The echo of the spell had not quite left her skin. It sat there, a dull-throated vibration in her marrow, making her feel larger than she was allowed to be. Harry had looked at her as if she were a stranger, or perhaps a predator, and the confusion in his green eyes had been a sharp, physical thing. He had not even had the decency to be afraid; he had simply been stunned. Hermione sat in the corner of the library, staring at a stack of parchment that had ceased to be interesting an hour ago. The wood of the table felt hard beneath her palms.
"You were supposed to be the one with the control," Harry said. He was standing by the tall window, looking out at the darkening grounds. He did not turn to face her, but his shoulders were rigid. "You were supposed to be the one who kept the rules."
"The rules are for people who aren't trying to survive," Hermione replied. She adjusted her position, her wool robes rustling against the chair. "I did what was necessary. The spell was reflexive, Harry. It was a reaction to a hand on my arm, not a calculated move."
"It didn't feel reflexive," he said. He turned around then, and his expression was a mask of frustrated exhaustion. "It felt like a warning. It felt like you were telling me that if you wanted to, you could unmake me."
"You are very dramatic when you're tired," she snapped. She reached for her quill, but her hand was still shaking slightly. She hated that she was shaking. "It was a single, sharp burst of magic. It was not a declaration of war."
"It was a piece of your father's magic, wasn't it?" Harry asked. He crossed the room, his boots heavy on the stone floor. "You didn't even look like you were thinking about it. You just became something else for a second."
"I became something efficient," Hermione said. She looked up at him, her jaw tight. "I did not intend for you to be the recipient of it. But the moment happened, and the moment was handled."
"Handled," he repeated. He stopped a few feet from her desk. "That is a very cold word for a person who is supposed to be my friend. Or whatever we are supposed to be this term."
"We are people who are trying to navigate a world that is getting smaller by the day," she said. She stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You want me to be predictable, Harry. You want me to be the girl who reads the books and follows the instructions. But that girl is not the one who cast that spell."
"I think the girl who cast that spell is someone who is keeping secrets," he said. His voice was low, devoid of the usual warmth he used when they were alone. "You’ve been keeping a tally of everything you can do, haven't you? Every time you hide a feeling, or a strength, or a piece of yourself."
"I am not keeping a tally," she lied. She felt the familiar prickle of the word she could not say, the one that would soften the blow of her pride. If she said it, the tension would break, but she would also lose her footing. "I am simply being precise. There is a difference between being secretive and being economical with your revelations."
"It is not economical to be a weapon," Harry said. He reached out, as if to touch her hand, but he pulled back before his fingers made contact. "You've become very good at using your magic to keep people at a distance. Even me."
"You're the one who keeps pushing the distance, Harry," she said. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks, a flush of irritation. "You treat me like a puzzle to be solved, a mystery to be unraveled. You want to see the inner workings of my mind, but you don't actually want to deal with the consequences of what you find there."
"I'm not afraid of the consequences," he countered. He took a step closer, invading her space. "I'm afraid of the person you are becoming when you're not looking. You're becoming someone who can be dangerous without even trying. That's the part that bothers me."
"Is it the danger that bothers you, or the fact that you didn't see it coming?" Hermione asked. She stepped toward him, her chest heaving slightly. "You've spent so much time watching me, trying to figure out my tells, that you've forgotten that I can change the game entirely."
"I thought I knew you," Harry said. He looked down at her, and for a moment, the old Harry was there, the one who looked at her with a desperate sort of longing. "I thought there was a way to reach you. But that spell... it felt like a wall. A very high, very sharp wall."
"Maybe the wall is there to protect you," she said. She was being too blunt, her words hitting him like stones. "Maybe you should be grateful that the wall is there. You don't always need to know exactly how much power someone is holding back."
"Grateful?" Harry laughed, and the sound was bitter. He shook his head, his hair messy and unkempt. "You think I should be grateful that you're capable of hurting me? That you're capable of casting spells that feel like they belong to a different era of magic?"
"It was a single moment of strength, Harry! Not a permanent state of being!" She was shouting now, her voice echoing in the quiet corner of the library. "You act as if I have become some dark force, but I am just a woman who knows how to defend herself."
"It wasn't just defense," he said. He looked at her with a profound sort of sadness. "It was an assertion. You weren't just defending your space; you were asserting your right to be feared."
"I don't want to be feared," she whispered, though the lie felt heavy in her throat. She wanted to be understood, but she also wanted to be formidable. The two things were not compatible in the way he wanted them to be.
"You should be," he said. He looked away from her, staring back at the dark windows. "But there's a problem with being that kind of person, Hermione. People start to walk on eggshells around you. They start to wonder if they're actually talking to you, or just to the version of you that you've decided to show them."
"I'm showing you everything!" she cried. She felt the frustration boiling in her blood, a hot, restless thing. "I am showing you every part of me, even the parts that are sharp and jagged and difficult to hold."
"No, you're not," he said. He turned back to her, his eyes hard and certain. "You're showing me the parts that you think are safe. But that spell... that was the real you. The part that doesn't need to ask for permission. The part that doesn't need to say *please*."
"I don't need to say it," she snapped, her voice cracking. "I have done enough. I have given enough. I have been the one to hold the pieces together while everything else fell apart."
"And you've become so good at it that you've become a threat," Harry said. He took a breath, his expression settling into a grim sort of resolve. "You're a person who can handle anything, and that is the most terrifying thing about you."
"You're wrong," she said. She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white. "You're completely wrong about what I want."
"I know what you want," he said. He stepped back, creating