"I wanted Harry to ask me," I whisper as the last waltz begins. "Ginny." Hermione moves her shawl and leans closer. "You said that under your breath three times." "I meant it," I tell her. "I wanted—" "Who wouldn't want to be asked?" she says, eyes on mine. "Harry's a disaster with these things, but he cares." "He considered asking Qiu Zhang," Harry says from the armchair, casual like he is naming the color of his socks. The fire pops. The portrait of an old witch in a silver gown snores politely above us. Ron is making a face at a paper snowflake he can’t get to fold right. "What?" I drop the scarf I was twisting. Harry looks at me like he's just remembered something mildly embarrassing. "I thought, for a second, of asking Qiu Zhang to the Yule. I didn't. I thought better of it." Hermione's mouth opens. "You thought of—" "Don't make it sound like a plan," Harry says. "It was a passing thought. I was worried it might complicate things with Parvati. I wasn't going to—" "You thought of him," I say, not sure whether I'm asking or accusing. "Yes." Harry's voice is soft. "He was at practice. He helped me adjust a charm on my broom. He was kind. I thought, maybe—" "Maybe?" I finish. My hands are cold. The common room seems suddenly too warm, the fire too loud. Ron, who has been half