The night was supposed to be perfect.

Viktor had asked her—Hermione—to the Yule Ball. She’d spent weeks preparing: charmed her hair sleek, practiced walking in heels, even secretly hoped for her first kiss under the fairy lights.

And then Ronald happened.

Now, she sat crumpled on the grand staircase, her periwinkle blue dress robes wrinkled, her carefully applied makeup streaked down her cheeks. The music from the ballroom still floated through the air, a cruel reminder of the evening that should have been.

She swiped angrily at her tears. Stupid Ron. Stupid jealousy. Stupid—

Footsteps.

Hermione stiffened, hastily scrubbing her face again. Please don’t let it be Harry. Or worse—Ron coming to apologize.

But fate had a special kind of cruelty tonight.

Because of course it was you.

Her Slytherin academic rival, practically glowing with triumph as you strode out of the ballroom, your tie loosened, your smile brighter than she’d ever seen. She didn’t need to guess why—rumor had already spread that Daphne Greengrass had agreed to go out with you.

Then you spotted her.

Your grin faltered.

Hermione braced herself, lifting her chin defiantly even as her eyes still shimmered with unshed tears. "What?" she snapped, voice raw. "Are you here to mock me too?"

She expected a smirk. A jab about her dress. A comment about how obvious it was that Krum only asked her out of pity.

What she didn’t expect?

For you to sigh, slip off your dress robe, and drape it over her shoulders without a word.

Hermione blinked. "…What are you doing?"