The Unspoken Spark
Hogwarts was cloaked in the crisp chill of autumn, the castle grounds blanketed with red and gold leaves. The air carried the sharp tang of impending winter, mingled with the faint scent of woodsmoke curling from Hagrid’s hut. Inside the castle, the Gryffindor common room was warm and inviting, the fire crackling in the hearth as shadows danced across the walls.
Harry Potter and Hermione Granger sat near the window, an assortment of books and parchment scattered between them. Hermione was completely engrossed in Advanced Arithmancy Studies, her quill scratching furiously across the parchment as she worked through another complicated equation.
Harry, on the other hand, was anything but focused. He was supposed to be reading for Potions, but instead, his gaze kept drifting to Hermione. It wasn’t anything new—Harry had always admired Hermione’s focus and determination. But lately, his admiration had started to feel... different. He couldn’t pinpoint when it began, but now he found himself noticing things he hadn’t before, like the way her curls framed her face when she leaned over her notes, or the way her eyes sparkled when she explained something she was passionate about.
“I don’t understand how you can enjoy that,” Harry muttered, closing his Potions book with a sigh.
Hermione didn’t look up. “You’d enjoy it too if you gave it a proper try.”
“I doubt it,” Harry replied, smirking. “I think I’d rather face another Hungarian Horntail than whatever that is.”
At that, Hermione finally glanced up, her lips twitching into a smile. “You’ve faced worse. I’m sure you could handle a few magical equations.”
Their banter was easy, natural, but beneath it, Harry felt the faint tug of something more. It was strange—exciting but also unsettling. He wasn’t sure what to do with these feelings, so he let them sit, unspoken.
That evening, as they walked back from the library, Hermione clutched a letter she’d received earlier that day. She seemed unusually quiet, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“Good news?” Harry asked, glancing at the parchment.
“It’s from Viktor,” she replied, her cheeks tinged pink. “He wanted to check in.”
Harry felt an unexpected pang in his chest. “Krum?”
“Yes, Harry. Viktor Krum,” she said, her tone teasing. But Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he was remembering the way Krum had looked at her during the Yule Ball, the way she’d glowed in her periwinkle dress robes.
Meanwhile, Hermione had her own turmoil. She couldn’t stop noticing how much time Ginny Weasley spent with Harry lately. Ginny had always been confident, and over the years, she’d grown into a striking young woman with a sharp wit and a knack for making people laugh. Her fiery hair and bright personality seemed to light up every room she entered, and she and Harry shared a bond that Hermione sometimes envied.
It was the little things that got to Hermione: how Ginny playfully smacked Harry’s arm during Quidditch practice, or the way she laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones. There was a comfort in their interactions, a familiarity that Hermione couldn’t help but notice.
Earlier that week, Hermione had watched as Ginny sat next to Harry at breakfast, nudging his shoulder with hers as she teased him about his messy hair.
“Honestly, Harry,” Ginny had said with a laugh, reaching up to flatten a particularly unruly tuft. “You look like you’ve been dragged backward through a hedge.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Harry had replied, grinning.
Hermione had looked away, pretending to focus on her toast, but she couldn’t ignore the knot forming in her stomach. It wasn’t just that Ginny and Harry looked good together—they did, annoyingly so—but also that their connection seemed effortless, as if they understood each other in a way that excluded everyone else.
That day after Quidditch practice, Ginny had lingered on the pitch with Harry, laughing at something he said while tossing a Quaffle between them. Hermione, watching from a distance, felt her heart sink. Ginny’s laugh rang out, bright and carefree, and Harry looked so at ease with her.
Hermione told herself she was being ridiculous. Ginny was Ron’s sister, and Harry had never shown any romantic interest in her. But the doubt lingered, gnawing at her whenever she saw them together. She hated the feeling—it was petty and unfair—but she couldn’t shake it.
As they reached the common room that night, Hermione forced herself to push those thoughts aside. She had no reason to be jealous, she reminded herself. Harry was her friend, and that was all he’d ever be. Still, as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if things were different.