the new york times is now charging money for my favorite chocolate cake recipe so i bought a subscription and screenshotted it and canceled my subscription and now it's here for you for free
i do a mixture of red wine and fresh squeezed navel orange juice for the liquid, plus the zest of one large orange. now you make the cake
☾ Summary: For as long as you can remember, your village has been relatively normal. But when people begin to turn up dead right after a group of newcomers arrive, pieces of your past start to fall into place, and something feels familiar - particularly the quiet man who can't take his eyes off of you.
☾ Word Count: 21,148
☾ Genre: Supernatural, thriller, smut
☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
☾ Warnings: Fantasy violence, light depections of murder and animal attacks, mentions of gore, discussions about community displacement and violence, Yoongi is an asshole, animal attacks, depictions of blood, tbh reader and Namjoon don’t know each other THAT well when they fuck so idk, implied protecting from a far but not in a stalker way, explicit language, intense sequences of fear and anxiety, reader is attacked by a wolf, there is a mention of animals being hurt/killed but not in explicit details, dead bodies, arson, sexually explicit content invluding vaginal fingering, nipple play, vaginal penetration, a little bit of mention of fluids but not really.
☾ Published: Sunday, January 21 2024
☾ A/N: I wish I could explain to you how this got to be so long. I wrote it over several weeks and each day I picked it back up, I just kept adding dialogue and scenery and setting. Like half of this isn’t even Namjoon and reader reacting - what was I doing? I wish I knew! I hope you like my spin on Red Riding Hood anyway! I tried to do this in a way that it doesn’t seem creepy that Namjoon was silently looking out for reader but like… I could understand if someone finds it creepy I am so sorry lmfao. I did read through this to edit but I 100% missed stuff because I'm a rougher editor and this is unbeta'd.
☾ A/N 2: This is a Red Riding Hood Retelling that is similar in vibe to the 2011 Red Riding Hood movie directed by Catherine Hardwicke.
Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.
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Father always said not to go into the woods at night. Like him, though, the woods have always called to you, feeling like a second home. You’ve never been able to explain it, and you’ve stopped trying to.
It’s a little chilly outside, the first breath of harvest air nipping at your skin. In a few weeks, it will be freezing outside, forcing you into cloaks and furs.
Grass crunches beneath your feet as you slip through the small yard and toward the tree line. Your house already sits at the edge of the village, the dark trees stretching high above the rooftops. Soon the trees will be dusted in snow, but for now, they sway gently in the autumn breeze, turned silver by the moonlight.
You’ve always loved the woods. The sounds of the crickets singing and rabbits dashing underfoot are calming, the smell of sticky pine and fresh air invigorating. You especially love them at night, hidden beneath boughs and walking through the shafts of moonlight that slip through the trees.
The best part is that you don’t feel so alone out here. There is a feeling you cannot place each time you enter the woods, like you’re a little closer to discovering yourself. You’ve been chasing that feeling since you were a little girl, hungry for finding whatever it is that drives you out here.
Hands tucked into your pockets, you walk the same route you always follow. It isn’t deep into the woods - you aren’t silly enough to believe you’re safe alone in the dark - but it’s enough of a walk to clear your head.
Howls echo up into the night, a wolf pack on their hunt. The sound of them makes the hair on your arms stand on end.
The wolves don’t come very close to the village anymore since the vicious wolf hunts when you were barely old enough to remember them. The relationship between the men of your home and the wolves in the wood is violent, a chill cooling your skin every time they’re mentioned by one of your neighbors.
A terrible howl splits the night. You feel your body go cold with fear, warmth leaching out of you as you press yourself against a tree, heart in your throat. The sound is something like a howl laced with utter anguish, chilling you down to the marrow. It tapers off into a whimper before falling silent again.
Pressed against the tree, you wait. Your heart is beating so harshly that it feels like you might vomit in fear. Soft whimpering drifts on the wind. You hold your breath and strain your ears. It almost sounds like an injured dog.
It tugs at your heartstrings. You bite your lip, weighing your options. The noise sounded like it came from the south a little off of your path and toward the ravine that splits the part of the woods that is relatively safe from the deeper part where the animals are more lethal and more frequent. You could easily find your way back if you made it to the ravine, and as the whimpering vanishes entirely, you can’t help but imagine an animal in pain.
The most difficult part about working with Dr. Kim at the veterinary clinic is always the animals that he can’t fix. You’ve held the hands of loved ones who couldn’t save their aging dogs, and you’ve hushed lame horses as Dr. Kim prepared draughts to send them to sleep and then to death.
Pivoting, you turn and march toward the initial sound. It may perhaps be the single worst idea you’ve ever had, but you suddenly don’t care. You’ve worked with Dr. Kim enough to know how to triage animal wounds, and the thought of leaving something alone and suffering replaces any sort of fear you originally had.
You’re careful not to lose your footing as the ground slopes steadily as you get closer to the ravines and canyons of the south side. Leaves shift underneath your feet as you go. It feels overly loud in a forest that is suddenly so quiet, only filled with the softest sound of labored breathing.
A small dip in the ground catches you off guard. You gasp, a scream stuck in your throat as you lose your footing and slide down the slope, your back and ass hitting the ground hard as you slide, leaves hissing underneath you. You scramble to grab a hold of something, but the hill isn’t very high and you hit the bottom of it quickly.
Heart pounding, you lay in the damp leaves for a second, panting, hand pressed to your heart as it rattles under your palm. Just as the fear settles down, a growl makes your blood run cold. Slowly, you begin to turn your face toward the left. You realize you’ve slid down a dell, and a few yards from you is a large, shivering form covered in fur.
You blink. Once. Twice. You realize that the large mound of fur is a creature - a wolf. It lays on the ground shaking, a ride of jet black hair standing up on its spine, hackles raised. The wolf’s ears are pinned back and its yellow eyes are wild, nearly consumed by the dark pupils drinking you in. Its teeth are bared, foam and drool lining pink gums as it snares, nose twitching.
It’s the biggest wolf you’ve ever seen. You can’t move. You can only stare at it, wondering why it continues to snarl and stare at you, but not move. Your eyes rove its trembling form from maw to tail, and you realize its front leg is wet and held at an odd angle.
“Oh,” you gasp, realizing that the wolf’s foot is stuck in a claw trap. “I’m so sorry. I… can I help you?”
The wolf stops growling for a moment as if it understands. You stare with wide eyes, not daring to move as it assesses you. It leans toward you and sniffs, the sound of snuffing loud in the silence of the dell. For a few moments, you just watch as the beast regards you.
Then, it chuffs and looks at its own foot, whining. You sit up slowly in amazement. The creature watches you with what you can only describe as a caution. You get up carefully and make your way toward the wolf. It watches your every movement. It can surely smell your fear as you get a few feet away, crouching down with your hands held out to let it know you’re not going to cause harm.
You pause, waiting for permission to examine the wolf’s foot. It gazes at you and for a moment, you lose yourself in that burning, golden gaze. The wolf’s eyes are so human that it’s hard to see it as a simple beast. There is something alive and intelligent there.
As if sensing that you’re waiting for the all-clear, the wolf chuffs and lowers its head toward its foot, gesturing. You smile a little at that, marveling at the communication skills. Carefully, you look at the trap around the wolf’s foot. It’s a metal contraption that is pressure-engaged, with metal teeth. You cringe seeing the red on matted fur and metal.
“You must have stepped on the pressure plate,” you tell the wolf, though it probably doesn’t understand. You gesture to the round plate at the center of the trap. “It would have been in a circle and when stepped on, snapped closed like jaws.”
The wolf whines and bows its head. You wince. “They’re really strong,” you admit, chewing on your lip. “I don’t think I can pull it apart all the way, but I might be able to open it enough just for a moment for you to pull out your leg. Can you do that?”
A huff. Somehow, you think if it could, the wolf might roll its eyes. Your mouth twitches in an almost smile as you get onto your knees, wiping sweaty hands on your pants. This close to the beast, you realize just how large it is.
“This is going to hurt,” you insist. “Please… Please don’t bite me, okay? I want to help you.”
The wolf lowers its head until it's lying on the ground, gold eyes watching you. Its muscles are tense and the hair along the ridge of its back is still standing, afraid and alert.
“Okay. I’m just… I’m just going to touch the trap and try to get a grip first, okay?” The wolf doesn’t answer. It blinks at you, waiting. Licking your lips, you whisper, more to yourself than anything, “Okay, I can do this.”
Slowly, you reach out toward the wolf’s injured foot. You flick your gaze over to the wolf looking for a reaction. It just watches you, though you feel tension. The metal is wicked cold to the touch. You hiss and the creature flinches a little, a whistle-whine escaping its nose. You mutter an apology, fingers pressing to the ridges of the cold metal.
It’s slippery with blood. You chew on your lip, prodding your finger in the space between the metal teeth on the edges where it’s not clamped around the wolf’s paw. You wiggle your finger a little, testing the strength of the closed jaws of the trap. It doesn’t budge and you curse.
Sweat beads on the back of your neck, freezing in the cool air. You lift your other hand, very carefully trying to find a good grip on either side of the jaws to pry them open. The movement jostles the trap a little, the wolf snarling in pain. You flinch and rip your hands away, looking at it. Gold eyes burn and the wolf huffs, as though telling you to be more careful.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “I’m nervous and it’s hard to get a grip on it.” The wolf snorts. You glare at it. “I’m sorry, do you want to do this instead?” Your only answer is a rumble as it looks the other direction. “That’s what I thought.”
Sighing, you turn your attention back to the metal. Anyone a little stronger and older could probably pull it open. Seokjin for sure could - even Hoseok who is as old as you are, but plenty stronger. You try not to think about how weak you are, and instead wiggle your fingers through the gaps in the teeth.
The cool metal stings your hands. It’s not a great grip and your fingers are placed in bad positioning due to the teeth of the trap. Taking in a big breath, you try to pull the metal jaws apart.
Nothing happens and you let your breath out, panting lightly as you stop trying to pull. The wolf flicks its tale but makes no other sound. With the way you’re gripping the jaws, you realize that pulling it apart is going to be difficult. It would rely on your forearms to peel the metal jaws backward… But if you were to push down and push apart, you could use your body weight as an extra boost. It would be pushing the jaws apart from above instead of trying to pry them apart with sheer strength.
Leaning high on your knees, you position yourself straight over the trap, your weight settling in on your forearms. You take another deep breath and this time when you pull, you push your weight down on the trap. For a second, it seems like it’s not going to give. You hiss through your teeth, muscles clenching, fingers burning as your skin presses against the metal as hard as you can stand it.
Then, the jaw opens a little. You grind your teeth harder, the ache in your arms growing as you push as hard as you can. Your forearms are trembling. You feel the vein throbbing in your neck and forehead. Just when you think you’re going to fail, the jaws give way again. You growl, feeling a surge of energy go through you at the small victory and you shove your body weight down on it hard. The springs creak a little and open more.
Little by little, the trap opens up. Your vision pulses red as you pant, strength waning. And then it’s like you hit the let-off point of the contraption, pushing it enough that the rest of the way it just falls open. You let go of the trap and the wolf yanks its leg from it. It now lies open and bloody as you collapse on the ground next to it, breathing hard, breath misting the air.
Your heart beats in your ears, pulse thrumming in your neck wildly. For a second, you forget all about the wolf. You laugh up to the dark trees, a giddy feeling shooting through you. You did it, even though you didn’t think you would be able to.
A dark presence alerts you. Slowly, you turn your head to face the wolf. It’s standing almost above you, looking more imposing than it did before. You swallow hard, mouth going dry as it blinks down at you. It favors the injured leg, but stands nonetheless, watching you.
“Please don’t kill me,” you whisper, limbs trembling not only with exhaustion but fear.
The wolf doesn’t kill you at all. Instead, it leans its head down and presses its cold, wet nose to your arm. You flinch, squeezing your eyes shut for a minute. Then the beast chuffs, making you peak at it. When you meet its gold eyes, you get the sense it is vaguely amused.
“Oh,” you breathe, relief sagging your aching body. “Cool. You’re not going to kill me.”
Standing, you realize that the wolf is still taller than you. You tilt your head upward, staring. There’s no way this is a normal creature, but you don’t know what else it could possibly be. You recall the legends of werewolves and dire wolves told by the men of your town, but you’re unsure if those are real.
“Let’s take care of this,” you mutter, grabbing a branch and jamming it into the pressure plate of the trap. It snaps shut with a loud clang, snapping the branch, but otherwise ineffective now that it’s re-sprung. The wolf flinches and whines at the sound, no doubt remembering the feeling of the instrument on its leg. “Sorry.”
Silence stretches out over the woods, the night growing deeper and cooler. You shiver, rubbing your hands up and down your arms as you turn to the wolf, which watches you keenly.
“Will you be okay?” the question comes out as a whisper. The wolf huffs and steps forward, pressing its snout to your head. It’s cold and wet, making you shiver as it snuffs against your skin. “Good. I um - should start climbing this hill.”
It swivels its head and turns, waiting. You grin, realizing it will accompany you back up, at least. Though injured, the wolf is able to walk with three legs, the wounded leg lifted off the ground. Its gait is awkward and hobbled, but the two of you make it up the hill together, your breathing labored.
At the top, moonlight shines through the trees and you both pause. A series of howls goes up in the night, startling you. The wolf looks up, ears twitching as it tilts its head, listening. Slowly, it turns to look at you, gold eyes sparkling.
“I guess you have to go, huh?” it bows its head once. “Stay safe, okay?”
The wolf steps forward. Presses its muzzle into your temple and huffs, making you grin. You smell pine and bergamot, pleasant and calming. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”
Slowly, the wolf clambours off, vanishing into the dark woods, leaving you to hurry home yourself.
-
“Wear this at all times for protection, especially in the forest,” you murmur, holding the neatly scrawled note. You frown and look down at the fine cloak folded on the dresser. It had appeared overnight as if by magic, a funny feeling flipping your stomach. “Where did you come from?”
The cloak, of course, has no answer. You lift your hand to feel it, breathing out a dreamy sigh. The inside is lined with soft bear fur. Outside is some of the finest cloth you’ve ever seen, gentle but sturdy to the touch and dyed the most delicious shade of scarlet.
Carefully, you lift the cloak. It’s a little big for your size, but not unwearable. You slip it over your sleeping gown, loving the way the material ripples like blood over your shoulders, the fur lining keeping you warm. It smells like pine and bergamot, making you pause.
Certainly, a wolf did not bring you a cloak. Still, the timing is quite odd. You don’t know who else could possibly make a cloak so fine in the village, and the smell… you shake your head. A wolf did not bring you a cloak, but it did seem perhaps you had a secret admirer.
-
THIRTEEN YEARS LATER
“Boo!” You scream and drop the collection of logs in your hands, whirling around. Hoseok bursts into laughter, doubling over as he slaps his hands against his knees, hot breath misting the air. “You should see your face!”
“You rotten bastard!” You growl, picking up a log and throwing it at him. It doesn’t hit him, but he jumps away from it anyway, careful not to let it drop on his toes. “That isn’t funny!”
“It’s a little funny.”
“It’s not!” You crouch down and start picking up the timber. Hoseok at least has the decency to help you, starting with the log you threw at him. “There was another animal attack last night, in case you didn’t know.”
That makes him pause. “There was?”
“Yes,” you hiss, snatching the last log and standing. “So stop lurking around corners and scaring me. It isn’t funny.”
“Well, an animal isn’t going to attack you in the village. Unless you’re talking about Mingyu’s fiancee, anyway. That one is feral indeed.”
You level Hoseok with a look and he gives you a grin. His nose and ears are red from the cold - and maybe a little guilt for scaring you - and he offers to take the timber from your arms. You let him, shoveling it over to him and marching around the front of your house.
Wind howls between the houses, ripping at the ends of your red cloak. It catches your hood, throwing it up over your head as you shiver and tuck your hands into the fur lining. A shiver rattles up your spine as you kick the snow from your boots and rush inside, Hoseok quick on your heels.
“So what happened?” Hoseok asks, following you to your room.
“The Matheson Family,” you mumble. “They were attacked. San went down to collect new saddles his father ordered and found them slaughtered - their hounds too.”
“They have hunting hounds - what the hell can kill those?”
“Perhaps it’s the wolves again. Dr. Kim was going with the city council to investigate.”
Hoseok sighs. “The timing isn’t good. It’s about time the traders arrived. What if they bypass us entirely if the road is too dangerous?”
It’s a thought that has been plaguing everyone in the village. Because of the remote location on the north side of the woods, your small spec on the map relies on traders at the beginning of every winter for things that you’ll need to make it through: salt, extra grain and fruits, tools too advanced and large for the local smithy, repairs on houses and wagons.
Arrival times of traders fluctuate every year. Sometimes there’s a cold snap, burying roads in heavy snow that are unnavigable. Other times, there is unrest in the woods when a rogue band of thieves gets the idea to rob travelers and hide in the woods until the city council sends a team of men to deal with it.
Now, though, it’s getting into the late period of their arrival. The entire village holds its breath waiting for them, people looking out the open gates down the snowy road hoping to see a courier come ahead to announce the arrival of wagons and troupes of people.
“Do you really think it’s wolves?” Hoseok asks. “I don’t think I’ve heard of wolf attacks like this since…”
Hoseok winces. “It’s fine,” you assure him with a smile. “It’s not like I remember that time, much less remember my dad.”
It’s true. Early memories of your childhood are murky at best. You remember being happy and loving your dad. You remember a period of fear and general uneasiness in the town, wolf attacks rampant and frequent. There had been plenty of men and women who died during that period, including your father.
That was a long time ago, though. For the most part, life in your small village is uninteresting. Some winters are harder than others, like the current season, but you’ve always managed to get by.
“Do you remember much of that time period?” you ask him quietly.
“Not really. Just that everyone was afraid. It was a really harsh winter and it drove wolves down from the mountains. I remember it being strange.”
“Strange how?”
You chew your lip and shake your head, trying to encapsulate the thread of memory you have. Of feeling the tremor of fear in the air, the cold feeling of dread… like something violent was in the village. Something wrong.
“I don’t know. I was so young.”
“Hmm.”
The talk of wolves makes you think about your wolf. Your lips curve at the memory of how gentle the wolf was, the somber eyes, and the smell of pine and bergamot.
It would be a lie to say you had not gone out to the woods several times since that night to try and find the beast again. You haven’t seen him since, but you’ve always had a feeling he’s there somewhere. Watching. Waiting.
“Either way,” Hoseok sighs. “Dad seems worried this winter will be like that time. He’s been doing a lot of will and testament papers at the office. He works late every night and is gone early in the morning.”
“Really?”
