Just like with TKC, I will have Hermione write letters to her parents as well as Ron, Harry, Ginny, and possibly others. The letters are mainly filler, like with TKC, but they will also reflect and shape how people, especially her parents, acted towards the trio.

I will also do phone conversations when the Weasleys finally get the phone.

This chapter may be a bit short, as this is the Quidditch game. I will try my best to include as much as I can, but honestly? I feel like Hermione would only focus on key parts and when it involves Harry for the most part. She isn't too big of a fan of Quidditch. So sadly, Lee Jordan's commentary will either be miniscule or nonexistent.

Side bar: Bouncing between 3 book and creating your own thoughts for a very mature 12 year old is hard lol

Anyways, on with the fic.

Chapter 12: Getting Along

Dear Mama and Papa,

Sorry it's been so long since my last letter. Classes have been keeping me busy. But I have some exciting news!

Remember Harry and Ron? We're friends now! We had a big misunderstanding, but we've worked it out. Now we're like our own little group.

Harry is nothing like I expected. He's famous here, but he didn't even know about it until recently! He grew up in the Muggle world, just like me. He doesn't care about being famous at all. He'd probably prefer to avoid it. He's also just become the youngest Quidditch player in a century! Can you believe it? He's brave, loyal, and surprisingly funny when he lets himself relax. Honestly, he's a bit like how I would feel an annoying brother would be. Always getting into trouble but someone you can count on when it matters.

Ron and I are still figuring each other out, and truthfully, we argue quite a lot—probably more than we should. Sometimes I'm convinced he does it just to get a rise out of me! He can be so infuriating with his stubbornness and knack for saying exactly the wrong thing. But then there are moments when he shows an unexpected kindness or thoughtfulness that completely catches me off guard. Those moments make me think there's more to Ron than he lets on.

Being the youngest boy in a big family can't be easy, and I think he feels the need to prove himself, to stand out from his brothers. That determination is something I can admire, even if we don't always see eye to eye. Ron is also very funny—his humor is one of the things that draws people to him, even if his jokes can occasionally miss the mark. Beneath all the bickering, there's something about Ron that makes me want to understand him better, and I have a feeling we'll eventually find our rhythm.

I need to get ready for Transfiguration, so I'll keep this short. I miss you both so much and can't wait to see you for the holidays—I have so much to share!

Love,

Hermione

November came, bringing with it a biting chill that seemed to seep into every corner of the castle. Frost glistened on the ground each morning, and on some days, the lake shimmered under a thin layer of ice. I'd written to Mama for heavier jumpers and coats, which she sent along with a sweet note that made me miss home more than ever. Warming charms became an essential skill for us first years, one we learned faster than anything in our lessons.

By now, I was spending nearly all my time with Harry and Ron. I suppose I had become something of a study partner for them—especially Harry, who struggled to balance Quidditch practice with his schoolwork. I wouldn't let them copy, of course, but I helped them find references and refine their wording. It felt good to be useful, though I sometimes wished they appreciated the effort a bit more.

The day before Harry's first Quidditch match, we found ourselves in the freezing courtyard, huddled together with my bluebell flames contained in a glass jar for warmth. The castle had become too crowded to find anywhere comfortable to sit, and the chill seemed to follow us everywhere. As we stood with our backs to the fire, Snape limped past us, his dark robes sweeping the frosty stones. He didn't miss an opportunity to single Harry out.

"What's that you've got there, Potter?" he asked, his voice as sharp as the November wind. He pointed at the Quidditch Through the Ages book in Harry's hands.

"Library books are not to be taken outside the school," Snape said curtly, snatching the book away. "Five points from Gryffindor."

Harry's face flushed with anger as Snape limped away. "He's just made that rule up," he muttered bitterly. "Wonder what's wrong with his leg?"

"Dunno," Ron grumbled, his voice full of disdain. "But I hope it's really hurting him."

Later that evening, the Gryffindor common room was packed, and we were crammed together, finishing our Charms homework. I was checking over their work when Harry, still fuming about Snape, abruptly stood.

