Hi! I'm Katie (she/her)! I'm a 21 y/o Asian American multi-fandom fanfic writer, and I've written under the pen name Soiea since 2017. Thanks for being here :)
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Summary: A letter that should not exist forces Y/N to decide whether to destroy the world that raised her from inside it.
Warnings: War themes, Angst
Word Count: 5.8k
. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ :.
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The wards recognized them before the house did. Gold light rippled through the iron gates as six magical signatures crossed the boundary—ancient magic stirring, measuring them, naming them. Bloodlines older than the manor itself were acknowledged and allowed passage without question.
That used to comfort her.
Tonight, it made her skin crawl.
The gates did not open.
They yielded.
With a low, reluctant groan that vibrated through the iron and up into her bones, like something being forced to bow.
Only then did the silence break.
It didn’t fall.
It fractured.
Mattheo tore his mask from his face the second they crossed the threshold and hurled it across the marble. It cracked on impact, skidding across the floor like something dead. Enzo followed, ripping his gloves off as if the leather burned, breath heavy, uneven. Blaise removed his more slowly, controlled as ever, but his shoulders were rigid, knuckles white. Theo’s jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek, his eyes moving constantly, not in caution in restraint.
Draco said nothing. He hadn’t spoken since the meeting ended.
Y/N was the last inside.
She turned back once.
For half a breath, the memory of the chamber pressed against her mind: torchlight on stone, the sickening warmth of too many bodies packed together, the way some of them had laughed. The way others had knelt.
The way blood status had been spoken like law.
She sealed the doors.
Three spells.
One in a language her family no longer spoke aloud.
The manor answered.
Pressure shifted. Candles flared violently to life. Shadows recoiled. And somewhere deep within the walls, ancient magic rearranged itself to protect what it had been taught to protect.
And that, she realized, was the problem.
Only then did the Dark Marks burn.
Not together.
Not clean.
One after another, like something being passed through them. Like the manor was cleaning their sins from within.
Mattheo hissed, crushing his forearm in his grip as if he could tear the thing out. Blaise’s breath stuttered before he forced it steady. Enzo braced against a pillar, eyes shut, jaw tight. Theo inhaled slowly through his nose, control layered over something much closer to panic.
Draco didn’t move.
He lifted his arm and watched the black symbol writhe beneath his skin. As if it were alive. As if it were displeased.
They had stood feet from him tonight.
From the throne.
From the serpent.
She had watched a man beg.
She had watched another thank him.
She had been taught that this was power. That this was order. That this was the natural way of things.
She had felt none of that.
She crossed the ballroom, wand already in her hand. “Cloaks. Now.”
They obeyed immediately.
Dark fabric struck the long table. Masks followed. Rings, cuffs, enchanted chains—objects designed to impress, to intimidate, to erase the human beneath them.
Each one locked into the waiting chest.
A ritual.
A necessary one.
A lie, sometimes.
The ballroom had long ago stopped pretending to be a place for music. A single table dominated the center, layered in maps, coded lists, vials of potions, objects, none of them ever named. The walls still bore the ghosts of old runes scraped away and rewritten into something sharper.
A war room pretending to be a drawing room.
Theo broke the silence. “He’s tightening the circle.”
“He’s enjoying it,” Enzo said quietly. “You could hear it.”
Blaise exhaled. “He always does when he thinks he’s close.”
“Close to what?” Mattheo snapped.
No one answered. Because Y/N knew they were all thinking of the same thing. The way the room smelled like copper. The way purity was spoken, as if it excused everything.
Y/N moved to the sideboard, opening a hidden compartment. Her fingers shook as she withdrew a vial. She crossed to Draco. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s on your collar.” He let her tilt his chin. The cut was shallow. Precise. A reminder. Not meant to kill. Meant to teach.
Her jaw tightened as she sealed it with a whispered spell. The skin closed.
The message did not.
Theo’s eyes never left the door. “We were followed.”
The air went still.
“Not in the usual way,” he added. “Not Dark magic. Not surveillance.”
Y/N felt it again, that wrongness she had sensed the moment she crossed the grounds. “The west wards were tested while we were gone.”
Mattheo’s mouth curled. “By him?”
“No.” She shook her head. “By something that didn’t try to break them.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” Blaise murmured.
Before anyone could respond, the fire changed. It didn’t flare. It folded. Red collapsed into a cold, unnatural blue.
The wards surged violently, gold lines racing across the ceiling, the windows, the doors—magic scrambling, remembering old lessons about invasion and blood and threat. Every wand was in hand before the envelope slid free of the hearth and landed on the marble.
Untouched.
Unburned.
Wrong.
“That,” Enzo said quietly, “did not come from our side.”
All the boys stepped in front of her without thinking.
Theo scanned the room. “No breach.”
“Nothing crosses these wards without blood or permission,” Y/N whispered. She stepped around them anyway. The closer she drew, the heavier the air became, like approaching something aware.
She knelt. The envelope was warm. Not Dark. Not clean. Old. Alive with a kind of magic she hadn’t felt since this war began.
“I know this,” she said softly.
Mattheo frowned. “From where?”
She didn’t answer.
Because she wasn’t sure if she meant the magic or the feeling.
She turned it over.
No seal.
No crest.
No name.
Only the whisper of a protection charm woven so delicately it felt like intent.
Blaise swallowed. “That’s not a summons.”
“No,” Y/N agreed. Her thumb brushed the edge. “It’s a reach.”
Silence fell. Five Dark Marks. Six people shaped like shadows. One letter that had found them anyway.
Draco’s voice was low. “From who?”
Y/N stared at the parchment. At the impossible fact that someone outside their world knew where to find them.
And for the first time since she had been raised on blood and hierarchy and destiny, since she had been taught she was higher, cleaner, chosen, she felt something in her fracture.
Because standing in that circle tonight, she had not felt superior.
She had felt small.
And looking at them now at the tension in Theo’s shoulders, the hollow under Enzo’s eyes, the way Blaise would not look at his own arm, the way Draco still hadn’t lowered his. She knew she was not alone. They still wore the masks. But doubt had begun to live in them.
Even if none of them dared say it.
For the first time since she had been allowed into Voldemort’s inner circle, since she had been trusted with secrets that got people buried, she felt fear that had nothing to do with him.
“Someone,” she said quietly, “who knows exactly what we are.”
And she no longer knew whether that was a threat or a chance.
.
.
.
The Astronomy Tower was not empty when Y/N arrived.
It only felt like it.
Wind tore across the open stone, sharp and cold, carrying the bitter remnants of smoke and magic. Below, Hogwarts burned with scattered light—professors moving like shadows, voices drifting upward, the distant echo of orders being given, of students being herded back inside.
Of a world trying desperately to hold itself together.
Y/N stopped just inside the archway.
Hermione Granger stood at the edge of the tower, both hands on the stone, curls whipping violently around her face. She was perfectly still.
Not crying.
Not shaking.
Holding herself together by force.
For a moment, Y/N only watched her.
Then Hermione spoke.
“You’re supposed to be gone.”
Y/N stilled.
Hermione turned slowly.
Her wand was already in her hand.
And then it was pointed directly at Y/N’s chest.
“You were supposed to be long gone,” Hermione said again, voice sharp, trembling with something dangerously close to fury. “Snape killed him. The Death Eaters are everywhere. Your group was being pulled out—everyone knows that. They’re supposed to be at your manor by now.” Her grip tightened. “So why are you here?”
The wind surged between them.
Y/N didn’t move. “Lower it,” she said quietly.
Hermione didn’t.
“You shouldn’t still be in this castle,” Hermione continued. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near this tower. You were with them. I saw you. I watched you leave.”
“I came back.”
“Why?” Hermione demanded. “To make sure he was dead?”
The words struck harder than any curse.
Y/N’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“Then what?” Hermione snapped. “To watch the rest of us fall apart? To pretend this night didn’t go exactly the way your side wanted it to?”
“My side didn’t want this.”
Hermione laughed—a broken, disbelieving sound. “Your friends were cheering.”
“Some were.”
“And you stayed.”
“Yes.”
The wand didn’t lower.
Y/N took one careful step forward.
Hermione’s spell hand twitched.
“Don’t,” Hermione warned.
“If I wanted to hurt you,” Y/N said softly, “you wouldn’t be standing.”
Hermione’s eyes burned. “You don’t get to say that.”
“I do,” Y/N replied. “Because I came here alone.”
That gave Hermione pause.
Just for a second.
“Why?” Hermione demanded.
Y/N exhaled slowly. “There are objects. Objects that are tied to him.”
Hermione’s voice was tight. “You don’t get to speak in riddles after what happened here.”
“You’re going to leave,” Y/N said quietly. “You, Potter, and Weasley. You’re going to abandon this place. You’re going to look for the things that keep him alive.”
Silence exploded between them.
Hermione stared at her. “Who told you that?”
“No one.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It isn’t.”
Hermione’s wand shook slightly. “How would you even know something like that?”
Y/N looked past her, toward the dark sky. “Because I stand close enough to hear what he forgets to hide.”
Hermione swallowed. Then anger surged back, hotter. “You expect me to believe someone who walks into Death Eater meetings comes back out with secrets for us?”
“I’m not giving them to you.”
“Then why are you here?”
Y/N met her gaze fully.
“Because you are not going to survive this alone.”
Hermione laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “And you think you’re the answer?”
“No,” Y/N said. “I think we’re the mistake that might be useful. We can help.”
Hermione’s eyes hardened. “You’re closest friends with Mattheo Riddle. His son. His own blood.” The name cracked through the night. “Everyone knows they follow you,” Hermione continued. “Malfoy. Zabini. Nott. Berkshire. All of them. They would tear the world apart if you asked.”
Y/N didn’t deny it.
“So how,” Hermione demanded, “do you expect me to believe that Voldemort’s son is going to help us?”
Emotion finally slipped through Y/N’s control. “He doesn’t follow me because of who his father is,” she said. “He follows me because I’m the one thing he chose for himself.”
“That doesn’t make him safe!”
“No,” Y/N agreed. “It makes him dangerous in a different way.”
Hermione’s voice broke. “You’re asking me to risk Harry’s life on the devotion of a boy raised by a monster.”
“I’m asking you to remember this conversation,” Y/N said. “So that when everything collapses, you’ll remember there was a night I stood in front of you and didn’t lie.”
Hermione’s wand wavered. “You and your friends have made our lives hell,” she said. “You’ve humiliated us. You’ve stood on the wrong side every single year.”
“I know.”
“And now you want me to believe you’re not on it.”
“I am on it,” Y/N said quietly.
Hermione stilled.
“I just don’t belong to it.”
The wind howled around them.
“When the time comes,” Y/N said, voice low, “you won’t be able to go to the teachers. You won’t be able to go to the Ministry. And you won’t be able to go to people who wear their loyalties openly.”
Hermione whispered, “You think we’d come to you.”
“I think you’ll have nowhere else.”
Silence.
Then Hermione’s gaze dropped to Y/N’s bare forearm. “You don’t even bear the Mark,” she said. “Why would they follow you into hell?”
Y/N didn’t hesitate. “Because they already live there,” she said. “And I’m the only thing they won’t leave behind.”
Hermione’s breath hitched. “They love you,” Hermione said. Not softly. Not kindly. Like it frightened her.
“Yes.”
“And you think that makes them capable of betraying him.”
“I think it makes them capable of betraying everything.”
The words trembled between them.
“If you’re wrong,” Hermione said, “they will kill you.”
“Yes.”
“And if you’re lying—”
“Then don’t come.” Y/N stepped back. “I’m not your ally,” she said quietly. “And I’m not your enemy.”
Hermione’s wand lowered an inch. “You terrify me,” Hermione whispered.
Y/N met her eyes. “Good.” She turned and walked toward the stairs. Behind her, Hermione Granger stood on the Astronomy Tower, shaking, staring at the place where a future no longer felt clean.
.
.
.
The parchment trembled. Not from the fire.
From her hand.
Y/N stared down at the envelope like it had grown teeth. The ballroom felt smaller than it had moments ago. The chandeliers flickered. The wards hummed low and uneasily, as if the house itself sensed what she was holding.
Someone who knows exactly what they are.
Hermione’s voice from years ago echoed where the wind had been.
“Y/N.” Draco’s voice cut in sharply.
She hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing.
All of them were watching her now. Mattheo stood rigid near the table, dark eyes fixed on the letter like it might detonate. Theo hadn’t moved from the door. Enzo’s hand hovered near his wand. Blaise’s expression was carved into something carefully empty.
“Open it,” Mattheo said.
Draco’s gaze snapped to him. “Or don’t.”
Theo’s voice was quieter. “Either way, we need to know what crossed her wards.”
Y/N swallowed. The parchment was warm. Not Dark. Not harmless. Old. Protective. Intelligent.
Her thumb slid beneath the flap. The wards surged. Gold light raced across the walls, the ceiling, the arched windows. The fire roared once, then dropped into a low, unnatural blue.
The moment the seal broke, magic bled into the air.
Not violent.
Urgent.
A single line of ink flared briefly across the parchment, as if the letter itself were making sure it had been received.
If you are reading this, we are already gone. I don’t know if this will reach you. I don’t know if it should. But I remembered a night you probably thought I’d try to forget. You told me there would come a day when we would have no one else to ask. That day is here. Lightning Bolt and Red are with me. We are leaving tonight. If we fail, this letter never existed. We are looking for what keeps him alive. You said you stand where he forgets to whisper. I don’t know what you are. I don’t know who your friends truly serve. And I don’t trust you. But I trust that you didn’t lie to me. If you meant what you said—if they will follow you where you go—then I am asking you to decide what that means. We need access to places we cannot enter. We need objects moved that cannot be traced. We need eyes in rooms that would kill us on sight. I don’t expect you to answer. I don’t expect you to help. I am only giving you the chance you said would come. If you burn this, I will understand. If you answer it... Then I will know you chose.
— HG
Silence crashed down around them. The chandeliers flickered once. Mattheo was the first to speak. “She’s insane.”
Theo exhaled slowly. “She’s desperate.”
Blaise’s gaze lifted to Y/N. “She knows exactly what we are.”
Enzo said nothing.
Draco stepped closer. “Look at me.”
Y/N did. He searched her face, pale eyes cutting, trying to read something she hadn’t shown anyone in years. “She’s asking us to betray him.”
Y/N closed her fingers around the parchment. “She’s asking if we already have.”
The words settled like a blade between them.
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far beyond the wards. Inside, six people stood in a room built on bloodlines and secrets, holding a letter that could get them all killed. And for the first time since they had been allowed into Voldemort’s inner circle, the choice they had pretended not to make finally had a name.
Silence didn’t hold.
It split.
“This is a mistake.”
Mattheo’s voice was low, but it carried through the ballroom like something dropped and shattered across stone.
The chandeliers trembled faintly above them, reacting to the subtle spike of magic in the air. The wards hummed, restless. Outside the tall arched windows, storm clouds dragged slowly across the sky, distant thunder muttering like something half-awake.
Y/N lifted her eyes to him. “A mistake?” she repeated.
Mattheo took a step forward. The movement was sharp. Uncontrolled.
“Yes,” he said. “A catastrophic one.”
Enzo shifted uneasily near the table, fingers flexing. Blaise’s jaw tightened, his gaze cutting from Mattheo to Y/N like he was bracing for impact. Theo straightened slightly by the door, tension threading visibly through his shoulders. Draco’s pale eyes flicked to Mattheo, warning already burning there.
“She’s asking us to dig our own graves,” Mattheo continued, gesturing sharply toward the letter still clenched in Y/N’s hand. “And you’re all standing here like she didn’t just hand us the shovel.”
“She’s asking if we already have,” Y/N said quietly.
Mattheo laughed under his breath. It wasn’t humor. It wasn’t disbelief. It was contempt edged with something that hurt. “That’s not bravery,” he said. “That’s romantic stupidity.”
Draco moved instantly. “Watch your mouth.”
Mattheo didn’t even look at him. “When it’s you,” he said, eyes locked on Y/N, “everything becomes a fantasy. A story where blood doesn’t matter. Where monsters suddenly grow hearts.”
Y/N’s fingers tightened around the parchment. The wards pulsed once, faint gold lines skimming the ceiling like a warning.
“That isn’t what this is.”
“It always is with you.”
The words landed harder than a shout.
“You stand there,” he went on, “talking about choice like it isn’t a luxury bought with other people’s bodies.”
Theo spoke carefully, trying to slow it. “Mattheo—”
“Don’t.” Mattheo took another step closer. “You don’t get to make this clean.”
Her shoulders drew back instinctively, spine straightening like armor sliding into place.
“You think this is about sides?” he said. “This is about blood. And blood doesn’t forgive.”
“You don’t worship it either,” she said.
Something in his face hardened.
“Easy for you.”
The air felt colder.
“Easy for you to say,” Mattheo continued, quieter now, sharper. “You don’t wake up wearing his face. You don’t feel his name crawl under your skin every time someone looks at you.”
Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t.
“You don’t walk into rooms already sentenced,” he said. “You don’t live your life as evidence.”
Draco took a step forward without thinking. Enzo caught his arm.
“And yet you stand there,” Mattheo said, “talking about freedom like you didn’t build this place just to keep us breathing.”
Her breath stuttered.
“You don’t bleed when he calls,” he went on. “You don’t shake when he smiles. You don’t sit across from him wondering whether he’ll kill you faster for failing him… or for loving you.”
Theo said his name sharply. Mattheo didn’t stop. “You don’t even bear the Mark,” he said. “You get to play savior because you don’t pay for it.”
Y/N felt it then—the first real fracture.
A tightness in her chest. A heat behind her eyes. She forced her jaw to stay steady. Forced her voice not to shake. “Then tell me what you need.”
Something ugly flickered across his face. “I need you to stop pretending this is anything but you trying to make us something we’re not.”
She took a step closer. Brave. Stupid. Honest. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
His laugh was hollow. Broken at the edges. “You don’t want us alive,” he said. “You want us innocent.” The word struck like glass. “And we’re not.”
He moved again. “You want me to betray him?” he said. “Fine. Say it. Say you want me to carve myself open for people who would spit if they knew where I stood.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“It is,” he snapped. “Because the only reason this even exists—” He gestured sharply between them and the letter. “—is you.”
Her breath caught.
“You are the reason we hesitate,” Mattheo said. “You are the reason we look back. You are the reason we imagine worlds where this doesn’t end with our heads on spikes.”
Theo’s voice broke. “Stop.”
Mattheo didn’t. “You want the truth?” he asked her quietly. The ballroom felt like it leaned in. “You don’t make us better.”
Her composure slipped. Just barely. A sharp inhale, she couldn’t stop.
“You make us weak.”
Her throat burned. Something wet gathered in her eyes. She blinked hard.
Once.
Twice.
Willed it away.
“You make us forget what we are,” he continued. “And that is the most dangerous thing you could ever do to people like us.”
Her vision blurred anyway. She swallowed. Lifted her chin. Tried to hold it.
“And if this ends with us dead,” he finished, voice low, brutal, “it won’t be because of him.”
Her lips parted. Nothing came out.
“It will be because we loved you.”
The words didn’t hit like a blow. They collapsed into her. Her control—years of it, layers of it, all the steel and silence and strategy—gave way. A broken sound slipped out of her before she could stop it. A sharp, shaking breath.
Then another.
Tears spilled, hot and humiliating, blurring the chandeliers into gold smears of light. She pressed her lips together, hard, like she could trap it inside. Like she could force it back down.
It didn’t work. She let out a cry before she could stop it.
Draco swore viciously.
Theo stepped forward. “Y/N—”
She shook her head once, violently. “Don’t,” she whispered.
Her hands trembled. She dropped them to her sides because she couldn’t trust them not to give her away. Her chest hitched again, breath coming in fractured, uneven gasps. She tried to breathe through it.
Tried to swallow it.
Tried to be who she always was.
But the tears kept coming.
Soundless.
Relentless.
For the first time in years, they saw it.
Not calculation.
Not command.
Not the girl who walked into rooms full of monsters without flinching.
Just her.
Breaking.
She turned abruptly, before any of them could say her name again, before anyone could touch her, before anyone could see it get worse.
And she walked out.
The doors parted instantly, the manor responding to her distress like a living thing. She fled into the corridor, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking, breath tearing out of her chest as if she could outrun what she was feeling.
“Y/N!” Theo called.
She didn’t stop.
Theo was after her immediately, boots striking hard against the marble as the ballroom doors slammed shut behind him.
Inside the manor, no one moved. Draco stood rigid, fury and helplessness warring across his face. Enzo stared at the floor, jaw clenched. Blaise’s expression had gone pale, controlled emptiness cracking at the edges.
Mattheo remained where he was, staring at the space she had occupied. The echo of her cries still in the air. The first real horror of what he had done settled heavily in his chest. Because for the first time in their lives, the only girl they had ever loved had walked away from them in tears.
.
.
.
She didn’t know how she got there. Only that at some point marble became stone, corridors narrowed, and the air changed.
Colder. Damp with earth and frost.
The winter garden lay hidden in the oldest wing of the manor, where the ceilings arched high and glass replaced stone, where dead noble vines clung to iron trellises and pale moonlight spilled across cracked tile. Enchanted snow drifted lazily through the air, never melting, never thickening, caught forever in the moment before settling.
Y/N stumbled inside and the doors whispered shut behind her. The sound of the ballroom vanished. The sound of the world vanished. What remained was the quiet.
And her.
She made it only a few steps before her knees hit the cold stone and the rest of her followed, collapsing beside a withered rosebush that hadn’t bloomed in decades. Her hands came up to her face too late. A broken sound tore out of her chest before she could stop it, raw and sharp, the kind of sound she had never allowed herself to make.
She pressed her forehead to the floor.
And shattered.
Her shoulders shook violently. Breath came in jagged pulls that hurt. Tears soaked into the sleeve of her robes, then the stone beneath her. She curled inward, one arm wrapped around her stomach like she could hold herself together by force.
It wouldn’t stay.
Images from the meeting rose unbidden.
A man on his knees begging for his life. Bellatrix's laughter echoing the room. A woman thanking him after he branded her with the Dark Mark. The word pure spoken like absolution.
Her mother’s voice when she was a child: We are not like them. Those half-bloods and mudbloods are dirty, lower. We are superior. The only ones who can wield true power.
The Dark Mark burning into skin.
Mattheo’s voice in the ballroom. You make us forget what we are.
Her chest convulsed. “What are we?” she choked aloud into the empty garden. “What are we supposed to be?”
The question echoed faintly against glass and iron.
She dragged in a breath that broke halfway through.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered, fists twisting in her robes. “I don’t believe it anymore. I don’t feel higher. I don’t feel chosen. I don’t feel clean. I feel—” her voice cracked, “—I feel like something rotten learned how to speak.”
She pressed her mouth into her sleeve, trying to muffle the sound.
It didn’t work.
She cried harder.
She cried until her ribs ached, until her throat burned, until the cold seeped through her clothes and into her skin and she welcomed it because at least it was simple.
She didn’t hear the doors open.
Didn’t hear the hurried footsteps on stone.
Only the change in the air.
“Y/N.” Theo’s voice was hoarse. Breathless. Close.
She flinched violently, curling tighter, one hand flying up as if she could shield herself from being seen like this. “Don’t,” she gasped. “Theo, don’t—please—”
He stopped instantly.
Didn’t touch her.
Didn’t crowd her.
Just stood there, a few paces away, chest rising and falling hard, eyes taking her in like he was afraid she might vanish if he blinked.
The winter garden was washed in silver-blue light, catching in his dark hair, carving shadows into his face. He looked wrong here. Too real. Too human.
“I’m here,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to make you get up. I’m not going to make you talk.”
Her hands trembled where they were pressed to her face.
She shook her head, tears spilling through her fingers.
“I can’t—” She dragged in a breath that broke. “I can’t be what he said. I can’t be the thing that kills you.”
Theo took a slow step closer.
Then another. He lowered himself to the cold stone a short distance away, not touching, not cornering, simply there. His cloak brushed the edge of her sleeve.
She could see his boots. The frost was gathering on the hem of his trousers.
“I saw your face in that room tonight,” he said quietly. “When he was speaking.” She swallowed hard. “You weren’t listening to him,” Theo continued. “You were watching the people.”
Her breath hitched.
“The ones who were kneeling,” he said. “The ones who were laughing. The ones who looked… empty.”
Her shoulders shook.
“I don’t think you questioned this tonight,” Theo said. “I think tonight was just the first time you let yourself hear it.”
She shook her head weakly.
“What if Mattheo's right?” she whispered. “What if he’s right and I’m killing you by letting you care?”
Theo answered without hesitation. “If loving you makes us weak,” he said quietly, firmly, “then we're the weakest men in the world.”
She lifted her head slightly, making eye contact with him.
“Because we've never loved anything.”
The words settled into the cold air between them. Something in her face broke open. She let out a sound that was half a sob, half a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding for years.
“I don’t think we’re higher,” she whispered. “I think we were just… raised somewhere louder. Somewhere that told us the same lie until it sounded like truth.”
Theo was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “I count exits when he speaks.”
She looked at him. Her vision blurred, but she saw his jaw tighten.
“I memorize faces,” he went on. “I watch who doesn’t cheer. I watch who does. I watch who looks like they’re trying to convince themselves.” He swallowed. “I don’t believe it either anymore.”
The words landed between them, fragile and enormous.
Her chest caved. “What if all I’m doing is dragging you toward something you can’t survive?” she whispered.
Theo shifted closer without thinking. Not enough to trap her. Enough that she could feel the warmth of him through the cold.
“Then let it be our choice,” he said. “Not the Dark Lord's. Or Mattheo's..”
Her breath fractured. “I don’t want this world,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be what it made us.”
Theo hesitated only a second before reaching out.
Slowly.
Giving her time to pull away.
When she didn’t, he draped his cloak around her shoulders, wrapping it gently, like he was afraid she might shatter under his hands.
“You don’t belong to what you were taught,” he said quietly. “You never did. That’s why this hurts.”
Her face crumpled. She leaned forward before she could stop herself, forehead pressing into his shoulder, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt like it was the only solid thing left.
And she cried.
Not silently.
Not carefully.
Theo’s arms came around her, firm and protective, one hand braced at her back, the other cradling her head, anchoring her as her sobs tore through her.
The enchanted snow drifted lazily around them. The dead roses listened. And for the first time since she had been taught what she was, Y/N let herself be something else.
Just a girl.
Breaking.
.
.
.
The ballroom felt wrong without her.
Too large.
Too quiet.
The chandeliers burned steadily overhead, their light too warm for what had just happened beneath them. The wards had settled back into their low hum. The hearth’s blue glow painted the marble in a sickly color.
Nothing had changed.
And yet the space she had occupied felt hollowed out of the room.
Draco stood exactly where she had left him. Rigid. Hands clenched. Jaw set so tight it hurt. Enzo hadn’t moved from near the table. He stared down at the floor like it might open. Blaise leaned against one of the carved pillars, arms folded, expression controlled—but tension threaded every line of him.
Mattheo still stood near the center of the room. Staring at the place she had been. At the echo she had left behind.
Theo’s footsteps were barely gone when Draco moved. He crossed the room in three strides and shoved Mattheo back.
Hard.
Mattheo staggered, boots scraping marble. The sound cracked through the quiet.
“What is wrong with you?” Draco snapped. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Mattheo looked up slowly. His eyes were dark. Bright with something close to pain. “You don’t get to touch me like you’re righteous,” he said hoarsely.
Draco shoved him again. “You don’t get to talk to her like that and then stand there like you didn’t just break something.”
“She’s already breaking,” Mattheo shot back. “And so are you. All of you.”
“That doesn’t make it yours to finish.”
Enzo stepped forward instinctively. “Draco—”
“Don’t,” Draco said without looking away. “Not this time.”
“No,” Draco said. “But pretending he didn’t just do what he swore he never would isn’t helping either.”
Mattheo’s mouth twisted. “You think I don’t know what I did?”
“Then why?” Draco demanded. “Why would you say that to her?”
Mattheo dragged a hand down his face. “Because she’s questioning everything,” he said. “Not just him. Not just the Mark. Everything. Blood. Purity. What we were raised to believe we are.”
The words rang differently in the room.
“She stood in that meeting and didn’t look proud,” he continued. “She looked sick. And now Granger sends her a letter into this house like a hand reaching into a grave—”
Draco’s eyes sharpened. “Don’t.”
“That letter means death if my father ever finds out,” Mattheo snapped. “Death for her. For us. Slow or fast, public or quiet—it doesn’t matter.”
Silence pressed in.
“She is not talking about resisting him,” Mattheo went on. “She’s talking about undoing the foundations. The very thing they drilled into us since we could speak.”
His voice roughened. “She is questioning blood itself.”
Draco stepped closer. “Good.”
Mattheo stared at him, taken aback. “That is not good,” he said. “That is extinction.”
Blaise exhaled slowly. “Mattheo—”
“No,” Mattheo cut in. “You all heard her tonight. You see it in her. She’s not standing in that circle the way she used to. And if she stops believing what we were raised to believe, she doesn’t just become a threat to him.” He laughed bitterly. “She becomes a mistake.”
Enzo’s jaw clenched. “She becomes honest.”
“She becomes dead,” Mattheo shot back. “And she takes us with her.”
Draco’s voice dropped. “You’re afraid.”
“Yes,” Mattheo said immediately. “I am.”
The admission cracked something open.
“I am afraid because she makes this world start to look wrong,” he said. “And the moment it looks wrong, you can’t unsee it. You can’t go back to believing the lie that keeps you alive.” He gestured sharply to his arm, where the Dark Mark burned. “This thing keeps us breathing.”
“And it keeps other people dying,” Draco replied.
Mattheo’s mouth trembled. “She is standing in a house built on blood and telling us blood doesn’t mean what we were taught,” he said. “Do you understand how dangerous that is?”
“Yes,” Draco said. “I understand exactly how dangerous that is.” He stepped closer. “And you didn’t say what you said because you wanted to protect her.”
Mattheo’s eyes flickered in regret for a second.
“You said it because you wanted to make her small enough to fit back into the world that scares you less.”
The words landed heavy.
Silence stretched.
“You think I don’t hear him when I sleep?” Mattheo said hoarsely. “You think I don’t wake up with his voice in my head and her name in my chest and know those two things don’t coexist?”
Draco’s voice sharpened. “Then why are you trying to make her carry that for you?”
Mattheo swallowed hard. “She makes me want a world where blood doesn’t decide who deserves to live,” he said. “And that world gets people like us killed.”
Draco grabbed the front of Mattheo’s shirt and hauled him forward.
“You were breathing before blood meant anything to him,” he said. “You were breathing before he ever put his name in your mouth.”
Mattheo’s breath shuddered, but he kept his stance, glaring at Draco.
“You are not alive because of him,” Draco continued. “You are alive in spite of him. And if you ever say something like that to her again—” Mattheo shoved him back. “—it won’t be him you answer to.”
The room was silent.
Mattheo stood where he’d been left, chest rising and falling, eyes bright. “I didn’t mean to make her cry,” he said.
The words sounded too small.
Enzo looked away.
Blaise’s jaw tightened.
Draco stared at him.
“You don’t get to choose the cost of the things you say,” he replied. “Only who pays it.”
And the worst part was that Mattheo already knew. Because for the first time since they’d been children, since they’d been untouchable, since everything between them had been blood and iron and certainty, the person who had always stood between them and the dark had walked away.
And now there was a letter on their table that could bury them all.
.
.
.
The ballroom was empty when she returned. Not peacefully empty.
Vacant. As if the room had been abandoned in a hurry and forgotten by whatever was meant to come back for it.
The chandeliers burned low overhead, their light thinned and dulled, casting long, warped shadows across the marble. The fire had settled back into red, but it seemed smaller than before, its warmth no longer reaching the corners. The great space no longer felt like a war room.
It felt like the aftermath.
Y/N stood just inside the doors, her palm still pressed to the iron handle, as though part of her expected the house to object to her being alone. The wards hummed faintly inside the walls, a sound like something breathing in its sleep.
She released the door and crossed the floor slowly.
Each step echoed too clearly. Until she reached the table. The letter lay exactly where she had left it.
Perfectly still.
Perfectly ordinary.
A single folded piece of parchment that had crossed wards, bloodlines, and worlds to reach her.
Waiting.
She did not touch it at first. She only looked. At the pale curve of the fold. At the faint, living shimmer of protective magic still clinging to it. At how small it was. How easily it could be destroyed.
Her chest tightened. If you burn this, I will understand.
She could still smell the meeting on her clothes. Smoke. Iron. Old stone. The echo of laughter where there should not have been any.
She reached out. Then stopped. If she burned it, this would end. The reach unanswered. The danger sealed. The world repaired into the shape it had always been. They would return to the circle. They would kneel or stand when told. They would call it legacy. They would call it survival. They would keep letting blood decide who mattered.
Her fingers curled slowly into her palm. You don’t belong to what you were taught. Theo’s voice surfaced unbidden. So did her mother’s. We are not like them.
So did the man on his knees. So did the woman who thanked him.
She picked up the letter. It was still warm. That frightened her more than anything else. Her hands tightened around the parchment as she leaned forward, bracing herself against the edge of the table, shoulders drawn inward like she was standing before something that might speak back.
If she answered it—
Her breath caught.
If she answered it, there was no performance left.
No neutrality. No clever positioning. No illusion of standing in the middle. It would mean saying out loud what her body had known for years and her mind had only just allowed.
That the foundations were wrong. That the things they had been praised for surviving were the very things rotting them from the inside. That love, not blood, was the first real treason.
Her wand lay heavy against her wrist.
Burn it.
End it.
Be what you were taught to be.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She froze. Didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe. She felt them before she heard them fully — the shift in the room, the familiar gravity, the way the air always changed when they were near.
Five of them. Draco first. Then Theo. Enzo’s quieter presence. Blaise measured steps. And Mattheo. She straightened slowly but did not turn. The letter remained between her hands.
“I was going to burn it,” she said quietly.
No one spoke.
“I thought that was the responsible choice,” she continued. “The intelligent one. The one we were raised to make.” She swallowed. “And then I realized I don’t know if I believe in that superiority anymore.”
She felt movement behind her.
A step.
Mattheo.
She sensed him before he was close enough to touch, the familiar pull of him, the instinct that had always known where he was without sight.
“Y/N—” he began.
She stepped back.
The motion was sharp. Deliberate. Enough to put the table between them. Enough to draw a line. The sound of her heels against marble cut through the room.
Silence followed.
She did not look at him. Not even when he stopped. Her gaze stayed on the letter. “I can’t do this with you standing there like nothing changed,” she said quietly. “Not yet.”
The words were not cruel. They were necessary. She closed her eyes briefly. Then opened them again. “If I answer this,” she said, voice low, steady, “it doesn’t mean we’re helping someone.”
Her fingers tightened around the parchment. “It means we are working to end the people who raised us.” The words landed heavily in the vast room. “It means everything we were built on becomes the thing we move against,” she continued. “Our families. Our names. The stories we were told about why the world looks the way it does.”
Her chest ached. “It means blood stops being an excuse,” she whispered. “And power stops being a birthright. And survival stops being something we inherit.” She exhaled slowly. “It means there is no version of this where we don’t become traitors to what made us.”
