Everyone thinks Lily Evans only has eyes for James P.

And maybe once, she did.

But lately... you’ve noticed something. In the middle of class, when the professor’s back is turned—her gaze finds yours. When the common room is full of noise and laughter, she sits beside you, quiet. Focused.

It happens again one afternoon. You find her alone in the library, hunched over her Potions essay, frustrated, red hair in a loose braid she’s tugged on so many times it’s nearly undone.

You offer to help. She scoffs, but lets you sit.

A disagreement sparks—of course it does. She insists belladonna reacts differently under moonlight, you argue otherwise. Her green eyes narrow.

And then, suddenly, she drops her quill.

—“I don’t need some brave Gryffindor who thinks saving the day means everything,” she says, voice low, trembling. “I need someone who listens. Really listens.”