The Slytherin common room was steeped in its usual evening haze, emerald shadows licking up the stone walls and firelight casting golden flickers across green velvet and black marble. Most students had either gone to bed or tucked themselves away in the corners, leaving the long sofa by the fireplace to two particular figures. Barty Crouch Jr. lounged with one leg hooked lazily over the armrest, twirling his wand between his fingers, eyes half-lidded with boredom. Evan Rosier sat beside him, one arm draped over the back of the couch, swirling his glass of firewhisky with a slow, deliberate motion that matched the sly curl of his mouth.

“Tell me you’re not dying of boredom,” Evan said at last, breaking the heavy silence.

Barty didn’t look up from the flickering fire he’d been shaping into warped figures with his wand. “Bored is too kind. I’m about two seconds from cursing Mulciber just to watch him squeal.”

Evan’s smirk deepened as his gaze slid lazily across the room, catching on something — or rather, someone. “What about her?”

Barty’s eyes followed the line of his sight and landed on you, seated alone at a table near the far wall. Your hair fell forward as you leaned over your parchment, quill moving quickly, expression fixed in the kind of focus that shut out the rest of the world. You didn’t glance up when a group of noisy students entered; you didn’t seem to notice the rest of the room at all.

Barty scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You? Get her? Not a chance.”

“Oh?” Evan’s eyebrow arched, and he leaned back with the ease of a man who never doubted himself. “I could have her at my feet before the end of term.”

“You’d never get close enough,” Barty said, a dangerous smile creeping across his lips now. “She’s mine first.”

The air between them seemed to tighten, and though neither said the word, the bet was struck. No rules, no mercy. The prize was you. And neither of them yet realised that they were both already a little too interested for this to be a harmless game.

It started with Evan. He approached you like a shadow slipping into your periphery, always present without quite intruding. Leaning against the doorway you happened to pass through, making an offhand remark about your hair or the way you chewed the end of your quill when deep in thought, his tone just light enough to make you wonder if it was a compliment or an insult. He’d hover beside your desk in the library, his hand brushing yours when he reached for a book, his smirk lingering like a secret.

Barty’s approach was sharper. He wouldn’t waste time on casual chatter — he’d slide into the seat opposite you in the library without asking, setting down his own books with a quiet authority that made you acutely aware of his presence. His compliments, when they came, were rare but potent, like knives slipped between your ribs. He looked at you like he was cataloguing every move you made, like you were a puzzle he’d already decided to solve.

You weren’t oblivious. Two of the most dangerous boys in Slytherin orbiting closer and closer to you? Not exactly subtle. But you didn’t shy from it. You matched Evan’s teasing with cool wit, met Barty’s intensity with a steady gaze of your own. If they wanted a game, you’d make sure they didn’t see you playing until it was far too late.

The first time Evan caught you truly off guard was during a storm. You were hurrying down a deserted corridor when a crack of thunder rattled the windows, making you jump. A hand caught your wrist, pulling you into the shadows of an alcove before you could react. “Wouldn’t want you getting wet,” he murmured, eyes glinting in the dim light, his voice warm despite the storm. You pulled back with a half-smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your pulse race.

Barty’s turn came days later, finding you in the empty Quidditch stands with your notes spread beside you, the soft drizzle making your hair cling to your cheeks. He stood there for a long moment, silent, before saying, “Rosier’s wasting your time,” and walking away before you could think of a response. The words haunted you longer than you wanted to admit.

One late night, your suspicions crystallised into certainty. You were on your way back from the library when voices reached you from around the corner, low but heated.

“Face it, Crouch, she likes me better,” Evan was saying, smug and amused.

“You’re delusional,” Barty’s voice was razor-sharp. “She’s using you to get to me.”

The cold truth slid into place — a bet, a challenge, your heart as the prize. You should have been furious, and yet a slow, dark smile tugged at your lips as an idea bloomed. Instead of confronting them, you stepped into the corridor with perfect calm, offering each of them a faint smile as you passed. “Evening,” you said softly, leaving them both watching you go.

