Chasing that Snitch

The Gryffindor common room was a riot of scarlet and gold, its tapestries glowing like phoenix flames under the firelight. The air was heavy with the scent of singed parchment—Seamus Finnigan’s latest wand mishap—and the musty tang of ancient armchairs mixed with treacle toffee. It was October 1996, Hermione Granger’s sixth year at Hogwarts, and the castle thrummed with the pressure of N.E.W.T.s, Quidditch fervor, and Voldemort’s looming shadow. Yet, in the stolen moments between classes and death threats, something peculiar was unfolding. Harry Potter was staring at Hermione. Constantly. His looks, bright as emerald Snitches, weren’t unnerving but pleasing, sparking a warmth in her chest that she couldn’t quite banish.

Hermione perched at her favorite table by the window, her bushy hair wrestled into a bun that unraveled like a botched Sticking Charm. Her copy of Advanced Rune Translation lay open, pages fluttering with sticky notes, while her quill scratched out a Charms essay on Aguamenti. The common room buzzed—Ron Weasley sprawled on the floor, lobbing Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans at Dean Thomas, who dodged with flailing limbs; Neville Longbottom wrestled a Mimbulus Mimbletonia that squirted ink, speckling his cheeks like a starry sky; Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil giggled, their whispers darting toward Ron, twisting Hermione’s stomach in ways she refused to dwell on.

Harry, however, was the true distraction. He slouched in an armchair by the fire, Quidditch playbook open, his black hair a chaotic halo. His glasses were smudged, green eyes narrowed as he scribbled, but every few minutes, he’d glance at Hermione—not fleetingly, but with a gaze like he’d caught the Snitch, triumphant and sly, as if plotting to surprise her later. It was… pleasing. Disturbingly so.

Oh, for Merlin’s sake, focus, Hermione scolded herself, her quill splattering ink. He’s probably checking if I’m about to lecture him on homework. But her mind conjured his eyes locking onto hers in Charms, where they’d practiced Wingardium Leviosa on feathers. She’d caught him staring, his feather bobbing lazily, lips twitching with a secret. She’d raised an eyebrow, and he’d grinned, unabashed, before his feather shot into the ceiling, prompting a squeak from Flitwick and a snort from Ron.

“Oi, Hermione, you alright?” Ron’s voice cut through. He spat a bean into a napkin, face screwed up. “Blimey, soap. You’re glaring at your book like it’s hexed Crookshanks.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione snapped, smoothing her essay as if it held ancient secrets. “Just concentrating.”

Ron smirked, lobbing another bean at Dean, who yelped as it pinged his forehead. “Don’t concentrate so hard you set the table on fire. Again.”

“That was one time!” Hermione huffed, cheeks warming. The “Table Incident” of fourth year, when she’d ignited her notes in a revision frenzy, was Gryffindor lore. Seamus, nearby then, had called it “brilliant” and kept trying to recreate it, with explosive results.

Harry looked up, and there it was—the Snitch-catching gaze, all spark and secrecy. Hermione’s heart flipped like a botched Apparition. Stop it, Hermione. He’s your best friend. Probably plotting something daft with Ron. But he didn’t look away when she caught him. He held her gaze, lips curving into a half-smile that sent her stomach fluttering like Fizzing Whizbees. She looked back, eyebrow arching in challenge, and the common room faded—bean-throwing, giggling, Neville’s groans—until Ron’s voice broke through.

“Harry, mate, stop mooning over your playbook and help me hex these beans to chase Dean!”

Harry blinked, grin widening as he tossed a cushion at Ron. “You’re on your own, Weasley,” he said, but his eyes flicked to Hermione, quick as a Snitch, before returning to his playbook.

Merlin’s saggy left ball, what’s wrong with me? Hermione thought, her quill tearing the parchment. He’s Harry. Scruffy, scar-headed, Snitch-chasing Harry. Not some Witch Weekly hero. Although, he is handsome and fit and he really is sort of like a Witch Weekly hero. But her mind whispered, He’s looking at you like you’re the Snitch. And you’re not hating it.

In Potions, the dungeon was a damp cave, walls slick with condensation, air thick with simmering cauldrons and crushed beetle eyes. Slughorn’s jovial voice boomed about the Draught of Living Death, his mustache quivering. Hermione, paired with Harry, watched their cauldron bubble, its glossy black surface reflecting torchlight.

“Pass the sopophorous bean,” Harry said, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with ingredients. Their fingers brushed as she handed him the jar, and her mind screamed, He’s looking again! His green eyes were on her, that Snitch-catching spark dancing. He wasn’t subtle, lips twitching like he held a secret.

Oh, for Merlin’s beard, Hermione thought, cheeks warming as she chopped lavender with force. We’re in Potions! With Slughorn waddling like a cheerful troll! Not the time for… whatever this is! Her inner monologue raged. He’s looking like you’re a treasure map, X-marking the spot. And you’re pleased? Get a grip!

