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In her short time on earth—exactly 12 years, 4 months, and 24 days, to be precise—Hermione Granger had received two unexpected but important letters.
First, there was that letter from St. Agatha’s, declaring she was suspended for the rest of the academic year. That had been horrible—the worst letter she’d received to date. It had all been a colossal mistake, obviously, but she still remembers it with agitated feelings.
Then, she’d received the letter from Hogwarts, declaring her admittance to the school. How wonderful that had been! A little anxiety provoking, yes, but once she was sure her parents would allow her to attend this mysterious magical school, she’d been elated.
And then now, here, right here at the very school in question, she’d received another mysterious letter. The other two had been official correspondence, with fancy letterheads and thick, heavy paper.
But this one could not be so.
This one is in a pink envelope, covered in tiny yellow hearts, which doesn’t feel business-like at all.
When Hermione had first discovered it tucked into the front flap of her bag, she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. She’d even glanced around, mouth already open, ready to stop the first person she saw to ask them if they’d misplaced their letter in her things by accident.
But there was no one.
Then she’d noticed it was her name printed neatly on the cover.
Hermione Jean Granger.
How strange! How utterly inexplicable. She’d turned the envelope over in her hands, looking for any marking that indicated the name of the sender, but there was none. It didn’t take long for her to decide someone must have slipped it into her bag while she was otherwise preoccupied.
And today is Valentine’s Day…
She hadn’t opened it in the corridor—to do so might have been disastrous. What if the beautiful envelope was nothing more than a malicious prank designed to humiliate her? At her young age, she already had enemies somehow, and Malfoy had made it very clear what he’d do to her if he ever caught her unguarded. Ron had even forced her start carrying dung bombs in her bag—said it never hurt to have some handy. He’d assured her again and again that they never really do any sort of permanent damage—not even if you throw it in someone’s face—but their eyes will sting quite a bit, and the stink will drive them away.
When Hermione pressed him for more information on how exactly he knew this, he’d been incredibly evasive.
Now, standing in the middle of her room, holding the unexpected letter, Hermione’s mind is a big jumble. She can’t stop thinking of dung bombs and slugs.
She tries instead to focus on the present. Every time the delicate paper trembles in her hand, the pattern wiggles, casting rainbow-colored sparks a few centimeters into the air.
It's excessive. It's flamboyant.
It makes her think of one person only.
Her crush.
She sits on her bed, then changes her mind and takes a seat at her desk. The next several minutes are spent painstakingly working the flap loose, careful not to tear the paper. Her name is printed on it in great big swirly letters—not unlike his signature at the beginning and end of every one of his books.
She always reads his author's notes, his preface, his dedication, and spends quite a bit of time staring at the back cover, where his moving image winks and smiles endlessly.
And now, on the most romantic day of the year, he'd written her a letter?
He must know she’s his biggest fan!
After what feels like hours, the flap breaks loose. She carefully extracts the folded letter, then presses the empty envelope between the pages of her diary for safekeeping.
Then—and only then—does she unfold the letter.
Dear Hermione,
I think you're really clever and it's a shame I don't say it more often.
You're also very nice, and one of my favorite people to talk to.
I'm glad I know you.
Love,
Your secret admirer
PS. I like your red ribbons when you braid your hair.
Hermione can hardly believe it.
She reads it once, then twice, then thrice, then puts it down. Picks it back up, reads it again.
Love?
He signed it love. He called himself her secret admirer.
She needs to lie down. She stands, then immediately sits back down, restlessly fidgeting in her chair. She fiddles with the letter, not quite able to put it away, and begins to look for clues.
The handwriting is too neat to be any boy in her class—it's filled with all sorts of squiggles and loops, and there's not a single misspelling or grammatical error, unlike when she proofreads Ron and Harry's essays—especially Ron's. His handwriting, spelling, and grammar are all horrendous. Just yesterday, she caught him misspelling the word scroll.
Only an adult would be able to write this well, and an accomplished one at that. One who's used to signing autographs…
Seized with a sudden idea, Hermione carefully places the letter on the corner of her desk. Then she digs around in her bag, pulling out her most recently graded essays—from Flitwick, Snape, and him. And then, to be absolutely scientific, she pulls out her last Transfiguration scroll as well.
One by one, she unrolls every essay but his and examines the notes in the margins. Flitwick's handwriting is curvy and loopy, yes, but it lacks the elegance of her secret admirer's. Snape's handwriting is almost blocky, and doesn't waste any time on loops or flourishes at all. McGonagall's handwriting is similarly sharp, and then finally—finally—his.
All curves and loops and flourishes.
Professor Lockhart.
Her admirer.
-
Dressing the next morning is a serious affair.
Hermione wakes up extra early to wash and condition her hair, and after executing an almost perfect drying charm, braids it into two neat plaits, weaving Gryffindor-red ribbons through each one and tying them off in little bows.
She even digs through her trunk to find the tinted chapstick her mother bought her over the summer—strawberry scented, apparently—and smears some on her lips. She doesn't know how much it does for her appearance. Her nose has gotten larger recently, and so have her ears, which doesn't exactly make her look pretty. Then there's the matter of her bunny teeth, which she'd begged her parents to shave down, to no avail.