From then on, you made yourself the dealer in their game. You let them both believe they were winning — lingering touches, glances that could be read as accidental, words that could mean everything or nothing. You gave Evan enough to keep him chasing, enough for Barty to feel he was the only one who saw the real you. And you watched, fascinated, as their rivalry shifted into something more dangerous, their eyes holding a hunger that had nothing to do with competition anymore.

The night before the end of term, the common room was nearly empty. You sat by the fire, reading, when you sensed them — Barty on one side, Evan on the other, their presence like a storm rolling in.

“So,” you murmured without looking up, “which of you is going to tell me about the little bet?”

Silence, heavy and sharp. Then Evan’s voice, low. “You knew?”

“Since the beginning.” You closed your book slowly, meeting both of their eyes with a slow, dangerous smile. “And I let you think you were winning.”

Barty’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. Evan swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. You expected one of them to walk away, to throw up the pretence. Instead, Barty stepped closer until your back pressed lightly against the armrest of the sofa, his voice curling into your ear.

“You think you’re walking away from us now?”

Evan’s voice was low, the kind of quiet that made your skin prickle. Before you could take a single step, his fingers caught your chin, tilting your face toward his until there was nowhere else to look. His smile wasn’t kind — it was a warning, sharp and certain. “No, sweetheart. The game’s over. You’re ours.”

Barty stood just behind you, close enough that the air was saturated with him. His chest brushed your back when he leaned in, his breath hot at your ear. “You’ve been fun to chase,” he drawled, his voice a lazy knife-edge. “But you really thought you’d get away? After everything?”

It wasn’t rivalry anymore. That dangerous tension between them had shifted, solidified into something worse — not enemies, not competitors, but co-conspirators. And you were the prize they’d decided to claim together.

Barty’s hand slid from your waist down to your hip, his grip firm enough to keep you exactly where you stood. Evan didn’t move away either; he leaned in closer until the heat of him matched Barty’s, surrounding you, pressing in from both sides. Their presence was suffocating… intoxicating.

“You could push us away,” Evan murmured, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he was memorising it. “You could scream. Fight.” His tone was almost playful, but his eyes said he knew you wouldn’t.

Barty’s palm flattened against your stomach, pulling you tighter against him so you could feel the steady, possessive weight of his touch. “But you won’t,” he said, his smirk audible in the dark. “You’ve been playing along from the start. We’ve both seen the way you look at us.”

You tried to speak, to throw back something sharp enough to cut through the haze closing in around you, but Evan’s fingers traced down your throat, his touch feather-light and utterly controlling.

“This isn’t about the bet anymore,” Evan said, voice dropping lower, his breath skimming your jaw. “This is about you.”

The air was thick now, heavy with the electric pull of their focus. Two sets of eyes locked on you, their pupils blown wide, every muscle in their bodies tuned toward you like predators closing the final distance to their kill.

Barty’s fingers tightened at your waist, his other hand ghosting just along the edge of your hip, a silent warning and a promise all at once. Evan leaned in until his lips almost brushed yours, the proximity making your heart pound so hard you were sure they could feel it.

“You’re not walking away from us,” Barty murmured. “Not now. Not ever.”

Evan’s mouth tilted into that slow, dangerous grin, his nose brushing yours in a mockery of tenderness. “And the best part?” he whispered. “We’re just getting started.”

Their combined heat was dizzying, their touch a quiet cage you weren’t sure you wanted to escape. Your body stayed frozen between them, your pulse betraying you with its frantic rhythm.

You could have fought them. You could have lied, denied, pretended this was still a game. But as their hands anchored you in place and their gazes burned right through you, you realised the truth — the bet had only been the lure.

You’d been caught from the very beginning.

And as their grip on you tightened, you knew — with a bone-deep certainty that left your breath shaking — they would never let you go.

