Miyumiyu

Any pronouns 18

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

friendzoned (h.p.)

Pairing: Harry Potter x Reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: Don't fall in love with your best friend unless you're ready to have your heart broken.

A/N: Happy Belated Valentine's my babiesss sorry it took so long to post i actually got pretty sick last weekend so i wasnt able to finish the fic on time but i hope you enjoy!

credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider

As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.

Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.

That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.

Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.

He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.

Harry had thought it ridiculous.

Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.

By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.

Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—

And you were completely, utterly oblivious.

The irony was cruel.

You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”

You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.

You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.

You—who read people like open books.

Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.

And had been for two years.

At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.

Apparently not.

Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”

He’d nearly choked on his tea.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.

The worst part?

They were right.

Everyone had noticed.

Everyone—except you.

So Harry tried something different.

He stopped hiding.

He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.

There was none.

He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.

You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.

Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.

Not anonymous. Not vague.

A proper Valentine.

You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.

“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”

He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.

That was the day he’d given up.

You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.

And yet.

He still didn’t tell you.

He couldn’t.

Because losing you altogether was not an option.

He could survive loving you quietly. He could survive pretending. He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.

But he could not survive you walking away.

That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.

So he chose silence.

He chose the quiet torture of it.

And he told himself that it was enough.

It had to be.

But Merlin—

You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.

It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.

Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.

So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.

“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.

Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.

“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.

He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.

“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”

There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.

Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”

You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.

It started with a bang.

Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.

Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.

“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.

The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”

Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.

“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”

Brilliant.

Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.

Harry was scanning the staircase.

Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.

And then you appeared.

Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.

And—

Wearing his Quidditch jersey.

It swallowed you whole.

The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.

You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.

Heat crawled up his neck.

“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”

You blinked at him, still half-asleep.

“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”

You yawned.

Actually yawned.

As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.

Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

But you didn’t notice.

You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.

It was instinctive.

Unthinking.

Comfort.

His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.

For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.

You fit far too perfectly there.

It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.

His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.

Instead, he swallowed.

“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.

You smiled without opening your eyes.

“Like you would’ve said no.”

His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.

His.

And yet not.

You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”

He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”

You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.

McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.

Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.

You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.

Harry watched your retreating figure.

And the name stretched across your back.

Potter.

Something in his chest clenched painfully.

This—this was it.

As close as he would ever get.

The only way he would ever see you with his last name.

On the back of an old, worn jersey.

Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.

“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”

You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”

Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”

You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”

Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.

He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.

Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.

“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”

Harry froze. His stomach dropped.

“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”

“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.

You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”

Friend.

Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.

You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.

He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.

He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”

You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.

As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.

Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.

But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.

He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.

At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.

He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.

“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”

Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”

Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”

Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”

Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”

“You have bets?” Harry demanded.

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”

Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”

Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”

“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue.

And then closed it again.

Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”

Harry hesitated.

Just for a second.

Because part of him wanted to.

Merlin, he wanted to.

The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.

He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.

No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.

With every single fiber of his being.

With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.

And then—

Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”

That one landed wrong.

A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.

Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”

The boys burst out laughing.

Harry didn’t.

Because that was the worst part.

They weren’t wrong.

His jaw tightened.

Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.

“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”

Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”

That one felt like a punch to the ribs.

So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.

Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”

“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”

“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”

Harry paused at the bottom step.

He didn’t turn around.

Worst she can say is no.

But that wasn’t what terrified him.

What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.

Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.

You’d grow cautious.

You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.

You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.

And he would lose you.

Not just the possibility of you.

You.

His best friend.

The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.

And that—

That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.

The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.

Too soft for this hour.

He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”

The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.

“Hi.” You said quietly.

Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”

You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”

Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.

“And?” He asked gently.

“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.

His heart skipped.

“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”

Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”

You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.

The air shifted.

This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.

It wasn’t new.

But something about tonight felt different.

Harry swallowed.

For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—

Why not Ron’s bed?

Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?

The question burned at the back of his tongue.

But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.

The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.

You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”

“Good night.” He said quickly.

You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.

It took less than five minutes.

Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.

Like it belonged.

Harry stared up at the ceiling.

Wide awake.

Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.

You were so close.

So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.

And you slept.

Just like that.

No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.

Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.

That was what hurt.

You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.

He wanted to wrap an arm around you.

He wanted to pull you closer.

He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.

He wanted to ask why him.

Why always him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.

That should have been enough.

But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—

If you knew.

If you knew how badly he wanted you…

Would you still sleep this easily?

Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?

His throat tightened.

Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.

And Harry finally closed his eyes.

Not because he was calm.

But because it was easier than letting himself cry.

Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.

If he had at all.

Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.

Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.

You.

Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.

He released you at once.

And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.

He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.

But you didn’t.

You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly. Why would you?

A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.

“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.

Harry swallowed, “Morning.”

You didn’t jump away. You didn’t gasp. You didn’t even hesitate.

You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.

He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.

It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.

You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

You saw him as safe. Familiar. Harmless.

Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him. Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe. Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.

You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”

“Yeah.” He said automatically.

There it was again.

That warm, affectionate smile.

And then you were gone.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.

He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.

You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.

And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.

He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.

Valentine’s Day was a week away.

And he was running out of ways to survive this.

It started with the heat.

Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.

This was different.

This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.

You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.

Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.

Today, every touch felt like friction.

He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.

You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”

“Yeah.” He muttered.

He wasn’t.

He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.

You didn’t think about it.

You never thought about it.

By lunch, it had gotten worse.

The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.

Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.

Harry told himself it didn’t matter.

You laughed like that with everyone.

But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.

You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.

You tilted your head, “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t push. You never did.

And that made it worse.

Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.

The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.

By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.

You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”

“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”

You blinked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

He took the stairs two at a time.

You followed.

“Harry.”

He didn’t answer.

“Harry, wait.”

He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”

You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”

“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”

That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.

“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”

“Then what is it about?”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

He walked away.

But you didn’t let him.

You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.

By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

You followed.

Now it was just the two of you.

The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.

You shut the door gently behind you.

“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

He stared at everything else in the room but you.

At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.

He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.

Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.

You hesitated.

Then you reached for his hand.

The contact was gentle. Familiar.

It felt like static shock.

Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.

His entire body reacted before his mind did.

He jerked away.

“Just—stop it.”

Your hand froze midair.

“What?”

“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”

Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”

“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”

You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”

“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”

Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”

“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”

“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”

“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”

The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.

They echoed in the quiet room.

You stared at him.

“What are you talking about?” You whispered.

He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.

“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”

His voice wavered, but he pushed through.

“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”

His throat tightened.

“But I was wrong.”

You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”

“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”

And finally — finally — he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

“I love you.”

Silence swallowed the room.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”

His hands trembled at his sides.

“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."

His laugh was brittle.

“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”

His voice cracked.

“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”

Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.

“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”

The words nearly undid him.

“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”

The room felt too still.

Too tight.

He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.

The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.

It was a burn.

And it hurt.

Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.

That might have been easier to bear.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.

He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.

“I think you should go.” He said quietly.

Not angry.

Not cold.

Just… spent.

For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.

He didn’t.

He stepped back instead.

And that — that was what made your chest crack open.

You left without another word.

The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.

Everything sounded distant. Muffled.

You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.

By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.

The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.

You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.

Your heart was still racing.

Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.

I’m in love with you.

The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.

You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.

You’d thought you knew him.

But tonight had been different.

Tonight he had looked raw.

You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.

The confession replayed again.

And again.

And then—

You inhaled.

And froze.

That wasn’t your pillow.

You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.

Harry’s jumper.

Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.

You hadn’t meant to keep it.

It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.

He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.

Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.

You never gave it back.

Your throat tightened painfully.

Would you have to return it now?

The thought felt unbearable.

You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.

Your eyes landed on your nightstand.

The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.

Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.

A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.

Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.

You’d laughed.

You hadn’t asked why.

It was everywhere.

He was everywhere.

Not in grand, sweeping gestures.

Not in dramatic declarations.

But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.

Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.

There were dozens.

Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.

Not the gift.

You.

At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.

Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.

Longing.

How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?

Your vision blurred again.

You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.

You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.

Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.

And then—

You found it.

A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.

Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.

Be my Valentine?

The memory hit you all at once.

A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.

But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.

You had seen the signs.

Some quiet part of you had always known.

It’s been like this for years.

Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.

You always thought it was just that.

You and him. Best friends. A matched set.

Your chest tightens painfully.

The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.

The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.

This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.

It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.

You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.

You loved him.

Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.

And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.

You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.

At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.

You needed to know.

You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.

So you kept your distance.

And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.

He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.

He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.

It wasn’t cruel.

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t punishing you.

He was protecting himself.

Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.

You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.

It was restraint.

And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.

By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.

Harry hated it.

He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.

It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.

A miracle.

Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.

Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.

One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.

Harry remained behind.

He told himself he didn’t care.

He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.

But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.

Stupid, really.

He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.

And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.

He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.

The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.

He didn’t return it.

By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.

He pushed the door open.

And froze.

The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.

And there you were.

Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.

His second was fear.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.

“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”

His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.

“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.

You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.

“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.

He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”

The words hit you square in the chest.

“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.

You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.

He let you have the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were small when they finally left you.

And he felt his stomach drop.

There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.

His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.

“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”

“(Y/N), hold on.”

He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.

You stopped mid-breath.

Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.

Harry swallowed.

He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.

You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.

“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”

Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”

His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.

Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.

“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”

The room seemed to still entirely.

The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.

“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”

His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.

“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”

For a moment, he didn’t react at all.

It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.

You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.

He didn’t find it.

Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.

Reverently.

“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.

You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”

The words didn’t tremble this time.

They landed between you solid and undeniable.

Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.

“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.

Just awe.

Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.

“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”

For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.

Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.

His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.

Then he stepped forward.

Hesitantly.

Cautiously.

As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.

He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.

But you were real.

Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.

The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.

The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.

He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.

It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.

But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.

All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.

You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.

To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

@kaisupremecy

@ilovefictionallmenn

@aviwritessometimes

@devilslittlehelper

@notfckincreative

@workof-a-rr-t

@insideoutjulie

@tikitsune

@booklover2503

@whoreforfictionalmen18

@hzdhrtss

@noonasoul

@echolovesspidey

@potatoheartsyou

@chevelledahuman

@33shadowhunters

@goodvibesonlyxd

@maradcrs

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

@goldfishinpainttubes

@psh-pjh

@honethatty12

@imkindofanaudiogeeksorry

@lilians17

@its-jennarose

@h1mawarii

@lookalivesunshiiiine109

@ivygreenonbricks

@navs-bhat

@swiftlythejackson

@itznotsophia

@allielovesstars

@century13

@moremaple

@kissedbychaosxx

@thalibaby

@goldencherriess

@inkedinevermore

@imaginebeingmentallystable

@viridianblurr

@tiredslepz

@littlerabbitwithwings

@notts-moon

@linnygirl09

@jollykingdomturtle

@pariahsparadise

@mollyjunebugg

@fountainofbaella

[fear-less]

hiiii! i love your writing!

i was wondering if i could request a harry potter x reader, where they remind everyone of james and lily. just times where they're together and maybe the professors see them and start talking about how they're just like james and lily.

thank you!

🎐𓍼ֶָ֢⊹ ࣪ ˖ we would have been timeless I ⌗ pairing: harry potter x f!reader

ᝰ.ᐟ summary: everyone at Hogwarts saw it coming when you and Harry started dating. To most, you were just another sweet couple. but to the professors, you were a reminder of two people they had lost. In your smiles, your arguments, and the way you looked at each other, they saw echoes of James and Lily. not a repeat of the past, but a new beginning filled with hope.

⤑ warnings: super fluffy, mention of death (james and lily), tiny tiny bit of angst, and  snape being mean

It was no secret that you and Harry had been close since first year. From the moment you met on the train, there was a quiet, effortless understanding between the two of you. Something unspoken, but deeply rooted. So when word spread through Hogwarts that the two of you were officially dating, no one was surprised. If anything, most people just rolled their eyes and said, “Finally.”

To your classmates, you and Harry were just another lovey-dovey couple. Always sitting together in the common room, walking side by side to lessons, sharing inside jokes during meals. You laughed at each other’s bad moods, argued over homework, and looked at one another like there was nowhere else you’d rather be. To them, it was sweet. Predictable, even.

But to the professors, it was something different.

They saw ghosts.

It wasn’t that you and Harry were exactly like James and Lily. You weren’t. But there were echoes. Little moments that tugged at the past. Familiar smiles. The way Harry’s eyes lit up when you entered a room. The way you challenged him without hesitation, unafraid to meet his stubbornness with your own. You had Lily’s sharp wit, and Harry carried James’s quiet mischief, the kind that never quite faded, no matter how much war had aged him.

Once, during Transfiguration, when you leaned in to whisper something to Harry, McGonagall paused mid-lecture. Her eyes flicked to the two of you before she turned back to the board. Her expression had softened, just for a moment.

“They remind me so much of them,” she murmured to Professor Flitwick over tea in the staffroom. “It’s strange. Like watching history breathe.”

Flitwick nodded, his voice quiet and warm. “Only this time, they have a fighting chance.”

Sometimes it was the way you defended Harry without hesitation, stepping between him and Malfoy in the corridor, wand already raised, your voice sharp with fury. Other times, it was the way Harry looked at you after a Quidditch match, hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed with adrenaline, grinning like you were the only person in the world who mattered.

And then there were the times Sirius watched you both from the shadows of Grimmauld Place, arms folded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He would not say much at first. He would simply take another sip of firewhisky and stare into the fireplace. But if he was in a talkative mood, or if Remus happened to be there to coax it out of him, he would let the words slip.

“He looks at her the way James looked at Lily, near the end. When he finally figured it out. That it wasn’t about impressing her or chasing her or showing off. He just loved her. All of her. Even when she was furious with him.”

Sirius would pause then, running a hand through his tangled hair.

“And she’s got Lily’s spine too. Merlin help anyone who crosses Harry with her around.”

Once, when you and Harry were finally back at Grimmauld Place after a few weeks apart, Sirius caught you alone in the kitchen. You were making tea, humming a Muggle tune under your breath as the kettle whistled softly.

“He’s different with you,” Sirius said casually, though his voice carried something heavier beneath it. “Happier. Lighter.”

You turned to look at him, tilting your head.

“I try to make him laugh,” you replied.

Sirius smiled faintly, eyes shadowed with memory. “So did Lily.”

Not everyone found the resemblance endearing.

Snape, for example, did not find it charming.

In fact, he despised it.

He never said so directly, but there was a bitterness in the way he looked at the two of you, like he was watching something unfold all over again. Something that still made his stomach twist after all these years. He would cut Harry off mid-sentence in class, ignore your raised hand even when you were the only one who knew the answer, and dock points for reasons that barely made sense.

Once, in a particularly tense Potions lesson, Snape stopped behind your cauldron and sneered.

“Impressive work, Miss Y/L/N. Though I suppose when one’s only ambition is to follow Potter around like a lovesick puppy, one must find ways to stay relevant.”

Harry’s chair scraped back before he could stop himself.

“Don’t talk to her like that.”

Snape turned slowly, robes sweeping behind him, his gaze sharp and cold.

“Ten points from Gryffindor for backtalk. And another five for your delusion that the rules apply differently to you because of who your father was.”

You reached for Harry’s hand under the desk. He didn’t look away from Snape, but he calmed slightly when your fingers laced through his.

You didn’t know most of this, not really. You didn’t see the way McGonagall lingered at the window when you and Harry laughed on the lawn between classes. Or how Remus sometimes smiled sadly to himself when he saw the two of you curled up on the Gryffindor common room couch, your head resting on Harry’s shoulder while he gently played with your fingers.

But maybe, deep down, you felt it.

Because sometimes, when Harry looked at you, there was something in his eyes. Something soft and stunned and grateful, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

Once, late at night in the common room, when the fire had burned low and the castle had gone quiet, he asked you softly, “Do you think they’d like you?”

You looked up at him, brushing the hair from his forehead.

“I think they’d love me,” you whispered. “Especially your mum.”

He let out a quiet laugh, tired and fond, and pulled you closer.

Maybe, in that moment, the past didn’t hurt so much.

It was still there, lingering in quiet glances and old wounds that had never quite healed. It clung to the edges of the story, in the professors who had seen too much, in Sirius and Lupin, and even in Snape, buried deep within the coldest corners of his heart.

But there was something else now.

You. Him. A future.

And for the first time in a long time, that future looked like hope.

[blaghax]

The Green in the Golden Boy

Cedric Diggory x FemHufflepuffReader

Cedric Diggory was Hufflepuff’s house pride and joy - Prefect, Captain, Triwizard champion… A Golden Boy through and through. Y/N had both the luck and the misfortune to be his best friend whilst harboring a stupid secret crush. It was hopeless, really. Or, at least, it seemed so until he became awfully strange after she borrowed her Ravenclaw friend’s scarf. So, naturally, she tested it just a few more times.

wc: 5.3k ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ Helga, this must’ve been her stupidest act yet. She’d been lazing in her dorm, relishing in the fact that it was saturday and, thus, she could sleep in. That was, until time passed annoyingly quickly and she was about to miss out on breakfast - worse yet, she’d forgotten her scarf and boy did she need it. Teeth chattering, she pulled her robes over her mouth in a futile attempt at warmth. Unfortunately, the silk robes did nothing to barricade the onslaught of sharp breeze. Her ragged breath came out in small puffs, each one earning another muffled curse as she quickened her pace desperately. 

The castle itself did nothing to help. In fact, it seemed to be amusing itself in switching stairs and corridors. Truly, sometimes she thought it had a mind of its own and enjoyed annoying students. Or perhaps Dumbledore was somehow behind it? He did seem to have an odd sense of humor… No matter! Somehow attempting to tighten her robes closer still to her body, she turned a corner and saw the glorious doors of the Great Hall. By now, students were already filing out - another small reminder of her poor time management. Still, her posture eased as thousands of different foods mixed together into a characteristic breakfast scent that told her she’d made it in time. Her gait slowed slightly, a breath of relief escaping her even as her body showed anything but comfort. Each rough shiver that ran up her spine and toward the very base of her neck had eyes turning toward her - pitying. 

“You’re very forgetful, did you know that?”

Noah’s voice was honeyed and amused, as though he was taming a very vicious cat. Her hands tightened around herself, already irritated with the cold, she might as well have punched the man. “Sweet of you to notice.” She grumbled out, staring daggers at her idiot friend who was keeping her away from the Great Hall’s warmth. Noah merely chuckled in response, his lips curling up into a smile that stretched out just enough so that his dimples peeked out. 

“Yes, I’m very sweet. Did you sleep in again?” Even as he said it, his eyes did a little twitch and his smile widened, clearly satisfied with his own conclusion. 

Far too cold and hungry for pleasantries, she snapped back. “Very tough to deduce that. You truly are a Ravenclaw-” her phrase was interrupted only by a shiver running down her spine. “-now get to the point!”

“No need to bite my head off.” He tutted, but his smile was widening into a full-blown grin - he was clearly enjoying this exchange. Her eyes narrowed, lips turning downward into a frown he couldn’t possibly see over her robes. Noah had a particular knack for irritating her - it seemed to be a favorite pastime of his. And, truly, she was not in the mood. Still, as Noah unraveled the scarf from around his neck and extended it out to her she couldn’t help but forget all of her grievances.

The blue and bronze meshed perfectly well with Noah’s uniform - tie and gloves serving as a nice contrast to the black robes and signifying his house. She couldn’t care less how terribly it would clash with Hufflepuff’s yellow and black, as long as it’d ward away the freezing cold that was biting against her skin. “I was never, at any point of my life, angry at you.” She breathed out, swiftly grabbing the scarf as if it would have fled at any moment and wrapping it around her neck.

The fabric was snug and comfortable, doing wonders to stop her from having to breathe the minty-cold air. “You’re a saint.” As the warmth slowly spread across her face, her teeth stopped chattering and her eyes closed in relief. She could finally feel her face again. 

“Help me with Hagrid’s assignment and we’re even. Oh, and, by the way-” His eyes shifted over to the Great Hall, seemingly locking his gaze on someone there. As she turned curiously, however, he leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “Cedric’s been watching the entire time.”

“What?!” Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed beneath the soft wool. Once again, she tried to turn around, but she was stopped halfway by Noah’s hand on her arm. “Act cool, damn it. I’m going back to Ravenclaw Tower, don’t make it too obvious that you caught him staring. Or, rather, that I caught him because you have the awareness of a cashew.” Slowly, he retreated his hand. Noah’s gaze searched every trace of her expression as if waiting for her to do something dumb. She didn’t, however, and soon she could see his footsteps mixing with the various other students exiting the hall.

Taking a deep breath, she glanced back inside the Great Hall and toward the Hufflepuff table. There he was. Cedric was surrounded by friends chatting and laughing, but he wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t looking at them either. Noah was right - he had been looking at her. Her breath hitched and her fingers twitched, busying themselves with fiddling with the Ravenclaw scarf. Cedric was far away, she couldn’t make out his expression fully - why was he still staring? Her thumb brushed against the soft fabric, tracing circles as if trying to calm herself and prevent her blush from worsening - even if it was covered. Calm down. She’d been friends with him for a long time, she wasn’t about to let a single glance reveal her feelings. After what felt like terribly long, she saw as Cedric smiled and waved at her. Oh, Helga, she must look so stupid standing there.

Moving her scarf down, she gave him a slightly lopsided smile back and finally started to walk into the Great Hall. As she approached, she noticed that Cedric had saved her a spot. Her smile softened as she sat beside him, already scouring the table for breakfast. 

“I thought you wouldn’t come down for breakfast today” He mused, eyes still locked to the side of her head - or at least, she thought so. “I preferred not to starve.” Although she didn’t look at him, she could imagine his smile and the slight crinkle of his eyes that always had her melting. Although she desperately tried to pay attention to food-searching, the sound of sliding glass took her out of it. Eyes following the source, she found Cedric’s palm sliding a plate of her usual breakfast toward her. “I saved you some - just in case.” His tone was sweet but somehow… Restrained? Looking up at him, she saw that his eyes didn’t quite reach his smile. At that, her own smile dropped a bit, unsure what had happened to upset him. “Thank you…” She bit the inside of her cheek, uncertainly. “I’ve already told you that you don’t have to, though. I’m my own mess to deal with.” She attempted to lighten the mood slightly, raising her tone to a clear attempt at a joke at the last sentence. It didn’t seem to land.

“I told you I don’t mind.” His eyes lowered to the plate - porridge with cinnamon on top and strawberries to the side. “Why would I know your favorite breakfast and not save some for you?” Cedric’s tone was playful yet held a tint of tentativeness to it as his eyes trailed but up toward hers. 

For a moment, her mind shut down, as if she couldn’t physically elaborate a response to that. Of course he knew that it was her favorite - he’d given it to her many times before when she ran late. But… Still. Hearing him say it had her heart skipping a beat and her mind stumbling to form a coherent phrase.

“You forgot your scarf?” Her thoughts were interrupted and she still couldn’t quite come up with something to say. Cedric’s gaze had shifted toward her scarf and she unconsciously tugged it closer to herself. His eyes trailed to her hand and then back up to her eyes, still waiting for a response to something that was clearly a ‘yes’. “Uhm… Yeah. I was late so I didn’t really remember- Noah borrowed me his, though. That’s why I’m- uhm. Not wearing the Hufflepuff scarf.” She mentally cursed herself for stammering but Helga his gaze was intense.

Cedric nodded once, acknowledging the answer before tilting his head slightly to the side, smile still present but nonetheless far away. “That’s nice of him. I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you mine but remember to thank him for me.” His voice was a mix of between genuine and tense that she couldn’t quite decipher. “I- uh- yeah. Of course. But he just did it so I owed him a favor.” Her hands tightened around the scarf - it could’ve been Cedric’s. “At least you’re warm.” For the first time, it felt like his smile was whole - his eyes crinkling slightly and the sparkle of joy reaching his pupils. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ 

“Stop looking at me like that!” She groaned, leg shooting out to deliver a swift kick to Noah’s knee. 

He snorted, clearly unbothered. “I can’t. A rock’s smarter than you.”

The both of them were on the courtyard, the slightly orange hue of the sunset dimming around them and warning of the upcoming curfew. They were sitting on opposite benches, with her glaring at him and him raising his eyebrows amusedly. Exasperated, she dragged her hands over her face and crossed her legs trying to stabilize herself. “What do you mean? I’ve just told you he was acting strange and that he didn’t make sense at all! I mean- I’ve noticed, haven't I?”

“Good job, you picked up on basic human cues.” He stuck his tongue out childishly “You should’ve already figured out why he was acting that way.” 

Her hands rose indignantly to the air and she let out an annoyed huff. “How the hell am I supposed to know why his smile was slightly off?!” What did he think she was? A mind reader? Clairvoyant? Either way he was wrong and he should get that damn self-satisfied smirk off his face and spew already!

“Go through the story one more time.” He suggested, clearly toying with her by now. Taking a deep breath, she started on her third retelling - he could be infuriating but he was also his one ticket to knowing what happened. “After you left I looked for him. And you were right, he was looking but it was weird - he looked serious, somehow? Then I got there and he gave me the porridge but- I don’t know! His smile wasn’t like normal!” She raised her voice as if that would make her more understood. “And then he asked me if I forgot my scarf - like you did. But he didn’t annoy me half as much.” She finished, from then on Cedric had slowly returned to normal - so that didn’t need to be stated. 

“Right. But you already had a scarf by then, why did he ask that?” Noah mused out as if trying to get her to pry further but it simply earned him a deep, annoyed, sigh. “For the same reason you did? You already knew I forgot when I didn’t have a damn scarf and he already knew I forgot when I was wearing Ravenclaw’s.”

Noah shook his head in an unbothered but disbelieving attitude, his smile widening by the second. “Pretend to forget your scarf tomorrow, I’ll borrow you mine again.” 

“What? Why?” She stressed, the question leaving her lips in the same disbelieving tone his face held. Still, there was a tiny mix of confusion but dawning understanding that coated each word and slightly furrowed her eyebrows.

Noah’s dimples deepened as he opened his mouth to answer yet left her hanging for just a few seconds. “Because I want to see Pretty Boy Diggory lose his shit.”

The cogs turned in her brain, having already suspected his possible conclusion but now each idea clicking into place desperately and furiously. “Noah! You’re out of your mind! Cedric is not jealous.” She rose from her seat as if trying to make her words land harder and her intent clearer. Noah’s theory was batshit insane and he must’ve known that. Cedric was not jealous. “Test it, then.” He challenged, eyes narrowing as if daring her to retreat. To cower away. Like hell! Her hands tightened into fists, nails slightly digging into her palm as her mouth opened and closed, trying to respond. Her heartbeat quickened, doing little uncomfortable twirls it always did when she was around Cedric. Could he have been thinking of her that way? The way she’d always had? Her eyes almost blurred, struggling to catch up to her mind’s visions and real life. Could he?

“Alright, fine.” She finally said, tone tight as if it were a chore. When, truly, she enjoyed the idea far more than she’d let on to her arrogant friend. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ 

“I didn’t agree to this.” “Sure you did just… It was on the fine line.”

They were standing just before the threshold to the Great Hall. She wasn’t late this time - but she wasn’t right on time, either. Most students had already sat down at their tables - what if people actually looked at them? “Okay…” She drawled out, taking a deep breath to try and ground herself before walking forward. The instant they were inside Noah was laughing and bumping into her playfully, the buzzing of students surrounded them as they walked through the center of the tables. Noah was far more convincing than she was, but she still managed to laugh along and steal a few glances at him, even if her posture was terribly stiff. 

“Rowena, my lungs hurt. I can’t.” His laugh was loud, believable and almost turning into a wheeze. She was knocked off her balance just a few times as he leaned towards her with his usual wide smile and gently bumped her. She was sure that at least some gazes had turned to them, even if for a few seconds to acknowledge their loudness. It warmed her cheeks at the awkward attention. 

“Shut up. You’re exaggerating it.”  She giggled slightly, it seemed so incredibly fake to her ears. Even more so to her feelings. Still, Noah grinned ear-to-ear and shook his head affectionately before they stopped in the division between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. 

“What? No I’m not! That was amazing.” He exhaled and sharply inhaled back, as if his lungs truly were suffocating from laughter. She offered him her best attempt at a warm smile and slowly turned toward the familiar yellow-black of the badger house. Tap. Tap. Tap. Noah had softly tapped her shoulder. She turned back, slightly confused but he held a lopsided smile and his scarf outstretched. “You forgot your scarf again. Take it.”

Oh. Right. She nodded, took the scarf and wrapped it around her before waving him goodbye. Merlin, she’d never felt more fake in her life.  As she walked toward her table, she had to stifle coughs at each step - he’d sprayed an unholy amount of cologne. The fresh breath of citrus and cedarwood was invading her nostrils and she had to hold in a sneeze. Glancing over to Cedric, he was already watching her, empty seat beside him as usual.

She gulped down her nerves, seating next to him and offering him a smile quite unlike the one she’d given Noah. “Hey! I’m not late today. I deserve congratulations.” Her voice came out slightly shaky, but at the very least, she didn’t stutter. 

Cedric’s knuckles were white as he clutched his goblet of pumpkin juice. His smile seemed forced, the edges poking downward to reveal his true emotions. “You forgot your scarf again.” This time, it was a statement. It didn’t need an answer, but she did so anyway. “Yeah- I tried to refuse but Noah lended me his scarf again.” She cleared her throat, trying to keep going smoothly. “I just didn’t want to trouble him.” Cedric hummed, his grey orbs narrowing slightly at Noah’s name. “Did he-” He stopped and, for a moment, his nose scrunched - Noah’s disastrous cologne must have reached him. Inside her, it felt like her stomach bloomed with butterflies as Cedric’s jaw tightened - it bothered him. “Did he ask you to the Yule Ball?” The question hung in the air like a thread that slowly wrapped around her, trapping her in and keeping her silent.

The idea of going to the ball with Noah seemed utterly ludicrous but should she say that? If she did, it would ruin their ruse and she had barely got confirmation of Cedric’s jealousy. “Hmm–-mm? No.” She let out. Noah’s cologne was still suffocating and suddenly the Blue-Bronze scarf felt so, too.

“Really?” Cedric’s eyebrow rose and his lips finally turned down slightly. That, too, seemed to have offended him as his eyes landed on the Ravenclaw table and his fingers tightened even more. “Did you want him to?” His tone was almost demanding but it soon softened, even as his grip nonetheless remained lethal. “If you did, I could always talk to him.” Voice slightly strained, he still managed to smile. “He could be scared.” 

“No.” She said with finality to her word. Her gaze traveled to Noah for a fleeting moment then landed back on Cedric. “No, I didn’t.” 

She clocked how each of his muscles relaxed. How his hands softened around the cup and he took a sip from his pumpkin juice. “Alright, well…” His smile was much more genuine - it was sweet, bright and just… Cedric. “... Do you have anyone in mind, then?” She felt like he was studying her, eyes slowly traveling to her tiniest expressions as if trying to gauge her response through her body just as much as her words. “No… Uhm- Not yet.” Her face warmed under his stare. It warmed further still when he grinned that charming smile of his and spoke with that smooth, confident tone. “That’s alright. There’s still time.” ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ 

Hand tucked neatly under her pillow, she was, once again, delaying getting up and challenging time itself. Her clock had already whizzed to life two times by now, squeaking and jumping to life to try and get her to breakfast. Unfortunately for it, however, she felt particularly lazy and she had about 30 minutes until she had to get up in a hurry and run to herbology. Her mouth opened in an unwanted yawn and she stretched her hand over her head, fully down on her face and fake-attempting to get up, trying to trick her brain.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work and her clock rang once more with endless persistence. Groaning, she swung her hand and stopped it, if only momentarily. Now that she was face-up, however, the light was seeping through the windows and into her eyelids, turning them reddish and disturbing her sleep-prolonguing.

She slowly blinked awake, adjusting to the light and half-heartedly getting up. Her walk was slow and wobbly, still half-asleep as she opened the wardrobe. Her soft nightgown slipped past her as she changed into the uniform. Skirt. Shirt. Tie. Robe. It was almost instinctive at this point. So much so that her hand grabbed at her scarf, the wool soft to the touch as she placed it around her neck. Her scarf. Finally. Noah had attempted to convince her to continue with the experiment today - likely to his amusement - but she refused, thinking it’d be too much. She brushed her teeth, readied her hair, and was about to lay down for a few glorious minutes of extra resting until something caught her eye.

Another scarf. Hufflepuff’s, folded neatly across her desk with a small note poking out from between the fabric. Huh. It wasn’t one of hers - it seemed a bit too large for that. Could it be her from one of her roommates? She was pretty sure that one of them had complained about having ordered a size too large recently. But… Why would they place it on her nightstand? She peered at the door that was left slightly ajar as if that would answer her question.

When nothing magically popped to her head, she plopped herself sitting down on her bed, the soft mattress dipping under her weight as she slipped the note out. The handwriting was a pretty and detailed cursive, each dip and curve making her surer of who it was and poking a smile to her lips. 

‘Hey, you’ve been forgetting your scarf a bit more than usual lately so I thought I’d send a reminder. I hope it’s warm enough.’

Cedric. 

Turning the note over was a simple, small observation.

PS: I thought that was very cute, he gave it to me to deliver it to you and oh my he’s totally in love. 

Her roommate's writing was swirly with small hearts surrounding the word ‘love’ and she couldn’t help but melt a little. Carefully, as if it was a delicate object, she unfolded the scarf - it was normal in almost all ways except for a tiny ‘C.D.’ embroidered in the cloth. It was small enough where it might not be noticeable - she could even wear it the other way around so that it wouldn’t be too visible…

She could feel her heart accelerating as she slowly traced over the two letters. Cedric Diggory. Her lips felt a bit dry all of a sudden as she undid her own scarf and replaced it with his. It felt like a soft cushion around her neck. It smelled of pine and held a small sweet undertone of something that reminded her of vanilla. It smelled like him. Her legs almost buckled beneath her as her hands once more gently touched the C.D… The one she didn’t hide.

The cold wasn’t terrible in her room… That didn’t stop her from placing the warm scarf around her face and finding comfort in his cologne as she left the room and walked toward herbology.

The walk to herbology, for the first time in her life, felt heavenly. The scarf around her neck acted as a barrier for any angry thoughts at waking early she might have had. Besides, Cedric was in Herbology NEWTs, too. Her smile only deepened with each step she took, the scene around her blurring by as she passed with a pep to her step.

She was exactly on time, the bell had just rang signalling the start of classes as she walked through the doors. Instantly, she searched for him. Her gaze passed through each student and each plant - the greenhouse was covered in different kinds of flowers, each one more beautiful than the next. Her eyes stopped for a single second on a beautiful arrangement of sunflowers and pinkish-red tulips… Beautiful. Then finally found the neat brown hair and grey eyes of her best friend’s talking to professor Sprout. The professor had a soft smile to her face and nodded once before Cedric walked away, triumphant, and she returned to talking to the class.

“Today, we will learn about the different kinds of flowers - both magical and nonmagical - so that you can better understand how to grow them and some of their uses. Besides, with the Yule Ball approaching it might do you all some good.” Her tone was sweet and gentle as she talked, clearly excited for the event. 

Finally, Cedric returned to his seat and she slipped right beside him. When she met his eyes again, they held their typical sparkle and his slight head tilt had her swooning. It didn’t help that he had sat right in front of the sunflowers and tulips, either. “You saw my note?” Cedric murmured slightly over the animated whispering of happy students - both to the Yule Ball and to an easy class. “I did.” She swallowed the knot that had found its home in her throat. “Thank you. It was very thoughtful.” A hum escaped him, and he tilted his head the tiniest bit more. “I think of you a lot, so that’s no wonder. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ 

It had been a few days since she received that note. It had also been a few days since she’d last worn Noah’s scarf - thank Helga. Cedric hadn’t asked for his scarf back and she hadn’t volunteered it so… She’d sometimes use it to random classes simply for the comfort it brought. It also helped that Cedric just so happened to be in those classes and his eyes would drop down and soften each time he saw her wearing it. It was like an encouragement, really, and she wasn’t complaining.

Right now was one of the times where the snug fabric of Cedric’s scarf engulfed her. She was in her dorm room, staring at a mirror and doing tiny twirls in front of it. It wasn’t anything, really, but Cedric had asked if they could hang out during free period and she wanted to look good. Which… She did. 

Her hair looked stunning even as she stressed about tiny imperfections only she could see. Her clothes - though they were uniform - nonetheless always felt pretty to her. Furthermore, the accessories she placed - soft silver jewelry - only made her more beautiful. Still. She stressed, doing one more twirl before her clock buzzed to life and warned her that she really didn’t want to be late right now. Taking a deep breath, she walked away from the mirror and through the door. Cedric was already waiting.

Her steps faltered as she looked at him. He was at the bottom of the stairs, grey eyes gleaming under the soft common room light and a warm smile gracing his features as they locked gazes. Helga, get a grip. She thought, slowly making her way down the stairs until she was right in front of him. Like always, his gaze trailed down to her scarf and back to her. “I like it.” He hummed appreciatively. “You, with my scarf.” The words hung around them until he broke the silence, his eyes twinkling with something she couldn’t quite grasp. “It looks warm.”

“I like it too.” She offered, her smile slightly abashed as she looked down at the fabric and toyed with the ‘C.D.’ embroidery. 

“I was just hoping you could go to the greenhouse with me? Just to fetch a book I forgot there.” Lost in thought, she took a second to answer. “Oh- Of course. Let’s go.”

They slowly got into pace together, exiting through the barrels and walking up the stairs away from their room. At the very least, their common room was the closest to the greenhouses so they wouldn’t have a long trek to get there and lose a lot of their free period. 

“I really enjoyed Sprout’s last lesson. I really didn’t know how to care about most of those flowers - it’s really helpful.” Cedric said as they passed through the living armors that sprung into life to scare students and stand guard. 

It really was helpful. But, more than that - it was sweet that she thought to help students with it before the Yule Ball. “I thought it was very sweet of her - imagine how many couples got to give a nice surprise to each other.”

