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Hermione Granger had decided, some years back, that birthdays were not for celebrating. At least not her birthdays, i.e. the ones that fell in the middle of term. In September, with classes barely underway, the stack of fifth-year essays on her desk was the only gift she had come to expect. She had treated herself to a solitary glass of wine after dinner and intended to finish her grading before bed, which seemed, on balance, more dignified than cake and candles.
So when the knock came at her office door, soft but insistent, she blinked in mild surprise. It was late. Too late for students.
“Come in,” she called.
The door opened a crack and Harry stepped inside, hair ruffled from the wind and shoulders hunched as though he were sneaking into a place he didn’t belong.
“Happy birthday,” he said, voice pitched low. From behind his back he produced a rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper, the edges crooked where he had folded them.
Hermione sat back in her chair, startled into smiling. “Harry, you didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he admitted, suddenly awkward. “But I was in Edinburgh a few weeks ago, in one of those Muggle bookshops you’d love. I saw it and…” He offered it across the desk to her with a small shrug. “...I thought of you.”
She peeled back the wrapping carefully, as though savoring the effort it represented. Inside lay a slim leather-bound book, its surface worn soft by many hands. She opened it to find the pages shimmering faintly, revealing script only when angled to the lamplight. Her breath caught, recognition flickering in her eyes.
“Oh, Harry.” Her voice softened. “It’s wonderful.”
His ears went faintly pink. “Glad you think so. The owner thought it was a blank journal, but when I opened it and saw the runes, I realized it was only visible to magical sight. And I thought…” He shrugged again. “It’s sort of your thing.”
She beamed up at him. “It is!” She ran a hand over the cover and opened it carefully. “Do you have time to sit with me. Have a drink?” she asked, already flipping through the pages.
He laughed. “You have a new book. I know you better than to expect bar service when you have something to read.” He wandered to the sideboard instead, where she kept a bottle of firewhisky for late nights. “I’ll make my own.”
Hermione hummed, distracted, as she continued to turn through the book, flipping the delicate page carefully. Her finger stilled on a heading written in curling letters: The Rite of Equal Measures. Below, a pattern of runes unfurled like a star chart.
Her lips curved in intrigue. “Oh, this looks interesting. And it’s best done in a comfortable space. It restores balance before the autumn equinox. Merlin knows we need that."
She skimmed the page.
"Ok. I need your hand.”
Harry returned to her desk, amused but obliging, and let her clasp his palm in hers. Their fingers laced almost without thought, a reflex born of long years of trust.
Hermione grasped the wand off her desk and murmured the short incantation. The syllables fell from her lips like smoke and water.
Nothing happened.
They exchanged a bemused glance, then both chuckled. Hermione shut the book gently, setting it aside and reached for her glass. "Well, I'll read more later. Thank you again, Harry."
“You're welcome,” Harry replied with obvious pleasure, easing into one of the chairs by her fire. “So did you do anything special with Max tonight?”
Hermione shook her head, reaching for her glass again. “No. We broke up.”
“Oh, shit.” His expression shifted, apologetic. “I’m sorry, Hermione. Are you ok?”
Hermione shrugged. “Yeah, I really am. He was a decent shag, but other than that…no personality, really.”
She stood from the desk and moved towards the other chair by the fire. “How are things with you and Raya?”
He grimaced. “I ended things, too.” He tipped his glass towards her. “Similar reasoning.”
Hermione lifted her glass wryly, mirroring his salute. “We could conclude, then, that dating during the school year is a doomed enterprise.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
She sipped her wine, letting the quiet stretch.
“So what did you do for your birthday?” he finally asked.
She smirked. “Graded fifth-years’ essays on cross-species switches.”
“God, Hermione,” Harry said, wincing. “I’m a shite friend. I could have organized something.”
Her eyes flicked over his clothes, lips twitching. “Well, I’ll assume your presence was required on the Quidditch pitch earlier? Unless you’re kitted up for a fancy-dress occasion?”
He glanced down at his scuffed kit and laughed. “Caught me. Draco and I were running team drills for Gryffindor and Slytherin. Then we got into a bit of a skirmish.”
“And who won?”
“Me, obviously. I’m better.”
Hermione arched an eyebrow, savoring the opening. “Funny—last week when Draco sat in that chair, he said the exact same thing about himself.”
Harry grimaced, then let a grin tug at his mouth. “Well, he was better last week. But not this one.”
Her laugh filled the office, warm and tired, and Harry felt it land somewhere beneath his ribs. She covered a yawn with the back of her hand.
“I should go,” he said quietly, setting his empty glass aside.
She stood with him. At the door, he leaned in for a hug, as they always had—a casual, familiar embrace. But the moment her arms closed around him, something shifted.
A pulse surged through their bodies, heat rising like a tide. A glow flared around them, gold and startling, encircling their bodies in a halo of light, rippling outward. The lamps overhead flickered. The fire guttered low, then roared higher. The portraits along the walls stirred awake, muttering. Outside the window a gust of wind rattled the panes.
They broke apart just enough to stare at each other, still held in each other’s arms. Hermione’s eyes were wide, Harry’s mouth parted in surprise.
Found.
The air hummed between them, echoing— charged, alive.
Hermione’s voice was a gasp. “Oh, fuck, Harry. What have I done?”
Harry stared at his hands, still tingling. “What was that spell, anyway?”
Her heart thudded. She rushed back to her desk, snatching up the book and rifling through its pages. “I should never—never— have said it aloud. Without research, without context— what was I thinking?” She jabbed at the runes with her finger. “That’s a first-year mistake. I know better!”
Harry followed, hands raised as if to calm her. “Hermione, breathe. It’s not like you unleashed Voldemort again.”
“Don’t joke.” Her eyes flashed. “I’ve no idea what that was. Did you hear what it said? Found. What does that mean?”
“That it found us?” Harry guessed unhelpfully.
Hermione ignored him. “The Rite of Equal Measures. The name sounded harmless enough, but names lie. And spells—spells always mean something.” She snapped the book shut.
