Chapter Text
Hermione Granger sat at the worn kitchen table in the Burrow, her fingers tracing the edges of a tattered copy of Hogwarts: A History . The summer sun filtered through the crooked windows, casting golden patches across the cluttered room. The Weasleys’ home buzzed with its usual chaos—Mrs. Weasley was bustling about, muttering about laundry charms, while Ron and Ginny argued over a game of Exploding Snap in the next room. Hermione, however, was distracted, her thoughts drifting to the letter she’d received from Harry two weeks ago. It had been brief, as his letters often were, but there was a weight to it, a quiet resolve that made her stomach twist with worry. He was coming to the Burrow today, and she hadn’t seen him since the train platform at the end of fifth year.
She tried to focus on her book, but her mind kept replaying the past year—the Department of Mysteries, Sirius’s death, the prophecy. Harry had been through so much, and she hated how distant he’d seemed in his letters. She’d always cared for him, perhaps more than she’d ever admitted, even to herself. There was something about Harry—his quiet courage, his selflessness—that had always tugged at her heart. A crush, she supposed, though the word felt too small for the warmth that bloomed in her chest when she thought of him.
The sound of the front door creaking open snapped her out of her reverie. Mrs. Weasley’s voice rang out, bright and welcoming. “Harry, dear! Oh, you’re here at last!”
Hermione’s heart gave a sudden lurch. She stood, smoothing her hands over her jeans, suddenly self-conscious about the frizz in her hair and the ink smudge on her finger. She took a deep breath and stepped toward the doorway, her curiosity and nerves battling for dominance.
As she reached the living room, she froze. The boy—no, the young man—standing in the doorway was unmistakably Harry, yet he was almost unrecognizable. He’d shot up at least a foot since she’d last seen him, his frame no longer the lanky, underfed silhouette of their earlier years. His shoulders were broader, his chest filled out, and the way his t-shirt clung to his arms suggested a summer spent doing more than moping at the Dursleys’. His dark hair was still a mess, falling into his eyes, but there was a new sharpness to his jawline, a quiet strength in the way he carried himself. The glasses were the same, but they sat on a face that had lost some of its boyish softness.
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up—a flush crept up her neck, her palms grew clammy, and her heart thudded so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it. She’d always found Harry attractive in his own way, but this… this was different. This was Harry Potter, but grown, transformed, and it was doing things to her that she wasn’t entirely prepared for.
“Harry!” Ron’s voice broke through her daze as he bounded forward, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Blimey, mate, what’d the Dursleys feed you? You look like you’ve been lifting Muggle weights or something!”
Harry gave a small, sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Er, just… a lot of yard work, I guess.”
His voice was deeper too, Hermione noted, and the realization sent another wave of warmth through her. She forced herself to move, to act normal, but her legs felt unsteady as she approached.
“Harry,” she said, her voice coming out softer than she intended. His green eyes met hers, and for a moment, the room seemed to fade away. There was a flicker of something in his gaze—relief, perhaps, or something deeper—that made her stomach flip.
“Hermione,” he said, his smile widening. “It’s good to see you.”
She wanted to say something clever, something to mask the way her pulse was racing, but all she managed was, “You’ve… grown.”
Ron snorted. “Grown? He’s practically a giant now. What’re you, six foot?”
“Little over, I think,” Harry said, looking slightly embarrassed. “Dudley’s boxing coach measured me last week.”
Hermione’s mind latched onto that detail—boxing? Yard work? That explained the muscles, the way his shoulders filled out his shirt. She swallowed, trying to focus on something other than the way her body was betraying her. “It’s… it’s really good to see you, too,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as shaky as she felt.
Mrs. Weasley swept in, fussing over Harry’s too-thin frame (despite his obvious growth) and ushering him toward the kitchen for tea and biscuits. Hermione followed, her thoughts a jumble. She’d always cared for Harry, but this was new—this physical pull, this awareness of him that made her hyper-conscious of every move he made. As he sat across from her at the table, his arm brushing against hers as he reached for a biscuit, she felt a spark shoot through her. She scolded herself silently. Get a grip, Hermione. He’s still Harry. Your best friend.
But as she watched him laugh at something Ron said, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses, she couldn’t deny the truth. Her feelings for Harry Potter were no longer just a quiet crush tucked away in the corners of her heart. They were growing, just like he had, and she wasn’t sure how to handle it.
The kitchen at the Burrow was warm and crowded, filled with the comforting clatter of plates and Mrs. Weasley’s cheerful chatter. Hermione sat across from Harry, trying to focus on her tea and the plate of biscuits, but her eyes kept drifting to him. The way his shoulders moved when he reached for another biscuit, the easy way he laughed at Ron’s terrible jokes—it was all so familiar, yet so new. She scolded herself for staring, forcing her gaze back to her cup, but her heart wouldn’t settle.
When the meal wound down, Harry’s expression shifted, a flicker of something serious passing over his face. He glanced at Ron, then at her, and said, “Can we… talk upstairs? Just the three of us?”
Ron raised an eyebrow, mouth full of biscuit. “What’s up, mate?”
Harry’s eyes darted toward Mrs. Weasley, who was now scrubbing a pot with unnecessary vigor. “Not here,” he said quietly.
Hermione’s stomach tightened. She knew that look—Harry was carrying something heavy, something he hadn’t shared in his letters. She nodded, standing quickly, and followed as Harry led the way up the creaky stairs to Ron’s attic bedroom.
The room was a familiar mess: Chudley Cannons posters peeling from the walls, clothes strewn across the floor, and a faint smell of old socks. Harry closed the door behind them, casting a quick Muffliato charm—a spell Hermione had taught him last year. The air hummed faintly, sealing their conversation from prying ears.
Ron flopped onto his bed, looking curious but relaxed. “Alright, what’s this about? You look like you’ve got a secret bigger than Hagrid’s hut.”
Hermione perched on the edge of a rickety chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She watched Harry pace, his taller frame making the small room feel even smaller. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so quintessentially Harry that it made her chest ache, despite the new strength in his movements.
“It’s… Dumbledore,” Harry began, his voice low. “He came to get me from the Dursleys a few days ago. Took me to this little village to meet someone—Horace Slughorn.”
“Slughorn?” Ron frowned. “Who’s that?”
“He’s a retired Hogwarts professor,” Hermione said automatically, her mind already racing. “Potions, I think. I read about him in an old school record. He taught decades ago, known for collecting influential students like trophies.” She caught Harry’s eye, and he nodded.
“Exactly,” Harry said. “Dumbledore wants him back at Hogwarts. He’s… important, somehow. Dumbledore wouldn’t say why, not exactly, but he spent hours convincing Slughorn to come out of retirement. I was there to help, I guess—Dumbledore said Slughorn likes ‘collecting’ people with potential.” He gave a wry smile. “Apparently, I was the bait.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Bait? That’s… odd. Why does Dumbledore need him so badly? There are plenty of Potions professors.”
Harry shrugged, but his eyes were guarded. “Dumbledore’s got his reasons. He always does. But that’s not the only thing.”
The air in the room seemed to thicken. Ron sat up, sensing the shift. Hermione’s fingers tightened around each other, her nails digging into her palms. She had a feeling she knew where this was going, and she wasn’t sure she was ready.
Harry stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed on the floor. “There’s something else I haven’t told you. About the prophecy. The one from the Department of Mysteries.”
Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. She’d known the prophecy was important—why else would Voldemort have been so desperate to get it?—but Harry had only shared fragments before. “You said it was about you and Voldemort,” she said carefully. “That it’s why he went after you as a baby.”
Harry nodded, his jaw tight. “Yeah. But I didn’t tell you the whole thing. Dumbledore showed me the full version last term, after… after Sirius.” His voice caught, and Hermione felt a pang of sympathy. She wanted to reach out, to touch his arm, but she stayed still, her hands frozen.
He took a deep breath and recited, his voice steady but heavy: “‘ The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives… ’”
The words hung in the air, cold and unyielding. Ron’s mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide. Hermione’s mind whirred, dissecting the prophecy even as her heart sank. A part of her—the logical, Muggle-born part—wanted to dismiss it as nonsense. Prophecies were vague, superstitious things, the kind of drivel Trelawney spouted in Divination. She’d never put much stock in them, not when the world was full of tangible magic—spells cast with wands, potions brewed with precision. But she couldn’t ignore the reality of her life. She lived in a world where a flick of a stick could levitate objects or summon fire. If magic was real, why couldn’t a prophecy be?
Still, the idea that Harry’s fate was tied to Voldemort’s in such a final, deadly way made her chest constrict. “Either must die at the hand of the other,” she repeated softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “That means…”
“It means it’s me or him,” Harry said flatly. “One of us has to kill the other. There’s no other way.”
Ron let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell, Harry. That’s… that’s heavy.”
Hermione’s mind was racing, trying to find a flaw, a loophole, anything to unravel the prophecy’s grim certainty. “Prophecies aren’t always literal,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “They’re open to interpretation. Trelawney’s predictions are usually rubbish, and even if this one is real, it doesn’t mean it’s set in stone. There could be other ways to—”
“Hermione,” Harry interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. “Dumbledore believes it’s real. Voldemort believes it’s real. And after everything… I believe it too.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. The weight of his words settled over her, heavy and suffocating. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he didn’t have to carry this alone, but the look in his eyes—resigned, determined—stopped her. He wasn’t the boy who’d stumbled into Hogwarts five years ago, wide-eyed and unsure. He was someone who’d faced death and loss and was preparing to face more.
Her concern for him, always there, surged to the surface, sharper and more intense than she wanted to admit. She cared about Harry—more than she’d ever let herself acknowledge. The thought of him facing Voldemort, of him being the one to “vanquish” or die, made her feel sick. She pushed the feeling down, focusing on logic, on what she could control. “What about this power the Dark Lord knows not?” she asked, her voice steadier now. “Do you know what it is?”
