12Invitations
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N: I thought I would get this out before the month of December is over. This is a story that never made it to Portkey back in the day. I had originally planned this scene as part of a larger Christmas story. It began as an A/U fifth year story with Malfoy as the antagonist. After the sixth book was released, I modified it to be an A/U sixth year story. I'd like to go back and add to it someday; however, fair warning—for now, this is only one chapter. Thank you for reading! Cheers!
"When are you going to ask her?"
Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were sitting in the Gryffindor common room playing a game of wizard chess. Ron, of course, was winning.
"Tonight," replied Ron, concentrating heavily on his next move. He was bent over the chessboard, chewing on his bottom lip, his eyes never leaving his players—one of whom was trying to clobber Harry's remaining knight over the head with a club. "What about you? Who are you going to ask?"
Harry sighed. "I wish I didn't have to ask anyone at all."
And that was as true a statement as he had ever spoken. While Ron was planning on asking their mutual best friend, Hermione Granger, to the upcoming Christmas Party, Harry had no clue who he was going to invite. He had groaned when he had received the invitation to Professor Slughorn's exclusive holiday shindig, and he was still dreading the thought of it now.
The Yule Ball, the only other festive affair he had ever attended where dress robes were required, had not been particularly fun for Harry—nor for Ron or Hermione, for that matter—and he thought any similar event did not bear repeating. Unfortunately, he seemed to be the only one who believed the idea of another night full of silly flirting, dancing, and gossip was a bad one. The entire school had been buzzing about the party for weeks; and while not even half the school had been invited to it, talk was high on whom was going with whom—so much so that the girls were now terming the party, "The Event of the Year."
Even Ron, to Harry's great surprise, appeared to be excited about the party, though Harry privately thought his best friend was just happy to be included in one of Professor Slughorn's events this time around. Ron had resented Slughorn always favoring Harry and Hermione and not inviting him to join in his famous "Slug Club" as well. And while Harry would have gladly traded places with Ron not to get special attention from their new Potions Master, he was pleased his friend was finally getting some well-deserved recognition.
After Ron's spectacular saves in their last Quidditch match against Slytherin and a particularly loud vocal recount by Ginny on Ron's daringly brave behavior in the Department of Mysteries the previous year (she'd left out the part about the brain tentacles)—a story she had decided to tell to a number of Slughorn's favorites during one of his hosted suppers—the kicker to the Professor's love for famous, distinguished, and talented people, in fact, came just days afterward when Ron was playing a very public game of wizard chess in the Great Hall with Barnaby Athans, reputedly the best chess player Hogwarts had to offer. Barnaby was a burly seventh year who looked like he wanted to squash Ron by sitting on him, Dudley-Dursley-style, when Ron had the audacity to beat him with a move that would have shamed the likes of Montague Knightley with its sheer ingeniousness. Slughorn had chanced upon the match, with a little helpful tip-off from a certain sly redhead and had been so impressed that he had invited Ron to his Christmas Party on the spot. A personal invite, he had told Ron with a beaming smile as he had slung one weighty arm around his shoulders, rather than one in writing was an honor indeed.
Ron had told Harry as soon as they'd had a private moment away from the crowd that he was going to ask Hermione to go with him. After all, this was his chance to redeem himself to their other best friend for acting like such a git at the Yule Ball. Harry thought this was as good a reason as any, and certainly better than his own reasons to ask Hermione to the party, but he found he could not stop himself from pointing out to Ron that Hermione was already invited and did not have to be asked as a "special guest."
"What does that matter?" Ron had retorted back at Harry with a slightly suspicious look on his face. "We can still go together, can't we?"
Those were Harry's thoughts exactly. As he had been planning on asking Hermione to the party himself—when the time was right, he had kept telling himself—he found that he had waited too long. He couldn't ask Hermione now. Not when his best friend had admitted he was going to ask her. It just wouldn't be right. And if there was one thing Harry prided himself on, though perhaps it wasn't always consciously done, it was doing the right thing. Or at least, attempting to…
Now, Harry was faced with a dilemma he did not want to think about—and frankly, he was a little upset with himself for delaying so long. Who was he going to ask to the party? And why did he really have to ask anyone at all? Why couldn't everyone just go as friends—together as one big group—like they had done in the past when they all went to Hogsmeade or to a Quidditch after-party in the common room?
