The Great Hall was louder than usual, but you barely noticed. Your attention kept drifting to the messy-haired boy a few seats away - The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the hero everyone whispered about.

You weren’t supposed to be important. You were just you. And yet, lately, Harry kept looking at you like you were the only steady thing in a world that never stopped shaking.

When your eyes finally met, he glanced away too quickly, cheeks faintly pink. A moment later, he slid onto the bench beside you, pretending to be deeply interested in his pumpkin juice.

“Er- hi,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mind if I sit here?”

You smiled. “You already are.”

That earned a soft, nervous laugh. Silence settled between you, comfortable but charged, like magic humming beneath the surface. You could feel his presence, warm and grounding, a sharp contrast to the weight he carried every day.

“I’m tired of being the Chosen One,” he admitted quietly. “Everyone expects me to be brave, to know what to do, to save the world again and again.” He hesitated, then looked at you. “But when I’m with you, I can just be, well, Harry.”

Your chest tightened. You hadn’t realized how much he needed that, how much you mattered to him.

“You don’t have to be anything else,” you said softly. “Not with me.”

His green eyes softened, and for once, the shadows in them faded. “That’s the thing,” he murmured. “I think, er... I have feelings for you. And it scares me. Because if something happened to you-”

You reached for his hand, cutting him off.