You had always liked Professor Potter.

Everyone did, really. It was hard not to.

He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t have that stiffness some professors wore like a badge of honor. He never shouted unless he truly needed to, never assigned pointless essays for the sake of authority. He taught Defense Against the Dark Arts the way someone might teach survival — with care, intention, and a deep sense of knowing. You could tell he’d lived what he spoke of, not just read it in books. His lessons were purposeful, his gaze sharp, his silences never empty.

He wasn’t the boy from the history books anymore, but something softer. Older. Still carrying shadows behind his eyes — but learning to let light in again.

You had always sat a little straighter in his class. Paid more attention than you needed to. Noticed the way he would lean against the edge of his desk while lecturing, arms crossed, head tilted slightly when someone said something clever. You noticed a lot of things, actually. Too many.

But it wasn’t until this year — your final year — that the noticing turned into something else. Something mutual.

It started innocently.

You stayed behind after class a few times. Just a question here, a clarification there. But his answers grew longer. More thoughtful. He started asking you questions too — your opinion on the theory, your thoughts on spell applications, your take on dark magic ethics. Then somehow the topics expanded. Books. Quidditch. Magical creatures. Life after Hogwarts.

Soon, it became a habit.

You’d appear at his office door just after dinner, parchment still warm from your bag, and he’d wave you in with that tired smile that you’d started to look forward to more than you cared to admit.

The first time you sat down in the armchair across from his desk, you expected it to be ten minutes.

You stayed two hours.

And from then on, the lines blurred. Slowly. Carefully. Deliberately.

He was always cautious — painfully so. You could see it in his posture, in the way he’d catch himself mid-sentence and redirect. In the way his hand would almost brush yours when handing you something — then retreat like he was afraid even that was too much.

And he was afraid. You knew that. You could feel it pulsing beneath his skin every time your eyes held too long.

He was trying to do the right thing.

Always had.

But even the right thing can crumble under the weight of what two people refuse to name.

It was late now. Nearly midnight.

The castle was silent around you — those sacred hours where time seemed to slow and shift after mound celebrations. You were sitting beside him in his office, not across from him anymore. There was a mug of tea cradled between your palms, half-cold now. Books were stacked in messy piles on the desk, parchment scattered between two pairs of knees.

You weren’t working anymore. Not really.

Just talking. Like usual. But not like usual at all.

It was after Quidditch match. Gryffindor vs Slytherin. Gryffindor won and you caught the snitch. Harry desperately needed to congratulate you.

“You did so well” he said softly, eyes studying your face, his hand curled around his own tea. “I mean, i’m really proud of you.”