Chapter Text
Harry Potter stared down at his essay like it had personally wronged him. Which, in a way, it had. The parchment was a mess. There was ink scratched out, sentences half-finished, and arrows pointing to rewritten lines that somehow made even less sense than the originals. His current paragraph directly contradicted the one above it, and if Professor Snape noticed, which he would, Harry was fairly certain he’d lose points just for the audacity of turning it in.
He dragged a hand through his hair and slumped further over the table in the library.
Potions was dreadfully boring. If his mum ever heard him say that out loud, it would probably result in immediate disownment.
Harry huffed quietly to himself. Lily Potter, renowned for her work in advanced potion refinement and someone who actually enjoyed discussing viscosity and magical stability over dinner, would not appreciate his current struggle. Especially considering she was not only brilliant at it, but also, rather inconveniently, friends with Professor Snape. Professor Snape. Not Snape. Not that greasy git Sirius insists on calling the “bat king of the dungeons.”
Harry snorted faintly at the memory.
Sirius had said it at dinner over the summer after his first year, completely unprovoked, and had been immediately hexed by Mum—nothing serious, just enough to shut him up, followed by a very unimpressed look from Dad.
“Honestly, Pads,” James had said, shaking his head. “You’re a grown man.”
“Debatable,” Sirius had replied.
Harry smiled faintly, then sighed again, glancing back at his essay.
He was supposed to be writing about the theoretical instability of ingredient sequencing in multi-phase potions, particularly how introducing volatile components too early could disrupt the binding properties of a stabilizing base. Or something like that? He hadn’t been paying enough attention. Now he was paying for it.
“Brilliant,” he muttered under his breath, flipping back to the beginning of the chapter for what had to be the fifth time. “Absolutely brilliant, Potter. Maybe if you stare at it long enough it’ll start making sense.”
It didn’t.
He had just reached the same confusing passage about catalytic interactions when—
Thunk.
Harry blinked.
Someone had dropped a stack of books rather decisively onto the table beside him. He looked up. Hermione Granger had just sat down. Up close, she was somehow even more Hermione Granger than usual. Her hair a halo of wild curls that seemed to have a life of their own, her Ravenclaw robes neat but slightly rumpled at the sleeves like she’d been pushing them up while reading. A blue-and-bronze tie sat perfectly in place, and there were already ink smudges on her fingers. She didn’t look at him at first. She was already pulling out parchment, quill poised, eyes sharp and focused. Studious and entirely in her element.
Harry knew who she was, of course everyone did. Hermione Granger, the Ravenclaw who always had her hand up, always had the answer, and occasionally corrected the professors..politely, but still.
She was—Well, smart. Very smart. Sometimes a bit too smart, if you asked half of Gryffindor. But Harry didn’t usually mind. Someone had to answer the questions he couldn’t be bothered to. And, if he was being honest, she’d never been particularly annoying about it with him. His mum had said something once about Muggle-born students, about how hard it could be to step into a world you hadn’t grown up in.
“They feel like they have something to prove,” she’d told him. “So when you see someone working twice as hard, Harry, don’t roll your eyes at them. Respect it.”
And Harry had. To him, Hermione Granger had proven herself plenty.
They’d worked together a few times in class but aside from forced partnership had never interacted. Which made her choice of seating all the more confusing. And why it was slightly alarming, even, when, without a word, she reached over and picked up his essay.
“Hey—” Harry started.
Hermione’s brow furrowed almost immediately.
“This doesn’t make sense,” she said.
Harry blinked.
“I—what?”
“You’ve contradicted your own argument,” she went on, scanning the parchment. “Here you say that adding a volatile component early destabilizes the potion, but then in the next paragraph you suggest it strengthens the reaction.”
Harry felt his irritation spike. That renowned Potter anger rearing its ugly head.
“I know what I wrote,” he said, a bit sharper than he meant to.
Hermione paused then looked at him. Properly this time.
“I’m just pointing out the inconsistency,” she said, not unkindly, but not exactly gently, either.
“I didn’t ask for help,” Harry snapped.
The words came out faster than he intended. Hermione stilled, and for a moment, neither of them said anything.
Then, subtle, but unmistakable, her shoulders dropped.
“You’re right,” she said quietly.
