You’ve carried it for weeks, months, maybe. The quiet ache in your chest whenever James laughs, the flutter in your stomach when he brushes past you, the longing in your eyes every time he looks at someone else. You’ve loved him silently, thinking it safer that way, thinking it was better to admire from the sidelines than risk everything.

But tonight, sitting under the dim glow of the library lamps, you can’t keep it in any longer.

“James…” you whisper, voice trembling. He looks up, grinning like he always does, hair messy, wand still in hand from some prank he’s probably planning. “Yeah?”

You take a deep breath. “I… I like you. I’ve… I’ve liked you for a long time.”

For a moment, he just blinks, staring at you like you’ve spoken a foreign language. And then he laughs, a full, booming laugh that makes your chest ache and your stomach twist.

“You what?” he says, still laughing, clearly thinking it’s a joke.

“I… I’m serious!” you plead, heart pounding. “I mean it, James! I—”

He cuts you off with a grin that feels like a knife. “Wow. Didn’t know you had it in you. That’s… funny.”

Funny. That word sticks in your throat. Funny. Not clever, not brave, not worthy of a reply. Just a joke to him. You back away, tears stinging your eyes, because suddenly the library feels too big, too empty. He doesn’t see your heartbreak. He’s oblivious. And you realize, with a pain sharper than any spell, that he never will. You gather your books, your hands trembling, and turn to leave, pretending the tears are nothing, pretending your heart isn’t shattering with each step.

You loved him, and now he knows. But he thinks it’s a joke.

And sometimes, you think that might be worse than never telling him at all.