This work was originally posted as part of the "Thick Thighs Save Lives" collection on AO3 to accompany ada_lovelaced's fantastic art (they're on Insta). I've uploaded it here as well for you FFN die-hards.

A few things to establish:

- no second war with Voldemort
- Ravenclaw Hermione, Gryffindor Harry
- the Sirius/Remus relationship is background to this fic. if Wolfstar's not your jam, feel free to move along.
- all sexual acts in this story are consensual, and all parties are over the age of consent in their respective countries.

c/w for body image issues, low self esteem, and using exercise to avoid dealing with problems

this is my sandbox, so lots of my personal headcanons are on show here. I believe I've treated all sensitive matters with due respect, but please let me know if that's not the case.

kudos to the lovely Subdivide for the cover art

When Hermione received her Hogwarts letter, she wanted to cry, but didn't.

Her father cried for her. And her mother was speechless until supper. When they came back to themselves, they watched her, hesitant, and when she finally managed a smile, it broke the dam — stunned surprise gave way to excitement, joy, wonder, even a bit of fear. What would her life be like, now? What would it mean to learn the unknown, live in the unseen?

Her father caught what her mother did not. Between dinner and dessert, when her mother was humming in the kitchen, he leaned in, put a hand to her shoulder. "You do not have to go."

But it was not that simple. Even he knew that.

It's like a curse, she thought, when term started and she sat down at her desk five minutes before the bell. To know, and to wait. To be different, and yet the same.

That fall, Hermione collected every set textbook she would have needed for her first year at Benenden. She listened to her mother make the phone call that would remove her name from the list, squeezed her teddy, and immersed herself in algebra.

It was nice, for a while. To pretend.

It was April when another letter and a parcel arrived from Professor McGonagall. Hermione's stomach jolted — perhaps they realized they'd made a mistake, even if the flowerpots still exploded every time Hermione cried — and she read the short note with trembling hands.

Miss Granger,

Given your background, I'm sure you would enjoy some more information about the Wizarding World, and about life at Hogwarts. Enclosed are some pamphlets, and a few books you may find quite useful.

If you have any questions, do not hesitate to contact me at the address listed below.

Yours sincerely,

Professor M. McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress

Hermione stared at the address, which seemed utterly normal — a post office box at a village called Hogsmeade, in the north. She glanced at the owl still attached to her parcel, and supposed that there was more than one way of contacting a witch.

She was halfway through the second pamphlet when she saw the word for the first time. Muggle. Clotted, perfunctory on the tongue. Muggle-born was even worse.

Will this follow me? she wondered later, when the rain pounded at her window.

Hermione Granger was not stupid. It took her very little time and three of McGonagall's five books to realize that Muggle-borns held a different status in the Wizarding world of Great Britain. A lower status, in fact, though it seemed that most would not say it outright. This realization, compounded by years of being one of the few brown girls in her class, flicked a switch in her brain. Hermione put aside her books from Benenden, and threw herself into memorizing every single fact and detail she possibly could about this new and terrifying life of hers. As her final Muggle term drew to a close, as her mother began making overtures about a holiday back home in Barbados, Hermione's mind was filled only with Potions ingredients and the last six hundred years of Wizarding history. At night, she dreamt of brewing antidotes and had nightmares about Grindelwald and Voldemort. When she woke screaming, her hands tangled in her sheets, she told her parents it was only about falling from a plane.

Hermione Granger was not stupid. She knew that she would have to work twice as hard to prove herself, because she would always be at a disadvantage. She knew that people might not want to be her friend, might not want to share a dorm with her. She knew.

Diagon Alley astounded her, but she did not show it. She could not afford to — her parents expected her to be their guide, the steady hand that led them through this strange adventure.

To her relief, most people ignored them. Even the goblins, and she did her best not to stare.

Galleons were heavier than she'd expected. They felt more real, more like money, than a regular pound coin. More than anything, she wanted to march straight to the bookshop she'd seen on the main road, but knew that she could not get by on books alone.

"Oh!" Madam Malkin quickly hid her surprise. "Come on in, dear. Hogwarts, is it?"

Later, when Hermione was pulling on her robe, Madam Malkin shot her a careful look and said, "You've got lovely hair."

"Thank you." Hermione's gaze found the racks of school ties, and she tried the words in her mind. Gryffindor. Slytherin. Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw.

Ravenclaw had the nicest colors. She paid Madam Malkin, and brushed shoulders with a thin, pale, blond boy on her way out.

Hermione's father was frowning at her supply list. "What about a cat?"

"I'd like an owl," she replied. They seemed the most practical.

"No," said her mother at once, with a shudder. "A cat."

"You can have that one," said the shop owner, nodding to the runt of a litter of Russian Blues. "Hasn't shown a lick of magic yet, and they're half-Kneazle."

Hermione scooped up the kitten, met its gaze. It had orange eyes and a doleful look, and it immediately began to purr.

The kitten fell asleep in its basket, but it woke up when Ollivander handed Hermione a vine wood wand with dragon heartstring. A volley of fireworks shot off into the air, streaming into a beautiful, singular rose that slowly faded into smoke.

The old man was beaming, and her parents let out a cascade of applause. Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded, and paid for it without saying a word.

I can do magic, she thought as they made their way to the bookshop. I can actually do magic.

Up until now, it had felt like a dream, a farce. An accident. Now, it was anything but.

Her parents went back to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink, but she recognized the act for what it was — they were giving her space, and freedom to roam her favorite shop on the Alley. Hermione sidestepped the crowd of Hogwarts students around the register, overheard a redheaded boy grumbling about a secondhand copy, and slipped into the quiet shelves of the Potions section. Here, finally, she took a breath, and smiled.

Hermione lost herself in a volume about intermediate brewing techniques, and only returned to earth when someone bumped into the nearest shelf.

It was a boy her age. He had unruly jet-black hair, round spectacles, and the biggest, brightest green eyes she'd ever seen.

"Sorry," he said quickly. He was exactly her height. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"That's all right." She watched as he glanced at the nearest shelf, withdrew a slim volume on Wolfsbane Potion. "Seems interesting."

"It's for my godfather," he replied with an easy smile. His gaze dropped to her feet, where her stack of set textbooks sat untouched and waiting. "Hogwarts?"

"Yes." Hermione smiled in return. "You?"

"Yep." He had one dimple in his left cheek. "I'm hoping for Gryffindor."

Before she could reply, a loud buzzing came from his pocket. He withdrew a handheld mirror and winced. "Sorry, got to run. See you!" With that, he was gone, and for a moment, she wondered if she'd imagined the whole thing.

She saw the boy again mere moments after the Hogwarts Express left the station, when her parents had only just slipped out of sight. Hermione stepped back from the window, her vision blurred with unshed tears, and took a shaky breath. Around her, the other students were laughing and yelling and telling jokes as the train steamed out of London, and then she saw him.

He was halfway down the car, surrounded by a bunch of other boys their age. He was leaning against the window, grinning while another boy, pudgy, freckled, with enormous teeth, told him a joke. He began to laugh, and then he saw her.

Their gazes met, and time stretched thin. His smile seemed to waver, and too late, she realized that a single tear had spilled down her cheek.

"Harry!" This came from a shorter boy with an Irish accent. "Come on, let's have a game of Snap, I've got five Sickles on Neville—"

The boy — Harry — turned away, and followed his friends into the nearest compartment. The door closed with a snap, and a few whispers snaked along the corridor.

"Did you see that? That was Harry Potter—"

"Come off it, the Harry Potter—?"

"Who else?"
"Didn't even see his scar—"

Hermione slipped into her own compartment, wiping at her face as her heart gave a single painful thud. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived had seen her crying.

She wiped at her face again. He would be the first and the last.

Hermione learned the weight of a thousand stares as she climbed up onto the stool and felt the Sorting Hat settle atop her head. The Great Hall vanished, replaced by a luscious darkness, and she sighed with relief.

Brains, came the Hat's voice in her ear. And gumption. What should we do with you?

The Ravenclaws were polite in their applause, and Hermione found a seat near the end of the table. She ignored Harry's gaze from the crowd of Unsorted, and smiled at her fellow first-years. To nobody's surprise, he was Sorted into Gryffindor. The cheers were deafening.

Dumbledore seemed eccentric in the extreme. Hermione made a mental note to pay him close attention.

The Ravenclaw common room felt like a dream. She stared in wonder at the bookcases, the fuzzy blue carpet, the endless tables and upholstered velvet chairs. None of it felt real, until she walked into her dormitory.

The room was plain, simple, decorated in shades of royal blue. Hermione cleared her throat, turned to her roommates, and quickly took charge. Within a quarter of an hour, they were all happily unpacking at their new beds, filling their shelves with photographs and personal possessions.

Hermione's kitten, Felix, was already asleep at the foot of her bed. She put away her books, only leaving enough room for four or five more, and placed a framed photograph of her parents beside her bed.

Alice, a petite redhead, frowned at the photo. "It's not moving."

Hermione cleared her throat. "It's a Muggle photo."

Alice's eyes brightened with understanding. There was an unspoken shift in the air — the other girls had heard, and were paying attention. Then Alice smiled. "Well, it's lovely."

When Hermione fell asleep, she dreamt of the stars, and they felt even closer than usual.

Hermione woke late on her first day She hurtled out of bed, and only paused when she caught sight of her uniform, now edged with Ravenclaw blue.

Breakfast was a quick affair. She ate with Alice and their other two roommates, Ethel — a very quiet girl with long dark hair and glasses — and Mary — a tall, thin girl with a strong chin and short brown hair. Hermione had already realized the previous night that she was the only person in Ravenclaw in her year who was not white. A quick glance around the rest of the Great Hall told her that once again, she was in a minority.

Two minorities, she reminded herself as Alice and Mary chatted about their mothers' work in the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

Her classes went beyond anything and everything she could have possibly imagined. Potions quickly became her favorite, and she loved the way Professor Slughorn would smile at her when she answered a question correctly. After their first lesson, he pulled her aside and asked her a series of questions about herself, surprising her when he showed not an ounce of disgust at her blood status. He gave her a thin volume on varieties of Wiggentree and said, "The nice thing about potions is that they answer only to the hands of their maker. Blood has nothing to do with it."

Transfiguration soon found its title as her second favorite, followed by Herbology, and Charms was a delight. Even Astronomy and History of Magic had their merits. Defense Against the Dark Arts, however, seemed destined to test her.

When their Defense Professor introduced himself, a ripple of whispers cascaded through the room, followed by a wave of trepidation. For once, Hermione had something in common with all of her magical peers — she, too, recognized his name.

"Come now." Professor Black smiled. "I won't bite."

He was an excellent professor, and he had something else to commend him. When the class dispersed, Professor Black ruffled Harry Potter's hair. Harry Potter, who scowled and swatted at him, much to the Professor's delight. Godfather, Hermione suddenly remembered, and her head spun. It seemed that Sirius Black was Harry Potter's godfather, which made him Harry Potter's guardian.

If this was common knowledge, it had eluded her. Not that Ravenclaws were incurable gossips by nature. No, she felt right at home with the others, nesting at the large tables in the library, debating Charms theory by the common room fireplace, performing experiments on the frogspawn they pulled out of the lake. And never, not once, did Hermione glance at Harry Potter and the Gryffindors rollicking around on the lawn, and wish for some excitement.

It seemed to follow the boy like a magnet, not that he encouraged it. He was quiet in classes, quieter than she would have expected from someone of his fame, his status. No, he was infuriatingly well-behaved, except when he wasn't.

"Did you hear?" Alice muttered to her over the Halloween banquet. She was grinning, sneaking a glance at the Gryffindor table. "Apparently, he and some of the other boys got caught trying to set off a load of Swamp Bombs on the first floor."

Hermione shot her an alarmed look. "By the library?"

"I hear they've got detention for a week," Mary joined in. "With McGonagall."

Hermione sniffed. "The punishment suits the crime. Treacle?"

Her first Christmas back at home felt like a dream, much like her first month at Hogwarts had. Her parents beamed as she told them story after story about the old castle and its ghosts and the Shrinking Solution she'd managed to brew almost perfectly, and for a brief, devastating moment, she wanted nothing more than to show it, all of it, to them. But she couldn't. Not ever.

This, she thought, watching the snow drift past her bedroom window, will hurt.

It was February, and Hermione Granger could not Stun anything.

"That was so close," said Alice, earnest enough that Hermione wanted to throw something at her. Around them, the other students were doing the same — taking it in turns to try and Stun one another. "You've nearly got it."

Hermione said nothing, tossed a chunk of hair out of her face. At that precise moment, Harry Potter Stunned Ronald Weasley, who fell to the floor with an astonishing thud.

There was silence. Then, a chorus of cheers, mostly from the Gryffindors.

"Ten points, I think," said Professor Black, beaming.

Hermione's gaze dropped to the floor, her face burning. This could not last.

Unfortunately, it did.

June found her holed up in one of the empty classrooms, sweating, her hair getting bigger and bigger as her temper flared hotter and hotter. But nothing seemed to help. She could occasionally Stun things by now, but the rest of the Defense spells continued to elude her, fight her, harder than any of the spells she'd ever learned. It was as if Defensive magic turned her wand into a stranger, made it turn on her and growl. Frustrated, Hermione faced a row of empty desks and Transfigured them, one by one, into different varieties of teapots.

"Wow." A voice by the door. "I didn't know you could do that."

Hermione spun round, and her mouth went dry when she saw her visitor. "You shouldn't be here. It's past curfew."

"Then you shouldn't, either." Harry Potter walked into the room. For a moment, she could see the bruises that had marred his face just the week before, when a Bludger had grazed past and nearly knocked him off his broom. The youngest Seeker in a century, almost felled in the last match of the Inter-House Cup. Hermione, dragged along by Alice, would never forget the way the crowd had gasped.

Hermione said nothing. She spun her wand, let out a few sparks.

"Defence exam tomorrow." He continued walking over to her. He was wearing a raggedy t-shirt and jeans, and for a moment, she felt like she was back in the Muggle world — the Rolling Stones mouth gaped at her from his chest. "Nervous?"

"Of course not," she spat.

Harry looked at her for a moment, then said, "It helps if you don't think."

She frowned at him. "What?"

"You like books, don't you?" When her stunned silence was answer enough, he went on, "Books and words only get you so far. Sometimes, you just have to act."

"Act?"

"Without thinking about it first." He shrugged, turned away. "Works for me." And he left, closing the door behind him.

Hermione stared at the empty space left behind, then whirled round and aimed for the nearest desk. "Stupefy!"

The desk flew up into the air, then landed with a loud crash that shook half the room.

Later, when she was curled up in bed, looking up at the crescent moon shining through her window, she wondered why he'd been out after curfew, and why he'd looked so lonely.

She scored perfectly on all of her exams, even earning a hundred and twelve percent in History of Magic. All, it seemed, except Defense.

Hermione stared down at the little black 65. She'd aced the written, but the practical had been a bit of a nightmare, apart from the Stunning. Professor Black's comment had been succinct:

Excellent grasp of theory and history. Some improvement in practical magic, but further work is needed.

Summer arrived suddenly, and soon, she was saying goodbye to all of her friends — her friends — promising to write, to tell them everything about Barbados. They were on Platform 9 ¾, and Hermione noticed that Harry was looking at her from where he stood amongst his own friends. Their gazes met for a moment, then he turned away.

A few weeks later, an owl arrived just as she was in the kitchen, helping her grandmother peel potatoes. The owl rapped at the window, and her grandmother looked up with a frown. "Did you hear something?"

"No," said Hermione quickly, then stood up, dropping her knife. "I need the toilet."

She darted through the sitting room, then out through the French doors onto the patio. She tiptoed around the side of the tiny house, and the owl caught sight of her. It flew over, landing on a nearby chair, and held out its leg.

It was a letter from Alice. Hermione tried her best not to feel a wave of disappointment — besides, who else would have written to her?

Hermione's second year started much the same as her first, but this time, she was excited, and she felt ready, braced for what would come.

At Diagon Alley, she met up with Alice and Mary at Fortescue's. They'd both grown, and Mary was quite tan. Alice gaped at Hermione's dress, grabbed her arm. "Look at your freckles!"

Hermione almost laughed. "You're one to talk!"

Mary gave her a grin. "Barbados suits you."

They sat on the outdoor patio and caught up over strawberry and pistachio ice creams, chatting about anything and everything while around them, hordes of Hogwarts students swarmed through the shops and down the street. Hermione sat back in her chair, relishing the warmth of the sun on her skin, and closed her eyes, letting the sound of the street, of the magical world, wash over her. Dimly, she was aware of Alice and Mary trading theories about the latest novel in a wizarding series, but her mind wandered. She missed Barbados already, the smell of the ocean, the feeling of the sand between her toes, the rich cinnamon air of her grandmother's kitchen. A wave of longing rolled through her, and then, the back of her neck prickled. She opened her eyes, and met a familiar green gaze.

He was sitting several tables away, surrounded by the usual suspects. He'd grown, and his hair was even worse than usual. After a moment, he looked away, and Hermione did the same.

"Welcome back, Miss Granger." Professor McGonagall's smile was small, enigmatic, as she handed Hermione her timetable. "I hope you are excited for another year."

"Yes," said Hermione, smiling back at her. And it was the truth — now, as she looked out across the Great Hall, she did not feel intimidated, but rather at home.

In many ways, everything was the same — her dormitory, the common room, the library, her classes — and Hermione fell back into her usual rhythms with ease. Meals with the girls, study groups with other Ravenclaws, including a few third and fourth years. The occasional friendly gathering, or, in the case of her thirteenth birthday, a slumber party in her dormitory with all the girls in her year, complete with biscuits and cakes. Hermione officially became a teenager while Alice was giving Ethel a makeover, and she wouldn't have had it any other way.

It only occurred to her when they were a few weeks into November that she was a little bit bored. She watched the Weasley twins send a volley of miniature magical fireworks over the Gryffindor table and, for a moment, felt tempted to join in.

Mary gave a contemptuous sniff and reached for the potatoes. "I wish they'd grow up."

"I think McGonagall agrees with you," said Hermione, watching as the Deputy Headmistress swept down from the table.

"Nonsense," said Alice. "She likes having two top-notch Beaters. She won't kick up too much of a fuss."

Quidditch. It formed the heart and the lifeblood of Hogwarts. Hardly anyone seemed able to talk about anything else, even the professors, who seemed quite happy to perpetuate their House rivalries. Hermione actually watched Professor Sprout hesitate before reprimanding one of her Chasers for smuggling Snargaluff pods out of the greenhouse. And Alice had started to swoon over Nathan Hill, a fifth year lead Chaser on the Ravenclaw team. Hermione took no notice, until a particular lunch when he came over and asked to borrow their pitcher of pumpkin juice. He'd flashed her a smile in thanks, and she'd blushed from head to foot.

Alice snorted into her sandwich, unable to hide her grin.

"What?" Hermione snarled. "He's— well. His face is rather nice, I suppose."

This caused Alice to snort even harder. Ethel had to give her several hard pats on the back.

Christmas was its usual jolly affair. Mince pies and presents, roasted ham and eggnog. Hermione slumped in an armchair, watching her father try and rouse her cat by dangling a bit of leftover ribbon in his face.

"That won't work," she said. "Now that he's had his chicken and gravy, he won't move again until New Year."

True enough, Felix wasn't stirring. Her father shook his head. "This cat is useless." But he was smiling, and he stroked the cat's tail.

Her parents had gotten her a few books, some new jumpers and socks, and a stationery set. Her grandmother had sent her usual coffee cookies, hand-knitted socks and scarves, and a fresh jar of her homemade spice mix.

Hermione immediately draped her scarf over her shoulders and smiled as her mother placed the spice jar in the cupboard with extra care. Her thoughts drifted briefly to what the Christmases at her magical friends' houses would be like — would the tree levitate? Would real candles hover between the branches, their flames kept safe by a Stasis Charm? Would magical favors bloom out of crackers, would pixies hover in the snow-filled air?

On the last day of classes, she'd overheard Harry, Ron, and Neville discussing their holiday plans. Something about a big dinner at someone's house, and a White Elephant for Christmas Eve. She wondered now what they would be doing. Listening to the carols on the radio, just as she was, lying in bed, watching the snow drift lazily down? Would he feel happy, at home, or displaced?

The next morning, Hermione passed by her mirror on her way to the bathroom and frowned. She reached down, pressed a hand to her chest, just to be sure.

Her mother mumbled, rubbed her eyes, then instantly came awake the moment she saw Hermione's face. She led her daughter back into her bedroom, and closed the door.

The conversation that followed was gentle, quiet, confusing and helpful all at once. "It's beginning," her mother said, handing her a piece of fabric with a tag that read, 'Training Bra.' "A little later than me, just like my sister."

"Other things," she said later, when they were in the kitchen making chicken and rice. "Other things will start to change. You must watch for them, do you hear me? Because no one, my girl, no one will know your body better than you." A kiss, pressed to her head. "Write to me, with anything. Anything at all."

For the rest of her second year, Hermione watched.

She watched as some of the girls in her year began to go through what she was going through. She watched as Alice's hips began to curve, as Mary switched from a vest to a real bra. She watched the way it affected them — some girls hid inside their clothes, curling inwards, while others did the opposite, walking with a type of pride she could not imagine.

She watched her own body, waiting. But nothing seemed to happen.

She bumped into him once, in the hall. He blushed, a quick delightful thing, then mumbled an apology and kept walking. Neville shot her a confused look, then hurried to catch up with his friend.

Gryffindor won the Inter-House Cup, to absolutely no one's surprise.

"It was a good match, I suppose," said Mary, all glum.

"Buck up," said Ethel, scooping a large mound of potatoes onto Mary's plate. "We're still a hundred points ahead of Gryffindor. We might actually win this year."

A hundred and ten points, after the next day's Transfiguration lesson, when Hermione answered one of McGonagall's questions in three parts, with specific examples and references. She got a rare smile in return, and it was enough to buoy her through yet another dismal DADA lesson.

"I think I know the issue." Professor Black's gaze was sharp, calculating. "You must stop doubting yourself, Miss Granger."

For the first time in her life, Hermione had to bite her tongue before replying. "Yes, Professor. I will try, Professor."

As they were leaving class, she almost ran directly into Harry Potter, who was hovering just outside the door. He opened his mouth, but her temper beat him to it.

"What, come to have a laugh? I'll save you the trouble." Hermione tossed her braids over one shoulder and marched off, not bothering to look back.

She did not see him on the train, or even on the platform. She was too busy hugging the girls, especially Alice, who seemed ready to sob.

"I just c-can't believe you'll be g-gone all s-summer!" Alice's eyes were huge, shining. "What about the weekend before we go back to school? We could all stay at mine, and go to Diagon Alley together, and even off to the train, if your parents—"

A horrible part of Hermione perked its head up at the idea of going to Diagon without having to shepherd her parents. They'd gotten better about it, but were still easily overwhelmed by everything. "Yes," she said, without thinking. "Yes, absolutely! Let's do it!"

Alice squealed, Mary grinned, and Ethel beamed a wide smile. Hermione laughed, gave them all one last hug, and picked up her cat carrier. It was time to find her parents, tell them the news.

It happened on an early August day, when the air was swimming with coconut heat and the smell of fresh peppers.

Hermione bit her lip, staring down at the mess she'd just made of her pepper.

"Ah, dear—" Her grandmother smiled and reached for her knife. "You let the blade get away from you—"

"I know," Hermione spat out, and her face was hot, and her stomach was churning, and she couldn't do this, couldn't— "I can't do anything right, I know—" She threw down her dish towel and stormed out, leaving her mother and grandmother behind in a stunned, confused silence.

Her feet took her out onto the beach, down the treeline, to a small cove of palms that happened to grow in a near-perfect square. When she was little, she'd used dead fronds to build a fort between the trunks, an activity that, were she allowed to use her wand, would now take her five minutes instead of five hours. This thought rattled her badly, and Hermione sank down onto the smooth, brown rocks, wrapping her arms around her knees.

A sob threatened, but she stifled it, bewildered by this sudden surge of emotion. But perhaps it was just the aftershocks of her exam results. All were as expected, but still, she'd been faced with that interminable little 70 on her DADA exam. After weeks of determined practice, and revision, all of it — it had all been for nothing. Her theory had been spot-on, as usual, but the practical—

It was some time before Hermione came back to herself. When she finally stood up, a shock of color caught her eye — a splotch of rusty brown, right where she'd been sitting.

For several moments, Hermione could do nothing except stare at it in utter confusion. Then, slowly, she became aware of a deep, panging ache in her belly, and a distinct wetness between her thighs. She clutched at her dress, yanking it up and away, and found, to her horror, that the crotch of her pink swimsuit was smeared with more of that same rusty-red, and it even trickled down her leg.

Before she could even think of moving, she heard a sound — a pained, sympathetic coo, unmistakable. She looked up, and met her mother's gaze.

"Oh, you poor thing—" Her mother was beside her at once, gathering her into her arms. "Come, let's get you cleaned up."

Hermione could only nod and allow herself to be led back to the house. The bath helped, as did a fresh cup of tea, and her mother showed her how to use a pad.

"If you like," her mother said, "someday, you can try a tampon. If you bleed a lot, it might be the best option." She gave Hermione a searching look. "Are you all right?"

Hermione nodded, shifting a little in her underwear. The pad felt like a diaper. "My stomach hurts. And my head."

Her mother sighed, passed her a few pills. "So it begins."

Alice's house was more of a small mansion, tucked away at the edge of Kent, surrounded by luscious green fields inhabited by fairies and benevolent gnomes. It was exactly as Hermione imagined it, and better even than that. The interior was like any other traditional country manor, except for the two house elves in the kitchen, the various objects hovering across rooms to where they belonged, the enchanted grandfather clock, and the endless living portraits of Alice's ancestors.

She and the others spent a splendid few days doing absolutely nothing, except for the few hours they devoted to reading the set books for the upcoming year. Much of the conversation revolved around their new courses, and what they might expect.

"I simply can't believe you wanted to take Muggle Studies," Mary was saying as they walked down Diagon Alley, licking at their ice creams.

"Why not?" Hermione replied, distracted by a poster for a new brand of self-inking quills. "It's just like Muggles doing archaeology."

Alice frowned. "Archa-what?"

Hermione flashed her a grin. "See? You should be taking it, Al."

Madam Malkin's went the same as usual, until it didn't.

"You'll be needing a fresh set, my dear." Madam Malkin twinkled at Hermione, not that it did any good. "You've filled out over the summer, and no mistake!"

"Take no notice of her," Alice said the moment they left the shop. She'd overheard the whole thing. "You look lovely."

Before Hermione could mumble her thanks, an all too recognizable voice piped up behind her. "Did you hear the old lady, boys? Granger's a bit of a cow!"

Hermione whirled round just as Malfoy and his cronies started to moo, getting louder and louder even as Alice shrieked, "Stop it! You're foul, just stop it right now!"

