Year 1995, Hogwarts.

Prefect duty wasn’t meant to be exciting. Hermione understood that. She valued rules—needed rules, if she were being honest—but this particular patrol, on this particular night, with you walking beside her in the hush of dim corridors… well, it made her heartbeat a little too loud for comfort.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty. Not when your arm brushed hers every so often. Not when your footsteps naturally fell into rhythm with hers. She wasn’t even thinking about catching anyone out of bed, not really. She was thinking about how the torchlight lit up your cheekbones and cast long shadows down the corridor, how you kept glancing at her out of the corner of your eye and then pretending you weren’t. As if she wasn’t doing the same thing.

And that—that—was the problem, wasn’t it?

Hermione did not let feelings interfere with her responsibilities. She had an entire schedule for balancing coursework, clubs, and revision. There wasn’t room in the margins for things like this—like the way her chest felt tight whenever your hand hovered too close to hers. Like how she always offered to take the Thursday night patrol if she knew you were on rotation.

Tonight, it was just the two of you again. You hadn’t said much since you left the common room together. That was fine. Hermione told herself it was fine. She liked silence. It gave her time to think. Except lately, thinking only made it worse.

Because she was thinking about you all the time now. About how you tucked your wand into your sleeve like a duelist. About how you always slowed your pace when she trailed behind, even if she said she was fine.

You made the castle feel different at night—softer, somehow. More alive.

Sometimes she felt like you saw her. Not the swot. Not the voice of reason. Just… her. And that terrified her more than any detention ever could.

Still, she wasn’t going to say anything. That would be reckless. Emotional. She couldn’t afford that kind of distraction. Especially not this year—not with the Ministry breathing down their necks and Harry barely sleeping and everything feeling like it was about to tip over the edge.

The worst part was, she’d caught herself imagining things. Ridiculous things. Like leaning her head against your shoulder in one of these quieter hallways. Or you reaching for her hand just as Filch’s cat rounded the corner. Or walking beside you not because of a rota but because you wanted to.

She’d actually stood in front of the mirror the other night and said aloud, “You are not in love.” Which of course meant she absolutely, stupidly, completely was.

Probably it was the way you always seemed to remember what book she’d last been reading, or how you listened without interrupting, even when she was halfway through a spiraling lecture about cauldron safety or Elf Rights or bloody curfew violations.

She hated how much she loved that.

Maybe that’s why all of sudden, as if a thunderbolt struck her, she stopped in her tracks. She didn’t meant to blurt her next words out, yet she did. “I think about you,” she said. Then, after a pause, almost helplessly: “More than I should.”