She glanced back, knife pausing, and he didn’t flinch. His grin widened, daring her to speak. She raised an eyebrow, lips twitching, locked in a silent staring contest, the cauldron bubbling like a third wheel.

“Miss Granger, Mr. Potter!” Slughorn boomed, making Hermione jump. Her knife slipped, lavender sprigs flying like purple missiles. “Focus! Your potion’s turning puce!”

“Sorry, Professor,” Hermione mumbled, face flaming as she salvaged their potion. Harry snorted, eyes twinkling, and she glared half-heartedly. You’re impossible, she thought, stomach cartwheeling. Looking at me like I’m the Snitch, and I’m looking back. I need Madam Pomfrey. This is a hex.

Across the room, Ron and Seamus’s cauldron sparked green. “Bloody hell, Seamus, it’s a firework!” Ron yelped as a spark singed his eyebrow, sending him crashing into a shelf. Jars rattled, powdered asphodel billowed, and Ron’s sneeze toppled their cauldron, the potion hissing across the floor. Slughorn waddled over, tutting.

“Ten points from Gryffindor!” he declared, vanishing the mess. “Mr. Weasley, Mr. Finnigan, stick to stirring!”

Ron’s face was redder than his hair, Seamus doubled over laughing. Hermione giggled, the absurdity cutting through her Harry-haze. Only Ron could make a potion a pyrotechnic disaster, she thought. And only Seamus would find it hilarious.

Harry leaned closer, whispering, “Think we should rescue them?” His breath tickled her ear, heart stuttering.

“No,” she whispered, lips twitching. “Let them suffer. It builds character.” His laugh was warm, and his look—spark and secrecy—made her think, I’m doomed.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was worse. Snape’s classroom was a shadowy crypt, air thick with parchment and dark magic. His sneering voice droned about nonverbal spells, black eyes glinting as he stalked between desks, robes billowing like a storm. The tension was palpable—half the class terrified, half exhausted by his point deductions.

Hermione sat beside Harry, wand ready, trying to cast a silent Protego. But Harry’s gaze, catching torchlight like Snitches, made her falter. In Snape’s class? she thought. That’s a death wish! Snape spotted distractions like a hawk, and Harry’s staring was begging for a hex.

She caught his gaze, eyebrow arching in a silent, Really? Here? He didn’t look away, lips curving into that maddening half-smile, daring Snape to notice. She looked back, heart racing, wand trembling as her Protego flickered. You’ll get us detention, she thought, lips twitching, warmth spreading. He’s looking like I’m the only thing worth seeing. And I like it. I’m losing my mind.

“Miss Granger!” Snape’s voice sliced through. Her wand clattered, Protego collapsing. “If you cannot manage a nonverbal spell, perhaps you’d prefer scrubbing cauldrons?”

“Sorry, Professor,” she mumbled, face burning as she retrieved her wand. Snape’s eyes flicked to Harry, who studied his textbook. Coward, Hermione thought, biting back a laugh. Looking at me in Snape’s class? Brave or barmy.

Behind them, Neville, paired with Dean, sent Dean’s wand flying into a chandelier with a botched Expelliarmus. The chandelier swayed, crystals tinkling, and Snape’s glare could’ve melted steel.

“Longbottom!” Snape barked. “Twenty points from Gryffindor, and if you destroy my classroom, you’ll polish every trophy by hand!"

Neville’s face was tomato-red, stammering apologies as he retrieved Dean’s wand. Dean’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, Ron snorting into his sleeve. Only Neville could turn a duel into a chandelier catastrophe, Hermione thought, her embarrassment fading. Hogwarts is a madhouse, and I’m mad enough to enjoy Harry’s staring.

By the weekend, Hermione was a nervous wreck, Harry’s looks fueling butterflies. She watched Gryffindor’s Quidditch practice, scarf wrapped against the autumn chill, Hogwarts: A History open as a pretense. The pitch was vibrant, stands scarlet and gold, air crisp with grass and broom polish. The sky was blue, clouds scudding like nifflers, and the team soared, robes flapping.

Ron flailed in goal, missing Quaffles, while Ginny’s red hair streaked as she scored. Harry was a blur on his Firebolt, diving for the Snitch, shouts carrying on the wind. Then Hermione felt his gaze. She looked up, and there he was, hovering, eyes on her, Snitch-catching spark bright, grin unapologetic. Merlin’s knickers, again? she thought, heart leaping. In Quidditch practice? He’s supposed to chase Snitches, not stare at me like I’m one! She looked back, lips twitching, and he tilted his head, as if saying, Caught you too.

