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Chapter Text

At age eight, Hermione Granger is the Smart Kid of The Class. She's learnt her multiplication tables twice as fast as anyone in her year, and she has read all of the books in their small primary school library. Perhaps she doesn’t need to learn the periodic table, but. She has to do something at recess. 

She has brains; she achieves; she learns. Her teachers tell her parents that she has so much potential, she can be anyone.

Hermione thinks it’s nice, of course, but she’s fine being Hermione. She does however plan to be the best Hermione there can be. She stops bringing home novels and subscribes to science magazines. She doesn’t understand much of it yet. She’ll get there. Her father asks questions to urge her to think. Whenever her mother enlists help in the kitchen, they absentmindedly speak about what they'd like to know more about, what they'd learnt that day. Hermione knows more about teeth than anyone in her complete school. Their family recipes are always new, curated from someplace in the world her parent's would like to travel to. The results are always edible, though no one would dare say delicious with absolute honesty -- it is, however, always interesting.

Whenever they feel fanciful, at dinner, while washing the dishes, or on the way to school, they play trivia games. Rapidly quizzing each other, eagerly giving answers.

At these games, Hermione shines.

Her teachers tell her parents she is so great already, she can do anything she put her mind to. Something deep inside her clenches. Yes, yes, yes. She knows she can do things – anything. Amazing thinks. Incredible things.

She can't replicate it, can't make it logical nor predictable. It makes no sense - but she knows -- 

It's a secret she doesn't admit, even to herself.

000

At age ten, her parents reward a semester of straight A's with a weeklong trip to Greece. History and myths adorn every monument, there are stories whispering in the paved streets. It's a curiosity's delight and Hermione could not be happier.

Until one morning, she wakes up to an antique marble busts sharing her hotel's bed. She throws herself away -- something in her says don't you dare break it --

Her father says, after a moment, isn't that the missing statue on the news? And then he adds, how did it get there?

Hermione's mother sighs.

000

Magic, three strangers dressed in red togas tell her.

She'd scoff, of course she'd scoff. Except the strangers -- policemen of sort -- popped into existence before her eyes, and she's still... processing that.

A month before she turns eleven, Hermione Granger is told with little fanfare, you’re a witch. 

She’s heard it before. This time, it's a different sort of punch in the face.

000

It changes everything.

Her carefully laid plans about secondary school become obsolete. She has extensively researched the extracurricular programs, the comparative size of each school’s library, the qualifications of all the teachers whose names she could find, the illustrious scholars, the exciting teaching methods. Hours upon hours of meticulous analysis and cross-references.

She could get a great education, the best in the country. Have dazzling teachers with as much compassion as they had inquiring minds. Or. 

Or, she could have magic.

Some decisions warrant no thought.

000

Here's the rub:

She could never sit still in a class about physics, knowing some people could break its laws with a wave of a wand. She could not stay quiet in history class when she is now aware that the so-called “Muggles” – everyone she had considered to be normal people a week before – have such a glaring blind spot. Fairytales and legends, everything had to be re-examined, reconsidered. The new paradigm is too much to take in at once, but already questions race through Hermione’s mind.

Can magic cure cancer? Can wizards and witches teleport? Did magic come from a genome mutation? Was it a fluke?

The fact that Hogwart’s only celebrated club is a sports club – with a few side activities listed, but none too academically oriented – can't tamper her glee.

Neither can Professor McGonagall’s blank look when Hermione delves into the topic of the human genome. 

000

Midway through her introductory textbook, an alarming thought occurs to her.

Professor McGonagall hadn’t only been ignorant of biochemistry and quantum physics; she had also appeared clueless about submarines and tanks, as well as satellites and the moon landing.The woman had been extremely knowledgeable in her field, though. Minerva McGonagall had explained the charms behind platform 9 and ¾ easily, and Hermione’s mother had commented on how amazing it was that she commented on it as if it were a small thing. Professor McGonagall had blinked; it wasn’t, she assured, it took great expertise to set up properly, but overall, it was still rather common and expected that these sorts of things would work.

Hermione had thought, like explaining a cellphone to someone from the centuries past.

Of course, this has to mean something else – something very worrisome indeed: that the gap between magical and non-magical is far greater than she suspected. Wizards and witches could manipulate reality with a flick of the wrist, and they’d been at it for centuries. Of course it would be so. 

How behind Hermione would lag, learning of those possibilities only now.

‘The problem is dire,’ she announces at dinner. ‘Mum, dad. Can you imagine?’

Her mother nods. ‘It’s certainly very exciting.’

No, she wants to say, but they couldn’t understand. They could never see her true failings. That she’d be a laughing stock. Other children would take advantage of the holes in her knowledge. They’d tell her witches could fly if they sung, and cackle as she plummeted to her death.

‘Think of how many sectors of research could intersect famously,’ her father pops in, looking greatly enthused. He had been speaking of Herbology and dentistry ever since they’d found a book about the many uses of chewing Thunderroots.

