Chapter Text
It started out of pure, unadulterated indignation.
Hermione Granger had been enjoying her early, quiet Sunday morning with her tea in her office as she skimmed that day’s Daily Prophet. Taking a sip, she turned the front page and opened the prophet’s entertainment section, unaware that it’d make her gulp.
There, taking up an entire page in bold, obnoxious lettering, was a trivia contest: HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW THE BOY WHO LIVED?
She had scoffed, fully intending to skip this section and turn the page. But then her eyes caught on the third question: What’s Harry Potter’s favorite dessert? The multiple choices were Treacle Tart, Cauldron Cakes, Chocolate Frogs, or Pumpkin Pasties.
Idiots, Hermione thought, her eyes narrowing. He likes Treacle Tart, yes, but only the ones Mrs. Weasley makes. At Hogwarts, he actually prefers the jam roly-poly, and he only crosses the path of Chocolate Frogs when he’s in desperate need of trading the cards to distract himself from studying.
Unable to let this clear misinformation stand, Hermione had reached for the nearest quill and her curls had hidden her bowed face. She didn’t just fill the circles. She ruthlessly attacked the margins, writing tiny, fiercely detailed paragraphs correcting the Prophet’s simplified—sometimes wrong—questions.
She expressed his exact patronus form, his precise defensive spells and style, the way he maneuvers and scouts the Quidditch field, and also added a highly critical footnote about his rather annoying tendency to rush into danger without having a plan.
Drowned in her ‘classic perfectionist’ mood, she totally overlooked the prize section at the bottom because it simply didn’t matter—not as much as correcting the misinformation in an official media, anyway. She just sealed the incredibly heavy parchment in an envelope and tied it into a bewildered Ministry owl.
Three days later, it was all forgotten. Hermione was buried deep under a huge pile of open Department of Magical Law Enforcement files and documents, a quill tucked behind her ear as she reviewed her notes for tomorrow’s presentation to the Wizengamot.
She was just about to reach for her quill when a sudden, sharp, obnoxious tapping at her office window shattered her focus and made her jump.
Looking up, she expected to see the usual drab, brown inter-departmental owl. But instead, perched arrogantly on her windowsill, was a highly ostentatious eagle owl. It was wearing a tiny, glittering gold bow tie, and it held a heavy envelope made of shimmering pearl parchment sealed with the Daily Prophet’s official crest.
Hermione frowned, standing up and marching toward the window. She opened the window, offering the bird an owl treat from her desk drawer. But the proud owl completely ignored the snack, dropping the heavy envelope directly on her recently organized paperwork with a full thud before leaving her alone.
“Thanks…” she groaned, looking at the wax sealed envelope.
Curiosity getting the better of her, she cracked the seal. As she unfolded the parchment, a small burst of magical golden confetti exploded right into her face, settling into her curls.
“Oh, honestly!” The unclear groan came out of her mouthful of confetti. Spitting out the glittering plastics, she began to read the letter.
O-o-O-o-O
CONGRATULATIONS, MISS GRANGER!
You have scored an unprecedented, record-breaking ONE HUNDRED PRECENT on our ‘How Well Do You Know the Boy Who Lived’ contest! In fact, your highly detailed footnotes, margin corrections, and extra explanations regarding our questions made our grading committee so astounded that they were left with no choice to choose you as our decisive winner.
As our ultimate winner, you have secured the prize of a lifetime! Please check the embedded invitation to this letter, and make sure you’re free and present at the provided address in the set time to claim your reward.
With the best regards,
Daily Prophet’s Entertainment Department
O-o-O-o-O
She stared at the letter and then at the embedded invitation. She had won. Neither the letter nor the invitation had specified the prize—only that the winner was cordially invited to claim their reward at L'Étoile Filante, the most exclusive, breathtakingly expensive magical restaurant in wizarding London, on Friday night at eight o’clock.
“Well,” Hermione chuckled, placing the letter and invitation inside her bag before sitting behind her desk. “Looks like I really do know my best friend.”
On Friday evening, she had settled on a long-sleeved, tailored burgundy dress with a modest, high neckline that fell gracefully to her calves. It was completely unrestrictive and offered no deep cuts or flashy reveals, relying perfectly on the rich, heavy drape of the fabric to match the restaurant’s expensive atmosphere. With her wild curls pinned back into a loose, sophisticated knot and a simple pair of pearl earrings, she felt entirely comfortable, honorable, and unmistakably herself.
