Chapter 13: Quidditch Cup
Chapter Text
Harry Potter wasn't blind.
He knew something was up with his friends. The gnawing feeling that something had shifted clung to him, and he absolutely hated it. The worst part? They seemed to think he didn't notice. As if Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, wouldn't catch on that his closest friends were acting strange around him. It had all started with Hermione Granger, and that drove him mad more than anything else.
Harry had always loved teasing Hermione—it was like a game he never tired of. The way she would scrunch her nose when he prodded her about her study habits, the slight exasperation in her voice when she'd correct him for the hundredth time about some fact or spell, and the flustered looks she'd give him when he got too close, lingering in her personal space just long enough to see her cheeks turn pink.
There were those moments when they'd sit together, and he'd casually drape an arm around her shoulder, or maybe they'd hold hands as they wandered around the castle grounds, talking about anything and everything. Sometimes, she'd rest her head on his shoulder, and those were the best moments of all. Harry didn't think much of it—it was just the way things were between them. Simple. Easy. Natural.
But all of a sudden, that had stopped.
At first, he thought maybe she was just tired or distracted by schoolwork—after all, Hermione was the kind of person to lose herself in her books for hours. But this wasn't just a passing phase. During their study sessions, their long evenings in front of the common room fireplace, or even just hanging out in the Room of Requirement, Hermione had put this invisible wall between them.
And Harry hated it.
He didn't realize how much he loved being clingy with Hermione until it all came to an abrupt halt. The absence of those small gestures, those fleeting touches, gnawed at him in ways he couldn't explain. And the worst part? He couldn't even talk to her about it. What was he supposed to say?
"Hey, Hermione, I miss the way you'd lean on me during study sessions, or how we used to hold hands for no reason at all?"
They were best friends. Just best friends.
So why did it feel like someone had ripped away the one thing that made his days brighter?
Harry sat on the edge of his bed, his broomstick resting against the wall, forgotten. His Quidditch gear was still on, but he couldn't care less about practice. His thoughts were elsewhere—on the way Hermione had started hanging back whenever they were together, how she'd sit just a little farther from him than usual, her fingers always busy with a book or quill to avoid the casual closeness they used to share.
It was driving him absolutely insane.
He couldn't focus during practice. He couldn't concentrate on his spells during lessons. He couldn't sleep without feeling restless, as if something was missing, and he knew exactly what that 'something' was.
And it wasn't just Hermione.
No, the worst part—the part that made him grind his teeth in frustration—was how close Ron and Draco had gotten with her lately. Since Harry had been busy with endless Quidditch training, it seemed like the trio had taken to spending every waking moment together, especially in that blasted Room of Requirement, which Ron still couldn't decide on a proper name for.
Usually, Harry didn't mind that his friends hung out together, even when he wasn't around. But recently, it felt like Hermione actually preferred their company to his. Whenever he came back from practice, sweaty and exhausted, he'd find the three of them laughing, joking around, or sharing inside stories that Harry hadn't been part of.
It made him furious.
The way Hermione's eyes sparkled with amusement when Draco said something clever. The way Ron made her laugh with his ridiculous jokes. And it wasn't just laughter—no, there was this warmth between them now, something that made Harry feel like an outsider looking in.
He hated it.
He hated it so much that he messed up during Quidditch practice. Badly.
They were running drills—Wood was on him, barking out instructions as usual, but Harry's head wasn't in the game. He missed simple catches, fumbled his grip on the broom, and nearly crashed into one of the goalposts. His thoughts kept drifting back to Hermione, Ron, and Draco. The three of them, having fun without him. The three of them, without him.
It made his stomach twist in ways he couldn't understand.
"Potter, what's going on with you today?" Wood's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, frustration evident in every syllable.
"Sorry," Harry muttered, gripping his broom tighter. "Just distracted."
"Well, get undistracted," Wood barked. "We've got a match coming up, and we can't afford to have our Seeker flying around like his mind's in the clouds!"
Harry nodded, but it was no use. The next drill was worse. He missed the Snitch entirely and crashed head-first into the ground, skidding painfully across the pitch. Groaning, he lay there for a moment, staring up at the sky, cursing under his breath.
Wood sighed. "That's it, Potter. You're done for the day. Go rest up. Clear your head."
But Harry knew it wasn't something as simple as rest that would fix this. As he trudged back toward the changing rooms, his heart heavy with confusion, frustration, and something he refused to name, he couldn't shake the image of Hermione sitting too close to Ron and Draco, laughing without him.
He clenched his fists.
He had to figure this out, before it drove him mad.
xxxxx
Harry cursed under his breath, his broom still clutched tightly in his hand, his hair sticking up in wild directions, more of a mess than usual. Dirt streaked across his robes, the evidence of his crash clear from the stains and scuffs. His legs felt sore from the impact, but the tight knot of frustration in his chest outweighed any physical pain. He could feel the stares from the students he passed by, but at that moment, he couldn't care less. Let them stare.
His jaw clenched as he approached the familiar entrance to the Room of Requirement. The door appeared before him, as it always did, but the weight of his anger made even opening it feel like a struggle.
The moment he stepped inside, Harry's sharp eyes immediately locked onto the trio in the room. Hermione was sitting comfortably in his favorite seat, her legs tucked underneath her as she pored over a book, while Draco sat across from her, leaning in and talking animatedly. Hermione was listening intently, her full attention on Draco, which made something in Harry's chest tighten even more.
As Harry walked in, all three heads turned to look at him, greeting him as if nothing was wrong.
"Hey, mate—whoa," Ron said, his eyes widening when he saw Harry's disheveled state. "What happened to you?"
Harry didn't respond right away. Instead, he roughly threw his broom to the ground with a loud thud, the noise startling them all. He then snatched up a can of soda from the stack Emma Granger had sent them via owl earlier that week. He popped it open with a sharp hiss, the carbonation bubbling up to the rim. Without hesitation, he took a long gulp, the cold, fizzy liquid burning slightly in his throat, but he didn't care. At least it distracted him from the chaos in his head.
"I crashed head-first into the ground during practice," Harry muttered, his voice edged with irritation. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Got ejected by Wood."
"Bloody hell, mate, your nose is bleeding," Draco pointed out, his voice laced with concern.
Harry swiped his sleeve across his nose, feeling the dampness of the blood. "It'll pass," he said curtly, the irritation still burning in his voice.
Hermione had been watching him with that familiar worried expression she always wore when he got hurt. She shot up from her seat, rushing toward him, her face full of concern. "Harry, let me—"
But before she could finish, Harry instinctively stepped back, evading her hand as she reached out, as if the thought of her touch was suddenly too much for him. He even made a slight face, something between frustration and annoyance, as he backed away.
The reaction was immediate. Ron and Draco exchanged a look, their eyes wide with shock. Neither of them had ever seen Harry pull away from Hermione like that before—usually, he welcomed her closeness, thrived on it even. But now, it was like something had shifted, something neither of them could put their finger on.
Hermione, on the other hand, froze. Hurt flashed in her eyes for a brief moment, but she quickly masked it with concern, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Harry, what's going on?" she asked, her voice a mix of confusion and worry.
