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The man raised his cheerful eyes from the newspaper, and peeped at her for a few seconds with his most innocent look. When her severe expression made it clear that he couldn’t get easily out of this one, he tried to hide his sheepish smile behind the publication.

“Something for James. I’m waiting for the owl to come back to send it over,” he muttered, hoping that she would be satisfied with this answer.

Of course, she wasn’t.

“Fleamont,” Mrs. Potter took a step toward the brown wrapping, and lifted it in the air to inspect it. “I swear to Merlin, if you get my son into detention once more -”

Mr. Potter clicked his tongue on his palate, and dropped the Daily Prophet on his lap, half-purposefully slapping the Minister of Magic’s squeamish face, “May I remind you, darling, that this was an accident. Minerva oughtn’t to punish her students because-”

“Somebody’s hair has turned into sheep fur? No, surely not,” Mrs. Potter burst, trying to decipher the letters that labelled the bottle—for it was a bottle, in the parcel—through the thick paper. “Mind you, maybe when one or two students get such a relooking, one could think of a mistake in the shampoo brewing. But when half the staff walks around the castle with a fleece on their head for an entire week, with not charm to solve it-” When she looked down from the little package, her husband had found cover once more behind an outraged Minister of Magic. “ Fleamont .”

“Fine,” Mr. Potter said, sending the newspaper flying to the other end of the room. “I might have sent James some Mutton Mixture for testing last time, but this is a completely safe product.” He stood up, and gently took the parcel from his wife’s hand. “Which I am going to send right now, with a public owl, so there will be peace again under this roof.”

Mr. Potter left a little peck on his wife’s cheek, took his hat from the coat rail, and opened the door.

“Fleamont,” Mrs. Potter called again, “What is it for?”

She just heard the words “impress” and “girl” before she was alone for good in the house.

 ***

James’ feet-tapping had become so irksome that Sirius couldn’t get himself to gulp down any food anymore.

“Alright. What is it, Prongs?”

For an answer, James only beamed—and Sirius very much felt like throwing him the rest of his porridge square in the face. Hadn’t it been for Remus-

“What Pads is trying to say, Prongs,” the lanky boy articulated between two mouthfuls of tart, “Is that you’re fucking annoying, beating some dumb rhythm and looking like you’ve been told that Snivellus got bitten by a Blast-ended Skrewt.”

“Has he?” Peter shrilled. His eager expression faded when Sirius muttered that no, but he wished.

Ignoring this, James leaned toward the pumpkin juice carafe, placed between their four plates.

“I have a plan,” he whispered, and his eyes immediately darted to the redheaded girl that was sitting at the far end of the bench.

Sirius dropped his head, and Remus and Peter groaned, but the three boys listened nonetheless.

***

Everything was clear in James’ head.

Ever since Lily had come back from summer vacations, she hadn’t stopped going on about this Muggle spy movie. She loved the actor, she loved the story, she loved the character, and she couldn’t stop gushing about it all.

Of course, this annoyed James very much.

It’s not like him and Lily were good friends—or were friends at all, to be honest—but they were on fairly good terms, and James was working his way to become her hero—it is a truth universally acknowledged that girls fall in love with their heroes. So the fact that a fictional bloke was standing in his way was clearly the worst of all things.

To bypass the whole my-crush-of-forever-keeps-swooning-over-a-fictional-dude-and-thus-does-not-notice-me-as-she-should situation, James had first brooded quite a lot. But as he was not too much of the emo type—it made him too similar to a certain slimehead he found absolutely repulsive—, he had tried to get Marlene and Dorcas to talk Lily out of her fangirling. Which would have worked, had he not gotten not too politely rebuked for apparently acting like a creep.

James had considered every other solution, but had come out with none that would work: dueling, arranging a date with another girl, and pranking would of course be pointless, as the guy was fictional, for Merlin’s sake;  throwing a tantrum or threatening to fling himself from the astronomy tower seemed to be a bit dramatic, and he doubted that McGonagall would ever forgive him if he wrote “Hey Lily, I am here,” on any wall of the castle.  She still hadn’t forgiven him for the last time he’d done it.

So, at this point, James had found himself in quite a dead end, and Lily kept talking about that cold-blooded, heart-stealing spy with flushed cheeks.

Yet, one day-

One day, James heard the name of the character, and something clicked in his head.

He had a plan.

***

“Do we tell him or-?”

Remus slapped Sirius round the head, “Come on Pads, James is our best friend. Between having a good laugh, or telling him the truth, we shouldn’t even hesitate.”

As they watched the bespectacled boy climbing the stairs to the common room, parcel at hand, the three-fourth of the Marauders grinned, loyal to their rebellious teenager natures.

“‘Course we ain’t telling him,” Peter concluded.

***

As James got out of the bathroom, an electric silence fell in the sixth year Gryffindors’ room.

“So?” he asked, wiping the mist away from his glasses with the fabric of his t-shirt.

The three other young men thanked Merlin that he couldn’t see shit without those, because it let them enough time to regain their composure.

“Mate,” Sirius said, when his best friend's hazel eyes finally put his face into focus.

He whistled, and that seemed to be enough to James. He looked at his friends with expectancy,

“Are you coming to witness my triumph?”

A little silence followed, and Remus considered throwing himself out of the window to avoid chuckling. But this would mean missing the next scene, so not thank you.

“‘Course,” Sirius said, his face professionally solemn.

“Wouldn’t want to miss that,” Remus added, skillfully turning his snort into a cough.

James sought Peter’s answer, but the boy just nodded. (Fact is, he had a part to add too, but he was chewing the inside of his cheeks really hard, and didn’t trust himself to contain his laughter otherwise.)

James beamed, and turned around, riding one of his hands in his messy hair. (That hadn’t changed.)

As the boys followed him toward the common room, Sirius let out his umpteenth groan, and Peter nearly suffocated.

***

“Oi, Evans!”

At the sound of James’ voice, Lily prepared herself to execute the most massive eye-roll in history of eye-rolls. What did he want, now? Couldn’t she study in peace on a Sunday morning? Considering the looks she spotted on her friends’ faces, their inner voices were shouting the same.

Still, when Lily turned around, a salty remark already on the tip of her tongue, all the air was knocked out of her lungs, and her jaw dropped somewhere near the floor. 

For a second, she considered that the sunlight coming through the window might be playing her some wicked trick.

“James-” she whispered in shock, struggling for words that didn’t want to line up in her mind. “You’re- you’re-”

“You’re blond!” Marlene squeaked, raising a hand to her mouth, only to let it drop soon after.

To her cry, all the students in the room looked up from their books, essays, or games of exploding snaps. Some of them gasped, while the other half choked on their saliva.

“Yes,” James said, puffing his chest up with a smug smile. “Like that Muggle spy you always talk about, Evans.”

He wriggled his eyebrows at Lily, in that ridiculous way that he surely believed was charming.

Some sort of noise escaped Lily’s throat—similar to the squeaks that Peter made when somebody told him it was exams day—and said boy had to take one of the cushions from the couch to muffle his wave of giggles.

From the floor, Mary and Dorcas were still staring with open mouths, and the former braced herself, blushing for James, hoping that Lily wouldn’t be too hard on him: it was a cute thought, after all.

“What,” James asked, when the awkwardness in the room became so palpable that even he could sense it. “Have I grown a horn or-”

“See, Prongs,” Remus finally said, torn between a smile of pure amusement, or one of slight guilt. “The fact is that-”

“You look like him,” Lily cut across the lanky boy, springing from the floor. “You exactly look like James Blond.”

Sirius’ expression went from I’m-on-the-verge-of-dying-from-laughter to excuse-me-but-what-the-fuck??

“It’s-” her voice came out a bit strangled, laughter threatening to burst from her throat at the realization of his misinterpretation, but she checked herself, and swallowed.

She couldn’t entirely bite back her smile, though, but made it as gentle as she could. There was even a slight hint of red on her cheeks.

“It was kind of stupid of you, Potter-”

She was close enough to him now for his nose to face her forehead. One of her hands rose, as if to touch the pseudo-sunburned streaks of his hair, but she seemed to ditch the idea. Instead, she propped herself on the point of her toes, and left a swift kiss on his cheek.

“But it’s a nice surprise.”

When she left towards the dormitory, holding a hand to her mouth, the Marauders were so surprised that Sirius forgot to whistle.

