#hufflerin

You don’t spend your time chasing after Quidditch stars or whispering gossip in the Great Hall. You’re not one for the spotlight, or even the tempting flicker of it. 

Hogwarts is loud, especially in the Hufflepuff common room where its warmth often means a certain kind of chaos; but you’ve always preferred the quieter corners of the castle. 

Windowsills with a bit of sunlight, empty classrooms filled with dust motes and echoing stillness, nooks in the library no one else bothers with.

You exist in a softer space, gentle, unnoticed, and you were perfectly content with that.

You’ve always done well in school — not flashy, but dependable. Your name never gets called out in classes unless you raise your hand first (which you rarely do). You’re polite to everyone, helpful when asked, but you’re not the type people turn to instinctively. 

You’re… background. Reliable, but not remarkable. And that’s fine.

Then there’s Harry Potter.

His world is a whirlwind; something burning and spinning and impossible to pin down. Even if you weren’t keeping to yourself, you doubt you’d cross paths. 

He’s Gryffindor. He’s always surrounded by Ron and Hermione; like the three of them orbit one another tightly, barely leaving space for anyone else. 

His life seems like a constant surge forward — detentions, Quidditch, curses, danger, and the weight of things no seventeen-year-old should have to carry.

You don’t envy him. You don’t idolize him either. You see the exhaustion in his eyes when he walks into class late. The twitch in his jaw when someone mutters The Chosen One under their breath. The way he hunches in on himself when he thinks no one’s watching.

But you are. Watching, that is. Not in a weird way… you just notice things. You always have. You pick up on how people carry stress in their shoulders, how their handwriting changes when they’re anxious. You notice the pauses in their voices when they’re too tired to finish a sentence.

And Harry Potter, you’ve realized, is almost always too tired to finish a sentence.

Still, your lives don’t touch.

He doesn’t know your name, and why would he? You’ve never been assigned to the same group project, never been paired in class, never even stood next to each other in line for meals. If you’ve passed him in the hallway, you doubt he noticed. You’re part of the blur. A face he’s never needed to remember.

So when it happens,  when the moment comes that tethers you to him in a way neither of you expected, it’s not with a bang or a declaration. It’s quiet. Like everything else in your life.

You find him curled up in the Astronomy Tower. Alone.

You’re not sure what made you go there that night. You just needed space,  a break from the common room, from the endless scribbling of essays and the way people kept laughing way too loudly around you. You had a headache. Maybe that was it. Or maybe something else was pulling you towards him.

Whatever it was, when you push the creaky wooden door open and step into the moonlight, you don’t expect to see Harry Potter sitting against the far wall, knees drawn to his chest, fists clenched into the sleeves of his jumper, face pale and tight like he’s trying very hard not to cry.

You freeze. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even acknowledge you.

You could walk away. You probably should. This isn’t your business.

But then, you see his shoulders tremble. Just once.

You swallow the lump in your throat, your voice is very soft when you speak. “Are you… okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes in deeply and lets it out slowly. His head tilts slightly toward you, but his gaze stays fixed on some distant point past the railing.

Then he mutters, “Not really.”

And that’s where it starts.

That’s the moment everything changes.

Not with sparks. Not with fireworks.

But with a quiet offer — a quiet presence.

You sit down beside him, and neither of you says anything more.

You don’t know it then, but this will become a pattern. A rhythm. A strange sort of sanctuary. Not a friendship. Not yet. Not really.

But something close.

And Harry… Harry will start to look for you.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

It’s three nights later when you find him again.

You weren’t looking for him, but you weren’t not looking either. Something had tugged at your thoughts all day, a whisper of a memory of that quiet night on the Astronomy Tower. The way he hadn’t spoken much, just sat there like the silence was the only safe thing left in the world.

You hadn’t expected him to return. Harry Potter didn’t seem like someone who repeated himself. But when you creaked open the tower door again,  half out of habit, half out of instinct, you weren’t all that surprised to see him there.

Same spot. Same posture. Same exhaustion sunk into the curve of his back.

He didn’t look up when you walked in.

But his shoulders eased.

That’s how you knew it was okay to sit down again.

This time, he spoke first.

“Ron and I fought.”

You didn’t press for details. You didn’t ask why. You just waited.

After a minute, he added, “I said something I didn’t mean. He said something he did mean.”

You nodded once, slow.

He kept staring out over the ledge, at the navy sky bleeding into black.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.

You glanced over at him. He didn’t seem to be talking to you, not really. Just to the air. To himself. Maybe to the stars.

“Do what?” you asked.

“Any of it. Be who they want. Save people. Pretend I’m fine.” His voice cracked like a branch under weight. “I’m tired all the time, and no one ever notices.”

You did… But you didn’t say that.

Instead, you reached into your robe pocket and quietly pulled out a tiny wrapped chocolate. One of the peppermint kind you’d kept on you since third year — comfort sweets, tucked away for emergencies. You held it out hoping he’d be interested.

