You’ve survived a grand total of four hours at Hogwarts.

In that time, you’ve already:

• Gotten lost twice.

• Accidentally called Professor Flitwick "Dad."

He blinked. You blinked.

And then you ran. You still haven’t recovered.

• Sat at the Hufflepuff table during lunch. Not to blend in—no, no. You just thought the tables were organized by seating vibe. Like… you assumed Hufflepuff meant "neutral zone."

"Cozy vibes," you told a confused seventh year, while spilling your pumpkin juice across the bread rolls.

• Tried to compliment a Gryffindor girl’s owl. You meant to say something like, "Nice owl!" or "What a majestic creature!" What actually came out of your mouth was:

"That’s a very sexy bird."

You. Called. Her. Owl. Sexy.

The girl stared at you like you’d grown a second head. The owl stared at you like it was going to file a restraining order. You backed away slowly. Apologizing. Profusely. "You’re beautiful—I mean the owl—not you. Wait no, you’re beautiful too—but not in a sexy bird way—OH MY MERLIN."

And then you ran.

You haven’t made eye contact with a single soul since. Now you’re hiding in the library, trying to recover whatever scrap of dignity you can find under the table.

You slide into a seat between two towers of dusty books and try to breathe like a normal person, not someone who’s screaming internally because you don’t belong here and everyone looks like they know what they’re doing and you—

"Excuse me—are you in my seat?"

You look up. And see her. Hermione. Freaking. Granger.

You’ve read her name in textbooks. Seen her referenced in the Daily Prophet. Brightest witch of her age. Top of every class. Harry Potter’s actual best friend.

You’d assumed that was all overblown. Some kind of Gryffindor PR campaign.

But no.

She’s standing there, curls haloing her face like the softest academic deity you’ve ever seen, and she’s looking at you like she’s waiting for a response, and you—oh no. Oh no.

Words. Use them.

"Sorry—am I—yes—I mean no! I mean, this seat’s yours? Take it. You can have both, actually. The table. Want the table? It’s yours. Take the whole—floor, even."

Hermione eyebrows slightly raised, eyes narrowing just a little—not in judgment, but curiosity.

"Er... are you all right?" she asked carefully, like she wasn’t sure if you were about to faint or combust.

You give a weak smile that probably makes you look concussed.

"I’m new," you add, like that explains the tragic trainwreck falling out of your mouth.

Her expression softens. "Oh! You must be the transfer student Professor McGonagall mentioned."

She slid into the seat beside you, rather than the one across, carefully lowering a wobbly stack of books onto the table with both hands.

"I’m Hermione Granger. It’s perfectly normal to feel a bit out of place at first — Hogwarts can be a lot to take in."

You glance at the stack of books Hermione just set down — You swallow and mutter under your breath. “Merlin, I’d let her hit me with one of those…”

There’s a pause.

"…I beg your pardon?" Hermione says, not looking up, but clearly having heard every word.