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Harry Potter was, without a shadow of a doubt, a menace. Not the dangerous kind. Not the kind that made professors whisper nervously in staff meetings or had parents  glance over their shoulders in Diagon Alley. No, Harry Potter was the kind of menace who knew exactly how charming he was and used that knowledge entirely irresponsibly. Raised in the sprawling, affectionate chaos of Godric’s Hollow by James and Lily Potter - with Sirius Black and Remus Lupin permanently occupying the role of extremely questionable uncles - Harry had grown up surrounded by unconditional love, loud laughter and a ridiculous amount of confidence. He had inherited Lily’s brilliant, piercing green eyes, James’s impossible, wind-blown black hair and the unfortunate habit of walking into any given room as though it had been waiting specifically for his arrival. He was naturally talented, wildly popular and devastatingly good on a broom. The absolute worst part of the entire equation was that he was completely aware of it.

"Harry Potter is physically incapable of entering a room normally," Hermione Granger announced to the Gryffindor table one crisp September morning. Ron Weasley looked up from his breakfast, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth, thoroughly confused by the sudden declaration. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Hermione said, slamming her copy of Advanced Rune Translation onto the polished wood hard enough to make the pumpkin juice containers rattle, "that normal people walk into a room. Harry Potter makes an entrance."

Down the long Gryffindor table, Harry caught her glaring and chose that exact moment to lean backwards on his bench. He laughed at something Seamus Finnigan had said, draping one arm over the backrest with an effortless, lazy grace that looked like it belonged in a moving photograph. Hermione narrowed her eyes, gesturing aggressively with her quill. "See?

Ron looked over, shrugging his shoulders, returning his attention to his bacon. "He’s just sitting."

"He knows people are watching him," Hermione insisted, her voice tight.

"People watch him because he’s Harry Potter," Ron reasoned plainly.

"Exactly," Hermione said, her frustration mounting. "It’s unbearable."

Harry, unfortunately, possessed seeker level hearing when it came to his loudest critic. He drifted down the bench, a classic, mocking smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as he caught her eye. "Did you hear that, Seamus?"

"Hear what?" Seamus asked, blinking.

"She thinks I’m unbearable."

"Harry, she’s been telling you that for six years," Seamus pointed out.

Harry considered this for a moment, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Yes, but today she said it with extra disappointment."

"Maybe because you deserve it," Seamus joked. 

Harry completely ignored him, his green eyes locked onto Hermione. To him, Hermione Granger was a very specific, deeply irritating problem. She was brilliant - annoyingly so - capable of memorizing an entire textbook overnight, correcting a professor's wand technique without ever meaning to insult them and somehow making even basic cleaning spells look like a major academic achievement. But she was also bossy - aggressively bossy. She had once interrupted him halfway through explaining a vital Quidditch strategy because she wanted to inform him that his handwriting on the blackboard was 'a crime against literacy.' Who did that? Who looked at a tactical diagram and declared war on penmanship? Hermione Granger, apparently.

"She's doing it again," Harry muttered, his posture stiffening. Seamus followed his gaze across the room. "Doing what?"

"The look."

"What look?"

"The Hermione Granger look," Harry said, shaking his head.

"You mean the one where she looks like she's about to write a twelve page essay explaining why you're wrong?"

"Exactly," Harry sighed. Seamus grinned widely. "She does that because you are usually wrong."

Harry looked highly offended by the betrayal. "That is a deeply unfair accusation."

"You once argued that a potion ingredient was unnecessary because 'the potion looked like it knew what it was doing.'"

"It did look confident," Harry defended.

"It was exploding," Seamus reminded him.

"Minor detail."

The universe, however, was not finished entertaining itself. Because three weeks into seventh year, Hogwarts received a major Ministry announcement regarding the Inter-House Alignment Act. It was a brilliant idea according to the Ministry and a terrible idea according to literally everyone else. To encourage unity between the houses, selected seventh years were to be re-sorted. The Great Hall was dead silent as Professor McGonagall stepped up to read the names.

"Granger, Hermione," she called out.

The entire Gryffindor table froze in shock. Harry stopped eating entirely. Ron leaned over and whispered, "Well. This is going to be interesting."

Hermione walked toward the stool with the absolute confidence of someone going to argue with the Ministry itself. The Sorting Hat fell over her head and for several seconds, nothing happened. Then, the Hat's dry voice echoed in her mind. "Hmm. Very interesting."

Hermione stiffened beneath the brim. 

"Don't start."

"Excuse me?" the Hat asked.

