The Only Girl by Bingblot

Rating: G
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 28/06/2006
Last Updated: 05/07/2006
Status: Completed

AU 4th year. Harry decides his best hope of surviving the Yule Ball is to ask Hermione-- and
everything goes on from there... The Yule Ball the way it should have gone.




1. The Date
-----------

Disclaimer: This is AU; do I really still need to tell you that I do not own HP and I am only
borrowing JKR’s world for fun?

Author’s Note: Written originally for the fanfict00bs drabble-a-thon for **Amethyst_J**’s
request: *AU fourth year. Harry decides his best hope of surviving the Yule Ball is to ask
Hermione. Whether she accepts or not is up to you.*

And then, well, the plot bunny went and ran with the idea… So the build-up to the Yule Ball the
way it should have gone (with some slight rearranging of canon to suit my purposes) and the Yule
Ball itself, as it should have been. Borrowing some lines from canon which you will probably
recognize. Enjoy!

**The Only Girl**

*The Date*

He had thought facing down the Hungarian Horntail would be hard—this was ten, no a hundred,
times harder.

He had to go a *ball*?! And he had to go the ball with a *girl*—and *dance*?!

Harry could almost wish he had let the bloody Hungarian Horntail fry him to a crisp instead.

A girl—he had to ask a girl to go to the Yule Ball with him.

He grimaced as his stomach seemed to roil at the very thought. He wondered if he were going to
be sick. (He was sure that would just be great, really add to the luster of his reputation as the
school champion along with Cedric- going up to a girl and asking her to go to the Ball with him and
then promptly puking all over her shoes.)

Yup, this was going to be terrible.

Dragons were positively cute and cuddly compared to the terrifying prospect of facing a girl and
asking her to go to a ball.

A girl- a girl- Hogwarts seemed to be full of girls all of a sudden—but who should he ask?

He knew who he *wanted* to ask—in some alternate world where he was taller and could
actually talk to her without stuttering and blushing and looking, in short, like a complete
idiot.

But in this world- this world where he couldn’t even *look* at Cho without panicking and
turning into a bumbling, incoherent idiot- who could he ask?

But even as he thought it, he knew the answer.

The one girl whom he *could* talk to, the one girl he liked to talk to, the one girl—the
*only* girl—who could possibly, probably even, make going to the Ball not a nerve-wracking
disaster of an evening.

Hermione. He needed Hermione.

He hurried over to the library where he knew she would be, finding her hunched over a table and
frowning slightly as she read the enormous book open in front of her.

“Hermione,” he whispered urgently, “I need to talk to you.”

She looked up with a slight smile and closed her book. “Okay.”

She slid her books into her bag and stood up and they left, Harry oddly, uncomfortably aware
that Krum, whom he hadn’t even noticed earlier when he’d walked into the library, was watching them
go. (What was his problem?)

He waited until they were on the stairs- which jerked and then started moving creakily.

“What is it, Harry?”

He looked at her, his eyes wide, as the staircase stopped at another hallway and they hurried to
get off it and into the hallway. His heart was suddenly beating at three times its normal rate—this
was *Hermione*, for heaven’s sake; he couldn’t be nervous about talking to
*Hermione*.

“I- er- I need you to do me a favor,” he began, nervously, his fingers fiddling with the folds
of his robe.

“Of course, what is it?”

And the friendliness and willingness of her smile somehow did something to him—and he found
himself staring at her as if he’d never seen her before, seeing the warmth of her eyes and the
color and shape of her mou—he stopped that train of thought, uncomfortable with where it was
heading. Her smile—she had a nice smile, a pretty smile, he found himself thinking suddenly.

This was Hermione and she was his best friend—and the thought gave him some courage.

“I- er- IwantyoutogototheBallwithme,” he blurted out, very quickly, in one breath.

She blinked and stared, as spots of color appeared on her cheeks.

“I have to go to the Ball and dance and stuff,” he found himself continuing to speak very
quickly, not letting her answer because he was nervous and desperately afraid of what he would do
if she said no, “and I- er- I want to go with you ‘cause I know you and I like you and- and I
think, if I went with you, it could be fun.” *Fun, as opposed to excruciating.*

She was still flushed but then she smiled. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, I’ll go to the Ball with you,” she clarified.

He let out his breath. *Okay.* “Thanks, Hermione.” He managed a smile for her—and then was
surprised at how easy it was to smile now that he wasn’t nervous anymore and was even glad.

He would go to the Ball with Hermione and maybe, it would be fun.

He glanced at Hermione as they walked back towards Gryffindor Tower, saw the small smile playing
on her lips and the lingering pink of her cheeks. Hermione was, he decided, quite pretty, even with
her bushy hair, and wondered why he’d never really noticed before. And he could talk to her, felt
comfortable with her.

He smiled, suddenly looking forward to the Yule Ball. It *would* be fun.

~*~*~

*Another Date?*

It was amazing what having a girl to go to the Ball with could do to his mood and his mindset.
Harry found he was much more relaxed without the dread of that hanging over him and only the worry
of the golden egg and the Second Task—which, as he told himself repeatedly (and never more
emphatically than after Hermione had reminded him of it) wasn’t for another two months which would
surely be plenty of time. Especially with Hermione’s help.

Plus, having a date to the Ball gave him a water-tight excuse to refuse the girls who came up to
him randomly at times, whether he’d ever spoken one word to them or not, and asked him to go to the
Ball. “I’m already going with someone” sounded much better than a flat “no.”

Harry had been rather afraid that Ron might explode or something when he found out about him and
Hermione going to the Ball, which was why he and Hermione had tacitly agreed not to mention it at
first, until they had to—and, as it turned out, that had probably been a wise decision.

Harry and Hermione got back to the Common Room one evening to find Ron looking ashen-faced and
somewhat ill, as he sat in a distant corner of the room, with Ginny talking in what seemed to be a
soothing voice.

“What’s wrong?”

Ron looked up with a sort of blank horror on his face. “Why did I do it? I don’t know what made
me do it!”

“What?” Harry asked.

“He- er- just asked Fleur Delacour to go to the ball with him,” Ginny said, looking and sounding
as if she was fighting back a smile.

“You *what*?” Harry asked, his voice rising slightly in his surprise.

“I don’t know what made me do it!” Ron gasped. “What was I playing at? There were people- all
around- I’ve gone mad- everyone watching! I was just walking past her in the Entrance Hall—she was
standing there talking to Diggory—and it sort of came over me- and I asked her!”

Ron moaned and put his face in his hands, still talking though Harry could hardly understand his
words other than to decipher that Fleur had (predictably) not been particularly gracious in her
refusal.

He glanced at Hermione and met her eyes, seeing that she was also torn between sympathy for Ron
and some reluctant amusement at Ron’s shell-shocked reaction.

“She is part Veela,” Harry told Ron in an attempt to make him feel better. “Her grandmother was
one so it’s no wonder she acts the way she does.”

“And she’s not the only pretty girl,” Hermione added encouragingly.

Ron looked up at Hermione as if he had never seen her before or she had just said something
absolutely astounding. “Say, Hermione, you’re a girl!”

Harry winced inwardly on Ron’s behalf. The expression on Hermione’s face was about as welcoming
as a Blast-ended Skrewt. But Ron- seemingly oblivious- forged on anyway. “You’re a girl,” he said
again, “you can come with me.”

“No I can’t,” Hermione snapped before she opened her mouth again to admit the truth but Harry
interrupted her, saying it before she could, thinking vaguely that Ron might take the news better
from him or, at the very least, would then be more angry at him and not at Hermione, who didn’t
need to have Ron angry with her for this reason.

“No, she can’t,” Harry spoke up, hesitating for a split second before finishing, “she’s going
with me.”