***

It turned out that Mr. Potter had been quite mistaken about his affirmation: they dying lotion wasn’t as safe as he’d believed. Just like it had happened with the Mutton Mixture, the Blonde Brew lasted one week before starting to fade away.

Now, I could leave to you the task of imagining how these seven days went by, but something tells me that, maybe, you’d like to hear it from me.

The first to notice, apart from the Gryffindor students, was a very confused Filch. During his morning stroll, before which he had maybe drank a cup too much, it caused him a shock to see a blonde replica of James Potter—for his first thought was that it was a clone of his worst nightmare wandering around, you see. Filch ran to Mrs. Pomfrey in panic, and swore to never drink a drop of firewhiskey again, or it’d cause him a stroke, sooner or later. He instead moved on to vibringvodka.

When Professor McGonagall and a couple of other teachers came across James, in the hallways, they blinked furiously for a couple of seconds, but did not even try to understand. There was some relief in their countenance, as if they were just glad their own hair hadn’t been turned into something else, this time.

Professor Dumbledore eyed James’ mane very intently during dinners, and envied him this dazzling color for a while, while Professor Slughorn got quite distracted by the change, and blew some cauldrons during lessons.

As for the core of the Hogwarts student, anyone who even thought about telling James about his little mistake ended up jinxed, spluttering slugs instead of words. Said students never knew how it happened to them, but when they turned around to race toward the Hospital Wing, they’d always bypass a redhead, her rosy cheeks stretched in a fond smile.

1. Hand kiss

When they first met, Tom had kissed her hand in greeting. Politeness had been ingrained into him long since Mrs. Cole took care of him. It hadn't meant anything at the time, nor did Tom himself care of the gesture. He simply kept it cordial.

The pleasantries had been dull that day, but Tom supposed that, that particular day had been appropriate to have met her.

If it had been another person, Tom wouldn’t come back to that day, or second when their eyes locked. It hadn’t been romantic. But it also hadn’t been the last time he saw her.

2. Cheek kiss

It had been her turn to incite a connection with each other. From the handful of meetings, they’ve encountered, Tom had first believed that she was not like the rest. Her own porcelain skin had often sent shivers to his own when they shook hands or when she kissed his cheek goodbye.  

He never really stopped her when she approached him, her affection had been genuine enough. Much more than the other crowds that had made their rounds. It had been from that innocence of contact that made it surreal.  

Because, when it became a norm, Tom had wanted more.

3. Forehead kiss

He had been sick in bed on that odd Sunday when she came over to his room. Wools had few guests, and when it had been summer, Tom had no visitors. Nobody came, and Tom had never cared. Until Lovegood came. She brought a cherry tune with her outlandish hats and skirts. By the window she had pulled the curtains away and told him a story.  

He couldn’t remember all the details from it; but when she left, he did recall how her soft lips on his forehead made his skin flush. It had been too tender someone like him.  

4. Jaw kiss

The kiss on his jaw had been an accident.

He knew that. So, did she. But it still had made his wide-eyed and, made his breath get cut off as he studied how her own eyes mirrored his bewilderment. It should have angered him that Lovegood had made him dumbstruck in a public place.  

And yet, he couldn’t. Not when he quickly cleared his throat and hoped that no one had seen him lose his composure. He wanted to curse out loud, but he didn't’ when he looked back and saw Lovegood’s face flushing back when he caught her stare.  

5. Back kiss

In the future, when they have gained enough courage with themselves and each other, Tom learned how to be tender. Careful. And she had rewarded him with her love and acceptance.  

His own soul felt it when he kissed her bare back. It had been a quiet moment. Of Tom and Luna living together and waking up every morning. Something like had never been a possibility for him. But when she came into his life, Tom took it. Her attention, her laughter and love. He never looked back when she called out his name. Not when he knew of her.

6. Knuckle/ palm kiss

Luna had always the tendency to explore the remote places. And with him as her companion, Tom kissed her knuckles and palms. He didn’t know why he started the trend; but he loved it when he did. As if, to mark his love with her skin. He didn’t bruise her with his kissed all the time.  

Tom just wanted Luna to know that he loved her. To tell her that his life was better with her in it. So, her knuckles and palms had been the first places he kissed. To vow each day that he would always follow her.  

7. Temple kiss

Just like the jaw kiss, it had happened on a public place, however, it had been on a cold night, where the Christmas lights made it romantic.  

He still hadn’t been able to tell Luna that she remained in his dreams, or that he had been falling in love with her since the forehead kiss. Tom never considered himself to be a coward; but he could not deny that when she kissed him, he felt so light and confused.  

The kiss he gave her had been under a mistletoe, and on the temple. But it had made them go forward.  

8. Gum/ lipstick kiss

Tom didn’t hate sweets. But he also didn’t fancy them.  

February had been one of those months that he couldn’t like despite Luna introducing him into different brands of candy during their outings. He didn’t have much a preference in them either. He could only think back of them were their artificial dying and degrees in sweetness and sour.  

“Tom, try this one.”  

He lowered his head enough to see her lips colored bright red. There had been no obvious candy in sight but when tasted her lips he understood it. Strawberries and cherries. He kissed her again in appreciation.  

9. Shoulder kiss

By twilight, her curls were loosely messy, her eyes still bright-eyed and happy despite the weather changing. Her dress had started to stick closer to her figure with the rain falling rapidly. She hadn’t surprised him with her being one of the few to dancing.

He didn’t walk away from the scene; he embraced her eccentricity. Luna’s small frame felt like home when he wrapped his arms around her. The world’s noises would fade, and all that would be left would be Luna’s humming, their breathing in sync and the soft kiss on his shoulder when his head sheltered Luna’s.  

10. Stomach kiss

Three years since their marriage had left Tom Riddle happier than ever. Tom Riddle could proudly say that he was not the same boy when he first met Luna Lovegood. A whole decade later had separated his fifteen old self. In a cozy cottage, where the wild flowers bloom all year long, his heart soared with his wife sketching their view of tall trees and a stream nearby.  

Her long summer dress couldn’t hide how her stomach had a noticeable bump now. As he went to greet her, he didn’t resist the reflex to bend down to kiss her stomach.

11. Ear kiss

It had been interesting and quite awkward kiss, Luna had been reading while Tom had still been too young and unsure of their bundling relationship. He knew that when they were intimate they weren’t like the rest. But he still had wondered if he had ever known how to properly woo her.  

It had made him feel so childish and immature the way he hunched his shoulders. Of how he murmured her name while the train whistled. She hadn’t moved an inch, but he could tell that she heard him. He miscalculated where her cheek was and kissed her ear.  

12. Collarbone kiss

He was human. No matter how many times he kept himself composed, Luna was just that one person that knew how to undo his concentration. He remembered that New Year’s party when they both attended together. Her dress had been unique as it had been fashionable, thanks to her friends picking her outfit. The color had made her stand out, and the design itself had made him unable to keep one arm wrapped around her waist the whole night.  

In the end, when it was all over, her collarbone had been left bruised along with the rest of her body.

13. Neck kiss

It surprised most folks that when it came to biting and neck kissing, it hadn’t been Tom that was the first incorporate it between themselves. Luna’s own dominating passion had been like a river that had drowned by the sea. He liked that he was consumed by her love.  

She never had trouble expressing herself in public or in private. He had always enjoyed that perk, and when she kissed his neck, he could feel it. It had been a different kind of expression of her love, a raw likeness that drove him mad. Something that he would always encourage.

14. On the lips  

Being with her had always been so liberating. She made him laugh, made his heart open and if Tom could really be honest with himself, she had given him a chance to ride out the monster from within him when she stayed with him. They traveled together after Uni, had odd jobs and eventually, they came to the day when Tom had on knee on the ground.  

***

“Are you ready?”

The knocking on the door intensifies, and Hermione shudders.

How long has she been lying here? Not so long, if the person on the door hasn’t stopped making noise already. It’s starting to annoy her. Her head is throbbing.

“Mione, love, it’s late. We have to be there in fifteen minutes. Ron says we should leave-”

“Ron said we should leave.”

“Really? He doesn’t want to come?”

“He said he’ll catch up on us. Plus, he seems a bit afraid of getting closer than ten feet to you. I reckon he said something about damaging a book...”

Hermione shrugged, and Harry smiled to himself. Ron hadn’t told him anything about any book, or anything at all. He was not even aware that they were going to Hogsmeade together, since Lavender got the most of his attention lately. But Hermione didn’t know that.

