harry's lover

reblogging everything hjp related 'cause he's my husband

[rottenherbs]

The Wait

ㆍ H.P x Hufflepuff! Reader ㆍ After years of pining, a yule ball spent alone, and a wall built in self protection.. the painful wait was worth it in the end. ㆍSLOW BURN // strangers to enemies to friends to lovers ㆍ10k ㆍ r/q: @ashdreams2023 ㆍtaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @marianaissocool @pottermagiczz @allielovesstars ㆍa/n: dear god, i know never to apologies for a long fic but.. strap in. Much love, Saige [masterlist]

You should have known your friends wouldn’t let you back out.

The winter sun sat low over the Hogwarts courtyard, glinting off patches of snow that hadn’t melted yet. Students milled about, scarves wrapped tight, laughter steaming in the cold air. You and your little group of Hufflepuffs huddled on one of the stone benches—close enough to the courtyard path to see him coming, far enough away for you to pretend you were not here for this exact purpose.

“You look fine,” Marlene insisted, brushing your sleeve for the seventh time. “You look more than fine,” added Tobias. “Honestly, if you don’t ask him now, I will.”

You snorted. “I’m sure he’d love that.”

“He’d love you more,” Hettie chimed, nudging you with her shoulder. “Come on. It’s Harry Potter. He’s nice! Mostly. Usually.”

“Except when he’s accidentally entered into a deadly tournament,” muttered Rowan, tightening his yellow scarf.

You tried to swallow the nerves tightening in your throat. The Yule Ball announcement had sunk into your dormitory like a spell—everyone buzzing, everyone planning, everyone pairing off. Except you. Except Harry, too, apparently.

And now… now your friends had decided today was the day.

“Okay,” Marlene said, eyes widening. “He’s coming. Look.”

You didn’t even want to look, but your eyes moved on instinct. And there he was—Harry Potter—hair already a mess from the wind, hands shoved into his robes, Ron beside him rambling about something Harry wasn’t listening to. His eyes drifted over the courtyard as though searching for a moment of peace.

Your friends exchanged the kind of look that meant you were being shoved onto a battlefield.

“Go,” Hettie whispered fiercely. “Before someone else asks him.”

“And confidence,” Tobias added. “Confidence! Shoulders back!”

“Stop narrating me,” you hissed—but you stood anyway, your stomach dropping straight through your shoes. Your hands were shaking inside your pockets. You felt ridiculous. You felt brave. You felt like you might faint.

Harry and Ron were nearly passing when you stepped into their path.

“Um—Harry?” you managed, voice wobbling despite every pep talk you’d absorbed.

He blinked, surprised. “Oh—hi.”

Ron gave you a quick smile before catching sight of something on the other side of the courtyard and muttering, “I’ll… meet you inside,” before wandering off.

Which left you and Harry.

And suddenly you forgot every rehearsed line your friends had drilled into you.

“I—I just wanted to ask—um—I mean, if you weren’t going with anyone yet, I thought maybe—well, would you…”

You did not get to finish.

Harry’s eyes widened in pure panic, like a startled deer. “Oh—I’m—sorry—I can’t—I mean—no—sorry!”

He said it fast—far too fast—hands up like he needed to defend himself from your question. His voice cracked on the “no,” and before you could even breathe, he stepped around you, practically speed-walking toward the entrance like the castle was about to burn down.

You froze.

You didn’t even get a full sentence out.

Behind you, your friends watched with a mixture of horror and sympathy.

Hettie covered her face. “Oh my god. He didn’t even… let you finish.”

Marlene winced so sharply it looked painful. “That was… wow. That was rough.”

Tobias hissed through his teeth. “Okay, so confidence didn’t help. Confidence betrayed us.”

You stood there in the cold, heart crumpling faster than you could hide it. You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out thin and hollow.

“It’s fine,” you said weakly. “It’s fine, I didn’t actually expect—”

But you had expected something.

Not a yes. You weren’t delusional.

Just… a moment. A chance to actually ask. A chance to not feel like a complete idiot.

Your friends surrounded you in a makeshift shield wall, ushering you away from the center of the courtyard. But the moment had carved itself into your chest, sharp and humiliating.

Across the courtyard, Harry disappeared inside the castle like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

And you were left staring at the snow, trying not to feel like you’d shattered on the spot.

The worst part?

His panic hadn’t looked cruel.

It had looked like something else.

And you weren’t sure if that made it better… or so much worse.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You did not sleep well.

You told your friends you were fine—so many times that Hettie nearly hexed you—but lying awake and replaying Harry Potter’s panicked retreat left a dull ache behind your sternum. By breakfast, you’d convinced yourself you were overreacting. He didn’t mean to humiliate you. He was stressed, you were nervous… it was an unlucky moment. That’s all.

Still, walking into the Great Hall felt like willingly stepping into a spotlight.

You kept your head down, sliding into the Hufflepuff table beside Rowan, who offered you a supportive nudge under the table. Your friends didn’t mention the courtyard, and you were grateful for that, even if every one of them watched you with soft-eyed caution.

You reached for toast.

You pretended you didn’t see him.

But you did.

You felt Harry’s stare before you looked up—one of those prickling, uncomfortable sensations like sunlight on the back of your neck. Across the hall, at the Gryffindor table, he sat between Ron and Hermione, shoulders hunched, eyes drifting over students as though looking for something—or someone.

You refused to be that someone.

When your eyes finally flicked up, he was already watching you. The instant your gazes met, Harry snapped his eyes down to his porridge like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

Hermione said something to him. He mumbled. She frowned at him.

You tried not to care.

But you cared.

You spread marmalade onto your toast with the energy of someone sawing wood. Tobias leaned in.

“You’re murdering that breakfast.”

“I like marmalade,” you lied.

“You hate marmalade.”

“Well, maybe I’ve changed as a person.”

“Right. Because nothing says character development like violently ruining a piece of bread.”

You sighed and set the toast down. “Can we not do this right now?”

Tobias softened. “Sorry.”

You weren’t actually angry with your friends. You were angry with yourself—for caring, for hoping, for letting one awkward fifteen-second interaction turn you inside out.

Across the hall, Harry kept sneaking glances.

You didn’t meet any of them.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Harry Potter was having the worst morning of his life.

He couldn’t focus on Ron’s complaining, on Hermione nagging him about homework, or on the fact that a school decorated with frost and floating wreaths was supposed to feel festive—not suffocating.

He couldn’t think about anything except the moment in the courtyard yesterday.

He hadn’t meant to react like that. He hadn’t meant to panic. He just… heard a girl’s voice saying his name and asking about the ball, and suddenly every awful headline and rumor about him echoed through his skull. He’d blurted out “No!” without thinking, nearly tripped over his own feet, and then fled like an idiot.

Now you were sitting across the Hall looking like you wished the floor would swallow you.

Ron nudged him. “Mate. You look like you’re watching your own funeral.”

Harry blinked. “What? I’m not—I’m just—nothing.”

Hermione peered over his shoulder and followed the direction of his eyes.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Harry.”

Harry hunched. “Don’t.”

“You could apologize,” she whispered. “You didn’t give her a chance to finish.”

“I know,” he muttered, ears heating. “I panicked.”

“You panic a lot lately.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said miserably.

Hermione’s voice gentled. “Just talk to her.”

But he couldn’t bring himself to stand up. Not when you were surrounded by your friends, not when he didn’t know what words would even come out. What if he made it worse? What if you hated him?

What if you didn’t want anything to do with him at all?

He poked his porridge.

Across the hall, you laughed at something Hettie said—a short, strained sound—and it made his stomach twist with guilt.

He’d hurt you.

And he didn’t even know how to begin fixing it.

You did not talk to Harry Potter that day.

In fact, you spent most of it dodging him without meaning to — ducking into classrooms just before he arrived, moving through corridors full of people, slipping out of lunch early to avoid overlapping with Gryffindor’s schedule.

It felt cowardly.

It also felt necessary.

Because the memory kept replaying: your hopeful voice, and his startled “NO—sorry—NO—”

He hadn’t meant to be cruel. You knew that. But knowing didn’t erase the sting.

You weren’t planning to cry over it, though. You would bounce back. You wanted to, absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent forget about this in a few days.

Probably.

Hopefully.

You told yourself that again on your way back to the common room—until you rounded a corner and almost walked straight into him.

Harry Potter.

Standing alone.

Looking like he’d rehearsed something in his head and forgotten every word the second he saw you.

You froze.

He froze.

Your breath hitched.

His did too.

It wasn’t the moment either of you expected.

And it was definitely not the moment either of you were ready for.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The common room feels different lately.

Not in any physical way — the same warm lighting, the same fluttering Hufflepuff banners, the same cosy beds draped in quilted blankets your grandmother would have adored. But the air had changed. It buzzed with excitement you couldn’t grab hold of, with laughter and whispered plans that wrapped around your friends like ribbons.

Around everyone except you.

Leane sat on her bed, legs kicked up in the air as she wrote in neat curls on a parchment — confirming plans with a seventh-year boy from Herbology who’d asked her so sweetly she’d nearly fallen over. Hettie was rummaging through her wardrobe looking for a dress that “matched her eyes but made her look older,” humming happily between her options. Rowan lay on her stomach with her chin in her hands, reading a letter from her date, someone from Beauxbatons who’d sent a small enchanted hairpin shaped like a lily. Tobias was sprawled out across the floor like a starfish, kicking at your trunk absentmindedly while debating whether to shave for his date or “maintain the charm of teenage chaos.”

They were all glowing.

You were dimming.

And no matter how desperately you tried not to, you felt like the only candle in a room full of lanterns.

“Hey,” Leane chirped, glancing over at you with a hopeful look. “Still nothing?”

You forced a smile. “Still nothing.”

“You don’t… have to wait for someone specific, you know,” Hettie said gently. “You could ask someone else.”

You shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ll just… go with all of you.”

This was met with a chorus of awkward “oh”s and half-hearted protests. They meant well. You loved them. But being the extra puzzle piece that didn’t fit stung more than you wanted to admit.

When the chatter picked up again, you quietly slipped off your bed, grabbed your stack of muggle books from your nightstand, and sank into the windowsill — your usual perch. The glass was cold against your back. The castle grounds glimmered with frost and lanterns. In another life, this view might have felt romantic.

You opened the top book.

A knight’s quest. One of those stories your mum gave you when you were younger; brave heroes, impossible odds, and love that always arrived right on time. You flipped through pages worn soft from years of rereading.

The knight always showed up. The heroine always got her grand moment. The ending always felt worth the wait.

Your story… wasn’t like that.

Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.

Below you, your friends laughed, Rowan shrieking because Tobias had levitated her hair around her head like floating snakes. It was warm, comforting, familiar noise.

But it wasn’t enough to drown out the ache.

You closed the book on your thumb and stared at the illustration of the knight on the page, shining armor, sword raised, gaze fixed on a girl he would always choose.

“Lucky,” you whispered to the paper.

Because your knight didn’t come.

Not yesterday in the courtyard. Not today at breakfast. Not tonight, or tomorrow.

All you had was the faint sting of humiliation, the ghost of Harry’s startled “No,” and the knowledge that he was probably going to the ball with someone lovely — someone brave, someone who didn’t freeze up or stumble over her words in a courtyard.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and tried to pretend you weren’t disappointed.

You weren’t entitled to his yes.

But Merlin, you were allowed to miss the possibility.

The lights dimmed slightly, curfew charms ticking over, and your friends finally began winding down. Dresses were draped over chairs. Schedules compared. Tobias asked if anyone had a spare comb because his hair was apparently “planning to mutiny.”

Someone asked if you were excited.

You smiled.

And lied.

Later, when everyone slept and the only sound was soft breathing and the gentle flutter of the curtains, you opened the book again.

You read about the knight who stayed through storms and darkness, who never ran, never flinched, never bolted at the first sign of fear.

You tried not to think about a boy who had.

You tried not to think about the way your stomach twisted when you caught Harry staring earlier.

You tried not to imagine that maybe — just maybe — he felt weird about the ball too.

The page blurred.

You blinked hard.

And for the first time since the courtyard, you let yourself feel it.

The disappointment.  

You were not going to the Yule Ball with Harry Potter. You were not going with anyone at all.

And that was fine.

It had to be.

You curled tighter into the windowsill, clutching the book to your chest like the stories inside could shield you from your own feelings.

Outside, snow fell lightly across the grounds.

Inside, you fell quietly apart where no one could see.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Great Hall had transformed.

You’d heard people say that so many times you expected it to feel repetitive, but stepping inside felt like walking straight into another world. Frosted garlands spiraled down marble pillars, evergreens glittered with glowing icicles, and the ceiling swirled with soft snowfall that never touched the ground. Warm candlelight shimmered off polished silver and the glassy ice sculptures that lined the walls.

It was beautiful.

You wished you didn’t feel so out of place in it.

Your friends sparkled — Rowan’s Beauxbatons-style dress flowed like stardust, Hettie glowed in icy blue silk, Tobias looked almost respectable in his robes (minus the chaos hair), and Leane couldn’t stop giggling with her date, who kept whispering something that made her blush crimson.

You trailed behind them like a satellite orbiting brighter stars.

“Come on,” Rowan whispered, looping her arm with yours as you stepped into the crowd. “Third wheel or not, we’re dancing first, alright?”

You nodded gratefully. You would’ve clung to her arm all night if she let you.

Until she didn’t.

Because two minutes later, her date whisked her away for a private slow dance “just while the floor wasn’t crowded,” and Hettie’s date pulled her toward the refreshment table, and Tobias practically tripped over himself racing to greet his.

And you were left standing alone.

The music swelled. Students twirled. Laughter lifted like bubbles over the hum of conversations. You tried to look fascinated by the ice reindeer centerpiece so you wouldn’t look pathetic.

It was going to be a long night.

You took a deep breath, smoothing the edges of your dress — secondhand, altered, but pretty. You weren’t expecting to catch anyone’s attention.

Which was why it was so startling when you did.

Harry Potter was staring at you.

Across the dance floor. Past Parvati Patil, who looked stunning in pink robes and was doing her best not to look irritated. Past Ron, who was sulking like a thundercloud. Past Hermione and Krum sweeping gracefully across the floor.

Harry’s gaze kept flicking toward you.

You quickly looked away, pretending to admire an enchanted snowflake sculpture.

But a heartbeat later, curiosity tugged, and you looked back—

Harry looked away so fast he nearly snapped his own neck.

Your stomach did a stupid, foolish flip.

Great. Exactly what you needed.

Meanwhile, the Boy Who Lived was living through the worst formal event ever.

Harry was miserable.

He’d expected the Yule Ball to feel cool, maybe even fun. Instead, he felt like he was suffocating. Sweat prickled under his collar. Parvati wasn’t speaking to him unless absolutely necessary. Ron looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. And Hermione… Hermione was dancing with Viktor Krum.

Harry didn’t even know where to put his eyes.

Well.

Except when they drifted to you.

He tried not to stare, but you looked… different tonight. Not flashy. Not trying too hard. Just, soft. Pretty, in a quiet way. The candlelight made your hair glow, and your dress shimmered like honey, and—

Parvati snapped her fingers in front of his face.

“You’re doing it again,” she huffed.

“Doing what?” Harry asked, ears burning.

“Looking everywhere except at me.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

She crossed her arms. “If you wanted to stare at some Hufflepuff all night, you should’ve taken her.”

Harry choked. “I—what—no! It’s not—”

But Parvati had already turned away.

He really was the worst dance partner on earth.

Back on your side of the room, you drifted toward the punch bowl; primarily so you had somewhere to stand. The cool glass of the ladle felt grounding in your hand as you poured yourself a cup.

A few feet away, you overheard a whisper.

“Why didn’t she get a date?”

“I thought she liked Potter.”

“He said no, didn’t he?”

You stiffened.

Teenagers could be cruel without even realizing.

You reached for a sugared biscuit to busy your hands, crushing the delicate cookie the moment you heard someone say:

“She’s sweet, though. Shame.”

Shame.

Like you were a tragedy instead of a girl in a dress trying to enjoy her night.

You set the ruined biscuit down and backed away, cheeks burning.

Snowflakes drifted from the bewitched ceiling, disappearing before they hit your hair. You watched them dissolve, wishing your embarrassment would do the same.

“Y/N?”

You froze.

Harry stood a few steps away, hands stuffed awkwardly in his dress robes, hair sticking up more than usual, cheeks flushed.

Your heart thudded.

You hadn’t spoken in days. He’d tried to approach you once or twice, but you’d slipped away each time, too tangled up in your own feelings to unravel them enough for conversation.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just looked… nervous.

“Hi,” you said, because someone had to.

“Hi.” His voice cracked slightly. “Um. You look—” He swallowed. “Nice.”

You blinked. “Thank you.”

A pause.

A horrible, stretching, silent pause.

Harry shifted from one foot to the other. “Are you… having a good time?”

You looked around at your friends dancing with their dates, at the beautiful decorations, at the couples laughing.

“Yeah,” you lied. “It’s fine.”

He nodded too quickly, like he didn’t believe you but didn’t know what else to say.

You were both saved when Parvati reappeared, grabbing Harry’s arm with a sugary-sweet smile that did a poor job hiding her irritation.

“Harry,” she said pointedly. “Are you coming back to the table?”

He flinched. “Yeah. Right. Sorry.”

She cast a tight smile your way. “Enjoy your evening.”

You smiled back because you were polite. Harry opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something more, but Parvati tugged him away.

You exhaled, chest tight.

You didn’t blame her. You’d be annoyed too if your date spent the night glancing at someone else.

But Merlin, it stung.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The night got lonelier from there

Your friends were busy. The music changed from waltzes to loud, thumping Weird Sisters songs. People jumped and shouted lyrics and spun around. You joined your friends when they dragged you into the circle, dancing like you meant it, laughing too loudly, pretending it didn’t hurt.

But every time you glimpsed Harry in the crowd — miserable, awkward, trying not to step on Parvati’s robes — you felt the bruise of something you didn’t have a name for.

You shouldn’t care.

You didn’t even know him well.

And yet.

When the song slowed again and couples paired off, you slipped back toward the wall, breathless and warm and slightly light-headed.

You leaned against a pillar, letting the cool stone soak through your dress.

Someone stood beside you.

You didn’t need to look to know who.

Harry.

Neither of you spoke.

He stared at the dance floor. You stared at your shoes.

After a moment, Harry said softly, “I didn’t… mean to say no like that.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know,” you said.

He nodded, but he didn’t leave.

The music floated.

Teenagers swayed.

And Harry Potter stood next to you like he wanted to say a dozen things but didn’t know how to start.

You felt it again — the bruise.

You didn’t move away.

He didn’t either.

You both stood there, painfully close, painfully awkward, painfully young.

No grand confession. No dance. No fairytale moment.

Just two people who’d made a mess of things standing under falling snow that never touched the ground.

And for one tiny, impossible second, you let yourself imagine an alternate world where things had gone differently.

Where he’d said yes.

Where you weren’t the girl watching everyone else live their stories from the sidelines.

The song ended.

Harry shifted, like he might turn toward you.

But then Parvati called his name again.

He flinched.

You stepped back automatically.

And just like that, the moment dissolved; quiet and fragile as the snowflakes.

Harry gave you one last unsure look before walking away.

You watched him go.

You didn’t know whether you wanted to laugh or cry.

Tonight, you didn’t get a knight.

But you got a moment.

And though it wasn’t enough, though it wasn’t what you wanted or deserved…

It was something.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Over the summer, something in you calcified.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… slowly. Like frost creeping across a windowpane.

You didn’t even notice it happening at first. You just knew that the more you thought about the Yule Ball — the glances across the room, the almost-moments, the way Harry Potter couldn’t seem to make up his mind about wanting anything from you, the more foolish you felt.

So you stopped thinking about him.

Or tried to.

Trying turned into habit. Habit turned into armor.

When you returned to Hogwarts for your fifth year, people noticed before you did. Hettie told you your voice had sharpened. Tobias said you moved like someone expecting a fight. Leane accused you (fondly) of running low on your usual syrupy optimism.

“You’re different,” Rowan said one night in the common room. “Not bad different. Just… more guarded.”

You shrugged. “I grew up.”

But the truth was simpler and uglier.

You were tired of wanting things you never got.

Harry Potter noticed too.

Not that you gave him the chance to say anything about it.

You sat on opposite ends of classrooms now. You didn’t go out of your way to greet him in the corridors. When your eyes did meet accidentally, in passing — you looked away as if it cost you nothing.

It cost you everything.

Harry looked like he wanted to say something each time you brushed past him. Sometimes he’d take half a step in your direction before stopping, jaw tightening. Sometimes he’d frown like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.

But he never called your name.

Not once.

You weren’t sure if that made it easier or harder.

Fifth year was chaos anyway.

Umbridge’s presence was a suffocating fog across the school. Pink and lace and fake smiles, all wrapped around punishments that made your stomach twist. The whispers about Harry grew louder, harsher. Everyone seemed to be choosing sides, or at least pretending to.

You wanted to stay neutral. Neutral was safe. Neutral meant uninterested, unaffected.

But you weren’t unaffected.

Not when Harry was getting punished nightly.

Not when he came out of detention pale and silent, fingers pressed to his hand.

Not when he kept his chin lifted even when it hurt him.

You saw it. You noticed it. You cared.

You just didn’t do anything about it.

Your walls were too high and too thick, and every time you thought about walking over to him in the corridors — just to ask if he was alright,  you remembered the courtyard from fourth year. The panic. The running away. The way he couldn’t even look at you properly at the ball.

You pressed your lips together and looked straight ahead.

Better this way.

Easier.

Then Harry found new people to fill the gap.

It was the DA that finally did it. Splintered something in you that you hadn’t intended to crack.

Harry didn’t invite you.

He didn’t even look at you when the rumors started.

Your friends joined, of course. Hettie came back breathless with excitement, whispering about spells and secret rooms. Rowan said it felt like being on the brink of a rebellion. Tobias claimed Harry was turning into a proper leader.

Leane practically glowed. “You should come,” she said, tugging your arm. “It’s… it’s amazing. He’s amazing.”

You forced a laugh. “I’m glad it’s going well.”

“You don’t understand,” she insisted. “He’s changed. You should see him.”

You didn’t want to.

You’d already memorized too many versions of him.

But you did see him. More often than you meant to.

Hurrying down corridors with purpose. Huddled with Ron and Hermione, whispering fiercely. Rubbing the back of his hand when he thought no one noticed. Ducking into the Room of Requirement with a look on his face you couldn’t decipher.

And every time your paths crossed, his eyes flicked toward you.

Just for a moment.

Enough to sting.

You acted like you didn’t see it.

Eventually, he stopped trying.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

One night, the common room felt too small.

Too tight. Too bright. Too full of laughter that felt brittle and wrong. You slipped out into the corridor, pulling your cloak tighter around you.

You didn’t expect anyone to be wandering the castle at this hour.

You especially didn’t expect to see him.

Harry rounded the corner from the staircase, looking exhausted — hair messier than usual, robes rumpled, the faintest smear of ink across his knuckles. He flinched when he saw you like he’d been caught doing something secret.

You froze.

He froze.

For a moment, you stared at each other across a few feet of cold stone floor.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, like a name he wasn’t sure he was allowed to speak.

Your throat went dry. You lifted your chin.

“Harry.”

Something flickered in his expression — a brief hurt, then confusion, then something like determination. He stepped closer.

Not enough to crowd you.

Just enough to be heard.

“Are you… okay?” he asked.

It was laughable, really. Harry Potter, who was drowning in the weight of the world, asking if you were alright.

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

He nodded slowly. “You don’t seem fine.”

You stiffened. “Well, we can’t all be off saving the world, can we?”