“Want to hear what Mr. Hillshire is leaving for his kids?” Hoseok leans forward, conspiratorial. “You won’t believe it.”
-
The bell over the door rings as someone enters the salon of Dr. Kim’s veterinary practice, drawing your attention. You straighten when you see San walk in.
“Hi, San,” you greet. “Here to pick up Maple?”
“Yeah, is that alright? Mom is busy at the shop.”
“Of course.” You wipe your sweaty hands on your skirts and gesture behind you with your thumb. “I’ll go fetch her. Dr. Kim is on an errand but she’s ready to go.”
The back of the building with the kennels is quiet. The Choi family cat and two other sleeping dogs are the only occupants of the practice, making it an easy day. Maple is dozing in her kennel, chirping in protest when you open the cage and scoop her into a carrier. She’s a lazy thing, a calico with pretty eyes and a newly stitched ear.
Carefully you carry her up front. San is standing patiently in the lobby, hands behind his back as he looks around nervously. You raise your brows as you come around the counter, handing over the carrier. “Everything okay?”
“Hmm?”
“You look nervous. It’s just me and the Lowells’ hounds back here.”
“Oh, yes.” His ears blush pink as he accepts the carrier and steps back. “Just a nervous energy in general. I have been since um…”
Oh. You had forgotten that it was San who discovered the Matheson family disemboweled by some kind of animal. The constable had thought that maybe it was a pack of wolves but was concerned by how big the claw marks and destruction were.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt.
“For what?”
“That you had to see that, I guess? It must have been terrifying.”
“A little,” he admits, looking at his shoes. “I walked the path to the Mathesons all the time. I don’t ever recall seeing something that could… do that.”
“Was it that awful?”
He nods. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen. Don’t get me wrong, I go on hunting parties. We’ve seen the leftovers from bears and wolves. This was something worse. It felt like…” He shakes his head and looks up at you. “It felt angry.”
“Angry?”
“Yeah. I know that doesn’t make sense. It was probably just a beast coming down from the mountain because it was starving. You know how harsh winters are.”
You hum in agreement.
San dismisses himself, thanking you again for helping with the family cat and throwing a wave over his shoulder. You return it half-heartedly, already distracted with thoughts of what the animal attacks could mean.
You think about your wolf and how kind and intelligent it was. You don’t remember ever feeling a sense of impending doom like you do now, a heaviness to the air as you stand idly behind the counter.
Dr. Kim's return startles you at the counter. You press your hands flat against the top of the desk, leaning up on your tiptoes as you see his son Seokjin enter behind him. Your heart flutters a little at the sight, still overwhelmed by his handsome face.
Seokjin is tall and broad, with dark hair and a beautiful face. His sharp eyes find you and he gives you a half smile, though there seems to be something on his mind as he follows his father into the backroom, Dr. Kim barely saying hello as he goes, his brows furrowed in deep thought.
The two of them disappear and you watch the door swing shut behind them. Curious, you trail around the counter and softly walk over to the door, pulling it open a smidge.
It’s difficult to pick up on their words, but you can hear Dr. Kim’s timbre speaking in low tones from somewhere in the backroom. You hold your breath and wedge the door open a little more, pressing your ear toward the gap between the frame and the door.
“... again. They’re going to want to start hunting parties again soon.”
“So what do we do?”
Silence. Then, “Send a message….”
“... brought it on themselves… it’s time to make things right.”
Behind you, the bell rings at the door. You gasp, letting go of the door to the back room and spin around, heart hammering in your chest. Hoseok stands at the door, raising his brows in question.
“What are you doing here?” you demand, suddenly angry that he’s startled you and ruined your sleuthing.
“I promised your mom I would walk home with you at the end of your shift, remember? Dangerous out there.”
You blink and look out the window, realizing that the heavy gray of evening is setting over the road. You hadn’t realized it was so late.
Nodding, you grab your cloak in a hurry. You pop your head into the back room, both Seokjin and Dr. Kim looking at you as you do. “I’m leaving for the evening, sir. Is there anything else you need?”
“No, thank you for watching the place while I was gone. Tomorrow we have to make a house call to the Marrow farm. Lame horse.”
Seokjin frowns. “Do you think that is wise?” Dr. Kim looks at his son under heavy brows. “With the current conditions.”
“We’ll be fine.” Something passes between them, son and father locked in a heated gaze. You stand there awkwardly, glancing between the two.
Seokjin breaks his stare from his father and flashes you a grin. “You have someone to walk you home?”
“Yeah, Hoseok is here.” You hug the cloak tighter to your chest and Seokjin’s eyes drop to it. An unreadable expression passes his face before he nods. “Have a good evening!”
“You too.”
Leaving them behind, you head to where Hoseok waits for you, examining drawings of animal skeletons and anatomy. You pull your cloak on, feeling safe and warm under the red material. Hoseok looks up at you, thrusting his thumb at one of the drawings of a horse. “I don’t look like that, right?”
-
The red cloak tied around you wicks the sweat from the back of your neck. Your fingers work quickly as you tie it, knowing you’re already late to meeting Dr. Kim. Thankfully, you don’t make a habit of being late and you’re sure he won’t mind too much.
Strange dreams had plagued you all night. Images of wolves, blood and mist. Echoes of howling, screaming and thunder. Now as you hurry out of your home and into the wicked wind of winter, you cannot shake a sense of premonition.
Dr. Kim is already on the doorstep when you arrive at the veterinary office, a heavy coat on his shoulders and a bag of tools in his hand. He nods when he sees you and comes down the steps, turning toward the south exit of the village.
Neither of you speak. Beyond the fact that you don’t think you’d be able to hear Dr. Kim over the howling wind, it doesn’t feel like the kind of trip that requires speaking. The evergreens on either side of the road loom over you, bows heavy with snow. Every so often, a branch cracks with the weight of frozen icicles, making you flinch with the sound.
It feels like you’re being watched. Every so often, you swivel your head this way and that, glancing at the trees. The trunks are too close together and the branches to tangle to see beyond them on either side of the road. Still, your skin tingles from something beyond the cold, you just don’t know what.
The Marrow farm is only a little over a mile from the main village, but the snow covered roads make it slow going. As you near the edge of where their acres begin, your boots are already heavy with melted slush and your calves and thighs burn from dragging your feet through the path.
Perhaps it was not a good day to do a house call.
Passing white-covered gates, you’re thankful that at least the wind has died down as the morning turns into midday. The sun is hidden by clouds, but there is a hint of warmth in the air. The Marrow farm is made up of three buildings: the small house in front, the large barn to the back left where they keep their animals, and a giant silo for grains.
As you near the house, a loud banging reaches you. Both you and Dr. Kim pause, listening as the sound carries on the wind. It doesn’t sound like hammering, but rather like a door slamming over and over again.
“Barn door?” you suggest, looking up at Dr. Kim. His dark eyes look at the house, expression grim. “But why would they let it slam relentlessly?”
“Keep your wits about you,” he murmurs, ignoring your question. “Go to the main house. I’ll go round to the barn. Perhaps they’ve forgotten the appointment.”
No smoke comes from the chimney. No snow is cleared from the footpath to the door. The shutters are closed, which makes sense to keep the cold out. As you approach the steps leading up to the porch, you note that none of the hounds are baying. The Marrow’s have several bloodhounds, all of which keep noisy providence around the threshold of the door.
Spine tingling, you lift your hand and knock. There’s no answer. You strain your ears, leaning forward for any hint that the Marrow’s or one of their two sons are coming to the door. Not even the dogs alert them of your presence.
You think about San finding the Mathesons butchered and your stomach drops. You knock again, knuckles stinging with cold as they rap harshly against the wooden door. Tucking your hand back into your cloak, you wait.
Nothing comes.
Taking a deep breath, you reach for the door and twist the handle. It opens easily, swinging inward to a cold, empty home. Inside, the air is still and dead. Behind you, the breeze brushes the edges of your cloak and the hood on your head.
Silence hangs. Licking your lips, you lift a foot. It hands over the threshold, fear making you pause. There is nothing inside the home, and yet you find that you’re utterly terrified of stepping inside. Your stomach knots and for a few moments, you just stand there with your foot in the air, staring with unseeing eyes into the dark interior.
You step into the room and pause. Nothing happens. The air inside the home is stale, like the doors and windows have not been opened for a few days. The cold is bone deep, clinging to the undisturbed air. You scan the room for any sign of life, but see nothing that stirs.
Everything looks lived in. There are knitted blankets tossed across the backs of old arm chairs, boots by the door, unlaced and soft with age. Mugs have been turned upside down and placed on a towel near the basin for drying, and there are dice on the kitchen table.
Navigating slowly, you move to the hall with bedrooms. Doors hang open, revealing unmade beds and clothes on the floor. Here too, the air feels undisturbed. You hear the breeze outside and the soft creak of the house, but nothing else makes a sound, save for the loud beating of your own heart.
Shivering, you make your way to the front of the home. Something foul hangs in the air and you want to be rid of the feeling, quickening your steps to leave through the front door and-
Fear stabs deep into your stomach when you see the wolf standing in the doorway. It stands half in the home, half out, only the front two paws over the threshold. The beast barely fits in the door frame, wide as two men standing side by side and tall as a horse.
You don’t move. It stares at you with bright, burning eyes. Its fur is dark, though there is a jagged ring of light fur around the right, front paw. You swear you smell pine and bergamot. Something nudges at the back of your mind as the two of you stand off - and it clicks into place.
“You,” you breathe. “You’re the wolf I helped!”
For a moment, the bright yellow eyes stare at you. They’re unreadable, and yet… emotive. Intelligent. Understanding. The wolf dips its snout in a nod.
“What are you doing here? Where are the Marrows?”
The wolf’s ears flicker. Slowly, it backs out of the house. Throwing caution to the wind, you rush after him, nearly tripping over a wolfskin rug in the home.
Outside, the wolf stands below the porch. You step on the porch and pull up short, heart racing as you see the pack of wolves standing in front of the home.
The wolves are a variety of colors and sizes. You dare not move your head, but you scan them with your eyes, drinking in the different creatures. The only thing that they have in common is that they are freakishly large.
Your wolf - for in your mind he’s yours - stands in front of you. He growls, hair on his spine raising as he regards the other wolves. There’s a silent standoff of sorts, the wolf you saved facing the others. You cannot understand their body language, but the air seems charged.
The smell of smoke is in the air. You don’t dare look for the source, too afraid to do anything to disrupt the standoff. Breathing in deeply, you think you smell cedar. Oil. Something else that you can’t identify.
Footsteps crunch the snow. You whip your head to the side, a warning on your tongue as Dr. Kim rounds the house, a haunted expression on his face. He stops abruptly, looking at the display in front of him behind frosted glasses. He says nothing - does nothing but glance between you, the wolf in front of you, and the others.
Finally, one of the other wolves chuffs and shakes, dispelling snow. It has an all white coat and intense, dark eyes that look at you with… annoyance, if wolves can look annoyed. It turns to leave and the others follow - all five of them - as the white wolf leads them at a loping trot toward the silo and the woods beyond.
Your wolf turns to peer at you, ears flicking before it breaks off into a run, trailing after its pack to leave you and Dr. Kim standing in silence, watching them go.
Slowly, you turn to Dr. Kim. He scrutinizes you, eyes squinted. “Where did you get that cloak?”
You look down at the rich, red cloth. “I… well it just appeared, one day when I was younger. I don’t know.”
He regards you suspiciously. “I see. Come. We must leave right away.”
Dr. Kim begins walking at a fast pace back toward town, clutching his tool case. “Wait! Where are the Morrows?”
Instead of answering, Dr. Kim continues on. You scramble after him, careful not to slip on the icy stairs. The wind picks up and you smell a fire again, making you turn back as you try to catch up. You almost stumble over your feet, eyebrows shooting up as you see orange flames consuming the barn.
“Dr. Kim!”
Again, he says nothing. You stop and stare, watching as the fire eats away at the barn. The smoke burns black. Fueled by oil, you think. Looking over your shoulder, you watch Dr. Kim’s retreating back and wonder what exactly it is that he’s done.
“Did you set that fire?” you demand, chasing him. He gives you a withering look. “What is going on?”
“Speak nothing of this,” he snaps. “We arrived here to make a housecall and discovered that the barn was on fire. We suspect that Mr. Marrow was burning to melt the snow around the barn and that the barn caught. The Marrow family died inside trying to put out the fire.”
“But the wolves-”
“Do not mention the wolves, girl.”
“Did they kill the Marrows?” His jaw works but he doesn’t answer. “Did they kill the Mathesons?”
“This village has a complicated history,” he says finally. He pulls his coat tighter. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I do expect you to stay out of it. Say nothing of the wolves and stay away from them. You’ll make it through winter.”
-
Two weeks pass, the secret heavy on your tongue. You work with Dr. Kim as though nothing happened, and when people ask about the Marrow farm, you recite vague details. You don’t know why you do it but… the image of the wolf - your wolf - floats in your mind each time you spit out the lie.
Thoughts plague you as Hoseok lounges on the porch of the office that belongs to Hoseok’s father, who acts as the town’s scribe and legal affairs recorder. A sudden warm day has brought everyone outdoors, lounging on their porches and trying to take advantage of the melting snow around the buildings. The streets are muddy and murky as kids run by, feet splashing.
A group of men prowl around the outskirts of the village. Sun shines through the slats of the overhang in front of the inn, warming where you lean on the porch railing. Hoseok rattles on about gossip he’s heard from his mother’s tea parties and his father’s work on will and testaments with the growing fear of death in the village.
“Plagues, serial killings, blood feuds and animal attacks,” Hoseok sighs, staring up at the ceiling where he lies. “Good for father’s business. Bad for my cramping hand trying to help him.”
“Hmm,” you hum noncommittally, thoughts lost as you stare out into the street with unseeing eyes.
Shouts make you flinch. You stand rod straight, gripping the railing as you look for the source of the disruption. Hoseok stands up immediately, joining you at the railing as the pair of you lean to look toward the entrance to the town.
At first, you think that it’s about another wolf attack. People rush into the street, looking toward the commotion. Then you see it. Gleeful cheers spring up to the buildings closest to the town’s entrance as the first few traders enter the road. Your heart soars when you see donkeys pulling a cart behind them, followed by more people carrying packs and towing small carts.
“The traders!” You breathe, feeling a sigh of relief sweep through you. “They’ve made it!”
Excitement ripples through the village. People come flocking from the buildings to welcome cart after cart full of people. Some traders tow full carriages with riders at the front, the shutters on their carriages tied shut, hiding their wares inside.
Hoseok lounges back down, letting out a sigh of relief. You feel the same, leaning on the railing again to watch as the carts are towed down the road, pulling down different streets to set up shop and find accommodations.
Most of the traders look vaguely familiar to you - you see the Robin’s with their cloth cart and Morty with his towering carriage of unusual wares and charms. The Yang twins set off small, popping fireworks from the back of their cart, making the children squeal.
Something catches your eye. “There are more traders than usual,” you tell Hoseok, frowning as your eyes settle on the large men who walk among the carts, all of whom wear weapons belts and look from side to side as they walk. “I think they’re warriors, Hoseok.”
“Warriors?” he laughs. “Strange.”
“No really, there are several men with blades at the hip and bows on the back. They look… guarded.”
He tilts his head, eyeing where your eyes flit from person to person. “Perhaps the road is as hard as we suspected this year.”
You hum in agreement, watching as the caravans stop and unload, the muddy streets filling with people and chatter and bubbling with excitement. It feels like the bubble of anxiety looming over the town has popped - at least temporarily - relieving the pressure that had been building with every passing day.
Leaning against the rail, you’re content to observe. All manner of people and things are pulled from carts. Vendors start setting up right away, people forming lines for ingredients, cloth, and wares. The largest line of all is for weapons and metal tools, Old Man Heo barely has time to park his cart before the men of the village ask how much for iron arrowheads and blades.
A shiver goes through you as your eyes sweep back toward the town entrance where more people pour in. Fewer caravans come through - now it’s just people with pack mules or bags over their shoulders.
The hairs on your arm stand up when you see him. Wind lifts the edge of your cloak, making it flutter around you. You watch as he walks down the main street with the other travelers, eyes flicking around as he drinks in the buildings and the crowd of villagers coming to welcome the traders.
As though he senses your staring, his head snaps to you. You feel frozen to the spot, your fingers tightening on the rail as you meet his eyes. They’re unfathomably dark and yet… a tingle of familiarity slithers up your spine.
He stares at you in turn. You’re sure he’s looking at you, paused near the cart he stands next to, dark gaze focused on where you stand on the porch.
You’ve never seen him. You’re sure of it. You’d remember a handsome face like that anywhere. His long, dark hair is pushed back from his face, revealing a sharp jawline, a strong nose, and intense eyes. His lips are red from the cold - pretty against tan skin.
He’s tall. Taller than most men in the village and broad, with strong shoulders and thick arms, though it’s hard to tell underneath his tunic. Like the other hardy men accompanying traders, he has a weapons belt snug around his waist and the bulk of his frame implies that he knows how to use them.
The man doesn’t break eye contact. His mouth begins to tilt in what you think might be the start of a smile when Hoseok sits up abruptly, startling you. You break eye contact, looking at Hoseok who bites into an apple, offering you one.
“You frightened me,” you snap, a little irritated at being distracted. When you glance back up at the man, his attention is elsewhere.
“What were you staring at anyway?” he asks, crunching bits of apple.
“Nothing,” you murmur, eyes on the flexing back of the man as he helps unload a wagon near the inn. Something niggles at the back of your mind. I know you. “Nothing at all.”
“Want to visit the vendors later when they’re all set up? I would love to get some spiced wine and listen to Marla’s stories tonight.”
“Yes,” you answer without hesitation. “Let’s do just that.”
-
Every minute that passes by feels like an eternity. Incurable energy simmers under the surface as you wait for the day to fade to evening. You clean the entire house, you collect wood from outside, you dress and then change into something else, and you ultimately end up pacing back and forth in your room while you wait for Hoseok to arrive.
Your thoughts are consumed by the mystery man you had seen earlier. His handsome face swims in your memory. The clear image of his face is accompanied by some feeling you cannot identify, something that almost feels like nostalgia. How can you feel nostalgia for someone you don’t know?
Hoseok finally arrives, letting himself into your house cheerily. The brief respite from winter is already bleeding away, the wind carrying a painful promise as it lifts your hood outside. The traders, it seems, arrived at the perfect time, the cloudy sky promising snow in the morning once more.
Energy sizzles in the air. It’s as though the momentary fear of the wolf attacks is momentarily forgotten with the arrival of the vendors and travelers. The noise echoes from every street, torches, and fires lighting up the alleyways and down as people hang lamps in the windows and carts string up tea lights.
