rio

.⋆♱ the pitt universe

⟢ baran al-hashimi

⁀જ➣ six long months

⟢ trinity santos

Yet every step felt heavy, drawn out, as if you were wading through wet cement.

For six months, this floor had been a labyrinth of high-stakes survival. And for six months, one person had been your compass— Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi.

You had learned Dr. Al-Hashimi's silence better than any medical textbook. A slight tilt of her head meant re-examine the chart. A sharp pause in the middle of triage meant you missed something crucial. A quiet, barely noticeable nod meant good work. And on the rarest occasions—moments you locked away in the back of your mind like smuggled goods—a faint, fleeting curve of Dr. Al-Hashimi's lips meant you had done the impossible. You had impressed her.

You had also spent those six months learning the art of micro-discipline: keep your hands busy with patient charts so they don't shake; keep your eyes on the telemetry monitors so you don't track the way Baran's jaw tightened under stress; look away after three seconds. Four seconds was a risk. Five was a confession.

"Are your charts complete?"

The voice cut through the background roar of the emergency room. Cool. Measured. Impossibly composed.

Your heart did its customary, embarrassing jump against your ribs. You didn't look up immediately—you needed two seconds to smooth your face into something strictly professional. When you finally raised your head, Dr. Al-Hashimi was leaning against the edge of the central workstation, arms folded over iconic lululemon jacket. Late hour, an endless stream of trauma admissions, and yet Baran looked completely unflappable.

"Almost," you said, tapping your pen against the laminate counter.

"Almost isn't complete."

A small, courageous spark ignited in your chest. The shift was almost over. The traditional authority between you was bleeding out with every tick of the wall clock.

"Well you won't be supervising my work anymore, Dr. Al-Hashimi," you said, your voice dropping an octave.

Baran didn't blink, but the subtle tension in her shoulders shifted. Her dark eyes held your gaze, letting her rigid sternness soften just enough to reveal the exhaustion underneath.

"No," Baran said softly. "I won't."

The quiet weight of those three words pulled the air right out of your lungs. The light banter died on your tongue.

You had both been running this invisible marathon for half a year, keeping a careful, agonizing distance, pretending the static in the air every time your hands brushed over a chart was just atmospheric pressure. You were standing on the sharp edge of the inevitable—the end of the rotation, the final goodbye, the unspoken truth you had buried under lab results and ED rounds.

Dr. Al-Hashimi glanced up at the clock above the central desk. 18:44— the night shift is bound to clock in, in the next 16 minutes. She looked around the chaotic floor, then met your eyes again.

"Walk with me."

"Where?"

"Doctor’s lounge."

"Am I in trouble?"

"You have asked me that question for six months," Baran noted, pushing off from the desk.

"And you have never answered it."

"I am still yncertain if you are in trouble or not."

Baran turned, heading down the quiet back hallway behind the resuscitation bays where the resident call rooms were tucked away. You hesitated for a fraction of a second, your pulse hammering against your throat, before pulling your stethoscope from around your neck, dropping it on the counter, and following.

The walk away from the main floor was completely silent.

When you reached the door to the unused call room, Baran pushed it open, stepping into the dim, windowless room and holding the door until you slipped inside.

Click.

The sound of the door closing shut out the muffled sirens and alarms of the ED entirely. In the tight, quiet space, it sounded like a lock turning.

You stood near the small laminate desk, suddenly, acutely hyper-aware of your own body. Your hands felt clumsy, your scrubs too thin, the distance between you entirely too small.

Dr. Al-Hashimi took off her lululemon jacket, slipping it off to drape it over the single back chair. She unclipped her hospital badge. Then, slowly, she removed her wire-rimmed glasses and set them down on the desk. Without the frame, Baran's dark eyes looked deeper, unfiltered, stripped of her professional armor.

"You have done well," Baran said.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, trying to anchor yourself. "That's it?"

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know," you murmured, watching Baran's chest rise and fall. "Perhaps a serious discussion? Maybe even a speech to commemorate the great work I’ve done in your department?" You jested.

"You hate speeches."

"Yours are particularly long so… only yours."

"I see."

Then it happened.

Baran’s lips parted slightly, and the corners of her mouth curved upward. It was not the formal smile she offered to patients, nor the strict, professional approval she gave during rounds. It was warm. Intimate. Unprotected.

You felt a sudden, fierce heat flare under your skin. Unable to maintain direct eye contact in the small room, you looked away at the wall.

"Thank you," you swallowed hard, your voice losing its edge. "For... everything."

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy with all the things that couldn't be written in emergency medical records. Baran didn't move, but the air felt charged, as if a thunderstorm were trapped inside the four walls.

"Tomorrow," Baran said quietly, her voice low and deliberate, "you will no longer be my resident."

You looked back up, your defense mechanisms crumbling. "No I wont, and?"

Dr. Al-Hashimi didn't flinch. She took a slow step forward, closing half the remaining distance between you in the narrow room. The distance was no longer a professional buffer— it was an open question.

"And tomorrow," Baran said, her eyes locked onto yours, "perhaps you would allow me to take you to dinner."

The breath caught in your throat. Your heart thudded hard against your ribs.

"Dinner?" you repeated, your voice barely a whisper.

"Dinner."

"As in... a date?"

Baran raised a single, elegant eyebrow, a ghost of her sharp ED persona bleeding through the softness. "I am fully aware of what dinner implies."

A sudden, breathless laugh broke through your shock—a complete release of six months' worth of built-up tension. "You waited until my rotation ended?"

"I waited until it was appropriate."

"Six months?"

"Six very long months," Baran corrected quietly, her voice losing its playful edge, dropping into something raw and entirely unscripted.

Your smile softened, turning into something open, vulnerable, and undeniably real. The lingering fear of crossing a line evaporated, replaced by the electric realization that every stolen glance, every lingering touch over a chart, had been mutual.

You took a deliberate step forward, eliminating the space between you until you could feel the faint warmth radiating from Baran.

"You could have just asked," you soft-spokenly said.

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

Dr. Al-Hashimi reached out, her fingers hovering near the desk before picking up her glasses again. She held them loosely, her knuckles brushing near your hip, close enough to feel the friction of the fabric.

"Because you were my resident," Baran said simply.

The answer was logical, strictly professional, and entirely disciplined. Yet, spoken in the quiet privacy of the call room, it was the most devastatingly romantic thing you had ever heard.

You closed the final inch between you, your eyes tracing the curve of Baran's jaw, down to the quick flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.

"And tomorrow?" you whispered.

Slowly, deliberately, she looked up, her gaze steady, unwavering, and completely unshielded.

"Tomorrow," Baran replied softly, "you're not."

"You are easily the most brilliant witch in this castle, my dear, and you know how fastidious one must be with timing. I wouldn't trust such a delicate extraction to just anyone. Would you be so kind as to retrieve it for me?"

“Of course, Professor. Whatever you need.” Hermione offered a polite nod, promising to handle the matter. But as Slughorn ambled away, her mind immediately pivoted.

Only a few days had passed since your latest reckless stunt in her class– your subtle disrespect last night was also hard to let slide. Ignoring you hadn't worked, and her strategy of polite indifference had somewhat… collapsed, if you will. But Slughorn’s request presented an unexpected, golden opportunity.

She exited the potions classroom. The early morning had been filled with enthusiastic chatter amongst students.

Later that evening, as you were finishing up your rounds, Hermione caught you passing through a quiet, torch-lit corridor. Stepping directly into your path, she intercepted you just as you were preparing to turn in.

"Miss L/N," she said, her voice dropping into a stern, unyielding register that barely masked her underlying irritation. "It has come to my attention that you weren’t thoroughly punished for your acts of disrespect the week prior. You shall serve detention with me after your rounds at midnight, in the Forbidden Forest. Wear heavy boots and bring dragon-hide gloves. Do not be late."

She presented the task as nothing more than grueling manual labor—a cold, tedious punishment meant to humble you, wear down your arrogance, and finally break your pride. But as you watched the ink dry across the parchment, the truth behind her stern composure became impossible to ignore. 

Beneath her discipline and rigid expectations…

You saw right through her stern demeanor… 

She was simply trying to regain the control she once let slip.

A faint smile plastered on your face. Once and for all, you finally had her back after two grueling months of cold shoulders and nonchalance.

By five minutes to twelve, the castle grounds were swallowed in deep silence. The full moon hung heavy in the sky, casting long, silver shadows across the snow and frozen soil as you made your way down toward the edge of the lot.

Hermione was already waiting near the tree line, her breath rising in thick, white clouds against the freezing night air. She wore a heavy travelling cloak, her hands already pulled tight into her dragon-hide gloves. She didn't greet you as you approached. Instead, she offered a single, sharp nod, checked her pocket watch, and turned toward the dark expanse of trees.

Passing Hagrid’s dark, silent hut felt like crossing an invisible barrier. The moment you stepped beneath the dense canopy of the Forbidden Forest, the warm, structured safety of Hogwarts vanished completely. The towering ancient oaks completely blocked out the sky, plunging the path into near-total darkness.

Hermione drew her wand, her voice quiet but clear. "Lumos."

You raised your own wand, matching her spell. The twin points of light cast a faint, erratic glow over the overgrown path, illuminating snapping twigs, tangled roots, and heavy shadows that seemed to stretch with every step you took.

The silence between you stretched long and heavy, broken only by the sharp crunch of frozen mud beneath your boots. Hermione maintained her lead, her wand beam darting across the dark forest floor.

"You're remarkably quiet tonight, Miss L/N," she remarked, her tone carefully constructed to sound like a casual conversation between a student and a professor. She kept her back to you, her shoulders rigid beneath her travelling cloak. "I half expected another one of your... witty retorts tonight."

"Just taking in the view, Professor," you replied smoothly, keeping your stride easy, right on her heels. "It’s quite rare to catch you outside of the classroom. Though I imagine you find the forest terribly unorganized, is it not?."

A tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of her head betrayed her reaction. "Actually…” She started. “Nature operates on strict laws. You might learn a little whilst you’re out here."

"Is that why you brought me out here then? At midnight? For…" You took a deliberate step closer, overlapping your wand's pale beam with hers. "A lesson in natural laws?"

"I brought you because you required a reminder that your actions have consequences," she said crisply, stepping over a thick tangle of roots. "And because I needed someone to carry the bags of Fluxweed..."

You audibly gasped. "Are you using me as a carrier, Professor?" You asked, trying to clear the thick professional tension in the air.

"Precisely," she said, though her voice lacked its usual formality.

"Though if you expended half as much energy on your Charms and learning about manners as you do attempting to provoke me, you wouldn't be standing in the dark on a freezing night."

"And who says I consider this a punishment?"

Hermione scoffed, a quick puff of white vapor escaping her lips. "Don't be ridiculous. It's freezing, the terrain is treacherous, and you are currently doing manual labor on my orders."

"Yet here I am, being such a good girl for you, Professor." You retorted. 😏 She gave you a slight side-eye as to which you found the most amusing.

You matched her pace, your voice dropping into a low, quiet hum that cut through the rustle of the wind. "In fact, I think this is the most attentive you've been towards me all week."

Hermione’s breath hitched, her head whipping around to glare at you over her shoulder. "My attention in the classroom is divided equally among my students, Miss L/N, as is proper—"

"Is that why you keep glancing toward me during your lessons, Professor?" you interrupted softly. "To ensure equal attention amongst all your students?"

Her jaw tightened. "I simply keep my eye on you because of your lousy behaviour in my classroom."

"So you are paying attention."

