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Chapter Text

Harry Potter hated bullies.

Growing up under the stern but loving eye of his godfather, Sirius Black, the Head Auror of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Harry developed a strong sense of justice. He despised anyone who used their power to harm others. Whether it was physical, magical, or a matter of status, Harry had no patience for those who thought their superiority gave them the right to trample others. Perhaps it was his upbringing, constantly hearing stories from Sirius about the darker side of the wizarding world. Or maybe it was just who Harry was, instinctively drawn to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

Purebloods bullying Muggleborns were the worst offenders in his eyes. But Harry wasn’t one to stand by and let injustice go unchallenged. Not even at ten years old. He’d been in more than a few scraps with other magical children—kids whose families pushed blood purity ideals on them like a badge of honor. Harry’s physical and magical gifts made it easy to defend himself. Even without a wand, he could summon enough strength and magic to hold his own, something Sirius could only chalk up to his father’s Quidditch skills and mother's raw talent.

Right now, though, his anger was being tested.

The boy standing in front of him, taller by a head, sneered down at Harry with cold, blue eyes. "You freak!" he spat, reaching out to grab Harry’s glasses. Harry ducked quickly, his legs pumping as he surged forward, ramming his head into the boy’s chin. A sharp jolt of pain shot through Harry’s skull, but the taller boy let out a howl of pain, clutching his chin and staggering back.

Before Harry could steady himself, two more boys grabbed him from behind, their hands tightening around his arms like iron bands. He thrashed, trying to pull away, but his small frame was no match for their combined strength. A fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Harry gasped, bending over, the taste of bile rising in his throat.

Anger flared in his chest. He hated this—being helpless, being hurt, being held down by people who thought they had the right.

His hand flailed wildly, gripping whatever he could reach—a handful of hair, an ear, anything—and yanked with all his might. One of the boys shrieked, letting go, and Harry used the momentum to pull free. He threw his elbow back, connecting with soft flesh, hearing another grunt of pain as he spun around, fists raised, ready to keep fighting.

For a few more minutes, the fight raged on. Punches, kicks, and yells flew through the air until Harry, seething with fury, let out a guttural scream. The bullies—whether out of fear or surprise—took off running, their retreating footsteps echoing in the park as they fled.

Breathing heavily, Harry stood there, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched. Blood dripped from his nose, and his glasses lay shattered on the grass. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, wincing as pain flared in his ribs. Slowly, he stumbled back, collapsing onto the grass, his body exhausted from the adrenaline surge.

In that moment, he almost forgot why he’d been fighting in the first place.

“A-Are you okay?”

The soft voice startled him, and Harry jumped to his feet, eyes darting around for the source. His vision was blurred without his glasses, but he could make out a figure—a girl, about his age, standing a few feet away. She was holding a book, her brown curls framed by the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. Her face was pale, her eyes wide as she stared at him, clearly shocked by what she’d just witnessed.

Harry grinned through his discomfort, wiping the blood from his nose. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

The girl’s brow furrowed, confusion mixing with concern. “You’re the one who’s hurt,” she said firmly, her voice soft but steady.

Harry shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, though the ache in his ribs told a different story. “I’m fine. Nothing a few potions and some sleep won’t fix.” He laughed, though it came out as more of a wheeze. “Did you get your book? Is it good?”

The girl blinked at him, then glanced down at the book she was clutching to her chest. She held it out slightly, as if showing him. “The Hobbit,” she said quietly.

Harry’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh, that’s a good one,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You know they all die in the end, right?”

Her mouth dropped open, and her face paled even more, her eyes widening in horror. “No, they don’t!” she exclaimed, her voice rising in panic.

Harry’s smirk widened, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So you’ve read it, then?”

The girl’s indignation faltered as she blushed slightly. “Well… yes, I’ve read it,” she admitted, almost defensively.

“I was just kidding.” Harry chuckled, dusting off his shirt and wincing as the movement pulled at his bruises. “It’s a nice book.”

“You’ve read it?” she asked, her tone shifting from shock to curiosity.

“Twice,” Harry replied with a casual shrug. “Sirius… my godfather, he’s big on books. Made me read it a few years ago. It’s great, I guess.”

He took out a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his face carefully, and pulled a small vial of shimmering liquid from his other pocket. He uncorked it and downed the potion in one go, sighing with relief as the pain dulled. The girl watched him closely, her eyes lingering on the glass vial, her expression puzzled.

“Do you go to that school over there?” Harry asked, jerking his chin toward the public school in the distance.

She nodded slowly, still staring at him. “Yes. You?”

Harry grinned again, his expression softening. “I’m homeschooled.” His voice held a note of longing. “Must be nice going to a place like that. I hope I get to go to a school someday.”

The girl didn’t reply immediately, her eyes studying him with an intensity that made Harry shift slightly under her gaze. Something about this boy was strange, different—like he didn’t quite fit into the world around him.

Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Harry’s face changed, eyes widening with realization. “Oh crap!” he blurted out, his hand flying to his pocket. “I need to go! Sirius is probably looking for me by now!”

The girl blinked in surprise, startled by his sudden urgency. “O-Okay,” she stammered.

Harry began to run but turned back with a grin. “Be careful, Hermione! Watch out for those bullies!”

Hermione stood frozen, waving awkwardly as he disappeared around the bend. It wasn’t until the boy was completely out of sight that she looked down at her book. There, on the cover, a small sticker caught her eye.

"Property of Hermione Granger."

Her lips twitched into a smile as realization dawned. She wondered how he knew her name. He must’ve noticed it when she showed him the book. For some reason, the thought made her laugh softly to herself.

xxxxx

Hermione Granger hated bullies.

Her father used to tell her, back when everything felt safe, that she shouldn’t allow herself to be pushed around by other kids. "Don’t let them make you feel small," he'd say, his kind eyes full of warmth. "You’ve got to stand your ground, Hermione. You’re stronger than they think." Those words stayed with her. They gave her the confidence to fight back, just enough to let the bullies know she wouldn’t be easily cowed.

But that was before.

Before the accident. Before everything changed.

When her father died, the world seemed to tilt on its axis, and Hermione's resolve crumbled. Moving on had been harder than anything she’d ever imagined. She tried to hold onto the strength he had passed on to her, but without him, it felt like she was walking through life on shaky ground. Her mother, too, was struggling—forced to work twice as much just to keep them afloat. With her mother constantly working, Hermione knew she had to avoid trouble. It wasn’t fair to expect her mother to come to school every time a teacher had something to say about her, or whenever Hermione got in trouble for standing up to someone.

So, Hermione learned to blend into the background. She became quieter, more reserved, hoping to remain unseen. Invisibility was safer than being noticed. It meant fewer fights, fewer confrontations, fewer chances for her mother to be dragged into school meetings they could no longer afford the time or energy for.

They had moved after the accident, relocating to a smaller house in a cheaper neighborhood. The transition had been hard, especially leaving her old friends behind. The small, two-room house had felt so hollow compared to the home they’d lived in as a family of three. They hadn’t been poor before—just comfortable. But without her father’s income, her mother barely scraped by. Hermione knew they had just enough to cover the basics each month, and any unexpected expense could send their lives into a spiral.

Still, Hermione wasn’t angry. Her mother was doing her best—juggling two part-time jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. She worked at the local library as an assistant and also helped out at a small bookstore nearby, cataloging old books. It wasn’t much, but Hermione loved the one perk it came with—her mother could bring home a free book each month. That small joy meant the world to Hermione.

Books had always been a safe haven for her, even more so after her father’s passing. They were like companions, filled with adventures and stories that whisked her away from the heavy realities of life. But today, that comfort had been shattered.

Now that she was back home, sitting in her quiet, dimly lit room, Hermione’s hands trembled as she pulled out her school supplies and carefully laid them beside the book on her desk. Her fingers traced the spine of the novel, her heart sinking at the small tear in the back cover. The boys at the park earlier had yanked the book from her hands so roughly that they hadn’t even noticed the damage they’d caused.

A lump rose in her throat, and Hermione swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. The book wasn’t just any book. It was a gift from her father. One of the last things he’d given her before he died. She should have known better than to take it out of the house, but she hadn’t been thinking. She just wanted a quiet place to read, to escape for a while.

She tried to fight back the sob that clawed at her chest as she stared down at the torn cover. A wave of frustration welled up inside her—at the bullies, at herself, at the unfairness of it all. She wanted to scream, to cry, but instead, she forced herself to focus. Her hands moved mechanically as she began patching up the tear with tape, smoothing it over carefully, trying to fix what had been broken. But no matter how much tape she used, the damage was still there, a reminder of her helplessness in that moment.

She thought of the boy in the park. The one who had fought back.

He had been fearless—fighting off those older boys with a fire in his eyes that Hermione hadn’t seen in anyone her age before. She hadn’t even known his name, but something about the way he stood his ground, refusing to be pushed around, made her feel a pang of admiration. He had protected her, even though he hadn’t known her, even though he was the one who ended up hurt.

A small smile tugged at her lips despite the heaviness in her chest. She wished she could be like that again—strong enough to fight back. Once upon a time, she had been. Before her father’s death, before everything changed.

But things were different now. She couldn’t afford to be reckless anymore. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to be called into the school to deal with more trouble. She had to stay out of the spotlight, had to keep her head down. No matter how much it stung, she knew that was her reality now.

Hermione sighed, gently closing the patched-up book and setting it aside. She wiped at her eyes, shaking off the lingering sadness as best she could. She wasn’t the same person she had been before, but maybe, just maybe, one day she could be again. Watching that boy stand up to the bullies, unflinching, had sparked something in her—something she thought she had buried along with the memories of her old life.

Maybe she didn’t have to be invisible forever.

xxxxx

Harry Potter had lied to Sirius again.

He’d made a habit of sneaking off lately, especially after his Potions lessons with Aunt Andromeda. Sirius always asked him where he was headed, and Harry always had a convenient excuse. Today, it was something about wanting to check out a new bookstore in the Muggle town nearby, but the real reason was far different. He had a gut feeling, one that made his stomach twist in that uncomfortable way it always did when something was wrong.

Hermione. He had to check on her.

Harry gripped the old Beater bat that once belonged to Sirius back in his Hogwarts Quidditch days. The wood was worn but solid, the perfect size for his hands. He stood just outside the park, peeking through the trees as he caught sight of the older boys—the same ones from yesterday. They were loitering near the swings, their eyes darting around as if they were looking for someone. Harry had no doubt they were looking for either Hermione or him.

His lips curled into a wicked smile, fingers tightening around the handle of the bat. If those boys wanted trouble, he was more than ready to deliver it. But as he scanned the park, his smile faltered. Hermione wasn’t there. Good. He hoped she had enough sense to stay away from the park, but still, he couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him.

A voice startled him. "Hey."

Harry spun around so fast he almost dropped the bat, holding it out like a wand in defense. His heart pounded as he faced the person who had snuck up on him. It was her. Hermione. She stood just a few feet away, her brown eyes wide with surprise, clutching her book to her chest like a shield.

“Hermione!” Harry gasped, pressing a hand to his chest to calm his racing heart. “Gosh, you scared me!”

“You scared me!” Hermione shot back, eyes narrowing as she glanced at the bat in his hands. “What is that you’re holding, anyway? Do you plan on hitting those boys with it?”

Harry quickly tried to hide the bat behind his back, cheeks flushing. “No! Well… maybe, yes. Just preparing, you know. They looked like they were planning some kind of payback after what happened yesterday, and I was worried they’d come after you.”

“Violence isn’t always the answer, you know,” Hermione said, frowning, though her eyes still flicked to the bat suspiciously. After a pause, she tilted her head. “What’s your name again?”

“Harry. Harry Potter.”

“I’m Hermione Granger,” she said, this time enunciating her name with emphasis, clearly correcting the way Harry had said it before.

Harry nodded. “Hello, Hermione.” He couldn’t resist a small smile. “Yes, yes, violence isn’t always the answer. But do you really think you shouldn’t fight back when they’re doing the same to you?”

Hermione’s frown deepened. She wanted to be honest, wanted to agree with him, but there was something unnerving about Harry standing there, casually gripping a bat like it was a normal part of his day. The fact that he seemed perfectly ready to charge into another fight unsettled her.

“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” Harry continued with a sly grin. “Evil for evil.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, suppressing the urge to smirk. “That’s not how the saying goes.”

Harry laughed, a sound that echoed through the park with surprising warmth. “I know. I added that last part to make a point.” His expression darkened again as he glanced toward the group of bullies. “Run along, Hermione Granger. I’ll deal with them so you can get home safely.”

Hermione bristled at that. She wasn’t some damsel in distress! She could handle herself. But reality hit her like a punch to the gut—she knew all too well that if she got into a fight, her mother would be dragged into the school again. The thought of making things harder for her mother made her fists clench in frustration. She hated this feeling of helplessness.

“I know a safer street to walk home,” Hermione muttered, her voice tinged with annoyance. “I’ll just start taking that way instead of coming through the park.”

Harry turned back to her, raising an eyebrow. “Do those boys go to your school?”

Hermione nodded reluctantly. “Yes. They’re older, but they’re in a different building from us.”

Harry scowled, his jaw tightening. So, they could still target her whether or not she was in the park. He cast another glance at the group of boys, then considered his options. Maybe he could bring Draco and Ron next time to deal with them properly. Or better yet, maybe there was something more permanent he could do. After all, this was a Muggle town—he couldn’t exactly use magic, or worse, use his godfather's influence.

A sigh escaped him. He’d have to think about this later. For now, he had to make sure Hermione was safe. “Yeah, okay, let’s go.”

“Go where?” Hermione asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“To your home,” Harry said matter-of-factly. “I’ll walk you there. Might as well look around town while I’m at it. Never been near here before.”

Before Hermione could protest, Harry had already started walking in the wrong direction. She sighed, grabbing his arm and gently pulling him toward the right street. “Where do you even live?” she asked, exasperated.

Harry grinned. “Grimmauld Place. My godfather owns a townhouse there. I stay there when I’m with tutors and stuff.”

Hermione blinked at him. It had been just a day, but the bruises from yesterday were completely gone, as if they had never existed. His clothes were pristine—new, expensive, branded. A small bag was strapped across his chest, and two rings gleamed on his fingers, one gold on his right hand, a dark one on his left. He looked like someone from another world, a rich world, and Hermione couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing wandering around this part of town.

“Won’t your parents be worried about you just walking around like this?” she asked, more out of curiosity than concern.

Harry’s carefree smile faded slightly, replaced by something darker, more solemn. “My parents are dead,” he said quietly, his voice casual but carrying an undercurrent of sorrow. “So they’re probably busy worrying about other things.”

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, staring at him. He said it so nonchalantly, as if it didn’t matter, but the shadow that crossed his face told her otherwise. For a moment, she thought he was joking, but the sadness in his eyes was undeniable, no matter how quickly he masked it with that confident front he always wore.

She bit her lip, torn between wanting to ask more and feeling it would be too intrusive. What had happened to Harry Potter? The mystery of him deepened, but she didn’t dare pry.

xxxxx

“Wow, this is a nice place,” Harry murmured as he stepped inside Hermione's home, glancing around the small yet cozy living room. The dim afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. He sat down on the well-worn couch, placing the drinks they'd bought on the coffee table. He looked content, though slightly out of place, his sharp eyes flicking around, taking in the cramped but neat space.

Hermione, looking a little flustered, dropped the box of doughnuts and pizza next to him. She collapsed into the armchair opposite, her hair sticking to her forehead slightly after the walk back. It had been an exhausting trip, mostly because of Harry. He seemed completely oblivious to how much money he was casually tossing around. Every time they stopped to buy something, whether it was drinks, doughnuts, or pizza, he had fumbled through a thick roll of cash in his bag, handing out too much or too little, dropping coins everywhere.

Hermione sighed, almost embarrassed on his behalf. She could have scolded him for being careless, but she didn’t. He was so cheerful, grinning after each purchase as if it was a grand adventure. Besides, it wasn’t often that someone treated her to doughnuts, especially ones from the store her dad used to take her to.

As she looked around her small living room, a wave of discomfort washed over her. “Isn’t this place a bit small?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.

Harry leaned back on the couch, his expression unreadable as his eyes moved from the compact kitchen to the dining table, which had only four mismatched chairs, then to the two doors that led to the bedrooms and another leading to the bathroom. “Small?” He shrugged. “I think it’s quite nice, especially if it’s just you and your mum.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’d think it would feel... cozy. You can talk to each other even when you're in different rooms. Must feel... close.”

Hermione blinked at him, her heart tightening at his words. "Closer with Mum," she echoed softly. Her eyes flickered to the small hallway leading to her mother’s bedroom. Harry didn’t know how distant things had felt lately. It wasn’t her mother’s fault; she worked so hard now, always exhausted when she got home. It just wasn’t the same without her dad.

Harry broke the silence by opening the pizza box, his curiosity piqued as the smell filled the room. Hermione handed him a plate, trying to snap herself out of her thoughts. “So this is pizza, huh?” he asked, his voice filled with wonder, like he was seeing some exotic artifact for the first time. His green eyes sparkled as he watched the melted cheese stretch when he lifted a slice.

“You’ve seriously never had pizza before?” Hermione asked, eyebrow raised in disbelief. She grabbed a slice for herself, watching him carefully.

“Nope,” Harry admitted, almost sheepish. “Sirius is a bit particular about what I eat. Says it’s important I have a balanced diet. So it’s always homecooked meals and... well, proper food.” He frowned at the memory but brightened up as he took his first bite. His eyes widened with delight as the flavors hit him. “Blimey, this is brilliant!”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh as Harry started devouring his slice with childlike enthusiasm, practically inhaling it. She watched him, smiling despite herself. It had been so long since she’d had pizza herself, and seeing someone enjoy it so much made her appreciate it all over again.

Harry reached for his drink next, fumbling with the straw, and took a large gulp. His reaction was immediate. He coughed, almost spitting it out as his face twisted in disgust. “Ugh! What is that?” He set the cup down, looking at it like it had personally offended him.

Hermione giggled, covering her mouth. “It’s just soda, Harry. It’s carbonated. I told you it might be too sweet for you.”

Harry wiped his mouth, grimacing. “It doesn’t just taste sweet. It’s... fizzy and weird!” He glared at the cup suspiciously. “Sirius would lose his mind if he knew I drank this.” He gave it another look, as though contemplating whether to risk another sip.

“You should’ve gotten juice like I said,” Hermione remarked, taking a sip of her own drink. She tried to suppress a smirk as Harry bravely took another small sip and pulled a face again.

He sighed dramatically, pushing the cup away. “I’ll stick to water next time,” he muttered, shaking his head. But he didn’t seem upset. In fact, there was a lightness to his mood, like he was savoring this whole new experience, weird drinks and all.

As the laughter between them subsided, Hermione leaned back, watching Harry with a curious gaze. It still felt odd having him here, in her home, sitting on her couch and eating pizza like they’d known each other for years. He wasn’t even from her school. In fact, he had only just come into her life, a strange, bold boy who seemed to be both a mystery and an open book.

Harry caught her staring and smiled, wiping the cheese off his hands with a napkin. “What?” he asked, his voice playful.

Hermione shook her head. “Nothing. I was just... thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

She hesitated, not sure if she should say it, then blurted out, “It’s just weird, you being here. I’ve never had a friend from school come over before.” She paused, adding, “You’re not even a student there.”

Harry grinned, leaning back against the cushions. “Well, I’m honored to be the first. Maybe if I wasn’t homeschooled, I’d have been there too. We could’ve caused some trouble together.”

Hermione snorted. “I don’t cause trouble.”

“Sure you don’t,” Harry teased, his eyes twinkling. “But you’re too smart not to get into a bit of it, every now and then.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth in her chest. He’s smart, too, she thought. He’s read The Hobbit. He should be.

She smiled to herself as they ate in comfortable silence, two unlikely friends, sharing a meal in a small house that, for the moment, didn’t feel so lonely anymore.

xxxxx

Fortunately for Harry, the end of his tutoring classes coincided almost perfectly with Hermione’s dismissal from school. Every day that week, as soon as he was free, Harry would bolt down to the park, eager to find Hermione and keep an eye on the bullies who still lurked around. Though they didn’t seem to be actively hunting for new victims, their presence unsettled him.

For the past few days, Harry and Hermione had been spending time together after school, sharing snacks and talking at her house. It was something Harry had come to look forward to, even if he wouldn’t admit it. He kept telling himself he was just making sure Hermione was safe, but the truth was, he enjoyed the time they spent together. She was smart, sharp-tongued when she wanted to be, and surprisingly fun to tease. Every time he poked fun at her, she’d get this adorable little frown, muttering about how "violence isn’t the answer," though her clenched fists told another story. Harry often wondered just how far he could push before she’d actually smack him.

The peaceful afternoon was suddenly shattered by a loud, angry voice.

“There you are, you little brat!”

Hermione flinched, startled by the shout. Harry’s instincts kicked in immediately. His body stiffened, and his arm shot out protectively in front of Hermione, shielding her from whoever had spoken. He quickly scanned the area, his senses on high alert, only to let out an exasperated groan when he recognized the figure storming toward them.

It was Sirius Black.

Harry felt his stomach twist, not with fear, but with a mix of annoyance and mild embarrassment. He knew what was coming.

“I knew you were sneaking out!” Sirius growled, his face darkened with a mix of anger and concern. His long strides quickly closed the distance between them, and before Harry could even attempt to talk his way out of it, Sirius’s hand shot out, reaching for him.

Hermione, despite being scared of the imposing figure marching toward them, did something completely unexpected. She pulled Harry behind her, her small frame standing between him and Sirius. Her brown eyes were wide, but determined. Even though her heart raced in fear, she lifted her chin and glared at the man, though it was obvious she was barely managing to keep her composure.

Sirius barely gave her a second glance before his hand found Harry’s ear and pinched hard.

“OW! Ow, okay, okay, stop!” Harry yelped, trying to squirm free from Sirius’s grip. “I’m sorry, Sirius! I was just with a friend!”

Sirius didn’t release his grip, narrowing his eyes. “What friend?” he demanded, his tone sharp and suspicious.

Finally, Sirius let go, and Harry took the opportunity to walk toward Hermione, rubbing his sore ear. “This is Hermione Granger. She’s my friend!” Harry announced, not entirely sure if he was trying to boast about having a friend or just trying to use her as a buffer between himself and Sirius.

Sirius’s gaze flicked to Hermione, his brows furrowing as he took in the sight of the small, bushy-haired girl glaring at him. Her brave front faltered just a little when his sharp grey eyes landed on her, and Sirius could see the nervousness behind her defiance.

'Great,' he thought. 'First time meeting one of Harry’s friends, and I’ve already terrified her.'

“I’m sorry, little girl,” Sirius said, his tone softening. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and gave her a somewhat apologetic smile. “I’m Sirius Black, Harry’s godfather. I hope he hasn’t been giving you too much trouble. He’s a bit of a handful sometimes.”

“I am not!” Harry interrupted, folding his arms across his chest indignantly. “I was protecting her from the bullies in the park!”

“Bullies?” Sirius frowned, his expression darkening as he turned toward the park, which was a few streets away. His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “Did they hurt you?”

Hermione shook her head quickly, her heart skipping a beat at the thought of this large, intimidating man confronting the bullies.

“Did they take something of yours?” Sirius continued, his eyes narrowing. “Did they break something?”

For a brief moment, Hermione’s face tightened, her lips twitching as if she was about to say something. Sirius caught it. His sharp eyes didn’t miss much.

“Well, alright,” Sirius muttered, his voice low, his suspicions confirmed. He stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for action. “Where are they? Let’s teach those little brats a lesson.”

“NO!” Hermione practically shrieked, her voice trembling with panic. Her mind raced, horrified by the idea of Sirius confronting the bullies and making everything worse.

'Is this why Harry’s so quick to fight?' she thought. 'Because his guardian is just as ready to throw fists at a moment’s notice?'

“Why not?” Sirius asked, clearly confused by her resistance. “If they’ve done something to you, you deserve a bit of justice. Come on, vengeance awaits.” His lips curled into a wolfish grin, and Harry, caught up in the excitement, looked ready to charge into battle.

Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest, and she felt her voice falter. “I-I don’t want to get in trouble,” she mumbled, looking down at her shoes. “If my mum finds out, she’ll have to leave work to deal with it, and... she can’t. She’s too busy.”

Sirius paused, his expression softening as he looked down at the small girl in front of him. There was more to this story than she was letting on, and he didn’t like it one bit. He glanced at Harry, who was watching Hermione with a mixture of confusion and concern. Sirius made a mental note to get the full story from Harry later.

“Alright,” Sirius sighed, relenting. “We won’t do anything.” He gave Harry a quick wink, which Hermione didn’t catch but Harry did. Harry grinned, nudging Sirius with his elbow as if to say, “Good job.”

“Well,” Sirius clapped his hands together, “time to go home, Harry.”

Harry huffed, folding his arms. “I still need to walk Hermione home.”

“I can walk home on my own, Harry,” Hermione interjected, her voice quieter now. She forced a weak smile, though inside, she didn’t want him to leave. She’d gotten used to Harry walking with her, and going home alone would bring back that hollow feeling she had gotten used to since her father passed. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Black.”

With that, she started to walk away, her small figure retreating down the street. Harry watched her go, waving sadly as she disappeared into the distance. Once she was out of sight, he groaned and turned to Sirius, his frustration clear.

“Are you serious right now?” Sirius asked, crossing his arms. “You’re the one who’s angry?” Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “I told you not to be out here for too long. What if you accidentally do something? What if—”

“I won’t!” Harry cut in, his voice sharp. “I can control it! I’m good at it! Besides, if you were so worried, maybe you should buy me my own wand and—”

Sirius swiped at him, missing by inches as Harry ducked, grinning cheekily.

“You’re grounded for a week,” Sirius muttered, shaking his head. “You’re staying at Potter Manor. No sneaking out, no trips to the park, no anything.”

Harry groaned dramatically as Sirius grabbed his hand, leading him toward a nearby alleyway. Within seconds, the two of them vanished into thin air.

xxxxx

Hermione hadn’t seen Harry for an entire week. His sudden absence gnawed at her, leaving an emptiness that she hadn’t quite anticipated. She figured he was probably grounded, based on that tense conversation she’d overheard between him and his godfather. Harry had been sneaking out just to spend time with her—or at least that was his excuse, insisting it was all about protecting her from the bullies that haunted the park.

But if Hermione was honest with herself, she missed him. It wasn’t just the protection; it was his presence. The way he talked, how easily he made her laugh, the casual way he helped with her homework without even breaking a sweat. She didn’t have many friends—none, really. Her conversations were usually with the friendly librarian at school or her homeroom teacher, but neither of them could keep up with her intellectually the way Harry did.

And now... she had no one to talk to. Most kids her age just didn’t get her. They were either too silly or too immature for a proper conversation, so Hermione often found herself spending time alone, her nose buried in a book, her mind wandering to places beyond her reach.

Harry, though—Harry was different. He was sharp, quicker than most boys his age, and he’d managed to help her with her schoolwork with just a glance at her textbooks. It irked her sometimes, how easily he understood things, but it also fascinated her. He was... interesting.

As school finally let out for the day, Hermione sighed, her mind already turning to the quiet evening ahead. Her mother wouldn’t be home until late, which meant another dinner of microwaved leftovers. What she wouldn’t give to have pizza with Harry again...

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even realize where her feet had carried her until she looked up and saw the familiar stretch of the park ahead of her. Of course. This was her old route home, before she and Harry had started taking a detour to avoid the bullies.

And now, here she was, back at the park.

And so were they.

The familiar sneering faces of the bullies greeted her, and her heart sank as she caught their smirks. That smug, self-satisfied look they always wore when they were about to make her life miserable. For a brief moment, anger flared in Hermione’s chest. She was tired—tired of being afraid, tired of being pushed around, tired of feeling helpless. Maybe today, she’d actually fight back. Maybe today, she wouldn’t run away.

Her fists clenched, and she opened her mouth, ready to say something—anything—to defend herself.

But before she could even speak, three boys charged past her like a whirlwind of chaos.

“Fear not, Hermione Granger!” a familiar voice called out, filled with confidence. “The Marauders are here!”

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise as Harry came charging in, flanked by two other boys. One was a redhead, tall and lanky, while the other was blonde and smaller but equally fierce. The three of them moved with startling speed and coordination, as though they had done this a hundred times before. They hit, dodged, and pushed the bullies back with a terrifying efficiency.

Hermione stood frozen in place, watching in a mixture of shock and awe as Harry led the charge. She watched as one of the older bullies tried to escape, only for the blonde boy to grab him by the waistband of his pants, yanking him back and dragging him toward Harry. Without hesitation, Harry landed a sharp smack right between the boy’s eyes, sending him stumbling backward.

When the fight was over, the bullies were kneeling before Harry, their expressions a mix of pain and humiliation. Harry grinned wickedly, his eyes alight with the thrill of victory. He stepped forward, delivering a sharp slap to each of their faces in turn, his voice cold as he spoke.

“Don’t let me catch you here again,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “If I do, I’ll bring more friends next time. And if you ever mess with her again”—his gaze flicked to Hermione—“you’ll regret it.”

The bullies muttered half-hearted promises, nodding quickly, their bravado shattered. When Harry finally let them go, they scrambled to their feet and ran, but not before the redhead got in a few quick kicks, sending them stumbling off in a hurry.

Harry cheered, throwing his arms in the air triumphantly. He turned to his two companions, and they all high-fived, their laughter ringing out through the park.

Harry made his way toward Hermione, his face lighting up with a wide grin as he pulled her into a tight hug. “I’ve missed you, Hermione! I was starting to worry they might’ve started picking on you again.”

Hermione blinked, still processing everything that had just happened. Her heart was still racing, though not from fear anymore. She didn’t even care that the two other boys were standing nearby, waiting to be introduced. All she could focus on was Harry—his voice, his warmth, his presence.

“Fortunately,” Harry continued, completely oblivious to her stunned silence, “we saw you just in time. They didn’t get the chance to take your book again.”

Hermione finally found her voice, though it came out in a soft murmur. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry grinned, clearly pleased with himself, before gesturing toward the two boys who were watching the exchange with eager expressions. “Oh, right! I almost forgot—these are my friends and cousins.” He pointed at the redhead first. “This is Ronald Weasley.”

The redhead, Ron, gave her a crooked smile. “Hey.”

“And this,” Harry continued, pointing to the blonde boy who had dragged the bully back, “is Draco Malfoy.”

Draco gave her a small, polite nod. “Hello.”

Hermione managed a weak smile, her mind still reeling from everything that had just happened. “I-I’m Hermione Granger,” she introduced herself, her voice a little shaky. “Nice to meet you.”

She turned her gaze back to Harry, and for the first time in days, a genuine smile spread across her face. She had missed him—more than she’d realized. But her smile quickly faded into a frown as a thought struck her. “Wait—does Mr. Black know you’re here?”

Harry rolled his eyes, clearly expecting the question. “Of course he does.” He paused, glancing at Ron and Draco, who were both stifling laughter. “Well... I told him I’d be visiting you.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but Harry ignored her skepticism, grinning mischievously as he changed the subject. “Anyway, let’s go!”

“Go where?” Hermione asked, though she found herself following him without hesitation.

“Pizza!” Harry declared. “Ron’s been dying to try it.”

Ron perked up at the mention of pizza, his face lighting up with excitement. “Oh, yeah. I’ve heard it’s brilliant!”

“And I wanted Draco to try soda,” Harry added with a smirk, leaning in to whisper to Hermione like it was some grand conspiracy.

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise, then laughter bubbled up inside her before she could stop it. For the first time in what felt like forever, she laughed—really laughed. It felt good. The weight of the past week seemed to lift off her shoulders, if only for a moment.

Together, they made their way out of the park, their laughter and banter filling the air as they headed off toward their next adventure.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter had spent most of his afternoons exploring the town after his tutoring sessions, often meeting up with Hermione Granger. They had become close in a short time, and Harry found himself looking forward to these moments more than he cared to admit. It was a nice escape from his otherwise routine days. Emma Granger, Hermione’s mother, was happy to see her daughter finally spending time with someone her age. The absence of friends in Hermione’s life was no secret to her, and while she was curious why Harry was homeschooled, he quickly smoothed things over by explaining that his godfather was overprotective. He did mention, somewhat casually, that he planned on going to a proper school next year, which made Hermione wonder if she could join him somehow.

A scholarship, perhaps? She knew she was smart enough.

Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy, Harry's other two friends, had only visited once. Though they enjoyed the novelty of Muggle food, they didn’t return, and Harry had simply shrugged it off when Hermione asked why. He explained that they were busy and lived too far away. There was a flicker of something in Harry’s eyes, though—a shadow of secrecy that told Hermione there was more he wasn’t saying. Still, she let the topic drop, as it wasn’t her place to pry. Not yet, at least.

When school let out that day, Hermione gathered her things, mentally preparing for another long, quiet evening at home. Her mother would be working late again, which meant reheating leftovers and maybe reading a book until she fell asleep. A soft sigh escaped her as she stepped out of the building, heading toward the gates.

That’s when she noticed a group of girls from her class huddled near a tree, giggling and whispering in that annoyingly high-pitched way they did when they thought something—or someone—was exciting. Hermione followed their gaze toward the school gates, and there he was—Harry Potter, standing casually with a grin on his face, his messy black hair tousled by the wind and his piercing green eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. He had that look again—the one he always wore when he was either plotting something or itching for trouble.

Of course, Hermione thought, letting out a frustrated huff. Harry never could sit still for long, always eager to stir up some sort of excitement.

The girls near the tree shot her glares when they realized she was the one Harry had been waiting for. Hermione ignored them, secretly relishing the brief moment of attention as Harry’s eyes locked onto her. His grin widened, and without hesitation, he darted over to her.

“Hermione!” Harry’s voice rang out as he jogged up to her, laughing. His hand was already reaching for her bag, a gesture that had become habit in the past week.

“Honestly, Harry, you don’t need to wait for me every day,” Hermione said, but she didn’t pull her bag away when he slung it over his shoulder.

Harry chuckled, leaning in conspiratorially. “I was about to sneak into the school to find you. I figured no one would notice if I slipped in—no uniforms, right? Could’ve blended right in.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. Harry was dressed in dark slacks and a black shirt with a green undershirt peeking out at the collar. His clothes were simple but neat, and somehow, despite the tousled hair and carefree attitude, he always seemed to draw attention. He had a magnetic quality about him—whether it was his charisma or the way he held himself with such confidence, she wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, people noticed him. Always.

“No, Harry,” she said with a sigh. “Don’t come in. Just wait for me at the gate or the park. You don’t need to get into trouble.”

Harry frowned, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Trouble? Me? Come on, Hermione, I can’t just stand around doing nothing. It’s boring.”

“Well, why are you here so early, anyway?” Hermione asked as they began walking.

Harry shrugged, smirking. “My last tutor was busy, so I did some reading on my own and left the house early.” Then, before she could say anything, he added with a sly grin, “And yes, I asked permission from Sirius. Gosh, you act like I’m some kind of runaway. I’ve been out on my own plenty of times.”

Hermione shook her head but couldn’t help smiling at his cheek. “Sirius is just worried about you, that’s all.”

Harry made a face but didn’t argue. She knew he wasn’t fond of how protective his godfather could be. Still, after the first few days of Harry sneaking off to town, Sirius had relented, even asking Hermione to keep an eye on him when he wasn’t around. Hermione didn’t mind. In fact, it gave her a strange sense of importance, knowing she was trusted to look after Harry—though in truth, it often felt like she was the one being dragged along for his adventures.

“So, what do you want to do today?” Harry asked, glancing down at her.

Hermione thought for a moment. She didn’t have many hobbies outside of reading, and Harry, while perfectly capable of sitting still with a book, had little patience for television. He found it dull and preferred the pages of a novel to the flicker of a screen.

“Can we go to the bookstore?” she asked suddenly. “I need to buy a reference book for my French elective.”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Brilliant! I was hoping we could go there anyway.” His grin turned sheepish. “Sirius just gave me my book allowance, and he added a bit extra… for you.”

Hermione blinked. “For me?”

Harry nodded, his grin widening. “Yeah, you know, as a thank you for ‘taking care of my bloody arse,’ as he put it.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “You’re buying me books?”

“Well, yeah. Either that, or we could blow it all on snacks again.” Harry winked, clearly enjoying her reaction.

Before she could respond, Harry grabbed her hand and started pulling her in the direction of the bookstore. Hermione barely had time to process what was happening, but the excitement bubbling up inside her made it hard to care. He was buying her books. Books. Could this day get any better?

As they walked, she noticed the way Harry navigated the streets with ease, like he knew the town inside and out. He had a knack for slipping in and out of places, almost like he was always one step ahead, even when it seemed like he was just wandering. His confidence was infectious, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel a little thrill at being swept up in his world, even if only for a few hours.

They turned a corner, the familiar sign of the bookstore coming into view. Hermione’s heart raced. She was practically vibrating with excitement now, her mind already whirling with thoughts of all the books she could buy.

xxxxx

Harry had completely underestimated how much time Hermione could spend in a bookstore.

When he had offered to buy her some books, he hadn’t realized just what kind of a bookworm she truly was. What started as an innocent afternoon trip turned into two grueling hours of watching her meticulously scan through shelves, flipping through pages and debating with herself over which books to buy. It wasn't that he minded waiting; he liked seeing her so immersed, so passionate, but after a while, he started to feel like he was in a test of patience.

Technically, it was only 10 books in the end. But the process had felt like a lifetime.

"Hello, Harry, Hermione," Emma Granger’s voice broke through Harry's dazed stupor as she stepped into the shop, catching sight of the growing pile of books at their feet. Her nametag jingled softly as she pinned it to her shirt, ready to start her shift. "Quite a stack of books there, Harry. Are you having trouble finding something?"

Harry looked up from where he was sitting on the floor, leaning against a book display. His smile was easy and cheeky, but his eyes shifted to the teetering stack next to Hermione. "Afraid not, Mrs. Granger," he said, pointing at the books. "Those are Hermione’s books. She's just having a tough time choosing between two versions of the same book."

Emma’s eyes widened slightly, eyebrows raised. She opened her mouth to say something, but Harry quickly jumped in, already anticipating her question.

"My godfather gave me a bit of extra money," he explained smoothly. "Said it was for Hermione, for 'taking care of me' while I'm out and about."

It wasn’t entirely a lie. Sirius had been generous with Harry's book allowance, though Harry had "borrowed" a little extra from his vault for Hermione. He had noticed a few things in her home—an almost empty pantry, frayed furniture—and it didn’t take long to piece together that the Grangers weren’t doing well financially. Hermione never mentioned it, but her pride was clear. She’d never accept charity outright, so Harry had come up with a way to help her indirectly. This "book allowance" was a means to an end—he couldn’t bear seeing her reading the same old books over and over again. She deserved more.

“Ah, I see,” Emma said with a knowing smile, though a hint of surprise lingered in her eyes. She had met Sirius Black before and knew him to be a proper gentleman—strict, but kind. Trusting Hermione to keep an eye on Harry while he worked showed how much faith he had in her. Emma sighed, glancing at her daughter, who was still intently staring at the two books in her hands, debating their merits. “How long have you two been here?”

“Two hours,” Harry replied, his voice half-resigned, half-amused.

“Oh, dear,” Emma laughed softly. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got to get started with my shift. Good luck, Harry. You might be here for a while.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Granger,” Harry chuckled, shaking his head as Emma left them.

He turned back to Hermione, who still hadn’t moved. She was completely absorbed in her internal struggle, holding up the two books as if she expected them to magically tell her which one to choose.

“Hermione,” Harry groaned, rubbing his temples in exaggerated frustration. “Just take them both.”

“I can’t, Harry,” Hermione sighed, her voice filled with exasperation. “I only have a budget for 10 books. You said yourself that I could only pick 10.”

Harry looked at her as if she had just spoken nonsense. “Hermione, I’ll pay for the extra book. Seriously. Just take both and let’s get out of here. I’m starving.”

Hermione frowned, clearly torn between her desire to stick to the rules and her love for books. “No, just give me a few more minutes. I need to think.”

Harry slumped down onto a nearby chair, groaning dramatically. “If you stand up right now and head to the counter, I’ll add in another book—on top of the one you’re already struggling over. But only if we leave now.”

Hermione froze, torn between excitement and hesitation. Slowly, as if the offer itself was some kind of test, she began to rise from her spot on the floor, the two books clutched tightly in her hands. Harry smirked, victory flashing in his eyes as she stood, still somewhat uncertain but starting to make her way to the counter.

“You drive a hard bargain,” she muttered, casting a sideways glance at Harry as he gathered half of the books and followed her to the register.

Harry grinned at her. “You’re welcome.”

The cashier raised an eyebrow as they began piling the books onto the counter one by one. Hermione watched nervously as the numbers on the register climbed higher and higher, but Harry was unfazed, already pulling out the money he had brought with him. Before Hermione could say anything, the transaction was done. The books were neatly boxed up, and Harry handed her the lighter of the two boxes.

When they finally stepped outside, Harry let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, lifting his face to the sky. “Finally! I was starting to think we were going to spend the rest of our lives in there.”

Hermione flushed with embarrassment, her eyes still spinning slightly from the sheer amount of money that had been spent on books. “I’m sorry… I didn’t realize how long I was taking.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Harry said, glancing at her with a teasing grin. “It’s good practice for the future. Next time we go to the bookstore, I’ll bring a pillow so I can take a nap while you explore.”

Hermione froze mid-step, her heart skipping a beat as she replayed his words in her head. Next time? Did that mean they would do this again? There would be a next time? Her thoughts raced, but Harry seemed oblivious to her sudden pause, whistling softly as he glanced around the nearby shops, clearly thinking about what they could grab to eat.

“Is it heavy?” Harry’s voice cut through her thoughts, startling her.

“Huh?” Hermione blinked, snapping out of her daze.

“The books, Hermione,” Harry repeated with a laugh, already reaching for the smaller box in her hands. “It doesn’t feel that heavy, but I’ll carry it anyway. Now, how about you pick what we eat, and we get going before I pass out from hunger?”

Hermione barely had time to respond before Harry was steering her toward a row of food stalls, his playful tone catching her off guard. “I might just eat that stray cat I’ve been seeing around here if we don’t find something soon.”

“Are you crazy?” Hermione hissed, her irritation growing as Harry’s loud laughter echoed around them. His carefree attitude was always a contrast to her more serious nature, but in moments like this, she found herself caught between frustration and amusement.

Harry shot her a mischievous grin, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Only when I’m hungry.”

As they continued walking, the weight of their books lightened by the ease of their conversation, Hermione found herself smiling despite the chaos of the day. With Harry, nothing was ever simple, but it was always an adventure.

xxxxx

That night, Hermione sat cross-legged on her bed, her room bathed in the soft glow of a bedside lamp. The stack of twelve brand-new books lay neatly arranged on the floor beside her bed. Twelve books! Her heart fluttered with excitement as she gazed at them, hardly believing they were hers. It had been ages since she had this many new books, and the sheer thought of diving into them filled her with a joy she could hardly contain.

She rolled onto her back, hugging her pillow tightly as she squealed in delight. Her giddiness refused to settle, her mind racing with the thought of all the worlds waiting for her to explore. And it was all thanks to Harry.

She sat up, her smile fading slightly as she thought of Harry. She hadn't expected him to buy her so many books. At first, she had hesitated, her pride tugging at her to refuse his generosity. But she quickly realized that refusing would do no good—Harry was persistent, and he might just flood her house with books if she said no. Probably books about wild adventures, war, or murder mysteries—things Harry was drawn to, while Hermione preferred fantasy and non-fiction, books that fueled her imagination and thirst for knowledge.

She sighed, sitting cross-legged again and staring at the books, deep in thought. How could she ever repay him? Harry was brilliant, sharper than most boys his age, and so thoughtful. She couldn’t just let this go without doing something for him in return.

Cooking for him? Hermione cringed at the thought, imagining the disaster it would be. She could barely scramble an egg, let alone whip up a decent meal. Teaching him something? That idea made her snort in disbelief. Harry didn’t need teaching—he had a mind like a steel trap. More often than not, it was him helping her with tricky bits of her homework, much to her irritation and reluctant admiration.

No, it had to be something special. Something only she could do.

Hermione’s gaze drifted toward her tiny bookshelf, her fingers lightly tapping her chin as she mulled over the possibilities. There had to be something there. Her eyes landed on a dusty, old book gifted by her late grandmother, one she hadn’t thought much of until now. A smile slowly crept onto her face. Maybe there was a way to surprise Harry after all.

She extended her hand and, without a second thought, willed the book to come to her. The old spine of the book lifted slightly from the shelf before it zipped across the room, landing perfectly in her open palm.

Hermione smirked at her little display. She didn't know how she did it, and she never dared to ask anyone. It was as though the magic only worked with books—nothing else seemed to respond when she tried. But it didn’t matter. Maybe she could show Harry this little trick. Just to see the look on his face. That thought filled her with a strange excitement.

But then her smile faltered. A dark memory flickered in her mind like a shadow passing over the sun.

"Freak!"

The cruel word echoed in her head, the sting of it still sharp after all these years. She winced, pulling the book closer to her chest. No, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to show Harry this... not yet. What if he didn’t understand? What if he thought she was strange, different—just like the others had? The last thing she wanted was to ruin the friendship they had built.

Hermione closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. Perhaps one day, when she trusted him enough, she’d tell him. But not now. It was too soon, too delicate.

She shook off the lingering worry and flipped open the book, her fingers gliding over the worn pages. The familiar scent of old paper and ink soothed her, grounding her in the present. For now, she would lose herself in the stories, in the comfort of the pages, and she’d figure out how to repay Harry later.

Tomorrow, perhaps, she’d come up with something brilliant. After all, she always did.

But tonight, it was just her and her books.

xxxxx

Time had flown by, and before Hermione knew it, summer had arrived in full bloom. The warmth of the season crept through the neighborhood, filling the air with the sweet smell of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass. Despite the sun beaming outside, Hermione found herself tucked away inside her room, a pile of yarn on her bed, her mind drifting.

She could hardly believe she was already set for secondary school. Her mother had assured her that she'd still be attending the same school, which was a relief in some ways. The neighborhood they lived in now wasn’t ideal—cheap, sure, but safe, and at the very least, stable. Hermione wasn’t sure she could handle another major change on top of everything else. The move had been hard enough.

But even with secondary school on the horizon, something else weighed on her mind: Harry. He still hadn’t told her where he was going to school. He seemed to have a plan, one he was keeping close to his chest. When she’d tried asking him about it, he’d only given her a knowing smile, as if the answer were too complicated to explain. A small part of her—a part she would never admit out loud—hoped Harry would join her at her school. She pictured him sitting next to her, poking fun at her during lessons, always ready with some clever remark. But deep down, Hermione knew it was a far-off dream. Harry was different, even though she couldn't quite put her finger on how.

Still, Harry had promised to visit her, his tone casual, as if it were obvious he'd keep coming around. The thought reassured her more than she cared to admit. She had grown used to him, to his teasing and his relentless energy. Harry had a way of making things exciting, even when all they were doing was sitting on the grass, talking about books or daydreaming about adventures they'd never have.

Before Harry had left for a trip with his godfather, he had given her a bundle of new books to keep her company. Hermione had rolled her eyes at him at the time, playfully scolding him for treating her like some book-hungry gremlin who couldn't survive without his constant deliveries. But the truth was, she had grown to rely on him. She wouldn’t say it, of course—it would only boost his ego. And God knew Harry already had enough cheek to last a lifetime.

She let out a long sigh, glancing at the mess of yarn spread out across her bed. The task in front of her was proving more difficult than she’d imagined. She had been trying to knit Harry a sweater—something to show her appreciation for all the books and the way he always looked out for her. But after hours of frustration and too many failed attempts to count, she had settled on making him a scarf instead. The stitches were uneven, and there were places where the yarn bunched up awkwardly, but it was coming together, slowly but surely.

"I’m hopeless at this," Hermione muttered under her breath, staring at the half-finished scarf. It was a far cry from the sweater she’d imagined. Still, it would do. After all, autumn was months away, and she had time to finish it. Maybe if she practiced enough, she could try the sweater again someday—though the idea of ever getting good enough to manage that seemed laughable at the moment.

Her fingers toyed absentmindedly with the yarn, her thoughts drifting back to Harry again. He had a knack for getting under her skin, teasing her just enough to rile her up without crossing the line. Sometimes she felt like he was daring her to hit him, just to see if he could push her that far. Hermione had been tempted many times to oblige him, especially when he pulled one of his more infuriating stunts, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Harry was her friend—her only real friend, if she were honest with herself. Hitting him, even playfully, just didn't seem right.

She smiled a little, thinking about how irritatingly smug he’d be when she finally gave him the scarf. He’d probably wear it all the time just to tease her about her knitting skills, even if it turned out lumpy and misshapen. But deep down, Hermione knew he'd appreciate it. That was one of the things she liked about Harry. For all his teasing and bravado, he had a kind heart, and he cared about the people around him more than he let on.

Hermione looked out her window, the warm summer breeze gently stirring the leaves of the trees outside. The park where she and Harry had first met wasn’t far from here, and she could still remember that day vividly—the way he’d come charging into her life, bold and brimming with confidence. She hadn’t realized it then, but that day had changed everything for her.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she picked up her knitting needles again, determination flickering in her eyes. The scarf might not be perfect, but it would be hers, a gift for the boy who had unknowingly become such a big part of her life.

And as much as she missed him now, she couldn’t help but feel excited for when he’d return. She had new books to read, a project to finish, and—most importantly—a promise to look forward to.

Because Harry had promised there would always be a next time.

xxxxx

Harry arrived at Hermione’s door sooner than she had anticipated. She barely had time to process that he was back from his trip before he stood there, holding a large box brimming with treats, books, and other trinkets. His arrival was as sudden as it was welcome, his grin wide and his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Emma Granger answered the door, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise at the sight of the overflowing box in Harry’s arms. She exchanged a quick glance with Hermione, who had hurried over, just as curious. As they opened the box together, the contents spilled out like a treasure trove: fine chocolates, fragrant tea leaves, a bottle of wine, artisanal soap, perfume, postcards from places Hermione could only dream of, and even small toys that looked like they were handmade.

And of course—books.

Emma picked up the bottle of wine with a small, approving smile as she shook her head. "Harry, this is too much," she said, though her hand clutched the bottle with a mother's eagerness.

Harry smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. "I actually only bought the books and the wine, Mrs. Granger. Everything else—well, Sirius received it while visiting some family friends. We ended up with so much extra that I thought you and Hermione might enjoy some. The tea’s supposed to be really good too."

Emma chuckled, tucking the bottle under her arm. "I might take you up on that. And thank Sirius for me, will you? I'd love to have him over for dinner one of these days—if he can spare the time."

"Definitely! Maybe when he's not swamped with work. Even in France, he was still busy half the time, so I mostly toured around with some of the kids from his friends' families."

Hermione, who had been quietly inspecting the contents of the box, glanced up at Harry with wide eyes. Among the gifts were three new books in French—an immediate favorite. She already had a battered French-to-English dictionary, a prized possession for her language classes, but these books? These were leagues beyond. Real literature in French. The kind that would challenge her and keep her busy while Harry was away.

She glanced at him, wondering how he had thought of it. "You didn’t have to, Harry," she mumbled, though the excitement was evident in her voice.

Harry just shrugged. "I figured you’d like them. Plus, it’s not like I could come back empty-handed. What else was I supposed to do with all this stuff?"

Emma and Hermione both laughed at that, but it was Hermione who noticed the subtle way Harry’s eyes softened as they settled on her. He really had thought about her during his trip, enough to pick out books that she would love, despite all the teasing about her reading habits. She could feel a warmth rising in her chest, a familiar yet strange feeling whenever Harry did something thoughtful without even realizing it.

As Harry launched into stories about his adventures in France, Emma leaned back against the counter, listening with interest. He spoke animatedly about the sights, the culture, and even a few mishaps along the way. He laughed about the time they tried to order food in French and ended up with something entirely unexpected, or how one of the kids managed to lose their camera in a river during a boat tour. "So yeah," Harry said, grinning, "no pictures. Just these souvenirs and the memories."

Once he was done recounting his trip, Hermione led him to her room, Emma staying behind to tidy up and put the gifts away. As they entered, Harry took in the sight of her room, his eyes immediately drawn to the towering stacks of books scattered across the shelves and the floor.

"When’s your birthday, anyway?" Harry asked casually as he wandered in, eyeing the piles of books as if calculating how much more space Hermione had left before her room was overwhelmed.

"My birthday?" Hermione repeated, confused by the sudden question.

"Yeah," Harry grinned, "remind me so I can get you a new bookshelf. I don’t want to hear from your mum one day that you got buried alive under a pile of books."

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at that. "I’ll have you know I’m very good at balancing them," she said, trying to sound indignant but failing.

Harry laughed too, but the laughter faded into something softer, something warmer as he approached her. Without warning, he pulled her into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around her with a surprising tenderness. "I missed you, Hermione," he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur.

Hermione froze, caught off-guard by the sudden embrace. "R-Really?" she managed to squeak out, her face flushing as her arms slowly found their way around him in return.

"Yeah," Harry chuckled softly, "mostly because you speak English, and I spent a month listening to people speak French—or butcher English." He grinned at the memory. "But really, I missed you. Next time, when we go out of the country, I’m bringing you with me."

Hermione snorted, trying to hide the way her heart leapt at his words. "I don’t even have a passport, Harry."

"We’ll figure it out," he said confidently, releasing her from the hug and flopping down on the floor beside her bed. He watched as she began organizing the new books on her shelf, her hands moving with a kind of reverence. "So, what have you been up to while I was gone?"

Hermione hesitated for a moment, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. She had missed him more than she realized, and having him back now, filling the room with his presence, made the past month seem oddly distant. But she smiled, turning back to her books. "Oh, you know... just reading, studying... waiting for you to come back and entertain me."

Harry laughed, his voice filling the room. "Well, here I am. Now you’re stuck with me."

xxxxx

Harry was mid-sentence, animatedly describing a mishap in France when a knock interrupted his story. Emma peeked into Hermione's room with a gentle smile.

"Hermione, you have a visitor."

Hermione exchanged a curious glance with Harry.

"I'll wait for you here," Harry said, already reaching for one of her books. He opened it casually, settling back into her room with a smile.

Hermione nodded and slipped out of the room, her mind still half in Harry’s tales of France. When she stepped into the living room, though, her breath hitched. Standing there, tall and formidable, was a woman in emerald-green robes, her black hair tightly pulled into a bun. The woman's stern face softened with a small, kind smile.

"Hello, Ms. Granger," the woman greeted, her voice crisp and polite. "My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I am a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Hermione's eyes widened in shock. She shot a glance at her mother, Emma, who looked equally astonished but also intrigued.

Professor McGonagall began to explain the existence of magic, Hogwarts, and how sometimes children born to non-magical parents—Muggleborns, she called them—had magical abilities. She even demonstrated some magic, transforming into a sleek black cat before their eyes. Hermione let out a gasp, her heart racing with excitement. She had read about magic in books, but to see it—to know it was real?

Her eyes scanned the letter that McGonagall handed her, the Hogwarts crest gleaming on the parchment. A grin spread across Hermione's face as she skimmed over the details—until her eyes caught the list of school supplies. Her excitement faltered slightly as she thought of the cost. Her mother had been working so hard already.

"Professor," Hermione asked tentatively, her fingers brushing over the letter, "about these school supplies..."

Emma, standing beside her, tensed slightly, her smile fading as concern crossed her face.

McGonagall smiled kindly, understanding immediately. "Do not worry, Ms. Granger," she said reassuringly. "Hogwarts offers scholarships for Muggleborn students, which will cover all your educational expenses, including your school supplies."

Emma let out a sigh of relief, and Hermione's face lit up again. She couldn’t help herself—she let out a little laugh of pure joy, and her mother hugged her tightly, both of them sharing the moment of happiness. McGonagall watched with a soft smile.

Before Hermione could ask another question, the door to her room creaked open, and she froze.

Harry.

In all the excitement, she had completely forgotten he was still here.

Harry emerged from her room, about to slip past and head for the bathroom when he stopped, his eyes landing on Professor McGonagall. His brow furrowed in confusion, and then recognition dawned on his face.

"Aunt Minnie?" he asked, his voice rising in surprise. "What are you doing here?" He let out a groan. "Did Sirius send you to check on me?"

McGonagall blinked, just as surprised. "Harry?" she said, squinting at him. "I might ask you the same thing. What are you doing at Ms. Granger’s house?"

Hermione stood there, completely stunned. Aunt Minnie? Harry knew her?

"Hermione’s my friend," Harry replied casually, walking over to stand next to her. He paused when his eyes landed on the letter clutched in her hand. Before Hermione could react, he took it from her and scanned it. His eyes widened, and he let out a sharp breath. "Hermione’s a witch? Merlin’s beard, is this real?!"

"You know about Hogwarts?" Hermione asked, her excitement rekindled.

