She did worry a bit about Professor Lupin, though. She hoped that now that Sirius was married, he wouldn’t forget about his friend. Lupin seemed so lonely sometimes, living in his little cottage off the Hogwarts grounds
“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked, breaking her out of her reverie. “Your face went all serious just then.”
“Oh,” she said vaguely, “just thinking about people missing chances to be happy in their lives — and then being lonely. I guess I was just … wandering.”
He pulled her a little closer. “Hermione, I —“
She caught a flash of red just over his shoulder and pulled back. “Look,” she said. “It’s Blaise and Ron — and Draco and Ginny, behind them. I did wonder if they’d wind up coming to the reception together.”
Harry turned to look, though he didn’t seem as interested as she’d thought he would be. “Blaise and Ron,” he said. “That’s pretty weird.”
She laughed. “And Draco and Ginny isn’t?” They were coming down the steps as she spoke, Draco all white and black like the decorations, Ginny a lick of live flame in a red dress Hermione had never seen her wear before.
She looked beautiful, and electric.
“That’s been brewing for a long time,” said Harry. “Not that I could tell you where it’s going to end up, of course.” He spun her around in a turn, and now she was facing the other end of the grand ballroom, the wall of latticed French doors, each one of which led out onto a private marble balcony. Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum were dancing near them, Fleur speaking sharply to Viktor in French and Viktor nodding along patiently, though as far as Hermione knew, Viktor didn’t speak French. Perhaps he was better off that way.
“Well, of course,” said Hermione. “You never know what makes relationships work or not work. Not from the outside, anyway.” The dancing crowd parted, and she saw Mr and Mrs Weasley dancing together, their arms around one another, looking perfectly content. “But it’s lovely when it does work out, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Harry, “and that’s why—“
“Oh, goodness,” said Hermione interrupting him. “Snape’s here. I’m always surprised when I see him turn up for anything remotely festive.”
She indicated with a jerk of her chin where Snape stood, a foaming mug in his hand, deep in conversation with Charlie Weasley and Lupin. She chuckled. “And some people are married to their work, of course—“
“Hermione,” Harry said, his tone exasperated. “I’ve been trying to say something to you for the past five minutes and you keep interrupting me.
Will you just listen for a second?”
“Oh!” Hermione said, suddenly contrite. “Sorry, I was babbling. What is it?”
“It’s…” Harry began, and hesitated. Hermione looked up at him as if for the first time that evening and saw the hectic color in his cheeks, the sharp brightness of his eyes, the rapid pulse beating in his throat, and became truly alarmed.
“Harry! Is something wrong?”
“No,” he muttered. “Nothing’s wrong,” and with that, he took a firm hold of her wrists and steered her across the dance floor to a shadowy alcove, some distance from the other dancers. “It’s just private.”
“But you’re all right?” she said, scanning his face for clues. “Nothing’s happened?”
He let go of her wrists then and took her face in his hands, his fingertips on her cheeks as light as kisses. The feel of them was so familiar, as everything about Harry was familiar, and beloved as everything about him was beloved, as she might love the best and brightest part of her own self. His eyes were wide, looking down at hers, his breath coming rapidly, and her instinct told her to put her arms around him and hold him and comfort him, for surely only a terrible sort of pain could make him look at her with such an intensity as this.
“Hermione,” he said, before she could move. “Hermione, I’ve got something to ask you…”
“So ask me, Harry,” she said, bewildered. “Whatever it is, you know you can ask me. You can ask me anything.”
He slid his hands down to her shoulders and gripped them tightly, so tightly it hurt. “Hermione,” he said, levelly. “Hermione, will you marry me?”
She felt her eyes fly open, her heart stop, and she wondered if all of her might suddenly stop as she fainted dead away like Sleeping Beauty wounded by the needle. But no, she was just Hermione Granger, not a fairytale princess, and she couldn’t faint dead away on command — no matter how much she wished she could when she looked up at Harry’s face, Harry’s beautiful, beloved, so-familiar face, his green eyes so wide and hopeful, and said:
“No, Harry. No. I couldn’t possibly. I’m sorry, but no.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you introduced me to your parents?” Blaise inquired as they moved — fairly gracefully, Ron felt, considering his lack of serious dancing experience — across the polished marble floor of the Manor ballroom. “I mean now that we’re officially out, so to speak, to your friends.”
“I suppose,” said Ron reluctantly. He couldn’t help wondering how Blaise, beautiful and sophisticated as she was, would react to his down-to-earth, slightly shabby family situation. He tried to picture her casually pitching in to help his Mum with the washing up, and failed utterly.
“Ashamed of me, are you?” Blaise demanded, fixing him with a piercing green stare. “I’m all right for a bit on the side, but when it comes to introducing me to your parents —“
“I never thought of you as a bit on the side!” Ron protested, though he sensed that this, like most arguments with Blaise, was a battle he was going to lose. Mostly because she didn’t play fair. It was like dating Malfoy — if, he reminded himself quickly, Malfoy were a girl. A hot girl. Malfoy was neither of those things. In fact, it wasn’t like dating Malfoy at all. He wished that thought had never occurred to him.
“What on earth is wrong with you, Ron?” Blaise demanded, executing a complex turn and steering him along like a small barge as she did so.
“You’ve turned a horrible green color. Surely the idea of introducing me to your family isn’t that nightmarish.”
