Between Headlines and Hearts

Saturday morning. It was an absurd notion, really. A week ago, if anyone had told her she’d be practicing pretending to be in love with Percy Weasley, she would have laughed. But here she was, stepping into his flat, mentally preparing for what she could only describe as an acting exercise of the highest order.

The door clicked shut behind her, and she stood there for a moment, taking in the familiar, albeit slightly cluttered, space. Percy’s flat was just as she’d remembered it from previous visits—orderly, but with an unspoken charm, like a well-kept library that someone actually used. Bookshelves lined the walls, a few scattered piles of parchment on a desk by the window, and the soft ticking of a clock in the background. It smelled faintly of wood and, surprisingly, a bit of lavender.

But what truly caught Hermione’s attention as she stepped further into the flat was the small, delicate cup of tea sitting on the coffee table, its steam still curling gently in the air. The sight of it made her pause for a brief moment. It was her tea. The one she always ordered when they went to cafes, the one she insisted on making herself when she visited his flat because she couldn’t trust anyone else to get it exactly right. But there it was, sitting before her, perfectly brewed—just the way she liked it.

Her fingers instinctively went to her mug, hovering just above it for a second as a tiny smile crept onto her face. The warmth of the porcelain, the comforting scent of the tea—it was almost absurd how much it meant that Percy, of all people, had taken the time to prepare it.

“Is that my tea?” Hermione asked, her voice already light, teasing. She could hear the slight quiver of amusement in her tone, but there was something else there too—a strange flutter she couldn’t quite place. Something about it felt different, like this was more than just a small gesture.

Percy, still seated on the sofa, was flipping through a stack of parchment. He didn’t look up at first, his focus fixed on the papers, but she could see the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. It was subtle—so subtle that if she weren’t paying attention, she might have missed it entirely.

“It is,” he replied, his voice calm, but there was something in the way he said it, some quiet undertone that caught her attention. “I thought it might help you settle in. You’ve had a long week.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, setting the cup down carefully. There it was again—the warmth behind his words. It wasn’t a big gesture, not something grand, but there was a quiet sincerity to it, like it wasn’t just about the tea but about the thought behind it.

She wondered why that made her feel… warm.

“Well, thank you,” she said, slipping onto the couch beside him, not too close, but close enough that she felt the subtle shift in the atmosphere. As she sat, she casually reached for the cup, lifting it to her lips. The first sip was everything she’d expected: strong, rich, with just the right balance of milk—comforting, not too sweet, yet somehow perfect for the moment.

She let out a quiet hum of approval, her fingers briefly brushing against the edge of the porcelain. "You’ve got this down," she murmured, half teasing, half appreciative. She hadn’t expected him to remember something as trivial as the exact way she liked her tea.

Percy, who had been watching her with a quiet intensity, shifted slightly, setting his papers aside with a small, barely noticeable sigh. Finally, he looked up at her, his eyes no longer on the paperwork but squarely focused on her. It was the kind of look that suggested he was no longer just going through the motions of their plan, but truly considering their next steps. Hermione felt a slight shift in her chest, a subtle tightness. Was this how he always looked at people when they were in the middle of something important? Or was it just… her?

“So,” he began, his voice taking on a more serious tone now. It had the precision of a well-rehearsed lecture, but there was a distinct edge to it—he wasn’t just talking for the sake of talking. “We’ve got to make this look comfortable. Natural. It’s not about grand gestures or forced romantic moments, just small, effortless things. The kind of things that make people believe we’ve been doing this for a while.”

Hermione nodded slowly, taking another sip of her tea. She glanced at him, suddenly aware of the distance between them, or perhaps the lack of it. He was sitting so calmly, with that focused expression, and she felt her mind flicker between the idea that this was a task to be done and the reality of their closeness.

“Right,” she said, almost absently. “Small moments. Like the tea, I suppose.” She glanced up at him, her eyes narrowing in playful skepticism. “I didn’t expect you to get it exactly right.”