“Speaking of which, are you going to the ball with anyone?” Cedric asked, eyes glued to her and a smile still present in his face. Unconsciously, her hand gave a soft squeeze to the scarf around her neck. His scarf. “No. Not yet.” She answered and Cedric’s smile brightened visibly. Somewhere along the way, they had shifted closer so that, at times, they gently bumped into each other and tingles spread across her skin. Not in a bad way, though. Her thoughts voiced as she rubbed her shoulder when Cedric was a bit further ahead. Blades of grass were crushed beneath her feet as Cedric quickened his pace and she followed straight toward the greenhouses. House-Mascot shaped bushes, alive plants, pathways that shaped and morphed beneath their feet - they passed through everything without batting an eye. She, at least, was a bit too entranced in how he smelled of pine with a slight bit of vanilla. 

Glass doors and silver railings… It flew through her mind like a narration outside her body - they had arrived at the greenhouse, her mind just needed a second to catch up. 

“Here we are.” Cedric seemed a bit too enthusiastic for simply retrieving a book. “Come on in.”

As the doors swung open and they walked down the stairs, the greenhouse finally came into view. The whole of greenhouse 1 was dedicated to sunflowers and tulips, with a few four-leaved clovers peeking from beneath. Her mouth was left slightly ajar in pure awe. The hanging pots had them, the potted chandeliers that sometimes held chomping cabbages, every single space. 

She only recognized that Cedric had left her side when he appeared in her vision. He walked toward a chair where there was a bouquet and gently picked it up. Still awestruck, her eyes followed him but her feet stayed planted as she watched Cedric observe her reaction. It must have been good because he walked closer. 

“For you.” His voice echoed inside her mind as she took the bouquet, staring at each carefully arranged flower. “Oh, and…” She only just realized that he had been holding his wand,

“Lumos.” Each of the sunflowers seemed to respond to his command, snapping in a line and turning few bits of their brown center to spell out. ‘Go to the Yule Ball with me?’ before falling back into place. Her eyes locked with his and she could see his anticipation, his nervousness…

When words failed her, she ran forward, wrapping her arms around him in a sweet, but desperate embrace. Cedric answered in kind, burying his head in her hair and wrapping his own arms around her. 

“Is that a yes?” His voice was slightly muffled by their close contact. Her arms squeezed him once before she attempted to regain her words. “Yes.” She breathed out, still unwilling to part from the embrace. 

They stood in comfortable silence for what felt like minutes. The only indication that this truly was a reality was the soft scent from the flowers and Cedric’s breathing. With one, final, squeeze, she let go, staring up at him with an expression that must’ve spelled out adoration and affection. Luckily, his own matched hers and she still couldn’t believe what had happened. Silently, they walked back, her hand tracing the ‘C.D.’ on her scarf and his tentatively laid across her shoulders. 

She’d been so entirely absorbed in her own thoughts and replaying of the last couple of moments that she was only shaken back to reality when Cedric halted beside her. Her eyes slowly blinked back to reality, trying to find what happened.

Her eyebrows furrowed together when she found no commotion but Cedric’s hand tightened the tiniest bit around her shoulder before easing. Oh. Noah was there and his smirk was terribly conceited. She scowled at her friend for interrupting her bliss. As she stared beside her, Cedric’s expression wasn’t fully joyful as it had been moments before, but it was still smiling softly - it still reached his eyes. 

“Hey, Noah. Anything the matter?” Cedric asked smoothly. “No.” Noah shook his head and his smirk deepened. “Finally asked her out?” That clearly caught him off guard. His eyebrows furrowed a bit and his smile faltered confusedly as his eyes snapped toward her. Then, his smile softened and it was that clear, affectionate expression from just moments before. “Yeah... Finally.” "I was right." Noah hummed, staring straight into her soul and by Helga she wanted to punch and thank him at the same time.

[jijournal]

hii!! could i request oliver wood yule ball headcannons or a fic related to oliver asking reader to the yule ball?

THICKER THAN A BROOMSTICK | O.W

summary: Quidditch is brutal, but nothing compares to Oliver Wood’s hopeless attempts at flirting—too bad the only person who doesn’t realize he’s asking you to the Yule Ball is you.

wc: 2.1k+

cw: oblivious!reader, reader is on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, down bad Oliver.

A/N: Thanks for requesting!! MWA!

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

The Gryffindor locker room always smelled vaguely of sweat, leather, and a little too much pride. You were used to it by now—Quidditch came with its fair share of bruises and bad cologne. And Oliver Wood, your relentlessly intense captain, was the embodiment of both. He was also currently staring at you from across the room, looking at you as if you were a goddess.

“Okay, team! Good practice today!” he barked, a bit too loudly for someone whose voice cracked halfway through the sentence. “Except for you, Bell—next time, aim for the actual goalpost, not my nose.”

You stifled a laugh and sat down on the nearby bench. “In her defense,” you said, removing your glove with your teeth, “your nose was in the way.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Oliver muttered, mostly to himself. You were fairly certain he'd lost all his mental stability somewhere between the third and fourth practice this week.

“So,” he said suddenly, too casually to be natural, “let’s say—hypothetically—you were going to ask someone to the Yule Ball.”

You turned to him, instantly intrigued. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeated, nodding as if trying to convince himself. “What would be the best way to… do that?”

“Ooh. Okay. First of all, don’t use the word ‘hypothetically.’ That’s suspicious. And no stuttering. Confidence is key.”

“Right. Confidence...” He scratched the back of his neck, looking no where near confident.

“Ooooh,” you grinned, loosening your hair from your braid. “Got your eye on someone, Captain?”

Oliver looked like you’d just asked him to strip naked on the pitch. He rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning a Gryffindor-jersey shade of red.

“Well, yeah,” he mumbled, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “There’s this girl.”

You gasped, full of exaggerated excitement. “WHO?! Wait, let me guess—Ravenclaw? The one with the really long plaits?”

“No,” he said, smiling slightly, “she plays Quidditch.”

“Ooh,” you said again, wriggling your brows. “Well, you should totally ask her!”

“I’m trying,” he deadpanned. And you just patted his shoulder encouragingly.

“Don’t be nervous! Just go up to her and say, ‘Oi, you. You’re hot. Dance with me.’ Works like a charm.”

Oliver blinked at you.

You blinked back.

“Don’t worry!” you chirped. “You’ll figure it out. I believe in you.”

And then you walked off humming the Weird Sisters’ latest hit, not noticing how Oliver dropped his forehead against the cupboard behind him with a muffled groan.

The thing was, Oliver Wood was not a subtle man. Subtlety was for people who didn’t run 7 a.m. drills and shout “THIS IS WHAT WINNERS DO” while dangling off a broomstick.

But around you? He tried. Really.

You just… didn’t get it.

There was a time where Oliver wordlessly tossed you a small box. It was square, wrapped in crinkled gold paper with an overly dramatic red bow. One of his main attempts on asking you to the Yule Ball.

You blinked at it. “Um. What’s this?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking like he might physically combust. “Just… thought you’d like it.”

You opened it carefully—and gasped.

Inside was a charm bracelet. But not just any charm bracelet. The little pendants were Quidditch-themed—a broomstick, a tiny Gryffindor lion, a chocolate frog, and most tellingly, a miniature golden Yule Ball ticket.

You picked it up, charmed. “Oliver. This is adorable. Did Angelina make this?”

His mouth dropped open slightly. “What? No! I—I spent all week on that—”

“Aww. You should really sell these,” you said, slipping it on your wrist with a grin. “You’ve got such a good eye for girly stuff!”

He groaned and put his head in his hands.

Or, the time when he “accidentally” bumped into you outside Charms, dropping an entire bouquet of enchanted daffodils from his bag, then spent ten minutes trying to explain why his textbooks smelled like a greenhouse.

“Oh, is that for that girl you like?” you’d asked cheerily, nudging his side. “You’re really going all out!”

He gave a weak laugh. “Apparently not enough.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Later that week, he tried again. You were in the library, of all places, tucked between Quidditch Through the Ages and a half-eaten Chocolate Frog. Your brow was furrowed, tongue poking slightly out of your mouth as you annotated a diagram of broomstick aerodynamics like it was the most thrilling thing on earth.

He slid into the chair next to you, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hey. Been thinking about the Yule Ball.”

You didn’t look up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing. “Still… haven’t asked anyone.”

You finally turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Oliver, you’ve been talking about this mystery girl for like a week now. Just ask her.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder!” you grinned, nudging his side. “Be romantic. Write a letter or something.”

The idea struck him like a Bludger. That night, he scribbled down a note on parchment, messy but sincere:

You’re brilliant. I like you. You’re the best flier I know and possibly the only person who scares me in a good way. Would you go to the Yule Ball with me? —Someone Who Should Really Just Say This Out Loud

He slipped it into your bag the next morning.

By dinner, you were holding it up like it was cursed. You’d read it three times and then loudly declared, “Okay, who wrote this?” you demanded, waving it at the table. “This has to be a prank, right? Angelina?”

Everyone shook their heads.

A prank?! What in Godric's beard? She thought it was a prank!

You turned to Oliver. “Was it you? This sounds like something you’d write if someone held you at wandpoint.”

His face burned. “Wow. Thanks. No, it wasn’t me.”

“Pity. The part about being scared of me was kind of hot.”

He choked on his pumpkin juice.

A few days later, you were helping him clean up after practice—well, “helping” in the loosest possible sense, mostly tossing broken broom bristles into a pile while he sorted spare Quaffles. You were humming to yourself, twirling your wand, and he watched you for a moment, heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to leave without him.

“I’ve got a question for you,” he said, clearly working up the nerve.

“Shoot.”

“Are you a snitch?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

You blinked at him. “Because I’m fast?”

“Because I’ve been chasing you all year.”

Silence.

You squinted. “Oliver. You're not even a seeker. And was that a pick-up line?”

He groaned, tossing a Quaffle into a crate like it had personally offended him. “Forget it.”

“No, no! I’m using that. That’s going in the Hall of Fame. I’m going to try it on McLaggen.”

“Please don’t.”

By the time the Yule Ball list was due, Oliver had tried everything—letters, awkward compliments, late-night “hypothetical” questions. He’d even brought you a Butterbeer after practice once, charmed so the foam spelled your name. You drank it and said, “Aww, thanks! This must’ve been meant for someone else, but lucky me!”

He had never been closer to quitting Quidditch and fleeing to Romania.

And now, now, you were sitting beside him in the common room, still in your post-practice jersey, hair windblown and socks mismatched, talking about the Yule Ball again like it wasn’t currently eating him alive from the inside out.

You threw a cushion at his face. “Come on! Just tell me who she is already.”

He caught the cushion, clutched it to his chest like it might prevent him from exploding. “She’s… she’s this girl who drives me insane.”

“Cute,” you said, absently braiding a strand of your hair. “Go on.”

“She talks too much. Never takes anything seriously. She flies like she was born with wings. She’s always got mud on her socks and she never notices when someone’s obviously trying to ask her to the damn Yule Ball.”

You blinked. “Oh. She sounds… vaguely familiar.”

“Yeah?” Oliver said, finally standing up, pacing now. “She should. Because she’s YOU. IT’S YOU! I’M TALKING ABOUT YOU.”

You stared. The common room went very still. Even the fireplace seemed to freeze.

“…Me?”

“YES, YOU.” He flung the cushion back at you. “I’ve been trying to ask you for weeks. The bracelet? The daffodils? The letter? The Butterbeer? The way I keep saying I fancy a girl who plays Quidditch right next to you?!”

You held the cushion in your lap, blinking at him in slow, stunned horror. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Wait. Soooo you like me?”

Oliver groaned so loud it probably woke up the Fat Lady two portraits over. “YES. Godric's beard, YES. I like you. I have liked you since the first time you swore at me for calling extra practice on a Saturday.”

You looked at him—red in the face, fists clenched, somehow adorable even in his panic—and then started laughing. Hard.

“Wait—wait, hang on,” you wheezed, standing. “You mean to tell me this whole time you were trying to flirt with me, and I was just—completely missing it?”

Oliver looked at you like you’d just confirmed his most traumatic suspicion. “YES.”

You giggled again, stepping forward. “Well, I am a bit thick, apparently.”

“No argument here.”

You smacked his arm. Then, a little softer, “So… is the offer still on the table?”

“I—yes!” Oliver stammered, practically tripping over his own breath. “Of course, yes. I mean—unless you're joking, in which case—bloody hell—I’m going to pretend I didn’t just have a minor cardiac episode—”

His words were frantic, uneven, like they’d been building for weeks and had nowhere else to go but out.

And still, somehow, he thought he might be dreaming.

You didn’t say anything. You just stepped forward, grabbed a fistful of his collar, and tugged him down to your height—firm, deliberate, like you’d been meaning to do it for a long time.

“Wood,” you said simply.

He blinked. You were close enough now to see the scatter of freckles over the bridge of his nose. His breath caught in his throat.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear, just enough for him to feel the words.

“You talk too much.”

And then, before he could speak again—or overthink it, or panic, or launch into another charmingly idiotic monologue—you kissed him.

It wasn’t perfect. Not at first. His lips were warm, and the tip of your nose bumped clumsily into his. You nearly laughed into his mouth. Someone, somewhere across the common room, definitely let out a scandalized whistle.

But none of that mattered.

Because the second Oliver got over the shock—the second his brain caught up with the fact that this was real, that you were kissing him—his hands found your waist like they’d been trying to solve that equation for weeks. He pulled you closer, carefully but without hesitation, like he never wanted to let go again.

When you pulled away, his eyes were still half-closed, lips parted slightly like he wasn’t entirely convinced it was over.

“I…” he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. “I wasn’t ready for that.”

You folded your arms across your chest, trying to act casual even though your heart was beating faster than a Zouwu “Clearly. You froze like I casted a Full Body-Bind Curse"

He let out a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You kissed me.”

You raised an eyebrow, shifting your weight onto one leg. “Don’t sound so offended. I thought you liked me.”

“I do like you!” Oliver said, exasperated, throwing his hands up again. “That’s the whole problem! You’ve got me all twisted up, can’t think straight half the time you’re around—Merlin, I planned seven different ways to ask you to the Ball and none of them included getting kissed into silence.”

You grinned, watching him unravel like the sleeves of your old team jumper. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He huffed. “You’re ridiculous. You know that?”

You plopped down on the couch again, tugging him by the hand until he flopped beside you like a man defeated. “And yet. You still like me.”

He nudged your leg with his. “So. We’re going to the Yule Ball together?”

You turned your head to look at him—really look at him, flushed and glowing from the firelight, jersey wrinkled, hair messy, and smiled like someone who’d just won a championship.

“Yes” you said softly. “We are.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

Oliver laughed and let his head fall against the back of the couch. “Good. I was starting to think you didn’t like me back.”

You smiled, "That would be impossible"

And just like that, Oliver Wood—star Keeper, hopeless romantic, and newly confessed disaster of a crush—beamed at you like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup.

(And maybe, just maybe, he had.)

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

poor timing

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x Reader

Word Count: 14k

Summary: How is Cedric meant to ask you out on a date when he keeps getting interrupted by your tornado of siblings?

A/N: This was way longer than I expected it to be

Growing up a Weasley meant you always had someone looking out for you.

It also meant you always had to look out for your family.

When you were very little, you didn’t remember being spoiled the way your brothers claimed you had been. That must have happened when you were still a baby—when your mother finally held her long-awaited daughter in her arms after three boys.

But only a year later, she was blessed again with twins. And suddenly, there were two more mouths to feed, two more babies to soothe, two more crying voices in a house that already never seemed to quiet down.

It wasn’t surprising that somewhere in all that chaos, you slipped through the cracks.

Not completely. Never completely.

Your parents loved you—of course they did. You never doubted that. But love, you would come to learn, didn’t always mean attention. And attention was something that had to be divided carefully in a family as large as yours.

But you didn’t grow up alone.

Not really.

Because where your parents were stretched thin, your brothers filled in the gaps.

Bill. Charlie. Percy.

But especially Charlie.

Charlie had been the one to carry you around the Burrow as if you weighed nothing, settling you on his hip while he did chores, letting you tug at his hair as he laughed and pretended to complain. He was the one who taught you how to climb trees, who patched up your scraped knees, who tied your shoelaces, who read to you when your mother was too tired to finish the story herself.

He liked to joke that you were more his child than your parents’, considering how much he had done to raise you.

So when Charlie first left for Hogwarts, leaving you home with Percy as the only older sibling, you cried.

And cried.

And cried.

For weeks.

Both Charlie and Bill had to send you letters almost every day just to soothe you, but even then you still missed them terribly.

And then the day came when you were old enough to join them.

The platform was loud in the way only Platform Nine and Three-Quarters could be, full of overlapping voices and rushing footsteps and the sharp whistle of the train cutting through it all. Trunks rattled over uneven stone, owls hooted impatiently from their cages, and somewhere behind you, your mother was still fussing over whether you had packed enough socks.

It was overwhelming, but not in a bad way—not yet. Not when you were surrounded on all sides by your family, by the familiar press of bodies and voices that had always meant safety. You stayed close to your brothers, close enough that your sleeve brushed Charlie’s every few steps, just in case.

“Alright,” Bill said at last, sliding open the door to an empty compartment with an ease that made it seem like he’d done it a hundred times before, “In you go.”

Before you could protest, Percy was already lifting your trunk onto the rack with careful precision, muttering something under his breath about proper placement and weight distribution, while Bill adjusted your smaller bags so they sat neatly in the corner.

Charlie nudged your shoulder gently, guiding you inside, but you lingered near the doorway for a moment instead of sitting, suddenly unsure of what to do with yourself now that everything had become real.

You watched as Bill brushed his hands together in satisfaction and Percy gave a small, approving nod, as though everything was exactly as it should be.

You hovered in the doorway instead.

“…Can’t I just come with you?” You asked, quieter than you meant to, your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the compartment door.

Bill glanced at Percy, then back at you, and something in his expression softened immediately. He reached out without hesitation, ruffling your hair in a way that was more fond than teasing, even if it left a few strands sticking up at odd angles.

“If you stick with us like that,” He said gently, “you’ll never make your own friends.”

You frowned faintly, not quite convinced, your gaze dropping for a second before flicking back up.

“It’s only for the ride,” Percy added, adjusting his sleeves as he straightened, already half-turned toward the corridor, “We'll meet you back at the castle.”

They lingered only a moment longer before stepping back into the corridor, already being pulled away by the movement of students and the rising noise as departure drew closer. You moved to follow them instinctively, your body shifting forward before you caught yourself at the doorway, fingers curling slightly against the frame as their voices faded into the general hum.

Charlie hadn’t left.

He stood just outside the compartment, watching you in that quiet, knowing way of his, like he could see straight through the brave face you were trying to hold together. For a moment, neither of you spoke, and then something in his expression shifted—something softer, more certain—as he stepped back inside and slid the door shut behind him, shutting out the corridor noise just enough to make the space feel smaller, steadier.

“I’ll be right down the train,” He said, nodding toward the direction Bill and Percy had gone, “Third compartment on the left, I think.”

“If you get lonely,” He continued, crouching slightly so he was closer to your eye level, his voice lowering just enough to feel like it was meant only for you, “or if anything happens—anything at all—you come find me. Yeah?”

You nodded, the tight feeling in your chest easing just a little.

“Alright.” You murmured.

Charlie smiled then, softer than before, and leaned forward to press a quick kiss to the top of your head. It was such a familiar gesture that it grounded you instantly, made everything feel just a little less uncertain, a little less overwhelming.

“See you in a bit.” He said.

And then he was gone too.

The door slid shut behind him with a soft click, and just like that, the noise of the corridor dulled into something distant, muffled by the glass and wood of the compartment. For a moment, you just stood there, staring at the empty seat across from you, listening to the low rumble of the train as it finally began to move.

It felt strange, suddenly.

Too quiet.

You sat down slowly, smoothing your hands over your skirt more out of habit than anything else, your gaze drifting toward the window as the platform began to slip away. Families waved from outside, figures blurring together as the train picked up speed, and for a brief second, you caught sight of your mother’s bright hair among the crowd before it disappeared entirely.

Students passed by in groups, laughing and talking, already settled into friendships you hadn’t had the chance to form yet, their voices carrying faintly through the compartment door. Every now and then, someone would glance in, hesitate, and then move on.

For a moment, you considered getting up.

Going after Charlie.

He said you could.

But Bill’s words lingered, stubborn and unshakable.

You’ll never make your own friends.

You were still turning that thought over in your mind when the compartment door slid open.

You looked up quickly, your attention snapping toward the sound as a boy about your age stood in the doorway, one hand still resting on the handle as he glanced around the compartment.

“Is this seat taken?” He asked.

You shook your head almost immediately. “No—no, it’s not.”

“Good,” He said with a small, easy smile, stepping inside and sliding the door shut behind him before taking the seat across from you, “Every other compartment seems to be full already.”

You nodded, your fingers curling slightly in your lap as you tried to think of something else to say, aware of that familiar flicker of uncertainty beginning to creep in at the edges. For a moment, the silence stretched just a little too long—

Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his arms against his knees, closing the distance just enough to make it feel less awkward instead of more.

“I’m Cedric." He offered.

You gave your name in return, a little quieter at first, but steadier than you expected, and something in his expression brightened slightly, like he was pleased you’d said it.

“First year?” He asked.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips, “You too?”

“Yeah.” He glanced out the window briefly before looking back at you, “Do you know what house you want to be in?”

You hesitated, then shrugged lightly. “My brothers are all in Gryffindor,” You said, as if that explained anything at all, “So… maybe that one.”

Cedric huffed a quiet laugh at that, not unkind, just amused. “My dad was in Hufflepuff,” He said, “So I think I’ll probably end up there. Though—” his mouth tilted slightly as he glanced at you again, “—Gryffindor doesn’t sound too bad now.”

Whether he meant anything by it or not didn’t really matter.

You felt warmth creep up your face anyway.

The conversation came easier after that, settling into something simple and steady. You talked about classes you thought might be interesting—Transfiguration, maybe, or Charms—and the ones you were a little nervous about.

He admitted he wasn’t sure how he felt about Potions, and you told him you thought it sounded exciting, though your brothers had warned you about the professor being a troll. You weren’t entirely sure if they meant that literally or not, and the way Cedric laughed at that—genuine and a little surprised—made something in your chest loosen.

At some point, he excused himself briefly, returning a few minutes later with snacks in hand, setting a Chocolate Frog carefully on the seat between you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“For you.” He said simply.

You blinked at it, a little startled, “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” He replied with a small shrug, “I wanted to.”

There wasn’t anything grand about it, no expectation behind the gesture, and somehow that made it easier to accept.

“Thank you.” You said, a small smile forming as you picked it up.

You opened the box carefully, peeling back the flap and catching the chocolate frog just before it could leap free, your attention shifting to the card tucked inside. Cedric leaned forward slightly, curiosity lighting his expression.

“Who’d you get?” He asked.

You glanced down at it, then back up at him, “Merlin.”

You looked back at the card, then held it out toward him without much thought, “Do you want it?”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard, “What? No—are you sure? You should keep it.”

You shrugged lightly, a small, easy motion, “You seem way more interested in it than I am.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, before slowly reaching out and taking the card, something softer settling into his expression.

“Thanks.” He said, quieter this time.

By the time the train finally slowed, the sky had already begun to darken, the last traces of daylight fading into something softer, quieter, as students poured out onto the platform in a rush of movement and chatter. You stayed close to Cedric as you stepped down, not quite thinking about it, just following the steady presence beside you as a large voice called out for first years to gather.

The boat ride felt like something out of a story.

Lantern light flickered against the dark surface of the lake, reflecting in ripples as the small boats carried you across the water, the castle rising ahead of you in a way that made your breath catch without meaning to. It was enormous—far bigger than anything your brothers had ever managed to describe properly—and for a moment, everything else fell away.

You barely noticed how close you and Cedric were sitting until your shoulder brushed his again, the same way it had with Charlie earlier, only this time it didn’t feel like something you needed for reassurance.

Neither of you said much, but you didn’t really need to.

By the time you reached the castle, the noise returned all at once—footsteps echoing through stone corridors, voices bouncing off high ceilings, the shuffle of robes and the occasional nervous laugh breaking through the tension. You followed the line of students into the Great Hall, your gaze lifting almost immediately to the enchanted ceiling above, stars scattered across it like something impossibly real.

It was beautiful.

And overwhelming.

You barely had time to take it all in before the sorting began.

Names were called one by one, each student stepping forward to sit on the stool as the hat decided their place, the hall erupting into cheers with every announcement.

You stood among them, hands clasped tightly together, your attention flickering between the sorting stool and the tables, searching instinctively for familiar faces. It didn’t take long to find them—Bill sitting tall and relaxed, Percy already watching with keen focus, and Charlie leaning forward slightly, his attention fixed on you, giving you a little wave and a thumbs up when you caught his gaze.

You found yourself watching more than listening, your attention drifting until—

"Cedric Diggory."

Cedric stepped forward, looking just a little more serious than he had on the train, though there was still something steady about him, something calm as he sat on the stool and the hat was placed on his head. For a brief second, the hall went quiet.

Then—

“Hufflepuff!”

The table to your right erupted into applause, loud and warm, and you felt yourself smiling without thinking, clapping along as Cedric pulled the hat off and stood. He glanced toward the crowd as he stepped down, scanning faces quickly—

And then he found you.

He smiled, bright and easy, lifting his hand in a small wave in your direction, like it was the most natural thing in the world to look for you in a room full of people.

You smiled back, returning the gesture without hesitation, something light settling in your chest.

Then he turned, heading toward his table, swallowed up by the group that welcomed him in.

The ceremony continued.

Until—

Your name.

It rang out across the hall, louder than you expected, and for a second, everything inside you seemed to go very, very still.

The walk to the stool felt longer than it should have, your footsteps echoing faintly in your ears as you climbed up and sat down, your hands curling slightly into the fabric of your robes. The hat was placed over your head, slipping down just enough to shadow your vision, and for a second, there was nothing but darkness and the sound of your own heartbeat.

It didn’t take long.

“Gryffindor!”

The word echoed, followed immediately by a burst of cheers from the table to your left, loud and familiar and impossible to mistake.

Relief hit you first.

Then something warmer.

You barely had time to take the hat off before you were being pulled forward, laughter and voices overlapping as you reached the table.

“There she is!”

“About time!”

“Another one for Gryffindor—brilliant!”

Percy clapped for you as you joined the table, patting your shoulder with pride, Bill ruffled your hair before pressing a quick peck to the top of your head and Charlie enveloped you into a tight hug. You laughed, a little breathless, the sound spilling out of you before you could stop it as they crowded around you, hands on your shoulders, your back, your hair—solid, familiar, overwhelming in the best way.

You settled into your seat, still adjusting to the new rhythm of the hall. Plates of food appeared with little fanfare, but everything seemed bigger, brighter, and somehow both familiar and completely new at the same time.

You barely noticed when a familiar blond head turned toward the Gryffindor table again—Cedric, scanning for a glimpse of you before diving into his own group. You caught his eye just long enough to exchange a quick, almost shy smile.

You were just leaving the Great Hall on your way to class when you heard your name.

You slowed slightly, glancing over your shoulder just as someone stepped out of the stream of students moving past you.

Cedric Diggory.

You recognized him immediately, of course. You always did. Not because you sought him out, but because he was noticeable. There was hardly a girl in Hogwarts that didn't know of the Golden Boy Cedric Diggory.

You knew him, in the way that came from shared moments rather than shared time—train rides years ago, the occasional passing conversation, a familiarity that never quite developed into friendship but lingered comfortably in between.

He offered you a small, polite smile when you stopped.

“Hi.” He said when he reached you, slowing his pace to match yours as the two of you fell into step almost without thinking.

“Hi,” You returned, a small flicker of curiosity settling in as you glanced at him, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah—yeah, I just…” He huffed a quiet breath, one hand lifting briefly to the back of his neck in a gesture that almost looked like nerves, though it didn’t quite fit him.

“I was wondering if you’d—well, if you needed a partner for Herbology. Professor Sprout mentioned we’d be pairing up for the next assignment, and I thought…” He trailed off slightly, then smiled, a little more certain this time, “I thought I’d ask before it got chaotic.”

For a second, you just looked at him.

Not because the question was strange—it wasn’t—but because it caught you slightly off guard. You weren’t usually the person people sought out first, not for things like that, and there was something about the way he asked—straightforward, but careful—that made it difficult to respond immediately.

“I—um,” You started, the beginning of an answer forming—

And then you heard it.

Your name.

Again.

This time, it was not calm or measured or easy to miss.

It was strained, uneven, pulled tight with something dangerously close to panic.

You turned instinctively, your attention snapping toward the sound just in time to see Ron pushing his way through the corridor toward you, his face red, eyes glassy, shoulders tense like he was barely holding himself together.

He didn’t even slow down when he reached you—didn’t say anything at all, really—just collided into you with enough force to make you take a half-step back as his arms wrapped around you, his face burying itself into your shoulder.

And then he broke.

Not quietly, not subtly—full, shaking sobs that made his grip tighten as if letting go wasn’t an option.

Any trace of hesitation vanished instantly.

Your entire focus shifted without a second thought, your arms coming up around him automatically as you steadied him, one hand moving to the back of his head in a familiar, grounding gesture.

“Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” You asked softly, your voice dropping into something calmer, gentler, the kind of tone you’d used a hundred times before without even realizing it.

He tried to answer.

“I—she—she sent—” He tried, his voice thick and uneven.

Your brow furrowed slightly, “Slow down, I can’t understand you.”

“A—Howler—” He finally managed, the word coming out in a miserable wail.

And then it clicked.

Of course.

Despite yourself, you glanced up briefly, meeting Cedric’s gaze for just a second, and there was something shared there—understanding, a flicker of quiet amusement that neither of you voiced but both clearly felt.

You looked back down at Ron, your expression softening again as you reached up to wipe at his cheeks, brushing away tears that didn’t seem to stop coming.

“Well,” You said gently, not unkindly, “you did steal and then wreck our car. I don’t think you could’ve expected to get off with only a warning.”

That did not help.

If anything, it made him cling tighter, his voice muffled as he groaned into your shoulder, mortified all over again.

“She didn’t have to do it in front of everyone,” He mumbled, the words thick and miserable, “It was so humiliating—everyone was looking at me—”

“I know,” You murmured, softer this time, shifting slightly so you could look at him properly, your hands steady as you wiped the rest of his tears away with your thumbs. “I know. That part wasn’t very nice.”

He sniffed, shoulders still trembling, but the worst of it seemed to be passing now, the sharp edge of it dulling into something more manageable under the familiarity of your voice, your presence.

You hesitated for half a second, then smiled just a little.

“Come on,” You said, tilting your head toward the corridor, “Let’s go to the kitchens. I think you deserve something after that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, still blotchy and miserable, but already softening at the suggestion.

“Okay.” He muttered, nodding slightly.

You gave his shoulder a small squeeze before straightening, your hand lingering briefly at the back of his arm. Then, as you turned to leave with him, you glanced back at Cedric, your expression apologetic as you mouthed a silent sorry.

He just shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in quiet amusement, like he had expected something along these lines from the moment your brother appeared.

“It’s fine,” He said lightly, though you were already half-turned away, “We’ll figure it out later.”

Professor Sprout, in the end, did assign partners.

Efficiently, without hesitation, and with absolutely no regard for any quiet arrangements that might have been attempted beforehand. By the time you arrived for the lesson, names were already being called, pairs already being formed, and whatever Cedric had been hoping for dissolved into something unspoken and irrelevant before either of you had the chance to bring it up again.

You ended up with someone from your house—pleasant enough, focused, not particularly talkative—and the lesson passed without incident.

Still, you noticed.

Not in any obvious way, not in a way that lingered too long, but just enough to register the brief glance Cedric gave you from across the greenhouse when the pairings were announced, the small, almost amused exhale that followed before he turned his attention back to his own partner.

It wasn’t disappointment, exactly.

Just something that could have been something else.

And then it passed.

Or at least, it should have.

A few days later, you found yourself alone again—or as alone as one could be in a castle like Hogwarts—standing just outside one of the quieter corridors near the courtyard, adjusting the strap of your bag as you mentally sorted through the next part of your day.

The air was cooler there, the noise of passing students softened by distance, and for a moment, it felt like a pause between everything else.

“Hey.”

Cedric stood a few steps away, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, his expression easy but just slightly more deliberate than usual, like he had made the decision to be there rather than simply ending up there by chance.

“Hi.” You said, a hint of recognition slipping into your tone now, something warmer than before.

He stepped a little closer, glancing briefly down the corridor before looking back at you. “I was going to ask—” He started, then paused, as if reconsidering his wording, “Did you understand the last bit of the Transfiguration homework? The part about switching incantations mid-cast. I was looking over it earlier and—”

It was a better excuse this time.

Though you were questioning why Golden Boy was asking you instead of literally anyone else. It wasn't like he had a shortage of people who were willing to give an arm and a leg to help him.

You opened your mouth to answer, already shifting into the conversation—

And then—

"(Y/N)!"

The voice was sharp, urgent, and far too familiar.

You turned immediately, your attention snapping toward the sound just as Ginny appeared at the end of the corridor, her steps quick and uneven, her expression caught somewhere between panic and embarrassment in a way that made your stomach drop before she even reached you.

With her bright red hair half-falling loose from its tie, her Gryffindor robes swaying around her, and the deep flush spreading across her face, she looked—rather unhelpfully—like a blur of red rushing straight toward you.

She didn’t slow down.

“Can I talk to you?” She blurted the second she was close enough, her voice lowered but no less frantic for it, her hands hovering awkwardly at her sides like she didn’t know what to do with them.

You didn’t even think about it.

“Of course,” You said instantly, your tone shifting the same way it always did, steady and grounding as you stepped toward her, your focus narrowing completely, “What’s wrong?”

Ginny glanced briefly past you—just enough to notice Cedric standing there—before leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that still carried urgency, "In private."

Your eyes racked over her body before they landed on the jacket that she had tied around her waist.

“Oh.” You said softly, not startled, not alarmed—just calm. Understanding. Immediate.

Ginny’s hands clenched slightly at the fabric of her sleeves. “I didn’t know—it just—I don’t know what to do.” She rushed out, her words tumbling over each other now that she’d started, the embarrassment catching up with her all at once.

“It’s okay,” You said quickly, reaching out to steady her, your voice lowering just enough to keep it between the two of you, “It’s alright, Gin. It happens.”

She shook her head, mortified, "A boy from Ravenclaw saw—I'm so embarrassed."

“I’ve got you,” You interrupted gently, already guiding her to turn slightly, positioning yourself just enough to shield her from the open corridor without making it obvious, “Don’t worry about it, okay? We’ll fix it.”

Behind you, Cedric hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t interrupted.

But you were aware of him in that distant way you became aware of anything you had to leave unfinished, the conversation that had barely begun already slipping out of reach.

You glanced back at him briefly, just enough to catch his eye, your expression apologetic in a way that felt almost familiar now.

He didn’t even look surprised.

If anything, there was something faintly amused in the way he exhaled, the smallest shake of his head following like he’d already accepted how this was going to go.

“Go,” He said lightly, one corner of his mouth lifting, “I think this might be more important than Transfiguration.”

You let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh under different circumstances, nodding once in thanks before turning your attention fully back to Ginny, your hand settling at her arm in a reassuring squeeze.

“Come on,” you murmured, already guiding her down the corridor, your voice soft but certain. “We’ll go to the dormitories first, alright? I’ll help you.”

She nodded quickly, still flustered but clearly relieved, her steps falling into place beside yours as you led her away.

You gave one last glance to Cedric, "I can ask Percy to share some of his notes with you?"

He nodded, a smile on his face.

He didn't really have the heart to tell you that the homework was already complete.

By the time the castle began to settle again, you didn’t feel like celebrating.

Everyone else did.

The relief had come quickly, spreading through the corridors like wildfire the moment the truth was out—Ginny was safe, Ron was safe, the attacks were over, and whatever had been lurking in the shadows of Hogwarts had finally been dealt with.

There was laughter again, louder than before, conversations filled with retellings and exaggerations and a kind of excitement that only came from surviving something no one had fully understood in the first place.

You couldn’t quite bring yourself to join in.

Because every time someone said her name—every time someone mentioned what had happened, what she had gone through, what she had almost—

All you could think was:

You hadn’t known.

Not once.

Not when she was quieter than usual, not when she seemed distracted, not when something in her felt… off. You had been there. Right there. Watching, talking, helping with everything that didn’t matter—

And somehow you missed the one thing that did.

So instead of staying in the common room, instead of letting yourself be pulled into the relief of it all, you slipped away.

Down familiar corridors, past the places you knew wouldn’t be crowded, until you reached the kitchens. It wasn’t long before you found yourself sitting at the long wooden table with a mug of hot chocolate cradled between your hands, the warmth of it seeping into your skin in a way that should have been comforting.

It wasn’t.

You stared down into it instead, watching the faint swirl of steam rise and disappear, your grip tightening slightly around the ceramic as everything you’d been holding back finally began to surface.

It was stupid, really.

Your siblings were safe.

That was all that should have mattered.

And it did—of course it did—but it didn’t erase the rest of it, didn’t quiet the heavy, twisting feeling sitting in your chest, the one that kept circling back to the same thought over and over again.

You should've noticed. You should've known.

Your vision blurred before you realized you were crying, the first tear slipping down before you had the chance to stop it, followed by another, and then another until it became harder to pretend you were in control of it.

You ducked your head slightly, one hand coming up to press against your eyes as if that might be enough to hold it back.

You were her older sister.

That was supposed to mean something.

It was supposed to mean you noticed when things were wrong.

It was supposed to mean she came to you.

Like how you would go to your older brothers.

The sound of the door opening barely registered at first, slipping into the background of everything else, until the faint shift in the room—the subtle change in movement, in presence—pulled your attention up just enough to break through your thoughts.

You didn’t look up immediately.

Not until they stopped near your table.

“Hey.”

The voice was familiar.

You blinked, the world coming back into focus in slow pieces as you lifted your head, your eyes landing on Cedric where he stood a few steps away, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it, something careful in the way he looked at you like he already knew he’d found you at a bad moment.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then you let out a quiet breath that didn’t quite steady, your gaze dropping back down to your mug as your fingers tightened slightly around it.

“Hi.” You managed, your voice quieter than usual, roughened at the edges in a way you didn’t bother trying to hide.

He didn’t ask to sit.

He just did, pulling out the chair across from you with a quiet scrape and lowering himself into it like he intended to stay this time, like he wasn’t going to be interrupted or pulled away or left with half a conversation again.