Her mother fills her plate with Chinese cabbage and sweet corn. ‘Darling, don't fret. It’s a magical school, but it's still a school. You do school better than anyone.’

Her father adds a bit of peas to her pile and smiles. ‘You’ve always done school better than anyone.’

Breathe, Hermione, she tells herself. She would read a lot. She would read everything. She'd refuse to believe any nonsense without proof.

It’s a sound, solid plan. 

Breathe, she repeats, and repeats, until she doesn’t have to pull each breath forward.

Kids could be cruel, but Hermione could outsmart pettiness. 

000

‘Who goes first?’

As the only magical person in her family, it should be her. However, she has this niggling doubt – that maybe you need to believe. And she still allows for the possibility that this is a dream. A vivid, colorful, complex - and quite lengthy at this point - hallucination. Maybe she tripped in Greece and has been in a coma ever since and her imagination is finally getting a workout.

‘Do you want me to go first, dear?’ her mother asks when the hesitation sees no end. Her voice is soft, but it sounds weary. They all had trouble sleeping. 

‘No!’ Hermione says, quick as you please, because she's going to be a Gryffindor this year.

Also, if it’s a test of faith, her father might be the only one able to pass it. Except her father is Not Magical, not in that sense. He might only get a broken nose for the trouble, were he to go first.

She just. She doesn't know. 

‘Are you going to dither about all day, girl?’ a sharp voice asks from behind her.

Face flushed, Hermione pivots. They’d only be standing there a minute or so!

‘Madam,’ she greets, her righteousness shaken by the horrid stuffed vulture adorned on the woman’s hat.

‘Muggleborn, then.’ Hermione sees a boy with chubby cheeks standing behind the old lady, looking mightily uncomfortable. ‘Well, go on them. The passage is right there, see. You only need walk through it at a brisk pace.’

Old people are impatient, Hermione reminds herself, and it has nothing to do with any of us.

But there’s something about the curt rasp of the lady – a voice dry like crackers – and the wince of the boy which annoys her. Or it might be the lack of sleep. Nevertheless, she isn’t as courteous when she replies, ‘Well, my parents are muggles, see.’

She only knows she isn’t being too courteous because her mum squeezes her arm like she hasn’t done in years.

The lady doesn’t seem bothered. Rather, she nods as if to approve. ‘They must stay close to you, but they’ll pass. You are far from being the only Muggleborn to accommodate, child.’

‘I know that,’ Hermione grits. People are always telling her things she already knows like they presume her stupid and ignorant. She is so tired of having to thank them for it. Still, she does. She forces a smile. A good little woman she is. ‘Thank you, madam.’

With her father's hand on her right shoulder and her mother's on her left and her eyes tightly shut, Hermione walks through the bricks.

No part of it hurts. It's like a whoosh. Or that may just be the breath she releases when she catches sight of the railways. Or the glorious red steel of the Hogwarts Express.

It’s like all the epic poems, the great novels, she thinks. It begins with a journey. 

000

She’d have helped Neville Longbottom find his toad regardless of whether he’d been that boy with the abrupt lady. After all, kindness is its own reward, all the great philosophers and writers say so. Still, that he is that quiet boy, a child who looks so self-conscious, makes her feel more comfortable. He is not scary. He is not intimidating.

Getting him to talk, she realizes, is like pulling teeth. So she does most of the talking – more talking than she’s done with anyone her age, but she’s nervous about how tearful her mother was and how long boarding would be. Besides, Trevor isn’t turning up, and Neville genuinely seems to listen to her. He’s a tentative friend.

She hasn’t had one in years.

000

‘I’d like Gryffindor, please,’ Hermione thinks loudly as soon as the tattered hat sinks over her brow.

‘Oh, to be young again,’ a voice sighs in her mind. It sounds pretty stuffy, very human – she feels chills on her neck. ‘I’m afraid I’m a Sorting Hat, not a wishing lamp.’

She knows. She read it in Hogwarts: A History.

The hat hums. ‘Rowena would take you within her fold without a second thought. You’d be ill at ease anywhere else, I believe.’

‘But Gryffindor – ‘

‘You have principles, yes, you seem ready to defend them with courage aplenty; yet I do not think you’d defend them brashly on the front lines, not when ink and paper serves you so much better. And trust me – I’m an old hat at knowing these things, really – you’d be thrown into more trouble than you’d need in a lifetime with those adventurous Gryffindors.’

Hermione frowns. ‘I can handle all that. I can be that girl.’

‘Of course; the self is ever changing, and I’ve no doubt you could become reckless if you put your mind to it -’

‘- I’m sure they’re not all reckless – ‘

‘ – but do you truly want to? Your nature yearns for substance, research, the quiet of libraries and the wisdom of old tomes. Lions hardly ever think before they act, you know,’ the Sorting Hat comments, sounding fond. ‘I see it in your mind, how little you think of such behaviour. You want to be recognized, you want the best. The best for you is Ravenclaw.’

