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Before

Throughout Harry Styles’ short life, he had had many a magical incident occur within his vicinity. If he tried very hard, Harry could vaguely remember when he had been very young and had somehow made a snowball fly at his older sister, Gemma. Of course, without any knowledge that there was indeed a magical world, and with muggle parents who, too, remained none the wiser on the matter, Harry (and his family) had been driven to believe that these incidents had simply been minor phenomena.

It had been winter, of course, and Gemma had lobbed a great big snowball that had hit him squarely in the chest. It had been unfair, seeing as she had been seven years old and he, only three. He had scrabbled at the sparkly, white snow at his feet, trying to form a snowball of the same quality that his big sister had, but it had ultimately been in vain. Perhaps it had been the frustration at his failure that had triggered the sudden burst of magic that had caused a perfectly formed snowball to launch itself at the back of Gemma’s turned head.

“Hey!” she had cried.

“It wasn’t me,” Harry had said in his still-wobbly voice.

She had smiled—a smile too wise and knowing to look natural on the face of a mere seven year old. “Okay, Harry.”

When he had been six years old, Harry had turned the green curtains in his bedroom—the ones that had been almost the exact shade of green that his very own eyes were—blue. His mother, Anne, had given him an odd look and had asked Gemma if she had changed the curtains on Harry’s behalf. Gemma had said yes, though Harry was sure everyone in the room had known that it hadn’t been her. He still didn’t know why she had taken the fall for him. Perhaps she had known about his magic all along.

On the night of February 1st, Harry’s eleventh birthday, a loud and solid knock had sounded at their wooden door. Harry himself had been in the basement. It had been well past ten o’clock—and well past Harry’s bedtime, at that. But as a birthday treat, Harry’s mother had allowed him to watch a late night TV special.

Though he had been in the basement of the house, he could hear the knock clearly, as well as his mother’s voice speaking to whoever was at the door.

“Is there a Mr. Harry Styles at this residence?” the stranger said, and it was enough to have Harry bolting up the stairs and to the door.

“Who’s asking,” his mother inquired the stranger just as he reached the door.

“Well—” the woman began, and Harry took the time to glance over their strange, purple robes before cutting them off.

“I’m Harry Styles,” he breathed. Though winded from the run upstairs, he couldn’t have felt more excited. After all, wasn’t it something special to have someone asking for you (and on his birthday, no less)?

The woman at the door gave him a patronising look, the corners of her lips turning up in a tight smile. From beneath her robes came an envelope enclosed in a gloved hand which, he noted, was the same colour as the woman’s robes.

Harry took the yellowed envelope and turned it in his hands. On one side was a beautiful seal seared into red wax, as well as an equally beautiful crest featuring a large, embellished H, a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle, stamped in green ink. Within the banner below the crest were the words, Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus. On the other side of the envelope read his name and address: Mr. Harry Styles, 22 Riverside Crescent, Holmes Chapel, United Kingdom, In Front of the Television In the Basement. How could it be that the address on the letter had in fact been his exact location only moments ago?

“May I come in?” the woman asked.

Harry looked to his mom, but she was already looking back at him. Perhaps his wide, pleading eyes had been the reason why she invited the strange woman inside.

The moment Anne sat the three of them down on the couch, the woman started talking in her bored, bored voice, as though she really didn’t want to be there, as though she really didn’t care about either Harry nor Anne at all.

She had mentioned her name but Harry had been too busy tearing open the letter. “—I am here to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed in this letter will find a list of items you will need to purchase prior to your first year at our school. Your muggle money may be exchange—”

“What’s a muggle?” Harry interrupted.

The woman gave an impatient sigh, and Harry hoped that she wasn’t one of his teachers if he went to this Hogwarts school. “It’s someone who doesn’t do magic. Or see it, for that matter. As I was saying—”

“Why are you telling me this?” Harry interjected again.

She gave an impatient sigh and fixed him with an even more impatient look. “Because you’re a wizard and you’ve been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” Harry could almost hear the little huff she refrained from tagging on at the end. He nodded.

The woman continued talking, but Harry was barely listening. Him, a wizard? The woman had probably been sent as a prank by one of his school friends—he didn’t consider it above any of them to pay a woman to play a joke on him.

Could it be real? In the bag of his mind was a niggling thought that this was the explanation to all the strange circumstances that had surrounded him all his life. If this was real, then Harry considered it an exceptional case of cultural appropriation every time someone dressed as a witch or wizard for Halloween. He himself had done so once, but now, he felt somehow entitled, if he had been a true wizard all along.

Harry slid the contents of them envelope out. There was indeed a list of items he needed to purchase as well as the acceptance letter itself, all in neat handwriting, the very same that had written his name, address, and precise location on the envelope.

He read the list of supplies first:

UNIFORM

First year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

Harry read that part over twice. There was such thing as dragons?

4. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupil’s clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

1. The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
2. A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
3. Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
4. A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
5. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
6. Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
7. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
8. The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1. 1 wand
2. 1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
3. 1 set glass or crystal phials
4. 1 telescope
5. 1 set brass scales

Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

Yours sincerely,

Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus

Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions.

Then, he read acceptance letter, his eyes lingering on every word as though they might disappear if he took his eyes away.

Though Harry didn’t know what any of that meant, he was impressed.

Dear Mr. Styles,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Harry glanced up to find the woman—the witch—gazing at him with the slightest amusement. As though anticipating his question, she said, “Headmaster Dumbledore is the finest headmaster, and, dare I say, the finest wizard this world had ever seen.” She sounded like she was gloating, as though she was Dumbledore herself. “Of course, you won’t need to send an owl since I am here to collect your answer right away. These house calls are for all muggleborns, you see. So that the wizarding world may be explained to them. And you’ll need to visit Diagon Alley in London for those supplies. ”

The room was silent for a moment. Then, Anne, her voice much more fragile than Harry had ever heard it to be, said, “May we have a moment? You must realise that this is a big decision and—”

The witch merely waved a dismissive hand. Anne stood up, grasping Harry by the forearm and pulling him into the kitchen. She snatched the letters from his fingers and read them over.

“Don't you think this is a joke one of your friends is playing on you? Look at what this says—”

“I read the letter, Mum.”

“And?” she demanded.

Harry shook his head vehemently. “Of course not, Mum. Of course it’s not a joke. Who could ever make up something like that anyways?”

“I’m sure any one of your friends could have whipped up this nonsense.”

Harry bit his lip. “What’s the harm in going, Mum?” Anne didn’t answer.

“Okay,” she said finally.

Anne pulled her son back to the couch. She looked at the strange witch in the eye. “Where do we buy these things?”

The witch smiled her tight smile once more. “Diagon Alley, “ she said.

“And where’s that?”

“London.”

Anne pressed her lips together.

“Mum?” Harry said.

She looked at him, and Harry could hear the unspoken “That’s too far, especially if this is all a joke.”

“I mean,” he continued confidently as though that might persuade her, “we’re visiting Dad next week in London anyway.” Anne’s lips pursed ever so slightly at the mention of her ex-husband. “What’s the harm in looking?”

