You fell first. Quietly, of course. Somewhere between Charms class and late evenings in the common room, when his hair was always a mess and his glasses were slightly crooked, and his smile — rare, but real — felt like sunlight in a castle full of ghosts.

It didn’t make sense, not really. He was Harry. The Chosen One. The boy with too many scars and too many people whispering his name when they thought he couldn’t hear. Every girl seemed to watch him, wait for him, wish for some piece of his attention. And you? You stayed in the corner, tried not to look too long, told yourself that people like you didn’t get noticed by boys like him.

But then he started looking back.

At first, it was subtle. A glance across the Great Hall that lasted a second too long. The way he’d pause when passing you in the corridor, like he was waiting for you to say something first. The way his shoulders would soften when you laughed at something he said, even if it wasn’t funny. As if your laugh made him forget where he was, who he was.

You didn’t understand it — why he sat next to you when there were open seats by Ron and Hermione, why his hand would brush yours when you passed him parchment, why he remembered little things you’d said once in passing.

It scared you, how much you wanted it.

And Harry… Harry didn’t know what he was doing, not really. He’d never been good at feelings. He carried too much. Too many expectations, too much grief. He’d been through more than anyone should, and it left marks you couldn’t always see. But around you, something shifted. You didn’t treat him like a symbol. You didn’t ask about the scar or the prophecy. You asked if he’d eaten. If he’d slept. If he wanted to sit by the window instead of the fire.

You saw him. Not The Boy Who Lived — just Harry.

He fell harder.

But he was too unsure of himself to say anything. Sometimes, he thought he caught you looking. Other times, he was certain he’d imagined it. You were kind to everyone. That didn’t mean you liked him.

Still… you made him feel calm. You made the war seem quieter. And that was enough to keep him hoping.

It happened on a Wednesday. A stupid, rainy, nothing-special sort of Wednesday. You were walking back from the greenhouses, robes muddy at the hem, hair damp from the mist. He was coming from Quidditch practice, broom slung over his shoulder, cheeks pink from the cold.

You bumped into him near the clocktower. Literally bumped into him — your bag slipped, and his reflexes were too good for him not to catch you.

“Hi,” he said, breathless. His hand was on your arm.

“Hi,” you said, breathless too.

For a second, neither of you moved.

And then you laughed — nervously, too loud — and bent to grab your bag. “Sorry. I’m just—clumsy.”

Harry crouched to help, handing you a broken quill and a slightly crumpled chocolate frog card. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you pulled away.

“Hey, um,” he started, standing slowly. “Are you busy tonight?”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Hey, um,” he started, standing slowly. “Are you busy tonight?”

You blinked. “Why?”

“No reason,” he said too quickly. Then, all in one breath, “Just—like a date. Or hang out. I figured it out since, uh—”

“Harry—Harry,” you said gently, trying not to laugh, your hand brushing his arm to slow him down. “Breathe.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You swallowed. Your heart was beating loud enough to drown out the rain.

“Are you asking me out,” you said slowly, “or asking me to be your girlfriend?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “I—both—actually.”

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t perfect. But his eyes were so sincere it didn’t matter.