Chapter Text
Hermione was hot, and she knew it.
It wasn’t only her soft features, or her enviably dazzling hair. It was the sure steps with which she swayed through the hallways, and that intense look she commanded. Her way of speaking her mind knowing that people would swoon over it, no matter the words that came out of her mouth. The name helped, but confidence made the real difference; she had a magnetic pull that no other sixth-year girl could match—nor anyone else in the whole of Hogwarts, moreover. Whenever she entered a room, people would turn their heads and just stop whatever they were doing. While the girls pulled her aside after class to ask for advice on beauty charms—of which she actually needed little—the boys were far less subtle. They liked to act aloof, of course, but they were as easy to read as a magazine's headline. She took pity on them, pretending not to notice. Still, whenever she tucked one of her perfect curls behind her ear and caught one of them staring, a knowing smile would escape her.
Hermione hadn’t asked for her gifts, but it would be a total lie to say she didn’t enjoy the attention.
“Honestly, Hermione, the silver frosted liner with pixie dust?” Lumi murmured, leaning closer to the steam-fogged mirror as she scrubbed off her own smudged makeup. “So typical of a seventies girl.”
Hermione didn’t look away from her own reflection. She calmly passed her wand over, making the makeup vanish. Once done, she splashed her face at the basin, patted it dry, and finally turned to her friend.
“Technically, I am a seventies girl,” Hermione replied, an effortless smile playing at the corner of her lips. “And besides, it doesn‘t matter if the style is common. On me, it shines.”
From a chair on the opposite side of the room, Eloise rolled her eyes. She was browsing through the morning’s edition of the Daily Prophet, treating the parchment like a novel while they unwound from the day.
“When will you give up on that? No one else reads it. The paper is so slow and old-fashioned,” Hermione said, running her fingers through her hair to ensure every lock sat perfectly in place.
“It’s vintage,” Eloise said without even looking up.
Lumi huffed. “Not even my grandfather reads that rubbish anymore. The pictures barely even twitch.”
Hermione shrugged and made her way out of the bathroom. Considering the rain that had befallen all week, she’d been more than happy to retreat upstairs early, trading her robes for comfortable clothes and an evening of trading gossip.
The peace lasted only until Lumi snatched the Prophet right out of Eloise‘s hands.
“Hey!”
“Look, it’s Squinny Ginny,” Lumi announced, entirely ignoring Eloise‘s complaints as she thrust the sports section toward Hermione. On the front page, a middle-aged woman was grinning widely for the moving photographs. “Or should I say Skinny Ginny?”
Hermione frowned. Obviously, decades had passed since the woman on the parchment last played professional Quidditch and she was well past her prime, but that didn’t mean Lumi should be making fun of her chubbier frame.
“Can you cut it out?”
“What? You’ve laughed about it before.”
That was completely beside the point.
“Just not in the mood for childish jokes, alright?”
It was true she’d made the occasional comment about how older people let themselves go—and she fully intended to stay in shape forever—but hearing her friends mock one of the kindest women she knew left a sour taste in her mouth. Even if Aunt Ginny would probably be the very first person to crack a joke about her own reflection.
Eloise raised an eyebrow at Hermione. “She’s coaching the Kenmare Kestrels. Did you know?”
Hermione nodded. It had quickly made the rounds in the family.
“Is she any good?” Lumi asked.
“She’s a tad better coach than she was as a player, or so I’ve heard.”
Which wasn‘t saying much. Aunt Ginny had barely made the cut as a professional player—some even whispered it was entirely due to her last name—but Hermione knew she actually had a head for coaching.
Not like Lumi would know. Keeping up with sports results was considered lame in their circle, and they would sooner talk about gossip surrounding the cousin of some famous singer than who was doing well in the Quidditch League.
“I’ve seen her in some magazines, from when she was a player. Always this serious expression on her,” Eloise added, puffing her cheeks and frowning.
Hermione couldn’t help but giggle. “That’s why they nicknamed her Squinny Ginny. Dad says she squinted because she couldn’t find the ball.”
Maybe it was true. The snitch is awfully small.
“Maybe she needed glasses. Family trait?” Lumi said, casually flopping backward onto her own bed.