Her hands deep in her pockets, she engaged another conversation, and soon the topic that Harry dreaded, the question of why they were going alone, was far away from their minds.

The sky was calm, but the cruel cold was cutting into their skin, and Hermione caught herself longing for a hug.

, she wondered what was wrong with her lately. Why did she keep liking Harry’s company better than Ron’s? Why did she desperately want to sit next to him in every class? Why did she crave the same food he did? But she promptly found rational answers: Ron was being something of a jerk, the classrooms were crammed, and the mashed potatoes were the best dish on the table.

So why was she wishing for a hug now?

Shaking her head slightly, she reassured herself: she just wanted a best friends hug. Nothing more.

Ugh… She’d convince herself of it much more if she listened to what he was saying.

“So Trelawney came in, and I didn’t know she was going to be so angry-”

Harry ruffled his hair more than it already was, and Hermione had to bite the inside of her cheek to avoid smiling too obviously.

Exasperated at herself, she decided to look elsewhere.

“But you know, she’s always predicting my death, and one day she’ll be the cause of it. I mean, people die from boredom, don’t t-”

“Oh look Harry!” Hermione interrupted him, excitement tangible in her voice. She pointed at Zonko’s, at an object that had caught her interest. “I heard about this new illusion potion they released. Let’s have a look at it!”

Glancing at his expression, she understood that it was not in her friend’s plan to pay a visit to the joke shop, and was ready to resign, but he grabbed her arm and started walking toward the place she had indicated.

“What is it about?” he asked kindly.

Glad that he had accepted her suggestion, she explained, “It imitates the first effects of amortentia, but instead of making you smell odors, it makes you see images related to the person you love.”

Harry, who was opening the door, stumbled slightly at her last word, and she felt her own cheeks light up.

After thinking about it, why did she want to see that potion?

But again, the rational part of her brain protected her: it was an amazing bit of magic. There was no other curiosity in her intentions apart from the scientifical one.

After she cleared that detail, she didn’t feel afraid to approximate herself to one of the purple-colored bottles, and hold it up.

“I wonder what my parents would think about this. They’d laugh a lot, for sure. Oh, I could buy them one, what do you think Harry?” As he didn’t answer, she turned around, but didn’t find him next to her. “Harry?”

Her eyes scanned the colorful crowd, but her friend was nowhere to be seen.

“Come on, we’re not going to play hide and seek,” she mumbled to herself.

It struck her that she wouldn’t mind playing hide and seek with him, but she pushed the thought away.

He was not near the noisy hats, nor next to the nosy books, and the corner of the quivering quills eas empty. She looked over the heads of the third years, and between the bodies of the seventh years, and even checked on-

“Boo!”

Hermione started, and instinctively swung round with her hand ready to slap. Thankfully, Harry was not close enough to be reached.

“Harry James Potter!” she cried, listening to the thumping polka of her heart. “Do not dare to frighten me like this ever again!”

Grinning sheepishly, the boy excused himself, and after a bit of scolding, the incident was quickly closed.

They exited the shop immediately after reconciling, regretting its warmness, and after a simple look of understanding, mutually agreed to head for one of the pubs. As Hermione headed for the Three Broomsticks, Harry stopped her with a call. He first answered to her raised eyebrows with a difficult gulp, but then explained that the weather was so bitter that it made him daydream of hot chocolate.

“But they don’t have hot chocolate at the Three Broomsticks,” Hermione remarked.

She blushed furiously under her scarf when he pointed out that Madam Puddifoot’s were the best.

The door made a loud ringing noise when the boy opened it, and Hermione threw it a dark look. There were about ten people inside, and as soon as she had crossed the entrance, ten smirking mouths had started whispering.

We are here as friends, she wanted to shout at them. Instead, she swallowed, and took a sit.

“Look,” Harry told her, when he noticed she was too uncomfortable. From the inside of his winter cloak, he pulled out a bright red plastic bag, and fidgeted with whatever was inside for a bit.

Under Hermione’s surprised gaze, he laid a little flask on the pastel table.

“The illusion potion!” She cried. He had apparently bought it while she was occupied looking for him.

He winked at her. “Fancy a vision?”

Two drops in each cup were enough, and they drank the steaming beverage promptly, eager to know what its effect would be.

Harry looked at a wall, blinked, colored a bit, but shrugged and smiled, as if he had seen what he had expected to see.

Hermione, however, turned a deep shade of red, and gaped at a window for several seconds. When Harry mocked her for looking like a fish out of water, she frowned.

“I’m disappointed,” she said sternly. “It didn’t work.”

She was sure that the boy would have retorted something, but he limited himself to hum enigmatically and finish his drink.

“Mione?” He said after putting his cup down. She noticed that his cheeks were vividly pink, but implied it must be due to the inside temperature. “What would you call this?” He moved his hands in strange gestures, first pointing at her and himself, and then at their surroundings.

“Oh,” she muttered shyly. “What do you mean?”

Harry looked like he was preparing himself to climb a mountain without shoes.

“Do you consider this a date?”

His question was so abrupt that Hermione didn’t even think about her answer. “Yes, I reckon it’s one.” But when the sense of what she had said reached her conscious, she promptly added, “A friends date, of course.”

Harry’s smile trembled just a bit, and he responded with assurance, “Yeah, of course, because we’re just friends, nothing more.” In the same spirits, he glanced at 13-years-old girl that had been looking at them with great interest since they had stepped in. “We’re just friends.”

Hermione laughed heartily at the kid’s wide eyes, and finished her own chocolate.

“I like our friends’ date,” Harry breathed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

She looked at him, her mind still a bit clouded by the potion’s vision, and grinned. “I like it too.”

***

“I like this, mommy.”

The little girl in front of Harry points to the twinkling stars of the ceiling, and Harry smiles.

He’s getting married.

By tonight, as he will hold Hermione in his arms and trail a line of beautiful kisses below her nose, he shall breathe, “You are mine and I am yours, Hermione Potter.”

The mother kisses her child, and the kid bounces on her parent’s knee.

Very few people cannot complain about their first kiss, and most of them laugh off it as awkward while they stumbled in the dark, wishing they could erase the past. However, some people find beauty in the weirdness, like how their noses bumped against each other and how their glasses bore in the other’s face. And among these people shine Harry and Hermione.

They had a wonderful and legendary first kiss. It was the first time they felt like they were kissing the stars.

It took place at the dusk of frost. It was warm enough for the ice to be melting, but cold enough for them to walk close to each other, inches barely separating them.

It had been an exceptionally cold winter, physically and mentally speaking. So many subtle and burning moments.

Until this moment, if Harry had to choose a word to fit their relationship, he’d like to call it unrequited pining, while Hermione would classify it as an unfortunate series of events.

For what else could she call these feelings eating her and consuming her blood? Everytime she caught herself catching glimpses of his messy hair and green eyes, that reminded her of the tree in backyard that she pleased to admire during class, she berated herself. Didn't he know that she stilled everytime their fingers brushed when they were sitting together?

But nothing about it was unlucky. Not really.

Harry certainly didn’t seem to think so. Why would her hand in his, pulling him forward against the throng of students, against time and war, be called unfortunate? Certainly, he was fortunate to have a bushy haired girl in his life, and idly wondered how people lived without somebody like her. If he had to pine, if every carefully planned look between them drove him flexing-his-fingers-mad, then so be it.

She pulled him outside, laughing and singing her joy, and everything was well. Like it was any other day when she’d make him feel angels were having a party in his head. But suddenly, the perfection left. She left. She released his hand. Before Harry could protest, something cold hit his face, which he instinctively shut, and he spluttered.

“Come on, Harry! Not afraid of the snow, are you?”

Still coughing, he threw a reproachful look toward the sweet voice, though the corners of his lips twitched

. “Imagine that!” Her voice was teasing and light, and Harry could tell by the playful look in her eyes, the love of his life had finally got bizarre. This is why you shouldn't read, he suddenly thought. “The Boy Who Lived scared of the snow!”

Before she could throw another ball, he summoned a fistful of snow and magicked it to shove her. The whiteness paused her rant, and he bit his lip for a second. Had he gone too far? Did it hurt?

His worries were for naught, for, the very next second, a loud laugh tinkled through the air,and he only caught a glimpse of a pink and cute nose before another shovel of snow was pushed into his mouth.

“Not great at this, Harry?” Another laugh. Another mocking tone. Another shovel of snow thrown at her.

