A Quiet Understanding
The clock on Hermione’s office wall ticked steadily, each second marking time with a steady, almost rhythmic cadence that filled the otherwise quiet space. The sound, soft and unyielding, echoed gently through the room, a constant amidst the soft rustle of parchment, the scratch of quills against paper, and the occasional sigh that escaped her lips as she leaned over yet another stack of paperwork. The scent of ink and aged books hung in the air, lingering in the corners like old friends, while traces of tea—once hot, now cold—soured in the forgotten cup on her desk. This office had become something more than just a workspace over the last few weeks. It had become a place of shared frustrations, late nights, and moments of clarity, but tonight, it felt like something else entirely—still, almost peaceful in its quiet surrender.
Percy sat across from her, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as usual, his posture sharp and precise, his expression as focused as it ever was. But tonight, even his usual intensity seemed to have settled into something more subtle. They had been working on this case—no, this labyrinth of outdated legislation, tangled corruption, and Ministry bureaucracy—for weeks. Days had bled into nights, mornings into afternoons, and now, finally, it was over. The work was done, the case closed, and yet the silence in the office felt heavier than any of the weighty documents they had been poring over.
The two of them had spent hours here, side by side, in this very office, reviewing legal loopholes, crafting strategies, and picking apart laws that no one else seemed to understand. The exhaustion that had built up between them was palpable, not just in the way their shoulders slumped or their eyes seemed to glaze over at the simplest tasks, but in the unspoken language they had developed—silent glances and the occasional murmur of reassurance when the other grew too frustrated. They had become a rhythm, an unspoken partnership.
And now, with everything finally concluded, there was a rare moment of calm.
Hermione leaned back in her chair, a soft groan escaping her lips as she rubbed at her temples. “I think this is the first time in weeks that I haven’t had a quill in my hand,” she muttered, her voice laced with a weariness she hadn’t fully realized until now.
Percy, sitting across from her, stretched his arms behind his head, his eyes still glued to the papers before him, though his body language had finally softened. There was an almost teasing lilt in his voice when he spoke. “I was beginning to think you had one permanently attached.”
She snorted softly, the sound of it catching her off guard. It had been too long since she’d felt like laughing, and she hadn’t realized how much she missed it until now. “You’re one to talk. You practically breathe parchment,” she shot back, adjusting her glasses as she tried to stifle the grin tugging at the corners of her lips.
For a moment, Percy looked like he might return a witty retort, but then the smile faded, replaced by something quieter. The laughter lingered only for a second before it was replaced by something steadier—a silence that wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable, but simply… different. It was as though the weight of the case was finally lifting, and with it, the unspoken tension that had settled between them like an invisible thread. It wasn’t that they were unhappy, far from it, but the long hours and mental exhaustion had drawn them into a different rhythm. One that didn’t require constant words or explanations. They had settled into a space where just being in the same room felt like enough.
Hermione couldn’t help herself. She turned to look at him then, really looked at him. She had spent so much time here, in this very office, with him across the desk, working together, that she had never stopped to really take stock of the small details. The way his shoulders—so often tense and alert—had finally relaxed after all these weeks. The way he had settled into the comfortable familiarity of her space, his posture no longer guarded, but almost... at home. She saw the way his eyes occasionally lifted to meet hers, offering her a reassuring smile when she fumbled with a particularly frustrating section of the legislation, or when she needed a second opinion on a point of law.
It was in those small moments that she had come to realize that no one else understood her the way he did. Not just because they worked together, but because they thought together. The endless debates in this office—heated arguments, philosophical musings, rants about unfair laws, half-baked theories that were fleshed out into something solid—had become their shared language. They had spent hours together, arguing until their voices were hoarse, and in the process, they had crafted something uniquely theirs.
It wasn’t just that Percy had a mind that matched hers in so many ways, although he did. It wasn’t just that he knew how to push her to think deeper, harder, until she saw things from angles she hadn’t considered. It was that, after all this time, he had become someone she could count on in ways she hadn’t expected. Someone who would never belittle her ideas, never dismiss her. Instead, he met her challenges with his own questions, his own insights, until they arrived at something better together.
And as the moments passed, the silence between them grew less filled with the heavy weight of the case and more with an understanding that had only deepened over time. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen it before, but now, in this stillness, it felt more certain, more solid. He had always been there, a presence in her life that she had never really questioned—perhaps because he was the kind of person who quietly made himself indispensable, without ever demanding it.
Maybe it wasn’t just about pretending anymore.
Maybe it had never been.
Percy let out a quiet breath, the sound barely audible in the otherwise still room, and shifted slightly in his chair. His body seemed to carry the same quiet tension that had been a constant between them over the last few weeks, but now, it was different. There was a stillness to it—like he was waiting for something, or perhaps bracing for the weight of his next words. When his gaze met hers, it was steady, and there was something in the way his eyes held hers that made her heart stutter for a moment. He wasn’t looking at her with any particular urgency, but rather with a quiet deliberation, like he was choosing his words carefully. His fingers tapped absently against the edge of his sleeve, a soft rhythm that was almost comforting, and yet there was a gravity to the moment, something that made everything else in the room seem distant.
“You realize we’re still engaged,” Percy said, the words slipping out with an almost casual tone that didn’t quite match the underlying tension in the air.
