Disclaimer: They're not mine.

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"You're early!" Ginny exclaimed when Hermione walked through the fireplace at the Burrow the following afternoon, brushing ash from her robes with a disgruntled look.

Like many mediwitches and –wizards in training, Ginny's spare time over the past couple of years had been devoured entirely by the need to study and prepare for her chosen vocation. The kitchen table was strewn with parchments; a cup of tea sat untouched in the sea of notes, assignments, and exam revision guides. "Nearly scared Mum half to death," the other girl added, cramming a biscuit in her mouth and rising from the table to stretch her visibly stiff back and arms. "We weren't expecting you for at least another hour."

"Sorry," Hermione mumbled, scratching at her now-itchy scalp and grimacing as her dry hair was rendered even frizzier. "I had to get out of the castle, and Filius has decided to give some of them a second chance at last week's abysmal exam, so I've nothing to grade at the moment." To be burdened with so little work was an unusual state of affairs for her as well; her course of study was rather more drawn out and unstructured than Ginny's, but her free time was equally precious as active research in addition to her teaching load frequently took its toll.

"You had to get out of the castle?" Ginny echoed interestedly. She had donned her boots and cloak and was in the process of tucking her hair under her homemade Weasley cap when Molly bustled into the room, welcoming and maternal as always.

"Hermione, my dear!" she exclaimed, pulling Hermione into a tight embrace. Hermione chuckled and hugged her back tightly, marveling at how perfectly clean and spotless the Burrow looked despite the regular traffic into and out of its walls. But Molly was in her element, juggling her boys' activities with providing Ginny the nourishment she needed to study for her grueling mediwizardry certification exam.

"How are you, Molly?" Addressing the Weasleys' mother by her first name still felt odd to Hermione, but she was slowly growing accustomed to it. Molly, sensing her hesitation, smiled again, disarmingly.

"Fine, just fine," she assured Hermione, patting her shoulder. "You look lovely, my dear. I do so love your sweater." She winked, and Hermione laughed.

"I think last year's was the best one yet, Molly. I hope you don't mind if I steal Ginny from you a bit early—"

"No, not at all," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "I've been anxious to be rid of her. She won't stop chattering about some vacation Harry's taking her on, and she needs to take a break from studying. Honestly, I expected you to be the one going through this—this ridiculous level of schooling—"

"It's Russia, Mum!" Ginny exclaimed. "It's not just any vacation. Harry and Ron have been doing some very important work. And Hermione's going through just as much schooling as I am—she just doesn't have to worry about being denied a job if she doesn't pass one exam."

"And I certainly don't have the temperament for healing hyperactive young children day in and day out," Hermione added with a shudder. Ginny planned to specialize in Healing young children, in stark contrast to Hermione's refusal to interact with or educate any being under the age of eleven.

"I've no doubt of any of that, dear, but I made my feelings clear, and they remain. You need to take better care of yourself and get more sleep if you intend to graduate with any certification, and if those two boys are going to go off and put their lives in danger on a daily basis, I don't want to hear about it. I just want them to come home."

"For Merlin's sake," Ginny muttered, grasping at Hermione's sleeve. "Let's get out of here before she starts talking about forcing them to quit and work for Dad."

As Ginny pushed Hermione forcefully toward the fireplace through which she'd arrived, Hermione noticed that the other girl did indeed look sleep-deprived, with dark circles under her eyes and thin, almost papery skin, completely unlike her usual vibrant appearance. She seemed mentally harried and physically dulled, a combination that alarmed Hermione, who suddenly felt very guilty for having entertained the idea of cancelling their afternoon date in favor of hot chocolate and a good book.

"They would be very comfortable—"

Molly Weasley's shrill voice was cut off as Hermione entered the fireplace once again. Scarcely a moment later, she found herself deposited in the Leaky Cauldron. After obligingly waving and calling hello to the proprietor, the two girls made their way to Diagon Alley, where Ginny proceeded to plant herself in the center of the teeming shops and look around adoringly.

"Any idea what you're going to buy?" Hermione inquired, foraging in the pocket of her cloak for her own list of Christmas gifts. Her parents were always relatively easy people for whom to buy—they were fascinated by Wizarding books and would pore eagerly over tomes even Hermione considered bordering on dry. Her friends—the word rang through her mind with a sour taste, and she pursed her lips angrily—presented a particular difficulty for her that year. Namely, she didn't want to reveal to Ginny what the boys had said, but she also didn't want to buy them a single damn item.

Ginny, it seemed, didn't suffer from any variety of hesitation. Hermione trailed her through shop after shop as the redhead bought a dizzying array of gifts, leaving Hermione to wonder from where—or whom—she'd obtained the money. Given the sum she was spending, it could only have been Harry's. Hermione quelled her initial disapproval and reminded herself that if Harry later became unhappy with his girlfriend's largesse, she didn't particularly care.

Ginny didn't leave her wondering long. In between wondering aloud about the state of her Gringotts account, which she now apparently shared with Harry, and gasping admiringly over various articles, she chattered excitedly about their life together and Harry's many adventures as an Auror. Hermione had to tamp down a rush of humiliation every time Harry or Ron's name was mentioned, but she was determined not to reveal her discomfort. So she simply nodded occasionally and smiled when the statement seemed to tacitly demand her approval. Ginny steamrolled through topic after topic, and before long Hermione had begun to think that she wouldn't end up discussing her own life at all. Over a duration of nearly two hours, Ginny merely asked whether Hermione was expecting any fantastic gifts for Christmas, to which Hermione replied that her parents had already arranged to have her favorite expensive chocolates and a new pair of ice skates shipped to Hogwarts.