"I'll be back," he said, marching off to retrieve his confiscated book. That left Ron and me alone. The silence that followed felt heavy, almost awkward, as we continued working. I tried to focus on my Standard Book of Spells, but I couldn't shake the awareness that this was the first time Ron and I had been alone together.

Ron broke the silence first. "I never apologized to you," he said quietly, not looking up from his parchment.

I blinked in surprise, unsure if I'd heard him correctly. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said I never apologized to you," Ron repeated, his ears turning slightly pink. "You know, for making you cry. And… and for everything else. Being a wanker toward you and all."

My lips tightened at his choice of words.

"You don't have to." I said.

"Yes I do. It wasn't right for me to make you cry. I shouldn't have called you a nightmare."

I stared at him for a moment, my fingers fidgeting with the corner of my book. "Well," I said slowly, "that's what you thought of me."

"Yeah, but I shouldn't have said it," Ron admitted. "I should've kept it to myself."

His honesty caught me off guard. ""Do...do you really think I'm a nightmare?" I asked in a small voice, bracing myself for the answer.

He winced slightly, as though the question itself pained him. ""I used to. But, I think we just started off on the wrong foot, you know? I don't think that anymore." he said, his voice quiet but sincere.

I couldn't help but smile at that. There was something oddly comforting about his candor. "Thanks, Ron," I said softly. "And… I'm sorry too."

He frowned. "Sorry for what?"

"For being an annoyance sometimes." I said, looking down at my parchment. "I know I'm not the easiest person to get along with. And what you said about the not having friends thing was right. I've never had friends. Not even back at home."

Ron's eyes widened, his quill pausing mid-scribble. "Not even in your Muggle school?"

I shook my head, swallowing hard. "Everybody thought me a know it all and a teacher's pet because I would always answer questions and I would attempt to help them understand things...I guess even when they didn't ask for it. That can be annoying, I gather. So I don't blame you and Harry for how you felt about me in the beginning."

He looked genuinely surprised, even a little guilty. ""Well, we're friends now, so you won't have to worry ab-"

"Really?" I interrupted, not sure if I had heard him right. "You really consider me a friend to you?"

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Of course, dingbat. I wouldn't be talking to you right now if I didn't."

"It's just that I only thought you were because Harry and I were friends and you felt obligated." I said looking down at my parchment.

Ron rolled his eyes. ""You're my friend too, Hermione, and not because of Harry being your friend. Even if he wasn't, I believe we would still be friends. Friends stand up for each other, even when we don't have to. That's what my brother Bill says. And you didn't have to lie for us. You didn't have to help us with out homework or keep us warm, or even pay us any attention. But you do, and now I know, you're not so bad." Ron said.

"Really?" I whispered, a lump forming in my throat.

"Yeah," Ron said firmly. "Friends stick up for each other, even when they don't have to. That's what my brother Bill always says. And you—you didn't have to lie for us. You didn't have to help us with homework or keep us warm with that bluebell fire. But you do. And now I know, you're not so bad."

A wide smile spread across my face, warmth blooming in my chest. "You're not so bad yourself, Ron," I said teasingly. "Well, except when you swear."

He laughed even louder at that. It was kind of neat having someone laugh at a joke I made rather than me being the joke. 'We're friends now, Hermione. You have to accept all my flaws."

I laughed along with him, the tension between us melting away. By the time Harry returned, still bookless, we were chatting easily, the awkwardness of earlier completely forgotten.

"Did you get it?" Ron asked eagerly as Harry finally joined us.

Harry didn't answer right away. His face was flushed, and his breaths were short.

"What's the matter?" I asked, my curiosity piqued and my concern growing.

In a hurried, hushed voice, Harry recounted everything. He told us about how he had stumbled upon Filch tending to Snape, bandaging his leg, and how Snape had been muttering furiously about the three-headed dog. That revelation alone was enough to send a shiver down my spine, but then Harry explained how Snape had spotted him and screamed at him to leave. Harry hadn't stuck around long enough to hear more, wisely choosing to bolt.

"You know what this means?" Harry said, his voice urgent. "He tried to get past that three-headed dog at Halloween! That's where he was going when we saw him. He's after whatever it's guarding! And I'd bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a diversion!"

