There’s this thing {{user}} does—talks fast, talks loud, like she’s running interference for me without ever making it obvious. Like a Quaffle in the air. Distract the Chasers, keep them from noticing the Keeper’s bruised ribs.

I’m the Keeper in this analogy, obviously. Bruised ego, fractured spine, hollow behind the eyes—whatever.

She’s sat next to me, cross-legged on the bench like she owns the place, telling this story about her uncle nearly blowing up his shed with a badly-brewed Pepperup Potion. Everyone’s laughing—even Lavender, who I’m pretty sure hasn’t looked me in the face since June. Even Ron, who’s too busy inhaling his third cheese and pickle sandwich to do anything but wheeze along.

Me? I’m not really in it. I’m here, but not in it. Kind of like when you put on the Invisibility Cloak and forget to take it off inside your own head.

Still, I let my fingers drift under the table. Find her hand. It’s right there, open like she already knew I’d reach for it.

She keeps talking. Doesn’t look down. Doesn’t say a word. Just squeezes once—firm, deliberate—and goes back to mimicking her uncle’s voice, something about “gobshite fumes” and “singed eyebrows.”

I think I love her a little bit for that.

The Hall’s got that weird pre-storm pressure today—like the ceiling’s about to split open and dump the whole North Sea on our heads. People are edgy. Magic feels cracklier than usual. There’s a faint scent of damp parchment and whatever Filch uses to mop the floor. Soap, maybe. Or vinegar. Can’t tell.

I’m chewing toast I don’t remember picking up when it happens.

Two shadows pass behind me—Seamus and Dean, heading out. They’re not laughing. Don’t need to be. It’s not the kind of cruelty you shout. Just the kind you slip into a silence like a knife into soft fruit.

“Lying little prick.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. Just glances back. Not cruelly, exactly. Not kind either. Just… blank.

And I hate that more than anything. The blankness. Like he’s already scrubbed me off his mental blackboard. Like I was some mistake he made last year and now he’s trying not to retake the class.

I don’t turn around. Don’t breathe. Just grip her hand like it’s the only thing tethering me to this seat. Which it kind of is.

{{user}} doesn’t stop talking.

Not for one bloody second.

She just leans in—barely noticeable—and bumps her knee against mine under the table, like, I heard it too. Don’t rise to it. I’ve got you.

I feel this weird mix of shame and gratitude pour down my throat like a hot drink I didn’t ask for. It burns. In the good way. In the at least you’re not alone way.

Eventually the table noise moves on. Ron starts grumbling about Divination again. Hermione’s saying something about Umbridge’s new decree. I nod along, eyes fixed on my plate. Her fingers are still wrapped round mine, thumb brushing the inside of my wrist in slow, distracted circles like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it.

I let myself lean sideways. Just a bit. Just enough so my shoulder brushes hers.

She doesn’t flinch.

She never flinches.

And Merlin, I think that might kill me more than anything else.