“I didn’t see you at dinner.” He said after a moment, not accusing, not even questioning—just stating it gently, like an opening rather than a demand.

You huffed a soft, humorless breath at that, your lips pressing together briefly as you shook your head.

“I wasn’t hungry.” You said, which wasn’t entirely untrue.

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Cedric didn’t rush to fill it, didn’t push, didn’t try to steer you anywhere you weren’t ready to go. He just sat there, patient in a way that made it easier to exist in the quiet rather than feel like you had to escape it.

And somehow, that made it harder to hold everything in.

“I just—” you started, then stopped, your grip tightening slightly around the mug as your gaze fixed somewhere just past it. “I feel like such a bad older sister.”

The words came out quieter than you expected, but once they were there, they didn’t stop.

“I had no idea,” You continued, your voice wavering just enough to give you away, “I didn’t know she was struggling like that, I didn’t know she wasn’t talking to anyone, I didn’t—”

You swallowed, blinking quickly as the pressure behind your eyes built again, “She had to turn to some stupid, sentient journal with the conscience of the bloody dark lord to talk about things. About feelings. About boys.”

"Your her sister. Not a mind reader. Ginny knows how much you love her. No one expects you to know what's going on with your siblings all the time."

You didn’t respond right away.

Your gaze dropped again, your thoughts shifting, not gone—not fixed—but nudged, just slightly, out of the spiral they’d been stuck in.

After a moment, your shoulders sank just a fraction, some of the tension easing in a way you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“I still should’ve been better.” You murmured.

“She’s okay now,” He added after a moment, "That's all that matters."

The hospital wing smelled faintly of disinfectant and something sweet, probably from Madam Pomfrey’s constant efforts to make it more welcoming. The low hum of worry and whispered conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clatter of a tray or the soft footfalls of nurses.

Harry lay in bed, pale and bruised, one arm still in a sling and a bandage running along the back of his head. His eyes were closed when you entered with Ron and Hermione, though you could see the tightness around his jaw even from a distance, the way his body refused to fully relax.

Cedric was already there, standing near the foot of the bed, hands loosely clasped in front of him. His expression was a mixture of concern and that quiet, composed kindness that seemed to follow him everywhere. The rest of the Quidditch team lingered nearby, some leaning against walls, others sitting on chairs, their chatter subdued in the presence of the hospital wing’s calm authority.

You made your way forward, letting your eyes meet Cedric’s briefly. There was an unspoken acknowledgment there, a quiet thread of familiarity that had been building for years—the kind that didn’t need words. He smiled softly, and you returned it with one of your own, both of you sharing a moment of warmth amidst the tension.

“I—uh—how are you feeling?” Cedric asked, stepping slightly closer to Harry’s bedside. His voice was gentle, careful, like he was trying to tread without adding any more worry.

Harry groaned softly, opening one eye, but his voice came out a little hoarse, “I fell off my broom. I think that says it all.”

Cedric’s expression tightened just a little, a flicker of guilt crossing his features, though he quickly masked it with his usual calm demeanor. He glanced at Oliver, who was hovering nearby, arms crossed, and then back at Harry.

"The dementors clearly interfered with the game, Hufflepuff has agreed to a rematch."

“No,” Oliver said flatly, “Hufflepuff won fair and square, we refuse.”

Cedric’s shoulders slumped fractionally, but he kept his gaze on Harry. When his eyes flicked toward you, though, there was a quiet softness there, a flicker of amusement and admiration all at once. You smiled at him, a small, fond curve of your lips. He looked so earnest, so sweet, offering a rematch even though he’d been the one to win.

“Don’t worry about it.” You murmured under your breath, letting the warmth in your smile reach him.

Then, inevitably, the calm shattered.

Fred and George, never ones to miss an opportunity, had clearly been lingering nearby, and their grins were impossible to miss even from across the room. “Oi, Harry,” George called softly, leaning against the wall, “you saw the Grim in Divination, didn’t you? That’s never good…”

“Yeah!” George added, elbowing him lightly, “Better start making friends in the afterlife! Any last words, mate?”

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands. Ron’s jaw tightened, though he didn’t speak. Harry’s eyes were already narrowing, more in irritation than fear, though there was a small twitch in his shoulder that betrayed his nerves.

You didn’t even pause. “Forge!” You snapped, your voice cutting through the murmurs like a whip. Both twins froze mid-smirk, turning toward you, and for a moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Fred and George exchanged a glance, then slowly sank back, their amusement dampened under your gaze. They muttered under their breath but said nothing more, clearly smart enough to know the game was up—for now.

Cedric blinked at you, clearly caught off guard, and then tilted his head slightly, one brow raised in curiosity.

“Forge?” He asked quietly, amusement lacing his tone.

“With the amount of trouble these two get into,” You sighed, “it’s easier just to call them by one name.”

The courtyard was quieter than usual.

Not empty—Hogwarts was never truly empty—but quieter in the way it always was toward the end of the year. Most students were either shut away in their common rooms or the library, scrambling to finish the assignments they had put off for far too long, or sprawled outside, taking advantage of the rare stretch of warm sunlight.

Students lingered in smaller groups, scattered across benches and steps, their voices softer, their conversations unhurried. The air had finally warmed, sunlight spilling over the stone and settling into something almost comfortable.

You sat on the low wall near the fountain, one leg tucked slightly beneath you, your bag resting at your side as you absently traced your finger along the edge of your sleeve.

Cedric stood nearby at first, lingering just long enough to make it seem unintentional before—after a moment’s hesitation—he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed.

“Done with everything?” He asked, glancing over at you.

“Mostly,” You said, exhaling softly, “I think I’ve got one more essay left for Transfiguration, but I’m pretending it doesn’t exist for now.”

He huffed a quiet laugh at that, his head dipping slightly, “That’s probably for the best.”

A small silence followed and you tilted your head slightly, glancing at him, “What about you?”

“Finished.” He said, though there was a faint hesitation behind it, like his attention wasn’t fully on the answer. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee, once, twice—restless in a way you didn’t usually see from him.

“…Everything alright?” You asked, softer now, your gaze lingering on him just a second longer.

Cedric let out a breath, something shifting in his expression—something more uncertain than you were used to. He glanced at you, then away again, like he was trying to find the right words.

“Yeah, I just—” He started, then stopped, his hand lifting briefly to the back of his neck.

“I was wondering if you—” He tried again, his voice quieter now, more deliberate, “if you might want to—”

“Miss Weasley.”

The voice cut cleanly through the moment.

You both turned immediately.

Professor McGonagall stood a few steps away, her posture as straight as ever, her expression composed—but there was something in her eyes, something that made your stomach drop before she even spoke again.

You were already on your feet before you realized it.

“Yes, Professor?”

“One of your brothers has been taken to the hospital wing.”

The words landed all at once.

Your breath caught. “What—?” You took a step forward instinctively, your mind already racing ahead of you, “Which one?”

“Ronald.”

You stared at her for half a second.

Then—despite everything, despite the concern already tightening in your chest—your shoulders dropped just slightly, disbelief slipping in around the edges.

“…Again?” You said, the word coming out before you could stop it.

McGonagall’s lips pressed together, though whether she was suppressing a sigh or a comment, you couldn’t quite tell.

You ran a hand over your face briefly, already turning on your heel.

“Why is it always those three?” You muttered under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, exasperation bleeding into the worry, “Honestly, I leave them alone for five minutes...”

Cedric immediately fell into step beside you, his usual composure giving way to concern, though his hands stayed in his pockets, tight against himself as if holding on to some semblance of control.

“You—do you need me to come with you?” He asked quietly, looking at you with that soft, careful gaze he always reserved for moments like this.

You shook your head. “No… no, I’ve got this.” But your pace quickened, Cedric matching you effortlessly.

As you hurried down the familiar corridors, the casual moment that had been building—the one where Cedric was clearly about to ask you to Hogsmeade—slipped just out of reach. Instead, the urgency of the hospital wing, the thought of Ron writhing in pain, took over.

“You were going to ask me something...” You said quietly, almost to yourself, stealing a glance at Cedric. His lips twitched, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah…” He murmured, the words trailing off as his gaze flicked toward you, “We’ll have to… save that for another day.”

The doors to the Hospital Wing swung open with more force than strictly necessary, your steps quick and purposeful as your eyes immediately scanned the room.

It didn’t take long to find him.

Ron was propped up in one of the beds, his leg elevated and wrapped, hair a mess, freckles standing out starkly against skin that was just a little too pale—but he was awake. Talking. Complaining, probably.

Alive.

Your shoulders dropped slightly, relief hitting first, sharp and immediate.

And then—

“Ronald Bilius Weasley!”

Ron startled so hard he nearly knocked his own pillow over. His eyes went wide the second he saw you, pure instinct kicking in before anything else.

“It wasn’t my fault!” He blurted immediately, sitting up straighter despite the clear pain it caused, “Scabbers was Peter Pettigrew and he framed Sirius Black!”

You stopped mid-step.

“…what?”

The path had long since stopped resembling anything civilized.

What had started as something that could vaguely pass as a trail had quickly dissolved into uneven ground, overgrown roots, and branches that seemed determined to catch on your sleeves at every opportunity.

You stepped over yet another fallen log with a quiet huff, brushing leaves from your skirt as you glanced ahead.

“Dad,” Ron called from somewhere behind you, already sounding tired, “where exactly are we going?”

“Somewhere in this direction.” Your father replied cheerfully, not slowing in the slightest.

“That’s not very reassuring.” Hermione muttered.

Fred snorted, “He hasn’t the faintest clue, has he?”

“I heard that,” Your father said mildly, “And I’d like to remind you that I am leading us to the Quidditch World Cup.”

“Eventually.” George added.

You huffed a quiet laugh, adjusting the strap of your bag as you stepped over a particularly stubborn root, your shoulder brushing lightly against Ginny’s.

“Do you actually know where the portkey is?” You asked, glancing at your father.

“Haven’t the foggiest!” He admitted, cheerfully.

A chorus of groans followed immediately.

Fred and George exchanged a look, Ron muttered something under his breath about typical, and Ginny let out a dramatic sigh as she trudged forward.

Harry and Hermione, walking just behind you, shared a glance that was somewhere between amusement and mild concern.

The group pressed on, the forest thick around you, the sound of footsteps and rustling leaves filling the space between conversations. Just as you were beginning to think your earlier comment might actually be correct—

“Ah! There we are!”

Your father’s voice lit up with sudden triumph, and you looked up just in time to see him veering slightly off the path toward a large tree.

A man stood beneath it, broad and sturdy, holding onto several bags that looked far too heavy to be carried comfortably.

“Amos!” Your father greeted warmly, striding forward, “Good to see you!”

“Arthur!” The man—Amos—returned just as enthusiastically, shifting the bags in his grip as the two men shook hands.

The rest of you filtered in behind, and introductions began almost immediately.

“This is my family!”

Names were exchanged, greetings offered, and you stepped forward when it was your turn, offering a polite smile.

You offered a polite smile, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you, my dear.” He said warmly.

Your gaze flicked briefly to the bags near his feet, and before you could think twice about it, you stepped forward slightly.

“Can I help you with any of those?” You asked.

Amos blinked at you, clearly charmed. “Aren’t you sweet, love? No, no—it’s quite alright.” He waved a hand dismissively before adding, with a touch of amused exasperation, “My son should be carrying them anyway.”

There was a beat.

Then—

A sudden rustle overhead.

Before you could even react, something dropped from the tree above with a solid thud, landing just a few feet away.

You startled sharply, stepping back on instinct, your heart jumping into your throat—

Only to be met with a very familiar face.

Cedric Diggory straightened from where he’d landed, brushing a bit of dirt from his sleeves like this was a completely normal entrance.

“Sorry.” He said, not sounding sorry at all.

Your father lit up immediately, “And this strapping young lad must be Cedric!”

Cedric smiled, polite and composed as ever, “Yes, sir.”

But then his eyes flicked to you. There was a glint of amusement there, a teasing curve to his mouth as he clearly clocked the way you’d jumped.

You told yourself the increase heartrate was because of the fright.

The world snapped back into place all at once.

Your feet hit solid ground, though not gracefully, and for a moment everything spun—wind in your ears, the taste of dust in your mouth, your grip still locked tight around the portkey like letting go might send you flying again.

And then—

Stillness.

Grass beneath your boots. Voices. The distant roar of something massive in the distance.

You let go.

Around you, everyone else was doing the same—stumbling, coughing, untangling themselves from one another in various states of disarray.

“Ugh—” Ron groaned somewhere to your left.

“I hate portkeys.” Hermione muttered, pushing her hair out of her face.

Harry, however, was glaring at you.

“You didn’t have to push my face into the manky old boot.” He whined, wiping at his cheek.

You turned your head, already narrowing your eyes as he pushed himself up from the ground, brushing at his glasses in mild offense.

“I told you to grab the boot,” You shot back without missing a beat, “Twice.”

“I was going to grab it!”

“You weren’t.” You said flatly.

“I was—!”

“Would you rather we’d just left you there?”

He opened his mouth, then paused, “…okay, but you still didn’t have to shove me.”

Behind you, Cedric chuckled, falling into step with you quite easily as your joint families began the trek towards the tents.

“Never a day off, huh?” He said lightly, amusement warm in his voice.

You blinked at him for a second, slightly puzzled by the comment, like you hadn’t quite realized what you’d just done.

“What?” You asked.

He gestured vaguely between you and Harry, his smile widening just a fraction. “You,” He said simply, “And your tornado of siblings.”

You huffed a quiet breath, glancing away for a second as your father’s voice called out ahead, already moving everyone along toward the tents, "They're a circus."

Cedric laughed softly under his breath, falling into step beside you as the group began moving forward, the field stretching out ahead, dotted with tents that grew more and more elaborate the further you walked.

For a moment, things settled—just walking, the distant buzz of the World Cup crowd building in the background, the aftermath of the portkey fading into something almost normal.

Cedric glanced at you again. “So—” He started, clearly picking up a conversation he’d been trying to have earlier, “about—”

“—Charlie! Bill!”

You didn’t even realize you’d cut him off until it was too late.

The second you spotted them—two familiar figures standing just outside one of the tents—you were already moving.

Charlie barely had time to react before you collided into him, your arms wrapping tightly around him as he laughed, catching you easily and lifting you slightly off the ground.

“There she is!” He said, his voice full of warmth.

“Hi!” You breathed, grinning as you pulled back just enough to look at him properly before immediately leaning into Bill next, who didn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around you, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head.

“Missed us that much?” Bill teased.

“Not at all.” You shot back, though your smile gave you away.

“Well, well, well,” Fred began, spinning around to step in front of you, hands on his hips like the self-appointed announcer of the world, “look at this! Some would think you don’t like the rest of your siblings at all!”

“I don’t.” You said, perfectly deadpan.

Behind you, the rest of your family caught up quickly, voices overlapping, greetings loud and chaotic as always.

Cedric slowed a few steps back, watching the scene unfold with a small smile on his face.

The tents were set, your parents occupied somewhere deeper in the campsite, and your siblings had already scattered—some exploring, some arguing, some undoubtedly causing problems.

You were just stepping out from your family’s tent when you spotted him again.

Cedric.

He was making his way over, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, posture relaxed but purposeful—like he knew exactly where he was going.

Your stomach did that annoying little flip it had started doing around him lately.

You ignored it.

“Well then,” Bill said, straightening slightly as Cedric came to a stop beside you. His tone was light, but there was something amused behind it, “Who’s this?”

You opened your mouth to answer—

But of course, he wasn’t finished.

“We’ve got a lot of siblings,” Bill continued thoughtfully, glancing Cedric up and down as if assessing him, “but I think I’d remember if Mum had another one.”

You rolled your eyes immediately, “Oh, shut up.”

Charlie snorted beside him, arms loosely crossed, watching the interaction with easy curiosity.

You gestured between them. “Cedric, this is Bill,” You nodded toward your older brother, “And that’s Charlie.”

Cedric straightened slightly, recognition settling in almost instantly.

“You need no introduction,” He said, a small, genuine smile forming, “You’re a legend. Best Seeker Gryffindor’s had in years.”

Charlie blinked once—

Then broke into a grin.

“Oh, I like you,” He said immediately, stepping forward and clapping Cedric firmly on the shoulder, jostling him slightly, “Diggory, right?”

Cedric laughed under his breath, steadying himself, “Yeah.”

“Knew I did,” Charlie nodded, as if this confirmed everything, “Bloke with a good head on his shoulders.”

You sighed, already knowing where this was going, “Flattery will get you everywhere with him.”

Cedric’s laugh softened as he glanced at you briefly, something warm flickering there before he looked back at Charlie, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Only the good things, I hope.” Charlie grinned.

“Debatable.” You cut in dryly.

Bill let out a low chuckle at that, clearly enjoying himself as the four of you fell into easy conversation. It wasn’t anything particularly serious—just small talk, Quidditch, the World Cup. There was laughter and teasing, but nothing too serious—just the kind of light, easy back-and-forth that made Cedric’s presence feel completely natural, like he’d always belonged in these small moments with your family.

And every now and then, you caught him glancing at you.

Then—

“(Y/N)!”

Ginny’s voice rang out across the campsite.

You closed your eyes briefly.

"Can you braid my hair?! I want Dutch braids!"

You let out a long, suffering sigh, already pushing yourself to your feet, “Duty calls.”

Charlie laughed immediately, loud and unhelpful.

“Laugh it up,” You said over your shoulder, glancing back at him, “It’ll be you next.”

He scoffed, completely unbothered, “Please. I already did my time with you.”

Cedric, who had been watching the exchange with quiet amusement, tilted his head slightly, “Did you?”

That was all it took.

“Oh, yes,” Charlie said eagerly, clearly delighted to have the chance to embarrass you in front of someone else for once, “You have no idea—she used to cling to me all the time when she was little. Every time I tried to go out with the lads, there she’d be, bawling her eyes out on the doorstep because she didn’t want me to go.”

You winced, covering your face for a moment, but Charlie wasn’t done.

“And there was this rule,” He continued, voice full of mock seriousness, “if I wanted to play Quidditch, I had to put her down for a nap first. Otherwise she would cry the entire game, thinking I’d get hurt on my broom. Every. Single. Time.”

Cedric laughed, genuinely this time, leaning slightly forward like he was savoring every embarrassing detail, “That’s actually kind of adorable.”

You blinked, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Well excuse me,” You said sharply, “for loving my older brother! I shall never do such an unsavory thing again.”

With that, you stormed off toward Ginny, leaving Charlie and Bill doubled over in laughter behind you.

The Great Hall was far more somber than usual. The tables had been cleared, and the usual magical sky that lit up the room with sparkling stars was gone, leaving the Goblet of Fire in the center of the hall as the sole source of light, bathing everything in a delicate, almost eerie blue glow.

You inwardly wished you had gotten to the hall before your brothers had downed the aging potion—if you had, you would have smacked them so hard they might think twice before attempting something so dimwitted.

Unfortunately, it seemed you had arrived just a few minutes too late. Fred and George had ignored Hermione’s warnings entirely and were now rolling on the floor, bickering like children—or rather, old men, considering they looked every bit their great-grandfathers, complete with wrinkles, grey hair, and a beard to match.

You pinched the bridge of your nose and let out a long sigh, stepping forward, “Forge! Seriously?!”

They barely noticed, bickering and rolling against each other as if you weren’t even there. You crouched quickly, yanking their ears in opposite directions to separate them.

“Ow! Hey!” Fred yelped, squirming.

“Oi! That’s cheating!” George shouted, flailing.

“I don’t care!” You snapped, straightening and glaring at them both, “Stop it. Right now.”

They froze, glancing up at you with sheepish grins, like they might actually apologize. But, of course, it didn’t last.

“You could sign up,” Fred said casually, tilting his head with a mischievous glint in his eye, “since you’re seventeen. You could—”

“Absolutely not.” You interrupted firmly. “I am not going to do something as moronic as sign up for a death wish.”

“Harsh.” Came the teasing voice beside you.

You turned, and there he was: Cedric Diggory, hands tucked casually into his pockets, looking absolutely soaked to the bone like he had just gotten caught in the rain.

“You wound me, Weasley.” He said, voice light but carrying that teasing edge you’d learned to expect from him.

You frowned, concern quickly replacing your irritation, “You’d better hope your name doesn’t get pulled, Cedric. The tasks are dangerous. This whole thing is imbecilic.”

“If I’m not mistaken,” He said softly, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, “I’d say you were worried about me.”

“Worried the Yule Ball is going to get canceled on account of a funeral, more like it.” You muttered, rolling your eyes.

“Such little faith,” He said, voice lowering in a way that made your pulse skip, “But—uh, speaking of the Yule Ball—I was wondering… maybe you’d like to—”

Before he could finish, the doors of the Great Hall burst open with a dramatic crash, drawing every eye in the room. The tallest, broadest figure you’d ever seen strode in: Viktor Krum.

All conversation ceased instantly. Every student froze, eyes widening, as the Bulgarian Quidditch star made his way confidently to the center of the hall, robes sweeping the floor with every step.

He passed the line, reached the Goblet of Fire, and placed his name inside, sparing only a brief glance at Hermione as he did. You tilted your head, watching the interaction between them with quiet curiosity.

He withdrew his hand, and the hall erupted into cheers, the excitement and tension washing over the room. Just like that, Cedric’s question—and the small, promising moment between you—was swept away.

The stands were packed.

The noise was overwhelming—cheering, shouting, the low hum of anticipation vibrating through the air—but it all felt distant to you, muffled behind the rapid thud of your own heartbeat.

Because down below—

Cedric was stepping into the arena.

You didn’t realize your hands had clenched until your nails bit into your palms, your breath catching as the gates opened and the dragon came into view.

It was massive.

Far bigger than you’d imagined, scales glinting in the light, smoke curling from its nostrils as it shifted, wings twitching with barely-contained power. You brought your hands up almost immediately, fingers splaying just enough so you could barely see through them.

“I’m not watching,” You said, even as your eyes stayed fixed between the gaps, “I’m not watching—”

The dragon roared.

You flinched.

“—I’m watching.”

Around you, people were shouting, gasping, reacting to every movement—but you were locked in on him. Every dodge, every spell, every second he got just a little too close—

Your stomach dropped.

“Cedric—” You whispered under your breath, like he could somehow hear you.

And then—

It was over.

The egg was in his hands.

The stands erupted.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until you were already pushing through the crowd, down the steps, heart still racing as the adrenaline hadn’t quite faded yet. By the time you reached him, he was being ushered toward the edge of the arena, healers already moving in.

You waited until he was back in the privacy of his tent to approach, lest that cow Skeeter see you and decide to write some longwinded lie about how Cedric was madly in love with you.

Cedric blinked, slightly breathless, a little flushed from the heat and effort—but when he saw you, something in his expression softened instantly.

“Well, hello to you too.” He said, voice light despite the situation.

“You’re burned,” You said panicked, ignoring him completely as your fingers brushed carefully along his jaw, already assessing the damage, the skin under your touch began to get remarkably redder and you felt your heart clench, "I told you this was a horrible idea, Cedric."

He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t stop you as you continued to check him over. The burn wasn’t terrible—but it was enough. Enough to make your chest tighten just looking at it.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt.” You muttered, quieter now, more to yourself than him.

Cedric’s gaze flickered over your face, something softer settling there.

“But I wasn’t.” He said gently.

You didn’t respond right away, finishing what you were doing before stepping back slightly, your shoulders relaxing just a fraction now that he was—relatively—fine.

“…You did well." You said finally, meeting his eyes.

A small smile tugged at his lips, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You nodded, “I mean, it was still a completely idiotic thing to sign up for—but you did well.”

He laughed softly, “I’ll take that as high praise, coming from you.”

There was a beat.

The noise of the crowd carried on around you, distant again, like the two of you had been momentarily carved out of it.

Cedric shifted slightly, like he was working up to something again.

"So—about the ball—" He started, a little more confident this time, a little more certain now that he had your full attention.

But before he actually got the words out—

A roar of cheers erupted behind you.

Louder than before.

You turned instinctively, just in time to see Harry enter the arena.

“Oh—”

Your attention snapped away immediately, your head turning fully now, your focus shifting as the crowd surged with excitement again.

“Harry!” You called, already stepping forward slightly, completely pulled into the moment.

Cedric blinked.

Then looked between you and the arena.

Then back at you.

And laughed.

“Well,” He said, shaking his head slightly, a grin pulling at his lips, “way to make a guy feel jealous.”

You glanced back at him, only half-processing what he’d said, still caught up in the adrenaline of it all, “What?”

But he just smiled, stepping back slightly, giving you space as your attention stayed fixed on Harry now.

“Nothing,” He said easily, “Go on.”

The noise from the arena hadn’t quite faded yet.

Students were still talking over each other, replaying every moment of the task like they’d all personally been down there facing dragons instead of watching safely from the stands. The air felt charged, buzzing with adrenaline that hadn’t settled, and even as you stepped away from it all, your heart still hadn’t quite slowed.

You barely made it past the outer edge of the enclosure before a familiar voice cut through the chaos—

“Well, that was something, wasn’t it?”

You froze.

Your head snapped up so fast it almost hurt.

No—

There was no way—

But there he was.

Leaning casually against one of the wooden barriers, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Charlie?”

The word left you half in disbelief, half in something brighter—something immediate.

His grin widened.

And that was all it took.

You didn’t think—you just moved.

“Charlie!”

You practically launched yourself at him, arms wrapping tightly around his middle as he laughed, already bracing for the impact, catching you easily like he always did.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming!” You said, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, hands still gripping his sleeves like he might disappear if you let go, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

"I couldn't tell you because I'm here for work, love. Someone’s got to handle the dragons.”

You blinked.

“…You brought them?”

Charlie grinned, clearly proud of that, “Course I did.”

"Couldn't you have brought slightly friendlier ones?"

He laughed, "These are the friendlier ones."

The corridors between classes were always busy, but there was a different kind of chaos that came with a castle full of students anticipating something like the Yule Ball.

Voices echoed off the stone walls, laughter bouncing between groups, whispers slipping through in quick bursts—who was going with who, who had already been asked, who was still waiting. Last you heard, Harry was going with Cho, Fred had somehow managed to land Angelina without even properly asking her, and Ron had spectacularly failed every attempt he’d made, growing more miserable by the hour.

You were halfway to your next class, books tucked under your arm, your mind only half on where you were going, when you felt it—that familiar presence falling into step beside you.

You didn’t need to look.

“You really shouldn’t be all alone in these halls,” Cedric’s voice came, light and easy, threaded with amusement, “Who knows what kind of danger could be lurking?”

You glanced over anyway, already fighting the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re right,” You said, nodding thoughtfully, “Who knows when Professor Moody will jump out and turn me into a ferret. I was hoping someone would come rescue me.”

“Lucky day, then.” He said, matching your pace effortlessly, his shoulder brushing yours just slightly as the two of you navigated the crowd.

For a moment, it was easy—just walking, just talking, the noise of the corridor fading into something distant.

Cedric cleared his throat quietly.

“So—about the Yule Ball.” He started, and there was something different this time. Something less certain, less practiced.

You raised a brow, glancing at him, “What about it?”

“Well, I was thinking—” He began, and for once, Cedric Diggory actually sounded unsure of himself. His hand lifted slightly, like he meant to gesture, then dropped again, “I was wondering if maybe you’d—”

“(Y/N)!”

Ginny’s voice cut through everything like a blade.

You barely had time to react before she came rushing toward you, slightly out of breath, clutching a bundle of fabric in her arms like it had personally offended her.

“Look at this,” She said urgently, shoving the material up between you and Cedric without warning, “Look at it!”

You blinked, instinctively taking a step back as she held up what could only be described as… a dress.

A very old dress.

“Ginny—”

“It’s ghastly!” She insisted, shaking it for emphasis, lace and sleeves flopping dramatically, “How am I supposed to wear something that looks like it came from the 1700s and not die of embarrassment?”

Cedric, who had been mid-sentence only seconds ago, paused—but to his credit, he recovered quickly.

He leaned in slightly, examining the dress with surprising seriousness, like this was now his responsibility. “It’s… not too bad.” He offered carefully.

Ginny stared at him like he’d just committed a personal betrayal.

“They’re ghastly!” She repeated, louder this time, as if volume alone would prove her point.

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, reaching out to steady the fabric before she accidentally smacked someone with it. “Alright, alright,” You said, amused, “What exactly do you want me to do about it?”

Ginny lowered the dress slightly, her expression changing from panic to pleading, “Ron told me you’re altering his dress robes,” She said quickly, “Can you do mine too?”

You hesitated, glancing down at the dress, already mentally deconstructing it—too much fabric, outdated cut, sleeves that needed saving or removing entirely. “I mean… I’m not a professional,” You admitted, “But I’ve gotten pretty good over the years.”

Ginny perked up instantly, “Really?”

You nodded, shifting your books slightly under your arm. “Mum used to buy me these ridiculously long skirts,” You said, rolling your eyes faintly, “The kind that made me look like a complete prude. So I started hemming them myself—just a bit shorter, just enough to make them… wearable.”

As you spoke, you gestured to your own skirt, showing the subtle difference.

Cedric noticed.

Of course he did.

“They are quite lovely.” He said, almost absentmindedly—but his gaze lingered on your legs just a fraction too long, something warmer slipping into his tone.

You blinked.

And then immediately felt the heat rise to your cheeks, your composure slipping just slightly as you let out a small, flustered laugh. “Right—well—I can try.” You said, suddenly very aware of him standing so close, “I’m still altering my own dress to fit properly though.”

Ginny, blissfully oblivious to all of it, grabbed your sleeve and looked up at you with wide, hopeful eyes, “But you’ll do it?”

You exhaled, already giving in. “Come on, then,” You said, turning, “I’ll need your measurements.”

Ginny beamed, instantly tugging you along with her.

Cedric opened his mouth—again.

“Wait—”

But you were already moving, Ginny pulling you down the corridor, dress in hand, talking a mile a minute about sleeves, lace, colors, and everything she hated about it.

And just like that, you were gone again—dragged up the stairs toward your dorm, already mentally mapping out every alteration you’d need to make to salvage the disaster in her hands.

Behind you, Cedric slowed to a stop in the middle of the corridor.

His hand, which had lifted slightly to stop you, fell back to his side.

For a second, he just stood there, watching the space where you’d disappeared, the noise of the corridor rushing back in around him.

Then he let out a quiet breath, shaking his head, a soft laugh slipping out despite himself.

“Unbelievable.” He muttered under his breath, though there was no real frustration in it—just something fond.

The Gryffindor common room had never looked like this before.

It wasn’t its usual warm, slightly chaotic mess of scattered books and half-finished homework—tonight, it was alive in a completely different way. Gold and candlelight flickered against polished shoes and pressed robes, laughter spilling from every corner as people adjusted ties, smoothed hair, and whispered last-minute nerves about the night ahead.

And at the center of it all—

You.

Because somehow, despite not even being ready yourself until ten minutes ago, you had managed to get everyone else sorted first.

Ginny had been first. She’d started knocking on your door in tears, having made a complete mess of the little makeup she’d attempted and having no idea what to do with her hair. You sat her down, ignoring the dramatics, and got to work.

Now, she was practically glowing—her dress, which you had managed to salvage into something far more wearable than its original state, actually suited her. You styled her hair neatly and applied a modest amount of makeup, firmly refusing when she tried to convince you to add more.

Then came Hermione. She’d only meant to ask your opinion on her dress and hair, but the moment you noticed how uncomfortable she was with all the bobby pins, you sat her down without a second thought.

Swapping them out for sticking charms—a solution she hadn’t even considered—you adjusted everything with careful precision, touching up her makeup just enough to settle it perfectly into place.

“You look beautiful.” You told her simply.

And you meant it.

Then came Ron.

Which, quite frankly, had been your last nerve.

You forcibly sat him down, ignoring his loud complaints—really, anyone would think you were attempting to torture him rather than make him look even remotely presentable. You fixed his hair, adjusted his robes as much as they could be saved, and sent him off with a firm warning to behave like a human being for once in his life.

Last was Harry—quiet, slightly overwhelmed, but cooperative enough as you smoothed his hair into something vaguely acceptable.

And only then—finally—did you get yourself ready.

By the time you were done, the common room was already beginning to empty, students drifting toward the Great Hall in clusters of excitement and nerves.

You barely spared yourself more than a glance before grabbing your things and heading for the door.

You were late.

Of course you were. At this rate, you’d be lucky to arrive in time to see the champions’ dance.

You pushed through the last cluster of students, adjusting your sleeve as you moved quickly toward the exit when you saw him.

Cedric.

He stood just off to the side, like he’d been waiting—hands flexing slightly at his sides, posture just a little too stiff to be casual. Like he’d been working himself up to something.

Your steps faltered.

Just slightly.

Your stomach flipped.

Again.

He looked up the second he noticed you—and for a moment, just a moment, he forgot whatever he’d been about to say.

Because he was staring.

And for once, Cedric Diggory—confident, composed, effortlessly charming—looked completely, utterly thrown.

You blinked, suddenly very aware of yourself under that look.

“You look beautiful, (Y/N).”

Heat rushed to your face almost instantly. You lowered your gaze, half to hide it, reaching out instinctively to smooth the lapels of his dress robes, the fine material warm beneath your fingers.

“You look quite beautiful yourself.” You murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

A small smile tugged at his lips.

“I—uh—”

But before he could get another word out—

Ron passed behind you, grumbling loudly, “I can’t believe Hermione is going with the enemy.”

Your expression dropped immediately.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Cedric blinked, “What—?”

“I need to fix that.” You muttered, already turning, fully prepared to march over and set your brother straight.

Because no one—no one—was going to talk about Hermione like that. Not tonight. Not when she finally looked at herself and saw what everyone else already did. And certainly not your little brother.

You barely made it two steps—

Before—

“Oh, Helga—(Y/N) Weasley!”

The room went quiet.

Completely quiet.

You froze mid-step.

Slowly—very slowly—you turned back.

Cedric was standing where you’d left him.

Except now he looked… different.

Still nervous, still unsure—but there was something steadier beneath it now. Like he’d finally decided he wasn’t letting the moment slip away again.

Every eye in the room was on him.

On you.

And he didn’t look away.

“Will you,” He said, voice carrying across the room—firm, but softened at the edges by something unmistakably earnest, “be my date to the Yule Ball?”

For a second—

You didn’t move.

Then your brain caught up.

Heat rushed to your face so quickly it was almost embarrassing, a smile breaking through before you could stop it—bright, relieved, a little breathless.

“Of course.” You said, like it had always been obvious.

Your head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction in playful disbelief.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask me.” You added, a soft laugh slipping through.

“What took you so long?”

You really hated the hospital wing.

In the last four years, you had been there more times than you could count, and not once had it actually been for you. That was the unfortunate reality of having younger siblings who seemed determined to land themselves in trouble in increasingly creative ways, and you had grown used to it—the scolding, the hovering, the quiet irritation that came with it all.

But this time felt different.

The worry sitting in your chest wasn’t familiar. It didn’t feel like the usual exasperated concern you carried for your brothers—it was heavier, sharper, lingering in a way that made it hard to breathe properly. It crawled up your throat and stayed there, refusing to settle, and no matter how many times you tried to reason with yourself, it didn’t go away.

You didn’t really understand it.

Or maybe you did.

There was a difference between platonic worry and something else. Something deeper. Something that made your hands feel restless and your chest feel too tight all at once.

And the stakes had never been this high before.

When Harry had reappeared from the maze, Cedric’s body unmoving beside him as he spoke of Lord Voldemort, something inside you had dropped so suddenly it left you standing there, unable to think, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare.

Like the ground had given out beneath your feet.

You and Cedric hadn’t even been together that long.

After the Yule Ball—after he had finally managed to ask you—you had slipped into something easy, something familiar, something that hadn’t quite had the time to settle into anything fully real yet. Which was exactly why you hadn’t run to him on the grounds like you’d wanted to.

You had stayed back, forcing yourself to let the professors handle it, to let his father reach him first, telling yourself that it wasn’t your place—that whatever this was between you, it wasn’t enough to justify pushing through that kind of moment.

But then the hours had turned into days, and the waiting had become unbearable. Days of not knowing, days of hearing fragments and whispers but nothing certain, days of that quiet, suffocating fear settling deeper into your chest with nowhere to go.

So the moment you heard he was awake—that he had asked for you—you didn’t hesitate.

You ran.

The heavy doors of the hospital wing swung open under your hands, and you stepped inside quickly, your eyes scanning the room before immediately landing on him.

It was easy enough, considering he was the only one in here that began grinning like a fool at the sight of you.

Relief hit you so suddenly it almost made your knees give out.

You forced yourself forward, one step at a time, until you reached his bed, stopping just close enough to touch but not quite letting yourself yet.

“Hi.”

The word came out softer than you intended.

Cedric’s smile shifted, something warmer settling into it, “Well, hello to you too.”

Your eyes moved over him instinctively, taking in the bandaged burns along his arm, the healing cut near his brow, the faint exhaustion he wasn’t quite hiding as well as he thought he was.

“Are you alright?”

“Right as rain now that I’ve seen you.”

A quiet breath of laughter slipped from you, your head shaking faintly, “Only you would say that after facing bloody Voldemort.”

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he reached for you.

His hand found yours easily, fingers wrapping around it before gently tugging you closer, closing the distance you had been holding onto without even realizing it. You let yourself be pulled in, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed beside him, your heart already beginning to beat a little too fast.

Cedric was looking at you—properly looking—but every time you tried to meet his gaze, yours betrayed you, flickering instead to the marks on his skin, the evidence of just how wrong everything could have gone.

Your frown deepened.

“I’m alright." He said gently.

You scoffed, though there was no real bite to it, “You’re in the hospital wing.”

“Which is better than the alternative.”

Your breath caught slightly at that, the words settling heavier than he seemed to intend.

“Cedric—”

“I’m okay.” He repeated, more firmly this time, his gaze steady enough to pull yours back to his.

And then it softened.

His eyes dropped briefly to your hand, still held between both of his, his thumb brushing slowly along your knuckles as though grounding himself in the simple contact. The movement was absentminded, almost, but there was something careful in it too—something that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

Before you could think too much about it, he lifted your hand slightly and pressed his lips gently against your knuckles.

