Hermione Granger woke from a deep, restful sleep, and was done with her morning rituals before any of her dormmates even woke.

She hadn’t set an alarm, she was simply an early riser, being able to wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at six every morning, as long as she didn’t stay up too late the night before.

At 6:30, she headed down to the common room, wondering if she should go wake Harry up so that they could grab breakfast together, or if it would be better to go by herself.

She didn’t want to seem clingy, after all, and her mum had told her that boys her age didn’t really like to hang out with girls too much, since they didn’t want to seem effeminate.

...

It would probably be better for her to go by herself, she decided. Harry was the only friend she currently had, it wouldn’t do to make him feel the need to pull away (especially since the thought of having to befriend any of the girls in her dorm made her a little wary, since it seemed like all they wanted to do was ask her uncomfortable questions about her “relationship” with Harry).

“Ohayō,” Harry said from beside her as she entered the common room, and Hermione jumped.

“Harry! What are you doing here?”

He looked at her like she had said something weird. “Waiting for you, obviously. Wanna go get breakfast?”

“Yes. Okay,” she said, and Harry led the way.

Hermione really should have realized by now that Harry Potter was not like other boys.

After the portrait swung closed behind them, Harry turned to The Fat Lady and said, “good morning.”

“Good morning to you too, Harry,” The Fat Lady replied. “Did you enjoy your first night in Hogwarts?”

“Yeah, it was great. The beds are crazy soft; I almost overslept.”

The Fat Lady smiled. “Looks like you woke up early enough,” she said.

Harry shrugged, then said, “oh yeah, I forgot to ask you last night. Do you have a name?”

The woman paused, and Hermione frowned. Why would Harry ask a question like that? The Fat Lady obviously isn’t a real person, she’s just a simulacrum of one. Of course she wouldn’t have a name.

Then The Fat Lady smiled at Harry with some powerful emotion glittering in her eyes and said, “my name is Jolene, Harry. Thank you for asking.”

Hermione missed whatever Harry said in return, because her blood had run cold. “You have a name?” She asked.

The Fat Lady, Jolene, rolled her eyes. “Of course I have a name,” she said. “You didn’t think us paintings don’t have names, did you?”

Yes, she had. Of course, she had. What else was she supposed to think?

“So—” Hermione licked her suddenly dry lips “—does that mean that you’re all real people in there?” She asked, dreading the answer.

“Of course, we are,” The Fat Jolene replied, then asked, “Are you a muggleborn?”

“What—how was that relevant!? You’re trapped in a painting!” Hermione near-shouted in horror.

“Well, from my perspective, you’re trapped in a painting, you know?” Jolene said casually, and Hermione had to pause at that.

“What?”

“Think about it, Hermione,” Harry said. “From her perspective she’s looking out her window, or maybe into a painting, and seeing us here. In her eyes, we’re the ones trapped in this world.”

Trapped in this world? “But she’s two-dimensional.”

“Why, I never!” The Fat Lady said, insulted.

Hermione reeled. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to insult you, I just...” she stopped and took a breath. “I’m sorry. Like you said, I’m a muggleborn. Magic is all so new to me and I’m having trouble understanding your point of view. I really am sorry.”

Jolene still looked somewhat annoyed, but she said, “oh, that’s quite alright, dear. I suppose I was a bit too harsh myself.”

“Thanks, Jolene,” Harry said, thankfully keeping everything from becoming awkward. “We’ll be heading down for breakfast now.”

“Very well. Take care you two.”

Hermione and Harry waved as they walked away, but the girl still had the thoughts on her mind.

“Are you sure she wasn’t brainwashed?” She asked Harry. “Maybe whoever put her in there cast a spell on her to make her okay with being trapped.”

Harry stared at her. “What happened to being sorry and trying to understand her point of view?” He asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Like Harry had never heard of fibbing before. “Harry, that woman has been imprisoned in a painting and brainwashed to think she’s okay with it, we have to—”

“Okay,” Harry cut in, “let me just stop you right there. How about before we go around freeing all the poor people in the paintings, we do some actual research to see if they need it? You know, like scientists. Instead of Facebook conspiracy theorists.”

Hermione frowned. “What’s Facebook?”