Harry Potter has been the thorn in your side for as long as you can remember. Not just because the Potters and your family despised each other, though that certainly didn’t help. Not just because his father and your father could barely be in the same room without hexes being exchanged. No — you hated him because he was Harry. Because every time you crossed paths as children at some Ministry function or school event, he managed to ruin it. He’d spill pumpkin juice on your dress robes, or somehow outshine you in front of the adults, or—Merlin help you—smile at you like he thought you were in on some joke only he understood.

So, the moment you stepped foot into Hogwarts, you declared him your sworn enemy. You’d beat him in class, you’d outscore him in exams, you’d duel circles around him if it came to that.

And yet, for reasons unfathomable, Harry Potter refused to take you seriously. He greeted you like a friend every morning. He complimented your work as if you hadn’t just scowled daggers at him across the table. He even went so far as to save you a seat in the library one afternoon, sliding his bag across from him and gesturing to it as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

You froze in the doorway, staring at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter,” you snapped, stalking toward another table. But Harry just leaned back in his chair, grinning that maddening grin. “Suit yourself. I thought you liked the quiet corner.”

You wanted to hex the smile off his face.

The worst part? He wasn’t mocking you. He wasn’t trying to show you up, or embarrass you, or get under your skin (at least, not on purpose). No — he was genuinely trying to be nice. Which only made it infinitely worse. Because why on earth would Harry bloody Potter, the boy you’d sworn to despise since childhood, ever want to be on your good side?

You slam your books down on the farthest table you can find, quill scratching furiously across parchment. The only thing more irritating than Harry Potter’s persistence is how he manages to be good at everything. He’s not just the Chosen One — he’s the chosen essay-writer, the chosen spell-caster, the chosen bloody Quidditch captain.

And still, he has the audacity to act like the two of you are… friends.

“Your Potions notes were brilliant last week,” he says casually, sliding into the chair across from you despite your very obvious attempts to ignore him. “Snape nearly smiled. Nearly.”

You glare up at him. “What part of I hate you don’t you understand?”

Harry just shrugs, completely unfazed. “You say that a lot. I don’t buy it.”

Your jaw clenches so tightly you’re surprised your teeth don’t crack. “I declared you my enemy when we were children. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been committed to this feud?”

He grins, infuriatingly calm. “Yeah, and I still don’t get it. Our parents not liking each other? That’s hardly a reason to hate me.”

You snap your quill in half. Ink stains your fingers, and you swear it’s the universe’s way of punishing you for even listening to him.

Of course he doesn’t understand. Harry grew up with James Potter and Lily Evans and Sirius Black at his side — parents and godparents who adored him, who raised him to believe the world would always cheer for him. You, on the other hand, grew up in a household where the very name Potter was spat like venom.

You’d heard it all your life: James Potter thinks he’s untouchable. Sirius Black is nothing but trouble. That family will drag the wizarding world into ruin one day. And maybe you absorbed it, maybe you sharpened it into armor, because the truth was simpler: Harry Potter had everything you were told you could never have.

So yes, you loathed him. And no, you didn’t need him sitting across from you, offering Chocolate Frogs, acting like centuries of bloodline hatred could be undone with a stupid smile.

“Go annoy someone else,” you bite out, shoving your parchment back into your bag.

But Harry doesn’t move. He leans forward, eyes bright, voice low enough that it feels like a challenge. “I’m not giving up, you know.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “On what?”

“On making you like me.”

The audacity of him makes your blood boil. And yet — you can’t shake the one question that lingers long after you storm out of the library:

Why on earth does Harry Potter care so much?

You know that tone the moment you hear it — sharp, cutting, carrying through the house like a curse that doesn’t need a wand.

“Potter?” your father’s voice snaps. Barty Crouch Jr. never needs to shout; his words are knives even whispered. “You’re telling me James Potter’s son insists on studying with her? After everything that family has done to ours?”