"Professor Slughorn is insisting we have partners," Hermione had said when she had first mentioned the party to him after waving her green and silver embossed envelope before him in a desultory fashion. "He says if some of us don't invite guests outside of the club it will appear rude to the rest of the school, as if we're trying to exclude or separate ourselves from them."
She had smirked at him with this sarcastic comment, and privately Harry had agreed that really was the whole point of the party. Slughorn trying to sugarcoat it otherwise did not help matters at all.
Harry had not been surprised when Hermione had added seriously, "But, we are, aren't we? Excluding them, I mean? And Professor Slughorn does say we can come with other club members. In fact, he makes it sound like he would prefer it that way. Listen."
She pointed to the silver scripted letters on the invitation.
"I encourage you to invite another member of the school who shares your great love of knowledge and achievement, as anything less would be quite insupportable and would not do you any credit at this wonderful time of the year," she recited.
"I wonder if he wrote that on everybody's invitation or just yours," said Harry dryly, but later he had checked his own card with the shiny emerald trimming and something similar had appeared on it, though the wording was slightly different.
"Be sure to invite a partner who is suitable to your extraordinary talents and who will make your Christmas as merrily memorable as you so rightly deserve."
"You know, at least we were members of the DA by choice," Hermione had added after tossing her card into the trash bin, and Harry had quite agreed with her.
The truth was that Hermione had not been any happier at the idea of having to invite someone to the party than Harry was, which had given him the idea of asking her in the first place. It made sense to ask her, and Slughorn would certainly approve, not that he truly cared about his professor's pompous opinions and pride. But then, after all, what could be better than spending time with his best friend, even if it was in such a formal, arranged fashion? He could avoid all the awkwardness of a date that he dreaded.
Now Harry was wondering why he had not asked her on the spot. For some reason, something inside him had stood still, frozen in place like water in a winter sky, and the time to ask her had passed him by. She had headed off to her next class, and he had sat in the common room during a free period kicking himself for being such a faltering idiot. But then, Harry thought he would have other opportunities to ask her. He had not counted on Ron suddenly changing his plans.
Harry could not blame Ron for having the same idea, and a part of him was not even surprised by it, though he could not say that same part of him was happy about it. Harry had suspected something might develop between his two best friends for some time now, but nothing serious had ever materialized—and by the time Harry had thought it never would, here he was stuck in an uncomfortable situation.
Ron laughed just then, bringing Harry out of his thoughts and back to the conversation.
"Harry, you're the only guy I know who's already got a line of girls from here to Hogsmeade queuing up to go to the party with you, and you think this is a bad thing. Why don't you just accept one of the—how many has it been now?"
"Twelve and counting." Harry sighed heavily again.
"Okay. Why haven't you said yes to any of the twelve girls that have asked you? Then you won't have to bother asking someone for yourself."
Harry admitted this sounded logical, but only shrugged at his friend, not really knowing why he had turned down all the girls. Only a part of him, that voice in the back of his head that sounded so much like Hermione's, knew the real reason—and Harry was keeping that reason locked away, even from himself at present.
"Hah! I won!" shouted Ron suddenly. "Want to play again?"
Harry shook his head. "I think I've lost enough for one evening, thanks."
"Hey," said Ron, suddenly looking at his watch. "What do you think is keeping Hermione? It's getting rather late."
Harry glanced down at his own watch. Ron was right. It was after eleven o'clock. Hermione was a prefect, so she was occasionally allowed to roam the halls at this time of the night on staff approval, but it was unusual for her to be out this late all by herself. These days, with the threat of Voldemort so imminent, even within the relatively safe walls of Hogwarts, the prefects usually patrolled in pairs.
"I'll go and find her," offered Harry.
Harry had taken over prefect duties for Ron since Professor McGonagall had suspended Ron for "failing to act according to one's obligations as outlined in the prefect appointment book." Harry had never known there was a prefect appointment book, but apparently each student assigned the privilege had to read and sign the book, vowing to uphold what Hermione called, "some of the most important responsibilities of the school, minus those of the professors, of course."
"And all because I let that third year have back his Fanged Frisbee," Ron had grumbled after Professor McGonagall had told him his duties were suspended for a few weeks.
"And you offered to buy him another one since you damaged it while playing that joke on poor Devin Somersby," Hermione had added reproachfully.
