Fleur, the Matchmaker

Hermione turned to look at Harry.

They stood close—so close that they were nearly touching.

And yet, they were also so far apart. She had been chasing after Harry's footsteps for years, but even when she stood on her tiptoes, all she could ever catch was his shadow.

Who didn't dream of a fairy tale romance?

Of course, she did too.

She had been waiting—waiting with the quiet, shy anticipation of a young girl. It didn't have to be grand or extravagant.

Maybe it would happen by the Gryffindor common room fireplace, after they had finished their day's assignments.

She would have just finished reading her book. Crookshanks would be curled up on Ron, napping. Harry would have just wrapped up his latest research.

The firewood would crackle in the hearth.

The moonlight and the evening breeze would slip through the castle windows.

And in that quiet moment, Harry would say, almost offhandedly, "Hermione, want to go to the ball together?"

Then she would smile, cheeks tinged pink, and nod.

That would be enough.

But… would it really?

Hermione's eyes flickered. Day after day, it was easy to overlook the changes in the people closest to you.

But now, she realized—Harry had grown taller, nearly a full head taller than her. Gone was the frail boy who had entered Hogwarts at eleven; now, he was strong, broad-shouldered, like a shield standing before her.

There was the faintest hint of stubble near his lips, a sign of maturity creeping in.

His eyes remained as deep as ever.

And on his face—faint, shallow scars.

Not deep enough to mar his features, but striking enough to remind her of the battles he had fought.

Hermione clenched her fists.

Why was she waiting for Harry to ask?

Harry was different from her.

He carried so much—too much. Voldemort was still out there. The Triwizard Tournament was rigged against him. He was powerful, but he had always walked alone.

Snape, Dumbledore, and the professors—they were his mentors, his guides.

But not his companions.

Why couldn't a girl take the initiative?

Harry already carried so much.

She wanted to be by his side, to walk this path with him—not just for a year or two, but for as long as possible.

And if she truly meant that, shouldn't she take some of that burden upon herself?

Hermione took a deep breath.

Then she looked up at him, eyes serious, voice steady.

"Harry, I'm asking you. Let me be your partner for the Yule Ball. Will you?"

Her voice trembled slightly. So did her hands.

It was just one simple sentence, but in saying it, she poured all her courage onto him—like a tidal wave crashing forward.

Fleur's smile widened, her delight evident as she watched expectantly.

The nearby students, sensing the moment, cautiously inched closer.

Fred and George pulled something from their pockets—Extendable Ears—rolling them out across the floor to listen in better.

Harry gazed at Hermione, expression unreadable. He said nothing.

Hermione felt her nerves tighten.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Harry finally spoke.

"Are you ready for this?"

Hermione didn't hesitate.

"I have been, for years."

Harry extended his hand. "Then I'd be honored, Miss Granger."

Hermione reached out and took it.

It was almost like a contract—a promise, solemn and unwavering.

"It's just a dance," Fleur grumbled, a tinge of sourness in her voice. "Why are you two acting like this?"

Hermione's entire face flushed crimson, spreading from her ears to her forehead. She shot Fleur a glare.

Fleur, unfazed, tilted her head, looking innocent. "You should be thanking me, dear Hermione."

Hermione pressed her lips together, then begrudgingly muttered, "Mm."

From a distance, Gryffindor students erupted into cheers.

Harry ignored them and walked Hermione upstairs toward the common room.

The younger students followed behind, chanting and laughing.

When they reached the fifth floor, Hermione finally snapped—she pulled out her wand and started flinging them out the windows, one by one.

Enough was enough!

Did they want to lose their homework privileges?

—

By the time Harry and Hermione had finished their assignments, Ron came rushing into the common room, dragging Neville along.

Breathless, he slammed his hands onto the table, nearly knocking Crookshanks and the Sorting Hat aside.

"WHAT HAPPENED?!"

"We were gone for barely an hour!"

"Ginny told me—Hermione, did you confess to Harry?!"

Ron looked devastated.

They had always been together, the three of them—inseparable.

How could something this big happen the one time he wasn't there?!

As his best friend, he should've witnessed it firsthand!

"Don't listen to their nonsense!" Hermione snapped, her face still red. Crookshanks smacked Ron across the arm with his tail. "It's just the Yule Ball! That's all!"

Ron squinted at her.

"So… there's still a chance I'll see you confess to him for real?"

"RONALD." Hermione's voice turned dangerously low.

Ron flinched. "N-No, I just meant—uh—hypothetically! Like, what if one day, Ginny confesses to some moron, and I need to know how to handle it?"

Harry, without looking up, deadpanned, "So you're saying you'd compete with Ginny for a boyfriend?"

Ron's eyes bulged.

Neville also stiffened, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. He glanced at Ron, clutching Trevor tightly, then shuffled a few inches away.

"I WOULD NEVER!" Ron shouted, horrified. "Harry, come on! You know I—"

Hermione arched a brow. "Hmm?"

Ron clamped his mouth shut.

Her tone was too sweet.

"What exactly have you two done?"

Ron shook his head furiously—like a weathervane in a storm.

Hermione tapped the table, then turned to Neville. "Neville, you share a dorm with them. You must know what they've been up to."

Neville instinctively opened his mouth—then caught Ron's glare.

The silent, looming threat of an older brother.

Without hesitation, Neville mimicked Ron's frantic head-shaking.

Hermione smiled gently. "Hmm. You know, Neville, Professor Snape's next class includes a difficult essay. I heard even I had to ask Harry for help."

Neville's expression wavered.

Hermione pressed on. "And I also heard Professor Snape might be testing his latest potion on the weakest student…"

Neville turned pale.

But he held firm—because Longbottoms were loyal to their friends.

Hermione, still smiling, delivered the final blow.

"Also, Professor McGonagall did say that anyone who fails this assignment… won't be allowed to attend the Yule Ball."

Neville caved instantly.

"It's just… magazines!" he blurted. "You know—the kind you only look at in private!"

"RON ALWAYS MANAGES TO GET RARE ONES!"

Ron's face turned as red as his hair. He bolted for the exit.

"I'M GOING TO THE BLACK LAKE TO—UH—CHECK IT OUT FOR HARRY!"

Hermione cleared her throat.

"Ronald Weasley," she said sweetly. "It's very late. Where are you going?"

Ron gave her a nervous grin. "Just, uh, you know, making sure it's safe?"

"Harry knows it better than you."

Her tone cooled. "Come back. I have questions for you."

Ron gulped.

Ten minutes later, he and Neville were on their knees, weeping apologies.

They should never have shown Harry those magazines.

—

The Gryffindor common room was as lively as ever.

The next day, Hermione found herself the subject of many whispered conversations.

Girls envied her.

She was Harry Potter's dance partner—the partner of the most outstanding Triwizard Champion.

The Lion had chosen.

With Harry and Hermione paired, the rest of the school turned to the other champions.

But Fleur?

Fleur had no luck finding a partner.

—

At dinner, she approached the Hufflepuff table.

"Cedric," she said, smiling. "Would you be my date?"

But Cedric politely declined.

"Sorry, Miss Delacour, but I already have a girlfriend."

He stood, walked over to the Ravenclaw table, and reached for Cho Chang's hand.

A beat of silence.

Then, Cho, blushing, took it.

And in that moment, a new couple was born.

Fleur was stunned.

She had been rejected—again.

She stomped over to the Gryffindor table and stabbed her fork into a sausage.

Hermione smiled sweetly. "Congratulations, Miss Delacour."

Fleur scowled.

Damn these British wizards!

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