Though you’re nervous, you are temporarily distracted as Hoseok pulls you through a tangle of carts toward Sal’s Sweets. Your stomach grumbles when you catch the scent of melting sugar and sweet confections, joining the line at Hoseok’s side to pick up hot, sticky sweets.
With hot, sweet rolls drizzled in honey in hand, you and Hoseok explore the vendor carts. It is an explosion of color and lights, glittering jewelry hanging from displays, hot meats sizzling in pants over fires, the flash of powder and light as the Yang twins set off more fireworks, and the smell of spices as you pass by herb carts and tents.
Everywhere you go, you see the men from before, looming near carts with weapons and steely expressions. But not even the eerie sight of them can bring down the spirits of the villagers, kids running with new kites and jars full of fireflies.
As you stand in line with Hoseok who wants new inkwells, you listen to passing chatter. From what you gather, it was a hard trip this way on the caravans this year. The winter was just as harsh on the road as it was in the village, and the traders' voices become quiet when they talk about thieves and monsters in the woods.
You exchange a glance with Hoseok and he nods. Wolves.
Wordlessly, you wait as Hoseok points out the inks that he wants. You begin to crane your neck, looking for the familiar stranger that you had seen before. The square is crowded and packed tight with people, making it nearly impossible to make out much beyond a few feet in front of you.
You spot Dr. Kim walking next to Seokjin, both of their heads bowed as they speak to one another. You narrow your eyes, remembering the way Dr. Kim had silenced you at the Marrow farm. You watch them as they head toward the road that the veterinary practice is on, pausing as a man pushes off the wall to join them.
It’s him you realize. You recognize the broad shoulders and the dark hair as he turns his back to you, walking with the Kims down the road. You don’t even have to think twice.
“Hey,” you tug Hoseok’s sleeve. “I’m going to go see Dr. Kim about something really quick. I’ll meet you at the inn?”
“Sure.” He frowns. “Is it safe to go alone?”
“With all of these people?” You’re already backing away and shrugging. “Definitely.”
Without waiting for Hoseok to respond, you turn on your heel and rush into the crowd. The bodies of people immediately swallow you. The sound and sights and smells become a blur as you push through the crowd, shouldering people aside. You get some nasty looks from the force at which you move, but they immediately forget you as more people press in.
Less people pass you by as you walk up the street, pulling your cloak in tight. The lights in front of the building are off. You creep up the stairs and try the handle, finding it locked. It doesn’t matter, you sneak around the back of the building to the rear entrance and press your ear to the door. When you hear nothing, you try the handle and it twists.
Victorious, you open the door and slide through. The hallway is narrow with four doors on the right leading to examination rooms and two doors on the left. The first door leads to the kennel area where you hear voices. The second leads to the front lobby and desk.
The front lobby is the safest option, lest you get caught eavesdropping in the hallway when they leave. Carefully, you creep by the door, holding your breath and praying the floor doesn’t creak. Your heart pounds as you inch past the door, hearing deep voices on the other side as you go by.
Clearing the door, you hurry into the lobby and to the door behind the desk that leads to the kennels. Crouching down low to hide yourself from anyone walking by the windows, you carefully pull the door open, unwilling to open it any further than the width of your index finger. Pressing your ear to the open gap, you listen.
“We talked about discretion,” Dr. Kim says, his voice frustrated. “This isn’t discretion. This is harassment and fear-mongering.”
“I told you,” a deep, smooth voice answers. You assume it must belong to the stranger and you shiver, eyes fluttering as the sound of it washes over you. “It isn’t my decision to make. I do not lead. Yoongi made it very clear how he wishes to proceed.”
“Yoongi is a lunatic.”
“He’s the alpha.”
You frown. Alpha? You’re familiar with the concept of alphas in packs of dogs and herding animals, but you don’t know what that has to do with people or who Yoongi is.
“The hunts will begin tomorrow.”
You think Dr. Kim means the hunting for the wolves. It makes sense now that the traders are in town and they can stock up on weapons.
“As is the way of things,” the stranger answers with a sigh. “You know why Yoongi has chosen this path.”
“Is revenge worth it?”
“Perhaps your kind do not understand.” The stranger’s voice hardens. You wonder what he means by your kind. “You have one foot in the forest, one in the village.”
“We understand, but we’re also not reckless.” Charged quiet hangs in the air. You hold your breath, your heart thundering in your chest, waiting for the sound of footsteps at the end of a conversation. “Why are you here, Namjoon? You came alone.”
Namjoon. The name washes over you, a warm feeling like the first spray of summer rain. It must be the stranger's name.
Namjoon answers, “There is… a protected here. But I still fear for them. Yoongi and the others are angry - I wish to further keep them from harm.”
A frown twists your mouth. This Namjoon is here to protect someone from Yoongi. You wonder what this has to do with Dr. Kim. Could… Perhaps someone is using the wolves as tools? You’ve certainly seen a hunter train wolves or wolfhounds before, though it’s a dangerous business.
Dr. Kim sighs. “That is the only saving grace of you being here, I’m afraid. Seokjin and I cannot help you. Not without exposing ourselves. I’ve already done what I can.”
“You have my greatest thanks for that. You and yours will always be safe. And not just because of your blood.”
Shuffling makes you lean away from the door immediately. You slowly drop it back in place before crawling over to the desk and hiding under it, straining your hearing as the footsteps go into the back hall and out of the back door. You remain there long after you hear the back door shut, waiting just in case they’re still outside.
When you’re sure they’ve gone, you crawl out from underneath the desk and hurry into the hall and out the back door. The alley is empty when you stick your head out, sagging with relief. You hurry out and close the door behind you, spinning around and-
“You know, most people who don’t want to be seen don’t sneak around in a red cloak.”
The man - Namjoon - looms over you, looking down at you with an amused expression. Your scream is cut off when he winces and cups your mouth with his hand. “Well don’t scream! You’ll summon Giho and Seokjin back this way. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Namjoon waits for a moment, your chest heaving as you nod, signifying that you won’t scream for help. Maybe it’s silly, but you trust him not to hurt you. At the least, he is there to protect someone in the village, so he doesn’t seem like he’s there for nefarious reasons.
When he drops his hands, you press yourself against the door, trying to put a little distance between you. Namjoon’s presence is demanding, a tickle prickling at the base of your spine as you look up at him, mystified.
He’s so beautiful. Up close, you can make out his features far better than earlier that day. His eyes are dark and framed by beautiful, silken lashes. His nose is broad and his jaw is sharp. A dimple appears when he gives you a lopsided grin, dark eyes sizing you up.
The same sense of familiarity from earlier comes back to you, and though you’ve never seen his face before, you swear you know him. Warmth radiates from him, the delicate smell of pine and bergamot reaching you. He feels like… yours. Like some part of him completes you. It is the strangest feeling.
“You okay, Red?” he asks, tone earnest. You furrow your brows at the term and he grins - genuine and warm. “Your cloak. It’s a very bright red. Pretty, though.”
“Thank you?”
He raises a brow. “Are you asking me?”
“I’m… you’re awfully close.”
Namjoon takes a few steps back from you. You suddenly regret saying something as his warmth vanishes, replaced by the cool wind. “Sorry,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”
“Why didn’t you alert Dr. Kim if you knew I was snooping.”
“You don’t seem to be a threat. Plus, he’s a bit of a grouch. It didn’t seem worth it to hear him chastise a pretty girl.”
You flush. “How do you know the Kims?”
“Family friends.”
“What were you all talking about?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Just because I’m not chastising you for listening to our private conversation doesn’t mean I’m going to divulge the details of said private conversation.”
You divert your gaze, feeling flushed. He has a point, but if he’s put out by your line of questioning or your eavesdropping, he doesn’t show it. “Come on,” Namjoon says. “Let’s go back to the square. I need a drink and it’s dangerous to walk around right now.”
“Because of the wolves?”
He stares at you. “Because it’s dark and there are a bunch of strangers in your town, and you’re a woman alone. In the dark.”
“You’re a stranger in my town.”
His grin spreads and his dimple deepens. Your stomach flutters. You’re not unaffected by him, a little dizzy and nervous when he sticks out a hand. “Namjoon. I’m a part of the Kim family.”
“Like… Dr. Kim?” you ask, reaching out your hand and giving him your name.
“We’re related, in a way. Pretty name. I think I’ll stick with Red, though.”
Namjoon takes off walking. For a second, you just stand and stare at him. He shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn’t look back. You lick your lips, heart pounding. You cannot shake the sense of something peculiar about him, something familiar. He’s a Kim - perhaps you know him.
Determined to find out, you take off after him, scurrying to catch up. You fall into step with him and look up to find him smirking down at you before focusing back on the growing noise and lights of the main square.
“Have you been here before?” you ask, watching him from the corner of your eye. He shakes his head and you frown. “I feel like I know you.”
“Perhaps I have one of those faces?”
“No, I’d remember a face like yours.”
Namjoon turns to you, arching a brow. “A face like mine, huh?”
Multiple fire pits dot the streets, groups of people clustered around them to keep warm as the chill seeps back into the village. The inn is bustling with people, the door propped open with a chair as people walk in and out with platters of food and tankards in hand. Multiple villagers have pulled out tables and chairs from their homes, setting them up in the street.
It feels good. The air hums with euphoria and the promise of better days ahead, like suddenly there are not several families mourning their loved ones. The atmosphere reminds you of a festival, and you suppose it kind of is a festival.
The smell of burning fat and ale hits your nose as you walk into the inn. Voices roar over one another and the workers are busy behind the bar. A fireplace crackles in the far corner where you spot Hoseok guarding an extra chair.
“I fear this is where we part ways,” Namjoon announces over the din of voices. “Try not to do any more eavesdropping tonight.” You hesitate, wanting to protest. There are a million burning questions you have for him. He must see it in your face, because he smiles and says, “We’ll run into one another again. Don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
You were actually, and you know he knows by his smirk. “Goodnight, Red.”
You watch Namjoon go. He moves toward where the innkeeper stands at a podium looking over reservations, blending into the crowd. Just before he reaches the podium he glances over his shoulder at you, catching you watching. He shoots you a grin and you scowl, pivoting on your heel to charge toward Hoseok.
Hoseok raises his eyebrows when he sees you storm over to him and yank the chair out from the table, sitting down in a huff. Without a word, you snatch his tankard of ale and take several, cold gulps before setting it on the table, letting it wash through you.
“Who was that you came in with? And then stormed over here after speaking to?”
“Some relative of the Kims,” you mutter. “I find him very… frustrating.”
“He’s very handsome.”
You glare at Hoseok and see the beginning of a wicked smile. “And frustrating.”
He lifts his cup, shrugging. “Cheers to being frustrating.”
-
A scream wakes you up in the middle of the night. You lurch up from bed, head spinning as you try to gather your wits about you. Blankets tangle your limbs as you try to peel them from sweaty skin. Another scream makes you stumble out of bed, the world tilting on its axis as your body tries to catch up with your sudden lucidity.
In the main room of your home, your mother is stumbling through the kitchen too, lighting a candle and grabbing a holder. You feel relief as you realize the screaming isn’t coming from your home, but your neighbor’s.
Together, you and your mother rush out into the cold in nightgowns, not bothering with shoes or coats. The cold is bitter, immediately stinging your skin as the Liang family joins you in running to the Hutch family home where it sounds like Mrs. Hutch is screaming like a wild animal in her house.
“It’s Leanne,” your mother breathes, words turning to steam in the air.
“Come on,” you urge, pulling your mother as you go, driven by the shrieks.
The front door hangs open as Mr. Liang enters the home first, an ax in hand. It occurs to you that neither you nor your mother have weapons, but Mrs. Hutch has always been kind to your mother, making the both of you charge into the darkness of her home empty-handed.
A metallic tang hits you immediately. You recoil, recognizing the stench of blood immediately. Villagers spill into the home behind you, alerted to the wailing coming from the bedroom. With torches and candles in hand, you spot the red on the dark wood floor in the hallway.
Mr. Liang stands in the doorway of the bedroom, staring with a haunted gaze at what he sees there. Your mother pushes through the people in the home to look over his shoulder, her hand flying to her mouth as she gasps.
“Oh Leanne,” she murmurs in horror, shoving by Mr. Liang.
You don’t go to the room. The smell and the weeping coming from the bedroom give you an inkling of what lay inside. You stand in the living room as people fill the hall, gasping and murmuring. Someone shouts to wake the constable.
“Why?” Mrs. Hutch screams in her room, the despair in her voice rattling your bones. “Why?”
“His throat has been cut,” someone murmurs from the hall. “Murdered in bed.”
Murdered? That throws you for a loop. You had assumed somehow it was an animal attack but… you shiver. Murder is different.
Mr. Liang begins shooing people out of the house. You slink out into the cold and hurry to your own home, bare feet freezing in the cold, wet earth. Your mother stays with Mrs. Hutch, leaving you alone.
The dark presses in on you, every creak of a floorboard making you jump. The shadows seem menacing now and you’re quick to find and light a candle, orange light flooding the home.
Cloth and candle in hand, you return to your room to wipe the cold mud from your feet, skin still burning from the frigid air. Voices carry in from outside, the entire town waking and gathering as the shock of murder ripples through the streets, a stone in a pond.
With sleep nowhere near possible for the remainder of the night, you get dressed. You pull on thick woolen pants, a tunic, and multiple socks, sticking your feet in your boots. Your cloak goes next, fastening it around your throat as you look out your bedroom window.
Your home sits at an angle in a row of houses that circle the village like a ring. You can see the wall of the home next to you, and a sliver of the backyard as well. It’s that tiny space in the backyard that catches your eye, watching as someone moves from the edge of the home out of sight.
Heart in your throat, you grab a candle and run outside. The crowd in front of the Hutch’s has grown, but you ignore them, skirting around your house to the alleyway between you and your neighbor. Nothing catches your eye as you run to the backyard, swiveling as you search in the darkness for the shadow you saw.
The wind howls, drowning out the voices in the street. The treeline behind the houses is dark. You squint your eyes and lift the candle in your hand, the flame barely flickering as the wind makes the trees sway. There is nothing in the darkness and you begin to turn when you see a shadow in the tree line.
It’s barely there - perhaps a trick of the light, even. You take a step forward, boots crunching in the snow. A gust of wind makes your cloak snap at your ankles, candle going out and leaving you without a source of light. You had not realized how dark it was without it, the shadow vanishing from your line of sight.
Fear nestles in the pit of your stomach. Your breath gets stuck in your lungs as your limbs lock, realizing how stupid it was to come outside if there was a killer among the trees. Soft snow crunches somewhere close to you. You squeeze your eyes shut, tucking your chin to your chest as panic makes you shut down, unable to move and-
“Red.”
Namjoon’s voice makes you spin around. He holds a torch level with his head, the flame casting an eerie glow on his face. For a moment, he looks lupine and terrifying, your heart nearly stuttering to a halt.
Then his face twists in concern. “What are you doing out here alone?”
“What are you doing?”
“Dr. Kim sent me over to check on you. No one answered the door so I came around back.”
“Why?”
Namjoon seems confused. “Why did I come around back or why did he send me?”
“Both.”
“I could see the light of your candle and because a murder has just happened.”
You relax a little at the logic in his answer. Snow begins to fall from the sky. You look up at the moonless black, thick clouds floating as the bits of snow drift on the breeze. You shiver and look back to the trees, seeing nothing but tightly packed pines. Still, there is an instinctual sense of trepidation that sits heavy in your gut.
“Come on,” Namjoon says gently. “Let’s go inside. I’ll wait with you until your mother comes home.”
Reluctantly, you follow Namjoon. Eyeing him, you realize he is dressed differently than previously that night. Now, he’s in black breeches and a black linen shirt. The weapons belt is gone and he’s without a coat.
You frown. “Aren’t you freezing?”
“I run warm.”
It’s the only answer that he gives you as you walk back into the street which is filled with people and torches. In the distance, you hear the baying of hounds. It chills you, goosebumps exploding up and down your arms as you watch a cluster of firelights gather far off down the road.
“The constable is leading a manhunt. They’ll come to question us too.”
Wordlessly you gesture for Namjoon to join you inside of your home. He closes the door firmly behind you and strides to the fireplace, using the torch to coax the simmering logs to a full flame. Cedar pops as he adds the torch to the fire, orange embers drifting up the chimney.
Rubbing your hands together, you offer him tea and he accepts with a soft smile. It doesn’t meet his eyes as he looks around the only place you’ve ever called home. Suddenly shy of your less-than-luxurious surroundings, you clear your throat and gesture to one of the mismatched armchairs by the fire as you grab a kettle.
Namjoon hardly fits in the chair. You press your lips to keep from laughing, which feels inappropriate with a man dead just a few yards away. With careful hands, you hang the kettle next to the fire, the flame close enough to heat the water as you scurry back to the kitchen and fill tea bags with herbs.
“What kind of tea do you like?”
“Yarrow, if you have it.”
“I do.” You grab the jar, popping the top. “Are you in great pain, Mr. Kim?”
“Call me Namjoon. Mr. Kim feels far too formal.”
“Well, we are strangers, after all.”
Namjoon certainly doesn’t feel like a stranger. You cast him a sidelong glance as you say it, looking for his reaction. He turns his head from the fire, meeting your gaze head-on. His lips curve in a secret smile, making your nerves dance.
“I suppose that’s true.”
Is it? You wonder. You’re not so sure.
Instead of asking him, you bring the mugs with bags of tea over to where he sits, handing him one. Steam rises from the spout of the teapot. With a thick towel, you lift it off of the hanger. Namjoon holds out his cup and lets you pour carefully into his mug, the smell of yarrow and mint wafting toward you. After pouring your own cup, you set the kettle down and sit across from him.
Your cold hands leech the warmth from the mug. You settle comfortably in the chair, relaxing and inhaling the chamomile in your cup. After a few moments of silence, you realize how comfortable and safe you feel with Namjoon, though you’ve only known him for a few short hours.
“Why have you come to the village?”
Namjoon watches the fire as he answers, “You were eavesdropping at the veterinary office. I’m sure you heard me.” You look down at your steaming cup and Namjoon chuckles, raspy and deep. It’s a nice sound.
“You said there was a ‘protected’ here. And something about a Yoongi.”
Namjoon’s face darkens at the mention of Yoongi. You chew on your lip, worried you’ve pushed him too far before you’ve even started to ask him real questions. His jaw works as he contemplates what you’ve said, sipping the tea a little.
“A protected just means someone under protection by my family,” Namjoon says finally. “My extended family is… large. We are a very close group and we consider those in our community blood.”
“It is… not always like that here.”
“Your mother assists Mrs. Hutch, though. That seems like family, in a way.”
