The Gryffindor common room is warm and bustling, like every Friday evening.

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan are huddled together near the portrait hole, engaged in a friendly debate about Quidditch. Meanwhile, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil are busy braiding each other’s hair by the girls’ dormitory staircase.

“You’re barking! There’s no way they should’ve won!” You hear Dean exclaim, which earns a loud scoff from Seamus.

“Aye, well, that’s easy for you to say, in’t it?” Seamus mutters, glancing over to the corner where you’re curled up on an armchair with an Arithmancy textbook. “What d’you think, (Name)? You think the Chudley Cannons—“

“She doesn’t care about that rubbish, Finnigan!” A voice booms from near the fireplace. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger are seated cross-legged on the hearthrug, bickering over a chessboard. Nearby, Harry Potter sits with a face resembling a slapped arse. Harry’s tone seems to stun the room into silence for a moment. Ron freezes, a chess piece hovering over the board. Hermione’s irritated expression quickly transforms into one of confusion. Lavender and Parvati’s giggling falters before stopping completely. A group of first-year students pause their game of Exploding Snap. The sudden silence is only interrupted by a final, resounding POP from one of the Exploding Snap cards.

Seamus shrugs and turns back to Dean, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “Nutter. I was just asking the lassie a question.”

“Harry!” Hermione squeaks, “what was that about?” Harry turns to her, his expression filled with pure annoyance, even though his eyes remain fixed on the back of Seamus’ head. Hermione sighs, her eyes darting back and forth between Harry’s thunderous expression and Seamus’ rigid back, before settling on you, who sits obliviously in the corner. “Oh,” she whispers, “I see.”

The tension seems to dissipate as Dean and Seamus return to their earlier conversation, although they’ve turned their backs on the room completely. The Exploding Snap game resumes, this time with a slightly subdued atmosphere. Lavender and Parvati’s giggling resumes, but it has taken on a more pointed tone, now accompanied with excited glances directed towards Harry.

“Blimey, mate,” Ron mutters, “s’abit much.” He finally places his chess piece, but Hermione doesn’t seem to be interested in playing chess anymore. Her gaze is still fixed on Harry, whose presence now feels like a looming storm cloud in the room. Harry doesn’t even seem to notice, his eyes stay glued to Seamus with such intensity that it’s any wonder he doesn’t burst into flames on the spot.

Harry lets out a sharp huff, his stare finally breaking away from Seamus and his eyes soften as he gazes at you. “Yeah, well.” His voice is a low rumble which is only audible to Hermione and Ron, but it sharpens quickly as he seems to remember himself, “No wonder. He doesn’t need to talk to her.” He stands slowly, almost hesitantly, and moves a little closer to your chair, though his posture remains rigid. “What’re you even doing?” He speaks in a monotonous, almost indifferent tone, but his piercing green eyes soften when you look up at him. You glance past him, your attention drawn to Ron and Hermione, who have completely abandoned their game to watch Harry’s sudden approach. Harry’s demeanor shifts instantly as he whips his head around, causing Hermione and Ron to jump and quickly turn back to the chessboard. In his haste to avoid Harry’s wrath, Ron scatters chess pieces everywhere.

“Merlin’s beard!” Ron exclaims, ducking his head under a table to retrieve chess pieces. Hermione stares pointedly at the now over-turned chessboard, trying to avoid eye-contact. “Don’t look at him!” Ron’s voice is a strained whisper as he drops a handful of chess pieces on the rug. Harry stands stiffly near your armchair, unable to look at you directly.

“For fuck’s sake.” He growls, staring intently at a crack in the floor. His jaw is clenched so tightly you’re surprised he hasn’t cracked a tooth. Your eyes dart from the rigid Harry to Ron and Hermione, who are now whispering urgently to each other, deliberately avoiding looking at you. Harry taps his foot, an irritated THUMP-THUMP-THUMP echoing as he forces himself to look at you. “Well?” He spits, “You actually reading that, or you just ignoring me?”

You sigh and snap your book shut, accustomed to Harry’s brooding and vicious demeanor. “Not ignoring you.” You place your book on the chair’s armrest. The sudden silence between you is only interrupted by the hushed conversations, the loud POP of an Exploding Snap card, and the sounds of Ron and Hermione frantically resetting the chessboard. Harry’s posture relaxes slightly, and his irritated foot-tapping slows down to a more anxious tap-tap-tap.

“Right. Well… good.” He sighs, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Was… thinking. About going for a walk. You can come, I suppose.” He doesn’t ask, but rather makes a statement. His eyes wander around the room, avoiding your gaze as if he’s anxious that you’ll say no. The foot-tapping seems to accelerate in speed. You shrug and stand up, having to crane your neck a bit to look up at him.

“Aye, fine. Where to?” You ask, which seems to completely stun him. His eyes snap to you, and an almost imperceptible smile tugs at his lips. He shrugs, trying to look casual but the excited energy that seems to buzz out of him betrays him. He nods toward the portrait hole, where Seamus and Dean are still standing and his expression darkens.

