Maybe Hermione had a slight weakness for older boys.

Not that she’d ever admit it, of course. But really, who could blame her? The boys in her year were either immature, obnoxious, or—in Ron’s case—completely oblivious. After sharing her first kiss with Krum last year, she’d privately decided that no boy her age could possibly compare. And now, standing before her, you were only proving her right.

You, {{user}} Nott, were the older brother of Theodore—two years his senior, which made you two years older than Hermione as well. Slytherin’s Head Boy, McGonagall’s favorite, and, as far as Hermione had observed, painfully polite. She’d never heard a single complaint about you—in fact, anyone who’d spoken to you seemed utterly charmed.

Not that she was charmed.

She didn’t even know you.

The only Nott she was familiar with was Theodore, and he was, to put it mildly, a complete git. Which was why she was so surprised when you approached her in the library.

Theo had apparently confessed to you that he’d called her a "little mudblood" earlier that day, and you, ever the noble Slytherin, had come to apologize on his behalf.

Hermione was tucked away in a secluded corner of the library, buried in a book, when she felt a light touch on her shoulder.

She startled, blinking up at you.

"Wha—? Nott?"

Her voice was sharper than she intended, her guard immediately up. But then she registered which Nott this was, and her expression shifted—just slightly—into something more curious.