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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