Hermione Granger and The Boy-Who-Lived

Hermione Granger stepped through the wall between Platforms 9 and 10 and appeared at Platform 9¾ just like Prof. McGonagall had said she would, and her first sight of the Hogwarts Express took her breath away.

It wasn't because it was the most impressive train she'd ever seen (even though the red steam engine did have an undeniable presence), but more because this, more than anything else, even her visit to Diagon Alley back in July, made her realise just how much her life had changed. And how much more it still would.

With a quiet "fwoom" her parents appeared behind her, and she turned to see them looking around with awe and a little fear, and trying woefully to hide both.

It stung, the fear in their eyes, especially because Hermione had hoped that finally having someone explain to them why so many unnatural things happened around her would make it go away, but it was an old pain, one she was used to ignoring and getting better at every day, so Hermione let herself smile at her parents and gushed, "oh, Mom, Dad, isn't it all so wonderful?"

Her mother smiled, and Hermione was happy to see that it looked genuine. "Yes, it really is," she said, then in a quiet, musing tone: "I still can't believe normal people have no idea about any of it."

Another thing that stung, and this one in a way Hermione wasn't particularly familiar with; ever since Prof. McGonagall had shown up with her Hogwarts letter, ever since the trip to Diagon Alley, her parents had gotten into the habit of using the term 'normal people' to refer to those without magic. Those like Dan and Emma Granger.

Those unlike Hermione Granger.

"Looks like we're a little early," Hermione's father, Dan Granger, said, pulling the almost twelve-year-old out of her depressing thoughts.

"A little?" Emma Granger asked. "We're over an hour early; the place looks like a graveyard."

"It's not that bad," Hermione said a little defensively, her excitement was why they were here so early, after all. "Besides, this way I can choose a good seat before they're all taken."

"Righto then," Dan said, let's get you on the train.

That didn't take long. Neither did goodbyes. And within no time at all, Hermione was standing on the Hogwarts Express, magical trunk in hand, and watching as her parents walked back through the wall into King's Cross Station, while knowing that she wouldn't be seeing them again till Christmas.

Unsurprisingly, the thought didn't come as a shock to her; she'd known for years that she would be attending boarding school at this time, only now instead of Mayfield School for Girls in Sussex, she would be going to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Scotland to finally meet other children like her.

She couldn't wait.

Even though the train was almost empty, there were still a few students on board, all of them much older boys and girls who made Hermione feel very self-conscious, so she avoided their compartments even though she would have liked to have someone to sit with.

And then she saw him. Through the pane of glass on the door.

He was seated by the window, a book she couldn't see the title of in his hands, and a caged snowy owl by his side. He was small, rather skinny, and wore round-rimmed glasses, and his hair was a darker, somewhat tamer version of hers. Most importantly though, he was clearly a first year.

Hermione took a second to compose herself, then she knocked gently and slid the door open. "Good morning," she said, as the boy's very green eyes came up to meet hers. "Do you mind if I join you?"

"Oh, no, please sit," he said, and Hermione pulled her magically lightened trunk in and set it up where it should be, although thanks to her height she had to climb the seat.

After she came down, she stretched out her hand. "Hermione Granger. I'm starting at Hogwarts this year."

The boy paused, and a thoughtful look stole over his face as he considered her. "Huh," he muttered.

After a few awkward seconds though, the boy shook off whatever thoughts had stolen his mind and focused on her once more. "Uh, I'm Harry," he said, taking her hand. "Harry Potter."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Are you really? I've read all about you; you're quite famous in the Wizarding World, you know. They talk about you in—"

Harry halted her momentum with a raised hand. "Hermione, I'm really sorry to do this, but... can you not? My fame isn't really something I like to think about, especially considering the only reason I'm famous is because some psychotic bastard broke into my home and murdered my parents."

Hermione's blood ran cold.

How had she not thought of that? All the books she read literally said it, so how had she forgotten that Harry was a boy whose parents were murdered and just go running her big mouth as usual.

Oh God, she felt so disgusted with herself.

"Harry, I'm so sorry, I didn't—"

"No, no, it's fine. Really, I... in your shoes I probably would have done the same thing. Don't worry about it."

As an awkward silence settled over the compartment, Hermione worried about it. She worried about it a lot.

But as the old adage went; if at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

So, with an arming breath, Hermione tried again, this time picking the most innocuous topic she could think of. "So um, you're even earlier than I am; do you live close by?"

"Nope," Harry said without looking up from his book. "My relatives were just really eager to get rid of me. Can't say the feeling wasn't mutual though."

Hermione frowned; she thought that was a rather dark joke, and not particularly funny, but she was trying to make up for her earlier blunder, so she made herself laugh.

Harry finally looked up from his book and stared at her with a very serious expression. "I wasn't joking," he said.

"Oh," was all Hermione could say in return as she shrank into her seat; she should have just asked about his book instead.

★★★​

Maybe it would have been better if she'd sat in a compartment by herself, Hermione thought almost an hour after her major blunder to the first person from the magical world she'd spoken to, it certainly could not have been worse than this.

Over the hour since their brief, wince-inducing "conversation", the train had filled up, and the increasing noise levels outside the compartment had simply put into sharp relief how quiet the inside of the compartment was. And the worst thing about it all was that Harry didn't even seem to notice it.

At first, she'd tried to do like he was doing and read a book, but after rereading the second sentence for the sixth time in a row, she had finally admitted defeat and started people watching instead. Or field watching anyway. Since her window was on the other side of the train from the platform, and all she could see out there were empty, grassy fields.

Which once again brought up the question; where even was Platform 9¾ located?

A pair of loud, jovial, and eerily similar voices sounded from outside the door, and Hermione reflexively turned in time to catch a pair of identical teenage redheads walk past, both of them booming with mirth as they talked about someone with the very unlikely name of Ronniekins. And following after them, was a rather sullen redhead who looked about her age.

The younger redhead, who Hermione felt safe to assume was the teens' brother, looked through the window on her door and their eyes met, and before Hermione knew what she was doing, her lips had curled into an encouraging smile.

Hermione didn't get to see the boy's reaction to her smile before he walked out of frame, but that was okay; mostly since she didn't even know why she'd smiled at him in the first place and had no idea what she would have done if he'd reciprocated.

Maybe she was just hoping that he would come sit with her and she wouldn't have to be alone with Harry anymore (the green-eyed boy hadn't even once looked up from his book, for God's sake. And while Hermione would normally commend that level of dedication to one's academics, right now, she just couldn't help but feel like the boy was deliberately ignoring her).

With a shrill whistle and a soft jolt the train began to move.

Finally.

Hermione tried to return to her reading then, see if she could make some headway on reading Hogwarts, A History cover to cover for the third time, but as her eyes focused on the page, a white, flapping object perched on the bench next to her.

Hermione jumped.

"Hedwig!" Harry chastised. "What are you doing scaring people? Get your feathered butt back here. I'm sorry, Hermione, I have no idea why she flew at you like that."

"No, it's fine. I just wasn't expecting it was all," Hermione said, staring at the owl who, completely uncaring of its owner's reproach, turned to the girl with something resembling expectation in its big, yellow eyes.

"Oh, great," Harry said, with a sigh, "she wants head rubs."

Hermione blinked. "What?" Wasn't that a cat thing? Owls weren't supposed to like being touched, right? Or were they? Maybe she should have gotten a few books on owls (and cats) since they seemed pretty common in the Wizarding World.

"She likes it when you pet her head," Harry says. "We kind of had a fight earlier though, I guess this is her trying to make me jealous or something."

Had a fight? With an owl?

"Don't give me that look," Harry said, sounding offended. "Hedwig is a very intelligent owl, I'll have you know. You'll see what I mean when you get to know her better."

Hedwig, apparently getting impatient, nipped Hermione's left pinky softly.

She turned to the bird.

Oh, right. Head rubs.

Haltingly, Hermione petted the animal's remarkably soft, downy head, and it happily leaned into her palm.

This was rather nice.

Harry rolled his eyes as he went back to his book. "Such a diva," he muttered, but without any real heat.

For the next several minutes, the room was quiet again, but some of the prior awkwardness had lifted, and Hermione simply enjoyed her rereading of Hogwarts, A History, and the feel of her fingers running over soft, downy skin.

The door slid open dramatically.

At the doorpost stood three boys, all of them dressed in the robes so ubiquitous among Wizardkind. The one in front was slender, with sleek white-blond hair, cold, grey eyes, and a pale, angular face. He also had the haughtiest expression Hermione had ever seen on anyone's face.

As for the two boys standing beside, and behind, the one in front, their size suggested they were at least a year older, and their dull eyes and somewhat clueless expressions made them look... well, Hermione hated to think it, but the two big boys in the back looked rather dumb.

The silver-blonde's eyes took in the two of them, completely dismissing Hermione rudely, before settling on Harry as he strode in.

"You there," the boy addressed Harry imperiously, "I understand Harry Potter is supposed to be on the train. Are you him?"

Hermione never quite figured out why she did what she did next; maybe it was leftover guilt from her earlier, similar thoughtlessness, or maybe the rude boy had rubbed her the wrong way and her vindictive side was simply rearing its head once again, whatever the reason, Hermione spoke up before Harry could.

"His name is James."

All eyes in the room turned to her, but she focused on the rude boy's.

"His name isn't Harry Potter, it's James. James..." Hermione nearly panicked as she found her mind suddenly clear of every surname she knew. "...Bond," she finally settled on, and Harry couldn't hold back a snort quick enough.

The blond boy turned to him and Harry smiled winsomely, holding out his hand and saying in an overly suave tone. "Bond. James Bond. At your service."

The blonde scoffed and ignored Harry's hand. "Malfoy," he said. "Draco Malfoy." Then he turned and tried to exit the compartment only to bump into the two larger boys who'd been standing at the door the entire time. "Get out of my way, you bloody oafs," Malfoy swore, and all three boys shuffled around for a bit before getting themselves in the proper order, and, with one final scoff thrown their way courtesy of Malfoy, promptly stormed out.

As soon as the boy's were out of sight, Hermione and Harry burst into laughter.

"James Bond?" Harry asked amidst his laughter. "Seriously? That was the best you could come up with?"

"I was pressed for time," Hermione defended herself.

"Thank you though," Harry said. "I did not have the energy to deal with Draco's BS this morning."

Hermione frowned, both because of Harry's language and what he'd said. "You knew him?"

Harry's eyes widened a fraction. "Oh, um... yes. I mean, I know of him," Harry corrected.

"Oh," Hermione said, wondering why Harry had acted shifty.

Wait, how did he know of Draco? All her books had said that no one had seen Harry since... that night, so how did he know who Malfoy was?

"That's Hogwarts, A History you're reading, right?" Harry asked.

Hermione looked down at the book on her lap that she'd almost forgotten about in all the recent excitement. "Oh. You've read Hogwarts, A History?"

"Meh," Harry said, "mostly just looked at the pictures."

Hermione's face soured.

Harry snorted. "You should see your face right now."

Hermione barely even heard his comment. "You looked. At the. Pictures?"

"Yeah. So?" Harry asked casually, but his brilliant, green eyes belied his amusement.

She wanted to let it go, she really did, after all it was none of her business if he wanted to just look at the pictures on a—What the heck was he, two?

Before she could say anything, however, two boys walked in, and her breath caught when she saw that one of them was the redhead she'd smiled at.

Why was he here? Was he also looking for Harry?

The boy paused too when he caught her eyes, just for a moment, then he said, "um, have you guys seen a toad? Neville here's lost his."

Hermione's gaze drifted to the other boy, a chubby, round-faced preteen who seemed to be trying to hide within his robes.

"No, we haven't, sorry. But I can help you look," Hermione said.

"I know a spell that might help," Harry said. "I don't know if it'll work though, I've never cast it before."

"Really?" Hermione and the redhead asked at the same time, and Harry just nodded, pulling out his wand.

Hermione frowned when she saw him place the wand flat on his open palm. "That's not how you use a wand. What kind of spell are you going to cast?"

"You know," Harry said conversationally, "a wise somebody whose name I've never been able to pronounce once said, life is not a problem to be solved but a reality to experience. Hermione, stop trying to solve everything and just watch and listen for a bit."

Hermione's cheeks grew pink in embarrassment, a pink that quickly turned scarlet when the redhead snickered. For some reason, Hermione felt betrayed.

"What's the frog's name?" Harry asked Neville.

The chubby boy looked surprised to be addressed. "His name's Trevor," he answered softly. "He's a toad."

"Yeah, that's what I said," Harry said, then concentrating on his wand, he said, "point me: Trevor" and his wand lifted up a couple inches from his hand and started to spin.

It was the first bit of spellcasting Hermione had ever seen anyone her age do, and she wondered if she would be able to manage it. She had never casted any spells herself, not having learnt any when she got her wand from Ollivander's back in July, and already home, where she wasn't allowed to use said wand by the time she learnt her first spell.

The realisation that she was allowed to use magic now made her want to whip out her own wand and start trying out spells.

Harry's wand slowed down quickly, until it finally stopped, pointing straight at Neville.

"Huh?" The boy looked confused. "Why is it pointing at me?"

"Yeah, mate, I think your spell's busted," the redhead said.

Aha! Hermione had told him he was holding his wand wrong; she had even read a book about the proper way to hold—

"I think it's pointing at Trevor," Harry said. "Nev, check your robes."

Neville did, and from within the folds, he pulled out a large, sleeping (?) toad.

Oh.

"Bloody hell, mate," the redhead groaned. "You had that thing in your robes this whole time and you made us walk the whole train?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't know," Neville said.

The redhead just sighed. "Whatever. Come on let's go back before Fred and George hex our seats or something."

"Thank you," Neville said to Harry, and Ron belatedly did the same, then the two of them walked off.

"Um, Hermione," Harry called, then pointed at his wand still floating above his palm and pointing in the direction Neville had gone. "Can you help me, because I have no idea how to turn this off."

It took almost thirty seconds of the two of them trying to snatch the wand from the air, where it kept dodging, always doing its hardest to point unfailingly at Neville (or she supposed Trevor), before Harry got frustrated enough to shout "oh just stop pointing you stupid wand."

Which, magically, worked, and the wand fell to the ground.

"Finally," Harry groused as he picked it up and Hermione started giggling.

That had just been so ridiculous, and magical.

Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Yes, please, laugh at my disgrace."

"Sorry," she apologized as her giggles petered out. "That was wonderful spellwork though, where did you learn it?"

"I didn't. I actually kinda made it up just now, actually. See I took the Four-Point spell, which makes your wand point north like with a compass, but then I thought real hard about Neville's frog like with the Summoning Charm, and voila, magical GPS."

Hermione stared at Harry in complete and total awe. Of his recklessness. "That was borderline dangerous, Harry. You could have seriously hurt yourself."

"You're telling me, for a second there I was worried I might actually conjure a buffalo onto my head or something."

For the first time for as long as she could remember, Hermione was at a complete loss for words.

"Anyway," Harry continued, "let's see you."

"See me what?"

"Cast a spell, obviously. What? You're not eager to try out your magic?"

She was. She really was. So Hermione quickly fetched her wand and casted a Lumos. It worked on the first try.

"Nice," Harry said, then he grinned mischievously, "but I'll do you one better."

He too casted a Lumos, but instead of the expected white, his wand-tip glowed blue.

Hermione's eyes almost bugged out. "How did you do that?" She almost yelled, and Harry gave a cartoon villain laugh as he twirled a non-existent beard.

"Worry not, Padawan," he said, "Kakashi-sensei will teach you."

By the time the train stopped at Hogsmeade Station, the compartment was about sixteen colours, and both their benches had patches where they'd been semi-successfully transfigured into different materials. Most importantly though, was when Hermione had to stop Hedwig from pecking out Harry's eyes after he tried to use her as a lab rat.

Harry was right however, Hedwig was a rather intelligent owl.