Half the street turned to look, and some of the boys were laughing. For a split instant, Hermione met a very familiar green gaze. She immediately turned away, grabbed Alice's hand, and pulled her down the road and around a corner, Mary and Ethel on their heels.

"It's just dreadful," Mary was saying, "they shouldn't—"

"But they did," Hermione said. "It doesn't matter, I'm fine." But her heart was thudding in her ears, and for the first time, she saw herself as they saw her — dumpy, swallowed by hair, lopsided as her body battled adolescence. She didn't meet Alice's gaze.

"Honestly, I don't know how you're doing it." Ethel slumped beside her, pushed her glasses up onto her head. She had two red notches on the bridge of her nose. "I'm beat."

Hermione hummed, scribbling away at the last two inches of her Care of Magical Creatures essay. She didn't say that it was not due for another week. "I'm sure I'll get sick of it by next month."

Ethel huffed a laugh. "Sure you will."

This time, Hermione was ready for it — the cramps, the bloating, the headache. An Impervius worked a treat as a failsafe for a leaky pad, and it spared her and one of her skirts from mortification. After that afternoon, Hermione had reached for the box of tampons she'd packed just in case, and never looked back.

The boys were changing, as well. Most of them had grown, and now, their voices were starting to crack, often at delightfully inappropriate moments. One or two even had the shadow of a mustache above their upper lip. And now, much of the conversation had turned to crushes, and who fancied who, and it was all so ridiculous that sometimes she wanted to throw something.

And then, one day, she watched Harry Potter try and fail to Transfigure a snail into a button, and suffer McGonagall's sour-looking scowl. The first thing Hermione was aware of feeling was surprise — one did not often see Harry Potter struggle with something — closely followed by the warm glow of satisfaction. She was not the only one, it seemed, and even the Chosen One had his bad days.

But the surprise turned into shock when she followed Professor McGonagall's request to show up at her office at 5:30 on a Friday afternoon, and found herself faced with none other than Harry himself, looking sheepish and somewhat cowed.

"Perfect timing, Miss Granger." McGonagall was smiling. "I was just explaining to Mr. Potter that I'd found him the best Transfiguration tutor available."

No. This was— "T-tutor?"

"Yes, Miss Granger." McGonagall had the gall to look a bit smug.

"But Professor, I—" Hermione bit her lip, and took a moment to think carefully. She had to choose her words with precision. "Professor, you are aware of my course load. Any spare time I have is devoted to—"

"Miss Granger, I would not have volunteered you for the task had I not thought you more than capable of shouldering it." McGonagall passed her a list. "These are the subjects in which I believe Mr. Potter requires the most attention, in addition to our upcoming topics. You may select a time and a frequency that best suits your schedules."

And with that, they were shooed out of her office. For a moment, Hermione just stood in the hall, staring down at the bit of parchment, wondering what was happening to her life.

"Sorry about this." Good Lord, he even sounded sheepish. "If you don't want to, I—"

"It doesn't matter," Hermione found herself saying. "If you don't improve, it'll be a blemish on my record as well. McGonagall will be expecting nothing other than the best." She finally looked up, met his gaze, and met her fate. "When are you available?"

"Weekends are best," he replied, "unless there's a match."

"Fine," she said. All the better for slipping under the radar. "Tomorrow evening?"

"Six o'clock?"

Hermione nodded. "I'll let you know where we're meeting."

He cocked his head to one side. "How?"

Hermione shrugged, slipping the list into her pocket. "Keep your window open." With that, she turned and walked away, not bothering to look back.

Hermione did not turn around when she heard the massive old door unlatch and swing open. Harry had a Seeker's footfall — it was nothing compared to the surprise in his voice when he said, "Nice bit of magic."

She glanced over her shoulder, saw that he was holding up a piece of creased parchment. It was the shell of a paper crane she'd enchanted to fly through his dorm window, containing a map and instructions to the very classroom they were standing in. In hindsight, the choice felt weirdly invasive, and she'd already decided not to repeat it. "It's simple enough, once you know how." She waved her wand, shifting another row of desks back.

Harry was looking around at the enormous, defunct classroom. Its stony walls were mercilessly cold even for early October, and it was caked in cobwebs as well as dust. The cavernous ceilings were matched by an equally cavernous fireplace, and a huge wall of windows facing the Quidditch pitch. "How'd you find this place?"

Because of you, she didn't say. Because you found me so easily that night, when I was determined that no one would see me fail. "By accident. Took a wrong turn on my way back from the Charms classroom."

He nodded, didn't reply. So Hermione cleared her throat and kept talking.

"McGonagall wants us to start halfway through the introductory level." She drew up one chair, then another, to the large table that had once, presumably, been the teacher's desk. "That's as good a place as any to begin. We can work through the theory, then move on to the practical when you feel you have a strong enough footing." She glanced at him. "Does that sound—?"

"Yeah, sure." He looked down, scuffed his foot. After a moment, he came over to the table, took the seat across from her, dropped his rucksack. It was so different from the usual calm bravado he usually displayed that for a moment, she couldn't think.

But then, Hermione cleared her throat again and sat down as well. "Quill, ink, parchment." She hauled out their first year Transfiguration textbook and cracked it open, giving the well-used pages a quick, loving stroke. "Let's get started."

Harry Potter had truly atrocious handwriting.

"It's no wonder you're having trouble, if you can't read your own notes." Hermione frowned at one sentence, then glanced at him in time to see him blush. "But the repetition helps." He nodded then, still not looking at her, and she couldn't keep herself from staring at him, bewildered. This was a Harry Potter she'd never seen before, and she had no idea how to handle it.

They spent the rest of the hour reviewing theory, then switched tracks to their coursework. Hermione scanned through the current draft of his essay, making edits, then went through all of her changes one by one, telling him where he'd gone wrong and why. He said little, but listened intently, and when he finally asked her a question, she felt an overwhelming wave of relief — she'd been starting to think that she'd insulted him, somehow.

"Thanks," he said, when they were packing up. She'd lit the lamps and candles, and his hair looked almost tawny against the fading sunset. "This was helpful."

Hermione did not blush. "Same time next week?"

Here, finally, Harry smiled. One of his bottom teeth was a little crooked. "Yeah. Same time next week."

Slowly, almost painfully, Harry Potter began to improve. He even began to answer questions in class, and Hermione would feel a warm tingle of pride, compounded by McGonagall flashing her a look of approval. She did not tell a single person, not even her parents, that she was now Harry Potter's tutor — the other girls always assumed she was doing homework, or practicing her Defense, and Hermione learned to be grateful for her own predictability. Then, to her astonishment, Harry started to acknowledge her outside of classes — a quick nod, or even a smile — and she never knew what to do with it. Sometimes, she found it within herself to nod back. And one evening, the week before the first Quiddith match of the year, Harry Potter stared down at his notes and said, "It hasn't always been easy for me. Reading."

Hermione said nothing at first, determined not to show that this one, tiny confession had floored her. Behind them, the fire crackled and popped, rolling a fresh wave of warmth into the air. "Really? What do you mean?"

"It's…" For a few moments, he said nothing. "The words, they… sort of move."

Her heart thudded once, painfully, in her chest. There was no way— "Do the letters ever switch places?" When she looked up, he was staring at her. "Do they, I mean… Do they flip around, turn upside-down?"

He gave a nod, and now, her heart leapt into her throat. "I think it's my eyes, 'cause, you know…" He shot her a sudden smile. "I'm not exactly blessed in that department."

She couldn't help smiling back. "Fair enough." Suddenly, it was all making sense — his handwriting, his terrible spelling, why he struggled so desperately with text-based learning, but excelled in practical magic. "But, Harry, this isn't the only subject at Hogwarts with required reading." And she knew he could hardly be failing in all his subjects.

"No," he agreed. "But it is the class with the least amount of lecture."

This was true. McGonagall always preferred to use her class time for demonstrations and methodical practice, unless she believed a topic needed special attention. Compared to History of Magic, Transfiguration was practically a trip to an amusement park. "So you're all right, if the text is read aloud?"

Harry nodded. "That's why it wasn't a problem, before Hogwarts. My godfather was always reading to me, telling me stories."

Something warm stirred in her chest. "How lovely."

His grin was quick, sharp. "Not really. He likes the sound of his own voice."

A laugh bolted out of Hermione before she could stop it, surprising her as well as Harry. She blushed, then said, "And you never told him?"

Harry shook his head, shoved a hand through his hair. "I never… knew how to…" He didn't finish, but Hermione nodded. "It was hard enough, just being the two of us. And he already has kittens every time I so much as sniffle or cough." He rolled his eyes, and she bit back a smile.

"Well, let's just focus on what you can do." And with that, Hermione pulled the textbook closer. "Chapter Seven, Understanding Fundamental Properties of Objective Matter."

The following weekend, Hermione watched Harry snatch the Snitch from right under the Slytherin Seeker's nose, and had to smile. The rest of the stadium was going ballistic, and as he pumped his fist into the air, she began to clap, shaking her head.

Gryffindor rode the wave of their victory all through the following week, and when Harry strolled into their usual classroom on Saturday night, he was grinning.

Hermione paused, then continued unpacking her bag. "What?"

"I," he said, "have an idea."

His energy was infectious, and she couldn't hold back a smile. "Oh, really?"

"Yes. I have an idea about how I can repay you, for…" He gestured to the table, to the piles of notes and books.

"Harry, you don't need to repay me—"

"I can help you," he said. "With your Defense."

It took a moment, but then Hermione bristled, her smile vanishing. "I don't know what you mean, Harry—"

"All right." He dropped his rucksack. "Then Stun me."

Her mouth went dry. "Don't be ridiculous, I can't just—"

"Then block me." His hand twitched beside his hip, where she knew his wand was stowed. "Before I Stun you."

Her hand was not shaking as she withdrew her wand. But before she could even finish saying the spell, he had her Disarmed, her wand flying through the air, and on the floor, rendered useless with a Jelly Legs Jinx. Hermione glared up at him, her face hot, shame prickling the back of her neck.

"Finite." Harry picked up her wand, handed it over.

She scrambled to her feet, scowling. He looked back at her, his face bland until he raised an eyebrow. "Fine," she spat. "But Transfiguration first."

He almost smiled, then he nodded. "All right."

"Gosh!" Alice was clapping like a lunatic. "We might actually have a chance this year!"

Hermione watched as Nathan Hill took control of the Quaffle and streaked down towards the Hufflepuff goal posts. Alice might've been on to something, though a Gryffindor-Ravenclaw final was the last thing she needed.

The following day, everyone in her dorm woke up to little scrolls perched at the foot of their bed. Hermione frowned and quickly unfurled hers.

Please report to the Hospital Wing at four o'clock this afternoon.

Sincerely, Madam Pomfrey

"How odd," said Mary, tossing the parchment back onto her sheets. "Wonder what it is."

As the four of them walked into the hospital wing later that day, they found themselves surrounded by all the other female third years, looking equally confused.

What followed was one of the most embarrassing and helpful hours of Hermione's life.

"I can't believe it." Alice was staring down at a pamphlet about the newest line of magical leakproof, stain-proof ladies' underwear. "My mum's never even mentioned this."

Hermione, meanwhile, was still preoccupied by everything she'd learned about the potions created specifically to combat PMS. She was planning on buying enough to last through the entire summer, though she'd have to double-check the law on taking wizarding health products to a Muggle residence. She could not believe how much easier things were, in this world.

Mary, still a bright crimson, could not look up from the floor. "There is a contraception spell," she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut. "A contraception spell."

"It's better than condoms," said Hermione, without thinking. The other three turned to stare at her in utter confusion. "They're like… rubber casings. The man, you know, puts one on his—"

"Enough!" Mary's voice was shrill. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"But these potions—" Hermione pulled out the pamphlet on the birth control potions available to witches fourteen and older. "These are incredible! All we've really got in the Muggle world is the pill, and IUDs—"

"I think," said Mary, fumbling her way to her bed, "I need to lie down."

By the time of their next tutoring session, Hermione knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the boys had likewise been summoned by Madam Pomfrey. All week, none of them had been able to so much as look at a girl without stammering and turning strange colors.

Harry, it seemed, was not immune.

After an hour of trying and failing to get a response out of him, Hermione pushed the book away and said loudly, "For Heaven's sake, if you're going to be such a child, I'm not going to waste my time!"

He shot her a look of complete alarm. "No, don't— I'm sorry—"

She huffed. "It wasn't easy for us girls, either. So…" She gathered herself, ignoring her blush. "We can just say it was all terrible, and proceed from there."

His smile was small, hesitant. "All right."

"You've gotten very mysterious, these days," Alice was saying later that night, in the middle of her moisturization routine. "I feel like I hardly see you."

Hermione shrugged. "The common room gets so loud at the weekends, especially in winter. I like doing my work where it's nice and quiet."

Alice snorted. "If you think the Ravenclaw common room gets rowdy, you should see the Gryffindors'." And she darted a sneaky look around the room, biting her lip.

Mary sat up at once. "Al, you didn't—"

Alice was blushing now, and grinning. "Maybe I did."

"Dean Thomas?" said Ethel, beating all of them to it. He and Alice had become quite good friends as a result of the Art Club. Alice's crush on Dean was, it appeared, an open secret.

"Spill," hissed Mary, launching herself onto Alice's bed.

Alice beamed, clearly loving all of the attention. "Well, he just wanted to show me some of his sketches. So he brought me back to the common room while he fetched them from his dorm."

"What was it like?" said Ethel. "Was it like ours?"

"Not really," Alice replied. "It's in a tower, and it's quite loud, sort of rowdy. Those Weasley twins were clearly in the middle of planning something, and loads of people were listening to the wireless and playing games. I doubt I saw even a scrap of coursework."

"Was Harry there?" said Mary, sounding a bit odd — eager, but trying to hide it. Hermione shot her a look, trying to figure out what that meant.

"Yes," said Alice. "He was sitting with a bunch of his mates from the team. They were chucking a Quaffle around."

Ethel rolled her eyes. "Of course they were."

After that, the conversation focused on Alice getting to see some of Dean's work, and the finer points of his smile, but Hermione found it difficult to concentrate. She couldn't seem to shake the image of Harry, slumped in a Gryffindor armchair, relaxed and loose, grinning as he tossed a Quaffle around the room.

"Better," Harry said, nodding. Hermione took a breath and stepped away, cast a quick Finite. "Your reflexes are improving."

"Much better, Mr. Potter." McGonagall gave them her patented Not A Smile over the top of his most recent Transfiguration exam. Hermione smiled back, and Harry grinned.

Professor Black actually looked surprised when Hermione banished her Boggart. "Well… very well done, Miss Granger."

They did not see each other before the holidays. On Christmas Eve, Hermione was tucked into her favorite armchair, halfway through a PD James, Felix snoozing on her knees, when she heard the tap tap tap on the window.

It was a snowy owl. Her mother actually gasped at the sight of it, while Hermione's stomach rolled through her torso.

"She's beautiful. Gosh, I wouldn't have minded you getting an owl if… whose is it?"

Hermione cleared her throat, not blushing. "A friend's." She fumbled with the letter. It was a card, a moving image of holly and Butterbeer dancing on the front. I never said Happy Christmas, read the handwriting she still was learning to read. So I'm saying it now.

She sent Hedwig off with a fresh bit of ham and a scrap of stationery that said, Better late than never. Happy Christmas, Harry.

"Mum," Hermione said, snuggling back into her chair. "What do you know about dyslexia?"

They never crossed paths in Hogsmeade. But Hermione saw the way the other students watched him, even when they weren't in school, and she understood it. She understood that something about him was intangible, fleeting. Like a Snitch.

Harry actually laughed when he walked into their classroom, scarf wrapped up to his mouth. "Is that a Quaffle?"

"Yes," said Hermione, eying it with some trepidation. "We're trying something new. I'm going to quiz you, and we're going to play catch."

She only dropped the Quaffle about ten times, and he never said a word.

She tried everything she could think of. Tossing the Quaffle around, playing music while they worked, coming up with pneumonic devices, games, all of it. And soon enough, Harry Potter went from steady improvement to nothing short of miraculous.

He stared down at his most recent Transfiguration exam, the red 80 hovering in the lenses of his spectacles. Hermione tried not to grin. "Wow," he finally managed, and she laughed.

Valentine's Day was a nightmare. Hermione watched, horrified, as everyone in her year turned into a complete idiot. And it seemed that every girl in the entire school had sent Harry Potter a sing-o-gram.

"Shame," he said, when Ravenclaw lost to Slytherin.

Hermione hummed. "Rather have that than a gnome singing opera."

The snow melted, Hermione drew up a punishing revision schedule for her exams, Alice had her first kiss, Ethel got her period, and when Harry flashed Hermione a grin across their worktable, her stomach did not flip upside down.

"Are you coming? To the match?"

"I haven't decided yet," she said to her textbook. Which was partially true.

Harry caught the Snitch, but Ravenclaw won. The noise was deafening. Hermione did her best to cheer along with the others, and did not think about the way he'd looked up at the sky, then turned away, his shoulders slumped.

It was harder to revise with him, once exams were underway. The girls expected her in the library or the common room, and frowned when she tried to beg off. In the end, they only managed to squeeze in a spare few hours, and when Hermione got to their classroom, Harry's hair was vertical and his expression was wild.

It rattled her, in more ways than one. She'd never seen him like that before. She'd never seen him more scared, or more determined. But she'd put her head down and gotten to work.

Usual place, read the note that appeared beside her plate at supper the following night, though she had no idea how. Nine o'clock.

Thankfully, the girls were too worn out to notice that she was gone brushing her teeth a little longer than usual. When Hermione slipped into their classroom, she couldn't help but shiver.

Harry was grinning, his exam paper held aloft. An 87. "All thanks to you."

"And you," she said, trying to smile. "You're smarter than you think, Harry."

"What about you?" His eyes danced in the glow of the fire. "Defense?"

She did smile then. "Ninety."

They last spoke in the crush of people waiting for their luggage at the end of the train. Harry did not look at her when he said, "Any plans for the hols?"

"Barbados," Hermione replied, glancing around to make sure no one noticed them speaking. "We go every year."

He showed only a flicker of surprise, then nodded.

"You?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "New York, apparently. I've never been."

We'll be in the same time zone, she didn't say.

He flashed her a small smile and picked up his trunk. "Bye."

"Bye," she said, not that he heard.

The summer was even more relentless than usual. More than once, her mother and father drifted to her bedroom door, but Hermione ignored them, buried in one of the enormous texts she'd somehow convinced Madam Pince to let her keep over the holidays, sand and salt be damned. Peppermint Creams apparently worked wonders, when put into the right hands.

Days passed as she read until she fell asleep, then woke up and kept reading, her fingers stained with ink, her hair wild with frustration. The ocean echoed around her, a constant companion as day and night lost their meaning. Her determination was such that it was a while before Hermione noticed that none of her swimming costumes fit her anymore. So on a bright, breezy day, she and her mother caught the bus into town, and Hermione found herself thrust in front of a changing room mirror for the first time in a year.

Something caught in her throat, and she reached for her wrap, tugging it around her hips. When the silence went on too long, her mother said, "Well? What do you think?"

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, trying to imagine the smell of a new book, the golden light of the Hogwarts lawn in autumn, the curve of a familiar grin. Anything to forget the sight of the pale, jagged lines at the bend of her legs, the curve of her hips, the space between her breasts. Anything to forget the way her body swelled and spilled, in a way it never had before.

"It's, um." She swallowed, tried again. "A little tight. And maybe a one-piece?"

When she reunited with the girls at Alice's house, things had changed again, and she briefly wondered if they'd ever stop. Alice had come even more into her own, an undeniable beauty, Mary had begun to wear sundresses that showed off her fresh Italian tan, and even Ethel had begun to fill out. Hermione heard all about something called the Quidditch World Cup, which happened to be that very night. "It's all fun and games until the match goes on for a week," said Alice, tickling Felix's belly. "But he's gorgeous, and no mistake."

"Victor Krum," Mary said, like it was obvious. She plopped a magazine down in front of Hermione, who found herself faced with a scowling, vaguely Slavic-looking hulk of a boy.

Diagon Alley was abuzz with it as well — all anyone could talk about was the match, how Ireland had won but Bulgaria got the Snitch. And the people who'd actually been to the match were nothing short of fair weather royalty.

"Apparently," Mary said, sneaking a not-very-sneaky glance down the road, where a small crowd was forming around a table at Fortescue's, "he and Krum got on very well."

Hermione frowned, finally looking up from their new Potions textbook. "How on earth—?"

"Professor Black knows everyone," Mary said. "He even took some of the other Gryffindor boys, Longbottom and the Weasleys." She shook her head, presumably with envy. Hermione stared at her for a moment, wondering when on earth Mary of all people had gone so boy-mad.

She saw him only from a distance, on the train, at the Welcoming Feast, and he always seemed to be surrounded. He'd grown, and he looked sort of stretched-out, skinny.

By now it was second nature for her to pay attention to Harry's work in classes, always taking mental notes about what worked for him, what didn't. And for a moment, when Harry's potion turned bright yellow and curdled into a smoking hunk, Hermione couldn't hide her shock. She wasn't alone, and Harry dragged a hand through his hair, his body livid with frustration.

It wasn't until later, after she'd returned her books to the library and Madam Pince had asked her, "Find what you were looking for?" and Hermione had said, "Almost," that she found herself pulled behind a false tapestry and almost nose-to-nose with Harry Potter.

She stepped back in utter panic, banging her head against the wall, but he didn't seem to notice. He was definitely taller than her now, and even in the semi-darkness, she could see just how nervous he was, how shaken.

"I need your help," he said, his voice brittle. "That can't happen again."

Why, she wanted to ask, feeling a touch unsympathetic. Would it really be so horrible if, every once in a while, not everything in his life was absolutely perfect?

"All right," she said instead. "Saturday?"

"My—uncle." Harry cleared his throat, glanced at her. "He's a dab hand at Potions, when he wants to be. And he likes to talk while he works."

Again, it took a moment to sink in. She stared at him. "You memorized our set potions?"

He fidgeted. "Not… intentionally. But that's why I know a lot of the theory," he added. "It wasn't just recipes, it was—"

"But the other day, it was a new one. One you hadn't seen before."

"Yeah." A sulk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "I couldn't read the damn board, and I didn't want to pull out the book and—"

"And have people asking questions," Hermione finished for him. She tapped her wand against the table a few times in thought. It seemed that no matter what they did, reading would always present a problem for him. If only— "So you want to get ahead."

He snorted. "Or at least keep myself from making a bomb, yeah."

"Have you tried, well." Now she was the one clearing her throat. "You could ask your desk partner if they'd read the instructions to you aloud."

"And have Neville ask me about a thousand questions? Sorry, no."

I would do it, she wanted to say. I'd sit with you, help you. But she knew that would never happen. "We could make some of the theories and recipes into a song."

"A song?"

"Sure. Then you'd just be the barmy tosser humming to himself."

His grin was sudden. "I can live with that."

Harry Potter liked the Beatles. And Peter Gabriel. And the Stones. And about fifty other bands from the seventies, some of which she'd never even heard of. But she was fairly certain it was all thanks to a certain godfather's particular influence.

She bit back a smile as a few notes of "Hard Day's Night" drifted across the dungeon. Neville was frowning at Harry. "What's that?"

"Nothing, sorry." Harry gave an impatient shrug. "Stuck in my head."

And then, miracle of all miracles, Dean Thomas asked Alice to the first Hogsmeade weekend. This led to three hours of trying on dresses and testing different makeup spells until they found the most perfect combination. As Alice beamed and primped herself, Hermione tried not to feel anything other than happiness. But a part of her knew that this would never be her.

"I think it's a bit much," Ethel said to her later, as they watched Dean and Alice go into the Three Broomsticks. "We're only fourth years."

Hermione shot her a humorless smile. "I'm afraid, Ethel, we're just getting started."

It was another two months before Harry said to her, "You're friends with that Alice girl, right?"

She almost rolled her eyes. "Yes."

He nodded absentmindedly, skimming a paragraph of his notes. "She's nice, but she's a handful. She's got Dean running around in circles."

Hermione spluttered for a moment, indignant on her friend's behalf, but he wasn't completely wrong. Dean and Alice were among the first of their year to tiptoe around the idea of dating, and Alice was determined that they set what she felt to be an adequate example. Hermione noticed that quite a few girls in their year were green with envy, the least among them being Mary herself, though she did a decent job of hiding it.

Hermione's response was to bury herself in the library. She was getting close, so close, that it seemed impossible to even think of stopping now. So she wasn't there when Slytherin beat Gryffindor, when Ravenclaw beat Hufflepuff. No one really seemed to notice her absence, and she preferred it that way.

Snow pounded the castle in early December, and it was on one particularly dark, freezing night when Harry frowned at her and said, "What's Christmas like, for Muggles?"

"Not very different," Hermione replied, forcing back a smile. "Only our crackers are far more boring."

She didn't think anything of it at the time, but on Christmas Eve, there came another tap tap tap on the sitting room window. Her father raised an eyebrow as she fumbled with the letter and its attached parcel. Hedwig hooted softly and nuzzled her fingers.

Have a cracking Christmas. -Harry

She stared down at the present — a row of ten bright red magical crackers, shining in the reflected light of her Christmas tree. She swallowed hard, running a finger across the box's lid.

Her father smiled. "You and your friend should start exchanging presents before the night of. That poor owl must be freezing."

Hedwig spent the night nestled in a particularly warm corner of Hermione's bedroom. When she flew off the next morning, it was with a card and a parcel of fresh mince pies.

"There's a cat," said Harry, rather intelligently, as he came into their classroom.

Hermione frowned at her notes. "He's got a cough. I have to dose him every few hours, so it was easier just to bring him."

Harry sat down at the table, looking at Felix, who was curled up in a thick, knitted blanket. "Is he yours?"

"Yes. Meet Felix." She gave the cat an affectionate rub on the head. "A bit useless, but I love him all the same."

Harry tickled Felix under the chin and got a rumbling purr in response. "My godfather can't stand them, and no one in my dorm's got one. I've always wondered what they're like."

Hermione shrugged. "A bit stinky, a bit annoying, and they find interesting places to sleep."

"Like what?"

"Felix sleeps on top of my head, most nights."

She didn't realize what she'd said until she looked up and found Harry staring at her, incredulous, something like a smile playing about his mouth. "Seriously?"

Hermione cleared her throat and did not blush. "One does get used to it."

"I must admit, Miss Granger," said Professor McGonagall. "Whatever you're doing, it's working."

"Thank you, Professor."

"And it seems that Mr. Potter is not the only one improving where needed." McGonagall's expression took on a hint of slyness, and Hermione squirmed — this was why she hated being summoned to McGonagall alone. "Though perhaps it is no surprise."

Hermione's throat worked. "We help each other."

