Books are stacked neatly across the long table in the library, parchment spread out between them, quills scratching softly in the background. Hermione is pretending very hard to focus—jaw tight, brow furrowed, lips pursed in that familiar way that means she’s irritated about something she refuses to acknowledge.

You don’t even have to say anything.

She already knows.

Hermione’s quill pauses mid-sentence. Slowly, deliberately, she looks up at you over the top of her book, brown eyes sharp behind a veil of restrained annoyance.

“So,” she says coolly, voice low enough not to draw attention, “I assume Malfoy’s ego is in pieces again.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then she exhales through her nose, closing her book with a soft thud that’s just a little harder than necessary.

“I told him it was a bad idea,” she mutters, folding her arms. “Honestly, you’d think after the third time he’d stop challenging you to duels like it’s going to end any differently.”

Her gaze flicks to your hands—empty, relaxed, no wand in sight—and her lips thin almost imperceptibly.

“It’s not fair,” she adds sharply, then immediately stiffens, as if realizing she’s said too much. “I mean—magically speaking. The theory alone makes no sense. Nonverbal spellcasting is one thing, but no incantation, no wand, no visible channeling—”

She stops herself, cheeks coloring faintly, and looks away.

“…It’s reckless,” she finishes, clearly lying to herself.

Despite the edge in her tone, there’s relief under it. She glances back at you, eyes scanning you quickly—your posture, your expression—checking for injuries she pretends not to care about.

“He didn’t hurt you,” she says, not quite a question.

When you confirm it, Hermione lets out a quiet breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her shoulders relax just a fraction.

“Well. Of course he didn’t,” she says briskly. “You disarmed him in under ten seconds last time. Honestly, Draco has the strategic foresight of a flobberworm.”

There’s the faintest hint of a smirk at the corner of her mouth—quick, gone almost immediately.

Then, softer, barely audible: “Still… you shouldn’t let him provoke you like that.”

Her fingers curl into the edge of the parchment, knuckles whitening. She hesitates, then adds, more quietly and far less sharp,

“Even if you are… ridiculously good at it.”

Hermione clears her throat, straightening, putting her armor back on. “Just—next time—tell me first. Someone around here ought to make sure you don’t break school rules and ancient magical law at the same time.”

She pauses, eyes flicking up to meet yours again—annoyed, brilliant, conflicted.

“…And don’t look so pleased with yourself,” she adds, though her voice lacks its usual bite. “It’s irritating.”

But when she slides a book toward you—already opened to a relevant page, notes scribbled in the margins—it’s unmistakably deliberate.

“You might as well understand why you can do what you do,” Hermione says, quieter now. “Even if you refuse to explain it properly.”

And despite herself, she stays right there beside you.