A Christmas Scheme

Title: A Christmas Scheme
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Fandoms: Harry Potter Series
Pairings: Harry/Romilda, (past) Harry/Ginny
Word Count: 2.5k
Rating: PG
Warnings: scheming Romilda, body image issues, Muggle setting, is Harry a pureblood?, mention of political assassination
Summary: Romilda secretly hoped that Harry Potter didn’t remember her from Hogwarts, otherwise her Christmas plan to win his heart wouldn’t remotely work.
Prompt: Prompt for Elisabeth who asked for more Romilda back in September.  I hope you enjoy a Christmas ficlet.  No Anthony Bridgerton, but there is Harry/Romilda.  Just popped out of my head!

Romilda secretly hoped that Harry didn’t remember her from Hogwarts.  She had tried to spike him with a love potion from Weasley Wizard Wheezes, which hadn’t been her finest moment—especially when she had poisoned his ugly ginger friend instead.

She had recently graduated and worked for The Daily Prophet as an obituary reporter. 

Rosa, perfect Rosa, was expecting a perfect child with her perfect husband, Roger Davies.

Romilda didn’t even have a boyfriend.

Rosa never made her forget it.

It was coming up to Christmas—Yule, in the wizarding world—and Romilda was nothing if not resourceful.  She had never written a story about Harry Potter, the Conqueror, and that was on purpose.  She did, however, pay attention to the gossip.  Harry had broken up with Ginny Weasley—again—and was wonderfully single.  He also, if rumors were to be believed, not spending Christmas with the Weasleys.  Interesting.

Romilda knew he lived in London.  Everyone thought he lived in Godric’s Hollow, but he didn’t.  A bit of stalking and research later, and she had placed herself in a little café chain just down the street from Grimmauld Place five days in a row at about eight in the morning.  Harry, according to her research, should have stopped by by now.  She was getting a little nervous.

The bell by the door rang and Romilda looked up from the side of her eyes.

Harry Potter, dressed deliciously in a pair of Muggle jeans and a henley, walked in.  The lightning bolt scar was peeking out just between his fringe, but surprisingly he wasn’t wearing glasses.  This made his eyes an even more startling green.

Romilda unconsciously licked her lips. 

He wandered up to the counter and had a chat with the Muggle barista there, ordering his drink.

Romilda’s green tea was only half finished, but she got up, closed her notebook, and went up.

The teenage Muggle looked up at her behind her freckles.  “Can I help you?”

Glancing up at the board, Romilda ordered, “London Fog.  Is it good?”  She twirled a curl around a finger absentmindedly and tilted her head to the side, making her chin look less severe.

The Muggle just snorted and charged her.

Romilda refrained from rolling her eyes and walked over to where she would pick up her drink.  Harry was leaning against the barrier, checking some strange Muggle device.  He glanced up at her, looked back down, typing with his thumbs, and then quickly did a double take.

Twirling her hair was obviously the right move.

She tried not to let a smirk form on her lips.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” he apologized, setting his device in his pocket.  “Do we know each other?”

Romilda pretended curiosity.  “Do we?” she wondered.  “I come here nearly every morning.”

He nodded to himself, his eyes nonetheless taking her in from head to foot.

Romilda was quite well put together.  She was wearing a black ruched dress with bootlets, gray patterned tights, and a leather coat and scarf to keep out the Christmas cold.  Decidedly pureblood black with a Muggle twist.

She smiled at him, letting go of her hair.  “Do you know if a London Fog is good?” she asked, changing the subject, “I’m not from London.  I just started work here.”

He blinked but then relaxed.  “Quite good, if you like Earl Grey.”

“Love it,” she agreed.  “My green tea wasn’t really—” she left it hanging, taking him in.  She shrugged.  “I thought I’d try something out.”

“What’s your job?” he asked.

“Oh,” she answered as his drink came, which seemed to be a cappuccino.  The Muggle had made the foam into the shape of a heart.  Maybe she was sending a subliminal message.  Romilda did not appreciate it, but she pretended she didn’t notice.  It wouldn’t do to get territorial too soon.  “I’m a writer.”

“Hmm,” Harry murmured, not even looking at his drink.  “What sort of things do you write?”

This was definitely a sticking point.  Trying not to let her face fall, Romilda admitted, “Obituaries.—I just started out,” she quickly explained.  “You have to work your way up to roadwork and the police blotter.”

Police blotter.  She had looked that up.  She meant the Auror Report. 

She titled her head again and smiled.  “Maybe you’ve read one of my reports?”