"You have a habit of making dramatic speeches," she thought testily.

The Hat chuckled softly. "Bossy too. How refreshing. Your heart placed you in Gryffindor once but your mind... your mind has always belonged somewhere else."

Hermione frowned. "No."

"No?"

"I like Gryffindor," she insisted.

"Yes. And you also like proving everyone wrong."

Hermione crossed her arms tightly. "I do not."

"You corrected a professor yesterday."

"He was wrong," she reasoned.

"You corrected him politely."

"Exactly."

The Hat laughed loudly in her mind. "Ah. There it is. The thing that will drive Harry Potter insane."

Hermione froze at the name. "What does Harry have to do with this?" The Hat went completely silent for a moment. Then, it murmured, "Interesting question. You spend an impressive amount of time complaining about him."

"Because he is annoying," Hermione defended quickly.

"Of course."

"He is."

"Naturally."

"He is arrogant."

"Naturally."

"And reckless."

"Naturally." A long pause followed. "Yet you knew he skipped breakfast yesterday."

Hermione went completely silent, her cheeks warming. "I noticed because he is irresponsible."

"Naturally," the Hat finished with a final chuckle. 

"I did not."

 "RAVENCLAW!"

The Great Hall exploded into a frenzy of loud whispers. For a moment, Hermione simply sat there on the stool in shock. Then, she removed the Hat, stood up and walked toward the Ravenclaw table. Harry stared at her in disbelief but then, slowly, a massive smile broke across his face. He immediately jumped up onto the wooden bench.

"YES!" Harry shouted, the entire hall turning to look at him. He pointed dramatically across the room. "Freedom! The common room is finally peaceful!"

Ron covered his face with his hands in absolute embarrassment. "Harry."

"What?" 

"You are making this so much worse."

Hermione stopped walking dead in her tracks. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits as she slowly turned around and walked straight back toward him. Harry stopped smiling immediately, up close, her expression was dangerous. She stood right in front of him. "Enjoy your temporary victory, Potter."

Harry raised an eyebrow, trying to regain his cool. "Temporary?"

"From across the Hall, I will destroy your grades, your Quidditch statistics and your ridiculous confidence," she promised in a sharp whisper.

Harry grinned, matching her intensity. "That sounds like a challenge."

"It is."

"Good."

Hermione stared at him, momentarily caught off guard. "Why are you happy?"

Harry shrugged easily. "Because now I have someone interesting to compete against." For one second, Hermione completely forgot how to respond. Then, she turned away with a huff. "You're impossible."

Harry watched her go, his eyes tracking the sway of her robes until she sat down surrounded by the Ravenclaws and for some completely unknown reason, the Great Hall suddenly felt a massive amount larger than it had a few moments ago.

The house change did not end their rivalry,

it made it much worse. Because now, they officially represented opposing sides. Gryffindor had Harry Potter and Ravenclaw had Hermione Granger. Hogwarts quickly learned that putting those two specific people in separate houses did absolutely nothing except give them brand new, highly public reasons to argue.

The boiling point of their new dynamic arrived under the crisp, biting wind of the winter term’s first Quidditch match: Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw.

Harry soared effortlessly above the pitch, the pale morning sunlight glinting off the polished mahogany of his Firebolt. He was brilliant in the air and he knew it. Everyone knew it. He performed a lazy, arrogant loop-de-loop simply because he could, grinning as the Gryffindor stands erupted into cheers. 

"Potter opens the match with a completely unnecessary aerial flourish!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed across the stadium.

"It was a standard maneuver, Jordan," Professor McGonagall said sharply over the magical megaphone.

"It was a standard maneuver performed entirely for dramatic effect, Professor. He practically blew a kiss to the third years."

The Gryffindors cheered louder.

Then Harry leveled out near midfield and entirely against his better judgment, glanced toward the Ravenclaw section. There she was. Hermione was sitting near the front railing, wrapped in a ridiculous enchanted blue and bronze scarf that practically swallowed her neck. A massive Arithmancy textbook lay open in her lap, because apparently even Quidditch matches were opportunities for academic enrichment.

But she wasn't reading. She was laughing. At Michael Corner.

The Ravenclaw Chaser swept past her section of the stands and executed an unnecessarily dramatic, sweeping bow from his broom. Hermione laughed brightly and waved back.

"Brilliant move, Michael!" her voice carried clearly over the wind.

Harry's grip tightened around his broom handle until the wood creaked. Something sharp and unpleasant twisted in his chest.

