Pieces marked âcontinuing seriesâ I have planned to continue.
.á if any pieces that ARENâT marked âfinished seriesâ that you would like me to continue, please send a request .á
Characters with many written pieces will be given their own post and linked below by their name -- others will be kept on this page.
Much love, Saige
Draco Malfoy
(Link ^^)
Ron Weasley
(Link ^^)
Fred Weasley
(Link ^^)
George Weasley
(Link ^^)
Harry Potter
(Link ^^)
James Potter
Shade of Summer Grass (pt.2) (⧠You were just the quiet Irish girl who moved next door to the Pottersâ countryside home while James was away at Hogwarts. He didnât know you existed until he stepped off the train and found you in his garden, barefoot, feeding a hedgehog. From there bloomed something golden and warm, like the summer you both tried to pretend wouldnât end // 3.bk // fluff! Girl Next Door! Summer loving)
A Promise You Never Chose (pt.2) (pt.3) (pt.4) (pt.5) (pt.6) (pt.7) (pt.8) (pt.9) (pt.10) (pt.11) (⧠Two childhood promises. One future neither of you chose. After years of silence, something between you and James Potter finally shifts â small, but enough to change everything // angst // slow burn)â ONGOING SERIES â
Stags Corner (pt.2) (pt.3) (⧠Visiting your nan was always a pleasure, but the boy working the gas station may make your summer worth your while. ) â ONGOING SERIES â
Remus Lupin
Bound by a Feather (⧠A lonely man finds comfort in an unexplainable connection, where love crosses the line between the real world and something beyond // 3.1k // Forbidden Love, hurt-comfort, fantasy, tragic, angst, emotional, slow burn)
Unmapped Territory (⧠While secretly exploring Hogwarts, you stumble upon a hidden room dedicated to the quiet suffering of werewolvesâone you choose to keep from Remus Lupin to spare him pain, until he gently uncovers the truth // 1.2k // fluff, hurt-comfort)
Even the Moon Has Phases (⧠An exchange student from Castelobruxo forms an unexpected bond with a quiet boy at Hogwartsâone shaped by secrets, silence, and the slow understanding of something deeper // 3k // angst // emotional pining // happy ending)
Sirius Black
Godrics Gift (pt.2) (pt.3) (pt.4) (pt.5) (⧠Sirius Black is drawn to Y/N, a quiet Hufflepuff, but struggles with his feelings as he watches her distance herself after seeing him flirt with another girl, Isabella. Y/N, discouraged by his attention on someone else, retreats into herself, unaware of Siriusâs growing longing)
â finished series â
Castle overturned with Love (⧠The mystic Cupid has escaped the department of mysteries and has begun pairing souls in Hogwarts // 987 // Fluff, romantic confusion)
The Quite Wife (⧠An arranged marriage kept them under the same roof, but years of quiet indifference left them strangers in their own home. When Sirius finally shows a new, unexpected vulnerability, Y/N must decide whether to trust himâor let the distance between them become permanent. // 8.3k // slow burn + angst)
Neville Longbottom
From Night One (⧠You were a transfer student from Ilvermorney, a whole new country, a whole new set of rules, and a whole new school. Luckily for you, you bumped into the sweetest boy to show you around // 1.4k // Awkward, meet cute, fluff)
Growing Together (⧠what if the reader and Neville are paired up together in herbology to take care of a plant like a baby project // 811 // Fluff)
Cedric Diggory
Your Champion (pt.2) (pt.3) (pt.4) (⧠After being unexpectedly chosen as Cedricâs hostage in the Triwizard Tournamentâs second task, you recover in the hospital wing, where Cedric nervously asks you something that's on his mind // Fluff, Potter! Reader, Family dynamics, no death!) - finished series -
Rootbound (⧠It begins with a Herbology project that slowly pulls you into Cedricâs orbit, though youâre convinced his charm couldnât possibly be for you⌠right? // 842 // fluff)
The Golden Gate (⧠During a warm summer evening, you meet Cedricâs parents for the first time, discovering just how deeply youâve become part of his world // 916 // sweet fluff)
ăD.M x Muggleborn! Reader
ă A party meant for holiday cheer results in the two of you stuck in the darkâŚremarkably close to one another
ă8.3k
Rq: @lyricallinesofpoeticnature
Tg: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @falsedivide @damagedbreign @allielovesstars @justheretoreadmydear
[masterlist]
Much Love, Saige
The morning of Christmas Eve arrives gently, with pale winter sunlight dripping through the thin curtains of your tiny London flat. You blink awake to the sound of sleet ticking against the window, a sound that would usually annoy you, but today, today it makes your chest swell with something warm.
Excitement. Nerves. Something bittersweet in between.
You lie still for a moment, cocooned in blankets that have long since lost their store-soft texture, feeling the truth of the holiday settle into your bones. Christmas Eve. A night that, three years ago, would have meant warmth and family and laughter. But that was before the war⌠before the decision you made to wipe their memories of you so the Death Eaters would never be able to find them.
Before you saved them by losing them.
You swallow once, hard, and push the thoughts away before the ache in your throat becomes unbearable. Today isnât for grief. Today is for celebration â however small. However fragile.
You have a party to throw. The very first Christmas party in your own flat, with people from the wizarding world who stayed in touch once youâd resurfaced after the war.
A strange little collection of acquaintances â former classmates, coworkers, people who smiled politely but rarely called. But thatâs fine. Tonight might be exactly what you need: company, warmth, noise, something to fill the empty spaces that still echo inside your chest.
You throw the blankets back and sit up, hair messy, socks mismatched. Still, you feel lighter than you have in weeks.
You spend the next few hours flitting around the flat like a holiday-themed tornado. Tinsel hangs over the fireplace. Fairy lights drape messily across the ceiling. Mistletoe is taped in the doorway â just because it felt festive, and maybe because a tiny, reckless piece of you likes the idea of romance this time of year, even if itâs unlikely.
The kettle whistles. Cinnamon-scented candles burn on the shelf. More food than you could possibly need fills the tiny kitchen; biscuits, cheese, mulled wine, pastries, mini pies you made from a recipe you found in a Muggle cookbook.
You step back and survey the room. Cozy. A little tacky. Entirely yours.
âThatâll do,â you mutter, smiling to yourself as you adjust the angle of a crooked wreath.
You grab your coat and scarf, planning to run downstairs for last-minute cups and napkins when something on the coffee table catches your eye â a small silver frame. You pick it up slowly.
In it is a photograph â not magical, completely still â of your parents smiling in the garden of the house you canât safely return to. The house they still live in, happy, without the daughter they no longer remember.
Your chest tightens, not painfully, but sharply. A sensation like frost beneath the ribs.
âYouâre okay,â you whisper to yourself, thumb tracing the edge of the frame. âYou made the right choice.â
Did you? Most days you believe so. But holidays are cracks in the armor, breaking the inevitable sorrow that shines through
You set the frame down before the sadness has the chance to fully bloom. If you stay in that memory too long, youâll never leave it.
Checking the clock, you feel lucky it's only noon. With hours until guests arrive, you brighten the candles with a small spell and keep yourself busy.
Bakery boxes are arranged just right. Music plays softly, enchanted to loop all night. Your home begins to feel like something alive⌠like a space meant for celebration, not mourning.
For a moment, you stand in the center of the room and inhale deeply. The cinnamon, the pine, the faint warmth of magic in the air.
Maybe tonight wonât hurt so much.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
By mid-afternoon the sky had grown darker. Snow begins to fall thick and slow against the windowpanes. you pause in your decorating to watch it.
London looks peaceful blanketed in whiteârooftops soft, streets quiet, the city almost magical in a way that needs no wand.
You sip tea and sit on the arm of the sofa, watching shoppers rush below with armfuls of gifts, bundled in hats and scarves. Families following one another, linked and laughing.
A little jab of jealousy hits, sharp and quick.
You take another sip and exhale. You chose this path. You survived. That has to count for something.
Your gaze drifts to the stack of invitations on the counterâcopies of the ones you sent out three weeks ago. You hadnât expected everyone to come, but you hoped some wouldâpeople you fought beside, people you helped heal, people who once needed you and maybe still remembered you.
And among them, Draco Malfoy.
His name had been added last. Hesitant. Hand trembling just enough to smudge the ink.
You hadnât spoken to him much after the war. Heâd changed, noticeably soâshoulders permanently tense, eyes shadowed, a softness he didnât seem comfortable letting anyone see. When you invited him to your birthday lunch last year, heâd shown up fifteen minutes early with a bottle of overpriced wine and left before dessert.
Still⌠he came. That had meant something.
A former Death Eater at your Christmas party. What a headline that would make.
Youâd expected him to politely decline, the way he usually did. Instead, his RSVP was short and stiff:
If the invitation is sincere, Iâll be there.
You smile faintly. Of all the people invited, he seemed least likely to show upâand yet you find yourself hoping he will. There is something grounding about Draco now, something real. You recognize the kind of loneliness he carries because you carry it too.
Maybe the two of you arenât so different anymore.
You stand and begin preparing glasses, humming softly to the tune drifting from the enchanted gramophone.
Itâs going to be a good night.
You can feel it.
At least⌠thatâs what you tell yourself.
Outside, the snow grows heavier, the wind picks up, and the city begins to disappear behind a curtain of white.
But you donât notice that yet.
All you see is your little flatâwarm, glowing, waiting for companyâand the faint flicker of hope that this Christmas might finally be one that doesnât hurt.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
As the hours slip by, the city outside your window grows unrecognizable.
By five oâclock, the snow that had seemed charming and gentle in the morning has become something viciousâthick, slanted sheets of white ripping across the street in ghostlike swirls. The wind howls between the buildings, rattling the glass of your windows hard enough that you step over to check the locks twice.
You stare out at the street below, mug warming your hands, and watch as shop lights turn off one by one. People hurry through the blizzard, heads down, scarves pulled up to their eyes. Cars crawl slowly, tires slipping on the slush. Eventually, even those disappear, and you find yourself staring at a road that looks abandoned, swallowed by winter.
The knot in your stomach pulls tighter.
You glance at the clock.
6:03 PM.
Guests were meant to arrive at six.
You tell yourself itâs fineâLondon traffic, bad weather, maybe someone stopped for a bottle of wine or a last-minute gift. You take another sip of tea and force a smile.
But every minute that passes tastes a little more like disappointment.
You refresh the small display of snacks. You straighten the napkins for the third time. You reheat the mulled wine, then stir it again, even though it doesnât need stirring. Your flat looks perfect, festive, warmâŚ
And painfully, echoingly empty.
You tell yourself itâs just the storm. People canât be blamed for staying home tonight. Anyone sensible would do the same. Itâs not their fault. Itâs just bad luck, bad timingâ
But another voice inside you whispers something smaller, meaner:
Maybe they didnât want to come.
Your eyes sting unexpectedly. You blink fast, refusing to cry over something so stupid, so human, so vulnerable.
You set your mug down and wrap your arms around yourself, listening as the storm throws another gust of wind against the building. The sound is hauntingâlike someone wailing in the hallway, trapped just beyond the walls.
You check the clock again. 6:12 PM.
âHorrible,â you mutter under your breath, trying to laugh it off and failing. âNot even fashionably late.â
You walk to the windows and peer out once more, but the world is just a blur of white and swirling darkness. Anyone traveling tonight would be insane.
A hollow ache settles beneath your ribs.
You tried so hard for thisâyour first holiday celebration in years. Something warm. Something normal. Something that told you you werenât alone.
And yet here you are.
Alone in a decorated living room, candles flickering cheerfully to absolutely no audience.
For a moment, the weight of it all presses too heavily. The war. The memories you gave up. The family who canât remember your name. The friends who drifted away once the world stopped burning.
You breathe in slowly, wishing the decorations didnât suddenly look like a joke.
Thenâ
A knock.
Sharp.
Sudden.
Startling over the roar of the wind.
You freeze, wide-eyed, heart leaping so violently you almost drop the glass youâd been holding.
Someone came?
Someone actually came?
You hurry toward the door, pulse thudding in your ears, and when you pull it open youâre greeted with a blast of cold airâand a slightly snow-covered figure in a wool coat, hair damp, cheeks flushed from the storm.
Draco Malfoy.
Looking like he had to fight a blizzard, a dragon, and possibly several ill-tempered public transportation systems just to get here.
His pale eyes sweep over you, taking in your shock.
He clears his throat, tone clipped as always, but softer than it used to be.
âAm I early,â he says, âor the only one who had the nerve to leave the house in that monstrosity of a storm?â
Your stunned laugh escapes before you can hold it back.
The disappointment in your chest loosensâjust a littleâand warmth, real warmth, begins to curl in its place.
Draco steps inside before you can fully invite him, brushing snow from his shoulders with sharp, irritated movements. His coat is damp at the edges, his boots leaving melting footprints on your welcome mat. The wind tries to shove its way in behind him, but you shut the door quickly, shutting out the roar of the storm.
For a moment, Draco just stands there, gathering himself.
His hairânormally immaculateâis windswept, mussed from the weather. His cheeks and nose are pink from the cold, and he looks like he has half a mind to hex the entire atmosphere for daring to inconvenience him.
He exhales sharply, then says in a voice that is far too dry to be mistaken for real calm:
âRemind me why I thought traveling across the city in that was a good idea?â
He gestures vaguely toward the window where nothing can be seen except churning white. The storm screams against the glass as if personally offended by his tone.
You bite back a smile.
âMaybe because the invitation was sincere?â
Draco snorts once, a sound dangerously close to amusement, though he tries to hide it by shrugging out of his coat. You take it automaticallyâand notice how cold it is, like he walked through winter itself just to reach your front door.
He glances around your flat, eyes sweeping the decorations, the candles, the empty glasses set out in hopeful pairs. You watch the moment when realization flickers in his gazeâno voices, no footsteps, no signs of anyone else.
He arches an eyebrow.
âIâm the first to arrive?â he asks, carefully neutral.
You open your mouth to answer, but the truth hangs heavily in the silence between the two of you. Draco studies your face for just a fraction too long, and when you see the understanding settle, his expression softensânot a lot, not dramatically, but enough that you catch it.
He looks away and says lightly, âNot entirely surprising. Only someone madâor tragically stubbornâwould attempt to travel in that.â
You roll your eyes.
âSo which one are you?â
A pause. His lips twitch.
âJuryâs still out,â he mutters. âBut I told myself if everyone else stayed home, someone should make sure you werenât spending Christmas Eve with nothing but a charcuterie board and a fire hazardâs worth of candles.â
You flush, half embarrassed, half fond, and he shakes more snow from his sleeves before toeing out of his shoes.
Now that heâs fully inside, some of the tension drains from his shoulders. The faint warmth of the room seems to thaw himâslowly, like ice melting around something solid but soft beneath.
He looks at you again, and this time thereâs the smallest hint of something in his expressionârelief, maybe. Or comfort. Or perhaps simply the realization that he feels safer here than he expected to.
âWell,â he says, clearing his throat, pretending nonchalance, âit is warmer than the street. And⌠nicer in here than I anticipated.â
You raise a brow.
âCompliment or passive insult?â
âBoth,â he replies automatically, and the corner of his mouth lifts into something that could be called a smile if viewed from the correct emotional angle.
He rubs his hands together, now mostly thawed. His fingers are long and pale, ringless, but you notice the faint tremor from cold or nervesâyou canât tell which.
Draco glances at the doorway into the living room, faint music drifting through from the enchanted gramophone.
âSo.â His voice is quieter now. âIs it just us?â
You swallow.
âFor now.â
He nods once, and though heâd seemed prepared for that answer, you see the subtle shift in his eyesâless annoyance, more something else. Something warmer. Like the idea of spending the evening alone with you isnât the worst outcome he could have imagined.
âWell then,â he says, straightening slightly, âwe might as well make the most of it.â
Outside, the storm lashes against the windows, battering the city with ice and wind and fury.
Inside, Draco Malfoy stands in your living roomâcold, irritated, and absolutely presentâand for the first time all night, you donât feel alone.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You lead Draco into the living room, the lights warm and golden against the dark storm raging outside. He moves slowly, shaking the last bits of snow from his cuffs, brushing his hair back into something vaguely presentable.
As he does, his hand drifts to his coat pocketâjust for a moment. You donât notice, too busy straightening a stack of napkins in a nervous attempt to look busy. But inside that pocket, something small and wrapped shifts beneath his fingers: a gift. Simple. Unassuming. Something heâd debated bringing at all.
He keeps the coat folded over his arm instead of handing it over, the pocket pressed discreetly against his side. If others arrive, it wonât look⌠personal.
He tells himself it wasnât meant to be personal anyway.
Draco clears his throat and finally sets the coat over the back of the sofa, careful to angle it in such a way that the small, wrapped parcel stays hidden.
You exhale silently.
Heâs here. Really here. Not a ghost of the war. Not a memory. Not a name in a headline.
Draco Malfoy, in your living room, smelling faintly of cold wind and expensive aftershave.
You offer him a drink before your mind can spiral into panic.
âMulled wine? Tea? Something stronger?â
He raises a brow. âYou have something stronger?â
You shrug, pretending casual confidence you definitely do not feel. âItâs Christmas Eve. I came prepared.â
His eyes glimmer with something like amusement. âWine is fine.â
You pour two glasses, internally scolding yourself for the slight tremor in your hands. Youâve seen him since the warâat gatherings, brief lunches, stiffly polite conversationsâbut never like this.
Never alone.
Never without the weight of expectation.
You hand him his glass and he wraps his fingers around it, pale against the warmth of the cup. When he takes his first slow sip, you finally let yourself look at him properly.
And Merlinâhe has changed.
Not just in the hair cut shorter at the sides or the way heâs filled out as heâs grown into adulthood. Itâs in his posture. In the softness at the edges. In the way the tension that once lived permanently under his skin has easedâthough not entirely gone.
There are faint shadows under his eyes that werenât there at sixteen. A seriousness carved into him that the war soldered into place.
But there is something else tooâsomething gentler.
You feel your chest tighten unexpectedly.
Draco catches your stare.
Your breath trips.
âWhat?â he asks, not unkindly. He glances down at himself. âDo I still have ice in my hair?â
You swallow too quickly. âNo. Just⌠itâs been a while since Iâve really seen you.â
He tilts his head slightly. A small movement, but telling.
âI suppose it has,â he murmurs. âLife⌠took different shapes.â
That might be the understatement of the century.
You gesture to the couch, and the two of you sitâawkwardly at first, both over-aware of the emptiness around you. Draco rests one arm along the back of the sofa, his movements cautious but not closed off.
He glances once toward the door, still expectingâhoping, for your sakeâthat others might arrive.
âYouâre sure theyâre coming?â he asks lightly, taking another sip.
You force a smile. âThey said they would.â
He nods, but the look he gives you says he isnât convinced. Heâs trying, in his own quiet way, to manage your expectations so you donât get hurt.
A surprisingly thoughtful instinct for someone who once weaponized words like knives.
You tuck your legs beneath you and take a sip of wine to steady yourself. The heat pools warmly in your stomach, loosening the stiffness in your shoulders.
You feel strangely exposedâthe decorated flat, the hope youâd let yourself feel, the quiet intimacy of the moment. Dracoâs presence fills the room in a way that is hard to ignore, even as he sits neatly composed beside you.
He glances at your decorations againâthe fairy lights, the little wreaths, the crooked stockingsâand something in his expression softens further.
âYouâve done a lot of work,â he says, voice lower now. He clears his throat, as though admitting a compliment is dangerous. âIt looks⌠nice.â
You blink, not expecting the warmth that sneaks into the word nice.
âThank you,â you say quietly. âIt feels good to have a reason to decorate. I havenât had one in⌠a long time.â
Dracoâs eyes flick toward you, sharper for a heartbeat. He knowsâat least in piecesâwhat you lost. What you gave up.
He wants to say something. You can see it in the way his jaw shifts, in the subtle catch of breath. But instead, he reaches for his glass again.
You both sip, sitting in the amber glow of candlelight and quiet music. The storm hammers at the window, but inside the room, heat begins to collect slowly between you.
Neither of you mentions that no one else has shown up.
Neither of you looks at the clock.
For the first time tonight, the silence doesnât feel empty.
It feels shared.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You donât know when the shift happens.
Maybe itâs the wine finally sinking into your bones, smoothing the edges of your guarded thoughts.
Maybe itâs the storm outside beating so mercilessly at the glass that it forces you and Draco closerâtwo people taking shelter not just from weather, but from years of isolation neither of you ever truly recovered from.
Or maybe itâs simply that, for the first time in a long time, there is no noise.
No expectations.
No war.
Just two survivors in a warmly lit flat, learning how to breathe again.
Draco sits with one ankle crossed over his knee, glass resting between pale fingers. He stares at your little Christmas tree, a cheap one from a Muggle shop, decorated with mismatched ornaments, and you watch the faintest crease form between his brows, as though heâs trying to decipher something about it.
âYou know,â he says quietly, âI donât think Iâve ever actually decorated a Christmas tree myself.â
You look up, surprised.
âNever?â
He shakes his head. âWe had⌠elves. And when I was a child, I wasnât allowed to touch anything. Appearances were everything in my house. If something was misplaced, it âreflected poorly.ââ
He says the words with a dry sort of detachment, but you feel the weight behind them all the same.
You smile faintly. âWell, good newsâyou are now in a flat where appearances donât matter at all, as evidenced by the fact that the tree star is currently crooked.â
Draco follows your gaze. The tree topper is indeed leaning slightly to one side, defeated by gravity and a cheap wire hook.
He huffs a soft laughâsmall, but real.
âWhat a scandal. Your mother would be horrified.â
Your heart flinches, just a little. He didnât mean harm, you know thatâbut the mention of a mother you still technically have but can never go back to lands like a stone dropped into water.
You look down at your cup. Draco notices immediately.
His voice lowers.
âSorry,â he says gently. âI didnât think.â
âItâs alright.â
âItâs not,â he counters, not forcefully, but with an honesty thatâs new for him.
You look at him again.
The last time you really knew Draco Malfoy, he was a boy proud enough to throw a hex over a bruise to prove he could take it. A boy shaped by expectation and tradition and the suffocating fear of disappointing his family.
But nowâŚ
Now he looks older.
Not hardenedâjust quietly tired.
And softer in ways he likely doesnât let many see.
You lean back into the couch, letting the warmth melt some of the tightness in your chest.
âDo you miss them?â Draco asks suddenly. He doesnât look at you as he says it, as though giving you the option to ignore the question if you choose.
You think about lying.
About avoiding the jagged truth.
But tonight feels like a night for honesty.
âEvery day,â you say softly.
Your hands tighten in your lap. âSometimes I⌠pretend theyâre just away on holiday. Sometimes I convince myself that one day, Iâll walk up to the house and theyâll open the door and everything will be the same. Like I never⌠erased myself from their lives.â
You give a small, sad smile.
âItâs easier than remembering that I did the right thing. And that doing the right thing still hurts.â
The room goes quiet.
Not awkwardâjust filled with shared understanding.
Dracoâs voice, when it comes, is softer than mulled wine and candlelight.
âMy mother nearly died the night the Battle ended,â he says. âSaving me. Saving us. It changed everything. I think⌠sometimes doing whatâs right hurts no matter how you justify it.â
You turn to him. His body has angled toward you without you noticing, one arm resting loosely on the back of the sofa, his knee brushing lightly against yours.
âYou survived,â you say gently.
âSo did you.â
He meets your eyes.
For once, thereâs no guarded calculationâjust truth.
âAnd Iâm glad,â he adds softly.
Your breath catches.
Not because youâve never heard someone say they were glad you survivedâbut because Draco Malfoy says it like it matters. Like itâs not just polite sentiment, but something he has thought about.
Something that, maybe, surprised even him.
The storm slams another gust against the windows, but inside the flat, the room feels warmer, smaller, more intimate. The space between you shrinks without either of you moving.
Draco shifts again, draping his coat neatly over the armchair⌠except the pocket with the hidden gift stays closest to him, safely tucked out of sight. He still thinks others could arrive. Still intends to give it only if the moment is right.
Or maybe only if itâs just you.
He clears his throat.
âYou never said how youâve been,â he murmurs. âSince the war.â
âI could ask you the same.â
He gives a half-smirk. âDeflecting. Very Slytherin of you.â
âLiving in London does things to a person.â
He rolls his eyes, but the warmth stays.
You take a slow sip from your glass and finally answer.
âIâve been⌠rebuilding. What I can. Who I am. Itâs strange coming back into a world that remembers you when you donât remember half of it.â
He nods in understanding.
âItâs strange living in a world that remembers exactly who you were,â he says, âeven when youâre trying not to be that person anymore.â
The words hang there between you, fragile and revealing.
You turn to him fully, knees brushing again, closer this time.
âDraco⌠youâve changed.â
He gives a humorless smile. âThank Merlin.â
âNo,â you say gently, âI mean⌠I see it. I see the difference. And Iâm glad for that too.â
He looks away, jaw tighteningânot in anger, but in the way some people tense when praised in a way they donât quite know how to accept.
ââŚThank you,â he says finally.
The heat of the candles casts a glow across his profile, leaving the space between you haloed in amber light. You watch the moment his shoulders lowerâever so slightlyâas though setting down a weight he hadnât realized heâd been carrying for years.
The silence becomes comfortable.
Companionable.
Two different lives leaning toward the same center.
The music in the corner swells, soft and warm. The storm outside screams against brick and glassâbut in your flat, the world has shrunk to one room, one couch, two cups of wine, and the rare safety of being known without needing to explain.
Without meaning to, you exhale.
Draco notices.
He lets out a small breath of his own.
Neither of you says it aloud, but the truth settles between you:
It has been a very, very long time since either of you let someone this close.
And it feels⌠right.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The storm hits harder than either of you expected.
Rain lashes the windows in long, angry strokes, and the thunder begins to sound not outside but inside, crawling along the beams of the ceiling. You try to focus on Dracoâon the way he has settled beside the fire, damp hair falling against his temple, sleeves pushed to his forearmsâbut the wind screams against the shutters again, and you canât help jerking in your seat.
Draco notices.
He doesnât speak at first. He watches you the way he always hasâtoo perceptive, too sharp for your comfortâbut thereâs something else in his expression now. Something gentler. Something that might have been warmth in another life.
You clear your throat, attempting grace.
âItâs just the storm.â
Draco arches a brow.
âYouâre not frightened, are you?â
The teasing has no venom. Thereâs no smirk, no Malfoy crueltyâjust a flash of dry humor as if heâs testing the air between you, seeing if jokes are still allowed.
âMe?â You scoff, though your shoulders are tense. âNo. Of course not.â
Lightning washes the room in white.
Thenâ
Everything dies.
The lamps hiss and go out.
The hum of the old cottage electricity flickers once, then falls silent.
The fire remains, but the rest of the room collapses into shadow.
You stop breathing for a second. The storm is suddenly ten times louder. The walls feel thinner. Youâve always hated sudden darkness.
And Dracoâwho you havenât seen in years, who once knew you better than anyoneâsees everything hit your face in an instant.
He doesnât laugh.
Instead, he draws his wand in a smooth, practiced movement.
âLumos.â
A soft sphere of warm white light blooms in his hand, casting the two of you in a small pool of gold. His face changes in the glowâthe paleness softened, the sharp angles of his cheekbones less severe. He looks older, handsomer, and strangely human.
He tilts his head.
âYouâre definitely frightened.â
The words are quiet, but thereâs no triumph in them. He says it like heâs confirming a memoryâsomething from childhood, something he always knew.
You open your mouth to deny itâ
âbut the thunder chooses that exact second to crash overhead, and you flinch visibly.
You wish you could disappear under the floorboards.
Dracoâs lips twitch. He stands, offering his handânot because you need help, but because itâs instinct, old habit, buried under years neither of you have acknowledged.
âCome on,â he says. âWe should find candles before you panic.â
âIâm notââ
âI know,â he says dryly, âyouâre very brave.â
You narrow your eyes, but you take his hand anyway.
His palm is warm.
Your stomach flips.
You tell yourself itâs just adrenaline.
You search the old cabinet by the fireplace, Dracoâs wand hovering above your shoulder like a tame moon. The room smells like wood smoke and rainâlike childhood summers and nights when everything was simpler.
You find a box of candles and a small tin of matches.
Draco takes one from your hand and lights it with a flick. The tiny flame reflects in his eyes as he holds it steady.
You move together, lighting candles one by one, carrying them to the corners of the cottage. The light growsâsoft, golden, intimate. Shadows dance across the walls, turning the storm into something distant, almost romantic.
At one point, your fingers brush when you both reach for the same candle.
Draco goes still.
So do you.
You pretend nothing happened. You murmur something about the shelf being higher than you remember. Draco pretends he isnât watching you out of the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable.
When the last candle is lit, you settle back down, trying to calm your pulse.
The cottage looks different in firelightâsafer, smaller, like a secret space known only to the two of you.
Youâre aware of him sitting beside you again. Not too close⌠but closer than before.
He folds his arms, glances sideways, and says quietly:
âYou always hated storms.â
You blink.
âWe were⌠what, ten? You remember that?â
He doesnât look ashamed to admit it.
âI remember a lot of things.â
Silence hums. Thick. Heavy. Charged.
You tuck your knee up to your chest, staring into the fire.
âYou always pretended not to notice,â you murmur.
He looks at the flames too.
âI was a stupid boy,â he says simply, âand more concerned with appearances than⌠anything that actually mattered.â
You swallow.
Draco Malfoyâof all peopleâadmitting regret.
The world really must be ending.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Another rumble of thunder rolls across the roof. You tense instinctively, though not as badly this time.
Draco exhales through his nose.
âYou can come closer, you know,â he says, deliberately casual. âI wonât bite.â
You stare at him.
He gives a tiny shrug.
âMuch.â
You snort. âThatâs reassuring.â
But you do scoot a little nearerânot touching, but within the same warmth of the fire. He tries not to look pleased, but the corner of his mouth betrays him.
The darkness makes everything strangely honest.
You start speakingâawkwardly at firstâabout the last few years, about how lonely it got, how strange it feels to have people returning after so long apart. You try not to let too much emotion into your voice, but some of it leaks anyway.
Draco listens.
Really listens.
He doesnât interrupt. He doesnât accuse. He just watches you with quiet eyes, his hands clasped loosely between his knees.
When you finish⌠he rubs the back of his neck.
âIâm sorry,â he says.
Not sarcastic.
Not dramatic.
Just true.
âFor disappearing. For letting things go the way they did. I could say it wasnât my fault, but⌠that would be another excuse, and I think weâre both tired of those.â
Your chest squeezes. Youâre not sure what to say.
So you settle for a whisper:
âThank you.â
âYouâve changed,â he says, not accusingâjust⌠surprised. âYou used to hide behind everyone. Now youâre here, alone in a storm, waiting for a room full of people.â
Your cheeks warm.
âYouâve changed too.â
He gives a soft, humorless laugh.
âYes. A lot of things have stripped the arrogance out of me.â
âNot all of it,â you murmur.
He shoots you a look. âDonât push your luck.â
You grin.
He tries not toâbut he smiles back.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Lightning flickers again.
This time, you donât flinch.
Draco raises a brow, faux impressed.
âLook at that. Progress.â
You shove his shoulder lightly.
âShut up.â
His expression flickersâsurprised by the casual touchâbut he doesnât pull away.
Instead, he stretches his legs out, leaning back on his palms. The candlelight paints his profile in sharp warmthâcheekbones, jaw, the faint shadow of stubble. You notice things you never let yourself look at before.
And he notices you noticing.
He watches you with the quiet intensity of someone cataloging a memory.
The fire crackles. The wind howls. Your heart beats harder than it should.
And for the first time that nightâŚ
The darkness feels safe.
The storm feels far away, and for once you donât feel alone.
Not with him sitting beside you, half-smiling like heâs trying very hard not to ask something out loud.
Something that can wait.. Something the candlelight might pull out of both of you eventually.
But not yetâ
Not when the warmth of simply being here together is still new, still fragile, still precious.
You breathe out and let the storm rage against the world outsideâŚ
While inside, something soft, something old, and something new begins to settle between the two of you; quiet, unspoken, and bright as the flame.
The storm doesnât easeâit only gets wilder, hammering at the windows like it wants to break in and join you. But in the golden hush of candlelight, the sound becomes distant. Muted. Almost irrelevant.
Draco stretches his legs out again, looking unbotheredâlike a man who has made peace with the fact that the entire world is currently underwater and he is simply here, in your flat, absolutely dry and sipping tea you made for him.
âYou know,â he says, assessing the glow of candles and the untouched glasses around the room, âIâm beginning to think your guest list wasnât quite⌠exclusive enough.â
You snort softly.
âThatâs one way to describe being stood up.â
Draco raises a brow.
âHm. I could also call it tragic. Pathetic. Socially humiliating.â
You fling a cushion at him.
He deflects it lazily with one hand, the smirk curling across his mouth giving away that he wanted you to throw it.
âIâm joking,â he says, though the teasing lingers at the edges. âWell⌠mostly.â
You lean back into the armchair.
âI guess people had better things to do tonight.â
âYes,â Draco muses, âapparently living.â
You roll your eyes, but he continues:
âHonestly, youâre lucky I arrived alive at all. Have you looked outside? Itâs like the apocalypse out there.â
You smile despite yourself.
âAnd yet here you are.â
That quiets him. Not awkwardlyâjust enough that the air shifts. You see him swallow. His expression softens almost imperceptibly.
Then he exhales, wiping a hand down his face.
âWell,â he murmurs, âsomeone had to make sure you werenât tragic and alone.â
You stare at him, heat rushing into your chest.
Draco clears his throat too quicklyâas if he needs to move the moment along before it means too much. He lifts a brow, returning to a lighter tone.
âThough, if weâre being honest⌠inviting an entire group on Christmas Eve and not having a single family member includedââ
He stops, realizing what heâs implied.
Too late.
His eyes flick to yours. The joke is abandoned in an instant. You look down at your hands, twisting them in your lap.
You try to speak lightly, but your voice is thin.
âI donât⌠really have anyone to invite.â
The silence that follows is heavy, but not cold. Just filled with truth that doesnât know what shape to take yet.
Draco straightens slowly.
âWhat do you mean?â
You stare into a candle flame.
âI⌠wasnât raised magical. You know that. My family didnât understand any of it when I got my Hogwarts letter. They didnât approve. Then the war came. They were terrified. I didnât want them to be targets, and I didnât want them dragged into something they couldnât defend themselves against.â
Draco is very still.
Your voice drops to something small and honest.
âSo I made them forget.â
You feel him inhale sharplyâeven if he doesnât move.
âI erased myself from their memories,â you continue, blinking quickly. âThey donât know I existed. They donât remember raising me. Theyâre alive. Safe. But⌠I lost them.â
The words have weightânot melodramatic, just quietly devastating.
Dracoâs face changesânot pity, not discomfort, but something deeper. Understanding. Recognition. You realize, with a strange ache, that he knows exactly what it feels like to lose a family in a way that still leaves them breathing.
He speaks softly.
âYou did that alone?â
âYes.â
His throat tightens.
âThatâsâŚâ he begins, searching for words. âThatâs not just brave. Thatâs impossible. I donât know if I could have done the same.â
You huff a quiet laugh.
âI didnât feel brave. I felt⌠empty. And the world kept going without me.â
Draco leans forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low.
âYou sacrificed everything to protect them.â
You shrug helplessly.
âThatâs what you do for your family.â
Something in Dracoâs expression crumplesânot visibly, not entirely, but enough.
âThatâs something mine never understood,â he says softly.
You look at him.
Heâs staring into the fire, jaw setânot defensive, but pained in a way he never would have allowed years ago.
âMy parents were willing to sacrifice everyone elseâs families,â he murmurs. âBut never their own. And they taught me to think the same way.â
He pauses.
âAnd look where that got us.â
Your heartbeat stutters.
âDracoâŚâ
He meets your gazeâreally meets itâand in the quiet illumination of candlelight you see regret, remorse, and something heâs kept locked away too long.
âI spent years believing that loyalty meant superiority,â he says. âThat being a Malfoy meant being above everyone else. And then I watched that belief destroy everything we had.â
You swallow.
He doesnât drop your eyes.
âYou gave up your home,â he says. âYour family. Your place in the world. Just to keep them alive.â
A beat.
âCompared to that, I donât know if Iâve ever done anything decent in my life.â
You sit up straight, your voice firm before you think it through.
âThatâs not true.â
Draco blinks.
âYou survived,â you say. âYou lived through something that tried to define you before you were old enough to understand it.â
He swallows.
âAnd you became better than the world expected you to be.â
The compliment lands harder than you intended. Draco looks almost startledâlike no one has ever said something like that to him without sarcasm or pity.
He drops his eyes, voice low.
âYou know⌠I always wondered what you would have thought of me after the war.â
âYou didnât need to wonder.â
He looks up.
âYouâre here.â
He stares at you for a moment, something tight and fragile flickering in his expression. Then he sits back, rubbing a hand over his mouth.
âWell,â he mutters, voice roughening in an attempt at levity, âit seems weâve become sentimental in the dark.â
You smile.
âMust be the ambiance.â
âYes,â he snorts, flicking his wand at the storming window. âNothing says Christmas like widespread power failure and emotional trauma.â
You laughâreally laughâfor the first time in months.
He watches you, and the warmth in his eyes isnât candlelight.
He reaches forward and gently nudges your knee with two fingers.
âBut for what itâs worthâŚâ he says quietly, âIâm glad I came. Iâm glad itâs not a party.â
Your breath catches.
He softensânot dramatically, just in the way he looks at you.
âI think I needed this,â he admits.
And the truthâthe real truthâis that so did you.
The storm rages outside, uncaring, wild, relentless.
The storm still snarls against the windows, rattling the glass as though it refuses to be ignored. But in the soft burn of candlelight, the world inside your flat has settled into something slower, quieter, intimate.
After the heavy confessions, neither of you rush to fill the silence.
You sit together on the couch, the fire warming the room, the faint scent of spiced tea lingering between you. Draco leans back, one arm resting casually along the cushion behind youâclose enough that the heat of his presence settles against your shoulder, but not quite touching.
You pretend not to notice.
Youâre not sure if heâs pretending.
Your legs fold up beneath you as you face the flames, staring into the glow. The candles turn everything gold, softening the angles of Dracoâs face, making the shadows look less ominous, less war-like, more human.
Without meaning to, your hand shifts on the cushionâcloser to his.
You donât realize how close until you feel it:
A brush. Skin against skin. Barely there, but unmistakable.
Your breath catches.
So does his.