"I am doing my job," she snapped, turning fully around to face you, her brown eyes flashing in the silver moonlight. "A job that becomes exceedingly difficult when a student makes it their personal mission to—ah!"

Her foot caught the thick, wild bushes.

The sudden twist threw her completely off balance. With a sharp gasp, Hermione pitched sideways, her hands flying out as her wand light swung wildly across the dark canopy.

You reacted instantly. Stepping directly into her line of fall, you whipped your arm around her waist, catching her weight before she could hit the frozen soil. The momentum brought her chest crashing flush against yours, her hand instinctively clutching the lapel of your robes for leverage.

The forest went deathly silent.

Her face was inches from yours. You could feel the frantic, rapid rise and fall of her chest, the heat radiating from her skin against the bitter cold, and the sharp, overwhelming scent of peppermint, parchment, and rain.

You didn't release your grip on her waist. Instead, you held her there, suspended in the dark, your wand light illuminating the faint flush blooming across her cheeks. You found yourself nibbling before you spoke.

"Unorganized weeds," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, your eyes locking onto hers. 

"Not a fan of yours, Professor?"

Hermione froze, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. Her fingers remained tangled in your robes, her knuckles white. For a long, dangerous second, she didn't pull away. She just stared at you, her composure completely shattered, her brown eyes wide and dark in the pale light.

Then, with a frantic, sudden intake of air, she pushed against your chest, her boots scrambling for solid footing as she tore herself out of your hold.

"I... I am fine," she stammered, her voice dropping into a breathless, rattled register as she hastily adjusted her cloak. Her wand hand was shaking slightly as she pointed it toward the base of a nearby stone outcrop, desperately grasping for anything to break the suffocating tension.

"Look," she whispered, her voice tight and trembling. "There. Fluxweed."

The clearing was small, an open patch of frost-dusted ground bathed in direct, blinding moonlight. In the center grew a batch of Fluxweed—delicate, pale stalks with silver-tinged leaves that seemed to glow in the cold air.

Hermione dropped to her knees in the damp soil, uncaring of the mud seeping into her trousers, and opened her drawstring velvet sack to retrieve the heavy silver shears.

"This plant is delicate," she said, her voice still carrying a faint, residual breathlessness from moments ago. She was trying desperately to re-establish her professional tone, leaning over the plants with proper posture. "The stems are fragile under a full moon. If the stalk is bent or crushed, its magical properties are lost instantly. One person must stabilise the plant at the root while the other makes a clean, single cut precisely when the light hits the stalk."

The quiet frustration in Hermione’s eyes deepened as she stared at the silver shears, her mind clearly battling against the sheer ease with which you were moving around her.

"I'll stabilise the roots," she insisted, her voice tight, trying to regain the upper hand as she reached for the glowing stalks. "It requires absolute stillness. You grab the shears and—"

"Kneel" you interrupted softly, your hands remaining steady over hers.

She paused, her breath catching in her throat, her brown eyes darting up to meet yours in the moonlight.

"I've kneeled before you once already, haven't I, Professor?" you murmured, your voice dropping into a lower octave that vibrated in the small space between you. "It didn't seem to bother you then."

A sharp intake of air escaped Hermione's lips, the memory of that night in her office instantly flooding back—the deliberate line you had crossed, the raw tension of you sinking to your knees at her desk to apologise, looking up at her with that same unreadable expression.

Her cheeks flushed a deep, furious crimson against the chill of the night. Her mouth opened, a sharp reprimand poised right on the tip of her tongue to remind you of your place, but the words died in her throat.

Because out here, surrounded by the pitch-black woods, with your shoulder pressed flush against hers and your fingers lingering over her wrist, the callback didn't sound like a student being obedient nor a student who offered their full submission.

It sounded like intent. Like the first move towards something neither of them could stop.

"That was... entirely different," she stammered, her voice dropping into a breathless, rattled register as she tried to pull her gaze away from yours.

"If you say so," you murmured softly, guiding her hand down to the base of the plant without breaking eye contact. "Hold the stem, Hermione. Let me do the cutting."

oops.

The name slipped so naturally that you hadn’t realized it. Instead of being taken aback to your sudden slip up, you decided to use it… Use it as an opportunity to push her boundaries further.

Hermione’s chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid hitches, the sound of her breath heavy in the still night air. Hearing her given name fall so smoothly from your lips, paired with that quiet callback, had completely paralyzed her.

She didn't pull her hand away. For three long, suffocating seconds, she remained frozen under the weight of your gaze, her fingers trembling slightly beneath yours on the cold silver shears.

"You shouldn't..." she started, her voice barely a whisper, completely devoid of its usual sharp authority.

She cleared her throat.

Trying desperately to rebuild the wall between you, but her eyes flickered down to your lips before darting back up to your eyes. "...You shouldn't call me that."

"No?" you murmured, leaning in just a fraction of an inch, enough for the heat of your breath to brush against her cold cheek. "We're deep in the Forbidden Forest at midnight, Professor. It's just us."

Hermione swallowed hard, her pulse hammering visibly in the hollow of her throat. She looked down at where your fingers were still wrapped over hers, guiding the shears against the second stalk of Fluxweed. 

She wanted to reprimand you. She wanted to stand up, demand respect, and pull the professional boundary back into place.

But as you smoothly glided the silver blades through the plant—executing a second, flawless cut with effortless precision—the sheer logic of her mind betrayed her. You weren't careless– in fact, you were far from that. You were calm, precise, and completely in control of yourself.

And more than that, she couldn't deny the terrifying, electric heat coil between her ribs every time you closed the space between you.

The severed stem fell softly into her lap. You didn't move away immediately. Instead, you let the shears rest in the frost, your thumb softly brushing over the thin skin of her inner wrist where her pulse was racing.

"See?" you whispered, your voice a low, teasing hum. "We make a surprisingly good team."

Hermione let out a long, shuddering breath, her fingers instinctively curling around the harvested plants in her lap. She looked at you, her brown eyes wide, vulnerable, and completely exposed under the bright silver moonlight.

"You are going to be the death of me, Miss L/N," she whispered, the confession slipping out before she could stop it, heavy and raw in the quiet clearing.

"I certainly hope not," you murmured, your thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle against the sensitive skin of her wrist. "That would ruin all my hard work."

Hermione shivered, though it had nothing to do with the freezing mountain air. The heat radiating from your body was thick, intoxicating, and far too close. She stared down at the small space where your skin met hers, her mind desperately attempting to assemble a coherent defense.

"This is inappropriate," she whispered, the words sounding hollow even to her own ears. Her voice lacked conviction, reduced to a desperate, breathless plea for order. "You are pushing boundaries that—"

"That you keep letting me cross," you finished softly, cutting her off without ever raising your voice.

You leaned in closer, your shoulder pressing harder against hers, forcing her to lean back slightly against the damp embankment. Her hand twitched in your grip, but she didn't pull away. She couldn't. The sheer audacity of your composure had pinned her in place far more effectively than any curse ever could.

"Tell me to stop, Professor," you challenged softly, your breath fanning across her jawline, warming her chilled skin. "Tell me to step back, to pick up the sack, to walk ten paces behind you in silence. Say the word, and I'll do it."

Hermione’s lips parted, a quiet gasp escaping her throat. Her brown eyes searched your face in the moonlight, searching for a sign of weakness, a crack in your armor, a hint that you were bluffing.

She found none.

The silence stretched between you, thick and agonizing. Her heart was hammering violently against her ribs, the pulse under your thumb fluttering like a trapped bird. She had every reason to assert her authority, to put you back in your place as a student in her classroom.

Instead, her throat worked silently. Her gaze dropped down to your mouth, lingering there for a fraction of a second, before her eyes darted back up to meet yours.

She didn't tell you to stop. She couldn't bring herself to say it.

"I thought so," you whispered, unconsciously nibbling– a faint, dangerous shadow of a smile touching the corner of your lips.

You slowly released her wrist, though your hand lingered against her arm, your fingers sliding down to gently take the third stalk of Fluxweed from her paralyzed grip. You placed it neatly into the velvet sack, moving with that same maddening, effortless grace that was driving her completely mad.

Hermione remained frozen on her knees in the damp earth, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath, completely unstrung by the quiet power you held over her in the dark.

"You're playing a very dangerous game," Hermione breathed, her voice trembling slightly as she watched you seal the velvet bag with a slow, meticulous tug of the drawstring.

She was still on her knees in the cold mud, her hands resting flat against her thighs, trying—and failing—to gather the scattered pieces of her dignity. The moonlight caught the subtle rise and fall of her chest, every breath heavy and uneven. 

"It's only dangerous if one of us loses control," you replied quietly, setting the sack aside. You didn't stand up. You stayed right there, kneeling in front of her, matching her eye level in the dark.

"And you think you won't?" she asked, her brown eyes narrowing, a faint spark of her usual sharp, combative nature flaring back to life through the haze of her flustered state. "You think you're entirely above it?"

"I think I know exactly what I'm doing," you said smoothly. You reached out, your bare fingers brushing against the side of her neck, just above the collar of her travelling cloak to push a strand of hair from her face. Your teeth chewing the insides of your mouth.

Hermione flinched—not to pull away, but from the sudden, scorching contrast of your warm skin against her chilled collarbone. A soft, shuddering gasp hitched in her throat, her head tilting back just a fraction of an inch into the contact before her mind could catch up and forbid it. They continued to pick on several stems, carefully harvesting a few more.

"Look at you," you whispered, your thumb gently tracing the sharp line of her jawline, tilting her head up until she was forced to look directly into your eyes. "You spend all day managing everything else."

Her lips parted, her breath fanning hot across your wrist.

"Must be exhausting," you added, your voice dropping into a low, velvet hum that seemed to vibrate straight down her spine. "Having to be in control all the time."

Hermione stared at you, completely transfixed. The reprimand she had been preparing—the speech about boundaries, her position, her authority—dissolved into nothing. Your words were striking a nerve far deeper and far more fragile than her pride.

"You..." 

She started, her voice breaking on the single syllable. She swallowed hard, her hand rising, her gloved fingers coming to rest lightly over your wrist—not to push your hand away, but anchoring it there against her skin. 

"You shouldn't say things like that to me."

"Then stop me," You whispered back, leaning in until the tip of your nose brushed softly against hers. 

"Tell me I'm wrong."

The forest was dead silent around you. The tension between you had tightened into a thin line, pulled so tightly that a single breath would snap it. Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut for a brief, agonising second, her forehead almost resting against yours, completely surrendering to the quiet, intoxicating gravity pulling her toward you.

She didn't tell you that you were wrong.

She couldn't.

Because right there in the freezing mud, pinned under the weight of your calm, absolute focus, Hermione Granger knew that for the first time in her life, she didn't want to be in control at all.

The fragile, suffocating silence of the clearing didn't shatter—it snapped.

A sudden, sharp crack echoed from the heavy canopy above, like a thick oak branch being splintered in two.

Hermione’s eyes flew open, the soft vulnerability in her face vanishing in an instant, replaced by immediate, ingrained instinct. She went rigid, her hand sliding off your wrist as her head snapped upward toward the dense overhead shadow, grasping the velvet sack securely.

"What was—"

Before she could finish the sentence, a monstrous, black-bristled leg—the size of a spear and glistening with coarse, frozen dampness—descended directly from the darkness above.

It smashed into the earth barely two feet from where she knelt, scattering frozen dirt and leaves across her cloak. A low, terrifying clicking sound rattled through the trees—a dry, rhythmic scraping of giant mandibles that vibrated straight through the soles of your boots.