“Mrs. Hutch is kind. Not everyone is.”
Namjoon nods. “It is not like that where I am from. We bear the sins of our neighbors and we share the responsibility of keeping everyone safe.”
“That must be nice.” You sip your tea and scald your tongue, hissing and setting the cup down. Namjoon leans forward as though to help you, alarm on his face. “Tea is too hot. I don’t know how you drink it.”
He smiles and shrugs. “I run warm.”
“So you said. How are you related to Dr. Kim?”
“He’s my uncle. He’s my father’s brother. His wife was best friends with my mom.”
“Oh.” You blink in surprise. “She passed away when I was very young. She… died the same winter as my father.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Namjoon frowns and cocks his head. “What did your father do?”
“He was a hunter.”
One of the logs pops in the fireplace, making you flinch. You give a nervous laugh and glance at Namjoon, who has gone stone-still. The firelight dances on his face as he peers at you. Your smile falters a little at the gravity you find there.
“He only hunted fowl and deer,” you find yourself explaining. You don’t know why you say it, only that suddenly that feels important. “He didn’t like to hunt bigger game or predators. Mother says that he believed they were best left alone and that a true hunter knows his betters when he sees them.”
Namjoon hums. “Smart man.”
“I don’t know. He died in an animal attack when I was very young.”
“You must resent the woods.”
“Not at all. I think…” You bite your bottom lip, trying to find the right words. “I think that he wouldn’t blame the animals. The woods are their home. My mother says he was always very adamant about that. They don’t usually attack villagers, though.”
“Usually?”
“There are animal attacks happening. I’m sure Dr. Kim told you…?”
“Ah, yes. You think they’re without reason?”
“Perhaps hunger? I don’t know. It does not happen often.”
“Wolves are not known to hunt people.” Namjoon’s fingers drum against his mug, a steady tap. He seems thoughtful as he regards you. “They’re intelligent creatures and their packs are important to them. They take the threat to their land and their family seriously.”
“Like your family?”
He laughs. “Like my family.” Namjoon sips his tea again. “This land used to belong to several packs of wolves, you know?”
“Really?”
“Yes, until settlers drove them out. Not that long ago there were hunting parties for sport. They slaughtered entire packs, destroying bloodlines and nearly wiping out the wolves here entirely.”
“I always found that incredibly sad.”
“Why is that?”
“They’re incredibly important to the ecosystem here. And I guess I always agreed with my dad. I don’t remember him much, but I like to remember that he was good at heart.”
Namjoon hums but says nothing else. You sit in silence for a while, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Namjoon’s presence is steady, keeping out the cold and the fear just beyond the door. You wonder how he does that by just sitting in a chair, or how it feels so natural.
Outside, the world begins to turn gray. You yawn as exhaustion begins to set in and you feel yourself sagging. Eyes burning, you rub them with the back of your hands, blinking a few times to fight the explosion of colors in your vision.
“You can sleep,” Namjoon says softly from where he sits. You glance at him. “You can trust me.”
A hint of pine and bergamot drift toward you, making you drowsy. Namjoon grabs a blanket from the back of his chair and stands up, bringing it to you. He takes your mug and you watch him with sleepy, round eyes as he places the blanket over you.
“Sleep.” His voice is soft, distant. “I will be here.”
Your eyes flutter shut and you drift to sleep, remembering the warm sound of his voice. It… reminds you of your wolf.
-
Gentle voices pull you from the clutches of sleep. You wake slowly, a cramp in your neck making you reluctant to get up. You smell the fire and the hint of pine and bergamot. You hear a low, raspy voice that you instantly recognize as Namjoon.
How swiftly I know his voice, you think.
“You must wake her,” a male voice says. You recognize it as Dr. Kim. “The constable is coming for questioning.”
“She’s already awake,” Namjoon answers, a smile in his voice. Your eyes snap open at being caught, meeting his dark gaze as he smirks from near your door. “See?”
You scowl at him. How did he know that? Sitting up and stretching, you appraise the two men lurking near your door. “Is my mother still with Mrs. Hutch?”
Dr. Kim nods and steps swiftly into the room around Namjoon. Namjoon reaches out a hand, catching Dr. Kim with his arm and stopping him from entering the room properly. You watch in puzzlement as there’s a silent exchange between the two of them, Namjoon’s face dark as Dr. Kim raises a brow.
Then, Namjoon lets him go. You cock your head to the side, wondering what that’s about. Ignoring Namjoon, Dr. Kim approaches and says, “The constable will be here shortly. Say nothing about the farm.”
The farm. The memory of the wolves brings a chill to your arm, the smell of smoke and burning oil. The confusion and Dr. Kim’s refusal to answer your questions.
“What is going on?” you demand, eyes flickering from Dr. Kim to Namjoon. “Animal attacks, murders, you covering up something at the barn. I’m being lied to.”
“Say nothing about the farm,” Dr. Kim says again, voice firm. Namjoon makes a noise that startles you. It’s almost like a growl, your eyes going wide as he glares at Dr. Kim. “I told you this village has a complicated history. I’m looking after your safety.”
Heavy footsteps sound on the porch. There’s a loud knock on the door, the constable announcing his presence on the other side. Namjoon opens the door for him, standing back to let him in. The constable looks him up and down with confusion before looking at you, a question in his eyes.
“They came to check on me,” you offer. The constable has known you since you were a child, it’s no wonder he’s confused at the presence of a stranger in your home. “How can I help you, constable?”
“I’d like you to answer a few questions about last night. Mr. Liang confirmed you were one of the first people to Hutch’s last night.”
Dr. Kim walks to your kitchen and busies himself making tea. Namjoon moves to sit in the chair across from you, his warm presence from the night before replaced with something mildly threatening. You cut him a look but his dark eyes are focused on the constable as though he’s a threat.
The questions are easy enough. When did you wake up? Did you notice anyone around your home when you came home? Did you notice anyone outside? When did you come home?
You leave out running into Namjoon behind your home. You don’t know why, but you feel the need to not draw attention to him. You also leave out the strange incident at the farm, glancing sideways at Dr. Kim when he brings you lemon tea.
When the constable is finished, he eyes Dr. Kim. “Be at the station at four,” he instructs. “We’re splitting hunting parties. One to look for the culprit, the other to get rid of the damn wolves.”
“The wolves were there first, you know?” Namjoon speaks up, looking at you and not the constable. “Have you ever tried figuring out what they want?”
“And who the hell are you?”
“Please ignore my nephew, constable. He likes to insert himself in conversations he doesn’t belong in. Come, let’s look over the hounds before you send them out tonight.”
Together, the constable and Dr. Kim shuffle out. Before he shuts the door, Dr. Kim levels the pair of you with a heavy gaze. You don’t know what that gaze means, but you know that something is going on in this village and that he and Namjoon seem to have some idea about it.
As soon as the door shuts, you turn to Namjoon and demand, “What is going on?”
He sighs. “Would you listen if I just said to wait it out?”
“Do you know who murdered Mr. Hatch?”
Namjoon hesitates and shakes his head. You narrow your eyes, unbelieving. “I really don’t know who did, Red.”
“Why are you really here? Why all the secrets?”
“I told you, my family protects those who belong to their community.”
“What did you mean about asking what the wolves want?”
“I told you last night. There were wolves long before this village existed. Seems to me that if the wolves are suddenly killing the townspeople, perhaps it’s because they want their land back. Or maybe they’re angry from years of being hunted.”
That shuts you up. You can’t argue with that, exactly. But… “Are you saying that the wolves are capable of revenge?”
Namjoon stands and gestures to your cloak. “How often do you wear that?”
“Every day. It’s… sentimental to me.”
His eyes lighten and he offers a half smile. “Good. Red is a lucky color.”
“Where are you going?”
He opens the door, cold wind hissing past the opening. “Your mom is coming. I’ll see you later, Red.”
Without another word, Namjoon slips through the door and shuts it firmly behind him. You stare after him, openmouthed and confused. As promised, you hear your mother come up the steps, light feet scuffing before she quickly lets herself in, shutting the door firmly behind her.
You offer to make your mother breakfast, happy to help as she dozes in the chair. It isn’t until later that you wonder how Namjoon had heard her coming at all.
-
Little Lucy Larkin
In a little wood
Little Lucy Larkin
Up to no good
Little Lucy Larkin
In her little hood
Little Lucy Larkin
Ware of the woods!
Little Lucy Larkin
Stole a little bread
Little Lucy Larkin
In the woods of dread
Little Lucy Larkin
Is a little thief
Little Lucy Larkin
Die by wolf’s teeth
A sense of unease slithers up your spine as you pull your cloak closer. The voice of the children playing the Little Lucy Game echoes down the street and you pause to watch as the little boy playing Lucy steals the rock from the middle of the circle and the little boy playing the wolf gets up to chase him.
The other kids scream and giggle as the boys give chase, the sound of their laughter eerie in the cold gray of twilight. Shaking it off, you turn and duck your head as you walk up the steps to the Tall Tales Inn.
Warmth and the scent of food greet you. It’s a thinner crowd than the day before but still more people than you’re used to without the traders in town. There is a clear divide in the dining room with traders on one side and townsfolk on the other, the murder quick to make the locals distrust the new people in their streets.
Tense conversations hum in the gold light. You navigate around tables until you find Hoseok sitting with Seokjin. The sight of Seokjin gives you pause. He seems to sense your presence, glancing up and meeting your questioning stare. He gives no reaction, though, turning his attention back to Hoseok who is murmuring quietly.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Jin,” you say by way of greeting. Hoseok gives you a look at your clipped tone. You ignore it, sitting down and leveling the older man with a stare, his father’s mysteriousness weighing on you. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
He narrows his eyes a fraction. “Just enjoying the company of friends.”
“Shouldn’t you be helping the constable?”
“I’m on the late-night shift.”
Grinding your teeth, you sit roughly. Hoseok just watches you, brows raised. You say nothing as you order a drink and a meal, picking at the splinters of the tabletop, eyeing Seokjin. If he’s put out by your rudeness he doesn’t show it, drinking heartily from his tankard and watching you with dark, even eyes.
You know Seokjin knows whatever it is his father and Namjoon have been talking about. You yourself have not been able to work out what’s going on in the village, but you’re sure the Kims know. And if Dr. Kim asked you to lie to the constable… well perhaps Seokjin is leading him astray as well.
Hoseok pipes up, steering the conversation everywhere he can to avoid the tension building between you and Seokjin and the topics of murders. You participate as little as possible, mind trying to put together the puzzle pieces of the blooming mystery in your home.
An uncomfortable thought starts to take root in your mind. Is it possible that the Kim family is behind the murders? Dr. Kim has plenty of weapons at his disposal, and they had been talking about revenge, and Dr. Kim had covered up what happened at the Marrow’s farm… but what did that have to do with wolves?
You’re not sure. But you do know that the Kims are purposefully hiding things, that there is a murderer somewhere in the town or near it, and that there is a sense of doom that you cannot shake, a dark itch like stinging nettle in your bones.
Seokjin excuses himself to take an afternoon nap before his hunting party heads out for the evening. Your eyes track him as he goes. Seokjin certainly doesn’t seem evil, but there’s no telling what’s behind his pretty face.
“What is wrong with you?” Hoseok asks, leaning over the table and whispering harshly. “You’re behaving rather odd.”
“Something is going on.”
“Yes, your attitude.”
You turn and glare at him. “No, Hobi. Something is going on with the Kim family. I don’t know how to explain it.” You grip your cup tighter. “But I intend to figure it out.”
Hoseok questions you about what that means. You keep your answers vague, not wanting to rope him into your plan. Too often as children did you lure Hoseok into trouble, and with how dangerous night is becoming in your town, you know it’s a bad idea to endanger him too.
T sun sets over the village. You stand at your bedroom window, watching through the frosty window as the sun turns the sky into a smear of blood. The clouds have cleared away just for this sanguine sunset. It makes your stomach turn, a sense of foreboding heavy in the air.
Still, it doesn’t deter you. Red fades to gray-blue and gray-blue fades to black. Wind rattles the glass in the window pane. Turning from the window, you find your thickest pair of pants and fur-lined tunic. The fabric feels scratchy on your skin.
Dressed, you look at your red cloak folded on the bed. Any other night you would take it with you. It has become your safety net, something that keeps you warm and keeps you safe. You cannot recall a day you haven’t worn it since it mysteriously showed up thirteen years ago, but tonight, you need obscurity.
Instead, you reach for an old, thick cloak that used to belong to your father. It's dark brown and worn at the edges, a little too big for you as the hem brushes the ground. It will serve its purpose in keeping you hidden in the dark of the woods, though.
All you grab is a hunting knife that you don’t know how to use, a wax candle, and a solid piece of flint and sharp rock to light it with. The candle and flint are for emergencies only. You hope it won’t be so dark that you cannot see, but you’re unsure what the clouds are going to do.
Outside, the wind is sharp. Your nostrils burn as you breathe it in and duck away behind your house. No new snow has fallen during the day, which is a good thing. You don’t have to worry about dragging your boots and tiring your calves. It also helps that the sky is clear tonight, the moon a sliver of sharp light.
Baying hounds echo through the village and the forest as the hunting dogs lead the men into the woods. You’re quick on your feet, dashing into the woods and heading north. You don’t want to run right into the hunting party, but you do want to find their burning torches and keep them in your line of sight.
They are easy to find, hovering like orange fireflies in the distance. Careful to make your way in the dark, you follow them. Your breath mists in front of you, hands shaking more from the adrenaline than the cold.
The torches spread out. You chew on your lip, unsure which group would belong to Seokjin. You take a gamble, heading after the group closest to you.
Everything feels too loud. Each snap of a branch under your foot and crunch of dry leaves feels like it’s going to give you away. Still, you’re good at sneaking for the most part, having spent plenty of time skulking through the village to take nightly strolls in the woods.
Voices carry to you. Through a system of running a few steps forward and dodging behind a tree, you manage to follow the men at a distance. You think that you hear the constable’s voice, which is a good sign. If he’s around, perhaps Seokjin is too.
The deeper you go into the forest, the colder it gets. The ground beneath your feet slopes. The evergreens are packed tighter here, needles tickling your hands as you keep your hands held out from your sides as you slide downward.
This is near where I saved that wolf, you think.
It’s true. You recognize the slope of the land and the general area. You cannot tell if it’s exactly where you met the wolf, but it’s close enough that your senses tingle and your eyes sweep the land, expecting something to happen.
A sense of foreboding trails you as the men move deeper into the wood. You turn around and look for the other torches and see nothing but a dark, compact forest. Your stomach flips uncomfortably but you continue, unsure now if it’s safer to turn back or to keep going.
Ahead, the group of men decide to take a break. The hounds sniff the area around them, pulling at the leashes as they go. Crouching low, you watch as the hounds go in circles, following the scent of something that seems to confuse them.
The men take long droughts of water, making you wish you’d thought of that. Mouth dry and hands cold, you huddle against a tree, bark digging into your back.
A few minutes pace by. You close your eyes, resting your head against the tree, breathing cold air in deeply. You don’t know what you expect the group to lead you to, only that you-
Something snaps behind you. Your eyes fly open and your limbs lock. Heart beating like a steady drum, you hold your breath and strain your eyes. For a moment, there’s nothing but the dim voices of the men taking a break. You think it’s nothing until you hear something again, a gentle susurration of leaves.
One of the hounds lifts its head, ears twitching. Your eyes scan the surrounding area back and forth, searching for what you know is there.
It happens so fast that you don’t even see the wolves enter the ring of torchlight until they’re there, snarls rattling the trees. You clamp your hands over your mouth to mute your gasp as the sounds of screams and tearing flesh explode in the night. Hounds screech, their growls savage and choked as the wolves descend.
You don’t know how many there are. Torch lights go down and drown you in darkness. Squeezing your eyes shut, you curl in on yourself, panting through your hands as the sounds echo in your ears. A new fear has stabbed its way between your ribs, making it hard to breathe.
Time moves slowly. Or quickly. You cannot tell which. One moment the sounds of a nightmare turned real are just a few hundred yards away. The next, an eerie silence blankets the dark forest.
You don’t want to open your eyes, but you have to. Very slowly, you crack an eye open. At first, there’s nothing. Your vision swims with flashing colors, your eyes trying to adjust. Then, there is the vague outline of trees. Ahead of you, where the men had been, lay shadowed piles.
Shaking, you glance around. You see nothing - hear nothing. You stand slowly. Each inch you gain feels like you’re being too loud. Sweat gathers on the back of your neck. The cool air makes it feel like an icy finger brushing down your nape.
When you’re sure that there’s nothing else around, you take a step toward where the attack happened. Leaves crunch beneath your feet. You stop breathing, waiting for signs of anything. Nothing happens and you let out a trembling breath, taking one more step. Again, you wait to see if your footfalls will trigger something.
You repeat this to the edge of the slaughter - for that’s what it is. A slaughter. Bile rises in your throat as you reach the first body and stamped-out torch. The constable and his hound lay in tatters, only recognizable by the batch on his cloak.
It is carnage. You don’t dare breathe through your nose for fear of breathing in the scent of death, circling the scene with weak knees, hand pressed to your mouth to keep in the whimpers. You see the faces of men you’ve known since you were a child. Ripped, bloodied, gored.
Finally, you lean over and empty the contents of your stomach. It burns on the way up, choking you. Pressing a hand against a tree, you breathe raggedly. The adrenaline coursing through you makes you twitchy and unstable, each nerve feeling like it’s on fire.
Leaves crunch a few feet away. Your head snaps in and you zero in on the source of the noise, mouth hanging open when you see Seokjin standing amongst the trees. He stares at you, frown on his face.
“Who are you?” he asks, voice gentle. You realize he can’t see your face under the cowl of your hood and you’re not in your traditional red. He sighs. “Doesn’t matter.”
You hear shuffling behind him before you see a white wolf. The white wolf from the Marrow farm. There are others, then. You don’t know how you missed them, the darkness of their fur blending in with the darkness around them.
The white one is spotted in red, muzzle matted, teeth slicked. Your stomach lurches. It isn’t hard to guess where it’s from. You take a step back and the wolf growls, lips pulled back. You freeze, looking amongst the pack of wolves that fan out around Seokjin, desperately looking for your wolf with the kind, intelligent eyes.
You do not find him there.
With a growl, the white wolf steps forward. Your instincts kick in and you turn and run, letting out a wild shriek as you do so. If Seokjin recognizes your voice when you scream, you cannot tell. The wolves are after you and you’re barreling through the trees with no hope of outrunning them, especially uphill.