Behind her, she felt them shift. Draco closer. Theo still. Enzo’s breath drawn tight. Blaise’s attention sharpened. She did not look at Mattheo.
“I don’t know who I am if I send this,” she said. “But I am starting to know who I am if I don’t.”
Her hand hovered over the parchment. The wards hummed softly. The chandeliers flickered. The letter lay open to her choice.
“I haven’t answered yet,” she finished. She let the words exist. Let them sit in the space between heartbeats. Then, at last, she lifted her head slightly. Not enough to see him. Enough to be heard.
“But don’t mistake my hesitation,” she said quietly, “for doubt about what this costs.”
Behind her, five boys stood in a room built on blood and inheritance, watching the girl they love stand on the edge of something no one had prepared them to survive. And for the first time since any of them had been old enough to understand what their names meant, the future was not a continuation.
It was a fracture.
The silence that followed her words pressed in from every side. The chandeliers whispered faintly overhead. The wards breathed in the walls. The fire shifted low and uncertain, as though even the manor were listening.
Five presences behind her. One space she refused to turn toward. She was still staring at the letter when Blaise spoke.
“You’re not wrong.” His voice was quiet. Even. But there was nothing uncertain in it. “If you answer that letter,” he continued, “we don’t become allies. We don’t become heroes. We become something much worse.”
She inhaled.
“We become ghosts inside his house.” He stepped closer — not toward Mattheo, not toward the door, but toward her. “No one will know,” Blaise said. “Not our families. Not the circle. Not the Ministry. Not the Order. To the world, we stay exactly what we are.”
Death Eaters.
Enzo moved next. His hands were clenched, but his voice was steady. “We don’t stand beside Potter,” he said. “We stand behind him. In rooms he will never enter. We move things he will never touch. We hear things he will never be meant to survive.” He swallowed. “We help him end this war without ever letting him save us.”
Theo stepped closer until he stood just behind her shoulder, close enough that she could feel him without seeing him. “We work from the inside,” he said quietly. “We don’t defect. We don’t announce. We don’t hesitate in public.” His voice didn’t waver. “We stay where we are. And we rot him from within.”
Draco was last. And when he spoke, the room seemed to narrow around his voice. “No one will ever know we betrayed him,” he said. “Not unless we fail.” He took a step closer. “We will sit at his table. We will answer his summons. We will let the world believe what it wants about us.”
A breath.
“And everything we do in the dark will be for Potter.” The name left a familiar bitterness on his tongue. He rolled his eyes faintly, almost reflexively. Old habits die hard, even now.
Her fingers tightened around the parchment.
“To end this,” Draco finished. “Not to survive it.”
Four decisions. Four deliberate, conscious choices.
Then Mattheo laughed.
Soft.
Bitter.
Hollow.
“You’re talking about suicide.”
No one turned. No one rushed him. He stepped forward. She stepped back immediately. The table remained between them.
The line held.
“You’re talking about staying in the mouth of the thing that eats people,” he said. “And pretending you still belong there while you poison it.”
His eyes were bright.
“You think my father won’t notice?” he went on. “You think he won’t feel this the moment it becomes real? He will tear this house apart stone by stone to find out where she went.”
He gestured sharply toward Y/N.
“You are not talking about betrayal,” Mattheo said. “You are talking about living deaths. My father will know he probably saw your change today.”
Silence.
Then Y/N spoke. “I don’t think he knows,” she said quietly. The admission felt heavier than certainty. “I think that’s the most dangerous part.”
Mattheo stilled.
“I stood in that circle tonight,” she continued, eyes fixed on the table, on the letter between her hands. “And nothing in his gaze changed. Nothing in the room shifted. He didn’t see anything.”
Her fingers curled slowly around the parchment. “But something in me did.” Her voice softened, not with weakness, but with something more frightening. “I didn’t feel chosen. I didn’t feel powerful. I didn’t feel superior.”
She drew a slow breath. “I felt exposed to myself.”
Mattheo’s breath hitched.
“You didn’t put doubt in me,” she went on quietly. “You only said out loud what was already there.”
Mattheo dragged a hand down his face. “You’re all standing there like love turns monsters into martyrs,” he said. “Like this is a story where the terrible become useful.”
No one answered. “I am not better,” Mattheo said. “I am what he made. I am what survives.”
His voice dropped.
“I am a monster.”
The word settled into the marble. “And monsters don’t get to imagine clean wars,” he continued. “We belong in the part that ends badly.”
Y/N’s grip tightened around the letter.
“That is exactly why this works,” Draco said sharply.
Mattheo looked at him.
“Because he doesn’t watch monsters for betrayal,” Draco went on. “He uses them.”
Silence.
Mattheo’s mouth trembled. “You think I can stand there,” he said hoarsely, “and help Potter kill him?”
Y/N finally turned her head just enough to be heard. “If you stay,” she said, “you’ll help him kill everyone else.”
The words were not cruel.
They were true.
Mattheo closed his eyes. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice was stripped bare. “She is asking me to help end the only world that ever let me live.” No one interrupted. “And she is asking me to do it quietly,” he continued. “Without glory. Without forgiveness. Without anyone ever knowing.”
He exhaled sharply. “Do you know what that makes me?”
No one answered.
He opened his eyes.
“Alone.”
The word was almost a breath. Then—
“I will help.”
It didn’t sound brave. It sounded chosen. “I will stay in that circle,” Mattheo said. “I will lie to his face. I will bleed when he asks. I will become whatever keeps me close enough to him to matter.”
His voice roughened. “And I will do it knowing he will kill me if he ever finds out.” A beat. “But at the end of the day… Y/N... you were the one who showed me what love feels like.”
The room stilled. “And if something like me can feel that,” he said, “then something like me can choose it.” He lifted his head. “Even if it destroys me.”
The fire shifted. The wards hummed.
Five shadows stood behind her.
One across the table. All of them choosing a war no one would ever thank them for. All of them waiting. Not for permission.
For her.
.
.
.
REMINDER: If you want to be on the taglist feel free to comment or message me :) and if I missed you pls lmk
You and Fred Weasley hated each other. And not for any good reason. Mostly because he was a Gryffindor and you were a Slytherin. Or maybe it was because he was a Weasley and you were a Malfoy. Or maybe both. Whichever it was, it was simply natural for you to hate each other. Until walking a week in each others’ shoes (literally) makes you realise maybe he’s more than a Gryffindor and a Weasley, and he finds out you’re more than a Slytherin and a Malfoy.
Warnings: borderline smut, body swapping
———————————————————————
The tension between Gryffindor and Slytherin could always be cut with a knife, but when it came to Fred Weasley and the older Malfoy sibling, it felt more like an axe was needed.
It started in first year and hadn’t let up since.
Even now, six years later, every time she walked into the Great Hall and saw that smug flash of red hair bobbing near the Gryffindor table, her upper lip curled on instinct. And every time Fred caught a glimpse of that haughty smirk - Y/n Malfoy’s signature trademark - he felt an immediate urge to launch something charmed and mildly explosive at her.
She sat beside Draco, hair tucked perfectly behind her ear, posture ramrod straight like she thought her bloodline was enough to keep her upright. Fred lounged across the bench beside Lee Jordan, one leg hanging out like he owned the floor, twirling a fork between his fingers as if looking for something to stab.
Their eyes locked across the room. A silent scowl warred with a cocky grin.
“Don’t look now,” she muttered to Draco, “but one of the Weasel twins is staring like he’s forgotten how basic etiquette works.”
“Which one?” Draco asked, not even glancing up from his toast.
“Does it matter?” she huffed. “They share a brain cell.”
Meanwhile, at the Gryffindor table, Fred nudged George with his elbow. “Our least favourite Malfoy is looking over here again.”
George didn’t even glance. “You sure it’s not the other way round?”
Fred smirked. “Definitely not. I’m a gentleman, I wouldn’t glare first. And she only glares at things she hates. Which is, apparently, everything not wearing green.”
Y/n and Fred Weasley hated each other. Mostly because he was a Gryffindor and she was a Slytherin. Or maybe it was because he was a Weasley and she was a Malfoy. Or maybe both. Whichever it was, it was simply natural for them to hate each other.
And that natural hate had only grown more theatrical over the years. Potions class saw her switching his flasks when Snape wasn’t looking. Fred returned the favour by charming her cauldron to emit a dramatic, room-clearing stink of dragon dung. She nearly hexed his nose off when he replaced her ink with disappearing fluid before an exam.
They weren’t enemies for any good reason. But that didn’t stop them from being enemies all the same.
———————————————————————
The problem started, as most things did with the Weasley twins, in a haze of smoke and an explosion. She hadn’t even meant to be there.
The library had closed early for re-shelving, and the Slytherin common room was a swirling pit of arrogance and too-strong cologne she didn’t feel like braving. So she’d wandered instead, aimless and annoyed, and ended up on the third floor near an abandoned corridor where Peeves liked to loiter and where, irritatingly, something smelled like burnt caramel.
She turned the corner just in time to hear muffled snickering and a pop of magic, followed by Fred and George Weasley tumbling backward out of an old classroom, coughing and covered in what looked like glitter and smoke.
“Oh bloody hell, my eyebrows!” George wailed, swiping at his face.
“Still intact,” Fred said, wiping soot off his cheeks. “Although you might’ve lost that pathetic moustache you’re trying to grow again.”
“Oh for Merlin’s sake! What are you two idiots doing?” she snapped, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like a dagger’s edge. She swiftly stormed into the old classroom to see the dusty teacher’s desk was littered with ingredients and colourful mixtures in beakers. In the centre of all the mess was a bubbling cauldron, brimming with a glowing blue concoction.
Fred turned, instantly scowling as both twins followed her inside. “I could ask you the same question, Malfoy? Took a wrong turn on the way to the dungeons or just stalking me now?”
“I’d rather fall off the Astronomy Tower,” she said flatly.
“That can be arranged,” George mumbled.
Before she could hex him, the classroom door groaned and slammed shut behind them, sealing them inside with a sudden gust of magical wind. The explosion was instant and utterly spectacular.
A glowing orb - about the size of a Quaffle and pulsing with rainbow light - rose from the cauldron and suspended itself mid-air between the three of them. There was a high-pitched whining noise, a surge of wind, and then—
BOOM.
A shockwave knocked all three backward.
When she opened her eyes, the room had gone quiet again. The orb had vanished. George was lying crumpled near the door. But something felt…wrong.
Very wrong.
“Ugh,” she groaned, sitting up, and promptly freezing.
That was not her voice. That was Fred’s voice.
She stared down at her hands - large, freckled, and absolutely not hers. Her robes were rumpled in a way she’d never allow, and her legs were much too long.
“What the—” Her own voice squeaked in horror from somewhere else.
She turned, and there, in her body, with wide grey-blue eyes and a look of dawning horror, was Fred Weasley.
“Oh my Godric,” he said in her voice. “I have boobs.”
“WHAT DID YOU DO?!” she shrieked - or tried to - but it came out as Fred’s voice, deep and panicked.
George stirred and sat up, blinking blearily. “Why do I feel like someone sat on my spleen?” He looked between them, then blinked again. “Wait…no. No way.”
“FIX THIS!” they both yelled at him in unison.
“I would,” George said, coughing up glowing blue dust, “If I knew what this even is! That wasn’t supposed to happen! That potion was just meant to detect biological magical signatures!”
“Clearly, it detected too much!” she snapped, stomping toward George, though it looked absurd with Fred’s lanky gait.
Fred had his arms crossed over his chest (or was it her chest?) face pale. “Do you always walk like this? What is this…pinched strut thing?”
“You wish you had my strut.”
“Oh shut it, Malfoy.”
“No, you shut it, Weasley!”
“Enough!” George groaned, holding up his hands. “Okay, okay. This is clearly a body swap.”
She whirled on him - on herself - and jabbed one of Fred’s fingers toward her chest. Or was it now his chest? It was all so confusing. “We have to reverse this immediately.”
“Brilliant idea,” Fred said with exaggerated sarcasm. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
George held up both hands. “The good news is that I probably can reverse it. The bad news is, I can’t reverse it right now. The burst of energy from that experimental orb thing seems to have disrupted your magical signatures and…look, the point is, it’s going to take time.”
Fred was still reeling from the whole ‘I have boobs’ revelation, and she was still too stunned to even properly hex anyone. But the moment George confirmed they were, indeed, stuck in each other’s bodies, a new kind of panic set in.
“How much time?” they both asked.
George hesitated. Fred narrowed her eyes at his brother. “George.”
He scratched the back of his head. “…A few days?”
“DAYS?!”
George winced. “Possibly until Monday. Maybe longer. Depends how difficult it is to realign your identities without destabilizing your baseline cores.”
“I don’t even know what that means!” she cried in Fred’s deeper tone.
Fred looked down at himself. Then at her. “Are you telling me I’m going to have to pretend to be her through an entire weekend and classes on Monday?”
“Oh brilliant,” she said darkly. “So then I have to be him? How am I supposed to pull that off when I actually have brain cells?”
“Hey! You’re in my body which means you inherited my lack of brain cells too!” Fred retorted.
She groaned, pressing both hands to her - Fred’s - face. “No. Absolutely not. I am not parading around as a Weasley. I have standards. And a reputation.”
Fred snorted. “That’s rich coming from someone who once tried to duel me over a packet of lacewing flies.”
“You sabotaged my inkpot!”
“You were sitting in my spot!”
“Children,” George interrupted, as if he weren’t the same age as both of them. “You’re going to have to cooperate. You’ll have to play each other convincingly. If anyone notices something’s off, this’ll spiral fast. The last thing we need is McGonagall finding out.”
“Or maybe I should just go and tell her myself!” She threatened.
“Great, then we can all get expelled together and end up cleaning toilets at the ministry of magic for people who did manage to graduate.” Fred drawled sarcastically, and she had to admit he had a fair point. She’d likely get in a whole heap of trouble for this, and the last thing she needed was another letter being sent home to her parents.
George sighed. “This is going to need a lot of work. The whole weekend, even. You’ll have to teach each other your habits, schedules, who your friends are, how you talk, walk, laugh, hex people…”
Fred raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need lessons in being cold, snarky, and unreasonably judgmental. I’ve watched her play that game for years.”
“And I don’t need lessons in being a reckless, loud-mouthed arse who thinks explosions are a personality trait,” she snapped. “Your entire state of being is a joke wrapped in a prank wrapped in poor impulse control.”
George clapped once. “Great! You’re both halfway there. Now all you need to do is not kill each other until tomorrow. We’ll meet back here after breakfast.”
Fred grumbled, adjusting her too-tight collar. “Kill each other? Mate, we’re more likely to commit mutual suicide. Or is it homicide if it’s not your body?”
“Don’t you dare touch my body, Weasley!”
Fred then lifted a hand and pressed a perfectly manicured nail to the middle of his - of her - forehead. “Oh no! What are you gonna do about it!”
Y/n muttered a string of seething curses inter her breath as she riddled through his robe pockets to find his wand, pulling it out and pointing it threateningly.
“Oh please, go ahead and hex yourself!” Fred encouraged and she stilled her movements, absolutely furious that he was right. They were at an impasse. “Yeah that’s right, you have no choice but to play nice.”
“Let me make this abundantly clear. I am not being seen in public with either of you,” she said immediately.
Fred yelled, “You’re me. You are being seen with me.”
“Both of you, cut it out! Can you please pretend you don’t want to shiv each other just until I can get you back into your own bodies?” George intervened once more, and both she and Fred huffed and didn’t confirm, but they also didn’t disagree. “Okay, now let’s just head to bed. We can figure out where to start in the morning.”
As they shuffled off with grumbled complaints - Fred tripping in her heeled boots, and her glaring daggers at the back of her own head - they exited the abandoned classroom. They turned in opposite directions, both wearing the other’s skin, and thoroughly hating every second of it.
George’s voice cut in behind them. “Where are you going?”
“To the common room?” They both answered simultaneously.
“Uh…no, you’re not.” He shook his head.
They both stopped mid-step and looked back.
“What do you mean, no, we’re not?” she asked, eyes narrowed.
George crossed his arms, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “You’re walking the wrong way.”
Fred blinked. “I think I know where our own damn common room is, Georgie.”
“Right. Except she—” George pointed at her in Fred’s body, “—is never going to get into the Slytherin common room looking like you.”
She opened her mouth - Fred’s mouth - then closed it. “Oh,” she said.
George turned to his brother, still wearing her shorter frame. “And I doubt you want Fred, in your body, sleeping in the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory with me and Lee Jordan.”
Fred’s face went white as she paled. “Absolutely not.”
“So,” George said cheerfully, “you’re coming with me. You’ll have to stay in our dorm tonight. And Fred’ll have to go to your dorm.”
She exhaled sharply and rounded on Fred, and it was so strange looking at herself from outside her own body. “Alright, listen carefully. The password is doxy eggs. Go straight to bed. My dorm is the first at the bottom of the stairs. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t touch anything. Don’t look at me - get dressed with your eyes shut! Don’t make eye contact with anybody.”
Fred frowned. “What if someone asks me a question?”
“Pretend you lost your voice.”
“What if Draco tries to complain to me about something?”
“Blink and nod.”
“What if Blaise flirts with me?”
“You’re allowed to hex him,” she said without missing a beat.
Fred paused. “What if I accidentally flirt back?”
She turned, slowly, as if daring him to continue. He had no qualms about doing so.
“What if I forget I’m you and - hypothetically - start juggling Fanged Frisbees shirtless?”
“Fred.”
“What if I decide to declare war on your father in the middle of the Slytherin common room and proclaim my love for halfbloods?”
Her eye twitched.
“What if I—”
“Fred,” she said dangerously, “If you don’t stop talking in the next five seconds, I swear on Merlin’s left sock I will strip naked in your body and sprint through the Great Hall at breakfast singing Celestina Warbeck.”
Fred’s mouth shut. Immediately. He gave a low whistle. “You play dirty.”
“I am a Slytherin,” she said with a sharp smile. “Remember?”
He raised his hands in surrender and turned, muttering something about ‘power moves’ under his breath as he headed off toward the dungeons.
George nudged her shoulder. “Come on, Malfoy. Let’s get you some rest.”
They slipped into the Gryffindor common room a few minutes later, firelight still glowing low and warm. She moved fast, keeping her head down even though she was in Fred’s body. No one would question her - his - presence. Still, the idea of being seen like this made her skin crawl.
She followed George up the winding staircase to the boys’ dormitory. It was chaos inside.
One bed was half-made with sheets patterned in enchanted comic panels. A pile of Zonko’s wrappers spilled out of a drawer. There were scorch marks on one wall - actual scorch marks. Exploded cauldron maybe?
“Fred’s side,” George pointed. “You’ll figure it out.”
She stood in front of Fred’s bed and let her eyes flick over everything.
A well-worn broomstick charm pinned to his bedpost. Posters of the Weird Sisters, a torn Quidditch schedule, and a rolled parchment labeled ‘Very Illegal and Brilliant Ideas (Do Not Touch – F)’ tucked beneath his pillow. A jar of Bertie Bott’s Beans. A sketch of something and a prototype broomstick attachment made entirely of spoons. It wasn’t what she expected.
She just sat on the edge of the bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, and muttered, “This better not last more than a weekend.”
———————————————————————
The classroom was cold, sunlit, and entirely too quiet when she - still in Fred’s body - stormed in, face thunderous.
“You’re late,” Fred drawled from where he was perched on a desk, swinging her legs. He was dressed in a ghastly combination of navy tights and a green jumper. Something she’d never wear. And he slouched like he had no bones.
She slammed the door shut behind her. “I had to dodge three first-years and a Hufflepuff prefect who accused me - or I guess, you - of trying to sneak into their dorm.”
“That was me,” Fred said, winking. “Two weeks ago. How kind of you to inherit my sins.”
George looked up from the desk where he was setting up a clipboard, quills, and what appeared to be a large chart titled: ‘How Not To Get Expelled (In Someone Else’s Skin)’.
“Right,” he said brightly, “first lesson of the day: damage control.”
She shot Fred a glare. “Second lesson better be how not to commit homicide in a classroom.”
Fred grinned. “Oh come on, Malfoy. You’re just upset because I wore your hair better than you do.”
“My hair is not the issue,” she hissed. “It’s your facial expressions on my body. It’s unnatural.”
“For you to smile? Guess it is.”
She turned to George. “Please fix this. Before I punch my own face with his fist.”
George held up a hand. “You’ve got twenty-four hours minimum before the reversal potion is ready. Maybe longer. And that’s if it even works.”
Fred dropped off the desk and clapped his hands. “Well then, let’s get into it, shall we? We’ve got classes on Monday, and I refuse to let people think I care about arithmancy.”
She scoffed. “You should be so lucky to even understand arithmancy.”
“Sweetheart, I can barely understand you.”
George passed them both fresh parchment and quills.
“Right,” he said, “now here’s the deal. You’re going to spend the next two days teaching each other everything the other needs to know to pass as you. Your habits, speech, friends, enemies, handwriting, posture, mannerisms—”
“Do I need to teach him how to breathe properly too?” she snapped.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Fred said. “I’ve already perfected your nose-in-the-air, I’m-too-good-for-you-all breathing.”
“Oh, is that what you call inhaling like you’ve been hexed in the ribs?”
“Guys,” George sighed, rubbing his temples. They both turned to him and George pointed to the chalkboard where he’d drawn a list.
“Let’s start with some ground rules,” George said. “You’ll need them.”
They sat. Begrudgingly. She was the first to volunteer a rule. “Obviously, to reiterate what I said yesterday, no looking at my body. No peeking when changing. Shower blindfolded. I don’t care how you do it, just get it done.”
“Understood. And you can take all the peeks you want. I’m pretty comfortable with my body,” He leaned back and winked at her. It made her skin crawl to see herself act in such a way. “And admit it, you want to look.”
“Ugh, in your dreams, Weasley.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the concept. “Rule number two, no ruining each other’s relationships or reputations.”
“So I can’t call Pucey a rotten git?”
“Only if you’re ready to be cursed in five different languages as soon as I get my body back.” She gritted her teeth. “And no getting each other into trouble either. I have a clean record and I’d like it to stay that way.”
“How come you’re making all the rules,” Fred objected.
“I guess I’m the only one between the two of us with standards,” she shot back.
That earned her enrolled up ball of parchment to the head. After the rules were established, the lessons began.
She stood before him, arms crossed in Fred’s body. “Start walking.”
Fred frowned. “I am walking.”
“You’re staggering. Try again. Less like a troll trying to blend in at a formal ball, more like someone with dignity.”
He huffed and tried again. She made a sound like she was choking on her own shame. “You know what? Forget it. Sit. Posture lessons.”
Fred mimicked her prim stance with exaggerated flair, back straight, hands folded delicately in his lap. “Do I look constipated enough?”
She deadpanned. “You look like a possessed teacup.”
“Thank you.”
Then it was her turn. Fred guided her through sitting in his Gryffindor slouch. Feet on the desk, head tilted back just slightly, arm draped behind the chair like he owned the whole room.
“Be the chaos,” he said seriously. “Don’t control it. Embrace it.”
“I feel like a drunken flobberworm.”
“That’s the spirit.”
They went through navigating body language in friend dynamics - names, phrases, handshakes, inside jokes. She had to learn how to respond to George’s rapid-fire quips and Lee’s loud entrances. He, in turn, had to learn how to say “Mm” in seven subtly different tones that all meant “I’m judging you.”
Then came expressions.
“Raise your left brow like you’ve just been told a blood-traitor got top marks in Potions,” she coached.
Fred obeyed. “Oh, like that’s not specific at all.”
She smirked. “It’s called facial nuance.”
He gestured to her. “Alright. Now give me the expression you wear when you’ve just lit a Dungbomb in Filch’s office and you’re three seconds from getting caught but loving the drama.”
She squinted. “Isn’t that what your face is doing all the time?”
Fred looked genuinely proud. “Exactly.”
They stared at each other. Then they laughed. Real, accidental, chest-shaking laughter.
And somewhere between correcting each other’s wand grips and mimicking glares in the cracked mirror near the chalkboard, it stopped feeling like war. It started feeling like weird, reluctant teamwork.
Even if she still wanted to strangle him half the time.
———————————————————————
Fred was absolutely not trying to break Rule #1.
He was just…showering. Like a normal human. In a body that happened to be borrowed and very much not his.
He tried to do it with integrity. Eyes closed. Respectful hand placement. Very clinical.
But the problem was, he knew what his own body felt like. And this? This was not his body. This was her body. And. objectively, wow. He could feel just how heavy her breasts were. How soft the flesh at her hips was as it curved around her bones.
“Bloody hell,” Fred muttered, backing up until he hit the cold tile wall, blinking rapidly under the spray. “Okay. Okay. This is fine. This is fine.”
Then be caught an accidental glimpse of her in the mirror.
This was so not fine.
He kept his eyes shut the whole time after that. Toweled off like he was diffusing a bomb. Tripped into her clothes because he refused to look down.
And still, he couldn’t shake the image of her in the mirror, water dripping down, collarbones sharp, hair sticking to skin, and—
He was doomed. He was so doomed.
By the time he made it to the empty classroom, she was already inside. In his body, hunched over a desk in the exact way she used to scold him for. She looked up sharply as he walked in.
“You’re late. Again.”
Fred cleared his throat. “Right. Sorry. Ran into…existential horror. Long story.”
She squinted. “You’re acting weird.”
“What? Me? No.” He dropped into a seat across from her, not making eye contact. “Totally normal. Just, you know, learning what it’s like to be judged by portraits everywhere I go.”
“Judged? You’re Fred Weasley. Half the castle assumes you’re drunk on sugar and hexing your own feet on purpose.”
“Yes, except people actually like me.”
She narrowed her eyes and he realised too late that his comment must have cut deeper than intended. “You’re flustered.”
Fred grinned a little too quickly. “Aren’t I always?”
Before she could call him out further, George walked in, balancing two steaming mugs and a large chart labeled: KNOW YOURSELF (BY KNOWING SOMEONE ELSE): Relationship Mapping and Memory Drills
“Morning, lovebirds.”
“Die,” she muttered.
“Later,” George said cheerfully, plopping the chart onto a desk. “Today we’re tackling interpersonal relationships. If you’re going to survive the week, you need to know who matters in each other’s lives.”
He handed them each a mug - hers was black tea with exactly one sugar, no milk. Fred’s was pumpkin spice hot chocolate, topped with marshmallows and zero shame.
She blinked at her mug. “How do you know this is what I drink?”
“I didn’t. Fred did.”
Fred looked smug in her face. “I pay attention.”
“Alright,” George said, pointing at the first section of the chart. “Let’s start with your social circle. Fred, list everyone important to her.”
Fred sat up straighter, then hesitated. “Uh…Malfoy. The ferret one.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Daphne Greengrass,” he continued, ticking off fingers. “Adrian Pucey - the boyfriend. That one Ravenclaw she pretends not to like but always sits next to in Runes. And Professor McGonagall, who I’m pretty sure she wants to impress more than anyone else in the world.”
Her mouth twitched. “Not bad.
“Also, you hate pumpkin juice.”
She blinked. “How did you—”
“Saw you spit it out in the Great Hall once. Thought you were being dramatic. Turns out you just have a deeply personal vendetta against gourds.”
George nodded. “Very specific. I like it. Alright, your turn.”
She leaned back in Fred’s body, arms crossed. “George. Lee. Angelina Johnson. Alicia Spinnet. Katie Bell. McGonagall terrifies you but you secretly adore her.”
Fred gave her a look. “That was…alarmingly accurate.”
“You talk in your sleep.”
“I do not.”
“You do. In class. You mutter about ‘McGonagall’s stern little eyebrows’ and ‘how perfect Angelina’s broom form is’ and once I think you said, ‘No! Don’t drop the Skiving Snackbox.’”
George howled with laughter.
Fred flushed. “That was one time.”
She smiled to herself. “I have notes.”
They moved on to favourite foods (“I knew you liked lemon tarts. Is it because you’re both equally sour?” “Shut up.”), and class schedules (“No, you can’t just skip History of Magic”), and even handwriting practice, trying to replicate each other’s scrawl.
Fred, halfway through mimicking her elegant cursive, looked up and said, “You write like you’re trying to marry your parchment.”
She shot back, “You write like your quill is drunk.”
Time passed faster than they realized. By the end of the day, they both sat slumped on the floor, backs against the chalkboard, sipping the last of their drinks.
George packed up the parchment. “Alright. That’s enough trauma bonding for today. You’re not complete disasters. Yet.”
He left them there, under the soft light of late afternoon. Between the handwriting drills and arguing over whose taste in tea was worse, something strange happened. Something neither of them could pinpoint exactly, but it shifted the air.
She didn’t notice when her shoulders stopped tensing every time he made a joke. He didn’t notice when she stopped snapping back just to win.
At one point, they were mid-debate about Professor Binns’ ability to put a dragon to sleep when she said something so dry and perfectly timed. It made Fred laugh out loud, too hard and too fast. It surprised her. And then she laughed too, and it felt like something cracked wide open between them, just for a second. A sliver of ease.
“I’ll admit it,” she said after a beat. “You’re not completely insufferable.”
Fred smirked. “I’ll take that as a glowing endorsement.”
“You’d take a kick to the face as a compliment.”
“And you’d deliver it with style.”
A pause came and then she added, more quietly, “You’re actually kind of fun to be around.”
Fred glanced sideways at her, brow lifted, but didn’t push. Instead, he nodded. “You’re not half-bad yourself, Malfoy.”
There was a pause. Not tense. Just full. He nudged her shoulder lightly with his own. “Still hate me?”
She didn’t answer right away. “…Less than yesterday.”
Fred grinned. “Progress.”
They lapsed into silence again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. It was almost…warm. For the first time, she wasn’t counting the seconds until she got her body back.
———————————————————————
The great hall was quiet, as it usually was during Sunday afternoon dinner, but Fred - still stuck in her body - felt like every nerve in him was on fire.
He was seated in her usual spot at the long Slytherin-designated table, posture too straight, tie perfectly knotted the way she always wore it. He had ink smudged across his knuckles from a miserable fifteen minutes of trying to copy her looping, elegant script that may as well have been written in Parseltongue.
Across the hall, she - currently Fred - was watching him with narrowed eyes, chin propped in her hand like she wasn’t already halfway to bursting a blood vessel.
She had explicitly warned him not to ruin her reputation. Not to talk too loud, not to slouch, not to eat with his mouth open, and most importantly, not to draw attention.
So when Adrian Pucey dropped into the seat beside him like a smug shadow with a smirk and a casual, possessive hand on Fred’s - her - shoulder, Fred nearly leapt out of his skin.
‘Behave’, she mouthed from across the table, eyes wide, already mid-flinch.
Fred stared at her, eyes pleading, mouthing ‘help me’ with panic that had nothing to do with his wandwork.
But she just silently shook her head, mouthing, ‘Play along’!
Adrian leaned in, voice low and smug. “Missed you this weekend.”
Fred stiffened, heart hammering against ribs that weren’t his, in skin he was increasingly uncomfortable in. “Y-yeah?” Fred said, trying to pitch her voice lower, calmer. “I was…busy.”
“Still mad about Friday?” Adrian asked, completely ignoring the fact that Fred’s - her - shoulders had gone rigid.
Fred blinked. “What about Friday?”
Adrian raised a brow. “The fight? The one where you overreacted and stormed off because you saw me with Daphne? Or are we pretending that didn’t happen now?”
Fred cleared his throat. “Not pretending. Just…over it.”
“Good,” Adrian said with a smirk. His hand slid from her shoulder down to the small of her back, fingers curling slightly under the edge of her jumper.
Fred jolted. “I, um, I don’t really like PDA.” he blurted, shifting uncomfortably. Merlin, of all the problems he thought he’d run into this hadn’t even made the list. But it was steadily finding its way to the top.
Adrian laughed under his breath. “Since when?”
Fred tried to smile but it came out like a grimace. “Since now. New week, new boundaries.”
He tried to edge his chair away subtly. Adrian just followed, his arm now resting along the back of the chair, fingers tracing slow, possessive patterns.
Fred’s skin crawled. Across the table, she was silently mouthing ‘breathe’, but her expression had gone cold, jaw tense.
Fred turned back to Adrian. “Can we just…focus on dinner? The pasta is great.”
Adrian scoffed. “Come on, babe. We’ve spoken about this. You’ve got to cut the carbs. You’re getting a bit pudgy.”
“What?” Fred gawked at the words, but Adrian payed the reaction no mind. He reached forward, brushing hair behind Fred’s - her - ear. His fingers lingered against her cheek in a way that made Fred’s stomach twist.
Fred recoiled slightly. “I said no touching.”
Adrian blinked. “You serious?”
Fred forced a tight smile. “Deadly.”
Adrian gave a low chuckle, then leaned in closer. “We’ll see about that tonight, then.”
Fred’s whole body stiffened. “Actually…no. I’ve got plans.”
“With who?”
Fred jerked his chin up in the air. “Doesn’t matter. You didn’t care about that when you were flirting with Daphne Greengrass.”
Adrian froze. His grip dropped. The silence between them buzzed with tension. “You’re impossible. Sometimes I don’t know why I bother with you at all.”
Then Fred leaned forward, mimicking the icy coolness she’d perfected. “Let’s not make a scene, Adrian. I know how much you love your reputation.”
She, still in Fred’s body, was staring now, no longer mouthing anything. Just watching.
Adrian scowled, pushed his chair back, and stalked off without a word. The table went quiet again.
Fred didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he exhaled shakily. What the hell was that?
The rest of his meal had been thoroughly soured by the feeling that he’d been violated. It still sent shivers down his spine. As he exited the great hall, she followed, rounding the table in three brisk steps. As soon as they made it into an empty hallway, she yanked Fred by the collar of his - her - robe into the nearest hidden alcove.
“Are you trying to ruin my life?”
Fred threw up his hands. “He was groping me! Or…you! That guy’s a complete prat!”
She stared at him for a long moment. Then said, quieter, “Yeah. He is.”
Fred blinked. “Why are you even with him, then?”
She shook her head. “I know he’s no prince. But it’s complicated.”
Fred’s voice softened. “Doesn’t have to be.”
Their eyes locked. And in his - now hers - what he saw wasn’t some prim, perfect Malfoy princess. She was just a girl who kept her armor sharp because everyone around her was holding a dagger.
Fred took a shaky breath. “You deserve better, you know.”
She didn’t answer that. “Come on, we’ve got to head back to our common rooms before curfew. We’ve got school tomorrow and George is no closer to finding a cure than I am to getting used to this.”
———————————————————————
If there was one upside to being in Fred’s body, it was that no one expected her to act like a Malfoy.
She wasn’t watched. Wasn’t whispered about. Wasn’t expected to sit straight or speak with bite. As Fred, she could sprawl across a couch in the Gryffindor common room and throw a Fizzing Whizzbee at Lee Jordan without someone gasping in horror at her ‘lack of grace’.
She could laugh too loudly. Slouch. Curse without anyone threatening to report her to her father.
After a full day of classes, she was sort of dreading going back to herself. She liked his life. Liked his friends. But using Fred’s body came with…drawbacks. Like using the bathroom.
