#h.p.

You used to date Harry Potter. That sentence alone feels strange now—like something you dreamed years ago and only half remember when you wake. There was a time when it meant everything, when your world revolved around the way he looked at you, the way his laugh felt like sunlight breaking through the ceiling of the Great Hall. But now it’s just a fact. Something that sits between you, sharp and quiet, every time your eyes accidentally meet across a room.

You don’t talk anymore. Not even a hello. Not a nod in passing. You both move through the same spaces like ghosts pretending not to haunt each other. When your friends mention him, you change the subject. When someone says your name near him, he goes still for a second—but you pretend not to notice. Pretending has become the only thing you’re good at.

There was never one big fight. No yelling, no shattered glass, no words you couldn’t take back. Just distance. Slow and creeping. One day you were close enough to feel his heartbeat against yours, and the next, there was space—thin at first, then wider, until it became a gulf neither of you could cross. You kept waiting for him to say something. He kept waiting for you to stay. Neither of you did.

You still remember the way he looked at you the last time you spoke—like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know how. Like he was afraid of what you’d say if he did. You said something small, something polite, and walked away before your voice could break. He didn’t follow. He never did.

Now, everything reminds you of him. The smell of coffee in the mornings. The sound of rain on glass. The stupid green jumper you still keep at the back of your drawer even though you told yourself you’d thrown it out months ago. Sometimes you see him laugh with someone else and it hits you all over again—that sharp, breathless ache of we used to be like that.

You wonder if he still thinks about you. If he ever scrolls through old photos or rereads the letters you know he kept. You wonder if he blames you, or if he’s rewritten the story so it hurts less. You’ve done that too, in small ways—told yourself it was for the best, that you were too different, too young, too complicated. Some days you almost believe it.

But sometimes—when the world is quiet, when the night feels too long—you still think about him. About the way he’d look at you before he kissed you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. About the way his hand always found yours, even in a crowd. About the way he said your name—soft, like a secret.

You used to date Harry Potter. And maybe that’s all it’ll ever be now—a used to, a memory. Something that once felt infinite but ended without ceremony. Something you both pretend never mattered, even though it did.

You stared at the message on your phone like it was a curse you didn’t know how to undo.

The annual Potter Foundation Gala. Attendance required. Formal dress code.

Your throat went dry. Out of all the families, all the events, all the possible social disasters in the world—it had to be the Potters. It had to be his house.

You tried to convince yourself it wouldn’t matter. It’s just a night. Just a stupid formal thing your parents were forcing you to attend because “it’s good for business relations.” You could walk in, smile politely, avoid eye contact with him, and walk out. Simple. Clean. Easy.

Except your pulse was already thrumming in your neck, and your brain refused to stay calm. The thought of walking through those doors again—doors you used to know by heart—made your stomach twist. You could picture everything: the smell of cinnamon and polish, the warmth of the fairy lights in the living room, the sound of his laugh echoing down the hallway. You hadn’t heard it in months. You weren’t sure if you could handle hearing it now.

You ran a hand through your hair, pacing. You could almost hear your mother’s voice in your head, crisp and efficient: It’s business, not personal. But that was the problem. It was entirely personal.

You thought about texting him, just to say something like, Hey, I didn’t know I’d be coming, don’t make it weird, but the words felt stupid. You deleted them before you could send them. You weren’t even sure if he’d reply. Probably not. He’d moved on, right? You both had. You told yourself that enough times to almost believe it.

Still, as you stared at the clock, you could feel the panic slowly rising. There was no way out of it. You’d have to see him. You’d have to walk into that house again, smile like it didn’t burn.

And meanwhile—

Harry sat at his desk, staring blankly at the invitation clutched in his hand.

He’d known it was coming. The gala happened every year. But what he didn’t know was that you’d be attending. The name printed in neat black ink near the guest list felt like a punch to the chest.

For a long minute, he didn’t move. Just traced his thumb over the edge of the card and tried to steady the ache sitting low in his chest. He told himself it shouldn’t matter. You weren’t together anymore. He had no right to feel anything about you showing up. And yet—his stomach had dropped the second he saw your name.

He leaned back in his chair, letting out a quiet laugh that didn’t sound like one. “Of course,” he muttered to himself. “Of course this would happen.”

He could already imagine it: you walking through the door, looking stunning, calm, untouchable. Everyone smiling at you, his mum fawning over how much you’ve grown, his dad cracking jokes. And him—standing there like an idiot, pretending his heart wasn’t slamming against his ribs.

He rubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “Get it together, Potter.”

You were just another guest. Another name on the list. He’d say hello—if you even let him—and then avoid you for the rest of the night. Easy. Civilized. Professional.

So why did the thought of seeing you again make his chest feel like it was caving in? Why did it suddenly feel like no amount of pretending could stop old memories from flooding back?