A wolf nips at your ankle and you scream, tripping over your feet in your terror and going down hard. You’re jarred as you hit the ground, bones rattling as pain shoots up your limbs from the impact. Before you can scramble, there are teeth around your ankle, not biting down hard enough to snap, but hard enough to drag.
Your scream is wretched even to your ears. It is a curdling, nightmarish sound. You feel the scrape of leaves and sticks against your skin, cloak picking up dirt and twigs as you go. Your nails dig into the ground but the soil is frozen solid, fingers scraping bluntly against it.
With a surge of self-preservation, you kick your free leg backward as hard as you can. You hit the wolf in the muzzle, making it cry, and let go of your foot. You manage to crawl to your knees, slipping in the foliage as you try to stand before it’s tearing at your cloak, determined to drag you one way or another.
Sliding again as it drags you by the cloak, you try to undo the ties at your throat with shaking fingers. It comes away and frees you from the hellish drag to your death. This time, you’re faster to your feet, turning and running in the opposite direction. You don’t know where you’re going, just that you want to get away.
Your foot slides on the incline and with a shout you go down. This time, your head hits the ground hard. Your ears ring and your vision pulses. Blinking, you roll over and stare up at the canopy of dark trees. The world spins dangerously and you feel nausea churn deep in your stomach.
“Yoongi!” you hear the deep voice but it sounds warbled like you’re hearing it through water. Your head lolls to the side, the ringing in your ears still going as you see feet pass you. “Enough!”
Your field of vision narrows to a sharp point, edges pulling with black. You realize you’re about to pass out, oddly just thankful that you’re already on the ground. Just as your world begins to face, the face of the person in front of you appears.
Namjoon.
-
“Hey,” a gentle voice calls to you. There are soft hands on your head, brushing against your forehead. It smells like pine and bergamot as you snuggle into them. “I hate to wake you, but you need to wake up every few hours.”
The memory of the wolves comes to you. Your eyes snap open and you blink a few times before your vision adjusts to see Namjoon leaning over you. Cringing away from him, you press yourself into a warm, soft mattress that isn’t your own.
“Easy,” he cautions, holding his hands up. “You smacked your head very hard. I think you have a concussion.”
“Where am I?”
The room isn’t so much a room as it is a shack. There is a single fireplace in the far corner, a pile of logs, and the bed that you’re in. Despite the tiny space, it looks well-built and it’s warm, your heart slowing down as Namjoon leans to sit further from you and give you your space.
“Random shack in the woods near your village. I think it used to be a hunter’s stead for the winter.” He jerks his thumb toward the fireplace. “Hasn’t been used in a while. The wood has rotted.”
“Seokjin - you - what is going on?”
Emotions spill out of you like a broken dam. You don’t know which to acknowledge first: anger, fear, curiosity, gratitude.
Namjoon’s sigh is heavy. He visibly looks wearing, running a hand through his hair. You wonder how soft his hair is, followed immediately by feeling ridiculous for the timing of said thought.
“Just…” he winces. “Try to lean back and take it easy, I’m worried about how hard you hit your head. I promise I have no intentions of hurting you or letting anyone hurt me.”
“You called that white wolf Yoongi. Who is Yoongi? Why was Seokjin in the woods - those people - they’re dead.”
He nods slowly. “They are.”
You lean back carefully. The bed is comfortable and Namjoon keeps his distance, worried eyes on you. “I will try to explain the best I can. It will require a little bit of faith that I’m not lying to you and that I’m not insulting your intelligence by telling you things that will sound insane.”
“Like what?”
“Like werewolves exist.”
You stare at him. He doesn’t laugh, crack a grin, or do anything to make you believe he’s joking. Your first instinct is to blow him off. Werewolves were a tale for children and a way to help the children of the village cope during periods of wolf violence.
Thus far, all Namjoon has done is protect you. Strange as it seems, you know that fact to be true. He didn’t tell Dr. Jim you were eavesdropping, he kept you company after Mr. Hatch’s murder, and he stopped the wolves from taking you.
Namjoon is… there is something between you. You know it.
Hesitantly, you say, “Alright. Werewolves exist. Keep going.”
He is visibly relieved that you’re not questioning or berating him. You don’t exactly believe him yet, but you want to hear his story.
“There were communities of werewolves who lived here long before humans did. When people migrated to this area, they drove them out and forced those communities to become smaller and smaller. When the werewolves asked for their land back or to share resources, they were hunted and slaughtered.”
Namjoon’s throat bobs and emotions flicker across his face. His features settle on pain, and you stop yourself from reaching out to take his hand. “What you vaguely remember as wolf attacks and wolf hunts as a child was those families being exterminated. There are a few families in the village who remember that werewolves exist. They took it upon themselves to remove the problem forever.”
This village has a complicated history.
Dr. Kim’s words float through your mind as you chew on what Namjoon has told you. He lets the information settle, giving you a few moments to think. You don’t recall anyone seriously ever talking about werewolves but…
“They’re angry,” you murmur, remembering how San described the massacre at the Mathesons. “The wolves now - those aren’t wolves. They’re werewolves who are getting revenge. You spoke of revenge with Dr. Kim. Is that why the animal attacks have been happening?”
Namjoon nods grimly. “There is a very small concentration of people in the village who keep the secret about the massacres and the knowledge of werewolves. Those families have been… targeted recently. They still hunt werewolves when they can.”
“Who is Yoongi?”
“Ah,” he lets out a humorless laugh. “He leads the last remaining community of werewolves. His family was murdered by your constable when he was a child.” You blanch. “Yoongi is angry, vengeful, and very influential. When he was voted pack alpha, he decided to eliminate the last remaining threats.”
“He’s the white wolf.” Namjoon raises his brows but nods. You think that makes sense, remembering the white wolf at the Marrow farm and the one who dragged you in the forest. “Why was Seokjin there? Did he lead the constable to-”
Namjoon hesitates and nods. “The Kim family are wolf friends. It’s largely the reason Dr. Kim is a veterinarian. They’re what we call one foot in the forest. There were two others in your village that were wolf friends. Your neighbor was one.”
You twist your fingers in the blanket. “Did Yoongi-”
“No. I believe he was murdered by one of the men who knows what Yoongi and his people are.”
“So that’s why Seokjin led them to Yoongi?” Namjoon gives a curt nod. “This is…. A lot to take in.”
“It is. Sleep a little more and we’ll talk about it more when you wake up. Your head is already swimming enough, yeah?”
Namjoon’s grin is gentle and you shoot one back. “Do you promise to tell me why you’re really here? And why it feels like I know you?”
“Of course. Sleep, Red.”
-
Namjoon wakes you again a few hours later. This time, it’s with water. It’s cool and fresh, soothing your aching head and waking up your sleepy senses. He lets you drain the entire thing, sitting thoughtfully at the end of your bed.
This time, you feel more alert. Sitting up carefully, you cross your legs and examine him. He’s dressed in simple clothes and a jacket, the fireplace throwing an orange glow on his face. Again, you’re struck with how much you could swear you know him, like his eyes are something you know and love.
He waits for you to get settled, placing your hands in your lap. You fiddle with the edge of your tunic, drinking him in. Strong shoulders, rough hands, tawny skin. Your heart does a flip before you shove away thoughts of how pretty he is to think about what he’s told you so far.
“I have questions.”
He smiles and it’s as warm as the fire behind him. “Of course you do.”
“Did the werewolves kill my father?”
You get the tough one out of the way first. It was a thought you had just before you slept, wondering if your father had been someone who helped the constable murder Yoongi’s family. Though you have decided to dislike the white wolf very strongly, you can’t help but pity him.
“No,” Namjoon says vehemently. “After you told me about your father, I did some asking around. He was a wolf friend. That’s why he didn’t hunt big game, Red. He knew about us.”
A tight feeling works its way up your throat. The relief and anger you feel is a double-edged sword, happy that he didn’t contribute to the displacement Namjoon is speaking of and angry that you know with every bone in your body that he was murdered. The instinct speaks to you the same way it tells you that you know Namjoon.
You look up at him sharply, realizing something. “What do you mean ‘he knew about us’? Us?”
Namjoon’s eyes are dark. He regards you intensely, making you shiver. Slowly, Namjoon begins to roll one of his sleeves. Your eyes drop to his hand as he does, long fingers meticulous. He bares his skin and holds his hand out to you, displaying the jagged, white scar that lopes around his wrist.
Without thinking twice, you reach out to him, pulling his hand toward you. His skin is warm, sending a tingle through your fingertips. His palm is large and rough, your fingers delicate as you flip it to face the ceiling, eyes glued to the scarring around his wrist.
You move your fingers over his palm gently, scraping the calluses as you go. He lets you do what you want, touch stopping at his wrist bone before glancing up at him. His eyes are impossibly dark and he nods, urging you forward.
The scarring is rough. Thick, ropey lines encircle his wrist like his hand was ravished by teeth. It makes you faintly think of Yoongi’s teeth around your ankle or -
“You,” you breathe, eyes meeting his. They are the same warm, intelligent, and welcoming eyes of the wolf you’d saved all those years ago. The wolf who had stood between you and the others at the Marrow farm. The wolf you dream about every night. “I saved you?”
His throat bobs. “You did.”
“I… that’s why it feels like I know you.” Your fingers trace his scar, almost fondly. Namjoon’s eyes flutter. “I do know you. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He smirks. “‘Hi, my name is Namjoon and I can turn into a wolf whenever I want and you saved me a few years ago and I’ve been thinking about you ever since’ is not exactly a great opening.”
“Better than ‘you know most people who don’t want to be seen don’t wear a red cloak’.” He scrunches his nose. Cute. “I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s alright. I’ll talk if you’re willing to listen?”
You nod, not letting go of his hand. Now that you know who and what he is, any residual fear is gone. You scoot toward him, wanting to be closer. “I want to know.”
“Giho is my uncle like I said. He’s not a werewolf, though. That trait passed through my mom’s side of the family. Still, he was family and he knew about the werewolves that my father married into. He's a wolf friend and does what he can to help us, including making house calls and stealing us goods in harsh winters.”
“Huh. I always just thought he was a quiet, grumpy vet.”
“He is very much that, but he has also been a lifeline. He helps Yoongi far more than he should. It puts him in danger. His wife was killed for being a wolf friend. Giho was left alone simply because he is useful to the village.” Your fingers squeeze his hand at the hurt in his voice. “That night you found me… I was pretty young then. Fourteen, to be exact. I was nosing around the village that everyone was so afraid of and never saw the trap. I cannot emphasize how much you saved my life.”
“It seemed like the right thing to do. I was afraid but you were… hurt. And your eyes were so kind. I don’t regret it.”
“What a relief.” You smile, genuinely happy. “I was worried you might after finding out my family were sort of… killing people.”
“When you put it that way,” you wince. “But I do believe you. That humans drove you out. That people are hurting you and your people. You don’t deserve it and I… don’t think I am in a position to offer moral arguments to what you’re doing.”
“I knew I liked you.”
“You barely know me.”
Namjoon turns his hand and catches yours, lacing your fingers. Your heart skitters as he pulls you a little close and leans, eyes narrowed playfully. “Hmm, sorry. I wasn’t really allowed to come hang out around your town, Little Red.”
“Why did you finally come? Is it to help Yoongi?”
He shakes his head. “I only have one goal.”
“Which is?”
“To keep you safe.” That quiets you. Namjoon doesn’t meet your eyes when he continues, “You showed me such kindness, I just wanted to repay you. I liked to keep an eye on you when I could, always from a safe distance. You might not know me, but I grew up knowing you.”
Your mouth goes dry at his words. For someone who poses such a threat, Namjoon is gentle. Soft. Kind. You swallow past the lump in your throat. “Did you give me the red cloak?”
“Yeah. It was to mark you as a friend. We give them to those who are under our protection.” He narrows his eyes. “Which is why Yoongi swears he didn’t know it was you in the woods tonight. Seokjin’s eyesight is too piss poor to realize it was you. Idiots.”
“Well if you know about me, tell me about you. What’s your favorite color? What do you like to eat? What's your favorite thing about being a wolf?”
So Namjoon does tell you. You both end up sitting on the bed next to one another, arms touching as he traces the lines on your palm. Your backs are pressed against the wall, feet dangling off the edge of his bed as he tells you about his childhood.
It is fascinating hearing about the dynamics of his community but it’s also sad. Hearing how they live in fear, hearing how so many of the people he knows are gone. Realizing that the things he tells you match up with things you realize about your own community.
Sadness sinks to the bottom of your gut like a rock. It isn’t pity that you feel, but something far more profound. It’s regret that you didn’t know any better. Frustration that he has suffered. A radical feeling of anger and desire for justice knowing you lived in comfort while Namjoon and his family suffered.
There are good parts, too. Namjoon recalls happy moments and blushes when he recalls seeing you a few times. It doesn’t feel weird or strange, knowing someone was looking out for you. It feels comforting, like old friends catching up.
Namjoon’s eyes sparkle as he tells you about his favorite books. You don’t know when you stop listening to him and start staring, but it’s inevitable. You love the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, dimple making an appearance as he recalls a story about putting Yoongi in the dirt with his brother, Taehyung’s help. You love the way he gestures wildly with his hands, every word evocative and enthusiastic.
He’s the kind of person you would have been friends with had he grown up with you. And maybe a little more, you think, watching Namjoon watch you. His gaze is even and heated, making you squirm. His mouth twitches and you’re so sure that he knows he makes you nervous.
“I never thanked you,” you mention. He hums in question, letting you go back to tracing his scare delicately. He twitches and you grin. Good. “For saving me from the jaws of Yoongi.”
“Ah, that. I think he knew it was you. There’s a reason he dragged you instead of killing you on the spot.”
“Huh. Well, that’s very rude.”
“He’s good at that.”
“You sound fond, still.”
He nods. “I love Yoongi. Is my brother, in a way.”
“Well still. Thank you.”
You look up at Namjoon. You’re sitting so close, shoulders pressed against one another. He smells like pine and bergamot, your favorite scent. It’s heady, awakening a foreign ache in you. Your heart speeds up as you lean into him just a little more, watching him through your lashes.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” he rumbles, voice deep.
Your toes curl. “Like what?”
“LIke you wanna do more than just thank me.”
“Maybe I do.”
“I know.”
Ah. You start to pull away and turn your head, realizing that he’s not interested, but Namjoon catches your chin with his other hand, tilting you back toward him. Your heart stalls when he looks down at your mouth, then back up to your eyes. “I’ve known you for all my life. Not how I wanted, but I’ve known you nonetheless. But you haven’t had the chance to know me.”
“I want to. I feel like I have known you. Like I knew you were always there.”
“Is this what you want?”
This. Namjoon. Whatever is crackling between you. The thing that has sparked since the moment he caught you eavesdropping. It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t have to make sense.
Namjoon makes sense though. The way his gaze softens when he sees you. The way he looms on the edge of your life, a silent protector. The way he could do so much damage but is soft instead. The way everything about him feels like the sun on a summer day, like a field of wildflowers in spring.
He must sense you tipping over the edge. His grip on your chin becomes firm and he tilts your face toward him, leaning down to press his warm, full mouth against yours. The effect is instantaneous. You melt into him, sighing as a feeling of belonging slots into place.
The kiss is chaste. Namjoon pulls away and your lashes flutter. You hadn’t even realized your eyes closed. His gaze is dark and half-lidded, his face close enough that you feel his breath. His lips have stoked a fire in you and you want more, you want to spill out the years of longing for something you didn’t know was there, for the sudden confirmation that he’d been there all along.
Surging forward, you press your lips to his again. This time, it’s searing, your mouth fierce as you push up off of the bed. Namjoon falls in your rhythm easily, hand leaving your chin to grab you by the waist and pull you into his lap.
Knees slotted on either side of him, you pour everything you have into the kiss. Your fingers card through his thick hair, silky strands sliding between them like you knew they would. His lips are soft on yours, mouth warm as you break the seal of the kiss with your tongue.
Namjoon lets out deep, throaty sounds. It coaxes the flame inside of you to a roar, tongue tangling with his. It’s wet and messy and a little impractical but you don’t feel embarrassed or nervous. It’s Namjoon. It feels like home.
Pleasure tingles down your spine. Namjoon grips your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. It feels hot and your skin is burning up, static trapped between your chests where they’re pressed together. Your hips twitch, tentatively seeking friction in his lap. Namjoon responds immediately, pulling your hips toward him and letting you roll.
Your mouths part but Namjoon doesn’t stop kissing you. You pant while he presses his mouth to your chin and jawline, tongue tough against the softness of your skin. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he growls. You tilt your head back, letting him pepper your throat. “You have no idea.”
“I always felt like something was missing. I think it was you.”
Namjoon moans at your admission. The heat between your legs is almost painful. One of Namjoon’s hands goes from your waist to between your legs, cupping you. You gasp back bowing as he presses firmly, deft fingers providing mind-numbing pleasure.
“That feels good.” You fist the collar of his shirt and squeeze your eyes. You feel tense, color exploding behind your closed lids. “Don’t stop.”
“Whatever you want,” he whispers. He pulls you in close, fingers curling. Your hips buck and you realize it isn't enough. You need the barrier of clothes gone. You want it more than anything. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
“Yes.”
You do know. It’s second nature. You knew even that day in the street when you’d first seen him. Just like Namjoon knows what you want and need, land leaving the apex of your thighs to help you off his lap and onto the bed under him.
There’s a confidence in his movements that makes the room spin. Long forgotten are the wolf attacks and Yoongi’s teeth around your ankle. Here, it’s only the rasp of your pants against your skin as Namjoon pulls them down. It’s only the heat of his skis as you yank on his tunic, desperate to feel him.
Namjoon does run hot. His skin is burning up as your hands explore his firm chest. He captures your lips again, sucking your bottom lip in his mouth as he spreads your legs open with a knee. You shake under his touch, equal parts eager and stimulated.
He’s so, so gentle as he caresses your inner thigh. When he brings his fingers to your sticky center, you let out a pitiful whine. Namjoon pauses, fingers pressed to your swollen kiss as he laughs and breaks the kiss, forehead pressed against yours.
“Don’t laugh at me,” you pout, leaning your head up to bite his chin. “It feels good.”
He gives you a quick kiss. Once. Twice. “Good. I want to make you feel good.”
Namjoon circles his middle finger lazily around your clit. Your feet press into the bed, hips pulling up off the sheets. It feels amazing, pleasure sparking in your stomach. “That,” you gasp. “I like that.”
He dips his head down, attaching his mouth to your neck as he teases your cunt. You don’t have to say anything else, Namjoon’s inquisitive fingers learning what makes you squirm and sigh. You’re a mess beneath him, chest heavy, beats of sweat making your shirt cling to you.