Your breath hitched.

Your heart stumbled, uneven and sudden, and when his eyes met yours again, something in them had changed—quieter now, a little uncertain, like he wasn’t entirely sure how far he was allowed to go.

“Can I—” He started, his voice catching just slightly.

Your eyes flicked to his lips before you could stop yourself, the movement quick but impossible to hide.

You didn’t trust your voice.

So you nodded.

That was all he needed.

He leaned in slowly, carefully, like this moment might slip through his fingers if he moved too quickly. His hand tightened slightly around yours, the other hovering for a second before resting lightly against your arm, hesitant but certain enough to stay.

And then his lips brushed yours, capturing your upper lip between both of his.

Soft. Barely there.

It was so light it almost didn’t feel real at first, the kind of touch that made your head spin simply because it was happening at all. He lingered there, gentle and tentative, like he was waiting—like he was making sure you wanted this just as much as he did.

For a moment, you let it stay like that, suspended in something fragile and quiet.

Until it wasn’t enough.

You leaned in slightly, closing the space between you properly, and that small shift was all it took.

The kiss deepened—not rushed, not overwhelming, but certain. Your hand tightened in his, your other lifting instinctively to rest against the back of his neck, fingers brushing lightly against his hair as you held him there. He inhaled sharply, tilting his head as he deepened the kiss, devouring you—

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!”

You and Cedric sprang apart like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell.

Your heart leapt into your throat as you whipped around—

Charlie.

Standing in the doorway.

Arms crossed.

Oh Good Godric.

“Charlie—”

“No,” He cut in immediately, pointing a finger at you like you were five again and had just been caught stealing biscuits from the kitchen, “No—don’t you ‘Charlie’ me.”

You blinked at him, “What are you even doing here?”

“I came to check on you and golden boy,” He snapped, before gesturing wildly between you and Cedric, “And I find this?!”

Cedric, to his credit, had the decency to look at least slightly guilty. Only slightly.

You, however, frowned, “It’s just a kiss—”

“JUST a—?!” Charlie looked personally offended. Then, without missing a beat: “You’re grounded.”

You stared at him.

“I’m what?”

“Grounded for,” He repeated firmly. Then, after a brief pause, as if deciding to make it worse: “Until you graduate.”

Your jaw dropped.

“For-Until I graduate?!”

“Yes!”

“Why?!”

He looked at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “For kissing that git!”

You turned, incredulous, gesturing toward Cedric, “You’re the one who said he was a nice boy! That he had a good head on his shoulders!”

“I take it back!” Charlie shot back immediately, “He’s a bloody cradle-robber!”

Your eyes widened, “We’re the same age!”

Charlie was already moving, grabbing your arm and hauling you off the bed before you could argue further.

“Charlie—Charlie, let go—!”

“Nope. Absolutely not. You’re coming with me.”

“This is ridiculous—!”

Behind you, Cedric shifted slightly on the bed, looking far too amused for someone who had just been publicly accused of being a menace to society.

And then—because he clearly had no sense of self-preservation—

“Bye, love.”

"I'm not your love." Charlie replied haughtily, tightening his grip on your arm as he started dragging you toward the door again, “You’re never leaving the house again. Ever.”

“Charlie!”

And just like that, you were being dragged out of the hospital wing, your protests echoing down the corridor.

And Cedric was left sitting alone on the bed, an amused smile on his face, "We have such poor timing."

bonus:

The morning had been quiet.

Suspiciously quiet, really.

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, casting soft gold across the bed, the room still wrapped in that slow, peaceful warmth that only came with days off and nowhere to be. No rushing, no responsibilities pressing in—just stillness.

And Cedric.

You were half-curled into him, head resting against his chest, his arm draped loosely around you, fingers absentmindedly tracing slow patterns along your arm. It was the kind of quiet you didn’t get often anymore—the kind you had learned to appreciate in small, fleeting moments.

For once, there were no interruptions.

No chaos.

Cedric let out a quiet breath above you, something content settling into it as his hand stilled briefly against your arm.

“I’m so glad,” He murmured, voice still rough with sleep, “to have you all to myself.”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head just enough to glance up at him, "Truly, we haven't had a quiet moment like this since—”

“Mum!”

“Dad!”

Cedric froze.

You didn’t even try to hide your laugh.

There was a brief, heavy silence as the distant shouts echoed through the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of something—probably several things—being knocked over.

Cedric exhaled slowly.

Then dropped his head back against the pillows with a long-suffering sigh.

“These bloody Weasleys,” He muttered, dragging a hand down his face, “And their innate ability to know exactly when I’m trying to have a moment alone with my wife.”

You laughed properly at that, shifting slightly so you could look at him more fully, your hand coming up to rest lightly against his chest.

“Well,” You said sweetly, “they’re half Diggory.”

“So their complete lack of sense and tact probably comes from you.”

Cedric blinked.

Then let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Excuse me?”

Before you could respond—

A loud crash echoed from somewhere down the hall.

Followed by—

“That wasn’t me!”

“Yes it was!”

Right outside the door this time.

You laughed, leaning up just enough to press a quick kiss to his lips before pulling back.

He sighed, finally getting up, "Alright! What have we said about messing about in the kitchen without mum or dad?!"

A beat of silence.

"That we're not supposed to."

To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee @notslaybabes @writers-whirlwind @paankhaleyaaar @superlegend216 @kaisupremecy @ilovefictionallmenn @aviwritessometimes @devilslittlehelper @notfckincreative @workof-a-rr-t @insideoutjulie @tikitsune @booklover2503 @whoreforfictionalmen18 @hzdhrtss @noonasoul @echolovesspidey @potatoheartsyou @chevelledahuman @33shadowhunters @goodvibesonlyxd @maradcrs @pluto-9456

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid @revesephemeres @catiwinky @goldfishinpainttubes @psh-pjh @honethatty12 @imkindofanaudiogeeksorry @lilians17 @its-jennarose @h1mawarii @lookalivesunshiiiine109 @ivygreenonbricks @navs-bhat @swiftlythejackson @itznotsophia @allielovesstars @century13 @moremaple @kissedbychaosxx @thalibaby @goldencherriess @inkedinevermore @imaginebeingmentallystable @viridianblurr @tiredslepz @littlerabbitwithwings @notts-moon @linnygirl09 @jollykingdomturtle @pariahsparadise @mollyjunebugg @fountainofbaella @hoax-of-light

[adorablezhui]

🥹

[orchidame]

[rainedravens]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[honeyedprongs]

𓍢ִ໋ ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐂂ִֶָ་༘࿐ 𝒞𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽 𝑀𝑒 𝐼𝒻 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒞𝒶𝓃 (𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒲𝒾𝓁𝓁)

james potter x reader (~1,300 wc) ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𖢻 sypnopsis —

He’s been rehearsing a confession for weeks. You’ve been rehearsing your escape for seconds. Unfortunately, he runs faster.

Breakfast at Hogwarts was, in your opinion, a sacred ritual.

Golden sunlight spilled through the tall windows, pooling across the long house tables. Plates filled themselves with toast and eggs and fruit, goblets brimmed with juice, and the low hum of voices wrapped around you like a familiar spell. It was calm. Predictable. Safe.

You liked safe.

You liked knowing exactly how your mornings would go—where you’d sit, what you’d eat, how long you could linger before classes began.

You especially liked mornings where nothing life-altering happened.

Which is why, when Sirius Black leaned across the table with a grin that meant trouble, your day immediately went downhill.

“You know he’s going to confess today, right?”

You freeze.

The butter knife pauses mid-spread. The jam glistens ominously.

“…what?”

Sirius leans forward, delighted. “James. Confess. His undying love. Eternal devotion. Probably something dramatic about your eyes.”

You stare at him.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m absolutely not.”

Your stomach drops.

“No,” you say, firmly, immediately, decisively. “No, he is not.”

Sirius snorts. “He practiced in the mirror.”

You feel your soul leave your body.

“He—what?”

“Yeah. Whole speech. Bit about how you laugh when you’re trying not to smile—honestly, I nearly cried.”

You sit there. Completely still. Butter knife still hovering uselessly over your toast. Your brain, quite frankly, has stopped functioning.

James Potter.

Confess.

Today.

No.

No, absolutely not.

Your eyes flick—slowly, cautiously—toward the entrance of the Great Hall.

And like the universe itself is conspiring against you—

There he is.

Walking in with Remus, hair already a mess like he’s been running his hands through it, glasses slipping down his nose, laughing about something—

Coming toward your table.

Coming toward you.

Your heart does something deeply unhelpful.

“Oh,” Sirius says, far too cheerful, “there he is now.”

No.

No, no, no—

You stand up so abruptly your bench screeches.

You grab the nearest thing—an apple—and—

You bolt.

Behind you, you hear it.

“—hi—wait—was that—did she just run?”

And then, louder—

“Oi! Hey! Where are you going?!”

You do not look back.

You absolutely do not look back.

‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆

The doors slam open as you burst out into the corridor, breath already uneven, heart racing like you’ve just made a terrible, irreversible decision.

Because you have.

Footsteps echo behind you.

Fast.

“Are you—are you actually running from me?!”

You risk a glance over your shoulder.

Big mistake.

James is grinning.

Grinning.

Like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“Oh, you are—this is brilliant!”

“GO AWAY!” you shout, clutching the apple like it’s somehow helping.

“Absolutely not!”

And then he speeds up.

You squeak—actually squeak—and dart down the nearest hallway.

‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆

The castle becomes a blur.

You take corners too sharply, nearly slam into a suit of armor, skid across polished stone floors—your shoes squeaking, your laughter bubbling up despite yourself—

Because this is ridiculous.

This is absolutely ridiculous.

You dart through a tapestry shortcut—nearly trip on the step down the other side—and he follows without hesitation.

At one point, you grab a ledge, swing yourself over it—something vaguely resembling parkour—and land a little unsteadily on the lower staircase.

There’s a pause behind you.

“…did you just—”

“DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT!”

“I’m incredibly worried about it, actually!”

You laugh—bright and breathless—and keep running.

‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆

You burst out onto the grounds, sunlight hitting you full force, grass warm beneath your feet as you race forward.

The air is different out here—lighter, freer—and your lungs burn as you sprint across the open field.

“Still running!” James calls behind you, laughing.

“YES!”

“You know I’m faster than you, right?!”

“YOU’RE ALSO AN ANNOYANCE!”

“I’ve been called worse!”

You risk another glance—

He’s closer.

Much closer.

Panic surges—and you do the only logical thing.

You whirl around mid-run and hurl the apple at his head.

He catches it.

Of course he does.

Without breaking stride.

And then—just to be insufferable—he takes a bite.

“Thanks!” he calls, talking around it.

You gape at him.

“You’re unbelievable!”

“You brought snacks!”

“I DIDN’T BRING SNACKS, I PANICKED!”

He laughs—warm and bright and so, so fond it makes your chest ache.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he calls. “Bit terrifying, but incredible!”

“STOP COMPLIMENTING ME!”

“Can’t help it!”

“I HATE YOU!”

“You absolutely do not!”

You do not.

That’s the problem.

‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆

You nearly trip over a tree root.

And you would’ve gone down—hard—if not for a hand brushing your arm, steadying you.

James slows instantly.

“Hey—are you okay?”

For a second—just a second—the world stills.

His hand is warm.

His eyes are searching.

Concern softens his face in a way that makes something in your chest twist.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly.

Too quickly.

And before he can say anything else—

You run again.

“Oi—!”

But he’s laughing as he follows.

‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆

By the time you reach the Black Lake, your legs are burning, your lungs aching, your laughter unstoppable.

You slow.

Then stop.

Then bend over slightly, trying to catch your breath.

A moment later, he reaches you.

Also breathless.

Also laughing.

There’s grass in his hair. His tie is half undone. He’s still holding the apple.

You look at each other.

And then—

You both dissolve into laughter.

It spills out of you, uncontrollable, bright, tangled together until you can’t tell where yours ends and his begins.

“This,” you manage between breaths, “was not—how this was supposed to go—”

“I think it went perfectly,” he says, grinning.

“You chased me across the entire castle!”

“You ran across the entire castle!”

“You were going to confess!”

“I still am going to confess.”

Oh.

Oh no.

The laughter fades into something softer.

Quieter.

The lake glints behind him, sunlight dancing across the water. The world feels suspended—held in this single, fragile moment.

You straighten slowly.

“I—James—”

He steps closer.

Not trapping you, not really—but close enough that you feel it. The choice narrowing. The space between you shrinking.

“You can run again,” he says softly. “I’ll probably just follow you again.”

A pause.

A breath.

“But I’d rather you stayed.”

Your heart is loud.

Too loud.

“I don’t—” you start, then falter. “I’m not good at this. At… staying. At things that matter.”

“I know,” he says gently.

That stops you.

“I know,” he repeats. “You like safe. You like knowing what’s coming next.”

You swallow.

“And this isn’t safe,” you whisper.

“No,” he says. “It’s not.”

Another step closer.

“But I think it could be really good.”

Your hands are shaking.

You laugh weakly. “You’re supposed to be terrible at confessions. Sirius said so.”

He grins a little. “I am. I had a whole speech. It was brilliant. Very moving.”

“What happened to it?”

He lifts the apple slightly.

“Took a detour.”

You huff a laugh.

And then—before you can think better of it—you reach out and take the apple from his hand.

Your fingers brush.

You don’t pull away.

Neither does he.

“I like you,” he says, simple now. No speech. No performance. Just him. “I have for a while. And I know you’re scared, and I know you might run again—”

“I might,” you admit.

He smiles. “I’ll keep up.”

You stare at him.

At the boy who chased you across an entire castle just to tell you he liked you.

At the boy who slowed down when you stumbled.

At the boy who never once stopped laughing.

Your chest feels too full.

Too bright.

“Okay,” you say, breathless.

“Okay?” he echoes.

“Okay,” you repeat.

And then you lean forward and kiss him.

It’s a little clumsy.

A little breathless.

You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes into it—

And you taste it.

Sweet.

Faintly tart.

Apple.

You pull back just slightly, smiling, forehead brushing his.

“You ate my escape plan.”

He grins, utterly pleased. “Best decision I’ve ever made.”

You laugh again.

And this time—

You don’t run.

🦌۶ৎˎˊ˗ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ 𝒽𝒶𝓏𝒾𝑒𝓁𝓁𝑒

(© honeyedprongs 2026 all rights reserved - do not repost in any format, translate, copy my works, or feed my works into AI.)

[bloodred-writer]

Orphans | YANDERE!TOM RIDDLE AU

Synopsis: 

Tom Riddle never had much. The orphanage didn't exactly offered much possesions. So he was claiming his trophys one by one: A yo-yo, a thimble, a silver button, a handkerchief, stolen keepsakes from other children. And then one day there was you. You, who could make a fire without touching a matchstick. You, who could speak to snakes. You, who could wield rare ancient magic. And you, who walked beside him all those years. Tom Riddle never had much, but he'll surely burn the world to keep you.

Chapter 6: The pawn

Yandere!Tom Riddle x f!reader 

Words: 9369

Part 1 here; Masterlist

Second year passed by in a blur, gone before you realized it had begun. You remember the surprise of it most. The way you realized, for the first time, that someone had been looking at you differently. Malfoy’s glances lingering too long.

You remember Dumbledore’s office, too. The private lessons. The careful guidance. For the first time, your magic wasn’t something that happened to you. You learned how to hold it, shape it, direct it. Ancient magic, refined into purpose. You left those lessons feeling steadier, sharper, as if a fog had lifted inside you.

Tom noticed. He always does.

He watched you more closely after that. Asked questions that sounded innocent but weren’t. Led conversations just far enough to see where your thoughts would follow. Sometimes he praised you. Sometimes he withdrew. It felt like a game you hadn’t agreed to play, one where the rules shifted without warning.

He didn't like when you were talking to your friends. He didn't say it outright, but you heard it in the careful silence between his words, in the way his jaw tightened.

“They don’t understand us,” he said once, his voice low, eyes reflecting the dim light of the hall. “They’ll never understand.”

You didn’t argue. Not because you agreed, but because arguing only feeds something in him, something dark and hungry that you can’t quite name.

Your magic sometimes feels restless. It coils in your chest like smoke, reacting to his moods. It's stronger now, more obedient. Sometimes, when you’re alone, it hums beneath your skin, whispering things you can’t quite hear.

Soon it’s gonna be the third year. New classes. New freedoms.

You tell yourself that things will feel lighter then.

You still care for Tom. Of course you do. You would never leave him.

And though you tell yourself it’s just temporary, deep down you know, something in him is changing. And it’s watching you, even when he isn’t.

You find Lucedia and Septimus in the Entrance Hall, their trunks already packed and waiting by the great oak doors. The morning light streams through the high windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. The castle feels different on the last day, emptier, quieter, as if it’s holding its breath.

“There you are!” Lucedia says, pushing her glasses up her nose. She’s wearing a traveling cloak over her Gryffindor robes. “We thought you’d already left.”

“Not yet,” you say, smiling. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

Septimus grins, his red hair bright in the sunlight. “Don’t have too much fun without us, L/N.”

You laugh. “I’ll try not to.”

Lucedia steps forward and gives you a quick, tight hug. “Write to us,” she whispers. “Even if it’s just to complain about the orphanage food.”

“I will,” you promise, hugging her back.

Septimus claps you on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Y/N.”

You watch them walk out through the doors, their trunks floating behind them. The sunlight swallows them, and then they’re gone. The hall feels suddenly colder, emptier.

You turn to find Druella standing a few feet away, her own trunk already packed. She gives you a knowing look. “Saying goodbye to the Gryffindors?”

You nod.

She sighs dramatically. “Well, I suppose I’ll miss you too. Try not to get into too much trouble without me.”

You smile. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good.” She leans in, her voice dropping. “And watch out for Malfoy. He’s been asking about you again.”

Your stomach does a strange little flip. “He did?,” you ask blushing.

Druella just smiles. She gives you a final wave and heads for the doors, her curls bouncing with each step.

You’re alone in the Entrance Hall now, the silence pressing in around you.

The year is over. All that’s left is to find Tom and head for the train.

The Slytherin common room is nearly empty when you slip through the stone wall. The greenish light from the lake casts shifting patterns across the empty armchairs and cold fireplace. Most students have already left for the train.

Tom is waiting for you.

He’s sitting in a high-backed chair by the window, his trunk already packed and closed at his feet.

He’s not reading. He’s just watching the water outside, his expression calm, distant. He turns when you enter, and his dark eyes settle on you.

“Ready?” he asks, his voice quiet in the empty room.

You nod “I said goodbye to everyone.”

A faint, knowing smile touches his lips. “I know.”

Of course he knows. He always knows.

He stands, picking up his trunk with ease. You grab your own, and together you walk out of the common room for the last time this term. The corridors are quiet, echoing with the ghost of footsteps from earlier. Portraits call out cheerful goodbyes as you pass.

Outside, the carriages are waiting, pulled by invisible thestrals. You climb into one, Tom beside you.

The carriage lurches forward, carrying you away from the castle, down the winding path toward Hogsmeade station.

You look back once. Hogwarts stands against the sky, towers sharp and proud. It feels like leaving a part of yourself behind.

Tom’s hand finds yours on the seat between you. His fingers are cool, his grip firm. “It’s just a summer,” he says, as if reading your thoughts. “We’ll be back.”

You squeeze his hand, but you don’t answer. You’re already thinking of the orphanage, of the long, empty months ahead.

The train whistle blows in the distance, sharp and clear.

You turn to Tom, a real smile breaking through the quiet melancholy of leaving. "Do you want to play wizard chess with me?" you ask, beaming. "Septimus gave me some new figurines before he left. And I'm confident I can beat you this time."

Tom looks at you, and for a moment, the distant, thoughtful expression melts away. A genuine, amused smile touches his lips. "Confident, are you?"

"Very," you say, pulling the small, ornate box from your trunk. The chess pieces inside are carved from dark wood and polished stone, enchanted to move with a life of their own.

He watches you set up the board on the small table between your seats. The train sways gently as it picks up speed, the Scottish countryside beginning to blur past the window. "You've been practicing with Weasley," he observes, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

"A little," you admit, arranging your pawns. "But mostly I've been watching you. I know your strategies now."

Tom's smile widens, showing a flash of white teeth. It's a rare, unguarded expression, one that makes him look less like the careful, controlled boy he usually is. "We'll see about that."

The game begins. Your new pieces are fierce. A knight that rears and snorts, a queen who surveys the board with cold, carved eyes. Tom plays with his usual precision, but you notice something different today. He's not just playing to win. He's playing to see you think, to watch the way you bite your lip in concentration, the way your eyes light up when you see a good move.

You capture his bishop. He raises an eyebrow. "Impressive."

You're so focused on the game, on the quiet satisfaction of holding your own against him, that you don't notice the feeling at first. It starts as a faint prickle at the back of your neck, a sense of being watched that has nothing to do with Tom's attentive gaze.

You glance up, your eyes scanning the corridor outside your compartment. It's empty. Just the rhythmic clatter of the train, the blur of green fields beyond the glass.

But the feeling lingers. Cold, distant. Unfamiliar.

You shake it off, turning back to the board. "Your move," you say, forcing your attention to the game.

Tom studies you for a moment longer than necessary, his dark eyes thoughtful. Then he moves his queen, placing her directly in the path of your king. "Checkmate," he says softly.

You stare at the board. He's right. You were so distracted by that strange, creeping sensation that you missed his trap entirely.

You glance out the window again, your eyes scanning the blur of fields and distant hills. The feeling is gone now, leaving only the memory of that cold prickle. Maybe it was just the strangeness of leaving, the melancholy of another year ending.

"You're distracted," Tom says, his voice pulling you back. He's watching you, his dark eyes thoughtful as he begins to pack away the chess pieces with careful, precise movements.

"Just thinking," you murmur, turning away from the window.

The rest of the train ride passes quietly. You talk a little about your summer plans, or lack of them.

Tom mentions wanting to research something in the London libraries, if he can get permission to leave the orphanage. You don't ask what. You know better than to press when he speaks in those vague, deliberate terms.

Kings Cross Station is crowded and loud when you arrive. The platform is full of families reuniting, trunks being hauled away, the buzz of ordinary life after months of magic. You and Tom stand together for a moment, your own trunks at your feet, watching the chaos.

Mrs. Cole is waiting by the barrier, looking as sharp and tired as ever. She gives you a small, tight smile when she sees you. Her eyes linger on Tom for a second longer, a flicker of wariness in her gaze, before she turns to lead you both out into the muggle world.

The summer passes slowly, a long stretch of dusty rooms and quiet meals at Wool's Orphanage. Tom reads, researches, watches you. You practice the occlumency Dumbledore taught you, feeling your magic grow steadier, more controlled beneath your skin. The strange feeling from the train doesn't return.

Then it's September again. You're standing on Platform 9¾, your trunk beside you, the scarlet steam of the Hogwarts Express billowing around you. The air smells of coal and magic and excitement.

Tom finds you in the crowd. He's taller now, his features sharper, his dark eyes already scanning the platform. "Our compartment is at the front," he says, his hand resting lightly on your back, guiding you through the throng of students. "Come on."

You crane your neck, scanning the crowd for a flash of Gryffindor red or Druella's dark curls. "I should find-"

But Tom's hand is already firm on your back, guiding you forward. "They can wait," he says, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument. He steers you toward a compartment near the front of the train, one that's already empty. He slides the door open and ushers you inside.

The compartment is neat, the seats plush and clean. Tom places his trunk on the rack and takes the window seat, looking out at the platform with a detached expression. You hesitate for a moment by the door, your eyes still searching the passing faces outside.

"Y/N," Tom says, not looking at you. "Sit."

It's not a request. You hear the quiet command in his voice, the subtle edge that means he's already decided how this journey will go. You sit across from him, placing your own trunk beside his. The door slides shut, muffling the noise of the corridor.

Tom finally turns his gaze from the window to you. His dark eyes are calm, assessing. "You'll see them at the feast," he says, as if that settles everything. "There's no need to rush."

Outside, the whistle blows. The train gives a lurch, and the platform begins to slide away. You watch families waving, students laughing, the world moving on without you. You're sealed in this quiet compartment with Tom, and the journey has already begun.

You look out the window, watching as London's rooftops and chimneys shrink into the distance, swallowed by green fields and patches of woodland. The silence in the compartment is heavy, filled with things neither of you are saying. Tom watches you watch the world go by, his expression unreadable.

The door slides open.

Abraxas Malfoy stands there, already in his school robes, his pale hair perfectly combed. His gray eyes find you immediately, a faint, pleased smile touching his lips. "There you are," he says, his voice smooth. "We've been looking for you."

Behind him, Avery, Lestrange, and Mulciber file into the compartment, filling the empty seats. The space suddenly feels smaller, warmer, charged with a different kind of tension. Mulciber grins, his dark curls messy, his tie already loose. "Starting the year off right, I see," he says, his eyes flicking from you to Tom and back again.

Tom doesn't look surprised. He merely inclines his head, a silent acknowledgment. "Sit," he says, and it's not an invitation. It's permission.

Malfoy takes the seat opposite of you, close enough that you can smell the faint, expensive scent of his cologne. "How was your summer, Y/N?" he asks, his attention fully on you, as if the others aren't even there.

Tom's gaze sharpens. He doesn't move, but you feel the shift in the air, the quiet, possessive stillness that settles over him.

You smile warmly at Malfoy. "It was quiet," you say, your voice light. "Mostly reading. How was yours? Did you go anywhere exciting?"

Malfoy's smile widens, pleased by your attention. "France, for a few weeks. My family has an estate near Beauxbatons. The weather was perfect." He leans back, his gray eyes holding yours. "You should see it sometime. The gardens are... impressive."

From across the compartment, you feel Tom's gaze like a physical weight. He hasn't moved, but the air around him has gone still, cold. His dark eyes are fixed on Malfoy, his expression perfectly composed, but there's a sharpness to it now, a dangerous quiet.

Mulciber, who sits next to you,  watches the exchange with hungry interest, his eyes flicking between you and Tom. He licks his lips, a slow, deliberate motion. Avery and Lestrange are silent, observing.

"It sounds lovely," you say to Malfoy, trying to keep your tone friendly but neutral.

"It is," Malfoy agrees. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against the sleeve of your robe as if to straighten a nonexistent wrinkle. "Perhaps I could show you next summer. If you'd like."

Tom's hand, resting on his knee, curls slowly into a fist. His knuckles go white. He doesn't look at you. He keeps his eyes on Malfoy, and when he speaks, his voice is soft, controlled, and utterly cold.

"Abraxas," Tom says. "Your schoolbag takes too much space, move over."

Malfoy hesitates for a fraction of a second, his smile faltering. Then, with a slight, almost imperceptible nod, he rises and moves to sit beside Avery.

You don't notice the tension thickening the air, as you look out the window. The rhythmic sway of the train, the blur of green outside the window, the low murmur of voices. It all blends into a gentle hum. Your eyes grow heavy, the events of the morning catching up to you. The platform, the goodbyes, the strange emptiness of leaving again.

Your eyelids drift shut. The world softens at the edges.

After a while your head tilts, seeking support. It comes to rest against something solid and warm: Mulciber's shoulder, beside you. You sigh softly in your sleep, your breathing evening out.

For a heartbeat, the compartment is utterly silent.

Then Mulciber goes very still. A slow, delighted smile spreads across his face. He doesn't move, doesn't shift away. He just sits there, letting you sleep against him, his eyes lifting to meet Tom's across the compartment.

Tom is no longer looking out the window. He's staring at you, at the way your hair spills over Mulciber's shoulder, at the peaceful expression on your sleeping face. His own face is a mask of perfect, icy calm. But his eyes, dark, depthless, hold a violence so sharp it feels like the air has been sucked from the room.

Avery looks down at his hands. Lestrange watches Tom, his expression carefully blank. Malfoy's jaw tightens.

Mulciber meets Tom's gaze and his smile widens, turning hungry, challenging. He slowly, deliberately, lifts his free hand and brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his fingers lingering for a moment too long against your skin.

You mumble something unintelligible in your sleep, a soft, contented sound. Your head nestles deeper into the curve of Mulciber's shoulder, your body shifting closer to his warmth. Your breathing remains slow and even, completely unaware.

Mulciber's smile turns into something darkly triumphant. He looks directly at Tom, his eyes gleaming with a reckless, hungry challenge. His hand, still hovering near your hair, doesn't withdraw.

Tom stands up.

He does it smoothly, without a sound. One moment he's seated, the next he's on his feet, his tall frame seeming to fill the compartment. The air turns frigid, heavy with a pressure that makes Avery flinch and Lestrange sit up straighter.

Tom doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. When he speaks, the words are soft, precise, and carry the weight of a blade.

"Get. Up."

He's not talking to you. He's looking at Mulciber.

Mulciber's smile falters, but the defiance remains in his eyes. He doesn't move. "She's comfortable," he says, his voice a lazy drawl. "No need to wake her."

Tom takes one step forward. The temperature drops another degree. The window beside you fogs over with a sudden, creeping frost.

"I won't ask again."

The threat is absolute. It hangs in the air, sharp and final.

Mulciber's bravado cracks. He swallows, his gaze dropping from Tom's for a fraction of a second. Slowly, carefully, he shifts his  shoulder, dislodging your head. You stir, a faint frown touching your sleeping face as you slump sideways against the cold windowpane instead.

Mulciber stands, moving away from you, his earlier swagger gone.

He doesn't look at Tom as he takes a seat by the door, putting as much distance between himself and you as the small compartment allows.

Tom doesn't sit back down. He stands over you for a long moment, looking at your sleeping form against the glass. His expression is unreadable, a storm contained behind a wall of ice.

Then, without a word, he takes the seat Mulciber vacated, the one right beside you. He doesn't touch you. He just sits there, a silent, possessive sentinel, his dark eyes fixed on the corridor door as if daring anyone else to enter.

You stay asleep, your head resting against the cold glass. The train sways, and your body shifts with it, sliding sideways. Your head slips from the window and lands on something firmer, warmer.

Tom's shoulder now.

His scent, clean linen, old books, and something uniquely, unmistakably him, washes over you. You sigh in your sleep, a soft, contented sound, and nestle closer. Your breathing deepens.

Tom goes perfectly still.

He doesn't look down at you. He keeps his gaze fixed ahead, his posture rigid. But the terrible, icy tension that had gripped the compartment moments before begins to thaw, replaced by something else, something quieter, more possessive. The frost on the window melts away, leaving only clear glass and the passing countryside.

Avery lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Lestrange looks away, his expression carefully neutral. Malfoy watches from his seat across the compartment, his gray eyes dark with something unreadable.

Mulciber, now seated by the door, stares at the floor. He doesn't look up. He doesn't smile.

Tom's hand, resting on his own knee, slowly uncurls. Then, with a deliberate, controlled movement, he lifts it and rests it lightly on your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair.

It's a gesture of claim, of ownership, so tender it's almost violent.

He doesn't speak. He just sits there, holding you against him, while the train carries you both north.

After hours you stir, blinking slowly as consciousness returns. The world comes back in pieces, the rhythmic clatter of wheels, the sway of the carriage, the warmth beneath your cheek. You lift your head, disoriented, and find yourself looking into the dark wool of Tom's school robe. You're leaning against him, your head having rested on his shoulder.

You pull back quickly, heat rising to your cheeks. "Sorry," you mumble, rubbing your eyes. "I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine," Tom says, his voice quiet. His hand, which had been resting in your hair the whole time, withdraws slowly. He doesn't look at you; his gaze is fixed somewhere beyond the window, but there's a softness to his profile that wasn't there before.

The compartment feels different. Avery is pretending to read a book. Lestrange is staring out the opposite window. Malfoy is watching you with an unreadable expression, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee. Mulciber, by the door, hasn't moved. He's studying the floor as if it holds the answers to everything.

You straighten your robes, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. The countryside outside is wilder now, hills rising steeply, patches of forest clinging to the slopes. You're getting close. Tom finally turns his head to look at you. His dark eyes are calm, but there's something in them. A satisfied possessiveness, a quiet victory. "We'll be there soon," he says.

You look at him tiredly, a bit confused. "When did you change seats?" you ask, your voice still thick with sleep. Tom's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes, amusement, maybe, or satisfaction. "A while ago," he says simply. He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't glance at Mulciber, who's still staring at the floor by the door.

The train gives a long, warning whistle. Outside, the landscape has shifted to steep, rocky hills and dark pine forests. You recognize the view, you're nearly there.

Avery closes his book. Lestrange straightens his robes. Malfoy stands, reaching for his trunk on the rack above. The spell of the journey breaks, replaced by the familiar ritual of arrival.

Tom rises, his movements fluid. He offers you a hand, not to help you up, but to take your trunk. "Come on," he says. "The carriages will be waiting."

You stand, smoothing your robes. The compartment door slides open, and the corridor fills with the noise of other students gathering their things, laughing, calling to one another. You follow Tom out, the others falling in behind you.

On the platform at Hogsmeade, the air is crisp and cool, smelling of pine and coal smoke. The scarlet engine huffs steam into the twilight. Ahead, the horseless carriages line up, waiting to carry you up to the castle.

You let go of Tom's hand, just for a moment, and stand on your toes, scanning the crowd. Gryffindor red flashes in the sea of black robes. There! Lucedia's dark braid bobs as she laughs with a group of older students. Septimus is beside her, his red hair bright even in the fading evening light.

"Lucedia!" you call, waving.

She turns, her glasses catching the lantern light. A wide smile breaks across her face. "Y/N!"

She starts pushing through the crowd toward you, Septimus following with an easy grin.

Tom's hand finds your elbow, his grip firm. "The carriages are leaving," he says, his voice low. "We need to go."

"But they're right there," you say, watching Lucedia get closer.

Tom doesn't look at your friends. He looks at you, his dark eyes holding yours. "You'll see them at the feast " he repeats the same words from the train but now they sound less like a statement and the feast, more like a command. "Come on."

He guides you firmly toward an empty carriage. You glance back over your shoulder. Lucedia has reached the spot where you were standing, her smile fading as she watches you being led away. She meets your eyes, gives a small, understanding shrug, and mouths, "Later."

Then you're climbing into the carriage, Tom beside you. The door shuts with a soft click. The thestrals shift, and the carriage begins to move, rolling up the winding path toward the castle.

You watch the castle coming closer through the carriage window, and a smile spreads across your face despite everything. It’s always breathtaking to see it: The towering stone walls, the lit windows glowing like scattered stars against the darkening sky, the familiar silhouette that means safety, magic, home. You’re finally back.

Tom watches you watching the castle. He doesn’t smile, but something in his expression softens, as if your awe pleases him. “It’s the same as last year,” he says quietly.

“It’s never the same,” you murmur, your breath fogging the glass. “It’s always better.”

The carriage rolls through the wrought-iron gates and up the winding drive. The thestrals slow to a stop in the courtyard, where other carriages are already unloading. The air is crisp, filled with the chatter of returning students and the distant sound of the lake.

Tom opens the carriage door and steps out, then offers you his hand. You take it, letting him help you down. His fingers linger around yours for a moment before he lets go.

“Welcome home,” he says, his dark eyes holding yours.

The Great Hall is alive with noise and light the enchanted ceiling showing a clear starry sky. You find your place at the Slytherin table beside Tom, the familiar weight of the house colors settling around you. The Sorting Hat begins its song, but the verses feel heavier this year, the melody tinged with warnings you don't quite understand. Dumbledore watches from the High Table, his blue eyes sharp behind his spectacles, his gaze lingering on you and Tom for a second.

You watch the sorting with a growing sense of unease. The Hat's song was different this year, less about unity, more about choices, about darkness gathering at the edges. You watch as a small, trembling girl is placed in Hufflepuff, a sharp-eyed boy goes to Ravenclaw. Each time the Hat shouts a house name, the applause feels thinner, more scattered.

Tom sits beside you, perfectly still, his dark eyes fixed on the proceedings. He doesn't seem uneasy.

He seems… interested. Calculating. As if he's measuring each new student, weighing their potential.

The last first-year is sorted into Gryffindor. The Hat falls silent. Headmaster Dippet rises, his voice thin and reedy as he welcomes everyone back. The food appears on the golden plates.

Beside you, Tom eats with precise, measured bites. He doesn't seem bothered by the atmosphere. He's watching the High Table, his gaze is fixed on Slughorn, who's laughing heartily at something Dippet has said.

Professor Slughorn catches Tom's eye and gives him a warm, approving nod. Then he turns his attention to you, his walrus mustache twitching with a smile. He rises from his seat and makes his way down the Slytherin table, his embroidered robes swishing. He hands out scrolls and addresses the table: "Welcome back to Third year! Time to choose your electives. You'll need to select three from the list on the back by tomorrow morning. Come see me if you have questions."

He pats your shoulder and moves on, leaving you holding the parchment. You unroll it. Your core classes are listed in neat script:

Electives (Choose Three): followed by the options.

Care of Magical Creatures. Divination. Arithmancy. Muggle Studies. Ancient Runes.

You look at the list, your finger tracing the options. Care of Magical Creatures… that sounds wonderful, being outside with magical animals, you think of Nagini. Arithmancy, numbers and magic, a puzzle you've always wanted to solve. And Ancient Runes, the symbols you and Tom found in the sea cave years ago still glow in your memory. You circle those three with the quill Slughorn left on the table.

Tom unrolls his own schedule beside you. He doesn't hesitate. He circles Ancient Runes first, then Arithmancy. For his third, his quill hovers. He glances at your parchment, then deliberately circles divination.

"Interesting choices," he says, his voice low. "Ancient Runes together. That could be useful."

Before you can reply, a voice cuts through the chatter from further down the table. It's Avery, leaning forward, his tone sharp with disdain. "My father says the Muggles have gone completely mad. Started a proper war on the continent. Bombing each other's cities. As if they weren't primitive enough."

A hush falls over that section of the table. Druella nods, her expression severe. "It's all over the Prophet. They're calling it the Second World War. It's spreading."

The feast continues, but the mood has shifted. The laughter feels forced now, the warmth of the hall tinged with a new, cold reality from the world outside.

You think of London's streets, the grimy cobblestones, the soot-stained buildings, the orphanage with its tired bricks. Bombing. Hunger. A cold shiver runs down your spine. You hope, fiercely and silently, that Wool's Orphanage stays safe. It's still your home, in a way. Mrs. Cole, the other children... even the memories there, painful as some are, feel suddenly fragile.

