Hermione Granger had long ago made peace with the fact that she did not belong.
Not in the easy way other children did—fitting together like puzzle pieces, laughing over silly jokes and trading stories about television shows she never watched.
Her place was somewhere else. Somewhere smaller, quieter, tucked behind a library shelf or a classroom door that she locked behind her.
People called her names sometimes. Swot. Know-it-all. Teacher's pet.
But she thought of herself as something simpler: a girl who liked to learn.
She was the top student in nearly every subject. Her teachers adored her. She had certificates framed on the hallway bulletin board—Regional Science Competition Winner, Young Historian Award, Essay Laureate.
And still, in the crowded hallways, she was invisible.
The worst part wasn't even the teasing. It was when other children pretended to be her friend—only to reveal, days later, that they wanted something from her.
Could you help me with my maths revision?
Do you think you could write my essay?
Oh, Hermione—let's sit together—so you can explain the assignment…
And when she finally, finally learned to say no—she was alone again.
She'd told herself she didn't mind.
That as long as she had books, she was fine.
And most days, that was true.
But when the boys had shoved her that morning, when her precious copy of The Hobbit had landed on the stones, she'd felt something twist in her chest that had nothing to do with bruises.
Then…her shoelace trick had happened.
She'd never meant to do it. She hadn't wanted to hurt him. But the magic had come unbidden, the way it sometimes did—like a surge of heat in her palms and a crackle in her ears.
Her parents had warned her—Never, never tell anyone. Never show them what you can do.
So she'd stood there, heart hammering, and waited for the world to collapse.
Instead, a boy had crouched down beside her and helped her pick up her books.
He hadn't laughed. He hadn't flinched.
He'd looked at her like she was… normal.
She couldn't remember the last time anyone had done that.
---
They sat together on the edge of the football pitch, watching the match as if they had done it a thousand times before.
Hermione balanced her books on her knees, sneaking glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking.
Harry Potter.
He was an odd sort. He wore a thoughtful, slightly sad expression, like someone listening to a song only he could hear.
And she knew, with a certainty she could not explain, that he was like her.
Different.
He caught her staring and gave her a shy smile.
"You don't really like football, do you?" he asked softly.
Hermione blinked. "Not especially."
"I decide to let normal students play for school," he admitted.
She couldn't help a small laugh. " Are you not normal?"
He shrugged, looking out over the green field where their classmates thundered back and forth. "Are you?."
"I am not either," she said before she could stop herself.
Harry turned to look at her fully, his gaze searching but gentle.
"Do you ever feel like you're…playing along?" he asked.
She swallowed. No one had ever asked her that before.
"All the time," she whispered.
They fell silent, the crowd roaring as someone scored a goal. Hermione glanced down at her battered copy of The Hobbit and found her hands had stopped trembling.
It was strange. She hadn't even realized she'd been frightened until she wasn't anymore.
She opened her mouth, feeling braver than she had in ages.
"You know," she began, "I usually sit by myself. And I don't mind, really. But…thank you. For sitting here."
Harry nodded, not saying anything for a moment. Then he leaned closer.
"You looked like you needed someone," he said quietly.
Her throat felt tight.
Another cheer rose from the field, but Hermione hardly noticed.
She knew she shouldn't trust people so easily. Her parents said she was too quick to offer help, too quick to forgive, too quick to believe the best.
And yet…
When Harry Potter had introduced himself, there had been no calculation in his eyes. No sly curiosity about her school marks or her reputation.
It was as if he'd looked right past all of it and simply seen her.
And she was tired of being invisible.
So she had invited him to sit beside her.
And he had said yes.
Later, when the match ended and the players flooded back toward the bus, Hermione gathered her books into her satchel. She felt lighter somehow, as if someone had lifted a stone from her chest.
She looked up to find Harry watching her.
"Are you going back to your school?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said. "You?"
"My mum's picking me up," she said, gesturing toward the car park. She hesitated. "Will I…will I see you again?"
Harry smiled in that quiet, serious way of his.
"I hope so."
She didn't know what he meant—how he was part of a world she hadn't even guessed existed, where the word witch was a birthright instead of an insult whispered behind her back.
All she knew was that, for the first time in a very long while, she felt like she had met someone who understood her without needing any explanation.