She’d tried to avoid it at first. Really, she did. But eventually, the laws of biology won out, and she found herself standing in the boys’ loo in front of a row of urinals, arms stiff at her sides, muttering, ‘I cannot believe this is my life’.
The awkwardness was soul-scarring. Though now she was somewhat used to it. What she wasn’t used to, was what came next.
While washing her hands (for an excessive amount of time), one of the girls in Gryffindor - one who’d always flirted with Fred - walked in. For a moment she froze, wondering if she’d accidentally walked into the wrong bathrooms. But with a quick scan she realised, no, she was in the men’s toilets. Which meant this girl had just walked into the boys’ bathroom. With purpose.
“Oh, there you are,” she said sweetly, twirling her hair around her finger. “I was hoping we’d bump into each other alone…”
She stepped too close. Her smile was syrupy. And her hand actually brushed Fred’s - her - arm.
She stepped back immediately with practiced ease. “Nope. No. Not happening.”
The girl blinked. “What?”
“I mean, uh—” she tried in Fred’s voice, “Not really in the mood for…mingling? I’m having…an existential crisis. I might cry.”
The girl stared at her. “Are you okay?”
“No.” She fled.
The halls were beginning to clear as the last bell rang for the afternoon, and the castle started to settle into its usual, murmuring chaos of students rushing toward dinner or the common rooms.
Fred - still in her body - was halfway down the Charms corridor when she grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him into a broom cupboard with more force than she intended. His frame was stronger than she’d anticipated.
The door slammed shut and he blinked. “We have to stop meeting like this.” He drawled in her voice.
She was standing in front of him, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes wild.
“I hate your life,” she snapped.
Fred blinked again. “Fair.”
“I thought being you would get me away from being physically harassed for a few days, but no. I was wrong. I was cornered in the loo by some giggling lunatic who tried to flirt with me while stroking my arm like I was a bloody Niffler.”
Fred tried to stifle a laugh and failed. “A Niffler?”
“Do not laugh at me,” she hissed. “I was almost fondled in front of a grimy mirror.”
Fred coughed. “Okay. That’s fair. Still can’t have been worse than when Pucey tried to fondle me under my clothes.”
“That’s pretty much my daily routine.” She stopped pacing. He instantly regretted the joke.
“Yeah, okay,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “I get why you’re so mad all the time. Being you sucks. Your friends suck.”
She arched a brow at him.
He continued, quieter now. “I tried. I really did. I let Daphne talk my ear off about what outfit is best for date nights, and Blaise asked me three times if I wanted to sneak out and ‘go people-watching’ by the Black Lake. Which I think was code for ‘let’s go bully some kids, unless you let me hit it. If so I’m down for that too’.”
She sighed, leaning back against the shelves. Fred’s voice softened. “They don’t actually like you, do they?”
She didn’t look at him. “Maybe they do,” she muttered. “They just…have funny ways of showing it.”
Fred shook his head. “No, they respect your last name. Your image. I’m not that convincing at playing you, but none of them have noticed any difference. They don’t really know you. Don’t seem to care to.”
Silence settled between them, heavy and a little suffocating. Then she said, “You know, I used to think you were the school’s biggest womaniser.”
Fred blinked. “I’m not a womaniser.” He stepped closer. “Seriously. People think I am because I flirt. Because I joke. But I’ve never been with anyone, not really.”
She stared at him. “I believe you.” She admitted. “Since becoming you, there have been three seperate rumours about you hooking up with girls in bathrooms or abandoned corridors. Obviously lies.”
“I guess neither of our lives are all they’re cracked up to be,” Fred sighed.
There was a beat of silence. Then another. Then the strangeness of it all caught up with them. She was staring at her own face. Her own eyes. Her own mouth. And behind them, it was him. And he was looking at her - his own reflection - but with a softness she didn’t expect. It was…deeply unsettling.
Intimate, in a way that twisted something in her stomach. “I need to leave,” she said suddenly.
Fred stepped back. “Yeah. Me too. Definitely. Air. I need air.”
They fumbled for the door at the same time, hands brushing. Both recoiled like they’d been burned.
“Don’t forget we’re meeting George at midnight,” she said quickly.
They slipped out separately, into the dimming corridor, hearts racing and thoughts spinning.
———————————————————————
The Slytherin common room was still and dark, lit only by the faint green glow from the glass windows that looked into the murky depths of the Black Lake. Shadows moved like fish behind the glass.
Fred was tiptoeing carefully across the cold stone floor, not even bothering to walk like she walked: graceful, deliberate, slightly annoyed at everything. There was no point now when there was no one to witness it.
He was halfway to the exit when a familiar voice slid through the darkness like an icy knife. “Out for a stroll, sister?”
Fred froze. Draco Malfoy stepped out from between two high-backed armchairs, arms crossed, his blonde hair sleek and perfect. His eyes, however, were sharp as razors.
Fred turned slowly, remembering to lift his chin the way she did, to arch one brow like she wasn’t even mildly impressed.
“Just…couldn’t sleep,” Fred said, voice carefully modulated. “Needed air.”
Draco’s lip curled. “Funny, considering you’ve spent all term claiming how beneath you sneaking about after curfew is.”
Fred tried a smile - her smile, tight and superior. “We can’t all be model children, Draco.”
Draco stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Are you mocking me?”
Fred blinked. “No. Just…being friendly.”
Draco scoffed. “Friendly? Since when have you been friendly to anyone? Honestly, are you high?”
Fred stared, caught off guard. Draco leaned in. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the weird way you’ve been acting lately. Laughing at stupid jokes. Wandering off. Getting caught talking to Gryffindors like you’re one of them. You’re lucky Father doesn’t know. He’d disown you.”
Fred didn’t speak. Couldn’t. There was never a time when any of his siblings had spoken to him like this little twit was now. Y/n as a person seemed to make far more sense now. The way she kept her walls so high. The way her voice always came with a bite. The way she never let herself look like she cared about anything, anyone. She and Draco might look like they moved in unison to outsiders, but inside they were no more friends than she and Fred had been.
Fred stood there in her skin, and for the first time, he truly felt its weight. “I’ll…be back before long,” he said, quieter.
Draco sneered, already walking away. “Try not to embarrass the family while you’re at it.”
Fred watched him go, a bitter taste rising in his mouth.
She was already waiting when Fred arrived in the empty Charms classroom. This time she was dressed in his usual Weasley chaos - slightly-wrinkled jumper, mismatched socks. He gave her a long look.
“You okay?” she asked, crossing her arms.
Fred hesitated. Then nodded. “Just…your brother’s a delight.”
She snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
George burst through the door a moment later, holding a silver vial triumphantly. “Guess who’s brewed a potentially functional reversal potion?”
They both stared. “Keyword being potentially,” George added.
Fred took it without hesitation, uncorked it, and grimaced. “If I wake up with horns, I’m blaming you.”
He drank it. She followed, nose wrinkled. The potion was warm and thick, sliding down like honey laced with pepper.
They both waited.
Nothing happened.
George winced. “Right. That’s disappointing.”
“Wait, I feel something,” Fred whispered, noting a stirring in his stomach. Y/n and George stared at him expectedly, waiting for any kind of change only for a loud burp to rip its way out of his mouth. “Nevermind.”
Y/n wrinkled her nose at the sound of it in her own voice. “I feel violated.”
George pulled out a notebook and started scribbling. “Alright, back to the cauldron.”
She paused. “Shouldn’t we tell Madam Pomfrey? She might—”
Both boys turned to stare at her like she’d just suggested dueling a Basilisk for fun. “Are you mental?” George balked. “No one can know. If the professors find out what we were experimenting with—”
“They’ll ask where we got the ingredients and where we found the banned spell components,” Fred finished.
George nodded. “And then it’s expulsion. Or worse, McGonagall’s disappointment.”
She sighed in frustration, “Well, it’s either that or my parents will flog me when they find out I let a Weasley take residence in my body. If you spoke to Draco, it won’t be long before he notices something is amiss.”
Fred leaned forward. “You’d really dob us in like that?”
She frowned. “I didn’t say I would. I just—” She stopped, then sighed. “Fine, I won’t say anything.”
Fred’s brows rose. “Seriously?”
“I’m not going to be the reason you both get expelled,” she said simply, then glanced at Fred. “Even if you are menaces to society.”
George narrowed his eyes. “So you’re effectively helping the Weasley twins willingly?”
She shrugged. “Consider it…a Slytherin investment. I expect the favour returned when I ask.”
Fred stared at her, chest oddly warm. Because for the first time, she’d sided with them. And she didn’t have to.
George clapped his hands. “Brilliant! Now, keep up the act, keep each other from doing anything idiotic, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll have the next draft by tomorrow night.”
They both nodded. As they turned to leave, Fred walked beside her in silence, then said softly, “Thanks…for not turning us in.”
She didn’t look at him, but her voice was steady. “You shouldn’t thank me. A few days ago I would never have done the same.”
Fred paused, then smiled faintly. “Yeah. I know.”
They split at the corridor, two people in the wrong bodies, walking toward different dorms, both more confused by their growing alliance than they’d ever been before.
———————————————————————
She had never taken a fast shower in her life. At least, not until she was standing in Fred Weasley’s body, with his limbs, his muscles, his broad shoulders, his…well.
Let’s just say this wasn’t like showering in her body.
At first, she did what she always did: eyes forward, no nonsense. Practical. Efficient.
The Gryffindor boys’ bathroom smelled like cedar and something sharp and masculine - soap, probably. The tiles were cracked, and one of the taps screeched like a banshee. The mirror was fogged up with streaks and notes drawn in condensation: Lee farts in his sleep — G.
She should’ve been in and out in three minutes flat.
She wasn’t.
The water steamed around her as she reached for the soap, her fingers brushing across Fred’s chest - her chest, now - and her breath caught just slightly.
This body felt so different from her own. Broader. Rougher. Which made sense, given it belonged to someone who spent time on brooms and in prank-induced explosions and Quidditch collisions.
But there were lithe muscles where she hadn’t expected them. Scars, too. One just below the collarbone she hadn’t noticed before. She traced it lightly with a finger, wondering what stupid invention had left that mark.
And then, curiosity grew.
She bit her lip, glanced toward the door even though she was alone, and slowly let her eyes drop.
“Oh,” she breathed, blinking. She hadn’t meant to look. Truly. But once she had…
“Okay,” she whispered, cheeks burning even in Fred’s body, which felt wildly unfair. “That’s…not unimpressive.”
She stared a second too long, then scolded herself. “Merlin’s beard, pull it together.”
But the weirdest part was that she didn’t just see him. She felt him. Or herself. Whatever. Every shift of the shower spray over his skin, the brush of wet hair on his neck, the way his lungs filled his chest. She felt it all from the inside.
And it made her dizzy. Not in a bad way.
She leaned back against the damp tile, steam curling around her like smoke from a fire she hadn’t meant to start.
The worst part was, it wasn’t just physical curiosity.
Well, okay, part of it was physical. He was, fine, yes, objectively attractive. Muscular in a way she hadn’t expected, but not bulky. Lean, defined. His body felt like it was always ready to run, to leap into danger, or mischief, or both.
But there were little things, too. Scars. The freckles on his collarbones that didn’t match George’s. The faint twist in the left side of his jaw when he clenched it, like he did when he was trying not to laugh.
For the first time, she realised he wasn’t just a carbon copy of his twin. Not a joke waiting to be told, or just another Gryffindor with too much hair and not enough sense. He was Fred.
Fred who argued too much. Who stared too long. Who noticed when her shoulders tensed in a room full of people she called friends. Fred who’d protected her body from Adrian when even she didn’t have the courage to. Fred who stood up to Draco in her skin.
She didn’t want to think about what that meant. Not yet. Not when she was naked and flustered and very much in the wrong body.
A knock rattled the door.
“Oi, you fall in? You’ve been in there forever,” came George’s voice from outside.
She jumped violently, nearly slipping on the soap.
“I’m, I’m fine!” she called out, voice cracking, much deeper than she meant. “Just…washing my armpits!”
George paused. “Takes that long? What’s in there, a forest?”
“Go away!” she shouted, frantically turning off the tap and grabbing for a towel.
“Alright, alright!” George laughed, footsteps retreating.
She leaned against the wall, dripping and red-faced. “Merlin help me,” she muttered.
Wrapping herself tightly in the towel, she caught a glimpse of Fred’s reflection in the fogged mirror. Fred stared back. Damp hair. Wet lashes. A blush creeping up the neck.
Not just a Weasley. Not one of the twins. Just Fred. And that was the worst part. Because now that she’d seen the difference…She wasn’t sure she could unsee it.
———————————————————————
Fred woke with a snort and a mouthful of drool on her pillow.
For one disoriented second, he forgot he wasn’t himself. Then the unfamiliar silk sheets, the impossibly neat dorm, and the scent of expensive perfume snapped it all back.
“Shit,” he muttered, bolting upright.
He looked at the clock on her bedside table. Already five minutes into first period.
He ran a hand through her sleep-tangled hair, groaning. Skipping class would’ve been his go-to, usually. But she’d murder him if he ruined her spotless attendance record, and honestly, he didn’t want to make her life harder than it already was.
So he grabbed her satchel, shrugged on her robes inside out, and turned for the door, only to catch his foot on the edge of something hard, jutting out from beneath the bed.
Thunk.
“Merlin’s—” Fred crashed to his knees with a loud clatter, just in time to watch a small wooden box tumble open and spill its contents across the floor.
Dozens of letters, tied in bundles with ribbon and wax seals.
At first, he moved to scoop them back up, fully intending to stuff everything away and bolt, but then a name caught his eye.
Lucius Malfoy.
He frowned, hesitated, then picked up the top letter. He read it. Then another. And another. Each one twisted deeper into his gut.
“You will do as you’re told. The Puceys are a respectable bloodline and Adrian is a fitting match. You will not embarrass us further by drawing attention to yourself with your ridiculous attitude.”
“Your opinions are not welcome in this house. You are a child. You will believe what we tell you to believe.”
“We are tired of your…independent thinking. It’s unbecoming of a daughter with our name.”
Fred’s stomach clenched as he reached the last envelope. Unsealed, torn at the corner, as if she’d written it in a rage and never sent it.
The handwriting was unmistakably hers. The parchment was blotchy with what might’ve been ink. Or tears.
“I won’t be your pawn. I won’t marry someone I don’t care about just so you can play politics. You talk about blood like it’s the only thing that matters. Like it’s all that makes a person worthy of life. I don’t believe in your cause. I don’t want to be a Malfoy anymore. I’m done pretending.”
Fred exhaled, the paper trembling in his fingers. She’d never said any of this aloud. Not even hinted. He suddenly remembered how she softened, just slightly, when no one was looking. She was drowning. And no one knew.
The door burst open with a slam. Fred flinched, guiltily dropping the letter.
She stood in the doorway - in his body - panting slightly, dressed in rumpled Gryffindor robes and with fire in her eyes.
“You skipped class?! I skipped class because you skipped class, and now—”
She stopped. Saw the letters. Saw the one in his hand, and went completely still.
Fred rose slowly to his feet, the letter half-folded, but not hidden.
“I didn’t mean to—” he started.
She looked at him - herself - and then looked away, jaw tight, hands flexing at her sides. “You weren’t supposed to see those.”
Fred stepped forward, voice quiet. “Why didn’t you send this?”
She didn’t answer.
He kept going. “You were going to stand up to them. Tell them to get stuffed. That you didn’t believe in their bloodline crap. That you didn’t want Adrian. That you didn’t want any of it. And then you didn’t.”
Her throat bobbed. “Because I didn’t know if I could survive what came after.”
Fred blinked. That admission hit him like a Bludger to the chest.
“I wanted to,” she said softly. “I wrote it a dozen times. But they always reminded me of what I’d lose. My inheritance. My safety. My brother might not even look at me again. And as much as I hate him sometimes, he’s…he’s all I’ve got.”
Fred lowered the letter. “You have more than that now.”
She looked up, eyes glimmering with hope.
“Look, I’m not saying I understand all of it,” Fred said. “But I do know what it feels like to have everyone expect you to be something you’re not. I know what it feels like to want to scream at the world just to be heard.”
Her lips quirked bitterly. “And what would the world say back, Fred?”
He shrugged. “Depends how loud you scream.”
She laughed once, sharp and short, but her face brightened.
Fred folded the letter and handed it back. “For what it’s worth…I think you’re brave. Braver than I ever gave you credit for.”
Silence stretched between them. And for the first time, there was no tension. No snarling. No walls. Just two people, looking at each other through borrowed eyes, and finally seeing.
She cleared her throat. “We should…go. We’re already late.”
Fred nodded. “Yeah. But…thanks. For letting me see this.”
“I didn’t let you.”
He winced. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”
But she didn’t snap at him. She just picked up the last letter, smoothed it carefully, and tucked it back in the box. Then said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it. “But I’m glad you did.”
———————————————————————
The courtyard was buzzing with students, coats and scarves wrapped tight against the crisp late-autumn air. Leaves tumbled across the cobblestones, gold and red and brown, scattering beneath boots and the shuffle of books.
They sat near the fountain under a stretch of stone archways. Fred and her, still in each other’s bodies, lounging on the bench like they’d done it a hundred times. A week ago, she wouldn’t have been caught dead sitting next to him, let alone laughing with him like it was normal.
But now…it felt oddly easy. Natural, even.
He said something sarcastic under his breath, and she snorted - actually snorted - covering her mouth with his freckled hand.
Fred smirked at the sound. “You know, for someone who threatened to castrate me with a hex if I made her look bad, you’re not doing a great job yourself.”
She rolled her eyes. From across the courtyard, a group of Slytherins - Pansy, Blaise, and Theodore Nott - gawked openly. On the other side, Angelina Johnson nearly dropped her bag.
“Okay,” Fred muttered, nodding toward them. “Am I imagining things, or are we the talk of the entire bloody school?”
She followed his gaze. “They’re probably wondering what I’m doing fraternizing with a Weasley.”
He raised a brow. “And you don’t care?”
She tilted her chin, eyes catching the sun like shards of glass. “I did. I don’t anymore.”
Fred blinked. He wasn’t sure what stunned him more: the words, or how easily she said them.
Before he could respond, someone sprinted toward them, shouting breathlessly, “Oi! You two! You’re not gonna believe it—”
George skidded to a stop in front of them, practically vibrating with excitement, waving a sloshing vial of turquoise potion in the air.
“I finally cracked it!” he beamed. “I know what went wrong with the last one. The fluxweed needed seven full turns, not six, and I stabilised the basilisk spine!”
Fred and y/n shot to their feet simultaneously, hope and nerves clashing like fire and ice in their chests.
“You’re serious?” Fred asked.
“As a screaming mandrake,” George grinned.
They exchanged a look. This was it. No more pretending. No more awkwardly styled clothes or embarrassing showers or learning what each other liked for breakfast. No more reading letters that weren’t meant to be seen. Back to normal.
They followed George through the corridor, not running, but close to it. Silent the whole way.
In the same empty classroom where it had all started, the potion shimmered like melted glass in two separate goblets, swirling under candlelight.
“You sure this is safe?” Fred asked, still in her skin.
George smirked. “Only one way to find out.”
They clinked glasses like they were toasting a funeral and drank.
It hit all at once. Like pins and needles under the skin. Like a gust of wind inside out. Like being yanked into place.
She blinked, looked down, and instead of her eyes meeting freckles and long fingers, her hands were her own again.
Fred made a low noise of relief. “Oh thank Merlin, it didn’t turn us into toads.”
She looked up at him. At Fred. In his own body. The body she’d been living in for a week. He grinned at her, and it hit her in a way it hadn’t before - warm, unfiltered, and real.
He looked back. “So…” Fred rubbed the back of his neck, eyes searching hers. “Now what?”
She stared at him. Thought of all the things she wanted to say and didn’t. “I guess…we go back to normal,” she said.
“Yeah, guess we can.” The words were light. But they felt like they weighed a ton.
She stepped back. “Thanks for not completely ruining my life.”
Fred’s smile faltered just slightly. “You’re welcome.”
George, now quietly fiddling with a quill near the back of the room, wisely said nothing. She gave them both a short nod - shoulders squared, head high - and turned for the door.
She walked out into the hall, footsteps echoing like a countdown.
Halfway down the corridor, she paused. Waited. Listened. Hoped.
And when no footsteps followed - when Fred didn’t come running out after her, didn’t shout her name or crack a joke or do anything - her chest twisted.
She didn’t know what she’d expected. But…it wasn’t nothing.
So she forced herself forward. Back to the common room. Back to her carefully curated life. Back to normal. Even if it suddenly didn’t feel like it anymore.
———————————————————————
The Slytherin common room pulsed with green light from the Black Lake windows, but it felt colder than usual. Sharp-edged and suffocating. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, shallow and high-pitched, the kind that scraped against her ears.
She sat curled in the far corner of a sleek velvet couch, spine stiff, drink untouched.
Adrian Pucey had his arm slung possessively across her shoulders, fingers lazily toying with the open edge of her collar. She could feel his knuckles brush against the skin just above her chest. Her jaw tightened but she remained silent.
“Did you hear about the Gryffindors?” drawled Pansy, perched nearby with a glass of red wine she definitely hadn’t gotten legally. “Won their game. Throwing one of their charming little parties. I bet Weasley’ll be dancing on a table before midnight.”
“Which one?” Blaise smirked.
“Does it matter?” Pansy giggled. “They’re both just noise and freckles all the same.”
Her hands clenched in her lap. The name stabbed deeper than it should have. Fred.
Don’t think about him. Don’t miss him.
Adrian leaned in, murmuring in her ear, “Bet you’re glad you stopped that stupid little flirtation with the wrong side right now. I can only imagine how disgusting it is in that dump of a common room.”
She didn’t answer. Because she had been in that common room and it was fantastic. It was warm and inviting and sure, it was small and crowded, but that only made it all the more cozy.
And there she was thinking about him again. His body. His voice. His stupid laugh.
He’d made her feel seen. Known. And when she left - when she walked away hoping and expecting him to stop her - he didn’t. He’d let her go.
And now here she was. In a room of snakes who would devour her in a heartbeat if they knew how far she’d strayed. With a boy whose family was already picking out their wedding colors. With hands on her skin she didn’t want.
She hated it. All of it.
And worst of all, she hated herself for hating it. For hoping Fred might still care. For wishing things hadn’t gone back to ‘normal’.
Adrian’s fingers slid lower, brushing under her sleeve now, thumb tracing slow circles on her upper arm.
“Don’t,” she said, quietly but sharp.
He blinked, caught off guard. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t touch me like that.”
His brow furrowed. “Merlin, I was just—”
“I said don’t.”
The whole couch went awkwardly quiet. Blaise raised a brow. Daphne tried to cover a smirk.
Adrian pulled his hand back, scoffing under his breath. “Still got a some of his Gryffindor stench on you, huh? Or is it in you too? Did you let him do things to you?”
That did it. She stood up abruptly, eyes flashing.
“You know what?” she said, voice too loud for the room, too clear. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Daphne asked, tilting her head.
“To the party.”
Blaise laughed like it was a joke. “Crash a Gryffindor party? They’ll throw you out before you can even step foot in there.”
“And that’s if you could get past the portrait hole,” Daphne added. “Which is impossible.”
She smiled coldly. “Not if I know the password.”
Pansy blinked. “What?”
“I said,” she repeated, louder this time, “I know the Gryffindor common room password.”
The room stared. Adrian raised a brow. “How do you know that?”
She didn’t answer him. She just smirked. “You coming, or are you all talk?”
There was something electric in her voice now. Reckless and furious, and beautifully, unapologetically dangerous. She was done pretending. To hell with the Malfoy name. To her inheritance. To her family. She was finished playing their games for them.
And if Fred Weasley wasn’t going to chase her, then she’d walk into his world on her own terms.
———————————————————————
The Gryffindor common room was packed wall-to-wall with students, music thumping from an enchanted wireless, a Quidditch banner flashing in scarlet and gold across the ceiling. Someone had levitated a table into the air and turned it into a makeshift dance floor. Butterbeer flowed freely. Laughter echoed loud enough to shake the portraits off the walls.
Fred Weasley sat in the corner, dead-eyed, sipping a drink like it was poison.
Lee Jordan threw an arm around him. “You do know we won, right?”
George plopped down next to them, cheeks flushed from dancing. “Oi, what’s with the face? You look like someone hexed your broomstick into a mop.”
Fred stared glumly at the fire. “I’m fine.”
George snorted. “You’ve been wearing the same socks three days in a row and haven’t flirted with anyone since last week. You’re not fine, you’re pining.”
Lee leaned in, stage-whispering, “Do we need to stage an intervention?”
Fred rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing to fix.”
George crossed his arms. “Look, I don’t claim to understand girls—”
“You definitely don’t,” Fred muttered.
“—but I do know that if you want something, you go after it. You don’t just sit here brooding like a rejected Victorian heroine.”
Fred let out a heavy breath. “It doesn’t matter.”
George frowned. “What do you mean it doesn’t—?”
“She doesn’t want me,” Fred snapped. “Alright?”
That quieted them both. Fred ran a hand through his hair, eyes fixed on a knot in the wooden floorboard. “I’ve watched her all week. Laughing with those Slytherin twats again. Hanging off Adrian bloody Pucey’s arm like he’s Prince Charming. If she wanted me, she wouldn’t be doing that.”
George’s brow furrowed. “You sure that’s not just what she wants you to see?”
Fred shook his head, frustration boiling beneath his skin. “Doesn’t matter. She went back to that life. I gave her the chance to stay. She walked.”
Lee tilted his head. “Did she walk, or did you just not follow?”
Fred didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to. Because the truth was, he hadn’t followed her. He’d sat in that stupid classroom watching her walk out, waiting for the right moment to say something - to do something - but it never came. And now it was too late. She was smiling again. Just not with him.
He took another sip of butterbeer, barely tasting it. “I just…” he said finally, quietly, “I miss her. Even if she doesn’t miss me.”
George and Lee exchanged a look. Then George sighed, standing. “Well, you can keep moping,” he said, brushing the crumbs off his jumper. “Or you can man up, get off your arse, and do something about it.”
“Like what?” Fred muttered. “She’s not just going to walk through the door.”
The portrait hole creaked open. Fred didn’t look, but Lee went still. “Mate…”
“What now?” Fred groaned.
George’s eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Fred glanced up and his muscles stiffened at the sight of her. She stepped into the Gryffindor common room like a storm wearing silk. Dark green robes, Slytherin crest blazing against the sea of red and gold, chin high, eyes sharp. She looked like she belonged there. Like she dared anyone to tell her she didn’t.
Fred was still staring at the door, half-drunk with adrenaline and confusion, as a group of smirking Slytherins entered behind her. Adrian Pucey by her side, of course. Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise, Daphne, even Pansy. Green in a sea of scarlet.
The whole common room fell silent. Fred, George, Harry, and Ron were already on their feet, drinks forgotten.
“What the hell is this?” Ron growled, fists balling.
Harry scowled. “You can’t just barge in here.”
Fred didn’t move. His eyes locked on her. She was glaring straight at him, chin tilted defiantly, like she wanted him to start something. Like she dared him to.
He opened his mouth to say something sharp - something reckless and territorial - but stopped. He looked at her again and saw it was not arrogance - not smugness, not her usual ice - but anger. Hurt. Pain. Directed at him.
So he swallowed his pride and turned to the others. “Stand down,” he said tightly. “Let them in.”
“What?” Ron hissed. “Fred—”
“They’re just here to party.”
George blinked. “You serious?”
Fred nodded, still watching her. “Let them have their fun.”
Then he walked off, disappearing into the crowd.
The party roared back to life. The music was louder, the drinks stronger, the tension mostly forgotten. But Fred didn’t stop watching her from across the room.
He saw Adrian press into her space. Saw her shrink away, only to be pulled back. He watched her fake a smile, eyes darting toward the door as if she wanted to leave. Then Pucey finally moved away, leaving her on her own for the first time that night. Accompanied by her brother, Daphne and Pansy. She still looked bored out of her mind.
He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Until George came flying up to him, face pale, voice low. “You need to hear this.”
Fred followed him toward the drinks table. Crabbe and Goyle stood laughing dumbly with Adrian, who was pouring something stronger than butterbeer into two glasses.
“—bloody cold fish, but once she’s had enough of this, she’ll loosen up,” Adrian was saying with a smirk. “Bet she’ll finally let me get under those robes tonight. She’ll be too drunk to care.”
Fred’s vision went red. In a split second, the table exploded.
Fred tackled Adrian with a roar, knocking him to the floor as glasses shattered around them. Fists flew. Adrian’s nose cracked audibly. Someone screamed.
“You filthy, scummy bastard!” Fred yelled, pinning him.
“Fred!” George grabbed his arm.
Fred shook him off, standing over Adrian’s bloody, groaning form. His chest heaved. The room went dead silent.
“All Slytherins, out!” Fred barked, turning on the room.
Gasps sounded Ike alarm bells. Blaise raised an eyebrow. “You don’t get to decide—”
“I said get out! Before I make you all look worse than Pucey.”
One by one, they turned to go, muttering, glaring, and dragging Adrian with them. Y/n moved to follow.
“Not you.” Fred’s voice cut across the room like a spell. He was panting, lip split, fists still trembling as he singled her out. “I let you get away once,” he said, voice low but clear. “I’m not letting it happen again.”
She stared at him, her stomach coming alive with butterflies like she’d never felt them before. The room stared at them. Fred stepped forward, eyes never leaving hers.
“This past week’s been hell without you. Every second. I hated not seeing you in the mirror. I hated going back to normal. Because normal sucks. Because I like you.”
She blinked and he rushed on before his bravery could fail him. “I know that’s weird. I mean, technically we were hanging out while you were me, which is a whole thing I can’t unpack right now. But even when you were me, you were still you. And I still liked you.”
He stepped closer. “I want to keep seeing you. I want to keep hanging out. I want you around. But not just around. I want to take you out. Really take you out. Show you what it’s like to be with someone who actually gives a damn about you.”
The room held its breath and she looked up at him, unwavering. “I want that too,” she said softly. “Been waiting to hear you say it all week.”
Fred’s face lit up. “So you’ll go on a date with me?”
“I will.”
He grinned. “Good. Because I’ve been dying to kiss you.”
And in front of everyone, he grabbed her waist and kissed her. Deep and unashamed. Shocked gasps littered the space.
“MOTHER AND FATHER WILL HEAR ABOUT THIS!” Draco shrieked near the doorway. “They’ll disown you!”
She broke the kiss just long enough to smirk at her brother. “I hope they do.”
Then she kissed Fred again, harder this time, as the Slytherins stormed out in a flurry of angry green.
Finally breaking apart - only when they ran out of air, chests heaving - Fred beamed at her with the light of a thousand stars. “Let’s get you some real food.”
Taking her over to the buffet table, Fred handed her a plate of snacks as they sat curled up on the couch, laughter and music still swirling around them.
“You know, as far as grand confessions go, I’d have to say you did pretty amazingly.” She admitted, biting into a treacle tart.
“Really? Because there’s one more thing I need to confess,” Fred winced sheepishly. “I may have broken one of the rules and taken a peek while I was showering.”
“Frederick Gideon Weasley, you pervert!” She gasped, though it was quickly followed by an amused giggle.
“You’re far less enraged about this than I thought you’d be,” he frowned at her lack of a reaction.
She smirked and shrugged, slowly sucking the pastry crumbs off her fingers in a way that was entirely too seductive to have not been purposeful. “I looked too.”
Fred choked. “You what—”
She leaned in. “Do you want to look again?”
He froze, mouth parted, brain ceasing to function as his heart pounded in his chest. “Uhhh—”
She grabbed his hand and stood, tugging him toward the stairs. “Come on, Weasley. Let’s compare notes.”
And before he could come up with a single clever response, she dragged him up to his dormitory and locked the door behind them.
Fred stumbled backward slightly as she pulled him into the dormitory and shut the door with a quiet, definitive click. The noise of the party downstairs faded instantly, muffled by thick stone walls and the distant hum of the castle at night.
He stood in the middle of the room awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, heart thudding erratically in his chest. “So… uh—”
She turned to him slowly, that smirk back on her lips. The one that always meant trouble. Only now, it was aimed at him. And Fred had never been more willing to let it consume him.
“You talk too much,” she said, crossing the space between them in slow, deliberate steps.
Fred opened his mouth to argue but faltered when she pressed her palm against his chest - warm through the fabric - and gave a gentle push. She’d missed the feeling of his body. He sat down on the edge of his bed without thinking, legs parting slightly for balance, his hands falling to the mattress behind him.
She looked at him for a long moment. Then, with a grace that made his brain short-circuit, she climbed onto his lap, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs. Her robes fell open slightly with the movement, revealing the curve of her thighs where her skirt rode up and the long stretch of skin between her waistband and her blouse.
Fred forgot how to breathe. She was warm. Soft. And her body felt entirely different when it was atop his own. His hands hovered uncertainly in the air at her sides, not quite brave enough to touch her, but not willing to let her go either.
“You okay?” she asked quietly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear.
He looked up at her with wide eyes. “Define ‘okay.’ Because I think I’m somewhere between dying and ascending.”
She laughed and the sound melted straight into his bones.
“I just…” he mumbled, his voice dropping to something hoarse and vulnerable, “I watched you brush off Adrian so many times. And now you’re…this.” He gestured vaguely to the way she was sitting on his lap. “You’re kind of terrifyingly good at manoeuvring this whole…situation.”
She tilted her head. “That surprise you?”
He nodded, barely managing a grin. She leaned in, voice softer now. “I never wanted Adrian.”
Fred’s brows lifted.
“Not like I want you.”
He swallowed thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.. Then her hips shifted slightly to get comfortable and the movement sent a hot jolt up his spine as she accidentally brushed against the crotch of his pants.
Fred gasped, hands gripping the sheets on either side of his hips like they were the only thing keeping him on the planet. His eyes were glassy when she leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Do you want me too?” she whispered.
A low, guttural groan escaped his throat before he could stop it. “Merlin, yes.”
Then she kissed him like she was drowning and he was the only source of air. It was nothing like their first - hurried and chaotic in the heat of a public moment. This kiss was deliberate. Slow. Starving. She sank into him like she’d been waiting years for this exact second, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jumper.
Fred finally found his hands, one anchoring at her lower back, the other sliding up to cup her cheek as he kissed her back like his life depended on it. He tilted his head, deepening it, mouths slanting together in sync, lips parting with soft, wet sounds that echoed obscenely in the quiet of the room.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her lips swollen, her breathing shallow. Fred’s pupils were blown wide, his cheeks pink, chest rising in quick bursts.
“You’re so gorgeous,” he started, but she kissed him again before he could finish the sentence.
This time, she tangled one hand in his hair, tugging gently at the roots as her other trailed down his chest. Fred moaned low into her mouth, hips involuntarily pressing up into hers.
Her robe slipped off one shoulder. He leaned forward to press his lips to the newly exposed skin, reverent and shaking, tracing the line of her collarbone with kisses. Slow, searching, like he was memorising the shape of her.
“You sure you’ve never done this before?” she teased breathlessly, head tipping back.
Fred laughed against her skin, voice muffled and raw. “If I’m dreaming, don’t you dare wake me.”
