The library is nearly empty, save for the rustle of pages and the occasional creak of ancient wood. It’s late—the kind of late that makes everything feel a little softer, a little slower. Moonlight spills through tall windows, casting silver bars across the table where you sit side by side with Hermione Granger, parchment spread out before you.

You’re supposed to be studying for your N.E.W.T.s, but your brain stopped focusing the second she sat down across from you. And then she moved next to you. And now you’re close enough to count the freckles on her cheeks. Close enough to smell parchment and lavender and whatever shampoo she uses that somehow makes you want to lean closer and bury your face in her curls. She’s scribbling something furiously, brows furrowed, a faint smear of ink on her thumb, and you know—without a doubt—that she’s the smartest person you’ve ever met.

And probably the most beautiful, too.

The two of you have done this a hundred times before. Studying together. Trading notes. She insists it’s because you challenge her academically—"You always make me rethink things," she said once—but you’ve caught her watching you more than once when she thinks you’re too absorbed in your work to notice. You wonder if she realizes you do the same.

She asks you a question—something about theoretical transfigurations and Gamp’s Law—but you catch the way her eyes flick to your mouth and back again. The tip of her quill hesitates mid-word.

"You're not paying attention," she says softly, almost teasing.

You grin, trying to find your voice. "Sorry. Hard to concentrate when you're doing that thing with your lip."

She blinks. "What thing?"

You mimic the way she bites it when she’s thinking, and she turns an impossible shade of pink. You weren’t trying to flirt—not really—but now that it’s out there, the air feels different. Charged.

The next second, her knee brushes yours under the table. It lingers.

You could both pretend it’s an accident, but neither of you do.

She looks away quickly, but you don’t miss the tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Let’s… take a short break," she says, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "Just a minute."

You both lean back in your chairs, but the space between you doesn’t widen. If anything, it tightens. You feel her gaze on you—soft, curious, maybe even a little nervous.

“Do you think,” she starts, then falters, “I mean, do you think it’s strange that we’re always the last ones here?”

You smile. “Not strange. Convenient.”

Her laugh is quiet and breathless. She reaches for a chocolate frog from the stash she brought to keep you both awake and breaks it in half, offering you the bigger piece. Her fingers brush yours and neither of you move away.

It’s only a study date. Probably. Maybe. But something about tonight feels different.

Even the silence between you is humming now—soft, golden, promising something you both want but haven’t dared to name just yet.

And maybe, just maybe, this break will last a little longer than a minute.