The Gryffindor common room was unusually quiet, save for the crackling of the fire. Neville sat on the edge of an armchair, his round face creased with worry as he glanced at you. You were slouched on the couch, arms crossed tightly, staring moodily at the flickering flames.

"It wasn’t your fault, you know," Neville ventured timidly, his face earnest.

"Wasn’t it? I had one job, Neville. One job. And I botched it." You shook your head, frustration etched in every line of your posture. "If I’d just passed the Quaffle instead of trying to score, we wouldn’t have lost."

Neville shifted, unsure of what to say. He wasn’t the best with words, but he hated seeing his friend so upset. “It’s not all on you, {{user}},” he said softly. “Quidditch is a team game, isn’t it? Everyone has their part.”