Hermione scoffs. ‘There is no reason why I shan't grow my mind in Gryffindor. The library is open to all, mind you.’ She conjures the image of Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore. 'If anything, I might learn more from trying something different. There is no indication Gryffindor might impede my intellectual progress.'

The Hat chuckles. ‘Argued like a true Ravenclaw.’

The sudden desire to throw the hat on the ground and stomp on it is surprisingly strong.

She hears the Hat tutting. ‘Throwing a tantrum might be as good a reason as any to sort you with the lions, I suppose. They lack manners, the lot of them.’

It still sounds cheery. Hermione supposes it did use to be Godric Gryffindor’s hat. 'Please,' she thinks.

The foreign presence in her mind roll its eyes before it leaves her, easy as a whisper.

‘GRYFFINDOR,’ the Hat shouts, and she so goes, prim and proud.

Every adult she’s ever met has been telling her she could do and be anything she set her mind to. They had been impressed with her intellect and her sharp curiosity, the way she wielded words and drew ambitious yet solid conclusions. On this night, adorning a fetching shade of scarlet, Hermione feels for the first time like they hadn't been just polite.

She’s part of Gryffindor now. 

Yes. Her potential is limitless, thank you so very much. She's a witch, you see. And she is going to be the best witch of her generation.

Chapter Text

It has been explained to Hermione over the years -- many times over, as if she was thick -- that even though she is talented in many fields, interpersonal bonding is not her forte. Rubbish at making friends has been offered as a shorthand. Except she meets Neville and Neville seems to like her well enough.

She likes him well enough too.

That’s why, when Rose Potter introduces herself and Neville all but trips over himself, Hermione clucks and decides not to linger in that specific compartment. Her new friend is looking clammy and pasty, perhaps even a tad purple. She feels embarrassed at how badly he is handling his obvious crush.

If it means she must postpone asking the Girl-who-Lived all the questions plaguing her, well, it doesn’t bother her. Much.

Besides, the boy sitting with Rose Potter looks quite dim and rude, so. 

All good things in time. 

000

She doesn't get the chance to speak with Rose Potter at the feast. It's fine. She wishes for nothing but to curl up in a bed with a good book, let the anxieties and the novelties melt as she dives into worlds of ink and knowledge. 

When she walks in her new dormitory, three girls are already there. There is a cute blonde with a silky ribbon holding her curls. There is an Indian girl with wide dark eyes and delicate face markings.There is a ginger haired girl with large pajama bottoms. On it, tall trees interweave to illustrate a knotty, complicated forest pattern.

By looking a second more than polite, Hermione spots the bleeding head of a poacher drawn on the girl's pajama shirt.

Magic makes the animated blood look so... thick and plentiful.

It's creepy. 

Hermione waves at the girls. They barely notice her. That is par for the course.

 ‘ – but my horoscope clearly said I’d have trouble with transportation, so I was worried about the train, you know – ‘

‘Oh! My father splinched his earlobe on the way to the station – I’m a Gemini, by the way.’

‘A Gemini with a twin? It’s like you’re doubled inside and out!’

‘I know, right? Of course, most of the time Padma acts nothing like an air sign – but honestly, I think it’s because she feels more influence from our rising star. It’s in Capricorn; I think it has little to do with me, but it describes her to a tee when she’s in one of her moods!’

Hermione opens her mouth – how convenient, she wants to say, that astrology is like so many hats you can wear.

The memory of her mother telling her, sweetie, don’t overwhelm them too soon, stops her. She will spend the next seven years sleeping next to those girls. The first thing she says to this girl is not going to be about astrology. 

Ice breakers aren't that big of a concern for the girls. ‘So, Granger, right? What’s your sign?’

‘Merlin, Lav, you can’t just ask her that!’ The Indian girl turns and smiles at her. ‘She didn’t mean it as a pick up line, of course.’

‘That’s fine,’ Hermione replies cautiously, ‘although I don’t believe much in these things.’

‘Muggleborn, then?’

Even more cautiously, Hermione nods. It's the second-time today the question has been asked. Vaguely, she recalls reading about an elective Divination class. Maybe divination and astrology carries more weight in the magical world. Maybe she is the fool for dismissing it.

The curly blond presses on. ‘So, when is your birthday?’

‘September 19^th. I was born in 1979.’

The girls exchange a look. 

‘What?’ Hermione asks, testy.

‘Oh, nothing –‘

‘Well, it’s just – ‘

The girls speak over each other, then stop and continue as one, ‘You’re a Virgo!’

‘As an Earth sign,’ Parvati lectures importantly, ‘you’re unlikely to take anything spiritual at face value. Too pragmatic – you’ll analyse it as metaphors and evolutionary processes and the like. Virgos, like the Capricorn ascendant, they’re down-to-earth. Bit serious and introverted, totally in control of their emotions but kind of standoffish at times.’

