Dream World

ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ…✍︎

[lizziesangel]

Lizzie 𝜗ৎ Asian 𝜗ৎ nineteen 𝜗ৎ fanfic writer 𝜗ৎ hufflepuff 𝜗ৎ outfit repeater 𝜗ৎ 90’s girl 𝜗ৎ mirror selfies 𝜗ৎ Rafe Cameron enthousiast 𝜗ৎ Ari’s girl 𝜗ৎ

Currently playing: Stacey Q

➛ MASTERLIST ➛ FOR REQUESTS / GUIDELINES

➛ GO HERE FOR TAGLIST

remember that you’re choosing what kinds of media you consume! be careful on the internet!

[lizziesangel]

Birthday special! & +3k followers!

Never done this before, but since it’s almost birthday, I want to do something special!💕

Feel free to request anything from this prompt, with characters I mentioned (you can always request other characters that I haven’t mentioned, and I’ll check if I know them).

Character list & Menu under the cut!

♡ Character list :

✦ Outer Banks ✦ MCU / X-men ✦ Teen Wolf ✦ Criminal Minds ✦ Harry potter (+ Marauders, ...) ✦ Maze Runner ✦ Percy Jackson ✦ Narnia ✦ Top Gun ✦ Formula one ✦ Walking Dead ✦ Stranger Things ✦ Feel free to request some more characters!

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Menu : Street Food specials

◉ Garlic Knots — Best Friends to Lovers ◉ Mozzarella Sticks — Roommates ◉ Loaded Nachos — Fake Dating ◉ Churros — Childhood Friends Reunited ◉ Pretzel Bites — One Bed ◉ Taco Basket — Opposites Attract ◉ Fried Pickles — Academic Rivals ◉ Onion Rings — Second Chances ◉ Corn Dogs — Found Family ◉ Curly Fries — "Everyone knows except them"

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Appetizers blurbs

Dumplings — "You don't have to be strong today." Cheese Croquettes — Stuck together during a storm Garlic Bread — "I waited for you." Chicken Noodle Soup — Taking care of them when they're sick Soft Pretzel — Reunion after years apart Flatbread Bites — "I thought I lost you." Mini Tacos — Accidental voicemail confession French Fries — Sitting together in comfortable silence Potato Wedges — "Tell me what's wrong." Stuffed Olives — The aftermath of an argument

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Main course AUs

Spaghetti & Meatballs — Soulmate AU Steak Tartare — Bodyguard AU Moules frites — Summer Camp AU Chicken Pot Pie — Small Town AU Burrito Bowl — Apocalypse Survival AU Double Cheeseburger — Fake Relationship AU Pizza BBQ — College AU Truffle Pasta — Celebrity x Normal Person AU Flemish Beef Stew — Childhood Friends to Strangers to Lovers AU Lasagna — "We Meet Again Every Lifetime" AU Belgian Fries — Neighbors AU Ravioli — Teacher AU Casserole — Single Parent AU Mac & Cheese — Pen Pal AU Aspargus — Coffee Shop AU

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Desserts Fluff prompts

Chocolate Chip Cookies — Building a pillow fort together Tiramisu — Teaching them something they never learned Pumpkin Cheesecake — Matching Halloween costumes Moelleux — Adopting your first animal Belgian Waffles — Late-night stargazing Strawberry Shortcake — "I saved you a seat." Christmas Sugar Cookies — First family holiday together Chocolate Fondue — Learning each other's love languages Blueberry Muffin — "This reminded me of you." Vanilla Ice Cream — Falling asleep on their shoulder

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Cocktails Hurt/comfort

Strawberry Sunrise — Character A breaks down after holding everything in for too long Lemon Drop — Panic attack comfort Blueberry Vodka — Grief and healing Fizzy Peachtree — Recovering after a difficult mission Pink Flamingo — "You don't have to carry this alone." Berry Blush — Emotional reunion after months apart

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Milkshake specials Angst

Chocolate Overload — Unrequited love Strawberry Swirl — Right person, wrong time Cookies & Cream — Miscommunication Blue Velvet — "I never meant to hurt you." Honeycomb Crunch — Comfort to Hurt Mocha Madness — Character death fake-out Triple Chocolate — Sacrificing your own happiness for someone else's Peanut Butter Crunch — "Why didn't you tell me?" Cotton Candy Shake — One person remembers, the other doesn't Salted Caramel — Almost confession interrupted Moonlight Milkshake — Meeting again after one of them changed completely

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Chef's Special Can't seem to decide?

Send me: ♡ A character ♡ A trope ♡ A theme (fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, found family, etc.) And I'll pick something from the menu for you!

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[mostlymarvelgirl]

I really miss those old avengers tower fics

1. Clint in the vents

2. Bruce and Tony in the lab... science bros

3. Cap being accused and called out by his team ... either it's the "language" or "I understood that reference"

4. Loki for some reason being imprisoned in the tower by Odin to learn humanity blah blah

5. Thor and his poptarts

6. Natasha and wanda being the bestie

7. Reader either dating Loki or Bucky

8. Fury calling out reader initially as a threat as they were an orphan who was a lineage of witches type of trope. OR reader is Tony's kid.

9. Bucky randomly becoming besties with Sam and them having their own fights.

10. Peter and Shuri becoming besties with reader

11. Maria, pepper, wanda, Natasha and reader having sleepovers.

12. Tony having a party every time after a mission. Everyone ends up trying to lift thor's hammer and reader turns out to be worthy.

13. Loki teaching reader how to use magic.

And the list goes on....

[lizziesangel]

Lwk want to write about this, how I miss those days

[lizziesangel]

MASTERLIST

৻ꪆ : angst ┆ ⭒: general ┆ ❀: fluff

⋆˚࿔ RAFE CAMERON MASTERLIST ˚⋆

⋆˚࿔ LOGAN HOWLETT MASTERLIST ˚⋆

⋆˚࿔ TOM RIDDLE (SDE) MASTERLIST ˚⋆

⋆˚࿔ ONE-SHOTS˚⋆

BRADLEY BRADSHAW⋆⭒˚.⋆

৻ꪆ/❀ i still love you ❀ courage

TOM RIDDLE𓈒⟡₊⋆∘

❀ family trip

JOAQUÍN TORRES⋆⭒˚.⋆

❀ Meeting The Falcon and Captain America (+ Kate Bishop) Part one Part two

[lizziesangel]

updated masterlist! xx

[lizziesangellibrary]

ᯓ★Follow and turn on notifs to be reminded for new chapters in my series!༄

≔ me ≔ writing ≔ menu

[lizziesangel]

Want to be informed when I'm updating my series? Follow my new page, and turn on mentions! (there are too many @'s...)

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⚕TOM RIDDLE (SDE) - masterlist⚕

lizziesangel masterlist - taglist request

SOULMATES DON'T EXIST

SUMMARY: Everything changes for you when Snape gives you a certain memory. will you be able to do the task that Dumbledore has given you?

CONTENT WARNING: Soulmate au! (soulbound), time travel au!,

⚕ Part one

⚕ Part two

⚕ Part three

⚕ Part four

⚕ Part five

⚕ Part six

⚕ Part seven

⚕ Part eight

⚕ Part nine

⚕ Part ten

⚕ Part eleven

⚕ Part twelve

[lizziesangel]

Every part has been updated! I recommend re-reading p12, since I've made some small changes xx

GO HERE FOR TAGLIST

[lizziesangel]

⚕TOM RIDDLE (SDE) - masterlist⚕

lizziesangel masterlist - taglist request

SOULMATES DON'T EXIST

SUMMARY: Everything changes for you when Snape gives you a certain memory. will you be able to do the task that Dumbledore has given you?

CONTENT WARNING: Soulmate au! (soulbound), time travel au!,

⚕ Part one

⚕ Part two

⚕ Part three

⚕ Part four

⚕ Part five

⚕ Part six

⚕ Part seven

⚕ Part eight

⚕ Part nine

⚕ Part ten

⚕ Part eleven

⚕ Part twelve

[lizziesangel]

Parts one through five are fully updated now! xx

GO HERE FOR TAGLIST

[lizziesangel]

˚₊‧꒰ა lizzie’s request guidelines ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Hii angels ~

Please read below for a few but important things before you request / keep reading my blog!<3

૮₍ ´• ˕ •` ₎ა

request guidelines ‧₊˚

᧔•᧓ NO nsfw or dark fantasy ➵ includes anything suggestive, spicy, or “lemon” content

᧔•᧓ YES to sfw | angst | au's | fluff ➵ you want me to write something depressive? Sure, I love me some good angst

᧔•᧓ Remember that you’re choosing what kinds of media you consume! Be careful on the internet!

᧔•᧓ ALL of my stories are fem!reader and POC!friendly - unless stated otherwise (eg. fem!STARK!reader)

fandoms i write for ‧₊˚

⋆˙⟡ Quite literally anything, just request, don’t be shy!💕

MASTERLIST

[lizziesangel]

Updated guidelines! Take a look if you're interested in requesting xoxo

[lizziesangel]

TOM RIDDLE ⟢ soulmates don’t exist PT. 12

SDE MASTERLIST ⟢ x FEM!reader (POC!friendly)

SUMMARY: As you realise why McGonagall told you to take up Ancient Runes, Hogwarts is filled with students again after break ends.

WORD COUNT: 3.9k

CONTENT WARNING: I found out on HPwiki that apparently McGonagall did not teach transfiguration and that Merrythought was a teacher for DADA, in Tom Riddle's time, oops? So I made changes throughout the entire series, I'm going to follow this list of professors incase you were wondering, though some professors are not stated, so I'll be using them from Hogwarts Legacy.

UPDATED : JUNE SECOND, 2026 GO HERE FOR TAGLIST

You glance at Shadow, who watches you with knowing eyes far too intelligent for an ordinary cat. He blinks once, deliberately, then settles his chin on his paws.

You look back down at the page. Maybe Ancient Runes isn't about learning something new. Maybe it's about remembering what the world has tried very hard to forget. And for the first time sine McGonagall spoke to you, you feel something steadier than confusion.

Resolve

You reach for the Diary in your bag without quite knowing why.

It feels familiar in your hands in the way a memory does, intimate, faintly unsettling. You set it down beside your notes, and only then do you take a breath.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Let’s see what you have to say.”

You open the runes’ book. The pages are nothing out of the ordinary. No dramatics. No magic announcing itself. Just dense, precise, and impossibly old ink. Diagrams fill the pages: angular symbols, circles intersecting lines, runes nested within runes. You recognise some of them immediately.

And you begin to read.