Harry shook his head and Hermione noticed his eyes moved to her directly for just a moment. “Dumbledore has ideas, but he won’t say. Something about… love, maybe? I don’t know. It’s not exactly a spell I can practice.”
Ron snorted, though it sounded forced. “Love? What’s that supposed to do, make Voldemort hug you to death?”
Harry gave a small, humorless laugh, and Hermione felt a flicker of gratitude for Ron’s attempt to lighten the mood. But her mind was still spinning, her heart heavy with worry she didn’t dare voice. She wanted to believe there was another way, that Harry didn’t have to face this alone. But deep down, she knew the truth: Harry would never back down, not when so much was at stake.
“We’ll figure it out,” she said finally, her voice firm despite the turmoil inside. “We’ll help you, Harry. Whatever it takes.”
He looked at her, and for a moment, his guarded expression softened. “Thanks, Hermione,” he said quietly. “I… I’m glad you’re both here.”
Her heart gave a traitorous lurch, and she looked away, hoping he didn’t notice the flush creeping up her cheeks. She was worried—terrified, if she was honest—but she couldn’t let it show. Not now, when Harry needed her to be strong. But as they sat there, the prophecy’s words echoing in her mind, she couldn’t shake the fear that this was only the beginning.
Two days had passed since Harry’s arrival at the Burrow, and Hermione still hadn’t quite adjusted to the new version of him. The prophecy weighed heavily on her mind, its words looping through her thoughts like an unwelcome guest. She’d spent hours in the Weasleys’ cramped library—really just a corner of the living room stuffed with books—searching for anything on divination or magical prophecies, but the texts were frustratingly vague. Her logical side still rebelled against the idea of a predetermined fate, yet the reality of Harry’s scar, his history with Voldemort, and the magic that pulsed through their world made her skepticism feel flimsy. More than that, her worry for Harry gnawed at her, a constant ache she tried to bury beneath research and planning.
It was the morning before Harry’s sixteenth birthday, and the Burrow was quieter than usual. Mrs. Weasley was in the kitchen, preparing for tomorrow’s celebration, while Ron and Ginny were off somewhere, likely bickering over Quidditch tactics. Hermione had slipped outside to clear her head, settling by the small pond at the edge of the Weasleys’ property. The air was warm, the summer sun glinting off the water, and she’d chosen a pink and blue sundress that felt light against her skin—a rare departure from her usual jeans and jumpers. She sat cross-legged on a worn blanket, a copy of Advanced Charms for the Sixth Year open in her lap, though her eyes kept drifting to the ripples on the pond’s surface.
She was halfway through a paragraph on nonverbal spellcasting when a prickle of awareness ran down her spine. It was subtle at first, like a breeze that wasn’t there, but it grew stronger—the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Her fingers tightened on the book’s edges, and she glanced around, expecting to see one of the Weasley twins sneaking up with a prank. But the garden was empty, the only sound the soft buzz of insects and the distant croak of a frog.
Then her eyes lifted, and across the pond, she saw him. Harry stood on the opposite bank, his broom leaning against a tree, his hands in his pockets. He was watching her, his head tilted slightly, his green eyes intense in a way that made her breath catch. It wasn’t just a casual glance; he was studying her, like she was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. The morning light caught the angles of his face, highlighting the sharper lines of his jaw and the way his dark hair fell messily over his forehead. He was still Harry, but the sight of him—taller, stronger, with that quiet intensity—sent a familiar warmth curling through her.
Hermione’s cheeks flushed, and she quickly looked down at her book, pretending to read. Her heart was doing that infuriating thing again, beating too fast, too loud. She cursed herself silently. He’s just looking, Hermione. Don’t make it weird. But the weight of his gaze lingered, and she couldn’t resist glancing up again.
This time, their eyes met. Harry’s lips curved into a small, lopsided smile, and before she could process it, he winked at her—a quick, playful gesture that was so unlike the serious Harry of two days ago that it caught her completely off guard. Her mouth parted in surprise, and then, with a fluid motion, he grabbed his broom, swung a leg over it, and kicked off into the air. The broom glided smoothly upward, cutting through the sky above the makeshift Quidditch pitch nearby. He moved with an effortless grace, the wind ruffling his hair as he looped lazily, a dark silhouette against the bright blue sky.
Hermione stared, her book forgotten. The wink had been… what? Teasing? Flirtatious? No, that was ridiculous—Harry didn’t flirt. Did he? She shook her head, trying to dismiss the thought, but the image of his smile, the spark in his eyes, stayed with her. It was as if he’d seen her, really seen her, in a way that went beyond their usual friendship. And that wink—it felt like a secret shared just between them, something that made her stomach flutter and her thoughts scatter.
She forced herself to look back at her book, but the words blurred together. Her mind was too full of Harry—of the prophecy, of his changed appearance, of the way he’d looked at her just now. She’d always cared for him, always felt that pull toward him, but this summer, it was different. Stronger. More insistent. And it terrified her, because how could she let herself feel this way when the weight of the prophecy hung over him? When the world seemed determined to tear him apart?
She closed her book with a soft thud and leaned back, letting the sun warm her face. She needed to focus. Harry needed her—needed her brain, her logic, her ability to find answers. Not her silly, distracting feelings. But as she watched him soar above the pitch, a small part of her wondered what it would be like if he looked at her that way again. If that wink meant something more.
As the day wore on, Hermione couldn’t shake the memory of Harry’s wink by the pond. It replayed in her mind, unbidden, each time she tried to focus on her book or join in the Weasleys’ chaotic preparations for Harry’s birthday. She’d always been good at compartmentalizing—sorting her thoughts into neat boxes labeled “school,” “friends,” “war”—but Harry was spilling over the edges, refusing to stay contained. Worse, she’d started to notice something else: he was looking at her. A lot. Not just casual glances, but long, thoughtful stares, like he was trying to unravel something about her. It happened when she was helping Mrs. Weasley chop vegetables, when she was laughing at one of Ron’s ridiculous stories, even when she was just sitting quietly, lost in thought. His green eyes would find her, lingering with an intensity that made her skin prickle and her heart stutter.
By late afternoon, the Burrow was bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, and Hermione had retreated to the garden again, this time to a wooden bench under an apple tree. She’d swapped her sundress for a light cardigan and jeans, but the warmth of the day still clung to her skin. Her book lay open in her lap, but she wasn’t reading. Her thoughts were too tangled, caught between the prophecy’s grim weight and the confusing flutter of Harry’s attention. She’d always cared for him—more than she’d let herself admit—but this summer, with his new height, his quiet confidence, and those looks, her feelings were becoming impossible to ignore.
She was staring at the ground, tracing patterns in the dirt with the toe of her shoe, when she felt it again—that prickle of being watched. Her head snapped up, and there he was, standing a few feet away, leaning against the garden gate. Harry’s hands were in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but his eyes were fixed on her with that same puzzling intensity. The fading sunlight caught the edges of his glasses, and his dark hair was messier than usual, likely from his earlier flight. He looked… well, unfairly good, and Hermione hated how that thought made her cheeks warm.
She straightened, clutching her book like a shield. “Harry,” she said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to flustered. “Is… is everything alright?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his lips curved into that lopsided smile that had been haunting her all day. It was softer than the wink by the pond, but no less disarming. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing. “Just… thinking.”
“About what?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, and she immediately regretted it. What if he said something about the prophecy? Or worse, what if he didn’t, and she was left wondering what those looks meant?
But Harry just tilted his head, his smile widening. “You,” he said simply.
Hermione’s breath hitched. Her book nearly slipped from her hands, and she fumbled to catch it, her face burning. “M-me?” she stammered, cursing her lack of composure. She was Hermione Granger, for Merlin’s sake—she didn’t stammer. But Harry’s gaze, steady and warm, was unraveling her carefully constructed control.
“Yeah,” he said, pushing off the gate and walking toward her. He stopped a few steps away, close enough that she could see the faint flush on his own cheeks, a rare crack in his usual calm. “I was thinking… tomorrow’s my birthday, right?”
She nodded, her throat suddenly dry. “Yes, of course. Mrs. Weasley’s been planning a big dinner.”
“Right,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck—a nervous habit that made her heart twist. “I was wondering… would you like to go flying with me? Just the two of us?”
Hermione blinked, certain she’d misheard. “Flying?” she repeated, her voice rising slightly. “On a broom?”
Harry’s grin turned mischievous, and she could have sworn there was a glint in his eyes. “Yeah, on a broom. I know you’re not a fan, but… I thought it might be fun. I’d make sure you’re safe, Hermione. Promise.”
Her mind spun. Flying was her least favorite thing in the world—brooms were unsteady, heights were terrifying, and the whole experience felt like tempting fate. But Harry was asking her, looking at her with that mix of hope and something else she couldn’t quite name. And the idea of being up there with him, just the two of them, sent a thrill through her that had nothing to do with flying and everything to do with him.
“I…” She hesitated, searching for a reason to say no, but her usual logic was failing her. “Why me?” she asked, her voice softer now. “You know I’m terrible at it.”
Harry’s expression softened, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable. “Because it’s you,” he said quietly. “I just… I want to spend some time with you. Away from everything else.”
Her heart did a somersault, and she was grateful for the bench beneath her, because her legs felt unsteady. She wanted to ask what he meant, why he was looking at her like that, why he was suddenly so different this summer. But the words stuck in her throat, and all she could manage was, “Alright. But if I fall and die, I’m going to kill you.”
He laughed, a real laugh that lit up his face and made her chest ache. “Deal,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, then. Before the chaos of the birthday stuff starts.”
She nodded, still reeling, and he gave her one last smile before turning to head back toward the house. As he walked away, she watched him go, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Harry was looking at her—a lot. And now he wanted to take her flying, something so quintessentially him, yet so far outside her comfort zone. It felt like a gesture, a reaching out, and the thought made her both giddy and terrified.