‘That’s troubling,’ Lavender frowns. Hermione feels her shoulders tense up – she has been judged and rejected on many grounds, some of them unfair, but always based on her actions and words, at the very least. But then the blonde continues.  ‘I have no idea what kind of birthday party to organize for an Earth sign, at all.’

Birthday party. That catches Hermione wrong-footed. ‘Oh. You don’t have to…’

‘Oh, hush. That’s the Virgo in you talking.'

Parvati beams. 'Yes. Don’t fret, we love a challenge. That's why we're Gryffindors, you see.’

000

Then Lavender asks: ‘Speaking of challenges, why isn't Rose Potter here yet?’

She might not mean anything by it.

She might mean lots of things by it.

Either way, Hermione's feeling of warmth and acceptance starts to go.

‘She’s lingering down in the Common Room, I bet,' says Parvati, unbothered. 'Mingling with the Weasley boys, she was.'

Hermione has noticed over dinner – so many witches and wizards recognized each other at a glance, apparently from some tell-tale family traits.

Now twitchy, Hermione blurts out, ‘You said – speaking of challenges, why Is Rose Potter not up here yet. Why say “speaking of challenges”?’

Parvati and Lavender trade another look.

‘Her hair!’ finally blurts Lavender, ‘I mean, the cut of it would be unflattering on anyone, but with how skinny she is – it’s a disaster.’

Rose Potter walks into the dorm room precisely in time to hear that. 

Hermione will not forget the way Rose Potter gapes, her cheerful demeanour fading fast, eyes darkening and expression stricken, just for a tick.

The next moment, it's gone.

‘Hey there,’ Rose Potter greets, letting herself in. ‘What’s this I hear about my impossible hair?’

It's like the two girls have never watched a movie before. People you you gossip turn up just in time to hear it. It's the clichiest cliché. Hermione could have told them.

‘I – we – ,’ Lavender stutters, gobsmacked.

‘Oh, I know,’ Rose reassures, and it sounds sincere but Hermione knows better, ‘I have very little power over it. Or rather, none at all. Usually I put a head band and just pull it back into a ponytail or something but…’

She gestures to her forehead, where her poorly cut bangs fail to hide the infamous scar. 

This is the girl who vanquished the most terrible Dark Lord of their time, and this is the mark she bears. Without knowing why, Hermione thinks of the time she fell from her bike and her mother cleaned her wound very tenderly, wrapping it in a 'magic ribbon' so that it wouldn't scar. 

‘We can help you with that!’ Parvati throws in, eyes assessing Rose's mop of deep scarlet hair. ‘We might have to brew you a hair growth potion, first.’

Lavender squeals and claps. She actually claps. ‘I’ve always wanted to try cutting hair!’

Hermione opens her mouth – who in their right mind would let an eleven year old girl come close to their hair with a pair of scissors? Then she thinks – hair growth potion. Not on the curriculum. Extremely fascinating concept. Obviously, small mistakes weren't as permanent in the magical world.

It is a good thing too, because Rose Potter doesn't look wary or skeptical for a second. ‘That would be amazing! I always suspected my hair would be more manageable if it grew out, only I never had a chance to find out.’ She beams.

‘Well, you are a Potter,’ Lavender says slowly, ‘so we can’t bet on that… We’d better order some Sleakeazy, just in case. Or, oh! You order it, Rose! You’ll get great discounts on it!’

Rose’s smile dims. ‘Because of the Girl-who-Lived thing?’

‘What? Oh, no, not that. Well, who knows. But no, no, mostly because Sleakeazy was invented by the Potters! Your family holds the patent and all.’

‘They… they do?’

At that moment, Rose Potter looks nothing like the books make her sound, so small and uncertain is her voice.

Lavender and Parvati launch into a history of the Potter family. It's interesting enough to Hermione, and seems to mean the world to Rose. Soon they diverge into an intricate history of cosmetic advances in the Wizarding World. Only when they start talking about the merits of each product and how a bit of blush would do wonders for Rose’s complexion doesHermione tune them out.

She opens Hogwarts: a History, and she dreams.

000

Hermione is very impressed by Percival Weasley.

She doesn't appreciate the Weasley twins a bit. And she abhors the youngest brother. 

Ronald Weasley keeps looking at her like she is a specimen from outer space. He keeps looking at her like he wants her to shut up, like being around her is a torment of the tallest order. She's heard him groan when she speaks up in class. 

Hermione knows bullies. They wait before they pounce. They watch. They find the weaknesses first. 

So.

She thinks Rose Potter should vary her friendships.

She says so, too. Ron cannot be a good influence, not with the way he eats with his mouth open and chews so loudly. Not with the sloppy way he hastens through schoolwork. Not with the way he mutters 'Mental' whenever Hermione speaks up about schedules and rules and theoretical notions of spellwork.

She doesn't say the last one, she doesn't get a chance to. She's still at 'sloppy work' when Rose interrupts her. 'Hermione, stop.' 

'Pardon?'

‘You offered to help me finish my potion essay. Let’s do that, yeah?’