He immediately decided it was because Ravenclaw was being obnoxious. Obviously.

What other explanation could there possibly be?

"Oh," Harry muttered to himself. His green eyes narrowed dangerously. "So we're cheering for Corner now."

Far below in the stands, Ron frowned, shielding his eyes from the sun. "Why does Harry suddenly look like he's trying to murder the air?"

Ginny followed his gaze. Hermione. Michael Corner. Harry. Understanding dawned immediately and a slow, wicked smirk spread across her face. "Oh."

Ron looked at her. "Oh what?"

"Nothing."

"That's never a good sign."

Above them, Lee Jordan's voice boomed through the stadium, tinged with sheer confusion. 

"Interesting development from Potter. He spent the first minute of this match looking relaxed, confident and mildly irritating."

"Jordan."

"Now he looks like someone has personally insulted his ancestors."

The crowd laughed. McGonagall sighed heavily into her microphone. 

Harry, fortunately, couldn't hear any of it over the wind rushing past his ears. He had a point to make. A very specific point. To a very specific Ravenclaw.

The game accelerated into a blur around him. Every movement became sharper. Faster. More precise. Michael feinted left with the Quaffle. Harry shot overhead so quickly that the Ravenclaw Chaser nearly lost track of him entirely.

A moment later, Michael glanced up again. Potter was already there. Watching. Michael blinked. Potter immediately accelerated away. A minute later, Michael looked up again. Potter was somehow above him. Again. "What is he doing?" Michael muttered. No one had an answer.

Harry tore across the pitch like a gold and scarlet comet. The crowd roared.

"Merlin's beard!" Lee shouted. "Potter appears to have entered a state of pure, unadulterated athletic rage!"

"Jordan."

"The Ravenclaw Seeker is currently flying away from him out of self-preservation, Professor!"

The stadium erupted into laughter.

A flash of gold appeared near the Ravenclaw hoops. Harry saw it instantly. And dove.

The stadium erupted. Students leapt to their feet as the Firebolt dropped like a falling star. The wind howled, the ground rushed upward and for one breathtaking second, it looked as though Harry intended to permanently bury himself in the pitch just to prove a point. 

Then he pulled up. The tail twigs of his broom grazing the frozen grass. His hand snapped shut.

Silence fell over the stadium. Then ~

Absolute pandemonium.

"HE'S GOT IT!" Lee Jordan screamed, abandoning every trace of commentator professionalism.

The stadium exploded.

"ELEVEN SECONDS! Eleven seconds! People are standing on the benches! Someone just dropped a thermos of hot chocolate onto Colin Creevey! A first year Ravenclaw has fainted from sheer adrenaline! POTTER HAS JUST OBLITERATED THE SCHOOL RECORD! I DIDN'T EVEN HAVE TIME TO UNWRAP MY PEPPERMINT!"

"JORDAN!"

"I'M EXPERIENCING AN EMOTIONAL CRISIS, PROFESSOR!"

The Gryffindor stands descended into absolute, unadulterated bedlam. Harry barely noticed. He could have flown toward his team. He could have accepted the high-fives. He could have taken a glorious victory lap. Instead, he angled his broom and flew directly toward the Ravenclaw stands. Straight toward Hermione.

Lee paused, his voice dropping into an intrigued whisper that somehow carried perfectly across the suddenly attentive stadium. "Interesting choice from Potter."

McGonagall immediately sounded suspicious.

"Jordan."

"Most Seekers traditionally celebrate with people wearing the same colours as them."

The crowd began snickering. Harry continued flying. Directly. Toward Hermione.

"Potter, however," Lee continued, "appears to be holding a private victory parade for a specific Ravenclaw."

The crowd erupted into whistles and catcalls.

"JORDAN."

"What? I'm merely reporting observable facts, Professor. It's journalism."

Harry ignored the entire school. Ignored the whistles. Ignored the laughter. Ignored the fact that half the stadium appeared to be staring at him. His eyes never left Hermione. He brought the Firebolt to a perfect hover directly in front of her row. For one ridiculous moment, neither of them spoke. The winter wind tugged at Hermione's scarf. Harry could see the annoyance already gathering behind her eyes. Then, slowly and deliberately, he tossed the Snitch a few inches into the air, caught it with a casual flick of his wrist and flashed her his most infuriatingly smug, arrogant grin.

Hermione stared at him. For a moment, her usually sharp, endlessly prepared mind completely stalled. Not because he had caught the Snitch - Harry catching the Snitch was hardly surprising. It was because after breaking a school record, with the entire stadium screaming his name, Harry Potter had flown straight toward her.