My mouth fell open in shock, but I couldn't stop myself from immediately defending the teacher in question.

"No, he wouldn't," I said quickly. "I know he's not very nice, but he wouldn't try to steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe."

Ron groaned. "Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints or something," he said, exasperated. I'm with Harry. I wouldn't put anything past Snape. But what's he after? What's that dog guarding?"

I shot him a glare, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. "I don't think every teacher is a saint," I grumbled.

Still, it felt wrong to accuse a professor—someone entrusted by Dumbledore—of something so sinister.

I didn't have an answer for his question, but my mind raced with questions and possibilities. The three-headed dog was clearly guarding something important, something so secret even we weren't meant to know about it.

But why would Snape, a professor, be involved?

As much as I disliked how quick they were to jump to conclusions, there was a small, gnawing feeling in the back of my mind. What if, just this once, they were right?

The morning of Harry's first Quidditch match dawned crisp and bright. As we made our way to the Great Hall, the tantalizing smell of breakfast filled the corridors, and my stomach growled in response. Inside, the tables were laden with a banquet of food: golden biscuits, sizzling sausages, fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, warm waffles, and bowls of colorful, fresh fruit. It was the kind of spread that could make anyone's mouth water. Well, anyone except Harry, apparently.

"You've got to eat some breakfast," Ron said to Harry, frowning at the untouched plate in front of him. Harry had poked at a few items but hadn't taken a single bite.

"I don't want anything," Harry muttered glumly, slumping slightly in his seat.

"Just a bit of toast?" I offered, trying to sound encouraging. Surely, he could manage something simple.

"I'm not hungry," he said, shaking his head.

Ron wasn't ready to give up. "Come on, Harry, a biscuit, a slice of ham, anything," he pressed.

"Harry, you need your strength," Seamus added, his voice full of urgency. "Seekers are always the ones who get clobbered by the other team."

"Thanks, Seamus," Harry said dryly, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Now I'm ready for anything."

Seamus grinned, clearly pleased with himself, while Ron and I exchanged a look. Harry did manage to eat a few bites of bacon and some eggs, likely just to stop us from pestering him.

After breakfast, we made our way to the pitch. The excitement in the air was palpable, with students streaming out of the castle in droves, their chatter and laughter filling the crisp morning air. Harry broke off to head to the locker rooms, his broom in hand and a nervous determination in his eyes.

The rest of us—Ron, Neville, Seamus, Dean, and I—headed to the Gryffindor side of the stands. The scene was electric. The stands were packed to the brim, a sea of red and yellow on our side, with bursts of green and silver from the Slytherin supporters opposite us. Students from other houses filled the middle sections, their attire a mix of all the house colors, though most leaned toward Gryffindor or Slytherin.

Seamus had gone all out, his entire face painted in bold red and yellow stripes that were almost blindingly bright. "Seamus, you look ridiculous," I said, though I couldn't help but laugh at his enthusiasm.

Ron was equally determined to show his support. "Come on, Hermione," he said, holding up a small pot of red paint. "Just a little G on your cheek. For Harry."

I hesitated, wrinkling my nose. "I hate getting messy."

"It's just one little G," he said, grinning. "It's for good luck!"

With a reluctant sigh, I let him paint the letter on my cheek. The brush tickled, and I resisted the urge to squirm. "There," he said proudly. "Now you're properly Gryffindor."

Dean and Ron had brought along a massive hand-painted sign that read "GO HARRY!" in bright red letters outlined in gold. They hoisted it high above their heads, drawing cheers and applause from the Gryffindor crowd around us.

As I settled into my seat, I couldn't help but marvel at the energy in the stadium. Everyone was so invested, so alive with anticipation. The roar of the crowd, the fluttering banners, and the chatter of excited voices were infectious.

Still, I wasn't entirely sure what all the fuss was about. Quidditch was fascinating in theory, but I didn't fully understand the nuances of the game yet. And while I was here to support Harry, I wasn't as swept up in the fervor as the others. Even so, seeing their excitement made me smile. Harry had people rooting for him, and that mattered.