Insufferable, broom-riding git, she thought, cheeks warming. Looking like you’ve won the Cup, and I’m grinning like a lovesick Hufflepuff. Absurd! She couldn’t look away, his wind-tousled hair and snapping robes like a romance novel hero.

Ron missed a Quaffle, which nearly hit her book. “Oi, Hermione, watch it!” he bellowed, waving apologetically. The team laughed, Harry shot for the Snitch, but not before a last sly glance, like a wink without winking.

He’ll be the death of me, Hermione thought, clutching her book. Looking like that on a broomstick? I should hex him for distracting me from… reading? I’m a mess.

Post-practice, Seamus and Dean enchanted a spare Quaffle to chase Ron, bonking his head as he yelped and swatted with his broom. “Seamus, you git, I’ll hex your ears off!” Ron roared, wobbling. The team collapsed laughing, Ginny nearly falling off her broom, Harry doubled over, glasses fogging.

Only at Hogwarts, Hermione thought, giggling until her sides ached. A Quaffle with a vendetta and Harry looking at me like I’m his Snitch. I’m unhinged for liking it.

The looks persisted, chipping at Hermione’s sanity. In Charms, Harry stared during Aguamenti, his water jet soaking Flitwick, who squeaked like a drenched pixie. In Potions, he looked while brewing Felix Felicis, their cauldron glowing gold, Hermione nearly spilling it under his gaze. In Defense, he looked despite Snape, earning a lecture when her Stupefy toppled a suit of armor.

Her inner monologue was a circus. Looking in Snape’s class? He’s got a death wish. Why am I smiling? I’m supposed to revise, not swoon like some flaky woman from a trashy romance novel! But swoon she did, his Snitch-catching spark making her soar.

Comedy abounded—Ron’s hair turned blue in Transfiguration, hiding under a scarf while Seamus howled; Neville’s shoes tap-danced in the Great Hall, tripping him across the Gryffindor table; Lavender and Parvati’s love potion backfired, filling the common room with pink fog, making everyone giggle for an hour.

Harry’s looks were a warm thread in the chaos. Hermione looked back, smiles bolder, heart racing. What’s he planning? she wondered. He’s hiding a Snitch, and I want to know what it is. I’m turning into Lavender. Hex me now.

On Friday morning, before breakfast, Hermione entered the Great Hall, its enchanted ceiling a soft dawn pink. The hall was nearly empty, tables gleaming, the air carrying the scent of fresh bread and porridge. She paused, spotting Harry at the Gryffindor table, deep in conversation with Professor Dumbledore. The old wizard’s silver beard glinted, his half-moon spectacles catching the light, his expression grave yet kind. Harry nodded, face serious, scar stark against his skin.

Dumbledore placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, a gesture of trust, and Harry nodded again. Then, as if drawn by a spell, Harry’s eyes flicked to Hermione, finding her instantly, as if he’d known her exact spot all along. The Snitch-catching spark was there, softer but piercing, and Hermione’s breath caught, her chest tightening with a jolt of warmth and wonder. How did he know where I was? she thought, heart thudding. He’s looking like I’m… important. Merlin, what’s happening?

Harry nodded once more to Dumbledore and walked off, casting her a quick, shy glance. Then, the strangest thing—Dumbledore turned, his twinkling blue eyes meeting hers. He gave her that look, the one that saw through souls, nodded with a gentle smile, and glided away, robes whispering against the flagstones. Hermione stood frozen, feeling she’d witnessed something profoundly important but utterly baffling.

What was that? she thought, mind spinning. Dumbledore looking at me like he knows something? And Harry… finding me like I’m his North Star? I’m either hexed or this is… significant. Merlin’s beard, I need answers. Her heart raced, the moment lingering like a spell, fueling her resolve to confront Harry later.

By Friday evening, Hermione was a nervous wreck, Harry’s looks and the Dumbledore encounter swirling in her mind. The common room was packed, fire casting a golden glow over scarlet rugs and gold-trimmed furniture. Ron was teaching Neville to juggle enchanted gobstones, which squirted foul-smelling liquid when dropped. Neville dropped one instantly, spraying Ron’s face with a rotten-cabbage stench. “Blimey, Neville, you’re hopeless!” Ron spluttered, wiping his face as another gobstone rolled under a sofa, hitting Lavender, who shrieked and toppled off her chair. The room roared with laughter, Neville scarlet as he stammered apologies.

Seamus and Dean enchanted a quill to doodle in mid-air, its ink forming rude sketches. It drew a caricature of Snape with bat-like ears, sending Gryffindors into hysterics. Lavender, fuming from the gobstone, swatted the quill, which sketched a heart around her and Ron, making her blush and Ron choke on a bean.

Hermione tried revising for Arithmancy, but Harry, sprawled on a sofa, Quidditch magazine ignored, was staring. The Snitch-catching look was brighter, her heart somersaulting. In this madhouse? Relentless! She looked back, lips twitching, and he grinned, daring her closer.

