riri

You'd found the room by accident.

A half-dangling tapestry near the Charms corridor had looked suspicious enough to tug aside one afternoon, and behind it—a door. Not locked, not even warded. Just… forgotten. When the door creaked open, you’d expected dust and cobwebs, maybe even Filch’s mop bucket. Instead, you’d discovered an empty classroom.

The desks had long been pushed to the walls. A faint layer of dust coated the floor, though the footprints you left became part of the place, familiar little marks you’d grow used to seeing. The shelves sagged with abandoned parchment and cracked ink bottles, and the window—oh, the window.

It stretched nearly floor to ceiling, glass cracked in a jagged line through the center. Sunlight spilled through it during the day, warm on your face when you sat in the far corner. At night, the moonlight painted silver lines across the floor. It was quiet, still, a bubble separate from the chaos of Hogwarts.

And so it became your refuge.

Sometimes you’d sneak here with a book, escaping the chatter of the common room. Sometimes you’d collapse against the wall after a long day, eyes shut, letting silence steady you. Sometimes you did your homework, parchment scattered in messy circles. Nobody knew about it. Nobody needed to. This room was yours.

Or so you thought.

—

Harry Potter found it weeks later.

It was after a particularly brutal Quidditch practice. His arms ached, his glasses were fogged with sweat, and Wood had shouted himself hoarse about “seeking faster, sharper, better.” Harry couldn’t bear the common room that night—the way everyone’s eyes tracked him, the way whispers followed him wherever he walked. He needed space, air, quiet.

The tapestry caught his attention as if it had been waiting for him. He slipped behind it, pushed open the creaking door, and froze.

Empty.

The relief was so sharp it nearly brought tears to his eyes. He dropped his broom against the wall and slid down to the floor, back pressed to the cool stone. For the first time in days, his chest loosened.

He didn’t tell Ron. Didn’t tell Hermione. Didn’t tell anyone. This room wasn’t for them. It was for him—the boy who carried too much and needed somewhere to set it down.

For a while, it worked.

You came on Tuesday afternoons, slipping in with your Charms textbook. Harry came on Wednesday nights after practice. Sometimes you lingered Saturday mornings; sometimes he arrived Sunday evenings, broom in hand. You never crossed paths. Not once.

But the room had grown used to holding two secrets, two sets of footsteps.

Your quills scratched late at night, leaving tiny ink stains on the wooden desk you claimed. His broom bristles brushed the same wall you leaned against. Your handwriting curled across parchment left forgotten overnight, and the next day Harry’s messy scrawl joined it in the dust on the floor.

The room belonged to both of you—only neither of you knew it.

—

It was a Tuesday evening when the balance broke.

You’d had a long day—Snape’s snide remarks, Transfiguration homework piling up, the endless hum of laughter in the common room that made your head ache. So you slipped away, ducked behind the tapestry, and breathed easier the moment the classroom door closed behind you.

Sprawling on the floor, you set your bag beside you, pulled out parchment, and muttered, “Finally.” The quiet felt like a balm.

You didn’t notice the footsteps approaching until the door creaked open.

You looked up—your heart jolting—just as Harry Potter stepped inside. His hand froze on the handle. His green eyes widened behind crooked glasses.

“Oh,” he blurted, just as startled as you.

The silence was sharp, almost painful. You scrambled to sit straighter, hugging your parchment as though it might shield you.

“What are you doing here?” you demanded, more defensive than you intended.

Harry’s brows furrowed. “I could ask you the same.”

“This is my spot.”

His mouth opened, then snapped shut. Finally, he gestured around the room, incredulous. “Your spot? I’ve been coming here for weeks!”

You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks. “So have I.”

The room, which had always felt like a sanctuary, now thrummed with tension. Two secrets colliding, neither willing to step aside.

And neither of you ready to admit the truth: that maybe, just maybe, it was big enough for two.

The silence stretched, heavy enough to press down on your chest. Harry was still in the doorway, his bag slung over one shoulder, his eyes darting between you and the familiar room like he couldn’t decide which surprised him more: that you were there, or that you belonged there.

You crossed your arms. “Well? Don’t just stand there glaring at me.”

“I’m not glaring,” Harry shot back, frowning.

“Yes, you are. You’re doing that thing with your eyebrows.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “My eyebrows?”

“Exactly.” You jabbed your quill toward him like it proved your point.

Harry’s jaw tightened, but his ears burned faintly pink. “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but this is where I come to be alone. So if you wouldn’t mind—” He gestured toward the door.

Your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

He had the decency to look guilty, but only for a second. “I was here first.”

“No, you weren’t,” you said firmly, scrambling to your feet. “I found this place last month. Behind the tapestry by Charms. It’s mine.”

“Funny,” Harry muttered, “that’s exactly how I discovered it too.”

Something about his stubbornness sparked your own. The room, normally calm, suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in with every retort.

“Well, I don’t see your name on it,” you snapped.

Harry arched a brow. “And I don’t see yours either.”

For a moment, you just glared at each other, two stubborn Gryffindors refusing to back down. His green eyes, usually so quiet and tired-looking from afar, blazed with determination up close. You hated how sharp the sight made your stomach twist.

Finally, you huffed, dropping your parchment onto the nearest desk. “Fine. If you’re so desperate for it, then keep it.” You shoved your quill back into your bag with more force than necessary. “I’ll find somewhere else.”

You stalked toward the door, brushing past him. But before you could grip the handle, his voice—low and frustrated—stopped you.

“Wait.”

You turned, raising your chin. “What?”

Harry hesitated. His shoulders slumped, his irritation draining into something that looked far more human—far more tired. “I… I don’t want you to leave.”

The words caught you off guard. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze darting toward the cracked window. “It’s just… this place helps. When everything feels too much. And if you’ve been using it too…” His lips pressed together. “I guess you need it as much as I do.”

Something in your chest softened despite yourself. The defensiveness wavered.

“So what,” you asked quietly, “you want to… share it?”

His eyes flicked back to you, uncertain. “Would that be so bad?”

You studied him—really studied him. The exhaustion shadowing his face, the weariness in his shoulders, the way his glasses slipped slightly down his nose. For all his stubbornness, Harry Potter didn’t look like someone trying to win. He looked like someone just trying to hold on.

You sighed, sinking back against the wall. “I suppose it’s big enough for two.”

The relief that flickered across his face was almost comical. “Really?”

“Don’t push it,” you muttered, though your lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile.

Harry chuckled under his breath and stepped fully inside, letting the door close behind him. The sound echoed, sealing the decision. He dropped his bag against the opposite wall, mirroring your position.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You pretended to focus on your parchment, but your quill scratched slower than usual, distracted by the fact that Harry was right there, close enough that you could hear the soft tap of his quill as he pulled out his homework.

It was strange—comforting, in an unfamiliar way.

Finally, Harry broke the silence. “So… ground rules?”

You raised a brow. “Ground rules?”

“Yeah,” he said, half-smiling. “Like… no taking up the whole floor. No loud humming.”

You scoffed. “You hum?”

His ears turned pink again. “Sometimes.”

“Fine. Then no snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You definitely snore.”

He shook his head, but his grin grew wider. And though you rolled your eyes, you felt something shift. The room didn’t just belong to you anymore. It belonged to both of you—clashing, stubborn, maybe even mismatched.

But somehow, it worked.

--

Sharing the room turned out to be less of a disaster than you expected.

At first, it was awkward—sitting across from Harry in near-silence, pretending not to notice the way his quill tapped or how he shifted whenever your eyes lingered too long. But as the days slipped into weeks, the tension eased. A rhythm formed.

You’d arrive to find him already sprawled on the floor, hair sticking out in every direction as he scowled at his Potions essay. He’d look up, mutter, “Hey,” and shuffle his things aside to make room for you. Other times, you’d get there first, parchment spread across your lap, only to hear the door creak and see Harry pause in the frame like he was checking if it was okay to intrude.

It was always okay.

Little by little, the silence turned into something else.

“You’re chewing on your quill again,” you teased one evening, nudging him with your foot.

Harry pulled the feather from his mouth, glaring half-heartedly. “Force of habit.”

“It’s disgusting.”

He smirked. “Noted.”

Another day, he leaned over your shoulder to peek at your Transfiguration notes. “How do you make them look so neat?”

“Because I don’t chew mine,” you replied sweetly, and he shoved your arm just enough to make your ink blot the parchment.

The arguments never lasted long. They always dissolved into laughter, quiet enough not to disturb the soft safety of the room.

—

One evening, as the sky outside turned lavender and gold, you both sat hunched over the same desk. The window spilled the last of the sunset across Harry’s face, catching in his hair like firelight.

You tried not to notice.

“Your handwriting is impossible,” you said, frowning at the page he’d just handed you.

“It’s legible,” Harry argued.

“Barely. If this were Potions, Snape would throw it back in your face.”

“He throws everything back in my face,” Harry muttered darkly.

You stifled a laugh and leaned closer, your quill scratching across the parchment as you rewrote a particularly messy line. Harry watched you, chin resting in his palm. The quiet stretched, warm and steady.

You didn’t realize how close you’d leaned until you both reached for the same ink bottle.

Your hands brushed.

You froze. So did he.

And then, in the clumsiest, most unplanned way possible, you both shifted at the same time—your head turning, his hand lifting—and your lips collided.

It was the briefest touch. Just the faint press of his mouth against yours, startled and accidental. But it was enough. Enough to send a jolt down your spine, enough to make Harry’s eyes widen in shock, enough to make your heart stutter painfully against your ribs.

You pulled back immediately, heat flooding your face. “I—sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“No, it was—” Harry’s voice cracked. He coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “My fault. I should’ve—uh—”

The silence that followed was nothing like the comfortable quiet you’d grown used to. It was sharp, stinging, full of words neither of you could form.

You stared down at the parchment, pretending to study the smeared ink. Harry fiddled with his quill, jaw clenched, ears red to the tips.

Every second stretched unbearably.

Finally, Harry shoved his books into his bag. “I should—uh—I should go. Ron’s waiting.”

“Right,” you said quickly, though your chest ached in protest. “Of course.”

He nodded once, not quite meeting your eyes, and slipped out the door.

The moment it clicked shut, the room felt colder.

You pressed your fingertips to your lips, still tingling from the brief contact. It hadn’t been intentional. It hadn’t been planned. But it hadn’t felt wrong either.

And maybe that was the problem.

—

The days after were strange. You told yourself you wouldn’t think about it, wouldn’t replay the accidental brush of his lips, wouldn’t imagine what it might have been like if either of you had leaned in on purpose.

But you couldn’t go back to the hideout, not with the memory so raw. The thought of sitting across from him, pretending nothing happened—it was unbearable.

So you stayed away.

And though you didn’t know it, Harry stayed away too.

The classroom, once full of laughter and warmth, returned to silence. Empty.

As though neither of you had ever been there at all.

The next few days dragged.

You told yourself you were fine. That avoiding the hideout wasn’t a big deal. It was just a dusty old classroom, after all. You could do your homework in the library, or curl up in a corner of the common room. You didn’t need that space.

Except… it wasn’t just the space you missed.

It was the way Harry would groan at his essays like they were personally plotting against him. The way he chewed his quill until you threatened to hex him. The way his laugh—quiet and rare—seemed to fill the walls and soften the edges of the world.

You caught yourself glancing at the tapestry in the Charms corridor more than once, fingers twitching to pull it aside. But every time, your chest tightened. What if he was there? What if the air between you turned heavy again, full of that unspoken almost?

So you walked on. Every time.

—

Harry wasn’t doing much better.

Ron noticed first. “You’ve been acting weird,” he said one evening in the common room, tossing a Chocolate Frog at Harry. “More weird than usual.”

“I’m fine,” Harry muttered, barely lifting his head from his textbook.

“You’re sulking,” Ron pressed.

“I’m not.”

Hermione, without looking up from her notes, added, “You definitely are.”

Harry scowled, but said nothing. Because how could he explain? How could he tell them that the one place in Hogwarts that felt like his had been ruined—not by danger or enemies, but by the brush of someone’s lips?

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. It was an accident. But the memory clung to him like smoke. The surprise in your eyes, the warmth of your skin, the way you’d pulled back so quickly—as though it burned.

The thought that you regretted it made something inside him twist painfully.

So he didn’t go back either.

—

The room itself felt the absence. Dust settled heavier across the abandoned desks. The window, once spilling light onto parchment and laughter, only illuminated empty air. Silence returned, but it was no longer peaceful. It was hollow.

—

You and Harry still crossed paths in the castle, of course. In class, in hallways, at meals. But every time your eyes met, you both looked away too fast. Conversations were clipped, voices too tight.

“Can you hand me that book?” you asked in the library one afternoon, keeping your tone carefully neutral.

Harry slid it across the table without looking at you. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

“Mm.”

It was unbearable.

—

That night, you lay awake in bed, staring at the hangings above you. The memory of the hideout kept replaying in your head: the soft scrape of quills, the quiet banter, the warmth of sitting close enough to bump knees.

And, unavoidably, the kiss.

Accidental. Brief. Nothing, really.

So why couldn’t you stop thinking about it?

Why did it feel like everything had changed?

--

Harry asked himself the same questions as he sat by the dying embers in the common room. He pressed a hand to his chest, frustrated at the way it ached.

It would be easier if you hated him. If you’d snapped at him or cursed him or even told him to stay away. But the look in your eyes hadn’t been anger. It had been fear. Confusion.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because Harry wasn’t sure how to fix something that fragile.

So he didn’t try.

And the distance grew.

The library was nearly empty that evening. Only the scratch of quills and the faint rustle of pages broke the hush. You tucked yourself into a corner table, head bent over your parchment, pretending you were perfectly fine.

You weren’t.

Every word blurred. Every ink blot stretched into shapes that reminded you of his messy handwriting. You’d been trying—Merlin, you had been trying—to push the memory away. To convince yourself that the kiss had been meaningless, a slip of chance, nothing more.

But your chest wouldn’t listen.

You were so lost in thought that you didn’t hear the footsteps until someone slid into the chair across from you.

Your head jerked up. Harry.

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. “What are you—”

“Stop avoiding me,” he said. No hesitation, no greeting. Just straight to the point, his voice low but firm.

You blinked. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” His eyes, bright and fierce even in the dim light, locked onto yours. “You haven’t been to the room. You won’t even look at me in class. You barely speak unless you have to. Just—stop. Please.”

Your throat tightened. “Harry…”

He leaned forward, words tumbling out like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I don’t care about the kiss, alright? If it was a mistake, then fine. But don’t—don’t pretend like none of it happened. Don’t throw away everything else we had just because of that.”

The raw hurt in his voice struck you harder than any hex.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to look at him. “It was a mistake.”

The words left your lips before you could stop them. And immediately, you wished you could take them back.

Harry froze. For a heartbeat, his face was unreadable. Then his expression shuttered, something fragile snapping behind his eyes. “Right,” he said softly. He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms like he was bracing himself. “A mistake.”

Guilt clawed at your chest. You hadn’t meant it—not like that. But saying anything else would make you vulnerable, and vulnerability terrified you more than silence ever had.

“I didn’t mean—” you started, but Harry cut you off, his voice sharper than before.

“No, you did. It’s fine. You don’t have to explain. I should’ve known better.”

“Known better than what?” you demanded, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Than to think—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. His fists clenched against the table. “Than to think you might actually want me there.”

The words hit you square in the chest.

“I did want you there,” you whispered, the crack in your voice betraying you.

