Tuesday, Sept. 3

History of Magic was everything Hermione had hoped it wouldn’t be.

What she had feared it would be, thanks to Harry, but everything she had desperately hoped it wouldn’t be.

This is to say that History of Magic was—God, how she hated to say it. Boring.

History of Magic was boring.

In fact, it was the most boring class Hermione had ever had the displeasure of sitting in. Prof. Binns just kept droning in this monotone so flat that a robot sounded lively by comparison.

It was a struggle to make her mind focus on his words.

Thirty minutes into the lecture, half the students were asleep, and the remaining half, mostly Ravenclaws, looked like they were trying to keep from nodding off.

Hermione stopped herself from looking at her watch for the third time in what she knew had only been a minute.

A watched pot never boils.

She tried to return focus to Prof. Binns’ lecture, but it was proving even more difficult than usual, and that was because, apparently, the boy to her left had decided to take up humming as a new hobby.

“Harry, stop it. I’m trying to pay attention.”

In contrast to literally everyone else in the classroom, Harry practically looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

He was lounged back on the chair, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4 in his hand, and he’d been trying to cast The Summoning Charm on a piece of parchment on the table.

It hadn’t been going too well; all he’d managed to do so far was to make the parchment twitch a few times, so apparently, he’d decided to take a break and do some humming instead.

Harry looked at her. “Hermione, I highly doubt my not humming will help you pay attention any better.”

She scowled. “Well, it certainly isn’t helping, is it? And could you at least pretend like you’re paying attention?”

“Why?” Harry asked. “I’m not. That’s why I’ve got that guy.” He gestured at his Self-Writing Quill that was diligently noting down every word Prof. Binns said in beautiful gold ink.

Hermione’s scowl deepened. Clearly, Harry didn’t have any issues with using quills when they favoured him.

“You need to do more than just take notes, Harry; you also have to pay attention in class.”

Harry began to respond, then he paused and gave Hermione a very thoughtful look. “You’re not actually trying to convince me, are you? You’re trying to convince yourself.”

Hermione spluttered. “Of course not! Why would I need to convince myself to pay attention in class?”

“Because the class is boring. And because Binns is a terrible teacher. There’s nothing that listening to him talk will give you that the transcript won’t, and you know this. But you feel that you must do it, because that’s how it’s supposed to be done. So you try to convince yourself, by using me as some kind of... sounding board for your arguments.

...

“Huh. It’s like the potions’ textbook all over again,” Harry said thoughtfully.

Hermione had no idea what potions’ textbook Harry was talking about, but she had trouble caring about that right then with how angry she was.

The worst part was that she didn’t know why what he’d said was making her angry, but it was, and not knowing was simply making her angrier.

“Fine, then,” Hermione said curtly, “do whatever you want.”

And with that she tried to ignore him and pay attention to the lesson.

The nerve of him. All she’d wanted to do was help him, and he was acting like she was being a know-it-all.

Well, he hadn’t actually used that term, but that was beside the point.

They were supposed to pay attention in class. That was what they were supposed to do. Even if the teacher was boring, and dreary, and she knew he was quoting the textbook verbatim—argh!

Hermione’s inner turmoil was interrupted by Harry’s sigh.

Then she watched him from the corner of her eye as he stopped the Self-Writing Quill and, using a pen, continued the note-taking by hand in his own rather unflattering penmanship.

Hermione blinked. “I thought you didn’t see any point in paying attention?” She asked.

“Still don’t. Not even a little bit.”

Hermione frowned. Not sure how to respond. Harry didn’t sound angry, or snarky. He sounded nothing like she’d thought he would.

Before Hermione could think of something to say, Harry sighed again, pen tapping on the desk thoughtfully.

Then he said, “you know, one of the few things that I recall my mother telling me, is that I have a habit of making people face their truth.” Harry looked at her, and his eyes were lost and sad. “She said that this isn’t a bad thing, as long as I also remember to face my truth. And my truth is, Hermione, that I’d rather suffer three hours of Binns’ torture, than to drag out a pointless argument with you.”

A beat passed.

“God, that sounded way better in my head,” Harry muttered.

It was in that moment that Hermione realized that, for the first time in her life, she had technically won an argument and it didn’t feel good.

She didn’t much like the feeling; like she’d taken a bite of her favourite food only to realise that it was ash all along.

Hermione almost sighed. Why couldn’t Harry just be like every other boy her age?

Now, his words were causing her to evaluate her own actions, and she couldn’t deny that, while she may not have been in the wrong, she had undoubtedly handled this entire event with none of the aplomb she should have.

Because Harry was right, she didn’t want to take notes. Or pay attention to Binns’ dull lecture. She would much rather be studying something else.

Hermione huffed.

Was this what her parents had meant when they talked about growing up?