“D’no. Just… out of here.” His voice is softer now after your agreement, but there’s still an edge to it. “Could go Quidditch pitch or go kitchens?” He shrugs again, appearing a bit nervous, and pushes his glasses up his nose where they’ve slipped down. “Or… we could… d’no. Go up to my dorm.” He says the last part quietly, almost shyly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

You glance towards the boys’ staircase, then over to the portrait hole where Dean and Seamus are now loudly laughing and pointing across the room at a first-year who has spectacularly lost at Exploding Snap. The first-year is coughing and wiping their sooty face. “Yeah, s’abit loud in here.” You mutter, glancing past Harry to the empty staircase. Harry visibly straightens up, his face lighting up before he quickly schools it back into a grimace.

“Yeah?” He asks, “dorm should be empty.” He glances around the room, his eyes falling upon Neville Longbottom, who is secluded in a quiet corner, tending to a particularly sad-looking plant. His eyes dart swiftly to Dean and Seamus, then to Ron, who is now absentmindedly picking at a thread on the rug as Hermione moves a chess piece, and a determined look graces his usually stern-looking face. “Right. My dorm. Let’s go.”

The walk to the dorm is quiet. Harry leads the way, not pausing on the stairs, but glancing back at you frequently. He pauses in front of the boys’ dormitory door, scanning the corridor from top to bottom, as if expecting someone to bother you both. He lets out a quiet, relieved sigh before pushing the door open with a loud CREEEEAK. He lets you enter first and closes the door behind you both. He then leans back against the door with his arms crossed. “So,” he says with a smirk, “what d’you wanna do?” His eyes are fixed on you, who is standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, then dart toward his messily-made bed. “You just gonna stand there like an idiot?” He mocks, “You can sit down, you know.” His voice is laced with condescension.

You mutter something under your breath as you sit on the edge of his bed, which to Harry, sounds suspiciously like “What a prick.” It doesn’t anger him, but seems to amuse him. He pushes off the door, shaking his head with an almost fond-looking grin on his face.

Looking around the room, the boys’ dormitory is exactly how you’d imagine it to be; still-muddy Quidditch robes strewn over the floor, empty boxes of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans discarded on a bedside table, and some suspiciously stiff-looking pairs of different sized socks thrown haphazardly into a pile in the corner. One bed, tucked into a corner, is surprisingly neat. It’s covered with Herbology textbooks, and a squirming Mimbulus Mimbletonia is on the dressing table. You can safely assume that this is Neville’s bed.

The area around Harry’s bed mirrors his personality perfectly. His school robes are stuffed clumsily into his half-open trunk, likely after a particularly unpleasant Potions class. A dent in his headboard bears an uncanny resemblance to his fist. His woollen Quidditch jumper hangs over a chair, and on the table beside it lies a half-finished Charms essay, with the entire bottom half of the page scribbled out. The air around his bed smells like broom polish and the treacle tart that was served at dinner.

“It’s a bit of a mess,” Harry sighs as he lowers himself onto the bed beside you. His tone becomes slightly sharper as he glances towards Ron’s bed, which appears to have been the target of a bomb. “It’s mostly Ron’s mess!” He exclaims, his tone defensive, even though you haven’t said anything. He turns to look at you, and the tension seems to drain out of him. His usually-sharp features seem to soften, making him look younger. “Sorry. I always do that, don’t I?”

You shake your head, a wry smile touching your lips. “Yeah, you do.” You scuff your feet on the wooden floors, just feeling his presence, however bristly it may be. He chuckles softly, reaching out to fiddle with a stray thread on your jumper.

“Yeah, well. Can’t help it, can I?” He sighs softly, letting his hand drop back into his lap. “I’m a right fucked-up mess.” He admits, pushing his glasses up his nose and running a hand through his messy hair.

Harry is a sarcastic, witty, cheeky blighter and don’t you forget it. A lot of the time he borders on mean, and that doesn’t stop when it comes to sex. Sometimes he just can’t help himself, muttering out cheeky little comments and sarcastic flirting.

“If I knew you’d be getting this worked up, I’d have brought a mop and a towel.”

Harry loves to tease, and he can be merciless. Don’t think he will give in to pleading and begging, he can be quite resilient.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s not always like this. He can dote, be affectionate, tender and sweet too. But that doesn’t come without the flip-side of the coin.

“Godric, look at you. You’re so gorgeous under me. Shame I’m going to have to flip you on your face to get a better look at your arse.”

Harry loves it when you stroke his ego, lapping up every compliment like a thirsty dog. He thrives on it, and loves to know how much you desire him.

Loves to use sex or any type of sexual activity as a way to de-stress. Rough quidditch match? Quickie in the cloakrooms. Particularly gruelling potions lesson with Snape? Scantily clad gymnastic in one of Filch’s broom cupboards.

“Come on, I have five minutes between lessons. Godric, I’m gagging for it. Let me feel you up in there. I don’t care if Filch walks in, most action that slimy old git gets is petting Mrs. Norris.”

Can be irritatingly smug and act like a right prat if you finally give in to him. Constantly parading to Ron in their next lesson afterwards. Purposefully not adjusting his loosened tie and askew glasses just to have a reason to subtly boast.