“Alright,” Harry said gently. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together.”
She shook her head, pacing, muttering under her breath about arrogance and carelessness and how she of all people should know better.
Harry leaned against her desk, watching her with that familiar, maddening calm. “Hermione.”
She froze, glaring at him.
“You’re not alone in this.”
For a moment the golden light shimmered faintly again between them, as if agreeing.
Found.
Hermione tried her best to understand the effects of the spell, eyes blurring as she traced line after looping line, but eventually even she had to admit defeat. It was past the hour when professors could decently still be in each other’s quarters. With a reluctant nod, they parted, Hermione clutching the book to her chest, Harry slipping away with one last glance over his shoulder.
Back in his rooms, he stripped off his Quidditch kit, showered, and stretched out on the bed. But sleep would not come. His limbs were heavy, his mind bone-tired, and yet his whole body thrummed with restless energy.
He closed his eyes. He tried deep breathing. Tried counting the cracks in the ceiling. Nothing helped.
Go to her.
He sat up, alarmed. Had someone spoken? He listened but now all he heard was his own voice, pressing into him, undeniable: I need to go back to her.
At first he resisted, irritated with himself. He wasn’t a boy anymore, sneaking about for stolen moments. He was a professor, for Merlin’s sake. But the longer he lay there, the stronger the urge grew, until it was no longer a suggestion but a demand physically inflicting itself on his body.
Eventually, with a muttered curse, he flung off the covers. Pulling the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders, he crept into the corridor, feeling absurdly like a fifth year off to raid the kitchens.
Halfway to her quarters, he froze.
A sound. Soft, deliberate, approaching. His heart jolted. Someone else was out after hours. And whoever it was, they were well-trained—he could hear the faintest disturbance but see nothing. Perfectly disillusioned.
Harry’s fingers tightened on his wand. He held his breath, every nerve awake.
The footsteps neared. Close now. Too close.
He lifted his wand and hissed, “Homenum revelio!”
At the exact same moment, something slammed into him—an expertly cast, wordless Impedimenta. The Cloak slipped from his shoulders as he toppled backwards, and with the rush of motion came a familiar scent, warm and sharp: Hermione’s shampoo.
Harry hit the ground, and there she stood—eyes wide, wand still raised.
“Oh, Harry! Fuck, I’m so sorry—” She rushed forward, gasping as he tried to push himself up. “Finite!” she cried, canceling the hex.
He groaned again, rubbing his ribs. “Brilliant. Really.”
Hermione’s face crumpled. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought—well, I don’t know what I thought.”
“Fair enough,” he said, sitting up with a grunt. “But what are you doing out here?”
“I might ask you the same.” Her voice wavered, as though she already knew the answer.
He met her eyes, the truth slipping free before he could think better of it. “Coming to find you.”
She inhaled sharply. “I… I was doing the same.”
They stared at each other, the words hanging between them. A hush filled the corridor, thick with implication.
“It must be the spell,” Hermione whispered at last. “I can feel it. It… it’s demanding something of us.”
Harry’s pulse kicked hard against his throat. “Then what do we do?”
For a long beat, neither moved. The torches guttered softly on the walls, shadows tilting over their faces.
Finally he asked, quiet but steady, “Which bed is it to be, then?”
Hermione blinked, startled, then huffed the faintest laugh. “Yours is closer. And I’m exhausted.”
He pushed himself up, still sore, and offered her a hand. She took it without hesitation. Together, they turned down the corridor, moving silently through the dim-lit halls until they reached his door.
Harry woke with the distinct sensation that something was trying to kill him.
Not with spells or curses—no, this was far more insidious. His nose and mouth were full of something warm and ticklish, and every time he shifted, it seemed to smother him more.
He cracked one eye open.
Hermione was sprawled across his chest, arm thrown over him, curls everywhere. A dense curtain of hair had slid over her face in the night and now blanketed his as well. She was snoring lightly, each exhale sending strands tickling against his lips. If he opened his mouth, he’d be eating it.
It was ridiculous. Absurd. And he couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up in his chest.
The sound jolted her awake. Hermione’s head shot up, eyes wide, hair flying. She blinked down at him, realization dawning all at once—her position, her weight pressed against him, his arms half-curled around her. With a startled gasp, she pushed off and flopped onto her back beside him, groaning into her hands.
“Oh, Merlin,” she muttered.
Harry rolled onto his side to look at her, still chuckling.
“What time is it?” she asked, voice muffled through her palms.
He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. “A little after seven.”
Her hands flew away as she sat bolt upright. “Seven? Students will be in the corridors! How am I supposed to get back to my quarters without being seen?”
Harry propped himself up on one elbow, fighting a grin at her horror. “You could use the Invisibility Cloak.” He hesitated, then added, “Or… the Floo here connects to the Quidditch locker rooms. You could go there, then walk back into the castle.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed as she considered, then she nodded briskly. “The Floo. Less chance of anyone noticing.”
She shrugged into her robes and snatched up her shoes, striding to the hearth, hair still a wild cloud around her shoulders. She reached for the Floo powder. “I’ll go now—”
She spun, the green flames catching her—and at that exact moment, Harry felt it.
Go to her.
A sharp yank deep behind his navel, fierce and undeniable. It wasn’t thought, wasn’t choice. It was the same visceral pull as a Portkey, but angled, targeted—her.
Before he knew it, he was out of his bed, stumbling forward, stepping straight into the flames.
He looked up just in time to see her hurtling back toward him, flung off-balance by the same invisible tug. They crashed together, tumbling out of the Floo in a heap on the rug, breathless and wide-eyed.
Hermione’s hair was everywhere again, in his mouth and smothering him, her elbow jammed against his ribs. She scrambled upright first, staring down at him with shock.
“You felt it, too?” she asked, chest heaving.
Harry sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Like I was being reeled in.”
Silence stretched for a beat as the enormity of it settled between them.
Finally, he exhaled. “Invisibility Cloak it is, then. But I’d best go with you.”
Hermione swallowed hard, then gave a single, sharp nod. “Agreed.”