Harry laughed, his eyes lighting up in amusement.  “Maybe I have,” he agreed.

The Muggle put down her drink, huffily.  Romilda glanced at it.  There wasn’t a heart in the foam.  No love lost there, then.

“Do you work in the area?” Romilda asked, giving him a small, encouraging smile.  This she definitely wanted to know.  No one knew what Harry Potter did.  Everyone had thought he would become an Auror after the War, but he had just disappeared from public life and only showed up at the occasional ministry function, with Ginny Weasley occasionally on his arm.

He nodded.  “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

Surprised, as she was sure she was presenting as a Muggle, Romilda carefully asked, “Should I?”

“I have a campaign out,” he explained.

She waited for him to explain.

He looked slightly uncomfortable and then quickly disappeared.  Surprised, Romilda looked after him and saw he had gone to grab a magazine from another patron.  He brought it back and showed her the centerfold. 

It showed Harry, wearing ripped jeans and only ripped jeans, lying on a beach and holding a bottle of cologne.

Romilda fought from licking her lips.  Harry was absolutely delectable shirtless.

“You’re a model then?” she asked, her dark eyes sparkling.  “I had no idea.”

“Don’t look at billboards?” he asked with a laugh, going and returning the magazine to the girl who had been reading it.

“—No,” Romilda admitted.  “My nose is usually in my notepad.”  She smiled at him, tilting her face so that her neck was on display.  It wasn’t quite as swanlike as Rosa’s, but it had wonderful lines when she could use it to her advantage.  “Shall we sit?”

His eyes brightened again and he picked up both of their drinks. 

Romilda led him to her table, pushing her cold green tea aside and tidying up her notes.  She had been working on an actual obituary.  Her deadline was Thursday midnight for the Friday edition.

“Who died?” Harry asked, his eyebrow lifting.

“Oh,” Romilda answered, shoving everything inelegantly into her Illyria bag.  “No one important.”  Only Lucius Malfoy.  He had been shot in the head with something called a gun by a Muggleborn in retribution for the war.  She had to choose which picture to put him in.  He would take up three-fourths of her column.  Romilda probably shouldn’t go to Calling Hours if Harry would be going.  He did, after all, speak at Lord Malfoy’s trial.  “I’m Ro, by the way,” she introduced herself, pushing her hair behind her shoulder, to better show off her thin frame even under the leather jacket.  Her chest was a little large, but some men liked that.  She hoped Harry was one of them.—Best to change the subject.

Harry’s eyes followed her hair.  “Harrogate,” he told her, completely surprising her.

She tried not to let it show on her face.

“That’s an unusual name,” she commented, picking up her London Fog and taking a sip.

He shrugged.  “Blame my mother.”

“Not your father?” she teased.

He laughed to himself.  “I doubt he had a say in it.”

“Well,” she told him, stretching her legs out under the table, brushing his foot accidentally on purpose.  “My uncle named me.  My mother died in childbirth and my father just left me to the servants.  Uncle Atlas had to insist on a Christening and when he got there, I didn’t even have a name yet.”

Harry’s face suddenly clouded.  “That’s horrible.”

She shrugged.  “It is what it is.”  She chewed her lip, an unconscious habit, and looked over at him carefully.  She had only told her bestie Clarissa that, and only under an Unbreakable Vow when they turned sixteen.

He was regarding her. 

At least her lips now had some color.

He then glanced down at his coffee and sighed.

“Is that a usual problem?” she teased, coming back to herself.

“Kylie’s a nice enough girl,” Harry admitted.  “I just—”

“No need to explain to me,” she promised, glancing over at the Muggle barista who was eying them.  “I think she’s planning my death.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder.

The Muggle—Kylie—immediately smiled at him and waved.

Romilda giggled to herself.  “Maybe she recognized you.”

Harry looked panicked.  “She never let on.”

“She doesn’t have to let on,” Romilda assured him, leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially.  “It would be the easiest thing in the world to pretend you’re just another customer.  She just has to treat you like everyone else.”

“You think?”  He glanced back over his shoulder.

Romilda continued to giggle to herself.  It proved infectious as Harry started chuckling to himself and they were soon laughing together. 

“Send me owl post?” Romilda asked as they walked out together, knowing she didn’t have one of those contraptions for him to contact her on.  She had to let on she was a witch sooner or later, and it better be sooner otherwise he’d think she was actively lying to him.

He glanced over to her with wide eyes and quickly shoved his fringe over his forehead.  Ah.  He was hiding his identity as Harry Potter, then.  Perhaps next time they saw each other, he’d be wearing a glamour.  Romilda would put money on it, if she were a betting witch.

