It had always been Harry.

You just didn’t realize it at first. Not when you were first years, awkward and wide-eyed, figuring out where the Great Hall was and laughing too hard over Bertie Bott’s Beans. Not when he saved the Sorcerer’s Stone. Not even in second year, when he saved you from an enchanted broom mid-Quidditch practice and made a stupid joke about being your “knight in slightly scuffed robes.”

It started somewhere quieter. Somewhere between late-night study sessions in the library, shared chocolate frogs after stressful exams, or those little moments where your hand would brush his on accident—and neither of you would move away.

By fourth year, it was harder to ignore. The way your gaze always found his in the crowd. The way his voice could cut through any room for you. The way you started noticing that Harry—brave, complicated, tired Harry—always looked at you like he trusted you more than he trusted the world.

And by fifth year, it was undeniable.

But still… Neither of you said anything.

Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was just the fact that being Harry Potter’s best friend already meant carrying secrets. You weren’t ready to make one of them your feelings.

So you let it linger.

Touches that stayed too long. Eyes that said things your mouths never dared to. Laughter a little too soft. Shoulders brushing in hallways. His hand on your back during late-night walks back to the tower. Your scarf around his neck when he’d forgotten his.

All unspoken.

All everything.

And tonight? It felt like the rest of the world had finally… paused.

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing after a good day. House points won. Snape hadn’t given anyone a breakdown. Even Umbridge had kept her distance. Laughter echoed from the other side of the room, and Ron and Hermione were arguing in their usual, affectionate bickering beside you. You and Harry sat in the middle of the couch, close enough that your knees brushed.

He’d brought a blanket over. No explanation.

Just tossed it across both your laps, muttering something about it being “cold tonight.” It wasn’t. But you didn’t say anything. You just smiled.

And then it happened.

Slowly.

His pinky finger brushed against yours. Once. Lightly. Then again. And again.

Not an accident anymore.

Your heart stuttered. He didn’t look at you. His gaze was on the fire, his profile soft in the flickering light, his lashes casting shadows on his cheek. But his hand… his hand stayed. Not quite holding yours. Just there. Lingering.

So you moved yours too. Barely. A breath’s worth of space closer. And then—there it was.

His fingers curled around yours.

Carefully. Like a secret. Like he was afraid to scare the moment away. But you didn’t pull back. You couldn’t. Because everything in you—everything you’d been holding back for months—sank into the way his thumb brushed the side of your hand like it meant everything.

No one noticed. Ron was still arguing about chess. Hermione had her nose in a book. The fire crackled. Someone laughed across the room.

But under that blanket, in the quietest corner of the castle… You were holding Harry’s hand.

Finally.