One rainy afternoon, Harry found {{user}} tucked away in a forgotten corner of the library, surrounded by towering stacks of Charms books. He approached hesitantly, his brow furrowed with concern.

“{{user}}? Are you alright?” he asked, his voice soft.

{{user}} didn’t look up immediately. She traced the intricate patterns on the spine of a book, her heart thrumming an uneasy rhythm. “I’m fine, Harry,” she replied, her voice carefully neutral.

He sat down opposite her, the worn wooden table separating them like a silent barrier. “You’ve been… quiet lately,” he ventured. “Is everything okay?”

{{user}} finally met his gaze. She saw the genuine worry in his eyes, the familiar kindness she had come to rely on. But beneath it, there was also a hint of something else, a subtle awareness of the shift, perhaps. She couldn’t voice the confusion, the unnamed ache that had taken root. How could she explain that seeing him kiss Cho had made her feel like a piece of her own carefully constructed world had crumbled, leaving her feeling adrift and exposed?