After saying goodbye to the Ravenclaw girls, Hermione's cheeks were still red, like a ripe apple.
For a long stretch of the walk that followed, she stared at the toes of her shoes, her heart pounding in her chest.
It wasn't until they reached Hogsmeade that things improved a little.
The high street was full of students, strolling about, window-shopping, clustering together to laugh and joke.
"So... where do you want to go?"
The scene helped calm Hermione down, and reason slowly returned to her.
"There's nowhere in particular I want to go."
Hermione took a deep breath. She shouldn't have asked.
"Let's just wander for a while."
Perhaps because it was Valentine's Day, there were more couples walking together in Hogsmeade than usual. These days, both Sherlock and Hermione were famous at Hogwarts.
Sherlock especially—his reputation had grown considerably since competing in the Triwizard Tournament last year.
So naturally, the two of them walking side by side down the street drew quite a bit of attention.
Mainly because Sherlock had been seen with several different people in the past, and today of all days being a special one, a boy and a girl walking together side by side was bound to catch people's eye.
It was for this very reason that Lucy and Alicia, just a little while ago, had assumed something was going on between Sherlock and Hermione.
Which was, after all, only natural.
Sherlock, naturally, was utterly indifferent to such looks.
Hermione, however, always felt a bit self-conscious. But she soon straightened her back.
What was there to be afraid of!
She was the one who'd asked Sherlock out in the first place!
Let them think whatever they wanted!
Of course, if someone really did come over and ask about the nature of their relationship, she'd still tell them the truth.
"Judging by the surroundings, the festive mood is relaxed—Voldemort's return hasn't yet disrupted the normal order of the wizarding world.
Then again, perhaps the setback he suffered that night last summer was simply too severe."
Hermione said with a smile: "He finally managed to gather together those Death Eaters who'd grown so half-hearted about him.
And ambitiously reclaimed a body of his own.
Only to end up meeting with an outcome like that.
If it were me, I think I'd never recover from something like that."
"If that turned out to be the case, he'd disappoint me terribly. The world would go right back to being dull."
"I don't think the good citizens of Britain would share your opinion."
"Fair enough, that was rather selfish of me," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Better to destroy all the Horcruxes quickly, then, and send the fellow off to meet his maker."
"Given everything he's done, I doubt he'll be meeting God any time soon—more likely it'll rain first, don't you think?"
Just as the two of them reached the door of Dervish and Banges, cold rain began to fall without any warning.
At first it was sparse, but it quickly turned into a fine curtain of droplets, drumming against the cobblestones of Hogsmeade and splashing up tiny beads of water. The cold trickled down the back of Hermione's neck, making her shoulders draw in involuntarily.
She turned to look at Sherlock, who seemed entirely unconcerned by the sudden spring shower, his gaze was still calmly sweeping over the rain-swept street.
"Hmm... shall we find somewhere to sit for a bit?"
Seeing the rain looked set to grow heavier still, Hermione thought it over and abandoned the idea of continuing to walk with Sherlock through the rain. Getting soaked like a drowned rat, after all, had nothing romantic about it.
Sherlock drew his gaze back and nodded. "All right. Let's go."
Hermione's eyes went instinctively toward the Three Broomsticks not far off, bustling with noise and bright with light.
But seeing it packed with students sheltering from the rain and celebrating, the din of laughter carrying clearly even through the curtain of rain, she immediately abandoned the thought and pointed instead toward the quieter side path leading to the Hog's Head.
"Let's go to the Hog's—"
Before she'd finished speaking, Sherlock stopped walking.
"Let's go here instead."
He pointed toward a small shop on the corner, decorated to an almost excessive degree of daintiness.
"Here?"
Hermione followed the line of his finger, and her breath caught slightly.
She did in fact know this place—Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop.
The small shop window, hung with lace curtains, glowed faintly with warm yellow light through the rain, illuminating several pots of pink geraniums arranged along the sill. And yet, though she'd been to Hogsmeade countless times, she had never once set foot inside this little tearoom famous as a "haven for couples."
Especially not on Valentine's Day.
"Here, of all places..."
Hermione's voice trailed off, unmistakably hesitant.
The cramped little space, the lace trim everywhere, the tiny golden angels flying about...
