Commotion. That was the only way to describe the Gryffindor Common Room that night. The portrait hole was left hanging open; students were frantically scurrying in and out in the hopes of catching that evasive library book. The student body had a promising future of blood, sweat and tears ahead of them.

Half of their grade. That was the only, or at least, the least terrifying way to describe the essay that Professor Snape had set days ago. “Potion making and its role in the wizarding world.” Three whole feet of parchment. The seventh years were in a panic.

All checked out. Those were the words Madam Pince had uttered, it seemed, millions of times since the last class of the day. Her library had never been more crowded with people. Terrified students, their hands free of the potion books that they so hopelessly needed, ran among each other, desperate to find that last copy.

Relaxed. That was the only word to describe seventeen-year-old Hermione Granger. An enormous copy of Muggle Studies- A Beginner’s Guide lay open in her lap, and a slight smile played at her lips. She, of course, had completed the essay the very night it was assigned. She raised her fingers in a version of a wave to her best friend, who was flipping through a textbook across the room.

A nervous Harry Potter waved back, quite shakily, and returned to the thick book, loaded quill, and long, blank roll of parchment in font of him. Harry had been one of the lucky ones. With a wary tip-off from Hermione, he had gone down to the library the night before and checked out a copy of very nearly every book available on anything that had to do with potions.

Ronald Weasley, however, had not had the blessed fortune of his two friends. He was now standing in the far left corner of the common room, arguing feverishly with his former girlfriend, Lavender Brown. A precious copy of Potion Making- Its Uses lay half in her hands, half in his. He tried to stare her down with cold, threatening eyes, but to no avail. Lavender, and the book, refused to budge. He glared at her for a few more moments, but after a while, he reluctantly released the treasure.

“Not a word, Hermione,” he grumbled as he stalked past the squelchy red armchair in which his best friend was lounging. She clicked her mouth shut, her eyes wide at his harsh, angry tones.

Ron strode over to Harry, his head low. “Hey mate, mind if I borrow one of these?” he asked quietly, pointing sheepishly to the towering stack of well thumbed through books. Harry nodded absentmindedly, his eyes still on the parchment ahead and his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

Ron grinned so broadly that the corners off his mouth looked ready to leap off of his face. “Thanks, Harry!” he shouted joyously over his shoulder, already rushing off to his own quill and parchment. Hermione looked on in disapproval as he skimmed over the word-intensive pages. The smile faded more and more, however, with each turn of the yellowed pages. He turned nervously to Harry, who nodded once more.

The idiotic grin returned as Ron opened up the next book. Again, his smile slipped and slid off of his face like gelatin on a wet plate. He grabbed the whole stack of books, his expression becoming frantic as he flipped through the pages. His eyes grew wide and panicked as he closed the last book of the pile. With a slightly frightened look, he got up from the wooden floor and strode over to Hermione.

“What is it, Ronald,” she sighed, closing the book with one hand and rolling her eyes at him. He gave her the sad, pleading look of someone who has just been proved wrong.

“I really do not understand this at all,” he groaned. “Hermione, I am so sorry, I know I should have listened to you, but please, please, please help me! My mum says that if I fail potions she is not going to let you and Harry stay for the summer. Plus then I might have to repeat the year! I’ll be murdered!” he begged. Hermione covered her mouth with one hand, and her gaze softened.

“She wouldn’t,” Hermione challenged with narrowed eyes, but a hint of worry stayed in her tone. Ron nodded solemnly, and Hermione’s grip tightened on the book in her hand. “Oh Ron,” she whispered, biting her lip. “Why didn’t you go to the library with Harry?” He looked her in the eyes.

“Please, ‘Mione,” he said quietly. She looked away for a moment, nibbled on her thumb nail, and finally seemed to make up her mind. After a good dig through her bag, she sighed whole heartedly and produced, with sad waves, a four-foot long sheet of parchment, nearly blackened by her miniscule handwriting, ants marching over the page.

“Here,” she said, handing it to him, her gaze averted. He gasped and looked down at it in wonder. His jaw dropped. “Take it,” she insisted, pushing it into his hands. He gaped at her.

“But-Hermione- I- what- you- wow,” he said, shocked. He recovered shortly. “But- but won’t Snape realize that this is your handwriting?” he asked. Hermione shook her head.

“Which is why you copy it over,” she said. She shook her head, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

“But won’t he realize that our essays are the same?” he asked in wonder. She rolled her eyes.

“Honestly, Ronald, you are so stupid some times,” she sighed with only the slightest twinge of regret in her voice. “Give me the books. I’ll do mine over.” Ron opened his mouth to object, but she gave him a look that could turn a blast-ended skrewt into a pile of melted goop.

“You mean it?” he stammered, his eyes the size of snowballs. She nodded, and to Ron she suddenly seemed as beautiful as a rose; more so, she was the most wonderful person on the planet. He smiled, and could feel the relief pouring into him. “I love you, Hermione,” he said sincerely, fingering the corner of the parchment. He sank back down to the floor with ease.

Hermione said nothing; she did not have to. Her dazed look and lopsided beam spoke words enough.