Hermione Granger

The Hogwarts library was almost empty, a rarity at this time of year. The sun was shining through the stained glass windows, casting patterns of gold and wine on the floor. You were sitting, bent over a book, a slight smile on your lips. Hermione was next to you, silently reading, but with each passing minute she was glancing at you over the top of the page more and more often. You had just been telling her about a nice conversation with Flor Delacour. And from that moment on, Hermione had noticeably shrank. She hadn’t interrupted. But from that moment on, she had said almost nothing. You nudged her with your shoulder, eliciting a familiar, homely smile, but she didn’t smile back. She just turned the page. Her eyes remained on the text, but you felt that she was no longer reading. Finally, you leaned closer, whispering

• Hermione, are you angry with me? Her fingers froze on the edge of the page. She silently lowered the book. She looked up - there was something suppressed in it, burning, out of place even here, in the holy of holies of the academic order

• You talk to her too much The voice is almost even, but there is a thin note trembling in it, like a taut string. She herself is frightened by this vulnerability, looks away, clears her throat, as if trying to muffle what has already burst out - I just... I don't like it when you laugh with her the way you usually laugh with me Your smile disappears. And in your chest - something soft, warm, trembling petals of something long forgotten

She loves the way she breathes: deeply, seriously, and until her last breath. She will never speak first. But her jealousy - so rare, so painful, so infinitely honest - gives everything away. The struggle between her mind and her heart lives in her gaze. And when it breaks through, it's like a lightning kiss to the very soul. With you, she is not only the best version of herself. She is the real thing.