"I'm fine," Harry snapped, though his tone softened slightly as he glanced away from her. He put the can of soda down with a deliberate clank and looked straight at Ron and Draco. "We need to talk. I'm calling in a Marauder's meeting."
Ron, eager to move on from the awkwardness in the room, immediately nodded, and Draco, ever the composed one, stood up and stretched lazily before walking toward the large wooden table in the center of the room. They both took their seats, the unspoken tension still hanging in the air.
Hermione, clearly unsettled by Harry's sudden coldness, remained standing, her eyes darting between the boys as she waited for Harry to explain himself. Finally, she moved to sit down, instinctively taking the seat closest to Harry, her brows furrowing as she glanced at him.
But Harry's face hardened, and he raised an eyebrow, his voice flat. "It's a Marauder's meeting, Hermione."
"Yes?" Hermione replied, her head tilting slightly, her expression confused.
Draco shifted in his seat uncomfortably, knowing where this was heading. "Har—"
But Harry cut him off, his frustration spilling over. "You're not a Marauder."
The words were out before he could stop them, and they landed like a heavy blow in the room. Silence followed, thick and suffocating. Even Ron flinched slightly at Harry's tone, casting an uneasy glance toward Hermione, who stood there, frozen.
It was true. As close as they all were, Hermione wasn't officially a Marauder. Ron and Draco both knew that. Despite the bond they shared, the three of them had made a pact, a solemn, almost foolish vow when they formed their little group. It was a promise to protect each other at all costs, to be loyal through thick and thin. They had taken the vow seriously, and it was a bond the three of them shared—one that Harry had insisted on, ever since the original Marauders had been broken by betrayal.
Hermione had never been part of that. She was their best friend, but she wasn't part of that.
Hermione's breath caught in her throat, the realization of Harry's words sinking in. She stood there, looking at him, her hands gripping the strap of her book bag. Harry was deliberately avoiding her gaze, his eyes fixed on the table in front of him, his fingers clenched into fists.
"I—" Hermione started, her voice trembling slightly before she stopped herself. Her emotions waged a battle inside her—anger, hurt, and confusion all swirling together. She cast a glance at Ron, who quickly looked away, not meeting her eyes. Draco, always the smooth one, offered her a weak, apologetic smile, as if he didn't know what else to do.
"Fine," Hermione finally huffed, her voice sharp and brittle, like glass about to shatter. She swung her book bag over her shoulder, her face tightening in anger as she turned away from them all. "Have fun with your stupid meeting."
She stormed out of the room, her footsteps echoing behind her, and the door slammed shut before any of them could say a word. The silence that followed was deafening. None of them had noticed the tears that had started streaming down her face as she fled, the hurt she had tried so hard to hide now spilling out in the privacy of the hallway beyond.
xxxxx
"What the bloody hell is the matter with you, Harry?" Draco asked, his voice carrying a mixture of disbelief and frustration. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, his pale eyes studying Harry intently. A sigh escaped his lips as he shook his head.
Harry, slouched in his seat, raised an eyebrow in challenge. "What? It's true. She's not a Marauder." His voice was sharp, defensive, and a little more biting than usual. He could feel the anger bubbling beneath his skin, making him more irritable than he should have been.
Ron huffed from his spot, a frown settling on his freckled face. "You could've just asked her to sit on the couch while we talk, mate! You didn't have to drive her away like that." There was an edge of disappointment in his tone as if Harry had crossed a line even Ron found unreasonable.
"I didn't drive her away. She left on her own," Harry retorted quickly, his frustration mounting. He took a deep gulp of the soda, as though the sweetness of the cola could drown out his annoyance.
Draco exchanged a glance with Ron, rolling his eyes dramatically. "With that tone you answered her with? The only choice she had was to leave, Potter." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What's going on with you? Why are you in such a shitty mood?"
Harry's jaw clenched as he made a face, his fingers tightening around the soda can, crumpling it slightly under his grip. He wasn't about to admit that something was bothering him, let alone explain it to Draco and Ron. They wouldn't understand. They'd think it was stupid, and maybe it was. But still, the jealousy gnawed at him.
Deciding to ignore their pointed looks, Harry launched into the topic he'd been planning to discuss all along. "I was thinking about the Philosopher's Stone," he began, his tone stiff as he tried to redirect the conversation. "I think the way to go ab—"
"No."
Draco's abrupt interruption sliced through the air like a knife. His arms were still crossed, his posture defiant.
Harry glared at him, his annoyance flaring back up. "What do you mean, 'no'?" He leaned forward, his voice hardening. "This is important."
Draco, unfazed by Harry's anger, stared him down. "I vote not to continue this meeting until you tell us what's really going on."
Ron, sitting across from Draco, nodded in agreement, his own arms now crossing over his chest as well. "I second that," he added, though his grin betrayed the amusement dancing in his eyes. He enjoyed watching Harry squirm under pressure sometimes—it was a rare sight.
Harry stared at them incredulously. "Are you two serious right now?" His voice rose in disbelief, the tension crackling in the air around them.
"We are," Ron and Draco said in unison, grinning as if they'd rehearsed the line beforehand.
Harry's temper spiked. His fists clenched as his eyes darted between the two boys. "So this is what you lot do in your free time? Try to be the second version of the Weasley twins?" He shot Ron an accusatory look. "Answering in unison, talking in complete sentences like some kind of freakish double act?"
Ron blinked in surprise, but Draco's smirk only grew wider. Harry's attention snapped back to Draco, his glare intensifying. "Is Hermione in on this too?" His voice dropped, low and almost accusing, as if Hermione's presence in the trio had suddenly become a threat.
For a moment, silence filled the room. Harry could feel the weight of it pressing on his chest. His mind was buzzing, confusion and anger swirling together, making it hard to think clearly. He could feel a headache creeping in—whether from the crash during practice or the stress of the situation, he wasn't sure. Either way, it was making him irritable.
Draco sighed heavily and tossed a chocolate frog toward Harry, which landed in front of him with a soft thud. "You stupid bloody idiot," Draco muttered, shaking his head. "Is this what it's really about? You're jealous because Hermione's been hanging out with us?"
Ron's eyes widened as if a light had suddenly switched on in his brain. "No way!" He turned to Draco, then back to Harry, his expression full of realization. "Is it really?"
Harry could feel heat rising up his neck and into his face, his cheeks turning red. Whether it was from embarrassment, anger, or both, he didn't know. "I'm not jealous," he snapped, though the defensiveness in his voice said otherwise. "You don't know anything."
Draco's smirk grew even smugger, which only infuriated Harry more. "Oh, we know everything," Draco said, his voice dripping with superiority. "You're the one who doesn't know anything."
Ron chuckled and nodded. "He's right, mate. Hermione's just—"
"Nope," Draco interrupted quickly, slapping a hand over Ron's mouth. "That's not our story to tell." His expression grew more serious as he glared at Harry. "You need to talk to Hermione and fix this. We're not going to have a Marauder's meeting without her. She's brilliant, and we're hopeless without her."
Harry's glare could have burned a hole through Draco if looks had that kind of power, but Draco remained utterly unfazed, his calm demeanor only infuriating Harry further.
