Hermione Granger

The thing about Hermione Granger was that she remembered everything.

Everything.

Not in an annoying way.

Well.

Sometimes in an annoying way.

Mostly in a deeply unsettling way that made people feel slightly exposed.

Forgot an assignment due three weeks ago?

Hermione remembered.

Mentioned liking a random sweet once in passing?

Hermione remembered.

Complained exactly one time about how uncomfortable your school tie felt when done too tightly?

Apparently—

Hermione remembered that too.

Which was exactly why she was currently standing in front of you near the entrance to the Great Hall looking deeply unimpressed.

“You’ve tied this wrong.”

Her voice carried the particular sort of disappointment only Hermione Granger seemed capable of weaponizing.

You looked down.

Then back up.

“…Good morning to you too.”

“It’s crooked.”

“You noticed immediately?”

“You’re impossible to miss.”

Pause.

Then, quickly—

“I mean because it looks ridiculous.”

Right.

Sure.

Obviously.

Hermione sighed dramatically before stepping closer.

Too close.

Close enough that you caught the faint smell of parchment and tea.

Close enough that your brain inconveniently stopped functioning for a second.

“You’d think after all these years,” she muttered, fingers adjusting your tie with practiced ease, “you would’ve learned.”

There was nothing awkward about it for her.

At least—

Not visibly.

Like this wasn’t weird.

Like fixing your uniform before breakfast was a completely normal thing best friends did.

Which..

Maybe it was.

Probably.

Possibly.

The problem was that Hermione Granger had always been weirdly close to you.

Not strange close.

Just…

Close.

Like she automatically saved you a seat at breakfast without thinking.

Like she remembered your favorite snacks from Honeydukes.

Like she somehow knew exactly when you were having a bad day before you said anything.

Like she kept extra parchment because she knew you forgot yours constantly.

Like she noticed when you skipped meals.

Or stayed up too late.

Or looked tired.

“You need sleep,” she’d say.

Or—

“You haven’t eaten.”

Or—

“You looked cold.”

Always practical.

Always matter-of-fact.

Like caring about you was simply built into her routine.

And maybe—

That would’ve been normal.

If literally everyone around you didn’t think the two of you were dating.

Which was deeply unfortunate.

And completely ridiculous.

Obviously.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Right?

Right.

---

“You know,” Ron said casually over breakfast one morning, “you two really argue like an old married couple.”

Silence.

Catastrophic silence.

Hermione nearly choked on her tea.

“What?”

Her voice climbed approximately three octaves.

“What an absurd thing to say,” she added quickly.

Ron blinked.

Harry looked exhausted already.

“I’m just saying,” Ron continued, completely fearless for someone about to die, “you practically act like—”

“We do not.”

Hermione’s face had gone pink.

Bright pink.

Dangerously pink.

Harry quietly slid his plate further away.

Coward.

“You save him seats,” Ron said.

“So?”

“You know his entire class schedule.”

“That’s practical.”

“You fix his clothes.”

“They bother me!”

Ron paused.

“…That somehow made it weirder.”

Hermione looked horrified.

Actually horrified.

“I am not having this conversation.”

“You’re blushing,” Harry muttered.

“I am not!”

“You absolutely are,” Ron said.

Hermione stood so fast her chair scraped loudly.

“I hate all of you.”

Then—

Quieter.

Awkwardly.

To you:

“There’s a seat saved if you’re coming to the library later.”

And immediately walked away.

Like the conversation had physically wounded her.

Harry watched her go.

Then looked at you.

Then back at Hermione.

“…You know she likes you, right?”

You nearly dropped your fork.

---

The problem was—

Hermione Granger did not act like someone with feelings.

At least not obviously.

Not dramatically.

Not romantically.

She acted like Hermione.

Practical.

Thoughtful.

Slightly bossy.

Just…

Slightly more with you.

Like how she instinctively reached for your sleeve in crowded hallways so you didn’t disappear into crowds.

Or automatically grabbed your hand while talking and didn’t notice until five minutes later.

Or always—always—saved you the seat beside her.

Didn’t matter where.

Class.

Library.

Great Hall.

Common room.

If Hermione Granger arrived first—

The seat beside her mysteriously remained empty.

Protected like sacred territory.

One time Dean accidentally sat there.

She had stared at him.

Long enough to make him visibly uncomfortable.

“…Sorry,” he muttered eventually.

And moved.

You never questioned it.

Mostly because you valued survival.

---

The jealousy thing was newer.

Subtle.

Quiet.

Hermione wasn’t loud about emotions.

Especially not embarrassing ones.

But lately—

Lately something had shifted.

Like now.

You were halfway through talking with another student after class when Hermione appeared.

Books hugged tightly to her chest.

Expression oddly unreadable.

“Oh,” she said quietly.

The other student smiled.

“Hey, Hermione.”

“Hello.”

Polite.

Too polite.

Dangerously polite.

You knew Hermione.

That tone meant something.

She glanced between both of you briefly.

Then looked at you.

“…You missed lunch.”

That was the first thing she said.

Not hello.

Not normal conversation.

Just immediate concern disguised as accusation.

“You’ve been here all afternoon.”

The other student blinked.

“Oh,” they said awkwardly. “I can go—”

“You don’t have to leave,” Hermione said quickly.

Then—

After a pause—

“…Though we do have studying.”

You didn’t remember agreeing to studying.

The other student definitely noticed.

Their expression shifted slightly.

“…Right,” they said slowly. “I’ll see you later.”

Then left.

Quickly.

Hermione immediately focused very hard on reorganizing books that didn’t need reorganizing.

Silence.

Long silence.

You looked at her.

She avoided eye contact.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

“…What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That.”

Hermione frowned.

“You looked uncomfortable.”

“With talking?”

“With them.”

Oh.

Oh.

“That doesn’t mean—”

“They seemed distracting.”

“You don’t even know them.”

Hermione hesitated.

Then quieter:

“They looked at you strangely.”

Silence.

A dangerous kind.

Because somehow—

Somehow—

That sounded suspiciously like jealousy.

Which was absurd.

Right?

Completely absurd.

Hermione Granger did not get jealous.

Except—

Her ears looked slightly pink.

And she still wouldn’t look directly at you.

“…Hermione.”

“What?”

“You’re acting weird.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

She huffed softly.

Clearly offended.

Then, after a moment—

“You forgot your scarf.”

You blinked.

“What?”

She pulled it from her bag.

Of course she had your scarf.

Of course.

“You left it in Charms.”

“You carried it around?”

“You’d be cold.”

Like this was obvious.

Like carrying your things around because she worried about you was perfectly normal.

And maybe—

For Hermione—

It was.

Because caring about you had always looked effortless.

Easy.

Like breathing.

The problem—

The deeply inconvenient, horrible problem—

Was that somewhere between saved seats, fixed ties, remembered schedules, jealous glances, and quiet acts of care—

It had stopped feeling entirely like friendship.

For both of you.

Even if neither of you quite knew what to do about that yet.

Which was unfortunate.

Especially because, somewhere behind you—

Ron whispered loudly:

“Just date already.”

And Hermione looked genuinely ready to hex him.