You don't realize you've stopped eating until Tom's voice cuts through your thoughts. "It won't touch us here," he says quietly, his eyes on your face. He's guessed where your mind has gone. "Hogwarts is protected. The orphanage is just bricks and mortar."

But it's not, and you both know it. It's where you met. It's where you became us.

The desserts appear on the table, pumpkin pasties, treacle tart, bowls of fruit, but the sweetness feels hollow. The chatter picks up again, but it's edged with the new knowledge. The war is out there, in the Muggle world, and its shadow has just fallen across the Great Hall.

Headmaster Dippet rises once more, his voice trembling slightly as he gives the final announcements. Prefects are to lead first-years to their dormitories. Classes begin tomorrow. He wishes everyone a productive year. His words are routine, but they land differently tonight.

The feast is over. Students begin to rise, the scrape of benches echoing in the vast hall.

The next morning, your first elective is Care of Magical Creatures. You walk down to the edge of the Forbidden Forest alone. Tom has divination instead. The air is fresh and damp, smelling of earth and pine. Professor Kettleburn, his wooden leg tapping, greets the small class with a wide grin.

"Pair up!" he calls. "We'll be observing Bowtruckles today. Gentle hands, now."

You look around. Druella is already with another Slytherin girl. Then you see Abraxas Malfoy, standing apart, his pale hair neat, his gray eyes finding yours. He gives you a small, polite smile and gestures to the empty space beside him.

You walk over to where Malfoy stands, the morning dew dampening the grass beneath your shoes.

"Good morning," you say, offering a polite smile.

"L/N," he replies, his voice smooth. He returns the smile, and it reaches his gray eyes, making them look less cold than usual. "A pleasure to be paired with you."

Professor Kettleburn hobbles over, handing each pair a small wooden box. Inside, a tiny, twig-like creature with bright green eyes peers up at you. A Bowtruckle. It chirps softly.

"Right, observe their behavior," Kettleburn instructs. "Note how they interact with their chosen wood. Gentle, now."

You and Malfoy find a spot on a mossy log. You open the box carefully. The Bowtruckle climbs onto your finger, its tiny limbs surprisingly strong.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Malfoy says, watching the creature explore your hand. His tone is casual, conversational.

"What is?"

"Having a class without Riddle," he says, glancing at you. "A bit of freedom. What do you plan to do with it?"

The question is light, but there's something in his gaze, a curiosity that feels more personal than academic.

You watch the Bowtruckle climb from your finger to a nearby twig. "I haven't really thought about it," you answer honestly. "It's just... different."

Malfoy nods, his gaze thoughtful. "Different can be good," he says. He reaches into the box and offers a woodlouse to the Bowtruckle, which snatches it with delicate precision. "Riddle is... intense. It must be exhausting, having someone watch you that closely all the time."

The observation is sharp, and it lands with uncomfortable accuracy. You don't know how to respond, so you focus on the creature instead. "He's just protective."

"Of course," Malfoy says smoothly, but there's a flicker of something in his gray eyes, amusement, or maybe skepticism. "Still, a little space to breathe never hurt anyone."

The class continues. You and Malfoy work well together, he's precise, observant, and surprisingly patient with the Bowtruckle. When Kettleburn calls time, you return the creature to its box, and Malfoy closes the lid gently.

As you pack your things, he turns to you. "Ancient Runes is next for you, isn't it? I have it too. It's a challenging subject." He pauses, then adds casually, "I was thinking of reviewing the introductory runes in the library tonight. If you'd like to join me. Two heads are better than one."

He says it like an afterthought, but his eyes hold yours, waiting.

You smile warmly at him. He is kind of cute, with his neat hair and those serious gray eyes that soften when he smiles. Why not? "I'd like that," you say. "What time?"

"Eight o'clock," Malfoy replies, a faint, pleased flush touching his pale cheeks. "In the back of the library, near the Arithmancy section. It's usually quiet there."

You nod, gathering your things as Professor Kettleburn dismisses the class. The rest of the day passes in a blur of familiar corridors and new schedules. Ancient Runes is fascinating. The symbols seem to hum with a power you can almost feel. Tom is there, of course, sitting beside you. His presence is a constant, comforting weight, but you don't mention your evening plans.

Dinner comes and goes. The sky outside the Great Hall windows darkens to deep violet. At a quarter to eight, you slip away from the Slytherin common room, telling Druella you're going to the library to study. She raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

The castle is quiet, the stone corridors echoing with your footsteps. You make your way to the library, the scent of old parchment and dust growing stronger as you approach.

The library’s back corner is dimly lit by floating candles, the air thick with the smell of leather and ink. Malfoy is already there, two textbooks open on the table, his quill poised. He looks up as you approach, and a genuine smile touches his lips.

“You came,” he says, his voice soft.

“I said I would,” you reply, taking the seat opposite him. Ancient Runes symbols swim across the parchment between you, complex and beautiful.

Malfoy watches you for a moment, his gray eyes thoughtful. “I’ve always wanted to spend more time with you,” he admits quietly, tracing a rune with his fingertip. “To get to know you better.”

You smile shyly, looking down at the runes on the parchment. "What do you want to know?" you ask, your voice soft.

Malfoy leans back in his chair, his gray eyes thoughtful. "Everything," he says, and there's a sincerity in his tone that surprises you. "What you think about when you're not in class. What books you read.

What you want to do after Hogwarts." He pauses, a faint smile touching his lips. "Why you chose Ancient Runes, for a start."

You trace the symbol for 'protection' on the parchment. "It's... the magic feels older," you say. "Deeper. Like it's connected to something fundamental." You glance up at him. "And you?"

"I chose it because it's challenging," he admits. "And because my family has always valued the old arts." He watches you for a moment. "You talk about magic like it's alive."

You feel a warmth in your cheeks. "Magic is alive," you say, and without thinking, you let a little of your own power surface. The rune for 'light' on the parchment glows faintly blue under your fingertip, a soft, ethereal shimmer that lasts for a heartbeat before fading.

Malfoy's eyes widen. He doesn't look frightened. He looks... impressed. "How did you do that?" he asks, his voice hushed.

"It's ancient magic," you say, keeping your voice low. "Something... older than regular spells. I'm still learning about it."

Malfoy doesn't look away. His gaze is intent, curious, but not greedy. "Ancient magic," he repeats, as if tasting the words. "I've read about it. It's incredibly rare. They say only a handful of witches and wizards in history have been able to wield it "

You nod, tracing another rune, this one stays dark. "Professor Dumbledore is helping me learn to control it."

"Dumbledore," Malfoy says, and there's a flicker of something in his gray eyes, respect, maybe, or caution. "That makes sense. He'd be the one to recognize it." He leans forward slightly. "Does Riddle know?"

"Tom knows everything," you say, and it comes out more defensively than you intended.

Malfoy holds up a hand. "I didn't mean to imply anything. It's just... impressive." He smiles, a real, warm smile that softens his sharp features. "You're full of surprises, L/N."

For the next hour, you work through the introductory runes. Malfoy is a good study partner. Patient, sharp, and surprisingly funny when he makes a dry comment about the textbook's overly dramatic descriptions. The conversation flows easily, touching on classes, Quidditch (he supports the Falmouth Falcons), even the war news from earlier. He listens when you talk, really listens, and you find yourself relaxing in a way you rarely do outside Tom's company.

When the library's closing bell chimes softly, you both startle. You've lost track of time.

You gather your books, your fingers brushing against the parchment. "Would you want to study together again sometime?" you ask, the question coming out softer than you intended.

Malfoy looks up from packing his own bag. His gray eyes meet yours, and that faint, pleased flush returns to his cheeks. "I'd like that," he says, his voice equally quiet. "Very much."

He stands, offering you a hand as you rise from your chair. You take it, his fingers are cool and smooth, and he helps you with your cloak. It's a small, polite gesture, but it feels oddly intimate in the quiet of the library.

"You're good at this " he says as you walk together toward the library doors "Ancient Runes I mean”

"Thank you," you say, and you mean it. "You're a good teacher."

He smiles, a real, unguarded smile that makes him look younger. "Next week, then? Same time?"

You nod. "Same time."

The corridors outside are dark and empty, lit only by flickering torches. You walk side by side, the silence comfortable. When you reach the staircase that splits, one way to the Slytherin dungeons, the other toward the his appointment with Professor Fitzgerald.

"Goodnight, L/N," he says, his gaze lingering on your face.

"Goodnight, Malfoy."

You watch him walk away, his robes swishing softly, until he disappears around a corner. Then you turn and head down toward the dungeons, the memory of his smile and the warmth of his company lingering like a pleasant afterglow.

The common room is dim, lit by the greenish glow of the lake through the windows. A few older students linger by the fire, but your eyes find Tom immediately. He's sitting in his usual armchair, a book open on his lap, but he's not reading. He's watching you.

You realize you're still wearing the faint, pleased smile from your walk with Malfoy. It fades as you meet Tom's gaze. His expression is unreadable, calm, composed, but his dark eyes are fixed on you with intensity.

"You're late," he says, his voice quiet.

"I was studying," you say, walking toward him. "Ancient Runes."

"With Malfoy." It's not a question.

You nod, stopping beside his chair. "He's good at it. We're going to study together again next week."

Tom closes his book slowly. He looks up at you, his face pale in the underwater light. "You looked happy when you came in," he observes, his tone neutral. "You were smiling."

"I was," you say, meeting his gaze. "It was a good study session."

Tom watches you for a long moment, his expression still unreadable. Then he nods, once. "Good," he says, and the word is flat. He opens his book again, but his eyes don't move across the page. "Malfoy is competent. His family has resources. It's wise to cultivate useful connections."

There's a coldness to his words that makes the warmth from earlier fade completely. You stand there, unsure what to say. The silence stretches, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the distant murmur of the lake.

Finally, Tom looks up again. His dark eyes are softer now, but the intensity hasn't left them. "Just remember," he says quietly, "who understands you. Who sees what you are."

He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. The meaning hangs between you, clear and heavy.

You nod, your throat tight.

"Goodnight, Tom," you whisper.

"Goodnight," he replies, his gaze returning to his book.

You walk to the girls' dormitory, the memory of Malfoy's smile and Tom's words tangled together in your mind. As you lie in bed, staring at the canopy above, you think about gray eyes that watch you with curiosity, and dark eyes that watch you with something possessive and absolute.

The weeks that follow are normal, routine. Classes, homework, meals in the Great Hall. You study with Malfoy sometimes. He's polite, clever, and his smile come easier each time. But you're careful now. You don't let your ancient magic surface. You don't mention Tom.

And Tom watches. He doesn't comment. He doesn't interfere. But you feel his gaze on you sometimes, in the common room, in the corridors, a silent reminder that he's waiting, always waiting, for you to remember where you belong.

The normal weeks blur into October, the castle growing colder as the leaves outside turn gold and crimson. Defense Against the Dark Arts has always been one of your favorite subjects, but today, Professor Merrythought’s announcement sends a ripple of excitement through the classroom.

“Today,” she says, her voice carrying over the rows of desks, “we begin practical dueling. You will pair up and practice the Disarming Charm. Remember: wand straight, wrist firm, clear and strong.”

She begins assigning partners. Your heart beats a little faster when you hear your name being paired.

“L/N,” Professor Merrythought says, “you’re with Mulciber.”

Your magic flares with excitement the moment you step onto the marked platform. You love dueling. The rush, the focus, the sheer competitive thrill of it. A sly, sharp grin touches your lips, pure Slytherin, as you face Mulciber across the space.

Professor Merrythought hasn't even finished saying "begin" when you move.

Your wand flicks upward in a silent, precise arc. Levioso. Mulciber's feet leave the floor, his expression shifting from confident smirk to startled surprise. You don't give him time to recover. A sharp Depulso sends him flying backward, still hovering, toward the wall. He manages to twist, landing awkwardly but on his feet, his dark curls mussed.

His eyes narrow, and he fires a Stinging Hex. You deflect it with a casual shield charm, the air shimmering blue where the spells meet. Then you counter. The Blasting Curse shoots from your wand, not at him, but at the floor in front of him. Stone chips fly, and he stumbles back with a curse.

You're grinning now, alive with the rhythm of it. You can feel the ancient magic humming under your skin, eager, restless. As Mulciber raises his wand for a Disarming Charm, you decide to end it.

You pull your magic together, not thinking, just feeling and you let go.

A wave of force erupts from you, blue. It doesn't hurt him, it simply wraps around his wand and yanks it from his grip, sending it spinning through the air to land neatly in your waiting hand. The force continues, gentle but inexorable, pushing him back until he sits down hard on the platform's edge, breathless.

The classroom falls silent.

Then applause breaks out, scattered at first, then growing. Professor Merrythought is staring at you, her expression a mix of astonishment and deep approval. "Excellent control, L/N! And non- verbal casting in a first duel…remarkable!"

You look around. Tom is watching from the sidelines, his dark eyes gleaming with something fierce and proud. Abraxas Malfoy looks genuinely awed, his usual composure broken by a look of open admiration.

And Mulciber... Mulciber is still sitting where he landed. He's not angry. He's staring at you, his warm brown eyes wide, his lips slightly parted. There's no humiliation in his gaze. There's hunger. Raw, unmistakable hunger, as if you're a feast he's just discovered.

You bow sarcastically, the grin still plastered across your face, and stride over to where Mulciber sits. You hold out his wand, your smirk sharp and triumphant. "You dropped this."

He takes it, his fingers brushing yours. He doesn't look away. His warm brown eyes are still fixed on you, that hungry, fascinated gleam undiminished. "You're full of surprises, L/N," he says, his voice low, almost intimate. He doesn't sound angry. He sounds... impressed. Ravenous.

"You're not so bad yourself," you reply, though you both know he never stood a chance.

Professor Merrythought claps her hands, breaking the moment. "Excellent demonstration! Everyone, take note of Silberstein's control and non-verbal precision. That is the standard we strive for. Now, back to your pairs, practice the Disarming Charm. L/N, Mulciber, well done. You may observe or assist others."

You step off the platform, your blood still singing with the thrill of the duel. As you move to the side of the classroom, you feel eyes on you. Tom is leaning against a bookshelf, his arms crossed. He gives you the faintest nod, his expression one of cool approval, but his dark eyes are bright and proud.

For the rest of the class, you help a pair of struggling Hufflepuffs with their wrist movement. The adrenaline slowly fades, leaving a pleasant hum of satisfaction. When the bell rings, you gather your things, your mind already replaying the duel, the feel of your magic, the look on Mulciber's face, the silent approval in Tom's gaze.

The days settle back into routine, but the memory of the duel lingers. A quiet confidence that hums under your skin. When the note arrives during breakfast, delivered by the silvery owl of Professor Dumbledore inviting you to his office after dinner, you’re not surprised.

Dumbledore’s office is as you remember: cluttered, warm, smelling of lemon drops and old books.

He looks up from his desk, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles.

“Good evening, Y/N,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “I hear you’ve been making quite an impression in Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

You beam at him, unable to hide your pride. "Thank you," you say, taking the seat across from his desk. "It felt... good. To really use my magic like that."

Dumbledore smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I have no doubt it did. Professor Merrythought was quite impressed with your control, particularly the non-verbal casting. That is advanced magic for a third-year."

He leans forward slightly, his hands folded on the desk. "Which brings me to our lesson tonight. How has your practice been progressing? The occlumency exercises I gave you?"

"I've been practicing every night," you say, and without waiting for him to ask, you close your eyes and focus. You build the walls in your mind, layer by layer, just as he taught you, smooth, strong, impenetrable. When you open your eyes again, Dumbledore is watching you with that same thoughtful expression.

"Excellent," he says softly. "Your control is growing. That is vital, Y/N. The mind is the first line of defense and the last." He pauses, his gaze drifting to the window, where the night sky hangs dark over the Forbidden Forest. "There are those in the world who would seek to exploit a gift like yours. Who would see it not as a wonder, but as a weapon."

He turns back to you, his blue eyes serious. "You have heard, I assume, of Gellert Grindelwald?"

The name sends a chill through you. Everyone has heard of Grindelwald, the dark wizard gathering followers on the continent, the one the Daily Prophet warns about in hushed, fearful tones. You nod.

"He, too, is fascinated by power that others could not comprehend," Dumbledore continues. "He believes that such power should be used to reshape the world, to place wizards above Muggles, for what he calls 'the greater good.'" Dumbledore's voice is calm, but there's a weight to his words, a personal sorrow you can't quite decipher. "He would be... very interested in someone like you."

You look into the fire, watching the flames dance. The warmth of the office feels distant compared to the chill his words have left in your chest. "Do you think I'm in danger from him?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "From Grindelwald?"

Dumbledore doesn't answer immediately. He removes his spectacles and polishes them slowly with a corner of his robe. "Danger is a relative term," he says at last, his voice thoughtful.

"Are you in immediate, physical peril? Not at this moment, no. Hogwarts' wards are strong, and he has other, more pressing concerns on the continent." He replaces his spectacles. "But are you a person of interest to him and his followers? Almost certainly. Your lineage, your gift... they are rare and potent. To a man who seeks to reshape the world, such things are either weapons to be acquired or obstacles to be removed."

He leans forward, his expression earnest. "That is why knowledge is your greatest shield, Y/N. Understanding your magic, mastering it, that is what will keep you safe. And understanding the people around you. Trust is a powerful magic in its own right, but it must be given wisely."

He lets the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing.

"Now, shall we begin? I believe last time we worked on containing the magical surge when you feel strong emotion. Let us see if we can refine that control."

The lesson that follows is intense. Dumbledore guides you through visualization exercises, teaching you to imagine your magic as a river within you, and your will as the banks that contain it. You practice until your focus aches, until the blue light that flickers at your fingertips obeys your slightest thought, flaring and fading on command.

When he finally dismisses you, the stars are out beyond his window. "You have made excellent progress," he says as you gather your things. "Remember, control is a practice, not a destination. And Y/N," he adds, his tone softening, "the answers about who you are... They come from the choices you make every day. Pay attention to them."

The walk back to the dungeons feels longer than usual. Dumbledore's words about choices and trust swirl in your mind, mixing with the lingering fatigue from the lesson. You want to tell Tom about your progress, to share this small victory with the one person who has always understood your magic.

You give the password to the blank stretch of wall, and the stone door grinds open. The Slytherin common room is dimly lit by the greenish glow of the lake, the fire in the hearth burning low. It's late, and only a few students remain, scattered in armchairs or already retired to their dorms.

Then you spot them. Tom, Abraxas, Avery, Lestrange, and Mulciber are gathered around a low table near the back, the firelight casting long shadows across their faces. They're not studying. They're playing a complex-looking wizard's chess game, the pieces moving with silent, predatory grace. Their voices are hushed, serious.

You start to walk toward them, a smile ready on your lips. But then you hear it: your name. Spoken by Tom, his tone cool and analytical.

You freeze. Your first instinct is to call out, to join them. But something in the atmosphere stops you. They're leaning in, their expressions intent. This isn't casual conversation.

Without thinking, you step back into the deeper shadow of a stone pillar, your heart beginning to beat a little faster. You don't want to listen. But you can't make yourself walk away. The curiosity is a sharp, painful hook in your chest, pulling you deeper into the shadows.

Tom's voice is clear, measured, cutting through the quiet crackle of the fire. "...her control is improving. Dumbledore is taking a personal interest. That complicates things."

"Does it?" That's Abraxas, his tone thoughtful. "Or does it present an opportunity? If Dumbledore is training her, he's making her stronger. That power could be... directed."

A low chuckle. Mulciber. "Directed. I like that. After that display in Defense... Merlin, Riddle. You've been holding out on us. She's a thoroughbred."

There's a beat of silence. You can almost feel the temperature drop.

"Her power is not a topic for your amusement, Mulciber." Tom's voice hasn't changed in volume, but it carries a finality that silences the other boy. "It is a fact. A valuable one. And it belongs here." He means Slytherin. He means with him.

"But her loyalties?" Avery asks, his voice cautious. "She's friendly with the Weasley brat. And Potter. She doesn't always... follow."

"She follows me," Tom says, and the absolute certainty in his words makes your skin prickle. "Everything else is irrelevant. But it must be managed. Her mysterious narrative is useful. It makes her admired. It also makes her visible. We need to ensure that visibility serves our purposes, not Dumbledore's. Or anyone else's."

Your blood runs cold. They’ re talking about you like you re a piece on their chessboard. A valuable one, but a piece nonetheless.

Mulciber leans back in his chair, a lazy, appreciative smile on his face. "That duel, though. You should have seen her, Riddle. It wasn't just power. It was... artistry. She didn't just beat me; she rewrote the rules of the match. That ancient magic of hers... it's beautiful. Dangerous, but beautiful."

Tom's expression remains impassive, but his fingers tighten slightly around his goblet.

Abraxas watches Tom closely, his gray eyes calculating. After a moment of quiet, he speaks, his voice deceptively casual. "A question, Tom. Given all this... value. Do you have a personal interest in her? A romantic one?"

The air in the common room seems to still. Avery and Lestrange exchange a quick glance. Mulciber's smile widens, as if he's been waiting for this.

Tom's reply is immediate, cold, and dismissive. "Don't be absurd, Malfoy. Romantic entanglements are for the weak-minded. They cloud judgment, create vulnerability. Y/N is... a companion. A useful one. My interest is in her potential, not in some childish infatuation." He says it with such conviction, such disdain for the very idea, that it feels like a truth he's hammered into his own mind.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across Abraxas Malfoy's face. His whole demeanor brightens, as if a weight has been lifted. "I see," he says, his tone lightening considerably. "In that case, you won't mind if I pursue her. She is, after all, the most desirable and beautiful witch in our year. And I find I... rather like her."

You don't wait to hear Tom's response. The words, a companion, a useful one, echo in your ears, hollowing you out from the inside. You feel a hot rush of embarrassment, followed by a sharper, deeper hurt. You thought you were more than that.

You turn from the pillar and walk quickly, silently, toward the common room entrance. You don't look back. You don't see the way Tom's knuckles turn white around his goblet. You don't hear the sharp, sudden crack of crystal as it shatters in his clenched fist, nor see the dark fury that flashes in his eyes as he stares at Abraxas.

You just slip through the stone doorway and into the cold, empty corridor, alone with the echo of a truth you never wanted to hear.

EPISODE 20(!!!) OUT NOW! Read it here and experience the Story yourself (gender-neutral, f!reader, m!reader option)

[bloodred-writer]

Orphans | YANDERE!TOM RIDDLE AU

Synopsis:

Tom Riddle never had much. The orphanage didn't exactly offered much possesions. So he was claiming his trophys one by one: A yo-yo, a thimble, a silver button, a handkerchief, stolen keepsakes from other children. And then one day there was you. You, who could make a fire without touching a matchstick. You, who could speak to snakes. You, who could wield rare ancient magic. And you, who walked beside him all those years. Tom Riddle never had much, but he'll surely burn the world to keep you.

Experience the Story yourself (gender-neutral, f!reader, m!reader option):

Orphans | YANDERE!TOM RIDDLE - Choose Your Own Adventure

Tom Riddle never had much. The orphanage didn't exactly offered much possesions. So he was claiming his trophys one by one: A yo-yo, a thimb

Chapter 1: The boy with the cold eyes

Yandere!Tom Riddle x f!reader

Words: 11129

Part 2 here

The rain follows you all the way to the gate. It streaks down the black bars, cold against your fingers as you clutch them and stare at the building beyond, Wool’s Orphanage, Mrs. Cole called it. The place looks tired, as if it’s been holding its breath for years.

Her lantern swings ahead of you, scattering light over cracked steps and puddles that mirror the yellow glow. You follow because that’s what you’ve been told to do, and because you have nowhere else to go.

Inside, the air tastes of dust and old cabbage. The corridors hum with quiet noises, footsteps too light to belong to grown-ups, the soft rustle of sheets, someone sobbing where they think no one can hear. You feel the pain of the children before you ever see them; it hums under your skin, heavy and familiar, though you don’t know why.

Mrs. Cole walks briskly, her shoes clicking against the stone floor. When she glances back at you, her face is sharp and tired, but her eyes hold something gentler. “You’ll sleep here,” she says, opening a door to a narrow room lined with iron beds and shivering shadows.

You nod, though your throat is tight. You don’t know how to thank her. You don’t know what else to say.

All you know, all you remember, is your name.

Everything before this moment is gone. The faces, the laughter, the warmth, all burned away, leaving only a flash of green light behind your eyes and a hollow ache where a life used to be. Seven whole years you can’t remember.

Mrs. Cole’s hand rests briefly on your shoulder. “It’ll get easier,” she says, as if the words might make it true.

When she leaves, the candlelight flickers. You whisper your name into the darkness, soft and certain, as if holding onto it will keep the rest of you from disappearing.

“Y/N L/N“

You take a slow breath and look around the room. Three iron beds stand against the walls, each with a thin mattress and a single gray blanket folded at the foot. The floorboards are bare and worn smooth in places, and a small, grimy window looks out onto a brick wall and a slice of rainy sky. There’s a wooden chest at the foot of each bed, and a cracked mirror hangs on the wall between two of them, reflecting the flickering candlelight in distorted shards.

A child with mousy brown hair sits on the bed closest to the door, watching you with wide, curious eyes. She’s maybe your age, maybe a little older, clutching a worn rag doll to their chest.

“You’re the new one,” they say, not unkindly. “I’m Amy. That’s Denis’s bed over there, but he’s outside playing in the puddles until Mrs. Cole catches him.”

They pat the space beside them. “You can sit if you want. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you say, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

Amy nods as if filing the name away. “That’s nice. Sounds like it belongs in a story.” She glances toward the doorway, her expression tightening slightly.

You follow her gaze.

A boy stands in the hall, just outside the room. He’s pale, with dark hair neatly combed, watching you with an intensity that makes the back of your neck prickle. His eyes are dark, almost black, and they don’t blink. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t move, just stares, as if he’s trying to memorize you.

Before you can say anything, Mrs. Cole’s sharp voice cuts through the quiet.

“Tom Riddle! What are you doing lurking about? Get away from there this instant!”

The boy, Tom, turns his head slowly, as if pulled from a trance. He gives Mrs. Cole a look that is neither frightened nor apologetic, just blank. Then he slips away down the corridor without a sound.

Mrs. Cole huffs, shaking her head. “Wicked boy,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. Then she raises her voice. “Dinner in five minutes! Everyone to the kitchen!”

Amy leans closer to you, her voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s Tom. Best stay away from him. He’s… strange.”

You can't shake the image of Tom's dark, unblinking stare. "What do you mean, strange?" you ask Amy, keeping your voice low.

Amy shifts on the bed, her fingers worrying at her doll's yarn hair. "He does things," she whispers. "Bad things. Animals get hurt when he's around. Billy Stubbs's rabbit… its neck was broken, and Tom was just standing there, looking at it. He didn't even cry. And he talks to himself sometimes, in a hissy sort of voice. No one likes him. Mrs. Cole calls him wicked all the time."

She glances toward the empty doorway again, as if afraid he might still be listening. "He steals things, too. Little things that go missing, and then they turn up in his drawer. He never gets in trouble for it, though. He's clever like that."

Footsteps echo in the hall, the clatter of many children heading toward the kitchen. Amy stands up, smoothing her worn dress. "Come on. We should go before all the bread's gone."

She offers you a small, sympathetic smile. "Just... don't be alone with him, okay?"

You follow Amy out of the room and down the dim corridor toward the smell of boiled potatoes and weak gravy. The kitchen is a large, steamy room with a long wooden table crowded with children of all ages. Their voices blend into a low, anxious hum.

Amy leads you to two empty spots on a bench. A boy with freckles and tousled hair is already sitting there, Denis, you assume. He gives you a quick, curious glance before turning his attention back to the slice of bread he's buttering.

You take your seat, and your eyes drift across the table almost against your will.

Tom sits alone at the far end. He's not eating; he's just staring at his plate, his expression perfectly blank. The children around him leave a noticeable gap, as if his very presence pushes them away. He looks up, and his dark eyes find yours immediately. There's no smile, no nod, just that same unnerving, focused stare.

Mrs. Cole claps her hands. „Eat, children!"

A bowl of thin stew is placed in front of you. As you pick up your spoon, you feel the weight of Tom's gaze still fixed on you, steady and unblinking, from across the room.

You force yourself to look away from Tom and study the other children instead. There’s a girl with a crooked braid who won’t meet anyone’s eyes, a boy who keeps kicking the table leg, a pair of twins whispering fiercely to each other. Their faces are pinched with hunger or worry or both.

Your gaze drops to your bowl. The stew is watery, with a few pale chunks of potato and carrot floating in it. The bread beside it is hard at the edges. A sudden, sharp wave of loneliness washes over you, so strong it makes your throat ache.

Why are you even here?

You don’t know. You don’t remember anything before the green light and the empty feeling. You don’t remember your parents’ faces, or a home, or a reason.

You pick up your spoon, but you don’t eat. You just stare into the thin broth, wondering if you’ll ever feel like you belong anywhere again.

Then you lift the spoon to your lips and take a small, reluctant bite. The stew tastes of salt and something faintly bitter, like old vegetables. It’s warm, at least, and the warmth spreads through your chest, easing the tightness there just a little.

Across the table, Tom is still watching you. But now, as you swallow, you see something shift in his expression, not a smile, but a subtle tilt of his head, as if he’s pleased you’ve decided to eat. It’s a strange, quiet approval that makes your skin prickle.

Amy nudges you with her elbow. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” she murmurs. “Better than nothing.”

Denis, on your other side, finally speaks up. “Sometimes we get jam on Sundays,” he says, as if offering a piece of valuable intelligence. “If you’re good.”

You nod, taking another spoonful. The act of eating feels like a small rebellion against the emptiness inside you. You’re here. You’re eating. You’re surviving.

Tom’s gaze doesn’t waver. It feels less like a threat now and more like… interest. Like you’re a book he’s decided to read, and he’s waiting to see what happens on the next page.

You lean closer to Amy, your voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries over the clatter of spoons and benches. "Why does he keep staring?"

Amy follows your gaze to Tom, then quickly looks down at her bowl. "I told you," she murmurs back. "He's not right. He does that to new people sometimes. Watches them. Like he's figuring out how to... I don't know. How to get to them."

Her expression grows earnest. "Just don't give him anything. Don't talk to him. He'll lose interest eventually."

But as you look back at Tom, you're not so sure. His dark eyes are still fixed on you, and there's a curious intensity in them now, not malice, but something like recognition, as if he sees something in you that no one else does.

You're caught in that silent exchange, a thread of connection stretching across the noisy room. Tom tilts his head slightly, studying you as if you're a complex spell he's trying to decipher.

Mrs. Cole claps her hands again. "All right, plates down! Everyone to wash up and then straight to bed. No dawdling!"

The spell breaks. Tom stands up smoothly, his bowl empty, and walks out of the kitchen without a backward glance. You're left sitting there, your heart beating a little too fast, wondering what you've just started.

You follow Amy back through the dim corridors, your mind still caught on that silent exchange with Tom. The orphanage feels different at night, the shadows longer, the quiet more profound, as if the building itself is holding its breath.

In your room, Amy changes into a nightdress without speaking. Denis is already in his bed, facing the wall.

"You should get ready," Amy says softly. "Lights out soon."

You change quickly and climb into your narrow bed. The sheets are rough and smell of soap and damp. Amy blows out the candle on the small table between your beds, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the faint gray light from the window.

You lie there, listening to Denis's steady breathing and the distant sound of a train passing somewhere in the city. Your thoughts drift, and exhaustion pulls you under.

In your dream, you're standing in a sunlit room you've never seen before. Books float gently through the air, turning their own pages. A quill writes by itself on a parchment that hovers mid-air. You reach out, and a small, carved wooden bird on a shelf trembles, then lifts into the air, circling your head before settling softly into your open palm.

You wake with a start, your heart pounding. The room is still dark. The wooden bird isn't real, but for a moment, the feeling of weight in your palm was.

The dream of floating objects lingers in your mind for days, a secret warmth tucked behind your ribs.

One rainy afternoon, when the other children are playing a noisy game in the common room, you slip away down a narrow hallway you haven't explored before. At the end is a door, slightly ajar.

You push it open.

The room is small and ugly, with peeling green paint and a single grimy window. A few shelves hold a sad collection of tattered books. Tom is sitting on the floor in a patch of weak gray light, a book open in his lap.

He looks up, and for once, he doesn't seem surprised to see you. His dark eyes study you carefully.

"This is the library," he says, his voice calm and clear. "Not that there's much to read."

"Hello," you say, and step inside.

The room feels smaller with both of you in it. Tom watches you, his expression unreadable. He doesn't smile, but he doesn't look angry either. Just... observing.

"You're the new girl," he says. It's not a question.

You nod, surprised he knows your name. "Yes."

He closes his book, setting it aside with careful precision. "Most of the others don't come in here. They think it's boring." He pauses, his dark eyes studying your face. "But you're different."

The words hang in the air between you. Different how? You think of your dream, of the quill floating above the desk. You think of the blue light that sometimes flickers at the edges of your vision when no one is looking.

Tom leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. "Sometimes," he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I can do things. Strange things. Things that shouldn't be possible."

He watches you closely, as if testing your reaction. "The other children call me wicked for it. Mrs. Cole too, when she thinks I can't hear."

You take a small step into the room, the floorboards creaking under your weight. "What kind of strange things can you do?" you ask, your curiosity outweighing Amy's warnings.

Tom's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes, a spark of interest, or maybe satisfaction. He sets his book aside carefully.

"I can make things happen," he says, his voice low and even. "Without touching them. I can make animals do what I want. I can find things that are hidden. I can hurt people if they bother me, and no one ever knows it was me."

Your eyes widen, and a strange mix of awe and recognition blooms in your chest. "Do you really mean it?" you whisper, taking another step into the room. "Could you... show me?"

For the first time, Tom's lips curve into something that almost resembles a smile. It's small and sharp, but it's there. He looks pleased, not in a warm way, but in the way someone looks when they've solved a difficult puzzle.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he glances toward the door you left ajar, then back at you. "If I show you," he says quietly, "you can't tell anyone. Not ever. They wouldn't understand."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, smooth stone, gray and ordinary. He places it on the floor between you.

"Watch," he says.

He doesn't touch it. He doesn't say any words. He just stares at the stone, his dark eyes fixed and intense. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, slowly, the stone begins to tremble. It rolls once, twice, then lifts an inch off the floorboards, hovering in the air as if held by invisible strings.

It stays there, suspended, for three heartbeats before dropping back with a soft tap.

Tom looks at you, his expression calm but expectant. "See?" he says. "I can do things they can't."

You stare at the spot where the stone hovered, your breath catching in your throat. "I've dreamed about things like that," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "Moving on their own. Books... and a little bird..."

Tom's eyes sharpen. He leans forward, his gaze intense. "Tell me," he says, his voice low but urgent.

You swallow, the memory of the dream vivid behind your eyes. "There was a room, full of sunlight. Books were floating, turning pages by themselves. A quill was writing in the air. And there was this wooden bird... it flew to me. It landed right in my hand."

You look down at your palm, half-expecting to see the ghost of its weight still there. "It felt real. More real than this."

Tom is silent for a long moment, studying you with a new, deeper interest. "Dreams can be memories," he says finally. "Or warnings. Or... possibilities."

He picks up the stone again, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. "You're like me," he says, and there's a strange note in his voice, not quite warmth, but something close to recognition. "We're not like them. We're special."

He looks at you, his dark eyes holding yours. "We should keep this between us. They wouldn't understand. They'd call you wicked too."

You nod slowly, the weight of the promise settling in your chest like a second heartbeat. "I won't tell anyone”, you say, your voice firm despite the whisper. „Not ever."

Tom watches you for another moment, then gives a single, satisfied nod. He slips the stone back into his pocket. "Good," he says. "It's better this way. Just us."

He stands up, brushing dust from his trousers. The gray light from the window catches the sharp angles of his face, making him look older than seven, like a statue carved from something cold and permanent.

"We should go back before they notice we're gone," he says, but he doesn't move toward the door right away. He looks at you one more time, his dark eyes lingering on your face as if memorizing it. "You can come here again. If you want."

He turns and walks out, leaving you alone in the ugly little room with its peeling paint and sad collection of books. The air feels different now, charged, as if something invisible has shifted between you.

You stand there for a moment longer, listening to the distant sounds of children playing down the hall. Then you follow him out, closing the door softly behind you.

Days pass in a blur of routine meals and quiet observations. You find yourself watching Tom more often, noticing how he moves through the orphanage like a shadow, present but separate. Sometimes you catch him looking back, and that silent understanding passes between you again.

Then comes the storm.

It builds all afternoon, the sky darkening to a bruised purple. By nightfall, rain lashes against the windows, and thunder rumbles deep in the distance. You lie awake in your narrow bed, listening to the wind howl around the old building.

That's when you feel it, a strange, warm tingling in your fingertips, like static electricity but stronger. You sit up, holding your hands out in the dark. A faint, silvery glow begins to pulse around your skin, growing brighter with each heartbeat.

You stare at the silvery light dancing around your fingers, your breath catching. Instead of pulling away, you focus all your attention on it, willing the glow to grow brighter. You think of the floating stone, of Tom's calm intensity, of the wooden bird from your dream.

The light responds. It pulses, then spreads, wrapping around your hands like delicate lace made of moonlight. The tingling sensation grows warmer, almost pleasant, humming through your veins. You can feel it, a current of something alive and waiting, just beneath your skin.

Across the room, the candle on the small table flickers, though there's no draft. The flame stretches toward you, bending as if drawn by an invisible force.

You remember Tom's words: We're special.

This is what he meant. This is the difference.

The thunder cracks again, closer this time, and the whole room seems to vibrate with the sound. You look from your glowing hands to the storm raging outside the window, and a sudden, fierce certainty fills you.

You look around the dark room. On the small table between your beds sits a chipped cup. You fix your gaze on the cup, willing it to move.

At first, nothing happens. The cup stays stubbornly still. You bite your lip, frustration mixing with the warm hum in your veins. You think of the stone hovering, of Tom's calm certainty. You don't just want it to move, you know it can.

The cup trembles.