He looked at it like it was a portkey. Something magical. Something kind.

He didn’t say thank you. Just took it. Unwrapped it. Popped it into his mouth.

The silence that followed was softer this time. Not heavy, like the first night. Just… full. Like something understood had passed between you.

When he finally stood to leave, he looked down at you for the first time.

His eyes were red, but clearer.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You told him.

He nodded. “Right. I’ll remember that.”

You weren’t sure you believed him.

But the next week — when you stumbled into the greenhouse for early study hours, cheeks flushed from running late,  Harry Potter was already there.

And when he saw you, he said your name like it was something he’d practiced.

Like it mattered.

Like maybe, somehow, you mattered.

To him.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

The fifth night, he doesn’t wait for you in the tower. He follows you.

You don’t notice him at first. You’ve grown used to your evening walks—wandering through the hushed corridors after curfew, careful to avoid Filch, letting your thoughts settle like snowflakes. You make your way up the spiraling stairs, same as always, your footsteps featherlight on the stone. And then—

“Hey.”

You startle.

He’s leaning against the wall just outside the Astronomy Tower entrance, arms crossed loosely, as though he’s been standing there a while. Waiting.

“I didn’t know if you’d come tonight,” he says. His voice is soft, hoarse. “But I was hoping you would.”

You blink, heart catching in your throat. “You were… waiting for me?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just cracked open something delicate between you. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

You don’t say anything. You just open the door.

He follows you inside.

It’s a colder night than the last two. The wind whips through the open arches, and the moon hangs lower, fuller. You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders as you sit, curling your knees up beneath you.

Harry sits a little closer this time.

Only a little. But you notice.

“I had a nightmare,” he says after a long silence.

Your head tilts toward him.

He’s not looking at you, still staring out at the dark sky, but his jaw’s tight and his hands are clenched again.

“I’ve been having them a lot lately,” he admits. “Some of them are… memories. Some are worse. Things that haven’t happened yet but feel like they already have.”

You nod, unsure what to say. Words are rarely enough, you’ve learned. Especially for grief. Especially for someone like him.

“I woke up in a sweat and couldn’t breathe,” he continues, voice low and raw. “And Ron was asleep, and I didn’t want to wake him again, so I just…came here.”

To you.

The words hang in the air, unspoken but understood.

You shift slightly, your shoulder brushing his.

He flinches, not from discomfort, but like the contact pulled him back to the present.

“I don’t know why I keep talking to you,” he says suddenly, a small breath of a laugh. “You don’t say much. You don’t ask questions. But it helps. Just… sitting here with you. I feel like I can breathe.”

You don’t reply. You just offer him the smallest smile.

He glances down at his hands, then over at you. Really looks this time.

“You always bring peace with you. It’s strange.”

Your chest tightens at that. A different kind of ache.

He shifts beside you, hesitates, then reaches out, slowly, and lets his fingers graze yours, just barely, as your hands rest side by side on the stone floor.

You freeze.

Not because it’s too much. But because it’s new.

That light, tentative pressure of his pinky finger brushing yours, like he’s testing the air between you. Like he doesn’t want to scare you off.

Your breath comes quiet and careful.

And then..he hooks his pinky around yours.

That’s it.

No grand gesture. No hand-holding or pull-you-into-a-hug moment.

Just that small, grounding touch.

“I hope it’s okay,” he murmurs. “I just — needed something to hold onto.”

You don’t pull away.

Your fingers stay linked, light as breath.

The stars wheel above you, and somewhere in the world, there’s a war waiting.

But here, in the tower, in the hush of night, Harry Potter sits beside you, steadying himself on your presence.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

You don’t speak of the tower during the day.

It’s a silent rule. One neither of you ever voiced, but both instinctively understand. Whatever exists between you and Harry in the quiet of the Astronomy Tower doesn’t follow you into the sunlit corridors or crowded Great Hall.

And yet, something’s changed.

The first time it happens, you’re leaving Herbology, soil still clinging to your nails. Your head is bowed slightly, a book clutched to your chest, when you feel it — a flicker of pressure at the edge of your awareness.

You glance up.

Across the courtyard, Harry’s standing with Ron and Hermione. He’s laughing at something Ron says, or at least pretending to, but his eyes are on you.

You look away quickly.

You’re not used to being seen. Not in that way.

Not in broad daylight.

Not by him.

The second time, it’s in the library. You’re buried behind a stack of books, halfway through rewriting your Ancient Runes notes, when you hear a chair scrape softly against the floor. Someone sits a few tables over. You barely look up… until you catch the edge of a familiar voice.

“Do you have any ink, Hermione? I forgot mine.”

You don’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s hard not to when he’s right there.

And at some point, while Hermione scribbles and Ron yawns beside her, you glance up, and there it is again.

Harry. Looking your way.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t nod. He just watches you for a second too long.

Long enough that you feel it behind your ribs.

When you leave the library twenty minutes later, your chest is buzzing. Not with nerves, but with something quieter. Stranger.