Percy’s lips quirked upward in the smallest of smiles—a flash of humor, fleeting but undeniably genuine. For a moment, the stillness between them seemed to dissipate.

“I pay attention,” he replied dryly, his tone light but somehow proud. “I do have a memory, you know.”

Hermione’s heart did an odd little flip, but she ignored it, returning to the warmth of her cup. She held his gaze for a moment, wondering if she was imagining things. Was there something else behind his words? Or had she read into it too much? The way he said it, with that faint touch of pride, as if he’d been working on it for days, made her pause. It almost felt too… intentional.

She shook her head, dismissing the thought before it could take root. No, she was overthinking things again. Percy was just Percy. Always so focused, so calm, so professional. Nothing more to it.

But then, the brief moment of eye contact lingered just a little too long, and she felt her breath catch ever so slightly, caught somewhere between curiosity and confusion. What was this? Was it the act? Or was something else going on, some unknown current swirling beneath the surface of their “practice”?

“So, what’s first?” Hermione asked, setting her tea cup down with a quiet clink. She shifted slightly on the couch, her legs crossed under her and her back straight as she turned just enough to face him. She could feel the strange tension in the air between them, but she pushed it aside. She had a job to do, after all. They had a plan, a cover story to nail down, and if she needed to slip into some strange act to make it convincing, she would. After all, she was Hermione Granger. She could handle any situation.

Percy didn’t seem to feel the same awkwardness, though. He was relaxed, his posture at ease, as if this was just another day at the office—no big deal. He didn’t hesitate. He leaned back slightly, the fabric of the couch creaking under his shift in weight, and regarded her with a look that was almost too calm, like he was analysing the situation with precision.

“We’ll start with something simple,” Percy said, his voice soft but certain. “Sit close. Not too far, but not so close it feels forced. A comfortable distance.”

Hermione blinked. Sit close? That sounded easy enough in theory. But in practice…? She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before sliding herself a little closer on the couch, just enough so that their knees brushed lightly. The space between them shrank, but it didn’t feel intrusive, and yet, she couldn’t shake the strange flutter in her chest. The act felt like it should be effortless, but the subtle changes in their proximity—how her movements were more deliberate, how she could feel the warmth of his body just a few inches away—made her hyper-aware of how strange it was.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, no. But it was different. She had spent so much of her life having close, meaningful, but largely professional interactions with Percy. In a way, it felt like a betrayal of everything they’d been—everything that had defined their friendship. Even if this wasn’t real, even if it was all part of their plan, the sudden shift in dynamics had a disorienting effect.

But, as she reminded herself, this wasn’t the time for overthinking. She wasn’t here to analyze the situation, to second-guess or dwell on how odd it felt. She was here to act, and she could do that. She would. After all, she was Hermione Granger.

“Now,” Percy said, his voice taking on a more deliberate, almost instructive tone. He turned slightly toward her, his posture still effortlessly calm. “We need to have natural conversation. Small talk. Nothing too forced, but enough to make it seem like we’re familiar with each other—like we’ve spent time together outside of work.”

Hermione nodded, feeling the weight of the task settle in her chest. Small talk. That seemed simple enough, but suddenly, the prospect of talking about casual, personal things with Percy made her stomach do a little flip. How do you make small talk feel genuine when you’ve never had those kinds of exchanges before? When the subject of “us” had always been about work or important matters, not… this?

“What do we talk about?” she asked, trying to sound casual, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that every word she said was being scrutinized by him—or worse, by herself. The pressure of it suddenly felt heavier than it should.

Percy shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Anything. Personal stuff. What you did last week. The latest book you’re reading. Something easy.”

Hermione mulled it over for a second, trying to get past the unnatural tension in her chest. She glanced over at him, but his face remained calm and unruffled, as if the task was just another thing to check off his mental list. A faint trace of an idea came to her, and she decided to go with it.