"Yeah, Harry," Ron chimed in, his voice softer this time, more genuine. "You've been pretty busy lately with training and stuff. Trust me, whatever you're thinking, it's not that. Just talk to her." He glanced at Draco, who nodded in agreement. "We can't say more—she made us promise—but just… talk to her, alright?"
Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. "And apologize too. For acting like a prick."
For a moment, Harry remained silent, the tension thick around him. His jaw was tight, and he could feel the frustration rolling off him in waves. But deep down, he knew they were right. They usually were. Still, that didn't mean he had to give them the satisfaction of admitting it.
"Whatever," Harry muttered under his breath, his eyes flickering toward the door where Hermione had stormed out earlier. He could feel a twinge of guilt stirring in his chest, but he quickly shoved it down. He wasn't ready to face it—not yet.
But he knew he'd have to. Eventually.
xxxxx
Harry had promised himself that he'd apologize to Hermione. He really had. But in his mind, there was no rush—not until after the final Quidditch match of the season.
"I'll talk to her once I've won us the Quidditch Cup," he muttered to himself, eyes fixed on the Gryffindor banner hanging in the Great Hall as he absentmindedly twirled his Nimbus 2000 broomstick in his hands. It was the only thing keeping his focus lately, the one goal he could latch onto that didn't involve thinking about Hermione's disappointed face or the way she avoided him.
But the truth was, Harry couldn't stop thinking about her, even if he refused to admit it to Ron and Draco.
For now, all his attention was poured into Quidditch. Every spare moment was spent training on the pitch, weaving between goalposts, dodging Bludgers, and perfecting his dives. Wood had been beyond thrilled to see Harry dedicating himself so fully to practice again.
"That's the spirit, Potter!" Wood would shout from the stands, his voice brimming with excitement as Harry zoomed past him during yet another training session. "This is exactly what we need to win the Cup!"
And Harry agreed. Winning the Quidditch Cup felt like the only thing that mattered right now—an easy distraction from the tension that had built up between him and Hermione. He told himself that once Gryffindor secured the win, everything else would fall back into place. Apologizing would be simple after that. He'd make things right with her, but only after the match.
At least, that's what he kept telling himself.
xxxxx
Meanwhile, Hermione had grown colder toward Harry with each passing day, a distance forming between them that even Ron and Draco could feel. She had thrown herself into her studies, her face often hidden behind thick stacks of textbooks in the library, or scribbling notes furiously with her quill. Her usual warmth had turned frosty, especially when Harry was near.
Whenever Harry entered the Room of Requirement for their usual meetings, she'd pack up her things and leave almost immediately, barely casting a glance his way.
"Goodbye, Ron," she'd say in a clipped tone, ignoring Harry entirely. "See you later, Draco."
Her footsteps would echo as she exited the room, leaving a cold silence behind her. Draco, lounging on a cushioned armchair with his feet propped up on a nearby table, would throw his hands in the air in exasperation each time.
"Honestly, Potter, how long do you plan on letting this go on?" Draco grumbled one afternoon as Hermione's retreating figure disappeared down the corridor. He dropped his feet back to the ground and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at Harry. "This cold war between you two is getting bloody ridiculous."
Ron nodded in agreement, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "Yeah, mate, she's been ignoring you for weeks now. And I'm starting to think you're enjoying it."
Harry shrugged, trying to appear unaffected, though deep down, the sting of Hermione's indifference gnawed at him. "She'll get over it," he said, though his voice sounded a little less sure than he wanted it to.
Draco snorted in disbelief, exchanging a glance with Ron. "She's not just going to 'get over it,' you idiot. You basically told her she wasn't important during that last meeting. You've been treating her like she's not part of the team. Of course she's mad." His tone was laced with irritation, but there was a hint of something else there too—something that Harry couldn't quite place. Concern, maybe?
Harry avoided their gazes, focusing on tightening the strap of his broomstick instead. "I'll apologize," he muttered under his breath, though he didn't sound all that eager to follow through. "Once the Quidditch season is over. I'll make it right, I promise."
Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. "Right, because waiting until after the match will definitely solve everything." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Brilliant strategy, Potter."
Ron sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "Look, we all want to win the Cup, but Hermione's not going to wait around for you to finish playing Quidditch. She's hurt, mate. And I'm starting to think you care more about this bloody match than fixing things with her." He gave Harry a pointed look, his tone unusually serious.
For a moment, Harry didn't respond. He knew they were right—knew that he had been avoiding Hermione, pushing the issue aside in favor of focusing on Quidditch. But the truth was, facing Hermione and admitting he had been wrong was far more terrifying than any Quidditch match he'd ever played. The idea of her looking at him with disappointment, of hearing her tell him how much he had hurt her, made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
"I'll fix it," he repeated, his voice quieter this time. He hated how uncertain he sounded.
Draco let out a long sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. "You better. Because I'm getting tired of playing mediator between you two. It's exhausting." He shot Harry a glare, but there was a trace of amusement in his eyes. "Honestly, the sooner you apologize, the better it'll be for all of us."
Harry didn't reply, his mind already drifting back to thoughts of the upcoming match. He could apologize after Gryffindor won the Cup, after he had something to be proud of, something to give him the confidence to make things right with Hermione.
At least, that's what he kept telling himself.
As the days passed, the tension between Harry and Hermione only seemed to grow. Every time Harry entered a room, Hermione would find an excuse to leave. It was almost like she had made a game out of avoiding him. She didn't meet his eyes during class, didn't speak to him in the corridors, and whenever Ron or Draco mentioned his name around her, she'd give them a curt response and change the subject.
Ron and Draco had grown tired of the cold war between the two of them. Even Ron, usually oblivious to these kinds of things, couldn't help but notice the strain it was putting on their group.
"Honestly, Harry," Ron groaned one evening after Hermione had left the Room of Requirement in her usual silent fashion, "you need to sort this out before she decides she's done with all of us." He threw his hands in the air in frustration. "She's our best friend, mate. Our best girl friend. Hell, our only girl friend! You can't just ignore the problem and hope it'll fix itself."
Draco, lounging beside Ron, nodded in agreement. "You know, for someone who's supposed to be smart, you're being remarkably thick-headed about this." He shot Harry a knowing look. "Apologize. Soon. Before you end up with more than just a bruised ego after this whole thing."
Harry clenched his fists, the familiar surge of frustration rising in his chest. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew they were right. Hermione was more than just a friend—she was important to him in ways he couldn't fully explain. But saying sorry felt like a monumental task, and part of him was still stubbornly clinging to the idea that everything would fall into place once the Quidditch season ended.
"Fine," he muttered, more to himself than to Ron and Draco. "I'll apologize. Just… after the Cup."
Ron and Draco exchanged exasperated looks, clearly not convinced. But they didn't push the issue further. They knew Harry well enough to understand that once he set his mind to something, it was difficult to change his course.
So, for now, they could only hope that Harry would actually keep his word once the season was over.
xxxxx
"Damn it, Potter! Focus!" Katie Bell's voice rang out from behind him, sharp with frustration. She was so exasperated that Harry half-expected her to fly right over and smack him in the head with her broomstick. It wasn't far from her character, and today he couldn't blame her. Ravenclaw had just scored another point, courtesy of a penalty he had caused.
Harry winced, barely daring to glance at the scoreboard. The points were racking up against them, and he knew he was partly to blame. His mind just wasn't where it should be.