"Yeah, well that Slytherin git deserved it, didn't he?" Ron had quipped back in a sulky tone.
"That Slytherin git was a first year," Hermione reminded him, frowning.
"Yeah. So, better to get 'em while they're young!"
"Ron!"
The argument that had ensued lasted a full twenty minutes before Ron gave Harry and Hermione the news that he could appoint his replacement while he was serving a few detentions with Professor McGonagall. Ron had chosen Harry, of course.
"I'd go get her if I was allowed," grumbled Ron to Harry now. "Next time remind me not to get caught when I'm teaching those titchy first years a few lessons."
Harry smirked in Ron's direction, secretly thinking that Hermione had been right. Though he sympathized with his friend, he couldn't really blame Professor McGonagall for her actions. And funnily enough, it gave Harry the chance to be what Dumbledore had told him he ought to have been—the first choice and rightful sixth year male prefect of Gryffindor House.
"She probably fell asleep in the library again," continued Ron, gathering up the chess pieces as he spoke. "Hurry up, will you? You know I want to talk to her before it gets too late."
"Right. See you in a bit," said Harry.
He didn't bother bringing his invisibility cloak with him. Being a prefect, if only for a short period of time, had its advantages.
Stepping out of the portrait hole, he headed in the general direction of the library. But Harry didn't have to walk far before he found Hermione. To his dismay, he realized just what—or rather, who—had delayed her, for she was not alone in the otherwise empty corridor.
"Come on, Hermione. Just say yes."
Great, thought Harry. It was that git, Cormac McLaggen!
"Not again," he muttered under his breath.
Harry inched closer to the pair, trying very hard not to be seen by either one of them. But if McLaggen said what Harry thought he was going to say next, Harry would be ready. He pulled his wand out of his pocket and waited.
"Cormac, I told you before. How many times do I have to tell you no?"
"As many times as it takes before you say yes," he slurred.
McLaggen had Hermione pushed up against a stone column, his arms on either side of her head. His face was leaning in close to hers, so close in fact that Hermione was turning her head away from him though her eyes were wide on his, watching him warily.
McLaggen had been doing this for days, and frankly, Harry was tiring of the whole scene. The stupid oaf had been pestering Hermione about the party every time he found her in a hallway after class, studying in the library, or even eating a meal in the Great Hall. McLaggen had not cared that Harry and Ron were always with her when he asked her. He had not been concerned after numerous threats from the pair or even after Hermione herself had hexed him one afternoon after Advanced Transfiguration. The slime ball would not give up. Apparently, it was time for some drastic action!
Harry was trying very hard to control his temper, but an observer would have seen his eyes blazing bright green in the dimness of the corridor. If McLaggen moved one centimeter closer to her...
"I already told you!" cried Hermione, boldly pushing McLaggen's shoulder away from her and ducking underneath his arm. "I'm going with someone else."
She started walking in the opposite direction from Harry. McLaggen followed her, and Harry trailed them both. Normally, he would have gone right up to them and hexed McLaggen within an inch of his life, but the last time McLaggen had cornered Hermione after their Charms class—and Harry and Ron had threatened to set one of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Screwts on him—she had, to their great surprise, protested that she did not always need them coming to her rescue. It was a ridiculous statement, of course. That was what they always did—come to one another's rescue! But this time, Hermione had said she'd had enough and could handle McLaggen by herself. Ron had complained his ear off that night about her being a "mental case."
"We were just trying to defend her honor. A lot of good it did us!"
Oh, Harry did not doubt Hermione could take care of herself. He knew she could handle McLaggen just fine. She had been the one, after all, who had slapped Draco Malfoy as hard as she could during their third year. But that was not the point. Harry, for one, was not going to simply stop watching out for his friends simply because they asked him to. He was sure Hermione would do the same for him or Ron, if the roles were reversed. In fact, there had been times when Harry had told her and Ron to leave him alone, that he could fight his own battles, that they did not always have to worry about him. It had not done any good then, and it certainly did not apply now.
However, Harry was still sensitive to his friend's wishes. Therefore, he was only going to interfere if it was absolutely necessary. And by the looks of things, he was afraid that was probably going to be any minute now.
He ducked behind a suit of armor just as Hermione and McLaggen stopped walking.
"You're lying," hissed McLaggen. "You're not going with anyone else."