She expected it this time, and their childish game soon turned into a frightening and tactical battle, involving several mates from different houses. Thankfully, Hermione was on his side, and he got the lucky opportunity to sit close to her as they traded rumours about who was going to strike next.

“I think McKinley is going to strike from that side,” Hermione said, with a finger to the inclined direction.

Harry just nodded, head spinning partly from the planning but mainly due to the female’s intoxicating smell next to him.

“WAR!!”

The battle cry echoed close to them and on instinct, Harry pulled Hermione up.

“We’ve got to run.”

They smothered their giggles as they run. There’s a thud then and Hermione stumbled as a snowball hits her. Harry caught her, his hands clasping her arm but he loses his balance by doing so and then they’re falling, falling, falling.

And it's so so cold but also so warm.

“Hey,” Harry said, his breath tickling Hermione’s eyelashes but she doesn’t pull away. Not yet.

“Hey.” She swallows and shuts her eyes.

And he wants to hold her so bad and tuck her lips in his. Choosing another dangerous path, he slowly, so slowly brushed something off her cheek and shivers but its not due to the cold.

“You’ve got a bit-” His voice failed him. “Bit of snow.”

Words weren't necessary. Hermione’s eyes pore into Harry’s and his heart squeezed at the chocolate brown doe eyed look. All senses of caution and rationality were thrown out of the window and buried when she slowly, so very slowly leans in. Their lips gently ghosted each other before they collided and their bodies crumble against the weight of a millenia aged love.

Flushed against each other, she weaves a story in his hair and his hands cup her neck.Their breaths are searing scorching hot against each other and their hearts melt lava.

“Finally.” Harry murmured, his gaze locked on Hermione’s soft and shy one, their shared panting only registering in their bliss minds.

***

Bliss… It’s all she feels… There is no coherence…

What she’s doing on the floor, she doesn’t know…

What happened?

Her mind only processes happiness. A drunk happiness.

There is another moment of unsteadiness. And a sense of urge.

Something distressed her, a vague sense of urge.

From outside, Hermione witnessed how the rain pounded down heavily on their tent.

She shivered as a strong gust of wind stung her chest despite the heavy clothing, and tried to calm her nerves by taking a deep and rattling breath.

A quick glance at the sky comforted her: it was time to go back inside. And so, she did.

Immediately, she knew something was wrong, like the times when your throat is hurting the night before you wake up with a fever and surrounded by tissues. Wand in hand, she called out, “Harry?”

She covered her mouth instantly, and blamed herself: raising her voice was stupid. What if she had alerted any intruders about a secondary presence? But surely, there couldn’t be anybody else under the magical roof, right? They had taken precautions.

Her uneasiness nudged her into calling again. And again. And when she was certain that he wouldn’t call back, she hoped against hope that he was in such a deep sleep as to not hear her. The hairs of her neck standing straight, she crept towards the bunk beds.

Once there, her heart stopped: the bed was nicely empty, lacking the body she’d grown accustomed to seeing.

Head pounding, she dropped on the mattress, and tried to analyze the facts rationally, as she had always taught herself to, even though her chest was slowly crumbling like ash.

Had somebody managed to apparate inside? But she had checked the protection spells earlier, and they were perfectly efficient.

She hadn’t seen him getting out. She had guarded the camp. Always, without falling asleep, without leaving the tent from view. Except…

Except when a suspect noise had attracted her farther into the woods. She knew it would have been crazy to leave her place, but she needed to be sure that no threat would have assailed them when leaving tomorrow morning.

And then, during her minute of absence, perhaps, snatchers had gagged him and casted an invisibility shield over him as they snuck out? Even amid her panic, she dismissed the idea, snatchers were often rather unskilled at magic. And probably very stupid.

But she was the stupid one now! She was the one who left Harry unguarded. She was the one who did not didn’t know where he wandless boyfriend was.

But most of all, she was the one who hadn’t told him how she was sure she felt about them. And now she may never have the chance to.

“Harry,” she implored.

Her throat tightened, and worry clouded her mind and vision, making it impossible for her to think about anything, except one word.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

“Harry!” She cried to the top of her lungs.

Clenching her jaw, she summoned her Gryffindor recklessness and stormed out of the tent, feeling mad in her sorrow. She kept screaming under the buckets of rain, she ran as far as it was safe to run, she splattered herself with mud and wet leaves.

Nowhere, she thought as she pulled the roots of her hair, he’s nowhere.

Her tears and the sky’s were one, her laments and the wind’s were the same, her desperation and the forest’s united.

Feeling like a lion in a cage, broken inside, wrecked outside, her stomach assailed by a wave of nausea, she headed back to their shelter, but hadn’t took two steps before her knees buckled and her hands hit the floor.

The cold that her skin felt was nothing compared to the cold that attacked her heart, and she resigned to remain on the spot where she was, waiting for what had taken Harry away from her to come and finish her off.

She couldn’t live without him.

In her despair, she thought about his smile, his smart remarks, his clumsy gestures, his deep voice… She even seemed to hear him calling her name. If the grey wall of water in front of her hadn’t been so thick, she would have imagined she could see him running toward her.

Her vision was so realistic… Like the one she had had after drinking the illusion potion. The green eyes, the ruffled hair, the messy clothes. Why had she denied the truth back then? They could have had much more time! She could have told him…

She could have told him what she felt…

“Harry!” She shouted to the mirage. “Harry!”

Her mind trickled her in the most cruel of the ways. It made her imagine he was shouting back. It made her feel he was getting closer.

And she must have gone crazy for real, because she felt a collision with a body, two strong arms wrapping her, lips melting with hers, and the world stopped spinning.

“Mione,” His voice reached her ears despite the rain’s chaos. “Mione, I was so afraid! I wanted to check on you, but you were gone! You didn’t answer my calls! I thought they had gotten you!”

“Harry,” she breathed, “You’re not- not a vision? You’re real?”

Through sobs, he kissed her once more, pouring all his feelings in the act. “Does that answer your question?”

She nodded, conscious that he couldn’t see her, but just to feel the relief of acknowledging his presence herself. And she remembered…

She still had something to say properly.

“Harry,” She fought the pandemonium of the weather, to be sure he would hear her every single word. “I never want to leave you, ever in my existence. I was ready to let myself go! You’re the only thing that makes this life worth it! I love you!”

She didn’t know if she was crying or laughing anymore. Maybe it was both. But Hermione was sure of one thing: saying it was much better that keeping it to herself.

She loved him.

***

He loves her.

But now, people are staring.

Lacing his hands together, Harry chews his lower lip. He is wary. The clock strikes ten, as if it too wants to taunt him.

He shuts his eyes. Is she having second thoughts? Does she not want to marry him anymore? And the worse path, has she ran away?

“Harry?”

The groom snaps his eyes open and looks at his best mate. Barely repressing a groan as he grasped the besiege in the other’s eyes.

“Harry, Something’s wrong with Hermione.”

“Fuc-.” Harry swears. “What is it?” and then more firmly, he asks shaking Ron’s shoulders. “Where is she?”

“Bathroom.”

Harry takes off, barely noticing the worried glances thrown his way by the guests. He can only focus on the morose tone delivered to him. Pressure beats on his long and its not long before his throat is clogged.

A horrible assumption screams its way into his brain, like a deadly wraith before he shrugs it off with much effort.

Running to Hermione, he can only think, you promised until the very end.

Harry sighed as he walked up the stairs of the apartment. Truth be told, sometimes, he regretted his choice to become an auror and wondered what life would have become if he had accept McGonagall’s offer. He’d have been called Professor Potter by now.

Instead, he was forced to raise his arm and follow the tiring cycle of stun or kill and capture. Perhaps, it wasn't the wisest choice someone with PTSD could make.

Coping with the screams and the blood usually wasn’t exceptionally hard except for days like this. Days when he was forced to watch as envy and anger flashed before the emotions were squashed and replaced by blankness. Sometimes, triumph shone in those dark eyes and he worried for the posterity.

Shuddering at the memory of the cold hugging him,  he looked up as rapid footsteps sounded.

“Harry!” The man in question caught sight of Ron’s face and immediately stills for there was no sign of humor or lightheartedness discernible in those features.

Marching forward, he shook Ron by the shoulders, instant worry weighing down upon him and he oddly wonders how Atlas held the world for such a long time. “What’s wrong? Is Mione okay?”

A twisted expression forms its way on Ron’s face. “Harry-”

“Merlin, what is it, Ron?”