 

Hermione made some final adjustments to her robes before sliding the door open. It was a good thing the little window on the door had a curtain, otherwise she wouldn't have felt comfortable changing in the compartment even though Harry was outside.

The boy in question turned and regarded her. He was already in his uniform, having changed first; he hadn't even bothered to ask Hermione to leave when he had, simply throwing his robes on over his muggle jeans and T-shirt.

"Well, well, Hermione Granger, look at you. Add a pointy hat to that getup and you'll be right at home in a Disney film."

Hermione wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or not, but she thought it might be. She was starting to understand that Harry Potter's mind worked in rather mysterious ways. Plus she got the feeling Harry never felt the need to hide his opinion from anybody.

So she said, "thank you. It was a bit of a learning curve, but Madam Malkin was ever so helpful, she taught me all about how to properly wear and care for my robes."

"Huh, lucky you. She was completely antagonistic towards me, kept going on and on; quit fidgeting, don't touch that, you broke it, he's getting away!" Harry sighed as he walked back into the compartment. "And they say sexism isn't a thing."

Hermione just shook her head, easily realising the joke for what it was. Well, she hoped it was a joke anyway.

The train slowed and came to a stop then, and Hermione and Harry went to the window and spotted lit houses in the nightscape of a snowy village.

The Hogwarts Express had gotten to Hogsmeade.

Hermione began to climb up to bring down her luggage, but Harry said, "don't worry, leave it. The elves will get them."

Hermione turned to him in confusion. "Elves? Hogwarts has no elves. Hogwarts, A History never mentioned anything of the sort."

Harry shrugged in a way that suggested that he'd expected her words. "Can't say I'm surprised, really, people hardly talk about them. But yeah, Hogwarts has elves. Not the Tolkien kind though," a wistful expression came over Harry's face, "God, I wish they were the Tolkien kind... anyway no, they're uh, short, and thin, with big eyes and flappy bat ears. Kinda scary-looking actually, but they're harmless. Mostly."

Hermione was quite dubious of Harry's claim, especially since she wouldn't put it past him to pull her leg so. After all, none of her books mentioned anything about any elves.

Before Hermione could come to a decision though, an older boy wearing a prefect's badge walked past the door, announcing loudly. "First years, leave your luggage on the train; the house-elves will get them."

Oh. But—"but none of my books said anything about house-elves," Hermione said.

She didn't know why it bothered her so much. No, wait, she did know. What she didn't know was how an entire species could just not be mentioned in books that were supposed to teach muggleborns about the Wizarding World.

House-elves were part of the Wizarding World too, right?

Harry shrugged again. "Like I said, 'I'm not surprised'. On the bright side though, you can use this as a learning moment; not all books are trustworthy, sometimes authors just use them as a medium to spread their bias. Or worse, propaganda. My mother told me that one."

Hermione comprehended how... unlikely, Harry's last sentence was, considering his mother had died when he was one, at the same time the boy's own eyes widened and he quickly said, "um, I mean, that's the kind of thing I like to think my mother would have said. Yeah. Totally. Definitely that second one. Anyway why don't we head over to the castle?"

Hermione thought about saying something, but then she decided that it wasn't any of her business. "Okay, let's."

As they left the compartment, and all of the evidence of their earlier "spellwork" behind (Hermione really hoped those effects wore off soon like Harry had said they would), Hedwig perched on Hermione's shoulder, earning the bird a stink eye from her owner.

They exited the train among the throng of students, and Hermione started as a booming voice shook her all the way to her bones.

"First years. First years, over here."

The source turned out to be a very noticeable, and noticeably hairy, man in a thick fur coat. He was so tall that no one in the crowd of students came past his stomach, and the width of his shoulders seemed like it might be up to four times her father's.

"Is that a giant?" She asked Harry, eyes wide.

How could a man be so big and tall and still move easily under his own power like that? Was this magic?

Harry made a so-so gesture with one hand. "Half," he said, and Hermione looked at him, because she hadn't actually expected an answer. "But don't tell him I told you though. I don't think I'm supposed to know."

Hermione just nodded mutely.

"First years, this way," the giant half-giant man kept shouting, holding a lantern above his head, which made it higher than the ceiling of a house for everyone else.

"Come on," Harry said, pulling her ahead.

The man was no less intimidating closer, and when Hermione and Harry stopped before him, his big eyes (which were actually quite small for his huge face) focused on them. No, it focused on Harry.

"Hey, Hagrid," Harry called, and the man's wide mouth split a line through his very bushy beard.

"Harry," he boomed (or maybe that was his normal voice?). "How are yeh?"

"I'm fine. Great even. This is Hermione, by the way. Hermione Granger."

"Hello there, Hermione," Hagrid said, and Hermione managed a small "hello" in return. "Harry, why don't you bring Hermione over for some tea tomorrow. I can show you around like yeh asked."

"Thanks, Hagrid," Harry said. "Hermione?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I would love to come. Thank you, Hagrid."

"Don't worry about it," Hagrid said. "Now, first yea—oh," Hagrid stopped, realising that all the first years seemed to have gathered while they talked. "That should be it," he muttered (although with his size the dead probably would have heard him), then said, "alright then, children, follow me. And watch yer steps now."

Hagrid walked off, leading the way with the lantern, and as Hermione and Harry made to follow, a familiar and offended voice said from behind them, "you lied to me."

The two children turned to see Draco Malfoy and... actually he'd never introduced the other two boys.

"Say what now?" Harry asked the annoyed blonde.

"You lied to me," Malfoy repeated, his words beginning to draw the attention of some of the students around them. "You told me your name is James Bond, but the half-breed called you Harry just now. You're Harry Potter, aren't you?"

Harry began to respond, but then he paused and peered intently at some older students in the distance. "Sweet Merlin, do the Weasley twins have Nimbus 2000s?"

"What?" Draco asked and turned to look, and Hermione could now see that the redhead twins (Fred and George, the redhead boy had called them) she had seen in the train were walking with a group of friends, and were holding broomsticks.

Draco scoffed. "Those aren't Nimbus 2000s, they're Cleansweeps."

"Are you sure? Because from where I'm standing they really look like Nimbus 2000s to me," Harry said.

Draco looked back at the twins, then at Harry. At the twins, then back at Harry. Then he scoffed and stormed off in the direction of the twins while muttering to himself, "like the Weasleys could ever afford a Nimbus."

"Look to the scion of the House of Malfoy, people," Harry murmured, then shook his head. "Slytherin must be rolling in his grave. Come on, Hermione."

Hermione followed Harry as he walked, but she had to ask. "What was all that about?"

"Hmm? Oh, right. Well, Draco's family, the Malfoys? They're rich. And they hate the Weasleys, that's Ron's family—Ron's the boy who came in helping Neville look for his newt—and his family, the Weasleys, are not very well off. Though that might be because of all the children they have. Anyway, the Malfoys say the Weasleys are a disgrace to pure-blood Wizarding families—you know what pure-bloods are?" She nodded. "Good. While the Weasleys, on the other hand, hate the Malfoys and call them bigoted, Voldemort-loving scum. Which is true."

Hermione blinked. "So you took advantage of a long-standing family feud to avoid talking to Draco?"

"Precisely." He looked proud.

Hermione held back a sigh. She didn't want to be rude, but she was starting to think that Harry might be a problem child.

"What's Voldemort?" She asked. She thought it was some kind of French, but she wasn't really sure as she didn't speak French, only Latin and Greek.

Maybe she should have taken her father's advice and learnt more relevant languages, but she'd just assumed that she would have the time to learn them before it became important.

"You-Know-Who," Harry said, and Hermione frowned for a second in confusion before her eyes went wide in realization. "Yeah, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, The Dark Lord, The Mad Titan, whatever the hell else they call him. The point is, that guy that people are so scared of they won't even print his name despite that they believe he's dead? His name's Voldemort.

"Well, not really. His name's actually Tom, but I guess he figured no one would be scared of the Dark Lord Tom so he went with Voldemort instead."

And Hermione burst into laughter, completely ignorant of how horrified someone born into the Wizarding World would be in her shoes.

A horror that she would soon come to learn.

"No more than four to a boat," the booming voice of Hagrid came from up ahead, and Hermione and Harry hurried forward a little to find themselves on the bank of a lake. A great, big lake of twinkling black water, at the end of which, sitting on a cliff, was Hogwarts Castle.

Even Harry looked impressed.

"Get on the boats," Hagrid called again. "No more than four to one."

Hermione and Harry found an empty boat and got on, Hedwig flying to perch at the head of it, and as they settled in a girl walked up to them then called to her friend, "come on, Daphne, there's space here."

Daphne turned out to be a very beautiful girl with a noble grace to her posture. As she and her friend made to enter the boat, however, Harry stretched out, covering as much space as possible.

"Sorry," he told the girls, "boat's full. Cheerio." He even added a little wave at the end.

The two girls blinked. "What do you mean the boat is full? I can see you trying to take up the space," the girl who'd called to Daphne said.

And with a perfectly straight face, Harry said, "I have no idea what you're talking about; the boat is clearly beyond capacity."

The girl turned red in anger, but before she could say anything, Daphne said, "Tracey, it's okay. Let's find another boat."

And both girls walked off, one rather reluctantly.

"Harry! That was beyond rude. Why would you do that?"

The boy didn't seem the least bit fazed by her outburst. "Hermione, trust me, if you had half the meta-knowledge I do, you probably would have done the same."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means," Harry said, sitting up, "that within one train ride, I've somehow managed to meet you, Ron, Neville, and Draco. Twice. I've had my fill of canon for the day, like hell am I adding fanon to it."

Hermione blinked. Blinked again. "What?" She asked, but she received no answers from the boy before her.

They ended up making the short trip to Hogwarts in silence, Hermione stroking Hedwig as she tried unsuccessfully to solve the puzzle before her. That of the boy named Harry Potter.

He knew things about the Wizarding World. Many things. Even though he supposedly didn't grow up in it. One second he was being nice and funny and casting spells with her, and the next, he was being rude to two girls he didn't even know. Or did he?

Which led her to the last thing really; all the odd things he said.

Canon? Fanon? And what about that comment about his mother?

This was all so confusing.

The boats stopped at an underground cave lit with glowing crystals of some sort, and there was Prof. McGonagall waiting for them with a displeased expression on her face.

"Hagrid," the Prof. said, "you're late."

"Sorry, professor," the huge man replied, disembarking, "had to wait on Malfoy, didn't know where he went."

Prof. McGonagall eyed the boy, who shot herself and Harry a nasty look.

Great, now Harry was getting her in trouble too.

"Come on, children," the professor said, and led them through a series of tunnels to where Hermione assumed they would have The Sorting.

As they walked, the students around her began to murmur among themselves, and Hermione began to pick up little tidbits.

"—some kind of test—"

"—it decides if—"

Oh! She realized. They're talking about The Sorting.

"—brothers said we have to fight a troll."

... Well, some of them are.

Hermione knew about The Sorting, and she knew it was a hat that did it, Hogwarts, A History had told her that much. What it hadn't told her though was how the hat went about it.

What if it was a test like that girl had said?

Hermione slowly began to panic. Was she ready to take a test? She'd read all of her school books, of course (and many more besides), but she wasn't ready for a test, she hadn't prepared!

Why hadn't she prepared? What had she been thinking? Of course, there would be a test, it stands to reason that there would be a test. How could she have thought that there wouldn't be a—

"Hedwig, peck her on the head for me, will you?" Harry asked, and surprisingly, the owl, who was once again perched on Hermione's shoulder, obliged.

"Ow! Why? That hurt, Harry!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Because you're being dumb. First of all, it's not a test. And second of all, even if it was a test you're the least likely person here to fail it."

"Oh, yeah?" A boy near them asked. "Well, how do you know it's not a test?"

"Seriously?" Harry asked. "Did you not read Hogwarts, A History at all?"

Hermione looked at him. "But you told me you didn't read it!"

"No, I didn't! I said I looked at the pictures. Those are two very different things."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she smiled all the same.

Quieter, so only he could hear her, she asked, "do you really think I could pass? If it was a test."

Harry shook his head in fond exasperation. "Hermione, I think you have the potential to be the greatest witch the world has ever seen," he said seriously.

Hermione stumbled. "What?"

"Don't give me that look," Harry said. "I mean it. I think you could be so great that one day people will say Dumbledore was almost as great as you."

"Oh don't be silly, Harry," Hermione said, quickly latching on to that one thing in an attempt to ground herself after the utter... crazy talk this boy she just met was saying. "Dumbledore is a war hero. He's a master of Transfiguration, a Charms expert, an acclaimed alchemist; he discovered all twelve uses for dragon's blood. He's the greatest wizard there is."

"For now," Harry shrugs, perfectly confident.

Did he really mean it? Did Harry really think that she could be... that?

No, Hermione decided. He didn't. This was just Harry being... well, being Harry.

Unknown to either child, McGonagall's ears, honed from years of dealing with the Weasley twins, and the Marauders before them, picked up every word.

The Great Hall was majestic. Ghosts and floating candles and the night sky for a ceiling, everything about it screamed magic.

The sorting turned out to be like Harry had said; no tests, just a talking, singing hat you wear on your head.

Hermione was still wondering how the hat knew which house to put you in when her name was called.

Without bidding, Hedwig flew off Hermione's shoulder and perched on Harry's head, and when he tried to swat her off she pecked him after which he begrudgingly left her alone.

She walked up to the chair, nervous before so many gazes, and sat dutifully as the hat was placed atop her head by the headmistress.

"Hmm," the hat hummed thoughtfully directly into her mind, causing her to almost gasp. "Very great potential, I see."

"Really?" Hermione thought back.

"Don't believe me, do you?" The hat asked, and Hermione could somehow hear his eyebrow rise.

Which didn't even make sense, because the hat didn't have any eyebrows.

"Oh no, I do! It's just my... Harry said the same thing earlier."

"Oh? Well, he has a good eye then. You should keep him close; friends like that are often too rare to come by."

Right. "So, um..."

"Want to know your house, do you? Well, any one would suit you."

"Really?" Hermione asked.

"Really," the hat agreed. "The ambition and cunning requisite to fit in with Slytherin's host; though loyalty and the determination of a 'Puff you have the most; chasing knowledge, purely for sport, like a Ravenclaw; but your heart, I think, beats same as a Gryffindor."

A beat passed.

"That was beautiful." Hermione blushed.

"I know," the hat agreed. "It's one of the better ones I've made in a very long time. However, the point remains, you can go wherever you want Hermione Granger, so which do you choose?"

Well, if she could choose then her choice was obvious. But before that though. "Um, Mr. Hat, can I please know your name?"

The hat paused, and Hermione began to wonder if something was wrong before it said, "no one has asked me that in a very long time. But my name is Nilrem, Granger."

"Okay, Mr. Nilrem, I choose Gryffindor."

"Ah, the house of the lion. Very well then, GRYFFINDOR!" The hat yelled out the last part, and the Gryffindors and some from some other houses applauded.

McGonagall took the hat off her head, and Hermione headed over to the Gryffindor table, where a seat had already been set aside for her.

Hedwig flew to join her, perching on the table this time. An older boy, yet another redhead, this one wearing a prefect's badge, eyed the bird, but fortunately said nothing.

After a few more people, it was Harry's turn, and as soon as his name was called, the entire hall silenced. Hermione even saw some of the teacher's sit up.

Was this what it was like for Harry all the time? How did he deal with it?

It was even worse because he was only this famous because of a tragedy.

Harry walked up to the chair, throwing a wink her way as he did, and Hermione suddenly got a very bad feeling.

McGonagall placed Nilrem on Harry's head, only for the boy to catch him at the final moment and ask in a clear, innocent voice. "Uh, I don't have to worry about lice or anything, do I?"

If you could hear a pin drop before, now you could hear a feather land on a pillow.

Hermione meanwhile simply hid her face in her hands and wondered if it was too late to start pretending she didn't know Harry.

Surprisingly, it was the hat himself that broke the silence. With a hearty laugh no less.