Her mum insists her face is still growing, that she's already very pretty, and that she'll become prettier still—though Hermione finds this doubtful. She looks at her tinted lips, dissatisfied, but eventually abandons the mirror. No use fixating—there's nothing more to be done.
She briefly considers asking Lavender or Parvati for help, but that will surely result in an interrogation as to why the bookish Hermione Granger is suddenly interested in blue eyeshadow the day after Valentine's Day, so she decides against it.
When Hermione enters the Great Hall for breakfast, she scans the staff table for any sign of her admirer's signature blond coif. His usual seat is vacant, and the egg bar he often frequents equally so. Eventually, she accepts defeat and trudges toward Harry and Ron.
Harry's too busy trying to finish his Defense Against the Dark Arts homework to properly look up at her, but Ron stares, wide eyed, looking so pink that Hermione worries he's taken ill.
After assuring her that he has not even the slightest sniffle, they fall into a prolonged silence.
Then Ron clears his throat.
“Your hair,” he says vaguely, motioning to his own ginger hair, still messy from bed.
Hermione considers chastising him for not even bothering to brush it this morning, but with Professor Lockhart missing, she doesn’t have the heart for it.
She nods without really registering what he’d said, picking at her sausages.
After another moody silence, Ron clears his throat again.
Hermione narrows her eyes at him. “Are you sure you aren’t ill?”
“I’m not!”
“Why do you think Professor Lockhart didn’t come to breakfast?” Hermione suddenly asks, forgetting to grill Ron on the state of his health.
“How should I know?” he answers hotly.
“I don’t know!” Hermione snaps. “I’m just asking!”
“I don’t know why you like him, to be honest. He’s about as thick as a bag of bricks, and likely wouldn’t recognize a gnome from a troll’s arse-end—”
“Ron!” Hermione shrieks, intensely irritated.
That’s her secret admirer he’s talking about!
Ron falls silent after that, and they eat without speaking until it’s time to leave for their first lesson.
They march together toward the dungeons for Potions, and slowly the crowd of students thins out enough for Hermione to ask in a low voice:
"Notice anything unusual lately?"
She’s wondering if Harry had heard anything strange around the castle again. She'd been very busy lately trying to figure out where the voices he’s been hearing could be coming from, reading all sorts of books in the library until Madame Pince forces her to go to bed.
"What do you mean?" Harry asks, squinting at Hermione's face, then at her worn satchel. "You got a new bag or something?"
"No, I meant—" she begins to explain, but Ron cuts in.
"You've got—" He motions toward his mouth. "Er…"
Hermione swipes at her mouth, slightly embarrassed that she has a milk mustache, or perhaps a crumb of toast dangling from her nostril.
"Did I get it?"
"No—Er. I meant—pink. On your lips—"
The tips of his ears turn bright red, and Hermione's cheeks flush as well when she realizes he’s noticed her tinted chapstick.
Oh God. It must look horrible if he thinks it's food waste that he needs to warn her about!
Hermione quickly wipes it all off on her sleeve, and thanks Ron.
He's being a good friend.
Ron mumbles his reply, strangely unable to meet her eye, before abruptly walking off toward the loo.
-
That evening, Hermione sits in the library, a bit forlorn, as she re-reads her secret admirer letter for what feels like the thousandth time.
She had been a wreck in Defense Against the Dark Arts today. She could hardly pay attention, and her frustration had grown with every passing minute that Professor Lockhart didn’t look her way.
She couldn't understand it. She'd done her hair exactly how he said he liked it. She'd sat front and center as always, never taking her eyes off of him, copying his every word in her notebook. She'd even stayed after class to ask questions about his adventures hunting vampires in Romania, but he'd seemed like—well, it had almost appeared as if he’d been distracted—and he'd lost interest in what she was saying completely when an older student walked in, reporting between giggles that she was ready for her detention for her skirt being too short.
Hermione's brilliant mind couldn't understand it. How could her secret admirer pay more attention to a rule breaker than the object of his affection? For surely he admired her because she never broke the rules if she could help it, and she always wrote four inches more than any professor required—
"Hermione?"
Her head snaps up to her name, and she locks eyes with Ron. She's too startled to put the letter away immediately. Then she jumps into action, stomach in knots, wrestling with the envelope to get the flimsy paper back inside it.
"What's that?" he asks, moving closer.
"Nothing!" Hermione almost yelps, terrified he'll try to read it.
She’s too anxious to notice Ron's blush coloring his pale skin, or catch the way he keeps casting nervous glances at the stacks, either.
"What? Is it a love letter or something?" he jokes weakly.
"Of course not, Ronald!"
Finally, she manages to tuck the letter safely away.
"Don't be angry—" Ron holds up his hands in surrender. "I just wanted to study a bit before bed."
She narrows her eyes, instantly suspicious. "Study?"
"Finish my potions essay," Ron amends sheepishly.
"Alright."
