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Chapter Text

-

For the record, she doesn’t hate him. If she were to make a list, she’d would fill it with words like mild distaste on a good day or simply, indifference. Harry Potter, despite his fame, has always existed outside her orbit. The Sorting House called Slytherin for him, while she went to Ravenclaw. They managed to share some classes, even advance classes, but she was also flanked by those of her own House or buried in extra lessons.

The news that they would take both the Head Girl and Head Boy rankings is still no surprise to anyone. “It simply wasn’t Gryffindor’s year,” Professor McGonagall admits, sighing. When Hermione had received her letter over the summer, her parents were awkwardly happy, or as happy as they could be, their hearts still set on her exploring life outside the Wizarding World. Normally it would unsettle her, but seeing Harry’s name written into the letter only heightens her curiosity.

They have to share a living space.

“So.”

Crookshanks nestles into her arms. Harry eyes him warily. They have both unpacked. They are to go and greet students in a few hours. Their working schedule had been given to them by Professor Flitwick, Dumbledore off and attending some sort of meeting in the Ministry.

“He doesn’t bite,” she supplies. Which is not true. Crookshanks bites. Hard. He bites every male that comes into her presence with the slight exception of her father. They usually agree to co-exist anyhow.

“You,” Harry points out. She forgets that Harry is close with Hagrid. “I can’t trust that face.”

Her mouth curls. Crookshanks huffs in her arms, burrowing deeper. Her fingers brush lightly against his head and she walks to the couch, settling him onto a pillow.

Harry seems to follow.

“Should we have rules?”

“Rules?” Rules imply a peaceful living structure. Sure, she’d love rules. She brushes her hands against her jeans. From a distance, she’d even venture to say that she could predict Harry Potter’s rules.

“I want to respect your space,” he says. He looks at her. Then looks away. Only to look back at her again – she can’t tell if he’s nervous, can’t tell if he’s ready to blurt out some odd, off-putting rumor about her. “I think we should be able to get on, you know?”

“Sure,” she says. “That’s true.” Crookshanks stirs, then hisses, jumping from the couch. She watches him bound off to her rooms to sleep instead. Or whatever he does when she’s in class. “I think, at least from what I see, we should both be able to agree to keep it neat?”

“Yeah.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve got a bit of an obsessive compulsion when it comes to being neat. I promise you won’t have to worry about that. Comes with Crabbe and Goyle haunting the dungeons. And Snape being your Head of House.”

She snorts. “I bet.”

“He’s not at all bad,” he says dryly.

“To you,” she points out easily.

“Suppose that’s fair.” His smile is far too charming. “But then I could counter with you being Flitwick and McGonagall’s favorite to the point where they both encourage our class to seek you out for tutoring.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “I highly doubt it.”

The tension is weirdly palpable between them. There’s always been something about him. That much is true – she’ll admit to that much. But in this space, in their rooms, she feels oddly exposed, open to him pulling her apart. She can’t decide if she likes that feeling. It certainly doesn’t bother her too much.

“Well.” Harry clears his throat. “Then rules?”

She blinks, then sighs. Maybe giving in a little too easily. “I think that we’ll be just fine, Harry Potter, if we agree to respect our spaces.” It feels like an out of body experience, at best. “But just so you know,” she drawls, “the rumors about me are all true.”

“Of course.” His smile is dangerous. “Looking forward to the year, Head Girl.”

-

Padma stares at her.

“Does he at least walk around shirtless?”

Hermione laughs. The transition from school work to boys is wildly out of place. They’re ironically supposed to start tackling their Potions homework.

Her oldest friend is always suspicious of everyone outside their house. She calls it her survival instincts, given that she’s the other Patil sister and Parvati is notorious for leading by love of divinations and gossip. Padma is just better at hiding her relationships, especially since she spent their previous year chasing after both Hannah Abbott and Neville Longbottom.

“No,” she says. Across the Library, she watches as Harry sits with Malfoy and Theo Nott. All three of them are all in some sort of state of undress from Quidditch practice, unbothered by the stares they are getting from most the girls. “He’s actually a solid roommate, ironically enough. Despite the company he keeps.”

Padma follows her gaze. “I thought you and Malfoy buried the hatchet.”

“I’d rather call it an uneasy truce.”

“I still think he has a crush on you,” her friend says, and that’s a part of her own lore that still haunts her. The truth is complicated. Her history with Malfoy still isn’t something she likes to unravel. For the most part, they were kids with different backgrounds. Malfoy is the definition of a playground bully, but they came around to each other – begrudgingly, really – because of academics and because Snape managed to pair them together for every Advanced Potions class. Probably out of spite.

“And that is a magical journey that he needs to take on by his lonesome,” she says, and Padma laughs, delighted.

“Whatever you say,” Padma teases, then brightens. Theo Nott has spotted them first. He flashes a smile in Padma’s direction and Hermione rolls her eyes, earning a nod from Malfoy and an easy grin from Harry. “Thankfully, Snape fills our classes with too much to look at it.”

“You’re wild.” Hermione shakes her head. She needs Advance Potions to move forward in her Healing credits. “You know he’d let a caldron blow up in your face to teach you to pay attention otherwise,” she points out.

“Unfortunately, it’s true.” Padma sighs dramatically. “Maybe this is the year he’ll run off with someone into the sunset and let us survive the school year as a result.”

They dive back into their work, laughing. Snape’s coursework is heavy-handed at best. It’s not about the content, it’s always been about how you present it. She obsesses over how neatly her parchment is. Padma, in kind, rewrites her essay at least twice before giving up for the night and eventually leaving for dinner.

Hermione uses her wand to pin her hair back. Her cheeks are feelings a little flush. She’s forgotten how close they were sitting to the fire. She yawns a little.

“We’re on rounds duty tonight.”

She jumps, looking up. Harry takes a seat from across her.

“We are,” she says. She gathers herself. Across the room, over Madame Pince’s desk there’s a clock that merely says dinner. She leans forward and grabs her bag, pulling her wristwatch to check the actual time. “That sounds like you’re about to ask for a favor.”

Harry laughs. “Not exactly.”

“But you are.”

He blushes and it’s nearly endearing. She spots Malfoy and Theo over his shoulder. Theo gives her a wave too, schooling his face as they both turn to leave. She’s always found Nott to be odd, but in an endearing kind of way. He’s sharp and funny. They partnered together in Astronomy a couple of times.

“No,” he insists, “I just wanted to see if you wanted to do our rounds together?”

“Together?”

“As in you and me.”

Hermione can’t help herself. She laughs. Then smiles apologetically when Madame Pince sends a glare their way.

“Should we hold hand too,” she teases, unable to resist. She rests her chin on her hand. “Will you make sure to protect me from your rabid fangirls that like to duck and out of the dark or rather, their dark corners.”

He blushes. “That’s cold.”

“Well,” she says, “you’re handsome.”

His face brightens. She watches a slow, lazy smile start to form around his mouth.

“You think I’m handsome?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I’m neither stupid nor blind,” she says primly.

“True.” He leans in. His fingers graze her forehead, pushing a stray curl away. His fingers a little too long and her mouth parts just slightly. “Sorry,” he says and he is so very clearly not.

