HP Characters X Reader @imagininghogwarts - Tumblr Blog

Nov 17, 2025

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.

imagininghogwarts

Oct 16, 2024

redeemingvillains

veritaserum - mattheo riddle

summary: when mattheo drinks veritaserum on a bet, he's confident he doesn't have anything to hide... until you show up.

word count: 3.1k

a/n: gosh i love this messy boy. just a little something sweet + fun!

"I don't know... shouldn't we save it for something... important?"

"Like, what Blaise?" Malfoy responded, exasperated.

"Yeah, got any plans you want to share?" Theo asked.

"All ears, bud" Mattheo joined in.

Blaise threw his hands up. "Fine, fuck it, do what you want with it" he said, resigned, referring to the small vial in Malfoy's hand that had the group's rapt attention as they huddled in the corner of their dormitory like they were first years at a sleepover.

"We should put it in somebody's goblet at dinner."

"We should slip it into Dumbledore's cup, Merlin knows what the geezer would say."

Theo got a wicked look on his face, "I'll give any of you lot 100 galleons to drink it."

Eyes widened around their circle at that.

"You're joking."

"Piss off."

"No, listen to me, we think we know everything about each other, don't we?" Theo continued, letting the sentiment linger "Which means the things we don't know are deep."

He grabbed the vial from Malfoy and dangled it in front of them; Veritaserum, the most powerful truth serum in the wizarding world, even having it in their possession was breaking about 15 Ministry laws.

Members of the group stared shiftily at one another, but Theo found Mattheo's gaze staring boldly at him as he leaned casually against his four-poster, a smirk on his face.

"Make it 200 and you've got yourself a deal" Mattheo grinned.

Snickers of laughter took the group as they punched one another in amusement and excitement.

"Bottoms up" Theo said, tossing the vial at him.

"I've got nothing to hide" Mattheo replied with an air of emblazoned confidence as he deftly popped the cork and threw the liquid back like a shot of firewhiskey before anyone could stop him.

It didn't taste like anything other than water, and for a moment Mattheo thought this was the easiest 200 galleons he'd ever make, but then he felt a sort of bubbling in his chest, like every feeling, every sentence he'd ever held back wanted to burst forth.

"...Well?" asked Malfoy, cautiously, leaning in, "How do you feel?"

"Bloody weird" Mattheo said, looking down at the empty vial in his hand. "And apprehensive, like I definitely don't want you to ask me things." His eyes widened at the words that had come so truthfully and vulnerably out of his mouth before he could stop them, suddenly realizing that he'd made a horrible mistake.

Theo was howling with laughter, leaning in and rubbing his hands together as he got ready to obliterate his best friend for being so cocky; he was going to make every galleon worth it.

"Did you take Blaise's Chudley Cannons scarf last term?" he asked.

"Yup, sold it to a fifth year for a bag of weed— SHIT" Mattheo said quickly, eyes wide before slapping a hand over his mouth.

"Mate, what the fuck?—" Blaise started, but Theo was on a tear.

"—Did you cheat off of Lorenzo's potions exam this week?"

"Of course" Mattheo admitted, the words blasting by his hand, "I've been doing it since fourth year, his handwritings the size of my fist, thanks for that by the way" he said, looking at Enzo.

"Prego, amico" Lorenzo said smiling and shrugging, "happy to help."

"Alright then" Blaise said, the anger and frustration clear in his voice as he eyed Mattheo, "better own up, didn't you slip McLaggen a galleon to let Theo score on him last match?"

"Yeah, fuck, and I'm not sorry about it. I'm tired of hearing Theo piss and complain about losing when he barely shows up to practice and lets the rest of us down."

"OOHHH!" shouted several of the guys.

"Fucking harsh mate!!"

"What the fuck?!?" Theo shouted angrily as he lunged for Mattheo and the others tried to hold him back.

Amidst the shouting and commotion, they didn't hear you knock on the door.

