Chapter Text
"Remember, you don't have to overthink. You wouldn't have time for it anyway! Act immediately but don't be reckless!" Ghouleen Heartthrob, a fourth year Hufflepuff, said animatedly, dropping his voice into a heavy baritone. A cluster of nearby Ravenclaw girls dissolved into giggles.
Margherita Norvig, a Slytherin, raised her hand. “But Professor Potter,” she pleaded, attempting to sound earnest, “Professor Granger has given us an exhaustive list of defensive counters and insists we must know them like the back of our hand!”
“Ahh, Professor Granger…” Ghouleen sighed on cue, clasping his hands over his heart and flashing a dramatically moony, lovesick expression. “Professor Granger is always right. I mean, she’s right. Naturally, you should know the spells. Having a vast arsenal is all well and good but getting flustered and indecisive in the heat of battle? That is the real danger. Oh and Miss Silversky, five points to Ravenclaw for remembering Professor Granger’s brilliant advice!” Ghouleen concluded, flashing a dazzling smile.
Everyone started laughing. "Oh Merlin, Nancy, did Professor Potter seriously award you house points just because you remembered Professor Granger's list?" Scuba Bootlicker, a fifth year Gryffindor asked, half perplexed and half suffocating on his own laughter.
"First of all, I don't talk like that!" Nancy scoffed, playfully throwing a crumpled piece of parchment at Margherita, who caught it neatly, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "And no, Scuba, Professor Potter didn't award me points because I remembered the list. The list was just an excuse. He awarded them because I mentioned Professor Granger." She said smugly. All the students shared knowing grins.
Hogwarts had reformed. To say that Salazar Slytherin would start snake dancing if he returned to This Hogwarts, would be an understatement and not at all an exaggeration. The witches and wizards of Britain had finally united. The rigid old status quo was dead and buried replaced by a fraternal warmth that had bloomed across every corridor. Students of all houses now sat together, ate together and shared notes. Even in the Great Hall, despite the traditional layout of the long tables, the boundaries had vanished. They were fiercely competitive during Quidditch, yes but they were friends first - sharing revision guides, plotting pranks and gleefully spilling the tea on their professors’ love lives.
The bell rang. The students scuttled off to their classes.
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The Transfiguration class was a joint session between fifth year Slytherins and Hufflepuffs. The students were ecstatic after all it was their favourite professor's class. Their young professor had made a notoriously difficult subject the most popular class in the castle. She taught fascinating spells far outside of the standard Ministry curriculum, shared amazing historical anecdotes and while she certainly didn't skimp on the homework, she always gave them ample time to finish it. She was strict but she was fiercely fun and above all, deeply compassionate.
"Take out your Potions textbooks, please", she announced as she stepped up to her desk. The usual commotion - the scraping of heavy benches, the rustling of fresh parchment and the chatter - halted instantly. The class stared at her, bewildered.
The professor smiled, smoothing a non-existent crease on her crisp, tailored purple jacket. She wore stylish muggle outfits. The school robe was for mere exhibition, a polite nod to show she still respected the school rules.
“Don't look so alarmed, I haven't taken a Bludger to the head,” she joked, drawing a wave of relieved laughter from the room. “I know your last period was Potions. Leave the books out. Today, I’m going to show you the precise molecular correlation between Potions theory and advanced Transfiguration.”
The students obeyed with newfound enthusiasm. The bushy haired professor tapped the blackboard with her wand. “Open up to page two hundred and ninety five…”
Before she could launch into her explanation, a heavy, frantic knocking rattled the classroom door. “Professor Granger! Professor Potter said to tell you something!” Chandler Bing, a breathless third year, stood panting in the doorway, his tie askew.
Hermione looked at the cute, flustered little intruder. "Oh. Go on, Mr. Chandler. What did Har-Professor Potter ask you to tell me?" She asked softly, catching her slip of the tongue just in time.
"Umm...he said," Chandler mumbled, shifting his weight from foot to foot and staring fixedly down at his boots. "He said ...." He trailed off, a bright red flush creeping up his neck.
Hermione coaxed him gently. "Mr. Bing, please, go ahead."
"I tend to keep shut until somebody insists," Chandler blurted out nervously.
Hermione blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
"Umm..sorry, Professor. Professor Potter said to tell you something he forgot." At Hermione's confused look, he swallowed hard and continued rapidly, "Professor Potter said that he wanted to tell you something but he somehow forgot. But he remembers that he was supposed to tell you that specific thing right at this exact time."
