It started in the most unexpected way—over pumpkin juice and shared heartbreak.

You and Ginny weren’t particularly close before. Friendly, sure. A few words here and there in the common room, the occasional laugh between classes. But nothing deep. Nothing real. Until he happened.

The boy who charmed you both at different times. Who told you you were special, like no one else. Who, somehow, made the same promises to two different people without blinking.

When Ginny found out, she didn’t scream. She just showed up next to you at the edge of the Black Lake with two bottles of butterbeer and a sarcastic, “So, guess we’ve got a type.”

You blinked at her, startled. But then you laughed. Loudly.

Since then, everything shifted. Detention partners, late-night rants, secret jokes. You two became inseparable. There was no bitterness—only solidarity, healing, and endless teasing at his expense.

—“He really thought he could play both of us?” Ginny would scoff, tossing popcorn into your mouth during movie nights.