You freeze, ready to apologize, ready to yank your hand back and pretend like it never happenedâ
But Draco doesnât move.
His fingers stay where they are, resting against yours, the smallest point of contact that feels somehow more intimate than any kiss could ever hope to be.
You stare straight ahead, afraid that meeting his gaze might break the spell.
He shifts a fractionâone breath, one heartbeatâand his pinky nudges yours again. Accidental, perhaps. But youâve known him too long to mistake intention.
The storm screams outside, rain pelting the windows like thrown pebbles, but inside, everything goes impossibly still.
âAre you warm enough?â Draco murmurs, voice low, roughened by something unsaid.
You swallow. âYes.â
âGood.â
A pause.
Then, as if he can't help himself, he adds in a quieter tone:
âYou get cold hands.â
You blink, surprised that he remembers.
âYou noticed that?â
He lets out a soft huff of air, almost a quiet laugh.
âI notice a lot of things.â
His fingers shift again â not taking your hand, not fully moving away, just brushing, intentionally, slowly, like he wants to feel each tiny connection point.
You donât know where to put your breathing.
Or your heart.
Your fingers stay where they are â still touching his, not pulling back, not daring to move forward.
Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to:
âI thought youâd changed too much to remember things like that.â
He tilts his head, finally looking over at you. The candlelight reflects in his eyes, silver and warm, and something in your chest squeezes.
âSome memories,â he says slowly, ânever really leave.â
You meet his gaze.
Your fingers lie side by side, touching lightly on the cushion, like the world shrank down to that tiny point of warmth.
You try to speak again, but your thoughts fall apart because Draco shifts the smallest degree closerânot enough to startle you, just enough that his knee bumps yours.
It feels like a whisper.
Like a question without words.
And neither of you answers it.
Not yet.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
âSo,â you murmur, needing sound to ground yourself, âyouâve been back in London long?â
He takes a deep breath, eyes flickering to your joined handsâthough neither of you acknowledge them aloud.
âA little while,â he answers. âI wasnât sure how long Iâd stay. Didnât know if I meant to rebuild something here or start over somewhere no one knew my name.â
You nod.
âThat sounds lonely.â
He gives a faint, humorless smirk.
âIt is.â
Another quiet beat.
âBut then⌠some things make staying feel worth the discomfort.â
Your heart flips.
You look at him carefully.
âLike what?â
He takes a moment before he answersânot because he doesnât know, but because heâs deciding whether to tell you the truth.
Finally, he says:
âLike the idea that I could be more than who I used to be.â
You donât respond right away.
Your thumb movesâbarely a millimeterâjust enough that it brushes his finger a second time.
And Draco notices.
His fingers shift too, just the slightest pressure, like heâs testing a boundary neither of you has spoken aloud.
Your voice comes out softer than before:
âI think you already are.â
For the first time, Draco looks awayânot out of disdain, but because the sincerity hits him too deeply to meet head-on.
âYouâre the first person whoâs said that without an agenda.â
You blink.
âYou believe me?â
He exhales, staring at the fire.
âI want to.â
A beat.
Thenâquietly, without fanfareâhis little finger curls around yours.
Just slightly.
Not enough to be called holding hands.
But enough to feel like heâs letting himself hope for something.
The warmth of his touch travels up your arm like lightningânot the frightening kind outside, but the kind that hits your chest and stays there.
You look down at the place your hands connect, breath caught in your throat.
He still doesnât pull back.
Neither do you.
Draco turns his head again, and when he looks at you this time, thereâs no mask.
No Malfoy armor.
Just a tired, beautiful honesty that makes your ribs feel too tight.
âYou said earlier,â he murmurs, âthat the world kept going without you.â
You nod, throat tight.
He shakes his head slightly.
âThat wasnât true for everyone.â
You blink.
âWhat do you mean?â
He doesnât look away this time.
âI didnât forget you.â
Your heart trips over itself.
Heâs not dramatic about itânot poetic, not theatricalâjust painfully sincere.
You hold his eyes, aware of every point where your fingers are touching, every inch of space that still exists between the rest of your bodies, and how little that distance feels like safety anymore.
The storm roars outsideâ
âbut inside your flat, you barely hear it.
All you hear is Draco MalfoyâŚ
breathing in the same hush you are,
close enough now that if either of you leaned in by a fraction, the space between you would disappear.
The fire crackles between you, but your attention is no longer on the flames.
Dracoâs hand rests against yours, his pinky brushing yours again, lingering longer than it should. Every small, careful touch has drawn you closer togetherâcloser than youâve allowed anyone to be in years.
Your knees are nearly touching. His arm rests behind you on the back of the couch, close enough that the heat radiates against your shoulder. You can feel the subtle tension in him, the small, hesitant movements of someone testing a boundaryâand yet, not retreating.
You catch his gaze.
Itâs softer than itâs ever been. Thereâs a trace of wonder, a flicker of something almost shyâbut so earnest it makes your chest ache.
You lean slightly toward him.
And he leans toward you.
Not abruptly, not fully, just the tiniest shiftâthe imperceptible closing of the space between your lips and his. Your eyes flutter shut, heart hammering, and the room narrows down to only the two of you.
Thenâthe lights flash back on.
A burst of electric hum, the sudden whir of the old London wiring filling the room, blinding you both for a heartbeat.
You both jump back, fingers still grazing, but suddenly aware of the full room and the harsh fluorescent truth of normal lighting.
Draco groans, running a hand through his damp hair.
âSeriously?â he mutters. âThat was⌠perfect timing.â
You snort, clutching a pillow to your chest, trying to hide the flush in your cheeks.
âIâwellâI wasnât expectingâŚâ Your voice trails off awkwardly.
He glares at the ceiling for a moment, exaggeratedly dramatic.
âI was about toââ he begins, then pauses, pretending to consider your embarrassed face, âânever mind. Clearly the universe hates me tonight.â
You canât help laughing. Itâs loud, unrestrained, shaking the tension in your chest. Dracoâs smirk returns, a playful glint in his silver eyes.
âOh, you think youâre laughing at the universe,â he says, mock-threatening, âbut itâs really laughing at me.â
You throw the pillow at him. He deflects with a hand, laughing quietly.
And then, just as youâre catching your breath, he leans in quicklyâno hesitation, no teasing now. His hand snakes around the back of your neck, tilting your face toward him.
His lips find yours.
Itâs sudden and urgent and entirely unplanned, but it feels inevitable.
Your fingers tighten around his wrist. His fingers press lightly at your waist, drawing you closer to the heat of him.
The storm outside is still raging, but it no longer matters. The fire crackles, the candlelight dances across the room, and the world has shrunk to only the two of you, pressed together, breathing and moving in time for the first time in years.
When he finally pulls back for air, forehead resting against yours, his silver eyes are wide, a rare, unguarded vulnerability shining through.
âYou⌠you just ignored the lights,â you whisper, laughing softly against his chest.
He smirks, breathless.
âAnd why wouldnât I?â he murmurs. âThe storm may have stopped the world for a moment, but nothingânothingâwas going to stop this.â
You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief, and he leans in once more, tilting his head slightly, pressing his lips against yoursânot as cautiously this time, but with a certainty you never thought youâd see in Draco Malfoy.
And in that kiss, in the candlelit glow, in the stormâs fading fury, the world finally feels like it has slowed to the right pace.
Two hands intertwined, hearts beating in unison, and a moment neither of you will ever forget.
ă H.P x Hufflepuff! Reader
ă After years of pining, a yule ball spent alone, and a wall built in self protection.. the painful wait was worth it in the end.
ăSLOW BURN // strangers to enemies to friends to lovers
ă10k
ă r/q: @ashdreams2023
ătaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @marianaissocool @pottermagiczz @allielovesstars
ăa/n: dear god, i know never to apologies for a long fic but.. strap in.
Much love, Saige
[masterlist]
You should have known your friends wouldnât let you back out.
The winter sun sat low over the Hogwarts courtyard, glinting off patches of snow that hadnât melted yet. Students milled about, scarves wrapped tight, laughter steaming in the cold air. You and your little group of Hufflepuffs huddled on one of the stone benchesâclose enough to the courtyard path to see him coming, far enough away for you to pretend you were not here for this exact purpose.
âYou look fine,â Marlene insisted, brushing your sleeve for the seventh time.
âYou look more than fine,â added Tobias. âHonestly, if you donât ask him now, I will.â
You snorted. âIâm sure heâd love that.â
âHeâd love you more,â Hettie chimed, nudging you with her shoulder. âCome on. Itâs Harry Potter. Heâs nice! Mostly. Usually.â
âExcept when heâs accidentally entered into a deadly tournament,â muttered Rowan, tightening his yellow scarf.
You tried to swallow the nerves tightening in your throat. The Yule Ball announcement had sunk into your dormitory like a spellâeveryone buzzing, everyone planning, everyone pairing off. Except you. Except Harry, too, apparently.
And now⌠now your friends had decided today was the day.
You didnât even want to look, but your eyes moved on instinct. And there he wasâHarry Potterâhair already a mess from the wind, hands shoved into his robes, Ron beside him rambling about something Harry wasnât listening to. His eyes drifted over the courtyard as though searching for a moment of peace.
Your friends exchanged the kind of look that meant you were being shoved onto a battlefield.
âStop narrating me,â you hissedâbut you stood anyway, your stomach dropping straight through your shoes. Your hands were shaking inside your pockets. You felt ridiculous. You felt brave. You felt like you might faint.
Harry and Ron were nearly passing when you stepped into their path.
âUmâHarry?â you managed, voice wobbling despite every pep talk youâd absorbed.
He blinked, surprised. âOhâhi.â
Ron gave you a quick smile before catching sight of something on the other side of the courtyard and muttering, âIâll⌠meet you inside,â before wandering off.
Which left you and Harry.
And suddenly you forgot every rehearsed line your friends had drilled into you.
âIâI just wanted to askâumâI mean, if you werenât going with anyone yet, I thought maybeâwell, would youâŚâ
You did not get to finish.
Harryâs eyes widened in pure panic, like a startled deer. âOhâIâmâsorryâI canâtâI meanânoâsorry!â
He said it fastâfar too fastâhands up like he needed to defend himself from your question. His voice cracked on the âno,â and before you could even breathe, he stepped around you, practically speed-walking toward the entrance like the castle was about to burn down.
You froze.
You didnât even get a full sentence out.
Behind you, your friends watched with a mixture of horror and sympathy.
Hettie covered her face. âOh my god. He didnât even⌠let you finish.â
Marlene winced so sharply it looked painful. âThat was⌠wow. That was rough.â
Tobias hissed through his teeth. âOkay, so confidence didnât help. Confidence betrayed us.â
You stood there in the cold, heart crumpling faster than you could hide it. You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out thin and hollow.
âItâs fine,â you said weakly. âItâs fine, I didnât actually expectââ
But you had expected something.
Not a yes. You werenât delusional.
Just⌠a moment. A chance to actually ask. A chance to not feel like a complete idiot.
Your friends surrounded you in a makeshift shield wall, ushering you away from the center of the courtyard. But the moment had carved itself into your chest, sharp and humiliating.
Across the courtyard, Harry disappeared inside the castle like he couldnât get away fast enough.
And you were left staring at the snow, trying not to feel like youâd shattered on the spot.
The worst part?
His panic hadnât looked cruel.
It had looked like something else.
And you werenât sure if that made it better⌠or so much worse.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You did not sleep well.
You told your friends you were fineâso many times that Hettie nearly hexed youâbut lying awake and replaying Harry Potterâs panicked retreat left a dull ache behind your sternum. By breakfast, youâd convinced yourself you were overreacting. He didnât mean to humiliate you. He was stressed, you were nervous⌠it was an unlucky moment. Thatâs all.
Still, walking into the Great Hall felt like willingly stepping into a spotlight.
You kept your head down, sliding into the Hufflepuff table beside Rowan, who offered you a supportive nudge under the table. Your friends didnât mention the courtyard, and you were grateful for that, even if every one of them watched you with soft-eyed caution.
You reached for toast.
You pretended you didnât see him.
But you did.
You felt Harryâs stare before you looked upâone of those prickling, uncomfortable sensations like sunlight on the back of your neck. Across the hall, at the Gryffindor table, he sat between Ron and Hermione, shoulders hunched, eyes drifting over students as though looking for somethingâor someone.
You refused to be that someone.
When your eyes finally flicked up, he was already watching you. The instant your gazes met, Harry snapped his eyes down to his porridge like heâd been caught doing something wrong.
Hermione said something to him. He mumbled. She frowned at him.
You tried not to care.
But you cared.
You spread marmalade onto your toast with the energy of someone sawing wood. Tobias leaned in.
âYouâre murdering that breakfast.â
âI like marmalade,â you lied.
âYou hate marmalade.â
âWell, maybe Iâve changed as a person.â
âRight. Because nothing says character development like violently ruining a piece of bread.â
You sighed and set the toast down. âCan we not do this right now?â
Tobias softened. âSorry.â
You werenât actually angry with your friends. You were angry with yourselfâfor caring, for hoping, for letting one awkward fifteen-second interaction turn you inside out.
Across the hall, Harry kept sneaking glances.
You didnât meet any of them.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Harry Potter was having the worst morning of his life.
He couldnât focus on Ronâs complaining, on Hermione nagging him about homework, or on the fact that a school decorated with frost and floating wreaths was supposed to feel festiveânot suffocating.
He couldnât think about anything except the moment in the courtyard yesterday.
He hadnât meant to react like that. He hadnât meant to panic. He just⌠heard a girlâs voice saying his name and asking about the ball, and suddenly every awful headline and rumor about him echoed through his skull. Heâd blurted out âNo!â without thinking, nearly tripped over his own feet, and then fled like an idiot.
Now you were sitting across the Hall looking like you wished the floor would swallow you.
Ron nudged him. âMate. You look like youâre watching your own funeral.â
Harry blinked. âWhat? Iâm notâIâm justânothing.â
Hermione peered over his shoulder and followed the direction of his eyes.
âOh,â she said quietly. âHarry.â
Harry hunched. âDonât.â
âYou could apologize,â she whispered. âYou didnât give her a chance to finish.â
âI know,â he muttered, ears heating. âI panicked.â
âYou panic a lot lately.â
âYeah, thanks,â he said miserably.
Hermioneâs voice gentled. âJust talk to her.â
But he couldnât bring himself to stand up. Not when you were surrounded by your friends, not when he didnât know what words would even come out. What if he made it worse? What if you hated him?
What if you didnât want anything to do with him at all?
He poked his porridge.
Across the hall, you laughed at something Hettie saidâa short, strained soundâand it made his stomach twist with guilt.
Heâd hurt you.
And he didnât even know how to begin fixing it.
You did not talk to Harry Potter that day.
In fact, you spent most of it dodging him without meaning to â ducking into classrooms just before he arrived, moving through corridors full of people, slipping out of lunch early to avoid overlapping with Gryffindorâs schedule.
It felt cowardly.
It also felt necessary.
Because the memory kept replaying: your hopeful voice, and his startled âNOâsorryâNOââ
He hadnât meant to be cruel. You knew that. But knowing didnât erase the sting.
You werenât planning to cry over it, though. You would bounce back. You wanted to, absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent forget about this in a few days.
Probably.
Hopefully.
You told yourself that again on your way back to the common roomâuntil you rounded a corner and almost walked straight into him.
Harry Potter.
Standing alone.
Looking like heâd rehearsed something in his head and forgotten every word the second he saw you.
You froze.
He froze.
Your breath hitched.
His did too.
It wasnât the moment either of you expected.
And it was definitely not the moment either of you were ready for.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The common room feels different lately.
Not in any physical way â the same warm lighting, the same fluttering Hufflepuff banners, the same cosy beds draped in quilted blankets your grandmother would have adored. But the air had changed. It buzzed with excitement you couldnât grab hold of, with laughter and whispered plans that wrapped around your friends like ribbons.
Around everyone except you.
Leane sat on her bed, legs kicked up in the air as she wrote in neat curls on a parchment â confirming plans with a seventh-year boy from Herbology whoâd asked her so sweetly sheâd nearly fallen over. Hettie was rummaging through her wardrobe looking for a dress that âmatched her eyes but made her look older,â humming happily between her options. Rowan lay on her stomach with her chin in her hands, reading a letter from her date, someone from Beauxbatons whoâd sent a small enchanted hairpin shaped like a lily. Tobias was sprawled out across the floor like a starfish, kicking at your trunk absentmindedly while debating whether to shave for his date or âmaintain the charm of teenage chaos.â
They were all glowing.
You were dimming.
And no matter how desperately you tried not to, you felt like the only candle in a room full of lanterns.
âHey,â Leane chirped, glancing over at you with a hopeful look. âStill nothing?â
You forced a smile. âStill nothing.â
âYou donât⌠have to wait for someone specific, you know,â Hettie said gently. âYou could ask someone else.â
You shrugged. âItâs fine. Iâll just⌠go with all of you.â
This was met with a chorus of awkward âohâs and half-hearted protests. They meant well. You loved them. But being the extra puzzle piece that didnât fit stung more than you wanted to admit.
When the chatter picked up again, you quietly slipped off your bed, grabbed your stack of muggle books from your nightstand, and sank into the windowsill â your usual perch. The glass was cold against your back. The castle grounds glimmered with frost and lanterns. In another life, this view might have felt romantic.
You opened the top book.
A knightâs quest. One of those stories your mum gave you when you were younger; brave heroes, impossible odds, and love that always arrived right on time. You flipped through pages worn soft from years of rereading.
The knight always showed up.
The heroine always got her grand moment.
The ending always felt worth the wait.
Your story⌠wasnât like that.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
Below you, your friends laughed, Rowan shrieking because Tobias had levitated her hair around her head like floating snakes. It was warm, comforting, familiar noise.
But it wasnât enough to drown out the ache.
You closed the book on your thumb and stared at the illustration of the knight on the page, shining armor, sword raised, gaze fixed on a girl he would always choose.
âLucky,â you whispered to the paper.
Because your knight didnât come.
Not yesterday in the courtyard.
Not today at breakfast.
Not tonight, or tomorrow.
All you had was the faint sting of humiliation, the ghost of Harryâs startled âNo,â and the knowledge that he was probably going to the ball with someone lovely â someone brave, someone who didnât freeze up or stumble over her words in a courtyard.
You pressed your forehead to your knees and tried to pretend you werenât disappointed.
You werenât entitled to his yes.
But Merlin, you were allowed to miss the possibility.
The lights dimmed slightly, curfew charms ticking over, and your friends finally began winding down. Dresses were draped over chairs. Schedules compared. Tobias asked if anyone had a spare comb because his hair was apparently âplanning to mutiny.â
Someone asked if you were excited.
You smiled.
And lied.
Later, when everyone slept and the only sound was soft breathing and the gentle flutter of the curtains, you opened the book again.
You read about the knight who stayed through storms and darkness, who never ran, never flinched, never bolted at the first sign of fear.
You tried not to think about a boy who had.
You tried not to think about the way your stomach twisted when you caught Harry staring earlier.
You tried not to imagine that maybe â just maybe â he felt weird about the ball too.
The page blurred.
You blinked hard.
And for the first time since the courtyard, you let yourself feel it.
The disappointment.
Â
You were not going to the Yule Ball with Harry Potter. You were not going with anyone at all.
And that was fine.
It had to be.
You curled tighter into the windowsill, clutching the book to your chest like the stories inside could shield you from your own feelings.
Outside, snow fell lightly across the grounds.
Inside, you fell quietly apart where no one could see.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The Great Hall had transformed.
Youâd heard people say that so many times you expected it to feel repetitive, but stepping inside felt like walking straight into another world. Frosted garlands spiraled down marble pillars, evergreens glittered with glowing icicles, and the ceiling swirled with soft snowfall that never touched the ground. Warm candlelight shimmered off polished silver and the glassy ice sculptures that lined the walls.
It was beautiful.
You wished you didnât feel so out of place in it.
Your friends sparkled â Rowanâs Beauxbatons-style dress flowed like stardust, Hettie glowed in icy blue silk, Tobias looked almost respectable in his robes (minus the chaos hair), and Leane couldnât stop giggling with her date, who kept whispering something that made her blush crimson.
You trailed behind them like a satellite orbiting brighter stars.
âCome on,â Rowan whispered, looping her arm with yours as you stepped into the crowd. âThird wheel or not, weâre dancing first, alright?â
You nodded gratefully. You wouldâve clung to her arm all night if she let you.
Until she didnât.
Because two minutes later, her date whisked her away for a private slow dance âjust while the floor wasnât crowded,â and Hettieâs date pulled her toward the refreshment table, and Tobias practically tripped over himself racing to greet his.
And you were left standing alone.
The music swelled. Students twirled. Laughter lifted like bubbles over the hum of conversations. You tried to look fascinated by the ice reindeer centerpiece so you wouldnât look pathetic.
It was going to be a long night.
You took a deep breath, smoothing the edges of your dress â secondhand, altered, but pretty. You werenât expecting to catch anyoneâs attention.
Which was why it was so startling when you did.
Harry Potter was staring at you.
Across the dance floor. Past Parvati Patil, who looked stunning in pink robes and was doing her best not to look irritated. Past Ron, who was sulking like a thundercloud. Past Hermione and Krum sweeping gracefully across the floor.
Harryâs gaze kept flicking toward you.
You quickly looked away, pretending to admire an enchanted snowflake sculpture.
But a heartbeat later, curiosity tugged, and you looked backâ
Harry looked away so fast he nearly snapped his own neck.
Your stomach did a stupid, foolish flip.
Great. Exactly what you needed.
Meanwhile, the Boy Who Lived was living through the worst formal event ever.
Harry was miserable.
Heâd expected the Yule Ball to feel cool, maybe even fun. Instead, he felt like he was suffocating. Sweat prickled under his collar. Parvati wasnât speaking to him unless absolutely necessary. Ron looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. And Hermione⌠Hermione was dancing with Viktor Krum.
Harry didnât even know where to put his eyes.
Well.
Except when they drifted to you.
He tried not to stare, but you looked⌠different tonight. Not flashy. Not trying too hard. Just, soft. Pretty, in a quiet way. The candlelight made your hair glow, and your dress shimmered like honey, andâ
Parvati snapped her fingers in front of his face.
âYouâre doing it again,â she huffed.
âDoing what?â Harry asked, ears burning.
âLooking everywhere except at me.â
âSorry,â he muttered.
She crossed her arms. âIf you wanted to stare at some Hufflepuff all night, you shouldâve taken her.â
Harry choked. âIâwhatâno! Itâs notââ
But Parvati had already turned away.
He really was the worst dance partner on earth.
Back on your side of the room, you drifted toward the punch bowl; primarily so you had somewhere to stand. The cool glass of the ladle felt grounding in your hand as you poured yourself a cup.
A few feet away, you overheard a whisper.
âWhy didnât she get a date?â
âI thought she liked Potter.â
âHe said no, didnât he?â
You stiffened.
Teenagers could be cruel without even realizing.
You reached for a sugared biscuit to busy your hands, crushing the delicate cookie the moment you heard someone say:
âSheâs sweet, though. Shame.â
Shame.
Like you were a tragedy instead of a girl in a dress trying to enjoy her night.
You set the ruined biscuit down and backed away, cheeks burning.
Snowflakes drifted from the bewitched ceiling, disappearing before they hit your hair. You watched them dissolve, wishing your embarrassment would do the same.
âY/N?â
You froze.
Harry stood a few steps away, hands stuffed awkwardly in his dress robes, hair sticking up more than usual, cheeks flushed.
Your heart thudded.
You hadnât spoken in days. Heâd tried to approach you once or twice, but youâd slipped away each time, too tangled up in your own feelings to unravel them enough for conversation.
He didnât smile. He didnât frown. He just looked⌠nervous.
âHi,â you said, because someone had to.
âHi.â His voice cracked slightly. âUm. You lookââ He swallowed. âNice.â
You blinked. âThank you.â
A pause.
A horrible, stretching, silent pause.
Harry shifted from one foot to the other. âAre you⌠having a good time?â
You looked around at your friends dancing with their dates, at the beautiful decorations, at the couples laughing.
âYeah,â you lied. âItâs fine.â
He nodded too quickly, like he didnât believe you but didnât know what else to say.
You were both saved when Parvati reappeared, grabbing Harryâs arm with a sugary-sweet smile that did a poor job hiding her irritation.
âHarry,â she said pointedly. âAre you coming back to the table?â
He flinched. âYeah. Right. Sorry.â
She cast a tight smile your way. âEnjoy your evening.â
You smiled back because you were polite. Harry opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something more, but Parvati tugged him away.
You exhaled, chest tight.
You didnât blame her. Youâd be annoyed too if your date spent the night glancing at someone else.
But Merlin, it stung.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The night got lonelier from there
Your friends were busy. The music changed from waltzes to loud, thumping Weird Sisters songs. People jumped and shouted lyrics and spun around. You joined your friends when they dragged you into the circle, dancing like you meant it, laughing too loudly, pretending it didnât hurt.
But every time you glimpsed Harry in the crowd â miserable, awkward, trying not to step on Parvatiâs robes â you felt the bruise of something you didnât have a name for.
You shouldnât care.
You didnât even know him well.
And yet.
When the song slowed again and couples paired off, you slipped back toward the wall, breathless and warm and slightly light-headed.
You leaned against a pillar, letting the cool stone soak through your dress.
Someone stood beside you.
You didnât need to look to know who.
Harry.
Neither of you spoke.
He stared at the dance floor. You stared at your shoes.
After a moment, Harry said softly, âI didnât⌠mean to say no like that.â
Your throat tightened.
âI know,â you said.
He nodded, but he didnât leave.
The music floated.
Teenagers swayed.
And Harry Potter stood next to you like he wanted to say a dozen things but didnât know how to start.
You felt it again â the bruise.
You didnât move away.
He didnât either.
You both stood there, painfully close, painfully awkward, painfully young.
No grand confession. No dance. No fairytale moment.
Just two people whoâd made a mess of things standing under falling snow that never touched the ground.
And for one tiny, impossible second, you let yourself imagine an alternate world where things had gone differently.
Where heâd said yes.
Where you werenât the girl watching everyone else live their stories from the sidelines.
The song ended.
Harry shifted, like he might turn toward you.
But then Parvati called his name again.
He flinched.
You stepped back automatically.
And just like that, the moment dissolved; quiet and fragile as the snowflakes.
Harry gave you one last unsure look before walking away.
You watched him go.
You didnât know whether you wanted to laugh or cry.
Tonight, you didnât get a knight.
But you got a moment.
And though it wasnât enough, though it wasnât what you wanted or deservedâŚ
It was something.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Over the summer, something in you calcified.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just⌠slowly. Like frost creeping across a windowpane.
You didnât even notice it happening at first. You just knew that the more you thought about the Yule Ball â the glances across the room, the almost-moments, the way Harry Potter couldnât seem to make up his mind about wanting anything from you, the more foolish you felt.
So you stopped thinking about him.
Or tried to.
Trying turned into habit. Habit turned into armor.
When you returned to Hogwarts for your fifth year, people noticed before you did. Hettie told you your voice had sharpened. Tobias said you moved like someone expecting a fight. Leane accused you (fondly) of running low on your usual syrupy optimism.
âYouâre different,â Rowan said one night in the common room. âNot bad different. Just⌠more guarded.â
You shrugged. âI grew up.â
But the truth was simpler and uglier.
You were tired of wanting things you never got.
Harry Potter noticed too.
Not that you gave him the chance to say anything about it.
You sat on opposite ends of classrooms now. You didnât go out of your way to greet him in the corridors. When your eyes did meet accidentally, in passing â you looked away as if it cost you nothing.
It cost you everything.
Harry looked like he wanted to say something each time you brushed past him. Sometimes heâd take half a step in your direction before stopping, jaw tightening. Sometimes heâd frown like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didnât have the pieces for.
But he never called your name.
Not once.
You werenât sure if that made it easier or harder.
Fifth year was chaos anyway.
Umbridgeâs presence was a suffocating fog across the school. Pink and lace and fake smiles, all wrapped around punishments that made your stomach twist. The whispers about Harry grew louder, harsher. Everyone seemed to be choosing sides, or at least pretending to.
You wanted to stay neutral. Neutral was safe. Neutral meant uninterested, unaffected.
But you werenât unaffected.
Not when Harry was getting punished nightly.
Not when he came out of detention pale and silent, fingers pressed to his hand.
Not when he kept his chin lifted even when it hurt him.
You saw it. You noticed it. You cared.
You just didnât do anything about it.
Your walls were too high and too thick, and every time you thought about walking over to him in the corridors â just to ask if he was alright, you remembered the courtyard from fourth year. The panic. The running away. The way he couldnât even look at you properly at the ball.
You pressed your lips together and looked straight ahead.
Better this way.
Easier.
Then Harry found new people to fill the gap.
It was the DA that finally did it. Splintered something in you that you hadnât intended to crack.
Harry didnât invite you.
He didnât even look at you when the rumors started.
Your friends joined, of course. Hettie came back breathless with excitement, whispering about spells and secret rooms. Rowan said it felt like being on the brink of a rebellion. Tobias claimed Harry was turning into a proper leader.
Leane practically glowed. âYou should come,â she said, tugging your arm. âItâs⌠itâs amazing. Heâs amazing.â
You forced a laugh. âIâm glad itâs going well.â
âYou donât understand,â she insisted. âHeâs changed. You should see him.â
You didnât want to.
Youâd already memorized too many versions of him.
But you did see him. More often than you meant to.
Hurrying down corridors with purpose. Huddled with Ron and Hermione, whispering fiercely. Rubbing the back of his hand when he thought no one noticed. Ducking into the Room of Requirement with a look on his face you couldnât decipher.
And every time your paths crossed, his eyes flicked toward you.
Just for a moment.
Enough to sting.
You acted like you didnât see it.
Eventually, he stopped trying.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
One night, the common room felt too small.
Too tight. Too bright. Too full of laughter that felt brittle and wrong. You slipped out into the corridor, pulling your cloak tighter around you.
You didnât expect anyone to be wandering the castle at this hour.
You especially didnât expect to see him.
Harry rounded the corner from the staircase, looking exhausted â hair messier than usual, robes rumpled, the faintest smear of ink across his knuckles. He flinched when he saw you like heâd been caught doing something secret.
You froze.
He froze.
For a moment, you stared at each other across a few feet of cold stone floor.
âY/N,â he said quietly, like a name he wasnât sure he was allowed to speak.
Your throat went dry. You lifted your chin.
âHarry.â
Something flickered in his expression â a brief hurt, then confusion, then something like determination. He stepped closer.
Not enough to crowd you.
Just enough to be heard.
âAre you⌠okay?â he asked.
It was laughable, really. Harry Potter, who was drowning in the weight of the world, asking if you were alright.
You swallowed. âIâm fine.â
He nodded slowly. âYou donât seem fine.â
You stiffened. âWell, we canât all be off saving the world, can we?â
The words were sharper than you intended. They hung in the air, cold and brittle.
Harry blinked. âIs that what you think Iâm doing?â
âI donât know what youâre doing,â you said. âYou donât tell me anything.â
The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them.
Harryâs eyebrows drew together. âY/N⌠you havenât talked to me either.â
You looked away.
He hesitated, then stepped even closer â close enough that you could see the tiny nicks on his knuckles, the tired purple under his eyes.
âI miss talking to you,â he said softly.
Your heart thudded painfully.
You forced your voice steady. âYouâve had plenty to keep you busy.â
âThatâs notââ He stopped. Exhaled shakily. âItâs not that I didnât want to talk to you.â
âCouldâve fooled me. Wouldâve joined your little club if you asked- â
He looked at you like youâd just slammed a door he didnât realize heâd been trying to open.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, your walls slamming back into place.
âIt doesnât matter,â you whispered.
Harry opened his mouth, but footsteps echoed at the far end of the corridor â Filch or a prefect or someone worse.
You stepped back before he could say anything else.
âI should go,â you said quickly.
âY/Nââ
âGoodnight..â
You didnât look back.
You didnât see the way he stood there long after you disappeared, fingers curled at his side, jaw tight with something he couldnât name.
You didnât see how alone he looked.
But you felt it.
Somewhere deep beneath your armor, you felt it.
Which meant your walls werenât as impenetrable as you hoped.
Not when it came to him.
Never when it came to him.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You never expected righteousness to feel like this â tight and cold and heavy, like a stone pressing down on your ribs.
Hogwarts is buzzing in the wake of the explosion that was Dumbledoreâs Army being discovered. The atmosphere feels scorched. Hallways that once hummed with secretive excitement now feel charred, brittle around the edges, the way parchment looks after an improperly controlled flame spell.
You walk those hallways almost untouched.
Almost.
Your friends whisper about it constantly, their voices cracking between awe and fear and a kind of exhilaration you donât share. They huddle together during breaks, recounting the punishments that were handed out, weeks of detentions, brutal hours with Umbridge, the risk of being expelled.
You stand with them, but you are not of them.
You werenât part of the DA. You never even knew it existed until it was too late.
And the strangest part, the part that keeps you up at night, is that no one ever asked you.
Not Harry.
Not anyone.
You tell yourself it doesnât matter. You tell yourself it was safer this way. You didnât break rules, you didnât put yourself in danger, you didnât offer up your future for Umbridge to shred.
But late at night, when the castle is quiet and the guilt crawls up your spine, you find yourself wondering:
Was it because no one thought you could help? Or because no one thought of you at all?
Youâre walking back from dinner alone, trailing your fingers along the stone banister as the conversations around you twist and swirl like smoke.
âDid you hear what Umbridge made Johnson doâ"
âI canât believe Potterâ"
âI knew Dumbledore was up toâ"
You tighten your grip on your bag. Every mention of Potter hits like an echo, reminding you that he is somewhere in this same castle, probably bruised and exhausted and worn down by punishments youâll never experience. He is drowning in the consequences of battles you were never invited to fight.
And somehow, that makes you feel both resentful and ashamed.
A group of first-years scurries past you, whispering loudly about âthe rebellion.â One of them looks at you, recognition flashing.
âAre you one of Potterâs friends? The ones he trained?â
Thereâs something hopeful in their voice.
You shake your head quickly. âNo. I wasnât part of it.â
Their interest evaporates instantly. They hurry on.
You swallow hard.
In the Hufflepuff common room, things are worse. Chaos, drama, excitementâŚeveryone has something to say. Your friends rush you the moment you step through the barrel entrance.
âY/N! Did you hear? Hannahâs in detention for the next monthâ"
âAnd Ernie got caught trying to defendâ"
âAnd Harryâ"
Harry.
His name hangs like a lantern, flickering with everything unspoken.
You manage a small, tight smile. âYeah. I heard.â
One of your friends Maisie nudges you. âYouâre lucky, you know. If youâd been there, Umbridge would've skinned you alive.â
Lucky.
That word tastes wrong.
Because somewhere deep inside, a lonely part of you whispers:
I wish I had been asked.
The others move on quickly, their excitement sparking between them like static as they list every dramatic detail theyâve managed to collect. They show off rumors like trophies.
You sit on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped, feeling like youâre watching them through a pane of glass.
âYou okay?â Maisie asks softly when the others turn away again.
You nod. A lie. A safe lie.
Because how do you explain the hollowness inside you? How do you explain that you feel like youâve failed some invisible test no one told you about?
Later that night, you slip out of the common room, unable to breathe under the weight of everyone elseâs stories.
The corridor outside is dim, quiet, the torches low. You lean back against the cold stone wall and close your eyes.
The loneliness feels⌠victorious.
You werenât caught.
You werenât punished.
You werenât betrayed by someone in the group.
You were safe.
Except you also werenât chosen. You werenât trusted. You werenât part of something bigger.
Youâre halfway to convincing yourself that this is what you want â safety, solitude, simplicity â when footsteps echo down the hall.
You open your eyes just as Harry turns the corner.
He looks rougher than youâve ever seen him. His tie is crooked, his hair even more of a mess than usual, dark circles smudging under his eyes like bruises.
And for the first time all year, your eyes meet.
His steps falter.
Your breath catches.
Heâs alone, no Ron, no Hermione, no DA members whispering encouragement or guilt or anger. Just Harry. Just you.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you is thick with something that feels old and unfinished.
You are the one who breaks the silence.
âAre you⌠okay?â
It slips out quietly, almost involuntarily. His eyes widen, like he wasnât expecting anyone to ask â least of all you.
He swallows.
âNo.â
The honesty hits you. Startling. Raw.
You bite your lip, unsure what to say, what right you have to say anything when you werenât there, when you werenât part of any of this.
He shifts, glancing down the hall, then back at you.
âYou didnât⌠you werenât in the group,â he says, voice low.
Your stomach twists. âNo.â
He nods once, like he already knew, but needed to hear it from you anyway.
âYouâre lucky,â Harry says.
And for some reason, the words make your chest ache.
You force a small, brittle smile. âThatâs what everyone keeps saying.â
Harry looks at you longer this time, his eyes searching your face â really looking, for maybe the first time since last year. Something flickers in his expression. Regret? Curiosity? Maybe just exhaustion.
âYou didnât miss much,â he mutters.
You want to believe him.
You want to feel comforted.
You want to erase the hollow place inside you that whispers you were left behind.
But instead, you hug your arms around yourself.
âI donât know,â you say softly. âSometimes it feels like I did.â
Harry stares.
The silence stretches â charged, fragile, important.
Then suddenly footsteps echo from around the corner. Harry tenses like a hunted animal.
âI should go,â he says quickly.
You nod.
He hesitates. Just for a second. Like thereâs something else he wants to say. Something he canât quite bring himself to give voice to.
Then heâs gone.
You stand there long after the hallway is empty again, listening to the faint fading of his steps, wondering why your chest feels warmer and emptier all at once.
You turn back toward the Hufflepuff common room, arms tightening around yourself.
Your loneliness saved you.
But it also cost you something you donât know the name of.
And for the first time, you thinkâ
Maybe youâre tired of being safe.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
There is a strange, honey-gold light in the halls the day Umbridge leaves Hogwarts.
You feel it before you understand it â this odd, weightless sensation, like your lungs finally expand all the way for the first time in months. The castle seems to exhale around you. Even the portraits look livelier, trading gossip in bright, excited bursts.
When the news spreads, it moves like fire:
Sheâs gone. Sheâs really gone. The toad is out.
Someone swears they saw Filch crying. Someone else swears they saw Peeves saluting McGonagall. Someone DEFINITELY heard a rumor about centaurs carrying Umbridgeâs handbag in their teeth.
You donât know whatâs true. But you know whatâs real:
The war in your chest has quieted.