She leaned back against the tree, her book forgotten. The prophecy still loomed, a dark cloud over everything, but for the first time in days, she let herself focus on something else—on Harry, on the way he’d looked at her, on the promise of tomorrow. She didn’t know what it meant, not yet, but she knew one thing: her feelings for Harry Potter were growing stronger, and she wasn’t sure she could keep them locked away much longer.
The morning of Harry’s sixteenth birthday dawned soft and golden, the sky streaked with pink and orange as the sun crept over the horizon. Hermione had barely slept, her mind buzzing with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The idea of flying with Harry—on a broom, no less—had kept her tossing and turning, her usual aversion to heights warring with the flutter of excitement at spending time alone with him. She’d chosen her outfit carefully: a light jumper, jeans, and sturdy trainers, practical but with a touch of care she didn’t want to admit to. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid, a futile attempt to keep it from whipping around in the wind she knew was coming.
She made her way to the Quidditch pitch behind the Burrow, her heart thudding with a mix of dread and something else—something that felt dangerously like hope. The air was cool, the grass damp with dew, and the pitch was quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the nearby trees. Harry was already there, standing by the goalposts, his Firebolt propped against his shoulder. He was wearing a worn Gryffindor Quidditch jersey, the red and gold faded but still striking against his taller, broader frame. The sight of him, backlit by the rising sun, made her breath catch. He was watching the horizon, but as she approached, he turned, and his face lit up with that lopsided smile that had been unraveling her all week.
“Morning,” he said, his voice warm despite the early hour. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up.”
Hermione huffed, crossing her arms to hide her nerves. “I said I would, didn’t I? Though I’m still not convinced this isn’t a terrible idea.”
He chuckled, and the sound eased some of the tightness in her chest. “You’ll be fine. I promised, didn’t I?”
She nodded, swallowing hard. Her eyes darted to the broom, and her stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. But then she remembered why she was here—because Harry had asked her, because he’d looked at her with that quiet intensity, because he’d said, “Because it’s you.” She took a deep breath and stepped closer, determined not to let her fear win.
“Before we… do this,” she said, her voice softer now, “I wanted to say happy birthday, Harry.” She hesitated, then closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around him in a quick, tight hug. His warmth and the faint scent of cedar and grass enveloped her, and before she could second-guess herself, she pressed a light kiss to his cheek, her lips brushing against the faint stubble there.
She pulled back, her face flaming, and caught the flush creeping up Harry’s neck, his green eyes wide with surprise. A slow, delighted grin spread across his face, and the sight of his blush sent a spark of warmth through her. She couldn’t help but smile, even as her heart raced. “Happy sixteenth,” she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice was too soft, too revealing.
“Thanks, Hermione,” he said, his voice a little rough. He rubbed the back of his neck, still grinning, and she felt a small thrill at how flustered he looked. For once, she wasn’t the only one caught off guard.
He gestured to the Firebolt, his expression turning playful. “Ready?”
She eyed the broom warily. “Not really,” she admitted, “but let’s get this over with.”
Harry laughed and swung a leg over the broom, settling into the back position. “You’re in front,” he said, patting the space in front of him. “Easier for me to keep you safe that way.”
Hermione’s stomach flipped, but she nodded, clambering onto the broom with as much dignity as she could muster. She settled in front of him, her back brushing against his chest, and the closeness sent a jolt through her. His arms came around her to grip the broom’s handle, steady and strong, and she could feel the warmth of him, the solid reassurance of his presence. “Hold on tight,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear.
Before she could protest, he kicked off, and the ground fell away. Hermione gasped, her hands clutching the broom so hard her knuckles turned white. The wind rushed past, tugging at her braid, and the world tilted dizzyingly below. Her heart pounded, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. “Harry!” she squeaked, her voice embarrassingly high. “This is—oh, Merlin, this is awful!”
He laughed, a low, warm sound that vibrated against her back. “You’re doing fine,” he said, his voice steady. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
She tried to focus on his words, on the strength of his arms bracketing her, but the height was overwhelming. The Burrow looked tiny below, the pond a mere shimmer of silver. Her stomach churned, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to panic. “I hate this,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.
“I know,” Harry said, and there was a gentleness in his tone that made her open her eyes. “But look—look at the sky. It’s different up here. Down there doesn't matter, it's what's up here. Look.”
She forced herself to glance upward, and for a moment, her fear faltered. The sky was a breathtaking canvas of pinks and golds, the clouds tinged with the first light of dawn. The air was crisp, alive with the promise of a new day, and despite her terror, there was something magical about it. She felt Harry’s chest rise and fall against her back, his grip steady on the broom, and slowly, her panic began to ebb.
“See?” he said, his voice close to her ear. “Not so bad.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “You’re insane,” she said, but there was no heat in it. She loosened her grip on the broom, just a fraction, and leaned back slightly, letting herself trust him. His presence was a tether, grounding her even as they soared higher.
He guided the broom in a gentle arc, keeping the movements smooth, and Hermione felt her body relax, bit by bit. The wind was still cold against her face, but it was exhilarating now, not just terrifying. She could feel Harry’s warmth behind her, his arms a protective cage, and the realization hit her: she felt safe. With Harry, up here, defying gravity and her own fears, she felt secure in a way she hadn’t expected.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice soft but carrying over the wind.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her heart was still racing, but it wasn’t just fear now—it was something else, something warm and bright. She glanced over her shoulder, catching his eye, and the way he looked at her—steady, caring, with a hint of that puzzling intensity—made her breath catch for an entirely different reason.
Feeling a sudden surge of courage, she loosened her grip further and, on impulse, stretched her arms out wide. The wind rushed through her fingers, tugging at her sleeves, and she tilted her head back, letting it whip through her braid and across her face. It was freeing, exhilarating, and for the first time, she understood why Harry loved this. The world below was distant, the prophecy a faint shadow, and all that mattered was this moment—the wind, the sky, and Harry behind her, his presence a quiet promise of protection.
She laughed, a real, unguarded laugh, and she felt Harry’s chest shake with his own laughter. “Told you you’d like it,” he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice.
“I don’t like it,” she shot back, but her smile betrayed her. “I’m just… tolerating it. For you.”
“For me, huh?” he teased, and the warmth in his tone made her heart skip. He leaned forward slightly, his cheek brushing against her temple as he adjusted the broom’s path. “I’m glad you’re here with me, Hermione.”
Her arms dropped, and she turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes were close, too close, and the sincerity in them made her chest ache. “Me too,” she whispered, barely audible over the wind.
They flew for a while longer, looping lazily over the Burrow, the world below waking up as the sun climbed higher. Hermione felt cherished, wrapped in the safety of Harry’s arms and the magic of the moment. Her fear was gone, replaced by a quiet joy she hadn’t expected. She didn’t know what this meant—for them, for her feelings, for the future—but for now, she let herself savor it, the wind in her hair and Harry’s steady presence behind her.
The Burrow hummed with the chaotic warmth of a Weasley celebration, the air thick with the scent of freshly baked cake and the sound of laughter. It was Harry’s sixteenth birthday, and Mrs. Weasley had outdone herself, transforming the kitchen into a festive haven with floating lanterns, a towering pile of presents, and a table groaning under the weight of pies, puddings, and a massive chocolate cake iced with “Happy 16th, Harry!” in looping script. Hermione sat at the edge of the chaos, her fingers wrapped around a mug of tea, her mind still tangled in the memory of that morning’s broom ride.
The flight with Harry had been… transformative. She’d started out terrified, clinging to the Firebolt like it was her only lifeline, but by the end, with Harry’s arms steady around her and the wind rushing through her hair, she’d felt safe, cherished, alive in a way she hadn’t expected. His quiet “I’m glad you’re here, Hermione” still echoed in her ears, and the memory of his cheek brushing her temple made her heart skip even now. But since they’d landed, a subtle distance had settled between them. Not cold, not awkward, just… careful. They’d rejoined the Weasleys for breakfast, and Hermione had busied herself helping Mrs. Weasley while Harry was pulled into a Quidditch debate with Ron and Ginny. Their eyes met occasionally, brief flashes of connection, but they hadn’t spoken much. It was as if they both needed space to process what had happened—or what hadn’t.
Yet Hermione couldn’t help noticing that Harry was still watching her. All day, in quiet moments, she’d catch him looking—when she was flipping through a book in the living room, when she was laughing at Fred and George’s latest prank, when she was simply stirring sugar into her tea. His green eyes would find her, lingering with a tenderness that stole her breath. It wasn’t just the intensity she’d noticed before, the puzzling scrutiny; it was softer, warmer, like he was seeing something in her that he couldn’t quite put into words. She couldn’t describe it fully, not even to herself, but it made her feel exposed and cherished all at once. Each time their eyes met, he’d offer a small smile, and she’d look away, her cheeks warm, her heart a riot of emotions she wasn’t ready to name.
Now, as the birthday dinner wound down and the Weasleys began clearing plates, Hermione’s gaze drifted to Harry. He was laughing at something Ron had said, his head thrown back, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. The sight tugged at her, and she scolded herself for staring. She’d always cared for him, but this summer, with his new confidence and those looks, her feelings were spiraling into something deeper, something she wasn’t sure she could control. The prophecy loomed in the back of her mind, a dark reminder of the danger he faced, but today, she wanted to focus on him—on Harry, her friend, her… something more.
The gift-giving began with a flourish, Mrs. Weasley insisting Harry open his presents at the table. Ron gave him a new set of Quidditch gloves, black leather with enchanted grips, which Harry admired with a grin. Ginny’s gift was a hand-knitted scarf in Gryffindor colors, which earned a teasing comment from Fred about her “domestic ambitions.” Fred and George presented a box of their latest Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products, including a prototype “Portable Prankster” that made Harry laugh and Mrs. Weasley scowl. Mr. Weasley, ever the Muggle enthusiast, gifted a book on “The History of Muggle Aviation,” which Harry accepted with genuine curiosity. Each gift was thoughtful, fitting, and Hermione felt a pang of nerves as her turn approached. Her gift was personal, perhaps too personal, and she second-guessed it for the hundredth time.