The air hummed between them, steady as a heartbeat.
Found.
Harry sat cross-legged on the floor outside Hermione’s bathroom, back against the door, listening to the hiss of water and the faintest hum of Hermione’s voice as she showered. He felt ridiculous—an Auror, a war veteran, a bloody professor—and here he was, sitting guard like a prefect outside the girls’ loo.
The water shut off. He cleared his throat. “So, how exactly are we going to manage classes today?”
Her muffled voice floated through the door. “Carefully. We’ve established we can manage about ten meters before the pull gets unbearable. I’ll just keep my classroom door open. You can… linger nearby.”
Harry snorted. “So your students will think I’ve taken up a sudden passion for Transfiguration?”
“They already think you have no hobbies outside Quidditch. This will just expand their impression of you.”
He grinned, leaning his head back against the wall. “We’re going to have to tell McGonagall.”
“No,” Hermione said firmly, the word clipped over the sound of a towel snapping.
“Yes,” he countered, rolling his eyes. “She’s Headmistress. She’ll notice if her two professors can’t stay more than ten meters apart without twitching like addicts. Or if I have to conduct my classes in the hall outside your classroom.”
“No,” Hermione repeated. The door swung open suddenly, and Harry, caught off guard, toppled backward.
He hit the floor hard, blinking up at her.
Hermione stood in the doorway in nothing but a towel, damp curls clinging to her shoulders, long bare legs gleaming with drops of water. For one absurd moment, Harry’s brain emptied of all useful thought. All he could think—Merlin, she has really nice legs.
Hermione arched a brow at his prone position. “Comfortable down there?”
“Er—” Harry scrambled upright so fast he nearly knocked his head against the wall.
She huffed past him into the bedroom, clutching the towel tighter. “Go sit on the loo so I can get dressed.”
The corner of his mouth quirked despite himself. “I could help you get dressed.”
Her laugh was sharp, incredulous. “Excellent idea.” She tugged at the knot of her towel with exaggerated care. “Why don’t we try it?”
Harry’s eyes widened. “Wait, what?”
She smirked, taking a deliberate step toward him. The towel slipped lower.
“Merlin’s beard—mercy!” He bolted into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him to the sound of her laughter.
Leaning on the sink, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His face was flushed scarlet, his hair sticking out in every direction. He groaned, pressing cool hands against his cheeks.
He looked, he realized, less like a dignified Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and more like a fifth-year trying to adjust his trousers around the thought of an attractive girl.
He sighed.
This had the potential to be a very long day.
Hermione sat at the long table in the staff room with her head buried in her arms, shoulders hunched, face hidden. The silence stretched. Every one of their colleagues was staring at her, mouths slightly agape.
Harry sat beside her, trying valiantly to school his features. He really did feel sorry for her— model of diligence, meticulous beyond belief—but, Merlin, this was funny. The one mistake every professor drilled into first years, the one mantra they all repeated until the students could recite it in their sleep: Never cast a spell if you don’t know what it does.
And Professor Hermione Granger aka Golden Girl aka Brightest Witch of Her Age, had done just that.
McGonagall was the first to regain her composure. She cleared her throat, her voice crisp. “Professors Granger and Potter need some time to figure this out.” Her sharp eyes scanned the table. “Can anyone cover their first hour of classes?”
Neville raised a hand. “I can take Transfiguration.”
Draco lifted a languid eyebrow. “Defense, then. Slytherins and Gryffindor first years, yes?”
“Thank you,” McGonagall said briskly. She turned back. “Professors Flitwick and Babbling, please remain. The rest of you may go.”
Chairs scraped. A murmur of voices followed as the staff filed out, Neville giving Hermione’s shoulders a squeeze and Malfoy cocking a brow at Harry. Soon only the Headmistress, the Charms Master, the Runes Mistress, and two very chastened professors remained.
McGonagall cleared her throat. “Professors Granger and Potter, please go and fetch the book.”
Hermione finally sat up, pale but resolute. “Yes, Headmistress.”
Harry followed her out, keeping pace as they headed back toward her quarters. He could feel her anger radiating off her like heat from a fire. He knew exactly why. He hadn’t asked her permission again before going straight to McGonagall at breakfast, blurting out the truth with his toast still in his hand.
Silent treatment. Classic Hermione.
He tried anyway. “So… this is how it’s going to be now?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” she said crisply, eyes straight ahead. “I am very mad at you right now. But I will get over it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Her brow furrowed. “Then what did you mean?”
“Our hands.”
She glanced down—and froze.
Her fingers were threaded through his, palms pressed tight, as if they had been walking hand-in-hand for years instead of mere minutes.
Color rose in her cheeks. “How long has that been the case?”
Harry shook his head, a little dazed himself. “I don’t know. I just realized it.”
They dropped each other’s hands as though burned, both drawing their arms stiffly back to their sides. The silence that followed was even heavier than before.
But when they reached her door, Harry looked down and nearly laughed out loud.
Somehow—again—their fingers were twined together.
Hermione shook his hand loose and vanished into her room, the door clicking shut behind her.
Go to her.
Harry paced in the little sitting area, palms sweating despite himself. When she re-emerged, clutching the leather-bound book to her chest, he nearly sagged with relief. The taut line of her shoulders told him she’d felt it too—that steady pull, the ache if they were apart too long.
She stepped to his side, and without hesitation her hand found his.
“Hermione,” he said softly, glancing down at their joined fingers. “Our hands.”
She jerked away, lips pressed tight. They managed half a corridor before she did it again, her fingers sliding into his as naturally as breathing.
Again she let go, cheeks pink with frustration.
Harry lasted a few steps before an exasperated sound escaped him as he realized his hands were reaching for her. Hermione stopped, turned, and with a decisive little huff, looped her arm through his instead.
“I don’t know what this is,” she muttered. “But I have to be touching you.”
“Yeah,” Harry admitted, tension easing out of his shoulders. He looked down at their linked arms. “This is probably the best solution for now.”
