity.
"So," she said, voice far too bright, "shall we...pretend this never happened?"
Harry scratched the back of his head, giving her a sheepish, lopsided smile.
"Yeah," he said. "Until it happens again."
Hermione stared at him, stunned.
And then she smiled—really smiled—so wide it hurt her cheeks.
"Deal," she said, flashing him a grin. "But next time, we do it properly. Research first—lots of it. And yes, that means you, too."
Hermione groaned loudly as she dropped down heavily next to Harry, thumping her forehead onto the battered oak table with a dull thud.
She stayed there for a second, grumbling incoherently into the wood, then kicked the leg of the table sharply with the side of her boot. The whole table shuddered under the blow.
Harry flinched, glancing around — but the library was deserted, rows of empty chairs and abandoned desks stretching out into the dim, flickering candlelight.
Apart from the occasional rustle of parchment from some distant corner, they were completely alone.
Tentatively—very tentatively—he reached out and touched her shoulder.
Hermione snapped her head up so fast he nearly toppled off the bench, letting out a small, undignified squeak.
Her cheeks were flushed bright red, her hair wild and frizzing around her face, and her eyes blazed with anger.
Harry shrank back slightly. "W-what's wrong?"
Hermione gave a short, humorless laugh and jabbed a finger into the tabletop between them.
"What's wrong?" she repeated, her voice tight and rising dangerously. "I'll tell you what's wrong, Harry."
She shoved her sleeves up her arms in a furious gesture, as if preparing for a duel.
"There is no bloody book!" she exploded, throwing her arms wide. "Nothing! No guide, no manual, not even a pathetic Ministry-issued pamphlet! You'd think that in a world where you can fit a house into a handbag, someone might have managed to write down a few basic facts about sex!"
Harry blinked at her, speechless.
But Hermione was only warming up.
"Nooo," she spat, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, "instead, they hand girls a potion, mumble a few contraceptive spells, and act like we'll somehow absorb the rest by breathing near older students!"
She banged her fist lightly against the table, rattling an inkpot someone had left behind.
"No explanation! No diagrams! No honest conversations! Just 'Here's a spell, dear, mind you don't ruin your future while you're figuring out what goes where'!"
Harry opened his mouth like he might offer a helpful comment.
Hermione cut him off with a glare so savage he thought better of it.
"I mean honestly, what do they think happens?!" she hissed, flinging her hands toward him in exasperation. "That one day we'll just wake up magically knowing what to do? That it'll be—what—divinely inspired thrusting?!"
At that, Harry made a sound halfway between a cough and a choked snort.
"And God forbid," Hermione pressed on, eyes wild, "someone actually mentions that it's messy, and confusing, and—and sometimes barrels are involved!"
Her voice cracked slightly on that last word, and she immediately slapped a hand over her face, mortified.
Harry, still blinking at her like she might spontaneously combust, finally managed to croak, "Er...should we...start by writing the book ourselves?"
Hermione froze, then slowly, slowly peeked at him from behind her hand.
And then, completely against her will, a snorting, helpless laugh burst out of her, echoing absurdly across the empty library.
Hermione sighed heavily, the last of her laughter trailing off into the cavernous quiet of the library.
She dropped her hands from her face, leaned across the bench, and—before Harry could react—reached out and gave his cheek a sharp, affectionate pinch.
Harry jerked back slightly, startled, but then grinned — wide and boyish, that warm, lopsided smile that made her chest ache in the most ridiculous way.
"You're very cute, you know," Hermione said, her tone maddeningly casual.
Harry's smile froze.
Then, like a cloud passing over the sun, it slipped away, replaced by a confused, wary little frown.
Hermione, completely oblivious to the change in his expression, simply turned back to the table and began drumming her fingers lightly against the wood, her brow furrowed in deep thought.
Harry watched her in wary silence, clearly unsure whether he was being complimented, insulted, or quietly hexed.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft tap-tap-tap of Hermione's fingers.
Then, suddenly, she stilled.
Her face lit up—bright, almost mischievous—and she spun toward him, eyes wide, smile wider.
Harry blinked at her, alarmed. Nothing good ever followed that particular expression.
"I'm not sure this is one of your best ideas," Harry muttered, shifting the bundle of shimmering fabric in his arms.
They stood before the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmistress's office, the hallway stretching silent and empty around them, dimly lit by floating sconces. The castle, deep into the first night of the winter holidays, felt impossibly vast and hollow.
Harry tightened his grip on the Invisibility Cloak like it might shield him from the sheer absurdity of what they were about to do.