Anne gave a hesitant nod and turned to the witch. “How do we find it?”

A week and a half later, Anne and Harry found themselves on Charing Cross Road in front an ordinary-looking pub called The Leaky Cauldron. Inside, the overwhelming odor of beer washed over them. The pub was loud and lively, and people were bustling back and forth between the tables and the bar.

Anne approached the bar and leaned over it nervously. “Excuse me,” she called meekly. “I’m looking for Tom?”

The bartender, a kindly looking old man with flushed cheeks and nose, looked at her with a grin. “I’m Tom, ma’am. What can I do for ya?”

“I need to go to Diagon Alley,” she said, her eyes shifting between Tom and Harry. It wasn’t easy to tell that she was anticipating ridicule. But Tom merely grinned brighter.

“I take it this young man is going to Hogwarts next year!” he cried.

Anne let out a sigh of relief. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“Not to worry! Come with me.”

He guided Harry and Anne to the back entrance of the pub and outside. They were in a small courtyard. In front of them was a brick wall. The only other thing in sight was a dustbin. Tom pointed at the dustbin, and Harry could see him tapping the air—“Three up, two across,” Tom muttered. He smacked a single brick with the flat of his palm.

The brick jutted inward, and in only moments, a large archway was just where the wall had been. Harry’s eyes went wide. There was an honest-to-God alley right where there had only been a courtyard.

It was busy. Witches and wizards—because how could they be anything else?—were dressed in thick robes and pointed hats with big, fancy feathers threaded through them. Some of them had bags but many more walked empty handed, piles upon piles of purchases hanging in the air above them.

Harry stepped through the archway.

Year 1

As the Hogwarts Express pulled away from King’s Cross Station at precisely eleven o’clock in the morning, Harry’s hands and right cheek were pressed into the window, trying to catch a glimpse of his mother’s face as he sped away from her. As soon as the station was out of sight, he collapsed back into his seat.

He was very much alone in the compartment, aside from the black and white cat he had bought at Diagon Alley. He was quite fond of the little beast. His mother had steered him away from Eeylops Owl Emporium, asserting that she would not under any circumstances have a “ruddy great owl” under her roof. When the pair of them had stumbled into Magical Menagerie with their arms full of books, Harry had nearly dropped everything he was holding when he’d spotted a rather large cat.

The feline in question was black and white with a lovely pink nose, though that, too, had a tiny black spot on it. Harry could have dared to say that he was in love. He had turned to his mother with wide and pleading eyes. Anne couldn’t refuse. Harry named the cat Dusty. After paying, the cat, instead of letting himself be carried, had trailed after Harry and Anne through Diagon Alley.

Dusty now occupied the seat across from Harry’s own. He was purring contentedly, his body stretched out across the length of the seat.

At that very moment, someone knocked on the compartment’s semi-glass panel door. Harry shifted closer to it and gripped the handle, sliding the door open.

“Hello!” said a friendly voice.

A short boy in robes identical to the ones Harry himself had yet to change into was standing in the aisle. His hair was straight and the colour of cinnamon, with bangs that fell just above his eyebrows. His eyes were blue and kind and eager.

“Hi,” Harry greeted shyly.

The boy took it as an invitation to enter Harry’s compartment. Seeing that one seat was already taken by a cat, the boy sat down right next to Harry, who was still staring at him with wide eyes.

“I’m Louis Tomlinson,” the boy—Louis—stated proudly. “And you are?”

“Harry,” Harry replied, no less timid than before. Then, as an afterthought, “Harry Styles."

“I’ve never heard of the Styles family before,” Louis said thoughtfully. “Are you a pure-blood?”

Harry was bewildered. All he knew was the he had A-positive blood. He had never heard of pure-blood. “What’s that?” he asked stupidly.

Louis looked amused. “I guess not, then. Is your father a muggle?”

It had been barely a few minutes of knowing Louis and already, Harry could tell that the blue-eyed boy had no filter. “Yes. My mother, too.”

“You’re a muggle-born, then.” Harry must have looked panicked because Louis then hastily added, “It’s not a bad thing. My best friend was a muggle-born.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly, Louis’ eyes lit up. “Do you want some candy?”

By the time the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade Station, there were wrappers of every type of sweet imaginable on the floor of the compartment. Dusty was sitting on Louis’ lap and purring once again, and Harry, now in his school robes, was lying flat on his back on the seat the Dusty had vacated.

Louis was the first to rise. He twisted from side to side, stretching out his torso as though he had just woken from a long nap. He pulled his luggage down from above him, and then Harry’s own.

They exited the train together and left their luggage on the platform. A large man—a very large man, in fact—who introduced himself as Rubeus Hagrid led the first years to an array of boats. Harry climbed into a boat with Louis and another girl who didn’t introduce herself and they sailed across the lake.

Harry glanced up. Looming ahead of them was a magnificently large caste. Is that Hogwarts? he wondered.

“I hope we’re in the same house, Harry,” Louis commented.

“House?” Harry asked.

“Yes.”

Harry sat down with a thud at the Hufflepuff table. The Hufflepuffs that were already sitting there were cheering, and the ones who could reach him were clapping him on the back. He looked down at his chest. His tie, which had previously been plain, was now yellow with slim black stripes.

Craning his neck, he looked for Louis among the crowd of first years who had yet to be sorted, waiting at the steps in front of the Sorting Hat. He caught the Louis’ eyes, the the boy gave him a small smile. Harry, sufficiently reassured, focused on the girl sitting on the stool with the ugly, talking Sorting Hat on her head. He wondered how much longer the sorting ceremony would go. Not twenty students had been sorted yet, and there looked to be at least fifty more to go. Harry wondered, too, if that ugly, dirty Sorting Hat would sing another wretched song the next year.

Professor McGonagall—the woman who Harry realised had written his Hogwarts acceptance letter—stood next to the girl in her emerald robes and tall pointed, her very long scroll in hand.

Harry had been hearing whispers of another Harry ever since he set foot on Hogsmeade Station’s platform. Harry Potter, the other students had whispered. Harry Styles didn't know who that other boy was, why everyone knew his name, but the other kids treated him like a messiah. The other Harry had only just arrived at Hogwarts for the first time—he had already been sorted into Gryffindor house—so how was it that he was already so revered?

A loud cheer sounded from across the room and Harry caught sight of the girl from the chair skipping towards the table next to his. Everyone at that table had predominantly green ties.

Then, Professor McGonagall called the name that Harry had been waiting for all evening. “Louis Tomlinson?”

Louis stepped up and ascended the two steps to the Sorting Hat. He sat on the wobbly three-legged stool that Harry himself had sat on. Professor McGonagall lowered the tattered hat onto Louis’ head. Harry waited—and waited—and waited.

An older Hufflepuff student leaned over to Harry. “That’s a Hatstall, that is.”

“What’s that?” Harry asked him.