By the time they reached the staff room, they were hand-in-hand again without noticing. Harry lifted their joined hands to the quizzical look of the other professors, half amused, half bewildered. “We can’t stop doing this,” he explained.
Hermione pulled him towards Professor Babbling, thrusting the book forward. “Here. This is the ritual. I thought it would give both of us a sense of equilibrium - balance out the overwhelm. There shouldn’t have been a problem with it, right?”
Professor Bathsheba Babbling adjusted her spectacles, flipping pages with practiced fingers. Her lips moved silently over the runes until she reached the final line. Her brow furrowed. “This spell—the Rite of Equal Measures—it shouldn’t have any effect unless cast by those already bound together.”
McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “Bound together?”
Babbling nodded, still scanning. “It requires a paired magical resonance. Holding hands during the spell.”
“I gave her my hand,” Harry said.
“That shouldn’t have done whatever this” she gestured to them, bright with interest, “is between you. Equal Measures isn’t some doom-clock. It’s an old household rite—meant to yoke two compatible keepers so they don’t overwork themselves at harvest. The magic’s entire job is to nudge you together until you settle into a comfortable… arrangement.”
Professor Babbling’s eyebrows furrowed “Unless one of you—” She stopped. “Professor Granger, you didn’t use Professor Potter’s wand, did you?”
Hermione bit her lip. “I don’t think so… but I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean, not sure?” McGonagall asked, voice clipped.
Hermione turned to Harry. “You had your wand with you?”
“I set it down on your desk before I poured my drink,” he admitted.
Hermione grimaced. “I think I used mine… but if they were side by side, I might have picked up yours by mistake.”
Professor Flitwick piped up, incredulous. “Surely you would know the difference between your own wand and another’s?”
Hermione shrugged helplessly. “Not really. Harry’s wand has always worked for me. And mine’s always worked for him.”
The three older professors froze. Even McGonagall’s composure slipped, her mouth tightening in surprise.
“How long has this been happening?” she asked carefully.
Hermione glanced at Harry. “Oh, what was it… second year, Harry?”
He nodded, remembering the Chamber of Secrets, Polyjuice disasters, all those frantic moments. “Yeah. About then.”
Flitwick and Babbling exchanged a look with McGonagall, silent communication flashing between them. Then McGonagall spoke. “Professors Potter, Granger—wait outside, if you please. There is… powerful magic at play here. We must discuss.”
Hermione conjured two chairs in the corridor, and they sat side-by-side like chastened students waiting for a scolding. She folded her arms. “I feel like I’m thirteen again, waiting to be reprimanded.”
Harry chuckled under his breath, then turned his hand to clasp hers. He rubbed his thumb over her skin, wanting to say something reassuring. But the thought that pressed hardest, the one he couldn’t shake, was not about comfort at all. It was the maddening urge that she should be perched on his lap, warm and close.
Go to her.
A low grunt escaped him before he could stop it.
“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, narrowing her eyes.
Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I was just thinking… that I should be holding you on my lap.”
Her eyes widened, then softened. “Oh, thank God. I’m feeling the same thing. Sit on him, over and over.”
The confession loosened something in his chest. He cleared his throat. “So… do you want to?”
Her eyebrow arched in challenge. “Harry Potter, are you propositioning me in the corridor?” But even as she teased, she stood to settle sideways onto his lap.
He wrapped his arms around her waist instinctively. She curled into him, arms draped over his shoulders, pulling his head to rest against her chest. His world shrank to the steady beat of her heart under his ear.
For a moment, they just relished the relief that touching gave them.
“You do realize this is escalating?” he murmured.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“The way it’s going, I’m afraid it’s going to end in… well, nudity.”
Her laugh was soft, low. “Yes. That does seem to be the way of it. But afraid is not the word I’d use.”
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Then what word would you use?”
The office door swung open with a creak.
“Professors Potter, Granger,” McGonagall said crisply. “Come in.”
They jolted apart, Hermione leaping to her feet, Harry standing a beat later, face hot. Together, hands once again entwined without their realizing, they stepped back into the office.
The staffroom felt more like an inquisition chamber. McGonagall stood at the head of the long table, Professors Flitwick and Babbling on either side. Harry and Hermione stood side by side, looking for all the world like misbehaving students.
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. “First, allow me to apologize. You are both adults. You are both professors. I would not pry into your personal affairs under ordinary circumstances. But we are concerned that even your verbal suggestions may be taken literally by this strange magic. So forgive me, but we must ask… a few questions.”
Hermione braced. Harry shifted uncomfortably.
“You two have been friends—very good friends—since the beginning of your time at Hogwarts?”
Hermione nodded quickly. “Since Harry rescued me from the troll, yes.”
McGonagall winced. “Oh yes. The antics of the Golden Trio. But you didn’t know each other before meeting on the Hogwarts Express?”
Harry and Hermione shook their heads.
Professor Flitwick cleared his throat, peering over his spectacles. “And—pardon me for asking—nothing romantic has ever developed between you two?”
Both flushed. “No,” they said in unison.
McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “Not even when you were on the run? When Weasley abandoned you and it was just the two of you in a tent?”
Harry blurted, “No. Hermione was with Ron then.”
Hermione turned sharply. “And Harry was with Ginny.”
“I wasn’t with Ginny,” he shot back.
“You were as with Ginny as I was with Ron!”
“Whatever—you and he were dancing around each other the whole time.”
Her eyes flashed. “You were constantly pulling out the Map just to see her footprints!”
“Enough,” McGonagall cut in sharply. She fixed them with a glare. “And this exchange—this exact exchange—have you two ever actually discussed it before?”
Silence. They glanced at each other, then away.
“No,” Hermione admitted quietly.
Harry said, “I’ve thought about it before.”
Hermione whipped towards him. “You have?”
Harry just nodded and shrugged. “It didn’t seem smart to discuss it.”
Professor Babbling, watching them, tilted her head, quill in hand. “Fascinating. Emotional connection has been heightened, obviously. This happened after the spell was cast? What else?”
“We heard something,” Harry said. “Found. That’s what it said.”
