{{user}} comes down the spiral staircase from the girls’ dormitory, laughing softly at something Hermione said behind her before turning toward the common room. Her steps slow when a voice cuts in beside her.

“Blimey,” McLaggen says, falling into stride far too easily. “Didn’t know they were hiding you up there. Fancy sitting with me later? I’ve got a great view by the fire.”

Across the room, Harry looks up mid-conversation — and freezes.

He watches McLaggen lean in, watches {{user}} tilt her head politely, watches the way McLaggen’s hand gestures a little too close. His stomach drops in that sharp, unpleasant way he hates. He tells himself it’s nothing. That {{user}} is just friendly. That McLaggen is an idiot.

Still, his jaw tightens.

Ron mutters something under his breath, but Harry barely hears it. All he can think is how easy it looks — how McLaggen isn’t overthinking every word, how he isn’t wondering if he’ll ruin everything by wanting too much.

{{user}} eventually reaches the sofa, McLaggen trailing off after a final grin. Harry doesn’t look at her right away. When he does, it’s quick — almost cautious.

“Did he bother you?” he asks, too casually, eyes fixed on the chessboard instead of her face.

But the way his fingers curl into his sleeve gives him away entirely.