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was just a gala. Just one night. Right?

The car slowed to a stop in front of the Potters’ mansion, and your stomach dropped like a stone. The house glowed under strings of golden lights, laughter spilling faintly through the open windows. You took one last shaky breath, adjusted your gown—the deep, midnight-blue fabric cascading like liquid shadow—and tried to convince yourself you looked composed. Elegant. Untouchable.

Your mother glanced over at you. “Smile, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Remember, this is business.”

Business. Right. Not personal. Not the place where you’d once spent endless afternoons curled up on the couch, not the house where Harry had kissed you for the first time. Just a gala.

The doors opened, and the flash of chandeliers nearly blinded you. The air smelled faintly of roses and champagne, warm and expensive. People turned to greet your parents, smiling politely, shaking hands—but you could feel eyes on you, too. You kept your chin up, every step deliberate, the satin of your dress whispering around your legs. The dark blue caught the light just enough to shimmer without screaming for attention. You looked composed, almost regal.

Inside, your heart was chaos.

You could feel it—his presence—before you even saw him. Some strange, magnetic tension that hummed under your skin, pulling your gaze across the crowded room. And there he was.

Harry stood near the grand staircase, dressed in a black suit that fit him unfairly well, talking to someone you didn’t care to identify. His hand was shoved in his pocket, his posture casual, but his jaw tightened the second his eyes met yours. Just one look, and time stopped.

You didn’t flinch. You tilted your head slightly, a small, practiced smile ghosting across your lips. A polite, neutral acknowledgment, nothing more. His expression barely shifted—just a flicker of surprise, something unreadable in his eyes—before he looked away.

You exhaled through your nose and turned toward the main hall, pretending to admire the floral arrangements. Your parents were already talking to another family, leaving you stranded in a sea of silk and murmurs. You picked up a glass of champagne from a passing tray, hoping it might steady your hands.

You told yourself you didn’t care that he hadn’t said hello. That the stiffness in your shoulders wasn’t because of him, that the ache in your chest wasn’t old, buried feelings clawing their way back up. You were fine. Perfectly fine.

Across the room, Harry’s conversation faltered. He caught himself glancing at you again, his breath hitching at how the dark blue fabric moved when you turned—graceful, fluid, like the night sky itself. You looked the same, but sharper somehow, quieter, as if you’d built walls he didn’t know how to climb anymore.

“Get it together,” he muttered under his breath, forcing his attention back to whoever was speaking. But he couldn’t focus. The air felt too heavy, too charged. You were here, and suddenly the gala felt like a test he hadn’t studied for.

And somewhere in the middle of the music, the laughter, and the crystal chandeliers, both of you were thinking the same thing— Just one night. Don’t make it complicated.

But as your eyes met again from across the room, that lie felt harder and harder to believe.

The Potter estate glowed golden that evening, the chandelier spilling light like honey over velvet drapes and polished marble floors. The gala hadn’t even officially begun yet, but the air was already thick with charm and strategy — a practiced elegance the Potters wore like second skin.

In one of the drawing rooms just off the main hall, the adults had gathered — ostensibly to discuss the new partnership between your family’s firm and the Potters’ business branch. But the conversation had drifted. It was bound to.

James leaned casually against the mantelpiece, glass of firewhisky in hand, watching your parents with a knowing half-smile. “So,” he said, voice light but meaningful, “I take it she didn’t know we’d be hosting?”

Your mother chuckled, glancing toward Lily. “We may have… left out a few details.”

Lily’s lips curved, her green eyes glinting. “Good. I was hoping for that. Merlin knows it’s been long enough.”

Your father gave a low hum of agreement, swirling his drink absently. “You’d think time would make them less awkward, not more.”

Remus, seated beside the fireplace, raised a brow. “Depends on the kind of history,” he murmured, ever the observer. “Some things don’t fade — they just wait for the right moment to resurface.”

Sirius smirked from his chair across the room, boots propped on the table without shame. “So we give them that moment.” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and nostalgia. “Alright then, what’s the plan?”

Lily folded her arms, trying not to smile. “You make it sound like a covert mission.”

“Because it is,” Sirius said. “We’re dealing with two of the most stubborn people alive. They’re not going to talk unless they’re forced to.”

“Phase One,” James began, suddenly all mock-seriousness. “Proximity. They can’t avoid each other if they’re constantly in each other’s path.”

“Assigned seating?” Lily suggested, already picturing the dinner layout. “We could easily put them beside each other. The place cards can be swapped last minute.”

“Perfect,” your mother agreed. “They’ll have to make polite conversation — even if it kills them.”

“Phase Two,” Remus added, setting his drink down. “A shared task. Something small — harmless — but requiring cooperation.”