Your friends cling to each other in the Hufflepuff common room, laughing, crying, releasing months of tension in one roaring crescendo. Even you â so careful this year, so reserved â find yourself smiling. Really smiling. It feels strange, like using a muscle youâd forgotten about.
Hannah grabs your arm and yanks you into a hug. âWe survived!â she laughs into your shoulder. âMerlinâs beard, we actually survived her!â
You laugh too. âBarely.â
A cheer erupts around the room as some older students start conjuring harmless showers of yellow sparks. The atmosphere is buoyant, effervescent â fragile in its joy, and all the more precious for it.
But itâs loud. Too loud.
You slip away quietly, slipping out of the barrel entrance and into the corridor, where the noise softens into something more bearable.
You wander.
For once, wandering doesnât feel dangerous. It feels like reclaiming something she took.
You end up in the courtyard without meaning to. The spring air is cool but comforting, and for a moment you simply stand there, listening to the distant hum of celebration from windows all around.
This courtyard, where last year, everything went wrong.
You almost expect to feel a twinge of pain or humiliation. But instead you feel⌠older. Like the memory belongs to someone you recognize but no longer fully are.
You walk to the fountain and sit on the edge, fingertips brushing the cool stone.
The quiet is warm. Healing.
âY/N?â
Your heart tugs at your ribs.
You turn just in time to see Harry crossing the courtyard.
He looks lighter than he has all year â not carefree, not untouched, but less burdened, like some invisible chain has finally snapped. His hair is messy in the way it always is, but he isnât tense for once. His shoulders arenât hunched. His eyes arenât darting around for threats.
He looks your age. For the first time in months.
He approaches cautiously, like heâs not sure whether heâs allowed to interrupt you.
âHey,â he says.
âHi.â
He shoves his hands awkwardly in his pockets, glancing down at the grass before his gaze lifts to meet yours again. Something soft passes between you â a shared understanding, built from different kinds of loneliness carried through the same dark year.
âEveryoneâs going mad in the common rooms,â Harry says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. âItâs louder than the Quidditch celebrations.â
You huff a laugh. âYeah, Hufflepuffâs a bit⌠chaotic right now.â
âI figured.â He rocks back on his heels. âYou, um⌠wanted some quiet?â
âThat obvious?â
His smile deepens just a little. âYeah.â
Thereâs no mockery in it. No teasing. Just recognition.
A breeze rustles through the courtyard, brushing warm sunlight across both of your faces. Harry hesitates, then sits beside you on the edge of the fountain â not too close, not far. Just⌠beside you.
You feel the warmth of him like a candle at your side.
For a moment neither of you speaks, and it isnât awkward. Itâs peaceful. Strange. New.
âYou didnât get in trouble,â he says finally. âThis year, I mean.â
âNo,â you say. âI didnât.â
He nods, eyes on the water. âI kept thinking about that.â
Your breath stutters.
He continues, voice low: âIâm glad you didnât get dragged into all of it. Honestly. ButâŚâ
âBut?â you whisper.
âBut I noticed.â
Your heart lurches.
You stare at him, and he keeps looking at the rippling fountain, like the truth is easier to speak to the reflection than to your face.
âI kept thinking⌠I donât know.â He shrugs stiffly. âThat maybe you were staying away because of me.â
âThatâs notâ HarryâŚâ You swallow. âI wasnât avoiding you.â
He finally looks at you.
His eyes, green and so startling in the sunlight search yours, trying to read the truth from your silence.
âI thought you hated me,â he says softly. âAfter last year.â
You feel the courtyard tilt for a moment.
You inhale.
âNo,â you say. And itâs the clearest thing youâve said all year. âI never hated you.â
Harry blinks. Once. Twice.
Then something vulnerable flickers across his face, unguarded for just a heartbeat.
âIâm sorry,â he says. The words are rough, uneven, like theyâve been scraping against him for months. âFor how I acted. Last year. In the courtyard. I was⌠scared, and stressed, and I handled it horribly.â
Your throat tightens.
You want to say the words donât matter, that it was silly teenage awkwardness, that it never hurt as much as it did, but they would be lies.
So instead, you say:
âThank you.â
Harry exhales, shoulders lowering just a bit.
The sun dips lower. The courtyard glows. Students laugh from nearby windows as the world slowly rights itself.
And somehow â after a year of distance, of silence, of cold hallways and missed glances â you and Harry sit together as though nothing is broken.
Or maybe more honestly:
As though something broken is finally beginning to mend.
He nudges your shoulder gently with his own. Itâs awkward, an attempt at casual that lands somewhere tender instead.
âYou want to⌠walk for a bit?â he asks.
Your heart stutters.
Slow burn, you remind yourself.
But you nod.
And as the two of you walk slowly around the courtyard â side by side but not touching â you feel something quiet blossom in your chest:
The first warmth of a second chance.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The summer passes differently this year.
Not easier, nothing feels easy after the threat of Umbridge. But quieter. Thicker. Heavier in some places, strangely hopeful in others.
You keep busy.
You throw yourself into chores, into books, into anything that keeps your mind occupied. But despite your best efforts, your thoughts keep circling back to Harry â back to the courtyard, to the way heâd looked at you when he apologized, to the strange softness in his voice when he said he noticed your absence.
You tell yourself it was nothing.
You tell yourself it was closure.
You tell yourself that the warm flutter you felt meant absolutely nothing.
And yetâŚ
Some nights, when youâre lying awake with a book pressed to your chest and the summer air warm through your curtains, you find your thoughts drifting stubbornly toward him.
What heâs doing.
If heâs thinking about his friends.
If heâs thinking about you.
You try not to hope for too much.
Meanwhile, in a far gloomier house on Grimmauld Placeâ
Harry is spiraling. Quietly. Pathetically. Teenage-boy-ishly.
He sits at the kitchen table, chin in his hand, staring at a mug of tea like it personally offended him.
âYouâre doing it again,â Hermione says, sliding into the seat across from him. Her tone is gentle. Suspicious. Deadly accurate.
âIâm not doing anything,â Harry mutters, stabbing the tea bag with a spoon.
Ron plops down beside him and steals a biscuit. âMate, youâre brooding so hard the wallpaperâs peeling.â
Harry scowls. âIâm thinking.â
Hermione raises an eyebrow. âAbout a particular someone?â
Ron perks up. âOoooh. That face. Thatâs the âIâm thinking about Y/Nâ face.â
âIt is notââ Harry nearly chokes on his tea. âI donâtâ I wasnâtâ sheâs justââ
âA girl youâve been thinking about nonstop for three weeks,â Hermione finishes, flipping open a book without needing to look at him.
Harry flushes scarlet.
Ron smirks. âCanât blame you. Sheâs nice. Cooler than most of the Hufflepuffs.â
âRon!â
âWhat? She is!â
Harry groans and drops his head onto the table with a soft thud. âI just said sorry to her. Thatâs all. We talked. It was â nice. But itâs notâ nothingâsâ Iâm notââ
Hermione hums. âYouâre doing that thing where you string words together because you donât want to admit something.â
âIâm notâ!â
She lifts her eyes over the rim of her book. âHarry. You smile when someone mentions her.â
Ron adds: âAnd you stare at the window after owls fly by like youâre expecting post.â
Harry goes silent.
Because⌠okay.
He had been staring at the window a lot.
It wasnât weird. Lots of people stare out windows. ALL THE TIME. COMPLETELY NORMAL.
Hermione softens. âYou like her.â
Harryâs ears burn. âI donâtâ I mean, I justââ
Ron interrupts, matter-of-fact: âHe does.â
Harry slumps back in his chair, defeated.
âFine,â he mumbles. âMaybe. A little.â
âMore than a little,â Ron says around another biscuit.
Harry buries his face in his hands, wishing the floor would swallow him.
Because he has been thinking about you.
Far more than he should.
Far more than makes sense.
He thinks about the way you looked surprised when he apologized, like you didnât expect kindness from him anymore.
He thinks about the careful warmth in your eyes, the way you listened, the way it felt sitting beside you without tension for the first time in ages.
He thinks about how you werenât in the DA and somehow that matters. He thinks about how youâve always been a quiet constant in the background, and how he never noticed you properly until he did â and now he canât stop.
He thinks about the Yule Ball
(but that memory hurts in a different way).
He thinks about that courtyard last month
(but that memory feels like a new beginning).
He thinks about you during breakfast, during dinner, during late-night wand-cleaning, during the moments when the house creaks and his grief gets too loud.
And he hates that he misses you.
Misses someone heâs barely allowed himself to know.
âHow am I supposed toââ he mumbles into his hands. âWeâre not even⌠anything.â
Hermione smiles softly. âNot yet.â
Ron claps him on the back. âJust donât be weird about it.â
âIâm never weird!â
Both Ron and Hermione give him identical, pitying looks.
ââŚOkay, maybe a little weird.â
Meanwhileâ
You are being weird too.
Your mum catches you staring out the window more often than youâd like. And sometimes, when youâre reading, you suddenly realize youâve read the same sentence twelve times because your brain is too busy imagining someone with messy black hair and a terrible habit of apologizing with his whole heart.
You donât write him.
You donât know how to.
You donât even know if heâd write back.
But you think about him.
About his smile in the courtyard.
About the strange lightness you felt around him.
About the possibility â tiny, fragile, impossible â that maybe he wasnât the only one who noticed something that day.
And it scares you.
Because hope feels dangerous.
And Harry Potter feelsâŚlike something you could very easily fall into without trying.
One warm evening, you open your window and lie on your bed, listening to the distant hum of summer insects. You close your eyes and let the memory of his voice brush against you like a breeze.
âI never hated you.â
Why did that line stick in your chest so stubbornly?
Why did thinking about him feel like stepping toward the edge of something shaky and new?
You sigh and bury your face in your pillow.
You are in trouble.
Harry is in trouble.
Everyone knows it except you two.
And summer stretches on, bittersweet and slow, quietly weaving something between the two of you â something unspoken, something tender, something neither of you quite knows how to name yet.
But itâs there.
Growing.
Waiting.
And when the Hogwarts Express whistles again in September, you both already know:
This year will feel different.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The Hogwarts Express hisses in front of you, steam curling around your ankles like eager hands. Students chatter, owls hoot, trunks clatter â and yet everything feels strangely muted.
Maybe because you haven't set foot near Harry Potter for two months.
Maybe because you spent that entire time pretending you werenât thinking about him.
Maybe because deep down, you know this year is going to feel different, and youâre bracing for it.
Your friends are already halfway down the train corridor when you pause at the doorway, your hand resting on the warm metal frame. The late summer air hums against your skin.
Youâre not nervous. You just feel⌠weird. A different weird from last year.
Which is worse.
Someone behind you bumps your shoulder gently.
âSorry!â
You turn, expecting just another student rushing past, but your breath catches.
Harry stands there.
A little taller.
A little more serious.
A little softer around the edges, like the summer scraped something away and left him rawer, truer.
His hair is a disaster.
His glasses are slightly crooked.
His expression is frozen between surprise and something you canât name.
His eyes land on you.
And Harryâs brain completely stops functioning.
Harry (internally short-circuiting):
Oh no.Oh no.Why does she look like that?Why does she look older? Different? Amazing? Why am I thinking the word amazing?Why canât I breathe?
He tries to smile.
It comes out strange. Too quick. Too nervous. Too earnest.
âHi,â he blurts.
You blink once. Twice.
ââŚHi.â
There is an awkward pause so thick it could physically suffocate both of you.
Harry swallows hard. âYou, um⌠summer good?â
Fantastic, idiot. Very articulate.Hermione is going to murder him if she ever learns this is the best he could come up with.
You shift your grip on your bag. âIt was⌠okay. Quiet.â
Safer, you donât add.
Lonely, you donât dare think.
He nods too many times. âYeah. Mine too.â
Another pause. Students brush past, oblivious to the static thrumming between the two of you.
Harry fiddles with the strap of his backpack.
âYou lookââ He stops. Swallows. Restarts. âDifferent.â
Your heart does a dangerous little flip you absolutely did not give it permission to do.
âDifferent good,â he adds quickly. âLikeâ better. I mean, not that you werenâtâ you justâ itâs fine. Iâm messing this up.â
You bite back a tiny, startled smile.
âSo are you,â you say quietly.
Harry blinks. âIâwhat?â
âYou look different too.â
You donât say good.You donât need to.
Your tone gives it away.
Harryâs ears go red. He opens his mouth, probably to say something catastrophically awkward, but Hermioneâs voice suddenly rings out from the train.
âHarry! Honestly, you canât wander offââ
She appears, mid-scolding, Ron behind her, both armed with snacks and expressions that shift instantly when they see you.
Hermione pauses.
Then one eyebrow rises slowly, deliberately.
Ron looks between the two of you like heâs watching a Quidditch match and hasnât picked a favorite team yet.
âOh,â Hermione says. âOh.â
Harry glares at her. âDonât.â
âYou two should sit with us,â Ron blurts, because God bless him, subtlety has never once shaken his hand.
You step back. âOh, I donâtâ I mean, I usually sit withââ
âYou can sit with us,â Harry cuts in, too fast, too hopeful.
All three of them stare at him.
You stare at him.
Harry looks like he wants to die.
âI meanâ only if you want. Obviously. Or not. Completely fine. Iâmâ Iâll just stop talking now.â
Your heart stutters in a very annoying, very revealing way.
You should say no.
You should retreat to safety.
You should remember how lonely last year was.
Insteadâ
âI⌠yeah,â you say softly. âOkay.â
Harry beams.
Actually beams.
A real smile. The kind that lights up his whole stupid, earnest face.
Hermione smirks knowingly. Ron looks delighted. Harry looks like heâs just been handed his first birthday present ever.
You follow them into the compartment, your pulse a little too loud in your ears.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You sit across from Harry.
He pretends heâs not stealing glances at you.
You pretend you donât notice.
Hermione notices everything and quietly kicks Ron every time he tries to stare openly.
Harry asks about your summer.
You ask about his.
Slowly â awkwardly â delicately â you fall into conversation.
It feels almost normal.
Almost easy.
Almost like thereâs something fragile and new sparking to life between you.
You catch him smiling at one of your comments.
A real smile, small and private.
Your stomach wobbles.
Hermione shoots you a tiny approving nod.
And for the first time in a long timeâ
You donât feel like the forgotten Hufflepuff.
You donât feel like the third wheel.
You donât feel like the girl who wasnât chosen.
You feel⌠noticed.
Seen.
Wanted.
Harry rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, and asks if you want a chocolate frog. You take it. Your fingers brush his.
Both of you jerk your hands back like youâve touched fire.
Ron snorts. Hermione sighs fondly.
Harry pretends he isnât dying inside.
You pretend you arenât.
And when the train whistles and Hogwarts looms into viewâ
You realize something terrifying and wonderful:
You missed him.
He missed you.
And no matter how hard you try to deny itâ
The story between you and Harry Potter
is starting again.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The castle feels⌠lighter.
Maybe itâs because the world isnât crumbling at the edges this year. Maybe itâs because Hogwarts itself is alive again after the summer, each corridor humming with the quiet urgency of new beginnings. Or maybe itâs just the way your chest flutters when Harry Potter is somewhere within sight.
You sit at the back of the classroom, parchment in front of you, quill hovering, pretending to take notes on Ancient Runes. Youâve been back in classes for nearly a week, and the rhythm of lessons, homework, and early autumn sun spilling through the windows should feel comfortingâbut all it really does is make it harder to focus on anything other than him.
Because you know heâs in the same castle.
And, somewhere in the labyrinth of Gryffindor corridors, heâs thinking about you too.
The first time it happens, youâre walking toward the Charms classroom. The corridor is crowded with students shuffling to their next lesson. Youâre keeping your head down when a flash of green eyes catches yours.
Itâs Harry.
Heâs carrying a stack of books precariously in his arms, robes flaring as he dodges a group of first-years. Heâs smiling. That easy, ridiculous, half-embarrassed, completely him smile that makes you want to lean forward and never let go.
You almost drop your own books. Instead, you manage a tight, almost-practical smile.
He raises a single eyebrow.
You raise one back.
The world tilts for half a heartbeat. And then the crowd swallows him, and heâs gone.
Your chest feels simultaneously warm and hollow.
And you realize youâve been waiting for that moment all summer.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Classes are formal and structured. Everyone has their seating, their lessons, their work to do. You sit with your Hufflepuff friends, laughing quietly, answering questions, occasionally glancing at the front where the professor drones on about enchanted objects or potion reactions.
But every time the classroom door creaks, every time someone shifts, every time a chair squeaks against the floor⌠your head flicks instinctively to the entrance.
And almost every time, he isnât there.
But when he is â oh, when he is â your pen slips. Your notes falter. Your mind races.
He doesnât walk over to you, not yet. He doesnât need to. But when his eyes meet yours across a crowded room, something shifts.
A tiny spark. A twitch of acknowledgment. A silent, shared smile that says I see you. I missed you.
It happens in the library one afternoon. Youâre searching the shelves for a reference book on magical creatures, reaching up when a shadow falls across the spine of a particularly stubborn tome.
âNeed a hand?â
You freeze. Of course you do. Itâs him. Harry Potter. Carrying his own pile of books, looking impossibly casual. His hair is messy again, the kind of messy you think only looks charming on him.
You frown, but the corner of your mouth twitches. âI can manage.â
âYou look like you can manage,â he says, smile teasing but soft. âIâm just offering my services. Dangerous to be caught alone in here with a mountain of books, you know.â
Your laugh is quiet, almost a whisper. âIâm very intimidating.â
âNot at all,â he says earnestly, eyes meeting yours. âYouâre terrifyingly clever.â
You roll your eyes, hiding the heat creeping into your cheeks. He grins, a half-smile that seems to light up the entire aisle. And then, just as suddenly, heâs goneâslipping to another row of shelves, leaving your pulse hammering and your thoughts scattered.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
In the Great Hall, the tables are abuzz. Friends chatter, trays clatter, and the autumn light streams through the windows in golden streaks. You sit with your Hufflepuff group, pretending not to watch as Harry slides into his usual seat in Gryffindor.
But when his eyes flick to you, just for a second, your stomach twists. And somehow, across the crowded hall, he smiles.
Not a full grin. Not a ridiculous, over-the-top grin. Just a subtle tilt of his lips, a flicker in his green eyes that says: I see you. Iâm thinking about you. You matter.
You smile back, and the hall might as well have disappeared around you.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Later, the castle quiets. You emerge from your last class, wrapping your scarf a little tighter around your neck. The sun is low, gilding the walls with amber light. Youâre heading to the Hufflepuff common room when a familiar voice calls your name.
âY/N.â
You glance up. Heâs leaning against the stone wall near the stairwell, arms crossed, looking⌠strange. Vulnerable. Uncharacteristically unsure.
âPotter,â you say cautiously.
He shrugs. âJust⌠wanted to see you before the day ends.â
âReally?â You raise an eyebrow.
He hesitates. âYeah. I⌠missed seeing you this morning. During classes.â
A flutter runs through you. Itâs subtle, almost dangerous. You clear your throat. âI⌠missed it too. I guess.â
He steps a little closer, just enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him without touching.
A shared silence. A quiet acknowledgment.
No words are needed. Not yet.
He smiles again. That small, nervous, entirely Harry smile, and your chest tightens.
âSee you tomorrow?â he asks softly.
You nod. âSee you tomorrow.â
And as he disappears around the corner, you realize that the year, your sixth year, has already begun.
The castle may be crowded, classes may be relentless, and your schedules may pull you apart â but something delicate has shifted between you.
Something soft, growing, unavoidable.
And both of you know it, even if neither dares say it aloud.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Heâs never been more aware of the thickness in his chest, or the heat in his palms, than the moment he tips the last drop of golden liquid into his mouth.
Liquid luck.
A tiny whisper of a potion that promises courage. Confidence. The impossible made slightly more⌠possible.
He swallows and immediately feels the surge. Itâs like walking through the castle in slow motion, where every turn seems preordained, every person just a blur in the periphery, and every step is purposeful.
Time to find her.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
He leaves the Gryffindor common room with a determined stride that somehow manages to teeter between heroic and absolutely ridiculous.
First stop: the library. Surely sheâs buried in a book.
He tiptoes past students as if heâs a secret agent on a mission of the utmost importance. He nearly collides with Professor McGonagall.
âPotter!â she says.
âNothing to see here!â he blurts, flashing the cheesiest grin he can muster and wobbling past her.
Smooth, he tells himself. Felix Felicis, donât fail me now.
Library: empty. Youâre not there.
Next, the courtyard. Maybe sheâs taking a breath of air. He nearly slides on a puddle, smacks his head on the stone fountain, mutters a string of curses, and keeps going. Every stumble, every minor humiliation⌠somehow feels fated.
Finally, he hears it.
A soft laugh, just at the edge of the stairwell, and his chest twists. There she is.
âY/N,â he calls softly, almost unsure if heâs aloud. But the potion is guiding him. The courage is unstoppable now.
You turn, startled. Youâre perched on the steps, hugging a stack of books to your chest, and your heart does that little flip youâve learned to recognize.
âHarry?â
He strides forward. Not too fast. Not too slow. Perfectly⌠impossibly, ridiculously bold.
âI⌠uh⌠I needed to find you,â he blurts, hands twitching as if he wants to hold you but doesnât quite know how. âIâlook. This is probably going to sound mad, but Iââ
He stops, swallows. âI tookâuhâliquid luck.â
You blink. âFelix Felicis?â
âYes!â he says, relieved you know, and horrified at how ridiculous he must look right now. âI decided⌠Iâd finally⌠finally tell you⌠how I feel.â
You stare at him, and your chest is tight. Your mind is screaming finally, while your heart pounds in your ears.
âAnd maybe⌠kiss you,â he adds, muttering the last part so quietly it almost seems shy.
You laugh â soft, incredulous, trembling. âHarry Potter, you really did take luck potion to tell me how you feel?â
âYes!â he says, arms flailing slightly in earnest. âAnd I canât⌠I canât wait any longer. I mean⌠I shouldnât. Iâ Youââ
He steps closer. You feel the heat of him, the pulse of his heartbeat, and your knees threaten to give way.
âHarry,â you breathe, reaching out instinctively to touch his arm. âYou donât need magic to tell me that.â
He freezes for a second, eyes wide, and then like some dam breaking, he pulls you gently but insistently toward him. Your hands are on his chest; his on your waist.
âThen why did I need this potion?â he whispers against your hair, lips almost brushing yours.
âMaybe you just needed an excuse,â you murmur, and the heat behind your words makes his knees go weak.
The first kiss is tentative. Soft. Testing.
Then⌠itâs not.
Hands tangling in hair, fingers tracing along neck and back, mouths hungry in a way that makes the silly, ridiculous potion almost irrelevant. His laugh mixes with a groan as he presses closer.
âFinally,â he mutters against your lips, his voice low, thick, and so him.
You cup his face, tilting your head, exploring, tasting, the last months of longing and stolen glances and unspoken words spilling out with every brush of skin.
His hands roam, tentative at first, then bolder, discovering every inch you allow, memorizing the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist. You gasp softly when he presses closer, letting him feel just how desperate youâve been for this too.
Time distorts. The castle is gone. Classes, rules, everythingâgone. Just you. Just him. Just the heat, the pulse, the connection.
He pulls back for a breath. Forehead against yours.
âIâve wanted⌠this⌠for so long,â he murmurs, voice ragged and trembling.
âMe too,â you confess, wrapping your arms around his neck. âMore than I realized.â
He laughs, a little shaky, and presses another kiss to your temple. Then your lips again, deeper, slower, savoring the moment youâve both been building toward all year.
Hands clasping, hips pressing, breaths mingling, the world shrinks until itâs just you and him and a fire neither of you can deny.
For once, there is no awkwardness, no hesitation, no distance.
The castle hums behind you. Students shouting, laughter bouncing off the walls, the clatter of dinner trays and the last bit of chatter from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables blending into one constant, happy chaos.
But you and Harry donât hear it.
Youâre running.
Literally running.
Hands intertwined, hair flying, robes flaring around you, and the cool night air brushing across flushed cheeks. You donât know where youâre goingâdoesnât matter. The stairs, the corridors, the secret corners you know only because youâve spent years wanderingâeverything feels like yours in this moment.
Harry is laughing breathlessly. âWeâ arenât evenâ supposed to be out here!â
âWho cares?!â you shout back, voice ringing with reckless delight.
You press a little closer as he pulls you along, weaving through shadows and moonlit hallways. Every brush of his hand, every brush of his chest against yours, sends a delicious thrill through you.
Heâs not just Harry Potter tonight. Heâs your Harry Potter.
Brave, wild, reckless â and completely, wonderfully focused on you.
ă D.M x Hufflepuff! Reader
ă Missing home turns you to the kitchens to whip up something that tastes a little less like home sickness.
ă4k
ă r/q: @ashdreams2023
ătaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @falsedivide @damagedbreign @allielovesstars @justheretoreadmydear
ăa/n: hi!!! Happy 2k!! Iâm feeling a little better but I have no motivation to write. I hope I get out of this slump
Much love, Saige
[masterlist]
It starts with the mashed potatoes.
Theyâre lumpy. A crime, really, by your standards.
You stare down at your dinner plate, fork hovering mid-air as you watch a blob of unseasoned potato cling to it like regret. The rest of the Great Hall buzzes with chatter; Ravenclaws debating homework, Gryffindors laughing too loud, Slytherins pretending they donât care â and there you, sitting at the Hufflepuff table, quietly wondering if this is what homesickness tastes like.
It isnât that the food is bad. Itâs just⌠institutional. Thereâs something about it that lacks heart. No herbs sprinkled by hand, no butter melting over freshly baked bread, no scent of onions sizzling in a pan while your mum hums in the kitchen. You miss that warmth â the kind that doesnât come from the castleâs roaring fires, but from a full, happy belly.
So, one night, you decide to fix it.
Youâve heard whispers, of course â that the kitchens are hidden somewhere below the Great Hall, near the Hufflepuff common room. Some students mention it in passing; a few even brag about stealing snacks. But no one seems to live down there the way you intend to.
It takes you three days to find it.
On the first night, you wander in circles around the basement corridors, nearly scaring yourself senseless when a suit of armor coughs (it was dust, but you still yelped loud enough to wake a ghost). The second night, you stumble upon the entrance to the wine cellar â close, but not close enough. And finally, on the third, you notice a painting of a massive fruit bowl hanging crooked on a stone wall.
The pear in the painting is grinning at you.
âAlright,â you whisper to it, squinting suspiciously. âDonât freak out, but Iâm going to tickle you.â
The pear giggles. The painting swings open.
You nearly fall inside.
Warmth floods the air immediately â buttery, sweet, and alive. The scent of freshly baked bread wraps around you like a hug, and you blink at the sight before you: a cavernous room filled with long wooden tables, copper pots glinting under enchanted lanterns, and dozens of tiny figures bustling about in aprons.
House-elves.
They move like music; chopping, stirring, stacking plates taller than you are. Itâs chaos, but a kind of organized, joyful chaos that feels oddly like home.
One of them spots you, his bat-like ears twitching as he gasps.
âOh! A student!â he squeaks, wiping his hands on his apron. âAre you lost, miss?â
You shake your head quickly, stepping into the light. âNo, I â I just wanted to see where the food comes from.â
He tilts his head, curious but not alarmed. âStudents not usually ask about food. Students usually just eat food.â
âI know,â you admit, smiling nervously. âBut⌠I was wondering if maybe I could help? Or â maybe make something myself?â
The elf blinks. Then his entire face lights up. âHelp? A student helping Dobby and friends in the kitchen?â
Thatâs how it starts.
Within minutes, youâre given a tiny apron and handed a wooden spoon thatâs far too short for comfort. The elves crowd around, delighted by your enthusiasm and slightly horrified by your Muggle way of cooking. They watch as you fry garlic and butter in a pan â a simple recipe, really, one that smells like home.
âMiss Y/N cooks like a Muggle,â one whispers in awe.
âMiss Y/N stirs without magic!â another gasps.
You laugh, cheeks flushed from the heat. âThatâs sort of the point.â
When you finally taste the soup youâve made, thick and savory and perfect, the elves clap. One even wipes a tear.
It becomes a ritual after that.
Every few nights, after curfew, you sneak down to the kitchens with your slippers half-tied and a grin you canât quite hide. The elves always greet you like an old friend. They call you the kind Hufflepuff, and sometimes they ask you to show them your âmuggle tricks.â
You teach them how to caramelize onions, how to roast potatoes until theyâre crispy, how to make bread pudding the way your mum used to when you were small. In return, they show you their secrets â self-whisking spoons, spell-heated kettles, how to charm a ladle to sing when soup is ready.
Itâs peaceful, warm, and safe â the world above may be filled with house rivalries and pureblood politics, but down here, everyoneâs equal. You belong.
Of course, you have no idea that someone else has noticed your late-night absences.
Someone with pale hair and sharper eyes than youâd like.
But that ⌠thatâs a story for another night.
Tonight, itâs just you, the elves, and a pan sizzling with butter.
And honestly? Thatâs plenty.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
It happens on a Tuesday night.
The castle is asleep, or as asleep as Hogwarts ever gets; the portraits snoring softly in their frames, torches dimmed to a golden flicker, shadows stretching long across the flagstones. You hum quietly to yourself as you slip down the familiar hallway toward the kitchens, holding your wand low to light the way.
Youâve been doing this for weeks now, sneaking into the kitchens after dinner. The elves expect you by now; theyâve even started keeping a small pot warm for you âjust in case Miss Y/N comes to visit.â You always do. Youâve found that the smell of roasting bread and the soft chatter of the elves is better than any lullaby.
But tonight, your luck runs thin.
Youâre halfway down the hall near the fruit painting when you hear it â footsteps. Slow, deliberate, echoing against the stone.
Your breath catches. You snuff out your wand light and duck behind a pillar, heart racing. You think, Please be Filch. Please be Filch.
Because you can sweet-talk your way out of trouble with Filch. You can even bribe Mrs. Norris with leftover bits of roast chicken. But the voice that follows isnât Filchâs â itâs far worse.
âMerlinâs sake,â drawls someone from the dark, âif this is another couple snogging near the kitchens, I swearââ
He rounds the corner, and the torchlight catches his face. Pale hair, silver eyes, and a smirk that could slice glass.
Draco Malfoy.
You freeze.
Of course itâs him. Because the universe has a wicked sense of humor.
His eyes land on you instantly, widening just enough to betray surprise before he tilts his head, smirk deepening. âWell, well. What have we here? A Hufflepuff out of bed after hours?â
You straighten, trying to look more composed than you feel. âAnd a Slytherin doing the same,â you shoot back, folding your arms.
He blinks â apparently not used to being talked back to â then chuckles lowly. âTouchĂŠ. Though I have to say, youâre not exactly the type I expected to find sneaking about. What are you doing, trying to steal extra pudding?â
You roll your eyes. âIf you must know, I was headed to the kitchens.â
âThe kitchens,â he repeats slowly, amused. âAnd why is that?â
âBecause I was hungry.â
He quirks an eyebrow, stepping closer. âYou know, you could just wait until breakfast like a normal person.â
You give him a flat look. âNormal people donât put salt in chocolate pudding.â
That makes him laugh, properly laugh, and it throws you off balance for a moment. The sound is low, unguarded, and far less cruel than you expect. But itâs gone in an instant, replaced by that usual sly grin.
âYouâre full of surprises, Hufflepuff,â he says, leaning against the wall. âMost of your lot would faint if they saw a house-elf, let alone go wandering about with them in the middle of the night.â
You narrow your eyes. âHow do youâ?â
He taps his temple, smirking. âYou smell like bread. And⌠is that cinnamon?â
Your face burns. âYou were following me?â
âI was curious,â he corrects smoothly. âItâs not every day I see someone creeping toward a painting of fruit.â
You glare at him. âWell, congratulations. Curiosity satisfied?â
He studies you for a beat, eyes flicking down to the bit of flour dusting your sleeve. âNot even close.â
And then, to your surprise, he doesnât say anything else. No threats, no smug remarks about telling a professor. He just⌠lets you go. He watches you push open the portrait door and vanish into the warmth beyond.
You can feel his gaze even as the door swings shut behind you.
By morning, you assume heâll have forgotten. He doesnât.
At breakfast, he sits at the Slytherin table, idly stirring his porridge while you take your usual spot among the Hufflepuffs. Youâre midway through buttering your toast when you hear it â
âCareful, Y/N,â he calls across the hall, just loud enough for nearby students to hear. âYouâve got a bit of flour behind your ear.â
Your knife pauses. Slowly, you turn to glare at him.
Heâs grinning, of course. That infuriating, lopsided smirk that makes you want to throw a muffin at his head.
âGrow up, Malfoy,â you say evenly, going back to your plate.
Itâs the tone â calm, unimpressed, utterly done that seems to catch him off guard. His smirk falters for just a second before he chuckles under his breath and turns back to his friends.
But it doesnât stop there.
Over the next few days, he finds new ways to prod at you. Subtle ones. Snide comments about your âculinary adventures,â little jabs about your Muggle background (âDo they teach you to cook before you learn to read?â), always delivered with that same teasing smirk.
And every time, you refuse to take the bait.
You ignore him in the corridors, sidestep his remarks in class, and when he sneers something about âkitchen ratsâ during Herbology, you simply smile and say, âFunny. I didnât think Slytherins were brave enough to go near the kitchens themselves.â
The other students snicker. Malfoyâs smirk flickers again.
You can tell he doesnât know what to make of you. Most people either fear him or fawn over him â you do neither. You donât rise to his taunts, donât care for his approval, and that, perhaps, unsettles him more than any insult could.
Still, he doesnât stop watching you.
Sometimes you catch him across the Great Hall, eyes flicking up from his plate to where youâre sitting with your friends. Thereâs something thoughtful there â curiosity, maybe, or mild irritation at being ignored.
You wonder what heâs thinking, but you donât ask.
Because down in the kitchens, where the elves greet you like family and the smell of butter fills the air, none of that matters.
You still go every night. You still bake, laugh, and hum along with the clinking of pots and spoons. The world above, with its taunts and rivalries, fades away in the golden warmth below.
And if, one night, Draco Malfoy happens to pass by the fruit painting again and catch a faint whiff of your cinnamon bread wafting through the hall⌠well.
He doesnât tell a soul.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Itâs been nearly two weeks since Draco caught you sneaking into the kitchens, and somehow, itâs become his new favorite secret.
You know he hasnât told anyone. No professors, no Slytherin lackeys, not even Pansy, and thatâs saying something. At first, you thought his silence was mercy. But after the fourth time he made a snide comment about âculinary Hufflepuffs,â you realized it wasnât mercy at all. It was entertainment.
Still, heâs⌠different lately.
His teasing feels less like bullying and more like testing. Like heâs trying to figure you out â why a Muggle-born girl from Hufflepuff keeps wandering to the heart of the castle at night just to make food she could have conjured.
He doesnât understand it, but he canât seem to let it go either.
Itâs a Friday evening when you notice him again. Youâre heading toward the kitchens with a basket of ingredients â the elves had asked you to show them how to make shepherdâs pie âthe Muggle way,â and youâd promised to bring fresh herbs from the greenhouses.
The corridors are empty, except for the faint whisper of your slippers against the stone. You hum softly as you go, the faint weight of your basket comforting against your hip.
Until a voice drips out of the shadows.
âPlanning to start a restaurant, Hufflepuff?â
You sigh before you even turn. âGood evening to you too, Malfoy.â
He steps into view, robes immaculate as always, expression full of practiced boredom. âYouâve been making quite a name for yourself. I can hardly walk past the Great Hall without hearing about the mysterious baker who smells like sugar and keeps disappearing after supper.â
You keep walking. âIf youâre here to insult me, youâll have to keep up.â
He falls into stride beside you, ignoring the jab. âSo what is it, then? Some kind of secret side business? Feeding the Fat Friar? Black market pies?â
You shoot him a look. âYouâve spent too much time around your friends.â
âOh, I donât doubt it,â he says lightly. âBut itâs not every day a Hufflepuff sneaks out this often without getting caught. Makes me wonder what else youâre hiding.â
You stop by the fruit painting and set the basket down. âYouâre really that bored, arenât you?â
He smirks, leaning against the wall. âMaybe. Or maybe Iâm just fascinated by your poor life choices.â
You roll your eyes and reach up to tickle the pear. It giggles and swings open as usual. The smell of warm bread wafts out, and Dracoâs eyebrows lift slightly. âThatâs⌠actually impressive.â
You glance at him, hand on the door. âYou coming to report me, or just to stand there looking judgmental?â
He hesitates. You can almost see the gears turning â the part of him that wants to stay in control, stay superior, versus the part thatâs undeniably curious.
âIâll⌠have a look,â he says finally, tone casual, though his eyes dart into the glowing warmth beyond the portrait like heâs walking into enemy territory.
The elves lose their minds.
A Malfoy in the kitchens is unheard of. One gasps so loudly he nearly drops a tray of tarts. âMiss Y/N brought a Slytherin! Miss Y/N brought a student with shiny hair! Oh, he looks cross; quick, someone give him tea!â
You bite back a laugh as Dracoâs composure falters. He blinks at the elves, dozens of them bustling around, offering pastries, chattering excitedly, and for once, he looks genuinely unsure of himself.
âIâ whatâ why are theyâ?â
âTheyâre house-elves,â you remind him, smiling. âFriendly ones. You donât have to glare at them.â
âIâm not glaring,â he mutters, which is a lie.
You thank the elves and begin setting your ingredients out on one of the long tables. Draco hovers awkwardly, trying not to look impressed by the glittering copper pots or the enchanted ladles that stir themselves.
âDo you actually cook here?â he asks finally.
âYes,â you say, peeling potatoes with practiced speed. âItâs called a hobby.â
âMost witches just use magic.â
âMost witches donât know how to make a proper crust.â
He hums under his breath â skeptical but intrigued. You can feel him watching as you knead dough, the sleeves of your jumper pushed up, flour clinging to your fingertips.
The elves chatter softly around you, bringing ingredients and utensils, offering advice you donât need but appreciate anyway. Draco stands beside the table, pretending to examine a pan but sneaking glances your way when he thinks you wonât notice.
âWhy bother?â he asks after a while.
âBother with what?â
âWith this,â he gestures vaguely, âthe cooking, the sneaking out. You could just eat what the school serves.â
You shrug, pressing the dough into a pan. âBecause it reminds me of home. Itâs something real ⌠something thatâs mine.â
Heâs quiet after that. You donât look up, but you can feel the question lingering in the air between you: Whatâs that like, I mean, having something real?