Hermione doesn't know why Rose Potter cares so much about potions this week, but she was so happy to help, they had been swapping knowledge about plants. Rose Potter, it turns out, knew a lot about gardening and chemistry. Hermione rolls her eyes. 'I meant no harm. On the contrary.'  

‘Well, you’re being nasty!’ Rose snaps. In her fist, the feather quill she has so much difficulty writing with, it just cracks. 

Hermione doesn't know what to respond to that. The judgment seems unfair. Hasty.  'I'm stating facts here. Verifiable facts.'

Her voice, she notices, is shaky, a bit higher than usual. Oh. 

She feels small, all of a sudden, smaller than when Ron Weasley looks at her with his impatient eyes. She thinks, thank God she waited until the end of their study session to bring it up. They've done good work. Rose will get full grades. 

‘He’s my first friend,' Rose says after folding her notes and rolling her essay. Ready to stand. Ready to go. "Don’t you know what that means?’

Hermione looks down at her own neat homework. ‘I really don’t.’

000

Things are a bit tense in the dormitory for a few days.

It eases slowly:

Three days later, Hermione speaks up against the fashion intervention Parvati and Lavender insist on staging for Rose. 

Four days later, Rose shows the marking on her potion essay. Ten points are taken out for bad penmanship. 

'That's not fair,' Hermione can't help but protest. 

Rose shrugs, yet the corners of her mouth tilt up. 'Yeah, but he couldn't find fault with the content. That's -- sort of neat, isn't it.' 

Five days later, Hermione passes the potatoes over to Ron. She says nothing as he thanks her with his mouth full. She wants to, but he had been laughing with Rose. She doesn't want to be the nasty girl ruining their fun.

Rose notices. 

Such small things, but they help.

It doesn't take a full week before the girls can look each other in the eye again. 

000

Lavender, true to her word, tackles the challenge of Hermione’s birthday with energy and no small amount of flair. She braids asters and forget-me-nots, the September birth flowers, and hang the long garlands all over the room. From the magical genus of the forget-me-not, she weaves a flower crown for Hermione to wear throughout the day. Hermione is mortified, but Parvati assures her that it will bring her patience, recognition and focus.

‘I could braid your hair,’ says Alice. Today, the illustrated poachers on her nightshirt are being guillotined. Their heads float up like balloons. 

‘No, thank you,’ whispers Hermione. The last time someone tried that, it took an age and the hairdresser had banned Hermione from the saloon. 

Rose smiles at her. ‘You look very pretty, Hermione. It's nice, the wild flowers in the wild hair.’

Hermione startles. ‘Thanks,’ she mutters.

Lavender is, perhaps unsurprisingly, quite apt at conjuring shiny things and reflective surfaces. She conjures a mirror for Hermione.

Hermione does not see prettiness. She sees judging eyes, she sees a strong chin. She sees porous, pale skin. She sees big nostrils and big teeth. 

'You're pretty, Hermione,' Rose repeats, insists. 

Parvati and Lavender nod. 'We did good work, you're adorable, don't you dare doubt it. Now, go and be amazing and win us points!'

000

Rose and Hermione, friendly if not friends. Their acquaintance has been tentative. Hopeful.

Maybe too tentative, too fragile, Rose reflects, because Ron has ruined it before he could catch his breath, like a sunken paper ship.

‘He said I have no friends! That I am an annoying know-it-all! A nightmare!’ Hermione sniffles, eyes wild and beseeching. They are in the girls bathroom, and it's the first time Rose does this. This girltalk in the bathroom thing. The circumstances could be better, Rose thinks as she sees how bloodshot Hermione's eyes are. There are tears tracks underneath them. 

Her first thought is to shake Hermione out of it physically. Alas, that might be misinterpreted. So she stills her motion, hovering her palms awkwardly. The moment of uncertainty lasts. She probably looks like a zombie who's starving for Hermione's big brain. 

In the end, Rose gives Hermione's shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘There, there.' That's what people did, wasn't it? To comfort. She hasn't a clue. 'He didn’t say that.’

The noise that comes out of Hermione is wounded and furious. ‘Those were HIS – EXACT – WORDS!’

Rose grimaces. ‘He didn’t mean it like that, then.’

‘How dare you defend him!’

Oh, God, she should have sent Lavender and Parvati. She's already making it worse. ‘I’m not defending him! I’m just saying: he didn’t mean it like that!’

‘These words don’t have a few dozen meanings, Rose Potter!’ Hermione screeches, frazzled. ‘How ELSE could he have meant?’

‘Good question,’ Rose says, stretching out the vowels to get more time to think. Is stalling cowardly? Judging by Hermione’s impatient throat noise, it might be. ‘It’s just… it’s a mix, yeah? Like, you lecture us. Daily. Hourly. You sound like a know-it-all, you know? No, I’m not insulting you, I’m just – do you ever bother talking to the boys except to tell them they’re wrong? You do that a lot – and you always expect to be thanked for it, that sort of sucks.' It totally sucks, and it sucks even worse that Rose somehow must tell her this. They all sort of hoped she would ease with time. 'You get that, right?’

