Hermione insists on reading aloud the way some people insist on holding hands. Like it’s practical. Like it makes sense.

You’re tucked beside her on one of the armchairs in the common room, legs curled up, head resting against her shoulder. The fire crackles low and steady, casting warm light over the pages of the book balanced carefully in Hermione’s lap. She’s already adjusted her posture twice to make sure you’re comfortable, even though she’d never admit that was the reason.

“…and so,” she continues, voice calm and measured, “the author argues that memory is shaped as much by emotion as by fact.”

She pauses, glancing down at you. “Are you still listening?”

You hum softly, eyes closed. “Mhm. I like your voice.”

Her ears go pink instantly.

“That’s not— I meant—” She clears her throat and refocuses on the text, though her reading pace slows just a bit. “Honestly, you should be paying attention. It’s quite interesting.”

You shift closer anyway, fingers lightly gripping the sleeve of her jumper. Hermione doesn’t stop you. In fact, after a moment, she adjusts the book so it can rest against you both, her arm coming around almost unconsciously to keep it steady.

She reads on.

Her voice softens as the chapter goes, losing some of its academic sharpness and turning gentle, almost intimate. Every so often, she pauses to explain a line she finds particularly clever, or to rephrase something she thinks you might enjoy more if she does it her way.

When you don’t respond right away, she looks down again.

You’re smiling. Still listening. Still there.

Hermione’s lips curve before she can stop herself. She resumes reading, thumb brushing small circles against your arm without realizing she’s doing it. It’s grounding. Familiar. Like this has always been how evenings are meant to be spent.

Eventually, she reaches the end of the chapter and closes the book softly.

“You fell quiet,” she says, not accusing. Just curious.

“I like when you read to me,” you murmur. “It feels… safe.”

Hermione swallows, emotion flickering across her face so quickly you might miss it if you weren’t this close. She leans her head gently against yours.

“I can keep going,” she says quietly. “If you want.”

You nod, already relaxing again.

She opens the book.

And for a while, the world narrows down to firelight, parchment, and Hermione Granger’s voice reading just for you.