“Well,” she began, hesitating for a moment as she thought back to a conversation they’d had a few weeks ago about books. It was something comfortable, something they could both talk about without too much effort. “I’ve been reading this new book on magical creatures. You know, the ones no one really talks about. You might like it—it’s a bit... unusual.”

Percy’s expression didn’t shift much, but his eyes softened just a little at the mention of a book. It was a brief change, barely perceptible, but Hermione noticed it nonetheless. He nodded, his voice thoughtful when he responded. “I’d be interested. I’ve been reading about nonverbal magic lately. It’s a little more technical, but still fascinating.”

“Nonverbal magic?” Hermione asked, intrigued despite herself. She leaned in a little, her curiosity piqued. The conversation was starting to feel more natural, the lines between their usual professional discussions and their current roleplay beginning to blur. It was almost as if they were slipping into something that resembled familiarity. “I’m surprised you’re interested in that. I always thought you liked your theory a bit more concrete.”

Percy gave a small, amused smirk, the corners of his lips twitching upward in that characteristic way of his. “I do like my theory,” he said, his voice laced with a touch of self-awareness. “But there’s something about nonverbal magic that feels… freeing. Don’t you think?”

Hermione blinked, taken aback by the depth of his response. It wasn’t the kind of thing she expected Percy to say—at least not in such a casual, almost personal manner. She was used to him being precise, analytical, but the way he spoke about it made her realize that there was more to his interests than the rigid structure he usually presented. The idea of magic without words, something fluid, unspoken, that seemed to connect with the very core of who he was—it struck her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, considering his point. “But I’ve always thought that controlling the magic is part of the beauty of it. The precision.”

He nodded in agreement, but his gaze lingered on her for just a moment longer than usual. For that brief second, she felt an odd shift, like they were no longer simply playing roles. Something in that exchange, however small, felt familiar. More than familiar—it felt real. The subtle way their conversation had unfolded, the way they both delved into their shared interests without even trying, made her forget, for just an instant, that they were pretending at all. It was as if they were just two colleagues who had spent years talking about magic, growing used to each other’s presence in the simplest, most comfortable way.

For a heartbeat, they locked eyes, and Hermione felt a strange sort of recognition pass between them, as though they had crossed an unspoken threshold. The connection felt fleeting, like a fleeting thought she couldn’t quite grasp, but it lingered.

Percy quickly broke eye contact, his gaze dropping to his hands as he adjusted the papers on his lap. But Hermione stayed still for a moment, trying to place the strange sensation that had just swept over her. It was gone as quickly as it had come, but it left something behind—a kind of lingering warmth that she couldn’t quite explain.

But she forced herself to focus. They weren’t supposed to be feeling things like this. They were supposed to be pretending.

“Right,” Hermione said, clearing her throat and sitting up a little straighter, trying to re-establish some normalcy. “Precision. That’s what makes it so… beautiful.”

Percy nodded, his expression once again controlled, his gaze flicking back to hers for another fleeting moment before he spoke. “Exactly. Precision. There’s a certain… elegance in it.”

And for just a second, Hermione thought she saw a spark of something more in his eyes. A glimmer of understanding. Something that made her wonder if the act they were playing was starting to blur the lines just a little too much.

"Good," Percy said quietly, his voice calm but with a subtle note of approval, as though pleased with the progress of their small talk. “Now let’s test the physical side. A touch on the arm. Nothing too obvious, but enough that it’s clear.”

Hermione felt a strange flutter in her chest at the words. It sounded simple enough in theory, but the moment the suggestion left his lips, she felt a nervous tightness coil in her stomach. A touch? A casual, believable touch? It was one thing to discuss their “relationship” as an abstract concept, but the physical side… that felt more vulnerable. More real in a way she wasn’t sure she was prepared for.