When she climbed into her mother's car, Hermione looked out the window one last time.
Harry was standing near the bus, hands in his pockets, watching her go.
She lifted her hand in a small wave.
He lifted his in return.
And as her mother pulled away, Hermione pressed her palm to the cool glass and smiled.
Maybe, she thought, different isn't so terrible after all.
Hermione had never expected the phone to ring for her.
Not unless it was a classmate wanting to ask about homework or a teacher calling to commend her for an essay.
Certainly never a boy.
Especially not him.
It was two days after the match when it happened. She was curled on the sofa, her knees tucked under her cardigan, her copy of The Hobbit balanced on her legs. She was almost at the end—Bilbo was finally returning to the Shire—and she was so absorbed she didn't hear the phone ring at all.
But her mother's voice broke her reverie.
"Hermione!"
Hermione jumped, the book nearly tumbling from her lap.
Her mother sounded…strange. Breathless. Excited.
"Coming!" she called, hastily sliding a bookmark between the pages and setting the book aside.
She padded into the narrow hall, where her mother stood holding the receiver as if it might sprout wings and fly away.
"It's for you," Mrs. Granger said in a low, wondering voice. "It's a boy."
Hermione felt heat flood her cheeks. "A boy?"
"He says—he says he's your friend. A Harry Potter?"
Hermione's stomach did a small, startled flip.
Her mother looked at her expectantly.
With trembling fingers, Hermione took the receiver and pressed it to her ear.
"H–hello?" she managed, hoping her voice didn't squeak.
On the other end, there was a pause. Then came a warm, amused voice she recognized instantly.
"Hello, Hermione. Did you already forget me?"
Hermione felt her mouth stretch into the brightest smile she'd worn in months.
"Oh—I did not!" she said quickly. "I was just…thinking about you."
Even as the words slipped out, she flushed bright pink. Thinking about you? Oh, brilliant, Hermione.
But Harry only chuckled softly. "That's good. Because I've been thinking about you, too."
She clutched the receiver tighter, her heart thudding against her ribs.
"But how did you get my number?" she asked, her curiosity bubbling up.
"Funny story," Harry said. "There's a big telephone directory at my place. I looked up Granger. You were the third one I called. I had to ask if they had a daughter named Hermione."
Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a laugh.
"You called strangers just to find me?"
"Yeah," he said simply. "I—I wanted to hear your voice again."
Her breath caught. No one had ever said something like that to her.
They talked for nearly half an hour. About everything and nothing—about the match, about books, about school.
He told her he'd started The Hobbit after she mentioned it. She promised to lend him her battered copy of Watership Down next.
And when the call was winding down, he said, "I'd like to call you sometimes. If that's okay?"
Hermione swallowed, her throat tight with something she couldn't quite name.
"I'd like that," she said softly. "Very much."
"Good," Harry replied. "Then I will."
"Bye, Harry."
"Bye, Hermione."
When she hung up, she stood in the hall for a moment, dazed, the dial tone humming in her ears.
Her mother was watching her with wide, delighted eyes.
"Well?" Mrs. Granger prompted. "Who is this Harry Potter, then?"
Hermione felt her cheeks turn pink again.
"He's…just a boy I met," she said carefully. "At the football match. He's…different."
Her mother's smile was knowing but kind. "He sounds nice."
"He is," Hermione whispered, almost to herself.
And as she picked her book back up—though she was far too distracted now to keep reading—she thought:
Maybe it's not so bad, having a friend.
Even if that friend was a little strange. A little secretive.
Even if he felt, somehow, like a piece of a puzzle she hadn't known she was missing.
Hermione had grown so used to the calls that she almost forgot there had been a time she'd never expected the phone to ring.
Every two or three days, without fail, Harry rang her.
He always started the same way:
"Hi, Hermione. It's me."
She would smile—she couldn't help it—and settle in to listen.
Sometimes they talked about books. Sometimes about football matches or what he was doing in school. Sometimes, quietly, about feeling like they didn't quite belong anywhere.
And more often than not, he'd ask questions about his lessons.
"Fractions are awful," he'd mutter one evening. "Who needs them anyway?"
Hermione would laugh. "Everyone, Harry. You can't just ignore maths because you don't like it."
