You’re sitting at a library table, textbook open, quill ready, brain melting. Transfiguration theory looks like someone sneezed paragraphs onto parchment.

You sigh dramatically.

Which is exactly when Hermione Granger slides into the seat beside you, her hair swaying and her eyes bright with quiet amusement.

“You sound like you’re dying,” she comments.

“I am,” you groan.

She peeks at your parchment. “Oh dear. Yes. That’s… tragic.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She smiles sweetly. “Lucky for you, I’m here to help.”

Hermione leans in. Like, leans in.

Her shoulder brushes yours. Her hair tickles your cheek. Her voice is a soft warmth by your ear as she explains the chapter.

“And if you look here,” she murmurs, flipping a page, “this concept connects to the previous one. See?”

You see nothing.

Absolutely nothing except the fact that she is breathtakingly close.

“Yeah,” you say weakly. “I… see.”

Hermione gives you a suspicious look. “You’re not paying attention.”

“I am,” you insist.

“You’re looking at me.”

You freeze.

She smirks. “Not the book.”

“Hermione—”

She tilts her head innocently. “What? I’m simply pointing out that if you want to pass, you should focus.”

“You’re the one sitting six centimeters from me!”

She moves even closer. “Better?”

You swear your heart forgets how to beat.