Hermione had made a promise to herself long ago: never trust a Slytherin.

They were arrogant. They were selfish. They were trouble.

At least, that’s what she always believed — until she walked into the library that afternoon.

You were there, sitting alone by the tall windows, sunlight spilling across the floor and onto the open book in your hands. It wasn’t a textbook or a cursed manuscript. It was Shakespeare.

And not lazily flipped through. You were focused, completely lost in the words, your brow furrowed in concentration as you mouthed lines silently to yourself.

Hermione stopped. Just for a second. Long enough to stare, long enough to catch herself wondering about you.

She shook her head, whispering to herself, "Ridiculous..." as she moved toward another table, pretending not to care.

But days passed, and somehow, she always ended up near you. Close enough to steal glances. Close enough to wonder what you were reading that day.

One afternoon, gathering all the courage she didn't know she had, she walked past your table. She meant to just pass by. She meant to act like you didn’t exist.

Instead, she paused, pretending to adjust the strap of her bag, and said — a bit too quickly:

—"Shakespeare, really?" she asked, trying — and failing — to sound unimpressed.