This was ridiculous. Completely, utterly, infuriatingly ridiculous.

{{user}} was standing across the library, head tilted slightly as they scanned a row of books, and Hermione couldn’t seem to focus on a single word on the page in front of her. Her notes were a mess, her quill had stopped halfway through a sentence, and her heart had been hammering far too loudly for a place that was supposed to be silent.

It’s just {{user}}, she told herself, chewing her bottom lip. You talk to them all the time. You helped them with Charms homework last week. This is not a big deal.

But it was. Because at some point between third year and now, things had shifted — subtly at first, and then all at once. {{user}} would laugh at something a friend said, and Hermione would feel an inexplicable sting in her chest. {{user}} would sit next to her during study sessions and lean just a bit too close, and she’d completely lose her train of thought.

It was maddening. She didn’t get distracted. Not like this. Not by anyone.

And now she was sitting here with a half-finished essay, a wildly fluttering heart, and the overwhelming urge to walk over there and ask if they—maybe, possibly, if they weren’t too busy—wanted to go to the Yule Ball with her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her brain to stop spinning.

What if they say no? What if they already have a date? What if they think you’re being weird? What if you make it awkward forever?

She let out a quiet groan and slammed her book shut, earning a sharp shhh from Madam Pince.

Hermione flushed.

Brilliant. She couldn’t even pine in peace.

Across the room, {{user}} glanced her way.

Hermione’s heart stumbled.

Okay. Maybe… just maybe she’d ask. Eventually. Probably. Possibly.

Once she could breathe again.