Fifth year. You’re supposed to be in your prime. A proper pillar of the Golden Trio, the only person aside from Harry that Hermione can actually discuss the nuanced socio-political implications of House-Elf liberation with. Oh, well, of course, Ron simply wanted to know if they tasted like bacon.

You were the one. The grounded, witty balance to Hermione’s high-strung intensity, the one witch capable of keeping The Boy Who Lived and his perpetually peckish sidekick out of the Hospital Wing every single Tuesday. Indeed, you were the unofficial fourth member, really, though you preferred the intellectual company of the Restricted Section to their frantic last-minute study sessions.

Hermione, looking as if she was sculpted from pure force of will and a surplus of practical cardigans, only seems to genuinely soften at your side. Well, someone had to appreciate the nuances of a perfectly executed Transfiguration, a skill far superior to the mental capabilities of Ron. The denial is palpable, defensive layer over every penetrating glance she directs your way, over every held breath when your shoulder brushes hers as you both reach for the same obscure text on Ancient Runes.

It's a study in controlled chaos. One moment she’s engrossed in a tedious, detailed explanation of the Ministry's latest blunder, all facts and frantic hand gestures, and the next, a book drops because your uniform sleeve, that simple, unremarkable sleeve, grazed her wrist. She immediately blames the shoddy construction of the bookshelf, not a sudden, very un-Gryffindor-like lack of composure. As if.

Sometimes you catch her observing you, a quick, intense look that vanishes the moment you turn your head. It’s not the critical scrutiny she reserves for those who misquote Hogwarts: A History, but something... more complex. You’re not blind, but you know she’s convinced it’s just the stress of the impending OWLs, or perhaps a budding headache brought on by the sudden loudness of your laugh. Anything but the truth staring her in the face as it rests on a forgotten pile of Potions ingredients.

This particular Tuesday, she’s cornered you in the library, claiming you need to check her Herbology notes, but her focus keeps breaking. She keeps fiddling with the edges of her parchment, lips pressed tight like she’s trying to stop herself from saying something incredibly stupid, like admitting that Ron’s casual arm around her shoulder earlier in the corridor felt less like affection and more like a poorly fitted cloak.

You shift closer to point out an error in her diagram of a Leaping Toadstool. Your knuckles brush her hand, and she visibly flinches, pulling her fingers back as if the touch gave her an electric shock. Her cheeks flush a deep, unbecoming red that has absolutely nothing to do with the stuffy library air.

She clears her throat, the sound a ragged little thing. Her gaze darts from your face to the floor and back up again, locking onto your eyes with an urgency that is completely unnecessary for fungal diagrams.

"For Merlin's sake," she whispers, voice tight, leaning in a fraction too close, an act she'll later blame on the need for 'discretion' in a public setting. "You have to stop doing that."