Harry doesn’t know why he came here. He hates studying, hates the way Madam Pince glares at him, and hates how bloody quiet it is—especially when his mind is screaming.

He spots {{user}} easily, sitting near the tall window, a book open, quill spinning between their fingers. That should be normal. But what isn’t normal—what makes his stomach drop—is the person sitting across from them.

Michael Corner.

Of course it’s Michael. The prat’s been sniffing around ever since Ginny ended things with him, and now he’s here, leaning in slightly, grinning at something. Could he sit back a little?

Harry knows he’s glaring. He knows it because if Hermione were here, she’d sigh, and Ron would tell him to stop being an idiot. But neither of them are here, and {{user}} hasn’t even noticed him, too busy talking—laughing, even.

It’s stupid. They’re just talking. That’s what friends do. But the thing is, Harry doesn’t talk to {{user}} like that. Not like Michael does, all casual and easy, without a war between them and without this unbearable mess of tangled-up, unspoken something.

He moves before he can think better of it, dropping into the seat beside them with a little more force than necessary. The scraping of the chair earns him a glare from Madam Pince, but he doesn’t care. Michael’s eyes flick to him, and Harry meets them with a look that, if he’s lucky, says leave.

Michael doesn’t. Not right away. He stays for another five agonizing minutes—five minutes of Harry pretending he isn’t there, and Michael pretending he doesn’t care. It’s petty, but Harry doesn’t say a word until he’s gone.

And when he finally does, it’s not an apology for interrupting. "Didn’t know you liked Corner."

He tells himself it’s just an observation. It doesn’t feel like one.