“Did,” Harry repeated, bitter. “Past tense.”

The hurt in his tone was unbearable. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers brushing his sleeve. “Harry, no. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He finally looked at you, eyes flashing. “Then how did you mean it?”

You froze.

How could you explain? How could you admit that the kiss hadn’t felt like a mistake at all—that it had scared you because it had felt right? That the reason you’d been avoiding him wasn’t regret, but fear?

Your silence was answer enough. Harry shook his head, pushing back his chair.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again, quieter this time. “I can’t keep doing this. Either it meant nothing, or…”

“Or?” Your chest was pounding.

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping. “Or it meant something. And if it did, then you can’t keep pretending it didn’t.”

The truth hung heavy in the air, fragile as glass.

For the first time in weeks, you didn’t look away.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and aching. For a moment, you thought Harry might just walk away—that he’d leave you sitting there with your half-finished parchment and your half-spoken feelings.

But then you stood. “Harry, wait.”

He froze, his back rigid. He didn’t turn, not right away. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You stepped closer, voice breaking. “I was scared, alright? That’s why I said it was a mistake. Not because it was—but because it wasn’t.”

His head turned sharply. His eyes, wide and searching, caught yours in the dim library light.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out before you could lose your courage. “It felt too real. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I pushed you away. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to.”

For a long moment, Harry just stared at you. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile.

“Too real?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About us.”

His lips parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Then, slowly, he took a step toward you.

“You mean it?” His voice was careful, almost fragile.

You nodded again, this time firmer. “Yes. I’m sorry, Harry. I should’ve said it before. I should’ve—”

You didn’t finish, because Harry closed the space between you and kissed you.

It wasn’t clumsy or rushed like before. This kiss was deliberate, soft, certain. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as though you were something precious. Your own hands found his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under your palms.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was uneven, his voice hoarse. “Don’t call it a mistake again. Please.”

“I won’t,” you whispered, your chest aching with relief.

For the first time in weeks, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. It was so unbearably Harry that you laughed through the sting of tears.

“Come on,” he said quietly, his hand brushing against yours in a tentative ask. “Let’s go back.”

You didn’t need to ask where.

Hand in hand, you slipped out of the library and down the familiar path to the old secret hideout. The room welcomed you like it had been waiting—warm, quiet, safe. You both settled onto the floor cushions by the window, the night spilling stars above you.

For a while, you just sat there, your hands still twined together.

“You know,” Harry said after a pause, his voice soft but lighter than before, “I thought you hated me.”

You turned to him, shocked. “Hated you? Harry, I—no. I never could.”

He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Good. Because I don’t think I could’ve handled that.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his tone. Without thinking, you leaned against his shoulder. He let out a quiet breath, his head tilting to rest against yours.

The world outside might’ve been filled with homework, House rivalries, and the constant chaos of Hogwarts, but here—just here—it was only the two of you.

And as the night deepened, you both knew this wasn’t the end of something fragile. It was the beginning of something steady, something true.

Neither of you spoke the word together, but it lingered between your heartbeats all the same.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and aching. For a moment, you thought Harry might just walk away—that he’d leave you sitting there with your half-finished parchment and your half-spoken feelings.

But then you stood. “Harry, wait.”

He froze, his back rigid. He didn’t turn, not right away. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You stepped closer, voice breaking. “I was scared, alright? That’s why I said it was a mistake. Not because it was—but because it wasn’t.”

His head turned sharply. His eyes, wide and searching, caught yours in the dim library light.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out before you could lose your courage. “It felt too real. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I pushed you away. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to.”

For a long moment, Harry just stared at you. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile.

“Too real?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About us.”

His lips parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Then, slowly, he took a step toward you.

“You mean it?” His voice was careful, almost fragile.

You nodded again, this time firmer. “Yes. I’m sorry, Harry. I should’ve said it before. I should’ve—”

You didn’t finish, because Harry closed the space between you and kissed you.

It wasn’t clumsy or rushed like before. This kiss was deliberate, soft, certain. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as though you were something precious. Your own hands found his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under your palms.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was uneven, his voice hoarse. “Don’t call it a mistake again. Please.”

“I won’t,” you whispered, your chest aching with relief.

For the first time in weeks, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. It was so unbearably Harry that you laughed through the sting of tears.

“Come on,” he said quietly, his hand brushing against yours in a tentative ask. “Let’s go back.”

You didn’t need to ask where.

Hand in hand, you slipped out of the library and down the familiar path to the old secret hideout. The room welcomed you like it had been waiting—warm, quiet, safe. You both settled onto the floor cushions by the window, the night spilling stars above you.

For a while, you just sat there, your hands still twined together.

“You know,” Harry said after a pause, his voice soft but lighter than before, “I thought you hated me.”

You turned to him, shocked. “Hated you? Harry, I—no. I never could.”

He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Good. Because I don’t think I could’ve handled that.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his tone. Without thinking, you leaned against his shoulder. He let out a quiet breath, his head tilting to rest against yours.

The world outside might’ve been filled with homework, House rivalries, and the constant chaos of Hogwarts, but here—just here—it was only the two of you.

And as the night deepened, you both knew this wasn’t the end of something fragile. It was the beginning of something steady, something true.

Neither of you spoke the word together, but it lingered between your heartbeats all the same.

Whoever said girls were complicated must have been a boy themselves, 'cause they clearly had never seen themselves act.

Let's be brutally honest; girls are not complicated. It's the men’s minds that couldn't get a girl's sign to save their lives. Men were confusing as hell, not the other way around. Couldn't they be more like girls? Girls understand each other. Girls stand up for another girl. They're loyal to each other. To the point where there's a girl code.

Women are said to be multitasking masters, their brains capable of doing mental calculations men could never even dream of reaching.

However, as a girl, she could not understand the enigma that Harry James Potter was.

They've been friends since third year, best friends since fourth. She had always been by his side, always standing up to him when that dancing ferret of a Malfoy would bother him or just exist near him when both didn't have the energy to be social.

But that's all. Friends. Their friendship never went past that limit. At least for her.

Harry had always… Acted off, strange around her. Staring oh so openly at her during classes, reserving a seat for her everywhere he went, sliding or sending her notes that would have been cute, if she could decipher his hieroglyphics–like handwriting.

All those things added together made her doubt that, to him, she was something that went a tad over than a friend. By no means was she the only one who thought it!

Many wondered if she and Harry were an item. Some were even bold enough to ask either of them. She had always answered those accusations with a rather confused gaze, utter disbelief painted on her face.

Harry, on the other hand, shrugged them off, denied them. It was almost as though he had never flirted with her in the first place, that the thought of them being in a relationship didn't shatter in a million pieces their friendship, as if he wasn't bothered by the questions about the nature of their friendship.

The boy went from enchanting owls to sing sappy things like, “Oh Godric, could you please return my heart? Stealing is not cool” to treat her like she was yet another girl constantly around him. That couldn't help herself but feel the need to be close to him.

Sometimes, he even went as far as to not acknowledge her at all. Something that, as unlikely as it may seem, even the twins had called him out on to. And if the twins caught on to his shitty and bipolar behaviour, it was certain to be serious.

Though, she never went as far as shaking some sense into his head through playful offended glances and dramatic gasps.

She tried not to read too much into it, though. It's Harry Potter she was talking about. Doing questionable things was his trademark, it was mandatory. It's just the genes of James Potter flowing through him.

Unfortunately, she was never successful. She found herself trying to make a sense of it all very often, too often. For instance, instead of having those average shower thoughts such as “What if Cinderella was a pizza chef's slave instead of a cleaning slave, and her name was Mozzarella?”, she made a list of his behaviour towards her, and tried to find a logical thread within it.

It was maddening, really. When she thought she was near the answer, he'd change completely, putting her off with yet another flirty and especially badly–written note passed under the desk.

Understanding how his mind worked was a tougher task than brewing a perfect Felix Felicis under the strict scrutiny of the ever–frowning Severus Snape.

Hermione had dragged her, Harry and Ron to the library to “get your homework done! Honestly, guys, I'm tired of having to force you three to do your homeworks!” again.

She was glaring daggers at her bushy–haired friend, hoping that she had understood well enough the non–verbal spells class to conjure a bunch of feathers falling right on her friend. Just to annoy her.

Both her and the guys groaned audibly. Ron slammed his head on the table, while Harry stared at Hermione like she had personally offended his cat, fingers tapped a rapid beat on the table, an outward display of impatience.

“Homework should be you guys’ first priority!”, she had huffed annoyed while arranging books, parchment, and quills in front of them.

Ron whipped his head up, a look of disbelief washing on his face.

“You're one to talk! Should I remind you about your own priorities, Hermione? You were bloody nuts! I remember in first year–!”, scoffed the freckled boy, interrupted by a very scandalised gasp from Hermione.

“Oh no, Ronald! You will not talk to me like that–!”

“Wait, what happened in first year?”, piped up YN, momentarily stopping her glaring contest with her friend’s hair.

“Nothing–!”

“She was bloody nuts–!”

“I was not! I was merely thinking of the consequences of your reckless actions–!”

“You said you'd rather die than be expelled–!”

“Oh, that's totally off the point, Ronald!”

She had lost interest in their bickering after only two seconds.

She had resorted to stare at Harry instead, who was too busy scribbling Quidditch strategies on the margins of the History of Magic essay to care about Hermione and Ron.

Somewhere in her inner monologue, back again to attempting to get a glimpse of his mind, she started noticing things about him, that she had never even cared enough to pay attention to before.

Things like his tousled dark hair, which had never once looked neat in his whole life; Looked like he had run his hand through it one time too many times. Things like his eyes, a shade of moss after rain, alive and changed under the right light; Now locked on her own.

“You're staring”, pointed out Harry, a faint smug grin playing on his lips, glasses down on the tip of his nose.

“So are you”, she retorted bashfully, embarrassed she had been caught ogling at him.

“Only because you were gawking at me first”, he replied, cocky. “That's a love confession in my book, darling”, he winked.

“Love?”, she scoffed incredulously. “You should be the one confessing, Potter”

“Me? And why should I?”

“'Cause you've been flirting with me nonstop!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah! You've been sending me mixed signals for ages! One moment you're there, practically eye fucking me, and the next it's like I'm no better than Romilda Vane and the rest of your little psycho fan club!”

“I've never done such thing–!”

“For the love of Merlin, Harry–!”

Needless to say, Madam Pince was trying to shush the bickering pairs, who looked more like old married couples than friends.

Once could only hope that both pairs would finally open their eyes and acknowledge the harbouring feelings in their chests.

As of now, though, Harry and she would continue with their mixed signals.

You should have known your friends wouldn’t let you back out.

The winter sun sat low over the Hogwarts courtyard, glinting off patches of snow that hadn’t melted yet. Students milled about, scarves wrapped tight, laughter steaming in the cold air. You and your little group of Hufflepuffs huddled on one of the stone benches—close enough to the courtyard path to see him coming, far enough away for you to pretend you were not here for this exact purpose.

“You look fine,” Marlene insisted, brushing your sleeve for the seventh time. “You look more than fine,” added Tobias. “Honestly, if you don’t ask him now, I will.”

You snorted. “I’m sure he’d love that.”

“He’d love you more,” Hettie chimed, nudging you with her shoulder. “Come on. It’s Harry Potter. He’s nice! Mostly. Usually.”

“Except when he’s accidentally entered into a deadly tournament,” muttered Rowan, tightening his yellow scarf.

You tried to swallow the nerves tightening in your throat. The Yule Ball announcement had sunk into your dormitory like a spell—everyone buzzing, everyone planning, everyone pairing off. Except you. Except Harry, too, apparently.

And now… now your friends had decided today was the day.

“Okay,” Marlene said, eyes widening. “He’s coming. Look.”

You didn’t even want to look, but your eyes moved on instinct. And there he was—Harry Potter—hair already a mess from the wind, hands shoved into his robes, Ron beside him rambling about something Harry wasn’t listening to. His eyes drifted over the courtyard as though searching for a moment of peace.

Your friends exchanged the kind of look that meant you were being shoved onto a battlefield.

“Go,” Hettie whispered fiercely. “Before someone else asks him.”

“And confidence,” Tobias added. “Confidence! Shoulders back!”

“Stop narrating me,” you hissed—but you stood anyway, your stomach dropping straight through your shoes. Your hands were shaking inside your pockets. You felt ridiculous. You felt brave. You felt like you might faint.

Harry and Ron were nearly passing when you stepped into their path.

“Um—Harry?” you managed, voice wobbling despite every pep talk you’d absorbed.

He blinked, surprised. “Oh—hi.”

Ron gave you a quick smile before catching sight of something on the other side of the courtyard and muttering, “I’ll… meet you inside,” before wandering off.

Which left you and Harry.

And suddenly you forgot every rehearsed line your friends had drilled into you.

“I—I just wanted to ask—um—I mean, if you weren’t going with anyone yet, I thought maybe—well, would you…”

You did not get to finish.

Harry’s eyes widened in pure panic, like a startled deer. “Oh—I’m—sorry—I can’t—I mean—no—sorry!”

He said it fast—far too fast—hands up like he needed to defend himself from your question. His voice cracked on the “no,” and before you could even breathe, he stepped around you, practically speed-walking toward the entrance like the castle was about to burn down.

You froze.

You didn’t even get a full sentence out.

Behind you, your friends watched with a mixture of horror and sympathy.

Hettie covered her face. “Oh my god. He didn’t even… let you finish.”

Marlene winced so sharply it looked painful. “That was… wow. That was rough.”

Tobias hissed through his teeth. “Okay, so confidence didn’t help. Confidence betrayed us.”

You stood there in the cold, heart crumpling faster than you could hide it. You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out thin and hollow.

“It’s fine,” you said weakly. “It’s fine, I didn’t actually expect—”

But you had expected something.

Not a yes. You weren’t delusional.

Just… a moment. A chance to actually ask. A chance to not feel like a complete idiot.

Your friends surrounded you in a makeshift shield wall, ushering you away from the center of the courtyard. But the moment had carved itself into your chest, sharp and humiliating.

Across the courtyard, Harry disappeared inside the castle like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

And you were left staring at the snow, trying not to feel like you’d shattered on the spot.

The worst part?

His panic hadn’t looked cruel.

It had looked like something else.

And you weren’t sure if that made it better… or so much worse.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You did not sleep well.

You told your friends you were fine—so many times that Hettie nearly hexed you—but lying awake and replaying Harry Potter’s panicked retreat left a dull ache behind your sternum. By breakfast, you’d convinced yourself you were overreacting. He didn’t mean to humiliate you. He was stressed, you were nervous… it was an unlucky moment. That’s all.

Still, walking into the Great Hall felt like willingly stepping into a spotlight.

You kept your head down, sliding into the Hufflepuff table beside Rowan, who offered you a supportive nudge under the table. Your friends didn’t mention the courtyard, and you were grateful for that, even if every one of them watched you with soft-eyed caution.

You reached for toast.

You pretended you didn’t see him.

But you did.

You felt Harry’s stare before you looked up—one of those prickling, uncomfortable sensations like sunlight on the back of your neck. Across the hall, at the Gryffindor table, he sat between Ron and Hermione, shoulders hunched, eyes drifting over students as though looking for something—or someone.

You refused to be that someone.

When your eyes finally flicked up, he was already watching you. The instant your gazes met, Harry snapped his eyes down to his porridge like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

Hermione said something to him. He mumbled. She frowned at him.

You tried not to care.