A pregnant silence blanketed the classroom. Then, Hermione burst into a warm, musical laugh and the entire class joined in.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Bing,” Hermione smiled merrily. She reached into her beaded bag, rummaged around for a brief second and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped brown parcel. She handed it over to the stunned third year. “This is what Professor Potter wanted to tell me. Tell him I’ve already found it and to please stop pacing his office. Give it to him, would you?”
The classroom was struck dumb. Chandler’s face turned an even brighter shade of scarlet as Hermione thanked him again, turning back to the blackboard with an efficient, brisk step.
As the door clicked shut, a frantic wave of whispering erupted across the desks.
“She knew.”
“She literally knew what he forgot without him even telling her!”
“He didn't even know what he wanted!”
“Blimey… she just knows.”
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Lunchtime descended upon Hogwarts and with it, any semblance of student decorum vanished. The corridors became a blur of charging pupils, behaving like animals breaking out of the London Zoo, while a few particularly feral rivals from competing houses began racing to see who might claim the glory of reaching the Great Hall first.
Hermione, however, didn't head toward the Great Hall. She took the private stairs straight to the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom. Pushing open the door, she found Harry standing precariously on a ladder, wrestling a heavily loaded box from the top shelf of a dusty cupboard.
"You know there's a floating charm for that taught to first years," Hermione said, leaning against the doorframe and smiling fondly.
Harry smiled, not pausing from his task. "I know."
With a theatrical roll of her eyes, Hermione drew her wand. “Wingardium Leviosa,” she murmured, flicking her wrist with practiced grace. The heavy box immediately eased out of Harry's grip, floating smoothly through the air before settling gently onto the desk.
Harry clapped the dust from his hands as he descended the ladder, sporting that classic, boyish grin that Witch Weekly never failed to write about. “Thanks, Professor Granger. I didn’t know you were teaching Charms these days as well,” he said teasingly, his green eyes glinting.
Hermione swatted his arm as he stepped off the last rung. Harry kept watching her, an enduring warmth in his smile that refused to fade.
"I had two very lousy best friends in school, Professor Potter," she sniffed, though the corners of her mouth twitched. "They were allergic to learning. So I had to do all their homework."
"Oh, come on, Hermione. All the homework?" Harry protested, chuckling. "I distinctly remember doing my own Potions and Defence essays-"
He stopped abruptly when Hermione leveled an unimpressed look at him.
"Fine fine" he added, raising both his hands placatingly. "But I definitely did my History of Magic and Divination-"
"You failed both, Professor," Hermione cut him off mid-sentence, sassily. "Divination is bogus anyway. What even was your homework? Predicting your own gruesome demise in creative ways? Oh, speaking of creativity, you actually would have passed History of Magic if you had just used my colour-coded study planner."
Harry stepped closer to her, his gaze softening. He reached out, gently adjusting the collar of her jacket before using his fingers to release a few rogue curls that had become trapped at the back of her neck. "Well," he murmured, his voice dropping slightly, "we were two incredibly lucky blokes to have the most beautiful and brilliant witch in Britain as our best friend."
Hermione's cheeks turned pink and she chewed her bottom lip to hide the sudden blush. Harry let his hand linger, his thumb lightly brushing against a strand of hair resting on her shoulder. "Still, glad to know Ron and I can take full credit for sharpening that brilliant mind of yours.”
"Excuse me!" Hermione backed away, swatting his hand away with mock indignation. "Harry James Potter!"
“I’m just stating facts,” Harry grinned ear to ear, folding his arms across his chest. “You just admitted that our sheer lousiness forced you to do all our homework which directly resulted in your Hawking-level genius.”
“Oh, of course,” Hermione countered, mirroring his pose rolling her eyes. “I suppose I should write to Stephen Hawking and let him know he can retire. Clearly, the greatest intellectual catalysts of the twentieth century were actually two teenage boys who couldn't even manage a passing grade in Divination.”
“I'm serious,” Harry laughed, leaning against the desk. “If it weren't for Ron and me constantly dragging you into life or death situations, you’d probably just be the magical equivalent of Stephen Hawking - brilliant but bored out of your mind. We gave your mind a proper workout.”
Before Hermione could formulate a devastating retort, Harry lunged forward, grabbed her hand and began dragging her toward the doors. "Come on, let's race to the Great Hall."
Hermione let out a bright laugh. Harry hadn't been allowed a normal childhood. So it was always a solace to see him act like this - carefree, playful and relaxed, filled with the joy he had been so cruelly starved of as a boy.
"We can't race to the Great Hall, Harry," she insisted though she didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she walked backward, leaning against the corridor doorway. "We're professors. We have to set an example for the students. And what would Minerva say if she caught us sprinting?"
