The Chosen One For Me !! <33
âšž Harry Potter x Reader âšź
≫ After a messy breakup with Draco, the reader seeks comfort with her friends at breakfast. When Hermione teasingly asks who she’s waiting for, she accidentally calls out “the Chosen One,” sparking a long, tense, and wordless stare with Harry, full of unspoken emotions and confusion.
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The corridors of Hogwarts had never felt so suffocating. Every stone wall, every echo of distant footsteps, seemed to mock the emptiness inside you. The memory of the argument with Draco still gnawed at your chest, twisting itself into a knot that refused to untangle. You remembered his pale face, sharp with anger, his grey eyes flashing with that familiar mixture of pride and bitterness, and how, no matter what you said, it always ended with a slam—his hand on the door, the sound echoing in your ears long after he left.
It wasn’t just the fight. It was the slow unraveling that had led up to it: whispered accusations in the library, tense silences at meals, the way he had stopped showing up for things you’d planned together as if your happiness didn’t matter. And now…now there was nothing but emptiness where there had once been warmth, a cold space that even the sunniest corners of Hogwarts couldn’t seem to reach.
You tried keeping busy—classes, homework, study sessions with Hermione—but every time you found a quiet moment, your mind wandered back to him. His smirk when he thought he had outsmarted you. The brush of his hand against yours in the hallway, fleeting yet potent. And worst of all, the words he had left you with, heavy and sharp: “Maybe you’re not worth it after all.”
It was absurd, the way your chest felt like it had been hollowed out and then stuffed with lead. You were angry, hurt, confused, and, despite everything, a little sad. You had loved him once, or at least, what you thought was love. And now…you weren’t even sure what that had been.
Hermione, of course, noticed. She always noticed.
“Breakfast with us,” she had insisted this morning, her tone firm but warm, leaving you no real choice. “Trust me. Nothing heals a broken heart faster than toast and scrambled eggs. And Ron and I can provide excellent moral support.”
So here you were, sliding into the familiar spot across her and Ron, beside Harry, trying to look like your usual self, trying to let the rich, buttery aroma of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon soothe some part of your shattered spirit. You took a bite of toast, letting the warmth seep into your fingers, hoping that somehow it would also seep into your heart.
Hermione watched you carefully, her brown eyes soft with concern. “You’ve been quiet,” she said gently, “since…well, since him.” She didn’t need to say Draco’s name. It hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable.
You forced a small, brittle smile. “Yeah…just thinking.”
Ron gave you a sideways glance, his red hair catching the morning light. “Thinking about him, huh?” His voice was teasing, but his concern seeped through.
You sighed, taking another bite of toast, savoring the butter melting and the subtle crunch, trying to anchor yourself in the sensory comfort of the hall. “I guess,” you admitted, almost to yourself. “It’s…messy. I didn’t think it’d end like this.”
Hermione reached across and patted your hand lightly. “It’s okay. You’ll get through it. You always do.” Her words were comforting, but they were also a reminder that your heart was still raw, still fragile, and still…open, despite yourself.
The conversation drifted for a few moments, casual and safe, until Hermione, ever the curious one, tilted her head and fixed you with a playful, sharp gaze. “So…tell me,” she said, leaning forward, her fingers wrapped around her mug. “Who are you waiting for?”
You froze, your fork halfway to your mouth, suddenly hyper-aware of every scent and sound around you: the sweet tang of pumpkin juice, the warm yeastiness of bread, the crispy aroma of frying bacon, and…Harry. Across the table, sitting quietly with his tea, his green eyes seemed to have a brightness today, catching the light in a way that made your chest lurch.
You wanted to deflect, to brush it off, but the words slipped out before you could stop them:
“The Chosen One.”
The moment you said it, the hall seemed to fall away. Your words hung in the air like a spell, heavy and impossible to ignore.
Harry’s head lifted slowly, his green eyes locking on yours, wide and piercing, searching. He didn’t move, didn’t blink at first, as if trying to comprehend what he had just heard. The world around you—the clattering of plates, the murmur of voices, the aroma of breakfast—seemed to dissolve, leaving just the two of you suspended in a quiet, electric moment.
Your heart raced. You hadn’t meant him. Not Harry. Not in that way. But his eyes…his eyes were all you could see. There was an intensity in his gaze that made your stomach tighten, your pulse spike, and a thousand thoughts tangle into panic in your mind.
“Huh?” you stammered, almost whispering, panic rising. “What?”
Ron and Hermione were watching, though you barely noticed them now. Hermione’s eyes were bright with barely contained excitement, and Ron’s mouth was a thin line, his eyebrows lifted in anticipation. But Harry’s gaze—steady, patient, impossibly intense—held you captive.
Seconds stretched. And then more seconds. You felt the warmth of the sun streaming in through the enchanted ceiling, the faint smell of cinnamon from pastries, the sizzle of bacon—but all of it faded into the background against the weight of his stare.
You opened your mouth to clarify, to explain, to say no, I didn’t mean you, but the words wouldn’t come out. You could feel him waiting for you, and every second his eyes remained on yours made your chest tighten and your mind spin.
His green eyes softened slightly, just a fraction, a subtle shift that made your stomach twist. There was understanding there—or was it amusement? Curiosity? Something warm, something that made your throat tighten and your hands clammy.
You fumbled with your fork, gripping it like a lifeline, trying to focus on the buttery scrambled eggs on your plate, the steam rising in gentle curls, the faint scent of salt and butter. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t focus. All you could do was stare back, your mouth slightly open, heart hammering like a drum.
“Uh…” you whispered finally, voice trembling. “I…didn’t mean you. Not…not the Chosen One.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly, but not in irritation. He was still fixed on you, tilting his head, green eyes soft, patient, waiting for more.
Your face flamed, your hands twisting together in nervous energy. “I mean…the one…for me. The…right one. Not…the prophecy kind of chosen one. I…mean…someone else. Totally someone else!”
For a moment, he just held your gaze. And in that moment—long, suffocating, electric—you realized just how much the world could shrink to just two people sitting across from each other, eyes locked, hearts racing, unspoken words hovering like invisible threads between you.
And you also realized…you weren’t ready to look away.
