London, December 2394

Jack certainly could write his own boring-arse paper—Hermione was right about that. But he needed an excuse to approach her.

He'd been trying to work up the courage for over a month, and then the opportunity presented itself in the form of an English paper. Shakespeare's Winter's Tale. It was just too perfect, really.

They wrote the bloody thing in about thirty minutes, and then they just hung out.

And then, for reasons he couldn't fathom, they decided to hang out again the day after. And the day after.

Somewhere along the way, they clicked. Like adjacent pieces of an ancient jigsaw puzzle.

A girl who loved old-fashioned paper books and preferred real food to replicated one.

A guy who loved the stars and dreamt of friendship for as long as he could remember.

They became friends.

They studied. Watched movies. Made each other laugh.

She introduced him to all of her favourite books (which were many), and he shared the playlist—a compilation of classics—his father had made for his mother. A playlist Hermione seemed rather fond of.

Not surprising, really. She seemed to like everything old-fashioned. It was as if she was from another era herself: the way she spoke, the way she carried herself, things she liked.

There was a mystery about her, and Jack, curious as he was, knew better than to ask. Sometimes, she'd start to say something and then stop herself. Sometimes, she'd get sad for seemingly no reason. And once, she even called him 'Harry'.

"He was my best friend," she said when he carefully asked her about it.

As she said it, she averted her gaze to hide her tears, but very little slipped past Jack's notice. And really, how could he miss the past tense of her statement? He'd be daft if he had.

Jack had never been good with people, but he was observant. He supposed people-watching was what you did when you didn't have any meaningful relationships of your own. His many childhood experiences gone bad only solidified in his mind the idea that he was incapable of having lasting connections—because something, deep down, was very wrong with him. That maybe he should just give up trying and keep everyone at arm's length.

And he had given up, for a time.

Until one fine September morning, Hermione had walked into the English classroom and into his life.

Jack knew there was something different about her from the moment he'd laid eyes on her. He couldn't quite put a finger on what precisely it was that had caught his attention. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself, with an air of an outsider, of someone who didn't really belong.

Or perhaps he'd simply seen a kindred spirit that had reawakened his desire to try to make friends. One more time.

The way he'd gone on about it wasn't the best, Jack had to admit. But it worked out in the end. Somehow.

It wasn't as if before Hermione, he'd been completely alone. There was his mother, of course. She was always there for him—as constant as the Northern Star, as unchanging as the sea. She was ecstatic when Jack told her he'd made a friend. She asked him countless questions about Hermione and helped him navigate this newfound friendship. She had more experience with such things, after all.

She was also the one to suggest that perhaps Hermione had been through a traumatic experience of sorts and that she'd talk about things when she was ready.

So, Jack listened and never pushed.

For now, what they had was enough for him.

Because for the first time in his life, Jack felt seen. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel broken.

And, as a bonus, it was always nice to have a study partner, especially when the assignment was dreadfully boring—the way it was now.

They were in a secluded corner of the library. Jack reread the same passage for what felt like a hundredth time, blinking sleep from his eyes.

Bloody book.

What kind of sadist had the bright idea to include the writings of this obscure 22nd-century writer in the high school English curriculum? Even with their 16th-century English, Shakespeare's works were much more readable. This book, as far as Jack was concerned, belonged in the rubbish bin.

He glanced across the table at Hermione, who was glaring at her PADD. Usually, she'd be the one to rescue him from an assignment such as this, but today, she seemed to be struggling herself. She'd been out of sorts all day, barely eating and distracted, claiming she was just tired.

But Jack had a feeling something else was going on.

She sighed, wrapped a strand of hair around her finger and began twisting it. She did that when she was trying to solve a particularly difficult maths question or when she was upset.

He quickly glanced at the screen of her PADD.

Definitely not maths.

"Okay, now," he said, finally abandoning his attempts to read the bloody book and setting his PADD down on the table. "Tell me what's wrong. If you want," he added hesitantly.

"What makes you think there's something wrong?" she said, her eyes firmly glued to the PADD Jack knew she wasn't reading.

He picked up her PADD and moved it aside. "Your long-suffering sigh, along with this thing you do with your hair when you're upset. Also, there's this mood you get into sometimes, and you're practically wearing a sign that says, 'Hey, I'm sad. Please cheer me up!' "

"That's not true," she said without any conviction, relinquishing the lock of her hair.

"It totally is."

She sighed again, throwing her back to look at the ceiling. "Since when are you all attentive?"

"Hey! For the record, I've always been attentive."

That was true. He'd picked up on attentiveness and being sensitive to other people from his mother. Plus, over the years, Jack had learned the art of people-reading—not just people-watching.

"There's just been no one to appreciate it."

Hermione stared at him for a few moments, then took a breath and slowly let it out.

"It's my mum," she said, placing one elbow on the table and lowering her head on her hand. "She was supposed to come back to Earth for Christmas so that we could celebrate it together. And this morning, she called and said she couldn't make it. Because of some diplomatic disaster on Tesnia Prime."

Hermione closed her eyes and took another shaky breath. Jack was certain she was holding back tears.

"It's our first …" she trailed off, as if realizing she'd said too much.

Jack knew that Hermione's mother was some Starfleet admiral (a rather prominent one, from what he'd gathered). Hermione talked about her but never mentioned her name. Jack never asked. He figured she'd tell him on her own terms.

"Friendship, like any other relationship, is built on trust," his mother's words came to him. "And trust is earned and built, little by little—the way a house is built, brick by brick."

So, Jack didn't push—just listened and waited.

"It's a family holiday," Hermione said, "and I was really hoping to spend it with her."

