It had been like this for years. Quiet glances passed over textbooks, stolen smiles between classes, late nights in the Common Room when the fire had burned low and exhaustion made your walls thinner than usual.

James Potter had been your best friend since fourth year. It was stupid how easy it was to forget he was also the boy half the school wanted. Because when it was just you and him? He wasn’t the arrogant Gryffindor Chaser with the ridiculous hair and even more ridiculous confidence. He was just… James. Your James.

He sat beside you now, shoulders slouched, tie loosened like he was unraveling with the evening. His hand was dangerously close to yours on the couch, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know how. Not yet.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, voice softer than usual. “That’s not like you.”

You tried to smile. Failed. “Just tired, I guess.”

He didn’t buy it. He never did. “No, you’re not. I know you better than that.”

Of course he did. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He knew you too well. Knew how you took your tea, how you hated thunderstorms, how you tapped your fingers on your knee when you were anxious. Knew you like he’d spent a lifetime memorizing every part of you.

But he didn’t know this. Didn’t know that your heart had been his long before either of you realized it.

“You know,” James said suddenly, leaning back with a sigh, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers, “everyone keeps asking me why I haven’t asked anyone out lately. Why I stopped flirting. Why I stopped trying to impress… well, anyone.”

You swallowed. Hard. “And why did you?”

He turned then, eyes meeting yours in a way that made your chest ache. Like he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

“Because none of it matters when it’s not you.” His words were quiet. Careful. Terrified. “And I didn’t know how to tell you without ruining everything.”

Your heart stopped. Started again. Faster.

“You’re my best friend,” he said, like it hurt to say. “But I think I’ve been in love with you since the moment you laughed at me for falling off my broom in front of the entire pitch.”

You blinked. “That was third year, James.”

He smiled. Soft. Hopeful. “Yeah. I’m a little slow, alright?”