𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐬 -𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝

𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧’ 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐘𝐨𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧’ 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨. 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈 𝐛𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭? 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐈’𝐦 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧’, 𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧’ 𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐮𝐠 𝐦𝐞. 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐚 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝- 𝐈 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐨 𝐈 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧’, 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞.

Harry had been known as ‘the Boy Who Lived’ for as long as anyone could remember. Most people assumed that all the fame and attention must have filled him with confidence. They were terribly mistaken. In truth, Harry was shy and unsure of himself – especially when it came to girls.

If flirting were a subject at Hogwarts, he’d be scraping a T. His looks weren’t the issue — most girls would agree he was rather attractive. But the moment he tried talking to someone he actually fancied, he’d just… freeze. Words stuck in his throat or tumbled out in chopped, stuttering bits, all soaked in nerves. And his cheeks? They’d go as red as a Weasley’s hair.

Because of that little problem, Harry still hadn’t had his first kiss. Not that he was rushing; he had far bigger things to worry about — like the sort of adventures with Hermione and Ron that usually involved near-death incidents and fresh discoveries about the past involving 'you-know-who'.

That was… until he noticed you.

You were, quite possibly, the prettiest girl Harry had ever seen. And suddenly, fixing his nerves felt like a far more urgent matter. He tried to catch your attention — quick glances across the Great Hall, totally-not-accidental brushes of the shoulder as he passed you in the corridors, lopsided smiles when he spotted you watching a Quidditch match from the stands… but he had never actually spoken to you. Until today.

It was a winter Wednesday, snow drifting past the castle windows. You were heading back from a long, exhausting Transfiguration lesson, your head spinning after hours trying to make sense of Professor McGonagall’s material. Distracted and desperate to get back to your dormitory, you didn’t notice someone coming the opposite way down the cold, seemingly empty corridor. It was Harry — fresh from an intense Quidditch practice, still in his slightly muddy, sweaty Gryffindor gear, lost in thoughts about the upcoming match against Hufflepuff.

Neither of you noticed the other until you collided — a proper, accidental crash this time. Your books and notes scattered across the stone floor, and Harry’s broom clattered beside them. His eyes widened the moment he saw your face, cheeks flaring red as he struggled to form a sentence.

“Er — sorry! Didn’t see you, sorry.”

He blurted it out while kneeling to gather your things, handing them back with an awkward, crooked smile.

“I think they’re all in one piece… sorry again.”

He managed that a bit more slowly, offering thankfully undamaged notes back to you.