Chapter Text
I.
Harry Potter trudged down the muddy slope toward Hagrid's hut, his right shoelace dangling loose—he hadn't got around to tying it yet. Hermione was half a step ahead of him, the hem of her robes already speckled with light brown mud. She walked briskly. Ron lagged seven or eight paces behind, grumbling about something Harry barely registered. He was too busy trying to remember everything Hermione had poured out in one breath after they'd left the library—about how to ask Hagrid about the three-headed dog and the trapdoor.
Hermione glanced back at him, probably thinking he was too slow. Her scarf was bundled up to her chin, and the tip of her nose was red with cold.
"Harry, are you listening?"
"Listening." He quickened his pace. Not entirely a lie—he'd listened, just not retained all of it.
Hagrid's hut stood alone at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, a stream of greyish-white smoke rising from its chimney. Before they'd even reached the door, Fang started barking; they could hear his claws scraping against the floorboards from the other side.
Hagrid yanked the door open so hard it nearly came off its hinges. He had to stoop to see the three of them, his face split in a wide grin.
"Come in, come in! Just put the kettle on."
The hut was hot and cramped. A ham hung from the ceiling alongside several strings of garlic. Fang immediately launched himself at Ron, licking his ears while Ron let out a strangled yelp. Harry sat down in the chair that was far too big for him, his feet dangling above the floor. Hagrid brought out a plate of rock cakes. Hermione took one and placed it politely on the edge of her saucer. Harry tried a bite and nearly cracked a tooth.
Every time. Every single time, he still tried.
Once Hagrid had settled, Hermione asked about the three-headed dog. She was direct about it. Hagrid said it was between him and Dumbledore. Hermione pressed further, and Hagrid's expression grew flustered; his enormous hands rubbed back and forth over his knees.
"I shouldn't have said. I shouldn't have said."
But in the end, he told them.
They left with the name Nicolas Flamel and some useful information about Fluffy. By then, dusk had fallen, and a layer of white frost coated the grass. Hermione walked in front, her head slightly bowed, muttering the conversation back to herself at top speed. Ron was beside her, asking if there'd be pudding for dinner. Harry followed behind, watching her step over the frozen blades of grass.
It had been a good afternoon, though he couldn't quite say why.
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II.
Three years is both a long time and a short one. Long enough for a boy to grow five inches, to compete in a Triwizard Tournament, to see someone die for the first time—and for the entire wizarding world to be turned upside down several times over.
But the sloping path to Hagrid's hut hadn't changed.
Mid-December, and the ground was frozen hard. The day before, the Daily Prophet had run Rita Skeeter's piece—an article that used the most venomous prose to expose Hagrid's lineage, his blood status, the fact that his mother was a giantess, complete with a photograph that made him look brutish and dim. Hagrid had locked his door since that morning, drawn the curtains, and even his chimney had stopped smoking.
Hermione was knocking on the door.
—Pounding, really, because that oak door was so thick. Her hand bounced back with each strike, her knuckles turning red, her breath puffing out in clouds that dissolved into the cold air. Ron stood to the side, hands tucked into his sleeves, shoulders hunched up to his ears.
"Hagrid, we know you're in there. Please open the door."
From inside came Fang's low whine. No footsteps.
Hermione knocked again, then stopped, pressing her palm flat against the door. She didn't call out again. After a few seconds of silence, she spoke—softly, but clearly enough that Harry, standing two steps behind her, caught every word.
"Hagrid, no one cares what that horrible woman wrote. You're our friend. We don't care about any of that. We just want to see you."
She didn't move after she finished. Her hand remained against the door.
Harry looked at the back of Hermione's head. Her hair was even bushier in winter, and a few strands had blown across her face; she hadn't bothered to push them away.
What did he feel? He hadn't paid it any mind back then. A boy's head was too full of other things—the Triwizard Tournament, dragons, the upcoming Yule Ball—no room left to wonder what it meant that Hermione's palm was pressed against that door.