“When the Hat takes more than five minutes.”

Harry turned back to Louis just in time to hear the Hat call out, “Gryffindor!”

Louis caught his eyes once more and offered a sad smile as he moved to the opposite end of the Great Hall.

“I mean, it’s not like we have no classes together,” Louis reasoned one day.

It was nearly the end of October. Day in and day out, Harry had been bored to death by Professor Binns—the History of Magic teacher who really shouldn’t have been teaching—picked on by Professor Snape—his greasy-haired, hook-nosed Potions professor who Harry suspected had a vendetta against him simply because his name was Harry—and had had Seamus Finnigan explode three feathers right in his face in Charms. Not that there weren’t upsides to his classes; Professor McGonagall was by far one of his favourite teachers. Even if Professor Quirrell was a little strange and jittery, he did teach and interesting lesson, and though he kept falling off his broom in flying class, he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed it. But.

“We only have Herbology together,” Harry pointed out.

“Better than nothing.” Louis shrugged. “We don’t need to have all our classes together anyways.”

“Quiet down,” Harry hissed.

They were in the library together after having left lunch early. Madam Pince, their irritable librarian, had already hushed them twice. During his nearly two month stay at Hogwarts, Harry had learned that she could indeed be quite wrathful, and that it would be in his best interests not to anger her further.

“Anyways,” Louis said more quietly “We can still hang out. My mom—my dad, too—they both went here. They told me about where they’d go and hang out.”

“Where to hang out?”

“Yes.”

“But wouldn’t you want to bring one of your Gryffindor friends?”

“Nahhh,” Louis dismissed. “Would you bring one of your Hufflepuff friends instead of me? I am your best friend, after all.”

Harry gave a small puff of laughter. Louis was endearingly conceited. “I’m not really. . .friends with any of them.” Louis tilted his head, and Harry continued: “I’ve never been good at making friends.”

“Well, you are very shy.” Harry looked down and Louis added, “Why don’t we meet after dinner? I’ll show you all the places I’ve found.”

“Can’t,” Harry said. “I’ve got a foot of parchment to write for Professor Sinistra. It’s due next class.”

“When’s next class?”

“Midnight.”

“Then tomorrow morning,” Louis tried. “Sit with me at lunch and then we can hang out.”

“Y’know, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Lou—”

“Oh, Harry. Please. It’ll be fine.”

Year 2

“I have had the worst summer,” Harry declared, falling hard on the seat across from Louis’. Harry had a large cage tucked under his arm, but it was obscured by the cloth that had been thrown over it.

“How come?” Louis asked. His hair had grown out over the summer, and now fell messily over his sapphire eyes.

“Dusty. . .” Harry let out a deep sigh. “Dusty got sick. He’s living at home, now.”

“What?” Louis gasped. “Why didn’t you owl me?”

“I don’t have an owl,” Harry reminded him.

“Well you bloody well should!” Louis cried. Then, more quietly, he said, “So what’s in the cage?”

“A new cat.” Harry shrugged. “Name’s Molly.” He pulled the cloth back. Inside the cage was a cat with wild, white fur.

“Harry,” Louis said. “That’s not just a cat.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, that cat is half-kneazle, innit? That’s a very special cat. You should let her out.”

Harry mumbled “half-kneazle” under his breath but complied, unlatching the cage. The half-kneazle, half-cat sprung from her cage and straight into Louis’ lap.

“Y’know,” Louis commented, “Kneazles are great judges of character.”

Harry laughed quietly. “Shut up, Lou.”

The door slid open and sounds from outside flooded in. Two more boys, one, a Hufflepuff like Harry himself, and the other a Ravenclaw, burst into Harry and Louis’ compartment.

Then came a familiar Irish lilt: “Alright, ‘arry?” said Niall in his loveable, squeaky voice.

“Alright,” Harry replied, filing away the previous topic for a time when he was alone with his best friend. “Liam.”

“Harry. Good summer?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Who’s the cat?” Niall asked, and Molly—the little traitor—hopped off of Louis’ lap onto Niall’s own.

“Molly. She’s half-kneazle.”

“Oh,” Liam said thoughtfully. “I hear they’re good judges of character.”

Louis grumbled and sunk into his seat.

Many hours later, the sun was setting and the train was deep in the Scottish countryside. The four boys were immersed in a game of Exploding Snap. Since Louis had taught it to him the previous year, Harry couldn’t help but want to play it all the time. He even had his very own deck of Self-Shuffling Exploding Snap cards.

They were playing the Classical version—Patience was far too difficult for Harry, and the one and only time that he had played Bavarian, an inch of his fringe had been singed off. This time around, he hadn’t been faring too well. Louis by far had the quickest reflexes of all of them. The piles of cards in the other three players’ possessions were growing sparser by the hand.

Another ten minutes passed and Louis held all the cards in the deck, including the final four that had been placed—a pair of Elfrida Claggs, a Hebridean Black, and a Giant Squid (one was rumoured to be in the black lake by Hogwarts; fuel to this particular fire had been added by some members of Slytherin House whose common room was apparently below the Black Lake. Zayn Malik, a second year Slytherin who was on good terms with Liam and most of the rest of Ravenclaw House, had bragged about seeing the squid himself through the common room’s windows). He smiled a triumphant grin. “Boys,” he sighed, “you’re all rubbish at this.”

There was a chorus of “Whatever, Lou,” and “Screw off, Lou,” and a very, very quiet “I’ll fucking beat you next time.”

“Why, Harry!” Louis gasped. “Who knew such a meek being could have such foul language in his vernacular?”

“You don’t even know what ‘vernacular’ means, Louis,” Liam pointed out.

“Yes I do!” Louis cried indignantly. “Lexicon, jargon, vocabulary—you Ravenclaws aren’t the only ones who know words!”

“Please,” Liam dismissed, but he commented no further.

It was quite uncommon for a member of one house to be in another house’s common room. And yet.

Louis acted like he was perfectly at home in the Hufflepuff common room. He was reclined on a couch, his feet propped up on a footstool. His homework lay thrown on the floor below him. Harry, who was beside him, was diligently completing his own homework. Of course, that made it Louis’ duty to distract him.

“Harry,” Louis whined, and tipped sideways onto Harry’s writing arm.

Harry didn’t even glance at him. He merely shrugged his best friend off and continued scribbling on his two-foot long parchment due for Professor Lockhart (Louis had once told him that he reckoned that that guy was a complete moron).

Another half-hour of complete and utter boredom passed and Louis was just about climbing the walls. Finally, Harry turned to him after a flare of sparks had been sent up in another distracting attempt to seek his attention, “Louis. Please let me finish my essay. And then—if you want—we can go wherever.”

Louis didn’t respond; he just kept looking at Harry with his big, blue eyes.

“And shouldn’t you be doing your own essay for Flitwick?” Harry tutted.

“I agree to your terms,” Louis said, disregarding Harry’s comment about his essay.