"Yes, I am." Hermione was keeping her cool, much to Harry's amazement, but a look of annoyance was planted very plainly in her dark eyes.
"I don't believe you. I've asked around," McLaggen informed her. "My sources tell me that no one else has asked you. That narrows your options a bit, doesn't it?"
"Well, your sources are wrong," said Hermione haughtily. She started to walk away again, but McLaggen grabbed her arm.
Harry clenched his fingers. He was gripping his wand so tightly, he was losing feeling in his hand.
"I assure you, Her-mi-o-ne," McLaggen drawled her name out very slowly. "No one else has asked you."
She stared him down in return. "Well, maybe I asked him."
Though her voice had been firm, her eyes betrayed her.
McLaggen snorted loudly, then breathed very closely near her ear, "I don't think so."
Harry could see Hermione quivering even at a distance. He took a bold step forward, his wand arm shaking, but stopped when Hermione broke free from McLaggen's grip once more.
"You don't know anything."
"Yes, I do. Do you want to know how I know?" There was such delight in McLaggen's voice that even Harry shivered.
"I threatened to curse them," he said proudly.
"Them? Who?" asked Hermione, wide-eyed.
McLaggen smiled at her. "My sources are very reliable, you see. I knew who was going to ask you to the party. I sent out word that if anyone dared to do it before I did, I would feed their remains to the Giant Squid."
Hermione's eyes grew wider. "You didn't?"
"I did," McLaggen admitted happily. "The only one I knew I couldn't get to was that Weasley kid."
McLaggen spoke as though he was ten years older than Ron instead of merely a year or so.
"He's such a fool," continued McLaggen. "Next Christmas will come before he gets around to asking you. And besides, I heard you telling his sister just this morning that you would turn him down even if he did ask you, that you were waiting for someone else to ask you. Waiting… So, you see—I know you haven't asked anyone yet, and no one else is going to ask you. Now you have no choice."
"I do have a choice," said Hermione, her head held proud, her gaze never faltering from McLaggen's stony eyes. "And I've already made it."
Hermione stood her ground, eye to eye with McLaggen—or at least as eye to eye with him as she could get, considering he was quite taller than her.
"I'm going with Harry."
What?
It was a downright lie, but Harry had to admire her courage.
For a moment, he thought it had worked, that the pompous git would finally back down and admit defeat. But apparently, that wasn't McLaggen's way. Once a bully…
"I don't believe you," McLaggen repeated for the second time that night. "Captain Potter? The Chosen One? There's no way he would ever ask you. You might be his little tag-along-buddy, someone to help him with his homework, but that's all you'll ever be to him."
Hurt shone in Hermione's eyes. Harry was sure that had been McLaggen's intent—to hurt her and to weaken her. Weaken her into saying yes…
Harry had to act fast before his worst fears were confirmed.
"You heard her, McLaggen!" Harry stepped out from behind the suit of armor and strode over to them in seconds. "She's going to the party with me. So just back off!"
Harry was sure Hermione's jaw dropped lower than McLaggen's did at his sudden appearance, not to mention his pronouncement.
"Ah, Potter! We were just having a nice, little chat about you," McLaggen scoffed, his face pulled into a sneer. "You want to set your little girlfriend straight. She seems to be under the delusion that you asked her to Slughorn's Christmas Party."
"Didn't you just hear me?" Harry put one arm around Hermione for effect. He could feel her eyes on him, but his gaze stayed straight, gleaming with more menace than even he had intended toward McLaggen.
"I said Hermione and I are going together. Get it through your thick skull and leave her alone!"
Harry raised his wand in a dangerous manner and finally McLaggen turned away after one long intimidating glare at them. He stopped and threw over his shoulder as a last threat, "That's twice you've wronged me, Potter! So, you'd better watch your back. I won't forget this!"
He stomped away, grumbling under his breath.
As soon as he was gone, Hermione looked at Harry.
"You didn't have to do that." Her tone was not one of admonishment but filled with apology and thanks.
"I know," he told her quietly. He dropped his arm away from her. He was suddenly aware of how close they were standing.
"What are you doing here anyway?" she asked him as they headed back in the direction of the Gryffindor common room. Luckily, McLaggen had gone the other way.
"I came to find you. Ron was getting worried."
He had been worried about her, too, but didn't tell her that.