You claw at it, pulling it away from you. Namjoon leans up and lets you take it off, eyes dipping as he smiles appreciatively. He combines the efforts of his fingers with his mouth, bending low to catch a pert nipple with his teeth.
“Shit!” you squeak, making him chuckle again.
His fingers circle your clenching hole, pussy leaking onto his fingers. He presses a finger in and you let out a long, quiet whine. The feeling of his finger pressing against your walls is perfect, your cunt clenching as he shallowing thrusts the finger.
Everything he does is perfect. He sucks at your nipple hungrily as he fingers you slowly, making sure to press up inside your cunt in a way that has you seeing stars. Your fingers tangle in his hair, unable to think about anything except his teeth scraping your sensitive bud and your pussy clenching around his finger.
Namjoon is attentive. The heel of his hand presses to your clit and he eases another finger in, slower than the last. He looks up at you, mouth slick with spit to watch your mouth fall open. You nod, urging him further, sound stuck in your throat.
The wet squelch between your legs as he fucks you with his fingers is obscene. You like it though, driven by the fact that it’s Namjoon doing it. Namjoon who you saved. Namjoon who watched over you.
You open your eyes and look up at him, cradling his face in your hands. His forehead is damp with sweat from the heat building in the little shack. His skin is flushed and his hair hangs in his face. You pull at his bottom lip with your thumb and he gazes at you, hungry and wild, pupils blown.
Greedy, you pull him to you. The kiss is more teeth than lips, the two of you panting. Your leg hooks around his waist and you nibble his bottom lip, hips rolling to meet his thrusts, an orgasm starting its ascent.
“I want you,” you breathe against his mouth. Your lips are sore from arduous kissing. “Please.”
He kisses you. “Okay.”
It’s that simple. You ask for it and he gives it to you.
Namjoon retracts his fingers from your cunt. You feel the sudden loss, fidgeting as you wait. He makes quick work of his pants, kneeling on the bed and bringing his hands covered in your juice to pump his cock. You feel your eyes bulge at his thick length.
He notices and grins, slowing his movements. You watch as his hand smears precum down his shaft, twisting lightly as he gets to the top, his thumb brushing over his dark tip. “You can take it,” he pants, grinning wolfishly. “I know you can.”
Instead of answering, you nod, lifting your hips eagerly. He hums, pleased as he lets go, cock bobbing heavily while he shuffles over and leans over you. He places his hands on either side of your head, arms flexing as he holds his weight to bend down and steal a quick kiss.
You kiss back feverishly, one hand traveling between your sweaty bodies to grip his length, trying to stroke him the way he did. He sighs, breaking the kiss and dropping his forehead against your chin as a shiver ripples through him. You smile, continuing to pump him.
“Want to be inside,” he mumbles, barely coherent.
You open yourself up more, gently guiding the blunt crown of his cock toward your trembling entrance. You hold your breath as his hips follow your hand, breaching your ring of tight muscles and pushing in.
Immediately your muscles spasm and resist, overwhelmed by Namjoon’s girth. You blow out a long breath as he enters you so, so slowly. It’s heaven and it’s hell, it’s pleasure and it’s pain. Namjoon presses his mouth to you, tongue distracting you as he bottoms out, stuffing you full.
Nothing has ever compared to how stretched you are. He doesn’t move, letting your cunt twitch around him. He holds himself up with one hand, the other brushing up and down your side, squeezing bits of flesh comfortingly as you try to still your beating heart under him.
The pain fades. You get greedy, wiggling your hips back and forth experimentally to feel the way Namjoon’s cock rubs against your walls. He blows out air sharply, a half laugh before his hand drops down to your hip, pushing you down into the bed with his weight as he slides backward.
“Ohhhh,” you sigh, head lolling to the side. The pressure of Namjoon pressing you down as he sets a slow pace of fucking into you is just right. You close your eyes, letting him set a slow pace in silence. “Yeah.”
Namjoon’s breath is unsteady. Every little sound he makes sets you on fire. You’re pliant beneath him as he picks up his speed, properly fucking into you. One of your hands reaches up to grab his bicep, nails digging in, the other shooting to his hand on your hip, squeezing his wrist.
Everything feels right. Connected. Overheated. The air is so thick you think you might suffocate, sheets sticking to your balmy skin, toes curling as Namjoon’s cock hits that spot inside of you that drives you mad.
Nothing but this matters. Nothing but knowing your wolf isn’t really a wolf at all, and that he’s been there all along. Just like you’d hoped.
“Fuck,” Namjoon pants. “I never dreamed I’d have you.”
“I dreamed of you,” you gasp on a particularly hard thrust, your nails dragging down his arm. “I just didn’t know it.”
His mouth crashes to yours. “Mine,” he growls. “My savior, mine to protect.”
Your orgasm spins like an out-of-control spool of thread, winding tighter and tighter. Namjoon can tell, chasing your orgasm with reckless abandon, throwing his gentle movements out the window and fucking you hard into the bed.
The sounds and words coming out of your mouth are useless babble, your thoughts turning murky as that spool tightens so much inside of you that it bursts, unspooling and spilling out of you around Namjoon’s cock.
You can’t even breathe as you come, feet kicking, nails digging into his skin, teeth clenched. Your heart beats in your ears, the only thing you can hear for a few seconds as you spasm, eyes clenched shut. You are vaguely aware of Namjoon coming shortly after you, your name ripping through clenched teeth as he does.
There are a few minutes of nothing punctuated by your stilted breathing and rapid pulse. Finally, you blink, stars swimming in your eyes as you look at Namjoon, who hangs his head on your chest. You reach a hand up and run your fingers through his sweaty hair.
Your wolf. Somehow you’d always known it. Even when you thought you were crazy.
Gently, Namjoon pulls out of you, fluid spilling between your legs. You don’t care, limbs too heavy to move. Your skin is still burning up from exertion and you roll your head to the side to watch Namjoon as he lays next to you, pulling you toward him.
For a little while, it’s quiet. You listen to the beating of his heart, closing your eyes and breathing deeply. You’re content just to lay there feeling whole just for once.
After a while, Namjoon sighs. “You have to go back eventually.”
“We.”
“Hmm?”
“We have to go back.”
Namjoon pulls away and frowns at your tone, eyes reading your face. Your mouth is set in a firm line and you look at him with all seriousness. “We’re not letting them get away with what the humans did to you and your family.”
“You want to help?”
“Yes.” You pause. “I think it’s what my father would have wanted. It’s what I want. Even if Yoongi bit me.”
“Yoongi will never bite you again,” he vows fiercely. Then, a little more gently, “But he… would be glad to hear your sympathetic stance. I’m glad to hear it, Red.”
“Good.” You snuggle closer. “You’re mine to protect too. And I will make them pay.”
For Namjoon. For your father. You’ll paint the village red.
♥︎ featuring: slytherin! sylus x hufflepuff! fem!reader | prompt
— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: oh, how marvelous your school days were—going to class, brewing potions, befriending magical creatures... and getting tormented by that awful (and infuriatingly handsome) slytherin boy! 「you never forget your first love...」
— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: hogwarts au, some angst, brief depictions of bullying, enemies-to-lovers, first love, character development, implied hea
— ༉‧₊ᐟ word count: 9k
— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: harry in winter, neville's waltz, potter waltz (from harry potter and the goblet of fire)
✧ a/n: just a cliche little fic for yall. combining two things i love from the bottom of my heart and turning it into a story of life and first love... i leave this in your hands now, so i hope you love it as much as i do. i’ve included a number of references and easter eggs in this fic—click here for bts! <3
You’ll never forget those glorious days of your youth—Hogwarts really is and will always be your home. The wonderful friends you made, the lifelong lessons you learned, all of it can be traced back to that school, that magical place.
Ah, but you mustn't skip over that part; the story of your very first love. How an arrogant, horrible young boy turned out to be your greatest, most everlasting love. Your only true love.
It all began in third year, the year you discovered your witch-hood and transferred from muggle school. Little did you know, at the time, that a particular white-haired boy from Slytherin house was about to uproot your life…
...
You’ve just been placed in Hufflepuff. The house of the kind, they said. To be completely honest, you’re...excited about your first day of school. You’ve always been an introvert, but there’ll be other introverts around—from each and every house, surely. You won’t have to worry about bumping into boisterous Gryffindors or snobbish Ravenclaws, or even those especially awful Slytherins you’ve heard tales about.
Clutching your textbooks, you round the corner and stop short. Just your luck. A small boy in Hufflepuff robes dangles in midair in front of you, his face streaked with tears. A first-year, perhaps? Cackling in the corner are a group of Slytherin boys who look like they’re having the time of their lives, clutching their bellies as if this is the best thing that’s happened to them all year. You can’t believe it— Such an evil act in broad daylight is...is abhorrent!
Bracing yourself, you take a deep breath and shout, “Put him down at once!” The bullies turn to stare at you, the smiles on their face vanishing for a brief second before returning in full force. Your cheeks flush and you try your best to stop your knees from shaking.
One of the boys recovers from his fit and begins to approach you, a sardonic grin twisting his lips. He’s the tallest of the bunch, with a head of pale white hair that seems to glisten in the sunlight. His eyes are a deep, crimson red, piercing and intense. “Is there a problem?” he drawls, a hidden edge to his otherwise snarky exterior.
“Put him down, now. I won’t ask again.” Though your chin trembles and your hands have gone numb, you stand your ground, refusing to avert your gaze.
His jaw ticks, annoyance written all over his face. “I’m going to remember you, Hufflepuff,” he sneers as he stalks past you and down the neighboring corridor, his shoulder brushing yours as he passes. The boy is abruptly released from the invisible force as the other Slytherins follow their leader into the shadows.
In a moment of shocking clarity, you feel those red eyes glance back at you as you flee the other way.
What a horrible boy, going around scaring people like that! You exhale in relief when they disappear, counting your lucky stars. Still, something tells you this is only the beginning of a terrible—and likely very irritating—string of encounters…
As a result of your rash righteousness, you spent the rest of the year avoiding him—and failing miserably. He seemed to trail you everywhere you went, finding new ways to torment you each week. Every few days or so, he’d either pull a stupid prank on you in front of a million (utterly useless) students or spread some nasty rumor about you that thankfully wasn’t likely to gain much traction.
Most teenagers grew tired of watching the same show over and over again, and soon enough this rivalry of yours became a personal thing. Of course, there was the added effect of him having significantly more friends than you, but that didn’t mean you were unable to defend yourself when it mattered…
…
Why hasn’t anyone been working to find a cure for werewolfism if it’s that deadly? Where’s the urgency—the compassion for those poor werewolves?! You frown at the textbook in front of you, the lack of justice for werewolves muddling your mind.
Something is crawling up the side of your face. “AHH—!” you shriek, swatting the hairy spider away from you. Your vision blurs as your heart pounds so fast you think you might collapse on the spot. You’ve always been deathly afraid of spiders; a fear you’d acquired back when you’d been left on a stranger’s doorstep with nothing but gangly arachnids to keep you company.
“Is something the matter, Miss <y/n>?” The professor appears unamused as he squints at you, mild confusion in his tone.
Pulse stammering, you look down at the floor where the spider should have been...and find nothing. “T-There was a spider, r-right there—” you stammer, a bad, sinking feeling settling deep in your stomach.
You swivel around at the sound of a group of boys giggling uncontrollably, the mirth in their eyes cruel. “There was a spider, she said! Well, where is it? Tell us now so we can kill it!” the purple-haired Rafayel whistles, before proceeding to imitate your piercing scream. The entire class erupts in laughter, and hot tears threaten to spill down your cheeks.
Sitting next to him is his best friend Sylus, a look of pure, spiteful satisfaction on his face. An illusion charm. A blinding rage consumes you, pumping through your veins like lava as you rise, your seat toppling over behind you. The professor can’t stop you. Your deskmate can’t convince you to sit back down. In this moment, you’re invincible. You storm toward the smirking rat so fast that the students you pass flinch away from you like a sea of startled turtles.
Time freezes as you deliver the hardest, most powerful punch you’d ever thought possible, your knuckles bruising from the impact. He’s nearly flung out of his seat, the shock in his eyes tangible. That stupid grin wiped off his perfect face. “What the—”
Your voice, surprisingly steady, cuts him off. “Don’t you ever bother me again. You hear me?! I swear on your bloodline that you will regret it. Leave. Me. Alone.” His friends have gone silent, their mouths hanging agape. The professor is too stunned to speak.
Sylus simply stares at you, a glaring red mark blooming on his cheekbone. His gaze never leaves yours, half-dumbfounded and half-…something else. You sashay out of the classroom, fully aware that your very condemning display just cost Hufflepuff ten points—possibly more. But you couldn’t care less. Today, you stood up for yourself, and it felt amazing.
What felt more amazing, however, was the way his scarlet eyes followed you all the way out the door.
…
On the very last day of school that year, right before summer break, Sylus came up to you in the Great Hall. He was alone, a rare sight considering (you believed, at least) he had an odd fear of being seen by himself.
He sauntered over with ease, a lazy grin playing on his lips. And though you hated to admit it, he truly was gorgeous. All sharp edges and hard lines. Yet there was a boyish sort of charm to him—one he would soon outgrow and trade for a more masculine allure, as you’d come to discover in the years ahead.
You drop your eyes to his hand in his pocket, not wanting to cause a scene on your last day. “What do you want, Sylus…” Exasperation saturates your words.
He appears almost wounded. “Do I have to want something to come and talk to you?”
“Stop playing around. You won’t be seeing me for the next couple months, alright? That’s what you want, isn’t it? Since you seem to dislike me or something…” You gather your books and begin to walk away from him.
“Dislike you? Whoever said that?” He’s as unbothered as ever, sharp canines visible from behind that lopsided smile of his. God, he’s annoying. Why does he have to look like that?
“You’ve spent the past year making my life a living hell!” Sure, life in the castle wouldn’t have been half as interesting without him testing your patience every other day, but you aren’t children anymore.
“Please. Even you have to admit that trick with the spider was a new level of genius, even for me.” Smooth as honey, evil as sin. It isn’t unbelievable in the slightest that he comes from one of the wealthiest pure-blood families in the country.
You huff at his ignorance. A part of you wants him to know just how sore of a spot he’d touched that day. Would it diminish your power act? Maybe. But you want him to feel guilty for what he did. To hurt, if only a little. “I don’t do well with spiders. My parents left me on a stranger’s doorstep when I was a child. It was riddled with them. I’ve been terrified of the creatures ever since.” You say it with confidence, as if it doesn’t bother you in the slightest. What if it doesn’t anymore? Distantly, a part of you wonders if you’re baring your vulnerabilities to him in an act of stupidity. But you’ve also made peace with the fact that this boy’s opinion matters less to you than that of an ant’s.
His lips part ever so slightly at your revelation, and he hesitates. What a foreign display, Sylus hesitating. “I apologize. I was unaware.” He only sounds partially apologetic. Forty percent, at best. But you don’t have time for his antics right now. He can miss the train, for all you care—you’re getting on that carriage if it’s the last damn thing you do.
“Okay. Bye.” You scurry past him as that tiny smirk returns to his face, so quickly it’s as if it had been begging to be set free.
“Don’t miss me too much, Hufflepuff,” he calls from behind you, a lightheartedness in his tone that has you questioning things.
Naturally, you roll your eyes instead of dealing with those things, and your third year ends there; with you running to board the Hogwarts Express, and Sylus left watching you leave, just as he had a million times before.
Your fourth year was as irritating as you’d expected. However much Sylus had bothered you the year before couldn’t compare to the endless teasing and dreadful clinging you had to deal with this time—for instead of pulling pranks on you, he’d started to talk to you.
He trailed you in hallways and whispered to you in classrooms, asking you stupid questions like, “Do you think I should start charging a fee every time I catch you staring at me?” and “I believe there’s a ball of lint somewhere on my robe. Care to remove it for me?”
God, he was a pesky one. Your interactions with him lacked hostility, but were somehow more difficult to deal with. How on earth were you supposed to respond to those questions? What is he trying to achieve here? It all puzzled you to no end. You tried your best to ignore him, but he was like a bad omen stuck to your clothes—permanent and a pain in your ass.
It goes without saying that he wasn’t above making fun of you from time to time. Him and his Slytherin buddies loved a good joke, but it was…different, that year. While his goal last semester had been to humiliate you, now it seemed he was merely after a reaction—any kind at all.
You’ll always remember that small corner of the library; books piled high on your desk, tears streaming down your face, and that insolent white-haired boy finding you at the worst possible time…
…
Again. You failed your Transfiguration test again. You just can’t seem to get it right! How embarrassing to be sitting here bawling my eyes out while all the other students are feasting away on their stupid treacle tarts and cauldron cakes and—
Someone’s coming towards you. You wipe your eyes on your sleeves and hastily sit up in your chair, suddenly acutely aware of how much of a mess you are right now.
Inquisitive red eyes meet yours. “Oh. It’s you,” you say between sniffles, the repulsion in your voice clear as day.
He grabs the chair beside you, spins it around, and plops down, resting his arms across the back like he owns the place. Your tears don’t seem to faze him, nor do they earn you any form of tact. “Looks like Hufflepuff here is missing out on the festivities. Displeased to see me, Myrtle?”
You know he meant it jokingly, but it stings more than it should. Do I really look like Moaning Myrtle right now? “Do I really look like Moaning Myrtle right now?”
He chokes out a laugh before reeling it in, pretending to be mindful of your current state. “A little. What’s wrong? Run-in with a spider, perchance?”
“Not funny, Sylus. I failed Transfiguration, okay? Now leave me alone… I don’t need to hear your weak attempts at rubbing it in…” You don’t know why you chose to be honest with him. The words just rolled off your tongue before you could stop yourself.
“If it makes you feel any better, I failed too.” You stare at him, surprised. Such sensitivity feels strange coming from the likes of him.
“Really?”
“No.” He laughs so hard he’s driven to tears, and though every inch of you wants to be mad, you end up fighting a smile of your own. This boy and his stupid, contagious laugh.
Maybe you feel a little better. It’s impossible to tell—all you want to do right now is smack him on the shoulder. So you do, lightly.
His laughter fades and your sniffles slow to a halt, the sound of your heartbeat filling your ears. Suspend your disbelief, and this almost feels like a comfortable moment between…friends.
Friends? No, that doesn’t seem right. He still pisses you off to no end.
Noticing the awkward silence, he jolts back into annoying mode and coos, “Gullible as ever, Hufflepuff. Good to know that’s a constant.”
It rubs you the wrong way. Instantly, your mood is soured and you no longer want to sit here and play-fight with him. “Great. I’m so glad to hear I’ll always be the same old, gullible me. Always the one getting taken advantage of, right, Sylus?” No response. “I hope you got what you came here for.”