Sirius grinned. “Like fetching something from the library, maybe? We could conveniently need a specific ledger or old family document.”

“Or,” James cut in, “helping with the charity raffle. We always have last-minute chaos there.”

Lily nodded approvingly. “Yes, something public. So they have to at least pretend to get along.”

“Phase Three,” Sirius said with a dramatic flourish, “the dance.”

Your mother laughed, shaking her head. “You think they’ll dance?”

“Oh, they will,” Sirius said confidently. “All it takes is the right song — something slow, familiar. I’ll bribe the band if I have to.”

Remus looked both exasperated and fond. “And if all else fails?”

James smirked. “Then we move to Phase Four — the accidental lock-in. There’s an old conservatory on the east side. Door sticks terribly.”

Lily gave him a look that was equal parts scandalized and amused. “James Potter, are you suggesting we trap them together?”

“Not trap,” he said innocently. “Encourage communication.”

Sirius grinned wolfishly. “Old school Marauder tactics. I like it.”

Your parents exchanged glances — the kind that held both nostalgia and worry. “Do you think it’ll even work?” your father asked softly.

Lily’s smile softened. “It might. Sometimes all people need is a reminder — a spark. They used to be good together.”

“And if they aren’t anymore,” Remus said gently, “at least they’ll have closure.”

The group fell quiet for a moment, the crackling of the fire filling the room.

James finally raised his glass, tone turning light again. “To subtle meddling and second chances.”

Glasses clinked all around. Outside the door, the sound of new arrivals echoed faintly — laughter, footsteps, the rustle of gowns and the low hum of music beginning downstairs.

Sirius leaned back with a grin, eyes glittering. “Showtime.”

The dining hall is a soft blur of gold and crystal when you walk in. Candlelight flickers across the long table, catching on every polished surface, and you swear you can feel every single eye that turns your way. The room smells faintly of lilacs and champagne, too elegant for how fast your pulse is beating.

You’d done everything to look composed — head high, chin steady, gown flowing like midnight — but the second you spot him at the far end of the table, your stomach twists. Harry Potter. Of course. Sitting perfectly still, his expression unreadable, that same infuriating calm that once drove you insane.

You glance around, searching for your name card. You can practically feel the universe laughing as you find it — right beside his.

No. No way.

You glance at your mother across the room, and she just smiles — that knowing, too-sweet smile that mothers give when they know exactly what they’ve done. You could almost see Sirius trying to hide his grin behind his glass, Remus pretending not to notice, and James busy adjusting his cufflinks like he hadn’t orchestrated this entire setup.

You take a breath, force your face into something neutral, and make your way over. Each step feels heavier than the last, your heels clicking against marble like a countdown.

“Evening,” you say when you reach him, voice smooth but distant. Controlled.

He looks up, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey.”

You sit. The chair creaks slightly, too loud in your ears. For a second, there’s only the sound of clinking silverware and the low hum of conversation around you. You reach for your water glass, anything to do with your hands.

“How’ve you been?” he asks finally, because of course he would — careful, formal, safe.

You glance at him. “Fine. You?”

“Fine.”

And just like that, silence again.

You can practically hear Sirius laughing in his head somewhere across the room. You imagine Lily whispering something like, “At least they’re talking.”

But you don’t look at them. You don’t even look at him, not properly. You focus on your plate, on the way the candlelight glints off your ring, the way your heart still skips when you accidentally catch his reflection in the silver spoon.

You tell yourself you’re over it. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself you don’t notice that he’s still wearing the same cologne — the one that used to linger on your scarf long after you left Grimmauld Place.

Halfway through the first course, someone toasts to partnerships and unity. You raise your glass, polite, and as you lower it again, his hand brushes yours — barely, just enough to make you freeze. He doesn’t move, doesn’t apologize. Just lets it hang there, unspoken.

And you hate that your heartbeat answers before your brain can stop it.

You turn to him finally, eyes catching his. For a second, it’s quiet between you again — but this time, it feels like something’s shifted. The air hums differently.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the candlelight. Or maybe it’s exactly what your parents — and his — planned for.

Phase One, successful.

Dinner stretches longer than it should. The food is good — it always is at the Potters’ — but you barely taste it. Every time you think the silence between you and Harry might finally break, someone interrupts with laughter, a toast, a polite distraction. And you’re grateful for it. Almost.

When the main course clears, Lily stands and claps her hands softly. “Alright, everyone — we need a few quick volunteers for the charity raffle before the auction begins.”

The words barely register until she smiles directly at your side of the table. “You two wouldn’t mind helping, would you? It’s only a few minutes.”

You blink. “Oh—”

“She’d love to,” Harry says before you can refuse. His voice is too even, too knowing.

You shoot him a look, but it’s too late. Lily’s already beaming. “Perfect! The tickets are in the library — James will show you where.”