McGonagall looked startled. “And you both heard it?” They nodded. “And have you heard anything else?”
“I hear things but then they become my own thoughts,” Harry answered. Beside him, Hermione nodded. “It’s the same for me.”
“And what do they say?” Professor Babbling asked her.
“Well, just now,” Hermione paused, face turning crimson, “It told me to sit on Harry’s lap.”
McGonagall gave what could only be described as a snort.
“Well, that’s very interesting!” Professor Babbling crowed. “There may be a sentient aspect of this ritual that was awakened.”
Harry and Hermione simply stared at her.
Babbling continued to make notes. “And what did you do directly after the effects of the spell faded?” she asked.
“I tried to figure out how to undo it,” Hermione said, voice tight. “But we were both knackered. We went to bed.”
Babbling’s quill scratched. “Alone?”
Hermione flushed scarlet. Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Err… we tried. But we couldn’t be apart. We met in the hall, creeping toward each other. We ended up in my rooms. We slept there.”
Hermione jumped in hastily. “That’s all we did—sleep.”
“Mm.” Babbling didn’t look convinced. “Was there excessive touching or… snuggling?”
Harry made the mistake of answering. “Well, I did wake up with Hermione on top of me—”
Hermione spluttered, mortified. “I was draped over him. Not—Merlin, Harry.” He smirked at her rebuke. “Quit that!”
She turned to Babbling. “I don’t even remember moving in the night.”
McGonagall’s cheeks went faintly pink. She cleared her throat. “Professor Flitwick?”
Flitwick perked up. “Ah—yes. The wands. Has anyone noted your mutual ability to cast with each other’s wands?”
Hermione blinked. “Our friends have joked about it once or twice.”
Harry shrugged. “Ollivander once said it was remarkable.”
Hermione turned, eyes wide. “He said that? And you never told me?!?”
“Yeah. I thought it was just him being… you know…Ollivander.” He shrugged again. “A bit wand-mad.”
Flitwick shook his head, awe in his voice. “No, no. It really is remarkable. Very rare. Only a few pairs in wizarding history—those with deep, paired resonance share wands. Most often spouses. Occasionally siblings. A cousin pair, once.”
Hermione latched onto the safest explanation. “Then it must be a sibling-like bond.”
McGonagall’s lips thinned. “Oh, no. That’s absolutely not it." She crossed her arms and looked pointedly at them. "Do you even realize what you are doing, Professor Granger?”
Harry and Hermione looked down—and realized. At some point in the conversation, Harry had moved behind her, arms looped around her waist, fingers splaying across her stomach. Hermione was leaning back against his chest, her body pressed firmly against him. In fact, she was subtly grinding her arse against him and he was obviously eagerly reciprocating.
They leapt apart as though scalded, faces flaming.
Babbling adjusted her spectacles. “It seems to me that the spell is pulling you together. Each of you is a restless half of the other. It was quite a powerful cast, Professor Granger. You cast it on the day of your birth, leading up to the autumn equinox, likely with the wand of someone with whom you've been as close as soul-connected for the majority of your lives. Then you sealed it by sleeping together.” She held a hand up at Hermione’s spluttering. “I know it’s not sexual intimacy, Professor Granger. It’s the safety of sleep with one whose soul resonates with yours that begins the binding.”
“If you ignore it past the equinox,” she added, “nothing dreadful happens—you’ll just remain tethered— and the bond will keep asserting itself in inconvenient ways until you formalize it. You’ll need to do the sealing ritual.” Hermione sputtered again, but Babbling pressed on. “It’s not inherently salacious, Professor Granger. It’s an offering to each other. Safety rather than spectacle. I highly doubt you'll be able to ignore it if this...” She gestured to them. “...is any indication. Clearly, you have found yourselves increasingly needy of each other.”
It wasn’t a question. Both professors sighed in unison. And both realized, with fresh horror, that they had once again gravitated together, wrapped around each other like ivy on stone.
They jumped apart again.
McGonagall rubbed her temples. “Well. You are hereby suspended from teaching duties. We cannot have you… climbing each other like trees in front of students.”
“Headmistress!” Hermione yelped.
“Your classes will be reassigned,” McGonagall continued briskly, ignoring the interruption. “You will remain in your quarters. May I suggest Professor Potter’s? They are farthest from student traffic and— I cannot believe I’m saying this— best insulated against… unintended…noise.”
Harry choked. Hermione turned scarlet.
McGonagall sighed into her hands. “Merlin help us all.”
The older professors left, leaving Hermione and Harry to “strategize.”
They lasted in the staff room approximately seven minutes as “professionals” before entropy won.
Strategizing began sensibly— schedule swaps, food delivery, a rota for essays— and collapsed the moment Hermione realized she’d migrated into Harry’s lap again, her skirt hitched and his palm idly stroking the bare ribbon of skin just above her knee. She pretended to be demonstrating a soothing acupressure charm along the inside of his forearm; he, for his part, bent without thinking to press a quick kiss at the top of her spine. That tiny shock of contact made them both exhale in something far too close to a whimper.
Closer.
Right. Time to leave.
They slipped into the corridor like thieves blessedly spared an audience— students were mercifully in class. Walking was an exercise in futility; every three steps one or the other reeled as the bond asserted itself, and hands kept finding purchase: fingers at elbow, palm at hip, knuckles trailing the inside of a wrist. The castle did its best impression of nonchalance. Portraits pretended to nap. A suit of armor coughed discreetly.
Hermione ducked into her classroom to grab a stack of notes, “just a second,” and the pull hit Harry like a hex. He folded with a hiss, grabbing the doorframe, vision going white at the edges. He was halfway through shouldering into the room— ready to scandalize a whole first-year cohort— when Hermione stumbled back out and straight into his arms, breathless.
McGonagall, mid-lecture at Hermione’s blackboard, flicked the door shut with wandless precision before thirty pairs of eyes could witness a staff-room rated embrace.
Touch.