Life of a Starfleet officer. Yes, Jack knew all about it from his mother. Not everyone in Starfleet had the luxury of gallivanting across the galaxy with their family onboard—most didn't. It was a gruelling life of endless sacrifices, of always putting duty first.

"Who are you spending it with then?"

"My aunt and her family."

Hermione's aunt lived in rural Ireland with her husband. She had two adult children in their early thirties, married and with children of their own.

"Don't get me wrong," Hermione said, "my aunt is wonderful and kind and always welcoming—her entire family is. I just… I don't know them very well, and they always try too hard, making things rather awkward, and…"

She let out a frustrated breath and screwed her eyes shut.

Jack considered her words for a moment.

"Well, how about an alternative?" he asked. "How do you fancy a trip to the moon? I hear the view up there is wonderful this time of year. And you'd get to celebrate Christmas with my family."

While Jack attended a boarding school in London, his mother had taken a job in some fancy hospital in Copernicus City, on Luna. It was the place of her birth, and she still had friends there. She seemed in her element, and she seemed happy—even though she worried about Jack all the time.

Mothers.

Hermione stared at him, several emotions flitting across her face. Then she shook her head. "No, I couldn't do that. I wouldn't want to impose myself like that—"

"Nonsense. It's just me and my mother. There's no imposing. In fact, I think my mother will be delighted to finally meet you. I know she's been dying to do so ever since I told her about you."

Jack had never been the 'normal' kid to bring a friend home. Hermione was the first. Of course, his mother was eager to meet her. And this was just the perfect opportunity.

"Jack, I still don't think—"

"Stop thinking and just go with it. I've never spent Christmas with my best friend, so… It'll be fun!"

Her lips curled in the faintest smile—the first one today. Jack counted it as a victory.

"I'm your only friend," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Ouch," he said, dramatically placing his hand over his heart. "True enough. But the pot should really stop calling the kettle black. I'm also your best and only friend."

Her smile widened. "That's all I need."

For a moment, sadness overtook her as she said the words, but she quickly shook it off, plastering another smile in its place.

He grinned back. "Alright. It's decided then?"

"Wait. I think we should check with your mum first. Make sure it's alright."

"I'm sure it is," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "But if it would make you feel better—"

"It really would."

"—I can ask her when I speak with her tonight."

She nodded. "Please."

"Consider it done. And how about your mother?"

"She won't mind, I'm sure of it. But I'll talk to her anyway."

Jack nodded, then grabbed his PADD and shoved it into his rucksack. "Let's get out of here."

"But Jack, we still have work to do."

"Yeah, let's find somewhere else to do it. Changing the scenery might help."

He helped her gather her things, and they walked out of the library and down the winding corridors until they found an empty classroom.

"You get settled, and I will be right back," Jack said, depositing his rucksack on the nearest desk and heading out the door.

"Where are you going?"

He popped his head back in the doorway. "Curiosity killed the cat."

She rolled her eyes at him, and he grinned. She was definitely in much better spirits. But could be better, and he knew just the thing to make it happen.

He found the nearest replicator and ordered strawberries. They were Hermione's comfort food. Wondering why he hadn't thought of it sooner, he hurried back to the empty classroom.

Jack gave a quick nod to a couple of classmates he passed by. His relationship with most of his classmates didn't go beyond casual acknowledgement of each other's existence. Jack was fine with that. None of them seemed the type of people he'd want to associate with, anyway. He had Hermione, and that was more than enough for him.

"I come bearing gifts!" he announced as he entered the classroom and made a show of placing the bowl of strawberries in front of Hermione. "I know these aren't real ones from the garden or the market, but I think they'll do in a pinch."

She beamed at him. "Thank you, Jack. You really are the best."

"You just say that because I bring you strawberries," he said, sliding into the chair beside her.

"No, I say it because it's true."

She stared at the bowl but didn't touch it. Then she twisted in her seat and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. Her body began shaking with silent sobs.

"Hey, now," Jack said, returning the hug and rubbing his hand over her back in a motion he hoped was comforting—the way his mother did whenever he was upset.

Seconds ticked by, and Jack struggled to comprehend what had brought this on. So, he simply held her.

"Is it the replicated strawberries?" he asked carefully, when she began relaxing in his arms. "I'll take them away. Just say the word."

Hermione laughed and pulled away, swiping at her tears.

"No, silly." She reached out and playfully tousled his hair, a fond smile spreading across her face.

Then she reached into the bowl and grabbed a strawberry. She took a bite, then slid the bowl towards him.

His eyes remained firmly trained on her face as he picked up a berry and popped it into his mouth. "Feeling better yet?"

She nodded. "Loads."

"Excellent! Mission accomplished."

"Thank you," she said sincerely.

"That's what friends are for, right?"

She nodded slowly, as if hesitating, wanting to say something, but then deciding against it.

"So," she said, picking up her PADD, "how's your homework coming along?"

"It's not," Jack groaned. "The bloody book is so boring that I tried reading it twice previously and fell asleep both times. Today, I thought the third time would be the charm, but I was so, so wrong."

She laughed. "Well, then. It's my turn to help."

She told him what the book was all about, in a very detailed, Hermione way. They ate the strawberries, listened to his mother's playlist, and discussed (more like made fun of) their latest literature assignment. If Ms MacKinnon—their English teacher—ever heard them, she'd be horrified.

Yes, Jack really liked this whole friendship thing.

With Hermione, it seemed almost effortless. Natural. Like breathing.

A/n. I don't have a beta for this story, and despite my best efforts, there are likely mistakes. I hope they aren't too distracting.

I probably won't be able to update again before Christmas (family gatherings, etc.), so Merry Christmas (if you celebrate) and Happy Holidays!