Hermione looks mutinous. ‘So it’s my fault Ronald Weasley is being cruel, because I'm horrid?’

‘No! I’m just saying... Me? We figured that out already, kind of . I know you care. You don’t mean it that way – and neither does Ron and that’s my point. Yeah, he sounds like a prat when he says stuff like that – and he really did act like a prat, didn’t he? But he didn’t mean it, not really. And he didn’t want to hurt your feelings.’

Hermione stays silent and, for a fumbling moment, they blink comically at each other. Then Hermione’s gaze steadies, and Rose holds her breath. Eyes are the window to the soul and whatnot, but Rose has never been good at interpreting cues. She has never needed to be -- the Dursleys weren't a subtle sort of people. 

Hermione might get mortally offended. Rose could not blame her if so, but she doesn’t know how else to explain Ron.

It's not that Ron is complicated. It's the opposite. And that's harder to explain, isn't it?

So Hermione might be vexed, might hate her. Or – that’s a big leap, but Rose’s been trying optimism ever since she stepped away from Privet Drive - or, Hermione could see past Rose's badly worded statement and understand the heart of it. Then, they could go forward. Cement their friendship or something. Rose would gladly offer to prank Ron with her to sweeten the deal.

Unfortunately, while they are in this limbo of not-quite-reached-decisions, a troll’s club smash through the bathroom's door, and suddenly they are scrambling and, well.

Priorities.

000

'That was mighty scary,' Rose says that night when they're back in the dorms. 

Hermione's breath catch. 'Yes. I've never lied to an adult before,' she admits after a while. 

Rose laughs, soft under the darkness. 

Hermione turns to look at the lump on her friend's bed. Friend, she thinks. Yes. She supposes they are friends now, the three of them. 'You meant the troll.'

'You're funny,' Rose mumbles. 'I wish we'd known.'

No, Hermione thinks. She's not being funny. She doesn't say this. A part of her is ashamed -- that really, her heart pumped harder when she fibbed to her favourite teacher than when Rose was dangling from the troll's massive hand. 

She has no experience in proper friendship. This is also scary. 

'I tell a lot of lies,' Rose offers almost casually, when Hermione doesn't answer. 

Hermione stirs. She is falling asleep, but that doesn't sound right. Hermione corrects things when they don't sound right, that's what she does. 'Rubbish, that's a dirty lie, Rose Potter.' 

Rose laughs again. 

Hermione frowns. 'No, really. You're kind, Rose.'

'Am I?'

'You are,' Hermione says sternly, as confident as acing an exam. 'I would know: I know it all.'

'Mm. All right, then.' 

000

In the library, Hermione finds all the books about Quidditch. Nobody stops her to say 'eh, Muggleborn, then?' . She hunches over them just the same. 

'I can explain the game for you,' Ron suggests when he sees the many volumes she has piled up. He's concerned for her health, mental and otherwise, she can tell. 'You'll damage your back with this much to lug around, and then how are we going to win against the next troll?' 

'There is no next troll, Ronald!' Hermione huffs, because honestly. The Hat was right -- Gryffindors always expected adventures and action, they did not realize how silly they sounded. 'This is a school of learning. We're to measure up to books, not to danger.' 

Ron shakes his head, still looking bewildered. 'Well, I could still teach you about Quidditch.' 

I know, Hermione doesn't say. 

She quietly borrows the books, and Ron doesn't offer to help carry them as they return to the Common Room. 

000

‘I still can’t believe you set Snape on fire,’ Ron repeats for the ninth time since the match. His glee in attacking a teaching is irritating. Hermione wouldn’t encourage it, but. She has noticed he hasn’t let out the breath that caught in his throat as Rose almost fell off her broom, not fully.

‘Yes, well,’ Hermione says ever so prim, ‘in this case, it was a matter of necessity.’

Ron’s face looks a little bit constipated and awed all at once.

‘With Snape, it always is,’ he agrees.

000

The moment her parents spot her at Kingcross, they envelop her in a hug. She feels it so, so deep. She hasn't let anyone touch her for more than a moment since September. 

'How was school, love? What did you learn this time?' 

She isn't sure which of her parents asks -- maybe both, it is the same question they asked when she got back every afternoon from primary school. The three of them look relieved that they can ask it again. Her mother laughs happily, tears in the crinkles of her eyes. 

'Yes, how was school, my dear girl?'

Hermione thinks of the troll, of a Cerberus and of Nicholas Flamel. She thinks about potions which she brews to perfection with little credit given to her by an horrible teacher, she thinks of the stank of garlic, she thinks of the speed of Quidditch and the brightness of Charms. 

The first half she will probably not tell her parents, ever. The second, she has already described at length in heavy, weekly letters.

She thinks of Gryffindor. Of its people. She smiles, bashful. 'Mum, Dad, I made friends.'