"Stop helping them win points and find the Snitch!" Oliver Wood bellowed from his position in front of the goalposts, his face red with both effort and exasperation. Even from across the pitch, Harry could feel the intensity of Wood's glare, like he could drill a hole through him with sheer frustration alone.
Harry gave a brief nod, determined to shake off the distraction, and kicked off harder into the air, the wind whipping his hair back as he rose higher into the sky. He had to focus. His thoughts were scattered, and the game wasn't going the way he had envisioned. He'd been so desperate to contribute to the score that he'd made a series of sloppy mistakes—mistakes Gryffindor couldn't afford with the Quidditch Cup on the line.
'Get it together, Harry.'
Hovering high above the pitch, Harry scanned the scene below him, his heart pounding in his chest. The familiar rush of adrenaline began to course through his veins, the sounds of the roaring crowd fading into a dull hum as he locked his focus back on the game. Somewhere out there, the Snitch was hiding, just waiting for him to catch it.
Suddenly, a shadow appeared next to him—Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, flying alongside him. She gave him a sidelong glance, a playful grin stretching across her face as her dark hair billowed in the breeze.
"Eager to win the Cup, aren't you?" she teased, her voice carrying a hint of amusement as she matched his speed, her broom hovering smoothly beside his. There was a glint of mischief in her eyes, as though she was enjoying the competition a bit too much.
Harry felt his cheeks flush, though he quickly masked it by avoiding her gaze. 'Don't get distracted.' He clenched his jaw and ignored her, trying to push down the wave of embarrassment that always seemed to bubble up when she was nearby. He wasn't about to lose focus now, not when the entire match hung in the balance.
Cho frowned slightly when he didn't respond. "Wow, rude," she muttered, her grin fading as she turned her attention back to scanning the field.
But Harry didn't let himself be drawn into the banter. His mind drifted to Hermione, remembering a technique she had taught him during one of their study sessions, a technique lifeguards supposedly used to scan crowded pools for any signs of trouble. It was methodical—an up-and-down scanning motion combined with moving the neck left to right. At the time, he had laughed at the idea of applying it to Quidditch, but as always, Hermione had been right. He'd tried it during practices, and it actually worked.
Taking a deep breath, Harry steadied himself and began the motion: up, down, up, down, while shifting his head slowly from left to right. His eyes darted across the pitch, his heart racing as he scoured every inch of the sky for that elusive glint of gold.
"Focus," he whispered to himself, tuning out the sounds of the game around him. The world seemed to narrow, shrinking down to just him and the endless stretch of sky.
Up, down, up, down.
Suddenly, there—a flash of gold against the bright blue sky. Just for a split second, but it was enough. His heart leaped in his chest. "There," he breathed, barely loud enough to hear himself.
And before he could even fully process it, his broom surged forward, reacting to the shift in his body as he dove into a sharp dive. His Nimbus 2000 responded with the kind of speed that sent his stomach lurching, the wind screaming in his ears as he hurtled downward, his eyes locked on the Snitch that now flitted just ahead of him.
Everything else disappeared—the cheers from the stands, the other players, even Cho's voice calling after him in frustration as she tried to keep up. "Potter!" she shouted, but he barely registered it, too focused on the tiny golden ball that was darting and weaving just ahead.
The other Ravenclaw players swooped in, trying to block his path, but Harry moved instinctively. He dodged to the left, then jerked to the right, narrowly avoiding a Bludger that had been aimed at his head. His hands gripped the broom tighter as he leaned forward, the cool air stinging his face as he pushed the Nimbus 2000 to its limits.
Closer. He could see the Snitch now, its wings fluttering in rapid beats, almost taunting him with how close it was. Just a little further.
The wind roared in his ears as he extended his arm, fingers outstretched, his entire body straining toward that single point of focus.
And then, in a split second, his hand closed around the cool, fluttering metal.
"Yes!" Harry shouted triumphantly, his voice cracking with excitement as he shot back up into the sky, fist raised high with the Snitch clutched tightly in his grip. The Gryffindor stands erupted in wild cheers, the sound crashing over him like a wave. He could hear Wood's ecstatic yelling from across the pitch, and the other players were already celebrating.
They had done it. Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup.
xxxxx
Hermione stood tensely in the Gryffindor stands, her heart pounding in her chest as Harry performed yet another one of his reckless, death-defying dives. Her eyes were glued to him, unable to tear away as he dodged players, Bludgers, and other threats on the pitch. Her hand was gripping Ron's arm so tightly that his protests went unnoticed.
"Hermione, my arm—!" Ron winced, trying to pull free, but her fingers were locked in place, her gaze never leaving Harry.
Harry had always been daring on the Quidditch pitch, but lately, it felt like he had something to prove. Something more than just winning the game. The speed at which he flew, the way he threw himself into danger—it was almost as if he didn't care what happened, as long as he caught that Snitch.
"Come on, Harry..." Hermione whispered under her breath, her grip tightening even more.
Then it happened.
Harry spotted the Snitch.
She saw the glint of gold in his eyes before his broom shot downward in an impossibly fast dive. Hermione gasped, her breath catching in her throat as he sped through a throng of Ravenclaw players, his body almost a blur as he dodged them with an agility that made her heart leap.
But just as the roar of excitement around her started to bubble up, Hermione's stomach twisted with a familiar frustration. Right. She was supposed to be angry at him—her stupid, soon-to-be ex-best friend—who didn't know how to bloody apologize, who had decided to throw himself into Quidditch every day and night instead of dealing with their problems. He was so obsessed with winning, so determined to fly his stupid broom at every opportunity, that his grades had started to slip.
Her chest tightened as the unfairness of it all hit her again. Now she was the one leading their grade—her of all people—when she knew all too well that Harry was smarter than her, better even. But he didn't care anymore. He cared more about flying around than fixing the rift between them.
"He did it!!!" Ron's voice boomed beside her, and Hermione realized she had been holding her breath the whole time. "He caught the Snitch! Hermione, he did it!"
Ron was on his feet now, screaming Harry's name at the top of his lungs, waving his arms wildly. The entire Gryffindor stand erupted in deafening cheers, students chanting Harry's name as he held up the tiny golden ball triumphantly. The Gryffindor banner waved proudly above them, and the excitement was electric.
Hermione caught herself starting to cheer along with them, but she stopped almost immediately, her lips clamping shut. Right. She was angry. She wasn't supposed to be cheering for him like everything was fine between them.
"Hermione! He did it! Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup!" Ron was screaming beside her, practically vibrating with excitement.
Hermione forced a small smile, her eyes narrowing slightly as Harry circled the pitch in victory. "Yeah... he did."
"Can't even pretend to be happy for him, huh?" Ron grinned, noticing her reluctance. He nudged her playfully with his shoulder, clearly too wrapped up in the celebration to care.
"I'm happy for him," Hermione shot back, rolling her eyes. "I just have other things on my mind."
Ron chuckled knowingly. "Right. Sure. He's your best mate, and you've barely spoken to him in weeks. Real convincing, Hermione."
Hermione scowled. "It's not that simple, Ron. You wouldn't understand."