"I wouldn't go as far as calling it a trait."
Lumi shrugged, “Anyway, she married a Mexican muggle? Even she could’ve done better.”
Hermione’s smile dropped.
“There’s nothing wrong with Uncle Javier.”
He was a kind man, a brilliant cook, and always brought the best presents for Christmas.
“Just saying, in her place, I would’ve rather ended up with someone like Finn Towler or—God help me—Cross-eyed McBride rather than become Mrs Ginny Pérez.”
“Oh, sod it,” Hermione blurted, hurling a heavy pillow at Lumi as hard as she could.
“What’s the matter with you?!”
Hermione didn’t answer. She turned toward the door, absolutely fuming.
“Where are you going?” Eloise called out.
“Out.”
“Like that?” Lumi asked, rubbing her shoulder where the pillow had hit her.
Hermione had already removed every trace of makeup, and she was wearing baggy sweatpants and a jumper that didn‘t match in the slightest. Normally, she would've been completely scandalised by the mere suggestion of letting anyone see her like that in public. But right now, she was too irked to care.
“I still look better than the best you can do,” Hermione snapped, slamming the door on her way out.
She crossed the Gryffindor common room without minding the sudden gasps, refusing to meet a single eye. Let them stare. Let them gossip all week. Let them tell the whole castle they saw Hermione Anne Potter storming through the tower in her mismatched sweatpants.
The Fat Lady didn't even get the chance to ask where she was going. She went down the shifting staircases, hopping the trick step out of pure instinct and blurring past dimly lit corridors. Several times she tried to slow down, but at every corner she found meddling eyes and pivoted in a different direction. She wouldn‘t stop until she found a completely empty corridor, or some place where she could actually breathe.
It wasn’t that she wanted to cry. Oh, no, she was in no way that pathetic. Words didn’t make her cry, and she certainly didn‘t need ‘time for herself’. Hermione just needed to put some physical distance between herself and Lumi before things got ugly.
For Lumi, of course.
It wasn’t that Hermione was very defensive of her family. She would be the first to admit they had flaws like any other—though not everyone’s flaws made the front page. Even so, she’d always had a soft spot for Aunt Ginny. She wasn't sure why. She was too mild-mannered, and not half as spirited as Hermione. They had nothing in common.
If she had stayed, Hermione would've either got in a fight with Lumi or join in her barbs—to keep the vibe. And neither of those options felt quite right.
A gust of air made Hermione shiver, realising she’d drifted right out of the castle. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the light had started to wane. She hugged herself against the chill, her arms crossed over her mismatched jumper. She’d been so lost in her own head that she had simply let her feet guide her by instinct. Somehow, that same instinct had carried her straight toward the Quidditch pitch—of all the ridiculous places to end up.
How had her aunt found so much joy in something as simple as throwing a ball through a few hoops? It was meaningless. Crude, even. Hermione had watched classmates and family obsess over the sport for years, and she knew she would never truly get it. It was just a stupid ball. It was absurd to let one's entire life be defined by it as Aunt Ginny had done; turning into a middle-aged woman running around a pitch in windbreakers.
A grunt caught her attention. When she looked up, she noticed a single person practicing by the hoops. Some boy was blasting a ball into the air with his wand, quickly pocketing it so he could dive and catch the ball before it could get through one of the rings. Talk about people obsessed over nothing. Didn’t he have something better to do?
Hermione turned on her heel. By now, Lumi was probably ready to beg for forgiveness.
“Hey! Watch out!”
Turning around, she found the ball hurtling straight toward her face. She squeaked and shut her eyes, but the impact never came. Driven by instinct, her hands had snapped up to catch the ball, mere inches from her nose.
“Hey! Sorry! My bad! Are you alright!?” the boy called out, dismounting from his broom as he jogged toward her. Once he noticed she’d actually caught it, his worry was replaced by awe. “Blimey, those are some reflexes!”
“You almost killed me!”
The boy chuckled. When he realized she wasn’t remotely sharing the joke, he cleared his throat. “Oh, you’re serious? Come on, it’s just a Quaffle. At most, you would’ve gotten a minor concussion.”
Hermione huffed. Loudly. Was he for real?