The closer he is, the more open she realizes his emotions are – it’s written into his face, unlike the stars, into the creases of his mouth and the brightness of his eyes. She means it. She is not blind. He is unapologetically handsome, neither dark or mysterious, but in a way that is wild, the kind of wild that she finds herself wanting to see a little more of, despite every inkling in her saying otherwise. Her instincts are shot.

He’s trouble, she decides, then and there.

-

Catching students during rounds is like a sport – for the most part, it’s uneventful, until they get closer to certain corridors. There is Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott in an alcove. Neville is flushed, grins in greetings instead of apologies. Ginny Weasley nearly starts a fight with Harry because she thinks he threatens to tell her brother. She’s forgotten they dated once. And that Ginny Weasley is a solid dueler – to the point where she asks Hermione to step aside so that she can hex Harry. It sends Hermione into migraine territory and Harry seems irritable, at best, when they walk away and Ginny doesn’t reveal who she is with.

Snape is their last check-in. He greets Harry pleasantly. Or almost pleasantly – as pleasantly as he can, she supposes. Harry remains unbothered and she feels entirely too awkward as a witness, picking a random corner on the floor to study as they exchange conversation.

“Why a healer?”

Hermione blinks. “I’m sorry, sir?” She is of the mind if that she doesn’t pay any attention to Snape, he will not pay attention to her – they’ve come a long way from when she was younger and brattier. Now, she raises her hand out of spite. “I didn’t hear you,” she offers.

Harry glares at Snape. Snape ignores him. “I heard rumors that you’re ducking the grasp of both the Ministry and our school.” He studies her. It’s all passive-aggressive commentary anyway. “You don’t strike me as a healer, given your disposition.”

A lifetime, or at least, what feels like a lifetime of embarrassing moments in class with Snape has perhaps steeled her for these moments. It’s no secret that he doesn’t like her. It’s also no secret that she has never been interested him in liking her either. The verdict is out on using that as a mutual sense of respect.

“I think that it’s rather narrow-minded to generalize that a healer only focuses on healing,” she says easily. Her professor’s eyes narrow. Harry seems to step closer to her side. She can see why the fangirls swoon. “But,” she says, “I suppose you’re right – I might have to work on my bedside manner, should that be the case.”

Harry’s jaw drops. Snape’s eyes narrow again. She waits. He wouldn’t take House points this early – Flitwick has a reputation for being spiteful and not out loud. She can only imagine what the breakfast table is like in the mornings between all her teachers.

Snape seems to gather himself at will, despite the edge in his expression. He pats Harry’s arm and then steps around her toward the dungeons.

“Miss Granger.”

“Sir,” she returns easily.

When they separate, Harry steers close and the return to the end of their rounds. They’ll head away from the dungeons, back towards where their quarters are. They are closer to Ravenclaw, given the proximity to the Headmaster’s office and the Great Hall.

“I think he likes you,” Harry quips, and she nearly laughs, realizing that he’s actually serious. His relationship with Snape is nothing short of mystifying. She knows that he and Harry’s mother were childhood friends, but that’s all extended to. Of course, she tells herself, it’s also none of her business either.

“I think that’s a lie.” Her mouth twitches. “But I think he’s just happy I’m graduating.”

“I don’t know. I’ve known him for years.”

He opens up to her far too easily, she thinks. If she’s curious, she tries not to let on. She looks up at him. “It’s okay if he doesn’t,” she says. “I’ve learned to be okay with people not liking me. I find that it makes going through life a lot easier. I don’t need to be everyone’s favorite.”

It feels odd to say out loud.

“Still.” His fingers graze her wrist. She bites her lip. He’s insistent, however. “I think he just might,” he says too.

Her brow furrows. It feels important to him and she doesn’t understand. She thinks a younger version of her might have taken the reassurance and ran with it. Now, though, she’d finds herself preferring the distance. At the end of the day, she knows she’s lauded as brilliant, attached with all sorts of monikers that make her uncomfortable and feel ill-fitting. She doesn’t feel brilliant though. Her success has always been dependent on how she sees the world and how the world has responded back to her, equal parts instinct and the desire to, ultimately, prove herself to one person – herself.

“Tell me something about yourself that no one knows.”

Hermione laughs, startled. “That’s a dangerous request.” Instead of putting distance between them, she finds herself leaning closer, maybe just a little bit. “I could tell you all sorts of things,” she says.

“I’m pretty good with secrets.”

She laughs again, whirling around to stand in front of him. Her hands clasp behind her back and she studies him openly. She rocks back on her heels, biting her lip.

“I don’t know,” she hums, “if I believe that.”

“I think that’s an unfair assumption about my house.” His eyes are bright. His mouth twitches as if he were fighting some kind of laugh or smile. When he steps forward, she steps back again. He laughs this time. “Since we’re talking about secrets,” he murmurs.

“No,” she corrects, “I would wager that it’s fair.” Her head tilts. “If we’re talking globally,” she says. “About your house.”

“Humor me.” He steps closer again.

“Why?”

She steps once more. Her back touches a wall. Her hands remain against her back. He mimics her stance too, his hands moving behind his back.

“Are you sure the Sorting Hat didn’t want to put you in Slytherin?”

“It did,” she says easily. His eyes widen and she bites back her laugh. She knows that there’s a rumor about that too. Back in her fourth year, she had a brief fling – she still doesn’t even know what to call it – with Viktor Krum. Rita Skeeter had written several scathing articles about her. She was supposed to be a Slytherin. She really isn’t a Muggleborn witch and her family hails from obscure French family that practices dark magic. “It wanted to put me in Gryffindor too,” she admits, laughing a little. “But I suppose my survival instincts kicked in and chose to hide in Ravenclaw.”

“Huh.” His mouth purses. He nods a little, stepping into her space even more so. It feels as if he’s flushed against her – but he’s not, barely grazing her body with his own. “So then tell me something about you that no one knows,” he presses.

“And if I don’t?”

“Come to my Quidditch game against Gryffindor.”

“I’ll already be there,” she says dryly. “Padma’s sister is friends with Lavender Brown who, as we all know, is in a really, ridiculously messy relationship with Ron Weasley. By default, I have to be there. In case.”

“In case of what?” He eyes her curiously. “Or do I want to know?”

She smiles serenely. “Put it this way. Ron has a deep-seeded fear of birds.”

Harry barks a laugh.

“That can’t be your secret,” he says.

“It isn’t.” Hermione tries not to notice how he reaches for her, how his fingers suddenly decide to catch her chin, then graze her ear under the pretense of touching her hair. Or so she tells herself. “I was telling you about Ron’s secret,” she says.

“You’re terrifying.” His voice is low.

“I think that’s subjective,” she says back.

Something changes. She had no idea she wanted him to touch her until then – a graze is a mistake, a series of touches, whispers of touches, is curiosity. She now knows that there is a callous on his palm, that the tips of his fingers are warm and dry against her skin. Maybe from Quidditch. Maybe not. The here and now, the way he’s hovering over, the way she realizes that he’s just that tall, that he hovers over her – he makes her brain go into overdrive. She starts to think about just how much she likes his mouth, how his lips tilt and rise when he’s ready to smile, and how impossibly green his eyes really are.

“But if you’re not going to tell me a secret,” he says softly, “and you’re already coming to the game – you should wear my scarf. House colors and all.”