Lee Jordan, the twins' best friend, was commentating. I didn't know him well, as he was older, but he had always seemed pleasant enough—funny, like Fred and George.

The Gryffindor team flew out onto the pitch to a roar of cheers, Harry among them. He looked so small up there, dwarfed by the older players. My stomach twisted nervously. The Slytherin team followed, their captain, Marcus Flint, leading the charge. He looked brutish, his sharp features and permanent sneer making him as unpleasant to look at as he seemed to be in character.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and the game began.

Lee's voice boomed across the stands. "And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor. What an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too—"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry, Professor. And she's really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet..."

The commentary came in bursts, Lee rattling off names and moves that only half made sense to me. I tried to keep up, but it was difficult to follow the Quaffle amidst the chaos. Players darted and swerved like streaks of lightning, and Bludgers were flying everywhere. I flinched more than once, especially when a Bludger hit Katie Bell square in the back of the head. How could anyone find this enjoyable?

Ron, on the other hand, was on the edge of his seat, cheering wildly. "Come on, Angelina! That's it!" he yelled as Angelina scored the first goal for Gryffindor.

The Gryffindor crowd erupted, but my enthusiasm was dampened by my growing unease. The game seemed more violent than strategic, with players being hit, shoved, and almost knocked out of the air. How was this allowed?

"Budge up there, move along," came a familiar gruff voice.

"Hagrid!" Ron exclaimed, scooting over. I shifted too, making room for his enormous frame.

"Bin watchin' from me hut," Hagrid said, holding up a pair of oversized binoculars. "But it's not the same as bein' in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch yet, eh?"

"Nope," Ron said. "Harry hasn't had much to do yet."

"Kept outta trouble, though. That's somethin'," Hagrid said, scanning the pitch.

From what I'd read, the Seeker's job was to catch a tiny golden ball called the Snitch, worth 150 points. The game wouldn't end until it was caught, which meant matches could last hours—or even days. It sounded grueling. And dangerous.

"Slytherin in possession," Lee continued. "Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the—wait a moment—was that the Snitch?"

My breath hitched as the crowd hushed. I scanned the skies, squinting against the sunlight. Harry dove suddenly, a blur of red and gold against the green pitch. My heart leapt to my throat.

Terence Higgs, the Slytherin Seeker, chased after Harry, but it was clear he was no match for the speed of Harry's Nimbus 2000. Just as Harry reached out for the Snitch, Marcus Flint swooped in and slammed into him.

The Gryffindors erupted into boos, myself included. "That's cheating!" I exclaimed, appalled.

"Foul!" Gryffindors shouted in unison.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle and began scolding Flint, but the Snitch had vanished.

"Send him off, ref! Red card!" Dean shouted.

"What are you on about, Dean?" Ron asked, perplexed.

"Red card!" Dean said angrily. "In football, you get shown the red card and you're out of the game!"

"This is Quidditch, Dean," Ron said, shaking his head. "There's no red card."

"They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked Harry outta the air," Hagrid growled, his binoculars clutched tightly.

"This game is completely barbaric," I muttered, crossing my arms. Watching players deliberately hurt each other with heavy balls—or worse, knocking each other off brooms—was enough to make my skin crawl. What if Harry fell?

Ron didn't seem to notice my disapproval. He was too busy cheering and shouting encouragement. I glanced back at the pitch, where Harry had returned to the air, circling high above. My heart clenched. Quidditch might not make sense to me, but for Harry, it was clearly something extraordinary. I just hoped he would stay safe long enough to enjoy it.

Lee Jordan had begun commentating again.

"So, after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating..."

"Jordan!" growled Professor McGonagall.

"I mean, after that open and revolting foul..."

"Jordan, I'm warning you..."

"All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinner, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession."

"I just don't understand." I said, confused.

"Don't understand what?" asked Ron.

"Why wasn't Marcus punished for what he did? He obviously cheated."

"Of course he cheated, Hermione." Ron said. "In Quidditch, the rules are somewhat laxed."

I crossed my arms. "This is supposed to be a school sport..." I mumbled.