They obeyed. She wrapped herself around him; he lifted her as if this was the only way walking made sense. They moved, not so much choosing a direction as being guided by muscle memory and a bossy little whisper toward the tapestry alcove—that infamous nook where couples materialized on dance nights and prefects pretended not to see.
“Here,” she said, voice gone low and certain. “You have to stop here and kiss me.”
He set her on the window seat; she hooked her legs around his waist and hauled him closer. One hand braced above her on the stone, the other slid up her neck to her jaw to tip her face up, and Hermione—who had never in her life been shy about naming reality—breathed, “Oh, mercy, that’s hot.”
He kissed her.
It wasn’t careful and it certainly wasn’t academic. It felt like the ritual’s golden light had found their mouths and poured straight through: greedy, grateful, dizzying. She tasted like peppermint tea and the sharpness of an argument won an hour too late. He tasted like apple and smoke and something that had always been hers anyway. Her fingers tore through his hair; his thumb stroked along the hinge of her jaw; she arched, pressing closer with a quiet, helpless sound that made his knees unreliable.
More.
“Yes,” she murmured against his mouth, shameless and sure. “More.”
He gave her more, and the castle— decent old thing— let the corridor draft hush itself for a minute while professors behaved like human beings behind a tapestry. When they finally peeled apart, they were laughing into each other’s breath for no defensible reason, foreheads pressed together like they’d discovered a new element and were trying not to spill it.
They made it the rest of the way to Harry’s rooms in a series of stops and starts, clutching and steadying, both of them incapable of not touching, incapable of pretending they didn’t prefer it that way. By the time his door swung shut behind them, the bond hummed steady as a purr.
Found.
They barely made it three steps past the door.
Go to her.
Harry crowded her back against the wall, palm finding the curve of her hip, mouth finding hers like they were the only two sensible choices left in the world. Hermione’s fingers tugged at his collar, and she hitched her legs around his waist with a soft, triumphant sound. He caught her—of course he did—and carried her blindly toward the sofa, bumping into the arm with a graceless thud that made them both laugh into the kiss.
They sank down in a tangle, Hermione landing astride him, knees bracketing his thighs, robes already skewed hopelessly. Buttons became enemies; so did hems and sleeves and the traitorous hook of her skirt pocket that had the audacity to catch the edge of his shirt. She swore at it cheerfully, then at the stubborn line of buttons down her blouse, and then at him when his hands fumbled because he was too busy kissing the corner of her smile.
“Here,” he murmured, and she arched so he could push the blouse from her shoulders at least. The soft scrape of fabric over skin stole his breath. She shivered, and then her hands were under his shirt, skimming hot over his back before shoving it upward with impatient little huffs.
“Off,” she ordered, and the word did things to his spine. He wrestled the shirt over his head; she shrugged out of hers with equal efficiency, a scatter of fallen buttons pinging across the floorboards like hail. For a suspended heartbeat they just looked at each other—flushed, mussed, reverent—and then the spell of admiration broke and they were back to kissing like it was their vocation.
Touch.
He learned the shape of her shoulder with his mouth; she learned the lift of his breath when her nails traced the lines of muscle at his sides. Somewhere in the shuffle her bra vanished into the sofa cushions (it would later be found clinging heroically to a throw pillow), and his belt joined it in disgrace. The room went wonderfully, ridiculously quiet except for the catch and slide of breath, the low, unembarrassed sounds that belonged to people who had decided to stop pretending, and always the hum of the bond— found, touch, more.
A knock shattered the quiet.
They froze. Hermione’s eyes went enormous. Harry swore softly—not creatively, but sincerely.
Another knock. “Potter,” came Draco’s voice through the door, bright with wicked interest, “if you don’t open up, I’m using a Severing Charm on whatever furniture you’re glued to.”
“Absolutely not,” Hermione hissed, scrambling off his lap and patting frantically at the sofa for her blouse. “Where is—oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Harry yanked his own shirt from the cushion abyss and shrugged it on in a hurry, managing to misalign the buttons by an entire buttonhole and somehow leaving the collar turned up like a lost schoolboy. Hermione shoved her arms into her blouse, realized the buttons were a memory, and made a desperate grab for her wand.
He caught her wrist. “Jumper. Accio jumper.”
She shot him a look—obviously—and flicked her wand. One of his navy jumpers came sailing from his bedroom. She pulled it on, cheeks pink, hair a chaos of curls. He reached to help, thumbs gentle at her temples as he tried to tame the curls into something that said “Head of House” rather than “Just Rolled Off a Sofa.”
Another knock. “We also brought food,” Neville added, long-suffering. “McGonagall said to ‘use your best judgment’ and we decided to risk our lives.”
Hermione glanced down, then up. “You,” she said to Harry, breathless and deadly serious, “stand behind me.”
He blinked. “Why?”
“Because you look—” She gestured vaguely at the lower half of him where his obvious arousal was making itself known, then at his shirt, then at everything. “Unpresentable.”
More.
He made a face, stepped in close, and she stepped back until his chest was against her back. He wrapped his arms around her automatically, palms flattening across her ribcage in a protective fold. It was meant to be modest. It was not. He moved his hands up to cup her breasts. “Is this better?”
They both started to giggle. The kind of helpless, wrong-time laughter that made it worse.
“Focus,” Hermione whispered, and then—because they were hopeless—tilted her head back to kiss him anyway. It was quick and sweet and entirely the opposite of focusing.
She cleared her throat, removed his hands from her tits, tugged her jumper straight, and opened the door.
Neville stood there with a picnic-charmed hamper and a patient expression; Draco leaned against the jamb like a cat who had absolutely seen a mouse. He took in the scene—Harry pink-mouthed, shirt buttons defying logic; Hermione in a jumper that clearly had not been part of the original outfit; both of them bright-eyed and hand-fast again despite themselves—and produced a smile sharp enough to slice parchment.
“Ah,” Draco said. “The Autumn Rut has come early to the Highlands.”
“Shut up,” Harry replied, entirely without heat.
Neville pushed past them with the basket. “McGonagall says to feed you. We brought sandwiches, soup, and, er—tea. Thought you might need the hydration.”