Confusion.

Because the thing is… he still doesn’t know you.

Not really.

Not your favorite subject (Charms), or the way you always twirl your quill when you’re thinking. Not the fact that you hate pumpkin juice and love thunderstorms. Not how you grew up in a tiny house on the edge of a field, where magic was always quiet, gentle, and practical,  none of the grand, wild stories the rest of the world expects from witches and wizards.

He doesn’t know that you like reading about magical flora more than people, or that you’ve never had a best friend, not really, and that you’ve always preferred it that way.

He doesn’t know your middle name.

Your birthday.

Your laugh.

He knows only the part of you that exists in the dark —  the girl who waits on cold stone floors, who offers chocolate and listens without asking too much.

And maybe that’s all he wants.

But then, one night,  maybe the sixth or seventh,  when the tower is still and Harry is quiet, too quiet, you ask a question. One you’ve been holding back.

“Do you ever wonder why it’s easier for you to talk to someone you barely know?”

His eyes flicker open. He was leaning back, staring at the ceiling. “What do you mean?”

You pick at a thread on your sleeve. “You always come to me when you’re hurting. But you’ve never asked me anything about myself.”

He sits up slowly, blinking.

“I guess… I didn’t want to ruin it,” he says finally. “You never ask anything of me. You don’t expect me to be ‘Harry Potter’ when I’m here.”

You nod, eyes down.

“I like who I am when I’m with you,” he adds, voice softer. “But you’re right. That’s not fair to you.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, his voice again, low and almost shy.

“What’s your favorite spell?”

You blink.

You glance up.

And for the first time since this strange pattern began… he’s trying.

To know you.

Not just use your comfort as a balm.

And somehow, that tiny, awkward question means more than anything.

You smile, barely.

“Orchideous.”

Harry furrows his brow. “The flower one?”

You nod. “It’s simple. Beautiful. And it never hurts anyone.”

He watches you like he’s trying to memorize that answer.

And when he leaves that night, he says your name again. But this time… he says it like it belongs to him.

Like he’s afraid to forget it.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

It’s raining the night you don’t show up.

Not just drizzling, but pouring. The kind of storm that drowns the castle in wind and sound. The Astronomy Tower windows blur with water, and the corners leak from long-forgotten cracks in the stone. Harry waits anyway.

At first, he assumes you’re late.

You’re never late.

Then he thinks maybe you fell asleep, or got caught in a hallway talking to someone,  not that you ever stop to talk to anyone unless they need help.

But an hour passes. Then two.

And the ache in his chest grows louder than the rain.

He doesn’t realize how much he’s come to need you, not until the moment you aren’t there.

Not until the silence feels wrong without you in it.

Not until it’s your absence that’s pressing on his ribs, not his pain.

So, for the first time, Harry gets up and goes looking.

He checks the library first — your favorite corner. Empty.

Then the Hufflepuff common room, waiting awkwardly near the portrait, hoping someone will slip in or out and he can sneak a glance. No one comes.

Finally, he finds you.

In a corridor just past the greenhouses, under a crumbling arch of ivy that smells like wet earth and bitter roots. You’re sitting on the stone floor, knees pulled to your chest, cloak soaked through. Your face is buried in your arms.

He stops.

Not because he doesn’t want to approach, but because he doesn’t want to ruin it,  the solitude, the smallness of your sadness. He recognizes it. He’s lived it.

Then you shiver.

And that’s all it takes.

He kneels slowly beside you, careful not to startle you. “Hey.”

You look up, and the sight of your face breaks something in him. Your eyes are glassy, lashes stuck together with rain. But it’s not the storm that made you cry.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Why?” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re allowed to fall apart, too.”

You let out a breath that sounds more like a broken laugh. “You weren’t supposed to see me like this.”

“You’ve seen me like this.”

“That’s different.”

“No,” he says firmly. “It’s not.”

He takes your hand.

Not just a brush this time, not just a pinky linked under moonlight. He wraps his fingers around yours, warm despite the rain, steady despite the storm. Your breath catches.

“I didn’t realize how much you held me together,” he says, eyes searching yours. “Until I felt what it’s like to worry about you.”

You don’t know what to say.

So he speaks for both of you.

“I used to think I came to you because I didn’t want to be seen,” he says, voice low. “But maybe I kept coming back because I wanted you to see me. Just… me. Not the Chosen One. Not the hero. Just a boy who doesn’t know what he’s doing most days.”

You swallow hard, eyes stinging.

He moves closer.

“I don’t know a lot about you,” he admits, “but I want to.”

You blink. Slowly. Carefully.

“Why?”

“Because I feel more like myself when I’m with you,” he says. “And I think… maybe I could help you feel that way, too.”

For the first time, you lean in.

And for the first time, he’s the one offering quiet.

He’s the warmth.

He’s the stillness in the storm.

He holds you, not tightly — not possessively — but like he’s making space. For your pain. For your quiet. For your entire, gentle existence.