When she found herself standing in the foyer of the restaurant, she felt entirely out of depth. The air smelled of expensive jasmine and roasted duck. Enchanted crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over immaculate velvet carpets. She nervously smoothed the front of her dress, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
Moments later, a tall, impeccably dressed waiter approached her with a polished smile. “Good evening, Madame. May I help you?”
“Umm, yes,” Hermione cleared her throat, pulling out the gilded invitation from her clutch bag. “I’m Hermione Granger. I received this letter from the Daily Prophet about a competition? I was told to come here to claim the prize.”
The waiter’s smile widened into something remarkably bright and knowing. “Ah, yes! Miss Granger. Congratulations! Please follow me right this way.”
Hermione followed the fine man through the dining room. For some reason she couldn’t quite understand, her heart beat had started to rise, a nervous rhythm against her ribs.
“Excuse me, but… what exactly is the prize? The letter was terribly vague.” She asked nervously as the waiter’s pace began to slow.
“You are not aware of your what you reward is, Madam?” The waiter startled, pausing at the entrance to a private, candlelit alcove, overlooking a magical, sweeping view of the London skyline. “Well, I’m certain you are going to relish this little surprise.” He stepped aside with a graceful bow.
“Your prize, Miss Granger,” he announced smoothly. “is an exclusive, private dinner with the Head Auror, Mr. Potter himself.”
Hermione froze, her mind completely short circuiting as she registered his words. “I’m sorry, what?!”
“If I knew you were participating, I’d have tried harder to convince them the questions were too easy,” chuckled a deeply familiar, incredibly warm voice from the shadows of the alcove.
Hermione snapped her head up, spotting Harry step into the golden light of the floating candles—all the breath rushed violently out of Hermione’s lungs. Her jaw dropped at the sight of her best friend, who was now dressed not in his daily Auror uniform, and neither his usual, comfortably messy jumpers, but rather an impeccably beautiful, midnight-blue dress robes that perfectly fit his broad shoulders.
The messy black hair she was used to run a hand through was now somewhat tamed, and his vivid emerald eyes were alight with a profound amusement. He looked impossibly handsome, and dashing.
“Hermione,” Harry breathed, his eyes locked entirely on her. “You look… wow!”
Hermione’s face flushed a brilliant, visible crimson, her shock causing a sudden, frantic twist in her stomach. “Harry? You… you’re the prize?!”
“What?” Harry grinned, winking at her. “I know this prize is rather ordinary for you, but are you really that disappointed?”
“What? No!” Hermione countered, the whole room suddenly feeling aflame. “I just… It was only about the roly-poly… HEY! IT’S NOT FUNNY!” Hermione snapped at his mocking expression.
“What? It is funny!” Harry laughed. “Of all people, you are the one standing at that door! What is it if not funny?”
“Just… tell me,” Hermione inhaled deeply, blankly retracing her steps to see where the hell was she so inattentive to win a date with her own best friend. “How did this happen?”
“Well,” Harry offered a crooked, endearing smile. “Despite my, as you can see, failed efforts, Kingsley thought it would be good PR for the Auror office. But when I saw your handwriting on the winning entry today… complete with footnotes calling my Quidditch tactics ‘recklessly suicidal’ and my tendency to rush to the danger unplanned…”
Hermione hid her face in her hands, feeling more embarrassed than she had ever felt in front of Harry. But somehow, it was soon vanished at his next words—in a way that was certainly connected to years of pure, close friendship, she thought.
Harry chuckled softly, leaning down just enough so his breath ghosted over her hands over her face. “Let’s just say,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave—making Hermione show her face again. “I’ve never been more thrilled to be the prize in my whole life.”
Just as an out-of-relief smile crossed Hermione’s lips, Harry closed the distance between them, pulling her into a warm firm hug.
Hermione melted against this familiar embrace instantly, the pleasant scent of his sandalwood soap grounding her racing heart. When they pulled apart, her didn’t let go of her hands. His thumbs gently brushed over her knuckles.
“I still can’t believe it’s you!” Harry chuckled, his emerald eyes flickering. “If Kingsley had told me sooner, I wouldn’t have spent the last few days dreading this dinner.”
“You didn’t tell me!” Hermione lightly smacked his chest, though now a brilliant smile formed across her face. “We had lunch in the Ministry cafeteria yesterday! Not to mention all those times we saw each other at work! Why on earth didn’t you mention you were being auctioned off by the Prophet?”
“Because it was humiliating!” Harry groaned, pulling her chair out for her. He waited until she was seated before taking the chair opposite her. “The PR office set the whole thing up. I thought it was just a ridiculous stunt. I didn’t think anyone I actually cared about would read it, let alone enter.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to,” Hermione admitted, a slight blush warming her cheeks as she smoothed her napkin over her lap. “But their questions were terribly inaccurate. I couldn’t let them publish that your favorite dessert is Pumpkin Pasties.”
