The Restricted Section had become your place.

It started in third year—two rival students, one stubborn Arithmancy problem, and an accidental all-nighter that ended with ink-smudged cheeks and reluctant laughter. You, the Slytherin heir with a Death Eater’s last name. Her, the Gryffindor “princess” with Muggle parents. An impossible friendship.

Then fourth year happened.

The Yule Ball. His hands on her waist. The way your chest burned watching them. That night, you’d cornered her by the library’s enchanted windows, whispering “I can’t stand seeing you with him” like a confession.

Hermione had smiled—smiled—and whispered back: “Took you long enough.”

A year of stolen moments since then. Secret kisses between shelves. Fingers brushing over shared parchment. Her whispered “I love you” against your collarbone last month.

Now, beneath the flickering torchlight, she stands with her arms crossed, a first edition of Moste Potente Potions clutched to her chest like a shield.

“I don’t understand.” Her voice cracks. “Are you ashamed of me?”

The book slips slightly as she gestures—you see the title she’d been hiding: Laws of Magical Lineage. Your stomach plummets.