Lavender sat alone in the far corner of the girls’ common room, the fire crackling softly as if it didn’t know it was meant to comfort her. The cushions beside her were empty, painfully so. She hugged her knees, chin resting against them, and tried not to replay it all—Ron’s awkward silences, the way his eyes kept drifting past her, always toward her. She had given him everything. Every smile, every giggle, every ounce of affection she had, freely and gladly. That was who she was. Loving wasn’t a game to her; it was wholehearted and bright and real. And for a while, it had felt perfect. She had been happy. She’d thought he was too.

Now it all felt foolish. Embarrassing. Lavender swallowed hard, blinking back tears, furious at herself for still caring, for still wanting him to miss her. She hated Hermione for it—hated how easily she seemed to take what Lavender had poured her heart into.

The fire popped, and Lavender stared into the flames, wondering how something so warm could leave her feeling so unbearably cold.