“Irrelevant.” Harry waved away the question. “However, do tell your parents that if they ever get the opportunity to invest in a company named Facebook they should definitely take it. Google too. But, like I said, irrelevant. Anyway, back to this painting business. Hermione, the Magical World has an arseload of sentient and semi-sentient objects hanging around. Hell, in Hogwarts alone, between the paintings, the statues, the suits of armour—”

Wait, the what?

“—The Sorting Hat,” Harry paused. “Damn it, I forgot to ask The Sorting Hat his name. How did I forget this? It was like the first thing I wanted to say.”

“It’s Nilrem,” Hermione said.

“Huh? What is what?”

“The Sorting Hat; his name is Nilrem.”

Harry gave her a long look. “You asked The Sorting Hat his name?”

There was something about the way he said it, like the possibility of her doing such a thing never even occurred to him, that annoyed her a little bit. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

“What? No, no, I just... I just never imagined you would, I guess,” Harry said with a pensive frown. “Huh. Why did you ask him?”

She was about to give some throwaway response like “why wouldn’t I?” when she actually thought about it for longer than a second and wondered, why had she asked Nilrem his name?

Thinking back on it now, she realised that she hadn’t been the least bit curious about it. She hadn’t even thought the old hat had a name, and yet, somehow, she’d asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted finally. “I just... did.”

Breakfast was served in Hogwarts from 6:15am-7:45am on the weekdays. The dishes appeared at 6:15 on the dot, and everything, aside from pitchers of water and some beverages, disappeared at exactly 7:45, therefore, when Hermione and Harry arrived at The Great Hall at 6:45, breakfast had technically been in session for thirty minutes, even though there were only a handful of people present yet.

The children sat at the Gryffindor table and served themselves, and as they began to eat, Hedwig swooped down to them.

The owl dropped a folded newspaper on the table before Hermione, before she perched and began to drink from Harry’s cup of water.

The boy stared at his familiar with visible disgust. “Please, tell me you brushed your beak this morning,” he implored, and Hedwig of course ignored him.

Hermione picked up the newspaper. It was that morning’s edition of The Daily Prophet, and she found that it was the lightest newspaper she’d ever seen, with just three sheets of paper when spread out at the center.

The headline on the front page read, Beloved Hero & Acclaimed Author, Gilderoy Lockhart, Awarded Order of Merlin, Third Class.

The accompanying image was a magical photograph of a handsome man with a roguish smile that exposed very white teeth.

The man in the image winked at her and Hermione blushed.

“So, uh, Hedwig,” Harry said conversationally, “you mind telling us where you got the newspaper?”

Hermione blinked. “Where did she get the newspaper?” She asked Harry.

“I have no idea.” Harry shrugged, unperturbed. “Knowing Hedwig though, she probably murdered some poor owl and stole it off her corpse.”

“Harry!”

“Relax, Hermione. Hedwig’s smart enough to wipe her tracks.”

“Harry!” She chastised again, but she was laughing now.

“What? It’s either that or the slammer, Hermione.” A dramatic pause. “And she’s never going back.”

Getting her laughter under control, the girl said, “they don’t make jails for birds, Harry.”

“Well, no, not yet,” the boy agreed. “But with the recent rise in homicidal owls, I can assure you that there’s a growing demand.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind him, Hedwig,” she said. “I know you’re a good bird. You wouldn’t do anything illegal.”

The owl gave her a look.

“You wouldn’t, right?” She asked, voice suddenly less sure.

The owl went back to eating.

“You were saying?” The Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Her asked, and Hermione quietly set the paper as far away from herself as she could, and went back to her meal.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

An influx of students strode into the hall then, and Hermione looked up to see a small group of Slytherins, which included Draco Malfoy and his two... friends (?), as well as the two girls Harry had kept from entering their boat yesterday, Daphne and Tracey.

Daphne looked in her direction, and their eyes met. Hermione quickly looked away.

She still felt terrible about what Harry had done to the girl and her friend yesterday at the lake. She wished she could apologize. After all, it wasn’t like Harry would ever do it, she thought staring at the boy.

“I can feel your eyes burning holes in my 💀 skull, Hermione,” Harry said without looking from his plate. “What up?”

She almost didn’t say anything. Not after she’d already decided there was no point.

“I think you should apologize. To Daphne and Tracey. You were very rude to them yesterday.”

