The Burrow was unusually calm for once — no screeching ghoul upstairs, no enchanted pans crashing into each other, just the soft clinking of breakfast dishes and the faint sounds of birds outside. You sat at the long kitchen table in one of Molly’s mismatched chairs, a mug of tea cradled in your hands. It smelled like cinnamon and clove — safe, almost. You didn’t quite know what to do with safe yet.

Harry was a few feet away, deep in conversation with Mr. Weasley about some Muggle invention involving “electrical toothbrushes.” He was animated, bright-eyed, the kind of light you hadn’t seen in him in weeks. His hair stuck up more than usual, and he still hadn’t quite mastered the art of folding sleeves, so his forearms were bare — golden in the early morning light. You stared a second too long.

“Still gets that stupid crease in his brow when he explains something he doesn’t understand,” came a voice beside you.

She bit into her toast. “Relax. I’m not about to hex you.”

You raised a brow. “I didn’t say you were.”

She shrugged. “Still. Thought I should clarify.” Then, after a beat, she added, more softly, “He looks happy with you.”

Something in your chest stirred — uncomfortably.

“I mean it,” Ginny said. “You’re good for him. Brutal, sharp-tongued, terrifying — but good.”

Ginny leaned forward, elbows on the table. “He's loved you since third year. You hexed a fourth-year Slytherin who called Neville a squib, then lied to McGonagall about it with the straightest face anyone had ever seen. Harry didn’t stop talking about it for days. ‘She’s brilliant, did you see the way she—’” Ginny mocked his voice, pitch-perfect. “‘—and then she told Snape the hex must’ve been a reflection off the suits of armour!’ He thought you were untouchable.”

“He watched you like you were a storm he wanted to run into. I used to think he’d grow out of it. That he’d get tired of being confused by you. But he didn’t. Even when he tried to like other people… it was always you. Even though that hurt me, I've accepted it”

Silence sat between you for a long moment. The only sound was the low hum of Harry laughing in the background.

Finally, Ginny stood and dusted crumbs off her hands. “He’s stubborn, that one. Picks his people and sticks by them like it’s life or death.”

With that, she left you there, standing in the middle of the Burrow kitchen with your heart half-broken and half-mended at once — because somewhere between third year and now, Harry James Potter had loved you.

Harry’s voice pulled you gently back to the present.

“Hey.”

You looked up. He was standing in front of you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, still wearing that sleepy grin he got whenever he was warm, fed, and safe. His hair was messier than usual — probably from the way he kept running his hand through it when Mr. Weasley asked about batteries — and he was watching you like he was trying to read the silence wrapped around you.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, maybe too quickly. “Fine.”

He didn’t believe you. He never did. One of his hands came out of his pocket and brushed against yours as he moved closer. “Did Ginny say something?”

You hesitated.

“She say something mean?” he pressed, his voice careful. “I can take her.”

That earned a reluctant, quiet laugh out of you. “You can’t.”

“No,” he agreed, nudging your hand gently. “But I’d try.”

You looked at him properly now — really looked. At the way his eyes softened whenever they landed on you, at the way he tilted his head when he was waiting, always patient, always like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

“Apparently you were obsessed with me, Harry Potter,” you corrected.

“Still am,” he said, without hesitation.