The girl had to admit that she didn’t much care for it.

Harry went back to taking notes, and Hermione tried to do the same, but if it had been difficult to focus on the incorporeal professor before, it was now virtually impossible.

She needed to say something, didn’t she?

She had to do something to push past... this.

Hermione’s eyes alighted on the Self-Writing Quill on the table where Harry had dropped it.

“So, your quill,” Hermione began, then cleared her throat when her voice came out smaller than she’d expected, “it writes well,” she finished, and then almost cringed at her own words.

That was the best she could come up with!?

Fortunately, Harry saw the olive branch for what it was, because he smiled and said, “it does, doesn’t it? Much better than my chicken scratch.”

Hermione smiled back. Then after a moment: “You didn’t look like you were making much progress with The Summoning Charm earlier. I could practice with you if you want.”

And barely a minute later, Harry’s Self-Writing Quill was steadfastly transcribing Binns’ lecture once more, while the two children practiced a spell many years above theirs.

At least, they got the parchment to do more than twitch by the end of the class.

*****

The Hogwarts Library was every bit as amazing as the pictures in Hogwarts, A History had suggested it would be.

With 34,567 books at last count, it was grand in scale, maybe three stories high, and so wide that the opposite wall from the door felt like it was a football pitch away.

There were old, but sturdy, wooden shelves everywhere, thousands of them, with desks and benches for reading and study interspersed irregularly, and the air was thick with the smell of a slew of books just waiting for her eager hands.

No, the girl decided, this was a lot more impressive than the pictures.

She would have dived right in but for the librarian, Madam Pince, who, recognizing her as a new student, stopped her and sternly gave her the library’s rules:

There will be no food allowed in the library. Of any kind! No talking, laughing, whispering, sneezing, scurrying, or any other behaviour that might seem at all suspicious in any way, will be permitted while you are here. And finally, if you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, deface, disfigure, smear, smudge, throw, drop, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards any book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them.

And Hermione nodded as seriously as any soldier off to do battle ever did, and marched off into what, for her, may very well be Neverland.

Harry found her in a quiet corner forty-five minutes later, with multiple piles of books on the table so high, they literally obscured her from view.

“And here we can observe the Hermionus Grangerus in its natural habitat,” Harry said, alerting her to his presence. “Watch how it hoards knowledge jealously like a COVID-19 shopper does toilet paper.”

Hermione looked up to see the boy standing before her with Hedwig perched on his head, his somehow greener than usual eyes practically glowing with mischievous mirth.

She rolled her eyes at his joke, not even bothering to try to decipher what a COVID-19 shopper was, and Harry laughed.

Hermione may have smiled too.

She was pleasantly surprised to see him here; despite telling herself that Harry wasn’t the kind of boy who would lie to avoid a trip to the library, she’d been a little suspicious when he’d mentioned some clandestine errand he had to run as soon as she suggested they come to the library after History of Magic.

She’d come ahead, like he’d asked, but a part of her had expected him to not show up.

She was glad to see that it was wr—why was Harry standing there like that?

The boy had his chest out, arms akimbo, and his gaze focused on some nebulous point in the far distance in true dramatic fashion.

He sort of reminded her of that hero, Gilderoy Lockhart, she’d seen in the paper yesterday.

It was not a flattering similarity. Even Hedwig looked embarrassed.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione asked, remembering to keep her voice way down.

Harry looked offended at her question. Then he resumed his pose, this time while very conspicuously rubbing his brow.

Hermione could not even begin to fathom why he was doing that. There was clearly nothing on his brow.

Wait! “You aren’t wearing your glasses.”

“Finally,” Harry said.

“I thought they were prescription glasses?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, they are. That’s why I went to Madam Pomfrey; to see if she could fix my eyes. And well, a potion and two spells later, vision 2020, baby.”

Hermione gaped. “Just like that?”

Harry shrugged. “Madam Pomfrey said there’s nothing magically wrong with my eyes so, yeah. Anyway, what do you think?”

She thought he looked handsome. Without the old, rather over-sized glasses, his eyes were even greener, and he no longer had that waifish appearance that hadn’t really suited him.

He must have been able to tell that she was being complimentary in her head, because he smiled. “Yep, that’s right. Boy-Who-Lived 2.0, in the flesh. With more swagger, extra green in his eyes, and perfectly wind-tousled hair.”

“Don’t you mean bird-nest hair?” She asked, drawing Harry’s attention to the owl on his head, and the boy pouted.

Hold on a minute.

“Harry, how did you get Hedwig past Madam Pince?” She asked Harry as he slid into the seat beside her.

No pets hadn’t been one of the stern librarian’s rules, but Hermione suspected that was more because no one had ever dared to consider it, than because the witch actually did allow pets.