It was while browsing through Madam Malkins' that Ginny finally turned to Hermione and asked, "So how's work? Harry told me they threw Flitwick a party—and you, by extension, since you'll be taking over for him." She was investigating a set of purple dress robes that boasted absolutely stunning sheen and embroidery but suffered from a singularly ugly cut. Hermione, who had found herself thinking that she could do wonders if she ripped the robes apart and refashioned the material into something more becoming, coughed and looked up.

"Yes," she said simply, her face growing hot as she pretended to be engrossed in reading the box of a jewelry-cleaning kit. "It was just students and staff at the Three Broomsticks, nothing terribly extravagant."

"I'm sure you're understating its importance because that's not what Harry said," Ginny assured her, now busily eyeing a new hat. "He said McGonagall even forced Snape to go because it was such a big deal. Apparently he was an absolute prat to the boys just before they left."

"Was he?" Hermione inquired with affected neutrality. She hoped Ginny didn't begin to take notice of her abnormal interest in absurdly overpriced, designer Wizarding clothes. "I can't say I noticed him. I must have been gone by then."

"Apparently"—Ginny paused by a rack of luridly-colored dressing gowns, leaning in toward Hermione—"Ron got rather too drunk, and Harry said he accidentally spit his drink in Snape's face! Can you believe it?"

"Did he?"

Ginny's eyes narrowed and swiveled toward her, and Hermione realized that she could convincingly play innocent no longer. "Well, no wonder he was unpleasant toward them."

"I hardly think calling them idiots was justified, even if Ron apparently overdo things with the butterbeer," Ginny insisted.

Hermione had to bite her tongue to keep from openly vilifying the boys once and for all. Instead, she dug a bit further with, "Did Snape say anything else? Other than calling them idiots?"

"No." Ginny shot a final covetous look at the purple dress robes and began to make her way to the door. Evidently she'd hit the limit of her price range—or Harry's. "Why do you ask?"

Disappointment sat heavily in Hermione's abdomen. She'd known it was rather ridiculous to think that the boys would have passed on Snape's remarks about her. Even if they hadn't been drunk and belligerent, they would probably have assumed that his sole motivation was to spitefully contradict their every claim. "No particular reason," Hermione said with a shrug. "I'm just surprised he managed to refrain from being crueler than that."

Ginny snorted, but it was muffled in the howling wind that greeted them as they exited the store. "No kidding. Speaking of parties, did McGonagall decide to throw a ball for all those visiting teachers and their students?"

"Christmas Eve," Hermione confirmed, wrapping her cloak more tightly around her upper body. "I gather Dumbledore's portrait is behind it; he's conniving to make it the premier social event of the holiday season. No doubt he'll enjoy stealing everyone away from the Ministry's usual get-together."

"That's far more low-key anyway," Ginny said dismissively. "It would hardly be difficult to compete! Dad goes every year, and he says it's awfully boring; it's just an excuse for everyone to drink and argue a little more forthrightly than they usually can.

"I do hope McGonagall remembers to invite Harry—I'm dying to go!" she confessed, now making a beeline for Quality Quidditch Supplies. "It's been such a long term, and once my exams are over, I'm going to sleep for three days straight and then go find my robes. What do you think?"

"I'm sure she will," Hermione soothed. Internally, she was reeling. She hadn't even considered that she would be forced to see Harry and Ron at the Christmas Eve ball. She could reasonably avoid the Burrow on Christmas Day—the Weasleys would protest volubly, but she could feign occupation with her students who had remained at Hogwarts—but if the boys were in attendance at the ball, there would be little chance of avoiding them.

Ginny had slowed and was staring at her expectantly. Hermione cleared her throat and aimed for a concerned look. "But what about those robes you were just looking at, the purple ones?"

Ginny shrugged diffidently. "I liked those purple ones, but purple's not my best color. Harry prefers me in black. Besides, I need something a little shorter." She barged into Quality Quidditch Supplies, overflowing with remarks about the ball and the many desirable traits of the dress robes she hoped to wear. Hermione, consumed with a sudden, fiery desire to snub Harry and Ron altogether and prove to them once and for all that she was actually female, envied Ginny her easy enthusiasm. And she personally thought that the purple robes had shown tremendous promise. Black was overrated anyway.

Except, perhaps, on one individual, since he wore it so well. Somehow he avoided looking drably monochromatic. Instead, it served to emphasize the depth of his eyes and the lean length of his body.

Hermione gasped, realizing that Ginny had turned suddenly on her heel to ask about her own selection. "Uh," Hermione said, shrugging, "dress robes, I suppose. I hadn't really thought about it. Listen, do you mind if I pop into the bookstore while you look around in here?"

"Sure," Ginny called, looking confused by Hermione's rapid exit. "You're not going to buy Quidditch stuff for the boys?"

"I've got something rather different in mind for them this year," Hermione replied over her shoulder as she sailed out of the shop.