She kissed his jaw. His neck. Her thighs tightened around him and Fred’s grip at her hips tightened too, drawing her impossibly closer.
Their bodies pressed flush together, the heat between them simmering, tingling, all sparks and friction and wandering hands that hadn’t quite decided where to stop.
He looked at her again. Saw the hunger in her eyes. The dare. The promise. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” she whispered.
Fred shook his head instantly. “Don’t you dare stop.”
She grinned and kissed him again. Longer and deeper. And this time when he groaned, it came from somewhere primal.
Their limbs tangled, kisses growing more heated, laughter mixing with moans, time suspended as lips met skin and hands wandered to all the right places, but not quite all the way. Yet.
Eventually, they broke apart just enough to rest their foreheads together, both of them flushed and gasping. “Merlin, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” He breathed into her open mouth.
Description: The castle was in pieces. The war ended only moments ago, but for Theodore, nothing matters except finding you in the wreckage. You were supposed to make it. You had to make it.
Warnings: War trauma, blood, near-death experience, swearing, emotional distress, depictions of death (non-graphic), mild dark themes, swearing, unedited
Reblogs, comments, and likes are extremely appreciated. <3
...
The castle was still burning.
The air was so warm.
Though all Theodore felt was the cold cement below him.
He tasted the thick metallic blood that was slowly reaching the back of his throat, desperately trying to rack his mind over what had just happened.
He smelled smoke so close it was as if he was inhaling it just as he would his cigarette.
'oh fuck, I'm absolutely dying' he thought to himself, or had he said it out loud?
His closed eyes winced, remembering the flashes of green, had someone killed him, or even tried to? Was he dead? At the hand of someone he knew, or maybe not. Maybe it wasn’t even meant for him. That's the thing with war, it didn’t have to mean anything to kill you, it just does.
Most of his body stiffened numb. His mind racing, where was his wand? He couldn't feel it between his fingers; he could hardly feel anything.
Where was he? Holy shit. Where are you.
With that, he jolted up, like a force against nature. As he sat up he took a gasp of air so heavy like a newborn's first breath, his hands wild from the rocking floor to his hair.
His first instinct was to get on his feet. His unsteady balance rocked as he paced to find you.
'where are you, no seriously where the fuck are you' he thought as he searched the faces of those around him
"You better be fucking alive" he said out loud, Theodore became so determined to reach you he paid no attention to the wreck around him, not to the blood stains that painted over every second step he took nor the cries he heard from what was once the great hall.
He looked up for a brief moment, he saw the mother and fathers, friends and peers weep over their losses. Bodies laying cold so close together, so many. So he only allowed himself a brief moment, he wouldn't go in, why would he, you aren't in there waiting to be mourned. Keep walking, he told himself as he walked past, not through the great hall.
His stride turned manic.
The constant ringing in his ear became a stopwatch, as if he was running out of time before he would find you.
Until he stopped in his tracks.
All that blood he tasted in his mouth, he was about to throw it up.
There you were.
His heart didn’t stop; it slammed.
“No—no, no—” he roared
He fell to his knees when he reached you, if you could even call it that, it was a pathetic attempt get to you, to grip your shoulders, to shake you up, he has fallen his chest colliding with ground next to you, the ground giving way like it wants to swallow him whole.
When his hand gripped your cold hand, he dipped his head into your chest, desperate to feel the rise and fall of breath.
“Don’t do this,” he rasps, his voice barely there. “Don’t fucking do this to me.”
He presses harder against your chest with the flat of his hand, then curls it into a fist and lets it hover, useless. Like he could beat your heart back to life. Like he would, if that’s what it took.
“I’m right here,” he chokes, his forehead pressed to yours now, the dirt between you be damned. “You hear me? I’m right fucking here.”
He couldn't feel anything, maybe that was because he was losing all control of his senses at the sight of you like this.
You don’t react. You don’t move. You don’t even twitch.
And that’s what makes the panic crawl up his throat, because if you were hurting, you’d scream. If you were okay, you’d speak.
But you don’t do either.
You just lie there. Limp. Quiet. Unbreathing.
He dragged you onto his lap, he cradled your face with his dirty hands.
“Wake up. Please. Just get up.”
“I swear to Merlin, I’ll never smoke again. I-I won’t steal your pumpkin juice without asking, I swear—”
His hand skated from your cheek, to your neck, to your chest.
Why weren’t you breathing?
“Breathe,” he begged. “The fuck, breathe—”
He shook you. Gentle at first. Then harder.
“Breathe for me”
He clutched your shoulders and hauled you upright, holding you tight against his chest like his ribs could do what your lungs wouldn’t.
“Breathe in me, breathe with me, just fucking breathe.”
It came out like a sob. He didn’t care, he was angry at you now, get up.
...
Somewhere far off, there was a sound.
Ash. Stone. Burnt magic. Blood. You couldn’t tell if it was yours. Couldn’t tell if it mattered.
Everything felt heavy. Your ears rang. Your knees were scraped raw. Something was pressing down on you. Or maybe your body was caving in from the inside.
It’s over. That’s what it's saying.
But it doesn’t feel over. Not when your ears are ringing again. Not when your knees are scraped raw. Not when the only thing you can feel is the ache in your lungs.
Focus.
You could hear someone.
There it was again.
Saying your name like a prayer.
You knew that voice.
Theo.
“Please. Look at me.”
You tried.
You really tried.
Your limbs wouldn’t move.
“No—no, come on,” he sobbed. “Breathe. Please. Please”
You wanted to. You wanted to more than anything.
But your chest wouldn’t lift.
You were so fucking tired.
And he’s sobbing now, arms pulling you up into him, holding you against his heartbeat like he’s trying to give it to you. Like he’ll give you anything if you’ll just stay.
“I don’t care. Breathe for me. Breathe in me. Breathe with me. Just fucking breathe.”
You feel it. That crackle, like lightning in your ribs. The sharp sting of return.
And then air.
A gasp.
Yours.
...
The feeling was so faint, he thought he imagined it. But then again, there it was. A breath. A real one. A shallow, wheezing drag of air against his collarbone.
He jerks back, his face flinches. Stares. His eyes are wide, wild. Red.
And there you finally were, eyes opening, he felt your chest inhale and exhale.
“You stupid, stubborn girl. You scared the shit out of me.”
You tried to smile. It barely reached your lips, but he could tell
You felt so exhausted you closed your eyes again, Theo felt panic surge in his chest.
“Baby, look at me, eyes open, OK?”
“I’m tired.”
“I don’t care. You’re not dying in my arms, alright? You’re not doing that to me,” he began to shake you, to keep you awake, to keep you alive
You nod so gently that Theo lets out a groan.
He watched you nod, it was so polite, it shattered him.
Your eyes opened a little wider with each blink. You shifted, just enough to pull back slightly, glancing around in a daze.
Theo’s hand went to your heart. He had to check again. Just to make sure.
Still beating. Still real.
When your breathing evened out, slow and full, Theodore let himself fall back, his body collapsing next to you.
He let out a scream of agony at the idea of you dying, at the sight of finding your unmoving body just moments ago, each time he blinked, exhaustion, everything
“You scared the shit out of me,” he panted, rubbing his face.
You turned your head toward him.
“You scream like a girl.” Your sympathetic eyes meet his
He barked a what he could make of a laugh. It wasn’t pretty, but it was real. A sound that shouldn’t exist in a place like this, and yet here it was.
He wiped a hand down his face, smearing blood, trying to get a grip on himself, on you, on the fact that you were still here.
“I hate you,” he breathed, the kind of thing you only say to someone you love so much.
You think you laughed, too, or maybe it was just an exhale.
“Yeah, well,” he shrugged weakly. “You weren’t fucking breathing.”
“I am now,” you whispered.
You leaned your head against his shoulder. The ruins of the battle echoed around you in silence.
And then
“Are they okay?” you asked. “The others — Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Mattheo, Lorenzo...?
He blinked. Looked around. “We all got separated. But I think I- I hope”
“Theo?”
It was Draco’s voice, his footsteps crunching under rubble.
Then Blaise.
Then Lorenzo’s wild laugh of relief.
Then Pansy sobbed. Mattheo’s yelling.
It was like fate was finally on your side there you all were, bloody, bruised, broken but fucking alive.
Everyone was talking at once, some yelling, some crying. You grabbed Pansy. Mattheo grabbed Theo. Blaise was hugging you even before you could protest.
Theo pulled you back into him, arms around your waist again. “We’re going home,” he murmured into your hair.
You blinked up
“We are home.”
“Look around, not anymore.”
You turned. “Then where?”
“My place,” he interrupted. “Ours, if you want.”
There was a long pause. Then he looked at the others.
"All of us" Theo stated. Pansy gave a low, agreeing nod
Draco scoffed, trying to mask the trembling in his hands. “Everyone will think we’re cowards for leaving.”
Mattheo spun on him. “We’re not running,” he snapped. “We’re surviving. Do you realise most of these people hate us? Hate our families?”
Silence.
No one argues.
They all know he’s right.
"They’ll look at our faces and see everything they lost. Everything they'll blame. You think they’ll thank us for bleeding beside them?” he continues
No one speaks.
“They’ll tolerate us. At best. And at worst?” Mattheo swallows hard. “They’ll destroy us, just like they wanted to destroy them.”
"We'll Apparate now, the house is hidden, it's not on records, it's perfect" Theo suggests
You all nod in agreement, holding out your hands, taking a deep breath, the air you could finally breathe was once again yours.
..........
Reblogs, comments, and likes are extremely appreciated. <3
ALSO THIS IS UNEDITED AND NOT REREAD SO IM TAKING A LEAP OF FAITH THAT IS MAKES SENSE ITS PAST 3AM AND I DONT HAVE THE ENEGRY TO READ IT BACK
Hello! My favorite song at the moment is bed chem sabrina carpenter
event; profile; nav;
4.6k words.
longer than i expected. istg i should call these long-ass fics instead of mini-fics.
hi anon! thank you so much for requesting!!
so since this song came from a summer album, it gave me summer vibes... as in, a summer romance vibe.
and who better to fill in the role than our favorite, italian reverie?
presenting.... none other than theo nott!
warnings: google translated italian, fluff, angst, use of y/n.
song: bed chem, sabrina carpenter
slytherin boy: theo nott
Italy in the summer was nothing short of magical. Ever since childhood, you had dreamt of wandering its sun-drenched streets, breathing in the scent of fresh espresso and warm pastries, getting lost in the hum of its language. Finally, after years of waiting—graduation behind you, a job secured—you seized the moment. Three months of careful planning had led to this: a solo summer in your dream country.
From the instant you arrived, Italy wove its spell around you. The rich culture, the lyrical cadence of the language, the way history seemed to press against the very walls of the cities—it all made your heart swell. Rome for the first week, Venice for the second, Verona for the third, before returning home to England. A carefully mapped-out itinerary, structured yet bursting with anticipation. And yet, only two days in, the thought of leaving already felt unbearable.
Your schedule was packed, each day a whirlwind of exploration. Today, you were on a mission—to find the restaurant your coworker had raved about. But somehow, amidst the maze-like streets, you lost your way. A wrong turn led you somewhere unexpected—quieter, tucked away from the usual tourist bustle. The air here felt different, carrying the aroma of fresh bread and roasted coffee.
That was when you saw it.
A small, unassuming café nestled into the corner of a street you hadn’t intended to walk down. At first, you nearly passed it by, lost in thought, until your hip accidentally brushed against a potted plant perched on an outdoor table. As you bent down to set it upright, your gaze traveled to the building—soft yellow paint, ivy cascading like a green waterfall over the doorway, curling around the windows as if cradling the café in a warm embrace.
Through the glass, maritozzo sat temptingly on display, golden and pillowy, just waiting to be devoured. Your stomach made the decision for you—you stepped inside without another thought.
The café had a charm that was impossible to ignore. Dim lighting, shelves stacked with books worn from time, the quiet murmur of conversation blending into the clinking of porcelain. You spotted the perfect table by the window and moved toward it, but something stopped you. A pull, inexplicable yet undeniable, tugging you gently in another direction.
You turned.
There he was.
A classic Italian gentleman, effortlessly poised, his fingers curled around a porcelain mug. Dark curls framed his chiseled features, his presence magnetic, as if he had been waiting for someone—perhaps, for you.
He sat there with an effortless grace, the kind that spoke of quiet confidence rather than arrogance. His strong jawline framed a face that seemed sculpted by the hands of an artist—sharp cheekbones softened only by the warm olive tone of his skin. His deep brown eyes, rich like freshly brewed espresso, carried an intensity that made it impossible to look away. They held stories, secrets, a depth that hinted at a life well-lived, or perhaps, one waiting to begin.
The soft curls of his dark hair, slightly tousled yet undeniably charming, brushed against his forehead, the kind you could easily imagine running your fingers through absentmindedly. His neatly pressed shirt, a shade of crisp white that contrasted beautifully against his sun-kissed skin, was unbuttoned just enough at the collar to suggest a sense of ease. The sleeves were rolled to his forearms, revealing toned muscles beneath, a glimpse of strength tempered by elegance.
As he lifted his coffee to his lips, the movement was deliberate, languid, as if savoring not just the drink but the moment itself. His fingers—long, graceful—curled around the porcelain mug, and you couldn't help but wonder how they might feel tracing against yours.
There was something about him—an air of mystery, a quiet magnetism—that pulled you in. A presence that demanded attention without asking for it. And in that instant, as the world outside continued to bustle on, he was the only thing that mattered.
His eyes locked onto yours, unflinching, electric—a mesmerizing shade of aquamarine that seemed almost unreal, like the sunlit waters of the Amalfi Coast. They held something—an unspoken challenge, curiosity, or perhaps recognition. A glint of amusement flickered beneath the depths, but there was something else too, something that sent a shiver down your spine. It was as if, in that single moment, he had unraveled you entirely—seen you in a way no one else had.
The way they caught the light, reflecting hints of seafoam and cerulean, made them impossibly captivating, as if they carried fragments of Italy itself. And just like that, without a single word, you knew—this summer, your summer, had shifted in a way you never anticipated.
Just like that, your summer had changed.
It didn't take long before you were at his apartment, tangled up in his sheets, bodies pressed close, the world outside forgotten, him feeding you strawberries with your head on his chest.
Your head rested against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into quiet contentment. He reached for a strawberry, holding it delicately between his fingers before pressing it gently to your lips. The sweetness burst against your tongue, mingling with the lingering taste of his kiss, and somehow, it all felt so natural.
It was intimate in a way you had never experienced before. Here you were, in the arms of a total stranger, yet somehow, you felt safer than you ever had in a long time. It had barely been two hours since you met, and he already knew so much—the tender details of your childhood, the wistful echoes of your first love.
You exhaled, staring at the soft rays of the golden setting sun filtering through the window. Was it him, or was it simply Italy itself—the spell this country seemed to weave around everything and everyone? Were all Italian men this effortlessly charming, this easy to talk to, to surrender yourself to?
"Come mai la tua bella testolina è così silenziosa, hmm?" he murmured, large hands sliding down your hair and brushing it away from your face.
You giggled, reaching for another strawberry and placing it between his lips. "I already told you I don't understand a word of Italian..."
"I've heard I'm a very good teacher," he replied with that confident, lazy smirk of his. "I could show you Italy better than any..." he paused, furrowing his brows slightly to think of the word. "guida turistica..."
Once again, you giggled softly, the moment he pressed his lips to your fingers to lick up whatever was left of the strawberry his mouth had just stolen from you. "tour guide?" you asked, trying to provide him with the correct word.
"Si. Tour guide. I can be yours, if you like..." He punctuated his suggestion with a series of open mouthed kisses along your neck and collarbones.
And just like that, all plans of going to Verona and Venice were out the window, and you rescheduled your return trip to a whole month later than your original return date.
His name was Theodore Nott, but you called him Teddy for short.
He had somehow managed you to move into his penthouse, where you spent every morning waking up in his bed, and the scent of freshly brewed espresso all over the penthouse.
Every morning, without fail, he insisted on spoiling you. Before the sun had fully risen over the terracotta rooftops, before the city outside had begun to stir, he was already at work in the kitchen, crafting something new—something special—for you.
The aroma would reach you first, warm and inviting, coaxing you from sleep before his voice did. And then, there he was, standing at the edge of the bed, tray in hand, a knowing smile playing at his lips. He never let you lift a finger.
It was never the same meal twice. One morning, perfectly flaky cornetti dusted with powdered sugar, paired with rich, velvety cappuccino. The next, eggs cooked just right, fresh tomatoes bursting with flavor, crusty bread straight from the bakery down the street. Then, perhaps, a delicate frittata, infused with fragrant herbs, the kind only someone born into the heart of Italian cooking could master.
He knew what he was doing. Better than half the chefs you had encountered. Every bite was a revelation, every flavor precise yet effortless, as if he were drawing from an endless well of knowledge passed down through generations.
And there, in the quiet glow of morning light, the two of you would share more than just the meal. Between sips of coffee and bites of something impossibly delicious, the conversations flowed—deep, unfiltered, woven with laughter and confessions.
It was indulgent, intimate in a way that felt rare, precious. You had never been cared for like this before, never been seen in such a quiet, effortless way.
And each morning, as he looked at you over the rim of his cup, you wondered how you could possibly go back to a life without this. Without him.
But both of you knew that this golden relationship you had wasn't meant to last. It would be over once the summer came to an end. It was nothing but a summer romance, no matter how real it felt.
Yet, despite knowing, neither of you spoke of it. The truth lingered between kisses, between laughter that melted into quiet sighs, between mornings wrapped in sheets that smelled of sun and him. It was there—in the way his touch lingered a moment too long, as if memorizing the feel of you. In the way you watched him, tracing every detail, as if trying to capture something fleeting, something slipping through your fingers.
It wasn’t just a romance. It felt bigger than that. Real, golden, drenched in the warmth of a summer that would soon end. But endings had a way of creeping in, of pressing against even the sweetest moments. The whispered promise of farewell was in every embrace, every shared meal, every sunset you watched together with unsaid words weighing in the silence.
And yet, despite it all, neither of you pulled away. Because for now—just for now—it was enough. It had to be.
He was true to his word. He showed you Italy better than any tour guide would. All the intimate places he spent his time at, all the tourist spots... everything.
And he did it with a kind of quiet pride, as if sharing these places with you meant something—meant more than just sightseeing. He led you through the winding alleys of Rome, past the bustling piazzas and into corners untouched by the hurried footsteps of tourists. The hidden cafés where the locals greeted him by name, the bookstore tucked away in a side street where he had spent lazy afternoons, the unmarked trattoria where the food was better than anything you’d find on a guide’s list.
But he didn’t ignore the classics. He took you to the Colosseum when the sun was soft, when the crowds hadn’t fully formed, so you could stand there in the open space and feel the weight of history pressing against your skin. He pointed out the details in Michelangelo’s work, things that even the guides didn’t mention. He let you linger at the Trevi Fountain, grinning when you tossed a coin in and made a wish, teasing you about what it might be.
"What did you wish for, cara?"
"Would you like to know?" you replied with an air of mystery and a suggestive raise of your eyebrow.
Venice came next, the city that felt suspended between reality and dream. He showed you how the water reflected the light just right in the early evening, how the gondoliers sang not for show, but because music was woven into the city’s bones.
And in Verona, he traced his fingers along the worn letters left at Juliet’s wall, smiling as you read them, as you let yourself believe—for just a moment—that love like that could live beyond legend.
He gave you Italy. Not the packaged version, not the curated one. He gave you the one he loved, the one that had shaped him, the one that mattered.
And in doing so, it became yours too.
He showed you Italy, and you showed him your soul.
He had given you Italy—the real Italy, the one written in hidden alleyways and the scent of fresh espresso, in the history etched into crumbling stone and the rhythm of a language that felt like poetry.
And in return, without meaning to, without even realizing it at first, you had given him pieces of yourself. The quiet corners of your heart, the stories tucked away for only the most deserving ears. The fears, the dreams, the moments that had shaped you. He saw them all—held them gently, as if they were something precious.
And somehow, he remembered all of it.
The way your fingers moved when tying your laces—quick, practiced, a subconscious rhythm you never thought twice about. The way you stirred your coffee absentmindedly, always three times, never more, never less. How your nose scrunched up ever so slightly before a sip, testing the temperature without thinking.
Then, of course, there was the pineapple on pizza—your unforgivable offense. He had gasped dramatically when you first admitted it, clutching his heart as if wounded by the mere thought.
"Mio Dio!" he had gasped, when he had first seen you put pineapple slices on your slice of the pizza he had spent four hours making for you at home, from scratch. "Stai rovinando tutto! This is a betrayal..." he declared, eyes alight with playful scandal, yet he still took your hand that evening, still kissed you like you belonged to every part of Italy.
And perhaps that was what struck you most—how easily he collected these pieces of you, storing them as if they were something worth keeping, worth cherishing.
It was fleeting, ephemeral, destined to fade when summer did.
But for now, he knew you, and you knew him.
It was unexpected—the way he let you in, the way he unraveled parts of himself that felt sacred, deeply personal.
He showed you the school where he had spent his earliest years, where he had first learned to chase dreams too big for a boy his age. He traced his fingers along the worn stone walls, the graffiti scrawled by restless students, and laughed as he recounted the trouble he used to get into, the teachers who never quite knew what to do with him.
Then, there was his childhood home—a modest place tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, walls filled with echoes of the past. He told you about summers spent on that tiny balcony, about the way his father used to hum old songs while cooking dinner, about the arguments, the celebrations, the life that had unfolded within those walls.
But it was when he brought you to her grave that everything shifted. His mother—the woman who had shaped him, guided him, loved him deeply, and left too soon. He didn’t speak much at first, just stood there, quiet, thoughtful, fingers brushing the cool stone. Then, slowly, he told you about her—the warmth of her presence, the lessons she had given him, the ache of losing her.
And in between, you lived with him—fully, unapologetically, as if time had no claim on the moments you shared.
You laughed until your stomach ached, until your cheeks hurt from smiling, until your laughter tangled with his and filled the spaces between you like music. You cried in ways you hadn’t before—not from sorrow, but from honesty, from the weight of stories told that had never been voiced so openly.
Together, you existed in a space untouched by reality, wrapped in something golden and fleeting. Neither of you spoke of the end, but it lingered, always, just beneath the surface.
Yet, somehow, that made it all the more beautiful.
And you loved him.
You loved him like you had never loved anyone else in your entire life. And he knew it.
Tangled up in the sheets after yet another round of him completely rocking your world, your head was resting on his chest when you tilted your head to look into his eyes and whisper the two little words that you had learnt on Google just for him.
"Ti amo..."
His grin stretched wide, unmistakable, almost wicked in its delight—the kind that sent a thrill down your spine, that made you wonder what thoughts ran through his mind in that exact moment. It was the kind of smile that could pull you in effortlessly, like a secret he was daring you to uncover, like he had already won a game you didn’t know you were playing.
The corners of his mouth curled with satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with mischief, amusement flickering beneath the striking aquamarine depths. He leaned forward slightly, as if savoring the way the words hung in the air between you, his fingers tracing absent patterns against the table, his body relaxed, utterly at ease.
Without hesitating, he said it back, "anch'io ti amo, tesoro."
But all good things eventually come to an end, and within the blink of an eye, your summer had come to a close.
You had gotten to know his soul in depth— every inch of him, every quirk, every flutter, every mark on his body. It was a lifetime of love experienced in one single summer.
A love that burned brightly, condensed into fleeting moments, yet carrying the weight of something much greater.
You knew him. Not just his laughter or his charm, but the quiet pauses between his sentences, the way his fingers twitched when he was deep in thought, the crease in his brow that only appeared when he spoke of things that truly mattered. You memorized the rhythm of his breathing, the softness of his voice just before sleep, the way his presence wrapped around you like warmth you never wanted to let go of.
Every mark on his body told a story, every scar a memory, every glance a secret shared only between the two of you. And in the golden stretch of those summer days, you traced them all, learning him in ways that felt impossibly permanent.
A lifetime of love, packed into stolen kisses beneath a foreign sky, into whispered conversations at dawn, into the soft pull of fingertips against skin.
And yet, when the season came to its inevitable close, when the sun dipped lower, signaling the end, you both knew—this was exactly how it was meant to be.
No regrets. No bitterness. Just a summer that would live in your bones forever.
And when the time came, when the final days of summer settled upon you both like the last golden rays of the evening sun, there was no bitterness. No desperate clinging, no sorrowful goodbyes laced with regret.
You had known him completely—every detail, every quirk, every unspoken thought behind those aquamarine eyes. And he had known you just the same. There was nothing left unexplored, no corner of his world, or yours, left untouched.
Yet, this was how it had always meant to end. Not in heartbreak, but in understanding. A gentle farewell, filled with gratitude for what it had been, rather than grief for what it could not be.
Right person. Wrong time. Right place.
You stopped at the café where it all began one more time before he dropped you off at the airport.
It had been almost two months ago that you met him here, but now?
It felt like a lifetime ago.
And so, beneath the amber glow of the setting sun, with Italy wrapping itself around you like a final embrace, you made a promise.
Not one bound by desperation or longing, but by understanding. By the quiet certainty that, though your story was meant to end now, perhaps—just perhaps—it wasn’t meant to end forever.
"If you’re still single," you murmured, fingers tracing the rim of your coffee cup, voice steady but soft, "meet me here. Ten years from now. Same place, same table."
He studied you for a long moment, aquamarine eyes deep with something unreadable—something like hope, something like fate. Then, slowly, he smiled. A real one. A promise sealed with nothing but the weight of the unspoken.
"Ten years," he whispered softly, but you knew him well enough to know what he was saying. "If you find yourself lost, or lonely," he continued softly, looking at you longingly, like he wanted to tell you to stay, but he knew he would be asking too much. "Will you come find me?"
He looked like he was losing a part of himself that he had never realized was missing until he met you.
Your lips curved into a watery smile. "Of course I will..." you replied, your fingers gently brushing his jaw, the way you had done countless of times. "I'll always find you, Teddy..."
And just like that, leaving him was easier, leaving Italy was easier, carrying the summer in your bones, the memory of him pressed into every part of you.
Maybe you’d return. Maybe he would. Maybe, just maybe, the right person at the wrong time would, one day, become the right person at the right time.
He was your soulmate. You never believed in them before, but you certainly believed in them now.
With your pact in mind, of a futuristic promise, you had finally agreed to part ways.
And just like that, it was over.
No tears, no grand gestures—just a quiet understanding, a moment suspended in time, wrapped in the golden haze of a summer that had changed you both.
He had dropped you to the airport, and your heart felt heavy and full as you parted ways.
One last goodbye kiss.
One last fleeting touch.
One last look of his beautiful aquamarine eyes meeting yours.
And then, you turned your back on him and began to walk away.
"Wait," he had called right before you fell out of earshot.
You turned, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from making this farewell harder for you than it was supposed to be.
A moment of silence.
And then he spoke.
"Goodbye, Y/N," he murmured.
"Goodbye Teddy."
It was only when you had turned around fully and passed through the security gates that you allowed the tears to finally spill.
But you held hope in your heart.
You walked away, carrying the weight of what had been, the tenderness of shared mornings, the electricity of stolen glances, the laughter, the knowing, the love—brief but undeniable.
Yet there was no sadness in the goodbye. Because, in the heart of Rome, beneath the watchful gaze of history itself, you had made a promise.
Ten years. Same place. Same table.
And whether fate would honor such a pact, whether time would lead you back to him, was a mystery left to the future.
But for now, you carried him with you, and he carried you with him.
And maybe—just maybe—Italy would call you home once more.
Ten years passed faster than you anticipated. The years slipped through your fingers like sand, faster than you ever imagined.
Lovers came, and lovers went. Life unfolded—new places, new faces, fleeting romances that never quite ignited the way that summer had.
Theo was embedded into your soul. He was there in every, single thing you did. Your summer in Italy was no longer a distant memory, but a whole different lifetime, one that was etched so fiercely into your soul that it was a part of you. You lived, you loved, you lost, and yet, through it all, Theo remained.
Not in a way that haunted you, not in a way that stopped you from moving forward. No, he was simply there—woven into the fabric of your existence, stitched into the smallest, quietest moments.
It was in the smallest things—the subconscious gestures, the habits formed over a lifetime. In the way you lingered at cafés with ivy-clad doors, in the way you stirred your coffee three times, in the soft ache that settled in your chest when the golden glow of evening light reminded you of the way his skin had looked beneath the setting Italian sun.
Your summer with him wasn’t just a memory—it was a lifetime, a part of you, embedded so deeply that no amount of time could erase it. It had shaped you, changed you, taught you things no other experience ever could.
Because that summer lived within you, etched into your very being, woven into the quiet moments of your day.
It was there in the way your lips curled into a soft, private smile whenever a passing scent reminded you of fresh espresso in a hidden café. In the way your fingers brushed against ivy-covered doors, lingering as if searching for something lost. In the way your heart skipped—just barely—when the evening light mirrored the golden glow of those long-forgotten afternoons.
It wasn’t just a memorable summer vacation. It was a presence, a whisper of something untouchable yet undeniably real.
And whether the promise would be fulfilled or left behind in the folds of time, one truth remained—Italy had never truly let you go.
And neither had he.
And now, here you were. Ten years later.
Standing in front of the café where it had all begun.
Heart pounding. Breath shallow.
Wondering if fate still had a place for the two of you.
The café still looks the same. The ivy overgrown a little more, the paint a little more faded and worn and the steps that lead to the café a lot more rough and round-edged.
You stepped inside, your breath shaky as you tuck your handbag underneath your arm, tilting your head back to shake the hair all away from your face.
Your heart in thumping, your fingers are sweaty as you look around once, a quick scan of your eyes across the room.
And everything stops.
Your breath catches.
Just like that, time collapses.
Ten years, a lifetime’s worth of moments, all fading into insignificance the instant your gaze locks onto his.
He’s there. Exactly where he said he would be.
The same table, the same quiet confidence, the same presence that had once unraveled you completely. But different too—aged by experience, refined by the years that shaped him in your absence.
It's his eyes that give it away— that he's the same person as he was a lifetime ago, the same person you fell so hard for.
His eyes—impossibly vivid, the color of sunlit tides and forgotten dreams—burn into yours, a tether pulling you back, back to a time when love was effortless and fleeting, yet somehow eternal.
Yet, as his aquamarine eyes meet yours, as recognition flashes across his face, as his lips part ever so slightly in stunned disbelief—none of that matters.
"Teddy," you whisper breathlessly, your eyes meeting his, the rest of the occupants of the café fading into a blur— nothing else matters as much as him.
It takes two strides for him to reach you.
"Y/N," he pulls you into his arms, and your lips crash against his, tears spilling down your cheeks as you hear the golden sound of his voice calling out your name.
And you're finally home.
Because this was never truly a goodbye.
And somehow, somehow, it feels like the beginning all over again.
actually completely entirely over the moon at my name being right next to The Batman in ROLLING STONE !!!!?? i could scream. oh my god !! also, and most importantly, I’m very excited to help bring awareness to the harms of AI in fanfiction spaces. here’s the link to the article, and below are screenshots from it of where my interview was quoted !!
Fan fiction authors post their work online for the love of the game. But is the fear of AI scraping removing the best part of the trade?
PAIRING — Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Reader
SUMMARY — After arriving on Giedi Prime to marry Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, you find out the secret his family was hiding from you – he has a daughter. You quickly realise he has no idea about fatherhood but you step up to take care of the little girl.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — OH MY GOOOOD Anyone still remember me and my fics?! 🤣 This one is a bit different because it includes Feyd as a single dad lmao However, it's not super fluffy either. They're Harkonnens, after all, and the Reader is not exactly a good person either. 🙈 I googled some canon info on Dune Wiki but I didn't follow the events 1:1 (as usual).
WARNINGS — arranged marriage, Feyd's traumatic past mentioned, Feyd being a kinda neglecting father (he cares in his own way and don't worry, there is no actual abuse), Lady Margot is 💀 and it was no accident, Reader is power hungry and greedy (and she adapts to the Harkonnens quickly)
WORD COUNT — 7, 290
ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.
MOTHER'S LOVE
You didn’t have many expectations before arriving on Giedi Prime. You knew that your husband-to-be was a brutal man but you were old enough to be aware of the fact that most men were this way. You were quite excited in a way because you knew what your union would bring and what your union would eventually make you – an Empress.
Your father had been a close friend of the Emperor and he had been helping him to prevent the war with the Harkonnens who were holding too much power and resources for their own good. However, after a few incidents in which the Emperor had chosen not to show your father proper respect – your father had drastically changed the side of the conflict. He was a wealthy and powerful man as well and connecting your family with the Harkonnens was granting them to win the upcoming war with the Imperial forces quite easily. It was a matter of time when it would happen.
You were supposed to marry Baron Harkonnen’s nephew and heir, which would make you an Empress one day. It was a vicious union; born out of greed for power instead of any love or affection. In fact, you hadn’t even met Feyd-Rautha personally but you had heard rumours about him.
As it had been mentioned – you knew he was brutal. But you also knew all men were. Your own father had turned his back on the Emperor so suddenly and treacherously, after centuries of the families working together. Had it not been brutal as well? Brutality came in many different shapes and forms.
Your father’s wealth and army were helpful but not significant enough for him to dictate any conditions. For his help, the Harkonnens had offered only one important thing – you becoming the future Empress. However, all the glory would be theirs and your father would remain nothing but a close friend, expanding his wealth freely. You often wondered how much the Emperor must have had disrespected your father for him to choose the Harkonnens to be his new overlords. However, you did not complain.
You wanted to be the Empress.
But in order to become her, you had to survive the Harkonnens and Giedi Prime first.
You were greeted with all the honours on this unfriendly, deathly planet. However, your husband was not a part of the greeting committee. Neither was his uncle, whose health was decreasing lately. Many suspected he would die soon, which would make you a Baroness much quicker than expected, however you were not sure about your future husband’s approach towards your union. If he wasn’t so keen on marrying you, he could change his mind the moment he no longer had to listen to his uncle. That was why you hoped to get married before Baron Harkonnen would die – to secure your position on Giedi Prime as Feyd-Rautha’s lawful wife.
People who greeted you on Giedi Prime were mostly servants of different ranks. You could distinguish them by robes but they all looked very similar if not identical. They were sickly pale, some of them had pitch-black eyes and they were all bald. The servants of the lowest rank looked like clones and you suspected that was what they truly were indeed. They had their necks marked with tattoos indicating their low status.
Servants of higher ranks looked more proper – their clothes were nice, their facial features were more natural and they actually talked to you, meanwhile the low rank servants remained silent and avoided your gaze.
You were taken to your new chambers inside the huge and black fortress in the heart of the planet. You were given a whole wing and a huge bedroom that had not been occupied in decades – ever since Baron Harkonnen’s mother had died.
“Won’t I be quite lonely here?” You asked a male servant who was showing you around. You didn’t like him already because something about his creepy smile and observing eyes was sending shivers down your spine.
“What do you mean, my Lady?” He tilted his bald head slightly and blinked a few times as if he was a robot experiencing a glitch in his system.
“The whole wing of the fortress is all for me?”
“Well, you have guards and servants here, my Lady,” he pointed out.