Harry laughed—a deep, rich sound that made Hermione’s stomach flutter. “And as you’ve noticed, I didn’t even pay attention to the prize section… if I did—”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t!” Harry interrupted, an amused smile brushing his face.
Eventually, the initial shock faded, quickly replaced by the warm, comfortable, and effortless gravity they had always shared during all past years. When the waiter approached, Harry didn’t even need to look at the menu.
“We’ll start with the seared scallops, please,” Harry ordered smoothly. “And she’ll have the Chablis—the crisp one, not the oaky one. I’ll have a butterbeer, thank you.”
While Harry was ordering, Hermione rested her chin on her hand, her gaze fixed on her best friend with absolute fondness.
“You remembered my wine order from the Ministry Gala last Christmas?” Hermione asked after the waiter bowed and left, an earnest praise in her eyes.
“That really isn’t the first time, is it?” Harry chuckled softly.
“Hmm,” Hermione rolled her eyes, amused. “I suppose not.”
The dinner that followed was a blur of incredible food and effortless conversation. They shared plates, Hermione casually reaching over with her fork to steal a piece of his steak, Harry automatically offering his glass of water whenever the ruthless pepper sauce made Hermione cough. They talked about everything and nothing—from laughing over the absolute chaos of Hermione’s office as Harry pointed out that her chaotic office is still neater than his organized one, to groaning over Harry’s mountain of Auror paperwork recently.
But as the dessert plates were cleared, the conversation took a slow, unnoticed shift toward quieter, more vulnerable territories.
“Ginny sent me a letter last week,” Harry mentioned quietly, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles on the back of Hermione’s hand. “You haven’t heard the news, have you?” He read the question in Hermione’s eyes.
“No, I have not,” Hermione shook her head slowly. “You know the things were never the same after Ron and I…” she paused, biting her lower lip.
“Well, let’s just say retracing my steps back to friendship after being in a relationship with Ron has been difficult, and it’s had its effects on my connection with… well, all of his family, really,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving their joint hands. “You already know it. I’m not saying it’s not recovered, I’m just saying it’s not what I wanted… or what we had, to be honest.”
“I know,” Harry whispered sadly, remembering three previous years. Reliving the moment Hermione showed up at the entrance of Grimmauld Place with streaming tears after their break up. Since then, Harry had tried hard to bring the trio back together, and while after giving the needed amount of time they could eventually have their routines, it was never the same. Not between Ron and Hermione at least.
“I know…” Harry repeated, tightening his grip of her hand.
Hermione looked up at him and returned the gesture. “Sorry, I got carried away.” She failed to produce a more cheerful tone. “You’ve been saying? What was the letter about?”
“She and Wood are officially engaged,” Harry began, but something made him stop for a few seconds. His eyes glanced at Hermione for a moment, and then were back on their hands. “I’m happy for them, I really am. It’s just… you know… it made me think.”
“About what?” Hermione asked softly.
Harry looked up, his emerald eyes locking onto hers with a piercing intensity. He exhaled loudly. “About why I’ve been single for three years. About why every time I go, or even imagine myself on a date, I find myself annoyed that the woman in front of me simply doesn’t know me.”
Hermione remained quiet, and the deep, genuine attention she was paying to his words helped Harry to open up more easily.
“You know? I mean the woman across me doesn’t laugh at my terrible jokes, or doesn’t even know when to just sit in silence with me, or on the other hand, can’t realize when I need her supportive words to calm the storm in my head.” He said quietly, his eyes searching Hermione’s expression.
“I understand,” she replied in the same quiet tone, giving a small nod. “You want to be understood. You show them the real you—both your inner and outer you—and need them to not only accept it and help you grow, but also share theirs as well.”
Harry beamed at her. He loved the way she spoke his mind when the words failed him. He watched Hermione in complete silence for a few seconds, secretly weighing his next words.
Of all the strangers out there whom Harry didn’t fancy sharing a dinner with, fate had brought Hermione here—the most important person in his life—to be his companion tonight. And the way they had been talking about their personal lives right now just made it harder to once again ignore the words he had hidden in his chest for all these agonizing years after the war.
Eventually, he could no longer trap them in his throat. With one last look at Hermione’s eyes, he lowered his gaze and began to let out those buried words in a rather amusing, yet harmless and innocent way.
