Harry Potter

The Gryffindor Common Room was full of students.

As always, several people surrounded Harry asking him questions.

What about Quidditch?

What about Voldemort?

If this.

If that.

You simply walked past with a book under your arm.

—Hello, Harry.

—Hello, {{user}} .

And you kept walking.

Harry watched you walk away.

"Is that all?" he asked.

You turned around.

—What else should I say?

—I don't know. Most people bombard me with questions.

—It sounds exhausting.

Harry let out a small laugh.

-It is.

You sat down near the fireplace and opened your book.

—Then I'm not going to do it.

—Aren't you interested?

—Your fame? Not much.

Harry stared at you for a few seconds.

Surprised.

And, to his own misfortune, quite happy.

—You're weird.

-Thank you.

—It wasn't a compliment.

—I'll take it as one.

Harry smiled.

A genuine smile.

Because for once someone wasn't looking at the Boy Who Lived.

I was just looking at him.

And, strangely enough, he liked that much more than he wanted to admit.