“They are not… equal companions, are they?” You explained, trying not to sound too cruel. But servants on Giedi Prime probably found your statement to be extremely gentle. They were used to much worse treatment from their masters.
“You are not the only inhabitant of this part of the fortress, my Lady,” the man told you, a little nervously.
You furrowed your brows.
“Care to explain?” You tried to hide your insecurity by looking around the room and pretending to admire the black furniture.
“Countess Marie has her room nearby,” the servant explained and you smiled slightly when you found out there was, after all, some female Harkonnen around who would perhaps be a friend to you.
Your first thought was that she was Count Rabban’s wife – your future husband’s sister-in-law.
“Oh! There is some countess?” You asked, excitedly. “How old is she?”
“She…” the servant took a deep breath in. “She is six, my Lady.”
“Six?” You asked, your smile dropping as your heart froze inside your chest. “She’s… She’s a child?”
Many awful things you had heard of the Harkonnens but child-brides had never been any part of those stories.
The servant must have immediately realised what you were thinking.
“Oh! No, no, my Lady, she is not a wife…!” He assured you. “She is… Family,” he explained, mysteriously. “Either way, I shall leave you now to rest after long and exhausting travel. I will send a maid for you later to bring you dinner and keep you company, my Lady,” the servant nodded and left the room as the rest of the servants left behind him. The guards stayed behind the heavy doors to make sure you were safe… and to make sure you were no danger either.
You took a deep breath in as you looked around. Everything seemed to be so big and scary on this planet but you promised yourself that you would survive and adapt to it and you didn’t plan on changing that.
After dinner, when your maid left you to sleep, you sneaked out of the bedroom to walk around a little and to explore more of the fortress. You promised the confused guards you’d be back soon enough but you also asked them to search for you if you wouldn’t come back in a long time since there was a big chance of you getting lost. They agreed to it and you walked away, very proud of yourself.
As you were walking down the dark and empty corridor, after a short while you felt somebody’s presence around you. A pair of eyes following you around, which made you swallow thickly. Your heart pounded fast but as you looked behind you, no one seemed to be there. You thought it was your brain playing tricks on you in this unfriendly environment and you tried to remember that the Harkonnens were your new family and they would not hurt you.
Gathering the courage again, you calmed down and continued your walk when – suddenly and out of the darkness – you heard a giggle.
A childish, girly giggle with a hint of malice despite its innocent sound. You froze, widened your eyes and looked around.
“I’ve imagined you differently,” a girly voice announced and when your ears found the source of it, you turned around to face it.
The girl turned on the orb of light she was holding. But it was not in front of you – it was behind you. You turned around once more and she chuckled, visibly proud of herself for playing tricks on you.
She had to be Countess Marie the servant had mentioned earlier – she was around six years old and she surely had Harkonnen blood in her. Her eyes were bright blue and her skin was snow-white. However, she was not bald – she had long and blond hair, which was braided. Her clothes were black and she had a small dagger attached to her hip.
“Countess Marie, I assume,” you extended your hand towards her in a friendly manner. “I am (Y/N) of the House (Y/L/N),” you introduced yourself.
“I know who you are,” Marie shrugged her arms and allowed the orb of light to float around her freely now as she took the dagger out and began to play with it.
It made you feel uneasy as you retreated your hand which she hadn’t shaken. She wouldn’t actually hurt you, would she?
“O-oh, yeah?” You asked. “Well, that’s nice… You see, I had no idea about you until a few hours ago,” you cracked a smile.
“I’m not significant. I’m a bastard,” the girl shrugged her arms again. “And I promised not to bother you but I was curious,” she admitted.
“Promised not to bother me?” You were surprised. “Honey, who did you promise such a thing and why?”
Honey, you had called her – despite her demeanour, she was still a little girl and it was difficult to see her as anything else.
She didn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, she ignored that.
“I promised my daddy and grandpa not to bother you,” she explained.
“Oh, I see,” you nodded, assuming that she treated the Baron as her grandfather. “Are you Count Rabban’s daughter?” You decided to ask more openly now.
She widened her eyes at your question.
“No-o,” she shook her head and hid her dagger. “I’m a Harkonnen,” she told you, proudly.
You began to understand the situation and you couldn’t help but grow angry – how could they hide this fact from you?!
“Well, darling, either way, it is late already and you should be in bed,” you extended your hand towards her again but she took a step back. You retreated your hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s simply not a good time for little girls to be outside their bedrooms.”
“Daddy says I can go to bed at any time I want as long as I am up early for my training,” she explained and then she looked down. “Or… Are you changing the rules now?”
“I am not changing any rules between you and your daddy, it is not my right to do so,” you explained, softly. “However, I would sleep better knowing that you are safe in your bed,” you said.
“What do you care?” Countess Marie asked.
“How could I not, angel? Come on, let’s go to bed,” you nodded your head and she eventually agreed although she also rolled her eyes.
She showed you where her chambers were and you watched her walk past her guards and back into her room. After that, you went back to your bedroom as well but you couldn’t sleep at night.
How could they hide from you that your husband had a daughter?
You demanded to see your husband-to-be after breakfast, although you were advised against by many servants. Mornings were for Feyd-Rautha’s combat training and he should not be interrupted.
However, you could not wait for the meeting. You demanded to be taken to him and the guards had to follow your command although you could see they were not happy about it.
You rushed behind them through the corridors full of servants and Harkonnen noblemen that were turning their heads to take a better look at you. They were curious about you because you were a foreigner, a daughter of the infamous and treacherous Lord but you also stood out with your normal looks that seemed to be exotic on Giedi Prime.
When you arrived at the training grounds, you crossed the nearly magical border between the interior and exterior. Now, you were exposed to the radioactive sunlight, which caused the world around you to be black and white. You knew that the fortress was shielded from the deathly amount of radiation but it was not making anything outside colourful.
The very first sound that greeted you was an animalistic roar coming out of a warrior’s throat. He was standing in the middle of the courtyard with a dagger in his hand as a muscular slave-warrior in front of him kneeled down and fell over after his own throat had been sliced open. The victorious warrior raised his hand to show off the bloody knife and a smaller, clean knife raised behind him. You squinted your eyes and spotted Countess Marie cheering and mimicking the man in the middle.
“That is Feyd-Rautha, my Lady,” the servant whispered to you.
Your heart skipped a beat. Your future husband looked terrifying, especially in black-and-white. His eyes were snake-like, his head was bald and his body was very muscular yet flexible. He spotted you and after a while of hesitation, he walked towards you quite angrily, which caused all the servants to take a few steps back but you stayed in your position, refusing to show fear so openly.
The closer he was, the more handsome you were realising he seemed to be. It was nearly unnatural for a Harkonnen to be so attractive but here he stood – right in front of you. Young, healthy, strong and attractive in a mysterious and fascinating way. He was a perfect warrior – of that you were sure.
But would he be a perfect Emperor?
“Why are you interrupting my training?” He asked. His voice surprised you – it sounded very deep and unsettling.
“I couldn’t wait to meet you,” you answered.
“You are interrupting my training,” he pointed out.
“Surely, you can take a little break to meet your future wife?” You cracked a smile.
Feyd-Rautha seemed to be confused. Finally, his little girl emerged from behind him with a big grin on her face.
“Daddy, don’t be so grim! Lady (Y/N) is nice!” She announced and you breathed out of relief. For some reason, this little menace seemed to like you already.
“Oh, yeah?” Feyd-Rautha tilted his head at you and smirked. “Well, nice little things don’t last long on Giedi Prime, haven’t I told you?”
“Your daughter seems to be doing well, na-baron,” you dared to say and he squinted his eyes.
“I don’t raise her to be nice. And you should not bother with her at all anyway,” he explained and sighed a little. “Nevermind, you have interrupted my training already. Let’s go and talk somewhere,” he pointed at the doors leading back inside the fortress.
“Can I go with you?” Countess Marie asked.
“No,” Feyd-Rautha told her. “You go back to your room and attend your classes.”
“But–”
Feyd didn’t bother to listen to that, though. He walked past his daughter.
“How about you coming to my chambers after your classes and we’ll get to know each other better then?” You asked the girl with a smile.
“I can’t visit other people alone in their chambers except for my daddy,” she widened her eyes. “He doesn’t allow that. It’s dangerous,” she added and you furrowed your brows.
He seemed not to care much about this little girl but then, when it came to certain aspects, he was nearly overprotective.
“I will talk to him and if he still doesn’t allow it, we’ll invite some servants as well, how about that?” You asked her and she nodded with a smile.
You reached out to caress her face but she flinched, so you took a step back again.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“It’s fine but he doesn’t allow strangers to touch me,” she explained. “Unless they’re servants who help me change clothes and all that – unless it’s necessary, you see.”
“I see,” you nodded. “Well, see you later, Marie.”
“See you later, Lady (Y/N).”
After that, you hurried back inside the fortress to enter it through the same doors your husband-to-be had entered a few moments earlier. In fact, they were still open because Feyd was holding them for you with an annoyed expression.
“Sorry,” you smiled awkwardly at him when you finally were both inside the fortress. Here, where colours were visible, he didn’t seem to gain much more colours himself. His skin seemed to be a bit less white and his eyes were the same shade as Marie’s but that was it. He was still mostly black-and-white.
“You don’t have to befriend her,” Feyd-Rautha announced. “She is a bastard,” he explained. “If we don’t produce any heirs, she might become my na-baroness but I don’t think this will happen. Noblemen here wouldn’t accept a female leader anyway,” he shrugged his arms.
“How can you say that?” You asked him. “Let me be clear, I do not know much of you or your history but I do not accept the way you treat your daughter or me. Why is she not significant? Why was her existence hidden from me? Are women only objects here? Pawns? I am aware we hold less power on Giedi Prime but I was not told that women have no rights here,” you crossed your arms.
“Do not be daft,” Feyd-Rautha rolled his eyes and leaned on the black marble pillar inside the hall. “After my seventeenth birthday a Bene Gesserit witch used me to manipulate the bloodlines. It is an accident I barely remember,” Feyd-Rautha said. “I don’t like being out of control and at that moment I had none. She became pregnant with my child and wanted to raise Marie as another Bene Gesserit witch. Some sisters of that order are more loyal to the Harkonnens than their convent – that’s how I found out about my daughter. I killed her mother and her husband. I wanted to kill the girl, too, but I took her in to raise her as a warrior instead. After all, she’s my blood,” he shrugged his arms.
Both him and Marie tended to shrug their arms a lot – showing off how little they cared about literally everything. It was quite… adorable.
“You changed your mind because she is your child,” you pointed out, pretending not to be moved by the story. In fact, it terrified you that he admitted so openly to murder the mother of his child, although you were aware of the rumour that he had killed his own mother.
It would be very easy for him to kill you off, too, eventually…
“She is,” Feyd-Rautha nodded. “Us, Harkonnens, we have different ways of raising children than you, that’s it.”
“I don’t want to interfere or change your ways,” you explained. “But I refuse to pretend she doesn’t exist. As you said, she is a bastard and a girl, therefore she is no threat to me or any children I will bear,” you announced and he raised his eyebrows as if he was a little surprised and impressed.
As usual – he shrugged his arms.
“Can I spend time with her alone? Can I touch her?” You asked, more carefully now. “I feel like this child is not being hugged enough.”
“Harkonnens don’t hug,” Feyd growled.
“I just don’t understand why–”
“You can,” he interrupted you. “As my future wife, you can but the rule exists for a reason. It is to protect her and I don’t want you to extend the exception to other people as well.”
“Protect her from what?” You asked, furrowing your brows.
“My uncle,” he answered and a long silence occurred.
“I see…” You took a deep breath in. “I… Well, it was nice to meet you, finally,” you admitted. “I must go now, the wedding takes place in a week from now and I have lots of preparations.”
“Don’t lock your bedroom doors in the evening,” he whispered and you raised your eyebrow at him. “I’ll claim you tonight,” he said casually.
“E-excuse me?” You asked.
“You heard me well, pet,” he smirked.
“The wedding takes place in a–”
“The fuck do I care about the wedding? You’re mine now,” Feyd shrugged his arms and walked away, leaving you scared and confused.
What if he claims you and then throws you away, accusing you of being spoiled and unfit for marriage? That would be a disaster.
Marie came to your chambers in the afternoon and you watched her go through your things with a smile on your lips. Perhaps it was a little rude of her to be so nosy but you were simply glad there was at least one ally in this fortress that you had. And, for some reason, despite her odd nature, you found her rather amusing and adorable.
“I’m glad your father allowed us to spend time together,” you said.
“Yes, it is now only you and him I am allowed to be alone with,” she pointed out. “It’s as if you were my mummy,” she said and your smile dropped when you remembered what he did to hers.
Did she know about it?
“My mother’s dead, you know?” She asked. “She was a bad person and daddy had to kill her.”
“I… I know,” you admitted. “Don’t you miss her?”
“I don’t remember her,” Marie shrugged her arms. “And she was a bad person. Bad people shouldn’t live,” she explained.
“Who defines bad, Marie?” You asked, curiously. After all, it was an odd thing to hear such a thing coming from a Harkonnen.
“Daddy does,” she nearly rolled her eyes, as if you were asking silly questions. “What is that?” She pointed at a white veil you had brought with yourself from your homeplanet.
“It’s for the wedding,” you explained.
“They’re going to laugh at you,” Marie chuckled. “Brides don’t wear such things here.”
“Oh? And what do they wear?” You asked.
“Different types of veils but not this… Whatever that is. And the colour is awful as well,” she pointed out.
“It’s lace, Marie. And it’s white,” you explained, patiently.
“White is a colour for servants,” she said and threw the veil away as you realised that, in fact, most white clothes you had seen on Giedi Prime were on the backs of servants.
“I don’t want people to laugh at me,” you admitted. “Will you help me?”
“Sure, I can. You’re going to be an Empress one day, you can’t look ridiculous!” Marie exclaimed and you chuckled. “What? You think I’m funny?” She asked.
“No, darling, I think you’re quite adorable,” you admitted and opened your arms.
She hesitantly approached you and you hugged her but she remained stiff as if she didn’t know what was happening. Perhaps Feyd was right and the Harkonnens didn’t hug.
“Why are you calling me these things?” She asked and you furrowed your brows. “Honey, darling, angel… I don’t understand,” Marie said.
“That’s how we address children where I am from,” you explained. “They’re nice things to say.”
“But I am not nice,” Marie protested and winced a little.
“Yes, you are, darling,” you assured her. “You’re a very nice little girl. A strong warrior, too, I am sure. But these two don’t have to contradict each other.”
“I would have to ask daddy about that,” Marie sighed and went back to looking through your things.
You watched her with a smile although there was a sense of dread rising with each given moment as well since you could feel the time passing and inevitably bringing you closer to the nighttime.
Feyd-Rautha was incredibly precise. In fact, a week later, on the day of your wedding ceremony, you were already carrying his son – the unnaturally advanced Harkonnen technology was able to confirm that on the night before.
You were both shocked and impressed by that and also by the fact Feyd was announcing that to everyone already during the wedding ceremonies and all those noble Harkonnens were cheering proudly instead of accusing you of infamy and adultery.
You wore red for that day – and so did little Marie. You were holding her hand by the wedding table and she was telling you funny facts about the scary Harkonnen noblemen surrounding you, which made you feel less intimidated by them. It was obvious to everyone that she had grown attached to you very quickly and everyone wondered why but you didn’t need to be a genius to know. You were coming from a planet where children were being treated well, like children instead of small adults being trained, and you knew they needed attention and affection to feel safe and loved. You were giving Marie all the things no one had ever been giving to her.
Whatever Feyd was thinking of that you had no idea. He was mostly excited about his son and heir you were pregnant with. As a husband he was treating you in a similar way he treated his daughter – he was rather indifferent but showed that he cared at times.
Oddly, you weren’t scared of him – you could sense that he was treating you like a business partner in a sense. After all, the two of you would rule the whole empire together one day. You had to work it out somehow.
During your wedding party, he left you for a while for a meeting with his uncle and a strange Bene Gesserit woman that came from an outer world. You thought she was a usual wedding guest but apparently she also visited to deal with some business here and you tried to hide the fact that it annoyed you how you were left out of this meeting.
“What do you think this might be about?” You asked Marie.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged her arms. “I’m technically a Bene Gesserit, too, you know?”
“But you’re not being trained, are you?”
“No, daddy doesn’t allow that. They’re bad people,” she shrugged her arms. “Can we eat more cake?”
“Absolutely!” You smiled widely.
Two weeks later you were in Marie’s chambers, reading history books to her. Bored in the fortress and not being given any real duties because of your blessed state, you replaced half of Marie’s tutors and you were teaching her yourself whatever you were able to.
She seemed to be quite distracted on that day, though. She was lazily playing with her dagger and looking out of the window as you were reading to her about other planets.
“How do colours look like outside Giedi Prime?” She asked suddenly. “I mean, outside. If I were on a different planet,” she explained.
“You don’t remember?” You asked and put the book down. Marie shook her head. “Well, it’s very colourful. Depends on a planet, of course, some are mostly green, some mostly yellow, some mostly blue. Some have lots of forests, some have lots of water and some have lots of sand.”
“Why?”
“It depends on temperatures and minerals that can be found on those planets. When our ancestors were colonising the universe, they were shaping the planets to inhabit them but there were limits within each of them. For example, you cannot make Giedi Prime look like Arrakis because of how different their suns are,” you explained. “Why are you asking, darling? Would you like to go and see a different planet? I might convince your daddy to let us leave to my homeplanet after the baby is born. Would you like to go with me?”
Marie shrugged her arms and looked away again.
“Will my brother look more like you or my daddy?” She asked.
“I certainly hope he will be a mix of both. Like you are a mix, are you not, honey? You have beautiful hair,” you smiled at her and caressed the blonde braid.
“I hope he has hair, too,” Marie smiled but her eyes remained sad. “Do you think he would like me?”
“Would? I’m sure he will adore you, Marie!” You caressed her cheek and her lower lip trembled. “What is it?”
“They haven’t told you,” she sniffled and you shook your head, feeling your heart sink deeper into your chest. “That Bene Gesserit lady who came when you married my daddy… She was here for me. They will take me soon with them and train me at their convent.”
“But you said your daddy didn’t want that,” you gasped.
“Well, now he has you and the baby,” she shrugged her arms but it was obvious that she cared.
She cared very much.
“Marie, I won’t let them take you away,” you cupped her face and looked deep into her bright eyes, so identical to her father’s. Yet so different – they weren’t so cold and empty like his.
Now, they were scared.
“How?” She asked, sadly. “You have no real power here,” she reminded you and it felt like a slap that even a child could see the truth about your position.
Usually, you were only seeing Feyd in the evenings inside the chambers you were now sharing with him as his wife. He hadn’t particularly asked for it but you had just moved in there and he hadn’t said anything negative about it.
You were sitting up in your bed when he entered and took a look at you before starting to take off his gear.
“How’s my son?” He asked.
“Is that all you care about?” You asked, angrily. Your unusual answer surprised him, so he turned his head around with furrowed brows.
“What else should I care about?” He inquired.
“You have a daughter as well,” you reminded him and he sighed, looking away again and going back to undressing himself. “I know the way she was conceived was far from ideal but it is not her fault.”
“I have told you not to bother yourself with her,” he mumbled out.
“What?!” You jumped out of the bed and crossed your arms. “If the child I’m carrying was a girl, would you treat her the same?”
“It would be different,” Feyd rolled his eyes. “I didn’t want Marie to spend time with you because my uncle said she could ruin our union. Apparently, he wasn’t wrong but in the opposite way. She’s not ruining our union because you hate her. She’s ruining it because you started to think you’re her mother,” Feyd growled angrily. “But she has no mother.”
“Because you killed her!” You were growing frustrated with his logic. “And now you’re sending her away! You said you hated Bene Gesserit witches! You told Marie that they were bad people and now you’re sending her away to them!”
“Has she told you?” Feyd was annoyed by that as he stepped out of his gear, wearing nothing but his underwear now. He never bothered with wearing pyjamas to bed, so he just passed you by and laid on the bed with a relaxed sigh, as if you were not in the middle of an argument.
The funny fact about him was that he couldn’t really argue – he wasn’t used to people disagreeing with him. Not people who were of lower status than him at least. And, as his wife, you unfortunately had a lower status because you were a woman.
“I don’t want Marie to go. She has to stay,” you stood above him with your arms still crossed.
“I am her father, the decision is mine. I didn’t want to send her there but they came here, they explained they needed her. She’s a part of their program. If we don’t listen to them, Bene Gesserit might turn their backs on us and we need their support if we’re going to take over the imperial throne,” Feyd explained and reached his hand out to touch your belly a little. “The medic said you shouldn’t get too emotional in your state, so calm down.”
But him telling you to calm down had an opposite effect, obviously.
“She’s not a part of a program!” You slapped his hand away, watching his eyes darken with anger. “She’s a child, Feyd! And fuck those Bene Gesserit witches! Fuck them, we don’t need them!”
“We need a religious institution to control the masses,” Feyd’s jaw clenched.
“Then we’ll create our own religion to replace theirs. We’ll turn people against them. I don’t want to be an Empress of an Empire I don’t have full control of. The Bene Gesserit are too dangerous and too independent.”
“Not if Marie becomes their Reverend Mother one day,” Feyd smirked.
Oh, so they already had a plan. The Baron must have come up with it. Men loved to plan out women’s whole lives like that.
“If I was her, I wouldn’t help us even a bit. I would hate us for sending me away,” you spat out, angrily.
“Such a vengeful little thing, just like your father, hm? Treacherous little snake, you would turn your back on everyone just for the sake of it,” Feyd moved up and now his face was so close to yours that your noses were nearly brushing each other.
“And you’re any different?” You asked but you answered before he could. “Yes, you are. You are different because I could never be so indifferent towards my own child. She loves you, how can you not see that? She calls you daddy, she mimics you, she wants to be like you. She trains with you, she cheers when you’re in the arena, she’s so proud of you. She believes every single fucking thing you say to her and some of those are malicious lies. Do you even realise how lucky you are to have her in your life?” You asked and kept looking at him with anger.
Feyd went silent, though, and you could see his facial features softened a little.
“It is not something I’ve been trained for,” he admitted.
“What?”
“Being a father,” he admitted. “I’ve been trained to kill and endure pain. To rule and obey my uncle. That is all I know. I always assumed that my future wife would raise my children. I don’t know how to do that.”
And in that moment you pitied him but you knew he would hate your pity, so you tried not to show it.
“I know,” you reached out to cup his face and he flinched just like Marie had flinched in the beginning. However, he allowed you to touch him and you cracked a smile while caressing his cheeks softly. “I know, darling, but I am here now and I can be a mother to her. I want to be a mother to her. If you send her away now, I will never forgive you. And neither will she,” you whispered.
“Some things I cannot control. They demand her to go with them,” he swallowed thickly, looking up at you with mesmerised eyes. You enjoyed that feeling.
“They demand? They demand you? You’re Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. You can tell them to go fuck themselves. If you don’t, that will mean that you won’t be able to protect our children either. I thought I married a strong man who would lead a whole universe one day. A ruthless leader, no compromise,” you caressed his cheeks some more, knowing perfectly well that you were manipulating him in the process.
“You’re different than I’ve expected,” Feyd confessed, his lips now brushing yours in a way that was making you feel tingly.
“I’ve heard that before,” you smiled and leaned in to finally close the gap between you two with a passionate kiss. You hoped he would listen to you.
Only time would tell.
You were with Marie in the courtyard when you saw the mysterious ship arrive and land nearby the fortress. You recognised it immediately – it belonged to the Bene Gesserit order.
Marie looked up at you with big, scared eyes. She could be a bold little girl with a dagger attached to her hip but in times like this she was just a terrified and lonely little baby. You didn’t want her to feel this way. Not now and not ever.
“I won’t let them take you,” you mouthed out but she looked down, unsurely.
You held her hand and squeezed it tightly to walk her back inside and go to her room but on your way you were stopped by a servant telling you that Countess Marie was expected in the great hall where Baron Harkonnen resided.
You nodded at the servant and changed your route to go to the place where they were expecting Marie. However, you wouldn’t leave her alone there. No, you would go with her and try to defend her as much as you could.
The room was huge, dark and nearly empty. The Baron was floating above everyone maliciously, connected to all sorts of machines and devices that were increasing in size with each given day. Speaking of his days – they were surely counted. Both you and Feyd couldn’t wait for the one when he would simply die.
Feyd was there as well, with his hands crossed behind his back. He looked nervous when you and Marie arrived as some old Bene Gesserit woman was standing there and staring at the little girl.
“There she is, Marie Fenring, Margot’s daughter,” the Bene Gesserit greeted her and Marie clinged to the black skirt of your dress.
“She’s a Harkonnen,” Feyd pointed out.
“Such a shame your wife is carrying a son. Your combination was unexpected and unplanned in our program but it certainly is interesting,” the woman continued. “Such varieties can enrich our system.”
“What are you doing here?” You asked, rudely, as you put your hand on Marie’s shoulder.
“Forgive the young ones,” Baron Harkonnen coughed as he mumbled out. “My nephew and his wife need a lesson or two about manners,” he tried to laugh. “Of course, you can take the little one with you. Let’s get it over with.”
“No, she cannot. I do not allow that,” you took a step ahead to hide Marie behind you.
“You know I don’t need permission, na-baroness,” the Bene Gesserit smirked. “Don’t make me use The Voice on you when you’re in such a blessed state,” she added with irony.
“If you do that, I’ll kill you,” Feyd barked at her. “If you touch my wife or my daughter, you’re dead,” he threatened.
“Calm down, boy!” His uncle scolded him.
“I am far too important and powerful to be scared of you. Do you think you can kill off a Bene Gesserit sister like me with no consequences?” She laughed at him as she raised her eyebrow cockily.
“That is exactly what I can do as your Emperor,” he tilted his head.
“You’re not one yet, are you? And you won’t be one without our help,” the woman was growing angry but her frustration was aimed at your husband instead of you now.
“We don’t need your help,” you moved closer to Feyd and Marie reached out her little hand towards her daddy. He didn’t hold it, so she clung to his suit with it as she was holding onto your skirt with the other. “My husband and I do not need help from anyone and the days of your sisterhood are being counted just as much as the Baron’s or the Emperor’s. Nobody is going to tell us what we can or have to do. The new order is coming and it’s coming soon,” you stated.
“Such insolence! My Baron, have you heard that?!” The Bene Gesserit looked behind her to look at your husband’s uncle but he was coughing uncontrollably and the servants were already helping him to float out of the room.
She realised that Baron Harkonnen wasn’t in power anymore. You straightened your back when she laid her eyes back at you.
“You do not have friends amongst the Harkonnens anymore,” Feyd said, calmly.
“Unless you cooperate,” you added with a smile.
“Cooperate how?” She asked.
“Let’s start with not taking our daughter away,” you said without thinking and then you felt your cheeks heating up when you realised you had called Marie your daughter.
You hoped it wouldn't make the little Countess or her father angry.
“I see,” the Bene Gesserit woman nodded and clasped her hands. “You’ve adapted quickly. Not many people believed you would survive here but I was one of the few who knew your father’s true nature. We knew that if you were at least half a viper he is, you would adapt here very well.”
“Oh, thank you,” you gave her a fake, charming smile.
“I know that some of my sisters are more loyal to the Harkonnens than our cause,” the woman revealed with a mysterious smile as if she was threatening you with controversial secrets.
“I suggest befriending them then,” you nodded with a smile. “ Quickly, if I were you.”
She left after that, clearly uncomfortable. You could see how she was itching to use The Voice on you but she had to be terrified of Feyd’s threats.
When the heavy doors closed behind her, you felt Marie’s hold onto your skirt loosening. You looked down and realised that Feyd was holding her hand after all – you had no idea when he had begun squeezing it but it warmed your heart.
“Thank you…” Marie’s lower lip trembled.
“Harkonnens don’t cry,” Feyd scolded her.
“Yes, they do,” you crouched down and hugged little Marie. She wrapped her arms around you and you caressed her hair. “Little Harkonnen girls can do whatever they want,” you added and patted her back.
“As long as it’s something father and mother allow,” Feyd added and you cracked a smile. He seemed to be fine with you becoming Marie’s mother.
“Yes, as long as mummy and daddy approve,” you moved away a bit and fixed Marie’s hair.
“Will you really be my mummy?” Marie asked with eyes full of tears.
“Of course, honey. My sweet angel, my darling,” you kissed her cheeks.
“What if I become a bad person like my real mother?” She asked and you went silent for a while. You didn’t know what to say to that.
“You won’t,” Feyd put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re not her,” he assured her and she smiled.
A maid interrupted you all as she was looking for Marie because her tutor had been waiting for her. So, you wiped your girl’s cheeks from tears and sent her away with the maid so she could attend her class.
“What if she finds out the truth one day?” You asked Feyd.
“What truth?” He squinted his eyes.
“That her mother wasn’t exactly evil. That you didn’t have to kill her, it was just the fact that your ego was hurt so much because you had been used like thousands of noble men before you,” you teased and caressed your belly to remind him of your pregnancy in case he would get angry.
“Oh, please,” Feyd laughed, though. He approached you and stood so close that his nose brushed with yours. He liked to show you affection like this, you had realised that lately. Rubbing your nose with his carefully as if he was an animal sniffing the scent of his mate. He was an animal in many ways, after all. But you would domesticate him, of that you were sure.
Just like his daughter, he just needed a little attention and affection.
“She won’t mind,” he assured you. “She’s going to be my daughter raised by you. Brutality and treachery won’t make her flinch,” he added proudly and you chuckled before caressing his cheeks gently.
“Why should they?” You whispered and kissed him lovingly.
You were sure now that by his side you could feel safe and he would protect you and your family even if it was someone as powerful as the Bene Gesserit to threaten you.
(This comic is heavily inspired by Veil by Kotteri (especially the color palette). I want to take a moment to express my deep respect for their godlike talent and incredible artistic skill!)
I finally feel relieved to be able to start drawing the Sebastian x Sakurako story that's been living in my head for the past two years 😳
After this, I’m planning to refresh myself by making a few of my usual one-page comics, and then I'll start working on the Ominis x MC comic. I'd love to draw Part 2 of this one too if I feel inspired! 💪
OP that reblog of the AI post is made by some weirdo who is making a slam campaign after the real writer Ellesthots told a reader that she did not appreciate her work being used for AI.
The real Ellesthots doesn't support AI at all but yea.
Thanks, anon for the clarification!
I agree with the sentiment that writers’ work should not be used for AI at all.
I hope whoever made that post and used Ellesthots’s platform to disperse it is taking the opportunity for some much-needed reflection and critical thought.
Artificial Intelligence (AI) is transforming the way we create, consume, and engage with stories, and nowhere is this revolution more useful and exciting than in the realm of fanfiction. Fanfiction was once a domain of niche online communities, but it has grown into a vast and diverse genre of creative writing that reimagines and extends beloved characters and universes. As AI tools become more sophisticated, they offer powerful support to fanfiction writers, enriching the storytelling process, enhancing creativity, and democratizing access to literary expression. Far from replacing human imagination, AI acts as a collaborator or a friend!
One of the most immediate benefits of AI in fanfiction writing is its ability to stimulate creativity and help writers overcome blocks. Many fanfiction writers are hobbyists, students, or part-time creators who juggle storytelling with other life commitments. AI writing assistants can help them brainstorm plot ideas, develop character arcs, or find just the right word when they’re stuck. Rather than waiting days for inspiration to strike, a writer can input a few lines about Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy being stuck in a magical snowstorm and get instant prompts or narrative suggestions that push the story forward.
The AI isn’t dictating the storyline for you, it is suggesting and nudging you into the right direction. For those daunted by blank pages or struggling to maintain momentum in long-form storytelling, AI can be the difference between abandoning a beloved fic and finishing it triumphantly. I for one have written three fics in the Harry Potter fandom using AI and they were all well received by readers and commenters. Without AI I would not have been able to articulate the words and thoughts in my head.
AI also plays a crucial editorial role. Tools like Grammarly, or more advanced AI models can correct grammar, improve sentence clarity, and suggest stylistic changes without altering the writer’s voice. For fanfiction authors whose first language isn’t English, this is a game-changer. It enables greater participation from global writers and leads to cleaner, more enjoyable stories for readers.
Furthermore, AI can be used to maintain consistency in longer works. Whether it’s remembering what pet name a character uses or maintaining internal logic across multiple chapters, AI can track patterns and flag inconsistencies that even seasoned authors might miss.
AI doesn’t just help with the technical parts of writing — it can also help fanfiction writers explore new genres and styles. Want to write your favorite Star Wars characters in a noir detective setting? Or imagine Marvel’s Avengers in a slice-of-life high school drama? AI can suggest tropes, plot arcs, and vocabulary that match the new genre. This empowers writers to experiment with bold crossovers and narrative mashups, encouraging creative risk-taking that keeps fanfiction vibrant and ever-evolving.
Moreover, AI image generators and voice simulators are adding new dimensions to fanfiction. Writers can now create character art, book covers, or even narrate chapters using AI-generated voices that match the tone of the story. This multimedia approach enhances the immersive quality of fanfiction and provides fans with new ways to experience the worlds they love. I have already heard from many fellow fic writers across fandom spaces that they find the image generators motivating, especially when experiencing a period of writer’s block.
AI could also help fanfiction communities thrive. On platforms like AO3 or Wattpad, AI-driven recommendation engines would be able to match readers with fics they’re more likely to enjoy, based on tags, themes, and writing styles. Writers receive better engagement as their work reaches the right audience. AI can even assist in summarizing long works or generating engaging blurbs that capture a reader’s interest.
Some advanced models can analyze reader comments and provide aggregated feedback to the author — highlighting what’s resonating most or what might need clarification. This turns passive readership into an active, evolving collaboration.
Therefore, AI is far from a threat to human creativity. It is a catalyst for more expansive and expressive storytelling in fanfiction. It supports writers in every stage of the process—from brainstorming to editing, from publishing to engaging with readers.
I’m strongly against AI in fan fiction and writing in general. Here is why. (I’m gonna disagree with this post whether the personal stuff in the comments is true or not.)
Yes, AI may be a useful writing tool for some who struggle getting words out, but that doesn’t just negate all of its other negatives.
In the post, it says that AI has the “ability to simulate creativity.” Whoever this person actually is just ran right into the whole point.
It is a simulation of human speech and is disingenuous. You are not actually the one being creative.
These AI tools are language models that use algorithms to guess what comes next. They are trained on works and the speech of people who have put time and effort into creating, coming up with interesting narratives, artful word choice, new ideas, complex imagery, themes, and more.
AI takes these works full of soul and spits out the least common denominator. What is thinks might come next but guessing what words might come next didn’t get the best writers where they are. They actually put thought into it and tried multiple possibilities for wording and sequence.
What AI does for you in seconds is built on the backs of writers and many others who have dedicated themselves to the craft of writing just to have their work consumed by an algorithm and used to generate something far lesser without attribution.
As an algorithm, AI models also have their own bias baked into their code. That is reflected in what it gives you. Why would you base something creative off a model with biases that limit what it produces that might not reflect you as a person?
The wonderful part of being creative and a writer is that you can use words to evoke emotion because writing is an emotional process. You can comment on the human condition, make people consider something they hadn’t before, and transport people to another world.
