#dean thomas

Hermione: I wish Ron liked me back

Ron: I wish Hermione liked me back

Lavender: I wish Ron liked me back

Ginny: I wish Harry liked me back

Dean: I wish Ginny liked me back

Seamus: I wish dean liked me back

Harry: I wish Ginny liked me back

Draco: The only way to save myself and my family is to kill Dumbledore which will end the rest of the entire wizarding world, Snape and Harry won’t get off my back, and i have no idea how to fix the magic cabinet but if i fail GrayBack will kill me and my mother

It's a curse

And it's growing

You're a pond and I'm an ocean

Oh, all my emotions

Feel like explosions when you are around

And I've found a way to kill the sounds, oh

“I mean seriously, Harry, how much more obvious could you get?”

Hermione’s voice snapped him out of his trance so suddenly that he nearly dropped his quill. He blinked, tearing his gaze away from where you sat at the table across from them, moved due to you and his incessant talking.

“W-what?” he stammered.

Hermione rolled her eyes, lips twitching into that I’m smarter than you and we both know it smile. “You’ve been staring at her for ten minutes. It’s honestly baffling she hasn’t caught on.”

Harry opened his mouth, ready to deny it, but the words died before they formed. Because how could he explain it? That it wasn’t just staring. It was like he was caught in some quiet spell every time he looked at you. Like his world shrank down to the soft curve of your smile, the way your fingers tapped absently against the edge of your parchment, the faint furrow in your brow when you were deep in thought.

It was a curse,  and it was ever growing.

You were calm where he was chaos, collected where he was constantly on edge. You were a pond, steady, still, and he was an ocean, his every wave drawn toward you whether he wanted it or not.

Every emotion he had felt like it was waiting for you to surface. And when you did — when your eyes flicked up, catching his for just a second, it was like something inside him detonated.

All his emotions, the confusion, the warmth, the ache, they burst into color and noise, overwhelming and impossible to hide.

He quickly looked away, pretending to focus on his half-written essay, pretending that he didn’t feel like he was about to combust.

He’d tried, Merlin knew he’d tried, to quiet it. To kill the sound, as if he could drown out the pounding in his chest every time you laughed, or the flutter of your hair when you tilted your head in thought. But it never worked.

Because when it came to you, there was no silence. Only noise. Only chaos. Only the impossible, beautiful ache of wanting something he couldn’t have.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice softened. “You know she likes you too, right?”

His head shot up, eyes wide. “What?”

Hermione just smiled knowingly, gathering her books. “You really are hopeless.”

Oh, baby, I am a wreck when I'm without you

I need you here to stay

I broke all my bones that day I found you

Crying at the lake

Was it something I said to make you feel like you're a burden?

Oh, and if I could take it all back

I swear that I would pull you from the tide

Harry was going to make a hole in the floor with how hard his foot was tapping. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud echoed under the Gryffindor meal table, matching the frantic beat of his heart.

“Blimey, Harry, you’re shaking the whole table,” Ron muttered, tossing down his chicken wings with a huff.

Harry barely heard him. His knee bounced faster, hands gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “Where is she?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant.

Ron blinked, confused. “Who—oh. Her.” He sighed, a look of knowing overtaking his face “Mate, you’ve got to calm down—”

“I can’t find her.” Hermione’s voice cut through, sudden and breathless as she appeared behind him, cheeks flushed from running. Her eyes were wide with worry.

Harry shot to his feet so fast he rattled the long bench under him. “What do you mean, you can’t find her?”

“She’s not in dorm, not in the common room, not even in the library—”

“The library?” Harry’s voice came out sharper than he intended, panic rising like a wave in his chest. “She always goes to the library when she wants to be alone—”

“That’s what I thought!” Hermione interrupted, her tone strained. “But she’s not there. I even checked by the greenhouses and—”

The lake.

The thought struck him like a Bludger to the ribs. Before Hermione could finish, he was already running.

“Harry, wait—!” she called after him, but her voice faded as he tore through the corridors.

He was already running.

He tore through the castle corridors, heart pounding so hard it hurt, his breath coming out in ragged bursts. The chatter from the Great Hall faded behind him as his feet pounded against the stone floor, carrying him through the courtyard and out into the sharp, cold air.

The world outside was silver and still, the moon glinting off the Black Lake, rippling like glass. And there, near the edge, just where he feared you’d be, was you.

You sat curled in on yourself, arms wrapped around your knees, your reflection trembling on the dark surface of the water.

Harry slowed, chest heaving, his throat burning from the sprint. His heart didn’t calm, it only ached harder at the sight of you.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, careful not to startle you.

You turned, eyes glassy and red from crying. You tried to wipe them, to pretend you hadn’t been. “Harry? What—uh, what are you doing here?”