But you cared.

You spread marmalade onto your toast with the energy of someone sawing wood. Tobias leaned in.

“You’re murdering that breakfast.”

“I like marmalade,” you lied.

“You hate marmalade.”

“Well, maybe I’ve changed as a person.”

“Right. Because nothing says character development like violently ruining a piece of bread.”

You sighed and set the toast down. “Can we not do this right now?”

Tobias softened. “Sorry.”

You weren’t actually angry with your friends. You were angry with yourself—for caring, for hoping, for letting one awkward fifteen-second interaction turn you inside out.

Across the hall, Harry kept sneaking glances.

You didn’t meet any of them.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Harry Potter was having the worst morning of his life.

He couldn’t focus on Ron’s complaining, on Hermione nagging him about homework, or on the fact that a school decorated with frost and floating wreaths was supposed to feel festive—not suffocating.

He couldn’t think about anything except the moment in the courtyard yesterday.

He hadn’t meant to react like that. He hadn’t meant to panic. He just… heard a girl’s voice saying his name and asking about the ball, and suddenly every awful headline and rumor about him echoed through his skull. He’d blurted out “No!” without thinking, nearly tripped over his own feet, and then fled like an idiot.

Now you were sitting across the Hall looking like you wished the floor would swallow you.

Ron nudged him. “Mate. You look like you’re watching your own funeral.”

Harry blinked. “What? I’m not—I’m just—nothing.”

Hermione peered over his shoulder and followed the direction of his eyes.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Harry.”

Harry hunched. “Don’t.”

“You could apologize,” she whispered. “You didn’t give her a chance to finish.”

“I know,” he muttered, ears heating. “I panicked.”

“You panic a lot lately.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said miserably.

Hermione’s voice gentled. “Just talk to her.”

But he couldn’t bring himself to stand up. Not when you were surrounded by your friends, not when he didn’t know what words would even come out. What if he made it worse? What if you hated him?

What if you didn’t want anything to do with him at all?

He poked his porridge.

Across the hall, you laughed at something Hettie said—a short, strained sound—and it made his stomach twist with guilt.

He’d hurt you.

And he didn’t even know how to begin fixing it.

You did not talk to Harry Potter that day.

In fact, you spent most of it dodging him without meaning to — ducking into classrooms just before he arrived, moving through corridors full of people, slipping out of lunch early to avoid overlapping with Gryffindor’s schedule.

It felt cowardly.

It also felt necessary.

Because the memory kept replaying: your hopeful voice, and his startled “NO—sorry—NO—”

He hadn’t meant to be cruel. You knew that. But knowing didn’t erase the sting.

You weren’t planning to cry over it, though. You would bounce back. You wanted to, absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent forget about this in a few days.

Probably.

Hopefully.

You told yourself that again on your way back to the common room—until you rounded a corner and almost walked straight into him.

Harry Potter.

Standing alone.

Looking like he’d rehearsed something in his head and forgotten every word the second he saw you.

You froze.

He froze.

Your breath hitched.

His did too.

It wasn’t the moment either of you expected.

And it was definitely not the moment either of you were ready for.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The common room feels different lately.

Not in any physical way — the same warm lighting, the same fluttering Hufflepuff banners, the same cosy beds draped in quilted blankets your grandmother would have adored. But the air had changed. It buzzed with excitement you couldn’t grab hold of, with laughter and whispered plans that wrapped around your friends like ribbons.

Around everyone except you.

Leane sat on her bed, legs kicked up in the air as she wrote in neat curls on a parchment — confirming plans with a seventh-year boy from Herbology who’d asked her so sweetly she’d nearly fallen over. Hettie was rummaging through her wardrobe looking for a dress that “matched her eyes but made her look older,” humming happily between her options. Rowan lay on her stomach with her chin in her hands, reading a letter from her date, someone from Beauxbatons who’d sent a small enchanted hairpin shaped like a lily. Tobias was sprawled out across the floor like a starfish, kicking at your trunk absentmindedly while debating whether to shave for his date or “maintain the charm of teenage chaos.”

They were all glowing.

You were dimming.

And no matter how desperately you tried not to, you felt like the only candle in a room full of lanterns.

“Hey,” Leane chirped, glancing over at you with a hopeful look. “Still nothing?”

You forced a smile. “Still nothing.”

“You don’t… have to wait for someone specific, you know,” Hettie said gently. “You could ask someone else.”

You shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ll just… go with all of you.”

This was met with a chorus of awkward “oh”s and half-hearted protests. They meant well. You loved them. But being the extra puzzle piece that didn’t fit stung more than you wanted to admit.

When the chatter picked up again, you quietly slipped off your bed, grabbed your stack of muggle books from your nightstand, and sank into the windowsill — your usual perch. The glass was cold against your back. The castle grounds glimmered with frost and lanterns. In another life, this view might have felt romantic.

You opened the top book.

A knight’s quest. One of those stories your mum gave you when you were younger; brave heroes, impossible odds, and love that always arrived right on time. You flipped through pages worn soft from years of rereading.

The knight always showed up. The heroine always got her grand moment. The ending always felt worth the wait.

Your story… wasn’t like that.

Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.

Below you, your friends laughed, Rowan shrieking because Tobias had levitated her hair around her head like floating snakes. It was warm, comforting, familiar noise.

But it wasn’t enough to drown out the ache.

You closed the book on your thumb and stared at the illustration of the knight on the page, shining armor, sword raised, gaze fixed on a girl he would always choose.

“Lucky,” you whispered to the paper.

Because your knight didn’t come.

Not yesterday in the courtyard. Not today at breakfast. Not tonight, or tomorrow.

All you had was the faint sting of humiliation, the ghost of Harry’s startled “No,” and the knowledge that he was probably going to the ball with someone lovely — someone brave, someone who didn’t freeze up or stumble over her words in a courtyard.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and tried to pretend you weren’t disappointed.

You weren’t entitled to his yes.

But Merlin, you were allowed to miss the possibility.

The lights dimmed slightly, curfew charms ticking over, and your friends finally began winding down. Dresses were draped over chairs. Schedules compared. Tobias asked if anyone had a spare comb because his hair was apparently “planning to mutiny.”

Someone asked if you were excited.

You smiled.

And lied.

Later, when everyone slept and the only sound was soft breathing and the gentle flutter of the curtains, you opened the book again.

You read about the knight who stayed through storms and darkness, who never ran, never flinched, never bolted at the first sign of fear.

You tried not to think about a boy who had.

You tried not to think about the way your stomach twisted when you caught Harry staring earlier.

You tried not to imagine that maybe — just maybe — he felt weird about the ball too.

The page blurred.

You blinked hard.

And for the first time since the courtyard, you let yourself feel it.

The disappointment.  

You were not going to the Yule Ball with Harry Potter. You were not going with anyone at all.

And that was fine.

It had to be.

You curled tighter into the windowsill, clutching the book to your chest like the stories inside could shield you from your own feelings.

Outside, snow fell lightly across the grounds.

Inside, you fell quietly apart where no one could see.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Great Hall had transformed.

You’d heard people say that so many times you expected it to feel repetitive, but stepping inside felt like walking straight into another world. Frosted garlands spiraled down marble pillars, evergreens glittered with glowing icicles, and the ceiling swirled with soft snowfall that never touched the ground. Warm candlelight shimmered off polished silver and the glassy ice sculptures that lined the walls.

It was beautiful.

You wished you didn’t feel so out of place in it.

Your friends sparkled — Rowan’s Beauxbatons-style dress flowed like stardust, Hettie glowed in icy blue silk, Tobias looked almost respectable in his robes (minus the chaos hair), and Leane couldn’t stop giggling with her date, who kept whispering something that made her blush crimson.

You trailed behind them like a satellite orbiting brighter stars.

“Come on,” Rowan whispered, looping her arm with yours as you stepped into the crowd. “Third wheel or not, we’re dancing first, alright?”

You nodded gratefully. You would’ve clung to her arm all night if she let you.

Until she didn’t.

Because two minutes later, her date whisked her away for a private slow dance “just while the floor wasn’t crowded,” and Hettie’s date pulled her toward the refreshment table, and Tobias practically tripped over himself racing to greet his.

And you were left standing alone.

The music swelled. Students twirled. Laughter lifted like bubbles over the hum of conversations. You tried to look fascinated by the ice reindeer centerpiece so you wouldn’t look pathetic.

It was going to be a long night.

You took a deep breath, smoothing the edges of your dress — secondhand, altered, but pretty. You weren’t expecting to catch anyone’s attention.

Which was why it was so startling when you did.

Harry Potter was staring at you.

Across the dance floor. Past Parvati Patil, who looked stunning in pink robes and was doing her best not to look irritated. Past Ron, who was sulking like a thundercloud. Past Hermione and Krum sweeping gracefully across the floor.

Harry’s gaze kept flicking toward you.

You quickly looked away, pretending to admire an enchanted snowflake sculpture.

But a heartbeat later, curiosity tugged, and you looked back—

Harry looked away so fast he nearly snapped his own neck.

Your stomach did a stupid, foolish flip.

Great. Exactly what you needed.

Meanwhile, the Boy Who Lived was living through the worst formal event ever.

Harry was miserable.

He’d expected the Yule Ball to feel cool, maybe even fun. Instead, he felt like he was suffocating. Sweat prickled under his collar. Parvati wasn’t speaking to him unless absolutely necessary. Ron looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. And Hermione… Hermione was dancing with Viktor Krum.

Harry didn’t even know where to put his eyes.

Well.

Except when they drifted to you.

He tried not to stare, but you looked… different tonight. Not flashy. Not trying too hard. Just, soft. Pretty, in a quiet way. The candlelight made your hair glow, and your dress shimmered like honey, and—

Parvati snapped her fingers in front of his face.

“You’re doing it again,” she huffed.

“Doing what?” Harry asked, ears burning.

“Looking everywhere except at me.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

She crossed her arms. “If you wanted to stare at some Hufflepuff all night, you should’ve taken her.”

Harry choked. “I—what—no! It’s not—”

But Parvati had already turned away.

He really was the worst dance partner on earth.

Back on your side of the room, you drifted toward the punch bowl; primarily so you had somewhere to stand. The cool glass of the ladle felt grounding in your hand as you poured yourself a cup.

A few feet away, you overheard a whisper.

“Why didn’t she get a date?”

“I thought she liked Potter.”

“He said no, didn’t he?”

You stiffened.

Teenagers could be cruel without even realizing.

You reached for a sugared biscuit to busy your hands, crushing the delicate cookie the moment you heard someone say:

“She’s sweet, though. Shame.”

Shame.

Like you were a tragedy instead of a girl in a dress trying to enjoy her night.

You set the ruined biscuit down and backed away, cheeks burning.

Snowflakes drifted from the bewitched ceiling, disappearing before they hit your hair. You watched them dissolve, wishing your embarrassment would do the same.

“Y/N?”

You froze.

Harry stood a few steps away, hands stuffed awkwardly in his dress robes, hair sticking up more than usual, cheeks flushed.

Your heart thudded.

You hadn’t spoken in days. He’d tried to approach you once or twice, but you’d slipped away each time, too tangled up in your own feelings to unravel them enough for conversation.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just looked… nervous.

“Hi,” you said, because someone had to.

“Hi.” His voice cracked slightly. “Um. You look—” He swallowed. “Nice.”

You blinked. “Thank you.”

A pause.

A horrible, stretching, silent pause.

Harry shifted from one foot to the other. “Are you… having a good time?”

You looked around at your friends dancing with their dates, at the beautiful decorations, at the couples laughing.

“Yeah,” you lied. “It’s fine.”

He nodded too quickly, like he didn’t believe you but didn’t know what else to say.

You were both saved when Parvati reappeared, grabbing Harry’s arm with a sugary-sweet smile that did a poor job hiding her irritation.

“Harry,” she said pointedly. “Are you coming back to the table?”

He flinched. “Yeah. Right. Sorry.”

She cast a tight smile your way. “Enjoy your evening.”

You smiled back because you were polite. Harry opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something more, but Parvati tugged him away.

You exhaled, chest tight.

You didn’t blame her. You’d be annoyed too if your date spent the night glancing at someone else.

But Merlin, it stung.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The night got lonelier from there

Your friends were busy. The music changed from waltzes to loud, thumping Weird Sisters songs. People jumped and shouted lyrics and spun around. You joined your friends when they dragged you into the circle, dancing like you meant it, laughing too loudly, pretending it didn’t hurt.

But every time you glimpsed Harry in the crowd — miserable, awkward, trying not to step on Parvati’s robes — you felt the bruise of something you didn’t have a name for.

You shouldn’t care.

You didn’t even know him well.

And yet.

When the song slowed again and couples paired off, you slipped back toward the wall, breathless and warm and slightly light-headed.

You leaned against a pillar, letting the cool stone soak through your dress.

Someone stood beside you.

You didn’t need to look to know who.

Harry.

Neither of you spoke.

He stared at the dance floor. You stared at your shoes.

After a moment, Harry said softly, “I didn’t… mean to say no like that.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know,” you said.

He nodded, but he didn’t leave.

The music floated.

Teenagers swayed.

And Harry Potter stood next to you like he wanted to say a dozen things but didn’t know how to start.

You felt it again — the bruise.

You didn’t move away.

He didn’t either.

You both stood there, painfully close, painfully awkward, painfully young.

No grand confession. No dance. No fairytale moment.

Just two people who’d made a mess of things standing under falling snow that never touched the ground.

And for one tiny, impossible second, you let yourself imagine an alternate world where things had gone differently.

Where he’d said yes.

Where you weren’t the girl watching everyone else live their stories from the sidelines.

The song ended.

Harry shifted, like he might turn toward you.

But then Parvati called his name again.

He flinched.

You stepped back automatically.

And just like that, the moment dissolved; quiet and fragile as the snowflakes.

Harry gave you one last unsure look before walking away.

You watched him go.

You didn’t know whether you wanted to laugh or cry.

Tonight, you didn’t get a knight.

But you got a moment.

And though it wasn’t enough, though it wasn’t what you wanted or deserved…

It was something.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Over the summer, something in you calcified.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… slowly. Like frost creeping across a windowpane.

You didn’t even notice it happening at first. You just knew that the more you thought about the Yule Ball — the glances across the room, the almost-moments, the way Harry Potter couldn’t seem to make up his mind about wanting anything from you, the more foolish you felt.

So you stopped thinking about him.

Or tried to.

Trying turned into habit. Habit turned into armor.

When you returned to Hogwarts for your fifth year, people noticed before you did. Hettie told you your voice had sharpened. Tobias said you moved like someone expecting a fight. Leane accused you (fondly) of running low on your usual syrupy optimism.

“You’re different,” Rowan said one night in the common room. “Not bad different. Just… more guarded.”

You shrugged. “I grew up.”

But the truth was simpler and uglier.

You were tired of wanting things you never got.

Harry Potter noticed too.

Not that you gave him the chance to say anything about it.

You sat on opposite ends of classrooms now. You didn’t go out of your way to greet him in the corridors. When your eyes did meet accidentally, in passing — you looked away as if it cost you nothing.

It cost you everything.

Harry looked like he wanted to say something each time you brushed past him. Sometimes he’d take half a step in your direction before stopping, jaw tightening. Sometimes he’d frown like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.

But he never called your name.

Not once.

You weren’t sure if that made it easier or harder.

Fifth year was chaos anyway.