Hermione knows she is not one to back down from a dare. She also hates owing anyone anything, debts and silly secrets. This feels a little dangerous though. Her stomach flutters. Her lips part. She is completely and utterly swept in by him without reason. This is a dare and then it’s not, it’s teetering closer to the edge and he’s trying to see how far she’ll go with him. She’ll give him that – she’s curious, oh so curious, and maybe that’s going to be the place to start.

“Guess you’ll have to see at the game,” she says.

Chapter Text

-

The game is in an hour and the scarf is in pieces.

Crookshanks stares up at her. She raises an eyebrow. He purrs. She reaches for the scarf or rather, what’s left of said scarf. The carnage is mostly unspooled wool at this point. Crookshanks even paws at few loose ends. He bites at one of the scraps, gnawing the fabric even further. Next to her, Harry lets out a sigh. Whether it’s defeat or resignation or both, she isn’t sure.

“Your familiar is dangerous,” he says. “A bloody tyrant, actually.”

“He’s particular.” Hermione doesn’t bother hiding her amusement. It’s a little funny. “And this is an easy fix,” she says, reaching for her wand. She murmurs a lazy reparo and watches as the threads of the scarf start to reach for each other, stretching, then weaving together.

His scarf is different from the other House scarves. There are bits of silver thread that shouldn’t be there, that she wonders if its actual sliver thread or not. When she picks it up, the wool is impossibly soft and warm against her palms. The scarf feels loved. Her curiosity makes her feel a bit drunk. She just hopes that he didn’t get it from a member of his fan club. Then it would make all of this a little weird.

“Here,” she says. She clears her throat, offering the scarf back. “Your scarf.”

Harry takes it, but shakes his head. “It’s yours today, remember?”

She hasn’t forgotten. She had hoped he did.

The Head Boy invades her space without asking, taking the long ends of the scarf and wrapping it around her. Her eyes widen slightly. His thumbs graze her neck, her throat, and he tucks the ends into some sort of haphazard knot, a valiant attempt. He’s particular, careful even, maybe to catalogue her space just as much as she catalogues his.

“Ah,” she says. Her voice is low. She licks her lips too. “The secret.”

“A secret,” he corrects. His eyes are glued to her mouth.

It’s different when he’s up close, she decides. There’s a shadow on his jaw. His eyes are still dark with sleep. She heard him come last last night. Slytherin beat Gryffindor and the party had gone on for hours, leaving her to her rounds alone. She can’t say that she missed him, but she did notice him gone and that, weirdly enough, unsettled her. She doesn’t like that it unsettles her.

“Secrets are currency in your house.”

Harry’s mouth curls lazily. “Or so they say.” There’s a dent in his frames. She notices as an afterthought, biting her lip. “You must have a lot of secrets, Hermione Granger, to be that worried,” he murmurs, and even then, his hands remain around the ends of the scarf.

What she is, she thinks, is careful, maybe to a fault – to grow up like this, eyes on her as a Muggleborn and as a girl. She’s been on the receiving end of too many assumptions, of too many points to prove. A boy like Harry Potter is dangerous. She knows that he’s dangerous. He knows that he’s dangerous. Seeing this up front gives her pause, but only briefly.

She does enjoy a challenge.

Her hand moves first, then her wand as she gently taps it against his frames. She murmurs reparo again, low and husky, watching as his pupils grow and his mouth parts, just slightly. He swallows and all she feels is satisfaction. She’s not the only one caught off-guard, she thinks. His hands drop and hers return her wand to her sleeve, her fingers curling in the scarf.

Perhaps, she’s due for her yearly school scandal. “I do like a Quidditch game,” she says.

-

“Those are Slytherin colors.”

Ron Weasley is staring at her. He’s wide-eyed. Then he’s not. The splash of freckles across his nose are faint in the harsh morning light. He’s flushed and maybe sunburned from a family trip to Egypt – or so Lavender Brown told them twice. Padma chokes next to her. It’s all very dramatic, she decides, watching as Lavender also happens to join their pre-game group. Her sister isn’t far behind either, glaring at both Hermione and Padma as if she offended her instead.

Hermione remains unbothered. “Thank Merlin,” she drolls, “that you’re not color-blind. Was worried.”

Ron smirks. “You wound me, Granger,” he says too. “Didn’t think you still thought of me this way after all these years.”

Their odd foray into whatever was exactly what it needed to be – brief. On good days, she thinks about a time that she and Ron could venture into some sort version of friendship instead of whatever this is. A truce? Probably. It’s uneasy at best.

“You seem just fine,” she still says, shrugging and then following Padma to their seats.

Ravenclaw plays in a few days, so there’s no need for loyalty. For the most part, it’s easy to ignore the whisper. A lot of the younger students are eyeing her colors with curiosity and worry. Padma finds it insanely hilarious and when Professor Snape passes her for his seat in the stands, he stops, stares, and shakes his head muttering something that sounds like a mess under his breath as if he had been expecting this all along.

It doesn’t matter to her, as it is. She decides it’s a matter of principle. She’ll take the dare. She spent a better part of her earlier years, shying away from all of this. You’ll grow into yourself soon, her mother would promise. She would promise that a lot. Hermione cannot remember a time, actually, that she didn’t, between the explosion of magic and trying to find herself within it. There are times where she still feels apologetic to her parents. She is still here.

The game starts and her thoughts are immediately out the door, just as Slytherin ascends into air. She spots Ron settle into his spot as Gryffindor’s keeper, rolling her eyes as he flexes his arm to cheers from the crowd.

“At least,” Padma says dryly, “he’s consistent.”

“True,” she agrees, shaking her head. There are whispers about her scarf, but she pays no attention. She does notice a few stares from Slytherin, but no one outwardly says anything. She had meant what she said to Harry earlier – secrets are their currency. “His ego is a modern marvel, that’s for sure.”

Padma chuckles. “He’s only ever been attractive until he opens his mouth anyway,” she says.

Hermione snorts. She’s barely paying attention to Ron anyway. Her eyes immediately glue to Harry who, in turn, is circling Malfoy in conversation. This isn’t her first time watching him play, nor will it be her last time. It still remains true in saying that he flies beautifully, that one could not look past that simple fact. Harry Potter flies and enjoys flying. It feels oddly intimate when you watch him too. She hates herself for thinking that.

“Hermione.”

“Hmm?” Her friend snorts when she looks over. Padma’s expression is gentle, but not without assumptions either. “I’m enjoying the game,” she says.

“Uh-huh.” Padma stretches back in her seat. “It hasn’t started yet.”

Hermione feels herself blush. She ignores Padma’s laugh, turning her eyes to the sky again. She watches as Harry spots her, catching her with a wild grin. You’re here, he mouths. I’m here, she mouths back. Like it’s a surprise.

Instead, he takes his broom and shoots into a complicated spin, sending his crowd of Slytherins into a frenzy. There’s screeching and cheers and she swears, swears that she could probably pick out each and every member of his rumored fan club. There’s no time to play that game, however, since the actual match starts with a whistle and more screech. Quidditch is wildly chaotic as a spectator and House rivalries aside, Harry and Malfoy do play well off of each other, weaving through Gryffindor players with obsession and speed. She tries not to take in how Harry’s muscles flex every time he steers his broom away, how ridiculously handsome he is when he moves, how she understands, suddenly, how he moves and how she really wants to unravel the rest of him.