Harry’s face split into a wide grin. "Of course! I just got my letter before coming here!" He jumped up in excitement. "We’re both going to study there!"

Hermione couldn’t contain herself. "You’re a wizard?!" she asked, her voice rising in disbelief.

Harry nodded enthusiastically. "I am! And Sirius is too! This is amazing! We’re going to Hogwarts together, Hermione!"

Overcome with excitement, Hermione threw her arms around Harry, and they jumped up and down together in sheer joy, laughing loudly, entirely oblivious to the amused look on Emma’s face and the raised eyebrow from McGonagall.

"Oh my gosh," Harry said breathlessly, "I still can’t believe it. You, Hermione, are a witch! You’re brilliant. Absolutely brilliant!"

McGonagall cleared her throat, interrupting their jubilant celebration. "Harry," she began, "how long have you two known each other?"

Harry tilted his head, thinking. "A few months, I think? I met her while I was... err... walking around town."

McGonagall’s sharp gaze softened. "Well, then I suppose it’s fortunate you already know each other. It will make the transition to Hogwarts easier." She looked directly at Harry. "I expect you’ll guide Ms. Granger as she enters our world."

Harry straightened up, nodding eagerly. "Of course, Aunt Minnie. Hermione, watch this!"

He flicked his wrist dramatically, and from the kitchen, a small box of chocolates soared through the air, landing perfectly in his hand. He held it up proudly. "See? Magic!"

McGonagall sighed, clearly used to Harry's antics, but her expression shifted when Hermione raised her hand. Without a word, a book floated from the shelf and landed gently in her palm. She beamed.

"I can do that too!" Hermione squealed, her voice brimming with excitement.

Harry’s eyes widened, and he shouted in excitement. "Hermione, you’re a natural!"

They were both buzzing with joy, chattering non-stop about all the magical things they could do, when McGonagall clapped her hands, regaining control of the room.

"Now, as much as I’d love to stay, I have other students to visit," she said. "Harry, would you please inform Sirius that you and the Grangers will need to visit Diagon Alley for supplies? I’m sure you can help guide Ms. Granger through the process."

Harry grinned, already nodding. "I was going to suggest the same thing. Hermione, you’re going to love Diagon Alley! And—oh—you have to see Flourish and Blotts! The books, Hermione!"

Hermione clapped her hands, barely able to contain her excitement at the thought of new books—magic books.

McGonagall turned to Hermione with a final instruction. "When you arrive at Diagon Alley, be sure to visit Gringotts first. Show them your letter, and they’ll guide you through the process of accessing your scholarship fund."

Harry’s eyes lit up. "Actually, Aunt Minnie," he said with a mischievous grin, "Hermione won’t need the Hogwarts scholarship."

McGonagall blinked, surprised. "Oh?"

Harry turned to Hermione, his expression softening. "You see, when my mum died, she left a fund in her will. Every year, she wanted to choose one Muggleborn student to cover their full tuition and expenses at Hogwarts."

Hermione’s eyes widened in disbelief as Harry leaned in closer. "And I choose you, Hermione. You can get whatever you need—and as many books as you want."

Hermione gasped. That was the final straw. Overwhelmed, she threw herself at Harry, hugging him so tightly she could hardly breathe. She was so happy, so full of gratitude, that she almost kissed him right then and there.

McGonagall, watching the heartfelt exchange, simply smiled. "Very well, Harry. I’ll inform the Headmaster. Ms. Granger," she added with a soft smile, "I hope you enjoy your time at Hogwarts. And please, do try to keep Mr. Potter out of trouble."

Hermione giggled, and Harry rolled his eyes. "I’m not that bad."

As McGonagall turned to leave, Emma stepped forward. "Thank you, Professor," she said warmly, her voice thick with gratitude.

McGonagall nodded, casting a final glance at the two children. "Take care, both of you. I’ll be seeing you at Hogwarts."

"Bye, Professor!" Hermione called out.

"See you soon, Aunt Minnie!" Harry added with a smirk, watching as the professor stepped out into the afternoon sunlight.

Chapter Text

Sirius Black could hardly believe it when Harry first told him. The girl he’d been spending most of his time with—the same girl he would sneak out to visit—was a witch. Not just any witch either, but a Muggleborn. What were the odds? He mused on how strange and fascinating the world could be. Was magic somehow drawing them together? Or had fate intervened to ensure that Harry would find a friend in Hermione Granger?

Either way, Sirius was thrilled. Harry, who’d always been a bit closed-off, had found someone who truly understood him, even if neither of them had realized their connection until now. And judging by how Harry practically latched onto her, it was clear that anyone who dared hurt this girl would face the full fury of Harry Potter. He smirked at the thought—Harry wasn’t one to hold back, and protecting Hermione had become almost second nature to him.

Today, they were in Diagon Alley, and Harry was dragging an equally excited Hermione from one shop to the next, their laughter ringing through the cobblestone streets. The sun bathed the magical alley in warm light, casting reflections off the many shop windows displaying enchanted goods. The scent of parchment, magical herbs, and sweet treats from Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlor filled the air.

Harry was meant to be here with Ron and Draco, but the moment Hermione showed up, he left his friends without a second thought. Hermione, wide-eyed and brimming with curiosity, absorbed every sight with wonder. The magical world had come alive in a way she had only ever dreamed about, and Harry, with his easy confidence and childlike enthusiasm, was the perfect guide.

Sirius watched them from a few paces back, a knowing grin stretching across his face. Typical Potter, ditching friends the moment a girl came along. He shook his head fondly, keeping his distance while giving Harry space to enjoy his day.

As he read through a letter from the Ministry, he was interrupted by Harry sprinting toward another shop. "Harry!" Sirius called out, his voice laced with amusement and mock exasperation. "We should visit Gringotts first." He reached out and snagged Harry by the collar just before he could dart off in another direction.

Harry stumbled to a halt, flashing his godfather an impish grin. "Gringotts, right. I suppose we need some money for this little adventure." He looked over at Hermione, who was standing beside her mother. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he turned back to Sirius. "Ah, of course, we mustn't forget Gringotts," he said, nodding solemnly, though the corner of his mouth twitched with barely-contained excitement.

Hermione’s curiosity piqued, and she tilted her head. “What’s so special about the bank?"

Sirius chuckled under his breath. “You’ll find out soon enough, Hermione,” he said cryptically.

Harry leaned in closer to her, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “You’ll love the vaults. Goblins guard the money, and each family has their own vault, deep underground." His green eyes sparkled with anticipation, and for a moment, he looked like any normal 11-year-old boy eager to show his friend something cool—except Harry’s version of ‘cool’ involved goblins and ancient vaults.

“The vaults? Goblins?” Hermione echoed, her excitement now matching Harry’s. She glanced up at her mother, who smiled warmly, amused by the children’s energy.

“We also need to make sure you get enough for your books,” Harry added, his tone suddenly serious as if this was a matter of great importance.

Hermione beamed at him, her heart swelling with warmth. Harry’s equal love for books was something she deeply appreciated, even if she hadn’t known him for long. She nodded eagerly. “Then let’s go! I can’t wait to see it.”

Emma Granger walked alongside Sirius, laughing softly. “He’s certainly excited about visiting a bank,” she commented, her eyes following the two children as they led the way toward Gringotts.

Sirius let out a sigh, though his grin betrayed any hint of frustration. “I’m just warning you now,” he said to Emma, his tone light and teasing, “I apologize in advance for whatever antics Harry pulls today.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, her smile widening. “Oh? Should I be worried?”

Sirius smirked, scratching the back of his head. “You’ll see. He’s already got something planned, no doubt about it.”

xxxxx

Harry and Sirius assisted a pale and shaky Hermione and Emma as they stumbled out of the cart. Their wild ride down to the Potter vault had been a whirlwind of loops, sharp turns, and freefalling that left both Granger women visibly shaken. It was far worse than any roller coaster, and to make matters worse, there hadn’t been a single seatbelt or safety measure to keep them from tumbling out of the rickety contraption.

Throughout the ride, Hermione had clung desperately to Harry, her eyes squeezed shut, screaming at every stomach-lurching drop while Harry laughed beside her, thoroughly enjoying the adventure. Behind them, Emma had gripped Sirius’s robes so tightly she almost pulled them off, her face a mixture of terror and nausea. Sirius had tried to comfort her with little success, as he too had struggled to keep a straight face during the cart’s crazed journey.

When they finally came to a halt in front of the massive, ancient vault door, Hermione leaned heavily against a nearby pillar, her legs trembling so badly she could barely stand.

“I-I-I never want to do that again,” she stammered, still trying to catch her breath. Her brown eyes were wide with lingering fear as she wiped the sweat from her brow. “W-We almost died.”

Griphook, the goblin who had operated the cart, simply rolled his eyes at her words, unimpressed by the human tendency to overreact.

Sirius, trying to suppress his grin, gave Hermione a sympathetic look as he patted Emma’s back, attempting to soothe the poor woman who was now fighting to keep her breakfast where it belonged. “Unfortunately for you both,” he said, his voice full of amusement, “we’ll be taking the same cart back up.”

At that, Emma groaned softly, covering her mouth with her hand. “You’re a cruel, cruel man, Sirius Black,” she muttered weakly, leaning against the vault’s stone wall for support.

“You prat,” Hermione snapped at Harry, glaring at him with a mixture of frustration and lingering terror. She had her arms folded tightly across her chest, her knuckles white. “You knew how awful that ride would be, didn’t you?”

Harry pressed his hand over his mouth, trying—and failing—not to burst into another fit of laughter. His shoulders shook with barely contained mirth as he gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Hermione, really I am,” he said between snickers, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. “But come on, you’ve got to admit, it was a bit of fun!”

Hermione’s glare deepened, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I did not find it fun, Harry James Potter,” she huffed, though her flushed cheeks hinted that she might have found some excitement in the chaos, even if she wasn’t ready to admit it.

Griphook approached the vault’s door with the quiet efficiency typical of goblins. With a quick flick of his bony fingers and a muttered incantation, the massive door creaked open, revealing the treasure hidden inside. Harry moved to step forward, but he stopped abruptly, turning back toward Hermione with a sly grin.

“Wait here for a moment,” he instructed, holding up a finger as if he were about to share a great secret. Hermione, still recovering from the cart ride, nodded slowly, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

From the entrance, Hermione could already glimpse the glittering heaps of gold, silver, and bronze that filled the room. It was a veritable sea of coins, stacked into neat piles and scattered across the floor like treasures from a pirate’s hoard. But beyond the money, there were other, more mysterious items that caught her eye—ancient jewelry encrusted with gems, finely crafted paintings in gilded frames, elegant furniture, and crates stacked high in the corners. There were even strange-looking artifacts she didn’t recognize, likely imbued with magic she couldn’t yet comprehend.

Harry disappeared deeper into the vault for a moment, and Hermione stood at the threshold, her wide eyes wandering over the vast collection of wealth. She couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like for Harry, to have grown up with access to all of this. Did it ever feel overwhelming to him? Or was he so used to it that it was simply part of his life?

A few seconds later, Harry reemerged, holding something in his hand. He flashed Hermione a grin, motioning her forward. “Alright, it’s all set. You and Mrs. Granger can come in now.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?” she asked suspiciously as she cautiously stepped across the threshold, half-expecting some sort of magical trap.

Harry smirked, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “I just had to key you and your mum into the wards. Only people I approve of can enter my vault, so now you're on the list.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open slightly in surprise. “That’s... actually pretty amazing,” she admitted, impressed by the level of magic involved.

Harry handed her a small, nondescript satchel. “Here, this should help. Go ahead and put about a hundred Galleons inside.”

Hermione blinked, looking at the modest little bag in her hands. “Harry, this bag won’t even hold a fraction of that,” she said skeptically, shaking it to demonstrate how tiny it was.

Harry's eyes twinkled with mischief. “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s got an extension charm on it. You could fit a whole horse inside, and it’d still feel light as a feather.”

Hermione’s brows shot up. “A horse?” she repeated, eyeing the bag again, half-expecting it to reveal some hidden depths.

Harry leaned closer, waggling his eyebrows playfully. “I could probably fit you inside, if you want to try.” His smirk deepened as he reached out and gently pinched her cheek.

Hermione’s eyes widened in mock horror, and she quickly pulled away, swatting his hand. “Absolutely not!” she declared, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile despite herself. “I’d prefer not to spend the rest of my day stuck in a bag, thank you very much.”

Harry chuckled, giving her a playful nudge. “Was worth a shot,” he said, turning to Sirius with a grin. “What do you think, Sirius? Could we have fit her in?”

Sirius, who had been leaning casually against the vault’s entrance, crossed his arms and grinned back. “Oh, definitely. I think she’d fit quite comfortably, but you might have trouble getting her out again.” He winked at Hermione, who rolled her eyes.

Hermione sighed, shaking her head as she began carefully scooping Galleons into the enchanted satchel. The clinking of the gold echoed faintly in the vast vault as she worked, her hands moving steadily as she tried to wrap her head around the sheer wealth that surrounded her. This was all part of Harry’s world—something so far removed from her life as a Muggleborn that it felt like stepping into a fairytale.

xxxxx

They were finally out of the bank, the chaos of Gringotts now behind them. Hermione and Emma had insisted on taking a short break after their second wild ride in the cart, both looking slightly pale and shaken. The second trip had been just as nerve-wracking as the first, and despite Sirius’s and Harry’s efforts, there wasn’t much they could do to ease the nausea and dizziness that still lingered.

Hermione had leaned heavily against the nearest wall, her breaths slow and deliberate as she tried to calm her nerves. Emma sat on a bench nearby, holding her head in her hands, her expression one of mild horror as she swore never to step foot inside Gringotts again unless absolutely necessary.

Sirius, ever the responsible adult, had given Harry a pointed look, scolding him under his breath. “Don’t tease her anymore, Harry. She’s been through enough today.”

Harry, to his credit, had merely shrugged, looking guilty but clearly still amused by the earlier events. He hadn’t meant any harm—Hermione’s reactions were just too entertaining for him to resist. Still, he nodded in agreement, deciding it was best to leave the teasing for another time.

After a few minutes of recovery, both Granger women had regained their composure, and they were off again, weaving through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley. The sunlight glinted off the cobblestone streets, and the warm air buzzed with the energy of witches and wizards hurrying about with their shopping.

Their next destination was a bit more lighthearted—Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. Harry had decided to save the bookstore for the end of their trip, knowing that once Hermione got her hands on a book, it might be impossible to pull her away.

Madam Malkin’s shop was a charming little store with a welcoming, cozy atmosphere. As they stepped inside, the doorbell tinkled softly, and they were greeted by the sight of rows upon rows of beautifully made robes, all neatly arranged on racks and shelves. To their relief, the store was empty, giving them the freedom to browse without the bustling crowd.

“Hogwarts, dears?” Madam Malkin’s cheerful voice rang out from behind the counter as she approached them, her eyes lighting up when they fell on Harry. “Oh, my, Harry Potter!”

Hermione turned to glance at Harry, curious about the shopkeeper’s reaction. Harry, however, merely smiled politely at the woman, clearly used to this kind of attention by now. “Hello, Madam Malkin,” he said, his voice polite and warm. “I’m here with my friend Hermione Granger, to get fitted.”

Madam Malkin’s eyes shifted to Hermione, her expression softening into a friendly smile. “Why, of course! Such a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Granger,” she said warmly. “Now, who would like to go first?”

“Hermione first, please,” Harry said, stepping aside and gesturing for Hermione to step forward.

With a slightly hesitant nod, Hermione stepped up onto the small stool that Madam Malkin directed her to, feeling a little awkward under the attention. As the robe maker slipped a long black robe over her head, Hermione stood as stiff as a board, as if she were undergoing some kind of test. Her fingers fidgeted nervously as Madam Malkin began pinning the robe, adjusting it to the perfect length.

Harry, watching from the side, couldn’t help but chuckle softly. There was something endearing about how serious Hermione looked as she stood there, clearly uncomfortable in the spotlight.

“You’re not being tested, you know,” he teased lightly, catching her eye with a playful grin.

Hermione shot him a mock glare, though her lips twitched as if she were trying not to smile. “I’m just... making sure it’s perfect,” she muttered, though it was obvious she was flustered by the whole experience.

When Madam Malkin finished with Hermione, Harry stepped onto the stool himself, his posture relaxed and confident as the woman adjusted his robes with practiced ease. Hermione watched him with mild amusement, marveling at how calm and composed he seemed compared to her own nervousness.

A few minutes later, Madam Malkin stepped back, surveying her handiwork with satisfaction. “All done,” she announced with a smile. “Would these be traditional robes, then?”

Harry shook his head, his green eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “Make it the best quality, please. Acromantula silk for the inner lining, and could you add warming and cooling charms to both sets as well?”

Madam Malkin’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but she nodded eagerly. “Of course, Mr. Potter. You have excellent taste.”

“And for Ms. Granger?” she asked, turning her attention to Hermione.

Harry didn’t miss a beat. “Just the same, please,” he replied smoothly. “We’d also like two sets of winter cloaks each, with warming charms. The best quality you have, please. Oh, and two pointed hats, and two pairs of dragon-hide gloves.”

Madam Malkin beamed. “Excellent choices, Mr. Potter. I’ll have everything prepared and ready for pick-up later today. In the meantime, feel free to continue your shopping.”

Harry smiled, nodding his thanks. “Thank you very much, Madam Malkin.”

As they left the shop, Hermione couldn’t help but glance at Harry, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Do you know Madam Malkin?” she asked, her tone laced with surprise.

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’ve never met her before in my life.”

Hermione frowned. “Really? She seemed to know who you were.”

Sirius, who had been walking just behind them, smirked and cut in. “Harry’s quite famous in our world, Hermione,” he said, his tone light. “People recognize him everywhere.”

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly at that, but she didn’t press the matter further. She was still learning about this magical world, and Harry’s fame was something she was only just beginning to understand.

As they continued down the street, the sounds of Diagon Alley surrounded them once more—vendors shouting, the clinking of coins, the chatter of witches and wizards discussing their purchases. Hermione took it all in, her mind buzzing with excitement and a sense of awe that had yet to fade.

“So, what’s next?” Sirius asked, turning to Harry with an inquisitive raise of his brow.

Harry thought for a moment before sighing. “Cauldron, crystal phials, telescope, brass scales—basically the boring stuff, I guess.”

Sirius grinned, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Ah, the essentials. Nothing too exciting, but necessary all the same.”

“Alright, let’s get to it then,” Harry said, his tone bright and full of enthusiasm despite the task ahead. He turned to Hermione with a teasing smile. “Hope you’re ready for some thrilling shopping, Hermione.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t help laughing softly. “As long as there are no more death-defying cart rides, I think I’ll survive.”

Harry grinned at her, the easy camaraderie between them making the day feel lighter and more fun. Even the mundane task of gathering school supplies seemed like an adventure when shared with a friend.

xxxxx

Hermione was immensely grateful for her brown satchel, a simple but charmed bag that had proven far more useful than she had anticipated. Despite the numerous supplies they'd purchased so far—cauldrons, quills, parchment, and countless other school necessities—everything fit inside her bag effortlessly. She marveled at the convenience, thankful they didn’t have to lug their purchases around Diagon Alley like ordinary Muggles.

They'd crossed off nearly every item on their list, but now, they were finally approaching the one Hermione had been most eager for—her wand. Out of everything, the prospect of owning a wand, a real magical wand, sent thrills of excitement coursing through her. She felt a burst of childlike glee bubble up inside her as they stepped in front of Ollivanders.

The store was narrow and shabby, a quaint little shop that seemed to radiate ancient mystery. Peeling gold letters above the door read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. Hermione’s eyes drifted to the solitary wand lying on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window display. It seemed simple, unassuming, yet she knew within these walls rested an item that could change her life.

When they entered the store, the atmosphere shifted immediately. The inside was small, with a palpable sense of age. Dust coated every surface, including the thousands of narrow boxes piled up to the ceiling. The silence was eerie, broken only by the soft shuffle of their footsteps across the wooden floor. A single, spindly chair sat in the corner, adding to the air of minimalism and mystery.

“Hello?” Harry called out, his voice slicing through the stillness.

For a moment, there was no response. Then, to their surprise, a frail, white-haired man appeared from behind a towering stack of wand boxes, his silvery eyes gleaming with age-old wisdom and something else—something curious.

"Ah, Harry Potter," the old man said, his voice raspy yet full of intrigue. He smiled, his eyes scanning Harry with fascination. "So, it's finally time for you to choose your wand. I remember well when both of your parents stood right where you are now, to buy their first wands."

Harry smiled politely, nodding. "Hello, sir. This is my friend, Hermione Granger. She'd like to get her wand first, if you don't mind," Harry said, gesturing toward Hermione.

The old wandmaker’s eyes shifted to Hermione, his gaze penetrating as if assessing her very soul. "Ms. Granger, is it?" Ollivander murmured. "Very well, step forward."

Hermione swallowed nervously but stepped up to the counter, her hands trembling slightly with anticipation. Ollivander began pulling out boxes, opening them carefully, each wand inside placed delicately in front of her.

"Give it a wave, Ms. Granger," he instructed, handing her a slim wand made of ash wood.

With a tentative flick of her wrist, a small puff of smoke erupted from the tip, followed by a loud crash as a stack of boxes tumbled off the shelves behind Ollivander. Hermione gasped, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she quickly set the wand back on the counter.

"No, no, that won’t do," Ollivander said, shaking his head with a chuckle. He handed her another wand, this one made of willow.

Again, Hermione gave it a wave, only for a gust of wind to blow through the shop, scattering papers and dust everywhere. She grimaced, setting the wand down.

Thirty minutes passed in this manner, with Hermione growing more and more frustrated. Every wand she tried seemed to have a different, chaotic result. Harry watched in amusement, though he couldn’t help but sympathize with her.

"Maybe I’m not meant to be a witch," Hermione muttered under her breath after yet another failed attempt, her frustration growing.

"Nonsense," Ollivander said, pulling out another box. His eyes sparkled with excitement as he opened it. "Try this one—dragon heartstring, eleven inches, unyielding, blackthorn wood."

Hermione hesitated for a moment, then wrapped her fingers around the wand. The moment her hand closed around the smooth wood, a warmth spread through her, radiating from her fingertips all the way to her chest. She lifted the wand and waved it gently, and immediately, the shop was filled with a brilliant violet light, glowing softly yet powerfully around her.

She gasped in awe as the light slowly faded, leaving behind an air of calm. Ollivander smiled, clearly pleased.

"Ah, excellent choice, Ms. Granger," he said, nodding in approval. "Dragon heartstring, blackthorn—unyielding but strong. A perfect match."

Hermione's face flushed with pride, a wide smile breaking across her face. "I... I can't believe it. I found my wand!"

"You didn’t find the wand, my dear. The wand found you," Ollivander corrected gently.

Harry grinned at her excitement. "Looks like you’re officially ready for Hogwarts now."

"Thanks to you," Hermione beamed, holding her wand like it was the most precious thing in the world.

"Now, as for you, Mr. Potter," Ollivander said, turning to Harry with a knowing look.

Harry stepped up, not quite as eager but curious nonetheless. The process was much the same—wand after wand, each with its own peculiar reaction, though Harry remained far more relaxed than Hermione had been.

After thirty minutes of trying different wands, Harry began to grow bored, raising an eyebrow as Ollivander searched through the stacks for something else. “How many more wands are there?” he asked, a teasing grin forming on his lips.

"Patience, Mr. Potter," Ollivander said with a soft chuckle. "The right wand will come." He pulled out another box, opening it with care. “Phoenix feather, twelve inches, unyielding, yew wood.”

Harry took the wand in his hand, feeling a sudden pulse of energy. He gave it a flick, and a brilliant green light exploded from the tip, filling the room with a soft glow before it gradually faded into the air.

Ollivander’s expression shifted, his smile fading as he stared at the wand in Harry’s hand. His eyes narrowed, and he murmured, "Curious… very curious…"

Harry, now more interested, tilted his head. "Sorry, but what’s curious?"

Ollivander’s gaze lifted to meet Harry’s eyes, and he spoke in a low, serious tone. "I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother…" He paused, pointing to Harry’s scar, "gave you that."

Harry blinked, feeling the weight of Ollivander’s words settle on him. He reached up, touching the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, though his expression remained calm. "Interesting," Harry said after a moment, his voice steady. A small smirk tugged at his lips. "Thank you for that valuable tidbit, Mr. Ollivander."

The old wandmaker nodded solemnly, still eyeing Harry with a mixture of respect and curiosity.

“How much for both wands?” Harry asked, pulling out his money bag.

“Fourteen Galleons, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander said quietly, his tone reverent as he handed over both wands, carefully wrapped in soft, velvet-lined boxes.

Harry handed over the coins and tucked both wands securely into his robes. He gave Ollivander one last nod, then turned to Hermione and Sirius. "Let’s go. We’ve got the most important thing sorted."

As they stepped outside into the bustling street, Hermione looked down at her new wand, still slightly overwhelmed by the experience. "I can’t believe I actually have a wand," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry grinned at her. "Told you it’d be exciting."

Hermione smiled, her heart still racing with the thrill of it all. "I can’t wait to see what kind of magic we’ll be able to do with these."

"Plenty, trust me," Harry said confidently as they made their way down the street, the excitement of their adventure still buzzing in the air around them.

xxxxx

Harry stared down at his melting ice cream, watching the vanilla drip over the edges of the cone, forgotten in his hand. His mind drifted back to the words Ollivander had said earlier, the way the old wand maker had stared at him with that unnerving intensity, mentioning his scar. It wasn’t the first time someone brought it up, but it still left him unsettled, tugging at memories he tried to ignore. Sirius had warned him about this, told him that people would try to poke and prod about what happened that night — how Voldemort had killed his parents and how the Killing Curse rebounded, leaving him with his lightning bolt scar and ending the Dark Lord's reign.

A shadow of a smile ghosted across Harry's lips as he thought of Sirius, his godfather's advice often coming at the oddest times. Sirius never sugarcoated things, especially when it came to the darker side of life. He’d been an up-and-coming Auror during the height of the war, and Harry remembered the stories he’d overheard about how Sirius handled Death Eaters. There was no hesitation in his methods — sometimes brutal, sometimes merciless, but always effective. He'd once told Harry that he’d do anything to protect the people he loved. That included hunting down those who betrayed them.

Like Peter Pettigrew.

Sirius's current mission to find the rat who betrayed Harry’s parents was something the Auror had taken deeply personally. The Ministry had even turned it into a joke after years of no success, dubbing it the “Rat Hunt” in the Daily Prophet. Harry chuckled, remembering how Sirius laughed it off, but underneath, he knew his godfather was still furious. Last month, he chased some leads to France, only to find it was just an unregistered Animagus, a prankster kid a few years older than Harry. Still, Sirius wouldn't give up. He never did.

"Harry?" Hermione’s soft voice pulled him from his thoughts. He blinked, surprised to find her staring at him with concern, her brown eyes full of worry. "Are you alright?"

Harry shook his head as if to clear it and managed a weak smile. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just... tired, I guess."

Hermione frowned, clearly not convinced, but she didn’t press further. Instead, she hesitated before speaking. "We can always go to the bookstore next time, if you're too tired," she offered, though her tone betrayed how much she wanted to go. Her eyes brightened just at the thought.

Harry smirked, amused by her attempt to be considerate. "Are you sure?"

Her face flushed as she bit her lip. "No... not really. I mean... can we go? Just for a little while?" Her cheeks turned pink, and she quickly added, "At least for an hour?"

Harry laughed, the sound shaking off some of his previous melancholy. "I'm just teasing, Hermione. Of course we can go. Honestly, you didn’t even make a dent in your money bag. We still need to spend some more of it on your precious books."

Hermione’s eyes lit up even more, but she crossed her arms in mock annoyance. "Well, it's your fault I didn’t spend anything. You kept paying for everything!" she said, giving him a playful scowl.

"Can't help it," Harry said with a grin, taking a lazy scoop of his now half-melted ice cream. "I’ve got more money than I know what to do with."

Before Hermione could respond, the bell above the door jingled, and Harry’s mood instantly darkened. A group of girls walked into the shop, their presence unwelcome and immediately recognized by Harry. It was Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, and Tracey Davis — Draco had affectionately dubbed them "the problematic trio." They always seemed to be in the middle of trouble.

"Oh, hey, Harry!" Pansy greeted with an exaggerated enthusiasm, her eyes lingering a little too long on him. Behind her, Millicent and Tracey offered polite but insincere curtsies.

Harry barely concealed his eye roll. "It’s Heir Potter to you lot," he corrected, his voice tinged with authority. "And this," he gestured toward Hermione, "is my friend, Hermione Granger. She’ll be starting Hogwarts with us this year."

Hermione waved shyly, clearly not used to this kind of attention, especially from girls who looked at her as if they were sizing her up for a duel.

"Granger?" Pansy raised an eyebrow, her tone condescending. "What family is she from?"

"She’s a Muggleborn," Harry said, his voice steady but firm. He didn’t miss the flicker of disdain in Pansy’s eyes or the smirk tugging at Millicent’s lips.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension. There was something in the way Pansy asked the question that made her feel like she was being judged, and she didn’t like it one bit.

Millicent caught Hermione’s eye and snickered, a cruel smile creeping across her face. "Something funny, Bulstrode?" Harry asked, his voice dangerously calm.

Millicent’s grin widened as she leaned in slightly. "Oh, nothing, Heir Potter," she muttered, just loud enough for Hermione to hear. "Just wondering why the shop started smelling like dirt."

Parkinson and Davis laughed, the insult clear. Hermione’s eyes widened, a blush of both embarrassment and anger spreading across her cheeks. But she quickly composed herself, turning to the group with a sweet smile.

"Funny," Hermione said, her voice sickly sweet. "I was just thinking the same thing when you lot walked in. Maybe it’s you."

Harry bit back a laugh. Hermione's quick retort caught him off guard, but he couldn’t deny how proud he felt. That was brilliant.

Millicent’s face turned a deep shade of red, her fists clenched in fury. "You filthy Mudblood!" she spat, stepping toward Hermione.

Harry’s face darkened instantly. His voice was cold, sharp. "Touch her and I’ll break your wand."

The entire group froze, the tension in the room palpable. Millicent stopped mid-step, visibly rattled. Parkinson and Tracey exchanged uneasy glances, clearly unsure how to handle the situation now that Harry was involved.

"And if you call her that word again," Harry added, his voice low and dangerous, "I’ll break your legs."

The threat hung in the air for a moment before the girls, realizing they were outmatched, quickly backed away. With one last venomous glare at Hermione, they hurried out of the shop, their laughter silenced.

As the door swung shut behind them, Harry relaxed, taking another scoop of his ice cream. "Sorry about that," he muttered. "They’re nasty."

Hermione frowned, still processing the insult. "What did they mean when they called me... that word?"

Harry sighed, his heart sinking. He didn’t want to explain this to her, not now, not like this. But he knew she deserved to know. "Well... there’s something you should know about the wizarding world. There are different kinds of witches and wizards. Purebloods, who come from two magical families — like Draco, Ron, and Sirius. Then there are half-bloods, like me. My dad was a pureblood, but my mum was a Muggleborn. Then you’ve got Muggleborns, like you, and Squibs — people born to magical parents but who can’t do magic."

Hermione listened carefully, her expression thoughtful as she absorbed the information.

"Some pureblood families believe that magic should only stay in magical families, that Muggleborns are... well, beneath them," Harry explained, his voice filled with frustration. "That word, 'Mudblood,' it’s a horrible slur. They use it to insult people like you, as if you don’t belong in our world."

Hermione’s frown deepened, and she looked down at her hands. "So... that’s why they said it. Because I’m Muggleborn."

"Yeah," Harry said softly. "But don’t let them get to you. They’re wrong. You’re brilliant, Hermione. And when we get those books, you’re going to prove it."

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes softening. "You really think so?"

Harry smiled, his hand resting on her arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I know so."

xxxxx

As Harry and Hermione stepped out of the store, the golden light of Diagon Alley’s afternoon sun cast warm shadows across the cobbled street. Sirius and Emma stood a few steps away, each holding a cage. Harry’s godfather had a mischievous grin plastered across his face, while Emma smiled warmly at her daughter, her eyes twinkling with pride.

"Here you go, kid," Sirius called out, his grin widening as he approached Harry, holding up a cage with a beautiful snowy owl inside. The owl’s amber eyes stared back at Harry with an almost intelligent curiosity. "Happy birthday!"

Harry’s eyes widened with delight, his heart skipping a beat as he gazed at the majestic bird. He barely noticed the crowd bustling around them or the distant chatter of shoppers in Diagon Alley. All that mattered was the creature in front of him.

"Hello there," Harry murmured softly, almost as if speaking to a long-lost friend. The owl blinked at him, tilting its head slightly as though it understood. A warm feeling spread through Harry’s chest. "I think I'll call you... Hedwig."

Hedwig hooted softly in response, the sound low and comforting. It made Harry laugh, a bright, joyful sound that echoed through the street.

"It seems she agrees," Sirius chuckled, ruffling Harry’s already messy hair. "A fine name for a fine owl."

Meanwhile, Emma handed a similar cage to Hermione. Inside was a slightly larger brown owl, with flecks of gold and white in its feathers, its large, round eyes giving it a wise and almost thoughtful expression. Hermione blinked in surprise, her gaze darting between the owl and her mother.

"Is this... Is this mine, Mum?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she couldn’t quite believe it.

Emma smiled tenderly, brushing a stray curl from Hermione’s forehead. "Yes, dear," she said. "Sirius mentioned he was getting Harry a birthday gift, and I thought it was only fair you have one too, especially since your birthday is just around the corner. And besides," she added with a wink, "he said owls are very useful for sending letters. It’ll help me stay in touch with you once you're at Hogwarts."

Hermione’s eyes filled with emotion, her heart swelling with gratitude. She reached out tentatively, fingers brushing against the cool metal bars of the cage as the owl gazed at her with calm patience.

"Thank you, Mum," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

"What's his name?" Harry asked, stepping closer and smiling at Hermione’s stunned expression.

Hermione studied the owl for a moment, then smiled. "Edgar," she said, her voice growing more confident. "His name's Edgar."

Harry grinned. "Cute name." He chuckled, leaning in to get a better look at Edgar. "He looks like he’s sizing us up."

Hermione giggled and reached through the bars, gently stroking Edgar’s feathers. The owl didn’t seem to mind, closing its eyes as if enjoying the attention. But then, a sudden thought struck Hermione. She gasped and whipped around to face Harry, her eyes wide with realization.

"Wait!" she exclaimed, clutching Harry’s sleeve. "When's your birthday?!"

Harry blinked, momentarily taken aback by her intensity. He scratched the back of his head, a sheepish smile spreading across his face. "Oh... well, it was actually right when I got back from France," he admitted, avoiding her eyes. "I was going to invite you to celebrate, but Aunt Minnie showed up, and... well, things got a bit busy."

Hermione’s mouth fell open in shock, her hands tightening on the fabric of his robes. "Harry!" she scolded, her voice a mix of disbelief and guilt. "You should have told me! We could’ve done something! Now I’ve missed it completely!"

Harry laughed, waving his hand dismissively. "It’s not a big deal, really," he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "We can celebrate another time. I promise!"

But Hermione shook her head, her frown deepening. "It is a big deal! Birthdays are important!"

"Don't worry about it," Harry reassured her, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. "Besides, I’ve already got the best present—a day out in Diagon Alley with you. That’s more than enough."

Hermione blushed at his words, warmth flooding her cheeks. She was about to protest again when Harry clapped his hands, grinning broadly.

"Anyway!" he said, deliberately changing the subject. "It’s time for books!"

At the mention of books, Hermione’s face immediately lit up, her previous worry melting away like snow under the sun. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and all thoughts of Harry’s forgotten birthday flew out of her mind.

"Books!" she echoed, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. She clasped her hands together, bouncing on her toes. "Oh, we’re going to Flourish and Blotts, right? Oh, I can't wait! There's so much to learn!"

Harry laughed, thoroughly amused by her sudden burst of energy. He couldn’t help but be charmed by the way Hermione’s love for knowledge made her practically glow. 

Chapter Text

Sirius Black leaned back against the chair provided by the shopkeeper, his sharp eyes flicking between the growing pile of books on the counter and Emma Granger’s increasingly flustered expression. The peaceful quiet of the bookstore was only interrupted by the rustling of pages and the soft murmur of Hermione’s voice as she eagerly explained each book to Harry.

He couldn't help but smirk to himself, remembering how Harry had tried to warn him about Hermione’s love for books. At the time, Sirius had laughed, brushing it off as something similar to what he'd seen with Lily and Remus—both voracious readers, but manageable. Now, as he watched Hermione practically vibrate with excitement at every new tome she laid her hands on, he realized he had greatly underestimated Harry's description.

"Merlin’s beard," Sirius muttered under his breath, glancing over at Harry, who looked both amused and overwhelmed by Hermione’s enthusiasm. The boy was trying his best to keep up, but even his godson was struggling to match Hermione’s sheer speed as she pulled book after book off the shelves.

Emma sighed apologetically, her fingers tightening around the teacup provided by the shopkeeper. "I'm really sorry about this," she said, her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and fondness. "Hermione really, really loves her books. I didn’t think she’d go quite this wild though."

Sirius chuckled, his grin widening as he leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "I can see that," he replied, his tone light and teasing. "Though I must admit, I wasn’t prepared for just how intense it is. Harry told me, but... this is another level entirely."

Emma gave a small, slightly weary smile as she glanced over at her daughter. Hermione was speaking rapidly, her hands fluttering excitedly as she showed Harry a particularly thick volume on magical creatures. Harry, for his part, looked like he was doing his best not to drown under the avalanche of information.

The bookshop was quieter than usual, and Sirius made a mental note to thank the kind shopkeeper who had agreed to close the store for a private session. The pile of books Hermione was purchasing probably accounted for at least a week's worth of sales, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

"At least it’s not too busy," Emma murmured, sipping her tea gratefully. She looked more at ease now, her earlier nerves easing as the comfortable atmosphere of the bookstore settled around them. After a few moments of silence, she glanced at Sirius, her brow furrowing slightly. "Is the school... safe?"

Sirius tilted his head, raising an eyebrow at the question. "Hogwarts, you mean?"

Emma nodded, her eyes softening as she glanced over at Hermione, who was now debating whether or not to buy a third set of magical history books. "Yes," she said, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "I know we've all been so excited about magic and Hogwarts, but… I can't help but worry. Ever since her father passed away, it’s just been the two of us." Her voice caught slightly as she spoke, and her eyes lingered on Hermione’s bright, animated face. "Now she’s going off to this boarding school on her own, and… well, I suppose I’m just nervous."

Sirius watched Emma for a moment, understanding dawning in his eyes. He had seen this kind of worry before, the same look of concern and love that Lily had often worn before whenever she thought of Harry. He leaned forward, softening his usual roguish expression with a gentle smile.

"You don’t have to worry about Hogwarts," Sirius said reassuringly. "It’s one of the safest places in the world. Besides, she won’t be on her own. Harry likes her, you know." He smirked, glancing over at the two kids. "In fact, I’d say he’s already taken her under his wing. She couldn’t ask for a better friend."

Emma’s gaze followed Sirius’s, and her features softened as she watched Hermione laugh at something Harry said. The two of them were completely immersed in their own world, talking about books and spells and creatures. For a moment, it was as if the rest of the world had faded away, leaving only them.

"Harry’s a good boy," Emma murmured, smiling fondly. "I can tell he cares about her. She’s been so excited about Hogwarts, and I think having someone like him to look after her makes me feel a little better."

Sirius chuckled, standing up from his seat. "He’ll do more than look after her," he said with a wink. "If there’s one thing I know about my godson, it’s that he takes care of the people he cares about. And Hermione… well, she’s already part of that circle." He wandered over to a nearby shelf, scanning the titles with interest. "Wait here a moment. I’ve got something for you."

Emma watched curiously as Sirius disappeared behind a towering shelf of spell books, only to return a few minutes later with a stack of thin, well-worn volumes. He placed them gently on the table in front of her, a proud smile tugging at his lips.

"These," Sirius said, tapping the top book, "were recommended by Harry’s mother, Lily. She always suggested them to Muggleborn parents who were new to the wizarding world. They’re full of practical information, written with Muggle references that’ll make things a bit easier to understand."

Emma’s eyes widened as she picked up one of the books, flipping through its pages. The titles ranged from A Muggle’s Guide to Hogwarts to What to Expect When Your Child is Magical. They were filled with useful information about magical customs, schooling, and everyday life in the wizarding world, all written in a way that made it accessible for someone who wasn’t born into magic.

"It’s a lot to take in," Sirius continued, his voice softer now. "But these should help you get a better understanding of the world your daughter’s stepping into. Consider it a gift, for taking care of Harry every time he snuck out to your place."

Emma’s head snapped up, her eyes widening. "Wait—sneaking out?" she asked, incredulously. "I didn’t know he was sneaking out!"

Sirius gave her an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "Of course you didn’t," he said with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "He’s quite good at it, unfortunately."

Emma’s expression shifted from surprise to a bemused smile. "Well, I suppose I’ll have to keep a closer eye on him then."

Sirius laughed, waving off her comment. "Oh, don’t worry too much. He only sneaks out when he’s bored—and trust me, between Hermione and Hogwarts, he won’t have much time for boredom anymore."

They both shared a laugh, the lighthearted moment easing the lingering tension from earlier. Across the store, Harry and Hermione continued their conversation, completely oblivious to the adults watching them. Their voices blended with the soft rustle of pages, the quiet hum of magic in the air, and the comforting warmth of old, well-loved books.

For now, all was well in their little corner of the world.

xxxxx

Hermione stood in front of her full-length mirror, her heart racing with excitement as she stared at her reflection. She was grinning widely, her brown eyes bright with joy as she admired the way her new Hogwarts robes fit her perfectly. The material was soft yet sturdy, made from the highest quality fabric. It flowed smoothly down her small frame, hugging her in all the right places without being too tight. She loved how it felt—light enough that she didn’t feel constricted, but warm enough to protect her from the chill. It was like the robes had been designed just for her, and she could almost imagine sleeping in them, they were that comfortable.

With a small, delighted sigh, Hermione spun around once, watching as the black fabric twirled around her. It wasn't the most exciting color yet, but she knew that would soon change. Once she was sorted into a House, the robes would be lined with the signature colors of whichever House she joined. Her mind raced with the possibilities: scarlet and gold for Gryffindor, blue and bronze for Ravenclaw, yellow and black for Hufflepuff, or green and silver for Slytherin. She had read so much about each House, memorizing their traits and traditions from the many books Sirius had recommended.

She paused for a moment, her hands smoothing down the front of her robes as she thought about it. "Ravenclaw," she whispered to herself, nodding confidently. "I’m almost certain I’ll be in Ravenclaw."

It made sense. She had always been the top of her class, always striving for knowledge and understanding. Surely the Sorting Hat would see that she was brilliant, driven by a thirst for learning that fit perfectly with the traits of Ravenclaw House.

But then her mind drifted to Harry, and her smile faltered slightly. What about him? Where would he end up? He wasn’t like her—brilliant, yes, but in a different way. He was brave, confident, and strong-willed, the kind of person who could easily fit into Gryffindor. Then again, he was also cunning and strategic when he needed to be, which seemed to match Slytherin's qualities.

She winced at the thought. What if they ended up in different Houses? What if Harry was sorted into Gryffindor or Slytherin, and she was put in Ravenclaw? Would that change things between them? Would Harry still talk to her, or would the separation create a distance between them that she didn’t want to think about?

Hermione bit her lip, her reflection frowning back at her. "Surely it won’t make that much of a difference," she muttered to herself, trying to shake off the worry. "Harry would still talk to me... wouldn’t he?"

She stared at her reflection for a moment longer, her thoughts swirling with uncertainty, before turning her attention to the rest of her room. Her eyes landed on the magnificent trunk that sat near her bed, gleaming with polished wood and intricate carvings. It was a gift from Sirius—one of the most thoughtful, practical gifts she had ever received. She smiled softly at the memory of Sirius’s explanation when he handed it to her.

The trunk was no ordinary piece of luggage. With a featherlight charm cast on it, it felt as light as a feather no matter how much she packed inside. And the expansion charm that Sirius had placed on it meant she could fit nearly a quarter of her entire book collection, along with clothes, school supplies, and anything else she might need for her time at Hogwarts. She had been reluctant at first, knowing the trunk must have cost a fortune, but Sirius had been insistent, telling her that it was the only way she’d be able to bring all her books.

She couldn’t argue with that. And if she were honest with herself, she liked that Harry had bought the exact same trunk. It made her feel... connected to him, like they were matching in some small way. It was a little silly, she supposed, but the idea of having something so similar to her best friend gave her a sense of comfort.

Running her fingers over the smooth surface of the trunk, she opened it and peeked inside, smiling at how neatly her belongings were arranged in the various compartments. Books were stacked carefully in one section, clothes in another, and personal items like her journal and a few favorite keepsakes were tucked away safely in smaller pockets. She had even left room for a few more books, just in case she found anything else in Diagon Alley that caught her eye.

As she closed the trunk, her thoughts drifted back to Harry, and she found herself wondering what he was doing at that very moment. Was he thinking about Hogwarts too? Was he imagining what it would be like to walk through those grand halls, just like she was?

She hoped he was excited. The idea of going to Hogwarts together, even if they ended up in different Houses, filled her with a sense of anticipation. There was so much they could learn, so much magic to explore, and the idea of sharing that experience with Harry made it all the more thrilling.

Hermione glanced back at her reflection in the mirror, her smile returning as she imagined walking through the halls of Hogwarts in her new robes, books in hand, ready to take on whatever the magical world had to offer. And beside her, she pictured Harry, just as eager and determined as she was.

"Even if we’re in different Houses," she whispered to herself, her smile growing. "We’ll still be best friends. Nothing will change that."

Her confidence restored, Hermione stepped away from the mirror and sat down on the edge of her bed, her heart light with excitement and hope for the adventures that awaited them at Hogwarts. The uncertainty of the future still lingered in the back of her mind, but for now, she let herself focus on the excitement of the moment—the thrill of wearing her Hogwarts robes, the joy of preparing for a new chapter in her life, and the knowledge that, no matter what, Harry would be right there with her.

xxxxx

Harry walked into his room at Potter Manor, only to be greeted by the familiar sneer of Draco Malfoy, lounging on one of the plush chairs near the fireplace. The flickering flames cast a warm glow on the boys as they relaxed after a long day. Draco, never missing an opportunity to tease, wasted no time.

“Ah, finally, the traitor is here!” Draco drawled, his gray eyes gleaming with mischief as he tossed the Quaffle lazily from hand to hand.

Across the room, Ron grinned widely, leaning back against Harry’s bed, his fiery red hair practically glowing in the firelight. He had been tossing the Quaffle with Draco moments before Harry arrived, and now his blue eyes sparkled with amusement as he eyed his best friend. “So, how was the date with the Granger girl?” he teased, his tone light but filled with that usual brotherly jab.

Harry scowled, his emerald eyes flashing with annoyance. “Piss off, you two,” he muttered, though there was no real anger behind his words.

Ron snorted, clearly enjoying Harry’s discomfort. “I can’t believe you left us—your best mates—just to go shopping with a girl!”

"She's not just a girl," Harry said defensively, throwing his cloak onto the nearby chair. “She’s my friend too, you know.”

Draco rolled his eyes, his lips curling into a smirk. “Then why couldn’t she have come along with us, Potter? Would’ve been better that way. Instead, I had to spend the day with the entire Weasley clan. Bloody nightmare.”

Ron chuckled, remembering the sight of Draco being herded like a stray dog by his mother, Molly Weasley, as she tugged him through shop after shop. “I spent the better part of the day laughing at you, mate. You should’ve seen your face when Mum made you help carry all the bags!”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t remind me,” he grumbled. “I spent the entire day dodging a mob of redheads. It was like a sea of ginger, and every five minutes, Mrs. Weasley was pulling me along, shouting at me not to wander off.” He shuddered. “And don’t even get me started on when we nearly got caught sneaking towards Knockturn Alley.”

Ron’s laughter grew louder, and he slapped his knee. “You were practically white as a sheet when Mum found us near Borgin and Burkes!”

Harry smirked, leaning against his desk. “So, does that mean you didn’t manage to get any extra wands, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ron shrugged casually. “Got two extra,” he said, as if it were no big deal. “Draco got two as well. Managed to grab them before we were pulled back to Diagon Alley.”

Draco, looking a bit pale, nodded. “I still can’t believe they actually sell wands plundered from graves,” he muttered, shivering slightly at the memory. “It’s twisted.”

Harry grinned, his eyes glinting with excitement. “Well, I got five extras with me,” he said, clearly proud of his haul. “I managed to grab three when we were in France, and I nicked another two when we were near Knockturn Alley before Sirius dragged me back.” He folded his arms, leaning back. “That should last us a while, don’t you think? Enough to keep us out of trouble when they start checking our wands at Hogwarts.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Five extra? Blimey, Harry, are you planning to start a wand collection or something?”

Draco chuckled darkly. “Well, knowing Potter, he’s probably planning something more than just pranks.”

Harry smirked. “Of course I am,” he said smoothly. “Pranks are fun, but I’ve got something more... ambitious in mind.”

Draco’s eyes gleamed with interest, and he sat up straighter. “What’s the plan, then?” he asked eagerly. “I like causing trouble as much as the next person, but I want to do something more permanent this time. Not just harmless pranks like those Weasley twins. I want something... bigger.”

Ron, still grinning, leaned forward. “I’ve been thinking about the Marauder’s Map,” he said, his voice filled with excitement. “Remus and Sirius said the original is lost somewhere in Hogwarts and it’s probably outdated by now. But what if we could make our own? Imagine the things we could do with that kind of map!”

Harry’s grin widened. “Funny you should mention that,” he said, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “While I was out with Hermione, I nicked a few Mandrake leaves.”

Both Draco and Ron froze for a moment, their eyes widening as they processed what Harry had just said.

“Mandrake leaves?” Draco repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry nodded, his expression smug. “That’s right,” he said. “We start focusing on becoming Animagi as soon as we step foot in Hogwarts. The goal? To become the youngest Animagi in history.”

At the mention of Animagi, Draco’s eyes practically lit up with excitement. He had always dreamed of becoming one, but his mother, Narcissa, had forbade it, insisting it was too dangerous for someone his age. But here was Harry, offering him a chance to do it. And not just do it—do it in secret, like a true Marauder.

“Now that,” Draco said, grinning broadly, “is a plan I can get behind.”

Ron nodded enthusiastically. “Imagine it, mates. We could find every hidden passage in Hogwarts, sneak out to Hogsmeade whenever we want, and no one would ever be able to stop us.”

“And if we find the right secret room,” Draco added, his voice filled with excitement, “we could make it our base. Somewhere hidden, somewhere only we know about.”

Harry’s grin grew as he saw the excitement building between his two friends. The possibilities were endless, and the thought of creating their own Marauders’ legacy was thrilling. “We’ll need to be careful,” he warned, his voice steady. “Becoming an Animagus isn’t easy, and if we’re caught... well, let’s just say the consequences won’t be pretty.”

Draco waved his hand dismissively. “Please, Potter. I live for danger.”

Ron chuckled, leaning back against the bed once more. “We’ll be legends, mate. Just like your dad, Sirius, and Remus were.”

Harry’s expression softened slightly at the mention of his father, but the glint of determination in his eyes remained. “Then it’s settled,” he said. “We’ll start gathering everything we need once we get to Hogwarts. Mandrake leaves, the ingredients for the potion, and we’ll find a hidden spot where no one can disturb us.”

Draco’s grin stretched from ear to ear as he stood up, pacing the room with excitement. “This is going to be brilliant. The youngest Animagi Hogwarts has ever seen—and no one will know but us.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, satisfied as his friends continued to plan, their voices filled with enthusiasm. They had no idea what lay ahead, but one thing was certain: they were going to shake Hogwarts to its core.

xxxxx

Emma Granger sat at the small wooden desk in the corner of the living room, a soft frown of concentration on her face as she carefully folded a sheet of parchment. Her hand hesitated slightly, hovering over the paper before she finally pressed the fold into place. This was still all so new to her—writing letters to wizards, sending them off with owls. She glanced out of the window, taking in the sight of the quiet, suburban street where normal birds flitted from tree to tree, completely oblivious to the world of magic hidden just beneath the surface.

With a small sigh, she stood up and called softly, “Edgar?”

A soft flutter of wings answered her as an owl swooped down from the curtain rod where it had been perching, its beady eyes watching her expectantly. Emma offered a shaky smile, still not entirely used to the idea of talking to birds like they were postmen. She gently tied the folded letter to Edgar’s leg.

"Hello, dear," Emma whispered, her voice almost conspiratorial, as if afraid someone might overhear. “Can you please deliver this to Sirius Black?”

The owl hooted in acknowledgment, its head tilting to one side as if considering her request. And just like that, with a few powerful flaps of its wings, Edgar was off, soaring into the sky. Emma watched it disappear into the clouds, still in slight disbelief that such a thing was possible. But then again, she was slowly getting used to the surprises the magical world had to offer. After a few letters from Harry arriving via his owl Hedwig, she realized this was part of her new normal.

At least there were plenty of birds in their neighborhood, so an owl here and there didn’t raise too many questions from the neighbors.

As she turned to head back inside, Hermione’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “Was that a letter, Mum?” The girl stood at the entrance of her room, her curly brown hair framing her face, looking curious as always.

"Oh, yes, Hermione," Emma laughed, feeling warmth spread through her chest as she saw her daughter. She walked over to where Hermione stood, a soft smile playing on her lips. "I was just sending a letter to Sirius. I had a question about something I read in one of the books he bought for me."

Hermione’s eyes lit up with interest, ever the bookworm. “Really? What did you ask him about?”

Emma chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Well, there’s this part that mentions how some Muggles—non-magical people like us—can take on jobs in the wizarding world too." She paused for a moment, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "I was hoping he could suggest some roles I might be able to do. I want to learn more about your world, Hermione. If you’re going to be part of it, I want to be a part of it too."

For a second, Hermione stood frozen, her heart swelling with emotion. She didn’t know what she had expected, but hearing her mum’s words... it was overwhelming. Hermione’s eyes welled up with tears, and before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around Emma, hugging her tightly.

Emma laughed, though her voice cracked with emotion as she returned the hug. "Oh, don’t cry, darling. You’re going to make me cry too."

Hermione sniffled, pressing her face into her mum’s shoulder. "I-I’m sorry, Mum," she whispered, her voice trembling. “I just didn’t realize… I’ll be leaving so soon. We promised we’d always be there for each other after… after Dad...” Her voice broke, and she sobbed softly. “And now I’m going to be gone for so long.”

Emma held her daughter even tighter, stroking her hair soothingly. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, her own heart aching at the sight of Hermione’s tears. “You’ll be back for Christmas. We’ll still see each other. And I’ll always be just an owl away.”

Hermione sniffed, wiping her eyes. “I know, but it’s not the same. I don’t want you to be lonely without me.”

Emma pulled back slightly to look at her daughter’s tear-streaked face. She gave her a tender smile, gently cupping Hermione’s cheek. “I’ll be fine, love. I might miss you terribly, but this is your time now. You’re going to learn amazing things, make new friends, have adventures...” She smiled. “Although I am a little sad I can’t be there with you for your birthday.”

Hermione hugged her again, tighter this time, as if trying to memorize the feeling of her mother’s warmth. “I’ll miss you too, Mum. So much.”

For a few moments, they stood there in silence, holding onto each other, neither willing to let go.

Then, after a long pause, Emma broke the quiet, her voice lighter this time, trying to lift Hermione’s spirits. “Well, maybe, just maybe, I could ask Sirius if we could borrow his fireplace.”

Hermione pulled away, looking at her mum in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Emma’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Apparently, there’s a magical way to travel through fireplaces,” she explained with a chuckle. “It’s called Floo Powder, I think. You step into a fireplace, say where you want to go, and poof! You’re there. Just like Santa Claus!”

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait... you think Santa’s a wizard?” she asked, her voice filled with wonder at the thought.

Emma grinned, shrugging playfully. “Well, he does enter houses through fireplaces, doesn’t he? There might be some truth to that story.”

Hermione’s mind was racing, her thoughts already jumping to all the possible explanations. “I never thought of that before… maybe I’ll do some research and find out!”

Emma couldn’t help but laugh, pulling Hermione into another hug. “Of course you will,” she said fondly. “My little researcher.”

Hermione giggled, feeling lighter now as she rested her head on her mum’s shoulder. For a brief moment, the weight of her impending departure faded away, replaced by the warmth of her mother’s love and the comfort of knowing that, no matter where she went, she’d always have a home to come back to.

xxxxx

Sirius sat in his worn-out armchair in the study of Grimmauld Place, the fireplace crackling quietly as flames danced in the hearth. A half-empty mug of tea rested on the table beside him, forgotten, as he unfolded the letter in his hand. His eyes skimmed over the neat handwriting, and a low hum escaped his throat. After a moment, he passed the letter to Harry, who sat next to him, absorbed in a thick book with a leather-bound cover.