Instead of a joke, or a diversion, or any of the thousand different responses she expected, Hermione got a pensive frown instead.

“You’re right,” Harry said finally. “That wasn’t really my finest moment, was it? I guess, it’s a little hard sometimes remembering that people are much more than just words on paper.”

Huh?

“Make sure Hedwig doesn’t eat all my food, will you?” He asked, then, to her surprise, rose and walked over to the Slytherin table.

Hermione didn’t really hear what was said, but at one point, many eyes from the Slytherin table glanced at her, Malfoy adding his trademark sneer to his. Harry even turned and waved.

Maybe she didn’t quite think this through.

After a minute, Harry returned, smiling pleasantly. That was never a good sign.

“So,” Harry said as he sat, “I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news.”

“What’s the bad news?” She asked immediately.

Harry sighed. “This is why I don’t work with pessimists,” he muttered. “The good news, is that Daphne seems to have forgiven me, and Tracey has even stopped holding a grudge since yesterday.”

“And the bad?”

“Well, the bad is why she stopped holding a grudge. See, she said, and I quote ‘it’s fine. But next time, just say you want to be alone with your girlfriend instead of acting like a jerk.’”

...

“No.” Hermione shook her head in denial.

“Yes.” Harry nodded with a smile.

*****

The first-years had two classes on Mondays, Transfiguration and Defence, and despite the events of that morning, or perhaps because of them, Hermione was so excited/nervous for the lesson, that she made sure they were there by 7:40.

Which made them twenty minutes early.

The classroom was large, empty, and set up like a lecture hall, with seating for three arranged on steps that climbed over six levels at the very back. And Hermione and Harry... well, actually, Hermione picked a seat at the very front of the empty classroom, and they settled in.

“Looks like Prof. McGonagall isn’t here yet,” Hermione mused out loud.

She wondered where the professor was, seeing as the older woman had left The Great Hall several minutes before they had. Maybe she had some other engagement to attend to.

“Maybe she had to go number two.” Harry shrugged.

“Harry! That’s disgusting.”

“Uh, no, it’s a natural, biological process, and it would be really weird if she didn’t do it.”

“Well, we’re not talking about our professor’s... processes, Harry.”

The infuriating boy just laughed.

Over time, the class slowly filled, as first-years from all houses came in twos and threes, and sometimes more.

Within that time, Hermione prepared for the upcoming class, setting out her quills, an inkpot, and some parchment to take notes on.

At her behest for him to do the same, Harry fished in his bag and pulled out a muggle notebook and pen.

Hermione gave him a sour look, the innocent expression on his face not fooling her for one second.

“Must you cause trouble with everything?” She asked, darn near exasperated.

“I’m pretty sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry replied.

Hermione Granger, being the bigger person, gracefully ignored him.

At eight on the dot, a tabby cat trotted in, and the door closed behind it.

The cat climbed Prof. McGonagall’s desk, all eyes on it, then it leapt, and transformed mid-air into the dignified form of Prof. McGonagall.

Almost everyone gasped.

Harry didn’t, but Hermione could tell from the glint in his eyes that he was impressed.

“Settle down, everyone,” Prof. McGonagall said, and the students obeyed. “I am Prof. McGonagall, and I will be teaching you Transfiguration for the duration of your schooling at Hogwarts. For your first lesson, we’ll start with—”

Harry raised a hand, and the professor’s eyes homed in on him.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?”

“Sorry for interrupting, professor, but I’m really curious and there’s very little information about this in the bookstores in Diagon Alley. Anyway, your animagus form, does it affect your human one at all? Like, does the fact that you’re a cat animagus make you like fish more, or have a better sense of balance or something?”

Prof. McGonagall eyed the boy. “And what brought on this interest in animagic, Mr. Potter? You wouldn’t be planning to attempt it, would you?”

“Never,” Harry said without missing a beat. “My interest is purely academic.”

Hermione decided then and there that Prof. McGonagall must be a very smart woman, because she didn’t look like she believed Harry at all.