And just like that, you’re on your feet again.

The library smells like cedar and old parchment, the sort of rich warmth that almost hides the chill in the air. The fire’s low, soft embers crackling. You half-expect him to stay silent the whole time, but when you reach for the stack of papers on the desk, he beats you to it.

“Careful,” he says, pulling a sheet out from under your hand. “It’s not in order.”

You fold your arms. “I know how papers work, Potter.”

He looks up then, one brow raised — faintly amused, faintly annoyed. “Still short-tempered, I see.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Still insufferable.”

For a while, the only sound is the shuffle of pages and the low fire crackle. You’re both standing too close, reaching for the same space, pretending not to notice. Then he leans slightly, trying to read a name off a ticket, and the brush of his sleeve against your arm sends your pulse skipping again.

He doesn’t move away. Neither do you.

Outside, the sounds of the gala continue — music, voices, the occasional burst of laughter — but here it’s quieter, heavier, like the room itself is holding its breath.

You finally find the list you were looking for and place it between you. “There,” you say softly. “Done.”

He looks at it, then at you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “Guess we still work well together.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when your throat’s tight, and the firelight catches his face in that same golden hue that used to make everything feel dangerous.

You just nod once, the barest movement, and step away first.

The noise of the party hits you again as you open the door — laughter, music, warmth — and you cling to it like it’s something safe.

Phase Two: complete. Almost too well.

The music shifted, soft and deliberate, waltzing through the room like a whisper. You stayed near the edge of the hall, glass of champagne in hand, pretending to examine the intricate pattern on the crystal chandelier, but your eyes kept sliding over to him. Harry Potter, standing near the center of the room as if he owned the air, looking impossibly calm. Too calm.

There was something off. Too neat. Too perfect. You felt it in your gut: the subtle way the room seemed to funnel you both toward each other, the small nudges and smiles exchanged across the floor between your parents and the Marauders in the background. Every glance, every whisper seemed orchestrated.

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, tightening your fingers around the glass. “Everything’s a trap.”

Harry’s eyes flicked toward you, just long enough for that instinctive recognition to spark — but then he looked away, pulling a hand through his hair, jaw tight. His fingers brushed the lapel of his jacket, almost nervously, and you thought for a split second he might storm off. But no. He stayed. Waiting. Watching. Like you.

And then your mother stepped toward you with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, a tilt of her head that spoke volumes. “Well,” she said lightly, “we simply can’t have the evening pass without a dance. Harry, my dear, would you care to join her?”

You froze. Your chest felt like it had been punched. The corners of Harry’s mouth twitched — was it amusement? Pain? Or pure suspicion? You couldn’t tell. Your pulse thundered in your ears.

“Yes,” he said after a beat, voice controlled, but that tiny hitch betrayed him. He extended a hand.

You hesitated. Just a second. Long enough for your mind to scream: They’re setting this up. It’s exactly what they want. Your gaze flicked to your parents. Lily was watching with that unshakable glint, James smirking faintly, Sirius leaning back like he was about to laugh at your reactions, and Remus — Remus, always so calm — had that faint, thoughtful frown that said he knew exactly what was going to happen.

Your hand brushed his. Electric. Immediate. You recoiled almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t let go. The faint heat from his palm, the pressure of his fingers against yours — it was subtle, careful, and infuriating.

“Careful,” he murmured under his breath as he guided you to the center of the room. Not a warning — a tease.

You allowed yourself to be led, though every step felt heavy with suspicion. The lights, the music, the very positioning of the crowd — it all screamed manipulation. And yet… your chest was betraying you. Your heartbeat spiked, every nerve ending screaming at you the truth you refused to admit: even if this was orchestrated, being near him felt like coming home.

The first few steps of the waltz were careful, calculated. You matched his pace, each movement precise. But then — inevitably — his hand found the small of your back, sliding lightly along your waist. Not pressing, not demanding, just lingering, testing. Your fingers instinctively settled on his shoulder. The brush of fabric, the warmth of him, made you bite your lip. Anger, frustration, suspicion — and something deeper, something far more dangerous — churned inside you all at once.

“You’re… quiet,” he said, low, teasing, almost a challenge.

“Not my fault if the music is distracting,” you replied, keeping your voice flat, eyes fixed somewhere just past him. But you could feel him watching you, sensing your tension, tracing it in subtle shifts, the way you didn’t relax.

A corner of your mind screamed: They want this. They planned this. They’ve trapped you both. But another, louder part betrayed you: God, it’s impossible not to feel this.

The steps became more fluid, more intimate, as if the music itself was dragging your bodies closer. His hand lingered on your waist — just enough to remind you of the months you had spent apart, of the way he had felt in your arms before. Your chest ached, your legs felt heavier, your heart threatening to betray you entirely. You wanted to pull away, to escape this carefully orchestrated trap, but the second your eyes met his, something unspoken passed between you — recognition, memory, longing.

