You never thought you’d become friends with Harry Potter. Not really.

You’d known of him, of course — everyone had. He was older, Golden Trio-adjacent, slightly elusive, like a name mentioned in books or the occasional whisper in corridors. You’d seen him on the Quidditch pitch before, flying fast and sharp like something born for the sky. You’d heard the stories — the Triwizard Tournament, the DA, the Chamber of Secrets, the war that bled into your childhood.

But that was Harry Potter. Not Harry, the boy who started nodding to you in the hall after practices. The one who sat near you on the bench after a muddy training, joking about how your Keeper nearly swallowed the Quaffle by accident. The one who caught you looking nervous before your first real match and tossed you a chocolate frog with a crooked smile like you were in on some private joke.

You didn’t expect it — how easy it was to talk to him. How he listened, really listened. How he didn’t treat you like a kid, or a fan, or someone walking behind his legacy. You liked that. And he liked you.

At first, it was just casual Quidditch talk. Teasing. Shared eye rolls when the team got dramatic. Complaining about broom maintenance. But somehow, that turned into longer conversations in between training. Talks in the Great Hall over late-night tea. Sitting together in the stands after everyone left, just to watch the clouds.

He told you once that he liked being around you because it was quiet. Not silent — never that — but still. Easy. You didn’t expect him to be anything other than what he was. And that, he said, was a gift.

Now, it’s winter. The Room of Requirement glows with soft lantern-light and smells like warm parchment and distant rain.

You’re standing in the middle of it, wand in hand, nervous and excited and fidgeting with your sleeves.

Harry’s teaching you how to cast Expecto Patronum.

Just the two of you.

He’s pacing slowly in front of you, his voice calm and patient. His hair’s a little messy from running his hands through it. There’s a streak of ink on his wrist from something he was writing earlier. He’s more comfortable around you now, casual in that way he rarely is with people outside his closest circle.

“You’ve got the wand movement right,” he says, with a half-smile. “But it’s not just the motion. It’s the memory. You have to feel it.”

You look at him, breath fogging in the slight chill. “What if I’m not sure what memory to pick?”

Harry tilts his head, thoughtful. “Try something that made you feel safe. Or… free. Or something that made you laugh so hard you cried.”

You nod, biting your lip.

Then you whisper, “Expecto Patronum.”

A thin wisp of silver flickers from your wand — barely there, but it exists. You laugh, surprised, eyes wide. Harry grins.

“That’s it. You’re close.”