"Don't worry, Harry Potter, I don't pick up lice, or dirt of any kind really. It's the only thing that has kept me in such good condition all these years."

"Oh, okay then," Harry said and dropped the hat on his head.

One of the redhead twins at the Gryffindor table whispered to the other. "How did we never think of that, brother mine?"

"I don't know," the other responded. "But it does look like we'll be having competition this year." Then they made eye-contact and smiled devilishly in sync.

That couldn't be good.

Suddenly, Harry's voice rang out again in the still quiet hall. "Well, what can I say? I'm spurshurl." And Nilrem laughed again.

"Yes, that you are," the hat agreed out loud.

"Anyway, can we skip all this so you can just put me in the same house as Hermione?" Harry continued.

And whatever fledgling plan the girl had to pretend not to know Harry took a dagger to the heart and bled out on the streets, as every single eye in the hall turned to her.

God, no.

Nilrem laughed again and said, "very well then, GRYFFINDOR!"

No one clapped. No one booed. No one said anything for five seconds straight.

And then twins started stomping their feet rhythmically; one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, and with every repeat more feet joined in.

On and on and on until almost the entire hall was stomping.

Harry meanwhile, calmly took Nilrem off, gave him a peck, and patted him softly, before handing him over to Prof. McGonagall.

It was at this point that the twins started chanting, "we got Potter! We got Potter!!" and all the Gryffindors quickly joined in.

Harry, hearing the chant, looked right at her with those annoyingly green eyes, smiled like this was the best day of his life, and started chanting too, but with his lines edited the tiniest bit. "You got Potter! You got Potter!!"

Maybe she could still revisit her not knowing him plan.

 

“We got Potter! We got Potter!”

Harry raised his arms and cheered like he’d just won the election for Prime Minister, and half the Gryffindors rose and cheered with him.

He rushed to the Gryffindor table then, shaking hands and shooting finger guns at people, smiling all the while, and despite herself, Hermione found her lips curling into a smile at the silliness of it all.

Finally, after almost half a minute of goofing off, Harry sat, slotting himself into the space beside her on the bench, before bumping her shoulder with his. “Didn’t think I’d let you get rid of me that easily, did you?” He asked, and Hermione simply opted for her now go-to response when dealing with Harry and rolled her eyes.

After another half-minute of Prof. McGonagall calming the crowd, the sorting continued. Without anymore fanfare thankfully.

With the last student, a boy named Zabini, sorted into Slytherin, Prof. McGonagall took Nilrem away, and Headmaster Dumbledore rose for a speech.

“To the new students, welcome. And to the old, welcome back. Before we fill our bellies, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Oddment! Blubber! Tweak! Thank you.” And he sat back down.

“And you thought I was mad,” Harry said, as more food than Hermione had ever seen in any one place appeared on the tables.

*****

“You’re all brothers?” Hermione asked Ron, almost regretting the act when he began to answer around a mouth full of food.

“Uh-huh. Fred and George there are in third year; don’t eat anything they give you.”

“Oh, little Ronniekins—”

“—you wound us. Truly.”

The twins said from where they sat on the other side of the table some small distance away.

“Besides, we know better than to prank Harry Potter’s girlfriend.”

Hermione choked.

“What!?” She squeaked at the twins, both of whom were acting far too innocent.

Ron, on the other hand, just looked confused. “What do you mean she’s Harry’s girlfriend?”

“Well, Ronniekins—”

“Stop calling me that!”

“—when a boy asks the hat to put him in a house simply because a certain girl is there—”

“—that usually means that she’s his girlfriend.”

That made no sense whatsoever!

Ron clearly agreed with her thoughts, because he said, “but Harry obviously just wanted to get into Gryffindor because it’s the best house there is.”

Well, no, Harry obviously came to Gryffindor just to frustrate her, but Hermione much preferred Ron’s reason than the twins’.

Fred and George gave Ron a sad, condescending smile. “Oh, Ronniekins—”

“I said stop calling me that!”

“—you sweet summer child.”

The expressions of students close to them caught Hermione’s eye then, and she noted with mounting horror that they were beginning to buy into the twins’ hogwash.

Wait a minute! Why wasn’t Harry saying anything?

She turned to see the boy in question quietly cutting ham into small pieces for Hedwig.

“Harry!” She nudged him. “Tell them we’re not... you know.”

Without even looking up from his plate, Harry said, “come on, Hermione, even I know better than to bother with things like this. Anything you say can and will be used against you in this court of law. They don’t play fair.”

“No, we do not,” one of the twins said.

“But you have to say something!” Hermione pressed.

“Hermione, what part of can and will be used against you did you not get?” Harry queried.

“Well, try!”

“Aww,” the twins gushed. “They’re already fighting like an old, married couple.”

“No, we’re not!”

“More importantly, I think you guys need a better model of what an old, married couple is actually like,” Harry said. “Anyway, I’ve been hearing a lot about this quidditch game. What’s it actually like?”

And the conversation quickly switched to the all-time favorite Wizarding sport.

It wouldn’t be until much later, that Hermione would realise that Harry had deliberately changed the subject.

*****

After dinner and an announcement by the Headmaster (which included informing them of two places in the school they shouldn’t go unless they wanted to meet a quick and painful death [she’d hoped he was joking until Harry looked at her and shook his head with complete seriousness]), Hermione and the other first years were given a minor tour of the Hogwarts castle by Ron’s older brother, Prefect Percy.

The tour didn’t cover much, mostly just taking them to the major hallways and pointing them in the right direction to go to access different parts of the castle.

As the tour carried on, Prefect Percy talked about the rules and regulations of Hogwarts, and other such things.

Currently, he was on the topic of the house cup.

“—and at the end of the year, the Headmaster awards the cup to the house with the most points. Therefore you must be on your best behaviour at all times; Gryffindor has lost the cup to Slytherin six years in a row now so I won’t have any of you costing us any points,” Prefect Percy said seriously, and Hermione nodded, determined to do her part to ensure that her house won this year.

Harry raised a hand.

Prefect Percy spotted it after a moment and asked, “you have a question, Potter?”

“Uh, yeah, I do. What do we get if we win the cup?”

Hermione almost rolled her eyes. What a silly question.

“Excuse me?” Prefect Percy asked.

“I mean, is there an actual reward for winning the cup? Like do we get later curfews? Extra desserts at dinner? Maybe even access to the restricted section of the library? Is there an actual reward for this, or is it just about bragging rights? Wait, do we even get to keep the cup?”

Prefect Percy stuttered for a few moments, before finally pulling himself together. “Well, of course, winning the house cup is a reward in itself—”

“So bragging rights,” Harry interrupted, “got ya. Carry on, please. Sorry for interrupting.”

Prefect Percy shot Harry, then her (why?) a sour look then turned around and resumed walking. “Come along, everyone. We’re almost at Gryffindor Tower.”

“Must you antagonize everyone?” Hermione whispered harshly at Harry.

“I wasn’t,” Harry denied. “And I don’t antagonize everybody. Besides, doesn’t it bother you that we’re being asked to compete for something pointless?”

“It’s not pointless, Harry. It’s meant to motivate students to obey school rules and try harder in their academics. It’s quite ingenious actually.”

“It also creates animosity between the four houses, not to mention puts anyone who loses points at risk of being ostracized by their housemates.”

Hermione groaned in frustration. “Must you be so difficult?”

“How am I being—” Harry started to say, then stopped. “You know what? Let’s just—let’s not fight about it. How about we just agree to disagree?”

Hermione didn’t want to agree to disagree, she wanted him to understand that she was right!

...

On the other hand though, while Harry was undeniably rude, and liked to antagonize people, and had caused her way more trouble in one day than she’d thought was humanly possible, he was sort of her friend. And he was offering an olive branch.

Would it be wrong of her to not accept it?

“Fine,” Hermione agreed grudgingly. “Let’s not fight about it.”

Harry smiled at her, and she saw no trace of mischief in his green eyes.

She smiled back. It was nice.

And as Hedwig somehow managed to ruffle the girl’s hair affectionately with her beak, Hermione admitted to herself that maybe this agreeing to disagree thing wasn’t so bad.

The entrance to Gryffindor Tower was covered by a huge painting of a fat woman.

A talking, singing, fat woman aptly named the Fat Lady.

Hermione had seen moving, magical pictures before, almost all of her books had them, and even some of the portraits they walked past on the way here had moved and said hello, but the Fat Lady was the first that she’d seen that talked and acted like a normal person, instead of just repeating the same actions in an endless loop.

Were the other portraits like this too? Could they too sing and pretend their voices could break glass like the Fat Lady was doing?

Wait, maybe the Fat Lady was on a loop too. Maybe this act was one of the numbers she could perform, and it only looked new to Hermione because she’d never seen it before.

So maybe if the pictures in her books could be likened in complexity to a telephone, then someone like the Fat Lady would be akin to a much more advanced machine like a mainframe.

Oh, magic was so very exciting!

“Caput Draconis,” Prefect Percy repeated more forcefully, and The Fat Lady swung open with a sulky “oh, all right then” to reveal the circular entrance into the Gryffindor common room.

As the other students entered, Harry told The Fat Lady “don’t mind him, I thought your singing was electric.”

“Why, thank you, Potter,” the woman said happily.

The Gryffindor common room was large, round, and homey. It was designed in Gryffindor colours, red and gold, and it had a fireplace that burned a merry orange.

There were some students lounging in the common room, mostly older ones, and their attention focused on the first years as they walked in.

Harry came in beside her. He looked around at the common room, then back at the entrance which had closed behind him and a thoughtful look came over his face.

“Only one exit,” he mused. “Huh. I wonder if anyone else has realised how much of a fire hazard that is.”

Hermione began to roll her eyes when she stopped and actually thought about it.

Harry actually wasn’t wrong.

All the same. “Harry, I’m quite certain Hogwarts castle has all sorts of magical protections against fire already.”

“And I’m quite certain you’d be surprised,” Harry said simply.

One of the sitting students, a girl with a prefect’s badge, stood up and walked over.

Prefect Percy introduced her. “Everyone, this is Loveth Hyperion, a fifth year prefect. She will be showing the girls to their dorms.”

“Come with me, firsties,” the girl, a tall, pencil-necked blonde, said, as she headed for one of the two spiraling staircases connected to the common room.

Hedwig flew off Hermione’s shoulder and perched on Harry’s head as his group walked up the other staircase. The boy eyed the bird quietly, then waved at Hermione. Hermione waved back, laughing lightly at their antics.

Two of the first-year girls walking beside her giggled.

They climbed the stairs until they got to the very top, then Prefect Loveth pushed open a door and led them all in.

The first-year girls’ dorm was round, had one big open window with a balcony, a door that led to the bathrooms, and five four-poster canopy beds with lovely wooden dressers beside them.

The dressers came complete with shelves and full-length mirrors, and, built into the walls, one to a bed, were rather large wardrobes.

The walls were painted a bright red, the curtains a dark red with gold trimmings, and on the floor in the middle of the room, laid a thick, soft carpet with the Gryffindor logo.

In all, the dorm was quite impressive, even if it did have an overabundance of Gryffindor colours.

No matter, Hermione supposed she would get used to it in time.

“Find the bed with your luggage next to it,” Prefect Loveth said, and as the girls moved to obey, added, “welcome to Hogwarts” and left.

Hermione found her singular trunk by the bed closest to the window, and went about arranging her things how she wanted them.

Something odd caught her eye in her mirror; her robe now had a Gryffindor badge on the left breast.

When had that happened? She didn’t think it was during the feast. Hermione fingered the badge and found it stuck fast.

Huh.

She surreptitiously peeked at the other girls, and found that their robes too were now spontaneously sporting Gryffindor badges that they didn’t seem to have noticed.

Curious, she opened the clothes section of her magical trunk, and found, with some surprise and much amazement, that her three spare uniform robes now also had Gryffindor badges.

This was amazing.

Amazing, and a little eerie.

As Hermione marveled over the wonders of magic, two of her new dormmates, the two who had giggled earlier walked over.

They looked relaxed in each other’s presence, like they’d been friends since long before Hogwarts.

“Hi,” the shorter one said, speaking for both. “I’m Lavender, this is my friend Parvati.”

Hermione stood straight and stretched out her hand. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

The girls giggled, and Hermione noticed the other two girls trying, and failing, to act like they weren’t listening.

Hermione started to worry a little bit, and she slowly put her hand back down.

“We know your name, silly,” Lavender said.

“Everybody does,” Parvati added.

Hermione’s worry was slightly eroded by confusion.

“They do?” She asked.

“Of course,” Lavender gushed. “You’re the talk of the school. Who would have thought that Harry Potter would have a girlfriend?”

...

Why her?

 

A/N: last one for the day.

---

“Lollipop,” said the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Minerva McGonagall, and the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Head’s Office leapt aside to permit her entry.

Minerva almost sighed as she stepped onto the staircase and it began to ascend. Albus Dumbledore’s proclivity for using muggle confections as the passwords to his office had been amusing at some point, now however, it was just another of the ageing Headmaster’s antics that mostly left her fondly exasperated.

The staircase finally stopped, and Minerva pushed open the heavy oak doors and strode into Albus’ office, where she was greeted by the familiar tweaking, and popping, and fizzing sounds that the odd instruments all over the room tended to make.

The man himself was seated at his large, claw-footed desk. His familiar, Fawkes, was perched on the surface near him, with Albus running his thin, long fingers through the phoenix’s vibrant, red plumage, and on the other end of the table, sat the Sorting Hat, old and worn, but somehow, still in one piece despite all these years.

Both of those were usually on their respective perches, which was not Albus’ desk.

“Ah, Minerva,” Albus Dumbledore said as she came in, “thank you for coming.”

Minerva dipped her head slightly at the phoenix as she sat. “Fawkes,” she said in greeting. She was one of the few who understood that the firebird was much more than a mere animal.

The phoenix dipped his head distractedly in return. The bird looked almost euphoric.

“Seeing Harry with his owl today made me realise how much I’ve been neglecting poor Fawkes recently,” Albus said, and Minerva hummed thoughtfully.

Before she could say anything however, Albus asked, gaze thoughtful. “What did you think of the boy, Minnie?”

Minerva was surprised. Not at the question, no, she’d known Albus had called her here to discuss Harry, what surprised her was that he hadn’t offered her a sweet before beginning.

It would appear this was more serious than she’d thought.

“I thought he was a lot like James,” she said. “Confident, charismatic... too much of a jokester.”

“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Albus agreed, and though he smiled while he said it, Minerva could see that the thought didn’t really please him, and she had a suspicion as to why.

Albus had been hoping for more of Lily in the boy.

Not that she could fault him for that, she had hoped the same. While James’ heart had always been in the right place, it was Lily who had helped him become the remarkable man most remembered. Lily who had given James a reason to want to be better. Minerva supposed that both she and Albus had hoped that Harry would have enough of his mother in him, despite his physical resemblance to James, that he would never have to go through the... phase that James had in his younger years.

Alas, it looked like that would not be happening.

Then again, there was the Granger girl. She seemed like she had a good, steady head on her shoulders. Maybe she could be for Harry what his mother was for James.

Though, it might be a tad soon to tell.

As though he could read her mind, Albus asked, “and what about Harry’s friend, Hermione Granger? What would you say is Harry’s opinion of her?”

Unbidden, the memory of Harry’s words to the girl on the way to The Great Hall came to Minerva, and she relayed the information to Albus.

“He sounded like he meant every word,” she added, when she was done.

Oddly enough, Albus looked somewhat troubled when he replied, “I’m quite certain he did.” And with the way he said it, Minerva was unsure if Albus was saying he was certain Harry had meant every word, or if he was saying he was sure Harry had sounded like he meant every word.

There was a difference in there somewhere.

Minerva shook away those thoughts. “I suspect he was just trying to flatter her,” she said.