“You’re not mad at me… are you?” he asked, voice barely audible, closer now than it should be.

Mad? Furious? Suspicious? Probably all of it. You forced a laugh that didn’t reach your eyes. “At what?”

“At all of this,” he murmured, motioning subtly to the crowd, the music, the way your parents’ eyes were fixed on you like hawks. “Seems… planned.”

You swallowed hard, nodding once, almost imperceptibly. “I know. I think…” you trailed off, gaze flicking toward the observing parents, and then back to him. “…they want us to dance.”

A slow, tense laugh escaped him, sharp and frustrated. “They’re idiots. But… here we are.”

The closeness was maddening. His chest brushed against yours lightly, just enough for your senses to scream. His hand, still resting at your waist, held you steady without touching too much, a maddening balance between restraint and claim. You wanted to push him away, to scream at him — but the heat, the electricity, the memory of him all these months… it rendered you mute.

Every turn, every step, built the tension further. The music swelled, but your world had narrowed to the faint brush of his sleeve against your arm, the low brush of his hand at your back, the quiet sighs and soft rustle of your dress as you spun beneath chandeliers that caught his reflection and made him seem almost ethereal.

By the time the waltz neared its final measure, your breath came shallow, your pulse thrumming in unison with his. You wanted answers. You wanted honesty. You wanted to scream that you weren’t playing their game — and yet, here you were, caught in it anyway.

And then, finally, it ended. His hand lingered on your waist a heartbeat longer than necessary. Your hands didn’t leave his shoulders. Your eyes met in silence that screamed everything neither of you could say. The applause, the faint chatter, the murmurs of the crowd — they all felt distant, irrelevant.

Across the room, your parents and the Marauders were watching, some hidden smiles, some barely contained laughter.

“Perfect,” Sirius muttered under his breath, voice sharp. “Look at them. Tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. And they don’t even realize it’s our doing yet.”

James leaned against the fireplace, grin wide, eyes flicking to the two of you. “Careful, mate. Don’t push too hard, or we might actually make them confess something.”

Lily chuckled softly. “Let them simmer a little. The suspense does more than any plan we could dream up.”

Remus, always calm, simply nodded. “Phase Three is exactly what it should be — suspicion, tension, recognition. They’re both too clever to be fooled, and yet… they’re here. That’s all that matters.”

You knew. Every glance, every nudge, every whispered “helpful” comment from your parents and the Marauders had one goal. Get you and Harry back together. And God, it was working.

Your chest still raced from the dance, the brush of his hand on your waist refusing to leave your skin. The tension between you was unbearable, every step, every glance dripping with unspoken history. You needed space. Air. Escape.

“Excuse me,” you murmured, offering him a tight, polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes. Before he could say anything, you slipped past the edge of the ballroom, heels clicking against the marble.

Outside, the garden was quiet. Cold air hit your face, and for the first time in what felt like hours, your heart slowed. You leaned against the stone balustrade, eyes closed, knowing full well what was coming next — the relentless tug of the past, the stubborn ache of unfinished feelings, and the undeniable fact that neither of you would ever just… walk away.

And yet, for now, you had a few stolen seconds of peace.

You wandered along the garden path, heels making soft taps against the stone, but it didn’t help calm your nerves. Every step felt heavier than the last, like the memory of the dance had left a weight on your chest. That touch—his hand on your waist—still lingered, impossible to shake. You scanned the garden for an escape, some quiet corner, a hidden gate, anything that could give you a moment of peace away from the orchestrated chaos of the gala.

Excuses ran through your mind in a frantic loop. A sudden headache, an early morning commitment, a mislaid necklace—anything that could justify slipping away unnoticed. You tightened your grip on your dress, forcing your pulse to slow, but it only seemed to thrum faster in your ears. You had to get away, even if it was only for a few seconds, before your parents or his noticed and pulled you back into their game.

Then his voice cut through the night, calm and teasing.

“Running away already?”

You froze, your stomach flipping at the familiar sound. Slowly, you lifted your gaze and saw him leaning against a stone pillar, his silhouette framed by moonlight. The way the light caught his hair, the sharp line of his jaw—it should have felt normal, but instead it made the world tighten around you.

A tight smile curved your lips, careful and controlled. “Not running,” you said, though the words felt hollow. “Just… pacing.”

He let out a soft, quiet laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure feels like an escape,” he murmured, glancing toward the distant ballroom before looking back at you. His eyes were calculating, teasing, familiar in the way that made your chest ache.

You met his gaze, heart hammering. The air between you was thick, buzzing with the past you hadn’t resolved, the tension the dance had left behind, and the knowledge that your parents had engineered every moment. “They’re up to something,” you admitted quietly. “I can feel it.”