He froze, caught off guard, his face flushing pink. “I, uh—was just… wandering, you know. Found you here.”

You gave him a look, one that said you didn’t buy that for a second, before patting the damp grass beside you.

Harry hesitated only a heartbeat before sitting down. The grass was cold and wet beneath his palms, the air thick with that quiet kind of stillness that made every word feel too loud.

 The moonlight painted your face in soft silver, and for a moment, Harry thought he might actually forget how to breathe. You were heartbreak and beauty tangled together, and he didn’t know what to do with the way that made him feel.

You drew your knees closer to your chest, looking out over the lake. “It’s peaceful here,” you murmured, voice fragile, like a whisper that could shatter. “No one expects anything from you. No one’s asking questions.”

Harry’s chest tightened. “Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes tracing the silver ripples across the water. “I know what that feels like.”

“Two sides of the same coin, aren’t we?”

Your voice was soft, but it carried, quiet, honest, and far too true.

Harry didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. You both knew.

The legacy of your parents hung over you like twin shadows. His as the Boy Who Lived, son of heroes, the world’s reluctant savior. Yours, as the girl who shouldn’t have lived at all, the daughter of a murderer. An alleged murderer, you reminded yourself, though the whisper never seemed to hold up against the weight of a surname like yours.

In him, they saw salvation. In you, they saw devastation.

Opposite evils, carved from the same cruel stone,  both of you defined by what came before, by choices that were never your own.

And yet, somehow, you were bound together by it.

Because wherever a Potter went, a Black was never far behind.

“It’s almost like a curse.”

The words slipped out of you before you could stop them. You looked down, fingers knotting in the grass. “I love my dad, Harry, I do, but Merlin, it would be so much easier if he wasn’t.” A shaky laugh escaped you, sharp and fragile. “That’s horrible, isn’t it?”

Harry turned to look at you, really look, the way your fingers twisted a blade of grass until it nearly snapped, the faint tremor in your jaw as you stared out over the lake, pretending not to care. The moonlight traced the curve of your cheek, catching on the tear you tried to blink away.

“It’s not horrible,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Nothing you could ever do is horrible.”

“And you might be the only person to think that,” you muttered, voice edged with bitter sarcasm. “I’m a Black, remember?”

His throat went dry. His heart clenched at the weight in your words, the years of inherited blame and expectation carried in a single name.

“You know,” he said finally, voice low, “I never thought of you that way.”

“That’s sweet Harry, but literally everyone else does.”

“Not everyone,” he countered quickly. “Not Ron, or Hermione. Neville doesn’t. Dean definitely doesn’t. Literally any of the Weasleys—oh, and Luna, obviously—”

You snorted, cutting him off. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

“Anyway,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “I mean… I don’t think of you as your name. Or what people say you’re supposed to be. You’re just—”

He stopped, the words catching in his throat before he could pull them back.

You turned to him, one brow arched in quiet amusement. “Just what?”

“Just you,” he said at last, softer now, eyes flicking toward the water. “And that’s… enough.”

The night seemed to hold its breath. The water shimmered with reflected starlight, and for the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe you weren’t drowning.

“Sometimes,” you murmured, gaze falling back to the lake, “I wish I could believe that.”

Harry’s eyes lingered on you, the moonlight catching in his glasses. “I believe it,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I always have.”

“Not always,” you murmured, turning to meet his gaze. “Why did you really come out here?”

Harry’s face flushed, and he ran a hand through his hair, fumbling for words. “I—I mean… frankly, I was—god—I’m a wreck without you.” His brows furrowed, searching your eyes. “Wait… what do you mean, not always?”

You let out a shaky breath, your voice barely above a whisper. “Come on, Harry, be real. When you were told that lie about my dad in third year… I became nothing more than a burden to you—”

“A burden?!” he cut in, disbelief flashing across his face.

But you pushed on, the words spilling before you could stop them. “And I understood, truly I did. I didn’t hold it against you, but Godric, Harry…” You swallowed hard, voice breaking around the edges. “It really hurt.”

You froze when Harry’s hands wrapped around yours, trembling just enough to betray the storm beneath his skin. He moved to his knees in front of you, the grass damp and cold, the moonlight spilling over the two of you like it was trying to soften the edges of everything sharp.

His voice was low, raw in a way that made your chest ache. “You have never, not once, been a burden to me.” He shook his head, eyes locked on yours, desperation threading through every syllable. “And Merlin, I’d give anything, anything, to take back the fact I made you feel like you were.”

You stared at him, the night pressing close and quiet around you. His grip tightened when you tried to pull your hands back, not forceful, just pleading.

“Harry—”

“No,” he said, voice cracking. “You don’t get it. When I thought I’d lost you that year—when I thought I’d actually pushed you away, I couldn’t breathe.” His eyes glimmered in the moonlight, green and unbearably earnest. “I didn’t know what to do with myself, because everything, everything, felt wrong without you there.”