Ginny’s ill-hidden amusement vanished immediately.

Ron blinked and then glowered. “Say, I suggested she go with me first.”

“No, I asked her a couple days ago,” Harry said honestly.

“You *what*?” Ron looked from Harry to Hermione, gaping and looking markedly less than
pleased.

“He asked me and I said yes,” Hermione said, her tone daring Ron to make some sort of
protest.

Ron half-glowered at Harry, a distinctly mulish expression falling over his face, but he took
the hint and didn’t say any more on the subject.

“I’m going to bed,” Hermione announced, not looking entirely mollified at Ron’s sudden tact. Her
tone softened as she offered Harry a slight smile. “Good night.”

“Night,” Harry answered automatically, looking up at her with the ghost of a smile curving his
lips in response.

Ron waited until Hermione was out of sight and up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory before he
glowered at Harry. “What’s going on between you two?” he demanded.

“Nothing!” Harry answered quickly—and, he also thought, honestly. “We’re friends and we’re just
going as friends. I couldn’t think of any other girl to ask and figured that at least if I went
with Hermione, the Ball wouldn’t be so terrible.”

“Okay, then,” Ron accepted rather grudgingly, but afterwards he never mentioned the subject
again (although he did start watching Harry and Hermione like a hawk whenever they talked or were
even in the same room together).

A week later, Ron still had no date and was making no attempt to hide his displeasure at the
fact.

“I think I’m the only one left who hasn’t got anyone,” Ron groused to Harry. “Except for
Neville. Hey—guess who he asked? Hermione!”

“What?” Harry started slightly, completely distracted by this news. *Neville*—and Hermione?
He liked Neville well enough but- Hermione? Hermione deserved better than that. Heck, she deserved
better than *him*—but Harry avoided that thought.

And then Hermione came up to him, looking a little uncomfortable, and said, “Harry, can I tell
you something?”

“Sure, what is it?”

She glanced around and pulled Harry into a quiet corner of the Common Room.

“Viktor Krum just asked me to go to the Ball with him,” she blurted out very quickly.

He stiffened and stared at her, trying to ignore the sudden twisting of his stomach. “Krum?”

She nodded a little shyly. “Yeah. You know how he’s been hanging out at the library a lot these
days—and well, he- he said it was because of me,” she admitted, blushing slightly.

“Oh,” was all Harry said, flatly. He had told himself that he was a much better partner for the
Ball than Neville but he couldn’t convince himself of that about Viktor Krum. Krum! *The*
Viktor Krum, the one who had been so wonderful at the Quidditch World Cup, Krum who flew like no
one he had ever seen. Krum, who was famous and a real champion, not like him who was more of a
champion through some trickery when he hadn’t even wanted to be a champion at all.

He looked at Hermione again, seeing the color in her cheeks and the almost-shy expression in her
eyes. Hermione- *shy*? “If you’d rather go with him, you can, you know. I-er- I can find
someone else to go with,” he lied, sternly suppressing the automatic wave of panic he felt at the
very idea. Someone else?! There was no one else whom he would ask! But if Hermione wanted to, he
owed her that much. She deserved a chance to go to the Yule Ball with a world-famous Quidditch
player and school champion.

A slight shadow crossed Hermione’s face as she studied him, as if trying to see how sincere his
offer was. Harry felt his stomach twist into knots. Oh God, she really did want to go with Krum
instead of him…

And then she smiled slightly. “Hmm, go to the Ball with my best friend or go to the Ball with a
boy I barely know and who calls me Hermy-own…” She pretended to think for a moment before smiling
at him. “No, I think I’d rather go with you, Harry.”

He returned her smile with one of his own, sagging back into his chair with the depth of his
relief. “Okay.” He paused and then asked, with amusement in his tone, “Hermy-own?”

Hermione laughed. “He can’t seem to pronounce Hermione and I didn’t bother correcting him.”

Harry grinned, suddenly feeling much happier now that he was sure Hermione would still be going
to the Ball with him and was laughing with him. “Maybe you should have told him your middle name;
he should be able to pronounce Jane.”

Hermione’s smile widened as she nodded. “You’re right; maybe I should have.” She paused and then
asked, “How do you know what my middle name is?”

“You told me, at the beginning of last year, when Ron admitted his middle name was Bilius after
his Uncle Bilius who died after seeing a Grim.”

“I did? I don’t remember.”

Harry shrugged a little. “It was sort-of in passing; we got kinda distracted by calling Ron
Bilius after that for the fun of watching his face turn red.”

“And you remember that?”

“I remember almost everything you’ve said,” he admitted honestly.

Hermione flushed pink with pleasure and smiled brightly at him, her eyes positively sparkling,
and Harry thought again that Hermione really was pretty. Had she always been so pretty and he just
hadn’t noticed it?

*To be continued with the Yule Ball…*



2. The Way You Look Tonight, Part 1
-----------------------------------

Disclaimer: In Part 1.

Note: Thank you, everyone, who read and reviewed the first part. I’m glad you enjoyed it so much
and I hope the Yule Ball lives up to your expectations! Once again, using lines from canon. The
Yule Ball will be divided up into 3 parts, because it just got too long. Enjoy!

**The Only Girl**

*The Way You Look Tonight*

*Part 1*

Hermione had asked Harry if she could meet him in the Entrance Hall instead of in the Common
Room and though Harry hadn’t understood her reasoning, he had agreed.

Parvati, whom Harry had finally asked to go with Ron since Lavender had by then already agreed
to go with Seamus, was waiting for Ron in the Common Room, actually looking quite pretty in robes
of extremely bright pink, her hair braided with gold and gold bracelets at her wrist, making soft
jingling noises when she walked. Harry nudged Ron in the back, making Ron start a little and then
go up to her, saying awkwardly, “You-er- look really nice.”

Parvati looked pleased at the compliment as she took Ron’s arm (although Harry noticed Parvati
looking askance at the frayed edges of the neck and sleeves of Ron’s dress robes) and Harry
followed them out of the Common Room.

The Entrance Hall was crowded and milling around with people.

Harry saw Cho with Cedric and felt his stomach twist unpleasantly at how pretty Cho looked in
her dress robes and hurriedly looked away, his eyes falling on Fleur Delacour, looking absolutely
beautiful in robes of silver-grey satin with the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, Roger Davies.

The oak front doors opened and the Durmstrang students entered with Professor Karkaroff. Krum,
Harry could see, was with one of his fan-girls who looked nearly faint with excitement while Krum
was striving valiantly not to look disgusted. No doubt Krum was wishing he was with Hermione, and
Harry surprised himself at the flicker of sympathy he felt for Krum—as well as the even smaller
flicker of pleasure at knowing that he, not Krum, would be the one to have fun with Hermione
tonight.

Which reminded him- where was she? He turned to look for her and his eyes fell on a very pretty
girl in blue robes whom he didn’t immediately recognize and moved on over the crowd when he stopped
and turned to look back at the girl, some instinct nagging at him.

His jaw dropped.

It was Hermione.

But it was Hermione as he had never seen her before, as no one had ever seen her before.
Glancing surreptitiously around, he could tell that he wasn’t the only person not to recognize her
immediately. Ron looked straight past her without noticing. Harry stared, his gaze taking in all of
her that he could see with the people between them as she smiled and started walking towards
him.

He managed to close his mouth with a Herculean effort as she drew nearer and he saw her better.
She looked—she looked—*different*. Her hair was sleek and shiny and twisted up into an elegant
knot at the back of her head. She was wearing robes of some floaty, periwinkle-blue material that
left Harry made uncomfortably and dramatically aware of the fact that Hermione was undoubtedly a
girl. (The thought hit him with all the force of a Bludger to the head. Of course he’d always known
she was a girl but- but he hadn’t known she could look like *that*!) She was holding herself
differently, somehow—he wondered if it was just the absence of her usual bundle of books slung over
her back—but whatever it was, she was- graceful, he thought, poised.

