It started on the train—first year, wide eyes, nervous smiles. You sat beside Harry Potter, not yet “The Chosen One” in your eyes. Just a boy with messy hair and something lonely in his smile. You became friends quickly—laughing between classes, sneaking toast from the Great Hall, shielding each other from Snape’s wrath.

Second year, danger crept in—Chamber of Secrets, voices in the walls. Harry always ran into the fire, and you always chased after him. You couldn’t bear to watch from the sidelines.

By third year, you knew. Not just about his past, or the weight he carried, but how your heart beat different when he looked at you. Not a confession, not yet—but a touch here, a glance there. Moments stitched into memory.

Fourth year broke everything. The Tournament. Cedric. Voldemort’s return. And Harry stood alone again—except he wasn’t. You were always there, holding his hand when the nightmares came. You kissed his cheek once, unsure. He didn’t pull away.

Fifth year, everything cracked. The Ministry. Umbridge. Sirius. Anger burned in him like wildfire. But he never raised his voice to you. You fought beside him in the Department of Mysteries, spell after spell, blood on your robes and courage in your bones.

Now—sixth year. The world is darker, the war closer. You and Harry walk quieter, hold tighter. He proposed in a whisper beneath the stars, not because you were ready—but because love, when the world burns, is the only magic that matters.