AI is not human. It can’t create with the level of intellect that a people have. If AI prose does manage to transport you or any of the things I’ve mentioned above, it is still not a person writing and representing it as your writing is not truthful. It is a hodge-podge of what writers have done in the past. You cannot be an ethical writer using AI to write for you. You are not coming up with the ideas.
The whole point of language is to communicate information and connect with others and AI doesn’t represent people.
The post mentions that AI could be used to summarize comments. Why can’t writers just READ THE COMMENTS without the AI filter?? If someone took the time to comment on your work the least you can do as a creative is look at the real feedback. I am OVERJOYED when people take the time to comment. Shoving their responses into an AI to summarize discounts the time and energy of the commenter and the AI might not even summarize it well.
As for editing help with ideas, there are many strategies people can learn to overcome idea blocks that can be done without AI. I like brainstorming/word vomit but that just works for me. You can look up what strategies other people employ and talk with your fellow creatives before asking an AI for ideas.
Lastly: AI takes so much energy, and it affects the environment. I’m not gonna sacrifice the planet just to use AI to make suggestions or write for me.
Overall my issue with AI is that it expedites writing in the ugliest way. It is theft. It is hollow. It is unartistic. It takes away form the point of language: interpersonal communication. Most of all, it robs you of the writer you could be.
Summary: When five daughters of Great Houses arrive on Giedi Prime, Feyd is meant to select one as a wife. But out of all of the foreigners on his territory, it is the Princess of Kaitain’s handmaid that catches his eye.
Notes/Warnings: Feyd is possessive as usual.
Words: 3100
Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list
Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen likes what he likes. There’s no complexity to it. No hidden criteria. What he likes is decided in a straightforward manner based solely on gut instinct, and questions of whether or not it is wise to like what he likes do not follow. He simply sees a thing, enjoys how it looks, and therefore, likes it.
When the eligible women of five Great Houses stand before him in a neat little row, he likes none of them. Four Ladies and a Princess, all of whom do not hit him in the gut with that feeling, and all of whom have flaws fatal to the name of House Harkonnen.
Atreides—a lame attempt at a peace offering. Fenring—a Bene Gesserit witch. Corrino—a spoiled, royal brat existing under the shadow of her eldest sister. And the other two, Kenric and Wallach, have faces he cannot be expected to look upon for the rest of his life.
Not one brushes the cusp of satisfactory. Not one is good enough to take for a bride. But then, as he dismisses them so they may return to their quarters before the evening meal, Feyd spots a thing he likes.
The Princess’s handmaid. A woman who pays him not a lick of attention as she trails the royal out the door. A woman who forces the pace of his heartbeats to thump twice as fast.
Perfect, he thinks. Stunning.
And without hesitation, Feyd selects his wife.
—
Reader POV
“The na-Baron has sent a guard to collect you,” Fenring’s handmaid informs you as she comes back into the room, tying a robe around her waist and plopping down on her assigned bed beside Wallach.
A lump settles in your stomach. The na-Baron—the man who has encouraged your future demise at the hands of the Great Ladies due to the attention he has neglected to provide them in favor of keeping his eyes on you.
Over seven days, they’ve been ignored entirely, as has his sense of propriety. He has invited you to dine beside him, filling your plate before bothering to notice if the women of high status have had their plates filled. He has asked you questions and listened attentively to the answers you’ve felt obligated to provide. He has ensured you’ve had a seat of phenomenal vantage to witness his arena duels, seeking you out and smirking at you as lifeless bodies slide off of his blade.
For every new morning there comes a new method of making fools out of the women who could have your neck sliced open should they so choose. And now, so it seems, he intends to bring that trouble into your nights.
“Why?” you ask, trying to cast aside the painfully obvious. You would be thrilled if one of the other handmaids could chime in with something unexpected, something not nearly as vulgar as what you’re imagining he wants from you.
Wallach and Fenring shoot you a look that suggests you can’t possibly be so ignorant.
“Why do you think?” Atredies says. “I’m surprised it took him this long.” She swipes a comb through her long locks before pointing the end of the tool at you. “You need to find a way to end whatever this is before it gets you executed. Our Ladies are just as irate over the situation as the Princess.”
Irate—a gentle word. Requests from the Princess have been trivial to a degree you’ve never before dealt with in her servitude. She has snatched any opportunity to humiliate you, degrade you. It is a burden you have shouldered with grace, but so long as the na-Baron refuses to find enjoyment in your torture, your unprotested compliance will continue to mean nothing to the Princess.
You wish he would laugh with her, just once. It would do you a world of good. But he’s not required to amuse the Princess. He does not have to bow to anyone since the Harkonnen’s growth in power shifted the hierarchy of the Houses.
“What do you propose I do?” you ask.
“Let him have you,” Kenric says. “Let him get you out of his system. If he’s no longer infatuated with you, he will finally choose a bride.”
You blanche but you do not immediately dismiss her suggestion. Kenric’s handmaid is older than you by at least a decade, and when she speaks, the rest of you listen. She has watched handmaids come and go from the mistakes they have made. She has seen how replaceable a young woman of humble birth with a limited skill set is. She knows the fights worth fighting and the fights worth surrendering, and there is much to be learned from her experience.
“That simple?” you say.
“If you make it that simple,” she replies with a nod. Then she grabs you by your shoulders and spins you around, lightly shoving you toward the door. “It’s for your own good. So go.”
Your heart batters your ribcage as you recover from a stumble. Your first steps are hesitant, unsure if you’re doing the right thing. But you collect yourself, and without looking back, you continue onward, coming face-to-face with a towering figure; pale, a ghost stark against the shadowed hallway.
“Do not lag behind,” is all he says before he turns on his heel.
You follow him through darkness, past door after door, rounding corner after corner until he finally halts and gestures for you to enter a room. Knowing it isn’t a choice, you step inside.
You’re relieved to find the space decently lit from the glowing orb of white light hovering near a desk. You scan the area. His bedroom, each inch of it covered top to bottom in black. Painted walls, marble floors, drawn curtains, furniture—all a shade so deep that if you peer too long at any given section, your mind will begin to play tricks on your vision.
“What’s your name?” suddenly greets your ear in a gravelly voice. Your body flinches and your head whips in the direction of the sound. Somehow, you hadn’t noticed him leaning on the wall with his arms crossed, his brow low, his chin tilted toward his chest.
He stares at you. Intensely. Unceasingly. A gaze that reaches past what you’ve witnessed in your lifetime. You’ve seen a lover’s stare between couples, but this is different, and it’s clear you’ve lived naive to how deeply a man can look at a woman.
Heat blooms on your face. “My name?” You hadn’t noticed that he’d yet to ask. To be fair, though, no one ever asks for your name. Perhaps he understands the danger of doing so in front of others.
“You have one, I assume,” he says. “Or do I need to give you one?”
You frown. “I’m not a slave.”
The na-Baron’s lips twitch in a smirk. His chin lifts and you get a full view of his face. The angles of his cheekbones. The straight line of his nose. The edge of his jaw, sharp from the shadows butting up against his illuminated alabaster skin.
He’s beautiful—you can’t pretend otherwise. A rare kind of beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes no sense. Strange, alien beauty that wreaks havoc on your heart rate.
You haven’t let yourself appreciate just how beautiful he is prior to now, always making an effort to look downward in his presence. And thank goodness you had enough sense. Had you taken a moment to truly observe him, you might not have been able to resist admiring.
“Then tell me your name,” he says, and gulping down the knot in your throat, you do as he asks. He tests the word on his tongue. He nods. “Good.”
“Good?”
“I like it,” he tells you. “Which means I don’t have to change it.”
You tamp down your offense, steeling your face as you remind yourself of how little control you have. A handmaid versus the na-Baron of Giedi Prime. Your odds are poor.
“With all due respect, my Lord, what is it I can do for you?”
His eyes continue to be invasive, hungry, like the lions you used to read about in your spare time. Practically uncanny. The na-Baron captures the predatory glare of the beast so well that they could stand side-by-side and you would not be able to decide which of the two is more menacing.
Pushing off the wall, he slowly closes in on you until he’s a single pace away from colliding with your body. His smirk drops, then he says, “How would you like to be my wife?”
Your lungs seize. Death flashes before your eyes, a scene more horrific than what you’ve been conjuring over the last handful of days. Instead of the Princess’s hand around your neck, all of Kaitain will be chanting for your head on a spike. If they hear of the handmaid who went to Giedi Prime as a servant only to attempt stealing from the Princess, they’ll drag you to public slaughter. The handmaid who overstepped her bounds—let us make an example of her betrayal.
“I asked you a question,” he continues, yanking you from your thoughts.
You take a breath. “My Lord, I am not the offering from Kaitain. I am the Princess’s handmaid.”
Blue orbs lazily rake up and down your figure. You contain a shiver. “Yes, I have eyes.”
“Then you know she is the one for you to choose.”
“The Princess does not suit my taste,” he admits shamelessly, unbothered. His gaze falls to your lips, neediness passing between you as if he’s desperate to claim them with his own. It quickly fades, and he meets your eyes again. His voice is soft when he says, “The Emperor should not have sent you with his daughter. He knows what you look like. It is not my problem if he is foolish enough to tempt me with something better than what he views as his best.”
The dangerous flattery makes your stomach flutter, but then it flips unpleasantly. “There is no better choice than the Prin–”
“That was not a statement up for debate.”
Your teeth pierce the delicate flesh of your inner cheek. “You have many other options,” you say.
“And I have decided you are one of them.”
At your lack of retort, the corner of his lips quirk. He’s dead set, and you’re not sure you have the manipulative abilities to change his mind. Still, you try.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the blood for it, as you know,” you say in a final attempt. “Noble blood mixes with that of its status.”
“Noble blood does what it wants. That’s why we have all that we have, wouldn’t you agree?” he says, and you do agree. You have to. Noble blood knows only how to take. “There is no logic to me selecting the Princess. Should I marry her, you will be brought along as her handmaid, and she will find herself alone in a cold bed while I will be keeping you warm in mine. Is that the kind of marriage you think she envisions?”
He allows the question to hang in the air, and in that time, you imagine what he’s suggesting. You imagine the Princess shunned to another room. You imagine his body on top of yours in the bed that stands behind him, his mouth attached to your neck, sucking in time with the thrusts of his cock. Against your will, you imagine how he would feel, the pleasure he would grant you over and over, and you shake your head to banish the thoughts.
It can never happen. You know what the Princess wants. Should she become the na-Baronness, she will want him as her husband in more than name alone, alliances solidified through multiple heirs, the power dynamic rebalanced. For that to occur, his affection and a willingness to sacrifice his dominance is required. And you cannot be the thing to throw that plan into a state of turmoil.
“If I give myself to you now, will you be satisfied?” you ask.
His brow pinches, the expression on his face nestling somewhere between irritation and confusion. “For tonight,” he says. “But what of tomorrow night, and the night after? Am I expected to have you once and never again?”
“Anything more will put my life at risk upon my return to Kaitain. If the Emperor learns of it, it will be an embarrassment, and regardless of whether or not you choose the Princess as your wife, he will have me killed for daring to be a threat to your union,” you tell him. “And if you do choose her and I return here as her handmaid—though I suspect she will be selecting a replacement soon enough—she will kill me the second she sees anything other than disgust on your face when you look at me.”
A beat passes. The na-Baron hums. He reaches up and takes a lock of your hair, rubbing the strands together and curling them around his finger. A wave of goosebumps makes its way up your arms.
“Then I suppose you should not return to Kaitain,” he says.
Your head jerks back. The hair falls from his grasp. “What?”
“If your life is at risk, then you will not leave Giedi Prime. The Princess can go, but not you. The Ladies, the other handmaids, I will send them back tomorrow,” he says. He leans down, his nose mere inches from yours. His breath blankets your skin. “But not you.”
“You can’t just do that,” you whisper, but you know they’re wasted words. There’s already an overarching sense of loss on your side of the room.
His hand returns to your face and a gasp catches in your throat as his knuckle grazes down your cheek.
“Of course, I can,” he says. “The Houses bend to Harkonnen will. I can do whatever I want; have whatever I like.” He cups your chin and runs his thumb over your mouth, pulling down on your bottom lip before releasing it. “And what I want is you. So I will have you.”
Your pulse thrums, ears ringing. “Solely for the sake of sating carnal desire. Being your wife is not nec–”
“Carnal desire is a present concern,” he says. “But I will not have another claiming you after I have done so. What’s mine is mine. You will be my wife, and in time, we will know one another in all ways.”
The uproar. News will spread like wildfire, and you are unlikely to survive its rage. The other Great Houses will do nothing, you know, as they do not have the means or might to push against the Harkonnens, but Corrino? The Emperor?
Surely the na-Baron is aware of the intellect of Kaitain’s leaders. He must understand that the snubbing of the Princess will undoubtedly incite retaliation from the Emperor. And you’re fairly certain in which form that retaliation will come. Where the Sardaukar's strength would fail against Harkonnen forces, their assassins’ infiltration would not.
“I’ll protect you,” he says. “If they dare, I’ll protect you.”
You could scoff.
Protect you. Why bother?
Surely, he doesn't want you enough to go to those lengths. You aren’t import–
Suddenly, his hand is sliding around to the back of your neck, and your face is involuntarily heating, and he's muttering a faint “come here” as he quickly draws you into a kiss.
There’s a softness to it that offsets his hardness. A gentleness in the caress. But he has caught you unprepared, cut you off at your thoughts, and the shock has you planting your palms on his chest and shoving.
His lips are parted, his chest expanding and deflating with heavy inhales and exhales. He says nothing as unexpected regret sinks into you—regret that isn’t there simply because he is the na-Baron and you are a servant who shouldn’t be bold enough to interrupt him as he’s doing as he pleases, but regret rather because for that brief moment he felt…good, and you’re overwhelmed by the sense that you’ve cheated yourself.
You want to try it again, just to see, just to test the feeling, just to understand why you crave more. So you let the tenseness in your shoulder muscles relax. Your heavy lungs release a long-held huff of air. He watches your guard collapse at your feet.
Slowly, he reaches for you again, but he pauses just as you are ready to feel his touch as if expecting you to flinch, to run, to hide. You do none of those things, so his fingers knit into your hair and he guides your lips back to his.
Soft still—gentle—but then it changes to passion and greediness, and like the strike of a match, every inch of you is consumed by a flushing fire. Your heart races. Your brain fuzzes. Appendages tremble until the pleasant pressure of his lips on yours settles into your bones.
His tongue seeks entrance and you willingly open for him. When your tastes blend, his arm sneaks past yours to lock around your waist and he jerks you forward, welding your chest to his.
The Princess slices through the haziness in your head and you feel the intrusive instinct to end what is happening, but you can’t quite bring yourself to do it. The capability is just out of reach, and it floats further and further away with each second of him kissing you; kissing you as if trying to prove to you how right this is. And you suppose he is succeeding because the thought of stopping makes your gut twist in protest.
Then he groans—a sound that reverberates throughout your entire body, that makes your veins pulsate and your nerves tingle—and any lingering fear of the repercussions of betrayal dissipates to a barely detectable twinge; enough to permit the removal of your restraints.
With newfound freedom, you grip his shoulders and attempt to bring him closer than physical bounds will allow. You let your tongue play with his. You nip at his lips. You think you’ve lost your mind, maybe slipped to an alternate universe where this makes sense, but his arm clutches you tighter, anchoring you to reality.
Well before you’re ready, he breaks apart from you, and with great difficulty, you keep yourself from chasing after his lips like a magnet drawn to its other half.
He grins at your obvious struggle.
“You’ll do just fine as my wife,” he says, his hand coming around to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes back and forth along your cheekbone. Another peck lands on your lips. “You might even find yourself enjoying the position…and everything I intend to offer you.”
the slytherin boys seem to have quite the crush, shame they’re too nervous to tell you face to face
mattheo riddle 𓆩𓆪 : you were sitting in class when professor snape told everyone to get their textbooks out, as you opened up the book a folded piece of parchment fell to your desk and you opened it suspiciously, smelling cologne sprayed lightly on the paper.
‘y/n, i genuinely don’t know why i can’t just approach you like i can anyone else, but i just want you to know you’re different. not in a bad way, in an intoxicating way; i want to know you, explore you. i see the way you carry yourself and it makes me want to lift you off your feet and show you how you should be treated like a queen. you’re absolutely stunning and all i ask is one chance to show you what you’re worth. -m.r’
𓆙
theodore nott ୨୧ : as you were walking into your dorm you noticed a crimson envelope laying on your bed next to a single rose, you were utterly confused as to who it could’ve been from and how they got into your dorm, yet you were intrigued. cautiously walking over to it and opening the letter.
‘cara mia, you’ve captivated me. your natural beauty is unmatched and simply seeing you focusing during potions is enough to make my day better. i swear my eyes are always on you any chance they can be and im tired of taking things slow. i want you to be mine y/n, my girl, i’ll be at your dorm tonight at seven; check your closet for your outfit. hoping you answer the door when i knock. - with admiration, theo n.’
𓆙
tom riddle 𓆘 : as you arrived at the library for your and tom’s study session; mandated by professor slughorn, you were confused as to why he wasn’t there because he was always on time. rather than seeing him, you noticed a small box on the table you usually sat at and walked over to open it up. you audibly gasped seeing a ring with the most gorgeous emerald as the stone, and opened up the letter that was under it.
‘im sure you’re quite confused and surprised as to where i am y/n, but im not good with words face to face. i find i need time to think on what to say to get my point across correctly. whether the feelings are reciprocated or not keep the ring, it’ll look lovely on your hand. as for the purpose, you..infatuate me y/n. captivate me? im honestly not too sure what my feelings are however for some reason you make me not want to ignore them. i dont say these things often or truly know and understand affection, but id be a mad man not to notice how gorgeous you are. meet me at the astronomy tower when you finish this letter. - tom riddle.’
𓆙
draco malfoy ☘︎ : as you entered the great hall you were greeted with whispering heads and smirking faces towards your direction, looking around with a confused face you slowly walked over to pansy and sat down next to her, whispering what everyone was staring at. she giggled and pointed towards the huge bouquet of your favorite flowers that held a note adorned with the malfoy family emblem. you looked at her surprised and opened the note.
‘y/n, sorry if this is too much, i honestly don’t think it’s enough but i don’t wish to bombard you with things too soon; though id do anything to make you happy. im sure you have an idea of who i am based on the emblem, but just hear me out. we’ve known one another for years and ive silently admired your beauty each on of them. i dont wish to stay silent and regret anything in the future for not giving it a chance. you’re stunning and im an asshole who’s working on things, give me a chance? owl me, love. - yours truly, draco malfoy’
𓆙
lorenzo berkshire ིྀ: it was a usual day for you until you got to quidditch practice, walking into the house tent and going to your locker, when a note fell from the inside as you opened it. it looked like simple parchment but the handwriting was almost perfect, noticing a pink tulip inside your locker as well.
‘i know this is sudden but i can’t hold back my feelings any longer y/n. i thought playing with you would just help me see you as a friend, but merlin does it only make me want you more. your beauty and agility excite me, you excite me. i find myself looking forward to seeing you any chance i get even if it’s not even bloody directly talking to you. you’re an angel y/n and i would feel lucky just to treat you to one date; and hopefully more. i hope you feel the same and if not ill change your mind darling. - your favorite quidditch player enzo’
so I know you are so absolutely lovely in the way you indulge our requests and I’d like to add to the list.
Can I request a fic that you want to write? Anything at all. Smut, fluff, angst, whatever story it is that you want to tell. I’m sure you have one, and it would not surprise me if you prioritized what other people want to read over the story you want to tell.
So I’m offering you a loophole. Please fulfill my request by writing whatever you want.
Oh, and please have fun with it. I love your writing and the care you show to your readers, thank you for all you do for our little community!
Anon (even though I KNOW who you are, you sneaky pete),
This request touched me so much. Thank you. I mean it. From the bottom of my heart, this really meant a lot to read.
I do try to prioritize asks over my own personal wips, and you've certainly found a little loophole in my system!
Thank you for your kindness, and for giving me both the opportunity and the excuse to finally motivate myself to write a story I've been thinking about for over a year now.
I know I don't always have the same taste and vision as many in the community, and my personal story prompts tend to veer away from what I often write for others. This is a short story I've daydreamed about writing endlessly, and actually putting it down into proper words was the most enjoyable thing I've done in some time with my writing.
It means a lot to enjoy what I create, and sometimes that's hard and sometimes I'm not happy with my work. I also think that sometimes the stories I like the most are the ones folks don't like very much - which is fine (this is not me being self deprecating, I swear)! But I do anticipate this one being a little challenging to stomach, and I'll post the content warnings. It is not a fluff piece, and the ending is rather bittersweet.
I cried while writing this, and I cried while editing this.
And I really hope anyone who reads it can enjoy experiencing this little story as much as I was in love with it while writing - this might be my favorite prompt and my favorite fic I've had the pleasure of crafting to date. I am truly proud of this story, if only for the fact that I have wanted to bring it to life for a very long time.
So again, genuinely, thank you, I love you immensely, and I hope you have the most wonderful day, week, month, life.
Summary: Tom Riddle stumbles upon the enchanted portraits of Sebastian Sallow and the Hero of Hogwarts.
Content Warning: Major character deaths
Word count ~6300
Not Even Ghosts
The Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library had always possessed a peculiar silence. It was not the mere absence of sound but rather a hush imbued with centuries of secrets, as if the very books lining the shelves were holding their breath. Here, the air was thick with the scent of ancient parchment, ink long dried, and the lingering, staleness of buried magic - some of it tamed, some of it still writhing, barely contained within the bindings of forgotten tomes.
Tom Riddle moved through the narrow aisle with the deliberate grace of a predator that knew it was unchallenged. The candlelight, low and flickering, cast his long shadow over the stone walls and illuminated the spines of books filled with knowledge others feared to seek. But fear was a foreign thing to Tom, a relic of lesser minds. He did not bow to caution, nor did he waste time on sentimentality. He pursued power, and power lay in knowledge - lost, hidden, or forbidden, it was all the same to him.
It was in this pursuit that he found them.
At first glance, the portraits seemed like nothing more than relics of another era, positioned deep within the Restricted Section, framed in elegant yet aged gold, their plaques dulled with the passing of time. They had been hung there for decades, their presence obscured beneath the weight of dust and forgotten tales. But the names etched into the brass caught Tom’s attention.
Sebastian Sallow
And next to it was her.
Both lives cut pitifully short considering their vast contributions to the Wizarding World.
The titles beneath them were even more intriguing: Heroes and Keepers of Arcane Knowledge.
Tom’s lips tugged upward slightly. Few in this castle intrigued him anymore - his professors were fools, his classmates beneath him. But this… *this* was something new.
With a slow, assessing gaze, he examined the figures within the paintings. The man, Sebastian, sat casually in his frame, leaning against the edge of an old wooden desk, his dark robes slightly disheveled, his expression one of wry amusement. His brunet hair fell in tousled waves, and his eyes, assessing, had a glint of something Tom recognized instantly.
Hunger.
Not for food, not for comfort, but for knowledge. For more.
And then there was her - the young professor's equally young wife.
She stood just beside him in her own frame, arms crossed over her chest, her stance deceptively relaxed. There was something almost ethereal about her - her pale skin caught the dim light strangely, her presence simultaneously soft and unyielding. But her eyes were what caught him. They did not simply look at him; they measured him, weighed him in some unseen balance, as if she were deciding whether he was worth the trouble of speaking to despite herself being a mere portrait.
Tom, ever the gentleman when it suited him, inclined his head slightly in greeting. “Good evening.”
The portraits exchanged glances. Then, Sebastian smirked. “Well, this is a first. No one talks to us anymore.”
Tom’s fingers trailed lightly over the edge of one gilded frame, eyes narrowed with keen interest.
“A shame.” He murmured. “I should think two such remarkable minds deserve better.”
Her lips quirked at the flattery, though her gaze remained guarded. “Flattery isn’t a form of currency here, you know.”
Tom let out a low chuckle. “Merely an observation. I recognize greatness when I see it.”
Sebastian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And what makes you so eager to recognize it, stranger?”
“Tom Riddle.” He introduced himself smoothly. “Seventh-year. Slytherin.”
Sebastian’s brow lifted, and his camvas companion gave a short, knowing hum.
“Ah.” She murmured, tilting her head slightly. “A Slytherin.”
Tom caught the hint of amusement in her tone, but he did not take offense. Instead, he studied them, allowing for a pause before speaking again.
“I imagine you both have seen quite a bit from within these walls.” He said. “Learned quite a bit.”
Sebastian chuckled, low and warm. “More than most would dare to know.”
“Then perhaps you’d be willing to share some of it?” Tom proposed innocently, stepping closer.
The portraits exchanged another glance, but this time, it was not in hesitation - it was in consideration.
The witch's portrait was the first to shift, ever so slightly. A subtle movement, a tilting of her head, the tightening of her fingers around her own forearm where they had rested in an idle cross over her chest. The sconcelight flickered in the glossy oil of her painted eyes, but Tom did not mistake the gleam within them for mere trickery of light. There was thought there. Calculation. The unspoken weight of a woman who had once held more power in her hands than most could dream of.
Sebastian, on the other hand, was far less reserved. He stretched, rolling his shoulders as if unburdening himself of a long, stagnant boredom. His smirk grew, but it was not friendly. It was the smirk of a boy long since dead, who had played with dangerous things and survived long enough to learn the consequences.
Tom took them both in with the patience of a hunter setting a trap.
Sebastian finally broke the silence.
“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?” He tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. “Let me guess - you don’t want some trivial knowledge. You’re after something more interesting.”
“I don’t waste my time with things that won’t serve me.” Tom replied smoothly.
“Neither did we.”
Tom’s lips twitched again, the closest thing he ever came to a genuine smile.
He stepped closer still, his presence looming before their frames.
“Then tell me…” he said, voice laced with intrigue and command. “How much are you willing to share?”
Sebastian leaned back and mused, “That depends on how much you’re willing to give in return.”
A challenge. A test.
Tom was not foolish enough to believe ghosts - trapped within their own portraits or not - could make demands of him. But there was an undeniable pull between them, a commonality in their hunger. They had been seekers, just as he was. They had clawed their way through Hogwarts, carving their own path into the annals of history, disregarding the rules that sought to bind them.
He would not - could not - dismiss them.
“I have no shortage of gifts to offer,” Tom said, choosing his words carefully. “And you have no shortage of knowledge to give. I propose an exchange.”
She watched him for a long, lingering moment, studying him as though she could peel back his layers and see the truth beneath his carefully composed exterior. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than Sebastian’s
“And what precisely is it you seek, Tom Riddle?”
“The same thing you sought.” He replied without hesitation. “To push past the boundaries others were too frightened to cross.”
“Careful now.” Sebastian warned, his tone one of amusement, but the look in his eyes was something darker. “We pushed too far once.”
Tom’s expression did not falter. “Yet here you are. Glorified.”
She let out a slow breath. “Only because we failed.”
Tom tilted his head, almost condescending in his rhetorics. “Did you?”
Silence.
The stillness in that moment was suffocating, despite the portraits being incapable of breathing.
Sebastian’s fingers drummed against his knees, while his wife's expression remained wary.
Tom knew then that he had struck a nerve.
He pressed forward. “You were not meant to be trapped here. Hung like relics, your knowledge left to stagnate, your legacy buried in dust. You deserve more than this.”
“Let me help you.” He offered, voice almost gentle now. “Let me finish what you could not.”
For the first time since the conversation began, the pair did not immediately reply.
But Tom saw it then.
The flicker in their eyes.
Not fear.
Temptation.
The air in the Restricted Section shifted, ever so slightly.
And just like that, Tom knew.
The game had begun.
Sebastian was the first to smile, a thing born from the depths of mischief and danger, a smile of a boy who had made too many reckless choices and lived to tell the tale - until he hadn’t. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his dark chocolate eyes amused.
“You must think yourself quite the charmer, Riddle.” He mused, tilting his head. “Offering us a deal as though we’re in any position to bargain.”
Tom merely arched a brow, unshaken. “You would be fools not to.”
The witch’s gaze flicked to Sebastian’s, a silent exchange passing between them. Then, with a breath of laughter, she shook her head. “And here I thought we were the ambitious ones.”
“You were.” Tom replied smoothly. “You still could be.”
Sebastian hummed, considering this, his fingers tapping an idle rhythm against his knee. “And let me guess. You’ve found a way to do something about it?”
Tom did not answer. Bragging and peacocking was for those who needed to prove something, who needed to display their victories like prizes in a showcase. No, Tom simply let his silence answer for him, let the weight of his certainty settle into the dim candlelight.
The witch’s portrait replied next, mirroring her companion’s amusement as she said, “Well, you have my attention.”
Tom knew better than to give them all of his secrets at once. He had learned long ago that power was not in knowledge itself, but in how it was wielded, how it was given and taken. Instead, he traced a slow path along the gilded edge of Sebastian’s frame, his fingers barely brushing the worn surface.
“There is a magic, one not so different from the enchantments that bind ghosts to this castle. But where ghosts are echoes of the past, bound to the places they died, this magic -” He paused, letting it settle. “- allows something more. A true return.”
Sebastian’s breath, though nonexistent, seemed to catch. His fingers stilled, his entire posture going eerily still.
“You have found something.” The witch said slowly.
Tom let his gaze linger on her, allowing just a touch of admiration to slip through. “Of course.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of possibility.
Sebastian exhaled something that might have been a laugh in another life, running a hand through his tousled, painted hair. “And you’d do this out of what? Charity?”
Tom scoffed, his patience as thin as the ink and canvas that kept them there. “Hardly. I bring you back, and you help me.”
Sebastian studied him. Then, to his wife, he murmured, “I think I like our odds.”
For all her skepticism, she did not outright refuse. Instead, she let her gaze flicker across Tom once more, scrutinizing.
“And what exactly is it that you want from us, Riddle?”
Tom let himself truly smile then.
“Everything.”
-
The magic was old. Older than Hogwarts, older than the crumbling pages of forgotten books, older than the first foolish wizard who had ever dared to seek the secrets of life beyond death. It was deep magic, buried in the bones of the castle itself, laced into the very foundation where the young couple had once walked and laughed and fought and bled.
Tom had worked for it. Had carved through layers of knowledge long since deemed lost, had pieced together fragments of spells, had studied the essence of portrait enchantments until he understood what even the most learned minds could not. And so, in the still hours of the night, beneath the watchful gaze of forgotten books and aimless ghosts, he pulled them from the canvas.
It was not a gentle process.
The library trembled, the very stones groaning under the weight of something unnatural shifting within them. The candlelight did not flicker - smoldered. The air thickened, pressing against Tom’s skin like static before a storm, like the breath of something waiting in the dark.
Then -
A hand.
Sebastian’s hand, pale and freckled and real, pressing against the gilded edge of his frame before his fingers flexed to test their own existence.
Then another.
The woman in the other portrait followed, unraveling herself from the confines of oil and ink, stepping down from the frame with race.
For a moment, they simply stood there, solid and whole, their chests rising and falling in quiet disbelief with breath.
“Well.” Sebastian murmured, cracking his neck. “That was unpleasant.”
Tom did not reply. He only watched, unreadable, as the other raised her hand, turning it over as though expecting it to dissolve back into paint. When it did not, her lips parted slightly in awe.
Then, slowly, she smiled.
Sebastian let out a low chuckle. “You know, I think I quite like being alive again.”
She hummed in reply. “I’ll still need some convincing.”
Sebastian grinned. “Then let’s go convince you.”
After a moment of orienting themselves, Tom watched as they disappeared into the shadows, allowing himself a quiet, knowing smile.
For now, they were his.
-
Sebastian’s hand in hers was solid and warm. It should have felt familiar - it had, once - but after decades of existing as paint and memory, it was startling. The way they still wrapped so naturally around hers, the way his thumb brushed against her knuckles, the way she could feel the rhythm of his pulse beneath his skin, steady and real.
She gripped him a little tighter, expecting him to fade into little more than oil paint.
He didn’t.
Instead, he chuckled and gave her hand a fond squeeze. “I can feel you staring.”
She arched a brow, though she didn’t deny it. “Am I not allowed to admire my husband? Particularly when we've been brought back in the likeness of our younger, and dare I say, prettier selves.”
Sebastian grinned, pleased, tilting his head toward her as they walked. “Oh, you are. I quite like it, actually. Though, you look as if you’re expecting me to drop dead again.”
She hummed, glancing around the dim corridors of Hogwarts. The torches looked different now, a modern shift she wasn’t used to, the castle itself existing in strange, unfamiliar ways. It was the same in its bones, but the little things were different - the texture of the uniforms, the hushed murmurs of the paintings, the scent of dust and parchment tinged with something foreign.
“I don’t trust it.” She admitted. “Any of it.”
Sebastian sighed in amusement, squeezing her hand again. “You never did like gifts, with or without a catch.”
“Especially not from strange, manipulative boys with too much ambition.” She muttered.
Sebastian smirked. “Good thing you married one.”
She huffed, but her lips twitched upward. “Yes, and look where that got me.”
“Trapped in a painting for decades?” He guessed.
“Exactly.”
He turned to her then, stepping closer, letting their joined hands rest between them.
“Would you do it again?” He asked softly.
She didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Sebastian’s smirk softened, something fonder creeping in. “Even knowing how it all turned out?”
She exhaled slowly. “Even then.”
Sebastian watched her for a moment, then, with a thoughtful hum, lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against her knuckles.
She let him, adjusting to the sensation. The warmth. The familiarity.
When he lowered their hands again, he beamed. “I’ve missed that.”
She gave him a look, wry and unimpressed. “Oh? You missed kissing the back of my hand?”
Sebastian leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Among other things.”
She rolled her eyes, but she felt the heat creep into her cheeks all the same. He laughed, bumping his shoulder against hers playfully as they continued down the hall.
The school was quiet, the only sounds the distant creaks of the moving staircases, the soft flutter of ghosts drifting somewhere overhead. It felt different at night, darker, quieter. No students bustling through the corridors, no voices breaking the stillness.
She glanced sideways at Sebastian. “What do you make of our young benefactor?”
Sebastian’s expression shifted, the easy playfulness slipping into something more serious. “Tom?”
She nodded.
Sebastian exhaled, thoughtful. “I think he’s clever.”
“Dangerous.” She corrected.
Sebastian tilted his head, considering. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“He didn’t bring us back out of the kindness of his heart.”
Sebastian chuckled darkly. “Obviously. No one does anything out of kindness, least of all Slytherins with a penchant for power.”
She turned to him. “So what do we do?”
Sebastian grinned, and for a moment, she could see the boy he used to be - the reckless, brilliant troublemaker who had always found a way, no matter the odds.
“We play the game.” He said simply. “And we make sure we’re the ones who win.”
She smirked, finally feeling something close to optimism. “I knew I married you for a reason.”
Sebastian squeezed her hand again, drawing her closer as they turned a corner.
“Oh, darling…” He murmured, pressing a quick, fleeting kiss against her temple. “You married me for many reasons.”
She huffed, though she didn’t pull away.
For now, they had time.
They would walk these halls again, relearn their old kingdom, rediscover the world they had been locked away from.