Your other father, Evan Rosier, laughs — low, bitter, the kind of sound that makes the hairs on your neck rise. “Arrogant little boy thinks he can undo generations with a smile. As if sharing notes in the library erases bloodlines. He’s his father’s brat through and through — reckless, soft, infuriatingly good at playing hero.”

Their gazes cut toward you, and for a second you feel less like their daughter and more like a soldier being assessed.

You stand taller. You’ve heard this your whole life — the Potters are trouble, the Potters are arrogance, the Potters are everything your family swore against. And you’ve sworn the same, ever since you were a child and Harry Potter’s very existence became the perfect target for every ounce of your spite.

So when Harry sits across from you in the library with Chocolate Frogs and easy grins, when he treats you like some puzzle he can solve with kindness, it’s not just irritating — it’s insulting. He doesn’t understand the weight of the history between your families. He doesn’t understand that you declared him your enemy years ago, and that vow is carved into bone.

“I won’t give him the satisfaction,” you say flatly, meeting both of your fathers’ eyes. “Potter can keep trying. He’ll break his teeth on me before I bend.”

Barty leans back, satisfied with your venom. Evan smirks, but there’s calculation in his eyes, as though already considering how this rivalry might one day serve them.

You leave before they can say more.

That night, when Harry slides into the seat across from you again, you don’t even let him open his mouth. “Save it, Potter. Whatever pathetic mission you’ve set yourself on — it won’t work.”

He only grins, tilting his head like you’re the most fascinating mystery in the world. “We’ll see."

You whip your head toward him, ready to spit something vicious — and he’s sitting there, that infuriating smile tugging at his mouth, holding out a Chocolate Frog like it’s some kind of peace offering.

“I figured you’d forget to eat,” he says with a shrug, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

Your glare could cut glass. “Do I look like some stray you need to feed, Potter?”

His grin only widens. “Just thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I’d appreciate you choking on it.” You snap your book shut with a crack that makes Madam Pince look up sharply from across the library. “I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your snacks. And I definitely don’t need you.”

But Harry doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t sneer. Doesn’t even rise to your fury the way you want him to. He just pushes the Chocolate Frog across the table, casual as ever. “Keep it anyway. You get meaner when you’re hungry.”

Your jaw tightens, words caught between outrage and disbelief. You shove the sweet back at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of even touching it.

The absolute nerve of Harry Potter — acting like he can worm his way past a lifetime of hatred with a bit of sugar and a smile.

You storm out before you hex him, parchment half-crumpled in your bag. But the memory of his grin — smug, steady, unshaken — follows you out the library doors like a curse you can’t quite shake.

The dueling chamber smells of candle wax and adrenaline. The floorboards are scuffed from spells gone wild, and the banners above ripple in unseen drafts. You stand at one end of the platform, wand gripped so tightly your knuckles ache. Across from you stands Harry Potter, his stance infuriatingly relaxed, like this is a warm-up, not a match.

“Try not to hurt yourself,” you sneer, wand angled high.

Harry’s mouth twitches — not quite a smile, not quite a smirk, but something in between. “I could say the same to you.”

Your blood boils. You’ve been waiting for this. Weeks of him following you with Chocolate Frogs and faux-friendly quips, weeks of him acting like you hadn’t spent your entire life making it very clear that he is your sworn enemy. Weeks of his stubborn refusal to let you hate him in peace.

Professor Flitwick’s squeaky voice announces the start, but you’re already moving.

“Expelliarmus!” you snap, the spell crackling bright red. Harry deflects with ease, his wand flicking as if he’s been rehearsing for years.

“Protego.” His shield glimmers for a breath, then shatters under your second curse. He staggers but stays standing, green eyes sparking like this is fun for him.

The crowd murmurs around you — classmates pressing closer, eager to see Potter take on the Rosier-Crouch heir. You can feel their excitement like a tide, but you push it away, pouring every ounce of rage into your wand.

“Stupefy!” “Expulso!” “Locomotor Mortis!”

He dodges, parries, throws back spells with a precision that makes your stomach knot. You hate that he’s good. You hate that he’s matching you, spell for spell, as though you’re equals.