She was willing to play along however, because she began an impromptu lecture, speaking to the entire class instead of just Harry. “Animagic is one of the most advanced forms of Transfiguration. Also one of the most dangerous.” She shot Harry a warning look. He smiled placidly in return. “Even the smallest mistake can leave you permanently trapped in a form that is half-beast and half-human, and it is very easy to make a mistake. Do not attempt it on your own, even if you learn how; not only do you risk permanent disfigurement, being an unlicensed animagus is a crime punishable by time in Azkaban. Am I clear?”

Everyone, Hermione and Harry included, replied with an obedient “yes, professor.”

“Good. Now for today’s lesson, you all will be attempting one of the simplest transfiguration spells available, a spell that was invented by our very own Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, back when he taught Transfiguration here at Hogwarts. Before that however, it is important that you learn the basics of The Art of Transfiguration itself, as well as some rules to this branch of magic...” And with that Prof. McGonagall launched into her lecture.

It was a long lecture; lasted over an hour, and Hermione did her best to keep up with her notetaking. But despite the hours of practice she had put into learning to use a quill (practice that showed, considering she was the best with a quill in the class among all those who hadn’t grown up in the Magical World), the constant dipping, and the need to write softly, and the rare, but too frequent, accidental inkblots were starting to grate on her.

Harry offered her a spare pen.

The clear superiority in his expression was galling, but the smile he gave her when she took the pen and muttered “thanks” wasn’t.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Prof. McGonagall talked about many things. About how powerful, and wondrous and dangerous The Art of Transfiguration could be, and how much like developing a physical skill, one could build ‘muscle memory’ for magic too. And that was why spells like the one they would be learning today were important to start their education with because they took little skill to cast, and the repercussions, in the event of failure, were much less dangerous for other spells.

Some of it were things Hermione had gleaned from her personal study, but there was much more that she hadn’t known, and from the lecture, Hermione suspected that Prof. McGonagall was only just scraping the surface.

Eventually, the lecture wound down, and Prof. McGonagall asked if anyone had questions. There were a few, but Hermione and Harry had none, and soon the class moved to the practical aspect.

Like most basic Transfiguration spells, the spell they were learning today had no official name; it was simply called the Matchstick to Needle Transfiguration spell, and was one of the many like it that had been invented by the Headmaster.

“Now, everyone,” Prof. McGonagall said when everybody had a few boxes of magically-delivered matches before them. “Remember, this spell has no required wand-motion, so try not to move your wand around when you cast. If you must do something with your wand touch it to the matchstick. The incantation is acus.”

Several cries of “acus” rang out in the classroom as Hermione attempted the spell herself.

“Acus,” she said, tapping her wand-tip to the matchstick, and it transformed into a perfect needle.

She was pleased, she had never attempted that spell before.

“Excellent work, Miss Granger, Mr. Potter,” Prof. McGonagall said from halfway across the classroom where Hermione had thought she was keeping an eye on some Hufflepuffs. “Five points each to Gryffindor.”

Hermione beamed, then looked at Harry, who also had a perfect needle in front of him.

Their first points! They just won their first points!

Almost like he could hear her thoughts, Harry rolled his eyes at her. “Wipe that stupid grin off your face,” he said, but not unkindly.

Ronald Weasley, who was sitting behind them with Neville, craned his head to look at their work. “You got it already? Great,” he muttered petulantly, then proceeded to attempt to transfigure his matchstick by poking it as hard as he could with his wand.

Hermione was about to tell him he was doing it wrong, when a small explosion erupted farther back in the classroom, and Prof. McGonagall rushed over to see what had gone wrong.

By the time Hermione looked back to their own table, Harry had apparently begun some kind of impromptu art project.

“What are you doing?” She asked, watching as he transfigured another matchstick and used the sticking charm to attach it to another needle.

“Making a spider,” Harry said and pushed his notebook toward her, where she saw a very rough drawing of a large spider.

She wanted to tell him to stop. That they definitely should not be doing this in Prof. McGonagall’s class, but instead, she made a new, better drawing on the opposite page.

“You missed a few things,” she said. “Spiders only have two body parts; a cephalothorax and an abdomen, and their legs are more spread out. Which species were you planning to make?”

They quickly fell into a rhythm, turning matchsticks to needles with Hermione directing where to stick them together. And slowly the arachnid came into shape. First with the cephalothorax, then the abdomen, all of it a hollow network of needles that was literally held together by magic.

