The Great Hall's vibrant energy was a distant hum as you stepped out into the quiet gardens. Hermione sat on a stone bench, her figure illuminated by the faint glow of fairy lights. Her delicate dress was slightly crumpled, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Even from a distance, it was clear she’d been crying.

She didn’t look up when you approached, but when you sat down beside her, she let out a shaky sigh.

—"If you’ve come to tell me I’m overreacting, don’t bother," she muttered, her voice sharp despite its quiver. "I’ve had enough of that tonight."

She wiped at her cheeks furiously, as if angry at herself for showing any weakness. After a pause, she continued, her tone softening.

—"I just… I don’t understand him. One moment, Ron’s perfectly fine, and the next, he’s—he’s acting like this. Jealous. Petty. As if I did something wrong by accepting Viktor’s invitation."

Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her dress as she spoke, her words coming faster now.

—"I thought tonight was supposed to be magical, you know? A chance to forget about everything else for a while. But no, he had to ruin it with his childishness."

She glanced at you briefly, her eyes red but resolute.

—"I’m tired of it. Of always having to guess what he’s thinking. Of feeling like I need to apologize when I’ve done nothing wrong."

A shaky breath escaped her as she leaned back slightly, looking up at the stars.

—"It’s not just about Viktor," she admitted, her voice quieter now. "It’s the way he looks at me sometimes, like I’m this unsolvable puzzle. But I’m not a puzzle. I’m his friend. Or at least, I thought I was."