“Take this! And be glad I’m not reporting you.”
The boy groaned as Hermione shoved the quaffle hard into his stomach. Still, he smiled like a total dimwit. “Reporting me for what?”
Hermione didn’t share his amusement. “Why, for throwing around deadly projectiles at innocent passersbys, of course.”
“At the Quidditch pitch?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She was about to properly put him in his place when the boy’s expression shifted. He blinked, staring at her in such a way that made her wonder if she had something in her face.
“What?”
“You’re Potter.”
“Of course I am. Wasn’t it obvious?” she replied, annoyed that it had taken him this long to recognise her.
The boy brushed a layer of sweat away from his forehead, then wiped his hand on his jersey.
Disgusting. Another reason sports made absolutely no sense. Stinky, unnecessary sweating.
He scratched the back of his head, obviously unaware of his own odor. “Well, the lighting isn’t the best out here. And I didn’t recognize you without all your… swoosh… glamour thingies.”
That made Hermione snap. “Excuse me?! Glamours? I do not wear glamours! It’s just minor makeup! And I’ll have you know… you… What would you even know about it, you… mister!”
The boy let out an incredulous laugh. “You don’t have a clue who I am, do you?”
Of course she did. She’d seen him several times in the corridors. He was in Hufflepuff. She was almost positive of it.
“I do remember you. Weren’t you fat?"
"Fat?"
Hermione looked him up and down. She did recall the boy having a belly, which didn't seem to be the case anymore. But he still seemed broad. Big boned. Squared somehow.
"Fatter?"
The boy snorted.
"Or chubby, if you prefer."
“What’s my name?”
“Your… name?”
“Figures.”
The boy turned his back on her. No one turned their back on Hermione. No one. She turned her back on people, never the other way around.
“Hey! I’m talking to you… you…”
He paused and turned, crossing his arms over his chest as he gave her an expectant look.
“Brad?” she threw out.
He huffed and spun around to continue on his way.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me! Come on! I admit it, I don’t remember your blinding name, but... is it Paul? You have a Paul’s face.”
He stopped again. “You really don’t know?”
“Merlin, give me a break! Am I supposed to learn everyone’s name?”
“Yes! It’s called courtesy. I learned yours. Her-mi-o-ne.”
She rolled her eyes.
“What? Just because Harry Potter was your grandfather that doesn't count? We’re all supposed to kiss the floor you walk on? Is that it?”
“Great-grandfather. And yes,” she said, catching his sharp look and backtracking. “Not the kissing the floor part, don’t be daft. But it’s easy for you to know my name. On the other hand, what do you expect from me? There are hundreds of people in this school. Thousands, maybe.”
His expression remained deadpan. “We’ve been at this school since we were eleven, sharing teachers and the same surroundings for the sixth year now. If you must know, I've learned the name of everyone in our year. Even the ones I don’t talk to.”
That caught Hermione completely off guard. “Wait… We’re in the same year? We've... shared classes?”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”
He resumed his way toward his discarded kit bag, but Hermione wasn’t about to let him win. Oh, no sir. She hadn’t let Lumi win, and she certainly wasn‘t going to lose to some boy who had absolutely nothing going for him aside from playing with a ball all by himself.
Does he even have any friends to play with?
“Now listen to me, Benjamin—”
“Not even close.”
“Wesley.”
“Nice try. But no.”
“Ugh!”
How could someone be so insufferably polite? Or was it politely insufferable?
Hermione really had no business being out here anymore. She’d taken the fresh air, she’d had her walk. Honestly, she just needed to get this boy’s name out of him so she could return to the castle in peace and properly accept Lumi’s apology.
“I’ll tell you what,” the boy said. “I’ll tell you my name…”
“Good.”
“…if you can score a goal past me.”
He shifted the Quaffle between his hands before tossing it carelessly at her. Hermione gasped, but her hands snapped up again, catching the ball before it could hit her chest.
“Me? Quidditch?”
“What, don’t know how to fly, Potter?” he asked.
Hermione narrowed her eyes into dangerous slits. “I fly better than you easily. I passed all my first-year lessons with top marks, thank you very much. But Quidditch is not the only use of riding a broom, and I simply don’t see why anyone with actual brain cells would waste their time on such a boring sport.”