“Delightful” Hermione muttered, but she was already reaching for the kettle with her wand while her other hand stayed stubbornly tangled with Harry’s. “And thank you.”
Harry set the food at the table. It would have been almost normal, except for the giggling (theirs), the smirking (Draco’s), and Neville’s extremely transparent attempts not to look at Harry’s tragically buttoned shirt.
“It’s the spell,” Hermione said at last, aiming for professorial and landing squarely on giddy. “We’re not going to be like this forever.”
Neville nodded agreeably. “Sure. Whatever you say. Just glad you’re… figuring it out.”
Draco nodded cooly. “As am I. Although had you waited until Christmas, I’d have won the pool.”
Harry choked. Hermione swiveled, scandalized. “There was a bet?”
Neville didn’t even pretend. “Look, we’re educators. We observe patterns. As it is, you’ve given me a nice little padding for the next Hogsmeade weekend.”
Hermione pressed a hand to her chest in theatrical offense, then ruined it by smiling at Harry like a secret. “Unbelievable.”
“Utterly,” Draco agreed. “Do hurry up and prove me right some, though. It’s terrible for morale when the obvious takes ages.”
Hermione stood, smoothing the jumper. “Boys,” she said with polite finality, “thank you for presenting us with both lunch and your appalling candor. Truly. But you do need to leave now.” She turned to Harry, eyes going dark with mischief. “Because I intend to ravish Professor Potter.”
Harry’s grin arrived before he could summon dignity. He lifted his hands a little in a helpless shrug to their friends: what can you do?
Neville rose in a hurry, cheeks pink. “Right! Grand! We were never here.”
“Please remember to hydrate,” Draco said primly as he was shepherded out.
The door shut. Silence fell. They looked at each other for one beat of wild, disbelieving joy—and then moved at the same time, already laughing as their mouths found the only plan either of them cared to follow.
Touch.
They made a good effort to do anything but, and failed spectacularly. By mid-afternoon a steady rain had started, a soft hush against the windows; by afternoon they were wrapped in blankets, cheeks pink, lips swollen, eating grapes over Harry’s hearth and kissing between sips of tea.
It should have been awkward.
It wasn’t.
By mutual unspoken agreement, they had left their clothes on after that first interruption, still buttoned poorly and mismatched. But every time they drifted more than an arm’s length apart, the pull gathered like a tide and nudged them back together— thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, fingers laced without either of them noticing when they started.
“Harry?” Hermione said at last, chin on his shoulder, voice small around a smile. “We do have to decide what to do about this.”
He turned his head to press a kiss to her hair. “About us, or about the ritual?”
“Yes,” she said. Then, quieter: “Both.”
He drew back enough to see her face. “Hermione, you know this didn’t start for me with a spell, right?” He tipped her chin up and saw in her eyes an insecurity that broke his heart. “Hey. Look at me.”
She did, reluctantly, and he smiled—soft, a little helpless. “I’ve wanted you for a long time. Years. Library years. Hospital Wing years. Tent years. All the years in between. It’s… old, this thing. I just—” He huffed a breath, embarrassed. “We were very clearly friends. First. Only. And I wouldn’t have risked that for anything. Not after everything we survived because we were us.”
Her mouth parted. “Harry…”
“I liked being the person you leaned on,” he went on, thumb brushing her cheekbone. “I liked leaning on you more. And every time I thought about doing something—saying something—there was Ron. And then Ginny. And all the noise of other people’s ideas about who we were. It felt like the safest, truest thing was not to touch the one bit of my life that actually worked perfectly.”
She searched his face, voice small but steady. “So you just… carried it?”
He gave a crooked smile. “I’m very good at carrying things I shouldn’t.” His gaze flicked to their joined hands. “Except you. Apparently I absolutely must carry you. Magic has opinions.”
A laugh broke out of her, more broken than she meant it to be. “Idiot.”
“Coward,” he corrected wryly. “Absolute chicken-shit.” He sobered. “Did you really never feel it?”
Her answer was immediate. “Of course I did. But it seemed… claimed. Spoken for. And I won’t be anyone’s consolation prize.”
“You’ve never been a consolation prize,” he said, fierce and quiet. “You’re the prize. Full stop.”
Color climbed her cheeks. She looked down, then back up. “If you’d done anything—”
“I know,” he interrupted gently. “You’d have come running.”
“Always,” she said, not blinking.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For taking you for granted."
"Harry, look at me." She moved his face so he could see her eyes, bright and true. "You couldn't take anything for granted that I wasn't willing to give you."
Something eased in his shoulders, in his mouth; he let out a breath like laying down armor. “Then maybe the spell didn’t start anything. Maybe it just took away the parts of me that kept choosing safe over true.”
Her fingers tightened around his. “And you’re ready to choose now?”
“I am,” he said simply. “I choose you.”
Her mouth wobbled. “Ok.” She smiled at him, almost shy. “I choose you, too.”
He huffed a laugh. “Alright, then. How about we complete this thing properly, so whatever it is driving us to each other feels like it’s our own and not some horny spirit guardian with a voyeur kink.”
She snorted. “I hate that I know exactly what you mean.”
They spent another hour being very brave about logistics (tea refills; rearranging pillows; a brief, serious argument about whether the bookstore in Edinburgh deserved a thank-you card) before Hermione square-shouldered the moment. She pulled the leather-bound book into her lap and traced the runes again, frowning.
“Babbling said there’s a completion rite,” she murmured, paging to the end. Her eyes skimmed the page. “Oh! It really isn’t salacious! Two oaths, shared touch, and—Merlin help us—a nap.” Her eyes danced. “As she said, ‘The magic recognizes safety more than spectacle.’”
Harry grinned. “Good. We excel at naps.”
“Speak for yourself. I haven’t excelled at naps since I was five years old.” She inhaled, then nodded. “Right. Wards first so we aren’t interrupted.”
They layered privacy charms with the ease of two professors who knew their work, then stood across from each other at the foot of his bed, hands joined.
