Chapter Text
Hermione Granger did not dislike people as a rule but she did dislike inefficiencies. Harry Potter was a walking, talking, green-tied efficiency deficit.
"You’re doing it on purpose," she snapped, slamming her heavy copy of Advanced Potion Making onto the library table.
Harry didn’t blink. He was sitting backward on his chair, his chin resting on his crossed arms atop the mahogany backrest. He looked entirely too comfortable for someone currently violating library rules. "Doing what, Granger?"
"Breathing loudly. Shuffling your parchment. Existing in my line of sight while I am trying to draft a definitive thesis on the instability of third century transfiguration paradigms."
"I haven’t moved a muscle in ten minutes," Harry pointed out, a slow, infuriating smile spreading across his face. "And my breathing is perfectly rhythmic. If anything, I’m providing you with a metronome. You should thank me."
"I would rather thank a mountain troll for a pedicure," Hermione hissed, her quill trembling with indignation. "You are an arrogant menace, Potter. You patrol these corridors like you own the castle and then you come into my sanctuary just to disrupt my cognitive flow."
Harry’s smile widened, lighting up his bright green eyes behind his round glasses. This was his favorite part of the day. "Your sanctuary? Last I checked, Ravenclaws didn't buy the library. Though I suppose if anyone could negotiate a mortgage with Madam Pince, it’s you."
"Go away, Potter."
"Can't," he said cheerfully, shifting his weight so he could look at her from a slightly different angle. "I have a deeply rooted psychological need to understand why you use three different ink colors for a single paragraph. Is it a code? Are you a spy?"
"It’s an indexing system!" she cried out, entirely too loud.
Three tables over, Padma Patil sighed loudly and buried her face in her hands. "For the love of Merlin, Granger," Padma muttered, not looking up. "Just get a room or get a tutor. Some of us are trying to study actual magic, not whatever mating ritual you two are running."
Hermione turned a fierce glare on her fellow Ravenclaw. "Mating ritual? He is a Slytherin antagonist trying to sabotage my academic standing through psychological warfare!"
Harry chuckled, a low, warm sound that made the hair on Hermione's arms stand up in irritation. "Psychological warfare? No, Granger. If I wanted to sabotage you, I’d just hide your planner. This is just a friendly chat."
"We are not friends!"
"Not yet," Harry agreed smoothly, finally standing up and stretching like a cat. He leaned down, placing his hands on her table, bringing his face dangerously close to hers. "See you at dinner, Hermione. Don't forget to breathe. Rhythmically."
He walked away, his dark green cloak billowing behind him. Hermione stared after him, her heart hammering against her ribs from sheer, unadulterated fury.