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"Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is one of the top students in the school..."
When he read the article, Harry barely noticed Rita Skeeter's description of Hermione, sickened as he was by all of the lies the reporter had published about him. Later, however, as he endured the endless taunting that the fabrications had provoked, his brain apparently decided to catch on the one part of the article that hadn't caused him that much grief.
"Stunningly pretty..." He recalled the words as he surreptitiously glanced at Hermione, who was, as always, sitting beside him in the library, trying to help him finally manage the summoning charm.
He was pretty sure that he wasn't allowed to think of Hermione as pretty. She was, after all, his best friend. And, at the moment, it felt like she was his only friend, considering that no one else he thought was a friend had believed that he didn't put his name in the Goblet of Fire. Which hurt, a lot.
"Are you staring at me?" she asked when he had thought she was focused on the textbook in front of them.
"Sorry." He quickly looked away, but then back at her. "I was just thinking, I'm really glad you're here with me. That you believed me about... you know."
"Of course I believed you, I'm not an idiot."
He scoffed. "What does that say about everyone else?"
She made a face. "They'll come around, Harry. For the moment, however, we need to focus on this." She tapped the book in front of them, her teeth starting to worry her bottom lip the way they did when she was anxious.
"Your teeth are different," he blurted, the observation reaching his brain no sooner than the words left his mouth.
She froze for a moment, but then smiled, showing off the change. "Yes, I had Madam Pomfrey shrink them a bit more than necessary. They're a normal size now."
Harry stared, his brain getting inordinately stuck on the change. "They look... different."
Her face fell, and she frowned at him.
He quickly caught himself. "I mean... I didn't mean for it to come out that way. I just mean... you look pretty. I mean, you don't look pretty, your teeth look pretty."
That didn't help.
"I mean, you do look pretty. You are pretty. I just mean... your teeth..." He shut his eyes and groaned. "I'm sorry, I'm terrible at this."
But she was giggling now, and he opened his eyes again to find her red-faced, her hands over her mouth as she failed to contain herself.
"Very funny," he grumbled.
But then a shadow fell over the table, and her laughter died as they both looked up at Madam Pince, who was watching them with one brow arched over a stony frown.
"We're sorry, Madam Pince," she said sheepishly, quickly returning her attention to the book.
Harry averted his gaze from both of them, his face very hot. He decided that Rita Skeeter was to blame for this.
* * *
"I look like such an idiot, sitting here on my own," Hermione muttered as she pulled out her S.P.E.W. notebook and placed it in front of her on the table in the corner of the Three Broomsticks.
"You don't look like an idiot," Harry countered, sitting unseen beside her beneath his invisibility cloak. "You look..."
"I look what?" she asked impatiently, frowning at the very short list of members whom she had drafted into S.P.E.W.
But the description provided by Rita Skeeter was back in Harry's head, and he bit his tongue. "You look smart," he offered instead, quite feebly.
She scoffed. "Well I should hope so. I always look smart, don't I? Like a know-it-all, some might say."
"That isn't what I meant."
"Except not right now, when, by all appearances, I'm sitting alone at this table and talking to myself. Will you please take off the cloak?"
"No," he insisted stubbornly, quickly looking around. "No one is looking at you, anyway. If I were to suddenly appear out of nowhere, they would all start looking."
She gave an exaggerated sigh and began ignoring him.
He sipped his butterbeer beneath the cloak, trying to watch the other people in the pub, but his gaze kept returning to her. It had kept happening ever since that day in the library when he accidentally-not-accidentally called her pretty. It was as though saying it aloud had caused the idea to become lodged in his head, had affirmed Skeeter's description of her. Stunningly pretty. And Skeeter, as the however-many-years-old woman that she was, had much more experience that qualified her to judge who was pretty than Harry himself did, so who was he to say that she was wrong, especially when he was increasingly aware that she wasn't?
Still, he was also increasingly aware of just how dangerous it was to think of his all-important friend, his one remaining friend, as pretty at a time when she was working so hard to help him survive the Triwizard Tournament. The very last thing that he could do right now was say something that might scare her away from spending so much time with him.
"I can't tell if you're looking at me or not," she said suddenly.
"I'm not," he lied. When she frowned, however, he tried to turn it into a joke. "Or am I?"
"Very funny."