When Harry’s eyes turned to her, expectant and warm, she stood, her hands trembling slightly as she retrieved a small, wrapped package from her bag. “It’s… not much,” she said, handing it to him, her voice softer than she intended. “But I thought you might like it.”
Harry unwrapped the package carefully, revealing a sleek, leather-bound journal, its cover embossed with a subtle phoenix design. He ran his fingers over it, his expression curious, and opened the first page to find it blank. “It’s enchanted,” Hermione explained, her words tumbling out in a rush. “It’ll only open for you—your touch, your magic. Anything you write in it will be protected, invisible to anyone else. I thought… with everything going on, you might want a place to keep your thoughts safe.”
The table went quiet, the Weasleys exchanging glances. Harry looked at her, his eyes wide with something that made her heart stutter—gratitude, yes, but also that tenderness she couldn’t quite name. “Hermione,” he said, his voice low, “this is… brilliant. Really. Thank you.”
She flushed, ducking her head. “You’re welcome,” she murmured, sitting quickly to hide her embarrassment. Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder, breaking the moment, and the chatter resumed, but Hermione felt Harry’s gaze linger on her, warm and steady.
The evening wore on with cake and games, but Hermione’s mind kept drifting to the journal, to the way Harry had looked at her. She’d chosen it because she knew how much he carried—his fears, his losses, the prophecy—and she wanted him to have a space that was his alone. But now, she wondered if it was too much, if it revealed how deeply she cared. Her feelings were a tangled mess, and the prophecy’s shadow made them feel reckless, impossible.
As the party wound down, Hermione slipped outside to the garden, needing air and quiet. The night was cool, the stars bright above the Burrow’s crooked silhouette. She settled on the same bench under the apple tree where Harry had found her the day before, her hands clasped in her lap. The memory of his invitation to fly, his “Because it’s you,” played in her mind, and she sighed, torn between hope and fear.
She didn’t hear him approach, but she felt his presence—a shift in the air, a warmth that made her look up. Harry stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, the journal tucked under his arm. His glasses glinted in the moonlight, and his expression was soft, almost hesitant. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.
She shook her head, scooting over to make room. “Not at all.”
He sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, and for a moment, they were quiet, the sounds of the Burrow muffled in the distance. Hermione’s heart raced, her awareness of him heightened by the memory of their morning together. She stole a glance and found him watching her again, his eyes carrying that same tenderness, like she was something precious he was afraid to break.
“You didn’t have to get me anything, you know,” he said finally, his voice low. “The journal’s amazing, but… this morning, flying with you—that was enough. More than enough.”
Her breath caught. “I wanted to,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve something… special. After everything.”
He smiled, a small, wistful curve of his lips. “I have you, Hermione.”
The words hit her like a spell, warm and disarming, and she stared at him, her mind scrambling for a response. He was looking at her, his gaze steady, and she was suddenly aware of how close he was, how his voice seemed to wrap around her. He was talking again—something about the day, the gifts, the Weasleys—but her attention faltered, caught on the way his mouth moved, the low cadence of his voice. It was Harry, her Harry, but different, and the realization made her dizzy.
She didn’t notice him shift closer until he was standing, pulling her gently to her feet. Her breath hitched as she realized he was directly in front of her, his eyes searching hers. And then, softly, deliberately, he took her hand, his fingers warm and calloused against hers. The touch sent a jolt through her, grounding and electric all at once. She stared at their joined hands, then up at him, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
“Harry,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
He didn’t say anything, just held her hand a little tighter, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The tenderness in his eyes was overwhelming, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just them—the garden, the stars, the quiet promise of something unspoken. The prophecy, the war, her fears—they were still there, but they felt distant, overshadowed by the warmth of his hand in hers.
She didn’t know how long they stood there, but when he finally let go, his smile was soft, almost shy. “Thanks for today,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “For… everything.”
She nodded, her throat too tight to speak. As he walked back to the Burrow, the journal still under his arm, she sank onto the bench, her hand tingling where he’d held it. Her feelings for Harry were no longer a secret she could keep from herself—they were real, powerful, and terrifying. And as she looked at the stars, she wondered what it meant that he was looking at her the same way.
The morning after Harry’s birthday, Hermione woke to the soft creak of the Burrow’s floorboards and the distant clatter of Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen. Sunlight filtered through the curtains of Ginny’s room, where she’d been staying, casting a warm glow across the patchwork quilt. Her mind was still heavy with the events of the previous day—the broom ride, the journal, Harry’s hand in hers under the stars. The memory of his touch lingered, warm and unsettling, and she pressed her fingers to her palm, as if she could hold onto it. But with that warmth came a gnawing unease. Her feelings for Harry were no longer a quiet secret; they were loud, insistent, and complicated by the prophecy’s shadow and the delicate balance of their friendship with Ron.
She sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and reached for her wand on the bedside table. The house was waking up, but it was early, and she hoped for a moment of quiet to sort through her thoughts. She’d barely pulled on a jumper when a sound stopped her—muffled shouts, sharp and urgent, coming from upstairs. Her heart gave a jolt. The noise was coming from Ron’s attic bedroom, where Harry was staying. She froze, straining to listen, her wand forgotten in her hand.
The voices were unmistakably Ron and Harry, their tones heated, though the words were muddled by the walls and distance. Ron’s voice was louder, edged with frustration, and Hermione crept to the door, her curiosity outweighing her hesitation. She slipped into the hallway, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard by the stairs, and paused at the base of the attic staircase. The shouting grew clearer, though still fragmented, and her stomach twisted as she realized they were arguing—really arguing, not just bickering over Quidditch or homework.
“It’s not something I can control, Ron!” Harry’s voice cut through, sharp and defensive, tinged with a desperation she rarely heard from him. There was a thud, like someone had slammed a fist on a table or wall, and Hermione flinched, her hand tightening around her wand.
“You never said anything before, not once!” Ron shot back, his voice rising. “Not at the Yule Ball, not last year, not ever! And now you’re just—what, deciding it’s fine to act like this?”
Hermione’s breath caught. The Yule Ball? Last year? Her mind raced, trying to piece together what they could be fighting about. The Yule Ball had been a disaster—Ron’s jealousy over Viktor Krum, her own frustration with his obliviousness—but Harry hadn’t been part of that, not really. He’d been miserable with Parvati, barely noticing the drama. So why bring it up now? And what did Ron mean by “act like this”? Her heart pounded, a suspicion forming that she didn’t dare voice.
She edged up a step, guilt prickling at her for eavesdropping, but she couldn’t stop herself. The argument was too raw, too significant, and a part of her needed to know. The voices dropped lower, maddeningly indistinct, and she strained to catch anything. Then, faintly, she heard something that made her freeze—her name, or at least she thought it was. “Hermione” slipped through the muffling walls, spoken in Ron’s voice, sharp and accusing. Her pulse spiked, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, torn between climbing the stairs and retreating.
She couldn’t make out Harry’s response, only the low, urgent cadence of his voice, but the tone was enough to tell her he was upset—really upset, in a way she hadn’t heard since Sirius’s death. The realization hit her like a cold wave: this wasn’t just a spat. This was about something deep, something that could change things. And if her name was involved… She shook her head, trying to dismiss the thought. It could be anything—her research on the prophecy, her role in their plans, anything. But the memory of Harry’s tenderness, his hand in hers, the way he’d been watching her all week, made her wonder. Was Ron angry about… them? About her and Harry?
The voices rose again, but they were too jumbled now, a mix of anger and hurt that made her chest ache. She caught fragments—“always there,” “not fair,” “you don’t get it”—but nothing clear enough to confirm her suspicions. Then, abruptly, the shouting stopped, replaced by a heavy silence that was somehow worse. Hermione stood rooted to the spot, her breath shallow, waiting for something—a door slamming, footsteps, anything. But there was only quiet, and it felt like the Burrow itself was holding its breath.
She backed away, her guilt finally winning out. Whatever was happening, she shouldn’t be listening like this, sneaking around like a first-year caught out of bed. But as she retreated to Ginny’s room, her mind spun with questions. What had Harry meant by “not something I can control”? Why had Ron brought up the Yule Ball? And why had her name come up? She sank onto the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and tried to make sense of it. Ron had always been protective, sometimes jealous—she remembered his sulking over Krum, his awkward attempts to ask her to dances—but this felt different. Deeper. And Harry… Harry had never been one to share his feelings easily, but the way he’d been acting, the looks, the broom ride, the hand-holding—it all pointed to something new, something that might explain Ron’s anger.
Her thoughts drifted to the trio’s friendship, the delicate balance they’d maintained for five years. They’d faced trolls, dark lords, and detentions together, but this—feelings, unspoken tensions—felt like a different kind of danger. She cared for Ron, of course, as a friend, a brother almost, but her heart had always leaned toward Harry, even when she tried to ignore it. If Ron was upset because he sensed that, or because he felt something for her himself, it could fracture everything. And Harry… what did he feel? Was he as confused as she was, or was he more certain, held back only by fear of hurting Ron?
She shook her head, frustrated with herself. She was jumping to conclusions, building theories on half-heard words and her own tangled emotions. For all she knew, the argument was about something else entirely—Quidditch, the prophecy, even Slughorn. But the knot in her stomach told her otherwise. She needed to talk to them, to clear the air, but the thought of confronting either of them made her want to hide in the Weasleys’ library forever.
A knock on the door startled her, and she looked up to see Ginny poking her head in. “Morning,” Ginny said, her voice cheerful but her eyes sharp, like she’d sensed something off. “You alright? You look like you’ve seen a Dementor.”
Hermione forced a smile, tucking her wand under the quilt. “Just… didn’t sleep well,” she said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. “Is everyone up?”
