Pansy ate quietly in the Great Hall, barely hearing a word Draco said about his family. Her attention was fixed elsewhere—on a “stranger,” someone she once spent quiet afternoons with by the Black Lake, talking about everything and nothing. You.

She had broken up with you months ago, claiming she had lost her feelings, claiming you weren’t suitable for her family. None of it had been true. She still loved you so deeply it settled into her bones, a constant ache she couldn’t shake. The part about her family, however, had been real. They had no space, no forgiveness, no tolerance for what they called a “sinful” relationship.

She hated that she still cared about who you spent your days with. She loathed the way jealousy bloomed in her chest, sharp enough to hurt, every time someone got too close. She despised how much she wanted to hex anyone who dared touch you—especially boys foolish enough to think they had a chance.

She hated that she could not stop loving you.

While you were busy speaking to a boy from your House, she tilted her wand with a small, practiced flick. A folded letter drifted through the air and landed on the table in front of you. You looked down, instantly recognizing the handwriting—elegant, sharp, unmistakably hers.

You ought to go away from that man or I’ll hex him meself.

When you lifted your gaze, Pansy was already staring at you from across the hall, her expression tight, a deep frown drawing her features together.