Then he catches the snitch.

-

There is nothing that she hates more than a grand, nearly archaic display of – well, romance.

In third year, Neville Longbottom brought her flowers in Potions class. Ravenclaw was always paired with Hufflepuff in those days and the flowers had slipped in, via third party, to only catch fire on her station. Snape spent the rest of year terrorizing her, hovering to make sure that she wouldn’t screw up whatever elementary potion that had been part of their lessons then. Fourth and fifth year, however, were both absolute nightmares between Viktor Krum’s fumbling, nearly endearing attempts at being her boyfriend or rather, whatever he thought a boyfriend was to Ron Weasley suddenly declaring that she was his girl and that he had property rights. He’ll say she hexed him and she’ll deny it until her grave. It was stupid and embarrassing enough for her to kill any and every attempt thrown her way in her sixth year because the headache was not worth it.

“I think it’s sweet,” Padma tells her, and the laughter is not far behind.

Hermione snorts.

The snitch sits in the middle of her palm. Its wings flutter. In the library, the gold seems to glow too brightly against the candlelight. It’s come alive several times in her hand, nestling into her skin as if it were accepting her too. It’s still a marvel to her how most magical items are sentient, although she’s never really paid any attention to finer mechanics of Quidditch. Maybe she should.

“I hate it,” she mutters, and can’t stand that her heart is still beating rapidly in her chest. “You know I hate stuff like this,” she says too, but still can’t peel her eyes away from the snitch.

Her homework remains forgotten.

“I know you do. You’ve reminded me at the top of every hour since the game and we’ve barely been in the library for two.” Padma nearly reaches for the snitch, but Hermione draws her hand back. She pulls her legs onto the chair, leaning against her knees. “I’m not going to take it from you,” Padma says too, laughing now.

“I just don’t understand.” Her fingers roll the snitch gently. “When have I ever given anybody the impression of being that kind of girlsnitch?”

“With the snitch,” Padma says. Then she frowns. “Are you –” Padma’s delight is almost immediate. “You’re panicking.” Her mouth drops. “Merlin, you might even –”

“I am not,” she interrupts quickly. Hermione feels her face warm. She groans a little, dropping her forehead against her knees. The snitch flutters in response. “I am not panicking at all. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mutters.

“You so are.”

Hermione groans. “Stop.”

These close quarters are too much, she thinks. She ignores Padma’s laughter, muffled as Madame Pince begins her next series of rounds. Both girls pretend to return to their homework, watching as the librarian scuttles around them, adjusting some of the books on the shelves as if to dare them to challenge her volume rules.

It’s then that the snitch decides to jump out of her hand, tittering around her. Its wings kiss her cheek and her eyes are wide, Padma’s mouth drops open, and they both scramble to reach for it. The snitch jumps and dodges, hovering behind Madame Pince’s head. It’s an absolute nightmare – now, here, she’s totally panicking. She struggles to figure out a plan, immediately to her feet as if she would just distract the older witch and be done with it.

Find a book, she mouths to Padma. Her friend’s eyes are comically large. She waves a hand at her too. Padma clears her throat. Madame Pince doesn’t budge. The snitch circles Padma’s head and when she ducks, clapping her hands over her mouth Hermione nearly dies. The snitch jumps back to the space behind the librarian’s head again.

“I’m looking for this book for a transfiguration assignment!”

Padma blurts out. Hermione winces. The snitch dives to the ground when Madame Pince whirls around, watching them curiously. She looks confused too. Neither she nor Padma react out of kind. Their class of Ravenclaws tend to keep to themselves in groups when they study. Padma looks comically out of place, her eyes darting nervously to some of the book titles around them.

“I wanted to get ahead of this week,” Padma explains, wringing her hands. They are so not good at this. Hermione is trying not to panic further. “Do you think you could direct me towards some of the Ministry studies from this year?”

“Of course,” Pince tells her. Her confusion disappears and she immediately sets them off, Padma glaring at Hermione behind her back.

As soon as they’re gone, she’s in the strangest face off of her life, the snitch staring up at her from the floor. There’s got to be some sort of fairy element to it, she decides. She schools her features into something serious. Her wand remains on the desk. It wouldn’t work in this case. The object in question is trained to respond to motion almost implicitly and if she were to grab her wand, she’d certainly startle it.

Think, she tells herself. Think.

Catching it is out of the question. She is a solid dueler, but her strength is in efficiency and creativity not speed. Hexing is also a mess waiting to happen. She bites her lip.

The snitch, as if hearing her, jumps into a higher space.

Damn it, she thinks. She watches as the snitch flutters into several loops, rushing at her face to tap at her cheek, then draw back. She is never, ever going to another Quidditch game again, she decides. She lunges forward, reaching for the snitch and it ducks out of her hand. Everything around her seems to slow, ready to launch her into some weird, out of body experience. Her ankle twists and she throws her weight closer to the table so that she can attempt to cushion the fall. It’s not one of her brighter moments. The pain in her ankle is sharp and she grunts, squeezing her eyes shut. It’s going to be another stupid story for the Hospital Wing.

But she doesn’t fall.

Her eyes open slowly. She feels his laugh before she realizes its him. The sound is low and warm, grazing her ear as he holds her together Harry’s arm is looped around her waist. He smells like the pitch still. Her brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. His hair is wet and that earthy smell is wild and intoxicating and crawling right back under her skin. Her fingers dig into his jumper, under the pretenses of steadying herself.

Then she sees it. He’s grinning even, snitch in hand.

“It seems,” he says, “that I can’t argue with luck today.”

Her mouth opens. Then it closes.

“You can let go of me,” she says. Her voice should not be this husky either. Her other hand is in his jumper now too. Or maybe it always was. “Please,” she says. Should insist. But she barely hears herself anyway.

“I don’t know.” His grin disappears into something serious. “I saw your ankle go.” His fingers curl into her hip as he steadies her. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

Her eyes land on his mouth. “Shouldn’t?”

“Let you go,” he murmurs.

If ever there was a moment to kiss her, this would be it. When he looks at her, really looks at her, everything around them decides to stop and she is acutely, sharply aware of the fact that he is look at her and just her, only her and she has no idea what to do next. Her stomach sinks into a drop, her heart is in her throat and she can barely breathe, or tries to and fails miserably because Harry Potter is looking at her and there is nowhere else to go. It feels exciting and cruel. It feels like something she should challenge. It feels like something she shouldn’t.

This just feels different and she doesn’t know what to do.

Her lips part. Her eyes darken too. She hears herself sigh and then slowly, suddenly allows herself to touch him, just briefly, by brushing her fingers over his lip. Just to see, of course.

“You’re incorrigible,” she says quietly.

“Maybe,” he counters.

“Do you always have an answer for everything,” she throws back, and she’s nearly done in too as his mouth pushes back against the tips of her fingers. It’s a flutter. Maybe a steal. She wouldn’t call it a kiss just yet. “Because it seems that you do.”

His laugh is low. His arm even tightens around her waist. You’re dangerous, she wants to say. Absolutely, insanely dangerous. She cannot admit out loud that he is getting her, that she might on her way to accepting that he’s getting to her. Barely. But still.

“You’re really pretty,” he tells her, “when you look at me like that.”

Everything stops for her then.