Hermione cleared her throat, suddenly shy. “There’s an oath of keeping. And an oath of balance.” She met his eyes. “I’ll take keeping.”
“You already do,” he said simply.
“And you’re far better at balance,” she replied, eyes shining.
They spoke together, halting at first and then steady:
“I, Hermione Jean Granger, keep an equal share of our hours—work and rest, care and correction, confidence and candour—so neither of us stands alone.”
“I, Harry James Potter, keep an equal share of our hours—quiet and storm, courage and doubt, mornings and midnight—so neither of us stands alone.”
Found.
The word thrummed soft as a chord.
Hermione swallowed. “Balance?”
He nodded. They traded phrases back and forth, weaving them without fuss, the way they always had:
“I will make room—”
“—and I will make time.”
“I will speak—”
“—and I will listen.”
“I will lean—”
“—and I will hold.”
“Equal measures,” they finished together, hands tightening.
Found.
They looked at each other, both laughing a little for no defensible reason.
“And now,” Hermione said, smug with relief, “the nap.”
Harry flicked his wand; the lamps fell to a golden hush. They climbed up the bed and Harry pulled a blanket over them. They lay on their sides, faces a breath apart. Hermione reached across the gap first, palm to his jaw, and Harry closed his eyes as if the gesture were a key turning in a lock. Their foreheads touched. The castle breathed.
Rest.
They slept.
They woke to dusky light pouring low through the window and the soft satisfaction of a bond that had decided to stop making pointed comments. The ache of distance had eased to a warm tether. They could move apart without panic; they didn’t want to.
Hermione stretched catlike, hair a riot, jumper rucked to her ribs. “How long did we sleep?”
Harry squinted at the clock. “Three hours. Give or take a lifetime.”
She smiled so hard it hurt, then rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling with the air of someone recognizing a star pattern at last. “We should tell Minerva it’s under control.”
Harry made a face. “And by ‘tell’ you mean ‘submit ourselves to an inspection by the McGonagall Bureau of Public Decency’.”
“Correct.” She sat up, smoothing her jumper, then offered him a hand. He took it; neither let go. “Come on. Better to face the music before Draco prints pamphlets.”
They didn’t make it ten steps down the corridor before they encountered said pamphlet committee in compact form.
Draco lounged against a wall niche. Neville stood beside him radiating wholesome embarrassment, another food hamper in his hands.
“Well?” Draco asked, eyes flicking to their joined hands with undisguised glee. “Are we to be spared further public displays of… equilibrium?”
Hermione lifted her chin. “The rite is properly completed.”
“Equinox housekeeping, then,” Draco said lightly. “How domestic.”
Neville’s grin threatened to escape his face. “McGonagall will be very relieved. She said if she heard one more mysterious whisper in a corridor that sounded like ‘Sit on him’ she was going to retire to Hogsmeade and open a teashop.”
Hermione choked. Harry patted her back, terribly unhelpful.
“Congratulations,” Neville added, sincere and warm. “Truly.”
Draco tipped an invisible hat. “Longbottom is dreadfully smug about winning the pool. I shall survive.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t start the pool, Malfoy.”
“Leadership is a burden,” Draco sighed, then waved them on. “Go show the Headmistress your paperwork—or whatever one shows when one becomes insufferably happy.”
They were still laughing when they reached McGonagall’s office. The Headmistress looked them over with a glance that managed to combine relief, affection, and an entire lecture.
“Well?” she asked.
“We finished the ritual,” Hermione said. “Properly. There’s… room in it now.”
Harry lifted their joined hands. “But we choose this. Now. For always”
Something softer crossed McGonagall’s face, a memory of a younger professor watching two children throw themselves at impossible things. “Very good. That’s the only reasonable conclusion.”
She cleared her throat. “You’ll both resume classes next week. Until then, kindly keep your… equal measures… out of the corridors.” A brief, betrayed smile. “And maybe don’t sit in each other’s laps during staff meetings.”
“No promises,” Harry said, and Hermione elbowed him hard enough to make him wheeze.
As they turned to go, McGonagall added, almost off-hand, “Happy birthday, Professor Granger.”
Then, even more off-hand: “I’ll have the Floos between your quarters connected. Merlin knows it’s simpler than the alternative.”
Harry blinked. “Is that… permission?”
“That is…practicality,” McGonagall said primly and shooed them away with what could only be described as a smirk.
The equinox sunset came clear and cold the next day, the rain rinsed away to a sky of thin gold. They climbed the Astronomy Tower with a blanket, a thermos, and exactly one apple because Hermione insisted on symbolism of the fruit of the harvest, shared between them. The castle stretched out below, roofs chiming with the cool of the night, the lake folded like silk.
They sat close with the blanket thrown over both knees and the thermos warming their hands. Neither felt compelled; both wanted; the difference mattered.
“Do you hear it?” Harry asked quietly.
Hermione listened. For a long moment, only wind and the faint scrape of an owl. Then, as the sun kissed the horizon and light went honey-low, the gentlest whisper:
Found.
Hermione exhaled a laugh that was mostly a breath. “There you are.”
“Think it’s going to keep bossing us around?” he asked.
“Maybe,” she said, and bumped his shoulder with hers. “But I think it likes us.”
They passed the apple back and forth until only the star of seeds remained. Harry pocketed it because he was sentimental and didn’t intend to pretend otherwise anymore. When the last sliver of sun slipped away, he turned to her.
“Happy fall equinox,” he said, and pulled a flat parcel from his pocket—a slim ribboned bookmark cut from old broom bristle and inlaid with a copper line of runes. “In case you ever need to remember where you left off.”
Hermione’s mouth went soft. “I never do,” she whispered, voice thick. “But I’ll keep it anyway.”
He leaned in. She met him halfway.
It was warm and sure, an after-harvest kiss, a we chose this kiss. Below them, the castle settled into its new season with a satisfied sigh.
Found.
The word was less a compulsion now than a benediction.
They sat with the stars coming up one by one, hands tangled under the blanket, equal measures at last.