When the pieâs in the oven, the elves usher you both to a small table tucked in the corner, insisting you have tea while you wait.
Draco looks painfully out of place, silver hair gleaming in the warm glow of the kitchen, posture stiff, cup held like it might hex him. But thereâs something soft in his expression as he glances around, watching the elves hum and bustle.
âThey treat you like one of them,â he says quietly.
You smile, blowing on your tea. âThatâs kind of the point.â
He studies you for a moment, eyes flicking over your face, thoughtful now instead of sharp. âYou really donât care what people think, do you?â
You sip your tea. âShould I?â
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, clearly not used to being disarmed.
The elves cheer when the pie comes out golden and bubbling. You serve him a slice before he can refuse â he hesitates, then tries it, visibly fighting to maintain his usual composure.
You grin. âYou like it.â
âI didnât say that.â
âYou didnât have to.â
His lips twitch. âYouâre insufferable.â
âGood.â
Later, when youâre both heading back toward your common rooms â him feigning annoyance, you carrying whatâs left of the pie, he stops just before the corridor splits.
âYouâre lucky, you know,â he says after a pause.
âLucky?â you echo.
He looks at you, expression unreadable in the dim light. âTo find something here that feels like home.â
Thereâs a flicker of something almost vulnerable in his tone, gone as quickly as it came.
You nod slowly. âMaybe you will too, someday.â
His mouth twitches like he wants to scoff but canât quite manage it. Instead, he gives you one last look, part curiosity, part confusion, before turning on his heel and heading down the opposite corridor.
You watch him go, a faint smile tugging at your lips.
And when you push open the portrait to your cozy common room, the smell of baked pie still clinging to your hands, you canât help but think that for someone who claims not to care, Draco Malfoy looked an awful lot like he was starting to.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You tell yourself itâs a one-time thing, a blip.
Heâs Draco Malfoy, for Merlinâs sake â the last person youâd expect to find sipping tea with house-elves and pretending not to like your pie. The entire experience feels like something out of a fever dream. By morning, youâre sure heâll have dismissed it, filed it away as a brief lapse in judgment, and returned to his usual routine of smug remarks and shiny shoes.
And for a few days, he does.
Heâs quiet. Watchful. You still catch him staring at you sometimes â in the Great Hall, in the corridors, even during Herbology â but he doesnât say a word. Itâs strange. Youâve grown used to the teasing, the smirks, the cutting comments that you could easily swat away. Now, his silence feels heavier. Thoughtful, almost.
Then, one night, he comes back.
Youâre in the kitchens again, half-asleep over a bowl of dough when the pear giggles and the portrait swings open.
âKitchenâs closed,â you mumble without looking up.
âI donât think it is,â comes a voice, smooth and drawling.
You nearly drop your rolling pin. âMalfoy?â
He leans against the doorway, looking much too composed for someone sneaking into a room full of clattering cookware. His hands are tucked neatly into his pockets, but his eyes flick over the room like heâs memorizing it.
âYouâre actually here again,â you say, still stunned.
âYou sound surprised,â he replies, stepping inside. âWhat, did you think Iâd forget about this place?â
âI hoped you would.â
He smirks. âYou underestimate me, Hufflepuff.â
You shake your head and return to your dough, refusing to indulge his ego. âSo what, you just decided to pop in for dessert?â
âCuriosity,â he says lightly, though you catch the faintest flicker of honesty beneath the joke. âI was walking by and thought I might as well see what all the fuss was about.â
âThe fuss,â you repeat dryly, âbeing⌠bread.â
âApparently so. The whole castle smells like it when youâre down here.â
You glance up, meeting his gaze â soft for once, without the usual sharpness. You can tell he means it as a joke, but thereâs something genuine buried in there. Something he doesnât quite have words for.
âGrab an apron, then,â you say finally. âIf youâre staying, youâre helping.â
He blinks. âI donât thinkââ
âNo free samples,â you interrupt, pushing a spare apron at his chest.
He stares at it like youâve just handed him a cursed object. âYouâre serious.â
âCompletely.â
You watch him debate his pride. Itâs almost funny â Draco Malfoy, whose robes probably cost more than your entire kitchen setup, standing in front of a bowl of flour like itâs a battlefield. Eventually, with an exaggerated sigh, he puts the apron on.
Itâs crooked.
You donât tell him.
Itâs⌠oddly peaceful after that.
He doesnât talk much, just listens â occasionally asking what youâre doing, occasionally pretending he doesnât care about the answer. The elves adore him immediately, of course, bringing him spoons to stir with and fussing over his sleeves.
âSir Draco is stirring too gently,â one says, frowning at the bowl.
Draco scowls. âIâm stirring.â
âSir Draco must stir with love!â
You nearly choke trying not to laugh.
He shoots you a glare, but his lips twitch. âThis is humiliating.â
âMaybe a little,â you admit.
He huffs, but doesnât stop stirring.
When the bread is finally baked, you both sit at the long wooden table, watching the elves tidy up. The golden crust glows under the lantern light.
âYou know,â he says quietly, âitâs not terrible.â
You snort. âThatâs your way of saying itâs good.â
âDonât push your luck.â
You tear off a piece of bread and pass it to him anyway. He takes it without protest this time, chewing thoughtfully, gaze fixed on the fire flickering in the oven.
âWhy do you keep coming back?â you ask after a moment.
He doesnât look at you right away. âI donât know,â he says honestly. âItâs quiet here. Not like the rest of the castle.â
You nod, understanding more than you should. âYou donât have to pretend to be anyone down here.â
He glances at you â surprised, maybe even relieved that you understand. âSomething like that.â
The silence that follows is comfortable, the kind that doesnât need filling. You sip your tea while he leans back, one leg crossed over the other, eyes distant but softer than usual.
Itâs strange to see him like this â unguarded, without the sharp edges.
Youâre not sure when it happens, but at some point, the elves start whispering. You catch fragments â Miss Y/N has a friend, The shiny boy smiles now, Sir Draco needs more pie.
You roll your eyes. He hears them too and flushes faintly, trying to look annoyed but failing.
âYouâve corrupted them,â he mutters.
âIâd say Iâve improved their company.â
He gives you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. âCareful, Hufflepuff. I might almost start enjoying this.â
âAlmost?â
He leans forward, voice low and teasing again, though thereâs warmth in it now. âDonât get ahead of yourself.â
You smile. âToo late.â
When you finally leave the kitchens that night, itâs late â the halls empty, the air cool and humming with the quiet magic of midnight. You walk together for a while before your paths split, his to the dungeons, yours to Hufflepuff.
He stops before the turn. âYou wonât tell anyone about this,â he says, not quite a question.
You grin. âYou mean that Draco Malfoy voluntarily baked bread with a Muggle-born? Never.â
He rolls his eyes but smiles despite himself â small, fleeting, and real.
âGoodnight, Hufflepuff.â
âGoodnight, Malfoy.â
You watch him disappear down the corridor, his footsteps soft against the stone.
And for the first time, you realize â he doesnât belong down there in the kitchens. But he keeps coming back anyway.
Maybe because heâs curious.
Maybe because heâs lonely.
Maybe, though neither of you will say it aloud yetâŚ
ă G.W x Slytherin! Reader
ă enemies to lovers // academic rivals //
ăYou and George Weasley were written in the stars⌠and neither of you are happy about it.
ă4.1k
ă rq: @minnima
ătaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush@falsedivide @procookie2007 @damagedbreign @promisingflowerz-13 @moonkissedpoet @marianaissocool @mumofunicorns @theinkofyourfeather @allielovesstars
ăa/n: uwu who else has writers block.... grahhhh
Much love, Saige
[masterlist]
Youâve never particularly liked redheads.
Maybe thatâs an unfair generalization â itâs not as though hair color determines personality⌠but in your defense, every redhead youâve ever encountered seems to have come from the same chaotic, loud, rule-breaking family⌠literally.Â
And George Weasley? Heâs the worst of the lot.
At least thatâs what you tell yourself as you pass him in the corridor, your Slytherin robes brushing against his as he shoulders past, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like âslimy snake.â
You donât dignify him with a response. Not at first.
Itâs not worth it. Gryffindors love an audience, and George Weasley thrives on reactions like a Niffler does on shiny things. But that doesnât stop you from glancing back, your eyes narrowing as he smirks, walking backward with that infuriatingly confident swagger of his.
âCareful, Y/L/N,â he calls, loud enough for the corridor to hear. âWouldnât want your hair to get messed up from all that glaring. Iâd hate for you to lose yourâ what do you Slytherins call itâ dignity?â
The laughter that follows burns hotter than the torches lining the wall.
You straighten your shoulders and turn on your heel, pretending not to care. But Merlin, does he get under your skin.
George Weasley is, in your very unbiased opinion, an absolute menace.
He pranks for sport, laughs at detentions like theyâre trophies, and acts as if every inch of Hogwarts belongs to him and his twin. Heâs smug, mischievous, and irritatingly charming in that reckless Gryffindor way.
And for reasons you canât quite place, he has decided youâre his favorite target.
You know what people say behind your back â that youâre âthe nice oneâ in Slytherin, but still a Slytherin. That youâre probably a pureblood supremacist, even though youâve never said anything of the sort. George believes it, of course. Heâs made that painfully clear.
The first time you met properly was in Potions. You were sat near each other by Professor Snape â a cruel twist of fate if there ever was one.
âTry not to explode the cauldron, Weasley,â youâd said dryly, eyeing his half-hearted stirring.
âFunny,â he replied without missing a beat. âI was just about to say the same to you, princess.â
Youâd scoffed. âDonât call me that.â
âOh, but it suits you,â he teased, leaning closer. âAll polished and proper, like you think the world owes you something.â
Youâd glared. Heâd grinned.
The potion curdled.
And so it began.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
By the end of the term, your mutual dislike had become legendary.
If you sat in the library, George would find a way to drop something loud beside you.
If you walked to class, a prank went off in your path.
If you made a comment about his lack of manners, heâd flash that smug grin and say, âDidnât realize snakes cared about manners. Thought you lot were more into hissing and scheming.â
Youâd roll your eyes, mutter something cutting under your breath, and move on. But he always lingered â always looked back.
You told yourself you hated that too.
What you didnât know was that George Weasley had never expected a Slytherin to answer back.
Most of them ignored him, too proud or too afraid to risk their image. But you â you gave as good as you got. You met him glare for glare, snide comment for snide comment.
And that infuriated him.
Because you werenât like Malfoy or his pack of pureblood snobs. You were sharper, quieter. Your defiance wasnât loud, but it was steady. It lingered.
Still, George told himself you were the same.
Just another snake with a silver tongue.
He just didnât understand why his chest tightened every time he saw you.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You tell yourself you hate him. You repeat it like a mantra when you see his freckled face across the Great Hall, or when he laughs too loudly with his brother. You hate his jokes, his confidence, the way he always looks so alive.
You hate that he thinks youâre cruel just because you wear green.
You hate that you sometimes want to prove him wrong.
And, most of all, you hate that part of you wonders what heâs like when he isnât laughing at your expense.
Thatâs the trouble with enemies.
They make you feel something.
And no matter how hard you try to bury it, the spark is there â waiting, humming under the surface, ready to ignite.
Neither of you realize it yet, but the war between you is only just beginning.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You shouldâve known this term would start terribly.
Itâs the first morning after Christmas break, and youâre already regretting coming back early. The Slytherin common room feels colder than usual, and your timetable feels like a personal attack â especially the part that reads Divination (Joint Class with Gryffindor).
Of course. Because fate clearly hates you.
You climb the winding staircase to Trelawneyâs tower with the rest of your house, your green-trimmed robes brushing against the velvet drapes that smell faintly of incense and dust. You take a seat at a round table in the far corner, hoping to go unnoticed as Gryffindors file in, all loud laughter and clumsy boots.
Then you hear him.
George Weasley.
You donât even have to look up. His voice has that unmistakable teasing lilt that travels like static through the haze of perfumed smoke. You can practically feel the smirk heâs wearing as he jokes with Lee Jordan about how Trelawney predicted his âtragic demise by tea leavesâ last term.
You roll your eyes and flip open your Divination journal. Maybe if you focus hard enough, youâll become invisible.
No such luck.
âWelcome, my dear students,â Professor Trelawneyâs dreamy voice drifts from the front of the room. âI trust your holidays were⌠enlightening.â
A few students snicker. Trelawney pays them no mind, her giant spectacles glinting in the dim candlelight as she waves her arms dramatically.
âThis term, we embark upon a study of celestial compatibility. The stars have long whispered truths about the bonds between souls, whether friendly, romantic, or fated in conflictâŚâ
You glance up at that. Fated in conflict. Perfect.
Trelawney shuffles a stack of parchments and begins calling names. Each student is to be paired according to their astrological signs â âa divine alignment chosen by the heavens themselves.â
You donât believe in such nonsense. But you do believe in bad luck, and as your name leaves her lips, you brace yourself.
âY/N Y/L/N⌠and George Weasley.â
Your stomach drops.
Thereâs a pause, then a low whistle from somewhere in the Gryffindor corner. Fredâs unmistakable voice cuts through the laughter.
âMerlinâs beard, George, the stars must really hate you.â
You look over to see George already grinning at you, as if this is some grand cosmic joke made for his amusement.
Trelawney clasps her hands together, beaming. âAh, a most intriguing combination! Fire and water â passion and precision, chaos and control! Such energy between you two⌠perhaps even destiny.â
George leans closer across the table. âGuess weâre destined, princess.â
âGuess youâre doomed,â you mutter back.
The assignment itself sounds deceptively simple: observe the upcoming meteor shower together and record your findings â star positions, visibility, magical resonance, all that celestial fluff Trelawney adores.
The catch? Youâll have to meet after curfew, under the night sky. Alone.
You try to reason with her after class, asking if you can work independently. âThe stars are quite clear, my dear,â Trelawney says, peering at you through her enormous glasses. âYou and Mr. Weasley share an energy that cannot be divided.â
Youâd call it mutual irritation, but fine.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The library was quieter than usual that evening.
A rare hush falls between the rows of ancient tomes, the air thick with candle wax and the faint rustle of pages. You sit at your usual table in the back cornerâ quill ready, books spread like shields, hoping that if you bury yourself deep enough in research, you can forget who your partner is.
But fate, once again, has a cruel sense of humor.
George Weasley slides into the seat across from you without so much as a greeting. His grin is infuriatingly casual, the kind of grin that says Iâm only here because I have to be. He props his feet up on the table, looking far too comfortable for someone whoâs supposed to be working.
âYouâre late,â you say coolly, not looking up from your parchment.
âYouâre early,â he replies, resting his chin in his hand. âGuess that balances out the universe.â
You glance up, meeting his gaze over the flickering candlelight. âThe universe doesnât work like that, Weasley.â
He tilts his head, pretending to consider it. âThen what does it work like, oh wise one?â
You take a breath, reminding yourself not to rise to the bait. âItâs unpredictable. Chaotic. But it has order beneath it. Patterns-.â
He studies you for a momentâlonger than you expect. âHuh,â he says finally. âDidnât take you for someone who believes in patterns.â
You arch a brow. âAnd what did you take me for?â
âA snake,â he says simply. âAll charm, no sincerity.â
You scoff. âThatâs rich coming from a boy who makes a living out of lying for laughs.â
His smirk falters, just a little. âAt least I make people laugh.â
âBy embarrassing them?â
He leans forward. âBy distracting them.â
The way he says it â softly, not smugly â catches you off guard. You pause your quill mid-stroke, your irritation faltering.
âDistracting them from what?â you ask before you can stop yourself.
He looks away, eyes flicking toward the bookshelves. âYou ever notice how quiet Hogwarts gets at night? When everyoneâs asleep and the castle actually breathes? Sometimes itâs too quiet. Jokes help.â
For a moment, you forget to hate him.
You donât know what to do with that honesty â itâs raw in a way you didnât expect from George Weasley. He drums his fingers on the table, suddenly aware heâs said too much, and adds quickly, âNot that youâd understand. You Slytherins always look perfectly composed. Like you practice your smirks in the mirror.â
You roll your eyes, though your heartbeat feels different now â faster, uneven. âAnd you Gryffindors practice pretending not to care what anyone thinks.â
He grins faintly. âTouchĂŠ.â
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The two of you lapse into uneasy silence after that, the candle flickering between you. You both work, halfheartedly, if youâre honest. The project sprawls before you: a mess of star charts, handwritten notes, and sketches of constellations.
George squints at one of your neat diagrams. âSo these little dots are stars, yeah?â
You look up, incredulous. âMerlinâs sake, Weasley, yes. Thatâs literally what astronomy is.â
He grins again. âJust checking. I thought maybe Slytherins saw the night sky differently. Through, I donât know, emerald lenses or something.â
You glare at him. âDo you ever stop talking?â
âNot when it annoys you,â he says cheerfully.
âThen congratulations,â you mutter. âYouâre excelling.â
But thereâs no real venom behind it this time.
The banter feelsâŚdifferent. Itâs still sharp, but the edges arenât cutting as deep. He laughs easily, and despite yourself, you catch the sound in your chest like itâs something fragile. You hate that. You hate that heâs human enough to laugh that way.
After a while, the conversation drifts into safer territory â neutral ground neither of you are quite sure how you reached.
âSo, why Slytherin?â he asks suddenly.
You look up from your notes. âExcuse me?â
âDonât get defensive, princess. Just curious.â
âIâm not defensive,â you say automatically. âAnd stop calling me princess.â
He grins. âNoted. But seriously â why? You donât act like the rest of them.â
You hesitate, tapping the quill against your parchment. Itâs not something you talk about often. Not something you need to explain. But his question lingers, and for some reason, the truth slips out before you can stop it.
âBecause I wanted to prove something,â you say quietly. âPeople see Slytherin as evil, ambitious, ruthless â but those arenât bad things, not by themselves. I wanted to show it could mean something else. Loyalty, pride⌠control.â
George studies you, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. âControl, huh? Sounds exhausting.â
You shrug. âBetter than being reckless.â
He smirks faintly. âReckless gets results.â
âReckless gets you hurt,â you counter.
He doesnât answer right away. For a second, his expression softens, shadows flickering over his face. âYouâre not wrong,â he murmurs.
Itâs strange, this moment â how it feels suspended, like one of the stars youâll be watching later that week. Youâre supposed to be rivals. Opposites. Yet here you are, seeing cracks in each otherâs walls, bits of truth peeking through the gaps.
And thatâs the problem.
Because once you see the person beneath the armor, itâs harder to hate them.
You close your book abruptly, breaking the tension. âItâs getting late. We should finish this tomorrow.â
George nods, pushing back his chair. âFine by me.â
You gather your things, avoiding his eyes, though you can feel them on you. The library feels smaller now â too warm, too charged. You canât shake the feeling that youâve crossed some invisible line you canât uncross.
As you reach the door, he calls out, âHey, Y/L/N.â
You pause, half-turned toward him. âWhat?â
He hesitates, then shrugs. âYouâre not as bad as I thought.â
You blink, caught between annoyance and something dangerously close to amusement. âDonât start getting sentimental, Weasley. I still canât stand you.â
He grins. âGood. Wouldnât want to ruin a perfectly good rivalry.â
You leave before he can see the faint smile tugging at your lips.
That night, lying in bed, you stare at the canopy above you and tell yourself that nothingâs changed.
You still hate George Weasley; his laugh, his teasing, his stupid freckles.
But somewhere between the sarcasm and the starlight, something cracked.
And no matter how much you try to ignore it, you can feel it every time you close your eyes.
Because maybe hatred, when pressed too close to warmth, starts to feel an awful lot like something else.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The Great Hall hums with midday chatter, a low and constant buzz of clinking cutlery and laughter echoing off the stone walls. The winter light filters in through the high windows, pale and cold, but the hall itself is alive â Gryffindors telling stories, Hufflepuffs swapping snacks, Ravenclaws quietly discussing homework.
You, however, sit alone.
A neat stack of parchment is spread across the Slytherin table in front of you, your quill scratching steadily as you put the final touches on the Divination project. Youâve redrawn the constellations three times, charted the meteor showerâs trajectory, and written an impressively detailed analysis of magical resonance patterns, all without George Weasleyâs help.
You donât need him.
You keep telling yourself that.
Heâs somewhere across the hall. You donât have to look to know; you can feel him there. Like gravity â the kind of pull thatâs subtle but impossible to ignore.
And maybe thatâs what bothers you most.
You finish labeling your final star map and sit back, letting out a quiet sigh. The quill trembles slightly between your fingers. Youâve been working since morning, skipping lunch with your housemates under the guise of âwanting to get it over with.â Truthfully, you just didnât want to run into him again.
After last night in the library, things feel⌠different. Youâd both said more than you meant to. Shown more than you shouldâve. And now, every thought of him leaves a knot tightening in your chest.
You force yourself to glance up, just for a moment.
And there he is.
Across the hall, at the Gryffindor table. Laughing at something Lee Jordan says, one hand gesturing animatedly as if the world is his stage. But when his gaze drifts across the room, it collides with yours.
You freeze.
For a heartbeat, the entire hall seems to fall away. The chatter fades. The clatter of forks, the laughter â all of it dissolves into a distant hum. Itâs just the two of you, caught in a silent, inexplicable orbit.
His grin falters â not gone, just softened. Thereâs a flicker of something in his expression that you canât quite place. Surprise, maybe. Or guilt. Or something dangerously close to understanding.
You look away first.
Your stomach twists as you bend over your parchment again, pretending to check a line of text youâve already read twice. Your pulse feels loud in your ears. You hate that one glance from him can do that, unravel you, pull at every thread youâve carefully tied back into place.
Across the hall, George watches you from behind the rim of his pumpkin juice glass.
Heâs been trying not to. Ever since the library, heâs told himself to forget it â to forget you. The snide remarks, the sharp words, the quiet moment that almost felt like something else. Itâs easier to go back to the rivalry, to the familiar rhythm of mockery and mischief.
Except he canât stop thinking about the way your voice had gone soft when you talked about control. Or how your eyes caught the candlelight when you werenât glaring at him.
He catches Fredâs voice somewhere beside him. âOi, George. You listening?â
He hums in reply, still not tearing his gaze away from you.
Fred follows it, eyes flicking toward the Slytherin table. When he sees who George is watching, his eyebrows shoot up. âYouâve got to be joking.â
George drags his attention back with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. âRelax, Iâm not watching her.â
Fred snorts. âYou literally are.â
âJust making sure sheâs not plotting my untimely demise.â
âUh-huh.â Fred smirks. âBecause thatâs what that look was. Pure survival instinct.â
George doesnât bother answering. He forces a grin, shaking his head as if to dispel the thought, and focuses on his plate. But the moment he thinks Fredâs attention has moved on, his eyes flick back â just once more.
Youâre gathering your papers, sliding them neatly into a leather folder. Your expression is unreadable; your movements are precise, efficient, controlled.
You stand, tucking your quill behind your ear, and head for the doors without a single glance his way.
But George canât help watching you leave.
By the time you reach the corridor, the sound of the hall fades behind you. You walk briskly, heels clicking against the stone, trying to steady your breathing. The corridor feels colder, quieter, as if the castle itself is holding its breath.
You should feel relieved â the projectâs done, the partnershipâs almost over. Yet the silence doesnât feel like relief. It feels like something unfinished.
You pause by the nearest window, gazing out at the sky. Itâs pale blue, empty for now â but you know that soon, the meteor shower will light it up. The thought should thrill you. Instead, it makes your stomach tighten.
Because youâll have to face him again.
You press your palm against the cold glass, steadying yourself.
You donât hate George Weasley. Not the way you used to.
But youâre not ready to admit that either.
So, for now, youâll keep pretending.
Youâll finish the project, turn it in, and go back to the easy, simple disdain that used to come so naturally.
Even if the universe seems determined to prove that you and George Weasley were never meant to stay in separate worlds.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You shouldâve known heâd be late.
George Weasley was always late.
The Astronomy Tower was quiet, save for the faint hum of the wind sweeping through the arches. You stood with your arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently, your breath fogging in the night air. The meteor shower was supposed to start any minute, and your partner â your useless, infuriating partner â was nowhere to be seen.
You glared up at the stars, muttering under your breath. âIf he doesnât show up in five minutes, Iâm submitting this bloody project without him.â
As if summoned by your irritation, footsteps echoed up the stone staircase. You turned sharply just as George emerged, hair windswept, scarf half undone, and wearing that insufferable grin that made you want to throw your telescope at him.
âEvening, Y/L/N,â he said, like he hadnât just kept you waiting half an hour. âMiss me?â
âAbout as much as Iâd miss a hex to the face,â you snapped. âYouâre late.â
He gave a lazy shrug. âFashionably.â
âThis isnât a joke, Weasley. Weâre supposed to be documenting timing, not your inability to respect schedules.â
He chuckled and walked past you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. âMerlin, you really are wound tight, arenât you? Itâs stargazing, not war strategy.â
You clenched your fists. âAt least I care about getting it right.â
âOh, I care plenty,â he said, glancing over his shoulder at you, eyes gleaming. âJust not as much as you seem to care about bossing me around.â
Your jaw tightened. âSomeone has to, clearly.â
He turned fully then, his smirk deepening. âYou know, I think you like yelling at me.â
You laughed humorlessly. âPlease.â
âNo, really,â he went on, stepping closer. âYou light up when youâre angry. Itâs sort of â adorable.â
âAdorable?â you repeated, your voice sharpening. âYouâre delusional.â
âMaybe,â he said, tilting his head, âbut youâre blushing.â
You opened your mouth to retort, but he wasnât wrong, and that only made it worse.
The air between you was electric now, the cold forgotten. The stars glittered above, silver light painting the tower floor, and for a moment, you forgot why you were arguing â just that you were, and that it mattered.
âYou think this is funny?â you demanded, stepping toward him.
âLittle bit, yeah,â he said, smirking.
âUnbelievable.â
You pushed past him, trying to focus on setting up the telescope, but he followed, leaning beside you with infuriating calm. You could feel his gaze burning into your profile.
You shake your head. âYou donât even like me, George.â
He smirks faintly. âDid I say that?â
âYou didnât have to.â
He looks at you for a long time, then laughs softly under his breath. âYouâre right. I donât.â
The words sting, even though they shouldnât.
He stands, brushing off his robes, looking away from you and back to the sky. âBut I canât stop thinking about you. And I hate that more than I hate losing a Quidditch match.â
You rise too, clutching your notes to your chest. âGood. Because I canât stand you either.â
The air between you crackles. Something raw, volatile, unspoken.
âCareful, snake,â he murmured. âYouâre glaring hard enough to scare off the constellations.â
You whipped around. âMaybe thatâs the only way to get some peace around here!â
He raised a brow. âYou mean without me?â
âYes!â you snapped. âWithout you! Youâre cocky, reckless, you donât take anything seriouslyââ
âAnd youâre controlling, impossible, and completely incapable of relaxing for half a second,â he shot back.
You both froze, breathing hard, eyes locked. There was no space left between you now â no sarcasm to hide behind. Just the sound of your hearts pounding against the quiet, and the sharp awareness that neither of you wanted to back down.
You meant to say something else, to tell him off properly, but he moved before you could.
He grabbed your face and kissed you.
It wasnât soft, or careful. It was angry, heated â like every argument youâd ever had condensed into one impossible moment.Â
You gasped against his mouth, half from shock, half from how good it felt, your hands instinctively clutching at his jacket.
He deepened the kiss, pressing you back against the railing, his breath hot against yours, his fingers tangling in your hair. You hated how much you wanted more, how his lips sent fire curling down your spine. You hated that it felt right.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard, the space between you charged with everything unsaid. Above you, the first streak of the meteor shower blazed across the sky, silent and bright.
You stared up at it, then back at him, your voice low and trembling. âWhat the hell was that, Weasley?â
He swallowed, a faint smirk returning to his lips. âCall it⌠a truce?â
You blinked, still dizzy. âYou kissed me to â shut me up?â
âWorked, didnât it?â he said, grin widening.
You glared at him, though your lips still tingled where his had been. âYouâre infuriating.â
âAnd you,â he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, âare trouble.â
The moment hung between you, fragile as glass. Neither of you said another word. You turned back to the sky, pretending to focus on the meteors while your heart refused to slow down.
You still hated him. You told yourself that, over and over.
But when another streak of light flashed above, you found yourself glancing at him again â just once â and wishing, ridiculously,Â
ă J.P x Arranged Marriage! Reader
ă James and y/n continue on the run; death eaters finding them easily until theyâre met with a few familiar faces.
ă4.5k
ăa/n: whoops⌠lost motivation and didnt write for like 8 straight days. Hows everyone doing? Also ⌠sorry about this story i swear we will get a happy ending eventually.
[masterlist]
Much love, Saige
ătaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @justheretoreadmydear @simp-for-fiction @sparklingmoomin @amarauder @moonlightremblack @kenkozkmg @facetiouslady @pottermagiczz @cvntycapricornxx @horcruxmanor
Dawn came softly, gold spilling through the thin curtains and catching on the floating dust. The fire had burned to embers, the scent of smoke and pine still clinging to the room. You stirred first, half-dreaming, half-aware of the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek.
James hadnât moved all night.
His back was against the headboard, wand still in hand though it had dropped to his lap hours ago. His shirt was rumpled, his hair more of a mess than usual, but his arm was still curved protectively around you. The circles beneath his eyes told you he hadnât really slept.
You shifted slightly. He blinked awake instantly, alert but soft-faced when he saw you.
âMorning,â you murmured.
He smiled, faint and tired. âYou slept.â
âAnd you didnât,â you said, sitting up just enough to look at him properly.
James shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting. âDidnât want to risk you waking up and thinking it was all another nightmare.â
Your chest tightened at that. He meant it â every word.
âJamesâŚâ You reached for his hand. It was warm despite the chill, fingers rough and trembling slightly. He squeezed back once, as if to remind himself you were real.
Outside, a bird called somewhere in the distance. The air in the room felt fragile â too still, too precious.
âDid you watch over me all night?â you asked, a weak attempt at teasing.
He chuckled quietly. âSomeone had to make sure you didnât vanish again. Youâve got a talent for getting lost in chaos.â
You rolled your eyes, but the sound of his laugh, even hushed, loosened something tight inside you.
When you tried to pull away to stretch, he hesitated â fingers still brushing your wrist as if reluctant to let go. You stayed for a moment longer, both of you pretending it was only comfort, not the ache of having finally found one another after being ripped apart.
âYou should rest now,â you said softly.
James shook his head. âCanât. Too much noise in my head. Iâll be fine.â
You studied him â the bruised skin under his eyes, the faint scar near his jaw that hadnât been there before. You wanted to tell him everything you couldnât last night: how grateful you were, how terrified, how youâd never forget the way he looked when he found you.
But instead you said, âThen let me stay awake with you.â
So you both sat there in the quiet, wrapped in the blanket that smelled faintly of smoke and salt. His hand found yours again, thumb tracing slow circles over your palm.
The morning light moved across the floor, inching closer. For the first time in weeks, you didnât feel hunted or trapped. Just two people breathing in sync, alive, still together.
When James finally leaned his head back and exhaled â a sound halfway between relief and exhaustion â you let your forehead rest against his shoulder.
âYouâre safe now,â he whispered. âI swear.â
You wanted to believe him. Maybe for this morning, that was enough.
Eurydice knocked softly before opening the door â not with the brisk impatience of someone waking guests, but the trembling urgency of someone whoâd run out of time.
âUp,â she whispered, voice low but sharp. âBoth of you. Now.â
James was already half-alert, sitting upright the moment her hand hit the frame. You blinked awake at the edge of the blanket, momentarily lost between dream and panic, the firelight gone and only a cold gray morning spilling through the window.
âWhatâs wrong?â James asked, reaching for his wand before his feet even touched the floor.
Eurydiceâs eyes darted toward the hall behind her. âThe Orderâs on their way. But so are others.â
Your blood went cold.
âWhat do you mean â others?â you asked, standing, clutching the edge of your cloak as if it could hide the tremor in your hands.
She shut the door behind her quickly, crossing to the window and peeking through the torn lace curtain. âThere were sightings in the woods â black cloaks, east ridge. Theyâre searching. They know someoneâs here.â
James moved to the other side of the room, scanning for exits, the map of escape routes already forming in his mind. His voice was steady, but his jaw was tight. âHow long until the Order gets here?â
âTen minutes, if theyâre lucky,â Eurydice said. âBut Death Eaters donât wait for luck.â
You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your ears. âSo what do we do?â
Eurydice turned to you both, her face pale but resolute. âYou get out the back door, into the tree line. Stay low. Thereâs a stream two hundred meters northâ follow it until you hit the stone bridge. Thatâs where theyâll find you.â
You nodded, already reaching for your wand. James grabbed his cloak and moved closer, steadying your shaking hand as you fumbled with the clasp around your waist.
âIâll make sure sheâs safe,â he told Eurydice firmly.
Her eyes softened, the faintest smile flickering across her lined face. âI know you will.â
A sound cracked outside â a muffled pop, then another, closer this time. Apparition.
Eurydice flinched. âGo. Now.â
You didnât need to be told twice.
The corridor outside felt longer than before, shadows stretched by fear and dim light. James kept one hand at your back, guiding you quickly but quietly toward the back stairwell. The air smelled of damp earth and iron, the faintest scent of ash lingering from some long-ago fire.
At the landing, another sound. Voices. Far too close.
James froze, pulling you into the alcove behind a crooked cabinet. You both held your breath as footsteps creaked overhead, slow, deliberate.
âTheyâre here,â a manâs voice murmured from somewhere near the front door.
Your stomach turned. You could hear Eurydiceâs reply â calm, measured. âYouâre mistaken. No oneâs been through here in weeks.â
The silence that followed was unbearable. Then the shatter of glass. A curse whispered low.
Jamesâs hand tightened around yours. âWe have to go.â
You nodded, the motion barely a breath. Together you slipped down the final steps and through the narrow kitchen, the air sharp with the smell of smoke and panic. The back door groaned when James eased it open, a single protesting creak that made your pulse stop, but the noise upstairs covered it.
Then you were outside.
The forest yawned wide behind the cottage, pale mist curling through the undergrowth. The cold hit instantly â raw, biting, but you didnât care. You ran.
Branches tore at your dress, leaves slapped against your face, but the sound of shouting behind you only made you move faster. Jamesâs hand never left yours.
âKeep going,â he hissed. âJust a bit farther.â
The stream appeared like a ribbon of silver, narrow but fast-moving. You splashed through it, shoes sinking into the mud, until you saw the shape of the bridge ahead â low stone, moss-covered, the perfect hiding place.
By the time you ducked beneath it, your lungs were burning. You could still hear voices in the distance, spells being cast, wood cracking underfoot, but they were fading.
You pressed your back to the cold stone, gasping, staring at the faint shimmer of water running past your knees.
James crouched beside you, his chest heaving. âWe made it.â
âFor now,â you whispered.
You both looked at each other, the silence thick with everything you didnât say â the fear, the adrenaline, the sheer impossibility of surviving again.
Then, another snap of twigs.
Both your wands were up instantly.
But this time, the figure that appeared in the clearing wasnât cloaked in black.
âBloody hell,â came a voice â familiar, rough, relieved. âYou two look like youâve seen a ghost.â
Sirius Black; and he wasnât alone â
Dorcas and Remusâs bodies appeared just behind, both of their eyes frantically looking over you both, taking in your torn clothes, your dirt-streaked face, the tremor in your hands.
Without a word, Dorcas stepped forward and wrapped you in a hug so tight it almost hurt. âWeâve been looking for you for days,â she whispered. âHalf the Orderâs been searching.â
James finally moved, half-stumbling toward Sirius. His best friendâs grin faltered as he saw the exhaustion carved into every inch of Jamesâs face. âMerlin, mate⌠what happened to you?â
James just shook his head. âLater. Weâve got to move.â
Remus nodded grimly. âWe canât Apparate. Wards are still up â theyâve spread far beyond the manor. But thereâs a safe house nearby. Old Order post. Floo networkâs still active.â
Quiet didnât come easy. Every step through the trees felt like a gamble â every snapped twig, every breath too loud, like an invitation for danger. Sirius kept watch ahead, his wand flicking with restless precision. Remus stayed near you, occasionally murmuring soft spells to disguise your tracks.
You could hear James behind you â every shift of his boots, every shallow breath. Once, when the ground dipped sharply and you nearly lost your footing, his hand caught your wrist. It lingered a second too long before letting go.
âYou alright?â he whispered.
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Dorcas fell back to walk beside you, her brow furrowed. âYou two have been through hell,â she said softly. âWeâll get you home.â
Home. The word felt foreign now. What did that even mean anymore?
The trees finally began to thin, giving way to a clearing where an old, ivy-clad cottage crouched low against the fog. Its windows were dark, and the air carried the faint tang of burnt wood.
âThatâs it,â Remus said. âStay close.â
Sirius moved first, checking the perimeter with a quick sweep of his wand. After a tense pause, he gave a curt nod. âAll clear.â
Inside, the house smelled of dust and age â but it was dry, and the fireplace still bore the faint shimmer of a working Floo connection.
Remus shut the door and sealed it with a muttered charm. âWeâll rest for a moment, then go through. One by one.â
The tension in your body finally began to uncoil. James sank onto an old couch by the wall, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. You hovered near the hearth, the flickering embers painting your face in soft gold.
Across the room, James glanced up â eyes meeting yours through the firelight. The look that passed between you was wordless, fragile, but heavy with everything you hadnât been able to say.
Sirius flopped into a chair nearby, muttering, âNever thought Iâd say this, but Iâll take hiding from Death Eaters over camping again.â
Remus snorted quietly. âYou might get both before the dayâs over.â
Dorcas glanced toward the window, unease flickering across her face. âDo you think theyâll come after us here?â
James straightened, the exhaustion gone from his eyes. âThey will. They always do.â
He turned back to you, voice soft but certain. âBut theyâll never touch you again.â
You wanted to believe him â wanted to think the worst was over. Yet as a cold wind slipped through the cracks in the window frame, the forest seemed to whisper otherwise.
And somewhere far off, beyond the trees, the echo of a spell cracked through the silence like thunder.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Remus stood by the fireplace, his face serious. The flame had been fed with powder and whispered incantations, now burning an unnatural emerald green. âYouâll go one at a time to the ministry, it's the safest place the death eaters won't dare to go-,â Remus started. âJames first. Iâll follow Y/N shortly after.â
James nodded. He looked back at you â one last lingering glance that felt heavy with everything you both survived. âIâll see you there,â he said, trying his best to sound steady.
