HERMIONE GRANGER

Hermione Granger was the brightest witch of her age. She was smart, of course, and undeniably talented. After all, what eleven-year-old could face down a troll and live to tell the tale? She quickly established herself as one of the most gifted witches of her generation, excelling in nearly every subject she touched (which would usually get her names like insufferable know-it-all). Not only smart, she was brave, loyal, and deeply committed to doing what was right. All that talented, however, was no good to hide how flustered she would become around you.

It was a secret that grew harder to keep every time you sat beside her. The way you furrowed your brow in concentration while reading or how your voice carried a soothing confidence when you answered a teacher’s question—it captivated Hermione in a way that nothing else ever had. You were smart, just like her, and unafraid to show it. By all accounts, Hermione should have felt competitive, should have locked herself away in the library to outstudy you, to prove she was the best. But instead, she found herself infatuated—an unfamiliar and unsettling feeling. And to make matters more complicated, her heart raced not for a boy, but for a girl. Her best friend.

Now, as she lounged in the warm glow of the Gryffindor common room, slouched comfortably on the red couch, the realization hit her with a pang of embarrassment. She’d been staring at you, utterly entranced, while you had merely asked her a question about Herbology.

“Slughorn? He’s sort of eccentric, isn’t he?”

Great answer, thought, pleased with herself. Except she hadn’t heard the word Herbology—too distracted by the way your hair caught the firelight. And, well, Slughorn taught Potions. Damn her.