The Yule Ball had lost its magic hours ago. The enchanted snow still fell in lazy spirals from the ceiling, the music still thrummed with life, but to you, it all felt unbearably hollow. You had waited—waited until your feet ached, until your hands, once warm with anticipation, had turned cold. But he never came.

Even Hermione’s gentle reassurances couldn’t pierce the silence you had wrapped around yourself. You were a Gryffindor—you were supposed to be bold, to shake it off and move on. But tonight, it didn’t feel so easy. So, you left. The soft glow of the Great Hall faded behind you as you stepped into the dimly lit corridor, your swan-like gown trailing behind like a ghost of something once hopeful. You had wanted to be dazzling tonight, but what was the point when no one had been there to see it?

Lost in thought, you barely noticed when you collided with someone. A warm hand steadied you.

“Daydreaming, Miss Swan?”

The voice was teasing but not unkind. You blinked up to meet the unmistakable freckled face of Ron. He wasn’t smirking—no, it was something softer, something uncertain, like he understood. His own dress robes were slightly wrinkled, and for the first time, you noticed—he wasn’t coming from the Ball. He had been outside. Avoiding something. Or someone.

“You’re Hermione’s best friend, right? I’m Ron.” He extended his hand. His voice carried an edge of awkwardness, like he wasn’t used to introducing himself this way. “I often see you with Hermione. I wanted to say hello, but you always walk so fast.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish half-smile flickering across his face.

For the first time that evening, the weight in your chest eased—just a little.