âYou better,â You managed to say, voice cracking despite the small smile you forced.
He took a pinch of Floo powder from a large basin by the fireplace, stepping close to the flames. The fire licked higher, reflecting in his eyes. He threw the powder in, said clearly, âThe Ministry of Magic,â and stepped forward. The flames rose around him, swallowing his form into a blur of green. Then..he was gone.
The silence afterward was unbearable. The faint echo of his name hung in the smoke.
Remus touched your shoulder lightly. âItâs alright. Heâll be waiting on the other side. Youâre safe to go.â
Nodding slowly, your pulse drummed violently in your throat. Safe. The word didnât feel real yet.
As you stepped up to the hearth, the fire hissed softly the closer you approached. Reaching out timidly, your fingers curled tightly around the Floo powder, knuckles white. Mumbling to yourself â a small, silent prayer â and threw it in.
âMinitry of Magic!â
The fire roared to life, swirling around your vision like a living storm. The world yanked away in a whirl of green and gold light. You couldnât breathe â couldnât see â only flashes of faces, voices, a hundred fireplaces rushing past like stars through fog. Your body twisted in the pull of the magic, every nerve alive with its chaotic speed.
Then suddenly, a halt.
The motion faltered.
You gasped as the spinning stopped too soon. Stumbling out of the fire and into darkness. Cold air nipped your skin. Your hands hit stone.
For a moment, you thought it was the ministry â until your eyes fought to adjust. The walls werenât wooden but carved, rough and damp. There were no windows. The hearth behind burned green, but no one came through after.
When your eyes shift around, your body shrinks from the cold. The stone beneath you feels like ice, rough and wet where your palms press against it. Your throat burns when you breathe â the air smells of mildew and something faintly metallic. It takes a few long seconds before you remember where you were supposed to be.
The Floo. The green light. The pull of magic and Jamesâs name echoing somewhere just ahead of you.
And then⌠nothing.
Your knees falter; fear makes it harder to hold yourself upright. Your head throbs, limbs still shaking from the dizzying spin of the transport gone wrong.
The room around you is swallowed in darkness. Thereâs no firelight, no exit you can see â only four walls, thick and damp, pressing in too close. You can hear water dripping somewhere above you, slow and steady, marking time in the dark.
âJames?â Your voice comes out as a whisper first, then louder. âJames!â
The sound ricochets off the stone, hollow and small. No answer. No movement.
You step forward, your hands tracing along the cold walls, looking for the faintest seam of a door, a window, anything. Your fingertips catch on the rusted edge of metal â a hinge, maybe, but itâs sealed from the other side. Panic begins to bloom in your chest, slow and creeping, wrapping itself around your lungs.
You call again, louder this time. âJames!â
Still nothing.
You press your forehead against the wall and try to steady yourself, counting your breaths. One. Two. Three. You canât panic. Not yet. Youâve been through worse â youâve survived nights with worse monsters than the dark.
But then you hear it.
Footsteps. Distant, deliberate, echoing somewhere down a corridor. More than one pair boots scraping against stone. Your heart lurches. You step back from the wall, searching for something to defend yourself with, but thereâs nothing here â only the damp air and your wand, missing from your pocket.
The footsteps grow louder, then stop just beyond the wall. Thereâs a low murmur â voices you canât quite make out, though you catch enough to know theyâre not speaking kindly. The sound of a lock turning follows, and the faintest crack of light spills in from beneath a heavy door you hadnât seen before.
You hold your breath.
Someone laughs. A voice like gravel.
âGot her, then. Told you sheâd panic mid-transit.â
Another voice answers, smooth and colder. âHe made it through, then?â
âAye. Right into the Ministryâs hands, poor boy. Waiting on his darling like a dog at the gate.â
You stumble back, bile rising in your throat. You imagine him standing by the hearth, confusion twisting into panic when you didnât come through. The image stabs at you, sharp and cruel. Tears begin to well in your eyes, praying that this isnât happening.
The door rattles, but doesnât open. âOrders are to leave her until nightfall,â the gravel voice says. âHeâll crack before then.â
Their footsteps fade. Silence returns â thicker, heavier, almost unbearable.
You sink down against the wall, your knees pulled to your chest, your pulse thundering in your ears. The damp seeps through your sleeves, but you barely feel it. You canât stop seeing his face in your mind â the worry, the way his eyes always softened when he looked at you, even after everything.
You whisper into the dark, voice shaking, âPlease, James.â
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The cold bit through your clothes, seeping into your skin until it was a part of you. Every shiver was a reminder that you were alone. You had tried the door â of course you had â pushing against the heavy iron, listening for any hint of movement outside, any crack in the silence. Nothing. Only the dull drip of water somewhere far above you, the slow echo of time in this underground cage.
Your wrists ached from where youâd tried to claw at the stone earlier, nails breaking against the rough walls. You pressed them against your face for a moment, tasting the dirt and despair that seemed to hang in the air. The magic of the Floo that had pulled James to safety was gone â snuffed out, replaced with this dark, suffocating emptiness. You werenât sure if it was punishment, strategy, or both, but the isolation was a weapon, and it cut deeper than any wand.
You tried to sit, but the floor was uneven, damp. Your back pressed against the wall, knees drawn to your chest, and you let yourself listen.
Nothing.
No voices. No footsteps. No hint that anyone was nearby. Only the occasional faint whisper of air through cracks in the stone.
You swallowed hard, trying to calm the panic rising in your chest. Heâs alive. James made it. You clung to that thought like a lifeline, repeating it over and over. But even as you told yourself, you couldnât shake the fear that someone would hurt him because he was alone now too, waiting, thinking youâd come through. Heâs not here. Heâs not with me. And if anything happens to himâŚ
Your fingers tightened around your thighs, finding any resemblance of life within yourself. Every sense was hyper-alert, listening for the faintest movement, the scrape of a shoe, the hum of magic. But silence ruled. And the silence was suffocating.
Hours passed. You couldnât tell how many. You had lost all sense of time. The sun didnât reach this windowless place. The stones around you seemed to swallow whatever semblance of light reached under cracks entirely. You tried to pace in the narrow space, trying to feel the edges of your prison, but each step ended in nothing. You pressed your ear to the wall, imagined Jamesâs voice, imagined the fire, the warmth of the safehouse â anything. But the memory only made the ache in your chest worse.
At some point, your stomach growled, reminding you that hunger was still a concern. You had no food. The water was distant, if it existed at all. The thought of sustenance, small as it was, made your throat burn with tears you refused to shed. You couldnât cry, fighting the feeling only made it worse. Crying wouldnât save you, couldnât save you. It wouldnât bring James.
And then, quietly, a sound. Faint at first, like the scrape of a chair or the shuffle of boots. You froze. Heart hammering. Every nerve in your body screamed that you werenât alone.
The sound grew, deliberate, cautious. Donât let them know youâre afraid. Donât let them know youâre human.
Footsteps. Closer. Then a voice. Gravelly, low, almost mocking.
âFinally awake, are we?â
Your stomach dropped. The voice belonged to no friend. The air seemed heavier. Your breath caught in your throat.
Another laugh, cruel and cold. âYouâre alone now. Nobody to protect you. And your little friend out thereâŚâ He paused, letting the words sink in. ââŚhas no idea where you are. Heâs waiting, believing youâre safe. Isnât that just delicious?â
You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to scream. Not to react. Anger flared in your chest. I will not give them this satisfaction. I will not make them proud of me panicking.
The footsteps receded, leaving the dungeon darker, heavier than before. You pressed your back harder against the wall, hands shaking at your side. Every second stretched endlessly. Every drip of water, every tiny creak of stone, set your nerves on fire.
You closed your eyes, pressed your forehead to the wall, and allowed yourself a single promise: no matter what happened in this cold, dark place, you would survive. You would find a way. And James, somehow, would never have to regret leaving you behind.
âââââ
Somewhere miles away, in the bright, echoing halls of the Ministry, James waits by a cold green fire, his wand still drawn, his expression hardening as another figure steps through the flames.
Not you.
Dorcas.
Her face turned ghostly with confusion, her hands trembling as she stumbles forward out of the fireplace into the loud hallway. Older wizards and witches passed without second thought, all caught in their own world and concerns.
âWhereâs Y/N?â Dorcas whispers to herself, looking around the crowd.
Jamesâs heart stops. The green flames fade behind her. There is no second burst of light, no sign of you. Only empty air and the growing sound of alarms being raised.
âShe didnât make it through.â James realized, his demeanor suddenly becoming ridged with confusion.
âShe didn't make it though-â James repeats, senselessly looking into the fireplace Dorcas just emerged as if you perhaps hid in the crevices â stuck in the stone.
The anger tears out of him before he can stop it. He runs a shaking hand through his hair, his eyes wild as reality sets in â you didnât get lost in the Floo.
You were taken.
Dorcasâs eyes widened, searching his face. âWhat do you mean she didnât make it through?â
âI don't know!â he shouted, stepping back, fists clenching. âI⌠I donât know what happened!ââ His voice cracked, frustration and fear breaking through. âDid she say The Ministry? She didn't say anything else right?â His chest heaved with excuses for your absence , his mind finally settling on the worst.
âThey intercepted her. Someone got her before she made itâ
Dorcasâs hand found his arm, trying to ground him. âJames, listen to me. We need to think. Panicking isnât going to help her.â
James shook her off, pacing in front of the fireplace, the green glow reflecting in his frantic eyes. âCalm down? Calm down? Sheâs out there! Alone! Trapped! Who knows what theyâre doing to her! I shouldâve made sure she got through. I shouldâveââ
His fist slammed against the stone wall, echoing harshly. A few wizards paused at the sight, mumbling to themselves about the âyouth of todayâ. Dorcas gives a sympathetic look towards the onlookers and tries to reel James back.
The repeated sound of his fists against the hard stone startled Dorcas , but James barely noticed. His mind was a whirlwind of worst-case scenarios. Every moment you werenât in his sight was a thousand threats forming in his head.
James barely had a moment to catch his breath before movement at the edge of the green fire caught his attention. Sirius and Remus stepped through, landing on the floor of the ministry with a thud, wands at the ready. Relief washed over James for the briefest moment â familiar faces, allies, someone to share the weight of the chaos.
âJames! You made it!â Sirius exclaimed, grinning despite the tension. But his eyes quickly scanned Jamesâs face and froze, the grin faltering.
Remus followed closely, looking between the two of them. âWhereâs Y/N?â he asked cautiously, his brow furrowed.
James turned sharply, panic flaring again. âShe didnât come through. IâI think they intercepted her Floo. Sheâs not here.â His voice cracked, the words tumbling out faster than he could control.
Siriusâs grin vanished entirely. He ran a hand through his messy hair, his usual cocky confidence replaced by a flash of fear. âWhat do you mean she didnât come through? You went first, right?â
James nodded violently. âI went first. She was right behind me, and thenâ nothing. No fire, no landing, justâŚgone. I canâtâ she could be anywhere, trapped, scared, hurt!â His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
Remus placed a firm hand on James' back, mimicking Dorcas from moments before - though in good faith only made James more upset. . âAlright. Weâll figure this out. Calm down, James. Panicking wonât help her, and we need to be clear-headed if weâre going after her-â
James shook off the hand rudely, pacing in a tight circle. âClear-headed? Remus, sheâs alone! I canât just sit here while sheâsâwhile sheâs out there!â
Sirius moved closer, âThen we act, but smartly. We need to know exactly where they took her before we rush in. If we go in blind, itâll be worse for her.â
Jamesâs chest heaved, his frustration and fear spilling over. He hated feeling powerless. Every second Y/N was missing felt like hours, every heartbeat a cruel reminder that she might be in pain or worse. âWe canât waste time. She could beââ
âSheâs strong,â Dorcas cut in quietly but firmly. âAnd sheâs clever. Thatâs why weâre going to find her. But we need a plan.â
James looked up, his eyes wide and wild, yet desperate for guidance. âI⌠yes, butââ
Sirius sighed, tugging at his hair. âYes, what? But what? Youâve got to breathe, mate. You canât fix everything in one go, no matter how much you want to.â
James swallowed hard, the fire in his chest mingling with the gnawing anxiety. âI just⌠I just want her back,â he whispered.
âAnd you will,â Remus said, his voice steady. âWeâll get her. But we need patience, strategy. Right now, sheâs somewhere they think sheâs alone, but sheâs not powerless. Sheâll fight â sheâll buy us the time we need.â
James exhaled shakily, trying to steady himself. He glanced at Sirius, then Remus. The familiar presence of his friends grounded him for just a moment. But the knot in his stomach didnât loosen, and the green fire behind him seemed to flicker like it knew his heart was still racing.
âLetâs figure out where she is,â James said finally, voice tense but resolute. âNo matter what it takes, we bring her back. Alive.â
Remus nodded. âExactly. First, we need every scrap of information we can find. Contacts in the area, reports of Death Eater movements, intercepted magicâŚâŚwe need Dumbledore."
Jamesâs fists unclenched slightly, but the ache in his chest remained. Y/N was out there somewhere, and he could almost feel her, just beyond reach. He refused to let her down. Not now. Not ever.
And as they moved to gather information, they all silently vowed: whatever it took, they would bring her back.
ăL.L x ! Reader
ă fluff
ă When you start noticing Luna Lovegood, the girl everyone else overlooks, you donât expect her to notice you back. But between quiet walks, late-night stars, and the kind of understanding that feels like magic, you realize seeing her might change everything.
ă2.1k
[masterlist]
Much Love, Saige
ă request: @cherrypiedoven
ă taglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @ulearnnewthingseveryday @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee
You first notice Luna Lovegood in the way one notices a shift in the air â something soft, unassuming, but impossible to ignore once you feel it. Sheâs sitting by the window in the Great Hall, alone, her hair catching the sunlight like threads of pale gold. Thereâs a daisy tucked behind her ear, and her wand is resting delicately beside her pumpkin juice as though itâs part of some ritual she alone understands.
Youâd seen her before, of course. Everyone had. Looney Lovegood, they called her. Whispers passed around like sugar quills, sweet for the ones laughing, bitter for the one being laughed at. Youâd never joined in, but youâd never stepped in, either.
Until now.
It starts with something small: her quill rolling off the Ravenclaw table and clattering to the floor right by your shoes. When you bend down to pick it up, sheâs already looking at you. Not startled, not embarrassedâjust seeing you. Her eyes are silvery-gray and wide, as if sheâs been waiting for this moment all along.
âOh,â she says in that dreamlike voice of hers, âyou found it. Thank you. I was wondering if it would roll to you.â
You blink. âYou were⌠wondering?â
She nods, serene. âThe Nargles have been moving things today. They like to test my luck.â
You smile before you can help it. âDid you pass?â
âPerhaps,â she muses, tapping the quill against her chin. âThey led it to you, didnât they?â
Itâs such an odd, perfectly Luna thing to say that you canât help but laugh. She doesnât laugh with you exactly, but her lips curl up faintly, and for a moment, it feels like youâre sharing something secret. Something quiet and kind.
Thatâs how it begins.
Over the next few days, you start noticing her more. In the library, where she hums softly while flipping through Herbology texts no one else ever checks out. In the corridors, where she walks as if the air parts just for her. Sometimes she stops mid-step to look out a window, smiling at something you canât see.
You catch yourself slowing down when you pass her, wondering what it is sheâs seeing.
It takes a week before you gather the courage to sit with her. The seat beside her in the Great Hall is usually empty, a sort of unspoken agreement among students that Luna Lovegood prefers solitude. But when you ask, âMind if I sit here?â she just beams at you.
âNo one ever asks that,â she says simply. âThey usually sit over there.â She gestures vaguely toward the cluster of Ravenclaws across the table, chatting loudly and pretending not to notice her.
âWell,â you reply, setting your plate down, âI think theyâre missing out.â
Her smile doesnât widen, but her gaze softens, like sunlight through frosted glass. âYou mean that.â
âI do.â
She studies you for a moment longer, as if trying to confirm something invisible. Then she goes back to stirring her porridge, adding sugar one slow spoonful at a time. âIâm glad you noticed,â she murmurs.
That becomes the pattern â your quiet lunches, your shared walks down to class, your small moments that no one else really sees. She tells you about the creatures her father writes about, the odd trinkets she keeps in her dormitory, and the way she thinks magic hums differently when people are kind.
And you tell her things, tooâsimple things, at first. What music you like, which subjects you hate, how you once fell asleep in the library and woke up with a book imprint on your cheek. She laughs softly at that, saying she likes how you tell stories, even the ordinary ones.
But it isnât until one chilly evening, when the two of you are walking back from Astronomy, that she says something that makes you stop in your tracks.
âPeople donât usually look at me,â Luna says, watching the stars with her head tilted back. âThey see the odd clothes, or the cork necklace, or the things I say, but not me.â
You swallow hard, unsure what to say. The words come out before you can stop them. âI see you, Luna.â
She turns to you then, eyes glimmering like starlight caught in glass. âI know,â she says softly. âThatâs why I like you.â
And just like that, something gentle unfurls between you.
Not magic, not exactlyâbut something that feels close to it.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
It happens gradually, like waking up before dawn â at first, you donât realize the world has changed. Youâre just aware of the quiet, the stillness, and the way something inside you hums differently when sheâs near.
Luna becomes part of your days without trying to. She sits beside you at breakfast, braiding bits of mistletoe into her hair and telling you how thestrals prefer the edges of the Forbidden Forest. She walks with you to class, humming under her breath, never quite in step with anyone but somehow always matching your pace.
She has this way of existing, untethered, impossible to predict. And you start realizing that you look for her in every room.
Thatâs when the conflict begins.
You donât mean to fall for Luna Lovegood. You donât even know when it started. Maybe it was the way she listens without judgment, or how she never looks away when you speakâ as though every word you say is important, worth treasuring. Or maybe it was the day she found you sitting alone by the lake, parchment scattered by the wind, and simply sat beside you, helping you chase stray pages without saying a word.
That was the first time you held her hand. Not because you meant to, but because your fingers brushed in the scramble, and she didnât pull away.
Now, you canât stop remembering it.
And yet, thereâs the other side of it. The voice in your head whispering that sheâs Luna Lovegood. People stare when youâre with her. They nudge each other, muttering about Looney Lovegoodâs new friend. You catch it in passing â laughter that trails behind you like smoke.
You tell yourself it doesnât matter. But it lingers anyway.
Because you know how cruel Hogwarts can be. And you canât stand the thought of hurting her, of being another person who sees her differently when the world starts whispering.
Luna, of course, seems entirely unbothered.
One afternoon, youâre sitting together under the beech tree by the lake, your bag open, books scattered in a careless circle. Sheâs lying on her back in the grass, hands folded on her stomach, eyes closed. The breeze catches the edge of her skirt and the strands of her pale hair.
âYouâre quiet today,â she says softly, eyes still closed.
âJust thinking,â you admit.
âAbout me?â
You freeze. âWhat makes you think that?â
She opens her eyes, smiling faintly. âBecause you look at me like youâre trying to understand something you already know.â
The words hit you square in the chest. You want to tell her â yes, about how you canât stop thinking about her laugh, or the way her hand fits against yours, or how she makes you feel lighter just by sitting beside you. But you donât. You just shake your head, smiling weakly.
âMaybe I am,â you say.
Luna doesnât push. She never does. She only tilts her head toward the sky, eyes following a cloud drifting lazily by.
âYou know,â she murmurs, âwhen I was younger, I used to think the clouds were alive. That they floated down at night and whispered secrets into the ears of people who were kind enough to listen.â
âWhat kind of secrets?â
She turns back to you then, that faraway look softening into something startlingly real. âThe kind that make you feel brave.â
You swallow hard. Because sitting here with her, you feel exactly thatâbrave.
The next day, she finds you in the corridor, her hand reaching out to tug at your sleeve. âCome with me,â she says, and before you can ask where, sheâs already leading you up a staircase that seems to move of its own accord.
You end up in the Astronomy Tower. The view is breathtakingâthe whole castle bathed in late afternoon light, shadows spilling over the grounds.
âI come here when the noise gets too loud,â Luna says quietly. âItâs easier to breathe up here.â
You glance at her, seeing how the sunlight paints her hair silver, how her expression is both calm and achingly open. Youâve never known anyone like herâso unafraid to be strange, so completely herself.
And you realize, suddenly, that the conflict you feel isnât about her at all. Itâs about you.
Youâre afraidâof being seen, of caring too much, of letting her mean something.
But when she looks at you, really looks, all that fear starts to unravel.
âThank you for noticing me,â Luna says softly, almost to herself. âI think I forgot what that felt like.â
You want to tell her that you couldnât not notice her if you tried. That youâve tried to convince yourself this is nothing, but it feels like everything.
Instead, you say, âYou make it hard not to.â
She smiles then, wide and bright and real.
And as the wind picks up around you, carrying the scent of grass and sky, you thinkâmaybe this is what the clouds whisper about.
Maybe this is what it feels like to be brave.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The nights are beginning to cool, autumn threading itself through the air with each passing breeze. The castle feels different at night, quieter, gentler. You and Luna have made a habit of wandering after curfew, barefoot down the stone corridors, your laughter kept just low enough not to wake the portraits.
Youâre not sure when these late-night walks became a ritual, but they feel like something sacred.
Tonight, she leads you again to the Astronomy Tower. The stars spill overhead in endless silver, the moon cutting a soft glow across her face. Youâve both brought blankets and a handful of chocolate frogs you nicked from the kitchens. Luna lets one hop away just to âsee where itâs going,â and you canât stop laughing as she waves it goodbye.
When you finally settle down, youâre sitting shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in the same blanket, warmth pooling between you. The silence isnât uncomfortable. It never is with her.
âDo you ever feel,â Luna says after a while, âlike youâre meant to find certain people? Like the world folds itself in half just to make sure you meet them?â
You glance over. âIs that what you think happened with us?â
Her smile is soft, thoughtful. âYes. I think you were meant to find me.â
You feel that familiar ache in your chest again, the one thatâs been growing quietly since you met her. You want to say something, but the words feel too big, too clumsy for a moment this delicate.
Instead, you whisper, âAnd you were meant to find me.â
The wind shifts. Lunaâs hair brushes your cheek, silken and cool. She doesnât move away, and neither do you.
For a long time, the two of you just sit like that, breathing the same air, your fingers brushing in the space between. You can feel her heartbeat, faint but steady, a rhythm that somehow syncs with yours.
âI used to think being alone meant I was strange,â Luna says quietly. âThat people looked through me because there wasnât anything to see.â
You turn to her fully. âThey were wrong.â
Her eyes meet yours â silver, steady, luminous. âYou really see me, donât you?â
Itâs not a question that needs answering. You think she already knows.
But still, you nod. âI do.â
And then she smiles, small and trembling, like the moment before a candle flickers out. âI see you too.â
Something in you breaks open at that, something soft and long-hidden. The air between you feels charged now, alive with every unspoken thing thatâs been sitting quietly in your chest.
Without thinking, you reach for her hand. She meets you halfway, fingers curling around yours as if theyâve always belonged there.
The world seems to hush around you.
âI donât think Iâve ever had this,â she says after a while, voice barely above a whisper. âSomeone who makes me feel⌠real.â
You squeeze her hand gently. âYou are real. You always were.â
The silence after that isnât empty â itâs full. The kind that hums with meaning. The kind that feels like a heartbeat.
And somewhere in that silence, you both realize itâquietly, fully. That whatever this is between you, itâs already begun.
She shifts closer until her head rests against your shoulder. You can smell her hair, faintly of rain and wildflowers. Her voice comes softer now, almost sleepy.
âI think the stars are jealous,â she murmurs.
âOf what?â you ask, smiling into her hair.
âOf us. We shine brighter tonight.â
You laugh under your breath, holding her hand tighter. The stars glitter overhead as if theyâre agreeing.
And for the first time in a long while, you donât feel like youâre looking for somethingâyou feel like youâve found it.
ă S.B x Arranged Marriage! Reader
ă Angst // SLOW BURN // one sided relationship // happy ending!
ăAn arranged marriage kept them under the same roof, but years of quiet indifference left them strangers in their own home. When Sirius finally shows a new, unexpected vulnerability, Y/N must decide whether to trust himâor let the distance between them become permanent.
ă8.3k
ăRequest: ashdreams2023
ăTaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @pottermagiczz
ăA/N: i apologize for how long this took but i absolutely loved this angsty little piece <3
Much love, Saige
[masterlist]
The Black family had always been bound by blood, but Sirius Black had long since learned that blood was a chain, not a comfort.
He had escaped its pull once â stormed out of Grimmauld Place at sixteen, slammed the door behind him, and sworn never to return. But the irony of fate, as it often did, found its way back to him years later in the form of a signature on parchment.
An arranged marriage.
A peace offering.
A way, his motherâs letter had said, to ârestore the Black familyâs dignity.â
Heâd laughed when he first read it; a dry, humorless sound that didnât reach his eyes. He had no reason to humor her, no reason to involve himself with the ghosts of his lineage. But the war was ending, the Order was quieter now, and his defiance had dulled with exhaustion. Somewhere between the funerals and the rebuilding, he had stopped fighting everything on sight.
So when the proposal came, a match arranged years ago by family tradition, meant to bind the Black name to another ârespectableâ pure-blood house, Sirius didnât tear it up. He didnât even scoff.
He simply signed.
And thatâs how he met you.
You werenât cruel. You werenât vain. You werenât anything the Blacks had been known for. That, perhaps, was the problem. You were polite, careful, quiet â an echo in a house that had once been full of shouting.
The wedding was small, the kind that left more whispers than memories. Sirius had shown up late, smelling faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. Youâd worn a soft gray gown that your mother said was âunderstated but elegant.â
He hadnât said you looked beautiful.
He hadnât said anything at all.
Now, months later, Grimmauld Place was too big for two people who barely spoke.
You slept in the same bed. You ate the same dinners. You smiled at the same guests who came to call â old friends, new acquaintances, members of the Order who congratulated you both with a knowing grin. You called him husband in public, the word tasting foreign every time. He called you wife with that easy charm of his, voice smooth enough to make anyone believe he meant it.
But behind closed doors, it was different.
There were nights he reached for you, only because it was expected â because you were his wife, and he was your husband, and that was what married people did. His hands were always gentle, his kisses practiced. But they were never for you. They were obligations wrapped in warmth. When he turned away afterward, falling asleep without a word, you lay awake staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.
It wasnât hatred that lingered between you. It was something worse â indifference.
He treated you kindly, almost too kindly, as though afraid to bruise a fragile thing. He asked about your day, but not because he wanted to know. He complimented your dress at dinner parties, but only when someone else might overhear. He never yelled. He never scowled. He never cared enough to.
And yet, somehow, you couldnât bring yourself to despise him.
Because sometimes, in the smallest, most fleeting moments.. you caught glimpses of the man beneath the distance. The way his voice softened when he spoke of James. The quiet grief in his eyes when he thought no one noticed. The way he always made sure you walked on the inside of the pavement when you went out together, as if protecting you was a reflex he couldnât suppress.
Those tiny fragments of tenderness were enough to keep hope alive â a cruel, fragile thing that refused to die.
You had been married six months when the silence began to feel heavier than the walls around you. You tried to fill it; with books, with chores, with conversation. Youâd talk about the garden you wanted to plant, or the stray cat that came to the window sometimes. Sirius would nod, half-listening, and then disappear into his study.
He was always disappearing.
Sometimes, youâd hear the low murmur of his voice from that room â old friends, most likely. Sometimes Remus, sometimes Order business. You never asked. You werenât sure if it was your place.
You had stopped expecting warmth. You simply learned to exist in the spaces between his life and yours.
Until one evening, something shifted; not enough to change anything, but enough to make you notice.
It was late, the fire low and the house quiet. Sirius came in from the cold, shaking snow from his hair, his shoulders dusted with frost. You were reading by the hearth, blanket wrapped around your legs, when he paused at the doorway. For a brief moment, he just looked at you â as if seeing you properly for the first time. The flicker of recognition in his gray eyes startled you.
âYouâre still up,â he said, voice rough from the cold.
You nodded. âCouldnât sleep.â
He hesitated, then moved closer to the fire. You watched the light play across his features â the tired eyes, the faint scar along his jaw, the weight he carried like a shadow. He smelled faintly of smoke and winter.
For once, the silence didnât feel entirely unbearable.
âYou should rest,â he murmured after a while. âItâs late.â
âSo should you,â you replied quietly.
He almost smiled. Almost.
And then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. He turned away, retreating toward the stairs.
âGoodnight, wife,â he said, not looking back.
You closed your book, heart aching at how easily the word wife could sound so empty.
âGoodnight, husband,â you whispered into the quiet.
And though he didnât hear you, you wished â more than anything â that he had.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You began to take notice of some little things first.
The way Sirius preferred his tea â black, no sugar. The way he leaned back in his chair when he read, one ankle crossed over his knee. The music he sometimes played in the study, low and scratchy, old records of Muggle rock bands he mustâve picked up in his wilder years.
You didnât know when exactly you started trying to please him.
Maybe it was the silence, heavy and constant, pressing against your ribs. Maybe it was the small ache that came from watching him laugh at something Remus said, a laugh that never seemed to belong to you.
So, you started small.
You brewed his tea the way he liked it â dark, strong. When you brought it to his study, he barely glanced up from his parchment. âThanks,â he muttered absently, taking the cup without looking at you.
He didnât notice the way youâd taken the time to warm the mug beforehand.
Next came dinner. You asked Kreacher to prepare things Sirius liked â roast chicken, potatoes, buttery rolls, dishes that made him nostalgic for the meals at the Pottersâ home, before everything went wrong.
When you called him to the table, he was late. You waited, watching the food cool until finally his footsteps echoed down the hall.
âThis looks good,â he said with a faint smile, taking his seat. You smiled back, foolishly relieved. But halfway through the meal, you realized he wasnât really tasting it. He was just⌠eating. Like it was habit, like you couldâve served anything and he wouldnât have noticed the difference.
Still, you tried again.
You found a record he might like â one of those old Muggle albums with a guitar riff he always hummed under his breath. One evening, while he sat by the fire with a book, you put it on quietly.
His head lifted a little, gray eyes flicking to you, something almost surprised in them.
âThis is⌠good,â he said softly.
You smiled, heart thudding. âI thought youâd like it.â
He nodded, the faintest curve of his mouth there for only a second. And then he went back to reading.
The record spun on, filling the empty house with the sound of something that used to mean freedom. You sat nearby, pretending to read too, though your eyes stayed on him instead. Watching the way his thumb traced the edge of the page, the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way he seemed entirely untouched by the effort youâd made.
You werenât expecting gratitude. You werenât even expecting affection. You just wanted something â a flicker of interest, a trace of awareness that you were trying to reach him. But he stayed the same, polite and distant.
It was almost worse than anger.
A few nights later, you wore something new. A soft dress in a color heâd once mentioned liking, a passing remark months ago that had somehow stayed with you. You joined him for dinner again, nerves making your hands shake slightly as you poured the wine.
He didnât seem to notice.
His eyes skimmed over you with the same detached politeness he offered anyone else. He asked how your day had been. You told him about the book you were reading. He nodded. That was all.
The next morning, you woke before him. He was lying on his side, turned away, hair messy against the pillow. The light from the window traced the line of his back beneath the sheets. You stared for a long moment, wondering what it might be like to reach out â to touch him just because you wanted to, not because it was expected.
But you didnât.
Instead, you slipped quietly out of bed, dressing in silence, pretending that the ache in your chest wasnât growing heavier by the day.
Later that week, you overheard him talking to Remus in the study. You hadnât meant to listen, you were passing by, tray in hand, but his voice caught your attention.
âSheâs been⌠different lately,â Sirius said, tone uncertain. âDoing things I like. Playing old records. Cooking things I used to eat with James.â
Remusâs voice was low, thoughtful. âSheâs trying, Sirius.â
âI donât know why,â Sirius admitted after a pause. âWe both know what this is. I didnât ask forââ He stopped, exhaling. âShe deserves someone who looks at her properly. I canât force that.â
Your heart sank before he even finished. You moved away before you could hear Remusâs reply, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.
That night, you said nothing at dinner. Neither did he.
When he reached across the table to refill your glass, his hand brushed yours by accident. He looked up, startled â and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his expression, something softer than pity, something almost human.
But then it was gone. He drew back, clearing his throat. âYouâre quiet tonight,â he said.
âIâm just tired,â you answered, forcing a small smile.
He nodded, as if that explained everything.
Later, when you lay beside him in the dark, listening to the faint sound of his breathing, you wondered if heâd ever notice you for more than the space you occupied â if there was ever going to be a day when being his wife didnât feel like pretending to be someone elseâs ghost.
And though you didnât mean to, you whispered it into the night anyway.
âI wish youâd see me.â
He didnât stir.
But in his sleep, Sirius shifted just slightly closer, his hand brushing yours beneath the sheets â unaware, unintentional, but enough to make your eyes sting all over again.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
For the first time in months, Sirius noticed you. Maybe it was because of the humility Remus gave him in conversation that night, or the small whispers of prayer from you that slipped into his mind as he slept beside you.
But he didn't see you properly, not the way a man notices a woman heâs in love with â but in fleeting, unguarded moments that slipped past his defenses before he could reason them away.
It started in the mornings.
Heâd come downstairs to find you already awake, hair pinned back neatly, sunlight falling across your face as you poured tea. Youâd glance up when you heard him, offering that same quiet smile â the one heâd always taken for politeness. But lately, he realized, it wasnât polite at all. It was gentle. Earnest. Real.
He didnât know when heâd stopped believing sincerity could exist in his world.
âGood morning,â you said one day, voice soft.
âMorning,â he replied automatically, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitated before taking his cup. âYouâre up early.â
âI wanted to watch the sunrise,â you said. âItâs clear today.â
He nodded, pretending he didnât notice how peaceful you looked in that light, like you belonged to something he could never quite touch. He turned away before it could mean anything.
But it did.
He caught himself watching you sometimes. At dinner. In the garden. When you passed him a dish and your fingers brushed. There was no reason for it â no desire, no spark he could name. Just a strange, quiet awareness that had begun to unsettle him.
Heâd been trying not to think about what Remus had said the other day.
âSheâs trying, Sirius.â
He hadnât meant to sound cold, but he knew he had. He hadnât wanted a wife. He hadnât wanted this. But now that he had it â now that you were here, so careful, so patient â something in him began to shift.
It made him uncomfortable.
Guilt had a way of doing that.
He started noticing details heâd missed before.
How you always tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were nervous. How you hummed softly while reading. How you looked up when he entered a room, like you were waiting for something â even if you didnât expect it to come.
You never asked for more. Never demanded affection. You simply existed quietly beside him, filling the house with the sound of someone who was trying not to disturb.
He caught himself wondering what it would take to make you smile, really smile. Not the one you gave for the sake of peace, but something that reached your eyes. And then heâd curse himself for caring, because he wasnât supposed to.
Not like that.
One evening, he came home earlier than usual. You were sitting on the floor by the fireplace, legs folded beneath you, an open book in your lap. You looked up, startled, when you saw him.
âOh,â you said, standing too quickly. âYouâre home early.â
He gave a small shrug, shedding his coat. âThought Iâd give Kreacher the night off from cursing me.â
You smiled faintly. âHe does seem to enjoy that.â
For the first time, Sirius chuckled â a real, genuine sound. You blinked, as though you hadnât heard it before. Maybe you hadnât.
He moved closer, leaning against the mantel. âWhat are you reading?â
You showed him the cover. âSomething Muggle. A novel about second chances.â
He tilted his head. âDo they get one?â
âIâm not sure yet.â You looked down, tracing the page. âBut I hope they do.â
Something about that, the quiet longing in your tone, stuck with him. He nodded slowly, eyes lingering on you longer than they should have.
You turned back to your book, pretending not to notice.
The next day, he found himself in Diagon Alley without a plan. Heâd meant to pick up parchment and ink. Somehow, he ended up in a small shop that sold both Muggle and wizarding books. He wasnât sure why he was there, but when he saw a display of novels near the window, his hand moved before his mind caught up.
He bought one. A simple paperback â something about a woman who wanted to be seen.
That night, he left it on the armchair beside your favorite reading spot. He didnât say a word. You didnât mention it either, but the next morning, he noticed the book was gone â and a small vase of fresh flowers sat on his desk in return.
Neither of you acknowledged the exchange. You didnât need to. It was the first unspoken language youâd shared since your wedding day.
After that, things changed in subtle ways.
Sirius lingered at breakfast a little longer. You waited up for him a little later. Conversations stretched a bit past formality. Once, his hand brushed yours as he handed you a cup, and instead of pulling away, he let the contact linger â a second too long, not enough to be called affection, but enough to make you look up.
He didnât say anything. Neither did you.
That night, he couldnât sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to your breathing beside him. He thought about your whisper from nights before â the one heâd half-heard in the dark, soft and almost broken.
I wish youâd see me.
He hadnât meant to hear it. Heâd been half-asleep, mind adrift. But heâd heard it, and it stayed with him.
He turned slightly, looking at you in the faint moonlight. Your back was to him, shoulders rising and falling in steady rhythm. You looked peaceful. He wondered if you ever dreamt of something better. Someone better.
He reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed a loose strand of hair from your face.
You stirred slightly but didnât wake.
âMaybe I do see you,â he whispered.
It wasnât quite true yet, but it was closer than yesterday.
He lay back, eyes open in the dark, wondering what it meant that he finally cared.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The first thing you noticed was how quiet youâd become.
Not the ordinary kind of quiet that had defined your marriage since the beginning â the polite, companionable silence of two people pretending they were fine. No, this was different. This was the sort of quiet that pressed down like a fog, heavy and endless, swallowing the edges of every word you tried to say.
It wasnât that youâd stopped trying overnight. It was more like the effort had finally worn you thin.
There had been hope, once. Little, foolish hope â fragile as spun glass. Youâd let it grow in secret, fed by small gestures and half-seconds of warmth. The book he left for you, the soft look in his eyes that night by the fire, the way he said good morning with something almost tender behind it. You had clung to those moments like a lifeline.
But days turned into weeks, and the small warmth faded back into routine. He was kind, yes. Always kind. He would hold the door for you, ask after your day, pour you wine at dinner. But kindness wasnât closeness. It wasnât love. It wasnât seeing you.
And maybe, you thought one evening as you brushed your hair in the mirror, maybe it never would be.
You stared at your reflection â the strands falling neatly around your shoulders, the gown youâd chosen carefully because you knew he liked the color blue. You looked⌠fine. Ordinary. Unremarkable. You wondered if that was what he saw when he looked at you â something decent, polite, unmemorable.
