I can see his lips moving, but I cannot hear a single word. My eyes are locked on his mouth, and I feel guilt well up in my stomach. Treacherous tears begin to roll down my cheeks, and Harry Potter looks torn between running away and closing the distance between us.

He chooses the latter, and my heart gives a jolt—jolt that it’s only followed by guilt twisting my stomach into a tight, uncomfortable knot.

When Harry pats my back, somewhat awkwardly, I think of how Cedric would most likely put his arms around me and rub give me a tight squeeze.

For what it feels like the twentieth time, I feel guilty again, but not enough to stop me from saying, “I really like you, Harry,” because in this moment, right now as I see him look as though someone has stunned him silly, I know it is true.

Words stumble out of his thin pink mouth, and for just a second I think I see his almond-shaped eyes go from emerald green to Cedric’s gray.

The last thing that goes through my brain before touching my lips to his is that I am slowly losing my mind.