Chapter Text
Harry Potter’s POV
Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom heaved Hermione Granger’s admittedly heavy school trunk off the train and dropped it into a luggage trolley with a loud thud. Ron Weasley trailed after them with his own trunk, scowling at Hermione’s like it was covered in dragon dung.
“Thank you, boys! Sorry—my trunk’s gotten a bit heavier by the end of the year.”
Harry chuckled and shook his head. He recalled Hermione receiving a new book by owl every week from her parents or Flourish and Blotts. He honestly didn’t know how she’d managed to fit them all into one trunk.
“You’re welcome, Hermione,” Neville murmured bashfully.
“Blimey, Hermione,” Ron said, “you’re going to kill someone with all this unnecessary junk. What would you have done if these two had said no to helping you?”
“Like you did?” Hermione shot back. “It’s a good thing Harry and Neville are gentlemen.” She beamed proudly at the two boys.
“Anyway,” she continued, “my parents are waiting outside the barrier and really want to meet my friends. You’re all still willing to say hi?”
“We have to go to the Muggle side and talk to Muggles?” Ron whined. Before Hermione could respond—
“Ron! Percy! Let’s go—we need to meet Aunt Muriel!” Molly Weasley’s loud voice cut through the platform. Several witches and wizards turned to look. She bustled over. “Oh, Harry dear! So good to see you. We must have you over this summer. Ron and Ginny would love it.”
Startled by Mrs. Weasley’s volume and the sudden attention she drew, Harry managed only a faint, “Uh…right. I don’t know if my aunt and uncle will let me, but I’ll check.”
“Lovely. Come on, Ron!” She hurried off with her gaggle of redheaded children toward the fireplaces that lined the back wall of the platform.
Hermione watched them go, then glanced at Harry and Neville. “Are you two still up for meeting my parents?” she asked with a sigh.
“Of course,” Harry said. Neville nodded. “Let me tell my Gran first.” He guided them to a tall, regal woman with steel-grey hair in a severe bun, scarlet dress robes, a green handbag, and the infamous vulture hat.
Augusta Longbottom surveyed the three children with mild interest until Neville stepped forward. “Gran, I’d like you to meet my friends Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.”
“Nice to meet you, Lady Longbottom,” Hermione said, offering a small, elegant curtsy. Harry quickly bowed awkwardly, fists stiff at his sides.
Lady Longbottom raised her brows. “Likewise. I’m glad Neville made some companions this year. Both Gryffindor?”
They nodded.
“Gran,” Neville continued, “Hermione’s parents have asked to meet us. They’re Muggles, so we would have to go through the barrier. May I greet them for a few minutes?” Harry noticed Neville sounded oddly formal.
“Well, if they’ve requested an introduction, we cannot dismiss that,” Lady Longbottom said. “Etiquette demands we meet them. I will accompany you. Lead the way.”
Hermione took her trolley and nudged Harry to follow. Neville and Lady Longbottom fell into step behind them.
The moment they passed through the barrier, Hermione squealed, “Mum! Dad!” and hurried toward a couple who could only be her parents.
Harry stopped short. They were—well—beautiful. The sort of people Aunt Petunia watched on telly and sighed over.
Hermione’s mother looked to be of Southeast Asian descent, and impossibly elegant. Her dark hair fell in soft waves down her back, threaded with subtle caramel highlights that caught the light when she moved. Curtain bangs framed her face just enough to soften her sharp cheekbones. Her skin was luminous, porcelain-pale with warmth beneath it, and her grey eyes were calm, observant—taking everything in without seeming to judge.
She wore a soft, sleeveless white blouse tucked neatly into a flowing midi skirt in a warm beige tone, the fabric moving lightly when she shifted her weight. The skirt fell below her knees with an easy drape—refined without being stiff, feminine without trying too hard. Layered over it was a tailored, sleeveless long vest in a slightly deeper camel shade, cut cleanly through the shoulders and left open so it framed her silhouette rather than constraining it. The lines were sharp, deliberate, and quietly expensive. Simple nude heels elongated her stance, practical enough to walk in, elegant enough to command attention without asking for it. Everything fit her as if it had been made for her alone.
Hermione’s father was Caucasian—tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders and an easy confidence that made him seem larger than he already was. His brown hair fell in loose waves, slightly unruly, and his light brown eyes were sharp but amused, like he was always half a step ahead of whatever was happening.
He wore a lightweight linen shirt in a soft sand color, the collar open at the throat and the sleeves rolled casually to his forearms. The fabric moved easily with him, relaxed but deliberate. Crisp white trousers sat neatly at his hips, tailored without being tight, clean-lined and understated. The contrast between the pale fabric and his sun-warmed skin made the look feel quietly striking rather than showy. Everything about him read intentional but unforced, like he’d dressed for comfort and somehow ended up impeccable anyway. It was the kind of look Harry had only ever seen on actors in films Uncle Vernon scoffed at.
These were Hermione’s parents?
“Princess!” her father called, jogging forward and scooping Hermione up. She laughed as he spun her around. Her mother approached more gracefully, smiling warmly.
A sharp ache pierced Harry’s chest at the sight. He wasn’t used to this sort of affection.