“He wasn’t,” The Sorting Hat, Nilrem, disagreed, speaking up for the first time since the conversation began. “He may have exaggerated a little bit, but he was right; Hermione Granger is most certainly a pupil to look out for.” A pause, then: “she asked me my name.”

Minerva’s eyebrows climbed.

Only a dozen pupils had ever asked the hat for his name since the founding of Hogwarts, and for good or ill, all twelve of them had become very amazing witches and wizards.

Of their number, the last two were the only ones still alive today; Albus Dumbledore, and Tom Marvolo Riddle.

“Well, looks like Harry has more of his mother in him than we thought,” Minerva said.

Lily had always been gifted at seeing the shine in people, regardless of their exterior. Although, as Snape proved, it was up to the person themselves to polish that shine into something worthwhile.

Albus still looked worried however, and it was starting to make Minerva worry too, so, finally, she came right out and asked. “What is it, Albus? You seem worried.”

Albus Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes peered at her over his half-moon spectacles. There was no twinkle. “Nilrem,” Albus said, “please tell Minerva what you told me about Harry.”

“As I told you, and the boy himself, Albus; his head is the most interesting one I’ve ever sat on.”

Minerva blinked. So that was why the boy had made the comment about being special.

“What do you mean by interesting?” The woman asked the hat.

“It’s his soul,” the hat replied. “It has more weight than it should. Not quite that of two but—” the hat sighed “—much more than a boy should have.”

Minerva looked from the hat to Albus and back again. “What does this mean?” She asked the two.

It was Dumbledore who spoke, his fingers having not ceased their stroking of his now sleeping familiar’s feathers even once. “I believe it would behoove us to keep a close eye on Harry, Minerva. Just to be sure.”

Why they needed to keep a close eye on Harry? Albus hadn’t said.

Sure of what? Albus hadn’t said.

What the thing with Harry’s soul meant? Albus hadn’t said.

And though she would have liked to have those questions answered, and it rankled knowing that Albus would not answer them even if she asked until she was blue in the face, Minerva nodded and agreed with The Headmaster’s request.

Because he was a man she trusted and respected, and once, long ago, loved, and she would follow him anywhere.

They talked about some other things, trivial things, and a few minutes later, Minerva left the office she tried not to remember would be hers one day. Probably soon. And returned to her quarters.

She slept fitfully, and when she woke the morning after, she could not remember if she’d dreamed.

 

A/N: since i apparently have to say this; please don't leave spoilers in the comments.

If you absolutely have to talk about something that happens later on in the story, then use a spoiler tag, or whatever it's called. Thanks.

---

Hermione Granger woke from a deep, restful sleep, and was done with her morning rituals before any of her dormmates even woke.

She hadn’t set an alarm, she was simply an early riser, being able to wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at six every morning, as long as she didn’t stay up too late the night before.

At 6:30, she headed down to the common room, wondering if she should go wake Harry up so that they could grab breakfast together, or if it would be better to go by herself.

She didn’t want to seem clingy, after all, and her mum had told her that boys her age didn’t really like to hang out with girls too much, since they didn’t want to seem effeminate.

Hmm.

It would probably be better for her to go by herself, she decided. Harry was the only friend she currently had, it wouldn’t do to make him feel the need to pull away (especially since the thought of having to befriend any of the girls in her dorm made her a little wary, since it seemed like all they wanted to do was ask her uncomfortable questions about her “relationship” with Harry).

“Ohayō,” Harry said from beside her as she entered the common room, and Hermione jumped.

“Harry! What are you doing here?”

He looked at her like she had said something weird. “Waiting for you, obviously. Wanna go get breakfast?”

“Yes. Okay,” she said, and Harry led the way.

Hermione really should have realized by now that Harry Potter was not like other boys.

After the portrait swung closed behind them, Harry turned to The Fat Lady and said, “good morning.”

“Good morning to you too, Harry,” The Fat Lady replied. “Did you enjoy your first night in Hogwarts?”

“Yeah, it was great. The beds are crazy soft; I almost overslept.”

The Fat Lady smiled. “Looks like you woke up early enough,” she said.

Harry shrugged, then said, “oh yeah, I forgot to ask you last night. Do you have a name?”

The woman paused, and Hermione frowned. Why would Harry ask a question like that? The Fat Lady obviously isn’t a real person, she’s just a simulacrum of one. Of course she wouldn’t have a name.

Then The Fat Lady smiled at Harry with some powerful emotion glittering in her eyes and said, “my name is Jolene, Harry. Thank you for asking.”

Hermione missed whatever Harry said in return, because her blood had run cold. “You have a name?” She asked.

The Fat Lady, Jolene, rolled her eyes. “Of course I have a name,” she said. “You didn’t think us paintings don’t have names, did you?”

Yes, she had. Of course, she had. What else was she supposed to think?

“So—” Hermione licked her suddenly dry lips “—does that mean that you’re all real people in there?” She asked, dreading the answer.

“Of course, we are,” The Fat Jolene replied, then asked, “Are you a muggleborn?”

“What—how was that relevant!? You’re trapped in a painting!” Hermione near-shouted in horror.

“Well, from my perspective, you’re trapped in a painting, you know?” Jolene said casually, and Hermione had to pause at that.

“What?”

“Think about it, Hermione,” Harry said. “From her perspective she’s looking out her window, or maybe into a painting, and seeing us here. In her eyes, we’re the ones trapped in this world.”

Trapped in this world? “But she’s two-dimensional.”

“Why, I never!” The Fat Lady said, insulted.

Hermione reeled. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to insult you, I just...” she stopped and took a breath. “I’m sorry. Like you said, I’m a muggleborn. Magic is all so new to me and I’m having trouble understanding your point of view. I really am sorry.”

Jolene still looked somewhat annoyed, but she said, “oh, that’s quite alright, dear. I suppose I was a bit too harsh myself.”

“Thanks, Jolene,” Harry said, thankfully keeping everything from becoming awkward. “We’ll be heading down for breakfast now.”

“Very well. Take care you two.”

Hermione and Harry waved as they walked away, but the girl still had the thoughts on her mind.

“Are you sure she wasn’t brainwashed?” She asked Harry. “Maybe whoever put her in there cast a spell on her to make her okay with being trapped.”

Harry stared at her. “What happened to being sorry and trying to understand her point of view?” He asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Like Harry had never heard of fibbing before. “Harry, that woman has been imprisoned in a painting and brainwashed to think she’s okay with it, we have to—”

“Okay,” Harry cut in, “let me just stop you right there. How about before we go around freeing all the poor people in the paintings, we do some actual research to see if they need it? You know, like scientists. Instead of Facebook conspiracy theorists.”

Hermione frowned. “What’s Facebook?”

“Irrelevant.” Harry waved away the question. “However, do tell your parents that if they ever get the opportunity to invest in a company named Facebook they should definitely take it. Google too. But, like I said, irrelevant. Anyway, back to this painting business. Hermione, the Magical World has an arseload of sentient and semi-sentient objects hanging around. Hell, in Hogwarts alone, between the paintings, the statues, the suits of armour—”

Wait, the what?

“—The Sorting Hat,” Harry paused. “Damn it, I forgot to ask The Sorting Hat his name. How did I forget this? It was like the first thing I wanted to say.”

“It’s Nilrem,” Hermione said.

“Huh? What is what?”

“The Sorting Hat; his name is Nilrem.”

Harry gave her a long look. “You asked The Sorting Hat his name?”

There was something about the way he said it, like the possibility of her doing such a thing never even occurred to him, that annoyed her a little bit. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

“What? No, no, I just... I just never imagined you would, I guess,” Harry said with a pensive frown. “Huh. Why did you ask him?”

She was about to give some throwaway response like “why wouldn’t I?” when she actually thought about it for longer than a second and wondered, why had she asked Nilrem his name?

Thinking back on it now, she realised that she hadn’t been the least bit curious about it. She hadn’t even thought the old hat had a name, and yet, somehow, she’d asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted finally. “I just... did.”

Breakfast was served in Hogwarts from 6:15am-7:45am on the weekdays. The dishes appeared at 6:15 on the dot, and everything, aside from pitchers of water and some beverages, disappeared at exactly 7:45, therefore, when Hermione and Harry arrived at The Great Hall at 6:45, breakfast had technically been in session for thirty minutes, even though there were only a handful of people present yet.

The children sat at the Gryffindor table and served themselves, and as they began to eat, Hedwig swooped down to them.

The owl dropped a folded newspaper on the table before Hermione, before she perched and began to drink from Harry’s cup of water.

The boy stared at his familiar with visible disgust. “Please, tell me you brushed your beak this morning,” he implored, and Hedwig of course ignored him.

Hermione picked up the newspaper. It was that morning’s edition of The Daily Prophet, and she found that it was the lightest newspaper she’d ever seen, with just three sheets of paper when spread out at the center.

The headline on the front page read, Beloved Hero & Acclaimed Author, Gilderoy Lockhart, Awarded Order of Merlin, Third Class.

The accompanying image was a magical photograph of a handsome man with a roguish smile that exposed very white teeth.

The man in the image winked at her and Hermione blushed.

“So, uh, Hedwig,” Harry said conversationally, “you mind telling us where you got the newspaper?”

Hermione blinked. “Where did she get the newspaper?” She asked Harry.

“I have no idea.” Harry shrugged, unperturbed. “Knowing Hedwig though, she probably murdered some poor owl and stole it off her corpse.”

“Harry!”

“Relax, Hermione. Hedwig’s smart enough to wipe her tracks.”

“Harry!” She chastised again, but she was laughing now.

“What? It’s either that or the slammer, Hermione.” A dramatic pause. “And she’s never going back.”

Getting her laughter under control, the girl said, “they don’t make jails for birds, Harry.”

“Well, no, not yet,” the boy agreed. “But with the recent rise in homicidal owls, I can assure you that there’s a growing demand.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind him, Hedwig,” she said. “I know you’re a good bird. You wouldn’t do anything illegal.”

The owl gave her a look.

“You wouldn’t, right?” She asked, voice suddenly less sure.

The owl went back to eating.

“You were saying?” The Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Her asked, and Hermione quietly set the paper as far away from herself as she could, and went back to her meal.

An influx of students strode into the hall then, and Hermione looked up to see a small group of Slytherins, which included Draco Malfoy and his two... friends (?), as well as the two girls Harry had kept from entering their boat yesterday, Daphne and Tracey.

Daphne looked in her direction, and their eyes met. Hermione quickly looked away.

She still felt terrible about what Harry had done to the girl and her friend yesterday at the lake. She wished she could apologize. After all, it wasn’t like Harry would ever do it, she thought staring at the boy.

“I can feel your eyes burning holes in my skull, Hermione,” Harry said without looking from his plate. “What up?”

She almost didn’t say anything. Not after she’d already decided there was no point.

“I think you should apologize. To Daphne and Tracey. You were very rude to them yesterday.”

Instead of a joke, or a diversion, or any of the thousand different responses she expected, Hermione got a pensive frown instead.

“You’re right,” Harry said finally. “That wasn’t really my finest moment, was it? I guess, it’s a little hard sometimes remembering that people are much more than just words on paper.”

Huh?

“Make sure Hedwig doesn’t eat all my food, will you?” He asked, then, to her surprise, rose and walked over to the Slytherin table.

Hermione didn’t really hear what was said, but at one point, many eyes from the Slytherin table glanced at her, Malfoy adding his trademark sneer to his. Harry even turned and waved.

Maybe she didn’t quite think this through.

After a minute, Harry returned, smiling pleasantly. That was never a good sign.

“So,” Harry said as he sat, “I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news.”

“What’s the bad news?” She asked immediately.

Harry sighed. “This is why I don’t work with pessimists,” he muttered. “The good news, is that Daphne seems to have forgiven me, and Tracey has even stopped holding a grudge since yesterday.”

“And the bad?”

“Well, the bad is why she stopped holding a grudge. See, she said, and I quote ‘it’s fine. But next time, just say you want to be alone with your girlfriend instead of acting like a jerk.’”

Hermione stared at the boy.

“No.” She shook her head in denial.

“Yes.” Harry nodded with a smile.

★★★​

The first-years had two classes on Mondays, Transfiguration and Defence, and despite the events of that morning, or perhaps because of them, Hermione was so excited/nervous for the lesson, that she made sure they were there by 7:40.

Which made them twenty minutes early.

The classroom was large, empty, and set up like a lecture hall, with seating for three arranged on steps that climbed over six levels at the very back. And Hermione and Harry... well, actually, Hermione picked a seat at the very front of the empty classroom, and they settled in.

“Looks like Prof. McGonagall isn’t here yet,” Hermione mused out loud.

She wondered where the professor was, seeing as the older woman had left The Great Hall several minutes before they had. Maybe she had some other engagement to attend to.

“Maybe she had to go number two.” Harry shrugged.

“Harry! That’s disgusting.”

“Uh, no, it’s a natural, biological process, and it would be really weird if she didn’t do it.”

“Well, we’re not talking about our professor’s... processes, Harry.”

The infuriating boy just laughed.

Over time, the class slowly filled, as first-years from all houses came in twos and threes, and sometimes more.

Within that time, Hermione prepared for the upcoming class, setting out her quills, an inkpot, and some parchment to take notes on.

At her behest for him to do the same, Harry fished in his bag and pulled out a muggle notebook and pen.

Hermione gave him a sour look, the innocent expression on his face not fooling her for one second.

“Must you cause trouble with everything?” She asked, darn near exasperated.

“I’m pretty sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry replied.

Hermione Granger, being the bigger person, gracefully ignored him.

At eight on the dot, a tabby cat trotted in, and the door closed behind it.

The cat climbed Prof. McGonagall’s desk, all eyes on it, then it leapt, and transformed mid-air into the dignified form of Prof. McGonagall.

Almost everyone gasped.

Harry didn’t, but Hermione could tell from the glint in his eyes that he was impressed.

“Settle down, everyone,” Prof. McGonagall said, and the students obeyed. “I am Prof. McGonagall, and I will be teaching you Transfiguration for the duration of your schooling at Hogwarts. For your first lesson, we’ll start with—”

Harry raised a hand, and the professor’s eyes homed in on him.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?”

“Sorry for interrupting, professor, but I’m really curious and there’s very little information about this in the bookstores in Diagon Alley. Anyway, your animagus form, does it affect your human one at all? Like, does the fact that you’re a cat animagus make you like fish more, or have a better sense of balance or something?”

Prof. McGonagall eyed the boy. “And what brought on this interest in animagic, Mr. Potter? You wouldn’t be planning to attempt it, would you?”

“Never,” Harry said without missing a beat. “My interest is purely academic.”

Hermione decided then and there that Prof. McGonagall must be a very smart woman, because she didn’t look like she believed Harry at all.

She was willing to play along however, because she began an impromptu lecture, speaking to the entire class instead of just Harry. “Animagic is one of the most advanced forms of Transfiguration. Also one of the most dangerous.” She shot Harry a warning look. He smiled placidly in return. “Even the smallest mistake can leave you permanently trapped in a form that is half-beast and half-human, and it is very easy to make a mistake. Do not attempt it on your own, even if you learn how; not only do you risk permanent disfigurement, being an unlicensed animagus is a crime punishable by time in Azkaban. Am I clear?”

Everyone, Hermione and Harry included, replied with an obedient “yes, professor.”

“Good. Now for today’s lesson, you all will be attempting one of the simplest transfiguration spells available, a spell that was invented by our very own Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, back when he taught Transfiguration here at Hogwarts. Before that however, it is important that you learn the basics of The Art of Transfiguration itself, as well as some rules to this branch of magic...” And with that Prof. McGonagall launched into her lecture.

It was a long lecture; lasted over an hour, and Hermione did her best to keep up with her notetaking. But despite the hours of practice she had put into learning to use a quill (practice that showed, considering she was the best with a quill in the class among all those who hadn’t grown up in the Magical World), the constant dipping, and the need to write softly, and the rare, but too frequent, accidental inkblots were starting to grate on her.

Harry offered her a spare pen.