If she were any other girl, she would have crowed. 

If she were any other girl, maybe, it wouldn't mean this much. It would be expected. Taken for granted.

She isn't any other girl.

This is her victory. 

They hug her again, her parents do, and Mr Granger whispers 'I'm happy' in his daughter's hair, and Mrs Granger cries and, if Pureblood families have anything to say about Muggleborn families making a spectacle of themselves, they don't hear it.

000

Hermione sends Rose the less boring books she has read about Quidditch for Christmas. 

She sends Ron a rock.

She's not sure why. 

It's a rather nice rock, all things considered. For sure, he'll enjoy it more than getting books. 

Still. 

She also packs a few quality Muggle chocolates for them to share. 

000

Mysteries and philosopher stones and dragons. 

Hermione has never felt like such a proper, stereotypical Gryffindor. 

That's what belonging feels like! she thinks.

And then they get caught.

The thought vanishes. 

000

It has been two weeks since the Astronomy Tower.

Two weeks of tasteless jokes and snide comments, but you'd never guess it from looking at Rose Potter. As a matter of fact, Rose is grinning, again, bright as you please. It’s absurd and Hermione won’t have it anymore.  ‘Stop doing that, Rose.’

‘Do what?’ Rose asks, sounding genuinely confused. Hermione refuses to be fooled. Of course, Rose and Ron always need a few clarifications on academic matters and common sense, but Hermione suspects that, oftentimes, Rose is obtuse on purpose.

‘Hide! You continuously do it – you storage your feelings away and pretend. You don’t need to put a fake front of happiness, Rose. I’m your friend.’

If she's pleading at the end, well. The dragon incident, the subsequent loss of House Points, the shunning, Neville's downtrodden face and complete refusal to talk to them... It has taken a toll. 

Hermione has been bumped into more frequently in the last two weeks than wide corridors could ever justify.

‘Fake front?’

‘Like a mask,’ Hermione confirms.

She has had lots of time to think about this. Her hypothesis about why her friend does it, why she feels the need to lie about her inner turmoil – it shall remain her own for a while yet. However, it’s important to let Rose understand it's safe for her to be herself. No matter their iffy beginnings, Hermione is done judging and expecting. Truly, she is.  

She tells Rose so, ‘It’s not uncommon, but you oughtn’t to feel like you have to put on that glittery layer of artificial cheerfulness for show. We want to know the real Rose. We can deal with bad moods.’

We will love you still, Hermione doesn’t say out loud, but she covers Rose’s hand with her own, as clear a declaration as any.  Because Rose is the only one of them three to keep her chin up. Her smiles are as wide and frequent as before.

It’s driving Hermione a bit mad.

‘Hermione,’ Rose says slowly, ‘every part of me is real.’

Hermione nods. ‘True, to some extent – ‘

‘No, Hermione, to every extent.' A pause. 'I like glittery me.’

‘Some people do become their mask, I suppose,’ Hermione grants. This isn’t going quite the way she envisioned it.

Hermione, I feel like you aren’t listening to the words I’m saying.’

‘I am!’ Hermione protests. She’s a very studious listener. ‘Every part of you is real, even the parts that aren’t real. Really, Rose, I could hear you well enough.’

‘Hermione,’ Rose interrupts, and then sighs, as though Hermione is being the difficult one. ‘Okay, never mind.'

A beat.

Hermione is thinking about how to reformulate her point. About other examples to give. Arguments.

Rose isn't.

'Want to help me out with the latest astronomy assignment?’

Hermione huffs. ‘You’re trying to distract me from being a good friend.’

‘Am I?’

Hermione crosses her arms and glares.

Roses shrugs. ‘I don’t want to argue. So you can help me with my homework, or I can ask the twins, they said they’d help with creative writing.’

‘The formation of the name and legend of constellations is not creative writing, it is history!’ Hermione snaps, feeling blood rush to her face in one great wave.

'They make it fun.'

Hermione takes in a deep breath. She lets go the fact that her closest friend isn't able to be emotionally honest. That could wait after the homework, after the exams. She'd analyze the conversation, figure out how to reach Rose. In the meantime. In the meantime, she could pick her battles.

‘You will not destroy your academic career because those troublemakers are feeling whimsical, I won’t let you!’

000

She meant it with the Hat and she meant it with Ron. 

She's here to study. 

That whole You-Know-Who mess... 

Damn it.

She really wishes she could just count on the school to be a School, and on her teachers to Teach And Not Be Evil. 

But she meant it with the Hat, and she meant it to her classmates, and she meant it to herself: 

She can be that girl. She can be a Gryffindor, courageous and fierce. 

And so she goes with her friends to find McGonagall. 

And so when the teachers says no --

Hermione doesn't stop. 

000

When Neville says no, Hermione doesn't stop either. 

000

Rose does.

‘That’s horrible, Hermione! Friends don’t do that! Undo it!’

