The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet for once — dimly lit, peaceful, the usual chaos dulled by the weight of upcoming exams. You were curled up in one of the green leather armchairs by the fireplace, a half-finished Potions essay spread across your lap, ink staining the side of your hand, and your concentration teetering on a knife’s edge.

Until, of course, he showed up.

Harry Potter, in all his golden-boy-turned-brooding-glory, strolled in like he belonged in the dungeons — which, to be fair, he didn’t, but he had been slinking in more often ever since the two of you stopped pretending you weren’t in love.

You felt him before you saw him — that familiar warmth, that smug kind of silence that only meant one thing: distraction was incoming.

“Hi,” he said, unnecessarily close behind you.

You didn’t look up. “No.”

“No what?” he asked, laughing.

“No, I’m not looking at you. And no, I’m not starting whatever this is.”

Harry walked around the chair to stand in front of you, arms crossed, brow arched, like this was somehow your fault. “What if I have something important to say?”

“Like what?”

“Like…” He scratched the back of his neck. “You smell really good when you’re stressed.”

You blinked. Slowly. “That’s not a compliment, Harry.”

“Isn’t it?”

You dropped your quill and glared up at him. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Without missing a beat, he took off his glasses — slowly, theatrically — and tucked them into his shirt collar.

Then he grinned and said, “No.”