"Huh," Harry murmured, glancing at the letter. "I didn’t know Muggles could work in our world."

"There are a few exceptions here and there," Sirius replied, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful nod. "Technically, in a magical sense, Muggles are better off than Squibs. They have a little spark of magic in them, just enough that they can sometimes produce magical offspring. Squibs don’t have any magic at all."

Harry snorted, closing his book with a soft thud. "Must be due to the inbreeding." He ducked quickly as Sirius, with a mock glare, lobbed a piece of bacon at him from a nearby plate. It sailed over Harry’s head, landing with a plop on the floor.

"I wasn’t talking about your family!" Harry added quickly, raising his hands in surrender, a grin spreading across his face. "I’m just saying, it makes sense."

"Cheeky prat," Sirius muttered, shaking his head in mock disapproval. He let out a weary sigh and ran a hand through his dark hair, a flicker of concern crossing his face. "I knew Emma was going to ask about working in our world eventually, but I’m not sure who to reach out to. If Hermione’s mother is going to be working here, I want her to be somewhere safe. I’ll be busy most of the time, and I can’t keep an eye on her."

Harry frowned, the gears in his mind already turning. "I don’t know much about how Mrs. Granger works, but she’s great with books. She works at a library as an assistant and helps out at a bookstore, too."

Sirius hummed, deep in thought. His previous conversations with Emma had left him with the impression that she was intelligent and kind, but perhaps a bit too passive. Not weak-willed, but quiet enough that some pure-blood wizards might target her, thinking Muggles were beneath them. She couldn’t work out in public, not as a cashier or in a magical shop—too exposed.

Harry’s face lit up with sudden inspiration. "How about at Potter Manor?" he suggested, sitting up straighter. "Remember when we talked about hiring someone to help sort out the blasted library?"

Sirius barked out a laugh, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "That’s actually not a bad idea." He thought back to the sprawling expanse of Potter Manor, a place filled with centuries of history and, more specifically, the library. The Potter library was massive—five floors tall, with shelves towering at least 12 feet high. It was a labyrinth of books, with tomes that had been forgotten over the years, some collecting dust, others hidden away in forgotten corners. No one had managed to properly clean or catalog it in ages, and there were untold amounts of hidden knowledge waiting to be discovered. Fortunately, it was all Light magic, so it was safe, but it was still a monumental task.

"It’s a good idea," Sirius nodded thoughtfully, his voice carrying a note of approval. "She’ll have a place to live, access to the Floo Network, and the Manor is well-protected by wards. If she wants to go out, she can Floo directly to Grimmauld Place and head out from here. No one would suspect a thing."

Harry grinned, his green eyes sparkling with excitement. "Then it’s settled!"

Sirius, however, wasn’t entirely convinced yet. He held up a hand, hesitating. "Wait, Harry. Are you sure? The Potter Library is a great place, but she’s still a Muggle. Someone we barely know, no less. This isn’t just about sorting books. This is about security, trust."

Harry waved his hand nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair with a carefree grin. "We could always make her take the Vow."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "The Unbreakable Vow doesn’t work with Muggles, Harry." He rolled his eyes, suppressing a smirk.

"Oh… right," Harry said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, I trust her. And Hermione’s under my mum’s scholarship, so I doubt Mrs. Granger would do anything against us. Plus, she seems nice."

Sirius sighed and shook his head, giving Harry a wry look. "Speaking of that scholarship…" His tone turned more serious, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Since when did Lily ever have a scholarship in her will? I’ve read it through front to back, countless times."

Harry shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I may have… improvised a bit. Did you know Hogwarts’ scholarship fund is only twenty Galleons for the whole year?" He shuddered dramatically. "The books Hermione bought alone cost ten Galleons, and her wand was seven!"

Sirius gaped at him. "Well, maybe if she didn’t buy half the bookstore, she’d have enough for the rest!" he exclaimed, though his lips quirked upward in amusement.

"Come on, let her have her fun," Harry said with a smirk. "She’s a brilliant witch. Consider it an investment in her brains." He crossed his arms over his chest, his tone growing more serious. "I like her."

Sirius raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "You like her?" he echoed, his voice teasing.

"I do," Harry said proudly, sitting up straighter. "There’s something about her… something fun. I’m more excited knowing she’ll be coming to Hogwarts with me."

Sirius shook his head, though there was a fond smile tugging at his lips. "Just don’t cause too much trouble, Harry. I already have Dumbledore questioning me about that scholarship trick you pulled."

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "Let him wonder. Hermione’s mine, and he’ll just have to deal with it. That old goat should focus on bigger problems instead of meddling with young kids."

Sirius let out a low chuckle. Harry had never been one to hide his dislike for Albus Dumbledore. In fact, ever since he learned the full story of his parents' deaths, Harry had held a grudge against the old wizard. He blamed Dumbledore for not intervening sooner, for being part of the reason his parents were gone. That resentment had only grown over the years, simmering beneath the surface.

"Anyway," Harry said suddenly, standing up from his chair with a stretch, "send a reply to Mrs. Granger so she knows what’s happening. I’m off to the Weasleys."

Sirius chuckled, shaking his head as Harry left the room, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

xxxxx

The grand, ancient doors of Potter Manor creaked open as Hermione and her mother, Emma, walked inside, their footsteps echoing faintly in the vast hallway. The air was filled with the faint scent of polished wood and old parchment, and the grandeur of the estate was overwhelming. Hermione’s eyes widened as she marveled at the intricate details of the architecture, from the high ceilings adorned with delicate chandeliers to the long, richly colored tapestries that lined the walls. Emma was equally captivated, though she tried to remain composed, despite the overwhelming opulence.

Harry, walking just ahead of them, couldn’t help but smirk at their awe-struck expressions. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen visitors react this way to Potter Manor, but somehow, it felt different with Hermione and her mother. There was a sense of pride swelling in his chest as he led them through the winding hallways, each turn revealing yet another lavish room or priceless piece of magical history.

"It’s… it’s enormous," Hermione whispered, unable to stop herself from turning in circles, trying to take everything in.

"It takes some getting used to," Harry said with a grin, glancing over his shoulder. "But you get the hang of it."

They had been touring the manor for two hours, taking in the sights from the grand ballroom to the various studies, filled with ancient tomes and relics. Now, they were nearing the end of the tour, and both Hermione and Emma looked tired but fascinated by all they had seen. Harry stopped in front of a large oak door, the wood engraved with elegant carvings of the Potter family crest.

"Finally, here we have your rooms," Harry said, pushing open the door with a flourish. The hinges creaked softly, revealing a suite that was larger than any room Hermione or her mother had ever seen. The sheer size of it caused Emma to stop in her tracks, her breath catching.

"You can have this one, Hermione, or the one next to it. That door over there connects both rooms, so you're only ever one step away from your mum," Harry explained as he gestured toward the connecting door. "And my room is just upstairs, but… it’s warded. Only the Heir or Lord of the House can enter, so if you need me, I guess… knock?" He flashed a mischievous grin.

Hermione didn’t respond at first. She simply stood there, staring at the room in stunned silence. It was far larger than the small flat she and her mother currently lived in. The bed alone was a massive queen-sized affair with an ornate wooden headboard, dressed in thick, soft blankets that looked as though they could swallow her whole. A spacious desk sat in one corner, and nearby, bookshelves lined the walls, already half-filled with various titles—some ancient and some newer, likely untouched for years. A plush couch rested near the fireplace, which crackled softly, casting a warm, inviting glow across the room. The large windows let in streams of soft sunlight, illuminating the space, while a door led to a private bathroom and a walk-in closet.

"T-This is too much," Emma murmured, her voice shaky. She had been overwhelmed from the moment they arrived, but this—this was beyond anything she had expected. She glanced at Hermione, whose eyes were still wide in disbelief.

"It's really not, Mrs. Granger," Harry said quickly, stepping forward with a reassuring smile. "It’s the safest place for you if you want to work in our world. You won’t have magic to protect yourself, and most of the jobs Muggles could do here would expose you to… well, dangerous situations."

Emma opened her mouth to protest again, but Harry had already seen the worry forming on her face. He didn’t want her to feel uneasy, so he swiftly changed the subject.

"Dobby!" he called out.

In an instant, there was a soft pop, and a small, wide-eyed house-elf appeared in the room, bowing so deeply that his long ears brushed the floor. The Grangers both gasped in surprise, stepping back instinctively.

"Master Harry Potter, sir, called for Dobby?" the elf asked, his large green eyes gleaming with eagerness as he looked up at Harry.

"Yes, Dobby," Harry replied warmly. "This is my friend, Hermione Granger, and her mother, Emma. Treat them as you would treat me. Mrs. Granger is going to be working here in Potter Manor, organizing and cataloging the Potter Library, and I’m assigning you to assist them whenever they need help."

Dobby straightened up, his ears twitching with excitement. "Mistress Hermy and Missy Emmy!" he squeaked, his voice high-pitched and filled with joy. "Dobby is most happy to serve!"

Hermione knelt down, smiling softly as she extended her hand toward Dobby. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dobby," she said kindly.

Dobby blinked rapidly, his eyes widening even more, if that were possible. He hesitated for a brief moment before gingerly taking her hand, shaking it with a trembling grip, as if he could scarcely believe what was happening. "M-Mistress Hermy is shaking Dobby’s hand…" he whispered in awe.

Emma, a bit more reserved but not wanting to be rude, followed Hermione’s lead and extended her hand to the house-elf as well. "Thank you, Dobby," she said quietly, though her voice was tinged with uncertainty.

Dobby’s eyes practically sparkled as he shook Emma’s hand, looking up at Harry with unbridled delight. "Master Harry Potter, sir, Dobby likes them very much!"

Harry chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you might, Dobby."

Hermione straightened up, still smiling at the house-elf’s enthusiasm, and turned to Harry. "So… the Potter Library," she said, trying to sound casual, but there was a note of excitement in her voice that she couldn’t quite hide. "How big is it, exactly?"

Harry grinned. "It’s big. Really big. You’ll see."

"Shall Dobby take Mistress Hermy and Missy Emmy to the Potter Library now, Master Harry Potter, sir?" Dobby asked eagerly, bouncing on his feet.

"Yes, please," Harry replied, moving closer. "Hold on to Dobby, and I’ll guide us."

Hesitantly, Emma and Hermione each placed a hand on Dobby’s small shoulder, glancing at each other nervously. Harry casually rested his hand on Dobby’s head, and with a soft pop, the group vanished from the room, the luxurious surroundings of Potter Manor disappearing in a blur.

xxxxx

The moment they stepped into the Potter Library, Hermione's eyes widened in sheer wonder. The library was colossal—a vast circular tower stretching upward, its ceiling seeming to vanish into the shadowy heights above. Bookshelves lined every inch of the curved walls, stretching across five towering floors, with spiral staircases winding their way up like coiling serpents, beckoning readers to explore. The scent of old parchment and aged leather filled the air, mingling with the slight tang of dust that floated in the beams of sunlight streaming through the high windows. It was a place that exuded both grandeur and neglect—a forgotten gem from a bygone era.

The sheer number of books was staggering, and they weren’t just neatly arranged on shelves. Piles of tomes littered the floor in precarious stacks, some toppling over, their spines cracked and worn from decades—if not centuries—of disuse. The shelves themselves were bending under the weight of the countless volumes, some sagging dangerously, threatening to collapse entirely. Dust clung to the corners of the room like a stubborn memory, and cobwebs adorned the far reaches of the ceiling, swaying slightly with the draft that whispered through the cracks.

Harry stood in the center of the room, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, his gaze flickering over the disarray. "So, uh… this is why we need help," he admitted, his voice tinged with a mixture of embarrassment and apology. He gestured around them at the chaos. "There’s really a ton of books, and some of them are centuries old. It used to be a great library—my great-grandfather was the last one to properly use it."

He cast a glance at Hermione, who was already climbing the spiral staircase to the second floor, her eyes shining with excitement as she trailed her fingers over the spines of the ancient books. The overwhelming sense of history in the room seemed to spark something deep within her, like she had just walked into a treasure trove. Harry could see the hunger for knowledge practically radiating off her as she disappeared into the higher floors.

Emma, too, was already busy, kneeling on the floor and carefully picking up some scattered books, sorting them into neat, organized piles with a practiced ease. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, but there was a gentle smile playing on her lips, as though she found solace in the quiet task.

Harry, on the other hand, couldn’t summon the same enthusiasm. Sure, the library was impressive, but it wasn’t Grimmauld Place. That was where the real treasures lay—Dark Arts, ancient rituals, the kind of magic that thrilled him, not the dusty old tomes of family history and herbology that filled the shelves here. He had always believed that the Dark Arts were only dangerous when wielded by evil, and in the hands of someone with good intentions, they could be a tool for justice, a way to protect those he cared about without hesitation, without mercy. Grimmauld Place’s library had books that sparked his curiosity, his drive to learn about the deeper, darker aspects of magic.

He made his way over to one of the couches, sinking into the plush cushions with a sigh, pulling out a Muggle book from his bag. He was more than content to sit back and let Hermione and Emma take charge of the library. After all, it would take hours before they’d even make a dent in organizing the place. And Harry had no intention of spending his afternoon sorting through dusty old books.

He cracked open the book, letting his eyes drift over the first few sentences. As he settled in, the soft sounds of Emma’s gentle tidying and Hermione’s excited murmurs as she explored the upper floors created a peaceful, almost serene atmosphere. He could hear the faint sound of Hermione muttering excitedly to herself as she pulled book after book off the shelves, likely making mental notes about what to read first.

"Harry, this is incredible!" Hermione’s voice suddenly echoed down from the second floor, breathless with excitement. "I’ve never seen so many books on magical theory in one place! And some of these look like they’re written in ancient runes—I’ve only ever read about books like this!"

Harry glanced up from his Muggle book, smirking slightly. "Glad you’re enjoying yourself," he called back, his tone light but teasing. "Just don’t get too carried away, yeah? We might need a team of house-elves to clean up after you if you pull down every book from those shelves."

Hermione didn’t respond immediately, and Harry could almost hear her rolling her eyes at his comment. But a moment later, she reappeared at the railing of the second-floor balcony, peering down at him with a thoughtful expression.

"You know, Harry," she began, her voice more serious now, "you could learn a lot from this library too. There are books here on defensive spells, healing magic, and even ancient enchantments that could be useful."

Harry’s smirk faded slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. He knew Hermione was right, of course—there was value in the knowledge stored within these walls, knowledge that could help him grow as a wizard in ways beyond just the dark magic he was so drawn to. But old habits died hard, and his fascination with the darker side of magic was something he wasn’t ready to let go of.

"I’ll think about it," he replied noncommittally, returning his gaze to the pages of his book. "But for now, you go ahead and enjoy yourself. I’m happy just… watching you work."

Hermione gave him a look, one eyebrow raised in exasperation, but she didn’t push the issue. Instead, she turned back to the shelves, already lost in the world of books once more.

As the minutes passed, the quiet murmur of pages turning and books being rearranged filled the air. The sunlight shifted slowly, casting long shadows across the room as the afternoon wore on. Harry could feel himself getting more comfortable, the weight of the old library fading into the background as he immersed himself in his Muggle book, only occasionally glancing up to see Emma or Hermione working.

It would be hours before they realized the sky outside had grown dim, and the once bright, sunlit library was now bathed in the soft, amber glow of the enchanted torches lining the walls. But Harry was content. Let them enjoy the books. For now, this was enough.

Chapter Text

King’s Cross Station was a whirlwind of motion and sound as witches, wizards, and Muggles alike bustled about in their rush to board trains. The crisp, cool air buzzed with anticipation, and the towering red engine of the Hogwarts Express loomed in the background, billowing soft clouds of steam that curled up toward the high arches of the station. The platform was filled with young witches and wizards eager to embark on their first year at Hogwarts, dragging heavy trunks and chatting excitedly with friends and family.

Hermione Granger stood on the edge of the platform, practically buzzing with excitement. She had been waiting for this moment for what felt like her entire life. The mere sight of the Hogwarts Express sent a thrill through her, making her pulse quicken. She could barely contain the urge to run inside, sit down, and force the train to start moving. Her hands fidgeted as she glanced around, her bushy hair bouncing slightly with every eager movement.

Beside her, Harry Potter stood, looking the picture of calm, but Hermione could see the gleam of excitement in his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to mask it. He was dressed smartly, his hair cut neatly for once—though still wild enough to give him that tousled, windswept look. Part of his hair had been swept back, revealing the famous lightning-bolt scar etched into his forehead, the one Hermione had heard so much about from her reading. But what surprised her was how much quieter he seemed now, standing amidst the crowd with Sirius Black, his godfather, talking with various wizards and witches who came over to greet him.

Harry had adopted a composed expression, giving polite nods and practiced smiles to anyone who approached. He radiated a sense of importance that made Hermione feel a little out of place standing beside him and Sirius, who naturally drew people’s attention. They were like magnets, attracting the stares of both children and adults alike.

"Everyone’s looking at us," Emma Granger whispered to Hermione, her tone hushed as though she didn’t want to attract any more attention.

Hermione shifted awkwardly, glancing around at the curious onlookers. "I think they’re just staring at Harry and Sirius, Mum," she whispered back, though she was acutely aware of the eyes on her too. It felt strange, being thrust into the middle of something she didn’t fully understand. She was used to being on the sidelines, not the center of attention.

Hermione’s eyes followed Harry as he continued to skillfully ignore the many people vying for his attention, his expression a careful mask of disinterest. It was something Hermione had come to recognize—he used it often when they were out in public, a way to shield himself from the intrusive questions and stares. It was the same mask she had seen Sirius wear, a silent command of respect that screamed, I know I’m important, but don’t talk to me.

She let out a soft chuckle, a sense of pride welling up inside her. She was one of the few people who knew the real Harry, the boy who pouted when he lost at cards, who hummed under his breath while reading, and who hated eggplant but still ate it when she and Emma forced him to during meals. She was privy to the small details that others didn’t see, and that made her feel special.

"What are you laughing at?" Harry’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and she blinked, realizing he was now standing right in front of her, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

Hermione smirked, trying to play it off. "Nothing," she replied, a playful glint in her eyes.

Harry squinted at her, clearly unconvinced, but he let it slide. "I wonder where Ron and Draco are. They’re late, and I want to get a head start on finding a compartment," he said, glancing around the bustling platform with a slight frown.

Hermione tilted her head curiously. "Why? There are plenty of compartments inside, I’m sure."

Harry shrugged, his frown deepening. "I don’t want to share with anyone else. I’d rather not spend the entire trip answering questions about my scar." He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

Hermione smiled and reached up, gently brushing some of his unruly hair back over the scar. "Then maybe you should let your hair down and cover it up," she teased lightly.

Harry laughed, the sound warm and relaxed. "Nah, I’d rather show it off. It saves time. They see the scar, they know it’s me, and then they can get on with asking other questions." He looked at her, his green eyes meeting hers with a wry smile. "I’ve had enough of hearing the same questions over and over—‘Are you really Harry Potter? Is it true about your parents? What’s it like being famous?’ Honestly, it’s exhausting."

Hermione rolled her eyes in sympathy. "That does sound exhausting."

Just then, a chorus of voices interrupted their conversation. "Harry!" a cluster of redheads called out, and Hermione turned to see Ron Weasley and his family approaching, along with Draco Malfoy and his mother, Narcissa. The group swarmed around Harry, engulfing him in a wave of greetings, laughter, and chatter.

Harry grinned, stepping forward to greet them. "Hey, everyone! I’d like you to meet Hermione Granger," he said, slipping an arm around Hermione’s shoulders and pulling her closer. "She’s my friend—make sure to take care of her."

Hermione blushed furiously at the introduction, a smile tugging at her lips despite her embarrassment. She waved awkwardly at the crowd of Weasleys and Malfoys, feeling all their eyes on her. It was a strange feeling, but not entirely unpleasant.

"That means no pranks, you two," Draco chimed in, smirking at the Weasley twins, who immediately put on mock expressions of shock, clutching their chests as though offended.

"We would never!" Fred exclaimed dramatically.

"Why, we’re the picture of innocence!" George added, looking at Hermione with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, the playful atmosphere easing her nerves. She glanced over at her mother, who was now engaged in conversation with Molly Weasley and Narcissa Malfoy. The three women stood together, exchanging polite smiles and pleasantries, though Hermione noticed the occasional glance they cast in her direction.

A strange feeling twisted in her stomach, and she frowned. She tugged on Harry’s sleeve, leaning in to whisper, "I don’t think their mothers like me."

Harry followed her gaze, and after a moment, a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Don’t worry," he whispered back, his breath warm against her ear. "Molly’s just curious. That’s Ron’s mum, and she likes to know everything about everyone. As for Narcissa…" He paused, glancing at his Draco's mother. "She’s probably sizing you up to see how she can dress you up later. She’s always wanted a daughter and has a habit of playing dress-up with some of our girl friends. Cissy’s Sirius’s cousin, so she’ll like you too."

Hermione huffed but let it go. Harry always seemed to have an answer for everything, and so far, he hadn’t been wrong.

"Would you two stop flirting in front of us?" Draco’s voice cut through the air, his tone teasing as he raised an eyebrow at the pair.

Hermione’s cheeks burned, and she was about to retort when Harry, with a grin, threw an arm around her shoulders. "You’re just jealous, Draco," Harry quipped in a mock-serious tone. "Go ahead and hug Ron. I’m sure he won’t mind."

Draco scowled as Ron, with an exaggerated grin, spread his arms wide and lunged toward him. "Come here, mate!"

"Get off!" Draco cried, pushing Ron away as laughter erupted between the boys.

Hermione laughed along with them, though her heart was beating a little faster. She was all too aware of how close Harry was, his arm still draped casually around her shoulders, his touch warm and familiar. She glanced down at her feet, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

xxxxx

The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express filled the compartment, the soft whirr of the train making the atmosphere cozy despite the excitement buzzing through the air. After some teary farewells at King's Cross, the train had finally pulled out of the station, leaving the platform and their parents behind. Harry had just finished stowing his and Hermione's trunks neatly in the overhead racks. The compartment felt like a little bubble of calm amidst the chaos outside, where the corridors were bustling with students eager for the year ahead.

Harry dropped down next to Hermione on the cushioned seat, the two sharing a comfortable silence. She was staring out the window, watching the countryside roll by in a blur of green and gold. There was something serene about the way her eyes followed the landscape, though her fingers absently twisted a strand of her hair. Harry couldn't help but smile a little at the sight, but he quickly masked it, glancing over at Ron and Draco across from them.

Ron was already deep in conversation with Draco, both boys passionately debating over their favorite Quidditch teams. Their animated gestures made Hermione glance over, amused, but she quickly returned her gaze to the window, clearly enjoying the view more than the argument.

Harry, feeling the lull of the train's gentle rocking, pulled out a book from his bag—The Secret of Chimneys, a Muggle novel from an author he'd been devouring for the past few weeks. He liked these moments, quiet and undisturbed, where he could immerse himself in a good story. The steady hum of the train, however, soon made it difficult to concentrate as the pages kept shaking with each bump in the track.

It was nearly an hour of peaceful silence before Harry sighed, closing his book and tossing it onto his lap. Hermione, sensing the shift, glanced over, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

“Why’d you stop reading?” she asked softly, tilting her head.

“This bloody train’s shaking too much," Harry muttered, massaging his temples in frustration. “I’m losing track of the words.”

Hermione chuckled softly, but before she could respond, Ron piped up, his excitement palpable as he rummaged through his bag.

"Let's play chess!" he suggested, already pulling out a worn Wizard's Chess set with a grin. "Loser buys from the Honeydukes Express later. What do you say?"

Harry and Draco snorted simultaneously, exchanging a knowing look.

"Are you sure about that, Ron?" Harry asked with a playful smirk, folding his arms across his chest.

Hermione’s brows furrowed with interest. “Is he really that unbeatable?” she asked, glancing between Harry and Draco.

Draco shook his head with an exasperated smile. "Ron’s never lost a game—not to us, anyway."

"Yet," Harry added, his voice teasing. He turned to Hermione, his expression more mischievous now. "You should give it a go, Hermione. You never know—you might be the one to break his winning streak. I’ll even buy whatever treat you want if you beat him.”

Ron scoffed, puffing out his chest proudly. "Yeah, come on, Hermione, give it a shot. It's not that different from Muggle chess—just... more exciting."

Draco, clearly eager to see Ron bested for once, grinned. “Oh, please beat him. We could use someone to knock him off his high horse.”

Hermione, feeling both challenged and intrigued, squared her shoulders. “Alright, then. I know how to play chess, but... how different is Wizard’s Chess from the Muggle version?” she asked, eyeing the set warily as Ron set it up on the table between them.

"You'll see," Harry said with a smirk, leaning back in his seat to watch the match unfold. He found himself watching her more than the game, his gaze flicking to her every time she made a move.

The pieces, enchanted and eager for battle, shuffled to their places on the board. At first, Hermione played cautiously, moving her pieces with a delicate precision. But it wasn't long before the inevitable happened—one of Ron’s knights swung its sword down with a clang, smashing one of her pawns into bits.

Hermione gasped, her eyes widening in shock. “That’s... that’s barbaric!” she exclaimed, her voice almost a squeak.

Ron grinned smugly, leaning back in his seat. “That’s Wizard’s Chess for you, Hermione.”

For a while, it seemed like Hermione was at a loss. She moved her pieces cautiously, clearly hesitant to send any more of them to their doom. But then something clicked. Her expression changed, a glint of determination flashing in her eyes, and her moves became sharper, more calculated.

Harry leaned forward, his interest piqued. He could see it in the way Hermione’s eyes darted across the board—she wasn’t just playing to survive anymore. She was playing to win. Her strategy shifted from defense to offense, and slowly but surely, Ron’s smug expression began to falter.

Draco watched the game with mounting excitement. “She’s doing it,” he whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief.

And then, after what felt like hours of intense back-and-forth, the final blow landed. Hermione’s queen cornered Ron’s king, and with a triumphant flourish, she whispered, “Checkmate.”

For a moment, the compartment was silent.

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered under his breath, staring at the board in shock.

Draco blinked, his mouth hanging open slightly. “She did it. She actually won.”

Hermione looked around, her face flushed with both victory and disbelief. “I... I won, right?” she asked, her voice small.

Ron was slumped in his seat, his face buried in his hands. “I can’t believe this!” he groaned, his voice muffled. “I demand a rematch!”

But the boys weren’t having it. True to their word, Harry and Draco immediately started piling sweets from the Honeydukes trolley onto Hermione’s lap, showering her with enough treats to last her the entire term.

"Well done, Hermione," Harry said, his voice warm with admiration. He leaned close, his shoulder brushing hers, and whispered, "I knew you'd surprise him."

Hermione’s cheeks flushed at the compliment, and she quickly busied herself with arranging the mountain of treats in her lap, trying to hide her smile.

Ron, meanwhile, was sulking dramatically, munching on a Chocolate Frog as he stared moodily out the window. “This isn’t over,” he grumbled.

Harry chuckled, nudging Hermione playfully. “Guess I owe you whatever you want from Honeydukes now. Maybe I’ll throw in a few more Chocolate Frogs for good measure.”

Hermione grinned, her earlier nervousness fading away completely. “I’ll take you up on that offer, Harry."

And for the rest of the journey, their compartment was filled with laughter, playful banter, and the lingering taste of victory—and sweets.

xxxxx

The steady hum of the Hogwarts Express was like a lullaby, gently swaying the compartment. The golden afternoon light filtered through the windows, casting soft shadows across the sleeping figures of Ron and Draco, who were slumped on their seats, completely worn out from a long day of chatter, games, and feasting.

Hermione sat with her back against the seat, one hand holding a book she had been trying to read for the past half-hour, though the words had long since lost meaning. She wasn’t sure if she’d absorbed anything, her attention instead drawn to the soft rise and fall of Harry's chest as he slept, his head resting comfortably in her lap. She hadn't bothered to push him away, and now, with the rhythmic motion of the train and the warmth of his body against hers, she didn’t really want to.

How casually he’d decided to rest his head on her lap surprised her. He hadn’t asked, hadn’t even said a word—just gently leaned over and drifted off, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. What surprised her more was how Ron and Draco had barely batted an eye. Did this kind of thing happen often with boys? Hermione had never been close enough to anyone to know.

She tried to focus on her book again, but her mind kept wandering back to Harry. His messy black hair fanned out on her lap, and she found herself absently playing with a stray lock. He looked so peaceful, his face relaxed and free of the tension she sometimes noticed in his green eyes. She wondered what he was dreaming about. Maybe about Hogwarts, maybe about magic... maybe something about her. She blushed at the thought and quickly dismissed it, returning her gaze to her book in an effort to regain some composure.

The compartment door slid open with a soft hiss, pulling Hermione out of her thoughts. Two prefects stood in the doorway, their crisp robes neatly pressed and their badges gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

"We're nearing Hogwarts," one of them announced, casting a glance around at the sleepy occupants.

At the mention of Hogwarts, Harry stirred, sitting up almost immediately. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, blinking as though he was trying to get his bearings. His head had been warm on her lap, and Hermione suddenly felt the absence of his weight, her legs tingling slightly from where he had been resting.

Harry caught her eye and smiled, his voice thick with sleep as he stretched. "We'll go outside while you change, Hermione," he said, giving her a quick nod before stepping out of the compartment with Ron and Draco, still yawning as they followed.

Hermione watched them leave, biting her lip to keep from smiling. She stood and quickly began to change into her Hogwarts robes, her heart thumping a little faster than usual. Harry had told her to tuck her wand in the holster he'd bought for her, one that fit snugly around her wand arm. "The safest way to carry it," he'd said, with a knowing smile. Apparently, it was how Aurors—or magical police, as he'd explained—carried theirs.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the window and couldn’t help but twirl a little, her robes swishing around her legs as she did. She grinned, admiring how the robes fit perfectly. It felt so real now. She was really going to Hogwarts.

The door slid open, and Hermione quickly turned to let the boys back in. Harry was the first to step inside, and the moment his eyes landed on her, he gave her a quick, appraising look up and down before flashing her a grin that made her stomach do a little flip.

"You look great, Hermione," he said, his voice soft but genuine, his green eyes lingering on her a moment longer than usual.

“Thanks,” she murmured, feeling a rush of warmth spread across her cheeks. She glanced away, hoping the flush wasn't too obvious.

Draco, ever the fashion expert, followed Harry’s lead, taking in the sight of her robes. He let out a low whistle and smirked. “Acromantula silk, nice taste, Granger.”

Hermione furrowed her brow, confused by the compliment. “Acromantula... silk?”

Harry chuckled softly, stepping beside her. "Don’t worry about it."

Ron, who had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, rolled his eyes. “Show off,” he muttered under his breath, only to receive a sharp elbow to the ribs from Harry.

"Ow!" Ron winced but quickly shut up, casting an apologetic glance at Hermione. "I mean, uh, yeah, you look fine."

Hermione laughed softly but felt a twinge of discomfort as she stepped out into the corridor to give the boys space to change. The moment she leaned against the wall, other students began trickling out of their compartments, all of them eager to change into their robes before they arrived at the castle.

Her attention was caught by a pretty blonde witch stepping out of the compartment across from her. The girl had no House colors on her robes, which meant she was likely a first-year too. The girl’s pale blue eyes lingered on Hermione for a moment, taking her in from head to toe, before settling on her face—and then, more specifically, her teeth.

Hermione felt a flush of insecurity creep up her neck. She quickly averted her gaze, her heart sinking a little. She had always hated her teeth. They stuck out too much, and no matter how much her mother had tried to reassure her, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to hide them. It cost too much to get them fixed. Her mum always said she'd grow into them one day, that her face would catch up. But Hermione didn’t want to wait. She wanted to fix them now.

She caught sight of herself in the reflection of the window, her lips pressed tightly together. Harry had probably noticed before—he noticed everything—but he’d never said a word about it. That, at least, made her feel a little better.

The door behind her opened, and she nearly dashed back inside. The boys had changed into their robes, and as she sat down, Hermione quickly realized what Draco had meant earlier.

Their robes were the same design, but the quality... Hermione could see it now. Her robes, and Harry’s too, were made of a finer material, something smoother, almost shimmering in the soft light of the compartment. Draco's robes were nice as well, but not quite the same quality. And Ron’s... well, his were perfectly fine but looked much more standard, like something you’d find in a Muggle store.

“Harry,” Hermione said, frowning slightly. “Why are our robes different?”

Harry shrugged nonchalantly, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I ordered the best for us. You don’t like them?”

Draco and Ron exchanged a look and smirked but didn’t say anything, waiting to see how Hermione would respond.

“It’s not that I don’t like them,” she replied, her voice soft but firm. “But isn’t this... a little much?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, still completely relaxed. “Why not go all out? Besides, I hate feeling cold—or hot. These robes adjust to the weather, you know. And wouldn’t it have been strange if we got different robes when we shopped together?”

Hermione sighed, feeling the beginnings of a lecture bubbling up inside her but stopping herself before it spilled out. She wanted to tell Harry that he shouldn’t just throw money around like it meant nothing. But she knew better than to argue. Harry was Harry—he had money, far more than any other student at Hogwarts, and it was clear that spending a little extra was no big deal to him.

She shot him a small, exasperated smile. “Just... don’t make a habit of spoiling me, okay?”

Harry grinned, leaning a little closer. “No promises.”

Hermione shook her head, hiding the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Harry Potter was going to be impossible to deal with, and somehow, she didn’t mind it one bit.

xxxxx

Hermione stood in awe, her breath catching in her throat as she followed the rest of the first-years into the magnificent castle. Hogwarts was even more spectacular than she had imagined—no, dreamed. The turrets and towers stood tall under the pale glow of the moon, and the warmth of the enchanted lanterns illuminating the stone pathways made everything feel surreal.

The trip across the lake had been magical enough, with the gentle ripple of water and the distant silhouette of the castle reflecting on its surface, but now, walking within the hallowed halls, Hermione could feel her heart race with anticipation. It was as if the very air was buzzing with the excitement of centuries of magic.

As Professor McGonagall began explaining how the Sorting would take place, Hermione’s thoughts drifted, her eyes roaming over the intricate tapestries and high, vaulted ceilings. She was half-listening, half-lost in the grandeur of it all. The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall drew her gaze upward, and she gasped softly, mesmerized by the illusion of the night sky twinkling above them, as though the ceiling had disappeared altogether.

But soon, her awe shifted into a knot of nervousness. The reality of the Sorting sank in, and her stomach twisted. What if the Sorting Hat didn’t think she belonged anywhere? What if she was placed in Slytherin, away from everyone? Or worse, what if she was sorted into a house all by herself, with no familiar faces?

'I don’t know anyone well enough yet...' Hermione thought, anxiety bubbling inside her. Draco would be in Slytherin—he had been almost annoyingly confident about that. Ron seemed certain of Gryffindor, even boasting about his family’s long line of placements in that house. And Harry? Well, Harry had just shrugged when she’d asked him earlier. The uncertainty gnawed at her.

She bit her lower lip, her mind racing with what-ifs, her legs feeling unsteady beneath her.

"Stop biting your lip, Hermione," came Harry’s voice in a soft whisper.

She startled slightly and stopped immediately, turning to him with wide eyes. "I can’t help it," she whispered back, trying to mask the panic in her voice.

Harry, standing close beside her, gave her a small, crooked grin, his green eyes twinkling under the dim light. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly, leaning in just a little.

Before Hermione could find the words, Ron interrupted with an amused glance. "Do you need to go to the bathroom or something?" he whispered, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

Hermione shot him a glare, her cheeks flushing. "No!" she hissed, then turned back to Harry, feeling her nerves spike again.

Harry leaned even closer, his breath warm against her ear as he spoke. “You’re going to be fine,” he whispered. “And if you want to be in Gryffindor, just tell the Hat. That’s what I’m going to do.”

Her eyes widened at that, and she stared at him as though he’d gone mad. "You can’t tell the Sorting Hat what to do!" she whispered back furiously. "It sorts you based on where you belong!"

Harry only smirked, his hand brushing hers in a quick, comforting gesture. “Who says we can’t help it decide?”

Before Hermione could argue further, her name was called. "Granger, Hermione," Professor McGonagall announced.

'Oh no. Oh no no no,' she thought, her heart racing as she felt Harry give her hand one last squeeze before letting go. She barely managed to keep her legs from shaking as she walked toward the stool, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity.

As soon as the Sorting Hat was placed on her head, she flinched slightly, not expecting it to speak in her mind.

"Ah, yes," the Hat began, its voice warm and thoughtful. "A brilliant mind indeed, full of courage but also wit—"

"Gryffindor!" Hermione squeaked, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

The Hat paused, sounding almost taken aback. "Pardon? I was just saying—"

"Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor!" Hermione chanted under her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She wasn’t taking any chances. "Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor..."

The Hat let out a resigned sigh. "Well, if you insist..."

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat bellowed to the hall, and cheers erupted from the Gryffindor table.

Hermione blinked in disbelief, her heart soaring with relief.

'It worked? It actually worked!

She hopped off the stool, feeling much lighter than before, and made her way to the cheering table. As she passed by Harry, she caught his eye—he winked at her, that familiar mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

"Welcome to Gryffindor, Hermione," said a tall boy with a prefect badge on his chest as he extended his hand to her. “I’m Percy Weasley. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Percy,” Hermione said, shaking his hand with a bright smile. She quickly sat down and turned back to the Sorting, glancing up at the platform just as McGonagall called out the next name.

"Malfoy, Draco."

Draco strode confidently to the stool, smirking like he already knew his destiny. Sure enough, the Hat barely touched his platinum hair before shouting, "SLYTHERIN!"

Draco sauntered off toward the Slytherin table, his smug face making Hermione’s fingers itch to hex him—not that she knew any good hexes yet. He was a good friend but there was just something about him that made her want to wipe that arrogant look off his face.

Finally, it was Harry’s turn.

“Potter, Harry,” McGonagall’s voice rang out across the hall, clear and sharp, immediately silencing the buzzing chatter that had filled the room. Every student turned their heads to watch as Harry walked forward. Hermione felt her heart skip a beat, a mix of excitement and nervousness fluttering in her chest. Her eyes followed Harry, his unruly black hair sticking out in every direction, and she couldn’t help but wonder what the Sorting Hat would do with him.

As Harry made his way to the front, the Great Hall seemed to hold its collective breath. The soft flicker of candlelight above them cast a warm glow over everything, and the enchanted ceiling mirrored the starry night sky outside, but Hermione barely noticed any of it. Her gaze was locked on Harry.

He sat down on the stool, and the old, battered Sorting Hat was placed over his head, nearly covering his eyes. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Harry’s face tightened, his expression one of concentration as though he were deep in conversation with the Hat.

Seconds ticked by. Hermione bit her lip, leaning forward in her seat, waiting for the Hat to call out Harry’s House. But the longer it took, the more curious—and worried—she became. Whispers began to rise from the other students, heads turning and murmurs spreading through the hall.

“Why is it taking so long?” someone near her whispered.

“I bet he’s going to Slytherin,” someone else speculated.

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table as her heart raced. 'What if Harry did end up in Slytherin?' She couldn’t imagine him over there, sitting with Draco and the others... 'No,' she thought firmly, 'Harry belongs with me in Gryffindor.' She just knew it.

After what felt like an eternity, a full five minutes passed. The hall was practically buzzing with anticipation now.

Finally, the Sorting Hat opened its mouth and bellowed: “GRYFFINDOR!”

The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers, and Hermione’s heart soared with relief. She clapped along with the others, a wide smile spreading across her face. Harry was in Gryffindor! They were in the same House! She couldn’t help the little rush of excitement at the thought.

As Harry walked over, several students reached out to congratulate him. He thanked them with a grin, his green eyes sparkling with mischief as he sat down beside Hermione.

“I told you the Hat would listen,” Harry said, laughing softly as he settled into his seat. “Although, to be honest, I didn’t think it would actually work.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, half-amused, half-aghast. “Wait, you weren’t sure it would work?”

Harry shrugged, leaning back in his chair, completely unfazed. “Well, it’s my first Sorting too, you know? No one really explained the rules.”

Hermione groaned, rolling her eyes. Trust Harry to just go with his gut. She had been so nervous, putting her faith in his words, and now she found out he was just guessing! Her annoyance was tinged with a hint of admiration though—how could he be so calm in the face of something so important?

“I can’t believe I listened to you,” she muttered, shaking her head. “That was a very Slytherin move, Harry.”

Harry grinned, a wicked little spark dancing in his eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe I’ve got a bit of Slytherin in me.”

Hermione stared at him, half-wondering if he was serious.

“What took you so long up there, anyway?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity. “It looked like you were having a full-on debate with the Hat.”

Harry smirked, leaning in closer as if sharing a secret. “I was. The Hat couldn’t decide. I was sort of arguing about where I wanted to go, and then...” He paused, his smirk widening. “I told the Hat to prank Ron. Just wait, you’ll see.”

Hermione blinked, confused. “Prank Ron? What do you mean?”

But before Harry could explain further, Ron’s name was called. “Weasley, Ronald.”

Ron stood up, looking confident as he walked toward the stool. Hermione noticed Harry watching closely, his grin widening.

The Hat barely touched Ron’s head before his face paled, his eyes widening in horror. He started shaking his head vigorously, his lips moving as though he were arguing with the Hat. The students in the hall began to snicker, and Hermione shot Harry a questioning look, but he was too busy biting his lip to stop from laughing aloud.

A few agonizing moments passed before the Hat finally bellowed, “GRYFFINDOR!”

Ron sagged with relief, practically sprinting to the Gryffindor table. He looked shaken, muttering under his breath as he slumped into the seat across from Harry and Hermione. His face was still pale as he glanced at them.

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered, looking thoroughly rattled. “The Sorting Hat tried to put me in Slytherin!”

At this, Harry couldn’t hold it in any longer. He burst out laughing, quickly covering his mouth with his hand to muffle the sound, his shoulders shaking with silent amusement.

Ron narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You!” he hissed, glaring at Harry. “You did this, didn’t you?!”

Harry, still trying to stifle his laughter, raised his hands in mock innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, though his grin gave him away.

Hermione, completely confused, looked between the two boys. “What on earth is going on?” she asked, feeling like she had missed a key part of the conversation.

“I told the Hat to tell Ron he’d look good in Slytherin,” Harry whispered, his voice low with conspiratorial glee. “Just to mess with him.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “You pranked him during the Sorting?” She couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or annoyed. “Harry!”

But Harry only grinned wider, ducking just in time as Ron hurled a Chocolate Frog at him. It missed and hit the next table with a soft thud, sending a few Gryffindors into fits of laughter.

“You should’ve seen your face,” Harry chuckled, his eyes gleaming as he leaned back again, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

Ron groaned, rubbing his temples. “That wasn’t funny, Harry. I thought I was going to end up in Slytherin! Do you know what my brothers would’ve said?”

Hermione shook her head, staring at Harry with a mixture of awe and exasperation. Here she had been, spending the entire night agonizing over the Sorting, while Harry had been casually arguing with the Hat, pushing it to put him in Gryffindor and pulling pranks on their friends. It was almost too much to believe.

xxxxx

Emma Granger sat at her desk, her hands stained with the light dust of ancient books, when a soft flutter caught her attention. Edgar, a sleek barn owl with wide, curious eyes, dropped a letter neatly in front of her before letting out a gentle hoot. Emma’s heart skipped a beat when she saw the familiar handwriting on the envelope—it was from Hermione.

Her fingers worked quickly as she tore open the envelope, eager to know what her daughter had been up to at Hogwarts. She could almost imagine Hermione’s excitement as she wrote it. As she unfolded the letter, a smile spread across her face.

“Oh!” Emma exclaimed aloud to herself, her voice laced with excitement. “She’s in the same House as Harry! That’s wonderful!”

Emma let out a sigh of relief. She knew Hermione had been stressing endlessly about the Sorting. Her little girl had been caught up in the possibilities of Ravenclaw—books, knowledge, logic—it all seemed a perfect fit for her. Harry, though, was a bit of a mystery. Emma had always thought he could fit into any of the Houses, given his personality. They’d been so curious about where he’d end up. But this... this was perfect. Hermione had her best friend right there with her.

“I bet she’s over the moon,” Emma chuckled to herself, already imagining the giddy tone Hermione must’ve had while writing this. Her mind wandered to Harry, the boy with the mess of black hair and a heart far too big for his tiny frame. They had become inseparable over the summer, and Emma had always been grateful for his presence. He had a way of pulling Hermione out of her usual seriousness, making her laugh in a way no one else could.

Her thoughts drifted, and she found herself smiling wider at the idea of the two of them, side by side in their Gryffindor uniforms, running through the castle corridors, getting into all sorts of mischief—well, Harry getting into mischief, and Hermione scolding him for it.

“I hope someone had a camera,” Emma muttered, half to herself. She wished she could see her daughter in her Hogwarts robes, her face full of excitement and nervous energy. A snapshot of Hermione and Harry, standing together in their House colors... that would be something she’d frame and keep forever.

She grabbed her pen, her hand already moving in reply. She’d have to ask Hermione about all the little details—what the Great Hall looked like, how the Sorting ceremony felt, what kind of spells she’d learned so far. Emma’s mind buzzed with curiosity, but above all, she felt reassured. Hermione was adjusting, making friends, and most importantly, she was happy. That’s all that mattered to her.

With the letter still fresh in her mind, Emma leaned back, glancing at the mess of books and papers scattered across her desk. The Potter Library had proven to be more work than she had anticipated when she first agreed to take it on. She had been tasked with sorting through the immense collection, and it felt like it would take a lifetime.

She glanced at the first five shelves she had already cleared—dusty tomes, fragile with age, now neatly stacked beside her, awaiting new, sturdier shelving. Ordering better bookshelves was one of the first tasks she had tackled. The old shelves were worn, creaking with age, and prone to falling apart under the weight of the massive collections.

After that, she still had to catalogue everything. Ancient spellbooks, historical texts, modern volumes... each one had to be classified and labeled. She planned on organizing the oldest, most fragile books on the fifth floor, while the newer, more practical ones would stay lower for easy access. Her plan was meticulous, but the workload was exhausting.

Still, she found herself enjoying it. There was something soothing about the endless task of sorting, dusting, and organizing. The house-elves flitted about, offering help now and then, their cheerful chatter keeping her company as they worked. She wasn’t lonely, not really. The constant hum of activity and the occasional pop of a house-elf appearing by her side kept her grounded.

And, of course, there was Sirius.

Sirius Black had surprised her by dropping by one evening, just as she was winding down from a long day of work. She had been rubbing her sore shoulders, contemplating calling it a night, when he strolled in, carrying a bottle of wine and a devilish grin that seemed to brighten the room.

“Figured you could use a break,” he had said, with a casual shrug, and Emma had gladly accepted his company.

Dinner had been... surprisingly enjoyable. Sirius was much more charming than she had anticipated, and he had regaled her with stories from his work as Head Auror. He had a way of making even the most mundane events sound thrilling, his voice filled with animated energy.

“I swear,” Sirius had said at one point, leaning back in his chair with a wry smile, “if I hear one more complaint about someone’s cursed teapot, I’m going to lose it.”

Emma had laughed, her usual stress melting away as the evening went on. It hadn’t been awkward at all, despite her initial reservations. Sirius had a knack for making people feel comfortable around him, and Emma found herself enjoying his company far more than she expected.

Between the library project and her occasional dinners with Sirius, Emma felt like she was adjusting too, in her own way. It was strange, this new life—Hogwarts, the Wizarding World, the Potters, and everything that came with it—but somehow, it all felt... right. Like she was meant to be a part of it.

She smiled to herself as she sealed the letter for Hermione, ready to send her reply.

It seemed like Hermione wasn’t the only Granger who was adjusting to new surroundings.

Chapter Text

Ron Weasley knew, without a doubt, that Hermione Granger was a menace. Not the kind of menace that caused trouble like Fred and George, no—Hermione’s type of menace was far more subtle. It was the kind that made you question how on earth she could be so... brilliant. Harry had warned him and Draco about her, describing her as “a walking library with a thirst for knowledge.” From the moment she discovered she was a witch, Harry said, she’d devoured books as if they were her favorite meal, diving headfirst into everything she could about the magical world.

And now, sitting in classes beside her, Ron was starting to see exactly what Harry meant.

Every time a professor asked a question, Hermione’s hand shot up like a rocket, her answer always spot on, and earning Gryffindor points left and right. It was both impressive and intimidating, especially since she had only started learning about magic this summer. He found himself staring at her more than once, mouth agape, as she rattled off answers that no first-year should know. And she didn’t even seem to notice that she was practically a Gryffindor points-generating machine.

"Blimey," Ron muttered under his breath during Transfiguration, watching as Hermione answered yet another of Professor McGonagall's difficult questions. "How does she know everything?"

It wasn’t like Ron had slacked off before coming to Hogwarts. He’d joined Harry and Draco for their tutoring sessions in the summer, confident that he knew enough to get by. But Hermione knew facts that weren’t in any of the books they had studied. It was almost unfair.

Later that afternoon, the trio found themselves in a quiet corner of the Gryffindor common room, the warm light from the fireplace casting soft shadows over the room. Hermione had just excused herself to the bathroom, leaving Ron and Harry sitting across from each other, books scattered between them.

"Mate, I’m telling you, how does she know all of that?" Ron asked, still baffled.

Harry leaned back, grinning at Ron’s bewilderment. "Honestly, I have no idea. Even I’m impressed." He tapped his chin thoughtfully, then smirked. "Tell you what, though. Want to bet on who’ll take second place in our year? Her or Draco?"

"Second place?" Ron looked at him incredulously. "Shouldn’t we be betting on who’ll take first place?"

Harry shot him a mischievous grin, leaning in slightly. "Obviously, I’m taking first place, Ron." His voice was full of confidence, and Ron couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his friend’s smug expression.

"You’re so full of it, Harry," Ron snorted, though he couldn’t suppress his own grin. "We’ll see how long that lasts when McGonagall starts giving out essays."

Just as Harry was about to retort, Hermione returned, her bushy hair bouncing as she approached them. Ron caught her eye, and for a split second, he wondered if she had overheard their conversation.

"What are you two whispering about?" Hermione asked, her voice tinged with curiosity as she slid into the chair next to Harry.

"Quidditch," Harry replied smoothly, without missing a beat. His tone was casual, but there was an unmistakable twinkle in his green eyes as he glanced at Ron, daring him to play along.

Ron smirked, deciding to go with it. "Yeah, you know, best positions, who’s likely to get on the House team, all that."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking between the two of them, clearly not buying their explanation.

xxxxx

Harry had explained to Hermione during one of their walks through the castle corridors that the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts was more than just a teaching role. It was directly tied to the Department of Magical Law and Enforcement at the Ministry of Magic, where his godfather, Sirius Black, worked as Head Auror. Every year, Sirius would send out one of his top Aurors to fill the role on a one-year contract.

"It’s kind of a win-win situation," Harry had said, with a slight grin. "The Aurors get a bit of a break from their usual fieldwork, and Hogwarts gets some top-notch protection and expertise in the subject."

Hermione had been intrigued by this arrangement. It explained why the Defense classes were often full of real-world stories about how Aurors protect themselves on dangerous missions. The students loved it—especially the way the lessons were woven with tales of bravery, strategy, and sometimes even humor.

This year’s Defense professor was Janus Proudfoot. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a slightly fidgety demeanor, but undeniably handsome. Hermione couldn’t help but notice the way a few girls in class giggled every time he walked by, though they quickly stopped when his sharp blue eyes met theirs. Proudfoot was no-nonsense, despite his jittery nature, and Harry had told Hermione that Sirius held him in high regard.

"Great with defensive spells," Harry had said, almost admiringly. "His expertise is mostly retrieval operations. You know, rescuing hostages, getting people out of dangerous situations. He’s all about protecting the team and the victims."

"He sounds like an excellent professor for Defense," Hermione had replied, a thoughtful look on her face.

Harry had nodded eagerly, his enthusiasm clear. "Definitely. It’s easily my favorite subject."

But as much as Harry excelled in Defense, Hermione had quickly noticed that Potions was a different story altogether.

In their latest Potions lesson, Hermione had watched Harry sigh dramatically as they set up their cauldrons. "I’m rubbish at this," he muttered under his breath, glancing at her with a rueful smile. "Honestly, I’m hopeless when it comes to Potions."

Hermione, ever observant, had already picked up on this. She had seen him struggle in almost every Potions class, especially when working alone. While Harry was brilliant in so many areas, Potions seemed to trip him up. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the theory—he just had a hard time juggling all the tasks involved: the precise measurements, the careful stirring, the timing. It was all too much, and one little distraction could throw everything off.

When Harry was paired with someone else, particularly her, he did much better. All he had to do was focus on one task at a time—cutting, stirring, or measuring—but when he had to brew alone, it was a different story.

"I don’t get it, Harry," Hermione had said one day, clearly puzzled. "Sirius told me you’re a great cook. You’re used to multitasking in the kitchen, right? Why not just treat Potions like cooking?"

Harry had chuckled, shaking his head. "It’s not the same, Hermione. Cooking’s... intuitive. Potions... it’s like... every single step has to be perfect. It’s maddening." He gave her a helpless look, and she couldn’t help but smile at his frustration.

Then there was Professor Snape. He had been relentless, particularly with the Gryffindors, ever since their first class. Hermione had been appalled at the way Snape seemed to zero in on Harry, almost as if he was trying to bully him in front of the class. She had seethed with anger, barely keeping herself from saying something out loud, but then Harry had revealed something surprising.

"Don’t worry about Snape," Harry had whispered to her, noticing the fury in her eyes after one of Snape’s particularly sharp comments. "He’s... complicated."

Hermione had blinked, taken aback. "Complicated? He’s trying to humiliate you!"

Harry had smiled a little at her protectiveness. "Yeah, but he was actually one of my tutors before Hogwarts. He knows I’m rubbish at Potions. That’s why he usually pairs me with someone else or has us work in groups. He’s just trying to push me."

Hermione had stared at him, speechless for a moment. "Wait, Snape tutored you? Why?"

Harry had shrugged, as if it were no big deal. "He and my mum used to be best friends when they were at Hogwarts. So, I guess, in a way, he looks out for me... in his own, really grumpy way."

It had been hard for Hermione to wrap her mind around the idea of Snape having a soft spot for anyone, let alone Harry. But as she thought about it, she realized there was more to Snape than she had initially believed.

xxxxx

Hermione really shone in their practical classes like Transfiguration and Charms. She excelled at spellwork, quickly mastering every charm and transfiguration they were taught. To her surprise, she often found herself in friendly competition with Harry, both of them determined to be the first to get a spell right.

"Watch this," Harry had said one day in Charms class, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he flicked his wand, trying to cast the levitation spell before Hermione.

Hermione had watched, her brow furrowing in concentration, before she effortlessly swished her wand and the feather floated gracefully into the air, just moments before Harry’s did. She glanced over at him, a triumphant smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"I beat you," she said, her voice light but teasing.

Harry had let out a soft, frustrated huff, his green eyes narrowing at her in mock annoyance. "Only by a second," he muttered, though the playful grin on his face told her he wasn’t truly upset.

For a brief moment, Hermione worried that her being better at spellwork might have genuinely frustrated him. But Harry had quickly reassured her, shaking his head with a laugh. "I’m just being competitive, Hermione. Don’t worry. I don’t hate it." He hesitated, then added more softly, "Actually, I think it’s kind of impressive."

Hermione had felt her heart flutter at his words. It wasn’t often that Harry apologized, and even though it hadn’t been necessary, the fact that he had done so made her smile. She hadn’t expected it, but she appreciated it.

"Well, I’m glad," she had replied, her voice softening. And for just a moment, as their eyes met, there was a flicker of something unspoken between them. It passed quickly, but Hermione couldn’t deny that there was something about Harry that made her... curious. Adorable, even.

Harry had grinned at her again, shaking off the moment. "But I’ll beat you next time. Just you wait."

Hermione had laughed, shaking her head. "We’ll see about that, Potter."

As they continued their friendly rivalry in class, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride whenever she bested him in a spell. She enjoyed the playful competitiveness between them, and while Harry was a natural talent in many areas, it was nice to know that she had her own strengths too.

It was strange, really. She hadn’t expected to form such a close bond with Harry so quickly. But here they were, challenging each other, learning from each other, and laughing together in ways that felt easy and natural.

And though she would never admit it out loud, there were moments when she found herself looking at Harry and thinking that, perhaps, she liked the way he smiled at her just a little too much.

xxxxx

"Hey, Harry, Ron," Draco yawned dramatically as he strolled across the Quidditch pitch one crisp morning. The early light cast long shadows across the dewy grass, and the chill in the air hinted that autumn was well underway. He ran a hand through his pale hair, shaking off the last remnants of sleep. "What’s going on? You two look like you’ve been scheming for hours."

Harry glanced up from the copy of the Daily Prophet he had been holding, an amused glint in his eyes. "Just the usual morning read." He handed the folded paper to Draco, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips.