The man sighed and his face scrunched up once again. He looked like he wished he was anywhere else. There’s a brief pause which felt like years to Harry and then, “Hermione left, mate.”

“What?” His voice was faint, almost non-believing. “You’re joking.”

“Bloody hell.” Ron cursed. “She said you guys wanted different things that other people were willing to provide and I’m sorry mate.”

Harry had a sudden urge to sink to the floor and melt. Tears already sparkled in his eye and he seized something to blame; his job, someone else, him. “Different things?”

It’s not really a question. Amending: “Where is she?”

“I dont know.”

The world has become hazy and he can't see straight; everything is a blur. It’s almost like Hermione’s absence has caused the colors from his life to vanish for he walks in the grey stillness of life. He had to make this up to her for her reasoning was flawed; the useless ring bouncing in his pocket lays claim to this fact. Where had she decided to stay? Would a visit to her parents at this time be considered ill mannered? Deciding he doesn't give a shit about manners and only about Hermione, he straightened, a plan taking shape in his mind.

As if reading his thoughts, Ron flexed his fingers together. “I think she left you a note, mate. She asked you not to look for her.”

Harry slumped, shut his eyes and when he speaks, the voice was almost a croak. “Thanks, mate.” The walls were closing in.

The reply was almost strangled and pained. “Anytime, mate. She might have explained why in the note.”

The heartbroken victim nodded but didn’t move, offering a pained smile. Someone once told him that the worst kind of pain is when you smile to stop the tears from slipping out. And, with that prompt, the tears finally spill and he’s drowning in this grief. He should have noticed she was unhappy, noticed he was being a workaholic. This was all his fault.  

Ron urges. “Go check it out, mate.”

“I’ll do it when I want to!” Harry sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Each step he took to his apartment, he felt like his whole body slowly disintegrating from the unexpected anguish. Hoping the headache away, he unlocks the door and freezes.

The room is encompassed by a halo of warm light and the scent of candles sting his nostrils. He notices a row of flowers, similar to an aisle and in the middle of this enchanting scene is a woman. His goddess, Hermione. The sight of her is so surprising, he cannot utter a single word but only feel such devastating and sweeping relief, his knees almost buckle.

“You said you wanted it to be a surprise” Hermione says, tears already shining in her eyes like twinkling city lights. And to bewilder him even more, she goes on her knees.

Slowly walking towards her and joining hands, he kneels next to her and kisses her palm, enjoying the sensation of gravity that flows through him.

He doesn't ask her how she knew he was proposing. Why she wasn't with Victor Krum right now? It doesn't matter. She’s with him. Chose him. And that realization ignites the fondness he only reserved for her in his heart.

“Harry,-” Hermione said, her voice already breaking on a sob. “My mom always told me soulmates were real. And I never believed them because I was a seven year old cynic. Perhaps, it was when I entered your compartment that September 1st when I saw you that the prospect of a fated partner didn't sound so frightening. You were there for me when no one was. And I hope, I wish that I can be here for you whenever you need me.”

“I want to give this a go too since I planned it.” Harry started with a watery chuckle. “You make me happier than I ever thought I could be. And if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you feel the same way. I never thought I would be so lucky to fall in love with my best friend but I have and I don't ever want to let that go. If you’ll have me, I shall be a husband, a partner and an equal to you. I will be yours. Until the very end.” And trying to add some humor, he chuckles. “If we get married, I’ll  buy you a thousand books.”

“Sure know how to make a girl say heck yes!”

Harry surged forward and claimed his girlfriend’s, now fiancee lips with his own.

They were going to do it, finally.

***

They were going.

Yes, this is it. They should be headed somewhere. She just got distracted for a second.

Oh Merlin, yes, she got distracted, and by what! Now how to tell him-

“Mione! Why aren’t you answering? Are you okay? Open the door!”

The voice… The man…

Her split second of clarity is gone.

Through the thick fog of her daydream, she sees him… On that spring night…

“Open the door!”

His voice was playful, almost teasing, as if he knew she’d fail to unblock the lock.

“I am trying to, stop pushing me!”

It was dark, very dark, and the flickering light of the naked lightbulb was not helping much.

“Mione,” She managed to make his words out only by miracle: the hard breeze was pushing them away as soon as they were out of his mouth. “It’s freezing here, I’m shaking like Ron’s bedroom in September!”

A smile took over her lips. They had been in Ron’s room enough times now to know its rocking feeling provoked by the fall wind. Living on the last floor of the Burrow reserved many more surprises than just the neighbor above.

“I can’t get the key in the hole!” Was her feeble defense. She was too occupied in succeeding in her mission to look for a smart answer.

“Of course you can’t, you look just like Minnie when we told her that I was Teddy’s Godfather!” Sure, her hands were trembling, though not for the same kind of nervousness. Minnie had been quite stressed, Hermione was just over excited. “Give it to me, won’t you?”

She laughed, and handed the key over.

Harry grabbed it with the assurance of a man full of happiness and, in less than it took him to boast about it, the door was open, and his wife was dragged inside.

With a flicker of his wand, Harry lit up the inside of the place, and when Hermione finally stopped blowing warm air in the palms of her hands and rose her gaze, her exclamation was as quiet as she was breathless.

They were standing in the middle of a cozy entrance hall, with the smell of new wood and fresh paint invading their nostrils. The walls looked at them warmly, their coat of creamy white already covered in pictures and paintings. Under Harry’s eager attention, Hermione stepped closer to them, and what she saw brought tears to her eyes.

In a corner, she recognized Professor Sprout holding a mandrake, and Neville, in black robes and pointed hat, fainting. Next to him, a short-haired Ginny was holding a cup, in the exact way she had done during the engagement party, the sparkles in her eyes glowing like real ones. Farther to the left, between an ashen-faced Seamus and a couple of thestrals, stood Sirius, his smile wider than ever, the words “I am proud of you” readable on his still lips. He was intensely fixing a point on the opposite side of the room, so Hermione turned around.

She saw a tiny Mrs. Weasley winking at her, and a Mr. Weasley, of the same size, holding a rubber duck with great interest, apparently immersed in deep conversation with her own parents. They were surrounded by a Romanian Horntail, a cauldron of polyjuice potion, and a delicate reproduction of Hedwig. Under the bird’s wing, seven people in Quidditch robes, who turned out to be the original Gryffindor team of their first year, looked at a giant ginger cat, who was pursuing a rat.

“Wormtail,” Hermione whispered, as she traced the fine lines with her fingers.

“And here are the others,” Harry reached out for her hand, and directed it to a spot above this one. A werewolf was standing straight, its face illuminated by a silvery moon, and could have appeared to be dancing with a tall black dog. On their left were the faces of two handsome people, James and Lily Potter, framed by a rectangle of miniature diaries, lockets, rings, diadems, and golden cups. Near them, an elevator of the Ministry of Magic carried a mount of books and a white-bearded old man, with a crooked nose and golden spectacles. He was beaming at a stern McGonagall, and offering her a lemon drop.

“He did like them indeed,” Hermione breathed, emotions all over her voice.

Placing two fingers under her chin, Harry made her look up. The ceiling was covered in stars and clouds, and hippogriffs and motorcycles. There were people mounting broomsticks, a castle covered by fog, birds chasing a golden snitch, candles and flying pumpkins. Colin Creevey was holding his camera, Hagrid was caressing the giant squid, and Dean was kicking a black and white football.

“This is- wonderful Harry,” was the only think she managed to repeat, and he grinned and nodded.

“Luna did the entire house, and each one of our friend brought an idea, or a picture.”

Their snowy boots were forming puddles on the wooden floor, but their attention was elsewhere.

Hermione’s thoughts were about the lovely surprise her boyfriend had granted her, and how lucky she was to share her life with this amazing being, her loved one, and her focus was on every detail that her eyes could absorb of the scene.

Harry’s thoughts were about how much better the cottage looked now that he had at last brought her to it, and his focus was on her face, admiring how the corners of her mouth raised in grins he longed to kiss again and again.

Her lips were moving, murmuring words his fascination did not let him grasp, and the only understanding he got was when she let her body talk for her mind, and hugged him with such passion that, had he had to die right then and right there, he would have done it as an overjoyed soul.

As he covered her face in fond pecks, and she cried tears of deep affection, nothing in the world would have seemed more perfect to them, had it not be for a sudden growl that echoed among their adorable confusion.