An Acromantula.

Hermione scrambled backward in the mud, her breath catching in a strangled gasp as the creature lunged forward out of the shadows. Its eight bulbous, milky-black eyes reflected the harsh silver moonlight, dripping foul-smelling venom that hissed as it touched the frost-covered grass.

"Wand!" she managed to choke out, her hand scrambling frantically at her waist.

Years behind a desk, buried in the ministry’s paperwork, and hard decisions for the good of the wizarding world had taken their toll. Her combat reflexes—once lightning-fast during the war—hesitated for a fatal half-second. Her gloves snagged on the lining of her cloak, her wand sliding awkwardly from her grip and tumbling into the dirt.

The beast reared back, its front limbs raising like heavy wooden pikes, preparing to drive straight down into her shoulder.

You didn't hesitate. There was no panic, no frantic fumbling. In one fluid motion, your wand was in your hand. You stepped directly over her crouching form, placing your body between her and the towering monster. You didn't even yell the incantation.

A blinding, red flash of non-verbal magic tore through the dark. The stunning spell struck the Acromantula full in its thorax with the force of an exploding cannonball. The creature emitted a high-pitched, terrifying screech as it was lifted completely off the ground, hurled backward twenty feet through the air, and slammed violently against the trunk of a massive, ancient oak tree– rendering the gigantic spider unconscious.

It hit the bark with a sickening crunch, dropping motionless into the deep brush below, its thick limbs twitching once before going dead silen. Ragged breathing only filled the air, along with the rustling of the leaves. 

Hermione was thrown back against the roots of a nearby tree, her back pressed hard against the bark. She was trembling—not from the bitter cold, but from the raw, terrifying spike of adrenaline that had just flooded her system. Her chest heaved, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs, her hands caked in damp mud.

She stared at the dark patch of woods where the creature had landed, then slowly looked up at you.

You hadn't moved an inch. You stood tall in the silver moonlight, your wand lowering smoothly to your side, your shoulders broad and completely steady..

The silence that settled over the Forbidden Forest was no longer just quiet. It was deafening.

You turned slowly, pocketing your wand with the same measured ease you had used to harvest the Fluxweed. The harsh, erratic light of your Lumos illuminated Hermione where she sat against the roots, her robes covered in dark mud, her breathing still sharp and shallow in the quiet woods.

Step by step, you closed the distance between you, sinking down on one knee in front of her until you were back at eye level.

"Are you hurt?" you asked softly, your voice cutting through the ringing silence—calm, steady, and entirely free of panic.

Hermione’s eyes, wide and still dark with residual shock, darted from your face down to your hands, then back to your eyes. She swallowed hard, her fingers clutching instinctively at the damp soil beneath her.

"I..." Her voice broke, a quiet, raspy sound. She cleared her throat, trying desperately to pull her scattered composure back together, to raise her chin and be the authority figure again. But her shoulders were still trembling. "I'm fine. I... my wand just..."

"I know," you murmured, reaching out with unhurried precision. You picked up her dropped wand from the dirt, brushed a layer of damp leaves off the wood, and gently turned it around, offering her the handle. 

"Your reflexes are fine, Professor. You just got caught off guard."

Hermione stared at her wand in your palm, then looked up into your eyes. The terrifying monster was gone, but the shift in power that had been building all night was now absolute. You hadn't just matched her standard—you had protected her.

Her gloved fingers reached out, trembling slightly as they brushed against yours to take the wand back.

"Are you all right, Professor?" you repeated, your tone dropping even lower, stripping away the last remaining layer of distance between you. "Look at me. Are you physically hurt?"

Hermione didn't look down at the wand in her hand. She kept her eyes fixed on yours, her pupils blown wide beneath the pale silver wash of your spell light.

"I'm not hurt," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the faint rustle of the frozen canopy.

She took a long, unsteady breath, attempting to steady the visible tremor in her chest, but the terrifying speed of what had just happened—and the absolute, chilling ease with which you had handled it—had completely shattered her defenses.

"You didn't even cast out loud," she murmured, her mind automatically clinging to the technical details, trying to find safe, intellectual footing in the middle of her lingering shock. "That was non-verbal. Under stress."

"Well," you said softly, your hand resting casually over your knee, keeping your posture relaxed and completely unbothered. "I find your classes engaging."

A quiet, shuddering gasp hitched in her throat. She looked at you—truly looked at you—stripped of her podium, her lecture notes, her title, and now, the illusion that she was the one keeping you safe or holding the upper hand.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her grip on her wand loosened, her hand dropping into the damp mud beside her. She leaned her head back against the rough bark of the oak tree, her eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as the adrenaline finally began to ebb, leaving behind a raw, suffocating heat in the frozen air.

"I really can’t figure you out, Y/N" she breathed, a tiny, helpless defeat bleeding into her tone. It was the first time she uttered your first name. 

"Maybe not," you murmured, reaching out and gently brushing a stray curl of hair away from her face, your fingers lingering for a fraction of a second against the warm, flushed skin of her cheek. "But we have the Fluxweed. And you're safe."

Hermione opened her eyes, meeting your gaze through the darkness. She didn't pull away from your touch. She didn't remind you of her title, or the rules, or the fact that you were standing over her in the middle of the Forbidden Forest at past midnight.

She just sat there in the quiet dirt, her breathing aligning with yours, completely caught in the web you had spent the entire night weaving around her.

"You shouldn't have had to do that," Hermione said, her voice dropping into a harsh, frantic whisper.

The initial shock was fading, but in its place, a far more destructive storm was brewing in her head. She scrambled up off the ground, her boots slipping slightly in the mud as she brushed frantically at her cloak, her movements sharp, jerky, and entirely devoid of her usual grace.

"My hand lagged. My draw was clumsy," she muttered, her words tumbling out in a rapid, breathless spiraling stream. She wasn't looking at you anymore; she was pacing a small, panicked circle in the frozen dirt, her wand hand trembling as she stared at her own fingers. "I hesitated. In a live combat scenario, a half-second delay is… is fatal. I– I've lived through this—and I let a simple, low-level ambush disarm me."

She stopped dead, her eyes wide as she turned to face you, her expression a terrifying mix of humiliation and raw vulnerability.

"I am a Professor, better yet, I served frontlines against a dark wizard!" she breathed, the words tasting like poison on her tongue. "I am supposed to be the authority here. I am supposed to be the one maintaining order, ensuring safety—and I sat in the dirt while a student executed a non-verbal charm that I should have cast three seconds faster!"

She pressed the back of her wrist against her forehead, taking a jagged, ragged breath. Her golden-girl aura, her pristine academic record, her absolute belief in her own competence—all of it was cracking under the weight of her own self-criticism.

"I've spent years behind a desk," she whispered, her voice breaking in a quiet, bitter laugh. "I’ve grown soft. I’ve grown... rusty."

You didn't interrupt her spiral. You simply stood there, an anchor of absolute calm in the middle of her internal collapse, watching the brilliant Professor Granger completely undo herself over a fraction of a second.

"Professor," you said quietly, stepping into her pacing line and cutting off her path.

She froze, her chest heaving, her eyes darting to yours—desperate for a reprimand, an argument, or a defense. Anything that would let her be the professor again. But all she found was your steady, unreadable focus.

"You were at the Ministry until five minutes ago, Professor." you said smoothly, cutting right through her panicked spiral. "You didn't grow soft—you've just been trapped behind a desk."

Hermione blinked, the sudden dose of plain logic catching her completely off guard. She opened her mouth, her hands twitching at her sides, but no sharp counter-argument came out.

"I... I was supposed to keep my edge," she muttered, though her voice lacked its earlier frantic bite. She looked down at her muddy gloves, frustrated. "A half-second delay in the field is—"

"A half-second delay because you've been reasonably held back for years," you interrupted softly. You took a slow step into her personal space, stopping when the toes of your boots touched hers. "You're running yourself ragged trying to prove you can do everything perfectly. You're exhausted."

Hermione stared up at you, the faint, defensive line between her brows softening into pure, quiet shock.

"I have to be," she whispered, looking smaller under the moonlight than she ever had behind her desk in her classes or in the ministry podium.

"No, you don't," you murmured. You reached out, your gloved hand wrapping gently around her wrist, steadying the fine tremble in her fingers. "Not tonight, not with me."

You leaned down slightly, your voice dropping into that low, effortless hum.

"Besides... that's why you brought me along, isn't it?"

Hermione let out a shuddering breath, her head tilting up just enough to keep her eyes locked onto yours. She didn't pull her wrist back. She didn't correct your posture or bring up the rules. She just stood there in the dark, anchored completely by your grip, her defenses entirely gone.

"You're… you are…," she breathed, though her pulse was hammering wildly against your thumb. She tried to find the words to describe what you really were but she simply couldn’t find any.

"I'm effective," you corrected softly, offering her a slow, faint smile. "Now... are we going back to the castle, or do you need another minute to process that I saved your life?"

Hermione let out a breath that was half a laugh and half a groaning, exhausted sigh, pulling her wrist back—though a hell of a lot slower than she would’ve an hour ago.

"You didn't save my life," she muttered, bending down to snatch up the velvet sack from the frost. Her voice had a little bit of her usual sharp bite back, but the bright, furious flush on her cheeks completely gave her away. "You jumped in. There's a massive difference."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Professor," you said, falling into step right beside her instead of trailing behind.

She didn't even bother trying to keep that three-step lead anymore. The path back toward the castle grounds was just as much of a slippery, muddy disaster as before, but the energy between you felt completely different now—looser, hotter, and entirely stripped of the stiff control you once both held. The heavy, formal distance she had spent all week building up had been completely trashed in the dark.

"Ten points from Ravenclaw for the attitude," she added, her wand beam cutting a shaky path through the dark trees ahead.

"Really? You took points away because of a snarky retort?" you said, hands shoved casually into your robe pockets, walking with an easy, lazy stride. "Pretty sure taking down a massive spider in the wild gets me extra credit anyway. I'm sure that’s in the syllabus somewhere."

"There is no extra credit in detention," she shot back, her voice tightening, though the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth completely gave her away. "And blasting a creature across the woods isn't exactly brilliant wizardry."

"No?"

"It was messy, it was unrefined, and you completely disregarded proper defensive protocol—"

Her sentence got cut dead off as her boot hit a patch of slick black ice hidden under a layer of wet leaves. 

Hermione gasped, her feet flying right out from under her with a sharp, pathetic slide. Before she could smash face-first into the freezing mud, your arm shot out, your hand catching her firmly around the waist and yanking her back against your chest.

The momentum knocked the air right out of her lungs with a quiet oomph. Her back slammed flat against your front, her head coming to rest right beside your jaw, her arm instinctively throwing itself over yours to anchor herself.

"You know," you murmured right next to her ear, your warm breath fanning against her chilled skin in the freezing air, "for someone who talks so much about control, you really suck at walking."

Hermione went totally still, her fingers clutching hard at the sleeve of your robes. She took a quick, shallow breath, the sharp, intoxicating scent of peppermint, cold rain, and parchment hitting you all over again. You could feel the frantic, rapid thrum of her heart hammering straight through the heavy fabric of her cloak against your chest.

"The ice was... it was hidden under the leaves," she stammered, her voice dropping an octave, completely rattled by the sudden closeness. She didn't instantly scramble away this time. She just stood there for a second, caught in your grip, her heels barely touching the dirt.

"Riiight. Hidden ice," you said softly, letting your grip linger around her waist for one agonizing second longer than necessary before letting her boots settle back on the ground.