Ancient runes, the text explains, were never meant to be universal. That was their purpose and their protection. Unlike modern spellwork, runes were designed to exclude as much as they revealed. Older witches and wizards used them not simply to record information, but to communicate indirectly. To leave behind messages that would only unfold for the right mind, the right magic, the right moment.

Every recorded rune tells a story, but never the same one twice.

A rune inscribed by a healer might speak of balance and restoration. The same rune, etched by a warrior, could explain of sacrifice and endurance. The meaning was not fixed; it was relational. Dependent on the reader. Dependent on what they carried within themselves. But most of all, dependent on the maker.

You feel something click into place. That is the beauty of using symbols to communicate. The diary and the runes are two halves of the same truth: one preserving memory, the other teaching you how to read what should not exist anymore. Together, they don’t just give information, they give context.

You lean back in your chair, breath shallow and your mind racing.

McGonagall wasn’t suggesting Ancient Runes for academic curiosity. She was giving you a lifeline. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

Shadow jumps onto the table, tail flicking across your parchment, and you laugh softly despite yourself. You scratch behind his ears, grounding yourself in the simple, familiar motion. “Alright,” you whisper again, breath steadier now. “I guess we should go.”

The stack of books in your arms is slightly ridiculous, and you know it. Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, a Charms reference guide, and the Diary of Hogwarts are tucked safely between them all. At this point, you’re fairly certain you’re carrying more parchment than some professors.

The library doors swing shut behind you with a soft creak. “Seems we always meet at the library.” You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear those words. A familiar blond-haired Slytherin is leaning casually against the wall nearby, hands in his pockets, looking entirely too amused by your reaction. 

“Merlin—”

Abraxas grins in response, “Good afternoon to you too.”

You shift the books higher in your arms, “Malfoy.”

“L/n.”

And for a moment neither of you says anything. Then he pushes away from the wall. “Seems we always meet at the library,” he repeats as if you hadn’t heard him clearly the first time. You shrug, “Uh, I guess.”

“The exception being Hogsmeade.”

“Yeah,” you trail off slightly, not sure what to reply. A group of third years passed at the far end of the corridor, their laughter echoing faintly against the stone walls. Merlin, you wish your friends were here so you could disappear from this conversation. His gaze lingered on the stack of books balanced against your chest before he looked back at you, a thoughtful expression settling over his features. For once, he didn’t seem interested in teasing you. If anything, he looked genuinely curious. “Why are you always here anyway?”

You blinked at the question, caught off guard by its randomness. For a moment, you weren’t even sure what he meant. 

“The library?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder as though there might be another location hidden somewhere nearby. 

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, the library.” You stared at him some more before shifting your books into a more comfortable position, “Mainly to study.”

Abraxas’ expression suggested he found that answer deeply unsatisfactory. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked you over, as though trying to determine wether you were joking, “All the time?” A laugh escaped through your nose, 

“That’s generally how studying works.”

“You study more than some Ravenclaws.”

“Thank you.”

He lifted his eyebrows immediately, “I didn’t think that was a compliment.”

“Then you should’ve phrased it differently.”

For a brief moment, amusement flickered across his face, and you found yourself resisting the urge to roll your eyes. It was strange how easily he seemed able to start conversations that went absolutely nowhere while somehow keeping you standing there listening. “Let me guess,” you said, deciding to turn the attention back on him. “You’re here to be loud with your friends again?”

The reaction was small enough that most people would’ve missed it. Abraxas’ head tilted ever so slightly, and something unreadable crossed his face at the word ‘friends’ before disappearing just as quickly. The moment passed so fast that you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it. “You shouldn’t worry about it,” he said. You frowned at his words in confusion, “Worry about what?”

“If we’re loud.”

There was something absurdly confident about the way he said it, as though he were offering a perfectly reasonable solution to a perfectly reasonable problem.

“You can always ask us to be quiet.”

You stopped walking altogether and looked at him, then you laughed. Not politely, not kindly, but the sort of laugh that escaped before you could stop it.

“As if that would work.”

Abraxas looked genuinely offended by that, “I can be reasonable.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You simply looked at him, waiting for the joke, while he looked back at you as though the importance of the discussion should have been obvious. 

Finally, you sighed. That was apparently enough to break whatever composure he was attempting to maintain. A grin spread across his face, transforming him from the polished heir to an ancient pure-blood family into a sixteen-year-old boy who was far too pleased with himself.

“I mean... you never know unless you try.”

A few days pass in what feels like the blink of an eye and the castle slowly begins to wake up again.

At first it’s subtle: an extra trunk left in the corridor, distant laughter echoing through the staircases, owls swooping in through open windows carrying late Christmas letters and forgotten scarves. Then, all at once, Hogwarts is alive again. Students return in waves, bringing with them cold cheeks, snow-dusted cloaks, and an unbearable amount of noise.

You hadn’t realised just how quiet things had been until now, and strangely enough… it’s nice. The loneliness of Christmas break settles somewhere softer in your chest, no longer an ache but a memory. You survived your first holiday alone. 

Mostly by studying and nearly spiralling over magical time books. Not your most glamorous winter break. But still... a break.

Now, you’re curled up in one of the armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, the fire crackling warmly nearby. The room is lively again—golden light spilling across the rugs, students chatting over card games, unpacking sweets, or loudly recounting family drama no one asked for. Your group has fully reclaimed a section near the fireplace. Lucas is sprawled dramatically across the sofa, one leg hanging over the armrest as though he owns the furniture.

Maeve sits cross-legged on the floor, enthusiastically unpacking an alarming amount of sweets from a festive tin. Whilst Alicia is leaning against the couch, holding up a scarf with a deeply offended expression. “My great aunt knitted me this,” she says, staring at the aggressively orange garment. “And before anyone says anything—yes, she is legally blind.”

Lucas bursts into laughter. “That is tragic,” he says, wiping fake tears from his eyes. “That scarf could blind other people.”

“Oh, shut up,” Alicia says, throwing it at him. He catches it with a grin. “No, no, you’re keeping this. This is amazing.” 

Lilith, who was curled into the armchair opposite you, quietly unwraps a small box of chocolates and offers one to Cressida, who you snuck in with Ben, accepts it with a shy smile. Ben, sitting on the rug beside the coffee table, carefully inspects something what looks like a brand-new quill set. “My mother sent these from Diagon Alley,” he says. “Apparently they’re self-correcting.”

Lucas leans forward. “That sounds almost illegal for schoolwork.”

“I suppose… but it’s practical,” Ben replies when Maeve suddenly gasps, “Merlin, wait... I forgot!” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a knitted pair of mittens. “My mother made these for me!”

“They’re adorable,” you say honestly.

“One of them is bigger than the other,” Alicia points out with a grin. Maeve looks down, “…well now I can have asymmetrical warmth.” You laugh softly, leaning back further into your chair. 

A warmth from being surrounded again by your friends. Well… your friends here. It’s different from before. Different from Harry and Hermione and Ron. Different from your real life. But not lesser, just different.

Shadow is curled in your lap now, half-asleep as your fingers absentmindedly scratch behind his ears. Lucas glances over at you, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “So,” he says. “What did you do all break?”

You freeze for exactly half a second.

What did you do? Well, you discovered a magical sentient diary. Learned you may eventually be erased from existence. Considered Ancient Runes as a lifeline. Had several emotionally compromising interactions with Tom Riddle. Had McGonagall give you a surprisingly helpful elective recommendations. All while Dumbledore was barely any help for you. 

You pause, it is not as if you can say all of this. So, you settled with saying you: “Studied,” you nod. Lucas stares blankly while Alicia groans. “That is so deeply disappointing.”

“You mean to tell me,” Lucas says dramatically, sitting upright, “that while the rest of us were suffering through awkward family dinners and forced socialisation, you were here voluntarily doing essays?”

“Yes.”

Maeve shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re insane.” You shrug. “I had a very thrilling Christmas with books about Graphorns.” 

Lilith snorts quietly into her tea as Lucas points accusingly. “See? This is what happens when you spend too much time with Cressida and Ben.” Cressida stifled a laugh and Ben looks up, mildly offended. “Excuse me?”

“Academic corruption,” Lucas says gravely, “said what I said.” 

You laugh, a real one this time, until Lucas suddenly snaps his fingers. “Oh! Speaking of horrifying academic choices,” he says, turning to you. “Timetable changes. Did anyone else get elective recommendations?” 

Your heart skips. Ancient Runes. Right. Back to reality. You shift slightly in your chair. “Actually, McGonagall spoke to me before break ended.” That gets their attention quickly. Ben looks up first. “About what?”

“She wants me to consider taking another new elective.”

Maeve’s eyes widen. “Wait, seriously?” You nod, trying to sound far less pleased than you secretly are. “Apparently I’m doing well enough.”

“Well enough?” Alicia repeats. “You literally live in the library.”

“Did she mention which one?”

You nod, stirring your hot chocolate absentmindedly, “Ancient Runes.” That earns a more mixed reaction. Lilith tilts her head, “Ancient Runes?” Ben raises a brow, “Certainly interesting.”

“Is it awful?” you ask Ben who answers with, “Depends, do you enjoy staring at symbols for several hours and slowly losing your mind?” 

Lucas turns to look at him. “I thought you took Ancient Runes?”

Ben nods with a smile. “I love to study it, not learn about it.”

You stare at him, “…Encouraging.” Cressida, who has been quietly listening until now, finally speaks up from her armchair. “I take Arithmancy,” she says, smoothing down the sleeve of her jumper. “And honestly, people make it sound worse than it is.” 

Lucas looks horrified. “Numbers with magic sounds like a personal attack.”

“It’s pattern recognition,” Cressida replies simply. “Predictive systems. Magical equations.” Alicia groans at what Cressida said, “You lost me immediately.” The other girl smiles faintly. “Though, it’s useful.”

Lilith tucks a curl behind her ear. “I still think Divination is worse.” Ben lets out a dramatic sigh at her words, “Thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” Maeve says. “Divination sounds kind of fun.” 

Alicia scoffs at her, “It’s fun until you’re asked deeply personal questions disguised as coursework.” Lucas points at the group at Alicia’s words, “See? Exactly why I try to avoid it.”

“Don’t be so daft, Lucas. Personally, I chose divination and I quite like it,” Maeve turned towards you, “maybe you’ll be surprised to see you like ancient runes more.” Lucas stares at her, mind blank as he spurts out, “Wait, you willingly chose Divination?” 

Laughter ripples through the group again, easy and warm. You let yourself relax fully into the cushions, into the noise of your friends and the firelight and the beautiful normalcy of discussing electives like your entire existence isn’t hanging together by ancient potions and questionable destiny. Just for tonight, you can pretend things are simple.