Her eyes puffy and her nose red -- she appeared more beautiful than ever to Harry -- Hermione raised her face from the crook of his neck, and smirked, “You’re never on break when it comes to this, are you?”

Scratching the back of his neck, which was growing as red as his cheeks, the man shrugged, “I need energy to keep being the best husband in the world.”

To their eyes, her sudden chuckling was matched in faultlessness only by his sheepish smile, and perfection was back, until another cavernous sound rose, this time from Hermione’s stomach.

“Seems like a good plate of pasta would suit you too, darling.” His raised eyebrow was not mocking, but sympathetic, so for once, she didn’t scowl at it.

“Only if we cook it together,” was her answer.

“First dinner in our own house,” sighed Harry, “We ought to cook it together.”

She smiled, and took a deep breath.

***

He takes a deep breath.

Ginny’s in front of the door. Of course, she’d never leave her best friend.

“Is she-?”

The redhead smiles at him. “She’s never been better, Harry.”

He sighs. “Good.”

Ginny approaches him and fixes his tie. “Go back to your place, will you? I’ll take her out of here in no time.”

Harry nods, and the woman bangs on the door.

***

Now, there is banging.

Whoever is waiting for her response tries to open the door, but only struggles with the secured lock.

More people join the panic on the other side of the wall. There is swearing, and the mention of a wand. Concern, also.

“I swear,” cries a desperate voice, “If in three seconds I don’t get an answer-”

“Calm down, mate-”

“What if she hurt herself? Didn’t you hear her c-”

“Harry?” Her croaky voice silences all the others. “Stop hitting the door please.”

The muteness continues, and an irrational fear makes her wonder if she scared the voices away.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” She’s relieved: at least, Harry’s is still here.

She wipes her forehead with a shaky hand, and slowly, very slowly, starts recovering her spirits.

“Yeah- Yeah, I am.”

“What was the cry about, then? Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

Instinctively, she flashes a reassuring smile. Then, she remembers he can’t see her. “No, I’m perfectly fine. I just need a moment.”

She can hear whisper, and another man’s voice, Ron’s she reckons, hissing above the others,

“She’s not okay. Even if we said we’d be leaving now-”

Yes… Yes,  indeed, they were about to leave. That’s what she said.

It was late...

“We’re leaving, Harry,” she giggled. “Hannah must want some sleep.”

He did not hear her, or faked not to.

Her hand on the entrance’s doorknob, Hermione chatted some more minutes with her friend, discussing the latest Ministry business or the upcoming wedding of another of their mutual friendships, hoping that her husband would finally listen to reason. But the peeping and laughing didn’t falter even the slightest bit.

“You’d think we’d be the most excited,” Hannah smiled, gesturing toward the hallway.

At these words, Fox, the dog of the house, came to rest his tired body at the feet of his mistress, and both women were sure that, if he could have talked, his speech would have been short and concise: “I come from a place of real madness.”

“You had enough of it for nine months,” Hermione remarked, alluding to her friend’s dark shadows under the eyes with a compassionate expression.

They both nodded and let the sweet atmosphere wrap them gently into oblivion.

Somehow, it felt so comforting to have the chance to listen to a baby’s chirping. It meant the war was over, really over. That they would not have to go through any more serious anguish, nor be in letal peril each time they crossed a door. It meant that they could try to forget the obscure times.

Hermione still remembers -- how not to -- how she had grown used to carry a ball of lead in her stomach, the concentration of guilt, horror, and worry that followed her everywhere. It was the barrier between her and happiness, between her present and a prospect of some desired future. It kept her in the dark, strengthened her afflictions.

Slowly, after everything was done, the heavy ball had turned into a soft bubble, one of brightness, healing, and hope. It still followed her everywhere, and made her life so much more easy. It was a reminder that she could breath in liberty, inhale the permanent scent of love and laughter. It was an invitation to live life.

A wave of squealing and giggling reached the spot where the two friends were standing, and they both reintroduced themselves to the world.

“Maybe,” Hannah yawned, “We should remind the guys that the baby needs some sleep.”

Laughing heartily in agreement, Hermione dropped her coat on the floor, a habit that had been encouraged by the host since her first visit, and followed the stream of cheerfulness that floated in the air.

To her, Dylan was somebody very important. He was the first newborn in their circle of friends and acquaintances with nothing related to the war. He was born on a sunny August day, one year after the fatidical second of May, and received a name that didn’t connect him to anybody they had lost.

He was the first flower in the spring of their new life.

With every step they took toward their destination, the room where Mr. Longbottom junior was supposed to be taken care of by his father and friend, the intensity of delight increased considerably, until the air was so full of it that it became highly contagious.

“Darling,” Hermione called, leaning on the doorframe, with tears on the corners of her eyes. “It’s time for us to leave.”

With a childish disappointment in his eyes, the interpelled agreed to follow his wife toward the exit, but solemnly asked for the pleasure of being accompanied by his fellow men. Smiling motherly, Hannah nodded her consent, and they were all off toward the front of the house.

Congratulations flew back and forth for at least ten more minutes, and Neville, Dylan, and Harry were still laughing when the door of number 28, Begonia Street, closed for the night. The Potters were accompanied to the gate of the garden by Fox, and reluctantly parted from him with a few caresses and biscuits.

When finally alone outside, the lovers hugged each other as they walked, sharing their warmness in silence, until Harry finally spoke,

“Mione?” Her hummed answer was distracted: she still thought about the bubble. “What do you think if- well, if we had one too?”

With some airiness, a characteristic she had recently learnt from Luna, Hermione answered,

“Oh Harry, it would be wonderful. He is so adorable and quiet. It’s true that it would be a little hard to take care of him, with our full schedules and what not, but I guess that if we adopt one that is not too big, he could be friends with Crookshanks.”

But a single glance to her partner let her understand that they did not mean the same thing. She was talking about a dog, while Harry…

“You’re not serious, are you?”

***

“Oh Mione, you can’t be serious.”

Her reflection in the mirror makes her grimace.

With a face pale like this, and a mane of knots that could be declared the biggest nest in the world, she surely doesn’t look like someone who received the best news ever.

Her eyelids descend slowly, and with a clunk, she turns on the tap. The cool and fresh water against her burning skin is welcomed with a sigh.

Grabbing a towel, she lays her back against the door.

“Harry?”

An expecting voice answers from the floor. He must have sat while waiting for her,“Mione?”

He never did leave her, she thinks.

The wooden panel quivers, and now the voice repeats from its habitual height, “Mione?”

“Step back,” she warns him. “I’m going to open the door.” His relief is so strong that she feels it vibrating from the inside of the bathroom. “But be warned, love, I’m horrible to see.”

She hears his disbelief, even if he doesn’t say a word about it.

The lock clicks, the hinges creak, the barrier between them vanishes, and she’s engulfed in a suffocating embrace.

“You scared me so much. Are you sure you’re okay? Why did you scream? What’s- Love, you’re crying!”

She giggles in the crook of his neck at his surprise and he, convinced that she hit her head and went momentaneously crazy, takes her chin in his hands. “Ok listen now, Mione. What happened? Why are you all weird?”

“Your eyes, Harry.”

“Er- what about them?”

“I hope he or she gets them.”

“He or sh?-”

And with shaking hands, she looks up at him and blinds him with her bright grin. “I’m pregnant.”

Several seconds pass but Hermione doesn’t worry. She can see the awe slowly rising in his face, similar to the sun peaking in the countryside.

“I think I’m dreaming.”

Laughing now, she forgets her fainting spell as she pinches him playfully. “I’m convinced you’re just a dolt.”

He doesn’t retort at her attempt of humor. “You’re pregnant?” He whispers, his green eyes so close to her brown ones, his breath ghosting over her lips and she forgets for a second that its her wedding day. Harry always made her feel like the vulnerable teenager that she once was.

And she can't try to diffuse the emotion in his words, so she plays along, her heart beating strongly.

Hearts.

“I am.”

It is another excruciating long moment of silence and then he laughs, the joy on the melody so evident and rare, she almost stumbles back.

And then, they’re kissing. Hands tugging at each other’s hair, arms circling the other’s waist and sigh worthy kissing.

Someone wolf whistles and they break apart.

“I’m so happy, Mione. Thank you.”

She suppresses the expected tears. “I love you.”

“I love you too. And our baby.”

“Your what?” Ginny’s cries, startled. She’s leaning against the doorframe, Fred and George flanking her sides. The trio have the typical stunned expression: wide eyes, parted lips and the overall what’s happening look.