She was standing in front of him now, smiling with just a hint of nervousness in her smile. “Hi,
Harry.”

He swallowed hard and stared at her, forgetting to breathe, forgetting how to talk, forgetting
everything. Her smile faltered slightly, a flicker of vulnerability passing over her face, and that
snapped him out of his stupor. “Hermione,” he managed to say, “I-er- you look—you look- really
nice.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Harry. You look nice too.”

He felt heat creep into his cheeks at her compliment but was spared having to respond by
Professor McGonagall calling out, “Champions over here, please!”

Hermione slipped her hand through his arm as they walked to where Professor McGonagall was
standing, dressed in robes of red tartan and with a
what-was-no-doubt-meant-to-be-decorative-but-was-really-quite-ugly wreath of thistles around her
hat.

Krum’s frown deepened when he saw Harry and Hermione together. Cedric and Cho were close to
Harry, too, and Cho smiled when she saw him. “Hi, Harry,” she said in a friendly fashion that just
days ago would have reduced him to incoherence.

“Hi,” he said automatically, distracted as he was in thinking about the incredible change in
Hermione’s appearance—and the fact that she was with him, her hand holding his arm.

When everyone else was seated in the Hall, Professor McGonagall led the champions and their
partners in, as everyone started to applaud at their entrance.

Hermione’s hand slipped down his arm to touch his hand and gave it a brief, reassuring squeeze,
as she sensed Harry’s discomfort at the attention, before releasing it. He glanced at her with a
thankful smile, which she returned with an understanding smile of her own—and so it was that the
first glimpse most people in the hall had of the youngest champion was of him smiling warmly at his
partner, his best friend.

Harry glanced over at Ron as they passed him to see that Ron had finally recognized Hermione and
was now watching her- and him- with narrowed eyes. He sensed rather than saw Hermione’s miniscule
hesitation when she saw Ron’s expression and it was his turn to move just a little bit closer to
her, enough so their hands were partially hidden by his robe and give her fingers a brief pressure,
indicative of support.

Dumbledore was smiling and beaming at the champions; Karkaroff looked rather as if he’d eaten
something sour. Ludo Bagman, resplendent in flashy robes of bright purple with large yellow stars
on it, was clapping enthusiastically, while Madam Maxime, in lavender silk rather than her usual
black satin, clapped politely. Mr. Crouch, however, was nowhere to be seen and in his spot was-
Percy Weasley.

“I wonder where Mr. Crouch is,” Hermione whispered to Harry under her breath and he nodded but
couldn’t say anything as they had reached the top table and Percy, who looked pointedly at Harry
and then at the empty seat beside him.

Harry grimaced inwardly but took the less-than-subtle hint and sat down next to Percy, wondering
if he could look forward to a long discourse on the thickness of cauldron bottoms all evening—but
then he caught Hermione’s eye as she sat beside him and felt better. The evening wasn’t going to be
that tedious; it couldn’t be when he had Hermione next to him to talk to instead of Percy.

“I’ve been promoted,” Percy announced instead of greeting Harry and Harry studiously avoided
meeting Hermione’s gaze although he felt her eyes on him, because he knew that if he did meet
Hermione’s eyes, he would burst out laughing at Percy’s smug tone, which wouldn’t have been out of
place if he had been announcing his election as Supreme Ruler of the Universe. “I’m now Mr.
Crouch’s personal assistant, and I’m here representing him.”

Harry bit back his urge to laugh and only asked, “Why didn’t he come?”

He listened with half an ear to Percy’s long answer as he looked around the Great Hall, noting
how different things looked from up on the top table and with the decorations. He turned his
attention back to Percy when he heard Percy say, “…misbehavior of that house-elf of his, Blinky or
whatever she was called…”

“Winky,” Harry interrupted automatically and, under the table, reached for Hermione’s wrist and
gripped it loosely, sensing that she was about to launch into a defense of Winky.

“Whatever,” Percy said dismissively and continued on as if Harry had never spoken. “Naturally he
dismissed her immediately afterwards, but—well, as I say, he’s getting on, he needs looking after,
and I think he’s found a definite drop in his home comforts since she left…” And so it went while
Harry swallowed back his urge to ask why Percy didn’t simply volunteer to be Mr. Crouch’s personal
house-elf too. (He certainly had the worshipful attitude down already.)

Percy had finally stopped talking and then Hermione leaned over and whispered very quietly in
Harry’s ear, “I wonder whether Mr. Crouch has stopped calling Percy ‘Weatherby’.” Harry choked on a
laugh which he quickly turned into a cough as he met Hermione’s amused gaze and grinned.

Harry looked around and then followed Dumbledore’s lead in looking at the menu and ordering into
his plate. He glanced at Hermione to see what she thought of this new system that must create more
work for the house elves and saw that she was frowning down at her plate. He didn’t want Hermione’s
evening to be ruined because of S.P.E.W. though and under the table, gave her hand a quick squeeze.
She glanced up at him and he smiled slightly, as he nodded his head down at their plates, silently
letting her know that he understood but she shouldn’t allow this to get in the way of her evening.
She returned his smile and he knew she understood.

*See?* A small voice inside his head said. *I knew going to the Ball with Hermione would
be fun.*

Krum’s fan-girl had finally managed to get over enough of her awe that she had asked Krum a
question on what Durmstrang was like.

Harry rather expected that Krum, who didn’t seem given to talking and whom Harry had never heard
actually speak before, would grunt or make some other noise that would kill the conversation. But
to his surprise, Krum answered—and answered fluently.

Harry blinked—Krum talked!—but then he saw something that simultaneously told him exactly what
had caused this burst of talkativeness in Krum and made him promptly decide he disliked the
Bulgarian.

Krum was ostensibly only answering his date’s question but he kept glancing over at Hermione
every couple words and was deliberately speaking in such a way as to guarantee that Hermione—and
Harry and everyone within four seats of him—could hear him.

Harry was surprised at the very vehemence of his reaction, the strength of his newly-discovered
dislike of Krum.

He was describing Durmstrang’s castle with a surprising amount of enthusiasm—and, Harry saw with
annoyance directed entirely at Krum, Hermione (to say nothing of Krum’s date, who was gazing at him
as if every word out of Krum’s mouth was divinely inspired) was fascinated.

Bloody stupid Bulgarian. Of course Hermione would be fascinated by a description of Durmstrang!
Harry could have predicted that; he knew Hermione and her curiosity and her love of learning about
things and places she didn’t know. It was why she enjoyed her summer travels with her parents so
much, partly why she read so much. And Durmstrang, which was a place of some mystery and therefore
exotic to Hogwarts students, was ideal to distract Hermione’s attention. He knew all that and
understood why—and, somewhat irrationally, the fact that Krum had obviously guessed that about
Hermione as well (and guessed accurately) only annoyed Harry more.

Viktor Krum! Fancying Hermione? Viktor Krum didn’t even *know* Hermione! How could he? He
hadn’t talked to her; he hadn’t spent any time with her unless you counted the time he had
(apparently) spent in the library watching her. The only thing Viktor Krum could possibly know
about Hermione was what she looked like and that she liked the library. And he fancied her. The
nerve of him! Fancying Hermione simply because she was pretty! (Harry could feel himself growing
steadily more annoyed at Krum by the second.) Yes, Hermione was pretty—but there was so much more
to Hermione than that. Hermione was—smart, the cleverest witch of their year and the smartest
person Harry knew; she was kind and loyal and brave and honest (he still remembered how she had
stood up to Professor Trelawney last year, too straightforward by nature to hide her disdain for
Divination) and a great friend… So what if she didn’t know or care that much about Quidditch?