Ron shook his head, still smiling. "Look, I get it. You're mad about the whole thing, but... you should know, Harry's planning on talking to you. Said he would after he won the Cup."
Hermione's eyes widened in shock. "W-What?" Her voice cracked slightly.
Ron gave her a lopsided grin and pointed toward the pitch where Harry was now slowly flying toward the stands, still ignoring his teammates' attempts to celebrate with him. His focus was entirely on Hermione, his eyes never leaving hers as he hovered closer.
"I don't want to talk to him," Hermione whispered, her stomach churning with anxiety.
"You do," Ron said firmly. "Draco and I both know it. You're miserable without him. And let's be real—you don't even enjoy hanging out with us that much. Draco's great with books, but he's not exactly your favorite study partner. And me? Well, I'm just Quidditch and chess. You don't care about either of those."
Hermione bit her lip, her cheeks flushing. "I don't hate those things, I just... don't like them. It's different."
"Uh-huh, sure," Ron teased, rolling his eyes. "But seriously, Hermione. Just talk to him, yeah? And maybe—just maybe—don't start with an argument this time."
Before Hermione could argue back, Ron grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her down the stairs toward the pitch. She followed reluctantly, her heart racing as they approached Harry.
Draco had already joined the crowd congratulating Harry, a smug grin on his face as he caught sight of Hermione being hauled toward them by Ron. He snickered, clearly enjoying the scene far too much.
"Oh, this should be good," Draco said, his eyes glinting with mischief as he took a step back, letting Hermione and Ron approach.
Harry's face brightened slightly as they reached him, but there was still that underlying tension in his expression. His eyes flickered between Hermione and Ron, as if unsure how to approach the situation.
"Awesome catch, mate," Ron said, clapping Harry on the back with a grin.
"Thanks," He replied, his voice quiet but grateful. He looked at Hermione and ruffled his already wind-swept hair and smiled awkwardly. "Hey."
Hermione blinked, swallowing her nerves. "Hey," she replied, just as awkwardly.
For a few moments, they stood there in silence, the roar of the crowd fading into the background as the awkward tension between them grew thicker. Ron shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his head. Draco, ever impatient, finally let out an exasperated sigh.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Draco groaned. "Mount your broom, Potter."
Harry frowned in confusion but did as Draco ordered. Before Harry could protest, Ron gave Hermione a firm shove, sending her stumbling into Harry. He caught her with one arm, steadying her, his face only inches from hers.
"Wha—!" Hermione's eyes widened, a mix of shock and horror washing over her. She stiffened in Harry's grip, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were after weeks of avoiding each other.
"Fly," Draco ordered, his grin growing wider.
"No!" Hermione shrieked, panic rising in her voice. But it was too late. Harry had instinctively kicked off the ground, his broom lifting into the air as Hermione clung to him, her arms wrapping around his waist in sheer desperation. The wind whipped past them as they ascended, Hermione's shrill protests echoing through the sky.
Down below, Ron and Draco doubled over in laughter, tears forming in their eyes as they watched their friends soar through the air.
"One Galleon says Harry gets slapped as soon as they land," Ron wheezed between bouts of laughter.
"Two Galleons says he gets hit before they land," Draco countered with a chuckle.
High above the pitch, Hermione's panic turned into a mix of fury and embarrassment as she clung to Harry, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, her body pressed tightly against his as they soared through the air. She couldn't believe she was here—again, being swept up by Harry's ridiculous broom antics.
"I hate you!" Hermione yelled, her voice shaking with both fear and frustration as she buried her face in Harry's chest.
Harry's grip on her tightened slightly, his voice soft and amused. "I know."
Chapter 14: Pillow
Chapter Text
The rules at Hogwarts were clear, and everyone knew them by heart—it was strictly frowned upon for two people to fly on a broomstick. Yet, as with most rules, it didn't stop people from breaking them, especially if they could avoid getting caught. Hermione Granger knew this all too well. What bothered her more was the fact that she, of all people, was partaking in such a reckless activity.
High above the Hogwarts grounds, she sat stiffly on Harry's Nimbus 2000, clinging to him as they soared through the sky. The wind whipped through her hair, and her heart pounded in her chest. They were completely out in the open, where anyone could see them if they just happened to glance up. But Harry didn't seem to care. He was focused, his grip on her firm as they glided around the castle, the world below shrinking with every passing second.
Hermione gritted her teeth, her annoyance bubbling beneath the surface. This was so irresponsible, so utterly ridiculous, and yet here she was, flying on a broom with Harry Potter.
She knew he was holding back. Every time they gained altitude, his body would tense like he wanted to go faster, to push the limits of the broom's speed, but he didn't. Maybe it was because of the five death threats she had hurled at him since they started flying, or perhaps it was the two slaps and one well-aimed punch to the stomach that finally convinced him to slow down.
Either way, she wasn't in the mood for his daredevil antics. Now, they were just floating low enough that Hermione wasn't tearing up from the sheer height, and she could actually breathe again.
For the past ten minutes, though, not a single word had passed between them. The silence was deafening. It hung in the air, growing heavier with each second that ticked by. Why wasn't he saying anything? Why wasn't she saying anything? There was so much to talk about—weeks of avoidance, hurt feelings, and misunderstandings—but neither of them seemed willing to break the silence.
Finally, Harry's voice came, soft and hesitant. "I'm sorry."
His arms tightened around her slightly as he spoke, the words almost swallowed by the wind. Hermione's heart skipped a beat, though she didn't let it show.
"I'm sorry for acting like a prick," Harry continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "For ignoring you, focusing on my training rather than... other things. And for telling you that you're not a Marauder."
Hermione rolled her eyes, though she couldn't suppress the small, amused smile tugging at her lips. "I appreciate that the first words out of your mouth are an apology, Harry," she said dryly. "But I would appreciate it more if we could continue this conversation while we're on the ground."
Harry glanced at her, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Oh, right," he said, sounding not the least bit sorry. "Sorry again."
She sighed, shaking her head as she leaned slightly against his body. Typical Harry. Always so flippant, even when apologizing. She couldn't quite decide if she found it endearing or infuriating.
Scanning the grounds below, Harry spotted a familiar landmark—a wide, shaded area beneath the old beech tree by the Black Lake. It was the perfect spot to land, away from prying eyes.
"Hold on tight," he whispered, his voice low and mischievous.
"W-Wait, no, Harry!!!" Hermione yelped, her fingers digging into his robes as the broom tilted sharply downward, plummeting toward the tree. Her stomach lurched as the ground rushed up to meet them, and she braced for the impact.
But, of course, Harry pulled up just in time, slowing the broom to a smooth stop mere inches from the ground. Hermione's heart was still racing, and her legs wobbled as she tried to step off the broom. She absolutely hated flying—especially with Harry.
Harry grinned, clearly enjoying himself far too much. As she tried to steady herself, she felt her knees buckle slightly, and before she knew it, she was collapsing into the soft grass beneath the tree.
"I hate you so much," Hermione muttered, her voice laced with exasperation. She wasn't even sure if she meant it.
Harry winced at her words, his grin faltering slightly. It hurt more than he expected, even if she was just joking. After weeks of not hearing a single word from her, the sting of her anger still cut deep.
