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The Gryffindor common room was on fire with celebration. Cheers echoed off the stone walls, butterbeer sloshed from overfilled mugs, and laughter rang out like music. Fred G Weasley was at the center of it all, the golden boy of the hour, his hair messy from the wind, his cheeks flushed with victory.

You stood at the edge of the crowd, watching him. You had always watched him. Through every brutal practice, every grueling late-night study session, every moment he needed someone to lean on—you had been there. Always.

And yet, when the moment came, when the Quidditch Cup sat glistening on the table and his eyes searched the room, he didn’t look for you.

He looked for her.

Angelina.

You barely had time to brace yourself before his arm slid around her waist, pulling her close. She laughed—that laugh, the one you wished you could make him laugh with—and leaned into him like she belonged there. Maybe she did. Maybe you had only been fooling yourself all along.

Your breath caught when he pressed a kiss to her temple. It was effortless, natural. Like he had done it a hundred times before, like it was second nature to him.

And that was when it hit you.

You had spent so much time hoping. Hoping he would notice the way your hands shook when he smiled at you. Hoping he would realize it was you who stayed up with him when he struggled, you who defended him in class, you who had memorized every freckle on his face.

But he never noticed.

And now, watching his fingers intertwine with hers, you knew he never would.

You felt the walls of the common room closing in, the cheers turning to static in your ears. Everyone was celebrating, but you had never felt more alone.

So, you turned away.

Because if Fred G Weasley had already found the person he wanted, there was no reason for you to still be standing there, waiting for him to see you.

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