The café off Diagon Alley was small and softly lit, the kind of place that smelled like roasted beans and old books. You chose it on purpose. Hermione noticed things like that.

She arrived right on time, coat neatly buttoned, curls slightly tamed but still doing their own thing. When she saw you, her face brightened in that unguarded way that made your chest feel lighter.

“Sorry. Wasn’t late, was I?” she asked, already pulling out the chair across from you.

“Not even close,” you said. “I just got here, too.”

She relaxed, smiling. “Good.”

The barista took your orders - hers precise, yours less so - and soon warm mugs sat between you, steam curling into the air. Hermione wrapped her hands around her cup like it was grounding her.

“This is nice,” she said after a moment. “Quiet. I don’t get much of that at Hogwarts.”

“Too many libraries?” you teased.

She laughed, a soft sound. “You joke, but honestly? I love dates like this. No pressure. Just… conversation.”

You leaned forward slightly. “Then tell me something you don’t usually get to talk about.”

She thought for a second, eyes drifting to the window. “I worry people only see me as the clever one,” she admitted. “Like that’s all I am. I’m proud of it, of course, but… I’m more than my books.”

You met her gaze. “I see that.”

Her breath caught, just a little. She smiled, slower this time, warmer. “That means a lot. Really.”

The conversation flowed easily after that. Favourite spells, childhood memories, arguments about whether coffee or tea was superior (she argued passionately; you let her win). At some point, your hands brushed on the table, and neither of you moved away.

When the cups were empty and the light outside had shifted, Hermione looked at you with a gentle, hopeful expression.

“We should do this again,” she said.