* * *
He didn't react as Madam Pomfrey dabbed the smoking and stinging purple liquid onto his shoulder. Compared to the feeling of the Hungarian Horntail's long tail spike grazing his shoulder and tearing open the wound, the pain of Madam Pomfrey cleaning it was nothing, and he was nothing but grateful when she then proceeded to heal him with just a poke of her wand.
"Now just sit quietly for a moment—Sit!—and then you can go and get your score."
But he was far too wired to sit. As soon as she was out of sight, he stood, making for the exit, only for Hermione to nearly crash into him as she bolted inside.
"Harry, you were brilliant!"
He stared at her, at her pretty face marred by fingernail marks that she must have made herself as she worried about him. And he thought of all the work she'd put in that had helped him master the summoning charm, that had saved his life.
"You were amazing!" she continued. "You really were—"
But he proceeded to cut her off in a manner that surprised himself as much as her: by giving her the very first hug that he had ever initiated on his own. She gave a little squeak of surprise as he did his best to imitate the tightness of her hugs, to show her just how much he appreciated her, just how relieved and grateful he was that she had stuck by him over these past weeks. His shoulder wasn't thrilled with him for the motion and the pressure the hug placed on it, but he ignored the pain in favor of basking in this moment with his friend.
"Thank you, Hermione," he murmured.
"Erm," she replied breathlessly, belatedly hugging him back.
There was a noise that came from neither of them, and he looked up, realizing for the first time that Ron had entered the tent behind Hermione. His face was very white, but now it was darkening as he watched Harry and Hermione hug. Harry's elation faded a little as he watched that same jealousy that had tainted Ron's face for the past weeks color it now, and he scowled at his first—but certainly not best—friend. Ron returned the scowl, then turned and stormed back out.
Harry allowed himself a little sigh, but then refocused on keeping Hermione in his tight hug for as long as she wished. If Ron wanted to keep being a prat, he could go right ahead.
* * *
"Potter, a word, if you please."
Harry froze, and Hermione paused beside him, watching as the rest of the Gryffindors filed out of the Transfiguration classroom ahead of them. "Is everything alright, Professor?" she asked McGonagall, obviously as confused as Harry was about why he was being asked to remain in the classroom.
"Yes, Miss Granger. You may await Potter outside the classroom if you wish."
She frowned, clearly keen to know what the problem was, but turned to Harry. "I'll be right outside," she whispered, briefly grasping his wrist in a light squeeze. Then she made for the exit.
"Wait, Miss Granger." They both looked at the professor in surprise. "On second thought, perhaps it would be best for you to hear this together with Mr. Potter." There was a slight smile on McGonagall's face as she said this, and Hermione matched that expression as she immediately returned to Harry's side.
"What is it, Professor?" Harry asked.
"Potter, the champions and their partners—"
"Partners?" he interjected. Hermione's hand returned to his wrist to stop him from interrupting again.
"Your partners for the Yule Ball, Potter. Your dance partners."
He recoiled. "Dance partners? I don't dance."
"Oh yes, you do. That's what I'm telling you. Traditionally, the champions and their partners open the ball.
Harry swallowed hard, glancing at Hermione, who looked a bit nervous for him herself. "I'm not dancing," he insisted to McGonagall.
"It is traditional. You are a Hogwarts champion, and you will do what is expected of you as a representative of the school." Her gaze, now very stern, briefly shifted to Hermione. "I suggest you find yourself a partner who will assist you in preparing for the ball and practicing dancing, and you will therefore be far less apprehensive about your role by the time the ball comes around."
Harry looked at Hermione, whose eyes had gone wide. When she met his gaze, however, she forced confidence into her face, and even gave a playful little roll of her eyes. "Oh of course I'll help you."
Harry felt his nerves calm, if only a tiny bit, as he thought of Hermione carefully guiding him through the steps of a dance, her hands warm in his. "You'll be my dance partner?"
Her eyes went wide all over again. "Oh, I thought I would help you find... No, of course I'll be your partner, if you would like me to. We'll go to the ball together as friends. But is that what you want?"
He nodded immediately, relieved. He was absolutely certain to make a fool of himself in his first attempts to dance, and no one else would have the patience to offer him as much help as he would need. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Harry."
"Very good," said McGonagall, her slight smile back.
* * *
He was quite surprised to find that he enjoyed practicing dancing with Hermione. If it were anyone else, he would be very uncomfortable, but she was the one person whom he trusted completely, and she already knew about his lack of dancing experience and was already versed in helping him with, well, everything. So, even though he was still a bit embarrassed as she guided him through the basic steps of ballroom dancing, he was able to focus on her instructions and on learning the steps, knowing that she wasn't judging him for his failures, and enjoy learning the new movements.