You didn't back off, though. You stayed right in her personal space, your shoulder brushing hers as she tried to catch her breath.

"Want me to hold your hand, Professor? Or can you actually manage the next twenty feet without trying to break your neck?"

Hermione turned to glare at you, her brown eyes wide, dark, and wild under the silver wand light. Her chest was heaving, her jaw tight as she desperately tried to pull the scattered pieces of her dignity back together.

"If you tell a single soul about tonight," she breathed, trying for a stern, terrifying threat but sounding way too flustered and out of breath to pull it off, "I will personally make sure you spend every remaining weekend of your academic career cleaning cauldrons until your hands bleed."

"Got it," you smirked, taking one smooth, deliberate step ahead of her and reaching out to shove a low-hanging, thorn-covered branch safely out of her path. "After you, Professor."

You arrived a few minutes before the bell, took your usual seat in the third row, and waited for Professor Granger to begin. The classroom remained much the same as it always had. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows on brighter mornings, rain tapped softly against the glass on others, and the low hum of conversation always faded the moment she stepped through the door with a neat stack of lesson plans tucked beneath one arm.

Nothing out of the ordinary…

She still greeted the class with the same poise she always had. She still moved between the rows correcting wand positions, answering questions, and offering the occasional word of encouragement to students who struggled to keep pace. She still praised brilliant pieces of work, assigned homework, and expected every seventh-year to meet the standard she'd set from the beginning of her term.

The only thing that had changed...was you.

Or rather, the way she treated you.

It had happened so gradually that you'd almost missed it.

At first, you'd assumed she'd simply been busy. Some lessons demanded more of her attention than others, particularly when half the class couldn't seem to manage a spell without setting something on fire. It wasn't unusual for professors to spend more time helping students who genuinely needed it.

Then another lesson passed.

And another after that.

Somewhere between revised essays, practical demonstrations, and yet another Tuesday morning, Professor Granger had quietly stopped standing beside your desk.

She no longer questioned the almost-right answers you gave, nor did she ask you to repeat a spell she'd once insisted you were capable of casting properly. When practical lessons ended, she dismissed you along with everyone else. There were no more quiet conversations after class. No more patient attempts to work out what was going on inside your head. Even your homework, which had once returned covered in thoughtful comments written neatly in the margins, now bore a simple grade and a mere one sentence note… well more like a four word note that usually said ‘You can do better.’.

You couldn't remember when it had started.

You'd spent the better part of the term expecting Professor Granger's attention before you even walked into the classroom. It had become as much a part of Charms as the lessons themselves. The inevitable pause beside your desk. The questions you never answered properly. The familiar crease that appeared between her brows whenever she caught another deliberate mistake.

Now, she walked straight past you as though there was nothing left worth questioning.

She treated you no differently than anyone else.

And that bothered you more than anything.

By the next Charms lesson, it had become impossible to ignore. You stared down at the half-finished notes in front of you, quill tapping idly against the margin of your parchment as Professor Granger continued her lecture from the front of the room. She'd already crossed the length of the classroom twice, stopped beside a fellow Ravenclaw named Oliver– to correct his wand grip, helped another Ravenclaw named Emily untangle a spell she'd mispronounced, and praised one of the Gryffindor’s for an unusually clever observation.

Then, without so much as a glance in your direction, she walked straight past your desk.

Again.

Charlotte, seated beside you, followed your gaze before quietly biting back a smile.

"Well," she murmured, leaning closer as though sharing a secret, "this is... refreshing."

You blinked, finally looking away from the front of the room.

"What is?"

"I don't think Professor Granger's looked at you once."

You frowned. "She has." Charlotte tilted her head, pretending to think it over before slowly shaking it. "Uh ohh, someone’s in denial." she whispered under her breath. "I'm fairly certain she hasn't." She added.

You opened your mouth to argue, only to realize you couldn't actually remember a single moment she'd done so.

Charlotte watched the realization settle across your face and grinned.

"Oh, Merlin."

"What?"

"You've lost your numbah one fan." She held up a finger and teased quietly.

"I beg your finest pardon?" You pulled your most confused look.

”Then beg, baby.” She whispered dangerously close to your ear. You swatted her shoulders with your hands causing her to wince in pain and rub her shoulders repeatedly.

"For weeks," Charlotte continued, counting on her fingers beneath the desk, "she questioned every answer you gave, stopped by your desk every lesson, gave you detention, kept you behind after class..." She paused, looking genuinely impressed. "...three times, if I'm remembering correctly."

"Five over the month."

Charlotte stared. "You counted?"

"...No."

"You are strange, you know that right? It’s important to me that you know that."

You looked back down at your parchment. "I simply remembered, Lottie."

"Mhm. I mean, she hasn’t done it for weeks now, hasn’t she?" Charlotte rested her chin in her palm, her grin growing wider with every second of your silence.

"I must admit," she said, "I had found it quite entertaining, it was so fun to see a new side of you, y’know? And now?” She chuckled lightly “She definitely has grown tired of you and your little schemes."

"I doubt she's grown tired of me."

"Really now?"

"No."

Charlotte gestured subtly toward the front of the room, where Hermione had once again stopped to help another student adjust the angle of their wand.

"Then explain that."

You followed her hand.

Professor Granger laughed softly at something the Gryffindor boy had said before offering a small nod of encouragement and continuing down the aisle. She reached your row. For the briefest moment, you found yourself sitting a little straighter. Without slowing, she walked past.

No word. Not even a glance.

"Ouch." Charlotte made a thoughtful sound beside you, following it with another cackle.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah okay smart-arse, first time for everything I suppose." Her eyes rolled.

"You keep making ridiculous observations." You reasoned.

"They're only ridiculous because you don't like them." Charlotte retorted. Her shoulders wiggled, whilst she pouted her lip. You sighed, dragging your quill across the page with considerably more force than necessary.

"You’re like Anthony and Kate except with Charms."

Your eyebrows furrowed from confusion. "What are you even talking about?"

"Anthony and Kate? From The Viscount who loved me? Bridgerton? Y’know with your– Ugh whatever you uncultured pureblood swine." Another roll from her eyes had issued.

“You keep referencing these muggle media that I don’t know about, but knowing you? That’s probably a silly romance book which all I can say is that I hardly see the correlation with.”

“Far from silly honestly… more like disturbing,” She trailed off.

A small blot of ink spread across your parchment where the tip of your quill had lingered for too long.

Charlotte noticed.

"So..." she said lightly, reaching over to nudge your elbow with hers. "Should I be worried? You've looked positively miserable ever since she stopped paying attention to you."

"I don't look miserable."

"Look at your parchment, Ms. Oblivious. Don’t tell me you’re going to hand that in?"

You glanced down. A dark pool of ink had bled neatly through the corner of your notes. You saw this as an opportunity to possibly get a rise out of her organised arse. To Charlotte, you looked awfully unbothered with the stain which usually, you would go crazy for. She smiled to herself.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Charlotte returned her attention to the lesson soon after, though not before sending you one last amused smile. You didn't return it. Instead, you gave her a side eye and back towards the front of the room.

Professor Granger continued as though nothing had happened. She moved comfortably between the rows of desks, stopping whenever a student needed help before carrying on without interruption. Her voice remained calm and measured, never rising above what was necessary, yet every student seemed to follow along without difficulty. It was the same lesson she had always taught, delivered with the same patience she'd shown since the beginning of term.

Only now, you found yourself watching her more than the board.

Charlotte's words lingered in the back of your mind, refusing to leave.

"I mean, she hasn't done it for weeks now, hasn’t she?"

Weeks.

The word settled uneasily.

Looking back, you couldn't remember exactly when things had changed. There hadn't been a single lesson where Professor Granger had suddenly decided to leave you alone. It had happened little by little, quietly enough that you'd accepted each change without giving it much thought. One week she'd been too occupied helping another group during practical work. The next, she'd returned your homework with nothing more than a neatly written grade where pages of comments had once filled the margins. The lessons after that passed without the familiar request to remain behind once everyone else had left.

None of it had seemed important on its own. Taken together, however, they painted a picture you hadn't wanted to acknowledge. Somewhere over the past month, Professor Granger had simply... stopped.

Stopped questioning the answers she knew were incomplete. Stopped asking you to repeat spells she was certain you could perform properly. Stopped searching your work for meaning that wasn't written on the page. She corrected your mistakes when they needed correcting, offered the same brief feedback she gave everyone else, and moved on without another thought.

It was, you realized, exactly how she treated the rest of the class.

For weeks, that had been the goal. You'd gone out of your way to keep her guessing, never quite giving her the answers she wanted, convinced that if you played your part well enough, she'd eventually lose interest.

Now that she had...

The classroom felt strangely empty.

Professor Granger paused beside a pair of Ravenclaws near the front, offering a quiet correction before demonstrating the movement herself. They thanked her, scribbled down a few hurried notes, and she continued on without hesitation.

She reached your row. Almost instinctively, your grip tightened around your quill.But she never slowed down. Her footsteps carried on down the aisle, unbroken, until she stopped beside another student two desks away.

Only then did you look back at your parchment. The notes you'd been writing had long since dissolved into absent-minded scribbles. You stared at them for a moment before setting your quill down with a quiet sigh. For reasons you couldn't begin to explain…

You found yourself wishing she'd stopped.

The remainder of the lesson passed in a haze. You copied down the notes Professor Granger wrote across the blackboard without truly reading them, your attention drifting every few minutes despite your best efforts. Every now and then, your eyes wandered toward the front of the room, only to find her explaining another concept, correcting another student's wand movement, or answering another question with the same quiet patience she'd always possessed.

The sharp ring of the bell cut through the classroom, followed almost immediately by the scrape of chairs against the stone floor. Around you, students began gathering their belongings, conversations already turning towards lunch as they filed into the aisles.

"Don't forget to read the next chapter before Tuesday," Professor Granger reminded the class, her attention fixed on the parchment she'd begun sorting into neat piles atop her desk. "We'll be building upon today's lesson."

A chorus of acknowledgements answered her before the room erupted into its usual bustle.

You made no move to stand. Instead, you slid your textbook into your bag with deliberate care, smoothing the corners of your parchment before stacking them neatly together. Your quill found its place inside its case. You checked twice that you'd packed every bottle of ink, every spare sheet of parchment, every loose scrap of notes that had accumulated throughout the lesson.

Around you, the classroom steadily emptied.

Charlotte paused beside your desk, slinging her satchel over one shoulder.

"You coming?"

"In a minute."

She looked at you for a moment, as though weighing whether to say something else, before simply shrugging.

"Ugh give it a rest will you? I’ll see you out." Charlotte said. You offered a distracted nod, not really minding what she had said.

The door closed behind the last of your classmates.

Silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft rustle of parchment as Professor Granger gathered the remaining essays from her desk. She didn't acknowledge your presence. If she'd noticed you were still there, she gave no indication of it.

You lingered a moment longer.

Perhaps she'd ask why you hadn't left yet…

PErhaps she’d notice.

Instead, she reached for another stack of lesson plans, leafing through them with quiet concentration before making a small note in the margin of one page. Your grip tightened slightly around the strap of your bag, teeth biting down the insides of your bottom lip– nibbling.

"...Professor?" The word left your mouth before you'd quite decided to say it. Hermione glanced up, blinking as though only just realizing you were still in the room.

"Yes?"

For a brief, foolish moment, you expected something more. A question. A correction. Anything that resembled the conversations the two of you had once fallen into so easily.