The words were sharper than you intended. They hung in the air, cold and brittle.

Harry blinked. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you said. “You don’t tell me anything.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

Harry’s eyebrows drew together. “Y/N… you haven’t talked to me either.”

You looked away.

He hesitated, then stepped even closer — close enough that you could see the tiny nicks on his knuckles, the tired purple under his eyes.

“I miss talking to you,” he said softly.

Your heart thudded painfully.

You forced your voice steady. “You’ve had plenty to keep you busy.”

“That’s not—” He stopped. Exhaled shakily. “It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Would’ve joined your little club if you asked- ”

He looked at you like you’d just slammed a door he didn’t realize he’d been trying to open.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, your walls slamming back into place.

“It doesn’t matter,” you whispered.

Harry opened his mouth, but footsteps echoed at the far end of the corridor — Filch or a prefect or someone worse.

You stepped back before he could say anything else.

“I should go,” you said quickly.

“Y/N—”

“Goodnight..”

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t see the way he stood there long after you disappeared, fingers curled at his side, jaw tight with something he couldn’t name.

You didn’t see how alone he looked.

But you felt it.

Somewhere deep beneath your armor, you felt it.

Which meant your walls weren’t as impenetrable as you hoped.

Not when it came to him.

Never when it came to him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You never expected righteousness to feel like this — tight and cold and heavy, like a stone pressing down on your ribs.

Hogwarts is buzzing in the wake of the explosion that was Dumbledore’s Army being discovered. The atmosphere feels scorched. Hallways that once hummed with secretive excitement now feel charred, brittle around the edges, the way parchment looks after an improperly controlled flame spell.

You walk those hallways almost untouched.

Almost.

Your friends whisper about it constantly, their voices cracking between awe and fear and a kind of exhilaration you don’t share. They huddle together during breaks, recounting the punishments that were handed out, weeks of detentions, brutal hours with Umbridge, the risk of being expelled.

You stand with them, but you are not of them.

You weren’t part of the DA. You never even knew it existed until it was too late.

And the strangest part, the part that keeps you up at night, is that no one ever asked you.

Not Harry. Not anyone.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was safer this way. You didn’t break rules, you didn’t put yourself in danger, you didn’t offer up your future for Umbridge to shred.

But late at night, when the castle is quiet and the guilt crawls up your spine, you find yourself wondering:

Was it because no one thought you could help? Or because no one thought of you at all?

You’re walking back from dinner alone, trailing your fingers along the stone banister as the conversations around you twist and swirl like smoke.

“Did you hear what Umbridge made Johnson do—"

“I can’t believe Potter—"

“I knew Dumbledore was up to—"

You tighten your grip on your bag. Every mention of Potter hits like an echo, reminding you that he is somewhere in this same castle, probably bruised and exhausted and worn down by punishments you’ll never experience. He is drowning in the consequences of battles you were never invited to fight.

And somehow, that makes you feel both resentful and ashamed.

A group of first-years scurries past you, whispering loudly about “the rebellion.” One of them looks at you, recognition flashing.

“Are you one of Potter’s friends? The ones he trained?”

There’s something hopeful in their voice.

You shake your head quickly. “No. I wasn’t part of it.”

Their interest evaporates instantly. They hurry on.

You swallow hard.

In the Hufflepuff common room, things are worse. Chaos, drama, excitement…everyone has something to say. Your friends rush you the moment you step through the barrel entrance.

“Y/N! Did you hear? Hannah’s in detention for the next month—"

“And Ernie got caught trying to defend—"

“And Harry—"

Harry.

His name hangs like a lantern, flickering with everything unspoken.

You manage a small, tight smile. “Yeah. I heard.”

One of your friends Maisie nudges you. “You’re lucky, you know. If you’d been there, Umbridge would've skinned you alive.”

Lucky.

That word tastes wrong.

Because somewhere deep inside, a lonely part of you whispers:

I wish I had been asked.

The others move on quickly, their excitement sparking between them like static as they list every dramatic detail they’ve managed to collect. They show off rumors like trophies.

You sit on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped, feeling like you’re watching them through a pane of glass.

“You okay?” Maisie asks softly when the others turn away again.

You nod. A lie. A safe lie.

Because how do you explain the hollowness inside you? How do you explain that you feel like you’ve failed some invisible test no one told you about?

Later that night, you slip out of the common room, unable to breathe under the weight of everyone else’s stories.

The corridor outside is dim, quiet, the torches low. You lean back against the cold stone wall and close your eyes.

The loneliness feels… victorious.

You weren’t caught. You weren’t punished. You weren’t betrayed by someone in the group.

You were safe.

Except you also weren’t chosen. You weren’t trusted. You weren’t part of something bigger.

You’re halfway to convincing yourself that this is what you want — safety, solitude, simplicity — when footsteps echo down the hall.

You open your eyes just as Harry turns the corner.

He looks rougher than you’ve ever seen him. His tie is crooked, his hair even more of a mess than usual, dark circles smudging under his eyes like bruises.

And for the first time all year, your eyes meet.

His steps falter.

Your breath catches.

He’s alone, no Ron, no Hermione, no DA members whispering encouragement or guilt or anger. Just Harry. Just you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you is thick with something that feels old and unfinished.

You are the one who breaks the silence.

“Are you… okay?”

It slips out quietly, almost involuntarily. His eyes widen, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to ask — least of all you.

He swallows.

“No.”

The honesty hits you. Startling. Raw.

You bite your lip, unsure what to say, what right you have to say anything when you weren’t there, when you weren’t part of any of this.

He shifts, glancing down the hall, then back at you.

“You didn’t… you weren’t in the group,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach twists. “No.”

He nods once, like he already knew, but needed to hear it from you anyway.

“You’re lucky,” Harry says.

And for some reason, the words make your chest ache.

You force a small, brittle smile. “That’s what everyone keeps saying.”

Harry looks at you longer this time, his eyes searching your face — really looking, for maybe the first time since last year. Something flickers in his expression. Regret? Curiosity? Maybe just exhaustion.

“You didn’t miss much,” he mutters.

You want to believe him. You want to feel comforted. You want to erase the hollow place inside you that whispers you were left behind.

But instead, you hug your arms around yourself.

“I don’t know,” you say softly. “Sometimes it feels like I did.”

Harry stares.

The silence stretches — charged, fragile, important.

Then suddenly footsteps echo from around the corner. Harry tenses like a hunted animal.

“I should go,” he says quickly.

You nod.

He hesitates. Just for a second. Like there’s something else he wants to say. Something he can’t quite bring himself to give voice to.

Then he’s gone.

You stand there long after the hallway is empty again, listening to the faint fading of his steps, wondering why your chest feels warmer and emptier all at once.

You turn back toward the Hufflepuff common room, arms tightening around yourself.

Your loneliness saved you.

But it also cost you something you don’t know the name of.

And for the first time, you think—

Maybe you’re tired of being safe.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

There is a strange, honey-gold light in the halls the day Umbridge leaves Hogwarts.

You feel it before you understand it — this odd, weightless sensation, like your lungs finally expand all the way for the first time in months. The castle seems to exhale around you. Even the portraits look livelier, trading gossip in bright, excited bursts.

When the news spreads, it moves like fire: She’s gone. She’s really gone. The toad is out.

Someone swears they saw Filch crying. Someone else swears they saw Peeves saluting McGonagall. Someone DEFINITELY heard a rumor about centaurs carrying Umbridge’s handbag in their teeth.

You don’t know what’s true. But you know what’s real: The war in your chest has quieted.

Your friends cling to each other in the Hufflepuff common room, laughing, crying, releasing months of tension in one roaring crescendo. Even you — so careful this year, so reserved — find yourself smiling. Really smiling. It feels strange, like using a muscle you’d forgotten about.

Hannah grabs your arm and yanks you into a hug. “We survived!” she laughs into your shoulder. “Merlin’s beard, we actually survived her!”

You laugh too. “Barely.”

A cheer erupts around the room as some older students start conjuring harmless showers of yellow sparks. The atmosphere is buoyant, effervescent — fragile in its joy, and all the more precious for it.

But it’s loud. Too loud. You slip away quietly, slipping out of the barrel entrance and into the corridor, where the noise softens into something more bearable.

You wander.

For once, wandering doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels like reclaiming something she took.

You end up in the courtyard without meaning to. The spring air is cool but comforting, and for a moment you simply stand there, listening to the distant hum of celebration from windows all around.

This courtyard, where last year, everything went wrong.

You almost expect to feel a twinge of pain or humiliation. But instead you feel… older. Like the memory belongs to someone you recognize but no longer fully are.

You walk to the fountain and sit on the edge, fingertips brushing the cool stone.

The quiet is warm. Healing.

“Y/N?”

Your heart tugs at your ribs.

You turn just in time to see Harry crossing the courtyard.

He looks lighter than he has all year — not carefree, not untouched, but less burdened, like some invisible chain has finally snapped. His hair is messy in the way it always is, but he isn’t tense for once. His shoulders aren’t hunched. His eyes aren’t darting around for threats.

He looks your age. For the first time in months.

He approaches cautiously, like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to interrupt you.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.”

He shoves his hands awkwardly in his pockets, glancing down at the grass before his gaze lifts to meet yours again. Something soft passes between you — a shared understanding, built from different kinds of loneliness carried through the same dark year.

“Everyone’s going mad in the common rooms,” Harry says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s louder than the Quidditch celebrations.”

You huff a laugh. “Yeah, Hufflepuff’s a bit… chaotic right now.”

“I figured.” He rocks back on his heels. “You, um… wanted some quiet?”

“That obvious?”

His smile deepens just a little. “Yeah.”

There’s no mockery in it. No teasing. Just recognition.

A breeze rustles through the courtyard, brushing warm sunlight across both of your faces. Harry hesitates, then sits beside you on the edge of the fountain — not too close, not far. Just… beside you.

You feel the warmth of him like a candle at your side.

For a moment neither of you speaks, and it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. Strange. New.

“You didn’t get in trouble,” he says finally. “This year, I mean.”

“No,” you say. “I didn’t.”

He nods, eyes on the water. “I kept thinking about that.”

Your breath stutters.

He continues, voice low: “I’m glad you didn’t get dragged into all of it. Honestly. But…”

“But?” you whisper.

“But I noticed.”

Your heart lurches.

You stare at him, and he keeps looking at the rippling fountain, like the truth is easier to speak to the reflection than to your face.

“I kept thinking… I don’t know.” He shrugs stiffly. “That maybe you were staying away because of me.”

“That’s not— Harry…” You swallow. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

He finally looks at you.

His eyes, green and so startling in the sunlight search yours, trying to read the truth from your silence.

“I thought you hated me,” he says softly. “After last year.”

You feel the courtyard tilt for a moment.

You inhale.

“No,” you say. And it’s the clearest thing you’ve said all year. “I never hated you.”

Harry blinks. Once. Twice.

Then something vulnerable flickers across his face, unguarded for just a heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” he says. The words are rough, uneven, like they’ve been scraping against him for months. “For how I acted. Last year. In the courtyard. I was… scared, and stressed, and I handled it horribly.”

Your throat tightens.

You want to say the words don’t matter, that it was silly teenage awkwardness, that it never hurt as much as it did, but they would be lies.

So instead, you say:

“Thank you.”

Harry exhales, shoulders lowering just a bit.

The sun dips lower. The courtyard glows. Students laugh from nearby windows as the world slowly rights itself.

And somehow — after a year of distance, of silence, of cold hallways and missed glances — you and Harry sit together as though nothing is broken.

Or maybe more honestly: As though something broken is finally beginning to mend.

He nudges your shoulder gently with his own. It’s awkward, an attempt at casual that lands somewhere tender instead.

“You want to… walk for a bit?” he asks.

Your heart stutters.

Slow burn, you remind yourself.

But you nod.

And as the two of you walk slowly around the courtyard — side by side but not touching — you feel something quiet blossom in your chest:

The first warmth of a second chance.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The summer passes differently this year.

Not easier, nothing feels easy after the threat of Umbridge. But quieter. Thicker. Heavier in some places, strangely hopeful in others.

You keep busy.

You throw yourself into chores, into books, into anything that keeps your mind occupied. But despite your best efforts, your thoughts keep circling back to Harry — back to the courtyard, to the way he’d looked at you when he apologized, to the strange softness in his voice when he said he noticed your absence.

You tell yourself it was nothing. You tell yourself it was closure. You tell yourself that the warm flutter you felt meant absolutely nothing.

And yet…

Some nights, when you’re lying awake with a book pressed to your chest and the summer air warm through your curtains, you find your thoughts drifting stubbornly toward him.

What he’s doing. If he’s thinking about his friends. If he’s thinking about you.

You try not to hope for too much.

Meanwhile, in a far gloomier house on Grimmauld Place—

Harry is spiraling. Quietly. Pathetically. Teenage-boy-ishly.

He sits at the kitchen table, chin in his hand, staring at a mug of tea like it personally offended him.

“You’re doing it again,” Hermione says, sliding into the seat across from him. Her tone is gentle. Suspicious. Deadly accurate.

“I’m not doing anything,” Harry mutters, stabbing the tea bag with a spoon.

Ron plops down beside him and steals a biscuit. “Mate, you’re brooding so hard the wallpaper’s peeling.”

Harry scowls. “I’m thinking.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “About a particular someone?”

Ron perks up. “Ooooh. That face. That’s the ‘I’m thinking about Y/N’ face.”

“It is not—” Harry nearly chokes on his tea. “I don’t— I wasn’t— she’s just—”

“A girl you’ve been thinking about nonstop for three weeks,” Hermione finishes, flipping open a book without needing to look at him.

Harry flushes scarlet.

Ron smirks. “Can’t blame you. She’s nice. Cooler than most of the Hufflepuffs.”

“Ron!”

“What? She is!”

Harry groans and drops his head onto the table with a soft thud. “I just said sorry to her. That’s all. We talked. It was — nice. But it’s not— nothing’s— I’m not—”

Hermione hums. “You’re doing that thing where you string words together because you don’t want to admit something.”

“I’m not—!”

She lifts her eyes over the rim of her book. “Harry. You smile when someone mentions her.”

Ron adds: “And you stare at the window after owls fly by like you’re expecting post.”

Harry goes silent.

Because… okay. He had been staring at the window a lot. It wasn’t weird. Lots of people stare out windows. ALL THE TIME. COMPLETELY NORMAL.

Hermione softens. “You like her.”

Harry’s ears burn. “I don’t— I mean, I just—”

Ron interrupts, matter-of-fact: “He does.”

Harry slumps back in his chair, defeated.

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Maybe. A little.”

“More than a little,” Ron says around another biscuit.

“Ron!”

“He’s right,” Hermione adds, smug. “It’s sweet, really.”

Harry buries his face in his hands, wishing the floor would swallow him.

Because he has been thinking about you. Far more than he should. Far more than makes sense.

He thinks about the way you looked surprised when he apologized, like you didn’t expect kindness from him anymore.

He thinks about the careful warmth in your eyes, the way you listened, the way it felt sitting beside you without tension for the first time in ages.

He thinks about how you weren’t in the DA and somehow that matters. He thinks about how you’ve always been a quiet constant in the background, and how he never noticed you properly until he did — and now he can’t stop.

He thinks about the Yule Ball (but that memory hurts in a different way).

He thinks about that courtyard last month (but that memory feels like a new beginning).

He thinks about you during breakfast, during dinner, during late-night wand-cleaning, during the moments when the house creaks and his grief gets too loud.

And he hates that he misses you. Misses someone he’s barely allowed himself to know.

“How am I supposed to—” he mumbles into his hands. “We’re not even… anything.”

Hermione smiles softly. “Not yet.”

Ron claps him on the back. “Just don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m never weird!”

Both Ron and Hermione give him identical, pitying looks.

“…Okay, maybe a little weird.”

Meanwhile—

You are being weird too.

Your mum catches you staring out the window more often than you’d like. And sometimes, when you’re reading, you suddenly realize you’ve read the same sentence twelve times because your brain is too busy imagining someone with messy black hair and a terrible habit of apologizing with his whole heart.

You don’t write him. You don’t know how to. You don’t even know if he’d write back.

But you think about him.

About his smile in the courtyard. About the strange lightness you felt around him. About the possibility — tiny, fragile, impossible — that maybe he wasn’t the only one who noticed something that day.

And it scares you.

Because hope feels dangerous. And Harry Potter feels…like something you could very easily fall into without trying.

One warm evening, you open your window and lie on your bed, listening to the distant hum of summer insects. You close your eyes and let the memory of his voice brush against you like a breeze.

“I never hated you.”

Why did that line stick in your chest so stubbornly?

Why did thinking about him feel like stepping toward the edge of something shaky and new?

You sigh and bury your face in your pillow.

You are in trouble. Harry is in trouble. Everyone knows it except you two.

And summer stretches on, bittersweet and slow, quietly weaving something between the two of you — something unspoken, something tender, something neither of you quite knows how to name yet.

But it’s there.

Growing.

Waiting.

And when the Hogwarts Express whistles again in September, you both already know:

This year will feel different.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Hogwarts Express hisses in front of you, steam curling around your ankles like eager hands. Students chatter, owls hoot, trunks clatter — and yet everything feels strangely muted.

Maybe because you haven't set foot near Harry Potter for two months. Maybe because you spent that entire time pretending you weren’t thinking about him. Maybe because deep down, you know this year is going to feel different, and you’re bracing for it.

Your friends are already halfway down the train corridor when you pause at the doorway, your hand resting on the warm metal frame. The late summer air hums against your skin.

You’re not nervous. You just feel… weird. A different weird from last year.

Which is worse.

Someone behind you bumps your shoulder gently. “Sorry!”

You turn, expecting just another student rushing past, but your breath catches.

Harry stands there.

A little taller. A little more serious. A little softer around the edges, like the summer scraped something away and left him rawer, truer.

His hair is a disaster. His glasses are slightly crooked. His expression is frozen between surprise and something you can’t name.

His eyes land on you.

And Harry’s brain completely stops functioning.

Harry (internally short-circuiting):

Oh no.Oh no.Why does she look like that?Why does she look older? Different? Amazing? Why am I thinking the word amazing?Why can’t I breathe?

He tries to smile.

It comes out strange. Too quick. Too nervous. Too earnest.

“Hi,” he blurts.

You blink once. Twice.

“…Hi.”

There is an awkward pause so thick it could physically suffocate both of you.

Harry swallows hard. “You, um… summer good?”

Fantastic, idiot. Very articulate.Hermione is going to murder him if she ever learns this is the best he could come up with.

You shift your grip on your bag. “It was… okay. Quiet.” Safer, you don’t add. Lonely, you don’t dare think.

He nods too many times. “Yeah. Mine too.”

Another pause. Students brush past, oblivious to the static thrumming between the two of you.

Harry fiddles with the strap of his backpack.

“You look—” He stops. Swallows. Restarts. “Different.”

Your heart does a dangerous little flip you absolutely did not give it permission to do.

“Different good,” he adds quickly. “Like— better. I mean, not that you weren’t— you just— it’s fine. I’m messing this up.”

You bite back a tiny, startled smile.

“So are you,” you say quietly.

Harry blinks. “I—what?”

“You look different too.”

You don’t say good.You don’t need to. Your tone gives it away.

Harry’s ears go red. He opens his mouth, probably to say something catastrophically awkward, but Hermione’s voice suddenly rings out from the train.

“Harry! Honestly, you can’t wander off—”

She appears, mid-scolding, Ron behind her, both armed with snacks and expressions that shift instantly when they see you.

Hermione pauses.

Then one eyebrow rises slowly, deliberately.

Ron looks between the two of you like he’s watching a Quidditch match and hasn’t picked a favorite team yet.

“Oh,” Hermione says. “Oh.”

Harry glares at her. “Don’t.”

“You two should sit with us,” Ron blurts, because God bless him, subtlety has never once shaken his hand.

You step back. “Oh, I don’t— I mean, I usually sit with—”

“You can sit with us,” Harry cuts in, too fast, too hopeful.

All three of them stare at him.

You stare at him.

Harry looks like he wants to die.

“I mean— only if you want. Obviously. Or not. Completely fine. I’m— I’ll just stop talking now.”

Your heart stutters in a very annoying, very revealing way.

You should say no. You should retreat to safety. You should remember how lonely last year was.

Instead—

“I… yeah,” you say softly. “Okay.”

Harry beams.

Actually beams. A real smile. The kind that lights up his whole stupid, earnest face.

Hermione smirks knowingly. Ron looks delighted. Harry looks like he’s just been handed his first birthday present ever.

You follow them into the compartment, your pulse a little too loud in your ears.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You sit across from Harry. He pretends he’s not stealing glances at you. You pretend you don’t notice. Hermione notices everything and quietly kicks Ron every time he tries to stare openly.

Harry asks about your summer. You ask about his. Slowly — awkwardly — delicately — you fall into conversation.

It feels almost normal.

Almost easy.

Almost like there’s something fragile and new sparking to life between you.

You catch him smiling at one of your comments. A real smile, small and private.

Your stomach wobbles.

Hermione shoots you a tiny approving nod.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t feel like the forgotten Hufflepuff. You don’t feel like the third wheel. You don’t feel like the girl who wasn’t chosen.

You feel… noticed.

Seen.

Wanted.

Harry rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, and asks if you want a chocolate frog. You take it. Your fingers brush his.

Both of you jerk your hands back like you’ve touched fire.

Ron snorts. Hermione sighs fondly.

Harry pretends he isn’t dying inside.

You pretend you aren’t.

And when the train whistles and Hogwarts looms into view—

You realize something terrifying and wonderful:

You missed him. He missed you. And no matter how hard you try to deny it—

The story between you and Harry Potter is starting again.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The castle feels… lighter.

Maybe it’s because the world isn’t crumbling at the edges this year. Maybe it’s because Hogwarts itself is alive again after the summer, each corridor humming with the quiet urgency of new beginnings. Or maybe it’s just the way your chest flutters when Harry Potter is somewhere within sight.

You sit at the back of the classroom, parchment in front of you, quill hovering, pretending to take notes on Ancient Runes. You’ve been back in classes for nearly a week, and the rhythm of lessons, homework, and early autumn sun spilling through the windows should feel comforting—but all it really does is make it harder to focus on anything other than him.

Because you know he’s in the same castle. And, somewhere in the labyrinth of Gryffindor corridors, he’s thinking about you too.

The first time it happens, you’re walking toward the Charms classroom. The corridor is crowded with students shuffling to their next lesson. You’re keeping your head down when a flash of green eyes catches yours.

It’s Harry.

He’s carrying a stack of books precariously in his arms, robes flaring as he dodges a group of first-years. He’s smiling. That easy, ridiculous, half-embarrassed, completely him smile that makes you want to lean forward and never let go.

You almost drop your own books. Instead, you manage a tight, almost-practical smile.

He raises a single eyebrow.

You raise one back.

The world tilts for half a heartbeat. And then the crowd swallows him, and he’s gone.

Your chest feels simultaneously warm and hollow.

And you realize you’ve been waiting for that moment all summer.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Classes are formal and structured. Everyone has their seating, their lessons, their work to do. You sit with your Hufflepuff friends, laughing quietly, answering questions, occasionally glancing at the front where the professor drones on about enchanted objects or potion reactions.

But every time the classroom door creaks, every time someone shifts, every time a chair squeaks against the floor… your head flicks instinctively to the entrance.

And almost every time, he isn’t there.

But when he is — oh, when he is — your pen slips. Your notes falter. Your mind races.

He doesn’t walk over to you, not yet. He doesn’t need to. But when his eyes meet yours across a crowded room, something shifts.

A tiny spark. A twitch of acknowledgment. A silent, shared smile that says I see you. I missed you.

