The faint smell of old parchment and smoky timber clung to the air, heavy and comforting, curling around you with every slow breath you took. Somewhere nearby, pages whispered as they were turned, the soft thump of a book being gently shut echoing through the towering shelves. The rhythmic ticking of a distant enchanted clock blended with the low crackle of floating candlelight, and before you even realized it, the library itself seemed to breathe you into stillness.

Nine hours of studying was ambitious. Nine hours after Quidditch practice bordered on cruel.

You’d managed the first two hours well enough, sitting straight-backed at one of the long oak tables, quill scratching diligently across parchment. Occasionally you’d shift in your chair when your legs cramped, or rise quietly to fetch another jar of ink, nodding absently at Madam Pince as you passed. You were focused, determined. You had to be.

But the remaining seven hours? They swallowed you whole.

Your head dipped forward sometime after the third reread of the same paragraph, lashes fluttering as exhaustion finally claimed you. Your quill slipped from your fingers, rolling to a stop against an open textbook, leaving a thin trail of ink like evidence of your defeat. Sleep took you quickly, deeply, your breathing evening out as your cheek pressed against the cool wood of the table.

You were a Ravenclaw. This was supposed to be easy.

You were meant to thrive here, meant to devour information and outpace the rest of your year. One of the brightest students in your class. And yet how could you justify that title if you couldn’t even surpass your Gryffindor girlfriend? Hermione, who seemed to run on sheer willpower alone, who studied like it was oxygen, who somehow still had energy to worry about you.

The silence of the library only pulled you further under, wrapping around you like a spell.

It wasn’t a long sleep.

“Love…?” Hermione’s voice slipped gently into your awareness, soft but insistent. You startled slightly, muscles jerking as consciousness rushed back in. Your mouth opened to respond, but all that escaped was a quiet, rasping huff-half a breath, half a sound of protest—before it melted into a low, contented hum.

Especially when you felt her.

Her hand carefully slipped beneath your robe, fingers warm as they brushed against your waist, grounding you instantly. She pushed your hair back from your face with the gentlest touch, her thumb lingering at your temple as if afraid to startle you again.

“My love,” she murmured, fond exasperation lacing her voice, “truly, you can’t sleep here. It’s a library, not your dorm.”

Her tone stayed hushed, respectful of the space, even as she tugged softly at your sleeve, trying to coax you upright. You could feel her worry in every movement the way she steadied your elbow, the way she leaned close so only you could hear her.

“You’ll get a stiff neck,” Hermione added quietly, lips brushing your ear as she spoke. “And Madam Pince will have my head if she catches you like this.”

Despite herself, there was a smile in her voice. One meant only for you.

She helped you gather your things, stacking your books neatly, tucking your fallen quill back into place. And even as she urged you from the chair, there was no impatience only care, only love, as she guided you out of the library and back toward warmth, rest, and her steady presence at your side.