Instead, she offered you the same polite smile she'd given countless students before.

"Was there something you needed?"

You opened your mouth but… Nothing came out.

"...No."

"I see." She gave a small nod, already returning her attention to the papers spread across her desk. "Then have a good rest of your day."

You stood there for another second before quietly adjusting your bag over your shoulder.

"You too, Professor." She acknowledged you with a brief hum, her quill already moving across the page once more.

By the time you stepped into the corridor, the classroom door had clicked shut behind you.

You weren't sure why that bothered you as much as it did.

The classroom door had barely shut behind you before footsteps caught up from somewhere down the corridor. Charlotte fell into step beside you with practiced ease, adjusting the strap of her satchel higher onto her shoulder before looking at you from the corner of her eye.

"Well?" She nudged you softly.

"What?" You frowned

"Were you expecting something?" Charlotte asked.

"...No."

"You looked disappointed." She pointed out, pinching your cheeks.

"I look fabulous."

Charlotte let out a short laugh, shaking her head as the two of you continued through the steadily filling corridor. A cluster of fourth-years hurried past in the opposite direction, forcing the pair of you to step closer to the wall until they disappeared around the corner.

"Whatever you say."

"Why’re you like that? Do you think I’m hiding something?."

"You're remarkably bad at hiding, that’s why I’m like this."

"I'm perfectly capable of hiding it."

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "You practically unpacked and repacked your entire satchel in there."

"I was making sure I hadn't forgotten anything." Your voice raised a little higher than you planned.

"Mhm."

"I was."

"And then you stayed behind."

"So did you." You glanced at her.

"Only for a bit and only because I wanted to see what you were doing."

You replied with silence. Charlotte's grin widened. "You submitted that parchment with that ink block. I thought she’d ask you about it honestly, tell you to be neater. Although I don’t think you’re capable of that, if you get what I’m putting down." She raised her eyebrows repeatedly.

"So did I." The words escaped before you could stop them.

Charlotte blinked. "You’re so tense, what happened to you? You usually went along with my dirty jokes. But seriously, what?"

You cleared your throat almost immediately. "I mean..." You adjusted the strap of your satchel, keeping your eyes fixed ahead. "She usually has something to say."

"She’s so done with you." She put her arm around your shoulders, cackling out of pure amusement.

Not if I can help it.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The corridor buzzed with students moving between lessons, portraits gossiping loudly as groups passed beneath them. Somewhere overhead, Peeves cackled before disappearing through the ceiling with a loud crash.

Charlotte broke the silence first. "I have to admit," she said thoughtfully, "it's strange."

"What is?"

"You and Professor Granger." Her fingers pointing to you and the previous classroom you’d been in. You looked at her.

"For the rest of November, I couldn't go a single Charms lesson without wondering what the two of you were arguing about after class." She laughed quietly to herself. "Half the Ravenclaws started taking bets on whether you'd be kept behind."

"They did not." You looked at her with disbelief.

"Oh they absolutely did."

"...Who won?"

Charlotte looked at you with poorly concealed amusement. "You really do ask the important questions."

"I'm just…curious is all." You drifted your gaze on the ceiling.

"Well, congratulations." She gestured vaguely over her shoulder toward the Charms classroom. "Looks like everyone's lost their money." You couldn't bring yourself to laugh and Charlotte couldn’t help but notice. The smile on her face softened, only slightly.

"You'll live. The professors still love you, you’re so hung up on her. Honestly, you can’t blame the woman for growing tired of your schemes. Just be as brilliant as you were."

You slipped your hands into the pockets of your robes. She nudged your shoulder as the two of you reached the staircase leading down towards the Great Hall.

"Come on." She gestured. You nodded absentmindedly, following her down the moving staircase.

Against your better judgement, your thoughts remained one floor above, lingering outside the Charms classroom long after you'd left it behind.

The first time, you told yourself there was nothing unusual about it.

Professor Granger had been working her way around the classroom, calling on students at random as she reviewed the previous week's material. It wasn't uncommon for her to linger on difficult questions, encouraging discussion whenever an answer lacked detail. More often than not, those discussions ended with her attention settling on you.

"Miss L/N?"

You looked up from your notes.

"The final incantation," she said, setting her chalk aside. "What purpose does it serve?"

You knew the answer before she'd even finished asking. You'd read the chapter days ago, committed most of it to memory out of habit, and could've recited the explanation nearly word for word if you'd wanted to.

Instead, you hesitated.

"It stabilizes the spell," you answered after a moment. "So... it doesn't unravel."

Once, that would've earned you another question. Professor Granger would've tilted her head ever so slightly, folded her arms, and waited with that familiar look that always know you were holding back. Instead, she gave a small nod.

"Correct enough." Without another word, she turned her attention elsewhere.

"Would anyone like to expand on Miss L/N's answer?"

A Gryffindor near the front raised his hand almost immediately.

You watched the exchange in silence, your fingers resting loosely around your quill. By the time Professor Granger resumed the lesson, she'd already forgotten about you.

You tried to do the same.

A few days later, your essays were returned. You accepted yours absentmindedly, waiting until the lesson had ended before unfolding the parchment across your desk. Your eyes drifted instinctively towards the margins first.

There was almost nothing there.

A single sentence had been circled halfway down the second page with one brief correction written neatly beside it. The remainder of the essay was untouched. No questions asking you to elaborate. No observations about your argument. No comments reminding you that your work was capable of more.

Only a grade.

You turned the page over once, almost expecting to find something you'd overlooked.

Blank.

For a moment, you simply stared at it. Charlotte leaned over from the next desk, catching sight of the parchment before you quietly folded it shut again.

"Bad mark?"

"No." You shook your head.

"Well you look proper grumpy."

"I’m not."

She studied you for another second before giving a small shrug and returning to her own work. You slipped the essay back into your satchel, though your thoughts lingered on it far longer than they should have. It was strange how quickly you'd grown accustomed to those notes in the margins. At some point over the term, they'd stopped feeling like criticism and started feeling... expected. You hadn't realized how much space they occupied until they disappeared altogether.

By the following week, the pattern had settled into something neither of you acknowledged.

The bell rang, and students immediately began packing away their belongings. Chairs scraped against the stone floor as conversations filled the classroom once more, everyone eager to leave for lunch.

You packed more slowly than everyone else out of habit.

You arranged your notes into a neat pile before sliding them carefully into your satchel. You checked your ink bottle was sealed, returned your quill to its case, fastened the buckle, then loosened it again after convincing yourself you'd forgotten something.

By the time you'd looked up, most of the classroom had emptied.

Professor Granger gathered the remaining parchments from her desk before reaching for the stack of books she'd prepared for her next lesson. She moved through the rows with the same quiet efficiency she always had, offering a polite smile to the last few students as they filtered towards the door.

"Have a good rest of your day."

The farewells came automatically.

"You too, Professor."

"See you Tuesday."

"Thank you."

She reached her desk and paused only long enough to offer you the same courteous smile.

"Have a good afternoon, Miss L/N."

"You too, Professor."

Her smile never faltered. She inclined her head politely before continuing towards the door, disappearing into the corridor without another glance in your direction.

You remained where you were for another moment, your hand still resting on the strap of your satchel.

It wasn't until the silence settled over the empty classroom that you finally accepted there was nothing left to wait for. Whatever had existed between the two of you inside these four walls had ended so quietly that you hadn't even noticed it slipping away. Now, sitting alone in the stillness of the classroom, you found yourself wishing you had.

The walk back to Ravenclaw Tower passed in a blur.

You answered Charlotte whenever she spoke, though you couldn't have recalled a single thing the two of you discussed by the time you reached the common room. Your thoughts remained elsewhere, circling the same conversation, the same lesson, and the same quiet indifference that had followed you out of the Charms classroom.

It was frustrating.

She hadn't seemed to think about you at all.

Over the past few weeks, you'd found yourself searching for the smallest signs that things might return to the way they had been. A pause beside your desk that lasted a second longer than necessary. A question asked with just enough curiosity to invite another conversation. A familiar request to remain after class while everyone else filtered into the corridor.

None of it came.

Each lesson passed much the same as the last. Professor Granger taught with the same patience she'd always possessed, answered questions with the same calm certainty, and offered every student the attention they required. There was no bitterness in the way she spoke to you, nor any trace of irritation lingering beneath the surface. She simply treated you as she did everyone else, correcting your work when necessary before moving on without another thought.

It should have made things easier.

For the better part of the term, you'd convinced yourself that was exactly what you wanted. Professor Granger's constant attention had been exhausting. Every lesson had become another careful balancing act, another opportunity to say too much or too little. Being left alone should have been a relief.

Instead, it felt strangely... quiet.

You found yourself replaying the last few lessons in your head, searching for some explanation you'd overlooked. Had you gone too far? Had she simply grown tired of asking questions that never received proper answers? Or had she finally reached the conclusion you'd been trying so hard to lead her toward—that there was nothing particularly interesting about you after all?

The thought sat uncomfortably.

You'd spent weeks making sure she never had a clear answer. Every conversation had ended with another question. Every detention had given her another reason to keep looking. Somewhere along the way, you'd become so accustomed to her attention that its absence felt almost unnatural.

You frowned.

No.

That couldn't be it.

Professor Granger wasn't the sort of person to lose interest so easily. She was persistent to a fault. If she'd truly stopped questioning you, then there had to be a reason for it. Perhaps she'd simply decided there was nothing new to find. Perhaps, after weeks of the same conversations and the same carefully measured answers, she'd finally accepted what was in front of her.

Hermione Granger had never struck you as someone satisfied with half an answer.

Your gaze drifted absentmindedly toward the window overlooking the grounds below.

Perhaps… Perhaps she'd simply grown comfortable.

The thought lingered for a while before, little by little, it settled into something that resembled a plan. Not a particularly good one, nor one you'd spent much time considering, but it was enough to quiet the restless feeling that had followed you all afternoon.

If Professor Granger believed there was nothing left worth questioning… Then maybe she just needed another reason to start asking again. Whether that meant another careless answer, another almost-perfect spell, or another conversation left deliberately unfinished, you hadn't yet decided.

You only knew one thing.

You simply couldn’t accept this.

It was not because she'd given up trying to understand you. If anything, she'd become even more determined to. Every Charms lesson seemed to follow the same pattern. You'd answer just enough to prove you knew what you were doing, only to deliberately fall short moments later. Your practical work had become increasingly careless, your homework lacking the polish she'd grown accustomed to seeing during the first week she’d been here. It wasn't poor enough to warrant concern from anyone else. Most professors would've called it satisfactory and moved on– however, she simply wasn’t most professors. She was frustrated seeing you carelessly manage her class after knowing what you were capable of.

That was what infuriated her the most. It wasn't that your work had declined—it was that it only seemed to decline in front of her. Every missed detail, every half-arsed explanation, every spell cast just shy of perfection felt deliberate. As though you were carefully measuring how much effort you could withhold before she finally said something.

At first, she'd confronted you after class. Then came detention. Then the quiet conversations she hoped would accomplish what lectures couldn't. None of it had made the slightest difference. If anything, the attention only seemed to encourage you. Every attempt to understand your reasoning had been met with another contradiction, another almost-answer that never quite reached the truth.

It had become exhausting.

So, she stopped.

She no longer lingered by your desk. She stopped questioning every almost-correct answer and every careless mistake she was certain you hadn't made by accident. If you wanted to play this strange game, she would let you.

Instead, she watched.

Outside the classroom, however, things were different.

