Everyone thought Esmerelda Hallow had changed.

She smiled more now. Volunteered answers in class without the sarcasm. Even helped first-years with their broom lessons. Teachers whispered about her “growth.”

You weren’t fooled.

You noticed how her smile never reached her eyes. How her kindness always came with a calculation. How she watched the room—measuring, predicting, guarding herself.

You saw the mask.

One afternoon, you found her alone in the greenhouse, pretending to organize potion vials that didn’t need organizing.

“You don’t have to keep performing,” you said calmly.

She stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” you gestured vaguely. “The nice act. You’re exhausted.”

She laughed, too quick. “You think you know me?”

“I think you’re scared,” you replied. “And pretending is easier than being honest.”

That struck deeper than any spell.

Her wand hand tightened. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I’m not deciding,” you said softly. “I’m noticing.”

Silence fell between you. Heavy. Dangerous.

Finally, she dropped the vials and turned to face you, eyes sharp and vulnerable all at once.

“People like nice,” she said bitterly. “They don’t like real.”

You met her gaze. “I do.”

For a long moment, she looked like she might lash out.

Instead, she exhaled shakily.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she said. “About this. About me.”