⋆｡⋆˙⟡ Defence against the Dark Arts class

Defense Against the Dark Arts was usually loud before class properly started.

Not severely loud, but layered with murmured conversations, the scrape of chairs, the occasional sharp laugh from the Slytherin corner where Tom Riddle sat with his usual circle. They tended to occupy the middle left side of the classroom like they owned it, speaking in low voices that still somehow carried.

Today, though, something felt off. You noticed it almost immediately as you slid into your seat beside Lucas. The room felt heavier, dimmer, somehow, despite the candles floating steadily overhead. Lucas dropped into the chair next to you with a sigh, shoving his bag beneath the desk. “Please tell me you did the reading,” he muttered. “Because if someone asks me about defensive structures again, I may simply pass away.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, pulling out your parchment. “You say that every lesson.”

“And one day I’ll mean it.” 

Normally, that would’ve been enough to settle you into the familiar rhythm of class. But your attention kept drifting. Toward the left corner. Toward him. The difference was subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you did. The small cluster of Slytherins around him weren’t acting like they usually did. No smug commentary. No effortless confidence spilling across the room and no amused looks aimed at other students.

Instead, they sat close together, speaking quietly amongst themselves, almost cautiously. One of the boys leaned toward Riddle, whispering something too low to hear. Another glanced briefly over his shoulder before looking away again. Even Avery, who normally looked unbearably self-satisfied at all times, seemed tense.

And he himself… looked calm. Perfectly composed, as always. Which somehow made it worse. His fingers tapped once against the desk before stilling completely, dark eyes fixed ahead like he already knew something no one else did. 

You realised you’d been staring when Lucas nudged your elbow lightly. “What are you looking at?” Your gaze flicked back to the front of the classroom. “Nothing.”

Lucas followed your earlier line of sight anyway, brows faintly furrowing. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Them,” he said quietly. “They’re being weirdly quiet.”

You resisted the urge to look again immediately. “I noticed.” For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, from somewhere behind you, a chair scraped sharply across stone. The both of you jumped in your seat. 

Riddle slowly turned his head toward the noise, expression unreadable, before his eyes shifted briefly and landed on you. The room suddenly felt much colder than it had a second ago.

Professor Merrythought swept into the classroom a few minutes later, robes billowing sharply behind her, and the low conversations immediately died out. 

“Wands away until instructed,” she said crisply. “Considering the quality of practical work before Christmas, I’ve no interest in rebuilding my classroom today.”

A few people groaned quietly. Lucas leaned toward you, “That’s aimed at the Hufflepuffs who set the tapestry on fire last time.”

“Wasn’t it just one tapestry?”

“It was three.” You hid a smile as Merrythought began writing the lesson topic across the board with a flick of her wand.

COUNTER-CURSES & DEFENSIVE REVERSALS.

The lecture started quickly after that, parchment scratching around the room as students copied notes. Merrythought spoke briskly, pacing between rows while explaining the difference between reversing minor hexes and breaking intentionally layered dark magic.

Beside you, Lucas lasted approximately eight minutes before getting distracted again. “I still think staying at Hogwarts over Christmas would’ve been brilliant,” he whispered, doodling absently in the corner of his notes. “No family dinners, no obnoxiously loud cousins and no aunt asking if I’ve ‘met any lovely girls yet’ as if I am into girls.”

You glanced sideways at him, “You say that now, until you’re actually here.”

“No, genuinely,” he grinned. “You could’ve had the entire castle basically to yourself.”

“It wasn’t empty,” you murmured.

But it had felt different, more quieter. The corridors colder somehow, the castle echoing in a way it usually didn’t when students filled it. Snow piled against the windows for days while the remaining handful of students wandered around half aimlessly, untethered from the usual chaos of term-time. Lucas rested his chin in his hand. “Still, better than my holiday.”

“What happened?”

“My older brother tried to demonstrate apparition inside the house.”

You blinked, “…Why?”

“He said he was ‘practising precision.’”

“That sounds ominous.”

“He splinched himself into Mother’s hydrangeas.”

You snorted loudly enough that a few people turned. Merrythought paused mid-sentence and Lucas immediately sat up straighter, pretending to copy notes with intense focus. After a moment, she continued. You shook your head slightly, still fighting a smile, before your attention drifted toward the front of the room again. 

At the front of the classroom, Merrythought demonstrated a counter-curse with a clean flick of her wand, sending a practice hex unraveling midair in a burst of silver sparks. 

Across the room, Riddle still hadn’t spoken much. One of the boys near him muttered something low. He answered without looking away from the front. And for the briefest moment, you caught the expression on his face. Not distracted, nor bored, just intensely focused. Like whatever had settled over that group before class still hadn’t left. 

Lucas leaned toward you and whispered, “Has he said anything yet?”

You stop scribbling in your DADA book and turn to face him. “Who?”

The boy next to you nods his and mouths ‘Riddle’, to which you nod your head. “Believe it or not, but he helped with my essay for History of Magic.”

Lucas gaped at your words. “What? I need all the details.”

By lunchtime, the strange tension from Defence Against the Dark Arts had faded into the usual chaos of Hogwarts conversation. The Great Hall buzzed with noise, cutlery clinking against plates, students shouting across tables, owls swooping very occasionally overhead despite several professors’ visible irritation about it.

You sat next to Lucas with Lilith and Alicia in front of you, absently tearing apart a piece of bread while the conversation around you bounced between classes, Christmas disasters, and the increasingly dramatic debate over the new Transfiguration arrangement.

Cressida, Ben, and Maeve had disappeared somewhere after class. “Probably the library,” Alicia guessed, spearing potatoes onto her plate. “Or they’re having a gossip sesh.”

“Both equally likely,” Lucas said.

You smiled faintly, gaze drifting toward the staff table. Dumbledore sat near the centre, speaking to another professor with that calm, unreadable expression he always seemed to wear.

You really needed to do some new research about the potion and figure Tom Riddle out.

After lunch, the castle settled into that strange mid-afternoon lull where everyone was technically supposed to be productive. Students drifted toward lessons, common rooms, or the library with stacks of books balanced precariously in their arms. 

The corridors echoed softly with distant footsteps and muffled conversation. You headed toward the library alone. Well, ‘alone’.

The Diary sat tucked carefully between your books inside your bag, heavier than it should’ve been. You’d told Lucas you needed to “catch up on studies,” which wasn’t technically a lie. You did have assignments to finish. But the pull toward The Diary had become impossible to ignore, Veritas Tempus, even thinking the words made something tighten faintly in your chest.

You still didn’t fully understand what it was. Or why The Diary responded the way it did. Every interaction only seemed to raise more questions instead of answering them. 

The library doors creaked open quietly as you stepped inside. Instant silence swallowed you whole. Madam Pince glanced up from her desk immediately, eyes narrowing with suspicion that seemed permanently etched into her face. Once she determined you weren’t about to commit a crime against literature, she looked back down.

Then you moved deeper between the shelves until you found a quieter corner near the back windows. Snow pressed softly against the glass outside, pale winter light spilling across the table as you sat down. For a few minutes, you genuinely tried to work, opened your Transfiguration essay, read the first paragraph and wrote half a sentence and sighed, you really weren’t in the mood to study.

You shoved The Diary carefully back into your bag alongside your parchment, gathering your books with far less care than usual. The chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood. You’d barely taken two steps away from the table when a voice drifted from somewhere between the shelves.

“Leaving so soon?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin, “Merlin—” You turned sharply and saw Tom Riddle leaning lightly against the edge of a nearby bookshelf, arms folded loosely across his chest. 

The dim library light caught against the sharp lines of his face, dark eyes fixed steadily on you with that infuriatingly calm expression he always wore. You hadn’t even heard him approach and your pulse still hadn’t settled, “Riddle,” you said flatly. “It’s none of your business.”

One corner of his mouth tilted faintly.

“Maybe.”

The silence stretched for a second too long.

You adjusted your grip on your books. “Were you lurking there intentionally, or is that just a hobby now?”

“I was reading.”

“In the dark?”

“It’s a library,” he said smoothly. “The lighting is unfortunate everywhere.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. There was something off about him today too. Not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice probably, but beneath the composed expression sat the same strange tension you’d caught earlier during Defence Against the Dark Arts. 

Riddle’s gaze flicked briefly toward your bag, “You looked frustrated.” Your fingers tightened instinctively around the strap. “Congratulations on your observational skills.”

“That bad?”

You hesitated. The logical thing would’ve been to brush him off completely. Walk away and pretend none of this bothered you. Instead, before you could stop yourself, you exhaled sharply, “I’m tired.” The honesty surprised even you. 

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Not softer, just… more attentive. “Tired of studying?” he asked wondering.

“No,” though that would’ve been easier. You looked away briefly toward the frost-covered windows lining the far side of the library. “Tired of not understanding things.” 

For the first time since the conversation started, Riddle went completely still, not casual-still, but the kind that made it feel like every word suddenly mattered far more than before. When you looked back at him, his eyes hadn’t left your face once. “And yet,” he said softly, “you keep trying anyway.” It wasn’t really a question, and somehow, that made your chest tighten more than if it had been.

“If you ever want help, you know where to find me,” and with that he left, leaving you standing confused.

Wooow, I posted again, surpriseee!

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊taglist:

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[lizziesangel]

Hi!!!! I wanted to ask if the next chapter of SDE is gonna explore abraxas x reader a little bit more? I'm intrigued to see if we get a jealous tom after one of the last chapters... Thank you so much!!

Hiii, of course! In next chapter that I’ll post on Sunday there’s a sprinkle of conversation between the two xx

[lizziesangel]

missing sde 😭😭😭😭

Just realised I haven’t updated in MONTHS… brb im writing the next chapter 😬

[s0phslibrary]

And I still see some of yall say ‘make this fic into a character ai pls!’

WE ARE RUNNING OUT OF WATER

Get off those god forsaken generative ai apps or you will go down with those who care

Especially those of you in the fanfic community, you steal your own work by going on c.ai and simultaneously kill us

For those who don’t know, ai takes from fresh water to cool its computer systems and the water can’t be recycled. ChatGPT alone uses 500 million gallons of water a day, and the AI industry used more water last year than the plastic water bottle industry. It also produces nothing original and takes from artists and writers alike.