The clear superiority in his expression was galling, but the smile he gave her when she took the pen and muttered “thanks” wasn’t.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Prof. McGonagall talked about many things. About how powerful, and wondrous and dangerous The Art of Transfiguration could be, and how much like developing a physical skill, one could build ‘muscle memory’ for magic too. And that was why spells like the one they would be learning today were important to start their education with because they took little skill to cast, and the repercussions, in the event of failure, were much less dangerous for other spells.

Some of it were things Hermione had gleaned from her personal study, but there was much more that she hadn’t known, and from the lecture, Hermione suspected that Prof. McGonagall was only just scraping the surface.

Eventually, the lecture wound down, and Prof. McGonagall asked if anyone had questions. There were a few, but Hermione and Harry had none, and soon the class moved to the practical aspect.

Like most basic Transfiguration spells, the spell they were learning today had no official name; it was simply called the Matchstick to Needle Transfiguration spell, and was one of the many like it that had been invented by the Headmaster.

“Now, everyone,” Prof. McGonagall said when everybody had a few boxes of magically-delivered matches before them. “Remember, this spell has no required wand-motion, so try not to move your wand around when you cast. If you must do something with your wand touch it to the matchstick. The incantation is acus.”

Several cries of “acus” rang out in the classroom as Hermione attempted the spell herself.

“Acus,” she said, tapping her wand-tip to the matchstick, and it transformed into a perfect needle.

She was pleased, she had never attempted that spell before.

“Excellent work, Miss Granger, Mr. Potter,” Prof. McGonagall said from halfway across the classroom where Hermione had thought she was keeping an eye on some Hufflepuffs. “Five points each to Gryffindor.”

Hermione beamed, then looked at Harry, who also had a perfect needle in front of him.

Their first points! They just won their first points!

Almost like he could hear her thoughts, Harry rolled his eyes at her. “Wipe that stupid grin off your face,” he said, but not unkindly.

Ronald Weasley, who was sitting behind them with Neville, craned his head to look at their work. “You got it already? Great,” he muttered petulantly, then proceeded to attempt to transfigure his matchstick by poking it as hard as he could with his wand.

Hermione was about to tell him he was doing it wrong, when a small explosion erupted farther back in the classroom, and Prof. McGonagall rushed over to see what had gone wrong.

By the time Hermione looked back to their own table, Harry had apparently begun some kind of impromptu art project.

“What are you doing?” She asked, watching as he transfigured another matchstick and used the sticking charm to attach it to another needle.

“Making a spider,” Harry said and pushed his notebook toward her, where she saw a very rough drawing of a large spider.

She wanted to tell him to stop. That they definitely should not be doing this in Prof. McGonagall’s class, but instead, she made a new, better drawing on the opposite page.

“You missed a few things,” she said. “Spiders only have two body parts; a cephalothorax and an abdomen, and their legs are more spread out. Which species were you planning to make?”

They quickly fell into a rhythm, turning matchsticks to needles with Hermione directing where to stick them together. And slowly the arachnid came into shape. First with the cephalothorax, then the abdomen, all of it a hollow network of needles that was literally held together by magic.

They used beads for eyes, beads they transfigured from small balls of paper (another of the beginner transfiguration spells), and by the end, Hermione had to admit that, while not a masterpiece by any means, their sculpture was quite beautiful in a weird, silly way.

And then she looked up and saw Prof. McGonagall watching them.

Oh bother.

“Practicing the spell, I see,” the woman observed.

“Yup,” Harry said, perfectly unbothered. “And we figured, ‘why not make it interesting?’”

“I see,” the professor said, as Hermione began to panic a little.

Prof. McGonagall was going to take points. She was going to take points because they were distracted in her class, and Hermione would have lost Gryffindor points.

“If you can animate it, I’ll give you both twenty points to Gryffindor,” Prof. McGonagall waited a beat. “Each.”

Hermione blinked, then she and Harry stared at each other.

“Wait, when you say animate, do you mean—”

“A basic animation spell will suffice, Mr. Potter,” Prof. McGonagall assured. “No need to risk anything advanced.”

Hermione and Harry stared at each other again.

“There is that Year two animation spell,” Harry suggested.

“Augurs’ Animation spell,” Hermione agreed. “Animates any object in the likeness of an animal to be that animal, without transmuting any of its material aspects.”

Harry nodded. “You should cast it,” he said. “You’re more likely to get it on the first try.”

“I’ve seen your spellwork, Harry. You can cast spells I never even think of.”

“Together then,” the boy said.

They readied their wands. Performed the wand-motion, two quick flicks, carefully, then incanted, “animato.”

Nothing happened, and the disappointment Hermione felt was much more than she’d thought she would feel.

Then the spider twitched. Once. Twice. Then it skittered forward, its pointy, metallic legs making rapid clicking sounds on the table.

Ron moaned piteously behind her. “Did it have to be a spider?” He asked.

Hermione turned, and noticed that he and Neville, as well most of the class was watching.

With a few flicks of her wand, Prof. McGonagall conjured a big, glass box around the spider, which the creature kept bumping into the walls of.

“Looks like our spider’s lacking in the brain department,” Harry observed.

“As promised, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger. Twenty points each to Gryffindor.”

The Gryffindors cheered. The Slytherins scowled, and some even muttered about favoritism. And while the look of pride Prof. McGonagall gave her pleased her greatly, for some reason, it was Harry’s smile that stuck to her mind the most.

Maybe the boy wasn’t all bad, she decided.

★★★​

Harry was acting strange.

Well, strange-er.

It was lunch time, and the class they had next was Defence, and it seemed like the closer it got to the start of that period, the more nervous, and withdrawn Harry became.

Hermione couldn’t understand it. She hadn’t known Harry could get nervous or withdrawn.

Right as she decided to bite the bullet and ask, Harry spoke.

“Do you know I almost didn’t come?” He asked, then stared at her. “To Hogwarts,” he clarified.

What!?

“Why?”

“You have no idea how many times I considered cleaning out my vault and just disappearing into the wind,” he said, seemingly not hearing her question. “The desire was so strong sometimes.”

Hermione tried to understand what Harry was saying.

Finally, because she thought she might understand better if she did, she asked, “why did you come? If you didn’t want to.”

Harry smiled at her, and it was one of his mischievous ones. “To meet you,” he said. “Why else would I come?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and went back to her meal, but even though she did, she didn’t discount any of the things he’d said.

Well, except for the last one. That one was obviously just him pulling her leg.

The closer they got to the Defence classroom, the more withdrawn Harry became. He tried to hide it. Tried to act like his former behaviour had all been one big prank, but she caught the deep, arming breath he took before he stepped into Prof. Quirrel’s classroom, and she didn’t think the strong smell of garlic everywhere was why he did it.

As the class carried on, Harry never said a word and barely took any notes, and Hermione noticed that he never looked at Prof. Quirrel directly, not even when the man’s back was turned.

On the professor’s own part Hermione didn’t notice anything odd, besides of course the fact that the man who was supposed to teach them to protect themselves, looked like he would pass out at the sight of his own shadow.

It was frustrating, because there was clearly something wrong with her friend and she had no idea what it was, or how she could help.

Which was why sometime during the lesson, Hermione reached out with her left hand under the table and took Harry’s right, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

And it was a very good thing Harry turned out to be ambidextrous, because he never let go.

 

As soon as Prof. Quirrel ended the class, half the first-years practically scrambled for the door in an attempt to get their first whiff of fresh air in three hours.

Hermione didn't, but even she had to agree that, after spending the last three hours in a stuffy classroom that reeked of garlic and other pungent odours, the somewhat musty air of the castle hallways felt divine going down her windpipe.

"Ugh!" Hermione heard Lavender groan to Parvati. "My hair smells like garlic. This won't ever wash out!"

Hermione failed to catch Parvati's response as Harry spoke.

"Thank you," he said, taking her hand in his and squeezing in appreciation.

Hermione squeezed back, noticing how Harry appeared to get less worried the farther behind them the class got. "What happened, Harry?" Hermione had to ask. "Why were you so upset? I was worried."

Harry sighed. "Let's just say Prof. Quirrel and I have some... unfinished business," he said.

"You've met before?" Hermione asked.

Harry nodded.

"But he didn't look like he recognized you."

"Oh, he did. He definitely did."

At that moment, a familiar voice came from behind them.

"Holding hands with your girlfriend, Potter?" Draco Malfoy asked, the sneer in his voice plain as day.

Hermione realised that she was still holding Harry's hand, and she began to let go, before she asked herself a very simple question.

Why should she have to be self-conscious and avoid holding her own friend's hand, simply because of what snobby bullies like Malfoy thought?

So she didn't let go of Harry's hand. He let go of hers.

Then threw it around her shoulder as he turned them to face Draco.

"Draco," Harry said, all smiles. And if Hermione didn't know any better, she would have thought he was genuinely happy to see the boy.

Then again, Harry did derive an inordinate amount of pleasure from messing with people, so maybe he was genuinely happy to see Draco.

Draco had his two usual acquaintances flanking him, his silver-blond hair was slicked back as always, and the expected sneer sat on his face, curling his thin lips.

Atypical, was the Slytherin girl standing closely beside him. She was quite thin, and tall for her age, with a head of lovely, black hair that made Hermione feel even more self-conscious of the bushy mane that graced her own head.

Most importantly however, was the snooty expression on her face that could give Malfoy's a run for its money.

"How you doing today?" Harry continued.

Draco sneer somehow deepened, and he gave Hermione a dismissive look that portrayed his very unflattering opinion of her.

"Much better than you for sure, if you've taken a muggle for a girlfriend," Malfoy replied.

Hermione frowned. That sounded like it was meant to be an insult. Not a very good one though. To be honest Hermione was much more offended by Malfoy's attitude towards her.

The girl standing beside Malfoy tittered in a way she seemed to think was adorable, as she shot Hermione a cruel look.

"Now, now, Draco," Harry chastised gently, almost condescendingly. "We've talked about this. There's no need for you to be jealous, I'm sure Pansy over there would love to be your girlfriend."

The girl beside Draco, Pansy apparently, jerked ramrod straight like she'd just been caught with her hand in the stewpot.

Hermione almost snickered.

Draco scoffed, not even noticing Pansy's reaction. "Unlike you, Potter, I don't spend all my time with girls." He practically sneered the last word.

Harry's response was a placid "give it time, Draco. Give it time."

The blond scoffed again, then stormed off, his entourage following behind. The two big boys (she really needed to learn their names) leered at them threateningly, but Pansy shyly avoided meeting their eyes.

As they walked away, Harry called, "hey, Pansy," and all four Slytherins turned. Then Harry gave the girl a thumbs up and said, "I'm rooting for you."

Pansy's face turned a fierce red, and she quickly scurried off to the confusion of the three Slytherin boys.

Harry heaved a deep, contented sigh, then looked at her. "What do you say we head over to Hagrid's for that tour he promised us?"

★★★​

Hagrid lived in a hut at the edge of The Forbidden Forest that was much too small for him.

For a normal-sized man, it would be a rather roomy abode, but since he, and nearly everything he owned, were super-sized, the interior ended up cramped and stuffy.

And his really huge dog (which he'd aptly named Fang, considering the really big ones the creature had), wasn't helping matters.

When Hagrid had first opened the door to welcome them in, the dog rushed out, and Harry, the boy who called himself her friend, had promptly hidden behind her. So not only was she sitting in a cramped, stuffy cabin, she also had the dog's huge, hot head on her legs, and reeked of its slobber.

Hermione felt like the stink eye she shot Harry was well-deserved.

Hagrid gave them tea, and something he called rock cakes, but which Hermione suspected were painted rocks, since she seemed more likely to chip a tooth than to bite through them.

They made small talk, mostly Hagrid asking them how they liked Hogwarts so far, and Hermione didn't even have to feign her enthusiasm about how fantastical everything had been.

There was one odd moment where she'd leafed through a few weeks old Daily Prophet sitting on the table, and as soon as she'd mentioned the article in there about Gringotts getting broken into, Hagrid had snatched the paper away and acted very bizarre, while giving Harry worried glances.

Harry himself had simply rolled his eyes and ignored the topic altogether.

The tour Hagrid finally took them on almost half an hour later, turned out to be worth the wait.

It took some effort, but Harry managed to convince the large man to take them into The Forbidden Forest, and it was in there that Hermione came across unicorns for the first time in her life.

It was a mare and her foal, both of them white and pristine, and seeming to glow with an inner light. The mare's mane and tail were a bright sky-blue, and the foal's were similar, but darker, and when the unicorns spotted them, the foal rushed to Hagrid like he was a favourite uncle.

The half-giant lifted the unicorn clean off the ground, holding it up like other men would a kitten, and the animal brayed playfully.

When Hagrid set the unicorn down, he introduced Hermione and Harry to the baby unicorn and its mother, and while the mother seemed watchful of the human children, the foal took to them instantly.

Soon, there were three running children (and a dog that looked glum because he was left out) shrieking with delight as they played a game of tag, where the foal was always it. Mostly because the little unicorn didn't really seem to understand the rules of the game.

After an hour, panting and sweaty, Harry and Hermione had to say goodbye as it was getting dark.

Spirit (Harry suggested the name, and the little unicorn had happily taken to it) was sad, but Hermione and Harry managed to convince her that they would come back when they could.

When they neared the border of the forest, Hagrid left them to go back in, saying there was a friend he needed to see, and they said goodbye to him too and went their separate ways.

"I wonder why the Headmaster had said The Forbidden Forest is dangerous," Hermione mused. "The unicorns were ever so charming."

"Yeah, it wasn't the unicorns he was talking about," Harry said. "Personally, I'm thinking it was the giant, man-eating spiders."

Hermione stumbled. "There are giant, man-eating spiders in this forest?" She asked, hoping against all hope that he was joking.

But Harry wasn't joking, and his next words were even harder to believe. "Uh-huh. Their leader is Hagrid's life-long friend too." A pause. "That's probably the friend he was speaking of just now even."

Hermione decided right then that it might be best to be far away from the darkening interior of the forest.

On their way back to the castle, they came across a woman, or, more accurately, they were waylaid by a woman.

One moment it was just she and Harry for as far as the eye could see on this side of the school grounds, and in the next, a voice came from behind them. "Well, well, if it isn't Hogwarts hottest couple?"

Hermione and Harry both jumped, but unlike her, Harry pulled out his wand and looked ready to start flinging curses.

The woman, who was heavily made up and wore red robes that the only adjective for was ostentatious, looked perfectly unbothered to be facing Harry's wand, and smiled instead.

The simple expression caused a shiver to run down Hermione's spine.

Harry instantly pocketed his wand and smiled winsomely, and Hermione instantly knew that, somehow, they were in a Malfoy Situation.

"Sweet Merlin," Harry said. "Rita Skeeter?"

The woman, Skeeter, was clearly surprised to be recognized, but the surprise quickly turned to pleasure.

"Oh, you've heard of me?" Ms. Skeeter asked.

Harry rolled his eyes like she was being silly. "Please, you're the premium reporter for Magical Britain. I'd have to live under a rock not to have heard of you."

Hermione had never heard of Rita Skeeter.

Ms. Skeeter somehow managed to look even more pleased.

"Anyway, I take it you want an interview?" Harry asked.

"Oh, yes. Thank you," Ms. Skeeter said, and a levitating parchment with a quill that was scribbling furiously, floated out from behind her back. "You don't mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill, do you?" She asked.

"No, please," Harry said, and the interview began.

It was... confusing. Hermione was asked a total of three questions:

When did she and Harry meet?

How did they meet?

Had she kissed him yet?

Harry answered all three.

When did they meet? Oh, the day before, on The Hogwarts Express.

How they met? Apparently, Harry had been looking for someone to sit with, since he was so new and ignorant of The Magical World, and Hermione had been nice enough to welcome him into her compartment.

Had they kissed? Harry had squeezed her hand before she could angrily retort at this... reporter, and he'd blushed and muttered "not really."