After hugging her parents, Hermione turned back. “Mum, Dad, these are my best friends from school—Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom. And this is Neville’s grandmother, Lady Longbottom. Everyone, these are my parents, Drs. Richard and Ophelia Granger.”
Ophelia Granger extended a hand to Neville first. “A pleasure to meet you, Neville. Thank you for being so kind to Hermione this year.”
Neville stared, spellbound, until Lady Longbottom tapped him sharply with her cane. He jolted, then shook Mrs. Granger’s hand, followed by Mr. Granger’s, who smirked knowingly.
“Did you enjoy the French pâtisseries I sent?” Mrs. Granger asked.
Neville cleared his throat. “Yes, they were delicious. Thank you for the gift.” He looked to his grandmother. “Mrs. Granger sent Hermione and her friends some treats this year.”
“My mum loves sending presents throughout the year,” Hermione added cheerfully.
“You should have told me,” Lady Longbottom scolded. “It’s only polite that we reciprocate. We will need to correct this.”
“It’s quite all right,” Mrs. Granger assured. “There is no need to feel obligated to do anything in return. It was simply a thank-you. With our daughter away for most of the year in another world, we worry more than usual. Hearing how kindly she was received meant a great deal to us. Neville is welcome at our home anytime. In fact, we’d love to host the two of you one day.”
Harry could see Lady Longbottom teeter between annoyance and pride for Neville before pride finally won.
“Yes. Our family has always been taught to treat all magicals equally, regardless of parentage.”
Mr. and Mrs. Granger exchanged a small unreadable look.
“Thank you for the invitation, Madam Granger,” Lady Longbottom said stiffly. “We’ll check our schedule. Neville, we must go. Say goodbye.”
Hermione hugged Neville, making him flush crimson. “Goodbye, Neville. I hope I’ll see you this summer.”
“Bye, mate,” Harry added. Neville waved and hurried after his grandmother.
“Well,” Mr. Granger said with a laugh, “that was an experience.”
“Very,” Mrs. Granger agreed, then turned to Harry with a smile so dazzling it made sense why Neville had frozen earlier. “We’re so happy to meet you, Harry. Hermione mentions you often in her letters.”
“Mum!” Hermione groaned, cheeks pink. Harry grinned; seeing Hermione flustered was a rare treat.
“Did you get our treats as well?” Mrs. Granger asked.
Harry remembered the raspberry pâtisserie. “It was the best dessert I’ve ever had.” And he meant it. He liked it even more than the treacle tart. She beamed.
“We’ll send more, then! And you’re welcome at our home anytime. Since you’re in the non-magical world too, it might be easier for you to come visit.”
“Er—yes. I live with my aunt and uncle. They’re non-magical as well.”
“Will they be picking you up?” Mr. Granger asked as he steered Hermione’s trolley toward the parking area.
“They should be,” Harry said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
Mr. Granger stopped in front of an Aston Martin. Harry recognized it from television—James Bond’s car. Uncle Vernon claimed only “real men” drove Aston Martins. He also claimed the money he spent on Harry was the sole reason he couldn’t buy one.
As if the £15 a year was the only thing stopping him.
A horn blared. Harry turned to see the Dursleys’ battered Ford Escort pulling up beside the luxury car.
“Get in the car, boy! We don’t have all day for your sorry arse!” Uncle Vernon barked.
Aunt Petunia, noticing the Grangers watching, hissed something to Vernon. Harry could practically see them comparing clothes and cars—their envy and disgust mingling in their eyes. The Grangers embodied everything the Dursleys pretended to be.
Meanwhile, Dudley sat in the backseat of the car, taking up two spots with his large stature, playing with a handheld game, and seemed to be oblivious to his surroundings.
Mrs. Granger froze, shocked at the scene. Mr. Granger stepped forward, composed but imposing.
“You must be Harry’s aunt and uncle,” he said politely. “I’m Richard Granger. This is my wife, Ophelia, and our daughter, Hermione. We were just about to get dinner in the city. We’d be happy to take Harry along and drop him off afterward.”
“We don’t want anything to do with freaks or foreigners,” Vernon spat.
Harry’s stomach dropped. Of course.
Mr. Granger’s eyes sharpened. His jaw tightened. “I beg your pardon? Care to repeat that?”
Harry panicked. The last thing he wanted was the Grangers dragged into his relatives’ toxic world.
“I—I should get home,” he said quickly. “I can’t join you for dinner, but thank you.” He struggled to lift his trunk into the Ford.
“Let me,” Mr. Granger said, lifting it effortlessly and placing it inside.
Before Harry could climb in, Mrs. Granger approached with a small notepad. “May you write down your address and phone number so Hermione can keep in touch?”
Harry glanced at his aunt and uncle. They were still distracted by the luxury car. He scribbled down his information and handed it back.
Hermione rushed forward and hugged him tightly. “I’ll write you every day,” she whispered in his ear.
Another furious honk made them both jump.
“HURRY UP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU USELESS BRAT!”
Harry scrambled into the backseat beside Dudley, Hedwig’s cage balanced on his lap. As the car pulled away, he caught one last glimpse of Hermione waving before they turned the corner.