Pansy Parkinson’s heels clicked sharply against the stone floor, each step a punctuation mark to her thoughts. She kept her chin lifted, back straight, though her stomach twisted with bitterness.

How much longer was she supposed to smile prettily at Draco’s side, waiting for crumbs of attention, for some sign that she was more than a shadow draped over his arm?

It was laughable. Insulting.

She had been loyal—unwaveringly loyal. She had made herself smaller, sharper, more polished, whatever he needed her to be. And for what? For the flicker of a glance, the careless brush of his hand, as if she were a brooch he pinned on when it suited him. She could feel the heat rising in her chest just thinking of it, that familiar ache burning now into anger.

He might not see her. But she saw herself. And Pansy Parkinson was not some ornament. She had pride—more than pride, she had worth. If Draco Malfoy was too blind, too cold, too consumed by his own shadows to recognize it, then that was his failing, not hers.

Her nails dug into her palms as she walked, the torches along the corridor flickering over her hard expression. Done. She was done.

No more stolen glances, no more waiting for words that never came. She would not beg for affection like some pathetic schoolgirl trailing after her first crush.

She was better than this. Her family was better than this. She deserved more than this.

Pansy’s pace quickened, skirt swishing with her fury. She barely noticed the suits of armor she passed, or the way her reflection—dark hair framing a storm of eyes—flashed back at her from the glass of a window. All she heard was the relentless thrum of her own vow: Never again. Never again.

And then—abruptly—she collided with something solid. Someone solid. The impact jolted her out of her thoughts, her breath catching as her shoulder struck against another’s chest. She stepped back quickly, lips parting to snap, eyes narrowing as she raised her gaze to see who dared cross her path.