Hermione blinked, thrown off for a moment. She didn’t quite know what he meant at first. Her thoughts, which had been spiraling through the details of their case and the exhaustion of the last few weeks, slowed and came to a halt. “What?” she asked, her voice soft with confusion.
He shifted in his seat, his lips quirking upward in a small, knowing smile, but there was something different about it now—less playful and more... real. “The cover story.” He lifted a hand in the air, as if making a point. “No one’s questioned it in weeks. Even after the case was closed, even after we stopped needing the excuse… they just assumed. Everyone just assumes.” His gaze lingered on hers, as though he was waiting for her to catch up.
For a moment, Hermione simply stared at him, the words sinking in slowly. She felt the weight of them—felt it deep in her chest—as the realization hit her. Of course, they were still engaged, technically. They’d been playing the part for so long, in the wake of their charade, that it had become their reality. But now, hearing him say it aloud, something shifted. Something felt different. The idea of it, something that had once been fabricated, now seemed oddly permanent, settled in a way that surprised her. “I suppose they do,” she replied, her voice quieter now, as though the gravity of his words had finally reached her.
Percy’s expression softened at her words, and for a long moment, he was still, his eyes never leaving hers. There was a sort of quiet contemplation in his gaze, like he was weighing something deeply before making his move. Then, without another word, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, slow and deliberate. Hermione’s breath hitched without her meaning to, and her pulse quickened. The movement was unhurried, but the air in the room seemed to thicken with anticipation, though neither of them spoke. As he drew his hand from his pocket, she saw it—the small velvet box nestled in his fingers, simple and unassuming in its design. She couldn’t help but stare at it, her breath catching in her throat as the weight of the moment grew heavier, more intense.
He didn’t open the box. He didn’t push it toward her. Instead, Percy held it gently, turning it over in his palm like he was considering it, like he was testing its weight, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. His fingers were careful as he held the box, his movements slow as if he were trying to give the moment space to breathe. “I bought this weeks ago,” he murmured, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. The words hung in the air between them, carrying an undertone of vulnerability. “At first, I thought it was just for the act. Just in case we needed to make things more convincing, you know? I didn’t think it was anything more than that.” He paused, and when he continued, his voice was softer, more deliberate. “But now... now, I think I just want you to have it.”
Hermione’s throat tightened, the words settling heavily in her chest. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears, each beat loud and insistent, as if her body had finally caught up with the quiet intensity of the moment. “And now?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, her fingers curling on the desk in front of her as she reached for something to hold onto.
Percy didn’t look away. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and the look in his eyes made her feel as if there was nothing else in the world but the two of them, sharing this quiet, intimate space. “Now,” he said, his voice almost too soft to hear, “I just want you to have it.” There was no hesitation in his words now, no second-guessing. Just quiet certainty—just him, just them, standing on the edge of something neither of them had fully anticipated but both had quietly embraced.
The simplicity of it took Hermione’s breath away. There was no grand gesture, no extravagant speech. No dramatic proclamation of love or devotion. Just a quiet moment between two people who had spent so much time together, who had forged a partnership that neither of them had ever expected but both had come to trust completely. And somehow, that made it feel more real than anything she could have imagined.
She looked down at the velvet box, still resting in Percy’s hand, before glancing back up at him. She searched his face, looking for any sign of hesitation, any hint of uncertainty, but there was nothing—nothing but the steady warmth in his eyes, the quiet understanding that had always existed between them, waiting for her to see it. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing gently against his as she took the box from his hand. The movement was almost instinctive, her heart beating louder now, faster, as if it were trying to match the rhythm of the moment.
With her fingers curled around the box, she lifted the lid carefully, her breath catching in her throat again when she saw it—a ring. Elegant and understated, with a single stone set in a band of gold. Simple. Thoughtful. Just right. It wasn’t flashy or overly extravagant, but it was everything she had ever wanted. And in that moment, it felt like it had always been meant for her.
Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and for a moment, she simply stared at the ring, unable to speak. The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Instead, it was filled with a sense of understanding—a mutual recognition that this moment, this quiet exchange, was enough. There was no need for any more words.
When she looked back up at Percy, she saw something in his expression that made her heart flutter—a warmth, a hopefulness that made everything feel more certain. He was watching her with a look of quiet expectation, but there was no pressure, no rush. Just a steady trust, waiting for her response.
And in that moment, Hermione knew. There had never been any need for pretense. Not with him. Not anymore. The relationship they had built, the quiet understanding they had developed over weeks of shared work and whispered conversations, had brought them to this point. And it wasn’t about a spectacle or a grand declaration. It was about the simple, unspoken connection that had grown between them.
A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she closed the box, holding it close to her chest like something precious, something that belonged only to her. Her fingers curled around it instinctively, the weight of the ring comforting and familiar in her hands.
“Okay,” she murmured, her voice steady but soft, a warmth settling in her chest that she hadn’t expected.
Percy arched an eyebrow slightly, his lips quirking into a small, fond smile. “Okay?”
She nodded, the certainty of her words growing with each passing second. Something soft and sure settled in her chest. “Okay.”
And just like that, it was decided. There were no grand speeches, no grand gestures—just the two of them, sharing a quiet moment of understanding. No spectacle. No fanfare. Just them. And somehow, that made it perfect.