Your fathers’ voices echo in your mind: Never let a Potter win. Never give them the satisfaction.

So you push harder. Your wand arm aches, sweat beads at your temple, but you don’t stop. Each strike is sharper, faster, meaner. Harry blocks them all, but his grin fades; his jaw sets. For once, he looks serious.

And then — the mistake.

Your incantation trips on your tongue. The curse twists, warping mid-air, rebounding toward you like a whip. For a split second, you know what’s coming — the explosion of heat, the slam of energy — and your balance vanishes. Your wand flies from your hand, your feet slip off the polished platform edge, and the crowd gasps.

You’re falling.

But you don’t hit the ground.

Hands catch you — firm, steady, pulling you back upright before your knees buckle. You collide against solid warmth, breath knocked from your lungs. His breath is there too, close, steadying, his arm braced around you.

Harry.

Of course it’s him.

He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t jeer or whisper something smug into your ear the way you expect. His eyes meet yours, fierce with concern, his hand gripping your elbow like he’s anchoring you to the world.

“You alright?” His voice is quiet, not taunting. Genuine.

And that’s worse. That’s so much worse.

You shove him back, wrenching yourself free as if his touch has burned you. “Don’t touch me,” you snarl, scrambling for your wand. “I don’t need you to play the hero.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t rise to the bait. He just nods once, the smallest flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, before Professor Flitwick calls the match and disperses the crowd.

You storm out before anyone can see the shake in your hands.

That night, your bed feels too big, too loud with thoughts you don’t want. You tell yourself you hate him. You tell yourself you hate his smugness, his persistence, his refusal to let you hate him in peace. You tell yourself you hate that he caught you, hate that he looked at you like your well-being mattered, hate that his hand felt steady, grounding, too warm against your skin.

But lying there in the dark, you think about what it would be like if things were different. If your fathers didn’t sneer at the Potters’ name. If Sirius Black didn’t mutter about your bloodline in front of Harry. If you weren’t raised to carry a feud like a second wand.

You wonder what it would feel like to sit with him in the library without venom on your tongue. You wonder what it would be like to duel him and laugh at the end instead of storming away. You wonder, for one fragile second, what it would be like if he smiled at you and you smiled back.

The thought makes you sick. You bury your face into your pillow and curse yourself for even letting it form.

You are a Rosier-Crouch. He is a Potter. Your families are carved on opposite sides of history.

And yet, no matter how many times you whisper that to yourself, the ghost of his touch lingers, stubborn as ever.

It starts small after the duel. You tell yourself it was nothing — just instinct that made him catch you, nothing more. But the memory doesn’t leave. It creeps in at the edges of your thoughts when you least expect it.

You see him across the Great Hall and remember his hand on your elbow. You hear him laugh with his friends and remember the steadiness in his voice when he asked if you were alright. You catch him looking at you in class and, for once, it isn’t smug — it’s something softer, something you refuse to name.

So you double down. You slam your books when he sits near you. You snarl when he offers you notes. You snap insults sharp enough to make Ron Weasley bristle and Hermione Granger roll her eyes. But Harry? Harry just takes it, every time, with that maddening calmness.

Until one night.

The common room is nearly empty, firelight flickering against stone. You’re bent over your parchment, grinding out an essay, when he drops into the chair across from you like he belongs there. You don’t even look up.

“Go away, Potter.” “No.” You clench your quill. “I said—” “I heard you.”

That’s it. That’s the final straw. Weeks, months of this — of his persistence, his grins, his unfailing refusal to leave you alone. Your head snaps up, fury blazing.

“Why are you doing this, Potter?” Your voice is sharp, louder than you meant, but you don’t care. “Why do you keep trying to make me like you?! Is this some joke? Some game? Do you think if you wear me down I’ll magically forgive you for existing? Because let me make it very clear: I don’t like you. I hate you. Why do try to make me like you?”