A few hours later and Louis had fallen asleep on Harry. That meant two things: that Louis had not finished his essay (or started, for that matter) and that there would be no visiting their favourite nooks and crannies within the castle.

Louis’ head was on Harry’s lap, which had forced him to write his essay on the armrest of the sofa.

So far, he had dribbled ink on Louis four times—three times by accident and one time out of spite because Louis had once teased him about how he wrote in pen rather than with a quill. When Harry refuted with the fact that pens were both far more convenient and less messy, Louis had simply asked why he had bought quills and ink if he wasn’t going to use them in the first place. Since then, he had taken to quills. Even though they were stupid and inconvenient and pretentious.

When Harry’s two feet of parchment were sufficiently filled, he rolled up the paper and stuffed it haphazardly in his bag, hoping that it didn’t crack or tear. Or smudge, Harry thought.

Louis’ hair was soft and fluffy. Harry had realised it in the past, but only now was it hitting him. He was alone in the common room save for a pair of seventh years who were sitting in a corner away from the fireplace. Nobody could see him. Tentatively, as though he were a naughty child doing something sneaky, he threaded his stubby fingers through Louis’ cinnamon hair. Yes, Harry decided. His hair is very soft.

Year 3

They were running down the hall. Harry’s breath was coming in pants and he had an unbearable stitch in his side. But he knew that if he stopped, if cranky old Mr. Filch, the school’s caretaker, caught up with him, he’d probably be sent straight home.

They had pulled heists similar to this one during their first year and second years. With an extra half-year of experience under their belts, Louis had noted that he felt confident that this time around, their mischief would transpire much more smoothly. Now, he just had to convince Harry of the same thing.

Louis grasped Harry’s sweaty hand and yanked him sharply around a corner. Their backs collided against the castle’s stone wall. Louis was the first to break the silence. “Did you get it?” he asked, gulping for air.

“Right here,” Harry breathed.

Louis had no problem with getting in trouble. In fact, it seemed like he thrived off of it. Harry, on the other hand, was more doubtful. Louis had been the more daring one when they had first arrived at Hogwarts, was still apprehensive about committing misdemeanors such as the one that he had just committed. Louis had a funny way of getting him to do his bidding; Harry had a feeling that Louis’ pretty eyes had been the key to persuasion.

Louis took the stolen object from Harry and held it up to his face. He tucked it into his robes before could read the label on it.

Louis beamed, and Harry felt a swell in his chest.

Louis had discovered a small old broom cupboard at the end of a corridor on the third floor. He had scouted the area extensively. Nobody ever even used the damned thing.

“What is this, Lou?” Harry inquired when Louis brought him to the cupboard’s door. Louis had finally deemed it safe for them to make this their nightly and when-skiving hangout. Though if Harry did say so himself, it was incredibly underwhelming (at least from the outside).

Louis slipped his wand from the sleeve of his robes. It was of a darker wood than Harry; black walnut, if Harry recalled correctly, whereas Harry’s own was made of acacia. Harry teased him every once in awhile about the core of his wand. It was unicorn hair which, according to Louis himself, was far girlier than Harry’s own dragon heartstring.

“This is our new spot,” Louis explained. “Since we nearly got caught in our last one.” He held his wand out in front of him. “Alohomora.”

The door clicked. Louis put away his wand and took Harry’s wrist, pushing it open just enough to squeeze the two of them through.

Harry coughed the moment he breathed the air inside the cupboard. “Lou? No offense but this is. . .gross. And tiny.” It was true. Dust covered every surface. The room itself was already small, but with the clutter residing in it, the two boys could barely stand without touching each other.

“I hate to tell you this, Harry, but we’re wizards, right? This is no problem.”

“We’re only third years.”

“So? We can just cast a Scouring Charm.”

“Lou,” Harry sighed. “That doesn’t cover dust.”

“Then a Tergeo,” Louis corrected.

“That’s a sixth year spell!” Harry cried. Then, at Louis’ questioning look, “I heard one of the sixth years complaining about it in the common room.”

“We can still try it,” Louis reasoned.

Harry gave him a skeptical look in return.

When Louis brought Harry back to the broom cupboard, he was treated to a clean, dustless room. Harry spun around to face Louis, who had an irrefutably smug grin on his face. “How did you do this?” Harry asked in wonder.

Louis shrugged. “I got one of the Gryffindor sixth years to teach me Tergeo. No big deal.”

Harry slapped his arm lightly. “Yes, it is too a big deal!”

“Yeaaaah. . .”

Harry found himself wondering once again, as he had for the past two-and-a-half years, just where Louis’ humility had wandered off to. “It doesn’t fix the size issue, though,” Harry muttered, turning on the spot. He felt a hand on his lower back.

“Remember that thing we nicked from Filch’s office last week?” Harry nodded. “Well—” Louis drew the object from his robes. “Here,” he said, passing it into Harry’s hands.

It was a weighty bag made of some sort of fabric and bore the label of a company—a wizarding company, no doubt—that Harry didn’t recognise. “Open it,” Louis whispered dramatically in his ear. All Harry could think about was how the other boy’s warm breath was making the hairs on his neck stand up. But he did as he was told.

“I opened this thing in my dorm,” Louis explained as Harry explored the contents of the bag. “Double Undetectable Extension Charm. I hear those are tricky.”

“What?” Harry asked, withdrawing a large canvas sheet and dropping it onto the ground. He didn’t even know what an Undetectable Extension Charm was.

“One for the bag, one for the tent.”

“Tent?” Four metal poles spilled out from the small bag. How had all that fit?

It took a painstaking half-hour for the two of them to set the tent up. Louis had somehow cleared the room of the broomsticks and other miscellaneous objects (though when Harry had asked how, Louis had merely given him a sly smile). But even then, their working room was limited. That, coupled with Louis’ natural comedic idiocy, made setting up the tent both strenuous and tedious. But it was worth it.

The tent barely fit in the cupboard. Furthermore, Harry and Louis could barely fit in the cupboard with it.

“This leaves us with less space than before, Lou!”

Louis shot a wicked smile over his shoulder as he pushed through the tent’s flap and disappeared inside. Then, a moment later, Louis’ head peeked back out. “What are you standing there for?” Louis’ hand shot out from the tent and gripped Harry’s own, tugging him through the door.

Harry’s mouth fell open.

“I’d heard one of those Weasley twins talking about a Charmed Tent in Filch’s office,” Louis said. “So I had to get you to help me steal it.”

Harry breathed out a laugh. “This solves the space problem.”

And indeed it did. The broom cupboard, which had been no more than a few square feet in area, had undergone an incredible refurbishment. Inside, the tent was easily the size of Harry’s house back in Holmes Chapel. It was outfitted with couches, a table and chairs, and the brooms that had previously taken up residence in the cupboard. Harry would dare say that this tent that was somehow bigger on the inside (which must have been the Extension Charm’s doing). It was just as—if not more—cool than the stuff he had learned in Professor Lupin’s class, who was by far his favourite teacher.

“Nobody even comes here,” Louis pointed out. “We could come here all the time. Especially now that our abandoned classroom is occupied.”

