She tried so hard not to be angry when she saw him with his hand pressed into Pansy Parkinson’s robes, her fingers tangled in his hair. It wasn’t his fault, he didn’t know how she felt about him; if he did, she knew he would be as devoted to her as she was to him. And so, she would take deep breaths, gently rub the beads of her bracelet against her wrist, and hold the piece of blonde hair she’d recovered from him in fourth year—allowing the feel of him to soothe her.