Draco took the paper, raising an eyebrow as he scanned the headline. His eyes widened in disbelief. "Who in Merlin’s name is daft enough to try and steal from the goblins?" His voice carried a mix of disbelief and amusement as he lowered the paper to look at Harry.

Ron let out a loud laugh, clapping Draco on the shoulder. "That’s exactly what I said! Can you imagine? Goblins don’t mess around."

"Here’s the best part," Harry said with a chuckle, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. "They didn’t even get anything. The vault was cleared out earlier that day. Sirius told me that whatever they were after is actually here at Hogwarts."

Draco nearly choked on his own shock. "What?! You’re telling me that something valuable enough to risk goblins' wrath is right under our noses?" His voice pitched higher in disbelief. "What is it?"

Ron looked equally perplexed, leaning closer as if the information might be whispered at any moment. "What is it, Harry?"

Harry shook his head, a small smile still playing on his lips. "Sirius doesn’t know. But he wants us to keep our eyes open. If we figure anything out, or if something seems suspicious, we’re supposed to tell him right away."

Ron’s face scrunched in thought. "I remember Dumbledore saying something about the third-floor corridor being off-limits."

Draco rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh yeah, the whole 'out of bounds to anyone who doesn’t want to die a very painful death' speech." He huffed. "I swear, he’s a mad old goat. What a thing to say at the start of term! Can you imagine what the other first years must have thought?"

Harry smirked, glancing at Draco with a twinkle of amusement. "Funny you should mention that. Hermione thought he was joking when she heard it." He gave a small chuckle, shaking his head. "I didn’t have the heart to tell her that he probably wasn’t. That corridor’s got to be dangerous for a reason."

Draco snorted, clearly entertained by the idea. "Of course, Hermione would think he was just having a laugh. She probably expects everything here to be strictly logical."

"So, it’s obvious, right?" Ron cut in, his face lighting up with realization. "Whatever Dumbledore’s hiding, it has to be in the third-floor corridor."

"Could be," Harry said, though a small frown creased his forehead. "But I’m still not sure about the ‘painful death’ part. I mean, if it’s runes or enchantments, we’d be hopeless. We’d need to know what kind of defenses are in place. If it’s spells, though, maybe we could figure something out."

Ron and Draco nodded in agreement, their minds already racing with possibilities.

"I wonder what Dumbledore could be hiding at school," Ron mused, kicking a loose pebble on the path as they began walking back toward the castle. "You think it’s money?"

Draco gave a casual shrug. "Doubt it. Why keep something valuable like that here when Gringotts is practically impenetrable? No, it’s got to be something else. Maybe an important artifact or something rare that Dumbledore doesn’t want in anyone else’s hands."

"I was thinking books," Harry said thoughtfully, glancing up at the towering stone walls of the castle as they approached. "Something really ancient—like spellbooks with powerful, forgotten magic. Spells that could make someone unstoppable." He paused, considering. "Though, that might be too obvious."

Draco’s brows lifted, intrigued. "Spellbooks? Now that would be worth protecting."

Ron snickered, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Or maybe it’s some dusty old relic no one cares about but Dumbledore. He’s always been a bit... eccentric."

The trio walked in silence for a few moments, each lost in their thoughts about what the mysterious object might be. The distant sound of students chatting and laughing filled the air as they neared the entrance to the castle.

"You know," Ron suddenly said with a smirk, breaking the silence, "we should probably pull Hermione into this. We’re too dumb to figure it out on our own."

Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Speak for yourself, Weasley. I’m not that dumb." He paused, then added with a playful grin, "But you’re right. We could use another brain in this. Someone who’s not always wasting their time thinking about chess strategies." He shot Ron a teasing look.

Ron, always quick to defend himself, opened his mouth to retort, but Harry interrupted, shaking his head in exasperation. "You two are ridiculous. We’ll ask Hermione, but let’s keep it quiet for now. She’ll want to solve the whole thing in one go, and I’d rather not have her sneaking into forbidden areas just yet."

Draco chuckled, leaning closer to Harry as they climbed the castle steps. "You’re worried she’ll show us all up, aren’t you?"

"Obviously," Harry quipped with a grin. "She’d probably figure it all out before we even get close."

Ron laughed, ruffling his messy red hair. "Yeah, she’s brilliant like that. But that’s exactly why we need her."

As the three boys pushed open the large oak doors and entered the warmth of the castle, they shared a knowing look. Whatever was hidden behind the third-floor corridor’s ominous warning, they were determined to find out—eventually.

xxxxx

Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, the warmth of the Great Hall buzzing around her as she tucked into her breakfast. Her spoon hovered over a bowl of oatmeal, but she barely noticed it, her thoughts drifting toward the pile of reading she still wanted to finish before class. The flicker of movement by the entrance caught her attention. She looked up just in time to see Harry, Ron, and Draco stroll in, clearly up to something, as usual. They paused briefly, exchanging smirks before Draco veered off to the Slytherin table, leaving the other two to make their way toward her.

As Harry approached, his grin was unmistakable, the glint in his eyes suggesting mischief. Ron was by his side, looking somewhat distracted, but there was a telltale twitch of a smirk on his face too.

"Good morning, Hermione," Harry greeted her, his tone unusually sweet. He slid onto the bench next to her, far too close for her not to raise an eyebrow in suspicion. "You look brilliant today," he added, flashing her an exaggerated smile that didn’t quite match the casual compliment.

Hermione's brow furrowed immediately as she glanced at him and then at Ron, who was suddenly very interested in a nearby jug of pumpkin juice. Something was off. The way Harry was buttering her up was suspiciously over the top. "What did you do, Harry?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

Harry, in the midst of pouring himself a towering stack of pancakes, simply shrugged, all innocence. "Nothing," he said lightly. "Ron, Draco, and I were just out at the Quidditch pitch. We were hoping to try out for the team, but apparently, first-years aren't allowed," he added, with a dramatic sigh, pouring what looked like half a bottle of syrup over his pancakes.

Hermione, still unconvinced, tapped her fingers on the table. "Harry," she repeated, her voice firm, expecting an explanation.

He looked at her, feigning hurt. "Seriously, Hermione, I haven’t done anything," he smirked, then reached over to grab a cookie from the center of the table. "Oh, cookies! Have one," he offered, pushing the plate toward her with that same suspiciously charming grin.

Hermione sighed, her patience wearing thin. "Damn it, Harry," she muttered under her breath, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Harry, gasping dramatically, clutched his heart as if wounded. "Ron, did you hear that? Hermione just cursed at me!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with mock shock. He reached over, squeezing her cheeks playfully, his teasing tone dancing on the edge of a laugh. "I’m telling your mother!"

Hermione swatted his hands away, rolling her eyes but unable to suppress the slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You’re impossible," she huffed, though there was no real heat in her voice.

For the next few minutes, Harry continued to prod and poke, trying to get a reaction out of her, his teasing relentless. Ron watched on with a smirk, his mouth full of toast but clearly enjoying the spectacle. "Hermione, I really didn’t do anything!" Harry insisted, holding his hands up in mock surrender, though the mischievous twinkle in his eyes said otherwise.

Hermione glared at him, suspicion swirling in her chest. This had Sirius Black’s influence written all over it. The godfather and godson duo were always up to something, and Harry’s behavior all morning screamed that something was brewing. "You did something, Harry," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Or you’re planning something."

Harry’s lips twitched at that, but he kept his composure, only offering her another grin. "Me? Planning something? You wound me, Hermione."

Hermione’s suspicions only deepened. She stabbed at her oatmeal, no longer hungry, her mind racing with possibilities. Sirius had warned her about Harry’s tendency to get into mischief, especially when it involved Draco and Ron. This was definitely one of those times, and it was up to her to figure out what they were up to before things got out of hand.

With a determined glint in her eye, Hermione leaned closer to Harry, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "Whatever you’re planning," she whispered, "I’ll find out."

Harry leaned in too, meeting her gaze with a wink that sent an unexpected flutter through her chest. "I’m counting on it," he replied smoothly, his voice soft but teasing.

She pulled back, flustered, and quickly turned her attention to her plate, though her mind was already racing with ways to uncover whatever plot Harry, Ron, and Draco were hatching. She couldn’t let them get away with it—whatever it was.

xxxxx

Ron and Draco were panting, their breaths coming in short, hurried gasps as they huddled behind an ancient, worn statue of a wizard with a particularly long beard. Harry crouched beside them, looking far too amused for someone who had just been caught sneaking around for the third time that week. The shadows of the hallway danced over their faces, cast by the flickering torches lining the stone walls. The three had been trying all week to get a glimpse of what was hidden on the third-floor corridor, but it seemed like every time they got close, Hermione had a knack for showing up, ready to pester them about what they were doing.

"Damn it," Ron hissed through gritted teeth, wiping sweat from his brow, "how does she keep finding us? Is she using some kind of tracking charm on us or something?"

"Unlikely," Draco muttered under his breath, his sharp grey eyes scanning the hallway cautiously. "That's way too complicated of a spell for a first-year. Though, knowing Granger, she probably already tried looking it up." His tone carried a hint of annoyance, mixed with grudging respect.

Ron groaned, his head tipping back against the cold stone of the statue. "Honestly, this is getting ridiculous. Why can’t we just tell her what we’re planning to do? It’s not like she’s going to hex us or anything."

Harry grinned, his eyes gleaming mischievously in the dim light. "We could tell her," he mused, "but where’s the fun in that? I like being chased around."

Ron and Draco exchanged weary looks, both groaning in unison. Harry’s fondness for getting under Hermione’s skin was becoming more than a little obvious.

"Can you please," Draco began, raising a hand in exasperation, "not involve us in—" he gestured vaguely at Harry, clearly at a loss for words, "whatever this thing is you’re doing with Hermione? I’m already behind on my Potions homework, and Snape’s going to murder me if I don’t finish it tonight!"

"I’ll let you copy off mine," Harry offered with a cheeky grin, but before either Ron or Draco could protest further, Harry’s expression shifted. "Crap, she’s here! Be quiet."

All three boys froze, barely daring to breathe as they heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing through the hallway. Hermione was close—too close. Peeking from behind the statue, they spotted her, her bushy hair bouncing as she hurried past, her brow furrowed in frustration. She glanced left and right, clearly exasperated by the fact that she had lost them—again. Her arms were crossed, her lips pressed into a tight line of determination.

Ron and Draco both let out silent sighs of relief, their shoulders sagging slightly. But then, just as they thought they were in the clear, Harry’s hand slipped to his wand.

"Harry, no—" Draco barely managed to whisper before Harry flicked his wand, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

They watched in horror, their eyes wide as saucers, as Hermione moved slightly. The jinx, intended as a playful prank, struck her with surprising accuracy, hitting her right on the buttocks.

Ron’s mouth dropped open. "Did he really just—?"

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "I can’t believe I’m friends with that idiot."

“Do you think she knows it was us?” Ron whispered, his voice barely above a breath. He leaned in closer to Draco, who looked equally concerned.

“Don’t be daft,” Draco hissed, attempting to remain calm despite the rising tension. “Just play it cool. She might think it was Peeves or something!”

But as if sensing their presence, Hermione’s gaze sharpened, locking onto the statue they were hiding behind. Her brows knitted together, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed as if she could see right through their cover.

Without warning, Harry—always the instigator—suddenly bolted. "Run!" he shouted, a wide grin plastered across his face as he darted down the corridor, leaving Ron and Draco wide-eyed and utterly shocked.

“Harry! You idiot!” Draco snapped, shaking his head as he glanced back at Hermione, who was now approaching with a determined stride, her eyes blazing.

"Harry, come back!" Ron yelled, but it was too late; their friend was already a blur down the hall, laughing as he disappeared around the corner.

Hermione took a step forward, her hands on her hips, and it was clear she was ready to unleash her wrath. "You two! Get back here!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the stone walls.

xxxxx

Harry knew that prank had been a step too far. He hadn’t intended for it to escalate; all he wanted was a bit of fun at Hermione's expense. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was drawn to that fierce, adorable scowl she wore whenever she was angry. It was terrifyingly cute, and he found himself liking it a little too much.

Now, he sat in the dimly lit Gryffindor dormitory, staring at the ceiling as shadows danced around him. The laughter and chatter from the common room below only heightened his anxiety. He was almost afraid of what Hermione would do when she finally caught up with him. She had a knack for turning a lighthearted joke into a full-blown interrogation, and Harry had no desire to face her wrath—especially not when Ron and Draco might already be in trouble.

Just then, the door swung open, and Ron stormed in, his face a mask of mock outrage. “There you are, you absolute git!” he exclaimed, hands on his hips, as if Harry were a wayward puppy who had wandered too far from home.

Harry couldn’t help but smirk, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Did she get you?” he asked, his tone teasing.

“No! But I think Draco got caught!” Ron shot back, frustration evident in his voice. “I didn’t know what to do! We split up after you bailed on us, you coward.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s called a tactical retreat, Ron. I was just thinking strategically.” He leaned back against his bed, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Besides, I think I’ve had enough fun for one day. I’ll just tell Hermione we’re heading to the third-floor corridor.”

Ron sighed heavily, flopping down on his bed like a deflated balloon. “Mate, I’m hungry. Let’s just go down already,” he pleaded, his stomach growling in agreement.

“I’m scared to go down,” Harry admitted, glancing nervously at the door as if Hermione would burst in any second.

“She won’t do anything in public,” Ron reassured him, rolling his eyes. “She’s not a complete monster, you know.”

Harry contemplated this for a moment, weighing the odds. “Okay, alright. Just wait for me in the common room. I’ll grab something from my trunk first.”

Ron nodded, and as he left, Harry opened his trunk, rummaging through his belongings. He pulled out a few items, some Muggle chocolate treats that Emma had said was Hermione's favorite.

After stuffing everything into his pockets, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the encounter that lay ahead. He returned to the common room, where Ron was waiting, looking slightly more impatient than before. Together, they made their way toward the Great Hall, the excitement of the evening hanging in the air like a thick fog.

As they approached the entrance, they dared to peek into the Great Hall, their eyes scanning the long, crowded tables. Harry spotted Hermione at the Gryffindor table, her expression stormy as she aggressively stabbed her steak with her fork, making her displeasure abundantly clear.

“Blimey, she looks furious,” Ron muttered, leaning closer to Harry. “And look at Draco over there at the Slytherin table! He’s pointing at us like he’s trying to blame us for his misfortune!”

Harry snorted, unable to suppress his laughter. “Well, it is our fault. If he wasn’t so keen on hanging around with us, he wouldn’t have gotten into this mess.”

Ron sighed dramatically. “You know what? This is your fault, so I’m just going to sit with the twins,” he said, throwing his hands up in surrender and turning to make a break for the other side of the hall.

“No, Ron, wait!” Harry called after him, but his friend had already abandoned him, muttering about how he didn’t want to be collateral damage in Harry’s antics.

Harry took a deep breath, feeling a mix of dread and excitement. The Great Hall buzzed with chatter and laughter, but for him, it felt like everything had slowed down to a crawl. He steeled himself and turned back toward the Gryffindor table. “Here goes nothing...” he mumbled, half to himself, heart pounding in his chest.

As he approached, he could feel Hermione’s eyes drilling into him, sharp and unwavering. She wanted to yell at him, he could tell, but instead, she averted her gaze back to her plate, trying to regain her composure. Harry’s heart raced a little faster, not entirely from fear, but from the thrill of the chase.

He slid into the seat next to her, the wooden bench creaking slightly under his weight. Leaning in, he nudged her shoulder playfully, trying to break the tension. “Hey, Hermione,” Harry said, attempting to sound casual, his voice just above the ambient noise. “Nice steak you’ve got there. Looks... uh, delicious?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, her fork poised like a weapon, gleaming ominously under the enchanted ceiling. "Get off me or I'll stab you with this fork," she hissed, though there was a hint of a smile lurking in the corners of her mouth.

Harry grinned sheepishly, his pulse quickening at the thrill of her feigned menace. "I'm sorry! I didn’t mean for you to get hit! I just wanted to give you a little surprise,” he said, his tone light and playful. With a flourish, he pulled out a Muggle chocolate bar from his robes and handed it to her, his eyes wide with hope. "Please forgive me?"

Hermione's eyes twinkled with surprise at the sight of the chocolate bar, a gift she hadn’t expected. But then she quickly glared at Harry again, the fiery look attempting to mask her delight. She caught him gazing at her, his brilliant green eyes pleading for forgiveness, and her resolve began to falter.

Feeling the warmth creeping into her cheeks, Hermione looked away, battling the annoyance that was warring with a sense of sweetness. In a sudden movement, she swatted the chocolate bar from his hands, catching it deftly before pocketing it in her robes. “No more pranks,” she insisted, crossing her arms defiantly.

Harry leaned back slightly, a playful grin still plastered across his face. “I promise. I’ll tell you what we’re up to tomorrow morning,” he said earnestly, a playful lilt to his voice.

“Shut up, I don’t care,” Hermione grumbled, though the corners of her lips twitched upwards, betraying her amusement.

Harry shook his head, feigning a dramatic sigh. “No, no, you’re coming with us. If you’re not awake by nine in the morning, I’ll come to your bed and carry you back downstairs myself.”

Hermione shot him a look, trying to muster the most terrifying glare she could manage, but Harry simply chuckled and poked her cheek, relishing the way she scrunched her nose in response.

“Have I ever told you how much I love seeing you glare at me?” Harry whispered, leaning in a little closer, his voice low enough that it was just for her. The air between them crackled with a playful energy, and he couldn’t help but admire the way her eyes sparkled with indignation.

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but instead, she found herself distracted by the way his grin lit up his entire face. She shook her head, pretending to be annoyed, but inside, she felt a flutter of something warm and bright. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossibly charming, you mean,” he quipped, leaning back and starting to pile some food onto his plate.

xxxxx

Harry, Ron, and Draco stood in a row, shoulders slouched, as they endured Hermione’s relentless pacing. She had been scolding them for a solid fifteen minutes now, her voice rising and falling like a stormy tide as she lectured them on the dangers of ignoring Dumbledore’s warnings about the third-floor corridor. Her steps echoed across the empty corridor, and her expression was a mixture of exasperation and concern, eyes flashing as she gestured wildly with her hands.

Draco crossed his arms, his brows furrowed deeply. He shot a glare toward Harry, then Ron, both of whom looked equally guilty, but Draco was the most annoyed. He didn't particularly enjoy being awake this early in the morning—breakfast, in his mind, was supposed to be filled with food and tea, not an earful of nagging from a Muggle-born girl who really ought to be scolding Harry more than anyone.

“And another thing,” Hermione continued, pausing mid-pace to jab a finger in their direction, “this obsession with sneaking into the third-floor corridor? It’s dangerous, it’s reckless, and most importantly—it’s forbidden!”

Harry, standing in the middle of the trio, couldn’t suppress a grin. Her cheeks flushed when she got worked up like this, and it was... well, it was cute. He almost found it funny how much he liked seeing her all riled up. “We just need to check it out once. Just one tiny peek,” Harry began, his grin widening, which earned him a sharp elbow in the ribs from both Ron and Draco. The two of them were already regretting being part of this plan.

“No!” Hermione shrieked, her voice piercing through the quiet hall. “What if you get caught? What if something happens to you? You’ve heard the warnings, Harry!”

“We won’t get in trouble if we’re not caught,” Harry said with a cheeky shrug, the corners of his mouth tugging upward mischievously.

Hermione let out a loud, frustrated sigh, her brow furrowing deeply as she stomped her foot on the cold stone floor. “I don’t like this one bit, Harry,” she said, her tone more pleading than angry now.

“You do realize,” Harry said, leaning forward with a smirk that only deepened as he looked at her, “even if we say we won’t try to peek, we’re still going to, right? You know that, don’t you?”

Ron snorted, and Draco snickered under his breath, though both boys quickly tried to hide their amusement when Hermione turned her sharp gaze on them.

“Stop smirking, Harry!” Hermione snapped, her cheeks burning a light shade of pink as she glared at him. It wasn’t the first time she felt like throwing something at him for that ridiculous grin of his. Why was he so infuriating? And, more importantly, why on earth was he her best friend?!

At this point, Ron and Draco were barely holding it together, both of them stifling laughter as Hermione’s frustration mounted.

“Just one teeny tiny peek, Hermione,” Harry said, his voice softening, almost coaxing now. He stepped toward her, his green eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “I just need something to report back to Sirius, and then we’re done. I promise.”

Hermione huffed and crossed her arms, shaking her head in exasperation. But before she could respond, Harry reached out and gently took her hand, surprising her with the sudden touch. Her heart skipped a beat. She tried to glare at him, but he was pulling something from his pocket—a piece of chocolate, her favorite.

With a playful wave, Harry dangled the chocolate in front of her, flashing that infuriatingly charming grin. “Just one look, one minute, and then we’re out of there,” he said, his tone sweet and persuasive, as if he knew exactly how to get her to agree.

Hermione glared at him, her fists clenched at her sides. She was ready to punch him, honestly, but the smell of the chocolate was tempting. It was stupid how easily he could make her lose her resolve. She groaned in frustration, but her fingers unclenched, her posture relaxing as she sighed in defeat. She snatched the chocolate from his hand, pocketing it with a huff.

“Just one look,” she growled, her eyes narrowing in warning.

“Yes!” Harry’s face lit up with excitement, his eyes dancing with triumph as he swept her into a spontaneous hug, nearly lifting her off the ground in his enthusiasm. Hermione couldn’t help but let out a surprised giggle at his antics, despite her best efforts to remain annoyed. His laughter was contagious, and though she tried to maintain her stern expression, the corners of her lips tugged upwards.

“Come on!” Harry released her, his energy practically bubbling over as he signaled to the others. “Let’s go check it out now!”

“Harry! Not now!” Hermione called after him, but it was too late. He was already halfway down the corridor, Ron and Draco scrambling after him like two eager puppies. She groaned, but despite herself, she was smiling.

"Why do I even bother?" she muttered under her breath, quickly jogging to catch up with the trio, her heart beating faster than it should.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter wasn’t an idiot.

From the moment he’d heard about the forbidden third-floor corridor, his curiosity had sparked to life. There was something important hidden there. Something Dumbledore wanted to protect. The headmaster had even gone so far as to announce it during the start-of-term feast, as though daring someone to test the boundaries. Harry smirked at the memory. It wasn’t hard to piece together that Dumbledore wasn’t just trusting the school’s defenses; he was letting would-be thieves know that they wouldn’t escape without him knowing.

And now, Harry coveted whatever it was. The idea of messing with the old goat was almost too tempting. If it meant stealing whatever Dumbledore was hiding, he’d do it—and do it brilliantly. As long as he didn’t get caught, he’d be safe. That was one of the most important rules Sirius Black had drilled into him growing up. The thrill of getting away with it was half the fun.

Now, here they were, sneaking through the dimly lit third-floor corridor on a quiet weekend, their footsteps barely making a sound on the stone floor. The torches flickered with an eerie glow, casting long shadows across the walls.

"Harry," Hermione whispered harshly from his side, her voice filled with tension, "if we're caught, I’m going to curse you and your entire bloodline."

Harry grinned, leaning toward her slightly as they crept forward. "You do realize I'm the only one left in my bloodline, right?" he whispered back with a teasing lilt.

Hermione rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "And the Blacks too," she added, shooting a quick glance at Draco, who was trailing just behind them.

"Hey!" Draco hissed, looking affronted. "I’m part of the Blacks, too!"

"Me too!" Ron chimed in.

"Perfect," Hermione muttered under her breath, her eyes glinting with annoyance. "Then I’m cursing all of you."

The quartet continued to move deeper into the corridor, their steps cautious but filled with a sense of adventure. Harry had chosen this weekend specifically because the castle would be quieter than usual, and the chance of being caught was lower. So far, nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"Well, this is thrilling," Harry muttered sarcastically, glancing around the empty hallway. There wasn’t a single clue as to what might be hidden here.

"Great, your eyes work," Hermione replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him.

Harry grinned mischievously, taking a step closer to her. "I love you, Hermione, but enough of the sass or I’ll jinx your bum again," he whispered playfully, his green eyes dancing with amusement.

Hermione's cheeks flushed a light pink, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "You wouldn’t dare!" she hissed back, though there was a spark of challenge in her gaze.

Before Harry could respond, Draco groaned dramatically from behind them. "Enough flirting, you two!"

Harry snorted but didn’t push it any further, though the grin on his face remained. Finally, they reached the end of the corridor, where a large wooden door loomed before them, tall and imposing. The kind of door that practically screamed "Do Not Enter."

Harry reached for the handle, giving it a firm tug, but it didn’t budge. "Well, that’s a bust," Ron sighed, running a hand through his ginger hair.

Harry was just about to try something else when the sound of soft meowing caught his attention. His eyes widened in alarm. "Shit," he muttered under his breath, his heart skipping a beat. "That’s Filch’s cat!"

And then they heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. The caretaker’s slow, methodical steps, growing louder with every passing second.

"We’re done for," Ron moaned, his face paling as panic set in.

Draco looked like he was ready to bolt. "What do we do?!"

Before anyone could come up with a plan, Hermione shoved her way past them, her eyes blazing with determination. "Oh, move over!" she hissed, snapping her wrist as her wand slid gracefully from its holster into her hand.

"Alohomora!" she whispered with practiced precision, her wand tip glowing faintly as she pointed it at the lock.

There was a soft click, and the door swung open with ease. Without hesitation, the quartet rushed inside, Harry grabbing the handle and quietly pulling the door shut behind them.

Draco blinked at Hermione in surprise, his face a mix of disbelief and grudging admiration. "Alohomora?"

"Unlocking Charm," Hermione explained with a sigh, keeping her voice low. "Standard Book of Spells, Chapter Seven."

Draco raised an eyebrow and glanced at Harry, who could only shrug sheepishly. "I’m only on Chapter Six."

Hermione shot him a look that was somewhere between fond exasperation and frustration, shaking her head as the group stood in the darkened room, hearts pounding from the close call. 

“Be quiet,” Ron suddenly growled, his voice low, though there was a definite hint of fear threading through his words. His eyes were wide, fixed on something behind them.

Harry didn’t need to ask. The tension in the air had already tightened like a noose around them, and his instincts kicked in immediately. Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed Hermione’s arm, pulling her behind him protectively. Her gasp, mingling with Draco’s sharp intake of breath, only confirmed what his gut was telling him—something was very wrong.

Harry turned his head slowly, following Ron’s terrified gaze. And there it was.

A monstrous, hulking shape loomed at the far end of the room. A giant, three-headed dog. It was slumped over, apparently sleeping, each head resting on enormous paws, the rhythmic rise and fall of its chest filling the silent room with deep, heavy breaths.

For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was their breathing, shallow and ragged. Harry felt Hermione’s fingers tighten on his arm, and he glanced back at her briefly. Her eyes were wide, her face pale, but she wasn’t panicking—not yet.

In the tiniest voice he could muster, Harry whispered, “Draco, open the door. Quickly.”

Draco, not needing to be told twice, fumbled for the handle behind him, moving as silently as he could. His usual cocky demeanor was replaced by a pale, focused expression as he reached for the door.

Unfortunately, the door wasn’t quite as cooperative. As it opened, it let out a loud, ominous creaking sound that echoed in the empty corridor. The effect was immediate and terrifying.

Three pairs of bloodshot eyes snapped open, and the monstrous heads lifted simultaneously, glaring directly at them with murderous intent. The growling began, low and rumbling, vibrating the very floor beneath their feet.

“Fuck, RUN!” Harry yelled, pushing Ron and Hermione toward the now-open door, panic shooting through his veins like lightning.

The enormous dog surged forward, all three heads barking furiously as it lunged, its massive jaws snapping viciously in their direction.

They barely made it through the doorway, the dog’s enormous form crashing against the wood just as they slammed it shut. They could hear the vicious snaps of its teeth trying to tear through the barrier, each sound making their hearts pound harder in their chests.

Draco cursed, his back pressed against the door as though he could somehow hold it shut through sheer willpower. “What the bloody hell was that?!”

“A bloody monster,” Ron whispered, his face still ghostly pale, as if the life had been scared right out of him.

Harry, trying to catch his breath, glanced over at Hermione. She had her back against the wall, chest heaving as she desperately tried to compose herself. “Is this door safe? Hermione, what’s the locking spell?”

Hermione took a deep, shaky breath, pulling her wand out with trembling hands. “Colloportus!” she gasped.

The door sealed itself with a squelching noise, a somewhat odd but reassuring sound that told them it would hold—at least for now.

“Good job,” Harry managed to say, before collapsing onto the floor, breathing heavily as the adrenaline finally began to wear off. He leaned back against the cold stone wall, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Hermione sank down next to him, her hands still on her head, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, concern replacing the tension.

“This is stupid. You’re all stupid,” Hermione whispered, but there was no real venom in her words, just exasperation and the lingering fear of what had almost happened.

Harry managed a chuckle, glancing at Ron and Draco. “You hear that, boys? We’re stupid.”

Ron and Draco, still catching their breath, couldn’t help but burst into laughter, the tension breaking all at once. Draco slid down next to Harry, laughing in that almost-delirious way that only happens after a near-death experience.

Hermione stood abruptly, brushing off her skirt, her face flushed with irritation. “What are they doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?” she demanded, her voice shaky but determined.

Harry pushed himself up, resting his arms on his knees as he looked up at her. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?” Draco asked, pushing his blonde hair out of his face.

Ron groaned, throwing his hands up. “Mate, it had three heads. Why would we be looking at its feet?”

“It was standing on a trapdoor,” Hermione said weakly, her brow furrowing. “It’s guarding something.”

Harry’s mind raced. Finally, something concrete—an answer, or at least the hint of one. He exchanged a look with Draco and Ron, who were now standing, equally intrigued.

“I wonder what it’s guarding,” Harry mused aloud, a familiar spark of curiosity lighting his eyes.

“Enough!” Hermione snapped, stomping her foot in frustration. “I’m going to the library before you three come up with another idiotic plan to get us killed.” She crossed her arms, glaring at them. “Or worse—expelled!”

The boys watched as she stomped away, her figure disappearing down the corridor, her bushy hair bouncing with each furious step.

There was a pause. Draco let out a low whistle, shaking his head in amazement. “Merlin, are all Muggle-borns that intense?”

Harry grinned, watching Hermione disappear around the corner. “No,” he said, unable to hide the amusement in his voice. “Only Hermione.”

Ron chuckled, nudging Harry with his elbow. “Mate, if that’s what you’re getting yourself into, I wish you luck.”

Harry just smirked, his eyes still lingering on where Hermione had been, his mind already racing ahead to their next adventure.

xxxxx

For the rest of the week, Harry and his friends found themselves forced back into the monotony of Hogwarts life. Despite the adrenaline-filled adventure they had shared, sneaking around the third-floor corridor, they were left with nothing but a lingering curiosity about what was hidden beneath the trapdoor guarded by that monstrous three-headed dog.

Frustrating as it was, they had no way to get past the beast. Even with all the tricks and pranks Harry had picked up from Sirius over the years, outwitting a magical creature of that size seemed… improbable, at best. So, they resigned themselves to playing it safe—at least for now.

Classes dragged on as usual. Between Herbology lessons, endless essays, and Snape’s brutal Potions class, the days blended into one another. Harry kept his mind occupied, but that itch for another adventure gnawed at him.

Ron, meanwhile, had taken up a new mission—ingratiating himself with Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain. Harry had caught him on more than one occasion cornering Wood in the corridors, throwing out “brilliant” new Quidditch tactics and suggestions for the next game. Wood, to his credit, humored Ron, even though it was clear he found some of Ron’s ideas more amusing than practical.

Draco, however, kept his distance, slipping into a more aloof demeanor when they were out in public. With the constant animosity between Gryffindor and Slytherin, it was obvious that the other Slytherins didn’t appreciate Draco mingling with Gryffindors, especially not Harry Potter. So Draco, though still thick as thieves with them in private, kept his interactions with Harry and Ron limited when they were around others to avoid stirring trouble within his House.

Hermione, on the other hand, had been giving Harry the cold shoulder for three days straight. After their escapade with the three-headed dog, she had shut herself off from them, throwing herself into her studies as usual. It took Harry nearly four days—and a steady supply of chocolate frogs—before she softened, finally deciding to speak to him again. Harry couldn’t help but feel a small sense of triumph when she finally caved, though Hermione had glared at him in a way that made him think she knew exactly what he was doing.

Today, the Great Hall was bustling as usual. It was breakfast, and the smell of freshly made pancakes, crispy bacon, and scrambled eggs filled the air. Harry and Hermione sat next to each other at the Gryffindor table, while Ron squeezed in next to Harry, shoveling food onto his plate as if he hadn't eaten in days.

Ron glanced at Harry, who was carefully cutting pancakes into neat little pieces on Hermione’s plate, making sure each slice was evenly buttered. His smirk was mischievous, and when he caught Harry’s eye, he mouthed, “Whipped.”

Harry shot him a warning look and whispered back, “Wanker.”

Ron stifled a laugh, but his eyes sparkled with amusement as he turned his attention to his own plate. Harry pretended to ignore him, refocusing on Hermione, who was now eating with a pleased, almost regal expression, clearly enjoying the attention. Her smile, though subtle, was impossible to miss.

"You spoil me too much, Harry," Hermione said teasingly between bites, though the twinkle in her eyes betrayed that she didn't mind being pampered.

Harry grinned, leaning back in his seat. "Only because you’re worth it."

Hermione flushed slightly, pretending to concentrate on her food. She didn’t meet his eyes, but the faint blush spreading across her cheeks gave her away.

They were just about to start discussing their Potions homework—Snape had assigned them an absurd amount of work on potion ingredients—when Professor McGonagall appeared beside them, her stern expression softened by a polite smile.

"Good morning, Ms. Granger," McGonagall greeted, her tone as crisp as ever. “Once you’ve finished here, kindly join me for a moment. Professor Dumbledore has requested your presence. He wishes to discuss something with you.”

Hermione’s fork froze mid-air, her eyes widening in surprise. She looked at McGonagall, then back at Harry, confusion etched on her face. "M-Me? What does he want with me?"

"Don't keep him waiting too long, Ms. Granger," McGonagall added before sweeping off to another part of the hall, her robes billowing behind her.

Harry watched Hermione as she stared after McGonagall, her brow furrowed in worry. But instead of lingering on it, she suddenly began wolfing down her remaining food at an alarming pace, clearly wanting to get whatever meeting this was over with as quickly as possible.

“Slow down, Hermione,” Harry chuckled, pushing a cup of apple juice towards her. “It’s not like McGonagall’s going to vanish if you don’t eat fast enough.”

Hermione glared at him, but she couldn’t hide the small smile that crept onto her face. She took a sip of the juice and glanced at him with that sharp, inquisitive look that always made him feel like she was two steps ahead of everyone else. “I just… I don’t get it. Why would Dumbledore want to talk to me? I haven’t done anything wrong.” Her voice was tinged with nerves.

“Relax. It’s probably nothing,” Harry said, although there was a slight edge to his voice that Hermione picked up on. He hesitated for a moment, then added, “I’m going with you anyway.”

“You are?” Hermione raised an eyebrow, surprised. “You’re coming with me?”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah. I’ll explain later, but… I don’t trust Dumbledore, okay? So I’m coming with you. Don’t worry about it.”

Hermione studied him for a long moment, her brown eyes searching his face. She could tell there was something he wasn’t saying, something deeper. But instead of pressing him, she nodded slowly. “Alright, if you’re sure.”

There was a moment of silence between them, their gazes lingering on each other longer than necessary. Harry finally cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Hermione, still slightly confused but grateful for his support, gave him a small smile before finishing her breakfast in a more leisurely manner.

As they prepared to leave, Harry shot Ron and Draco a look, silently telling them to keep an eye out while he went with Hermione. They both made their way out of the Great Hall, leaving behind the buzz of morning chatter. Harry walked beside her, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings, though his thoughts were already spinning ahead, wondering what Dumbledore could possibly want with Hermione.

xxxxx

McGonagall’s sharp eyes flickered between Hermione and Harry, her usual stern demeanor softening ever so slightly with curiosity. She raised an eyebrow at Harry, clearly not pleased with his presence.

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall began, her tone firm but resigned, "I don’t believe you are included in this conversation."

Harry, unfazed by her subtle reprimand, stood his ground, his green eyes locked on the professor with an unwavering confidence that seemed too mature for his eleven years. "I believe I am, Professor," he replied calmly, though there was a certain weight behind his words. He nodded as though confirming something to himself before continuing, "Hermione Granger is currently under the scholarship of the House of Potter, and as Heir to the House, it is my duty to be present at discussions involving Ms. Granger and the school."

McGonagall’s lips thinned, her eyes narrowing slightly. She crossed her arms, looking at Harry as if she were assessing him anew. He had the quick wit of Lily Evans, the boldness of James Potter, and—she hated to admit—the sheer audacity of Sirius Black.

She let out a small sigh, the corner of her mouth twitching ever so slightly. "Alright," she conceded, clearly deciding that it was easier to let Harry have his way than to argue. With a resigned look, she turned and spoke the password to the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s office. The statue sprang to life, revealing the spiraling staircase beyond.

But just as Hermione made to follow McGonagall, Harry caught her by the arm, gently pulling her to the side. "Wait," he said, his voice lower now, more serious. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his fingers squeezing lightly in a way that sent an unexpected flutter through her stomach.

"Okay, listen," Harry began, his emerald eyes searching hers with a sincerity that made her heart skip a beat. "I need you to trust me. I’ll explain everything later, I promise, but right now I need you to do something for me."

Hermione blinked, slightly caught off guard by the intensity in his gaze. She opened her mouth to ask a dozen questions, but before she could get a word out, Harry pulled out his ring from his finger. It was polished to a brilliant sheen, with the Potter crest engraved into it. The crest, a wolf’s head with ruby-red eyes, glinted in the light, and Hermione found herself momentarily mesmerized by the intricacy of the design.

"What—" Hermione started, but Harry cut her off gently.

"During the meeting, I want you to wear this," he said firmly, slipping the ring onto her middle finger. The metal was cool against her skin, but to her surprise, the ring began to shrink, adjusting itself until it fit snugly on her finger, as though it had been made for her. "Don’t take it off, don’t touch it. Just let it stay there, alright?"

Hermione stared down at the ring, still processing. It felt... significant, somehow. "Harry," she murmured, her voice soft but tinged with confusion, "I’m going to need more than that. What’s going on?"

Harry let out a small sigh, looking around quickly to make sure McGonagall wasn’t within earshot. His voice dropped lower, just for her ears. "Later," he promised. "I’ll explain everything. But right now, just trust me. Please?"

There was something about the way he was looking at her that made it impossible to refuse. Hermione felt her heart racing, not entirely sure why this was happening but unable to deny the strange, unspoken connection between them at that moment. "Okay," she breathed, nodding. "Alright, I trust you."

A small smile tugged at Harry’s lips, and he gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping back. "Good." His voice was softer now, as if they shared some secret that no one else could understand.

As Hermione looked back down at the ring, she felt the weight of it—not physically, but in a way that suggested it was more than just a piece of jewelry. And though she didn’t understand it yet, something about wearing it made her feel... protected. Like Harry was standing guard over her, even when he wasn’t by her side.

McGonagall, who had been watching from a few steps away, couldn’t help but raise her brows at the sight. The ring Harry had just given to Hermione wasn’t just any family heirloom. It was the Potter family ring—an object that symbolized the Heir to the House of Potter. For Harry to place it so casually on Hermione’s hand... McGonagall’s mind raced with questions. She could sense that this was no ordinary situation, but years of experience had taught her not to ask too many questions before she had all the facts.

"Professor?" Harry called, his voice polite but insistent.

McGonagall snapped out of her thoughts, nodding briskly as if she hadn’t just been analyzing the oddity of the moment. "Yes, well," she cleared her throat, turning to lead them up the spiral staircase to Dumbledore’s office. "Let’s not keep the Headmaster waiting."

As they ascended the stairs, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling of Harry’s hand still lingering on her shoulder, the warmth of his touch staying with her even as they neared the top. And when she glanced down at the ring on her finger, she found herself wondering just what exactly she had gotten herself into.

xxxxx

"Ah, Ms. Granger, welcome!" Dumbledore’s voice rang out warmly as they stepped into the Headmaster’s office. His eyes twinkled with their usual mirth, though they faltered briefly when he noticed Harry walking in beside her. "Harry?" The way he said his name was overly familiar, as if trying to ease the tension with charm.

Harry cringed inwardly at Dumbledore’s tone, a faint flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Hello, Professor," he replied, his voice polite but distant, clearly not in the mood for pleasantries.

Dumbledore’s gaze flicked to Professor McGonagall, seeking some explanation. She merely shook her head slightly, lips pressed into a thin line, as if to say, 'This is Harry Potter. What did you expect?'

"I don’t believe your presence is required here, Harry," Dumbledore said with a kind smile, though it was clear he was attempting to dismiss him.

Without hesitation, Harry guided Hermione to sit down, taking the chair next to hers. His movements were deliberate, confident, as if challenging the Headmaster’s unspoken authority. "I believe I am, Professor," Harry said smoothly. "After all, Hermione is a scholar under the House of Potter."

Dumbledore’s smile faltered for a moment, but he let out a hearty, if somewhat forced, laugh. "I understand, Harry, but this discussion is more personal than academic. As Ms. Granger’s magical guardian, it is my duty to explain a few things to her."

Hermione glanced nervously at Harry, her brow furrowed in concern. But when Harry looked back at her, his eyes softened, and the small, reassuring smile he gave her eased her worry slightly. There was something about the way he handled himself in moments like this that made her feel safe, even in the presence of someone as powerful as Dumbledore.

"Then it’s even more important that I’m here, Professor," Harry continued, his tone steady but carrying a subtle undertone of authority. "A few weeks ago, the House of Black employed Hermione’s mother, Emma Granger, to help with some private matters. Since then, Hermione has been placed under my godfather’s responsibility, making him her magical guardian. As her best friend and the Heir to the House of Black, I am currently acting as proxy guardian to report back to my godfather."

Dumbledore’s eyes widened in genuine surprise, his fingers pausing mid-twirl around the silver beard that hung down his chest. This was information he hadn’t anticipated. His gaze darted back to Hermione, as if seeking confirmation. "Is this true, Ms. Granger?" he asked, his voice unusually soft, but there was something sharp in his blue eyes—something probing.

Hermione hesitated, feeling a strange pressure build behind her eyes as Dumbledore stared at her. It was as though something was nudging at her mind, gently pressing against her thoughts. She flinched slightly, her fingers twitching in her lap as if to brush something away, but then, just as quickly, the sensation vanished when Dumbledore shifted his gaze away. "Yes, Professor," she answered in a small voice. There was a heaviness in her chest she couldn’t quite explain, and she didn’t like the way he was looking at her.

Harry’s hand moved under the table, gently resting on her knee, a small gesture of support that only she could feel. The warmth of his touch soothed the lingering discomfort left by Dumbledore’s probing gaze, and Hermione instinctively relaxed. She glanced at Harry, and he gave her the tiniest nod, his silent way of telling her everything would be fine.

McGonagall, who had been silently observing the entire exchange, cleared her throat. "I believe it’s time to proceed, Professor Dumbledore," she said, her voice cutting through the tension. "They’ll be late for their first class."

Dumbledore’s smile returned, though it was dimmer now, the twinkle in his eyes noticeably dulled. He nodded slowly. "Quite right, Professor McGonagall. Quite right," he muttered, as if momentarily lost in thought.

Turning back to Hermione, Dumbledore’s tone became more formal. "Ms. Granger," he began, "this is an offer extended to all Muggle-born students. I plan on holding special classes to provide a more comprehensive understanding of the wizarding world for those, like yourself, who were raised in Muggle society."

Hermione’s curiosity piqued at that, but before she could respond, Harry shifted slightly in his seat, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Dumbledore continued, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s change in demeanor. "These classes will cover not only magical theory but also our history, government, and most importantly, how Muggle-born witches and wizards like yourself can integrate fully into our world."

As Dumbledore spoke, Harry’s jaw clenched, a quiet scoff escaping his lips. Hermione glanced at him, noticing the subtle change in his expression—his lips slightly curled in a sardonic smile. She knew that look. He was biting back a comment, but it was only a matter of time before he said something.

And, of course, he did.

"Fascinating," Harry murmured, the sarcasm dripping from his voice like honey. "Teaching Muggle-born students how to fit in... How generous of you, Professor."

Dumbledore’s eyes flickered towards Harry again, and this time, the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. "It is important for all students to understand the society they are entering, Harry," he said, his voice still warm, but there was a slight edge to it now. "We all must learn our place in the grander scheme of things."

Harry almost snorted but held it back, keeping his expression neutral as Dumbledore continued with his usual charm. He had heard all about this tactic from Sirius during one of their late-night conversations. Dumbledore had a well-known habit of drawing Muggle-borns to his side, making them feel like they belonged in the magical world, especially within Hogwarts’ walls. To most, it seemed like a noble endeavor—offering inclusion and guidance to those unfamiliar with the intricacies of wizarding life. But to Harry, it always felt more like a political maneuver than an act of kindness.

He knew Dumbledore wasn’t doing this purely out of the goodness of his heart. As the years passed, Muggle-borns were making up a larger portion of the magical population, and by Sirius’s estimation, they would soon account for nearly 30%. Dumbledore, ever the tactician, understood the weight that number carried. He needed them on his side—needed their allegiance to shore up his influence in the wizarding world. The Headmaster had always been a master at ensuring the balance of power leaned in his favor, and gaining the loyalty of this emerging demographic was key to maintaining that control.

But Harry saw through it. It wasn’t about true inclusion or equality. It was more of a lesson in keeping your head down. A conversation Harry had once overheard between Sirius and a Muggle-born wizard who had graduated from Hogwarts a few years before had been particularly eye-opening. The man had explained that Dumbledore’s so-called "special classes" weren’t as welcoming as they sounded. Instead of teaching Muggle-borns how to thrive in the wizarding world, they were more of a subtle warning: stay quiet, don’t provoke the purebloods, and learn to navigate the existing power structures without causing too much trouble.

In those lessons, Dumbledore made it clear that the old customs and traditions, no matter how archaic or backward they seemed, were not going to change. Instead, Muggle-borns were taught how to work within those limits, almost as if they were being prepared for a life of quiet subservience. It was a bitter pill for many to swallow—being told they were welcome in this world, but only if they didn’t upset the status quo.

Harry could picture the scene all too well—Muggle-born students, wide-eyed and eager, sitting in those classes, only to be told that the magical world they had longed to be a part of wasn’t the utopia they had imagined. Instead of finding a path to success, they were warned that life after Hogwarts would be a constant struggle. They’d likely end up working in shops, apothecaries, or other low-paying jobs, never truly breaking into the higher ranks of wizarding society. The Ministry? Forget about it. That was a realm almost exclusively reserved for purebloods and half-bloods with the right connections.

It was a harsh reality. One Dumbledore presented in the most diplomatic way possible, of course, but a reality nonetheless. Harry’s mind was already racing ahead, knowing that when Hermione attended these so-called "special classes," she would eventually hear these same things. She would be told what was expected of her, not to ruffle any feathers, and to accept the limitations placed upon her. But that wasn’t something Harry was going to allow.

The Headmaster may have had his plans, but Harry had his own. He wasn’t about to let Hermione—or any of the other Muggle-born students for that matter—fall into that trap. They deserved better, and Harry intended to ensure that they had the power and resources to make their own way, on their own terms.

And if that meant butting heads with Dumbledore? So be it.

Before Harry could open his mouth to interrupt, Hermione beat him to it, shaking her head with a surprising confidence that caught everyone in the room off guard.

“It’s quite alright, Professor,” she said smoothly, her voice steady and sure, her smile just sweet enough to disarm. “Sirius Black and Harry here have been a tremendous help in easing my way into the wizarding world. They even went out of their way to buy me books to read, and they’ve been introducing me to people in their lives, so I can learn more about the different paths I can take after Hogwarts.”

Her words were delivered so flawlessly, so convincingly, that for a moment, even Harry almost believed her. He had to stop himself from letting out a bark of laughter. She was lying—so effortlessly, so skillfully—and making it sound like the absolute truth. Harry hadn’t introduced anyone to Hermione yet. In fact, the only ones who had been talking to her about the wizarding world so far were himself and Sirius. But there she was, weaving her story with a sly brilliance that left no room for doubt.

Harry glanced over at her, raising an eyebrow in surprise. Hermione caught the look and, as if on cue, smirked up at him. Her eyes glinted with mischief, silently daring him to contradict her, to challenge the lie she had spun. But Harry wasn’t about to ruin the moment. He grinned back at her, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was their little secret, and the thrill of the unspoken understanding between them was intoxicating.

Dumbledore, however, didn’t look quite as pleased. For a brief second, the lines on his face tightened, the ever-present twinkle in his eyes dimming ever so slightly. He clearly hadn’t expected Hermione to handle herself so well—or for Harry to stay silent and back her up. But Dumbledore was nothing if not composed, and he managed to recover quickly, offering her a strained but polite nod.

“I understand, Ms. Granger,” Dumbledore replied, his voice calm though the subtle tension was unmistakable. “If you ever do feel the need to join us for more... specialized discussions, please don’t hesitate to let me know. The offer remains open.”

Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore tried to appear relaxed, but Harry could sense the underlying frustration in the Headmaster’s tone. The conversation hadn’t gone as planned, and Harry was sure Dumbledore wasn’t used to being outmaneuvered like this—especially by a couple of first-years.

As the words settled, Harry stood up slowly, deliberately, making a show of stretching before he turned toward Hermione. Without missing a beat, he reached for her hand, brushing off an imaginary speck of dust from her fingers with exaggerated care. His touch lingered for just a moment longer than necessary, and as he dusted her hand, his thumb lightly grazed over the ring she was wearing—the Potter family ring, glinting in the dim light of Dumbledore’s office.

It wasn’t just any ring; it was a symbol of power, authority, and legacy. And Harry made sure Dumbledore saw it.

As if on cue, the Headmaster’s eyes flicked to the ring, narrowing for just a second. The tension in the room thickened, but Harry remained calm, his gaze unwavering. He wasn’t going to let Dumbledore intimidate him or Hermione—not today.

“There we go,” Harry said casually, finally letting go of Hermione’s hand as if the little display had been nothing more than an innocent gesture. “Can’t have you walking around with dust on your hands, can we?”

Hermione gave him a look, somewhere between amusement and exasperation, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she followed his lead, standing up gracefully beside him.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, her voice soft but laced with something playful, something only the two of them understood.

“Anytime,” Harry replied, grinning as he turned to head toward the door, his hand resting lightly on Hermione’s lower back as they moved to leave.

As they made their way to the exit, Harry could feel the weight of Dumbledore’s gaze burning into his back. The Headmaster’s carefully controlled mask of serenity had cracked, if only for a moment, and Harry could sense the anger simmering just beneath the surface. He didn’t need to look back to know that Dumbledore was furious—not at Hermione, but at him.

The fury in the air was almost palpable, like a storm gathering just beyond the horizon, but Harry didn’t care. In fact, there was a small part of him that relished the idea of pushing Dumbledore’s buttons. He kept his stride even, casual, not once glancing over his shoulder as he led Hermione toward the door.

As they reached the threshold, Harry paused for just a heartbeat, his hand still lightly guiding Hermione. Without turning, he called out over his shoulder with a quick, polite farewell.

“Goodbye, Professor,” he said, his voice light, almost cheerful. “Thanks for your time.”

And with that, they left the office, leaving behind the weight of Dumbledore’s frustrated gaze as they disappeared down the spiral staircase.

xxxxx

Harry and Hermione made their way down a quieter corridor, the noise of the castle fading behind them. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the stone walls, making the atmosphere feel more intimate, more intense. Hermione finally stopped, turning to face Harry with a mix of frustration and confusion, letting out an exaggerated groan as she rubbed her temples.

“Oh my gosh, what was that?!” she squeaked, her voice rising in disbelief. “I just lied to the Headmaster! The Albus Dumbledore!” Her wide, amber eyes fixed on Harry. “Harry, you need to explain what’s going on, right now!”

Harry stifled a laugh, enjoying her reaction far more than he should have. “Hermione, relax.” He chuckled, watching the firelight dance in her eyes. “Honestly, I’m impressed. You lied right to his face, and you did it perfectly. Bravo.” He gave her a mocking round of applause. “8 out of 10. With a bit more training, you’ll be an expert at this.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, her cheeks flushing a deep pink as she swatted his arm in annoyance. “Harry! Now is not the time for jokes!” she hissed, clearly flustered. “I need answers, and I need them now.”

Harry’s grin widened, but seeing the genuine concern in her eyes, he raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Come on.” He held out his hand, waiting for her to take it.

Hermione stared at his outstretched hand for a moment, her heart racing. She hesitated, unsure whether to take it, but the warmth of his smile convinced her. She placed her hand in his, and Harry’s grip was firm, reassuring. Together, they walked down the corridor, hand in hand, the silence stretching between them for a moment as Hermione tried to focus on anything but how soft his hand felt in hers.

“Okay,” Harry began, his voice soft but serious, “so, quick history recap. My parents… you know how they died, right? Voldemort killed them.”

Hermione nodded, her mind trying to process this sudden shift in tone, all while resisting the urge to keep glancing at their entwined fingers.

“But there’s more to the story,” Harry continued, his voice taking on a darker edge. “Our house was under the Fidelius Charm. You’ve heard of it, right?”

“Of course,” Hermione whispered, her curiosity piqued. “It hides someone so completely that only the Secret Keeper can reveal their location.”

“Exactly.” Harry’s jaw clenched. “My parents chose Peter Pettigrew as their Secret Keeper, on Dumbledore’s advice. He convinced them that Sirius should be the decoy instead. They trusted Dumbledore’s judgment completely. And that’s where everything went wrong.”

Hermione gasped softly, her grip on Harry’s hand tightening. “Peter Pettigrew... betrayed them?”

“Yeah,” Harry’s voice was heavy with anger. “He sold them out. Voldemort found us, and you know the rest. My parents died because of that choice.” He stopped walking and turned to face her, his green eyes blazing with an intensity that sent shivers down Hermione’s spine. “Dumbledore’s decision cost me my family, Hermione. I don’t trust him. And you shouldn’t either.”

The weight of Harry’s words hung in the air between them. Hermione could feel her heart pounding in her chest, caught between the terror of what Harry was telling her and the strange sense of comfort his presence brought. His eyes, so vibrant and alive, held her gaze, and she found herself momentarily lost in them, forgetting to breathe. How could someone so young carry such a heavy burden? And yet, there he was, standing before her with a confidence and resolve that made her feel small in comparison.

“I—” Hermione’s voice wavered, but she found herself nodding. “I believe you, Harry.” She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. “But... what does this have to do with—” She suddenly pulled her hand away, holding up her other hand to show him the ring. “This. What’s this supposed to do?”

Harry’s expression softened, and he smiled that mischievous grin that made her stomach flutter. “Ah, right. That.” He pointed at the ring. “It’s protection, Hermione. Against Legilimency.”

“Legilimency?” Hermione echoed, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“It’s the magical ability to read minds,” Harry explained, his voice calm, but there was an edge to it. “Dumbledore is a Legilimens. He can look into your mind just by staring into your eyes. Thoughts, memories, secrets—you name it. He can see it all.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in horror. “That’s... that’s an invasion of privacy!”

“Exactly,” Harry said, nodding. “But here’s the kicker—there’s no way to prove it. If he uses Legilimency on you, you wouldn’t even know. And you can’t call him out on it because there’s no evidence.”

Hermione stared down at the ring in disbelief. “And this... protects me from that?”

Harry nodded, smirking slightly. “That ring blocks Legilimency. It shields your mind from being invaded. Pretty neat, huh?”

Hermione gazed at the ring, awestruck. “And... you’re giving it to me?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Harry teased, reaching out to take the ring from her. “This is just for now. This is the Potter family ring. Anyone who wears it is considered the Heir to the House of Potter. Sirius would have a fit if he saw you wearing it.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, and her face paled. “Wait... so you weren’t protected earlier? When we were in the meeting with Dumbledore?”

Harry shook his head with a grin. “I know a bit of Occlumency—it’s the counter to Legilimency. I’ve been trained to put up mental shields. Plus, I’ve got the Black family ring. Same protection as the Potter ring.”

Hermione’s panic was palpable now, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. Harry had just shattered her entire perception of the Headmaster, the man she thought was the most trustworthy figure in the wizarding world. And now she was vulnerable—open to mental attacks she didn’t even know existed.

Sensing her distress, Harry sighed, taking her hand once again and sliding the ring back onto her finger. “Here, keep it on for now. I’ll deal with Sirius later.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Just... don’t tell anyone. Keep it safe for me, alright?”

Hermione hesitated, but the sincerity in Harry’s voice eased her fears. She nodded firmly. “I will. I promise.”

Harry’s smile returned, more playful this time. “Good. Now, let’s head to the library. We’re probably late for class anyway.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in panic. “What? No! We can’t be late!”