She recovered quickly because she was Hermione Granger and she refused to let Harry Potter have the satisfaction of leaving her speechless. She rose swiftly to her feet, pointed an accusing finger directly at his nose and very clearly mouthed the words:

"You are an insufferable show-off."

Harry felt a strange, violent, incredibly addictive flip somewhere beneath his ribs. His grin widened until his face practically hurt. 

To his absolute confusion, he couldn't remember ever enjoying an insult more in his entire life.

Chapter Text

The Christmas holidays at Godric’s Hollow were usually a symphony of delicious smells and friendly chaos. The kitchen was thick with the scent of rosemary, cinnamon and slightly burnt toast. Outside, snow drifted lazily beyond the frosted windows while a massive fire crackled in the hearth.

Harry Potter was currently aggressively buttering a piece of sourdough. He wasn't eating it and he wasn't preparing it, he was simply aggressively buttering it with the sheer, terrifying intensity of an Auror dismantling a Dark artifact. 

James Potter leaned casually against the counter with a mug of steaming coffee and watched his son attack breakfast with pure, academic concentration. Near the stove, Lily poured tea while Sirius Black lounged lazily in the doorway and Remus Lupin attempted to read the morning paper. No one interrupted. Experience had taught them all that eventually, Harry’s brain would short-circuit and he would begin speaking. 

Sure enough, the tension finally snapped. “She used an encrypted third-tier runic transposition,” Harry suddenly snarled, throwing the butter knife onto the table with a loud clatter.

The room fell into a dead silence. 

“On a Defense essay,” Harry added fiercely, crossing his arms.

Remus lowered the newspaper a fraction of an inch, looking deeply exhausted. James blinked, thoroughly entertained. Harry pointed accusingly at absolutely nothing in the middle of the room. “A third-tier transposition! Nobody uses that unless they’re actively trying to establish intellectual dominance over an entire educational institution.”

Sirius scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Sounds serious.”

Harry nodded immediately. “It is serious.”

Sirius looked at him. “You could always turn her hair green.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Sirius shrugged. “Classic approach. Your dad did that to Lily in seventh year.”

James immediately choked on his coffee. Lily slowly turned around from the stove, her posture stiffening as James pointed a frantic finger. “Hey! That wasn’t deliberate!”

Sirius looked absolutely delighted. Remus lowered his newspaper entirely. “Oh?”

James gestured vaguely in the air, his face turning a slight pink. “I was aiming at something else.”

Lily narrowed her green eyes at her husband. “You told me differently.”

James froze completely, his mug hovering inches from his mouth. The entire room went completely quiet. Sirius and Remus exchanged identical, deeply knowing expressions of pure, unadulterated mischief.

Sirius leaned forward, a massive grin breaking across his face. “What did he tell you, Lils?”

Lily looked at James, letting the silence stretch before she smiled sweetly. “He said he wanted my hair to match my beautiful eyes.”

Another heavy silence descended upon the kitchen. Remus closed his eyes, rubbing his temples in secondhand exhaustion while Sirius immediately doubled over laughing, slapping his knee. James looked utterly betrayed. “Oh come on, that was smooth.”

Sirius pointed a shaking finger at his best friend. “You liar.”

Remus nodded in agreement. “That is catastrophically smooth.”

Lily simply stared at her husband, her voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. “James Potter.”

James raised both hands placatingly in the air, completely cornered. “Alright, alright.” He pointed toward the ceiling. “Write a note to Minerva.”

Lily folded her arms tightly over her chest. James let out a dramatic, suffering sigh. “Tell her to deduct points from Gryffindor.”

Harry immediately sat upright at the table, his green eyes widening in absolute shock. “What?”

James blinked, turning to look at his son. Harry pointed an accusing finger straight at his father’s chest. “Dad!”

James frowned. “What?”

Harry looked entirely scandalized. “You want Gryffindor to lose points?”

James blinked again, thoroughly confused by the sudden outrage. Harry looked completely horrified, his voice dropping into a frantic, intense whisper. “Granger’s in Ravenclaw now!”

Silence fell over the room for the third time that morning. James slowly lowered his mug to the counter. Sirius stared. Remus stared. Lily stared. Harry froze under the weight of their collective gazes, suddenly realizing he was out of breath. Nobody moved.

Remus spoke very carefully, breaking the tension. “Interesting that this is where your priorities landed.”

Harry frowned, looking at his family. “What does that mean?”