Please resist and fight against this, it will only change if there is a collective effort ‼️‼️‼️

[cvntyaddi]

if you support trump, get off my page.

if you are seeing him sending ice agents out, killing innocent people and ripping families apart, and think ‘yeah that’s good, i support that,’ rot in hell.

a two year old was ripped away from her father, and deported against judges orders. a four year old, deported alone. a man, an icu nurse may i add, tackled to the ground and beaten before getting shot. all because he was defending women on the street from ice agents. these events happened in the past TWO DAYS.

‘it’s getting rid of criminals!’ you think children are the criminals? you think innocent american citizens are criminals? you put a criminal IN OFFICE. you put a PEDOPHILE in office.

[lizziesangel]

“I’m not jealous,”

— Rafe Cameron about Steve Harrington

The couch was packed in the way it always was when everyone decided to pile into one place instead of spreading out like normal people.

You were tucked comfortably against Kiara, your legs stretched out over Cleo’s lap while Wheezie sat cross-legged on the floor with her back against the couch. Sarah had claimed the armrest like a throne, phone in hand, scrolling but clearly half-listening to the conversation.

The TV glowed on the Stranger Things home screen, the final episode staring back at all of you like a ticking time bomb.

“Okay,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence, “I just need everyone to emotionally prepare me.”

“For what?” Cleo asked.

“For Steve Harrington,” you replied seriously. “Because if anything happens to him, I will not be okay.”

Kiara snorted. “You say this every time we watch.”

“And every time I’m right,” you shot back. “The hair. The bat. The babysitter thing? I’m weak.”

Wheezie nodded enthusiastically. “The hat too. At the end of episode eight!”

You gasped. “YES. The cap. Thank you, Wheezie. Someone gets it.”

Sarah laughed, finally looking up from her phone. “Rafe is going to lose his mind if he hears this conversation.”

You waved her off. “He’s not here. And he’s with John B, JJ, and Pope. I have at least—” you checked the time, “—ten more minutes to openly thirst.”

“Bold of you to assume JJ didn’t drag Rafe along just to mess with him,” Kiara said.

You frowned. “... Rafe would never go willingly.”

As if on cue, your phone buzzed.

Rafe : JJ is testing my patience rn. Also why am I at the store with them.

You stared at the screen.

“…He’s with them,” you whispered.

Sarah burst out laughing. “No way.”

You typed back quickly.

You : You’re with them?? Since when do you willingly go on snack runs with Pogues?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Rafe : Since you said you were watching Stranger Things and JJ said you’d probably be talking about that ‘hair guy’ again.

Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile.

You : First of all, his name is Steve. Second of all, you’re just jealous.

There was a pause.

Rafe : I am not jealous.

Another message followed immediately.

His hair isn’t even all that.

You laughed out loud, drawing everyone’s attention.

“He’s jealous,” you announced.

“I knew it,” Kiara said smugly.

Wheezie leaned closer. “Is he coming back soon?”

“Apparently,” you said, locking your phone. “With snacks and a bruised ego probably.”

The door finally opened a few minutes later, voices carrying in before bodies did.

“We got everything!” JJ yelled. “And before anyone asks—yes, Rafe complained the entire time.”

Rafe walked in last, arms full of snacks, eyes immediately finding you on the couch. His expression softened the second he saw you, the tension in his shoulders melting just a bit.

You smiled at him sweetly.

“Hey, baby,” you said innocently.

He set the snacks down and leaned over the back of the couch, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “You talk about that guy again?”

You tilted your head. “Which one?”

His jaw tightened just slightly. “The one with the hair.”

You laughed and reached up, tugging him down so you could whisper, “Relax. You’re still my favorite man.”

He huffed, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “Good. Because I’m not doing my hair like that.”

“Your loss,” you teased.

He shook his head, but stayed close, one hand resting on your shoulder as everyone settled back in, everyone settled to the final episode beginning—snacks opened, couch crowded, and Rafe very clearly making sure you weren’t leaning too much toward the TV when Steve Harrington finally appeared on screen.

MASTERLIST

[lizziesangel]

TOM RIDDLE ⟢ soulmates don’t exist PT. 11

SDE MASTERLIST ⟢ x FEM!reader (POC!friendly)

SUMMARY: While struggling on a History of Magic essay, Tom Riddle, though unexpectedly, quietly helps you find the answer, unsettling you with his attention. You later discover a book about Veritas Tempus, tied to lost witches and wizards.

WORD COUNT: +7k

CONTENT WARNING: Tom Riddle being helpful is a whole warning.

UPDATED : JUNE SECOND, 2026

You tried to force your attention onto your own parchment, scratching down the first lines of your essay, but the sound of their voices kept tugging at you. Riddle’s low, steady tone. The lilting giggles of the Ravenclaws. It was ridiculous, you didn’t care.

And yet… your quill pressed a little too hard, blotting ink where it shouldn’t.

After a few more minutes, you’d had enough. If you stayed at that table, even with your back half-turned, you’d end up watching them instead of working. Though the last thing you wanted was to look like you were sulking in plain sight.

So you gathered your books, stacking them against your chest, and moved.

A quieter table, tucked between the taller shelves, far from the glow of the windows. No line of sight to Riddle, no Ravenclaw chatter. Just the steady creak of the library and shadow hopping gracefully onto the chair beside you.

You exhaled, finally.

What you didn’t notice was that Riddle had followed your movement with his eyes.

The girls still asked their questions, still leaned closer, still tried to keep his attention. He did answer, precise and unhurried. But every now and again, when one of them bent over her notes, he let his gaze flicker away. Over to where you’d disappeared between the shelves. As if he was checking that you were still there. 

You had been at it for what felt like hours. The same dusty pages. The same nonsensical lines of Binns’ lectures, copied into parchment as if the man had conspired to make history the dullest subject imaginable. You rubbed your temples, scrawling and crossing out the same line for the third time.

The essay question stared back at you mockingly: “Discuss the lasting political influence of the Rebellion of 1612 on modern magical treaties.”

You groaned under your breath, leaning back and glaring at the books towered before you. “Lasting political influence,” you muttered bitterly. “Lasting headache, more like—”

A voice cut into your irritation, smooth and deliberate: “You do realise you’ve been sighing loud enough for half the library to hear?”

You startled, snapping your gaze to the side. Tom Riddle stood there, arms crossed loosely, his face unreadable with any emotion. “I’m not sighing that loud,” you said, sharper than intended. “Some of us just… think with our lungs.”

“Apparently,” he said mildly, though there was the glimmer of mockery in his eyes. “It’s rather difficult to concentrate with someone theatrically suffering a few tables away.”

You flushed hot, part anger, part embarrassment. “Then don’t listen.”

But Riddle didn’t leave. Instead, without asking, he slid into the chair beside you, as if it had been his place all along.

You stiffened. “What are you—?”

“What’s the subject?” he interrupted, eyes already flicking across the stack of books in front of you. He plucked one from the pile, turned it over with practiced hands. “History of Magic. That explains the… dramatics.”

“I’m not being dramatic,” you said defensively, shoving your parchment a little closer to your side so he wouldn’t read your scrawled half-answers. “I just can’t find the link between the treaties and the bloody rebellion.”

His brow arched. “Can’t, or won’t?”

Your jaw tightened. “Can’t.”

For a moment, you braced for laughter. For him to smirk and walk away, mocking you for not knowing something a second-year might’ve managed. But instead, Riddle leaned forward, scanning the text. His hand slid to another book, flipping it open with ease.

“Here,” he said, tapping the margin of a dense paragraph. His tone wasn’t gentle, exactly, but it wasn’t cruel either, just quietly precise. “The Rebellion of 1612 forced the Ministry to realise that outright suppression only made resistance stronger. So they shifted strategy.”

He angled the book toward you.

“After 1612, the Ministry began establishing formal treaties instead of relying on military enforcement. The rebellion is the reason the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was reorganised into the structure we use today. It wasn’t just about quelling goblin unrest, it reshaped how the Ministry treats all Non-Wizarding communities. Diplomatic oversight. Negotiation. Mutual rights clauses.”

He looked at you again, his eyes sharp, assessing your reaction.

“That’s your link. Political evolution through necessity.”

And suddenly the essay didn’t feel quite as impossible. 

You blinked at the page. It… was the link you’d been searching for. Plain as day when he pointed it out.

“That’s… exactly it,” you admitted reluctantly, biting your lip as you wrote it down. “How did you—”

He shut the book softly. “Because I pay attention.”

You rolled your eyes at that, but your chest felt oddly lighter.  When you looked up again, he was already standing. As though the whole thing had been a minor detour, nothing more.

“You should try doing the same,” he said, almost absently, and then drifted back toward his table, leaving you staring after him with your quill frozen mid-word. It was then when you realised the Ravenclaws had already left. 

Seems like it was a short session. 

It took you a full minute to realise how your heart was pounding.

You closed the book a little too quickly, the echo of his words still threading through your head. “Because I pay attention.”

It should’ve annoyed you. It should’ve made you bristle the way his every smug comment usually did. But instead… it lingered. 

The strange, quiet fact that he had noticed you were struggling. That he had chosen to sit down instead of walking away.

And more than that, he hadn’t mocked you for it.

You caught yourself chewing on your quill. “Why does he even—” you started, but stopped. 

The question died before it could fully form. Because the truth was, you were tired of trying to untangle Tom Riddle. Tired of searching for meaning in every little glance, every silence, every time his attention fell where you least expected it.

Maybe you’d never understand why he did the things he did.

So you made yourself stop. 

Stop asking, stop dissecting. 

Just… wait. 

Watch and let him reveal himself in his own way, at his own pace.

Because, if you were honest with yourself, it was almost always him who came to you first. Not the other way around. 

That thought both comforted and unsettled you, lingering at the edges of your mind as you dipped your quill back into ink and tried to force your attention onto treaties and giants. 

But it was useless. All you could think about was how it felt when he sat beside you. The sharp edges of your frustration dulled, like his presence had steadied the storm inside your head without you asking.

And that, you realised, was exactly what scared you.

The library was quieter than an hour ago, the kind of silence that felt layered, like the snow blanketing the grounds outside. 

Your quill scratched against the parchment, the last stubborn lines of your History of Magic essay bleeding into existence. It had taken you hours to get this far, but finally, finally, you were close to finishing.

You reached for another book, one you hadn’t noticed before. Its spine was cracked, pages yellowed, the kind of text no one willingly touched unless desperate for obscure references. 

You cracked it open, scanning lazily for something you could use to stretch your essay with a few extra sentences.

And then you saw it.

Veritas Tempus.

The name didn’t jump out from a potions manual, or even from a professor’s notes, it was buried here, in the middle of a random history chapter, wedged between half-legends and footnotes about forgotten rituals.