Her ears are ringing. Someone clears their throat. She’s too stunned to move. Harry schools his expression and turns them. Madame Pince is glaring. Padma is staring at them, wide-eyed.

“It was my fault,” Harry supplies. He remains even. “I startled her.”

The snitch flutters.

She cannot offer anything either. It’s not totally a lie.

Chapter Text

-

“I think,” she declares at breakfast, “you’re a scam.”

Harry has already shoved toast into his mouth. It dangles from his teeth as he looks on in equal parts amusement and confusion. Mind you, this is after the not-so-near-kiss-that-should-have-been-a-kiss and of course, her favorite, Rita Skeeter’s new rumor that old flame Cho Chang would be popping in at some point in the week to recruit Harry to the National team or the Magpies. She isn’t really following.

“I’m sorry?”

Her eyes narrow. Is the snitch locked in her desk drawer? Maybe. “I said,” she starts again, pointing her fork in his direction. “I said,” she repeats, “that you’re a scam.”

“Was it the snitch?” He finishes his toast.

“It’s part of it,” she answers. She’s cross and probably petulant – she hates being a part of a spectacle. She can fight academically, but on a personal level, she feels too exposed. “It was a lot,” she half-admits.

Hermione flushes too. She looks away briefly.

“I won’t apologize.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I won’t apologize,” he says. Harry drops his chin in his hand. “For the snitch,” he offers when she blinks. “I thought it was rather sweet.”

“I think you’re making a lot of assumptions.”

“About?

Rationally, she knows she’s irritated that he hasn’t kissed her, that she hasn’t been allowed to move past the moment or straight into it. At every turn, he seems to be taking away her choices and that, in itself, is starting to grate at her nerves.

“Me,” she finishes. Of course, it could be the Cho Chang of it all. Jealousy is funny like that.

She still feels a little too determined to call him out. It could be a control thing.

“If you were really curious about me,” she says, leaning in. His breathing changes immediately. She watches as his eyes darken and his mouth just part, ever so slightly. It might not be the brightest idea to do this in the middle of the Great Hall, where the student body could be watching them. “The golden snitch would have not been your first move,” she says softly, and if anyone hears, she will also deny that it definitely dropped an octave.

“I didn’t think it was a first move.”

Startled, she laughs, despite herself. “Could have fooled me,” she murmurs.

“I think,” he says and then pauses. They still haven’t moved away from each other. “I think you have an idea of me too.”

“You haven’t proven me wrong.”

He doesn’t kiss her. He could. They are right there again. The noise from everyone around them – the laughter, the conversations, the probable eyes on them even if she wants to deny that too, she stops hearing everything. She is only aware of Harry yet again. This is a problem, she thinks. Her ears are ringing. Her eyes dart to his mouth, catching it as it twitches and relaxes.

Harry reaches forward this way, his fingers catching her check, then her ear to tuck her hair behind it. His thumb grazes the underside of her lobe, then her jaw. She does not stop him. She bites her lip and he smiles, maybe just a little.

“Then,” he says, “maybe I should.”

Hermione should admit it right now. She is out of her league.

She also knows that won’t.

“You have class soon,” she answers, instead.

-

The truth is that she has a complicated history within her own House. The monikers are torturous – the brightest, the Brightest of her Age, ungodly brilliant, terrifyingly smart. They feel disingenuous. Outside of Ravenclaw, they drowned her popularity, made it harder to make friends for the simple fact that boys were, are ridiculous and girls are inherently cruel. But inside of Ravenclaw, it was a full out war to prove herself in a trust absolutely no one kind of way. Thankfully, Padma was just as uninterested in social hierarchy as she was and to round it out, Luna Lovegood, although younger, seemed to round them out in the spirit of balance and whatever otherworldly attachments she sought out.

It's why she never paid Cho Chang any attention.

Of course, she was older, academically gifted with ease, and a beautiful athlete. She was untouchable, while Hermione was young, and it really was the cast of characters around her that decided that torturing the Muggleborn was the way to go. Hermione has never forgotten Marietta Edgecombe. You never forget the first girl to teach you how to be cruel.

“You don’t have to wait.”

Hermione blinks and remembers that Cho is sitting across from her in their sitting room. She’s still impossibly beautiful, still windswept and wild in a way that Hermione hates to remember. There’s nothing but kindness in her eyes, but Hermione feels her skin crawl and her stomach churn. It feels a lot like jealousy.

Next to her, of course, is Marietta, now her agent and the team agent – whatever that means. In between them, there’s a platter of cookies and dessert. There is tea too, but she has yet to pour it. Marietta is looking around the room for something, maybe as leverage. Maybe not. She can’t remember if Harry is coming from Transfiguration or Charms. It’s Marietta that still gives her pause.

“I know,” she still says easily. She offers Cho a tight smile. “It feels a little odd to leave you in our personal rooms alone, I suppose.” Crookshanks sleeps on a window ledge. She uses him as an excuse. “My familiar is a bit temperamental these days.”

“It’s not like you have anything to hide though,” Marietta interjects, and honestly, Hermione swears by the fact that the other girl was selling out her classmates to Rita Skeeter during their fourth year and the Tri-Wizard tournament. There had been rumors about her feelings for Cho for years, but for Hermione, Marietta was simply petty and cruel, willing to make everyone miserable until she got exactly what she wanted in the way she wanted. Simply put, as Padma would usually tell her, it wasn’t Cho’s fault that her best friend was a bitch.

“I understand,” Cho laughs. She shoots a look at Marietta. “I felt like the Great Hall was a little much as it was.”

“It’s nearly dinnertime,” Marietta sours.

“But Hermione has tea here – thank you,” Cho says too, “by the way.”

Hermione shrugs. “Not a problem.”

“It is.”

Harry appears from behind her, mostly the entrance to their quarters. His features are schooled into something impassive. She can’t read him, but she can feel his tension and would even go as far to say that she’s starting to learn what his magic feels like, wild and strange. Cho still straighten immediately, Marietta follows with a sagged face and a frown, and Hermione feels herself tense. The energy in the room remains strange and she hates it.

“I mean,” Harry continues, dropping his bag. His tie is skewed. Crookshanks jumps from the ledge to greet him. Harry’s eyes are still glued to Cho. “I would have rather you met me outside of class, you know? Seemed like the proper thing to do.”

“Hermione said it was fine,” Marietta points out. “Plus, the Headmaster approved our visit.”

She rolls her eyes. “Did I?” That, there, might be her cue. She smooths her hands over her skirt. Out of nowhere, Crookshanks appears and rubs against her legs. “I’m off to the library,” she tells Harry. He blanches and she ignores it, fingering her wand. “I don’t want Marietta to explode all over the carpet because of me. Crookshanks hates a mess, you know.”

Cho coughs, possibly smiling behind her hand. Marietta’s eyes are wide. It’s nearly comical. A rat is a rat, of course. It doesn’t make her feel any better though. She is fully aware and accountable for how notorious her temper can be. It’s probably why the Hat thought it might be a great idea to send her to Gryffindor.

She doesn’t smile at Harry. There are too many apologies written into his eyes and she isn’t sure if she likes that. The two people in this room are feeding at her insecurities and if anything, she has always been very particular about her space. But Harry’s gaze is soft and it almost makes her want to cry – not because she’s upset, but more so because she’s frustrated and confused. She is no Cho Chang and sometimes, it’s terrible to look a reminder straight in the face whether you want to or not.