The angry flush on her own face must have looked like a blush too, because the woman seemed to draw her own conclusions from that, and wiggled her eyebrows at them.

Ew!

A few minutes into the interview, Harry had apologized to the woman, lying that they homework to do and really needed to be going.

She happily agreed, looking like she'd just gotten the scoop of her career.

They walked away after Ms. Skeeter took a magical photograph of the two of them from an old-style camera she pulled out of her too small purse.

Hermione was boiling all the while.

As soon as they entered the castle through one of the numerous side entrances, Harry stopped, and right as Hermione was going to start asking him just why the heck he'd done all of that, he said, "I'm sorry."

Hmph! Well, at least he realised he needed to apologize.

Unfortunately, that still didn't answer the question.

"Why?" Hermione asked Harry, her brown eyes meeting his almost too-green ones. "Why lie, Harry? Why pretend? Why not just tell her the truth so she can leave us alone?"

"Because she wouldn't," Harry said. "Rita Skeeter is the worst kind of bug, Hermione. Literally. If we had refused her interview, or denied her "her story", we would have become her enemies. And that woman doesn't know the meaning of the words Journalistic Integrity. She would have printed whatever the hell she wanted, and everybody would have taken it as gospel."

Hermione blanked. "...But that's not possible, Harry. You can't just... print whatever you want."

"Around here you can. And as long as it comes out in The Daily Prophet, no one will question it. Even if it makes no bloody sense at all. And Rita Skeeter is petty, and she is cruel, and she will not hesitate to vilify an eleven-year-old to assuage her pathetic ego.

"At least this way, we know she'll print complementary things about you, and you'll probably get all sorts of fan mail thanking you for bringing love and happiness into my lonely heart or whatever. But trust me, Hermione. It's better than the alternative."

And she did. She trusted him.

Oh, she most definitely thought he was exaggerating about how bad this whole thing was (and she forced down the part of her that suggested that maybe that was simply what she wanted to tell herself), but she trusted Harry. It was why she hadn't interrupted back then with Ms. Skeeter.

Harry blew out a breath and ran his hand through his hair, and for a moment, Hermione caught her first glimpse of his famous scar.

"It was supposed to be a little joke," he muttered, giving her a small, somewhat sad, smile. "Embarrass you a little bit. I thought it was so clever."

Hermione realised what Harry was talking about.

"This isn't your fault, Harry." She said.

"It kind of is, Hermione. If I'd just kept my big mouth shut. Or told The Hat to put me with you in my head like everybody else. This wouldn't have happened."

And he was right. She knew it.

But Hermione Granger had never let a little thing like right and wrong stop her from winning an argument before, and she didn't intend to start now, so she said, "I don't care. You're not the one who spread that silly rumour in the first place. And you certainly didn't make that Skeeter woman come here. You can't blame yourself for this, Harry."

She wouldn't let him. Not when he asking Nilrem to put him in Gryffindor with her was one of the nicest things any friend had ever done for her.

Eventually, Harry nodded, and because Hermione didn't know what else to do, she hugged him.

The story broke on the Prophet that evening at dinner, and an influx of owls delivered the papers to seemingly everyone.

And Hermione learned that Harry had been right; Rita Skeeter was complimentary.

So much so, in fact, that she began to wonder who the girl the woman had written about was.

 

A/N: last one for now.

---

Rita Skeeter was not a woman who believed in luck. Nor did she believe in love, or altruism, or any other such tripe. As far as she was concerned the world was a cold, hard place full of greedy arseholes who would tear you down if you gave them the chance. And anyone who claimed otherwise was a pathetic loser who deserved to burn.

And that was why Rita Skeeter had spent most of her life, and all of her career, tearing down lives and loves hopes and dreams, because she could either climb on the bodies of others, or be made into a ladder herself.

She knew the names some people called her, of course, and she reveled in them. Because every time that some pathetic loser’s life was ruined—oh, boohoo, you lost your job and your family won’t talk to you. Well, maybe you should have thought of that before engaging in carnal activities with a goat, Walden.

...

Where was she?

Yes, right. Because anytime any loser’s life was ruined by one of her factual articles (really, it wasn’t her fault that people were so boring that her pieces usually needed a little spicing), it essentially vindicated what she already knew to be the truth.

After all, if everyone didn’t want to see everyone else get torn down, then why did her articles sell so much?

So whenever Rita received hate/cursed mail, or whenever a particularly aggrieved subject of one of her many, many articles tried to get those fossils and imbeciles at the Wizengamot to censor her, she smiled, gave herself a little pat on the back, and went back out there to continue doing what she did best.

Tell sensational stories.

And The Boy-Who-Lived? Oh! What story could be more sensational than that?

Everyone knew the boy was coming to Hogwarts this year. Rita had even written a piece on it, promising her audience that she would meet The Boy-Who-Lived herself, to get the answers to all those juicy questions everyone had had over the last decade.

She had no intention of actually seeing it through of course; the boy’s disappearance obviously had Dumbledore’s wrinkly mitts all over it, and while she disliked the old dingbat (ooh! That was a good one. She should try to remember it), and attacking him pleased Malfoy, she was very aware of just how much power he still held. And sniffing around his golden boy might get the old wizard to act.

Therefore, Rita had decided to do like she sometimes did, and use a secondhand account instead.

Rita would need someone who was smart enough to not eff things up, but dumb, or obedient, enough to not ask questions. It also had to be someone who wouldn’t stand out, but most importantly, it had to be a muggleborn (or half-blood, at the very least), and they had to very blackmail-able.

Her informant ended up being a seventh-year Ravenclaw girl.

The girl however, was just the icing on the cake, it was her father who sold the deal for Skeeter; Mark Zachary, a muggleborn wizard who was “tied” for a promotion at The Ministry with a pureblood.

And Mark Zachary really wanted that promotion.

A simple transaction later, and Mark talked his daughter into carrying a special bag with a muggle camera to The Great Hall, where the girl proceeded to get quite impressive footage of Harry Potter being sorted.

Meanwhile, one Abigail Cornish would be finding some of her little secrets in a special exposé by Rita Skeeter in the next Sunday Prophet, heavily lowering her chances of getting Mark’s job.

And people called Skeeter a rhymes with witch.

Knowing that the article will be hottest the morning after Potter’s sorting, before all those brats had the opportunity to send letters home and dull the public’s interest, Skeeter made time that evening to watch the video.

And what she saw on her tiny, black-and-white TV, was gold.

She had expected a boring goody-goody, shoved so deep into The Headmaster’s pockets that the boy probably choked every time the old man farted. Instead, she got... this.

By morning, Rita Skeeter had decided that she would “meet” the boy. It wouldn’t be hard, getting into Hogwarts was child’s play for her (ha! Safest place in Magical Britain her behind), plus, thanks to the fact that Hogwarts had not changed its timetable for some fifty years, she knew exactly where he would be.

By 3:00pm, she was waiting near the Defense classroom in her bug form, and ignoring the very familiar broom cupboard nearby, when Potter walked out of the classroom with the Granger girl in tow. And Skeeter was very glad she came, when Lucius’ son gave her a new, juicy bit of gossip to focus on.

The Boy-Who-Lived finding love on his first day at Hogwarts?

A flash of inspiration struck; The Boy Who Loved.

This thing was practically writing itself.

Then Potter had mentioned going to visit the half-giant on the school grounds, and Skeeter had hit her first snag. She knew the hairy half-breed had a dog, and that was bad for her. Dogs and cats oftentimes had the uncanny ability to sniff out animagi in their transformed state. Which could put her in severe danger, considering she was only a bug.

She tailed the two children as they headed to Gryffindor Tower, but she got no more juicy bits from them, so she decided to call it quits (she had enough anyway) and see what else she could “overhear” while here.

After some two hours of picking up random, but useful, tidbits about some of the students’ parents and a few teachers, Skeeter decided she’d done enough snooping for the day.

It was time to go home and write her article.

And on her way out, lo and behold, Potter and his lady friend completely alone, for as far as the eye could see.

Pull the other one.

Knowing better than to change out of her animagus form in the open like an idiot, Rita quickly reentered the castle, changed in a private corner, and donned her invisibility cloak.

Then she approached the two first-years from behind, her Quick-Quotes Quill already set up at her back, took off her cloak, and announced herself, “well, well, if it isn’t Hogwarts’ hottest couple?”

Potter’s immediate reaction let her know that the rumours were true; the boy was being trained by Dumbledore. But Skeeter didn’t let any of that show, and when The Boy-Who-Lived’s reaction to her presence turned into a pleasant surprise, instead of the wariness she’d honestly expected, Rita Skeeter had to admit that, while she still didn’t believe in luck, sometimes things had a way of just working out in your favour.

 

Hermione didn’t understand how, but that night, after dinner, all the Gryffindor first-years somehow ended up gathered together in one corner of the common room.

No, wait, she did understand how.

Harry. That was how.

It had started after they left The Great Hall (to the gawking and whispering of the entire school, it felt like) at the same time as Lavender and Parvati, and the two girls had wanted to sit and chat in the common room for some time.

Hermione hadn’t really wanted to; she didn’t do small talk very well, you see, it always seemed like she ended up being this extraneous attachment to the conversation, and that whenever she brought up a topic she was interested in, everyone else wished she would shut up.

However, while Hermione would rather not go through that again, the major reason why she hadn’t really wanted to sit and chat, was because she hadn’t had the opportunity to study since she came to Hogwarts. And she wanted to get started on it now before she fell behind.

But then Harry had somehow pulled all three girls over to a group of seats in a quiet corner of the common room, and the next thing Hermione knew, Harry had she, Lavender, and Parvati almost snorting with laughter, and the girl had decided that maybe she could hang around for a few minutes.

A few minutes later, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan had walked in, and Harry had called them over. About half an hour after that, Hermione had blinked and realised that, somehow, Harry had gotten ten students (the two of them included) who barely knew each other, sitting and laughing and exchanging stories about their lives and families.

She couldn’t help but take a moment to marvel at the boy.

Said boy sighed wistfully during a lull in the conversation. “This would be so much nicer if we were sitting by the fire,” he said, and several of the group expressed agreement.

Ron however, scoffed. “Good luck with that one, mate.”

“Yeah,” Faye Dunbar, one of the two other girls in Hermione’s dorm, agreed. “The older students have claimed the fireplace for themselves. It’s not fair.”

“Well, if we were seventh-years I’m sure we would do the same thing too,” Neville said softly, and Hermione had to admit that they probably would.

“We don’t need a voice of reason, bruv,” Dean said to Neville. “What we need is emotional support.”

Neville flushed and seemed to sink into himself.

Hermione knew that Dean hadn’t meant anything by it, but she still felt the need to come to Neville’s defense.

“He’s not wrong, you know. I’m sure the older students had to put up with it too when they were our age.” She shrugged. “That’s how things like this work.”

“No,” Harry said, “how things like this work, is that when a person builds a common room for dozens of students over different grades, they remember to put more than one fireplace.”

“Don’t be silly, Harry. They couldn’t very well have built seven fireplaces, could they?”

“Why not?” He asked.

“Where would they put them all?” She fired back. “And even if there was space for it all, all that smoke would cause problems.”

“Then make it smokeless. We have magic, Hermione; hell, we could probably build our own fireplace if we wanted.” Harry paused, and Hermione knew exactly what he was going to say before he said it. “Let’s build our own fireplace.”

Hermione sighed and shook her head, and a few of the others made varying sounds of confusion.

“No, I’m serious,” Harry said. “Let’s build a fireplace. Come on, how hard can it be?”

“Seeing as none of us are architects?” Dean asked. “I would say pretty hard.”

“I don’t think you need to be an architect to build a fireplace,” Helen McMahon, the only other muggleborn girl among the group, said.

“Then who else?” Dean asked, truly curious. “I mean, the architect has to draw it into the design and stuff, right?”

And that question stumped everybody, even Hermione, for a few seconds.

“Too bad we can’t build a fireplace,” Parvati said. “It would have been nice to have our own.”

“Yeah,” Faye agreed. “We could have given it green fire.”

“Why green?” Lavender asked.

“Because I like green; it’s my favourite colour,” Faye answered simply.

Ron scowled. “Why would you like green? Green is a Slytherin colour; we’re Gryffindors.”

All eyes turned to the boy.

“What?” He asked.

And that was how everyone forgot about the fireplace and discussed which house had their favourite colour instead.

★★★​

The next morning, Hermione came down to once again find Harry in the common room, and she was pleased that the day before had not just been a fluke.

They went down to breakfast together, Hedwig joining them at the table.

By 7:10 they were done eating, and since it was too early to head for the charms classroom, Hermione withdrew her Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 from her bag, and began to practice the wand motions for the different spells without actually casting anything.

Well, not that she could, seeing as she was practicing with a spoon.

“Got that from The Fine Art of Wand Waving, I’m guessing,” Harry said, and Hermione looked at him with mild surprise.

“You’ve read the book?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re not the only one who takes studying seriously, you know,” he said, then picked up a spoon too. “Now, come on, share.”

Hermione set her Standard Book of Spells between them, and they both spent the next twenty minutes practicing their wand motions. Slowly, steadily building up the muscles needed for rapid, precision spellwork.

Their fellow first-years came down for breakfast while they practiced, and unlike they’d done all prior meals, they all made a clear attempt to sit as a group.

Hermione and Harry had to field questions about why they were waving spoons around however, and the girl had to admit to herself that she found that odd.

She’d expected that people from magical families would understand the importance of practicing wand-waving.

She never would have thought of it herself, if she hadn’t asked Mr. Ollivander whether he had any books on proper wand maintenance.

He’d been the one to suggest The Fine Art of Wand Waving to her, as well as some other books.

As she and Harry practiced, and the others ate, a rat clambered out from Ron’s robes onto the table, and the redhead began to feed it.

“You brought a rat to breakfast with you?” Lavender asked with some measure of disgust.

“Why not?” Ron said defensively. “Scabbers is my pet. Besides, Harry brings his owl for every meal, and no one ever complains.”

“That’s an owl, mate,” Seamus said.

“Yeah, and a rather beautiful one too,” Dean added, and Hedwig preened under the praise.

“Well, Scabbers hates being kept in a cage all day,” Ron said, clearly unwilling to budge on the matter.

“I’m pretty sure he would hate being eaten even less though,” Harry ‘muttered’, conveniently loudly enough for everyone to overhear.

Hermione noticed the rat suddenly go stock-still in obvious fear. Almost like it had understood what Harry said.

Odd.

“Yeah,” Parvati said thoughtfully. “Owls eat rats, right?”

And everyone watched as Hedwig’s head slowly spun 180 degrees to fix her gaze on Scabbers.

The rat squeaked in abject terror and fled back into Ron’s robes.

Everyone laughed. Even Ron. And while they did Hermione whispered to Harry, “I didn’t know you hate rats.”

He stared at her surprised. “You caught that?”

Hermione sniffed. If he meant whether she’d caught his hands curl into fists so tightly at the sight of Ron’s rat, that she’d been worried his nails would tear into his palms, then yes, she’d caught it. She had also caught that— “you still haven’t answered the question.”

Harry smiled, then said, “you know how I have unfinished business with Quirrel?” He let the question hang.

Hermione felt one of her eyebrows climb. “You have unfinished business? With Ron’s rat?” She asked, barely remembering to keep her voice from reaching anyone else.

“Yup.” Harry nodded casually.

With anyone else, this would clearly be a joke, but with Harry... there was just this way he said these crazy things that made her want to believe him.

“So, you have unfinished business with Prof. Quirrel, and Ron’s rat?”

Harry nodded.

“Anyone else?” Hermione queried. Mostly as a joke, but also because she was genuinely curious.

Harry’s eyes flickered to the staff table for a split second. “Yeah,” he said with undisguised bitterness. “Snape.”

“Who’s Snape?” Faye, the person sitting closest to Harry asked.