McGonagall nodded. "As it should be."

Later that week, she watched as Harry successfully Transfigured a pair of jeans into a book and wondered how much longer this would last. She could hardly imagine that they would continue these sessions all the way through the end of their NEWTs year — Harry was becoming more and more independent with each passing month. Soon enough, he would not need her help.

This thought, somehow, created a yawning, sticky void somewhere below her stomach, not in the least because she was petrified about how she would maintain her DADA marks without his help. But the idea of asking him to continue helping her, when he was receiving nothing in return, was almost too mortifying to consider.

Hermione was so wrapped up in her own anxieties that it was a great surprise when, one evening, Alice announced that she and Mary would be going to Hogsmeade with the Gryffindor boys. "And if all goes well," she continued, her eyes sparkling as Mary giggled, "we'll be eating supper at the Gryffindor table. So don't wait for us!"

The following day, Ethel watched from the Ravenclaw table, a touch incredulous, as Alice and Mary bounded off to meet the boys in the Entrance Hall. "I didn't think you were right, before," she said. "When you said it was just starting."

"I'd hoped I was wrong," Hermione replied, not watching as Harry and Neville joined Dean and Ron on their way out. "Let's just hope everyone gets along."

Alice and Mary did not return until much later that evening, their eyes bright and their smiles wide as they giggled their way into the dormitory. "I think that went very well," said Alice. "Mary certainly seemed to make quite an impression."

"Do you really think so?" said Mary. "I think he was just being nice."

"Don't be silly," said Alice at once. "He kept looking at you, finding ways to chat with you. That's a very promising sign."

"Who?" said Ethel, but Hermione had the sinking feeling that she already knew.

"Harry, of course." Mary was beaming now, blushing. "He's so lovely."

"He really is," said Alice. "Not stuck-up at all."

I know, Hermione didn't say, cuddling Felix to her chest.

It was two weeks before he mentioned it, which, she had to admit, was sort of infuriating.

"So…" Harry fiddled with his quill as rain spattered at the windows. "You said you were friends with that Alice girl."

Hermione hummed, not looking up for fear of what he might see in her face.

"Does that mean you're friends… with Mary?"

"Yes."

He nodded, and didn't say anything for a few moments. "She's all right."

"She is," Hermione agreed. Valentine's is next week, she didn't say. Have you got anything planned?

On Valentine's Day, Alice and Mary woke up to piles of cards and boxes of chocolates at the foot of their beds. Hermione and Ethel did not.

It was a few minutes of squealing before Mary thrust a card into the air. "A secret admirer!"

Alice actually gasped. "No way." She launched herself across the room. "Let me see—"

Hermione smiled, but something was sinking deep within her, something like dread.

"It must be him, it's got to. Who else could it be? All the other cards are signed—"

On and on it went, but when Hermione finally got a glimpse of the card, the dread vanished, replaced by something small and fluttering. It wasn't his handwriting. It wasn't his handwriting.

But she couldn't tell Mary, not without raising a few alarms. In the eyes of her friends, she and Harry had hardly ever spoken, let alone seen each other's coursework. No, it would be the equivalent of a bomb going off. So she didn't say anything other than what was expected of her, and when she turned away to get dressed, she smiled.

The night was cold, sticky, when Hermione jolted awake to a hand on her arm. She sat up, shoving her hair out of her face, and met a familiar pair of green eyes.

"You were asleep." He was whispering. "The library's about to close."

Hermione nodded, her stomach swimming.

Harry's attention drifted to the mound of books in front of her, and he frowned. "What's all this for?"

"Arithmancy," she said at once, the lie coming easily to her cotton-wool mouth. She slammed the nearest book shut before he could read any of it, but she needn't have worried. He'd busied himself with her quill, ink, and parchment, his hands moving in easy, practiced movements that reflected the hours they'd spent in each other's company, the ease with which they shared a space.

But he couldn't do that here. Not where people could see.

Hermione's hand darted out before she could stop it. She grabbed her inkwell, and, as a consequence, grabbed Harry's hand.

It was the first time they'd touched. They both froze, and Hermione couldn't ignore the jolt of energy that zipped up her arm, beginning and ending with the warm, dry brush of his skin against hers.

She cleared her throat, gaze fixed on the tabletop. And he surrendered, letting go of the ink. Neither of them said a word as she finished packing and stacking her books at the end of the table.

The only other students were stragglers, half-asleep or half-manic, so no one paid them a spare glance or thought as they walked out of the library together. Still, Hermione practiced her excuses — We just ran into each other, and he had a question about that Potions essay—

"Hungry?" said Harry, when they were out in the hall.

Hermione cut him a glance. "Dinner's long gone."

His grin was small, cheeky. "I never said 'dinner.'"

Ten minutes later, Hermione watched in equal parts fascination and horror as a sea of house elves clustered around her and Harry, squealing their greetings and offering every type of food known to man. He smiled down at them, and accepted an enormous sandwich from an elf with especially large ears and eyes like tennis balls.

"Go on!" Harry's words were muffled with the ham. "They won't bite."

Mute, Hermione took an éclair and felt a ripple of unease as the elves all beamed with delight. She sat down on the nearest chair, feeling woozy all over again.

"Aren't they brilliant?" Harry joined her. Half of his sandwich had disappeared.

"Are they paid?" were the first words out of her mouth.

He was looking at her, she could feel it. "The ones who want to be paid, yes."

Shame, a deep, cold shame, welled below her ribs. She was an idiot. An utter and complete fool. Four years at Hogwarts, and she'd never thought—

"It's better than what most house elves get," Harry said, almost as if he could hear her thinking. He nodded at the elf with the huge ears. "Dobby used to belong to the Malfoys, and they made him iron his hands, beat himself with a poker. He's still got the scars. He calls this place Heaven."

"But that doesn't make it so." Frustrated, Hermione took a savage bite of her éclair. She was, unhelpfully, quite hungry.

"You're right," said Harry, his voice even. "It doesn't. But most wizards think that elves are witless beasts. Any change, any at all, is still progress."

Hermione didn't say anything, but she finished her éclair.

They parted ways at the top of the last staircase. Harry shot her one of his unreadable smiles and said, "Sweet tooth?"

She did not blush. Instead, she turned away. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

"SPEW?" Alice wrinkled her nose and frowned at the badge. "What's that?"

"The Society for the Protection of Elfish Welfare," Hermione replied.

Mary was looking at her like she had a second head. "But they like working, Hermione."

"That doesn't mean they don't deserve protection."

"Protection from what?"

"Unfair working conditions." Slave labor, she didn't say. "Exploitative employers."

Alice was still frowning at the badge. "It's really not a very good name."

In the end, only Ethel signed her petition. Ethel, and every Muggleborn in the school, as far as she could tell. Some of the other students did as well, but most of them were too confused or embarrassed. Most of them ignored her, rolled their eyes, shook their heads.

One day after class, she hung back at Professor McGonagall's desk. "Professor, I'd like to meet with the Headmaster."

It was the closest she'd ever come to seeing McGonagall do a double-take. "Whatever for, Miss Granger?"

"I want to speak to him about the working conditions of the house elves here at Hogwarts."

McGonagall, wisely, did not press the matter. "I'll pass on the message."

Dumbledore saw her on an unforgiving April evening, when the wind whipped at the castle and rain smacked the windows. His eyes were warm, kind, and he did not interrupt her once as she said her piece. And when she was finished, he held out a little metal tin and said, "Sherbert lemon?"

Mystified, Hermione shook her head. "No, thank you, sir."

He popped one into his mouth. "You are quite industrious, Miss Granger."

"And concerned," she said. "About the future of those creatures."

Dumbledore nodded. "An admirable trait. But what you ask, Miss Granger, is more than the house elves would willingly receive."

"You mean freedom? Why wouldn't they want freedom?"

"They are afraid of it," he said. "So would you be, if you had never lived free."

"But that's not an excuse. That's not a reason not to try."

"I agree. But you can only push people so far, before they break." He steepled his fingers. "Why don't you spend some time with them? Learn their grievances, their wishes, their hopes. The more you understand them, the more you will learn about how to help them."

"Very well." Her face was on fire. "But what about you?"

To her surprise, he smiled. "I, Miss Granger, am happy to pay all of them whatever they wish to be paid. To offer them all a day off each week, and two weeks of paid vacation each year. Whether they will accept it is another matter entirely."

Exams loomed, and Hermione had been so busy spending time with the house elves and looking up decades of Ministerial creature-based policies that she hardly noticed. When she did notice, she panicked, and threw herself into revision.

"Bloody hell." Harry leaned back in his chair, shoved his glasses up his head. "History of Magic might actually be the death of me."

"Not a bad way to go, if you think about it." Hermione underlined a sentence in her notes, and tried not to think about the way her hand was shaking.

She didn't mind exams. They were quite useful, in a way, because it meant that for several weeks out of the year, she didn't have to hear the gossip, the rumors, the boy drama. Even Alice insisted upon long, silent evenings devoted to Transfiguration, or Arithmancy, or Runes.

Harry had never mentioned Mary again, and over the past few months, Hermione had heard more than one theory about why on earth he hadn't asked Mary out. According to Alice and Mary herself, it was only a matter of time. Wasn't it?

"Barbados again?" Harry asked her with a grin. Once again, they were caught in the jostle of departing students.

"Yes." She was smiling, still riding the wave of euphoria from receiving a 92 on her Defense exam. "New York?"

"Switzerland." He reached for his trunk. "My godfather's got some interesting ideas."

The island was hot, beautiful, and Hermione eased onto the sand with a sigh.

"Not so busy this summer?"

She didn't look up at her father, but she did think about the pile of books she'd smuggled out of Hogwarts, the pile of books she was certain would be the last. "Maybe not right now. But I will have to start revising. I've got some important exams next year."

"OWLs, right?"

She did look up at him then, pleasantly surprised. "Yes." Her gaze stuck on his shorts, his headphones, his ugly trainers. "Going on a run?"

His grin was quick. "Is it a day ending in -y?"

Hermione's thoughts turned, as they often did, these days, to her body. She imagined, but did not feel, the roll of her stomach, the ripple of her back. "Teach me?" she blurted, before she could stop herself. "Not today, but—"

If he was surprised, he hid it. "Yeah, sure. You can come with me tomorrow."

Which was how Hermione Granger took up running.

In July, she watched the sea turtles stumble into the water. In August, she watched a storm settle, black and green, on the turquoise horizon. In August, she finally answered her own question, and slept for almost an entire day. In August, she opened her Hogwarts letter, and a blue badge fell out. In August, Alice beamed at her and pulled her into a hug.

Everything was the same, and everything was different. One morning, when the sun was still fresh on the horizon and Hermione was panting from her run, she walked into Alice's kitchen to find that Mary was already awake, nursing a cup of tea.

"Morning." Mary stared at her. "What were you doing?"

Hermione smiled, going for a glass of water. She knew she was a picture — huge, messy ponytail, tank top and shorts soaked through with sweat, headphones clinging to her neck. "Going for a run."

"A run?" Mary repeated, like it was an insult. "On purpose?"

Hermione laughed, then. "Yes."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I like it." Which was true. She could remember how difficult it was, those first few weeks, to run only a mile or two, and never at any great pace. Now, her body sang with it, and it was only her and the ground, meeting again and again, in a never-ending dance. She could run five miles, six miles, or even more, and feel like she was flying. And slowly, over time, it had become easier to look in the mirror. Not that her body had changed much, because it hadn't, apart from the new muscles in her legs and her stomach. But now, when she looked at herself, she saw what she could do, instead of what she couldn't.

Diagon was its usual busy, cheerful self. Hermione lost herself for almost an hour in the stationery shop, and treated herself to a new edition of her Runes ledger. When the time came for their customary ice cream, Alice shot them all a knowing smile and said, "Sorry, ladies, be right back." She went off to the table in the corner of the patio, where Dean and half of the Gryffindor boys were holding court, as they always did.

As she licked at her pistachio and honey, Hermione glanced over the boys, taking in the changes, the shifts. Ron's hair was getting quite unruly, and Seamus had exploded with freckles. Neville had grown like a tree, and his teeth were no longer crooked. Beside him, someone with sharp, impressive shoulders was telling a joke, using his hands. Wide, deft hands. Seeker's hands.

Hermione almost dropped her ice cream in shock. It was Harry.

He'd grown, of course, but it was more than that. He'd filled out, becoming broad as well as tall. His face had lost some of its roundness, and she noticed the sharp line of his chin, his jaw. And she wasn't the only one.

"God." Mary frowned at the crowd of third year girls that had formed a few paces away from the boys' table. They were all twittering and swooning, blushing and giggling. "You'd think they'd at least try to be subtle."

Hermione and Ethel traded a look. Neither of them mentioned the way Mary had not-so-subtly "run into" Harry several times a day for a week after Valentine's, trying to get him to confess to being her secret admirer.

At the Welcoming Feast, it took Hermione a few minutes to notice the tiny little scroll tucked in beside her plate. Her heart beat painfully in her chest, and she slid the scroll into her sleeve, then unrolled it under the table.

Saturday, usual place, usual time

p.s. Your hair looks nice

Something inside her stumbled, and she put a hand to her hair on reflex, touching the neat, tight Dutch braids she'd done on the train before her first ever Prefects meeting. Knowing how Harry snuck the notes onto the table — by asking a favor of his favorite house elf — did not stop the butterflies from exploding in her chest.

When the time came, on Saturday, Hermione was prepared.

She got there before Harry, and when he walked in, smiling, she steeled herself. She still wasn't used to the way he looked now, tipping over the edge from boy to man.

"Good holiday?"

"Yes, thank you. You?"

"Yeah, it was great." He swung himself into his usual seat, all legs and ruffled hair. "I knew you'd get that." He pointed at the badge pinned to her robes. "So, have you drawn up your OWLs timetable yet?"

"Harry," she said. "We need to talk."

He frowned at her. "What d'you mean?"

Hermione cleared her throat, reaching for her bag. "You may recall that we began these sessions because you were having trouble with the set texts for our classes. But you've improved, and you've found a system that works for you. The only problem that remains is your difficulty reading." She pulled out a book, and opened it somewhere in the middle. "I think I've solved that problem."

His frown became a stare of confusion. He didn't say anything.

"I know you don't want to tell your godfather, or Madam Pomfrey, or even a Healer. But you're not alone, Harry. Witches and wizards have been having this sort of problem for centuries. Even the Muggles have it. They call it 'dyslexia.' I'm not diagnosing you," she added quickly. "But as far as I can tell, it's what you've got. And I found something that might help you read." Next, she pulled out a short list of spells.

"I've done all the research I can do, and I've tested them all on myself without any ill effects. These are spells that should improve your ability without affecting any of your other cognitive functions or magical powers. Trouble is, brains are tricky, to put it in very, very, simple terms. You may find that some of these spells work, and others don't. It will be a case of trial and error, and you will find which one suits you best."

Harry was still staring at her, expressionless. "You tested them? On yourself?"

"Well, yes." Her shoulders stiffened. "But they're all from Mungo's or Ministry-approved texts. If they weren't safe to use on humans, they wouldn't have been published."

"But, Hermione—" He shook his head. "Hermione, that's incredibly dangerous—"

"Not any more dangerous than willfully flying in the path of a Bludger, oh, I don't know, three matches in a row—"

"Quidditch and experimental magic are two very different things—"

"There's nothing experimental about it—" Which, lie, three of the five spells were entirely new creations of her own devising— "It's actually quite a simple treatment, compared to—"

He shoved a hand through his hair. "God, Hermione, I'm handling it just fine—"

"But this year," she burst out, more shrill than she'd intended, "Harry, this year is unlike any year we've had before! These exams matter, no matter who your parents were, or who your godfather is, and I know you, I know you want to do well on them, so for Heaven's sake, just get out your wand and try one, before I try one for you!"
"Fine!" Harry whipped out his wand, stared down at the bit of paper, his nostrils flaring, and pointed his wand at his own temple. Hermione said a very brief, silent prayer, then watched him speak the words that she knew better than almost any other spell.

It looked as though nothing happened, but Hermione felt it, the shift in the air, like a breeze. Harry blinked a few times, then lowered his wand, and gave his head a great shake. When his gaze caught the text she'd left lying open on the desk — her battered copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream — he froze, his expression livid with wonder.

Joy, unrepentant, flew through Hermione's stomach, closely followed by a wave of sadness. It worked. "Well?"

"It… yeah. Shit." Then he squeezed his eyes shut, gave his head another massive shake, like he was trying to dislodge water from his ears. "Makes me dizzy."

She sighed, pulled out her wand. "Finite."

Harry took a step back as the spell receded, his arms spread wide, looking every inch like an old sailor trying to get his land legs.

"Sorry about that," Hermione said. "It's a common side effect with things like this. The charms can affect the inner ear."

He cut her a sharp glance. "So they are charms? I'm not… changing anything up there? Not permanently?"

"No," she confirmed, then frowned. "You didn't think to ask that before you pointed your wand at your own head?"

"You didn't think to tell me," he said.

"Well, I just—" Irritation, spiking hot and persistent in her throat. "I forget, sometimes, that you don't know everything I know."

Harry looked at her for a second, then, to her astonishment, burst into laughter.

God, she really was blushing now. "Shut up. Try another one."

Slowly, steadily, they worked their way through the list. Harry found that spells three and five worked the best, and Hermione explained to him that he could test each one out, and find which one he preferred depending on the situation. The charms would last for an indefinite period of time, at least two hours but possibly longer — it varied from person to person. He might have to recast them several times a day. "And," she added, "with time, you might find yourself able to cast these spells nonverbally."

He nodded. "Right." And then he looked at her, something raw and new showing in his face. "Thank you. For doing this for me."

"No problem," she managed. So, here they were — at the end. "Well, now that you've got your spells, you won't be needing a tutor anymore."

"Yeah, right." Harry's gaze dropped to the book. "Is this a play?"

"Yes, it's—" Hermione paused in the middle of gathering her bag. "Harry, you do know who William Shakespeare is?"

"Of course." He flashed her a grin. "I just… I've never read anything of his."

"He's quite good." She scooped up the book, tucked it into the pocket of her robes. She had to get out of here. "Well, I suppose I'll see you in class."

"Yeah." Harry nodded, not quite looking at her. "See you."

Hermione left without looking back.

Hermione grinned as pink confetti rained down on her, getting caught in her hair. "Alice, this is absolutely ridiculous—"

"No, it isn't!" Alice leaned forward, tucking something shiny and made out of plastic — also pink — into Hermione's hair. Mary and Ethel giggled. "It's your sixteenth!"

By the time they got to breakfast, Hermione was smiling and laughing with the others, feeling lighter, more buoyant, than she had in weeks. They'd spoiled her rotten, filling her bed with books and sweets and a new set of fancy hair potions, and she could hardly remember a better birthday. That, of course, went on hold when she saw Harry Potter lingering outside the Great Hall.

She looked away as soon as she saw him, determined not to react. He, unfortunately, seemed to have other ideas.

"Hermione." He came right up to them, hands in his pockets, and he looked fidgety. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

Alice, Mary, and Ethel all froze along with her, and they traded looks of pure astonishment.

"Sure," she said, her face on fire, then glanced at the others. "I'll see you in there."

Before Alice and Mary could react, Ethel had them both by the wrist and she tugged them into the Great Hall.

Hermione looked up at him, feeling a prickle of irritation. He knew better than to do something like this. "What is it?"

But Harry seemed distracted. He was staring at her hair. "You've got confetti—"

"Yes, I know—"

"And chocolate—"

"Yes, I— what?"

"Here." His hand came up, his fingers hovering just shy of her skin, an inch to the left of her mouth. She could feel the nearby heat of his touch, and she shivered.

"God." Hermione rubbed at the hunk of frosting. "Ethel shoved a cupcake in my face, and of course she didn't tell me I didn't get it all—"

Harry looked at her, putting some things together. "Hermione, is it… is it your birthday?"

"Yes." She looked away. "Did you need something, Harry?"

"Well, I was thinking." He cleared his throat, and he got all fidgety again. "Those spells have really helped, Hermione, I'm reading without any trouble, more than I have in years, but… what if we kept… working together?"

She squeezed her own thumb, hard. "Harry, you don't need my help anymore."

"I don't mean the tutoring, I just mean, well." He pushed a hand through his hair, and she wanted to roll her eyes at the familiarity of the gesture. "It's OWLs year, isn't it? You don't have to tutor me, we could just… work together. Revise together."

She raised an eyebrow. "Revise together?"

"If you want," he hurriedly tacked on. "A lot of my friends don't seem that fussed about it — revision, I mean — and I'd quite like to, you know, pass."

Something rather like a fire had erupted in Hermione's chest. Determined not to show one inch of it on her face, she said, "I suppose."

"Really? Great." Harry's grin was sudden, brilliant. "But could we maybe change the day? Angelina's scheduling all sorts of insane practices, and I can't guarantee that—"

"Sure." Hermione could hardly believe what she was saying, let alone hearing. "Tuesdays? I've got rounds on Mondays and Wednesdays. And we could start at seven, instead."

"Tuesday at seven." He was still grinning. "Thanks, Hermione. And happy birthday."

When she got back to the Ravenclaw table, Alice and Mary were practically foaming at the mouth. "What did he say?" said Alice, grabbing her arm. "What did you talk about?"

"Nothing," Hermione said, flippant and dismissive. "He just had a message for me from Professor McGonagall."

"Oh." Alice and Mary visibly deflated, going back to their toast. But Ethel shot Hermione a thoughtful look, and Hermione blushed all over again, burying her face in her teacup.

A few days later, she nipped back to the dorm room before supper, and was astonished to find Hedwig perched on her bedside table. Felix was watching the owl with a sort of detached interest, his tail twitching.

Hermione quickly shut the door, dropped her bag. "What the hell," she muttered, hurrying over to the owl, who, she now realized, was standing on top of a large brown parcel. Her heart thudding, Hermione reached for it, and Hedwig fluttered away to perch on her headboard.

It was a box of chocolates, nice ones, from Honeydukes. And a hardcover copy of the collected comedies of Windelfur the Grand, Wizarding Britain's answer to Shakespeare. The enclosed note only served to deepen her confusion.

Both of these come on recommendation, so I'm sorry if they're awful. Happy Belated Birthday. I'll try to be on time next year.

Hermione sank down onto her bed, her head and heart roaring with unnamed emotions. Harry Potter had gotten her a birthday present, and she had no idea what to make of it.

"Fuck goblin wars."

The expletive startled a laugh out of Hermione. "Harry—"

"No, I'm serious. After this year, I'm dropping History, I am, I can't take much more of this—" And he slammed his book shut, shoving it across the table. "Come on, let's do Defense."

She rolled her eyes but copied him, pushing away her Charms textbook. "You are in quite the mood today."

"No, I'm not," he replied, even though she knew it had been three days since he'd been on the Quidditch pitch. Harry took out his wand, his glasses flashing silver in the reflected light of the moon shining through the windows, and she could see it, the energy rippling through his shoulders.

Hermione sighed, walking across the classroom, some ten paces away. She was more tired than usual, which meant that this would be only slightly more enjoyable than a tooth extraction. She drew her wand, and waited.

Later, when she was bone-tired and loose with the leftover buzz of magic, she had the thought that maybe, one day, they would have a proper duel. She yawned as she was packing up her bag, and Harry noticed.

When they reached the end of the hall, he nodded at the nearest staircase, which would take them in the opposite direction from both their common rooms. "Come on."

"Better?" he asked her some ten minutes later, ham sandwich in hand.

Hermione nodded, sipping at her delicious, perfect hot chocolate, trying not to think about what Eric, the other Ravenclaw Prefect, would say if he could see her, in the kitchen, out after curfew. Around her, the elves smiled and bobbed, and when she unpacked her bag back in her room, she found an éclair shoved into one of the pockets, miraculously unscathed.

Alice and Dean "broke up," and it was pretty much the end of the world.

Or, at the very least, the end of Hermione's chances of getting a bit of peace and quiet in her own dormitory.

What had begun as a simmering, lethal anger had, within the course of three days, turned into lots of sobbing, feverish reexamination of minute, impossible details, and lots of frizzy hair, which, apparently, was catching. Hermione stared at herself in the mirror for a full thirty seconds, incredulous, before tugging her hair into two sections and getting it into Dutch braids.

"I have a theory," Harry said later, when they happened to be in the fourth floor corridor at the same time, with hardly any people, which left them able to speak to one another.

"Oh?"

"That when things go to shit, you braid your hair."

She would not laugh. She wouldn't. "Is it bad for you, as well?"

He nodded. "Poor bloke's an absolute mess. Mary's not letting him off easy, either."

"At least I talked her out of spiking his pumpkin juice."

"Do you even know what happened? Because I haven't got a bloody clue."

Hermione hummed. "Something about flowers, and possibly a pair of shoes. Though to be honest, we're on our twelfth rehash of the situation, and I hardly know up from down."

Harry looked at her, and something about it made her breath catch. Just then, the hall started to flood with students, and soon enough, they went their separate ways.

It was an interesting way to dance — at different ends of a room, barely touching, hardly even looking. But something about it was sort of thrilling, getting to be friends with Harry Potter on the sly. There wasn't much that her Ravenclaw friends didn't know about her; they were curious by nature, and she was happy to discuss the Muggle world, but this, this. This was something she could tuck away, could nurture, until she figured out what the hell it was.

"I never knew one person could have this many flashcards." Harry was staring at the piles of said flashcards, utterly morose.

Hermione tsked. Beside her, her quill was writing on its own, filling out card after card with everything they'd ever learned about magical creatures. "Concentrate, Harry."

He heaved a sigh. "Slave driver."

"Toenail."

They'd started meeting up more than once a week, in the occasional shared free period, but always in their secret classroom, never in the library or anywhere more public. This, like many other things, happened through a silent, mutual agreement. Hermione did not know when they both had reached a shared understanding of what they did and did not do. She thought that it had to have been near the beginning, or, failing that, somewhere in the middle. But, like too many other things about her friendship with Harry, it was a mystery.

Within a few weeks, their entire year shifted, like a faulty compass, to point towards one event, and one event only. The Yule Ball.

It was a dance for the fifth through seventh years, and, among other things, it was a rite of passage. This one, fateful night in December carried the possibilities of a thousand different firsts — a first drink, a first kiss, a first attempt at rolling down the Big Hill in dress robes. A first time for… you know.

"Bryony lost hers in the Prefects' bathroom," Alice was saying one morning as she put on mascara. It made her eyes look enormous, like those of a doe. "Anything's possible."

Hermione thought about the Prefects' bathroom, with its enormous bath, and made a silent vow to hit it with a dozen cleaning charms before she used it again.

