Sitting on the edge of my bed, I gripped the jagged piece of wood still lodged in my shoulder.

  With a sharp breath, I yanked it free.

  Pain.

  A sharp, searing sensation tore through my nerves—sudden and overwhelming. My body locked up, muscles tensing involuntarily as I tried to understand it. It was foreign. Unnatural.

  I had witnessed pain before, understood its purpose. But feeling it? That was different. That was real.

  For a moment, my breathing faltered. I forced myself to exhale, pushing past the confusion. The wound throbbed, blood trickling in slow, rhythmic pulses down my skin.

  I pressed a cloth against it—too tight at first, then too loose. I had never needed to do this before.

  Stop the bleeding first.

  I counted the seconds. Then the minutes. Twenty. Maybe more. The ache settled in, dull but persistent.

  When I reached for the disinfectant, I wasn’t prepared for what came next.

  Fire.

  It burned—worse than the wound itself. My hand trembled slightly, but I forced myself to keep going. Instinct screamed at me to stop. But this was necessary.

  A knock at the door.

  "Ben? Can I come in?"

  Hermione.

  My shirt was still off, the bandages fresh, but I wasn’t about to turn her away.

  “Sure,” I called.

  The door creaked open, and she stepped inside.

  She hesitated. Her eyes flickered to my bare torso before darting away, a faint pink dusting her cheeks.

  She schooled her expression quickly.

  "Does it hurt?" she asked, her voice quieter than usual.

  I glanced down at my shoulder, flexing it slightly. Another sharp sting, like molten metal pressing into my skin. My fingers twitched involuntarily.

  I considered lying.

  But I never lie.

  The closest I get to it is withholding information or misdirecting—but even that, I rarely do. Lies have no power. Only truth does.

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  “…Yes,” I admitted. “It does.”

  Her lips pressed together, concern flickering across her face.

  Then, after a beat of silence—

  "Thank you for saving me again..." Hermione’s voice was quiet, filled with something heavier than simple gratitude.

  She dipped her head slightly, a hesitant bow.

  There was something in her expression—a storm of emotions flickering across her face. Gratitude. Frustration. Reluctance.

  And something else. Something unspoken.

  "You're welcome," I replied, my voice steady.

  But she didn’t leave.

  She lingered. Fidgeted. Wringed her hands. She was working up to something.

  Finally, she spoke.

  "Do you really have to die, Ben?"

  I met her gaze evenly. "Once the balance is restored, yes."

  Her expression tightened. "Can you come back again… if you want to?"

  I shook my head.

  "This life is an exploit of sorts," I explained. "All beings are entitled to one life, and I was created already dead. This body—this existence—is something that multiple primordial personifications worked together to make for me. It’s the only life I will ever have."

  Her hands clenched at her sides. "That's not fair..." she whispered, her voice cracking.

  "Life isn’t about fair, Hermione," I said gently. "You know that."

  Her eyes shone, but she wasn’t ready to let it go.

  "You should stay here. With us. We're your friends, Ben."

  I turned to her, my expression carefully neutral.

  "You think I value the friendship of a bunch of children?"

  The words were sharp. Cutting.

  The moment they left my mouth, I regretted them.

  Hermione’s face twisted—hurt, raw, open.

  She didn’t yell. Didn’t argue.

  She just turned and bolted, running into the halls of Hogwarts, tears slipping down her face.

  For a moment, I thought I was alone.

  Then—

  "That was mean," Ron’s voice cut through the silence, steady and unimpressed. "And very unlike you."

  I didn’t turn. "So?"

  Ron stepped inside, arms crossed. "I get what you're doing."

  "You're trying to make it easier," he said. "Trying to push us away so we won’t miss you when you go."

  He let out a humorless chuckle.

  "But you’re terrible at it."

  I exhaled slowly. "Oh? And what makes you so sure?"

  Ron leaned against the wall, eyes sharp with understanding.

  "Because, Ben—you never lie. That’s why you asked it as a question."

  I stilled.

  Ron smirked faintly.

  "You’ve gotten pretty clever, Ron, in the time I wasn’t watching," I muttered, almost to myself.

  But Ron just shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe I just know you better than you think."

  Then, after a pause, he added, "You know everyone thinks you and Hermione are dating, right?"

  I grimaced. "People will make rumors."

  Ron smirked wider. "Your mum writes to her."

  I froze.

  "Shit."

  Ron laughed. "It’s not that bad. It’s not like you don’t like her."

  I shot him a glare. "You know I’m not dating her. Why don’t you ask her out, then?"

  Ron mock-gagged. "Gross. She’s like a sister to me."

  I sighed, rubbing my temples. "I am incapable of love, Ron."

  His smirk faded. He studied me, his blue eyes thoughtful.

  "You say your mission is to save this world at all costs," he said, "but you risked everything to save her—twice.

  "If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is."

  With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  Nyx and Fidell curled up beside me, their warmth grounding me as I absentmindedly stroked their fur.

  Ron’s words echoed in my mind.

  I stared at the ceiling, feeling something unfamiliar. Unsettling.

  I muttered to myself,

  "What… is love?"