Chapter Text
Neville knelt by the shoe rack, shoving aside an old pair of Ron’s trainers. No hoodie there either. He straightened with a sigh, scanning the hallway as if the thing might sprout out of the floorboards if he stared hard enough. It had been his favourite—soft, forest green, the one he always wore down to the garden in the mornings when the air still carried a bite.
“Thought you said you were ready,” Harry called from the kitchen, a water bottle clunking against the counter. He pulled on his gym clothes early—black joggers loose around his legs, an old junior varsity shirt clinging from too many washes. Harry carried the calm confidence of someone who actually knew what to do once they walked through those glass doors.
“I was,” Neville muttered, tugging open the coat closet for the third time. Nothing but a jumble of his roommates’ jackets—Seamus’s bulky parka, Harry’s worn bomber, Dean’s paint-spattered denim, Ron’s windbreaker—and a battered umbrella, plus a stray trowel he must’ve left there himself. With a resigned sigh, he pulled on a heavier long-sleeve shirt from the hook by the door, the fabric stiffer and less forgiving than his missing hoodie.
“You don’t need a hoodie to lift weights,” Ron said, appearing in the doorway with a half-eaten granola bar. Crumbs dotted his shirt. “They’ve got heating in there, you know. Fancy.”
Neville rubbed the back of his neck. It wasn’t about the temperature. The hoodie was armor—hiding the soft middle he hadn’t outgrown and the awkwardness of showing up where everyone else seemed to belong. The thought of walking into rows of machines and mirrors with only a thin t-shirt made his stomach twist.
Harry tossed him a look, half sympathy, half impatience. “We’ll be late if we don’t go soon. Ron’s tagging along—he’s got a campus radio spot to cover the football match later.”
“As moral support,” Ron said brightly, though it was obvious he had no intention of touching a dumbbell the way Harry did. His own training usually meant reaction drills, posture work, and the occasional conditioning session for the esports and chess teams. “And to watch you suffer.”
Harry snorted, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He was used to the gym in a way Neville wasn’t—regular sessions to stay sharp for intramural football and volunteer firefighting.
“All right,” he said, voice gruffer than he meant. “Show me the ropes.”
Harry grinned, and Ron clapped him on the shoulder like he’d just agreed to something monumental. The three of them stepped out into the crisp autumn air, Neville still wondering where on earth that hoodie had gone.
The glass doors of the campus gym swung open with a rush of heated air and the faint tang of chlorine drifting from the pool. Neville followed Harry’s confident stride to the reception desk, fumbling his student card against the scanner until the light finally blinked green. Ron breezed through after them, chatting about the radio booth setup for the evening match as though he’d been born to multitask.
They climbed the back stairwell toward the cardio floor, footsteps echoing against concrete. The space opened up at the top: rows of treadmills and ellipticals lined the front wall, functional rigs and mats spread across the center, and the hum of machines filled the air.
Harry angled them toward the circuit line. “We’ll start with the basics—machines are excellent for getting form down. Less risk of wrecking your back,” he said, already slipping into a coach’s rhythm.
Before Neville could answer, a voice called out over the whir of a stair-master. “Haw, Potter! Weasley—aye, over here!”
Neville turned. A brunette powered up the machine, climbing at an impossible pace but grinning like she had energy to spare. Next to her, a blonde figure caught his eye—Luna, curls bouncing as she climbed in her own steady rhythm.
“Hello, Neville,” she said, voice calm as though they’d just stepped out of the beekeeping shed rather than into a gym full of mirrors.
“Hey, Luna.” He smiled, relieved at the familiar face.
Ron squinted at her, recognition dawning. “Hang on—you’re the night DJ, aren’t you? Campus radio?”
“That’s right,” Luna said serenely. “And you do the sports commentary. I always catch the tail end of your broadcasts.”
“Small world,” Ron muttered, though his ears pinked.
The brunette laughed and leaned forward on the rails of her machine. “Right, formal introductions the noo. Harry, Ron—this is Luna Lovegood. Ye’ve likely heard her on the air, but noo ye’ve met the lass herself. And this is me—Fay Dunbar,” she added, gesturing to herself with mock formality.
Harry grinned. “And this is Neville Longbottom,” he said, tilting a thumb toward him. “My roommate. He’s just starting out here.”
“Welcome tae the madhouse, Neville.” Fay flashed a practiced smile—bright, polished.
Harry shifted his weight, scanning the floor below. “Is Hermione around today?”
“Downstairs,” Fay replied easily. “Lower body pull day. She’s on the equipment in the strength area.”
Harry nodded knowingly. “We’ll wave when we head down for the shoulder press.”
Neville gave Luna a small wave as Harry tugged him toward the circuit line. “Good luck with your climb.”
“Goodbye, Neville,” she said.
“It was nice to meet you, Luna,” Harry added with a nod as Ron gave a little two-finger salute.
The stair-masters hummed behind them as they moved deeper into the gym, Neville already wondering how on earth he was supposed to keep up.
Harry put them to work straight away—banded walks, ankle rocks, T-spine reaches—the same soft-tissue, mobility, and stability sequence Neville had watched him grind through in their living room before intramural practices.
Ron groaned but mirrored the moves, muttering through his breath, “Remind me why I didn’t fake a cough?”
“Because you’ve got a radio hit later, and you were bored,” Harry said. He clapped once, coach-brisk. “Warm-up done. Machines.”
As they headed for the leg press, Ron called out, “Where’s Hermione in all this, anyway?”
“Doing her program,” Harry said, firm enough to shut the door on it, already sliding the pin and checking the leg press. “Feet here, Neville. Slow on the way down, no knee cave.”