Sirius looked entirely fascinated, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You were willing to forgive your father lying to your mother for twenty years.”

Harry blinked. “Yeah?”

Sirius pointed at him. “But Ravenclaw gaining points is where you draw the line?”

Harry stared back at his uncle, his expression completely blank, as if the answer should have been obvious to a toddler. “Obviously.”

James looked deeply moved, a proud smile on his face as he looked at his wife. “That’s my son.”

Harry, completely ignoring the fact that his father was vibrating with silent laughter, inhaled sharply to reload his rant. “And then - during Quidditch she wore this enormous blue and bronze scarf that practically swallowed her head and she spent the entire match cheering for Michael Corner.”

James took a careful, thoroughly amused sip of his coffee. “Corner?”

“Yes,” Harry muttered, his jaw tightening. “Michael Corner.”

There was a long, heavy pause in the kitchen. Then, “Do we dislike Michael Corner now?” Sirius asked, looking genuinely curious.

Harry frowned, staring at his mangled toast. "No."

Another pause followed. “Should we?” Sirius pushed.

Harry opened his mouth, closed it and then opened it again, looking thoroughly frustrated with his own brain. “No.” 

Sirius looked deeply disappointed by the answer while James looked absolutely delighted. Harry continued his pacing, gesturing wildly with his hands. “It’s irrelevant. The point is she was cheering irrationally loudly.” 

Lily blinked, a soft, knowing smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Harry, sweetheart… why were you paying attention to who she was cheering for?” 

Harry froze, his butter knife hovering in mid-air. “I wasn’t.” 

Remus carefully folded his newspaper, his amber eyes twinkling. “You noticed the scarf.”

Harry’s chest puffed out defensively. “It was very large.” 

“You noticed who she was cheering for,” Remus countered mildly.

Harry pointed dramatically at his honorary uncle. “That is called observational awareness!” James coughed highly suspiciously into his coffee mug but Harry ignored him entirely. “And she keeps appearing everywhere! Yesterday I was discussing international Floo infrastructure and somehow I ended up thinking about why Granger’s argument on the 1707 Goblin Rebellions was fundamentally unsound.” 

Remus blinked, looking over the rim of his glasses. “Harry.”

“Yes?”

“We were discussing chimney maintenance.”

Harry threw up his hands in absolute dispensation. “Exactly! It’s a hostile takeover! Somehow every topic becomes Granger!” James immediately leaned toward Lily and nudged her arm. “Remind you of anyone?” Lily smiled warmly. Harry narrowed his eyes at his parents. “What does that mean?”

Lily walked over, giving his shoulder a gentle, maternal squeeze. “Harry, if you talk about this girl one more time, I’m inviting her for Sunday roast.”

Harry looked completely horrified, his cheeks turning a rapid pink. “Don’t do that.”

“Why?” Lily asked.

“She’d critique your gravy.”

Later that afternoon, Harry found himself in the back garden with James and Sirius. Snow completely covered the lawn and Sirius had apparently decided that the freezing winter season was the ideal time to teach Harry an unnecessarily flashy dueling charm.

“Again,” Sirius ordered, his breath pluming in the cold air. Harry flicked his wand smoothly but the silver sparks shot completely sideways, exploding harmlessly into a frozen hedge. Sirius winced slightly. “Right.”

James stepped forward from the patio, gesturing with his hands. “Smaller wrist movement.” Harry tried a second time, adjusting his angle and the spell came out noticeably cleaner. But instead of looking pleased, Harry frowned deeply at his wand. "No."

James blinked. “What?”

Harry lowered his wand entirely, shaking his head. “That’s wrong.”

Sirius looked instantly offended, crossing his arms. “That is literally the standard casting motion, Prongslet.”

“No, Granger rotates her wrist differently,” Harry countered immediately without a shred of hesitation.

The garden went completely silent. James stared blankly at his son. Remus, who had been attempting to read nearby under a warming charm, slowly lowered his book. Sirius blinked rapidly. “You know her wand angle?”

Harry looked thoroughly irritated by the question. “Obviously. She keeps her elbow lower and reduces magical bleed-through.”

Remus looked genuinely interested, tilting his head. “That’s actually correct.”

Harry nodded firmly. “Yes.”

James looked back and forth between his son and Remus. “So do that.”

Harry froze, his entire posture turning rigid. Absolutely not. James furrowed his brow. “What?”

Harry looked personally insulted by the very suggestion. “I’m not doing it exactly like Granger.”

Remus blinked, a highly knowing look forming in his eyes. “Why?”