Hermione rolled her eyes, the movement exaggerated enough to be clearly for his benefit.
"My ideas are always practical, Harry," she said primly. "This one has no faults whatsoever."
Harry gave her a look of pure skepticism but wisely kept his mouth shut.
Hermione pressed on briskly, like she was outlining military strategy.
"Look," she said, lowering her voice to a near whisper, "she knows I'm staying for the break. I'll just tell her I only packed enough pads to last until today."
At the word "pads," Harry's face exploded into a furious crimson, the blush crawling all the way up to the tips of his ears.
Hermione caught the look and sighed—loudly—and rolled her eyes again, this time with real exasperation.
"But if she asks why I'm not using the Absorbera charm—" she continued, completely unfazed, "I'll just say I've always preferred pads and the ones I like are only sold in the biggest shopping district in London."
Harry, still visibly struggling with the entire conversation, managed a strangled nod.
"Plus," Hermione added, with a breezy wave of her hand, "it's not like I'm asking for an entire day out. Just a couple of hours—plenty of time to find a proper book. And I already know exactly which shops to check."
Without waiting for a reply, she strode purposefully toward the gargoyle.
Harry, still clutching the Invisibility Cloak like a lifeline, watched her in helpless silence as she approached the stone statue.
Hermione leaned in slightly and spoke the password in a clear, confident voice.
"Marshmallow Twist."
The gargoyle shuddered to life with a low grinding noise and began to spin upward, the staircase behind it spiraling into view.
Without hesitation, Hermione stepped onto the moving staircase, her head held high, the picture of calm efficiency.
Harry swallowed hard, unfolded the Invisibility Cloak, pulled it over his head, sank down onto the cold floor, pressed his back to the wall, drew his knees tight to his chest, and waited.
Something brushed against him, a light pressure against his arm.
A voice, muffled and far away, whispered something he couldn't make out.
The touch came again, firmer this time, a hand shaking his shoulder, the voice growing clearer.
"Harry," it said, soft but insistent.
He blinked awake.
Hermione's face was inches from his own, her curls falling forward, eyes narrowed in sharp focus.
"Honestly," she hissed, giving his shoulder another shake. "Your shoe was sticking out! Anyone walking by would have seen it!"
Harry groaned, scrubbing at his eyes under the cloak.
His heart still hammered with the lingering panic of being caught.
Harry stood up, righted his glasses, and frowned when Hermione turned sharply on her heel and started walking.
For a moment, he just stood there, stunned.
Then he cursed under his breath, tucked the Invisibility Cloak under his arm, and hurried after her, his footsteps quick and uneven against the stone floor.
The castle lay heavy and silent around them, the faint blue glow of floating sconces bending and rippling across the uneven stone walls. The air was cold enough to mist their breath, curling faintly before fading into the vaulted darkness overhead.
He caught up just as Hermione rounded a bend, her pace brisk, her eyes fixed straight ahead, unreadable save for a tight crease pulling between her brows.
"Well?" Harry said, falling into step beside her.
She didn't answer.
"Hermione."
Still silent, she led them around the curve where the corridor opened into a wide landing, the ceiling disappearing into shadow.
One of Hogwarts' massive moving staircases floated lazily into place ahead of them, stone steps scraping and grinding as they locked into position.
A portrait of a severe-looking witch in a frilly bonnet glared down from her frame, sniffed loudly, and muttered, "Students ought to be in bed at this hour."
Hermione ignored her.
Harry hunched his shoulders instinctively, clutching the Cloak tighter against his chest.
When the staircase settled with a heavy clunk, they stepped on.
The platform tilted slightly under their weight, groaning as it floated across the open stairwell.
At the next landing, they stepped off.
Harry moved quickly, getting in front of her, grabbing her shoulders to stop her.
Hermione bit her lip, head ducked low.
Then she looked up at him.
He lifted an eyebrow.
When she still said nothing, his face fell, and he sighed, letting go of her.
"Told you it wouldn't work."
He leaned back against the cold wall, tilting his head up toward the black ribs of the ceiling arching high above.
Hermione mirrored him, stepping to his side, both of them staring upward in silence.
"It worked," she said.
Harry snapped his head toward her so fast it cracked.
"What!"
"It worked," she repeated, "but..."
"But what," he demanded, stepping in front of her again.
Hermione sighed heavily.
"But there's... one slight adjustment to the plan."
Harry waited, frowning.
Hermione thumped her head back against the wall with a heavy thud.
"McGonagall will be accompanying me," she muttered.
Harry's forehead hit the wall beside her with an even louder thud.
Let me know your thoughts and I'll see you on the flip side.