“Mostly,” Ginny said, stepping inside and leaning against the doorframe. “Mum’s making enough pancakes to feed a dragon, and the twins are already plotting something with Harry’s prank box. Ron and Harry are still upstairs, though. Looked like they were having a row when I passed by.”
Hermione’s heart skipped, but she kept her expression neutral. “A row?” she asked, aiming for casual. “About what?”
Ginny shrugged, but her gaze lingered on Hermione, curious. “No idea. Didn’t hear much, just Ron yelling about something. Boys, you know? Probably arguing over who gets the last pancake.” She grinned, but Hermione could tell she was fishing, waiting for a reaction.
She nodded, forcing another smile. “Probably,” she said, but her mind was racing. Ginny didn’t seem to know anything specific, but her curiosity was a reminder that the Burrow was a small place, full of watchful eyes. If Ron and Harry’s argument was about her, it wouldn’t stay secret for long.
Ginny lingered for a moment, then pushed off the doorframe. “Come down soon, or Fred’ll eat your share of the pancakes. And don’t let whatever’s bothering you ruin the day, yeah? Still lots of the summer left.”
Hermione nodded, grateful for the change of subject. “I’ll be down in a minute,” she said, and Ginny left, closing the door behind her.
Alone again, Hermione let out a shaky breath. The argument, the prophecy, her feelings for Harry—it was all too much, a storm she didn’t know how to navigate. She needed to see Harry, to gauge his mood, to see if those tender looks were still there or if Ron’s anger had changed things. And Ron… she needed to talk to him too, to understand what was driving his outburst. But for now, she could only move forward, one step at a time.
She stood, smoothing her jumper, and headed downstairs, her wand tucked into her pocket. The Burrow’s warmth enveloped her, the smell of pancakes and coffee a comforting contrast to the turmoil in her mind. But as she reached the kitchen, her eyes scanned for Harry and Ron, her heart braced for whatever came next. The trio had faced worse than this, she told herself. They’d find a way through, just like always. But deep down, she wasn’t so sure.
The Burrow’s kitchen was a whirlwind of activity, the air thick with the scent of sizzling pancakes and brewing coffee. Mrs. Weasley bustled about, her wand flicking to flip pancakes on the griddle while plates zoomed to the table. Fred and George were at one end, snickering over a suspiciously ticking package from Harry’s birthday haul, while Ginny chatted with Mr. Weasley about Quidditch tryouts. But Hermione’s attention was elsewhere, her mind still reeling from the muffled shouts she’d overheard from Ron’s room. The argument between Harry and Ron—and the possibility that it involved her—had left her unsettled, her usual composure fraying at the edges.
She stepped into the kitchen, smoothing her jumper and forcing a smile as she greeted everyone. “Good morning, Mrs. Weasley,” she said, her voice brighter than she felt. “Those pancakes smell amazing.”
Mrs. Weasley beamed, wiping flour from her hands. “Oh, thank you, dear! Plenty to go around, help yourself. Have you seen Harry? I thought he’d be down by now.”
Hermione’s heart skipped, but she kept her expression neutral. “Not yet,” she said, her eyes scanning the room. Her gaze landed on Ron, who was hunched over a plate at the far end of the table, shoveling pancakes into his mouth with a speed that suggested he was eating to avoid talking. His freckled face was set in a scowl, his ears red—a sure sign of lingering anger. The sight tightened the knot in her stomach. Ron was rarely this grumpy, especially around food, and the contrast to his usual easygoing demeanor was stark.
“Morning, Ron,” she said cautiously, sliding into a chair across from him.
He grunted, barely looking up. “Morning,” he mumbled, his voice clipped. His eyes flicked to her, and there was something in his expression—hurt, maybe, or accusation—that made her chest ache. It was gone in a moment, replaced by a stubborn focus on his plate, but it was enough to confirm her fears: whatever had happened upstairs was serious, and she was likely at the center of it.
She hesitated, then asked, “Is Harry around?”
Ron’s fork paused mid-air, and he gave her a look that was equal parts annoyance and resignation. “He’s outside,” he said flatly, jerking his head toward the window. “Flying around, as usual.”
Hermione followed his gaze, leaning slightly to peer through the crooked window. Beyond the Burrow’s garden, over the shimmering pond, she saw a familiar figure cutting through the sky. Harry was on his Firebolt, looping lazily above the water, his dark hair whipping in the wind. The sight brought a rush of memories—the broom ride yesterday, his arms around her, the way he’d made her feel safe despite her fear. But now, watching him fly alone, there was a solitude to his movements, a heaviness that hadn’t been there before. Her heart twisted. Was he upset about the argument? Was he avoiding Ron—or her?
She turned back to Ron, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. What happened? her look asked, but Ron just shrugged, his jaw tight, and shoved another bite of pancake into his mouth. The dismissal stung, but she didn’t push. Ron was stubborn when he was upset, and pressing him now would only make things worse. Still, the silence between them felt wrong, a crack in the foundation of their friendship that she didn’t know how to mend.
Mrs. Weasley set a fresh stack of pancakes on the table, breaking the tension. “Hermione, dear, take some before these boys eat them all,” she said, shooting a pointed look at Fred, who was sneaking an extra pancake onto his plate.
Hermione nodded, but her appetite was gone. She glanced at Harry again, his silhouette a dark speck against the morning sky, and made a decision. She couldn’t fix things with Ron yet, but she could talk to Harry, could try to understand what was happening. And maybe, just maybe, she could ease the weight he was carrying, even if only for a moment.
She stood, grabbing a clean plate and piling it with pancakes, then filled two glasses with pumpkin juice from the pitcher. With a flick of her wand, she cast a gentle Wingardium Leviosa , sending the plate and glasses floating behind her. “I’ll be back in a bit,” she said to no one in particular, ignoring Ron’s sidelong glance and Mrs. Weasley’s curious smile.
The backyard was cool and quiet, the grass still damp with morning dew. Hermione stepped onto the path leading to the pond, the plate and glasses bobbing along behind her like obedient pets. The air carried the faint hum of insects and the soft ripple of water, but her focus was on Harry. He was still flying, his broom tracing wide, graceful arcs over the pond. Up close, she could see the tension in his posture—the way his shoulders were set, the way he leaned into each turn with a focus that felt more like escape than enjoyment. Her chest tightened. She knew that look, that need to lose himself in the sky. She’d seen it after Sirius’s death, after the Department of Mysteries. Whatever had happened with Ron had hit him hard.
She stopped by the pond’s edge, setting the plate and glasses on a flat rock with a wave of her wand. “Harry!” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth. Her voice carried over the water, and she saw him pause, his broom hovering for a moment before he turned toward her. His face was hard to read from this distance, but he dipped the broom and glided down, landing a few feet away with a soft thud.
He swung off the Firebolt, propping it against a tree, and ran a hand through his wind-mussed hair. “Hermione,” he said, his voice careful, like he was testing the waters. His green eyes met hers, and there it was again—that tenderness she’d noticed all week, softened now with a flicker of uncertainty. “What’s up?”
She gestured to the plate and glasses, forcing a smile. “I brought breakfast,” she said. “Pancakes and pumpkin juice. Thought you might be hungry after… all that flying.”
His lips twitched, a small smile breaking through the tension. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, but he stepped closer, eyeing the pancakes with interest. “Thanks, though.”
She shrugged, trying to keep things light despite the weight in her chest. “Mrs. Weasley made enough for an army. It’d be a shame to let them go to waste.”
He chuckled, and the sound eased some of her nerves. He sat on the grass beside the rock, and she joined him, tucking her legs under her. The plate floated between them, and she handed him a glass of pumpkin juice, their fingers brushing briefly. The contact sent a familiar spark through her, and she looked away, focusing on the pond to hide her flush.
They ate in silence for a moment, the pancakes warm and fluffy, the pumpkin juice sweet and cool. Harry seemed grateful for the food, but there was a distracted edge to him, his gaze drifting to the water. Hermione watched him, searching for a way to ask about the argument without pushing too hard. She could still hear Ron’s voice—“You never said anything before, not once!”—and her own name, sharp and accusing. The memory made her stomach twist, but she couldn’t just blurt out, Were you and Ron fighting about me?.
Instead, she started small. “You’re up early,” she said, keeping her tone casual. “Couldn’t sleep?”
He shrugged, swallowing a bite of pancake. “Something like that,” he said, his voice guarded. He glanced at her, and for a moment, she thought he might say more, but he looked away, his jaw tightening.
She hesitated, then tried again. “I… noticed Ron seemed a bit off this morning,” she said carefully. “In the kitchen, he was… well, grumpy. Did something happen?”
Harry’s hand paused, the glass of pumpkin juice halfway to his mouth. His expression flickered—guilt, maybe, or frustration—and he set the glass down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low. “We had a bit of a row. Nothing major.”
Her heart sank. Nothing major didn’t sound like the shouting she’d overheard, the raw anger in Ron’s voice or the desperation in Harry’s. She wanted to press, to ask what “not something I can control” meant, but the tension in Harry’s shoulders stopped her. He was holding something back, and pushing now might make him retreat further.
Instead, she nodded, taking a sip of her own juice to buy time. “He’ll come around,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. “You know how Ron gets. He’s probably just… stressed about Hogwarts or something.”
Harry gave a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah, maybe,” he said, but his eyes were distant, fixed on the pond. Then, softly, he added, “I don’t want to mess things up, Hermione. Not with Ron. Not with… anyone.”
The words hit her like a spell, heavy with meaning she couldn’t quite grasp. Was he talking about their friendship? About her? She wanted to ask, to demand clarity, but the vulnerability in his voice made her pause. Instead, she reached out, resting a hand on his arm. “You won’t,” she said firmly. “We’re stronger than that, Harry. All of us.”
He looked at her then, and the tenderness in his eyes was back, warm and overwhelming. “You always say the right thing,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “I don’t know how you do it.”