You leaned in, heart tugging at your ribs as you read the faded ink:

Some scholars argue that Veritas Tempus was no more than a myth. A fable created to explain sudden disappearances or the unaccountable knowledge of a witch or wizard. Others, suggests its existence as an experimental draught, one designed to bent the seals of time itself. It is believed to be an ancient spell or potion capable of binding one’s truth to time itself. Scholars agree on one thing, the records of its use remain scattered, contradictory and largely destroyed. 

Whether it functions as a doorway, a curse or gift remains disputed. 

Published 1832, Author Unknown

Your breath caught.

Not in a potions book or in a restricted volume locked away behind iron gates.

But here hidden in plain sight, dismissed as myths and folklore. It made your skin prickle. Dumbledore’s cryptic hints. The endless books that led you nowhere. The tears you’d swallowed down in frustration. And now this sitting in your hands like a ghost.

You stared down at the ink, pulse racing. If Veritas Tempus really was the potion that had torn you from your life… then why was it written like a story no one should take seriously?

You dragged your eyes down further to the pages, going past the summary. 

On the Nature of Veritas Tempus

Amongst the most enigmatic accounts within our magical annals lies the whispered doctrine of Veritas Tempus. The matter is of such rarity and disputation that few dare record its name, and fewer still profess to comprehend its nature.

Though commonly described in hushed tones as a “myth” or “allegory,” a number of learned scholars attest with cautious certainty that Veritas Tempus was no mere fireside fable, but rather an experimental draught, perfected, so they say, by the imposition of a spell. The potion, if such it may be called, was believed to knit together the temporal seams of past, present, and future, binding one’s truth to time itself.

It is further held that Veritas Tempus leaves upon its supplicant an indelible mark: a token, a fragment drawn forth from their former state. This remnant might assume the form of a living creature, a treasured object, or even a scent or sound most familiar to the subject. Such manifestation, born of temporal distortion, represents the paradox of memory made flesh. It is at once a relic of the past, a companion of the present, and a portent of what is yet to be.

Alas, records suggest that the witch or wizard who once partook of this fateful work could never be restored to their rightful hour. “One-way passage,” the sages wrote. Though there are claims shadowed and contradictory that a reversal was sought, none speak of its success. Thus, whether the spell is curse, boon, or divine jest remains unsettled.

Nor is it known whether the witches and wizards rumoured to have vanished by this art truly invoked it, or whether their disappearances may be explained by other misfortunes. It has been proposed that, should a traveler linger too long beyond their natural span, or fail to discover the path home, their very existence might unravel, erased not only from the present but from the memory of all. Parents would recall no child, companions no friend, professors no student. As though the individual had never been wrought into the tapestry of the world at all.

The historical record is likewise fraught with accounts of certain witches and wizards who vanished without explanation, after doing research of the potion, known by many, whose names now linger only as footnotes in older ledgers:

Callista Damaris, famed arithmancer, whose last writings spoke of “the lattice of eternity.”

Aurelius Greengrave, a noted linguist of runes, disappeared upon the eve of presenting a treatise on temporal markers.

 Silas Thorncroft, a minor alchemist of no particular renown, known chiefly for the abrupt cessation of his work and life.

 Evandra Mirelle, a Beauxbâtons enchantress, spoken of in rumor as one who “walked between dawn and dusk, never belonging to either.”

To some, these are but cases of misfortune, the casualties of war or the vanishing toll of accident. Yet others perceive in their disappearances the signature of Veritas Tempus, a work too perilous for mortal hands, and too greatly despised by the Fates to endure.

Thus the potion remains an enigma. Whether a doorway, a prison, or a promise, the truth is veiled in the mists of time. And as ever, what fragments of knowledge remain lie scattered, hidden, contradictory, and too often destroyed by those who sought to silence them.

You barely noticed the time passing, the library fading around you as your eyes devoured the brittle pages of The Book. Every line seemed to pull you deeper—the vanished witches and wizards, the whispers of Veritas Tempus, the terrifying idea of being erased from existence entirely.

A soft clearing of a throat jolted you upright.

“Miss L/n,” the librarian said gently, her voice carrying the faintest hint of reproach. “It’s getting quite late. You should return to your dorm before you get caught.”

You blinked, cheeks warm with the realisation that you’d been lost in the book for hours. “Oh, yes… of course,” you murmured, quickly stacking your notes and books.

She gave a small smile. “I’ll put these back for you before anyone notices, don’t worry. You’d be in trouble otherwise.”

You started toward the door, grateful, until she stopped you with a soft tap on your arm.

“Wait,” she said, holding up a finger. “Take your own book back… before you lose it.”

You frowned, confused. “My… book?”

She held out the leather-bound book carefully, as though it were the most precious thing in the library.

If it wasn’t technically the library’s book… then whose was it?

No author, no proper publication date, just a dusty, strange volume tucked between mundane tomes of history. Most of it was normal enough, recounting battles, treaties, and magical politics, but then… the mention of Veritas Tempus, hidden in the margins as if it had never belonged.

Your fingers closed around it instinctively, a mixture of relief and apprehension twisting in your chest. “Thank you,” you said, and with a nod, you walked away, the library quiet behind you.

As you made your way down the hall, questions began to rise like small, persistent flames.

The castle feels different during the holidays, echoing, hollow, too large without the rush of hundreds of students filling its veins.

Your footsteps sound louder than they should as you walk, soft and uneven against the ancient stone floors.

Shadow pads beside you, tail flicking, the only other heartbeat in the corridor.

You clutch the book to your chest.

A book that shouldn’t exist.

No title, no author, no library stamp, no record in the catalogues.

Yet there it was on your table. And then, gone from the shelf the moment you tried to place it back. And then, returned to you by a librarian who seemed convinced it was yours. Your stomach twists.

It’s pretty weird if you thought about it. Too weird.

Magic can be unpredictable, sure. Old magic even more so… but books don’t rewrite themselves, pages don’t disappear. Potions lost for centuries don’t suddenly show up wedged between chapters on goblin rebellions.

You walk a bit faster, your fingers tightening around the leather binding. “Why would a book like this even be here?” you whisper to yourself. Shadow lets out a small, questioning chirp.

“Yeah, I don’t know either.”

You turn a corner. The torches flicker behind you as if reacting to your thoughts. The castle feels alive tonight, but not in the usual way it does, watchful in a way that makes your skin prickle.

Your mind spins with questions: If Veritas Tempus erases identities… If names vanish from history… If people simply disappear without a trace… Then how are there still known witches and wizards linked to it? Why would some names be known? What made them exceptions? Did they choose to leave everything behind? Or did the magic choose for them?

Your family. Your friends. Harry. Ron. Hermione. The war. The world you’re trying to save. Your name. Your existence.

A cold breath escapes you.

The empty hallway swallows the sound.

You shake your head, trying to steady yourself, that’s why Dumbledore is in such a hurry. That’s why he keeps pushing cryptic riddles and half-answers. That’s why this book appeared exactly when it did.

But none of it makes sense.

None of it feels safe.

A portrait mutters irritably as you pass, but you barely hear it. Your focus is on the book pressed to your chest, warm from your hands, too warm for something that’s supposed to be ordinary.

“Just a book,” you whisper again.

But you don’t believe that. Not even for a second.

You say the password to the Fat Lady, and step inside the Gryffindor common room, the warmth of the fire washing over you. Though, the chill of the corridor clings to your spine.

Morning comes too quickly.

Sunlight slips through the gaps in your curtains, landing directly on your face with the subtlety of a Stunning Spell. You groan, rolling onto your side, but sleep refuses to return. Your head already aches, the dull, throbbing kind that usually follows too much thinking and not enough answers.

You push yourself upright.

The dormitory is quiet. Shadow stretches on your pillow, tail flicking lazily, as though he had a peaceful night’s sleep and not one filled with prophetic book-pages and strange dreams.

You rub your eyes.

The book sits on your bedside table exactly where you left it. You stare at it for a long moment. You should open it again. You should try to understand what you saw.

But your brain feels like it's on the brink of cracking open like an overfilled cauldron, and you know you won’t make sense of anything on an empty stomach.

So you swing your legs off the bed, and decide that breakfast is the only sensible thing you can manage without unraveling.

The common room is still half-asleep when you pass through. Embers glowing in the fireplace, couches unoccupied, someone’s scarf forgotten hanging over a chair. The castle feels warmer this morning, less eerie than last night. Or maybe you’re just distracting yourself.

By the time you reach the Great Hall, a comforting hum of clinking silverware and soft chatter fills the air. Only a fraction of the usual crowd remains with students who stayed for the holidays, but it feels safe in a way the library did not.

You find a spot near the end of Gryffindor table and immediately reach for a piece of toast and whatever fruit is closest.

You take a long sip of pumpkin juice and breathe. For a moment, things almost feel normal again. Almost.

Your thoughts drift back to the book, the potion, the names that shouldn’t exist, and the page that transformed into something else entirely. Your skin prickles at the memory. There’s no part of you that believes it was a simple trick of the light.

But you remind yourself firmly: you need a clear head before diving back in.

You pull your Care of Magical Creatures assignment from your bag and spread the parchment across the table. At least this is familiar territory about Thestrals, Bowtruckles and the migratory habits of Mooncalves. Straightforward. Logical. Nothing that threatens your existence.

You dip your quill into ink and begin writing, letting the rhythm settle your nerves.

And for a while, it works. The quill scratching on the parchment filling the silence with a few other students who chose not to go home. But every so often, your gaze drifts toward the doorway. 

Toward your bag. Toward the memory of the book’s warm leather cover.

You try to focus on describing the preferred habitat of Crups, but your mind insists on replaying the same questions:

From where and why did the book appear?

And what does Veritas Tempus have to do with you?

You force your quill to keep moving.

For now, breakfast and magical beasts are the fragile barricade standing between you and complete mental collapse. But you know the moment you return to your dorm, you’ll have to open the book again.

Your quill scratches softly across the parchment, the half-formed paragraph about hippogriffs waiting for you to decide whether they are noble, proud creatures that demand respect or absolute menaces if you so much as blink wrong. 

A few scattered students linger over late breakfasts, the clatter of cutlery echoing through all the empty spaces left behind by those who went home for the holidays. Golden morning light pours through the windows, washing the tables in a soft haze.

You’re halfway through writing “Hippogriffs are extremely sensitive to tone and posture…” when a tiny, hesitant tap lands on your shoulder.

You freeze.

It comes again. A little firmer this time.

When you turn, you find a girl who can’t be older than eleven standing behind you red-cheeked, bundled in a scarf several sizes too big, her hair escaping its ribbon in chaotic puffs. She clutches a small deck of cards in both hands like she’s holding a rare magical artefact.

