“Stop being so cute.” Harmony
Oo thank you! I’ve never written Harmony, so this was a fun challenge! I hope this is alright/not too strictly platonic. I had to stop myself from writing a whooole Slug Party scene, too!
It is Hermione, emerging, part to his amusement, part utter befuddlement, from the midst of the curtains, dull-grey and riddled with dust-pixies, by the windows at the very corner of the room, even as the rest of the Slug Club chatter, cheerfully oblivious, by the levitating platters of pasties and butterbeer.
“Mione?” he starts, but she gestures, pointed, to her own mouth, pleading his silence.
Hurry, she mouths, waving him over with a frantic arm.
Harry throws a look over his shoulder, confirms Slughorn’s spot by the visiting Prophet reporter – Hogwarts alumni, he had boasted a moment ago –before he darts over and finds himself immediately obscured from the view of the party by thick fabric thrown, unceremonious, over him by the brilliant, and, at present, quite mad, witch hiding there.
“Ow,” he grunts, more out of surprise than protest.
“Sorry,” Hermione mutters.
“I couldn’t think of anything else. Merlin.”
“Not that I’m complaining,” Harry says, lowering his voice at her sharp look, “but what exactly are we doing here, Hermione?”
“It’s Cormac,” she says, voice rather high. “McLaggen, you know.” She swallows, leans in. “He won’t leave me be. He keeps talking about my dress.”
“It’s a nice dress,” Harry says reasonably.
A very nice dress, now that he’s noticed it; the kind of blue that suits her eyes, makes him wonder, not for the first time, why the fuck she’s not a Ravenclaw.
Hermione only shakes her head.
“He keeps talking about you, too,” she says, agitated. “And Ron. He asked if you were my boyfriend, Harry.”
“Oh,” he says dumbly. “I, um. Well, I expect he wants to know if you’re- available.”
He supposes that it’s been a long time coming, this part.
The part where he’s the question mark hovering over Hermione’s relationship status; the hypothetical possessive partner warding off suitors here and there.
He’s not about to change that, just because guys like Cormac have finally clued on that Hermione Granger is categorically fantastic.
She’s only his best friend.
That trumps a prospective boyfriend.
Merlin, he hopes it does, anyway.
Certainly, it’s gotta trump Cormac Mc-fucking-Laggen.
“I’m not,” Hermione hisses, to his immense relief, though he cannot say precisely why. “Not to him. He’s – I don’t know. Tall. Very blond. I’m not even sure he thinks about anything other than Quidditch.”
Once, Harry had heard Lavender Brown raving over him for those precise characteristics. There is something satisfying about learning that the same doesn’t appear to do anything for Hermione, though he decides against mentioning that now.
“Well, uh,” Harry clears his throat. “You could always tell him, y’know. That we are.”
He looks at her, implores her to understand the rest, so he doesn’t have to suffer the bloody discomfort of actually saying it.
She pauses, surveys him for a moment.
“Or you and Ron,” he says hastily. “Yeah, I reckon. You and Ron. Whatever works.”
Her face is blank for a moment before her mouth moves, transforms it into something so disarming that for a moment, Harry only blinks back.
“Oh, Harry,” she says. “How sweet.”
“I’m not being sweet,” Harry says, almost defensive. “I just- y’know. If you want to get rid of Cormac-” he shuffles, becomes immediately and intensely fascinated with his shoes.
“Stop,” Hermione says, her hand skimming, ephemeral, over his. “Stop being so-” she searches. “Cute,” she finishes, and his cheeks warm. “Slughorn will think his Potions Master has gone soft.”
“Slughorn,” Harry groans, sinking further into the stomach of the curtains that hide them. “We’ve got to get out of here, Hermione.”
“That,” she agrees fervently, “or wait for everybody else to leave.”
“I like your idea better.”
