DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does.

This is purely a 'what-if' story. I don't really think that Neville and Hermione are suited for each other, but you never know. This could have happened without any repercussions, romantic or otherwise. I don't condone what they do, for the record, but I don't have to, I'm just the writer.

Written for the Reviews Lounge 'Summer' prompt. Character focus: Hermione Granger.

Summer Evening on the Seine

By Anachronistic Anglophile

Sunsets are glorious all over the world, Hermione contemplated appreciatively, but sunsets in Paris are superior to all the rest.

It was a quiet weekday evening in the middle of a heat wave during the July of 1998. Wendell and Monica Wilkins were restored to Oliver and Augustina Granger, and despite the fact that there was a war just recently concluded, they still wanted to go on their usual summer holiday to France.

That was just fine by Hermione, who was rather eager to distract herself from mourning for all the dead.

Callous she was not, but she was rather sick of everyone's sentimentalities. Being a pragmatic person, she did not see the use in looking around her and being reminded of Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Dumbledore, Dobby, Snape, and the numerous others who died. They were dead, and she had cried for them, but what else could she do? She was not about to stop her life just because they no longer were in it.

So, she did not resist when her parents dragged her off to France, and she actually found the trip very enjoyable, not least of all because she brought a friend.

Neville, she knew, needed a change of scene as well. He had gained a lot of confidence over the past year, which Hermione painfully attributed to the lack of Harry's overshadowing presence, but he, like Hermione, was sick and tired of crying.

'The most important people in my life have been dead to me since I was a tot,' he told her on the Eurostar ride to Paris, following her confided relief to be out of the Weasleys' tear-ridden hair, 'I can't grieve for anyone else as much as I have grieved for them. I don't have…what would you call it?'

'The emotional energy.'

He sank deeper into his seat. 'There you go. I'm very sorry for Professor Lupin, and all them, but I just can't feel as upset as everyone else does.'

Hermione could empathize in that respect, though she could not imagine what it must have been like to grow up an orphan. She told him so, as they sat together on the banks of the Seine.

Neville rummaged through the picnic basket they had brought for another bottle of butterbeer, not meeting her eye.

"Oh, it's not all bad," he said in an absent manner. "Harry's had a much worse time of it, I expect. My grandmother loves me. As I understand, his Muggle guardians were not very kind."

"They were abominable," agreed Hermione, "But he overcame adversity. That's what counts, isn't it?"

Opening the butterbeer, Neville nodded. "That's what people say. Though, I don't know, I've never heard of a person without adversity in their life. Even Malfoy—he had his dad, you know? I think I prefer my dad to be brain dead than…forcing me to do things I know aren't right."

Hermione considered this, sipping from her glass of merlot, and smiled. "You're a philosopher, Neville."

"Oh, no I'm not. But thanks."

Even in the growing twilight, Hermione could tell that his cheeks flushed, just a tad.

Tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, Hermione glanced around them. The towers and spire of Notre Dame loomed, dark and ominous in the distance, while the orange-pink and purple sky served as a pleasant backdrop for the regal profile of Le Tour Eiffel.

Hermione and Neville were a couple among many, for the local Parisians liked to do just as they did of a hot summer's evening—take a picnic down to the paved banks of the Seine and enjoy the cool breeze that tickled the under-arms of the birch and willow trees.

"I'm going to get us some crepes," Neville suggested, standing up and stretching. "What kind do you want?"

"Grand Marnier, please."

"Okay. I think I'll get that, too. I don't know, I guess if they have strawberry I'll get that. What's Grand Marnier anyway?"

"A liqueur. It tastes like oranges."

"Oh, I see. That sounds nice. Be right back."

Hermione shook her head, smiling as she watched Neville's somewhat stocky figure waltz awkwardly up the cement stairs and walk along the cobblestone street above to a street vendor, whose umbrella was just barely viewable from her position. She picked up her wine glass, drained the last few drops, and carefully wrapped it up in the picnic basket. It occurred to her that she really did not feel like she wanted a crepe; instead she craved une glace, an ice cream.

Thinking about sweets brought her to compare the throngs of people along every side of the Seine to ants along a trail of sticky jam; there was no place along the river that was barren of smiles and laughter. Some people came in pairs to have a bit of quality time, others in large parties, some just sat and ate a pleasant dinner while admiring the sunset, and some waved to the tourist boats passing before them on the river. It was all very lovely, and very romantic, and there were lots of young couples taking advantage of the ambiance.

Neville returned with two crepes, one strawberry for himself and one Grand Marnier for Hermione. She appreciated the piping-hot pastry and ate it slowly, relishing the flavor and deciding that there was nothing better on such an evening.