Harry winces and mutters out a quick sorry but she doesn’t care that they’ve found out.

Merlin, she’s happy. She never was one to keep secrets.

“I’m pregnant!”

And then, she’s aware of the Weasleys pouncing upon her and Harry’s hearty chuckles as he shoos them away.

“I've got to get dressed.”

“You could just wear this.” Harry smirks. “Or rather, something else.”

“Harry!”

Kissing her again, he pulls away from her, still laughing.

“Got any more secrets to tell me, Mione? Or can I waltz back? I think our guests are getting bored at Ron’s terrible singing.”

“We better save them, then.”

Harry pulls her close to his chest once more and kisses the crown of her head. There will be plenty of time to discuss their child. When she’d suspected and how lucky they were. All these conversation starters stirred in his mind as he swept away from her. “See you out there!”

She didn't hear him, too overcome by the flurry of motion surrounding her.

“Where’s the bloody makeup, Ginny?” Harry heard as he shut the door.

*

Harry tugs at his hair and smiles sheepishly when he noticed Hermione’s lips twitch. She always said he messed up his hair way too much. He supposed he rather did. Maybe it was a Potter thing. And maybe, their child would inherit it too.

Their child.

Resisting the urge to laugh jubilianty, he marvels at the thought that their child was attending their wedding. How weird and amazing!

He shakes his head, warding off the daze and gazes at his bride.

A blush stains Hermione’s cheeky and despite the beautiful gown, he can only focus on how beautiful her nose looks like.

Many colleagues had advised him that he might feel like bolting as his soon to be wife walked down the aisle. Harry thought they were barking mad. Watching her awkwardly smile at the guest and fidget with the flowers draped around her wrist, he felt like they were on one of those dates.

The ring on her hand flashes and he starts to tear up. She is his. And he is hers. After all they’ve been through-fighting and studying -- Harry thought the former was easier --, the lights that twinkle around them make him realise that this would be the happiest moment of his life.

It would be rivaled by the birth of his children a year later, but he still doesn’t know that.

Harry had never felt so jocular in his life as he does as Hermione reaches him. Gently, holding her hand and helping her step up, he tugs her veil down and smiles.

Pure affection radiates in her eyes and tears already glisten their way down her cheeks.

Kissing a one drop away, he ignores the crowd as they aww.

“Hey.”

A smile splits her face as she remembers how it had all started. “Hey, yourself.”

The priest coughs. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are-”

Harry blanks out, the touch of Hermione’s fingers on his skin rendering him illiterate.

“Harry, HARRY, MR POTTER!”

Shook from his reverie, Harry hears Ron’s snort before he sees Hermione hide a giggle.

The priest is anything but amused. “Your vows, Mr. Potter. See to it that you don’t dream while you read them.”

The couple roll their eyes and simultaneously grin at each other.

“I didn’t miss your vows, did I?”

Chuckling faintly, “No. I’d kill you if you did.”

Another grin. “Where do I start, Hermione? Everyone says weddings are stuffy and boring. I don’t want to make you cry in this vow, Mione. Rather not start the rest of our lives together by you crying by something I said. Reserve the tears for after the ceremony. Ow- don't hit me. True love is the most inconvenient kind.” Harry admits, adding a touch of seriousness to his tone. “I vow, Mione to protect and serve you. To make you breakfast in bed. To lull you to sleep with my warmth if you desire it and to wake you up by a trail of kisses but most importantly, I vow to always be there for you.”

“Wow, Harry. Its like, you want me to cry.” Hermione laughs, though it sounds more like a sob. “You’ve said most of it, I think but...Love to me isn't jumping off a plane to prove your undying devotion. It isn't about two broken pieces joining to be one. You and me, Harry, we’ve gone through a lot of shit but we’re not broken. We just look better together. It’s about wanting to live your life with someone, not needing. And my soul wants to co exist with yours throughout the rest of eternity. Love is the only sane and satisfactory answer to the problem of human existence by Erich Fromm.”

The crowd giggles while the bride flushes.

Of course, she had to quote someone.

It was her intelligence that drove his heart wild, really.

“And now,” she continues, “I’m going to stop even though I want to go on and on about how this was unexpected and read my 18inch essay about the comparison between life and love but you probably know all about that and I might cry any second so-”

The priest smiles faintly, which quickly fades in a flash of light.

“Rings.”

Ron steps forward and Harry takes one, the finest, and places it on her delicate finger, his touch almost caressing. Hermione sniffles as Ginny places the ring on her palm. Barely breathing, she pushes it on him. The crowd is silent and the priest happily asks,

“Do you Harry Potter take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? Through sickness and through health?”

Harry swallows. “I do.”

“And do you Hermione Jean Granger take this mean to be your lawfully wedded husband? Through sickness and through health?”

“I do.” Hermione whispers and locks her gaze with Harry’s. In this moment, it is only them. Only their breaths and their soft and fond gazes.

“Then, by the power vested in me, I now proclaim you husband and wife. You may-”

Harry doesn't wait. He leans forward and cups his wife’s -Merlin, his wife- face and presses her lips against his.

As he pulls back and rests his forehead against hers, he’s indifferent to the cheers and clapping from the guests. Only Hermione as she says, “May I cry now?”

They laugh.

Ginny turned back to the big, beautiful creatures in front of them. They were resting calmly in their stalls, some eating, some scratching their heads against the wood, some simply standing there quietly.

“Oh,” the other girl said after a moment. “Then you’re going to love looking at mine, come.” She grabbed Ginny’s hand unexpectedly, making Ginny jump, but she followed as this girl dragged her to the far end of the stable. They stopped in front of the last horse, which was dark black, tall, and unbelievably gorgeous.

“This is Stella,” said the girl. “My dad got her for me when I turned six, and she even has the same birthday as me!”

Ginny forced her eyes away from the mare to look at the girl, who was staring up at Stella with big, proud eyes.

“Wow,” Ginny exhaled. “You have your own horse.”

The girl nodded. “Just the one for now. But dad says that if I get really good at it, I can have more. Stella will always be my favourite, though.”

Ginny looked from the mare to the girl and back. They were quiet for awhile, merely admiring Stella’s impressive beauty.

“I’m Pansy,” the girl said as she offered her hand firmly to Ginny.

“Ginny.” They shook hands and Ginny saw a mischievous glint in the girl’s dark eyes.

“Alright Ginny,” Pansy said with a smirk. “Want to go for a ride?”

.

Ginny returned many times, but she never ran into Pansy again. She did hear of her regularly, the girl was famous in the business, winning every children, teen, and young adult major competition internationally, so Ginny thought she had decided to move abroad for good. She never forgot that first encounter, though, or the wild ride that followed, which prompted an hours-long search for two little girls who sneaked out with a horse unsupervised.

“Your mother tells me you've taken a liking to this one,” Henry, the hostler in this place, told Ginny as he stroked the long neck of the horse between them. “He's a beauty.”

Ginny nodded as she also pet the soft shiny brown hair. “Yes, he's definitely the one,” Ginny said.

After years of part-time jobs, miserable prize money in competitions, and putting together every last penny her family could afford, Ginny was finally ready to get her own horse. She had been getting by with horses that weren’t hers, but if she really wanted to make it to the Royal Ascot, she had to have her own.

“You’ve got great taste.” Henry handed Ginny the reins. “Why don’t you watch him while I go settle the payment?”

Ginny nodded and handed Henry the envelope with the money. “Thank you so much, Henry.”

Ginny was about to mount her own horse, Arnold, for the very first time. Her heart thumped with excitement at the thought of all the things she would be able to do and learn now that she had Arnold by her side.

“What is the meaning of this?”

If Ginny would have thought harder about that voice before turning around, she might have recognised it. It was still the same extravagant high-pitch voice, only this time it sounded angry. Pansy stood there, looking very different from what Ginny remembered. She was almost the same height as Ginny, but the heels of her riding boots might make them equal. Her hair was short now, not even touching her shoulders, and she was wearing the kind of makeup Ginny associated with movie stars.

“Pansy!” Ginny said with a smile.

But Pansy wasn’t smiling, in fact she was downright scowling at Ginny, her arms crossed over her chest and her hips thrusted to one side. “What are you doing with Sir James?”

Ginny frowned. “Sir James?” she followed Pansy’s gaze to the horse next to her and Ginny laughed. “Oh, you mean Arnold? I just bought him!”

