Chapter Text
Between the Pages: Year One
They were meant to be studying. Or rather, Hermione was studying. Harry and Ron had tagged along under the vague promise that she’d help them understand Professor Binns’ lecture about the Great Goblin Rebellions, which to Hermione’s horror, Harry described as “a big nap with extra snoring.”
Ron, with a pointed look at Harry, quickly added, “I don’t snore!”
Hermione sat at a sturdy wooden table in the library, parchment and quills neatly arranged in front of her like a small fortress of notes. Harry and Ron slumped in their chairs nearby, eyes glazed over from boredom.
“You do,” Harry said, grinning as he dipped his quill into the ink pot Hermione had just refilled. “It’s like you're gargling porridge in your sleep.”
Hermione let out a sound that surprised even herself — not a sniff, or a sigh, but an actual snort. She clapped a hand over her mouth instantly.
Both boys stared at her, Ron mid-chew on a Chocolate Frog leg, Harry looking a bit like he'd just caught the Snitch with his eyebrows.
“Did you just—?” Harry began.
“No,” Hermione said primly, cheeks going pink. “Absolutely not.”
Harry grinned wickedly. “You did!”
Ron was cackling now, and Harry looked at her like she’d just done something fascinating, like she was one of those strange magical creatures from one of Hagrid’s books — not dangerous, exactly, but unpredictable in the best way.
And Hermione… didn't mind. Not in the least - not when he was smiling at her like that.
Something warm uncurled in her chest as she looked at Harry — all scruffy hair and scribbled-up parchment, leaning sideways in his chair, his glasses slightly askew from where he’d been rubbing his eyes too hard. She didn’t have a name for it. Not yet.
But it felt… important somehow.
She dropped her gaze to her textbook and tried to focus on Goblin rebellions. And not on the way her heart had just done a peculiar little flip when Harry grinned at her like that. Probably indigestion.
Yes. Almost certainly indigestion.
Harry was out of the hospital wing at last — a bit thinner, a bit paler, and, to Hermione’s horror, still entirely unconcerned about how close he had come to death . He just smiled when she launched into a ten-minute monologue about why charging at a dark lord with only a chess set and a bottle of courage was the most irresponsible thing she'd ever heard of.
“And next time,” she finished, arms crossed as they walked back toward Gryffindor Tower, “you’ll at least wait for an adult, won’t you?”
Harry didn’t answer. He was staring at her hair.
She blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, still looking. “It’s just... did you know your hair’s gone completely mad on the left side?”
She stopped in her tracks, reached up in horror, and sure enough, there was a spectacular frizz explosion above her ear, likely from rushing from the dorms that morning without taming or brushing her hair after learning that Harry was awake and would be released immediately.
Ron, walking behind them, made an unfortunate honking noise. “It’s like a puffskein got eclecticity-alated.”
“ Ronald! ” Hermione huffed, “That isn’t even a real word!”
“It’s not bad ,” Harry said quickly. “Just...sort of brave-looking. Like your hair fought something big and dangerous - and won. It's very impressive - I like it.”
Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but then something altogether traitorous happened — she laughed. Again. Out loud. She was developing an extremely inconvenient habit of finding Harry Potter funny.
“Brave-looking,” she said, eyes shining with amusement. “Well, that’s not going on my school photo.”
Harry grinned at her, and there it was again — that flutter in her chest.
They kept walking, side by side, and Hermione found that she didn’t mind the quiet that settled over them. It was a companionable sort of silence. Comfortable. She didn’t have to fill it with facts or corrections or reading lists.
Just before they reached the portrait hole, Harry stopped. “Thanks,” he said quietly, almost like he was embarrassed. “For, you know... being there.”
Hermione blinked, surprised. “Of course I would be, Harry. You’re my friend.”
“Yeah, I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which had turned red. “But still…thank you.”
And even though she wanted to launch into a speech about how it was logical to visit someone in the hospital wing, how anyone would’ve done the same, she didn’t. Instead, she gave him a small, shy smile and nodded.
Something about that thank you stayed with her, and confusing feelings settled in her stomach.
Maybe one day she’d figure it out.
The train was slowing, the scenery outside the window shifting from rolling green hills to brick buildings and grey skies, and Hermione Granger had realized something terrible .
She didn’t want to go home.
Not just because she’d grown fond of the moving staircases or the library that smelled like ink and dragon hide. Not even because Hogwarts had magic and home mostly had multiplication tables and Tupperware. No, the terrible thing — the really awful thing — was sitting across from her right now with a half-unwrapped Chocolate Frog in his hands.
Harry Potter.
And the really awful thing about him was that she couldn't take him home with her.
He had his knees tucked up a bit on the seat, chin resting on them, glasses slipping down his nose like they always did when he was tired or thinking too hard. His hair was still a mess. It probably always would be. And even though they’d fought a troll and snuck past a three-headed dog and nearly died at least twice , here he was — looking more worried about whether he should eat the frog’s head or its legs first.
Behind Harry, Ron was curled up in the corner of the compartment, snoring softly — or, as Hermione thought with a small smile, gargling porridge in his sleep.
“I always feel a bit guilty,” Harry said, holding up the Chocolate Frog like it might understand him. “Like it knows what’s coming.”
Hermione gave a quiet giggle. “It’s made of chocolate and sugar, Harry. It doesn’t have feelings.”
“Still,” he muttered. “You wouldn’t want your last thought to be, ‘Blimey, look at all those teeth!’ ”
She laughed again, and he looked over at her — and smiled. Really smiled. The kind that made something warm press behind her ribs.
They sat like that for a moment. The train rocked gently beneath them, the hum of the wheels on the tracks like a lullaby, and Hermione suddenly didn’t know what to say. She had a lot of things she could say — she always did — but none of them felt quite right. Not for this.
So instead, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment — neatly written with her home address on one side and her phone number on the other.
Harry looked up, curious.
Hermione cleared her throat, her cheeks warming. She handed it over, her fingers brushing his just briefly.
“This is my address, so you can send your letters with Hedwig,” she said quietly. “And this is my phone number, if you want to call me.”
Harry unfolded it carefully, scanning both sides. “Hermione Granger’s address and phone number,” he read aloud and then hummed.
He smiled softly and reached into his bag, pulling out a folded scrap of parchment.
“Your turn,” he said, handing it to her.
She unfolded his note carefully, and a small thrill ran through her.
Harry grinned. “Same deal — owl letters, of course, you are free to use Hedwig whenever you like or phone calls - I'd really like phone calls from you.”
She blushed, "Oh! Of course I'll call you!"
“You’re my best friend, Hermione,” Harry said quietly.
Hermione smiled back, the strange, warm flutter still rising inside her chest.
“You’re mine too, Harry,” she said.
Behind them, Ron snorted in his sleep and mumbled something about porridge.
Hermione let out a soft laugh. “That troll’s been snoring since we got on the train.”
Harry shook his head with a grin. “That troll’s my best friend too.”
Then he looked at her, eyes softening. “But you… You’re my favorite.”
Hermione’s smile faltered, and she looked down, suddenly shy. “I’ve never been anyone’s favorite before.”
Harry reached out and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Well, now you are.”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed deeper, and for a moment she simply looked at him, words tangled up in the warmth blooming inside her chest. It was a feeling she didn’t quite understand yet—soft, new, and important all at once.
She folded Harry’s note carefully and tucked it into her satchel.
She noticed Harry folding her note up and placing it in the shirt pocket near his heart.
She couldn’t wait to hear his voice on the phone, to unravel the curls of his handwriting on letters that would surely be full of silly jokes and secret thoughts. The thought made her smile, a little daydream blossoming behind her eyes.