“Snape?” Ron asked. “He’s the potions’ professor, also the head of Slytherin. Fred and George say he hates everyone who isn’t in his house, but that he despises Gryffindors the most. They say he can deduct points just for breathing too loudly in his class.”

And Hermione’s reaction to that would have been disbelief, were it not for the brief conversation she’d just had with Harry.

At 7:30, like they had the day before, and will do everyday henceforth, messenger owls flew into The Great Hall to deliver the mail.

Hermione watched the mass of owls, which she noticed seemed to be much more than yesterday’s, swoop into the hall, most of them grouping together to head in the same direction.

“Is it just me?” Lavender asked. “Or do all those owls seem to be heading for us.”

They were headed for them.

Or, more accurately, they were headed for Hermione and Harry.

Right before the storm of owls could swoop down on them however, Hedwig let out a single, sharp bark, and all the descending owls swooped back up to circle the Gryffindor table in a tight, looping formation.

Then, in single file, they delivered their letters, one after the other, before flying off.

Everyone stared at Hedwig in amazement.

Then Dean said, “damn, bruv, even your owl is cool.”

Contrary to what Harry had thought, only some of the letters were addressed to Hermione; the bulk of them were actually for him.

Hermione would have preferred to keep the letters for later, when she was alone, but her fellow first-years talked her, and Harry, into opening them now.

It had taken some work the night before, but Hermione and Harry had managed to convince the Gryffindor first-years, at least, that the article wasn’t true, and apparently, they were all treating it as some kind of game now.

Hermione didn’t really like it much, but she had to admit that it was much better than the alternative.

The first letter Harry read was unsigned. And it contained a poorly written poem that talked about how, even though it would break the writer’s heart, she would do her best to forget her love for Harry, since he had found happiness with another.

It was kind of sad really.

And embarrassing.

And silly; because this girl couldn’t possibly love Harry as she had never even met him.

It was also eye-opening, giving Hermione the kind of glimpse of just what Harry Potter was to the Wizarding World that books simply couldn’t.

A generation of children had been raised on stories of the worst night of Harry’s life; Hermione suddenly had a whole new level of appreciation for that fact.

One last thing that letter was, was a warning. A warning after which Hermione took to reading her letters to herself first, to make certain nothing embarrassing laid within, before sharing it with her friends.

She was happy she had, when she read a letter by a witch named Gretel Hench, and after the woman had expressed some concern over Hermione entering a relationship so young, she had proceeded to write down the incantation and draw the wand-motion for something called the Contraceptive Ch—

Hermione’s head turned red.

What on earth!?

She didn’t need a stranger teaching her things like that! Her parents already gave her The Talk! And even they hadn’t, that still didn’t mean she wanted to hear about things like that from a stranger.

“What’s in that one?” Harry said, trying to peek, and Hermione snatched it away and quickly hid it in the pocket of her robes.

“Nothing,” Hermione said, obviously lying.

She made a mental note to burn that letter later.

The spell was already stuck in her head though.

...

Maybe she could look into the Memory Charm some more.

★★★​

Prof. Flitwick, Hermione decided, was a very energetic man.

Not that it was a bad thing, of course, far from it. If anything, it somehow made the diminutive professor’s lesson more engaging.

Charms, Hermione also decided, was, quite possibly, the backbone of all magical arts that required spellwork. It contained a lot of the spell theory and practical wand-work that classes like Transfiguration and Defense relied upon.

Within that first class alone, she learnt so much about spells; their purpose, some of their advantages and disadvantages, and even a little bit about how they worked, that by the time Prof. Flitwick stopped to take questions, her notebook (shut up, Harry) had several pages full of notes in it.

The first person to raise their hand for a question was Harry.

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Prof. Flitwick asked.

“Professor, I’ve got two questions, but they kind of tie into each other, I think. The first question is, is it possible to cast one spell at multiple targets? And the second question is, is it possible to cast multiple spells at once?”

“Oh! Very good questions, Mr. Potter. Most don’t think about such things until they’re learning non-verbal casting in sixth year. To answer your questions, however—” Prof. Flitwick’s wand seemed to twitch in his hand, faster than Hermione’s eyes could follow, and every quill in the class floated up into the air “—yes, Mr. Potter, both are very possible,” he said, and all the quills settled back down to the very spots they floated from.

Then Prof. Flitwick’s wand twitched again, even faster this time, and the dark-blue walls of the classroom turned a bright green, at the same moment a gust of warm air blew at the students and several orbs of light every colour of the rainbow popped into existence everywhere.

Harry’s jaw dropped, and Hermione’s wasn’t far behind.

How was he doing this?

“Simple, Miss Granger,” Prof. Flitwick said, and Hermione realized that she’d spoken out loud, “practice, practice, practice. You practice until you can do more than cast non-verbally; you practice until you can make the magic you want happen just by wanting it to.

“Unfortunately,” the professor continued, and he looked truly sad for a moment, “few ever dedicate themselves this completely to our wonderful gift.”

“Professor, those wand-motions you made for the... multi-casting,” Harry said, “they were incomplete.”

He could follow that? Hermione thought in surprise.

“Ah! Good eye, Mr. Potter. And yes, they were. Much like how you no longer need to incant your spells if you work at it, so too do you no longer need to perform the wand-motions completely—or at all. Like I said, practice, practice, practice.”

There were a few other questions, but none of them required demonstrations like the last had, and after a few minutes, they moved to the practical aspect of the class.

The spell for the lesson was the Colour-Changing Charm, which Hermione and Harry had both successfully performed numerous times (she really hoped that compartment had reverted by now), so as soon as Prof. Flitwick provided everyone with their box of napkins to practice on and gave the go-ahead, both children casted the spell with ease.

“Ah! Splendid work, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger. Five points each to Gryffindor.”

Hermione smiled, pleased at the points.

Then Prof. Flitwick said, “now you both can move on to the next part of the lesson.”

“Wait, what?” Harry asked, unknowingly echoing Hermione’s thoughts. “There’s a next part?”

“Of course, Mr. Potter. Classwork!” Prof. Flitwick’s wand twitched again, in that way Hermione was beginning to learn not to bother trying to follow, and two wooden easels, complete with blank canvases sitting on them, morphed out of she and Harry’s desk. “Use the Colour-Changing Charm to paint a portrait of your choice. Anything you want. Let your imagination fly.

“So, go on, everyone. And remember, proper incantation and crisp wand waving,” the professor said, heading towards a Ravenclaw girl on the other side of the classroom who seemed to be getting the spell.

Hermione looked at her blank canvas, then at Harry. The boy looked deep in thought; probably wondering what he would paint, much like herself, she thought.

Right as Hermione looked back at her canvas, Harry exclaimed, “I’ve got it! Hermione, I’ve got it!”

“Got what?”

“The fireplace. How we’re going to make it.”

He was still thinking about that?

“We’re going to paint it!” Harry said, like he’d just made the discovery of the century, and Hermione’s mind ground to a halt.

“What?”

“Think about it, Hermione; smokeless, and the best part about it is we won’t have to break the castle walls to have it installed.”

Is he making a joke?

“A painting of a fireplace won’t do us any good, Harry. We would need to animate it. Then enchant the flames with a Glow Charm and a Warm Gust Spell like the one Prof. Flitwick did to get it to produce any light and heat at...” Hermione’s voice petered out as she suddenly felt rather daft.

“Oh,” she said, for lack of anything else.

Harry shook his head. “I swear, Hermione, you have to be the dumbest smart person I’ve ever met,” he said, but his eyes shone with the same playful amusement that quirked his lips.

Hermione pouted, and just to be contrary, said, “well, these canvases are much too small, anyway.”

“Obviously,” Harry said, then called out, “Prof. Flitwick. Hermione and I have an idea for a painting, but I think we’re going to need a much bigger canvas than this. Also, I think we might need to borrow our fellow Gryffindors.”

Prof. Flitwick, as well as the Gryffindors, who were all sitting close by since they had all grouped together when they came in, stared at them.

“A group assignment?” Prof. Flitwick mused, then he asked, “what will you be painting?”

Harry smiled his patented Harry smile. “A working fireplace.”

In the end, Prof. Flitwick agreed and provided them a canvas that was higher than Hermione was tall, and probably more than twice as wide as it was high.

The professor even offered the other houses the opportunity to make theirs group projects too. The Hufflepuffs jumped at it, while the Ravenclaws and Slytherins were more hesitant.

All that had ended when Prof. Flitwick had said he would be awarding ten points to each member of the winning house however, then it had become a scramble for who could finish the most amazing painting within the hour Prof. Flitwick gave.

Well, it became that for everyone else. For the Gryffindors it was all about the dream of having their own fireplace.

Apparently, Dean could draw, and quite well too. And so could Lavender, which Hermione hadn’t even suspected, so the two had ended up in charge of visualizing, and sketching, the fireplace, while everyone else added the colours.

Hermione and Harry handled the coaching of everyone who was still having trouble with the Colour-Changing Charm, and Hermione finally had the opportunity to get Ron to stop clutching his wand so tightly, and actually pay attention to visualizing the colour he wanted while casting.

They had fun.

Everyone pitched in their ideas; like Ron who suggested they add a lion, and Parvati who said they should make it a cub, and Faye who opined that lionesses were cooler, and therefore the only option, to Neville who simply wondered why they couldn’t just make it a family of lions.

Not every idea was taken, of course; like Faye’s pleas that the fire should be green, but with hard work, perseverance, and Hermione and Harry overseeing the project, the Gryffindors finished with five minutes to spare. And Hermione and Harry proceeded to animate the painting (with only a two-second loop, which was the best they could manage), and enchant it with the Glow Charm, Warm Gust Spell, and (Harry’s idea) the activation phrases, fireplace; on, and fireplace; off.

By the time Prof. Flitwick started to grade, and everyone had to stop, the Slytherins were the only ones who hadn’t finished. They’d barely even started.

Personality clashes, and an inability (or maybe unwillingness) to be team-players, had stymied every step forward with a dozen back.

They didn’t take their loss gracefully.

Prof. Flitwick’s own house came third. Their execution of the spell was perfect. The colours were crisp and clear, and the image of their common room was like what Hermione imagined looking through a window at the real thing would be like.

But something was missing.

And Hermione realised what it was when she saw the Hufflepuffs’ painting; heart. The Ravenclaws’ portrait lacked heart.

The Hufflepuffs had painted a portly witch with a welcoming smile. She had a badger on her shoulder, and walked through a lovely garden with a throng of little children following behind her like little ducklings.

It took Hermione a moment to realise that that must be Helga Hufflepuff.

Eventually, it was the Gryffindors’ turn, and Hermione was suddenly nervous.

Harry took her hand in his. “We’ve got this,” he said, and she relaxed marginally.

Then he turned her around to face the class as they stood beside the portrait.

“Everyone, introducing the Gryffindor Fireplace Wallpaper, version 1.0,” Harry announced grandly.

Many students looked impressed, but Draco Malfoy scoffed. “Seriously, Potter? A fireplace? Well, I suppose the Weasleys could use it, since they could hardly afford an actual one.”

Ron fumed, but Prof. Flitwick’s “none of that, Mr. Malfoy” mollified him somewhat.

But Hermione barely paid attention to any of that. What she paid attention to was the way the professor kept staring at she and Harry. Almost like he had expectations of them that he was still waiting for them to meet.

It made her a little uneasy.

Then Harry said, “professor, could you please get the lights?” And without a word Prof. Flitwick obliged him.

He waved his wand and all the windows darkened, making it suddenly look like twilight in the classroom.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, then turned to her. “Granger, do us the honours, will you?”

She did. “Fireplace; on.”

A collective gasp resonated from the students as the portrait came to life, illuminating the room with the cheerful light of its red and gold flames.

By the left of the fireplace (on a red rug that had been Helen’s idea) rested the family of lions; a mother, father, and their cub with heads pressed softly together as they breathed deeply in sleep.

The crackle-pop of burning wood looped seamlessly in the painting, as well as a small explosion of sparks, and they, with the constant stream of warm air, all added together to make the effect feel so real that for one moment, Hermione forgot that what she was looking at was a painting, despite being one of the people who made it.

“Wow, this turned out much better than I’d dared to hope it would,” Harry said from beside her, and Hermione had to agree.

Gryffindor won. And Prof. Flitwick did as he’d promised and gave them a hundred points (ten for each member of their house). He even gave the Hufflepuffs fifty points for second place, and the Ravenclaws twenty-five.

The only ones who argued Gryffindor’s victory were the Slytherins, stating that they’d used more spells than the rules allowed, even though Prof. Flitwick said himself that there had been no such rules.

Hermione never really understood why the Slytherins bothered though. Gryffindor’s position would not have changed anything for them anyway, since they hadn’t even finished their painting.

The class ended soon after, and the Gryffindors left jubilant, Hermione and Harry completely unaware of how grateful Prof. Flitwick felt towards the Deputy Headmistress for the heads-up she had given concerning the two of them.

McGonagall had been right, Filius decided. At the rate those two were burning through the material, keeping them, especially Harry, interested in the syllabus will be quite the chore.

The diminutive professor smiled.

He’d always enjoyed a challenge.

 

A/N: more tomorrow.

---

Tuesday, Sept. 3


History of Magic was everything Hermione had hoped it wouldn’t be.

What she had feared it would be, thanks to Harry, but everything she had desperately hoped it wouldn’t be.

This is to say that History of Magic was—God, how she hated to say it. Boring.

History of Magic was boring.

In fact, it was the most boring class Hermione had ever had the displeasure of sitting in. Prof. Binns just kept droning in this monotone so flat that a robot sounded lively by comparison.

It was a struggle to make her mind focus on his words.

Thirty minutes into the lecture, half the students were asleep, and the remaining half, mostly Ravenclaws, looked like they were trying to keep from nodding off.

Hermione stopped herself from looking at her watch for the third time in what she knew had only been a minute.

A watched pot never boils.

She tried to return focus to Prof. Binns’ lecture, but it was proving even more difficult than usual, and that was because, apparently, the boy to her left had decided to take up humming as a new hobby.

“Harry, stop it. I’m trying to pay attention.”

In contrast to literally everyone else in the classroom, Harry practically looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

He was lounged back on the chair, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4 in his hand, and he’d been trying to cast The Summoning Charm on a piece of parchment on the table.

It hadn’t been going too well; all he’d managed to do so far was to make the parchment twitch a few times, so apparently, he’d decided to take a break and do some humming instead.

Harry looked at her. “Hermione, I highly doubt my not humming will help you pay attention any better.”

She scowled. “Well, it certainly isn’t helping, is it? And could you at least pretend like you’re paying attention?”

“Why?” Harry asked. “I’m not. That’s why I’ve got that guy.” He gestured at his Self-Writing Quill that was diligently noting down every word Prof. Binns said in beautiful gold ink.

Hermione’s scowl deepened. Clearly, Harry didn’t have any issues with using quills when they favoured him.

“You need to do more than just take notes, Harry; you also have to pay attention in class.”

Harry began to respond, then he paused and gave Hermione a very thoughtful look. “You’re not actually trying to convince me, are you? You’re trying to convince yourself.”

Hermione spluttered. “Of course not! Why would I need to convince myself to pay attention in class?”

“Because the class is boring. And because Binns is a terrible teacher. There’s nothing that listening to him talk will give you that the transcript won’t, and you know this. But you feel that you must do it, because that’s how it’s supposed to be done. So you try to convince yourself, by using me as some kind of... sounding board for your arguments.

...

“Huh. It’s like the potions’ textbook all over again,” Harry said thoughtfully.

Hermione had no idea what potions’ textbook Harry was talking about, but she had trouble caring about that right then with how angry she was.

The worst part was that she didn’t know why what he’d said was making her angry, but it was, and not knowing was simply making her angrier.

“Fine, then,” Hermione said curtly, “do whatever you want.”

And with that she tried to ignore him and pay attention to the lesson.

The nerve of him. All she’d wanted to do was help him, and he was acting like she was being a know-it-all.

