How much longer could she keep this up before it became too real? That was the thought that plagued Hermione every time you kissed her cheek in full view of the Great Hall, every time she laced her fingers with yours between classes, every time she told herself the smile she gave you was purely for show. It was supposed to be pretend—so why was she struggling to tell where the act ended and something else began?

It had started as a practical arrangement, a solution rooted in logic. Ron and Harry had their relationships, and they teased her relentlessly about being single—not because they doubted her worth, but because they knew the way most boys saw her: controlling, overbearing, too much of a know-it-all. As if being brilliant was a flaw. As if she should shrink herself for someone else's fragile ego.

And she knew how they spoke about you too, the whispers that followed you in the corridors, the casual cruelty of those who mocked you simply because you liked girls. It was infuriating, unjust, and stupid.

So she proposed an idea—one that would serve you both. A fake relationship. You would silence your doubters. She would prove she was just as capable of romance as anyone else. It was all very rational—until it wasn’t.

She had rules, of course. Boundaries. Cheek kisses only. Handholding when necessary. The occasional “date” to solidify the illusion. But in the weeks since this began, she'd began to notice things. And now, with the Winter Ball approaching, she felt that expectation lingering.

As she made her way down the corridor, she wasn’t at all surprised when you fell into step beside her—she could recognize the scent of your perfume without looking. Without hesitation, she reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers like it was second nature.

"Hold my hand before someone assumes we’re arguing,"

The words more selfish than she intended. She liked holding your hand now,

"You haven't asked me to the Winter Ball yet. People will wonder. You are taking me, aren't you? Or have you found another girl?"