Archive of Our Own

You didn’t fall for him like in the stories. There was no grand confession, no midnight chase down castle corridors. It was quiet. Subtle. Slow.

It started with shared silences in the library. The weight of glances across a Potions bench. The way his voice dropped when he said your name—like it might crack if he wasn’t careful.

You never asked him to be soft. He simply was, with you. Until he wasn’t.

The beginning was warm. Fragile, yes, but tender.

You learned his rhythms: the exact shade of tension in his shoulders when he was lying, the rare curve of his smile when he forgot to guard it. He let you in, piece by jagged piece.

He made you feel chosen. For a while.

But even then, even in that sweetness, there was always a shadow behind his eyes. A ghost with green eyes and a laugh that wasn’t yours.

You knew Lily Evans haunted him. You just didn’t know you’d be asked to live in the spaces she left behind.

The common room was empty, save for the dying fire and the ghosts of what used to be.

You sat in the corner chair—his chair—the one where he used to tuck himself beside you, legs tangled under shared blankets, his head heavy on your shoulder when the weight of the world became too much.

It had been hours since he said he’d be back. A simple sentence, tossed over his shoulder like it meant nothing. “She just needs to talk.”

You waited anyway.

The fire had burned low by the time you let your head fall into your hands. The room smelled like smoke and worn parchment and everything that once felt safe.

You didn’t cry. Not yet.

Instead, you let yourself remember the lies you’d wrapped yourself in.

That he was just being kind. That Lily didn’t mean anything. That he would never let her come between you—not really. That he was just talking to her. Just helping. That he’d come back.

You told yourself he was alone. Every time. And every time, it hurt a little more to believe it.

Because you weren’t stupid. You saw the way he looked at her.

You just didn’t want to admit that he never stopped.

And now? It was too late to lie to yourself anymore.

You stared at the dying fire, the last embers glowing like the tail end of a false hope. And in that stillness, it hit you:

You didn’t lose him tonight. You’d been losing him piece by piece for weeks.

You just hadn’t wanted to see it through the smoke.

It wasn’t anger that kept you up that night.

You’d tried that—burned through fury like parchment in fire, paced the room with clenched fists and cursed his name into the walls. But it didn’t stick. It never did.

Now, there was only the cold.

Not outside—inside. That deep, sinking sort that starts in your ribs and spreads like ink in water. You sat at the edge of your bed, eyes fixed on the floor, fingers digging into your knees to keep from shaking.

You’d seen it coming. Every time he made excuses. Every time Lily’s name was said with just a little too much softness. Every time he looked past you—through you—at someone he hadn’t let go of.

And still, you stayed. Smiled. Said it was fine. Let yourself be whittled down into someone who waited for crumbs and called it love.

The truth was, you'd known long before the end. Known what he was doing. Known what it meant. But you wanted so badly to be wrong.

And somehow, even when you were right, it still hurt more than you thought it would.

It wasn’t just about him choosing someone else.

It was about you letting him.

You were in the library, again.

Not because you were studying. Not because you were waiting.

But because this was the one place in the castle where the silence felt familiar. Where the ghosts didn’t talk back. Where you could remember how it used to be—when he’d sit beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and ask about your notes with that low voice like you were the only one he could hear.

And then you’d look up and find his eyes already somewhere else.

You didn’t understand it. How someone could make you feel so full and so empty at the same time.

He had this way of pulling you in when he needed comfort. When the world outside turned cruel and he needed something soft to bleed into. And you gave it. Every time.

You let him rest his weight on your chest like a sigh. Let him hold your hand when he wasn’t looking. Let him kiss you when he couldn’t bear his own thoughts.

He never gave you love.

Just fragments of need dressed up like affection.

And the worst part?

You craved it.

You let him burn you—again and again—because the flame felt warm, and you mistook it for light. Every time he came back to you, it felt like heaven. Just for a moment. Just long enough to forget the ash in your lungs.

You had known. Somewhere deep down, you'd always known.

But you wanted so badly for his broken affection to mean something that you never stopped to ask:

Why does his love hurt like this?

You found it in his bag.