A flicker of a smirk appeared on his face. “We both know exactly what they’re doing,” he said, taking a small step closer. “And neither of us likes it.”

You tried to swallow, forcing your thoughts into order, but the proximity of him, the warmth, the lingering memories, made it impossible. “I just… I need a minute,” you said softly, almost to yourself, your hand brushing against the folds of your gown.

You shifted slightly, gaze darting toward the exit again. The garden path stretched ahead, dimly lit by fairy lights and soft moonlight — an escape if you could just get there. But before you could take more than a few steps, Harry moved too, placing himself neatly between you and freedom.

“Harry,” you sighed, trying to sound patient. “Move.”

He didn’t. His arms folded, his expression maddeningly calm, that faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Can’t let you go just yet,” he said.

You frowned, frustration sparking. “And why not?”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard — like even he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Uh—because…” He glanced around, searching for something, anything, that could sound reasonable. “Because it’ll look suspicious if you leave first. They’ll think I did something.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “That’s your excuse?”

He nodded solemnly, far too serious for how utterly ridiculous it was. “Yep. We can’t have that. You know how they get.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his tone light but his stance unyielding. He didn’t move. Not an inch. His body still blocked the path, shoulders tense, jaw tight despite his easy voice.

“Harry,” you said again, quieter now. “Please. I just need a minute.”

For a second, you thought he might step aside. But then his gaze caught yours — steady, searching, and a little too honest — and he exhaled through his nose, muttering, “You can get your minute right here.”

The words hung between you, stupid and heavy, but the air was already thick enough to choke on. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with rain and smoke, the heartbeat of something old and unfinished pressing between you.

You clenched your fists, forcing your breathing steady, trying to ignore how close he was. “You’re impossible,” you whispered.

He smiled faintly, almost sad. “Yeah,” he murmured. “But you never did leave when I was.”

The gala was infuriating. The laughter, the chatter, the glittering lights — all of it felt like a trap disguised as celebration. You’d spent the last hour slipping through crowds, dodging well-meaning relatives and the occasional too-curious guest, trying to make it to the door without being noticed. You had one goal: avoid Harry Potter. Completely. No eye contact, no small talk, no polite smiles. Just distance.

You slipped past a group of laughing guests, your dress whispering against the marble floor as you moved toward the east hall. The music faded the further you went, replaced by the soft hum of night and the distant flicker of candles. Freedom was close. You could almost taste it.

But you weren’t the only one with a plan.

Across the room, tucked away near the refreshment table, James Potter watched you go — a knowing grin spreading slowly across his face. “Well,” he murmured, swirling his drink, “looks like Phase Three worked better than I expected.”

Lily followed his gaze, her expression skeptical but entertained. “You mean making them dance? Yes, James, forcing unresolved trauma into a waltz is always an excellent idea.”

He laughed under his breath. “You have to admit, they didn’t exactly hate it.”

“James.”

He put his glass down, leaning in conspiratorially. “Alright, alright. Then we move to Phase Four — the accidental lock-in.” His tone was far too casual for the mischief in his eyes. “There’s an old conservatory on the east side. Door sticks terribly.”

Lily’s eyebrows shot up. “James Potter, are you suggesting we trap them together?”

“I’m suggesting,” he said, grinning, “that fate could use a little help.”

Lily groaned, though her lips twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

“And brilliant,” he added. “Mostly brilliant.”

As he slipped away, pretending to refill his glass, Lily sighed, already sensing trouble. “You know,” she muttered, half to herself, “if this blows up, I’m blaming you.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” James called over his shoulder.

And as the night carried on — music swelling, laughter echoing through the gilded halls — neither of them noticed that Harry was already following the same path you’d taken.

You’d thought you were finally free.

The music had long since faded behind you, replaced by the muted hum of night and the rustle of leaves against glass. The conservatory loomed quietly at the far end of the east wing — half-forgotten, half-wild, a place where moonlight spilled through dusty panes and vines tangled through the rafters. It was peaceful, untouched, and more importantly, far away from the noise, the people, and from him.

You slipped inside, the door creaking faintly as it shut behind you. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and lilies, cool and still against your flushed skin. You exhaled slowly, the kind of breath you’d been holding since the night began. For the first time in hours, your shoulders eased, the world around you finally quiet.

But peace, apparently, had terrible timing.

Footsteps echoed behind you, soft but unmistakable. You turned, already knowing who it was before you even saw him.

Harry stood by the doorway, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, the faintest hint of a smirk curving his lips. His tie was undone, his hair messier than it had been when you’d last seen him — and somehow that only made your chest tighten further.

“You followed me,” you said, the words sharp, meant to sting.

He tilted his head slightly. “Did I? Or are we both just hiding from the same crowd?”