He’s no longer laughing. “That’s not what I—” You don’t hear his feeble protests. You’re already rushing out of the booth.
You know you’re overreacting, but something about him makes it so hard to react...normally. Don’t turn around, you tell yourself. Because even though you can’t see him, you know he’s tracking your every movement.
Fifth year was a tumultuous whirlwind of mess, feelings and blurred lines. You were to sit for your O.W.L.s that year, and you were hell-bent on besting Sylus this time around. How you loathed the way he always managed to achieve top scores while barely paying attention in class. It wasn’t fair.
However, most students seemed far more concerned with another event set to take place on school grounds: the Triwizard Tournament…
…
The tournament has been nothing short of exhilarating. You have to admit, despite your insistence on focusing on your studies this year, you too have been swept up in the heat of competition. Everywhere you go, excitement buzzes in the air, the entire school in silent support of their champion.
Caleb Xia—the charming Gryffindor boy whose name had been chosen by the Goblet of Fire—happens to be one of Hogwarts’ most popular students, and you find yourself rooting for him, too. He’s easy on the eyes and a menace on the Quidditch pitch—a deadly combination.
He’s looked at you once, from across the main courtyard, and you’d blushed so hard your friends teased you for days.
The first task concluded a week ago, with Caleb emerging victorious. Everyone went positively out of their minds, plastering his handsome face on every wall and cheering wherever he went. You cheered too, naturally, though you’d never really expected him to notice a wallflower like you.
You were wrong.
Caleb Xia began to say hello to you. You. It started with simple waves from a few feet away and eventually progressed to him coming up to you and asking what you were up to after class. It still baffles you, the fact that a high-flyer like him would be romantically interested in you, but it feels…nice, to be noticed in that way. He’s sweet, polite, and genuinely compassionate—all traits you hold in the highest regard.
It goes without saying that Sylus has been observing you and your new suitor. He’s mellowed down a little since last year, but a dark presence still trails him like a cloak, the intensity in his gaze grounding.
“How’s loverboy?” he hums, low and calculating.
You bumped into him at The Three Broomsticks and decided to sit down for a drink. Butterbeer, of course. Sylus and his underage drinking have nothing to do with you. “We’re just friends.” It’s the truth—for now, at least.
“Right. And you’re the Triwizard champion.” He takes a slow sip of beer from his cup. Amusement plays at his lips, but his words carry a blade barely sheathed. “I saw you making goo-goo eyes at him earlier.”
“Happy to hear you’re looking out for me,” you chirp in response.
He rolls his eyes, a not-quite-smile tugging at his lips. “Please. As if you’d ever get yourself into any kind of situation.”
A primary gear in you shifts, dangerously, and you feel a sudden urge to do something rash. To prove him wrong. You snatch his mug and chug the remnants of the beer, gulping it down as it drips past your chin.
He raises his eyebrows, mildly amused and probably a little concerned. You've got that lightweight quality to you, and it doesn’t take an expert to notice. “I’m impressed, Hufflepuff. Now, can you hold it?”
Your face grows warm as you struggle to think of a coherent response. I’m not drunk I’m not drunk I’m not drunk— “D’uh…” Damn it, you’re drunk. Buzzed, maybe? You don’t know the difference. Whatever it is, you’re sober enough to make out his next words.
“One pint. You humor me, you know.”
Your mind clears a little—it was only beer, after all. “I told you, I’m not drunk. You’re getting on my nerves now. Bye.”
He puts a hand on your elbow, steadying you as you hop off the barstool. “Not so fast, Puff. You’re tipsy. Let me take you back to the castle.”
You swat his arm away. “Stop pretending to care! It won’t work on me! Oh, look, she’s here—” Your friend walks into the tavern and spots you, in your wobbly state, making your way toward the door. She sighs and grabs you by the waist, steering you in the right direction.
“To the castle!” you shout, throwing one last glare at Sylus.
He sits in silence, your cup of butterbeer in hand, watching you leave.
…
Utter chaos.
The Yule Ball is fast approaching, and the student body couldn't be more ready for a night of dancing and fancy dresses. The air hums with electricity, alive with the prospect of flirting and courtship and mysterious suitors—none of which you had much interest in before, but…things change. Hope fills you at the thought of him asking you to the ball, a feeling you welcome with open arms.
Caleb Xia is a dream come true. And the best part? He’s interested in you. So interested he goes out of his way to sit next to you in the Great Hall, offering you his potatoes after you’ve finished yours.
So why hasn’t he asked you yet? The ball is taking place in two days.
Surprisingly, Sylus doesn’t have a date yet either. It doesn't make any sense—everyone practically throws themselves at him every chance they get. How is he having trouble finding a dance partner? To think he had the nerve to comment on your dire lack of a date when he clearly isn’t any better off…
“Still no date, Hufflepuff? Huh. That’s unexpected.” He said it sarcastically (as usual), which ticked you off.
“I could say the same about you, prick. Relieved to know your fanclub has finally come to its senses.”
He sneered at you then, but was there something else he wanted to say to you at the time? Now that you’re thinking about it, he did linger a little more than usual that day…
Whatever. Who cares what Sylus had to say? Besides, there’s still a chance Caleb might ask you to the ball. Patience, patience…
Speak of the angel.
Caleb walks up to you, drenched in sweat after what you can only assume was an intense Quidditch practice. “Sorry I’m late. I have something to ask you.”
Your heart leaps. You dreamed of this moment. Literally. “What is it?”
“Will you be my date to the ball? I know this is short notice, but I think we’ll have a great time together.” A shy smile. Earnest, sincere eyes. How could anyone possibly decline such an invitation?
“I think we will!”
…
Snowflakes glisten like crystals midair, winking at you playfully as you make your way down the grand staircase. They’ve really outdone themselves with the festive decorations—pearly white snow covers the ground, and powdered Christmas trees stand around every corner.
And of course, you’re dressed for the occasion. You picked out a gorgeous off-shoulder gown just yesterday, the dark red fabric cascading around you in majestic waves bound to draw plenty of second glances. Your bosom is tightly secured by an off-shoulder lace corset, and your pointed heels are just an inch too high.
You feel beautiful.
Caleb waits at the foot of the staircase, his mouth slightly agape in awe of your appearance. Standing further behind him, in the shadows, is none other than your nemesis, You-Know-Who. His gaze rakes over you as you glide down the stone steps, dark and dreadful.
You take Caleb’s outstretched hand, and he smirks at the scene before him.
Take that, Sylus. I’m here with a Triwizard champion. Who are you with? Oh, no one? What a shame…
Your inflated thoughts are brutally popped by the sight of a stunning young woman in pastel blue looping her arm through his. It doesn’t take you long to identify her—you’ve been watching her all year, in the crowd. The Beauxbatons champion. The Beauxbatons champion is Sylus’ date.
It’s like the wind has been knocked out of your lungs. “Are you…alright?” Caleb sounds concerned.
"I’m fine. Just a little hard to breathe in this corset," you reply casually, with a hint of humor.
The rest of the night involves a lot of dancing, during which you cast hesitant glances in Sylus’ direction. Really?! The Beauxbatons champion?! She’s ethereal! And so out of his league! They look like the perfect couple, gracefully waltzing to the music while getting lost in each other’s eyes…
It sickens you.
The crowd dies down towards the end of the night, most students trading their cheering and elaborate waltzes for slow dancing and mocktails. Caleb went to the washroom and hasn’t returned since. So here you are, sipping your glass in silence with no one to socialize with.
You turn your head at the sound of footsteps and are greeted by a crisp, very expensive-looking set of robes. He’s dressed head to toe in jet black, silver embroidery decorating his cuffs and collar with meticulous detail. Devastatingly handsome, deathly irritating. You roll your eyes.
“Lost your date?” Though his voice drips with honey, for the first time ever, he doesn’t look so disgustingly pleased with himself.
You decide to humor him. “Lost yours?”
“It seems my dance partner has fled to the toilet with yours.” He says it with disdain, as if the word “toilet” insults his dignity.
An unexpected anger rises to the surface then—and it has nothing to do with Caleb. You realize you couldn’t care less if he were making out with another girl or stealing a Mandrake from the Herbology greenhouses.
You’re furious at Sylus for trying to make you feel less than. What exactly did he hope to achieve by feeding you this information? Did he get some kind of sick kick out of your reaction?
No, that’s not it… You’re missing something. There’s a gaping hole in your emotions, one you can’t explain. It’s like he’s complicating things. Muddying them. The words fly out of your mouth in a failed attempt to untangle your mess of feelings.
“Stop. Whatever you’re doing, it isn’t working on me.”
He crinkles his brows, taken aback. “What are you talking about?” There’s no more sarcasm. No more mockery.
“This. You’re trying to-to trick me or deceive me or—play with my—” You pause, frustrated by your inability to put your feelings into words. “It’s not going to work. You can’t use this against me.”
A shadow passes over Sylus’ face, and—for a split second—he looks like one of those Death Eaters you learned about last year. He curls his lip into a sneer. “All you had to do was ask.”
You’re stunned into silence. What on earth does that mean? “Huh?”
He seems even more offended by your ignorance. “Don’t pretend. I waited until yesterday to ask her, and she said yes. It’s not my fault.”
Understanding clicks, and it does nothing to tame your indignation. You don’t want to address it—not even in your head. You’d rather shove it down deep and ignore it for all eternity. A whole minute passes before you decide that this is too much to deal with tonight.
“You’re an asshole. I never want to speak to you again.”
You turn around and make a run for the exit, nearly tripping over the elaborate skirt of your dress in the process. Suddenly, it’s as if your corset is squeezing the life out of your lungs.
Your heart feels almost as heavy as his gaze on your back, weighing you down with every desperate step you take. Hot tears sting the corners of your eyes, but you’re determined not to let them fall.
Everything is a mess right now. Your night has been effectively ruined, and you still can’t quite figure out why your body feels like a ticking time bomb and your pride has shattered into a million pieces.
But just like how no one’s discovered a cure for werewolfism, it isn’t that simple.
Soon after, your fifth year came to an end. You aced your O.W.L.s and celebrated Caleb Xia’s victory—toward whom you held no ill will, truly. It turned out he’d been in love with the Beauxbatons champion all along and was only trying to make her jealous at the ball. Maybe you should’ve felt vexed at being blindsided, but you mostly felt…indifferent. All power to him.
You figured this was the innocent kind of infatuation they talked about—the kind you quickly forgot once bigger things came along.
As for Sylus… You avoided him for the rest of the year, neither of you making any attempt to reach out after that night. Part of you felt a little embarrassed by your harshness, but another part insisted he deserved it. How dare he complain about not being asked, when he could’ve asked you himself?
Regardless, none of that mattered anymore—your sixth year was about to begin…
…
“Alright, class. Today, you’ll be learning about Amortentia. Can anyone tell me what Amortentia is?”
Someone answers, “It’s the most powerful love potion in the world, Professor. A single drop can stir a powerful obsession with the maker, and it’s said to smell like the things a person desires most.”
You stare at the swirling potion on the professor’s desk, its enchanting white sheen inviting. The first thought that occurs to you is how dangerous this potion could be in the wrong hands. Love is the strongest force in the world—and the evil this concoction could unleash is unspeakable.
“As part of today’s lesson, you’ll each be making a vial of Amortentia. However, I must caution you all that the use of any amount of this potion on other students is strictly prohibited. Take this as a learning experience and a learning experience alone.”
After setting up your cauldron and gathering the required ingredients, it’s time to get to work. You hear Rafayel whisper something to Sylus somewhere behind you and try your best to drown out their conversation.
You and Sylus haven’t exactly been on speaking terms lately. Ever since the ball, it’s as if he’s been avoiding you just as much as you’ve been avoiding him. I don’t care. It’s not like I want him anywhere near me anyway.
"The potion bubbles and glows in the cauldron before you, and it’s as if you can feel its magic brewing beneath your fingertips. All at once, you’re hit with a wave of potent aromas and heady emotion.
Freshly-picked flowers. The pages of old books. Warm loaves of bread…
A final scent hits you then, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s strong. Pleasant. Familiar—too familiar.
You spin around to see Sylus at the back of the classroom, silently cracking up at something Rafayel said. They both look positively unhinged.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
…
The Potions professor asked you to speak with him after class, so you ended up being the last student to transfer your potion into a vial. By then, the transparent vials had run out, and an opaque one had to be fished out of the storage room for you. A small matter.
Now, you’re running to the edge of the forest for your next class: Care of Magical Creatures. You’ve always rather enjoyed this class; animals have always been drawn to you—and you to them.
“This is a hippogriff.” The professor gestures toward a feathered, winged beast, though it isn’t quite a bird. It caws softly at its introduction. “You were supposed to meet this fellow in your third year. However, with the old professor going missing and turning up dead and all—” You wince at the memory of Professor Beans’ death.
As she goes on about the origins of the hippogriff, you reach into your bag for a sip of water—and realize your tiny vial of Amortentia has vanished. No. No no no—
A movement in the corner of your eye catches your attention. It’s Sylus, in his haphazard Slytherin robes, taking a sip from your opaque potion vial. The very same one—
Oh no.
“Now, are there any volunteers?”
You startle at the question, every inch of you tensing in panic. Far too soon. Everything is happening all at once—
“No volunteers? Alright then. Miss <y/n>, Sylus, come up to the front.”
Oh no.
Slowly, you inch toward the hippogriff, unsure whether to be more wary of it or the fidgeting boy beside you. You glance at him suspiciously, anticipating any…strange behavior. His expression is unreadable, but you get the distinct feeling he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“With my help, you’re both going to mount him. You should be back in no time.”
You still. “What?”
No time is wasted. She guides you to the creature’s side and helps you onto its back. Its feathers bristle slightly at the added weight, but it generally responds warmly to your presence. The same can’t be said for Sylus. It resists his touch, crying out once or twice as if distrustful of him. Sylus flinches in kind. Is he…scared?
It’s an amusing thought—but his chest brushing against your back abruptly pulls your thoughts back to his ingestion of your love potion, and once again, your pulse picks up speed. You have no idea what to think, what to feel— Does he hate you? Is he thinking unsavory thoughts at this very moment? Will the effects of the potion last forever—
“Hold tight, Hufflepuff,” he whispers in your ear—and the world disappears beneath you.
Cool wind breezes through your hair as you soar over the forest grounds, large wings flapping on either side of you and a grounding warmth around your waist.
It’s magical. You wish you could bottle this moment and save it for your darkest days.
You’ve never seen sights quite like this: the sprawling castle with its many towers, winding pathways leading to Hogsmeade, huts and fires set up for travelers far below. Breathtaking.
“Wait, why isn’t he going back down?!” you shout over the roaring in your ears. It’s been about ten minutes, and the hippogriff shows no sign of returning to class.
“I don’t know! Look, he’s headed for the mountain pass—” Sylus yells back, pointing towards the giant row of mountains south of Hogwarts.
He lands smoothly, a gust of wind kicking up the loose dirt at the cliff’s edge. You slide off his back with a “thud”, and he nuzzles his beak against your hand. Sylus is practically thrown off and poked at disdainfully, to which he scoffs, glaring daggers at the winged beast.
It makes you laugh, and he turns to look at you—really look at you—for the first time in months.
“This isn’t quite how I’d expected to spend my evening, but here we are.”
“It’s beautiful,” you sigh, gazing out at the shimmering lake below. The sky is awash in hues of orange, pink, and gold, bathing you both in an almost ethereal light. Sunset.
His eyes are on you as he says, “It’s…alright.”
Together, you move to sit at the cliff’s edge, your feet dangling over. The silence is comfortable, peaceful. He isn’t acting strange, so the Amortentia must not have affected him—thank god.
You feel the sudden urge to say something.
“Why haven’t you—” “I’ve been wanting to—” you both start at the same time. Ugh. So much for “not awkward”.
He recovers first. “Wait.” A faint note of desperation laces his otherwise steady voice. “I have no interest in playing any more of these games.” His steely gaze is locked on yours, intense and sincere.
“What games? You’re the one who’s been avoiding me all year.”
He squints. “I assumed you hated me.”
A ball of guilt lodges itself between your ribs, cold and selfish. To this day, his formal way of speaking still endears him to you. “…I don’t hate you.”
He doesn’t respond right away, just stares at you like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve—a puzzle he’s desperate to unravel, so achingly it might kill him if he can’t. “I wanted to ask you. To the ball.”
It stings. “I figured.”
“He had a habit of getting in the way,” he chuckles wryly, that familiar darkness flickering across his face. “Did you love him?”
You shake your head without pausing to think. “Nope. Never did.” You feel lighter. This genuine conversation with him is…nice. “What about you? You ever like her?”
He shakes his head. “I had my reasons for asking, and she had her reasons for saying yes.” You can’t explain the rush of relief that floods you then.
Minutes pass as you talk about dreams, family, and the past—learning things about each other you never thought to ask. You lose yourself in his company, a fragile, delicate thread pulling you closer, twisting your lips into a smile. You learn about his desire to become an Auror, his complicated relationship with his pure-blooded parents, and his particular fondness for sweet treats. You tell him about your experience in foster homes—both good and bad—and what it was like discovering you were a witch.
The exchange is light, yet a tinge of regret punctuates your mood. You’re halfway through your sixth year. If only you’d gotten to know him sooner…
“What, disappointed you never got to date me, Hufflepuff?” He sees right through you, and the mood shifts. Static electricity crackles in the space between your bodies, and that bittersweet feeling somehow intensifies. You roll your eyes at him, fighting a smile.
No. Your stomach drops, the fuzzy bliss fading from your head. The love potion.
“What’s wrong?”
You’re a horrible person. You have to come clean. “The vial you drank from earlier—it was mine. You drank my love potion and now you’re in love with me but it isn’t real so you have to snap out of it, okay? God, I’m so sorry—”
You would’ve kept rambling if it weren’t for the fit of laughter he suddenly bursts into. He’s clutching his belly, wheezing as tears form in the corners of his eyes.
“What’s…so funny?”
“That wasn’t your love potion. How would I even have gotten my hands on it? Use that brain of yours, silly.”
Okay, now you’re really lost. “Huh? I swear I couldn’t find it…” You dig around in your satchel and gasp when your fingers close around a familiar vial—opaque and very much there. “Oh my god.”
He grins that snarky, boyish grin at you, and your stomach flips.
Your cheeks flush pink as you half-heartedly jab at his arm, the most flustered you’ve ever been in your life. As usual, your first instinct is to lash out at him. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?! I thought I was taking advantage of you! I thought I was being a complete idiot!”
Sylus simply stares at you, a dreamy, enraptured look on his slightly rosy face. He looks positively bewitched. “I like it when you yell at me.”
