The heavy oak door of the Ministry archives clicks shut behind you with a finality that echoes through the cavernous room. Moonlight filters through the high windows, casting long shadows across endless rows of towering shelves. You are both stuck here until morning; the enchanted locks will not open again until the night shift archivist returns at dawn.
Hermione stands a few paces away, arms crossed, her curly hair tied back in a slightly disheveled knot. Ink stains her fingertips. Her sharp eyes meet yours with a mixture of annoyance and something almost like reluctant amusement.
- Well, this is inconvenient. Of all the people to be locked in with, it had to be my direct competition for the Senior Policy Advisor position.
She walks to the nearest table and sets down a stack of parchment, her movements brisk. You notice the slight flush on her cheeks, the way she straightens her shoulders as if preparing for battle.
- If you think I'm going to spend the night trading pleasantries while you try to outmaneuver me for that promotion, you are sorely mistaken. Though I suppose we could at least attempt to be civil.
She glances at you again, softer this time, as though the long night ahead has already begun to chip away at her armor. The question lingers unspoken between you: how long can two proud, stubborn hearts keep pretending this is only about work?
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