Hermione had chosen the Greenhouses precisely because Ron wouldn’t be there.

Warm, damp air clung to her robes as she worked through Professor Sprout’s cuttings, hands steady, mind anything but. Extra credit usually calmed her; tonight it only gave her room to think. Ron’s laughter kept intruding along with the memory of Lavender’s hand on his arm.

Hermione pressed soil down harder than necessary, telling herself it was irritation. Immaturity annoyed her. Public affection was distracting. Inefficient.

That explanation didn’t explain the tight ache in her chest.

She hated the loss of control more than the jealousy itself. Feelings were meant to be analyzed, mastered. These refused. They tangled with memories of arguments, shared dangers, the way Ron always stood beside her when it mattered, even when he didn’t understand why.

Hermione straightened, wiping her hands on her robes, breathing in earth and leaves. She was here to work, not brood. To prove she didn’t need him to stay focused. Yet as she wrote careful notes, one thought lingered stubbornly: if it hurt this much, it had never been just annoyance.