Harry chuckled, waving a folded parchment in the air. “Relax, Hermione. I’ve got a note from Aunt Minnie. We’re off the hook.”

“But... I want to go to class!” Hermione protested, her voice rising in indignation.

Harry laughed, already walking away, his pace casual and unbothered. “Suit yourself. I’m off to the library. Catch up if you can.”

Hermione watched him go, torn between her love of learning and her growing curiosity about this boy who had just turned her world upside down. With a groan of frustration, she hurried after him, her heart racing—not just from the dash, but from everything Harry had revealed. She wasn’t ready to let him walk out of her life. Not just yet.

Chapter Text

Today was Hermione Granger’s birthday.

She stared at the ceiling of her dormitory, the early morning light filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the floor. The warmth of her bed didn’t do much to shake off the cold feeling in her chest. Her body ached with a familiar weight that had nothing to do with her physical health. She sighed, pulling the blankets over her head as if hiding from the world would make the day pass faster.

It was her first birthday without her parents. She missed the smell of flour, chocolate, and vanilla that used to fill the house on this day. Before her father passed away, Hermione spent her birthdays in the kitchen with her parents, her father leading the charge with his impeccable baking skills. It had been less of Hermione baking and more of her tasting every ingredient and batter she could get her hands on. That chocolate cake—her chocolate cake—was still the best thing she’d ever tasted. She could practically taste the warmth of it now, the sweetness lingering on her tongue like a memory that refused to fade.

But that part of her life was over. After her father was gone, her mother had tried to keep up the tradition. Sweet Emma Granger, a loving mother, but a disaster in the kitchen. Every year she’d buy slices of cake from the local bakery, doing her best to cheer Hermione up. It wasn’t the same, though. The comfort of her father’s warm, expert touch was missing, and the charred smell that filled the house after Emma’s latest baking attempt didn’t help.

The truth was, Emma’s attempts at baking were more of a hazard than a gift. It was almost amusing how alike mother and daughter were when it came to kitchen disasters. Hermione herself was hardly better. Chocolate cake had become a near-impossible feat without burning something or spilling half the batter onto the floor.

Hermione closed her eyes tighter, squeezing the pillow against her face. It would have been easier if today was a school day. At least then she’d have lessons to distract her. But no, it had to be a weekend, leaving her to her thoughts. She wasn’t a child anymore; she understood that life wasn’t fair, and you couldn’t always get what you wanted. She wasn’t that sad. Really.

Her mum had already gifted her an early birthday present—Edgar, the little owl she adored. Edgar was more than a gift; he was her connection to home, to her mum, to the life that still existed outside of Hogwarts. He was her lifeline.

But today, her thoughts kept circling back to Harry Potter. Her best friend. The boy who had somehow wormed his way into her life and made it infinitely more complicated.

The richest wizard in the country. The Boy Who Lived. Her best friend.

Hermione felt her face grow warm just thinking about him. Harry was kind, yes, but infuriatingly thoughtless when it came to money. He spent it like it was air—easily, without a second thought, especially when it came to her. She was embarrassed by it, even more embarrassed to admit that she liked being spoiled by him. Whether it was books, chocolates, or just little treats, Harry always seemed to know what she wanted before she even realized she wanted it.

She groaned, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling again. She could still remember that one trip to Diagon Alley when she’d made the mistake of pointing at a cute little quill stand she liked. It was hardly anything, just something small and decorative. And yet, before she could even protest, Harry had bought it.

And it wasn’t just the quill stand. It was everything. Every single thing she so much as glanced at, Harry bought. She had to duck her head, hiding her frustration and embarrassment. It was both sweet and utterly annoying.

Her dumb best friend.

He’d buy her the world if she let him. And she hated that. But what she hated more was that part of her—just a small, shameful part—liked it.

She liked that Harry noticed things about her. She liked that he had a compartment in his trunk stuffed with her favorite chocolate bars, ready to be handed over when she was too furious to talk to him. She liked that he cared when she was frustrated or excited about a new book. And she really liked how he always seemed to know just what to say when she was feeling down, like he could read her without even trying.

But liking it made her feel guilty, didn’t it? Shouldn’t she be more independent? Less reliant on him? Yet here she was, buried under her blankets, feeling a mix of embarrassment and affection for the boy who spoiled her without even realizing it.

Hermione let out a muffled shriek into her pillow. Stupid, dumb Harry Potter. Always making her feel things she didn’t want to feel. She rolled over again, trying to push those thoughts out of her mind. But no matter how hard she tried, her thoughts always drifted back to him.

Her birthday had barely started, and already, Harry Potter was in her head. She sighed, knowing full well that he wouldn’t stop there. He’d find some ridiculous way to make her birthday special, wouldn’t he? Whether she liked it or not.

xxxxx

Hermione descended the stairs from the girls’ dormitory, her stomach a knot of nerves as she thought about what she might find in the common room. For a brief moment, she dared to hope for a surprise, maybe a present, or even just a simple acknowledgment from her best friend. But when her eyes landed on Harry Potter sitting on the couch, casually chatting with Ron over a half-done homework assignment, that knot turned into a lump of disappointment.

Blinking in disbelief, she watched as Harry looked up, grinning at her with his usual lopsided smile. He closed his book, stood up, and walked over, seemingly oblivious to her inner turmoil.

“Good morning, Hermione,” he greeted her cheerfully. “Ready for breakfast?”

She just stared at him, speechless. Did he really forget it was her birthday? She wasn’t expecting a grand gesture, but not even a birthday greeting? No sign of recognition at all? She clenched her fists by her side, forcing herself not to snap.

“Yeah, sure,” Hermione managed to mutter through gritted teeth, her fury simmering just beneath the surface. Without waiting for the boys, she turned sharply on her heel and stormed out of the common room, determined not to let her emotions show.

The walk to the Great Hall did little to calm her nerves. By the time she sat down for breakfast, she was seething. How could he forget? And it wasn’t just Harry—Ron hadn’t said anything either. She felt her frustration mounting with every passing second. Even Draco, who had stopped by for a brief conversation with Harry, hadn’t said a word about her birthday. She knew they knew. Harry always kept track of things like that, and he would’ve definitely told Ron and Draco.

She stabbed angrily at her breakfast, her appetite gone. Every bite felt heavy, her thoughts clouded by disappointment. She kept glancing over at Harry, waiting for him to say something, anything—but he just sat there, completely unaware, laughing and talking like it was just any other day.

When breakfast finally ended, Ron excused himself to go watch Quidditch practice, leaving Hermione sitting in her own boiling frustration. Harry stood up to follow, stretching casually, as if he had no care in the world.

“I’m going to Hagrid’s,” he said, flashing Hermione that same easygoing grin. “He invited me for tea this morning.”

That was it. Hermione had enough. He really forgot.

She muttered a curse under her breath, so low Harry didn’t catch it. Stupid, thoughtless Harry Potter. He didn’t deserve a reminder. Let him forget! But that didn’t mean she’d spend the day alone. Not on her birthday.

“No,” Hermione said suddenly, her voice sharp.

Harry blinked, looking back at her. “Pardon?”

“I said, ‘No,’” Hermione snapped, pushing a piece of leftover bacon around her plate with her fork, her eyes blazing. “Stay with me.”

Harry tilted his head, clearly confused. For a moment, she thought he’d argue, maybe even brush her off like he usually did when he had something else planned. She braced herself, ready to storm off in fury if he dared say something dismissive. But to her surprise, Harry didn’t argue. He smiled again, that same infuriatingly calm smile, and sat back down beside her.

“Okay,” he said easily, reaching for the pumpkin juice and pouring himself another glass. “I’ll stay with you.”

Hermione blinked, her anger faltering for just a second. He wasn’t fighting her on this? She narrowed her eyes, still suspicious. “What about Hagrid?”

Harry shrugged, taking a sip of his juice. “He didn’t really specify a time in his letter, so I can go tomorrow. Or maybe after class on Monday.”

He said it so casually, like it was the simplest thing in the world. And maybe for Harry, it was. Hermione frowned, still annoyed but slightly mollified by his willingness to stay.

“So… library?” Harry asked, looking hopeful.

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. The library? On her birthday? She resisted the urge to smack him. “No, I just want to rest for today,” she replied, her tone sharper than she intended.

Harry didn’t seem fazed by her tone. He simply nodded, taking it in stride as if her refusal was perfectly normal. “Alright,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “How about a walk? We can head down to the Black Lake, maybe see if there’s really a giant squid lurking around.”

That piqued her interest, if only a little. Hermione arched an eyebrow. “A giant squid?”

Harry laughed, clearly enjoying the way her curiosity lit up her face, even through her annoyance. “Yeah! It’s a Hogwarts legend, didn’t you know? They say there’s a massive squid living in the lake. Come on, grab some toast. We can check it out.”

Hermione huffed, trying to maintain her irritation, but she could feel the tension in her chest easing just a little. Of course he’d suggest something ridiculous like hunting for a giant squid. That was just like Harry.

“Fine,” she muttered, trying to hide the fact that her curiosity was getting the better of her. She reached for a few pieces of toast, trying to act as though this wasn’t exactly what she needed—something distracting, something to keep her mind off the fact that it was her birthday, and none of her friends had remembered.

Harry grinned, clearly pleased with himself, as if sensing her softening mood. He stood up, offering her a hand. “Come on then. Let’s see if we can find that sea monster.”

Hermione shot him a glare, but there was no heat behind it. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Harry laughed, pulling her up from her seat. “But I’m your idiot.”

Hermione let out a reluctant smile as they made their way toward the lake. She hated that he could make her feel better so easily, even when he was being a completely oblivious prat.

Stupid, dumb Harry Potter.

xxxxx

Harry and Hermione stood at the edge of the Black Lake, their laughter still lingering in the air as they watched the ripples settle where the giant squid had disappeared. Harry had managed to coax the creature into snatching bits of toast they’d thrown, and for a moment, Hermione had allowed herself to enjoy the silly game. But now, as the squid swam away, the weight of the day returned, and she found herself sulking again, the joy from earlier slowly dissipating.

She hated this feeling—the frustration, the disappointment. Her mind was consumed by the thought that Harry had forgotten her birthday, and it only worsened as he gripped her hand, pulling her along as if everything was normal. Why was he even holding her hand? Why did he do it so casually, like it didn’t mean anything? She was the only one embarrassed by it, and that was what made it worse.

They stopped beneath a large beech tree on the far side of the lake, the castle now a distant silhouette behind them. Harry finally released her hand and began circling the tree, his fingers tracing along the bark as if searching for something. Then, he froze, his expression softening as his hand rested on a carving etched deep into the wood.

“LJE x JHP.”

Hermione stepped closer, curiosity pulling her in. “What is it?” she asked, peering at the letters.

Harry smiled faintly, his voice quiet and filled with reverence. “Lily Jane Evans and James Henry Potter. My parents. I’ve seen this tree in a few photos that Sirius showed me. He told me once that he caught my dad carving this into the bark, but he’d forgotten where it was. I never thought I’d actually find it.”

Hermione’s heart clenched. She had never heard Harry speak about his parents like this, so raw and vulnerable. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. She knew the pain of losing a parent, but she had her memories to hold on to. Harry had only stories, fleeting glimpses of a life he’d never known.

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the comfort of her embrace. “Yeah,” he said, pulling back with a grateful smile. “I’m fine. Thanks, Hermione.”

As he turned to face the lake, his expression softened again, but this time it was more contemplative. “You know,” Harry began, “I’ve always wanted to come to Hogwarts, mostly because my parents and Sirius had such a great time here. Mum was a Potions prodigy, and Dad was amazing at Transfiguration. I wanted to follow in their footsteps, to be known not just as their son by name, but because I could be great at those things too.”

Hermione stood quietly, letting him speak. It wasn’t often Harry let his guard down like this, and she wasn’t about to interrupt him, even if she wanted to laugh at the thought of Harry excelling at Potions. That had never been his strong suit.

“But I guess I’m not like them,” Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m better at Defense Against the Dark Arts. I’m rubbish at Potions, and I’d rather be a Seeker than a Chaser like my dad was.”

Hermione laughed at that, unable to hold it in any longer. “We can’t always be exactly like our parents, Harry.”

He nodded, glancing at her with a smirk. “Yeah. I guess the best I can hope for is to be something they’d be proud of. Or maybe even be better than both of them.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. There he was, back to his usual self. She watched as Harry pulled out a folded tablecloth from his pocket, its size expanding as he laid it neatly under the tree’s shade. Once the cloth was spread out, he reached into another pocket, pulling out a small box. Hermione looked on curiously as Harry tapped the box with his wand, and it began to unshrink, revealing a wide briefcase.

“Sit here, Hermione,” Harry said, busying himself with his mysterious preparations.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, though she couldn’t hide her growing curiosity.

Harry ignored her question, his brows furrowed in concentration as he rummaged through his pockets. “Hold on,” he muttered, searching for something. “Ah, there we go.”

With a triumphant grin, he finally opened the briefcase. Hermione gasped, her breath catching in her throat.

It was a chocolate cake. But not just any chocolate cake—her chocolate cake. The very same one her father used to make for her every year on her birthday. The sight of it, down to the intricate swirls of frosting, was so perfect that it pulled at her heartstrings in a way she hadn’t expected.

Harry waved his wand, and a delightful pop filled the air as the rich smell of chocolate enveloped them. Hermione’s mouth watered, the scent so familiar and comforting.

Harry placed a single candle in the center of the cake, lighting it with a flick of his wand. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he looked at her.

Hermione sat frozen, staring at the cake in front of her—the exact chocolate cake her father used to bake for her birthday. Her mind raced, filled with memories of her father in the kitchen, wearing that silly apron, carefully frosting the cake while telling her to be patient because “the best things take time.” The smell of rich chocolate and the sight of that familiar frosting tugged at her heart. She blinked back tears, overwhelmed by the surprise and the flood of emotions.

She could barely register Harry’s voice over the sound of her heart pounding in her chest.

“Happy birthday, Hermione!” he said again, his smile as wide as ever. “Make a wish!”

Harry’s eyes twinkled with that mischievous look he always had when he pulled off something grand. He clearly thought he’d outdone himself. And he had. She was speechless. Her mind went blank.

“You remembered,” Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible, as if saying it louder might dispel the magic of the moment.

Harry frowned, genuinely puzzled by her reaction. He tilted his head slightly, the confusion clear in his bright green eyes. “Of course I did, dummy. Did you think I’d forget?”

Hermione let out a soft laugh, the sound tinged with relief. The tension she had been holding onto all day seemed to melt away, though she quickly tried to hide the tears that threatened to fall. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, not wanting Harry to see just how much this small gesture had affected her. 

“You had me convinced,” she said, her voice shaky but playful. “All day, not a word, not even a hint! I thought for sure you’d forgotten.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin creeping onto his face. “It wasn’t much, I just wanted it to be a surprise,” he admitted, glancing away as if embarrassed. “I figured you’d guess if I said anything earlier.”

Hermione’s gaze fell to the cake, its rich chocolate frosting gleaming under the sunlight, and her heart squeezed again. “Wasn’t much?” she echoed in disbelief, looking back up at Harry. “This is perfect, Harry. How did you—”

Harry, clearly pleased with himself, cut her off with a grin. “Sirius helped, obviously. I asked your mum what kind of cake you liked best, and she told me about the one you used to make with your dad.” His smile softened at the mention of her parents. “She couldn’t remember the recipe, though, so Sirius… well, he sort of, uh, ‘borrowed’ a memory from her—don’t ask—and sent me the details. I spent most of yesterday in the kitchens with the house-elves, trying to get it right.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers trembled as she reached out, gripping Harry’s arm without thinking. The idea of him going to such lengths—spending hours in the kitchens just to bring back a memory for her—left her at a loss for words. She couldn’t help herself; she moved forward and threw her arms around him, pulling him into a tight, almost desperate hug.

For a moment, Harry stiffened, clearly startled by her sudden display of affection, but then he relaxed, awkwardly patting her on the back. “Er… you’re welcome?” he said, a nervous laugh escaping him.

Hermione buried her face into his shoulder, her voice muffled as she whispered, “Thank you, Harry. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Harry pulled away slightly, enough to meet her gaze, and his expression softened even more. His usual bravado was gone, replaced by a quiet, sincere smile that Hermione wasn’t used to seeing. “I’m glad you like it,” he said gently. “I just wanted to make sure you had a proper birthday.”

Hermione blinked up at him, her heart thudding in her chest. She nodded, unable to form words. His thoughtfulness, the care he’d put into all of this… it was overwhelming.

“Now go on,” Harry urged, nudging her toward the cake. “Make your wish before the candle goes out. I think that’s a rule or something.”

Hermione laughed softly at his ignorance of the Muggle tradition, but she didn’t correct him. She glanced down at the flickering candle, the tiny flame dancing in the breeze, and closed her eyes. For a moment, she let herself get lost in the smell of chocolate, the warmth of the setting sun, and the feeling of being cared for. Her wish formed in her mind, quiet and sincere, and with a soft breath, she blew out the candle.

Harry clapped, grinning like an excited child. “There you go! Now, let’s eat before Ron or Draco show up and devour the whole thing.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm, her earlier frustration now completely forgotten. As Harry carefully cut a slice and handed it to her, she felt lighter, almost giddy. The weight that had been pressing down on her all day—the disappointment, the sadness—was gone, replaced by something warm and comforting.

She took a bite of the cake, the rich, familiar taste filling her senses. It was just as she remembered—no, better, because Harry had made it for her. She chewed slowly, savoring the moment, then looked over at Harry, her eyes sparkling with both gratitude and mischief.

“You know,” she began, her tone teasing, “for someone who pretended to forget all day, you actually did pretty well.”

Harry smirked, leaning back on his elbows with that familiar cocky grin. “Pretty well? I did brilliant, Granger.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, taking another bite. “Could’ve been better.”

Harry gasped, feigning offense. “Better? I just spent hours in the kitchens, slaving away with house-elves, trying to perfect this cake—and you’re saying it could’ve been better?”

Hermione gave him a playful smile. “Well, you did let me think you’d forgotten, so…”

Harry huffed dramatically, crossing his arms. “You’re such a headache, you know that?”

“Yes,” Hermione said sweetly, leaning in just a little closer. “But I’m your headache.”

For a moment, there was a charged silence between them, the teasing banter fading as something more serious lingered in the air. Harry blinked, clearly caught off guard by her words, but then a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

“Lucky me, then,” he murmured, his voice lower than before.

Hermione felt a blush creep up her neck, but she didn’t break eye contact. There was something exhilarating about the way he was looking at her—something playful but also… intense. She quickly looked down at her cake, biting her lip to suppress the smile threatening to spread across her face.

The moment passed as quickly as it had arrived, and Harry, ever the boy who couldn’t sit still for too long, reached for another slice of cake. “Now, are you going to finish that, or should I call Ron over to help?”

Hermione laughed, the tension easing into something light and fun again. “Don’t you dare!” she warned, holding her plate protectively. “This is my birthday cake.”

Harry chuckled, leaning back and watching her with a satisfied grin. “Alright, alright. I’ll let you have this one.”

And as they sat there under the beech tree, the sun dipping lower in the sky, Hermione couldn’t help but think that this—this moment, with Harry by her side, laughter in the air and cake in her hands—was exactly where she was meant to be.

xxxxx

The Hogwarts library was a quiet haven, with rows of towering shelves filled with books, the smell of parchment and old ink thick in the air. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows over the dark wood tables where Harry and Hermione sat together. The peaceful setting seemed worlds away from the earlier chaos of the picnic.

“Happy birthday!” Ron and Draco grinned as they met Hermione by the table, each handing her a wrapped present. Their smiles, however, faded quickly when they noticed the storm brewing in Hermione’s eyes.

Before either of them could react, Hermione snatched up the thickest book within reach, looking as though she was about to launch it at their heads.

“Are you out of your minds?” she seethed, brandishing the book threateningly. “You had me thinking Harry forgot!”

Ron flinched, stepping back instinctively as Hermione’s fury radiated off her in waves. “Calm down!” he yelped, holding his hands up in surrender. “We didn’t mean anything by it! It was Harry’s idea!”

“Was not,” Harry muttered, crossing his arms as he leaned against the table. “All I said was that I wanted to spend some time with her alone. They took it too far.”

“Be quiet! We’re in the library!” Hermione hissed, her voice low but lethal, her eyes flashing with irritation.

The boys instantly fell silent, exchanging guilty glances as they waited for her anger to subside. When she finally lowered the book, they breathed a collective sigh of relief.

With a huff, Hermione turned her attention to the gift Ron had given her. She ripped the wrapping paper off carefully, revealing a new copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. Her eyebrows rose as she examined it, turning it over in her hands.

“Really?” she asked, looking up at Ron with a smirk. “You got me a Quidditch book?”

Ron rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “I thought you might like it! You said you didn’t have a copy…”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was warmth behind the gesture. “Thanks, Ron,” she said, closing the book. “I suppose it’s…educational.”

Next, she turned to Draco’s gift. The package was oddly shaped, and when she unwrapped it, her eyes widened in surprise. Nestled inside was a dual-edged dagger, one blade made of gleaming steel and the other of silver. The handle was dark purple, almost black, crafted from a wyvern’s fang. It was beautiful, sleek, and dangerous-looking.

She carefully lifted it from the box, her fingers tracing the intricate design of the handle. To her surprise, it fit perfectly in her hand, as though it had been made for her.

Draco puffed out his chest, clearly proud of his choice. “Do you like it?” he asked, eyes sparkling with excitement.

Before Hermione could respond, Harry’s hand shot out and grabbed Ron’s Quidditch Through the Ages book. Without warning, he smacked Draco on the head with it.

“Oi!” Draco yelped, rubbing the back of his head and ducking away as Harry swung the book at him again. “What was that for?”

Harry’s eyes were blazing with protective annoyance. “What’s the big idea, giving Hermione a dagger, you absolute prat?!”

Draco ducked behind Ron, using him as a human shield. “It’s for self-defense!” he insisted, peering over Ron’s shoulder. “If she doesn’t want to use it, she can hang it on the wall!”

Hermione snorted, biting her lip to hide a smile as she watched the boys bicker. “It’s alright, Harry. I like it,” she said, running her thumb along the smooth edge of the blade. She shot Draco a wicked grin. “Thanks, Draco. Now I know what to use the next time one of your ridiculous pranks goes too far.”

With that, she made a slow cutting motion in the air, her expression playful but dangerous. Draco gulped audibly, glancing nervously at Harry, who was glaring at him with murder in his eyes.

Hermione sheathed the dagger in its scabbard, tucking it carefully inside her robes, and stood up, brushing the wrinkles from her skirt. She hummed softly to herself, looking quite pleased with the day’s events as she made her way to the nearest shelf.

Once she was out of earshot, Harry turned to Draco, his voice low and menacing. “If she accidentally stabs me with that thing because of one of our dumb pranks, I swear to Merlin, I’ll shove a broomstick so far up your arse the handle will come out of your mouth.”

Draco paled, his face going stark white, but then he let out a nervous laugh, stepping further behind Ron. “Hey, she liked it! That’s what matters, right?”

Ron snorted, giving Draco a sideways look. “You’re mental, mate.”

Harry shook his head, though there was a glimmer of amusement behind the threat. “One of these days, Malfoy,” he muttered, his lips twitching as if fighting a smile. “One of these days…”

As Hermione returned with an armful of books, the boys quickly fell silent, watching her with a mix of respect and fear. She glanced at them out of the corner of her eye, raising an eyebrow as if daring them to say something.

When they remained quiet, she smirked and sat down, opening one of her books with a satisfied sigh.

Draco leaned over to Ron and whispered, “See? She’s scary, but she likes me.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, she likes you… and now she’s got a dagger.”

Draco grinned, clearly proud of his contribution. “I’m a genius.”

Harry, however, wasn’t so easily convinced. He shot Draco a warning look before settling back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief at the ridiculousness of it all. But even as the boys fell into their usual banter, there was a sense of warmth and camaraderie that filled the air—one that, despite the bickering, hinted at the strong bonds they were all forming.

And as Hermione sat there, surrounded by her gifts, her friends, and the soft sounds of the library, she couldn’t help but feel that, despite the madness, this birthday had turned out pretty perfect after all.

xxxxx

The weeks at Hogwarts flew by, a mix of excitement, challenges, and moments of quiet reflection. Sirius had been especially stern with Harry, firmly warning him against investigating the three-headed dog guarding something in the third-floor corridor. Harry found it hard to stay out of trouble, but between Quidditch training and his nightly adventures with Ron and Draco mapping out the castle’s secrets, the mystery on the third floor slowly drifted from his mind.

Quidditch had quickly become one of the most thrilling parts of his day. After Ron practically dragged Harry to the try-outs, it hadn’t taken long for him to secure his spot as the Gryffindor Seeker. It only took a single afternoon of try-outs for everyone to realize Harry's talents on a broom. Ron had cheered the loudest when McGonagall announced the results, beaming with pride that his best mate had joined the team.

Balancing his Quidditch practices with studying, nightly sneaking around, and moments spent in the library with Hermione was a challenge, but Harry loved it. Hermione, of course, had her usual laser-sharp focus during their library study sessions. But on one particular afternoon, something caught his eye that he couldn’t let pass unnoticed.

As they sat across from each other at a table piled high with books, Harry’s gaze lingered on the quill in Hermione’s hand. The quill was worn down to a nub, its feathers frayed and ink barely clinging to the tip. He frowned.

“Hermione,” Harry began, lowering his own quill. “Why are you using that poor thing? I gave you a nice eagle feather quill for your birthday! It’s self-inking, too, just like a pen. Way better than that one.”

Hermione glanced at the quill in her hand, her brows knitting slightly. A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps sadness—crossed her face, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. She smiled softly.

“It’s fine, Harry,” she said lightly, her tone casual, though there was a trace of something deeper behind her words. “I’m saving that quill for more important things, you know? And I still have a bunch of these older quills left, so I should use them up first. No point in wasting them.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, grumbling under his breath. “You’re always saving stuff like that,” he muttered, half to himself. “I don’t get it.”

He wasn’t used to this. He loved spoiling his friends, especially Hermione. Sirius always teased him for it, reminding him to be more mindful of his spending, but Harry had never thought twice about showering his friends with gifts. Ron, though, had taught him a lesson about that.

Once, Harry had made the mistake of offering to buy Ron a new broomstick, and it had nearly ended in a fistfight. Ron, embarrassed and offended, had snapped at him, saying he didn’t need Harry’s money to solve his problems. Harry had apologized profusely, and since then, he’d tried to be more careful. Of course, that hadn’t stopped Draco from coming along and picking up where Harry left off, gifting Ron with all sorts of expensive items until the two purebloods ended up wrestling at Harry's house.

The sound of snapping wood brought Harry out of his thoughts. Hermione let out an irritated sigh, holding the broken remains of her quill. She tossed it aside with a huff, pulling out another one from her bag. She dipped it into her ink bottle, muttering under her breath, and resumed writing.

Harry grinned, watching her with amusement. There was something endearing about the way she got frustrated over small things like a broken quill.

Hermione glanced up, catching his eye. “What are you staring at, Potter?” she asked, her tone sharp but playful, raising one brow at him.

Harry’s grin widened. “Oh, nothing,” he teased, leaning forward slightly. “Just admiring the way you fight with your quill, Granger.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Harry caught the faintest hint of pink dusting her cheeks. “Honestly, you’re so annoying,” she muttered, though she was smiling now, shaking her head as she turned back to her parchment.

He chuckled under his breath, pleased with himself. It was fun teasing her like this, watching the way she reacted—how she’d get flustered for just a moment before regaining her composure, always trying to stay serious. But beneath it, Harry could tell there was more to Hermione than just her focus on books and rules. She was someone worth getting to know better, someone who challenged him in ways Ron and Draco didn’t.

Harry returned to his own homework, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Hermione. There was still so much to learn about her. And, if he was being honest, he enjoyed every minute of it.

As the sunlight streamed through the library windows, casting a warm glow over their table, Harry couldn’t help but feel that these quiet moments, spent with Hermione—even when she was scolding him—were just as special as flying through the air on his broomstick or sneaking around the castle at night. There was something about her that made him feel like there was always more adventure ahead, more layers to uncover. And Harry was looking forward to every second of it.

For now, though, he was content to sit back and watch, grinning as Hermione attacked her homework with the same determination she always had, unaware of just how much Harry was enjoying the view.

xxxxx

October was drawing to a close, the chill in the air hinting at the first whispers of winter. Hogwarts had taken on a festive atmosphere as the Halloween Feast approached, but something felt off. Hermione noticed it first—the way Harry’s boundless energy seemed to drain away, like a balloon slowly deflating. His usual bright smile was dimmer, his voice quieter. Where he used to crack jokes or engage in heated debates with Ron and Draco, he now spent more time sitting in silence, staring at nothing in particular. The change was subtle at first, but now, as the end of October loomed, it was undeniable.

Ron and Draco had picked up on it too, though neither had said anything. Hermione could tell they were tiptoeing around him, giving him space. But she couldn’t help but feel a strange fascination with this new side of Harry. Brooding, mysterious—it was like seeing a completely different person. She found herself watching him more closely, intrigued by the storm brewing behind his eyes, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. Even in his quieter moments, there was something electrifying about him. And whenever she spoke to him, he would snap out of his trance, his smile returning, his eyes lighting up just for her. That secret thrill it gave her was impossible to ignore.

During the Halloween Feast, Hermione sat beside Ron at the long Gryffindor table, marveling at the grand spread before them. The Great Hall was decked out with enchanted pumpkins floating in the air, their glowing faces casting a warm, flickering light across the room. Ghosts drifted lazily through the rafters, occasionally swooping down to spook a first-year. The aroma of roasted meats, sweet pies, and spiced pumpkin juice filled the air. It was magical.

Ron leaned over, nudging her with his elbow. “This is always a huge celebration. Halloween’s the day You-Know-Who died,” he explained, his voice low. “But…” His expression darkened as he glanced around at the laughing and cheering students. “What most people forget is that it’s also the day Harry’s parents died.”

Hermione froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. Suddenly, everything made sense. The reason Harry had been so withdrawn, so different these past few weeks—it was because the anniversary of his parents' death was today. She felt a pang of guilt for not realizing it sooner.

“Oh no…” Hermione groaned softly, her head sinking toward her plate in frustration. How could she have missed something so important?

Ron chuckled, rubbing her back lightly. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. We thought you knew.”

She shook her head, still mortified. “Where’s Harry now?”

Ron shrugged, glancing around the bustling Great Hall. “No idea. I’ve known him since we were kids, and honestly, the best thing you can do on days like this is leave him alone.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Ron held up his hand, stopping her. “Trust me,” he said. “Me and Draco have tried to cheer him up before—didn’t go well. It always ends with arguments, fistfights, and a few jinxes thrown in for good measure.”

Hermione looked horrified at the thought. “What? You fought with him?”

Ron laughed, nodding. “Oh yeah. You know, the grief over his parents' death… it amplifies his magic somehow. Makes him stronger. Normally, I’m stronger than both him and Draco, but on this day? He’s unstoppable. I’ve had my nose broken a couple of times because of him. And Draco? He almost lost all his hair when Harry accidentally cast a fire spell in the middle of one of their arguments.”

Hermione couldn’t help but giggle at the mental image of Draco’s prized hair nearly going up in flames. She could practically hear Draco’s shrieks of horror.

“Maybe I should talk to him,” Hermione said, her voice soft but determined. “Who knows? Maybe it’ll be different with me. After all, it’s the first time you’ve had a girl in your little group of troublemakers.”

Ron raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk spreading across his face. “Well, excuse us for being so close due to our family ties, Hermione. I guess we’re just not used to your… feminine touch.” He frowned. "I'm not so sure you should talk to him..."

Hermione rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched in a small smile. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

Ron’s grin softened. “I know you can. But just… be careful, alright? If he lashes out or hurts you—”

“Then I’ll handle it,” Hermione interrupted, her tone firm. “Besides, I doubt he’d hurt me.”

Ron gave a shrug, though his expression was thoughtful. “Maybe you’re right. Just don’t say we didn’t warn you if he snaps.”

Hermione nodded, her mind already racing ahead. She scanned the Great Hall for any sign of Harry, but he wasn’t there. “Where is he anyway?” she asked, her concern deepening.

“I thought he was with you in the library,” Ron said, frowning.

“No, I was there earlier, but he didn’t show up,” Hermione replied.

“Maybe he’s outside the castle or back in the dorms,” Ron suggested, but his tone was uncertain.

Hermione barely heard him as she quickly finished her meal and made up her mind. She was going to find Harry, no matter where he was. Something about the idea of him being alone right now tugged at her heart in a way she couldn’t quite explain. There was more to this day than just grief—it was tied to who Harry was, the pain that had shaped him into the boy she had grown to care for so deeply.

Without another word, Hermione grabbed her cloak and hurried out of the Great Hall, her mind set on finding him. The hallways were mostly empty, students either still eating or milling about near the feast, but she moved quickly, her thoughts swirling. What would she even say to him? She didn’t know, but she had to try.

There was something about Harry that made her want to fix things, to be the one who could reach him when no one else could. Maybe it was foolish to think she could succeed where Ron and Draco had failed, but she wasn’t about to give up.

Harry had been there for her so many times before, even when she hadn’t asked. Now, it was her turn. She just hoped he would let her in.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger loved Hogwarts.

From the moment she first set foot inside its towering walls, it felt as though she had walked straight into one of her favorite novels. A grand castle with hidden secrets and magical corridors—it was more than she could have ever hoped for. But unlike the helpless damsels in her books, here, she wasn’t waiting to be rescued. No, she was a witch—powerful, capable, and filled with curiosity that never seemed to end.

But there was one thing she despised about Hogwarts: it was an absolute maze. The stairs had a mind of their own, shifting unpredictably. One wrong step, and you could end up miles from your intended destination, winding through corridors that led you nowhere.

She had even asked Professor McGonagall for a map once, feeling desperate after being late to class twice in the same week. But McGonagall had simply raised an eyebrow, as if such a request was beyond reason. "No such thing, Miss Granger," she’d replied, her lips twitching at the corners as though amused by Hermione's frustration.

"Well, of course not," Hermione muttered to herself, now wandering aimlessly through another corridor. "Why make it easy for anyone?"

Tonight, though, she wasn’t just trying to navigate the castle for a class. She was looking for Harry. After everything that had happened recently, she wasn’t about to let him vanish. Not today, of all days.

But where could he be? Hermione found herself biting her lip, her thoughts racing as her feet carried her almost automatically through the shadowy halls. The light of the Halloween Feast still spilled out from the Great Hall, and she could hear the distant echo of laughter and conversation, but her mind was elsewhere.

Then, without realizing it, she stopped dead in her tracks. The familiar, eerie sight of the forbidden third-floor corridor loomed ahead. She swallowed, the memory of their first encounter with the three-headed dog sending a shiver down her spine. That monstrous thing, standing guard over something none of them understood, yet.

"Surely Harry wouldn’t be that reckless..." she whispered to herself, but even as the words left her mouth, doubt crept in. Of course, Harry would. Especially now, when the rest of the school was preoccupied with the feast, and no one would notice him sneaking off.

“Of all the... bloody boys!” Hermione clenched her fists, her earlier worry morphing into frustration. Of course, if Harry had gone there, she was going to wring his neck for it. She started toward the cursed door, her steps sharp and determined. For all the times Harry had infuriated her, this would be the one time she’d actually follow through with her threats.

"I'm going to hit him," she muttered under her breath. "For Merlin’s sake, I’ve never hit anyone in my life, but Harry will be the first."

Before she could take another step, a voice broke through the silence. "There she is!"

Hermione spun on her heel, her wand drawn faster than she thought possible. It wasn’t much of a comfort, though. She only really knew how to cast Petrificus Totalus at this point, and while it might save her skin, she wasn’t exactly feeling confident.

Two figures emerged from the shadows, their wands glowing faintly with the Lumos charm. Relief washed over her when she recognized them as Ron and Draco.

"I told you she'd come this way," Draco said, his voice dripping with amusement, though his expression was tense.

Ron, however, was anything but amused. His face was serious, his brow furrowed in deep worry. "Hermione, we need to get out of here. Now!" he said urgently, grabbing her arm like a lifeline, already trying to pull her away from the cursed corridor.

"Wait, what about Harry?" Hermione protested, her heart beating fast. If Harry was in danger, she wasn’t about to abandon him, no matter what they said.

"He's not here, and he's not daft enough to face that thing alone," Draco interjected, casting a wary glance at the castle walls as if expecting something monstrous to emerge from the darkness.

Hermione hesitated, looking around, trying to make sense of the sudden panic in their faces. She could hear faint yelling and murmurs now, echoing from the lower levels of the castle. The students seemed to be moving en masse, directed by prefects toward their common rooms. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.

“What’s happening?” she asked, her stomach twisting with dread.

Ron didn’t waste time. “A troll! A mountain troll got into the castle!”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. A mountain troll? Her brain flashed with the image of a hulking, stupid, but deadly creature. She had read enough about them to know just how dangerous they could be.

"Wait! What about Harry?" Her voice rose in panic as she glanced at the corridors, imagining the worst possible scenarios.

Draco and Ron exchanged a look, one that made her heart drop. Concern was clear on their faces, and for a moment, they looked as if they were about to crumble under the weight of it.

"He… he can handle himself," Draco said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. "But we need to get out of here before we run into that thing. Proudfoot and Quirrell are already leading the charge to find it."

“Quirrell?” Hermione blurted out. “The fidgety Muggle Studies professor? He’s in charge of… trolls?”

Ron nodded grimly. "Apparently, he's an expert in trolls. Or so they say."

The trio came to a halt, and for a split second, silence enveloped them. Ron let out a long, tired sigh, his hand rubbing his face as if trying to rid himself of a headache. "I know what you're going to say, Hermione. And I hate that I know it."

Hermione felt the rush of determination flare inside her. “We need to find Harry!” she exclaimed, her voice rising. "If that thing finds him first, who knows what could happen!"

“And what the bloody hell do you expect us to do if we run into it before we find Harry?” Draco snapped, his frustration finally boiling over. “You do realize we’re a bunch of first-years, right? First-year wizards, Hermione!"

Hermione glared at him, unwilling to back down. "Act now, plan later," she declared with a stubborn huff before turning and sprinting down the nearest corridor.

Draco’s eyes widened in disbelief, and he cursed under his breath as he ran after her. “How very Gryffindor of you!” he called out, his tone biting but laced with admiration.

Ron, meanwhile, groaned audibly, putting his wand away and pulling out another from his robes—a spare wand, just in case. “Well?" Draco called back, glancing over his shoulder at him. “Are you coming, Weasley?”

Ron grimaced but started running, muttering as he caught up, "I can only cast Flipendo at best. If we’re planning on attacking a troll, we’re doomed.”

Draco smirked. "Body-Bind Curse for me. And if worse comes to worst, I’ll use it on Hermione and drag her back."

As they rounded a corner, they found Hermione standing still, looking lost as she scanned the hallways for any sign of Harry.

“Regretting not training with Sirius and Harry yet?” Ron asked Draco, his voice low and tense.

Draco sighed. “You and me both.”

xxxxx

It didn't take even half an hour for the trio to find Harry Potter. But when they did, it was the last thing they expected.

Only he wasn't alone.

"Bloody Merlin, is he trying to fight that mountain troll?!" Ron's voice cut through the corridor, his face pale with shock and anger.

True enough, there was Harry, smack in the middle of the corridor, facing off against the massive creature like it was some kind of game. His wand flashed as spell after spell ricocheted off the troll’s thick hide, spells that were far too weak to stop its hulking advance. The troll’s club smashed into the walls, sending chunks of stone flying, while Harry ducked and dodged, rolling to the side and firing off another spell with the kind of precision that seemed impossible for an eleven-year-old.

"That arsehole! He's actually enjoying this!" Draco groaned in disbelief, his face scrunched up with frustration and the barest hint of admiration.

Hermione stood frozen, her heart racing as she watched the scene unfold. There was no fear on Harry’s face, no panic or hesitation—just a wild grin that spread from ear to ear, his green eyes gleaming with excitement. He looked... happy. No, not just happy. He was thrilled, almost giddy as if facing down a mountain troll alone was the most fun he'd had all week.

“Go for its eyes, Harry!” Hermione yelled, her voice sharp and trembling with a mix of fear and exasperation.

Her sudden shout startled everyone, including the troll. The massive creature paused for a second, its ugly, misshapen head turning slowly toward the source of the voice.

"Brilliant," Draco muttered, grabbing Hermione's arm and yanking her backward. "Fucking good job, Granger!"

The troll let out an enraged roar, its club swinging wildly, and the trio barely had time to react. With a deafening crash, the troll’s club slammed into the wall of the corridor they had just come from, sending chunks of debris and dust flying through the air. The hallway behind them was now completely blocked by rubble.

Hermione shrieked as the troll started stomping toward them, the ground trembling beneath its weight. It was furious now, its beady eyes glaring at them with pure, primal rage. And they were trapped.

"What now?!" Ron yelled, panicking as he fired off Flipendo after Flipendo, but the weak jinxes barely made the troll flinch. In fact, it only seemed to make it more furious.

Draco stepped forward, raising his wand. "Petrificus Totalus!" he shouted, sending the Body-Bind curse straight at the troll.

It bounced off the troll like a light breeze.

"That won’t work on a troll, you idiot!" Hermione snapped, her voice strained with panic.

Draco glared back at her, his face a mixture of fear and frustration. "What the bloody hell do you want me to do, then? This is your fault!"

Before Hermione could retort, Draco’s eyes suddenly widened in alarm. Without warning, he grabbed her shoulders and clamped his hands over her ears. His face was mere inches from hers, and for a split second, Hermione felt a strange flutter in her chest—despite the chaos around them.

“Ron, cover your ears! Now!” Draco barked, his voice muffled through Hermione’s half-covered hearing.

Hermione barely had time to process what was happening before it hit.

The sound that followed was unlike anything she had ever heard—like a sonic boom, powerful enough to rattle her bones. The force of it knocked her off her feet, sending her crashing to the floor. Her legs trembled uncontrollably as she tried to get up, her vision blurred and ears ringing.

Ron groaned next to her, staggering to his feet with a dazed look on his face. Draco wasn’t moving. He lay crumpled on the ground, blood trickling from his nose and ears.

"Draco!" Hermione wailed, her heart pounding in her chest as she crawled over to him. Panic surged through her. "What happened?!"

Ron, still shaky, pointed weakly toward the troll. Hermione followed his gaze—and froze.

Harry stood at the end of the corridor, his wand gripped tightly in his hand, his face twisted in an expression she had never seen before. Gone was the wild grin from earlier. In its place was something darker, more dangerous—rage.

“Sectumsempra!” Harry’s voice echoed through the hall as he slashed his wand through the air.

To Hermione’s astonishment, the spell sliced through the troll’s thick skin, leaving a jagged, bloody gash across its arm. The troll let out an earsplitting roar, stumbling back in pain. But it wasn’t done. It roared again, louder this time, and charged straight at Harry, its beady eyes filled with murderous intent.

"No!" Hermione screamed, her voice hoarse, but it was too late—the troll was almost on top of him.

Just then, the rubble behind them shifted, and the distant sounds of shouting grew louder. Professors burst through the debris, their wands raised and eyes wide with shock.

But it didn’t matter. The troll was already in motion, bearing down on Harry.

And then, with a ferocious yell, Harry pointed his wand directly at the troll’s head.

“Bombarda!”

The explosion that followed was deafening. The troll’s head erupted in a shower of blood and bone, and its massive body toppled to the ground with a sickening thud. The force of the blast sent Harry flying backward, slamming into the wall with a hard crack. His body crumpled to the floor, unmoving.

"HARRY!" Hermione and Ron yelled in unison, rushing toward him.

Hermione's heart was in her throat as she dropped to her knees beside Harry, her hands trembling as she reached for him. His glasses were askew, his face pale, but he was breathing—thank Merlin, he was breathing.

"Harry, wake up!" Hermione's voice wavered, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Ron knelt beside her, his face pale with fear. "Is he—"

"He's fine," Hermione said quickly, brushing back a strand of Harry’s messy black hair, her voice steadier than she felt. "He has to be fine."

But as she sat there, her heart pounding in her chest, she couldn’t shake the image of that wild, reckless grin on Harry's face as he faced the troll alone. He had been thrilled by the danger, almost invincible. And now... now he looked so fragile, lying there unconscious, completely vulnerable.

“I’m going to kill him when he wakes up,” she muttered, though her voice cracked slightly.

"That makes two of us," Ron said, his own voice shaky as he glanced at Draco, who was starting to stir, groaning in pain.

xxxxx

Word had spread like wildfire through the castle—faster than a rogue Bludger. The moment the professors, accompanied by a few prefects, stumbled upon Harry and his friends standing over the lifeless troll, it was inevitable that rumors would swirl.

They saw it. The spell that ended the troll’s life. The sheer power of it had been enough to make even the most seasoned professor’s jaw drop.

Troll Slayer.

It had become a legendary nickname, whispered in the corridors and shouted across the Great Hall. Draco and Ron seemed to revel in it, as if they had been the ones to slay the creature themselves. Hermione, however, loathed it. The name grated on her nerves more than she cared to admit. Every time someone uttered it, a sharp pang of discomfort twisted in her stomach. She hated how it had become a symbol of Harry’s recklessness, of the danger they had all been in that night.

But she hated it even more because it reminded her of the truth. The professors had been furious, not only because of the troll but because Hermione and her friends had 'actively' sought it out. They had charged into danger without a second thought. Hermione knew they were in serious trouble once Harry and Draco had been taken to the infirmary. And Ron, kind-hearted but terrible at lying, had spilled everything under the professors’ intense questioning. A few pointed questions had been all it took to make him unravel.

Hermione, on the other hand, had twisted the truth, weaving it carefully so they wouldn’t all get expelled. She had insisted that Harry hadn’t been with them when they first heard about the troll. She claimed that they had tried to find him to pull him away from danger, only to get swept into the chaos of his actions.

It wasn’t entirely false. But it wasn’t the full story, either.

She clenched her jaw at the memory. She didn’t like throwing Harry under the bus, but she knew with his status as the Boy-Who-Lived, and Sirius's influence, he would be safe from any lasting punishment. The professors would be more lenient on him. At least, that was what she told herself.

Of course, Sirius Black was furious.

Not with Harry—he would never be angry with his godson for doing something so brave, even reckless. He had applauded Harry for defeating the troll, the pride in his eyes unmistakable as he bragged about it to anyone who would listen. But his fury was directed at whoever had let a mountain troll enter Hogwarts, the supposedly safest place in the country. Sirius had stormed into the headmaster’s office, robes billowing like a thundercloud, demanding answers that no one seemed to have.

Professor Proudfoot, who had trained under Sirius, looked as though he had seen a ghost. His hands trembled every time the subject was mentioned, knowing that not only had he failed to locate the troll first, but it had been Harry—Sirius's godson—who found it and defeated it. The professor had worn a look of visible terror for days, haunted by Sirius's wrath and the gravity of the situation.

No one truly knew how the troll had breached the castle’s defenses. Professor Quirrell, the supposed expert on trolls, had speculated that it might have been under someone’s control, but with the creature dead, there was no way to confirm it. The professors were left with two possible conclusions: someone had lured the troll from the Forbidden Forest, or worse, someone had allowed it into the castle intentionally.

xxxxx

A week had passed since the chaos, and now, they were gathered in the infirmary once again, surrounding Harry’s bed. The sterile, white sheets were tucked neatly around his small, motionless frame. His face was pale against the pillow, stark against the deep shadows under his eyes. Harry’s black hair, as unruly as ever, stuck up in all directions, refusing to be tamed even in sleep, lending him an oddly peaceful look despite the events that had left him in this magic-induced slumber.

Ron fidgeted at the foot of the bed, his knee bouncing nervously. His eyes kept darting to Harry’s face, concern etched in his features. “When do you reckon he’s going to wake up?” His voice was a mixture of hope and anxiety, barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb Harry.

Draco, leaning casually against the bedpost, arms crossed and looking far less concerned, shot Ron an exasperated glance. “Probably today or tomorrow,” he said, his tone betraying his impatience. “They said it was magic depletion, remember?”

Ron’s gaze flickered to Draco, the furrow in his brow deepening. “Yeah, but… still. He’s been out for a week, mate.”

From her spot near the window, where the soft afternoon light filtered through, casting a golden glow across her face, Hermione spoke up, her voice calm but threaded with worry. “They said the last three spells he cast were too much for his body. He’s lucky it wasn’t worse.” Her fingers nervously twisted the edge of her sleeve as she spoke, her gaze shifting from the window to Harry, her concern barely masked.

Draco gave a nod of agreement, though his attention shifted back to Harry as well. “Lucky is right,” he muttered, though there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—an unspoken worry that he wouldn’t dare admit aloud.

Hermione, curiosity getting the better of her, tilted her head slightly, her brow creasing. “What was that spell anyway? The one that burst your ears? You seemed to know what it was, Draco.”

Draco straightened, a smirk pulling at his lips as if he were about to unveil some grand secret. “It was a Black family spell,” he explained with an air of superiority. “A sort of sound explosion. I’ve seen my mum use it a few times, so I knew it was coming before it hit.”

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. “A family spell?” she echoed, processing the implications. Draco’s expression, however, was anything but serious as he reached over and flicked her lightly on the forehead.

“Don’t get too excited, Granger,” Draco teased, rolling his eyes as Hermione frowned at him. “It’s family magic—you can’t learn it unless, of course…” His voice took on a mischievous lilt. “You marry Harry.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, then added with a smirk, “Or me, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Hermione’s face flushed crimson, her cheeks burning under Draco’s teasing gaze. She glared at him, her frustration palpable as Ron’s chuckle filled the room. Ron, who had been quiet, suddenly found this very amusing. “Yeah, Hermione,” he added, grinning from ear to ear. “Fancy being part of the Black family?”

“Shut it, Ron,” Hermione snapped, though her voice was more flustered than angry. She quickly stepped away from the two boys, moving closer to Harry’s bedside, as if the closer proximity would shield her from their teasing.

Harry, of course, remained oblivious, lost in the deep, dreamless sleep that had held him captive for nearly a week. Her mind wandered back to the scene—the professors rushing Harry to the infirmary, wands drawn, their faces grim with urgency.

Professor Proudfoot had been the one to perform the spell that revealed the last few castings from Harry’s wand. The list of spells that appeared left the room in stunned silence.

Professor Snape had been there, his expression a mixture of pride and anger, his dark eyes narrowing as they read the magical signatures. Hermione remembered how his lips had twitched, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to be furious with Harry or impressed by his audacity. Dumbledore had simply looked at the list and shook his head, his eyes filled with quiet understanding and perhaps a touch of sadness. McGonagall, on the other hand, had been livid—though Hermione couldn’t tell whether her anger was directed at Harry, Sirius, or perhaps the entire situation.

Sirius had visited the infirmary the following day, his face lined with worry, his usual cocky demeanor subdued. He explained to them that one of the spells Harry had used, Bombarda, was a Dark Art. The force of it was strong enough to knock Harry off his feet, and in certain cases, could kill the caster if they were too close to the blast. It was dangerous, Sirius had said, and Harry had been foolish to use it in such a situation. But Hermione could see the pride beneath Sirius’s frustration—Harry had not only known the spell but had the nerve to cast it.

But the Black family spell… That had truly taken Sirius by surprise. He had no idea how Harry learned it. The most likely theory was that Harry had snuck into the restricted section of the family library. Typical, Hermione thought with a slight frown. Leave it to Harry to be reckless even when he was trying to be careful.

And then there was Sectumsempra.

Even the professors hadn’t known that spell, nor had Proudfoot or Sirius. Whatever it was, it was dangerous enough to slice through a fully-grown mountain troll.

Hermione clenched her fists at her sides, her jaw tight with worry and frustration. When Harry woke up, she was going to give him a piece of her mind. He had scared them all, and now here they were, left with more questions than answers.

She glanced down at Harry’s pale face, the rise and fall of his chest so faint it was almost imperceptible. Her heart ached with a mixture of relief and anger.

“When he wakes up,” she muttered under her breath, her voice filled with determination, “he’s going to get a punch from me.”

Ron and Draco exchanged amused glances, but neither said a word. They both knew that once Harry woke up, there was no avoiding Hermione’s wrath—and, honestly, they couldn’t wait to watch.

xxxxx

Harry woke with a groan, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the soft, afternoon light streaming through the infirmary windows. His body felt heavy, as if every muscle had taken a long rest, though his back ached from lying still for so long. He stretched gingerly, surprised that the pain wasn’t worse. For a moment, everything felt peaceful—until he noticed two grinning faces looming above him.

Draco was the first to speak, his smirk widening as Harry blinked at him. “Ah, the princess is finally awake,” he drawled, crossing his arms. “We were this close to telling Granger that you might need her to wake you with a kiss.”

Ron let out a snort of laughter, clearly delighted with the idea. “Yeah, mate, like one of those Muggle fairy tales. A good ol’ smooch might’ve done the trick.”

Harry chuckled, though his voice came out rough from disuse. “Maybe I should go back to sleep, then.”

“Or better yet,” came an unexpected voice, cutting through the banter, “how about you go back to sleep forever?”

Harry turned his head toward the voice, his laughter dying in his throat when he met Hermione’s eyes. She stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, her cheeks flushed with both anger and relief. Her fists were clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white, and though she tried to look fierce, Harry noticed the tears welling up in her eyes. His stomach dropped. He was in trouble.

Before he could say anything, before he could even try to explain himself, Hermione marched over, her steps quick and purposeful. Harry closed his eyes, bracing himself for the punch he was sure was coming. 'I deserve it,' he thought grimly. But instead of a fist to the face, he felt a sudden, tight squeeze as Hermione threw her arms around him, enveloping him in a hug so fierce it knocked the breath right out of him.

“Can’t… breathe…” Harry wheezed, trying to laugh but only managing a weak groan.

“Get over it,” Hermione muttered through her sobs, her voice thick with emotion. Her hold tightened, making Harry wince, but he could hear the relief in her tone.

Despite the situation, Harry managed a weak chuckle, lightly patting Hermione’s back in an attempt to calm her. “Missed you too, Hermione,” he whispered, before gently pushing her back enough so he could catch his breath.

Hermione stepped away, furiously wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Hello,” Harry greeted softly, offering a weak smile.

Her face softened for a moment before her expression hardened again. Without warning, she raised her fist. Harry flinched, eyes squeezing shut in preparation for the blow, but all he received was a light punch on his chest.

He opened his eyes, letting out a long sigh of relief. “I thought that was going to hurt a lot more.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “It will, Harry Potter,” she muttered darkly. “Once you're better, I’ll give you a proper punch. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Lucky is definitely the word,” Harry said, still smiling. He glanced over at Draco and Ron, who were both watching the exchange with thinly-veiled amusement. Draco was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Ron stood up, stretching his arms above his head. “Well, now that the lovebirds are reunited,” he teased, earning a glare from Hermione, “we should probably go tell the professors you’re awake.”

“I’ll send an owl to Sirius,” Draco added, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “He’s been dying to know when you’d wake up.”

Harry waved them off, nodding. “Yeah, go on. I’ll be here, trying to survive whatever Hermione has planned for me next.”

As Ron and Draco started heading toward the door, Ron smirked, pointing at Hermione before shooting Harry a cheeky thumbs-up. “Good luck, mate,” he mouthed, clearly entertained by the whole situation.

Harry rolled his eyes, flipping Ron off with a half-hearted gesture, but even he couldn’t suppress the grin that tugged at his lips.

Once they were gone, the infirmary suddenly felt quieter, more intimate. Hermione let out a long breath, her earlier anger fading into something softer. She climbed up onto the edge of his bed, sitting cross-legged next to him, her expression now filled with concern.

“Are you alright, Harry? You look... better. But are you really okay?”

Harry leaned back against the pillows, his muscles still stiff but his heart lighter. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, smiling up at her. “Actually, I feel great.”

Hermione tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “Must be all those potions Madam Pomfrey's been stuffing you with. You were out for nearly a week.”

“Yeah, probably,” Harry agreed, though his back gave a protesting ache as he shifted. “The only thing that hurts is my back. I think I’ve been lying down for too long.”

“Do you want a massage?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowing in genuine concern.

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, and he quickly shook his head, laughing. “No, thanks. I think it’ll work itself out. But I appreciate the offer.”

Hermione frowned, clearly still worried. “You’re sure?”

“I’m fine, really,” Harry reassured her, before his expression turned serious. “What about you, though? You okay?”

At his question, Hermione sighed, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the bed sheets. “I’m fine now, I guess. But, Harry... what were you thinking? Going after that troll on your own?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t exactly choose to fight the troll, Hermione. I was cornered. Had no choice but to defend myself.”

“But with those spells, Harry!” Hermione’s voice was tight, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “You could’ve seriously hurt yourself. You should’ve—”

“Wait, hold on,” Harry interrupted, his eyes widening as a sudden thought hit him. “Who else but us knew about the spells I used? How did you—”

Hermione huffed, crossing her arms again. “The whole faculty knows, Harry. Sirius does too.”