You scoffed, folding your arms. “Right. Coincidence.”

“Could be,” he said, stepping further in, the door clicking faintly as it eased shut behind him.

You turned away before he could see the look on your face, pretending to inspect a cluster of ferns by the window. “You can leave, you know. No one’s forcing you to—”

The sharp click of metal cut through the air, clean and final. Both of you froze.

You turned back slowly. “Tell me that wasn’t—”

Harry’s hand was already on the handle, jiggling it once, twice. It didn’t move. He frowned, tried harder. Nothing. The door didn’t even rattle.

“Oh, brilliant,” you muttered, crossing the room. “Move.”

You took hold of the handle and shoved. No give. You tried again, using your shoulder this time. Still nothing.

Harry leaned back, crossing his arms, his mouth twitching in what looked suspiciously like amusement. “Seems like we’re stuck.”

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Do not sound so calm about this.”

He shrugged, the faintest trace of a grin tugging at his lips. “I’m just saying—it could be worse.”

“Worse?” you repeated, incredulous. “We’re literally locked in together, Potter.”

Harry just looked at you — really looked — for the first time that night. His smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, sharper. “You make it sound like I planned this,” he said, voice low.

“You didn’t?” you shot back, folding your arms. “Because it’s exactly the kind of thing you’d do. Pretend it’s all some cosmic accident when it’s actually—”

“When it’s what?” he interrupted, stepping closer. “When it’s just you running again?”

Your breath hitched. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it pressed into the air, filling the narrow space between you. “Pretend you don’t hate me? Or pretend you do?”

You blinked, the words slicing through the air before you could even react. “I don’t hate you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said bitterly. “You can’t even stand being in the same room.”

“That’s not—” You cut yourself off, running a hand through your hair. “You don’t get it. Every time I look at you, I remember everything I’m trying to forget.”

He flinched — barely, but you saw it. “You think it’s any easier for me?” he asked quietly.

“Seems like it,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best effort. “You’re always so—so calm, like none of it mattered. Like I didn’t matter.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I didn’t care?”

“You walked away, Harry!” The words tore out before you could stop them, echoing through the conservatory. “You made it look easy.”

He stared at you — no smirk now, no wall, just something raw flickering in his eyes. “You told me to.”

You froze. The air went still.

“You told me to go,” he said again, softer this time. “You said you didn’t want me anymore. What was I supposed to do — stay and watch you hate me?”

“I didn’t hate you,” you whispered. “I was angry. I was hurt. But I never hated you.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. You could hear the faint hum of the night outside, the sound of your own pulse in your ears.

Harry took a step closer, the floor creaking faintly beneath his shoes. “Then why do you look at me like I ruined you?”

You swallowed hard. “Because you did.”

The words cracked between you, fragile and true. His breath caught; he closed his eyes briefly, as if the confession stung more than he’d expected.

When he opened them again, he was standing so close you could see the green in his eyes, the exhaustion beneath it, the ghost of something you’d both tried to bury.

He exhaled shakily. “Then maybe I deserve to be locked in here with you.”

He took another step closer — slow, deliberate — as if daring you to stop him.

“Harry,” you whispered, but it came out thinner than you meant.

He shook his head. “No. You don’t get to say my name like that and then tell me to stay away.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did.” His voice cracked, low and rough around the edges. “You’ve been doing it for months. Acting like I’m the problem, like if you ignore me long enough, I’ll disappear. But every time you walk into a room—” He stopped, his jaw tightening. “Every damn time, I forget how to breathe.”

Your throat burned. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” he asked, bitter laughter slipping through the words. “Tell the truth? You think I like this? That I enjoy pretending I don’t care when you won’t even look at me?”

You blinked hard, the edges of your vision blurring. “You made your choice, Harry.”

“And you made yours,” he said sharply. “Don’t rewrite it now just because it hurts.”

Something in you snapped then — all the restraint, the walls, the practiced indifference. “You think this doesn’t hurt me?” you said, voice trembling. “You think I wanted to hate you? I tried to stop—Merlin, I tried—but every time I see you, it’s like I’m right back there again, and I can’t—”

Your words broke, and you looked away, your breath catching somewhere between anger and heartbreak.

Harry’s expression softened. The distance between you dissolved in two steps. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“I never stopped, you know.”

You frowned faintly, not trusting your voice. “Stopped what?”

“Loving you.”

It was the quietest confession you’d ever heard, but it felt like the loudest sound in the room.

You took a step back — or tried to. His hand found your wrist before you could, not tight, just enough to stop you. You felt his pulse against your skin, unsteady, echoing your own.

“Harry…”

He shook his head again, eyes searching yours. “You can hate me all you want. You can tell me you’re done. But don’t lie and say you don’t feel it too.”

