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

No, wait, she did understand how.

Harry. That was how.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neville flushed and seemed to sink into himself.

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

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

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

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

“Why not?” He asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why green?” Lavender asked.

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

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

All eyes turned to the boy.

“What?” He asked.

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve read the book?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s an owl, mate,” Seamus said.

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

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

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

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

Odd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yup.” Harry nodded casually.

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

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

Harry nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were headed for them.

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

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

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

Everyone stared at Hedwig in amazement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was kind of sad really.

And embarrassing.

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

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

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

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

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

Hermione’s head turned red.

What on earth!?

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

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

“Nothing,” Hermione said, obviously lying.

She made a mental note to burn that letter later.

The spell was already stuck in her head though.

...

Maybe she could look into the Memory Charm some more.

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How was he doing this?

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

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

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

He could follow that? Hermione thought in surprise.

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

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

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

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

Hermione smiled, pleased at the points.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got what?”

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

He was still thinking about that?

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

“What?”

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

Is he making a joke?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They had fun.

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

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

By the time Prof. Flitwick started to grade, and everyone had to stop, the Slytherins were the only ones who hadn’t finished. They’d barely even started.

Personality clashes, and an inability (or maybe unwillingness) to be team-players, had stymied every step forward with a dozen back.

They didn’t take their loss gracefully.

Prof. Flitwick’s own house came third. Their execution of the spell was perfect. The colours were crisp and clear, and the image of their common room was like what Hermione imagined looking through a window at the real thing would be like.

But something was missing.

And Hermione realised what it was when she saw the Hufflepuffs’ painting; heart. The Ravenclaws’ portrait lacked heart.

The Hufflepuffs had painted a portly witch with a welcoming smile. She had a badger on her shoulder, and walked through a lovely garden with a throng of little children following behind her like little ducklings.

It took Hermione a moment to realise that that must be Helga Hufflepuff.

And then it was their turn, and Hermione was suddenly nervous.

Harry took her hand in his. “We’ve got this,” he said, and she relaxed marginally.

Then he turned her around to face the class as they stood beside the portrait.

“Everyone, introducing the Gryffindor Fireplace Wallpaper, version 1.0,” Harry announced grandly.

Many students looked impressed, but Draco Malfoy scoffed. “Seriously, Potter? A fireplace? Well, I suppose the Weasleys could use it, since they could hardly afford an actual one.”

Ron fumed, but Prof. Flitwick’s “none of that, Mr. Malfoy” mollified him somewhat.

But Hermione barely paid attention to any of that. What she paid attention to was the way the professor kept staring at she and Harry. Almost like he had expectations of them that he was still waiting for them to meet.

It made her a little uneasy.

Then Harry said, “professor, could you please get the lights?” And without a word Prof. Flitwick obliged him.

He waved his wand and all the windows darkened, making it suddenly look like twilight in the classroom.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, then turned to her. “Granger, do us the honours, will you?”

She did. “Fireplace; on.”

A collective gasp resonated from the students as the portrait came to life, illuminating the room with the cheerful light of its red and gold flames.

By the left of the fireplace (on a red rug that had been Helen’s idea) rested the family of lions; a mother, father, and their cub with heads pressed softly together as they breathed deeply in sleep.

The crackle-pop of burning wood looped seamlessly in the painting, as well as a small explosion of sparks, and they, with the constant stream of warm air, all added together to make the effect feel so real that for one moment, Hermione forgot that what she was looking at was a painting, despite being one of the people who made it.

“Wow, this turned out much better than I’d dared hope it would,” Harry said from beside her, and Hermione had to agree.

Gryffindor won. And Prof. Flitwick did as he’d promised and gave them a hundred points (ten for each member of their house). He even gave the Hufflepuffs fifty points for second place, and the Ravenclaws twenty-five.

The only ones who argued Gryffindor’s victory were the Slytherins, stating that they’d used more spells than the rules allowed. Even though Prof. Flitwick said himself that there had been no such rules.

Hermione never really understood why the Slytherins bothered though. Gryffindor’s position would not have changed anything for them anyway, since they hadn’t even finished their painting.

The class ended soon after, and the Gryffindors left jubilant, Hermione and Harry completely unaware of how grateful Prof. Flitwick felt towards the Deputy Headmistress for the heads-up she had given concerning the two of them.

McGonagall had been right, Filius decided. At the rate those two were burning through the material, keeping them, especially Harry, interested in the syllabus will be quite the chore.

The diminutive professor smiled.

He’d always enjoyed a challenge.