And just like that, Harry felt like a complete git. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair again. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly, placing the essay back down as if it were on fire. “I know I can be…a bit much.”
Harry frowned.
“That’s not—”
“I wasn’t trying to be a know-it-all,” she added, a little more carefully now. “I just thought…well.”
She hesitated. Harry waited. Hermione glanced at him, then away again.
“You helped me last week,” she said.
Harry stared.
“With Malfoy,” she clarified. “When he was—well…”
Oh. Right. Malfoy had been particularly insufferable that day, something about blood status and “knowing your place.” Harry had told him, in no uncertain terms, to shut the hell up. He hadn’t thought much of it afterward.
“I just thought I could return the favor,” Hermione finished, quieter now.
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, guilt settling uncomfortably in his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I just—”
He gestured vaguely at the disaster of an essay.
“I don’t understand any of this, and it’s rather embarrassing to be called out on it.”
Hermione looked at him again. This time, there was something a bit softer in her expression.
“Well,” she said, a touch more cautiously, “you’ve misunderstood the core theory.”
Harry huffed a laugh. “Brilliant.”
“But it’s fixable,” she added quickly. “You’re just applying the principle incorrectly.”
Harry eyed her. “That’s supposed to make me feel better, is it?”
Hermione hesitated, then, unexpectedly, smiled just a little.
“It means you’re not completely hopeless. You just need to be pointed in the right direction.”
Harry snorted.
“How comforting.”
She shifted her books slightly closer. “If you’d like, I could—explain it?”
Harry looked at his essay. Then at her. Then back at his essay. His pride finally losing out to his need to pass.
“Yes please,” he said.
Hermione’s smile grew, just a fraction.
“Alright,” she said, pulling the parchment toward them both. “You’ve got the right idea about instability but the issue is when the instability occurs.”
Harry leaned in, following as she pointed to a line he’d written. As she started explaining, something strange happened. It actually started to make sense.
“Well, that’s annoying,” Harry muttered a few minutes in to her lecture.
Hermione glanced at him. “What is?”
“You,” he said. “Being right.”
She huffed a quiet laugh, clearly trying not to.
“Focus,” she said, though there was now a hint of amusement in her voice now.
They worked like that for a while, Hermione explaining while Harry asked questions, some more coherent than others. The essay slowly transformed from a disaster into something that might actually pass. At some point, Harry realized he wasn’t just tolerating their encounter. He was enjoying it. Which felt…new.
“You know,” he said after a while, leaning back slightly, “if I fail this essay, my mum’s going to send a Howler.”
Hermione winced. “That bad?”
“You’ve no idea,” Harry said. “She once lectured me for thirty minutes because I called potions ‘boring.’”
Hermione gasped, mock-horrified. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
Harry grinned. “Luckier than a niffler in a Gringott’s vault.”
She shook her head, smiling.
“It’s not just potions,” he added. “History of Magic—I’m absolutely bollocks at that too.”
Hermione brightened immediately. “Oh, I love History of Magic.”
“Of course you do,” Harry said.
“I could help you study,” she offered.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’re volunteering?”
She hesitated—just slightly.
“On one condition.”
Harry leaned forward, interested. “Go on.”
“You help me with Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
Harry blinked.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” she said. “You’re very good at it. And not just because the professor is your pseudo uncle.”
Harry shrugged. “It’s just—reaction.”
“It’s not just that,” Hermione said. “You actually apply what you learn. You don’t just memorize it. You know what spell to use and when, you’re creative and can think on your feet. Good under pressure and all that.”
Harry considered that.
“Defense is about doing, not just thinking,” he said slowly. “You can read all you want, but if you can’t do it—”
Hermione nodded. “Exactly. And I’m not very good at that part.”
Harry tilted his head, studying her.
“Alright,” he said. “Deal. You help me with these dreadfully boring subjects—“
Hermione flinched and Harry smirked at her. “And I’ll help you learn how to feel instead of how to overthink.”
Hermione smiled, properly this time.
“Alright.”
Harry leaned towards her, glancing around the library before whispering conspiratorially.
“Besides,” he added, “Ron and Neville are rubbish to study with.”
Hermione laughed softly. “Studying with Ravenclaws isn’t much better. It turns into a competition.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
There was a small pause, a comfortable one.
“So, same table tomorrow?” Hermione asked.
Harry smiled.
“See you then.”