"Says you," he grumbled, but she could hear the grin in his voice.
Her parents were delighted. They'd started to look forward to the calls almost as much as she did.
"It's nice," her mother said one night as she passed Hermione the receiver. "Hearing you laugh so much."
Hermione flushed, pressing the phone to her ear.
Then one Thursday evening, Harry surprised her.
"Would you like to meet?" he asked, a little hesitant.
Her heart gave a ridiculous little leap.
"You mean…in person?"
"Yes. I'd really like to."
She swallowed, glancing at her parents, who were pretending not to eavesdrop.
"I… I'd like that too," she said carefully.
"My mother and my…sister will come," Harry said. "So your parents don't have to worry."
Hermione relayed that to her parents, who immediately agreed.
"I'd love to meet this boy," her father said, smiling behind his newspaper.
And so they arranged it—Sunday, at Charing Cross Road.
When Sunday morning came, Hermione spent almost an hour fussing with her hair in the mirror, trying to get it to lie flat.
It refused, of course.
In the end, she smoothed her skirt and decided she could live with looking a little untidy.
Her father parked the car carefully along a busy stretch of pavement. Hermione peered out the window and spotted Harry almost at once.
He was standing near a battered old door between two larger shops, hands in his pockets, hair ruffling in the breeze.
He looked…different out here in the city. Older. A little more serious.
And he really was very handsome, she thought in a sudden, embarrassed flush.
Two women stood beside him. One looked about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in a dark jacket and jeans. She had an easy smile and sharp, clever eyes.
But the other—Hermione's breath caught.
She had a face so familiar it was unsettling. Pale, elegant, framed by dark red hair. She didn't look old enough to be Harry's mother. If anything, she looked no older than thirty.
Hermione slipped out of the car, her parents following.
Harry's face brightened as soon as he saw her.
"Hi," he said, sounding shy and pleased all at once.
"Hi," she echoed, trying not to beam too obviously.
Harry gestured to the women. "This is my mum, Lily. And my sister—well, she's sort of like a sister—America."
America grinned and stuck out her hand. "Hi. You must be Hermione."
Hermione took it, feeling a little dazed.
Wanda smiled, too, and her voice was soft and clear. "It's lovely to finally meet you."
Hermione's parents came up behind her, looking relieved that Harry's family was real and not some elaborate prank.
"I'm Richard Granger," her father said, extending a hand to Wanda. "And this is my wife, Anne."
"Thank you for letting Hermione meet us," Wanda said warmly, shaking their hands. "We've heard quite a bit about her."
Hermione felt her ears go pink.
Her father looked around, puzzled. "So…where exactly are we going? I thought perhaps a café or a park—"
Harry glanced at her, then at her parents. "I know this seems odd, but…we're actually here for something special."
"Special?" Anne repeated.
Harry turned and pointed to the battered door behind him. A faded sign swung overhead, paint flaking.
The Leaky Cauldron
Hermione read it aloud, frowning. "Leaky Cauldron?"
Richard squinted. "What are you pointing at, sweetheart?"
Hermione turned to them, bewildered. "The sign. It's right there!"
Her parents exchanged a baffled look.
"I don't see any sign," Anne said gently.
Hermione turned back to Harry. "They can't see it?"
He smiled a little. "That's normal. Only certain people can."
He looked at her parents. "But if you trust me—if you trust us—please follow."
Richard shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not sure—"
But Hermione took Harry's hand without thinking.
"Dad," she said softly, "I trust him."
Her parents hesitated.
Then Anne nodded slowly.
"All right," she murmured.
Harry led them to the door and placed his palm against the wood. With a gentle push, it swung open, revealing a dim, dusty pub crowded with people in strange clothes.
Hermione's breath left her in a soft gasp.
Inside, a witch with a pointed hat swept past carrying a tray of foaming mugs. A man in emerald-green robes sat hunched over a parchment, muttering to himself. The air smelled of smoke and cinnamon.
Her parents stopped dead on the threshold.
"Oh my God," Richard whispered.
"What is this place?" Anne asked faintly.
Hermione turned to Harry, her voice trembling.
"This is real, isn't it?"
He nodded, squeezing her fingers.
"Welcome to the wizarding world," he said.