"Sorry," he mumbled, sitting down beside her. His hand found its way to her back, rubbing gently as if that would somehow make up for everything.
Hermione sighed, feeling her frustration slowly melt away. She gave him a small, tired smile before lying back in the grass, staring up at the sky. The sun was beginning to dip lower, casting long shadows across the grounds. The Black Lake shimmered in the distance, the breeze rustling the leaves overhead. It was almost peaceful.
"The grass is hard," she remarked after a moment, her voice thoughtful.
"It is," Harry agreed, nodding as he leaned back on his hands, sitting beside her.
"It would be better," Hermione continued, "if I had something soft to rest my head on."
Harry blinked, clearly not catching on. "Oh, uh... I could get a pillow from the dormitory," he offered earnestly.
Hermione let out a heavy sigh, covering her face with her hand. Honestly, how could someone so smart be so dense?
"What?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "I could fly up to the window and grab one, no problem."
"I don't need a pillow, Harry," Hermione snapped, her patience wearing thin.
Harry frowned, clearly not understanding why she was so annoyed. "Well, what do you want me to do then?" he asked, the frustration starting to creep into his voice.
Hermione rolled over onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows as she looked at him. "Are you angry?" she asked, her tone softer now, almost teasing.
"No!" Harry blurted out, though his voice cracked slightly in a way that suggested otherwise.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Then use your head!" she said, exasperated. "The ground is hard. I don't want a pillow. I want something soft to rest my head on!"
Harry stared at her, his face scrunching up in confusion. "Bloody hell, what do you want me to do?" he asked, throwing his hands up in frustration. "I can't conjure a pillow out of thin air!"
Hermione let out an aggravated shriek, her hands flying to her hair as she pulled at it in frustration. "I want to use your lap as a pillow, you stupid flying idiot!" she finally shouted, her cheeks flushing red with both embarrassment and irritation.
Harry's eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, he just stared at her, dumbfounded. Then, he mumbled something under his breath—probably something rude—but shuffled closer to her nonetheless. Without a word, he adjusted himself so that his lap was within reach, offering it as a makeshift pillow.
Hermione huffed but couldn't hide the small, satisfied smile that tugged at her lips. She scooted closer, resting her head in his lap with a quiet sigh of contentment. Much better.
As she settled in, she let out a soft hum of approval. Harry, still grumbling under his breath, ran a hand through his messy hair, looking both annoyed and slightly flustered.
But despite the tension, there was something warm and familiar about the moment—a quiet understanding between them. Maybe things weren't completely fixed yet, but they were on their way.
xxxxx
Harry apologized again. His voice was soft, almost breaking under the weight of his guilt. For weeks now, he had been haunted by his own behavior—getting angry at her without reason, ignoring her, focusing more on his flying than his studies. He apologized for missing breakfast, for being distant, for letting his emotions get the better of him. At this point, he was running out of things to apologize for, but the tension still lingered between them.
Hermione lay in his lap, her bushy hair splayed across his legs as she stared up at the canopy of the beech tree they had landed under. The Black Lake shimmered nearby, the soft lapping of water the only sound filling the silence between them. The warm breeze ruffled her robes, but she didn't seem to notice, too lost in thought as Harry's string of apologies filled the air.
"Why were you angry that day anyway?" Hermione finally asked, her voice breaking the calm. She didn't look at him, her gaze still fixed on the sky, but Harry could feel her words like a needle prick in his chest. "Ron and Draco seemed to know, but when I asked them, they just told me to talk to you."
Harry groaned inwardly, the sudden urge to shove her off his lap and flee to France and never look back rising in his throat. He wasn't ready to talk about this. He hadn't been ready that day, and he wasn't ready now. The mere thought of confessing made his stomach twist. He gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowing at a spot in the grass as if he could will the conversation away.
"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to..." Hermione added quickly, sensing his discomfort. There was a gentle patience in her voice, one that made his heart ache.
"No, we can," Harry sighed, his breath coming out in a heavy exhale as if he had been holding it in. "I was just... jealous, I guess." He hesitated, then corrected himself, the truth weighing heavy on his tongue. "No, I was jealous."
Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion, and she finally shifted, her head tilting to look up at him. "Jealous? Of what? Ron and Draco? Harry, I'm not taking them away from you. You guys have known each other since you were kids. They're your best friends."
Harry let out a hollow chuckle, shaking his head. "It's not that. You can have them as much as you want. I don't care." He swallowed hard, looking away from her. "It's you. I'm jealous of how much time you've been spending with them... I felt neglected."
Hermione sat up quickly, her eyes wide in shock. She turned to fully face him, her mouth slightly agape as if she couldn't quite believe what she'd just heard. "Neglected?"
Harry didn't answer, his gaze fixed on a pebble near his shoe, his hands fidgeting awkwardly in his lap. He felt like an idiot for admitting it, but now it was out there. He couldn't take it back.
"Harry, I..." Hermione started, but she struggled to find the right words. She looked at him with a mixture of confusion and exasperation. "You... felt neglected? But you were the one who was always busy with your training. You were flying around all the time! What was I supposed to do? Just sit around waiting for you to come back?"
Harry sighed deeply, knowing she was right. Of course she was right. She always was. But that didn't make his feelings any less real, or any less frustrating.
"I know," he muttered, rubbing his face with his hands. "I know you had no one else besides Ron and Draco to talk to. I just... I don't know. I didn't like how much time you were spending with them. And then when I did try to make time for you, you started pulling away. Like... you'd always put this distance between us, like you didn't want me around anymore."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her expression softening. "I wasn't pulling away, Harry. I just... I didn't want to bother you." She shifted, leaning closer to him, her tone gentler now. "I wasn't pushing you away. I never would."
Harry bit his lip, feeling the weight of his own immaturity pressing down on him. "Well, it felt like you were. And I didn't like it. I got angry... and I lashed out. I'm sorry."
Hermione sighed, a soft sound of understanding escaping her lips. She reached out and gently placed her hand on his, squeezing it as if to reassure him. "I didn't know you felt like that," she whispered. "You could've just talked to me."
Harry shook his head, a small, bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, well... I wasn't exactly thinking straight."
"Clearly," Hermione teased, though her voice was warm, her eyes soft as she leaned her head against his shoulder.
They sat there in silence for a moment, the air between them heavy but no longer tense. The frustration that had hung over them for weeks seemed to dissolve in the cool afternoon breeze. Harry could feel the warmth of Hermione's breath against his neck, her closeness comforting in a way that he hadn't realized he'd missed.
"I'm going to confess something," Hermione said slowly, her voice quiet but laced with nervous energy. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her hands twisting together as if debating whether to go through with it. "But before I do, you have to promise me something."
Harry glanced at her, noticing the way her fingers twitched and her brow furrowed. His instincts told him this was going to be serious. He sat up a bit straighter, his green eyes locking onto hers. "What is it?"
Hermione bit her lip, then continued in a hushed tone, "Promise me you won't get angry right away. Let me finish before you judge or say anything."
Harry's muscles tensed at her words. What on earth could she be about to say? The suspense was enough to make his skin prickle, but he forced himself to relax, taking a deep breath. "Okay. I promise."
A sigh escaped Hermione, as if she had been holding her breath. "Do you know the Witch Weekly magazine?"