It happens in the library one afternoon. You’re searching the shelves for a reference book on magical creatures, reaching up when a shadow falls across the spine of a particularly stubborn tome.

“Need a hand?”

You freeze. Of course you do. It’s him. Harry Potter. Carrying his own pile of books, looking impossibly casual. His hair is messy again, the kind of messy you think only looks charming on him.

You frown, but the corner of your mouth twitches. “I can manage.”

“You look like you can manage,” he says, smile teasing but soft. “I’m just offering my services. Dangerous to be caught alone in here with a mountain of books, you know.”

Your laugh is quiet, almost a whisper. “I’m very intimidating.”

“Not at all,” he says earnestly, eyes meeting yours. “You’re terrifyingly clever.”

You roll your eyes, hiding the heat creeping into your cheeks. He grins, a half-smile that seems to light up the entire aisle. And then, just as suddenly, he’s gone—slipping to another row of shelves, leaving your pulse hammering and your thoughts scattered.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

In the Great Hall, the tables are abuzz. Friends chatter, trays clatter, and the autumn light streams through the windows in golden streaks. You sit with your Hufflepuff group, pretending not to watch as Harry slides into his usual seat in Gryffindor.

But when his eyes flick to you, just for a second, your stomach twists. And somehow, across the crowded hall, he smiles.

Not a full grin. Not a ridiculous, over-the-top grin. Just a subtle tilt of his lips, a flicker in his green eyes that says: I see you. I’m thinking about you. You matter.

You smile back, and the hall might as well have disappeared around you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later, the castle quiets. You emerge from your last class, wrapping your scarf a little tighter around your neck. The sun is low, gilding the walls with amber light. You’re heading to the Hufflepuff common room when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N.”

You glance up. He’s leaning against the stone wall near the stairwell, arms crossed, looking… strange. Vulnerable. Uncharacteristically unsure.

“Potter,” you say cautiously.

He shrugs. “Just… wanted to see you before the day ends.”

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow.

He hesitates. “Yeah. I… missed seeing you this morning. During classes.”

A flutter runs through you. It’s subtle, almost dangerous. You clear your throat. “I… missed it too. I guess.”

He steps a little closer, just enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him without touching.

A shared silence. A quiet acknowledgment.

No words are needed. Not yet.

He smiles again. That small, nervous, entirely Harry smile, and your chest tightens.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks softly.

You nod. “See you tomorrow.”

And as he disappears around the corner, you realize that the year, your sixth year, has already begun.

The castle may be crowded, classes may be relentless, and your schedules may pull you apart — but something delicate has shifted between you.

Something soft, growing, unavoidable.

And both of you know it, even if neither dares say it aloud.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

He’s never been more aware of the thickness in his chest, or the heat in his palms, than the moment he tips the last drop of golden liquid into his mouth.

Liquid luck.

A tiny whisper of a potion that promises courage. Confidence. The impossible made slightly more… possible.

He swallows and immediately feels the surge. It’s like walking through the castle in slow motion, where every turn seems preordained, every person just a blur in the periphery, and every step is purposeful.

Time to find her.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

He leaves the Gryffindor common room with a determined stride that somehow manages to teeter between heroic and absolutely ridiculous.

First stop: the library. Surely she’s buried in a book.

He tiptoes past students as if he’s a secret agent on a mission of the utmost importance. He nearly collides with Professor McGonagall.

“Potter!” she says.

“Nothing to see here!” he blurts, flashing the cheesiest grin he can muster and wobbling past her.

Smooth, he tells himself. Felix Felicis, don’t fail me now.

Library: empty. You’re not there.

Next, the courtyard. Maybe she’s taking a breath of air. He nearly slides on a puddle, smacks his head on the stone fountain, mutters a string of curses, and keeps going. Every stumble, every minor humiliation… somehow feels fated.

Finally, he hears it.

A soft laugh, just at the edge of the stairwell, and his chest twists. There she is.

“Y/N,” he calls softly, almost unsure if he’s aloud. But the potion is guiding him. The courage is unstoppable now.

You turn, startled. You’re perched on the steps, hugging a stack of books to your chest, and your heart does that little flip you’ve learned to recognize.

“Harry?”

He strides forward. Not too fast. Not too slow. Perfectly… impossibly, ridiculously bold.

“I… uh… I needed to find you,” he blurts, hands twitching as if he wants to hold you but doesn’t quite know how. “I—look. This is probably going to sound mad, but I—”

He stops, swallows. “I took—uh—liquid luck.”

You blink. “Felix Felicis?”

“Yes!” he says, relieved you know, and horrified at how ridiculous he must look right now. “I decided… I’d finally… finally tell you… how I feel.”

You stare at him, and your chest is tight. Your mind is screaming finally, while your heart pounds in your ears.

“And maybe… kiss you,” he adds, muttering the last part so quietly it almost seems shy.

You laugh — soft, incredulous, trembling. “Harry Potter, you really did take luck potion to tell me how you feel?”

“Yes!” he says, arms flailing slightly in earnest. “And I can’t… I can’t wait any longer. I mean… I shouldn’t. I— You—”

He steps closer. You feel the heat of him, the pulse of his heartbeat, and your knees threaten to give way.

“Harry,” you breathe, reaching out instinctively to touch his arm. “You don’t need magic to tell me that.”

He freezes for a second, eyes wide, and then like some dam breaking, he pulls you gently but insistently toward him. Your hands are on his chest; his on your waist.

“Then why did I need this potion?” he whispers against your hair, lips almost brushing yours.

“Maybe you just needed an excuse,” you murmur, and the heat behind your words makes his knees go weak.

The first kiss is tentative. Soft. Testing.

Then… it’s not.

Hands tangling in hair, fingers tracing along neck and back, mouths hungry in a way that makes the silly, ridiculous potion almost irrelevant. His laugh mixes with a groan as he presses closer.

“Finally,” he mutters against your lips, his voice low, thick, and so him.

You cup his face, tilting your head, exploring, tasting, the last months of longing and stolen glances and unspoken words spilling out with every brush of skin.

His hands roam, tentative at first, then bolder, discovering every inch you allow, memorizing the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist. You gasp softly when he presses closer, letting him feel just how desperate you’ve been for this too.

Time distorts. The castle is gone. Classes, rules, everything—gone. Just you. Just him. Just the heat, the pulse, the connection.

He pulls back for a breath. Forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted… this… for so long,” he murmurs, voice ragged and trembling.

“Me too,” you confess, wrapping your arms around his neck. “More than I realized.”

He laughs, a little shaky, and presses another kiss to your temple. Then your lips again, deeper, slower, savoring the moment you’ve both been building toward all year.

Hands clasping, hips pressing, breaths mingling, the world shrinks until it’s just you and him and a fire neither of you can deny.

For once, there is no awkwardness, no hesitation, no distance.

The castle hums behind you. Students shouting, laughter bouncing off the walls, the clatter of dinner trays and the last bit of chatter from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables blending into one constant, happy chaos.

But you and Harry don’t hear it.

You’re running.

Literally running.

Hands intertwined, hair flying, robes flaring around you, and the cool night air brushing across flushed cheeks. You don’t know where you’re going—doesn’t matter. The stairs, the corridors, the secret corners you know only because you’ve spent years wandering—everything feels like yours in this moment.

Harry is laughing breathlessly. “We— aren’t even— supposed to be out here!”

“Who cares?!” you shout back, voice ringing with reckless delight.

You press a little closer as he pulls you along, weaving through shadows and moonlit hallways. Every brush of his hand, every brush of his chest against yours, sends a delicious thrill through you.

He’s not just Harry Potter tonight. He’s your Harry Potter. Brave, wild, reckless — and completely, wonderfully focused on you.

[tsukimirecs]

GRYFFINDOR BOYS

note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works

FRED WEASLEY

mad woman

cupid crystals

a special friend

recovering a life

deep breath

strawberry letters

date after date

SIRIUS BLACK

complimentary quills

just a natural fact

brighten your days

black dog neighbour

padfoot

HARRY POTTER

harry potter and the long-lost beach episode

harry potter and the late-night company

potter love

gifts

green-eyed idiot

romancing professor potter

CHARLIE WEASLEY

creative writing class

favourites

taming the dragon tamer

lucky charm

let's pretend

GEORGE WEASLEY

heart-to-heart chase

beating a weasley

well-meaning deceit

see you again

it's definitely you

coming home

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

media training (h.p.)

Pairing: Harry Potter x Reader

Word Count: 13.3k

Summary: Dating Harry Potter, Seeker of your rival team, was your PR team’s worst nightmare.

A/N: I got inspired by all the Heater Rivalry tiktoks on my fyp. Full disclosure I haven't watched the show yet

Montrose Magpies’ newest Seeker!

(Y/N) (L/N) joins the Montrose Magpies, squashing any rumors of joining the Holyhead Harpies. Although this sparks speculation among those claiming she wouldn’t join due to a long-standing feud with existing players. Anyone see a catfight in the future? Will they be able to keep it reigned on the field?

The Evening Prophet never did subtle.

The paper landed on your kitchen table with a soft thump, its edges still warm from the owl’s flight. The headline bled ink and implication, and the photograph beneath it was—without exaggeration—the most horrendous one they could have chosen.

A picture from the very beginning of your career, baby-faced. You looked like a girl, not the woman you had grown into—the implication was obvious. Too frail, too gentle, too “female” to be part of the Magpies. They were saying you didn’t belong, subtly suggesting that the professional leagues were too rough for someone like you.

You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. You had expected this the moment you’d signed the contract, when you’d shaken hands with Montrose and smiled for the official photos. The Harpies had been the expected choice—the safe choice for any female player. Known for protecting their own, for ruthlessly managing media narratives, for keeping their players in line. And their players? The best women in the industry. But that was precisely the problem. Best women didn’t mean best players.

You folded the paper once. Then again. Set it aside. There would be a new headline tomorrow, another distraction.

"You can continue now." You murmured, looking at the makeup artist, who simply nodded and continued her work.

“Low-key.” Your manager had said with a straight face.

Low-key, apparently, meant a private room at a well-known wizarding venue, floating candles bearing the Magpies’ colors, and just enough press allowed in to make the event look organic.

After all, a party that looked cheap would signal lack of faith in their newest Seeker. A gaudy one? That would make you appear wasteful, frivolous—a woman squandering attention. You had dressed carefully, a tailored suit: masculine, yet subtle enough that you looked like a woman in a suit, not a woman wearing a man’s suit.

When you arrived, the cameras were already waiting.

Flashes erupted the moment you stepped inside, and you smiled easily, instinctively. You posed where they wanted you to pose, angled yourself to catch the light, offered them exactly what they needed and nothing more.

Your teammates greeted you warmly—handshakes, pats on the back, murmured congratulations. Careful warmth. Aware. Everyone knew tonight was as much about optics as it was about celebration.

Guests began filtering in. Players from other teams. Some friends, some acquaintances. Then, finally, the people you’d been waiting for: the Holyhead Harpies. Ginny Weasley, unmistakable with her sharp eyes and fiery hair, swept in with her teammates. A few extras in tow, including Dean Thomas, and—of course—Harry Potter, officially invited as a member of Puddlemere United, but arriving clearly as Ginny’s guest.

The room shifted when he entered. Always did. He carried that aura—legendary, watchful, infuriating. You didn’t hesitate.

“Ginny.” You said brightly, arms opening.

Her smile flickered for a fraction of a second before settling into something genuine, “Congrats, (L/N).”

You hugged her—firm, visible, lingering just long enough to be photographed. Your smile never faltered. The cameras loved it.

Two women. Two teams. No claws, no feud. Just sportsmanship.

Exactly the image you wanted.

Ginny leaned closer, voice low, “It’s not too late, (L/N). The Harpies would be happy to have you any day of the week.”

You giggled, chin up, keeping the moment public and polished, “I appreciate that, Gin. But the Magpies are my team.”

You kept the conversation flowing, angling your body just enough so the photographers could capture you with the Harpies, smiles broad and seemingly effortless. Every click of the camera was accounted for. Every shot controlled. While Ginny played along, there was one person whose gaze never wavered.

Harry.

He watched you. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowing as you moved through the room—never rushed, never uncertain. Always aware of where the light fell, where the cameras were angled, how the audience would see you. The way you seemed to anticipate every lens, every whisper, rather than flinching from them.

It made his skin crawl.

You caught his gaze briefly, offering him the same polite smile you gave everyone else. Neutral. Controlled. Public.

Harry looked away first.

And for the rest of the evening, he watched with growing unease. You weren't just putting on an amiable image. You were performing. Playing the game on a level he had never learned to respect—and that he couldn’t quite forgive.

Somewhere in the orchestrated smiles and flashing lights, a silent rivalry began to stir. Not just on the pitch. Not just with your teammates. But between you and him.

The sky over the Quidditch pitch was perfect, sharp blue—crisp enough that sunlight glittered on the polished metal of the hoops and the crowd’s banners. Half the stadium was devoted to Montrose Magpies fans, their colors fluttering along every railing, chants of early-season optimism bouncing off the stands. On the other side, the Chudley Cannons supporters waved their banners with equal fervor.

The Cannons were a decent team, but they were known for being… well, bad.

Which, in theory, should have made you relieved. After all, for your first official match as part of the Magpies, you were going up against a team with a long streak of losing to Montrose. Yet, instead of comfort, a coil of nerves wound in your stomach. If the streak ended, you would be the one blamed. The newcomer. The reason the long-standing record finally broke.

“Stay sharp,” Your coach murmured, hand brushing your shoulder as you lined up, “Eyes on the Snitch. Don’t let anything distract you.”

You gripped your broom tightly, chin up, shoulders squared. The whistle blew, and you shot into the air.

From above, the world simplified: hoops, players, and the golden Snitch darting like a gleaming star. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum. You could do this. You had always done this.

A Cannons Seeker swept low, aiming to cut you off, but your reflexes were sharp. You twisted, dipped, and soared past him, eyes locked on the glinting golden blur of the Snitch.

Halfway through the first quarter, you’d already intercepted two goal opportunities from the Cannons’ beaters. Every move was precise, deliberate—a dance of skill honed over years. Yet the mental weight of scrutiny settled on your shoulders like a heavy cloak.

From the opposite stands, your eye caught movement. Harry Potter. Standing with a few members of Puddlemere United. You shouldn’t have been surprised—plenty of other teams were attending, scouting the match. After all, it was the beginning of qualifiers for the Quidditch National Championship, which would determine bracket placement. Yet, for some reason, his presence threw you off.

The game was tight. Cannons played aggressively, but you were sharper. With a sudden twist, you swooped low, snatching the Snitch just above the stadium’s center field. The familiar, fierce thrill of victory hit as the crowd erupted around you.

And then you saw it: the flash of cameras, the collective gasp, reporters scribbling furiously. Perfect. Another headline would spin by tomorrow: “Montrose’s Seeker Steals Show—and Snitch—from Cannons.”

The crowd was still roaring as you dismounted from your broom, wind whipping through your hair. You could hear the Cannons’ fans grumbling, the Magpies’ section cheering louder, but all of it blurred together into the background noise of success. You’d caught the Snitch, and yet the real battle was only beginning.

Cameras swiveled toward you immediately, flashes popping like fireworks. You adjusted your helmet, brushing a loose strand of hair back, and gave them the exact smile they wanted: confident, poised, untouchable. Every movement was deliberate. Every gesture calculated to convey competence without arrogance. You had learned long ago that appearances mattered as much as skill.

Reporters swarmed as you made your way down the steps, pens scribbling, quills racing, magical cameras clicking from every angle.

“(Y/N)! How does it feel to take the season opener in such a dramatic fashion?” One shouted.

You tilted your head, the practiced ease in your posture easing the tension in your shoulders, “It feels amazing to contribute to the team’s win. Everyone worked incredibly hard out there, and I couldn’t have done it without my teammates.”

Another reporter pressed, a mischievous edge in his tone, "Did you notice that Harry Potter was attending the match? He did attend your congratulatory party, did he not?"

Your manager gave you a subtle nudge, “Keep it clean. They’re circling.”

Your lips curved into a polite, neutral smile, “I appreciate the support of fans and colleagues alike. It’s always great to know people are watching closely—it pushes me to perform better.”

From across the pitch, you caught him again. Harry. Arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like that answer, didn’t like that smile, didn’t like that you were controlling the optics while he could only watch. He let out a quiet huff, shaking his head.

The press room smelled of stale parchment and ink, mixed with the faint tang of sweat and excitement from the day’s matches. You stepped in first, posture impeccable, smile poised, eyes bright but controlled. Cameras pivoted immediately, reporters scribbling as you approached the table.

It was almost pathetic that, since starting professionally with the team, the most challenging thing you had to deal with wasn’t the pace of the game, or rival players trying to cut you off—it was the bright flashes of the cameras and the struggle not to squint.

Your teammates were the first to face the questions: strategy, teamwork, opinions on the opponents, rest, recovery, training. You watched, calm, waiting. And then the reporters finally turned to you.

“(Y/N), congratulations on your season opener! Do you worry that, as the only woman on the team, you might… distract your teammates?”

For a moment, you could hardly believe what you were hearing. Sexist questions weren’t new—you’d been trained for them, coached on responses, given bullet points and possible scenarios. You had practiced keeping your smile even under provocation. But this was so blatantly ignorant it made you blink in surprise.

Then, with controlled composure, you forced out a laugh, “Haha, honestly, we see each other as siblings more than anything else. I’d rather chew a jean jacket than date any of them.”

A ripple of laughter went through the audience, easing the tension. You continued, voice calm, polished, “When we’re training together, we work as parts of a whole—organs of a single body. A family. I hope that answers your question.”

The reporter nodded, thanked you briefly, and moved on to your teammate.

You weren't asked to speak again for the rest of the night.

The press room felt different when Harry entered. He didn’t bother with practiced smiles or careful posture. Cameras swung toward him, flashes strobing, but he ignored them, shoulders slouched, expression flat and slightly irritated.

Questions came quickly, reporters eager to provoke a statement from the Quidditch hero.

“Harry, your thoughts on today’s match? Was it harder than you expected?”

He exhaled, “Fortunately, our training came in handy. The Wasps were formidable opponents.”

Another reporter leaned forward, “And what about the Magpies’ new female Seeker? She’s drawing a lot of attention—as a Seeker yourself, do you think she’ll be a serious competitor this season?”

“I consider all members of all teams serious competitors,” Harry said, jaw tight, “It would be extremely arrogant to assume otherwise just because she’s a woman. And honestly, that question was pathetic—you should be better at your job, considering you’re a man.”

A pause. Then a bold reporter pushed further, “It’s interesting you only speak up when we speak about her. We saw you at the Magpies’ welcome party. And today, you were watching them play. Are you… paying special attention to (Y/N)?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling like the question tasted sour, “I went because I was invited. That’s it. I watch the game. Not her. She’s my opponent. I couldn’t care less about the rest.”

“But you were there… twice, and you seem awfully troubled about talking about her,” The reporter pressed, “Seems like a lot of attention for someone who ‘couldn’t care less.’”

“Right,” Harry said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just love coming in for my job and having to talk about someone I’ve never even met while you leeches try to squeeze a gossip story out of it.” He threw his hands up, exasperated, muttering under his breath, “Bloody ridiculous.”

Reporters scribbled furiously. Every word, every tone would be dissected and spun into a headline tomorrow. And yet, Harry didn’t care. Or at least, he didn’t pretend to.

He looked back toward you once, lips tightening. Not with admiration. Not with anything that could be publicly named. But with irritation, disbelief that you could navigate the media so effortlessly, that you could perform control and poise while he struggled to breathe through his own disdain.

A final question landed: “Do you respect her as a player?”

Harry scowled, voice low and sharp, “I’m not answering any more questions relating to this circus. If you have questions about my job, go ahead. If not… might I suggest a career with Witch Weekly or Entertainment Tonight, not Quidditch Times?”

The sun was still warm, softened by the slow tilt of afternoon, when you arrived at the hospital wing’s special courtyard. Banners in assorted Quidditch colors fluttered overhead, charmed to sway even without wind, while the low hum of excited chatter filled the air. Children and parents gathered in small clusters, laughter ringing out in bursts, anticipation crackling beneath it all.

You hadn’t been thrilled about taking a day off from your rigorously structured training schedule. Your body ran on routine, on repetition and discipline. Still, a small, quieter part of you had looked forward to this.

You loved kids.

What soured it—just a little—was the knowledge sitting heavy in the back of your mind: you weren’t here because you were the most available Magpie, or the most senior, or even the most decorated.

You were here because you were a woman.

As if two of your teammates weren’t fathers. As if compassion was something assigned by gender.

You smoothed your jacket, rolled your shoulders back, and stepped into the courtyard.

You weren’t surprised to find Harry Potter already there, crouched slightly to be on eye level with a small group of kids, laughing easily as one of them animatedly described a goal that was clearly exaggerated by at least thirty feet. It was common knowledge—almost a brand at this point—that he was good with children. Always gifting his Snitch from a winning match to some wide-eyed kid in the stands.

“(Y/N),” He said when he noticed you, straightening. His voice was low, polite. Neutral, “You’re here too.”

“I am,” You replied smoothly, forcing your tone into something equally civil, “It’s nice to officially meet you, Potter.”

You extended your hand, fingers relaxed, posture impeccable. You knew the cameras were on you—you could feel them the way you felt weather changes in your joints. This was choreography. This was professionalism.

Harry looked down at your hand.

Then back up at your face.

One eyebrow lifted, slow and unimpressed.

The moment stretched—thin, awkward, almost sharp.

And then—

“IT’S (Y/N) (L/N)!”

The shout was so sudden and so joyful that it cut clean through the tension.

You turned, instinctively, and whatever irritation you’d been carrying dissolved on impact.

A little girl sat in a wheelchair a few feet away, her face lit up like she’d just spotted the Snitch itself. She wore a black-and-green jersey, clearly homemade, your name stitched boldly across the back. Not your number.

Your birthday.

Your breath caught.

“Oh,” You said softly, already moving toward her, “Hi.”

Her parents hovered just behind her, smiling with the kind of fond exhaustion that came from loving fiercely and constantly. The girl bounced in her seat, hands gripping the wheels.

“I’m your biggest fan,” She announced, as if this were an established fact, “I watch all your matches. Even the replays.”

You crouched in front of her without thinking, the world narrowing down to the space between you, “Is that so? I love your outfit today.”

She lit up like a summers day.

“We had to get it custom made,” Her mum added, laughing a little, “They didn’t have any official ones yet.”

Your heart twisted.

“Well,” You said, eyes bright, voice warm, “that simply won’t do now, will it? I’ll send you a proper Magpies jersey. Official. With the right number.”

Her mouth dropped open, “Really?”

“Really,” You promised, “And maybe a spare. Just in case."

She laughed, high and delighted, and launched into an enthusiastic breakdown of your last match—where you’d cut left instead of right, how fast you’d dropped, how she knew you’d seen the Snitch before anyone else.

You listened. Truly listened.

“I want to be a Quidditch player too one day!” She exclaimed, beaming—then her smile faltered, just a little. Her fingers tightened on the arm of her wheelchair, “But… I don’t think I can.”

Her parents started to speak at the same time, instinctive reassurance ready on their tongues, but you were already speaking up before they had the chance.

“I think you can, love.”

She blinked up at you, surprised, “Really?”

“Of course,” You said without hesitation, “We’re all magic, aren’t we? Maybe they’ll invent a broom one day that makes it possible for you. Or a position. Or a whole new way to play.” You smiled at her, warm and certain, “And with someone like you—who loves the game this much—it’s hard not to believe you’ll have a stellar career in it.”

You glanced over your shoulder, searching.