Harry looked completely horrified, his cheeks turning a rapid, bright pink in the cold. “Because she’ll know!”

The garden went dead silent again. Sirius looked entirely fascinated, stepping closer. “How?”

Harry gestured wildly into the air. “She notices things!”

James looked dangerously, beautifully amused. “Harry.”

“What?”

“You think Hermione Granger will identify your spellcasting posture.”

Harry stared straight at his father. “Yes?”

Another heavy silence descended on the snow covered lawn. Harry folded his arms tightly across his chest, lifting his chin stubbornly. “We’ll find another way.”

James blinked. “To cast a Ministry-standard defensive charm?”

Harry nodded firmly. “Something she wouldn’t predict.”

James covered his face entirely with his hands, his shoulders violently shaking with silent laughter. "Lil," he muffled toward the kitchen window, "he's gone. He's completely, entirely gone. The boy is possessed." Sirius turned away entirely, bracing his hand against a tree because he had started laughing too hard to stand up straight.

Remus opened his book again. “Fascinating.”

As if on cue, the kitchen door swung open and the Potters' ancient, wrinkled house elf, Mipsy, waddled into the sitting room carrying a platter of afternoon tea. She paused, looking at the family with wide, tennis ball-sized eyes, before letting out a high-pitched, helpful squeak. 

“Mipsy has made Master Harry’s favourite biscuits!” 

Harry looked over, immensely grateful for the sudden distraction. “Oh - thanks, Mipsy.”

Mipsy nodded proudly, her large bat like ears flopping. “The round ones because Master Harry said round things reminds him of Mistress Hermi.”

Silence fell over the room like a dropping anvil. Harry completely stopped moving. James slowly lowered his hands from his face, his eyes gleaming with unholy joy. Sirius made a deeply alarming, strangled noise from the corner and Remus silently closed his eyes, bracing himself. 

Harry turned his head at a glacial pace, glaring down at the elf. “What.”

Mipsy smiled brightly, entirely oblivious to the rising tension. “Mipsy offered square biscuits first but Master Harry says no, no, no - round ones reminds him of Granger.”

Harry stared in absolute horror before pointing a trembling finger. “She is not Mistress Hermi.”

Mipsy blinked, looking thoroughly confused. “Oh.” A long, painful pause stretched across the room before Mipsy brightened again with a hopeful squeak. “Future Mistress Hermi?”

Harry’s entire face exploded into a catastrophic shade of crimson, heat radiating all the way to his collar. “NO!”

Mipsy nodded wisely, completely unfazed. “Mipsy understands.” She absolutely did not.

Mipsy nodded proudly again, adjusting the teapot on the tray. “Mipsy stopped making curly noodles.”

Harry blinked, his mind struggling to keep up with his own exposure. “What?”

Mipsy nodded sadly. “Master Harry looked at them and sighed.”

Another heavy silence blanketed the room. James slowly turned his head to look directly at his son.

Harry looked thoroughly alarmed, his hands lifting defensively. “That happened once.”

Mipsy nodded helpfully. “Master Harry says they looked too argumentative.”

Sirius stared at his nephew, his jaw practically dropping to the floor. “You thought noodles looked argumentative?”

Harry looked deeply offended, his chest puffing out as he snapped without thinking, “Not the noodles.”

A long, agonizing pause settled over the sitting room.

Harry froze. His green eyes went wide as saucers as the words echoed in the quiet air and he realized exactly what his mouth had just admitted to the entire room.

Sirius completely collapsed against the nearest oak tree, howling with laughter and nearly slipping on a patch of ice while Remus slowly removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose in sheer, secondhand embarrassment. James looked up toward the grey winter sky, his shoulders vibrating violently as he took a deep, steadying breath.

“Lil,” James called out toward the open kitchen window, his voice carrying an elite level of parental defeat.

From all the way inside the house, Lily’s voice barked back over the chaos: “WHAT NOW?”

Meanwhile, across the country in a pristine Hampstead sitting room where the furniture had never once been sat on incorrectly, Hermione Granger was conducting laps. She wasn't pacing, she was actively conducting laps. Dr. Richard Granger was attempting to read a dental journal and Jean Granger was trying to enjoy a novel but both parents had quietly accepted that neither activity was going to happen anytime soon.

Hermione stopped abruptly in front of the fireplace, her bushy hair practically vibrating with indignation. “He caught the Snitch in eleven seconds.” 

Richard looked up and Jean turned a page, waiting for the storm to break. Hermione immediately resumed walking, her feet burning a path into the rug. “Eleven seconds.” 