Krum didn’t even *know* Hermione and he fancied her… Or rather thought he fancied her; he
couldn’t really…

*Well, don’t you fancy Cho and how much do you know about her? You haven’t spent any time with
her, have you?* A voice in his head spoke up and Harry stopped, mid-bite.

Oh God, it was true. He didn’t really know Cho at all; he’d never talked to her. All he knew of
her was that she was pretty and that she was good at Quidditch… Could he really fancy her?

He glanced down the table to where Cho was sitting, seeing her smile at something Cedric said,
her eyes bright—and felt *something* tug at his chest. But then he looked at Hermione sitting
beside him and just then she looked up to meet his eyes and smiled quickly at him—had she
*always* been so pretty when she smiled?—and the *something* was back, only stronger.

And for a moment, he couldn’t breathe, forgot how to breathe really, could only stare at her as
one thought echoed in his mind—he didn’t fancy Cho after all and- and- Hermione was pretty too and
he did know Hermione, liked her…

“Harry, is anything wrong?”

Hermione’s voice broke into his thoughts and he turned to her. “What? No, why do you ask?” he
hastened to assure her.

“You had an odd look on your face,” she said quietly.

He managed a smile for her, oddly touched at how much she cared about him. “I’m fine, just
thinking about something.”

“Okay.”

Karkaroff’s voice cut across the table and they both turned to look at him, as he addressed
Dumbledore with a wide smile that was quite clearly fake, on the pride in protecting the secrets of
their schools.

Harry snorted softly at Dumbledore’s characteristically whimsical answer about a room that could
only be found when one had a full bladder and met Hermione’s amused gaze.

She nudged him with her elbow and gestured with her head to where Fleur Delacour and Roger
Davies were sitting.

Fleur was talking disdainfully about Hogwarts and its decorations as compared to Beauxbatons,
slapping her hand down on the table to emphasize her point of how quickly a poltergeist would be
expelled from Beauxbatons if one ever had the temerity to enter.

“Absolutely right,” Roger agreed immediately, slapping his own hand down on the table in an
exact echo of Fleur’s gesture. “Like *that*. Yeah.”

The expression on Roger’s face was comical for how dazed he looked and he was having some
difficulty eating his food because he kept missing his mouth with his fork, distracted as he was in
staring at Fleur as if she were some sort of goddess.

Hermione leaned over to whisper in Harry’s ear, “Roger looks like a fish out of water with his
eyes so wide and his mouth gaping like that.”

Harry glanced at Roger again and had to grin at the accuracy of Hermione’s description.

“She must be used to having boys stare at her like that,” Hermione said softly, with just the
tinge of wistfulness in her tone.

Harry shrugged a little; it was undeniably true that Fleur must be very used to the sort of
admiring stupor which Roger was in now. “Yeah, but it must be hard to be friends with a girl like
that. Honestly, I think I’d rather be with a girl I could actually talk to without feeling like
some sort of lower being.”

Hermione’s expression brightened as she looked at him. “Really?”

“Yes,” Harry said simply- and honestly, although it had never occurred to him to think that way
before. But it was true; he couldn’t imagine really enjoying himself with someone like Fleur, who
was so preternaturally beautiful she would make anyone feel painfully inadequate and unworthy. He
would rather spend time with someone whom he could laugh with, whom he could talk to.

Hermione’s answering smile was the brightest he had ever seen and for a moment, he could only
stare and the thought flitted through his mind almost too quickly for him to catch that he would do
a lot for the sake of seeing her smile like that…

*To be continued with dancing!*



3. The Way You Look Tonight, Part 2
-----------------------------------

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing the first two parts. This is Part
2 of 3 of the Yule Ball, the way it should have been. Enjoy!

**The Only Girl**

*The Way You Look Tonight: Part 2*

When everyone was done eating, Dumbledore stood up, asking the students to do the same,
whereupon he made all the tables fly back to line the walls, leaving the floor clear. Then he
conjured a raised platform along the right-hand wall and a set of drums, several guitars, a lute, a
cello and some bagpipes were placed on it.

The Weird Sisters paraded onto the stage to enthusiastic applause; Harry couldn’t help but think
that they looked rather like the traditional Muggle stereotype of what witches looked like, with
wild hair and dressed in ripped black robes.

And then Harry belatedly remembered just why he’d been dreading the Yule Ball so much; the
champions all had to dance with their partners. For a moment, he felt a flare of panic inside his
chest and he was tempted to flee—where he didn’t know, anywhere he wouldn’t have to dance in
public. But then he felt Hermione’s hand on his arm, gently tugging him to his feet, and he stood
up, half-tripping over his dress robes as he did so. She sent him a reassuring glance and he felt
marginally better as the Weird Sisters began playing a slow, melancholy tune. He kept his eyes
focused as much as possible above everyone’s heads or, barring that, on Hermione. And he was
beginning to feel much better when he and Hermione came to a stop on the dance floor and he
realized with a jolt that in order to dance, he and Hermione were going to have to touch, to stand
close- *too* *close*- together. He swallowed hard and fought back a blush as he placed a
tentative hand on Hermione’s waist and held her hand with his other hand and, slowly, they began to
dance. Or more accurately, they started revolving slowly, taking small steps sort of in unison with
the music, while he kept his gaze focused on the walls above people’s heads as he could sense Ron
staring at them (as he’d been doing off and on the entire evening) with narrowed eyes.

And he absolutely did *not* notice the warmth of Hermione’s body through the rather flimsy
fabric of her dress robes or the fact that they were standing so close together he could feel her
every breath or the fact that Hermione was the perfect height so that positioned as they were, if
she just lifted her head and he met her eyes, their lips would end up within inches of each other.
He didn’t notice the way her hand fit within his and somehow felt- *right*- there. He didn’t
notice some of the lingering curls of her hair just touching her neck or how smooth and soft the
skin of her neck looked or how his fingers nearly itched to touch her neck to discover if her skin
could possibly be as soft and smooth as it looked.

He didn’t notice any of those things. And if he kept on telling himself that, maybe it would
somehow come true.

He didn’t *want* to notice any of those things about Hermione, about dancing with Hermione.
That way led to things, to thoughts, to feelings, he didn’t want to think about; could change
things and that terrified him more than anything else in his life to date. He was comfortable with
things the way they were, with being simply best friends with Hermione and not really noticing how
pretty she was or anything.

Harry was so distracted by his thoughts that he was startled when he realized that other people
had joined them on the dance floor, which meant that the champions were no longer the center of
attention. The worst part of the evening was over, he realized—and it had even been rather fun.
Because it was Hermione.

As if she had read his mind, she looked up at him at that moment with a small smile as she said
softly, “See, this wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He smiled back, sincerely. “That’s because it’s you,” he told her simply. “I’m sure if I had
come here with anyone else, it would have been terrible.”

“Oh honestly, Harry…” Hermione demurred but there was a pleased flush on her cheeks.

He shrugged a little, or as much as he could while still dancing. “It’s true.” He paused and
then added softly, partly by way of thanks and partly because he wanted her to know, “You look
really pretty tonight.”

“Thanks, Harry.” She grinned up at him and then, lowering her voice as if she were going to tell
him a secret, confessed, “I used up almost a full bottle of Sleakeazy’s Hair Potion to make my hair
look like this.”