“Isn’t that right, Potter?”

Harry hadn’t realized how intently he’d been watching you.

He stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest, expression unguarded in a way it almost never was. Thoughtful. Softened. Like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was—forgotten cameras, expectations, even himself.

At the sound of his name, he straightened abruptly, caught out.

“Yeah,” He said after a beat, clearing his throat. He stepped closer, crouching slightly so he was eye level with the girl, “She’s right. Quidditch changes all the time. It didn’t look like this when I was a kid. No reason it won’t change again.”

The girl’s eyes flicked between the two of you, shining, “So… I could really do it?”

Harry smiled, the first sincere smile you had ever seen on him, the sight of it sending a little jolt through your stomach, “I think the world would be stupid to count you out.”

Her grin returned full force, brighter than before, and she laughed, the sound carrying through the courtyard.

You met Harry’s gaze briefly.

He gave you the smallest smile he could muster and you chuckled, turning back to the rest of the kids.

As the afternoon wound down, the courtyard slowly began to empty. Children were guided back inside, parents offered heartfelt thanks, and the banners overhead dimmed as their enchantments softened with the fading light. The buzz of excitement settled into that gentle, satisfied tiredness that followed a good day.

You stood near the edge of the courtyard, speaking quietly with your assistant as she scribbled notes onto a charmed clipboard.

“Please make sure a few official jerseys get sent over,” You said, your tone firm but warm, “Different sizes. And some merch too—scarves, pins, whatever we can spare. For the hospital wing. Especially for that girl.”

Your assistant nodded immediately, “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you,” You added softly, “I don’t want it announced. Just… send it.”

“Got it.”

She hesitated, then glanced past you, her expression shifting to mild surprise. She tipped her chin subtly in that direction.

You turned with a polite smile already in place, expecting to see the girl’s mother again—who had been thanking you profusely all evening.

Instead, you found Harry Potter standing a few steps behind you.

“Potter.” You greeted, neutral and composed.

“Harry.” He corrected automatically. Then he paused, as if reconsidering, before holding out his hand.

This time there was no performance to it. No awareness of angles or cameras. Just a simple, offered gesture.

You looked at his hand for a moment before taking it.

“Listen,” He said, his grip firm but brief, “I wanted to apologize if I was acting like a dick earlier.”

Your brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across your face—followed by something closer to amusement.

“Honestly?” You said, “I was actually going to thank you.”

His expression shifted, “For what?”

“For sticking up for me in the press room,” You replied evenly, “You didn’t have to do that. Setting the record straight.”

Harry shrugged, visibly uncomfortable with the praise, “I don’t really care for the whole… song and dance. Interviews, speculation. All of it. I’m more focused on the game.”

A corner of your mouth curved upward, “I agree. I think it should be about the game.”

For a moment, you stood there in shared silence—not awkward, not tense. Just two players, worn down in the same way, quietly aligned on something that actually mattered.

“Well,” Harry said eventually, shifting his weight, “Good luck this season.”

“Same to you,” You replied, “But don’t expect me to take it easy on you just because I’m indebted to you, Pot—Harry.”

He huffed out a laugh, “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back once. Not lingering. Not searching.

Just acknowledging you.

And that, somehow, felt like the real beginning of something.

You should’ve known the bigger teams weren’t going to take the qualifiers too seriously. Point accumulation mattered—of course it did—but everyone knew notoriety carried weight. Legacy teams always landed softer brackets. Always got the benefit of the doubt.

That didn’t make the pitch any quieter.

The stands roared long before the whistle blew, restless and hungry as Montrose and Puddlemere United lined up opposite one another. Two historic teams. Two fanbases that adored their own and despised everyone else.

And standing across from you, adjusting his gloves with deliberate calm, was Harry Potter.

“Shake hands!”

You stepped forward without hesitation, clasping his open palm in a firm, efficient shake before pulling away just as quickly.

“Good luck.” He said.

The words barely registered.

Once you were in the zone, language stopped meaning anything. Your ears tuned only to wind and motion, to the faint metallic zip of something fast and golden somewhere above. You gave him a brief nod and swung onto your broom.

The whistle shrieked.

You launched.

The sky shattered into movement—players streaking past, Bludgers roaring like cannon fire, the Quaffle flashing between hands. Somewhere above it all, the Snitch glimmered, teasing and elusive.

Puddlemere played aggressively.

Too aggressively.

A Bludger clipped past your shoulder—too close—forcing you to veer sharply. Another followed almost immediately, angled to catch your side if you hadn’t twisted away in time. You clenched your jaw and adjusted your flight, refusing to look rattled.

They want a reaction, you told yourself. Don’t give them one.

But it didn’t stop.

Every time you gained altitude, a Bludger chased you off. Every time you dipped toward a flash of gold, one screamed past your ribs.

From the corner of your vision, you saw Harry notice.

His head snapped toward his Beaters, jaw tightening.

The third Bludger passed close enough to rattle your teeth.

Something in him broke.

“Oi!” Harry shouted mid-air, breaking formation, “What the hell are you doing?”

The match stuttered—just a fraction—but it was enough.

One of the Beaters scoffed, affronted, “I was preventing her from getting the Snitch—”

“—and screwing up my chances as well,” Harry snapped, “Knock it off.”

The referee’s whistle sliced through the air, sharp and furious. One of the coaches called a timeout.

The crowd erupted.

You landed hard, boots skidding slightly as you marched straight toward Harry.

“What the hell was that?” You demanded, “Do you have any idea what you just did?”

He frowned, “They were doing that on purpose.”

“Oh, and because I’m a woman, I need Saint Potter to speak up for me?” You shot back.

“They were hazing you,” He said, frustration bleeding through his voice, “Taking the mickey when they should’ve been focused on the Chasers. I wasn’t just going to—”

“I don’t need you to speak up for me, Potter,” You snapped, fury sharp and unfiltered, “I have my own team for that.”

You jabbed a finger into his chest, “Don’t interfere again.”

He stared at you, stunned—truly stunned.

You turned sharply, stalking past him, glare cutting straight through your own beaters, “Do your job.”

The whistle blew again.

You kicked off and flew—heart hammering, anger burning clean and bright—leaving Harry behind.

The women’s locker room was nearly empty by the time you finished changing.

Most of the team had already left—some to celebrate, some to cool off, some simply exhausted. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and cleaning charms, the echoes of laughter long faded. Your kit sat folded in your bag as you toed off your boots, movements slow and deliberate.

Only when the door shut behind you did the adrenaline finally drain.

You stepped into the corridor, shoulders aching, mind still buzzing with the match—and nearly collided with a solid wall of a person.

Harry.

He stood just outside the locker room, arms crossed, weight shifted back on his heels like he’d been pacing. His head snapped up when he saw you.

“Oh,” You said flatly, “Here to walk the poor damsel in distress back to her hotel room, are you, Saint Potter?”

“Why are you being such a prat?” He shot back.

You laughed—sharp, humorless, “I’m being the prat? You’re the one who screwed everything up.”

“I was only trying to help,” He said, frustration rising, “They were targeting you. You could’ve been hurt.”

“Help who?” You asked.

He hesitated, “What?”

“You said you were trying to help,” You repeated, your voice dangerously calm, “So tell me—help who? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”

You stopped walking, “You know what you did out there? You made it look like I couldn’t handle my own match. We beat you today, but tomorrow the tabloids will say Puddlemere took it easy on us because Montrose has a girl instead of actually acknowledging how we played.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” You cut in, “What matters is how it looks.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing.” He said, quieter now.

“I know,” You replied, “And that’s what makes it worse.”

You stepped back, the exhaustion finally settling into your bones.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” You said, “I need you to respect me.”

For a moment, it looked like he might argue—justify, push back, say something that would only dig the hole deeper.

Instead, he exhaled.

“…Right.”

You nodded once, “Good.”

And then you walked past him, leaving Harry Potter alone in the corridor.

The flowers arrived the next morning.

You almost missed them—set neatly on the rolling cart you’d ordered room service on. For a moment, you assumed they were part of the hotel décor until your eyes caught the small card propped carefully between the stems. Your name was written clearly across it.

A simple bouquet. Wildflowers, wrapped in plain brown parchment, tied with twine. Nothing flashy. Nothing designed for cameras.

You picked up the card, sliding it from its perch between the flowers. The handwriting was unmistakable.

I’m sorry for overstepping yesterday. Congratulations on the win. You deserve it. — Harry

You bit your lip, tracing the letters of his name with the tip of your finger. It was brief, quiet, unassuming—and entirely Harry. No flourish, no dramatics, no unnecessary charmwork. Just accountability. A small, private smile tugged at your lips as you glanced back at the flowers.

Carefully, you placed the card on the coffee table along with your breakfast, pushing aside today’s edition of the Daily Prophet.

“Did Puddlemere Take It Easy on (L/N)? Montrose Seeker’s Victory Under Scrutiny.”

You returned to the hospital a few days later without cameras. You’d been thinking about that sweet little girl ever since—wondering if she liked the presents, if the jerseys fit, if she’d watched the match highlights like she’d promised. Maybe you’d even invite her and her parents to a game, once things settled.

You weren’t entirely sure why she’d stayed on your mind so stubbornly.

Maybe it was because she wanted to be like you before you’d even properly made a name for yourself. Maybe because she looked at you like you were something extraordinary, and you felt an unexpected, aching need to live up to that version of yourself.

So you came back.

Just you, a paper bag of Honeydukes sweets tucked under your arm, and a quiet hope that you wouldn’t be intruding.

The courtyard was brighter than you remembered—sunlight spilling over warm stone, laughter echoing softly. You spotted her immediately.

She sat in her wheelchair, completely absorbed in a game with another child. A boy—about her age, maybe a little younger—hovered a few inches off the ground on a toy broom, kicking his feet lazily as he floated. His hair was a brilliant, unmistakable shade of blue.

You smiled before you even realized you were doing it.

“Hey,” You said gently as you approached, “Looks like I’m interrupting something very important.”

She looked up, eyes widening, “(Y/N)!”

You hurried to her side before she could try to move, crouching down to pull her into a careful hug. “It’s so nice to see you again, love,” You said softly, “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Teddy.”

The boy turned toward you, chin lifting immediately, eyes sharp with the absolute confidence only children possessed.

“It’s nice to meet you, Teddy.”

“(Y/N) is the Seeker for the Montrose Magpies.” She announced proudly.

“I’m better.” He added instantly.

“Are you?” You asked, playing along.

It was hard not to laugh at the sight of his puffed chest and ruddy cheeks, but you bit your lip instead and offered him a Chocolate Frog. His face lit up immediately as he tore it open, holding up the card—Viktor Krum.

“Yeah. My uncle says so,” He said, “I’m going to win the Quidditch World Cup. I already know how to do dives.”

“Do you now?” You asked. “What kind?”

“All of them.” He said confidently—when he had realized too late he couldn’t name a single one. Chocolate smeared across his mouth, he shrugged.

You spared a glance at the girl beside you and felt your chest tighten. She hadn’t noticed his hesitation at all—she was staring at him with complete awe.

You bit your lip.

You loved children.

The three of you talked for a while—about Quidditch teams, favorite plays, how fast a broom really had to go to count as impressive. Teddy was charming in that slightly arrogant, wildly earnest way, interrupting constantly, correcting you once (incorrectly), and declaring—more than once—that he would absolutely beat you one day.

“Of course you would,” You told him solemnly, “After all, your uncle said so.”

He beamed.

You were mid-story—something exaggerated about nearly crashing into a commentator’s box—when a familiar voice drifted across the courtyard.

“Teddy.”

You looked up.

Harry stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets. When his gaze landed on you, he froze—genuinely startled.

Teddy brightened immediately, “Uncle Harry! (Y/N), look—this is my uncle! He’s the second best Quidditch player!”

You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing this time. Harry looked absolutely mortified.

He crossed the grass toward you, gaze flicking briefly over the kids before settling back on you, “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” You replied honestly, “This one’s unofficial.” Then, glancing at Teddy, you added lightly, “Your nephew’s very confident.”

Harry snorted, “Godson. And yes—that’s one word for it.”

You laughed—soft, genuine—and something in Harry’s expression shifted. Not tension. Not irritation.

Something warmer.

The kids quickly fell back into their own conversation, far more interested in arguing about broom speeds than involving either of you. You didn’t feel awkward this time. You didn’t feel watched.

You looked at Harry through your lashes. “I got the flowers,” You said quietly, “Thank you.”

A faint red crept up his cheeks—whether from the cold or not, you couldn’t say, “You deserved them.”

A little while later, Teddy was swept away by his other uncle—grumbling loudly about how unfair it was that he had to leave when you were clearly in the middle of an important Quidditch discussion. You laughed, waved him off, promised him a rematch someday.

Only then did you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you headed toward the main exit.

And froze.

Through the tall glass doors, you could see them.

Cameras. Long lenses. A cluster of figures lingering far too deliberately near the hospital gates, pretending—badly—to be minding their own business.

Your stomach dropped.

What the hell?

Your first thought was fury. Your second was panic. Who had tipped them off? A healer? A parent? Someone who’d recognized you? It didn’t matter. If they caught you walking out—if they caught you walking out with Harry Potter—

No. Absolutely not.

You stepped back instinctively, heart hammering, your mind already scrambling for an exit strategy.

“Everything okay?”

You startled.

Harry stood just behind you, brow furrowed. You opened your mouth, closed it, then exhaled sharply.

“There are paparazzi outside,” You said under your breath, “If they see us leave, it’ll be a mess.”

His jaw tightened as he glanced toward the doors, instantly understanding.

You rubbed a hand over your face, frustration bleeding into your voice, “How likely do you think they’ll spin this into some sort of story? It’d be stupid of them to try and wrench a scandal out of this—we were visiting sick children.”

He studied you for a beat while you kept talking, words tumbling over each other. Then his expression shifted—decisive.

Before you could ask what he meant, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a familiar, silvery fabric.

Your breath caught.

Before you even realized what you were doing, you reached out, fingers brushing the cloth. It was softer than you expected, almost like velvet. “Wow,” You murmured, “I’ve never seen one in person.”

When you looked up, Harry was a hair’s breadth away.

You startled, nearly stepping back—until his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you. Not tight. Just enough to keep you close.

“We’ll go together,” He said quietly, “They won’t see us.”

“That’s—are you sure?”

“Yes.”

There was no hesitation in his voice.

He lifted the cloak and gestured you forward, “Come here.”

You stepped into his space, the distance between you disappearing far too quickly. The cloak settled over both of you, the world vanishing in a blink—your body swallowed by invisibility, the air suddenly warmer.

A suffocating heat crept up Harry’s neck. The last time he’d had someone under the cloak, he’d been twelve. Even then, he and Ron had constantly bumped into each other. It was foolish to assume two fully grown adults wouldn’t end up pressed together.

Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand hovered at your back for a second—uncertain—before resting there. Light. Respectful. But you felt like his fingerprints were being seared into your skin.

“Okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see it, “Okay.”

You moved together carefully, steps slow and synchronized. You could feel his breathing—steady, controlled—while yours felt far too loud. Every small movement was magnified: the brush of fabric, the faint heat of his body, the way his fingers flexed slightly against your spine when you stumbled over a loose stone.

“Stay close.” He murmured.

“Frankly,” You whispered back, “I don’t think I could get any closer.”

His quiet huff of laughter brushed your ear—and then he froze, realizing just how near your mouth was to his.

The air shifted.

You both went still, bodies aligned almost instinctively, every movement careful. The sounds around you faded, replaced by the soft rustle of the cloak and the thud of your own heartbeat.

You stepped when he did. Slow. Silent.

As you passed through the doors, voices drifted through the air.

“…swear I saw someone go in earlier—” “Potter’s been spotted around here lately—”

You sucked in a sharp breath you didn’t release until you were a full block away.

Only then did Harry stop.

“I think we’re clear.” He whispered.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You were still under the cloak. Still close. Still wrapped in secrecy and shared adrenaline.

You looked up at him, barely visible in the dim light, and realized your hand was still gripping his sleeve. Hidden beneath the cloak, you couldn’t quite make out his expression—but you caught the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth.

You knew yours did the same.

His hand was still at your back.

And neither of you pulled away.

The silence stretched—heavy, expectant—until it felt like it might snap. You became acutely aware of everything at once: the warmth of him, the way the cloak muffled the world, the fact that your faces were already so close that pulling away would take more effort than staying.

Harry swallowed.

“This is probably—” He began, voice low.

You didn’t let him finish.

You weren’t even sure who moved first. Maybe it was mutual. Maybe it was inevitable. All you knew was that the space between you disappeared in a quiet, decisive moment.

His lips met yours.

Your hand loosened on his sleeve, fingers sliding up instead, resting lightly against his chest. He inhaled sharply, and the sound alone sent a shiver through you. His hand at your back pressed in just a fraction more, grounding, steady.

There was something about knowing you were hidden from the rest of the world that made everything else fall away. The city noise dulled. Time blurred. You leaned into him, deepening the kiss, and the world felt impossibly far.

No fans. No cameras. No expectations.

Just the two of you.

Your arms slipped around his neck, and he responded instantly, hands settling at your waist, pulling you closer like it was instinct. You gasped softly when he pressed you back against the brick wall, not trapping—just there. Present. His other hand came up, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you.

“Harry.” You breathed against his mouth.

The sound he made was quiet and wrecked—half frustration, half relief—and the kiss turned deeper, more urgent. Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, tangling, tugging just enough to make him hiss softly into your mouth.

And then—just as suddenly as it began—he stopped.

Not pulling away completely. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard as reality crept back in around the edges.

“We—” He exhaled, clearly struggling, lips brushing your skin as he spoke, “Do you want to go back to my place? I think at this rate we’re going to suffocate under here.”

You laughed softly, breathless, heart still racing, “Yeah.”

Still, neither of you moved.

After a beat, he pressed one last kiss to your lips—slower now, softer, reverent—like a promise rather than a question.

“Then,” He murmured, hand squeezing yours beneath the cloak, “Let’s go.”

You woke slowly, drifting up from sleep on a lazy breath, only to realize what had pulled you from it.

Harry’s fingers.

They traced idle patterns up and down your bare waist, slow and absentminded, like he was half-awake himself—muscle memory more than intention. Wherever he touched, goosebumps followed, your skin prickling in protest against the cool morning air.

You sighed, a quiet, content sound, and shifted closer, attempting to burrow back into the mattress. If you could just disappear under the duvet—become part of the sheets—surely no one could make you leave.

“Love,” Harry murmured, voice rough with sleep but fond all the same, “Wake up. You’ve got practice this morning.”

You responded with a whine, the sound muffled as you pressed yourself against him, tucking your face into the warm curve of his neck. His skin was warm, familiar, smelling faintly of sleep and him, and it made the idea of leaving bed feel almost cruel.

“I don’t want to go,” You complained softly, “It’s freezing outside. It’s warm under the covers.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating lightly against your cheek, and an arm came up to cradle your head, fingers threading through your hair.

“Well,” He said mildly, “It wouldn’t be so cold if you’d worn clothes last night like I suggested.”

You huffed, pushing yourself upright just enough to glare down at him—though with sleep still clinging to you, it came out more like a squint. You gathered the duvet tightly around your shoulders, affronted.

“Fine,” You declared, voice hoarse, “I’m wearing clothes around you from now on. Never again will you catch me without.”

His lips twitched. Then curved fully into a grin.

Harry raised an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed by the threat. “Now, now,” He said, amusement dancing in his voice as he tugged you back down into his arms, “Let’s not make decisions we’ll both regret.”

You sighed as you settled against his chest again, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat dangerously lulling. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, unhurried, affectionate in that easy way that had become second nature over the past month.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

This—slow mornings, shared warmth, teasing complaints—had slipped so seamlessly into your lives that it felt strange to remember there had been a time before it.

You almost drifted off again.

Almost.

Your eyes fluttered shut. Your breathing evened out. Harry felt it immediately.

“Oh no you don’t,” He murmured, amused, giving you a gentle squeeze, “You fall back asleep and I’m getting blamed for it like last time.”

You groaned, dragging yourself upright again with visible effort, "Well I wouldn't be so tired if you hadn't worn me out so badly last night."

He laughed softly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, shivering when the cool air hit your skin, "I didn't exactly hear you complaining."

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your jumper from the chair and tugging it on.

He watched you for a moment—hair messy, movements uncoordinated, very clearly not a morning person—and his expression softened in that way it always did when he thought you weren’t looking.

You glanced back at him—hair a mess, glasses crooked on the bedside table, looking far too comfortable in your shared space—and felt that familiar warmth bloom in your chest.

"I'll see you later." You said softly, reaching back to steal a quick kiss before standing.

And even as you shivered at the cold air and went in search of clothes, you knew you’d be counting the hours until you were back under the covers with him again.

A couple more weeks passed during the gap between the qualifiers and the tournament, and somewhere in between packed schedules and stolen moments, the two of you settled into something easy.

Mornings together when schedules allowed—sleepy murmurs, tangled limbs, Harry always insisting on making tea even when he was running late. Evenings spent sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa, feet inevitably finding each other, half-watching whatever was on while you talked about everything and nothing. Matches, practice drills, gossip from the league, the weird dream he’d had the night before. Comfortable silences that didn’t need filling.

Harry had taken to keeping one of your hair ties tucked beneath the cuff of his glove.

A good luck charm, he’d proclaimed solemnly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You’d teased him mercilessly for it—told him he was so deep in the honeymoon phase that he wanted something belonging to his biggest opponent physically on his person. He’d only shrugged, grinning, utterly unbothered.

“Seems to be working, doesn’t it?”

And slowly, almost without you noticing, whatever had once crackled between you—sharp, electric, all tension and stolen glances—began to soften. It didn’t fade. It deepened. Settled into something steady. Safe.

It felt… solid. Comfortable. Real.

So when you unlocked your flat one evening after a brutal day—training unforgiving, muscles aching, head pounding—the faint light spilling from the living room was what first caught your attention.

Had you left a lamp on?

You took another step inside.

No. This wasn’t overhead light.

This was softer. Warmer. Flickering.

You froze just inside the doorway.

The living room glowed with candlelight—dozens of them, scattered carefully across shelves, the table, even the windowsill. Curtains drawn. Fairy lights twined lazily along the edges like someone had taken their time with it all. The table was set. Properly set. Plates, cutlery, napkins folded with suspicious effort.

And there—standing awkwardly beside it all, hands hovering like he didn’t quite know where to put them—

Harry.

He looked up the moment you stepped in, bracing himself.

“Hi.” He said, sheepish and hopeful all at once.

You just stared, a giant smile spreading across your face as the exhaustion of the day evaporated instantly.

“…Harry.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, “You mentioned the other day that you hadn’t had a proper night off in ages. And I know I’m not… exactly known for big gestures, but—”

He gestured vaguely to the room, candles flickering obediently.

“I thought I’d try.”

Something warm and tight bloomed in your chest, that familiar feeling he’d started giving you more often than not.

Instead of answering, you crossed the room in three quick steps and launched yourself into his arms with a delighted squeal. He barely had time to react before you were peppering kisses all over his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair so you could properly smother him.

He laughed, startled and breathless, “Hey—!”

“This is such a fire hazard,” You laughed between kisses, “but it’s perfect. I love it.”

His arms came around you automatically, steadying you, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You leaned in and kissed him properly then—slow, lingering, full of quiet appreciation. He melted into it without hesitation, hands finding your waist like they always did, grounding and familiar.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling.

“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “It’s all takeaway. I didn’t cook.”

You laughed, bumping your nose against his.

“Oh thank Godric.”

He grinned, proud and relieved all at once, and as he led you toward the table, fingers laced with yours, you had the distinct, grounding thought that this—this warmth, this ease—was exactly where you were meant to be.