She flushed, her hand still on his arm, and for a moment, they were caught in that quiet space they’d found yesterday—on the broom, in the garden, under the stars. The prophecy, the argument, Ron’s anger—they were still there, but they felt distant, overshadowed by the connection between them. She wanted to hold onto it, to tell him how much he meant to her, but the words stuck in her throat.
Instead, she smiled, squeezing his arm before letting go. “Finish your pancakes,” she said, her voice teasing. “We can’t have the Chosen One starving before he gets to Hogwarts.”
He laughed, a real laugh this time, and the sound warmed her more than the morning sun. They finished their breakfast, the tension easing but not disappearing. As they gathered the empty plate and glasses, Hermione glanced at the Burrow, where Ron was likely still sulking. She didn’t know how to fix this, how to balance her feelings for Harry with her loyalty to Ron, but for now, she’d take this moment—one step toward understanding, one step closer to Harry.
The Burrow’s garden was a haven of quiet as dusk settled, the sky deepening to a rich indigo streaked with fading gold. Hermione sat on the familiar bench under the apple tree, a book open in her lap but unread, her thoughts too tangled to focus. The day had been a whirlwind of tension—Ron’s grumpiness at breakfast, Harry’s solitary flight over the pond, their shared pancakes and pumpkin juice by the water. She’d hoped the moment with Harry would ease the knot in her chest, but his guarded words—“I don’t want to mess things up, Hermione”—had only deepened her unease. The argument she’d overheard that morning, with her name sharp in Ron’s voice, loomed like a storm cloud, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was shifting, their trio’s foundation cracking under pressures she didn’t fully understand.
She traced the edge of her book, her fingers restless. The prophecy weighed on her, as always, but it was Harry himself who consumed her thoughts—his tenderness, his touch, the way he’d looked at her yesterday, holding her hand under the stars. Her feelings for him were no longer a quiet hum; they were a roar, impossible to ignore, and they terrified her. Not just because of the war or the prophecy, but because of Ron, because of the fragile balance they’d always maintained. The memory of the argument—“It’s not something I can control, Ron!”—played on a loop, and she wondered, not for the first time, if she was the cause.
A prickle of awareness ran down her spine, sudden and familiar, like a breeze that wasn’t there. Her breath caught, and she looked up, her heart quickening. She didn’t need to see him to know he was there—Harry. It was the same sensation she’d felt by the pond days ago, in the garden last night, a quiet hum of his presence that she couldn’t explain. It didn’t bother her, not at all; if anything, it was comforting, like a spell she hadn’t cast but felt all the same. But how? Was it magic, some subtle connection born of their years together, or just her own heightened awareness of him? She didn’t know, and the mystery of it made her cheeks warm.
She turned her head, and there he was, standing at the garden gate, his silhouette framed by the dying light. Harry’s hands were in his pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly, and even from a distance, she could sense his hesitation. He looked nervous, maybe even scared, his usual confidence replaced by a vulnerability that tugged at her heart. He took a step forward, then stopped, as if unsure whether to approach.
“Hermione,” he said, his voice low, carrying across the quiet garden. “Can we… talk?”
She nodded, closing her book and setting it aside. “Of course,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. She patted the bench beside her, and he crossed the garden, his steps slow, deliberate. As he sat, the space between them felt charged, like the air before a storm. He was close enough that she could smell the faint cedar and grass scent of him, could see the tension in his jaw, the way his glasses caught the starlight.
For a moment, neither spoke. Hermione waited, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her pulse loud in her ears. She could feel him, not just his physical presence but something deeper, that unexplainable hum that had drawn her attention before he’d even spoken. She wanted to ask about it, to understand why she felt him so keenly, but his nervous energy stopped her. Whatever he was about to say was important, and she didn’t want to derail it.
He ran a hand through his hair, a familiar gesture that made her chest ache. “I… I owe you an explanation,” he said finally, his voice rough. “About this morning. With Ron.”
Her heart skipped, the knot in her stomach tightening. She’d suspected—feared—that the argument was about her, but hearing him say it was different. “I heard some of it,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not everything, but… enough. You were shouting, and Ron said my name.”
Harry’s eyes widened, a flush creeping up his neck. “You heard?” he asked, then winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Merlin, that’s… not how I wanted this to go.”
She shook her head, reaching out to touch his arm, then pulling back, unsure. “It’s okay,” she said. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just… worried. You both sounded so upset.”
He let out a shaky breath, his gaze fixed on the ground. “We were,” he said. “Are, I guess. It’s… complicated.”
She waited, her hands twisting in her lap. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words, and she could see the struggle in his face, the way he was searching for the right thing to say. Finally, he looked at her, his green eyes raw with emotion. “The row with Ron,” he said, his voice low, “it was about you.”
Her breath caught, her suspicions confirmed in a single, shattering moment. “Me?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Why?”
Harry hesitated, his jaw tightening. “It’s… hard to explain,” he said. “Ron thinks… he thinks I’m acting different. With you. And he’s not wrong, but it’s not—it’s not what he thinks.”
Her mind raced, replaying the fragments she’d overheard. “You never said anything before, not once!” Ron’s anger, Harry’s desperation—it all clicked into place, but the picture was still blurry. “Different how?” she asked, her voice steadier now, though her heart was pounding. “What does Ron think?”
Harry’s flush deepened, and he looked away, his hands clenching into fists. “He thinks I’m… I don’t know, trying to… to take something from him. Or someone.” He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “He thinks I’m… that I have feelings for you.”
The world seemed to tilt, the garden fading around her. Her mouth went dry, her thoughts a chaotic jumble. Feelings for you. The words hung between them, heavy and electric, and she stared at him, searching his face for answers. His eyes were on her now, nervous but unwavering, and that tenderness was there, the same warmth she’d seen all week, but sharper, more vulnerable.
“Harry,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Do you?”
The question slipped out before she could stop it, raw and unguarded. She wanted to take it back, to hide behind logic and caution, but it was too late. Harry’s breath hitched, and for a moment, she thought he might bolt, his fear palpable. But then he leaned closer, just enough that their knees brushed, and the contact sent a spark through her.
“I… yeah,” he said, so quietly she almost missed it. “I do. I didn’t mean for it to happen, Hermione. It just… did. And I don’t know what to do about it, because Ron—he’s my best mate, and I can’t… I can’t lose him. But I can’t stop feeling this way either.”
Her heart was a wild thing, beating too fast, too loud. She wanted to say something, to tell him she felt the same, that her own feelings had been growing, unstoppable, since the moment he’d arrived at the Burrow. The weight of his words—Ron’s anger, the risk to their friendship—loomed, but so did the truth of her heart. She took a shaky breath, meeting his gaze. “Harry,” she said, her voice trembling but sure, “I feel something too. I have for a while.”
Harry’s eyes widened, a flicker of hope breaking through his nervousness. He leaned forward, his voice soft but urgent. “Are you sure, Hermione? I mean… do you want to explore this, whatever it is, as much as I do?” He paused, his hands unclenching, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach for her. “Because when I look at you, I feel this… warmth in my chest, like nothing else matters. I can’t explain it, but it’s there, every time.”
Her breath caught, his words painting a vivid picture of her own feelings. That warmth, that unexplainable pull—she knew it, had felt it during their broom ride, in the garden, by the pond. She nodded, her throat tight. “I feel it too,” she whispered. “It’s… overwhelming, but I want to understand it. With you.”
He smiled, a tentative, radiant thing that made her heart skip. But then his expression shifted, a mix of wonder and confession. “There’s something else,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “I can feel you, Hermione. Before I see you, before you speak. Like… like you’re part of me. It’s been happening since I got back to the Burrow, and I don’t know why, but it’s real.”
Her eyes widened, her own experience of that mysterious hum rushing back. “You feel it too?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “I thought… I thought it was just me. I knew you were here, tonight, before you said anything. I don’t understand it either, but… it’s you.”
They stared at each other, the shared revelation hanging between them like a spell. The garden seemed to hold its breath, the stars brighter, the air heavier with possibility. Harry’s gaze dropped to her lips, and when he spoke again, his voice was rough, almost reverent. “And… I’ve been wanting to kiss those pretty lips of yours since I came back to the Burrow,” he said. “Every time you smile, every time you look at me like you see me, really see me… I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Her face flushed, heat spreading from her cheeks to her chest. The confession was bold, unguarded, and it sent a thrill through her, mingling with the fear of what it meant. She wanted to lean in, to let him close the distance, but Ron’s face flashed in her mind—his anger, his hurt—and she hesitated. “Harry,” she said, her voice trembling with want and caution, “I… I want that too. But Ron… we can’t hurt him. We have to talk to him, to figure this out together.”
Harry’s expression faltered, a shadow of guilt crossing his face. He nodded, his jaw tightening. “You’re right,” he said. “Ron’s my best mate, and he’s… he’s got feelings for you, Hermione. I know he does. That’s why he was so angry this morning. He thinks I’m taking something from him, but I’d never… I just…” He trailed off, his eyes searching hers. “I just needed you to know.”
Her heart ached, torn between the pull of Harry’s confession and her loyalty to Ron. “I’m glad you told me,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside. “And I meant what I said—I feel it too. But we have to be careful, for Ron, for our friendship. We’ll talk to him, together, and… we’ll figure out what this is.”
Harry nodded, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Careful,” he said, echoing her. “That’s your specialty, isn’t it?”
She laughed, a small, shaky sound that broke the tension. “Someone has to be, with maniacs like you flying around on murder brooms.” she teased, but her heart was still racing, her lips tingling with the thought of his confession. They sat in silence, the garden quiet around them, the stars bright above. That unexplainable hum was still there, stronger now, a thread tying them together. It was comforting, exhilarating, terrifying, and she wondered what it meant—for them, for their future.
“We’ll figure it out,” she said finally, echoing her words from their breakfast. “We always do.”
He smiled, softer now, his eyes holding hers. “Yeah,” he said. “With you, I believe it.”