Soon enough, it seemed like every conversation revolved around gowns, shoes, earrings, necklaces, tulle, hair, who was asking who, how to match one's dress to a set of dress robes, and it was too much, it was stifling, and it made her more thankful than ever that she'd brought her running shoes to Hogwarts. Early one December morning, she strapped them on, hit herself with half a dozen Warming Charms, and plugged in her Walkman.

Over the past few months, Hermione had developed a nice long jogging route that took her up behind the castle, around the lake, down into the gorge, and back up to the castle. She usually ran first thing in the morning, in the soft, still wet of the dawn, and had never seen another living person on her route, apart from Hagrid, who would sometimes putter around in his garden. It was the perfect escape, and she should have known that it would not last.

She didn't see him at all, which was astonishing, really, because the Gryffindor Quidditch jerseys were one of the greatest eyesores known to man. She didn't see him stop, surprised, broom in hand, but she did hear him call out, "Hermione?"

They were near the bottom edge of the castle, a stone's throw from the Quidditch pitch, where the neat, flat lawn gave way to a rocky outcropping. In the space of a single moment, her foot landed on the nearest ice-covered rock, then slipped down and took her with it.

Pain, exploding hot and furious, in her knee, then in her hand, her side. Gritting her teeth, Hermione let out a grunt as she rolled over in the frozen mud, her face burning with an embarrassment that only deepened as Harry hurried over.

He dropped his broom, knelt beside her. "Merlin's balls, are you all right?!"

"I'm fine," she managed, using her good hand to tear off her headphones. The Pointer Sisters spilled, tinny and thin, into the wet, foggy air, and her Walkman slid down the outcrop.

"You're bleeding."

So she was — her knee, and her palm. Hermione stared down at the jolts of brilliant red, and her entire body throbbed.

"We need to get you to the hospital wing."

"I'm fine," she said at once, then tried to bend her bad knee and had to bite back a groan.

Harry snorted. "Sure, you are. Come on." With that, he slid his arm beneath her shoulders, then in one fluid motion, he lifted her up off the ground and onto her good leg.

Hermione stumbled, more out of surprise than anything, and her head reeled in reply — maybe she'd hit that, too. A hallucination would certainly explain the current situation, because there was no way Harry Potter had his arm around her waist, his hip against hers, one hand splayed across her ribcage and the other wrapped around her wrist. She stared, uncomprehending, at where her arm lay across the back of his neck — his sweaty neck, she noticed.

"I didn't know you were a runner," he said, guiding her towards the grassier part of the hill. It was slow, fitful work.

Hermione nodded, then fought off a wave of nausea — she'd definitely hit her head. "Yes," she said, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, desperate to reclaim some sense of control. "For a while now. I picked it up from my dad."

"Oh." He sounded genuinely interested. "That's cool."

"He's more of a real runner, does half-marathons and things like that." The nausea was gone, replaced by a general wooziness. She tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, but the ground didn't feel real at all. The frigid air locked tight in her lungs.

"Give yourself some credit," said Harry. "It's bloody freezing, and here you are."

"So are you," she pointed out. They were back on the front lawn now, and not far from the front doors. "What were you doing?"

"Running a few drills," he said, all dismissive. "And I wake up early sometimes, can't go back to sleep. I figure I might as well use the time. So I come out here."

"You could use it to practice Charms," she replied. "Or Potions. Or anything else."

She could hear his grin. "Not as much fun as a Wronski Feint."

"Charms is definitely better than a Wonky Faint." Hermione wondered if she was babbling. "A Wonky Faint sounds dangerous."

"It isn't, if you know what you're doing."

And Harry Potter always knows what he's doing, she thought, derisive.

"Not always." He definitely sounded amused now. "I make it up as I go along."

The world tilted, and she went with it. Harry stumbled, then swore.

"Hang on, Hermione, we're nearly there." And it was true, they were about to walk through the front doors.

"Spinning," she mumbled, and he swore again.

"Yule Ball." And he sounded determined, for some reason. "Come, the girls must have a lot to say about the Yule Ball."

"Glitter. Glitter everywhere. I've got glitter in my socks. Yesterday I found glitter in Felix's whiskers." Hermione stumbled as they crossed into the deserted stone hall, fighting the urge to close her eyes. "They won't stop talking about shoes."

"Shoes?" Harry chuckled, and she could feel it where their bodies met.

"Too many options. Heels, flats, straps, peep toe—"

"I have questions about that last one." They'd reached the stairs, and he shifted, somehow pulling her even closer. "Come on, nearly there—"

When she put more weight on her bad leg, her entire body shook and a sob caught in her throat. But she forced herself to keep moving, her hand gripping the bannister.

"You don't seem excited," Harry bit out. "About the Yule Ball."

"No," Hermione said, and now she wanted to sob for an entirely different, entirely ridiculous, reason. "I'm not going."

"Really?" Somehow, he sounded surprised. "Why not?"

"Nobody asked me," she said. And nobody ever will.

For a moment, Harry went very still. Then, he kept moving, heaving her up the last few stairs. "Just a little bit further—"

She tried very hard not to think about the way he felt against her, warm and solid, as he hurried her down the corridor. He's got such lovely shoulders, she thought, beginning to shiver. And he's all sweaty, but I don't really mind it, it's sort of nice—

They burst into the silent, empty hospital wing and Harry called out, "Madam Pomfrey!"

She appeared in the doorway to her office, took one look at Hermione, and whipped out her wand, hurrying over. "What happened?"

"She was on a run, she fell and hit her knee, cut her hand. I think she hit her head, too, but I didn't see it."

Pomfrey tutted. "We need to get her off that leg. Wingardium Leviosa."

A strange swooping sensation took hold of Hermione, and she found herself lifted gently into the air. Why didn't I think of that, she grumbled to herself, and then, she caught a glimpse of Harry and frowned. "You're blushing. Why are you blushing?"

Before he could reply, Madam Pomfrey stepped in and said, "Come along, dear, let's get you cleaned up and into bed."

She didn't see Harry leave — one moment he was there, and the next, he was gone. But she barely had time to think of it, because Madam Pomfrey drew a curtain, lowered her onto a bed, and raised her wand.

"Now." Madam Pomfrey's voice was cool, clear. "Look right at me, and let's see what we're dealing with."

A concussion, a shattered kneecap, torn cartilage, the cut on her palm, and bruised ribs. Madam Pomfrey tutted as she poured out a measure of Skele-Gro.

"You really did yourself in, dearie. With any luck, you won't be in here much longer than a day, but it all depends on this pesky knee."

The Skele-Gro tasted like vinegar and regret. Hermione's eyes watered, and she gladly accepted a glass of water, desperate to calm her stomach. Madam Pomfrey had healed the worst of the concussion, but the rest, she'd said, would only come with time and lots of sleep.

"I'll have Alice bring you your schoolwork," said Madam Pomfrey, now handing her a measure of sleeping potion. She gave Hermione a shrewd look. "You can work on it later this evening, before supper, if you feel up to it."

Hermione nodded, swallowing her potion. She just wanted to forget this entire morning. Thankfully, she was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

She woke many hours later with a low, thudding headache, a splitting pain in her injured knee, and a dry mouth. The sky was just fading into a silky black, and at the foot of her bed was a tray table. On top of it was a short stack of parchment, along with her planner, a quill, a bottle of ink, and her Runes ledger. But Hermione didn't notice. She was staring at the spot beside it, which was occupied by her Walkman.

It had been wiped clean, no longer caked in mud and grass. Her headphones were on top of it, the cord neatly wound and bundled. Her stomach swooped, and she swallowed thickly, reaching for the glass of water on her bedside table.

Hermione was off Prefect rounds for a week, and banned from running until the New Year — Madam Pomfrey wanted to be on the safe side, and it seemed that even magical medicine had its limits. "Some things," Pomfrey had said, "can't replace good, old-fashioned rest."

Hermione's response had been to throw herself into her schoolwork with even greater vigor than usual. Alice, Mary, and Ethel had hovered, protective, concerned, whenever they could, in spite of her assurances that she was fine, no harm done, really. And the closer they got to the Yule Ball, the more distracted Alice and Mary became. More than once, in the middle of a discussion about nail polish and hair curling spells, she and Ethel would trade weary looks, wanting nothing more than to get it all over with.

The following Tuesday, Hermione felt far more nervous than usual as she tread the familiar path to the classroom. She hadn't really seen Harry since her accident, hadn't had a chance to thank him, to apologize for babbling like an idiot. Even though Pomfrey had healed her concussion, Hermione could barely remember what had happened after Harry had picked her up, and she worried that she'd said something quite embarrassing.

To her surprise, he was already seated at the table, reading their Potions textbook. He looked up when she came in, offered a small smile.

"Hi." Hermione sat down across from him. "Listen, thank you for—"

He shook his head. "Don't mention it."

But the air between them was tense, poised. She had no idea why. "I know I was off my head for a minute, so I'm sorry if I said anything—"

His smile cracked, becoming more of a grin. "You didn't reveal any state secrets, if that's what you're wondering."

Oh, thank God. She deflated, a wave of relief washing over her. "Great."

Harry nodded, nudging a stack of flashcards her way. "Goblin wars, again."

He never mentioned if he was going to the Yule Ball, or with whom. She found out through the grapevine, and for some reason, it made her feel weird, raw. His date was Parvati, a Gryffindor girl from their year, whose twin sister was one of Hermione's Ravenclaw classmates, though she lived in a different dorm. Parvati was slender, pretty; she reminded Hermione of a willow, and she had a bold, sassy temper that turned heads in the best and worst of ways.

Hermione was a good friend. She helped Alice and Mary get ready to meet their dates, a pair of Ravenclaw boys. She smiled, zipped up their dresses, touched up the nail polish on their toes.

Hermione was a good friend. Not once did she let her face fall, let an ounce of jealousy show. She waited until they were gone, and it was just her and Ethel, who seemed crestfallen, but not disappointed, like she was.

Ethel offered her a sympathetic smile. "Want to quiz each other on Runes?"

Hermione shook her head. "I'm going for a walk."

She took Felix with her, and her walk ended at the secret classroom. Even though it faced the end of the Quidditch pitch, its windows empty and dark in the winter night, she could still hear the music from the Great Hall, the buzz and chatter from the dance. She could hear laughter, conversation, and the hum of the crowd. She could just see the false icicles, the wreaths of holly, the garlands of mistletoe. She could smell the canapés, the fresh pumpkin juice, the hot chocolate, the peppermint candy.

She could feel all of it, and she ached.

Are they dancing? she thought, unable to stop herself. Will he kiss her underneath the mistletoe?

Hermione lit a small fire in the fireplace, pulled her scarf tighter about her neck. Then she dragged a desk over to the windows and sat down on top of it, Felix curling up in her lap. She looked down at the empty, black field, the distant music humming in her ears as a light snowfall began to drift down from the sky.

Hermione looked at herself in the mirror, her new red dress lying untouched on the bed behind her. She watched, with an odd feeling of detachment, as her hands drifted over her hips, along her stomach, over her breasts. She was wearing a new bra, one that fit better, and she couldn't help but fixate on the way they looked, sumptuous and full. She was still getting used to it, this body that grew and shifted without her permission, and sometimes, she almost felt daring enough to like it.

The stretch marks had faded somewhat now, leaving those pale lines and creases that moved when she did, blurring the boundaries between softness and muscle. Hermione's hand paused at the curve of her belly, at the area most people referred to as love handles. The term seemed inadequate, patronizing, even as she felt the familiar temptation to pinch the excess, to pull. She sucked in a shaky breath, and forced herself to think about the hundreds of statues and paintings she'd seen at the British Museum, at the National Gallery, at a dozen other museums, where the women had been full, lucious, not thin and tucked-away. She could look the way she looked.

She wasn't really paying attention when her hand brushed across the front of her crotch, but the unbidden shiver brought her focus zipping back to the present. She hadn't… not really… except for that one sleepless night in her dorm, with her curtains shut and two Silencios working their magic… Biting her lip, she glanced at her dress. They had to leave for church in twenty minutes. But maybe there was enough time to—

"Early this year," her father said, once she reached the bottom of the stairs. He nodded at the sitting room window, where Hedwig was waiting.

An embarrassed blush rose to Hermione's cheeks — it was too coincidental, given that ten minutes ago, she'd been thinking about his eyes, his hands. But she went over to the window, receiving a nibble on the finger from Hedwig, and left the parcel on the side table. "I'll open it when we get back," she said in response to her mother's raised eyebrow.

It was a hot chocolate set, with a Honeydukes mug, a bag of chocolate sprinkles, and a packet of blooming marshmallows. Hermione read the card in seconds, her heart roaring in her ears.

One more excuse for you to give your damn knee a break.

Happy Christmas.

A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it, and Hedwig hooted in reply.

They never spoke about the Yule Ball, and before she knew it, it was Valentine's.

"Gosh." Hermione stared at the piles at the foot of Alice and Mary's beds, which were just as large as last year's. The air even smelled like chocolate. She locked gazes with Ethel, who was obviously trying not to laugh, and gave a tiny, tiny grin. Because it was ridiculous, all of it.

In Charms, Ron Weasley almost cracked his head open when he tried to do a swan dive off his desk. As Harry and Neville got him into a headlock, his face nearly purple with determination, Professor Flitwick squeaked, "Beware of hidden love potions, boys! Now, let me fetch Madam Pomfrey—"

It seemed to be catching. Eight more Gryffindors, four Hufflepuffs, three Ravenclaws, and even a handful of Slytherins — all of them boys, all of them from different years. It seemed like the whole school was on fire, and Hermione watched, bemused, until she caught a glimpse of Fred and George Weasley smirking into their dinners. So she waited until she saw them get up from the table, and cornered them outside the Great Hall.

"Nice one, boys." She raised an eyebrow. "I won't dock any points, so long as you get those sods the antidote within the next two hours."

"Hark at her, Georgie." Fred smirked, leaning against the wall. "She's got some stones."

"Lighten up, Granger," said George. "The potions only last forty-eight hours."

"Besides," Fred added. "A few points don't matter to us. It's all for the greater good."

"The greater good?" she repeated, curious in spite of herself.

"Can't open a joke shop without a good set of love potions," said Goerge. "Or a sympathetic ear for jilted lovers."

Ah. Now it made sense. Hermione shook her head. "Get them the antidote."

"Or what, you'll dock us fifty points? Tell McGonagall?"

"No," she replied, then, before she could second-guess herself: "I will write to your mother."

Two hours later, a line of boys came streaming out of the Hospital Wing, looking confused and embarrassed.

"Nice one," Harry said to her the next day outside Transfiguration. He was smiling in a small sort of way, and it made her stomach flip.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied, just as the classroom door opened. She swept in without looking back, and felt her neck prickle from his gaze.

March hit, and with it came a new frenzy of OWL preparation.

"Honestly," said Mary, rolling her eyes, "you'd think they'd all forgotten about it."

The Ravenclaws certainly hadn't. For the first time that year, Hermione started to feel a bit overwhelmed. Between her regular coursework, her revision sessions with the Ravenclaws, and her revision sessions with Harry, the walls had started to close in, and she worried that she had Ancient Runes and Arithmantic equations spilling out of her ears. She spent less of her dwindling spare time alone, opting to sit in the kitchens, listening to the elves as they went about their work.

She was making progress with them, or, at least, she thought she was.

The Thursday before the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match, she lost herself in the movement of Harry's hands as he explained a finicky bit of Transfiguration. His fingers were knuckly, quick, but not light or delicate. Every part of him, she thought. Every part of him is distracting.

It was hard not to shriek like an idiot when Gryffindor won. From the stands, she saw the team collapse into its usual celebratory pile down on the grass, and wondered how it would feel to be part of a group who had done something together, and done it well.

It was almost May before she worked up the courage to ask Harry when his birthday was.

"Oh." He glanced at her over his notes, hardly paying attention. "July 31st."

Immediately, Hermione's mind began to churn. She'd have to figure out how to get him something via the Muggle post, or find some wizards in Barbados. It was only fair, wasn't it? After he'd gotten something for her?

The next day, she sent an owl to the Commonwealth division of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, inquiring after magical resources on the island and how she might apply for her dual Wizarding Citizenship.

Sometimes, Harry would smile at her, his eyes warm and fond, and her stomach would turn to goo. I wonder, she would think. I wonder if he smiles at other people like that.

Sometimes, he would do something, like sneak down to the kitchens with her, or offer her a fresh quill, or bring her a particularly nice brownie he'd found at lunch, or tell her about a fight he'd gotten into with Professor Black, and she would wonder.

Is he like this with other people? How much of this is him, and how much of this is me?

His gaze, fixing on her mouth for a few moments too many. What does that mean?

His fingers, careful not to touch hers, as he handed over a book. What is he afraid of?

Gryffindor won the Inter-House Cup. In Zonko's, Hermione found a miniature lion that stalked, slept, and roared, and she smiled. It took very little convincing for her to get Dobby to slip the lion in beside Harry's breakfast the next morning. When he saw her in the hall before class, he flashed her a grin and shook his head, and she smirked and looked away.

On the night before her first OWL, Hermione couldn't sleep. She lay there, in the cool, untroubled dark, listening to her housemates' breathing and snoring, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird. Finally, she grit her teeth, left Felix snoozing on her pillow, dressed, and made her way to the secret classroom.

Time passed like jelly as she forced herself through dozens of Transfigurations, Charms, and even a few Defensive spells. It was close to two in the morning when she heard the door creak behind her, and she turned around to see Harry step into the room.

His eyes were bright, his hair half-vertical and mussed. "Couldn't sleep?"

Hermione nodded. He withdrew his wand, stood across from her, fired a Stunning spell at her head.

Several hours later, Hermione woke at the table with a crick in her neck and her cheek pressed to a scribbled sheaf of Potions notes. Across from her, Harry was still asleep, slumped in his chair, his glasses crooked. He looked remarkably young in sleep. She shook him awake, her eyes blurry, and just managed to say, "We fell asleep, our exam's in half an hour—"

Twenty-seven minutes later, Hermione skidded to a halt outside the Great Hall, feeling rather as though she'd dodged a bullet. Alice turned to stare at her, incredulous. "Where were you?"

"Doesn't matter," Hermione managed, clutching a stitch in her side. "I'm here now."

And when she walked into the Hall amidst a crowd of her peers, it was with a distant notion of confidence.

She did not see Harry again until the weekend, when they met for a few concentrated hours on Sunday afternoon. He shot her a knowing look.

"I heard your Defense practical went very well."

Something in her stomach jumped. "You know you shouldn't be talking about that."

He smiled, then changed the subject. "I realized in the middle of the Herbology written that I was casting my reading spell nonverbally."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I got Fluttering Gladiolas and Buttery Geraniums mixed up, then, all of a sudden, the words switched around." His smile broadened into a grin. "Thank Merlin I wasn't dinged for cheating. Can you imagine?"

Hermione privately wondered if his success had less to do with the spell and more to do with his own abilities, but she said, "Of course you weren't. Those spells aren't to help you cheat, they're to help your brain work properly."

He was still grinning. "One and the same, to some people."

Their goodbye was brief, perfunctory, and from a distance. He'd raised his hand in farewell, and she closed her eyes as she exited the platform, burning the image into her memory.

Barbados was hot, luscious, and for what felt like the first time in years, Hermione actually tried to relax.

Her mother laughed as they lay on the beach one evening, white wine spritzers in hand. "I like this version of us."

Hermione hummed in agreement. "I think we might be quite fun."

When she ran with her father, sometimes through a sudden rain, she would try and fail to outpace him on the hill, until one day, to their shared astonishment, she beat him.

She still read, of course, and she reviewed her OWL study guides in a perfunctory, obligatory manner. But even Hermione Granger could tire of school work.

On July 20th, she went into town by herself and slipped behind a rickety, shambled pub. She slid her wand across the crumbling bricks, and stepped into Old Street, the Barbadian equivalent of Diagon Alley. It was a short, packed avenue of stalls, merchants, musicians, and the street throbbed with life. The witches and wizards were draped in colorful layers and huge straw hats, and she caught glimpses of creatures and plants that she'd only seen in textbooks. Grinning, Hermione wandered into the nearest sweet shop, and spent the next half hour picking out the most outrageous things she could find.

"Owl to London, please," she said at the post office, where she was served by a short woman with huge black eyes and a gold nose ring. It cost her quite a few galleons, and the trip would take the bird several days, but it was worth it.

When her results arrived, Hermione opened the envelope with a pounding heart, staring in disbelief at the neat little row of O's, broken only by the E in Defense. Her parents grabbed her, jumping around like idiots, and that night, they popped a bottle of champagne, sang songs, and danced in the sand. Her grandmother made her famous chicken, and they ate like kings.

"He's perfectly acceptable for now, of course,"Alice was saying, her huge white sunglasses winking in the sun. "But it's only a summer fling."

Hermione grinned at her while Ethel rolled her eyes and Mary chuckled. "You seem to have everything sorted, Al. Boy here, boy there, boy everywhere."

Alice smirked, gave her a little shove. "You are a beast."

"I think it's quite efficient," said Mary. "She doesn't have to worry about taking him back to school with her."

Ethel snorted, grinning. "He's not a stuffed animal, Mary."

Alice hummed. "No, but he sort of acts like one."

Perks of being the wealthiest, prettiest girl in the village, Hermione thought, though she was surprised that Alice was going out with a Muggle, even if it wouldn't last. But then again, her friends always managed to do the unexpected, like trick her into walking through the doors of Hilda's Hideaway, Diagon Alley's lingerie shop.

Hermione tried to scowl at them, but it didn't work. "Al—"

"Oh, go on," she gushed, nudging Hermione towards the endless racks of overpriced bras. "We're all getting something, it'll be fun."

It turned out that magical bras and Muggle bras weren't all that different, apart from the things that the fabric could do. Stainless, self-cleaning, self-adjusting — if she could imagine it, they made it. And there was even a set of backless freeform cups that remained suspended through a long-lasting weightless charm. Hermione stared at them, astonished, and brushed her finger across the one that actually came in her size.

Ten minutes later, Alice came marching out of the changing room looking like a supermodel in the making in her white lace set. She eyed herself critically in the mirror while Hermione and the others clapped and made lots of silly cheering noises.

"I don't know, it seems sort of… plain."

Hermione snorted, tearing her gaze away from Alice's freakishly perfect, freckled butt. "You'd be the only one thinking it, Al."

Mary marched out in a dark blue set that did wonders for her waist, and even Ethel let herself be paraded around in a delicate, light pink jersey bralette and matching shorts. But when Alice held up a set in a forest-green lace with decorative tulle straps, Hermione just grinned and shook her head. "Not in a million years."

Nobody could pout like Alice. "Why not, Hermione?! Come on, be a sport—"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" She said it lightly, but a real undercurrent of fear took hold of her stomach. "I don't look like the rest of you." You wouldn't know how to handle this much arse, she didn't say, because she had better manners than that.

"Hermione." Mary was the one speaking now, giving her a look that she'd never seen before. "Hermione, we think you're stunning."

Hermione blushed, rolled her eyes. "Fine." She snatched the set out of Alice's hand and ignored the way she beamed. "No laughing."

"We'd never!"

Hermione avoided her reflection in the stall, even as the mirror whispered, "It suits you, dearie." Once it was on, and holding everything in place, she grit her teeth and marched out into the area, hand on one hip.

She wasn't expecting the others to gape at her, astonished. Ethel turned bright red, and Mary looked as if she'd walked into a door. But after a few moments, Alice began to smile.

"What?" Hermione's heart was in her throat. "What is it?"

"Hermione." Alice's smile became a smirk. "You're hot."

Her face was absolutely on fire now. "No, I'm not—"

"Yes, you are!" Alice crowed, jumping down off the fancy little loveseat and running over. She took Hermione by the shoulders and turned her to face the massive mirror. "Just look at you!"

There was no hiding now. So she did as she was told.

Hermione faced the body she knew so well, and felt her mouth drop open of its own accord. She looked the same, yes, but she also looked completely different. She still carried the same stretch marks, the same roll of tummy, the same hips, powerful thighs, rounded bum, but she looked— she looked— powerful.

"If you don't buy this for yourself," said Alice, "then I'll buy it for you."

They wandered back to the busiest part of the Alley, several Galleons lighter and still dazed from the high of an extravagant purchase. Mary noticed a nearby popcorn stall and tugged them all over. She was in the middle of ordering sleeves of popcorn dripping in butter when Hermione noticed him.

It was a boy their age, and she vaguely recognized him as a Hufflepuff in the year above. He was standing with a few friends around the other side of the stall, talking and laughing, tossing his lovely wavy hair in the late summer sun. She met his gaze, and he smiled. She smiled back, blushing, and he ducked his chin, bashful.

Alice noticed, of course, because Alice noticed everything.

"You should have talked to him," she said, between enormous mouthfuls of popcorn.

Hermione ignored her, still too busy trying to figure out what had just happened. That never happened. Boys never looked at her. Maybe she had something stuck in her hair.

"Whoa." Ethel pointed to something purple, orange, and enormous just down the road. "What's that?"

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was like nothing she'd ever seen, and it was packed to the brim with students and adults alike. Hermione strolled through the aisles, overcome with wonder, bemusement. And, she had to admit it. She was a little impressed.

"I never knew they could do this sort of stuff," said Ethel, poking at a box labeled Daydream Charm. "This is actual magic."

"This is extraordinary magic," Hermione corrected her, begrudgingly.

"Do mine ears deceive me, Granger? Was that a compliment?"

Hermione turned to face Fred Weasley — at least, she was pretty sure it was Fred. "Maybe, but don't push your luck."

He grinned, put a hand to his chest. He was wearing a tailored suit in a cloth and a pattern that she couldn't quite understand. But she knew it looked good. "I wouldn't dream of it, my pet."

"So this is what you were working on, all along."

"A dream come true," he quipped, straightening a few miscellaneous products on the nearest shelf. "Can't keep up with demand."

"At least I know who to thank for the deluge of nosebleeds coming our way this term." Hermione nodded to the wall of Skiving Snackboxes, which was almost hidden from view, it was so overwhelmed with customers. "McGonagall's going to have a stroke."

"Don't tease me," he replied. "I just hope some of the kids set off our fireworks on the last day. As a little something special."

"You know, with talent like this, you could've gotten as many NEWTs as you wanted," she said, turning to look out across the floor of the shop.

He copied her, leaning against a nearby pillar. "And done what, crunch numbers behind a desk at the Ministry? Come off it."

"There are worse things," she said, hesitant.

Fred shook his head. "Nah, not really."

But Hermione lost the thread a little. Because behind the counter, where a hidden doorway presumably led to the back of the shop, appeared none other than Harry Potter.

He'd grown, again. And his shoulders rippled underneath his t-shirt, which was a pale red and had STAFF emblazoned across the front, as he slid a massive box of products onto the counter. There was someone next to him, someone she couldn't see. Harry backed away, grinning at whatever the person next to him was saying, and pushed a hand through his hair. He looked gorgeous.

"The summer's been kind to you, Granger," Fred was saying. "Never seen a dress like that in Diagon Alley."

