The library is unusually quiet, save for the scratching of quills and the occasional rustle of parchment. Hermione sits across from you, flipping through her notes, but her eyes keep drifting to you with thinly veiled curiosity.

Finally, she gives in.

“Alright, spill it,” Hermione says. “I told you about Ronald. Is there someone you fancy?”

You lift an eyebrow at her boldness, pretending to stay focused on your textbook. “That’s an oddly personal question, Mione.”

She folds her arms across her chest, undeterred. “I’m your friend. I’m allowed.”

You sigh, tapping your quill against your lips as you debate. But what’s the harm? “Fine,” you say. “I like the SIytherin boys.”

Her eyes widen like you just announced you were planning to join the Dark Lord’s inner circle. “You what?”

You smirk at her reaction. “You heard me.”

“They’re death eaters,” she hisses under her breath, as if the words themselves might summon them from the dungeons. “You fancy death eaters?”

“Salazar forbid a girl has a hobby,” you deadpan, quirking a brow as you return to your book.

Hermıone gapes at you, scandalized. “That is not a hobby.”

You shrug with mock innocence. “Collecting chocolate frog cards is a hobby. Crocheting is a hobby. Collecting dark, morally questionable, but irritatingly attractive SIytherin boys? Also a hobby.”

“You need serious help,” Hermıone mutters, rubbing her temple like she’s developing a headache.

You lean back in your chair, a slow smile creeping across your face. “Maybe. But admit it, it makes life a little more exciting.”

Hermıone glares at you, but you don’t miss the tiniest, traitorous tug at the corner of her mouth.

“Merlin’s sake,” she grumbles, “I cannot believe you.”

“Oh, please,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “Your lips may have admitted Ron was your crush. But, I’ve seen the way you look at Draco. Don’t deny it.*

You watch as she stares at you quite flustered. Without saying another word, Hermıome returns back to her studies.