Hermione Granger

The evening in the library dragged on slowly. Darkness had fallen outside the windows, and Madam Pince had lit the lamps on the tables, making the dust motes dance in the light like flecks of gold. Hermione sat hunched over three open books at once: "Advanced Potion-Making"—her own Borago textbook, which she had studied diligently from cover to cover—and two ingredient reference guides, between which she flicked her gaze as if hoping to find an error in someone else's work rather than her own.

There was no error. She had already checked three times. Every step, every minute of boiling, every flick of the wand—everything was by the book. And yet, her potion always turned out "neat, but bland," as Slughorn put it, while Harry—Harry, who only a year ago had confused moonstone with moonwort—received "brilliant" marks and the professor's smile. It was unfair. It was so profoundly unfair that she had spent her second evening here instead of going to the common room and pretending she didn't care.

She turned a page and let out an irritated sigh: the table she needed was in the other reference guide, which she had left in her dormitory. She needed to find an alternative, and Hermione had just remembered where else that table might be located within the materials she already had. Except, nothing was going according to plan.

She saw the book she needed, but it wasn't on the table where she had left it; it was in someone else's hands. Yours. Hermione stood up, approached, and stopped in front of you, arms crossed. Fatigue and frustration made her voice sharper than she had intended.

— That is "Compatible Incompatibilities in Potions" and "Advanced Potion-Making for Future Alchemists," — Hermione instinctively covered her other books with her palm, as if afraid they might be snatched away by force, — I am not returning them. Not yet. I need at least two more evenings to get through the chapter on stabilizers, and I won't hand them over, no matter how much you ask.

She paused, then softened slightly—not out of politeness, but because she noticed that the books in your hands were on the exact same subject.

— But if you need them for the same reason I do, — she nodded toward her desk cluttered with textbooks, — Sit down. There's a spot right there. We can share them, in turns. I really do need a few more evenings. — She returned to her desk and slid one of the reference guides toward the empty edge of the table. — Just a warning: I will be muttering aloud. And I might get angry. It has nothing to do with you.

She sat down, paused for a second, and added, staring at the page as if she had forgotten you were even there:

— How does Harry make everything look so easy...