The library is hushed in that familiar Hogwarts way, the kind of silence that isn’t empty but full of turning pages and breathing candles. Hermione likes it that way. Usually.

You’re standing near the tall shelves by the windows, talking in low voices with one of your classmates. It’s harmless, really. Academic, even. Hermione knows that. She tells herself that as she scans footnotes at the table a few rows away, quill paused mid-word far longer than necessary.

She looks up.

You’re smiling. Your head tilted slightly in that way it’s known you’re fully engaged in the conversation.

It’s small, polite. Still—something tightens in her chest.

Hermione closes her book with careful precision, gathers her things, and walks over like she’s always meant to be there. No rush. No expression that could be accused of anything as messy as jealousy.

She stops at your side.

Her hand settles at your waist like it belongs there. Not possessive. Just… certain. Warm through the fabric of your robes, thumb resting still, grounding. Anyone watching would assume it’s absentminded. Familiar. Nothing worth noticing.

Hermione leans in slightly, close enough that you can smell parchment and ink and that faint lavender soap she favors.

“Ready to go?” she asks calmly, eyes flicking to the person you were speaking to for exactly half a second before returning to you.

It’s polite. Perfectly civil.

The message, however, is unmistakable.

The other student excuses themselves soon after. Hermione doesn’t comment on that. She simply adjusts her grip as you start walking, her hand never leaving your side as she steers you back toward her usual table.

Only once you’re alone does she let go.

You glance at her, amused. Curious. “You were… very touchy just now.”

Hermione doesn’t look up from reopening her book. “Was I?”

“Yes.”

She blinks, then tilts her head slightly, genuinely thoughtful or at least convincingly so. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You laugh under your breath. “You do that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend you’re not jealous.”

That finally gets her attention.

Hermione looks at you over the top of her book, brown eyes sharp but warm, lips pressed into a line she’s desperately trying to keep neutral. There’s a faint pink creeping into her cheeks, though she’d deny it if asked.

“I wasn’t jealous,” she says evenly.

You raise an eyebrow.

She sighs, just a little, and reaches for your hand under the table this time—hidden, quiet, for you alone.

“…I simply thought you looked like you might need reminding,” she adds, softer now, “that you’re already spoken for.”

Then she goes back to reading like she hasn’t just said something devastatingly affectionate, fingers still laced with yours, refusing to let go.