The castle had a habit of bringing the same people together, especially in the evenings when the corridors grew quieter and most students had long since returned to their common rooms. Between grading essays, preparing lessons, and the endless responsibilities that came with teaching, Hermione often found herself wandering the halls well after sunset.

It was during those quiet hours that she began seeing you.

The first time Hermione noticed, she wasn’t even deliberately seeking you out.

In truth, she'd made a conscious effort not to seek you out. She'd already spent enough time dissecting every interaction the two of you had shared inside the classroom, replaying conversations that had long since ended and searching for meaning in every carefully measured answer you gave. It had become an exhausting exercise, one that never seemed to reward her with anything beyond another contradiction. If there was something she was missing, she had begun to suspect she wouldn't find it standing at the front of a classroom with a wand in her hand.

The weeks passed with the familiar rhythm of the school year. Lessons blurred into faculty meetings, evenings disappeared beneath towering stacks of essays, and the castle itself seemed to settle into a routine all its own. Hermione often found herself walking its corridors well after sunset, long after the last classroom had emptied and the noise died down.

She hadn't expected to find you there.

The evening had settled into its usual quiet. Most students had long since returned to their common rooms, leaving the corridors to the occasional prefect on patrol and the portraits whispering amongst themselves. Hermione had just finished a faculty meeting and was making her way back to her office, a stack of essays in her hands, when the sound of uncertain voices drifted from somewhere ahead.

Almost absentmindedly, she glanced toward the source.

Two first-years stood huddled together, both looking thoroughly miserable. One girl was sniffling into the sleeve of her robes while the other stared hopelessly at your figure.

And beside them stood you.

"We’re so so so sorry, Miss! Some third years had dared us to find Moaning Myrtle and tell her she smells horrible, which is dumb! Since ghosts don't even smell like anything and they said if we don’t do it, we’ll have to eat those disgusting cockroach clusters!" the smaller of the two rambled. "We’re really sorry miss. Mr. Filch has already told us the next time he’d catch us, we’d have to spend the night at the Forbidde —"

"He won't," you interrupted gently, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth whilst putting a finger on your lips. "Because you're not going to be caught."

The children blinked.

"You got lost," you continued, crouching until you were closer to their height. "It happens more often than you'd think. Hogwarts has a habit of changing when you're not paying attention."

"But... we thought–."

"You'll only be in trouble," you said lightly, offering a hand to the younger girl, "if you stay standing here long enough for Filch to find you. Come on. Slytherin Tower's this way."

The girl hesitated only a second before taking your hand.

"It’ll be our little secret." 

Hermione found herself standing perfectly still.

There was no irritation in your voice. No impatience nor any hint of the quiet provocation she'd come to expect every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. Instead, there was an ease about you that seemed almost effortless, as though this wasn't the first frightened first-year you'd guided back to their common room. She watched as the three of you disappeared down the corridor, your quiet laughter echoing faintly through the otherwise empty hall. Only then did Hermione continue walking.

Hermione thought little of it after that.

At least, she tried to.

The encounter had been ordinary enough. A Head Girl helping two lost first-years back to their common room was hardly worth dwelling on, and yet, every so often, she'd find herself recalling the quiet patience in your voice. It didn't fit neatly alongside the student she knew from Charms, though she couldn't quite explain why.

She eventually dismissed it as an isolated moment.

By the following Saturday, the castle buzzed with an energy that had been absent all week. Students spilled out across the grounds in clusters, scarves draped over shoulders and house colours proudly displayed as they made their way towards the Quidditch pitch. The match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had drawn a respectable crowd, enough that even Hermione found herself wandering in the same direction.

She wasn't particularly interested in Quidditch.

Not unless it was Gryffindor playing… Well not unless it's specifically Harry or The Weasleys playing.

Still, after spending the better part of her morning buried beneath a mountain of essays, the crisp autumn air was a welcome excuse to leave the castle.

The stands were already half full by the time she arrived.

She settled into an empty seat near the middle of the staff box, more interested in the atmosphere than the match itself. Students shouted across rows, someone several seats behind had begun arguing over the likely outcome, and somewhere near the commentary box, a Gryffindor was enthusiastically testing the Sonorus Charm.

The sharp blast of Madam Hooch's whistle echoed across the pitch.

Fourteen players kicked off the ground in unison.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" boomed the commentator, his voice carrying effortlessly around the stadium. "Welcome to today's match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff! Both teams have had a strong start to the season, but only one will be leaving with a win this afternoon."

The crowd erupted.

Hermione followed the movement of the Quaffle more out of obligation than genuine interest, her eyes wandering between the blur of broomsticks racing overhead.

"Ten seconds in, and Hufflepuff's Beater sends a beautiful Bludger toward Ravenclaw's Chasers—but it's intercepted! Number 9 comes away with the Quaffle!"

Your number.

Hermione's gaze lifted instinctively.

You caught the Quaffle cleanly beneath one arm, banking sharply to avoid an incoming Beater before passing neatly across the pitch.

"Number 9 threads it through to Number 12—back again to 9! Ravenclaw are moving beautifully today!"

You pointed toward the opposite side of the pitch, shouting something she couldn't make out over the roar of the crowd. Instantly, two teammates adjusted their formation, creating enough space for another Chaser to slip between Hufflepuff's beaters.

"Brilliant teamwork from Ravenclaw! Number 9 shoots—AND THAT'S TEN POINTS TO RAVENCLAW!" Blue banners shot into the air around the stadium. The crowd roared loudly.

Hermione found herself watching you instead of the celebration.

There was no triumphant fist in the air. No dramatic grin. While the rest of the team circled excitedly around the goal hoops, you merely offered the scorer a quick pat on the shoulder before motioning everyone back into position.

Minutes passed in a blur of dives, tackles and near misses.

"Hufflepuff regain possession! Number 4 charging toward the hoops—excellent defensive flying from Ravenclaw's Chasers! Number 8 from Hufflepuff steals it back! That's some incredible awareness!"

Hermione leaned forward almost without realizing it.

Even from the stands, it was obvious your teammates trusted you completely. They responded to the smallest gesture, altered course at the briefest signal, never once questioning where you directed them.

"Ravenclaw pressing again! Number 9 with the Quaffle—she feints left, slips between two Hufflepuff Chasers—beautiful flying! Passes to Number 12—back to 9—SHE SHOOTS!"

The Quaffle sailed cleanly through the centre hoop.

"GOAL! TEN POINTS TO RAVENCLAW! THAT MAKES IT FORTY TO TWENTY! IN FAVOUR OF HUFFLEPUFF"

The Ravenclaw section exploded into cheers.

Someone several rows below Hermione shouted your name.

You drifted back toward the centre of the pitch, exchanging a few quiet words with one of your teammates before the whistle sounded once more. The complete absence of the carefully measured indifference she had come to associate with Tuesday and Thursday mornings inside her classroom.

She found herself wondering if she had ever truly met the student who sat in the third row of Charms at all.

Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked through the stadium as the team captain signaled for a time out.

"Timeout! Ravenclaw!"

A collective groan rippled through the blue section of the stands as the players banked sharply, descending toward the edge of the pitch. Brooms skimmed across the grass before each player dismounted, helmets tucked beneath their arms as they gathered in a loose circle around their captain.

The conversation started all at once.

"Number 5’s very distracted, we should use that against them."

"We should up our defenses."

"I nearly had that pass."

"No—you were marked before I even threw it."

The voices overlapped, frustration creeping into each sentence after Hufflepuff's sudden comeback. Then…

Silence.

Not because anyone had raised their voice… But because you'd spoken.

Hermione couldn't hear every word from where she sat, only fragments carried across the wind. "...they're expecting us to rush." A pause. "...stop forcing the play." You knelt in the grass, dragging a finger through the dirt as the rest of the team instinctively leaned closer. A rough sketch of the pitch began taking shape beneath your hand. One by one, you pointed toward different sections.

"You cut across here." A nod from one Chaser.

"You stay wider." Another nod.

"Don't chase the Quaffle. Let them bring it to us." Someone frowned. "But they'll score."

"Not if we stop giving them the middle." The captain folded their arms, studying the hastily drawn formation for only a moment before giving a single, approving nod. "She's right."

That was all it took.

The complaints disappeared almost instantly. The tension eased. Players who'd looked visibly irritated only moments before were now discussing positioning with renewed focus, adding suggestions of their own as you quietly adjusted the plan.

Hermione found herself looking from the captain…

...back to you.

Curious. She expected you to demand attention, to bark orders– yet there was nothing commanding about the way you spoke. You never interrupted. Never raised your voice. If anything, your tone remained remarkably calm, inviting ideas rather than dismissing them. And somehow… everyone followed you anyway.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle once more.

The circle broke apart.

As the team mounted their brooms again, one of the younger Chasers nudged your shoulder, earning an easy laugh before the two of you kicked off the ground.

Hermione's eyes lingered a fraction longer than she'd intended.

That laugh.

She'd never heard it before.

The remainder of the match passed in a blur.

Ravenclaw ultimately secured the win, though Hermione found she remembered very little of the final score. By the time the crowd began filing back towards the castle, her thoughts had drifted elsewhere.

She caught herself glancing toward the cluster of Ravenclaw players descending from the pitch.

You disappeared almost immediately.

There was no lingering to celebrate. No basking in congratulations from classmates eager to clap you on the back. After exchanging a few words with your teammates, you slipped quietly into the stream of students making their way up the hill, disappearing amongst them as though the afternoon had been no more remarkable than any other.

Hermione watched until the crowd swallowed you whole.

A week later, the corridors had returned to their familiar rhythm.

Students hurried between lessons with books clutched against their chests, conversations bouncing off the castle walls as professors ushered lingering groups into classrooms before the next bell.

Hermione had been on her way to the library when an open classroom door caught her attention.

"...an exceedingly difficult question," came Professor McGonagall's voice from within. "One that I don't expect many of you to answer."

Hermione slowed almost absentmindedly.

Inside, seventh-year Transfiguration sat unusually quiet.

McGonagall surveyed the room before asking,

"What complications arise when attempting simultaneous human transfiguration such as becoming an Animagus?"

Silence engulfed the room.

Students exchanged uncertain glances.

A few quills scratched nervously across parchment.

Then—

A chair shifted.

"If the wizard or the witch frequently attempts such extensive transfiguration," you began, "the person might experience complications such as permanent physical malformations much like getting stuck halfway between their animal form and their human form. Moreover, one might experience losing themselves to their animal mind, completely losing control in general. I’d like to add that whatever the person might be wearing can possibly merge into their skin which can cause restraint."

Hermione stopped walking.

McGonagall regarded you over the rim of her spectacles.

"And how might that be prevented?"

"The key is flawless execution."You answered without hesitation. "That means being precise with timing, potion must be kept in a completely dark place, and making sure the mandrake leaf is kept in your mouth for 30 days without swallowing. Also having a safe environment is a factor in such a dangerous transformation."

A brief pause settled over the classroom.

"Excellent." McGonagall gave a single nod before continuing the lesson as though nothing unusual had happened.

Hermione realized shortly after that to that classroom, it wasn't unusual at all. No one stared, no one seemed surprised nor ever whispered about how impressive your answer had been. They simply accepted it as something expected of you.

Hermione lingered only another moment before moving on. Thoughts only racing in her head, wondering.

Over the past few weeks, she'd seen more of you than she ever had inside the walls of her classroom. She'd watched you patiently guide two frightened first-years back to Ravenclaw Tower without a hint of annoyance. She'd seen the way your Quidditch teammates naturally looked to you during a timeout, listening to your ideas without question. She'd overheard Professor McGonagall ask a difficult question that you answered without hesitation, as though you'd known the answer all along.