“Oh no…” Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m in so much trouble.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile a little at his reaction. At least he knew he’d done something reckless. “You’re not in that much trouble,” she assured him. “Sirius was... well, he didn’t know how you pulled off the Black family spell, but he was actually quite proud of how you handled the troll. You’re not in as much trouble as you think.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Harry muttered, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I’m more worried about that other spell—Sectumsempra. If that person finds out I used it, I’m doomed.”

Hermione was about to ask what he meant when the infirmary curtain was pulled aside, and Professor Snape stepped in, his dark gaze immediately settling on Harry. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes—anger, yes, but something else too.

“Miss Granger,” Snape said coldly, “I need a moment of privacy with Mr. Potter.”

Hermione glanced at Harry, unsure. Harry, however, grabbed her arm, pulling her closer in an almost protective gesture. “Hermione can stay,” he said quickly, his voice slightly panicked.

Snape’s eye twitched, his annoyance clear. But after a tense moment, Hermione gently pried herself from Harry’s grasp and stood up. “I’ll wait outside,” she said, offering him a reassuring smile. “Good luck, Harry.”

She turned to leave, but not before noticing the faintest flicker of a smirk on Snape’s face—a dangerous kind of amusement. As she stepped out, she heard the familiar hum of magic behind her, followed by Harry’s muffled protests.

A privacy spell.

Hermione frowned, her curiosity piqued. What exactly were Snape and Harry discussing behind that enchanted curtain?

xxxxx

Whatever it was that Professor Snape and Harry had discussed left Harry visibly annoyed, exhausted, and pale. The usually bright green of his eyes appeared dulled, his normally unruly black hair hung in limp strands, framing his face in a way that made him look more vulnerable than usual. It was quite obvious that Snape had scolded him for whatever escapade had led to his current state, but, in a rare moment of grudging care, the Potions Master had left him a small vial of shimmering blue liquid on the bedside table—a Potion that would help with his body aches from having slept for so long.

Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, her brow furrowed with concern as she watched Harry absently twist a corner of the blanket between his fingers. “What was it, Harry?” she asked gently, her voice soft but firm. “What did Snape say to you?”

Harry turned his gaze towards her, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. “I can’t say, Hermione,” he replied, his tone clipped, almost defensive. He didn’t want to burden her with the specifics of his conversations with Snape, especially not when he was still processing it all himself. “It’s… complicated.”

The rest of the day drifted by slowly, each hour dragging on as Sirius and various professors filtered in and out of the infirmary. Each visitor bore an inquisitive look, and Harry could feel their unspoken questions hovering in the air like specters.

When evening came, Madam Pomfrey bustled in, her brisk demeanor a stark contrast to the gentle atmosphere of the infirmary. “Alright, Ms. Granger, that’s enough chatter for one day. Mr. Potter needs rest,” she announced, a knowing glance directed at Harry that seemed to suggest she was well aware of his propensity for overexertion.

“But I want to stay,” Hermione insisted, her voice rising slightly in protest. “He needs someone here.”

“Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey replied with a kind but firm smile, “I assure you that Mr. Potter will be just fine. He needs to sleep, and you have classes in the morning. I’ll have him ready for breakfast tomorrow, and you can come right back in here, alright?”

Harry nodded, though he could feel the disappointment flickering in Hermione’s eyes. “I’ll be okay, Hermione. I promise,” he said, trying to reassure her. “Just… get some rest yourself.”

When Madam Pomfrey finally shooed everyone away, Hermione lingered at the door, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. “I’ll be back first thing,” she promised, her voice almost a whisper. “We’ll grab breakfast together, alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, feeling a warmth spread through him at the thought of spending more time with her.

As she turned to leave, a sudden surge of impulse swept over Hermione. In a moment of boldness, she stepped back toward Harry and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. The gesture was fleeting, yet it hung in the air between them, charged with a playful tension.

Harry froze for a moment, surprise etched on his features. His heart raced, and he blinked, trying to process what had just happened. “Wha—what was that for?” he stammered, his cheeks heating up.

“I suppose that’s one way to say goodbye,” she teased, a playful glint dancing in her eyes, her cheeks tinged with a rosy hue. “Just thought you could use a little cheer.”

“Cheer?” Harry echoed, still caught off guard. “Yeah, I guess it’s better than a get well soon card, right?”

Hermione laughed softly, her smile widening as she leaned in closer for a moment, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’d say it’s a lot more fun,” she said, a hint of mischief in her tone.

“Are you always this bold?” Harry asked, unable to hide the grin spreading across his face.

“Only when I’m around you,” she replied with a wink, stepping back toward the door. “See you in the morning, Harry. Don’t sleep too long, or I might just have to come back in and wake you up myself!”

As she left the infirmary, her laughter echoed in his ears like a sweet melody.

With the door clicking shut behind her, Harry sat there, bewildered yet elated, a smile breaking across his face despite the lingering weariness in his body. He couldn’t quite understand what had just happened, but one thing was clear: tomorrow would be a much more interesting day.

xxxxx

Hermione hated that she kissed Harry.

No, that wasn’t right.

She didn’t hate that she kissed him. In fact, she knew exactly what she was doing at that moment. It was just a simple, friendly kiss between friends—nothing more, nothing less. Or so she kept telling herself. But what she truly hated was the fact that now Harry would have something to tease her about. He would be insufferable, smug, and undoubtedly boast about it in that mischievous way that always got under her skin.

She kicked the side of her bed in frustration, the impact muffled by her blankets. Her mind raced, knowing full well she would spend the rest of the week battling the urge to bite back at the inevitable teasing that Harry would unleash. She could already picture that smug grin, the way his eyes would glint with amusement.

"Why did I even do that?" she muttered, rubbing her temples as if that would somehow erase the memory of the impulsive kiss.

She knew better. She knew exactly how much Harry loved to rile her up, to test her patience. And now, she’d handed him the perfect weapon—a kiss. A kiss! Of all the things to give him, it had to be that. Hermione groaned, flopping back onto her bed, her pillow smothering her face.

"I'm so stupid!" she shrieked, her voice muffled but still loud enough to echo in the dorm room.

For a few moments, she wrestled with her bedsheets, twisting and turning, as if trying to fight the very thoughts invading her mind. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t escape the flutter of emotions swirling in her chest. Her fingers brushed the spot on her cheek where Harry’s surprised expression had been just moments before she’d turned and walked away. The memory only made her heart race faster.

With a frustrated huff, Hermione sat up, running her fingers through her tangled hair. "I should just miss breakfast tomorrow," she whispered to herself, eyes darting to the clock. The thought was tempting, incredibly so. She could skip it, avoid the entire mess altogether, and spare herself from the humiliation of seeing Harry’s smug face first thing in the morning.

But of course, that wouldn’t work.

No matter how much she wanted to hide, she had made a promise. Harry would be out of the infirmary tomorrow, and she had told him—promised him—that she’d return so they could grab breakfast together. And even if she did try to hide, he would likely track her down. It wasn’t as if Hogwarts was that big of a place, and knowing Harry, he’d come find her just to make a point of teasing her further.

"Ugh!" Hermione groaned again, flopping back onto her bed dramatically.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. She had to talk to Harry tomorrow for another reason, too—she needed to whack him on the head and make him swear not to say anything to Ron or Draco. The last thing she needed was those two hearing about this. They’d never let her live it down, and Draco would probably twist it into some kind of ridiculous story.

Her mind spun with wild ideas. Maybe she could distract Harry. Maybe she could kiss him again, just to throw him off his game—maybe that would shut him up for a while.

Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt.

She shrieked into her pillow once more, her cheeks burning at the mere thought of kissing Harry again. What was she even thinking? This was Harry Potter—her friend, her best friend. How could she possibly have kissed him in the first place, let alone be considering it again?

She let out one final groan, burying her face in her hands as embarrassment consumed her. The last thing she needed was to get wrapped up in these strange feelings, especially over something so silly. She was overthinking it, surely.

But even as she tried to convince herself, her heart wouldn’t quite settle. There was a part of her that enjoyed it—that momentary rush of doing something bold, something unexpected. And even though she dreaded the teasing that would inevitably come, there was a thrill in knowing that she had been the one to surprise Harry for once. It wasn’t often she caught him off guard.

Hermione sighed, the weight of her thoughts finally exhausting her. She rolled over, pulling her blankets tightly around her, and closed her eyes.

She wouldn’t want to be late tomorrow—not for Harry, not for breakfast, and certainly not for whatever chaos was sure to come.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger arrived at the infirmary, slowing her pace as she reached the door. The early morning light filtered through the castle windows, casting long shadows on the stone floor, and her mind was still a haze of frustration from the night before. As she stepped inside, she stopped abruptly, her eyes locking onto Harry Potter. He was already up, dressed in his school robes, and sporting a wide grin as if the last week in bed hadn’t happened.

It was too early for him to be this annoyingly cheerful.

Of course, he’d be grinning like that. He always seemed to bounce back faster than anyone else, but this was just infuriating. Hermione’s eyebrows knit together in annoyance, already bracing herself for the smug comments that were surely about to spill from his mouth. She had been preparing all night to endure his teasing, even rehearsing a few retorts in her head, but seeing him so bright and chipper this early made her want to smack him already.

"Hey, Hermione," Harry greeted, his eyes twinkling with mischief as they always did when he was up to something. He tilted his head and gave her a look that made her want to hex him on the spot. "Breakfast?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, trying to maintain her composure. "Breakfast," she muttered in response, trying to sound as indifferent as possible. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered—not this early, at least.

Harry's grin only widened, and with a quick wink, he sauntered over to her, his steps light and casual as if he hadn’t just spent a week bedridden. They left the infirmary together, walking through the quiet corridors toward the Great Hall. Hermione clenched her fists, her thoughts racing as she tried to anticipate when he’d start teasing her. She was prepared—ready to punch him if he even so much as hinted at what happened the night before.

But to her confusion, Harry said nothing.

Not a word. Not a smirk about the kiss. Not a single teasing comment. He just hummed quietly to himself, walking beside her with that infuriatingly calm demeanor, as if nothing unusual had happened. Hermione kept glancing at him, waiting for the inevitable moment he’d bring it up, but he remained annoyingly silent.

This was worse. Far worse.

She would have preferred him teasing her—at least then she’d know what was going on in that ridiculous head of his. But this? This quiet, smug confidence? It was driving her mad. What was his plan? Was he saving it for later? Would he drop the bomb in front of Ron and Draco, letting them witness her mortifying reaction firsthand?

She groaned, rubbing her forehead. "Why am I so stupid?" she muttered under her breath, regretting every second of the impulsive kiss. She cursed herself for giving him any ammunition at all.

"Hermione?" Harry’s voice broke through her thoughts. His brow furrowed in concern as he glanced sideways at her. "You okay?"

Hermione glared at him, her annoyance bubbling over. "I'm fine, Harry," she mumbled, her voice clipped.

But that smug, knowing smirk crept back onto his face, and it took everything in her not to punch him right then and there. He was enjoying this way too much.

"You sure?" Harry asked again, his tone dripping with fake concern as he leaned in closer. He raised an eyebrow, clearly testing her limits, and Hermione could feel her patience wearing dangerously thin.

Just as she opened her mouth to give a sharp retort, Harry stopped walking. He turned toward her, and without warning, leaned in further. The sudden movement caught her off guard, and her breath hitched. Of all the stupid things she could’ve done, she had no idea why she did what she did next—but she stopped. She froze in place, eyes wide, heart racing.

And she closed her eyes.

Hermione didn’t know what she was expecting. Maybe he was going to tease her by mimicking what happened the night before. Maybe he was planning to kiss her cheek, just to throw her off balance. Either way, her mind swirled with possibilities. But when nothing happened, when the silence stretched on for a moment too long, she opened her eyes slowly—only to be greeted by Harry’s smirking face inches from hers.

Her heart stuttered in her chest as she realized what she had done. He was standing there, eyebrow raised, his expression torn between amusement and smug satisfaction.

"Hermione," Harry began, the teasing lilt to his voice making her want to throttle him. "Are y—"

But he never finished his sentence. Before he could say another word, Hermione’s body moved on instinct. She pulled back her arm and punched him—hard—right in the stomach.

Harry doubled over with a surprised grunt, clutching his midsection as he staggered back. "Oi!" he gasped, looking up at her with wide eyes, more shocked than hurt. "What was that for?"

Hermione crossed her arms, feeling a rush of satisfaction as she stared him down. "That was for whatever you were about to say," she snapped, her cheeks burning, though she refused to let him see just how flustered she really was.

Harry straightened up slowly, still rubbing his stomach. "I wasn’t going to say anything," he protested, but the smirk on his face betrayed him.

"Yeah, right," Hermione muttered, turning on her heel and walking toward the Great Hall with renewed purpose. She wasn’t about to let him win, not today.

Behind her, Harry chuckled, the sound light and carefree. "You know, if you keep punching me like that, people are going to think we have some sort of weird relationship," he called after her, his voice filled with laughter.

Hermione rolled her eyes again but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at the corner of her lips. She refused to look back at him, determined not to give him the satisfaction, but deep down, she knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

As they made their way to breakfast, she could feel the playful tension simmering between them, and despite her best efforts, a part of her was almost looking forward to whatever game they were playing. Because as much as she hated to admit it, Harry Potter was far too good at getting under her skin—and somehow, she didn’t mind it as much as she thought she would.

xxxxx

The rest of November rushed in with an icy chill, blanketing Hogwarts in early winter frost. The sky was often overcast, and students bundled up in scarves and cloaks as the wind howled across the grounds. But even the cold couldn’t dampen Harry’s excitement. Quidditch season had officially begun, and that meant something extra special for him this year.

Sirius Black, ever the indulgent godfather, had surprised him with an early Christmas gift.

"A Nimbus 2000?!" Ron gawked at the sleek, polished broomstick that Harry held out proudly in front of them, the broom’s handle gleaming in the weak November sunlight. "It's the fastest broomstick in the market!"

Ron’s eyes practically sparkled with envy, and he looked like he was torn between hugging Harry out of joy and pouting because he didn't have one of his own. His voice was filled with awe, as if he were gazing at some kind of treasure.

Draco, standing beside him, crossed his arms but couldn’t hide his admiration either. He let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Damn it! I wish I could’ve gotten the Seeker position on my team!" he grumbled, running his hand down the length of the broom as if the mere touch would grant him some of its magic. "Imagine flying that beauty around the pitch..."

Hermione, who had been flipping through a book, glanced at the broom and didn’t even give it a second look before turning her attention back to the boys. She frowned in disapproval, her practical nature rising to the surface. "I thought first-years aren’t allowed to have their own broomsticks," she pointed out, her tone sharp and matter-of-fact.

Harry, clearly expecting this, nodded but didn’t seem bothered by her disapproval. "Yes, well, I was granted an exemption when I made the team," he replied with a shrug, a little too casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Hermione’s frown deepened, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I don’t get it," she said, shaking her head in confusion. "How could you even try out without your own broom? That seems... unfair, doesn't it?"

Harry chuckled, clearly amused by her persistent questioning. "Everyone can try out for the team, Hermione. It’s just that first-years aren’t allowed to bring their own brooms. The idea is that we all start from the same place—using the school brooms for flying lessons," he explained, his voice carrying a playful lilt as if he enjoyed explaining things she didn’t know.

Hermione folded her arms, still unconvinced. "And then?"

"When I made the team, they had no choice but to give me the exemption," Harry continued, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "After all, can you imagine me playing Quidditch on one of those rubbish school brooms they have lying around? I’d probably crash into the stands before catching the Snitch."

Ron and Draco both nodded in agreement, their expressions solemn as if Harry’s hypothetical crash were a tragedy they’d narrowly avoided.

Hermione rolled her eyes, feeling like she was outnumbered by the boys. "I still think it’s ridiculous," she muttered, but there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. She couldn't help but admire Harry's confidence. As irritating as he could be, there was something about the way he handled himself that always managed to get under her skin.

A small, sly smile tugged at her lips. "So... how fast is it?" she asked, pretending to be curious, though her tone was tinged with skepticism.

Harry looked up at her, and for a moment, their eyes locked. His smirk grew, and without breaking eye contact, he glanced sideways at Ron and Draco. All three boys exchanged a knowing look—a wicked, conspiratorial smile spreading across their faces.

It made Hermione instantly suspicious.

"What?" she asked, her heart quickening as she shifted her weight. "What’s with that look?"

"Oh, you’ll see," Harry said, his voice dropping into a teasing tone. He twirled the broomstick effortlessly in his hand before resting it on his shoulder like some sort of casual weapon. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and that infuriating smirk deepened. "Maybe you’ll get a little... demonstration later. But only if you ask nicely."

Ron let out a snicker, and Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the moment.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed slightly. She could feel the heat rising in her face, though whether it was from irritation or something else entirely, she wasn’t sure. "Ask nicely?" she scoffed, folding her arms and glaring at Harry. "What makes you think I even care enough to ask?"

Harry leaned in just a little, enough to make her breath hitch ever so slightly. "Because, Hermione," he said, his voice dropping lower, "you’re just a little bit curious, aren’t you?"

Hermione’s lips parted slightly, and she opened her mouth to respond, but found herself momentarily at a loss for words. That smug look of his—it was maddening! And the worst part was, he was right. She was curious. But she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

"Maybe," she said after a pause, lifting her chin in defiance. "But I won’t beg for it."

Harry chuckled, straightening up and stepping back, his grin never faltering. "I wouldn’t expect you to."

Draco snorted, nudging Ron in the ribs. "She’s a tough one, isn’t she?"

Ron nodded sagely. "Always is," he agreed, trying to stifle his grin as Hermione shot him a warning look.

xxxxx

Hermione was quick to note that there were rarely a few things she truly disliked about the magical world. It had been a whirlwind since she’d received her letter to Hogwarts, and every moment here felt like uncovering the secrets of a world she had longed to be part of without even knowing it. She relished in everything that made her a witch—the spellwork, the potions, the hidden knowledge—and she loved learning every single moment.

But there was one thing she had absolutely no fondness for.

"GET ME DOWN! I DON’T WANT TO FLY ANYMORE! THIS STUPID BROOM IS TOO FAST!"

Flying. More specifically, flying on a broomstick.

Unfortunately, the magic of brooms didn’t erase her deeply ingrained fear of heights. It wasn’t that Hermione didn’t like a thrill—she had loved rollercoasters when she was younger. The adrenaline, the twists and turns, the rush of air as they sped through the tracks. But rollercoasters were on tracks, bound to the earth, their motions controlled and predictable. Brooms, on the other hand, offered none of that reassuring stability.

Hovering too far above solid ground? No, thank you. It was bad enough when Madam Hooch had tried to get her to practice flying with the other first-years. Hermione had quickly told the professor about her fear, and while Madam Hooch allowed her to keep her broom close to the ground, Hermione had found a clever workaround. She compensated by writing multiple rolls of parchment on the theory of flying, discussing the magical runes etched into broomsticks to enhance their speed and stability. It was her way of showing that, even if she couldn’t excel at the practical part, she was still determined to contribute.

But right now, Hermione was perched in front of Harry on his brand-new Nimbus 2000—her hands clenched so tightly around the broomstick that her knuckles had turned white—and he was doing his absolute best to show her just how fast his broom could go.

She was not impressed.

"I SAID GET ME DOWN, HARRY!" Hermione’s voice was shrill with panic, and her heart raced as the wind whipped through her hair, tugging strands of it loose from her usual neat ponytail. "I MEAN IT!"

"But we’ve only been flying for a few minutes!" Harry protested from behind her, his voice carrying over the rush of the wind as he leaned forward, trying to coax her into enjoying the experience. He wasn’t even pushing the broom to its full speed yet, and the idea of Hermione not enjoying this—even in the slightest—baffled him.

Hermione twisted around slightly to glare at him, her face a mix of fear and frustration. "GET ME DOWN NOW OR SO HELP ME GOD I’LL BREAK YOUR BROOMSTICK IN HALF WHEN WE LAND!"

Harry’s eyes widened in alarm, the playful smirk on his face fading instantly. "O-Okay, okay!" he stammered, not daring to test whether she meant it or not. The last thing he wanted was for Sirius’s generous gift to meet an untimely demise.

From the ground below, Ron and Draco watched the scene unfold with wide grins, neither of them even attempting to stifle their laughter.

"She’s going to hex him when they land, isn’t she?" Ron asked, his face splitting into a mischievous grin.

Draco nodded, barely containing his own laughter. "Oh, definitely. She looks furious!"

Harry guided the broomstick into a steep dive, the wind howling in their ears as they plummeted toward the Quidditch pitch. Hermione’s shrieks echoed around them, loud enough that the students on the stands were starting to notice, their heads turning toward the two speeding figures. For a brief moment, the broom moved so quickly that Hermione’s voice was swallowed by the wind, leaving only the rush of air and the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears.

The ground approached at an alarming rate, and for a moment, Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat. But Harry, ever the natural on a broom, pulled up just in time, bringing them to a smooth, albeit sudden, landing.

As soon as her feet touched the grass, Hermione scrambled off the broomstick, her legs trembling so badly that she nearly collapsed on the spot. Ron and Draco rushed forward, catching her just before she could fall.

"B-Bloody bastards," Hermione muttered under her breath, clutching Ron’s arm for support as she steadied herself. Her entire body felt like it was vibrating from the adrenaline, and her heart was still hammering in her chest. "All of you."

Harry landed gracefully beside her, his broom in hand, and had the audacity to grin. He opened his mouth to say something—probably something smug, judging by the look in his eyes—but one glance at Hermione’s expression and he quickly thought better of it.

Ron, though, had no such reservations. "You alright there, Hermione?" he asked, grinning down at her as she shot him a glare. "That was quite the scream. I think people heard you all the way over at Hogsmeade."

"Shut up, Ron," Hermione muttered, though there was no real malice in her voice. She was too shaken to be angry—well, properly angry, anyway.

Draco smirked, folding his arms across his chest as he looked at Harry. "Reckon she’ll ever get on a broomstick with you again?"

Harry finally let out a laugh, but it was a little nervous, his eyes flicking back to Hermione. "I’m not sure," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe after she stops threatening to break my broomstick?"

Hermione shot him a withering look, still too rattled to come up with a proper retort. "You’re lucky I don’t hex you right now," she muttered, though she wobbled on her feet as she said it, making the threat significantly less intimidating. "Or your precious broom."

Harry couldn’t help but grin again, this time more cautiously. "Come on, Hermione. It wasn’t that bad, was it?"

She straightened up, still glaring at him. "It was terrifying!" she shot back, though her voice lacked the usual sharpness. The truth was, now that her feet were back on solid ground, a part of her couldn’t deny the thrill she’d felt during those brief moments in the air. Not that she’d ever admit it to him.

"Next time, I’ll go slower," Harry offered, though the mischievous glint in his eyes suggested he’d do no such thing.

Hermione let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes. "There won’t be a next time," she insisted, though even she wasn’t sure if she believed that.

Ron and Draco exchanged amused glances, their grins widening as Hermione turned and started walking toward the castle, her legs still slightly shaky. They followed, casting knowing looks at Harry, who trailed behind with his broom in hand, a smirk still playing at his lips.

As they made their way back, Hermione couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder at Harry, catching his eye for just a moment. He winked, causing her to flush and turn away quickly, her heart still racing—though this time, it had little to do with the fear of flying.

xxxxx

“GO, GO, GRYFFINDOR! GO, GO, GRYFFINDOR!”

The chants around the Quidditch pitch grew deafening as the Gryffindor team streaked through the air, a blur of scarlet and gold. The crowd roared in approval, fists pumping in unison. It was a crisp autumn afternoon, but the electricity in the air made the chill nearly imperceptible.

Lee Jordan's voice crackled with excitement as he spoke into the enchanted microphone, clearly unable to hide his bias. “This is the Gryffindor dream team everyone’s been waiting for! We’ve got Oliver Wood, the rock-solid Keeper, holding the fort! The fiery Chasers making it impossible for Slytherin to breathe! And, of course, the Weasley twins, wreaking havoc as Beaters. But let’s not forget—” his voice rose even higher, “—the youngest Seeker Hogwarts has ever seen! The Boy Who Lived himself—Harry Potter!”

“GO, HARRY!” Hermione shouted, her voice barely audible over the din of the crowd. Her eyes tracked him as he zipped by, dodging Bludgers with reflexes too sharp for an 11-year-old. The wind tousled his messy black hair, and his green eyes were fierce with focus.

Beside her, Ron was far less composed. “PULL THEIR BROOMS! HIT THEIR FACES!” he bellowed, jumping up and down, fists clenched with adrenaline.

“Ronald!” Hermione gasped, glaring at him. “You can’t just yell things like that!”

“What?!” Ron shot her an annoyed look. His freckled face was flushed with excitement, completely unfazed by her disapproval.

“Not so loud on the cheating advice!” Hermione hissed, her eyes wide with scandal.

“Oh, right,” Ron replied, his grin mischievous. He leaned forward and cupped his hands around his mouth. “FRED! GEORGE! USE YOUR BATS PROPERLY AND SMASH ‘EM! WOOD, THROW THE QUAFFLE INTO THEIR BLOODY FACES!”

Hermione couldn't help but burst into laughter, her earlier dismay momentarily forgotten. “Well, that’s slightly better!” she giggled, eyes twinkling as she joined in.

Up in the sky, Harry hovered high above the action, his sharp gaze sweeping the pitch. His task now wasn’t to score or protect his teammates—Wood had ordered him to focus solely on catching the Snitch. They were leading, but just barely. And with the brute strength of the Slytherin team, endurance was becoming an issue for the Gryffindors. They needed to finish this match quickly, or risk losing their momentum.

Harry muttered to himself, brow furrowing. “Where the hell is that Snitch?”

He banked left, scanning the pitch as the crowd’s cheers swirled around him. Just then, something gleamed at the corner of his vision. He jerked his broom to the side, barely ducking in time to avoid a Bludger speeding directly at him. Harry’s head snapped downward toward the field, spotting a few Slytherins. Their smug expressions made his blood boil.

“Is that how they want to play it?” Harry narrowed his eyes. Fine. Two could play at that game.

Without a second thought, he angled his broom sharply downward, plummeting toward the group of Slytherins with terrifying speed.

From the stands, Lee Jordan’s voice grew frantic. “What is Potter doing?! Is he actually trying to crash into the Slytherin team?!”

In the faculty box, Professor McGonagall’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the edge of her seat. “Potter!” she gasped, her voice barely more than a whisper, eyes wide in horror as she watched her Seeker dive like a missile.

“Harry!” Hermione screamed, her heart seizing in terror. Her hands flew to her mouth, and for a split second, the noise of the crowd faded away, leaving only the sound of her rapid heartbeat in her ears.

“N-No, that’s just a feint,” Ron said, trying to reassure her, though his voice wavered with uncertainty.

Hermione grabbed his arm, knuckles white. “Are you sure?”

Ron didn’t answer. His eyes were glued to Harry, his face pale.

At the very last second, Harry pulled out of the dive, a hair’s breadth away from colliding with the ground. The Slytherin players scrambled to get out of his way, one nearly toppling off his broom in the process. Panic spread through their ranks as they realized they’d been outplayed.

“What an impressive and nasty feint!” Lee Jordan shouted, voice full of awe.

Harry smirked to himself, glancing over his shoulder to see the Slytherins scatter like frightened birds. But his eyes immediately snapped forward again. There, darting just above the grass near the goalposts—the Snitch, its tiny golden wings a blur.

Without hesitation, Harry leaned forward on his broom, heart pounding in his chest as he accelerated, the wind whipping through his hair. The opposing Seeker was hot on his tail, but Harry knew he had the edge. The Snitch dipped and weaved, flying just out of reach, but Harry was determined.

Then, in an audacious move, Harry did something that made the entire stadium gasp. He stood up on his broom, balancing precariously as it hurtled forward. With a deep breath, he launched himself into the air, his fingers outstretched.

“HARRY!” Hermione shrieked, her heart lurching in her chest.

Time seemed to slow as Harry soared through the air. His fingers brushed the Snitch, the cold metal sending a jolt of triumph through his body. He closed his fist around it just as gravity took hold, and he tumbled to the ground with a hard thud.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, a roar erupted from the crowd.

“POTTER CAUGHT THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS THE GAME!” Lee’s voice boomed through the pitch.

Harry raised his fist, the golden Snitch gleaming in his hand. His grin was triumphant as he lay sprawled on the grass, panting but victorious.

Hermione, heart still racing, let out a shaky laugh. “That... that lunatic...” she muttered, her cheeks flushed as she gazed down at the pitch, her admiration for Harry mixing with a cocktail of relief and exasperation.

Ron, on the other hand, was bouncing on his feet, practically bursting with excitement. “THAT WAS BLOODY BRILLIANT, HARRY!”

Up in the air, the Gryffindor team was already descending, their cheers mixing with the applause of the crowd. As Harry struggled to his feet, his teammates surrounded him, clapping him on the back.

Hermione looked at Ron, still laughing, before turning her gaze back to Harry. A soft smile tugged at her lips as she watched him bask in the victory, looking for all the world like a hero.

And in that moment, despite the terror of the last few minutes, she couldn’t help but feel a thrill.

xxxxx

Harry was still basking in the rush of excitement as he stepped out of the locker room, fully dressed in his regular robes. His team had already gone ahead, eager to celebrate in the Gryffindor common room, no doubt preparing for a legendary party. The echo of cheers from the Quidditch pitch still rang in his ears, and his heart was pounding from the thrill of victory. But as he made his way toward the castle, something unexpected caught his eye.

Standing just ahead, waiting for him, was Hermione. Her face lit up with a smile as soon as she saw him, but there was more. Behind her stood a familiar, grinning Sirius Black, leaning casually against a stone pillar, his signature mischievous glint in his eyes. But next to him was a woman Harry didn’t immediately recognize. There was something about her that seemed familiar, though he couldn’t place it at first.

"Sirius!" Harry called out, laughter in his voice as he jogged over. He threw his arms around his godfather, hugging him tightly. "I can’t believe you came!"

Sirius barked out his usual laugh, returning the hug with a tight squeeze. "Well, they owed me an explanation for... you know," he said, his voice dropping with a wink that Harry easily caught. "So I told them I had a good reason to come to Hogwarts for your first Quidditch match."

"Perks of the job, huh?" Harry chuckled, pulling back from the hug.

"Perks of the job," Sirius repeated with a smirk.

As Harry stepped away, his attention shifted to the woman beside Sirius. She was watching the interaction with a knowing smile, and there was something about her mannerisms that clicked in Harry’s mind. He squinted, taking a closer look, and then it hit him.

"Wait..." he reached out to shake her hand, but out of habit from some of the lessons he’d received, he nearly kissed her knuckles before catching himself. "Mrs. Granger? Is that you?"

The woman laughed, and it was a warm, familiar sound. "You found me out!" she said with a smile.

"Mum?!" Hermione exclaimed, her shock evident as she stepped closer. "Mum, what are you doing here?"

Emma Granger’s smile widened as she pulled her daughter into a hug. "Hello, dear," she said, kissing Hermione’s forehead before turning to Harry again. "Sirius helped me out. He mentioned he was visiting Hogwarts, and I couldn’t resist asking if I could tag along."

Hermione’s eyes widened further. "But... how? You look so different!"

Emma glanced at Sirius, who winced slightly. "Well, your godfather here provided me with a potion that changes my appearance for a little while. Just enough to not stand out too much."

"Potions work on Muggles?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued.

Sirius, still looking sheepish, nodded. "Even I didn’t know that until Emma brought it up. She found some old references in one of the Potter Library’s books," he said, glancing at Emma, who gave him a pointed look.

"I insisted on trying it," Emma added, her tone light but firm. "It was perfectly safe, I assure you."

Hermione looked between them, her astonishment clear. "Mum... you’re... amazing," she said, her voice full of admiration, though it was clear she was still processing the whole thing. She turned back to Harry. "Can you believe this?"

Harry couldn’t help but grin. "That’s pretty brilliant, Mrs. Granger."

"So, how are you both?" Emma interjected, wrapping an arm around her daughter and pulling Harry into a warm hug as well. "Harry, that flying of yours was incredible! You nearly gave Sirius a heart attack when you dove toward the ground. I thought he was going to leap from the stands to catch you!"

"I did not!" Sirius hissed, his face scrunched in mock indignation. "She’s exaggerating, Harry. Don’t believe a word she says."

Harry and Hermione both burst into laughter, unable to help themselves. Sirius’ playful grumbling only made it funnier.

After the laughter subsided, Harry stepped back slightly, watching as Hermione and her mother began an excited conversation about the potion and the wonders of the magical world. Hermione’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, and Emma seemed just as engaged, talking about the strange, fascinating experience of using a magical potion.

It was strange, Harry thought, watching them. Here was Hermione’s Muggle mother, teaching her things about magic. It was ironic, really—almost poetic. The Muggle was the one sharing knowledge about the wizarding world, and Hermione soaked it all in with the same enthusiasm she had for every new piece of magic she discovered.

As he turned away slightly, giving them space to talk, Sirius fell in beside him. They walked a few steps together in comfortable silence before Harry lowered his voice.

"Any updates on the troll?" he asked.

Sirius’s expression shifted, becoming more serious. "Nothing concrete yet," he admitted. "But based on the traces we found, it looks like whatever spell was controlling it was obliterated when you... well, when you killed it. No trace left to analyze."

"You think it’s connected to the Death Eaters?" Harry asked, a frown tugging at his lips.

Sirius shook his head. "I don’t think so. The troll wasn’t after you specifically. It seemed more focused on something else... maybe whatever Dumbledore’s hiding in the castle."

Harry cursed under his breath, his fists clenching at his sides. "I almost forgot about that."

"Don’t beat yourself up over it," Sirius said, wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulders. "You’ve done enough for now. Besides, if we can’t figure out a way to get past that dog without... you know, resorting to drastic measures, it’ll be out of our hands."

Harry paled, his eyes widening. "I’m not killing a dog!"

Sirius laughed heartily at Harry’s horrified expression. "Of course not, kid. I’d never ask you to. And if you did, I’d consider it treason against every dog lover out there."

Despite himself, Harry chuckled, though the weight of their conversation still lingered. His mind was racing with thoughts about the troll and the mysterious danger looming over Hogwarts, but for now, he let himself relax a little. After all, he was still riding the high of the Quidditch victory, and the night was young.

As they approached the castle, Harry glanced back at Hermione and Emma. They were still deep in conversation, Emma gesturing animatedly while Hermione listened, completely captivated. It warmed Harry’s heart to see Hermione so happy, especially after everything she’d been through.

"You’ve done good, Sirius," Harry said quietly, looking up at his godfather.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How so?"

"Bringing Mrs. Granger here. She looks happy... and Hermione really needed this."

Sirius smiled softly, a rare moment of sincerity crossing his face. "It wasn’t just me, you know. Emma insisted on coming. And I’m glad she did. The girl’s got her mother’s fire, that’s for sure."

Harry nodded, his eyes drifting back to Hermione. She was laughing now, her face glowing with joy. It was moments like this that made everything worth it—the danger, the mystery, the uncertainty. He would do anything to protect the people he cared about.

xxxxx

"How did you find out about Fluffy?"

Hagrid’s booming voice filled the small, cozy hut as he set a massive, steaming kettle down on the table. The scent of earthy tea leaves wafted through the air, mixing with the warm glow of the fire crackling in the hearth. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Draco sat huddled around the oversized wooden table, their fingers wrapped around mugs almost as big as their hands, sipping tea as they exchanged uneasy glances.

The flickering firelight cast long shadows across Hagrid’s face, his beetle-black eyes narrowing as he leaned in, his massive hands gripping the back of a chair. He looked both worried and curious, as if expecting them to give up some great secret.

Draco was the first to break the silence, his expression twisting in disbelief. His pale grey eyes went wide with shock. "Fluffy? You named that thing... Fluffy?" He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or run screaming from the hut.

Hagrid grinned sheepishly, his large hands fiddling with his moleskin coat as if he were smoothing out invisible wrinkles. "O’ course! Fluffy’s mine! Raised him meself. Lend him to the Headmaster, I did, to guard the—"

"Guard the what?" Ron blurted out, his voice cutting through Hagrid’s like a sharp knife. The curiosity burning in his eyes was palpable, and he leaned forward, almost knocking over his oversized mug in his eagerness to hear more.

Harry and Hermione both groaned audibly, their heads falling into their hands as they exchanged frustrated looks. They were so close, so maddeningly close to finding out something important—something dangerous—and Ron had gone and spoiled it.

"Ron," Hermione hissed under her breath, glaring at him. "You interrupted!"

Harry shook his head, his eyes flicking to Hagrid, who was now looking like he’d just swallowed something sour. The gamekeeper's grin had disappeared, replaced by a guilty, panicked look as he quickly turned his back on them to fiddle with the kettle. His broad shoulders tensed as he muttered something under his breath.

"F-Forget I said anything," Hagrid muttered, his voice low, almost as if he were talking to himself. He picked up the kettle again, pouring more tea into their mugs with shaky hands. "Just... er, forget about that."

The room was filled with the soft clinking of cups and the crackle of the fire, but it was clear none of the four friends had any intention of letting this slip. They watched him, their eyes practically boring holes into Hagrid’s broad back, waiting for any other hint or slip-up.

Finally, Hagrid turned back to them, his large hands now gripping his own mug tightly as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes were full of a mix of worry and desperation, and he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice to a near-whisper.

"Now listen to me, you four," he warned, his tone suddenly much more serious. "You’re meddling in things you ought not to be meddlin' in. You shouldn’t be visitin' the third-floor corridor, not unless you’ve got a death wish! It’s forbidden. Dangerous!"

The room seemed to grow colder, the once cozy warmth of the hut giving way to a creeping chill that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. Hermione’s brows furrowed, and Ron’s face had drained of color. Even Draco, usually quick with a snarky comment, was staring at Hagrid, eyes wide with unease.

Hagrid leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. "What that dog is guardin'," he said, his voice barely above a growl, "is between Professor Dumbledore and Nicholas Flamel."

As soon as the name left his lips, the air in the room seemed to freeze. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Draco all exchanged quick glances, the same question running through their minds.

"Nicholas Flamel?"

They repeated the name in unison, the words echoing through the room like a challenge, as if they were daring the name to mean nothing.

Hagrid froze, his eyes wide with horror as if he had just realized the magnitude of his slip-up. His mug slipped from his grasp, nearly falling to the floor, and he muttered frantically, his face going pale. "I—I shouldn’t have said that," he stammered, his voice shaking. "I shouldn’t have said that..."

Harry, however, was already on his feet, his face breaking into a wide grin that stretched from ear to ear. His emerald eyes sparkled with excitement, and he threw his cloak over his shoulder with a flourish. "Thanks for the tea, Hagrid! This was... fun!" His voice was practically bursting with triumph, though he tried to play it off casually.

He made for the door with hurried steps, not even bothering to look back. His friends stared at him for a moment, stunned into silence by his sudden burst of energy. It was Hermione who first snapped out of her daze, standing quickly and grabbing her bag.

"Wait—Harry, hold on!" she called, rushing after him.

Ron, still pale and looking like he might faint, scrambled to his feet, dragging Draco along with him. Draco looked torn between amusement and exasperation as he muttered something under his breath about Harry’s impulsiveness, but he followed nonetheless.

They burst out of Hagrid’s hut into the cool, crisp air of the Hogwarts grounds, the sky a deep shade of blue as the sun began to set. The wind whipped through their hair, but it didn’t slow Harry down one bit. He was already halfway across the field, running toward the castle with a determined gleam in his eyes.

"Where are we going?" Ron called out breathlessly, struggling to keep up with Harry’s swift pace.

Harry glanced over his shoulder, laughing like he hadn’t a care in the world. "Where else?" he shouted, his voice carrying over the wind. "To the library!"

With that, they raced toward the castle, their hearts pounding with anticipation and the thrill of the chase. The library awaited them, full of ancient books and untold secrets. And for the four of them, this was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

The crackling fire in the large hearth of Potter Manor’s cozy study cast flickering shadows on the walls as Hermione Granger let out an exasperated groan. She stood in the center of the room, surrounded by towering piles of ancient books, her usually composed face etched with frustration. Her hair, a wild tangle from hours of searching, looked even more frazzled as she stared at the open volumes, her brown eyes gleaming with determination that was now bordering on desperation.

“I can’t believe it, still nothing!” Hermione threw her hands in the air, her voice trembling with the edge of impatience. Her eyes, usually alight with the excitement of solving a puzzle, were now clouded with exhaustion. “How can we not find a single thing about Nicholas Flamel? It’s like he doesn’t even exist!”

Harry, lounging on the floor by the fire, glanced up at her with a sympathetic smile, though there was a hint of frustration tugging at his own features. He hated feeling like he was missing something obvious—especially when he knew, deep down, that the name Nicholas Flamel sounded so familiar. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to ask Sirius about it. No, he wanted to figure this out on his own—prove himself before bringing it to his godfather.

"We've looked through every book I can think of," Harry muttered, running a hand through his messy hair as he lay back on the thick carpet. His green eyes stared up at the ornate ceiling, as though hoping the answer would magically appear in the cracks between the beams. “Maybe it's spelled differently? Like, Nikolas with a 'K' or something? Flamel with an extra 'e' at the end?"

Hermione, who had been pacing back and forth, stopped to give him a skeptical look. “Honestly, Harry, you think a different spelling will help us? I’ve checked every variation of his name, I’ve double-checked our sources. We’re missing something, I just know it. Don't give up!"

Letting out a groan, Harry stretched his arms over his head, sinking deeper into the soft rug beneath him. “I’m not giving up, Hermione. I’m just… taking a break.” He grinned mischievously and reached for her wrist, pulling her down onto the floor beside him.

Caught off guard, Hermione yelped slightly before reluctantly collapsing next to him, her arm brushing against his. For a moment, the tension in the room softened as the two lay side by side, their breath slowing as they stared at the fire. The warmth of the flames cast a golden glow over them, and despite the frustration of their fruitless search, the moment felt strangely peaceful.

“Why am I working so hard on this?” Hermione sighed, her voice softer now, almost introspective. She turned her head to look at Harry, her bushy hair spreading out on the rug like a wild halo.

“Because you’re you,” Harry said with a lazy smile, his voice teasing but affectionate. He shifted slightly to look at her, their faces closer now. “And you’re brilliant. And curious.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Damn right I am,” she agreed. Then, with more force, she added, “So why can’t we find anything on Nicholas Flamel?”

Harry burst into laughter at her exasperation, the sound rich and full, filling the room with warmth. He had to admit, seeing Hermione so riled up over this was both endearing and entertaining. Her intensity was something he admired, but also something he loved to tease her about.

Suddenly, a voice broke the moment.

“Nicholas Flamel?” came a light, almost sing-song voice from behind them. They both jumped, rolling over quickly to see Emma Granger standing in the doorway, holding a steaming cup of tea. Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she took in the sight of the two of them sprawled out on the floor amidst the chaos of books.

Harry sat up quickly, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Wait—did you just say Nicholas Flamel? Do you know who he is?” His heart was racing. No way. No way Emma Granger of all people knew what they couldn’t figure out.

Hermione, too, looked shocked. “Mum, how do you know about him?” Her voice was breathless, as if she couldn’t believe her mother might have the key to this mystery.

Emma raised an eyebrow, smiling as she took a sip of her tea. “Oh, I’ve read about him. Quite fascinating, really. Isn’t this for your homework?”

Harry and Hermione exchanged incredulous looks, the absurdity of the situation hitting them all at once. Harry blinked, unable to hide his disbelief. “No freaking way.”

“Way,” Emma said simply, her expression far too casual for their liking. “I came across his name in one of the old volumes in the library here. It was a book on alchemy.”

Hermione let out a soft gasp, her brain already working through the implications. “Mum, you’ve read about him? How? We couldn’t find anything in Hogwarts!”

Emma’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Well, where were you looking, exactly?”

Harry looked sheepish as he began to explain, “Mostly the Hogwarts library. When that didn’t work, we focused on notable wizards.”

Hermione nodded, still processing what was happening. “His name wasn’t in Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, Notable Magical Names of Our Time, Important Modern Magical Discoveries...”

Emma couldn’t help but laugh as she walked into the room, gesturing for the two to follow her. “Those are all modern books, Hermione. Nicholas Flamel is much older than that. He’s more of a historical figure. Haven’t either of you thought to look into alchemy?”

The two friends looked at each other with wide eyes. Alchemy? Why the bloody hell would they even look at that? They don't even know what he does or what he was famous for!

“Mum…” Hermione breathed, her eyes now glowing with curiosity. “Do you mean…?”

Emma grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Come on, let me show you the book.” She turned and began leading them down the corridor towards the Potter family library, her tea still in hand.

As they followed her, Harry turned to Hermione, a mix of frustration and excitement in his eyes. “How did we miss that? Alchemy? Of all the subjects in the world!"

Hermione groaned dramatically, pressing her hands over her face as if to shield herself from the embarrassment. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?” Her voice was half a whine, half a sigh, the weight of her perfectionist streak crashing down on her. She peeked through her fingers at Harry.

Harry laughed, nudging her with his elbow. “Not a chance. But hey, at least we’ve got a lead now.” His grin grew wider at the sight of Hermione’s annoyed scowl, though he could see the relief hidden underneath her frustration.

As they entered the towering Potter Library, Harry felt the familiar sense of awe wash over him. It was like stepping into a different world, one where history and magic mingled in the air. The grand tower of the library loomed over them, five sprawling floors of knowledge, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stacked with thousands of volumes—many of which hadn’t been touched in decades. Harry had always loved it here, and seeing it finally beginning to come together made his chest swell with pride.

The first floor, at least, had transformed from the dusty chaos it had once been. Now, thanks to Emma’s diligent efforts, it looked pristine—polished floors, neat shelves, and not a single book left out of place. Even the higher floors, though still a work in progress, were beginning to look more orderly. Emma had certainly done wonders organizing the mess, and Harry couldn’t help but marvel at how much more alive the library felt.

“She’s really something, isn’t she?” Harry murmured to Hermione, gesturing to her mum who hummed softly to herself as she ascended the spiral staircase toward the third floor.

Hermione nodded but didn’t say anything, her eyes following her mother as she disappeared into the upper levels. There was something bittersweet in her expression, but she quickly masked it, refocusing on the task at hand.

A few moments later, Emma returned, holding an ancient-looking tome with thick, worn pages and a cover that was intricately embossed with swirling, golden designs. It was large enough to require both of her hands to carry. She had a triumphant look on her face.

“Here it is!” Emma beamed, carefully setting the book down on the ornate library table in front of Harry and Hermione. “This is an old text on Alchemy, written centuries ago. It has quite the collection of legends.”

Intrigued, Harry leaned in as Emma flipped through the delicate pages, the scent of old parchment filling the room. She finally stopped at a passage, her finger pointing to a specific section of text.

“Look,” Emma said, with an air of victory. “This should be what you’re after.”

Harry and Hermione crowded over the book, their heads almost touching as they read aloud in unison, “Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone.” Their eyes widened, hearts pounding as they continued to read. “The Philosopher’s Stone is a legendary substance with astonishing powers. It will transform any metal into pure gold and produces the Elixir of Life, which grants immortality to the drinker. The only stone currently in existence belongs to Nicholas Flamel.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat as the realization sank in. They had found it—the key to the mystery. He turned toward Hermione, his eyes wide with excitement. “The Philosopher’s Stone!”

Emma, looking rather pleased with herself, gave them a smug smile. “Quite the alchemist, isn’t he?” She crossed her arms, sipping from her cup as though revealing one of the greatest secrets of the wizarding world was just another casual conversation.

Harry closed the book gently, his fingers lingering on the rough edges of the pages. He turned to Emma, his expression one of pure admiration. “I really appreciate the help, Mrs. Granger. But I’ve got to ask... how did you even know about this? I mean, it’s incredible! You must have read so many books to remember something like that.”

Emma’s grin widened as she leaned forward, clearly enjoying their astonishment. “I have an eidetic memory, Harry, dear. Once I read something, it stays with me forever.”

Harry blinked, stunned. “An eidetic memory?” He looked over at Hermione, his eyes shining with newfound respect, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t even ask. That’s the one thing I didn’t inherit from Mum,” she muttered, her voice tinged with a pout.

Harry chuckled, leaning a bit closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Oh well... I still think you’re pretty brilliant. Pretty and brilliant, actually.” His smirk widened as he watched her cheeks flush.

Hermione’s response was swift—a punch to Harry’s arm, catching him completely off-guard. The light thud echoed through the library, and Emma gasped, her tea sloshing slightly as she looked between the two in shock.

“Hermione Jean Granger!” Emma exclaimed, her voice filled with motherly disapproval. “Why on earth did you punch Harry?”

But Harry didn’t stick around to hear Hermione’s explanation. He was already halfway out of the library, bolting toward the nearest exit with a grin plastered on his face. He wasn’t about to get caught in the middle of a mother-daughter interrogation.

“Coward!” Hermione’s voice rang out behind him, a mixture of laughter and exasperation. Harry couldn’t help but chuckle as he disappeared down the corridor, the playful exchange lingering in the air behind him like a warm glow.

xxxxx

Harry lay on his bed, the velvet curtains drawn tight around the four-poster, shrouding him in darkness. His heart raced, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts that he couldn’t tame, no matter how hard he tried. Excitement surged through his veins, but it was laced with something darker—anger, frustration, and a hint of fear. His fists clenched at his sides as his breathing quickened.

He knew it now. He finally knew what was hidden within the depths of Hogwarts.

The Philosopher's Stone.

Money and immortality—the ultimate combination of power. Whoever controlled the Stone would be unstoppable. It was no wonder that Albus Dumbledore, the self-proclaimed Leader of the Light, had hidden it there. But why? Why in Hogwarts, a school filled with students who didn’t know any better? The question gnawed at him, the unease settling in his chest like a heavy weight.

Harry's mind raced through a thousand possibilities. The Philosopher's Stone was no ordinary object. If the legends were true, whoever possessed it could turn any metal into pure gold and create the Elixir of Life—eternal youth, endless wealth. A cold shiver ran down his spine. The thought of someone like Dumbledore having that kind of power... it was terrifying.

He rolled onto his back, his fists still clenched as he stared at the dark ceiling above him. The idea that Dumbledore might be playing some kind of twisted game, hiding the Stone in plain sight, made his blood boil. He could feel the heat of his anger rising in his chest, his pulse quickening as he thought of the audacity of it all.

Dumbledore, richer than him and Sirius? Immortal?

Harry’s lips twisted into a sneer. Dumbledore was already one of the most powerful wizards in the world, but with the Philosopher's Stone, he would become untouchable. An immortal leader who could reshape the world into whatever vision he desired. And who knew what that would be? A world where Dumbledore pulled all the strings, where every decision passed through his control.

He sat up in bed, his hands gripping the duvet, knuckles white. The thought made him sick. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen.

But how had word gotten out that the Stone was hidden in Hogwarts? Who had let the secret slip? The troll incident was no accident—that much was clear. It had been a diversion, an attempt to sneak past the traps and get to the Stone.

But who?

Several names flashed through his mind, but none of them stuck. The only thing he knew for sure was that someone had tried to get past Fluffy, the three-headed dog guarding the trapdoor. And judging by the injuries he’d seen on a few specific people, they hadn’t succeeded. Yet.

He needed more information. He needed to be sure.

But the clock was ticking, and that knowledge gnawed at him. The Stone’s power was too great to be left in anyone's hands—especially Dumbledore's. If what he suspected was true, Dumbledore was not only hiding the Stone, but he was doing so to increase his own power. And if Harry didn’t act fast, the headmaster would soon become the most powerful wizard to ever walk the earth.

The very thought twisted in his stomach. What kind of world would that lead to? What kind of future would they be trapped in, with Dumbledore calling the shots? Harry shuddered, his fists unclenching as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The fire in his chest burned hotter, his anger fueling his resolve.

He needed to get to the Stone first.

But as much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t do it alone. He needed help, and not just any help. He needed someone who could navigate the castle's traps, someone who could think on their feet as quickly as he could.

He needed Hermione.

The thought made him hesitate for a moment. He and Hermione had grown close, sure, but dragging her into this—into something dangerous—was a different matter. But he knew she wouldn’t back down. She was as determined as he was, and maybe even smarter. Together, they might stand a chance of beating Dumbledore to the Stone. And he needed her sharp wit, her mind that seemed to catch things even he missed.

Still, a part of him wanted to protect her, to keep her out of harm’s way. But that wasn’t Hermione. She would hate him for keeping something like this from her. She would want to be part of the fight.

Harry ran a hand through his messy black hair, sighing in frustration. His head was buzzing with too many thoughts, too many plans that weren’t fully formed. Sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight, not with everything racing through his mind like this.

His eyes flicked to his desk where a small bottle sat tucked into the corner, half-hidden by a pile of books. He knew what it was—a sleeping potion. He had picked it up during one of his trips to Diagon Alley, back when his mind would race too fast for him to sleep. It wasn’t something he used often, but tonight... he needed it.

Standing, he padded over to the desk, the cold floor beneath his bare feet sending a shiver through him. His fingers wrapped around the small bottle, and without hesitation, he downed the contents in one gulp. The taste was bitter, but it worked quickly, a soft haze descending over his mind almost immediately.

Finally, his thoughts began to slow. His muscles relaxed as the tension drained from his body, the anger simmering down into a manageable ember. He stumbled back to his bed, collapsing onto the mattress as sleep began to pull him under.

His last thoughts before drifting off were of the Stone, Dumbledore, and the danger ahead.

And Hermione.

He needed her.

xxxxx

Harry woke up in an instant. His eyes shot open, and his heart raced with excitement.

It was Christmas!

The thrill of the day sent a surge of energy through him. Sure, Ron and Draco wouldn’t be there to join the festivities, but Hermione was! And this year wasn’t just going to be him and Sirius sharing a quiet meal together. No, today, the manor felt warmer, more alive with company. The house-elves had been busy preparing, and Harry could already hear the faint clattering of plates and mugs downstairs.

Throwing off the covers, Harry scrambled out of bed, pulling on his green Weasley sweater from the closet—a soft, familiar hug from Molly Weasley herself. He smiled at the thought, then dashed out of his room and down the wide, winding stairs toward the living room.

When he arrived, the fireplace crackled warmly, casting an inviting glow across the room. Presents were piled high, shimmering with holiday charm, but Harry’s eyes quickly found the people gathered around them.

Sirius lounged in a cozy black turtleneck, the sleeves rolled up as he casually perused the Daily Prophet. His hair was slightly disheveled, and his casual demeanor only added to his roguish charm. Nearby, Emma Granger sat on the floor, laughing as she helped Hermione sort through her presents.

"Happy Christmas, everyone!" Harry exclaimed, nearly tripping over himself as he sprinted toward his pile of gifts, almost crashing into Hermione and Emma in his excitement.

"Careful, Harry!" Emma laughed, holding her hand out in a mock gesture of protection.

Hermione watched him, her brow raised, clearly amused by the sudden transformation of her usually cool and collected best friend. “You’re acting like a little kid,” she teased, though her eyes softened seeing him so carefree.

Harry, too caught up in the excitement, didn’t respond. Instead, he dove into his gifts, tearing through them with wild abandon.

Ron had sent him a book on Seeker tactics from the Chudley Cannons, his favorite Quidditch team. "Typical Ron," Harry murmured, smirking as he flipped through the pages, his mind already planning how he'd use those new moves in his next practice.

Draco’s gift, surprisingly thoughtful, was a sleek leather jacket. Harry held it up, admiring the smooth black leather, already imagining how cool he’d look wearing it around Hogwarts.

"Not bad, Malfoy," Harry grinned to himself, folding it over the arm of the chair.

Narcissa had sent something more elegant—a beautiful locket with the Potter crest, a wolf etched with ruby-red eyes. Harry opened it, expecting to see a photo, but there was none. He smirked, running his fingers over the smooth metal, making a mental note to add something special inside.

Professor McGonagall's gift was as practical as ever: a book on Animagus transformation with a pointed note, reminding him not to learn it in secret like his father and his friends had done. Harry chuckled, shaking his head.

Remus sent him a novel, an ongoing war between vampires and werewolves, no doubt hoping to spark his love for reading. Hagrid’s gift, a rustic wooden flute, left Harry chuckling, wondering what the half-giant expected him to do with it.

Among the piles was the familiar sight of a Weasley sweater—Molly never forgot to send one—this year in deep maroon. There were chocolates from his friends in France and, last but not least, a hand-knitted scarf from Hermione.

Harry's hands paused on the scarf, his eyes widening slightly. He lifted the material slowly, feeling the soft wool between his fingers. It was a dark green, almost black, but just green enough to highlight his eyes.

“Is this… handmade?” he asked in awe, his voice dropping to a whisper. His fingers traced over the slightly messy patterns, noticing the occasional lump where the yarn had gone astray.

Hermione flushed slightly, avoiding his gaze. “It’s not perfect…”

Harry looped the scarf around his neck, securing it snugly. His smirk, though hidden by the scarf, was evident in his voice. "I love it," he said softly. "Thanks, Hermione."

