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Harry shoved through the front doors of the library, a small tome under one arm. If he explained his situation to the university librarian, maybe she wouldn’t charge him an entire month’s worth of late fees. Thankfully the old lady was a bit sweet on him. Besides, he couldn’t help that his godson was just as good at hiding things as he was at finding them.
As he approached the librarian’s desk, a pair whispers ripped through the silence.
“I’m sorry Miss Granger, it still hasn’t been returned,” the librarian said.
“ Still ?” asked a shrill, unfamiliar voice. “I’ve had it on hold for six weeks! Who needs a storybook that long?”
“I’m sorry, there’s really nothing I can do here.”
“It’s required reading for one of my courses this fall, and the university bookstore won’t be stocking it for at least another week!”
Harry rounded the corner in time to see the old librarian chuckled quietly. “Miss Granger, the term doesn’t start for another month.”
“I’m aware of that,” the young woman in front of her said. “I like to read through my coursebooks at least twice before classes begin.”
The librarian shook her head, failing to hide her smile. “As much as I can appreciate that, Miss Granger, I’m afraid—” The old woman finally glanced in Harry’s direction and threw her hands up in surprise. “I take that back. I believe Mr. Potter is returning your book as we speak.”
The young woman whipped around to face him. Her eyes shone with indignation, and the way her temper flared exacerbated the wildness of her brown curls. Harry had never seen someone look so beautiful yet so ticked off.
“You!” she hissed. “You had my book?”
Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes; pretty or not, this girl’s attitude was beginning to grate on his nerves. “I could say that I didn’t see your name on it, but that would be immature.” He turned to address the librarian. “I apologize, Miranda. It won’t happen again.”
“Why on earth did you need a reproduction of an early nineteenth century storybook?” the young woman pressed, her voice still laced with annoyance. “You don’t look like the type to read fairytales, and you certainly don’t look like a student of historic literature.”
His eyes flicked from her tweed skirt, Oxford shoes, and cardigan to his leather jacket and worn out trainers. She wasn't wrong, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that. “Maybe I am, for all you know.”
“But you can’t be,” she said with a frown. “I work in the dean’s office, and just last week I sorted files for every English Language and Literature major. I never saw anyone with the last name Potter.”
“You’re positive that I’m not in your major just because you don’t remember my name from a list of hundreds of students?” Harry arched an eyebrow at her. “I’m really supposed to believe that?”
The young woman’s chin jutted upward. “I have a very good memory.”
Despite her defiant attitude, there was something in her gaze that told Harry she wasn’t looking to prove him wrong or tear him down. She had the look of someone searching for the truth of a situation. As someone whose own life was riddled with mysteries—Who killed his parents? Were those people still after him? Why had his own godfather been framed for it?—it was a goal Harry could understand.
“You’re right,” he finally sighed. “I don’t care anything for fairytales or historic books. My godson, however, is a massive fan. Of fairytales, that is. He stayed with me this weekend, and he wanted a new book of bedtime stories. It also happens that he’s very good at hiding small books behind the pizza boxes in my refrigerator.”
The librarian chuckled as she took the book from him. “I reckoned it was something like that. Don’t worry about the fees, I’ll take care of it. Tell Teddy I said hello!”
“Will do. Thanks, Miranda!”
He waved goodbye to the kindly librarian, sparing a nod for the young woman as he turned on his heel and dashed out the door. He was nearly half a block away when a now-familiar sliced through the warm afternoon.
“Wait! Just—hold on a moment!”
He turned around in time to catch a ball of wild brown curls as it barreled into his chest, knocking the breath from him.
The young woman collected herself and took a step back. “I’m so sorry about that. I just… I wanted to catch you before you left. To apologize. I made an assumption and insulted you, and then I got all swotty and pushy and made you uncomfortable, which I shouldn’t have done. But I, um, I think it’s really sweet that you take the time to read to your godson. I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat for doing something that introduces anyone to the world of books, and—oh God, I’m rambling now, aren’t I? Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry, so…” She chewed her lip and finally met his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
Harry studied her for a moment. Her recent irritation was long gone, replaced by seemingly genuine remorse. He appreciated someone that could speak their mind and apologize when they were wrong.
“It’s alright,” he said. “My godson’s father can be the same way about his books.”
A small smile graced her lips, and she looked lovingly at the book in her arms. “Well, it’s good to know there are more of us out there. So I’ll, um, I’ll let you go then. Have a nice day.”
As she began walking back toward the library, Harry did something characteristically impulsive.
“Wait!”
The girl turned around and raised her eyebrows as he jogged to catch up with her.
“I really do appreciate your apology,” he said, “but if you really want to make it up to me, maybe I could take you out for a cup of coffee?”
A look of shock followed by delight darted across the girl’s face. “Really? You want to take me out?”
Harry nodded, beaming. “Of course. Are you free—” he glanced down at his watch — “well, right now?”
The girl chewed her lip thoughtfully, and he could almost see the gears moving in her mind. After a moment, she looked back at him with excitement. “Yes, I’m actually free all afternoon.”
“Brilliant,” he replied. “I know of a great little place just a couple blocks away.” He offered her his arm. “Though, call me old-fashioned, I’d like to know your name first.”
“I’m Hermione Granger,” she told him, slipping her hand around his elbow. “And you are?”
He looked over at her grinned. “I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”