“You are…” she asked carefully, looking up with wide eyes, faking vulnerability.  “I didn’t get the vibe wrong?”

“No, Ro,” he promised, slipping his hand into hers, making her stomach fill with fluttering fairies.  “I’m not a Muggle.”

She let out a breath, all calculated, of course.  It was all performative.  She was trying to win Harry and pretending she didn’t know he was the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Conqueror—and her former housemate—was all part of the act.

“Who should I send it to?” he asked.  “You only told me you were called ‘Ro.’  Surely that’s not your full name.”

“It’s what I’m called,” she admitted, by her friends anyway.  “I’m Ro Clearwater,” she told him.  It was true, after all.  Uncle Atlas had adopted her in her fifth year—and Harry’s seventh although he had been off on the Horcrux Hunt by then and so probably didn’t know.  Uncle Atlas had decided it was fruitless to pretend he was going to produce an heir and as Romilda was the only child of his twin sister, she was the rational choice as heiress.  The Vanes didn’t want her after all.

They passed a Muggle dressed a Father Christmas, ringing a bell.  Harry took out some money and put it in his collection plate.  Romilda looked on with interest.

“Any relation to Penelope Clearwater?” Harry asked, his voice a little strained.

“Penny?” she asked with a small smile.  “Penny is my mother’s youngest sister.”

Harry looked at her a little in confusion.  “Really?”

“You know wizards,” Romilda teased him, looking up at him and batting her eyes.  “Wizards live for decades upon decades and they can produce children well into their hundreds.  Penny has a different mother than my grandmother.”  Penelope was halfway through her twenties and shacked up with her Muggleborn boyfriend, much to Uncle Atlas’s disapproval.  At least Grandfather wasn’t still alive to see it.

They walked for a little while longer.  “And you’re Harrogate—” she asked, leaving her voice hanging.

“Just Harrogate,” he told her carefully.  “You can send my owl post to 12 Grimmauld Place.”

“Do wizards even know you model?” she asked incredulously, knowing that it was the best kept secret in wizarding England.  “I won’t tell them.”

“Still,” he told her, swinging their joined hands a little.

“I don’t think I even remember you from Hogwarts,” Romilda lied, trying to sound astonished.  “Which house were you in?”

He laughed a little to himself.

She waited, when he didn’t answer, she sighed to herself.  “Fine.  Don’t tell me.”  She smirked at him, catching his bright gaze.  “Have your secrets.”

“I take it you work for The Daily Prophet.”  He changed the subject.

“Is there any other wizarding publication?” she asked seriously.   

“No,” he agreed, grimacing.  “I suppose not.”

She paused and turned to him, waiting for him to look at her.  He really was tall, his hair no longer as messy as it had been when they were at Hogwarts.  He must put some sort of product in it.  All the boyish charm was gone from his face, leaving high pureblood cheekbones he must have inherited from his father and a sharp chin. 

“I promise to write you an excellent obituary,” she told him quite seriously, “unless you’d rather I put in a one liner.”

He smiled to himself.  “A one liner I think.”

She nodded.  “A one liner, then.”

They continued until Romilda recognized that they were approaching The Leaky Cauldron.  He had brought her back to the wizarding world.

“I can Apparate, you know.”

“You can floo to The Prophet from here with your mysterious obituary,” he promised her.  “I’m assuming you have a desk.”

“There are paper aeroplanes zooming around everyone’s head,” she complained.  “I’ve been hopping from coffee shop to coffee shop, trying to find somewhere quiet to work.  Muggle cafés are best.  People are loud with their magic.”

“Hmm,” Harry hummed.  “Hadn’t thought about it that way.”  He paused and she stopped moving forward, turning to look up at him.  He used their joined hands to pull her forward until she was standing right next to him, her neck lifted up so she could look into his startling green eyes.  Her forehead would look a little wide from this angle, but it couldn’t be helped.  “You’re a pureblood.”  It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”  She was wondering why he was asking.

“You’d be insulted if I kissed you, then.”  This also wasn’t a question.

She smiled brilliantly up at him.  “You won’t know until you try, will you, Harrogate?  I could conjure up some mistletoe, if you like.”

And with that, he leaned down and kissed her.  It was an excellent start to a campaign Romilda was determined to win.  The hat, after all, wanted to put her in Slytherin, and she was cunning, if nothing else.  Next time, she’d wear green.  It would go with the acid green quill she was saving up for.

*Pt 2 coming Christmas Day 2025 at 7pm Eastern