The door didn't open.
They walked back the way they came. Hermione stayed on his left, quiet. She was scheming, Harry knew, because her eyebrows were knitted together and her lips were pressed thin. Ron muttered on his other side about how stubborn Hagrid was. Harry kept his hands in his pockets and glanced at Hermione.
She didn't notice.
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III.
Fifth year, spring. Hermione was helping Hagrid write lesson plans for Care of Magical Creatures.
Umbridge had started inspecting every professor's classes, and everyone was on edge. Hagrid's lessons were always the easiest to pick apart—his understanding of "dangerous" diverged from normal people's by about eight streets. Hermione had offered to help him organize his teaching schedule two weeks ago, listing which creatures were safe to teach and which absolutely were not, and had written out learning objectives, class activities, and assessment criteria on one very long piece of parchment.
Harry had been sitting on the Gryffindor common room sofa for about ten minutes.
The fire was blazing. Ron was playing chess with Dean. Neville was tending to something in a pot in the corner. Everything was normal. But Harry's attention couldn't settle anywhere. He glanced out the window. Nice weather—the March sunlight was turning the grass a pale gold. Hermione had said she was going to Hagrid's this afternoon.
He stood up. He walked out through the portrait hole without telling anyone.
The grass on the slope had turned green, soft underfoot, completely different from winter. He could see smoke rising from Hagrid's chimney, the door half open.
Hermione was bent over Hagrid's enormous wooden table, parchment spread out before her alongside an open copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. She looked up at the sound of footsteps.
"Harry? What are you doing here?"
"Nothing."
Hagrid poked his head out from the stove, holding a spatula longer than Harry's arm.
"Sit down, Harry, I'll make you some tea."
Fang emerged from under the table and slobbered all over Harry's trouser leg, leaving a large wet patch around his knee. Hagrid brought over tea in cups the size of bowls, the liquid dark as pitch. Harry thanked him.
Hermione bent back over her work. She was cross-referencing the guidebook, copying down the habits and danger ratings of Thestrals in her neat handwriting. Harry sat across from her, turning pages for her.
"Can you hold this page down?"
He spread the book open, pressing his palm flat against the spine. Hermione leaned in to look, her hair sliding off her shoulder; a few strands brushed the back of his hand.
Dry and warm. Hermione didn't notice how Harry's hand had gone stiff. Her quill scratched across the parchment. Outside, Hagrid was chopping wood in the yard, the thud of his axe carrying through the door—thud, thud.
Harry stared at her for too long.
She was chewing the end of her quill. A habit when she was thinking, going all the way back to first year. The tip was already frayed and ragged, but she didn't care. Her brow furrowed slightly, eyes darting between the page and her parchment.
"What?" Hermione turned her head suddenly.
"Nothing."
The second "nothing" of the day.
Hermione held his gaze for a second, then turned back.
They stayed until evening. Hagrid brought out rock cakes again, and Harry, wiser after years of practice, pretended to eat before slipping pieces to Fang when Hagrid wasn't looking. Fang chewed for a long time and eventually spat them out.
On the walk back to the castle, the sky was turning purple, and the lake reflected the last sliver of daylight. Hermione was talking about the lesson plan, saying she'd need to go back tomorrow—Hagrid's class had to be ready before Umbridge's inspection. Harry made vague sounds of agreement.
He was thinking about one thing.
He liked going to Hagrid's with Hermione. He liked being with Hermione. The two things tangled together in a way he couldn't untangle. He didn't need to. Not yet.
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IV.
Sixth year, and a long rain fell through September.
Harry stood at the top of the stairs in the Gryffindor common room, the rain outside a dull murmur through the stone walls. Hermione came down the girls' staircase clutching a thick copy of Advanced Rune Translation. She saw him standing there.
"I'm going to Hagrid's," Harry said.
Hermione looked at the rain outside.