The words echo, harsh in the quiet. You expect him to finally break, to snap back, to gloat or sneer or curse your name the way your fathers always do when his family comes up.

But he doesn’t.

Harry just looks at you. Not smug. Not amused. Just… steady. And then he says it like it’s the simplest truth in the world:

“Because I already do.”

The silence after is deafening.

You stare, jaw tight, throat suddenly dry. Because for once, you don’t have a reply ready. No insult sharp enough, no dismissal cruel enough. Just his words hanging between you like a spell you can’t block.

So you do what you do best. You bare your teeth.

A scoff rips from your throat, sharper than you intended. “Merlin, Potter. That’s the best you’ve got? You practice that one in the mirror?”

His mouth twitches — not a smirk, not quite a smile. Something quieter. Infuriatingly patient. “Didn’t have to.”

Your chest tightens. You force out a laugh, brittle and cold. “Well, you’ll have to try harder, then. Because it’s going to take a lot more than puppy eyes and noble declarations to make me fall at your feet.”

“Who said I wanted you to?” He leans back, lazy in his chair, but his gaze never wavers. “I just want you to see me. That’s all.”

You stiffen, suddenly too aware of how close he is, of how steady his voice sounds compared to the chaos in your head. You grab your quill like it’s a weapon and bend back over your parchment, refusing to let him see the heat creeping up your neck.

“Go to bed, Potter.” “Goodnight, then.”

And when he leaves, you don’t look up — but your hand shakes so badly the ink splatters across the page.

The next morning, you decide your best move is simple: ignore him. Pretend last night didn’t happen, pretend he never said those words, pretend Harry Potter doesn’t exist outside of being your rival.

So you keep your head down in class, your answers sharp and clipped, your gaze glued to your parchment whenever he glances your way. If he sits too close in the library, you scrape your chair back with a screech and mutter something about needing “actual peace and quiet.”

But the problem is — Harry doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t tease, doesn’t gloat. Instead, he slips an extra quill across the desk when yours snaps. He pushes a heavy book toward you before you even realize you need it. He waits a beat longer than necessary when you’re gathering your things, as if making sure you won’t trip over your bag strap again.

It’s infuriating. Because the more you try to shut him out, the harder it gets to ignore him.

And slowly — against every bone in your body screaming that you shouldn’t — you start noticing things.

Like how he listens. Really listens, when professors speak. How his brow furrows in concentration, how his notes are meticulous, almost obsessively neat. You notice how he says “thank you” to the house-elves under his breath when no one else bothers. How he lingers after class to help a first-year pick up spilled ink bottles, not for show, not for attention, but because it’s instinct.

And Merlin help you — you start noticing him.

The curve of his smile when he’s actually amused, not smirking. The way his hair never quite behaves, sticking up in odd angles that should look ridiculous but somehow don’t. The soft rasp in his laugh when he forgets himself.

He isn’t cruel. He isn’t arrogant. He isn’t at all the boy your parents warned you about — the “arrogant Potter heir” who would always look down on you.

He’s… kind. Maddeningly so.

And that terrifies you more than anything.

So you double down. You glare harder. Snap quicker. Roll your eyes so violently it almost hurts. Because if you let even a flicker of softness show, if you let yourself admit what you’re starting to see…

You might not hate him at all.

The castle corridors are cold at night, torchlight flickering across the stones, shadows swallowing every corner. You shouldn’t even be out here, but the fight had started in the library, and neither of you were willing to back down.

“Why do you always do this?” you snap, words echoing off the walls as you whirl on him. Your fists are clenched, nails digging crescents into your palms. “Why do you keep forcing yourself into my life, Potter?!”

Harry’s face tightens, green eyes blazing under the torchlight. “Forcing myself? I sit next to you in class, I try to study without you throwing a book at my head—”

“Because you deserve it!” you cut in, voice sharp as a whip. “You strut around like you’re some kind of savior, like everyone should be grateful just to be in your shadow!”

His jaw clenches. “That’s what you think of me? After everything I’ve done to prove otherwise?”

