Harmione One Shots

The Hogwarts Book Club

Summary: In which Harry accidentally winds up at the Hogwarts book club and discovers the joy of reading, and Hermione discovers the joy of watching Harry read.

Ship: HarryPotterxHermioneGranger

All credit goes to crediblydisavowedeventsandfeasts on Ao3

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Harry threw his quill down onto the common room table in frustration, his partially written homework assignment scrawled untidily on a parchment that wasn't nearly long enough. It wasn't the length of the homework that was the issue, or at least not the main one, the problem was he didn't get it.

Knowing that transfiguring air into something was hard was one thing, but understanding why was quite another. It bothered him that he couldn't explain it, and he was sure that it would fill that stubborn few inches that would see him done for the day. Precious moments were then wasted on imagining what he could do if this infernal, Sisyphean homework didn't exist – flying chief among them. Merlin, he'd even play chess with Ron again if it meant not having to care about transfiguration for ten minutes.

That, of course, blackened his mood even further. Ron was very much a sore subject at the moment and had been since he had turned on Harry after his name had, entirely unwelcomely, came out of the Goblet. Which brough him even further blue, as the impending cloud of the first task gathered above him. It seemed to him that, quite apart from facing the unknown with bravery, that the first task was actually an exercise in psychic torture. How much uncertainty, how much slowly gathering dread, could a champion endure before they popped, like something gross grown in one of Professor Sprout's greenhouses.

He was midway through massaging his temples when Hermione looked up from her own work, several books spread out in front of her, and asked with genuine concern, "Are you feeling alright?"

He brooded a little before answering, "No, frankly. I'm not, I've been back and forth over this ruddy text book," he flipped through the unhelpful pages of their 4th year transfiguration text book," all afternoon and I'm still no closer to explaining why you can't just transfigure the air into stuff."

She looked at him, softly, eternally patient. He knew he ought to be apologising for the harsh tone of his voice, because even though it was clear his frustration wasn't with her it couldn't have been pleasant sitting by him while he seethed. He wanted to clarify, to make it up to her, to make sure she understood he was more angry with himself for failing at his self-set task and not at all unfairly upset with her, but he couldn't seem to make his mouth sound out the words.

Pursing her lips slightly, in a fashion he knew Ron would have mistaken for disapproval, but he knew was just her thinking, she said carefully, "That's because it's not in the 4th year textbook. It's covered in the sixth-year material. Transfiguring things from air is what you're doing when you conjure something, and they don't teach conjuring at OWL level."

Scowling even further, he pushed the book angrily into the middle of the table, "Then why's Professor McGonagall set this question then? How does she expect me to answer it if it's not even on our course."

Frowning slightly, she replied a little haughtily, "She's trying to encourage you to read around the subject. At OWL, and definitely at NEWT level, you can't just rely on what you get taught in classes. You must start doing your own research."

He sighed heavily. He didn't want to spend hours and hours stuck in the library, looking for the answer to his question. Books didn't hold any interest for him. He wanted to be on his broom, soaring, with the wind in his hair. With all the people and their troubles and expectations looking tiny and insignificant.