The scent of parchment and old wood hung heavy in the air, a comforting aroma that defined Hogwarts. For Harry, it was the backdrop to his own quiet torment, a torment shaped entirely by the Ravenclaw Prefect, Valerie.

Valerie. Just the name was enough to make his insides do a little dance. He’d watched her from across the Great Hall, from the Gryffindor table, for years. He admired her intellect, the way she could debate Professor Flitwick into giving the entire class extra credit, her brow furrowed in concentration, ideas sparking in her intelligent, grey eyes. He admired her kindness, the gentle way she helped younger students with their potions, the patient smiles she offered even to the Slytherins.

Harry, the boy who had faced down Voldemort, the boy who had flown on broomsticks that would make Quidditch commentators weep, couldn't conjure the courage to simply speak to her. He was terrified of making a fool of himself, of revealing the stammering, awkward mess he became in her presence. So, he remained a silent admirer, a Gryffindor star-gazer lost in the constellation of her brilliance.

He saw her most often in the library. While Ron was snoring over ancient runes and Hermione was devouring entire shelves of books, Harry found himself drawn to the corner where Valerie sat, surrounded by stacks of parchment, a quill dancing across the surface. He’d pretend to be studying, poring over the same Herbology textbook for hours, his eyes flitting up to catch glimpses of her.

He loved the way a stray strand of her dark hair would fall across her face as she wrote, the way she would chew on the end of her quill when she was deep in thought. He noticed the silver ring she wore on her middle finger, engraved with a small, stylized raven, and wondered about its story. He knew, in a way he couldn't explain, that she was just as captivating reading a history of goblin rebellions as she was battling a dragon.

One afternoon, he finally found himself close enough to speak. He was reaching for a dusty tome on Advanced Arithmancy, a required reading for Hermione, when his hand brushed against hers. He froze, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Oh, sorry," he mumbled, his face burning. He could feel the heat radiating off his cheeks.