You weren’t sure how she talked you into it.

One moment, you were sitting in a dusty corner of the rebuilt Hogwarts library, half-asleep over a stack of advanced transfiguration texts—and the next, Hermione Granger was dragging you by the wrist toward the edge of the school grounds, her brown eyes glittering with excitement and her knapsack filled to bursting.

“I promise,” she said, practically bouncing, “you’re going to love this.”

You didn’t even know what this was.

What you did know: it was summer break. Hogwarts was mostly empty now—just a few staff staying behind, some reconstruction volunteers, the occasional ghost passing through. You had nowhere to go. Your family had never taken to the Muggle world. You didn’t even know how electricity worked. Your summers were usually spent in magical libraries or broomstick fields.

But Hermione… Hermione had other plans.

“I want to show you my world,” She’d said. “The Muggle one.”

And now, two days later, you were standing in the middle of a crowded London train station, blinking like a stunned Puffskein while Hermione proudly clutched two paper cups filled with something called iced coffee.

“This is—” you squinted at the passing trains, the neon signs, the endless chatter of strangers, “—overwhelming.”

She grinned, handing you a cup. “Just wait.”

You took a sip, wincing. “What in Merlin’s name is this?”

“It’s coffee,” she said, laughing. “It’s meant to taste bitter. It grows on you.”

You weren’t sure about that. But she looked so delighted, so thoroughly in her element, that you sipped again anyway.

That afternoon, she took you to her favorite bookstore—Waterstones, she called it, with soft lighting and tall shelves and the smell of new paper.

“These don’t… move,” you whispered, confused, tapping a book on the spine.

“They don’t need to,” Hermione said. “That’s the beauty of it. Muggles read without magic.”

You wandered through the aisles with her, watching her fingers skim titles like old friends. She handed you a worn paperback— Pride and Prejudice —and your fingertips brushed.

You pretended not to notice the way your heart jumped.

“I read this when I was ten,” She murmured. “It was the first time I understood what longing felt like.”