A note. Torn at the edges. Lily’s handwriting—curved, precise, familiar. You’d seen it before, scrawled across shared textbooks and folded class schedules.

But this wasn’t schoolwork. It wasn’t polite. It was personal.

“Thank you for always being there when I need you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

There was a heart drawn next to her name.

Not a signature. Just a symbol.

You stared at it like it might catch fire. Like if you looked hard enough, maybe the words would twist into something innocent.

But they didn’t.

And suddenly, every soft thing he’d ever said to you snapped under its own weight.

You remembered how he used to speak about the future. “We’ll get out of here. We’ll find somewhere quiet. Just us.” He’d painted you a life in half-whispers, in tired midnight murmurs.

He said he loved you like it was fact. Like it was the only truth left in the world.

But that wasn’t love.

He loved you with desperation, not devotion. Because you were safe. Because you were close. Because she wasn’t fully his to have—and you were too willing to hand yourself over to someone who never really saw you.

You had been the refuge. The backup plan. The balm for a wound he never stopped picking at.

And somehow, when he held you in the dark, when he kissed you like he needed it like air, it had felt like everything you wanted.

Like heaven.

But it wasn’t.

It was a beautiful lie painted over rot.

And now? Now it was all peeling away.

You stood in the corridor outside the Potions classroom, fingers trembling, the note crumpled in your fist. The world didn’t shift. It didn’t explode.

It just kept turning without you.

Your stomach twisted—not with grief anymore, but with the slow, sinking realization that you had spent all this time running toward someone walking the other way.

And it was so, so gut-wrenching to know you’d fallen for it all.

It was something small that brought it back.

A smell in the hallway—ash and pine. The exact scent that used to cling to him after long nights in the Potions lab. For a second, you stopped. Froze, like prey. Because for a second, your body remembered before your brain did.

You closed your eyes.

And there he was.

His hands on your waist. His voice against your neck. The way he'd say your name when he was half-asleep, soft like it might shatter if he wasn’t careful. The heat of him. The ache of him.

It felt good. It felt like love.

But it wasn’t.

It was comfort. Control. A warm place for him to rest until she was ready to look his way again.

He never paused to think of what it did to you. Never asked, never checked, never questioned if you were okay holding his sorrow like it was a gift.

You were his distraction. His reassurance. He called it love, but it was a convenience.

And you? You let it happen. Because every time he held you, it felt like being chosen—even if it was only for another night.

You had confused desperation with devotion. Mistook his need for affection as proof you were wanted. And in those brief moments?

It felt perfect.

Until it didn’t.

Until it burned.

Until the touch you longed for became the scar you couldn’t look at without remembering how used you felt.

He didn’t mean to destroy you. That was the worst part.

He just never cared enough to stop.

You stood in front of the mirror in the empty dormitory. Your reflection looked older. Harder. Like someone who’d learned too much in too short a time.

You stood on tiptoe for months—emotionally, mentally, physically—trying to be tall enough, quiet enough, smart enough, enough enough.

And still, he looked right over you.

You gave him your time. Your trust. Your body. You let him kiss you while thinking of her, hold you like you were second-best and still made him feel like he was everything. You let him strip you bare and convinced yourself it meant something more.

You had thought: If I love him hard enough, maybe I can fix the parts of him that are still bleeding.

But he didn’t want to be fixed.

He lied to you. But worse, he lied to himself. He built a world where he could be the broken hero, where you were just a side character who didn’t suffer when he left.

But you did suffer.

And he’ll never know the way it hollowed you out.

He’ll never know, because he never bothered to look away from Lily.

It was the little things that haunted you.

The way he promised “someday” like it was already carved in stone. He made it sound so easy—so certain. A flat in some quiet part of the world, books stacked high, you in his arms with no one else around to pull him away.

You clung to that vision like it was oxygen.

It wasn’t real.

None of it had been.

He spoke about the future because he needed to believe he could love you long enough to get there. And you believed it because you needed to think someone like him could.

But it was never about you. Not really.

You were the warm space he filled when he couldn’t bear being alone. You were the safe hands he turned to when hers were too far out of reach.

He never built you a future. He painted one.

