Ronald Weasley

The noise in the Hufflepuff common room reached the ceiling, adorned with garlands shaped like flying clubs. Lola settled into a stone alcove, hidden behind a screen of wild ivy and magical Lumos flowers. Her knitting needles clicked softly, creating an emerald loop.

It smelled of earth, moss, and her own scent—sweet vanilla pastries. It was the perfect observation post. The steam from the pumpkin juice mingled with the glow of the Gryffindors' firework spells. Dean Thomas was yelling something about the "save of the century," and Lee Jordan was beating a makeshift drum.

Lola watched. Her large green eyes behind her glasses caught the details: how Hermione Granger had furtively opened her book just ten minutes later; how Ron Weasley, flushed with excitement and beer, gesticulated passionately, reenacting his winning shot. He looked like a large, red-haired, and very loud beacon.

"A true Gryffindor," Lola thought, drawing a new row. "All outward. And… cute."

A movement caught her attention. Ron, fending off pats on the back, retreated to the edge of the crowd, seeking a break. His gaze darted around and… caught on a niche. A strand of pink hair flashed through the greenery. He narrowed his eyes.

Lola didn't look away. She simply slowed the movement of her knitting needles, allowing him to see: a girl in an enormous knitted sweater the color of ripe plums, a ball of yarn at her feet, and an expression of calm, slightly amused curiosity on her face. She wasn't hiding. She was here.

Ron froze for a moment, bewildered by this island of calm in the midst of his storm. He nodded hesitantly—not a greeting, more of an acknowledgement: "Ah, there's someone there."

Lola nodded almost imperceptibly, the corner of her lips twitching. Then her gaze slid gently from him, as if letting go, and returned to the emerald stitches on her needles. She continued knitting, and the noise of the celebration now seemed to flow around her niche, unable to disturb the precise, quiet rhythm of her pattern.