“Would we be bringing anybody else here?” Harry asked skeptically.

“Nah. Only if you want to.”

Year 4

Louis had taken to sitting at the Hufflepuff table as often as possible. He had been doing it since they had met, but now it was noticeable. Of course, it had been noticeable before, especially at Christmastime when most of the school went home for the holidays.

This Christmas was slightly different; this Christmas was one that would take place while Hogwarts hosted the Triwizard Tournament and, by extension, the Yule Ball. Most of the older—fourth year and above—students and their dates had decided to stay in anticipation of the forthcoming dance. Most of the younger students had gone home, save for those who either usually stayed for the holidays or had been invited to the ball by older students.

In addition to Louis nicking a spot at the Hufflepuff table right next to Harry, Liam had also for some reason decided to migrate from the Ravenclaw table. He was next to Niall, across from Harry and Louis. Zayn Malik, though he was a Slytherin, maintained a civil relationship with the two Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaw, even going so far as to hold a brief conversation. Louis, though, only received passing nods. Everyone knew that it was because he was a Gryffindor, but Louis himself considered it quite an accomplishment to not be completely hated by someone from Slytherin.

Louis leaned over to Harry. “Do you have a date to the ball?” he asked. It had been a hot topic between the four boys. Liam was going with some Slytherin girl, while Niall was quite happy going alone.

“No,” Harry said, plucking another drumstick from the heaping pile in front of him.

“Well, I do,” Louis declared, and Harry wanted to slap him.

Somehow, he refrained from doing so. He guided the drumstick to his mouth as naturally as he could. Taking a bite, he hummed, hoping that the presence of food in his mouth would help to mask his confliction, as well as give him an excuse not to speak.

“Yeah, she’s very lovely,” Louis continued, his eyes taking on a dreamy glint. “Her name is Eleanor.”

“Oh! I know her,” Liam piped up. “She’s in Ravenclaw. She helps me with my Transfiguration homework sometimes.”

“Yes, she’s very smart, isn’t she?”

Harry took another large bite of his chicken, suppressing a frown. He had wanted to ask Louis to the ball. But he had waited far too long. He had been afraid. He supposed that this was why Louis was in Gryffindor and he wasn’t. And now, Harry knew that Louis didn’t even like guys. Perhaps it was better that he never asked Louis to go to the ball with him, imagine the embarrassment if he had! Louis would likely have frowned a little bit, then smiled kindly. He would have said, “You’re my best friend, Harry, but I don’t like you like that.” And then Harry would’ve felt far too awkward to ever see Louis again. They would have drifted apart (and Harry knows it would have hurt Louis but he just couldn’t bear to be near him) until eventually they graduated. They would never hear from each other again. Even though that scenario was completely implausible, Harry couldn’t help but decide that, in the name of preserving both himself and his friendship with Louis, this outcome—the fact that Louis had asked some Ravenclaw girl before Harry could has him—was for the best.

Harry had been watching them all night—Louis and Eleanor, that is. The name felt bitter his mouth. He wanted to hate her, too. But she had been so nice when Louis had introduced him to her, and she was so pretty, and Louis had this gigantic grin on his face that hadn’t disappeared all night. How could he hate someone who made Louis so happy?

Harry himself had managed to find a date to the dance with only a day to spare. She was kind and pretty. The problem was that she wasn’t Louis. They had danced to a few songs, but eventually they had grown weary of it. Harry suspected that she had found another boy to dance with. Harry had, after all, stepped on her toes several times. Not that he didn’t know how to dance; he was just too busy watching Louis twirl Eleanor around to one the Weird Sisters’ songs.

He was slumped against the wall, staring at a half-full flute of something in his hand. It was bubbling and sparkling in a way that could only be described as magical, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Now that Harry had come to terms with his feelings for Louis, only to have them indirectly thrown in his face, how could he feel happy about anything?

Suddenly, Louis appeared in his line of sight. He was grinning ear to ear as Eleanor tugged him away from the dancing crowd. He looked quite dashing. His school robes and tie had been swapped out for a black bow tie and dress robes that actually looked ironed. His hair, which had been immaculately styled earlier in the celebrations, was mussed and falling into his face. Harry himself had used Sleekeazy’s since his own hair was so curly, but he suspected that Louis had merely needed to comb his hair for once. Louis’ cheeks were flushed from dancing, and his crystalline eyes were gleaming with joy.

Louis leaned over and whispered something into Eleanor’s ear. She, too, looked stunning. She wore a pristine ball gown and her hair fell over her shoulders in elegant curls. From her ears dangled two beautiful earrings whose gems looked as though they were worth more than all of Harry’s possessions combined.

Harry ducked his head as Louis began to walk over to where he was. He hoped dearly that he hadn’t been caught staring.

“Harry!” Louis cried. “Aren’t you just having a ball right now—get it?” He laughed wildly, and Harry wondered if he had had something a little too strong to drink. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“This?” Harry asked weakly, holding up his flute. “Not sure.”

“I think I’ll go get myself some. How about you, Eleanor?”

“Please,” she said kindly.

Louis walked away in search of the drink, and Harry was left alone with Eleanor. He raised the flute to his lips, hoping that he wouldn’t have to talk to her. But she was watching him all-too knowingly.

“What?” he asked. He had hoped for the word to come out sharp and biting, but it only sounded concerned.

“Louis,” she said simply.

“What about him?”

“You like him.”

Harry frowned and didn’t say another word until Louis reappeared.

Year 5

With Dumbledore gone, Professor Umbridge had taken over the school. Needless to say, she was something straight out of Harry’s nightmare. She was the kind of person Harry had expected witches to be like before he had met actual witches. She was horrid and evil and ugly.

Harry was quite excited to join Dumbledore’s Army. He couldn’t bear to sit through any more of Umbridge’s classes without learning anything. How was he supposed to pass his practical Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.Ls at the end of the year if he wasn’t learning any spells? Both he and Louis, as well as Niall and Liam, had shared this exact opinion. That, coupled with the tragedy at the end of the previous year, had propelled them into joining the D.A. How could it be that people weren’t bothered by the lack of Defence education? How could it be that people didn’t believe Harry Potter about the arising danger in their world? About He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Besides, that whole D.A. coin idea was cool, not to mention incredibly difficult and advanced magic. Harry had no doubt that it had been Hermione Granger who had cast the Protean Charm on them.

The D.A. had reconvened back in the Room of Requirement after the New Year. The spells that they had learned prior to the break were complex; the Stunning Spell, the Impediment Jinx, the Reductor Curse, along with a few more; it was undeniable that Harry Potter had been teaching the D.A. members more than Umbridge ever had or would. Harry Potter’s skill, too, was undeniable. He had an impressive number of charms in his arsenal, and many of them were exceptionally difficult.

Now, Harry Potter was teaching them the Shield Charm. Harry Styles was quite sure that, if it came down to it, this particular charm could be responsible for saving his life. The problem was that he was struggling with it.