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"Wait, let me get my coat."
She set the book on the sofa, turned, and went back up the stairs. Less than two minutes later, she was back in a dark blue waterproof jacket. She passed him on her way out through the portrait hole.
The rain wasn't heavy, but enough to dampen their hair. Before stepping out from under the portico, Hermione cast a Waterproofing Charm on her jacket and raised an eyebrow, offering to do the same for him. Harry shook his head. He didn't mind getting wet. He couldn't quite explain why—maybe just that the rain on his face felt clarifying.
The grass on the slope squelched underfoot, soaked through. Hermione carefully skirted a muddy puddle; he stepped straight through it.
How many times had he walked this path?
He'd lost count, but Hermione had been there every single time.
Hagrid's hut was locked, the windows dark. The pumpkins in the patch were enormous—the biggest about the size of a wagon wheel—clearly Hagrid had been using Engorgement Charms again. Rainwater streamed down the pumpkins' ridges. No barking from the door.
"He's not here," Hermione said, a touch frustrated.
Harry thought Hagrid might have gone into the Forest to see Grawp. "We can wait."
They sat down on the steps of Hagrid's hut. The eaves jutted out just enough to keep the rain off their heads, but their shoes were already soaked. Hermione set the Advanced Rune Translation on her lap, flipped through two pages, and closed it again. She probably didn't have the heart to read.
The rain fell steadily on the pumpkin patch, a uniform sound like someone clapping far away. The air was cool, carrying the smell of earth and wet grass. Hermione's sleeve brushed against his. Even through two layers of fabric, he could feel the warmth of her arm.
Then Harry said something.
He replayed it many times afterward and still couldn't remember the exact words. Something like:
"I think I like you."
He was looking at a very large, very orange pumpkin when he said it—the safest object in the entire rainy landscape to fix his gaze on.
Hermione went quiet.
"You think?"
Her voice wavered a little, but she was smiling. Harry turned his head. Her face was flushed too, pink spreading from her cheekbones to the tips of her ears. Her fingers were still gripping the book, a little too tightly.
"Alright. I know," he said.
Hermione ducked her head with a small laugh, as if she wanted to laugh and also found it slightly offensive. Her reply was so soft it almost got swallowed by the rain.
"Finally."
Finally?
He didn't have time to ask. Hermione rested her head against his shoulder, the book slipping half an inch off her knees. Her hair brushed against his neck—dry and warm, just like that day in spring when it had touched the back of his hand.
Harry sat there, watching the rain, with Hermione Granger's head on his shoulder. This time, he knew exactly what the feeling was.
Hagrid came back about twenty minutes later, lugging half an oak tree. He was soaked through, his boots caked in Forbidden Forest mud, his apron sporting a patch of unidentified moss. He stopped ten feet from the steps when he saw them.
Hermione's head was resting on Harry's shoulder. Harry's hand, at some point, had ended up on top of hers. Neither of them moved.
Hagrid set the half-tree down. He stood there, grinning so wide it filled his entire shaggy face. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a grimy handkerchief, and blew his nose with great vigour—his eyes a little red.
"Finally," Hagrid said, his voice thick. He stuffed the handkerchief back, pushed open the door of his hut with a creak of hinges, and waved them in. "Come on in, then. I'll put the kettle on."
Fang burst out of the door, crashed into Harry's legs, then turned to lick Hermione's hands. Hermione laughed, pushed him off, and stood up, brushing off her skirt. She glanced at Harry, her eyes still bright.
Harry stood too. The back of his trousers was completely soaked. He didn't care in the slightest.
He followed Hermione into Hagrid's hut. It was hot and crowded as always—the ham still hung from the ceiling, Fang still drooling everywhere, Hagrid already shovelling far too many tea leaves into the pot. Rock cakes were already on the table. Hermione sat down next to him, her knee brushing his.
Hagrid set two bowl-sized cups in front of them. "Rock cake?"