The Granger household was, on the surface, a place of order and warmth.
Books lined every wall. The scent of herbal tea and fresh wood polish floated gently through the air. The fireplace flickered with a welcoming glow in winter, and the garden bloomed with strange, stubborn beauty during spring. Conversations were polite, dinner happened at the same hour each evening, and everyone was expected to clean their dishes.
It was… comfortable.
Safe.
But beneath the quiet rituals of domestic life, the Granger household held two children who defied every notion of normalcy.
One was a girl who read at a university level by age seven, who never let go of the boy she called her brother.
The other was a boy who could decipher magic by observing the way light bent through glass.
Hermione's parents, Roger and Jean, were loving but practical. They assumed both children were simply gifted — exceptionally so — and chalked it up to brilliant genes and good parenting.
They didn't see how Hermione watched Elias sleep.
They didn't see the way she meticulously tracked every word he wrote.
They didn't know she had started locking her door, not to keep them out, but to create shrines of notes Elias had scribbled and thrown away — torn parchment flattened and placed carefully into albums under her bed.
They didn't see.
But Elias did.
He always saw.
---
That morning, Jean Granger poured tea while the radio murmured soft jazz from the counter. Hermione sat at the table, pretending to read, her eyes flicking constantly toward Elias as he stood by the window, sketching a spell array with his finger against the glass.
Roger walked in with the paper and yawned. "You two have plans for today?"
Hermione answered quickly. "Studying!"
Elias glanced back, blinking. "Studying what?"
Hermione smiled too fast. "Oh, just… Charms theory. Your notes. I mean, I organized them better. I made copies—"
"Without asking?" he said, flatly.
"I didn't think you'd mind," she said with a soft voice.
He stared at her. There was no fear in her gaze. No shame.
Only need.
Possession, masked as affection.
She wanted his notes because they were his. Knowledge was a kind of intimacy for her — every diagram, every margin scribble, every spell tweak was like a secret she could claim as hers.
He didn't protest. He never did. Not yet.
"Fine," he said at last. "Show me what you did with them."
---
Her room was obsessively neat.
Not just tidy — controlled.
Books were ordered by color, size, and subject. Her bed was made perfectly. Her quills were all sharpened to identical lengths. But in the bottom drawer of her desk — hidden beneath school forms and stationery — was her collection.
His handwriting.
Hundreds of notes, some from years ago, recreated by her hand with disturbing accuracy. She had copied not just the content but the pressure of his strokes, the way he slanted certain runes.
A shrine of mimicry.
He didn't say a word.
Instead, he reached down and pulled out a loose sheet. A complex theory diagram he'd abandoned months ago.
"You finished this?"
She flushed slightly. "I thought I could... impress you."
"You connected it with lunar convergence theory."
"Yes. I studied your celestial sequencing and thought... why not time it with real-world orbit shifts? Like a tide spell, but internalized."
He stared at the rune in the corner. It was wrong — but interestingly so.
"Not bad," he murmured.
Her whole body lit up.
---
That evening, Jean noticed Hermione humming to herself while brushing her hair.
"You look happy," she said with a smile.
Hermione turned. "He complimented my spell work."
"Elias?"
Hermione nodded. "He said it wasn't bad. That means it was excellent. He just doesn't say things unless they matter."
Jean blinked. "Sweetie… you know you're just as brilliant as he is."
"No one's like Elias," Hermione said softly. "Not here. Not anywhere. He's… not normal."
The words hung in the air.
Jean's smile dimmed. "You're both very special—"
"He's more than special," Hermione interrupted.
She turned back to the mirror.
And whispered:
"He's mine."
---
That night, Elias lay awake in the guest bed beside Hermione's, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
He could feel her magic pulsing faintly across the room. Not powerful — but focused. Anchored entirely on him.
She had begun forming emotional cores. Unconsciously binding magic to obsession. He'd read about this — rare in Muggle-borns, rarer still without proper training. It was like her feelings were etching themselves into her soul, and from there, into the arcane.
If it continued… she might form a Heart Thread. A metaphysical link based not on spellwork, but on emotion — one-sided, at first. Harmless. But if the other party ever responded…
Bonded.
Permanently.
He wasn't sure whether to be impressed.
Or deeply, deeply concerned.
---
The next morning, he found a note under his pillow. Not written. Drawn.
It was a diagram — a blend of protection runes and sensory tags, woven in a spiral formation. Something new.
Something she had made.
At the bottom, a message:
"To make sure I always know where you are. Just in case."
— Hermione