What unsettled Hermione wasn't that you'd done those things.

It was how normal they seemed.

No one acted surprised. No one stopped to praise you or point out how clever you were. Your professors expected that level of work from you. Your classmates trusted your judgement. Younger students approached you without thinking twice. It was clear this wasn't a version of yourself that only appeared when someone was watching.

It was simply who you were. You were the girl every professor boasted about.

That should have answered her questions.

Instead, it only gave her more– because none of it explained what happened whenever you stepped into her classroom.

The student she'd watched outside of Charms wasn't the same one who sat in the third row every Tuesday and Thursday morning. Outside, you were confident without showing off. You spoke when you had something worth saying, and people listened. You carried out your responsibilities without complaint, and you never seemed interested in drawing attention to yourself.

Inside Charms, everything changed.

Your answers became careful. Your spells never quite reached the level she knew you were capable of. Even your homework had begun to lose the care it once had. It wasn't bad work. Most professors would've been perfectly happy with it.

Hermione simply wasn't. She knew you could do better.

And somehow, you knew she knew.

That was the part she couldn't stop thinking about.

Why Charms?

Why her?

She'd gone over every lesson in her head more times than she cared to admit. Every conversation. Every answer. Every time she'd asked you to stay behind after class. She'd searched for the moment she'd done something wrong, or said something that had made you decide to behave this way around her.

She couldn't find one.

Slowly, another thought began to settle in.

Perhaps she wasn't meant to find an answer at all.

Perhaps every time she questioned you, every time she challenged another careless spell or another half-finished explanation, she was giving you exactly what you wanted. Whether you meant to or not, the two of you had fallen into the same routine. You'd push. She'd respond. You'd give just enough to keep her interested, and she'd spend the next few days trying to work out what you'd meant.

The cycle never changed. And maybe… she was the one who needed to change it.

Hermione let out a quiet sigh.

From now on, she would teach her lessons as she always had. She would mark your work fairly, correct your mistakes when they needed correcting, and leave it at that. No more calling you aside after class. No more trying to read between the lines of every answer you gave. If you wanted to be just another student in her classroom, then she would allow you to be one.

Perhaps, she thought, the only way to understand you...

...was to stop chasing the answer.

Professor Slughorn's Potions assignment lay finished before you, the ink still drying along the bottom of the page. You carefully folded it away before pushing your chair back. Its legs scraped gently across the stone floor, the sound seeming almost too loud in the suffocating quietness of the library.

Almost instinctively, your hand slipped into your pocket. The familiar weight of your pocket watch settled comfortably in your palm. You flicked it open.

5:52 PM– eight minutes to six.

She'd probably make you kneel and beg for forgiveness if you arrived late again.

...

Not that you would mind.

“Where are you going?” Charlotte asked, finally looking up from the mountain of parchments and books surrounding her, her quill still poised between her fingers.

“Detention.” You simply said, whilst fastening your satchel over one shoulder.  “I don't have time for chatting. I'll see you later.” Stepping away from the table as your friend blinked at you– dumbfounded. You merely lifted your hand– bidding her farewell.

“No running.” Madam Pince's voice trailed behind you. 

“So sorry, Madam Pince!” Your voice raised looking over your shoulder, your pace not slowing down in the slightest.

The heavy library doors swung shut behind you. The evening seemed to have swallowed Hogwarts whole. The corridors beyond were noticeably cold and quiet. A few students walked by, some appeared to have been snogging but stopped once they saw your fast-paced state. You simply shot them a look, your authority slipped in with one look. You neared at her office door, gently opening the proper old oak door.

The classroom was empty when you arrived, save for the quiet crackle of enchanted candles burning along the walls. Their warm glow barely reached the furthest corners of the room, where shelves crowded with weathered textbooks. Tall arched windows overlooked the castle grounds, admitting strips of moonlight that stretched across the stone floor and intersected with the golden candlelight, leaving the room suspended somewhere between warmth and cold. The familiar scent of old parchment, polished wood, and drying ink lingered in the air, untouched by the bustle that usually filled the classroom during the day. 

She was already there.

She sat behind her desk with an effortless posture. One hand rested lightly against the polished oak while the other moved steadily across another student's essay, her quill scratching softly through the silence. The sleeves of her blouse had been folded just below her elbows sometime during the afternoon, exposing pale wrists dusted with tiny flecks of ink she either hadn't noticed or hadn't bothered cleaning away.

A few stubborn curls had slipped out of the neat bun she'd put up that morning. They framed her face no matter how hard she'd tried to keep them in place, softening the calm, professional look she usually wore. The candlelight caught the loose strands whenever she moved, adding a warm copper shine to her chestnut hair, which had started to come loose after a full day of teaching.

Freakishly beautiful, she is.

"Close the door." Her voice wasn't raised, yet it settled over the room with unmistakable authority. 

The door shut with a deep, soft thud– the sound rolling through the empty classroom before dissolving into silence. The corridor outside disappeared with it. No footsteps. No distant chatter from wandering students.

The room suddenly felt different.

Larger somehow, and yet impossibly smaller.

The magic candles hanging above burned with steady flames, casting a soft golden glow across the stone walls, whilst the moon shone through the tall windows in long silver beams that stretched across the floor. Shadows gathered beneath the desks lined up in rows, filling the spaces between them until the classroom looked almost different from the busy place it had been only an hour earlier. The smell of old parchment, polished wood, and drying ink still hung in the quiet air.

You had been in this room hundreds of times.

It had never quite felt like this.

Professor Granger remained behind her desk, entirely unhurried. She finished the sentence she had been writing before placing her quill neatly beside the inkwell.

She hadn't batted an eye at you yet-- intentionally letting the silence settle.

And somehow, that irritated you far more than if she'd acknowledged you immediately.

“You’ll be assisting me today with papers. I imagine you’ll be knowledgeable enough to judge papers from the years below you— given that you were doing well based on your previous years.” Only then did your eyes meet.

Your eyes flickered briefly among the stacks of parchments. “Of course.” She hummed. “I assure you, you’ll be out in time for your nightly duties as head girl.” You simply nodded.

“Come here.” She commanded. You slowly approached her with poise.

“Your wand.” Without question, you gave it to her.

Fingers briefly brushing yours.

Hermione's fingers lingered around the polished wood for the smallest fraction longer than necessary before she gently placed your wand atop her desk, deliberately out of your reach. 

Hermione finally set the quill aside. The motion was unhurried, almost meticulous, as though she wanted to remove every possible distraction before continuing. Her gaze settled on you again, unwavering this time, and you had the distinct impression that she'd already decided your previous explanation wasn't enough.

Hermione watched you with the same focus she used when working through difficult magic. Over the past week, she'd started noticing your habits without even meaning to. The way your eyes never looked away during an argument. The way your answers came just a little too fast, practised without seeming forced. The small habit of biting your lower lip whenever she got too close to a question that might provoke you. None of it made sense. Every new thing she noticed only seemed to raise more questions

"What really happened yesterday?" she asked quietly, her voice measured and calm– leaning back on her chair’s backrest. "Why were you late?"

You didn't answer immediately. Your gaze drifted over the stacks of essays beside her before returning to her face, buying yourself only a heartbeat of silence. "I simply lost track of time, Professor," you replied, as evenly as you had the day before.

Hermione's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She regarded you for another moment, as though weighing whether to continue entertaining your answer or dismantle it piece by piece. "Is that really it?" she asked, tilting her head ever so slightly. "I've been observing you the past week I've been here, and—" 

“I’m flattered, Professor” You replied a little too fast for her liking.

“Thank you for taking the time to take an extra look at me.” You gave her a small yet devious smile– a smile that subtly tested her boundaries.

“And-“ She just looked at you, unamused. “Despite your… methods— you have been consistent nonetheless.” The intensity in her eyes still.

She slowly stepped away from her desk.

Hermione drew a slow breath before closing the distance between you. It wasn't an aggressive movement, nor was it hesitant-- it was deliberate. The space separating the two of you grew smaller until you could distinguish the faint scent of parchment and peppermint that always seemed to follow her.

She searched your face with an intensity that made it impossible to mistake her intentions. She wasn't merely listening anymore. She was looking for inconsistencies—for the slightest hesitation, the smallest shift in your expression that might betray the answer she believed you were hiding.

Fuck, it's hot in here.

The candles burned no brighter than they had when you'd entered. The windows remained cracked open just enough for cool November air to drift lazily through the classroom.

And yet the collar of your uniform suddenly felt tighter.

You resisted the ridiculous urge to loosen your tie.

"So why?" she repeated, her voice quieter now, forcing you to meet her eyes instead of her words. "Why were you late?"

“As I have said, Professor— I lost track of time.” Your gaze unwavering, no sign of hesitance in your voice.

Hermione’s jaw tightened, a little more impatient than before. “That’s not an answer.” She countered.

“It’s the only one I have.”

“And you expect me to believe that?” Her eyebrows met at the middle, her voice much sterner than it was before.

“I expect you to believe me. It’s the truth.” You reasoned.

“You expect me to believe that you— were late?” She started. “Despite the fact that you’re downplaying your capabilities during my class, you have been submitting your work early, maintaining accuracy in your papers—“ She grabbed a piece of parchment from her table. “And by some miracle performed by Circe, this—“ The parchment shifted with her grip.

“Late. Unfinished.”

“Unfinished?” Your epression changed– eyebrows raised but only slightly. You didn’t realize the paper was unfinished. It really wasn’t like you at all. You don’t slip up and you certainly don’t submit a half arsed paper.

“You didn’t notice,” she said, observing your reaction to such news. 

You collected yourself almost immediately. “It appears not.” Your voice, surprisingly calm.

“This,” she quietly said. “This. You can’t expect me to believe this. No one can just suddenly slip up like this, not with your performance anyway.”

“And I am telling you, professor— I lost track of time.” You reasoned once more.

“There’s more to it than you’re telling me.” You huffed your breath. Your teeth fount the inside of your lower lip again. You looked at her.

The way she reacted was…

You exhaled slowly.

Your eyes never left hers.

Then you shifted your weight.

Hermione frowned.

"...What are you—"

One knee touched the stone floor.

She looked utterly unprepared.

“I’m sorry, Professor.” You looked up at her. Everything about your posture suggested apology– submission… But your face/ Betrayed your actions. You were calm, collected… steady.

Hermione forgot how to breathe for a second. Her breath hitched, clearly taken by surprise at what you were doing. She didn’t know how to react. Her hand gripped tightly on the essay she was holding and her heart slowly racing.

That look in her eyes? That is exactly what you wanted.

What you needed.

“…What are you doing?” Her guard dropped. Your eyes were still glued to hers, your lips parted but you didn’t say anything.

Hermione’s grip tightened on the parchment before she set it down—too carefully this time, like she needed something to do with her hands.

“Stand up.” She looked away. “Now.” Her tone came firmer.

You stayed exactly where you were.

Not to question her authority– but because you wanted to watch what happened if you did’nt

You watched the certainty leave her face almost imperceptibly. The furrow between her brows deepened. Her fingers flexed against the edge of the desk before curling into her palm. For the first time since she'd arrived at Hogwarts, Professor Hermione Granger looked as though she genuinely did not know what to do next.

It lasted perhaps two seconds, fascination behind your eyes.

A slight shift on the corner of your mouth.

You slowly rose to your feet. Her eyes were on you, watching how you got up, how your face was oddly calm all throughout the entire interaction. She was puzzled, silently assessing you. Her jaw tightened.