Umbridge’s presence was a suffocating fog across the school. Pink and lace and fake smiles, all wrapped around punishments that made your stomach twist. The whispers about Harry grew louder, harsher. Everyone seemed to be choosing sides, or at least pretending to.

You wanted to stay neutral. Neutral was safe. Neutral meant uninterested, unaffected.

But you weren’t unaffected.

Not when Harry was getting punished nightly.

Not when he came out of detention pale and silent, fingers pressed to his hand.

Not when he kept his chin lifted even when it hurt him.

You saw it. You noticed it. You cared.

You just didn’t do anything about it.

Your walls were too high and too thick, and every time you thought about walking over to him in the corridors — just to ask if he was alright,  you remembered the courtyard from fourth year. The panic. The running away. The way he couldn’t even look at you properly at the ball.

You pressed your lips together and looked straight ahead.

Better this way.

Easier.

Then Harry found new people to fill the gap.

It was the DA that finally did it. Splintered something in you that you hadn’t intended to crack.

Harry didn’t invite you.

He didn’t even look at you when the rumors started.

Your friends joined, of course. Hettie came back breathless with excitement, whispering about spells and secret rooms. Rowan said it felt like being on the brink of a rebellion. Tobias claimed Harry was turning into a proper leader.

Leane practically glowed. “You should come,” she said, tugging your arm. “It’s… it’s amazing. He’s amazing.”

You forced a laugh. “I’m glad it’s going well.”

“You don’t understand,” she insisted. “He’s changed. You should see him.”

You didn’t want to.

You’d already memorized too many versions of him.

But you did see him. More often than you meant to.

Hurrying down corridors with purpose. Huddled with Ron and Hermione, whispering fiercely. Rubbing the back of his hand when he thought no one noticed. Ducking into the Room of Requirement with a look on his face you couldn’t decipher.

And every time your paths crossed, his eyes flicked toward you.

Just for a moment.

Enough to sting.

You acted like you didn’t see it.

Eventually, he stopped trying.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

One night, the common room felt too small.

Too tight. Too bright. Too full of laughter that felt brittle and wrong. You slipped out into the corridor, pulling your cloak tighter around you.

You didn’t expect anyone to be wandering the castle at this hour.

You especially didn’t expect to see him.

Harry rounded the corner from the staircase, looking exhausted — hair messier than usual, robes rumpled, the faintest smear of ink across his knuckles. He flinched when he saw you like he’d been caught doing something secret.

You froze.

He froze.

For a moment, you stared at each other across a few feet of cold stone floor.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, like a name he wasn’t sure he was allowed to speak.

Your throat went dry. You lifted your chin.

“Harry.”

Something flickered in his expression — a brief hurt, then confusion, then something like determination. He stepped closer.

Not enough to crowd you.

Just enough to be heard.

“Are you… okay?” he asked.

It was laughable, really. Harry Potter, who was drowning in the weight of the world, asking if you were alright.

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

He nodded slowly. “You don’t seem fine.”

You stiffened. “Well, we can’t all be off saving the world, can we?”

The words were sharper than you intended. They hung in the air, cold and brittle.

Harry blinked. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you said. “You don’t tell me anything.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

Harry’s eyebrows drew together. “Y/N… you haven’t talked to me either.”

You looked away.

He hesitated, then stepped even closer — close enough that you could see the tiny nicks on his knuckles, the tired purple under his eyes.

“I miss talking to you,” he said softly.

Your heart thudded painfully.

You forced your voice steady. “You’ve had plenty to keep you busy.”

“That’s not—” He stopped. Exhaled shakily. “It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Would’ve joined your little club if you asked- ”

He looked at you like you’d just slammed a door he didn’t realize he’d been trying to open.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, your walls slamming back into place.

“It doesn’t matter,” you whispered.

Harry opened his mouth, but footsteps echoed at the far end of the corridor — Filch or a prefect or someone worse.

You stepped back before he could say anything else.

“I should go,” you said quickly.

“Y/N—”

“Goodnight..”

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t see the way he stood there long after you disappeared, fingers curled at his side, jaw tight with something he couldn’t name.

You didn’t see how alone he looked.

But you felt it.

Somewhere deep beneath your armor, you felt it.

Which meant your walls weren’t as impenetrable as you hoped.

Not when it came to him.

Never when it came to him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You never expected righteousness to feel like this — tight and cold and heavy, like a stone pressing down on your ribs.

Hogwarts is buzzing in the wake of the explosion that was Dumbledore’s Army being discovered. The atmosphere feels scorched. Hallways that once hummed with secretive excitement now feel charred, brittle around the edges, the way parchment looks after an improperly controlled flame spell.

You walk those hallways almost untouched.

Almost.

Your friends whisper about it constantly, their voices cracking between awe and fear and a kind of exhilaration you don’t share. They huddle together during breaks, recounting the punishments that were handed out, weeks of detentions, brutal hours with Umbridge, the risk of being expelled.

You stand with them, but you are not of them.

You weren’t part of the DA. You never even knew it existed until it was too late.

And the strangest part, the part that keeps you up at night, is that no one ever asked you.

Not Harry. Not anyone.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was safer this way. You didn’t break rules, you didn’t put yourself in danger, you didn’t offer up your future for Umbridge to shred.

But late at night, when the castle is quiet and the guilt crawls up your spine, you find yourself wondering:

Was it because no one thought you could help? Or because no one thought of you at all?

You’re walking back from dinner alone, trailing your fingers along the stone banister as the conversations around you twist and swirl like smoke.

“Did you hear what Umbridge made Johnson do—"

“I can’t believe Potter—"

“I knew Dumbledore was up to—"

You tighten your grip on your bag. Every mention of Potter hits like an echo, reminding you that he is somewhere in this same castle, probably bruised and exhausted and worn down by punishments you’ll never experience. He is drowning in the consequences of battles you were never invited to fight.

And somehow, that makes you feel both resentful and ashamed.

A group of first-years scurries past you, whispering loudly about “the rebellion.” One of them looks at you, recognition flashing.

“Are you one of Potter’s friends? The ones he trained?”

There’s something hopeful in their voice.

You shake your head quickly. “No. I wasn’t part of it.”

Their interest evaporates instantly. They hurry on.

You swallow hard.

In the Hufflepuff common room, things are worse. Chaos, drama, excitement…everyone has something to say. Your friends rush you the moment you step through the barrel entrance.

“Y/N! Did you hear? Hannah’s in detention for the next month—"

“And Ernie got caught trying to defend—"

“And Harry—"

Harry.

His name hangs like a lantern, flickering with everything unspoken.

You manage a small, tight smile. “Yeah. I heard.”

One of your friends Maisie nudges you. “You’re lucky, you know. If you’d been there, Umbridge would've skinned you alive.”

Lucky.

That word tastes wrong.

Because somewhere deep inside, a lonely part of you whispers:

I wish I had been asked.

The others move on quickly, their excitement sparking between them like static as they list every dramatic detail they’ve managed to collect. They show off rumors like trophies.

You sit on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped, feeling like you’re watching them through a pane of glass.

“You okay?” Maisie asks softly when the others turn away again.

You nod. A lie. A safe lie.

Because how do you explain the hollowness inside you? How do you explain that you feel like you’ve failed some invisible test no one told you about?

Later that night, you slip out of the common room, unable to breathe under the weight of everyone else’s stories.

The corridor outside is dim, quiet, the torches low. You lean back against the cold stone wall and close your eyes.

The loneliness feels… victorious.

You weren’t caught. You weren’t punished. You weren’t betrayed by someone in the group.

You were safe.

Except you also weren’t chosen. You weren’t trusted. You weren’t part of something bigger.

You’re halfway to convincing yourself that this is what you want — safety, solitude, simplicity — when footsteps echo down the hall.

You open your eyes just as Harry turns the corner.

He looks rougher than you’ve ever seen him. His tie is crooked, his hair even more of a mess than usual, dark circles smudging under his eyes like bruises.

And for the first time all year, your eyes meet.

His steps falter.

Your breath catches.

He’s alone, no Ron, no Hermione, no DA members whispering encouragement or guilt or anger. Just Harry. Just you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you is thick with something that feels old and unfinished.

You are the one who breaks the silence.

“Are you… okay?”

It slips out quietly, almost involuntarily. His eyes widen, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to ask — least of all you.

He swallows.

“No.”

The honesty hits you. Startling. Raw.

You bite your lip, unsure what to say, what right you have to say anything when you weren’t there, when you weren’t part of any of this.

He shifts, glancing down the hall, then back at you.

“You didn’t… you weren’t in the group,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach twists. “No.”

He nods once, like he already knew, but needed to hear it from you anyway.

“You’re lucky,” Harry says.

And for some reason, the words make your chest ache.

You force a small, brittle smile. “That’s what everyone keeps saying.”

Harry looks at you longer this time, his eyes searching your face — really looking, for maybe the first time since last year. Something flickers in his expression. Regret? Curiosity? Maybe just exhaustion.

“You didn’t miss much,” he mutters.

You want to believe him. You want to feel comforted. You want to erase the hollow place inside you that whispers you were left behind.

But instead, you hug your arms around yourself.

“I don’t know,” you say softly. “Sometimes it feels like I did.”

Harry stares.

The silence stretches — charged, fragile, important.

Then suddenly footsteps echo from around the corner. Harry tenses like a hunted animal.

“I should go,” he says quickly.

You nod.

He hesitates. Just for a second. Like there’s something else he wants to say. Something he can’t quite bring himself to give voice to.

Then he’s gone.

You stand there long after the hallway is empty again, listening to the faint fading of his steps, wondering why your chest feels warmer and emptier all at once.

You turn back toward the Hufflepuff common room, arms tightening around yourself.

Your loneliness saved you.

But it also cost you something you don’t know the name of.

And for the first time, you think—

Maybe you’re tired of being safe.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

There is a strange, honey-gold light in the halls the day Umbridge leaves Hogwarts.

You feel it before you understand it — this odd, weightless sensation, like your lungs finally expand all the way for the first time in months. The castle seems to exhale around you. Even the portraits look livelier, trading gossip in bright, excited bursts.

When the news spreads, it moves like fire: She’s gone. She’s really gone. The toad is out.

Someone swears they saw Filch crying. Someone else swears they saw Peeves saluting McGonagall. Someone DEFINITELY heard a rumor about centaurs carrying Umbridge’s handbag in their teeth.

You don’t know what’s true. But you know what’s real: The war in your chest has quieted.

Your friends cling to each other in the Hufflepuff common room, laughing, crying, releasing months of tension in one roaring crescendo. Even you — so careful this year, so reserved — find yourself smiling. Really smiling. It feels strange, like using a muscle you’d forgotten about.

Hannah grabs your arm and yanks you into a hug. “We survived!” she laughs into your shoulder. “Merlin’s beard, we actually survived her!”

You laugh too. “Barely.”

A cheer erupts around the room as some older students start conjuring harmless showers of yellow sparks. The atmosphere is buoyant, effervescent — fragile in its joy, and all the more precious for it.

But it’s loud. Too loud. You slip away quietly, slipping out of the barrel entrance and into the corridor, where the noise softens into something more bearable.

You wander.

For once, wandering doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels like reclaiming something she took.

You end up in the courtyard without meaning to. The spring air is cool but comforting, and for a moment you simply stand there, listening to the distant hum of celebration from windows all around.

This courtyard, where last year, everything went wrong.

You almost expect to feel a twinge of pain or humiliation. But instead you feel… older. Like the memory belongs to someone you recognize but no longer fully are.

You walk to the fountain and sit on the edge, fingertips brushing the cool stone.

The quiet is warm. Healing.

“Y/N?”

Your heart tugs at your ribs.

You turn just in time to see Harry crossing the courtyard.

He looks lighter than he has all year — not carefree, not untouched, but less burdened, like some invisible chain has finally snapped. His hair is messy in the way it always is, but he isn’t tense for once. His shoulders aren’t hunched. His eyes aren’t darting around for threats.

He looks your age. For the first time in months.

He approaches cautiously, like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to interrupt you.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.”

He shoves his hands awkwardly in his pockets, glancing down at the grass before his gaze lifts to meet yours again. Something soft passes between you — a shared understanding, built from different kinds of loneliness carried through the same dark year.

“Everyone’s going mad in the common rooms,” Harry says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s louder than the Quidditch celebrations.”

You huff a laugh. “Yeah, Hufflepuff’s a bit… chaotic right now.”

“I figured.” He rocks back on his heels. “You, um… wanted some quiet?”

“That obvious?”

His smile deepens just a little. “Yeah.”

There’s no mockery in it. No teasing. Just recognition.

A breeze rustles through the courtyard, brushing warm sunlight across both of your faces. Harry hesitates, then sits beside you on the edge of the fountain — not too close, not far. Just… beside you.

You feel the warmth of him like a candle at your side.

For a moment neither of you speaks, and it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. Strange. New.

“You didn’t get in trouble,” he says finally. “This year, I mean.”

“No,” you say. “I didn’t.”

He nods, eyes on the water. “I kept thinking about that.”

Your breath stutters.

He continues, voice low: “I’m glad you didn’t get dragged into all of it. Honestly. But…”

“But?” you whisper.

“But I noticed.”

Your heart lurches.

You stare at him, and he keeps looking at the rippling fountain, like the truth is easier to speak to the reflection than to your face.

“I kept thinking… I don’t know.” He shrugs stiffly. “That maybe you were staying away because of me.”

“That’s not— Harry…” You swallow. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

He finally looks at you.

His eyes, green and so startling in the sunlight search yours, trying to read the truth from your silence.

“I thought you hated me,” he says softly. “After last year.”

You feel the courtyard tilt for a moment.

You inhale.

“No,” you say. And it’s the clearest thing you’ve said all year. “I never hated you.”

Harry blinks. Once. Twice.

Then something vulnerable flickers across his face, unguarded for just a heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” he says. The words are rough, uneven, like they’ve been scraping against him for months. “For how I acted. Last year. In the courtyard. I was… scared, and stressed, and I handled it horribly.”

Your throat tightens.

You want to say the words don’t matter, that it was silly teenage awkwardness, that it never hurt as much as it did, but they would be lies.

So instead, you say:

“Thank you.”

Harry exhales, shoulders lowering just a bit.

The sun dips lower. The courtyard glows. Students laugh from nearby windows as the world slowly rights itself.

And somehow — after a year of distance, of silence, of cold hallways and missed glances — you and Harry sit together as though nothing is broken.

Or maybe more honestly: As though something broken is finally beginning to mend.

He nudges your shoulder gently with his own. It’s awkward, an attempt at casual that lands somewhere tender instead.

“You want to… walk for a bit?” he asks.

Your heart stutters.

Slow burn, you remind yourself.

But you nod.

And as the two of you walk slowly around the courtyard — side by side but not touching — you feel something quiet blossom in your chest:

The first warmth of a second chance.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The summer passes differently this year.

Not easier, nothing feels easy after the threat of Umbridge. But quieter. Thicker. Heavier in some places, strangely hopeful in others.

You keep busy.

You throw yourself into chores, into books, into anything that keeps your mind occupied. But despite your best efforts, your thoughts keep circling back to Harry — back to the courtyard, to the way he’d looked at you when he apologized, to the strange softness in his voice when he said he noticed your absence.

You tell yourself it was nothing. You tell yourself it was closure. You tell yourself that the warm flutter you felt meant absolutely nothing.

And yet…

Some nights, when you’re lying awake with a book pressed to your chest and the summer air warm through your curtains, you find your thoughts drifting stubbornly toward him.