Soft light filtered in through the curtains, the city muted and slow below. You lingered in that half-awake haze longer than usual, wrapped in warmth that was—unfortunately—just the duvet.

Frowning, you shifted, reaching out instinctively… and found the space beside you empty.

Confused, you pushed yourself upright, hair a mess, blinking the sleep from your eyes. After tugging on one of Harry’s jumpers—far too big, sleeves swallowing your hands—you padded through the flat in search of him.

You found him on the balcony.

The doors were cracked open, letting in a bite of morning air. Harry stood barefoot against the railing, a mug warming his hands, the city stretching out behind him. When he turned and saw you, his expression softened instantly.

That smile.

The quiet one. The private one. The one that had nothing to do with the outside world—and everything to do with you.

“Morning.” He said.

“Morning.” You replied, stepping closer, rising onto your toes to press a brief kiss to his mouth.

Brief didn’t last.

It never did.

The kiss slowed naturally, deepened without urgency. Familiar. Easy. His free hand found your waist, thumb brushing lazy, absent-minded circles against your hip as if it belonged there—like it always had.

You laughed softly about something inconsequential, something that wouldn’t matter in five minutes, and he leaned down to kiss your temple, lips lingering just a second too long.

Neither of you noticed the movement across the street.

The long lens.

The quiet click.

By the time you pulled back, foreheads resting together, there was already someone lowering their camera from behind a van parked far enough away to feel safe. Far enough that details blurred. That faces softened into silhouettes.

All they caught was the shape of him—messy hair and glasses unmistakable even at a distance—and you, half-hidden in an oversized jumper, face turned away, framed by pale morning light. His hand at your waist. Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed you.

Intimate.

Suggestive.

Just unclear enough.

Later that day, the photos would surface quietly at first. Cropped. Zoomed. Grainy.

Harry Potter spotted outside private residence. Mystery woman seen sharing intimate moment. Is the mystery woman Montrose Magpies’ new Seeker? Moments when Harry Potter and (Y/N) (L/N) were seen together.

Fans would argue. Commentators would speculate. Your name would be tossed around in maybes and italics—but never confirmed. The angle too distant. Your face never fully visible. No clear proof.

Back in the flat, blissfully unaware, Harry pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling back.

“You should get inside,” He said lightly, “It’s cold.”

You smiled, leaning into him anyway, “I’m happy where I am.”

And somewhere across the street, the paparazzi smiled too—already knowing they had exactly enough.

The flat felt smaller than it ever had.

Not claustrophobic—just tight. Like the walls were leaning in, listening.

You paced the length of the dining area, bare feet skimming the floor as your eyes skimmed the chaos spread across the table. Newspapers layered atop one another in uneven stacks—The Daily Prophet, The Evening Prophet, Witch Weekly, Quidditch Today, Wizarding World News, The Godric Gazette. Big outlets. Small ones. Tabloids pretending to be respectable and respectable papers pretending they weren’t salivating.

Every headline said the same thing in a different font.

You reread them anyway.

Sources suggest. Industry insiders hint. Mystery woman. Rising star. Harry Potter spotted.

They were everywhere now—camped outside team practices, waiting near your agency, lingering outside cafés you used to feel safe in. You’d dodged cameras twice already today, hood up, head down, heart racing like you’d done something wrong just by existing.

You didn’t hear the door open.

You felt it.

The air shifted—subtle but unmistakable—and then the sound of the door closing, deliberate and sharp. An invisible presence crossed the room before resolving into Harry, the cloak pulled off his shoulders and tossed aside like it had offended him.

His hair was still damp from a rushed shower, jacket thrown on like he hadn’t been able to sit still long enough to dry properly. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark and stormy.

“We need to talk.” He said.

You stepped aside silently, giving him room.

The flat felt smaller with him in it. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, begging to be broken.

“They showed up at Teddy’s school today,” He said, anger barely contained, “Reporters. Cameras. Asking questions.”

Your head snapped up, “What?”

“They were trying to get something out of me,” He continued, pacing once before turning back toward you, “Trying to bait me. They crossed a line.”

Your chest tightened. You’d known the press was relentless—but Teddy had always been off-limits. Harry had guarded that fiercely. Before meeting him, you hadn’t even known his godson’s name.

“I want to go public,” Harry said immediately, “Tonight, if possible.”

Your heart dropped straight through the floor.

“No.”

He blinked, genuinely taken aback, “No?”

“No,” You repeated, firmer now, “Absolutely not.”

He stared at you like you’d switched languages mid-sentence, “Why?”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Why? Harry, are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious,” He snapped, “They already have photos. They’re already speculating. This half-in, half-out thing just gives them more room to dig. They’re not going to stop—they’re going to push harder. This is the better option.”

“For you.” You shot back.

His brows furrowed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” You said, voice rising despite yourself, “that I have worked too hard to be where I am right now. I’ve spent years clawing my way here, and I am not letting it get reduced to being Harry Potter’s girlfriend.”

His jaw tightened, “You’re acting like being seen with me is some kind of liability.”

“That’s not—”

“You’re willing to keep hiding,” He cut in, frustration spilling over, “to keep dodging cameras, letting paparazzi invade our lives like parasites, all for what? Your image? A couple of brand deals?”

You stared at him, stunned, “Do you even understand what something like this could cost me?”

“So I’m supposed to stand on the sidelines,” He shot back, “While you decide when I’m worth the risk?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

The words hung there, heavy and cruel.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak for a moment. Instead, you turned, grabbed the Invisibility Cloak from where it lay slung over the couch, and held it out to him.

"Here. Take it."

Something in his expression fractured—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to hurt.

“I need space,” You said quietly, “I can’t do this right now.”

He looked down at the cloak in his hands, then back at you. A sharp scoff escaped him.

“Fine,” He said, too quickly, already turning toward the door, “Take all the space you want.”

The door shut behind him with a final, echoing click.

And suddenly, the flat felt bigger than ever—wide open, hollow, and unbearably quiet.

The press conference room was a cage. Bright lights, microphones angled at you, cameras flashing like impatient lightning. You were sitting behind the table, Harry only a couple feet away—but he felt like miles. You hadn’t spoken to him since the fight, letting your managers handle all communication. Not that he had made an attempt either.

You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and forced the practiced calm onto your face. Your hands rested lightly on the podium, and you focused on the questions rather than the relentless scrutiny behind them.

“(Y/N), are you going to officially confirm the rumors about your relationship with Harry Potter?” A reporter asked, sharp and insistent, cutting straight to the point.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. Every cell in your body wanted to flinch, wanted to vanish, but you didn’t. You had to do this.

“No,” You said, voice measured but firm, “We are not in a relationship. I’m sorry if any speculation has misled anyone. That is not the case.”

Flashes went off as your words echoed across the room. You could almost hear the spin already forming, the tabloid imaginations firing. You forced a polite nod at the next reporter, who immediately jumped in.

“So, there’s nothing at all happening between you two?”

“Nothing.” You confirmed again, repeating the word with quiet conviction. You felt a hollow ache in your chest, a faint but persistent echo of what had been. There was no turning back now.

“And Mr. Potter? Who was that woman at your house then? Is there truly nothing going on between the two of you?”

Harry took a small breath, leaning toward the mic. His voice was clipped, careful, deliberately cold.

“The woman in the picture has requested that her identity not be revealed. As for Seeker (L/N), there is nothing going on between the two of us. We are not—and will never be—anything beyond professional colleagues.”

The words landed like a heavy weight in your chest. Sharp. Bitter. Final.

You realized, in that instant, that the relationship was over. Not just in the public eye. Not just to the fans, the reporters, or the endless speculation. But in the quiet, in the private spaces you had shared, in the stolen moments and whispered touches. Over.

You stared at the table, pupils shaking, jaw clenched as tightly as you could to keep the cameras from capturing the quiver in your lips.

The press room hummed with murmurs, questions bouncing back and forth like ricocheting Bludgers—but you didn’t hear them anymore. You were acutely aware of the absence beside you, of the warmth that was no longer there.

You straightened once more, forced a polite smile, and answered the next question.

The press conference room emptied with a steady hum of footsteps, clicking heels, and rolling chairs. Reporters muttered to one another, editors scrambled for quotes, and the flashes of cameras finally faded as the last staffers packed up. The microphones were lowered, the bright lights dimmed, leaving behind only the faint scent of polished wood and stale coffee.

You lingered just outside for a moment. Everyone had already gone home; the building was empty now. You were certain Harry had left—most of the reporters had followed him outside, hungry for one more quote, one more headline—while you had hidden in the bathroom, palms braced against the sink, willing your reflection to look composed.

Finally, you stepped back inside.

The room was quiet now, eerily so, save for the low hum of the ventilation system. Chairs were pushed neatly under tables, cables coiled away, the podium standing empty and impartial. Your fingers grazed the chair where he’d been sitting, and the memory hit you all at once—the hurt, stunned look on his face in your flat that night, followed by the careful indifference he’d worn the next time you’d seen him.

That was when you noticed it.

A single hair tie, lying forgotten on the table.

Your chest constricted, a sharp, breath-stealing pang of everything you had lost—of everything you’d never really been allowed to keep.

You knelt, fingers trembling as you picked it up. The room seemed impossibly vast and unbearably empty all at once. You sat on the edge of the chair, tracing the familiar stretch of the band between your fingers, memories flooding in uninvited: candlelit dinners, whispered jokes in hotel rooms, quiet mornings on the balcony, the way he’d pulled you close beneath the invisibility cloak. The laughter. The warmth. The softness of it all.

And then, as if the silence itself were cruel, the sound of your own breathing filled the space.

You swallowed hard, forcing your chest to steady—but when your gaze drifted back to the seat Harry had occupied only hours earlier, the emptiness of it finally broke you. A sob tore free before you could stop it, sharp and aching, born from the foolish, lingering hope that he might still be there.

You slipped the hair tie around your wrist, the tightness biting into your skin until it felt like your blood might stop flowing—though maybe that was just the numbness of heartbreak settling in.

Rising to your feet, you wiped the last of the tears from your face.

You had your life. Your team. Your game.

And maybe, one day, he would understand.

The hospital courtyard was quiet in the late morning sun, a soft warmth spilling over the stone pathways and flower beds. You carried a small bag of Honeydukes sweets and a few little gifts for the girl in the wheelchair who had captured your heart months ago. You couldn’t stop thinking about her lately.

She spotted you immediately, eyes lighting up and hands gripping her wheelchair as she wheeled herself closer. “(Y/N)!” She called, spinning a little in delight.

“Hey, love,” You said softly, crouching beside her so she didn’t have to reach, “It’s so good to see you again. How are you today?”

Her face was radiant as she grinned at the little bag of sweets, “I’m great! Teddy says he’s teaching me new moves.”

You glanced at the boy hovering nearby, perched on a tiny toy broom with his brilliant blue hair catching the sun. He puffed out his chest, chin high, that infuriatingly confident way children have when they’re convinced the world revolves around them.

“And… is your godfather with you today?” You asked carefully, hope flickering behind your question.

Teddy’s grin faltered just a little, and he shook his head, “Nope. I’m with Uncle Draco today.”

You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Inside, your thoughts churned. Probably for the best, you told yourself. You weren’t sure what you’d even say if Harry were here. Apologize? Explain? Try to make him hear your side? You knew it wouldn’t be simple, and neither of you would walk away unscathed. The problem wouldn’t vanish with a few words.

Your gaze swept over the courtyard. The sunlight glinted off the broomsticks and the small makeshift goalposts. For now, this simple scene—the girl laughing, Teddy puffing his chest out like a tiny champion—was enough. It reminded you of why you had stayed grounded, why the world of headlines and rumors had to stay at arm’s length.

“Uncle Draco says he’s sick,” Teddy added suddenly, leaning a little closer as if sharing a confidential secret, “But I heard him tell Granny Cissa that he broke his heart. I didn't know you could break that."

The words landed heavily in your chest. You froze, gripping the bag of sweets a little tighter. A pang of guilt—sharp and relentless—stole the breath from your lungs. He’s hurting because of me, you thought. And I can’t just fix it. Not now. Not like this.

You crouched fully to Teddy’s height, reaching out to ruffle his blue hair, a grounding gesture for both of you. “I see,” You said softly, forcing yourself to smile, “Well… I’m glad he has a little godson who cares about him."

You shifted your attention back to the girl, kneeling beside her wheelchair to pull out a few small gifts from your bag. The two of them erupted with excitement, inspecting the sweets and little trinkets as if they were treasures from the wizarding vaults themselves. Teddy immediately stuffed a chocolate frog in his pocket, nodding proudly, and the girl squealed with delight at a tiny Montrose Magpies pennant.

“Do you want me to show you a new move I learned?” Teddy asked suddenly, hopping slightly on his toy broom.

You laughed, leaning back slightly to give him room to strut, “Oh? You think you can show me something I haven’t seen before?”

“Of course I can!” He said, puffing up his chest even more.

“You’ll have to show me,” You replied, laughing, “I might need to take notes so I can stay ahead of you.”

The three of you played for a while, small competitions on balance, little flying maneuvers, and “strategic” sweeps across the courtyard. Teddy’s confident chatter, the girl’s laughter, and the tiny bumps of their brooms were a welcome distraction from the pounding of your heart. And yet… even in this light, you felt the emptiness where Harry’s presence should have been.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand what you would be giving up if you went public. And it’s not fair to him. Or to you.

You took a deep breath, straightened, and whispered to yourself, “It’s probably for the best.”

The flat felt emptier than ever. The quiet pressed against your chest like a living thing, refusing to let go. Harry had barely slept, barely eaten. He hadn’t gone out beyond practice and the occasional walk home, claiming he needed to keep his mind clear. That had been his rhythm through the entire National World Cup, and now, with the final match between Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United looming tomorrow, he insisted he needed to go to bed early to rest. But Hermione, Ron, and Ginny knew better.

They arrived as soon as the workday ended, bustling around his kitchen like he wasn’t even there. Dinner was soon laid out, wine poured, the aromas of roast and fresh bread filling the flat. Harry’s glass was shallower than theirs, a small, quiet reminder that he had barely touched anything all day. Finally, they turned toward him.

“You’ve been hiding for days. We know (Y/N) isn’t here. What’s going on, Harry?” Hermione asked, her voice calm but firm.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, staring at the floor, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down, “We… we broke up.”

Ginny froze, mouth opening in disbelief, “Why? I thought everything was going great between you two?”

Ron leaned forward, concern creasing his brow, “I thought the press conference was just a ruse. You’re saying there was nothing going on between you both?”

Harry shook his head slowly, “No. Not anymore. She… she wanted it to stay private. And I… I said I wanted to go public. She… couldn’t risk it. So… it’s over.”

Ginny’s brow furrowed, eyes sharp, “Wait a second. She wanted to keep the relationship hidden, and you wanted to go public… and so you both broke up? Am I hearing this right?”

“I didn’t want it to be hidden like I was some kind of shameful secret.” Harry muttered defensively.

Ginny didn’t even bother softening her tone, “Harry, open your eyes! Do you even understand what she deals with every single day? She’s worked so hard to make the media somewhat neutral about her, to be on the same playing field as any other male player. And you—what? Expected her to throw all that away for… your magical dick?”

Harry flinched under her intensity, “I—I didn’t—”

“You were being selfish!” Ginny snapped, “Being a female Quidditch player is brutal! I have my teammates to fall back on. But do you even understand how alone she must feel? Always trying to make a name for herself among men? Carrying everything on her shoulders? Did you even think about the consequences for her?”

Hermione stepped closer, her voice steady but cutting, “Ginny’s right, Harry. This would have blown over for you in a couple of months because you have the privilege of being a man. But for her? It could have destroyed her entire career. Every match against your team would be scrutinized. If she lost any match, it’d be because she was too distracted by her relationship. If she won, it’d be because the great Harry Potter helped her train, or because the other players held back. Any question from the press would be about you—your plans, your private life—not about her career, her skill, her dedication. Did you even think about that?”

Harry’s face went pale as the weight of their words sank in. He sank heavily onto the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly, shoulders hunched, “I… I didn’t know. I thought… I thought if we were open, it would make things easier. I didn’t think—I didn’t realize she had to deal with all of that.”

Ginny exhaled, frustration softening into empathy, “It’s not just her, Harry. Every time I make a public appearance with another man, there are stories about me cheating on Dean. Reporters ask what kind of bra and knickers I wear during games, how I deal with my period—more than about my actual training regimen. Being a female athlete in the public eye… it’s relentless.”

“Like it doesn’t suck for the rest of us.” Hermione murmured, taking a slow sip of her wine.

Harry’s hands curled into fists, knuckles white. His eyes, usually so guarded, filled with raw emotion—a mixture of guilt, frustration, and dawning understanding. “Fuck… I owe her an apology. I… I need to go see her…” His voice cracked, and he stood abruptly, pacing toward the door, hand already reaching for his coat.

Ginny stepped in front of him, arms crossed but her tone gentler now, “Harry, hold up. Maybe do it after the match tomorrow. The last thing she needs is to be distracted before the most important game of the season.”

Harry froze, coat in hand, eyes flicking to her in frustration, “I can’t just… wait. I need her to know—"

Hermione leaned forward, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, “I know how badly you feel, Harry. But trust me, if she screws up tomorrow because you threw her off her game, she will always resent you. Be patient."

Harry exhaled sharply, letting the tension drain from his shoulders just slightly. He took a slow, grounding breath, hands unclenching. “After the match.” He murmured, almost to himself, nodding.

And for the first time in days, he felt a spark of peace. Not complete, not even close—but enough to know he wasn’t going to give up.

The stadium was a storm of rain and roaring fans, the sky an unbroken sheet of gray as the Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United prepared for the National World Cup final. Water slicked the pitch, and the smell of wet wood and earth mingled with the metallic tang.

The crowd was relentless, voices rising and falling like waves against the storm, but all of it faded into the background of your focus. Around you, teammates were adjusting, stretching, preparing—but your focus was singular: Catch the snitch.

As the captains called for the customary handshakes, the line of players stepped forward. Harry’s hand extended, and yours met his.

It lingered.

Longer than necessary. A moment suspended in the downpour. His fingers pressed just slightly into yours, grounding you, connecting you in a way that the rain could not wash away.

“Good luck.” He murmured, just enough for you to hear. You nodded, letting your shoulder brush against his briefly, pretending not to notice the warmth, the familiarity, the ache of it all.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Game face was on. Tunnel vision engaged. Your shoulders squared, jaw tight, heart hammering—not for him, but for the game.

The whistle shrieked.

Brooms launched, tearing through the rain-slicked air. Bludgers whistled past, the Quaffle flashed, Chasers darted and blocked with precision. Flying in a storm was entirely different from normal play. Your broom swayed with every gust of wind, raindrops stinging your eyes and streaming down your face, making it that much harder to spot a snitch.

Then, chaos.

One of Puddlemere’s Beaters swung wide, a Bludger spinning with lethal intent—but it wasn’t you they were aiming for. Your peripheral caught the sharp green of Harry’s uniform just in time. The Bludger struck him square in the side, sending him sprawling, his broom shuddering violently before splintering mid-air.

Your stomach dropped, a lead weight sinking to your knees.

“Harry!”

You didn’t hesitate. Launching yourself forward, you leaned into your broom with everything you had, wind and rain lashing at your face, rain blurring your vision.

The fall was slower in your mind than in reality. You chased him through the sheets of rain, heart clenching as he tumbled, arms flailing.

You reached out, managing to catch him, slow down his velocity—but the broom shattered completely. Harry fell.

Hard.

The sound of impact made your chest seize. A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. Rain blurred everything into a chaotic smear, but you could see him lying there on the slick grass, unmoving.

“Harry!” you screamed, voice cracking, the sound barely audible above the roar of the storm and the stadium. Your broom skidded to a halt as you slammed it down, sliding across the grass as you dropped to your knees beside him.

Your gloves slipped, fingers trembling as you pressed against his shoulder, his jaw, shaking him gently. His face was pale, eyes closed, blood beginning to gush from a cut at his temple.

“Harry! Harry, stay with me!” You screamed, voice cracking as panic clawed through you.

Tears ran freely now, mixing with the rain, soaking your hair and face. You pressed your cheek to his damp uniform, trying to hear if he was breathing, feeling his throat to check his pulse. Your chest heaved with sobs, arms trembling as you shook him again, desperate for any sign of movement.

Medical staff swarmed in a flurry of motion, wands raised, charms muttered, blankets thrown over him to shield from the rain. You were pushed back slightly, every muscle coiled, trembling with sobs as the metallic tang of blood mixed with rain assaulted your senses. You tried to step back, tried to let them work—but every fiber of your being screamed to stay close, to hold him, to make him open his eyes.

Your knees shook and you almost collapsed right then on the wet pitch, rain plastering your hair, drenched to the bone, shaking uncontrollably. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, heart hammering, tears blinding your vision.

The whistle blew again, but it sounded hollow to you, lost beneath the roar of your own panic. The roar of the crowd was a ghost compared to the storm inside your chest as you stared at the pool of blood staining the grass.

The hospital room was quiet, punctuated only by the soft beep of the monitors and the occasional rustle of sheets. You’d been waiting here for hours—or maybe it felt like days—every second stretching painfully as you sat just out of reach, unable to do anything but pray and pace.

Then, finally, a flicker of movement.

“Harry?” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

His eyelids fluttered, then opened, focusing hazily on you. Relief, overwhelming and immediate, ripped through you. Without thinking, you rushed to his side, gripping his hand in both of yours, tears spilling freely.

“You’re awake! Oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake!” You breathed, half sobbing, half laughing in disbelief.

Harry’s lips curved into a weak, teasing smile, “See… see what happened the second I took off my good-luck charm?”

You blinked through the tears, letting out a strangled laugh that was more sob than sound. “You absolute idiot,” You whispered, shaking your head, “Don’t scare me like that ever again.”

He coughed softly, then his voice softened, sincerity threading through the teasing. “I… I’m sorry,” He murmured, “For everything. For the fight, for how I acted before… I was selfish. If you want to keep this—us—private, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll do whatever you want.”

Your chest tightened, lips pursed, voice trembling as you spoke, “Harry… they know. The tabloids… they’ve been talking about me being camped here for like four days. After crying over your unconscious body like some war widow. There’s no way we can really go back from this.”

Despite the weight of your words, a small, helpless smile tugged at your lips. You gently ran the tip of your thumb along the peaks of his cheekbones, tracing the lines you knew so well.

His eyes softened, guilt and love mingling in their depths. “I… I’m sorry.” He murmured, voice low, almost breaking.

You swallowed, leaning closer, brushing your lips against his cheek in a gentle, grounding kiss. “Harry,” You whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “I don’t regret any of it. None of this. I’d rather this than you be hurt even worse. It’s a no-brainer.”

He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath escaping him, and shifted slightly so you could crawl into the bed beside him. You rested your head near his shoulder, your hand still entwined with his. His arm found its place naturally, draping across your back, pulling you close, grounding you both in the quiet aftermath.

“We’ll figure this out.” He whispered, the words rough but steady.

You nodded against his chest, pressing another kiss to the side of his head—half against his temple, half tangled in his hair. “We will.” You breathed, letting the tension drain from your shoulders.

For the first time since the accident, and perhaps since the fight that had almost torn you apart, you let yourself truly exhale.

The Daily Prophet – Lifestyle & Sports Section “Finally Official: Potter and (Y/N) Spotted on Vacation Together”

After weeks of rampant speculation, the long-rumored relationship between Puddlemere United star Harry Potter and Montrose Magpies’ Seeker (Y/N) (L/N) has finally been confirmed.

