It started, as most things in Gryffindor Tower did, with someone setting something on fire.
Specifically, it was Seamus Finnigan’s Transfiguration homework, which had somehow turned into a small flaming puffskein and launched itself onto Neville’s bed. Neville had screamed, Ron had shouted, Dean had tried to smother it with a pillow, and Harry had been halfway to getting his wand when—
“What is going on?!”
The room froze.
Hermione Granger stood in the doorway to the fifth-year boys' dormitory, arms crossed, hair pulled back in a messy bun, and eyes that promised justice and possibly a full detentions roster if an acceptable explanation wasn’t given in the next five seconds.
A moment of silence passed. The puffskein, still mildly on fire, rolled off the bed with a sad little squeak.
Seamus coughed. “I can explain—”
“I doubt it,” Hermione said sharply, marching forward. “Why is there flaming homework and why is it alive?”
Seamus opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Dean. Dean looked at Neville, who was still cradling his Herbology notes like they were his firstborn.
“I—” Seamus tried again. “It was meant to be an owl. Like McGonagall said. Transfigure a feather duster into a small owl. Only it looked lonely. So I gave it puffskein ears. And maybe a tail.”
“You gave it sentience,” Hermione said flatly.
“It looked sad! What was I supposed to do?!”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, took a deep breath, and with a flick of her wand, doused the remaining flames. The half-owl-half-puffskein rolled over and let out a relieved sigh before vanishing in a poof of smoke. Another flick cleared the scorch marks. A third set the blanket to rights.
She turned to them, arms crossed again. “Honestly, do I have to supervise all of your homework like I’m running a daycare?”
Ron, who had just entered carrying three pumpkin pasties and a look of practiced guilt, sighed. “To be fair, you basically are.”
And that was the moment the title stuck.
—---
Hermione hadn’t meant to become the Gryffindor Mom. It just sort of…happened.
One moment she was double-checking the House schedule for their O.W.L. prep sessions, and the next she was pulling Lavender out of the bathroom after a sobbing fit because Parvati had told her she looked like a thestral in her new lipstick. The week after that, she had sat beside Neville while he quietly panicked over not remembering the right order of the moon phases, and by the next full moon, the entire year knew to come to Hermione with missing socks, missing sanity, or emotional support needs.
She didn’t mean to do it out of obligation. Not anymore.
Because somewhere between third-year tears and fifth-year fury at the Ministry, she’d realized someone needed to be the soft voice and the strong hand at the same time. Someone needed to remember birthdays. Someone needed to keep a drawer full of extra ink bottles and chocolate frogs. Someone needed to care when no one else knew how to.
So she did.
—---
“Granger, where’s my tie—”
“In the laundry. Clean one’s in your bottom drawer.”
“Hermione, I—”
“Yes, Ginny, I have extra tampons. Top of my bag. Try to leave me one this time?”
“I think I have an ear infection.”
“I’m not a Healer, Seamus. But you do look like you’ve been hexed by Fred again. Come here.”
She kept tissues in her satchel. Spare buttons. A list of everyone's electives and what room they were in. She rewrote study guides and reminded everyone to drink water and sleep before exams and, occasionally, reminded them that they were enough, even when the world said otherwise.
And when she had too much weight on her own shoulders—when the stress of Umbridge and her scarred hands and the rising panic of what might be coming next threatened to buckle her knees—she never let it show. She curled up in the common room window after hours with a book and let her friends chatter around her, quietly refueling on warmth she pretended she didn’t need.
Of course, Ron always noticed.
“Drink your tea, Mum,” he teased one night, passing her a steaming mug while the fire crackled low.
She snorted, but took it anyway. “If I’m the mum, what does that make you?”
He grinned. “Gryffindor Dad, obviously. I threaten the kids, you kiss the scrapes. Balance.”
They clinked mugs and sat in companionable silence.
—---
One rainy Saturday, Hermione was in the common room when she caught Neville hesitating by the stairs.
He clutched a potting journal, lower lip chewed raw. She knew that look. She saw it on her own face in the mirror sometimes.
“Neville?” she said softly. “Come sit.”
He shuffled over, quiet. “I…I think I killed my shrivelfig,” he whispered. “And Professor Sprout said I could keep it alive if I just—if I just remembered to feed it properly and now I forgot for three days and I think it’s dead.”
He looked at her like the world had ended.
Hermione didn’t lecture. She didn’t tell him it was “just a plant” or “just a mistake.” She just nodded, set aside her Arithmancy notes, and pulled him into a hug.
“We’ll try to bring it back,” she murmured. “If not, we’ll plant a new one together. Okay?”
Neville nodded into her jumper.
—---
By the end of the year, it wasn’t just the Gryffindor fifth-years. First-years started coming to her with their problems. The twins left her sweets before exams. Even Professor McGonagall, with a suspicious twinkle in her eye, had started referring to her as “Miss Granger, our unofficial resident supervisor.”
It wasn’t a title she asked for.
But it was one she earned.
—---
Later, long after the final battle, when the dust had settled and names had been carved in stone, Hermione would sit on the floor of a rebuilt Gryffindor Tower, now full of laughter and light again. She’d be surrounded by a new generation of students—some orphans, some just far from home—and they’d all instinctively know who to go to when they needed a firm word and a warm smile.
And when someone inevitably caught their robes on fire again, she’d stand with a sigh, wand already in hand, and say,
“Honestly. Do I have to supervise all of you forever?”
And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t mind.