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Hermione swooped in a slow, easy gyre, savoring her last moments of flight before she had to get back to schoolwork and studying. At least with Quidditch cancelled this year the throngs of fans were thin on the ground. She grunted as her boots hit the ground; like second nature, her broom tucked up under her arm. “How’d I do?” she called to Harry, already on the ground. Finding her bag, she tugged on her jacket; the night suddenly felt much cooler without the adrenaline of flight in her veins.
“You looked good; you always do.” Harry said with a grin. “And, uh, you dropped this?” He offered her a folded sheet of parchment.
She raised an eyebrow at the mysterious note, reading it once: “You fly beautifully; you have the grace of a dancer. It makes me want to cheer, just watching you.” Then she read it again just to savor the penmanship--immediately eliminating Harry and Ron.
Still, she squinted over at Harry, who was packing up his own things after their impromptu one-on-one, and seemed to have paid no more mind to the ...love note (?!) than if she had dropped her spare quill. A sudden thought struck her. “Harry? Do you recognize the handwriting on this?” The vow of secrecy that underpinned their friendship went unspoken.
Harry looked it over and shrugged. “No, but if you want me to find out?..” She shook her head. “Anyway, that probably rules out most of the Gryffindors within a year of us, and most of the boys that we have double sessions with, that being who I’ve done most of my group projects with.”
Hermione sighed. Just what she needed: a stalker. Although...something about the tone of those few lines suggested something genuinely appreciative.
***
She didn’t have to wait long for another message. The next night, she woke up from a cram session in the library to find the book she had been using closed, set aside, and bookmarked with a scrap of parchment. It read: “You have excellent taste in source material. I would love to hear your thoughts on the Werewolf Riots of 1602-3.”
Hermione’s eyes flitted around as though searching for an incoming Bludger. She did spot two familiar faces. “Ginny,” she hissed as loudly as she dared under Madam Pince’s watch. The redhead towed Luna along in her wake.
“What’s up, Hermione?” She waggled an orange eyebrow. “Want to join us?”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ginny, you are like a sister to me. Please neither confirm nor deny what your plans are for Ms. Lovegood.” The redhead shrugged her agreement. [“Mostly kissing, I think,” Luna blurted out before she could quite finish.] “Do you recognize the handwriting on this note?”
“Well, whoever it is, they’re very sweet. But I can safely tell you that the writer is not one of the many queer girls here at Hogwarts.” [“Ginny!” “Not all of them from personal experience!”]
Luna tapped her chin thoughtfully. “It occurs to me that the Werewolf Riots were primarily a Continental affair; specifically, Eastern Europe. Britain, of course, was consumed by the Great Kneazle Craze at the time.”
“Luna, that’s brilliant!” Hermione practically jumped out of her seat with excitement--
--knocking her folded jacket from where it had been folded for her as a pillow. Hmm. Whoever her admirer was, they were certainly thoughtful. With a rush of giggles from the younger girls, she was alone with her speculations. At least now she had a concrete lead.
***
A solid week of investigation (and three more rather touching notes) later, Hermione had her man. Easy does it, she told herself. Just like on the pitch. Grab the Quaffle, juke the Keeper, score the goal. She tugged on her uniform jacket, leaving it open over a thin t-shirt. “Hey,” she called, reaching out to grab an unsuspecting Viktor Krum by the arm.
“I can defend myself!” he shouted in reply, spinning around, armful of books going everywhere. The sight would have been comic if it hadn’t plowed straight into tragic. The boy had what most people saw on Harry as his ‘Seeker’s build’ or what she saw as proof of his neglect and malnourishment.
“Look, did you write these?” She asked, producing the notes. His wide-eyed stammer told her everything she needed to know. “It’s okay, I… Fuck. I thought they were kind of sweet.”
He blinked. “Y-you did?”
“Yeah.” She bent to pick up his dropped things.
“You don’t have to do that,” he rushed to say, kneeling beside her.
“I did make you drop them,” Hermione reminded him.
“I was clumsy,” he insisted before quailing and looking away. “And you are a little intimidating.”
“Sorry.” They worked in silence until Viktor’s bag was full once more. “Maybe, uh, next time, just talk to the girl in question?”
“How am I to do that when the girl in question is as famous and talented as you?” He replied. “Anything I would say would sound like a foolish fanboy. In writing…” He blushed. “In writing I am more fluent.”
“Tell you what,” Hermione offered. “How about we split for Hogsmeade and you buy me a Butterbeer?”
If possible, Viktor blushed even more deeply. “I would like that very much.”
Hermione grinned. “Me too.”