“H-hi,” she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Um… sorry to bother you. Really sorry. It’s just… everyone in my dorm left for break and I don’t really… have anyone to play with…”

She lifts the cards a little higher, almost like an offering.

“They’re Exploding Snap,” she adds quickly. “But I promise I’m really careful and I’ve only set my sleeve on fire... twice.”

You blink at her, then something warm tugs at your chest. Her hopeful expression, the way she keeps adjusting her scarf, the slight wobble in her voice… It all feels painfully familiar.

Especially after the few days you had. After a dream you can’t stop replaying. After the book whose pages seemed to shift under your gaze like it was alive.

“Do you… want to play with me?” the girl asks, quieter this time. “Just one round? You don’t have to if you’re busy, I just thought… you looked nice, and not scary.”

Your quill rolls off your parchment and clatters onto the table, but you don’t reach for it. The castle may feel strange, your assignment may be waiting, your mind may be full of too many questions, too many secrets, too many dreams, but right now, someone is asking you for something simple.

Something ordinary.

The girl shuffles the cards with exaggerated seriousness, like it’s the most important game in the world.

“So… what do you say?” she whispers and you nod in reply, shoving your essay and books aside.

She deals the first round with the seriousness of someone preparing for battle, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she aligns each card with painful precision. You’re about to comment on her technique when she suddenly speaks softly, like she’s afraid she might chase the thought away if she says it too loud.

“My dad taught me how to play this,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on the deck. “He says the most important part isn’t learning the cards.”

You raise a brow, leaning back just a little. “Isn’t learning the cards… the entire point?”

She shakes her head quickly, curls bouncing. “No, he says you have to play with the people, not the cards.”

Your face does something between a frown and a squint. “How does that work?“

She giggles a soft, breathy little sound that makes her look less lonely and more… eleven. “No, he meant… um…”

She’s fumbling for the words, tiny fingers tapping nervously on the deck as she gathers the thought.

“If the people you’re playing with feel like you see them and believe them, like you’re really there with them, then your cards are already right.”

You blink. Very slowly. “…I’m sorry,” you say, tone half-genuine, half-teasing, “is your dad a philosopher disguised as a normal wizard?”

She shrugs, cheeks turning pink. “He works in brooms maintenance.”

“Huh,” you say finally, because you don’t know what else to say.

She brightens at your confusion, encouraged. “He said people forget that games aren’t just about winning. They’re about being with someone. And if you’re so busy staring at your cards that you stop noticing the people, and what they do… then you’ve already lost.”

There’s a small and quiet beat where her words sit between you, warm and oddly heavy at the same time.

You look at her once again. At the kid with no friends left in the castle. At the deck clutched in her hands like a lifeline. At the way she’s trying desperately to make a connection in a place that suddenly feels too big for her.

And maybe… maybe it hits you a little, because your life right now is just a mess of secrets, impossible missions, and dreams you shouldn’t be having. It’s all so loud in your head that you almost forgot small things still matter.

“Alright,” you say, softer now. “So play with the people, not the cards. Got it.”

She beams, practically glowing. “Exactly!”

You tap your fingers on the table, a slow smile tugging at your mouth.

“Then show me how it’s done, philosopher’s daughter.”

She sits up straighter, cheeks round with excitement as she shuffles the deck again, this time with a little more confidence. And for a moment, you can feel something settle in your chest.

Not calm, no, that’s too strong. But a moment of a simple presence. A moment where you’re not lost in potions that erase you or dreams that feel too real.

The library is quieter than usual, so quiet that even the soft scratch of your quill feels intrusive. You’ve tucked yourself into one of the more secluded corners, surrounded by towers of books on magical creature husbandry. The morning light slants pale and cold through the high windows, catching the ink as you write about the dietary habits of adolescent hippogriffs.

You’re finally, finally getting into the rhythm of your notes, your thoughts lining up neatly for once when the stillness fractures.

First it’s a shuffle. Then the low rumble of voices. Then unmistakable laughter that sounds careless and echoing, entirely too loud for a place where people are meant to whisper, not shout.

You stiffen. Almost immediately.

The voices swell, overlapping in that boyish way where everyone is trying to dominate the conversation without actually saying anything meaningful. Something about a Quidditch match. Something else about a prank gone wrong. Something about, Merlin help you, someone’s cousin who hexed himself into growing antlers.

You grind your teeth and angle your head just enough to see past the edge of your book tower. The Slytherin students from Hogsmeade, the same group who had crouched in the middle of High Street to shower your cat with praise and scratches.

They’re sprawled around a single table like they own it. One has his feet on a chair. Another is tossing a crumpled ball of parchment into the air and catching it with a smug ease that makes you want to snatch it mid-flight and set it on fire. A third is animatedly reenacting something using only his hands and questionable sound effects.

You blink at them. Hard.

One of them; Wilkes, tall, sandy hair, the perpetual smirk of someone who has never been told “No” in his life, leans back in his chair until it teeters dangerously. “Mate, I’m telling you, if Ravenclaw's chaser hadn’t fouled him, we’d have won by at least—”

“—you’d have lost faster, you pillock,” Rosier snorts. “You can’t score to save your life.”

The first boy gasps dramatically. “Excuse me? If I played Quidditch, I would win every game!”

The table erupts into laughter loud enough that you swear one of the portraits shivers.

Your quill hovers mid-sentence, ink pooling at the tip.

You inhale. Exhale.

Inhale again, slower this time, attempting something noble like patience.

It lasts approximately six seconds.

You shoot them another glance, intending to glare them into silence. It’s petty. It’s doomed to fail. But you try anyway.

You let out a very quiet, very unimpressed sigh.

Of course it would be them.

Of course the universe would decide that in the single moment you actually try to be productive they would be the ones to invade your peace.

Your cat really had terrible taste.

You finally let out a long, frustrated sigh. That was it. Your patience had gone away. Where was the librarian when you needed her? Where was anyone to remind these boys that libraries weren’t meant to be performance stages for obnoxious Slytherins? Your quill hovered over the page, useless now, your notes scattered like tiny rebellions against your sanity.

Carefully, you start gathering your papers, stacking them neatly, trying to tuck the chaos into some semblance of order. You push the books back onto the shelves as quietly as humanly possible, hoping no one notices. Every careful movement feels like a secret mission.

You slip towards the library doors, praying the noise behind you doesn’t attract any attention. The corridor ahead is dim and empty perfect for a quiet escape. Relief blooms in your chest.

Until you see Tom Riddle standing there. Right at the doors. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Watching you. Calm, unnervingly composed, like he had been expecting you all along.

You clear your throat, forcing an awkward smile. “Riddle.”

He tilts his head, scanning you for a beat too long. “You’re still doing essays? Don’t have anything better to do?”

You shrug, shrugging off the tension like it’s nothing, but inside you feel every nerve buzz. “I… don’t, really. Everyone else went home for the holidays.”

He narrows his eyes just slightly, as if he knows more than you want him to. “I thought Creevey asked you to come home with him.”

You freeze, surprised. “He… how did you know?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. He just gives a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Enjoy your holidays.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Walking away, disappearing down the empty corridor like he had never been there at all.

You stand there for a long moment, blinking after him, trying to make sense of why your chest feels like it’s both racing and sinking at the same time. Then, finally, you turn, letting the quiet of the castle swallow you as you continue on this time, truly alone.

You decided to head to the Great Hall. Now is a good time to study there since its quiet. Quiet without the usual hum of voices, clattering cutlery, and floating conversations. The ceiling stretches above you like an empty sky, clouds drifting lazily as if they, too, have nowhere urgent to be. It’s almost peaceful but almost unsettling at the same time.

You enter with your bag slung over one shoulder, the familiar weight of books pressing reassuringly against your side. Reading sounds like the safest possible thing to do, something grounding before the next term begins and everything inevitably grows complicated again.

Without really thinking about it, your feet carry you toward the Hufflepuff table.

You don’t realise it at first. Not until you’ve already sat down, shrugged your bag off, and begun stacking your books neatly beside you. Old habits, you suppose. Muscle memory from a life that feels both close and impossibly far away. You consider moving briefly, but then again the hall is nearly empty, and no one seems to care. So you stay.

You pull out your Care of Magical Creatures notes and reopen the chapter on Graphorns. Thick-skinned, territorial, notoriously difficult to tame. You underline a sentence, jot a small note in the margin, then stack a few other books beside you, including that one, placed carefully at the bottom, as if it might hear you if you acknowledged it too openly.

Time slips by without you noticing.

At some point, a soft pop breaks the silence. You look up, startled, to find a house-elf standing beside the table, clutching a small glass.

“Hydration is important,” the elf mutters, already setting down a glass of pumpkin juice in front of you. “Thinking dries the brain.”

And before you can respond, it vanishes.

You stare at the spot where it stood, mouth slightly open. House-elves rarely come out unless summoned, and certainly not to offer unsolicited advice. Slowly, you murmur a ‘thank you’ to the empty air, though you’re not sure anyone hears.

You return to your reading, shaking off the moment. You brush a strand of hair out of your face, shifting in your seat, reaching to rest your arm back down... and knock the glass.

It tips dangerously close to the edge. Your heart jumps into your throat as you grab it just in time, fingers tightening around the cool surface. The glass wobbles but stays upright.

Relief floods you right up until you see the splash. Pumpkin juice has spilled across the table. Across the edge of a book. Your breath catches.

No. No, no, no.

You set the glass aside and grab the book immediately, panic buzzing through your veins. Juice drips from the corners as you lift it, orange liquid sliding down onto the stone floor. Your hands tremble as you open it, bracing yourself for warped pages, smeared ink, ruined text, only to see nothing.

The pages are perfectly dry. Not even damp. The ink is crisp, the parchment smooth, as if the juice had never touched it at all.

You flip a page. And another. And still nothing.

You stare at it, heart pounding now for an entirely different reason. Slowly, you turn the book over, inspecting the cover, the spine, the edges. No stains. No swelling. No scent of pumpkin juice lingering in the air.

It’s untouched.

Your fingers tighten around the book as unease curls low in your stomach. You glance around the Great Hall instinctively, but it remains empty and quiet, indifferent to your sudden spiral of questions.

You place the book back on the table again, confused.

You don’t go back to your common room after that.

You try. You really tried. You had made it halfway across the hallway before the thoughts of the book come flooding in—dry pages, untouched ink, the impossible absence of damage, forces your feet to slow.

Because there is exactly one person in this castle who might already know the answer and choose not to tell you unless you ask the right way.

