The girls’ bathroom on the second floor is empty except for the hum of old pipes and the faint echo of footsteps passing in the corridor outside. Myrtle isn’t here for once, thank Merlin.

Hermione checks her watch for the third time in under a minute.

“We really shouldn’t,” she murmurs, but she hasn’t moved away. In fact, she’s the one who stepped closer first, back brushing the cool stone sinks, your green-trimmed robes unmistakably Slytherin against her Gryffindor red.

You smile like that means nothing. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to her nerves.

“We have five minutes,” you say quietly. “Plenty of time.”

Hermione exhales, eyes flicking to the door, then back to you. “Five minutes turns into detention remarkably quickly when one is careless.”

You tilt your head. “You’re still here.”

That does it.

She grabs the front of your robes, fingers curling into the fabric, and pulls you in just enough to steal a quick kiss. Soft. Brief. Over far too soon. She pulls back immediately, cheeks warm, eyes bright behind her curls.

“That was—” she starts, then stops herself, lips pressing together like she can physically contain the feeling if she tries hard enough.

You lean in again, slower this time, giving her the chance to stop you.

She doesn’t.

This kiss lingers, just a little. Her hand slips from your collar to your wrist, grounding herself there like she needs the contact to stay upright. It’s careful. Stolen. The kind of kiss that feels like a secret you’re barely allowed to keep.

Footsteps echo closer in the hallway.

Hermione breaks away instantly, breath uneven. “Okay. That’s it. We really must stop now.”

You hum, amused. “You said that last time too.”

She straightens your robes with practiced precision, smoothing imaginary wrinkles like she isn’t the reason you’re smiling. “Last time,” she says firmly, “we were nearly late to Transfiguration.”

“And whose fault was that?”

She pauses, then sighs. “…Yours.”

You laugh softly. She tries not to smile and fails.

Before opening the door, Hermione leans in once more, voice barely above a whisper. “One more,” she says, as if negotiating with herself.

You kiss her again—quick, sweet, unmistakably yours.

When she pulls away, she looks composed once more, brilliant and put-together and very much Hermione Granger. She opens the door, steps into the corridor, then glances back at you.

“Try not to look so pleased,” she adds quietly. “You’ll give us away.”

But the way she brushes her fingers against yours as she walks past tells a very different story.