"Harry, I want you to know—" Hermione started to say, but her words were lost by the arrival of Peeves the Poltergeist, blocking the path before them.
"Oh, what do we have here, little girls and boys?" said Peeves in his sing-song voice. "Potty-wee-Potter and Miss Imperfectly Perfect, out for a midnight stroll."
"Out of the way, Peeves!" said Harry, annoyed as usual by the poltergeist's uncannily-timed appearance.
"Ooh, Miss Purrfect better watch out! For Potty's not one to potter around the bush, eh?"
Trying to ignore Peeves, Harry boldly took Hermione's hand to step around him and continue on their way, but Peeves would not be stayed so easily. An old clock against the wall came crashing down in front of them, sending shards of wood and broken glass smattering around them. The noise was so loud, surely it could have been heard not corridors but floors away! Harry tugged hard on Hermione's hand and led her away from the scene of the crime, certain that—as unlucky as he was—Filch or Mrs. Norris would not be far away.
"Off to hide in a broom closet, Potty? Better make good use of the time in there!" cackled Peeves crudely.
Harry wanted to turn around and shout blasphemy at Peeves, but Hermione was now tugging at his hand instead. She had pulled him off into a side corridor, one that was small and rarely used by most students at Hogwarts. Harry only knew of its existence because he occasionally wandered this way to get away from the noxious crowds.
"Harry, in here!" whispered Hermione frantically.
Before he could wonder at the panic in her voice, he found himself being shoved into a dark room behind a tapestry he had never noticed before. A moment later, he heard rather than saw the reason for Hermione's distress.
"I know you're there! You might as well come forward before I have to drag you out," said a smooth, oily voice.
Snape!
Harry had almost said his name aloud, but Hermione had anticipated him and clapped a warm hand over his mouth.
"Come out, Potter! Now!"
Harry was startled. Obviously, Snape had seen him, but just where he had come from was a mystery to Harry. In that short sprint from the corridor with Peeves to this little room off the side of what was hardly more than a crawlspace, Harry had seen nothing but the whip and whirl of Hermione's bushy brown hair.
"This isn't over," said Snape after some time. Harry wondered if that meant the man was only momentarily giving up, but it was clear he was not going to forget about this little incident the next time he encountered him. Harry would have to make up a good excuse in the meantime.
One minute passed. Then two. Then three. The sound of his own breathing filled Harry's ears. And then silence…
Awareness dawned on Harry. Snape was gone. And Harry was now very much alone in a dark room barely larger than a broom closet, ironically enough, with a girl whose hand was still pressed against his lips and whose hair was temptingly tickling at his ear. As Hermione finally lowered her hand, the lack of sensation put Harry's mind to other places where alluringly unfamiliar feelings were still present. Hermione's thigh was pressed firmly against his, their shoulders lightly touched, and one hand was still clasped in hers.
It didn't matter that she was his best friend. Peeves and Snape had faded to an oblivion. Whatever had come before was lost to him. The fact was that he was a boy and she was a girl; and they were closeted together in a dark room, touching in more places than he was mentally comfortable. But Harry found that he wasn't really thinking with his head just now. In fact, he wasn't thinking at all. And, for once in her life, it seemed that neither was Hermione.
Before Harry knew it, before his brain could even register it, he and Hermione were kissing—kissing like they had never kissed anyone before, kissing as though the world depended on them not to break this miraculous moment of celebratory survival. Her lips were teasing him, inviting him, as her mouth opened beneath his, beckoning him closer to her. Her arms were wrapping around him, and he felt himself responding. Her lips were a summons, a request calling out to him; and he obliged with a silent answer. All that mattered was this moment with Hermione, and then the next one, and the next as they touched each other intimately for the first time. Harry had never really lived heedlessly "in the moment," as he had heard it termed before. Not even the threat of Voldemort had ever made him think that the present was all that truly mattered. There was no future, no past, no repercussions—just temptation, which was as appealing and alluring as the attractive girl in his arms.
How could one move so aimlessly from one vision of life to the next and not really know it until after the fact? For it took many hours, days, even weeks later for Harry to understand how he could go from thinking of his best friend as merely that to… this… whatever this was that was as wonderful and new and completely beyond anything he could have imagined before that day, before that beautiful moment…
But all moments must end. For they lead to other moments, perhaps not as sweet, but inevitable all the same. Harry wanted it to last but knew that it wouldn't, it couldn't…
"Harry," Hermione breathed at last, somewhere between one kiss and the next. "We have to go back."
