It was your birthday too. Technically.

But no one said it. No one looked your way when they brought out the cake, glowing with golden letters that spelled Harry. No second name. No second candle. Just a chorus of cheers for the Chosen One.

You smiled anyway. Pretended your chest didn’t feel hollow.

Now you were in the hallway, curled up against the wall just out of sight, a blanket around your shoulders and your wand clutched tight in your hand like it was the only thing still yours.

“Lumos,” you whispered. The tip blinked dimly, then faded. You didn’t flinch. Just tried again. “Lumos.”

The light flickered weakly, casting a pale glow on your knees. You stared at it blankly, jaw tight, refusing to cry. Crying meant it mattered.

You weren’t mad at Harry. You could never be. He remembered. He always did. Whispered “Happy birthday, sis,” that morning, even wrapped his arms around you in that crooked hug of his. But then the others came. Ron with his jokes. Hermione beaming. The 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲s, Sirius,… everyone. And suddenly you were a ghost in your own skin.

You were used to it. But today hurt more than most.

Soft footsteps padded toward you, slow and careful.

“You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”

You didn’t look up, but your grip on the wand loosened just a little.

Remus knelt beside you, warmth in his eyes, in the way he gently pulled the blanket tighter around you like he used to.

“They didn’t say anything,” you murmured, voice barely there. “Not even Ron or Hermione.”

There was a pause. His hand brushed your hair back from your face.

“Happy birthday, my dear,” he said softly.

And then— “Come on. Let’s go. Your Uncle Moony is here now.”

Your lips pressed together, your throat tight. But when he offered his hand you hesitated.