Impossible boy, she thought, cheeks warming. Looking like I’m a grand surprise. Why am I so pleased? Her inner monologue was giggles and panic, heart thudding. I’ll demand answers. Gryffindor courage, Hermione. You’ve faced trolls. You can handle Harry’s eyes, his gorgeous, gorgeous eyes.

The portrait hole opened, and Luna Lovegood drifted in, radish earrings swaying, carrying glowing mushrooms. “Hello, everyone,” she said dreamily. “Nargle-repelling fungi. They’re cheerful this time of year.”

Laughter erupted. Ron choked on a bean, Neville dropped another gobstone, spraying Seamus, and the quill sketched a mushroom with Luna’s face, sending Ginny into giggles. “Blimey, Luna, Wrackspurt traps next?” Ron spluttered.

Luna smiled, handing Neville a mushroom, which he took warily. “Wrackspurts are tricky,” she said. “These keep your common room cozy.” She wandered off, humming, leaving glowing fungi and baffled Gryffindors.

As the portrait hole swung shut, Colin Creevey, clutching his camera, piped up, “How does she keep getting in here?” His voice was high with confusion, eyes wide. The room paused, then burst into laughter, Seamus clapping Colin’s shoulder as if he’d asked the meaning of life.

“She’s Luna, mate,” Seamus said, grinning. “Reckon she just floats through walls.” Colin blinked, camera dangling, adding to the common room’s glorious chaos.

Only Luna, Hermione thought, giggling. Nargle-repelling mushrooms and Colin thinking she’s a ghost? Harry’s looking like I’m the sanest thing here. Terrifying.

She caught his gaze, holding it, heart racing, smile growing as the chaos faded into a golden blur. Alright, Potter, she thought, bold. You’re looking like I’m your Snitch. Time I catch you.

Hermione stood, books forgotten, and crossed the room, dodging a gobstone and a Snape sketch. Harry sat up, grin faltering, nerves flickering as she stopped before him. “Harry,” she said, voice steady despite butterflies, “you’ve been looking at me all week. A lot, in ways that...well, a lot. Care to tell me why?”

The common room seemed to hush, though Ron’s gobstone yelp and Seamus’s laughter persisted. Harry stood, his height imposing, when did he get s damn tall? and gave her that look—the Snitch-catching gaze that drove her wild, making her chest flutter like startled pixies. Her heart thudded, breath catching as his green eyes sparkled with mischief and something deeper.

He glanced around—Ron wiping gobstone goo, Neville fumbling, the quill sketching a winking Snape—then shrugged, grinning lopsidedly. “Alright, then,” he said, voice low. He stepped closer, hands finding her waist, and pulled her into him, lips crashing onto hers in a searing kiss, hot and hungry, stealing her breath.

Hermione’s body ignited, a cascade of tingles spreading from her lips to her toes, shivers racing down her spine like sparks from a wand. Her skin prickled, heart pounding as his lips moved, firm and electric, a fire that consumed her senses. Instinctively, her arms looped around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape, pulling him closer as she pressed herself against him, shoulders to chest. His warmth enveloped her, scent—broom polish, treacle tart, Harry—flooding her, every nerve alight with want. The kiss was a spell, binding her to him, the world vanishing in a golden haze.

Ron’s reaction cut through—he choked on a bean, the candy dropping to the floor with a clatter, his freckled face flushing a deep red. His eyes widened, a mix of shock and jealousy flickering as he turned away, shoulders hunching, swatting a gobstone with more force than necessary, his jaw tight.

Harry pulled back, too soon, Hermione’s lips tingling, chest heaving, body still thrumming with shivers and heat. She wasn’t pleased it ended; a desperate ache urged her to chase that fire. Her arms, still looped around his shoulders, instinctively reached to pull him back, fingers twitching toward his collar, but she stopped herself, hands hovering before dropping to her sides. Her mind was a jumble of Merlin’s beard and don’t stop, her breath uneven as she met his eyes, his grin Snitch-bright, cheeks flushed, glasses askew.

“Hermione,” he said, voice husky, “fancy going to Hogsmeade with me? Next weekend. As my date.”

Hermione’s heart soared, joy bubbling. Still dazed, lips parted, words failed. She nodded, eager, smile radiant despite her daze. “Yes,” she managed, breathy, mind reeling. He kissed me. KISSED me. And Hogsmeade? I’ll combust.

Harry’s grin widened, relief palpable, and they stood, eyes locked, the chaos swirling—Ron’s jealous swat, Lavender’s shriek, Luna’s humming mushrooms. Hermione and Harry laughed, their secret a warm thread in Hogwarts’ madness. The Snitch was theirs, and Hermione couldn’t wait to see where it led.

End.