“...and then he spent the rest of the night giving me a play-by-play of the match, Harry. Right after I told him I didn’t care a whit for quidditch! Why is every wizard in Britain obsessed with the bloody sport?”
Hermione lies sprawled out on Harry’s couch, feet propped up on her friend’s lap as wine sloshes dangerously from her glass with a particularly wild gesture. She’s already a few drinks into the night, if her babbling speech and pink face are anything to go by. Harry smiles fondly at her exasperated tone.
“I don’t remember you complaining this much about quidditch matches at school,” he says with a bemused expression, taking a small sip of his own drink.
Hermione rolls her eyes. “That’s because you were in them,” she says, as if it were obvious. Harry freezes, tendons straining against his hand from the death grip on his wine glass. Hermione continues, oblivious to his reaction. “And then Ginny made the team and then Ron, and Luna started commentating...there was always someone to cheer for. That’s what made it bearable.” She frowns, forehead wrinkling at the haziness of the memories through the alcohol-induced fog.
Harry forces his shoulders to relax, trying for a teasing tone. “Of course, how could I forget your aptitude for cheering? I remember how much McLaggen appreciated your support during tryouts our sixth year,” he says with a devilish smirk.
Hermione kicks his chest with a sock-covered foot, lips twisting into a pout. “Hush, you. Don’t even mention that toad. Merlin, I swear the only men attracted to me are complete tossers,” she laments, burying her face into the couch cushion.
Harry chuckles. He runs his free hand over her shins absentmindedly. “Cheer up, ‘Mione. You’ll find the right bloke soon.”
Hermione snorts into the pillow. “Fat chance of that.” She’s quiet for a few moments and Harry wonders whether she’s fallen asleep, until she suddenly bolts upright as if struck by an urgent thought. She grabs his arm and leans forward, momentarily ignoring the concept of personal space - her face is so close he can feel the warmth radiating from her flushed cheeks.
“When’s the last time you went on a date, Harry?” Her eyes are bright and her hair is an adorable mess of curls and it takes everything Harry has not to blush.
“Err - dunno. Maybe a few years ago? Haven’t had much time for that since the war ended,” he says, avoiding her gaze.
Hermione squints like she’s trying to decipher an Arithmancy scroll - Harry almost panics thinking she’s going to press him for more details, but he’s saved when she instead lets out a long yawn. He scooches out from under her feet and plucks the wine glass out of her hand.
“C’mon, off to bed with you. It’s past midnight, you’ve got a meeting in less than five hours.”
Hermione groans at that. “How is it you know my schedule better than me?” she asks petulantly. Harry can’t help but laugh at her tone.
“My best mate’s a stickler for organization when she’s not piss-drunk,” he teases.
Hermione lets out an indignant sound, but before she can come up with a smart response, he’s scooping her off the couch. She starts to protest but her blanket cocoon is so cozy and Harry’s chest is solid against her - she closes her eyes for a second, just to summon the energy for a proper retort…
Harry deposits the sleeping Hermione in his bed, gently tucking the covers around her. Hermione dreams of a familiar voice whispering ‘good night’ and a soft kiss pressed into her hairline before she drifts off into darkness.