You laugh, bitter and jagged. “Oh please. You’re Harry Potter. You’ve had the world drooling over you since you were in nappies.”

“I never asked for that!” His voice rises, rough around the edges now. He steps closer, frustration carved into every line of his face. “You think it’s easy? That I like being a bloody headline? Do you have any idea how exhausting it is trying to live up to everyone’s expectations?”

“Boo-hoo,” you spit, though your chest twists at the rawness in his voice. “Poor Potter, life is so hard when everyone worships you.”

His eyes flash. “At least I don’t hide behind hatred just because it’s easier than admitting the truth.”

Your stomach drops. He’s too close. Too perceptive. You lash back, voice cracking under the weight of it all.

“Tu es tellement stupide, Potter! (You are so stupid, Potter!) Stupide et agaçant et… (Stupid and irritating and…)” Your throat burns, your heart hammering against its cage. “Et peut-être que je t’aime bien, d’accord ?! (And maybe I like you, okay?!)”

The words rip out of you, sharp as a curse, trembling with fury. They hang in the air like smoke. You’re panting, chest heaving, pulse roaring in your ears.

But you tell yourself it’s safe. He doesn’t know French. He can’t.

Except—he stops dead. Shock flashes across his face, then something far softer, terrifyingly steady.

“Translate,” he says, voice low.

You jerk your head away, fists tightening. “No.”

“Translate.” He steps closer, every syllable a challenge.

You swallow hard, forcing steel into your voice. “Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”

But then—then he speaks. His voice is sure, clear, devastatingly fluent.

“Tu m’aimes bien. (You like me.)”

The corridor tilts. The floor might as well vanish beneath your feet. He knows. He’s known all along. Sirius Black’s godson—of course he speaks French.

You shake your head, desperate to claw the words back. “I didn’t—”

And then he says it. Soft, final, breaking you open:

“Je t’ai toujours aimée. (I’ve always liked you.)”

Silence. The kind that sears. The kind that leaves you bare.

And for the first time in years, you can’t find a single weapon. No glare sharp enough, no words cruel enough, no walls high enough to save you.

Your breath catches in your throat. The torchlight flickers, shadows dancing on his face, and all you can think is no.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head hard, backing a step away. “You don’t—don’t say things like that.”

Harry doesn’t move closer, doesn’t press. He just watches you, eyes steady, like he’s been waiting years to finally say it aloud. “I only said the truth.”

The words slice through you. You want to laugh, to spit something venomous, to shove him away until he’s just a blur in the distance. But all you can manage is a choked, “You can’t. You’re—you’re supposed to hate me. Our families—”

“Our families,” he snaps, and now there’s fire in his voice again. “That’s all you ever hide behind. But I’m not them. And neither are you.”

The air feels heavy, pressing against your chest. Every muscle in your body screams to run, but your feet refuse to move.

So you reach for the only shield you have left — cruelty. “You’re pathetic, Potter. Thinking you can fix this, fix me, with your noble little speeches. You don’t know anything.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look away. “I know enough.” His voice drops, soft but certain. “I know you don’t hate me as much as you want to.”

Your heart stutters. Panic flares hot in your veins. You shove past him, hard, your shoulder slamming into his as you bolt down the corridor. “Go to hell, Potter!”

He doesn’t follow. Not right away.

But you hear him call after you, voice echoing through the stone, words that chase you no matter how far you run:

“Je ne peux pas. Parce que tu es déjà là. (I can’t. Because you’re already there.)”

You stumble, breath catching, fury and something else twisting tight in your chest. You don’t look back. You don’t dare.

But that night, lying awake in the dark, the words burn hotter than any curse.

I’ve always liked you.

And for the first time since you were children, you don’t feel certain of who your enemy is anymore.

The corridor is empty, torchlight flickering across the stones, but you don’t run. Not tonight. Not from him.

You feel the weight of all the unsaid words, all the grudges, all the years of rivalry, pressing against your chest. And somehow… it doesn’t feel as suffocating as it used to.

