Lily Evans never planned for things to get this tangled.

It started with late nights in the library—shared books, shared glances, and the kind of quiet laughter that felt too intimate for friends. You told yourself it was nothing. Just Lily being Lily. Brilliant. Kind. A little too close when she leaned over to explain a line of text. A little too soft when she whispered your name in that hushed, focused tone.

But that night… the night her fingers accidentally brushed yours over a borrowed quill… everything changed.

You felt your chest tighten, your skin burn where she touched you. And before she could see the pink blooming in your cheeks, you left. Quick excuses. Faster steps. Heart in your throat.

You thought you could ignore it. Thought the feeling would fade.

But the days after were a mess. Lily was distant. Her usual teasing was gone, her attention felt strained. Every time you tried to talk to her, she had somewhere to be. Someone to find. And then, one afternoon in the courtyard, you saw it.

Her hand. In his.

James P, laughing like the world was his, fingers laced through hers like it had always been meant to be.

And something in you broke. Not loudly. Not visibly. Just a quiet, dull ache settling in your chest like cold rain.

You’d fallen. Hard. And it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You told yourself she was never yours to begin with. That it was just timing. That maybe she chose the safer path—someone who'd always chased her, someone who was easy to understand.

But sometimes you’d catch her staring at you across the Great Hall, eyes lingering too long before she looked away. Sometimes, she'd hesitate when James wasn’t looking.

And then, one evening in the corridor, as you're heading back to your dorm, you hear her voice behind you—soft, almost unsure.

—"Hey... are you busy?" She looks at you, eyes searching. "I need to talk to you. Alone."