He also, surprisingly, enjoyed being physically close to her. Being physically close to Hermione wasn't technically a new thing. She was the only person who had ever given him a hug, after all, and she had done so multiple times by now, and he had given her his only hug so far after the first task. She had also clung to him in terror as they rode on Buckbeak several months ago, and regularly slid close to him in the library when she was showing him something in a book. But this was the first time that he really focused on the fact of being physically close to her, because it was an integral part of the dancing, and not only was he completely comfortable with the proximity, but he even relished it.
He also, because he kept looking at her at this close proximity, kept noticing that she really was pretty, and he decided that maybe it was okay for him to notice that when they were dancing together.
By the time the ball arrived, he was fairly confident that he would be okay dancing with her in front of others, and he was even a little bit excited about it. It would be different from dancing with her in private, he knew, and he never much enjoyed having so much attention on himself, but so long as he could focus his own attention on her when he needed to, perhaps it would be fun to surprise everyone with his newfound dancing ability.
So, as he awaited her in the common room in the bottle-green dress robes that Mrs. Weasley selected for him, he felt more eager than apprehensive. That all went entirely out the window the moment she came into view on the girls' staircase.
Wow.
She was... Wow.
She smiled at his reaction, but he couldn't manage any expression back, considering his jaw was limp and his tongue suddenly felt too heavy for his mouth.
"Hi," she said quietly. He couldn't manage any response. Everyone in the common room was staring at her, and Harry couldn't blame them, even when she took a step closer to him as red started to color her cheeks. "Are you okay?" she asked.
"Er..." He worked his jaw, his tongue still feeling heavy and useless.
"You look handsome."
"Er," he repeated. He finally managed to close his mouth, smiling weakly at her.
"We're supposed to go downstairs, aren't we?"
"Yeah." He finally managed a proper-ish word.
"In that case..." She closed the rest of the distance between them and took his hand.
"You look..." he started.
"Yes?" she prompted, gently pulling him towards the portrait hole.
His brain still not working right, he fell back on Rita Skeeter's description of her. "Stunningly pretty." It no longer seemed to do her justice.
Her cheeks darkened. "Thank you."
He tripped on the way through the portrait hole, causing her to giggle lightly. "Are you okay?" she asked again.
"Yeah," he muttered, certain that his own blush was now darker than hers.
It felt like a small miracle that they managed to reach the Entrance Hall without further incident. The other three champions were standing around Professor McGonagall, along with Cho Chang, Roger Davies, and a dark-haired Durmstrang girl. "Mr. Potter, Miss Granger," said McGonagall, giving them each an appraising look, "good of you to finally join us."
"We're sorry, Professor," Hermione replied brightly. Her blush returned a bit at the way that Cedric, Roger, Viktor, and even Cho were all staring at her, and she lightly squeezed Harry's hand. "We're ready now."
McGonagall eyed their joined hands, her small smile returning for a fleeting moment. "In that case, let us proceed."
* * *
Harry barely paid any attention to the conversation at dinner, even when Hermione giggled at Dumbledore's comment about the room full of chamber pots. He was torn between wanting to look at her the whole time and not wanting to look at her at all.
Stunningly pretty, he reminded himself. Skeeter already pointed it out, she was stunningly pretty. It was just that everyone was getting to see it tonight, including him. It really shouldn't be a big deal.
And perhaps it wasn't. She was still Hermione Granger, after all, and that was what mattered. She was still his Hermione.
When the time came for the dancing, therefore, he forced himself to confidently take her hand again and follow the other champions onto the floor. When he was facing her, however, staring at her lovely face and sleek and shiny hair and the periwinkle-blue dress robes that flattered her so much better than the Hogwarts robes did, that confidence faltered again.
"It's just like we practiced," she said, putting his hands into position.
Just like they practiced. He repeated the words in his head, glancing at the other champions around them as they all awaited the music. Hermione's warmth radiated into his palm, her dress robes much thinner than the layers she wore when they practiced.
But then they were dancing, and he fared well. It was just like when they practiced, even if her full beauty was now on display in a way it never had been before. Even if she'd never felt quite so warm beneath his hand. Even if she was gazing at him with a mix of pride and something else that made his face feel exceptionally hot.