Well, he hadn’t actually used that term, but that was beside the point.

They were supposed to pay attention in class. That was what they were supposed to do. Even if the teacher was boring, and dreary, and she knew he was quoting the textbook verbatim—argh!

Hermione’s inner turmoil was interrupted by Harry’s sigh.

Then she watched him from the corner of her eye as he stopped the Self-Writing Quill and, using a pen, continued the note-taking by hand in his own rather unflattering penmanship.

Hermione blinked. “I thought you didn’t see any point in paying attention?” She asked.

“Still don’t. Not even a little bit.”

Hermione frowned. Not sure how to respond. Harry didn’t sound angry, or snarky. He sounded nothing like she’d thought he would.

Before Hermione could think of something to say, Harry sighed again, pen tapping on the desk thoughtfully.

Then he said, “you know, one of the few things that I recall my mother telling me, is that I have a habit of making people face their truth.” Harry looked at her, and his eyes were lost and sad. “She said that this isn’t a bad thing, as long as I also remember to face my truth. And my truth is, Hermione, that I’d rather suffer three hours of Binns’ torture, than to drag out a pointless argument with you.”

A beat passed.

“God, that sounded way better in my head,” Harry muttered.

It was in that moment that Hermione realized that, for the first time in her life, she had technically won an argument and it didn’t feel good.

She didn’t much like the feeling; like she’d taken a bite of her favourite food only to realise that it was ash all along.

Hermione almost sighed. Why couldn’t Harry just be like every other boy her age?

Now, his words were causing her to evaluate her own actions, and she couldn’t deny that, while she may not have been in the wrong, she had undoubtedly handled this entire event with none of the aplomb she should have.

Because Harry was right, she didn’t want to take notes. Or pay attention to Binns’ dull lecture. She would much rather be studying something else.

Hermione huffed.

Was this what her parents had meant when they talked about growing up?

The girl had to admit that she didn’t much care for it.

Harry went back to taking notes, and Hermione tried to do the same, but if it had been difficult to focus on the incorporeal professor before, it was now virtually impossible.

She needed to say something, didn’t she?

She had to do something to push past... this.

Hermione’s eyes alighted on the Self-Writing Quill on the table where Harry had dropped it.

“So, your quill,” Hermione began, then cleared her throat when her voice came out smaller than she’d expected, “it writes well,” she finished, and then almost cringed at her own words.

That was the best she could come up with!?

Fortunately, Harry saw the olive branch for what it was, because he smiled and said, “it does, doesn’t it? Much better than my chicken scratch.”

Hermione smiled back. Then after a moment: “You didn’t look like you were making much progress with The Summoning Charm earlier. I could practice with you if you want.”

And barely a minute later, Harry’s Self-Writing Quill was steadfastly transcribing Binns’ lecture once more, while the two children practiced a spell many years above theirs.

At least, they got the parchment to do more than twitch by the end of the class.

★★★​

The Hogwarts Library was every bit as amazing as the pictures in Hogwarts, A History had suggested it would be.

With well over a hundred thousand books at last count, it was grand in scale, maybe three stories high, and so wide that the opposite wall from the door felt like it was a football pitch away.

There were old, but sturdy, wooden shelves everywhere, thousands of them, with desks and benches for reading and study interspersed irregularly, and the air was thick with the smell of a slew of books just waiting for her eager hands.

No, the girl decided, this was a lot more impressive than the pictures.

She would have dived right in but for the librarian, Madam Pince, who, recognizing her as a new student, stopped her and sternly gave her the library’s rules:

• There will be no food allowed in the library. Of any kind!
• No talking, laughing, whispering, sneezing, scurrying, or any other behaviour that might seem at all suspicious in any way, will be permitted while you are here.
• And finally, if you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, deface, disfigure, smear, smudge, throw, drop, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards any book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them.

And Hermione nodded as seriously as any soldier off to do battle ever did, and marched off into what, for her, may very well be Neverland.

Harry found her in a quiet corner forty-five minutes later, with multiple piles of books on the table so high, they literally obscured her from view.

“And here we can observe the Hermionus Grangerus in its natural habitat,” Harry said, alerting her to his presence. “Watch how it hoards knowledge jealously like a COVID-19 shopper does toilet paper.”

Hermione looked up to see the boy standing before her with Hedwig perched on his head, his somehow greener than usual eyes practically glowing with mischievous mirth.

She rolled her eyes at his joke, not even bothering to try to decipher what a COVID-19 shopper was, and Harry laughed.

Hermione may have smiled too.

She was pleasantly surprised to see him here; despite telling herself that Harry wasn’t the kind of boy who would lie to avoid a trip to the library, she’d been a little suspicious when he’d mentioned some clandestine errand he had to run as soon as she suggested they come to the library after History of Magic.

She’d come ahead, like he’d asked, but a part of her had expected him to not show up.

She was glad to see that it was wr—why was Harry standing there like that?

The boy had his chest out, arms akimbo, and his gaze focused on some nebulous point in the far distance in true dramatic fashion.

He sort of reminded her of that hero, Gilderoy Lockhart, she’d seen in the paper yesterday.

It was not a flattering similarity. Even Hedwig looked embarrassed.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione asked, remembering to keep her voice way down.

Harry looked offended at her question. Then he resumed his pose, this time while very conspicuously rubbing his brow.

Hermione could not even begin to fathom why he was doing that. There was clearly nothing on his brow.

Wait! “You aren’t wearing your glasses.”

“Finally,” Harry said.

“I thought they were prescription glasses?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, they are. That’s why I went to Madam Pomfrey; to see if she could fix my eyes. And well, a potion and two spells later, vision 2020, baby.”

Hermione gaped. “Just like that?”

Harry shrugged. “Madam Pomfrey said there’s nothing magically wrong with my eyes so, yeah. Anyway, what do you think?”

She thought he looked handsome. Without the old, rather over-sized glasses, his eyes were even greener, and he no longer had that waifish appearance that hadn’t really suited him.

He must have been able to tell that she was being complimentary in her head, because he smiled. “Yep, that’s right. Boy-Who-Lived 2.0, in the flesh. With more swagger, extra green in his eyes, and perfectly wind-tousled hair.”

“Don’t you mean bird-nest hair?” She asked, drawing Harry’s attention to the owl on his head, and the boy pouted.

Hold on a minute.

“Harry, how did you get Hedwig past Madam Pince?” She asked Harry as he slid into the seat beside her.

No pets hadn’t been one of the stern librarian’s rules, but Hermione suspected that was more because no one had ever dared to consider it, than because the witch actually did allow pets.

Harry scoffed. “Please,” he said, “Hedwig stared down that old vulture and she folded like a wet blanket.”

Hermione looked from the boy to the owl that had now relocated to the table.

She believed it.

★★★​

At dinner that night, Prefect Percy came to congratulate them on winning Gryffindor so many points.

“I must say, Potter,” the prefect said, “while your previous lackadaisical attitude towards The House Cup was unbecoming for a Gryffindor, I’m proud that you’ve begun applying yourself.”

That was... rude, Hermione thought. But not necessarily untrue.

Harry, on the other hand, gasped in offense, but in an obviously over the top, humorous, hand on his heart way. “Lackadaisical? Percy, I’ll have you know that there is no one more gung-ho about earning those bragging rights than I am. I mean, seriously, the opportunity to win a cup we don’t even get to keep? Who wouldn’t want that?”

Even Hermione had trouble keeping a straight face.

Prefect Percy meanwhile, turned red in anger and stormed off back to his seat.

“That was mean, Harry,” Hermione said, as soon as she was sure she had her laughter under control.

“Oh, get off him, Hermione,” Ron said. “Percy’s a git. You know he said he was hoping I wouldn’t get in Gryffindor, because he didn’t want me causing him trouble?”

Hermione had not known that.

“Yes, our beloved Percy is a ray of sunshine when you get to know him,” one of the twins said, as they suddenly walked up and squeezed into the group. One on Hermione’s right, and the other on Harry’s left, effectively squishing the two of them together.

The twin beside Harry said, “yes, but our ickle Harrykins here knows how to keep the Big Bad Prefect Percy away, doesn’t he?” while he ruffled the boy’s perpetually messy hair.

“You know I’m friends with a giant spider, right?” Harry asked casually.

The twin ruffling his hair froze, then he peered at Harry closely. “Huh. I can’t tell whether you’re joking or not.”

Harry smiled a friendly little smile. “Good, it’ll keep you on your toes.”

“This one is dangerous, brother,” the twin beside Harry said to the one beside Hermione.

“Indeed, brother,” the twin beside Hermione replied.

Then Harry spoke up again, “so, Bread and Porridge, what brought you guys here?”

It took everybody about five seconds to get the joke, and within two days, the whole school called the twins Bread and Porridge.

★★★​

Wednesday, Sept. 4


Herbology was an entertaining class.

It took place in the giant greenhouse that smelt like a thousand herbs and freshly-turned earth, and Prof. Sprout clearly had passion for her job.

It was only the first lesson, however, so Prof. Sprout mostly took the lecture to teach them about the different tools they would be using, as well as how to care for them, and many of the basics of growing plants.

Neville and Harry were already familiar with some of it; Neville said he had a little garden of his own at home, which Prof. Sprout praised him for; while Harry said his Aunt had been making him do her gardening since he could walk, which Hermione really hoped was an exaggeration.

Either way, the three hours for the lesson were quickly used up, and the children went to lunch.

Charms was much like the morning before; Prof. Flitwick taught them theory for the first hour or so, took questions, then gave them a spell to practice.

Unlike yesterday however, Prof. Flitwick gave them six spells of increasing difficulty to practice, stating that the first five people to cast them all before the end of class would win points.

Hermione took first place, but it was a close thing. She, Harry, and one other girl from Ravenclaw ended up being the only ones to even finish.

She worried a little bit that Harry might hold a grudge, but he didn’t.

More than that, he seemed to expect it.

That evening, after dinner, the Gryffindor first-years all congregated at their fireplace. And when Hermione suggested they could use the opportunity to work as a group for their homework, only Ron really complained.

With studying now involved to some capacity, the time spent at the fireplace became even more relaxing for Hermione.

★★★​

Thursday, Sept. 5


Thursday dawned to Transfiguration, after which Hermione watched Harry try his hardest to act natural in Defense.

He did better than he had during the last Defense class, and Hermione didn’t know if that was because he was no longer bothered by the perfectly unintimidating professor, or if it was because Harry had simply learnt to hide it better.

So, she simply took his hand once more when he got too tense until he calmed again, wishing the whole while that there was a way she could help.

That night, before she went to sleep, Hermione made a list.

The Harry Enigma​

• Hates Scabbers. Said “unfinished business.”
• Afraid of Quirrel. Won’t look at him. Says Quirrel remembers him. Still unfinished business.
• Hates Snape. Gave the same reason. WHAT IS THIS REASON?
• Remembers things his mother said despite being one. How? Good memory?
• Knows about Wizarding World despite growing up with muggles. How? Newspapers maybe? Other family then?
• Knows about Hagrid being half-giant, but said “he wasn’t supposed to know”. How? Why?
• Kept Greengrass and Davis from joining us on the boat. Why? Mentioned... Fanon! Cannon too. What is a fanon? I wish I had thought to bring a bigger dictionary.
• Knew Draco Malfoy. Knew the Weasleys. Knew Rita Skeeter... knew.. me? When we met he looked no no.

Hermione looked at the list. At that last line. She struck it again. And again. On and on until the lines completely blocked out the words.

Then she kept the notebook and tried to block out the memories of Harry’s easy familiarity with her, his great expectations of a girl he’d just met, and the time, the morning after they met, when he’d said the words “classic Granger.”

She tried to block it all out and go to sleep.

★★★​

Friday, Sept. 6


Virtually all the Gryffindor first-years slept through breakfast Friday morning.

Between the late, or early, depending on how you look at it, hour Astronomy had ended, and the sheer size of Hogwarts Castle, some of them had only been able to go back to sleep at 4 a.m., others even later, and asking them to get up three hours later, on a day when they had the morning free, was apparently too much.

So Hermione and Harry slept in with the rest of their fellow first-years, woke up late in the morning, had lunch for breakfast, and packed up all of their Potions equipment as they headed for their first Potions Class of the year.

The Potions classroom was cold and cavernous. A better word would be ominous, but Hermione was trying not to let the stories she’d been hearing about Prof. Snape affect her judgement.

She and Harry picked a work-station, set up their equipment, then settled to wait.

They didn’t have to wait long.

In a few minutes, all the students had arrived and settled down, and at 11:55 a.m., the door slammed shut of its own accord.

Most jumped. Hermione caught Harry pull out his wand halfway.

Then the door in front of the class, that Hermione assumed led to Prof. Snape’s office, opened, and the man swept out dramatically in a billow of black swirling robes.

And it was in that moment that Hermione realized that she had been spending too much time with Harry, because the first thought that entered her head at the sight of the professor was Darth Vader’s theme song.

Somehow, she managed to keep a straight face.

As Prof. Snape came into the room, he began to speak, “There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making.”

“He actually said the same line?” Hermione heard Harry wonder to himself.

Prof. Snape must have heard Harry too, because he stopped, and his dark eyes focused completely on the boy. “Ah. Mr. Potter.” The name was expelled like a curse. “Our new celebrity.”

“Thank you, professor. Happy to be here,” Harry said genially.

Something dark and ugly flashed across Prof. Snape’s face for a moment, and it made Hermione want to reach out and clasp her hand over Harry’s mouth, because, whatever “unfinished business” he may have with the professor, this was not the time for his jokes.

But then she looked at Harry, and while his smile was friendly, maybe even teasing, there was none of the playful mischief his eyes usually had.

Harry was angry.

“Tell me, Potter,” Prof. Snape said, “what would I get if I added three drops of dragon blood to a mixture of bubotuber pus and Troll phlegm?”

Hermione blinked in surprise. How was Harry supposed to know that? How were any of them supposed to know that? That was sixth-year work at the earliest. She knew this because the first-year potions textbook clearly stated that they would not be working with dragon’s blood until after their O.W.Ls.

Harry looked surprised at the question too, then he rallied, “an explosion, maybe?” Some students laughed. “Because, I don’t know, but that sounds like the kind of thing that’ll explode to me.”

Prof. Snape scowled, his face a mask of barely repressed hate. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you, Potter?”

“I am,” Harry said, not even bothering to fake his smile anymore. “And you know the best part about being funny, and likeable, and charismatic? You make friends. You find love. You don’t become a bitter, pathetic man-child taking out his vengeance on an eleven-year-old.”

The room went still, and Prof. Snape staggered back with a hand clutched over his heart as if struck.

His skin was pale, his eyes unfocused, and his mouth opened and closed like a drowning fish.

Hermione worried the man might be having a stroke, even as she wondered how Harry’s almost nonsensical words could be having such an effect on him.

Prof. Snape finally managed to voice a sentence. It was a mere mutter, but in the silence of the room it might as well have been a scream.

“Get out,” he said.

Then his eyes focused on Harry and he said again, louder. “Get out.”

No, he wasn’t focused on Harry, he was focused on them. She and Harry.

That... hate in his eyes was for her too.

“Get out, the both of you,” Prof. Snape said, even louder.

Harry rose, he was saying something to her, telling her they should leave, but she couldn’t listen because she didn’t understand; why would he hate her? What did she do?

Then Prof. Snape screamed, “GET OUT!!!” And a powerful gust of wind swept Hermione and Harry off their feet and sent them tumbling to the ground in the hallway outside, and the heavy oak doors to the classroom slammed shut behind them.

Hermione sat on the ground in a daze. Harry got up, asking if she was okay, but she barely heard him.

Her heart was pounding. Her mouth was dry. Her hands were shaking.

“Hermione, are you okay?” Harry asked from so far away.

Her cheeks were wet. Why were her cheeks wet?

Then Harry hugged her, and Hermione broke down and cried.