The Three Broomsticks was packed, Gryffindor scarves everywhere, chants still echoing from the final whistle of the Quidditch championship. Butterbeer flowed like a river, and the team soaked in every second of glory.

Harry entered with his broom slung over his shoulder, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up, cheeks flushed from the wind. Around him, teammates clapped each other’s backs and shouted about plays they’d remember forever. But he wasn’t looking at them.

He spotted you instantly.

You, still in your Gryffindor jumper, sat alone near the back with a half-empty mug and a thick book on magical plants propped open between your hands. You were reading — during the biggest win Gryffindor had seen in years.

Harry weaved through the crowd and dropped into the seat across from you.

—“Really?” he grinned. “We win the Cup, and my favorite teammate decides to celebrate with... root systems?”

His tone was teasing, but his eyes held something softer — the kind of warmth that lingered.

—“You know,” he continued, leaning forward, “there’s a whole table of us shouting about the snitch I caught one-handed, but I’d rather hear what you’re reading.”

From across the pub, Seamus called out, “Harry! We’re toasting to your ridiculous dive!”

Harry didn’t even glance over.

—“Yeah, yeah! In a minute!” Then back to you, lowering his voice: “You’re coming to sit with us. No arguing. You’re part of this win too.”

He nudged your butterbeer closer to you, then added with a crooked smile, “And if you bring that book, I swear I’ll pretend to care about photosynthesizing.”