She was his Hermione, helping him like she always was, and this was just like they practiced.
They danced through the first song, and then another, and then another. He didn't want to stop.
"You're doing really well," she breathed, her face shining.
"It's all because of you."
"I was worried about you. Especially after your reaction when you saw me tonight."
"You look stunningly pretty."
"You said that already."
"Well, it's true."
Her cheeks colored and she moved a little closer to him. They danced through a couple more songs, and then she suggested they take a small break.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"Yes, it's just that these shoes aren't very forgiving. I need to rest my feet for a moment." She led him back over to their table, which was now vacant. As they sat down, he kept watching her.
"Are you just going to stare at me the whole time?"
He quickly looked away. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay, I don't mind." She stretched out her legs and rolled her ankles. "I like looking like this. Although the hair potion is too much of a bother to deal with regularly."
He looked at her hair. "I like it either way," he decided.
"That's good to know." Straightening her shins beneath her again, she leant back and looked towards the dance floor.
He followed her gaze. Most of the boys who were still dancing were far more skilled than he was, even with the practicing, and his confidence faltered again. "I'm sorry I'm a terrible dancer."
"I told you you did very well."
"But only because of you. If you want to go and dance with someone better, you're welcome to."
"I'm quite happy with you, actually."
"Really?"
"Yes." She was looking earnestly at him. "I like you."
His heart did something odd in his chest. "You wouldn't like me more if I were a better dancer?"
"No, I like you very much, just as you are."
He gripped his chair. "You do?"
"Yes."
He swallowed. "It's, erm, very hot in here, isn't it?"
"Want to go for a walk?"
He immediately nodded and stood, and helped her to her feet. "Are your feet okay now?"
"Yes." Keeping hold of his hand, she led him towards the exit and through the Entrance Hall. Outside, the air was very warm for December, undoubtedly the result of a powerful warming charm. Fairy lights were fluttering over the rose garden, and several couples had already made themselves comfortable on the benches.
"I've been thinking about Rita Skeeter's article," he admitted.
"I gathered that much."
"She was very fair in her description of you. That was the only thing she got right, really."
"That's your opinion."
"You really are very pretty."
"I am tonight, perhaps. Not usually."
"I disagree. I was already agreeing with her before tonight."
"You were?"
"Yes. You're always pretty."
She looked skeptical. "You really think so?"
"Yes."
Her thumb rubbed lightly over his knuckle. "You're just saying that."
"No, I'm not. I wasn't letting myself think about it all that much, but it was certainly occurring to me."
"When?"
"In the library after the article first came out, and then again at the Three Broomsticks, and then when we were practicing dancing."
"You thought I was pretty all those times?"
"You're always pretty," he repeated.
She stopped walking, tugging lightly on his hand, and he turned to face her. "So then why haven't you done anything about it?"
"What?"
"Well, if you think I'm pretty, why haven't you, you know..." She stepped closer to him, letting go of his hand and raising hers up to rest on his chest.
"What should I have done?"
She gazed into his eyes. "I've also been thinking about the article. Specifically, about her lie about us dating. No one really reacted to that part, you know. It's like everyone just thinks it would make sense if we were dating."
"Do you think it would make sense?"
"I didn't before, since you've never seemed interested in me that way. But if you really think I'm pretty..."
"I do."
"Then..."
"And you like me very much?"
"I do."
"I like you very much, too."
"Good. In that case..." She drifted even closer to him.
"So do you think it would make sense now?"
"There are certainly better arguments to be made for it now."
"That doesn't really answer the question."
"You haven't asked the real question yet."
"What?"
"Nor have you done something else that I would really like you to do right now."
Now he was really confused. "Er, what do you mean?"
"Harry..."
"What? What do you want me to do?"
"How close is my face to yours right now?"
He blinked as he realized just how close she was to him now. She had kept moving closer and closer to him. "Very close." He didn't want to move away, however.
"And why is that?"
"I don't know."
She rolled her eyes. "It's because I want you to kiss me, you idiot."
"Oh, you do?"
"Yes, please."
He did so. Her lips were warm, and a soft, lovely noise sounded in her mouth when his touched it. She pressed her lips against his and he did the same.
"That was nice," she said when they broke apart.
"Yeah, it was."
"So would you like to do it again?"
"Yes." He kissed her again, and then again and again. And as he did, the first line of that paragraph from Skeeter's article echoed in his head. "Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts."
She was right about that, too.