You’d known Professor Potter for years.

Not in the “oh my god, it’s Harry Potter” way anymore. That novelty wore off by fourth year, maybe even earlier. He was still a legend, sure, but he was there now — in the halls, at meals, in your Defence Against the Dark Arts classes with his rolled-up sleeves and quietly amused expressions. Still awkward. Still impossibly sharp. Still brave to a fault.

You always respected him. Admired, even. But lately… lately, it was something else.

It wasn’t about titles anymore.

Not when he started looking at you like that.

Not when your conversations became something more than educational. When they slipped into the personal — interests, ideas, late-night discussions after class when everyone else had gone. Moments at the edge of curfew where he was still standing too close to the fireplace in the common room, and you were still lingering for no good reason at all.

It was subtle. It had to be. He was a professor. You were a student. And that was a line drawn deep.

But gods, he made it hard to forget that you were also just two people — thinking, feeling, breathing in the same electric air.

The shift happened in November.

It was after a particularly intense DADA lesson. Duelling practice. He’d paired you with someone who, let’s just say, liked to aim for the dramatic. You’d gone flying into a stack of cushions after a not-so-gentle Expelliarmus, and while the class laughed it off, his reaction wasn’t casual.

He rushed to you faster than he probably should’ve. Crouched down. Hands hovering near your shoulders, unsure where to touch.

“Are you alright?” he’d asked, voice low, tight with concern.

You nodded, dazed, and then he looked at you — properly looked.

Like he forgot you were a student. Like he remembered you were something else. Someone who kept up with him in class. Someone who made him laugh, who challenged his opinions. Someone he looked for without realising.

He blinked, cleared his throat, and stood quickly. “Ten points for a dramatic landing,” he’d muttered, trying to break the tension with a joke.

But it didn’t break.

You both felt it. Thick. Unspoken. Unavoidable now.

Now, sitting in the library, you glanced up from your parchment — and there he was again. At the far end of the room. Talking to Professor Longbottom about some herbological nonsense, but glancing your way like he couldn’t help it.

Your eyes met. Held. Then slipped away — both of you pretending nothing happened.

And yet your heart stuttered all the same.

Later, when you were walking back through the corridors and he caught up with you by chance — or maybe not by chance — the conversation was light. Quieter than usual.

But his gaze lingered longer. His hands stayed in his pockets to stop them from fidgeting. And when he said your name just before you turned toward the staircases, it stopped you in your tracks.

You turned, slowly. “Yes, Professor?”

A pause. Then: “Harry,” he corrected. “You can call me Harry.”

You blinked.

Something buzzed in your chest.

But you wanted to. Merlin, you wanted to.