He grinned at her, thinking that this was what he liked about Hermione; she wasn’t silly about
things like this like other girls were and could even laugh about how she’d worked so hard to look
good. He seriously doubted there was another girl in existence who would have told him that, no
matter how much Sleakeazy’s Hair Potion or other beauty-enhancing magical products they’d used.
“Did you really?” He made an exaggerated show of pretending to study her hair style before saying,
“Your hair looks nice.”

She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

And then he surprised himself by blurting out, “But honestly, I think your hair is fine without
Sleakeazy’s too.”

“Harry, my hair is bushy,” Hermione whispered in the tone of one announcing a terrible, but
obvious, truth.

“Yeah, but it’s just part of what makes you *Hermione*.” *And I kinda like you as, well,
**you**,* he thought.

But then he saw the way Hermione’s eyes shone and her expression softened. “Oh, Harry, that-
that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And he realized he had spoken his thought out-loud. *Oops.* He made a mental note that
apparently trusting Hermione the way he did was not always a good thing; it made him too likely to
simply blurt out what he was thinking without stopping to reflect on what he was saying.

He hastily took the opportunity to look around him, seeing Dumbledore waltzing with Madame
Maxime, which was a rather comical sight given that the top of his tall pointed hat barely reached
her chin but he was surprised to see that Madame Maxime actually moved quite gracefully for all her
size. Mad-Eye Moody was dancing, in his rather ungainly fashion, with Professor Sinistra, who kept
one nervous eye on his wooden leg.

“Hi, Professor Moody,” Hermione greeted him with a slight smile.

“Granger,” Moody nodded and then added, “Nice socks, Potter,” in his gruff voice as he passed,
his magical eye staring through Harry’s robes and his shoes.

“Oh- yeah, Dobby the house-elf knitted them for me,” Harry grinned.

Hermione smiled to herself; she hadn’t known that Harry would still be wearing the mis-matched
socks Dobby had knit for him with his dress robes. The fact that he was- and that he’d admit it so
freely (and she had caught, even if she knew Harry hadn’t, Parvati’s look of disapproval as Parvati
had been within ear-shot when Harry had admitted that), was just one of those things she really
liked about Harry. He was *nice*, for lack of a better word; he wasn’t mean or thoughtlessly
cruel or a bully or any of the things he could have become after finding out that he was such a
hero in the wizarding world. He was nice to Neville, nice to Colin Creevey despite his irritation
at Colin’s enormous case of hero-worship, simply nice.

Harry looked back at Hermione after attempting to catch Ron’s eye as he passed close by but Ron
seemed deliberately avoiding looking at him and at Hermione, to see the lingering soft smile on
Hermione’s lips and the oddly- *soft* was the only word he could think of- expression as she
looked at him. “What is it?”

Hermione shook her head slightly as if to dismiss her thoughts and only admitted, “Nothing; I
just remembered one of the reasons why you’re my best friend.”

The look in her eyes told him more than anything else, although he was still at a loss to
imagine what had brought this on, and so he fell back on humor. “You mean, because I’m one of the
school champions?” he joked lightly.

Hermione laughed, falling in with his joke. “Oh, that of course, and the fact that you’re famous
and all.”

Harry laughed, reflecting that only with Hermione, really, and with Ron now, could he joke about
this because he knew that Hermione, of all people, was the one who really cared least about his
fame or his hero status.

The final quavering note of the bagpipe ended and everyone applauded. Harry was aware of a
distinct reluctance to let go of Hermione and that feeling terrified him enough to make him resolve
that he shouldn’t dance with Hermione again, at least not immediately.

“Let’s sit down,” he suggested instead. “I’m kinda thirsty,” he lied as the Weird Sisters began
their next song, which was a much faster one.

“Okay,” Hermione agreed and they started to make their way off the dance floor, skirting around
Fred and Angelina, who were dancing so energetically that everyone was leaving a wide radius of
room around them.

“Uh- Hermy-own?” Suddenly Viktor Krum was standing in front of them, looking distinctly
uncomfortable as he nodded rather stiffly at Harry who nodded just as stiffly back.

Hermione smiled in a friendly fashion, the same sort of smile she used to make Neville feel less
self-conscious. “Hi.” And for a moment, Harry wished, irrationally, that Hermione weren’t such a
nice person and inherently incapable of exploiting someone’s obvious nervousness, if it would mean
that she wouldn’t smile like that to Viktor bloody Krum.

“Vill yu dance vith me?” he blurted out.

Hermione hesitated and then turned to Harry. “Harry, do you mind if I dance with Viktor for this
song?”

*Yes!* A small voice inside Harry’s brain nearly shrieked out a protest but he squelched
it. He would not be mean. After all, he told himself, it was just one dance and she was still there
with him and would be spending most, if not all, of the rest of the evening with him. Only one
dance. He could be nice—and, after all, he knew that Krum had wanted to come to the Ball with
Hermione in the first place and might even have come with her if it hadn’t been for him, pushing
away the automatic flare of protest at the thought of Viktor Krum coming to the Yule Ball with
Hermione as his date.

He managed a smile. “I don’t mind. Go ahead. I’ll just go sit with Ron,” he added, spotting Ron
sitting on the sidelines with a disgruntled-looking Parvati sitting close by.

And he felt that his magnanimity was (almost) fully repaid by the bright smile Hermione gave him
and the brief touch of her hand on his arm. “Thanks, Harry.”

Quite candidly wishing that the entire country of Bulgaria along with every person named Krum
could be at the bottom of the ocean, Harry trudged over to where Ron was sitting.

“Hey,” he greeted Ron with an attempt at a grin.

Ron acknowledged him with a rather sour glance. “Where’s Hermione?”

Harry felt his grin vanish as he waved a hand in the general direction of the dancing couples.
“I let her dance this song with Viktor Krum.”

Ron turned to gape at Harry as if he had just announced that Hermione was dancing with Voldemort
himself. “You- *what*? She’s dancing with *who*?” Ron swung his head over to glower at
the dancing couples until he caught a glimpse of Krum and Hermione over at the far side of the
dance floor.

Harry looked too, unable to stop himself, noting darkly that Krum seemed to be quite a good
dancer and that Hermione appeared to be enjoying herself.

*Bloody Krum.* *Bloody Durmstrang. Bloody Bulgarian. Bloody Quidditch star.*

He was momentarily distracted from his brooding on Krum and Hermione by Parvati leaning over to
ask Ron if he minded whether she danced with a boy from Beauxbatons.

“What?” Ron asked distractedly, still glowering out in Krum’s direction and Parvati flounced off
with an angry sniff and a “Never mind,” that made Harry feel a fleeting moment of pity for her. It
wasn’t her fault that Ron could be single-minded at times and was currently focusing that attention
on Hermione and Krum.

He wondered, not for the first time, whether Ron fancied Hermione to make Ron so dour all
evening or whether Ron was merely being over-protective as he was with Ginny.

The idea of Ron fancying Hermione sent a jolt of dismay through Harry and he studied Ron out of
the corner of his eye, wondering if it could be true. Could Ron fancy Hermione? He still fought
with her and argued with her as often as ever, still disagreed with her and still said things that
were almost exactly designed to, if not deliberately hurt, at least anger Hermione.

No, Ron couldn’t fancy Hermione, not with the way he bickered with her. And the fact remained
that Ron’s glowering expression showed remarkably little difference when he was watching Hermione
and Krum than when he was watching Ginny with Neville.

Harry’s eyes went back of their own volition to where he could just see Krum and Hermione past
the other couples and felt *something* clutch at his chest as he saw Hermione laugh at
something Krum said. He tore his gaze away from them, trying to focus on the sight of Hagrid
dancing with Madame Maxime or Cho dancing with Cedric (in a futile attempt to forget about
Hermione).