Harry closed the distance between them. He planted his right hand firmly against the stone wall just beside her head, shoving his left hand casually into his trousers pocket. "Are you going to report me, Professor Granger?" Harry asked, his voice teasing.
"Wh-what? N-no, of course not, Harry," she stammered, wonderfully flustered.
"Great!" Harry grinned, taking her hand once more. “New rules, then. We’re going to walk-race to the Great Hall. No matter what happens, you don't stop. Whoever reaches the double doors first without breaking into a run wins. And the loser has to treat the winner to a Rasmalai milk cake at Colonel Saab.”
Hermione’s competitive spirit flared instantly, her eyes flashing. "You're on, Potter. And I want a side order at the Chaat Bar too. Their aloo chaat is heavenly."
"Your confidence is bordering on overweening, Professor Granger. We haven't even started. Now, be prepared to lose on the count of three. One, two, three.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes, her gaze locked ahead. “I won't be losing.”
“We'll see.” Harry grinned. “One.”
Hermione adjusted the strap of her beaded bag. “Two.”
“Three!”
They set off. Walking. Very quickly. Neither ran, of course. That would have been an egregious breach of staff decorum and neither fancied a lecture from Minerva about setting a dreadful example for the students as well as the staff. It was also against the rules they had set for their walk race. Instead, they increased the length of their strides until they were moving through the stone corridor at a pace that was, technically, still walking.
Harry gained half a step. Hermione immediately matched him, her robes snapping like a sail in a gale.
“You're cheating,” she hissed, slightly out of breath.
“I am walking.”
“You're practically Olympic power-walking.”
“Power-walking is still walking, Hermione. It's in the name.”
Hermione scoffed and lengthened her stride.
They rounded the first corner in tandem. A cluster of fourth years heading towards the Grand Staircase scrambled against the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy to avoid being flattened.
“Good afternoon, Professors!” one called out, clutching his tie.
“Afternoon,” Harry called back, eyes fixed ahead, never once slowing. Hermione managed a remarkably breathless nod.
They had nearly reached the staircase when a frantic voice echoed behind them. “Professor Potter! Sir!”
Harry glanced sideways. A fifth year Ravenclaw was scurrying to keep up, clutching an upside-down copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5 to his chest. “Sir, sorry but I keep getting the timing wrong on my Shield Charm. Should I-”
“Cast it half a second earlier, Spears,” he instructed, his boots clicking rapidly against the stone. “Don't wait until the spell is halfway across the room. Anticipate the wand movement, not the light.”
The boy's face lit up and he nodded enthusiastically. “Right. Thank you, Professor!”
“Don't mention it.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Please answer Mr. Spears properly, Professor Potter. What's the hurry?”
Harry shot her an incredulous look. “I did answer him. It was concise, practical advice.”
“Barely. It was borderline negligence. Surely lunch can wait.” Hermione smiled with supreme sweetness though her legs were moving so fast she was practically a blur. “Education is paramount.”
Harry snorted. “You're one to talk.”
She looked at him innocently. “I always prioritise education.”
“You once ate half my sandwich during an O.W.L. revision session.”
“I was educating myself about the nutritional value of sandwiches.”
Harry let out a breathless laugh. “You are bloody impossible.”
“And yet,” she noted, casting a smug look down at their feet, “you are losing.”
“I am not losing!”
“You're behind.”
“By two inches!”
“Behind is behind, Professor Potter.”
They turned another corner. Unfortunately, there were more students. And Hogwarts students, unlike gargoyles, possessed eyes. And ears. And an innate, terrifying ability to sense staff vulnerability.
A sixth year Hufflepuff froze, watching the two professors steamroll down the corridor with identical, grim expressions of competitive fury. He looked at Harry’s flying cloak, then at Hermione’s swinging bag.
“Oh,” the boy whispered.
His friend followed his gaze. “Blimey!”
Within seconds, the rumor engine of Hogwarts ignited. The whisper cascaded down the corridor like a rogue Locomotor charm. Professor Potter and Professor Granger were racing to lunch. Not running.
Walking. Very, very quickly.
“Professor Granger!” a voice shouted from the back.
It was followed by another voice from somewhere in the corridor. “Go on, Professor! You’ve got him!”
Hermione’s eyes widened slightly, a flush rising on her cheeks but she refused to break form. Harry grinned, his long legs eating up the floor. “Oh, brilliant. You’ve mobilized the swathes.”
“Don't distract me.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
“Professor Potter!” a Gryffindor girl bellowed, cupping her hands around her mouth before instantly dropping them when Hermione shot her a sharp look. “Sorry, Professor,” the girl squeaked.