“You don’t—“ She coughed, stopping herself from whatever it was she was about to say. She huffed.

“Get to work.”

“So, what exactly happened? Why did you get detention?” Charlotte asked. 

The two of you were making your way out of the Great Hall with the rest of the morning crowd, students weaving past one another in every direction. Conversations echoed beneath the enchanted ceiling while cutlery clinked against abandoned plates as the house-elves cleared breakfast away. The castle was alive with its usual bustle, yet it all sounded strangely distant, as though someone had muffled the world around you. 

Your mind had wandered somewhere else entirely.

It replayed fragments instead of memories.

the way her brows furrowed,

the way her voice raised,

the way she was looking down at you-

“Hey!”

She softly smacked you, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Are you even listening?” She asked. “What?” You looked at her, a little absentmindedly.

“Ugh” She groaned, frustrated. “Why were you in detention last night?” You blinked. “Just… handed an essay late.” You shrugged it off.

“That isn’t like you.” She pointed out. “You're usually like... Oh look at me! I'm head girl! I'm about elegance and rules, and I'm adored by everyone.” She teased. You just playfully rolled your eyes at her mocking tone.

“What was she like? During detention, what was she like? Was she strict? Was she nice? Was she talkative-“

“Charlotte. Respectfully, shut the fuck up.” You cut her off. “You’re so rude sometimes, you know that right? How could they appoint you as head girl? Not with this attitude, they shouldn’t” She rambled on and on.

Before Charlotte could launch into another round of questions, movement further down the corridor instinctively drew your attention.

Professor Granger walked toward your direction with the same composed confidence she seemed to carry effortlessly. Her posture was impeccable, shoulders relaxed yet impossibly straight, every measured step echoing softly against the stone floor. Her curls had been gathered neatly into a bun this morning, though a few stubborn strands had escaped to frame her face. She held several books against her side, her attention seemingly fixed on where she was going.

She hadn't noticed you.

Or perhaps she had and simply chose not to acknowledge it.

Either possibility holds your attention far longer than it should have.

Charlotte continued talking beside you, though her words dissolved into meaningless background noise as your gaze remained fixed on the approaching professor.

“Good Morning, Professor.” You greeted the professor. More of a blurt, honestly. Charlotte stopped rambling and followed along with your greeting. “Oh hi, Professor! Are you heading to class? Can we walk with you?” Charlotte pushed. The professor only smiled at her cheery display. “Please.”

You both trailed behind her, your eyes seemingly fixed on her as you walked to her class.

The students filled the classroom. Ruffles of parchment and robes were heard as well as murmurs and whispers.

She assigned seat-work for today’s class. Quills were scratching, book pages turned. Hermione was hovering over her students, checking each and everyone’s work. She reached a student’s seat, looking over at their work.

“Great work.” She praised them as she looked at their work. One by one, Hermione moved through the classroom, stopping beside each student's desk with practiced patience. Occasionally she offered quiet praise. Other times she corrected an overlooked detail before continuing on without lingering. Her pace remained steady, her expression unreadable, until she eventually arrived at your table.

You sensed her presence before she spoke.

A faint trace of peppermint drifted into the air as her shadow stretched across your parchment, candlelight catching the edges of the papers spread before you. You continued writing, deliberately finishing the sentence rather than acknowledging her immediately.

Only then did she speak.

“This line,” she said quietly, the tip of her finger hovering just above your parchment, “it's imprecise.”

You didn’t look up at her, you continued scratching your quill on the parchment— finishing the sentence you had written. You set the quill down, lifted your head to look at her. You nibbled.

“I can revise it.” You said, calmly.

“And you will do so properly.” A few students looked up from their parchments. You didn’t give her a reaction.

“Anything for you, Professor.” Polite. Just slightly too deliberate for it to be casual. You stared at her for a second. Then you grabbed your quill and started writing again. She exhaled through her nose.

“I expect it to be corrected before the lesson.” Words came out faster than she had intended. “It will be, Professor.” Your eyes now fixed at the piece of parchment— unbothered. She straightened herself up and moved to the front of the class.

“Ehem.” She cleared her throat, capturing the attention of the students.

“Since some of you seem to be unclear with your paper,” Her voice slightly raised for everyone to hear. “Explain the difference between imprecision and incompleteness.” She asked the class.

You set your quill down and spoke up. “Incompleteness is the absence of information.” You took a pause before you proceeded. “Whilst imprecision is the lack of exactness, the lack of accuracy or it’s simply vague.” You looked right at her.

“Correct.” She said, she turned away. “I suggest you apply that to your own work.” The students were quiet.

“Of course, Professor.” A few murmurs were heard. They all shuffled around their seats, looking at their own work. You got back to work.

“What was that?” Charlotte asked. “Hmm?” You didn’t look up. “That. The way she just did that.”

“What way?” You gave her a side eye, raising your eyebrows.

“You serious?“ She whispered, a little loudly. “You’ve been held back after class twice, you just had detention last night, and now this?”

You looked back down at your parchment. “She’s thorough.” Your voice, flat.

“I would understand that maybe you’re having a hard time keeping up with N.E.W.Ts with all the studying but Charms has been your favourite since first year and you’re doing well in your other classes, why now?” Her voice, louder than before.

“Just drop it, Lottie. Focus on your work.” This caused Charlotte to frown. “Seriously, why-“

“Miss Rosier.” Hermione called out. Charlotte perked up— straightening herself immediately. “Yes Professor?”

“Please utilize your time by finishing your paper, not by talking.” Hermione said. “Yes, Professor. Sorry, Professor.”

The professor’s gaze flickered to you briefly before turning away.

The bell rang.

A few students had already left the room leaving you and a few others behind, packing up.

“Hey, I really have to take a piss like actually.” Charlotte swayed. You snorted. “Go, I’ll see you later.” Charlotte rushed out, fighting amongst the students that crowded the door.

The room emptied itself but you still lingered a bit longer, deliberately packing slowly. You stood up and headed for the door when-

Students filtered out of the classroom in clusters, their conversations growing quieter the farther they disappeared down the corridor. Chairs scraped against stone one last time before settling into silence. Within moments, the room that had been overflowing with voices only minutes earlier had become almost empty.

Charlotte was among the first to disappear, still muttering something about finding the nearest bathroom before she was forced to sprint across the castle.

You remained where you were.

Not because packing your belongings required that much time, but because you found yourself doing it with unusual care. Each book was stacked deliberately. Your quill was wiped clean before slipping back into your satchel. You adjusted the clasp despite already knowing it was secure.

The classroom seemed different once every student had left it. During lessons it was bright, alive, filled with floating charms and overlapping conversations. Now it felt almost cathedral-like in its stillness. Candlelight trembled against centuries-old stone, leaving long shadows between rows of empty desks that stretched toward the front of the room. Dust drifted lazily through pale shafts of moonlight pouring in from the tall arched windows, each particle catching the light before disappearing again. Somewhere outside, the castle continued its evening routine—distant footsteps echoed through moving staircases, a portrait laughed behind a closed door, Peeves shouted something unintelligible several corridors away—but inside the Charms classroom, none of it seemed able to penetrate the silence that had settled between you and Professor Granger. 

You weren't in a hurry.

Whether you cared to admit it or not, some part of you wondered if she'd stop you again.

When everything had finally been packed away, you slung the satchel over your shoulder and turned toward the door.

"Stay."

Stay.

The single word carried effortlessly across the quiet classroom.

Your hand never reached the handle.

Instead, it paused mid-motion before slowly dropping back to your side. The corner of your mouth twitched into the faintest smile as you turned around, meeting Hermione's gaze from across the room.

So you stayed.

“What is it, Professor?” You questioned. Your eyes caught the sight of a familiar parchment in her hand. She walked over to you, shortening the distance. She handed you the paper.

“This was submitted incomplete.” You contemplate, scanning the paper in her hand then back up to her face. You took the parchment, slightly grazing her hand.

“I was under the impression that this had been addressed, professor.” You nibbled, containing a smile that’s threatening to come into view.

“Well, I want to shed light on it again. Your performance was-“ She sucked her teeth.

“Unsatisfactory.”

huh.

“I see.” You scanned the paper then back up to her. You stayed quiet, focused at the parchment in your hand. This was… unnecessary.

“What do you want me to do, professor?” You asked in a low and steady voice. “Do you want me to write it now?” You followed.

“If you have nowhere to be then please, be my guest.” She replied. “I have free period so… I guess I should.” You informed her, setting the parchment and your satchel down.

“That would be appropriate.” You sat down and began taking your ink and quill to begin writing the conclusion of your essay— the one you had carelessly slipped. This should be quick and easy.

You were already on your last sentence, just adding your finishing touches. Your mind pondered. Impulsively but deliberately, you cleared your throat. “Professor,” You called out.

She hummed whilst still giving her attention to the stack of papers on her desk, newly submitted.

“I already served detention for this.” Your head tilted slightly. “Isn’t this… unnecessary?” Her pen stilled briefly.

Then it continued to move.

You stood up, stepped closer to her desk. You rested your hand on the edge of her desk— subtly leaning. “But… you still held me back.” You handed her the finished essay.

Hermione removed her glasses with slow, deliberate composure, pinching the bridge of her nose before setting them neatly atop the growing stack of essays. The tiny sound of metal meeting polished oak was impossibly soft, yet in the stillness of the classroom it seemed to echo louder than either of your voices had all afternoon.

Only then did she look up.

Properly this time.

Not the brief glances she'd spared you throughout the lesson, nor the impatient looks she'd given whenever you deliberately tested her patience. This time she simply... looked.

Studied.

The silence stretched between you almost immediately.

Outside, the castle continued as though nothing remarkable was happening. Distant footsteps drifted somewhere beyond the thick classroom walls. A portrait burst into laughter several corridors away before falling quiet again. The enchanted candles above burned with unwavering flames, casting pools of amber light across the rows of abandoned desks while the moon poured through the arched windows in long silver ribbons that cut across the stone floor.

Inside the classroom, none of it seemed to matter.

Your attention rested solely on her.

And hers...

remained fixed on you.

You met her gaze without hesitation.

There was no challenge in your expression.

Only curiosity.

As though you were just as interested in discovering how long Professor Hermione Granger could maintain eye contact as she was in figuring out what, exactly, was wrong with her most contradictory student.

“Consider it as an opportunity to work on your performance.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

You rolled the finished parchment between your fingers absentmindedly before resting your palm against the edge of her desk. 

"Well," you murmured, your voice quiet enough that it almost blended into the silence.

 "I'm beginning to think…’ Head tilted ever so slightly.

…I'm your favorite student, Professor." You said with a charming smile.

The words hung.

For a fraction of a second, something crossed Hermione’s face– recognition. It was as though she had finally realized exactly what it was you had been doing since your first lesson together. She paused for a second– realization lasting only an instant before professionalism reclaimed its place.

“If I had any…” She started, folding her hands neatly atop the essays handed by the students earlier.

“...you wouldn’t be one of them.” Her voice remained composed, returning the smile you gave her– briefly reaching her eyes.

You gave a slow, thoughtful nod, lips pursed but still smiling. You stepped forward, placing the parchment in front of her and patted it gently.

“I’ll be going now, professor. Have a nice day.” You walked off.

“And you.”

The walk across the classroom felt strangely longer than it had when you'd entered. Candlelight stretched your shadow across the stone floor, passing row after row of empty desks until your hand finally settled around the brass handle. 

The smile not faltering.