Ron grumbled something about friends sticking together, but Harry ignored it and moved them along: leg press, seated row, leg curl. Neville kept his head down and followed the cues—heels heavy, ribs stacked, elbows to pockets—trying not to stare at his form in the mirrors. Harry slipped into command without thinking, like this place also belonged to him.
“I’m not wild about the chest press up here,” Harry said, wiping the handle grips. “Independent arms throw you off. We’ll hit the proper chest press downstairs, then leg extension and shoulder press. Finish with bis and tris.”
They took the back stairs.
The air changed at once—cooler, denser. Iron rang somewhere to their left; plates kissed onto bars with the soft clink of habit. Chalk hung faintly sweet in the concrete room. The barbell racks lined up like a stern audience, and the people beneath them moved with a quiet, purposeful gravity the treadmills upstairs never required.
Neville’s gaze snagged.
By a deadlift platform: socks, hot-pink shorts, and a hoodie two sizes too big, hood up. The bar sagged heavily, thick black plates stacked past a hundred kilograms.
He blinked. The hoodie looked… familiar.
Too familiar.
His stomach did an odd little twist.
Harry steered them to the chest press, queued up the leg extension, kept talking—tempo, lockouts, don’t bounce—while Ron complained about the seat lever being designed by sadists. Neville nodded where he was supposed to, hands moving, muscles burning, attention tugged again and again to the platform.
The woman in the pink shorts reset her stance. The hoodie swallowed her, but when she hinged, the fabric tightened across her back, and the shorts pulled tight over the curve of her ass. Neville told himself to look away. He didn’t. Couldn’t. There was a steadiness to the way she braced—lats packed, shins vertical, breath set—that pinned him as surely as any loaded bar.
Harry claimed the shoulder press next. Ron groused, “Why is this seat made for toddlers?” and Harry, without looking, said, “Because you never adjust it.” Neville sat pressed, nodded—and then it landed.
The green fabric, the worn cuff, the stitched patch at the pocket he’d mended last winter—all of it was his.
It was his hoodie.
Heat hit his face so fast he swayed.
She stepped up to the bar and locked her grip, knurling biting into her palms as chalk ghosted the air.
Neville realized he was holding his breath the instant she drew hers.
Knees soft. Brace. Pull.
The plates kissed free of the floor and climbed, smooth as a tide. She locked out, gaze steady in the mirror.
Neville froze because in the glass, Hermione’s eyes flicked up and found his.
Recognition hit like a dropped plate.
She smirked—quick, edged—then dropped her focus and did it again. One. Two. Three—clean, unrelenting pulls. Her breath cut through the room’s hum.
Behind him, Ron hissed, “I’m not starting with that.”
“You’ll thank me later,” Harry said, sliding a pin with a click.
Neville barely heard them. His pulse knocked in time with Hermione’s rhythm. By the twelfth rep, she was flushed, wisps of hair pasted to her temples, but nothing in her form wavered. The bar thudded down, plates rattling, and she rolled her shoulders.
In one motion, she peeled off the hoodie—his hoodie—and tossed it aside.
Neville blinked hard, aware belatedly that he was staring. High socks, pink shorts riding high on her thighs, a matching bra; wireless headphones sealing her in. Her phone slid from her strap onto the puddle of green fabric on the floor.
Harry tapped the shoulder press. “You’re up.”
Neville sat, stiff, focused on making his breathing more mechanical. Press. Lock. Lower.
“Oi—Harry,” Ron said, then stopped dead.
Neville followed his line of sight as Hermione nudged another pair of twenties onto the bar as if they were coasters. Chalk; a small roll of the neck; feet set.
Neville’s hands nearly slipped off the handles.
She hinged and drew the bar again. The knurl scraped a thin line up her shins; shoulders took the load; face unflinching. She punched the lockout, held, then guided the bar to a floor-shaking crash that vibrated through Neville’s shoes.
“Rack it,” Harry mumbled.
Neville obeyed on instinct, arms buzzing, eyes pulled back to the platform. Hermione reset. Another pull. Another clean drop. Each rep felt like an argument she intended to win.
Sweat traced the hollow of her throat. Headphones on, she was a closed circuit—eyes on her own reflection, jaw set, no one else in the room.
Neville realized he’d stopped breathing again when the bar landed and the sound rang in his chest. Awe. Fear. Something hotter than either.
She dusted her hands, flexed her fingers, and stepped back to the bar as if the last set had been a warm-up.
Neville’s grip slipped; the press handles were suddenly slick. He forced the rep like that was the reason he was shaking.
But he knew better.
It was her.
The bar crashed down again, and this time Ron couldn’t help himself. “Bloody hell—Harry, she’s pulling more than Hagrid!”
His voice carried, but Hermione didn’t so much as twitch. Headphones on, eyes on the mirror, she reset her grip like they weren’t there at all.
Harry only smirked. “That’s Hermione.” Then, as Neville racked the shoulder press and sat there with his ears burning, Harry’s gaze slid sideways. The corner of his mouth hitched—aware, teasing.
Neville swallowed and counted breaths—four in, six out—willing the heat out of his face.
Harry leaned against the next machine, casual. “She’s in here a lot. Fay’s around most days too, guiding people on the machines for her placement.” A beat. “Thinking I should make it more of a habit myself.”
Neville nodded as if he’d heard any of that. His chest still thudded with something that wasn’t the press. He wiped his palms on his joggers and stood, trying not to look back at the platforms. Iron hit rubber somewhere to his left; the floor hummed through his soles. Don’t look.
Ron muttered about madness and ruined knees; Neville barely registered it. His set was done, his arms trembled—but the flush in his face wasn’t from the weight.
That was the first day.