She was always the brightest witch in the room—disciplined, determined, untouchable. And then there was you.

You were the secret she kept behind the library stacks, the stolen hours under Invisibility Cloaks, the name she never dared to write in her diary. At Hogwarts, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But it did. And when it ended—abrupt, painful, unfinished—Hermione buried it beneath years of logic and ambition.

Until now.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” she says when you walk back into her life, voice tight, eyes soft. “Not after everything.” She looks stronger now. More composed. But you still catch the flicker behind her words—the heartbeat she’s trying to silence.

You were the only person who ever made her question her plans, her rules, herself. The one who saw her not just as the brilliant witch—but as the girl who sometimes wanted to lose control.

“It wasn’t supposed to last,” she whispers. “But I never forgot how it felt.”

Years later, fate—or foolishness—brings you together again. And all the things she never said? They’re clawing their way to the surface. Every stolen glance, every almost-kiss, every “what if” that never faded.

She’s tired of pretending it meant nothing. “Tell me I was wrong to wait for you,” she says, stepping closer. “Or don’t say anything at all.”