All of it suggested that this was a corner reserved for intimate couples, thick with an air of romance.
If it were any ordinary day, that would be one thing. But today was Valentine's Day.
Madam Puddifoot's was cramped and steamy, everything trimmed in frills and bows.
If she and Sherlock walked in there right now, what would that mean?
"Is there a problem?"
Sherlock turned his head to look at Hermione, his voice as calm as ever, betraying no hint of feeling—as though this were nothing more than the most ordinary shelter from the rain.
Hermione held Sherlock's gaze for a few seconds, and looking into those grey eyes that seemed capable of seeing through everything and yet were oddly dense to certain hints, whatever pointless tangle of feelings she'd been wrestling with simply dissolved.
If Sherlock, a boy, didn't mind at all, then what exactly was she being so reserved about?
Besides—wasn't this exactly what she'd been hoping for all along?
"Never mind. Let's go here."
She took a deep breath, made up her mind, and stepped forward first to push open the glass door with its little jingling bell.
A warm gust of air, thick with the mingled scent of perfume, pastries, and rich coffee, washed over her, driving away the chill from outside at once—though it only made Hermione's cheeks burn hotter still.
The tearoom was every bit as small as rumour had it, and nearly every seat was taken.
Above each little round table, draped in white lace tablecloths, hovered several fist-sized golden cherubs, fluttering their wings, occasionally scattering a small pinch of pink heart-shaped confetti.
The air was heavy with a thin, sweet-scented mist.
"These must all be Valentine's decorations..."
Hermione felt, at that moment, like she was talking just to fill the silence.
Because everywhere she looked, nearly every table held a couple huddled close together.
Hermione felt the tips of her ears burning fiercely, as though everyone's eyes were drifting, however faintly, toward the two of them—such a mismatched pair.
She held her breath as she and Sherlock squeezed into the last empty table by the window, the blurred rain outside becoming, for the moment, a shield against all those glances.
Fortunately, at just that moment, the round, plump figure of Madam Puddifoot managed to squeeze her way over between the tables.
Her sleek black hair was pulled into a bun, and her gaze swept back and forth between the two of them with unmistakable meaning with a knowing smile on her face.
"What'll it be, my dears?"
Hermione couldn't help letting out a breath of relief.
There was, naturally, no butterbeer to be had here, so after checking with Sherlock, she ordered two cups of hot coffee.
Madam Puddifoot agreed with a smile and turned to leave.
In the small space, all that remained was the sweet murmuring of lovers.
It was just then that Sherlock's gaze settled on Hermione's face.
He leaned back slightly against his chair, his long fingers tapping lightly against the lace tablecloth, and spoke in that peculiarly even tone of his:
"Do we need to do as they're doing?"
"Huh?"
Hermione blinked, startled, and followed Sherlock's gaze, only then noticing that the table beside them belonged to the captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. Roger... Davies, she thought his name was.
He was there with a pretty blonde girl, the two of them holding hands.
And that wasn't even the half of it.
Looking around, Hermione saw that every single boy and girl in the tearoom was holding hands.
Before stepping inside, Hermione had, in fact, considered that something like this might happen. But she still hadn't expected the scene to be quite this much more extravagant than what they'd just seen out on the street.
What she'd expected even less, though, was that Sherlock would say something like this!
"Didn't you just say it yourself—these are all Valentine's decorations."
Watching Hermione's startled expression, Sherlock let his gaze sweep calmly over the flying cherubs and the lace filling his view:
"From the way others are looking at us, I can deduce that they generally assume we're in some kind of relationship. This was already confirmed during that earlier conversation with Miss Chang's two friends. Since we already find ourselves within this particular environment, perhaps it would make sense to go along with the setting and experience it firsthand."
Hermione's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
The line was, as ever, thoroughly Holmes—objective, rational, delivered with the air of research.
But the content of it...
To discuss "experiencing the setting firsthand" so bluntly, here in Madam Puddifoot's on Valentine's Day, of all places?
That was far too un-Holmes-like—and far too likely to make one's heart race!
"Or perhaps—"
Sherlock's gaze seemed to carry a kind of penetrating force as it settled on Hermione's lashes, trembling faintly with nerves, though his tone remained as earnest as if discussing an academic point:
"—you're hoping for an even higher level of experience?