Hermione’s cheeks burned, but she quickly covered her embarrassment with a playful shove. “Don’t get too full of yourself, Potter.”

Harry chuckled, missing her words as he turned to Sirius, excitement bursting from him. “Sirius! Look at this scarf Hermione made! She made it! With her own hands!”

Sirius raised a brow, his mouth full of cookies, and grinned lazily. “Oh, shut up, Harry.”

Harry wasn’t done, though. “Look at this, Mrs. Granger!” he said, lifting the ends of the scarf that dangled across his chest. “Hermione made it!”

Emma laughed, her hand gently resting on Hermione’s arm, stopping her daughter from swatting Harry in her embarrassment. “It’s lovely, Harry. But don’t forget, you still have more gifts.”

Harry blinked, momentarily distracted from his scarf obsession as he returned to his pile. His fingers eagerly tore through Emma’s gift, revealing a broom servicing kit.

“Wow! Thanks, Mrs. Granger!” he exclaimed, his eyes shining.

Emma smiled warmly. “I told you, just call me Emma, Harry.”

Harry grinned, his voice softening. “Thanks… Emma.”

Finally, only one present remained. Harry reached for it, his excitement reaching its peak. Without even glancing at the attached note, he tore into the packaging, only to freeze.

“Is this… a cloak?” His voice was thick with wonder as he pulled the fabric free. It shimmered in the light, its texture like liquid silk. His breath hitched, and his eyes shot to Sirius. “S-Sirius…”

Sirius nearly dropped his mug, his chair screeching against the floor as he rushed to Harry’s side. His hands reached for the cloak, eyes wide with disbelief. “Bloody Merlin…”

Hermione and Emma watched, their curiosity piqued as Sirius wrapped the cloak around Harry’s body. The effect was instant—Harry vanished from view, save for his floating head that wasn’t covered by the cloak.

Sirius’ voice was a hushed whisper. “It’s James’s Invisibility Cloak. I thought it was lost during the war. Who sent you this?”

Harry, his hands trembling, fumbled for the note. “There’s… there’s a note.”

Sirius grabbed it, his eyes scanning the words, his expression quickly darkening with anger. “Your father left this in my possession before he died. It’s time it was returned to you. Use it well.”

Sirius growled low in his throat, the tension palpable.

Hermione, her voice shaky, asked, “Who… who sent it, Harry?”

Harry glanced at Sirius, their voices merging in unison.

“Dumbledore.”

xxxxx

Sirius left in a rush after finishing the grand Christmas feast prepared by the house-elves. The festive atmosphere they had attempted to preserve crumbled the moment the Invisibility Cloak had resurfaced. The cloak, a precious Potter heirloom, was supposed to have been Harry’s all along—yet here it was, returned like some afterthought on Christmas Day. A slap in the face of what was lost.

As Sirius hastily muttered about work, Harry knew better. His godfather was headed to Hogwarts, no doubt storming into the castle to demand answers from Dumbledore. Answers about why the cloak, which could have potentially saved James and Lily, was kept hidden for so long.

After Emma and Hermione had finished the feast, they, too, prepared to leave for the mall—a tradition Hermione had mentioned earlier, where they would buy Christmas dresses, look at decorations, and enjoy the holiday bustle. Emma, ever so perceptive, had noticed Harry’s dark mood. She extended the invitation for him to join them, hoping a change of scenery might lift his spirits. But Harry had refused, murmuring something about needing to rest.

Hermione had hesitated, her hand lingering on the back of Harry’s chair, her eyes searching his face with concern. "Are you sure? It might be fun. We could find you something too."

Harry only shook his head. “I’ll catch up later,” he said quietly, not meeting her gaze.

Hermione bit her lip, her brow furrowing. She wanted to push further, maybe even drag him along, but her mother’s gentle touch on her shoulder stopped her. Emma knew when someone needed space. With one last glance, Hermione followed her mother out of the house, leaving Harry alone.

The house felt unbearably quiet once they were gone.

Harry retreated to his bedroom and sank down on the floor, the weight of the Invisibility Cloak heavy in his lap. He stared at it, his fingers brushing over the fine, silvery fabric, feeling every smooth line and perfect seam. There were no tears, no signs of wear, no fading. It was flawless. Immortal, almost. Just like Sirius and Remus had described—a cloak unlike any other in the world, passed down through generations of Potters.

The best Invisibility Cloak in existence, they said.

But the only thing running through Harry’s mind was why.

Why had his father given this cloak to Dumbledore in the first place? Knowing they were being hunted by Voldemort, why hadn’t he kept it? And why, after all these years, had Dumbledore kept it from him, only to return it now like some casual holiday gift?

Harry’s hands balled into fists, his knuckles white with the effort of holding back the swell of emotions rising in his chest. He could feel the fury bubbling beneath the surface, the injustice of it all twisting inside him like a knife. He could almost hear Sirius’s voice from their many late-night talks, each time he mentioned how the cloak might have saved James and Lily. They didn’t know if it would have protected them from the Killing Curse—but they didn’t know if it wouldn’t either.

Harry’s breath hitched as the thought took root. If it could’ve saved them... if they had just had the cloak that night...

His parents might still be alive.

Tears stung at his eyes, but Harry furiously blinked them away. He wouldn’t cry. He was beyond that now. His heart twisted painfully in his chest as he gripped the cloak tighter. His anger wasn’t just directed at the Death Eaters anymore. It was Dumbledore.

Fucking Dumbledore.

He could picture it all so clearly now—Dumbledore, sitting in his grand office with that twinkle in his eye, thinking he knew best. Thinking he had the right to make decisions for Harry, for his family. Harry had trusted him once. Believed in him.

No more.

Harry's body trembled, his breathing becoming erratic as the rage built up inside him, overwhelming his senses. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. His grip on the wand in his pocket tightened as his heart pounded furiously in his chest, the heat of his fury boiling his blood.

Without thinking, Harry leapt to his feet and screamed. A raw, animalistic sound that tore from his throat. His wand was in his hand before he could even register what he was doing, and the next thing he knew, he was blasting everything in sight.

Spells ripped across the room, slashing through the furniture, tearing the wallpaper, and scattering books and clothes across the floor. The walls, once adorned with elegant tapestries, now bore deep gashes where Harry’s magic had lashed out. His breath came in ragged gasps, but the anger—the pain—was still there, burning through him, threatening to consume everything.

It wasn’t enough.

He fired again, his wand cutting through the curtains this time, the rich fabric falling to the floor in shreds. A lamp shattered, its pieces raining down like glass snowflakes. The fireplace crackled as embers burst out of the hearth, singeing the edges of the rug.

He wanted to destroy everything. He wanted to make it all hurt like he hurt.

In that chaotic, furious moment, something deep inside him shifted. The plan he had once harbored—to merely push Dumbledore out of Hogwarts, to force him into early retirement—felt childish now. Naive.

No.

Dumbledore didn’t deserve exile. He didn’t deserve to fade quietly into the background. He deserved to pay.

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life.

"Evil for evil."

Harry’s jaw clenched as the thought settled into his mind like a cold stone in his gut. His heart was hammering, but his movements slowed. His wand arm lowered, though his eyes were still blazing with fury.

Dumbledore needs to die.

By his hand.

For what he did to his parents. For keeping this from Harry. For all the lies.

He stood in the center of the wreckage of his room, his chest heaving, his head spinning with the weight of the revelation. Everything around him was in ruins, but the chaos matched the storm brewing inside him. His hand, still gripping his wand, trembled.

It has to be him.

He swallowed hard, the rage still simmering beneath his skin, but with a new purpose now. A dark, terrible purpose. One that he could not—and would not—deny any longer.

Dumbledore’s time was coming.

And when it did, Harry would be ready.

xxxxx

The Grangers returned to Potter Manor, expecting Harry to still be down in the dumps after the somber mood they had left him in earlier. To their surprise, the smell of warm sugar and chocolate greeted them. As they stepped into the kitchen, they found Harry standing by the counter, his sleeves rolled up, grinning widely with flour dusting his cheeks and hair. Dobby and Kreacher hovered around him, both muttering to themselves as they tried to assist him, though it was clear that Harry was more interested in doing the work himself.

“Well, well, look at this,” Emma said, raising an eyebrow at the scene in front of her. “Didn’t expect to find you here, Harry.”

Harry looked up, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. "Hey, Hermione, Emma! What did you get from the mall?"

Hermione crossed her arms, giving him a suspicious look. "What’s going on here, Harry? When we left, it looked like the world was ending, and now... you're baking cookies? By yourself?"

Harry's grin widened. "What? Am I not allowed to bake now? Can't a guy change his mood?"

Hermione's frown deepened as she stepped closer, noticing the mess on his face. There was flour sticking to his forehead and chocolate smeared on the corner of his lips. His green eyes sparkled with amusement, the same scarf she had knitted for him wrapped snugly around his neck—though he’d clearly tucked it behind his back to avoid getting it dirty. He looked far too relaxed considering the way he had been sulking earlier.

"You missed a spot," Hermione said, pointing to his face, trying to suppress a smile.

Harry wiped his face with the back of his hand, but the chocolate smear only seemed to spread, making Hermione giggle despite her earlier concern. "Better?" he asked, with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Not even close," Hermione replied, stepping forward to help. But before she could reach him, Emma chimed in.

"We just bought a few things, saw some nice clothes that would look great on you and Sirius," Emma said, placing her shopping bags down on the kitchen counter. "Speaking of Sirius, is he back yet?"

Harry shook his head, wiping his hands on a towel. "Nope, probably busy with 'work.'" He emphasized the word, clearly not convinced by Sirius' vague excuses. "He’ll come around in the morning, I bet. We can go ahead with dinner, though. I’ll finish these up, and we’ll have fresh cookies for dessert."

The house-elves exchanged annoyed glances, clearly not fond of Harry’s insistence on doing the work himself. Kreacher let out a grumble under his breath about how it wasn’t fitting for young masters to be doing housework, but Harry waved him off.

"I told you, I want to bake these myself," Harry said, giving the elves a playful glare. "Go on, take a break if you like."

Emma, taking in the mess of flour, sugar, and butter splattered across the kitchen, chuckled softly. She knew Harry wasn’t bad at baking; in fact, he was quite good. But it looked like today, his playful mood was leading to a bit of chaos. "Hermione, why don’t you help Harry out?"

"Wha—me?!" Hermione blurted, turning to her mother with wide eyes. "I’ve never baked anything in my life!"

Emma gave her daughter a knowing smile as she reached for a bottle of wine Sirius had gifted her. "Good luck," she mouthed to Hermione with a grin before walking off with her glass, leaving the two alone in the kitchen.

Harry, not giving Hermione a chance to protest further, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her toward the counter. "Come on, Hermione. I’ll teach you. It’s not that hard. Just follow my lead."

Hermione huffed, still flustered from her mother’s unexpected suggestion. Dobby floated over with an apron, neatly tying it around her waist before stepping back. "This is absurd," she muttered, but a small part of her couldn’t help but feel intrigued.

“Don’t worry. We’re only making cookies, not a feast,” Harry teased, his smirk widening as he leaned against the counter, watching her.

Hermione shot him a glare but couldn’t resist the tug at the corners of her mouth. "Fine. What do I need to do?"

"Simple," Harry said, rolling up his sleeves further. "The ingredients are all measured out. You just have to mix, whisk, and beat a few things. Think you can handle that?"

"Of course I can," she said, raising her chin a little higher. "I’m not hopeless."

Harry chuckled. "We’ll see about that."

He pointed toward a bowl with softened butter, white sugar, and brown sugar. "While I preheat the oven, start with that. Beat it all together until it's smooth."

Hermione picked up the whisk and began mixing. It wasn’t long before her arms began to tire, and in her frustration, she splashed some of the mixture out of the bowl, splattering Kreacher in the process.

Kreacher shot Harry a dark look, but with a snap of his fingers, he vanished the mess from his face and retreated to the far corner of the kitchen.

“Sorry!” Hermione said, biting her lip.

Harry grinned wider, watching her struggle a bit more than necessary. "Need help, Hermione?"

"I’ve got this," she replied stubbornly, trying not to let him see her falter.

After another hour of mixing, whisking, and Harry offering teasing comments at every turn—none of which Hermione found helpful—the cookies were finally ready to be baked. As the smell of the dough filled the kitchen, Hermione slumped into a chair at the table, exhausted but secretly proud of her work.

Harry dropped into the seat beside her, handing her a small spoon with a dollop of raw cookie dough still clinging to it. “Try it.”

She eyed it suspiciously. "Harry, you know it’s not safe to eat raw cookie dough."

He rolled his eyes. "Hermione, we're witches and wizards. If we get sick, a potion will fix us up in no time. Go on, try it."

Despite her protests, the sweet smell of vanilla and chocolate was too tempting to resist. She took a nibble and was surprised at how delicious it was.

“Told you,” Harry smirked, taking a bite from his own spoon. "Moony taught me this recipe. Said my mum used to make it for them every Christmas when they were students. I added some chocolate to it. Thought you’d like that."

Hermione smiled at the story, nibbling more on the spoon. She couldn’t help but glance at Harry, flour still sticking to his messy hair, his smile softening when he talked about his mother. It was easy to forget, in moments like these, how much Harry had lost.

As they finished the cookie dough, Hermione couldn’t hold back her concern any longer. She turned to Harry, her voice soft. "Are you alright, Harry? Really?"

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, the playful look in his eyes dimming just a little. "I am... I am now." He glanced down at the table, tracing patterns in the flour dusted across it. "It's just... hard. Holidays without my parents, you know?"

Hermione nodded, the weight of the shared pain heavy between them. "I know. It’s hard for me too."

Harry looked at her, something unspoken passing between them. Then, his smile returned, a little more forced but still present. "Next Christmas, Hermione... let’s spend it together. Here. At Potter Manor."

She blinked, caught off guard by his serious tone. "What? Are you teasing me again?"

He shook his head. "No. I mean it. You, me, Sirius, your mum... next year. Let’s make it a tradition."

Hermione’s heart fluttered at his words, a warmth settling in her chest. "Of course, Harry," she said, smiling softly. "Next Christmas."

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy strutted into the Great Hall, the corners of his mouth curling with smug satisfaction. The gleam of his new cloak, finely tailored and embroidered with the Malfoy family crest, caught the light as he moved. He had spent his entire winter break abroad, a luxury few could claim, and he was more than ready to flaunt it. His mind raced with stories of lavish feasts, foreign magic shops, and rare wizarding treasures he had seen overseas. Oh, how he was going to make sure everyone heard about it—especially his friends.

As he walked in, he barely noticed the red-headed figure approaching until—thump—Ron Weasley, beaming with his usual wide grin, bumped into him.

"Welcome back, Malfoy!" Ron greeted him with a laugh that echoed through the hall. His red hair was messy, his face slightly freckled, and as always, he was wearing yet another hand-knit Weasley sweater—this one a bold red with a large 'R' emblazoned on the front.

Draco raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a half-smile, half-smirk. "Hey, Ron," he replied coolly, eyeing the sweater with mild amusement. "I see the Weasley wardrobe hasn't changed much."

Ron rolled his eyes, brushing off the comment. "Still warm though."

Draco grinned. "Where's Harry and Hermione? I heard they’ve been snooping around, something about Nicholas Flamel?"

"They did!" Ron exclaimed, his excitement bubbling over. He grabbed Draco by the arm and began pulling him toward the stairs, practically dragging him along.

"Wait, what are you—" Draco tried to protest, but Ron was relentless, his grip tight and his feet moving fast. Draco stumbled forward, barely managing to keep his footing, the weight of his fine cloak dragging behind him as they ascended the winding staircase toward the seventh floor.

By the time they reached their destination, Ron was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, his face lit with a giddy expression that Draco found, frankly, unnerving.

Draco raised an eyebrow, folding his arms over his chest. "Alright, Weasley," he huffed, still catching his breath, "you’ve dragged me all the way up here. What else did you lot find?"

A mischievous glint appeared in Ron’s eyes, and without a word, he began pacing back and forth in front of a tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy trying—and failing miserably—to teach trolls ballet.

Draco blinked, confusion slowly giving way to impatience. "You’re mad, aren’t you?" he said, deadpan.

But just as Draco was about to voice his complaints more loudly, something remarkable happened. The wall opposite the tapestry shifted, revealing a door that hadn’t been there moments ago. Draco's eyes widened, and for a second, he stood there, mouth slightly open.

Ron turned to him, his grin growing impossibly wider. "Welcome to the Come and Go Room, Malfoy," he said proudly, gesturing to the door with a flourish. "Or as we like to call it—the Room of Requirement. Or the Marauders' Lair. Or—"

"I get it!" Draco cut him off, but despite himself, he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his own face. This was more like it.

They stepped inside, and Draco’s eyes were immediately drawn to the large, cozy room before them. The warmth from the crackling fireplace enveloped him instantly, casting a golden glow over the space. A plush couch and several armchairs were arranged in front of the fire, the cushions soft and inviting. In the center of the room was a sturdy wooden table, laden with snacks—pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, and an assortment of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans scattered in bowls.

Off to the side, a row of practice dummies stood against the wall, their blank faces eerily staring ahead, waiting to be attacked. One had scorch marks from previous spell practice, and another had what looked suspiciously like bite marks on its arm. Bite marks?

Draco’s gaze swept over the room, and there, in front of the fireplace, sat Harry and Hermione, both with books open in their laps. Harry looked relaxed, his glasses perched low on his nose as he flipped through the pages of a thick tome, while Hermione was intently focused, her brow furrowed in concentration as she scribbled notes on a long piece of parchment. They barely glanced up as Ron and Draco entered.

"Well, look who finally decided to join us," Harry remarked without looking up, his voice casual but amused. He shut his book with a soft thud and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head.

"Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Draco," Hermione added, her tone teasing as she adjusted her quill. There was a glint of playful challenge in her eyes, though she kept her focus on her notes.

Draco smirked, letting his cloak fall dramatically as he stepped further into the room. "I was dragged here by Weasley, mind you. Though I suppose I should have expected this. You two, buried in books, as usual."

"We’re working on something important," Hermione said with a hint of pride in her voice.

"Of course you are," Draco responded dryly, though he couldn't help but feel intrigued. He moved closer to them, glancing at the books in their hands. "So… Flamel? You actually found something?"

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione, then leaned forward slightly. "Maybe," he said cryptically. "But there’s more to it than just that."

Ron plopped down on the couch, grabbing a handful of Bertie Bott's beans. "We’re onto something big, Malfoy. "

Draco stood in the middle of the cozy, warm room, eyeing his friends with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. The flickering light from the fireplace danced across his pale face as he crossed his arms over his chest, clearly trying to piece together the puzzle of what he'd missed. It was rare that something happened at Hogwarts without him knowing about it, and it irked him to think his friends had been up to something significant while he was away.

With a slight tilt of his head, Draco fixed his gaze on Harry, Ron, and Hermione, his tone casual but laced with a hint of demand. “Alright, let’s start with this room," Draco began, his eyes scanning the place once more. "What the bloody hell is this, and how did you find it?"

Harry chuckled softly, exchanging a quick glance with Ron before leaning back in his chair, looking amused. “Ron found it,” he said, shrugging as though it were no big deal. But the proud smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed his enjoyment of the situation.

Ron, puffing up his chest like a proud rooster, practically glowed with satisfaction. “That’s right, I did!" he announced, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “During the holidays, my brothers spent a lot of time raiding the kitchens with the house-elves. We’d snack on all sorts of things. Of course, I couldn’t just sit back, so I joined them.”

Draco, unimpressed, raised a delicate eyebrow and muttered under his breath, “Fatass.” The insult was quiet, but Hermione, seated beside him, caught it and stifled a giggle behind her hand.

Ron ignored the comment—or perhaps didn't hear it—and carried on, determined to finish his tale. “So, one day, I got to talking to one of the house-elves,” he continued, his voice taking on a conspiratorial edge, as though he were revealing some grand secret. “I asked them if there were any secret rooms in Hogwarts—since the kitchens are hidden behind that painting, and their quarters are hidden too. Seemed logical, right?”

Draco’s impatience began to show as he rolled his eyes again, though there was no stopping Ron now. His storytelling was in full swing. Ron leaned forward, grinning at the memory. “And then, the house-elf tells me about this place—calls it the Come and Go Room. Apparently, if you walk back and forth in front of that weird tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy three times, thinking about what you need, the room will appear.”

Draco frowned thoughtfully, glancing at the wall where the door had magically appeared for them earlier. He couldn’t help but feel a mixture of skepticism and fascination. “So… anyone can just waltz in here whenever they please?” he asked. “Because this doesn’t feel much like a ‘secret’ room if it’s that easy.”

Hermione, who had been silently observing up until now, was the first to speak up. Her eyes brightened at the chance to explain. “We’ve done a few experiments with it.”

Draco snorted, his lips curving into a smirk. “Of course you did,” he said, though there was no real malice in his voice—just the usual Draco sarcasm.

Hermione ignored his tone and pushed on, her excitement mounting. “The room responds to the person’s intent,” she explained. “If someone wants to enter while it’s unoccupied, they can. But if someone’s already inside, the room will only appear if the new person’s intent matches the purpose of the room that’s already in use.”

Harry, who had been lounging comfortably on the couch, leaned forward and added, “Exactly. Like earlier, when Ron brought you here—he summoned the room with the intent to show you the Marauder’s Lair. Since Hermione and I were already here with that same purpose, it worked.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “Marauder’s Lair? Really?” he asked, a mixture of amusement and disdain flickering in his gray eyes.

Hermione immediately rolled her eyes, her expression bordering on exasperation. “I know, right? It sounds so… childish,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of a sigh. “I’ve been telling them we need to come up with a better name.”

Draco chuckled, clearly agreeing. “It’s ridiculous. I expected something more clever from you two.”

Harry, however, wasn’t having it. He waved a hand dismissively, a mock glare on his face. “Oh, shut up, both of you. It’s a work in progress,” he retorted, though there was a playful glint in his eyes. “Besides, Ron found the room—he gets to name it if he wants to.”

Ron, beaming with pride again, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Weasley’s Wonderland,” he said with an exaggerated flair, as though presenting the grandest of titles.

The reaction was instant. Harry, Hermione, and Draco all groaned in unison, wrinkling their noses in disgust.

“Yuck,” they chorused, the harmony of their voices making Ron’s face fall in mock offense.

“Oi!” Ron looked genuinely appalled, his expression morphing into one of betrayal. “It was just a joke!”

Harry shook his head, laughing softly. “Maybe leave the naming to someone else, Ron. We’ll work on it.”

Hermione and Harry took turns explaining, their voices overlapping as they described the wonders of the Room of Requirement. The light flickered off the enchanted candles along the walls, casting warm shadows over their faces as they detailed how it was the perfect secret hideout for their little group. Harry, animated as ever, gestured around the room, emphasizing its ability to change based on what they needed, while Hermione’s eyes gleamed with a certain intellectual pride, explaining how the room’s magic was unlike anything she had read about so far.

"At first, I didn’t believe it," Hermione said, her voice just above a whisper as though she were still in awe of the room’s power. "But then we tried it—summoning the space by pacing back and forth three times, thinking of what we needed... and here we are."

Draco, sitting cross-legged on the plush floor, took it all in, his silver eyes darting from Harry to Hermione. The room had impressed him, though he’d never admit it so easily. It had the perfect ambiance for plotting, the dim lighting giving it a conspiratorial vibe, almost like it was designed for mischief. He ran his fingers over the fabric of the couch beneath him, thinking. There was no denying it—this room was perfect for their needs.

“Well?” Harry asked with a grin, nudging Draco with his elbow. “What do you think?”

Draco paused, his face set in mock contemplation before nodding, his expression shifting to one of grudging approval. “It’s... adequate.” He waved his hand lazily, though his smirk gave him away. “Alright, fine. It’s bloody brilliant.”

Ron let out a loud whoop, punching the air in victory. “Told you this was a good find!” He beamed, puffing his chest out. “We’ll have this place to ourselves. No Slytherins, no annoying Prefects, just us.”

Draco's smirk faltered for a second, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He was tired—tired of sneaking around, of having to hide from his fellow Slytherins when he wanted to spend time with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Sure, everyone knew about the alliance between the Malfoys and the Potters, and being a Black on his mother’s side had its privileges, but the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor was fierce. It was in their blood, ingrained by generations of house pride and prejudice.

And Hermione? A Muggle-born who somehow managed to beat most pure-bloods in class, including Draco himself at times—she was a magnet for the snakes’ disdain.

He glanced at Hermione, who was sitting beside Ron, her face glowing in the low light as she continued to explain the more complicated aspects of the Room’s magic. The usual spark of admiration for her intelligence flickered in his chest, though he kept his face neutral. It didn’t help that she was constantly proving them all wrong in class. The Slytherins loathed her success—one more reason Draco had to be careful around his housemates. But here, in this room, they were equals. It was their sanctuary.

After the discussion about the room died down, Hermione’s voice took on a more serious tone as she brought up another subject. “There’s something else we need to talk about... Nicholas Flamel.”

Draco's attention snapped back to her, intrigued. "Finally, well?"

Hermione leaned forward, her eyes darting between them. “He’s the creator of the Philosopher’s Stone—the artifact that can grant immortality and unlimited riches. That's the thing that's being guarded here at Hogwarts.”

Draco's eyes widened. “Immortality and unlimited riches?! That’s brilliant!” His excitement was palpable, his voice rising slightly in pitch as the implications settled in. He was practically bouncing where he sat.

“I know, right?!” Ron echoed Draco’s enthusiasm, his eyes alight with visions of endless gold and never having to worry about money again. The mere thought of it seemed to thrill him.

But Harry shook his head, grinning at their excitement. “We can’t have it, Draco.”

“Why not?” Draco asked, crossing his arms, looking genuinely put out by the idea that something so powerful was out of reach.

“We need to protect it,” Harry explained, his expression growing more serious. “Whoever let that troll into the castle is after it. And who knows what they’ll do next to get it?”

Draco frowned. “Protect it? I’m pretty sure Dumbledore’s already got that covered.”

“Maybe,” Harry admitted. “But we need to be ready, just in case. If something suspicious happens again, we need to be prepared. Imagine the chaos if the Stone fell into the wrong hands. Another Dark Lord, but this time with unlimited money and life…”

His words sent a chill through the room. Draco visibly shuddered at the thought, his mind racing. He knew about the war, even though he was just a baby when it ended. The terror Voldemort had unleashed on the world had been imprinted on his family’s history. The Malfoys had barely escaped ruin. If it weren't for Sirius Black taking them in... He could still hear the whispers from older Slytherins about the days of darkness, the power, the fear.

Ron shifted uneasily beside him. “It’d be awful... worse than before.”

Hermione, who had been listening intently, bit her lip. She, too, had read about the war, the horrors that Voldemort and his followers had inflicted. It was hard to grasp that Harry—her best friend—had faced down such a monster as a baby. And now here they were, talking about another potential threat.

“The idea of it... it's terrifying,” Hermione said softly, her voice tinged with concern. “If someone like that got their hands on the Philosopher’s Stone…”

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Harry said firmly, his green eyes flashing with determination. “We’ll keep an eye on things.”

Draco and Ron both nodded, though they still looked slightly uneasy. The weight of the conversation had settled over the group, thick and tangible.

“Well,” Ron said after a long pause, trying to lighten the mood. “At least we’ve got this room to hide in if anything goes wrong.”

Draco shot him a sideways glance, the tension still lingering in his expression. “Yeah, let’s hope we won’t need to use it as a place to hide into when another war happens.”

The group fell into a brief silence, each lost in their thoughts. The flickering light from the enchanted candles made their shadows dance across the walls, adding to the atmosphere of mystery and tension. It was as though the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for what was to come.

Finally, Harry broke the silence, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, enough of the gloom and doom. We’ve got a lair now. And no matter what, it’s ours.”

Draco smirked, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Fine, Potter. But if we’re going to use this place, we need a better name than... whatever that was,” he said, waving a hand dismissively.

They spent the rest of the day, sharing stories, treats, and ideas for names.

xxxxx

Harry and his friends spent the next couple of weeks buried in the hustle of their classes, each one determined in their own way to get a strong start for the new term. The air in the castle had shifted; there was a kind of electric buzz in the corridors, a blend of nervousness and excitement as the fresh term began. Ron, predictably, had taken full advantage of their newfound discovery of the Room of Requirement. Any spare moment he had outside of classes was spent experimenting with the room's magical capabilities, delighting in how it transformed with his every whim. He had quickly learned that if he focused hard enough, the room would reflect his desires—grand banners of Gryffindor, endless stacks of books, and even an oversized chessboard that almost resembled a battlefield.

“Look at this!” Ron exclaimed one evening, practically bouncing as he led Harry, Draco, and Hermione inside. The room had transformed into a luxurious Gryffindor-themed hideaway, complete with comfortable red-and-gold armchairs, a roaring fire, and an enormous banner that read ‘Weasley’s Warriors’ in bold, flashing letters.

Harry smirked, trying not to laugh. “Weasley’s Warriors? Really?”

Ron shrugged, unbothered by the teasing. “Well, it’s better than your suggestion, Potter’s Pals.” He grinned cheekily. “Besides, it’s just for fun.”

Draco, standing off to the side, rolled his eyes but didn’t say much. He found the Room of Requirement fascinating, though he wasn’t as vocal about it as Ron was. He appreciated its versatility, and when they needed to be serious, the room was the perfect place for planning.

Harry, on the other hand, was focused on something else entirely. His mind had been occupied with Quidditch—specifically, the upcoming match against Hufflepuff. Normally, Harry was always competitive when it came to Quidditch, but something about this match was different. It wasn’t just about winning the game this time. No, it had become personal.

He had been focused on training even more than usual, running drills and practicing with an intensity that had caught the attention of his teammates. Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor captain, had praised him multiple times for his dedication, but Harry’s mind was elsewhere. He had overheard Hermione talking one afternoon—talking about Cedric Diggory.

“He’s... weirdly handsome, isn’t he?” Hermione had said, her tone casual but filled with the kind of admiration that made Harry’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

Weirdly handsome? Harry had scoffed inwardly. What kind of nonsense was that? Cedric Diggory—sure, he was Hufflepuff’s Seeker and had a reputation for being a nice bloke, but handsome? What did Hermione see in him?

The thought irritated Harry more than it should have. He had gone into full competitive mode after that. The idea of losing to Diggory made his blood boil, especially now that Hermione had mentioned him. It wasn’t just about Quidditch anymore; it was about proving something, even if Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on what that something was.

As the match against Hufflepuff approached, Harry threw himself into helping his team, determined to give them every possible advantage. His relentless energy paid off—Gryffindor was dominating, leading by a solid 200 points. The crowd roared with excitement as goal after goal was scored, and Harry, flying high above the pitch, kept a sharp eye out for the Snitch.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it—the golden glint, hovering near the far end of the field. And to make things worse, Diggory had spotted it too. Cedric shot towards the Snitch with impressive speed, his broom cutting through the air like a dart.

But Harry was faster. He leaned forward, urging his broom to move faster, his focus razor-sharp. He felt the wind whip against his face as he narrowed the gap between him and Cedric. Diggory glanced over his shoulder, and for a split second, their eyes met. There was a flicker of mutual respect, but Harry wasn’t about to back down.

With a final burst of speed, Harry surged ahead, his fingers closing around the Snitch just inches before Cedric could reach it. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Harry couldn’t suppress the triumphant grin that spread across his face. He raised the Snitch high in the air, the golden wings fluttering weakly in his grip.

But instead of celebrating with his teammates, Harry’s eyes immediately sought out Hermione in the stands. She was clapping along with the rest of the crowd, but there was a curious look on her face, like she was trying to figure something out. She knew how much Harry loved flying and Quidditch, but something was off—he was too happy about this win. It wasn’t like him to be this competitive, especially against Hufflepuff. She raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze, and Harry felt a strange satisfaction as he waved the Snitch in her direction, as if to say, 'See? Beat that, Diggory.'

Hermione continued clapping, but she looked slightly bewildered. There was no mistaking that Harry had pushed himself harder in this match than he had in any other. The way he had focused on Cedric like a hawk tracking its prey was almost unsettling. She knew Harry had a competitive streak, but this was different. Was it because of what she had said about Cedric? She hadn’t meant anything by it; Cedric was just... well, objectively good-looking, wasn’t he? That didn’t mean she thought any less of Harry.

But still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more going on. Harry’s eyes hadn’t left hers, even as the team celebrated around him, and for a brief moment, it was like the rest of the world had faded away, leaving just the two of them standing on opposite sides of the pitch.

Draco, who had been watching from the stands, noticed the exchange and leaned over to Ron with a smirk. “Looks like Potter’s trying to impress someone.”

Ron snorted. “You think?”

“Definitely,” Draco drawled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Hermione, of all people.”

Ron blinked, then burst out laughing. “Oh, Merlin, you might be right.”

But Harry didn’t hear them. His mind was still on Hermione’s words, 'weirdly handsome.' What a load of rubbish.

xxxxx

One particular afternoon, Hermione Granger pushed open the door to her dorm room, her mind still buzzing from the mountain of notes she had been organizing in the library. To her surprise, a chorus of giggles floated toward her, immediately making her stop in her tracks. Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Isla Bennett, and Fiona Hughes were all huddled together on Lavender's bed, whispering and laughing, clearly absorbed in some shared secret.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, her grip tightening on her books. She had never been particularly close to the girls in her dormitory, only exchanging the occasional polite greeting or participating in class discussions. They seemed to occupy a different world than her—one filled with gossip and frivolity, while hers was centered around knowledge and studying. In truth, she didn’t mind. Harry, Ron, and Draco were more than enough company, and she often felt she didn’t need anyone else.

Sighing inwardly, Hermione made her way toward her bed, intending to ignore them as usual. But as she began to set down her stack of books, Parvati Patil’s voice called out to her.

“Hermione, come look at this!” Parvati’s excited tone beckoned her.

Hermione briefly considered brushing it off, but curiosity tugged at her. She put her books down, turning toward the group with a small, polite smile. As she approached, she caught sight of Lavender, Isla, and Fiona, all giggling at something in their hands. The girls returned her smile, though it felt forced, almost like a shared secret lay beneath their innocent expressions.

Lavender patted the bed, urging Hermione closer. "Come on, you have to see this!"

Suppressing an eye roll, Hermione finally stepped closer, though her interest waned when she saw what they were looking at—Witch Weekly, a glossy, pink magazine filled with all sorts of fluff she had no time for. Her face twitched. She'd rather read The Quibbler any day than this nonsense. Still, she forced herself to remain polite.

“Look at this,” Lavender said, pointing excitedly at an article. Fiona, sitting beside her, was practically bursting with anticipation as if they were about to share the juiciest secret in the wizarding world.

Hermione leaned in slightly, glancing at the page. Her eyes quickly widened, and she recoiled just as fast. The article was titled, The Most Eligible Bachelors of the Wizarding World, and the sight of the familiar names hit her like a punch to the gut. At the top of the list, in bold, glimmering print, was Harry Potter. Right below him, second place, Draco Malfoy. And third... Sirius Black.

Her stomach lurched.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Hermione muttered, her voice filled with disgust. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing—Harry, Draco, and Sirius, treated like some sort of… prizes for witches to fawn over. “They’re just eleven-year-old boys!”

Lavender and Fiona erupted into laughter, which grated on Hermione's nerves. “Don’t be so uptight, Hermione!” Lavender chided, playfully nudging her. “It’s important to know who the most eligible bachelors are, especially when people are already sending betrothal offers!”

That stopped Hermione in her tracks. "Betrothal offers?" She blinked, completely baffled. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Parvati giggled, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, Hermione, you really don’t know, do you?” She exchanged knowing glances with the other girls, as if they were in on some big secret. "That explains so much."

"What?" Hermione demanded, growing frustrated. "What explains so much?"

Fiona was the one to answer this time, giggling behind her hand in a way that made Hermione want to hex her. "There are rumors that you’re betrothed to Harry and Draco. Or maybe even Ron, since you’re always hanging around with them."

Hermione’s face paled instantly. Her jaw dropped as a mixture of emotions surged through her—disgust, fear, and confusion. "I’m not!" she protested, her voice louder than she intended. “That’s ridiculous!”

Lavender, clearly enjoying this, laughed and shook her head. "Well, now we know! But can you imagine? The last of the Potters, marrying a Muggle-born? I mean, he’s not just a future Lord, Hermione. He’s the Heir to the House of Black too!"

Hermione’s frown deepened. "Is it so bad that I’m a Muggle-born?" she snapped, her irritation growing. The way they spoke about it—as though her blood status somehow made her less—stirred something hot and angry inside her.

Fiona immediately backtracked, her voice softening. "Oh no, not at all! We didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that, well… in terms of power and wealth, Harry could marry another pureblood and... strengthen his family."

Hermione couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The casual way they spoke about Harry’s future as if it was a political game to be played… it made her stomach turn. But before she could respond, Lavender jumped in again.

"It’s not just that," Lavender added, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. “He needs to. My Mum says that Harry will have to have at least two or four kids—two to carry on the Potter name and two more for the Black family, if Sirius doesn’t have any future kids.”

Hermione's mind reeled. “I don’t understand. Harry's mother was Muggle-born and she married James Potter, right? He was the lord of the House of Potter at the time. Why can’t Harry do the same?” she asked, feeling herself grow red in the face. “Not that I plan on marrying Harry or anything—just… curious.”

The girls smirked knowingly, and Hermione flushed even deeper. “Don’t be silly, Hermione. It’s fine,” Isla said with a grin. “We all fantasize about living the life of a princess, marrying the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Lavender and Parvati swooned dramatically, their dreamy sighs almost making Hermione gag.

Fiona, ever the practical one, leaned in. “It’s just the way our world works, Hermione. For families like ours, we can marry who we want. But for someone like Harry—well, with two Noble and Most Ancient Houses under his belt, he’s got to make sure his legacy continues. The war changed things for his parents, but now that he’s the only one left, he has to do what’s best for his family.”

Parvati nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly. Harry needs a powerful witch by his side, someone who can give him powerful heirs. That’s just how it is."

Hermione sat there, stunned, as the weight of everything they had just said settled on her. She had known that the wizarding world was different from the Muggle world in many ways, but she never imagined it was this archaic, this… transactional. Marriages arranged to strengthen bloodlines? Betrothal contracts? Heirs to ancient houses? It was like something out of a medieval novel.

Her heart sank as she thought about Harry. Did he know about all this? Did Draco, Ron, and Sirius? Of course they did. They had probably grown up hearing about it their whole lives, while she… she was just a Muggle-born. The odd one out.

Anger bubbled up inside her. Why hadn’t anyone told her? Why had they kept her in the dark? It was just another reminder that no matter how close she felt to Harry and the others, she would always be different in their world.

As the girls continued to chatter and theorize which pureblood house had their eyes on Harry, Hermione’s mind raced. She needed to talk to Harry about this. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his answer.

xxxxx

Hermione found her way to the Room of Requirement. Ron hadn’t yet settled on anything, and whatever he suggested was immediately vetoed by both Harry and Draco. For now, they simply referred to it as "the Room of Requirement"—their secret hideout where they could escape the pressures of school and responsibilities, just the four of them.

As she entered, Hermione noticed the massive Wizard’s Chess set taking up the middle of the room. Ron stood before it, hands on his hips, a smug grin plastered across his face as he admired the pieces—each intricately designed, life-sized, and clearly capable of smashing each other to bits.

"Hey, Hermione!" Ron called, barely glancing her way as he continued to marvel at the chess set. "Awesome, isn’t it? I wanted to play, but it looks like it’s going to get dangerous once the pieces start moving."

Hermione didn't answer immediately. She walked past him and collapsed onto the old, oversized couch, her mind swirling with thoughts that made her head spin. The room’s warmth, usually so comforting, felt oppressive today.

"Hermione?" Ron’s voice snapped her out of her daze as he wandered over to her, frowning in concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah… sorry, Ron. Just thinking about stuff," she mumbled, her voice lacking its usual sharpness.

"Anything I can help with?" Ron’s cheerful tone had softened as he sat down next to her, concern etched in his expression. He smiled, that familiar freckled grin meant to reassure her, though he didn’t have the slightest idea what was bothering her.

Hermione glanced at him, taking a deep breath. Maybe Ron could actually help this time. She had spent the entire day replaying the conversation from earlier in her head, the cruel giggles of the other girls, their ridiculous notions about betrothal contracts still haunting her.

"Don’t sigh like that," Ron said, breaking the silence as he stretched his legs out onto the coffee table in front of them. "I might not be as smart as you three, but I can still help. Go on, try me!"

A small laugh escaped Hermione’s lips, despite the knot twisting in her stomach. "It's not about that, Ron. It's just... this whole thing is difficult to wrap my head around."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "What thing?"

She hesitated for a moment, the weight of the topic still making her cringe. But she knew she needed to talk to someone, and Ron was as good a choice as any.

"Okay… for starters," Hermione began, feeling the words tumble out, "what do you know about betrothal contracts?"

Ron froze, his face contorting in disgust. "You've seen the Witch Weekly magazine, haven’t you?"

Hermione blinked, taken aback. "You’ve read it?"

"Well, yeah," Ron grumbled, rolling his eyes. "My mum subscribes to it. Bloody thing's always around the house. I’ve seen some people passing it around the common room, too. Surprised you’re only seeing it now."

Ron leaned back, stretching his arms over the couch, though his earlier enthusiasm for the chess set had vanished. Hermione watched as he let out a long sigh.

"Well, I can’t tell you much—Harry and Draco don’t exactly chat about it openly—but yeah, they do get offers. My mum even tried to send one to Harry once," he said, chuckling darkly. "She wanted to match him with my sister, Ginny."

Hermione’s eyes widened in horror. "What?!"

Ron burst out laughing at her reaction. "Don’t worry, it didn’t get far. Sirius burned it the second it arrived. He threatened to cut all ties if they even thought about sending another one. Mum was furious, but she dropped it after that."

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at the image of Sirius burning the letter in a fit of rage. At least someone was protecting Harry from these ridiculous expectations.

"Although," Ron continued, his laughter dying down, "that was years ago. Things are probably different now. Once Harry comes of age, well, he’ll become Lord Potter and all that… so yeah, he’ll probably need to marry someone soon."

The thought made Hermione’s heart sink. "But he’s just a kid, Ron. We’re all just kids! Marriage? Really?" Her voice had risen in disbelief, a mix of anger and confusion bubbling inside her.

Ron shrugged helplessly. "Hey, don’t yell at me! It’s just the way things work. I think it’s crazy too. Believe me, the idea of Harry marrying my sister was enough to make me gag."

Hermione sat back, staring at the ceiling. "It’s wrong. Imagine having your entire future decided for you, without any choice. Harry doesn't even get the chance to meet someone he genuinely likes, to fall in love, go on dates, get a house… with cats... or whatever he wants before getting engaged. He deserves that."

Ron nodded, his expression softening. "I get it. I really do. But Harry’s got these responsibilities, Hermione. Being born into a powerful family isn’t exactly a walk in the park. He’s got expectations weighing him down."

"So, what?" Hermione muttered, her anger simmering beneath the surface. "Harry and Sirius just pick a girl, and that’s it? Game over?"

"Kind of," Ron admitted, scratching his head. "He's been meeting girls for that reason. Me and Draco met one of them once—a Slytherin girl named Daphne Greengrass. Bit of an ice queen, if you ask me, but she’s pretty. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Definitely has that 'pureblood' look going on."

Hermione’s heart thudded in her chest. "So, does that mean he’s going to marry her?"

Ron shook his head, looking confused. "I don’t think he’s decided yet. He just… well, he’s got a list of 'potential' girls, or whatever that means. Daphne’s on it, sure, but Harry’s not exactly jumping for joy about any of this. You know Harry—he’s not the type to just pick someone and say, 'Oh, she’ll do.' There’s more to it than that."

Hermione’s temper flared. "So he just meets a girl, likes her looks, and that’s it? Decides to marry her? It’s so barbaric!"

"I-I don't know!" Ron stammered, holding up his hands defensively. "Look, Hermione, it’s not just about how she looks. There’s a political side to it. The Greengrasses for example are a neutral family—big on modernizing the wizarding world, apparently. And they're loaded. It’s not all about love, you know. Some families marry to unite houses, build power… that sort of thing."

Hermione stomped her foot, her frustration bursting to the surface. The sound echoed through the room, causing Ron to flinch. For a brief moment, silence filled the air, the tension between them palpable.

"I-If," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling, "I-If Harry wanted to marry… say… a Muggle-born, like his father did... what would happen?"

Ron’s eyes widened, his grin slowly spreading as realization dawned on him. "Merlin’s beard, Hermione… you—you fancy Harry, don’t you?"

"I-I'm not!" Hermione shouted, drawing her wand and flicking it at him in frustration. A tiny jinx shot past Ron's head, causing him to duck and burst into a fit of laughter.

"You totally fancy him!" Ron howled, still dodging as Hermione aimed another half-hearted spell his way. "Blimey, this is brilliant! You and Harry—"

"Shut it, Ron!" Hermione snapped, her face burning red as she grabbed her book bag and stormed toward the door.

She paused at the exit, glaring at Ron, who was still struggling to contain his laughter. "Not a word about this to anyone," she warned.

"My lips are sealed, Ms. Granger," Ron teased, giving her a mock salute before bursting into another fit of laughter.

Hermione scowled and stormed out of the room, her heart racing, her thoughts in complete turmoil.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter wasn’t blind.

He knew something was up with his friends. The gnawing feeling that something had shifted clung to him, and he absolutely hated it. The worst part? They seemed to think he didn’t notice. As if Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, wouldn’t catch on that his closest friends were acting strange around him. It had all started with Hermione Granger, and that drove him mad more than anything else.

Harry had always loved teasing Hermione—it was like a game he never tired of. The way she would scrunch her nose when he prodded her about her study habits, the slight exasperation in her voice when she’d correct him for the hundredth time about some fact or spell, and the flustered looks she’d give him when he got too close, lingering in her personal space just long enough to see her cheeks turn pink.

There were those moments when they'd sit together, and he’d casually drape an arm around her shoulder, or maybe they’d hold hands as they wandered around the castle grounds, talking about anything and everything. Sometimes, she’d rest her head on his shoulder, and those were the best moments of all. Harry didn’t think much of it—it was just the way things were between them. Simple. Easy. Natural.

But all of a sudden, that had stopped.

At first, he thought maybe she was just tired or distracted by schoolwork—after all, Hermione was the kind of person to lose herself in her books for hours. But this wasn’t just a passing phase. During their study sessions, their long evenings in front of the common room fireplace, or even just hanging out in the Room of Requirement, Hermione had put this invisible wall between them.

And Harry hated it.

He didn’t realize how much he loved being clingy with Hermione until it all came to an abrupt halt. The absence of those small gestures, those fleeting touches, gnawed at him in ways he couldn’t explain. And the worst part? He couldn’t even talk to her about it. What was he supposed to say?

"Hey, Hermione, I miss the way you’d lean on me during study sessions, or how we used to hold hands for no reason at all?"

They were best friends. Just best friends.

So why did it feel like someone had ripped away the one thing that made his days brighter?

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, his broomstick resting against the wall, forgotten. His Quidditch gear was still on, but he couldn’t care less about practice. His thoughts were elsewhere—on the way Hermione had started hanging back whenever they were together, how she’d sit just a little farther from him than usual, her fingers always busy with a book or quill to avoid the casual closeness they used to share.

It was driving him absolutely insane.

He couldn’t focus during practice. He couldn’t concentrate on his spells during lessons. He couldn’t sleep without feeling restless, as if something was missing, and he knew exactly what that ‘something’ was.

And it wasn’t just Hermione.

No, the worst part—the part that made him grind his teeth in frustration—was how close Ron and Draco had gotten with her lately. Since Harry had been busy with endless Quidditch training, it seemed like the trio had taken to spending every waking moment together, especially in that blasted Room of Requirement, which Ron still couldn’t decide on a proper name for.

Usually, Harry didn’t mind that his friends hung out together, even when he wasn’t around. But recently, it felt like Hermione actually preferred their company to his. Whenever he came back from practice, sweaty and exhausted, he’d find the three of them laughing, joking around, or sharing inside stories that Harry hadn’t been part of.

It made him furious.

The way Hermione’s eyes sparkled with amusement when Draco said something clever. The way Ron made her laugh with his ridiculous jokes. And it wasn’t just laughter—no, there was this warmth between them now, something that made Harry feel like an outsider looking in.

He hated it.

He hated it so much that he messed up during Quidditch practice. Badly.

They were running drills—Wood was on him, barking out instructions as usual, but Harry’s head wasn’t in the game. He missed simple catches, fumbled his grip on the broom, and nearly crashed into one of the goalposts. His thoughts kept drifting back to Hermione, Ron, and Draco. The three of them, having fun without him. The three of them, without him.

It made his stomach twist in ways he couldn’t understand.

“Potter, what’s going on with you today?” Wood's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, frustration evident in every syllable.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, gripping his broom tighter. “Just distracted.”

“Well, get undistracted,” Wood barked. “We’ve got a match coming up, and we can’t afford to have our Seeker flying around like his mind’s in the clouds!”

Harry nodded, but it was no use. The next drill was worse. He missed the Snitch entirely and crashed head-first into the ground, skidding painfully across the pitch. Groaning, he lay there for a moment, staring up at the sky, cursing under his breath.

Wood sighed. “That’s it, Potter. You’re done for the day. Go rest up. Clear your head.”

But Harry knew it wasn’t something as simple as rest that would fix this. As he trudged back toward the changing rooms, his heart heavy with confusion, frustration, and something he refused to name, he couldn’t shake the image of Hermione sitting too close to Ron and Draco, laughing without him.

He clenched his fists.

He had to figure this out, before it drove him mad.

xxxxx

Harry cursed under his breath, his broom still clutched tightly in his hand, his hair sticking up in wild directions, more of a mess than usual. Dirt streaked across his robes, the evidence of his crash clear from the stains and scuffs. His legs felt sore from the impact, but the tight knot of frustration in his chest outweighed any physical pain. He could feel the stares from the students he passed by, but at that moment, he couldn’t care less. Let them stare.

His jaw clenched as he approached the familiar entrance to the Room of Requirement. The door appeared before him, as it always did, but the weight of his anger made even opening it feel like a struggle.

The moment he stepped inside, Harry’s sharp eyes immediately locked onto the trio in the room. Hermione was sitting comfortably in his favorite seat, her legs tucked underneath her as she pored over a book, while Draco sat across from her, leaning in and talking animatedly. Hermione was listening intently, her full attention on Draco, which made something in Harry’s chest tighten even more.

As Harry walked in, all three heads turned to look at him, greeting him as if nothing was wrong.

“Hey, mate—whoa,” Ron said, his eyes widening when he saw Harry’s disheveled state. “What happened to you?”

Harry didn’t respond right away. Instead, he roughly threw his broom to the ground with a loud thud, the noise startling them all. He then snatched up a can of soda from the stack Emma Granger had sent them via owl earlier that week. He popped it open with a sharp hiss, the carbonation bubbling up to the rim. Without hesitation, he took a long gulp, the cold, fizzy liquid burning slightly in his throat, but he didn’t care. At least it distracted him from the chaos in his head.

“I crashed head-first into the ground during practice,” Harry muttered, his voice edged with irritation. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Got ejected by Wood.”

“Bloody hell, mate, your nose is bleeding,” Draco pointed out, his voice laced with concern.

Harry swiped his sleeve across his nose, feeling the dampness of the blood. “It’ll pass,” he said curtly, the irritation still burning in his voice.

Hermione had been watching him with that familiar worried expression she always wore when he got hurt. She shot up from her seat, rushing toward him, her face full of concern. “Harry, let me—”

But before she could finish, Harry instinctively stepped back, evading her hand as she reached out, as if the thought of her touch was suddenly too much for him. He even made a slight face, something between frustration and annoyance, as he backed away.

The reaction was immediate. Ron and Draco exchanged a look, their eyes wide with shock. Neither of them had ever seen Harry pull away from Hermione like that before—usually, he welcomed her closeness, thrived on it even. But now, it was like something had shifted, something neither of them could put their finger on.

Hermione, on the other hand, froze. Hurt flashed in her eyes for a brief moment, but she quickly masked it with concern, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Harry, what’s going on?” she asked, her voice a mix of confusion and worry.

“I’m fine,” Harry snapped, though his tone softened slightly as he glanced away from her. He put the can of soda down with a deliberate clank and looked straight at Ron and Draco. “We need to talk. I’m calling in a Marauder’s meeting.”

Ron, eager to move on from the awkwardness in the room, immediately nodded, and Draco, ever the composed one, stood up and stretched lazily before walking toward the large wooden table in the center of the room. They both took their seats, the unspoken tension still hanging in the air.

Hermione, clearly unsettled by Harry’s sudden coldness, remained standing, her eyes darting between the boys as she waited for Harry to explain himself. Finally, she moved to sit down, instinctively taking the seat closest to Harry, her brows furrowing as she glanced at him.

But Harry’s face hardened, and he raised an eyebrow, his voice flat. “It’s a Marauder’s meeting, Hermione.”

“Yes?” Hermione replied, her head tilting slightly, her expression confused.

Draco shifted in his seat uncomfortably, knowing where this was heading. “Har—”

But Harry cut him off, his frustration spilling over. “You’re not a Marauder.”

The words were out before he could stop them, and they landed like a heavy blow in the room. Silence followed, thick and suffocating. Even Ron flinched slightly at Harry’s tone, casting an uneasy glance toward Hermione, who stood there, frozen.

It was true. As close as they all were, Hermione wasn’t officially a Marauder. Ron and Draco both knew that. Despite the bond they shared, the three of them had made a pact, a solemn, almost foolish vow when they formed their little group. It was a promise to protect each other at all costs, to be loyal through thick and thin. They had taken the vow seriously, and it was a bond the three of them shared—one that Harry had insisted on, ever since the original Marauders had been broken by betrayal.

Hermione had never been part of that. She was their best friend, but she wasn’t part of that.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, the realization of Harry’s words sinking in. She stood there, looking at him, her hands gripping the strap of her book bag. Harry was deliberately avoiding her gaze, his eyes fixed on the table in front of him, his fingers clenched into fists.

“I—” Hermione started, her voice trembling slightly before she stopped herself. Her emotions waged a battle inside her—anger, hurt, and confusion all swirling together. She cast a glance at Ron, who quickly looked away, not meeting her eyes. Draco, always the smooth one, offered her a weak, apologetic smile, as if he didn’t know what else to do.

“Fine,” Hermione finally huffed, her voice sharp and brittle, like glass about to shatter. She swung her book bag over her shoulder, her face tightening in anger as she turned away from them all. “Have fun with your stupid meeting.”

She stormed out of the room, her footsteps echoing behind her, and the door slammed shut before any of them could say a word. The silence that followed was deafening. None of them had noticed the tears that had started streaming down her face as she fled, the hurt she had tried so hard to hide now spilling out in the privacy of the hallway beyond.

xxxxx

"What the bloody hell is the matter with you, Harry?" Draco asked, his voice carrying a mixture of disbelief and frustration. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, his pale eyes studying Harry intently. A sigh escaped his lips as he shook his head.

Harry, slouched in his seat, raised an eyebrow in challenge. "What? It's true. She's not a Marauder." His voice was sharp, defensive, and a little more biting than usual. He could feel the anger bubbling beneath his skin, making him more irritable than he should have been.

Ron huffed from his spot, a frown settling on his freckled face. "You could've just asked her to sit on the couch while we talk, mate! You didn’t have to drive her away like that." There was an edge of disappointment in his tone as if Harry had crossed a line even Ron found unreasonable.

"I didn’t drive her away. She left on her own," Harry retorted quickly, his frustration mounting. He took a deep gulp of the soda, as though the sweetness of the cola could drown out his annoyance.

Draco exchanged a glance with Ron, rolling his eyes dramatically. "With that tone you answered her with? The only choice she had was to leave, Potter." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What’s going on with you? Why are you in such a shitty mood?"

Harry’s jaw clenched as he made a face, his fingers tightening around the soda can, crumpling it slightly under his grip. He wasn’t about to admit that something was bothering him, let alone explain it to Draco and Ron. They wouldn’t understand. They’d think it was stupid, and maybe it was. But still, the jealousy gnawed at him.

Deciding to ignore their pointed looks, Harry launched into the topic he'd been planning to discuss all along. "I was thinking about the Philosopher’s Stone," he began, his tone stiff as he tried to redirect the conversation. "I think the way to go ab—"

"No."

Draco’s abrupt interruption sliced through the air like a knife. His arms were still crossed, his posture defiant.

Harry glared at him, his annoyance flaring back up. "What do you mean, 'no'?" He leaned forward, his voice hardening. "This is important."

Draco, unfazed by Harry's anger, stared him down. "I vote not to continue this meeting until you tell us what’s really going on."