You blinked, the world narrowing until it was just him, the warmth of his hands around yours, the sound of his heartbeat somewhere between you. “You really mean that?” you whispered, afraid the question might shatter if you spoke it any louder.

“With all I am,” he breathed. Then, softer, as if the night itself wasn’t meant to hear it, “And whenever you start feeling like that, love, like you’re drowning—” His hand rose hesitantly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than they should have. “I’ll always be here to pull you from the tide.”

'Cause there is something, and there is nothing

There is nothing in between

And in my eyes, there is a tiny dancer

Watching over me, he's singing

"She's a, she's a lady, and I am just a boy"

He's singing, "She's a, she's a lady, and I am just a line without a hook

The Gryffindor common room was empty when Harry found himself awake again, too early for dawn, too late for rest. The fire had burned low, embers glowing faintly like half-remembered stars. He sat slouched on the couch, elbows on his knees, his glasses lying forgotten on the table beside him.

There was a stillness to the castle at this hour, the kind that made you notice everything, the faint pop of the dying fire, the whisper of wind against the windows, and the echo of a laugh that wasn’t really there.

Your laugh.

He could still hear it sometimes. It lived in the quiet corners of his memory, stubborn and soft, curling through him like smoke.

There is something, he thought bitterly, staring into the flames. And there is nothing. And somehow, you had always been both.

He ran a hand through his hair, the exhaustion in his bones giving way to something deeper, something that hummed in his chest like a song he didn’t know the words to.

He remembered the way you’d looked at the lake, moonlight tangled in your hair, tears drying on your cheeks. The way you’d smiled when he said he’d pull you from the tide. The way it had nearly undone him.

A soft whisper of his name snapped him back to the present.

He looked up, and there you were.

Barefoot, drowning in an oversized sleep shirt that hung off one shoulder, curls sticking up in every direction, sleep still clinging to your lashes. The faint glow of the embers painted your skin in gold and shadow, and Harry thought, hopelessly, that he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

His brain lagged a few seconds behind his heart. “What are you doing up?” he managed, voice rough.

You blinked at him, suppressing a yawn. “What are you doing up?” you countered softly, padding over to the couch before sinking down beside him. The cushion dipped under your weight, your knees brushing his. You smelled faintly of lavender, apple, cinnamon, and parchment, like you usually did and it made his chest ache.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said after a pause, eyes flicking back to the fire.

“Me neither,” you murmured. “Too quiet.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “It’s always too quiet without you.”

You looked over at him, startled by the honesty in his tone. The firelight flickered across his face, catching the green in his eyes, the same eyes that had seen too much, fought too hard, and somehow still softened when they found you.

You smiled faintly, curling your legs beneath you. “You’re terrible at subtlety, you know that?”

He gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Yeah. I’ve been told.”

It was silent for a long moment, you shivered pulling out your wand muttering a quick spell to help the fire.

Harry felt like he should pull you closer, not for any particular reason. Yeah, just to warm you up– 

Harry froze. ironic

For half a second, his brain completely stopped working. Then, slowly, carefully, he exhaled.

Your head was on his shoulder. Your head. On his shoulder.

He could feel the warmth of you through the thin fabric of his shirt, the soft rhythm of your breathing brushing against his neck. Every thought in his head scattered like startled birds, replaced by the steady, dizzying awareness of you.

You murmured something, too quiet for him to catch, and shifted just slightly, nestling closer as though it were the most natural thing in the world. His pulse jumped.

“Comfortable?” he asked, trying for casual but sounding completely wrecked instead.

“Mhm,” you hummed, already halfway to sleep. “Don’t move.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him, barely a breath. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

The fire crackled, painting the room in flickering orange and gold. Outside, the wind whispered through the castle walls, but here, everything was still.

Harry pulled out his wand, muttering a small incantation under his breath. A familiar tune filled the air, soft and slow, the kind of song that lived somewhere between memory and dream.

Your eyes widened, the tiredness in them replaced by something lighter, brighter. “You remembered,” you whispered, a sleepy smile curling at your lips.

“’Course I did,” he murmured, trying to sound casual, but his heart stuttered all the same.

You looked at him then, really looked, and he knew that look. The one that made time feel slower, the one that undid him completely.

“It’s late, love,” he said quietly, hoping the words might steady his pulse.

But you were already standing, fingers curling around his as you tugged him to his feet, your grin small but unstoppable.

“Then dance with me before morning finds us.”

His protest never stood a chance.

You were already swaying to the faint rhythm, bare feet brushing against the worn rug, your fingers laced loosely with his. Harry followed without thinking, because when it came to you, he always did.