But they couldn't go back. They could never go back. Not now.
Of course, she had meant they must return to their dormitory. He knew what she had meant, but that didn't make it any easier.
As his mind slowed and started to focus again, he found that it was difficult to disentangle his conscious thoughts from the feelings of his body. He felt disconnected from it, and he allowed Hermione to lead him away from the hidden room in a daze.
They walked in silence all the way back to the portrait hole. Just as they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, however, Harry pulled Hermione aside. His mind had cleared a bit and the lingering effects from their kiss had cooled enough for him to try to say what he needed to say, though he did his best to avoid direct eye contact with her, fearful of what he would find there and what he might feel upon seeing it.
"Ron was going to ask you to go to the party with him tonight, you know," he told her stiffly, head down. "He won't be too pleased that I beat him to it."
"Harry, you don't have to go through with this. I mean... err... it isn't necessary... what you did... I know you didn't really intend to... you were just..."
Harry would have laughed at Hermione being so inarticulate if the situation was a little less serious. Was she speaking of their kiss or McLaggen or both? He guessed at her meaning, though he wasn't entirely certain he was right.
"I was there, remember. I know what I did. And you heard McLaggen. If we back out now, it will only make matters worse. I don't want to put you in that position, though I think Ron may kill me for it."
He may kill me for something else as well, thought Harry grudgingly. What had happened to his doing the right thing? In the space of an hour, all his good intentions had been thrown out and replaced with… What? He didn't know. He only knew he must try to lighten the mood with Hermione, ground himself back in their friendship before his traitorous thoughts offered themselves up for examination. And he wasn't ready for that yet.
"I guess you're stuck with me now," he joked, but Hermione didn't laugh.
He finally looked up at her, and she was staring at him in a way that made him uneasy. For the first time in a very long time, Harry felt uncomfortable with her.
"Coming in, dears?" the Fat Lady spoke, and they both jumped, startled.
"Harry, how much of my conversation with Cormac did you hear?" Hermione whispered, ignoring her.
He knew why she was worried.
"Enough to know that you would have refused Ron," he said. "McLaggen wasn't lying about that, was he? You told Ginny you didn't want to go to the party with Ron."
Hermione nodded her head guiltily.
"Ginny told me he was going to ask me. What are you going to tell him?" she asked nervously.
"The truth," he replied instantly. "Well, most of it."
"Harry, you don't have to lie to him for my sake," she said softly. She touched his arm, and his gaze fell to where her hand rested on his sleeve.
"I'm not going to lie to him. I'm just not going to tell him everything," he replied with a grimace.
"It's going to hurt him," said Hermione, sounding like she was going to cry.
She was right. Ron would be hurt and probably angry.
"It would hurt him more to know he'd never had a chance with you," said Harry quietly after a moment. "Don't worry, Hermione. I will work it out with Ron."
"Harry..." She tried to protest, but he held up one hand to stop her.
"It's better this way."
Better for whom? Harry asked himself. Was it truly better for all of them if he went to the party with Hermione? Cormac had forced this situation on them, but where did the truth lie? Harry had some hard questions to answer, and he wasn't really prepared to ask them to himself.
"You might want to hurry," the Fat Lady spoke again. "Violet just told me Filch is heading this way."
Harry looked at his watch. It was well after curfew now, even for them.
"Come on," he ushered Hermione toward the portrait hole. "We don't need any more trouble tonight."
Ron must have grown tired of waiting up for them, for the common room was empty when they entered it. Harry and Hermione both headed for their respective dormitories without another word until something that had been nagging at the back of Harry's mind suddenly came to the forefront. Just before Hermione was out of sight, Harry spoke up.
"You told Ginny you were waiting for someone else to ask you to the party. Who was it?" he wondered, not sure why he was asking her this, while a part of him realized it was not for the sake of simple curiosity. The kiss lingered in his mind, and suddenly he wanted to know.
Hermione froze, her brown eyes darting toward his green ones. She smiled at him hesitantly.
"It doesn't matter now." She shook her head. "Goodnight, Harry."
"Goodnight, Hermione," he called quietly after her and then proceeded up the stairs to his dorm room and the warmth and comfort of his bed.