What he’s doing. If he’s thinking about his friends. If he’s thinking about you.

You try not to hope for too much.

Meanwhile, in a far gloomier house on Grimmauld Place—

Harry is spiraling. Quietly. Pathetically. Teenage-boy-ishly.

He sits at the kitchen table, chin in his hand, staring at a mug of tea like it personally offended him.

“You’re doing it again,” Hermione says, sliding into the seat across from him. Her tone is gentle. Suspicious. Deadly accurate.

“I’m not doing anything,” Harry mutters, stabbing the tea bag with a spoon.

Ron plops down beside him and steals a biscuit. “Mate, you’re brooding so hard the wallpaper’s peeling.”

Harry scowls. “I’m thinking.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “About a particular someone?”

Ron perks up. “Ooooh. That face. That’s the ‘I’m thinking about Y/N’ face.”

“It is not—” Harry nearly chokes on his tea. “I don’t— I wasn’t— she’s just—”

“A girl you’ve been thinking about nonstop for three weeks,” Hermione finishes, flipping open a book without needing to look at him.

Harry flushes scarlet.

Ron smirks. “Can’t blame you. She’s nice. Cooler than most of the Hufflepuffs.”

“Ron!”

“What? She is!”

Harry groans and drops his head onto the table with a soft thud. “I just said sorry to her. That’s all. We talked. It was — nice. But it’s not— nothing’s— I’m not—”

Hermione hums. “You’re doing that thing where you string words together because you don’t want to admit something.”

“I’m not—!”

She lifts her eyes over the rim of her book. “Harry. You smile when someone mentions her.”

Ron adds: “And you stare at the window after owls fly by like you’re expecting post.”

Harry goes silent.

Because… okay. He had been staring at the window a lot. It wasn’t weird. Lots of people stare out windows. ALL THE TIME. COMPLETELY NORMAL.

Hermione softens. “You like her.”

Harry’s ears burn. “I don’t— I mean, I just—”

Ron interrupts, matter-of-fact: “He does.”

Harry slumps back in his chair, defeated.

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Maybe. A little.”

“More than a little,” Ron says around another biscuit.

“Ron!”

“He’s right,” Hermione adds, smug. “It’s sweet, really.”

Harry buries his face in his hands, wishing the floor would swallow him.

Because he has been thinking about you. Far more than he should. Far more than makes sense.

He thinks about the way you looked surprised when he apologized, like you didn’t expect kindness from him anymore.

He thinks about the careful warmth in your eyes, the way you listened, the way it felt sitting beside you without tension for the first time in ages.

He thinks about how you weren’t in the DA and somehow that matters. He thinks about how you’ve always been a quiet constant in the background, and how he never noticed you properly until he did — and now he can’t stop.

He thinks about the Yule Ball (but that memory hurts in a different way).

He thinks about that courtyard last month (but that memory feels like a new beginning).

He thinks about you during breakfast, during dinner, during late-night wand-cleaning, during the moments when the house creaks and his grief gets too loud.

And he hates that he misses you. Misses someone he’s barely allowed himself to know.

“How am I supposed to—” he mumbles into his hands. “We’re not even… anything.”

Hermione smiles softly. “Not yet.”

Ron claps him on the back. “Just don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m never weird!”

Both Ron and Hermione give him identical, pitying looks.

“…Okay, maybe a little weird.”

Meanwhile—

You are being weird too.

Your mum catches you staring out the window more often than you’d like. And sometimes, when you’re reading, you suddenly realize you’ve read the same sentence twelve times because your brain is too busy imagining someone with messy black hair and a terrible habit of apologizing with his whole heart.

You don’t write him. You don’t know how to. You don’t even know if he’d write back.

But you think about him.

About his smile in the courtyard. About the strange lightness you felt around him. About the possibility — tiny, fragile, impossible — that maybe he wasn’t the only one who noticed something that day.

And it scares you.

Because hope feels dangerous. And Harry Potter feels…like something you could very easily fall into without trying.

One warm evening, you open your window and lie on your bed, listening to the distant hum of summer insects. You close your eyes and let the memory of his voice brush against you like a breeze.

“I never hated you.”

Why did that line stick in your chest so stubbornly?

Why did thinking about him feel like stepping toward the edge of something shaky and new?

You sigh and bury your face in your pillow.

You are in trouble. Harry is in trouble. Everyone knows it except you two.

And summer stretches on, bittersweet and slow, quietly weaving something between the two of you — something unspoken, something tender, something neither of you quite knows how to name yet.

But it’s there.

Growing.

Waiting.

And when the Hogwarts Express whistles again in September, you both already know:

This year will feel different.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Hogwarts Express hisses in front of you, steam curling around your ankles like eager hands. Students chatter, owls hoot, trunks clatter — and yet everything feels strangely muted.

Maybe because you haven't set foot near Harry Potter for two months. Maybe because you spent that entire time pretending you weren’t thinking about him. Maybe because deep down, you know this year is going to feel different, and you’re bracing for it.

Your friends are already halfway down the train corridor when you pause at the doorway, your hand resting on the warm metal frame. The late summer air hums against your skin.

You’re not nervous. You just feel… weird. A different weird from last year.

Which is worse.

Someone behind you bumps your shoulder gently. “Sorry!”

You turn, expecting just another student rushing past, but your breath catches.

Harry stands there.

A little taller. A little more serious. A little softer around the edges, like the summer scraped something away and left him rawer, truer.

His hair is a disaster. His glasses are slightly crooked. His expression is frozen between surprise and something you can’t name.

His eyes land on you.

And Harry’s brain completely stops functioning.

Harry (internally short-circuiting):

Oh no.Oh no.Why does she look like that?Why does she look older? Different? Amazing? Why am I thinking the word amazing?Why can’t I breathe?

He tries to smile.

It comes out strange. Too quick. Too nervous. Too earnest.

“Hi,” he blurts.

You blink once. Twice.

“…Hi.”

There is an awkward pause so thick it could physically suffocate both of you.

Harry swallows hard. “You, um… summer good?”

Fantastic, idiot. Very articulate.Hermione is going to murder him if she ever learns this is the best he could come up with.

You shift your grip on your bag. “It was… okay. Quiet.” Safer, you don’t add. Lonely, you don’t dare think.

He nods too many times. “Yeah. Mine too.”

Another pause. Students brush past, oblivious to the static thrumming between the two of you.

Harry fiddles with the strap of his backpack.

“You look—” He stops. Swallows. Restarts. “Different.”

Your heart does a dangerous little flip you absolutely did not give it permission to do.

“Different good,” he adds quickly. “Like— better. I mean, not that you weren’t— you just— it’s fine. I’m messing this up.”

You bite back a tiny, startled smile.

“So are you,” you say quietly.

Harry blinks. “I—what?”

“You look different too.”

You don’t say good.You don’t need to. Your tone gives it away.

Harry’s ears go red. He opens his mouth, probably to say something catastrophically awkward, but Hermione’s voice suddenly rings out from the train.

“Harry! Honestly, you can’t wander off—”

She appears, mid-scolding, Ron behind her, both armed with snacks and expressions that shift instantly when they see you.

Hermione pauses.

Then one eyebrow rises slowly, deliberately.

Ron looks between the two of you like he’s watching a Quidditch match and hasn’t picked a favorite team yet.

“Oh,” Hermione says. “Oh.”

Harry glares at her. “Don’t.”

“You two should sit with us,” Ron blurts, because God bless him, subtlety has never once shaken his hand.

You step back. “Oh, I don’t— I mean, I usually sit with—”

“You can sit with us,” Harry cuts in, too fast, too hopeful.

All three of them stare at him.

You stare at him.

Harry looks like he wants to die.

“I mean— only if you want. Obviously. Or not. Completely fine. I’m— I’ll just stop talking now.”

Your heart stutters in a very annoying, very revealing way.

You should say no. You should retreat to safety. You should remember how lonely last year was.

Instead—

“I… yeah,” you say softly. “Okay.”

Harry beams.

Actually beams. A real smile. The kind that lights up his whole stupid, earnest face.

Hermione smirks knowingly. Ron looks delighted. Harry looks like he’s just been handed his first birthday present ever.

You follow them into the compartment, your pulse a little too loud in your ears.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You sit across from Harry. He pretends he’s not stealing glances at you. You pretend you don’t notice. Hermione notices everything and quietly kicks Ron every time he tries to stare openly.

Harry asks about your summer. You ask about his. Slowly — awkwardly — delicately — you fall into conversation.

It feels almost normal.

Almost easy.

Almost like there’s something fragile and new sparking to life between you.

You catch him smiling at one of your comments. A real smile, small and private.

Your stomach wobbles.

Hermione shoots you a tiny approving nod.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t feel like the forgotten Hufflepuff. You don’t feel like the third wheel. You don’t feel like the girl who wasn’t chosen.

You feel… noticed.

Seen.

Wanted.

Harry rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, and asks if you want a chocolate frog. You take it. Your fingers brush his.

Both of you jerk your hands back like you’ve touched fire.

Ron snorts. Hermione sighs fondly.

Harry pretends he isn’t dying inside.

You pretend you aren’t.

And when the train whistles and Hogwarts looms into view—

You realize something terrifying and wonderful:

You missed him. He missed you. And no matter how hard you try to deny it—

The story between you and Harry Potter is starting again.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The castle feels… lighter.

Maybe it’s because the world isn’t crumbling at the edges this year. Maybe it’s because Hogwarts itself is alive again after the summer, each corridor humming with the quiet urgency of new beginnings. Or maybe it’s just the way your chest flutters when Harry Potter is somewhere within sight.

You sit at the back of the classroom, parchment in front of you, quill hovering, pretending to take notes on Ancient Runes. You’ve been back in classes for nearly a week, and the rhythm of lessons, homework, and early autumn sun spilling through the windows should feel comforting—but all it really does is make it harder to focus on anything other than him.

Because you know he’s in the same castle. And, somewhere in the labyrinth of Gryffindor corridors, he’s thinking about you too.

The first time it happens, you’re walking toward the Charms classroom. The corridor is crowded with students shuffling to their next lesson. You’re keeping your head down when a flash of green eyes catches yours.

It’s Harry.

He’s carrying a stack of books precariously in his arms, robes flaring as he dodges a group of first-years. He’s smiling. That easy, ridiculous, half-embarrassed, completely him smile that makes you want to lean forward and never let go.

You almost drop your own books. Instead, you manage a tight, almost-practical smile.

He raises a single eyebrow.

You raise one back.

The world tilts for half a heartbeat. And then the crowd swallows him, and he’s gone.

Your chest feels simultaneously warm and hollow.

And you realize you’ve been waiting for that moment all summer.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Classes are formal and structured. Everyone has their seating, their lessons, their work to do. You sit with your Hufflepuff friends, laughing quietly, answering questions, occasionally glancing at the front where the professor drones on about enchanted objects or potion reactions.

But every time the classroom door creaks, every time someone shifts, every time a chair squeaks against the floor… your head flicks instinctively to the entrance.

And almost every time, he isn’t there.

But when he is — oh, when he is — your pen slips. Your notes falter. Your mind races.

He doesn’t walk over to you, not yet. He doesn’t need to. But when his eyes meet yours across a crowded room, something shifts.

A tiny spark. A twitch of acknowledgment. A silent, shared smile that says I see you. I missed you.

It happens in the library one afternoon. You’re searching the shelves for a reference book on magical creatures, reaching up when a shadow falls across the spine of a particularly stubborn tome.

“Need a hand?”

You freeze. Of course you do. It’s him. Harry Potter. Carrying his own pile of books, looking impossibly casual. His hair is messy again, the kind of messy you think only looks charming on him.

You frown, but the corner of your mouth twitches. “I can manage.”

“You look like you can manage,” he says, smile teasing but soft. “I’m just offering my services. Dangerous to be caught alone in here with a mountain of books, you know.”

Your laugh is quiet, almost a whisper. “I’m very intimidating.”

“Not at all,” he says earnestly, eyes meeting yours. “You’re terrifyingly clever.”

You roll your eyes, hiding the heat creeping into your cheeks. He grins, a half-smile that seems to light up the entire aisle. And then, just as suddenly, he’s gone—slipping to another row of shelves, leaving your pulse hammering and your thoughts scattered.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

In the Great Hall, the tables are abuzz. Friends chatter, trays clatter, and the autumn light streams through the windows in golden streaks. You sit with your Hufflepuff group, pretending not to watch as Harry slides into his usual seat in Gryffindor.

But when his eyes flick to you, just for a second, your stomach twists. And somehow, across the crowded hall, he smiles.

Not a full grin. Not a ridiculous, over-the-top grin. Just a subtle tilt of his lips, a flicker in his green eyes that says: I see you. I’m thinking about you. You matter.

You smile back, and the hall might as well have disappeared around you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later, the castle quiets. You emerge from your last class, wrapping your scarf a little tighter around your neck. The sun is low, gilding the walls with amber light. You’re heading to the Hufflepuff common room when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N.”

You glance up. He’s leaning against the stone wall near the stairwell, arms crossed, looking… strange. Vulnerable. Uncharacteristically unsure.

“Potter,” you say cautiously.

He shrugs. “Just… wanted to see you before the day ends.”

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow.

He hesitates. “Yeah. I… missed seeing you this morning. During classes.”

A flutter runs through you. It’s subtle, almost dangerous. You clear your throat. “I… missed it too. I guess.”

He steps a little closer, just enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him without touching.

A shared silence. A quiet acknowledgment.

No words are needed. Not yet.

He smiles again. That small, nervous, entirely Harry smile, and your chest tightens.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks softly.

You nod. “See you tomorrow.”

And as he disappears around the corner, you realize that the year, your sixth year, has already begun.

The castle may be crowded, classes may be relentless, and your schedules may pull you apart — but something delicate has shifted between you.

Something soft, growing, unavoidable.

And both of you know it, even if neither dares say it aloud.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

He’s never been more aware of the thickness in his chest, or the heat in his palms, than the moment he tips the last drop of golden liquid into his mouth.

Liquid luck.

A tiny whisper of a potion that promises courage. Confidence. The impossible made slightly more… possible.

He swallows and immediately feels the surge. It’s like walking through the castle in slow motion, where every turn seems preordained, every person just a blur in the periphery, and every step is purposeful.

Time to find her.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

He leaves the Gryffindor common room with a determined stride that somehow manages to teeter between heroic and absolutely ridiculous.

First stop: the library. Surely she’s buried in a book.

He tiptoes past students as if he’s a secret agent on a mission of the utmost importance. He nearly collides with Professor McGonagall.

“Potter!” she says.

“Nothing to see here!” he blurts, flashing the cheesiest grin he can muster and wobbling past her.

Smooth, he tells himself. Felix Felicis, don’t fail me now.

Library: empty. You’re not there.

Next, the courtyard. Maybe she’s taking a breath of air. He nearly slides on a puddle, smacks his head on the stone fountain, mutters a string of curses, and keeps going. Every stumble, every minor humiliation… somehow feels fated.

Finally, he hears it.

A soft laugh, just at the edge of the stairwell, and his chest twists. There she is.

“Y/N,” he calls softly, almost unsure if he’s aloud. But the potion is guiding him. The courage is unstoppable now.

You turn, startled. You’re perched on the steps, hugging a stack of books to your chest, and your heart does that little flip you’ve learned to recognize.

“Harry?”

He strides forward. Not too fast. Not too slow. Perfectly… impossibly, ridiculously bold.