The sound of the front door opening echoed faintly through the hall. Sirius was home.
You straightened instinctively, brushing invisible wrinkles from your dress. It was pathetic, this reflex, the way your body still wanted to impress him, even when your heart knew better.
He came in, shaking off his coat, smelling faintly of the outside â cold air, tobacco, a trace of something smoky. His hair was mussed, his expression tired.
âYouâre home late,â you said softly.
âOrder meeting,â he replied, voice distracted. He glanced at you briefly, then away again. âYou didnât have to wait up.â
âI wasnât,â you lied.
He nodded absently, already halfway to the stairs. âLong day. Iâll see you in the morning.â
You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught. You just nodded, watching him disappear up the steps. The ache that followed was familiar -- dull, patient, merciless.
That night, when you joined him in bed, he was already asleep. Or pretending to be. You lay on your side, facing away from him, and realized you hadnât really been touched, truly touched, in weeks. Not since that last night heâd reached for you out of obligation. Not since youâd stopped pretending it meant something.
Something inside you broke quietly, the way glass breaks under water â soundless, invisible, absolute.
The next morning, you didnât make his tea.
You didnât wait for him at breakfast or join him in the study. You spent the day in the garden instead, sleeves rolled up, hands in the dirt. The cold bit at your fingers, but the ache was grounding â honest in a way nothing else in that house was.
When Sirius passed by the window that afternoon, he paused. You were kneeling by the rosebushes, brushing soil from your palms, the faintest trace of color in your cheeks. He hadnât seen you like that before â not the quiet, graceful figure who filled his house like furniture, but someone alive. Someone else.
He almost stepped outside. Almost. But the uncertainty stopped him, as it always did. He told himself you wanted space. He told himself you looked content. He told himself a dozen things to make the hesitation easier.
You didnât see him watching. You didnât care if he did.
By evening, you were exhausted â not from work, but from feeling. You had spent so long trying to be good, to be patient, to deserve his attention. And for what? The house still echoed the same way it always had.
When you came in for dinner, Sirius was at the table, a glass of wine in hand. He looked up, startled â maybe because you hadnât joined him in the morning, maybe because you hadnât waited.
âYou were gone all day,â he said.
You nodded, sitting down without meeting his gaze. âI needed air.â
âSomething wrong?â
You gave a faint laugh, bitter and soft. âYouâd notice?â
The question hung in the air. He frowned slightly, not defensive, just lost. âOf course I would.â
You looked at him then, really looked, and realized how tired he seemed. The faint lines around his eyes, the weight in his shoulders. You used to think that if he looked at you like that, youâd feel closer to him. But all it did now was make you feel smaller.
âI donât think you would,â you said finally. âNot really.â
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
You stood before he could find them, gathering your plate. âIâm going to bed.â
âYou havenât eaten,â he said quietly.
âIâm not hungry.â
Your footsteps echoed on the stairs, steady, final.
In your room, you undressed in silence. The mirror reflected someone you didnât recognize anymore â someone whoâd tried so hard to become what he might want that sheâd forgotten who she was before.
You thought of the girl youâd been before the marriage, the one who still believed in love, in choices, in warmth that came freely instead of being earned. You wondered if sheâd hate you now.
Sirius didnât come up right away. He sat alone at the table long after the candles burned down, your words replaying in his mind. Youâd notice?
It wasnât an accusation â it was too soft for that. It was worse. It was the sound of someone who had given up.
When he finally came to bed, you were already asleep, or at least pretending to be. He hesitated at the doorway, looking at you the way one looks at something fragile, afraid to touch it.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But he didnât know where to start. So instead, he sat at the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.
You opened your eyes then, just barely â enough to see the shape of him in the dark, hunched and lost.
He didnât see you looking.
And for the first time, you didnât feel the urge to comfort him. You just closed your eyes again, letting the distance settle like dust between you.
Maybe it was too late.
Maybe heâd finally started to notice, but youâd already run out of hope to give.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Sirius woke to an empty bed.
The sheets beside him were still faintly warm, the faint indentation of your body visible against the linen, but you were gone. The house was quiet in that thick, unsettling way that meant something had shifted. It wasnât the usual morning silence â the calm, habitual hush that came before the day began. No. This was absence.
He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The space between you felt wider now, heavy with things unsaid.
It wasnât that he hadnât noticed you pulling away. He had, in the way one notices a draft under a door, or a missing sound theyâd long since tuned out. It had started small: the empty teacup that used to wait for him on the desk, the soft hums that no longer filled the corridor, the way your chair at dinner was often left empty, replaced by a polite note on parchment: Ate earlier. Donât wait up.
He told himself it was nothing.
That you needed space.
That it was better this way.
But now, standing alone in the kitchen, with no trace of your quiet domestic presence, Sirius felt something sharp twist in his chest â not guilt exactly, not yet, but something close to it.
You had always been there, he realized.
In the rhythm of the house, the steadiness of each day. In the way the curtains were drawn back each morning to let in light. In the quiet meals that appeared when he forgot to eat. In the peace that existed despite him â despite his ghosts, despite the coldness heâd let settle between you.
You hadnât asked for much. Youâd never demanded affection or comfort or truth. Youâd just stayed. That was what made it worse.
He remembered your voice at dinner, low and tired.
âYouâd notice?â
He had no answer for it then. He still didnât.
Because the truth was simple: he hadnât.
Heâd built walls long before your marriage, and heâd let you live behind them like a polite stranger, all under the pretense of sparing you â as if indifference was a kindness.
But when had it turned into cruelty? When had he become his own familyâs ghost story, a man who could not love the person heâd vowed to protect?
By midday, Sirius found himself pacing the halls. He told himself he was looking for a book, but his eyes kept catching on traces of you instead.
A ribbon left on the windowsill.
A half-read novel by the chair.
A faint scent of lavender that lingered on the air.
He followed it into the garden.
You were there, kneeling among the rosebushes again, wearing that worn cardigan he always thought was too big for you. Your hair was loose today, a few strands caught by the wind. You looked⌠peaceful, he thought. And that was what scared him most.
âDidnât think you liked the cold,â he said quietly.
You turned your head slightly, but not enough to meet his eyes. âItâs better than sitting inside.â
He hesitated at the doorway, hands deep in his pockets. âYou shouldâve woken me.â
âI didnât see the point.â
The words were soft, but they hit harder than anything she could have shouted.
He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat tightened. So instead, he watched as you stood, brushing dirt from your palms. There was no anger in you, no spark left to fight with. Just quiet exhaustion.
âY/N,â he started, but you were already walking past him toward the house.
âIâll have dinner ready later,â you said.
And then, after a pause: âYou donât have to join me if youâre busy.â
He turned to watch you go, a strange panic settling in his chest.
For months heâd thought this distance was safety â that as long as you were polite and calm, things were fine. But now he realized how silence could rot a home faster than any fight ever could.
That evening, he didnât go out. He sat by the fire instead, alone, his mind restless. The house felt too large without you moving through it. Too hollow.
He thought about the little things youâd done â all the things heâd dismissed without a second glance. The dinners that had been for him. The music that had been his. The small, thoughtful gestures that had gone unnoticed because heâd decided they didnât matter.
How many had there been?
How many times had he looked at you and chosen not to see?
He thought of you sitting across from him at dinner, wearing that blue dress â the one that had made him pause for a heartbeat before looking away. Youâd looked beautiful that night. He hadnât said a word.
A low ache formed in his chest. Regret, sharp and unfamiliar.
When the clock struck ten, he went upstairs. The door to your room, your room now, he realized, was closed. A line had been drawn, silently but surely.
He knocked once.
âY/N?â
Silence.
He almost turned away, but then your voice came, quiet and careful: âYes?â
âI⌠wanted to say goodnight.â
There was a pause, long enough for him to feel foolish. Then: âGoodnight, Sirius.â
No bitterness. No warmth. Just polite distance, the same tone heâd used with you for months.
He closed his eyes, hand still resting against the door.
He had no one to blame but himself.
Later, lying awake in the dark, he couldnât shake the thought that this was how people left you. Not in anger or grief â but by degrees. Slowly, quietly, until one day you looked up and realized they werenât waiting for you anymore.
And maybe that was what scared him most of all.
Because for the first time since your wedding day, Sirius realized he didnât want you to leave.
Not the version of you who sat across from him like a stranger, but the one who had tried â the one whoâd smiled at him in the sunlight and hoped heâd look back.
Heâd missed her.
Heâd missed you.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The air in Grimmauld Place had grown thick with silence. Not the cold, angry kind that follows a fight, but the kind that grows quietly, like dust settling on things left untouched.
You had stopped trying to fill the void between you and Sirius. The effort had become too exhausting, and each attempt had been met with the same soft, polite indifference that had slowly chipped away at your hope.
Heâd always been civil, even kind at times. That was the worst part. Sirius wasnât cruel. He just wasnât there.
He sat across from you at dinner most nights, eating quietly, sometimes talking about work or things that didnât matter. And youâd nod, smile faintly, sip your wine, and tell yourself you were fine with that. Because if you didnât, you might shatter.
Lately, though, youâd begun to fade in your own home. You dressed simply, you spoke less. The fire in you, that quiet but persistent desire to be seen had dimmed.
You woke one morning before him, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. His arm was draped across your waist, heavy and absent, like muscle memory rather than affection. He looked peaceful, and you almost envied that.
You slipped out from beneath his arm carefully, dressing in silence. You didnât bother with your hair the way you used to, nor with the perfume he once called ânice.â
You made breakfast. For both of you, as always. But you didnât wait for him to join. You ate quietly by the window while the sky outside stayed pale and sleepy.
When he finally came down, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess, you barely looked up.
âMorning,â he said, voice still low from sleep.
âMorning,â you murmured, setting your cup down.
He hesitated. Normally, youâd have smiled â asked about his plans, tried to make conversation. Instead, you stood, placed your cup in the sink, and said, âIâll be out for a while.â
His brow furrowed slightly. âOut? Where?â
âJust⌠out.â
And then you left.
That became the new rhythm. You spent your days wandering the nearby streets, visiting small cafĂŠs, sitting in bookshops until the afternoon light began to fade. You didnât buy anything. You just⌠existed somewhere other than that cold, echoing house.
When you returned, he was often gone, sometimes at headquarters, sometimes out with James or Remus. When he was home, the two of you exchanged words out of habit more than desire.
He noticed the shift, but he didnât know what to do with it.
Heâd catch you humming softly while cleaning the sitting room, only to stop when he entered. You no longer asked him if he wanted tea, or if heâd eaten. You didnât press your hand against his arm in passing. You didnât fill the silence with pleasantries.
Youâd gone quiet.
And somehow, that silence was louder than anything heâd ever heard.
One evening, he found you in the study, seated by the fire. You didnât look up as he entered. Your book was open, but your eyes werenât moving across the page.
He lingered by the door, watching you for a long moment. The firelight made your features soft, tired, distant. You looked⌠older. Not in years, but in weariness.
âYouâve been out a lot lately,â he said finally.
âI have.â
âEverything alright?â
You nodded once. âYes.â
He waited for more, but nothing came.
âY/N,â he said, softer this time. âDid I do something?â
You blinked, finally looking at him. âDo something?â
He shifted, uneasy under your calm tone. âYouâre⌠different.â
You closed your book gently, setting it aside. âIâve stopped trying, Sirius.â
His brow creased. âTrying what?â
âTo be someone you might notice.â
He froze, lips parting, but you went on before he could speak.
âIâve spent months trying to make this⌠marriage something more than a name on paper. I tried to make you comfortable, to be kind, to be what I thought you wanted. But itâs exhausting trying to be chosen by someone who never wanted you to begin with.â
He exhaled slowly, guilt flickering across his face, but you werenât finished.
âI donât blame you,â you continued, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. âYou didnât ask for this either. I know that. But I canât keep pretending that this life doesnât ache. I canât keep setting a place for you in my heart when youâve never once stepped inside it.â
Siriusâs throat worked around words he couldnât form.
You stood, smoothing the front of your skirt. âYou donât need to say anything. Iâm not angry. Iâm just⌠tired.â
And with that, you left him in the flickering firelight, the faint scent of your lavender soap fading in the air.
That night, he couldnât sleep.
He lay awake staring at the ceiling, the same way you had that morning. The bed felt too large, too quiet. For the first time, he realized he hadnât actually seen you in weeks. Not really.
He thought of the mornings you used to hum while setting out breakfast, the gentle curve of your smile when he came home late. He thought of your perfume, the way it lingered on his robes even when he didnât notice.
Heâd taken it all for granted.
Now, all that warmth had goneâand the house felt like what it truly was: cold stone and obligation.
And Sirius Black, who had once sworn he would never be like the rest of his family, realized with a sick twist in his chest that he had become exactly like them.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Sirius returned home one late afternoon, the sound of the front door closing softly behind him. He didnât slam it, didnât curse under his breath about the endless creak of the hinges like he usually did.
There was something quieter about him. Something careful.
You noticed it first in the way his boots didnât drag against the floors; how his voice, when he greeted you, didnât echo through the hall like an afterthought.
âEvening,â he said from the doorway of the drawing room.
You looked up from the book in your lap, blinking at him. âEvening.â
He hesitated before stepping in. You could tell immediately that something was differentâhe didnât move with the same restless energy, that constant need to fill the silence. Instead, he seemed almost⌠hesitant.
He looked at you as though seeing you properly for the first time in a long while.
âI saw you walking back from the market earlier,â he said after a pause. âDid you... buy flowers?â
Your brow furrowed slightly. âYes. Just a few.â
âI havenât seen flowers in the house for months,â he murmured, glancing toward the vase on the mantle. The lilacs were small, delicate, the faintest trace of life against the gloom of Grimmauld Place.
You didnât answer.
Sirius shifted, running a hand through his hair. âThey look nice,â he said softly.
You nodded. âThank you.â
The silence stretched thin between you, full of unspoken things.
Over the next few days, you noticed little things, small shifts that didnât make sense.
The breakfast dishes were washed before you came downstairs one morning. He started leaving earlier, but returned at more reasonable hours. He no longer reeked of smoke and firewhisky. He lingered near the kitchen sometimes, asking if you needed help.
It wasnât much. But it was something.
And you didnât know what to do with that.
You had built your own armor, piece by piece. Indifference had become your refuge. Now, suddenly, he was showing cracks in his own, and you couldnât decide whether to look through them or turn away.
One afternoon, you were in the library, dusting shelves half-heartedly when he appeared in the doorway again.
He stood there a moment, arms crossed loosely, watching you. âYou still clean in here?â
âSomeone has to,â you replied, voice even.
He smiled faintly. âSuppose thatâs true.â
You turned back to the shelves. His footsteps approached slowly until he stood beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne â something he hadnât worn in so long.
âYou know,â he said quietly, âthis house never feels alive unless youâre in it.â
You froze, your hand pausing mid-wipe.
It was the sort of thing he mightâve said once, offhandedly charmingâ but this time, it sounded earnest.
You didnât look at him. âYou donât have to say things like that, Sirius.â
âIâm not saying it because I have to.â
You swallowed. âThen why now?â
He hesitated, and for a moment you thought he wouldnât answer. Then, softly:
âBecause Iâve been a fool. And I donât think I realized how much until you stopped looking at me.â
Your breath caught. Slowly, you turned to face him. His expression was unreadable â no smirk, no easy charm. Just quiet sincerity that unnerved you more than anything.
âI didnât think you wanted me to look at you,â you said carefully.
âI didnât know what I wanted,â he admitted, voice low. âBut I do know that this house feels colder without you in it. Thatâs not nothing.â
You stared at him, unsure what to believe. His words sounded genuine, but youâd built too much of yourself around disappointment to trust the warmth too quickly.
So you said nothing.
After a long moment, he nodded once, as if accepting that. âAlright,â he murmured. âIâll give you space.â
And then he left â quietly, like a ghost who knew better than to haunt too loudly.
That night, you lay in bed on your side, staring at the wall. Sirius came in late but sober, moving carefully so as not to disturb you.
You pretended to be asleep.
You felt the mattress dip as he settled beside you. Then, for the first time in months, his hand hovered uncertainly over your back. It didnât touch â but it stayed there, as though he wanted to bridge the distance but didnât yet feel entitled to.
And strangely, you found yourself listening to his breathing.
You didnât move. You didnât speak. But somewhere deep inside, something fragile stirred, a flicker of something that was not yet forgiveness, but not entirely indifference either.
In the morning, he was gone again, but the lilacs had been replaced with new ones.
And on the kitchen counter sat a folded note in Siriusâs handwriting:
âI know I canât undo the years I wasted. But Iâm here now. For whatever thatâs worth.â
You stared at it for a long time, unsure whether to smile or cry.
Because after all this time, you werenât sure if it was worth anything at all â or if it might finally be the start of something real.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The house had been quieter lately, but not empty, more like the air had shifted into something waiting.
You could feel it every time Sirius walked into a room â the tentative calm that followed him, like he was trying not to disturb something fragile.
It was strange to witness. For years, youâd grown used to the thunder of his presence: the loud laughter that filled corridors, the careless charm, the weight of his footsteps echoing off stone floors. Now, that recklessness had been replaced by patience.
You didnât know what to do with patience.
You decided to test it. Not cruelly, not to punish him â but to see if the new calm he wore so carefully was real, or just another mood that would pass like all the others.
It began with breakfast.
You rose early, as always, and made tea. You didnât expect him to join you â he rarely did â but halfway through your toast, you heard him coming down the stairs.
He looked surprised to see you still at the table. You normally finished before he ever appeared.
âMorning,â he said gently.
âMorning.â
He hesitated, then gestured toward the seat across from you. âMind if IâŚ?â
You nodded once. âGo ahead.â
He poured himself tea, quiet and careful, and when he reached for the sugar, you noticed something: heâd started taking three spoonful's.
You blinked. âYou like it sweet now?â
He glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. âTrying to be less predictable.â
You huffed a soft, unexpected laugh â small, but real. And he looked almost startled by it.
The silence that followed wasnât sharp this time. It was calm, like two people finally learning how to breathe in the same space.
You began noticing him more after that, not as the man youâd built from memory, but as someone different.
Heâd fix little things around the house: oil a hinge, mend a loose latch, clean the old family frames that had gathered dust. Youâd walk into a room to find him standing quietly, sleeves rolled up, hair falling over his face, muttering at stubborn screws or paint chips.
You didnât speak much, but you lingered.
One evening, you caught him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, trying to cook. The air smelled faintly of garlic and smoke. He looked up when you entered, eyes widening slightly.
âIâm aware this looks like a crime scene,â he said, motioning to the pan.
You leaned against the counter. âThatâs one word for it.â
âRemus swore I could make pasta,â he muttered, poking it with the spoon like it had personally offended him.
âRemus has too much faith.â
Sirius laughed, properly laughed, and it startled you. It wasnât loud or wild like before; it was softer, almost shy. He rubbed the back of his neck. âYou could always show me how itâs actually done.â
You tilted your head. âYouâd let me?â
âIâd beg you, if thatâs what it takes.â
So you did. You took the spoon from his hand, brushing fingers by accident, and tried not to think about how that tiny contact made something flicker in your chest.
The nights that followed were calmer. You still slept with space between you, but it didnât feel like a void anymore.
Sometimes, youâd find him reading in bed when you came in. Heâd glance up, offer a quiet âgoodnight,â and youâd answer without the cold edge that used to linger on your tongue.
There were no grand gestures, no sudden declarations. Just small moments that began to stitch themselves into the rhythm of your days.
One afternoon, you found yourself walking with him into the garden. The sun had made a rare appearance through the London haze, and Sirius looked almost younger in the light.
He paused beside the lilacs youâd planted, crouching slightly to touch a leaf.
âTheyâre surviving,â he said, almost to himself.
âTheyâre resilient,â you murmured. âI think they learned to adapt to this place.â
He glanced at you then, eyes soft. âYouâre talking about the flowers, or yourself?â
You felt your throat tighten, but you didnât look away. âBoth, maybe.â
His smile faltered into something sad and fond. âYou shouldnât have had to adapt to me.â
You didnât answer right away. The breeze rustled the lilacs. âPeople do what they must.â
He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didnât. Instead, he stood beside you in the sunlight until the moment felt whole again.
That night, you stood at the vanity brushing your hair. Sirius sat on the edge of the bed behind you, quiet, hands clasped between his knees.
You met his gaze in the mirror for a second â long enough to see hesitation in his eyes.
He rose slowly, stepping behind you. His reflection hovered close, uncertain.
âMay I?â he asked, nodding toward the brush in your hand.
Your heart stuttered. You hesitated, then passed it to him.
He began to brush through your hair carefully, gently, as if afraid you might break if he pressed too hard. His touch was slow, deliberate, reverent in a way that made your chest ache.
It wasnât intimate in the usual sense. It was quiet, almost sacred.
When he was done, he set the brush down and said softly, âYou deserve more than what Iâve given you.â
You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. âMaybe,â you murmured. âBut Iâm still here, arenât I?â
His breath caught. You stood, brushing past him gently, and slipped into bed.
For the first time in years, when he followed, you didnât turn away.
You werenât ready to believe in him fully. Not yet. But you no longer flinched from the hope that maybe, just maybe, he was trying.
And for now, that was enough.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
It had been weeks since Siriusâs quiet transformation began, and though the walls of Grimmauld Place still loomed heavy with its shadows, something in the air had shifted entirely.
You felt it every time he was near, that almost-electric awareness, the ache of something unspoken sitting just beneath the surface. Youâd begun to move around each other like magnets, careful not to touch, careful not to draw too close, because you both knew what might happen if you did.
But tonight, the restraint frayed.
The storm outside had rolled in quietly, the kind that hummed low through the walls, making the lamps flicker and the air hum. You were in the study, pretending to read, the sound of rain tapping against the window.
Sirius stood by the fireplace, half in shadow, his shirt sleeves rolled, the amber glow cutting along his jaw. You could feel his eyes on you â not the absent kind of looking he used to do, but something heavy and searching.
You turned a page you didnât read. âYouâre staring.â
He didnât deny it. âYouâve changed.â
âSo have you.â
He smiled faintly, but it wasnât playful. âNot enough, maybe.â
You looked up then, meeting his gaze. There it was â the weight of years spent circling one another, all the longing and exhaustion and quiet affection tangled into something that finally demanded to be seen.
âWhy now?â you asked softly. âWhy only start trying when I finally stopped?â
Sirius took a slow step closer, then another, his voice low. âBecause I was afraid of wanting something I didnât think I could have.â
âAnd what is it you want now?â
He was close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him, the scent of rain and smoke in his clothes. He looked down at you, his voice barely above a whisper.
âYou,â he said. âBut not the way I was supposed to. The way I do now.â
Something inside you cracked â a quiet, fragile thing that had been holding everything in place for years. You rose slowly from your chair, and suddenly, the space between you was gone.
He reached out first, fingers brushing against your jaw as if asking permission. When you didnât pull away, he cupped your face fully, thumb tracing the edge of your cheek.
âYou shouldnât look at me like that,â you whispered.
âLike what?â
âLike you mean it.â
âI do,â he said, and then he kissed you.
It wasnât gentle at first, it was desperate, all the years of silence and unspoken words breaking open in one sharp exhale.
His hands tangled in your hair, your fingers caught against his collar, and you kissed him back like youâd been waiting a lifetime to remember how. Lips parted, tongues grazing each others teeth in rushed decisions, hands gripping each other as if never needing anything more in the world.
The storm outside cracked loud against the windows, but neither of you moved from each other.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless.
âI donât deserve this,â he murmured.
âThen earn it,â you said, voice trembling but sure.
Something in him broke at that , you felt it in the way he kissed you again, slower this time, as though memorizing the taste of forgiveness. His hands slid around your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart against yours.
You didnât think. You didnât need to. You just let yourself fall into the warmth youâd both been starving for.
The book slipped forgotten to the floor. The fire cracked and flared. His lips found yours again and again, hungry, reverent, lingering â each kiss more certain than the last, each breath a confession he couldnât speak aloud.
When you finally broke apart, neither of you spoke for a long moment. His thumb traced your bottom lip, still swollen from the kiss, and he smiled faintly.
âI think,â he said softly, âthis is the first time this house has ever felt alive.â
You pressed your forehead against his chest, closing your eyes as his arms came around you.
For the first time, there was no distance left to bridge.
And in that quiet, storm-lit room, the two of you finally let the walls crumble â not in anger or obligation, but in something that felt dangerously close to love.
ă J.P x Arranged Marriage! Reader
ă mentions of violence! Blood! / angst / arranged marriage ă The pain of silence only took you both over the edge.
ă 6.1k
ăA/N: lowkey surprised we got to part 10 im ngl
[masterlist]
Much Love, Saige
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ă taglist :@littlemadamred@raiweasley@iluvhrj@hoeforlifee@a1ienmush @justheretoreadmydear @simp-for-fiction @sparklingmoomin @amarauder @moonlightremblack @kenkozkmg @facetiouslady @pottermagiczz
The drawing room was entirely too small for two people.
It smelled of dust and candle wax, and the fire in the grate burned low, barely more than a smolder, a weak orange glow trembling against the dark-paneled walls.
You sat curled at one end of a velvet settee that looked older than the house itself, your knees drawn to your chest. Across from you, James sat stiffly in an armchair, elbows on his thighs, eyes fixed on the flames as if the right pattern of embers might tell him how to escape.
The silence between you was thick.
Not peaceful. Not comfortable.
It felt arranged.
Outside the door, there were no footsteps, no muffled voices â not even the creak of the manor settling. It was as though the world had been muted, as though someone had turned the volume of reality down to zero.
You shifted slightly, your fingers tracing the seam of the settee. âHow long have they been gone?â
James didnât look up. âTwo hours.â
You frowned. âYouâre sure?â
He finally turned toward you then, eyes sharp, tired. âYou think Iâve stopped counting?â
You bit the inside of your cheek. Two hours. The longest stretch youâd been left unguarded since your arrival. It shouldâve felt like freedom. Instead, it felt like a trap.
James leaned back, glancing toward the single window half-hidden behind heavy green curtains. âTheyâre watching,â he muttered. âThey want to see what weâll do.â
The way he said it, quiet but certain, made the small hairs on your arms rise.
âMaybe,â you whispered, âtheyâre testing us.â
He laughed under his breath, but it wasnât amusement. It was disbelief. âIf this is a test, what do you think the right answer is? Sit still and look obedient?â
You didnât answer. Because that was what they wanted, wasnât it? You, docile. Him, broken. The perfect couple crafted from bloodlines and obedience.
James stood suddenly, the old chair creaking beneath him. The sound was almost violent in the silence.
âJamesââ
He ignored you, crossing the room in a few strides. His movements were careful but taut, as though every step took more restraint than he had to give. He stopped near the fireplace, glancing up at the mounted mirror above the mantelpiece.
âThatâs not a mirror,â he said quietly.
You frowned. âWhat?â
He reached out and brushed his fingers along the gilt edge. A faint shimmer rippled through the glass. âScrying charm. Someoneâs been watching.â
Before you could respond, he took the poker from the hearth and smashed the mirror in a single, decisive blow. Shards of silvered glass clattered to the floor like rainfall.
The sound echoed far too loud for comfort.
You both froze.
Somewhere above you, the old pipes groaned, a shudder running through the walls â like the manor itself had taken a breath.
You whispered, âIf they didnât know we were awake beforeââ
âThey do now,â James said, chest rising and falling fast. âGood.â
He turned to you, eyes burning with something that looked like both fury and defiance.
You stood too, drawn toward him, even as your stomach twisted. âWe canât justââ
âYes, we can,â he cut in sharply. âWe can stop letting them make us afraid of our own shadows.â
His voice softened then, almost breaking. âI canât keep doing this, Y/N. Sitting here waiting for them to decide whatâs next.â
You stepped closer until you were standing just across from him, the firelight flickering between you. âThen what do we do?â
He swallowed, eyes flicking to the shuttered window again. âWe find a way out.â
âYou think there is one?â
His jaw set. âThere has to be.â
You wanted to believe him. You wanted to hold on to that same defiance that made him burn so bright even in this darkness. But the truth was heavier â the air around you was thick with enchantments, with the faint hum of wards woven into the very bones of the manor.
Still, you nodded. âThen we wait until dark.â
Jamesâs expression softened at that. He reached out, brushing his fingers against yours, not quite holding your hand, but close enough to feel the tremor of your pulse.
âUntil dark,â he echoed.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The house creaked. The fire hissed. And somewhere, distantly, something shifted in the hall â the soft scrape of boots, or perhaps just your imaginations conjuring ghosts.
But when you looked back at him, the silence between you wasnât empty anymore.
It was full â of fear, of longing, of a single, shared promise neither of you dared to say aloud:
Weâre getting out of here.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The sun refused to set.
It dragged itself across the gray sky in slow, reluctant arcs, spilling colorless light through the heavy curtains of the drawing room. Each slant of it across the floorboards felt cruelly deliberate â a reminder that time was passing, but not quickly enough.
You sat on the arm of the sofa, staring at the old grandfather clock that ticked against the far wall. Its rhythm was maddening. Every click echoed through the hollow quiet like a countdown.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
James was pacing again. Heâd worn a thin path into the rug by now â ten steps forward, a pause, ten steps back. His hands kept flexing at his sides, the skin raw from the earlier punishment. He didnât seem to notice.
âHow long?â you asked quietly.
He didnât look at the clock. âAn hour. Maybe less.â
Your stomach turned. Theyâd told you at dawn that the ceremony would continue tonight, before the Dark Lord himself. Whatever that meant. Whatever they planned to make you say, or do.
An hour.
An hour until it began again.
James stopped pacing only when he heard your breath hitch. His eyes flicked to you, then to the clock, and he ran a hand through his hair, trying to find words. âWe canât wait until dark,â he said finally.
You blinked. âYou meanâ?â
âI mean we canât wait at all.â
He crouched down beside the couch on his knees, lowering his voice. âTheyâll come for us before the sun sets. We wonât get another chance.â
You stared at him, really stared, and for a heartbeat, he looked like the James you used to know at school. Reckless, desperate, but always with a plan. Except this wasnât Hogwarts. This was hell dressed in silk and gold, and a misstep here didnât end with detention; it ended with blood.
âJames,â you whispered, âwe donât even know where we are.â
âIâve been listening to the guardsâ rotations,â he said quickly, his voice hushed but sure. âThereâs one who goes down the east corridor every thirty minutes. The moment he passes, thereâs a window, just a few minutes, but itâs something.â
You glanced toward the shuttered glass, toward the faint glimmer of fading daylight behind it. âAnd after that? What then? We get out and whatâ run?â
âIf we can get past the wards, yes.â
âIf?â you repeated, the word trembling in your throat. âYou donât even know if itâs possible.â
He stood then, voice harder. âI donât care if itâs possible.â
You flinched. He realized his tone and softened, sitting down beside you instead. âIâm not losing you to them,â he said quietly. âNot like this.â
The words shouldâve comforted you. Instead, they sank under your skin like heat, leaving you hollow and cold all at once. Because you could see it â the faint tremor in his hands, the way his eyes darted toward every shadow like he expected something to leap out.
You wanted to believe him. You wanted to hope.
But hope had gotten both of you trapped here.
The clock struck the half-hour, the sound slicing through the still air. Both of you froze, counting the chimes.
Jamesâs hand brushed yours, a reflex, quick but grounding. You could feel his pulse through his fingertips.
âThirty minutes,â he murmured.
You nodded slowly, eyes still on the clock. âDo we⌠tell them no?â
He frowned. âTell who no?â
âThem.â You gestured faintly toward the world beyond the door, the Death Eaters, the old families, your parents. âWhen they ask us to⌠to continue the vow. To kneel. To swear whatever they want.â
Jamesâs throat bobbed as he swallowed. âIf we say no, theyâll kill us.â
âIf we say yesâŚâ you trailed off, the meaning settling heavy between you.
He looked at you then â really looked. And in that glance was everything unspoken between you, the whole tangled history: the years of rivalry, the weeks of truce, the shared glances in the dark.
âIâll find a way,â he said finally. âEven if I have to burn this place down.â
You wanted to laugh, to call him reckless and stupid, to shake him for the way he still thought he could fight the world and win, but the truth was, you needed to believe him. You needed his defiance like you needed air.
The clock ticked again. Louder this time. You swore it was speeding up.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound filled your head until you couldnât tell if it was the clock or your heart. You pressed your palms to your knees, grounding yourself, breathing through the panic.
Outside the curtained window, the light began to dim â at last, mercifully, the first breath of evening brushing through the clouds.
James stood, moving toward the glass. âItâs almost time.â
Your voice was barely a whisper. âWhat if itâs a trick?â
âThen weâll face it together.â
He turned to you then, extending his hand. Not a command. Not a demand. Just an offer.
You hesitated, looking at that hand, the bruises on his knuckles, the faint tremor beneath his skin, and then you took it.
âTogether,â you said softly.
And as the last of the daylight bled from the window, the clockâs ticking seemed to grow louder still â a merciless metronome counting down the seconds to whatever awaited beyond those doors.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The clock struck seven.
The sound split through the stillness of the drawing room â a sharp, echoing toll that made both of you freeze.
James lifted his head from where heâd been crouched by the window, his breath catching as the faint shuffle of boots sounded just beyond the door. The guard was moving. Right on time.
The clock ticked again.
And suddenly, the air changed.
âNow,â James mouthed, his voice nothing but a breath.
You nodded, though your hands were trembling so hard you had to clutch your skirt to keep them still. Every instinct screamed against the movement, against the risk â but staying wasnât an option anymore.
He crossed the room in three soundless strides, fingers working the latch on the window. It creaked faintly, a whimper of protest that sent both of your hearts leaping into your throats. James winced but didnât stop, pushing the pane open just wide enough for you to see the sprawling garden below â dark hedgerows, an iron gate glinting faintly in the dying light.
Freedom.
Or something like it.
He turned back to you, eyes wide and burning. âYou first.â
You shook your head, whispering, âNo ââ
But he was already helping you onto the ledge, his hand steadying your back. The air was sharp and cold outside, brushing through your hair, carrying the faint scent of rain and smoke. The drop wasnât far, maybe eight feet, but it felt like the edge of the world.
You swallowed hard. âJames, what ifââ
He met your eyes. âTrust me.â
The words hit you like a spell. For all the months of hatred, the weeks of pain, those two words still had the power to undo you. So you nodded once, drew a breath that hurt your chest, and slipped down into the night.
Your boots hit the grass with a dull thud. You crouched low, looking up just as James swung himself through the window, landing beside you with practiced ease. He grabbed your hand instantly, pulling you toward the line of hedges.
âStay low,â he whispered.
The garden was quiet â too quiet. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath. You could hear only the faint hiss of grass underfoot and the thundering of your pulse.
Behind you, the manor loomed, a mass of black stone and narrow windows that glowed faintly from within. You didnât dare look back for long.
James led the way, every movement precise. You could see the way heâd been planning this, memorizing routes, counting patrols. He knew how often the guards circled, where they paused, which corners they didnât check. His hand was hot around yours, grounding, steady.
Then â a sound.
Footsteps. Too close.
James jerked you back, pressing you against the hedge. You could feel the heat of him through your sleeve, his breath ragged against your ear.
The footsteps grew louder, boots crunching on gravel. A shadow fell across the path, long and slanted â one of the guards, humming something tuneless as he passed. You could see the edge of his mask, the wand at his side.
You didnât breathe. Neither did James.
The guard stopped.
You froze entirely â lungs locked, muscles burning. Jamesâs hand tightened around yours, silent and firm.
Then, mercifully, the footsteps moved on.
The shadow disappeared.
And the breath youâd been holding escaped in a shudder.
James didnât speak. He just nodded once toward the iron gate. You understood.
The last stretch was the hardest â open ground, no cover. The gate loomed ahead, black and cold, framed by curling vines and carved sigils that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Warding charms â old ones.
James muttered under his breath, flicking his wand subtly. âFinite incantatem.â Nothing. He swore softly. âWeâll have to climb.â
You didnât argue. Your fingers dug into the cold metal, feet finding narrow purchase. The iron bit into your palms as you hauled yourself upward, dress snagging against the vines.
Halfway up, you glanced down â James was right behind you, jaw set, eyes darting from the manor to you and back again.
Then, another sound.
The window youâd climbed through burst open. A shout rang out.
âTHEYâRE GONE!â
Your heart stopped.
Jamesâs head snapped up, eyes wild. âGo!â he hissed.
You scrambled higher, the gate rattling under your weight. The first curse hit the iron with a crack of blue light, sparks exploding in the air beside your shoulder. You gasped but didnât stop.
âY/N, go!â James shouted.
You flung yourself over the top, landing hard on the other side, knees scraping the stone. You turned, reaching out a hand. âJames!â
He was still climbing â fast but not fast enough. A second curse struck near his leg, slicing through his robes. He gritted his teeth, reached the top, and jumped.
The moment he landed beside you, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you into the trees.
They ran.
You ran.
Branches tore at your hair and clothes; the night swallowed every sound but the pounding of your footsteps. The manorâs shouts grew fainter, replaced by the echo of your names being screamed into the dark.
You didnât stop until your lungs burned, until the trees thickened and the world was nothing but shadow and cold air.
Finally, you stumbled to a halt, chest heaving, vision spinning. James caught you before you fell, his hands gripping your shoulders.
âYou okay?â he asked, voice breaking.
You could only nod, the tears stinging your eyes as the weight of what youâd done hit you. âWe got out,â you whispered.
âFor now,â he said grimly. His gaze flicked over the dark forest, the endless stretch of night ahead. âBut this isnât over. Not by a long shot.â
You followed his eyes â saw nothing but black sky and trees.
And for the first time, you realized freedom didnât mean safety.
Not yet.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The forest closed around you like a held breath â dark, thick with pines, and smelling of wet earth and sap. Your lungs burned from running; your legs felt like lead; your dress was torn where the brambles had taken it. Every small noise made you flinch, a twig snapping, a rustle of leaves, expecting the manorâs shouts to swell back into the trees behind you.
James kept close, moving with that same desperate, careful pace heâd shown on the lawn: quick, exact, as if every step could be the difference between being free and being dragged back. Once or twice you thought you heard voices in the distance, the snarled echo of someone trying to be heard over wind and wood, but each time it dwindled into nothing.
After what felt like hours â though the sky only barely lightened into a washed gray â you came upon a small clearing. In the middle of it stood a narrow, stone cottage half-hidden by ivy and the low boughs of an old oak. Smoke curled from the crooked chimney. A lamplight glowed through the shuttered windows like a steady, sleepy eye.