They used beads for eyes, beads they transfigured from small balls of paper (another of the beginner transfiguration spells), and by the end, Hermione had to admit that, while not a masterpiece by any means, their sculpture was quite beautiful in a weird, silly way.

And then she looked up and saw Prof. McGonagall watching them.

Oh bother.

“Practicing the spell, I see,” the woman observed.

“Yup,” Harry said, perfectly unbothered. “And we figured, ‘why not make it interesting?’”

“I see,” the professor said, as Hermione began to panic a little.

Prof. McGonagall was going to take points. She was going to take points because they were distracted in her class, and Hermione would have lost Gryffindor points.

“If you can animate it, I’ll give you both twenty points to Gryffindor,” Prof. McGonagall waited a beat. “Each.”

Hermione blinked, then she and Harry stared at each other.

“Wait, when you say animate, do you mean—”

“A basic animation spell will suffice, Mr. Potter,” Prof. McGonagall assured. “No need to risk anything advanced.”

Hermione and Harry stared at each other again.

“There is that Year two animation spell,” Harry suggested.

“Augurs’ Animation spell,” Hermione agreed. “Animates any object in the likeness of an animal to be that animal, without transmuting any of its material aspects.”

Harry nodded. “You should cast it,” he said. “You’re more likely to get it on the first try.”

“I’ve seen your spellwork, Harry. You can cast spells I never even think of.”

“Together then,” the boy said.

They readied their wands. Performed the wand-motion, two quick flicks, carefully, then incanted, “animato.”

Nothing happened, and the disappointment Hermione felt was much more than she’d thought she would feel.

Then the spider twitched. Once. Twice. Then it skittered forward, its pointy, metallic legs making rapid clicking sounds on the table.

Ron moaned piteously behind her. “Did it have to be a spider?” He asked.

Hermione turned, and noticed that he and Neville, as well most of the class was watching.

With a few flicks of her wand, Prof. McGonagall conjured a big, glass box around the spider, which the creature kept bumping into the walls of.

“Looks like our spider’s lacking in the brain department,” Harry observed.

“As promised, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger. Twenty points each to Gryffindor.”

The Gryffindors cheered. The Slytherins scowled, and some even muttered about favoritism. And while the look of pride Prof. McGonagall gave her pleased her greatly, for some reason, it was Harry’s smile that stuck to her mind the most.

Maybe the boy wasn’t all bad, she decided.

*****

Harry was acting strange.

Well, strange-er.

It was lunch time, and the class they had next was Defence, and it seemed like the closer it got to the start of that period, the more nervous, and withdrawn Harry became.

Hermione couldn’t understand it. She hadn’t known Harry could get nervous or withdrawn.

Right as she decided to bite the bullet and ask, Harry spoke.

“Do you know I almost didn’t come?” He asked, then stared at her. “To Hogwarts,” he clarified.

What!?

“Why?”

“You have no idea how many times I considered cleaning out my vault and just disappearing into the wind,” he said, seemingly not hearing her question. “The desire was so strong sometimes.”

Hermione tried to understand what Harry was saying.

Finally, because she thought she might understand better if she did, she asked, “why did you come? If you didn’t want to.”

Harry smiled at her, and it was one of his mischievous ones. “To meet you,” he said. “Why else would I come?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and went back to her meal, but even though she did, she didn’t discount any of the things he’d said.

Well, except for the last one. That one was obviously just him pulling her leg.

The closer they got to the Defence classroom, the more withdrawn Harry became. He tried to hide it. Tried to act like his former behaviour had all been one big prank, but she caught the deep, arming breath he took before he stepped into Prof. Quirrel’s classroom, and she didn’t think the strong smell of garlic everywhere was why he did it.

As the class carried on, Harry never said a word and barely took any notes, and Hermione noticed that he never looked at Prof. Quirrel directly, not even when the man’s back was turned.

On the professor’s own part Hermione didn’t notice anything odd, besides of course the fact that the man who was supposed to teach them to protect themselves, looked like he would pass out at the sight of his own shadow.

It was frustrating, because there was clearly something wrong with her friend and she had no idea what it was, or how she could help.

Which was why sometime during the lesson, Hermione reached out with her left hand under the table and took Harry’s right, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

And it was a very good thing Harry turned out to be ambidextrous, because he never let go.