Harry blinked, caught completely off guard. He hadn't expected that. Out of all the possible confessions, Witch Weekly hadn't even crossed his mind. He tilted his head in confusion. "That trashy magazine? Yeah, I know it. Why?"
Hermione let out a small laugh, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Yes, that one."
Harry watched her closely, trying to piece together what she was getting at. His brows furrowed. "What about it?"
Hermione's smirk grew wider. "Do you know you're the number one most eligible bachelor in that magazine? For years now?"
Harry's face scrunched in irritation as soon as the words left her mouth. He groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Ugh, I know," he muttered, peeking at her through his fingers. "But don't believe any of that rubbish, Hermione. It's all just... I don't even know the right word for it."
He paused, something clicking in his mind. Slowly, he sat back up, narrowing his eyes at her. "Wait a minute." He pointed a finger accusingly at her. "Is that the real reason you were avoiding me for all that time? Did you read that magazine and think—" His voice grew darker. "Did someone say something to you? Because if anyone did, I swear I'll—"
"Stop!" Hermione cut him off sharply, her eyes narrowing in warning. "You promised you wouldn't get angry."
Harry clamped his mouth shut but clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles turning white. It was clear that his protective instinct had kicked in full force, but he held his tongue as she had asked.
Hermione watched him carefully, making sure he wouldn't explode before continuing. "No one said anything to me," she lied, though the words felt heavy on her tongue. "It's just... sometimes it feels absurd. The wizarding world is so different from what I'm used to. There's so much I don't know—noble houses, Muggle-born laws, all this political stuff that doesn't exist where I come from. I got... overwhelmed."
She paused, glancing at him to see his reaction. His shoulders had slumped slightly, and his expression softened. He wasn't angry anymore, just tired.
"I started hanging around with Ron and Draco more," Hermione explained. "Not because I was avoiding you, but because I was asking them questions. About politics, families, traditions—stuff you can't learn from books. I felt so out of place and I didn't want to burden you with all my questions, especially since you were so busy."
Harry let out a long sigh, wrapping his arms around his knees and hugging them to his chest.
"I knew you were rich and powerful, but betrothal contracts, Harry? Seriously? In this day and age?" Her voice carried a mix of disbelief and amusement, and Harry winced. He knew the topic of his future marriage was inevitable, but it was still something he hadn't quite figured out himself.
"Yeah, it's... complicated," he muttered. "But it's not as bad as it sounds. There are a few offers Sirius and I have considered, but at the end of the day, it's my decision. No one's going to force me into anything. I'm not exactly rushing into marriage, you know?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well, my mum would have a fit if she found out about all this. Contracts, alliances, pureblood traditions—it's like stepping into a world of medieval politics."
Harry looked down, guilt washing over him. He had always known his life was different, but hearing Hermione talk about it in such a detached way reminded him how overwhelming it could be for her. He never wanted her to feel like she didn't belong.
"Is that why you were worried?" Harry asked quietly, his voice laced with uncertainty. "Because of how people would think if they saw us together? How people might react if they saw the future Lord Potter, Heir to the House of Black, spending time with a Muggle-born like you?"
His words hung in the air, heavy with vulnerability. For the first time in a long while, Harry let his guard down completely, revealing a side of him that he rarely allowed anyone to see. His voice was tinged with sadness, as if he feared her answer.
Hermione glanced at him, startled by the raw emotion in his voice. "Harry..." she started, her heart aching. He wasn't the Boy Who Lived in this moment. He wasn't the future Lord Potter or some powerful wizard destined for greatness. He was just Harry, the boy she had gotten to know, her first real friend even before she found out she was a witch.
For a long moment, they sat in silence, the weight of his confession sinking in. She had never considered how her actions might have hurt him, how her curiosity and confusion had led him to believe that she saw him as something more than just Harry.
"No, Harry," she said softly, her tone gentle. "It's not about that. I wasn't avoiding you because of who you are or what people think. I just... I got lost, trying to figure out where I fit in all of this. I didn't know how to talk to you about it, so I took the easy way out. But I never meant to make you feel like I was pulling away from you."
Harry's gaze softened, though the sadness lingered in his eyes. "I don't want you to ever feel like you don't belong, Hermione," he whispered. "Not with me."
Hermione felt a lump form in her throat at his words. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
He shook his head, a weak smile tugging at his lips. "I get it now. I just wish you had told me sooner. You're important to me, you know? I didn't want to lose that."
Hermione hesitated for a moment before leaning forward, resting her head on his shoulder. "You won't," she whispered. "You'll never lose me, Harry."
They sat there in quiet companionship, the awkwardness fading away as they found solace in each other's presence. The tension slowly ebbed, leaving behind something more raw and unspoken, something neither of them quite understood yet but didn't need to.
"I want you to understand something, okay," Harry said, his voice carrying a quiet but firm intensity. His emerald eyes were fixed on Hermione, the seriousness in them contrasting the golden glow of the setting sun.
Hermione shifted in her place, feeling the weight of his gaze. She could sense something was coming, something that would change the tone of their friendship. She nodded silently, urging him to continue.
"I like you, Hermione," Harry began, his voice lowering a fraction as if admitting something he hadn't planned on. "You're my best friend, and you're different from Ron and Draco."
Hermione's heart skipped at the unexpected statement. She wasn't sure if it was the bluntness of his confession or the way he said it, but her pulse quickened, though she kept her face neutral. She didn't want to react too much too soon. Harry had a way of catching her off guard with words, but she could feel that this was important, more than the usual back-and-forth they had.
Harry continued, leaning back slightly, running a hand through his messy black hair, clearly organizing his thoughts. "Ron was a friend I was introduced to since our families are old allies. He's a bit of an idiot sometimes, but that's what makes him Ron. He's... well, a stupid kid, but we hit it off. I don't know, it just worked."
Hermione couldn't help but smile. That was Harry—always straightforward, never sugarcoating anything. She nodded, encouraging him to go on.
"And Draco," Harry added, his tone shifting slightly as he spoke of their Slytherin companion, "Draco is the son of Sirius's cousin. He was always at Sirius's house growing up, so we just... ended up closer. But even with Ron and Draco, even if we weren't friends, we'd still be bound by family ties. You know, old bloodlines and all that nonsense."
Hermione listened intently, noticing the slight edge in Harry's voice as he mentioned the "old bloodlines." She could tell he wasn't fond of the idea, of those invisible chains that seemed to come with being a Potter, with being part of an ancient family steeped in wizarding tradition. She didn't interrupt though, letting him get his thoughts out.
"But you," Harry said, his voice softening. He turned slightly toward her, making sure she met his eyes. "You're different. We became friends before I told you I was a wizard, and this was before you even knew you were a witch. You were my first real friend—"
Hermione's breath caught slightly at his words. First real friend. The phrase hung between them, heavy and full of meaning.
Harry's gaze softened even more, a rare vulnerability crossing his face as he smiled at her. "You saw me for me, not the Boy Who Lived or the future Lord Potter or whatever title they keep throwing at me. Just me."
She let out a soft laugh, not because it was funny but because it was such a Harry thing to say. He always had this way of bringing things back to the simple truth.