Lee Jordan's commentary once again boomed over the pitch. "Slytherin in possession. Flint with the Quaffle, passes Spinnet, passes Bell, hit hard in the face by a Bludger—hope it broke his nose... Only joking, Professor!"

I couldn't help but snicker slightly at Lee's cheekiness, though Professor McGonagall's sharp glare was clear even from here.

My heart leapt as I turned my gaze to Harry. He wasn't flying normally—his broom was jerking wildly, and he looked as though he was barely hanging on. Panic shot through me as I tapped Ron's shoulder. "What's going on with Harry?" I asked, pointing skyward.

"Dunno what Harry thinks he's doing," Hagrid muttered, squinting through his binoculars. "If I didn' know better, I'd say he's lost control of his broom... but he can't have.

Harry's broom gave a violent jolt, nearly throwing him off. He dangled by one hand, the other grasping desperately at thin air.

"Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?" Seamus asked, his voice tinged with worry.

"Can't have," Hagrid said firmly. "Nothing interferes with a broomstick except powerful Dark magic. No kid could do that to a Nimbus Two Thousand."

Something clicked in my brain. I snatched the binoculars from Hagrid and scanned the teacher's stands. My breath caught when I saw Snape, his eyes locked unblinkingly on Harry. His lips moved in a continuous mutter, and my blood ran cold.

"What are you doing?" Ron asked as I shoved the binoculars into his hands.

"I knew it," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Snape, look."

Ron's eyes widened as he looked through the binoculars. "

"He's doing something. Jinxing the broom." I said.

"What should we do?" asked Ron, beginning to panic.

Panic was bubbling up in my chest as well, but I forced myself to focus. "Leave it to me," I said, standing abruptly. Before Ron could argue, I darted toward the teacher's stands, my mind racing.

I reached the teacher's box and ducked low, crawling beneath the benches as quietly as possible. My heart pounded as I pointed my wand at Snape's robe.

"Lacarnum Inflamarae," I whispered.

A small flame sparked on the hem of Snape's robe, quickly growing. I scrambled away as he yelped and began frantically swatting at the fire. The distraction worked—Harry's broom stabilized. Relief flooded me as I hurried back to the Gryffindor stands.

Before I could reach my seat, the crowd erupted into cheers. Harry had caught the Snitch! Gryffindor had won, 170 to 60. The sound was deafening, and I couldn't help but grin as I saw Harry beaming, his fist raised triumphantly.

Later, in the warm glow of Hagrid's hut, we recounted the incident. Harry sat in the largest chair, still flushed from the match. Ron, animated as ever, practically vibrated with energy as he spoke.

"It was Snape!" Ron declared. "Hermione and I saw him. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering under his breath. He wouldn't take his eyes off you!

"Rubbish," Hagrid said, setting down a teapot with a sharp clink. "Why would Snape do somethin' like that?"

Harry hesitated before saying, "I found out something about him. He tried to get past the three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to steal whatever it's guarding."

Hagrid dropped the teapot. "How do yeh know about Fluffy?"

"Fluffy?" Ron and I echoed in disbelief.

"Yeah, he's mine," Hagrid admitted, scratching his beard nervously. "Bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las' year. Lent him to Dumbledore to guard the—"

"Yes?" Harry pressed eagerly.

"Now, don' ask me anymore," Hagrid said firmly. "That's top secret, that is."

"But Snape's trying to steal it," Ron protested.

"Rubbish!" Hagrid repeated, though his voice wavered slightly. "Snape's a Hogwarts teacher—he'd do nothin of the sort."

"So why did he try to kill Harry?" I snapped. My voice shook with the intensity of my anger. "I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid! I've read all about them. You've got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn't blinking at all. I saw him!"

Hagrid's face darkened. "I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong. I don't know why Harry's broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn' try an' kill a student. Now listen to me—all three of yeh. Yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog an you forget what it's guardin'. That's between Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel!"

"Aha!" Harry exclaimed. "So there's someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?"

Hagrid groaned, clearly furious with himself. Meanwhile, Ron and I exchanged smug looks. We might not have all the answers yet, but we were definitely onto something.