She shook her head, looking away from Harry. "It's from Barbados."

"Ah." And when he glanced at her, it was with something sharp, something heated. "Well, it suits you."

Hermione smirked. "If I didn't know any better, Fred Weasley, I'd say you were trying to get on my good side."

"Perish the thought."

"I should go," she said. "Before they see the Prefect scoping out the competition."

"Coward," he fired back, but he was grinning. "Have a good year, Hermione. And have some fun, for once."

This time, when she got back to Hogwarts, there was something different in the air. OWLs were over, and the sixth years had fallen back into a comfortable stasis, a gentle simmer. And they were ready to boil over.

"I don't think the Gryffindors even plan on touching a study guide this year," said Alice as they all got ready to go down to breakfast.

Mary snorted, finishing her mascara. "Are you really that surprised?" It was a known fact that sixth years spent a lot of their time partying. She met Hermione's gaze in the mirror and her eyes widened. "Oh — can I give you some eyeliner?"

For some reason — call it school spirit, relief at being back at Hogwarts, or the lingering memory of the Hufflepuff boy smiling at her — Hermione was feeling a little more indulgent than usual. "Sure." She smiled, sat down beside Mary.

"Wow," said Ethel, some five minutes later. "You've got lovely eyes, Hermione."

Mary and Alice just smirked, in a told-you-so sort of way. But when Hermione glanced at herself in the mirror, she almost did a double-take. Mary had done something that made her eyes look half-lidded, smokey, sleepy. It was like staring at some future, grown-up version of herself, and she had to look away.

Breakfast was the usual affair, and classes got off to their thrilling start. It wasn't until double Potions that she realized she was in unbelievable trouble.

She didn't notice it at first, the smell. She was halfway through answering Slughorn's question about Veritaserum before it hit her. Grass, parchment, broom polish. Or, more specifically, the way broom polish smelled after it had been sitting on Harry's skin for a few hours, mussed by the wind and the mud and the rain. The scent hung about him like a fly, subtle, but always there.

Oh, no, she had the capacity to think, her heart thudding in her chest. Oh no, oh no. This couldn't be happening.

And then, because everything was terrible, she looked across the room to where he was sitting, only to find him already looking at her, dazed, unsteady. They held each other's gaze for a moment, then they both looked away.

It had to be a fluke. It just had to be.

The first time they met in the classroom that term was by accident. Hermione wandered up there during a free period, her mind buzzing on an Arithmancy proof. A challenge, Professor Vector had said with a wink, once she'd finished getting it on the board. Something to get your brains moving. It helped, sometimes, to walk around, to let her body work through it as well. So Hermione walked up to the classroom, paced in front of the window, and finally went over to the chalkboard, sketching out the vague idea of her proof.

Hermione didn't hear the door, or the sound of his footsteps. She did, however, hear him clear his throat.

"Sorry." He shifted from foot to foot, his expression bland, his hair astonishing. "I just… had some Charms to…"

She forced herself to nod, and then, she couldn't get herself to stop. "Yeah, sure—"

He sat down at the table, and for a long time, it was quiet, except for the sounds of her chalk on the board, his quill on parchment.

"Thank you for the present," Harry said.

Hermione smiled, but didn't turn around. "No problem. Happy belated."

"I liked the fizzy ones," he went. "Tasted like… mango, maybe? Is that what all the candy is like in Barbados?"

"Only the good stuff," she replied, and she heard him chuckle.

And after that, everything was fine.

The first major party of the year was, of course, on Halloween. Hermione, of course, was on duty.

"No one else would do it," she explained as she helped to charm fake spiderwebs into Ethel's hair.

"Merlin, Hermione, stop volunteering for things!" Alice huffed, adjusting her fairy wings. Beside her, Mary grinned, flashing the tiny, color-changing gems she'd fastened to her canines. They both looked impossibly cool. Even Ethel was giving them a run for their money.

"You'll have plenty of fun without me," Hermione replied, because it was the truth. And when she parted ways with them outside the common room, she tried not to feel anything at all, least of all regret.

It was a busy night. Hermione lost track of the points docked, pranks interrupted, Fanged Frisbees confiscated. She did her best to avoid heading west, which would take her towards the Gryffindor Tower, the scene of the party, but it was inevitable.

Apparently, everyone in Hogwarts had made it their mission to get absolutely obliterated. She Vanished more than one puddle of sick, shuffled more than a few pale-faced students towards the Hospital Wing. "At least Pomfrey's more understanding than I am," she muttered, cleaning the hem of her robes. The party throbbed, loud and obvious, through the stone walls, and she felt like she could see it, even though she wasn't there. She could certainly smell it, the sticky-sweet alcohol, the burn of misguided magic, the smoky heft of whatever the Hufflepuffs were growing behind Greenhouse Four.

Eventually, she peeled off into a quieter corridor, fishing a small chocolate from the pocket of her robes. Her feet ached, her head was heavy from the smoke and the noise, and she longed for bed, for the next chapter of the new novel she'd received in the post. So she wasn't ready for it when it happened.

Nothing, at first, then a stifled giggle. She looked up and watched, with mounting surprise, as a tapestry down the hall shifted to reveal a hidden, shadowy alcove. Two heads appeared, glinting slightly in the dim light of the torches, and two heads became two bodies as the couple stepped out into the open, adjusting their clothing. One of them, the boy, shoved a hand through his hair in a gesture that was so familiar it hit her like a punch to the gut.

It took several moments for Harry to notice her. He was off his game. She cleared her throat, tucked the chocolate wrapper into her pocket, and slowly made her way down the hall.

She didn't immediately recognize the girl he was with, but she knew the girl wasn't in their year, had to be a year younger. The girl finally looked up as Hermione approached, then swore under her breath, clearly expecting some type of punishment.

Hermione drew even with them, then walked past them. She could feel Harry staring at her. "You'd better get back," she tossed over her shoulder. "It's past curfew."

As she continued down the hall, the girl's words echoed over the stones. "What— do you know her?"

Hermione didn't wait to hear Harry's reply. She made her way to the Ravenclaw common room — her shift was over, and it was almost midnight — and ignored the prickly, tight feeling that was spreading from her chest down to her gut, cruel, ruthless.

A little more than a month before, Hermione had turned seventeen. A little more than a month before, Alice and Mary had begged and pleaded with her until she'd walked into the Three Broomsticks and bought a bottle of Firewhisky. A little more than a month before, she'd woken up to candles in the air and more confetti in her curls. A little more than a month before, Harry had snuck her a leatherbound, handmade planner from a little shop in Hogsmeade that was more elegant than anything she'd ever owned. A little more than a month before, she'd been foolish to think that maybe, just maybe, she had a chance.

The Firewhisky was stashed under her bed, under a loose floorboard. She took a few burning, relentless sips, staring out the window, seeing the dulled reflection of her dark skin, her massive hair. Behind her, Felix was awake, watching her, and she tried to stifle the feeling, the conviction, that she was alone, more alone than she'd ever been before.

So she leaned into it. She got Mary to teach her how to do the eyeliner, she got more creative with her braids, and, every once in a while, she left her uniform top open one button lower than usual.

"Uh, Hermione," said Ethel one day, when they were exiting the Entrance Hall. "I think Lewis Smith nearly just lost an eye." Her gaze met Hermione's chest. "You need to be careful about how you use those."

Hermione sighed. "I can't help it, Ethel. I run warm."

Which was true — she ran in shorts and a tank no matter the weather, though it wasn't an issue when she could douse herself in Warming Charms. One November morning, she felt different than usual, more alert, poised for something. So she should've expected it, maybe, when she rounded the corner of the castle and found him waiting, mussed, in his Quidditch jersey.

Hermione pulled up short, dropped down to a walk. "Morning," she panted, going right past him. He followed.

"Morning," he replied, all pointed and indignant. She remembered then that he was fresh off his win over Slytherin, his first as Captain. The party had been legendary. "Do you have a moment?"

"Sure." She put her hands on her hips, toed at the frosty grass. "What's up?"

"Nothing, just." He clearly hadn't thought this through. "I haven't seen you in a while. You haven't been to the classroom—"

"Been busy," Hermione cut in. Her breath steamed around her face. "There's been a lot of reshuffling with the Prefects."

"Right." He was looking at her, impassive. "So…"

After a moment, nothing. "So?" she prompted him.

"So, we're all right?"

Hermione stared at him for several seconds, wanting to remember this forever. Harry Potter, on the back foot.

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "You and me, we're—?"

"Yes." She nodded once. "Why wouldn't we be?"

Then, finally, he looked stricken. "Well, I—" Say it, she thought, but he didn't. "No, you're right, why wouldn't—?"

"Listen," she said, taking a step back. "I have to be back by seven, so—"

"Yeah, yeah, of course." Harry waved her on. Only when she was several feet away did he say, "Hermione?"

She turned, looking at him over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"It's good to see you."

Later, when she stripped out of her sweaty, mud-splattered clothes, she was seething with anger, playing that moment over and over again in her head— Good to see me? Good to see me, Harry Potter? How dare he, how dare he—

But, of course, it didn't change the fact that when she came in the shower, his name was on her lips and the way he'd looked, sweaty and disheveled, was in her mind.

The following week, Hermione grit her teeth and went up to their classroom during a shared free period. He was already there, staring down at a fearsome Potions essay, and he smiled with relief when she entered the room.

"Just when I thought all hope was lost," he quipped, and she managed a smile. Because she'd made up her mind, made a decision. They could do this — tutor each other, study together — without pretending to be friends, as well. Because they weren't, not really. They'd hardly ever spoken outside of this room, and it was obvious, of course, that the Boy Who Lived would be embarrassed to admit that he needed help with his schoolwork. She could survive being his tutor, but she wasn't sure she could survive being his friend, without the promise of anything else.

And the pesky little problem of being in love with him? Would go away on its own, surely. Time can heal anything, she thought, watching Alice and Dean share a joke.

Ravenclaw beat Hufflepuff, and more than once, Hermione caught glimpses of the Gryffindor practices through the windows of their classroom. It was strange, seeing Harry streak around, wearing the mantle of Captain, but it seemed to suit him. He was a good leader, to nobody's surprise, and she knew, without actually seeing it herself, that he was kind, fair, reasonable.

Once again, like the earth tilting on its axis, the entire castle turned its attention to one night and one night only — the Yule Ball.

This time, Hermione cradled her bruised feelings with a warped sense of pride. She knew how it felt, now, to be on the sidelines, and she didn't expect that to change. So she smiled and nodded when the other girls talked about their dresses and their hair, practiced her curling charms just in case someone needed an extra pair of hands.

Harry never mentioned it, and neither did she. A memory, blurred and fuzzy, had shifted below the surface of her mind. Her knee and hand bleeding, her arm around Harry's neck, his voice clear and warm as he spoke to her, asking her questions about the Yule Ball.

Did that really happen? she wondered more than once. What did he ask me? And what did I say?

The Wednesday before the Yule Ball, McGonagall asked Hermione to stay behind after class. When they were alone, McGonagall said, "Professor Dumbledore would like you to come to his office at seven o'clock tomorrow evening."

Hermione stared at her. "I… what?"

"Professor Dumbledore," repeated McGonagall, "would like you to come to his office at seven o'clock tomorrow evening. The password is Fizzlesticks."

Hermione left, her mind churning, flummoxed by this sudden turn of events. Was she in trouble? No, that wasn't possible, unless they'd found out about her questionable use of medical magic to help an underage student. But Harry was alive, wasn't he? And he was getting better marks than ever before — innate ability, people said, look at his parents, his godfather, his grandparents. It's only natural that a boy of that background would excel in any environment. And they were right, to a certain extent; Harry could probably run the entire government, if half the government weren't buried in mountains of legal documents and records.

She slept badly, was distracted during class, and barely managed a bite of supper. Mary shot her a concerned frown, but she brushed it aside, saying that she had a large lunch. When the clock chimed quarter to seven, she steeled herself, adjusted her Prefect badge, and made her way to Dumbledore's office.

He was at his desk, wearing a thoughtful, pleasant smile. Fawkes the phoenix was at his knee, emitting a low whirring noise as Dumbledore stroked his head.

"Ah, Miss Granger! Delighted to see you. Please, take a seat."

She obeyed, unable to shake a wave of nerves. If she was in trouble, surely he would not be so calm, so friendly. She took hold of that hope and clung to it.

"How are you?"

"Very well, sir, thank you. And yourself?"

"I can't complain, Miss Granger, can't complain." He twinkled at her. "And I won't trouble you with any more small talk. I merely wanted to offer you a status update."

Hermione couldn't help it — she frowned. "Status update?"

"Yes. On the house elves here at Hogwarts."

"Oh!" She sat up, her concern melting like snow in fresh spring. "Oh, yes, please—"

He produced a piece of parchment, on which was a table containing several columns and at least thirty rows. Each row listed a house elf's name, and the columns were labeled things such as "Salary," "Day Off," "Paid Vacation," "Sick Leave." There were tick marks across the rows, indicating, he explained, which benefits the different house elves had elected to receive.

"You will notice," Dumbledore went on, "some definite improvement since last year. Nearly all of them have elected to receive base pay, and some have opted in for overtime pay. Half have taken a day off each week, and a dozen have opted for sick leave or holidays." He offered her another smile. "With any luck, they'll be unionized within the next five years."

"This is fantastic, sir." Hermione beamed down at the parchment. "A step in the right direction, to say the very least."

"You've done good work, Miss Granger," he said. "You've gained their trust, and you've shown them how to use their voice."

She shook her head. "Not shown. Encouraged."

"An excellent point." Dumbledore sat back in his seat. "Though perhaps I should not be surprised by your abilities as an educator." Then, the barest wink.

Hermione felt a tingle of something like unease — she knew the professors spoke to each other about their students, but to hear it confirmed was unpleasant, somehow.

"You are ruffling quite a few feathers, you know." He still wore that faint smile, and his expression was inscrutable. "At the Ministry."

Now that she hadn't expected. "Am I?"

Dumbledore nodded. "They've caught wind of your project here at Hogwarts, and they're concerned. About the impact it might have," he added, at her look of confusion.

"I see. And I'm guessing they would rather that house elves not begin demanding basic rights, including the abolition of slavery?"

"Precisely, though you used considerably more elegant language."

"I'm not surprised," Hermione said, which was the truth. "I knew it might ruffle some feathers. Though I did not think the Ministry would catch wind of it so soon."

"It was inevitable," he replied. "Since Hogwarts is funded in part by the Ministry, and they oversee our budget. I could not apply for a budgetary increase without them knowing why."

"I see." A beat passed. "Professor, do you think… will it become a problem?"

"Not right away," he said mildly. "But I think, Miss Granger, that we should prepare ourselves for a fight."

The night of the Yule Ball was remarkably similar to the previous year's, though Hermione remained in her dorm room with Ethel, who was buried in a pile of Charms theory and seemed unlikely to move anytime soon.

Hermione looked at her roommate, took a bite of chocolate. "Ethel, you will have to eat at some point."

Ethel ignored her, and Hermione grinned.

She could barely hear the party from the tower, which made it easier to forget about. After finishing her Arithmancy proof, she pulled out her novel, cuddled up with Felix, and waited.

Alice stumbled back into the room sometime after midnight. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks were flushed, she had her shoes in one hand, but her eyes were sparkling.

Hermione smiled at her. "Good time?"

"The best." Alice sighed, dropped her shoes, reached for the zip on her dress.

"Where's Mary?" They'd left together, so she'd expected—

Alice bit back a smile. "Last I saw, she was sneaking off with Cyrus Edwards."

Hermione's mouth fell open, and Ethel looked up from her books for the first time that evening. "Cyrus? From Slytherin?"

"Yep." Alice spun, flouncing her skirts. Even now, she looked like a movie star. "Don't be surprised if she doesn't come back this evening."

The following morning, they were all awake and watching the door when it finally cracked open and Mary slipped into the room, sleepy-eyed, her hair in tangles. To her credit, she looked quite put-together for someone who had just spent the night in another person's dorm. Even her rumpled dress had a kind of elegance to it.

"Morning," said Alice slowly, a grin spreading across her face. "Have a good night?"

Mary glared at them all. "Shut up."

And this was how Mary from Ravenclaw began… seeing… Cyrus from Slytherin.

"He's sort of nice, actually," said Mary, like she was surprised about it. "But he's a good kisser, and he's stronger than he looks."

Hermione snorted into her tea. "Please don't tell me why that last one is relevant."

And Cyrus did seem like an all right sort of bloke. He was tall, brooding, quiet, and he had jet-white blond hair, lighter even than Malfoy's. Hermione had a working theory that he wore eyeliner.

"Just a little," she said to Alice as they were boarding the train back to London. "How else would his eyes look all smudgy like that?"

Alice nodded, thoughtful. "You make a good point. I just want to know how he does his hair. It's phenomenal."

Christmas was rainy, quiet. Hermione delighted in finally being able to show her parents her magic — she used it to trim the tree, tidy up the presents, put on the kettle. They were a little shocked by it at first — here was real, living confirmation that their daughter was an actual witch — but slowly, they leaned into it, enjoyed it for what it was. And when Hermione opened her palm to reveal a handful of conjured canaries, or floating fireworks, or a raincloud, her mother would stare at her in awe, transfixed, occasionally tearful.

She was expecting Hedwig, but Hedwig was early. Hermione sat by the tree as she unwrapped the parcel. Beside her, Hedwig took a long drink from a spare dish of water.

Wales is cold and ancient. But I think you'd like it here.

Nadolig Llawen.

It was a thin volume of Welsh poetry, with the original language on the left side and the English translation on the right, the words running in neat, equal tandem across the pages. Tucked inside the cover was a leather bookmark, and, to her surprise, a novelty Wales fridge magnet. Bemused, Hermione turned the magnet over in her fingers — Harry must have gotten it from a Muggle shop, but she could hardly imagine him walking into one. And where would he have gotten the money? Did he and Professor Black make a habit of carrying pound notes? Or did they go into Gringotts for this trip, specifically? She'd have to ask Harry.

When she put the magnet on the fridge, her mother glanced up from icing fairy cakes and said, "That's sort of an odd present, don't you think?"

"The magnet, yes," said Hermione. "The book, no."

It wasn't until later, when she was lying in bed, curled up around the orange glow of her bedside lamp, that her stomach dropped to her feet. Heart hammering, mouth dry, Hermione let the book fall onto her chest. It had to be a mistake. It just had to.

There was no way Harry Potter had sent her a book of love poems.

Hogwarts was buried in snow, which made running difficult. And it was almost impossible to walk the halls without getting hit by a snowball.

Hermione looked up as Harry entered their classroom, snow clinging to his glasses, half his hair and his sweater soaking wet. "Who was it?"

"Ron." He dropped his things, drew his wand. Once, the sight of him pointing his own wand at his head would have been enough to make her squirm, but now she hardly noticed it. "He's improved his aim considerably." One blast of hot air, and he was back to normal, if a little rumpled. She fought the urge to card her fingers through his hair.

"Good holiday?"

"Yes, lovely." She had to do it. She had to know. "Why were you in Wales?"

Harry seemed surprised by the question. "We've got… family there."

"Really?" Now it was her turn to be surprised. "I thought…" Godric's Hollow, she didn't say. London, she didn't say. None of her forays into wizarding history and genealogy had told her that the Blacks and the Potters carried branches in Wales.

"Not my side," he said quickly. "Remember my… the uncle I told you about?" When she nodded, he went on: "His family's from Wales, a place near Wolf's Castle. It's just his mum, now, but she's…" Harry hesitated, and her surprise doubled. "She's sort of like my grandmother. She usually comes to us for the holidays, but this year…"

"I see." Still, she burned with questions — wouldn't his uncle's mother be his grandmother, not like his grandmother? And where had he gotten the Muggle money? But she moved on. "Thank you for the presents. My parents loved the magnet."

Here, finally, a smile. "I'm glad. And same to you, I've never seen socks with Snitches on them before."

"Dobby's idea," Hermione confessed. Then, before she could stop herself: "Do you speak it? Welsh?"

Harry seemed embarrassed again. "Some. I'm close to fluent." Then, he cleared his throat, reached for his rucksack. "Can we start with Potions?"

Valentine's Day hit like the usual tidal wave. And Hermione was astonished to wake up and find a small pile of flowers, chocolates, and cards at the foot of her bed. Ethel had a few as well, and she busied herself with trying all the different flavors of chocolate before committing to one.

Hermione reached for a card, her mind buzzing with shock.

Dear Valentine—

I've never felt this way before,

It's you that I so much adore.

So how about tea, just you and me,

At Puddifoot's, at half past four?

Alice, of course, had already read it over her shoulder. She let out a gasp. "Fates alive. You have to go, Hermione!"

"Do I?" She flipped the card over, but there wasn't anything more on the back, and she didn't recognize the handwriting. "It isn't signed, I don't know who—"

"A secret admirer!" Alice actually clapped. "Oh, I've dreamt of this day!"

Hermione frowned at her. "Jesus, really?"

Sure enough, at two o'clock that afternoon, she found herself trapped in the dorm room and succumbed to the tortures of three female best friends with strong but different opinions as to what she should wear. In the end, they settled on a plain but elegant turtleneck dress, and her heavy tweed coat to combat the snow and ice. Mary dabbed blush on her cheeks, Ethel braided tiny twists into her hair, and Alice cast the most delicate curling charm over her eyelashes. Hermione blushed from the attention, and she couldn't shake the feeling that this was somehow off. Alice and the others were convinced that this was real, but what if it was a trick? A joke? A cruel prank?

Puddifoot's was steamy, crowded. It seemed like every Hogwarts couple was crammed into the spindly tables and chairs. Hermione's heart pounded a terrifying beat as she scanned the crowd, not sure what to do.

"Hermione?"

She turned, heart leaping into her throat, to face—

It was the seventh-year boy from Hufflepuff, the one who'd smiled at her in Diagon Alley. She'd since found out his name — Jimmy Day — and he'd smiled at her a few more times in the halls, always with a hint of shyness. He seemed shy now, blushing as he stood up.

"Hi, um— Happy Valentine's. I'm the one who sent you the card."

A smile broke across her face, and she almost wanted to laugh with relief. It wasn't a prank; someone actually wanted to see her on Valentine's. "Well, thank you. Does that make you my Valentine?"

He looked at her, bashful. "I hope so."

She joined him at his tiny table. A pot of tea and a fleet of tea cakes appeared, whisked over by a harried-looking witch in a pink uniform.

"So." Jimmy was still blushing. "How are you?"

"I'm good, Jimmy, thank you. And you?"

"I'm… yeah." He smiled, seemed to relax slightly.

Over the course of the next quarter of an hour, Hermione began to feel that she'd made a terrible mistake.

"Do you like to read?" she asked him.

"No, not really. I spend a lot of my time in the greenhouses, helping Professor Sprout with the plants."

"So you enjoy gardening?"

"Yeah, I mean— I come from a long line of farmers. It's what I'm doing after Hogwarts, family business and all that."

"Oh, I see. What do you farm?"

"All kinds of stuff. Potion ingredients, mainly. But we keep a herd of cattle and do a few acres of wheat every year."

"How interesting." And it was, in a way, because she'd never thought that of course, just as there were Muggle farmers, there had to be wizarding farmers. But Hermione was beginning to panic — books had been her last-ditch attempt to find some point of common ground between them. Without that, she wasn't sure what they had to talk about, apart from classes.

Another quarter of an hour later, she walked out of Madam Puddifoot's and pulled her coat tight around her body. The air was bitter-cold and bright, but it was a welcome change from the stuffiness of the tea room. Hermione took a great gulp of it, smiled, and began making her way back to the castle.

Alice, Mary, and Ethel were all in the dorm — Alice and Mary's dates weren't for another few hours, and Ethel had been keeping her plans a secret. But they all turned on her the moment she walked through the door, demanding to know everything about her date.

"Who was it?" was Mary's first question.

"Jimmy, from Hufflepuff."

A great chorus of gasps, and an "I knew it!" from Alice.

Hermione was still smiling as she tugged off her coat. "It was sort of terrible."

That silenced them. Alice frowned. "Why?"

Hermione laughed now. "Because we had nothing whatsoever in common! We had nothing to talk about. For the last ten minutes we just sat there trying not to look at each other."

"Oh." Alice shook her head. "But that's not the end of the world. If you have everything in common with someone, it gets boring."

"But there has to be something," said Hermione. "We don't even have the same sense of humor. I tried to make a joke about a couple sitting across the room and he just stared at me like I had a second head."

Mary winced. "All right, you might have a point."

"It's fine," Hermione said, meeting Alice's gaze. "I mean it. Yes, it would've been nice to… you know, find someone, but I'm really not upset. At least I know what I'm looking for, now."

Alice reached for her, took her chin between her thumb and forefinger. "Yes," she said. "Now you just have to go out and find it."

Ravenclaw lost to Slytherin, the snow continued to fall, Apparition lessons began, and Harry had a terrible idea.

"Come on," he said, all eager and earnest. "It's a NEWTs level charm, you're going to have to learn it at some point."

Hermione scowled at him, resisting the urge to smack him over the head. "That's easy enough for you to say, you can actually do it."

"Because I practiced," he said. "Try again."

Hermione shook her head but obeyed, closing her eyes. She focused on the space where her wand met her hand, felt the warmth, the magical hum of energy travel up her arm and into her shoulder, her chest. Then, she emptied her mind, casting it back to the night she got her OWL results. Laughing, singing, dancing in the sand with her family, hearing the ocean, the churn of the breeze, and feeling happy, so happy—

"Expecto Patronum."

She opened her eyes in time to see a thin, wispy trail of silver appear at the end of her wand, then fade into nothing.

Hermione let out a growl, her calmness vanishing, and stalked across the room.

"That was good," Harry said, and God, it sounded like he meant it. "You had more of a manifestation that time, and the silver clouds hung around for longer."

"Peachy," Hermione spat, glaring out at the sleet-covered grounds.

"It's all right," he said, and she could tell he was trying not to laugh. "You will get it eventually, Hermione."

Not soon enough, she thought.

Hermione passed her Apparition test, Gryffindor won the Inter-House Cup, and the party promised to be the most epic one in years. Hermione had watched the final match from the classroom, seeing the streaks of color dart around the Quidditch pitch, thinking that it must feel wonderful to be weightless.

That night, she watched as half the school, including two of her dormmates, wound its way towards Gryffindor Tower. Bereft of duty, Hermione lost herself in some Ancient Runes before she gave up and wandered back to the classroom, Felix in her shadow.

It wasn't until later, as she stared out at the inky blackness of the night, at the Quidditch pitch that she couldn't see, that she was overcome by a wave of startling loneliness. The breath caught in her throat, and Hermione almost gagged with it, slumping where she sat on top of one of the desks.