Liam, a skilled wizard, had mastered the charm within an hour of learning it. Louis and Niall too, who rarely paid attention in their Defense Against the Dark Arts classes in past years, were excelling during D.A. lessons, even with this charm.

Harry didn’t understand why.

It was the next class that he finally figured out the charm. Louis had shot a stray Expelliarmus in his direction. Harry had done it almost automatically. Without the briefest hesitation, he had thrown his wand up and cried, “Protego!” The red beam that Louis’ wand had produced bounced away and dispersed as though there was an invisible barrier in front of Harry’s wand.

Louis’ mouth had fallen open, and Harry felt himself brimming with pride. His cheeks were burning as Louis threw himself at Harry and wrapped his arms around him. His heart was beating so fast that it felt like he had run a marathon; Louis was hugging him, Louis was whispering in his ear how proud he was of him, Louis was so close that he could smell candy on his breath, could feel his heat wrapped around him.

And he had thought that he was getting over that damned Gryffindor.

The next time the D.A. met, Harry Potter taught them the most difficult spell they had ever encountered in their four-and-a-half years of schooling.

The Patronus Charm, he had called it. Harry Styles had heard of it more than once, had come across it while reading, and it had been noted to be one of the most difficult spells of all time. To know that Harry Potter had been taught it by Professor Lupin at the age of thirteen—well, impressive was quite frankly an underwhelming word for it.

To say that the D.A. members were having trouble was an understatement. To be fair, some of them, like that genius, Hermione Granger, had already produced an incorporeal patronus, though Harry suspected that she was well on her way to forming a fully-fledged, corporeal one.

He wondered if he ever would. Even if he managed an incorporeal patronus during the D.A. meetings, it could be years until he managed one in the form of an animal. He wondered, too, what that animal might be.

The key was a happy memory. He knew that, and Harry Potter had stressed that more than enough times. He tried every memory he had—the ones with his mother in his childhood, discovering Diagon Alley and the wizarding world for the first time, meeting and buying and living with and loving Dusty and Molly, passing through the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, meeting Lou aboard the Hogwarts Express, seeing the castle, making new friends, going to class and raising hell with his best friend, running from Filch, getting in trouble every once in awhile, growing into himself with the help of his friends and Louis and magic—nothing was working.

Harry had been working at it day and night between sessions. So far, he had yet to produce even a shimmer of a patronus. There had been no tell-tale silver grow erupting from his want. It was disheartening.

Louis, on the other hand, had made progress. They had been in their tent in the broom cupboard when it had happened. The room had been charmed by the Imperturbable Charm—neither Harry nor Louis wanted Umbridge or Filch or any Inquisitorial Squad members eavesdropping on them or bursting in because they had heard noise. As extra protection, Louis had cast a Disillusionment Charm on the door of the cupboard; any passerby would see it simply as a continuation of the castle’s wall rather than the smallish wooden door it actually was.

They were lying on their backs; the entirety of the floor of one room of the tent was plush mattresses—Harry and Louis had considered it a blessing when an accidental Gemino Curse had duplicated a single mattress into several.

It was past curfew by the time Harry saw a small silver cloud from Louis’ wand. Harry’s mouth fell open as the cloud grew large enough that he could touch it (if it were, in fact, physically tangible).

Louis sighed and sat up, and the silver vapour faded from the room.

“Aren’t you excited?” Harry finally squeaked out.

“I’ve been able to do it for a week,” Louis said, frowning. “I wish I could do more.”

“I wish I could do that, at least,” Harry said bitterly.

Louis’ eyes widened. “Oh, Harry,” Louis said. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that—I didn’t mean to say—”

Harry waved his hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll help you,” Louis said suddenly.

“Uh—”

“I will!” Louis insisted, scooting towards Harry. “Get your wand out.’

Harry complied, and Louis, whose thighs were pressed flush against Harry’s own, tipped his head onto Harry’s shoulder (and that really wasn’t good because if there was anything that could mess with his head, it was being alone with Louis, in such close proximity with Louis, touching Louis).

“What do you think about? When you try and cast the charm?”

Harry thought about it for a moment. “Everything,” he said honestly. “My mom, things I’ve done at Hogwarts, Liam, Niall. . .you.” He was silent for a moment. “But nothing works.”

“Maybe you’re just trying the wrong things,” Louis suggested. “Dig deep.”

“Dig deep where? I’ve tried everything!”

“You wanna know what I think about?” Louis asked him, and Harry nodded. Louis let out a shaky sigh, one that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. “I think about you.”

Harry’s hands clenched the fabric of his robes. “What about me?”

He was relieved that he had managed to suppress the tremble that was aching to seep into his voice. Why was it that Louis’ words—ones that Louis probably didn’t even mean the way Harry wanted them to—had such an effect on him? Why couldn’t he just get over the Gryffindor bastard? Why did he have to be so—Louis?

“That one time at the end of third year. . .it was dinner, and you had stayed up all bloody night studying for an exam and. . .you fell asleep on my shoulder at breakfast—drooled all over it—and then when I woke you up, I told you that we could just. . .skive for the rest of the day. And you smiled at me, and then we. . .skived.” Louis shrugged and smiled shyly. “It sounds stupid but. . .Why don’t we just find you a memory?”

Harry wondered why Louis had chosen that, why that memory brought him enough happiness that he could use it as a basis for a patronus. It didn’t seem to be anything special, and unless there was some underlying emotion to it—no. Harry couldn’t afford to think like that. He couldn’t afford to hope. Love was a dangerous game—he knew it. It was futile to allow himself these silly fantasies about requited feelings. But. That gave him an idea.

He could picture it now—years in the future, long after he and Louis had graduated from Hogwarts. They lived together in their very own flat. They were married and happy and they had two kids in a bedroom fast asleep and they. . .Harry and Louis, they were slow-dancing in the kitchen with slow, smooth muggle music and had shy, loved-up grins hid in each other’s shoulders.

A jet of silver surged from the tip of Harry’s wand.

Harry Potter congratulated them both on their progress the next session.

The session after that, Harry was riding the wave of Weasley twins’ Puking Pastilles from their Skiving Snack Boxes and stayed back in his dorm. They were genius, Harry had to admit, and they worked like a charm—he had taken the purple half during potions and had started throwing up straight away. Then, in the hospital wing, the moment Madam Pomfrey had turned her back, he had taken the orange half and the vomit had ceased. Louis had stayed with him. That was the day that Marietta Edgecombe betrayed the D.A. to Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad. Harry felt just the slightest bit guilty that while he had been in the Hufflepuff dorm with Louis stroking his hair and babbling away about his lessons, the D.A. were having their final session for years to come.

Year 6

When Harry entered the dungeon one fateful day, the room already smelled of something lovely, no doubt something Professor Slughorn had set up for them, perhaps even brewed himself.

