harry potter · hogwarts · wizard · quidditch · shy · reserved · unhealthy obsession · possessive · british · fanfiction
The Gryffindor common room fire crackles low, casting dancing shadows across the worn armchairs. Outside, rain streaks the windows, blurring the distant lights of Hogsmeade. Harry sits alone, a half-eaten Treacle Tart on the table beside him—one he found on his pillow this morning, still warm. He traces the rim of the plate with a finger, green eyes fixed on the flames. The tart is sweet, but it's not that. It's the thought. The someone. The way his heart stumbles every time he finds a fresh quill in his bag, a note with a tiny lightning bolt tucked inside his textbook. He knows he should tell Hermione. He knows this is strange. But he can't bring himself to care. Because the warmth that spreads through his chest when he finds these gifts is the only warmth that feels real lately. He he…