It's a tiny, almost invisible shudder at first. Then it rocks once, twice, and lifts an inch off the table. It hovers there, wobbling slightly, as if held by an unsteady hand. Your heart leaps into your throat.

You're doing it. You're really doing it.

The cup drifts toward you, slow and unsteady, before dropping back onto the table with a soft clink. The sound seems loud in the quiet room. Amy stirs in her sleep but doesn't wake.

You stare at the cup, your hands still glowing faintly. There's no doubt now. It's real. And Tom was right… you’re like him.

You need to find him.

You slip out of bed, your bare feet silent on the cold floorboards. The silvery glow has faded from your hands, but the warmth lingers in your veins, a secret fire. You pause by Amy's bed, listening to her steady breathing, then ease the door open and slip into the dark corridor.

The orphanage is different at night, all shadows and creaking wood, the storm still muttering outside. You know where Tom sleeps, in a small room at the end of the boys' wing. You've never been there, but you've seen him come and go.

Your heart beats fast as you pad down the hallway, past closed doors and the faint smell of damp wool. When you reach his door, you hesitate, your hand hovering. What if he's angry? What if he doesn't believe you?

But you remember the floating stone, his dark eyes watching you with that strange recognition. You knock softly, three quick taps.

For a moment, there's only silence. Then the door opens a crack. Tom stands there, already fully dressed despite the hour, his dark hair neat, his expression alert. He doesn't look surprised to see you.

His eyes drop to your hands, then back to your face. "You did it, didn't you?" he says, his voice low.

You nod, your voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries over the sound of the storm. "I made a cup float," you tell him, holding out your hands. They're not glowing now, but you can still feel the warmth humming just beneath your skin. "Can you teach me more?"

Tom's eyes gleam in the dim light. He doesn't smile, but there's a new intensity in his expression, something hungry and focused. "Yes," he says simply. „There’s a place," he says. "Under the roof. No one goes there. We can practice there."

He watches you, waiting for your reaction. "But you have to promise to do exactly as I say. Magic can be dangerous if you don't control it."

You nod eagerly, your eyes wide and bright in the dim room. "Is it really magic?" you whisper, the word feeling strange and wonderful on your tongue.

Tom's expression softens just a fraction, not into a smile, but into something like approval. "Yes," he says. "It's magic."

He moves to the door, opening it just enough to peer into the hallway. "Follow me. Stay close."

You trail him through the dark corridors, your heart beating fast with excitement and nerves. He leads you up a narrow, winding staircase you've never noticed before, its steps worn smooth by time. The air grows colder as you climb, and the sound of the storm grows louder overhead.

At the top, Tom pushes open a heavy wooden door. The room beyond is small and dusty, tucked under the sloping eaves of the roof. Moonlight filters through a grimy circular window, illuminating floating dust motes and a few forgotten trunks stacked against the walls. The space feels secret, separate from the rest of the orphanage, a world of its own.

Tom turns to you, his face pale in the moonlight. "This is where we'll practice," he says. "No one comes here. We'll be safe."

He gestures to the center of the room, where the floorboards are clear. "Show me what you did with the cup."

You take a deep breath, your eyes scanning the moonlit room until you spot a single, large dust mote drifting slowly through the air. You focus on it, hard, remembering the warm hum in your veins, the certainty you felt when the cup lifted.

At first, nothing happens. The dust continues its lazy descent. You bite your lip, frustration bubbling up. Then you think of Tom's stone hovering, steady and controlled. You don't just want it to float, you will it to.

The dust mote stops falling. It hangs in the air, suspended, as if caught in an invisible web. You hold your breath, keeping your gaze locked on it. Slowly, you guide it upward, making it drift in a small, deliberate circle.

It's not much, just a speck of dust, but it's yours. You did it.

You look at Tom, your eyes wide with wonder. He's watching the dust mote, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze shifts to you, and something in his dark eyes changes. It's not just approval anymore, it's something sharper, hungrier. Like he's found something precious that belongs to him.

"Good," he says, his voice quiet but intense. "Very good."

He takes a step closer, his shadow falling across you. "Now try something heavier. That book, over there." He points to a small, leather-bound volume resting on one of the trunks. "Don't just lift it. Bring it to me."

You turn your attention to the small leather book on the trunk. It looks heavier than dust, more solid. You take another deep breath, focusing all your will on it. You imagine it lifting, floating through the air toward Tom's waiting hand.

For a long moment, nothing happens. The book sits there, stubborn and still. You feel a flicker of doubt, but then you remember the cup, the dust mote. The warmth in your veins pulses, stronger this time.

The book trembles. Its cover shifts slightly, then it rises an inch off the trunk, wobbling unsteadily. You hold your breath, keeping your gaze locked on it. Slowly, painstakingly, you guide it through the air. It drifts toward Tom, moving like a leaf on a gentle current.

When it reaches him, it hovers before his chest for a heartbeat before dropping into his outstretched hand.

Tom catches it, his fingers closing around the worn leather. He looks from the book to you, and something in his expression shifts again. There's pride there, sharp and possessive, and something else, a kind of hunger that makes your skin prickle.

"Perfect," he says softly, his dark eyes holding yours. "You learn fast."

He sets the book aside and takes a step closer. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face. "We're going to practice every night," he tells you, his voice low and certain. "Just you and me. No one else can know what we can do."

He reaches out, his hand hovering near your arm as if he wants to touch you but isn't quite sure how. "You belong here," he says. "With me."

The nights that follow become a secret rhythm, you and Tom meeting under the roof, practicing until your hands tremble and your mind feels stretched thin. He teaches you control, precision, how to make objects dance through the air with just a thought. Each success makes his eyes gleam with that same hungry pride.

Then, one bright afternoon, you slip into the orphanage's small, neglected garden, seeking a moment alone. That's when you find her: a little, dark snake coiled beneath the rose bushes, her scales glistening with what looks like fresh blood. She's hurt, her breathing shallow.

You kneel without thinking, your heart pounding. "Are you alright?" you whisper.

The snake lifts her head, her golden eyes fixing on you. To your surprise, you understand her hissing reply as clearly as if she'd spoken English. "The two-legs with the stick hurt me. I cannot move."

You kneel closer, your hands trembling slightly as you reach out. "Let me see," you whisper, not sure if you're speaking English or the strange, hissing language that feels so natural.

You gently touch the scales near the wound. A deep gash runs along her side, oozing dark blood. She flinches, a soft hiss escaping her.

"It hurts," she says, her voice a pained whisper in your mind.

Your throat tightens. "I know," you murmur. „What is your name? I'm going to get help. Stay here.“ You hear her whisper: „Nagini“, before you move.

Tom. You need Tom. He'll know what to do, he always knows.

You run back into the orphanage, your feet flying over the worn floors. You don't stop until you reach his door, knocking frantically. When he opens it, his expression shifts from mild annoyance to sharp curiosity as he takes in your panicked face.

"There's a snake," you gasp, breathless. "In the garden. She's hurt. She talked to me, Tom. I understood her."

Tom's dark eyes widen, just for a fraction of a second. Then his face goes still, unreadable. "You understood her?" he asks, his voice low.

"She said the two-legs with the stick hurt her," you tell him, the words tumbling out in a rush. "She can't move. She's bleeding, Tom. We have to help her."

Tom stares at you, his expression utterly still. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. You can see something shifting behind his dark eyes, confusion, then calculation, then something sharper. Hunger.

"You understood her," he repeats, his voice quiet. "Word for word."

He steps out into the hallway, closing his door behind him. "Show me."

You lead him back to the garden, your heart pounding. Nagini is still coiled beneath the rose bushes, her golden eyes watching you approach. When Tom sees her, he stops a few feet away, his gaze fixed on the snake.

"Another two-legs," Nagini hisses, her voice weak. "Is he a friend?"

Tom's jaw tightens. He doesn't answer the snake. Instead, he looks at you, his expression unreadable. "I can't help her," he says flatly. "I don't know how to heal animals."

He kneels down, studying the wound with clinical detachment. "The cut is deep. She'll die without help."

You kneel beside Nagini again, your hand hovering over her wounded side. "I'm going to try to help you," you whisper, the hissing words feeling both strange and right.

Nagini's golden eyes fix on you. "You speak the old tongue," she says, her voice a pained whisper. "The two-legs who hurt me did not."

You nod, though you don't fully understand. You look up at Tom, who's watching you with that intense, hungry expression.

You turn back to Nagini, placing your hands gently on either side of the gash. You close your eyes, trying to push away the fear and the racing of your heart. You think of warmth, of light, of things being put back together. You remember the silvery glow that wrapped around your hands that first night, the hum of magic in your veins.

At first, nothing happens. Then you feel it, a different kind of warmth, deeper and brighter, starting in your chest and flowing down your arms. A soft, blue-white light begins to glow beneath your palms, spilling over Nagini's dark scales.

The light pulses, growing stronger. You can feel the magic working, knitting flesh and scale back together. Nagini lets out a soft hiss, but this time it sounds more like relief than pain.

Tom is utterly still, his dark eyes fixed on your hands and the healing light. His expression is no longer just hungry, it's awed, possessive, triumphant. Like he's found something even more precious than he imagined.

You push everything else away, Tom's intense gaze, the garden around you, even your own fear. All that matters is the warmth flowing from your hands into Nagini's wounded side. You focus all your energy on it, willing the light to grow brighter, stronger.

The blue-white glow intensifies, wrapping around Nagini like a gentle cocoon. You can feel the magic working, deeper than before, not just healing the surface wound, but mending muscle and scale, soothing pain, restoring strength. It feels right, like this is what the magic was meant to do.

Beneath your hands, the gash closes completely. The torn scales knit back together, leaving only a faint silvery scar. Nagini lets out a long, relieved hiss and uncoils herself, testing her movement. She slithers forward, her body whole and strong again.

"Thank you," she says, her golden eyes fixed on you with something like reverence. "You have the old magic. The true magic."

She coils around your ankles, her scales cool and smooth against your skin. "I will stay with you," she declares. "You are my speaker."

You look up, your hands still tingling with fading warmth. Tom hasn't moved. He's staring at you with an expression you've never seen before, awe, hunger, and something darker, more possessive. His dark eyes are wide, his face pale in the afternoon light.

For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Then he takes a step closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "What was that?" he asks. "That light... that wasn't normal magic."

You look up at Tom, your hands still tingling with the fading warmth. "I don't know what it was," you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. "But it felt right. Like... like it was supposed to happen."

As you speak, a sudden wave of exhaustion washes over you. Your legs feel weak, your head spins. You stumble forward, your vision blurring at the edges. Tom catches you before you can fall, his hands firm on your arms.

"Whoa," he says, his voice closer than you expected. He steadies you, his grip surprisingly gentle. "Easy."

You lean against him, your eyes heavy. The world seems to tilt and sway. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and calm, a contrast to your own racing pulse.

"You used too much magic," Tom murmurs, his breath warm against your hair. "Healing takes energy. More than floating books."

He doesn't let go of you. Instead, he guides you to sit on the ground, his arm still around your shoulders for support. Nagini slithers closer, coiling protectively around your ankles.

Tom looks from the snake to your pale face, his dark eyes thoughtful. "You spoke to her," he says quietly. "You healed her with magic I've never seen before. Blue light."

He says the last two words like they're something precious and dangerous. His gaze holds yours, intense and searching. "Do you understand what that means?"

You shake your head weakly, the motion making the world swim again. You're too tired to think about what it means, too tired to think about anything except how heavy your eyelids feel, how your whole body aches with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

Tom watches you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighs, a soft sound that's almost gentle. "You need to rest," he says. "Come on."

He helps you to your feet, his arm around your waist to steady you. Nagini follows, slithering close to your ankles as if she's afraid to let you out of her sight.

Tom leads you back inside, supporting most of your weight. The orphanage corridors feel longer than usual, the stairs steeper. When you reach your room, he pauses at the door, glancing down at Nagini.

"She can't come in here," he says quietly. "Amy will scream."

Nagini hisses softly, but you murmur to her in Parseltongue, "Wait for me outside. I'll come find you soon."

The snake reluctantly coils by the doorframe, her golden eyes watching you as Tom helps you to your bed. You collapse onto the thin mattress, your limbs feeling like lead.

Tom stands over you for a moment, his dark eyes studying your face. "Sleep," he says, his voice low. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."

He turns to leave, but pauses at the door, looking back at you one last time. His expression is that same mix of awe and hunger you saw in the garden. "You're full of surprises," he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he's gone, closing the door softly behind him.

The days blur together after that, secret practices under the roof, whispered conversations with Nagini in the garden, Tom watching you with that same hungry awe every time your hands glow blue. Before you know it, it’s the week before Christmas.

You're sitting beside Tom at dinner, the usual watery stew steaming in your bowls. Around you, the other children point and whisper, their eyes darting between you and Tom. You've become a pair in their minds, the strange, quiet boy and the girl that follows him everywhere.

Your stomach growls loudly, a hollow ache that's become familiar. The portions are small here.

Without a word, Tom pushes half of his bread roll onto your plate. He doesn't look at you when he does it, his expression carefully neutral, but the gesture is unmistakable.

You look at the bread roll on your plate, then up at Tom. Your eyes go wide, touched by the gesture. Without a word, you break the piece in half and push one piece back toward him.

Tom glances at the bread, then at your face. For a moment, he looks almost surprised, as if he didn't expect you to share it back. Then his expression softens, just a fraction. He takes the piece and eats it slowly, his dark eyes watching you over the rim of his bowl.

Around you, the whispers grow louder. "They're sharing," someone mutters. "Like they're a proper family or something."

You ignore them, focusing on your stew. The bread helps, but your stomach still feels hollow. You think about Christmas, which is only a week away.

You glance at Tom. He's staring at his bowl, his expression closed off and cold.

You lean closer to Tom, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Are you excited for Christmas?"

Tom's spoon stills in his bowl. He doesn't look at you at first, his gaze fixed on the watery stew. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and flat. "I don't like Christmas."

He glances at you then, his dark eyes sharp. "Do you know why?"

You shake your head, waiting.

"Because it's a lie," he says, his voice barely audible over the clatter of spoons and chatter around you. "All those families outside, laughing and giving presents. They pretend everything is perfect. But it's not. Nothing is perfect. They're just better at hiding the ugly parts."

He pushes his bowl away, half-finished. "I hate watching them. I hate knowing they have something I'll never have."

His words hang between you, heavy and cold. You think of your own memories, or lack of them. The green flash, the hollow ache where a family should be. You understand his bitterness, but something in you rebels against it.

You want to tell him that Christmas doesn't have to be about perfect families. It could be about something else, something just for the two of you. But before you can speak, Mrs. Cole claps her hands, signaling the end of dinner.

Tom stands up, his expression closed off again. "Come on," he says, not looking at you. "Let's go."

You follow Tom out of the dining hall, your heart beating a little faster. When you reach the quieter corridor, you reach out and touch his sleeve, stopping him.

"Tom," you say, your voice firm despite the nervous flutter in your chest. "I want to make this Christmas special for us."

He turns to look at you, his dark eyes unreadable. "Special how?" he asks, his tone flat. "We're in an orphanage. There's no money for presents. No tree worth having. No family."

"I know," you say, holding his gaze. "But we have each other. And we have magic. We could make our own Christmas. Something just for us."

For a long moment, Tom doesn't speak. He studies your face, his expression shifting from skepticism to something more thoughtful. You can see him considering it, turning the idea over in his mind.

"You want to use magic for Christmas?" he asks, his voice quieter now.

You nod. "We could make decorations that float. Or warm the room without a fire. Or... I don't know. Something beautiful."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches Tom's lips. "You're determined," he says.

"I am," you tell him, your voice steady. "We deserve something good, Tom. Even if we have to make it ourselves."

You look up at Tom, your determination softening into curiosity. "If you could have one wish for Christmas," you ask quietly, "what would it be?"

Tom goes still, his dark eyes searching your face as if looking for a trick. The corridor around you is quiet now, the sounds of dinner fading behind closed doors. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. You can see him thinking, weighing whether to be honest or to give you the cold, dismissive answer he usually gives everyone else.

Finally, he speaks, his voice so soft you have to lean closer to hear. "To never be hungry again," he says. "To never have to share half a bread roll because there isn't enough. To have a room that's warm in winter. To have... things that are mine. Truly mine."

He looks away, his jaw tightening. "Not presents. Not toys. Just... enough. And no one to take it away."

His words settle in your chest, heavy and real. You understand, suddenly, that his bitterness about Christmas isn't just about families, it's about lack. About never having enough of anything: food, warmth, security, love.

You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing his wrist. "We'll make it warm," you promise. "However we can. And we'll make sure there's enough, even if it's just for one day."

Tom looks down at your hand on his wrist, then back up at your face. His expression is unreadable again, but his eyes hold yours for a long moment. "You mean that," he says, not quite a question.

"I do," you tell him.

The days pass, cold and gray, and Christmas draws closer. You spend your time planning, whispering ideas to Tom under the roof, gathering what little you can for decorations. But one evening, as you're returning from the garden after checking on Nagini, you find yourself alone in a dimly lit hallway.

The shadows seem to stretch longer than usual. You're about to turn the corner when three figures step out, blocking your path. Billy Stubbs stands in front, his face set in a mean, pinched expression. Two older boys flank him, their eyes hard.

"Well, well," Billy says, his voice dripping with mockery. "Look who's all alone for once. No Tom to protect you."

He takes a step closer, and the other boys move to either side of you, cutting off your escape. "We're tired of you following him around like his little pet," Billy sneers. "Think you're special because he talks to you? You're just as pathetic as the rest of us."

Your heart hammers against your ribs, but you force yourself to stand still. "What do you want from me?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

Billy's smirk widens. "We want you to understand your place," he says, taking another step closer. The hallway feels smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. "You think you're better than us because Tom Riddle talks to you? Because you whisper to each other like you've got secrets?"

One of the other boys, a tall, thin one with sharp elbows, reaches out and shoves your shoulder. "We're tired of watching you follow him around," he says. "It's pathetic."

Billy nods, his eyes cold. "We're going to teach you a lesson. So you remember you're just another orphan. Just like the rest of us."

He grabs your arm, his fingers digging in painfully. The other two move in, blocking any chance of escape. They start dragging you down the hallway, away from the main rooms, toward one of the empty storage closets that no one uses anymore.

You struggle, but there are three of them and only one of you. Your mind races, searching for a way out. You think of Tom, of Nagini, of the magic you've been practicing, but right now, none of it seems to help.

Panic surges through you as they drag you toward the empty room. You can feel their hands gripping your arms too tightly, see the cruel satisfaction in Billy's eyes. You think of Tom's lessons under the roof, focus, will, intention. You think of the blue-white light that healed Nagini.

You stop struggling and close your eyes, just for a second. You focus on the magic humming in your veins, on the warmth that's always there, waiting. You don't think about floating objects or healing wounds. You think about pushing them away. About creating space.

A soft, shimmering glow begins to pulse around your hands. It's faint at first, then brighter, a pale blue light that spills into the dim hallway.

Billy and the others freeze, their eyes widening. "What's that?" one of them whispers, his voice shaky.

You open your eyes and push with your mind, not with your hands. The magic responds, flowing out from you in a gentle wave. It doesn't hurt them, it just pushes, like an invisible wall of air. Billy stumbles back, his grip on your arm loosening. The other two boys let go, stepping away with confused, frightened expressions.

For a moment, you're free. You stand there, breathing hard, the blue light still flickering around your fingers. Billy recovers first, his face twisting with anger and something else, fear.

"You're a freak," he spits, but he doesn't come closer. "Just like him."

He glances at the other boys, who look uncertain now. Then he takes a step forward again, his fists clenched. "That little trick won't save you," he says, his voice low and mean.

You don't wait to see if they'll overcome their fear. The moment Billy hesitates, you turn and run, your feet pounding against the stone floor. You can hear them shouting behind you, their footsteps giving chase.

You make it only a few yards before a hand grabs the back of your dress, yanking you backward. You stumble, losing your balance, and crash to the floor. The impact knocks the air from your lungs.

Before you can get up, Billy is on top of you, pinning you down. The other two boys grab your arms, holding you still. "Thought you could run?" Billy sneers, his face close to yours. "Thought your little light show would scare us?"

He raises his fist, and you brace yourself. But before he can strike, a cold voice cuts through the hallway.

"Let her go."

You look past Billy's shoulder. Tom stands at the end of the corridor, his expression utterly still and cold. His dark eyes are fixed on Billy, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch, a quiet, dangerous fury.

Billy freezes, his fist still raised. He glances at Tom, then back at you, his confidence wavering. "This doesn't concern you, Riddle," he says, but his voice lacks its earlier conviction.

Tom takes a step forward. "It does," he says, his voice soft but carrying. "Now let her go."

Billy hesitates for a moment longer, then his face hardens with stubborn anger. "Or what?" he challenges.

Tom doesn't answer with words. He raises his hand, his fingers curling slightly. Billy's body goes rigid, his eyes widening in shock and pain. He makes a choked sound, his hands flying to his throat as if something invisible is squeezing him.

The other two boys let go of you, backing away with terrified expressions. Billy drops to his knees, gasping for air, his face turning pale.

You stay where you are, frozen on the floor, watching in shock as Billy gasps and chokes under Tom's invisible grip. Billy's face is pale, his eyes wide with terror. He claws at his throat, making horrible, wet sounds.

The other two boys have backed all the way against the wall, their faces white with fear. They don't try to help Billy, they just stare, trembling.

Tom's expression doesn't change. His dark eyes are fixed on Billy, cold and focused. His hand remains raised, fingers curled as if holding something delicate. There's no anger on his face, no rage, just a calm, terrible control.

Then footsteps echo down the hallway, sharp and quick. Mrs. Cole appears around the corner, her face tight with alarm. "What in heaven's name-" she begins, then stops, taking in the scene: you on the floor, Billy choking, Tom with his hand raised.

Her eyes widen in horror. "Thomas Riddle!" she shouts, her voice sharp. "Stop that this instant!"

Tom's hand drops. Billy collapses to the floor, coughing and gasping for air. Mrs. Cole rushes forward, kneeling beside Billy, then turns her furious gaze on Tom.

"What have you done?" she demands, her voice trembling with anger. "Using your... your wickedness on other children!"

Tom doesn't answer. He just looks at her, his expression blank.

Mrs. Cole stands up, her face pale. "Two weeks," she says, her voice cold and final. "Two weeks without dinner. And you'll spend them in solitude. No Christmas celebrations. No contact with anyone."

She turns to you, her expression softening slightly. "Are you hurt, child?"

Before you can answer, she shakes her head. "Never mind. Get up. Both of you, to your rooms. Now."

Tom doesn't look at you as he turns and walks away. You watch him go, your chest tight with guilt. Because of you, he won't have Christmas at all.

A week passes, cold and quiet. Christmas Eve settles over Wool's Orphanage like a heavy frost. You walk through the dimly lit hallway, your footsteps soft on the stone floor. The usual sounds of children are muted tonight, everyone is in the common room, gathered around the sad little tree Mrs. Cole put up.

Then you hear it, a voice from the isolation room at the end of the hall. Tom's voice, but different. Thinner. Desperate.

"Please," he's saying, the word strained. "Mrs. Cole, it's so cold. Just another blanket. Or something to eat. Please."

You stand there in the dim hallway, your heart pounding. Tom never begs. He never shows weakness. But he's cold and hungry and alone on Christmas Eve, and it's because he defended you.

Anger flares hot and sudden in your chest. How can Mrs. Cole do that? How can she leave him cold and hungry on Christmas Eve? It's cruel. It's wrong.

The anger doesn't just stay inside you, it spills out. A soft blue glow flickers around your hands, pulsing with your heartbeat. You feel your magic lashing out without meaning to, making the nearby sconce flicker wildly. Shadows dance across the walls, stretching and twisting.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down. The glow fades, but the determination remains, sharp and clear. You need to help Tom. You need to make this right.

You turn away from the isolation room and head toward the kitchen, your footsteps quick and quiet. The orphanage is mostly empty now, everyone gathered in the common room for what little Christmas cheer Mrs. Cole allows. The kitchen door is unlocked, and you slip inside.

The room is dark and cold, the stove unlit. You find a kettle and fill it with water. While it warms, you search the pantry. There, on a high shelf, you find a tin with two gingerbread cookies inside, probably meant for Mrs. Cole's own Christmas treat.

You take them, your hands trembling slightly. The kettle begins to whistle softly. You pour the hot water into a cup, add a tea bag you find in a tin, and stir in a spoonful of sugar. Tom's favorite.

You grab the tea and cookies, then pause. Tom said he was cold. You need more than tea.

You slip out of the kitchen and hurry to your room. The other girls are still downstairs, so the room is empty and quiet. You pull your thin blanket from your bed, it's not much, but it's something. You fold it carefully, tucking it under your arm with the tea and cookies balanced in your other hand.

The hallway is dark and silent as you make your way back toward the isolation room. Your heart beats fast, each step feeling too loud. You listen for any sound, Mrs. Cole's footsteps, other children moving about, but there's only the quiet hum of the orphanage at night.

When you reach Tom's door, you pause. You can't hear anything from inside now. He might be sleeping, or just too exhausted to make noise. You set the tea and cookies down carefully on the floor, then place your hands against the cold wood of the door.

You close your eyes, thinking of the lock. You've never tried to open a door with magic before, but you've moved smaller things. You focus on the mechanism inside, on the tumblers and the bolt. You imagine them shifting, turning, releasing.

A soft blue glow spreads from your hands across the wood. There's a quiet click. The door swings open just a crack.

Inside, the room is dark and bitterly cold. You can see Tom curled on a narrow cot, shivering even in his sleep. His face looks pale in the faint light from the hallway, his lips indeed tinged with blue.

You almost drop the tea and cookies in shock at how cold he looks. Setting them down carefully on the floor, you kneel beside the cot and take Tom's hands in yours. They're ice-cold, his fingers stiff. You close your eyes and focus, letting the warmth of your magic flow from your palms into his skin.

A soft blue glow surrounds your joined hands, gentle and steady. You think of warmth, of comfort, of the heat from a fireplace on a winter night. The glow spreads up his arms, chasing away the chill. Tom stirs, his eyelids fluttering open.

He blinks at you, confusion in his dark eyes. "What..." he begins, his voice hoarse.

"You were so cold," you whisper. "I brought tea. And cookies. And my blanket."

Tom sits up slowly, still holding your hands. The blue glow fades as you release the magic, but his hands feel warmer now. He looks from your face to the tea and cookies on the floor, then back to you. His expression is unreadable for a moment, then something softens in his eyes.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, but his voice lacks its usual edge. "If Mrs. Cole finds you..."

"I don't care," you tell him firmly. "It's Christmas Eve. You shouldn't be alone and cold."

You let go of his hands to pick up the tea. It's still warm from your magic. You hand it to him, then unwrap one of the gingerbread cookies. The sweet, spicy scent fills the small, cold room.

Tom takes the tea, his fingers curling around the warm cup. He doesn't drink right away, just holds it, letting the heat seep into his hands. He looks at you over the rim of the cup, his dark eyes thoughtful.

You look at him, and suddenly tears well in your eyes. "I'm sorry," you whisper, the words tumbling out. "I didn't want you to get in trouble for saving me. I didn't want you to suffer. And now... now Christmas isn't special at all. It's just cold and lonely for you."

Tom watches you, his expression unreadable. He sets the tea down carefully on the floor, then reaches out. His fingers brush your cheek, wiping away a tear. The gesture is so unexpected, so gentle, that you freeze.

"Don't cry," he says quietly. "It's not your fault."

"But it is," you insist, your voice trembling. "If I hadn't been there, if I hadn't used magic-"

"You were defending yourself," Tom interrupts. His hand drops from your cheek, but his eyes hold yours. "Billy and the others would have hurt you. I did what I had to do."

He picks up the tea again and takes a sip. The warmth seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders. Then he looks at the gingerbread cookie in your hand.

"Is that for me?" he asks, a faint hint of something like amusement in his voice.

You nod, holding it out. He takes it, breaking it in half. He offers one piece back to you. "We'll share," he says. "That's what you do on Christmas, isn't it? Share?"

You take the half-cookie, your fingers brushing his. The gingerbread is sweet and spicy, a small burst of warmth in the cold room. You eat it slowly, savoring it. Tom does the same, his eyes never leaving your face.

When the cookie is gone, he finishes his tea. The color has returned to his lips, and he doesn't look quite so cold anymore. He sets the empty cup aside.

"You should go back to your room," he says, but his voice lacks conviction. "Mrs. Cole will check on me eventually."

You pout, looking down at your hands. "I don't want to go," you admit quietly. "I missed you all week."

Tom goes still. He watches you for a long moment, his dark eyes thoughtful. The silence stretches between you, filled only with the distant sounds of the orphanage settling for the night.

"You missed me," he repeats, his voice soft. It's not a question, but there's something in his tone, surprise, maybe, or something warmer.

You nod, not looking up. "It was quiet without you. And... lonely."

Tom lets out a slow breath. He looks around the small, cold room, then back at you. "If you stay and Mrs. Cole finds you," he says, "you'll be punished too. No Christmas for either of us."

He says it matter-of-factly, but there's an edge to his words, a warning, but also something else. A test, maybe. To see if you mean what you say.

You finally look up, meeting his gaze. "I don't care," you tell him, your voice firm. "Christmas isn't Christmas if you're alone in here."

Tom's expression softens, just a little. The hard edges around his eyes ease. He looks at the blanket you brought, then back at you. "Fine," he says. "But you sleep on the floor. And if you get cold, don't complain."

He says it like he's doing you a favor, but you can see the way his shoulders relax slightly. The way he doesn't look quite so alone anymore.

You nod eagerly, relieved he's letting you stay. You take your blanket and try to make a comfortable spot on the stone floor. The floor is hard and cold, even through the thin wool. You spread the blanket out, then lie down, pulling the edges around you.

The cold seeps through immediately. You try to curl into a ball, to conserve warmth, but you can't stop shivering. Your teeth chatter softly, and you press your hands between your knees, trying to warm them.

From the cot above you, Tom lets out a quiet sigh. "Stop that," he says, his voice tired.

"I'm trying," you whisper through chattering teeth.

There's a moment of silence. Then you hear the cot creak as Tom sits up. He looks down at you, his face shadowed in the dark room. "You're shivering," he says, sounding annoyed.

"It's cold," you admit, your voice small.

Tom sighs again, louder this time. He shifts on the cot, making room. "Come here," he says, his tone begrudging. "Before you freeze to death."

You hesitate for just a second, then scramble up from the floor, bringing your blanket with you. The cot is narrow, but Tom moves over, making space. You climb in beside him, pulling your blanket over both of you.

The warmth from his body is immediate and welcome. You curl against him, still shivering slightly. Tom doesn't put his arm around you, but he doesn't move away either. He just lies there, stiff at first, then gradually relaxing.

The room is still cold, but here, under the blankets, pressed close together, it's warmer. Safer. You can feel your shivering slowly subsiding, replaced by a drowsy warmth.

You cuddle unconsciously closer to him, chasing his warmth. A soft sigh escapes you as you finally feel safe, truly warm for the first time all night. The tension leaves your body, and you relax fully against him, your head resting near his shoulder.

In the quiet darkness, you whisper, "Merry Christmas, Tom."

For a moment, he doesn't respond. Then you feel his arm shift. It doesn't go around you, but his hand comes to rest lightly on your back, a tentative touch. His fingers are warm through your nightdress.

"Merry Christmas," he murmurs back, his voice low and close to your ear.

You can feel his breathing slow and deepen as he settles into sleep. The cold room doesn't seem so threatening anymore, not with him here. Not with this small, shared warmth between you.

You close your eyes, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing. The orphanage is silent around you, the world outside dark and still. But here, in this narrow cot, with Tom's steady presence beside you, Christmas feels like something real. Something yours.

You drift toward sleep, wrapped in warmth and the unfamiliar comfort of not being alone. Tom's breathing has evened out beside you, his body relaxed in a way you've rarely seen. The hard edges he keeps up during the day have softened in sleep.

For Tom, this silent, stolen hour in the dark is better than any Christmas he can remember. No presents, no songs, no feast, just this: someone who came for him. Someone who saw him cold and hungry and said no. Someone who broke a lock with magic they shouldn't have, just to sit with him in the dark.

He doesn't know how to name what he feels. It isn't gratitude. It's something sharper, hungrier. It's the certainty that you are his now, in a way no one else has ever been. Your magic is his. Your loyalty is his. Your warmth beside him is his.

Outside, midnight passes. Christmas Day arrives quietly, without fanfare. But in a small, cold room in Wool's Orphanage, two children sleep curled together under a thin blanket, and a bond is forged that will shape everything that comes after.

For Tom Riddle, it is the beginning of an obsession.

For you, it is the beginning of everything.

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

amour fou (t.m.r.)

Pairing: Tom Marvolo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Summary: amour fou /ˌamʊə ˈfuː,ˌamɔː ˈfuː/ noun/ uncontrollable or obsessive passion.

Please proceed with caution, my dear readers. I don't believe this is extremely explicit but I do advise you skip this fic if these particular topics trigger you.

TW: yandere themes, stalking, blackmail, stalking, self harm, murder, kinda non consensual relationship

A/N: This is lowkey the most psychotic piece of fiction ive ever written. i had plans to write a little more for it but tbh i started feeling icky after a certain point so i stopped it here...i think dark romance is just not for me lol

hope you like it bb @tomriddlehyperfixataion

credits to @dividers-are-us

At Hogwarts, there were certain facts everyone seemed to agree on.

The lake was cold year-round. The staircases moved when they pleased. And Tom Riddle was the dreamiest boy in the entire school.

No one even argued about it anymore.

Girls whispered about him in corridors and leaned across tables in the Great Hall just for a better look when he walked in. His name appeared in folded notes, carved into desks, scribbled in the margins of homework. Fifth-years, seventh-years, even the occasional bold fourth-year—everyone could go on and on about what a gentleman he was.

It was easy to see why.

Tom Riddle was beautiful in a way that felt almost unfair—dark hair always perfectly in place, sharp cheekbones, eyes so striking they made people forget what they were saying halfway through a sentence. But it wasn’t just that. He was brilliant. Top of every class. Prefect. Professors adored him. Students admired him.

Even the whispers about his parentage—the quiet mentions that he came from an orphanage, that he had no respectable wizarding family behind him—never seemed to stick.

His looks and his mind more than made up for it.

There was only one problem.

Tom Riddle had absolutely no interest in dating.

Not even a little.

It didn’t matter how obvious they made it. The lingering glances, the nervous giggles, the accidental brushes of hands in the hallway—he ignored it all with the same polite, distant smile. If someone worked up the courage to ask him out, he declined with perfect courtesy and zero hesitation.

He never flirted.

Never chased.

Never seemed tempted.

Most girls eventually gave up, deciding he was simply too focused on his studies, or too proud, or perhaps waiting for someone exceptional enough to catch his attention.

But you—

You had never been very good at giving up.

By fifth year, the excitement surrounding Tom had hardly faded.

If anything, it had become worse.

At Hogwarts, admiration tended to grow with proximity, and Tom Riddle had only grown more impressive with time. He had become a prefect that year—though no one had been surprised by that—and he carried the silver badge on his robes with the same effortless authority he carried everything else.

He moved through the corridors as if the castle belonged to him.

Students parted for him without quite realizing they had done so. Professors trusted him without hesitation. Younger students looked at him with something bordering on awe. Even his fellow prefects deferred to him more often than not.

And still, despite all the attention he received, he remained stubbornly uninterested in it.

Girls still fell over themselves to speak to him, of course. That had not changed. What had changed was the quiet understanding that it would lead nowhere. Riddle was polite, even kind when it suited him, but there was always a wall there. An invisible line no one was permitted to cross.

It had been that way for years.

Which was precisely why the sight of you standing at the entrance of the fifth-floor corridor made him stop.

Tom slowed slightly, dark eyes narrowing just enough to show his displeasure.

You stood beside one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds, prefect badge gleaming faintly in the torchlight. The winter wind rattled the glass behind you, though you seemed perfectly comfortable, hands folded neatly behind your back as if you had been waiting there for quite some time.

Tom approached with measured steps.

“I’m supposed to be patrolling with Lestrange.” He said, voice calm, precise—every word chosen carefully, as if testing the air for deception.

Your smile was immediate—pleasant, warm, almost apologetic. “Unfortunately,” You said, voice soft but deliberate, “it seems she has come down with something dreadful. Food poisoning, I believe. Madam Pomfrey insisted she remain in the hospital wing.”

Tom did not return the smile.

He regarded you with quiet skepticism, those dark eyes narrowing just enough to unsettle. The explanation was perfectly reasonable. Sensible, even. Students fell ill all the time in the castle, and prefect rounds had to be covered.

But Tom Riddle had spent years navigating the social ecosystem of Hogwarts. There were patterns he had learned to read like a finely inked map. And this pattern, unfortunately, was familiar.

It was not the first time a girl had attempted to rearrange prefect schedules in order to walk the corridors beside him. He had seen every variation: And now, apparently, there was another.

“You volunteered to cover her shift.” He said, voice even, but with a slight edge. It was not a question.

You weren’t even in the same house. There was no way Lestrange would have asked a Gryffindor—much less a half-blood like you—to take her place. The only reason you were here was because you had chosen to be.

Your smile didn’t falter.

“Well,” You said, light as a feather but edged with an unspoken certainty, “someone had to.”

“How charitable.” Tom replied, arching one dark brow.

“I do try.” You said, tilting your head ever so slightly, as if that small gesture made the world seem brighter.

He studied you carefully. Hands folded behind your back, posture impeccable. Expression bright, almost friendly—but Tom knew better than to trust appearances. There was nothing outwardly improper about the situation, yet something in the precise way you held yourself told him you were entirely aware of the power in the moment.

And yet—

Tom had the distinct impression that none of it was coincidental.

“I assume,” He said slowly, deliberately, “that the schedule change was approved.”

“Of course.”

“And the Head Girl knows.”

“Absolutely.”

A silence stretched, heavy with subtle tension. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t hesitate. You simply met his gaze, unwavering.

“Then we should begin our rounds,” He said at last, pivoting smoothly toward the staircase, “Unless you’d prefer to return to the hospital wing and check if Lestrange is feeling any better to take your place.”

