Richie scratched the back of his head. "Hang out?"
He glanced around his room, realized there wasn't exactly a ton of entertainment on offer, and grabbed the nearest book off his desk.
"Want to read this?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Knew it."
She took the book anyway.
"Make yourself at home," Richie said, already turning back to his own textbook.
Anyone who studies seriously knows the drill: when you're deep in review mode, your brain is flying through connections, locking everything in tighter. Stop in the middle and the whole flow breaks. It feels awful, like clicking "next chapter" on a novel only to get stuck on a spinning loading icon.
So Richie decided to finish the current section first. Besides, he knew Hermione loved books too. Might as well give her something interesting.
Hermione settled on the edge of his bed and opened the cover.
Perturbations of Consciousness: The Morphology of Spells.
The first sentence stopped her cold.
> The appearance of spells is essentially a recognition system grafted onto a wizard's natural magical instinct. It functions more like an internal framework of self-differentiation and structured thought within the mind. European wizarding traditions and those of the Asia-Pacific region…
She stared at the page. Spells… self-differentiation of consciousness…
Hermione was a straight-A student at Hogwarts, but she was still only eleven—twelve in a couple of months. Most of her magical knowledge was still parrot-level. She was learning addition tables: one plus one equals two.
This book was asking what "one" actually was, what the plus sign really meant, and why one plus one equaled two.
Way too advanced.
She looked up at Richie.
Just how far ahead is he?
In her mind, the mountain named Richie grew another thousand feet taller.
She still remembered the challenge she'd thrown at him last year:
> Let's compare house points earned in class. Whoever has the most by the end of first year wins.
Richie had crushed it—both in points and in actual learning. He was the clear winner.
The loss had stung more than she liked to admit. Her competitive streak made her bury it deep, and Richie had never brought it up again. He just kept studying like the whole thing had never happened.
Like… he didn't even see her as competition.
At the same time, she knew he wasn't looking down on her. It was just… something else. She couldn't quite name the feeling.
She lowered her eyes back to the book.
The room fell quiet.
---
Downstairs in the living room, Mrs. Harland and Mrs. Granger were chatting away like old friends. Denton was enthusiastically pushing one of his magical-world books on Mr. Granger.
"Trust me, this isn't some fairy tale. These things actually happened! Trolls, banshees, vampires—the works!"
Mr. Granger gave a slightly strained smile and nodded anyway.
Mrs. Harland suddenly glanced toward the staircase.
"Those two have been awfully quiet up there. You don't think they're just… reading, do you?"
Mrs. Granger laughed. "Honestly? My daughter does the exact same thing at home."
Mrs. Harland slapped a hand to her forehead.
Then she remembered something from a week ago—Mrs. Figg's visit.
The older woman had specifically asked Richie to go see a boy named Harry Potter.
"They need to get out more," Mrs. Harland said. "They can't spend the whole summer cooped up with books."
Mrs. Granger nodded in full agreement.
That was exactly why she had brought Hermione over today.
Parents always worried about their kids' futures. Sometimes that worry led them to push in ways that actually made things harder. Whether it helped or hurt… only time would tell.
---
"Harry Potter!"
"I have never been so disappointed in you in my entire life!"
"Clearly that freak school didn't teach you a damn thing about gratitude!"
Vernon Dursley sat at the kitchen table, face red, spit flying as he roared at Harry.
Harry kept his face blank and continued washing the dishes in the sink.
He'd already missed breakfast. Now he was stuck cleaning up after everyone else. A familiar, bitter resentment twisted in his chest.
The feeling was so ordinary and yet so strange that it left him momentarily speechless.
It all felt like a dream. The Hogwarts letter. The castle. Gryffindor. Learning magic. Fighting a troll. Winning the Quidditch Cup. Stopping Quirrell's insane plan and helping Gryffindor take the House Cup…
Everything had been so vivid. Now the dream was over and he was back in this house that had never felt like home. All his magical things—books, robes, broom—were locked away in Vernon's cupboard again.
And here he was, facing the same old Dursley cruelty he'd known for years.
Even the "nice" bedroom they'd finally given him felt like charity. Like they were tossing scraps to a beggar.
The contrast hit him hard. One minute he was the Boy Who Lived, hero of Hogwarts. The next he was just Harry Potter, the unwanted burden.
Why was he even here? Where else could he go?
At eleven—almost twelve—Harry felt completely lost.
The doorbell rang.
"Harry! Get the door!" Vernon bellowed.
Harry peeled off the rubber gloves, walked through the kitchen and living room, and opened the front door.
A middle-aged man with curly blond hair stood on the step.
Probably one of Vernon's business contacts?
Harry started to turn away when a familiar voice stopped him.
"Harry?"
Harry's eyes widened. He spun back around.
"Hermione?!"
"Richie?!"
The man stepped aside, revealing the two kids behind him.
"Harry Potter!"
"What the hell are you—"
Vernon came storming up, shoved Harry out of the way, and froze when he saw the strangers on his doorstep.