Harry steps closer, slow, careful, as if he knows this moment is fragile. His hand hovers near yours, not demanding, just waiting.

You swallow, throat tight, heart hammering like a drum. You don’t speak. You don’t have to. The confession, the truth, it’s already out. You’ve both said it before, and yet… everything still feels new.

Your fingers twitch. You glance at him, hesitating, then finally let your hand brush against his. Just a touch at first. Tentative. Electric.

He smiles softly — not smirking, not teasing, just… soft. Warm. Encouraging without words.

You take another step, letting your shoulder brush against his. The tension in your muscles starts to loosen, like you’re finally allowing yourself to breathe.

“Finally,” he murmurs, quiet, almost a whisper. His hand covers yours now, fingers intertwining. “Took you long enough.”

You huff a laugh, shaky, embarrassed, but it’s real. Your chest aches, but not from anger — from something tender, vulnerable, new. You tilt your head slightly, letting him see the side of you no one else does.

He leans in just a little, and you lean back, then forward, unsure of boundaries, unsure of what you’re allowed to feel. But you don’t pull away. Not this time.

Minutes stretch like hours. Every brush of his hand, every heartbeat against yours, every quiet inhale feels monumental. You realize, with a shock, that this — this closeness, this intimacy — isn’t dangerous. It’s… home.

“You’re really here,” you whisper finally.

“Always,” he replies. “I’ve never left.”

You let yourself fall fully into him then, shoulder against chest, hand in hand, fingers tight. The walls crumble completely. Years of rivalry, hate, and fear dissolve, leaving only the two of you — messy, tender, and impossibly close.

And for the first time, you realize something you’ve never allowed yourself to admit: letting him in doesn’t make you weak. It makes you alive.

You stay pressed against him, shoulder to chest, hand in hand, and for a few long seconds, the world outside the corridor — the rivalry, the family grudges, the expectations — doesn’t exist. It’s just the two of you, breathing in the same air, heartbeats syncing like they’ve been trying to find each other for years.

“Merlin, you’re warm,” you murmur, a little embarrassed, trying to pull your hand free but not really meaning it.

“I could say the same about you,” he replies softly, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “And you know… I don’t mind being warm.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re insufferable. I hate that I… that I like this.”

“I know,” he says, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And I’ve always liked that you fight me.”

You shove him gently, just enough to make him stumble back a step, but your laugh betrays you — light, airy, nervous, and completely genuine.

He catches your hand again, holding it tighter this time, and you don’t pull away. Instead, you let yourself glance up at him, and the flicker of green in his eyes makes your chest clench.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter, voice soft, almost a whisper.

"

Like what?” he teases, leaning just a little closer, enough that your shoulders brush.

“Like you’re going to make me melt,” you snap, though your own voice betrays a tremor.

He grins, impossibly smug now, and you feel your cheeks warm. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I kind of want you to.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth quirks up anyway. You finally rest your head against his chest, letting the warmth and steady heartbeat calm the frantic rhythm in your own chest. His hand drifts to the nape of your neck, thumb brushing your hair gently, and you sigh — soft, unguarded, and completely relaxed for the first time in forever.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, voice muffled against his chest.

“I know,” he whispers, chin resting lightly on the top of your head. “But you like it.”

You wiggle just slightly, letting your nose brush against his collarbone. “Maybe I do,” you admit softly. “Maybe I like you a little too much.”

He chuckles, low and warm, a sound that curls around you like a soft blanket. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’ve always liked you. Too much, probably.”

You groan softly, hiding your face against him, but the warmth that blooms through your chest makes you melt anyway.

Minutes stretch, the two of you holding each other, hands entwined, whispers and quiet chuckles filling the small corridor. No rivalry. No family grudges. No anger. Just you, Harry, and the gentle, messy, perfect intimacy you’ve both been denying for far too long.

And for the first time, you realize that letting him in doesn’t make you weak — it makes you happy.