Ron, sitting across from Draco, nodded in agreement, his own arms now crossing over his chest as well. "I second that," he added, though his grin betrayed the amusement dancing in his eyes. He enjoyed watching Harry squirm under pressure sometimes—it was a rare sight.

Harry stared at them incredulously. "Are you two serious right now?" His voice rose in disbelief, the tension crackling in the air around them.

"We are," Ron and Draco said in unison, grinning as if they’d rehearsed the line beforehand.

Harry’s temper spiked. His fists clenched as his eyes darted between the two boys. "So this is what you lot do in your free time? Try to be the second version of the Weasley twins?" He shot Ron an accusatory look. "Answering in unison, talking in complete sentences like some kind of freakish double act?"

Ron blinked in surprise, but Draco’s smirk only grew wider. Harry’s attention snapped back to Draco, his glare intensifying. "Is Hermione in on this too?" His voice dropped, low and almost accusing, as if Hermione’s presence in the trio had suddenly become a threat.

For a moment, silence filled the room. Harry could feel the weight of it pressing on his chest. His mind was buzzing, confusion and anger swirling together, making it hard to think clearly. He could feel a headache creeping in—whether from the crash during practice or the stress of the situation, he wasn’t sure. Either way, it was making him irritable.

Draco sighed heavily and tossed a chocolate frog toward Harry, which landed in front of him with a soft thud. "You stupid bloody idiot," Draco muttered, shaking his head. "Is this what it’s really about? You’re jealous because Hermione’s been hanging out with us?"

Ron’s eyes widened as if a light had suddenly switched on in his brain. "No way!" He turned to Draco, then back to Harry, his expression full of realization. "Is it really?"

Harry could feel heat rising up his neck and into his face, his cheeks turning red. Whether it was from embarrassment, anger, or both, he didn’t know. "I’m not jealous," he snapped, though the defensiveness in his voice said otherwise. "You don’t know anything."

Draco’s smirk grew even smugger, which only infuriated Harry more. "Oh, we know everything," Draco said, his voice dripping with superiority. "You’re the one who doesn’t know anything."

Ron chuckled and nodded. "He’s right, mate. Hermione’s just—"

"Nope," Draco interrupted quickly, slapping a hand over Ron’s mouth. "That’s not our story to tell." His expression grew more serious as he glared at Harry. "You need to talk to Hermione and fix this. We’re not going to have a Marauder’s meeting without her. She’s brilliant, and we’re hopeless without her."

Harry’s glare could have burned a hole through Draco if looks had that kind of power, but Draco remained utterly unfazed, his calm demeanor only infuriating Harry further.

"Yeah, Harry," Ron chimed in, his voice softer this time, more genuine. "You’ve been pretty busy lately with training and stuff. Trust me, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not that. Just talk to her." He glanced at Draco, who nodded in agreement. "We can’t say more—she made us promise—but just… talk to her, alright?"

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. "And apologize too. For acting like a prick."

For a moment, Harry remained silent, the tension thick around him. His jaw was tight, and he could feel the frustration rolling off him in waves. But deep down, he knew they were right. They usually were. Still, that didn’t mean he had to give them the satisfaction of admitting it.

"Whatever," Harry muttered under his breath, his eyes flickering toward the door where Hermione had stormed out earlier. He could feel a twinge of guilt stirring in his chest, but he quickly shoved it down. He wasn’t ready to face it—not yet.

But he knew he’d have to. Eventually.

xxxxx

Harry had promised himself that he'd apologize to Hermione. He really had. But in his mind, there was no rush—not until after the final Quidditch match of the season.

"I'll talk to her once I’ve won us the Quidditch Cup," he muttered to himself, eyes fixed on the Gryffindor banner hanging in the Great Hall as he absentmindedly twirled his Nimbus 2000 broomstick in his hands. It was the only thing keeping his focus lately, the one goal he could latch onto that didn’t involve thinking about Hermione’s disappointed face or the way she avoided him.

But the truth was, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about her, even if he refused to admit it to Ron and Draco.

For now, all his attention was poured into Quidditch. Every spare moment was spent training on the pitch, weaving between goalposts, dodging Bludgers, and perfecting his dives. Wood had been beyond thrilled to see Harry dedicating himself so fully to practice again.

"That’s the spirit, Potter!" Wood would shout from the stands, his voice brimming with excitement as Harry zoomed past him during yet another training session. "This is exactly what we need to win the Cup!"

And Harry agreed. Winning the Quidditch Cup felt like the only thing that mattered right now—an easy distraction from the tension that had built up between him and Hermione. He told himself that once Gryffindor secured the win, everything else would fall back into place. Apologizing would be simple after that. He’d make things right with her, but only after the match.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

xxxxx

Meanwhile, Hermione had grown colder toward Harry with each passing day, a distance forming between them that even Ron and Draco could feel. She had thrown herself into her studies, her face often hidden behind thick stacks of textbooks in the library, or scribbling notes furiously with her quill. Her usual warmth had turned frosty, especially when Harry was near.

Whenever Harry entered the Room of Requirement for their usual meetings, she’d pack up her things and leave almost immediately, barely casting a glance his way.

"Goodbye, Ron," she’d say in a clipped tone, ignoring Harry entirely. "See you later, Draco."

Her footsteps would echo as she exited the room, leaving a cold silence behind her. Draco, lounging on a cushioned armchair with his feet propped up on a nearby table, would throw his hands in the air in exasperation each time.

"Honestly, Potter, how long do you plan on letting this go on?" Draco grumbled one afternoon as Hermione’s retreating figure disappeared down the corridor. He dropped his feet back to the ground and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at Harry. "This cold war between you two is getting bloody ridiculous."

Ron nodded in agreement, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "Yeah, mate, she’s been ignoring you for weeks now. And I’m starting to think you’re enjoying it."

Harry shrugged, trying to appear unaffected, though deep down, the sting of Hermione’s indifference gnawed at him. "She’ll get over it," he said, though his voice sounded a little less sure than he wanted it to.

Draco snorted in disbelief, exchanging a glance with Ron. "She’s not just going to 'get over it,' you idiot. You basically told her she wasn’t important during that last meeting. You’ve been treating her like she’s not part of the team. Of course she’s mad." His tone was laced with irritation, but there was a hint of something else there too—something that Harry couldn’t quite place. Concern, maybe?

Harry avoided their gazes, focusing on tightening the strap of his broomstick instead. "I’ll apologize," he muttered under his breath, though he didn’t sound all that eager to follow through. "Once the Quidditch season is over. I’ll make it right, I promise."

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. "Right, because waiting until after the match will definitely solve everything." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Brilliant strategy, Potter."

Ron sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "Look, we all want to win the Cup, but Hermione’s not going to wait around for you to finish playing Quidditch. She’s hurt, mate. And I’m starting to think you care more about this bloody match than fixing things with her." He gave Harry a pointed look, his tone unusually serious.

For a moment, Harry didn’t respond. He knew they were right—knew that he had been avoiding Hermione, pushing the issue aside in favor of focusing on Quidditch. But the truth was, facing Hermione and admitting he had been wrong was far more terrifying than any Quidditch match he’d ever played. The idea of her looking at him with disappointment, of hearing her tell him how much he had hurt her, made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

"I’ll fix it," he repeated, his voice quieter this time. He hated how uncertain he sounded.

Draco let out a long sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. "You better. Because I’m getting tired of playing mediator between you two. It’s exhausting." He shot Harry a glare, but there was a trace of amusement in his eyes. "Honestly, the sooner you apologize, the better it’ll be for all of us."

Harry didn’t reply, his mind already drifting back to thoughts of the upcoming match. He could apologize after Gryffindor won the Cup, after he had something to be proud of, something to give him the confidence to make things right with Hermione.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

As the days passed, the tension between Harry and Hermione only seemed to grow. Every time Harry entered a room, Hermione would find an excuse to leave. It was almost like she had made a game out of avoiding him. She didn’t meet his eyes during class, didn’t speak to him in the corridors, and whenever Ron or Draco mentioned his name around her, she’d give them a curt response and change the subject.

Ron and Draco had grown tired of the cold war between the two of them. Even Ron, usually oblivious to these kinds of things, couldn’t help but notice the strain it was putting on their group.

"Honestly, Harry," Ron groaned one evening after Hermione had left the Room of Requirement in her usual silent fashion, "you need to sort this out before she decides she’s done with all of us." He threw his hands in the air in frustration. "She’s our best friend, mate. Our best  girl friend. Hell, our only girl friend! You can’t just ignore the problem and hope it’ll fix itself."

Draco, lounging beside Ron, nodded in agreement. "You know, for someone who’s supposed to be smart, you’re being remarkably thick-headed about this." He shot Harry a knowing look. "Apologize. Soon. Before you end up with more than just a bruised ego after this whole thing."

Harry clenched his fists, the familiar surge of frustration rising in his chest. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew they were right. Hermione was more than just a friend—she was important to him in ways he couldn’t fully explain. But saying sorry felt like a monumental task, and part of him was still stubbornly clinging to the idea that everything would fall into place once the Quidditch season ended.

"Fine," he muttered, more to himself than to Ron and Draco. "I’ll apologize. Just… after the Cup."

Ron and Draco exchanged exasperated looks, clearly not convinced. But they didn’t push the issue further. They knew Harry well enough to understand that once he set his mind to something, it was difficult to change his course.

So, for now, they could only hope that Harry would actually keep his word once the season was over.

xxxxx

"Damn it, Potter! Focus!" Katie Bell’s voice rang out from behind him, sharp with frustration. She was so exasperated that Harry half-expected her to fly right over and smack him in the head with her broomstick. It wasn’t far from her character, and today he couldn't blame her. Ravenclaw had just scored another point, courtesy of a penalty he had caused.

Harry winced, barely daring to glance at the scoreboard. The points were racking up against them, and he knew he was partly to blame. His mind just wasn’t where it should be.

"Stop helping them win points and find the Snitch!" Oliver Wood bellowed from his position in front of the goalposts, his face red with both effort and exasperation. Even from across the pitch, Harry could feel the intensity of Wood’s glare, like he could drill a hole through him with sheer frustration alone.

Harry gave a brief nod, determined to shake off the distraction, and kicked off harder into the air, the wind whipping his hair back as he rose higher into the sky. He had to focus. His thoughts were scattered, and the game wasn’t going the way he had envisioned. He'd been so desperate to contribute to the score that he’d made a series of sloppy mistakes—mistakes Gryffindor couldn’t afford with the Quidditch Cup on the line.

'Get it together, Harry.'

Hovering high above the pitch, Harry scanned the scene below him, his heart pounding in his chest. The familiar rush of adrenaline began to course through his veins, the sounds of the roaring crowd fading into a dull hum as he locked his focus back on the game. Somewhere out there, the Snitch was hiding, just waiting for him to catch it.

Suddenly, a shadow appeared next to him—Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, flying alongside him. She gave him a sidelong glance, a playful grin stretching across her face as her dark hair billowed in the breeze.

"Eager to win the Cup, aren’t you?" she teased, her voice carrying a hint of amusement as she matched his speed, her broom hovering smoothly beside his. There was a glint of mischief in her eyes, as though she was enjoying the competition a bit too much.

Harry felt his cheeks flush, though he quickly masked it by avoiding her gaze. 'Don’t get distracted.' He clenched his jaw and ignored her, trying to push down the wave of embarrassment that always seemed to bubble up when she was nearby. He wasn’t about to lose focus now, not when the entire match hung in the balance.

Cho frowned slightly when he didn’t respond. "Wow, rude," she muttered, her grin fading as she turned her attention back to scanning the field.

But Harry didn’t let himself be drawn into the banter. His mind drifted to Hermione, remembering a technique she had taught him during one of their study sessions, a technique lifeguards supposedly used to scan crowded pools for any signs of trouble. It was methodical—an up-and-down scanning motion combined with moving the neck left to right. At the time, he had laughed at the idea of applying it to Quidditch, but as always, Hermione had been right. He’d tried it during practices, and it actually worked.

Taking a deep breath, Harry steadied himself and began the motion: up, down, up, down, while shifting his head slowly from left to right. His eyes darted across the pitch, his heart racing as he scoured every inch of the sky for that elusive glint of gold.

"Focus," he whispered to himself, tuning out the sounds of the game around him. The world seemed to narrow, shrinking down to just him and the endless stretch of sky.

Up, down, up, down.

Suddenly, there—a flash of gold against the bright blue sky. Just for a split second, but it was enough. His heart leaped in his chest. "There," he breathed, barely loud enough to hear himself.

And before he could even fully process it, his broom surged forward, reacting to the shift in his body as he dove into a sharp dive. His Nimbus 2000 responded with the kind of speed that sent his stomach lurching, the wind screaming in his ears as he hurtled downward, his eyes locked on the Snitch that now flitted just ahead of him.

Everything else disappeared—the cheers from the stands, the other players, even Cho’s voice calling after him in frustration as she tried to keep up. "Potter!" she shouted, but he barely registered it, too focused on the tiny golden ball that was darting and weaving just ahead.

The other Ravenclaw players swooped in, trying to block his path, but Harry moved instinctively. He dodged to the left, then jerked to the right, narrowly avoiding a Bludger that had been aimed at his head. His hands gripped the broom tighter as he leaned forward, the cool air stinging his face as he pushed the Nimbus 2000 to its limits.

Closer. He could see the Snitch now, its wings fluttering in rapid beats, almost taunting him with how close it was. Just a little further.

The wind roared in his ears as he extended his arm, fingers outstretched, his entire body straining toward that single point of focus.

And then, in a split second, his hand closed around the cool, fluttering metal.

"Yes!" Harry shouted triumphantly, his voice cracking with excitement as he shot back up into the sky, fist raised high with the Snitch clutched tightly in his grip. The Gryffindor stands erupted in wild cheers, the sound crashing over him like a wave. He could hear Wood’s ecstatic yelling from across the pitch, and the other players were already celebrating.

They had done it. Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup.

xxxxx

Hermione stood tensely in the Gryffindor stands, her heart pounding in her chest as Harry performed yet another one of his reckless, death-defying dives. Her eyes were glued to him, unable to tear away as he dodged players, Bludgers, and other threats on the pitch. Her hand was gripping Ron's arm so tightly that his protests went unnoticed.

"Hermione, my arm—!" Ron winced, trying to pull free, but her fingers were locked in place, her gaze never leaving Harry.

Harry had always been daring on the Quidditch pitch, but lately, it felt like he had something to prove. Something more than just winning the game. The speed at which he flew, the way he threw himself into danger—it was almost as if he didn’t care what happened, as long as he caught that Snitch.

"Come on, Harry..." Hermione whispered under her breath, her grip tightening even more.

Then it happened.

Harry spotted the Snitch.

She saw the glint of gold in his eyes before his broom shot downward in an impossibly fast dive. Hermione gasped, her breath catching in her throat as he sped through a throng of Ravenclaw players, his body almost a blur as he dodged them with an agility that made her heart leap.

But just as the roar of excitement around her started to bubble up, Hermione’s stomach twisted with a familiar frustration. Right. She was supposed to be angry at him—her stupid, soon-to-be ex-best friend—who didn’t know how to bloody apologize, who had decided to throw himself into Quidditch every day and night instead of dealing with their problems. He was so obsessed with winning, so determined to fly his stupid broom at every opportunity, that his grades had started to slip.

Her chest tightened as the unfairness of it all hit her again. Now she was the one leading their grade—her of all people—when she knew all too well that Harry was smarter than her, better even. But he didn’t care anymore. He cared more about flying around than fixing the rift between them.

"He did it!!!" Ron’s voice boomed beside her, and Hermione realized she had been holding her breath the whole time. "He caught the Snitch! Hermione, he did it!"

Ron was on his feet now, screaming Harry’s name at the top of his lungs, waving his arms wildly. The entire Gryffindor stand erupted in deafening cheers, students chanting Harry’s name as he held up the tiny golden ball triumphantly. The Gryffindor banner waved proudly above them, and the excitement was electric.

Hermione caught herself starting to cheer along with them, but she stopped almost immediately, her lips clamping shut. Right. She was angry. She wasn’t supposed to be cheering for him like everything was fine between them.

"Hermione! He did it! Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup!" Ron was screaming beside her, practically vibrating with excitement.

Hermione forced a small smile, her eyes narrowing slightly as Harry circled the pitch in victory. "Yeah... he did."

"Can't even pretend to be happy for him, huh?" Ron grinned, noticing her reluctance. He nudged her playfully with his shoulder, clearly too wrapped up in the celebration to care.

"I'm happy for him," Hermione shot back, rolling her eyes. "I just have other things on my mind."

Ron chuckled knowingly. "Right. Sure. He’s your best mate, and you’ve barely spoken to him in weeks. Real convincing, Hermione."

Hermione scowled. "It's not that simple, Ron. You wouldn’t understand."

Ron shook his head, still smiling. "Look, I get it. You’re mad about the whole thing, but... you should know, Harry’s planning on talking to you. Said he would after he won the Cup."

Hermione's eyes widened in shock. "W-What?" Her voice cracked slightly.

Ron gave her a lopsided grin and pointed toward the pitch where Harry was now slowly flying toward the stands, still ignoring his teammates’ attempts to celebrate with him. His focus was entirely on Hermione, his eyes never leaving hers as he hovered closer.

"I don’t want to talk to him," Hermione whispered, her stomach churning with anxiety.

"You do," Ron said firmly. "Draco and I both know it. You’re miserable without him. And let’s be real—you don’t even enjoy hanging out with us that much. Draco’s great with books, but he’s not exactly your favorite study partner. And me? Well, I’m just Quidditch and chess. You don’t care about either of those."

Hermione bit her lip, her cheeks flushing. "I don’t hate those things, I just... don’t like them. It’s different."

"Uh-huh, sure," Ron teased, rolling his eyes. "But seriously, Hermione. Just talk to him, yeah? And maybe—just maybe—don’t start with an argument this time."

Before Hermione could argue back, Ron grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her down the stairs toward the pitch. She followed reluctantly, her heart racing as they approached Harry.

Draco had already joined the crowd congratulating Harry, a smug grin on his face as he caught sight of Hermione being hauled toward them by Ron. He snickered, clearly enjoying the scene far too much.

"Oh, this should be good," Draco said, his eyes glinting with mischief as he took a step back, letting Hermione and Ron approach.

Harry's face brightened slightly as they reached him, but there was still that underlying tension in his expression. His eyes flickered between Hermione and Ron, as if unsure how to approach the situation.

"Awesome catch, mate," Ron said, clapping Harry on the back with a grin.

"Thanks," He replied, his voice quiet but grateful. He looked at Hermione and ruffled his already wind-swept hair and smiled awkwardly. "Hey."

Hermione blinked, swallowing her nerves. "Hey," she replied, just as awkwardly.

For a few moments, they stood there in silence, the roar of the crowd fading into the background as the awkward tension between them grew thicker. Ron shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his head. Draco, ever impatient, finally let out an exasperated sigh.

"Oh, for Merlin’s sake," Draco groaned. "Mount your broom, Potter."

Harry frowned in confusion but did as Draco ordered. Before Harry could protest, Ron gave Hermione a firm shove, sending her stumbling into Harry. He caught her with one arm, steadying her, his face only inches from hers.

"Wha—!" Hermione's eyes widened, a mix of shock and horror washing over her. She stiffened in Harry’s grip, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were after weeks of avoiding each other.

"Fly," Draco ordered, his grin growing wider.

"No!" Hermione shrieked, panic rising in her voice. But it was too late. Harry had instinctively kicked off the ground, his broom lifting into the air as Hermione clung to him, her arms wrapping around his waist in sheer desperation. The wind whipped past them as they ascended, Hermione’s shrill protests echoing through the sky.

Down below, Ron and Draco doubled over in laughter, tears forming in their eyes as they watched their friends soar through the air.

"One Galleon says Harry gets slapped as soon as they land," Ron wheezed between bouts of laughter.

"Two Galleons says he gets hit before they land," Draco countered with a chuckle.

High above the pitch, Hermione’s panic turned into a mix of fury and embarrassment as she clung to Harry, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, her body pressed tightly against his as they soared through the air. She couldn’t believe she was here—again, being swept up by Harry’s ridiculous broom antics.

"I hate you!" Hermione yelled, her voice shaking with both fear and frustration as she buried her face in Harry's chest.

Harry's grip on her tightened slightly, his voice soft and amused. "I know."

Chapter Text

The rules at Hogwarts were clear, and everyone knew them by heart—it was strictly frowned upon for two people to fly on a broomstick. Yet, as with most rules, it didn't stop people from breaking them, especially if they could avoid getting caught. Hermione Granger knew this all too well. What bothered her more was the fact that she, of all people, was partaking in such a reckless activity.

High above the Hogwarts grounds, she sat stiffly on Harry’s Nimbus 2000, clinging to him as they soared through the sky. The wind whipped through her hair, and her heart pounded in her chest. They were completely out in the open, where anyone could see them if they just happened to glance up. But Harry didn't seem to care. He was focused, his grip on her firm as they glided around the castle, the world below shrinking with every passing second.

Hermione gritted her teeth, her annoyance bubbling beneath the surface. This was so irresponsible, so utterly ridiculous, and yet here she was, flying on a broom with Harry Potter.

She knew he was holding back. Every time they gained altitude, his body would tense like he wanted to go faster, to push the limits of the broom’s speed, but he didn’t. Maybe it was because of the five death threats she had hurled at him since they started flying, or perhaps it was the two slaps and one well-aimed punch to the stomach that finally convinced him to slow down.

Either way, she wasn’t in the mood for his daredevil antics. Now, they were just floating low enough that Hermione wasn’t tearing up from the sheer height, and she could actually breathe again.

For the past ten minutes, though, not a single word had passed between them. The silence was deafening. It hung in the air, growing heavier with each second that ticked by. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Why wasn’t she saying anything? There was so much to talk about—weeks of avoidance, hurt feelings, and misunderstandings—but neither of them seemed willing to break the silence.

Finally, Harry's voice came, soft and hesitant. "I'm sorry."

His arms tightened around her slightly as he spoke, the words almost swallowed by the wind. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, though she didn’t let it show.

"I'm sorry for acting like a prick," Harry continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "For ignoring you, focusing on my training rather than... other things. And for telling you that you’re not a Marauder."

Hermione rolled her eyes, though she couldn't suppress the small, amused smile tugging at her lips. "I appreciate that the first words out of your mouth are an apology, Harry," she said dryly. "But I would appreciate it more if we could continue this conversation while we're on the ground."

Harry glanced at her, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Oh, right," he said, sounding not the least bit sorry. "Sorry again."

She sighed, shaking her head as she leaned slightly against his body. Typical Harry. Always so flippant, even when apologizing. She couldn't quite decide if she found it endearing or infuriating.

Scanning the grounds below, Harry spotted a familiar landmark—a wide, shaded area beneath the old beech tree by the Black Lake. It was the perfect spot to land, away from prying eyes.

"Hold on tight," he whispered, his voice low and mischievous.

"W-Wait, no, Harry!!!" Hermione yelped, her fingers digging into his robes as the broom tilted sharply downward, plummeting toward the tree. Her stomach lurched as the ground rushed up to meet them, and she braced for the impact.

But, of course, Harry pulled up just in time, slowing the broom to a smooth stop mere inches from the ground. Hermione’s heart was still racing, and her legs wobbled as she tried to step off the broom. She absolutely hated flying—especially with Harry.

Harry grinned, clearly enjoying himself far too much. As she tried to steady herself, she felt her knees buckle slightly, and before she knew it, she was collapsing into the soft grass beneath the tree.

"I hate you so much," Hermione muttered, her voice laced with exasperation. She wasn’t even sure if she meant it.

Harry winced at her words, his grin faltering slightly. It hurt more than he expected, even if she was just joking. After weeks of not hearing a single word from her, the sting of her anger still cut deep.

"Sorry," he mumbled, sitting down beside her. His hand found its way to her back, rubbing gently as if that would somehow make up for everything.

Hermione sighed, feeling her frustration slowly melt away. She gave him a small, tired smile before lying back in the grass, staring up at the sky. The sun was beginning to dip lower, casting long shadows across the grounds. The Black Lake shimmered in the distance, the breeze rustling the leaves overhead. It was almost peaceful.

"The grass is hard," she remarked after a moment, her voice thoughtful.

"It is," Harry agreed, nodding as he leaned back on his hands, sitting beside her.

"It would be better," Hermione continued, "if I had something soft to rest my head on."

Harry blinked, clearly not catching on. "Oh, uh... I could get a pillow from the dormitory," he offered earnestly.

Hermione let out a heavy sigh, covering her face with her hand. Honestly, how could someone so smart be so dense?

"What?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "I could fly up to the window and grab one, no problem."

"I don't need a pillow, Harry," Hermione snapped, her patience wearing thin.

Harry frowned, clearly not understanding why she was so annoyed. "Well, what do you want me to do then?" he asked, the frustration starting to creep into his voice.

Hermione rolled over onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows as she looked at him. "Are you angry?" she asked, her tone softer now, almost teasing.

"No!" Harry blurted out, though his voice cracked slightly in a way that suggested otherwise.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Then use your head!" she said, exasperated. "The ground is hard. I don't want a pillow. I want something soft to rest my head on!"

Harry stared at her, his face scrunching up in confusion. "Bloody hell, what do you want me to do?" he asked, throwing his hands up in frustration. "I can’t conjure a pillow out of thin air!"

Hermione let out an aggravated shriek, her hands flying to her hair as she pulled at it in frustration. "I want to use your lap as a pillow, you stupid flying idiot!" she finally shouted, her cheeks flushing red with both embarrassment and irritation.

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, he just stared at her, dumbfounded. Then, he mumbled something under his breath—probably something rude—but shuffled closer to her nonetheless. Without a word, he adjusted himself so that his lap was within reach, offering it as a makeshift pillow.

Hermione huffed but couldn’t hide the small, satisfied smile that tugged at her lips. She scooted closer, resting her head in his lap with a quiet sigh of contentment. Much better.

As she settled in, she let out a soft hum of approval. Harry, still grumbling under his breath, ran a hand through his messy hair, looking both annoyed and slightly flustered.

But despite the tension, there was something warm and familiar about the moment—a quiet understanding between them. Maybe things weren’t completely fixed yet, but they were on their way.

xxxxx

Harry apologized again. His voice was soft, almost breaking under the weight of his guilt. For weeks now, he had been haunted by his own behavior—getting angry at her without reason, ignoring her, focusing more on his flying than his studies. He apologized for missing breakfast, for being distant, for letting his emotions get the better of him. At this point, he was running out of things to apologize for, but the tension still lingered between them.

Hermione lay in his lap, her bushy hair splayed across his legs as she stared up at the canopy of the beech tree they had landed under. The Black Lake shimmered nearby, the soft lapping of water the only sound filling the silence between them. The warm breeze ruffled her robes, but she didn’t seem to notice, too lost in thought as Harry's string of apologies filled the air.

"Why were you angry that day anyway?" Hermione finally asked, her voice breaking the calm. She didn’t look at him, her gaze still fixed on the sky, but Harry could feel her words like a needle prick in his chest. "Ron and Draco seemed to know, but when I asked them, they just told me to talk to you."

Harry groaned inwardly, the sudden urge to shove her off his lap and flee to France and never look back rising in his throat. He wasn’t ready to talk about this. He hadn’t been ready that day, and he wasn’t ready now. The mere thought of confessing made his stomach twist. He gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowing at a spot in the grass as if he could will the conversation away.

"We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to..." Hermione added quickly, sensing his discomfort. There was a gentle patience in her voice, one that made his heart ache.

"No, we can," Harry sighed, his breath coming out in a heavy exhale as if he had been holding it in. "I was just... jealous, I guess." He hesitated, then corrected himself, the truth weighing heavy on his tongue. "No, I was jealous."

Hermione’s brows furrowed in confusion, and she finally shifted, her head tilting to look up at him. "Jealous? Of what? Ron and Draco? Harry, I'm not taking them away from you. You guys have known each other since you were kids. They're your best friends."

Harry let out a hollow chuckle, shaking his head. "It’s not that. You can have them as much as you want. I don’t care." He swallowed hard, looking away from her. "It’s you. I’m jealous of how much time you’ve been spending with them... I felt neglected."

Hermione sat up quickly, her eyes wide in shock. She turned to fully face him, her mouth slightly agape as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d just heard. "Neglected?"

Harry didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on a pebble near his shoe, his hands fidgeting awkwardly in his lap. He felt like an idiot for admitting it, but now it was out there. He couldn’t take it back.

"Harry, I..." Hermione started, but she struggled to find the right words. She looked at him with a mixture of confusion and exasperation. "You... felt neglected? But you were the one who was always busy with your training. You were flying around all the time! What was I supposed to do? Just sit around waiting for you to come back?"

Harry sighed deeply, knowing she was right. Of course she was right. She always was. But that didn’t make his feelings any less real, or any less frustrating.

"I know," he muttered, rubbing his face with his hands. "I know you had no one else besides Ron and Draco to talk to. I just... I don’t know. I didn’t like how much time you were spending with them. And then when I did try to make time for you, you started pulling away. Like... you’d always put this distance between us, like you didn’t want me around anymore."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her expression softening. "I wasn’t pulling away, Harry. I just... I didn’t want to bother you." She shifted, leaning closer to him, her tone gentler now. "I wasn’t pushing you away. I never would."

Harry bit his lip, feeling the weight of his own immaturity pressing down on him. "Well, it felt like you were. And I didn’t like it. I got angry... and I lashed out. I’m sorry."

Hermione sighed, a soft sound of understanding escaping her lips. She reached out and gently placed her hand on his, squeezing it as if to reassure him. "I didn’t know you felt like that," she whispered. "You could’ve just talked to me."

Harry shook his head, a small, bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, well... I wasn’t exactly thinking straight."

"Clearly," Hermione teased, though her voice was warm, her eyes soft as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

They sat there in silence for a moment, the air between them heavy but no longer tense. The frustration that had hung over them for weeks seemed to dissolve in the cool afternoon breeze. Harry could feel the warmth of Hermione's breath against his neck, her closeness comforting in a way that he hadn't realized he’d missed.

"I'm going to confess something," Hermione said slowly, her voice quiet but laced with nervous energy. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her hands twisting together as if debating whether to go through with it. "But before I do, you have to promise me something."

Harry glanced at her, noticing the way her fingers twitched and her brow furrowed. His instincts told him this was going to be serious. He sat up a bit straighter, his green eyes locking onto hers. "What is it?"

Hermione bit her lip, then continued in a hushed tone, "Promise me you won’t get angry right away. Let me finish before you judge or say anything."

Harry's muscles tensed at her words. What on earth could she be about to say? The suspense was enough to make his skin prickle, but he forced himself to relax, taking a deep breath. "Okay. I promise."

A sigh escaped Hermione, as if she had been holding her breath. "Do you know the Witch Weekly magazine?"

Harry blinked, caught completely off guard. He hadn’t expected that. Out of all the possible confessions, Witch Weekly hadn’t even crossed his mind. He tilted his head in confusion. "That trashy magazine? Yeah, I know it. Why?"

Hermione let out a small laugh, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Yes, that one."

Harry watched her closely, trying to piece together what she was getting at. His brows furrowed. "What about it?"

Hermione's smirk grew wider. "Do you know you're the number one most eligible bachelor in that magazine? For years now?"

Harry's face scrunched in irritation as soon as the words left her mouth. He groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Ugh, I know," he muttered, peeking at her through his fingers. "But don’t believe any of that rubbish, Hermione. It’s all just... I don’t even know the right word for it."

He paused, something clicking in his mind. Slowly, he sat back up, narrowing his eyes at her. "Wait a minute." He pointed a finger accusingly at her. "Is that the real reason you were avoiding me for all that time? Did you read that magazine and think—" His voice grew darker. "Did someone say something to you? Because if anyone did, I swear I’ll—"

"Stop!" Hermione cut him off sharply, her eyes narrowing in warning. "You promised you wouldn’t get angry."

Harry clamped his mouth shut but clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles turning white. It was clear that his protective instinct had kicked in full force, but he held his tongue as she had asked.

Hermione watched him carefully, making sure he wouldn’t explode before continuing. "No one said anything to me," she lied, though the words felt heavy on her tongue. "It’s just... sometimes it feels absurd. The wizarding world is so different from what I’m used to. There’s so much I don’t know—noble houses, Muggle-born laws, all this political stuff that doesn’t exist where I come from. I got... overwhelmed."

She paused, glancing at him to see his reaction. His shoulders had slumped slightly, and his expression softened. He wasn’t angry anymore, just tired.

"I started hanging around with Ron and Draco more," Hermione explained. "Not because I was avoiding you, but because I was asking them questions. About politics, families, traditions—stuff you can’t learn from books. I felt so out of place and I didn’t want to burden you with all my questions, especially since you were so busy."

Harry let out a long sigh, wrapping his arms around his knees and hugging them to his chest. 

"I knew you were rich and powerful, but betrothal contracts, Harry? Seriously? In this day and age?" Her voice carried a mix of disbelief and amusement, and Harry winced. He knew the topic of his future marriage was inevitable, but it was still something he hadn’t quite figured out himself.

"Yeah, it’s... complicated," he muttered. "But it’s not as bad as it sounds. There are a few offers Sirius and I have considered, but at the end of the day, it’s my decision. No one’s going to force me into anything. I’m not exactly rushing into marriage, you know?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well, my mum would have a fit if she found out about all this. Contracts, alliances, pureblood traditions—it's like stepping into a world of medieval politics."

Harry looked down, guilt washing over him. He had always known his life was different, but hearing Hermione talk about it in such a detached way reminded him how overwhelming it could be for her. He never wanted her to feel like she didn’t belong.

"Is that why you were worried?" Harry asked quietly, his voice laced with uncertainty. "Because of how people would think if they saw us together? How people might react if they saw the future Lord Potter, Heir to the House of Black, spending time with a Muggle-born like you?"

His words hung in the air, heavy with vulnerability. For the first time in a long while, Harry let his guard down completely, revealing a side of him that he rarely allowed anyone to see. His voice was tinged with sadness, as if he feared her answer.

Hermione glanced at him, startled by the raw emotion in his voice. "Harry..." she started, her heart aching. He wasn’t the Boy Who Lived in this moment. He wasn’t the future Lord Potter or some powerful wizard destined for greatness. He was just Harry, the boy she had gotten to know, her first real friend even before she found out she was a witch.

For a long moment, they sat in silence, the weight of his confession sinking in. She had never considered how her actions might have hurt him, how her curiosity and confusion had led him to believe that she saw him as something more than just Harry.

"No, Harry," she said softly, her tone gentle. "It’s not about that. I wasn’t avoiding you because of who you are or what people think. I just... I got lost, trying to figure out where I fit in all of this. I didn’t know how to talk to you about it, so I took the easy way out. But I never meant to make you feel like I was pulling away from you."

Harry's gaze softened, though the sadness lingered in his eyes. "I don’t want you to ever feel like you don’t belong, Hermione," he whispered. "Not with me."

Hermione felt a lump form in her throat at his words. "I’m sorry," she said quietly. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

He shook his head, a weak smile tugging at his lips. "I get it now. I just wish you had told me sooner. You’re important to me, you know? I didn’t want to lose that."

Hermione hesitated for a moment before leaning forward, resting her head on his shoulder. "You won’t," she whispered. "You’ll never lose me, Harry."

They sat there in quiet companionship, the awkwardness fading away as they found solace in each other's presence. The tension slowly ebbed, leaving behind something more raw and unspoken, something neither of them quite understood yet but didn’t need to.

“I want you to understand something, okay,” Harry said, his voice carrying a quiet but firm intensity. His emerald eyes were fixed on Hermione, the seriousness in them contrasting the golden glow of the setting sun.

Hermione shifted in her place, feeling the weight of his gaze. She could sense something was coming, something that would change the tone of their friendship. She nodded silently, urging him to continue.

“I like you, Hermione,” Harry began, his voice lowering a fraction as if admitting something he hadn't planned on. “You’re my best friend, and you’re different from Ron and Draco.”

Hermione's heart skipped at the unexpected statement. She wasn’t sure if it was the bluntness of his confession or the way he said it, but her pulse quickened, though she kept her face neutral. She didn’t want to react too much too soon. Harry had a way of catching her off guard with words, but she could feel that this was important, more than the usual back-and-forth they had.

Harry continued, leaning back slightly, running a hand through his messy black hair, clearly organizing his thoughts. “Ron was a friend I was introduced to since our families are old allies. He’s a bit of an idiot sometimes, but that’s what makes him Ron. He’s... well, a stupid kid, but we hit it off. I don’t know, it just worked.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile. That was Harry—always straightforward, never sugarcoating anything. She nodded, encouraging him to go on.

“And Draco,” Harry added, his tone shifting slightly as he spoke of their Slytherin companion, “Draco is the son of Sirius’s cousin. He was always at Sirius's house growing up, so we just... ended up closer. But even with Ron and Draco, even if we weren't friends, we’d still be bound by family ties. You know, old bloodlines and all that nonsense.”

Hermione listened intently, noticing the slight edge in Harry’s voice as he mentioned the "old bloodlines." She could tell he wasn’t fond of the idea, of those invisible chains that seemed to come with being a Potter, with being part of an ancient family steeped in wizarding tradition. She didn't interrupt though, letting him get his thoughts out.

“But you,” Harry said, his voice softening. He turned slightly toward her, making sure she met his eyes. “You’re different. We became friends before I told you I was a wizard, and this was before you even knew you were a witch. You were my first real friend—”

Hermione's breath caught slightly at his words. First real friend. The phrase hung between them, heavy and full of meaning.

Harry’s gaze softened even more, a rare vulnerability crossing his face as he smiled at her. “You saw me for me, not the Boy Who Lived or the future Lord Potter or whatever title they keep throwing at me. Just me.”

She let out a soft laugh, not because it was funny but because it was such a Harry thing to say. He always had this way of bringing things back to the simple truth.

“And I will always be grateful for that, for having you in my life,” he said earnestly. “I don’t care what people say, Hermione. If they try to talk behind our backs or make up stories, it doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, you’re mine. You belong by my side, and there’s nothing they can do about it.”

Hermione froze, her heart hammering in her chest as the weight of his words settled in.

'You’re mine.'

Those two words echoed in her mind, sending a ripple through her thoughts. She replayed them in her head, trying to process the way they made her feel, the way they struck deep in a place she hadn’t quite been prepared for.

Harry didn’t seem to notice her reaction as he continued, his tone growing sharper, almost angry. “I’m going to assume that someone must’ve told you that you should stay away from me, that they must’ve thought we were... betrothed or something because you’re close to me. Or maybe they even said something about Draco. And they must’ve told you that that’s not a good thing, that I should be with another pure-blood family or whatever.”

His eyes flashed with indignation. “And to that, I say... to hell with that!”

Hermione blinked, slightly taken aback by the sudden intensity in his voice.

“My dad married my mum without a second thought about what anyone else thought,” Harry said fiercely. “And I’ll do the same. I’m going to choose who I want to be with, make friends with who I want, and no one—no stupid pure-blood tradition or political rubbish—is going to stop me. I’m rich and powerful enough to do what I want.”

Hermione was caught in a whirlwind of emotions, barely able to keep up with the rollercoaster of feelings Harry’s words were dragging her through. His declaration was so... bold, so unfiltered. It was like he had been holding all of this in for so long, and now he was finally letting it out.

But at the same time, her mind was still clinging to that earlier statement: 

'You’re mine.'

She didn’t know why it affected her so much, but it did. It wasn’t like Harry had never been protective of her before, but this was... different.

“Now that we’ve talked about this,” Harry said, his tone lightening a little, though still carrying that edge, “I should buy Witch Weekly and burn it to the ground.”

He was pacing now, restless, his eyes darting around as if planning his next move. “Yeah, I should definitely do that. Remind me to send an owl to Sirius. I’m going to ask for that for my birthday this year.”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at that, the absurdity of it pulling her out of the emotional haze she was in. Harry had a way of breaking the tension in the most unexpected ways.

Harry stood up then, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes as he held his hand out to her. “Well? Let’s go.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, slipping her hand into his, feeling the familiar warmth of his touch. “Go where?”

“Where else?” Harry smirked, his eyes dancing with amusement. “I just won the Quidditch Cup, and it would be rude not to attend my own victory party.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile creeping onto her face. Typical Harry—going from intense, heartfelt confessions to playful arrogance in the span of minutes. It was one of the many things she both admired and found maddening about him.

xxxxx

Harry and Hermione stepped into the Gryffindor common room, the remnants of a lively celebration still echoing in the air. The room was a riot of colors and noise, with Gryffindors of all ages scattered around, engaged in various games, chatting loudly, and nursing their drinks. Streamers of red and gold hung from the ceiling, flickering in the glow of the fireplace, and remnants of half-eaten food were scattered across tables. Harry’s eyes swept over the scene, but what truly caught both his and Hermione’s attention was an unexpected sight.

Professor McGonagall—severe, strict Professor McGonagall—was seated comfortably in an armchair, butterbeer in hand, laughing softly with some of the older students. The sight of her joining in on the celebration felt almost surreal. Hermione's jaw dropped slightly, and Harry had to suppress a snort of laughter.

Before they could fully process it, McGonagall spotted them and stood up with surprising grace for her age. She moved towards Harry with a warmth that was rarely seen outside of a Quidditch match.

"Harry Potter!" she said, voice brimming with pride. Without hesitation, she pulled him into a tight hug, which shocked him just as much as it did Hermione. "I cannot express how proud I am of you, dear boy. Your performance this year... it was outstanding! Your parents—oh, your parents would be so proud."

Harry’s throat tightened at the mention of his parents. "Thank you, Professor," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

McGonagall gave him one last squeeze before stepping back, her sharp eyes gleaming behind her spectacles. "Now go on, enjoy yourself. You've earned it," she added with a rare, soft smile before turning back to her butterbeer and the older students.

Hermione shot Harry a meaningful glance. "What the hell was that?" she whispered as they waded deeper into the room.

"I've learned not to ask," Harry smirked.

After making their way through the crowd, they found Ron waiting for them near the snack table, a plate stacked high with sweets and finger foods in his hands. His face lit up when he saw them together, and without hesitation, he grabbed them both by the arms, pulling them into a quieter corner.

"Finally! You two have made up," Ron grinned, eyes glinting mischievously. "For a moment there, I thought we’d have a full-blown duel on our hands."

He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, leaning closer to add, "So, did you kiss and make up?"

Harry groaned, rolling his eyes. "Ron, you're an idiot," he muttered, but there was no real anger in his voice. He playfully punched Ron on the arm.

Hermione, however, wasn’t as subtle. She gave Ron a solid punch to the shoulder. "Honestly, Ronald, do you ever think before you speak?"

"Ouch! All right, all right!" Ron rubbed his shoulder, though he was grinning. "I'm just glad you two are back to normal. It was weird seeing you both all… tense."

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, both recalling the argument that had left them fuming ages ago. There was an unspoken understanding between them now, one that neither was quite ready to voice aloud.

Ron soon got distracted by the Weasley twins who were setting up some sort of game with firecrackers and a floating chair charm, so he left Harry and Hermione alone. They found an empty sofa by the fireplace, and the two of them sat down, watching the rest of the common room continue their celebration.

Hermione nudged Harry lightly with her shoulder. "So... how was that for our first fight?" she teased, her voice lilting playfully.

Harry groaned again, running a hand through his messy hair. "Oh, bloody Merlin, no more fights, please. That was exhausting." He turned to face her, his green eyes locking onto hers. "I’m serious, Hermione. That was our first and last one. I’d go mad if we did that on a regular basis."

Hermione chuckled, her laugh soft but full of amusement. "Oh, Harry, we’re best friends. We’re bound to fight at some point." She gave him a pointed look, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "It doesn’t help that, as brilliant as you are, you can be an absolute prat sometimes."

Harry stuck his tongue out at her like a child, and Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically. "See? Immature," she huffed, but there was a fondness in her voice.

"But I’m serious," Harry continued, his tone shifting slightly, becoming more earnest. "No more of this silent treatment or avoiding each other. If we fight, we fix it. I can’t stand you ignoring me. It felt... wrong."

Hermione’s smile softened. "It felt wrong for me too," she admitted quietly. "So how about next time, instead of storming off, you actually talk to me? Use your words. We're both smart enough to figure things out."

Harry mumbled something incoherent under his breath, and Hermione tilted her head. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Harry grumbled, crossing his arms but glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

Hermione shook her head, a smile still on her face. She could sense his embarrassment, and as much as she wanted to tease him about it, she let it go. They had just made up, after all, and she wasn’t about to push her luck. Instead, she leaned back against the sofa, her eyes scanning the room, watching the other Gryffindors laughing and celebrating.

Harry, too, relaxed beside her, though his mind lingered on the fight they had. He hated how out of control he’d felt, how quickly things had spiraled. It had left him uneasy, like a part of him had slipped out of his grasp. And yet, sitting here now with Hermione by his side, the weight of that unease began to lift.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger was a bundle of nerves, excitement, and curiosity all rolled into one.

It was the weekend, and Harry Potter had just informed her that she was invited to a "Marauder’s meeting" at the Room of Requirement. The way he had said it, with that mischievous glint in his eye, sent her heart racing. Until now, she didn’t fully understand what being a "Marauder" entailed, but she was thrilled to be a part of it. More than anything, she was happy that she and Harry were on great terms again after their recent spat. That was enough to put her in a good mood.

Hermione stood in front of the full-length mirror in her dorm room, trying to compose herself, but the sight that met her reflection made her groan. She was grinning like a fool. No matter how hard she tried to school her features into a look of seriousness—something she prided herself on—her lips kept twitching upward into a smile.

"Ugh, get it together, Hermione!" she muttered to herself, furiously smoothing down her robes. She took one last deep breath and gave herself a stern nod before leaving the dormitory. But as she reached the door, a smile crept back onto her face.

'This is ridiculous,' she thought, but it was no use. She was far too excited.

Once she arrived in the hallway where the Room of Requirement was hidden, Hermione took a moment to compose herself again. The corridor was eerily quiet, the only sound the distant crackling of torches along the stone walls. Thankfully, no one was around to see her pacing back and forth in front of the wall, her mind racing with all sorts of wild imaginings about what this "Marauder’s meeting" could be.

The door finally appeared, and with a small, shaky exhale, she stepped inside.

The moment she crossed the threshold, her breath hitched in her throat. The Room of Requirement had transformed into something out of a dark, mysterious ceremony. The room was dimly lit, with only a few candles floating in midair, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The atmosphere was thick with suspense, and Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine.

In the middle of the room was a large circular table, and seated around it were three figures cloaked in black, their hoods drawn low over their faces. She hesitated, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and for a brief moment, she wasn’t entirely sure if it was Harry, Ron, and Draco under those hoods or… someone else entirely. But then, as if sensing her apprehension, all three figures slowly looked up, revealing familiar, mischievous grins.

"Welcome to your first Marauder’s meeting, Hermione Granger," Harry said, his voice deep and dramatic, the shadows of the hood hiding most of his face, but she could still see the playful spark in his eyes.

Hermione blinked, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to process what was happening. "Harry, what—"

Before she could ask the question that was burning on the tip of her tongue, Ron and Draco interrupted her in perfect unison, their voices comically over-the-top:

"Welcome, Hermione Granger!" they chorused, each of them raising a hand in a grand, theatrical gesture.

Hermione's eyes widened, and she couldn’t help but laugh, though it came out as more of an incredulous scoff. "What the bloody hell is going on here?" she muttered to herself, her eyes darting between the three boys, utterly baffled by the bizarre scene unfolding before her.

Harry, still standing directly across from her, gestured for her to join them at the table. He was trying—and failing miserably—to keep a straight face. "Please, Miss Granger, take your place among the Marauders," he said in a mock-serious tone, his lips twitching as he fought back a grin.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth in her chest that made her step forward. She found herself standing at the table with Harry directly across from her, Ron to her left, and Draco to her right. They all still had their hoods up, and the entire situation felt like some sort of strange initiation ceremony. The candlelight flickered ominously, and Hermione was torn between amusement and genuine curiosity.

"So," Hermione began, her voice laced with playful sarcasm, "what exactly is the purpose of this… meeting? Are we plotting to take over the school, or is this just some elaborate joke?"

Draco leaned in slightly, his hood casting a shadow over his face, but his smirk was unmistakable. "All in due time, Granger," he drawled, his tone filled with mock mystery. "The Marauders don’t reveal their secrets so easily."

Ron snickered beside her. "Yeah, especially to someone who’s only just been invited." He gave her a wink, clearly enjoying the theatrics.

Hermione crossed her arms, a smile playing on her lips despite herself. "Oh, really? So you mean to tell me there’s some big, top-secret agenda I need to know about?" she asked, arching an eyebrow at Harry, trying to keep her voice casual but feeling a flutter of excitement in her chest. This whole Marauder thing felt bigger than she could grasp, and the idea of being part of it with Harry made her stomach flip.

Harry, finally breaking character, pulled down his hood, his messy black hair sticking up in all directions, and his grin stretching from ear to ear. "Maybe. Or maybe we just wanted to mess with you," he admitted, laughing softly, his green eyes shining with amusement. "But I promise there’s more to it than that."

Hermione sighed, though it was more out of amusement than frustration. "Of course there is," she muttered, shaking her head lightly, though her heart was still racing. She tried to play it cool, but the truth was, being included in whatever this strange little club was, made her feel like she was truly part of something special—something that connected her even deeper with Harry, Ron, and Draco.

Ron’s laugh echoed in the darkened room as he pulled out his wand, the light from the floating candles casting a warm glow across his freckled face. "I'll go first," he said confidently, stepping closer to the center of the table.

Hermione looked at him curiously as he cleared his throat, his expression unusually serious. Ron wasn’t one for theatrics, but tonight there was something more sincere in his movements. She watched, trying to hide her curiosity, but unable to stop the feeling that something big was about to happen.

Ron raised his wand, and in a voice both firm and full of conviction, he began. "I, Ronald Bilius Weasley, a Marauder, hereby swear on my magic that I will consider Hermione Granger, a fellow Marauder, as an ally for life. Her enemies will be my enemies, and I will protect her to the best of my abilities. So mote it be."

Before Hermione could even react to the formality of it all, she felt the shift in the room. A flare of magic swirled around her, warm and buzzing, like a protective embrace. Her eyes widened in shock as Ron's words settled into the air, binding them together in a way she hadn't expected. Her heart raced, but she didn't have time to process it before Draco took his turn.

"I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, a Marauder, hereby swear on my magic that I will consider Hermione Granger, a fellow Marauder, as an ally for life. Her enemies will be my enemies, and I will protect her to the best of my abilities. So mote it be."

Draco’s voice was smooth, almost too calm, and his silver eyes flickered with something unreadable as the same magic surrounded them again, swirling briefly around Hermione and then fading. Draco was more nonchalant about it, as if this was just another formality in his life. He glanced at her, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. She wanted to ask him if he was serious, but the sincerity of his oath settled deep within her bones, a strange warmth in her chest.

The room felt different now. The flickering candlelight added a sense of intensity, and Hermione felt the weight of what was happening begin to sink in.

And then Harry stepped forward, his eyes locking with hers, and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. There was something more between them, something unspoken yet understood in the depths of his green gaze.

He winked at her, that cheeky grin making her feel a mix of amusement and something else—something fluttery and nervous in her stomach.

"I, Harry James Potter, a Marauder, hereby swear on my magic that I will consider Hermione Granger, a fellow Marauder, as an ally for life. The House of Potter and the House of Black will protect her in our world. Her enemies will be our enemies. I will protect her to the best of my abilities. So mote it be."

This time, the magic wasn’t just a flare. It was wild, untamed, and it wrapped around the room like a gust of wind, causing the floating candles to flicker dangerously before settling into a steady glow. The air crackled with raw energy, and Hermione could feel it deep within her, like a part of her magic had responded to his.

Hermione just blinked, stunned, trying to wrap her mind around what had just happened. The words ‘The House of Potter and the House of Black will protect her’ echoed in her mind. She hadn’t even realized how serious this whole thing was.

“What… what just happened?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Harry stepped closer, his grin softening into something gentler, more serious. "You’re one of us now, Hermione. A Marauder. And that means you’re stuck with us—whether you like it or not."

Ron chuckled from her left. "Not that we’re giving you a choice," he added, elbowing her lightly in the ribs.

Draco leaned in from her right, his voice smooth as silk. "And trust me, Granger, this is a lifelong contract. You won’t be able to get rid of us that easily."

Hermione’s eyes darted between the three of them, her mind racing to catch up with what had just unfolded. Her lips twitched into a smile, though. As overwhelming as it was, she couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through her chest. She felt… accepted, in a way she hadn’t realized she’d been longing for.

"So, this isn’t just about messing with me?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at Harry, her tone teasing but her heart lighter than it had been in days.

Harry laughed, reaching out to lightly tap her shoulder. "Maybe a little. But we wouldn’t have it any other way."

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across her face. "Alright then," she said, lifting her chin. "I’m ready. What’s next, Marauders?"

xxxxx

Hermione’s brow furrowed as she crossed her arms, her usual air of curiosity replaced by a tinge of wariness. "Should I... I mean, shouldn’t I swear the same oath as you three?" she asked, her voice carrying a mix of uncertainty and quiet determination.

Ron, Draco, and Harry exchanged quick glances, almost as if they’d already anticipated her question. Ron spoke first, his tone softer than usual, almost reassuring. "Nah, you should think about it some more, Hermione. It’s a pretty big deal. We're just giving you a head start, letting you know how serious this all is."

Harry nodded in agreement, his expression more serious now. "Yeah, the oath we swore... It’s not just about friendship anymore. We’re making it clear—when we’re all grown up, the world’s going to know that Hermione Granger is protected by us. The House of Potter. The House of Black. The Weasley family. Even Malfoy."

Draco, who had been mostly silent, smirked faintly, his cool, aristocratic demeanor slipping into play.

Hermione didn’t respond right away. A part of her felt overwhelmed by the sudden seriousness of it all, but another part—the part that often whispered that maybe, just maybe, she belonged in this world—felt... reassured. Protected.

"So what happens next? What does this ‘Marauders’ thing actually mean?" she finally asked, trying to mask her nervousness with a tone of curiosity.

Harry waved his hand dismissively, a mischievous gleam returning to his green eyes. "You’ll find out when you need to know. For now, we’ve got something more important to handle."

Before she could press further, Ron, who had been unusually quiet, waved his wand with a flick of his wrist. The room around them shifted, the walls of the Room of Requirement responding to Ron’s will. In moments, the space around them morphed into something far more comfortable.

They all sat down, the air around them growing heavier as the seriousness of the situation set in. Harry leaned forward, his face shadowed by the flickering torchlight.

"I’ve been talking with Aunt Minnie and something big is happening next week." Harry’s voice was low, almost conspiratorial, drawing all of their attention in an instant. "Dumbledore’s been called out. An emergency meeting with the Wizengamot."

"Why?" Hermione asked, unable to keep the curiosity from slipping into her voice.

"Sirius confirmed it. There’s a case that’s coming up—a serious one—that requires the Headmaster's presence." Harry paused for a moment, his eyes sweeping the group. "But that's not what concerns me. The real problem is what happens when Dumbledore's not here."

Draco’s eyes narrowed, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "You’re talking about the Philosopher’s Stone, aren’t you?"

"Exactly," Harry confirmed, his expression darkening. "With Dumbledore away, the Stone will be left vulnerable. Someone might try to steal it."

Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat. The Philosopher’s Stone—the very idea of it seemed too wild, too dangerous. And yet here they were, discussing it like it was another mystery to solve. She couldn’t help but shiver slightly, a cold dread curling at the edges of her thoughts.

"But who would be foolish enough to go after it?" Hermione asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"That’s the problem," Harry continued, leaning forward, his eyes narrowing. "I'm suspicious of three people. I have reason to believe they were injured when the mountain troll broke into the castle. Whoever it was, they didn’t get past Fluffy—the three-headed dog—but they’re definitely not giving up."

Draco raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And who, exactly, are we talking about?"

"Snape, Proudfoot, and Quirrell," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione’s gasp was audible, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. "But... that can’t be right," she protested, shaking her head. "Snape? Proudfoot? Quirrell? Surely they wouldn’t—"

Ron cut her off, his voice uncharacteristically firm. "Snape might be a git, but he’s a good guy. He’s been tutoring Harry. And Proudfoot’s an Auror—Sirius trusts him. He wouldn’t betray us."

Draco frowned, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. "Quirrell, though... he’s always been a bit off, hasn’t he? That stammering, nervous wreck of a professor? He’s too weak to try something like this."

Harry’s expression was unreadable, his eyes dark and thoughtful. "That’s what we need to figure out. It’s possible... they could be under the Imperius Curse."

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat at those words. She had read about the Imperius Curse—one of the Unforgivable Curses. The very thought of it made her blood run cold. Her voice was shaky when she spoke. "The Imperius Curse? That would mean... they’re being controlled, right?"

Draco, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, spoke up, his voice laced with tension. "Yes. When cast successfully, the Imperius Curse places the victim completely under the caster’s control. They become nothing more than a puppet—completely obedient, without question."