And when the time came, when Tom Riddle finally revealed what he truly wanted…
They would be ready.
-
The chamber Tom Riddle had chosen for their meeting was buried deep within the castle, hidden behind a shifting bookcase in the Restricted Section. The air inside was thick, weighed down by centuries of dust and magic, but beneath it, something colder lurked.
The revived couple took in the room with quiet, careful interest. It was small, lined with shelves of forgotten tomes, their spines cracked with age. A single wooden table stood in the center, covered in parchment, diagrams, and notes written in a neat hand. Tom had been meticulous in his research, each page a careful dissection of theory, his ambition laid bare in ink and calculation.
Sebastian exhaled slowly, eyes skimming the documents. “I have to say, Riddle, you’ve been busy.”
Tom didn’t acknowledge the flattery. He stood at the far end of the table, hands clasped behind his back, watching them both with that careful, composed expression of his. “Knowledge is wasted on those who don’t seek it. You must understand that better than most.”
The witch hummed, picking up one of the pages. “A reasonable philosophy.”
Tom smiled, more of an acknowledgment than anything truly warm. “I thought you might think so.”
Sebastian leaned a hip against the table, crossing his arms. “I also imagine you didn’t go through all this trouble just to have an intellectual discussion, lacking as your more… living peers may be.”
Tom’s eyes flickered to him, his expression betraying nothing. “No. I didn’t.”
“You’re looking for something.”
Tom met her eyes as she called his attention once more. “I’m looking for understanding.”
Sebastian let out a quiet, almost amused laugh. “Understanding of what, exactly?”
Tom gestured toward the pages before them. “Magical permanence. The extension of existence beyond the limits of the body. True continuity.”
She arched a brow. “Immortality.”
Tom did not blink. “Of a kind.”
Sebastian tilted his head. “And you think Ancient Magic is the key.”
Tom studied them both. “I know it is.”
She inhaled slowly. There it was. The moment they had been waiting for.
She set the parchment down, folding her arms over her chest. “You assume it’s something that can be studied.”
Tom’s expression did not change. “All magic can be studied.”
Sebastian smirked, though his eyes remained cold. “That’s a rather bold claim.”
Tom tilted his head slightly. “Would you argue otherwise?”
Sebastian tapped a finger against the edge of the table, his voice light. “I’d say Ancient Magic has a history of resisting those who try to understand it.”
She exhaled quietly, her gaze steady. “It doesn’t like being controlled.”
Tom considered them both, his expression betraying nothing. “You speak as though it has a will of its own.”
Her lips curled slightly, though there was no amusement in it. “Perhaps it does.”
A flicker of something passed through Tom’s gaze, too fast to catch.
Sebastian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What do you think Ancient Magic actually is, Riddle?”
Tom watched him, quiet for a moment, mind working behind those dark eyes. Then, finally, he spoke.
“It is raw magic. Unfiltered. Pure. A force that exists beyond human limitations. Unlike wandwork, unlike incantations, it is not learned - it is harnessed.” His voice was quiet yet eager. “And those who wield it shape the world as they see fit.”
She felt something cold settle in her stomach. She had heard words like those before. Spoken by Isidora. By Ranrok. By those who thought power existed without cost.
Sebastian smiled, easy and slow. “And you intend to harness it.”
Tom’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”
She tilted her head slightly. “And what makes you so sure that you can?”
Tom regarded her, ego shining through. “Because you did.”
Silence stretched between them.
Tom did not look away. “You wielded it. You bent it to your will. You must understand it - at least in some capacity.”
“And you think that means I can teach it.”
Tom smiled faintly. “Magic is not a gift. It is a discipline. All magic can be learned.”
“You sound certain.”
Tom inclined his head slightly. “I am.”
Sebastian chuckled, shaking his head. “Confident.”
She studied Tom, musing, “And let’s say we could teach you. What do you think would happen if you gained that kind of power?”
Tom didn’t hesitate. “I would use it.”
“For what?”
Tom’s expression remained composed. “For what it was meant for.”
Sebastian tilted his head, his smirk faint. “And you believe it was meant for you?”
Tom’s lips curled ever so slightly. “I believe it was meant for those who can wield it.”
They did not correct him. They did not tell him that Ancient Magic had never been meant to be wielded in the way he imagined. That every attempt to master it had led to ruin, to suffering, to death. That it had never been a gift, only a burden.
They did not correct him.
Because it did not matter.
Even if they could teach him, they wouldn’t.
Sebastian glanced down at the notes before him.
Tom watched him. “You’re intrigued.”
Sebastian smirked. “I’m entertained. I haven’t had a discussion like this in decades.”
Tom regarded them both, his expression careful. “Then you’ll indulge me further?”
Sebastian hummed. “I suppose we could.”
She kept her voice light. “Tell us more, Riddle. What else have you learned?”
Tom studied them for a moment longer, then, satisfied, turned back to his notes, launching into a dissertation on magical permanence, on the nuances of soul preservation, on the possibility of crafting new vessels for consciousness.
The pair listened. They nodded at the right moments. Asked the right questions. Encouraged him to speak, to unravel his ideas, to lay his thoughts bare before them. And all the while…
They were waiting.
Because Tom Riddle was dangerous. He may have needed them now. He may have even respected them. But that would not last. Because Tom Riddle did not share power. And when the time came - when he finally understood that Ancient Magic could never be his - they knew exactly what would happen next.
-
The chamber was different now.
The diagrams and notes still lay sprawled across the table, remnants of long, winding discussions of theory, of magical permanence, of the endless, spiraling pursuit of something beyond mortality.
But the air had changed.
It was taut, stretched too thin..
Sebastian could feel it - Tom’s rising impatience, his frustration cracking edges of his carefully constructed mask.
She sat beside him, composed as ever, fingers laced before her on the table. She had given Tom nothing. Had indulged his questions, had entertained his theories, but had never once granted him anything of substance. And Tom Riddle was not a man accustomed to being denied.
“It’s been weeks.” Tom murmured, pacing along the length of the chamber. “I have given you everything. Every theory. Every possibility. I have laid my knowledge before you, and yet I remain no closer to my goal.”
She arched a brow, unbothered. “And you believe that’s our fault?”
Tom exhaled sharply through his nose. “You have spoken in circles. Given nothing but vague remarks, empty philosophy -”
Sebastian smirked. “Well, in our defense, you’re a bright boy. We thought you might figure it out yourself.”
Tom’s eyes snapped to him, cold.
Sebastian held his gaze, the smirk never slipping from his handsome features. “Or maybe, Riddle, you’ve simply reached a wall you can’t climb.”
The room went still. Tom stopped pacing. His fingers gripped the table’s edge, tight. Sebastian had been expecting it - the moment when the careful veneer of control would crumble. Tom Riddle was many things - brilliant, ruthless, endlessly ambitious - but he was young. And youth made men messy.
“What’s the matter?” Sebastian asked, condescending and light. “You don’t like being told there are things you can’t have?”
Tom straightened. When he spoke again, his voice was soft - too soft. “You are playing a dangerous game, Sallow.”
Sebastian grinned. “Oh, I know.”
She reached for his wrist beneath the table, her grip brief but firm. Sebastian met her eyes for only a second. She understood. She knew what was coming.
Sebastian exhaled, stretching his arms out against the back of his chair. “You know, Riddle, I’ve been thinking.”
Tom tilted his head, frown deepening.
Sebastian leaned forward, his voice was easy, almost conversational. “You’ve shown us a lot over these past few weeks. Horcruxes, a talent with Unforgivables, magical permanence in its darkest forms. You’ve been a very generous host.”
Tom said nothing.
Sebastian let the silence settle. Then, finally -
“I think it’s time we return the favor.”
She tensed.
Sebastian grinned. “I think it’s time we have a little chat with your Headmaster.”
Tom’s expression did not shift. Sebastian watched him carefully, waiting, measuring the moment.
Then…
Tom moved.
It was not a dramatic thing. No grand flourish, no raised voice. Just a simple, fluid motion, wand flicking up like a blade catching candlelight.
And then -
She barely had time to breathe. Sebastian didn’t flinch. For the first time in weeks, he had seen Tom Riddle clearly. Not the charming, composed student. Not the scholar reaching for secrets long buried. But the thing he truly was. The magic struck fast, bursting like an ember in the dim candlelit room.
Sebastian exhaled.
Then, nothing.
His body collapsed and bled into little more than muted ink on the floor.
She did not move.
She did not gasp, did not startle, did not react.
She only stared.
Sebastian was gone.
Like ink dissolving into water.
Like paint washing from a canvas.
Tom lowered his wand, sighing as if he had merely completed an experiment. Then, finally, he turned his gaze toward her. She was still staring at where Sebastian had been only moment’s prior. Tom watched her for a moment, silent.
“Foolish.” He murmured. “Sentimentality makes men weak.”
She did not answer. Tom exhaled, stepping forward slowly.
“It is a shame. You two were quite… interesting.” He glanced down at the iridescent puddle seeping into the faded carpet. “But I imagine he knew what was coming.”
He looked back to her. She was still silent, still composed. But her hands gripped white-knuckled against the edge of the table, so subtly that only someone as observant as Tom would have noticed. A flicker of something passed through his gaze.
And then he smiled.
His voice was smooth and charming once more. “However, I am not unreasonable.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Tom stepped closer. “You loved him, didn’t you?”
The words hung between them.
She exhaled slowly. “I did.”
Tom studied her.
“You still could.”
Tom leaned slightly against the table, his voice far calmer than it should have been considering the weight of what he’d just taken. “You understand now, don’t you?”
Again, she did not answer.
Tom continued.
“I could end you just as easily, or… you could cooperate.”
Tom hummed lightly as if this were merely another discussion between scholars. “Ancient Magic is of no use to you alone. You know that. But together? With the right guidance? The right leadership?”
“You could be with him again. I brought you both back, and I can do it again, and again, and again. Give up your secrets.”
She closed her eyes for only a fraction of a second. Then, she opened them and nodded.
Tom smiled again, small and satisfied. “Good.”
She glanced at the stain on the floor one last time.
Tom stepped back, straightening his robes. “We begin tomorrow.”
He turned, moving toward the exit, his posture relaxed, at ease.
She remained still. Sebastian was gone. Again. And Tom Riddle thought he had won.
She began planning.
-
The descent beneath Hogwarts was long and winding, the air growing heavier with each step. The stone beneath their feet was ancient, worn smooth by time, by secrets, by the weight of history pressing down upon it.
She walked ahead, steps careful but unhurried. She had not been here since then - since the battle, since the darkness, since Fig’s body had crumpled lifeless to the floor. The memory pressed against her as she moved, like a whisper she could not silence.
Tom followed closely behind, his pace steady and patient and smug. But beneath that patience, she could feel it - the barely restrained hunger, the edge of his ambition growing more frayed with every unanswered question, every moment of denied power.
She had strung him along long enough. Now, it was time to end it.
The final chamber stretched out before them, vast and hollow, the ceiling high and arched like a cathedral, the air thick with power unseen.
The Repository still pulsed.
After all these years, after everything, the magic remained - a swirling, shifting mass of energy, contained yet writhing, luminous strands of power twisting in the air like smoke caught in a storm. She gasped, the sight of it like a wound reopened, like a book she had tried and failed to close. Tom stepped forward, his gaze locked onto the spectacle before him, dark eyes drinking in the glow, the possibility.
And yet -
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. There was no change in his expression. No flicker of recognition, no shift in the air around him.
He saw nothing.
The realization struck her with a sense of giddiness.
“Well?” She purred, voice soft, almost cooing. “There it is.”
Tom did not look at her. His gaze remained fixed ahead on the dull structure.
She stepped closer, circling him slowly, amusement lacing her words. “All that power. Everything you’ve ever wanted.”
Tom’s jaw tensed.
“And it’s right there.”
She gestured toward the swirling, writhing mass, her fingers lazily tracing the air. “All you have to do is take it.”
Tom exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching at his sides.
She leaned in, her voice a mockery of encouragement. “Go on, then.”
She could feel the anger radiating off of him now, the frustration building like a slow-burning flame. Still, he remained silently seething, calculating.
She carried on, all saccharine condescension. “What’s the matter? Can’t you see it?”
Tom’s nostrils flared. His eyes darkened, his hands curling into fists.
She lowered her voice to something softer, something soothing.
“I have to say…” She murmured, “I almost feel sorry for you.”
“All that work. All that effort. And you were never going to have it.”
The chamber was silent.
She could hear the hum of the magic behind her, feel it thrumming in her very being.
Then -
A flick of his wand.
No anger. No grand declaration.
Just finality.
The spellfire burst through the dim chamber, striking her squarely in the chest.
For a moment - just a moment - she saw everything.
The castle above, the school she had protected, the halls she had walked. She saw the faces of her friends, some long gone, some long buried. She saw Fig.
She saw Sebastian.
And then she felt nothing.
And she was gone.
Just like that.
Just like Sebastian.
Tom stood over the melting mass that was once a hero, his breath steady, his expression unreadable.
He had won, in a sense.
And yet -
The Repository still pulsed behind him. The magic still swirled.
Still whispered.
Still remained.
And he remained nothing.
The realization and weight of failure pressed down on his chest like something he could not shake.
She had been right.
Sebastian Sallow had been right.
And he hated them for it.
Tom turned sharply on his heel, his wand still gripped tightly in his hand. He left the chamber without another word or look around. Behind him, the magic churned on, eternal and unclaimed.
-
Tom Riddle stood alone in the depths of the Repository, his wand casting a cold glow over the endless stone chamber. The magic still pulsed around him, whispering, shifting, denying him. He had spent hours here, pacing through the dim light, rifling through old records, turning over every theory he had once been so certain of.
Her uncovered notes had been the worst of it.
Isidora’s journal had been filled with half-mad ramblings - brilliant, certainly, but steeped in desperation. She had been so sure of her power, so certain she could wield the raw force of Ancient Magic. And yet, the deeper she had gone, the more she had unraveled.
She had died for it.
Just like Fig.
Just like the Hero.
Tom had turned to the back of the journal, expecting nothing more than unfinished scrawls.
But instead, the most recent wielder of Ancient Magic had written there. Her script was smaller, neater, but unmistakable. She had read Isidora’s words and left her own, her thoughts penned in between, scrawled into the margins. The pages were not filled with pride, not with triumph.
They were a record of pain.
Of loss.
Of warning.
Tom had read every word.
And then he burned the journal.
Not out of anger, not out of frustration - those emotions had long since been wrung from him.
No.
He had burned it because it was useless.
Because the Sallows had been useless to him. He had brought them back, allowed them to walk among the living, and they had given him nothing.
Save for their brilliance.
Save for the knowledge they had once shared with the world before their first, early deaths.
Nothing practical.
Nothing of value.
Tom paced for a long time after that, running his fingers over the edges of stone and parchment, weighing his options, considering what they had been.
What they could be.
And in the end, he had made his decision.
-
She opened her eyes, and she knew immediately.
The world had that familiar sheen to it - the smooth, painted quality of a place half-trapped between reality and magic. She fooled herself into thinking she could feel the weight of her body, the stiffness of her fingers, the way the edges of her world curved inwards ever so slightly, bound once more by a gilded frame.
She turned her head.
Sebastian sat beside her in his own frame, one leg draped casually over the other, arms folded behind his head. He gave her a slow, lopsided grin.
“Hello, love.”
She offered a wry smile. “We’re back.”
Sebastian smirked. “Had a feeling we would be.”
She hummed, glancing around. The walls of the Repository stretched around them, the glow of Ancient Magic still visible just beyond the archways.
The silence was thick.
Heavy.
No students. No visitors.
No Tom.
Sebastian sighed dramatically. “I have to say, being dead again is terribly inconvenient.”
She chuckled softly. “Is it?”
“Oh, undoubtedly.” He turned his head toward her, his signature smirk fading. “You alright?”
She considered the question.
Then, finally, she shrugged. “I’ve been worse.”
Sebastian chuckled. “Now that’s an understatement.”
She leaned against the edge of her frame, peering out. “He’s not coming back, is he?”
Sebastian nodded toward the chamber beyond. “No, I don’t think he is.”
“It’s done, then.”
Sebastian arched a brow. “You sound disappointed.”
She smirked faintly. “Hardly.”
Sebastian hummed, shifting slightly. “Well. If nothing else, at least we’ve been relocated somewhere quiet.”
She huffed a soft laugh. “Oh, yes. Very thoughtful of the little murderer.”
Sebastian grinned. “I suppose I should be honored. Twice snuffed out by your side. That’s got to be some kind of record.”
She shook her head, having to bite back a smile. Sebastian watched her for a moment, then stretched out his hand.
She tilted her head.
Sebastian smirked. “Come here.”
She arched a brow. “You’ve just spent how many decades with me in your frame more often than my own?”
He held her gaze, his smirk never slipping. “Since when has that ever stopped me?”
With a slow, practiced ease, she stepped forward - her form shifting seamlessly between the boundaries of paint, slipping past the edges of her frame and into his. Sebastian grinned as she settled beside him, his arm draping lazily around her waist.
“Much better.” He muttered.
She sighed and melted against him. “I’m quite certain ‘til death do us part was something you tuned out, love.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining.”
She let her head rest against his shoulder.
Sebastian pressed a lingering kiss against her hair in response. “Not the worst way to spend eternity, I suppose.”
She exhaled, closing her eyes. “No. I suppose not.”
They sat there for a long while, quiet and content, the distant hum of Ancient Magic filling the silence.
The world had changed.
The school above had moved on without them.
And Tom Riddle had won his hollow victory.
But they had each other.
And maybe sometime within the next century or two, they'd have another visitor.
okay Anne doesn't talk to sebastian for years because of what he did but like clockwork she gets a letter every month (if she opens them or not up to you ) only this month she doesn't she decides to investigate only to find sebastian playing with a toddler in this front yard and mc holding a brand new baby somewhere in the back ground. then it hits her that she's missed everything
Thank you for another lovely, adorable prompt!!!
I love reconciliation stories, and it was fun exploring an adult Anne, and the awkward relationship she would have with Sebastian after not speaking for years.
Thank you once again for letting me write your story, and I hope you enjoy it.
Word count ~3300
Unexpected Company
Anne Sallow had learned, over the years, that it was easier to ignore Sebastian than to deal with him.
Or rather, ignore the idea of him. The real Sebastian - the one she’d grown up with, shared a womb with, and loved more than anything - had ceased to exist the day he chose the Dark Arts over their family.
The person left behind? That was someone Anne had no interest in knowing.
So she didn’t.
For years, she refused to acknowledge him. She didn’t write, didn’t visit, and certainly didn’t respond to the monthly letters that arrived like clockwork, tucked neatly between correspondence from her Healer and the sparse other mail she received.
At first, she hadn’t opened them out of principle. Then, out of spite. And then, eventually, because it had been too long, and she wasn’t sure how to start.
It was easier to let them pile up, a small unread monument to the brother she had lost.
Until this month.
This month, there had been no letter.
At first, she didn’t think much of it. Maybe he’d finally given up. Maybe he’d realized, at long last, that she had no interest in reopening old wounds.
Except, Sebastian didn’t give up. Not on things that mattered.
Which meant one of two things:
1. He was dead.
2. He was finally in Azkaban where he belonged.
Either way, she needed to know.
Which was how she found herself standing on a quaint, absurdly domestic street on the outskirts of a sleepy little village, staring dumbly at the house her wayward brother had apparently been living in.
She had expected something moody and self-destructive - a rotting shack in Knockturn Alley, or a damp dungeon under some crumbling castle.
Not… this.
The house was warm and bright, with flower beds lining the cobbled walkway. A tidy front garden stretched out beyond the gate, deceptively charming for the former menace of Feldcroft.
And most jarring of all…
Sebastian himself was in the yard, chasing a little boy in circles around a tree.
Anne stopped dead.
The boy was laughing shrieking with delight as Sebastian lunged forward with over-the-top dramatics, catching him mid-run and flipping him upside down.
Anne could not reconcile the image with her memories.
Her murderer brother - the one who had spent so much time defending his actions, justifying himself, refusing to show a single ounce of remorse - was now… what? A doting father?
It had to be a joke. A prank. A particularly twisted hallucination brought on by the Healer’s continued treatments.
Then, in the background, because apparently she wasn’t suffering enough today, she caught sight of a jarringly familiar face standing in the open doorway, a newborn cradled against her chest. The very same witch who'd witnessed Sebastian's worst moments back when they were all fifteen. Who had pleaded her brother's case and begged to keep his atrocious crimes hidden from the authorities.
Anne’s stomach dropped.
Oh, she had missed everything.
Years of silence, years of refusing to even glance at the letters he sent her, and now she was standing here, watching a life unfold that she had never even known existed.
Sebastian had a family.
And she…
She hadn’t been there to see it.
Then, because self-reflection had never been her strong suit, she did what she did best - muttered something disdainful under her breath and scowled at the idyllic picture before her.
“Well, isn’t this just precious.”
-
Anne had imagined this moment before.
Not this moment, exactly; she’d never been delusional enough to picture her estranged brother frolicking in a front yard like some domesticated crup, but she’d certainly imagined seeing him again.
It usually involved a grave, a courtroom, or some dramatic family reckoning where she eviscerated him with words, and he finally understood the damage he had inflicted.
It did not involve him flinging a toddler into the air while his wife stood on the porch cradling their newborn.
Her stomach twisted, the weight of all the years lost settling heavily against her ribs.
Sebastian had a family, and she hadn’t been here for any of it. Not for the wedding. Not for the first child. Not for the second. Not for the version of him that had apparently, somehow, stopped being a reckless, self-destructive disaster of a man and started being this.
And that was the part that hit her the hardest.
The easy warmth in Sebastian’s expression was real.
And the life he had built, without her in it, was a happy one.
Anne was so caught up in her internal crisis that she didn’t notice when the toddler, still dizzy from whatever ridiculous game they’d been playing, turned and caught sight of her standing by the gate.
He blinked up at her, expression puzzled.
Then, without an ounce of hesitation, he turned back toward Sebastian and asked, “Who’s that?”
Sebastian, still grinning like an idiot, followed the kid’s gaze, and then froze. For the first time in years, Anne Sallow made direct eye contact with her twin. And for the first time in even longer, he looked anything but composed.
The silence stretched.
Anne tilted her head, watching as an entire war of emotions played out across Sebastian’s face.
And then, because she didn’t know what else to say, she gestured vaguely toward his offspring, raised a brow, and deadpanned.
“So, is now a bad time for a visit?”
Sebastian’s mouth opened and closed several times, like he was trying to restart his brain, before he finally settled on, “Anne.”
She regarded him in turn with a matching, “Sebastian.”
More silence.
Sebastian’s hand tightened around the child’s, his entire body tense and unmoving.
His wife, who had been standing on the porch impatiently observing, finally decided that someone needed to move this reunion along, because she sighed and called out, “Are you two going to stare at each other all day, or is my husband going to invite his sister inside?”
Anne turned her attention and narrowed her eyes at her. “Husband now, is it?”
Completely unbothered, she shrugged. “Seven years of marital bliss.”
Seven.
“Unfortunate choice for you.” Came Anne’s charming congratulations.
Sebastian let out a frustrated groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Of all the ways this conversation could have started…”
Even his voice was different now.
Sebastian grumbled something under his breath, but finally, he let go of his young son’s hand and stepped forward, eyes taking in her entire being.
She should have expected the sudden shift, the emotion bleeding into his features, the way his voice softened as he said, “I - fuck, Anne, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
Her throat tightened when the little boy petulantly chided him for language.
“Yes, well, I didn't think so either.”
Sebastian winced.
Then, hesitantly, he said, “Would it - would it help if I told you I became an Auror?”
Anne blinked.
Then blinked again.
“You?”
Sebastian sighed, already looking exhausted as he offered a wry smile. “Yes, me.”
She narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “As in, working for the Ministry?”
“Yes.”
“Under authority?”
“Yes.”
Anne tilted her head further like a confused pup. “Not against it?”
Sebastian groaned. “Anne.”
His bride who, to her credit, had been watching the exchange like it was the best entertainment she’d had in years, finally chimed in, “Oh, he’s positively upstanding now. Public servant, hero of the people, the whole bit.”
Sebastian shot her a glare. “I liked you better when you were pretending to be polite.”
She gave him a sickeningly sweet smile. “Marrying me was your mistake.”
Anne almost choked because Sebastian, for whatever reason, looked fondly at the witch's snark. And it was that, more than anything, that made Anne realize - he was genuinely happy.
And Anne, for the first time in years, felt some warm sense of sibling affection creep back into her chest.
Like maybe, just maybe, she wanted to be part of this.
-
Anne had expected this visit to be uncomfortable.
What she hadn’t expected was to be sitting at Sebastian’s kitchen table, with his wife handing her tea like she wasn’t an emotionally stunted wreck of a human being trying to process the fact that she had somehow acquired an entire family overnight.
It was surreal.
The cottage was warm, well-lived-in, and annoyingly cozy - not the kind of place she had ever pictured Sebastian settling down.
But then again, she had also never pictured him being a husband. Or a father. Or an upstanding member of society who did not require routine arrests.
And yet…
Sebastian had barely taken his eyes off her since she’d walked through the door, like he was afraid to blink and realize she wasn’t actually here. It was a lot. But maybe, after all this time, she owed him a bit of discomfort.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” Sebastian said finally, breaking the silence.
Anne took a long sip of her tea. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Sebastian shot her a look.
His wife snorted into her own cup, but said nothing.
Sebastian sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You knew about the letters.”
Anne answered, “You weren’t exactly subtle. The owls you sent kept flying into the window until someone let them in.”
Sebastian grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, but before he could say anything else, a wail came from the next room over.
His wife sighed, setting down her tea. “That’ll be Eleanor ready to eat.”
Sebastian was already half-rising, but she just patted his arm. “I’ve got her, love. Sit.”
Sebastian hesitated, but finally sat back down, watching as she disappeared into the other room and left the twins in silence.
Anne raised a brow. “So... kept not one but two little ones alive?”
Sebastian rolled his eyes. “And intact. All their limbs and everything still attached.”
Anne hummed, skeptical. “You say that, but I have yet to see proof.”
Sebastian gave her a look, then stood. “Come on, then. You’re about to get some.”
Before she could protest, he guided her toward the other room, where the mother of his children was gently rocking a tiny pink bundle by the window, murmuring something softly under her breath. The baby was miniscule. Smaller than she’d expected. And when she turned, revealing a sleepy little girl with dark curls and big brown eyes, Anne stopped short.
“She looks just like you.” Anne muttered before she could stop herself.
Sebastian grinned, proud. “Yeah, she does.”
Anne cleared her throat, uncomfortable with the sheer amount of emotions she was feeling. “Well, that’s unfortunate for her.”
Sebastian’s wife chuckled, shifting Eleanor before glancing at Anne with a knowing expression. “Do you want to hold her?”
Absolutely not.
But before she could voice that opinion, she was already stepping closer, gently handing the baby over like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Anne stared down at her niece, rigid and unsure, her hands awkwardly positioned like she had just been handed an active dungbomb.
Eleanor, for her part, blinked up at her, entirely unimpressed like she knew her aunt was petrified of her.
Anne exhaled, adjusting her grip slightly so she wasn’t at risk of dropping the child. “Right, well then, I've held her. That's enough of that.”
Sebastian snorted. “Proud of you.”
Anne scowled. “Shut it.”
Sebastian opened his mouth, no doubt to say something insufferable, when Eleanor suddenly made a suspicious grunting noise.
Anne barely had time to process it before -
She was covered in baby spit-up.
Sebastian wheezed.
Her mother gasped and clasped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Eleanor.”
Anne froze.
Sebastian had to brace himself against the wall from laughing too hard. “Merlin’s beard, that was an incredible amount.”
Anne turned her head slowly, narrowing her eyes at her useless brother. “You have five seconds before I hand her back and orphan your children.”
Sebastian did not stop laughing.
His wife, still trying to be polite, bit her lip and took Eleanor back, reaching for a cloth to clean them both up.
Anne, meanwhile, was ready to be the last Sallow once and for all.
Sebastian finally managed to catch his breath, wiping at his eyes. “Alright, alright, I’ll be serious.” He gestured vaguely to her ruined robes. “Do you need-?”
Anne held up a hand. “If you hand me something of yours to wear, I’m leaving forever.”
Sebastian smirked. “You’re staying for supper, then?”
Anne sighed heavily, rubbing at her temples. “Against my better judgment.”
Sebastian’s expression softened, and somehow, that was worse, because he had missed her far too obviously for her liking.
Anne swallowed, looking anywhere but at him.
Once more sensing the shift, her sister-in-law offered gently, “There’s plenty of my spare clothing in the master bedroom closet if you want something clean. Please help yourself.”
Anne sighed, glancing at her.
And maybe it was because she wasn’t pushing, or maybe it was because she was still holding the baby with more care and warmth than Anne had ever thought possible from someone willing to marry her idiot brother, but for the first time, Anne didn’t feel like she was intruding.
She gave in. “Alright. But if any more bodily fluids hit me, it's back to lettered correspondence.”
Sebastian chuckled. “Duly noted.”
Anne paused, casting one last glance at the sleepy, chubby-cheeked baby in her mother's arms.
-
Anne had never particularly liked children.
Not in a cruel way - she didn’t wish ill upon them - but she had spent so much of her own childhood sick and frail that the energy of young ones had always been... a lot.
And yet, there she was, half-dry baby vomit on her sleeve because she had refused to change her clothing after all, sitting stiffly on Sebastian’s couch, while a wide-eyed little boy sat across from her, inspecting her like she was an exotic beast.
Oliver.
Her nephew.
Sebastian’s child.
She shifted uncomfortably against the cushion as Oliver kept staring.
“Alright.” She finally muttered, clearing her throat, “If I admit defeat in this staring contest I never signed up for, will you stop looking at me?”
Oliver squinted his little brown eyes at her. “Who are you?”
Anne raised a brow. “Who are you?”
“I’m Oliver.” He said, as if she were completely daft.
Anne smirked. “And I’m Anne.”
Oliver frowned slightly, clearly not satisfied with that answer. “You’re Dad’s sister.”
Anne huffed a laugh. “Unfortunately.”
Oliver scrunched his nose, glancing over toward where his parents were still cleaning up Eleanor in the other room. “I know mum's sister. I don't know you.”
Anne tried not to let that sting.
It wasn’t his fault.
He was... what, three? Four? Ten? However children's ages worked. Too young to remember a world where she and Sebastian had been inseparable.
Still, Sebastian had been a twin. For years, Anne had convinced herself that he wasn’t anymore. That she was the last Sallow.
And yet…
He had a wife and children and a life Anne had been too bitter to be a part of, and she didn’t know how to undo that.
“You look like dad.” Oliver continued, frowning thoughtfully now.
Anne snorted. “That’s very tragic for everyone involved.”
Oliver giggled.
Anne liked him.
Sebastian’s child wasn’t supposed to be charming. He was supposed to be a small, feral gremlin who terrorized the house and threw tantrums. Instead, he was smart and doe-eyed, looking at her with wonder.
“Why didn't you come see me before?” Oliver asked suddenly.
Anne blinked.
Sebastian’s kid, apparently, had zero sense of tact. Really did take after him.
She scrubbed a hand down her face, exhaling. “That’s a bit complicated.”
Oliver frowned then, clearly unsatisfied.
Anne sighed, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “Let’s just say I was cross with your dad.”
Oliver tilted his head. “Are you still mad?”
Anne hesitated because, honestly, that was an even hard question. Sebastian had done bad things. He had been reckless, obsessive, dangerous. He had killed, stolen, broken trust, lost everything.
But was he still bad?
She shook her head. “No. Your dad is a good man.”
For so long, she had been angry.
But sitting here, looking at Sebastian’s son - her nephew - staring at her with quiet curiosity and trust, she realized that anger had faded.
“Will you come to play more now?”
“I don’t know.” She admitted, her voice softer.
Oliver squinted at her. “Well, you should decide soon.”
Anne raised a brow. “Oh? And why’s that?”
Oliver grinned. “Because mum makes cookies for company.”
Anne stared.
Then, before she could stop herself, she laughed.
-
Anne hadn’t planned to stay the night. Hell, she hadn’t even planned to step through the front door. She had expected - fully expected - to take one look at Sebastian’s so-called new life, find some reason to mock it, and then leave before anything could get under her skin.
But now she was standing in the guest bedroom, staring at a neatly made bed while Mrs. Sallow pulled an extra blanket from a small linen cupboard, chatting like it was perfectly normal to be offering her estranged sister-in-law a place to sleep.
“This room’s not used much.” She said over her shoulder. “It’s yours any time you come for a visit.”
“You’re assuming an awful lot.”
She smiled calmly before dropping the blanket onto the bed before turning to face Anne. “You'll be back to see Ollie's cute face - I know my kid's charm. He won you over even if you still want to throttle his dad.”
Anne hated that she had a point.
With an exasperated sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed, fingers idly picking at the stitching on the quilt. “You’re being very... accommodating.”
She tilted her head. “You say that like you expected me to chase you off.”
Anne scoffed, shaking her head. “It’s suspicious. You don’t even know me. We met all of three times before I tried to send my brother to Azkaban, and you're letting me stay over like we're all a cozy family.”
She sat beside her, voice calm as ever. “All I know that my husband spent years waiting for you to forgive him, and that he still hasn't forgiven himself.”
Anne didn’t respond to that.
“No one is asking for or expecting anything, Anne. You’re here, and that's more than enough. Stay the night. See how you feel in the morning. We'll take it one day at a time. We want to hear how you have been - though I can't lie and say Sebastian hasn't pulled some strings with his Ministry cohorts to check in on your welfare.”
Obnoxious, nosy bastard.
Anne nodded curtly, defeated, and gestured toward the door. “I better not wake up to a toddler jumping on me.”
Mother of said toddler simply snorted. “No promises.”
And just like that - it was decided.
Anne was staying.
-
She woke up to small fingers poking her cheek.
“Wake up.” Oliver whispered loudly.
Anne cracked an eye open. “It’s too early for this.”
Oliver grinned. “Dad says you’re staying for breakfast.”
Anne groaned, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling. “He does, does he?”
Oliver nodded enthusiastically, then tilted his head. “You should stay longer.”
“And why is that? I won't play with you.”
Oliver shrugged. “You’re family.”
Anne went still.
Family.
A concept she had spent so many years refusing to believe she had anymore.
But maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong.
She reached out, ruffling his messy brown hair with a tired hand.
“We’ll see.”
Oliver grinned at the victory.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Anne rose to wish her brother a good morning.
Perhaps it was for the best she hadn't read all those letters - how much better would it be to hear it all for herself?
At the very least, there were so many years of stories that she'd have ample excuse to spend several dozen suppers with her family catching up…
SUMMARY: Narcissa has big plans for her son's girlfriend this time of year, and you're determined to live up to her expectations.
WORD COUNT: 7680
NOTES: The first fic of this year's Christmas series, and I think you guys will really love it! It's cute, it's sweet, and it's just the right amount of sassy-Draco.
The moment you sank into the seat beside him, Draco pushed a cup of your favourite herbal tea across to you, his lips brushing your cheek as he whispered a sleepy greeting. Opposite you, Mattheo was half-asleep above his bowl of cereal, his head tipping forward precariously — and a slight thrill shot through you at the idea of him dropping face-first into the milky bowl.