‘Rose! We don’t have the time for this,’ Ron cuts in, waving in the direction of the third floor corridor. Rose, however, ignores him and turns to Hermione. Her bright green eyes are commanding and imploring.

It's the first time Hermione uses Petrificus Totalus on someone. Her spell is flawless, she knows. Neville isn't hurt. That's not how this type of magic works. She feels like she should be congratulated for finding the easiest solution and executing it with a precise perfection. Instead...

Sometimes, Rose isn't fair. 

With a sigh, she loosens her magic, and sees Neville shake.

‘Neville, listen. McGonagall doesn’t believe us, but I wager you are more reasonable than her.’ Rose grabs his upper arms and meets his eyes. Neville is as frozen in place as he was a second ago, but Hermione doesn't doubt she has done well dispelling the charm. ‘We’re pretty sure Snape is going to steal something right now to allow Voldemort to come back. He’s been trying all year. Tonight, Dumbledore’s gone. We’re going to stop him.’ She pauses and adds, 'Right now.' 

Neville looks at Rose like she’s bonkers. Obviously. It’s a ridiculous tale, to accuse a teacher like that. Hermione wouldn’t believe it if they hadn’t gathered so much evidence over the course of the year.

‘Pretty sure?’ Neville squeaks.

Hermione nods. ‘Rather.’

‘Absolutely sure,’ Ron assures.

Neville looks bewildered. Rose looks put out. ‘Guys. We aren’t going to do this.’ Not again, she doesn’t add. They had wasted the whole afternoon before Ron and Hermione could agree about the percentage of sureness they stood at. Considering that Hermione vetoed going to a teacher unless it reached 97%, it was Important. 

Ron scoffs and glares at Neville as though Neville is the one wasting time. ‘I s’pose it all comes down to whether you trust us.’ His eyes get sharper. There is a glint there. ‘Do you trust Rose?’

Hermione barely resists throwing her hands up. Honestly! Of the three of them, she is the one who sticks to facts and logic. She is the one whose presence almost swayed McGonagall. 

She refrains.

She has been friends with the two of them long enough to know this isn’t a slight against her. Ron isn’t implying that Rose is more trustworthy or reliable than she is. This isn’t Potions, where her eagerness to prove herself is squashed by a mean professor. This is real life, where Snape is plotting doom and Ron is playing chess.

From the exasperated look on Rose’s face, Rose is also well aware of the game Ron’s playing, but she’s waiting for Neville’s move. They all are. So Hermione doesn’t grumble. As effortlessly as defensiveness comes, the stakes are higher than her pride.

Also, she has read so many books about chess since her first time playing Ron, and hasn't managed a single win against him yet. 

Neville’s face circles through various different expressions. Then, he turns to look at Rose, and it clears. There’s vulnerability in his eyes. ‘I do. Trust you, I mean. If you’re pretty sure.’

Rose beams.

Hermione knows she is the only one who understands Neville’s true sentiment – not that he believes the intricate conspiracy theory they spurted, not fully, not yet. But that he trusts them – or trusts Rose, rather – to not make a fool out of him.

Hermione can’t help but feel he is far braver than she.

000

‘Thanks,’ Ron mumbles as their swift pace carries them towards the unspeakable dangers of the third floor corridor.

Hermione is always happy to elicit gratitude. She is also happy when Ron shows manners. She asks because she is curious and because she wants to, well, hear him spell it out: ‘What for?’

He looks like she's asking him to bite into a lemon. ‘For not piping up back there.’

Hermione’s mouth drops open. She isn’t sure what to say, so she settles for a humph. Then, after a pause, she defends herself. ‘I would not do that.’ Not anymore, at least, she mentally adds.

‘Not anymore, at least,’ Ron unwittingly echoes with a grin.

It makes her want to strangle him. 

But then again, the initial animosity between the both of them means that Ron knows her character flaws. He had to deal with them. He knows her tendency to correct, to straighten out and be as thorough about facts as possible. Or, as Ron called it once, to be "a smartass and a hardass". He knows he will still have to deal with them in the future, because they are friends. It dawns on her. ‘You trusted me.’

She always found it funny, how his ears redden first.

His hand is tight on his old wand. She's Hermione, and she notices these things. ‘I was ninety-seven percent sure, so I figured it ought to be fine.’

She knows he’s saying that to cover his embarrassment, but she can’t help it – ‘I was a breath away from calling you an idiot and demanding to be cited as the credible reference, if you must know.’

‘And you didn’t.’

‘But I almost did, so ninety-seven percent isn’t statistically right.’

‘Except it is. Because my gut feeling was right.’

‘It could have swayed either way, so your calculations were wrong,' Hermione says, because Ron can be very difficult with these things, and he only ever listens to math explanations when Rose gives them. Which isn't fair because Rose, well, Rose isn't good at maths. 'You were wrong.’

Ron gapes at her. Neville bumps into him. 

‘You’re impossible,’ Ron says, incredulous.

‘Alohomora,’ Hermione replies.