And then he felt Ron dig an elbow into his side, making him start, as Ron hissed, “Look, he’s
kissing her hand!”

Harry turned his head sharply to see that Krum was, indeed, bending over Hermione’s hand and
kissing it, in a gesture that would have seemed ridiculously fake if anyone else (that is, if
*Harry*) had done it but which Krum- *the blasted Bulgarian*- somehow managed to make
seem merely gallant.

Hermione looked surprised but also, Harry noted with dismay and a growing dislike of Krum,
flustered and a little flattered and a little pleased.

*Bloody Bulgarian trying to charm someone else’s date like that.*

Hermione made her way over to where they were, her face slightly flushed from dancing to the
fast-paced song, and smiled at them both. “Hi.”

She sat down next to Harry and smiled brightly at him.

Harry returned her smile automatically. “Did you have fun?”

She nodded and answered, “Viktor’s actually quite nice if you get to know him. He-”

Ron cut her off sharply. “*Viktor*? You call him Viktor now? What, he hasn’t asked you to
call him *Vicky*?” Ron’s tone somehow managed to make both Viktor and Vicky sound more like
epithets than names.

“What’s up with you?” Hermione asked in surprise and some dawning irritation.

“If you don’t know,” Ron bit out scathingly, “I’m not going to tell you.”

Harry guessed that Ron was only saying that to make Hermione angry because every inch of his
posture, to say nothing of his expression and his tone, told that Ron was positively itching for a
fight when he could tell Hermione exactly what was bothering him.

Harry turned to Hermione, trying to pretend he hadn’t noticed anything unusual about Ron’s
deliberately baiting manner, and suggested, “Let’s go get something to drink. Aren’t you
thirsty?”

Hermione gave him a grateful look, standing up immediately. “Yes, thanks, Harry.”

Harry stood up as well and carefully avoided looking back at Ron as he and Hermione left,
wondering why he suddenly felt like a traitor to his best friend for trying to evade what had all
the promise of turning into one of Ron and Hermione’s worst rows yet, a positive brawl rather than
simply bickering.

*To be continued with eavesdropping and the Yule Brawl the way it should have gone…*



4. The Way You Look Tonight, Part 3
-----------------------------------

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: The last part of this fic on the Yule Ball the way it should have been. Thank
you, everyone, for reading and reviewing; I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed this fic so much!

For my dear **Amethyst_J** who got me started on this and for **thephotoman**- happy
belated birthday, Jim!!

**The Only Girl**

*The Way You Look Tonight*

*Part 3*

They skirted around the dance floor, passing by Fred and George who appeared to have cornered
Ludo Bagman although he managed to escape them quickly enough.

“I wonder what they’re up to,” Harry mused idly, more to say something than out of any real
curiosity.

“Oh it’s Fred and George; they’ll be up to no good,” Hermione responded distractedly, not as if
she cared much but more as if she simply felt obligated to respond.

Harry glanced at her, wondering if she were still angry at Ron but found, to his relief, that
her frown had cleared.

After getting a glass of lemonade, Harry automatically turned to return to where Ron was sitting
but then stopped when he saw that Percy had sat down in the empty seat next to Ron and was no doubt
being his usual pompous self, judging from the extremely grumpy expression on Ron’s face.

“Let’s go outside,” Hermione suggested just before he opened his mouth to suggest the same thing
and he agreed with alacrity, thankful to avoid another dose of Percy’s company after spending all
of dinner with him.

The front doors of the castle stood open and the fairy lights in the rose garden twinkled among
the bushes, winding ornamental paths and large stone statues. Harry could hear the sound of
splashing water, which he guessed was a fountain and people were sitting on carved benches
scattered here and there.

“Dumbledore spared no efforts in decorating Hogwarts,” Hermione commented.

Harry made a noncommittal sound, thankful for the darkness, as it concealed his sudden blush at
the unwanted thought that he couldn’t imagine a more romantic spot to walk in and that he was glad
to be out here with Hermione. She was the only girl he’d really want to be out here in this
romantic setting with… And then he mentally stopped his train of thought so quickly he should have
left skid marks on his brain. He had no business thinking of romance and Hermione in the same
*sentence*, let alone together like that!

They had set off on one of the winding paths through the bushes but had gone only a few steps
when he heard a familiar voice, effectively distracting him.

“…don’t see what there is to fuss about, Igor.”

It was, he decided, the first (and last, he was sure) time he would be relieved to hear Snape’s
unpleasant voice.

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” Karkaroff’s voice sounded on the verge of
panic and hushed, as though he was equally anxious not to be overheard. “It’s been getting clearer
and clearer for months, I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it--”

“Then flee,” Snape answered curtly. “Flee, I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at
Hogwarts.”

And then before either Harry or Hermione could gather their wits, Snape and Karkaroff came
around the corner, Snape blasting rose bushes apart with his wand, his expression as dour as ever.
Squeals issued from many of the bushes as dark shapes emerged from them.

“Ten points from Hufflepuff, Fawcett!” Snape snarled as a girl Harry vaguely recognized ran past
him. “And ten points from Ravenclaw, too, Stebbins!” as a boy ran after her. “And what are you
doing here?” he snapped, seeing Harry and Hermione ahead. Karkaroff looked uneasy to see them
there, his hand going nervously to his goatee and beginning to wind it around his finger.

“We were going for a walk, Professor,” Hermione answered, her tone perfectly polite and as cold
as a glacier.

Harry glanced at her admiringly, not for the first time struck with Hermione’s quick thinking
and ability to keep her calm, but slightly surprised at Hermione’s cool tone when speaking to
Snape. He knew Hermione didn’t like Snape but she was never as virulent about her dislike as either
he or Ron were; this open coolness was a bit unexpected.

“Keep walking, then!” Snape snarled and brushed past them, his black cloak billowing behind him
as Karkaroff hurried after him.

“I wonder what’s worrying Karkaroff,” Hermione murmured under her breath. “It might be why he’s
been frowning all evening and Viktor did mention that Karkaroff has been more short-tempered than
usual lately.”

“And since when have he and Snape been on first-name terms?” Harry mused aloud, keeping his
voice hushed as well.

They had reached a large stone reindeer, over which they could see a tall fountain, the water
sparkling in the moonlight. The shadowy outlines of two unmistakably large people were visible on a
stone bench, watching the water.

“Momen’ I saw yeh, I knew,” they heard Hagrid say, his voice oddly husky.

Both Harry and Hermione froze, Harry wondering with embarrassed dismay whether they were
destined to keep overhearing odd conversations. This one in particular did not sound like one they
should hear. Harry looked back up the path for an escape route only to see Fleur Delacour and Roger
Davies half-hidden behind a rose bush, engaged in an activity that made Harry blush and then make a
quick decision not to move. Listening to Hagrid while alone in the dark with Hermione was one
thing; passing by Fleur and Roger when they were snogging enthusiastically was another thing
entirely. This was uncomfortable enough; he saw no need to make it hellish and quickly ducked
deeper into the shadows behind the reindeer, relieved when Hermione seemed to have the same thought
and ducked down beside him.

Harry tried very hard not to be hyper-aware of how close she was to him, her arm brushing
against his, the sound of her breathing suddenly sounding very loud in the quiet of the night. He
stole a quick glance at her to see that her face almost seemed to glow in the dim moonlight and he
couldn’t help the fanciful thought that flitted through his brain that she looked angelic. Her lips
were slightly parted and he didn’t know if it was a trick of the odd play of moonlight and shadows
but her lips seemed to be glistening. For one fleeting moment, his breath caught in his throat, his
lungs simply ceased to function and all he could do was stare while part of him wondered what she
would do if he simply kissed her…

Fortunately (for the preservation of their friendship) and unfortunately (for the part of his
mind that was very preoccupied with his suddenly quickened heartbeat and this incredible urge to
kiss her), Madame Maxime’s low voice broke the silence with all the efficacy of a bucket of cold
water as she purred, “What did you know, ‘agrid?”