Silence fell over the room. Then, “That sounds fast,” Richard offered mildly.

Hermione stopped again. “That is not the point.” She set her tea mug down on the side table with the controlled, terrifying force of someone trying very hard not to throw it across the room. “It wasn't calculated.” 

Jean looked up, thoroughly interested now. 

Hermione gestured sharply with her hand. “It was unnecessary.” Another gesture followed. “It was reckless.” A third gesture slammed through the air. “And then - he celebrated.”

Richard blinked. “Right. Isn't that what you do when you win?"

Hermione stared at him, her expression deeply offended. “No, not normally. He flew directly to the Ravenclaw stands.” Jean slowly lowered her book to her lap. “Oh?”

Hermione continued at a fever pitch before anyone could possibly interrupt her. “He ignored his teammates.” She held up a finger. “He ignored the professors.” She held up a second finger. “He ignored basic social conventions.” A third finger joined the rest. “And then he hovered.”

Richard exchanged a deeply knowing glance with Jean. Jean asked carefully, “In front of…?” 

Hermione folded her arms tightly over her chest. “My row.”

There was a short, heavy silence in the pristine sitting room. Jean smiled gently. “How strange.”

Hermione nodded sharply, her jaw locked. “Exactly.” She resumed her relentless pacing. “And then he tossed the Snitch into the air.” 

Richard looked confused. “That seems harmless.” 

Hermione looked personally betrayed by her own father’s lack of strategic insight. “It was performative! You don’t understand.” She stopped and pointed directly at him. “It wasn’t enough that he caught the Snitch. He had to establish dominance. In front of me.”

Richard blinked and Jean blinked right along with him.  Hermione kept going, her pacing reaching a frantic speed. “And then he smiled.” 

Jean spoke carefully. “At you?” 

Hermione stopped, her ears turning a brilliant, unmistakable shade of pink. “In my general direction.” 

Jean looked entirely unconvinced, Richard looked absolutely delighted and Hermione looked thoroughly furious. “It was smug,” she insisted, her voice tight. Jean nodded smoothly. “Mhm.”

Hermione sat down dramatically on the sofa. “And everyone laughed.” 

Richard asked mildly, “At what?” 

Hermione opened her mouth, paused 

and looked up. “I don’t know.”

Jean closed her book completely. “Hermione. How many people were at this Quidditch match?” 

Hermione frowned. “What?” 

“How many?” Jean smiled. 

Hermione blinked. “Several hundred?” 

Jean nodded. “And out of all those people, Harry Potter celebrated in front of your section?” Hermione opened her mouth, closed it and opened it again. “That isn’t relevant.”

Richard turned a page in his journal. “Hermione.” 

She looked over. “What?” 

He smiled mildly. “You’ve mentioned this boy seventeen times since Tuesday.” 

Her face exploded into a brilliant, furious pink. “That is completely false.” 

Richard raised an eyebrow and Jean picked up her book. “You compared our garage door opener to his broom.” 

Hermione looked outraged. “That was aerodynamic criticism.” 

Jean nodded. “And yesterday you informed me his untucked collar represented moral decline.” 

Hermione sat upright. “It does.” 

Richard looked thoughtful. “Hm.” 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?” 

Richard smiled. “Nothing.” Jean smiled too. Then she said, far too casually, “You should invite him for lunch.” 

Hermione looked horrified. “No.”

“Why?” 

Hermione looked genuinely alarmed. “He’d sit on the chair backwards.” She paused, then added darkly, “And my life would never recover.”

A peaceful twenty three minutes later, the Granger household was finally quiet. Jean had returned to her novel, Richard was reorganising old mail and Hermione had disappeared upstairs and judging by the occasional muffled muttering, was either studying or composing a seventeen page academic takedown of Harry Potter’s existence.

The doorbell rang. Richard got up with a relieved sigh and opened the front door. Standing there was their neighbour, Mr Bennett. Mr Bennett was a perfectly pleasant retired accountant. He also happened to wear small round glasses.

Richard smiled politely. “Oh, hello, David.” Mr Bennett smiled back and held up a neatly wrapped parcel. “Thought I’d return your casserole dish before Christmas disappears entirely.” Richard brightened. “That’s very kind -”

From somewhere upstairs, Hermione’s voice suddenly echoed loudly down the staircase. “PEOPLE WHO WEAR ROUND GLASSES ARE MENACES TO CIVILISATION!”