“I… uh… I needed to find you,” he blurts, hands twitching as if he wants to hold you but doesn’t quite know how. “I—look. This is probably going to sound mad, but I—”

He stops, swallows. “I took—uh—liquid luck.”

You blink. “Felix Felicis?”

“Yes!” he says, relieved you know, and horrified at how ridiculous he must look right now. “I decided… I’d finally… finally tell you… how I feel.”

You stare at him, and your chest is tight. Your mind is screaming finally, while your heart pounds in your ears.

“And maybe… kiss you,” he adds, muttering the last part so quietly it almost seems shy.

You laugh — soft, incredulous, trembling. “Harry Potter, you really did take luck potion to tell me how you feel?”

“Yes!” he says, arms flailing slightly in earnest. “And I can’t… I can’t wait any longer. I mean… I shouldn’t. I— You—”

He steps closer. You feel the heat of him, the pulse of his heartbeat, and your knees threaten to give way.

“Harry,” you breathe, reaching out instinctively to touch his arm. “You don’t need magic to tell me that.”

He freezes for a second, eyes wide, and then like some dam breaking, he pulls you gently but insistently toward him. Your hands are on his chest; his on your waist.

“Then why did I need this potion?” he whispers against your hair, lips almost brushing yours.

“Maybe you just needed an excuse,” you murmur, and the heat behind your words makes his knees go weak.

The first kiss is tentative. Soft. Testing.

Then… it’s not.

Hands tangling in hair, fingers tracing along neck and back, mouths hungry in a way that makes the silly, ridiculous potion almost irrelevant. His laugh mixes with a groan as he presses closer.

“Finally,” he mutters against your lips, his voice low, thick, and so him.

You cup his face, tilting your head, exploring, tasting, the last months of longing and stolen glances and unspoken words spilling out with every brush of skin.

His hands roam, tentative at first, then bolder, discovering every inch you allow, memorizing the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist. You gasp softly when he presses closer, letting him feel just how desperate you’ve been for this too.

Time distorts. The castle is gone. Classes, rules, everything—gone. Just you. Just him. Just the heat, the pulse, the connection.

He pulls back for a breath. Forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted… this… for so long,” he murmurs, voice ragged and trembling.

“Me too,” you confess, wrapping your arms around his neck. “More than I realized.”

He laughs, a little shaky, and presses another kiss to your temple. Then your lips again, deeper, slower, savoring the moment you’ve both been building toward all year.

Hands clasping, hips pressing, breaths mingling, the world shrinks until it’s just you and him and a fire neither of you can deny.

For once, there is no awkwardness, no hesitation, no distance.

The castle hums behind you. Students shouting, laughter bouncing off the walls, the clatter of dinner trays and the last bit of chatter from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables blending into one constant, happy chaos.

But you and Harry don’t hear it.

You’re running.

Literally running.

Hands intertwined, hair flying, robes flaring around you, and the cool night air brushing across flushed cheeks. You don’t know where you’re going—doesn’t matter. The stairs, the corridors, the secret corners you know only because you’ve spent years wandering—everything feels like yours in this moment.

Harry is laughing breathlessly. “We— aren’t even— supposed to be out here!”

“Who cares?!” you shout back, voice ringing with reckless delight.

You press a little closer as he pulls you along, weaving through shadows and moonlit hallways. Every brush of his hand, every brush of his chest against yours, sends a delicious thrill through you.

‘Harry- Stop it!’ Quiet chuckles of delight and laughter echoed through the old castle, every crooked and twisted brick soaking up the sound and bottling it up like a secret. 

The ancient wall was cold and slightly damp against your back, and you hoped that it wouldn’t stain your robes. You didn’t need the paintings whispering behind your back in a hush, nor did you need Snape’s disapproval. In the end, his patience could only handle this much…

The boy with raven black hair just smiled against your neck, his hands grasping your waist while his glasses bumped into your chin. 

‘Shh! You’re being too loud, people will find us..’ He chuckled and, with one last kiss, pulled away, looking at you with sly eyes. 

You both were horribly late for your class, and you knew that you’d have to sprint and put your ankles at stake if you wanted to arrive at least forty minutes into the class. 

You looked into Harry’s eyes and felt the corners of your lips begin to tug upwards.

‘Can you blame me? You were assaulting my neck with your lips-‘ You tried to argue before he gently kissed you on your mouth, closing his eyes and relishing the sensation. 

It’s been so horribly long since you have seen your secret boyfriend, it was almost painful. Scratch that, it was unbearable. You had no more glares to spare, shooting them recklessly at every girl who tried to approach your lovely boy. 

Before you started dating, you never noticed the fan club, the so called girls that swooned at everything Harry said. But now that you were secretly seeing him, it was unbelievable. They really were bold, and you could see the resemblance of Godric Gryffindor’s bravery in their attitude. 

A compliment on Harry’s new coat? They covered that as soon as he left the common room, draping themselves over his shoulders, slowly dragging him to the ground. 

A compliment on his haircut? They dare to touch his head!

Sometimes you wanted to stand up from your table and stride up to him, yell into everyone’s face and glare. Then, after everyone’s shock has settled down, straddle Harry’s lap and make out while flipping everyone off, but you couldn’t! Why? Because apparently it wasn’t okay for a Slytherin to date a Gryffindor. Wasn’t alright for a Malfoy to “betray” their roots by kissing a very handsome Potter. 

‘You’re very mean.’ You glared at him half-heartedly while your hands made their way to his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles. His shoulders sagged immediately, a deep sigh breaking into a grin. 

‘And you’re a saint, sweetheart.’ 

‘What class are you late for?’ You asked, completely blasé and as though you wouldn’t get detention. Maybe you could get off the hook, judging by the fact that Professor Snape actually tolerated you, but not everyone could say the same. 

‘History,’ He mused and made no attempt to move, as if Professor Binns wouldn’t absolutely skin him for missing out on Troll Rebellion. (‘It’s stupid! We already covered that topic ages ago!’)

‘Ahh.. good old history. Aren’t you supposed to be the example of a proper student? How come you’re skipping classes, Potter?’ You teased and popped the P for good measure. 

‘Oh so now a Slytherin is scolding me for missing classes? Now I’ve seen it all, Snape can officially take me.’ Harry rolled his eyes playfully, still keeping you pressed against the wall before enveloping you in the warmth of a hug. 

‘Oi, don’t say that. I still need you for my teasing.’ You murmured, though your expression lacked its usual playfulness. 

‘Aww, cmon..’ He chuckled, but his laughter quickly faltered. 

‘You do know that you’re not getting rid of me, right? Not your brother or anyone will get me away from you..’ His words were reassuring and smooth, and he put his palm to your cheek. His skin was rough and had calluses, no doubt from the restless Quidditch practices he had. You leaned into it, the gentleness and warmth of his skin making your cold cheek tingle. 

‘Speaking of brothers,’ Harry began, and you looked up from your little shelter that was his chest. 

‘Have you already talked to him about..’ He gave you a pointed look, his lips pressed into a thin line that made his face incredibly silly. Though you didn’t really feel like smiling. 

‘Harry-‘

‘I know, I know, right. I’m sorry, I just thought that maybe..’ He sighed through his nose, and you felt the cold shiver of regret seep down your spine. 

You knew it wasn’t fair towards him, you knew that his people would easily accept you. They knew that Harry saw people, they knew that he wouldn’t bring someone unworthy. 

But how were you supposed to explain to your brother, who was literally jumping at the sheer mention of Harry Potter, that you were dating him? What would your house say? And your parents? That was just stupid. 

‘I just- I don’t know how to mention it, or explain.’ You murmured, your fingers reaching for his hand in comfort. 

‘I’ll figure it out. Or we’ll figure it out. Now come here..’ You smiled and gently tugged him by his tie before inevitably pressing your lips together. 

He always felt so nice against your mouth, his lips were slightly chapped, but it was just enough to feel natural. 

His palms held your lower back, pressing you against his chest while your fingers carded through his hair. 

‘You really need to think about cutting your hair, it’s getting ridiculously long!’ You giggled when you parted for air, but before you could make another snide comment, his mouth shut you up. 

‘Maybe I like it long. Trying to look more like Sirius.’ Harry mused while once again chasing your lips, though time was cruel and had its own plan. 

Grand doors slammed open, and every student spilt out from their classrooms, the paintings surrounding them starting chatting up, and with haste you jumped off Harry. 

‘Shit, did we really miss everything..?’ You panted softly, shaky and still hot hands fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. 

‘I guess,’ Harry mumbled and tried to straighten out his hair that looked horrible either way. Was horrible the word? That’s surely what Draco would use. 

‘Well, see you after dinner..?’ Harry mumbled, and you smiled and leaned over to peck his lips again. 

‘Do I look good?’ You asked, trying to look plausible and not so messed up. 

‘Always.’ Harry grinned, showing off his dimples, before lighting up into a blush. 

‘Then yeah, see you.’ With a smile, you turned around and left your little and dark shelter.

The castle was bustling, with some random first years bumping into your legs while mumbling half-assed apologies. While the building was cold, the sun spilling through the windows made your face ticklish, playing tricks with the lighting. 

The marble floor was polished clean and your shoes began to click, every hush of a conversation carrying through the air to every nook. You reached a point where you could lower your speed and where the students would only peek in and out, so you finally took your time to stand in front of a window, checking the lipstick you definitely smudged.

‘Looking so beautiful,’ A lovely voice cut through the silence, and soon enough you were staring at a pair of silver lips that curled up into a grin on the glass. 

‘Why, thank you, Lady Window.’ You smiled at the face that soon enough appeared in front of you, silver eyes twinkling and winking at you. 

‘Who were you with, if I can ask? I’m sure it’s that Slytherin guy from seventh year, he’s been making eyes at you since fifth year..’ The enchanted face spoke, following you and jumping from window to window as you passed by, rolling your eyes half heartedly at the curious spirit that haunted the castle. 

‘No way I’m telling you anything, I know you’re friends with the Fat Lady, so my mouth is sealed shut.’ You quipped and a shrill giggle made your ears twinge. 

‘Oh so it’s a Gryffindor guy, is it? Oh this is going to be interesting. I’ll ask Plump Lady if she saw anyone walking into the common room. See you through the windows!’ The enchanted window suddenly became clear, no signs of the haunting silver eyes that were just there a mere second before. 

The thought was unnerving, her finding out that you and Harry dated. Gossip and Hogwarts was a sweet treat and a good mark combined. It gets snatched and torn apart before you can even get to see it, and that’s why people rarely dated. Or at least didn’t make it too obvious. 

‘Oh and by the way.’ The face once again appeared. ‘Plump Lady doesn’t like to get called Fat Lady.’ She winked. 

-

‘I’m telling you, mate! Binns was acting like crazy! Where the bloody hell were you? You missed out on EVERYTHING!’ Ron was ranting for the whole past hour, laughing about the way Binns was ignoring Hermione and getting angry over the fact that they were writing a test for which he didn’t study. 

Harry was sitting and eating silently, his golden cutlery clicking softly against the plates, his mind only half dedicated to Ron’s words. 

He did, in fact, get detention for skipping class, but in his opinion it was worth it, and he didn’t really regret anything. His mind felt bliss and light, so what could be worse-

‘OI, HARRY! WHO IS BULGARIAN'S SEEKER?!’ 

‘KRUM-!’ 

‘Oh so now you’re listening..’ Ron pouted with a soft glare, though it quickly vanished after his side of the table rattled with the weight of falling books. 

‘Ron! Did you really not hand in your essay on Transfiguration?! McGonagall is going nuts!’ 

‘Hello to you too, Hermione..’ Ron sulked into his goblet.

‘Don’t you understand how important education is? Don’t you have goals in your life?’

‘In comparison to your phenomenal dedication to everything, I guess not, Spew Girl.’ 

‘It’s not spew, it’s S.P.E.W! How many times do I have to say it-‘

Harry turned to his barely touched food, not phased by the now very common interactions. He just wanted to know how much he still had to do for his homework. Could he possibly see you this night at the astronomy tower? That would be nice-

‘Hey, Potter! Nice lipstick! Mind sharing your lip combo?’ Huh?

‘Yeah, Potter! Applied it without a mirror, it seems!’ How fascinating is it that the same blood, the same genes, can make such different kinds of people?

‘What do you want, Malfoy?!’ Hermione squeaked, her frizzy hair sticking up like an angry cat’s. 

‘Mate, why do you have lipstick on?’ Ron put a hand on Harry’s shoulder and stared at his face, eyes widening in realisation that Draco was indeed right.

Hastily reaching out for a napkin, he started to rub the excess product off his mouth, the once white and soft fabric rubbing Harry’s lips sore. 

‘Yeah, Potter! Scrub it clean! But really, what colour do you use? Got to make sure to avoid it!’ Pansy giggled, and so did the rest of his house. You were nowhere to be seen. 

‘Oh I don’t know! Gotta ask Draco’s sister! Since she knows better about how to apply lipsticks for the both of us! Cherry flavoured! Bet you wouldn’t have known that!’ Harry yelled through the endless hall, his words echoing painfully. Pulsing through his veins. That felt good, to be honest! 

‘..what?’ Draco blabbered, his jaw hanging low in disgust, one single piece of hair falling out of his perfectly tailored and gelled head.

‘Yeah! Eat that, Malfoy! I get to see your sister every night-‘ 

‘Shut your dirty mouth!’ 

‘Be happy that it’s me and not some kind of a dirty sleazy Slytherin-‘ 

‘YOU DON’T GET TO CALL ME A SLEAZE!’ 

‘What is going on?!’ You entered the Great Hall, standing in between the two tables like in a battlefield. Hissing snakes on one side, ready to strike, while the opposite one was crowded with fierce lions. 

‘You’re shagging this dude?!’ 

‘You told him?!’ You screeched at Harry, whose face turned red like his tie. 

‘No! He figured it out! I didn’t say anything, I swear!’ 

‘Answer my question!’ Draco rose from his seat and you took a tentative step back, holding your bag tightly with both of your hands. 

‘If you catch me first..?’ You murmured meekly before grinning, suddenly breaking into a sprint while your brother chased you down.

‘Get back here!’ 

Maybe some things really don’t change. The good old times of “tag, you’re it” at the Malfoy manor were a little escape from the usual boring life. So why not relive it once again?

As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.

Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.

That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.

Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.

He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.

Harry had thought it ridiculous.

Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.

By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.

Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—

And you were completely, utterly oblivious.

The irony was cruel.

You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”

You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.

You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.

You—who read people like open books.

Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.

And had been for two years.

At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.

Apparently not.

Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”

He’d nearly choked on his tea.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.

The worst part?

They were right.

Everyone had noticed.

Everyone—except you.

So Harry tried something different.

He stopped hiding.

He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.

There was none.

He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.

You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.

Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.

Not anonymous. Not vague.

A proper Valentine.

You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.

“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”

He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.

That was the day he’d given up.

You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.

And yet.

He still didn’t tell you.

He couldn’t.

Because losing you altogether was not an option.

He could survive loving you quietly. He could survive pretending. He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.

But he could not survive you walking away.

That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.

So he chose silence.

He chose the quiet torture of it.

And he told himself that it was enough.

It had to be.

But Merlin—

You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.

It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.

Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.

So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.

“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.

Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.

“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.

He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.

“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”

There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.

Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”

You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.

It started with a bang.

Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.

Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.

“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.

The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”

Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.

“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”

Brilliant.

Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.

Harry was scanning the staircase.

Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.

And then you appeared.

Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.