Harry was beginning to think that passing so close to Fleur and Roger might have been the
smartest option after all but it was too late. If he could have, he would have plugged his ears and
tried to make himself go temporarily deaf but that hardly seemed possible. Instead he tried to
focus all his attention on a beetle crawling along the stone reindeer’s back (he refused to focus
his attention on Hermione again) but the beetle could not possibly have kept his interest enough to
drown out Hagrid’s next words, short of the beetle suddenly expanding to at least 10 times its
current size and possibly beginning to tap dance on its back legs.

“I jus’ knew… knew you were like me… was it yer mother or yer father?”

“I- I don’t know what you mean, ‘Agrid…” The purr was gone from Madame Maxime’s voice, being
replaced with a distinct note of wariness.

“It was my mother,” Hagrid went on quietly. “She was one o’ the las’ ones in Britain. ‘Course, I
can’ remember her too well… she left, see. When I was about three. She wasn’ really the maternal
sort. Well… it’s not in their natures, is it? Dunno what happened to her… might be dead fer all I
know.”

Harry was aware of Hermione stiffening and sucking in a breath in surprise at Hagrid’s first
words but he was a bit slower to catch on to the implication until Hagrid mentioned his mother
being one of the last ones in Britain and he guessed immediately. It wasn’t that hard to figure
out.

Madame Maxime was making a very creditable impression of one who had been turned to stone as
Hagrid continued and Harry, in spite of himself, gave up on trying not to listen. He had never
heard Hagrid talk about his childhood before.

“Me dad was broken-hearted when she wen’. Tiny little bloke, my dad was. By the time I was six,
I could lift him up an’ put him on top o’ the dresser if he annoyed me. Used ter make him laugh…”
Hagrid’s deep voice broke and Harry felt a stab of sympathy and pity for Hagrid. “Dad raised me…
but he died, o’ course, jus’ after I started school. Sorta had ter make me own way after that.
Dumbledore was a real help, mind. Very kind ter me, he was…”

In some small corner of his mind, Harry thought, *well, that explains part of Hagrid’s
incredible loyalty and devotion to Dumbledore.*

Hagrid pulled out his large, spotted silk handkerchief and blew his nose heavily. “So… anyway…
enough about me. What about you? Which side you got it on?”

Madame Maxime finally appeared to have recovered and stood up suddenly. “It is chilly,” she
announced, her voice about as cold as the wind from the Arctic tundra, “I think I will go in
now.”

Harry winced for Hagrid’s sake.

“Eh?” Hagrid responded blankly. “No, don’ go! I’ve—I’ve never met another one before!”

“Anuzzer *what*, precisely?” asked Madame Maxime, her tone even icier than before.

*Don’t answer that; don’t answer it, Hagrid; please don’t answer it; you really don’t want to
answer that…* Harry mentally addressed Hagrid, gritting his teeth in a vain hope that Hagrid
wouldn’t answer.

But, of course, he did. He was too fundamentally honest not to.

“Another half-giant, o’ course!”

“’Ow dare you!” Madame Maxime shrieked, her voice exploding through the night like a foghorn.
Behind him, Harry was vaguely aware of hearing Fleur and Roger falling out of the rose bush. “I
‘ave nevair been more insulted in my life! ‘Alf-giant? Moi? I ‘ave—I ‘ave big bones!” And with that
pronouncement, she stormed away, angrily pushing aside bushes as she went.

Leaving Hagrid to stare after her blankly for a long minute, before he stood up and strode away
in the direction of his cabin.

Harry felt almost sick with pity for Hagrid and thoroughly ashamed of himself for having
eavesdropped. “C’mon,” he whispered to Hermione. “Let’s go…”

Hermione looked up at him, her expression filled with the same mix of sympathy and guilt he was
feeling and nodded silently, standing up straight.

“Did you know?” Harry whispered as they walked away from the stone reindeer. “About Hagrid being
half-giant?”

“No,” Hermione said softly, before she hesitated and then added, “Well, I didn’t know exactly
but I had sort of guessed it. I mean, what else could it be? He’s too big to be fully human.”

“I suppose.” He paused and then asked, “What’s the problem with giants? Why’d Madame Maxime
throw such a tantrum when it’s pretty obvious she’s got to be half-giant too?”

“Oh Harry, you don’t understand,” Hermione half-sighed, not condescendingly but with warmth in
her tone, as if Harry’s inability to understand was endearing. “It’s because wizards in general
have a really strong prejudice against giants, sort of like they have for house-elves and even
centaurs. I mean, it’s true that giants are, well, violent and they’ve killed a lot so that makes
people say they’re just vicious by nature and like to kill. I rather think that it’s more that they
can’t help it; giants aren’t the brightest of creatures and so when they’ve been constantly hunted
and harassed by humans, I think it’s their instinct, like any animal really, to lash out in their
own defense. It’s only that, thanks to their size and strength, when they hit back, they can
destroy and kill a lot of people really easily.”

“Still…” Harry objected. “It’s not like there’s anything wrong with Hagrid.”

“No, there isn’t but it’s understandable that Madame Maxime would lie about her giant blood.
Wizards in general won’t treat her well if they knew. I mean, all the giants in Britain were
basically hunted out and killed by Aurors, although they were dying out anyway. There are supposed
to be giants abroad though, hiding out in the mountains for the most part.”

They had gotten back to the castle by now and made their way into the Great Hall, going over to
join Ron, who was alone again, where Harry quickly filled Ron in under his breath of what they’d
just overheard.

Ron’s reaction to the news that Hagrid was a half-giant was, Harry supposed, typical of most
wizards. A look of shock and something like horror crossed his face as he stared. “He’s a-
*what*?!” Ron hissed, keeping his voice low.

“What did you think he was?” Hermione asked, her voice a little sharp, telling Harry that
Hermione hadn’t quite forgiven Ron for his meanness earlier.

“I don’t know. Blimey, no wonder he keeps it quiet. I always thought he’d got in the way of a
bad Engorgement Charm when he was a kid or something. Didn’t like to mention it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes in skepticism at Ron’s theory but refrained from saying anything.

“So what if Hagrid is a half-giant? He’s still our friend,” Harry spoke up defensively.

“Well, yeah, no one who really knows him will care ‘cos they’ll know he’s not dangerous but- but
half-giant… Harry, giants are- well, they’re vicious. They just like killing people; everyone knows
that.”

Harry glanced at Hermione at this proof that what she had said was correct, to see the fleeting
look of annoyance at Ron’s belief in the stereotype.

They spent the rest of the evening talking more about giants and about the snippet of Snape’s
and Karkaroff’s conversation which he and Hermione had overheard. Harry could see that Cho and
Cedric spent the entire evening dancing together, noting it with a surprising indifference, given
that only days, possibly even hours, ago, the sight of Cho and Cedric together would have made him
want to kick something, hard.

The Weird Sisters finished playing at midnight and, after giving them a last round of applause,
everyone started making their way into the Entrance Hall. Many people were heard expressing the
wish that the ball could have gone on longer and Harry surprised himself by almost agreeing with
them. It hadn’t been all fun but it had been much more enjoyable than he might have expected,
thanks to Hermione.

Out in the Entrance Hall, Krum paused to say, “Good night, Hermy-own,” nodding at Ron and Harry,
and Hermione smiled at him. “Good night, Viktor.”

Ron’s scowl was back after this exchange and he hurried up the marble staircase after throwing a
last glower at Krum’s departing back. Harry and Hermione followed but halfway up the staircase,
Harry heard his name being called.

