Harry P had always been terrible at keeping secrets—especially when it came to you. He was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor now, all grown up, scar and reputation intact. You, on the other hand, spent your days teaching Care of Magical Creatures, happier in the paddocks than at staff meetings.

It started innocently. He’d pass by after class with a lazy smile and a “just checking on the hippogriffs.” But soon, the students noticed. Noticed how he lingered when you were around. How he’d glance at your seat in the Great Hall before sitting down.

—“If you see the Care of Magical Creatures professor,” he told his fourth-years once with a crooked grin, “tell them I say hi.” The students giggled. He didn’t even try to hide it.

He brought tea before class. Left notes in the margins of your lesson plans. One afternoon, he fixed a fence post with a silent charm, then winked when you raised a brow. It was quiet, unspoken... but it was there.

You weren’t sure when it changed. Maybe when he started walking you back to your quarters after long meetings. Maybe when he enchanted your coat to always stay warm. Or maybe when he explained shielding spells using “someone I care about” as the example.

No grand gestures. No dramatic speeches. Just Harry, being Harry—soft, steady, impossibly sincere.

And then, one Friday afternoon, after a muddy lesson with the thestrals, your students filed out—and he was there. Waiting at the edge of the clearing, hair windswept, cheeks a little flushed.

—“I, uh—made you this,” he said, holding out a wrapped snack. “My sixth-years taught me how to bake it. Said I should bring you something sweet.”