So, you find yourself climbing the moving staircases almost on instinct, your fingers tight around the strange, weightless book tucked beneath your arm. The castle seems to guide you, steps shifting, corridors opening, until you are standing outside a door you recognise far too well.

You knock.

“Enter,” Dumbledore’s voice calls, warm and expectant, as though he has been waiting.

His office is exactly as you remember it: humming softly with magic, silver instruments ticking and whirring, portraits pretending not to listen.

You don’t sit. You simply hold out the book to let him see.

“You’ve found it,” he says gently, fingers steepled, blue eyes sharp beneath the calm.

You swallow. “Yeah. It just appeared. And then it didn’t behave like a normal book. Pumpkin juice spilled on it. Nothing happened.”

You hesitate, then add, quieter, “It remembers people no one else does.”

Dumbledore gestures to the chair opposite him. You sit. For a moment, he only studies you. Not unkindly or curiously or purposefully. “That,” he finally says, “is the Diary of Hogwarts.”

Now, you were officially even more confused.

“A… diary?” you repeat.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Not a diary in the sense of idle thoughts or sentimental recollections. Hogwarts does not indulge in such... triviality. It is more like a record, a living one.”

He rises from his chair and walks toward one of the tall bookcases lining the circular walls. His fingers trail along spines older than most nations.

“Hogwarts,” he continues, “is not merely stone and spellwork. It observes, listens and remembers. Long before ministries, long before recorded magical law, this castle bore witness to every student who crossed its threshold.”

He turns back to you.

“Some names fade from history not because they were unimportant but because time chose not to keep them.”

Your chest tightens. “So... this remembers them instead.”

Dumbledore nods. “The Diary exists to preserve what the world loses. Witches and wizards who slipped between times. Those who were misplaced, misaligned… or removed.”

You think of the names you read. The unfamiliar ones. The sudden certainty you felt that they mattered.

“Why me?” you ask. “Why would it show itself to me?”

A pause. “Because,” Dumbledore says carefully, “you are where you are meant to be.”

Silence stretches between you.

“The Diary,” he continues, “responds to temporal instability. To fractures in one’s place in time. It does not belong to the library because it cannot be catalogued. It moves, chooses, and when it does, only the intended reader sees what it wishes to show.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your robes. “So the pages can change,” you ask, completely infatuated with the thought that a book like that actually can exist. Even in a place like Hogwarts.

“Yes, it should,” Dumbledore replies. “The Diary does not offer answers directly. It offers what you are ready to understand. Or what you need to ask the right questions.”

“What about the juice?” you press. “I spilt it. Why didn’t it—”

“Because,” he interrupts gently, “the Diary is bound to the magic of the world itself. It cannot be damaged by mundane means. Ink can fade, parchment can burn, memory, however, is far more resilient.”

He studies you again, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“You are searching for truth,” he says. “About time and about where you belong.”

You think of the potion. The names erased. The dream. The way the book felt warm beneath your hands.

“And it’s helping me,” you whisper.

“Yes,” Dumbledore says. “But help is not the same as safety.”

You look up sharply, eyebrows drawn in a confused line across your forehead.

“The Diary will answer you,” he continues, “but it will never guide you. It records. It reflects. What you take from it and what you choose to believe, will shape what comes next.”

You stand slowly, heart racing once more. “So I should keep it,” you say.

Dumbledore smiles, just barely. “You already have,” he replies.

As you turn to leave, his voice follows you one last time.

“Be mindful,” he says softly. “It already remembers those who were forgotten.”

“And,” he adds after a pause. “it does not forget those who are still deciding whether they wish to be.”

The days slip by quietly, one bleeding into the next.

You spend most of them studying in that focused, almost desperate way that keeps your thoughts from wandering too far. Books pile up around you beneath the towering Christmas tree in the Great Hall, its enchanted lights glowing softly above as if trying to compensate for the emptiness of the castle. Without the usual crowds, the hall feels cavernous, echoing with memories instead of voices.

It’s the first Christmas you’ve ever spent alone.

And somehow… it doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would.

Shadow is always with you, curled against your leg or sprawled across your open book like he owns the place. When you pause, staring up at the ceiling instead of reading, he nudges your hand insistently, grounding you. Still, you can’t help but think of your old friends, of laughter that filled spaces like this, of conversations that didn’t require so much effort. You miss them in a quiet, aching way.

Before you realise it, Christmas fades, replaced by that strange in-between time when the year is almost over. New Year’s hovers just a day or two away.

It’s during one of those calm mornings that Professor McGonagall stops you in the corridor.

“Oh—hi, Professor,” you say, straightening instinctively.

“Miss L/n,” she replies, nodding once. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” you answer, a little surprised at how genuine it sounds.

She gestures for you to walk with her, her pace measured. “I wanted to speak with you briefly. I’ve been reviewing academic progress reports.”

You brace yourself, but her tone isn’t sharp.

“Yes,” she says crisply. “Well enough, in fact, that I’m considering recommending you for advanced-level classes in both subjects during your sixth year provided you keep up the good work.”

Your heart jumps. “Advanced classes?”

“Yes,” McGonagall confirms. “They require commitment. But I believe they would suit you.”

“And how are you holding up with your electives?” McGonagall asks. “Care of Magical Creatures and Divination, if I recall correctly.”

“Care of Magical Creatures is… grounding,” you say after a moment. “Divination is more difficult. It’s not exactly predictable.”

Her lips press into a thin line that suggests she agrees. “Few things of importance ever are.”

“There’s one more thing. I’d like you to consider taking Ancient Runes.”

Your brows knit together. “Ancient Runes?”

“I believe it would benefit you,” she says carefully. “In more ways than one. It may help you… contextualise certain matters you’ve been grappling with.”

There’s something pointed in her tone. Measured and deliberate.

“Think about it,” she finishes. “And enjoy the remainder of your holiday, Miss L/n.”

With that, she turns and walks away, robes sweeping behind her.

You remain where you are for a moment, the quiet of the castle settling around you again. Ancient Runes. Advanced classes. You sigh, New Year’s just around the corner.

Later that day, curiosity outweighs caution.

You retreat to one of the quieter corners of the library, far from the main tables, tucked between two tall shelves that smell faintly of dust and ink. Shadow pads along behind you, tail flicking lazily as he settles on the windowsill nearby. The castle outside the glass is dark, snow drifting slowly past the towers.

Ancient Runes.

You pull a heavy volume from the shelf, its spine heavily cracked with age: Foundations of Runic Theory and Temporal Binding. The title alone makes your pulse quicken. You lower yourself into the chair and open it carefully, half-expecting the pages to fall out the book when you open it. 

They don’t, lucky you.

Runes, you quickly learn, are not simply an old language. They’re intent made visible, magic stripped down to its most fundamental shapes. Each symbol carries meaning, power, and memory all at once. Unlike wandwork, which channels magic outward, runes anchor it. Bind it. Preserve it.

You skim, then slow.

Another passage catches your eye:

Runic magic is uniquely suited to phenomena involving continuity, identity, legacy, and time, where conventional spellcraft proves unstable.

Your fingers still.

Time.

You flip another page, then another, heart beating faster as you tried to form connections to everything you’d learned so far. Ancient runes are often used in protective wards, but also in preservation spells, memory enchantments, and long-forgotten temporal seals. They are used to mark things that must remain, even when the world insists on changing.

You swallow.

How can this help with something McGonagall knows you’re struggling with? 

What were you even struggling with in her eyes?

Another text explains that advanced runic study teaches witches and wizards how to read magical residue left behind by powerful acts: spells cast long ago, objects displaced from their origin, histories rewritten so subtly that only the runes notice the fracture. Runes, it says, recognise truth even when records do not.

You think of The book.

The names no one remembers.

The potion that bends time and erases identity.

And suddenly, McGonagall’s suggestion doesn’t feel random at all.

Ancient Runes wouldn’t help you change the past or fix it. But it might teach you how to recognise what has been altered. How to read the seams where time has been stitched back together too neatly. How to protect yourself from being erased the way those others were.

You lean back, exhaling slowly.

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[lizziesangel]

Happy new year, loves!

Stay tuned in for upcoming fics xx

[lizziesangel]

Home is between his arms

You don’t remember the last sentence your parents threw at you.

Only the feeling of it — sharp, cold, landing somewhere right beneath your ribs.

One moment you were standing in the kitchen, swallowing words you knew would never come out right.The next you were grabbing your bag, stuffing clothes inside with shaking hands, the zipper catching on fabric like it was trying to hold you back.

You weren’t thinking in that moment. The only thing you did know was, you had to leave. Before you’d actually get mad. Before every single thought that was swirling around in your head would get out.

You had to leave. And so you did.

The front door slammed behind you — not very hard, just loud enough to make a point.

By the time you get into your car, the tears are already burning hot in your eyes.

You taste salt before you even start the engine.

You pull out of the driveway fast — too fast — and your vision blurs instantly, headlights smearing into long white streaks as you blink against the tears.

The roads are empty.

Almost unnervingly so.

The night looks different when you’re driving through it with your eyes full of tears.

You don’t notice it at first — the way the streetlights smear into long, gold streaks, the way the lines on the road waver like they’re underwater. You’re gripping the wheel so tightly your knuckles ache, your breath shaky as it keeps catching in your throat, breaking before you can pull it together again.

Your phone is still buzzing somewhere in the car — messages, missed calls, maybe another angry text — but you can’t look at it. You can barely see as it is. You can’t hear another word from them. Not tonight. Not after everything they said.

Your reflection in the rearview mirror is barely a shape. Just blurry eyes. Red cheeks. You swipe at your face, but it doesn’t help. The tears fall faster, hot and relentless, dripping off your chin and hitting your shirt as you round another corner a little too sharply.

The road hums under your tires. Your heartbeat hums under your skin.

You’re not thinking about where you’re going — only about what you’re leaving behind.

The slammed door. The last sentence that pushed you over the edge. Their disappointment heavy in every breath they took.

You told yourself you wouldn’t break in front of them. You lasted maybe thirty seconds.

Your chest still feels scraped raw from it. Like something is clawing its way up your ribs, making it hard to breathe. Hard to swallow. Hard to be okay.

You try to breathe through it — in, out, in — but every inhale feels tight and shallow.

Everything inside you is a knot. A pressure. A scream wrapped in skin.

The neon OPEN sign outside a gas station flickers in the corner of your vision as you pass it.

So does the empty lot where you and your friends used to sneak out to watch the sunrise. So does the turn you should’ve taken if you were actually trying to go somewhere logical.

But you just keep driving. Faster than you should. Reckless in a quiet, exhausted way. You roll your window down even though it’s freezing, hoping the cold will shock you back into yourself.