Your footsteps fell easily into pace beside him, the echo of your shoes soft against the stone floor. “Oh, I’m sure she’s in excellent hands.” You said, letting your words carry a touch of warmth that wasn’t entirely innocent.

Tom did not look at you as the two of you moved through the dim corridor, the castle quiet around you except for the distant crackle of torches.

But you, quietly, felt the thrill. Beneath the smooth folds of your robes, your fingers brushed against the vial tucked into your pocket. The small concoction of laxative potion rested there.

A small, sly smile curved your lips—sweet, innocent, and utterly calculated.

The library was quiet, the air heavy with the faint scent of old parchment and ink. Tom Riddle moved deliberately between the towering shelves, fingers brushing along the spines of leather-bound books as if memorizing their texture as well as their titles. He had an essay due for Charms that evening—a paper that required research in a volume he knew was kept in the restricted stacks.

He stopped in front of the shelf where the book should have been, frowned, and muttered under his breath, “Impossible…”

He had already checked the obvious sections twice. The third shelf from the top, the fourth from the bottom—everywhere—but the volume he required remained elusive. With a sigh, he was about to turn toward Madam Pince’s desk, ready to ask where the book had gone, when he saw it.

There you were, sleeves rolled up, hair tucked neatly behind your ears, holding the exact tome in your hands.

His steps faltered.

“That’s… I needed that book.” He said, his voice low, controlled, a flicker of annoyance hidden behind impeccable manners.

You looked up, startled for just a moment, then smiled sweetly, wide-eyed and innocent. “Oh! I had no idea,” You said lightly, as though the situation were purely coincidental, “I just needed it for my essay.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened, narrowing ever so slightly. “Well, I need it as well.”

You bit your lip in mock consideration, tilting your head with exaggerated thoughtfulness. Then, casually, almost playfully, you said, “I’m sure we could work something out.”

“Work something out?”

You stepped just slightly closer, giving him a small, teasing smile, “Yes. We could share it. You could meet me here in the library for the next couple of days and… work on our essays together.”

Tom’s brows furrowed, the faintest crease appearing between them. He already disliked inefficiency—this plan sounded inconvenient, messy, unnecessary. He opened his mouth, ready to object, but you leaned closer, just enough for him to notice the faint scent of parchment and lavender clinging to your robes.

“Or,” You added softly, almost purring, “you could always stop by my dorm once I’m done with it.”

For a moment, Tom didn’t reply. He stared at you, trying to pinpoint the exact nature of your intent.

You handed him the book with a careful, slow gesture, fingers brushing briefly against his, casual enough to seem accidental but deliberate enough to make him notice.

“See you in a few hours?” You asked lightly.

The Potions classroom carried its usual mixture of heat, crushed herbs, and simmering glassware. Steam drifted lazily through the air, curling beneath the low stone ceiling as cauldrons bubbled across the long rows of worktables.

Tom stood near the front of the room beside Professor Slughorn, sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows as he leaned over a student's cauldron.

“Not quite,” He said calmly, taking the stirring rod from the flustered Hufflepuff boy, “You’ve allowed the mixture to thicken too quickly. Counterclockwise first, then clockwise. Like this.”

The potion shifted color almost instantly, smoothing into the proper consistency as he corrected it.

The boy looked relieved.

“Brilliant, Riddle,” Slughorn beamed from across the room, his walrus mustache twitching with delight, “Always knew you had the makings of a master brewer. My unofficial assistant today, class! Best student Hogwarts has produced in years.”

Tom offered a modest incline of his head, though the praise barely registered. He was already moving to the next table, inspecting ingredients with quiet efficiency.

Across the room, you watched him.

As you had been for most of the lesson.

Every movement of his was precise, controlled, deliberate. Even in something as mundane as correcting a potion, there was a quiet authority about him that drew the eye. Students listened when he spoke, adjusted their techniques under his direction, and even Slughorn seemed content to leave half the instruction in Tom’s capable hands.

Which made it all the more obvious that he had not looked at you once.

Not when you entered the classroom.

Not when Slughorn announced his role.

Not even when you deliberately positioned yourself at a worktable within easy sight of him.

At first you had assumed he simply hadn’t noticed.

But Tom Riddle noticed everything.

Meaning the conclusion was obvious.

He was ignoring you.

Deliberately.

Your lips pressed together slightly as you diced a knot of valerian root on the wooden board in front of you, the small knife glinting beneath the dungeon lights.

Across the room, Tom leaned over a Gryffindor student’s cauldron, offering quiet guidance while the girl listened with rapt attention.

You lifted your hand slightly.

“Riddle.” You called sweetly.

No response.

His attention remained entirely on the potion in front of him.

You tilted your head.

Interesting.

A moment later Slughorn clapped his hands together loudly near the front desk.

“Right then, carry on brewing! I’ve just remembered something I left in my office. Riddle, my boy, would you mind keeping an eye on things while I pop upstairs?”

“Of course, Professor.”

The door shut behind Slughorn with a heavy click.

Immediately the room grew a little louder as students relaxed under the absence of direct supervision.

Tom didn’t look up from the ingredient list he was checking.

But he was aware of everything.

The shift in noise levels. The careless stirring of cauldrons. The faint scrape of knives against cutting boards.

And, somewhere across the room—

You.

Your irritation sharpened.

You had been patient. Exceptionally patient, in fact.

His cool avoidance now was nothing more than a childish attempt to regain control of the situation.

Which, frankly, was rude.

Your gaze dropped slowly to the knife in your hand.

The blade was thin and clean, designed for delicate ingredient preparation. It caught the light as you turned it slightly between your fingers.

Across the room, Tom straightened from a student’s cauldron and moved toward another table, calmly correcting someone’s slicing technique.

Still not looking at you.

Fine.

If he wished to ignore you, you would simply make that impossible.

Your grip shifted on the knife.

Then, with quiet precision—

You dragged the blade across the side of your palm.

The sting came instantly, sharp and hot. Blood welled quickly along the shallow cut, spilling down your skin in a dark red line before dripping onto the stone floor.

You let out a soft, startled gasp.

Not too loud.

Just enough.

The reaction was immediate.

Several students turned.

Tom turned with them.

His eyes landed on you across the room—and for the first time that entire lesson, his attention locked fully onto you.

You were standing very still beside your worktable, staring down at your hand as crimson slid slowly between your fingers.

Tom’s expression darkened almost imperceptibly.

He crossed the room in long, controlled strides.

By the time he reached you, his voice was quiet but edged with irritation.

“You should be more careful.”

He reached for your wrist before you could respond, turning your hand slightly so he could examine the cut. His grip was firm, steady, clinical—already assessing the depth of the wound.

It wasn’t serious.

Of course it wasn’t.

Just enough to bleed.

His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours.

Your expression was a perfect mixture of embarrassment and sheepish charm.

“Sorry,” You said softly, “I'm so clumsy.”

Your fingers curled slightly in his grasp.

Up close, your smile returned—small, sweet, entirely unbothered.

And for the briefest moment, Tom had the distinct impression that the entire situation had unfolded exactly the way you wanted it to.

“Riddle, wait—”

The voice cut through the quiet corridor just as Tom stepped out of the Charms classroom.

He stopped.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned.

His brows knit together almost immediately when he saw you hurrying toward him.

A few weeks ago, he was certain he had never seen you before. Never spoken to you, never crossed paths in the corridors. Yet lately it seemed as though you appeared everywhere he went—like some persistent coincidence he had yet to solve.

But Tom did not believe in patterns of coincidence.

You reached him and stopped a comfortable distance away, just close enough to speak without raising your voice. A soft breath escaped you, like you’d hurried to catch him.

“There you are.” You said lightly, relief coloring your tone.

Tom didn’t respond.

His dark eyes simply studied you.

You were smiling—pleasant, open, the kind of expression that disarmed most people instantly. There was nothing pushy about it, nothing demanding. Just quiet friendliness.

It was irritating.

Then you lifted something from behind your back and held it out.

A dark notebook.

For the first time, genuine confusion flickered across Tom’s face.

“I believe this is yours?” You said, “I found it in Charms earlier. Thought you might want it back.”

The notebook rested in your palm, familiar and unmistakable.

Tom stared at it.

His brows furrowed deeper.

It was his.

He knew every scratch on the cover, every faint bend in the spine from years of careful use.

And Tom Riddle did not lose things.

Ever.

His mind moved instantly, reconstructing the day with sharp precision.

He had placed the notebook inside his bag that morning. He remembered the exact motion—sliding it between two textbooks before leaving the dormitory. After that he had attended Transfiguration, then Potions, then lunch.

Charms had been his fourth class.

At no point had he removed it.

At no point had he misplaced it.

And most importantly—

At no point had you been close enough to him to take it.

His eyes lifted slowly from the notebook to your face.

You were watching him with open patience, as though waiting politely for him to take it.

“I almost handed it to Professor Flitwick,” You continued conversationally, tilting your head slightly, “But then I saw your name written inside the cover.”

Tom felt something sharp stir in the back of his mind.

A quiet prickle of suspicion.

He studied you more carefully now.

Your posture was relaxed, shoulders loose. Your fingers held the notebook lightly rather than clutching it. Even your expression was perfectly balanced—concerned enough to look helpful, but not eager enough to appear desperate for praise.

Tom took the notebook from your hand slowly.

Your fingers brushed his for the briefest moment before withdrawing and he watched as a pretty flush spread across your cheeks.

“How thoughtful of you.”

"That's me, ever so thoughtful." You said brightly.

Tom’s gaze lingered on you, searching.

He was accustomed to understanding people quickly. Most of them were painfully transparent—jealousy, ambition, fear. Their motives showed themselves with very little effort.

But you…

You stood there looking utterly unbothered by his scrutiny.

If anything, you seemed amused by it.

His voice, when he spoke, was smooth and composed once more.

“You should head back to your dorm, Ms. (L/N).”

You blinked once at the sudden formality.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the recent petrifications,” He continued calmly, his dark eyes studying your reaction carefully, “And the rumors circulating about a creature roaming the castle.”

“Thank you for your concern about me,” you said lightly after a moment, clasping your hands behind your back as though the gesture pleased you greatly. “I’m glad I was able to return your book.”

You rocked back gently on your heels, your expression bright.

“Well,” you said, “I won’t keep you.”

Your eyes flicked briefly toward the notebook tucked beneath his arm.

Then back to his face.

You flashed him one last charming smile.

“See you around, Tom.”

The sound of his first name coming from your mouth sounded both offensive and intriguing. He found himself wanting to bite your lip, if only to get you to stop saying it.

Then you stepped aside and continued down the corridor.

Tom remained where he was.

Watching you walk away.

Your stride was easy and unhurried, robes swaying softly with each step as though the entire interaction had been nothing more than a trivial act of courtesy. Students passed you without a second glance.

Nothing about you looked suspicious.

Nothing about you looked unusual.

Yet the feeling in Tom’s chest refused to settle.

He lowered his gaze to the notebook resting in his hand.

His fingers slid across the worn leather cover, tracing the faint crease along the spine he had memorized long ago. The weight of it felt right. The edges of the parchment within were exactly as he remembered.

Everything was precisely where it should be.

Which only made the situation more irritating.

Tom opened the notebook.

His intention had been simple—to confirm nothing inside had been disturbed.

The first page flipped over beneath his thumb.

And he froze.

For a moment he simply stared.

Because right there, pressed neatly into the corner of the page, was a mark that absolutely did not belong there.

A lipstick kiss.

Soft red, unmistakable.

Perfectly shaped.

Tom’s jaw tightened almost immediately as red, hot anger began to bleed from his chest into the rest of his body and his head snapped up, only to find the corridor completely empty now.

Further down the corridor, you passed a student standing stiffly beside the wall.

Their posture was wrong. Rigid. Unnatural. Their eyes stared ahead with a dull, glassy vacancy.

Good.

You slowed your steps.

Just slightly.

You leaned closer to them as you walked past, your wand barely peeking out of your robes, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Finite.”

The spell slipped from your lips like breath.

Instantly the student blinked.

Their expression crumpled in confusion as awareness flooded back into their face.

“Wait—what…?”

They glanced around the corridor in disorientation.

“What am I doing here?”

You simply continued walking while small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

The Imperius Curse had proven remarkably useful.

The corridors of Hogwarts were unusually silent, the castle holding its breath as whispers of petrified students and rumors of a hidden monster made the few remaining passersby hurry along, heads down, ears alert.

You walked alone, steps unhurried, almost casual. Weeks of careful research had led you here. Every legend, every rumor about the Chamber of Secrets, every library scroll that mentioned serpents, pipes, and ancient Hogwarts secrets—it all pointed to one undeniable truth. The creature stalking the halls was a basilisk.

And you knew exactly when Tom Riddle would be alone.

Tonight, that knowledge had positioned you here, perched casually on one of the sinks in the second-floor girls’ bathroom. Legs swinging slightly, a soft, teasing smile curving your lips, as if waiting for a friend. Not a boy capable of killing you with a flick of his wand.

The scrape of stone and metal told you he had arrived before he even entered your line of sight. Tom stepped into the room, eyes scanning cautiously. He froze when he spotted you.

You tilted your head, innocently playful. “Wow. You certainly took your sweet time.” Your smile widened, calm, almost amused.

His grip on his wand tightened. Dark eyes narrowed. “How did you find me?” He asked, voice clipped, dangerous.

“You tend to be quite cute when you think you’re being… oh so sneaky, Tom,” You teased, voice light, “I find it rather endearing. I’d advise against trying to hurt me or kill me here—your magic would be traced, and we both know it. And your little friend wouldn’t arrive fast enough to stop me from sending a message to Headmaster Dippet.”

His jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed danger, “What do you want?”

You leaned back against the sink, entirely relaxed, letting the faintest curl of amusement touch your voice. “Relax, darling,” You said smoothly, and his brow twitched at the term of endearment, “If I were looking to tell anyone, I would’ve told Headmaster Dippet last week when your little pet attacked Gallagher, or maybe Coughan the week before that.”

His eyes flashed with anger. He had been meticulous, methodical, careful—every movement, every spell calculated. How did you know? How much had you seen?

“I won’t tell anyone,” You added lightly, letting your gaze meet his, steady and unafraid, “All I ask in return is… one little favor.”

His jaw twitched, “And what is it you want in return?”

A low, sultry smile crossed your face. “Your company,” You said softly, “Next weekend at Hogsmeade. Just a simple, innocent outing.”

Tom’s mind whirled. Fury mixed with disbelief. His lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tightening, a hand curling into a fist at his side. No one had ever dared corner him like this, force him into a position where he had to consider their terms.

“You think you can threaten me?” He asked finally, voice icy, each word measured, precise.

You chuckled softly, tilting your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, Tom. I’m not threatening you. I’m simply… negotiating.” You leaned forward slightly, letting the charm in your voice coat every word, “And really, one measly little date at Hogsmeade hardly seems like too high a price to pay for keeping my lips sealed about your… extracurricular activities.”

His eyes darkened, a storm behind them. Control had always been his currency, his comfort. And yet here you were, calm, smiling, daring him in a way that unsettled him more than any warning could.

Fury built behind the measured calm, coiling in his chest like a serpent ready to strike. His teeth ground together, fists flexing. This would not, could not, go unanswered. No one, not you, not anyone, would undermine him without consequence.

His gaze bore into yours, cold, sharp, and lethal. The calculated calm returned to his features, but it was brittle now, barely holding back the fire beneath.

He made a decision then, slow and deliberate, every movement weighted with quiet menace. You had forced his hand, exposed his secrets, dared him—and he would not, could not, let it go unpunished.

Tom Riddle turned, stepping back from the sink, the faintest trace of a smile still playing at his lips—but his eyes were ice and fire. A storm was coming, and you had lit the spark.

Tom Riddle did not sleep well that night.

Not because of fear.

Tom Riddle did not fear anyone.

But fury was another matter entirely.

It simmered beneath the immaculate mask he wore in the days that followed, burning quietly behind his polite smiles and flawless manners. No one noticed the change. Professors still praised him. Students still admired him. He attended every class, answered every question with effortless brilliance, walked the halls with the same composed grace he always had.

The model student.

The golden boy of Hogwarts.

But beneath that calm exterior, something darker churned.

Relentless.

His mind worked through the memory again and again, dissecting every second of the encounter with cold precision.

You had cornered him.

Threatened him.

Smiled while doing it.

And worst of all—you had done it with the confidence of someone who believed they had the upper hand.

The audacity of it made his jaw tighten even now.

You.

A student. An inconvenience. A trivial little obstacle that should have been beneath his notice.

And yet you had stood there, looking at him like you understood him.

Like you had him cornered.

The insult of it burned.

Tom had spent years carefully building control over every aspect of his life—his reputation, his influence, the fear and admiration people felt in his presence. Every move he made was deliberate. Calculated. Precise.

And somehow, you had slipped through the cracks of that control.

He would correct that mistake.

The following evening, he sent you a note.

The parchment was neat, the ink perfectly measured. Anyone who read it would have seen nothing unusual—just the elegant, polite scrawl of Hogwarts’ most well-mannered student.

But beneath the smooth strokes of his handwriting simmered a rage so sharp it made his fingers ache.

A part of him imagined tearing you apart with his bare hands.

Imagined the sound of your bones snapping between his fingers.

Imagined sinking his teeth into your throat just to watch that insufferable little smile disappear.

The thought brought him a moment of grim satisfaction.

The note itself was simple.

Next weekend. Hogsmeade.

Nothing more.

He sealed it, calm and composed, as though the message were nothing more than a casual confirmation.

But the truth was far simpler.

You would never make it to Hogsmeade.

You had tried to use his own secret against him.

How fitting, then, that the very creature you thought gave you power would be the cause of your undoing.

If the basilisk killed you, you would become nothing more than another unfortunate victim of the Chamber of Secrets. A foolish girl who had wandered somewhere she did not belong. Another whispered tragedy the professors would wring their hands over.

And your little game—your threats, your smug little smiles—would die with you.

The opportunity arrived sooner than Tom expected.

Late evening. The castle corridors were nearly empty, the torches burning low along the stone walls. Tom stood hidden just beyond the entrance to the second-floor bathroom, perfectly still, listening.

In all honesty, he hadn’t planned to deal with you tonight.

But when the basilisk returned after petrifying another Muggle-born, and he saw you walking calmly toward the very bathroom that concealed the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, the irony was simply too perfect to ignore.

It was almost as though you were asking for it.

Did you truly think yourself so untouchable that you would willingly walk into the only place in the castle you knew housed the monster responsible for the attacks?

A faint smile curled at the corner of Tom’s mouth as he watched you push open the bathroom door and disappear inside.

Perfect.

He waited only a moment before whispering the command.

The familiar hiss of Parseltongue slid from his lips, quiet and sharp.

From somewhere deep within the walls, the basilisk answered.

A violent shudder ran through the pipes.

Then—

A scream.

High. Sharp. Panicked.

A body struck the tile floor with a dull, lifeless thud.

The sound echoed through the empty bathroom.

Tom stepped inside.

His expression was calm, controlled, utterly composed.

Until he saw the body.

The girl lying on the floor was not you.

For a long moment he simply stared.

Round glasses sat crooked against the tile. A small, crumpled figure lay sprawled beside the sinks, eyes wide and frozen in terror. Ravenclaw blue bled through the folds of her uniform.

Something cold washed over him.

“Oh dear.”

Tom snapped around.

And there you were.

Leaning casually in the doorway as though you had been watching the entire scene unfold.

Your eyes drifted down to the body.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

“Should I be offended,” You said lightly, “that you can’t tell the difference between a beauty like myself and a cow like her?”

In an instant Tom crossed the room.

His hand seized the front of your robes and slammed you hard against the stone wall. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, cold tile biting through the fabric against your back.

His fingers slid up your throat.

Not enough to kill you.

But more than enough to remind you that he easily could.

“You think you’re clever.” He hissed.

His eyes flashed red with fury. You would be lying if you said the sight didn’t send a shiver down your spine. His voice sounded strained, the control in it fraying from the effort it took to hold his temper back.

His grip tightened.

“You think you’re smarter than me?”

Your pulse jumped beneath his fingers, but your expression remained infuriatingly calm.

You even smiled.

“No.” You said softly.

Your voice was steady despite the pressure on your throat.

“But I’m also not as stupid as you seem to think I am.”

You smirked.

“Did you really think I’d be naïve enough to walk into this room after threatening you like that? Surely you couldn’t have thought me that stupid, Tom.”

Your eyes glinted with something dangerously close to amusement.

“After all… I’ve been watching you for a long time.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“I know what you’re like.”

A pause.

“I know who the real monster is.”

Tom’s eyes flashed with pure rage.

The fury that had been simmering for days surged violently to the surface. His grip tightened as he pressed you harder into the wall, thumbs digging into the soft skin of your throat as your windpipe strained beneath his fingers.

The thought was intoxicating.

Just a little more pressure.

Just a little more—

and you would be gone.

Out of his life.

Out of his problems.

Out of his way.

Slowly, deliberately, you lifted a hand and touched his wrist where it held you pinned. Your fingers were light, almost gentle and you ran the pads of them along the prominent veins on his hand, almost enchanted.

You smirked and then you leaned closer, your voice dropping to a whisper.

“Harder.”

For several long seconds Tom said nothing.

His fingers were still tight around your throat, your back pressed against the cold stone wall. The bathroom was silent now except for the faint dripping of water from one of the sinks and the distant rumble of the basilisk retreating through the pipes.

And Myrtle’s body lay crumpled across the tiles behind him.

Tom’s breathing was steady, but there was a dangerous edge to it now—thin, controlled, as though fury was being forced through clenched teeth.

You watched him calmly.

Abruptly he released you.

You sucked in a breath as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing once as your hand came up to rub your throat. The skin would bruise, you knew. His fingers had dug deep enough for that.

Tom stepped back slowly, eyes never leaving you.

Behind him, Myrtle’s body still lay crumpled on the tile floor.

The silence stretched.

Then you sighed.

“Well,” You said lightly, straightening your robes as though the last thirty seconds had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience, “this is awkward.”

Tom said nothing.

His gaze was sharp now. Assessing. Calculating.

You smiled.

“You know, originally I really was planning to leave you alone after our little Hogsmeade arrangement. All I wanted was one little date in Hogsmeade,” You said lightly, “A harmless afternoon. Maybe a butterbeer.”

You tilted your head as you looked at him, studying his expression as though carefully weighing the situation.

“But circumstances have changed.”

Tom’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Your gaze drifted briefly to the floor before returning to him, that same maddening smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“Your list of crimes has grown rather dramatically since our last conversation.”

His eyes flashed at that, dark and dangerous, but you continued speaking before he could respond.

“And that,” You added pleasantly, “means the price of my silence has gone up.”

The way you said it—calm, conversational, as though discussing the weather rather than murder—made something dark twist inside Tom’s chest.

“I don’t negotiate with parasites.” He said coldly.

Behind the words, his mind was already racing. He measured distances, possibilities, weaknesses. There were a dozen ways he could silence you. A dozen ways he could make this problem disappear forever. But you were watching him too closely, studying every shift in his expression as though you could hear the gears turning in his head.

Just like before.

That infuriating smile never left your face.

“So,” You said after a moment, clasping your hands behind your back as if you were proposing a perfectly reasonable arrangement, “I’ve decided on new terms.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened, “You believe you can extort me?”

You shrugged slightly, “I think I’m entitled to more compensation.”

“And what,” He asked slowly, dangerously, “exactly do you believe you are entitled to?”

You met his eyes without the slightest hesitation.

“Your time,” You said simply. Then, after a small pause, “Your attention.”

He stared at you, completely still.

“And your devotion.”

For the first time since you had known him, Tom Riddle actually looked stunned.

Silence stretched between you, thick and electric. His hands slowly curled into fists at his sides as the full weight of what you were suggesting settled over him. The audacity of it was staggering. You—blackmailing him. Commanding him. Trying to reduce him into some lovesick schoolboy.

The humiliation alone made something savage coil in his chest.

And yet beneath the fury—beneath the instinctive urge to bite you til you bled—there was something else.

Tom studied you carefully, his mind already calculating ten different ways this arrangement could end with your destruction.

The expression was sharp and cold, and it never reached his eyes.

“Fine,” he said quietly.

The word sounded almost bitter on his tongue.

“But understand something, (Y/N),” He leaned slightly closer, his voice lowering into something soft and dangerous, “One day you will regret forcing my hand.”

Your smile only widened.

“Oh, darling.”

You stepped past him then, brushing lightly against his shoulder as you moved toward the door.

“I’m counting on it.”

The first day you did not appear beside him in the corridors, Tom barely noticed.

Hogwarts functioned as it always did and for once, there was no sharp voice at his shoulder making some infuriating remark, no insistent hands tugging at his until you were practically pressed up against him, no tacky lipstick on his cheeks, no quiet reminder that you held something over him. The absence was… pleasant. Quiet. Efficient.

By the second day, he decided it was a blessing.

By the third, he told himself you had likely grown bored of the arrangement. Perhaps the novelty had worn off. Perhaps you had decided the trouble of maintaining your leverage was not worth it. The thought brought him a brief moment of satisfaction. If you wished to disappear from his life of your own accord, he would hardly object.

By the fifth day, however, he noticed.

It was not that he expected to see you constantly, but you had a way of appearing where he least expected—waiting in a corridor, slipping into the seat beside him in the library, watching him from across the Great Hall with that same infuriatingly confident smile.

Without those small intrusions, the castle felt strangely different. Students still whispered about the two of you, of course. Rumors did not die easily at Hogwarts. If anything, they had only grown more dramatic in your absence.

Tom heard them everywhere.

Some said the two of you had quarreled. Others believed he had discarded you already. A few insisted the relationship had been some elaborate scheme from the beginning.

Tom ignored them all.

Still, the question lingered.

Where had you gone?

By the seventh evening, curiosity had grown irritating enough that he decided to resolve the matter personally. It was late when he made his way through the castle, the corridors nearly empty as most students settled into their dormitories.

The girls’ dormitory entrance was hardly a barrier; a quiet charm and careful timing were more than enough for someone with Tom’s talents. Within minutes he found himself standing outside your door, the faint glow of candlelight visible beneath the frame.

He knocked only once before the door creaked open slightly. You peeked through, not opening the door the entire way. Your eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across your face before it quickly hardened into something more defensive.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, your voice sharper than usual.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He said flatly, though the accusation lacked its usual bite.

You chuckled lightly, offering him an airy smile, "I’ve simply been occupied.”

“With what?” He asked, his tone colder now as he stepped closer, hand braced against the door like he was going to push it open. You remained firm.

"Nothing that requires your concern, I'm sure. Have a good night."

Tom stepped inside despite your protests and attempts to shut the door on him, closing the door behind him as his gaze moved slowly over you. At first he could not quite understand what he was looking at. Then the candlelight shifted, revealing angry red boils scattered across your skin—your arms, your collarbone, even along your jaw. Some were already darkening into ugly purple welts.

For a long moment, Tom simply stared.

“Who did this?” He asked quietly.

Tom studied the boils again, recognition flickering behind his eyes. It was a hex designed more for humiliation than true harm—painful, unsightly, and irritatingly persistent if left untreated.

You shrugged one shoulder, though the movement clearly hurt, “One of your admirers, I imagine. A rather passionate Slytherin who didn’t appreciate that I’m your girlfriend now.”

You avoided his gaze as you continued speaking, your tone attempting nonchalance but failing to hide the faint edge of embarrassment beneath it, “I don’t know the counter-curse.”

The admission sounded reluctant.

The room fell quiet.

Tom said nothing for a moment, though something colder than anger settled behind his expression. The entire student body was under the impression that you belonged to him. The rumors had made that abundantly clear. That was all anybody could talk about for weeks.

Which meant whoever had done this had acted with the full knowledge of that assumption.

Someone had dared to attack you anyway.

It was an insult he did not particularly appreciate.

Without another word, Tom moved closer and reached for your arm. You tensed slightly as his fingers closed around your wrist, turning it gently so he could examine one of the worse boils near your elbow. His touch was firm but careful, his eyes narrowing slightly as he murmured a quiet incantation under his breath.

The effect was almost immediate.

The angry swelling softened, the dark color fading slowly as the curse unraveled beneath his magic. Another spell followed, then another, each one precise and controlled as he worked methodically through the marks scattered across your skin. You watched him in silence as he moved from one injury to the next with quiet focus.

"Why did you come looking for me?" You asked after a while, your voice softer now, "Surely, it wasn't because you missed me?"

Tom did not look up from the bruise along your collarbone as he murmured another counter-charm. The last of the boils faded beneath his wand, leaving only faint redness behind. When he finally stepped back, the room had grown noticeably quieter. The candles had burned low, their light flickering softly across the walls.

You flexed your arm experimentally, surprised at the absence of pain.

“Well,” You said slowly, glancing up at him, “Thank you.”

Tom did not respond immediately.

For a moment he simply watched you, his expression unreadable as his mind turned over the situation once more. Then his gaze sharpened slightly, the faintest trace of something colder settling into his voice.

“See to it that the person responsible is dealt with.”

You blinked faintly, surprised by the sudden shift.

Tom continued before you could respond, his tone calm but edged with quiet menace.

“I cannot have the worms in this castle believing they can lay a hand on what is mine.” His eyes flicked briefly over the fading marks on your skin before returning to your face, “An insult to my property is, by extension, an insult to me.”

Then, without another word, he turned and moved toward the door.

It was well past midnight when he finally left your dormitory, the castle corridors silent as he walked back through them.

Behind him, the door closed softly.

And you were left alone in your dorm with a hot blush crawling along your body.

He called you his.

The next morning dawned bright and deceptively peaceful, sunlight spilling across the Great Hall windows as students shuffled in for breakfast. Conversations buzzed around the tables as usual, though every so often a pair of curious eyes drifted toward you before quickly darting away again.

You had barely sat down when someone approached your table.

A younger girl from your house—one of those students who seemed to know everything about everyone—hovered uncertainly beside you, clutching her books against her chest. Her expression carried that particular mix of curiosity and poorly concealed excitement that only appeared when someone believed they had discovered a piece of valuable gossip.

“I… um,” She began, glancing around before leaning closer, “I saw something last night.”

You looked up at her slowly, blinking as though confused.

“What sort of something?”

She lowered her voice immediately, her eyes shining with anticipation, “I saw Tom Riddle leaving your dormitory.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Then your gaze darted quickly around the room as though suddenly terrified someone might overhear.

“You saw that?” You whispered, your voice dropping to an urgent hush.

The girl nodded eagerly.

Your shoulders sagged as though the weight of the world had just landed on them, and you pressed your hands to your face with dramatic despair.

“Oh Merlin,” You murmured, “This is exactly what I was afraid of.”

Her eyes widened further, clearly sensing she had stumbled into something far more scandalous than she had originally imagined.

“You can’t tell anyone,” You said quickly, leaning forward and grabbing her wrist in sudden desperation, “Please. If people found out about this… if they knew Tom and I were—”

You stopped yourself mid-sentence, biting your lip as though the words had slipped out accidentally.

The girl’s mouth fell open.

"So it's true then?!"

Your expression shifted immediately into something panicked and pleading.

“Please,” You whispered again, lowering your voice even further, “You have to promise you won’t repeat it. It would ruin him if people started talking about it. You know how everyone watches him—how the professors expect so much. If rumors started spreading about him sneaking into girls’ dormitories—”

You shook your head quickly as though the thought alone made you ill.

“He’d never forgive me.”

The girl nodded rapidly, already vibrating with the effort of containing such explosive information.

“Of course,” She said, though her voice trembled with excitement, “I won’t say anything.”

You gave her a grateful smile, squeezing her wrist before letting go.

“Thank you,” You said softly. “I knew I could trust you.”

She hurried away moments later, clearly struggling to appear normal as she returned to her own table.

You watched her go.

And then, very slowly, your anxious expression faded.

The panic melted from your features, replaced instead with a quiet, satisfied smile as you reached calmly for your breakfast.

Because you knew exactly what would happen next.

Within the hour, half the castle would know.

By lunchtime, the entire school would be whispering about how Tom Riddle had spent the night in your dormitory.

And once that rumor took hold—once it spread through the halls and common rooms and eventually reached the professors—Tom would have no choice.

After all, his reputation was everything.

And if the entire student body believed that Tom Riddle had compromised a girl’s reputation by sneaking into her room in the middle of the night…

Well.

A man of his impeccable character would surely feel obligated to make things right.

You took a slow sip of your drink, hiding your smile behind the rim of the cup.

All according to plan.

Tom found you that evening in one of the quieter corridors of the castle, where the torches burned low and the sound of the Great Hall had long since faded into distant echoes. You barely had time to look up before he seized your arm and pushed you sharply back against the cold stone wall.

The impact knocked the breath from your lungs.

His hand closed around your throat a second later, not quite tight enough to choke you, but more than enough to make the threat clear.

Tom’s eyes were burning.

“Good evening to you too, Tom.”

"You've been busy." He seethed.

His words were quiet, but the fury behind it made the air feel suddenly thinner.

You studied him for a moment, taking in the anger radiating from him like heat. Instead of fear, however, your expression softened into something almost thoughtful.

“Ah,” You said lightly, “You heard.”

Tom’s jaw clenched so tightly it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack.

“The entire school believes I spent the night in your dormitory.”

You shrugged lightly.

“Well, you did leave my room past midnight,” You replied lightly, “People are bound to notice such things.”

His hand slammed harder against the wall beside your head with enough force to make the hanging portraits shudder.

“You know exactly what they mean.”

“Oh, I do.”

“You are playing a very dangerous game. And I'm not giving into your whims this time."

You folded your arms, looking up at him with an expression of exaggerated concern, “Oh, Tom, surely you don’t want people thinking poorly of you.”

His eyes narrowed.

You continued before he could interrupt, your tone thoughtful in a way that was almost insulting.

“Imagine what they’d say if you denied it now. Sneaking into a girl’s dormitory in the middle of the night and then pretending nothing happened?” You gave a small, sympathetic shake of your head, “People might think you’re the sort of man who would take a girl’s virtue and abandon her the next morning.”

The words landed like sparks in dry tinder.

For a second Tom simply stared at you.

Then the fury exploded.

“You manipulative little—”

His hand tightened suddenly around your throat, pressing you harder against the wall as the last threads of his patience snapped. His face was inches from yours now, his expression twisted with barely contained fury.

“I will kill you.” He said, his voice dropping into something low and deadly.

“Well,” You said softly, even as his fingers tightened slightly against your skin, “if that’s how it ends, I suppose I’ll die happy.”

Tom’s expression darkened further.

You leaned your head back against the stone, completely unbothered by the danger of the moment, your eyes meeting his with quiet amusement.

“After all,” You added sweetly, “til death do us part.”

For a long moment neither of you moved.

Tom stared down at you, fury blazing behind his eyes, his mind racing through a dozen violent possibilities. He could end this right now. One spell. One movement of his hand. No more blackmail, no more games, no more infuriating smiles. His fingers were still loosely curled at your throat, the warmth of your pulse beating steadily against his skin, and the thought crossed his mind—dark, fleeting, dangerously tempting—that it would be very easy to tighten his grip and silence you forever.

And yet he didn’t.

Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was pride refusing to grant you the dramatic ending you seemed so comfortable provoking. Or perhaps it was the simple fact that you were still looking at him with that same maddening composure, as though the outcome of this confrontation had already been decided in your favor and the rest of it was merely a formality.

Your hand shot up, catching the front of his robes before he could step away, and with a sharp, decisive tug you pulled him down toward you.

The movement was so sudden that for the first time since you had known him, Tom Riddle was caught completely off guard.

Your lips crashed into his.

For half a second his mind simply went blank.

The corridor seemed to fall utterly silent around you, the distant sounds of the castle fading into nothing as shock replaced fury in a way Tom had not experienced in years. No one—no one—had ever dared take that sort of liberty with him.

And yet here you were.

Kissing him like you had every right to.

Like he belonged to you.

The realization should have filled him with pure rage.

Instead something darker stirred beneath the anger, something sharp and electric that twisted low in his chest as your fingers tightened in his robes to keep him from pulling away. The kiss itself was not soft or hesitant—it was bold, deliberate, almost mocking in its confidence, as though you were sealing a deal you had already won.

When you finally pulled back, the distance between you was barely an inch.

For once, he looked genuinely stunned.

The fury was still there—burning, sharp, dangerous—but it had tangled now with something far more complicated. His eyes searched your face as though trying to understand how someone could possibly stand in front of him with such fearless audacity, provoking him again and again without the slightest hesitation.

Your expression didn’t waver.

If anything, you looked pleased.

Tom’s jaw tightened slowly as his composure began to return, piece by piece, the familiar cold control settling back over his features like armor. But the look he gave you now was different from before.

“You are either extraordinarily brave,” He said quietly, his voice low enough that it barely carried beyond the two of you, “or catastrophically foolish.”

You shrugged lightly.

“Perhaps both.”

Slowly, very slowly, his grip loosened.

“Enjoy your victory while you can.” He murmured quietly.

Then he stepped away.

bonus:

Morning light filtered through the heavy drapes, washing the bedroom in muted gold. You stirred beneath the blankets, stretching lazily before opening your eyes.

Tom sat beside you, already awake, spine straight against the headboard. A book rested in his hand, his dark eyes scanning the page with the same quiet intensity he gave everything. Even in the soft light of morning he looked impossibly composed, untouched by sleep or softness.

“Mmm… good morning.” You murmured, voice thick with sleep and a hint of amusement.

His gaze lifted from the page, sharp and measured as always. “Good morning.” Tom replied evenly, setting the book aside with deliberate care.

You rolled onto your side and propped your head on your hand, studying him. One brow arched in challenge.

“Give me a kiss,” You said lazily, “or I swear I’ll kill Abraxas.”

At the mention of his right-hand man, Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly. The faintest flicker of irritation crossed his face.

“You’re insufferable.” He muttered, though the insult lacked any real heat.

Still, he leaned down and brushed his lips against yours in a brief, restrained peck.

Not nearly enough.

Your hands shot up instantly, fingers curling into the nape of his neck before he could pull away. You dragged him back down, pressing your lips firmly against his.

For a moment he stiffened—a reflex born of pride, of control—but it didn’t last.