Harry scoffed. “Please,” he said, “Hedwig stared down that old vulture and she folded like a wet blanket.”

Hermione looked from the boy to the owl that had now relocated to the table.

She believed it.

*****

At dinner that night, Prefect Percy came to congratulate them on winning Gryffindor so many points.

“I must say, Potter,” the prefect said, “while your previous lackadaisical attitude towards The House Cup was unbecoming for a Gryffindor, I’m proud that you’ve begun applying yourself.”

That was... rude, Hermione thought. But not necessarily untrue.

Harry, on the other hand, gasped in offense, but in an obviously over the top, humorous, hand on his heart way. “Lackadaisical? Percy, I’ll have you know that there is no one more gung-ho about earning those bragging rights than I am. I mean, seriously, the opportunity to win a cup we don’t even get to keep? Who wouldn’t want that?”

Even Hermione had trouble keeping a straight face.

Prefect Percy meanwhile, turned red in anger and stormed off back to his seat.

“That was mean, Harry,” Hermione said, as soon as she was sure she had her laughter under control.

“Oh, get off him, Hermione,” Ron said. “Percy’s a git. You know he said he was hoping I wouldn’t get in Gryffindor, because he didn’t want me causing him trouble?”

Hermione had not known that.

“Yes, our beloved Percy is a ray of sunshine when you get to know him,” one of the twins said, as they suddenly walked up and squeezed into the group. One on Hermione’s right, and the other on Harry’s left, effectively squishing the two of them together.

The twin beside Harry said, “yes, but our ickle Harrykins here knows how to keep the Big Bad Prefect Percy away, doesn’t he?” while he ruffled the boy’s perpetually messy hair.

“You know I’m friends with a giant spider, right?” Harry asked casually.

The twin ruffling his hair froze, then he peered at Harry closely. “Huh. I can’t tell whether you’re joking or not.”

Harry smiled a friendly little smile. “Good, it’ll keep you on your toes.”

“This one is dangerous, brother,” the twin beside Harry said to the one beside Hermione.

“Indeed, brother,” the twin beside Hermione replied.

Then Harry spoke up again, “so, Bread and Porridge, what brought you guys here?”

It took everybody about five seconds to get the joke, and within two days, the whole school called the twins Bread and Porridge.

*****

Wednesday, Sept. 4

Herbology was an entertaining class.

It took place in the giant greenhouse that smelt like a thousand herbs and freshly-turned earth, and Prof. Sprout clearly had passion for her job.

It was only the first lesson, however, so Prof. Sprout mostly took the lecture to teach them about the different tools they would be using, as well as how to care for them, and many of the basics of growing plants.

Neville and Harry were already familiar with some of it; Neville said he had a little garden of his own at home, which Prof. Sprout praised him for; while Harry said his Aunt had been making him do her gardening since he could walk, which Hermione really hoped was an exaggeration.

Either way, the three hours for the lesson were quickly used up, and the children went to lunch.

Charms was much like the morning before; Prof. Flitwick taught them theory for the first hour or so, took questions, then gave them a spell to practice.

Unlike yesterday however, Prof. Flitwick gave them six spells of increasing difficulty to practice, stating that the first five people to cast them all before the end of class would win points.

Hermione took first place, but it was a close thing. She, Harry, and one other girl from Ravenclaw ended up being the only ones to even finish.

She worried a little bit that Harry might hold a grudge, but he didn’t.

More than that, he seemed to expect it.

That evening, after dinner, the Gryffindor first-years all congregated at their fireplace. And when Hermione suggested they could use the opportunity to work as a group for their homework, only Ron really complained.

With studying now involved to some capacity, the time spent at the fireplace became even more relaxing for Hermione.

*****

Thursday, Sept. 5

Thursday dawned to Transfiguration, after which Hermione watched Harry try his hardest to act natural in Defense.

He did better than he had during the last Defense class, and Hermione didn’t know if that was because he was no longer bothered by the perfectly unintimidating professor, or if it was because Harry had simply learnt to hide it better.

So, she simply took his hand once more when he got too tense until he calmed again, wishing the whole while that there was a way she could help.

That night, before she went to sleep, Hermione made a list.

The Harry Enigma

Hates Scabbers. Said “unfinished business.” Afraid of Quirrel. Won’t look at him. Says Quirrel remembers him. Still unfinished business. Hates Snape. Gave the same reason. WHAT IS THIS REASON? Remembers things his mother said despite being one. How? Good memory? Knows about Wizarding World despite growing up with muggles. How? Newspapers maybe? Other family then? Knows about Hagrid being half-giant, but said “he wasn’t supposed to know”. How? Why? Kept Greengrass and Davis from joining us on the boat. Why? Mentioned... Fanon! Cannon too. What is a fanon? I wish I had thought to bring a bigger dictionary. Knew Draco Malfoy. Knew the Weasleys. Knew Rita Skeeter... knew.. me? When we met he looked no no.