“Hey- Harry!”

It was Cedric Diggory; Cho was waiting for him in the Entrance Hall below.

“Yeah, hi,” Harry said with a half-smile as Cedric ran up the stairs towards him.

Cedric looked a bit uncomfortable and Hermione took the hint quickly and left them alone, with a
slight smile at Cedric and a brief touch of her hand on Harry’s arm.

“Listen,” Cedric began quietly as Hermione disappeared. “I owe you one for telling me about the
dragons. You know that golden egg? Does yours wail when you open it?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered cautiously, wondering where Cedric was going with this.

“Well… take a bath, OK?”

Harry stared. “What?” What kind of hint was that?

“Take a bath, and- er- take the egg with you, and- er- just mull things over in the hot water.
It’ll help you think… trust me.”

“Okay…” Harry answered, his skepticism clear in his tone and in his expression.

“Tell you what,” Cedric said, “use the Prefects’ bathroom. Fourth door to the left of that
statue of Boris the Bewildered on the fifth floor. Password’s *Pine-fresh*. Gotta go… want to
say goodnight--” He grinned at Harry.

“Thanks,” Harry said quickly with a half-smile.

Cedric shrugged it off. “I owe you,” he said dismissively and turned to go back down the stairs
to where Cho was waiting.

Harry walked slowly up the staircase towards the Gryffindor Tower, frowning slightly as he tried
to understand Cedric’s vague hint. *Take a bath?* He couldn’t think of any action that seemed
less likely to yield answers about the infernal wailing the egg made when opened but, with a shrug,
Harry decided as he reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, that he may as well try it. It wasn’t as
if he had any other ideas.

He climbed into the Common Room to find Ron and Hermione having a blazing row and Harry guessed
(correctly) that Ron had turned on Hermione the moment she entered the Common Room. They were
standing ten feet apart and yelling at each other, Ron’s face scarlet and Hermione flushed with
anger as well.

“...You’re *fraternizing with the enemy*, that’s what you’re doing!” Ron yelled just as
Harry entered.

Hermione’s mouth fell open as she gaped at Ron. “The *enemy*? Honestly, who was the one who
was all excited when they saw him arrive? Who was the one who wanted his autograph? Who’s got a
model of him up in their dormitory? And it was only one dance!”

Ron chose to ignore what Harry privately thought was a good point Hermione made. “He’s
Karkaroff’s student, from Durmstrang! He’s one of *them*!” Ron made it sound as if all
Durmstrang students were known criminals and Death Eaters. “He knows who you hang around with—he’s
just trying to get closer to Harry- get inside information on him- or get near enough to jinx
him--”

Harry blinked, beginning to wish he had lingered more on the staircase, and utterly confused as
to Ron’s convoluted idea about Krum’s possible motives in asking Hermione to dance. Surely Ron
didn’t think that the only reason Krum would want to dance with Hermione was because of her
friendship with *him*. Harry didn’t think that Krum could really fancy Hermione because he
didn’t know her but Harry didn’t question that Krum thought Hermione was pretty and probably smart
and well worth fancying. Frankly, he didn’t think any bloke could do *better* than to fancy
Hermione if she would like him back…

Hermione looked as if she had been slapped, a flicker of hurt passing over her expression in
spite of her anger. “He hasn’t asked me one *single thing* about Harry- not one!”

Harry opened his mouth to intercede; he hadn’t been going to (getting in the middle of one of
Ron and Hermione’s rows was never pleasant) but the flash of hurt he had seen on Hermione’s face
tipped the scales.

But before he could speak, Ron attacked again with an entirely different tack. “Then he’s hoping
you’ll help him find out what his egg means!”

“I’d *never* help him work out that egg!” Hermione shot back furiously. “Never! How could
you say something like that—I want Harry to win the Tournament. Harry knows that. And anyway, since
Harry was my date tonight and *he* was okay with my dancing with Krum, I don’t see why
*you’re* being such a prat about it!”

“You let him *kiss your hand*!” From the tone of Ron’s voice, he made it sound like
Hermione and Krum had been snogging madly in the Great Hall or something.

The color in Hermione’s cheeks deepened a little. “He was just being friendly! Harry didn’t
mind, did you, Harry?” she appealed to him.

He *had* minded, had minded a lot, but there was no way he was going to admit that now.
“No, I didn’t mind,” he assured her and then turned to Ron. “She is right, you know, Ron,” he
began, a little cautiously, “you’re being a bit…” he trailed off, not wanting to tell Ron he was
being mean or irrational or even a right arse, and unable to think of some nicer way of putting
it.

“Oh, of course, you’d side with Hermione!” Ron flared up at Harry with an *Et* *tu
Brute* expression in his eyes. “Hermione, the know-it-all, who’s always right!”

“Ron, you--” Harry began but Ron cut him off.

“Never mind. I’m going to bed,” he bit out sharply, storming up the stairs to the Gryffindor
boys’ dormitory.

Harry turned to face Hermione almost reluctantly. “He- he didn’t mean it, you know,” he finally
said, rather lamely. “He’s just being—you know…” he made a vague gesture with one hand, although he
didn’t quite believe his own words.

“He’s just being Ron,” Hermione sighed, with an attempt at a smile that failed miserably.

“Yeah.” Harry moved to stand closer to her, putting a hand on her arm in a rather awkward
attempt to comfort her, for a moment wishing he dared hug her. He felt a quick stab of anger at Ron
for hurting Hermione with his unjust accusations; no one should ever make Hermione have such a
wounded look in her eyes… Accusing Hermione of disloyalty when Hermione had, in fact, been a more
loyal friend than Ron had been before the First Task… For a moment, Harry wanted to cast that up to
Ron but he had forgiven Ron and he was still too glad to be on speaking terms with Ron to bring it
up again. “I’m sorry for what he said.”

She paused, blinked, and then finally managed a slight smile. “It’s okay. And thanks for trying
to help.”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “It was nothing.”

“No, it meant a lot.” She paused and then added with a soft smile, “Thanks for taking me to the
Ball tonight, Harry. I had a good time.”

“Me too,” he admitted. “I think you’re the only girl I could have gone with and had a good
time.”

She flushed a little and smiled again. Then she gave him a quick hug and disappeared up the
stairs to the girls’ dormitory before he could react or his brain could register anything other
than the fleeting warmth of Hermione’s body against his.

After a moment, he turned to go up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory, mentally bracing himself
in case Ron was still up for a confrontation. He was relieved to find that Ron had drawn the
curtains closed around his bed in a clear sign that he didn’t want to talk anymore and after
changing into his pyjamas, Harry rolled into bed, drawing the curtains of his bed closed as
well.

For a moment, he thought more about Cedric’s hint to take a bath but that train of thought was
quickly derailed by mental images from this evening.

Hermione as she’d looked in the Entrance Hall before the Ball… Hermione smiling at him over
Percy’s characteristically pompous conversation… Roger Davies’ stupefied expression as he stared at
Fleur. Dancing with Hermione… Hermione dancing with Krum… Hermione flushed with anger at Ron…
Hermione as she’d looked outside in the moonlight…

It occurred to him that he couldn’t really remember anything Cho had done that evening, could
hardly remember what she’d been wearing, whereas his mind was filled with memories of Hermione as
she had looked tonight.

He yawned, settling into bed and thought, sleepily, that maybe it would be okay to kiss
Hermione, to become more than just friends…

It had been a nice evening, in spite of everything, *because* of Hermione… And Harry
drifted off to sleep with a slight smile lingering on his lips.

*~The End~*

*Note 2: Before you ask, yes, there is a sequel to this fic.*