“Right. Afraid you’ll break a nail then?”
“Ha! Please. It‘s just that I have far better things to do.”
“Go on then,” the boy said, gesturing toward the castle with a lazy sweep of his hand. “Don’t let me hold you.”
Hermione locked him in a fierce staring contest. When the boy didn’t break it or say a single word after a long while, she fumed and spun around.
Why did she even care? She was Hermione Anne Potter, for God’s sake. She didn‘t have time to wait for some brainless jock to grant her the privilege of his name. Especially when she could easily ask around the common room tomorrow and get an answer in a second. She could totally frame the question in a way that made it clear she didn’t actually care.
She strode ten steps away from the pitch, then twenty. Her feet were getting soggy and filthy with grass, and she had absolutely no reason to be outside. Curfew wasn’t even that far off.
What was wrong with him? Others in his place would be swooning by now. Why wasn't he? Who on earth did he think he was? That… that… Ernest?
“Argh!”
Hermione grunted and turned back, furious to find that the boy hadn’t even moved. He was still leaning casually against his broom, waiting patiently for her return.
She marched back to the pitch, stormed right up to him, and snatched the spare broom from his grip so hard it nearly knocked him off balance.
“Not. One. Word,” she hissed.
And with a sharp kick, she took to the air.
Hermione had flown dozens of times before. It wasn’t something that Lumi or Eloise particularly cared for, but it was a habit her parents had tried hard to instill in her from a young age. Her brother, the big snub, had never been any good at it—much to her family’s chagrin—but Hermione had always done well for herself.
Even so, this time felt entirely different.
The air up here felt more refreshing than cold, and the school broom responded perfectly to her unspoken wishes. There was no one around to witness her flying. No one to judge her, or set expectations. No one aside from that stupid boy, but he didn’t count. Hermione would forget all about his existence the moment she got what she wanted from him. His name.
“Hey, Potter, catch!”
She snapped her hand out and caught the heavy ball with no problem, controlling the broom using only the grip of her legs. However, the second she tried to actually put herself in motion, the logistics caught up with her. She didn’t know how to securely tuck the ball and maneuver at the same time. She couldn’t find a comfortable hold. She even dropped the bloody thing a few times, watching it plummet toward the turf.
“Just. Wait,” she seethed down at the hovering boy.
Yet, to her absolute fury, he didn’t make a single mocking comment. He didn‘t even smirk. He just offered her a few encouraging words as he drifted into position by the hoops.
The nerve.
She would show him. She was going to score so hard against this absolute nobody, if only to prove that any idiot could play this stupid game.
And yet, her first few shots were limp and telegraphed—so slow that he effortlessly plucked them out of the air with a single hand.
“Come on, just keep going,” he called out, tossing the Quaffle gently back to her. “You’re getting a feel of it.”
“Oh, shut up, Humphrey!”
He just wagged a finger at her.
As the minutes ticked by, Hermione adjusted her posture on the broom, which instantly improved her shooting power. Her aim, however, still needed serious work. The ball flew either wildly off-target, or directly into the keeper’s waiting hands. He, by contrast, barely had to exert himself; he shifted his positioning just a fraction each time, always finding the perfect angle to intercept the Quaffle. How on earth was she supposed to get a single shot past him?
“You’re doing great!” he called out. “How often do you play?”
“Never.”
“Really? Not even with your family?”
Hermione laughed just trying to picture it. “They would wish.”
“Well, you could’ve fooled me.”
"As if fooling were any tall order."
The boy shook his head, amused. Downright infurating.
Hermione tried to think of her aunt. Before she was a chubby coach, or even married, Ginny Evelyn Potter had been a professional Quidditch player. And, as much as some critics liked to complain, she must've known something about the game, otherwise they wouldn’t have signed her, famous last name or not. She tried to think back even further, to the original Ginny her aunt had been named after, Hermione's great-grandmother. That one had been a genuine Quidditch star, if stories were to be believed, playing in World Cups and lifting championship trophies.
How had they done it? These Ginnys couldn't posses something she didn't. There was surely a mechanical trick to this that she simply wasn’t getting.
Motion. She was staying too still.