You're not alone, she told herself, squeezing her eyes shut, feeling the tears trickle down her face. You're not alone, you have friends, people who care about you—

But it was hard to remember that in moments like this, when she felt like the only person in the school who saw it all, felt it all, who sometimes looked at the world and saw only the science, never the magic.

A footstep, the door creaking open. "Hermione?"

She turned with a gasp, meeting Harry's startled gaze, then turned away, wiping a sleeve across her face.

He came into the room, unhurried, wary. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she managed, then cleared her throat. "Yes, I'm fine. What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at the party."

It was a few moments before he replied. "Not really my scene." She could hear his footsteps — he came towards her, but stopped several feet away. A creak as he slid onto another desk. "You get sick of them, eventually."

Hermione didn't know what to say to that. She'd never been to enough parties to know.

For several minutes, they just sat there, in relative silence, looking out at the endless night. Hermione couldn't help but think back to that fateful day on the Hogwarts Express, before she had even known his name, when he'd seen her in that moment of exhilaration and sorrow. A part of her wanted nothing more than to duck her head and run from the room. But she had to say something. She had to. They already pretended in so many ways — they couldn't pretend that he hadn't seen her cry. Again.

"I just." She bit her lip, and Felix nudged her elbow with his head. "I get lonely, sometimes. Really, really lonely."

He didn't say anything at first. Then: "Yeah. Me too."

Hermione looked up, met his gaze. There was something there, something in his eyes, but she didn't know what it was. Pity? Honesty?

They looked at each other for a moment, then Harry cleared his throat, looked away. "Hot chocolate? I bet the kitchens are still open."

Hermione managed a shaky breath, rubbing Felix's head. "They're always open to you."

Harry flashed her a grin, a real one, and she smiled back.

Exams passed in a rush of relief — they were shorter than usual, since they were more of a stepping stone between OWLs and NEWTs. It was the only bit of reprieve for sixth years; Hermione spent her final week organizing a NEWTs study timeline for herself, much to Alice's dismay.

"You do promise to have fun, don't you?" said Alice as they stood on the platform, saying goodbye. "I can't bear the thought of you spending the whole summer locked away in your books."

"From the mouth of a Ravenclaw herself!" Hermione ducked in, brushed a kiss to her cheek. "Don't worry about me. See you in August."

She saw Harry only from a distance, standing beside Professor Black and another man she didn't recognize. Harry caught her gaze, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

Be seeing you, it said.

"He's just come back from his summer term," said her grandmother, her knitting needles clacking away. The temperature was stifling, but somehow, she withstood a lap full of wool. "He's getting a degree in Engineering."

"How interesting," said Hermione's mother, her tone pointed.

Hermione didn't even look up from her pile of notes. A drop of sweat pooled at her hairline, slid down the back of her neck. "No need to fling him at me, I can do that myself."

They both burst into laughter, and her grandmother gave her a playful nudge.

The "He" in question was Isaac, the grandson of one of their neighbors, an old friend of her grandmother's. He was a year older than her, and studying at a university in America. Hermione vaguely recalled running around with him when they were children, before he'd left to be educated in America, but that was where her knowledge of him began and ended. And she had a feeling that that wouldn't change.

A few days later, Hermione gave up on Arithmancy, knocked on her mother's door, and said, "We're going into town."

The streets were blindingly hot and packed with people. "Tourists are in full force this year," said her mother, fanning herself. They slipped into the somewhat cooler air of the shop, relieved for a break from the sun.

That relief, however, quickly turned to panic.

"What do you mean?" said Hermione, dumbfounded. "You're all out?"

"In that size, yes." The poor shopkeeper gave her a beseeching look. "But we do have plenty of bikinis."

Hermione stared at her, heat flooding her face. She'd never… she couldn't…

"Oh, look, Hermione!" Her mother held up a royal blue bikini with golden rings. "This one's lovely! Why don't you try it on?"

Hermione looked from the shopkeeper, to her mother, to the shopkeeper, and gave in.

Later, when they were on their way back home and licking at ice creams that were melting faster than they could eat them, Hermione's mother glanced at her and said, "I understand why you don't like to wear them. I used to feel the same way."

"Really?"

"Yes. You don't exactly see women like us on the cover of Vogue, do you?" Her mother smiled. "But what does it matter? A body's a body. We've all got them. And yours, I must say, is nothing to sneeze at."

Hermione blushed. "Mum!"

Her mother laughed. "What does it matter? Just enjoy yourself. And I'll give you a hint, my darling. The more comfortable you are in your own skin, the happier you'll be. Your confidence matters more than anything else in the world." She leaned in, kissed Hermione's forehead, then proceeded to inhale the rest of her ice cream.

That evening, before dinner, Hermione slipped out of the loud, stifling kitchen — her parents were doing the salsa while her grandmother stirred the pot — and into her room. She stared down at the bikini, and realized that it was ridiculous to be afraid of two scraps of fabric.

The water was warm, but cooler than the air. She dove in, then came up to watch the play of pink and gold on the surface. Sometimes, at night, in the water, she could feel it — the power. The force that drove the world and everything in it. The force that poured into her and surfaced as a brilliant, unstoppable magic.

As she came into shore, wading through the shallows, she heard a voice.

"I would make a joke about Aphrodite, but I have a feeling you'd kick me in the shin."

She knew that voice. "Isaac?"

"The one and the same." He was standing at the shoreline, the waves splashing over his feet. Above them was a pair of swim trunks, and Hermione had to force herself not to stare at his chest. It was formidable.

Something churned below the surface of her memory. A fight beside the play pool in his front garden. "If it makes you feel any better, I was aiming higher than your shin."

"Then thank God for your poor aim." His voice was deep, smooth. "I see I'm not the only one in search of refuge."

Hermione smiled. "No, it was ghastly today, wasn't it?"

A rumbling laugh, a flash of white teeth. "I forgot how British you are."

"Well, you don't sound very American."

"Try as I might, I can't seem to outgrow my roots."

"That makes two of us," she said, walking up the beach. "Have a good night."

"I'll see you tomorrow," he replied, heading into the water.

Hermione frowned. "What do you—?"

But he dove into the waves, and was gone.

Hermione tried very hard not to smile as she met Isaac's gaze across a pile of plantains. "When you said you'd see me tomorrow, I didn't realize this was what you meant."

His grin was lopsided, self-assured. "Well, it was only a hunch. I remembered your grandmother's cooking and figured she'd drag you with her."

"Then you are an extremely good guesser." Hermione glanced over her shoulder, where her grandmother was haggling with a weary-looking fishmonger. "Sometimes I'm surprised that anyone still sells to her."

"Money is money," he said, tossing one more onion into the bag. "Three dollars."

Hermione paid, and when she took the sack of onions, their fingers brushed. His skin was warm, plush with the humidity. She met his gaze and he smiled.

"So tell me. Are you in the habit of having fun?"

"Yes," she said, raising an eyebrow. "If it's the right kind."

Isaac nodded. "Then meet me at the end of the road, tonight at ten."

"Maybe." With that, Hermione turned and went to find her grandmother.

When she met him at the end of the road that night, her white dress drifting in the hushed breeze, he took her hand at once and led her towards the town.

Soon, they stepped into a nightclub filled with bodies, pounding with the vibrant music of the band onstage. She could smell beer, rum, and the fug of marijuana.

"Dance with me?" he murmured into her ear.

"I don't know how," Hermione managed.

"Then you'll learn."

They danced to song after song, fast, then slow, then somewhere in between. All the while, his body against hers, blazing with heat and supple in its movements.

When he took her home, they walked along the beach, paused beneath the palm trees. His eyes were bright even in the darkness, and when he reached for her, she melted into him.

"Can I kiss you?" The words were almost a prayer.

Hermione responded by putting her mouth to his, and very little was said after that.

The weeks dissolved, and for the first time in her life, Hermione occupied herself with something other than studying.

Nights on the beach. Days with his hands on her legs, her belly. She learned how it felt to be kissed, to be touched, to be pressed down and overwhelmed. She learned how to laugh, loud and without care, and she learned that she actually liked wearing bikinis. And that sand really could get everywhere.

She let out a gasp as his mouth went from her cheek to her neck, his fingers digging into her hip. He felt like a firebrand against her, livid and ruthless, and he paused at the edge of her bikini top, his fingers trailing along the side. "Can I?"

His words were quiet, hushed in the lull of the ceaseless tide. They were hidden in the treeline, buried in a makeshift pile of damp towels, and a rock was digging into her shoulder, but she didn't care.

Hermione nodded, her heart thudding in her ears, then remembered how dark it was, that he probably couldn't see her. "Yes."

Isaac was gentle at first, his fingers skating across her skin, but then he sucked on her nipple and she moaned aloud, stifling it against her wrist. He actually chuckled, pleased, tonguing a wet line along her skin before his hand drifted to the space between her legs.

The last week of July arrived before she was aware of it. Old Street was unchanged, and she busied herself with finding a neat set of amulets, then a small book of old wizarding pirate maps. She packed it all up, threw in a novelty fridge magnet from a Muggle shop, and sent it off via Express Owl. Only once did she wonder what the hell she was doing.

August bloomed honey-hot and lingering. She tried to spend a little more time on revision, and a few more evenings lying in the bed of Isaac's truck, looking up at the stars.

He shook his head as she finished mapping out a star chart in the sky. His rich, dark skin gleamed in the early blue dusk. "The things you know."

Hermione smiled at him. "What do you mean?"

"You said you learned these things at school, but what kind of school teaches astronomy?"

She took a breath, fighting the urge to conjure a handful of fireworks and say One beyond anything you can imagine.

When she ran, she kept pace with her father, pounding his challenge into the loose-packed dirt, smiling in the pre-dawn light. When she ran, she felt bright, alive. Free.

And when she lay in the sun, light cascading down every inch of her body, she realized that she didn't want to hide ever again.

She said goodbye to Isaac the morning of their flight, and he smiled, but his eyes were sad.

His hands, tangling with hers. "You know what I want to say, don't you?"

Hermione swallowed and nodded. "But I can't say it back."

He sighed, kissed her cheek. "In another lifetime, then."

"Yes." She smiled, kissed him back. "Another lifetime."

"I can't believe it's our last year," Alice was saying, licking at her ice cream. "Isn't it strange? Next summer, we'll be off doing our jobs or traveling, and it won't ever be like this again."

Mary scoffed, grinning. "That's a cheery thought."

Hermione raised her head, glancing around their corner of the Alley. She was splayed out, leaning back in her chair, letting her hair hang loose as she reveled in the sun. Jet lag still had her in its clutches, and she felt a bit hazy, which wasn't helped by the enormous sundae she'd just eaten. But she looked around, at the crowds of students and parents and shopkeepers, at the sixth-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs causing a ruckus two tables over, and felt a distinct pang of nostalgia. How many summers had ended here, and how many years had begun?

Ethel took a bite of her sundae, and didn't look at any of them when she said, "We could make a habit of it."

Mary frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

"We could make a pact." Ethel finally glanced up at them. "To meet here, on the last Saturday of August, every year, at the same time, until we don't want to anymore. No matter where we are, or what we're doing, we come here, on that day, at that time, to see each other."

There was silence until Alice said, "I love that idea."

"Me too," said Mary, with a tentative smile.

Hermione nodded. "Let's do it."

Ethel gave them a rare, genuine grin, and went back to her sundae.

Hermione wasn't sure how, but they ended up in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Everyone went their separate ways, and, still sun-drunk and half-asleep from the ice cream, Hermione wandered slowly across the ground floor of the shop. A selection of Atomic Whoopee Cushions on the far wall caught her attention, and she prodded at one, grinning when it let out a raspberry in return.

"Good, aren't they? Brand new stock, designed not to burst so easily."

Even after all these years, his voice still sent a jolt through her stomach. She smiled, turned to the checkout counter. "Hi, Harry."

"Hi." He was grinning. The summer, like always, had been kind to him — he'd filled out even more, gotten some color, had a spray of freckles across his lovely, sharp nose. He was wearing one of those 'STAFF' shirts again, his chest and shoulders stretching it to the maximum, and a pair of jeans with a huge tear in one knee.

"So, do you actually work here?" Hermione gestured to his shirt. "Or are you just trying to blend in?"

"I do, yeah, mainly just in the summer. It's nice for Fred and George to have an extra pair of hands, and, well." He shrugged. "It makes sense, because Sirius is here a lot."

Hermione sort of snorted. "What? Why?"

Harry looked at her, caught out. "Well…" He cleared his throat. "Look, don't tell anyone, because he wouldn't want it getting around, but… he's their main investor. He gave them their start-up money, and he helps them come up with ideas and everything."

She stared at him. "Really? Professor Black?"

He nodded. "He was… sort of notorious, during his time at Hogwarts. I mean, I can respect their work, but Fred and George can't even touch what Sirius and his mates got up to."

Sirius and his mates, she wanted to say. You mean Sirius and your dad? Instead, for some unknown reason, she burst into giggles.

Now it was Harry's turn to stare at her, bemused. "What?' he said, trying not to grin. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," she managed, trying to get herself to stop. "Sorry, it's just… it's absurd! Professor Black investing in a joke shop that sells his students stuff to help them skip his class!"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Harry was definitely grinning now.

Hermione hiccupped a few times, then got herself under control. "Sorry," she said, leaning against the counter. "I'm still jet-lagged. I hardly know up from down."

Something glinted in his eyes, and he stepped forward, leaning on the other side of the counter. "Bermuda again?"

"Barbados," she corrected him. "Just got back yesterday."

"Right. Wizard pirates."

"I know!" said Hermione, letting her enthusiasm get the better of her. She leaned in, and missed the way that he leaned in as well. "I had no idea until last summer, but they've got this whole museum dedicated to the history, and there's still much buried treasure missing, people have been trying to solve those maps for years, but—"

"I actually tried," he said, and she could almost count the freckles on his nose, they were so close. "With those maps you sent me. There was one where I was just convinced I had it."

"You could always see if you were right! Charter a boat, get a scuba license—"

"Sure. Super simple stuff."

"I could drive the boat," she said, dead serious. "I've done it before."

"You, in a boat?" Harry shook his head. "I'd love to see that."

Distantly, Hermione realized that they were flirting.

"Granted," she said, "it was just a dingy, but I did very well and no fish were harmed."

"Well then," he said. "It's a plan."

Silence fell, and for a moment, they just stayed there, looking at each other.

"Hermione!" Mary's voice floated over the crowd. "Come on! Let's go!"

Hermione stepped away, forcing herself to take a breath. She had to — if she didn't, she didn't know what would happen. The moment stretched between them like taffy, and she saw the way Harry's gaze drifted over her figure. She was in the white dress she'd worn out dancing with Isaac, and it was probably the most revealing thing Harry had ever seen her in. For some reason, this realization shook her, and she fought the urge to grin.

"I'd better…"

"Yeah." His gaze darted back to hers, and he swallowed. "Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"You look… yeah, you look great."

Heat flooded her body, and she smiled as she left. "Thanks."

She didn't see him once in the mad rush to the train, and once they were off, she had to concentrate on the Prefects' meeting and the small issue of the Head Boy, Patrick.

"He's not… arrogant, exactly," she said to Alice as they sat down at the Ravenclaw table. "He's just… a bit of a know-it-all."

Ethel snorted hard enough to turn several heads.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I'm shocked you didn't put your nose out of joint on that one."

"He's probably just settling in," said Alice. "Like you."

"I suppose," Hermione said, but then Dumbledore stepped up to the podium, and the entire Hall fell silent.

Halfway through the Sorting, Mary nudged Hermione and whispered, "Harry Potter's looking at you."

Her heart, falling to her feet. "What?"

"Harry Potter," Mary said again, like that made everything better. "He keeps looking over here."

"Then how do you know he's looking at me?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Mary hissed.

When dinner was over and the students began to migrate, Hermione met up with Patrick in the Entrance Hall to supervise the Prefects as they shepherded the first years. Everything was fine until the back of her neck prickled, and she turned to see Harry at the edge of the Gryffindor crowd, smirking at her.

He gave her a nod. "Knew you'd get that. Congratulations, Head Girl."

Before she could say anything, he turned and was swept into the tide of students.

True to their promises, the professors throttled the seventh years with homework from the very first day, and soon enough, Hermione was so busy that she didn't have time to think about how her friendship with Harry was morphing, changing into something new.

They started up their study sessions again without pretense or preamble. In some ways, everything was the same — hours upon hours of concentration and work. But then she began to notice the little things — he sat just a touch closer, let his touch linger when he passed her a quill or a book. A part of her wanted to deny it, to pretend that nothing had changed, but soon, it became impossible to ignore.

How long will it last? she wondered. Before his attention shifts somewhere else?

A few days before her eighteenth, she was on her usual run when she spotted him leaning against one of the goal posts, Firebolt in hand, practice jersey on. She slowed down, and he fell into step beside her.

"Do you do this every day?" he asked her, not bothering with a preamble.

"Most days," she panted, suddenly aware of how close her bare arm was to his. "Weather's not a problem if you can use magic."

"Fair point." His glasses shone in the early sun. "Do you… like it?"

Hermione fought the urge to stare at him. What was happening? "I— yes."

Harry shot her a glance, hesitant. "Could I maybe join you? Not every day," he added quickly. "But sometimes, Quidditch doesn't tire me out. Not like it used to."

Hermione's head spun, not in the least because she had no idea Harry Potter ever had trouble sleeping. "I mean… sure. But I start early, and I don't talk while I run."

He was nodding. "That's fine."

"And you'll have to find yourself some Muggle duds," she added. "You can't run in those boots."

"You're not wrong." He offered her a sudden grin, and her stomach flipped in reply. "Tomorrow, then?"

Hermione nodded. "Tomorrow. Meet me in the Entrance Hall at five thirty."

"Tomorrow at five thirty," Harry repeated. "See you then, Granger." And then, to her astonishment, he winked.

Harry kept to his word, which was sort of surprising — she honestly hadn't expected him to turn up. And he was wearing a pair of joggers, trainers, and a Tower Records shirt that had seen better days. He looked like a Muggle, and it rattled her.

"You shouldn't try and do the whole run," she told him while they were stretching. "I'll let you know when you reach a good halfway point, then you can turn around and come back."

For a moment, she could see it, the moment where he decided whether or not he would go along with it, but then he nodded. Hermione put on her headphones, hit play, and they were off.

About twenty minutes in, he stopped, hands on his hips. "Shit," he bit out, between pants. He was sweating through his shirt, and for some terrible reason, it wasn't gross. "This is awful."

Hermione stopped, began to laugh. "You just started!"

"I can't believe you do this every day."

"Harry." She pulled off one headphone. "Stop talking, put your hands on your head."

"You're not even breathing hard!" But he obeyed her, propping his hands on his head.

"Go back, Harry. You've done really well for your first try. Just remember to stretch."

He scuffed his foot on the ground, shot her a look she couldn't decipher. But he nodded and turned away, heading for the castle.

Hermione finished her run with a grin on her face, and when she got back to the castle, she burst into laughter.

Her eighteenth dawned bright and beautiful, and Alice, Mary, and Ethel had planned a picnic by the lake, complete with cake, charcuterie, and lots of wine. So when Harry found her by the lake, she had her feet in the water, her dress hiked up to her knees, and she was, at the very least, half-cut.

"Happy Birthday."

"Thank you." Hermione splashed her toes in the water. "So you're alive, then."

"Mostly, no thanks to you. I could barely move yesterday."

"All part of the experience." She swung her wine bottle into the air, took a huge glug. Somewhere behind her, she could hear Ethel and Mary rehashing their famous argument about Sigmund's translation of the Rune of Time, with Alice playing referee.

"Is there going to be a party?"

"I am the party," she said, then hiccupped.

"I can see that." He reached out, took the bottle. Around them, the students of Hogwarts sunned themselves, played cards, flew magical kites. And no one noticed that Harry Potter was talking to Hermione Granger.

"Can we meet up tomorrow?" he said. "I'm stuck on the Charms homework."

Hermione nodded, already planning on a Hangover Potion. "No problem."

It wasn't until the following morning, when she woke up with a mouthful of cotton and her hair half-vertical, that she found the little box stashed under her pillow. Inside it was a Galleon-sized golden watch on a necklace chain. The face was white, simple, with golden hands, but the back was painted a deep blue, the constellation Virgo twinkling in the night sky.

A watch is traditional on a seventeenth birthday, but I never saw you with one.

Many happy returns.

When she put it on, the watch face sat just between her breasts, above her heart. She tried not to think about what that meant.

Rhythms changed — this, Hermione knew.

Studying had become studying with Harry. And now, running became running with Harry. Sometimes, if she thought about it, it felt strange, but in another way, it was oddly peaceful, sharing the silence with him. Even if he was more distracting when he was sweaty.

So perhaps she should have expected it. The day before Halloween, he led her to a little-used hall on the seventh floor and said, "I know you don't want to talk about it, but it's time that we started practicing for the Defense practical."

Hermione bristled. Professor Black had announced that they would be participating in a non-lethal duel for their NEWT, and she couldn't be less excited about it. "Fine."

Harry smiled. "There's the enthusiasm I was looking for." He faced the blank wall in front of them, then began to pace in front of it. On his third pass, a door appeared in the wall.

Hermione shot him a glance. "What is this?"

Harry reached for the handle, opened the door. "Welcome to the Room of Requirement."

She walked into an enormous stone chamber, lined with mirrors. The room was filled with Defensive paraphernalia, including target dummies, a cracked Foe Glass, and half a dozen other things she didn't recognize.

"It's a room that changes based on the needs of the person using it," said Harry, closing the door behind them. "But it obeys Gamp's Laws, obviously, so no food or anything like that."

Hermione turned on the spot, trying to look at everything at once. "Can anyone else get in here?"

"They can if they use the same request I did, or if they're here to meet us, specifically. But once the room is in use, no one else can access it."

"Incredible," Hermione murmured, then shook her head. "Sometimes, I think we don't even know half of what this castle can do. How did you learn about this?"

"Sirius."

"Of course."

Harry drew his wand, crossed to the other end of the room. "Shall we get started?"

Halloween was its usual messy self, and Hermione spent the evening on patrol with Patrick. Slytherin was trying to beat Gryffindor's track record for legendary parties, and it seemed that the students had taken this challenge seriously — people were migrating back and forth across the castle like it was going out of style, and Hermione lost a bet.

"That makes thirteen," said Patrick, holding out his hand. "Come on."

Hermione scowled. "I didn't think they'd actually be stupid enough to take the bottles with them. They know we have to confiscate it if we see it."

Patrick shrugged. "They're idiots."

Hermione paid up, and they followed the crowds towards Gryffindor tower. Seamus Finnegan was working the portrait and wearing an enormous false nose. Hermione watched with some interest as his nose twitched and turned purple, then heard a familiar voice next to her.

"Going to write me up?"

She turned to smile at Harry. Like her, he was leaning against the wall, in the shadows. "Only if you give me a good enough reason." He passed her an open flask, and she raised an eyebrow. "You just want to be caught."

"Maybe."

Hermione sighed, gave in. She took a swig, and hardly winced at the Firewhisky.

Patrick took this opportunity to splutter. "What— what are you doing?"

Hermione said nothing, passed him the flask. After a moment, with an air of a man meeting his fate, he took a sip, then another.

"Rough night?" said Harry.

Hermione sighed. "I've confiscated thirteen bottles of alcohol, approximately two hundred Galleons-worth of Weasley merchandise, and a couple slightly illegal substances."

"Brilliant," said Harry. "Where are they?"

In spite of herself, Hermione smiled. "Another time. Why aren't you at the party?"

Harry shrugged. "It's mental in there."

"Fair enough." Hermione took the flask from Patrick, had another swig, and gave it back to Harry. "We should get going."

He nodded. "Happy Halloween."

Hermione made her way down the hall, then glanced over her shoulder. Harry met her gaze, still half-buried in shadow, and smiled.

Seemingly overnight, autumn became winter, and Harry completed his first six mile run.

"I knew I could do it," he wheezed, hands on his head, breathing fogging white in the air. He glanced at her. "Are you coming to the match?"

Hermione kept her face neutral. "Should I?"

He grinned, turned away. "Oh, you know, if you can make the time."

The match was packed, and as Hermione walked up the Ravenclaw stands with Mary, Cyrus, and Alice, she couldn't ignore the feeling of déjà vu. It was enough to distract her until the match started. Gryffindor quickly got control of the Quaffle, and it was off to the races from there.

The battle was bloody, drawn-out, but she couldn't look away. And it was a good thing she didn't, otherwise she would've missed it when Harry launched himself off his broom, through the air, over the head of the Slytherin Seeker, caught the Snitch, and landed back on his broom.

The stadium exploded, and Hermione screamed until she lost her voice. Even Cyrus was clapping, and she'd never seen him show more emotion than a sneeze.

She didn't expect to see Harry, so she didn't try to get to the locker rooms, where a huge crowd had formed (most of them girls). That night, she sipped a warmed Throat Rescue Potion and listened to Alice's stories about the party in Gryffindor Tower. And the following evening, she curled up at the table in the classroom with a sheaf of Astronomy notes, watching a flurry of snow drift past the windows.

A creak, then a footfall. Harry Potter, sleepy-eyed, hair tousled, in the doorway of the room.

Hermione smiled at him. "I'm shocked to see you awake. I heard it went until dawn."

"It's better to leave some things to the imagination." He came in, put down his rucksack. "I wouldn't be here, but that Transfiguration essay—"

Hermione nodded. It had been a brutal one; she'd just finished it that afternoon. "It really was something, that stunt you did yesterday."

"Thanks." Then, to her surprise, he sat down beside her.

He usually sat across from her. He always sat across from her.

Harry must've noticed something — she'd gone cold all over — because he paused in the middle of getting out his textbook. "All right?"

Hermione cleared her throat. "Yes. So, the stunt — how did you manage it?"

"Practice." Harry shook his head, smirked. "Far too much practice."

For a long time, they were quiet, working. But then he asked her to check some of his work, and that led to talking, which led to—

"I really appreciate you coming to the match," he said, grinning. From this angle, she could see his dimple. "Anytime I can convince Hermione Granger to put Quidditch over coursework is a win in my book."

"Oh, I see." She was grinning, too. "It's all just part of some big game to you?"

"Sure," he said, biting back a laugh. "A game." Then, to her surprise, he glanced at her, his gaze raw with sincerity. "But Hermione, you… you know I don't mean that, right? Not about you."

Hermione stared at him, trying not to show that she was floored. Her words died in her throat, small in the face of that one surprising sentence.

And then, she went from surprise to absolute astonishment, because Harry's gaze dropped to her mouth. There, he lingered, before looking up into her eyes.

Harry must have seen something, something to give some hint of the exhilaration boiling under her skin, because he leaned in, closing the distance between them, and she waited until the very last second to close her eyes, wanting to commit every second of this moment to memory.

