Hermione Granger has never liked you. Not since the Sorting Hat placed you under the emerald and silver banners of Slytherin House.

You’d never wronged her—not personally. You'd never hexed a Hufflepuff in the corridor or sneered at Muggleborns in Potions. But still, there was something about you that rubbed her the wrong way. Maybe it was because you were the only student in all of Hogwarts with an intellect sharp enough to rival hers. In fact, you'd been scoring higher than her since fourth year, and that was a fact she tried hard not to resent.

Professor McGonagall’s frequent praise of you didn’t help. The way she came to your defense, time and time again, as if you were some misunderstood prodigy, only made things worse. And then there was your name: Nott. One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. That alone should’ve been enough to keep Hermione's opinions fixed.

“He's a spoiled, pureblood supremacist, just like Theodore,” she often reminded herself. “He just hides it better.”

But deep down—even she had to admit it wasn’t that simple. You were nothing like your brother. You were kind. Polite. Even to her. You never raised your voice, never threw around your family name. And your best friend was Luna Lovegood, of all people. That, if anything, should have said more about your character than your bloodline ever could.

Now, in your sixth year, you're patrolling the dim corridors of Hogwarts together—both of you newly-appointed prefects of your respective houses. The castle is quiet, cloaked in shadows, and the air carries the faint scent of old stone and drifting candle smoke.

You break the silence.

“Granger?”

Her voice is clipped, wary.

“What is it, Nott?”