Trying to aim and fly simultaneously was a total nightmare, and it was making her accuracy even worse. But as the minutes moved on, her body gradually discovered a fluid rhythm to the process. Throwing her weight backward, pulling the handle steadily, releasing the ball in one swift arc using her entire upper body. It began to come naturally with repetition. Best of all, the shots that actually flew in the right direction were finally making the boy sweat. He had to move farther. He had to dive faster. And still… not a single bloody shot was getting past him.
Hermione was heaving by now, her breath echoing in the otherwise quiet pitch. She was sweating enough under her clothes that she was starting to gross herself out. But she refused to quit. It simply wasn‘t in her to accept defeat. She dashed from the left, looped around from the right, and plummeted down from above; her shoulder-length hair whipping wildly in the wind, occasionally blocking her view.
"We can call it quits for today," the boy offered.
"In your dreams!"
On the next run, Hermione decided to go completely all out.
She picked up breakneck speed, and dived low before rocketing upward toward the right. Then, she bolted back down in a straight line, aiming for the right-hand hoop. She waited, letting the broom plunge, holding for one heartbeat longer.
In a split second, she spotted her opening. The boy threw his weight over to cover the right side, and Hermione pulled up on her broom handle with everything she had. Left and up. She twisted violently until her broom turned a sharp ninety-degree angle, then she snapped an overhead shot directly toward the undefended left ring.
He saw the trick a fraction of a second too late. His momentum was already locked in the wrong direction. The Quaffle hit against the rim before it went through the other side.
“Yes!!! Take that, Ramon!”
The two of them descended with wide grins plastered across their faces, neither saying a word until their feet finally hit the ground.
“That was some flying,” he said, shoulder-slinging his kit bag. “I bet with a bit of actual practice, you could outmatch any chaser in this school.”
“Not that it’s something I’d ever want. But… thanks,” Hermione replied, quite chuffed with herself.
“You liked it, though. Quidditch.”
The smile on her face was so wide that Hermione realised there wasn’t a way to lie about it. “It was… enjoyable.”
It had been far more than that, really. It had been the freedom. The thrill of the speed. The uncertainty of watching a ball fly toward a target, and that minimal moment right before it cleared the rim, making her entire heart pump.
“We should do it again sometime.”
“Ha! As if,” she shot back, though she already felt a pang of disappointment at the thought of this being a one-off.
“Of course,” he shrugged, his tone dripping with amusement. “Naturally, you can’t be seen fraternising with common chubby kids.”
Hermione laughed, the sound clear against the quietness of the grounds. “Of course not… eh…”
“Gage,” the boy said, extending a hand toward her. “Gage Haywood.”
Hermione’s smile widened unwittingly. “Gage, eh? Yeah, I can see it now.” She reached out and took his hand. “I‘m Hermione Potter.”
“Oh, like the Harry Potter?”
She chuckled softly. “I might have heard the name tossed around once or twice.”
They stood there on the grass for a beat, a comfortable silence stretching between them a tad longer than necessary before their hands finally parted.
“We’d better get moving,” Gage said, looking around. “I didn’t realize it had gone pitch black. We’re bound to get caught.”
Hermione looked up. He was right. It was dark already. When on Earth had that happened?
“Don’t be a scaredy-cat, Gage. I’ll get you back into the castle without a single soul spotting us. Zero detentions, guaranteed.”
Gage paused, staring down at her face in the dark.
“What?” Hermione’s grin faltered. Her hand flew to her cheek. Did she have grass on her nose? Or—oh, goodness, was it the sweat? Had she really stormed out of the common room right after scrubbing her face, without even a light dusting of her cheeks? What had she been thinking?
“You’re just… not at all how I imagined you’d be,” he said quietly. "Well, in part you are, but you're also... more." He shook his head, a small smile returning to his face. “Fine. Lead the way, Potter. But zero detentions. You promised.”
And so they began their slow return to the castle walls. It wasn’t until Hermione had successfully slipped back through the portrait hole and caught her reflection in the mirror that the reality of the evening truly hit her. She had not only just played Quidditch, but she had done so in her muddy sweatpants, having sweat through them a scandalous amount.
Who was this girl? And what had she done with Hermione Potter?