Sources report the couple was recently spotted enjoying a private vacation in the Scottish Highlands, strolling along the cliffs and clearly taking time to enjoy the off-season following Montrose Magpies’ hard-fought victory in the National Quidditch Cup. Some question the validity of the win, given that Puddlemere’s star Seeker was incapacitated during the match.

This revelation comes months after the infamous press conference in which both Potter and (Y/N) publicly denied any romantic involvement. At the time, the denials left fans and journalists skeptical, fueling whispers of a secret relationship. Now, with these vacation sightings, the truth has finally emerged: the two are very much together, and clearly enjoying their first proper break as a couple.

bonus:

The sun was bright over Hogwarts, catching the gleam of the Quidditch pitch and bouncing off the stands where students were already settling in. You and Harry had retired years ago—both of you having given your all to Quidditch, to each other, and now to your family—but some things never changed. Some things were impossible to leave behind.

And today, it was all about James. Your firstborn was making his debut for the Gryffindor team, and you and Harry were losing it before the match had even started.

Years ago, you never thought this would be possible. During the height of your career, you were adamant against having children, determined that putting your body through a pregnancy in your prime would be a huge mistake. Harry, your loving husband after three years of dating, had agreed. But once the second World Cup was behind you, and you had handed in your retirement papers, satisfied with the progress you’d made in your career… well, life had a funny way of surprising you. That very night, after the announcement, you had climbed Harry like a tree.

And now, you were standing in the stands with your two other children, Albus and Lily, as well as Teddy, all five of you screaming yourselves hoarse for your little boy.

“YOU CAN DO THIS, JAMES!” You shouted, bouncing slightly in your seats, oversized Gryffindor scarves wrapped around your necks, water bottles and snacks forgotten.

Harry’s glasses fogged from his own excitement, fists clenched with barely contained enthusiasm. “GET ‘EM, JAMES!” He roared back, throwing his arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking you off the bench, “SHOW THEM WHAT YOU’VE GOT!”

The whistle blew. Brooms launched, slicing through the rain-slicked air, and James was immediately in motion, diving and dodging with the same brilliance he’d inherited from his parents. You were practically on your feet, half-screaming, half-laughing, hands flailing as if your cheers could somehow reach him mid-flight.

You watched as he soared forward, scoring a goal almost instantly. Your voice rang out over the chaos of the crowd, “THAT’S MY BOY!”

The match continued in a blur of speed and skill. Every pass James made, every dodge of the Bludgers, had you and Harry holding your breaths, screaming, cheering, clapping, and at one point, nearly toppling out of the stands.

Then it happened—the winning goal. James threw with precision, and the Quaffle soared into the hoops. Your seats erupted—not with the students’ collective gasp or applause, but with your combined, thunderous, uncontainable cheering. Harry jumped up, spinning in the stands, and you found yourself clapping so hard your hands stung.

“I’m so proud of him,” Harry said, eyes shining, leaning down to kiss your forehead, “Proud of us too. We have the next legendary Quidditch player on our hands.”

You laughed through tears of joy, wrapping your arms around him. “We did good,” You murmured, pressing your head against his shoulder, “We did really, really good.”

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[buttersuaa]

Honestly one of the BEST fics i've read. I LOVE ME A STRONG WOMAN WHO GIVES NO F ABOUT SHITTY MEN.

GINGIN AND HERMY ARE THE BEST

"If she lost any match, it’d be because she was too distracted by her relationship. If she won, it’d be because the great Harry Potter helped her train, or because the other players held back."

THIS LITERALLY SUMS UP WHAT WOMEN HAVE TO GO THROUGH EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

AND I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE HARRY OK BYE READ THIS PLEASE

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

friendzoned (h.p.)

Pairing: Harry Potter x Reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: Don't fall in love with your best friend unless you're ready to have your heart broken.

A/N: Happy Belated Valentine's my babiesss sorry it took so long to post i actually got pretty sick last weekend so i wasnt able to finish the fic on time but i hope you enjoy!

credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider

As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.

Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.

That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.

Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.

He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.

Harry had thought it ridiculous.

Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.

By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.

Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—

And you were completely, utterly oblivious.

The irony was cruel.

You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”

You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.

You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.

You—who read people like open books.

Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.

And had been for two years.

At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.

Apparently not.

Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”

He’d nearly choked on his tea.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.

The worst part?

They were right.

Everyone had noticed.

Everyone—except you.

So Harry tried something different.

He stopped hiding.

He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.

There was none.

He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.

You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.

Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.

Not anonymous. Not vague.

A proper Valentine.

You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.

“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”

He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.

That was the day he’d given up.

You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.

And yet.

He still didn’t tell you.

He couldn’t.

Because losing you altogether was not an option.

He could survive loving you quietly. He could survive pretending. He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.

But he could not survive you walking away.

That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.

So he chose silence.

He chose the quiet torture of it.

And he told himself that it was enough.

It had to be.

But Merlin—

You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.

It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.

Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.

So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.

“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.

Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.

“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.

He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.

“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”

There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.

Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”

You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.

It started with a bang.

Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.

Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.

“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.

The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”

Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.

“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”

Brilliant.

Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.

Harry was scanning the staircase.

Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.

And then you appeared.

Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.

And—

Wearing his Quidditch jersey.

It swallowed you whole.

The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.

You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.

Heat crawled up his neck.

“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”

You blinked at him, still half-asleep.

“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”

You yawned.

Actually yawned.

As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.

Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

But you didn’t notice.

You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.

It was instinctive.

Unthinking.

Comfort.

His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.

For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.

You fit far too perfectly there.

It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.

His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.

Instead, he swallowed.

“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.

You smiled without opening your eyes.

“Like you would’ve said no.”

His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.

His.

And yet not.

You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”

He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”

You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.

McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.

Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.

You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.

Harry watched your retreating figure.

And the name stretched across your back.

Potter.

Something in his chest clenched painfully.

This—this was it.

As close as he would ever get.

The only way he would ever see you with his last name.

On the back of an old, worn jersey.

Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.

“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”

You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”

Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”

You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”

Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.

He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.

Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.

“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”

Harry froze. His stomach dropped.

“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”

“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.

You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”

Friend.

Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.

You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.

He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.

He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”

You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.

As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.

Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.

But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.

He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.

At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.

He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.

“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”

Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”

Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”

Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”

Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”

“You have bets?” Harry demanded.

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”

Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”

Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”

“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue.

And then closed it again.

Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”

Harry hesitated.

Just for a second.

Because part of him wanted to.

Merlin, he wanted to.

The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.

He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.

No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.

With every single fiber of his being.

With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.

And then—

Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”

That one landed wrong.

A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.

Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”

The boys burst out laughing.

Harry didn’t.

Because that was the worst part.

They weren’t wrong.

His jaw tightened.

Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.

“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”

Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”

That one felt like a punch to the ribs.

So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.

Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”

“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”

“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”

Harry paused at the bottom step.

He didn’t turn around.

Worst she can say is no.

But that wasn’t what terrified him.

What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.

Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.

You’d grow cautious.

You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.

You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.

And he would lose you.

Not just the possibility of you.

You.

His best friend.

The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.

And that—

That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.

The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.

Too soft for this hour.

He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”

The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.

“Hi.” You said quietly.

Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”

You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”

Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.

“And?” He asked gently.

“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.

His heart skipped.

“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”

Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”

You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.

The air shifted.

This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.

It wasn’t new.

But something about tonight felt different.

Harry swallowed.

For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—

Why not Ron’s bed?

Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?

The question burned at the back of his tongue.

But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.

The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.

You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”

“Good night.” He said quickly.

You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.

It took less than five minutes.

Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.

Like it belonged.

Harry stared up at the ceiling.

Wide awake.

Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.

You were so close.

So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.

And you slept.

Just like that.

No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.

Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.

That was what hurt.

You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.

He wanted to wrap an arm around you.

He wanted to pull you closer.

He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.

He wanted to ask why him.

Why always him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.

That should have been enough.

But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—

If you knew.

If you knew how badly he wanted you…

Would you still sleep this easily?

Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?

His throat tightened.

Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.

And Harry finally closed his eyes.

Not because he was calm.

But because it was easier than letting himself cry.

Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.

If he had at all.

Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.

Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.

You.

Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.

He released you at once.

And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.

He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.

But you didn’t.

You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly. Why would you?

A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.

“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.

Harry swallowed, “Morning.”

You didn’t jump away. You didn’t gasp. You didn’t even hesitate.

You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.

He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.

It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.

You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

You saw him as safe. Familiar. Harmless.

Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him. Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe. Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.

You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”

“Yeah.” He said automatically.

There it was again.

That warm, affectionate smile.

And then you were gone.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.

He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.

You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.

And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.

He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.

Valentine’s Day was a week away.

And he was running out of ways to survive this.

It started with the heat.

Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.

This was different.

This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.

You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.

Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.

Today, every touch felt like friction.

He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.

You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”

“Yeah.” He muttered.

He wasn’t.

He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.

You didn’t think about it.

You never thought about it.

By lunch, it had gotten worse.

The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.

Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.

Harry told himself it didn’t matter.

You laughed like that with everyone.

But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.

You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.

You tilted your head, “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t push. You never did.

And that made it worse.

Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.

The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.

By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.

You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”

“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”

You blinked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

He took the stairs two at a time.

You followed.

“Harry.”

He didn’t answer.

“Harry, wait.”

He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”

You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”

“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”

That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.

“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”

“Then what is it about?”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

He walked away.

But you didn’t let him.

You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.

By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

You followed.

Now it was just the two of you.

The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.

You shut the door gently behind you.

“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

He stared at everything else in the room but you.

At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.

He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.

Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.

You hesitated.

Then you reached for his hand.

The contact was gentle. Familiar.

It felt like static shock.

Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.

His entire body reacted before his mind did.

He jerked away.

“Just—stop it.”

Your hand froze midair.

“What?”

“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”

Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”

“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”

You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”

“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”

Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”

“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”

“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”

“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”

The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.

They echoed in the quiet room.

You stared at him.

“What are you talking about?” You whispered.

He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.

“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”

His voice wavered, but he pushed through.

“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”

His throat tightened.

“But I was wrong.”

You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”

“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”

And finally — finally — he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

“I love you.”

Silence swallowed the room.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”

His hands trembled at his sides.

“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."

His laugh was brittle.

“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”

His voice cracked.

“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”

Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.

“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”

The words nearly undid him.

“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”

The room felt too still.

Too tight.

He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.

The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.

It was a burn.

And it hurt.

Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.

That might have been easier to bear.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.

He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.

“I think you should go.” He said quietly.

Not angry.

Not cold.

Just… spent.

For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.

He didn’t.

He stepped back instead.

And that — that was what made your chest crack open.

You left without another word.

The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.

Everything sounded distant. Muffled.

You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.

By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.

The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.

You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.

Your heart was still racing.

Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.

I’m in love with you.

The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.

You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.

You’d thought you knew him.

But tonight had been different.

Tonight he had looked raw.

You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.

The confession replayed again.

And again.

And then—

You inhaled.

And froze.

That wasn’t your pillow.

You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.

Harry’s jumper.

Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.

You hadn’t meant to keep it.

It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.

He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.

Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.

You never gave it back.

Your throat tightened painfully.

Would you have to return it now?

The thought felt unbearable.

You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.

Your eyes landed on your nightstand.

The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.

Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.

A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.

Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.

You’d laughed.

You hadn’t asked why.

It was everywhere.

He was everywhere.

Not in grand, sweeping gestures.

Not in dramatic declarations.

But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.

Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.

There were dozens.

Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.

Not the gift.

You.

At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.

Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.

Longing.

How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?

Your vision blurred again.

You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.

You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.

Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.

And then—

You found it.

A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.

Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.

Be my Valentine?

The memory hit you all at once.

A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.

But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.

You had seen the signs.

Some quiet part of you had always known.

It’s been like this for years.

Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.

You always thought it was just that.

You and him. Best friends. A matched set.

Your chest tightens painfully.

The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.

The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.

This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.

It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.

You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.

You loved him.

Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.

And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.

You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.

At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.

You needed to know.

You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.

So you kept your distance.

And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.

He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.

He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.

It wasn’t cruel.

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t punishing you.

He was protecting himself.

Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.

You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.

It was restraint.

And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.

By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.

Harry hated it.

He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.

It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.

A miracle.

Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.

Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.

One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.

Harry remained behind.

He told himself he didn’t care.

He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.

But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.

Stupid, really.

He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.

And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.

He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.

The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.

He didn’t return it.

By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.

He pushed the door open.

And froze.

The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.

And there you were.

Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.

His second was fear.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.

“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”

His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.

“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.

You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.

“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.

He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”

The words hit you square in the chest.

“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.

You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.

He let you have the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were small when they finally left you.

And he felt his stomach drop.

There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.

His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.

“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”

“(Y/N), hold on.”

He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.

You stopped mid-breath.

Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.

Harry swallowed.

He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.

You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.

“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”

Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”

His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.

Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.

“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”

The room seemed to still entirely.

The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.

“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”

His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.

“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”

For a moment, he didn’t react at all.

It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.

You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.

He didn’t find it.

Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.

Reverently.

“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.

You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”

The words didn’t tremble this time.

They landed between you solid and undeniable.

Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.

“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.

Just awe.

Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.

“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”

For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.

Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.

His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.

Then he stepped forward.

Hesitantly.

Cautiously.

As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.

He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.

But you were real.

Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.

The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.

The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.

He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.

It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.

But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.

All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.

You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.

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[buttersuaa]

THE PINING. THE SLOWBURN. THE YEARNING. THE FLUFF. THE ANGST. THE EVERYTHING.

[godricgryffinsnore]

Hii I saw your harry fanfics and omg everything is soo good. I'm obsessed with that man and gosh he is so underrated so finding an author who adores my bby is like finding a diamond on a cavee

Anyway can I request an academic fluff please? Like the reader is pressured by everything academic (she's kinda like Hermione who loves studying). Exams, deadlines and everything and like it makes her cry because she's overwhelmed and harry is just being the supportive friend he is. (I dunno why but I like romance with no established relationships 😭😭)

Thank you!!

It’s Okay, I’ve Got You ♡ | H.Potter ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

“She cried over Arithmancy, and somehow, I fell harder than I already had—who does that to a bloke?”

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : A studious girl buckles under academic pressure, and her closest friend, Harry, steps in with quiet support and unwavering care—reminding her she doesn’t have to carry everything alone.

warnings : Use of Y/N, academic stress, overwhelm, soft crying, comfort. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : AAHHHGG we all love harry potter in our own ways!!! But he is my baby. And I LOVE TO WRITE ABOUT HIM!!! SO THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING!! I am glad you liked my fics and I hope you like this one to anon!!

word count : 0.6k

navigation <3

banners : @/roseschoices and @/dollywons

The library was silent, save for the scratching of quills and the occasional sniffle from you.

You sat curled in a stiff-backed chair, surrounded by towers of parchment and textbooks, some open, some shut, some tear-stained. Your hair was messily tied up, and your eyes flickered wildly between your revision notes and the looming deadline list you'd scribbled on the corner of your planner. Transfiguration essay. Arithmancy project. Three exams in the next two days.

It was all… too much.

You had tried to hold it together. Really. You always did.

But your throat tightened with every unchecked box on your to-do list, and when your vision blurred, it wasn’t because of too much reading—it was because you couldn’t stop the tears anymore.

One spilled.

Then another.

Then the sound of your own choked sob made you feel even more embarrassed, and you shoved a book in front of your face, hoping the massive Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7 might double as a shield for your emotions.

It didn’t.

“Y/N?”

The voice made you freeze, and when you peeked above your book, Harry Potter stood at the end of the table, brow furrowed, glasses slightly fogged, a gentle sort of panic flashing across his face.

He dropped his satchel beside him and came around without hesitation, crouching next to your chair instead of sitting across.

“Are you—? Merlin, Y/N, are you crying?”

You shook your head violently, even though the answer was literally leaking down your cheeks. “No,” you whispered, but your voice cracked like dry parchment. “Okay, maybe—yes. But don’t—please don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Harry didn’t.

He didn’t tease or ask why you didn’t just take a break or tell you to "stop overworking" like others did, like they didn’t get it—like they didn’t understand what it was like to tie your worth to your grades.

Instead, he gently plucked the quill from your hand and set it down. Then, without asking, he reached up and wiped a tear from your cheek with his sleeve.

You blinked down at him, stunned.

He gave a tiny, crooked smile, soft and boyish and heart-shattering. “You don’t have to do all of it at once, you know. You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, because what else could you say?

“No, you’re not,” Harry replied gently. “And that’s okay. You’re allowed to fall apart a little. I’ll hold the pieces ‘til you’re ready.”

Your lip trembled again. Damn him and his kind words.

“I just… I want to do well. I want to be enough.”

“You already are,” he said immediately, like he’d been waiting to say it for years. “You're enough even if you fail every single test—which, by the way, you won’t, because you’re bloody brilliant.”

You let out a broken laugh, which turned into a hiccup, which turned into you burying your face in his shoulder.

Harry froze for half a second—then wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he’d been aching to do it forever.

His hand ran up and down your back slowly. “You’re so hard on yourself,” he murmured into your hair. “And I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. You’re smart, and kind, and passionate, and honestly, Y/N—” he chuckled softly, “—you make me want to sit through an Arithmancy lecture. That’s practically a love confession.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your nose stuffy, cheeks red. “Is it?”

He paused.

Then grinned—blushing faintly but still brave. “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

You stared at him for a beat too long, your heart thudding like a bloody war drum. Then, quietly, you whispered, “Stay with me?”

His smile softened into something dangerous, something that could turn best friends into something more. “Always.”

And he sat next to you, hand in yours, helping you sort through your notes one page at a time—never letting go, never letting you drown.

[rottenherbs]

Lost and Found

Pairing: H.P x Reader Tags: Slow burn // Fluff Summary: After a frustrating assignment was given, you rush around the castle to find a place to rest when a mysterious door opens where you swear one wasn't before. Finding a place to take a nap, Harry finds you in his cozy corner he created to escape the outside world. W/C: 1.9k A/N: i fucking looooooooove a slow burn omg sorry!! I also love the potential for second chapters to really get the love going ya know hahah. If you want something faster or a more established crush or relationships my requests are open!!! Much love, Saige [masterlist]

It wasn't until your fifth year when you found the room of requirement. Walking down the halls in the early afternoon frustrated with the written assignment Snape gave you. Seriously, four feet of parchment? The sound of your uniform shoes clacking against the stone pavement echoed it the hall as you rushed to find a place of solace to collect your thoughts.

Just behind you, the sound of moving rock and stone shook you to stop in your place. Eerily looking over your shoulder, you question yourself whether or not that door was there just moments before. You shifted your book bag as you turned to see if any other students were nearby. You feel an immediate sense of secrecy as you reach towards the doorknob. With a little extra push, it gave way, opening it only enough to sneak your body through. You close it quietly, backing into it trying to see through the dust and darkness.

”Lumos” you whispered, your wand lit slightly illuminating only a few feet in front of you. You paused to listen, trying to gauge whether you were alone or not. Taking only a beat, you continue forward, finally noticing all of the mismatched items and strange furniture that seemed to go for miles.

It must be some sort of miscellaneous room? You think to yourself. Although the items were covered in dust and didn’t look very important, it made sense that Hogwarts had a space that could hold items that were needed in a timely manner. Hundreds of wooden folded chairs stacked upon themselves tower around you. It felt almost like a museum.

Just out of the corner of your eye, a small sunbeam brought your attention to a couch tucked in its own corner, not dusty, not old, but almost new and untouched. Curiosity gets the best of you as you ignore everything around you and walk towards the spot. As you reached the rugged floor where the couch sat, candles appeared around you lighting themselves. In awe you drop your book bags and take the opportunity to sit for a moment. The juxtaposition of this cozy corner to the rest of the drab cold mystery room was stark. You could feel yourself melting into the cough, enveloping the warm feeling it radiated to your body. You take a moment to check your watch realizing you had several hours until your study date with Hermione after supper. You could take a quick nap without worry. Your eyes close as your body curls into itself, the sound of the crackling candles bringing you easily to a cascading slumber.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

Your body was startled awake by the sounds of a door closing. Your eyes open frightened, forgetting for a second where you fell asleep. The slow shuffling feet of the new intruder quickly made you realize you were not sure if you were allowed to be here. The thumping of your chest quickened as you attempted to grab your book bag and blow out the candles just before the person's feet came into view. Your eyes widened as you slowly stood up, a sense of relief noticing it was a student's uniform but immediately washed back with nervousness as you realized who it was.

“I didn’t know other people knew of this place.” His voice is soft and quiet, soon recognizing a small look of fear in your eyes. “It’s okay you're here, I mean it's not mine to dictate.” His hand quickly reached to the back of his head fidgeting with his black hair. You stand like a statue not realizing the silence enveloping you both. Harry clears his throat looking around.

“Sorry, oh my god, you're..” You start, the anxious motions taking over you. Of course you knew Harry. Not necessarily in the “boy who lived’ type of way. But in the realization that he wasn't a professor or a prefect for that matter. “ I genuinely thought I was in trouble a moment ago.” A large sigh of relief takes over you as you slump comfortably again, letting your book bag drop to the floor. A small chuckle comes from Harry as he shifts his feet from under him.

“How did you find this place?” He asked, picking up a small snow globe at the table next to him, trying to keep his focus on his hands and not the girl who was sitting in his secret area of solitude. He wasn't upset that she found it, almost a relief that he didn’t have to bring Ron or Hermione here to show them what he was working on. He could keep it his secret for a little while longer.

“The door just…. Appeared.” You said quietly. “I was rushing out of class to work on some dumb essay when i heard the wall move and i couldn't remember if the door was there before or not.” You sit trying to remember earlier that day. Were you crazy? This room had to have been here the whole time.

“They call it the room of requirement.” He set the snow globe back on the table and turned to you slightly. “It only reveals itself to an individual who needs it. Sometimes it shows me other types of rooms. But this one is my favorite.” His eyes cascade around you, not landing on you for more than seconds. His cheeks were colored slightly by the candles around him. His hands fidgety and nervous, but content all together.

“I don't understand, why is it all old….stuff and yet this area seems brand new.” Your hands rubbing the fabric of the couch feeling the crushed velvet on your fingertips.

“Oh I made this.” His voice was quiet but matter of fact. Your eyes widened. When in godric's name would Harry Potter have the time to create all of this. You and Harry shared most of your classes and you could always see him with Ron or Hermione together conjuring up plans or going to Hagrid's. He seemed more busy than the average student.

“It’s beautiful.” It was all you could say. It was the truth, you did enjoy your moments in this place, finding it easy to sleep. You took a second to realize that you should let him enjoy his own space. Clearing your throat you pick up your bag and press out your uniform.

“Thank you for sharing it with me, even for just a few hours.” You say smiling at him. You couldn’t help but flicker your eyes to his scar, it was faint but a reminder that it really was Harry Potter in front of you.

“You don't have to go if you don't want to.” His hands hold out, almost halting you from leaving. His eyes were soft but a sense of pleading ushered you to sit back down on the couch. He’d never reveal, but he was able to watch you for a moment while you slept, your hair cascading on your face as your eyelashes flickered to the sound of his feet. He was mesmerized by you. Mesmerized by a girl in his space using it for the reason he made it for himself. It appeared when you needed it most, and he was the one to build it. It was a strange feeling but he felt important, not for being Harry, but for being a creator of peace and not chaos.

The room fell silent as you patted the seat next you, inviting him to sit. He hesitated for a second but took the opportunity and sat lazily next to you. You could smell his cologne or the shampoo he used, you couldn’t tell but you liked it just the same.

“So do you come in here and sleep too.” You ask, resting your head on the back of the couch looking up to the ceiling.

He mimicked your actions before responding; “mmm sometimes. Sometimes I come here to just be alone ya know.” You both just look up for a moment.