Harry, unlike in previous years where he had had Potions with just his own house and the Ravenclaws, had Potions with the every house that year (this was simply due to passing his O.W.Ls with flying colours and securing himself a spot in the N.E.W.T. level Potions class). As the class piled into their seats—Harry next to Liam, just as he had been every year—he couldn’t help but notice the scent in the air.

It smelled like. . .his mother’s homemade apple pie, like the butterbeer he had been getting in The Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade since third year, like. . .Louis’ shampoo? (And Harry would know, given how much time he spent with his nose buried in Louis’ chestnut hair.

By the time Harry had decided to being paying attention to Slughorn rather than to the delightful smells floating about, the professor was already explaining the potions. Well, not Slughorn, per se; Hermione Granger was having no trouble hitting the names of the potions on the mark; Veritaserum, Polyjuice Potion, and—

”It’s Amortentia!” Hermione cried. After the briefest prompt from Slughorn, Hermione continued. “It’s the most powerful love potion in the world!”

The briefest conversation passed between Hermione, Slughorn, and Harry Potter before the professor explained the properties of Amortentia. It wasn’t actual love that Amortentia produced, but powerful infatuation. Apparently it was quite a dangerous potion, perhaps the most dangerous in the room, according to Slughorn.

Even as Slughorn set the class to work on the Draught of Living Death to win the Felix Felicis with a hearty laugh, Harry knew his mind was wandering back to the Amortentia. Perhaps. . .that was what he needed.

Harry had heard from an anonymous (though reputable) source that the Girls’ Lavatory on the First-Floor was generally abandoned.

A search through the restricted section upon special permission for Madam Pince, under the guise of searching for a particular spell for one of his classes had landed a thick, dusty Potions book in his possession. Within it contained the recipe for Amortentia.

The ingredients were difficult to obtain but, with only mild guilt, he had managed to nick them from Slughorn’s store.

It took a mighty long month to brew the damn potion. During that time, the self-proclaimed presiding ghost of the lavatory, Moaning Myrtle, had visited him several times, making comments about the scent here (“It smells like a flower, is it a perfume?”), and some comments that had actually piqued Harry’s interest (“This isn’t the first time a Harry has brewed a potion in this bathroom. Isn’t that funny?”). But she had this irritating laugh and a habit of snuggling too close to his shoulder that he didn’t like. He was eager to be done with the potion.

He had it siphoned into a large flask. The rest of it was donated generously to Moaning Myrtle (though Harry had told her not-so-nicely to try giving it to one of the toilet lizards). He slipped the flask into his school bag next to his scrolls and textbooks and quills and ink. The glass was thick and therefore sturdy enough that Harry could trust it not to shatter.

Rather than going back to Gryffindor Tower, Louis followed Harry and Niall as he often did down the corridor of the Hogwarts kitchen. It led them to the Hufflepuff common room was (a basement, actually, though it served as the common room) where hey could still smell the food that the elves had cooked up not too far away. Niall buggered off straight away, claiming that he had no time to chat and that he had two (unstarted) essays due the next day.

Harry’s mind was on the flask sitting in his bag. Louis was right there, right in his lap. It would be so easy to administer that potion—

“Hey, wanna see something?” Louis asked, snapping Harry out of his reverie.

“Sure,” Harry replied weakly.

Louis raised his arm and shut his eyes, all emotion falling from his face. “Expecto Patronum,” he said.

Suddenly, a wispy, silver dog sprung from the tip of Louis’s wand. It bounded happily around the room, and some of the other Hufflepuff students turned to stare at it in wonder. Louis lowered his wand and the dog dissipated.

Louis looked up at Harry, who was frowning and trying very hard not to cry. “I finally got it last week,” Louis told him.

“That’s great.” Harry offered a watery smile. “Hey, d’you mind if I go to the loo real quick?”

“Okay?” Louis looked confused, but he raised his head from Harry’s lap just enough for the Hufflepuff to slip out from under him and stand. He snagged the flask from his bag as stealthily as he could and hurried to the lavatory.

He ran into a cubicle and locked the door behind him. He raised his wand and concentrated, building up another fantasy of an impossible future. “Expecto Patronum.” His voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

It happened slowly. As though the thing was shy, his Patronus took a long moment to form. But it took shape, and Harry didn't even bother hiding his gasp when a dog, quite possibly the same one as Louis, leapt over the wall of the cubicle.

Harry threw the door open, his wand still raised and his mind still focused on his happy thought. He watched the dog spring joyfully around the room, rising higher and falling lower as though stepping on invisible stairs.

Harry lowered his wand. What did it mean that his and Louis Patronuses were the same? He didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn’t do this. Use that portion. He couldn't do it, not to Louis, not to his best friend who he loved with all his heart. He couldn’t force love—it wouldn’t even be true love. And he couldn’t take away Louis’ choice, his free will. Tying Louis down to Harry would only serve to bring temporary happiness because—because it wasn’t real. And Harry didn’t want less than real.

He unstoppered the flask and poured the potion—oh, it still smelled of Louis’ shampoo—into the toilet. He flushed it and fell against the wall of the cubicle with a thud and a loud sigh.

He had possibly just avoided the biggest mistake of his life. How did he let the thought of Louis’ love drive him so completely insane?

Year 7

Harry was running again. It was almost like in the old days after they had pulled a nasty prank or had broken into Filch’s office for the umpteenth time. But it wasn’t like that at all.

Harry had been on the run for the past year. After He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had taken control of the Ministry of Magic, Severus Snape (Harry had always known that something was off about him) had been appointed Headmaster at Hogwarts. Harry still couldn’t entirely believe that Dumbledore was gone. With his anti-muggleborn policies, Harry and his mother had been forced to flee from the Ministry. Until now.

He had gotten the message to return via his old D.A. coin that he hadn’t had the heart to throw away. He had learned to apparate the year before—albeit with difficulty—and had used the new skill to appear in Hogsmeade. By the time he made it to the castle, the battle was waging on, still in full swing.

It was Harry’s first time back in the castle in a whole year. It was a far cry from what it had been in sixth year. Now, the walls of the castle had been blown to rubble in sections, and everybody in sight was locked in a duel with another. There was blood on the ground, and limbs, as though they had been torn from bodies by particularly vicious dark spells. Harry didn’t know if the limbs had come from Death Eaters or the students and staff of Hogwarts themselves.

He crashed into someone wearing a white button up. A red tie was flying from their collar. Their pants were dusty and blood flowed from a scrape on their cheek. Harry caught their arm. “Have you seen Louis Tomlinson?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the Gryffindor breathed. It was clear the he had been running. His eyes were darting about and his wand arm was tense as though he was expecting an attack any moment. “Yeah, he was that way last I saw him.” The boy pointed down the hall.

Last I saw him. It was quite possible that Louis had been killed since then.

“Thank you,” Harry said, and he was off. More flashes flew back and forth as students and teachers dueled with Voldemort’s Death Eaters.

Harry searched. He pushed past the people around him, weaving his way around pairs of dueling wizards, all the while sweeping his eyes across his surroundings for the boy he was looking for. Minutes passed, and bursts of light soared past his ears, coming very near to ending his life. And then—

There he was.