Hermione does, however, make sure to smile at Marietta. Might as well give Rita Skeeter something to write about, she thinks.

-

Well, okay. She might be a bit irritated.

Mad even. Mad enough to forgot dinner, at least.

She still might even wager that she actually likes Harry Potter, not unexpectedly – but in such a way that surprises her. She’s curious. Honestly, she could care less about the Quidditch whispering that follows her to the library, that sits and festers when she should be studying her Charms notes and not listening to team names being thrown around like the Magpies or the Weasley twins’ counterfeit prank stash that still floats around.

She hates hiding. She won’t admit to it – but it’s the only thing she can think of doing at the moment.

“You’re being surly too,” Padma points out, as if she’s said it out loud. She’s snuck in a lemon bar that Hermione inhales, mostly because going to dinner and seeing Cho who, if anything, probably stayed because Marietta would want some sort of photo op – Hermione would just rather not see her and Harry and their arms around each other.

“I forgot to eat,” she says, or half-admits. “And my rooms were otherwise occupied.”

“Is Marietta still terrible?”

“Extraordinarily so.”

Padma snorts. “Some people just don’t change and I bet she still looks like she swallowed a bag of lemons too,” she says. She leans into the table, picking up Hermione’s notes. “A memory charm – that’s what you’re doing for your project?”

“Sort of,” she answers, shying away. She takes her papers from her best friend. “I have to write a bunch of essays for this program, if not only to be considered, and I think this might be a way in. Not necessarily curing those who grapple with the aftermath of a memory charm gone bad or whatever, but coping and potential building into something more tangible. I don’t know. It seems silly, I suppose.”

“I don’t think so.”

There, of course, is Harry again. Unable to let her fester in her feelings, she thinks uncomfortably. Padma looks down at her and then up at Harry, narrowing her eyes.

“She skipped dinner because of you,” she says frankly.

“Padma –”

“I know,” Harry says quickly. “I came to rectify things.” He looks at her too. “And I think you’ll be brilliant in whatever you decide to do.”

“You should focus on your apology first,” Padma says. Her mouth relaxes and thins. She’s serious, maybe too serious. “I don’t know what you Slytherins do in a bind and I imagine, I don’t want to know because I’m sure it’s something equally annoying and archaic. But Hermione Granger is my best friend and you’re just some boy. Right or wrong, I’m always going to pick her side. So you should shape up, mate, whether you go on and catches snitches for a living or whatever. My girl deserves the world and you need to make sure you can do that.” Hermione softens. Padma squeezes her shoulder, stepping around Harry. She pauses for a moment. “She doesn’t care that you’re Harry Potter,” she says, “she cares that you’re going to show up when it matters. That you’re going to put her first. Maybe you should think about that and not let her skip dinner next time and tell Marietta Edgecombe that she should fix her stupid face.”

If there was ever a moment to really love her, it would be this one. Padma pats Harry too – not on his catching side, but her hand hovers as if it were a threat or a point towards a threat. She doesn’t know. But she understands what Padma is trying to do.

Hermione softens a little. Harry stays rooted to the carpet. They both wait until Padma leaves, until Madame Pince is out of sight before he grabs her by the hand and her books are abandoned. Madame Pince is used to her disappearing, so it wouldn’t look strange – there are times where does browse too long. But Harry’s hand is tight, warm, and she stumbles a little before he tightens his grip because all he’s doing is moving without thinking.

He pulls her into a row, winding away from the Restricted Section. It happens so fast and before she can really process that his hand is wrapped tightly around hers, he winds a cloak around them and they seem to disappear for a moment. She can still see the library, still see Harry, but it feels a little like her ears are underwater. Her head spins and she has to root herself for a moment, be the lack of food or being too close to him. It doesn’t matter.

“An invisibility cloak?” Her throat feels tight. “Should I ask?”

Harry sighs. “My dad’s.” She has to stand to close to him so that the cloak fits them both. “It’s a bit of a story,” he says too, “but at least Madame Pince will think of the ghost and not of the two of us for a little while.”

Hermione blinks.

“Are you really that mad?”

“At you?”

“Yes.” He’s serious. Uncomfortably so. “Cho told me that Marietta and you didn’t get along.”

Hermione scoffs. “The understatement of the year,” she says dryly. “I think I’m still lost as to why they came to our quarters and why they also thought it wise to stay there.”

“We wouldn’t be bothered,” he says.

“You mean they,” she corrects. She’s annoyed. The cloak is heavy. His arm immediately slides around her waist and he steadies her, only pulling her close and into his chest. Her hands rise and settle against it too, as if to create the illusion of space. “It doesn’t matter,” she says quietly. “It’s done and over with and if Rita Skeeter concocts some sort of epic love story for us, I’ll know that Marietta is still a bloody snitch.”

“Likely,” he agrees. The promise is unspoken. I’ll deal with it too. He softens then. “You don’t want something epic?”

Just as quickly as it’s started, she finds herself staring at Harry – too close, too soon, but here nonetheless.

“I would rather be soft,” she answers. Her lips part. She swallows a little too. “I don’t need loud gestures or grand moments in front of everyone. I’d honestly rather you hold my hand and call me pretty a couple of times. Or take me to the museum in London during the summer and let me point out my favorite paintings. I want to know your favorite ice cream, not your Quidditch stats. I want to know what you want to be when you grow up, not that you and Cho were a thing and you and Ginny Weasley have some sort of sordid history. I would rather sit with you and understand who you are outside of your last name and the fact that you can catch a funny little ball incredibly fast. Cho and Marietta, the latter specifically, remind me of how lonely it is to be a girl and to be a witch who did not grow up in all of this, who has to be twice as smart, three times as sharp to even prove herself in her own House.” She looks down, shy. “I don’t fault you for not knowing,” she says. “But I wish that you noticed.”

He's quiet. She’s embarrassed. The pause is a little too long. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he murmurs finally.

Her teeth gnaw at her lip. “Does it matter?”

“It does.”

“Why?”

He inhales sharply. His mouth open. Then it closes – only to open again. She can feel his heart pounding underneath her hands.

“I feel like I’ve liked you for forever.”

“What?” Everything’s stopped. “I’m sorry.”

“I –” He laughs a little, shaking his head. “I feel like I’ve liked you for forever,” he says quietly, and she is painfully aware of his breathing hitches and he seems to swallow too. “Do you remember in third year when Professor Lupin was our teacher?” She blinks and he continues. “It was all a mess. There was his condition. Malfoy was a bit of a shit then –”

“A bit?”

“Okay,” he says dryly, “a huge shit. You’re right.” She laughs a little. He sobers. “You helped me that year. It might have been in passing for you, but we sat together that day, going over our Defense notes. You listened, rather patiently, as I talked myself through concepts and let me have a sounding board, rather than, well, it doesn’t matter. I think it just really grew from then. It was the study session. Then it was a laugh. It was the chance you gave to Neville Longbottom in the Greenhouse. It was the stupid fact that Viktor Krum got to swing you around the ballroom in a pretty dress.” Her eyes widen and he swallows. “I don’t know. You’ve just always been really pretty to me, Hermione Granger, and I'm really trying to let you know.”