And—

Wearing his Quidditch jersey.

It swallowed you whole.

The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.

You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.

Heat crawled up his neck.

“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”

You blinked at him, still half-asleep.

“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”

You yawned.

Actually yawned.

As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.

Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

But you didn’t notice.

You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.

It was instinctive.

Unthinking.

Comfort.

His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.

For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.

You fit far too perfectly there.

It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.

His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.

Instead, he swallowed.

“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.

You smiled without opening your eyes.

“Like you would’ve said no.”

His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.

His.

And yet not.

You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”

He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”

You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.

McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.

Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.

You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.

Harry watched your retreating figure.

And the name stretched across your back.

Potter.

Something in his chest clenched painfully.

This—this was it.

As close as he would ever get.

The only way he would ever see you with his last name.

On the back of an old, worn jersey.

Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.

“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”

You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”

Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”

You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”

Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.

He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.

Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.

“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”

Harry froze. His stomach dropped.

“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”

“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.

You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”

Friend.

Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.

You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.

He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.

He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”

You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.

As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.

Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.

But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.

He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.

At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.

He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.

“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”

Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”

Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”

Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”

Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”

“You have bets?” Harry demanded.

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”

Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”

Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”

“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue.

And then closed it again.

Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”

Harry hesitated.

Just for a second.

Because part of him wanted to.

Merlin, he wanted to.

The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.

He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.

No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.

With every single fiber of his being.

With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.

And then—

Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”

That one landed wrong.

A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.

Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”

The boys burst out laughing.

Harry didn’t.

Because that was the worst part.

They weren’t wrong.

His jaw tightened.

Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.

“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”

Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”

That one felt like a punch to the ribs.

So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.

Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”

“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”

“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”

Harry paused at the bottom step.

He didn’t turn around.

Worst she can say is no.

But that wasn’t what terrified him.

What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.

Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.

You’d grow cautious.

You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.

You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.

And he would lose you.

Not just the possibility of you.

You.

His best friend.

The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.

And that—

That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.

The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.

Too soft for this hour.

He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”

The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.

“Hi.” You said quietly.

Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”

You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”

Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.

“And?” He asked gently.

“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.

His heart skipped.

“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”

Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”

You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.

The air shifted.

This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.

It wasn’t new.

But something about tonight felt different.

Harry swallowed.

For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—

Why not Ron’s bed?

Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?

The question burned at the back of his tongue.

But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.

The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.

You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”

“Good night.” He said quickly.

You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.

It took less than five minutes.

Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.

Like it belonged.

Harry stared up at the ceiling.

Wide awake.

Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.

You were so close.

So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.

And you slept.

Just like that.

No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.

Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.

That was what hurt.

You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.

He wanted to wrap an arm around you.

He wanted to pull you closer.

He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.

He wanted to ask why him.

Why always him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.

That should have been enough.

But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—

If you knew.

If you knew how badly he wanted you…

Would you still sleep this easily?

Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?

His throat tightened.

Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.

And Harry finally closed his eyes.

Not because he was calm.

But because it was easier than letting himself cry.

Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.

If he had at all.

Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.

Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.

You.

Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.

He released you at once.

And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.

He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.

But you didn’t.

You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly. Why would you?

A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.

“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.

Harry swallowed, “Morning.”

You didn’t jump away. You didn’t gasp. You didn’t even hesitate.

You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.

He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.

It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.

You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

You saw him as safe. Familiar. Harmless.

Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him. Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe. Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.

You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”

“Yeah.” He said automatically.

There it was again.

That warm, affectionate smile.

And then you were gone.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.

He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.

You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.

And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.

He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.

Valentine’s Day was a week away.

And he was running out of ways to survive this.

It started with the heat.

Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.

This was different.

This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.

You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.

Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.

Today, every touch felt like friction.

He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.

You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”

“Yeah.” He muttered.

He wasn’t.

He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.

You didn’t think about it.

You never thought about it.

By lunch, it had gotten worse.

The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.

Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.

Harry told himself it didn’t matter.

You laughed like that with everyone.

But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.

You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.

You tilted your head, “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t push. You never did.

And that made it worse.

Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.

The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.

By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.

You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”

“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”

You blinked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

He took the stairs two at a time.

You followed.

“Harry.”

He didn’t answer.

“Harry, wait.”

He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”

You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”

“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”

That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.

“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”

“Then what is it about?”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

He walked away.

But you didn’t let him.

You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.

By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

You followed.

Now it was just the two of you.

The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.

You shut the door gently behind you.

“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

He stared at everything else in the room but you.

At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.

He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.

Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.

You hesitated.

Then you reached for his hand.

The contact was gentle. Familiar.

It felt like static shock.

Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.

His entire body reacted before his mind did.

He jerked away.

“Just—stop it.”

Your hand froze midair.

“What?”

“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”

Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”

“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”

You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”

“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”

Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”

“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”

“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”

“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”

The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.

They echoed in the quiet room.

You stared at him.

“What are you talking about?” You whispered.

He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.

“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”

His voice wavered, but he pushed through.

“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”

His throat tightened.

“But I was wrong.”

You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”

“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”

And finally — finally — he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

“I love you.”

Silence swallowed the room.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”

His hands trembled at his sides.

“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."

His laugh was brittle.

“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”

His voice cracked.

“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”

Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.

“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”

The words nearly undid him.

“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”

The room felt too still.

Too tight.

He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.

The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.

It was a burn.

And it hurt.

Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.

That might have been easier to bear.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.

He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.

“I think you should go.” He said quietly.

Not angry.

Not cold.

Just… spent.

For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.

He didn’t.

He stepped back instead.

And that — that was what made your chest crack open.

You left without another word.

The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.

Everything sounded distant. Muffled.

You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.

By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.

The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.

You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.

Your heart was still racing.

Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.

I’m in love with you.

The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.

You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.

You’d thought you knew him.

But tonight had been different.

Tonight he had looked raw.

You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.

The confession replayed again.

And again.

And then—

You inhaled.

And froze.

That wasn’t your pillow.

You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.

Harry’s jumper.

Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.

You hadn’t meant to keep it.

It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.

He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.

Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.

You never gave it back.

Your throat tightened painfully.

Would you have to return it now?

The thought felt unbearable.

You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.

Your eyes landed on your nightstand.

The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.

Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.

A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.

Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.

You’d laughed.

You hadn’t asked why.

It was everywhere.

He was everywhere.

Not in grand, sweeping gestures.

Not in dramatic declarations.

But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.

Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.

There were dozens.

Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.

Not the gift.

You.

At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.

Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.

Longing.

How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?

Your vision blurred again.

You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.

You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.

Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.

And then—

You found it.

A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.

Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.

Be my Valentine?

The memory hit you all at once.

A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.

But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.

You had seen the signs.

Some quiet part of you had always known.

It’s been like this for years.

Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.

You always thought it was just that.

You and him. Best friends. A matched set.

Your chest tightens painfully.

The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.

The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.

This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.

It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.

You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.

You loved him.

Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.

And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.

You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.

At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.

You needed to know.

You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.

So you kept your distance.

And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.

He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.

He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.

It wasn’t cruel.

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t punishing you.

He was protecting himself.

Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.

You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.

It was restraint.

And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.

By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.

Harry hated it.

He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.

It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.

A miracle.

Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.

Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.

One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.

Harry remained behind.

He told himself he didn’t care.

He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.

But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.

Stupid, really.

He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.

And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.

He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.

The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.

He didn’t return it.

By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.

He pushed the door open.

And froze.

The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.

And there you were.

Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.

His second was fear.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.

“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”

His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.

“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.

You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.

“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.

He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”

The words hit you square in the chest.

“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.

You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.

He let you have the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were small when they finally left you.

And he felt his stomach drop.

There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.

His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.

“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”

“(Y/N), hold on.”

He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.

You stopped mid-breath.

Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.

Harry swallowed.

He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.

You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.

“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”

Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”

His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.

Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.

“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”

The room seemed to still entirely.

The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.

“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”

His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.

“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”

For a moment, he didn’t react at all.

It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.

You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.

He didn’t find it.

Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.

Reverently.

“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.

You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”

The words didn’t tremble this time.

They landed between you solid and undeniable.

Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.

“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.

Just awe.

Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.

“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”

For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.

Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.

His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.

Then he stepped forward.

Hesitantly.

Cautiously.

As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.

He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.

But you were real.

Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.

The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.

The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.

He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.

It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.

But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.

All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.

You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.

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toru gojo doesn’t make it past rule number one.

he fails because he doesn’t know how to not bite his cheek & choke on the blood when you stroll in with four inch heels & glossy lips & nails that toru prays will gouge his eyes out. he can’t fucking think. his throat’s all achey & you smell like sugar & his tongue dries so hard he swallows blood to keep it wet.

he tries to say you look beautiful. the words dribble off his tongue & plunk into his drink.

“—earth to toru? it’s really rude to stare.”

how shameful of him! he should dig his knees into the tile. grovel & beg till your pout dissolves & you decide you can forgive him for making you even the slightest bit uncomfortable.

but instead he shifts his arm over the booth seat. clenches his throat. reminds himself of the training toji worked oh-so hard to give him & pinches his thigh so his foot stops tapping so hard,

“s’not much to stare at.”

what ?

in front of him you’re fawn freckled & doe eyed, lashes fluttering like—heaven forbid—you hadn’t even heard him.

so he says it again. “uhm, there’s nothing much to stare at—“

“i heard you the first time.”

your tone cuts him like a knife. toru’s not sure when you start packing, but suddenly your purse is half full & your fork’s on the table & say her name—say her name—”

he calls your name & screams an apology. you leave as the words plunk into his drink.

TOJI’S REMARK : SON, I AIN’T TEACH YOU ALL THAT.

PLAYBOY TACTICS #2: GOOD GIRLS LIKE BAD BOYS

taught by: sato gojo

“girls don’t care about that ralph lauren shit. take off that polo and get in this tech, man.”

⎚-⎚

toru gojo’s room reeks of fratboy & paint thinner.

there’s two pizza boxes & a beer can rotting; sugar in sato’s molars & suguru’s piercings glimmering in the heat. & sukuna is here; lately he always is, laid up in toru’s bed with his phone raised over his head & palm inching dangerously towards his waistband. toru gojo knows better than to comment.

“you’ve got no game, twin. how are we even related?”

sato speaks with a mouthful of popcorn. beside him suguru’s snacking too, shoving things in his backpack & parting lips so sato can feed him the occasional kernel.

suguru scoffs, teeth sticky. “it’s a miracle she even lets herself be seen with you. poindexter looking ass.”

“i know, right? mr. bean ass closet. he won’t spend money on clothes and wears the same shirt in different colors everyday.”

“that’s not true—“toru grips his neckline. “—i’m not even wearing the shirt right now!”

he gestures to the material but geto only wrinkles his nose.

“can you please stop moving? i can hear the polyester in your hoodie..”

sato snorts. sukuna grunts & it’s not due to the joke.

suguru’s done packing now. he kisses sato’s cheek. ruffles toru’s hair. turns to dap up ryomen sukuna before deciding he probably shouldn’t. he takes his exit with a palm waving goodbye.

sato turns to his twin. “you know what you really need, man?”

“the ability to set boundaries? i don’t know why ryomen thinks it’s okay to fap in my sheets.”

“that,” sato nods, ignoring the wet sounds that leave toru’s bedside, “and a new fucking wardrobe.”

ⵌ SHOW TIME ! tw: satirical references to suicide.

toru gojo looks like a fucking idiot.

glasses half-foggy. nose cherry pink. dark jeans with too many rips & chains dangling everywhere. sato’s jacket has zippers that don’t actually zip anything, and the nicest thing about the outfit are the ugly birkenstocks that show his flushed pink toes.

toru greets you with a smile. eyes bright, just happy to look a mess.

“hey, y/n!”

“Hello. Are you mad?”

your tone is clipped & makes toru flinch. he swallows, blood sticky in his jugular. your nose is wrinkled & lashes fluttering & your gaze flits to the library exit like you might run away.

he won’t let that happen. not again.

so he clears his throat. pinches his wrist. pretends his brother’s jacket doesn’t fit too loose & itch at his chin: “nope, just trying something new! shall we get started on the project ?”

his smile stretches like plastic. there’s sweat on his chin & you think he has too many teeth.

—-

toru gojo keeps tap tap tapping.

birge-carnegie library is oakwood old & glimmering with glory. the air is heavy with heat & coffee shells & the bitter realization that toru gojo is never getting the girl.

at least, not at this rate.

it’s been twenty minutes & yet all toru can do is stare. god, you’re so pretty. swollen cheeks, pretty gaze, cherry coke lips pressed into a pout & clicky nails that stab toru in the gut as you tap at your keyboard. you’re so pretty & it’s fucking killing him because you’re pouting & toru swears you don’t even want to be here.

toru can only bite his lip. mind racing, heart aching.

you’re shivering now.

and it’s not quite obvious, & if toru wasn’t staring at you like you were girl turned god he probably wouldn’t have noticed. but he sees it. the way your lip quivers. the way you tug your sleeve over your wrist & pout when it flicks back into place. the way your shoulders squeeze like they’re clinging to the heat.

you don’t even know how you make toru’s chest hurt.

& before he can think it through he’s leaning over to place his—well, sato’s—jacket over your shoulders. he can only pray it doesn’t still smell like suguru.

“this smells like suguru.”

oh, well.

but you’re softening now; settling into your seat. lashes fluttering as you push your arms into the holes & turn back to him with gentle gaze & eyes star-achingly bright.

“thank you,”

your voice is too soft. his heart is too sticky.

sato’s jacket swallows you whole.

toru thinks it’s cute. you think it’s annoying. it’s been five minutes & you’re still shifting it over your skin, pulling & tugging & pouting when you discover yet another zipper.

you frown. “i feel like a jingle bell.”

“merry christmas.” “it’s a tuesday in may..”

it is. toru doesn’t know why he said that. he’ll likely hang himself when he gets home.

but the embarrassment doesn’t end there. you stand up—just to tug the jacket over your thighs, just to straighten it out—but toru gojo doesn’t know any better so he fucking lunges—

“toru!” you gasp, startled.

toru freezes; glasses tilting off his face, mouth part open. & he looks at you, eyes wide & cheeks flushed & so fucking startled, & he thinks he’ll definitely be seeing that noose when he gets home.

“sorry—i’m sorry—i didn’t mean to—“

“you scared me.”

you’re gripping the hem of your jacket now—his jacket, sato’s, whatever—and god, he’s such an idiot. so fucking stupid & can never do anything right & will likely die knowing he was born into this world just to leave as his brother’s shadow. and worst of all, that he will never, ever, get the girl.

“i’m so sorry,” he trembles. he doesn’t look at you, he can’t & he doesn’t deserve to, so it’s fine. “i wasn’t thinking. i just saw you standing up and i thought—i thought—“

he swallows. looks away.

but you don’t let him off that easy.

“you thought what ?”

he doesn’t answer. god, he looks ridiculous. curled into himself, palms on his knees all stupid & polite. cheeks flushed, glasses foggy. lips half-bitten & a flushed gaze that never meets yours.

giving you his jacket left him in a wife beater two sizes too big. he looks small & scrawny & you think you want to kiss him.

“toru.”

he exhales, long & slow. he still doesn’t look at you. you wish he would.

“i thought you were gonna leave again.”

“what ?”

he continues, “like at the restaurant. when you—when you stood up. walked out,” he swallows. “i didn’t want you to leave again. i didn’t want to watch you go.”

god. your throat is far too tight. your nails itch at your wrist like you’re not quite sure what to do with yourself.