Harry laughed. “Keep your voice down. We have reputations.”
The girl nodded solemnly. “Yes, Professor.”
Then, in a theatrical whisper, “Go, Professor Potter.”
Hermione shook her head, a desperate smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Traitors, the lot of them.”
At the far end of the corridor, a small, highly invested vanguard of students was actively matching their quick step pace from a safe five-yard radius. Nobody wanted a detention but nobody wanted to miss the finish line.
They began whispering. Then someone hissed, “Professor Granger's winning!”
“No, Professor Potter's ahead!”
“Quiet!”
“I'm being quiet!”
“You're shouting!”
Harry and Hermione exchanged a look and started laughing which slowed them slightly.
Hermione immediately recovered. “No laughing. You'll lose your pace.”
Harry stared at her. “You're taking this seriously.”
“You challenged me.”
“You accepted.”
“You're the one who started it.”
“Technically, you said I was overweening.”
“First, you said that about me. And you are.”
“That's not relevant.”
“It is now.”
They reached the final corridor. The Great Hall doors were visible. They were so close. Hermione's eyes lit up. Harry noticed.
“Oh, no.”
“What?”
“You're planning something.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” She increased her pace.
Harry immediately followed. “That's cheating.”
“You're still walking.”
“That's not the point!”
A small crowd of students had gathered behind them. Nobody was openly running.
But several were now walking very quickly too.
“Professor Granger!” a third year cheered. “Just a few more steps! “Don't let him win! The mince pie will cool down!”
Hermione laughed breathlessly.
Harry shook his head. “You're all terrible.”
Suddenly, a fifth year Slytherin boy materialised directly alongside Harry, jog-walking backward with terrifying agility while holding aloft a silver goblet. “Water, Professor!”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“You need to stay hydrated, sir! It’s a grueling course!” The boy instantly pivoted, thrusting the goblet toward Hermione instead. “Drink, Professor. For the pride of the staff room.”
Without missing a beat, Hermione snatched the goblet, took two quick gulps and thrust it back into his hands without losing an inch of momentum. “Thank you, Mr.-”
“Ferguson, Professor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Always a pleasure, ma'am.”
Harry looked at the student. “I've noticed, Mr. Ferguson, that you've been following us for approximately thirty seconds.”
The boy looked unbothered by the glare of a seasoned dark wizard catcher. “I was concerned for your health, Professor.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Were you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Interesting.”
He turned to Hermione. “I’ve noticed that Mr. Ferguson gave the performance enhancing hydration exclusively to my opponent.”
Hermione smiled. “Perhaps he's backing the winning team.”
Harry's eyebrows rose. “Ah.”
He looked at Ferguson. “Traitor.”
The boy grinned cheekily. “Professor Granger gave us three rolls of parchment on reversing transfigurations this week, sir. We figured if she wins, she might be in a good enough mood to drop it to two.”
Hermione gasped, nearly losing her footing. “Mr. Ferguson! That is blatant academic bribery!”
The corridor erupted in laughter. Harry laughed so hard he nearly lost his stride.
“That's it,” he said, catching his breath. “You've won. You’ve corrupted the youth for a strategic advantage.”
Hermione skidded to a halt right in front of the Great Hall doors, her chest rising and falling. “What? I did no such thing!"
Harry gestured towards the Great Hall doors. “You distracted me. You used your student syndicate to induce a laughing fit.”
“You laughed voluntarily, Harry!"
“Exactly. Therefore, you cheated.”
Hermione stared at him, her academic outrage warring with the sheer amusement dancing in her brown eyes. “That is not how competition works.”
“It's how my competition works.”
“You're inventing rules.”
Harry grinned, stepping up to her, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. “I teach Defence. Rules are flexible.”
“Harry Potter!”
He grinned. “Hermione Granger.”
They reached the doors together. Hermione placed one hand against the cool, carved oak of the door. Harry’s hand landed over hers. They looked at each other then at the watching students. The students went very still.
Harry cleared his throat, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “After you, Professor.”
Hermione smiled triumphantly. “Good choice, Professor.”
She threw the doors open.
The crowded corridor behind them immediately erupted into a flurry of frantic, stage whispered debates.
“Professor Granger!”
“Professor Potter!”
“Who won?”
“It's a tie!”
“No, it isn't!”
Harry and Hermione marched into the Great Hall side by side, still arguing over the technicalities of the 'Ferguson Incident.'
Neither noticed that nearly half the students followed them in just to hear the verdict.
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