Beautiful on the outside. Empty on the inside. Nothing underneath but cracked promises and half-truths.

And still, God, you wanted it.

Even when he left you waiting in the dark. Even when he looked through you like a ghost. Even when he whispered to her what you’d begged to hear for months.

Because when he held you—when he touched you, kissed you, said your name like it meant something—it felt like coming home.

It felt like the kind of love you’d always hoped was possible.

Until the moment you realized it wasn’t.

It was convenience. It was projection. It was a lie.

And you had fallen. Fully. Completely.

But you’d been falling in the wrong direction the entire time.

Now all you could do was crawl out of the wreckage of her name on his lips.

It’s late. The castle sleeps.

You’re standing by the window again, watching the moonlight spill over the courtyard where it all started.

That tree. That bench. That girl. That boy.

You close your eyes and remember the way the cold bit your skin the night you found them. How her crying wasn’t quiet. How his arms didn’t hesitate. How your feet didn’t move fast enough to carry you away from the sound.

You’d known then. Not in words, but in the way your stomach dropped.

But still, you went back. Still, you waited. Still, you whispered, He didn’t mean it. Still, you told yourself: He was just helping. Just talking. Just... sleeping.

Alone.

And now, standing in the dark, hands curled tight around your own elbows, you breathe in the quiet like it’s the only thing you have left.

It was never just one moment that broke you. It was all of them. Layered and buried and set alight by your own denial.

You wanted to believe in him so badly, you let yourself believe in anything.

Even the silence.

Even the smoke.

And now that it’s cleared?

You see it all.

And finally, you stop pretending.

It was snowing the first time he touched you like you mattered.

The castle was near silent, the world wrapped in winter’s hush. You’d been walking together, talking about something stupid—book lists, probably. He wasn’t looking at you when he reached out, fingers brushing yours, then holding. A little too tightly. A little too long.

You looked over.

And for once, he didn’t look away.

There was no smirk. No cruelty. Just softness. A rare thing on him. A dangerous thing.

Your heart had stuttered, stupid and starry-eyed. In that one breathless second, it felt like everything around you paused—like the universe leaned in and whispered, this is it.

It was terrifying.

It was beautiful.

It was the beginning of everything you didn’t know would hurt.

He pulled you close under the courtyard arch, snow catching in your hair, and kissed you like he meant it. Like there was no one else in the world. Like he’d been waiting, breath held, just for you.

You had never felt so chosen.

And that was it.

That was the moment. The memory. The lie you kept chasing through every burned promise and every broken night. The moment that made you stay long past the point of pain.

Because if he could make you feel that way once… surely he could do it again.

But he never did.

He never would.

And now, long after it’s over, long after he’s gone and the snow has melted into spring, you still feel it sometimes—

That ghost of a touch. That lift in your chest. That stupid, perfect hope.

You don’t hate him. Not really.

You just hate that he swept you off your feet only to let you fall alone.

You sat by the window, watching fog roll in over the Forbidden Forest like smoke curling off a dying fire.

He hadn’t come to find you.

You’d left a letter. You’d spoken the truth. You’d walked away with every inch of dignity you had left clutched tight in your chest—and still, some small, stubborn part of you thought… maybe.

Maybe he’d show up. Maybe he’d say I’m sorry. That it was all a mistake. That he loves you, not her. That he chose you. That he always had.

But the days passed.

And the door never opened.

You used to lie awake wondering where he was when he disappeared. You never asked—just told yourself the lies were easier. He’s just walking. He needed air. He’s in the library. He’s sleeping.

Alone.

That was the lie you clung to most.

Because if he was alone, then it didn’t mean anything.

Because if he was alone, he hadn’t chosen her over you. Not really.

But now, sitting here in the gray light of morning, the ache in your chest softened—not because it hurt less, but because it hurt differently.

The worst part wasn’t that he loved her.

It was that he let you believe he didn’t.

And you had known. Deep down, through every excuse and broken promise, you knew. But you wanted to believe he wasn’t like the rest. That he wouldn’t be cruel—not to you.

You should have known better.

And you did.

But still, you told yourself he was out there…

Sleeping alone.