Her companion ate his quickly, but neatly.

"Do you want the rest of mine?" Hermione asked, laying half of her crepe down on the paper. "I can't finish it."

"Only if you really don't want it," Neville replied tactfully. "I'm not really hungry."

In reply, she tossed it into his lap, and soon it too had disappeared.

"That was better than I thought; it wasn't so much orange as I expected," Neville said with a satisfied sigh.

"Yes, I like it a lot. I'm just very full."

Neville seemed to commiserate; he inhaled and exhaled deeply, as though he were going to be sick. Then, however, he turned to her abruptly.

"So, how's things with you and Ron?" Neville asked as he twisted the paper wrapper, his style of speech so uncharacteristically cavalier that Hermione could tell that the question was painful.

"Oh, well enough," she replied cautiously, wondering if Neville's plain-as-day crush on her had not dissipated during the Golden Trio's absence from Hogwarts. "Of course, like everyone else, he's so desperately unhappy about Fred."

"Of course." Neville seemed at a loss.

"I'm in love with him, you know," Hermione blurt, and then was ashamed. Neville seemed to take this declaration in stride, or at least pretended to do so; he did not make any sudden moves to indicate severe embarrassment or hurt. However, his voice seemed a little more strained.

"That's obvious to anyone, I guess," he replied complacently, though he did not meet her eyes, "I'm actually in love with someone, too."

This last comment sounded a bit defensive. Hermione, believing he sacrificed his integrity for pride, did not press him.

"I suppose that's what happens in war-times," she mused, "People fall in love."

"You don't believe me," Neville said, sounding nervous, and Hermione got a glimpse of the Neville of yesteryear, the Neville she knew better.

"No, I do, of course, I do," she replied with the most insistent voice she could muster, but her tone sounded almost singsong. She hated that.

"Hannah Abbott," Neville said abruptly, and looked down at his feet.

Hermione thought about this. "Hm."

"We've always been rather close," Neville added, somewhat lamely. "This year, we…well…we've always worked together a lot in Herbology, and I guess this year we got closer than we ever had been. See," he said, now trying to convince Hermione, "She gave me this when we left school."

He brought out a gold pocket-watch with the Gryffindor crest upon it, opening it to the inscription on the inside:

To the bravest Gryffindor of all

Love, H.A.

"That's a lovely watch," Hermione said, trying to show deep admiration. "She has excellent taste."

Neville cleared his throat, which Hermione took to be another indication of embarrassment.

"Yes, she's pretty, too."

Sullen, Hermione nodded. "Very much so."

"That's not to say that you aren't, of course," Neville added, sounding a mite unhappy.

"Oh, it's all right, I don't try to look pretty too often," Hermione said with a half-smile, "There have been some exceptions in the past, but generally, I don't mind looking dull and nerdy."

"There is something to be said for…'dull and nerdy', I think," Neville insisted, still trying to cover his past faux pas. "But that's not how I would describe you, even when you're not trying."

Cocking an eyebrow, and looking directly at him, Hermione felt a surge of feminine vanity rise within her, spurring her to ask: "Oh? And how would you describe me?"

"May I be completely honest?" Neville asked, his tone rising in a hopeful crescendo.

"No holds barred." She did not know why she said that; the phrase just popped right out of the increasingly-violet summer sky.

Neville took her at face value, however, and leaned closer to look directly in her eyes. "Windswept," he began.

"Right now, or all the time?"

He frowned. "Right now…no, I mean…well, all the time. It's your frizzy hair."

Hermione just smiled.

Returning to his serious pose, Neville sought for another word. "Intense."

"Valid; I won't bother further qualifying that."

"Pensive."

"I'd be surprised if I wasn't."

"Down-to-earth."

"Which makes sense."

"Beautiful."

And before she could protest, his eyes were closed and his lips were on hers.

It was only the briefest of kisses—Hermione did not even have time to decide if she was enjoying it—for suddenly Neville pulled away in shock.

"I…I'm sorry," he stuttered, leaning away from her with bewilderment. "I don't know what got into me."

Hermione had no idea what got into him either, but she was not going to be hard on him. "It's all right," she said quickly, "I understand. These things just happen, sometimes."

"I don't feel for you that way," Neville said altogether too fast for her to entirely believe him.

"Well, it's probably just the Grand Marnier. Don't worry about it."

"I love Hannah."

"And I love Ron." Though, at this moment, Hermione could not remember why.