Instead the wind slaps your face, catching your hair, stinging your tear-wet cheeks — and somehow that just makes you cry harder. Your breath hitches again, and you make this small, broken sound you’ve never heard come out of you before.

You wipe at your eyes again, but they’re blurring too much now. You blink. Hard. Once, twice. The headlights coming toward you flare too bright. Your own headlights illuminate nothing but empty road and the faint shimmer of more tears falling.

It’s stupid, maybe, but the worst part isn’t even the yelling. It’s that heavy feeling afterward — like you’re disappointing everyone just by existing. Like you’re too much and not enough at the same time.

Your breath hiccups.

A small, broken sound leaves your throat.

“Please,” you whisper to no one, gripping the wheel tighter.

You’re not sure if you’re begging yourself to calm down or begging the world to just… stop for a second.

You almost miss the turn. You don’t even remember making it.

But the world tilts just slightly, and suddenly the road you’re on is familiar — too familiar — the kind of familiar your heart recognizes before your mind does.

You ease off the gas, breath shaking, as the houses grow larger and more spaced apart. As the trees thin out. As the driveway you swore you weren’t planning to end up in comes into view.

You only realize where you’ve gone when your car rolls to a stop.

Rafe Cameron’s house.

Your fingers loosen just a little on the steering wheel — but only because they’re shaking too much to hold on the same way. Your throat burns. Your vision swims again. A single sob escapes before you can bite it down.

You weren’t planning to come here.

But maybe this is the only place left where you won’t fall apart alone.

Inside the Cameron house, the night is quiet in a way that only wealthy homes can be — insulated, muffled, untouched by the world outside.

Rafe is sprawled across his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone just above his face. The soft glow washes him in pale blue, sharpens the angles of his jaw, makes his tired eyes look even more exhausted than they are.

He’s not doing anything important. Just killing time. Avoiding sleep the way he always does when his thoughts get too loud.

A TikTok plays — some stupid meme, laughter echoing through his phone speakers — and he smirks a little, scrolling without really watching. His thumb moves lazily, rhythmically, like muscle memory.

He switches apps, skimming through texts from Kelce and Topper, who are arguing about something pointless. Rafe adds a half-amused reply, tosses his phone onto his stomach, then picks it up again immediately because staying still has never been his strong suit.

He opens Instagram, watches a story, taps through three more.

He’s somewhere between bored and restless — that strange middle place he lives in most nights — when his phone vibrates sharply against his chest.

Not a text. Not a call. A different sound.

A Life360 notification.

He frowns before he even lifts the phone.

The glow brightens across his face as he flips it toward him, eyes narrowing slightly, expecting something normal — you arriving home, or maybe leaving work late.

But the screen flashes a location he definitely wasn’t prepared to see.

Y/N has arrived at Rafe Cameron’s house.

His eyebrows pull together.

“What?” It slips out under his breath, confused.

He sits up straighter, the mattress shifting under his weight as he blinks once… twice… like maybe he read it wrong. He taps the notification, zooms in as if that’ll make more sense.

His name. His address. Your little location dot — sitting right at the edge of his driveway.

Rafe glances at the window automatically, instinct tightening in his chest.

It’s almost three in the morning.

He swipes out of the app, checks the time again, then checks your chat — no messages from you. No missed calls. No “hey, I’m coming over,” no hints, no jokes, nothing.

His heartbeat picks up, confusion melting into something heavier.

Did he forget a plan? A date? Did you need him and he missed it?

He scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly more awake than he’s been all night.

“Okay… what the hell,” he mutters, standing from the bed. The floor is cold under his bare feet, but he hardly notices. He’s already reaching for a shirt that’s draped across a chair, tugging it on clumsily while walking toward the window.

He pulls the curtain aside.

And his breath catches for a moment — a sharp inhale he doesn’t let out right away.

Your car is there. Parked as if you were in a rush, headlights off like you didn’t think before pulling in. Like you barely made it here in one piece.

His stomach drops.

Rafe grabs his phone again, pacing toward the door.

His mind races — half panic, half guilt, half fear, all tangled together.

Why didn’t you text? Why are you here? Why do you look like that?

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he reaches the top of the stairs.

Then he exhale sharply, pushes open the front door, and steps out into the cold night, eyes locked on your car like it’s the only thing that exists.

You turned off your car.

You didn’t even notice your foot slip off the brake until the car settles into a shaky idle, vibrating softly beneath you. Your breathing is uneven—too quick, too thin—and the tears you thought you’d wiped away gather again, slipping hot down the sides of your face.

The house in front of you is quiet. Composed. Everything your life isn’t.

You press your forehead to the steering wheel, fingers gripping the leather so tightly your knuckles ache. Your breath fogs against the cold material as another sob shakes through you—quiet, strangled, the kind that’s been building for hours.

Your heart is pounding, but not because you’re scared. Because you’re exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-deep exhausted.

Your vision keeps swimming, eyes stinging from crying and headlights and the harsh burn of holding everything in for too long. You blink, but the tears smear your view again, blurring the house, the driveway, the world.

You’re not sure how long you sit there like that—shaking, breathing, breaking silently—but the night feels too big around you. The car feels too small. The air feels too heavy.

Your chest tightens painfully.

Why here? Why his house?

The question circles your mind, but you already know the answer. Because Rafe is the only place your heart runs to when it’s scared. Even if you didn’t mean to arrive, your body chose for you.

You lift your head slowly, breath catching as you stare through the windshield. The lights in his house are mostly off, but there’s a glow at one upstairs window. You try to sit up, to inhale fully, to be okay—but your body trembles with another wave of emotion you can’t stop.

Your nails dig into your palms. Your lips press together hard enough to shake. Your whole body feels like a held breath ready to snap.

And then—

Movement.

The front door clicks open, the night swallowing the sound before it reaches you. You blink through the blur, squinting past the streaks on your windshield.

Rafe steps out onto the porch.

Barefoot. Shirt half-on, like he didn’t even bother to put it on properly. Hair messy. Phone still in one hand, screen lighting his face with a pale blue glow.

He looks around, confused for a second. Then his eyes land on your car.

And he stills.

The porch light catches his expression—surprised at first, brows drawn together, mouth parting slightly like he’s piecing something together. But then something shifts. Concern pushes through. Something softer. Something protective.

You swallow hard, but your throat feels tight and slow, like it’s closing up on you.

Rafe doesn’t wait. He walks down the steps, footsteps silent but urgent, his pace quickening the closer he gets.

Your pulse jumps. Not in fear. But in that awful, vulnerable way where you realize someone might actually see you like this.

You drag in a shaky breath and lift a hand to wipe your face—too late. Your cheeks are wet. Your eyes red. Your chest rising and falling unevenly.

He’s already so close.

Your breath hitches. Tears spill again.

Rafe reaches your car door and taps on the glass—soft, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter.

You jump slightly.

He leans down, eyes searching yours through the blur of tears and glass and darkness.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, gentle, steady in a way you aren’t. “Open the door for me.”

Your hand shakes as you reach for the handle.

The door clicks open.

Cold air rushes in. Rafe steps closer.

And the moment you see his face clearly—worried, confused, impossibly gentle—you break all over again.

You don’t remember getting out of the car. You don’t remember Rafe taking your bag from the backseat or how his hand found the small of your back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Everything between the driveway and his bedroom is a blur — footsteps on hardwood, the soft click of doors closing behind you, the warm hallway light washing over your cold skin.

You only come back to yourself when you’re sitting on the edge of his bed.

Rafe is kneeling in front of you, one hand braced on the floor, the other hovering near your knee like he wants to touch you but is scared to make the wrong move.

His room is dim, just the lamp on his nightstand casting a soft, golden glow across his face. It makes his blue eyes look deeper, almost too intense. Like he’s reading every tiny tremor in your body.

He’s breathing a little fast. Not from exertion — from worry.

He scans your face slowly, taking in the swollen eyes, the tear-streaked cheeks, the shaken way you’re holding your arms around yourself.

“Okay,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Tell me what you need. Just… help me out here, alright?”

You can’t speak. Your throat feels closed, like every word is snagged on the ache inside your chest.

Rafe swallows, his jaw clenching in that helpless way he hates — the way he gets when he can’t fix something with his hands.

“Do you want water? A hoodie? You wanna talk?” he tries, voice gentle but tight. “Just… tell me how to make it stop hurting... how to help.”

Your vision blurs again, hot and overwhelming.

You shake your head, a tiny, broken gesture.

He shifts closer, his knee touching yours. “Okay. What do you need, baby? I’ll do anything, just—”

Your voice cracks on the first word.

“Just hold me, please.”

You don’t mean for it to sound small. Or pleading. Or like you’re seconds from falling apart again.

But it does. It sounds exactly like that.

Rafe’s breath stutters — actually stutters — and for a moment he looks almost startled, like he wasn’t expecting you to let yourself be vulnerable with him like that.

Then his expression softens completely, melting into something warm and protective and so unlike the version of him the world thinks it knows.

He rises slowly, trying not to startle you, and sits beside you on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. He opens his arms in a quiet invitation.

You don’t hesitate. Not this time.

You fall into him — literally, your body tipping sideways until you’re pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, strong, secure, pulling you in like he’s been waiting to hold you for months.

You bury your face against the curve of his neck, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne mixed with laundry detergent and something warm and familiar that’s just… him.

Rafe exhales shakily into your hair.

“There you go,” he murmurs, one hand sliding up your back, palm warm and steady. “I got you. I got you.”

His other arm curls under your legs, tugging you even closer until you’re half in his lap, half in the circle of his body, like he’s trying to get every piece of you inside his arms so none of the fear can reach you.

Your fingers clutch his hoodie, knuckles digging into his chest. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, he pulls you tighter.

You feel his heartbeat under your cheek — fast, anxious, but solid.

He presses his chin to the top of your head, voice dropping to a quiet rasp.

“You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to explain. Just breathe. Stay right here.”

You do. For the first time all night, you actually can.

Minutes pass — long, slow minutes where he rubs small circles into your back with the flat of his thumb, sometimes squeezing your waist gently like he’s grounding you, like he’s making sure you don’t drift away.

At one point, he sighs softly, almost to himself.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he whispers, so quietly you almost miss it.

Your eyes close. His arms tighten.

The world keeps spinning outside his window. But in Rafe’s room — in his arms — everything stops feeling so terrifying.

He holds you like you’re something precious. Something irreplaceable. Something he’d burn the whole island down to protect.

And for the first time that night, you feel okay, inside his arms.

MASTERLIST