“This room is insane when you think about it.” You mumble softly. Harry's head turns to face you. He is closer than you realize, but you keep your head facing up feeling his soft exhales hit your cheek.

“I never caught your name.” Harry says quietly. He was taking in your side profile while he could in the moment. The way the sun hit your nose and reflected off of your cheek, you looked like a Victorian painting to him, beautiful and almost untouchable. He stared hoping to memorize this moment. He has only seen you in class or talking to Hermione after quizzes to get each other's viewpoints on the topics. The opportunity to speak to you never felt natural but now he was alone with you in the room of requirement only a few inches from each other.

”It's y/n” you say, turning slightly towards him. You made eye contact for a moment, his eyes were beautiful and the tension growing around you two. If on cue, two small birds fly above you both tweeting and chasing after each other. You both look up in astonishment.

“I’m never leaving.” You whisper trying to keep sight of the birds. Your hands fall and rest to your side on the couch, the feeling of his leg shooting small bolts of electricity to your chest. Even just being in this room was amazing but being alone with Harry was something special. You both follow the birds to the best of your ability, his hands very slowly moving from his lap trying to be coy with his attempt to touch your hand. It took a lot of courage from Harry to finally relax his hand to rest on top of yours. You both don't verbally mention it and keep quiet, the sounds of your beating heartbeat almost overtaking all of your senses.

You turn your head to look at Harry just for a moment before he does the same. Both of you staring into each other's eyes in a silent moment together. You move your hands to entwine your fingers with his, not saying a word. The moment lasts for an eternity as you break eye contact and rest your head on his shoulder. It felt natural and sweet. Before you could realize the feeling of sleep crept up on you and you almost slumped into his chest. Harry's eyes widened as your body rested closer to his, feeling a sense of protection taking over him as he readjusted his arms to wrap around you. He’d let you sleep for as long as you would, if it meant he could stay in this moment with you.

[yasministration]

hi how about make out sesh with Harry at a party?

heart of the common room - harry potter

summary: harry looks too good at a party, so you decide to go over and give him a kiss or two. or a little more. wc: 1.5k+ cw: descriptive kissing, suggestive themes

The boy who lived was admittedly a busy man. When he wasn’t occupied with saving the wizarding world or quidditch practice, Harry Potter had to struggle to stay above passing grades in his subjects, or like tonight, he partied with friends.

He was relaxed for once, standing with Seamus as they spoke, a plastic cup in hand filled with a mixture of fire whisky and some soda. He was laughing wholeheartedly, a look you didn’t see on him too often anymore, mind occupied by tormenting thoughts about the upcoming war. Your feet carried you away from the group of girls you were with, singing and dancing in between conversation.

You didn’t want to interrupt your boyfriend’s conversation with his friend, so you busied yourself by getting another drink, flinching back as you popped the cap off your pre-mixed cocktail. When you turned around to see if Harry was available, you were happy to find out that he was. Even better, he was looking right at you, a soft smile hovering on his lips. You felt your face go hot at the idea of Harry looking out for you.

Harry extended an arm out and you found yourself lured into him, shuffling across the room to settle underneath his arm, now slung over your shoulders. Harry didn’t say anything, only smiling at you and leaning down to press a kiss to your lips. Humming in satisfaction, you pushed yourself up against him, causing Harry to smile against your lips. “Having fun?” You asked, snaking an arm around Harry’s back. “Yeah, are you? Saw you dancing with Hermione.” You nodded your head, feeling Harry’s arm pull you closer so you were finally standing in front of him rather than by his side.

Wordlessly, Harry leaned down again to meet your lips again. You pushed Harry away from you by the chest, and he huffed quietly as you took a sip from your drink, before spinning on the balls of your feet and walking away from him.

Feeling betrayed, Harry followed after, watching as you strutted over to the nearest table, abandoning your drink on the solid wood before returning to him. Harry grinned as you brought both your hands up to his chest and leaned into his body. Harry’s free hand secured on your waist as you leaned up to press your lips against his, and he suddenly wished he had put his drink away too. He hummed softly as your lips separated from his lips slightly, enough for your lips to still graze each other. You pecked his lips and Harry found himself leaning into you, begging silently for you to deepen the kiss as he separated his lips, opening his mouth against your kiss.

As though his prayers had been answered, Harry felt your lips part into the kiss, your tongue meeting his between your connected lips. Harry’s tongue eagerly delved into your mouth, setting a slow pace in a very passionate kiss. You whined loudly as one of your hands travelled upwards to the back of Harry’s neck, playing with his hair. The sound was easily swallowed by your boyfriend, as though the sound belonged to him. It did, but you doubted anyone would have heard you in the loud room, filled with music and chatter.

Harry broke the kiss, lips separating with a loud smooch, and as he looked around the common room, party full blown around you, he felt a sense of rebellion taking over him at the realisation that he’d been making out with his girlfriend in the centre of the room. A kiss on his jaw averted his attention back to you. You were staring at him, eyes full of love as you snuggled into his side, a shy smile in your face. “I miss you.” You suddenly said, laying your head on Harry’s chest.

“I miss you too, my love. Feel like I barely see you.”

That wasn’t true at all.

You’d spent all day with Harry yesterday. After waking up, you and Harry got breakfast before racing to the library and finishing your essays. Then, you spent the rest of the day in his bed, locked between the sheets, kisses not to secret between you. But you would take it. If your boyfriend felt like he hadn’t seen you, then you would accept every opportunity to spend more time with him. Harry lifted his cup to his lips, taking a slow sip of his drink. Seeing your gaze linger on him, Harry offered you his drink and you smiled gently, taking the cup from him.

“Thank you.” You grinned, tilting your head up to press another kiss to your boyfriend’s cheek. Raising the cup to your lips, you tasted the bitter taste of Harry’s drink. The strong concentration of alcohol made you grimace, and you thrusted the cup into Harry’s hands again, shaking your head softly. Harry’s free hand cupped the back of your head, bringing you closer to him so he could press his lips against your forehead in a slow kiss.

You moulded your body against Harry’s, arms slithering around his torso, making sure you were as close to Harry as possible so you could press your lips against the exposed skin of Harry’s neck. His breath hitched against your lips, pressing against his throat. You took them off his throat, trailing the kisses to the side of his neck, closing your lips around the skin of his neck above his pulse point, feeling its steady throb under your lips. You ran your tongue over the spot, a hand resting over Harry’s abdomen, feeling the muscles contract under your touch.

Grazing your teeth over the sensitive skin of Harry’s neck, you heard a quiet groan build in his throat. His eyes were closed, cheek resting on your head as you got to work, beginning to suck on his neck. Harry gasped loudly, and his eyes shot open, one hand pressing you as close to him as possible.

To distract himself, Harry tore his eyes away from you, scanning the room around him. Instead, he caught Ron’s eye from across the room. His best friend was smirking widely, and he said something to Neville, Dean and Seamus, who all immediately turned to look at him. They all wore matching expressions at the sight, and Seamus brought two fingers from each hand to his mouth, whistling loudly at him. Harry frowned, but his eyebrows immediately furrowed in pleasure as he felt a moan bubble in his throat.

“Baby.” Harry pleaded, looking down at you.

You hummed against his skin, only separating from him when a hand on your hip pushed you away from him. “Come here.” He guided, his hand snaking into yours to pull you away from the heart of the common room. Taking the opportunity to look around, you spotted your boyfriend’s roommates, who wiggled their eyebrows at you suggestively. Scoffing, you let Harry guide you into the common room’s corner, where he didn’t hesitate to press you up against the wall, slamming his lips against yours. With a squeak, you returned Harry’s kiss, parting your lips to let him glide his tongue against yours with a newfound hunger. Both your hands came up to grip Harry’s shirt, your fingers digging creases into the fabric.

Your boyfriend pressed his body against yours, wedging a thigh between your legs. Breaking the kiss, Harry took inspiration from your past actions, moving his wet lips to your neck, working past the kisses to suck hickeys onto your skin, biting you gently. You snaked a hand through Harry’s hair, tugging softly as your nails massaged his scalp. Biting your bottom lip, you suppressed a moan, but couldn’t help your cry of Harry’s name. Harry broke away from your neck, leaving your neck wet with his saliva. His lips glistened in the dim lights of the common room and your mouth dipped open, eyes shining with desperation.

“I love you.” You whimpered, and Harry looked at you lovingly, pressing his lips against yours in a short kiss. He pulled away, then pressed another kiss to your lips. Then another. And another. “I love you so much, my love.”

“Kiss me again.” You begged, trailing your hand underneath Harry’s shirt. He shuddered at your cold touch but complied to your request, dipping his head down to press his lips against yours. You sighed into the kiss, melting against your boyfriend’s body.

Suddenly, a loud cry broke you two apart from your bubble. “Harry, stop hogging her.” Lavender, clearly pushed to act on account of Hermione and Ginny, who were giggling a couple of meters away, yelling for you to join them, but you shook your head at her, wrapping your arms tighter around Harry’s body. “Oh sod off Lav! Wait- our dorm is empty, right?” Hermione, listening in on the conversation, shook her head frantically. “Well, it is! But-“ You pushed yourself off the wall, holding a hand out for Harry to grab. He did, and you led him up the stairs to the dormitories, calling out “Don’t worry Mione, we’ll be asleep by the time you guys come up!”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @potterheadlovespotter, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots

[slytherinsimp12]

₊˚⊹♡ 𝓞𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓫𝔂 𝓝𝓪𝓶𝓮₊˚⊹♡

Pairing: Harry Potter x Lestrange!reader

Summary: Y/N spent her entire life at beauxbatons. Her whole world turned upside down when her mother she never met escaped Azkaban, forcing her to transfer to Hogwarts in her 5th year for her safety. Harry knows he should stay away. She’s a Lestrange, the daughter of the woman who destroyed part of his world. But the more he sees of Y/N, the harder it becomes to believe that blood decides who we are.

Author’s note: Hey cuties! I wrote this fic in a moment of creativity when I decided I wanted to put my A- levels in english to use. This is kinda different from my usual writing style- it’s more bookish vibes ig. I’m also currently working on the entire story- including Y/n’s point of view- from when she finds out about the transfer to living in Malfoy manor till falling for Harry. Let me know if you guys would be interested in reading that. Happy reading xx.

He noticed her the moment she walked in.

She wore the red and gold like it didn’t quite belong to her yet. Her head was high, her gaze unreadable, but not cold. Observant. Detached. Controlled, almost. She sat at the far end of the table, away from the usual clusters of fifth years. Her plate was untouched.

“Who is that?” Harry asked, squinting slightly. Hermione’s head snapped up like she’d been waiting for the question.

“That,” she said, voice low but intense, “is Y/N Lestrange.”

Harry frowned. “Lestrange?”

“As in Bellatrix Lestrange,” Hermione hissed, like the name might hex the table. “She transferred from Beauxbatons. A week ago. After her mother escaped. Apparently Dumbledore had to step in personally to get her in. No other school would take her.”

Harry blinked. “She’s in Gryffindor?”

“Yes!” Hermione waved her fork like it was part of the argument. “No one knows how the hat made that decision, but people are saying stuff about her… you tell him Ron.”

Ron leaned in with a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Total nutter, mate. Looks normal, but I heard she hexed a portrait on her first night because it looked at her funny.”

“Ron,” Hermione snapped. “That’s a rumor.”

“Still. Her mum tortured Neville’s parents. She’s bound to be a bit cracked.”

Harry didn’t answer. He was still watching her.

She didn’t look like someone dangerous. Or unhinged. She didn’t carry herself like someone craving attention, or trying to prove anything. She just… was. Quiet. She didn’t laugh when the first years made a mess. She didn’t even look uncomfortable sitting alone.

She looked up suddenly- maybe sensing eyes on her and her gaze met his. Harry froze. It wasn’t cold. Or hostile. It wasn’t even particularly curious. It was just… calm. Like she’d already figured something out about him, and wasn’t surprised.

He dropped his gaze first.

He felt Hermione watching him and shook his head. “She doesn’t seem like—”

“She’s her daughter, Harry,” Hermione whispered. “That doesn’t just go away.”

Harry frowned, but said nothing.

Because something told him this girl was nothing like the story they were trying to write for her.And whether he liked it or not, he wanted to know why.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Harry rounded the corner toward the Fat Lady’s portrait and nearly bumped into someone already standing there.

Y/N Lestrange.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder at him, arms folded. “Why won’t she bloody let me in…” She mumbled under her breath.

Harry blinked. “Um… you have to tell her the password.”

“Password?” A puzzled look spread across her face.

“It’s snargaluff root.” Harry said.

The Fat Lady sniffed. “Well finally. I was beginning to think she was just decorating the corridor.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry… first the staircases try to throw me down three times, and now I need to impress a talking portrait to get to bed. What’s next, a hallway that quizzes me on wand theory or eats my shoes if I get it wrong?”

Harry smiled,surprised; he didn’t expect her to be funny.

The portrait swung open with a dramatic sigh. They stepped into the common room together. It was late. The low crackle of the fire filled the room.

Y/N stretched out her hand,

“I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N Lestrange….” Harry continued, shaking her hand.

“Sorry- I’m Harry.”

“Harry Potter.” She finished.

Harry had seen Bellatrix Lestrange’s face before—smeared across wanted posters, screaming from the memory in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, twisted with madness and cruelty. And yet, no matter how much he stared at Y/N, he couldn’t find even a trace of that face in hers. Her features were softer, steadier. Her eyes weren’t wild; they were soft and kind. There was no madness in her smile. No chaos in the way she was. If anything, she carried herself like someone trying not to be noticed.

Harry glanced at her, curious. “So… you settling in alright?”

Y/N gave a small shrug. “As well as someone with a homicidal mother and a French accent can in a room full of people who think I sleep with a dagger under my pillow.”

Harry blinked, caught between concern and trying not to laugh. “Do you?”

She smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He grinned despite himself. “Only a little.”

“Goodnight, Potter,” she said, already halfway to the stairs.

“Night,” he said, still watching her go.

He sat down on the nearest couch and stared into the fire, frowning.

He didn’t know what was happening.

But he was pretty sure it had just started.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The classroom smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and something burning—probably the result of Neville’s most recent attempt at a Shield Charm. Harry slid into his usual seat in the back corner of Charms, only to realize Ron and Hermione were already mid-whispered conversation across the row.

“He’s doing it again,” Ron muttered, eyes flicking toward the door.

“Of course he is,” Hermione said, sighing. “Three months ago, he barely noticed she existed, and now—”

Harry looked up just as Y/N walked in.

She didn’t make a show of anything. She never did. She just nodded to Professor Flitwick, scanned the room, and made her way toward the empty seat next to him without hesitation.

“Potter,” she said, dropping her bag onto the desk with a small smirk.

He grinned. “Lestrange.”

She arched a brow. “Still not scared of me? You’re losing your touch.”

“Terrified, actually. I’ve just gotten better at hiding it.”

She gave a quiet, sarcastic laugh as she pulled out her wand. Harry caught himself staring again—not at anything in particular, just her. The way her hair fell forward when she leaned over her notes, how her quill moved fast and messy but confident, how she always seemed like she was both in the room and somewhere far away.

Two months ago, she was a stranger with a reputation.

Now, she was… something else.

Class ended too quickly.

As they packed up, Y/N turned to him and said, “Try not to miss me until next period, yeah?”

“You assume I will,” he shot back.

“You always do,” she said with a wink, then disappeared into the hallway crowd.

Harry was still grinning when Ron and Hermione flanked him on both sides.

Hermione didn’t waste time. “You’ve gotten close to her.”

Harry blinked. “Yeah? So?”

Ron frowned. “Mate, we’re not saying you can’t talk to her. Just—don’t forget who her family is.”

“Right,” Hermione added quickly. “We know she’s in Gryffindor, and we’re not saying she’s her mother—but Bellatrix Lestrange isn’t just a name, Harry. She tortured people. She killed people.”

Harry exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I know who her mum is. Believe me. But Y/N’s not like her. She’s—”

“What?” Ron asked, folding his arms. “Different? Misunderstood? The ‘funny, cool’ kind of Lestrange?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. The thing was, he didn’t have a clear reason. Just… a feeling. A pull. When he was around her, the world quieted down. She didn’t treat him like the Chosen One. She didn’t flinch at his past or parade hers. She was just real.

“I don’t know what she is,” he said honestly. “But she’s not her mother. And I’m not going to treat her like she is.”

Hermione sighed, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press further.

As they walked to their next class, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about that last look Y/N gave him.

The way she smiled—not sweet, not soft, but like she saw him and didn’t care who he was supposed to be.

And maybe that’s what scared him most.

Because every time he looked at her, he felt himself slipping.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The library was quiet. A few students sat hunched over textbooks, and Madam Pince watched them all like they might steal the shelves. Harry hadn’t planned on staying long. He came in looking for notes on their DADA essay, but he hadn’t made much progress—mostly because Y/N was sitting across from him.

She was reading, her quill tucked behind her ear, hair falling slightly over one eye as she leaned over her book. She made a face—half confused, half annoyed—and Harry caught himself smiling.Then she looked up.

He dropped his gaze to his own book too quickly. Definitely too obvious.

“You’ve been on the same sentence for twenty minutes,” she said.

Harry looked up slowly. “Just… taking it in.”

She smirked. “That parchment must be very moving.”

He let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. The writer really captured the emotional arc of ‘Wand Movements: A Historical Analysis.’”

Y/N tilted her head. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Harry leaned back in his chair. “And you’re surprisingly good at reading people.”

She looked at him for a second. Not teasing. Not sarcastic. Just… quiet.

“I’ve had practice,” she said softly.

He wasn’t sure what made him ask, but the words came out before he could stop them. “Do you miss it? Beauxbatons?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. She looked down at her hands, turning her quill between her fingers.

“Sometimes. It was cold, the rules were insane, and the food was too pretty to eat… but no one looked at me like I was a walking headline.”

Harry nodded slowly. “We’re good at that here.”

“Yeah.” She gave a dry laugh.

Harry’s gaze didn’t leave her face. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

She looked up again, and this time, she didn’t look away. Her voice was quiet, but steady.

“You don’t believe I’m like her, do you?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure he could. Because everything in his life- every reason, every scar, every instinct, should’ve told him to run.

But instead, he said, “No. I don’t.”

Something shifted then. Barely a breath. But it was there. It was there in the way her eyes softened with relief. The way her lips parted slightly, like she might say something else, but didn’t.

Harry’s heart was beating faster than it should have been.

She looked away first this time. “Good. Because I’m tired of pretending I’m not afraid I might be.”

“Then I’ll remind you,” he said.

Y/N looked back up at him, startled.

“Whenever you forget who you are,” Harry said, voice low, “I’ll remind you.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Hogsmeade in winter was something out of a postcard—snow lining the rooftops, warm butterbeer fogging up frosted windows, students crunching along the path in thick scarves. For once, Harry wasn’t thinking about the cold, or even the war.

He was thinking about her.

Y/N walked beside him, her gloved hands buried in her coat pockets, cheeks flushed from the wind. She was quiet—but not in the withdrawn way she got around others. It was the kind of quiet that felt easy, like she didn’t need to fill the silence. Like just walking next to him was enough.It was.

They were just passing Honeydukes when the voice came from behind.

“Well, well,” drawled Draco Malfoy. “Didn’t think I’d find a Lestrange slumming it with Potter.”

Y/N stopped, jaw tightening

Draco stepped forward, his smirk already venomous. “Your mum would be so proud. First Gryffindor, now roaming with a half-blood. You’re practically a Weasley in disguise.”

Y/N’s face didn’t move, but her hands curled slightly at her sides.

Draco kept going. “What do you think she’d say if she saw you now? Holding hands with the ‘Chosen one’, cozying up to the very people she wanted dead? Guess blood doesn’t mean much when you’re desperate to belong.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry said sharply.

Draco snorted. “What, going to defend your little project? You think she’s some tragic misunderstood soul? She’s just like the rest of her family. She’ll break the second you trust her.”

Harry didn’t think. He just drew his wand.

A second later, Draco was knocked flat on the icy path, skidding backward like someone had yanked the floor out from under him.

He groaned, sitting up and glaring. “You’re going to regret that—”

“Keep talking and I’ll make sure your tongue sticks to the next stone wall,” Harry snapped.

Draco scrambled to his feet and stalked off, muttering curses and clutching his side.

Harry turned back to Y/N. A single tear trickled down her cheeks

“Hey,” Harry said softly, stepping closer. “He’s wrong. All of it.”

They ended up at the Three Broomsticks, a quiet corner table, where no one could see them. Two mugs of butterbeer sat untouched between them, steam curling in the golden light.

Y/N leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t have to hex him.”

“Felt good though,” he said, and she gave a small laugh. There was a pause. And then,

“Thank you…” Y/N whispered.

They sat in silence for a long moment, the steam from their butterbeer curling between them. Her eyes were still a little glassy, cheeks still flushed from anger, from cold, from everything. Harry couldn’t stop looking at her.

Before he could change his mind, Harry leaned across the table, slow but certain, one hand reaching out to brush her hair gently behind her ear. Her breath caught. Her eyes didn’t leave his.And then, he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. Not completely. It was hungry, like the tension between them had finally snapped and neither of them cared what happened next. Her hand came up to his collar, gripping the edge of his scarf, pulling him closer like she’d been holding that impulse in for weeks. Months. She kissed him like she was daring him to regret it.

And he kissed her like he already knew he never would.

When they broke apart, barely a breath between them, her forehead rested against his, her voice low and unsteady.

“You really are reckless, Potter.”

Harry’s lips brushed a smile against hers. “Takes one to know one.”

She laughed quietly, nervous and thrilled all at once, and Harry realized his heart hadn’t slowed down since the second their lips met.

Then, almost a whisper, he said, “You know… they can say whatever they want. About who you are, who she was. But you’re not her. Not even close.”

He tilted his head, brushing her knuckles with his fingers.

“But I’m still a Lestrange…” Y/N trailed off.

“Only by Name.” Harry smiled, pulling her into a tight embrace.

[m0rguekh7i]

harry james potter x reader

warnings: none pure fluff

summary: just harry high on liquid luck

The first sign that something was off with Harry was that he was grinning.

Not a tired smile after Quidditch. Not the smile he gave when he laughed at something. This was something else. A full, shameless Harry Potter grin — wide and completely unbothered. His green eyes were bright and he was walking through the school corridors like he’d just inherited the whole school.

You stared at him the whole time, in the middle of a hallway, and he didn’t even see you.

Just breezed past with that grin on his face.

“Hey!” you called, eyebrows drawn together. He bumped your shoulder, mumbled something and kept walking.

He stopped in a second. As if, the world shifted and he realized something was missing.

He turned.

“Hi!” he said, like you’d been gone for years. Like seeing you in this exact hallway, at this exact second, was the most joyful thing that had ever happened to him.

And he meant it. Every bit of it.

You blinked. “Hi..?” your tone was confused and more than a little suspicious.

Then he was suddenly right in front of you, stepping close, reaching up with both hands as if he’s forgotten what personal space was, and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

His hands lingered, his thumb brushed your jaw like like he was waiting all day to do this thing.

You just stood there, stunned, the warmth of his mouth still across your skin.

You weren’t unused to Harry kissing you but this wasn’t the usual soft, stolen in a corner before class affection.

“Okay…” You blinked again, feeling your lips turn into a smile. “Are you — are you high?”

His grin somehow widened. “Nope. Just… incredibly lucky.”

You squinted. “That’s not a normal answer.”

He reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a small, clear bottle and held it up like a trophy.

“Felix Felicis,” he said cheerfully. “Took it after dinner.”

You stared at him. “You took liquid luck.”

He nodded.

“To do what, exactly? Charm everyone you bump into?”

