Hermione had made up her mind from the first day: you were arrogant. The kind of Quidditch player who walked down the corridors with a broom slung over your shoulder and a smirk that screamed confidence. Brilliant on the field, unbearable in class. And you? You thought she was insufferable. The “know-it-all” who never missed a chance to correct you in front of everyone. It was a cold war of sharp glances and sharper words. A quiet rivalry.

Until one afternoon in the library.

A Ravenclaw boy walked up to Hermione’s table, clearing his throat awkwardly.

—“Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me this Saturday?”

Before she could answer, your voice rang out from the next row of shelves:

—“She’s busy.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Hermione looked up, surprised. The boy backed off, puzzled, and you just kept your eyes on some random book you’d picked up.

Later, she found you outside the library.

—“Since when do you speak for me?”

—“I wasn’t speaking for you,” you said, not meeting her gaze. “Just stating a fact.”

From that moment on, everything shifted. Every time someone tried to flirt with her, you showed up. A quick interruption, a sarcastic remark, a long stare. She started doing the same—smiling a little too sweetly at another player, laughing just a bit too loudly at something a Ravenclaw boy said during lunch.

You flew harder during practice. Faster. Higher. Like you wanted to be the only thing she noticed.