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Hogwarts in the autumn smelled like damp stone, crisp leaves, and something faintly sweet from the kitchens. It was the kind of weather that invited long study sessions by the fire and warm sweaters, and for Theodore Nott, it was the perfect excuse to spend more time with Harry Potter.
Not that he needed an excuse—after four years of friendship, it had become second nature. Their paths had crossed properly in second year, when Theo had been the only Slytherin actually interested in the academic challenge of a Ravenclaw. Unlike Draco Malfoy, who sought constant competition with Harry, Theo had been drawn to him for other reasons.
Harry was… different. Unexpected.
Now, in sixth year, Theo had spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about his best friend’s stupidly endearing habits. The way he ruffled his already messy hair when frustrated, the way he bit his lip in concentration, the way he tilted his head in quiet curiosity whenever Theo spoke about something he loved.
Blaise had noticed, of course.
"You could just confess and save us all the trouble," Blaise had muttered once over breakfast, watching as Theo failed—miserably—to look unaffected when Harry entered the Great Hall, face flushed from the morning chill.
Theo had promptly stolen his toast.
"Shut up, Zabini," he’d said, far too dignified to admit to anything.
But as another evening rolled in, Theo found himself in the Ravenclaw common room again, sitting beside Harry on one of the plush blue couches by the fire. Their study sessions had become routine, the excuse always being "quiet, undisturbed revision."
The reality? The way Theo just liked being near him.
"Your handwriting is atrocious," Theo murmured, tilting his head to read Harry’s parchment.
"It’s a lost cause," Harry sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Besides, you can still read it, can’t you?"
"That’s not the point." Theo plucked the quill from Harry’s hand, ignoring his protest, and neatly rewrote a section.
"You’re such a perfectionist," Harry grumbled, but he didn't take the quill back. Instead, he slumped sideways, leaning his shoulder against Theo’s. It was casual, easy—something Harry did often enough that Theo shouldn't have felt his stomach flip over it.
But he did.
They continued like that for a while, Theo rewriting parts of Harry’s notes and Harry pretending to be invested while really just watching him. The warmth of the common room, the low murmuring of students around them, and the rhythmic scratching of Theo’s quill made everything feel comfortably hazy.
It was only when the fire crackled louder that Theo noticed the weight on his lap.
Harry had—somehow—shifted, curling onto the couch and resting his head against Theo’s thigh, glasses slipping slightly down his nose.
Theo froze.
His brain supplied a thousand different responses, most of which involved panicking, but none seemed particularly useful.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax. He had survived six years of Hogwarts. He had survived Blaise’s knowing looks and Pansy’s endless teasing. He could survive this.
Cautiously, as if he might wake him, Theo reached out and adjusted Harry’s glasses, pushing them up slightly so they wouldn’t fall.
Harry sighed in his sleep, shifting just enough that his breath ghosted against Theo’s robes.
Oh, this was unfair.
"You're doomed, mate," Blaise's voice echoed in his head, smug and unbearably correct.
Theo closed his book, resigning himself to his fate. He wasn’t moving anytime soon.
-=-
It became a pattern.
Harry never outright asked, but on evenings when exhaustion weighed him down, he'd end up sprawled across Theo's lap or pressed against his shoulder. And Theo—who had once prided himself on being indifferent to most things—let it happen without protest.
If Blaise smirked at him knowingly the next morning, well, that was a different problem entirely.
It was on a particularly stormy evening, when the library was near empty and the fire crackled low in the Ravenclaw common room, that something shifted.
Harry had started nodding off against Theo again, muttering something about Transfiguration homework, when Theo—perhaps emboldened by the soft glow of the fire—brushed his fingers through Harry’s hair absentmindedly.
It was soft. Softer than he expected.
Harry hummed in approval, not quite asleep yet.
"That’s unfair," he mumbled.
Theo tilted his head. "What is?"
"You doing that. Now I don’t want to move."
Theo hesitated, then—carefully, deliberately—ran his fingers through his hair again.
Harry melted further, turning just enough that his face was almost pressed against Theo’s robes. "Yeah, this is nice," he muttered sleepily.
Theo swallowed.
"Potter."
"Hmm?"
"You do realize that normal friends don’t do this, right?"
Silence.
Then, so quietly that Theo almost thought he imagined it—
"Yeah, I know."
Theo’s breath caught.
Harry shifted just enough to look up at him, green eyes soft and unreadable.
"You don’t seem to mind," he murmured.
Theo searched for words, anything that wouldn’t make him sound like an absolute fool. "I don’t."
"Good," Harry said simply, closing his eyes again.
And that was that.
Theo barely processed Blaise’s smug expression the next morning. All he could think about was the way Harry had smiled, soft and sleepy, before drifting off in his lap.
Perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t doomed after all.
-=-
Theo had always been careful.
Careful in the way he spoke, the way he kept his emotions measured, the way he approached life as if walking through a room full of delicate glass. Being best friends with Harry Potter had tested that control in ways he never anticipated.
Because it was impossible to stay indifferent when Harry laughed at his dry wit, when he leaned into Theo’s space like he belonged there, when he fell asleep on Theo’s lap as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
And it had happened again.
Only this time, Theo wasn’t just resigned to his fate—he was actively indulging in it.
The common room was nearly empty, students either asleep or finishing last-minute essays in hushed voices. The fire had burned down to embers, casting soft golden light over the couch where Harry lay, once again curled in Theo’s lap.
Theo ran his fingers through the mess of black hair, twirling a strand absently.
Harry sighed in contentment.
"You do that a lot," he murmured, voice thick with sleep.
"Do what?"
"Play with my hair."
Theo stilled.
His first instinct was to deflect, to act as though it meant nothing. But something about the quiet intimacy of the moment made him hesitate.
So instead, he said, "You like it."
Harry let out a small, amused hum. "Yeah, I do."
A heartbeat passed.
Then, as if gathering courage from the dim light and the weight of the night itself, Harry turned slightly, looking up at Theo through sleep-heavy eyes.
"You’re my favorite person," he admitted, quiet but certain.
Theo's fingers stopped moving. His pulse stuttered.
Harry’s favorite.
He should’ve made some clever remark. That was the safe thing to do, the familiar thing. Instead, he just—stared.
And Harry, brave and reckless as always, smiled.
Theo exhaled, slow and measured, before letting his hand slide from Harry’s hair to his jaw, thumb brushing against his cheek. He felt Harry still under his touch, eyes dark with something unreadable.
Then, ever so carefully, Theo leaned down.
There was no rush. No desperation. Just warmth and quiet understanding as he pressed his lips to Harry’s, soft and fleeting.
Harry inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a breathy laugh, curling further into Theo’s lap.
"Took you long enough," he mumbled against his lips.
Theo rolled his eyes, but there was no real irritation behind it. "You’re insufferable."
Harry grinned. "And yet, here you are."
Theo huffed a quiet laugh before resting his forehead against Harry’s.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Here I am."
And for once, he wasn’t careful at all.