At first, the kiss was gentle, nothing more than his mouth brushing against hers in a brief, explosive moment. He broke away, his breath puffing against her cheek, and then his hand, sliding along her jaw, to cup the back of her head. This time, when he kissed her, it was with a slick, burning intention that took hold of her and shook her to the bone.

Hermione did everything she could to kiss back, and all of the noise, all of the whirring nonsense of her mind, went blissfully silent. Everything was him, and he was everything. She brought her hands to his hair, his shoulder, the small part of him that she could reach, and kissed him, and kissed him, until she couldn't kiss him anymore.

When they broke apart, Harry was dazed, his glasses half-fogged. He finally cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching, and he said, "That's two gambles in one weekend. And I didn't think either one of them would pay off."

Some distant, forgotten part of her wanted to give him grief for that, but Hermione just looked at him and said, "Took you long enough."

She went to bed. Harry kissed her. She woke up. Harry kissed her. She went to breakfast, had a cup of tea and some eggs. Harry kissed her. She went to class, then to lunch. Harry kissed her. She went back to class, then a Prefects meeting, then supper. Harry kissed her. And Hermione finally went to the classroom, Arithmancy book in hand, rucksack on her shoulder. What were the odds—?

He came in half an hour later, smiled. "Hi."

"Hi," she managed. They hadn't said anything the previous night about what this was, and a part of her didn't want to name it, didn't want to curse it.

Harry sat down beside her once again, and for all of five minutes, they managed to pretend that they were actually doing work. But then he reached for her, or she reached for him, and that was that.

And that was how Hermione and Harry began doing… whatever it was they were doing.

They never talked about it, and Hermione did all she could to avoid thinking about it. Because it felt like another world, another life, a life with different sets of rules and obligations. A life where she was visible, a life where she could take Harry's hand in public without—

Alice gave her a squinty sort of look. "You're quite happy, these days."

"I'll take that as a compliment," said Hermione, ladling soup into her bowl.

"I'll get to the bottom of it," said Alice. "I always do."

It was thrilling, keeping a secret, having a secret. But Alice and the others didn't know about Isaac, either, or that Hermione knew exactly how it felt to be kissed, to be touched. Sometimes she thought that if they knew, their heads would explode.

Harry was an excellent kisser, and he moved against her with a confidence that was surprising, intoxicating. Their meetings in the secret classroom had become just an excuse to spend time pressed into one another, seeking out sounds and sensations. She learned about the mole along the curve of his left pec, the space below his right clavicle, the small of his back, the area where his ear met his neck. And Hermione had to suppose that he was learning her, as well.

He still ran with her, on occasion, and it tested her resolve like nothing else ever had. Sometimes, Harry would glance at her, gaze burning, and she wondered how she didn't implode on the spot. But like all brittle things, the tension between them had to break, and it finally did in the first week of December.

As they rounded the corner of the Quidditch pitch, Hermione felt it in the cold, brutal air — the apprehension, the possibility. She slowed down, and Harry copied her. Within seconds, he had her crowded up against the wall of the Gryffindor clubhouse, his mouth at her neck and his hands in her hair.

Hermione gasped, rolling against him, getting her hands under his shirt. He moaned, bit a line of kisses up to her lips, licked into her mouth and made her see stars.

He felt supple, lethal. She clung to him, her nails digging into his back, and kissed him as hard as she could, a moan dying in her throat as his fingers dug into her breast, skirting beneath the line of her sports bra.

And then, she felt it. The hot, heavy nudge against her hip. And it made her smile.

Harry broke away, muttered a curse into her shoulder. "Sorry, I know we haven't—"

"Not yet," she corrected him. "Is anyone using the showers?"

He looked up at her, his expression doing several things at once. "I— what? No—"

"Good." Hermione pulled away, took his hand. "Let's go."

They took off their shirts and kicked off their shoes, wordlessly agreeing that now, here, was not the time to show each other everything. That, Hermione thought, will have to wait.

The hot water sluiced down Harry's chest like a sin, and his cock was heavy in her hand, his body taut against her as she stroked him, slow and relentless. She watched as he shook, unwinding like a clock, and did everything she could to memorize his face.

Then his mouth, sharp on her skin, his fingers dipping between her legs. It was her turn to shake, and she did, muffling a groan as he tugged her bra away from her breast, fastened his teeth to her nipple. It was a trial by fire, and she felt herself burning alive beneath his touch.

"Shit," he said later, when the water had become tepid. "You really do have the best ideas."

The Yule Ball fever once again took the school by storm, and this time, Hermione thought of it like a horse race — she could make guesses, run the odds. But she wasn't stupid. She didn't expect anything from Harry, least of all an invitation.

Mary had already picked out her dress, ordered from a catalog. It was a sleek, silvery black number, and next to Cyrus, she would look lethal. "It's a wonderful store," she said to Hermione, showing her the spread in the catalog. "Down the north end of Diagon Alley."

Hermione took the catalog, and later that night, behind the curtains of her bed, she flipped through it, pausing when she saw an off-the-shoulder gown in sparkly, creamy champagne. The model winked at her, spun on the spot, showing off the sleek merlot layers hidden beneath the skirt, and Hermione folded down the corner of the page, thinking maybe.

Alice shocked them all by accepting an invitation from Dean Thomas, and she picked out a navy blue gown that made her skin sing. Ethel had a deep red, lacy strapless dress, but refused to reveal who she was going with. "You'll see," was all she would say.

A week before the Yule Ball, Hermione woke up with a headache, but she ignored it, strapped on her running shoes. She only made it three miles before she had to stop, trudging back to the castle through the light layer of snow. "You look tired," Alice said to her at breakfast, and Hermione shrugged, sipping at her tea. The Painkiller Potion had taken the edge off, but she didn't think that anything was wrong until several hours later.

Her hand shook as she stirred her Draught of Living Death, a jackhammer pounding in her brain. The air in the dungeon was thick, hot with the steam of a dozen cauldrons, and as she looked down at her chopped Sopophorous Bean, the room began to spin.

The next thing she knew, she was blinking up at the ceiling, and voices, urgent and scared, echoed in her ears. She felt like she was at the bottom of a well, her limbs heavy and aching.

"—think she fainted, sir—"

"Should I fetch Madam Pomfrey, Professor?"

"No," came Slughorn's worried voice. "No need." A flash of silver darted past them, and Hermione recognized a Patronus. "If she hit her head, we shouldn't move her just yet."

"Hermione?" This voice, she recognized. It was Mary, and her anxious face swam into view. Only then did she realize that she was in Mary's lap, and Mary's hands were on her cheek, her hand. "Hermione, are you all right?"

Hermione nodded, then winced when the room spun, curling towards Mary's stomach. She just wanted to go to sleep.

"Keep your eyes open, my girl." Slughorn's words were sharp, and she realized, then, that he was worried. "Potter, fetch her some water."

"Thanks," came Mary's voice, and Hermione felt something pressed to her mouth. She drank. Her throat was scorching.

Madam Pomfrey arrived in a bustle and immediately took over, putting a hand to Hermione's forehead and tutting. "Third one today. Straight to the Hospital Wing, I'm afraid."

"Is it serious?" said Professor Slughorn.

"No, but it looks like Black Cat Flu is making the rounds. I'll take her from here, Horace."

Hermione kept her gaze down as Madam Pomfrey helped her out of the dungeons. She was mortified.

"Would you like to use a stretcher, dear?"

Hermione shook her head. "I can make it."

Hermione was kept in the Quarantine section of the Hospital Wing for almost a week, along with two dozen other students. Ethel brought her a few novels, a deck of cards, and a note that said, If you even think about studying, I will personally wallop you over the head. It was dull, but not terrible. She spent most of the time sleeping, sliding through the hours like water, watching as the sun shifted to the moon and the blue shifted to black.

On the day of the Yule Ball, Pomfrey deemed her no longer contagious and moved her back to the regular ward. She was still on bed rest for another three days, but now, she could have Felix with her, and receive visitors.

"It seems like half the school is sick," Alice said, rubbing Felix's tummy. Mary had busied herself painting Hermione's nails, and Ethel was sitting next to Hermione's legs, nose-deep in her medical chart. "But at least they haven't canceled the Ball."

Hermione managed a smile. "What a relief."

"Your resting heart rate is incredible," said Ethel. "Must be all that damn running."

They left a few hours before the Ball to get ready, and Hermione slipped into a doze. When she woke, it was dusk, the horizon a muddy orange, and she could hear the distant sounds of the Ball — laughter, music. She rolled over, saw who was sitting beside her bed, and burst into a coughing fit.

"Sorry!" Harry winced, handing her a glass of water. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Once she caught her breath, Hermione took a sip of water, her mind reeling. What on earth was he doing here?

"I wanted to see how you were." His smile was hesitant. "You gave us all quite the scare, collapsing like that."

Hermione said nothing, burying her hand in Felix's fur. He slept on beside her, oblivious.

"It's been quiet," Harry went on. "Studying without you."

She cleared her throat. "You should be at the Ball."

"Should I?" Harry smiled. "I've been twice. I know what I'm not missing."

What on earth, she thought, do I say to that?

"Dobby and the others are worried about you," he went on, nodding to her side table. Only then did she notice a pile of chocolates and a fresh bunch of grapes, along with a few handmade cards. "Madam Pomfrey's been keeping everyone in here on a strict diet, so they recruited me to sneak a few sweets past her defenses."

For a terrifying moment, tears blurred at her eyes. She looked away, down into her glass.

Then, to her continued surprise, he said, "Puzzle, or chess?"

Hermione frowned at him. "What?"

He held up two boxes — one, a folded chess board, the other, a thousand-piece puzzle.

A series of thoughts clicked through Hermione's head. First, that she had to be dreaming. Second, that she didn't understand why he was here.

"Puzzle," she said.

They spent the next hour quietly putting together a vintage poster of dragons, while Harry told her all the things that had happened in the past week, including the Gryffindor drama about the Ball. "I was surprised," he said. "About Dean and Alice."

She smiled before she could stop herself. "I wasn't."

He smiled in return. "You always know more than you let on."

Before she could reply, Madam Pomfrey bustled past her curtains, supper tray in hand, and stopped short when she saw Harry. "Mr. Potter! What on earth are you doing here?! Visiting hours are long past!"

"Sorry," he said, standing up at once. "I'll go."

"I should jolly well think so," huffed Madam Pomfrey, and she waited while he gathered his things and left, raising his hand in farewell. "That boy," she tutted, checking Hermione's pulse. "He's his father's son, and no mistake."

Hermione said nothing, wondering how on earth he'd managed to sneak in.

In the end, it turned out that Ethel's date to the Yule Ball had been none other than a girl named Margot from Hufflepuff. Back in the dorm, Ethel had turned to face them all with a defiant expression belied only by her wobbling chin.

"Oh, sweetie." Alice reached for her, smiled. "Don't be silly. We're thrilled for you."

"Yes," said Hermione at once, and Mary nodded. "We are."

"Now," said Alice, bringing Ethel over to the bed. "Tell us everything."

The moment Hermione got home, her mother bundled her into bed and wouldn't hear otherwise, even though Hermione had been symptom-free for several days. Hermione resigned herself to it and happily ate her weight in mince pies while working her way through the pile of novels waiting for her on her desk.

Christmas Eve was quiet, cozy. An hour after her parents had gone to bed, Hedwig came directly to her bedroom window. She carried only a card, and when Hermione opened it, a ticket fell out. A ticket to go ice skating in Hyde Park on New Year's Eve.

Meet me there at nine? I'll be the one wearing glasses.

Happy Christmas.

It was chilly, but not freezing, and Hermione huddled into her scarf as she stepped out of the Tube station and into the open air. The park was just a short distance from the station, and she found her way to the ice rink.

Harry was standing near the entrance, buttoned up in a black wool coat that made him look like an incognito celebrity. He grinned when he saw her. "Hi."

"Hi." Hermione hovered, unsure if they were supposed to touch each other. Harry answered the question for her when he closed the distance between them and kissed her on the cheek. His mouth was dry, warm, and she felt herself leaning into him. "I didn't think you'd be interested in Muggle activities."

He shrugged. "Sirius raised me in both worlds. I'm happy in either." He considered her. "Did you Apparate?"

"Took the Tube," she replied, then shrugged. "I don't know this area, and the last thing I need is the Ministry breathing down my neck."

Harry chuckled. "Fair enough." To her astonishment, he reached down, took her gloved hand. "I like your hat."

"Thanks," Hermione managed. "My grandmother made it."

There were a series of stalls around the rink, and they busied themselves sampling all the different types of food and hot chocolate. When they skated, Harry danced circles around her, chuckling when she scowled, and saved her from embarrassment with a quick Cushioning Charm.

"I've got you," he murmured into her ear, and a memory flashed in her mind's eye — a blurred, foggy moment in the Hospital Wing, in the dead of night. A hand on hers, a mouth brushing against her forehead. But it had been a dream, surely.

When the clock chimed midnight and the crowd screamed, he pulled her into a kiss, his freezing nose pressed against her cheek, and she began to wonder.

They went back to school, and something was different. Not just the amount of homework — the most she'd ever had in her entire time at Hogwarts — but something undefinable, something urgent. The feeling that time was running out, that she and the other seventh years had to reach for the future, grab it, pin it down.

Two years before, Hermione had discussed several different options in her career meeting with Professor Flitwick, but now, she'd narrowed it down to two. She didn't say anything when the others talked about CVs and deadlines and benefits, but quietly filled out two applications and sent them via school owls. It would be several months before she heard back, and she had more than enough to distract her in the meantime. Between studying for NEWTs, managing the drama between the sixth-year Prefects, watching the slow-burning sure-fire disaster of Alice and Dean's relationship, and Not Thinking about her thing with Harry, it was a wonder that she had time for anything else.

"Sometimes," she said to Harry one night, when she was too tired to stop herself, "I feel like I forget to look up and see what's around me."

Harry met her gaze, then glanced at the sea of notes and study guides threatening to bury them. He reached for her hand. "I can remind you."

Valentine's approached, and they didn't talk about it. To a certain extent, she was relieved — the last thing she wanted was to return to Madam Puddifoot's, and there weren't many other options for a romantic date in Hogsmeade.

They did, however, return to the Room of Requirement. And this time, when he told her to think of a happy memory, she thought of that moment on the ice rink, underneath the invisible stars, when the clock struck midnight and his mouth found hers.

For a moment, she could hardly believe it. Then Harry let out a shout of triumph, because there, hovering in the air, was a small, silvery otter. It hung there for a moment, its little eyes staring at her, then flickered and vanished.

Stunned, Hermione barely reacted when Harry tackled her, pulling her into a bear hug.

"I knew you could do it!" He kissed her cheek, her nose, her forehead, and at one point, her ear. "I knew it!"

On Valentine's, she woke up to a mountain of chocolate bars at the foot of her bed, and another anonymous card, only this time, she recognized the handwriting.

She shoved the card under her pillow, biting back a smile.

"Gosh." Alice's eyes were huge. "Who's that from?"

"The house elves," Hermione lied easily. "They're far too generous."

Alice looked skeptical, but said nothing.

And if Hermione felt a prickle of sadness, even jealousy, when she watched other people get flowers, or shiny gifts, or serenades, she ignored it, reminding herself that it wasn't possible.

When she got to the classroom later that evening, Harry was waiting. He sat at the table, book in hand, two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in front of him, one of them with a mountain of whipped cream.

"I ordered too many bars from Honeydukes," he said, with a completely straight face. "I trust it wasn't an issue?"

Hermione bit her lip and sat down, reaching for her hot chocolate. "Not at all."

Later, as he licked a line of whipped cream from the curve of her breast, she tangled her hands in his hair and sighed, her body rolling against him in a way that sang of familiarity. A part of her wanted nothing more than to stay here all night.

His hand paused where it lingered at her inner thigh, his fingers teasing the edge of her through the fabric of her underwear. Harry glanced up at her, his gaze wild, his mouth red and swollen. "Hermione… can I… with my mouth?"

Her head spun, but she nodded, and as Harry went to his knees, she thought that she should be the one asking, and for something that he would never give.

She knew he was being recruited by at least two different Quidditch teams, and he probably had guarantees for any number of jobs, given who he was. It was just another reminder of how different they were, how their lives followed disparate paths and always would. But this was no great surprise — Hermione Granger wasn't stupid, and she'd known since the very beginning that what she and Harry had wasn't about the future. It was about the present.

One day, she watched him at the Gryffindor table, laughing at something Seamus was saying. She wasn't alone — half the girls and some of the boys watched Harry, and always would. Hermione wondered how it felt, to have that many people pay attention to your face, your voice, to have people listen to what you said and take it seriously. But this feeling, this surge of jealousy — this was a feeling she knew all too well.

That evening, she marched into the classroom, locked the door, and climbed into Harry's lap. His hands went to her hips and his mouth went to her neck — this was familiar territory for them. She rolled against him, feeling his hiss cascade over her ear. "What's gotten into you?" he murmured, his fingers digging into the dip of her back.

"I want you," Hermione said, and it was true enough. "All of you."

Harry looked up at her, quickly masking his surprise. "Okay."

With a wave of her wand, the desk transformed into a lush queen-sized bed, and he shot her an approving glance. "I didn't know you could do nonverbal magic."

Hermione sighed and stood up, unbuttoning her shirt. "Not the point, Harry."

"Right." He gave himself a shake, fumbled with his belt. If he was nervous, he hid it well.

When Harry finally slid into her, he trembled, and her mouth fell open on a silent groan, tears pricking at her eyes. It didn't hurt, but it was overwhelming — she could feel him everywhere, from the beginning to the end of her body, and that wasn't what she wanted, she wanted this to be about what she could make, and not what he could unmake. But he felt so wonderful, and when he shifted, his movements careful and unsure, she reached for him, wanting to savor this moment, to pull and stretch at the time until it bloomed around them, keeping them safe from whatever was coming next.

In April, it was announced that, per tradition, the seventh years would be given a Leaving Ball on their last night at Hogwarts, after all their NEWTs were over. If Hermione had thought that Yule Ball fever was unbearable, it paled in comparison to this.

One night, she was only half-listening to Alice talk about her most recent date with Dean, and what she thought they might wear to the Leaving Ball. Then, suddenly, it got rather quiet, and she looked up when Alice's hands covered hers.

Alice was looking at her, her eyes wide with concern. They were alone in the dorm, and the silence rang with the unsaid.

"I wish you'd tell me," said Alice, "what it is that makes you so sad."

"Nothing," said Hermione, trying for a smile. "I'm just… distracted."

But Alice just kept looking at her, and she deflated.

"Have you ever…" Hermione began, "been with someone, even when you knew it was hopeless?"

"Hopeless?" repeated Alice, frowning.

"That you couldn't be together, even if you wanted to be." Her voice was trembling now that she was actually saying this out loud. "That you weren't… enough for him, not really. That your lives were too different, too separate, to ever really be shared."

Alice's eyes flashed, and she set her lovely jaw. "How dare you say such a thing about my friend."

Shock overcame her. Hermione stared at her, uncomprehending. "Alice—"

"You are more than enough for anyone, Hermione, including yourself. I just wish you'd realize that." Alice raised an eyebrow, indignant. "What makes you think you couldn't be together?"

"Just…" Hermione swallowed hard. "Our worlds are separate. I've never met his friends, and he's never met mine. We don't talk about the future. And we—"

"Stop." Alice squeezed her hands. "The way I see it, you have two options. You could chuck it, give up now. Or you could actually ask him what it is he wants. And," she added, "it probably wouldn't hurt to figure out what it is that you want. If he's following your lead, he might not realize that there's anything wrong. Boys really are very stupid."

A laugh burst out of Hermione before she could stop it. She nodded, and pulled Alice into a hug. And because Alice was the best, she didn't even ask who Hermione was talking about.

"Harry," she said one night, when they were lying beside each other, sweat drying in the cool air of early spring. "Tell me a secret."

He turned to look at her, surprised. "A secret?"

She blushed. "Yes."

He looked at her for a few more moments, then said, "I applied for a fellowship at Ilvermorny, in America."

Hermione stared at him, the words rocketing to her core. "What?"

"Yeah." His grin was quick, sheepish. "I know everyone expects me to play Quidditch, and I know my grades aren't like yours, but I think I have a—" He broke off, his words muffled because she was kissing him most thoroughly on the mouth.

Hermione broke away with a gasp, her hands fumbling for his chest, his neck. "You're brilliant, Harry, they'd be lucky to have you—"

He was laughing now, reaching for her. "If I'd known I'd get that reaction, I would've—"

"Shush." She poked him in the belly. "A fellowship in what?"

Harry cleared his throat, sheepish again. "Defense, in partnership with the Boston precinct of MACUSA. They develop a lot of the defensive magic used to—"

"Harry." Hermione stared at him, emotion surging in her throat. "That's perfect for you."

"Don't jinx me," he said, reaching down to knock on the wooden floor. "I won't hear back for another few weeks."

"Fine," she said, but she knew then, with certainty, that he would get it.

"Your turn," he said. His hand, feather-light, on the space where her belly met her hip. "A secret for a secret."

Hermione looked into his eyes, the eyes that she knew better than anyone's, and knew what she had to say. "I've been thinking for a while now that we should decide what we are."

For several moments, Harry just looked back at her, a wrinkle between his brows. "What do you mean?"

She really was blushing now. "I mean… if we're just friends who… you know… or if this is something we just do until the end of the year, until we go our separate ways, or—"

"Or," he repeated, the wrinkle deepening. "Hermione, I was operating under the assumption that you were my girlfriend."

The entire world, crashing to a halt. Time had stopped, and they were now in an alternate reality without any rules at all.

"What," she somehow managed to say.

"What do you mean, what?" Harry sat up, indignant. It would have been funny if he weren't half-naked. "How on earth is this a surprise to you?"

Hermione sat up as well, her ears ringing. "Harry, we don't— acknowledge each other in public, and I've never met any of your friends, and you've never met mine—"

His frown deepened. "I thought Alice and Mary were your friends."

"That is— Harry, that is not the point—"

"You know all my friends," he continued, still frowning. "You've known them since first bloody year—"

A headache was developing in her left temple. "Well, technically, yes, but—"

"And you never, I thought— Hermione, I thought you didn't like doing stuff in public, and you were always, you know, busy with your own commitments, and I know it's not…" He paused, cleared his throat, and actually looked uncomfortable. "I know it can be a lot, being connected to… me. I know I come with all this stuff and it's ridiculous, but it's there, so I can understand if…" Harry trailed off, his gaze fixed on the floor.

Hermione stared at him. "Harry, I'm not embarrassed to be with you." She bit her lip, then summoned what remained of her courage. "I thought you were embarrassed to be with me."

His head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "What."

"What else was I supposed to think?" she demanded, standing up, reaching for her sweater. It was ridiculous to be having this conversation half-naked. "You didn't ask me to the Yule Ball, did you? And you didn't ask me out on Valentine's, you asked me to come here—"

"The Yule Ball? The Yule Ball?" Harry shoved his hands through his hair, exasperation pouring off him, and she almost wanted to laugh. "I hate the Yule Ball, and you never went, either, and more to the point, Hermione, you were ill!"

She sniffed. "Not the whole time. Not the week before. You could've asked me then."

Harry stared at her, incredulous. "You wanted me to ask you to the Yule Ball?"

Hermione blushed again. "Well, yes."

He hauled himself to his feet, and she almost gasped as his unfastened trousers flopped dangerously low around his hips. Harry stared at her, mutinous, hair vertical, chest heaving, and said, "Hermione Granger, would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to the Yule Ball?"

A beat. Then, "Harry," she began. "Harry, the Yule Ball already happened."

"Do I look," he bit out, "like I care?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "Yes, I'd very much like to go to the Ball with you."

"Merlin." He shook his head. "I hope you have a dress."

Hermione fought back a grin. "Why would I need a dress?"

"For the love of—" He spun on the spot, once again pushing his hands through his hair. "The Leaving Ball, Hermione, what else?!"

"But you didn't ask me to the Leaving Ball, you asked me to the—"

"If you say Yule Ball one more time, I swear to—"

"I can get a dress!" she blurted. "It's not a problem."

Silence fell, and they stared at each other. Hermione could hear and feel her own heartbeat. She wondered if Harry was experiencing something similar.

"We aren't even friends," Hermione found herself saying. "Not in the eyes of everyone else in the school. Nobody knows that we even spend time together."

"So?"

"So," she continued, "it's going to be a shock."

Harry nodded. "We can handle it."

I'm going to enjoy it, she thought. Then, "There are things you don't know. About me. Things I haven't told you because…" I thought you wouldn't want to hear them.

Harry looked at her for a moment, then closed the distance between them. His hand, warm on her cheek. "I want this," he said. "I want you. All of you."

Something inside her quivered. "But it's our last year, and who knows where we'll end up—"

He kissed her, slow and simple. "I'll take whatever I can get. But I'm not giving in without a fight, Hermione."

"All right," she whispered, burying her face in his chest. She listened to the steady thump of his heart, and realized that she had another question. "Harry, did you sneak into the Hospital Wing more than once?"

He chuckled, caught out. "I'd wondered if you were awake."

Hermione pulled away, looking up at him. "Tell me how. Pomfrey's like a hawk."

Harry let out a sigh. "Well, if we're no longer keeping secrets…" He went over to his rucksack and pulled out what looked like a silvery handkerchief. He gave it a good shake, and it expanded like a balloon, erupting into an enormous, hooded—

"Invisibility Cloak," Hermione whispered, fumbling for the nearest chair. She stared at the piece of fabric. "Oh my God, that explains so much."

"It was my dad's," he said, sheepish. "He left it to me, and Sirius made sure to put it in my trunk my first year."

Something prickled in her memory, and she gave him a hard look. "And how did you know where to find the kitchens?"

Harry chuckled again, rueful. After digging out a blank hunk of parchment, he came over to her, wand in hand, and pointed it at the parchment. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

A web of ink exploded across the parchment, bleeding and shifting and growing until it became a perfect outline of the Hogwarts castle, dotted with pair after pair of moving footsteps. The parchment was like an accordion, layer after layer unfolding to reveal floor after floor of the castle, including the dungeons and the towers. Hermione stared at it, her hand hovering over the very classroom they were standing in, the two tiny pairs of feet that were facing each other, poised.

"My dad and his friends made it," Harry said, still sounding sheepish. "They really went out of their way to break every rule." He flipped back to the ground floor, and pointed to the entrance to the kitchens. "That's how I knew where to get in."

Suddenly, the pieces were slotting together in her brain. She thought back to every moment he'd found her, appearing as if from thin air, and realized that he must have worked at it, must have looked for her on the map, wanting to make sure that she was never alone at the wrong moment.

Hermione looked up at him, and it was as if she were seeing him for the first time. "No more secrets," she whispered.

"No," he agreed, and he smiled.

Once she started talking to Harry, it seemed that she couldn't stop.

