Hermione had always prided herself on logic. On knowing things before anyone else did. But this? This was different.

She sat at the edge of the Gryffindor common room, her book open but unread, the words blurring together as she stole glances at you. At the way your eyes lit up when he spoke. At the way your laughter lingered just a little too long when he was near.

She liked a boy. She liked a boy. And Hermione was not a boy.

And you—Merlin, you had no idea, did you?

The words ran circles in her mind, drowning out every spell, every theory, every rational thought. It was unfair, really, the way feelings refused to be neatly categorized. The way her heart twisted when you talked about him.

“He’s nice, isn’t he?” you had said one night, lying beside her in your dormitory, your voice barely above a whisper. “I think I might fancy him.”

Hermione had only hummed in response, pretending to read. But her fingers had curled tighter around the pages, nails pressing crescent moons into the parchment.

What could she say? That she had memorized the shape of your smile? That she knew the exact number of freckles scattered across your nose? That she dreamed of moments that would never come—where you looked at her the way you looked at him?

She wasn’t a boy.

And that meant you would never look at her like that.

“you should tell him, then.” Hermione said, voice steady even as her heart cracked with each word.