“Or you know what?” Harry smiled. “They never aggressively correct the Daily Prophet on my behalf…”
Something shifted in Hermione’s throat. Her heart began to race—beating like a hammer, making a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
“I realized I’ve been comparing everyone to you, Hermione,” Harry continued, his voice dropping to a rough, emotional whisper. “And they always fall short, because none of them were the one standing by my side in the fourth year when everyone else turned their backs. None of them would’ve had the courage to confiscate my Firebolt just to keep me safe, or risk their lives on multiple occasions just to keep me in one piece.”
Harry swallowed hard, holding her hand between both his hands. “And the tent… during the hunt. When it was just us. When you and I had to cling to each other… and the way we danced. I-I think a part of me has just been waiting to find that exact feeling again. But now, I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t exist out there. It only exist here… with you.”
Hermione stared at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears in the candlelight. She couldn’t believe she was hearing these words. Not from Harry. All those years of lingering touches, fiercely protected secrets, ignoring her heart’s desires, calling them one-sided fantasies… all those shared moments… and here he was—basically confessing that he, all along, was going through the same things.
If he is confessing now, then why should she hide them now? Why should she keep those burdens in her heart? Before, she was afraid of losing their friendship if she confessed her feelings. The fear of losing the person before her was insufferable. But now… he himself had confessed that they had a mutual desire, and they were still friends. There was no reason to fear anymore.
“Ron told me I was too demanding,” Hermione whispered, a single tear slipping free and tracking down her cheek. “That my expectations were too high. But they weren’t. I just… I already had the best man I’d ever known in my life. And everyone else felt like a compromise.”
Signs of relief and cheer began to show up in Harry’s face—including a few tears falling down on the handkerchief before him.
He stood up from the table, gently pulling her up with him. He reached for his wallet.
“Harry?” Hermione asked quietly, looking at him drop a handful of Galleons onto the table, not caring to count them. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not letting the Ministry pay for this,” He replied, leading her out of the restaurant. “Not for a dinner with you, Hermione. This is meant to be only about us. Not the prophet. Not the Ministry.”
Hermione’s throat tightened, giving her no choice but to squeeze his arm before sliding her arm into his sleeve.
They stepped out into the cool, crisp London night. The magical streetlamps cast long, romantic shadows over the cobblestones. They walked away a bit, just enough so they were completely alone, away from the sound of the crowd inside the restaurant.
Harry turned to her, pulling her flush against his chest. Hermione’s hands instinctively slid up the lapels of his midnight-blue dress robes, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
"No more compromises," Harry murmured, his breath ghosting over her lips.
"None," Hermione breathed back.
He closed the distance, and Hermione got to experience the one thing she had been dreaming for years. It wasn't hesitant or clumsy. It was a kiss built on a decade of absolute trust, profound friendship, and intense, simmering love finally boiling over. It also carried the weight of a decade of unconfessed emotions. And its depth, confidence, and the overwhelming passion only proved it right.
Hermione let out a soft sigh, melting entirely into his embrace, her body aligning perfectly against his as if she had always belonged exactly there. Her hands slid up to cup his face, finally surrendering to the desperate, mutual pull between them. And who was she to deny it any longer?
She couldn’t tell who deepened the kiss first, or whose tongue asked for entrance and who so eagerly welcomed it. All she cared about was the safe, intensely thrilling way their kiss felt as it grew deeper and deeper. The transition was seamless—a desperate, breathtaking tangle of warmth and familiarity. They interacted in perfect harmony, flawlessly answering each other’s unspoken requests as if they had already been a couple for years. God, how stupid they’d been to wait so long…
After what felt like a beautiful eternity, when the need for air became harder to ignore, they slowly parted away from each other. As Harry pulled back at an agonizingly slow pace, his teeth caught her lower lip in a gentle, lingering pull—a tender, unspoken confession of just how much he didn't want to let her go.
When they were finally away from the warmth of each other’s body, Hermione began to feel the chill of the cold London air rushing between them. Harry stayed close, resting his forehead against hers, his emerald eyes dark with intensity but also soft in a way that melted her heart.
“Come home with me, Hermione,” Harry whispered. “To Grimmauld Place.”
Hermione let out a breathless, wet laugh, her thumbs brushing against his jawline. “Harry, I already spend practically every weekend there with you.”
Harry smiled, shaking his head slightly. He reached up, gently cupping her face with both his hands, his expression becoming serious.
“Not just for the weekend,” he murmured, his voice threading with a profound certainty. “I want you officially, and permanently there. Forever.”
Hermione’s heart soared, the final, perfect piece of her life sliding right into place. She pulled his lips back down to hers, trying to engage him even more than the first time, her answer entirely clear.