"And I will always be grateful for that, for having you in my life," he said earnestly. "I don't care what people say, Hermione. If they try to talk behind our backs or make up stories, it doesn't matter. At the end of the day, you're mine. You belong by my side, and there's nothing they can do about it."
Hermione froze, her heart hammering in her chest as the weight of his words settled in.
'You're mine.'
Those two words echoed in her mind, sending a ripple through her thoughts. She replayed them in her head, trying to process the way they made her feel, the way they struck deep in a place she hadn't quite been prepared for.
Harry didn't seem to notice her reaction as he continued, his tone growing sharper, almost angry. "I'm going to assume that someone must've told you that you should stay away from me, that they must've thought we were... betrothed or something because you're close to me. Or maybe they even said something about Draco. And they must've told you that that's not a good thing, that I should be with another pure-blood family or whatever."
His eyes flashed with indignation. "And to that, I say... to hell with that!"
Hermione blinked, slightly taken aback by the sudden intensity in his voice.
"My dad married my mum without a second thought about what anyone else thought," Harry said fiercely. "And I'll do the same. I'm going to choose who I want to be with, make friends with who I want, and no one—no stupid pure-blood tradition or political rubbish—is going to stop me. I'm rich and powerful enough to do what I want."
Hermione was caught in a whirlwind of emotions, barely able to keep up with the rollercoaster of feelings Harry's words were dragging her through. His declaration was so... bold, so unfiltered. It was like he had been holding all of this in for so long, and now he was finally letting it out.
But at the same time, her mind was still clinging to that earlier statement:
'You're mine.'
She didn't know why it affected her so much, but it did. It wasn't like Harry had never been protective of her before, but this was... different.
"Now that we've talked about this," Harry said, his tone lightening a little, though still carrying that edge, "I should buy Witch Weekly and burn it to the ground."
He was pacing now, restless, his eyes darting around as if planning his next move. "Yeah, I should definitely do that. Remind me to send an owl to Sirius. I'm going to ask for that for my birthday this year."
Hermione couldn't help but laugh at that, the absurdity of it pulling her out of the emotional haze she was in. Harry had a way of breaking the tension in the most unexpected ways.
Harry stood up then, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes as he held his hand out to her. "Well? Let's go."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, slipping her hand into his, feeling the familiar warmth of his touch. "Go where?"
"Where else?" Harry smirked, his eyes dancing with amusement. "I just won the Quidditch Cup, and it would be rude not to attend my own victory party."
Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the smile creeping onto her face. Typical Harry—going from intense, heartfelt confessions to playful arrogance in the span of minutes. It was one of the many things she both admired and found maddening about him.
xxxxx
Harry and Hermione stepped into the Gryffindor common room, the remnants of a lively celebration still echoing in the air. The room was a riot of colors and noise, with Gryffindors of all ages scattered around, engaged in various games, chatting loudly, and nursing their drinks. Streamers of red and gold hung from the ceiling, flickering in the glow of the fireplace, and remnants of half-eaten food were scattered across tables. Harry's eyes swept over the scene, but what truly caught both his and Hermione's attention was an unexpected sight.
Professor McGonagall—severe, strict Professor McGonagall—was seated comfortably in an armchair, butterbeer in hand, laughing softly with some of the older students. The sight of her joining in on the celebration felt almost surreal. Hermione's jaw dropped slightly, and Harry had to suppress a snort of laughter.
Before they could fully process it, McGonagall spotted them and stood up with surprising grace for her age. She moved towards Harry with a warmth that was rarely seen outside of a Quidditch match.
"Harry Potter!" she said, voice brimming with pride. Without hesitation, she pulled him into a tight hug, which shocked him just as much as it did Hermione. "I cannot express how proud I am of you, dear boy. Your performance this year... it was outstanding! Your parents—oh, your parents would be so proud."
Harry's throat tightened at the mention of his parents. "Thank you, Professor," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
McGonagall gave him one last squeeze before stepping back, her sharp eyes gleaming behind her spectacles. "Now go on, enjoy yourself. You've earned it," she added with a rare, soft smile before turning back to her butterbeer and the older students.
Hermione shot Harry a meaningful glance. "What the hell was that?" she whispered as they waded deeper into the room.
"I've learned not to ask," Harry smirked.
After making their way through the crowd, they found Ron waiting for them near the snack table, a plate stacked high with sweets and finger foods in his hands. His face lit up when he saw them together, and without hesitation, he grabbed them both by the arms, pulling them into a quieter corner.
"Finally! You two have made up," Ron grinned, eyes glinting mischievously. "For a moment there, I thought we'd have a full-blown duel on our hands."
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, leaning closer to add, "So, did you kiss and make up?"
Harry groaned, rolling his eyes. "Ron, you're an idiot," he muttered, but there was no real anger in his voice. He playfully punched Ron on the arm.
Hermione, however, wasn't as subtle. She gave Ron a solid punch to the shoulder. "Honestly, Ronald, do you ever think before you speak?"
"Ouch! All right, all right!" Ron rubbed his shoulder, though he was grinning. "I'm just glad you two are back to normal. It was weird seeing you both all… tense."
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, both recalling the argument that had left them fuming ages ago. There was an unspoken understanding between them now, one that neither was quite ready to voice aloud.
Ron soon got distracted by the Weasley twins who were setting up some sort of game with firecrackers and a floating chair charm, so he left Harry and Hermione alone. They found an empty sofa by the fireplace, and the two of them sat down, watching the rest of the common room continue their celebration.
Hermione nudged Harry lightly with her shoulder. "So... how was that for our first fight?" she teased, her voice lilting playfully.
Harry groaned again, running a hand through his messy hair. "Oh, bloody Merlin, no more fights, please. That was exhausting." He turned to face her, his green eyes locking onto hers. "I'm serious, Hermione. That was our first and last one. I'd go mad if we did that on a regular basis."
Hermione chuckled, her laugh soft but full of amusement. "Oh, Harry, we're best friends. We're bound to fight at some point." She gave him a pointed look, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "It doesn't help that, as brilliant as you are, you can be an absolute prat sometimes."
Harry stuck his tongue out at her like a child, and Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically. "See? Immature," she huffed, but there was a fondness in her voice.
"But I'm serious," Harry continued, his tone shifting slightly, becoming more earnest. "No more of this silent treatment or avoiding each other. If we fight, we fix it. I can't stand you ignoring me. It felt... wrong."
Hermione's smile softened. "It felt wrong for me too," she admitted quietly. "So how about next time, instead of storming off, you actually talk to me? Use your words. We're both smart enough to figure things out."
Harry mumbled something incoherent under his breath, and Hermione tilted her head. "What was that?"
"Nothing," Harry grumbled, crossing his arms but glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
Hermione shook her head, a smile still on her face. She could sense his embarrassment, and as much as she wanted to tease him about it, she let it go. They had just made up, after all, and she wasn't about to push her luck. Instead, she leaned back against the sofa, her eyes scanning the room, watching the other Gryffindors laughing and celebrating.
Harry, too, relaxed beside her, though his mind lingered on the fight they had. He hated how out of control he'd felt, how quickly things had spiraled. It had left him uneasy, like a part of him had slipped out of his grasp. And yet, sitting here now with Hermione by his side, the weight of that unease began to lift.