It started in the Astronomy Tower.

Not during class—never during class—but in the strange, slanted hours before curfew when the stars were just poking out and the tower became a sanctuary for the odd and observant. That’s where Harry had first noticed her. Noticed in the way one might spot an owl before the letter. Sharp-eyed. Strange. Perched on the railing like gravity was an optional thing, fingers drumming a rhythm only she knew.

They called her Birdie.

No one quite remembered why it stuck. Maybe because she always seemed to know things before they happened. Maybe because she could spot Snape coming around a corner with sixth sense precision, or notice Neville’s dropped toad before it croaked. Maybe because her gaze, when it landed on you, made you feel suddenly seen—and not always in a comforting way.

She was Slytherin. And Harry liked her.

Which, of course, made everything worse.

⸻

The Gryffindor common room was warm, loud, and laughing—none of which helped Harry’s internal screaming. He’d been avoiding mirrors for a week, convinced guilt was now a physical feature.

Slytherin. He fancied someone in Slytherin.

Fred and George were lounging near the fire, playing an explosive variant of Gobstones. Smoke was curling above Fred’s left eyebrow like a question mark.

“George,” Harry blurted, desperate.

“Fred,” Fred corrected, not looking up.

“Nope. I’m George,” said George from behind him, grinning like he’d been summoned.

Harry spun, red already creeping up his neck.

“I need help,” he said. “Serious help.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” said Fred. “Are we talking troll-in-the-bathroom levels of help or ‘I accidentally ate something Filch made’?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I like a girl.”

“Scandalous,” Fred gasped. “Call the Prophet.”

“She’s in Slytherin.”

Both twins blinked. Then George burst out laughing. Fred just gave him a slow, sly grin. “Well, why didn’t you say so? That narrows it down.”

“You know her,” Harry muttered.

“We know many,” Fred replied innocently, before giving him a side glance. “Birdie?”

Harry froze. That name again. It fluttered in his chest.

“She’s… clever,” George added, half impressed, half wary. “And unnervingly calm. I once saw her steal a live pixie from Lockhart’s classroom using only a glass jar and a weird lullaby.”

“She sang to it,” Fred supplied.

Harry blinked. “That’s… actually kind of amazing.”

Fred leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “So, you’ve got a crush on a Slytherin prankster potion genius who smells like mint and ink and thinks bedtime is a social construct?”

Harry groaned. “You make it sound worse.”

George threw an arm around his shoulder. “No, Harry. You’ve just got taste.”

⸻

The next evening, Harry found himself dragged—not walked, dragged—to a narrow corridor behind the greenhouses where Birdie was known to stash her stolen plants and experimental fertilizers. The twins had insisted on a “chance” encounter. And now Harry stood frozen like a gargoyle while Birdie crouched beside a window box of screaming mandrake sprouts, humming to them softly.

“Nice night,” George said, not even trying for subtle.

“Perfect for awkward confessions,” Fred added.

Harry elbowed them both and stepped forward.

She looked up.

And smiled.

He could hear himself breathing. The air was warm and thick with the scent of earth and rosemary. She tilted her head, bird-like, always watching.

“You’ve been looking at me funny,” she said, not unkindly.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled. “I didn’t mean to—I just—I think you’re brilliant. And weird. In a good way. And it’s not about the house or anything.”

She regarded him carefully, eyes sharp and quiet. “You feel guilty.”

“…Yeah,” he admitted.

“You shouldn’t.”

She stood, brushed soil from her robes. The green trim caught the moonlight, glowing like lichen.

“I was almost a Ravenclaw,” she said. “But ambition isn’t just for villains, Harry. Slytherin taught me to want more. It sharpened me. I like it here.”

Harry swallowed. “I like you.”