You and Harry had been something once. Something real — late-night talks in the common room, hidden smiles, quiet hands brushing in the dark. But he grew cold. Distant. Always weighed down by everything he couldn’t say. And eventually, you stopped waiting for him to say it.

Now, you’re with Blaise. He’s confident, magnetic, always knows what to say. He walks with his arm around you like the world belongs to him — and for a while, you let yourself believe it could be enough.

But Harry watches.

Ron sees it first — the way Harry stops eating when you laugh at Blaise’s jokes. Hermione, too — how he gets quiet when Blaise kisses your temple in the corridor. They don’t say much, but you know they notice.

Everyone does.

Until one afternoon, the Great Hall hums with chatter. You sit beside Blaise, smiling at something he says. Harry walks in, slow, his eyes fixed on you like he’s finally made up his mind.

Before anyone can react, he marches to your table, pulls you gently but firmly to your feet, and kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s aching. Like a dam breaking.

When he pulls away, the entire Hall is frozen.

His voice is rough, barely above a whisper.

—“I never stopped loving you. I just didn’t know how to show it.”