Hermione doesn’t intend to linger.

She tells herself she’s only scanning the room—taking note of who’s where, making sure Harry hasn’t gotten himself into trouble, mentally cataloguing which professors are pretending not to watch the students too closely. That’s all. Perfectly reasonable.

And then she sees you.

You’re seated on one of the cushioned lounges along the edge of the Great Hall, slightly removed from the swirl of dancers and floating lights. Your dress robes shimmer faintly in the candlelight, pale and silvery, and in your hands—of all things—you’re holding a book. Calm. Absorbed. Entirely yourself, as if the Yule Ball is just another curious phenomenon rather than something you’re meant to participate in.

Hermione slows without realizing it.

Reading here makes absolutely no sense. The music is too loud, the lighting uneven, people passing by every few seconds—she notes all of this automatically. And yet, you look perfectly content. Serene, even. Like the noise simply… moves around you instead of through you.

She frowns, adjusts the strap of her small bag on her shoulder, and then sighs softly, as if she’s already lost an argument with herself.

Before she can overthink it further, she crosses the floor toward you, heels clicking far too loudly in her ears. When she stops in front of the lounge, she folds her hands together—proper, composed, very Hermione—and clears her throat.

“Luna,” she says, voice warm but measured. “I was wondering where you’d gone.”

Her gaze flicks to the book, eyebrows lifting despite herself. “Of course you’re reading,” she adds, not unkindly. “I should have guessed.”