The melody filled the common room, low and tender, wrapping around the two of you like warmth made sound. Your head found his chest, just above his heartbeat, and he prayed you couldn’t hear how fast it was.

You were chest to chest, breath mingling, the space between you charged with something fragile and infinite. The stars outside couldn’t compete with the ones reflected in your eyes. It was soft, pure, and utterly unmistakable love, in its quietest form.

“See?” you murmured after a while, your voice barely above the crackle of the fire. “You’re not as bad a dancer as you think.”

He smiled, the kind of small, private smile he only ever wore around you. “That’s ‘cause you’re doing all the work.”

You tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes, the firelight glinting gold in them. “Maybe. But you’re still here.”

The words landed somewhere deep in his chest impossible to ignore.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

With every word spoken you both seemed to move closer until there was barely a breath between you, until wanting turned into inevitability. His voice came out low, almost trembling, eyes flicking from yours lips and your eyes. “Can I?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Please.”

And the world exhaled when he kissed you.

It started slow, tentative, trembling, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to. Each brush of lips, each flicker of breath, carried years of unspoken words and secret glances. Then it deepened, urgent and consuming, a clash of mouths and hearts where tongue and teeth met in a perfect, chaotic rhythm. It was a kiss not just of love, but of devotion, understanding, and the ache of waiting too long. 

Neither of you noticed the two figures standing on the staircase above, the fiery-haired boy and the brown-eyed girl watching in stunned silence from the shadowed balcony.

Hermione’s voice was quiet but full of certainty. “She’s a lady,” she murmured knowingly.

Ron exhaled, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “And he’s just a boy.”

“Pansy Parkinson is a bitch.” Harry says one day in the Great Hall. Their Eighth Year, in Ron’s opinion, has been great. Except for one tiny detail: Harry no longer has to worry about a constantly looming threat to his life. This is great and all, but it’s resulted in Harry deciding to now put that energy into never shutting the fuck up about Malfoy.

“And why’s that?” 

“Why’s she always sitting so close to Malfoy? What are they doing?” 

“I think they’re just sitting there, mate,” Ron says. Even though the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables were on the opposite ends of the Great Hall, there was an unspoken rule that no one sat in the eyeline directly between Harry and Malfoy (to avoid their death glaring), giving Ron the same view Harry had- which was of Parkinson leaning on Malfoy while they talked to Zabini and Nott. 

“I think… I think they’re plotting something.” Harry proclaims, glaring at the Slytherins casually eating breakfast. Ron looks around for any support because it is far too early in the morning to deal with this alone. Not a single person is even remotely fazed by Harry’s claim, except for Dean, who raises his eyebrows and gives him a ‘well, he’s your best friend’ look.

Ron runs a hand over his face. Every. Fucking. Day. It’s either ‘He’s so posh and annoying. He’s definitely doing it to piss me off. Right, Ron?’ or ‘I think he’s looking at me. You think he’s looking at me?’ and Ron is moments away from losing it. 

Ron knows that he might have the emotional intelligence of a fish, but even he knows what’s happening. He’s fairly sure the entirety of Gryffindor knows, judging by how no one gives a shit anymore. Even Malfoy has stopped caring, but Ron swears he likes the attention. 

“They might be dating, Harry,” Hermione says, idly.

“Dating? Dating? They’re not dating.” Harry says, quickly and confidently. Ron is trying very hard not to laugh while Hermione just looks at Harry pitifully. 

“Really?” Hermione asks.

“Why would they be dating? She’s not even his type!” Harry says, hitting the table with his hand, some cutlery loudly clattering. Neville shoots them a concerned look, but Ron mutters ‘Malfoy’ to him under his breath, and he nods understandingly. 

“Harry, mate, you’re scaring the First Years.”

“She’s feeding him the pears! He hates pears! I can’t believe it! What do you think he’s up to, Ron? Ron?” Harry says, his arm dramatically pointing at Malfoy and Parkinson. Ron considers banging his head into the table, but decides against it. 

Ron then gets a terrifying vision. This continuing after Hogwarts. Both of them in Auror training, and Harry skipping classes to stalk Malfoy. Having to stare at Malfoy in the Ministry cafeteria. Being forced to eavesdrop on his conversations. Ron could see it now, forced to spend years of his life enduring this.

“She’s touching his hair! Do you see that, Ron? Do you see that?” Harry says, nearly jumping up and out of his chair. Ron is about to tell him the shut the fuck up before he throws something at him, but Dean comes to his rescue. 

“Can you both just snog each other already? We all know you want to.” He says, loud enough that some people from the other House tables hear. Ron can’t help but grin into his food, knowing it was only a matter of time before it got to Malfoy, and Harry, for once, didn’t comment on the smirk on Malfoy’s face when it did.

part 2