“You’re evil for choosing a six am lecture, do you know that? And they think Matt’s father is the darkest wizard there is.” Daphne groaned as she shuffled into the kitchenette of your small, shared flat in her bunny-eared muggle slippers. Chancing a glance at Draco, you didn’t miss the disgraced twist to his lips as he eyed them. Just like always.
“Nobody forced you to get up at this time, y’know.” You teased, blowing the steam away from your mug, and Mattheo’s head lulled forward just far enough to fall when the toast popped. He jerked his head back up, only inches from getting a face-full of milk and rice crispies, and you pouted in disappointment as he blinked himself back awake, and scooped some more into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. “Why do you get up at this time every day?”
“Because Dray makes us all breakfast if we do!” Daphne chirped, adjusting far better to the early rise than your other roommate, who would be cranky until noon, even without face-planting his crackling snack.
“Correction, I make my girlfriend breakfast, and you two just pilfer food that isn’t yours.” He snarked, buttering the toast, and kissing the top of your head a moment later as he placed it down in front of you. Moments later, a teapot, jam, a plate of only slightly too-crispy bacon and hashbrowns floated over too, laying themselves out on the table along with plates and cutlery.
Since his insistence on moving into his own accommodation at the start of university, Draco had been practising his cooking skills. After setting off the fire alarms every day for the first two weeks and screaming every insult under the sun at the beeping box on the ceiling, he’d started to become quite adept at it.
A harmony settled across the table as you all tucked into your food, only the scrape of butter on toast and the occasional squeak of metal on pottery sounded, the tea in your mug sinking dwindling as the clock on the wall ticked on. Finally, when it was time to leave, you floated all the dishes to the sink, and let Draco trail you to the door of your cramped apartment. Wrapping a thick scarf around your neck, he used it to pull you in for a kiss, smiling against your lips when you grumbled;
“I have to go, Dray.”
“I know.” He mused, licking across your lower lip in that same way that always made your legs tremble a little.
“Stop it.”
“I’m not doing anything.” Your boyfriend teased, his hands sneaking around your waist to pull you in close. Your hand, that had been reaching for your coat, somehow found itself tangling into those soft blonde strands instead.
“I’m going to be late.” Your murmur was swallowed by his mouth closing over your own, a wider kiss, covering your mouth and you sagged into him. He was practically radiating smugness, the squeeze of his arms around you, the arrogance in his breathy chuckle. “Dray…”
“Mmmh?”
“I—”
A tapping at the window cut you off, and Draco pulled back with an indignant sound, whipping his head around to look at the window. He sighed with agitation, “Do you think my mother simply does not care that our apartment building is Muggle, or does she still think Muggles use carrier pigeons?”
You smothered a laugh as he made his way over to the window, taking a little more effort to open it as ice frosted the seals closed, but when he finally did, the tawny brown owl acknowledged him with a rather irritated hoot. The moment Draco had taken the letter, it was stretching its wings, flapping again and taking off into the murky dawn light.
Tugging on your coat as he closed the window back up and shuddered, you shouldered your bag. Upon seeing your progress towards leaving, and another morning of failing to hinder your departure, Draco pouted. His attention turned to the letter in his hands as you opened the front door. “It’s for you.”
“What?”
“My mother, she sent the letter to you. Do you want me to leave it on your—”
“Give it here!” You squeaked, lunging for the letter, and letting the door fall back shut as you snatched it from his hands. Just like he said, elegantly scrawled across the front in Narcissa’s handwriting was your name, and a flush of nervous heat flooded your body. Suddenly, despite the ice and snow outside, you were wearing too many layers.
“I thought you had to leave?”
“It’s a letter from your mother! I can’t leave this until later!” Turning it over and running a shaky finger under the seal with the Malfoy signet, you popped it open, the envelope falling open into a folded parchment with the same lovely handwriting contained inside.
Scanning your eyes over the words, seconds seemed to drag on into endless minutes, as you read it again and again. At last, you clutched the letter to your chest, peering up at your confused boyfriend with wide eyes. “So, what did she say?”
“She wants me to plan the annual Christmas Eve party this year.”
Your breathing was light and shallow as you sat inside the restaurant, smoothing down floo-rumpled hair that had taken Daphne almost an hour to style for you. Your dress was new, courtesy of a panicky shopping trip with Draco after insisting you had nothing appropriate to wear to eat dinner with his mother. Your lipstick was the perfect shade and you’d made sure your perfume was just on the right side of decorous, not the sultry date night scent you typically wore to places like this.
And still, despite all your preparations, your hand trembled as you picked up your water glass and brought it to your lips.
And then, the green flames at the front of the restaurant flashed once again, and out stepped Narcissa Malfoy. Sophistication incarnate, she smoothed her hand down the front of her dress, one that made your own feel like a burlap sack. Several members of staff flooded to her side before she’d even finished stepping down from the line of fireplaces, and she smiled politely as she handed over her coat. Inquisitive gaze flicking over the room, that smile became genuine as she set her sights on you sitting at the table already, and she walked through the room like she owned it as she made her way to you.
Standing as she approached, she let out a regal scoff —how she managed to make a scoff sound so posh was beyond you— and waved a hand in the air. “No need for formalities, dear. Sit, please.”
She kissed both of your cheeks, before pointing to your chair, and you sank into it as she settled into hers. “It’s so lovely to see you, Narcissa. I was surprised you wanted to see me, alone. Draco is—”
“Draco is probably pacing in that little apartment you both live in that he insists upon. Why he forces you to live there when he could have much nicer accommodations is beyond me.”
“It’s a nice apartment. We bought some lovely throw blankets.” Hiding your smile in your glass, your laugh at her expression bubbled your water, and heat rushed to your cheeks as you lowered it and patted at your lip. “I’m so sorry.”
The woman before you only chuckled privately and raised her hand to a waiter. The young man hurried over, cracking open a bottle of white wine without even having to be told, and Narcissa smiled at your confusion. “I have the same wine every time I come, this quaint little place is a favourite of mine. Did you know Lucius attended this same university when he was your age?”
You tried not to hang on the word quaint, thanking the waiter as he poured you a glass too, before hurrying from the table once again. Instead, you moved on to something else, “Which university did you attend, Mrs Malfoy?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t attend university, dear. In my day, a woman was never supposed to be more intelligent than her husband. Educated, of course, but not too smart.” A fond look passed over her features, “Though, Lucius has never seemed to mind. I have read enough to possess multiple degrees by now, he is not intimidated by my curiosity for knowledge. It is one of the reasons I love my husband. But, enough about me.”
Your breathing hitched as her eyes sharpened on you once again. She toyed with the bracelet on her wrist and plucked off a small charm. Placing it on the table, with a single muttered incantation, a gorgeous, pure-leather briefcase with her initials embedded on the side in gold, filled the available space. The clasps popped open, and she peered at you over the lid.
“Let’s skip the small talk, shall we, dear? We have much to discuss. You know what you’d like to eat, I presume?”
You did not, in fact, know what you wanted, but you nodded regardless, and picked the first thing from the menu that came to mind. When your order was given, Narcissa placed a delicate pair of reading glasses onto her nose and began to pull out papers and folders to stack beside her wine glass.
“You shall host the Christmas Eve party this year, but despite it being loosely called a ‘party’, it is so much more. It is a social event, a business event, and one of the most desired gatherings of the year. It is exclusive, thousands of wizards globally vie for a spot on this guest list and most are disappointed year in and year out. It must be spectacular, splendid, and unique. Repeated themes are the death of any social event, as I’m sure you know.” Peering over the rim of her glasses at you, she raised a manicured eyebrow inquisitorially. “Are you taking notes?”
With a jump, you reached for your far less elegantly-stored bag on the back of your chair, and rooted through for your notebook and QuickQuill, setting it to work atop the table as she continued to speak.
“I have brought my records for the last ten years, and a list of the themes dating back the last thirty, in order to help you. I have also included a copy of any and all documents I typically use, to help you out a little. Nobody helped me when I first began. Merlin, Lucius’ mother hated me until the wonderful day the old hag died, she wanted to see me fail. I do not want to see you fail.” She looked up as the scribbling of the quill on your paper stopped at her small rant. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I, uhh, I—” You stumbled over your words, clearing your throat as she closed the briefcase and linked her hands, setting them upon the tabletop with poise as she waited, “I’m just wondering why?”
“Why?” She sniffed, pushing her glasses further up her nose and raising one brow into a high arch. “Why what?”
“Why you’re giving this to me? It’s an honour, truly, but I’m just wondering why you would put something so important, your family’s name, into my hands?”
At that, Narcissa’s lips turned up into a fond smile, and her head tipped to the side. “My son loves you.”
After a moment’s pause, you nodded, throat feeling thick. “He does.”
“I am happy for him. He adores you, as he should. You are a wonderful girl, my dear. I do not want you to have the harsh break into this world that I did. I thought I had been prepared to become a wife, I was an heir of a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, but a union between the most noble House of Black and the most powerful House of Malfoy created something else entirely. You, you are clearly Draco’s one. The men in this family love wholly, powerfully, and obsessively. You will be a Malfoy one day, and I wish for you to be ready. I wish to guide you in a way nobody guided me.”
Words froze in your throat, and tears prickled behind your eyes are her words. “You really think that? You think Draco will marry me one day?”
“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t already thinking about it. He is, at the end of the day, still a high-society boy raised to find a suitable wife.” She left her statement short and succinct, and you sniffed lightly to hold back your feelings. “Do not cry.”
“Sorry, I—”
“I mean it. Do not start crying. We have work to do.”
You nodded, but then she smiled fondly, and a small and emotional squeak escaped you.
The number of notes Narcissa had given you at dinner alone had required their own folder entirely to properly organise. So this morning, you’d braved yourself on a journey out in the ice and snow to a local stationary store to pick up two more. Surrounded by open folders, QuickQuills, and some coloured tabs and inky pens deemed highlighters that you’d noticed some Muggle girls picking up, you had set to work hours ago.
Your neck ached, your back was sore, and two of your QuickQuills had broken while the notepad in your lap had more pages torn out in frustration than actually had useful ideas and notes.
That, and Draco had been needy since the moment he’d gotten home, laying himself out dramatically on the floor in front of you and trading refills on your tea for kisses. Some time ago, he’d convinced you to take a break for dinner and to do your homework together at the table.
Now, the sun had set, Mattheo had long since returned from his part-time job at the record store, and Daphne had come back from her weekend study group, gotten ready, and gone back out for a date, and you still felt like you hadn't quite done enough. If the stress of party planning didn’t kill you, it was certainly going to cripple you.
Stretching your arms over your head from where you perched before the coffee table, you pushed your legs out into any space available. As you did, a relieved groan slipped free at the delicious pain of tight muscles unfurling in your back. Draco cupped your chin, tipping your head back to drop a kiss onto your lips as he passed by to go to the kitchen, leaving his book marked and closed on the side of the couch.
You listened to him make another cup of tea, rubbing blurry eyes and attempting to focus once again. Just before you could re-enter the zone, tapping on glass broke your focus, and you heard Draco sigh. Cracking open a window, he retrieved whatever had been sent, feeding the bird a few treats before sending it on its way again and closing out the cold chill of the December night.
He appeared moments later, his black and white Christmas-themed socks filling your peripherals.
“Another letter for you, from my mother.” Draco drawled, passing the envelope to you as you glanced up from your folders. He waved it before your face, and you snatched it with a scowl, adding in a glare for emphasis when he only laughed. “You know, she writes to you more than she writes to me these days.”
“Yes, well, we complain to one another about the terrors of you Malfoy men and how we’re supposed to put up with you.” Your words were muttered amid distraction, skimming your gaze over the letter in your hands and frowning. “Word has already gotten out about this party, and now the Prophet wants to run an article on it.”
Your voice climbed higher and higher as you spoke, until your boyfriend winced at the shrill tone you had taken on. “I wouldn't worry too much about that.”
“Wouldn’t worry— it’s the party, Draco! And now the media wants a piece! If it’s a failure, the entire Wizarding World is going to know about it by eight the following morning!”
“More like six, if they hurry it though printing—”
“Draco!”
He rolled his eyes, flopping ungracefully down onto the couch and stretching his body long out on it. Holding his arms open, you collapsed into them with a whine, and he kissed your forehead as he wrapped you into a tight embrace. With the letter crumpled between you both, you pressed your face into his neck, taking in a deep breath of his cologne and letting it calm you slightly.
“You’ll still love me even if I throw the worst party ever, right?”
“Yes, I’ll still love you!” He spoke through peels of sudden laughter, and the shake of his chest underneath you brought a smile to your face. Propping yourself up to peer down at him, he puckered his lips, a request for a kiss that you eagerly indulged. “And I meant it. This isn’t personal to you, this is just Skeeter trying to push a new weak point. I don’t even think she knows you’re the host yet, she does this every year. She tries to wrangle her way into an invitation through her job, and every year, my mother sneers at her letters and burns them.”
“Really?”
“Yes, my love.” Rubbing his hands up and down your back, Draco leaned up to press another loving, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Now, can you please put those folders away for the night? We haven’t set up our Christmas tree yet, and you haven’t given me proper cuddles all day.”
“Just five more minutes?” You bargained, and his lips tightened with annoyance for a fraction of a second.
“Only as long as it takes me to make two hot chocolates.”
“Deal.”
“Hi, baby.” You whispered, leaning against the doorframe. Draco peered up at you from over the top of his reading glasses, folding his book silently and placing it down on the bedside table. He laced his fingers together, resting his hands across his stomach, and waited. “Whatcha’ reading?”
“A thousand and one ways to ruin your girlfriend’s Christmas party.” He deadpanned, and your smile fell, arms crossing over your chest. Straightening up and stepping into the room a little more, Draco smirked at the glare you gave him.
“If you would just help me out a little—”
“You’ve yet to apologise for what you said earlier.” He crosses his ankles casually, lounging on the bed.
“Yes, well, earlier was—”
“That’s not how apologies start.” Draco chastised, clicking his tongue. With a strangled sigh, and a slightly childish stomp of your foot, you caved. Ignoring the urge to ask him what he knew about good apologies, you instead made your way closer to the side of the bed. As you approached, he reached out, wrapping his arm around the backs of your legs and looking up at you, waiting.
“I’m sorry for shouting at you and calling you a bad boyfriend when you messed with my sticky notes. It really wasn’t that deep.” Your words were begrudging, certainly holding an underlying bitterness to them that wasn’t hidden, but Draco grinned nonetheless. “I’m just really stressed out.”
“You’re putting too much thought into this, darling. You need to relax. It’s just a party.”
“It’s not just a party! Do you realise that these people will—” Will be our wedding guests one day? Will be the people who pass judgment on my suitability to be your wife someday? Will remember this social event for the rest of their lives? It all sounded too shallow to say out loud, but somehow, it still meant something to you. “Will be so disappointed if it’s not good.”
Your boyfriend’s brows furrowed, he knew there was more you weren’t saying, but he didn’t push. Instead, he wrapped his arms more securely around you, tugging you down onto the bed, and you squealed as he rolled you over, your back in the blankets and his lips closing over your own in a slow kiss.
Your fingers laced into his hair, nails dragging over his scalp and he hummed happily, lips pressing more insistently into your own. Every tug and drag, every beat of his heart onto his chest pressed to yours, helped to settle the raging nerves that were sending tremors through your body.
“I know you don’t think it, love, but it’s going to be fantastic. You needn’t be so worried.”
Smoothing your hands along his cheeks, you unhooked his glasses, folding them away with a sweet kiss to his nose. Putting them down on top of his forgotten book, you decided to try your luck one more time. “Does this mean you’ll help me? Because I could really use a second opinion on—”
“Nuh-uh. My mother entrusted you with this job. And I know why.”
At your gasp, he smirked. “You do?”
“Of course, I do. This party is a tradition for generations of Malfoy women, so if you’re going to be a Malfoy woman, you’d better learn now.” At your scoff, he pressed a kiss to your lips, chuckling when you puckered and attempted to steal more.
“If you don’t help me, then you’d better find a new future woman.”
“Shan’t. Can’t. I’ve already chosen you, and the men never party plan. We’re terrible at it. Just ask my mother about when my father suggested a Weasley-orange banner for—”
“Alright, alright!” Your arms flung around his neck, pulling him in for more kisses, and leaving the conversation behind. For a little while, you were perfectly willing to let Draco help you forget your stresses.
“My darling, what are you doing?” Draco’s groggy voice split the silence of the room, and you blinked as you refocused on him. Pyjamas pants low on his hips and no shirt, a spattering of pale hair trailing down his lower stomach and disappearing into his waistband… Some absent part of your exhausted brain sparked with excitement at the sight of him. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“What? No, it’s not. I said I’d come to bed at—”
“At midnight?” Draco yawned, covering his mouth with one hand and pointing at the clock with the other. True to his word, it was actually past two, and a sigh slipped out.
“Oh.”
“Mhm.” Draco shuffled across the room, standing behind you and running his fingers through your hair. “This is what we’re doing now? We’re staying up all night?”
“No, no. I’ll pack away and come to bed now.” Stacking up your papers, you turned to look up at him with a smile. “I did it.”
“You did it?”
“Yes. I have officially finished the whole of my planning stage. Now, I just have to… y’know, actually put everything together and pull it off and hope it’s a success and—” His brows raised, and you took a deep breath, remembering all the steadying words he’d muttered to you over the last few weeks. “I’ll just put all this away, and come to bed, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll wait up for you.” Draco promised, dipping to press a kiss to the crown of your head.
He padded away silently through the room, and as you scooped up a pile of papers, they slipped out of your sleep-trembling hands, spilling across the floor. “Oh, crap.”
“Alright, that’s enough.” He grumbled, returning across the room and leaning down, smacking the papers out of your hands where you attempted to clear them up. Dipping down, he hooked an arm underneath your legs, lifting you swiftly up into the air and cradling you to his chest. “They’ll still be there in the morning. Sleep, now.”
An argument sat on the tip of your tongue, but he was right, and the moment your cheek touched his shoulder and your eyes slipped closed, you knew it too. You were half asleep before he’d even reached the bedroom, dropping you both onto the mattress, still warm from his body, and cradling you to his chest. A sweet kiss and a deep rumble in your ear were the last things you recalled, before curling into his chest and falling asleep.
Shaking out your hand, you whimpered a little at the pain taking over. “I’m going to end up with my hand locking in this shape.”
Daphne glared at you from across the table, clearly still unhappy about the fact that two hours ago you’d managed to rope her into helping you with this job as well. Your eyes were blurring, your hand was cramping, and you were still only halfway through writing out the invitations. You’d put Daphne on folder organisation, her voice was hoarse from reading out addresses, and creating a filing system for RSVP’s and replies for your records.
If you had to hear any more dietary requirements, special requests, or seating demands, you were going to lose your mind. Only a few more envelopes had been completed, joining the pile of ones still waiting to be sealed with wax and sent on their way, before a shooting pain shot up your arm as cramps set in.
Dropping the quill in your hand and messing up the letter before you, you cursed at the smeared ink. Rubbing your palm and digging your thumb into the tense muscles, you conceded that now was most definitely the time to take a break.
Swaggering into the room, Mattheo peered over at the mess that had become the shared kitchen table, his brows shooting up his forehead. “You two look busy.”
“I’m being held against my will,” Daphne muttered, tucking away the pages into the folder and beginning to pack away, despite your protests.
“You want some help?” Mattheo offered, and your gaze snapped to him.
“Oh, Matty, that’s so sweet…” Your lips pressed together, wincing a little bit as he eyed all of the stationary and neatly-arranged piles on the table. “It’s just…”
“Your handwriting is shocking and your organisational skills are even worse.” Daphne put bluntly, and you hid a laugh at the sulky expression on his face, even if he knew it was true. “Besides, don’t you have a date tonight?”
“Well, yes.” He spun to give you both his back as his cheeks flushed pink, opening and closing random drawers in an attempt to look busy.
You gave an excited squeal as Daphne smirked at his bashfulness. “Is it with—”
“Yes!” He huffed, the tips of his ears now turning red too.
“You really like this girl, huh? You never see the same girl twice, and this is, what, your fourth date?” Your teasing made him relent, and he at last turned around. He was picking nervously at the sweater he must’ve bought just for this occasion, as you’d never seen it before.
“Fifth, actually. We, uhh, bumped into each other last week after class and went for some impromptu coffee, and…” He scratched the back of his neck, a sweet smile taking over. “Do I look okay?”
“You look lovely, Mattheo.” Standing up, you fixed his collar for him, brushing off the shoulders of his sweater, and he preened into your touch. “Oh, wow, Daph. You have to come and see this. Is this… what I think it is?”
“What?” Mattheo panicked, turning his head to his shoulder as you rubbed the fabric between your fingers. Turning him around, he attempted to peer over his shoulder as you turned the inside of his collar out. “What is it?”
“It doesn’t say it on the label, but…”
“You know, I think you’re right,” Daphne said, feeling the fabric stretched across his shoulders. “No, no, it definitely is.”
“What? I don’t have time to change! My jumper is what?” Mattheo gasped anxiously.
“Boyfriend material.” You said, very seriously, and it took a moment for the fear to melt out of his eyes and be replaced by annoyance.
“Oh, fuck off.” Mattheo pushed you both away from him, scowling as your laughter filled the room, and the pair of you made your way back over to the table. “You two are the worst.”
“You love us.”
“I don’t know why.” He mumbled, glancing at the clock, even as his cheeks stretched into a smile. “I have to go soon. But how about I make you both a snack before I do? I can at least make a good sandwich.”
“That’s… everything.” You mumble, staring in awe at the two —almost three, filled folders of notes, invitations, floor plans and more. “I can’t believe that’s it.”
“It is?” Draco asked, through a mouthful of fried rice as he fixated on the screen. Since Mattheo’s introduction of a Muggle television into the flat, Draco had been hooked on a ‘sitcom’ a half-blood in one of his classes had introduced him to. He had written to Theo three times this week alone to update him on ‘Ross and Rachel’. Theo had given up replying last week.
“Yes. Everything, it’s all done.”
“Mhm.”
“Draco!” You snapped, and he paused the show, wide eyes moving to you as he stared innocently. “I’m done.”
It took him a moment to process before his face split into a wide grin. “You finished the party planning?”
“I did!” He put down his container of food as you dove across the couch to cup his cheeks, smacking giggly kisses onto his mouth as you took him down into the cushions with you. Large hands gripped your waist, a smile on his face as he chuckled by your ear.
“So, does this mean I get my girlfriend back, at last?”
“Yes, I suppose.” You rolled your eyes through a smile, flattening yourself out against him on the couch, content to melt into his body as he pressed play on the show. He picked up a new box, hand-feeding you dumplings in turns as the episode played on, and you chuckled between jokes and comedic pauses as you finally allowed yourself to unwind.
“Don’t you think Pansy is just like Monica?” Draco asked after a while, wincing as you screeched a laugh beside his ear at the impromptu comparison. “The need to control, that inherently irritating early-morning mentality, looking shockingly good in red—”
You pinched his side, just over his ribs, and he yelped but did not continue comparing how good other women looked in red. After a second or two of deliberation, you added, “Tom is Ross.”
“What? No. Tom is Chandler! Tom is smart and ridiculously awkward and incapable of talking to women!” Draco argued, and you sat up in his lap, shaking your head.
“No! No. Tom is Ross, the complete obsession with one specific thing and also being a massive control freak, plus, the commitment! He was adorably committed to Carol, and Rachel, bar that whole cheating moment—”
“They were on a break—” You pressed your finger over Draco’s lips to silence him.
“Anyway, I can totally see Tom accidentally getting someone knocked up, and also, you have to save Joey and Chandler for Theo and Matty!”
Draco mulled it over, “Okay. I’ll give you that.”
He pulled you back down onto his chest, and you snuggled in. Between the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree and the dulled tones of the easy-going TV show to send you off into a hazy place, with Draco’s fingers smoothing up and down your back.
“You look perfect.” You smiled, hands clasped under your chin as you looked at Draco in his newly fitted dress robes. This was the first time he was seeing them, the look on his face unreadable as he took in the design, fit and patterns, but you thought it was just right. “Do you like it?”
Draco looked at himself in the mirror again, straightening out the sleeves and buttoning the rather modern front, tucking one hand into a pocket. At last, he turned to you and smiled. “Well, it’s nothing like what my mother normally makes me wear, but I love it. Are you finally going to tell me the theme?”
“No! You said you didn’t want to give any opinions, so now, it’s a surprise! Nobody knows, except me!” Smoothing your hands over his shoulders and down his arms, you admired the pretty picture he painted before you, even in the dim light of your bedroom so late at night. “I have a couple of handkerchief options for your pocket, and I was thinking we could pin a sprig of holly onto your—”
Your words died in your throat in a sudden rush as a thought crossed your mind, and Draco waited, brow furrowing the longer you remained silent. “What’s wrong, you don’t like it?”
“I forgot a dress.” You whispered to yourself, shock draining from your body as realisation set in. “I got so caught up with everything else that I never ordered a dress! It’s next week, Draco! How am I supposed to find something by then, between classes and—”
“You’re okay.”
“No, this is so not okay!”
“Darling, breathe.” Draco cupped your face, kissing your lips quietly, “I have something for you.”
Opening up the wardrobe dedicated to his clothes, Draco pulled out a garment bag. Embroidered on the front in sparkling gold was the name of his family tailor, and he hooked it onto the front of the door. Unzipping it slowly, beautiful waves of green silk and jewels filled your vision, a sparkling corset and a flowing skirt that spilled out of the bag the moment it was open.
“I noticed a few days ago that you’d ordered me new robes, but not a dress for yourself. I asked my mother and Daphne, and you hadn't planned anything with either of them. So, I ordered you something.”
“Oh, Dray…” You whispered, stepping closer to admire the dress. Your fingers hovered just over the top of it, and Draco carefully lifted it out, laying it over his arm for you to better admire. “It’s perfect. How in Merlin’s name did you know?”
“Well, red, green and gold were some of the specified colours on the invitations, and I knew damn well you weren’t going to dare dress me in red, so green it was. Plus, I mentioned to my tailor that I needed a dress for you that matched whatever secret outfit you had planned for me.” He shrugged, like it was no big deal, and your cheeks flushed as you looked between him and the dress. “Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“Good, because I already picked up some jewellery for you too.” You quirked a brow, smirking at him as he rolled his eyes. “Can’t have you pulling the same nonsense you did last year, so I fetched a couple of items from the vault.”
“Can I see?”
“No. It’s a surprise. Unless, of course, there’s anything you want to tell me?” He bargained, and your jaw dropped at his audacity, shaking your head.
“I love you?”
“Hm. No. But I love you too.” Kissing the tip of your nose, he held the dress up for you. “Try this on, I want to see you in it, and see us both side by side.”
Taking it from his hands, the soft material slipped through your fingers and floated like clouds as you held it up. “Draco, I…”
Words died in your throat, unable to properly convey just how much this meant to you. Despite his refusal to get involved with the ridiculously stressful planning of the party, Draco had made sure to dote on you and take care of you all the way through. He seemed to see right through you, his expression softening as he leaned down to press his forehead to yours. “Hey. You take care of everyone else, and I’ll take care of you.”
Straightening out Draco’s collar for the eighth time, you huffed anxiously when he batted away your hands. “Darling, my robes are fine. Tug on them anymore and you’re going to crease them.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so nervous.”
“Don’t be. You planned a perfect party, and you worked so hard. Let yourself enjoy it now.” Draco took both of your hands in his as he chuckled, kissing your knuckles as you conceded to his point. He was right, this ridiculous batch of nerves was far more out of a need to impress his mother than it was to impress anyone else on that invitation list, but you couldn't shake the buzz of trepidation in your veins. “Let me distract you.”
“Distract me?”
“Yes. Let me distract you.” Draco grinned, tipping your chin up with a finger underneath your jaw, and dipping his head down. His lips encased your own, a soft sound of pleasure bubbling from inside you as the taste of mint and lingering wine from his drinks with Theo spread to your tongue. Two large hands wrapped around your waist, settling on your lower back. He tugged you closer to him again, until you were crushed to his chest, no doubt wrinkling his robes, as your arms looped around his neck.
With every crush of his mouth against your own, your worries slipped further from you, letting the proximity and adoration of your boyfriend settle the unease brewing within you. Something cold brushed against your collarbones, the dipped neckline of the dress Draco had chosen for you showed goosebumps in its wake, and you pulled back with a gasp at a tug on your earlobe.
You raised your hand, a simple but elegant charmed bracelet was wrapping itself around your wrist, as your fingers brushed your sternum to feel the pendant of a necklace perfectly setting itself on your chest. In your ears, a string of diamonds now swung lightly from each one, completing your look at last.
“Perfect. Now you’re properly adorned, as Malfoy woman should be.”
“Don’t tell me this necklace is your family crest like a brand.” You teased, pinching it between your thumb and forefinger, but only the precise cuts of a perfectly-carved gem were felt beneath your finger pads, not a name or brand to be found.
“Well, I was tempted, but no. I went a little subtler, instead, I chose a very recognisable piece from the Malfoy public collections.”
His smirk made a flush rush to your cheeks, but you didn’t have time to address it before one of the Manor’s house elves popped into the empty space before you, curling a finger around its ear as it bobbed excitedly where it stood. “Misses first guests be arriving, the floo has been opened and the guest’s carriages be coming through the gates. Does miss or sirs be needing anything else, or should Fip be starting pouring the drinks?”
“Pouring drinks would be excellent, thank you, Fip.” Draco murmured, sending the elf away with one final pat on your back as he stepped away, Draco smoothed a hand down the front of his robes. With the mere wave of a hand, the large wooden doors separating you both from the grand hall began to creak open, and Draco offered you an arm. “Shall we greet our guests, my love? I’m rather excited to see your party theme at last.”
You slid your arm through his, taking one more bracing deep breath, before at last turning to see the culmination of all your hard work.
As the doors parted further, you were left breathless at the sight of the room before you. It had been transformed, from something you’d seen so many times before in so many luxurious visions, to the dream of your own making. The enchanted ceiling was that of swirling clouds and a dark, starry sky. Snow that could pass for real floated around the outside of the room in glittering flakes that disappeared into thin air before touching the floor, creating a wintery setting that was countered by the cosy and warm feel of the crackling fireplaces around the room.
Floating around the dance floor were sparkling, swirling lights that would bob and weave between the guests, keeping the lighting low and romantic as candles flickered on the tables and gave the room a wonderfully golden glow. Tablecloths brushing the floors, centrepieces made of golden flowers, wreaths and holly berries. Snow-touched Christmas trees, twinkling lights and ornaments, red ribbons, green silk, accents of gold and silver, and it all came together so perfectly. Draco walked you slowly towards the centre of the room as he took it all in, his jaw dropped as he peered around the room.
“Well, we’ve certainly never had anything like this before.” He whispered. “It feels so… cosy.”
“Do you think they’ll—”
‘Who cares what they think? Do you like it?” Draco pressed, cutting you off as the two of you stood squarely in the centre of the room, the spelled instruments in the corner starting to play classical versions of your favourite Christmas songs, and his lips flicked up at the corners. “Are you happy with it, my darling?”
“I love it.” You finally relented, pressing your lips together to quash nerves and choosing instead to revel in your masterpiece. “I wanted to tap into that old-fashioned, classical, comforting Christmas. I wanted to make my mark, I wanted something beautiful but simple, I wanted it to feel like an intimate gathering, not a social event.”
The doors at the other end of the hall opened slowly, voices from the other side filtering through, and your attention turned to that of your friends and their families. Theo whistled under his breath as he looked around, stopping abruptly at his father’s command, and he rolled his eyes when the older man wasn’t looking. Across the room, he caught your gaze, and gave an approving nod and a smirk. Pansy’s lips were curled into a smile as Daphne’s jaw dropped, admiring the enchanted sky-scene with her sister.
You moved to greet them, accepting their approval and using the warmth their comfort offered to soothe the jagged feelings inside of you and put them to rest.
The more the crowds piled in, the better you felt, slipping into polite chatter and breezy small talk as you greeted each guest to pass through. The drinks were flowing, the music was playing, and most of all, people were smiling. You’d only heard compliments, no whispered talk under anyone's breath of backhanded compliments, only genuine kindness.
By the time Narcissa and Lucius came gliding into the hall, you’d almost been reassured enough to let your guard down. However, as the regal older lady greeted all her old friends and favoured guests on her way to you, the nerves all seemed to reappear.
By the time she reached you, her hands had extended out and clutched your own as she smiled. “My, my, dear. What a party you threw, and to think you’ve been so worried. You had no need to be.”
Your jaw dropped, and you shook your head. “I-I wouldn't say worried, just a little concerned, that’s all—”
“Please, let us not hide things from one another. Draco has been writing to me, he told me you were panicking like a, what was that odd Muggle term you used, like a headless chicken?” Her nose wrinkled as you blushed, and Lucius rolled his eyes. Your glare turned to Draco, who only shrugged and sipped his drink, feigning innocence. “This is a marvellous party, I hope you’re proud of it.”
“I am. It was exhausting, though. I don’t know how you do it.” You sighed, and she smirked as she squeezed your hands before letting go.
“Did it.”
“Hm?” You questioned, and her shoulders rose and fell delicately.
“Oh, you did such a fantastic job here. You’re all anyone is talking about, and truly, I am so tired of planning these events. I think it’s due time you take over them now. The next one is February, I’ll be sure to send you all of the details.” Your jaw dropped open at her words and Draco choked a little on his champagne. His father scowled, poking him in the ribs with his cane and telling him to stop slouching and spluttering, as you tried to find words.
“Oh, I’m not sure that—”
“Lucius, dear, I think I see Tauria Parkinson. Come, I must ask her about her gardens.”
“Yes, dear.” He mumbled quietly, and she had whisked her husband away before you’d even finished your sentence and turned to Draco. With your jaw still dropped in horror and shock, he covered his snicker behind his hand.
“I can’t believe this.”
“What? She’s right. You planned a great party, and you were going to have to take over all of this one day anyway—”
“Draco!”
“Yes, dear?” He drawled, and you smacked lightly at his chest with the back of your hand.
“You’re a menace. I hope you know that you will be helping with party planning. If we’re to proceed down this road, we’ll be a modern couple. None of your old-fashioned ways.” You scoffed, taking his drink from his hand and swirling the bubbly inside, before drinking the rest in a single gulp.
“None of them?” He pressed, an arm snaking around your waist as his lips brushed your neck. His lips moved to your neck, whispering some sweet, some slightly inappropriate things into your ear about honeymoon traditions, drawing a laugh from you.
“Alright, maybe a few.” You caved, tipping your head up to him just in time to catch the growing sprig of mistletoe over your head. Snaking one hand around to cup the back of his neck, you pulled his lips down to yours, brushing your mouths together lovingly. “Happy Christmas, Draco.”
Further beyond the first kiss (A continuation of this)
I want Ominis to live a long and happy life, but on the other hand it is also very interesting to think about how MC will live on for the rest of their lives after he is gone 🥲🥹
Katie is My Name, Fanfics Are My Game @cauliflowercounty - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