Hermione looked at the list. At that last line. She struck it again. And again. On and on until the lines completely blocked out the words.

Then she kept the notebook and tried to block out the memories of Harry’s easy familiarity with her, his great expectations of a girl he’d just met, and the time, the morning after they met, when he’d said the words “classic Granger.”

She tried to block it all out and go to sleep.

*****

Friday, Sept. 6

Virtually all the Gryffindor first-years slept through breakfast Friday morning.

Between the late, or early, depending on how you look at it, hour Astronomy had ended, and the sheer size of Hogwarts Castle, some of them had only been able to go back to sleep at 4 a.m., others even later, and asking them to get up three hours later, on a day when they had the morning free, was apparently too much.

So Hermione and Harry slept in with the rest of their fellow first-years, woke up late in the morning, had lunch for breakfast, and packed up all of their Potions equipment as they headed for their first Potions Class of the year.

The Potions classroom was cold and cavernous. A better word would be ominous, but Hermione was trying not to let the stories she’d been hearing about Prof. Snape affect her judgement.

She and Harry picked a work-station, set up their equipment, then settled to wait.

They didn’t have to wait long.

In a few minutes, all the students had arrived and settled down, and at 11:55 a.m., the door slammed shut of its own accord.

Most jumped. Hermione caught Harry pull out his wand halfway.

Then the door in front of the class, that Hermione assumed led to Prof. Snape’s office, opened, and the man swept out dramatically in a billow of black swirling robes.

And it was in that moment that Hermione realized that she had been spending too much time with Harry, because the first thought that entered her head at the sight of the professor was Darth Vader’s theme song.

Somehow, she managed to keep a straight face.

As Prof. Snape came into the room, he began to speak, “There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making.”

“He actually said the same line?” Hermione heard Harry wonder to himself.

Prof. Snape must have heard Harry too, because he stopped, and his dark eyes focused completely on the boy. “Ah. Mr. Potter.” The name was expelled like a curse. “Our new celebrity.”

“Thank you, professor. Happy to be here,” Harry said genially.

Something dark and ugly flashed across Prof. Snape’s face for a moment, and it made Hermione want to reach out and clasp her hand over Harry’s mouth, because, whatever “unfinished business” he may have with the professor, this was not the time for his jokes.

But then she looked at Harry, and while his smile was friendly, maybe even teasing, there was none of the playful mischief his eyes usually had.

Harry was angry.

“Tell me, Potter,” Prof. Snape said, “what would I get if I added three drops of dragon blood to a mixture of bubotuber pus and Troll phlegm?”

Hermione blinked in surprise. How was Harry supposed to know that? How were any of them supposed to know that? That was sixth-year work at the earliest. She knew this because the first-year potions textbook clearly stated that they would not be working with dragon’s blood until after their O.W.Ls.

Harry looked surprised at the question too, then he rallied, “an explosion, maybe?” Some students laughed. “Because, I don’t know, but that sounds like the kind of thing that’ll explode to me.”

Prof. Snape scowled, his face a mask of barely repressed hate. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you, Potter?”

“I am,” Harry said, not even bothering to fake his smile anymore. “And you know the best part about being funny, and likeable, and charismatic? You make friends. You find love. You don’t become a bitter, pathetic man-child taking out his vengeance on an eleven-year-old.”

The room went still, and Prof. Snape staggered back with a hand clutched over his heart as if struck.

His skin was pale, his eyes unfocused, and his mouth opened and closed like a drowning fish.

Hermione worried the man might be having a stroke, even as she wondered how Harry’s almost nonsensical words could be having such an effect on him.

Prof. Snape finally managed to voice a sentence. It was a mere mutter, but in the silence of the room it might as well have been a scream.

“Get out,” he said.

Then his eyes focused on Harry and he said again, louder. “Get out.”

No, he wasn’t focused on Harry, he was focused on them. She and Harry.

That... hate in his eyes was for her too.

“Get out, the both of you,” Prof. Snape said, even louder.

Harry rose, he was saying something to her, telling her they should leave, but she couldn’t listen because she didn’t understand; why would he hate her? What did she do?

Then Prof. Snape screamed, “GET OUT!!!” And a powerful gust of wind swept Hermione and Harry off their feet and sent them tumbling to the ground in the hallway outside, and the heavy oak doors to the classroom slammed shut behind them.

Hermione sat on the ground in a daze. Harry got up, asking if she was okay, but she barely heard him.

Her heart was pounding. Her mouth was dry. Her hands were shaking.

“Hermione, are you okay?” Harry asked from so far away.

Her cheeks were wet. Why were her cheeks wet?

Then Harry hugged her, and Hermione broke down and cried.