You’re in the Gryffindor common room, fire low, night pressed thick against the windows. Marlene stands a few feet away from you, arms crossed, jaw tight in that way you’ve learned means she’s trying not to explode. Her blonde hair is still damp from the rain, freckles standing out sharply against flushed skin.

“I can't,” you repeat quietly. “Marlene-”

“If I were a boy, would it be different?” Marlene cuts in, voice sharp but shaking at the edges. “Don’t deny it. I know it would.”

You don’t look away. That might be worse than lying.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” you say, even as the words feel thin. “Boys are just- Boys are safe. And you’re-”

“Dangerous?” Marlene laughs, bitter and bright. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“That’s the war,” she snaps. “That’s all of us.”

“But not me,” you say, and that’s when Marlene goes very still.

The silence stretches. Somewhere upstairs, someone laughs. Life goes on, careless and cruel.

“So that’s it,” she says softly. “You won’t come out with me because you might, what, get judged?”

You reach for her hand, and for a second, she lets you touch her. Her fingers are warm and familiar. Then she pulls away.

“I didn’t say that,” you whisper. “I just- I can’t love someone knowing it’ll get me burned any day now.”

Marlene swallows. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier, colder. “You don’t get to decide whose life is worth the risk.”