“Nope,” he said, leaning forward, voice low.

“I’m charming like this everyday. The potion just helps.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “You’re actually insufferable.”

He laughed, bright and unbothered, and hugged you with no warning, arms tight around your waist, his head dropping onto your shoulder. The sudden weight made you stumble.

“You love me, though.” he mumbled into your neck.

“Unfortunately” you muttered, heart hammering in your chest.

You pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “Why did you drink it? You were supposed to save that for, like… finals. Or sneaking into somewhere…something important.”

He tilted his head like the answer was obvious.

“To find you.”

Your heart skipped.

“I was heading to find Slughorn” he continued “but then I felt this… pull. Like I needed to turn left instead of right. So I did. And then I was here.”

You stared at him. “Harry.”

“Side quest” he said suddenly, tone bright and entirely unbothered by how confused you looked.

“Side quest?” you echoed, eyes narrowing. “Harry, what—?”

Before you could finish, he grabbed your hand — warm, confident, fingers interlacing like it was muscle memory — and started speed-walking.

[m0rguekh7i]

harry j. potter x reader

warnings: a bit of angst, exes to idk lovers?

The Hogwarts corridors felt heavier now — like the walls themselves were holding onto some dark weight.

You hadn’t spoken to Harry in weeks, maybe months. Not since he called it off. That being with him put a target right on your back.

And after everything — after the Astronomy Tower — the whole school felt different. Quieter, almost like it was holding its breath. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, as if something sacred had been cracked wide open.

You should have gone back to your dorm, to your friends. But you didn't. Quietly walking to the seventh floor, towards that one room, the door appeared.

You paused just a moment before stepping in.

It was a dimly lit space, warmed by a low fire. An old sofa sat there, familiar. The same one you’d shared with Harry more times than you could count.

You breathed out.

And then you saw him.

Harry was curled in the corner of the sofa, elbows on knees, fingers tangled tight — like he was trying to hold himself together. His glasses slipped down his nose, but he didn’t look up.

“Harry?”

You took a cautious step forward. “I can go if—”

“No,” he interrupted, voice quick. Then softer. “Stay, please.”

You took a deep breath, crossing the room to sit on the other side. Silence settled between you—heavy, uncomfortable. Full of the words left unsaid.

You looked at him. He looked drained, hollowed out by something heavy. Like the weight of everything crashing down on him had etched itself into his skin.

“You were there,” you said softly. “With Dumbledore.”

His jaw tightened.

“I’m not asking about details,” you rushed on. “I just…I know you’re hurting.”

Something in him cracked then. Quietly, barely noticeable. But his breath caught. His hands clenched tighter. Still no eye contact.

“I couldn’t stop it,” he whispered.

Staring at him, no words being able to come out because of the discomfort, you just held your head down.

Finally, he looked at you causing you to look up and his eyes met yours.

“I let him die.”

Without thinking, you reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“I keep losing people,” his voice caught. “And I don’t think I could take losing you too.”

Your heart caught in your throat.

“That’s why I ended it,” he admitted, eyes fixed on your hands. “Because I thought keeping love and all this at a distance would make everything easier”

A silence stretched out.

“Can you just hold me?”

Your breath hitched. Those words—it was so raw, so vulnerable, so entirely him. The boy who’d never really known love. The one carrying the weight of the world and still afraid it might crush him completely. The one who wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask for something so simple.

You moved closer and wrapped your arms around him. He leaned in without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for this moment. His head settled on your shoulder.

You held him close—one arm around his back, the other threading through his hair. His breath was shaky, uneven against your neck.

After a while, he whispered again, “I miss you.”

You closed your eyes. “I miss you too.”

“I hate that I pushed you away.”

You pulled back enough to meet his gaze.

His eyes searched yours.

A soft, sad smile touched your lips. “We’re all just trying to get through this, Harry. No one really knows what they’re doing.”

He laughed softly, and jagged. “You always know what to say.”

“No,” you told him.

Hesitant to even say this, words stuck and feeling like instead of  a second, hours passed “I just love you.” came out.

He looked at you as if hearing those words again was a surprise — like he thought he wasn’t allowed to anymore.

Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in.

The kiss was gentle. Careful. Like he was scared to move too fast, afraid you might disappear. But it was real. Bittersweet, filled with sorrow and hope and everything left unsaid between you.

When you finally parted, his forehead rested against yours.

“I don’t know what’s next,” he murmured. “I have to leave soon. Dumbledore… he left me things to search for.”

[a-capricious-creative]

can we just appreciate how harry potter truly gives no fucks?

he will choke you in broad daylight on a public street for stealing something from his dead godfather.

he will beat you bloody, again in broad daylight in front of his entire team and an entire stadium of people for mocking his best friend.

he will use an unforgivable torture curse on you for spitting on one of the few adults he actually respects.

he will laugh at and mock and wave at the death eater, who just killed his godfather and is trying to kill him, for how much trouble she’ll be in with the darkest wizard ever for failing to get the prophecy like he instructed.

he will call some random boy’s mother stupid for believing bullshit stated in the prophet.

he will mock the spoiled boy for his father being in jail when it was him that put the boy’s father in jail.

he will also mock the spoiled boy’s mother for her shitty husband being in jail even though he’s the reason her husband is in jail and will also dare her to take a shot at him there and then in a public store.

he will mock his dead father’s friend to his face for trying to be a daredevil like his godfather and leaving his pregnant wife behind.

he will make fun of the same girl for crying because:

1) she thought his best friend of four years was his girlfriend

2) she lost the quidditch match to him

3) her best friend who sold out his illegal resistance group and his best friend put a permanent acne jinx on her best friend

he will send his bitter teacher across the room with a protection spell and treat said teacher like he’s his subordinate.

he will throw a badge at his best friend’s forehead for not believing him and mock him for being jealous of his fame.

he will lie saying his godfather is a convicted murderer to get his abusers to abide his requests.

he will threaten to reveal his identity as a wizard to their guests if they fail to meet his commands.

he will carry out masterful psychological warfare using the memory of his death mother on a member of authority to get what he wants out of him.

harry’s jar of fucks is empty and collecting dust on the shelf. the fucks he gives are buried six feet under with his family. it’s so funny to me when people who haven’t seen the books call movie harry rude or bitchy or annoying because it’s like mate, YOU HAVE NO IDEA. these weaklings would NOT be able to handle book harry.

he’s so iconic.

[junezsq]

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

in a world where he’s the chosen one

he chose her

his chosen one ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧

a harry james potter fic

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ending up in a friend group that always seems to end up in trouble after transferring from beauxbatons academy of magic to hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry was not on your bingo card — falling in love with the boy who lived wasn’t either 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

subtracts of your and harry’s journey to love

third year ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

nice to meet ya

your first day after transferring to hogwarts is up to a good start when a certain black haired boy can't stop staring at you

failing potions

when working on an essay might turn into something more

more coming soon

fourth year ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

dance practice

professor mcgonagall's dance class suddenly gets interesting when you have to dance with your best friend turned crush

so obvious

hermione has always been smart, but you never would've guessed she'd so quickly figure out who you have a crush on... or were you just being really obvious?

more coming soon

fifth year ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

coming soon

sixth year ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

compliments

on the train ride back home for christmas break ron dares you to find out what harry likes about you

more coming soon

seventh year ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

coming soon

after the war ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

coming soon

⋆ ---––——––------––——––--- ⋆

SOUNDTRACK | with hit songs from artists like ZAYN, BILLIE EILISH, BRADLEY SIMPSON, CHASE ATLANTIC & HOZIER

[chapters can be read out of order and/or separately]

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

[crescentofthegods]

HARRY POTTER!

i will always be here (hufflepuff!fem!reader) [fluff!]

the chosen one finds that you're having a panic attack.

love, love, love (muggleborn!fem!reader) [angsty fluff!]

you had been assaulted the summer prior without anyone knowing. when you begin a relationship with harry months later, memories resurface, and after flinching from harry's touch, you push yourself to tell your boyfriend about what happened to you.

stars around my scars (hufflepuff!fem!reader) [fluff!]

you feel extremely self-conscious of your body, constantly feeling like nothing. one day, the chosen one notices your saddened mood and reaches out, the both of you revealing your hidden feelings.

all too familiar (fem!reader) [fluff!]

cormac gets a little too touchy, but harry finds you just in time.

stormy thunderclouds (fem!reader) [angsty fluff!]

harry didn’t think seeing you with someone like dean could make him feel so… worthless.

RON WEASLEY!

pure jealousy (gryffindor!fem!reader) [angsty fluff!]

you have feelings for ron and you were planning on asking him to the christmas party. he doesn’t seem to realise those feelings until you give up on asking him, someone else offering to take you instead.

FRED WEASLEY!

befuddling confusion (muggleborn!fem!reader) [fluff!]

expecting to return to your dorm to see your boyfriend, you are thoroughly surprised to see a rather pretty ginger girl sitting at your vanity instead…

DRACO MALFOY!

the hidden charms of affection (ravenclaw!fem!reader) [fluff!]

draco lucius malfoy becomes sentimental with his gifts on your birthday.

vena amoris (slytherin!fem!zabini!reader) [fluff!]

in which draco malfoy offers you extravagant gifts for the yule ball in hopes that he wins your undying affection.

dissipation (slytherin!muggleborn!fem!reader) [angst!]

devastion overwhelmed you completely once you witnessed how draco, your boyfriend, was unable to defend you after his friend called you a mudblood.

main masterlist | navigation

[rottenherbs]

Harry Potter [Rottenherbs Masterlist₊⊹]

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ [HP masterlist] ─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Eager for each other (NSFW) (⚜ You and Harry recently got together before the end of last school year. Coming back from a summer of only letters you were dying for alone time // 2.2k // established early relationship // 6th year // SMUT ) Lost and Found (⚜After a frustrating assignment was given, you rush around the castle to find a place to rest when a mysterious door opens where you swear one wasn't before. Finding a place to take a nap, Harry finds you in his cozy corner he created to escape the outside world // 1.9k // Slow burn, fluff) Boyfriend! HC's (⚜ Boyfriend! Harry Headcanons) Taken Seriously (⚜ Coming back to Hogwarts to start your 6th year, you had quite the “glow up” over the summer. You visited family over in America and may or may not have gotten several piercings. Most Hogwarts students were tame with their appearance, but you weren’t one to follow trends. How would a certain black haired boy react? Did you remind him of someone? // 2.2k // angst, altercation, fluff) Love Language! HC’s (⚜ Harrys Love language Headcanon) Hidden In Plain Sight (⚜ You’ve been secretly dating Harry, helping him figure out the clues for the tasks of the Triwizard Tournament. But when the Yule ball comes around he has to show up with a date. Would you go together or keep your relationship a secret? // 1.2k // Malfoy! reader) Rumors and Lies (⚜ Harry is frustrated that a new rumor is spreading in the hall about your relationship. You try to cheer him up in any way you can. // 972 // fluff) NYE Headcanon (⚜HP golden era new years eve headcanons with reader) The March into Spring (⚜Springtime came with the rebirth of nature and the energy amongst the students. With most of your time shooed away to nature, a well known wizard seemed to have bonded to you from afar // 1.3k // pining, fluff) In The Quiet (pt.2) (pt.3) (⚜its hard for others to see past the pain and burdens of Harry and his legacy, but not for you - though the quiet connection and bond may take time to grow ~ Platform Coffee And Curious Boys (⚜ after a while, the same charming young man keeps coming to your coffee shop alone // 564 // fluff) Before The Game (⚜ Before Harry's big Quidditch match, you notice how antsy and worried Harry has gotten // 790 // fluff) Unfortunately Charming (⚜ (7th year // non-war AU) A shy Gryffindor finds herself constantly annoyed by cocky Slytherin!Harry Potter, who insists they’re academic rivals just to get her attention. What starts as playful antagonism slowly turns into something deeper, until a stormy night and a stolen kiss change everything // 873 // Reluctant Admiration  // Light enemies to lovers tension // Emotional intimacy // Cocky Harry tbh // Witty Banter vs. Quiet Sarcasm) Bricks And Bones (⚜ After the war, Harry and Y/N stay behind to help rebuild Hogwarts, finding solace in each other as they quietly heal from the past. As Harry begins to confront his repressed childhood trauma, they dream of building a peaceful life together—one filled with love, quiet mornings, and a home of their own // 630 // Angst // Fluff) The Things We Dont Say (⚜ Amidst the chaos of Order of the Phoenix, Harry pushes away his girlfriend Y/N out of fear and grief, only to realize— thanks to Luna —that his silence is hurting the one person he loves most // 851 // Angst // Hurt -Comfort)

[mysticalx]

Fleeting

pairing : harry james potter x fem! reader warnings : physical abuse a/n : I realized I cannot write angst. wc : 1.1k+

summary: It had been months since she’d seen him, and when the weight of everything eventually broke her down, there was nothing left to do but run.

She didn’t know what was more suffocating — the ball or her mother’s piercing gaze. The mask did little to shield her from her mother’s silent wrath. With each suitor she declined to dance with, the air would grow thicker and slight cracks would appear on her mother’s composed facade. She might as well would have signed her own sentence. Her gaze flickered to the bracelet in her hand. The wine red clashing with her emerald dress. She lightly rubbed it and it soon was easier to breathe.

“It’s beautiful.” She gasped as he clasped the bracelet on her hand.

“It pales in comparison to you but I think it will pass.”

“Don’t get cheesy with me.” He clocked his head to the side as she sent a bashful smile his way.

“What will you do?” He shifted closer to her.

“For starters—” The words never come out as he began peppering her face with clumsy light kisses. Her soft laughs filled the air as his breaths felt ticklish against her face. She tried to retort but her laughs kept stealing her syllables. And ever so slightly in between Harry would stop to admire the smile of the woman he couldn’t possible live without.

Her mother grabbed her by the wrist, the bracelet digging into her flesh. She could handle the pain but started writhing when she felt the beads drop all across the hall as her mother dragged her towards a rather secluded section. She had lost a few beads but was glad for the ones that still clung to her wrist.

“If I see you reject one more, you are not going back to Hogwarts.” And just like that her whole defiance came crashing down. Plastering a tight lipped smile to her face she waltzed along the floor with someone. It was bearable since the boy maintained a safe distance from her and did dance decently.

“You are finally getting it.” She squealed above the sound of music as Harry finally twirled and dipped her without stepping on her feet. He might have gotten too carried away with the praise for the next second, he tripped on thin air and before she could catch him, he had booked himself a concussion.

“Is it still hurting?” She ran her hands through his hair trying to comfort him. And when his replies stopped coming, she looked down — only to find him fast asleep in her lap, his breathing steady and mouth slightly open. She poked his cheek, boinked his nose and lightly flicked his forehead. He was indeed sleep and too cute to not do that.

She gently shifted him off her lap, easing his head onto her arm as a makeshift pillow before lying down beside him. She felt him turn and wrap his arms around her waist as he pulled her close, nestling her face against his chest. A soft smile tugged on his face as he caressed the back of her head.

“I knew you were awake.” She lightly slapped his chest.

“Shush you will wake me up.” Sleep came easily to her that night on the floor of the Astronomy Tower — sweeter than any she'd known before.

Her mother was finally engaging in some conversations and her gaze had torn away from her. She could finally eat something though her corset wouldn’t allow much. Treacle Tart. The first dish she laid her eyes on had to be this. It was as if everywhere she looked, she was reminded of him. Her Harry. She needed him. She missed him soo much. Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes as she found it yet again difficult to breathe. Trying to distract herself, she looked all around the hall in an attempt to breathe only for her eyes to land on her father. He was hugging the boy from earlier, shaking hands with his parents as her mother was smiling for the first time that evening.

“I love you Harry.” She whispered as she brushed off the flour from his face.

“You are gonna be the death of me.” In an instant, he moved in for a kiss — but she was faster, popping a tart into his mouth.

“Like it Potter?”

She couldn’t stay anymore. She peeled the masquerade mask off her face running out of the house without bothering to change out of her dress. She had to reach him before her parents could notice her absence. She quickly exited the house and once she was a reasonable distance raised her wand to summon the Knight Bus.

“Godric’s Hollow” She gave the address to the conductor and just when the bus began squeezing its way towards her destination, she realized how badly she had messed up by wearing the dress in the bus. By the time she reached his home, her knees and elbows were scraped raw, stinging with every movement. The old bruise on her wrist had deepened to an ugly shade of purple, and blood trickled steadily from a gash she hadn’t even noticed until now. The wounds were least of her worries though. She had finally made it. That was enough. She knocked on the door anticipating each second.

“Harry check the door. It must be Sirius.” It was likely his mother. The door opened with a swing as she finally came face to face with him.

“Hi!” She waved towards him as Harry’s face morphed into that shock.

“I look messy right?” She let out a quiet laugh, surprised by how natural it felt.

“How did this happen?” He moved to cup her face, his hands trembling. Worry was etched on every feature of his face as he started panicking trying to keep track of all her injuries until he couldn’t. She wrapped her arms around him as if it was the only thing that kept her standing or rather breathing while she kept pulling him closer trying to get enough of him but unable to do so.

"I missed you."

“I missed you too, love. But please let me take care of your wounds and then you can hug me okay?” He was scared. Clinging to him, she shook her head refusing to let go and when he started gently rubbing her back, the prickling tears eventually cascaded down her cheeks. It didn’t matter if she was being clingy or desperate or even pathetic for it had been months since she had felt safe. She wanted to stay longer — to hold on just a little more — but it wasn’t meant to be for a tremble ran through her, and before she could steady herself, her knees gave way and she collapsed silently into his arms.

[buttersuaa]

this is amazing

[yasministration]

Can I request anything Harry x reader?? There’s not a lot of fics for him and it’s such a struggle to find anything good, I love your writing so much so I will literally take anything lol

Long kisses, risky places - Harry Potter

You giggle, accepting the tickling kisses Harry leaves in a trail on your jawline and down to your neck. He shushes you quietly, yet there's a familiar smile on his face. Glancing upwards, you confirm that the dark corner of the library you're in is completely empty before strewing a hand in Harry's already messy hair, running your fingers through his soft locks. The booth you're squeezed in thankfully covers your bodies, so no one could see the way your legs are thrown over Harry's lap, or the way his hand is edging dangerously high up your skirt.

Harry's fingers lace through the colourful tie adorning your chest, and he tugs at it gently, bringing your face closer to his so he can press a gentle kiss on your lips. Your hands fall flat on the couch underneath you, pushing your body up to chase Harry's kiss when he begins to pull away. He grins, arms wrapping around your waist, and your hands link together behind his neck, pulling him impossibly closer to you. A happy laugh bubbles in your chest and you and Harry both freeze. Harry raises his head to glance above the edge of the booth, waiting to see if Madame Pince will appear, ready to scold you. Harry turns his gaze back down to you, and he shoots you a smile before reconnecting his lips with yours.

One of his hands drags away from your waist, wandering up your thigh, and you gasp, breaking the kiss, and laying a hand flat over the top of his. "Harry, don't." You warn, raising your eyebrows at him, though he seems unconvinced. "We'll definitely get kicked out of here." Harry leans closer to you, pressing a couple of kisses in the crook of your neck. "Why? Can't be quiet?" He teases, inching his hand upwards. You shake your head frantically, feeling the heat creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks, an embarrassed smile making its way onto your face. You grasp Harry's tie, pulling him down so you can hide your face in his chest.

"Okay, then my dorm or yours?" Harry finally asks, pulling away from you to start shoving his books in his bag. Swinging your legs over his lap, you mimic Harry's movements, racing him out of the booth without answering his question. Your boyfriend chases after you, only slowing down when you reach the library's entrance, where Madame Pince shoots you both a dirty look. Harry intertwines his fingers with yours when you make it down the hallway, keeping his eyes peeled for broom cupboards. He grins, spotting one down the corridor, and drags you there by the hand, ignoring your confused questions.

Harry's free hand grips the doorknob, turning the handle until a familiar voice calls out "Mr. Potter, don't even think about it!" You freeze, back straightening in caution, watching as Harry's head snaps towards the voice and a nervous smile makes its way onto his features. He slowly lets go of the door handle, maintaining eye contact with Professor McGonagall, who stands tall with her arms crossed at the other end of the hallway. "Sorry Professor." Harry apologises nervously "I was just looking for," He clears his throat, voice lowering into a mumble "You know."

You can feel Harry's grip on your hand tighten slightly, tugging you closer to him and he begins to slowly walk away from the cupboard. You duck your head down, speeding up your pace until you finally turn the corner to another hallway, but can still hear McGonagall's sigh of "Just like his parents."

[buttersuaa]

Minnie having flashbacks

[yasministration]

dinner time - harry potter

summary: you join harry in bed for cuddles, and whilst the boy is ready to sleep, you let him know it's barely dinner time.

When dusk rolls by and the last hues of the orange sky disappear, a silent night settles upon the castle, extinguishing any bustling activity of the swarming students. People retreat into their common rooms or gather around the courtyard, quiet discussions stirring the peace finally brought to Hogwarts.

You don’t entertain the idea of joining your friends for their late-night activities, tip toeing across dark hallways that could blind you from even the brightest light. Instead, you stroll along the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor common room, the lustful red of its patriotic decor drowning out the shine of the jewellery displayed around your neck, curling around your ears.

The cold metal of a doorknob dichotomises the warmth radiating from your skin, chills on your arm standing in protest at the sudden opposition. Luckily, your touch soon slips from the handle, and returns to the safety of your jumper, sleeves too long for your smaller figure. Dark silk curtains obstruct your vision from the final location you aim to reach, fingers itching to reach out and pull them aside before you have even met them.

They’re calling to you. Or rather, the person who you know lays behind them does, a siren’s song alluring you towards them to grasp you in their arms and bring you to your demise: sleep. Slipping between the curtains, you inhale deeply, the quiet song of your boyfriend’s steady breath welcoming you into the dangerous comfort of his bed.

He is asleep, pillow damp as his wet hair seeps through the thin fabric of its soft case. Carefully, you drape yourself onto the mattress next to him, staring at the ceiling of the dark dorm, imitating the night’s constellated sky. Beside you, Harry’s body moves, chasing the warmth you radiate, body shifting to snuggle his head into the fold of your neck, arms enveloping your body. A breath hitches in your throat as droplets of water tickle your neck, Harry’s essence filling your nostrils with a familiar scent.

A low groan awakens you from your thoughts, eyes flickering towards Harry, whose eyes are fluttering open. In his withering consciousness, his arms tighten around your body, battling with the mattress so a hand can slip under your back, curling to rest on your hip. A pull towards him brings your body closer to his, a smile forming on Harry’s face that has the room brightening despite the opaque darkness flooding it.

When he speaks, his voice is deep with sleepiness, though his words are loving. “Hey lovey.” You blink slowly, lips tugging upwards as you laugh quietly, the fondness in your voice unmistakable. “That’s a new one.” You whisper, shifting to your side to brush Harry’s hair away from his face. Luckily for him, the blissful absence of light in the dorm hides his shyness away, defined by a bloom of pink across his cheek.

Harry hadn’t meant to call you lovey, but an abundance of memories from his childhood formed by his parents’s interactions had let it slip up in his sleepy state. He has taken to his taken to his father’s liking of the pet name. Hopefully, you’d like being called it, just as his mother did.

“Sorry.” He apologises, a sheepish smile on his face. Leaning in until your lips swept against his cheek, you murmur “Don’t be. I like it.” before pressing a loving kiss to his skin. “Is it time for bed?” Harry asks, digging his face into the pillow in a poor attempt to hide the happy humiliation from his face, a giddy smile adorning his lips.

“No, but it is dinner time soon.”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @boromoony, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies

[buttersuaa]

my husband 😍😍