"Something more like that, perhaps?"
His gaze gestured once more toward Roger Davies.
Hermione turned to look again, and was startled to find that Roger Davies had already begun kissing his girlfriend across the sugar bowl between them.
The moment she recalled Sherlock's words, her face flushed red in an instant.
"N—no! That's not what I meant!"
The words tumbled out of Hermione almost before she could stop them.
It was true she'd found more than one chance to kiss Sherlock before.
But kissing someone's cheek and kissing them across a sugar bowl were two entirely different matters.
She felt as though her brain wasn't quite up to the task—what on earth had gotten into Sherlock today?
Could the atmosphere of Valentine's Day possibly be exerting some subtle influence on that mind of his, precise as a piece of machinery?
Or was he... testing something?
Sherlock went on watching Hermione with evident interest.
The look left Hermione's heart racing with nerves.
It was at that moment she suddenly realized she'd said something wrong.
That denial had sounded, of all things, exactly like she was rejecting Sherlock!
But she obviously hadn't— Hermione's face burned redder still, close to bursting, as she scrambled to fix her words: "No, it's not that I don't want to—what I mean is..."
Oh no. How was she supposed to put this?
Was she really going to say "actually, I'd quite like to try kissing you"?
Oh, heavens!
"Calm down, my friend."
Sherlock looked at Hermione with a smile. "I can sense that you're rather nervous right now."
Hermione very nearly groaned aloud.
Of course, she felt nervous!
Looking around, here in Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, she and Sherlock did indeed look like the least couple-like pair in the entire place. Well—no wonder, since they weren't actually a couple to begin with.
Even Hermione herself felt how awkward this was.
Sure enough, kissing and the like were still, for now, a bit much for her to handle.
She forced herself to take a deep breath, trying to summon a bit of Gryffindor courage.
Well, if hand-holding counted as an experience too, then that was where she'd start!
It was, at least, far easier to accept than the higher-level experience of kissing.
"Well... let's just hold hands, then..."
Hermione screwed up her courage and carefully reached out a finger, laying it gently over the back of Sherlock's hand, which rested casually beside his coffee cup.
The touch of his fingertips was dry and warm, carrying a strength that was somehow reassuring.
When her fingers finally curled fully around his hand, a strange sense of security and an even stronger flutter of the heart seized her both at once. This wasn't the first time they'd held hands.
But in this particular moment, in this particular place, under these particular circumstances, this simple act of holding hands had taken on an entirely different meaning.
"Whew—"
Hermione let out a breath as if a weight had lifted off her, and happily began chatting with Sherlock about a few recent topics.
With that, the atmosphere finally wasn't quite so awkward.
Of course, it was only Hermione herself who'd felt awkward in the first place.
Sherlock had never felt anything of the sort.
A while later, the rain outside had finally begun to ease.
Aside from Sherlock and Hermione, every couple around them was kissing, tiny cherubs fluttering above their heads, scattering handfuls of coloured confetti now and then.
Especially their neighbours at the next table—Roger Davies—the wet smacking sound carried over again and again, as if his and his girlfriend's lips had fused together. Hermione rather wished they wouldn't do that, because it felt like it was suggesting she and Sherlock ought to be doing the same.
But then again, this little teahouse had, after all, been made specifically to offer couples exactly this kind of place.
Wait—even granting that Sherlock was hopeless when it came to matters of the heart, coming to this teahouse had been his idea.
Did that mean...
The thought gave Hermione a bold idea all at once.
She tightened her grip on Sherlock's hand, then, steeling herself, suddenly lifted her head to look at him:
"Sherlock, could you possibly—"
"Once it's nearly noon, let's head over to the Three Broomsticks."
Hermione's train of thought was cut off, and she looked up, a little dazed:
"What?"
Go to the Three Broomsticks now?
It was more crowded there, and besides, why go now, of all times?
"To find Luna," Sherlock added calmly. "She's waiting for us there."
"Luna? You're going to see Luna? Today?"
Hermione's voice shot up a full octave, shock and a sourness she couldn't quite name surging up all at once.
On Valentine's Day, of all days, Sherlock and Hermione, sitting together in Madam Puddifoot's, were now talking about going to see Luna next.
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