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer against him as the kiss deepened, slow and heated. There was possession in it, quiet and undeniable. Not tenderness exactly… but something far more dangerous.

Minutes slipped by unnoticed. Soft breaths mingled, the quiet rustle of sheets, the slow slide of lips and teeth. The book lay forgotten on the bedside table as the sun crept higher beyond the curtains.

Eventually the spell broke with the soft creak of the bedroom door.

Both of you glanced toward it, mildly annoyed.

Nagini slithered gracefully across the floor and climbed onto the bed, curling comfortably at your feet.

A second later, a small head peeked through the doorway.

A young boy, no older than three, stood there hesitantly. His wide eyes moved between the two of you, waiting.

You immediately opened your arms.

“Come to mummy, baby.” You cooed.

His face brightened, a shy grin tugging at his lips. But he paused halfway across the room, glancing toward Tom for approval.

Tom watched him for a moment, his expression carefully neutral. Then, almost imperceptibly, something softened in his gaze.

“Do as your mother says, Mattheo.” He said quietly.

That was all the encouragement the boy needed.

Mattheo burst into motion, racing across the room before scrambling onto the bed. You scooped him up instantly, covering his round cheeks with kisses as he squealed with laughter.

Tom leaned back against the headboard, observing the chaos you created with a calm, almost detached air.

Mattheo wriggled happily between the two of you, giggling as you continued to smother him with affection.

“You know, baby,” You said with a sly smile, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, “if you want some morning kisses from Daddy, all you have to do is threaten to kill one of his men.”

Mattheo’s eyes widened with delight.

Tom let out a slow, tired sigh.

“Don’t give him ideas,” he said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. “You spoil him far too much.”

You giggled and hugged Mattheo closer.

The boy leaned toward you conspiratorially, then glanced back at Tom with careful curiosity.

“If I say I’m going to kill Lestrange,” He asked thoughtfully, “will Daddy grant me a wish?”

You and Tom exchanged a brief glance. It was rare for Mattheo to ask for anything—every desire of his was usually fulfilled before he even voiced it.

You smiled softly and kissed the top of his head.

“And what would that wish be, my love?”

Mattheo wrapped his arms around your neck and tugged you closer until his tiny voice was just a whisper against your ear.

“A baby sister.”

Tom answered before you could.

“Absolutely not.”

The response was immediate, sharp, and final.

Mattheo’s little face crumpled in disappointment.

You quickly kissed his cheeks, pressing your nose against his soft skin.

“Don’t worry, my love.” You murmured gently.

Then you lifted your gaze toward Tom, a wicked smirk spreading slowly across your face.

Tom narrowed his eyes at you instantly, recognizing that expression far too well.

You only smiled wider.

“You forget,” You said sweetly, stroking Mattheo’s hair, “your mummy is an excellent negotiator.”

Tom exhaled slowly, glaring at you with weary irritation.

And yet, despite himself, his hand reached out—almost unconsciously—to steady Mattheo as the boy bounced excitedly on the bed between you.

After all—

you had never lost an argument with Tom Riddle before.

To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee @notslaybabes @writers-whirlwind @paankhaleyaaar @superlegend216 @kaisupremecy @ilovefictionallmenn @aviwritessometimes @devilslittlehelper @notfckincreative @workof-a-rr-t @insideoutjulie @tikitsune @booklover2503 @whoreforfictionalmen18 @hzdhrtss @noonasoul @echolovesspidey @potatoheartsyou @chevelledahuman @33shadowhunters @goodvibesonlyxd @maradcrs @pluto-9456

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid @revesephemeres @catiwinky @goldfishinpainttubes @psh-pjh @honethatty12 @imkindofanaudiogeeksorry @lilians17 @its-jennarose @h1mawarii @lookalivesunshiiiine109 @ivygreenonbricks @navs-bhat @swiftlythejackson @itznotsophia @allielovesstars @century13 @moremaple @kissedbychaosxx @thalibaby @goldencherriess @inkedinevermore @imaginebeingmentallystable @viridianblurr @tiredslepz @littlerabbitwithwings @notts-moon @linnygirl09 @jollykingdomturtle @pariahsparadise @mollyjunebugg 

[gitopi]

reader thats a tease x yuta that gets flustered easily🥹 literally just imagine him stuttering over his words as reader casually flirts with him and then continue yapping like they didn’t just rock his world😋🤞 big smoochies for bringing us out of the yuta drought ™️

𝐹𝐿𝒰𝒮𝐻𝐸𝒟! - 𝒴.𝒪.

PAIRING: yuta okkotsu x reader

Genre: fluff, one-shot

Warnings: flirting, not proofread, yuta's biceps

AN: Thanks for all the love :)))

WC: 1.1k

Yuta was convinced you really were too direct for your own good.

Sometimes you really didn’t pay attention or filter your words, and now he had to deal with the consequences of your actions. Two minutes ago he was just giving you some pointers for your form, and now he was mentally beating himself up for not bringing a mirror.

His face must’ve been so flushed.

And the worst part was, he couldn’t help himself. Not when your face was inches from his, so close that he could feel your breath on his neck.

It was right after some sparring, so everyone had worn pretty light outfits. Temperatures were heating up, and on top of the amount of physical activity that was done was enough for everybody to be exhausted.

Everyone else had been rushing to get freshened up, while you had opted to stay back just a bit longer. Now it was just the two of you. Since you didn’t want to leave quite yet, Yuta had offered to keep you company, and you accepted.

Now, the two of you were finally on your walk back to the dorms. So naturally, you drifted into conversation about some things you both wanted to improve on.

Right now though, it felt like you were talking to yourself. He was so sorry about it too. He was just so preoccupied.

Apologies played over and over in Yuta’s head like a prayer. The poor guy didn’t really intend to be so zoned out. 

He really wanted to be engaged in conversation too, he swears. But the way you were quite literally observing every detail on his face, breath on his neck, and staring at him with such focus made him so flustered it was borderline humiliating.

You stepped closer, trying to get a better view. Why was he standing so far away? You just told him you couldn’t see.

“Don’t–” The proximity was killing him, did you have to be standing that close? “Don’t you think that’s close enough?”

“Of course not, come here.” You tugged him by the neckline of his shirt, moving him forward to get a look at his face.

He bit the inside of his cheek. It would be the perfect time for someone to come save him because there was just no way he was going to survive if you kept doing this.

You were talking but he was so unfocused he had no idea what you were even saying. In his mind your lips were moving but there was absolutely no sound coming out.

His eyes though, were very much working to the best of their ability.

They were moving from your hair, to your eyes, to your lips–

“Yuta, see–” He blinked as you snapped your fingers in his face, bringing him back to the fact that he was still most definitely there, not in some alternate reality. “What? I’m sorry–”

“I told you, your jawline is super defined, like seriously.” Your hands traced the underside of his face, tapping lightly to emphasize your point.

Yuta’s mouth slightly fell open, raising a brow like he wasn’t sure if you were joking. “You think so?” His own hand moved up to lightly feel along the skin of his jaw.

He was thoroughly surprised himself. He honestly hadn’t been tracking the changes in his appearance at all. He supposes it makes sense though, he’d begun training a bit harder during the day recently.

Humming, you observed the rest of his face, mumbling something about how “he really was such a good looking guy” under your breath.

Oh.

Okay.

He must be really losing it now.

He asked you to repeat yourself, and you did.

Yuta was still trying to process what you’d said. Unfortunately, or fortunately for him though, he really wasn’t sure at this point, you’d moved on just as fast as you’d said it the first time.

So you weren’t going to acknowledge that? Okay. That was fine. He could deal with that.

Taking the opportunity to focus on what you were sure were very significant changes in his build, you motioned to his arms. “These too, it seems like they've been getting more toned aswell.”

Yuta was wearing a navy blue, short-sleeved undershirt that exposed the now, more prominent, muscles in his arms. You briefly glanced at him, the tone of your voice getting more focused out of nowhere. “Wait, flex your arm really quick.” He did just that, and his face couldn’t help but tug into a nervous smile at the way your eyes lit up.

You were stunned. His arms had gotten noticeably larger with muscle. You could actually see a pretty large vein popping out. He must’ve been really focused if he was getting results like that.

“Oh my..” You poked at his skin, it was so tough. The bicep felt like a rock compared to what you were expecting.

His face was so hot that he thought he might’ve been sweating at this point. If he was it was a good thing you just came back from the track because at least he had some type of excuse.

Now that you’d mentioned it, he’d thought Panda had mentioned something about it a few weeks ago, but it must’ve slipped his mind. So even though he’d been aware of the fact for a while now, his cheeks still got hot at the way you mentioned it so casually.

Bringing his arm up to rub the back of his neck, he could only respond with nervous laughter. “It’s not that big of a deal..” Yuta just looked up in the air, shutting his eyes while trying to divert the focus off himself. “Compared to Gojo..”

You let out a light laugh at that. “You know, Yuta, you’re so humble.”

Turning back around, you began heading towards the dorms again, and he followed.

As you strolled down the hallway, you completely moved on from the topic. “Like I was saying though, I think I want to visit a store I passed the other day!”

He was moving on autopilot at this point, while you were acting like you hadn’t completely scattered his mind.

Safe to say, Yuta was thinking about it until he fell asleep later that night. You were so oblivious to how nervous you’d made him. He tried to be nonchalant about it. But Yuta Okkotsu is anything but nonchalant.

On the other hand, while you were getting ready for bed a few hours later, there was one question that remained in the forefront of your mind.

Just what was up with Yuta after dinner earlier? He’d seemed like there was something on his mind. He was so zoned out he barely responded to any of Panda’s jokes.

If only you would’ve asked him.

Thankfully he already had the answer, which continued to keep him up all night.

You.

@texas-bitch-yee, @hioriiii

AN: comments are appreciated ♡

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------All photographs, lyrics, quotes, are not mine, credits reserved to those individuals..

[dreamermonica]

cw; gender neutral! reader, sfw with a sprinkle of winkwink, basically just a smooch from qiuyuan aha

For a man without eyesight, QIUYUAN can do a lot of things.

He can pierce the hearts of his enemies with ease, cook meals without batting a lid, discern both familiar and unfamiliar surroundings in an instant, read your emotions better than any man with two working eyes could ever hope to — you get the gist of it. He fares just like any other person.

You wouldn’t have known he was blind, really, not unless you looked close. Not unless curiosity got the better of you and you finally asked about his eyes — those elusive, cloudy things that never seemed to look directly at you, no matter how hard you tried to catch them.

(“What? You’re telling me you’ve been blind this whole time?”

He does not reply.

You were about to ask how a man who cannot see could cultivate such precise swordsmanship, until you remember something from a distant past.

“But you mentioned I had a fair face during our first meeting.”

He does not elaborate.

“... You have no sight and now you can’t speak?”

He does not make an excuse.)

And in that manner, you truly think it is strange.

For all his practiced, almost perfect ways of adapting to a life of a blind man, for all the subtle precision of his movements and the effortless grace that makes everyone else look clumsy — Qiuyuan always, always, seems to forget where your lips are each time he leans in to humor you with a kiss.

You like to think you know enough that you are not oblivious. In fact, you are well aware of how his forte functions in relation to his surroundings, having been… loved a lot… by him, yet this does not placate your confusion.

Qiuyuan is sharp and concise in everything he does. He never wastes time. He never rushes either. Every movement of his is deliberate, efficient. Most details are trivial to him; he only cares about the things that matter to wandering swordsmen — sharpening their blades, bathing in rivers, mending their coats by the firelight. He may notice everything, even the things in between, yet very rarely does he make them his business.

(Thinking about it, you recall the time he mentioned he liked the frequencies of your bold personality, that or it was the smell of your virtues. What did he mean by this?)

All in all, why would kissing you be any different?

If anything, he seems to take his time with it — tracing the ridge of your eyebrows, brushing the faint frown between them, mapping the moles scattered across your cheeks and neck as if they were constellations he needed to memorize. His fingers trail the bridge of your nose, linger at your lashes, circle your cheekbones in slow, unhurried motion, before resting the pad of his thumb on your bottom lip.

Your entire being feels like it’s on fire.

Qiuyuan is sharp and concise. He never wastes time. So what is he doing?

“Your thoughts,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that slides under your skin. “I sense chaos within it. Do you want to share?”

His eyes — that muted gray, misty and distant, as if trapped in a perpetual haze — are directed right at you. And for some reason, it's now you who can’t maintain eye contact. You look everywhere but him, at the stars stitched into the sky, at the restless trees swaying with the wind — anything to forget the feeling of the feather-light pressure of his thumb on your lip.

“D-don’t look at me like that.” You stutter against your will.

“I can’t see, nor look,” he replies evenly. “I am simply facing where a threat looms.”

Like lightning, your eyes are on him immediately, raising a brow at him. “What threat?”

He chuckles, rare and quiet, and your stomach flips at the sound. “That’s what it takes for you to look at me. Interesting.”

You glare, half annoyed, half flustered. “Qiuyuan, what are you trying to say?”

“Your temperament is truly a wonder I can never hope to comprehend,” he dismisses your glare like he always does — calmly, playfully, infuriatingly — and leans closer still. His breath ghosts across your cheek. “Do you not like it when I let my hands wander?”

He already knows what's bothering you. Of course he does.

Yet that tone teasing, deliberate — to make innuendos is not like him. Againt your better judgement, it sends heat curling through your chest, fueling the warmth of your face. Still, you force yourself to stay on track, to pretend you’re not already melting under his touch.

(You’d let him do anything he wanted to do to you, you realize with a dangerous clarity.)

“You always touch my face like that before you kiss me,” you say quietly. “Why is that?”

He pauses. Not long, but long enough for you to feel the shift in the air between you.

“Back when we first met, I did not lie when I called your face fair.”

You blink, unsure whether to laugh or fall apart. He senses your confusion, and treads further.

“Is it not right for me to appreciate it,” he adds, “now that we are much closer?”

When he leans in again, it is slow and unhurried. The air grows still, heavy with something unspoken. You can feel the warmth of him, close enough that your breaths tangle in the space between.

His hand moves slightly, fingers brushing against your jaw, lingering like a phantom.

The rest happens somewhere between thought and sensation. A shift forward, the briefest contact, so light you might have imagined it — and then stillness, a silence that hums louder than any sound could.

You do not move. Neither does he. And yet something in you has already unraveled.

For a man without eyesight, Qiuyuan can do a lot of things.

He can fight, cook, survive — even sense the smallest flicker of thought that crosses your mind.

But kissing you into a puddle of madness?

That, you think faintly, as his fingers slide into your hair and his lips tilt into a small, all-knowing smile against yours — might just be your favorite of all.

And perhaps, might just be his too.

[kiana-anm]

Lipstick Tests

Luuk Herssen x Gender Neutral Reader

Masterlist

Warnings: A little suggestive, making out

Note: Reader is wearing lipsticks

You lightly trail you fingers along his sharp jawline as your body lean forward towards him.

His head was thrown back with dazed eyes, unfocus and glossed with desire from your touch.

He lets out ragged breaths as you remain in your position, straddling him, to admire your work of 'art'.

His usual compose demeanor is no where to be seen with his normally fair skin flushed; across his face, neck and even his ears.

The red lipstick marks are the cherry on top that makes his visual even more enticing.

You tip his chin to face you and his half lidded eyes finally met yours- making you smile in satisfaction. His pupils were blown wide- almost over taking the scarlet red you love.

It's a rare opportunity to see someone like Luuk to be so disheveled.

You muse, possessively making feather-like touches to his neck and dragging your fingers down his veins.

Pausing your little teasing in favour of leaning in and smashing your lips to his swollen one, you lightly graze your teeth to his bottom lip.

He gasps allowing your tongue to enter his mouth.

His grip tightens on your hips and you almost moaned into the kiss because of the need that's bubbling inside of you.

You wonder how such an innocent intention ended up like this.

You grinned as you approach Luuk, who is sitting on a coach in the living room with a book in his hand.

He smiled gently when he saw your figure getting closer to him, carrying multiple tubes of lipstick.

Multiple tubes of lipstick?

He raises his brows at you- confusion flickering across his gaze.

You just smiled mischievously before sitting down next to him and setting the tubes on the table before both of you.

"I need your help"

"Oh? And how may I be of assistance?"

He questioned you with a teasing edge-smile unwavering.

"I want to find the perfect shade for the outfit you got me and what's better than asking the opinion of your lover?"

He stares at you in amusement before closing his book and putting it aside to face you properly.

"Alright, who am I to ignore my fiance"

You grin victoriously and grab one random tube without looking before leaning towards him.

You give him little time to respond before straddling him against the coach.

He lets out a small gasp in surprise before he regain his composure as he looks at you.

"A little unexpected but It's not like I mind this new position"

He follows up his statement with his hand landing on your hips to hold you steady as you try to move around to get comfortable on him.

You just humm in respond before taking the tube and twisting it open to get the product out.

Luuk watches as you apply it on your lips-eyes not leaving your movements.

His gaze was still on your lips when you close in to kiss the corner of his mouth, making him shiver slightly.

You pull back ,and observe the kiss mark that was left, before shaking your head.

"Ugh, this is not it either"

You reach your hand back to grab another random tube on the table without looking away from his face.

You wiped your mouth with a tissue, you swiped off of your desk before coming in to the living room, and apply the second one.

Luuk watches your movements with scrutinizing eyes.

You lean in again but this time, grants his wish that he's been saying with his expression.

You lips meet his soft one. He brushes his tongue over your bottom lip to ask for permission and you open your mouth in response.

He uses his tongue to tease the roof of your mouth and swirl it around yours.

Finally, the lack of air forces you both to part, strings of saliva connecting your mouths.

Both of your lips are already swollen by now but you couldn't bring yourself to care with how beautiful Luuk looks with his face flushed a beautiful pink with kiss marks on his face.

You quickly wipe your lips and repeat your prior actions of grabbing another tube.

His dazed eyes locked onto you as you put on another colour with barely hidden need.

You quickly smash your lips on his again but this time, instead of letting him take control, you gently bit his bottom lips.

He gasps a little, allowing you to enter your tongue to explore his mouth. You let your tongue graze over his teeth and the soft corners of his mouth before meeting his tongue.

Your fingers brush through his golden hair as your kiss deepens.

After an eternity, you both pull apart to catch your breaths the strings of saliva still evidently connecting you two again.

His breath hitching ever so slightly as he inhale to try and regain his composure.

Too bad

You grabbed chin to face you again before crashing your lips against his again. His pupils dilate and he couldn't help but let out soft whimpers as you continue to explore his mouth.

You're not even wearing another color this time.

He moans at the sudden action making you groan into the kiss.

Yeah, this is going to be a long night.

[kinichiwa]

Catch Foxes, Not Feelings ft. LOHEN

Lohen x fem!reader, written pre-release so take characterizations with a grain of salt

The morning sun spills over the rooftops in Mondstadt City, casting soft shadows on the brick beneath your feet. Like previous years, you'd decided to take an early stroll today — the first morning of the Windblume Festival always lifts your spirits.

As you walk the streets, a gentle breeze carries the scent of dandelions and fresh bread from Good Hunter, and you briefly wonder how Sarah is doing. Perhaps you should treat yourself to some Tea Break Pancake today — the way she made it was your absolute favorite.

So, you find yourself walking toward the humble restaurant, humming one of Venti’s tunes. Down the street, you see a young hunter passing by with a sweet flower tucked behind her ear, likely gifted by a lover. You see an elderly woman as she presses a handful of cecilias into the hands of a passing knight, the young man bowing in gratitude. You see…Lohen?

You realize that you must have accidentally said the vice captain’s name out loud, because he turns around, grinning when he sees you. “Look who it is,” he remarks, sauntering over. “Y’know, I was actually just looking for you.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. Only Lohen could be so animated during this time of the day. “Is that so?” you chuckle, before the knight procures a windwheel aster from thin air, handing it to you. You take it without much thought, watching the petals spin in the breeze. 

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” he questions, shrugging. You open your mouth to say something — upon realizing that you’re really not sure why he wouldn’t be looking for you, you frown, shaking your head helplessly. At your loss of words, he chuckles, beckoning you to walk toward the city gates with him. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, though you follow him without complaint. The two of you walk past Swan and Lawrence, the gatekeepers. “You’ll see,” Lohen purrs, and although you can't see his face, you’re sure he must be smiling.

That’s how you find yourself in Wolvendom, next to the colosseum-like pit home to Lupus Boreas, Dominator of Wolves. You glance between the stone field and Lohen, a half-amused, half-exasperated sigh falling from your lips.

“Are you really going to spar with the old wolf on the first day of Windblume? You know you can show love and appreciation without pulling your spear out, right?”

Lohen presses a finger to your lips, laughing at your assumption. “Now, while I’d usually love for the old wolf to wipe the floor with me, we’re gonna hunt foxes today instead.”

You huff, an incredulous look forming on your face. “Foxes? Isn’t catching foxes on Windblume uniquely a Springvale tradition?”

Lohen wasn’t from Springvale — at least to your knowledge. The young captain, though usually very open and insouciant regarding most matters, had never disclosed his origins to you. Nonetheless, you never quite thought Lohen fit the more peaceful and idyllic nature of the village. 

You had first heard of the minor fox-catching custom a couple of years ago from Allan, a brown-haired hunter from Springvale. Apparently, young Springvale hunters who sought love would catch foxes in Wolvendom during Windblume, placing flower wreaths on the foxes’ heads before releasing them back into the wild. According to Allan, this was a sort of romantic ritual believed to help that hunter find love in the coming year.

Now, Lohen was clearly no hunter, unless you counted hunting down the most powerful monsters and beings for a duel. But before you can ask the vice captain why he wanted to participate in a tradition that wasn’t his, he grins at you, dashing into the woods.

“I’ll be back in a minute!” Lohen calls out, voice echoing as he disappears behind tree trunks and thick foliage. You merely stand there for a minute, shaking your head disbelievingly as you force yourself to entertain his antics. You’d never admit to Lohen how weirdly endearing he was whenever he put his mind to something — you'd never hear the end of it from Kaeya and Rosaria if you confessed such.

Another few seconds pass. Just as you’re about to find Lohen yourself and drag him out, you hear the approaching sound of soft whines and gekkering. Lohen emerges in front of you, a small red fox in his arms.

You stare at him in disbelief, about to scold the man for being so reckless, until you recognize a beautiful wreath of windwheel asters atop the fox’s head. The animal playfully claws at thin air, its soft yelps briefly dismissing any concerns from your mind.

It doesn’t take long for you to put two and two together. 

“So, who’s the lucky girl?” you raise an eyebrow, the meaning behind Lohen’s display piquing your interest. Since when has he been searching for love? The vice captain smiles, slowly studying your face. His gaze doesn’t leave yours as he softly places the fox back onto the ground, letting it scurry behind a tree. 

“None other than the pretty girl in front of me, of course.”

[delilahdreaming]

Letter for Me?

In which you receive a little surprise; you don't know if your heart can handle it. 

❥ Lohen x gn!reader ₊˚⊹ — words: 1.1k additional info: reader is Lisa's assistant, written before Lohen release

A/N: Kinda a part 2 to Eye Contact?? Can be read separately though. 

· · ────────── · ✦ · ────────── · ·

The expedition to Nod Krai was successful. News had spread like wildfire. Although the campaign was over, some of the Knights' troops were still on standby. The Fifth Company, however, was not among them. That includes Lohen. 

You missed seeing his pretty face. 

Yes, you did get caught staring at him that one time; you continued to anyway. You just had to be more covert about it. You're positive you've been doing a good job at that. He never confronted you about it again, after all.

Maybe you could catch a glimpse of him after work. Of course, you don't have the guts to talk to him, but one glance at him would be more than enough for you. 

With that new motivator in mind, you walked with a pep in your step. Carrying a stack of books that reached as high as your face, you carefully navigated to the shelf where they belonged.

You sorted through the pile slowly but surely. The monotony of it all put your brain on autopilot. You were solely focused on the task at hand and nothing else. 

Ah. This one goes up above. 

You got on your tiptoes, attempting to slip the book onto the higher shelf. You could just barely reach; it was no use. 

Damn, should've brought a ladder. 

"Need some help?"

You yelped, nearly knocking the whole shelf of books down. 

"Whoa, careful there! Don't want your hard work to go to waste now, do we?" Lohen reached out for your arm to steady you. 

You nearly imploded right then and there. 

Stay calm stay calm stay calm-

You made an incoherent squeaking noise. 

Lohen raised a brow. "You ok?"

"Yes, I'm fine!" You said a little too loudly. 

Lohen brought a finger up to his lips. "Shh, keep it down. This is a library, y'know."

His reminder snapped you out of your stupor. 

"Wait, how long were you standing there for?" You whispered. 

Lohen answered your query promptly. "I was just waiting for you to finish with your work. I didn't want to disturb you, but it looked like you were having trouble. So forgive me, it wasn't my intention to scare you." 

"Oh," was all you could manage. "Actually, what are you doing here anyway?" You asked, feeling timid now that your heart had stopped racing. 

"I'm just going around delivering letters for Varka. Here's yours, by the way." Lohen handed you a crisp white envelope. 

For me? Why would Varka write a letter to you? While your relationship with the Grand Master was amicable, you haven't spoken much with him due to your reserved nature. 

Pushing your confusion aside, you responded. "Thank you, Lohen. I take it you still have more letters to deliver?" You eyed the bundle of envelopes set aside on the table. 

Those weren't there before. 

Lohen sighed. "Yes, I do. Varka's always assigning someone to be his errand boy. Guess it's my turn this time." 

Lohen began collecting the pile of letters from the table one by one. 

You just watched his hands, mesmerized. You wondered what they looked like without his gloves. Would they be cold? He does have a cryo vision, after all. 

Your gaze wandered to his face, tracing his features. You thought his little mole was cute. And his eyes were so pretty. You could lose yourself in them. You wished you could run your hands through his hair. The mint green locks looked so soft. 

"Something on my face?" 

Lohen's voice brought you back to reality. 

"Uh, no! I was just zoning out!" You could feel your cheeks heating up. 

Lohen smirked. "Right, that's what you said last time." 

Oh god, you got caught again...

"Well, I better get going. These letters won't deliver themselves! See you around, little librarian," Lohen called over his shoulder as he began heading out. 

After you heard his footsteps completely recede, you gushed to yourself. 

You finally got to see Lohen again! 

You definitely had the most stupid grin ever plastered on your face right now. You couldn't care less, however. No one was there to see you. 

"What's got you smiling like that, cutie?"

You jumped. Never mind...

"Uh, nothing! It's nothing! Nothing to worry about, Lisa!" You laughed nervously as you turned around to face Lisa. 

"If you say so," Lisa hummed. She eyed the envelope in your hand. "What's that?"

You answered her. "Oh, it's a letter from Varka apparently. Lohen delivered it to me."

Lisa flashed a knowing smile. "Is that so? Well, go on. Open it. I'll shelve the rest of the books from your pile. You can take the rest of the day off." 

Huh? Lisa is dismissing you from work? Is this the same Lisa you know? And why was she looking at you like that? 

You gave Lisa a questioning look. "Are you sure? I know how much you dislike working. That's why you hired me, isn't it?" You spoke with resolve in your voice. "I can still help you out. I don't mind!" 

"No, it's quite alright. I feel like being productive today. And you look like you could use a break. Your face is all red. Are you feeling ill, cutie?" 

Was it just your imagination or is Lisa teasing you...? 

"Well, if you insist..." You said hesitantly. 

You began making your way out of the library. 

Lisa called after you. "Take care, cutie!" 

You looked over your shoulder, beaming. "Thank you! Don't work too hard!" You said that last part playfully, chuckling to yourself. 

· ─ ✦ ─ ·

You laid on your side, hugging a pillow to your torso. You sighed dreamily. Lohen was occupying every inch of your mind. Lost in your daydreams, you giggled to yourself. 

Oh, that's right! Varka's letter. You had yet to open it. Guess you should do that. 

You rolled out of bed, albeit reluctantly. 

You had left the letter on your desk. Reaching out for it now, you tore it open. Let's see what the Grand Master had in store for you. 

As you took a quick once-over, you realized this wasn't a letter from Varka at all. 

The content read as follows: 

Dear little librarian,

Thought it would be fun to write you a letter! Why did I lie about it being from Varka? Just felt like it. Anyway, I might as well address the fact that I can still feel your eyes on me whenever I see you around. Very smooth of you. Regardless, I applaud your persistence. Undeterred even after getting caught! You're so silly. I can imagine your face right now. Do let me know when you've read this. I want to see your reaction in person.

Signing off,  Lohen

You squealed.

Lohen wrote you a letter! 

[delilahdreaming]

(Not-So) Friendly Competition

Lohen ain’t even playable yet but this man has already gotten me in a chokehold… Most definitely gonna be OOC considering we don’t know too much about him yet but fuck it we ball!!

PS. This is my first ever fanfic so I’m pretty nervous about posting it. If you could provide feedback or any comments at all, I would really appreciate it ^^

———————————————————————————

You and Lohen seemed to always be at each other’s throats. Literally. You’ve lost track of just how many times Lohen has challenged you to a duel. He was always looking for a fight when it came to you.  You were starting to think that he hated your guts; sparring was just an excuse to attempt to beat the shit out of you.  Lohen proves otherwise.

words: 1.8k additional info: gn!reader, reader is a knight of favonius, written before Lohen release

· · ────────── · ✦ · ────────── · ·

Ah, home at long last. 

The gentle breeze of Mondstadt embraced you, soothing the aches and pains of your long journey. You closed your eyes, taking a moment  to relish the feeling. 

The expedition to Nod-Krai was most definitely not a walk in the park, to say the least. But that is not to say that it was a suicide mission. The campaign had come to a triumphant close. Thus, troops were sent home. The Fifth Company, which includes you, was just one fraction of the forces that were ordered to return to Mondstadt. At any rate, you weren’t complaining. 

You did enjoy your duties as a knight, but being away from home was something you did not sign up for. Expeditions were few and far between, thankfully. 

This one to Nod-Kai was particularly taxing. It had lasted for much longer than previous expeditions you had been on, for one. 

At least you didn’t have to deal with Lohen very much during the expedition. He was often out on his own battling the Wild Hunt and was scarcely seen at camp. His thirst for blood could never be quenched it seemed. 

You couldn’t understand that at all. The ability to fight is a necessity, not a sport. Sure, you could argue that seeking out opponents counts as the pursuit of practice. Simply honing one’s skills in the event self-defense is required. But Lohen is clearly looking for something more than just training. He is a thrill-seeker: battle is what fulfills him. And he was fanatic about it. Bordering on maniacal, in fact. 

You sighed. You would rather not think about that menace. 

Instead, you glanced up at the branches of Windrise’s great tree from where you sat underneath. The leaves above swayed softly, whispering amongst each other. You often came to Windrise to just breathe and take in the scenery. You’ve seen it all a thousand times, but it was a comfort you couldn’t do without. 

Today was a beautiful sunny day. While the sunshine was nice, you enjoyed the refreshment the shade provided. You laid your head back against bark, feeling your eyes closing of their own accord. Perhaps an outdoor nap couldn’t hurt…

“What are you sitting around here for?”

Unfortunately, you’d recognize that voice anywhere. 

You blinked to see Lohen approaching. Sure enough, it was the Vice Captain himself. 

You addressed him despite your mood immediately souring. “Just enjoying some fresh air, Vice Captain.”

“You mean taking a nap outside? Because that’s what it looks like to me,” Lohen said dryly. 

Is he seriously judging you? 

You pressed your lips together, resisting the urge to frown. “Is there a problem with that?”

“No, but I think you shouldn’t be lazing around. It’s only just past noon. How about we spar to wake you up?” 

And there it is. Yet another request to spar. As always. 

“Did you really come looking for me just to suggest that?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Of course. We knights have to stay sharp, y’know?” He replied with an unusual glint in his eyes. 

Normally, Lohen’s eyes were rather dull and lifeless. If you didn’t know any better, you would say that it was a sparkle of mischief. 

“Give me a break, we just got back from an expedition! A pretty long one, mind you. Don’t you want some rest?” You groaned, already fed up with Lohen’s antics. 

Lohen pushed further. “Oh come on, it’ll be fun.” 

You snorted, “Your idea of fun is entirely different from mine.”

“I’ll treat you to some food after,” Lohen said, completely undeterred. 

Ah, he’s resorting to bribery now. 

“I’m not hungry,” you replied indignantly, feeling insulted that he believed he could just buy your compliance. “Seriously, just leave me alone Lohen.”

Lohen clicked his tongue. “Now now, that’s no way to talk to your Vice Captain,” he chided. 

“I don’t care.”

He sighed dramatically. “What will get you to spar with me then?”

“Nothing,” you said, frustration building up. He was being awfully pushy today. 

He snapped his fingers. “Oh, I know! How about I get you that limited edition of that book you wanted?”

How did he know about that?

As if Lohen could sense your shock, he said, “Oh, you’re wondering how I knew about that, aren’t you? I just simply overheard you talking about it with the other knights in our faction.”

Ok… that makes sense you supposed. 

“Well, whaddya think? You gonna accept my request now?” 

His offer is rather tempting... The aforementioned book was rather expensive. They were clearly exploiting the fans, but you couldn’t help but want it all the same. 

You refused to let him have his way, but no matter how hard you tried, there was just no winning against Lohen when he wanted something. 

“Fine.”

Lohen grinned. 

· ─ ✦ ─ ·

You sighed. You already regret giving in to Lohen’s demands.

You weren’t planning on having a workout today, but if you got this over with, Lohen would likely leave you alone for the rest of the day. Thus, you weren’t too pressed about the outcome of this sparring session. 

You were an exceptional fighter in your own right but competing with Lohen was no easy feat. That’s why it was impressive that you could keep up with him at all. Fighting him didn’t always result in defeat on your end. You’ve been victorious every now and then. Sometimes, it would end in a draw. 

It’s not that your skills are subpar compared to his: it’s just that bastard seemed to have unlimited stamina. He never seemed to tire, which was usually the cause of your downfall. 

At any rate, you should switch your focus to the task at hand. You swiveled your head, taking a quick sweep of the area. 

Lohen had chosen some open field not too far from Windrise as the battleground for this match. 

Seems he was itching to start as soon as possible, judging by the fact that he didn’t want to have to walk far. 

Figures. 

“You ready?” Lohen called out to you. 

The two of you were standing opposite each other at a fair distance apart. 

You nodded, readying your polearm. 

You barely finished that motion before Lohen charged at you. 

You blocked just in time. “Hey, that was cheap!” 

“You said you were ready,” Lohen smirked, already going in for another shot. 

This time, you were prepared. You swatted his polearm aside and went in with your own jab. 

This went on for quite a bit. It was just an exchange of trading blows. However, you felt yourself on the verge of exhaustion slowly but surely. You won’t be able to go on for much longer if this keeps up. 

Better finish this fast. 

You aimed for a finishing blow but had to sidestep instead to avoid an incoming strike. Unfortunately for you, that was just a feint. You walked right into Lohen’s trap. Luckily, you managed to dodge his real move just in time but not without his polearm grazing your cheek. 

A look of concern crossed Lohen’s face, and he paused mid-swing. “Oops, didn’t mean to scratch up your pretty face.”

Huh? Why did he care? It’s not like he stopped when you received way worse during past bouts with him. This was just a scratch. 

In your confusion, Lohen had taken the opportunity to sweep you off your feet with an arc of his polearm. 

Unable to avoid it in time, you fell easily. “Shit!” You let out.

“I win.” 

Standing right in front of you, he held out his hand. 

Was he helping you up…? That’s new. 

You stared at his outstretched hand with suspicion. 

Lohen sighed and pulled you up against your will. 

The moment you were back on your feet, you instantly pulled your hand away as if you had been burned. “Are you satisfied now?” You asked with contempt. 

“No, not really.”

You’ve got to be kidding-

“Do you hate me or something?” You blurted out. 

Oops, you hadn’t meant to say that out loud. It was a question you kept to yourself, never voicing it to anyone. Why? You weren’t sure exactly. Maybe because you didn’t want to hear the answer, despite already knowing it. 

Lohen quirked his brow. “No, I don’t hate you. I like you very much, actually. I thought that was obvious.” 

You stared dumbly at him. Did he just… confess? And what does he mean he thought it was obvious? Like hell it was! 

As you were stuck in your stupor, you didn’t notice Lohen’s face closing in until his thumb brushed the scratch on your face. 

You froze. Your faces were practically nose to nose. 

“Sorry, I didn’t think you would fall for that move. Normally, you’re not so sloppy.” 

His thumb continued to trace the cut as a short laugh escaped him. “How about I kiss it better?”

Before you could say anything, Lohen leaned in, and without warning, his tongue darted out to lick the blood off your scratch. His hand reached out to hold your chin as he proceeded to press his lips against your cheek.

And just as soon as it started, Lohen pulled away, leaving you incredibly flustered. 

“What the hell was that?” You managed to stutter out. 

Lohen shrugged. “Well, you were mistaken about me, so I had to correct that.”

“If you really do like me, then why are you always pissing me off and trying to fight me?” You demanded. 

“Well, it’s not like I’m trying to make you mad. But I do like seeing you all worked up. It’s cute,” Lohen replied with no shame at all. 

You gaped at him. This motherfucker-

“I know you said you weren’t hungry, but that was then. I’m sure you’ve changed your mind after our match. So how about we go to Good Hunter?” Lohen moved on casually, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on you. 

“Wait, don’t just change the subject!”

Lohen tilted his head. “Oh, do you have something to say?” 

Wait, did you? Your mind was reeling. What is going on? 

“I… I don’t know,” was all you could manage. 

An unreadable expression rooted itself on Lohen’s face. “Let me ask a question of my own then. Do you hate me?”

Do you? Sure, you found him a nuisance, but you didn’t hate him. If you had to be honest, you found him pretty. When he wasn’t pissing you off, that is. 

“No, but…” You started before trailing off. 

“But what?”

“I don’t know, ok! I have no idea what’s going on here.” You burst out. 

A small smile found its way to Lohen’s features.“How about we talk about it while we’re eating then?”

He was met with silence and a blank stare. 

“Well, since you’re not objecting, let’s go then.” Lohen said as he began gently tugging you along by your hand. 

You couldn’t help but blush at the gesture, staring at your laced fingers. 

Did you like him too? 

Only time will tell.