"Guys?" you asked, raising your voice to be heard.

Five heads turned your way as they stopped mid-brawl and began to stand up and right themselves, adjusting their ties and smoothing their robes. For his part, Mattheo's heart nearly shot out of his chest. No, no no no not right now he thought as you pushed your way into their room. On any other occasion he'd be thrilled to see you, but now the bubbling in his chest was reaching its peak at the sight of his deepest, most tightly held secret: you, and every single thing he felt about you.

He took in your amused smile, the light laughter on your lips, the way it made your eyes sparkle and he felt his palms tingle with sweat as he grasped them into fists and swallowed deeply, like he could ingest his own thoughts. You were his best friend, had been since the moment he met you on his first train ride to Hogwarts and he had no illusions about ruining your friendship by trying for anything else; girls like you didn't end up with guys like him.

"Are you alright?" you asked, looking at him strangely before his friends chimed in for him.

"S'fine!"

"Yeah, yeah!"

"Never better!"

"What do you need, love?"

"I am NOT fine!" Mattheo said boldly and rather loudly before he could stop himself and your eyes shot to him with concern.

"Wait, what's wrong Matty?" you asked, using the nickname he only tolerated coming from you.

He pursed his lips tightly and shook his head, averting his eyes to the floor, physically warring with the words that were flooding his subconscious.

What's wrong? A lot of things are wrong, YN. For starters, I love you. I love you so much it physically pains me to spend as much time as we do together and not to grab your hand, to pull you onto my lap, to nuzzle into your neck, to kiss you; I have a list of things I want to do to you every time I see you. Especially in that godsdamn skirt you're wearing. It's my favorite. You should know that. And I wish you would stop wearing it, you have no idea the ways guys look at you. I wish you'd wear it only for me. I wish you'd want me the way I want you, because I want you so badly. I wish you were mine, but I'm scared, no, fucking terrified of the way I feel about you because love is vulnerability and vulnerability is weakness and I can't tell you any of this so please, please don't ask me anything and please, please stop looking at me like that.

"Matty?" you asked again, now thoroughly concerned as your best friend slammed his hands over his ears as you walked towards him.

Theo was burning hot with anger, stewing over what Mattheo had said about him, he wanted to take him down a notch, to embarrass him in return. "Admit it" he interrupted, staring at Mattheo "you have a thing for Pansy and you've tried to make a move on her even though she's with Draco."

You stopped short of approaching Mattheo and stared at Theo.

"What?" you whispered, feeling physically ill, jealous and hurt even though you had no such right.

Mattheo straightened up and glared at Theo.

"What the fuck did you just say?!" Draco said, brushing past you as he came for Mattheo.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Theo pushed further, so smug, so certain he was right.

"No you fucking prat" Mattheo spat at him.

Draco grabbed Mattheo by the front of his robes. "You swear it, you haven't made a move on her?"

"I swear it."

"Not even before we were dating?" Malfoy pressed.

"Not even before you were dating" Mattheo confirmed.

"What the fuck is going on?" you said, exasperated, almost to yourself as you tried to calm down.

"Veritaserum" Blaise said by way of explanation as he leaned in to be heard over the continued shouting of your friends. "Theo bet one of us to drink it and, well..." he said, gesturing his hand by way of explanation at the calamity in front of you.

Malfoy was shouting questions at Mattheo who looked genuinely surprised if not annoyed, and Enzo was looking back and forth at them like it was a tennis match. Theo had a deeply skeptical look on his face as he listened on, "No, you're always weird around Pansy and YN though, I thought..." then, like a lightbulb went off, Theo looked at you, to Mattheo and back again.

"Do you think Pansy's hot?" Malfoy continued.

"Bro, give it up" Blaise said finally, stepping to pull him back, "I think you're in the clear."

"I mean yeah she's hot, but she's not my type. FUCK!" Mattheo replied, rubbing a hand over his face at the admission.

