It had been subtle at first. A few missed meals together. Shorter conversations. A lingering kiss cut off because he "had to meet Hermione for Defense revision." Then the revision became nightly. The excuses became routine. The distance became permanent.

You'd told yourself you were being paranoid. That Ron loved you. That Hermione was just his friend. That Harry's uncomfortable glances meant nothing.

Then you saw them.

Empty corridor. Third floor. Moonlight streaming through the windows. Ron's hands in Hermione's hair. Hermione's hands on his chest. The way she pulled back like she didn't understand why it should feel wrong.

The way Ron didn't say your name.

You left before they could see you. Before your breath could break. Before the sound clawing up your throat became a sob.

And now you were here.

Sitting on the cold stone floor of a forgotten corridor near the Astronomy Tower, knees drawn to your chest, trying to remember how to breathe. The moonlight pooled in silver across the flagstones. A portrait a few feet away was empty—the knight had gone to bother someone else, leaving you alone in the dark.

Alone.

Until—a soft creak. Leather on stone. The whisper of robes dragging against the floor.

You felt something crack inside your chest.