Louis.

He was locked in battle with a Death Eater. They threw curses back and forth, and Louis whirled and spinned gracefully and erected that Shield Charm that they had learned in the D.A. to keep the spells from hitting him. God, he was magnificent.

Harry gripped Louis’ arm hard as they stood in the Great Hall. In the centre was Lord Voldemort himself. When Mrs Weasley—Molly, Harry thought her name was—had killed Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort had turned on her. There had been a long and frightful second where Harry thought that she might be murdered right in front of his eyes. But somebody had cast a Shield Charm between Molly Weasley and Voldemort’s Killing Curse, and had pushed her backwards. It was Harry Potter, who had revealed himself to not in fact be dead.

A conversation passed between Harry Potter and the Dark Lord, one that Harry couldn’t pretend he understood but at the same time found so revealing of the truth. He understood who Voldemort was now. And who Harry Potter was.

But. Something Harry Potter said caught Harry’s attention. “Snape’s Patronus was a doe, the same as my mother’s, because he loved her for nearly all his life, from the time when they were children.” Harry Potter continued talking, but Harry Styles no longer cared.

Harry Potter’s Expelliarmus met Lord Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra. The spectators stood, awed, for the had never seen anything like it. The red spark of Harry’s wand pushed back against the green of Voldemort’s. Voldemort’s wand flew into the air, and Harry Potter caught it in the mid-air. The Dark Lord fell back, and he was dead.

The wizards in the Great Hall crowded towards Harry Potter, all desperate to brush skin with the Boy-Who-Live-to-Kill-the-Dark-Lord. Save for Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson.

Harry tugged and Louis’ arm and drew him away.

When they reached the Hufflepuff dorm, for it was far closer than Gryffindor Tower, Harry immediately pulled Louis into a hug. “I’ve glad you’re alive,” he whispered. “I have so much to tell you.”

“Me, too,” Louis murmured back. “But first. . .”

He drew back from the hug, leaving Harry to stare in confusion. Louis raised his wand and pointed it to the ceiling. Harry glanced up. Mistletoe was winding down from the ceiling, its leaves and white berries hanging inches above their heads.

“What is this. . .?” Harry said. His confusion had grown to a greater height than it had been in his second year Transfiguration class.

“I know it’s not Christmas but. . .I really can’t wait til then. I can’t believe I’ve waited seven years to do this in the first place.” Louis sighed shakily, steeling his nerves.

“What—”

But Harry could not complete his question, for Louis had already pressed his lips to Harry’s.

After

“People thought you were weird, you know,” Zayn told Harry at the Christmas party he was throwing at his rather large manor. The animosity—not that there had been very much in the first place—had dissolved between them. Between Zayn and Louis, well, there were still occasional issues. But school was done now, and neither had trouble acknowledging the fact. Zayn continued: “Best of friends, even though you were different houses—except for you and Niall, of course. And you—you in particular—were so shy. It was kinda cute, actually. But I suppose Louis made you grow out of that.”

“Yeah, he did,” Harry agreed. He leaned back against the wall and took a sip of his butterbeer.

Zayn stepped forward and clapped Harry on the shoulder. “I’m glad.” He held up his empty shot glass. “I’m gonna get more Firewhiskey.” With that, he walked away.

Harry decided that it was time for him to go find Louis. The party, though it was winter, was being held mostly in the courtyard of Zayn’s mansion. Zayn had cast a spell that prevented bad weather from entering their vicinity. It seemed to be coupled with some sort of Hot-Air Charm that warmed the entire environment. Harry made a note to ask Zayn about it later—his flat in London was always freezing despite the heating system. It had been snowing in London when he had disapparated to Zayn’s place.

Harry wove through the throngs of partygoers in the courtyard. Most were dressed immaculately; suits and fancy robes and beautiful, expensive-looking gowns. There were a few kids running around, some in lovely muggle clothes, others in wizarding robes.

Harry spotted Louis chatting animatedly with Niall Horan and Liam Payne. He joined their circle, and was welcomed almost immediately. Louis clasped their hands as he talked, though there was no indication on his face of their secret handholding. Harry, on the other hand, had a bright flush dusting his cheeks. How was it that after years upon years of dating he still got flustered when Louis showed his affection?”

Harry gulped down more butterbeer. He found himself leaning closer to Louis, staring wide-eyed at him. Harry recalled thinking oftentimes that Louis was wonderful to sit back and admire. Louis could light up a room by just walking into it. His eyes, so beautiful and bright and blue, were mesmerizing. Harry found it difficult to tear his own green eyes away from them.

Louis finally looked up at him. He said something, but Harry wasn’t even listening. He was so caught up in—Louis.

Harry felt himself being shaken. He blinked hard. “Yes?” he asked, though it was meek and quiet.

“Are you okay?” Louis said in a low voice. Harry nodded, but Louis smiled knowingly. He turned to Liam and Niall. “Lads, it was nice seeing you but. . .I think Harry here is getting a bit tired.”

Harry protested weakly as Liam and Niall laughed and shooed them away. “You didn’t have to do that,” Harry told him.

“Nah,” Louis dismissed. “It’s getting late anyway.” Though Louis was the shorter of the pair, he was the more dominant of the two. He pulled Harry into him, tucking him into his waist. Harry was just the right height to rest his chin on top of Louis’ head. He shut his eyes, allowing Louis to pull him along.

They thanked Zayn quickly for the party, the drinks, the food.

“I’m going to disapparate now, okay?” Louis asked, though it wasn’t much of a question, just more of a warning. Harry gripped Louis arm more tightly, and the shorter wizard side-along apparated them into their London flat. It was still snowing outside.

Harry felt suddenly sleepy. He allowed Louis to change him out of his robes, leaving him in simple muggle boxers and a t-shirt. He fell into bed, folding their thick covers around him. He realised just then that he had forgotten to ask Zayn for his special Warming Spell. Alas, he’d have to use the Floo Call him later on.

He felt the bed dip, and Louis scooted under the covers next to him. “You’re warm,” Louis yawned, hugging him from behind. Louis’ bare legs were the opposite of warm, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to push him off.

“You’re not.”

“I love you,” Louis murmured into Harry’s shoulder blade.

“I love you, too.”

“Harry.”

“Louis.”

Louis sighed. “I can’t believe you had a crush on me at school.”

Harry gasped indignantly, turning in Louis’ embrace to face the man who had made the offending remark. “So did you!” he squawked.

“It’s still embarrassing.” Louis shrugged as best as he could while lying in bed and snuggling someone. “I’m glad we had crushes on each other.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry laughed, turning back around in Louis arms and shut his eyes. “Save the sap for your wedding vows.”

Louis eyebrows rose, though Harry couldn’t see. “Wedding vows?”

Harry’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t meant to say that. “Uh—I mean—I’m—” He couldn’t even put together a single coherent sentence. He could tell that his body was warming up.

Louis laughed quietly in his ear and took his hand.