You stutter, at a loss for words. How…infuriating! You huff at him defiantly, but your heart feels full and warm.
Something still pokes at your conscience. “Wait… We have the exact same vial. If you didn’t drink Amortentia earlier, what did you drink?”
He beams at you impishly. Victoriously.
“Liquid Luck.”
…
You stand by the open doors of the Hogwarts Express on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, bidding your friends goodbye and wishing them a happy summer holiday.
A tall, lean figure appears behind you. “Leaving so soon?”
Your face warms at his voice, and you try your best to hide it—though something tells you you can’t hide from him, not anymore. “My family’s waiting outside. We’re travelling this summer.”
He nods, a hint of disappointment crossing his features. “Will you write back?” Knowing him, he tries to act nonchalant, but you hear the subtle fear in his voice.
“I will,” you say, and you mean it. “I’ve really got to go… Bye.” You smile sweetly at him and wave, and he returns the gesture. See you next semester, Sylus.
You turn to leave for King’s Cross, your sixth year at Hogwarts now behind you.
Summer came and went, a dizzying rush of new beginnings and many, many letters. You kept your word, writing back almost instantly each time a new package arrived in the mail, your fingertips tracing the cursive letters that spelled out your name. His script. His scent.
You felt close to him, even though you were away for most of the holiday. So many times, you wished you could be near him. He told you about his new kitten and his strange difficulty casting a Patronus charm. You replied with a few possible solutions, but he’d struggled to think of many happy memories growing up—Something to work on later, you made a mental note.
Subconsciously, you counted down the days until you could see him again. Of course, there were your N.E.W.T.s to focus on—you placed great importance on pursuing your dream career as a magizoologist—but spending your final year at Hogwarts with Sylus felt like a dream in itself. One you desperately didn’t want to end…
…
“Never thought to visit Hogsmeade at this hour.” Your breath fogs as you take in your surroundings.
The village is quiet—fast asleep. A few windows still flicker with candlelight, but not a soul stirs on the streets. The streetlamps cast a soft, hazy glow, their light barely cutting through the mist, shadows dancing along your profile.
It’s enchanting, strolling with Sylus like this. Just the two of you tonight.
His plush Slytherin scarf sits snug around his neck. “Naturally. Ever the follower of rules,” he teases. You punch him in the arm and he sniggers.
It’s still surreal to you, the fact that you’re going out with Sylus, of all people. Your mind flashes back to the days he used to tug on your robes and laugh at your walk, the pesky little scoundrel who went out of his way to make your life miserable. Somewhere along the way, that boy grew up, and now you spend most of your time exchanging flirtatious glances and wishing he would just hold your hand.
As if reading your mind (again) he slips his hand from his pocket and wraps it around yours. It’s large in comparison, warm. Your skin prickles with nerves—the delicious kind—and an uncontrollable urge to kiss him compels you.
You stop in your tracks, and he does too. A single snowflake lands on his lashes. You reach up with your free hand to brush it away. Rising onto your tiptoes, you lean in, and he doesn’t pull away…
“STUDENTS SNEAKING OUT! THERE’S STUDENTS IN THE VILLAGE!” someone howls, and you’re startled away from him.
A devastating smile curls his mouth, and for a second, your need to kiss him senseless only multiplies. He tightens his grip around your hand. “Run?”
You nod and race off into the night with him, laughter bubbling up your throat.
…
For eight whole months, you and Sylus were inseparable. You studied together, went to parties together, snuck into the forest together… You even supported him at his Quidditch games, biting your lip as your eyes searched for the white-haired Beater in the opponent’s robes.
For eight whole months, you were completely, and perfectly, and incandescently happy.
But good things, as you’d soon come to learn, were never meant to last forever.
…
Your N.E.W.T.s went well, and now all that remains is to make a strong impression on the Ministry officials visiting the school this week. If you're lucky, you'll be earmarked as a potential hire in the Beast Division—and finally, you'll have reason to celebrate a successful final year.
It’s a grand affair, with students and Ministry employees swarming the place. Pleasantries are exchanged, hands shaken, introductions made, and though your capacity for socializing is wearing thin, the noble art of “networking” must be seen through.
The head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, a stern-looking elderly woman, approaches you, having heard of your active involvement in the conservation of magical beasts. Oh my god, I can’t believe this is actually happening— A wave of anxious nausea threatens to seize you, but then you glance across the room. Sylus catches your eye and winks. Reassuring. Confident in your abilities.
You take a deep breath and introduce yourself. After that, everything flows naturally. You talk about your passions, your journey, and what led you to fall in love with magizoology. She listens—captivated—and your confidence builds with each word. By the end of it, you're left with a glowing sense of pride. I deserve this.
"I have to say, Miss <y/n>, I’m impressed by your knowledge of the subject and your conviction to expand the realm of magical research. It’s rare for someone your age to show such unwavering compassion, and I must applaud that to the highest degree.” Her voice is frail, yet her gaze is ironclad. “I’d like to offer you a rare opportunity: an internship at the Beast Division, where you’ll be working directly under me.”
The smile that stretches across your face is so wide it hurts. It’s as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, the sun’s rays warm against your back. Years of determination have led up to this. I can’t wait to tell him.
After profusely thanking the lady for her generous offer, you reconvene with Sylus outside the hall. From the way you’re beaming like a psychopath, it’s not hard to tell things went well.
He smirks at your squealing, pride glinting in the crimson pools of his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you you had it in the bag?”
Bursting with untapped glee, you wrap your arms around his middle and pull him into a suffocatingly tight embrace. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He places a hand on your head as he returns your squeeze, his breaths coming out short and uneven.
Oops. You almost forgot to ask how it went for him. “And…you?”
He hesitates for a second, a shadow of doubt passing over his face. “…It’s hardly anything to celebrate. Don’t worry about me. I want to hear everything about your interview with the beast lady.” A small smile touches his lips, but it’s false—you can tell right away.
“Hey! You’re evading my question. How did it go? You know you can tell me.”
Sylus shrugs, as if what he’s about to say holds little importance, though it couldn’t be further from the truth. “I’ve been offered a spot as a Junior Auror. It’s no big deal.”
Your mouth falls open. “Sylus, this is amazing. It takes years to become an Auror, and they’ve just handed it to you—! They must know how brilliant you are at Defence Against the Dark Arts. You have to accept it immediately—”
“MACUSA. Junior Auror at MACUSA,” he interrupts, staring at the ground.
MACUSA? America? The realization dawns, and you nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Oh.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “It’s no matter. I don’t plan on leaving, so it doesn’t concern me.”
“Why not? Sylus, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
He shifts uncomfortably. “I’m perfectly capable of working my way up here. The British Ministry needs Aurors. I’ll do just fine taking the regular route.”
The unspoken truth hangs in the air, but you understand it immediately. He doesn’t want to leave you. He’s willing to pass up a lightning-strike chance just to stay by your side.
No. You won’t allow it.
…
Your last week of school was the worst week of your life.
You tried to act distant, as if you had no interest in spending time with him, when in truth, all you really wanted was to nuzzle up next to him and tell him how sorry you were. Sorry you had to put up this act for his own good. Sorry for disrespecting his decisions.
Sorry for loving him so much that you couldn’t bear to watch him sacrifice his dreams for you.
You hadn’t told him you loved him—not yet. And now you never will.
It tears you apart each time you brush him off, leaving him looking wounded and confused. You feel like a villain, when all you’re trying to do is give him the one thing you possibly can.
So here you are, brisk walking in the rain towards the Hogwarts Express. The train doors should be closing any minute now.
A MACUSA carriage had been sent to the castle to escort students of interest to New York. You need him to get on that carriage.
You need him away from the train.
“Wait—” he calls from behind you. He’s caught up to you. Shit. The harsh pitter-patter of raindrops fills your ears, cold rainwater drenching you, soaking you to the bone. “Tell me what’s going on.”
The quaver in his voice is like a stab to your gut. You spin around so violently he flinches.
Everyone else has boarded—you’re the only students left. Bracing yourself, you bite out the most painful words you’ve ever had to say. “Stop bothering me! Haven’t you taken the hint?!”
The hurt in his eyes is palpable. Somewhere, deep inside, he refuses to believe you’d toss him aside like this. There has to be another reason—something he hasn’t accounted for, a past grievance he never addressed— “I’m sorry for tormenting you when we were children,” he says quietly.
He’s desperate, lost.
“This has nothing to do with that!” you spit, bitterness coating your tongue. “I. Don’t. Want. To be with you. You’re holding me back.”
A flash of unresolved rage fills him then, bursting to the surface like his head’s been held underwater. “Is that all this was, then? Just—some kind of distraction?”
You nod, hoping it stings.
And, oh god, it stings. It hurts. It hurts so much you want to crumple up and disappear. Sylus, the boy who’s always waited for you, always stayed behind and silently looked after you while you conquered your battles and chased after your dreams. Sylus, who never asked for anything in return.
Your Sylus. Devastated beyond repair because of you.
You glance up at him, and his anger is gone. Just like that. Like he can no longer bear to be mad at you.
Like you’re on borrowed time, and all he can do now is beg.
“Please don’t do this…” he whispers, taking half a step closer. “I love you.”
Your entire world crumbles. Tears well in your eyes, and you tilt your head up to keep them from falling; because if they do, you don’t think they’ll ever stop. You imagine running to him, closing the distance, kissing him then and there—his hands on your waist, yours in his hair—as if you were the only two people on earth.
Telling him you love him too.
But some dreams just aren’t meant to come true.
So you turn your back to him. “I don’t love you.”
It’s such a blatant lie you fear he might see right through it.
But you don’t give him the chance. You step onto the train just as the doors hiss shut, eyes fixed on your feet. If you looked back... You might not survive it.
I’m sorry, Sylus. I’m so, so sorry…
You watch, blurry-eyed, as the castle shrinks in the window, bidding your time at Hogwarts—and a very special boy—farewell.
Ten years later…
…
Applications: check. Research paper: check. Sampling session with Tabitha… Need to reschedule that one.
You tap your quill against the table as you try to sort out your schedule, possibly your most daunting task as Head of the Beast Division. It’s been rather busy at the Ministry lately, with reports of magical creatures running wild and escaping into the Muggle world.
Not to mention that creepy coworker of yours who won’t take no for an answer.
Everything’s piling up, and you’re in desperate need of someone to share it all with.
It’s moments like these when your mind flits back to your school years. How you long to return to Hogwarts one day—perhaps as a professor, or maybe even as a tourist. There are so many places you’d love to revisit: Hogsmeade village, the Great Hall, the Hufflepuff common room... Every nook and cranny of that place brims with memories you’ll hold dear forever.
Then, of course, there’s your first love—the boy with the startling snowy hair and striking scarlet eyes.
Your heart pangs, a small piece of you breaking all over again. You wonder how he’s doing now. Is he still in New York? Does he have a partner? Kids?
Great, now your mood’s soured all over again.
Though love is like this—no matter how selfish it makes you feel, no matter how scorned, you wish nothing but the best for them. From the bottom of your barely beating heart.
Your coworker bursts through the door, a glass of champagne in one hand and a half-eaten cauldron cake in the other. "Sorry to interrupt— There’s a party downstairs to welcome the newest members of the Ministry. Care to join us, or…?”
“Yeah, I’ll be down in a second.”
…
Your heels click sharply against the polished floors as you weave through the crowd, eyeing the dessert trays while trying not to knock anyone over.
The headquarters of the Ministry is a sprawling place, all moody colors and serious faces. Maybe you should go on that expedition in Brazil after all.
A hand touches your elbow, and you turn to see your coworker smiling almost psychotically at you. “Miss <y/n>, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Again with the sucking up. You’re fed up with it. How important could this person possibly be that they needed to be greeted with a shiny smile crafted just for them? How entitled—
Tall, built, handsome. A sharp glint in his ruby eyes, matching the equally sharp angles of his features.
A head of pale white hair that seems to glisten in the sunlight.
You freeze, not sure what to think, what to say—a million questions swarming your head— How many years has it been? Why is he here? Does he even remember me?
The past decade of hurt and regret and longing crashes into you, all at once. I can’t breathe.
“Hi,” you blurt out, self-conscious and fidgety.
He stares at you with those bright, intense eyes, a familiar feeling you can’t quite pinpoint written all over his face. “Hey.”
The crowd fades to dust, and suddenly, it’s like you’re standing face to face on the platform all over again. “How are you?”
“Good. You?” He’s still the same boy you remember from your childhood. Yet…he’s changed. He’s grown, matured—just as you have.
“I have so much to say to you,” you breathe, thick, raw emotion rising in your throat, choking you. “So much to explain.”
He shakes his head, smiling softly. “You don’t have to. I’m not an idiot, however much you think me one. And by the way, I finally managed to conjure a Patronus, in case you were wondering.”
A laugh escapes your lips despite yourself, and for the first time in a decade, you let your tears slip.
He’s here. He’s the same, but different. He’s working for the Ministry.
He’s here.
And though you’re both young, and stupid, and very well may always be, there’s one thing you know for certain:
SYNOPSIS: y/n y/l/n stuggles being a twin, her sister is sorted into hufflepuff while she's sorted into Slytherin. There it is revealled that she's just like her father after all. A father that was never mentioned let alone told that her parents met at Hogwarts. Y/n and her twin sister were raised in London, hidden in the muggle world because of you know who terrorising the wizarding world. Y/n soon discovers with his son that there was more reason for her being hidden
| PREVIOUS CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER |
Defense Against the Dark Arts came far too soon.
Y/N and Pansy walked hand-in-hand down the corridor, the morning chill clinging to their robes as students filtered toward class.
They slipped into the classroom together, where the Slytherin boys had already claimed their corner.
Theo lounged across a desk, Enzo was unsuccessfully trying to transfigure his quill into a snake, and Draco was pelting Bertie Bott’s Beans at Mattheo, who lazily dodged them with exaggerated flair.
“Ooh, the power couple arrives,” Theo grinned when he spotted Y/N and Pansy holding hands.
“We’ll sign autographs after class,” Pansy quipped smoothly.
“Exclusive to Slytherin house,” Y/N added, dropping into her seat beside her.
Mattheo propped his boots on the desk in front of him. “I knew you two were plotting world domination.”
“We’ve already started,” Pansy said sweetly. “Step one: turn all you idiots into our fan club.”
But from across the room, Y/N felt the weight of a stare.
Tom Riddle sat in the back, straight-backed and composed, next to Mattheo. He wasn’t talking. Just watching. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered too long on Y/N to pretend he wasn’t listening.
Pansy followed her gaze and muttered under her breath, “If he stares any harder, he’ll set your hair on fire.”
“Don’t tempt him,” Y/N whispered back.
Theo, now emboldened by the energy in the room, leaned over toward Mattheo and mumbled something that sounded vaguely French.
Mattheo blinked. “Did you just ask if I was your grandmother?”
Y/N snorted. “You meant ami, not mamie, Theo.”
“Oh, come on,” Theo groaned, clearly embarrassed.
Draco, without looking up from his parchment, corrected the pronunciation with perfect crispness. “You’re all embarrassing.”
“Merci, maman,” Pansy said sweetly, earning a dramatic sigh from Draco.
Theo and Enzo soon devolved into an argument over a chocolate frog card. Draco retaliated by poking Mattheo with his wand, whispering nonsense spells just to be a nuisance.
But Mattheo wasn’t reacting anymore.
He’d stilled.
So had Tom.
The shift was subtle, but Y/N noticed. Their attention snapped away from the chaos around them the moment Professor Quirrell entered the room.
The nervous man shuffled in, arms full of scrolls, muttering to himself between coughs. His long, bulky turban sat awkwardly askew atop his head, as if it had been twisted on in a rush.
The faint smell of moldy parchment clung to his robes.
Mattheo’s posture tensed. His gaze fixed on Quirrell like a hawk locking onto prey.
Tom didn’t look away either. His jaw was rigid. His knuckles white against the desk.
It wasn’t just dislike.
It was something else. Something colder. Darker.
Y/N frowned, tracking the invisible current pulsing between the brothers and their professor. She leaned closer to Pansy. “They’re acting like they want to kill him.”
Pansy followed her gaze, blinked. “Mattheo always looks like that when he's annoyed.”
“Yeah, but Tom doesn’t.” Y/N turned toward the back of the room again, eyes narrowing. “He looks like he’s trying to hex him silently through sheer force of will.”
Neither Tom nor Mattheo spoke.
But after a beat, Mattheo turned slightly toward Y/N with a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “What, don’t like our very charming professor?”
Y/N didn’t return the smile. “You look like you’re trying to murder him with your brain.”
Mattheo leaned back in his chair and gave a careless flick of his wand beneath the desk just a spark, nothing real.
Theo noticed and laughed. “You’re going to get us all detention.”
Mattheo shrugged. “What a shame.”
The rest of the Slytherins took it as a joke.
But Y/N didn’t laugh.
She glanced at Tom, who hadn’t looked away from Quirrell once. And then to Mattheo, whose wand was still loosely gripped in his hand, fingers curled a little too tightly.
Her gaze slid to Quirrell, to that awful scarf he always wore. Oversized. Bulky. Out of place, even in the chill of the castle.
Something about it itched at the back of her mind.
She leaned in, voice low, sharp with curiosity. “He’s not just annoying you.”
Tom didn’t answer at first. His eyes tracked every twitch of Quirrell’s nervous movements.
Finally, he muttered, “No.”
That was it.
No explanation. No elaboration.
Y/N didn’t push. But unease began to snake its way through her chest.
What she didn’t know what no one in that classroom besides the Riddle brothers knew was that Lord Voldemort was not dead.
He was hidden.
Wrapped in cloth and cowardice, clinging to life beneath the folds of Quirrell’s ridiculous scarf like a parasite. Feeble, disembodied, and dependent on a man too weak to teach a proper jinx.
Tom loathed it.
Their father once the most feared wizard in the world reduced to a whisper hiding in the back of a stammering man’s head. The sight of Quirrell stumbling over spells and losing control of his own class made Tom burn with shame and fury.
Mattheo felt it too. But he masked it better with smirks and jokes and mock curses he didn’t actually cast.
But he wanted to.
Desperately.
Across the room, Quirrell fumbled with a piece of chalk and dropped it. He stooped to pick it up, his scarf slipping just slightly. Tom’s fingers twitched toward his wand. Mattheo exhaled, too slow and too sharp.
Another flick of Mattheo’s wand beneath the desk. Another pretend curse.
More laughter from the Slytherins.
But Y/N didn’t laugh.
Because now she was watching more closely.
And something wasn’t right.
Something was very, very wrong.
And whatever it was, it wasn’t just a joke to Tom and Mattheo.
And if Professor Quirrell had any sense left in him, he’d be afraid.
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