To say that everything stops in that moment, really stops, does not do the moment justice or what she’s feeling at all. Here, now, she feels impossibly small, that his eyes are just brighter, that he sees her and she cannot hide from him seeing her or seeing inside of her not through her all the same.

Hermione stays quiet. Her throat dry. Her fingers flex and tremble in place – but still, just enough for him to feel it. Her hands move from his chest to his face and her fingers slide over his jaw, then his cheeks. He inhales again, exhaling quickly as she slides herself up onto her toes. She’s going to kiss him herself, she thinks. She’s going to kiss him because she wants to and she doesn’t want to wait anymore.

She kisses him because she should.

The library is already quiet, save for the crackling of the two large fireplaces around them, the candlewicks that spin above their heads, and the books that are, if anything, always alive. Her mouth meets him this way, the thoughts in her mind going absolutely still as she swallows whatever sound he makes and his tongue presses into her mouth. The kiss slow, lazy but thoughtful, and the world starts to shrink, to him and to her and nothing more. There are knots in her belly. There are butterflies in her throat. He is kissing her back and that, there, is the only thing that she really needs to consume her.

This is how they start.

Chapter Text

-

Rita Skeeter has beady eyes.

It’s hard not to forget that this witch has made a name for herself by being the constant source for misinformation and misery. Well, at least ninety percent of the time.

Still, she will not explain why Rita looks on, mostly at her, with an edge and a side of nerves. Nor will she admit to a very particular hex, thrown on a very particular day, that ended up revealing Skeeter’s unregistered animagus status to her former Professor Lupin – often the target of Skeeter’s anti-Werewolf tirades. Sometimes, fingers slip. It’s always a crazy coincidence when spells don’t miss.

But this is what happens when you date Harry Potter.

With Quidditch Nationals coming up, the team thought it wise to have players and their significant others sit in for an interview. Contrary to belief, her boyfriend has hated interviews ever since he started his professional career. He’s wonderfully charming in discussing game play and support for his teammates but since they graduated from Hogwarts and became serious, he’s become even more protective of their personal time and of his own personal time. The narrative around his lore is still wild and often, the intensity is something no one should be able to get used to. It wasn’t until Hermione, coming off a late shift at St. Mungo’s, was cornered by Rita’s press team – considering her supposed desire to avoid Hermione – and subsequently, Harry’s godfather, to run interference. It was messy and irritating and frankly, just a reminder of a time where Rita Skeeter made her money off of terrorizing teenage girls.

“So,” Rita starts. Next to Hermione, Harry shifts uncomfortably. “Let’s talk about the two of you.”

Hermione barely bats an eye. “Sure,” she says dryly.

“What is it like being the pinnacle for all post-Hogwarts relationships?”

Ask stupid questions get stupid answers, Padma says in her head. She wanted to be around for moral support, but was called off to assignment in Bulgaria for the Auror Department. She’s sure she’ll hear from her best friend at some point.

“What does that even mean?” Harry mutters, and Hermione reaches out, her fingers grazing the back of his hand. He looks at her and she shrugs. The question is still expected.

Neither of them answers it.

“Was it love at first sight?” Rita pushes, frowning. The publicist is not around to panic. “I heard the most delightful little rumor that you, Harry, wrote all these love letters to Hermione when you were in school.” Hermione blinks. Rita looks to her, laughing obnoxiously. “She was a right terror when I first met her.”

She arches an eyebrow. “In my defense,” Hermione counters, “you were just as delightful as you were now. I suppose I was just matching your energy.”

Harry chokes. She shrugs again. “I imagine it was the healthiest approach,” he says. His mouth turns slightly. She watches as his shoulders start to drop and relax. “Hermione tends to manage her frustration fairly well.”

“That’s really sweet. But I probably don’t,” she admits. Harry laughs a little. “But Rita tends to inspire the very best in all of us.”

Rita clears her throat.

“Ah yes.” Hermione looks to Harry. “She wants to know about the love letters.”

Harry takes a dangerous pause.

There are none, he should say – he’s romantic, of course. He’s never said anything. Occasionally, she gets a scribble on a napkin. For Hermione, it continuous to be about the small things, stupid things like naps together in their bed when they both have time off. A standing date at the museum, even though he’s seen her favorite paintings a thousand times and still acts like he’s seeing them for the first time with her. It’s how they learned to make homemade pasta together or how despite her grueling schedule, she still makes time to come to every single game to see him fly because she gets so much joy from seeing him happy. These feel like love letters to her, more than anything else.

“I wouldn’t call them love letters per say,” Harry says slowly, looking away from her. Her eyes widen. He’s flushed, his eyes glued to Rita Skeeter. “Just that I really had the biggest crush on her for a really time.”

“That’s terribly vague,” she says, still amused. This took a turn. She was just teasing him over the copious rumors they’ve shared over the years. They’ve been in love all this time. She sabotaged his relationship with Cho. That was ironically followed by a huge bouquet of flowers to her workplace from Cho, not Harry, with the obvious culprit in mind. Love letters are new. Maybe, she’s curious too.

Rita shoots them both a look. “Yes,” Rita says, delighted. “Terribly vague.”

Harry groans. His fingers squeeze hers.

“It’s okay,” she says quietly.

“Not really,” he answers, more for her. He reaches out, brushing his fingers against her face. There’s a slight smile for her, just her, and she feels herself start to breathe. “It’s not okay,” he says, “because there should be some things left to myself and Hermione. I don’t know how you found out about anything but I reckon I could figure out what rat bastard of a friend decided that it would be funny to out me. Or should I say ferret.”

Hermione blinks. “Wait –”

“Third year,” he answers quickly, rubbing the back of his head. Her jaw drops. Rita croons in front of them, scribbling furiously. “I’ve liked you since third year, since you reamed Malfoy out in front of the whole bloody school.” He’s told her some version of this, but this seems much more definite. “That was after Lupin, then Neville –”

Oh. Oh. Her eyes are huge. He doesn’t have to elaborate. She remembers the exact moment. Malfoy, although currently evolved, had a perchance for picking on Neville Longbottom as a kid and Hermione really had no patience for any of that. Unfortunately for Malfoy, her parents did make sure she had a mean right hook.

“I didn’t know that,” she says quietly.

He smiles wistfully. “I didn’t want you to.”

Her entire body softens. She feels it. She reaches for his hand again, lacing their fingers together. Something passes between them and this might be, people will say, one of the shortest Rita Skeeter interviews anyone’s ever read. They get up to leave. She doesn’t even remember what she says. Maybe she’s not feeling well. Maybe he needs to get rest for the game. He’s the Youngest Seeker of their generation, after all.

Outside, the National team publicist takes one look at Harry and sighs.

Harry shrugs. “I told you it would be short,” he says.

-

The howler disappears swiftly.

“I don’t think that was really necessary,” Hermione says, amused. She is settled on their bed as Harry peels off his shirt. She wears one of his old practice jumpers. She’s in bed already, sinking in as her long work week also finally catches up to her. “Malfoy meant well. He’s just not good at the follow through.”

Harry snorts. “He did it directly to me.”

He joins her on the bed.

“Taking it personally only feeds the insanity,” she replies. She studies him. “Was it really his broken nose that sold it?”

Harry barks a laugh, sliding an arm around her waist. He nuzzles the crook of her neck, inhaling a little.