Silence fell over the doorway. Richard froze completely. Mr Bennett blinked. Richard turned his head slowly toward the stairs as Hermione continued, completely unaware. “WHO DECIDES TO MAKE CIRCLES THEIR ENTIRE PERSONALITY?”

Richard laughed incredibly awkwardly, sweat nearly breaking out on his forehead. “Teenagers.” Mr Bennett smiled politely and held out the parcel. Richard accepted it with excessive enthusiasm. “So! How have you been, David?”

Mr Bennett adjusted his round glasses. “Oh, lovely. Joined the village winter cricket club again this year.”

Richard froze. From upstairs, Hermione’s voice rang out again. “AND DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON PEOPLE WHO MAKE SPORT THEIR ENTIRE PERSONALITY!”

Mr Bennett stopped. Richard stopped. Mr Bennett smiled uncertainly. “I only play recreationally.”

Richard immediately laughed entirely too loudly. “Oh no no no, not about you.”

Upstairs, the tirade continued. “THEY THINK BEING GOOD AT SPORT IS A SUBSTITUTE FOR CHARACTER!” Mr Bennett slowly lowered his hand. Richard stared straight into the middle distance. Jean quietly appeared at the end of the hallway, took one look at Richard’s face and immediately understood the absolute, catastrophic reality of the situation.

Mr Bennett laughed nervously. “Right.”

Then, Hermione struck again. “AND THEY ALWAYS WALK AROUND LIKE THE RULES OF SOCIETY ARE OPTIONAL!” Mr Bennett looked down. He had, in fact, arrived wearing his casual indoor slippers. Richard smiled desperately, sweat nearly breaking out on his neck. “Completely unrelated.”

Then Hermione’s voice came again, louder and more passionate. “AND WHY DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO BE RED AND GOLD?” Mr Bennett looked down at his torso. He was wearing a dark red jumper with a small golden stag embroidered on the front. He swallowed hard. Richard noticed it instantly and his soul completely left his body.

Upstairs, the momentum was unstoppable. “AND THE STAG THING!” Mr Bennett froze. Richard closed his eyes in pure, agonizing defeat. Hermione continued blindly. “WHY A STAG?”

Jean quietly sat down on the hall bench. “Richard.” He whispered back, entirely numb, “I know.”

“IT'S SO AGGRESSIVELY SELF-CONFIDENT!” Hermione gained serious ground. “LIKE - OH LOOK AT ME. I RUN THROUGH FORESTS. I HAVE ANTLERS. I REPRESENT FREEDOM.” Mr Bennett looked visibly, deeply wounded. Jean was actively shaking with silent laughter against the wall. Hermione kept going. “PICK A NORMAL ANIMAL!”

Mr Bennett looked down sadly at his chest, his voice tiny. “I won this at county cricket in 1989.” Richard immediately straightened.

“Exactly!” Mr Bennett blinked. Richard gestured urgently. “You don’t think you represent freedom.” Mr Bennett stared. “I don’t?” Richard smiled with entirely too much relief. “No!”

Upstairs, the absolute finale descended. “AND THE WORST PART IS THEY ACT COMPLETELY SURPRISED WHEN PEOPLE FIND THEM ANNOYING!” Mr Bennett stared into the middle distance. Richard stared at the front door as though considering emigrating. Jean simply looked up at the ceiling, thoroughly enjoying the theater.

Then came the closing blow. “AND THEY ALWAYS SMILE LIKE THEY THINK THEY’VE PERSONALLY INVENTED HAPPINESS!” Mr Bennett slowly and deliberately stopped smiling. Richard watched all remaining hope leave his neighbour’s body in real time.

Mr Bennett gently handed over the parcel.  “Well.” Richard nodded with alarming enthusiasm. “Lovely seeing you.” Mr Bennett took one careful step backwards. Another. Then he paused, looked down at his jumper, adjusted his round glasses and quietly asked, “Do I come across as overconfident?”

Richard froze completely. Jean made a highly suspicious choking sound from the hallway. Richard immediately shook his head frantically. “No! Absolutely not! You have excellent… humility.” 

Mr Bennett nodded slowly. “Right.” Then he turned and walked down the path at a highly concerning speed.

Richard closed the door slowly. A long, heavy silence filled the hall. Jean looked at him, her eyes dancing merrily. “Should we tell her?”

Richard stared upward toward the top floor. “No.” He paused for a beat. “But I am absolutely inviting Potter to lunch.”

Hermione immediately screamed from the top floor: “NO!” Jean started laughing loudly, the sound echoing through the house.