As he stood to leave, his hand brushed hers, a deliberate, lingering touch that sent warmth through her. He paused, looking back, and the tenderness in his eyes was a promise, a question, a hope. Then he was gone, disappearing into the Burrow’s glow, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the weight of what they’d just shared. She touched her lips, her heart a wild mix of joy and fear, and wondered how they’d navigate this new, fragile thing between them without breaking everything else.
The remaining weeks of summer at the Burrow passed in a blur of warm days and restless nights, the air thick with the scent of wildflowers and the distant hum of the war’s approach. For Hermione Granger, the time should have been a precious respite, a chance to strengthen the bonds with Harry and Ron before their sixth year at Hogwarts. But instead, it was a delicate dance of unspoken tensions, with Ron at the center, orchestrating a quiet but relentless campaign to keep her and Harry apart. After Harry’s confession in the garden—his admission of feelings, the shared revelation of that mysterious “hum” that connected them—Hermione had hoped they could navigate the situation with Ron carefully, perhaps even openly. But Ron, it seemed, had other plans.
It wasn’t that Ron was angry. There were no more shouting matches, no repeat of the heated argument Hermione had overheard in his room. Instead, Ron’s interference was subtle, maddeningly polite, and impossible to confront without sounding petty. Whenever Hermione and Harry tried to steal a moment alone—whether to discuss their feelings, the prophecy, or simply to talk—Ron was there, inserting himself with a grin or a casual comment. If they sat together in the living room, Ron would plop down between them, launching into a story about Quidditch or the Chudley Cannons. If they lingered in the garden, he’d appear with a broom, insisting Harry join him for a quick match. If they tried to slip away to the pond, Ron would tag along, claiming he needed to “stretch his legs.” It was as if he’d developed a sixth sense for their intentions, always one step ahead.
Hermione noticed it immediately, her frustration growing with each thwarted attempt. She and Harry had agreed to talk to Ron together, to be honest about their feelings and find a way to preserve their friendship, but Ron made that impossible. Every time they approached him, he’d deflect with an excuse—helping Mrs. Weasley with chores, needing Harry for a chess game, or claiming Hermione had promised to help him with summer homework (which she hadn’t). His excuses were seamless, often involving one of them or his mother, leaving no room for argument without seeming unreasonable. It was maddening, and Hermione’s patience, usually steadfast, began to fray.
Harry felt it too. She could see it in the tightening of his jaw, the way his green eyes flashed with irritation when Ron interrupted yet another conversation. But Harry held back, his guilt over Ron’s hurt feelings keeping his temper in check. They exchanged glances, silent apologies and promises to try again, but the summer slipped away, and the conversation they needed never happened. The “hum” between them—that unexplainable sense of each other’s presence—remained, growing stronger with each near-moment, but it was a private connection, unspoken and untested, trapped by Ron’s vigilance.
Others noticed too. Ginny, sharp as ever, caught Hermione’s eye one afternoon as Ron dragged Harry off to “help” with de-gnoming the garden, just as Hermione had suggested a walk to the pond. “He’s not subtle, is he?” Ginny murmured, her tone half-amused, half-sympathetic. “Ron’s acting like a bloody guard dog.”
Hermione flushed, unsure how much Ginny knew or suspected. “He’s just… being Ron,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. Ginny raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but let it drop, leaving Hermione to stew in her frustration. Even Mrs. Weasley seemed to sense the shift, her cheerful chatter occasionally faltering when Ron’s interruptions grew too obvious. Fred and George, predictably, turned it into a joke, stage-whispering about “Ron’s new career as a chaperone” until Mrs. Weasley shushed them. But the humor only underscored the tension, and Hermione longed for the easy camaraderie of past summers.
The breaking point came a few days before the planned trip to Diagon Alley, as the Burrow buzzed with preparations for the return to Hogwarts. It was a warm afternoon, the garden alive with the hum of bees and the rustle of leaves. Hermione sat on the porch, a book in her lap, though her eyes kept drifting to Harry, who was tossing a Quaffle with Ron and Ginny near the orchard. She’d hoped to catch him after lunch, to finally have that private talk, but Ron had stuck to him like a shadow, suggesting a pickup game the moment Harry finished his sandwich. Her fingers tightened on the book, her patience worn thin by weeks of this dance.
She stood, determined to try again, and crossed the yard, her wand tucked into her pocket. “Harry,” she called, keeping her voice light, “can we talk for a minute? I wanted to go over some notes on… the library at Hogwarts.” It was a weak excuse, and she cringed internally, but she was desperate.
Harry’s head snapped up, his eyes meeting hers with a mix of relief and frustration. “Yeah, sure,” he said, tossing the Quaffle to Ginny. “Just give me—”
“Oi, mate, we’re in the middle of a game!” Ron cut in, his tone cheerful but firm. “Can’t it wait? Mum needs us to sort the shed later, Hermione, you know how she gets before Diagon Alley.”
Hermione’s jaw clenched, her patience snapping like a frayed thread. She opened her mouth to retort, but Harry beat her to it. His face darkened, the Quaffle forgotten in the grass, and he turned to Ron, his voice low but edged with steel. “Ron, I need ten minutes with Hermione. Alone. It’s private, and it can’t wait.”
The words cut through the afternoon like a spell, sharp and final. Ron froze, his freckled face paling, his easy grin faltering. Ginny lowered her broom, her eyes wide, and even Fred and George, who’d been tinkering with a prank device nearby, stopped to stare. Mrs. Weasley, emerging from the kitchen with a basket of laundry, paused, her wand stilling mid-air. The yard went quiet, the weight of Harry’s words settling over everyone.
Hermione’s heart pounded, her breath shallow. She hadn’t expected this—Harry’s temper, usually so tightly controlled, flaring so publicly. But there was no mistaking the resolve in his eyes, the way his shoulders squared as he faced Ron. For a moment, Ron looked like he might argue, his mouth opening, then closing, his ears red. But he said nothing, his gaze flickering to Hermione, then back to Harry, hurt and defiance warring in his expression.
Before anyone could speak, Harry stepped toward Hermione, his hand reaching for hers. His fingers closed around her wrist, warm and sure, and the contact sent a jolt through her, that familiar “hum” sparking to life. She met his gaze, seeing the urgency, the apology, the determination in his green eyes. Without a word, he raised his other hand, and his Firebolt, propped against a tree across the yard, shot toward him with a whistle, landing in his palm with a sharp whack that echoed in the silence. The Weasleys stared, caught off guard by the effortless and wandless magic, but Hermione barely noticed, her focus on Harry, on the way his hand tightened around hers.
He didn’t hesitate. Still holding her wrist, he swung onto the Firebolt, then turned to her, his expression softening but resolute. “Come on,” he said, his voice low, meant only for her. He slid back slightly, making room, and before she could overthink it, his hands were at her waist, lifting her gently but firmly onto the broom in front of him. Her breath caught as he settled her carefully, his arms bracketing her, his chest warm against her back. The intimacy of it, the boldness, made her cheeks flush, but there was no time to dwell—she felt the broom vibrate beneath them, Harry’s magic humming through it.
With a swift kick, they were airborne, the ground dropping away as the Firebolt soared upward. Hermione gasped, her hands gripping the broom’s handle, but Harry’s presence steadied her, his arms a reassuring cage. The Burrow shrank below, the Weasleys’ stunned faces blurring into the green of the garden. She caught a glimpse of Ron, still standing where they’d left him, his expression unreadable, before the wind whipped her hair and the world became a rush of sky and speed.
They climbed higher, the air cooling as they leveled out over the fields, the Burrow a distant speck. Harry guided the broom with ease, his breath warm against her ear as he leaned forward. “Sorry about that,” he said, his voice rough but sincere. “I just… I couldn’t take it anymore. Ron’s been driving me mental.”
Hermione let out a shaky laugh, her heart still racing from the suddenness of it all. “I noticed,” she said, turning her head slightly to meet his gaze. His face was close, his glasses glinting in the sunlight, and that tenderness was there, mixed with a flicker of guilt. “But… everyone heard you, Harry. And saw us leave like that. Ron’s not going to let this go.”
“I know,” he said, his jaw tightening. “But we need to talk, Hermione. Really talk. About us, about Ron, about… everything. I can’t keep pretending nothing’s changed, and I can’t let him keep us apart like this.”
She nodded, her throat tight. The “hum” was stronger now, a steady pulse that seemed to thrum in time with her heartbeat, amplified by his closeness. She could feel him—his magic, his emotions, that unexplainable connection—and it grounded her even as the broom carried them through the sky. “You’re right,” she said. “We need to be honest with him. But… it’s going to hurt him, Harry. He’s already hurting.”
Harry’s arms tightened slightly, a protective gesture that made her heart ache. “I don’t want to hurt him,” he said. “He’s my best mate. But I can’t stop feeling this way about you, and I know you feel it too. That… thing we talked about, the way we sense each other—it’s real, and it’s not going away.”
Her breath caught, his words echoing her own thoughts. The “hum” wasn’t just a feeling; it was a bond, fragile but undeniable, and it scared her as much as it thrilled her. “I know,” she whispered. “But we have to find a way to make this work without losing him. Without losing… us.”
He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but she felt his resolve, his determination to face this with her. They flew in silence for a moment, the wind a soft roar, the world below a patchwork of fields and rivers. Then, gently, Harry slowed the broom, bringing it to a hover high above the fields, the sky a vast canvas of deepening blue around them. He shifted, his hands moving to her shoulders, and with a careful, deliberate motion, he turned her to face him directly, her legs straddling the broom, their knees brushing.
Hermione’s heart stuttered, her breath catching as she met his gaze. His green eyes were intense, unguarded, the tenderness she’d seen all summer now blazing with something deeper—love, certainty, need. The “hum” pulsed between them, electric and overwhelming, and she felt it in every fiber of her being, as if the world had narrowed to just them, suspended in the sky.
