Harry Potter: My Life as Hermione’s Houseguest

Sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows of the attic, painting the room in a golden glow. In that gentle light, a little girl with chestnut-brown hair and bright, thoughtful eyes was tidying up with quiet diligence.

Truth be told, there wasn't much to organize. The room's owner hadn't stayed long—she'd left before autumn's chill set in, vanishing to a place the little girl couldn't even pinpoint on a map.

So, only a handful of spring and summer clothes hung in the wardrobe, each one neatly folded, still carrying the faint scent of sunshine.

She took her time, smoothing each shirt and dress before tucking them away. Then she arranged the other things just so: the coat rack by the door, the vase in the spot that caught the most light, the books, stationery, and cup on the desk—each placed with care, as if their owner might walk in at any moment.

Of course, the floor needed sweeping—dust always found its way in, no matter how empty a room might be.

When all was done, she clapped her hands softly and surveyed her work with a satisfied smile.

Her gaze lingered on the desk, where a single photo frame stood upright.

Inside was a magical photograph: a boy in crimson-lined robes, soaring through the sky on a broomstick. At one point, he glanced back over his shoulder, flashing a bright smile in her direction.

Looking at the boy "looking" at her, the girl pressed her lips together, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Are you doing well…? she wondered silently, echoing a phrase she'd written in countless letters.

Her eyes drifted from the photo to the window, and then to the distant horizon.

Yes, she missed him.

But it wasn't the sharp, overwhelming ache she'd felt when he first left—when she'd hidden in her room and cried in secret, pretending in front of her parents that his absence didn't matter at all.

Now, the missing was gentle, woven into life like eating or breathing—so ordinary, it simply happened whenever her mind was quiet. She'd find herself wondering what he was up to, what he might be thinking, and whether, just maybe, he ever remembered the little girl who'd studied, eaten, and laughed at his side.

More often, she simply pictured his face, his smile, the sound of his voice.

It was strange—some people you'd known for years remained strangers, even adversaries, like those girls who used to mock and tease her, but now seemed to keep their distance.

But others, even after knowing them for only a short time, could burst into your world with the force of a comet. He'd come to her side and told her to be brave, to be happy, to be strong.

She missed him—not for his looks or his cleverness, but because he'd helped her become someone better.

At least now, she didn't wallow in self-pity when others mocked her, nor did she let their cruel words spark angry arguments. He'd told her, "You don't live in other people's opinions," and, "Arguing with fools only makes you one too."

"Ha! With that silver tongue of yours, I bet you leave plenty of classmates speechless," she said aloud, poking at the moving photograph.

Inside, the little figure on the broomstick swerved sharply, dodging her fingertip as if afraid of being knocked out of the sky.

"Ha-ha-ha!"

The girl giggled at the sight.

"Sorry, I shouldn't tease you. Stay right here—I'll make sure you're always dusted and cared for," she promised the boy in the photo.

The boy rolled his eyes and zoomed off again, circling the sky within his tiny frame.

"Hermione, have you finished tidying Qin's room? We're about to leave!" her mother's voice called from downstairs.

"Yes, Mum! I'm done—coming!" the girl replied, hurrying to the door.

Of course, this little girl was none other than Hermione Jean Granger.

With Halloween just around the corner, the Granger household was bustling with preparations.

During the big clean, Hermione had once again taken out Qin Yu's clothes to air them, then carefully tidied his room. Next up was a family trip to the supermarket for Halloween decorations and dinner ingredients—most importantly, pumpkins.

Downstairs, Hermione pulled on her thick coat and boots, then piled into the car with her parents. Mr. Granger drove them to the nearest large shopping center.

The place was packed—Halloween was coming, and families everywhere were stocking up on treats and decorations.

The Grangers threaded their way through the cheerful crowd. Seeing so many smiling faces, Mrs. Granger sighed, "Oh, if only Qin were here. We could celebrate Halloween together."

She really did miss that sweet, clever boy.

Mr. Granger squeezed her hand, giving her a gentle, warning look.

Mrs. Granger caught his meaning and glanced anxiously at their daughter.

But Hermione just smiled. "It's all right, Mum. Qin said he'd be back for Christmas. We can all celebrate then!"

"Yes, we'll have Christmas together," Mrs. Granger echoed, her smile returning.

She glanced at her husband, who happened to look at her at the same moment. Their eyes met—both surprised by the quiet strength in their daughter.

She really had grown up. No longer fragile or overly sensitive, she'd become so much more confident.

The thought struck both parents at once.

They entered the supermarket and began filling their cart—apples, toffee, lamb chops, beef, potatoes, carrots, and more.

At the pumpkin display, Hermione carefully picked two, saying she'd make jack-o'-lanterns herself. One would be the "Qin Lantern," and the other, naturally, the "Hermione Lantern."

The Grangers couldn't help but chuckle at that.

…

After a full circuit of the store, they headed home as dusk fell. Streetlamps and Halloween decorations lit up the road, and some people were already out in costume. The air was thick with the promise of celebration.

When they pulled into the driveway, they were surprised to spot Trigger the owl perched atop the lamppost.

Hermione leapt from the car, calling softly to the owl and accepting a letter from his talons.

As always, she hurried to her room to read it.

Sitting at her desk, she paused before opening the envelope, lifting it to her nose for a deep, contented breath.

The scent of parchment—so familiar, so special—filled her heart with something warm and overflowing.

The gentle longing she'd thought so ordinary suddenly flared into something fierce and bright.

Dimensional Wall

Translator's Note: "Ever present in her heart" (念兹在兹) is a real idiom, not something I made up!

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