Pansy’s mouth fell open. “What? He’s the best jumping horse in the stables!”

Ginny shrugged, now really starting to get annoyed by Pansy’s attitude. “Yes. And now he’s mine.”

“Unbelievable,” Pansy exclaims and shakes her head. “I go to France to train for a few months every year and when I come back this place is always falling apart!”

“Excuse me but-” Ginny started but Pansy interrupted.

“So you’re a rider now? I guess that ride we took when we were children really inspired you no? That’s cute.” She started walked towards Ginny, eyeing her up and down.

Ginny felt her face heat up with anger. “I was a rider way before you showed up,” she snapped, pushing her long hair out of her face so she could give Pansy the dirtiest look she could munster.

Pansy laughed, a cold and somehow pleasing sound. “A rider without a horse. How old are you now? Eighteen? They say you only really start practicing when you do it with your own horse. So good luck with that.”

Pansy was right in front of her now, her dark eyes shining with amusement.

“When did you become such a bitch?” Ginny shook her head in disbelief. “Are you afraid I’m going to steal your crown now that I have my own competition-regulated horse? Because maybe you realize that that’s the only thing keeping me from beating you.”

Something flickered in Pansy’s eyes, but it was gone far too quickly. Ginny wasn’t just saying that to spite her; she knew she was very good, but this sport was for people with money who could get the gear, the land, the competition fees, and of course the horses. Ginny had only ever competed with other people’s horses and in very local events, but she had been a favourite since the first time she entered an official race.

Pansy smirked, her shiny red lips drawing Ginny’s full attention for a second. “I’ll see you on the tracks, princess.”

The way she spoke the last word send shivers down Ginny’s spine, and Pansy had walked past her before she could think of an appropriate response. She stomped down her foot in anger and started muttering to herself about how she would made Pansy Parkinson eat dirt, when Arnold nudged Ginny on the back with his muzzle. Ginny turned around and started petting him, smiling despite everything.

.

Ginny had almost lost count of the number of races where she had competed against Pansy. Almost was the key word, though, because Ginny could still remember that she had won twenty of them, while Pansy had only managed fifteen. Their animosity grew with each passing event, and if Ginny had thought that Pansy was a bitch before, she had clearly not been prepared for the way she was now. It got to the point where everybody else knew how much they disliked each other and would disappear if the two of them were practicing on the tracks, or caring for their horses on the stables, or even drinking water in the same vicinity.

But Ginny was winning and no one could take that away from her, not even Pansy.

The last few events of the season were approaching fast, and Ginny was training harder than ever. For weeks there was nothing in her life but riding, eating, and barely sleeping, but she loved every second of it. She was up before dawn every day to take care of Arnold and be the first on the tracks so she could practice jumps as well as speed, and then she was usually the last to leave each evening.

The night before one of the final races she was still in the stable at nine and for a moment considered just staying there until the next day, maybe she’d sleep better on the hay than on her own bed, especially after having to do the dishes that inevitable awaited her at home. She had missed to many of her chores lately that she was sure her brothers had left her every single dish, fork, and pan as dirty as they could.

“Leaving already?”

The familiar voice startled Ginny, and she spun around to find Pansy at the entrance, leaning against the wall and still wearing all her gear while she chewed bubble gum.

Ginny scoffed and threw her bag over her shoulders. “I do have a life outside of here, unlike some people.”

Pansy had the nerve to laugh, all white teeth and rose lip gloss. “Don’t be silly. I don’t have a life because I’m serious about what I do. You don’t have a life because you literally can’t.” She blew out a pink bubble of gum and then pulled it into her mouth, popping it with her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

Ginny stomped closer, narrowing her eyes at the other girl. “Must be easy not having to care about anything else because daddy handles all,” she challenged, feeling her blood boiling. “Daddy pays your bills while you ride. Daddy hires the help and the cooks while you ride. Daddy sells you to dukes and princes while you ride so you can have a safe future when you get too old for the only thing you’re decent at doing.”

Ginny realized immediately how far she had gone. Is not like things hadn’t gotten bad and dirty before, but never so fast. Pansy seemed taken aback for a split second before she pushed herself off the wall and closed the distance between them, her impossibly dark eyes dangerous. Again, her boots gave her a slight height advantage on Ginny, but that didn’t scare Ginny. Pansy had stopped chewing, her mouth closed tightly as she seized Ginny up, as if figuring out the best way to make her hurt, and Ginny knew that they could hurt each other, but she still wasn’t scared. If Pansy wanted a fight, that’s what she would get. Ginny dropped her bag to the floor.

For a moment everything was quiet and Ginny could only focus on the building tension between herself and Pansy, wondering how it would finally break. Maybe with an insult? Or straight up punching?

Then Pansy spoke, low, soft, and dangerous. “I don’t do princes.”

And Ginny was suddenly very scared.

Pansy leaned in before Ginny could process what was happening, but it became clear within a few seconds that Pansy was kissing her, her glossy lips soft and warm against Ginny’s, and Ginny didn’t know what to do because she had never expected something less in her life. Her heart thumped rapidly inside her frozen chest, and then probably because she wasn’t moving, Pansy thought it safe to raise her arms and wrap them around Ginny’s neck. It had been the right call not to put her hands on Ginny first, because she would have thought it was an attack. Not that this kiss didn’t feel like an attack, but a far nicer one than what Ginny had anticipated.

So nice in fact, that Ginny had started kissing back without really noticing. Her lips moved against Pansy’s and her hands had settled on her waist, feeling the expensive fabric of Pansy’s jacket. Ginny could feel all their pent up emotions pouring out into the kiss as it got faster and deeper, their tongues moving together swiftly and both of them pulling the other impossibly closer. Pansy’s hands lowered down to the front of Ginny’s flannel button down and bunched the fabric in her fists with a strength and desperation that made Ginny burn from the inside. And also, she tasted like cherry lipstick and bubblegum.

Ginny tightened her grip on Pansy’s waist and began pushing her back, not really sure of what she was doing until the back of Pansy’s knees hit the hay bales and they both went down, Ginny falling awkwardly on top of Pansy and finally coming to her senses as she did it.

She pulled away and scrambled to her feet, hitting Pansy with her elbow by mistake.

“Sorry,” Ginny breathed out, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Pansy sat up on the hay, looking more disheveled that Ginny had ever seen her, even though her face was totally composed. She stared up at Ginny for a moment, eyes searching her face, and then she started chewing her gum again.

Ginny frowned, her confusion breaking through her previous shock at what she’d done. How in the world had Pansy kept her gum while kissing without Ginny noticing?

“We shouldn’t have,” Ginny said, trying to keep her eyes away from Pansy’s mouth. She ran her hands through her hair, trying to think clearly.

Pansy stood up. “And why not?”

“Because…” Ginny backed away one step. “Because I don’t like you.”

Pansy’s lips twitched. “It didn’t feel like it.”

Ginny’s cheeks felt hot. “Well...I…” Ginny needed a reason, she just needed it. “I like boys.”

One of Pansy’s eyebrows rose so high, Ginny was sure it was mocking her.

“We’re rivals!” she almost shouted, her brain finally falling back into a logical place. They were rivals, always trying to best the other, and hating each other for far too long for it to be just a phase.

Pansy took a step towards Ginny, and this time Ginny didn’t back down. “Do you really think that I’m going to let you win just because we’re kissing behind closed doors? Come on princess, you know me better than that.”

Ginny felt her pulse quickening again, and her eyes betrayed her and fell on Pansy’s pink-smudged lips.

“And I know you too. So I’m confident that we’ll remain just as rivalrous as ever, perhaps even more.” She reached up and took a strand of Ginny’s hair between her fingers, looking at it with a small smile. “But if you don’t think you can handle it, I understand.”

Ginny played with Pansy’s words in her mind for a long time, or perhaps just a second.

“Shut up and spit the gum,” Ginny snapped before Pansy did as she was told.

Ginny grabbed Pansy’s head and crashed their lips together, flushing her body against the other girl and ignoring the way she could feel Pansy smirking.

Neither of them stopped to say a thing or even breathe for what felt like days, but as much as she was enjoying this, Ginny couldn’t let herself get too carried away. After all, a few minutes ago Pansy was nothing but her enemy.

She reluctantly broke the kiss and looked into Pansy’s blown pupils.

Pansy brushed Ginny’s hair away from her face. She seemed to be understanding what going through Ginny’s mind, because she smiled and it felt private, secretive.