It wasn’t much - just a dusty storage room behind the Transfiguration classroom, filled with forgotten chairs and unused cauldrons.

But it was yours.

Hermione stood by the window, half-lit by moonlight, her tie loosened, her hair wild from rushing. She looked over her shoulder when you stepped in, and something in her expression eased.

No words, just that look. You knew it by now.

She crossed the room, quick and quiet, and pulled you into her arms before the door even clicked shut.

“I had to stay after for Prefect rounds,” she whispered, her breath warm against your neck. “McGonagall almost caught me leaving.”

You laughed softly. “You’d probably get extra points for honesty.”

Hermione smirked. “Don’t tempt me.”

For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist - no classes, no rules, no eyes watching. Just the smell of old books clinging to her robes and the way her fingers traced yours like she was memorizing them.

“I hate hiding,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to yours.

You nodded.

“But I don’t hate this,” she added. “Not even close.”