“Kind of,” he admits. “You were terrifyingly smart. We didn’t really have many classes together, but every time you opened your mouth – I just found myself listening. You were really fierce and took on Malfoy without even batting an eye.”

“The ‘my father has money’ doesn’t really work,” she points.

“I know.” Harry laughs. “I’m not really making any sense. It’s just that I have this picture in my head of you, all wild curls and bright eyes and then just swinging. It was the afterwards that really got me though where you were trying to make sure Longbottom was okay, but your hands were shaking and flushed and just the prettiest girl I had ever seen.”

“That’s a lie.” Her face is hot.

“No,” he says. “It’s not. It’s a bit more than that. It’s hard to explain.”

Reaching back to his nightstand, he pulls out a small journal and hands it to her. The book is thick and worn, the leather cover wearing his initials embossed in gold.

“What’s this?” she asks, and her fingers smooth over the cover.

“Just,” he says, biting his lip, “you’ll see – it’s probably easier if you go ahead and read.”

Her heart is racing.

Dear Hermione, she reads. Immediately, her mind flashes to a younger Harry, bright-eyed and awkward. Had she noticed him? Probably. It wasn’t hard too. His lore was just as much of a part of all of their lore. In the background, he was being raised by his infamous godfather, his father’s best friend. His parents had passed in an Auror raid gone wrong. It was the largest Prophet story for years. I can’t believe you hit Malfoy! At that, she laughs out loud. I know it’s all about House loyalty these days but Malfoy is really a brat and maybe, you’ll sort him out for the rest of us. I think you’re really brave. Maybe it’ll snap some sense into him. Underneath all of that, he’s really not too bad.

She softens.

“Idiot,” she murmurs. Dear Hermione, she reads, letter after letter. Sometimes, he reveals that he always finds himself watching her, that he thinks of her as someone that could listen. Sometimes it’s simply about his day. Theo steals a lot of his stuff, but Harry is the better dueler and broom rider. They bond immediately after that, oddly enough. She softens more when she hears about Sirius struggling to parent, but to also be Harry’s godfather, guide, and family all at ones.

Third year becomes fourth year and then Dear Hermione becomes Dear Hermione at the Yule Ball and god, you looked really pretty and I don’t know what to do. Krum’s an okay bloke, but like when did you get to be that pretty or were you like that all along. I shouldn’t be surprised that you were, are the prettiest girl the room.

“I wasn’t.”

He blinks.

“Pretty all along.” She leans in, brushing her mouth against his jaw. “I had terrible teeth my first year,” she murmurs, “and I’m kind glad you don’t remember – there was an accident in Transfiguration and I think Ron Weasley casted wrong. Anyways.”

“Is that why he was afraid of you?”

She laughs a little. “No,” she says. “But I can neither confirm nor deny that his fear of birds did not come from either.”

Harry chuckles. He’s quiet though as she continues to read, as his story seems to transform right in front of her as she reads and it feels like she’s there too, at his side, as it all unfolds. She reads about the other girls, as he struggles because he has no idea what to do and every time they try to get close to him, Harry gets further away. Fourth and fifth year move into six, however, and then the summer of their seventh year is written into the journal as he receives his Head Boy notice.

Dear Hermione, I hope that summer is kind to you – honestly, it’s really fucking hot. I’ve spent most of it overseas with Sirius. It’s important to him that I get to see the rest of the world too, I suppose, so that I don’t ever feel like I’m stuck and that I understand the concept of how home can be anywhere you make it to be. I like that, you know?

I’m a little nervous though. You and me, huh? I wonder if you’re nervous too. It’ll be one of the first times we’ll be around each other alone. Maybe we could talk. I always see you reading. Maybe you can tell me about your books. It would be nice if I could get you to myself for a little while. Just to hear you talk.

Her eyes are wide. He shakes his head, nodding to the book. Her throat is dry and she feels her eyes begin to water. She keeps reading. She reads how he enjoys talking to her more than he realizes. That Malfoy and Theo really think he’s funny, falling apart at the seams around her when every other girl he’s ever dated or try to has never done this to him. She reads about how he’s worried when she’s serious, how he wants to make sure she never frowns or cries and that she’ll probably think he’s silly if he does.

I like that you don’t crumble around me, he writes too. That you’re just you – you don’t fold or try and be someone else. I’m so scared of saying the wrong thing.

The most magical part comes when he finally kisses her, or works up the courage to and then she is the one that takes the leap. You’re impossible in all the right ways, he writes to her, and I just feel really bloody lucky. Her head is spinning. She is starting to read their love story, she realizes somewhere in between, how it opens and evolves and all the little anecdotes in between that don’t belong to anyone else but the two of them.

The night before she graduates from her Healer program is where she stops, where he starts to detail the one and only fight they’ve ever head that was serious and heavy. She had been working herself to death and he had been furious – she hadn’t been taking care of herself, hadn’t be sleeping, and what do you have to prove was the only thing he could think of yelling at her in their kitchen.

Dear Hermione, he writes, You were right – I know when I tell you, after you stop being angry with me, you’re going to laugh at me. But you’re right. I don’t get it. I don’t understand why you have to prove yourself, why you have to work twice as hard just to make sure that people understand that you deserve to be there just as much. I don’t get it.

I think this is where I tell you that I love you, that I’m going to spend the rest of our lives proving to you that you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone anymore, that your best is more than enough. I hope you don’t laugh at me when I tell you that, but I mean that too. I’m not going to tell you tonight that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You have to be mad and I have to let you be mad. I get that. But I’m going to remind you that you don’t have to hold onto this burden by yourself, that it’s my turn to step up and make sure that you can continue to have the space to be just as you are – fierce, generous, beautiful, and above all, my brightest spot. I can hear you in the kitchen, slamming drawers and still making me a snack bag for our away game tomorrow. I know you took time off so that you can come see me tryout for the National team. I know that you know I love you and that I know you love me too.

But I get that. And because of that, I’m going to make sure that you will be reminded for the rest of your life. Because you’re my person.

“Harry –” She lets out a watery laugh. “You idiot.”

He grins ruefully. “I know.” He shakes his head. “Malfoy found it once when we got pissed together years ago. ‘suppose squealing to Rita Skeeter was to give me the push.”

“The push?”

Hermione catches a glint of gold. His hand opens and the snitch appears in their bedroom, wilding about. It spins, shoots to the ceiling, then drops back in front of her, its wings fluttering against her cheeks as if to greet her.

Her eyes are wide. “Is that –”

“Yeah.” He flushes. “It is.” The bed shifts. He nods towards the snitch. “You should catch it,” he tells her. “It opens up when you do.”

Hermione blinks, but obeys. Tentatively, she reaches for the snitch. Her fingers curl around the small ball, its wings starting to relax as it rolls into her palm. True to his word, the snitch makes a small clicking sound and the top of the ball pops open to real a ring.

“You said no grand gestures,” he tells her, smiling, “but you never said when.”

The ring is very real. She does not need to know who it belongs to, why the diamond is set the way it is, or why the cluster of stones is there to honor both his parents and hers. She does not need to admit that she’s shaking, that he knows that she’s shaking so he takes the ring from her and slides it directly onto her finger, only to press a kiss to her palm and watch her quietly, his nerves on full display.

Harry is waiting for an answer. So she gives it to him.

“I can’t wait to like you forever too,” she says.