Hermione returns to her work, trying to appear poised as she works on her transfiguration essay, due in just two weeks. Their potions essay is due tomorrow, so she finished that about five days ago.
"Hey, Hermione.”
She looks up. Ron slides his essay toward her.
“Do you mind…? I feel like I'm on the right track, but…"
Hermione rolls her eyes.
"Fine."
Ron grins, his familiar dimples appearing, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. Hermione looks down quickly, a little unsettled by the swoop of her stomach just at that moment. She forces her mind to concentrate, scanning the title of his essay, her quill hovering over the parchment.
What…?
"Ron," she says slowly, trying to keep the accusation out of her tone. "This isn't your handwriting."
Ron laughs. "No."
"And there's no misspellings…"
"It's great right?" He grins, leaning back in his chair, twirling his quill—which Hermione only just now notices is new. Ron waves the peacock feather in the air, and Hermione immediately notices the nub looks sharper than she's ever seen before.
"But how… It looks like… Professor Lockhart writes this way too—"
Ron scowls. "Don’t compare me to that knob."
"Ron!"
"Sorry. But he is! I have no idea why you have a crush on him. He's an idiot, Hermione—"
"Ron!" Hermione scolds again, now growing genuinely irritated. "Don't disparage a professor."
And then, she adds—"and in the library too!"
Ron, ambivalent to the sanctity of the library, doesn’t apologize.
He does, however, lean forward. He comes close enough that she’s able to catch a faint whiff of his spearmint toothpaste, and surprisingly, the scent of freshly mown grass. Her eyes flick down to his shoulders, where she spots faded grass stains on his uniform.
How messy! Ron really needs to take better care of his things. He's always rolling around on the lawn with his brothers, having stupid wrestling contests instead of studying—
"Hermione," Ron interrupts her train of thought, his gaze intense.
Oh.
Hermione had never noticed before just how blue his eyes are. This close up, she can actually make out the flecks of grey within them, giving them an almost penetrating air, like a stormy sky over a turbulent sea.
"Hmm?" she says, her voice much softer than she means it to be.
Ron holds up his quill. "This is my new quill. It makes my handwriting look nicer and spells everything correctly, and even adds in missed commas."
"Oh…"
Ron lets that information hang in the air between them. The tension is confusing—Hermione looks from the quill to Ron, then back to the quill, her mind floating somewhere between the letter, Lockhart, and her surprisingly-beautiful-eyed friend.
Had Ron gotten taller? Well, probably—they were all growing after all. But had his hair always been so—so—red? Perhaps the lack of sun during the Scottish winter had deepened its color, and that's what was making Ron's eyes look so vibrant today.
And then, a lightbulb goes off in Hermione's head.
Of course.
"Oh,” she exclaims, “I see now."
Ron sits back instantly, suddenly pale.
"You do?"
"Yes, of course. Now it all makes sense."
Her eyes dart over to her diary where the letter remains hidden, and Ron follows her gaze, paling even further.
"Hermione, I—"
"You bought Professor Lockhart's quill, didn't you? The same one he uses?"
Ron is silent for a moment, and some of the color returns to his face. Inexplicably, he looks almost depressed when he answers.
"It's a pretty popular quill,” he mumbles, picking at a splinter on the table.
"Is it?" Hermione asks, heart again sinking.
Ron snatches his essay back, and while Hermione would usually lecture him about politeness—or his lack thereof—she’s too disappointed to care.
"I'll just—I think I'll just try to finish before you take a look at it, if that's okay," he mutters, bending over it again.
"Okay…"
Hermione sits with her friend for the rest of the evening, the two of them scratching away at their parchments quietly. They share a single ink pot, wedged into the space between their books, which Hermione accuses Ron of dipping into far too often, and which he stoutly denies.
Slowly the library grows still, the candles begin to dim, before outright flickering to signal their fast approaching curfew.
On their walk back to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione unwinds her braids, pulling the ribbons loose so her hair can finally tumble free. She stuffs her red ribbons into her bag before weaving her fingers through the thick waves, massaging every tender cowlick.
Ron walks beside her quietly, hands jammed in his pockets, his bag slapping against his back with every step.
"Sore scalp?" he asks.
"I think I did my braids too tight. I probably ought to have pulled them out sooner."
They continue without speaking again until they reach the portrait hole.
There, they’re met with the disapproving stare of the Fat Lady. It’s already five past curfew, so Hermione feels instantly guilty. She opens her mouth to say the password quickly, eager to avoid the painting’s censure, when Ron speaks first, preventing their escape.
“Will you braid your hair again tomorrow?”
Hermione's brows furrow. The question is innocent enough, but here in the deserted corridor, with the torchlights throwing long shadows over them, the castle quiet and calm, and Ron’s tone so serious, it feels almost bizarrely intimate.
Naturally, she becomes a bit defensive.
“Why do you ask?”
Ron shrugs. "No reason. Flobberworms."
The portrait swings open, and he steps inside first. Hermione follows.
Harry's waiting for them by the fire, tired and muddy from Quidditch practice.