The soft pitter patter of rain against the tall window of your dorm room filled the quiet, steady and soothing. Each droplet traced slow paths down the glass, blurring the lantern lights outside into warm streaks of gold. The world beyond the window felt far away, muted by the storm and the late hour.

Behind you, Hermione’s fingers threaded gently through your hair, slow and careful. She hummed a simple melody under her breath, something familiar but indistinct, the sound vibrating softly against your back. It made it hard to stay awake, your shoulders sinking further into her as the tension of the day finally began to loosen its grip.

“Tired already, love?” she murmured, her voice low and hushed, meant only for you.

Her hands moved with purpose as she separated your hair into three small sections, brushing through each one with her fingers to smooth out the tangles left behind by practice. Quidditch always left your hair a mess, windswept and knotted, but Hermione never complained. If anything, she seemed to enjoy this part the most. The quiet aftermath. The way you trusted her enough to sit between her knees and let her take care of you.

You let out a slow breath, eyes fluttering shut as her touch remained steady and patient. After long, exhausting days on the pitch, this was where you felt most grounded. Not flying. Not winning. Just here.

Hermione rarely made it to your practices. There were always essays to finish, chapters to read, plans to revise. You never blamed her. Still, she made sure to be there when it mattered. Every match. Every cheer. Rain or shine. You always spotted her in the stands, scarf pulled tight, eyes locked on you like nothing else existed.

Being in different houses was challenging at times, especially during Quidditch season, but it was never something that came between you. You never fought over points or rivalries, never let the game turn into something sharp. Gryffindor was usually in the lead anyway, and Hermione teased you about it just enough to make you smile.

“When’s your next game, love?” she whispered, her fingers pausing mid-braid.

A sudden roar of thunder cracked through the sky, close enough to make the window rattle slightly. Hermione’s hands stilled for just a second before resuming, slower now, more careful, as if anchoring you both in the moment.

Outside, the rain continued its gentle rhythm. Inside, wrapped in warmth and quiet, you leaned back against her, content to let the night stretch on just a little longer.