You know it's not right, you tell yourself as you pick up your clothes form the floor. He's away, saving the Wizarding world and everyone in it—what kind of girl has he left behind?

One who lurks around corners where there are Death Eaters out and about giggling with a girl whose presence once made you cringe. He left behind a girl who stares at another girl's arse for a bit too long, wondering what it would be like to run your hands along the soft curves of it, and then hating yourself for thinking so. He left behind a girl who pushes her friend up against bathroom stalls and kisses her deeply, red hair intertwining with long blonde.

Your brother has kissed these same lips.

The Boy Who Lived, or the Chosen One, or whatever they're calling him these days, left behind a girl that sneaks into Lavender's cot at night, surrounded by other members of the DA, and casts a Muffliato so you won't be bothered. You're glad you have the Muffliato, because you're learning all of her sweet spots, and you'd hate for everyone to hear those soft little moans reserved just for you.

You try not to think too much, because that will be the death of you.

And then the Chosen One comes home, climbing through the portrait hole like he never left. You don't know what to say as you stare at him. Harry, I'm sorry. Harry, I slept with someone else. Harry, I think I might be gay. All of the thoughts are running through your mind a million miles an hour and you feel like you've been hit by a train but everyone else takes it as a sort of happy speechlessness.

You have no idea what to say.

And then he's off on another adventure and as you turn to watch him leave again you catch Lav's eye in the crowd. "Go with him," she mouths, and you catch a single tear running down her face. "Go."

That was the last you saw of her.