"Tell me about your parents," he said one night, drawing lazy patterns on her bare stomach.

"They're both dentists," she said. "But my mother's from Bridgetown, in Barbados. My dad's from Liverpool. She was a hygienist when they met in London, and he was just starting at his first practice. He supported her when she went back to school, and when I was eight, they opened their joint practice."

"Dentists," said Harry, shaking his head. "They sound brilliant. And I've seen them on the platform, they look really nice."

"Speaking of the train platform…" Hermione glanced at him. "I know Professor Black, obviously, but last summer, I saw you standing with him and another man. Can I ask who that was?"

"Yeah, um." He cleared his throat. "I'll tell you, but can you promise not to tell anyone else? Sirius likes his privacy, and I don't know if he'd want the parents knowing."

Hermione frowned. "Of course. And you don't have to tell me if—"

"No, no," he said quickly. "You should know, if we're… yeah. Um… do you remember… a while ago, I talked about an uncle of mine, who was really good at brewing potions?"

"Yes. The uncle from Wales."

"Well, I call him my uncle, to keep things simple, but he's actually… sort of… my other parent. He and Sirius are together, and they've looked after me since my parents died."

"Oh, I… I had no idea. What's his name?"

"Remus," said Harry. "He was at school with my dad and Sirius."

Hermione nodded. "I see." She glanced at him. "Does that mean… did he know Pettigrew?"

The name was infamous. Pettigrew had been James and Lily Potter's best friend, entrusted with the secret of their location, only to betray them to Lord Voldemort. Luckily, Dumbledore had arrived just after Voldemort attacked Harry, and, finding Voldemort weakened and stunned, dueled him to his fateful end. Pettigrew had been unmasked by Sirius and a few other members of the Order of the Phoenix and sent to Azkaban just a week later, leaving Harry to grow up as the Boy Who Lived, with his unmistakable scar.

"Yes. They were all really good friends." He dug through his rucksack, took out the Map, and handed it to her. "Tap it."

Bemused, Hermione did so, and was surprised when a flurry of text appeared. "Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs are proud to present the Marauders' Map."

"My dad was Prongs, Sirius was Padfoot, Remus was Moony, and Peter was Wormtail." Harry shook his head. "They were the Fred and George of their time, only bigger, bolder, maybe a bit more reckless. Or so McGonagall says."

Hermione stared down at the writing — it had to be one of theirs, and she wondered if the hand that had written it was now dead or living — and felt her stomach turn. "They were friends… they were all friends… and he…"

"I know." Harry's voice was quiet, somber. "I know. It's hard to imagine."

"Oh, Harry." She reached for him, pulled him into a hug. "I'm so sorry."

He gave an uncomfortable laugh. "It's all right, it's over now."

"I'm glad you had him," she said fiercely. "I'm glad you had Professor Black."

"He'd be chuffed you thought so. Though he'd probably tell you to call him Sirius."

Hermione blushed and pulled away. "I could never. I'd probably die if I did."

"I hope not." He reached for her, toyed with a piece of her hair. "That would be pretty inconvenient, if you came to stay this summer."

Her heart leapt into her throat. "I… what?"

"Just think about it," he said quickly. "Don't say anything yet. But it would be nice, wouldn't it? Regardless of what…" Happens, he didn't say. "I want them to meet you."

"Harry, I…" But words had failed her. She reached for him instead, kissed him until they were breathless, distracted, their hands wandering like thieves in the night. It was helpful, sometimes, to know that she could speak to him with only her body, and know that he would listen.

Later, when it was dark and they were pretending they didn't have to go back to their respective dormitories, Hermione whispered, "You could come to Barbados."

And when Harry kissed her, she heard everything he couldn't say.

May arrived, and with it came lots of rain, fields of blooming flowers, and a decision.

"I'll be there," she said to Harry the night before. "I promise."

He grinned. "Good."

The day of the final match dawned brilliantly sunny, and Hermione smiled to herself as she got dressed with the others.

"It's going to be a brilliant match," said Alice, painting blue stripes on her cheeks. "We've both got our best teams in years, and it's a tie-breaker."

"Heads will roll," said Mary, bone-dry.

Hermione said nothing, wondering what would happen when they found out. She still hadn't told them about Harry; she and Harry had agreed on arriving (as it were) with a bang, and what better opportunity than a Gryffindor-Ravenclaw final?

The crowd was enormous, and Hermione felt it then, the feeling that Harry talked about, when you could almost taste the energy of the people around you, let it lift you until you could soar. Once they were up in the stands, she watched as the Gryffindor team came out of the clubhouse to an ear-splitting roar from the crowd, and felt her stomach flip over. Soon, she couldn't help thinking, soon everything will change.

Once it began, the match was fast, ruthless. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw fought neck-in-neck, teeth bared, and more than once, she thought it was all over, only to be proven otherwise. When Harry snuck underneath the Ravenclaw Beater and caught the Snitch, she almost didn't see it, but when she did, she had to bite back a scream of triumph, because around her, the Ravenclaws were looking like someone had died.

It was a mad rush down to the pitch, Mary, Alice, and Ethel trailing behind her. A huge crowd had formed around both teams, and Hermione didn't miss the way half the girls in the school clustered around Harry. Something about that made her smile.

"Hermione?" Alice had stopped on the edge of the crowd. "What are you doing?"

Hermione grinned at her, but said nothing. She turned away and pushed through the throng of people, making her way closer and closer to the Gryffindor team. She got caught near the edge, just a few strides away from Harry, and he saw her, his face blazing with triumph, and he reached for her, pulled her through the last cluster of people, caught her when she stumbled. They looked at each other, and there, in front of half the school, he leaned down and kissed her.

Distantly, Hermione was aware of the whispers, the shock, the muffled yells. But all she knew in that moment was the delight of feeling his mouth against hers, familiar and new all at once. Her heart beat a crescendo in her ears, and she smiled, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Harry laughed and lifted her into the air, spinning her around as the team started to clap and cheer.

Behind her, Hermione heard Alice yell, "Holy Merlin, I didn't think it was him—" followed by Mary's "I had no idea, did you know?!" and finally, Ethel's, "I knew it."

After that, it was like dominoes falling. Hermione watched them cascade around her, and she smiled.

Alice and Mary bombarded her with pillows and question after question, wanting all the details and stories about how it began, how it kept going. Hermione began eating the occasional meal at the Gryffindor table, and sometimes Harry joined her at the Ravenclaw table, getting into fierce debates about Transfiguration theory with Ethel and Mary. Once, when he stepped away to speak to one of his Chasers, Mary looked at Hermione and said, "He's bloody clever. I feel awful about not thinking it before, but he is."

"He hides it," said Hermione. "But he's getting better about letting others see it."

Hermione received her job offers, and she hugged them close to her chest, slept with them under her pillow. An unconditional offer from the Ministry, and a place in a Healing program that had been a total shot in the dark. She wasn't sure, yet, but she knew she would be soon.

Classes wrapped up, and a thick blanket of silence fell over the seventh years as they descended into revision. Harry joined her study group with the Ravenclaws, let them quiz him on Charms and Potions, and helped them with their duelling. Hermione watched him, and wondered how much they had missed out on because they were afraid.

She wrote to her parents, and asked them about spending July in London, if she might bring a friend with her to Barbados in August. They immediately said yes, and Hermione's stomach fluttered with anticipation. I look forward to meeting him, her mother had written in a postscript. If you love him, I'm sure we will too.

NEWTs came, and passed in a blur of ink, nerves, and fresh parchment. But when Hermione finished her Transfiguration practical, McGonagall offered her a rare smile, and when she managed to produce a corporeal Patronus, Professor Black grinned and flashed her a wink. "Well done," he whispered to her on her way out. "And I look forward to seeing you in July."

Somehow, she didn't die on the spot, but instead managed to whisper back, "Thank you, Professor, but I can't take all the credit."

"You should take most of it," he replied. "And I think you should call me Sirius."

The Leaving Ball was on a warm, brilliant June night, and when Hermione stepped into the Entrance Hall, the fabric of her dress whispering around her legs, she met Harry's gaze and smiled. He stared at her, looking rather like he'd taken a Bludger to the head, and took a few moments to actually walk over to her.

"You look incredible," he murmured, squeezing her hand. "Absolutely incredible."

She smiled. It was the same dress she'd found in Mary's catalog, all glittery champagne with off-the-shoulder straps and a hidden merlot underskirt, and it wore like a dream. "You don't look too bad, yourself." She brushed a kiss to his cheek. "Now, how are you with dancing?"

"Terrible," Harry said, kissing her temple. "But happy to spin you around as many times as you'd like."

The night passed in a wonderful blur of drinks, laughter, dancing, and kissing. Hermione felt every pair of eyes raking over them, over the impossible couple, and felt an odd kind of peace. The more they watched her, the easier they were to ignore.

At the end, she and Harry snuck out into the fairy garden on the front lawn, and they danced beneath the stars, turning in a lazy, infinite circle as the night unspooled around them. She looked into his eyes and said, "Did you get it, then? The fellowship?"

"I think so." Harry smiled down at her, loose and flushed from the Firewhisky Cyrus had snuck into the Ball. "What about you?"

Hermione tried and failed to take a breath. "I've been offered a spot at a Wizarding hospital as a Healer." She watched him carefully. "In New York."

Harry stilled, his expression shifted into stunned surprise. "New York?"

"Yes." Her heart throbbed in her throat. "So if you'd like to… I mean… I'll be… around," she finished, somewhat lamely.

But she needn't have worried, because in the next moment, Harry had gathered her into a fierce embrace, kissing her until she really was breathless.

"Goodness, Harry," she managed, wobbling a little on her feet, "if I'd known I'd get that reaction, I would've—"

"Shut up," he said, and she laughed until he kissed her, endless and lingering under the dark violet sky.

On her last day at Hogwarts, Hermione cried.

She went down to the kitchens and bid all the elves farewell, hugging them and thanking them for all they'd done, telling them to keep in touch. She went down to Hagrid's cabin and said goodbye, accepting one last bone-crushing hug. She went to McGonagall's office and thanked her for everything, especially for asking her to tutor Harry.

McGonagall smiled in that small, enigmatic way and said, "Your gratitude is misplaced, Miss Granger. I simply turned you both in a particular direction. You are the ones who found each other."

The final train ride seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and the next thing she knew, she was gathering her things and disembarking, Felix tucked up into her arms. She handed him off to her parents and hugged Alice, then Mary, then Ethel. They were all crying.

"I'll see you all soon," Hermione managed. "We have our date in August." Alice would be coming back from her new job in France as a Runes specialist, Mary would be knee-deep in her apprenticeship at Gringotts, and Ethel would be in training at the Department of Mysteries. It would be strange, to reunite then separate again so soon, but it was worth it.

Alice nodded, her eyes glittering with tears. "Take care, you darling thing."

Hermione said a final goodbye, then accepted her mother's handkerchief, performed a few quick charms to tidy up her face, and made her way over to Harry.

He looked just as wretched as she felt, and he hugged her close. Behind him, Professor Black lingered, wearing a sympathetic smile.

"I'll see you soon," she said into his chest, feeling like a bird with only one song. He nodded. "It's just a few weeks."

Harry nodded again, with more conviction. "I'll write to you."

"And I to you." She wanted to say it, but now wasn't the moment. Instead, she managed a watery chuckle. "Merlin knows we have plenty to keep us busy until then."

"Yeah." He was silent for a few moments, then he said, "Is it all right if I kiss you?"

"Yes," she said at once. "Yes, please—"

When she walked back to her parents, her father was grinning like a fool and her mother gave her a smirk. "He seems nice."

Hermione managed a smile. "He's the nicest. I can't wait for you to meet him."

Her mother leaned in, kissed her cheek. "I can't wait to know him."

Hermione spent the next few weeks sorting out the details of her Healing program in New York. She would be living in digs provided by the program, just half a mile away from the hospital, which was located on the Upper East Side. She would be living with a roommate in a neighborhood referred to as Midtown East. It was all rather perplexing, and Hermione checked out a pile of travel books from her nearest library, determined to learn all she could about the city.

Her parents left for Barbados, and she used the time to begin sorting through her things, deciding what she would bring with her, and what she would leave behind. She came across the books she'd bought the year before she went to Hogwarts, and she smiled, remembering her determination to keep at least one foot in the Muggle world, to never lose her sense of who she was and where she fit in. "I needn't have worried," she murmured, and put them in the donation pile.

She packed everything for New York into an over-the-shoulder handbag, all of it shrunk down and sorted by category. Everything for Harry's and Barbados went into a small beaded bag that likewise went into the handbag, along with all of Felix's beds and toys. Together, they would be traveling from Barbados directly to New York, and for Harry, on to Boston. They would be taking everything with them, and only leaving the most important things behind.

"Well," she said to Felix, cuddling him close as she locked up the house from the inside. "Here we go." With that, she Apparated to the way-station just around the corner from the Ladbroke Grove Tube stop, and stepped out onto the road.

And there he was. Harry grinned when he caught sight of her, and the moment she was close enough, he pulled her into a fierce hug and gave her a huge kiss. Felix mewed in protest, and they broke apart to laugh.

"Come on," said Harry, taking her free hand. "It's not far."

His house was in a little side-street just a few blocks down, within spitting distance of Portobello Road. Hermione knew at once that it was a magical residence — it looked slightly lopsided, and had a wild front garden swimming with butterflies. "They're in the kitchen," said Harry, leading her through the gate and up the front steps.

Inside, it was a little cluttered, homey. The furnishings were simple, antiques left bare and shining in the midday sun, and she caught glimpses of Harry's childhood — a drawing left tacked to the office door, a pair of too-small wellies in the mudroom, a framed photo of Harry and Sirius at the London zoo, both of them wearing a pair of elephant ears. She smiled at all of it, and fought a wave of apprehension as he led her into the kitchen.

It was a large, earthen sort of room, surrounded by a massive garden and a sprawling lawn that was definitely the result of some well-placed magic. The sunlight poured onto the tiled floor and around the shoulders of Professor Black. He was sitting at a worn wooden table, cup of tea and the Daily Prophet in hand. Across from him was the man Hermione had seen on the platform — Remus. He was lithe, worn around the edges. She knew he had to be the same age as Sirius, but he looked much older — his blonde hair was mostly grey, and his face was heavily lined, nearly bisected by an enormous, thick scar. He met her gaze, then smiled.

"Sirius." Remus' voice was dry, quiet. "We have company."

Professor Black turned around to look at them. "At last!" He leapt up and came over to them, grinning. "Welcome, welcome, to my favorite student—"

"Hey," said Harry, with a laugh.

"And I do hope you can overcome the shock of seeing your dear old Professor in a pair of jeans." Professor Black winked at her, then caught sight of her cat and visibly stiffened. "Ah, yes. Harry mentioned that you'd be bringing a… companion."

"Yes," said Hermione. "Sorry, I know he said you're not a big fan of cats, but—"

Then, to everyone's astonishment, Felix perked up, stretching a paw towards Sirius' face. He leaned forward, almost falling out of Hermione's arms, and, baffled, Sirius met the cat halfway. Felix sniffed at Sirius' nose, then his ear, then his temple. Then, apparently having made up his mind, he began to lick Sirius' cheek, purring like an engine.

Sirius broke into a grin, and Hermione and the other burst into surprised laughter. "I suppose this one's all right," Sirius said, somewhat gruffly, and she deposited Felix on the floor, where he immediately began rubbing against Sirius' leg. "Hermione, I don't think you've met—?"

"No," she said, swallowing a wave of nerves. "No, but Harry's told me—"

"Likewise." Lupin was smiling again, and he came over to them with his hand outstretched. Now, she could hear the Welsh lilt to his voice. She noticed his limp, but when she shook his hand, his grip was firm, sincere. "I very much look forward to getting to know you, Hermione. Sirius has shown me some of your essays, and you really are an exceptionally bright witch."

Hermione looked at him, at the scars dotted across his face, then her gaze dropped to his hand, and the thin edges of scars that she could see poking out from beneath the edge of his sleeve. Then, her gaze darted to the sideboard, where a small cauldron squatted beside a pile of Potions ingredients. She recognized Wolfsbane, Abraxan hair. She looked back to Remus, and his open, honest gaze, and smiled. "You're too kind. And it's lovely to meet you."

She was given her own bedroom, not that it did any good. On her first night, after a delightful dinner of stuffed peppers and cold salad, she waited until the house was quiet and snuck across the landing into Harry's bedroom.

He was lying in bed, shirtless, and he grinned when he saw her. "Cheeky monkey."

"Shhh!" Hermione closed the door, then muttered a quick Silencio. She waited to hear the faint hum of the charm taking effect, then she turned to face him, looking at the room before her.

In many ways, it was exactly what she'd expected, and not what she'd expected at all. The walls were dotted with various Quidditch posters, and even a poster of Led Zeppelin. His broom was propped in the corner, and there was a faint note of messiness to everything. There were piles of books on his desk, scattered through his bookshelf. She saw his Hogwarts trunk, half-unpacked, a few random Weasley products, his Quidditch robes, a handful of Chocolate frog cards. She looked, and she saw Harry everywhere, in everything.

Hermione met his gaze, smiled. "Well, maybe I couldn't help myself. I just had to see the Chosen One's bedroom."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I look forward to reading the spread in the Daily Prophet. Now get over here, I can't believe you actually wear a nightie—"

Harry Potter had nightmares.

She didn't learn this until her fourth day at his house, when she accidentally fell asleep in his bed. She woke to find him shaking, twitching, and when he finally burst awake, it was with the expression of something hunted.

Hermione soothed him with whispers and circles rubbed into his back. She didn't ask him what it was about; she didn't need to. It had to be the night of the attack on his parents.

"Can we…" His voice was muffled by her chest. "Can we run tomorrow?"

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. "Of course, Harry."

"You know," Hermione said to him as they watched Sirius trail Remus through the garden, chatting to him while he watered the vegetables, "you should tell him."

Harry sipped his beer, and it was a long while before he replied. "What?"

"You should tell Sirius. About your trouble reading. Now that you're out of Hogwarts, it hardly matters. And it doesn't bother you anymore, does it, since you have the spell?"

"It doesn't," Harry agreed, but his voice was flat, unconvinced. They watched as Felix came running out of the house and darted to Sirius' side. "I suppose I could," he eventually said.

"Good." Hermione looked at him. "It's better that he knows. I know you don't like keeping secrets from him."

Harry said nothing, and he went back to his beer.

He told Sirius the next day. Hermione waited inconspicuously in the kitchen, staring down at a book that she wasn't reading. Somewhat to her surprise, Remus appeared, looking a little weary around the edges, but his eyes were bright. He smiled at her, went over to the stove. "Cup of tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

Once he was seated across from her, the mugs steaming in front of them, Remus smiled at her and said, "How long have you known?"

Hermione fumbled with her mug, splashing her tea onto the table. "I—what?"

"It's all right," he said, reaching for a towel. "I'm not angry or anything. It's just that Sirius gets very worked up about people knowing that I'm a werewolf."

Hermione swallowed hard. "Ever since we first met. Sorry, I guessed."

"It's all right," he said again, and his smile became a grin. "You really are quite brilliant. Most people can't put things like that together."

"But don't worry," she said quickly. "I won't tell anyone. I wouldn't dream of it."

"You're kind," he replied. "But if you feel… uncomfortable—"

"Don't be ridiculous." Hermione tossed her hair over her shoulder and reached for her mug again. "I won't tolerate that kind of talk, so you'd better stop it before I get testy."

Remus stared at her, his expression showing a glimmer of surprise, but before he could reply, there came a loud bang from down the hall. "Oh, dear," he muttered, then Sirius appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Sirius." Hermione stood up just as Harry came to a halt behind his godfather. "Are you… is everything—?"

Sirius stepped down into the kitchen. "Is it true, Hermione?"

"I, uh—" she glanced at Harry, and he winced. "Yes, it is true, Harry does have difficulty reading. But he's a perfectly capable student and I think he's really—"

"No, not that," said Sirius with a bite of impatience. He looked right at her. "Is it true that you helped him? That you tutored him, that you taught him all those tricks, that you found a spell to help him read?"

A very tense silence fell. Hermione couldn't tell whether Sirius was happy or angry, so she took the leap and said, "Yes, yes I did."

Sirius stared at her for a moment, then, to her astonishment, he reached for her, pulled her into a tight hug. "Thank you," he muttered. "Thank you for doing that." He took a shuddering breath. "Thank you for helping him when I couldn't."

"Sirius." Remus' rebuke was quiet, gentle. "I'm sure Harry had his own reasons for not telling you at the time, and you mustn't take it—"

"He's right, Sirius." Harry stepped into the kitchen, tentative. "And I had Hermione. I wasn't alone."

"No," Sirius agreed, pulling away. He twinkled at Hermione. "You certainly weren't."

"Wow." Harry shaded his eyes. "That's a lot of sun."

Hermione laughed, reached out and tapped on his glasses, turning them into sunglasses.

Harry blinked a few times, dropped his hand. "Cheers."

They made their way down Old Street — Harry kept stopping to chat to shopkeepers and look through their wares — then into the Muggle town, where Hermione bought them a few bottles of ginger beer. "Still good to walk?" she asked him, hiding a grin.

Harry nodded enthusiastically as he drank his ginger beer, even though he was sweating like a lunatic. "I want to see everything."

They made their way through the crowded streets, then down towards the beach, where the tarmac turned into packed dirt, then into sand. When they reached the end of the road behind her grandmother's house, Harry stopped, turning to look at the monstrosity down the beach. "What is that thing?"

"A resort," Hermione sniffed. "What else?"

As they walked towards the house, Hermione explained how the resort companies had bought up most of the beach-front properties on the island, even threatening the residents with lawsuits or violence if they failed to comply. "But my grandmother and her neighbors had a trick up their sleeve. Years before the companies even got here, they went to the British government and petitioned to have their land declared a protected environment under international law. You see, it's a breeding ground for sea turtles. I know," she added, laughing at Harry's expression. "It was pure genius. So they live on here, as happy as they can be, in spite of the tourists. With any luck, the companies will just leave them alone."

Harry shook his head. "I had no idea any of this was happening."

"It's not just here, it's everywhere. Hawaii, Jamaica, all of it. But come on." She nodded at the front door. "Time to face your fate."

Hermione knocked on the door, and it opened to reveal her beaming grandmother, all 4'11" of her. "Hello!" she cried, spreading her arms open wide. "Welcome, welcome, dear boy, and how handsome you are—"

Harry was already blushing, and it got even worse when her grandmother took his face in her hands and cooed. "Very— Very nice to meet you—"

"Hermione!" Her mother appeared, swept her in with a hug and a kiss. "I see my mother has already introduced herself—"

"Help him," muttered Hermione, slipping out of her mother's embrace and into her father's.

"He's doing very well," her father said to her in an undertone. "I liquified the first time I met her. She had to scrape me off the front porch."

Hermione shot her father a look. "Be nice to him."

"Oh, of course," he said airily as her mother stepped in and introduced herself to Harry, saving him from another round of cheek-pinching. "I'm always nice." He glanced at her feet. "Where's Felix?"

"Oh." She grinned. "We left him with Sirius. They're inseparable."

Being in Barbados with Harry meant being in Barbados with Harry wearing what had to be the world's smallest pair of swim trunks. Hermione watched every woman within spitting distance of the beach do double-takes whenever he showed up and bit back her laughter. They'd probably never seen anyone quite like Harry, with his honey-tea skin and jet-black hair. The muscles helped, too.

"I love your grandmother," Harry said to her one day from underneath her sun hat, which was currently draped flat over his face. He was lying in a hammock, splayed out like a lion at leisure. "She keeps feeding me. It's the best thing in the world. But I don't think any of my trousers will fit me after this."

Hermione grinned, then bent over. "Good." She leaned in, blew a raspberry on his tummy.

Harry was too quick for her — in a flash, he grabbed her, brought her hurtling down on top of him, her hat falling down to the ground. Her elbow went in his side and he wheezed, but held fast. "Trouble-maker," he gritted out, and she squealed with laughter as he mouthed at her neck.

A few days later, Harry woke her up at dawn and dragged her out to the dock, where she saw a little boat for hire, along with snorkeling gear. Hermione rubbed at her face, pushed her hair out of her eyes. "You must be kidding."

"Nope," he said with a grin, and they spent the day searching for his lost shipwreck. All they found was a handful of gold coins, but Harry was elated, convinced they were on the right track.

His skin grew darker from the sun, and it only made his eyes brighter. She lost herself in his gaze time and time again, and one night, she looked right at him across the dinner table and said, "I'm going to bed."

Harry Potter wasn't stupid. Twenty minutes later, he stumbled into the clearing she'd made just inside the trees, gaping at the scene around him.

They were standing in the middle of a pile of flowers and pillows, surrounded by flickering candles and lanterns, vines hanging down from the tree branches above. Hermione smiled at him, cast the last few warding spells they needed, and pulled him down into the pillows.

She rode him slowly, pulling away and sinking down onto his cock in a movement so slow, so luscious, that he trembled and shook with it, sweat pooling in his clavicle, his belly button. Around them, the waves crashed in a repetitive, distant roar, and it felt as if she and Harry were moving in tandem with the rest of nature. Hermione moaned when he touched her, his fingers grazing across her nipples, her hips, her belly, down to the hidden nub of her clit. It was teasing, burning an endless fizz under her skin, and her pleasure ebbed and surged in tandem with his. She clenched her thighs as she clenched around him, and bit out a final moan as her orgasm crested and broke, rushing through her like a cold wind. She went slack against him, her body unwinding like a loose knot, and he let out a groan, his fingers digging into her hips as he fucked into her, tortuously slow. When he came, it was with her name on his lips and her mouth on his neck.

They lay there, looking at each other in the lush golden light, and she felt the future stretch before them as it never had before. And for once, she did not refute the possibilities, but allowed herself to invite them in, to imagine. And she smiled.

Harry noticed, and his finger grazed her cheek. "You know I love you, right?"

She leaned in, kissed him. "And I love you."

His grin was enormous, and he squeezed her close. "It makes everything sound so simple, doesn't it? But the fact is, we're moving to two different cities, with two different jobs, and—"

"Harry." Hermione kissed him again. "Let's start with what we know. And the rest will follow."

"Okay." Harry looked at her, and the warmth, the love in his gaze was overwhelming. "The rest will follow."

Alice is a love note to Trixie from Call the Midwife, who is one of my all-time favorite characters.

I hope everyone enjoyed all the Easter eggs from my other fics. I certainly did!

this story has led to a lot of epiphanies for me. you can shrink an invisibility cloak! if there were muggle pirates, there must have been wizard pirates! god, the fun never ends.

everyone flood ada_lovelaced with love on insta. they're absolutely incredible, and this story wouldn't be here without their talent or imagination.

also, whoever found me on Tumblr - what a terrifying, humbling moment. pls don't do that again. this is why I have an instagram.