“i’m not gonna leave,”

your voice is too sweet, too gentle. it sounds like honey & it spoils in the heat.

“you promise?”

you only sigh, walk over and slip into the seat beside him. you don’t say you promise but toru thinks he’ll be fine for now.

SATO’S REMARK : KINDA PITIFUL, BUT HEY, IT’S SOMETHING !

PLAYBOY TACTICS #3: NEG NEG NEG

taught by: geto suguru

“it’s all about the mystery, man. you gotta lower her value to make her see yours.”

⎚-⎚

“so how do you neg?”

“well personally, i’d start with calling her a monkey,” geto has his tongue in his cheek, desk chair groaning with a creaaak as sato spins him playfully. “unless she’s black. you shouldn’t say that if she’s black.”

“i don’t think i should say that either way..”

sato rests his chin on the chair head, cheeks peach-tinged & grin clumsy.

“probably shouldn’t!”

geto shrugs, tapping at toru’s keyboard. it’s 12 PM monday & the gang’s all here: suguru’s playing the sims 4 on toru’s new PC. sukuna is asleep with his dick in his hands. sato is whining because suguru doesn’t want to have a gay love story with him in the sims. and toji’s not here—12 PM monday means a new shift at his new job. toru hopes skai jackson will take it easy on him—working as her personal AI prompt writer must certainly be exhausting.

“the logic is simple—” suguru smacks sato’s hand away from the keyboard, “if you subtly insult her, she’ll feel the urge to prove herself. and her trying to prove herself—” another smack to sato’s stubborn hands, “tricks her brain into thinking you’re worth impressing.”

“and eventually, that she likes you!” sato cheers. “woah, sugu—when did you install wicked whims?”

“huh—? what the hell? why does my sim keep trying to fuck bob pancakes!”

“make him fuck mine instead.” / “please slit your throat.”

toru breathes, drags a palm over his face. his brother & best friend are fighting now—god knows about what—but he’s more concerned about the fact that he’s got a movie date with you in two hours and today’s game plan is far from complete.

“suguru’s right. and for a feisty bitch like y/n ? negging is even more crucial.”

sukuna’s voice is close to guttural & has all eyes snapping towards him. he’s awake now, cheeks flushed & bleary gazed & eyes half-lidded. his cock is sticky on his stomach & his palm strokes it lovingly.

toru frowns. “don’t call her a bitch. i’m serious.”

“and don’t talk with your dick in your hands. i’m disgusted.” suguru snarks.

sukuna shrugs, still lazily palming himself for the world to see. suguru wrinkles his nose in disgust & turns his head back to the game. he rage quits when he turns to find his sim palming himself too.

“neg her as much as possible,” sukuna breathes, toes curling. “humble her, make her second guess—shit.” he’s pumping faster now, gasps short & breath heavy. “make her—fuck! m’gonna cum—!”

sukuna blows his load. suguru & sato have long left the room, & toru is still searching for that noose.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

cineplex at yonge-dundas is too-bright screens & overpriced popcorn. even now, toru’s got caramel sticky in his teeth & palms crossed in a silent prayer. there’s blood in his throat & an ache in his ribs & he’s got a tie on his neck for no fucking reason.

you walk in looking like a midsummer dream.

toru really does think you’re girl turned god. after all, most girls his age aren’t honey-mouthed or starry-eyed or flush-cheeked like you are. you walk in in tight top & short skirt, lashes fluttering as you glance around the room in quiet search of him. your eyes are all big & your lips all pouty & toru bets you don’t even notice. bets you don’t even know how you leave him sweat-soaked & feverish.

“toru!”

you’ve sauntered up to him now, purse in your hands & grin on your lips. your smile is clumsy & satoru’s heart must be too because it swells over & bursts like overripe fruit. his vocal chords slosh against his throat like blood.

“hi,” he blurts. “you look pretty.”

you tilt your head & look up at him all warm-cheeked & doe-eyed. “thank you.”

it’s silent for a beat; toru’s eyes boring into yours with two cracked teeth & a kernel in his mouth. you’re so pretty & you look so sweet & he wants to kiss you so fucking bad.

you break the silence. “you like my outfit?” you step back, voice soft. “i went shopping yesterday.”

toru wants to ask if you did that just for him—just for today’s date with him—but he doesn’t. he knows better so he doesn’t.

instead he drinks you in. he looks like a butterfly trapped in a hazy addiction: pupils blown & bleary eyed, jam smeared cheeks & a quickly reddening nose. his lips are half-parted / his mouth is half-dry.

your outfit’s simple but oh-so effective: denim skirt too short on your thighs, black off-shoulder with ruffles on the sleeves, kitten heels to match your top. god, you’re so fucking cute.

and because you’re so cute, toru can’t fuck this up. so he decides it’s time to implement suguru’s lesson from earlier in the day.

“you look incredible,” he swallows, knuckles shaky. “did you—uhm. did you pick black to hide your stomach rolls?”

toru gojo shouldn’t have said that.

he knows because your lips part immediately. cheeks flushed, eyes wide. you’re frozen in front of him, lips quivering with something toru recognizes as embarrassment.

oh jesus—oh god—great universe—what has he done?

before toru’s joints can unfreeze you’re already turning away, & toru swears there are tears in your eyes. he’s sworn he’ll never let you leave again without a fight so even though his vocal chords slosh against his throat like blood, he manages to speak.

“y/n, wait!” he gasps, already moving. “i didn’t mean that—! your body is tea! your body is tea!”

GETO’S REMARK : MAN, CALL YOUR FUCKIN’ UBER.

PLAYBOY TACTICS #4 : GET YOUR GAME FACE ON !

taught by: ryomen sukuna

“you know your problem, man ? you’re not taking this seriously, not locked in at all. let me put you on, friend.”

⎚-⎚

sukuna sighs, flops out of toru’s bed with his dick hanging out of his boxers. he has his elbows on his knees & a palm on his chin & precum sticky on his abdomen.

“i think it’s time i stepped in and gave you some advice.”

“you have a porn addiction. i think i’m good.”

PLAYBOY TACTICS #5: OR MAYBE…BE YOURSELF ?

taught by: nanami kento

“you’ve been taking advice from those idiots all this time? oh…”

⎚-⎚

in the men’s bathroom of birge-carnegie library, toru gojo has his pulse in his teeth & his heart in the sink.

4PM today toru gojo walked into the library with too many books in his hands & glasses begging to tilt off. you sat at a table near the center, & when toru walked past he saw it: your gaze meeting his before burying itself between a thick book. the bite of your lips & the way your nose crinkled with disgust.

did you pick black to hide your stomach rolls?

how embarassing! toru gojo should hang himself now—or at least after returning his library books. the overdue fees were no joke. his life was one however, & the heavy realization has his knuckles rousing white on the bathroom sink as he sheds his nerves by the pint.

his eyes are red tinged. cheeks bloody. nose too red & throat too sticky so when he tries to breathe it comes out as a hiccup. toru gojo is truly pathetic. he’s known it his whole life but now the fact has chewed him up & won’t spit him back out.

“hello. what is your problem.”

kento nanami has a tone too clipped. he’s standing at the bathroom door & his mere presence has toru gojo startled. toru jumps back, face contorting in alarm, tears still sticky on his lashes. “kento!”

“in the flesh,” nanami pushes up his glasses. he’s in pressed suit as always, looking years older than toru & his age mates. “why are you loitering in the bathroom? this is very unsanitary.”

toru sniffles, wipes his eyes. “i’m sorry—” he tries for a swallow but it comes out as a hiccup & his eyes are burning all over again because he can’t even fucking breathe right. “—i’m sorry, i’m sorry for everything. i fucked up like i always do and i should’ve used that noose ages ago and i, and i—“

nanami’s brows knit in alarm. toru’s sobbing now, and kento joins him at his side.

“toru,” his voice is soft. “tell me what’s going on.”

if you told nanami kento that going to the carnegie library today would mean comforting one of the gojo twins in the men’s bathroom instead of picking up the new BL manhwa he’d requested the library to stock, he would’ve looked you in the face & laughed.

but here he is, awkwardly patting toru’s back & not reading the latest volume of nerd project.

in his shaky distress, toru recounts everything—the lessons with the sigma-chi boys. sukuna’s refusal to stop jerking off in his bed. him pointing out your stomach rolls—& kento can only shake his head. how ridiculous. he should be reading about andrew young & luke davis right now!

but kento gently wipes toru’s tears. he’s always been rather fond of the younger twin anyways. “have you tried being normal? as in, being yourself?”

toru’s eyes swell, big. he looks stunned—why didn’t he think of that?

but he quickly deflates. he had thought of it. but he’s much too uncool—scrawny & weak & only good for reading textbooks & mediating fights between geto & his dumb brother. he had no choice but to lean into the larp.™

“i can’t—“ he gasps. “—she wouldn’t like me. i’m not cool—“

“and you think the others are cool?” kento raises a brow. “toji, whose a deadbeat dad while in college and sells himself to earn money—“

“he doesn’t do that anymore,” toru gulps. “he works for skai jackson now.”

nanami nods. “and sato, who has a gambling addiction and loses thousands to hakari every week,” toru flinches.

“suguru, who’s addicted to the sims and is in a homoerotic friendship with your brother.”

another flinch.

“sukuna, who is—“

“i didn’t take any advice from sukuna.”

kento nods, “well done. but you know he has a porn addiction and an exhibitionist kink.”

toru gulps, “yes.”

“so no more listening,” kento claps his back. “you apologize. explain to her what you’ve been doing all this while, but also take accountability. you’re smarter than this. you should’ve known better.”

“i’m sorry. she makes me stupid.”

“i know,” kento sighs, softening. toru’s wiping his eyes now. “but you shouldn’t be apologizing to me. go out there and make things right. and wash your hands first.”

toru nods eagerly. he doesn’t even remember to wipe his hands dry, and nanami can only shake his head half-fondly as he watches the younger twin go.

—————

when toru finds you, there’s a pen in your teeth & you won’t meet his eyes.

toru knows you see him standing there beside you. but you don’t flinch. your lashes flutter & you blink slow like you’re totally engrossed in whatever you’re reading. is that percy jackson?

toru shakes his head. then wishes he didn’t, because he must’ve looked really stupid physically shaking his thoughts away. “y/n.”

you don’t respond. his throat folds.

but he keeps going anyways. “y/n, i owe you an apology,” he clears his throat, & he thanks god because he doesn’t hiccup this time. “i’m sorry. i’m really truly sorry. especially for yesterday,” he gulps. “—and your body is tea.”

irritation rises in your features & quickly dissolves.

“uhm,” he’s still standing there, arms behind his back, feet shuffling. “i didn’t—i don’t actually think you have stomach rolls.”

you shut your book with a bam! “can you please stop talking about my stomach?”

“i’m sorry! oh my god i’m so sorry, i’ve been taking advice from my brother and the others on how to be cool and make you like me back but i just ended up being a total idiot! and it’s stupid! it’s so stupid and i should know better but i like you so much that i can’t fucking think and i’m so sorry for hurting you and i’ll spend the rest of my life making up for it if you’d let me and—“

“toru. you’re rambling.”

“i’m sorry!” he panics. “please forgive me!”

“oh my god,” you sigh, palm dragging over your face. “can you please sit down first?”

he sits across from you; hands digging into his knees, back too straight to be healthy.

“so you’ve been taking advice from sato and the others all this time?”

“uh, yes.”

“in what universe is that wise?”

he deflates. “i don’t know how to be wise when it comes to you.”

your tongue’s in your cheek. right now, toru gojo is something akin to a kicked puppy. he’s got a gaze that won’t meet yours & his neck is rash red & you think he might explode.

you click your tongue. “i had my suspicions.”

his head snaps up. “you knew?”

“no, i suspected it,” you tuck a book into your bag, then another, and another. “i first thought so when you showed up at the library looking like ken carson. sato set you up, by the way. even he left his opium era back in 2023.”

“he said girls like guys who dress like that..”

“he lied,” you hum, “i prefer your usual button ups anyway. you look all smart and sexy.”

“thank you. wait—what?”

“mhm,” toru’s not sure when you get up, but now you’re sitting beside him; and god, you’re in a skirt again, and toru wishes you wouldn’t wear skirts. his brain acts all funny when you wear them. he gulps.

“for a smart guy, you’re awfully slow,” your thighs are touching his & your perfume’s in his lungs & fuck, his heart is doing that funny thing again! “do you think i would’ve asked you to dinner that first night if i didn’t like you?”

“the night i said you weren’t much to look at and you left?”

you grit your teeth. “yes, toru. that night.”

he swallows, pupils shifting because he can’t handle your pretty eyes glaring at him. “i thought you did it for a dare.”

you poke his temple & he winces. “i would never do that. you idiot, i’ve liked you since you bumped into me at the library and accidentally said ‘pretty’ instead of apologizing!”

“oh.”

“‘oh’ is right,” you sigh, falling into his shoulder. you don’t miss the way he freezes under your skin. “you’re such an idiot…”

“i really like you.” toru blurts, cheeks pink. “and uhm, i’m happy you like me back. and i think you’re beautiful. so beautiful. you’re probably the most beautiful girl in the world.” he swallows. “and i’m happy you like me back. did i say that already?”

you tilt your head to look up at him from his shoulder. his gaze is trained on his knees, neck flushed, ears pink. & you’re a devil of a girl so you stroke his arm when you purr:

“look at me when you confess. please?”

toru squeaks. because you sound so pretty when you say that in his arm. because the heat of your touch sends shockwaves to his spine & his sleeve is likely sticky from your gloss but he doesn’t care. he doesn’t fucking care.

he turns to you, slow. and you’re already gazing up at him, cheeks flushed, lashes low, sun-soaked & bleary eyed. your lips are so pretty. you’re so pretty. he can’t believe he almost wanted to kill himself. what an idiot.

he clears his throat. “i like you. i wanna kiss you so bad.”

toru’s eyes widen. he didn’t mean the last part—well he did, but he didn’t mean to say it & oh god he’s fucked up again & he felt you tense against him & he’s made you so uncomfortable & you’re gonna leave him again and—

“kiss me,” you breathe. “please, toru?”

his heart hammers. you sound so pretty when you say that. why do you sound so pretty when you say that?

& more importantly, who is he not to obey? so he does as you ask—cups your cheeks oh-so softly with rouge knuckles & gentle hands. and your lashes flutter shut, & oh my god he’s really doing this.

he presses his lips to your own. you sigh into his mouth.

——-

oh, but the story doesn’t end there.

four bookshelves behind & a corner to the right, the gang’s all there. sato & suguru are leaning over the corner, stacked over each other like this is some sort of cartoon. sukuna has a granola bar in his hand instead of his dick. toji’s still not here, still slaving away typing AI prompts for skai jackson’s snapchat stories. nanami kento is here though, standing just enough to the side so no one can mistake him as friends with these idiots.

“what the hell,” sato whispers. “did he just kiss y/n?”

“no way. i think he actually did.”

“why are you guys whispering? you look fucking stupid.”

“says the guy who talks with his dick in his hands.”

“i’ll put it in your mouth next, bastard. or you only like sato’s cock in it?”

“ayoooo. you right but not too much, not too much.”

“who the hell said he was right?!”

nanami takes his leave. that’s enough stupidity for one day.

SIGMA-CHI’S REMARK: HEY, HOW’S HE DONE THAT ?!

𐦂𖨆𐀪𖠋𖨆𐀪𖠋.

# SIGMA-CHI STORIES !