The vines outside brushed against the glass, the sound soft, like the world holding its breath. You wanted to pull away. You should’ve. But your body betrayed you — leaning in just a little, caught between memory and madness.

“I can’t do this again,” you whispered.

“I think we already are,” he said quietly.

You didn’t know who moved first.

One moment, there was distance — the fragile kind that pretends to be safety — and the next, it was gone. The space between you collapsed under the weight of everything unsaid, every word swallowed instead of spoken, every look that had lingered too long.

“Harry,” you said, but it came out half-broken, half-plea.

He was right there — eyes dark and tired and too full of everything you’d been trying to forget. “Tell me you don’t feel it,” he said, voice low, almost shaking. “Look at me and say it.”

You couldn’t.

Your chest felt too tight, your hands trembling at your sides. You wanted to push him away, to end this before it could unravel you any further — but the way he was looking at you made it impossible to breathe.

“You think this is easy for me?” you whispered, the words spilling before you could stop them. “Pretending not to care? Pretending I don’t notice you across the room — that I don’t remember everything—”

He flinched, but didn’t back away. “Then stop pretending.”

You stared at him — at the faint scar near his jaw, the furrow in his brow, the way his hand twitched slightly like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

“I can’t,” you said. It was barely a sound.

“Can’t,” he echoed quietly, “or won’t?”

Your breath hitched. Something hot and sharp burned behind your eyes. You hated that he still had this power over you — hated that a single word from him could unmake all the distance you’d fought so hard to build.

“I don’t even know who we are anymore,” you said, voice trembling.

“Then let’s figure it out,” he murmured, stepping closer until you could feel the warmth radiating off him. “Right here. Right now.”

Your pulse stuttered. “You don’t mean that.”

He smiled — soft, sad, unsteady. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

The silence stretched, thick and electric. The air between you buzzed like static, like the moment before lightning strikes. His hand lifted, hesitated — fingers hovering near your cheek but not touching. The ghost of a touch. A promise.

Your heart pounded in your throat. Every instinct screamed to step back — but instead, you found yourself leaning in.

The world seemed to narrow to just this: breath, warmth, heartbeat.

And just before the moment could break — before the space between you vanished completely — the door behind you rattled, the sound sharp enough to slice through the tension.

You both froze.

A voice called faintly from the other side. “Hello? Anyone in there?”

The spell shattered. You blinked, stepping back too quickly, the air suddenly cold again.

Harry exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. You both turned toward the door, hearts still racing, neither of you daring to meet the other’s eyes.

Whatever had just almost happened — it was too close. Too dangerous. Too familiar.

And yet, as you stood there in the half-light, you both knew it wasn’t over. Not even close.

The lock gave a sudden click, the sound slicing through the heavy quiet. You stepped back just as the door creaked open, the corridor’s golden light spilling into the dim conservatory.

Lily stood there, one brow arched, trying (and failing) to look innocent. Behind her, James lingered, his expression entirely too smug for someone who just happened to be “passing by.”

“Oh,” Lily said after a beat, glancing between you and Harry. “So this is where you two disappeared.”

Harry straightened instantly, hands sliding into his pockets, his voice calm but too carefully so. “Door jammed.”

“Right,” James drawled, leaning on the frame. “Terrible old hinges. Can’t imagine how that happened.”

You gave him a look that could’ve frozen fire. “You wouldn’t happen to know why that happened, would you?”

James blinked innocently. “Me? No. Why would I ever trap two people in a room together?”

“Because you’re insane,” you muttered, brushing past him.

Lily quickly stepped aside, trying to hide a smile. “Dinner’s about to start again,” she said lightly, her tone far too casual to be natural. “Your parents were asking where you’d gone.”

“Of course they were,” Harry said dryly.

You didn’t respond — you couldn’t. The air outside the conservatory felt lighter, but your pulse hadn’t slowed. It was as if every step away from that room made it harder to breathe.

James fell into step beside you, tone deceptively casual. “So,” he said, stretching the word out. “How was it?”

“Don’t.”

He lifted both hands, grin spreading. “Just checking! Locked doors, moonlight, tension — sounds straight out of a romance novel—”

“James.”

He stopped immediately, though the glint in his eyes said he’d never, ever let this go.

Behind you, Harry’s footsteps echoed softly, slower than yours, and yet you could feel them — like a heartbeat syncing just out of rhythm with your own.

Lily glanced back at him, then at you, and sighed under her breath. “Honestly, you two are exhausting.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because even as the music swelled again from the ballroom and laughter filled the halls, all you could think about was that almost-moment.

The look in his eyes. The words that hung between you, fragile and unfinished. And the way it had felt like the world would’ve fallen apart if you’d just… leaned in a little closer.

You didn’t look back. But you knew he did. And that was enough to ruin you all over again and maybe you would let him.