âShelter,â James breathed. The word was as much a question as a relief.
You both slowed, moving like hunters trying not to disturb prey. The door was set low and heavy; the path to it was moss-covered, almost forgotten. For a moment, hope uncoiled in your chest â a warm, dangerous thing. Maybe here someone would be kind. Maybe here you could hide until morning and then decide where to go next.
James lifted a hand for silence and crept forward, the hem of your dress whispering behind him. He peered in through the small gap at the curtains.
Inside, by the hearth, sat an old couple. The womanâs hair was a white, tidy crown; the man had the soft droop of age about his shoulders. They moved slowly, carefully â too slow to be Death Eaters, at least at first glance. A kettle stewed on the fire; two worn mugs steamed gently. The room smelled of broth and bread and something mildly sweet.
You exhaled, just a whisper of a sound, and James turned to you with a tiny, tight smile. âWe can rest. Just for a bit.â
You wanted to walk to the door and knock, to fall into that warm light and beg for bread and shelter. Instead, something in the pairâs posture made James still. They werenât simply kind, he guessed â they were waiting. Not for guests, but for something to arrive. His jaw set.
He slipped around the side of the cottage, finding a lower window. You followed because you could not imagine being anywhere else. From this angle you could see the coupleâs hands on a table, two small sheets of parchment, their fingers tracing lines as if rehearsing words.
And then you heard it: the old manâs mutter, hesitant and hushed, but unmistakable. ââthey were taken last night. The pair from the Potter estate. The vowââ He stopped when the woman looked up, eyes wet and suddenly hard. âThey were supposed to be with us until morning. We sent the message. But theyâve fled.â
The breath sucked from your chest. James leaned so close the cold bit his cheek. âThey sent a message,â he whispered to you.
The old woman stirred the cup with a steady hand, then set it down with a calm that felt practiced, like she had been putting on calm for as long as sheâd had teeth to grit. âThe families,â she said aloud, as though naming policy in the village parlor. âThereâs a price for cooperating these days. We told them weâd keep an eye out. We told them weâd feed them if they showed. If they ran, we were to send word.â
You felt your stomach drop. Jamesâ fingers tightened on your wrist until you hissed.
The old man spoke again, and now you heard the edge in his voice that youâd missed earlier. âWe are ordered to report if they show.â
The womanâs mouth twitched. She had the look of someone who had been given a ledger and learned to count terror the way some people count coins.
The man continued, softer now. âIf they come. They expect them to be moving toward the river road if they left by the north â thatâs their route out for the lowlands. Weâll send word: the fugitives have fled, and they must be caught.â
Heat rushed through you, not the warmth of a hearth, but the hot, acidic sting of betrayal. For a full second you felt like you might vomit.
Jamesâ jaw cut the air. He pressed his back to the wall, lips tight. âWe canât stay. Theyâll ring the bell, theyâll use the roads, theyâll have death eaters by morning. They already have our tracks.â
âI know,â you whispered. Fear trembled under the words. Panic surged hot and immediate through your body. âWe canât trust anyone.â
James nodded, head bowed as though the motion itself might conjure a plan. âWe get farther into the wood. We donât follow the main trails. We make ourselves small, and we move fast. We head west. Thereâs a rise in the land past the old quarry where the hedges are dense â enough to hide us until dawn.â
You swallowed. âAnd then?â
âAnd then⌠we find a way to make contact with someone who isnât on their payroll.â He tried to make the tone light; it didnât work. âSomeone who will take us in for more than the night. Someone with fire and maps and a crooked heart.â
A small laugh escaped you, brittle and sharp. âSounds like a tall order.â
âYouâve known me since we were eleven,â he said. âI always find someone.â
You wanted to trust him the way your breath wanted air, absolutely and without hesitation, but the old coupleâs words had dug into you like frost. The world felt smaller and more treacherous than youâd lived it. Allies might be hands with smiles, but they might also be hands with ledgers.
Quickly, quietly, as if noise itself could become a shout, you and James moved away from the cottage. The bushes and the darkness swallowed you up like a cloak. Not a moment too soon: from the clearing came the snap of a twig and the distant bark of a dog. Someone had come to check on the cottage. Maybe the couple had written their message already and were waiting for a rider to take it downhill.
You darted deeper into the trees, boots sinking into wet moss. Your mind juggled possibilities like hot coals: a safe house in the next county; a sympathizer at the village inn; someone on the outskirts who would take payment in secrecy. Payment. You had no coin, only the knives of your wrists and the vowâs quiet mark burning like accusation beneath your skin.
As you fled, Jamesâ hand was steady at your back, directing, nudging, guiding. You moved in silence, breath and leaf and small, careful steps. Every now and then you heard the faint jingle of harness or the muffled clatter of a message-rider passing along the lane â and each time, your blood ran cold.
Hours passed in a blur of undergrowth and moonlight. You broke at the old quarry James had mentioned, a shallow hollow ringed with hawthorns, brambles so thick they hid you completely. The air tasted of iron and pine. Here, for a brief sickening minute, you allowed yourself to collapse against a root and breathe.
James sat beside you, the muscles in his jaw working. âWe canât go back. We wonât. Tonight theyâll be looking for tracks. Weâll have to move with the weather, maybe head to the east coast and take the ferry. No direct roads. No staying in villages.â
Your throat tightened. âIf the old couple was working for them⌠how many others? How many places are listening?â
He looked at you, and there was such a fierce tenderness in his gaze that you forgot how cold your feet were. âEnough that we canât trust the road,â he said. âNot yet. But not everyone will sell their neighbors out. Weâll find a hideout, someone with a map and a cautious heart. Maybe Marleneâs cousin â sheâs distant, but she lives in a cottage near the marshes, works in the apothecary market. She owes me a favor for a prank we pulled.â He gave a short, bleak chuckle. âIf that sounds risky, itâs because it is. But itâs better than being celebrated in a hall full of masks.â
You let out a breath you hadnât known youâd been holding. âThen we go. Now. We keep moving. No stopping. No sleep unless someone with a good heart is willing to lie for us.â
His hand found yours again and squeezed. âWe move. Keep low. Never use main roads. And if anyone asks, we arenât alone. We never were.â
You rose, wiping dirt from your palms. The hawthorns scratched your legs; your dress was ruined, but the cold iron of the vow at your wrist throbbed like a second heartbeat. The future felt ragged, but in the tight knot of your fingers you felt Jamesâ resolve â solid, stubborn, unwilling to yield.
As you threaded out of the quarry and into deeper night, the cottage lingered in the rear like a threat. The old coupleâs hearth still burned warmth into the clearing; their mugs still steamed. You imagined them by their table, inked quill in hand, bowing their heads between puffs of the pipe, sending riders down lane toward the manor: The fugitives have fled that way.
You and James pushed on until your lungs hurt and your legs threatened to fail. You did not sleep. You did not stop for more than a glimpse. Dawn painted the eastern sky a thin, hateful gray, and still you walked.
By midmorning the trees thinned and the land sloped toward the wide, marshy plains James had mentioned â a place where roads faded into tracks and the world was kind to those who kept quiet. There, in the crook of some reeds and the hush of fog, you paused and finally allowed your exhaustion to seep in.
âWeâll find someone,â James said softly, a vow that sounded like the same stubborn thing youâd come to depend on. âI promise.â
You almost laughed then, absurd and wet, the sound brittle at the edges. âI hope so,â you said into the reeds.
You did not yet know if the world held a safe pocket for you. You only knew that the old cottage, with its hearth and its parchment, would be a burn mark on the map of this flight â a reminder that even warmth could be a lie.
But you also knew, with a fierce clarity that steadied you like a stone, that you would not let yourself be dragged back into a hall of masks.
Not again. Not ever.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
By the time the sun broke through the fog, you and James were little more than ghosts in the marshland â mud-streaked, shivering, and hollow-eyed from a night without rest. The world around you was damp and colorless; the reeds swayed in slow, whispering motions, and every breath came out white and sharp in the morning chill.
You had stopped speaking hours ago. The only sound between you was the crunch of frost underfoot and the far-off cry of birds you couldnât name. Your cloak clung to your skin, heavy with dew. The vow burned faintly under your sleeve, pulsing like a bruise you couldnât reach.
It was James who first noticed the chimney smoke. A thin thread of gray rising above the trees, crooked and uncertain, as if whoever owned it had forgotten how to tend a fire properly.
âLook,â he whispered, grabbing your arm. His voice cracked on the word. âThere.â
You followed his gaze. The smoke came from a small stone house half-hidden at the edge of the bog, just where the land turned firmer and the air stopped tasting like iron. It looked⌠abandoned, almost. The windows were shuttered. The door hung slightly ajar. A small fence leaned drunkenly to one side, half-swallowed by moss.
Your first thought was trap. The second was hope.
âDo we risk it?â you asked quietly.
Jamesâs eyes flicked toward you, sharp and uncertain, then softened. âWe donât have a choice. If itâs them⌠if itâs someone on his side, maybe we have a chance.â
He didnât have to say Dumbledoreâs name aloud. It carried too much weight.
The two of you approached in silence, wands hidden but ready. The bog sucked at your boots, slowing your steps, until you reached the crooked little porch. James pushed the door open first, his stance protective, his hand trembling just enough for you to notice.
Inside was warmth. Real warmth.
The air smelled faintly of tea and dust and something herbal. A fire burned low in the hearth, the flames gentle but alive. Books lined the walls in disarray, and bundles of dried lavender hung from the rafters. It was lived-in but quiet â like whoever stayed here didnât want the world to remember them.
Then, from the corner, a voice:
âYou took your time.â
You both froze.
A figure stepped forward from the shadowed kitchen â a woman, older, wrapped in layers of green wool, her hair streaked with gray and her eyes sharp as a knifeâs edge. She looked like sheâd been waiting days for this moment, her arms crossed, a cup of tea cooling in one hand.
âI was beginning to think youâd been caught,â she said simply.
James blinked. âYouâ you knew we were coming?â
âNot exactly.â She set down the cup and studied him with a kind of weary affection, the sort reserved for foolish but brave young men. âBut word travels, even in the dark. When two pure-blood heirs vanish from a gathering like that, people start whispering. Some of those whispers reach ears that still belong to Dumbledore.â
Her gaze shifted to you, softer now. âYouâre lucky you made it this far. Half the countryside is looking for you. Theyâve set up checkpoints along the roads. The Death Eaters think youâre heading north toward Scotland â which, incidentally, is why youâre still breathing.â
James exchanged a stunned glance with you. âWho are you?â
âEurydice Greengrass,â she said. âYour families would call me a disgrace. Dumbledore calls me a contact.â A faint smile tugged her lips. âI help people like you â the ones whoâve finally stopped pretending they can survive on the wrong side of history.â
The tension in your chest loosened, if only slightly. You didnât trust easily anymore, but something about her manner â clipped, unsentimental, entirely human â felt like truth.
Jamesâs voice was low, still cautious. âWe canât stay long. Theyâll be looking. We canât bring danger to your door.â
âYou already have,â she said dryly, moving to tend the fire. âBut Iâve dealt with worse. Sit. Eat something before you fall over. Thereâs stew on the stove.â
You hesitated, but your body overruled your mind. You sank into the old armchair by the hearth while James stood stubbornly near the window, scanning the mist as if expecting it to solidify into an army.
The stew was simple â potatoes, onion, and something green that tasted faintly of mint â but it was the first warm thing youâd had in days. You felt it spread through you, thawing the edges of your fear.
Eurydice watched you both in silence for a while, her sharp eyes softening as you ate. Finally, she said, âYouâre not the first to come through here. And you wonât be the last. But if you want to live long enough to see the warâs end, youâll need to listen.â
James nodded. âWeâre listening.â
âThereâs a network,â she said. âDumbledoreâs people â safehouses, coded messages, ways to move unnoticed. Itâs scattered, fragile, but it exists. I can get you to the next contact if you stay until dusk.â
You looked up, startled. âAnother safehouse?â
She nodded. âIn the west, near Ottery. Youâll be safer there. But you need rest first. Both of you look half-dead.â
Jamesâs shoulders sagged for the first time since the manor. The constant, tense line of his posture broke; he ran a hand through his hair and let out a shaky breath. âThank you,â he murmured, and it sounded like he hadnât said the word in years.
Eurydice gave a curt nod. âDonât thank me yet. Thank me when youâre not on the run.â
As she disappeared into the next room, the house fell quiet again. The fire crackled softly. The wind whistled against the shutters.
For the first time since your escape, you let your head rest against Jamesâs shoulder. He didnât move â didnât breathe, for a moment â then he exhaled and leaned into you. His hand brushed over yours, tentative but grounding.
You could feel his heart beating â fast, uneven, alive.
âI thought weâd never find anyone,â you whispered.
He nodded, eyes fixed on the flames. âMe too.â
The silence that followed wasnât heavy. It was fragile, yes, but it was the kind of quiet that comes after surviving something unspeakable â a quiet earned through fire and fear.
Outside, the marshes shuddered in the cold wind. But inside, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, there was warmth.
And though the world beyond the walls was still dark and dangerous, you both allowed yourselves to believe â if only for tonight â that you might just make it out alive.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
A sense of peace came gently, as if even the birds knew youâd been through enough.
The little house had fallen into silence; Eurydice had retired to her own room hours ago, leaving the two of you alone by a dimming fire. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and lavender.
James sat on the edge of the bed, still half in his clothes, half in disbelief that youâd made it this far. Youâd pulled the blanket around your shoulders, watching him from across the small room. The floorboards creaked whenever he shifted.
Neither of you spoke for a long time.
It wasnât the awkward kind of quiet â it was the heavy, exhausted kind. The kind that meant words would only cheapen what youâd both already said with your actions: the running, the risking, the refusing to break.
Finally, James spoke, his voice low and worn.
âYou should sleep first.â
You shook your head. âYou havenât slept in days either.â
He looked over, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. âIâll manage. Youâve always been the stubborn one.â
You met his eyes at that, and for a heartbeat the space between you changed â from safety to something warmer, something trembling.
âStubborn?â you said quietly. âI had to be.â
James nodded, glancing down at his hands. âI know.â A pause. âYouâre the only reason I didnât give up.â
The admission hung in the air, simple, raw, impossible to take back.
You swallowed, pulse hammering in your throat. âJamesâŚâ
He lifted his head, his eyes bright in the half-light. âI thought I lost you. That night at the manor. When they took you awayâ I kept thinking Iâd never get to tell youââ
You crossed the space before he could finish, the blanket slipping off your shoulders as you sat beside him. His words tangled into silence, but his breath hitched when you reached for his hand.
âIâm here,â you whispered. âWeâre here.â
For a long moment, you just sat like that â hands clasped, foreheads almost touching, the firelight flickering across your faces. There was no need for grand declarations. The feeling was enough â the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles, the way you leaned into each other as if afraid the world might take you apart again.
When you finally lay down, it wasnât planned. The bed was narrow, the blanket barely big enough for two, but you didnât care. You curled toward him, close enough to feel his heartbeat under your palm.
He hesitated â always the gentleman, even now â until you whispered, âStay.â
So he did.
And in the dark, just before sleep took you both, you heard him murmur into your hair:
âI love you.â
You werenât sure if you were dreaming when you said it back. But you meant it â every syllable was a promise that even if the world tore itself apart again, youâd find your way back to this: the quiet between heartbeats, the warmth of him beside you, the simple, impossible fact that you were still alive â and still his.
ă H.P x Reader
ă fluff // meet cute
ă the girl everyone noticesâbold, magnetic, untouchable. Heâs Harry Potter, used to the weight of the world and the eyes that follow him. When their paths collide in the quiet corners of Hogwarts, sparks ignite, whispers start, and suddenly, nothing between them feels private anymore.
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Much Love, Saige
ă request : @kinichlover1298
ă taglist: @marianaissocool @pottermagiczz @allielovesstars @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush
You donât walk into a room, you enter it.
The Great Hall hums with its usual morning chaos, laughter and clinking spoons, owls swooping overheadâbut it all feels muted for a moment when you step through the doors. Not because anyone stops talking, not at first. Itâs subtler than that. Heads turn. A few forks pause midair. Whispers start, sharp and quiet, before dissolving into the background noise again.
Youâve gotten used to it. You donât mean to draw attention, not really, itâs just that you exist in a way that demands to be noticed.
Your hair is tied up messily but somehow perfect, the kind of âI didnât tryâ that actually takes five minutes of calculated tugging in the mirror. A few sparkling pins glint in the morning light; your uniform skirt is slightly shorter than regulation, your tie loose and hanging like an afterthought. You carry your bag slung across one shoulder and walk with a sway that could only belong to someone who knows sheâs being watched â and doesnât mind it one bit.
You grin at a passing group of Hufflepuffs who greet you by name. Someone says, âMorning, Y/N!â and you throw a wink over your shoulder before heading toward your usual spot at the Gryffindor table.
Youâve got that unconventional kind of energy â bold, magnetic, a bit rebellious. You laugh loudly, talk with your hands, and have an uncanny ability to make even professors hesitate before scolding you. Youâve broken a few rules, a few hearts, and probably a few unspoken traditions about how a âladyâ should behave at Hogwarts.
And still, thereâs something about you thatâs more than glitter and noise. Youâve got this wild independence about you, a confidence that feels real, not manufactured. You donât chase attention for validation; it just seems to find you, naturally orbiting around the pulse of your charisma.
Harry Potter watches you from across the table.
Heâs mid-conversation with Ron about Quidditch strategy, but heâs only half-listening. Youâre laughing with Seamus, tossing your hair back, sunlight hitting your face just right. Itâs unfair, really, how someone can look that alive at eight in the morning.
Youâve been at Hogwarts as long as he has, yet somehow, Harry canât remember the first time he actually noticed you. Itâs as if one day, you simply arrivedâa force of nature, a spark in the static.
âHarry?â Ronâs voice breaks through his thoughts. âMate, you listening?â
âYeah,â Harry lies, tearing his eyes away from you.
Across the table, you catch the motion, just a flicker. Your gaze drifts, and for a heartbeat, your eyes meet his. Itâs quick â one second, two â and you smile, lazy and knowing.
Harry looks down instantly, heat creeping into his neck.
You turn back to your friends, unbothered, spinning your pumpkin juice with a straw like the world is yours. Because in some ways, it is.
When you stand to leave, you sling your bag on again, your perfume trailing faintly behind like citrus and trouble. The echo of your laughter follows too, and even after youâre gone, itâs like the Great Hall doesnât quite feel as bright without it.
Hermione raises an eyebrow at Harry. âYou were staring.â
âI wasnât,â he says quickly, but itâs useless. She just smirks.
âSure,â she murmurs, hiding a grin behind her book. âThatâs what you said about Cho.â
Harry ignores her, pretending to focus on his toast.
But deep down, he knows this is different. Youâre not delicate or mysterious or soft-spoken. Youâre bold and dazzling, a little reckless, and you donât seem to care who knows it.
And maybe thatâs why he canât stop thinking about you.
Because for someone whoâs always been told he carries the weight of the world, thereâs something dangerously captivating about a girl who walks through life like the world belongs to her.
âââââââââ
Itâs too early for most of Hogwarts to be awake.
The air is soft and quiet, heavy with dew. Pale morning light filters through the high windows, painting the stone floors with faint gold. Outside, the grass sparkles like itâs been dusted with starlight, the castle breathing in slow, sleepy rhythm.
Youâre up before everyone else, again.
Youâve never been much of a morning personâbut lately, the silence of dawn has started to feel like a secret only you know. No whispering corridors, no eyes tracking your every move, no need to perform. Just you, the cold stone beneath your shoes, and the sound of your thoughts.
You tug your jacket tighter around your shoulders as you step out into the courtyard. The wind nips at your cheeks, waking you completely. You breathe in deep, the crisp air filling your lungs, and for a fleeting second, you feel completely weightless.
And thenâ
âCouldnât sleep either?â
You turn, startled.
Harry Potter stands a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, hair messier than usual, like he just rolled out of bed. Heâs wearing his uniform trousers and an old sweater that looks far too big on him.
You grin faintly. âYou stalking me, Potter?â
His lips twitch, almost a smile. âYouâre not exactly easy to miss.â
You raise an eyebrow, half amused. âIs that a compliment?â
âMaybe,â he says, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug. âDepends whoâs asking.â
You laugh, soft and genuine. Itâs strangeâheâs quieter than you expected. Youâd seen him before, of course; everyone had. Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. But here, in the morning chill, with no one watching, he seems less like a headline and more like⌠a boy. Just a tired, thoughtful boy trying to make sense of things.
You glance toward the lake, where the surface mirrors the pale pink sky. âYou come out here often?â
âSometimes,â he admits. âItâs quiet. I like it that way.â
You hum. âI get that. I like the quiet too. When I can get it.â
He chuckles under his breath. âYou? The girl who never stops talking?â
You smirk. âOh, so youâve noticed.â
He looks at you then, really looks, and for a moment, thereâs something almost admiring in his gaze. âYeah,â he says softly. âItâs kind of hard not to.â
Your heartbeat skips, just once. You tilt your head, pretending not to notice.
âCareful, Potter,â you tease. âPeople will start thinking you actually like me.â
âMaybe I do.â
The words hang there â half a joke, half something else. The kind of line that makes the air feel heavier, charged with something unspoken.
You kick at a pebble, trying to play it off, but your chest feels warm, like sunlight is spreading through you.
The two of you walk along the edge of the Black Lake, footsteps crunching softly over the frost. The castle looms behind you, still half-asleep.
Harry talks about Quidditch, about the upcoming match, about how Ronâs been practicing too hard. You tell him about the time you got detention for accidentally dyeing an entire batch of robes pink. He laughsâreally laughsâand you realize youâve never actually heard that sound up close before. Itâs nicer than you expected.
When you reach the far edge of the lake, the sun finally breaks over the horizon. The light hits both of you at once, warm and blinding.
You stop walking, shading your eyes. âYou ever think,â you murmur, âthat itâs weird how quiet it gets before the world wakes up? Like itâs holding its breath for something big.â
Harry glances at you. His voice is soft when he replies. âMaybe itâs waiting for someone to make it interesting.â
You grin. âGuess weâd better not keep it waiting, then.â
He laughs again, but thereâs something else in his eyes this timeâsomething curious and bright, like heâs seeing you differently.
And as you both head back toward the castle, side by side, your laughter echoing in the still morning air, Harry realizes the strangest thing:
For the first time in a long while, heâs not thinking about the war or his name or the weight on his shoulders. Heâs just thinking about youâ
the girl who owned the room,
and somehow, without even trying,
owned the morning too.
âââââââââ
By mid-morning, Hogwarts is alive with its usual chaos, clattering footsteps, echoing laughter, the murmur of gossip that flits between corridors like restless ghosts. Youâre in the middle of it, as always, your energy cutting through the noise rather than blending into it.
Youâre walking beside Harry after breakfast, still teasing him about how he nearly tripped over his shoelace at the table (âA near-fatal accident, Potter, how will you recover?â) when someone calls your name.
âY/N! Come sit with us for a bit!â
You turn, already smiling. Itâs a group of Ravenclaws perched near the courtyard steps, waving you over. âJust a second,â you tell Harry, eyes glinting. âIâll be right back.â
But âa secondâ turns into a few minutes. Then more.
He watches as youâre swept up easily, folding into the group with your easy laughter and animated gestures. You fit with them like you fit everywhere elseâeffortlessly. Theyâre hanging on your words, and youâre giving them stories, teasing remarks, light flicks of affection on their shoulders. Itâs not put on, not fakeâitâs just you.
You live loudly.
And Harry, standing a few feet away with his hands stuffed into his pockets, realizes how strange it feels to see you like this after the quiet stillness of that morning. The version of you heâd met at sunriseâsoft-voiced, thoughtful, half-dreaming in the golden lightâfeels like a secret he shouldnât have been allowed to see.
He turns, starts toward class. Youâll catch up. You always do.
You do find him, eventuallyâhalfway to the greenhouses.
âPotter!â you call, jogging a few steps to fall into stride beside him. âSorryâ Clara was going on about this stupid prefect meeting and somehow it turned into everyone wanting to plan a Hogsmeade thing andââ
âItâs fine,â Harry says, forcing a smile.
You frown a little, catching the flicker in his tone. âYou sure? You sound like you swallowed a lemon.â
He glances at you sideways. âJust not used to people fighting for my attention.â
You laugh at that, light and unknowing. âTrust me, itâs overrated.â
But he doesnât laugh back.
Because to Harry, it doesnât look overrated. It looks⌠exhausting and beautiful all at once. You belong everywhere and with everyone, and heâs starting to realize just how many people want pieces of you.
By lunch, itâs worse.
Everywhere you go, someone pulls you aside. Dean wants to know if youâre coming to the Gryffindor study group. Lavenderâs begging you to help her with Charms homework (âYou make it look so easy!â). A pair of fifth-years from Hufflepuff call you over to get your opinion on some prank idea theyâve been scheming.
You flit from one group to another like youâre keeping the whole castleâs energy running.
And Harryâ well, he watches. Not out of jealousy, exactly. Just⌠recognition.
He knows what itâs like to be wanted by everyone and truly known by no one. To be surrounded by noise and attention, and still feel that quiet ache under the surface. The one that whispers none of this means they see you.
When you finally collapse beside him at the far end of the Great Hall, your hair a little messy and your expression tired in that still-lovely way, he can tell youâre feeling it too.
âYouâre quiet today,â you say, nudging him lightly.
âSo are you,â he counters.
You smirk. âDonât tell anyone. Iâve got a reputation.â
He laughs, but his gaze lingers. Youâre tracing the rim of your goblet absentmindedly, your energy dimmed just a little, and he sees it thenâthe exhaustion beneath the sparkle. The price of being everyoneâs favorite.
âDo you ever wish people would just⌠stop needing you for a bit?â he asks suddenly.
You blink at him, surprised by the softness of his tone.
âSometimes,â you admit. âBut I donât think Iâd know what to do with myself if they did.â
Harry nods, understanding more than you could know.
For a moment, you both just sit there in the hum of the Great Hall, surrounded by chatter and laughter and clinking dishesâtwo people who, in completely different ways, know exactly what it means to be wanted and alone at the same time.
You look at him then, something gentler in your eyes. âWe could⌠disappear for a bit,â you say suddenly, a half-smile tugging at your lips. âJust us. No noise, no people. A break from all the madness.â
Harry tilts his head, caught off guard. âWhere would we go?â
You grin, that spark coming back. âAnywhere we can get caught sneaking into.â
He laughs, shaking his headâbut the warmth in his chest lingers.
Because for the first time all day, the noise around him fades, and itâs just you again. The girl who owns every room she walks into, yet somehow makes him feel like the only person in it.
âââââââââ
It starts as a joke.
Youâre sprawled across a courtyard bench after dinner, shoes kicked off, your hair tumbling loose from its tie. The air smells faintly of rain, and youâve got that look againâthe one that means youâre tired of people, of noise, of being the sun everyone orbits.
Harry sits beside you, one leg drawn up, looking out toward the darkened castle. Youâve both stayed out later than you should have, and the world feels suspended in that soft blue between evening and night.
âSo,â you sigh dramatically, leaning your head back. âStill waiting on that âanywhere we can get caught sneaking intoâ adventure, Potter.â
He smiles faintly. âI might know a place.â
You tilt your head to look at him, half-curious, half-challenging. âOh yeah? And whereâs that?â
His grin widens, the faintest trace of mischief cutting through his usual calm. âYouâll see.â
You follow him through the castle, barefoot and whispering, your laughter echoing in little bursts as you dart around corners. The corridors are empty, the torches burning low, and the shadows stretch long across the floors.
âHarry,â you whisper as he rounds another corner, âif this is your elaborate setup to get me lost, youâre doing great.â
âTrust me,â he murmurs, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk. âItâs worth it.â
Finally, you stop outside an empty stretch of wall on the seventh floor. Thereâs nothing thereâjust smooth stone between two tapestries.
You frown. âThis is⌠inspiring.â
âPatience.â He starts pacing in front of the wall, three times back and forth, his lips moving as he thinks. You cross your arms, watching. When he finishes, a door appearsâsolid oak, glowing faintly like it had been waiting for him to ask.
Your eyebrows shoot up. âOkay, thatâs impressive.â
He gestures with a small, proud smile. âAfter you.â
The door swings open to reveal a room that seems to breathe warmth. Candles hover near the ceiling, flickering soft light across velvet armchairs and shelves filled with books. Thereâs a window too, looking out onto a moonlit version of the grounds that shouldnât existâitâs an illusion, but so convincing it makes you forget to breathe.
You step inside slowly. âWhat is this?â
âItâs called the Room of Requirement,â Harry says, closing the door behind you. âIt becomes whatever you need it to be.â
You spin in place, your voice softening. âSo this room thinks I need a library with good lighting and mood candles?â
He laughs quietly. âLooks like it knows you well.â
You walk toward the window, fingertips brushing the glass. The moonlight catches your profileâthe tilt of your jaw, the faint curve of a smileâand for a second, Harry forgets how to move.
âItâs quiet,â you say. âPeaceful.â
He nods, stepping closer. âYou said you wanted to disappear for a bit. Thought this might help.â
You glance back at him, and thereâs something in your eyes that wasnât there beforeâsomething gentler, softer than the wild spark you usually wear like armor.
âThank you,â you say quietly. âFor remembering.â
You sit together on the floor, backs against a velvet sofa. For once, thereâs no noise, no tug-of-war for your attention. You tell him about how exhausting it is to always be âon,â to always have people waiting for a smile, a laugh, a piece of your energy. He listens, really listens, and you realize no one else does it quite like he does.
When you finish, you lean your head back against the couch. âYou ever get tired of being⌠Harry Potter?â
He gives a small, hollow laugh. âEvery day.â
You look at him for a long time, the kind of look that lingers longer than words. Then, softly, âGuess weâre both a little overexposed, huh?â
âMaybe,â he says. âBut you make it look easy.â
You huff a laugh. âThatâs the trick. Never let them see the cracks.â
âMaybe,â he murmurs, âyou donât have to hide them with me.â
You freezeâ not because youâre shocked, but because it sounds like something you didnât know you needed to hear.
Your eyes meet. The air changesâquiet, charged.
For once, you donât say anything clever or teasing. You just smile, slow and real. âCareful, Potter,â you whisper. âYouâre making it hard not to like you.â
He grins, that small, crooked thing that always seems to give him away. âGood.â
You lean your head against his shoulder after that, and he doesnât move. You just sit there in the hush of the Room, the candlelight flickering against your joined shadows. The noise of the world feels far away â too far to touch you.
âââââââââ
Youâre not sure when the silence between you starts to feel different.
At first, itâs simply comfortableâthe kind of quiet that asks for nothing, that lets you just be. The candles crackle softly above, the shadows shifting against the walls, and the faint illusion of moonlight drips silver over everything. You can hear your own breathing, steady and slow, and Harryâs beside you, warm and real.
You hadnât planned for it to feel like this.
Youâd thought maybe youâd sit here, talk a bit, joke a little, and then leave with another inside secret between you. But itâs quieter now, heavier somehow, like the air has thickened with all the words neither of you has said.
Harry shifts beside you. You feel the subtle brush of his sleeve against your arm, and your skin prickles instantly. He looks down, smiling a little like heâs half-afraid to break the spell.
âDo you ever wonder,â he says quietly, âif Hogwarts keeps secrets for people?â
You tilt your head toward him. âSecrets?â
âLike this room. Like us being here.â He nods to the air around you. âMaybe it keeps moments like thisâjust between the walls.â
You smile faintly, the corners of your mouth twitching. âYouâre more poetic than I expected, Potter.â
He grins. âDonât tell anyone.â
You laugh, soft and quiet, and his expression shifts at the soundâsomewhere between wonder and disbelief. You look at him then, really look, and it hits you how young he still is. The weight he carries, the name that belongs to everyone but himâit all falls away here. Heâs just Harry. The boy who listens. The boy who notices when your laugh fades or your energy starts to dim.
And Merlin, thatâs dangerous.
Because that kind of gentlenessâthe kind that doesnât ask for performance, that doesnât need you to be dazzling or wildâis the kind that can undo you completely.
You try to shake the thought. You lean back against the couch again, eyes flicking to the candles. âYou know,â you murmur, âyouâre not what I expected either.â
âOh?â he says, turning slightly toward you. âWhat did you expect?â
You glance at him, a teasing spark slipping through. âMore⌠dramatic. You know, brooding hero, dark and mysterious, never smiles.â
He laughs under his breath. âSorry to disappoint.â
âYou donât,â you admit softly.
The words leave you before you can catch them, and something in his eyes shiftsâsharper, intent. The space between you seems to shrink, though neither of you move.
You should say something clever now, make a joke, deflectâbut you donât. You canât. Because thereâs something magnetic in the way heâs looking at you, like heâs memorizing the lines of your face. You can feel the weight of it; the wanting, quiet and cautious.
âY/N,â he says your name like itâs a question.
You hum in response, trying to sound unbothered, but your heart is racing.
He reaches out, hesitating just a second before brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers are warm, tentative, like heâs afraid youâll pull away.
You donât.
Instead, you lean into the touch just slightly, your breath catching. âYouâre really not supposed to look at me like that,â you whisper.
He smiles faintly. âHow am I looking at you?â
âLike you might actually mean it.â
âI do.â
The words land like a spark, small and quiet and devastating.
For a heartbeat, neither of you move. The air feels too still, too charged. Then, slowlyâcarefullyâhe leans in. You donât stop him. Your hand finds the edge of his sweater, fingers curling in the fabric like instinct.
When his lips brush yours, itâs featherlight, hesitant, but it feels like the world exhales. You kiss him back just as softly, a sigh against his mouth, the faintest taste of warmth and adrenaline.
It doesnât last longâjust a few secondsâbut when you pull back, your forehead rests against his. Neither of you speaks. You just breathe together, the quiet stretching, filled with something entirely new.
Harry laughs under his breath, low and disbelieving. âThat⌠wasnât supposed to happen, was it?â
You grin, dazed and glowing. âMaybe it was.â
He chuckles, brushing his thumb over your jaw, his voice softer than youâve ever heard it. âYou make it very hard to think straight.â
âGood,â you whisper. âYouâre not supposed to.â
You both stay like that a little longer, tangled in the quiet glow of the Room that seems to hum with shared heartbeat.
Somewhere, deep in the castle walls, the magic stirsâgentle and knowing. The Room of Requirement has seen countless secrets, countless beginnings. But this one, the warmth and hush and laughter tucked between breathsâit feels like itâs holding on just a little tighter.
âââââââââ
You feel it before you even reach the Great Hallâan energy that swirls through the air, humming in the laughter and low whispers. Itâs different this morning. Sharper. Focused.
You push open the doors beside Harry, and the sound dips just slightly, like the castle itself is holding its breath. Heads turn. Eyes track the two of you as you make your way toward the Gryffindor table.
âDid you hear? Her and Potterââ
âNo, youâre joking.â
âPower couple material, apparently.â
Harry hides a smirk behind a sip of pumpkin juice. You donât bother. You toss your hair back with a grin thatâs half amusement, half challenge, the kind of smile that knows exactly how much attention it commands. Youâve always had that magnetic pullâloud in color, confident in stride, the sort of presence that fills every corner you walk into.
You slide into your usual seat and Harry drops down beside you, his shoulder brushing yours like itâs second nature now. Thereâs a flicker in his eyesâsomething between curiosity and disbeliefâthat makes your chest feel a little too warm.
Across the hall, the Slytherins are whispering. Pansy Parkinson is leaning toward Draco Malfoy, smirking behind her hand. Dracoâs voice cuts across the chatter, smooth and smug as always.
âLooks like the Chosen Oneâs got himself a new headline.â
You look up from your plate, meeting his gaze with a slow smile that doesnât falter. âFunny,â you call back, tone sweet but sharp, âI didnât realize you kept up with current events, Malfoy.â
The Gryffindors burst into laughter, and Dracoâs smirk fades into something tighter. You turn back to your breakfast like you didnât just disarm one of Hogwartsâ sharpest tongues.
Harry shakes his head, laughing quietly. âYou really donât hold back, do you?â
âNever have,â you say, tearing a piece of toast in half. âWhy should I start now?â
Later, when the tables have cleared and you both slip out to the courtyard, the air feels lighter, cooler. You walk side by side, a few feet apart, though every so often the distance shortens naturally, like gravityâs making its own decisions.
âSo,â you start, glancing at him, âwhatâs it like being half of Hogwartsâ latest obsession?â
He chuckles softly. âItâs⌠strange. But kind of familiar. Feels like fourth year againâwhen everyone suddenly thought they knew who I was, what I was doing, who I should be with.â
You hum in understanding. âGuess weâre both used to people projecting their stories onto us.â
âYeah,â he says, and his voice is quieter now, more thoughtful. âBut youâyou donât seem bothered by it.â
You shrug, walking backward so you can face him. âYou learn to stop apologizing for existing too loudly. Theyâll talk either way. Might as well give them something worth talking about.â
Harry laughs under his breath, shaking his head, but thereâs something softer in his eyes when he looks at you now.
You stop walking, sunlight spilling across your face, the wind tugging at your hair. For a moment, he looks like heâs seeing you for the first timeâpast the noise, past the sparkle, into something real and steady.
Then his hand brushes yours. Lightly. Like a question.
You donât pull away.
The silence between you stretches, gentle and electric all at once.
And thenâ
âOi, Potter! Y/N!â
You both turn as Ginny and Dean approach from across the courtyard, waving. The spell breaks, but the warmth lingers. Harry lets out a soft breath, smiling sheepishly as he steps back.
âGuess thatâs my cue,â he mutters.
You grin. âDuty calls, hero.â
By dinner, the rumors have evolved into something grander. Someone swears they saw you and Harry âsneaking offâ after curfew. Someone else claims Dumbledore encouraged itââsymbol of unity,â they say.
You nearly choke on your pumpkin pasty laughing.
Harryâs across from you, shaking his head, though thereâs amusement in his eyes. âYouâre enjoying this way too much.â
âCan you blame me?â you ask, leaning on your elbows. âIf theyâre going to talk, we might as well make it worth their while.â
He gives you that quiet, reluctant smileâthe one that feels like itâs meant only for you. And for a brief second, surrounded by flickering candlelight and the low hum of gossip, the world seems to fade into the background.
Itâs just the two of you, caught between rumor and something real.
ă J.P x Arranged Marriage! Reader
ă mentions of violence! Blood! / angst / arranged marriage ă a test of love, a test of loyalty.