Her eyes met his for just a heartbeat, searching for something, anything to ground her. She saw only calm determination there. Percy was in control, as always, unfazed by what they were about to attempt. He was the one who had suggested this practice, and she was the one who had agreed to it, so she had no choice but to carry on. She nodded, though the motion was small, almost imperceptible.

Deep breath.

"Okay," she said, the word almost catching in her throat. She shifted slightly on the couch, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between them. She had to make it seem natural, like a simple, effortless gesture between two people who had been together for a while. The weight of the task settled in her chest like a stone.

She slowly extended her hand, her fingers trembling just slightly as they reached out toward him. It wasn’t that she was unsure of the action itself; it was that the act of physically connecting with him—of touching him in a way that suggested intimacy—felt far more intimate than she had expected. The touch wasn’t supposed to mean anything, not really. Just a casual gesture.

Her fingers brushed against his arm, the contact so brief that it almost seemed like a mistake. A gentle, fleeting touch that could easily be overlooked. Yet the moment her fingers made contact with his skin, an unexpected ripple of warmth shot through her, settling somewhere just beneath her ribs. It was as though the simple act of touching him, however briefly, triggered a current of awareness. Her pulse quickened for a moment, and she could feel the heat of her skin against his, though the touch was barely there.

Hermione quickly pulled her hand back, as though startled by her own reaction. She felt her chest tighten slightly as her mind scrambled to dismiss what she had just felt. It was ridiculous. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything. It was just acting. She was supposed to treat this like any other task—something to complete, something to perfect.

She glanced up at him, half-expecting him to say something, to offer his feedback, but he didn’t look at her right away. Percy’s gaze was focused on his papers, though his jaw was clenched just slightly. He seemed composed, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something she couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was his attempt to suppress his own discomfort, or perhaps he was just as aware of the situation as she was.

“Well done,” he said, his voice still steady, though there was a tension in the way he spoke, like he was trying to remain unaffected. “Now… we keep practicing until it feels like second nature.”

His words were reassuring, but the undertone was more than a little intense. She nodded again, a little more forcefully this time, though she couldn’t help but feel her cheeks flush. She had done it. She had touched him. It had been brief, subtle even, but it felt like something more. And that was the problem.

Hermione’s mind raced as she took a steadying breath, the weight of the situation pressing down on her once more. This is nothing, she told herself. It’s just practice. Just part of the act.

But deep down, something else stirred. The strange, inexplicable feeling she’d gotten from the briefest touch made her question just how far they could take this charade without crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed.

She looked at Percy again, and for a split second, their gazes met, lingering for just a second longer than necessary. It wasn’t much—just a flicker, a brief moment of unspoken understanding. But it felt like an acknowledgment of something unspoken, something neither of them was willing to address. Neither one of them pulled away, but the weight of that second seemed to hang between them, heavy with unvoiced tension.

Hermione broke the gaze first, quickly looking away as she found herself feeling unusually vulnerable. She was supposed to be in control, but the reality of how much they were pretending started to sink in with greater clarity. This wasn’t going to be easy. Pretending to be in a relationship was one thing, but doing it in front of the Weasleys, who would no doubt scrutinize every little detail—every touch, every look—was another thing entirely. They were going to have to be perfect.

And tomorrow at the Burrow, that perfection would have to come together. The act had to feel seamless. Nothing forced. It had to feel effortless. She couldn’t let herself falter.

"Okay," she said finally, her voice steadier now, though her hands still felt a little shaky. "Let’s keep going. We need to get this right."

Percy nodded, the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and for a brief moment, it was as though they were just two colleagues, practicing for a difficult assignment. But the faint traces of something deeper, something more personal, lingered in the air around them, like an invisible thread they were both carefully avoiding.

And the strange feeling she couldn’t quite name settled back into her chest, pushing against the boundaries of what was real and what was just part of the act. Tomorrow, when they went to the Burrow, it would have to be perfect. Because, somehow, even the smallest detail felt like it might matter more than either of them had anticipated.