"She's not, but YN is" Theo said finally.

Mattheo bit his bottom lip and stared at the floor, concentrating very hard on the tassels of the rug beneath his feet as he shook his head, a grimace on his face.

Your heart trilled in your chest, which was literally rising and falling in both panic and excitement. Mattheo was shaking his head no, but his whole body was fighting something, there was something he didn't want to say... about you.

"So, she's not your type? Not attractive to you at all?" Theo pushed.

Mattheo's face was turning a dark shade of red as pursed his lips closed and shook his head vehemently, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, his own nearly watering with the exertion of fighting the potion within him.

"Totally platonic? Didn't give a shit when Seamus Finnegan asked her out last term?"

Mattheo glanced at Theo, gathering himself, as he tried desperately to say the only truth he wanted to share. "He's a prick, no secret I didn't think it was a good idea—"

"—You never told me that" you said quietly, confused, and not a little bit angry. "But you avoided me for a few weeks after, I remember..." you said, trailing off as you stepped closer to him, and Mattheo's looked genuinely afraid, outstretching his hands to stop you from coming any closer.

"What don't you want to say?—"

"—I don't want you here right now!" he said loudly.

You physically reared back at the harshness of his words. You caught his eye, trying to communicate the way you often did with one another, to ask things that could only be said without words, but you got nothing in response.

"R-Right" you said, your voice wobbling as you turned to leave, thoroughly embarassed.

And the sound of it nearly broke Mattheo's heart.

"Wait, wait, I didn't meant it like that, I don't want you to be upset, please don't be upset" he said, moving to reach for your hand urgently, the unmasked care and compassion in his voice making you turn and making Draco and Blaise bat at each other's arms in excitement like school girls at the scene unfolding in front of them.

"I don't want you to hear my truth" Mattheo said quietly, and just like that it was just the two of you, you who knew more than any of these idiots, you knew about Blaise's scarf (you had told him not to sell it), about him cheating in potions and paying off McLaggen, but even you didn't know his most deeply held secret and this isn't how he wanted it to come out.

"Please" he begged, in way none of his friends had ever heard him speak before.

"I just... I thought I knew all of your truths?" you said vulnerably, your chin wobbling, saddened at the idea that there was a part of him you didn't know.

"You don't. I'm sorry" he said simply.

"But they get to hear them?" you said, gesturing towards your friends.

"No, they don't know them either."

"What would be so bad that you wouldn't want anyone in your life to know, Matty?"

He bit his tongue as he tilted his head. "It isn't bad. I didn't say it was bad" he said.

You could tell he was playing with you, selectively choosing his words. Your curiosity piqued as you turned to face him fully with your arms crossed.

"What don't you want us to know?" you asked.

"How I — FUCK — feel — mmhmm" he tried to physically shove the words back into his mouth, clapping his hands over his mouth again as his body betrayed him.

Theo stepped forward, trying to pry his hands back. "Say it!" he said.

Mattheo tried to wiggle out of his grasp, the two of them thrashing back and forth.

"C'mon mate, time to earn those galleons! Cough it up! How you feel about what?" and Theo yanked Mattheo's hands away from his mouth just long enough for Mattheo to all but shout:

"HER!" he said, loudly, pointing to you. "About YN. I — FUCK — fucking love her."

You could have heard an owl feather hit the floor.

"Oh shit" Malfoy whispered.

Theo took a step back as he realized the enormity of what he'd just done. He'd thought Mattheo had a little crush on you, I mean, didn't they all? He thought it was just a bit of fun. But love? He'd know Mattheo for 7 years and he never so much as heard him say the word, let alone direct it at another person, in fact he knew just how much the concept had been beaten out of him as a child.

"Mate, I'm—" he started.

Mattheo glared at him in way that reminded you for a moment about the family he came from, and it was the first time you'd ever seen Theo genuinely afraid as the smile dropped from his lips and he took an unconscious step back.

