I am not that girl, anymore. I am not the person that he remembers, and I doubt he is the one that I remember. He remembers a girl who believed in love and in fairy tales, and that is not me. He hasn't owled me in a while, he says? Yes, I suppose that half a year is a while, is a few months, oh, of course it is! It is a few months that turned his girl, his Padma, into a lush who drinks more than he does, for heaven's sake. What a nasty shock it would be for him, indeed, to see me walking into The Three Broomsticks to see him the way I used to, when everything was okay, when it was normal and my life was normal and I was normal.
I am sure the sight of me will just break his heart, but I won't have mine broken, oh no, never.
Anytime. A Hogsmeade weekend is soon, but perhaps that isn't exactly an opportune time. This Saturday night should be fine. I don't much care where. Outside, perhaps, now that the weather is pleasant.