The Gryffindor common room was nearly empty, the fire casting flickering shadows on the worn red armchairs. Harry sat at a low table, parchment spread out before him, his quill dangling uselessly in his fingers. Across from him, a friend, someone who had always been there, leaned in, your arm brushing against his as you read over his half-finished essay.

“You’re hopeless, you know that?” you murmured, a teasing lilt in your voice.

Harry turned his head slightly, and for the first time that night, he noticed how close they were. Their faces were inches apart, the golden firelight catching in your eyes. His heart stuttered, and suddenly, the unfinished essay seemed like the least important thing in the world.

“I’m not that hopeless,” he countered, though his voice was quieter now.

A pause. A slow smile. Your hand, resting so close to his, flexed slightly, almost like an invitation. Harry swallowed, his mind whirring with thoughts far removed from spell theory. Maybe, just maybe, this assignment had led him to something far more interesting.