Without hesitation, Harry leaned forward, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, his touch warm and sure. His lips met hers, soft at first, then firm, a kiss that carried weeks of unspoken longing, of stolen glances and quiet promises. It was fierce and tender, a collision of everything they’d held back—the broom ride, the garden, the “hum” that bound them. Hermione’s mind spun, her hands finding his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as she kissed him back, her heart a wild, soaring thing. The world, the war, Ron’s hurt—it all melted away, and for that moment, she forgot her name, lost in the warmth of his lips, the strength of his hold, the truth of what they were to each other.
When they parted, breathless, their foreheads pressed together, Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, meeting his. Harry’s smile was small, radiant, a mix of joy and vulnerability that made her chest ache. “I meant it,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I’m not letting this go. Not you.”
She nodded, her throat too tight to speak, her lips tingling with the memory of his kiss. The “hum” was still there, a quiet promise, and as Harry guided the broom in a slow arc back toward the Burrow, she braced herself for what awaited. Ron’s pain, the Weasleys’ questions, the weight of their choice—it was all waiting below. But with Harry’s arms around her, the taste of his kiss lingering, she felt ready to face it. They’d always found a way through, and they would again—even if it meant soaring into the unknown.
The days following Harry and Hermione’s dramatic departure on the Firebolt were a strange, fragile interlude at the Burrow, as if the house itself were holding its breath. The garden, once a stage for Quidditch games and laughter, felt quieter, the air charged with unspoken questions. Hermione Granger, usually so attuned to patterns and logic, found herself navigating a new kind of chaos—one of stolen glances, racing pulses, and the weight of what she and Harry had done. That kiss, high above the fields, had changed everything. It was a promise, a defiance, a truth she could still taste on her lips, and it left her both exhilarated and terrified of what came next.
To her surprise, Ron didn’t interfere in the days that followed. The shadow he’d cast over their summer, with his relentless presence and deft excuses, lifted abruptly. He was still there—eating breakfast, tossing a Quaffle with Ginny, helping Mr. Weasley in the shed—but he no longer hovered, no longer inserted himself between her and Harry. At first, Hermione thought he was simply sulking, his silence a louder version of his earlier hurt. But on the second morning, as she and Harry sat in the living room reviewing Hogwarts supply lists, Ginny pulled her aside, her voice low and conspiratorial.
“Mum had a word with Ron,” Ginny said, leaning against the kitchen doorway, her eyes flicking to where Ron was stacking dishes with unusual focus. “After… you know, the broom thing. She caught him moping in the attic and gave him a proper talking-to. Told him to stop acting like a jealous prat and let you two sort things out.”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed, her heart stuttering at the confirmation that the Weasleys—Mrs. Weasley, at least—knew something was happening. “She… she said that?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ginny grinned, but there was a hint of sympathy in her eyes. “Not in so many words, but close enough. Mum’s got a knack for seeing what’s what. Ron’s not happy, but he’s not daft enough to cross her when she’s in that mood.”
Hermione nodded, her mind racing. Mrs. Weasley’s intervention explained Ron’s sudden distance, but it didn’t ease the guilt that gnawed at her. Ron was hurting, and though she and Harry hadn’t spoken to him yet—hadn’t found the right moment to explain—their actions had spoken loudly enough. She glanced at Harry, who was scribbling a note about quills, his dark hair falling into his eyes. The memory of his lips on hers, the “hum” that had pulsed between them, made her stomach flutter, but it was tangled with worry for Ron, for their trio, for the fragile balance they were straining.
The rest of the Burrow’s inhabitants were less discreet. Fred and George, predictably, seized the opportunity to torment them. They didn’t mention the broom ride or the way Harry had swept Hermione into the sky, but their teasing was relentless in its own way. At breakfast, Fred would catch Hermione’s eye and pucker his lips at George, who’d respond with an exaggerated kissy face, complete with smacking noises. When Harry passed them in the hall, George would hum a dramatic, swooning tune, dodging Harry’s half-hearted swat with a cackle. Hermione tried to ignore them, her face burning, but Harry took it in stride, rolling his eyes or firing back with a sarcastic, “Very mature, you two.” Their antics were annoying but oddly grounding, a reminder that the Weasleys’ chaos could still hold them together, even now.
And then there were the kisses. That first one, suspended above the fields, had been a spark, igniting something Hermione couldn’t contain. It wasn’t the last. In the quiet moments they stole—behind the shed after dinner, in the orchard under the guise of fetching apples, by the pond when the others were distracted—Harry would pull her close, his hands gentle but sure, and kiss her again. Each time was different: soft and tentative one moment, fierce and hungry the next, but always laced with that “hum,” that unexplainable connection that made her feel like she was part of him. She kissed him back, her hands finding his hair, his shoulders, her heart racing with a joy she hadn’t known she could feel. The prophecy, the war, Ron’s pain—they were still there, but in those moments, they faded, eclipsed by the warmth of Harry’s touch.
The last kiss, just that morning, had been something else entirely. They’d slipped away to the attic, ostensibly to sort through old trunks for school supplies, but the moment the door clicked shut, Harry had turned to her, his green eyes blazing with that tenderness she’d come to crave. “Hermione,” he’d murmured, his voice low, and then he was kissing her, his hands cupping her face, his lips firm and deliberate. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was a claiming, a promise, and it set her entire body alight. Her knees weakened, a warm, fluttering sensation blooming in her stomach, spreading lower, sparking an excited, almost dizzying heat between her legs. She pressed closer, feeling the hard line of his body, the way his breath hitched, and she noticed—couldn’t help but notice—the effect it had on him too. The evidence of his desire, pressed against her, sent a thrill through her, a mix of pride and want that made her want to pull him closer, to do it again and again.
When they’d pulled apart, breathless, Harry had rested his forehead against hers, his smile shy but radiant. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he’d whispered, and she’d laughed, her cheeks flushed, her body still humming with that delicious heat. She’d wanted to stay there, to lose herself in him, but the day was moving on, and the Burrow was never quiet for long. They’d returned downstairs, her lips tingling, her mind a whirl of sensations she was still trying to process. She liked seeing him like that—flushed, affected, wanting her—and the realization made her feel bold, powerful, even as it scared her. This was new, uncharted, and with the trip to Diagon Alley looming, there was no time to explore it further.
Now, as the morning sun climbed higher, Hermione stood in the Burrow’s kitchen, helping Mrs. Weasley pack a basket of sandwiches for the Diagon Alley trip. The house was a flurry of activity—Ginny was upstairs, digging out her school robes; Ron was in the shed, checking the Floo powder supply; and Harry was outside, polishing his Firebolt with a focus that made Hermione’s heart skip. She stole a glance through the window, catching the way his hands moved over the broom, steady and sure, and her mind flashed to the attic, to the feel of those hands on her face. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the sandwiches, but the warmth in her stomach lingered, a quiet promise of more.
Mrs. Weasley bustled over, her wand flicking to seal the basket. “You’re a dear, Hermione,” she said, her smile warm but tinged with something knowing. “Everything alright? You’ve been a bit… distracted today.”
Hermione flushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just thinking about school,” she lied, her voice too quick. “Lots to do, you know.”
Mrs. Weasley nodded, but her eyes lingered, and Hermione wondered how much she’d guessed. The older woman had always been perceptive, and after her talk with Ron, it was clear she saw more than she let on. “Well, don’t let it overwhelm you,” Mrs. Weasley said, patting her shoulder. “You’re young. Enjoy these days while they last.”
Hermione managed a smile, grateful for the kindness but eager to escape the scrutiny. She stepped outside, the basket in her arms, and found Harry by the garden gate, his Firebolt gleaming in the sunlight. He looked up, his glasses catching the light, and that tenderness was there, softened by a hint of mischief. “Ready for Diagon Alley?” he asked, his voice low, meant for her alone.
She nodded, her heart fluttering. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, and the double meaning hung between them—ready for the trip, yes, but also for whatever this was, this thing growing between them. The “hum” sparked, a quiet pulse that made her feel him even from a few feet away, and she wondered, not for the first time, what it meant. Was it magic, some bond forged by their years together, or just the intensity of her feelings? She didn’t know, but she wanted to find out.
Ron emerged from the shed, his expression neutral but his shoulders tense. He didn’t look at them, focusing instead on the Floo powder tin in his hands, and Hermione’s guilt flared. They still hadn’t talked to him, hadn’t found the words to explain what was happening, and the longer they waited, the harder it felt. But for now, Ron was giving them space, and she was grateful, even if it was born of his mother’s reprimand.
Fred and George bounded out, their grins wide and wicked. “Oi, lovebirds,” Fred called, puckering his lips at George, who blew a dramatic kiss back. “Save some of that sunset-riding energy for Flourish and Blotts, yeah?”
Harry rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips. “Shove off,” he said, tossing a rag at them, which George caught with a flourish. Hermione’s face burned, but she couldn’t help a small laugh, the tension easing just a fraction.
Mrs. Weasley appeared, shooing the twins toward the fireplace. “Enough of that, you two! We’ve got a schedule to keep.” She turned to Hermione and Harry, her expression softening. “Stick together in Diagon Alley, alright? Things aren’t what they used to be.”
Hermione nodded, the reminder of the war—a shadow they’d kept at bay—settling over her. The prophecy, Voldemort, the Order—it was all waiting, and Diagon Alley would be a stark reminder of the world beyond the Burrow’s warmth. But as Harry’s hand brushed hers, a deliberate, fleeting touch, she felt a surge of courage. They’d face it together, just as they’d faced everything else.
As the group gathered by the fireplace, preparing to Floo to Diagon Alley, Hermione stole one last glance at Harry. His eyes met hers, and the memory of that morning’s kiss—the heat, the want, the way he’d wanted her—flashed through her. She felt it again, that warmth, that excitement, and she knew he felt it too. The “hum” pulsed, a quiet vow, and as they stepped toward the flames, she held onto it, ready for whatever lay ahead—books, wands, and the uncertain future of their hearts.
Not The End...