"Fuck you" Mattheo said, stepping towards him, the measured control in his voice somehow more frightening than the alternative. "You always take shit too far, you know that? That's why—"

"—Matty?" you said, your quiet whisper and the questions that lingered behind it tugging at his heart and pulling his attention back to you.

He met your eyes and the fury he felt at Theo dissolved in an instant, like it had apparated from the room, because the way you were looking at him was an expression he'd only seen in his dreams. You didn't look angry or confused, you weren't laughing or embarrassed, the sparkle in your eye was back and a soft smile rested on your lips, your eyes were blown wide, hopeful even, with a hint of something else underneath that had a sensation like melted honey spreading throughout his entire body.

"Can we maybe talk... outside...?" you asked.

"Yes, for the love of the gods" he said, walking quickly to your side, letting his hand rest gently at your back, the intimate gesture not lost on anybody as your friends wolf-whistled and snickered and he flipped them the finger over his head.

Now that the truth was out, there was nothing stopping the words that flew out of Mattheo's mouth as you led him to a nearby secluded corridor.

"I really want to talk to you about this" he said, the moment you were outside of the dormitory, "I am so embarrassed that it came out that way, that's not at all how I wanted to tell you, well, I didn't want to tell you at all, I was terrified actually. I've liked you for a long time, really since the first day we met, do you remember? On the train? You were wearing that blue jumper, you smelled like cinnamon and vanilla... You always smell so fucking good—"

You laughed as you pulled him with greater urgency by the hand away from prying eyes as he continued to ramble on, the truth serum creating a veritable waterfall of words out of his mouth.

"—You're so fucking beautiful, I love your hair, your eyes, your smile, your nose... that sounds weird, but it's true, it's so fucking cute—"

"—Mattheo" you said, as you stopped, placing your hands on his chest and pressing him gently against the stone wall to get him to slow down. "Breathe."

He shook his head.

"No, it's out now, and I don't know how long this shit lasts and if I don't say this stuff now, I'm not sure I'll ever have the balls to say it to your face, I've held onto this for 7 years YN."

Your lips curled into a small pout at how sweet he was being, at the idea that your best friend had been pining for you since you were 11 years old.

"I love you" he continued breathlessly, "and not like a little bit. Like, a lot. I don't know..." he said, carding his hand through his brown curls, "I've never felt this way about anyone, anything. I'm all consumed with you. You're the only thing I think about, the only girl I want, I'd do anything for you. And I'm sorry if this is going to totally wreck our friendship, if you want things to stay the way they are, I will try my level best—"

But his words were cut short as you pressed your lips to his, capturing his truth, letting it wash over you, every word you had been desperate to hear, every thought you'd shared the same. It surprised him for only a second before his hands grasped your face and he pulled you further into him.

"You're fucking perfect" he whispered after a moment, his eyes dancing over your features.

"Remind me again why I didn't give you veritaserum like years ago?" you said, smiling against his lips.

"It's a felony?" he said, laughing.

"...Right" you said, laughing back.

You were only gone a few minutes, but as you scurried back to the dormitory you tried to fix your hair, and wipe the lipgloss off of Mattheo's face as he smiled down at you with puppy dog eyes.

"They're going to lose their mind" you said quietly just outside the door, "let's just play it cool, alright?"

And before he could respond that there was no way on earth he could possibly do that, you pushed the door open and all conversation stopped.

"...Alright?" Theo asked, turning to face you both, nervous at the potential mess he may have caused.

"Fine, we were just talking—"

"—She macked me!!" Mattheo shouted truthfully with a huge grin on his face as he wrapped his arm around you.

You gasped and swatted at him playfully, your cheeks blushing a rosy pink as your friends erupted into cheers, hoot and hollers, descending on you both as Mattheo looked down at you, glowing, happier than you could ever remember seeing him.

taglist: @girllblogging777, @iamdnb, @bookworm124, @zatannasrealgf, @r-a-c-h-e-l

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