Think only of Ron, she thought sourly, trying to reign in her hormones. Think of his lovely orange hair, the kissable little freckles around his nose, think of watching him flex his muscles and watching him flying around playing Quidditch…

Of course, the more she tried to focus on Ron, the more her eyes were trained on Neville.

The young man in front of her looked so upset that she would not have put it past him to come to tears.

"That was unforgivable," Neville said sadly, "I betrayed your trust."

"Stuff and nonsense!" Hermione exploded, garnering a few supercilious looks from the Parisians around them. Quieter, she added, "It wasn't that horrible."

"Oh no, oh no, it was."

Though he turned his head away from her, she caught a glimpse of a tear hurrying down his cheek.

"Oh, Neville."

She put a hand on his shoulder, trying to think of something to say. The only thing that struck her at the moment was the opening of the sewer in the wall across the Seine, barely visible in the settling dusk.

"Do you see that, over there?"

She was pointing, but Neville did not look.

"What?" he asked sulkily.

"The grate over there. That's what used to be an opening to the famous underground sewers."

"What about them?"

He cast a quick look at where she indicated, but would not meet her eye.

"Victor Hugo wrote a long treatise on those sewers," Hermione said wistfully. "Did you ever go see Les Miserables in London? I know you told me once that you went and saw a lot of shows with your grandmum."

"Oh, yes, we saw it. Beautiful story." He was still recalcitrant to speak.

"Well, you know about Victor Hugo, then," Hermione went on, connecting two pieces of excellent French literature together, "And you know about the Phantom of the Opera, of course." They had passed by the Opera Garnier earlier that day, and talked about the story of Erik, the Phantom, at that time.

"What about it?"

Hermione smiled faintly.

"I think it would be beautiful if someone wrote a story about Victor Hugo meeting Erik in the sewers, Victor Hugo doing research and Erik hiding from the Daroga or something. They could have a nice long conversation about quicksand and corpses that float downriver."

"Hm," Neville said, not agreeing or disagreeing.

Hermione, not sure where else to take the conversation, looked up at the sky. The darkness was growing more imminent, and the street lights on the bridges and along the sides of the Seine were flickering into beacons of light that reflected upon the water like the candles in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The tiny wispy clouds were no longer definable, and the summer heat had subsided to a fairly brisk chill. The feeble glistening of a few stars—not nearly so many as could be seen up in rural Scotland, from the Astronomy tower—made Hermione shiver.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was singing, in the quietest little singing voice possible.

"Stars, in their multitudes, scarce to be counted, filling the darkness, with order and law, they give me guidance, silent and sure, keeping watch in the night, keeping watch in the night, for they know their place is the dark, but mine's the way of the Lord, and those who follow the path of the righteous, shall have their reward."

She looked covertly at Neville, who appeared lost in his own thoughts, letting a few tears slip down his ruddy cheeks, like highwayman battling at staid carriage-doors.

"And if they fall as Lucifer fell, they fall in flames."

At this point, she was not sure if she had mixed up some lines or not, and she half expected Neville to prompt her, but what were the odds that he had listened to the CD of Les Miserables more times than her?

"Go on," was all he could find to fill the silence between them.

"I don't know the rest," she admitted.

"Pity. Beautiful piece of work, that show."

He seemed to have calmed down after the rogue kiss, but he still seemed inconsolably sad.

Hermione did not know what to do to cheer him up; only one option came to mind—pursuit of truth.

"I suppose you've been carrying a torch for me," she said gently, "And I don't mind."

He shook his head. "But you don't return the feelings." His shoulders sagged as he slowly inhaled and exhaled. "I'm so pathetic."

"You're far from pathetic, Neville. Now, stop crying."

Perhaps it was not considerate, regarding the situation, to dab his eyes with the cuff of her sweater sleeve, but he made no motion to stop her. In any case, as soon as she did so, he swept her into a crushing hug.

"You're just…so nice, Hermione."

I don't think I'm nearly as nice as Hannah, though Hermione thought, feeling more and more like Lavender Brown ought to have felt in their 6th year.

Nonetheless, as her cheek met his, she got a whiff of his sweet cologne, and it was of a very solid, manly scent, and she smelt the hot cement beneath them and the cool breeze that fluttered around them. Then she got a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower again, and the gibbous moon, and she realized anew how lonely she was without Ron.

"Kiss me again, Neville," she said slowly, "This is Paris, on a cloudless evening, in the summer. It would be a shame to waste this romantic ambience."

"Yes," he said solemnly, and obviously complied.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

I do have one note: I really would love if someone wrote that fiction about Victor Hugo and the Phantom of the Opera meeting in the sewers. That's all. Hope you enjoyed this!