ă 4.6k
ăA/N: sORRY. I want them to be happy too i know i know i know i know
[masterlist]
Much Love, Saige
ărequest : N/A
ătaglist :@littlemadamred@raiweasley@iluvhrj@hoeforlifee@a1ienmush@justheretoreadmydear @simp-for-fiction @sparklingmoomin @amarauder @moonlightremblack @kenkozkmg @facetiouslady @pottermagiczz
James wasnât sure how long theyâd kept him in that suffocating room. Long enough for the air to taste like iron, long enough for his throat to feel stripped raw from biting back retorts. His fatherâs voice still rang in his ears, sharp as a whip: You will not shame us, you will not resist, you will stand proud for the cause.
Every strike, open-handed, precise, had been met with clenched teeth. Every insult had been a dagger meant to cut away at the boy he had been. James Potter, loud and reckless and grinningâreduced to an heir being shaped into something cold.
And yet, even as the last blow landed, his mind circled back to you. Not Lily, not Quidditch, not his friends â just you. You, dragged somewhere in the manorâs labyrinth, enduring your own âlessons.â That thought alone made his jaw ache from how hard he ground his teeth.
When the door creaked open, a hand clapped down on his shoulder, forcing him upright.
âTime to show us,â came the command, low and final.
They pushed him back into the great hall. Torches lit the marble floor, and the air reeked of wine and smoke. Pure-blooded faces turned, evaluating, smirking. And there you were, across the room. Dressed finely but stiff, your shoulders squared by someone elseâs will.
The relief that you were alive cracked something inside him. But before he could even look at you too long, the voice of his father filled the chamber.
âTonight, they will prove themselves.â
Murmurs spread like fire through the crowd. Jamesâs stomach dropped.
A robed figure stepped forward, wand poised lazily in hand. âLetâs begin simple. Show loyalty. Youââ the wand angled toward James, ââwill strike her.â
The words made the room fall silent. Your face blanched, your body stilling. James froze, his pulse loud in his ears.
âYou expect me toâ?â His voice broke before he caught it. The murmurs began again, sharper this time. Weak. Soft. Foolish boy.
âStrike her,â his father repeated, his tone so even it made Jamesâs stomach twist. âA lesson in strength.â
Across the hall, you shook your head imperceptibly, just a flicker. You knew. You understood. That this wasnât truly about you â it was about whether he would bend.
His wand felt like lead in his palm. He could raise it and end this quickly â one spell, even a jinx, and they would nod approvingly. It would keep you safe. Keep him safe.
But James Potter had never been a coward. His chest heaved, heat rising through every nerve. He tightened his fist around his wand but did not lift it.
âNo.â
The sound echoed.
The room erupted. Gasps, hisses, the shuffle of robes as the Death Eaters leaned forward. His fatherâs eyes narrowed like knives, and James braced himself, already tasting blood.
And then they turned to you.
âFine,â came the drawl. âThen let her prove herself. Strike him.â
You blinked, frozen, before the wand was shoved into your hand. Your heart pounded loud enough James swore he heard it across the room. You didnât move.
Every eye was on you now. Waiting. Expectant.
Jamesâs chest tightened. His lips parted, barely moving. âDonât.â
The wand shook in your grip. The vowâs faint burn across your wrist thrummed like a chain pulling tighter. This was your test nowâyour chance to keep them both alive.
And in that terrible moment, the question hung heavy between you:
Do you obey? Or do you rebel?
The wand in your hand weighed more than your entire body. It wasnât yoursâit had been pressed into your palm by one of the masked men, their grip bruising, their eyes glittering with cruelty as though they were already enjoying the show.
âStrike him.â
The words slithered through the hall, low, commanding, absolute.
You couldnât move. Not because you didnât know how, but because the very idea of lifting your wand, of pointing it at James, of hurting him, felt unthinkable. Your stomach twisted until you thought youâd be sick. The vow burned faintly at your wrist, as though mocking you with its binding weight.
James stood opposite you, pale in the firelight. His chest rose and fell too quickly, but his chin was high. He didnât speak â not this time â but his eyes locked on yours, wide and dark. He was telling you everything without a word: Donât do it. Donât give them this. Donât break.
The silence stretched.
The Death Eaters leaned forward like a pack of wolves circling prey. Murmurs curled in the air â mocking, impatient. Weak girl. Useless. Not fit. Shameful.
âDo it,â came another voice, sharper this time. A lash in the air. âStrike him down, girl, or youâll both learn what it means to refuse.â
Your throat constricted. Your fingers trembled on the wand. Somewhere deep down, a small voice â your motherâs, or maybe your own â screamed for you to comply. To survive. To obey.
But then there was James. Always James. Standing there bloodied from his own punishments, broken down yet unyielding. He would not raise his wand against you. And something in that steadiness tethered you to the ground, even as your knees threatened to give way.
You didnât raise the wand.
Seconds stretched into eternity. Every moment of stillness was agony, every heartbeat pounding like a hammer against glass that should have shattered by now.
âNOW!â a voice bellowed, a man in black robes slamming his hand against the table. Sparks of magic hissed in the air.
Still, you didnât move. Neither did James.
And then â your silence broke them. The anger in the room ignited like wildfire. Robes rustled, chairs scraped back. Someoneâs wand flared threateningly.
âShe dares refuseââ
ââBoth of them insolentââ
ââThe vow will keep them in line, or it will break themââ
Your vision blurred at the edges, the sound deafening. You could hardly breathe under the weight of so many eyes, so much hatred.
But through it all, James never looked away. His jaw was tight, his body braced for what would come, but his gaze never wavered. And neither did yours.
For the first time in your life, you understood something terrifying and liberating: you werenât alone in this. If you burned, he burned with you. If you broke, so would he.
A hand yanked the wand from your grip so hard your fingers stung. A roar of disapproval filled the hall. And then, as punishment began to rain downâjeers, a blow, the threat of cursesâyou almost smiled, even through the tears.
Because you hadnât obeyed. Neither of you had.
And that, in its own twisted way, was victory. Oh but you would pay for it.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The night was colder than any James had ever known. Not because of the stone walls or the draft creeping through the cracks of the manor, but because you werenât there. They had dragged him down into a room carved like a cellarâno bed, no chair, only the damp ground. His wrists still ached from how roughly theyâd wrenched him away, his fatherâs voice hissing in his ear about how âthis is what comes of weakness.â
The door had slammed shut. The darkness swallowed him whole.
At first, James raged. He kicked against the stone, cursed at the air, tried to shout loud enough for you to hear him wherever theyâd hidden you. His fists throbbed with each strike against the wall, his throat raw by the time silence fell again. No answer. Only the echo of his own desperation.
Then came the voices. Not his fatherâs, not the other menâsoft, deliberate intrusions that slithered beneath the crack in the door.
âShe gave in faster than you did, you know.â
âShe didnât want to, but she knew better. She stood beside them tonight, bowed her head, swore she would serve.â
James pressed his palms to his ears until they stung. He tried not to believe it. He told himself you wouldnât break. But as the hours bled into something shapeless, as exhaustion clawed at him, the poison of doubt seeped deeper. What if they had gotten to you? What if you were repeating to them the words he had refused to utter?
He curled into himself on the stone floor, body aching, whispering your name like a prayerâlike if he said it enough, it might summon you into the dark.
On the other side of the manor, you were drowning in your own version of hell.
They hadnât thrown you into a dungeon, but into a lavish, suffocating room lined with velvet curtains and a heavy canopy bed. Gold glinted on the furniture, but the air reeked of perfume and smoke, and you realized quickly it wasnât meant to be a comfortâit was a cage disguised as luxury.
Women surrounded you at first. Cold hands touched your hair, tugging at strands, forcing your chin up to inspect you like you were a doll meant for display. Their whispers were knives disguised as silk.
âHe begged to be let go, you know.â
âHe wanted it to stopâhe gave them everything they asked.â
âHe said you werenât worth the pain.â
You bit the inside of your cheek until the metallic taste of blood filled your mouth, refusing to react, refusing to give them the satisfaction of watching you splinter. But when they left, when the heavy lock clicked into place, you finally broke.
You clawed at the curtains, tearing them down in fits of rage, throwing the pillows across the room as if they could smother the ache in your chest. Your body trembled with fury and grief until you collapsed at the foot of the bed, gasping for breath.
And then came the silence. The kind that pressed down on your ribs, that whispered ugly possibilities. What if James had cracked? What if he had turned his back on you to escape the punishment?
They wanted you to believe it. That was the cruellest part.
You curled against the bedpost, fingers digging into the wood until your knuckles burned. In the quiet, your mind reached for him, desperate, pleading. You imagined him somewhere beyond the walls, fighting the same fight, resisting the same lies.
If he was broken, then so were you. If he refused, you would too.
Neither of you would know until morning whether the other had survived the night.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The velvet-curtained room pressed down on you like a tomb. You had ripped most of the drapery earlier in your outburst, but the tatters still clung to the edges of the window, a reminder that even in rage you hadnât escaped.
Sleep wouldnât come. The silence was too heavy, broken only by the shuffle of boots pacing the corridor beyond your door. They were stationed there deliberately, their presence as much for intimidation as for prevention. Every time the footsteps halted, your lungs froze, as if they could hear the frantic beating of your heart through the walls.
And yet⌠there were gaps. You noticed them slowly, as though the night itself revealed them to you. A pause longer than usual, the squeak of a door hinge further down the hall, a laugh that trailed away into distance. They werenât always outside your door.
You pushed yourself to your knees, padding across the room. The window loomed above you, framed in velvet, thick panes dulled with dust. Your fingertips brushed the latchâiron, heavy, stiff with disuse. You tugged once, twice, heart in your throat. It groaned, but it moved.
For the first time since being dragged into this nightmare, you felt the whisper of possibility.
The night air was sharp when it slipped through the small gap, brushing your skin like a warning. You shoved harder, forcing the window open wide enough to squeeze through. The grounds stretched below, shadowed and vast, the gardenâs hedges curling like claws.
It was a long drop. Too far for comfort, but not impossible. Not if you didnât think. Not if you didnât hesitate.
You swung one leg over the sill, your bare toes curling against the cold stone. For a heartbeat, you imagined it: breaking into a run, the dirt beneath your feet, maybe even finding Jamesâif heâd been left in some other corner of the manor. Maybe you could find him first. Maybe you could bothâ
A floorboard creaked.
You froze.
The footsteps had returned. They were closer now, slower, deliberate. Someone had stopped right outside your door. You couldnât breathe. Your pulse drummed against your temples, a sickening beat that threatened to give you away.
And then, just as suddenly, the steps continuedâdown the hall, fading into the dark.
You exhaled, shaky and desperate, clinging to the sill like it was the only real thing left in the world.
You could jump. You could risk everything. But if they caught youâif they caught you, youâd never see James again. Worse, theyâd use your failure against him. Theyâd tell him youâd fled, abandoned him, just as theyâd told you heâd betrayed you.
Your body trembled with indecision, the cool night air biting at your face. You lingered there, half in and half out, heart splitting with the need to run and the terror of what would follow.
At last, with a strangled sound, you pulled yourself back inside. You shut the window, the iron latch snapping back into place like a final sentence.
You collapsed against the wall, tears spilling silently down your cheeks. Freedom had been a breath away. And you had turned from it.
Not because you were afraid for yourself. But because James was somewhere in this labyrinth of stone and cruelty, and leaving without him would mean the vow had already won.
You curled into the corner, shaking until exhaustion finally dragged you under. Even in sleep, you dreamed of running barefoot into the darkâand waking up with Jamesâs hand in yours.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
James sat on the edge of the narrow bed they had shoved him into, back pressed against the wall, every muscle stiff with exhaustion. His cheek still burned from where his fatherâs ring had split the skin, the dull throb keeping him wide awake long after the rest of the house had gone quiet.
He couldnât sleep anyway. Not here. Not without her.
The room was suffocatingâbare walls, heavy shutters, nothing personal to anchor himself. They had stripped it down on purpose, he knew. Nothing to hold onto, nothing to distract him from the endless replay of their words: She obeyed. She folded. Sheâs already theirs. Why wonât you be?
He hadnât believed them. Not once. He couldnât. But the poison of it still seeped under his skin, scratching at the inside of his mind.
It was the faint creak that pulled him upright. The smallest whisper of iron against stone. He turned his head sharply, eyes drawn to the high window across the courtyard. His breath caught.
A shadow. A flicker of movement.
It was her window.
He stumbled forward, pressing his forehead to the cold glass of his own, straining to see. The curtains were pushed back, the window openâher silhouette framed in moonlight. For a heartbeat, he swore she was climbing out, hair spilling like a banner in the night air.
âY/N,â he breathed, though she couldnât possibly hear him. His palm flattened against the glass, desperate, aching to push through.
He wanted to shout. To pound on the window until she looked his way. But his throat locked around the sound. If he cried out, if he gave them the faintest hint of her defiance, they would descend on her like wolves.
So he watched in silence, every muscle trembling with restraint, as she lingered thereâhalf inside, half out, frozen in her choice. His heart hammered so loudly it drowned out the world. He wanted to believe sheâd jump, that theyâd find each other in the gardens and run until the manor was only a memory. He wanted to believe in freedom.
But then, slowly, painfully, she pulled herself back in.
Jamesâs knees buckled. He slid down the wall, his back pressed to the stone, his hand still raised against the glass as though he could keep her there. His chest ached with the weight of itâbecause he knew why she hadnât gone.
She hadnât gone because of him.
He dragged a shaky hand through his hair, tilting his head back, biting hard against the sting of tears. Heâd thought his heart couldnât break any further in this place. But watching her shut the window on her chance to escape, just so he wouldnât be left behindâ
That destroyed him.
The footsteps outside his door returned, heavy and deliberate. He scrambled back into bed, lying stiff and silent, jaw clenched as the latch rattled and a guard checked in on him. Only when the door shut again did he let his body curl in on itself, clutching his ribs as though he could hold himself together.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The Sunday sun rose cruelly bright, spilling light through windows too tall, too pristine, as though the manor itself mocked them. It should have been a morning like any other, a lazy Sunday breakfast at Hogwarts with chatter echoing across the Great Hall. Instead, Y/N found herself lowered into a stiff-backed chair at an enormous black-lacquered table, a line of Death Eaters circling like vultures.
The smell of foodâeggs, sausages, fresh breadâturned her stomach. Every bite was prepared like a feast, but the silence of those around her poisoned it. Forks scraped, goblets clinked. No laughter. No warmth.
She sat at one end. James was across the table, farther than she wanted, his hair still a storm from last night. She could feel the bruise on his cheek even from here, could see the way his knuckles flexed white around the silverware.
But neither of them spoke.
Not when Lucius Malfoy leaned lazily in his chair, drawling about alliances. Not when her own mother poured her a cup of tea as if this were any other civilized breakfast. Not when Jamesâs father laughed at some whispered remark, his ringed hand brushing off crumbs with disdain.
Every word in Y/Nâs throat threatened to choke her. She wanted to reach across the endless table, to say somethingâAre you alright? Did you see me last night? I almost ran. But all she managed was to drop her gaze to her untouched plate.
She knew what this was: a performance. A demonstration of obedience. They were being paraded again, this time as quiet partners, molded into something palatable for the cause.
And underneath the crushing silence, a deeper fear gnawed at her gut.
What about Hogwarts?
She clutched her hands in her lap, nails biting her palms. The ball had been the excuse. The gathering had been for them. But it was Sunday nowâsurely they should be on the train back, packing their trunks, heading to lessons. Surely professors had noticed they were gone. Surely their friends had wondered.
But what if no one knew?
The thought hit her like a stone to the ribs: What if Hogwarts went on without them? What if their absence had been covered with lies?
Her throat burned. She dared a glance upward, just enough to catch Jamesâs eyes across the table. The worry was there, as raw as her own. His mouth twitched, like he wanted to say something, but then his father clapped him hard on the back, dragging his attention away.
Y/N jerked at the sound of her own name. Her mother was smiling thinly, reminding her to take a sip of tea. Her hand shook as she raised the porcelain cup, the bitter liquid scalding her tongue.
Every word around the table blurred together. Talk of loyalty. Talk of responsibility. Talk of what was expected from the two of them now that vows had been exchanged.
Her vision swam. For a brief, agonizing second, she imagined her seat at Hogwartsâ Gryffindor tableâempty now, untouched. Darleen leaning over, whispering to Remus, wondering if she was ill. Sirius making some sharp joke, only for his smile to falter when she didnât appear. The thought of that emptiness, of being erased from her life, tightened her chest so painfully she had to set the cup down before she dropped it.
Would anyone come? Would anyone even know where to start?
Across the distance, James shifted in his chair, his foot dragging slowly across the stone beneath the table until it pressed against hers. The lightest touch. Invisible to the Death Eaters.
Her breath stuttered. She glanced up. He didnât look at her, didnât dare, but the message was clear in the tension of his jaw.
Iâm here. Youâre not alone.
âLovely, isnât it?â Antonin Dolohovâs voice cut through the stillness, too smooth, too deliberate. âTo see the two of them seated together, a symbol of unity. But one wondersââ his pale eyes glittered as they slid from James to Y/N, ââhow fond they truly are of one another.â
The scrape of silverware stopped. The room froze in anticipation.
Jamesâs fork clattered against his plate. He lifted his head slowly, eyes flashing, but his fatherâs hand pressed firmly down on his shoulder. âGo on, son,â Mr. Potter murmured, low but sharp enough to cut. âThis is your moment to prove yourself.â
Y/Nâs pulse hammered in her throat. She hadnât moved, hadnât breathed. She could feel all of them watchingâtheir parents, their tormentors, the entire weight of expectation bearing down on her like a crushing hand.
âYou first, James,â said a woman Y/N didnât recognize, her smile thin and poisonous. âTell us how you feel about your⌠bride.â
The word cracked through her like a whip. Bride.
Jamesâs mouth twitched. His fists curled against the table, knuckles bone-white. For a moment, she thoughtâhopedâhe would refuse, that he would stand, shout, break. But then his fatherâs grip tightened, and his jaw worked like he was chewing glass.
âIâŚâ His voice cracked once, then steadied. âI care for her. She isâŚâ His eyes flicked to Y/N, and she caught the flash of something raw before he dropped it. âShe is loyal. She has strength Iâve never seen before. I admire her.â
The table hummed with approval.
Y/Nâs stomach turned. She knew those words werenât liesâshe could hear the honesty beneath them, hidden behind the brittle toneâbut it didnât matter. To them, it was just a show. A performance to cement their bond as part of the Dark Lordâs grand design.
âAnd you, my dear?â Dolohov leaned forward, fingers drumming the table. âSurely you have something to say about your groom.â
Y/Nâs hand shook so hard she had to pin it beneath the table to keep from showing it. A dozen eyes burned into her. She felt her motherâs cold fingers tighten around her wrist like a vice.
âSay it,â her mother hissed in her ear, too low for anyone else to hear.
Her breath caught. Words piled in her throatâtruths, denials, screamsâbut none of them safe.
Jamesâs foot pressed harder against hers under the table. Not forceful, just steady. A lifeline.
âIâŚâ Her lips parted. She forced herself to meet his eyes, just for a heartbeat. âJames is⌠dependable. Brave. He⌠makes me feel safe.â
The lie seared as it left her tongue, even though a part of itâtraitorous, confusingâwasnât entirely false.
The room erupted in satisfaction, voices layering like applause though no one clapped. Their parents beamed, Death Eaters nodded approvingly.
But James didnât smile. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark, burning with the same fury she felt twisting in her ribs.
They werenât words between them, not really. They were chains, hammered tighter, forged by those who watched.
And yetâbeneath the poison of the performanceâthere was something in their eyes that belonged only to them. A silent acknowledgment.
We know this is false. We know this isnât ours. But I see you. I hear you. I believe you.
Still, as the conversation at the table picked back up, Y/Nâs stomach churned with one sickening realization: they were being rewritten, molded into a story they didnât choose. And if they werenât careful, there would be no way back to the truth.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The corridors beyond the great hall were quiet, too quiet. Every torch burned low, every portrait had its eyes turned away. The silence wasnât safety â it was a trap, and you both knew it.
After breakfast, theyâd herded you away from the long table like livestock. Their smiles had been too smooth, their nods too pointed. âYouâll need the afternoon to rest,â one of them had said, as though kindness had ever existed in their vocabulary. Another whispered, âTonight is important. Be ready.â
And then, almost cruelly, they left you.
You and James. Together.
The heavy doors had locked behind you with a thud that felt final. No guards. No parents. Just the two of you in a drawing room lined with velvet drapes and suffocating with incense.
For a long time, you didnât move. James stood near the fireplace, his shoulders rigid, fists clenched like he was still hearing every insult from his fatherâs mouth. You hovered near the door, your back pressed against the wood, heart thundering, unsure if you should speak or run or scream.
âTheyâre watching us.â His voice was rough, low, as if admitting it might summon eyes from the walls.
You nodded, though you couldnât see how. âProbably.â
James finally turned, and the firelight caught the bruising shadow blooming along his jaw. A fresh cut near his temple glinted red. You swallowed hard. âJamesâŚâ
âDonât,â he muttered. But it wasnât harsh. More like the plea of someone one breath away from unraveling.
You stepped closer anyway. The room was too big, too empty. The space between you was unbearable. âYouâre hurt.â
His laugh was hollow. âYou should see the other bloke.â
It should have been funny, but it wasnât. Not here, not now.
Your hands twitched at your sides. For years, youâd told yourself that James Potter hated you. That heâd never want you. And yet here he was â broken down, dragged through the fire of expectations you shared, looking at you like maybe you were the only tether keeping him from burning out completely.
You moved before you could stop yourself. Fingers brushed his sleeve, then the line of his wrist. He flinched, not from you, but from touch itself â the kind that had always been weaponized in his world. But then his hand caught yours. Rough, trembling, tight.
âDonât let go,â he whispered.
The words cracked something in you.
So you didnât.
Neither of you spoke for a while. His forehead leaned against yours, eyes closed, breaths uneven. The weight of the vow pressed like iron bands around your ribs, but in that moment, you could almost forget it. Almost pretend it was just you and James, free to choose each other.
When he finally opened his eyes, the firelight caught gold in his irises. He searched your face, as if trying to memorize it, as if tonight might rip it away.
âThey want us to play their game,â James said quietly. âBut in here⌠with you⌠I donât want to play. Not for them.â
Your throat tightened. âThen what do you want, James?â
The silence between you shivered. His hand tightened on yours, almost painfully. And yet, when his lips brushed your temple â featherlight, trembling, more a question than an answer â you didnât pull away.
It wasnât a kiss for them. It wasnât a vow. It was survival. It was rebellion. It was yours.
â§.* : J.P x Arranged Marriage! Reader
âď¸ : mentions of violence! Blood! / angst / arranged marriage â : The ball had begun, every gaze fixed on you and James, yet neither of you sensed the shadow of your parentsâ secrets â truths that would catch up to you both, no matter how far you tried to run.
𦹠: 4.5k
A/N: twist of the century
[masterlist]
Much Love, Saige
â request : N/A
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The chandeliers above the Great Hall burned brighter than usual, enchanted lights gilding every golden plate and glass in a warm, glittering glow. The ceiling mirrored the night sky, stars winking down against velvet black. Long tables had been pushed aside, replaced by lavish displays of food and champagne flutes that filled themselves. The hum of excited chatter and music rolled like thunder against the walls.
But the moment you stepped through the tall doors, the hum sharpenedâturned directly toward you.
You froze, one slipper catching slightly on the stone, and your breath stilled in your chest. The room erupted in applause. It wasnât just noise; it was pointed, celebratory, a thunderclap that struck you all at once. You were the occasion. You, with your carefully arranged hair and the dress that wasnât really yours at all but something chosen by your family.
Heat climbed up your neck as every eye turned. You glanced instinctively across the hall
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
And there he was.
James Potter stood framed in the opposite doorway, like some cruel joke the universe had staged. His posture was stiff, his dark dress robes immaculate in a way that made him look almost like a stranger. His hands hung at his sides, clenched tightly enough that the fabric pulled. And when the applause swelled a second time, greeting him as warmly as it had you, you saw his jaw tick. He hated it just as much as you did.
The hall wasnât rejoicing for two young people attending a ball. The hall was rejoicing for you. For the spectacle of you.
Your eyes caught his, an unspoken tether snapping taut between you across the wide expanse.
Are you alright? his expression seemed to say, though his mouth didnât move.
No, you thought back at him, your lips twitching into the faintest, bitterest almost-smile. But you arenât either.
You tilted your chin slightly, pretending composure you didnât feel. His eyes softened a fraction. He mirrored it, straightening his shoulders, pretending just as hard as you were.
The crowd clapped harder, a cheer rippling down the tables like fire spreading across parchment. It wasnât for James. It wasnât for you. It was for the image of you together, even though you were a hundred feet apart.
He raised one eyebrow, subtle, a flicker of boyish defiance trying to push through all the polish. This is ridiculous, it seemed to say.
Your throat tightened, but you let your lips part just enough for him to catch the curve of a whisper: I know.
That was it. That was the conversation. No sound, no words spoken, only a hundred feet of suffocating distance and the heavy claps of people who didnât know either of you at all.
But for a heartbeat, in the space of that silent exchange, it didnât feel like the Hall was rejoicing for them.
It felt like you and James were going to have to survive it, together.
The applause did not die down as you descended the staircase. If anything, it seemed to swell with every step, a tide of expectation crashing closer and closer, threatening to pull you under.
Your motherâs hand was iron on your arm, her manicured nails pressing through the silk of your sleeve as though she could mold you into the perfect shape by sheer force. Her perfume clouded around you, cloying and sharp, a warning and a weapon both.
âSmileâ just enough, not too wide.â Her voice was a dagger slipped into your ear, concealed by her poised expression. âChin up, shoulders back. Eyes forward. Grace, darling, remember grace.â
Your steps hitched, but she steadied you, forcing you forward with the kind of elegance that was practiced, not born. The dress rustled like it belonged to someone else. The room seemed to spin, the music rising, your pulse drumming far too fast.
And thenâyour gaze dragged across the Hall, searching for him, against your better judgment.
James.
He stood on the far side, equally imprisoned, equally paraded. His fatherâs hand rested firm against his back, guiding him toward the crowd with a pressure that brooked no refusal. His mother floated at his side, whispering too â commands you couldnât hear, but you could read them in the tension of his shoulders, the stiffness of his jaw.
Stand straight, James. Do not fidget. Do not scowl. Do not ruin this.
The room had eyes for him just as it had for you. And heâMerlin, he looked almost like he might crack in two.
Your motherâs grip tightened when you faltered at the last step. âHave grace,â she hissed again, her smile never faltering for the crowd.
Across the hall, Jamesâs father gave his shoulder the same shove forward, the gesture subtle, but you caught it. His face shifted into a mask, a role he had been forced to wear, and for one sickening moment you saw how alike you must look. Puppets dressed in finery, paraded beneath chandeliers.
Your eyes found his again â pulled, magnetized.
It wasnât a smile he gave you. Not exactly. Just the barest lift of his mouth, his eyes softening in the way that said, I see you. I see how much you hate this, too.
Your throat went tight, but you forced yourself to keep walking as your mother propelled you into the throng. Every laugh she coaxed from you felt foreign. Every tilt of your chin was borrowed, not yours.
And across the floor, you watched James fight the same battleâhis parentsâ whispers dripping like poison into his ear, his mask tightening with each step. Yet when his gaze flickered to yours, even for a second, you both shed the masks.
Just for that heartbeat.
Two aching, silent lifelines cast across a sea of clapping hands and glittering smiles.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The music dulled into a hush, the swell of voices collapsing into a collective inhale as the hosts of the eveningâyour parents and Jamesâsâtook center stage. The chandeliers above seemed to glisten brighter, candlelight sharpening into points that made the room feel as though it were holding its breath with you.
Your motherâs fingers dug into your arm, perfectly poised lips brushing your ear one last time.
âSmile as though you mean it. This is your night. Do not falter.â
You swallowed hard, your throat dry, your heart a trembling bird in its cage.
Across the hall, Jamesâs father clapped a heavy hand onto his sonâs shoulder. âStand proud, James. The eyes of the finest families are upon you. Do us proud.â
And then â like pieces on a chessboard â you and James were maneuvered forward. The crowd split neatly down the middle, leaving an aisle of polished marble between you. Your footsteps echoed too loudly, your pulse quickened until you could hear little else.
Step. Breathe. Step.
Jamesâs eyes locked onto yours, wide and searching, though he too was dressed in the armor of formality. Every inch of him screamed restraint, shoulders back, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides as though to keep them from betraying his nerves.
âLadies and gentlemen,â your fatherâs voice boomed across the Great Hall, commanding silence with ease. âTonight, we are honored to celebrate not only the triumphs of our heritage, but the continued bond between two of the most noble houses in our world.â
There were murmurs of approval, the swish of robes, the clink of champagne glasses.
Your stomach twisted. You dared not blink.
âAnd so,â your father continued, gesturing elegantly toward you, âmy daughter, graceful, accomplished, and a shining credit to her nameâŚâ
Your mother squeezed your arm once more before releasing you into the open, and you stepped forward, every movement rehearsed yet feeling impossibly foreign.
ââŚand young James Potter, whose familyâs standing and honor need no introduction.â
James was propelled forward with a subtle push at the small of his back. He moved, stiff at first, but then his eyes found yours again. It was like watching him exhale for the first time all night.
A ripple of applause spread across the hall.
The four parents guided you closer, until you and James stood mere feet apart, under the weight of a thousand stares.
âTogether,â Jamesâs father announced, his voice like iron. âA symbol of what is to come.â
The words hung heavy, suggestive, inevitable.
Your mother angled you forward. Jamesâs father nudged him closer. The distance between you collapsed into something intimate and unbearable.
For a suspended moment, the world disappeared. You could hear your breath, sharp and shaky, and the faint scrape of James shifting his shoes against the floor. His gaze flickered down, then up again, soft and unguarded for just you.
And then â he inclined his head, only slightly, his lips twitching as if to speak.
It wasnât rehearsed. It wasnât perfect. But it was him.
The applause thundered again, and though you tried to focus on the sea of faces, your eyes betrayed you, pulling back to James, the only steady point in a world that felt like it was spinning far too fast.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You had expected grandeur. Chandeliers dripping with light, robes in the richest of silks, the music swelling like something out of a storybook. But there was something⌠off. The Hall â transfigured for the event â glittered with silver and emerald, deep velvet banners swallowing every inch of stone. The air smelled of smoke and wine, heavy and suffocating.
The applause thundered. Every guest stood as though they had been waiting for this exact moment. A toast rose, echoing off enchanted ceilings: To the Houses united!
You fought to breathe.
The introductions with each witch or wizard were humiliating â your name spoken like a claim, tethered to Jamesâs, the crowdâs approval swelling as you and he were paraded along the aisle together. Each step felt rehearsed, but you had never practiced this. Jamesâs hand brushed yours once, not in affection, but in warning: Something isnât right.
You glanced around, really looking now. The people. Too many cloaks in shades of shadowed green and silver. Too many faces you recognized from whispered conversations in the Prophet, families who leaned too eagerly into talk of blood purity. And in the corners, robed figures with masks lowered at their sides, eyes like wolves watching you.
Still, your mother leaned close, her voice almost reverent. âDo you feel it? The honor, darling? Tonight you become part of something greater.â
James stiffened at that. His jaw set, shoulders tight beneath his robes. You could almost hear his thoughts rattling through the fragile thread that bound you: something greater, or something monstrous?
The music shifted â low, solemn, ceremonial. You wanted to laugh, or scream, anything to break the choking silence that fell. But all you could do was step forward, toward the dais where two ornate chairs awaited like thrones.
Every eye followed you. Every whisper curled like smoke. And though no words had been spoken yet, you understood. This was no mere ball. This was no harmless celebration.
This was the beginning of something you had never consented to.
And James, his hand tapping against yours again in secret, knew it too.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The room swallowed you whole. Every clink of glass, every polite laugh seemed rehearsed, orchestrated. When you and James reached the platform, looking out to all, it was as though the crowd exhaled in unison, their relief unsettling, their hunger almost visible.
You sat, though your legs felt like they might buckle. James did the same beside you, his hand gripping the armrest instead of yours. He looked forward, not at you, not at his father, but into the void between chandeliers and shadows.
Jamesâ father raised his glass. âOur children,â he said, his voice booming with pride. âA bond generations in the making, now brought to fruition. Tonight marks the beginning of somethingââ He paused, his eyes glinting. ââfar greater than any of us.â
The crowd cheered. You flinched.
James shifted beside you, his eyes cutting to yours for the briefest moment. His face wore the same painted calm, but beneath itâthere was fear. You knew it, even if no one else did.
The night went on like theater. Guests approached, bowing low, speaking of your âradiance,â of Jamesâs âstrength,â of the honor your union brought to the old ways. Each word clung to you like cobwebs, sticky, suffocating.
You caught other things, too. Whispers about alliances. About loyalty. About unity. You didnât understand all of it, but you felt the weight. Heavier with each toast.
At one point, Jamesâs mother brushed past him, straightening his collar with hands that trembled too slightly to notice unless you were watching closely. Her smile didnât reach her eyes. She whispered something you couldnât hear, and James stiffened like sheâd driven a knife into him.
Dinner was served, though you hardly ate. Neither did James. He kept pushing his food around his plate, his gaze darting from table to table as though he was mapping exits.
When the candles dimmed, the air grew colder. The laughter softened into hushed tones. The band played slower, almost mournful music. Guests began moving with purpose, forming an expectant circle around the dais.
You felt your pulse in your throat.
James leaned just slightly toward you, his lips barely moving. âY/NâŚâ His voice was a whisper, rough, like it was being dragged out of him.
But before he could finish, your motherâs hand found your shoulder, guiding you to stand. âItâs time,â she said, her smile sweet, her eyes like steel.
Time for what?
The music halted.
It wasnât gradual, no polite fade into silence. One moment the band was playing; the next, the strings snapped into nothing. A hundred conversations cut short. The air seemed to still, heavy with expectation.
Your motherâs hand was still on your shoulder, steering you forward, down the shallow steps of the grand platform. James rose beside you, his fatherâs firm grip on his arm ensuring he didnât lag behind.
The circle of guests widened, robes rustling, wine glasses forgotten. They parted with eerie synchronization, leaving a hollowed space in the center of the hall.
At the far side, a figure stepped forwardâhooded, draped in black so deep it seemed to drink the candlelight. Around them, shadows shifted. Masked faces gleamed in the flicker of flame. You knew those masks, though you had only ever heard whispers: Death Eaters.
Your breath caught.
âTonight,â the hooded figure said, their voice smooth, commanding, âwe celebrate not only the joining of two noble houses, but the strengthening of a cause greater than any one family.â
A murmur rippled through the crowd. It was not surprise. It was approval.
Jamesâs jaw clenched. You felt it â through the quick glance he gave you, through the way his hand twitched as though aching to grab yours, to pull you away. But he didnât. He couldnât.
The hooded figure lifted a pale hand, and the room obeyed. A wand appeared, raised between you and James. The air prickled, magic humming low, dangerous.
âAn unbreakable vow,â they declared. âBetween bride and groom, witnessed by our loyal gathering. A bond of blood, of honor, of obedience. To each other. To your families. To the greater purpose that binds us all.â
Your knees nearly buckled. A wedding. Here. Now.
Your motherâs grip tightened, keeping you upright. âBe proud,â she hissed in your ear. âYou will thank us one day.â
James stepped closer, his fatherâs hand heavy on his back. He looked at you, eyes wide, burning. Not with angerânot onlyâbut with something far more painful. Fear.
The hooded figure moved between you, wand raised. âDo you consent?â
The crowd leaned forward, hungry.
Jamesâs lips parted. His voice was quiet, but it carried. âIââ
Your throat closed. Your heart pounded. This wasnât a ball. This was a cage, and the lock was about to click shut.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The wand hovered between you, shimmering with faint, poisonous light. The figure in black waited, patient and terrible, the crowd pulsing with expectation.
âDo you consent?â the voice repeated, each word ringing like iron.
James inhaled sharply. His lips trembled around the word that wanted to leave him. âNo.â
Gasps rippled through the hall, sharp and scandalized. The crowd recoiled as though scorched. You felt your motherâs grip turn to stone on your arm, nails digging into your skin.
Charlus Potterâs hand clamped down on Jamesâs shoulder so hard you thought it might bruise. âJames,â he hissed, voice low and vicious, âdonât be a fool.â
But James shook his head, defiance sparking hot in his eyes. He looked at you thenâreally looked at youâas if seeing the terror etched into your face had set him aflame. âThis isnât right. You canâtânone of you can make usââ
âSilence,â the hooded figure snapped. Their wand cracked with a whip of sparks, silencing the hall at once. The shadows at the edge of the room stirredâmasked faces shifting, wands ready.
Your heart lodged in your throat.
âJames Potter,â the figure continued, voice deceptively calm, âyou will not embarrass your house. You will not dishonor your blood. You will not jeopardize what we are building.â
Jamesâs fists curled at his sides. His chest heaved as though he was about to lunge, to fight every single one of them. He even took a step forward, his body trembling with fury.
But Jamesâ father yanked him back with brutal force, gripping his sonâs jaw so tightly you could hear the strain in Jamesâs teeth. âYou will do this,â he spat. âOr you will destroy us all.â
And then â your motherâs voice, sharp in your ear: âDo not ruin this for us, Y/N. Do not ruin this for yourself.â
Your vision blurred with hot, helpless tears.
James met your gaze again, searching your face as though begging for some kind of answer, some path out of this. His eyes were wild, angry, but beneath it all â desperate. For freedom. For you.
The wand lowered between you both once more. The words came again: âDo you consent?â
The silence was unbearable.
And then, hoarse, broken, James whispered, âYes.â
The hall erupted in applause, sickeningly triumphant.
Your knees nearly gave out. You wanted to scream, to tear yourself away, but the wand was already glowing brighter, coils of burning magic wrapping around your joined hands. The vow was forming, sealing, suffocating.
And though Jamesâs fingers tightened around yours, as though trying to tell you I didnât mean it, I didnât want this, the magic didnât care. The vow was binding.
And the crowd rejoiced.
The wand between you hummed with dark light, strands of magic snaking upward like smoke. The hooded figure moved closer, circling you both with slow, deliberate steps, their presence suffocating.
âAn unbreakable vow,â they said, voice smooth as silk, sharp as steel. âThe union of two houses, bound in loyalty, blood, and purpose.â
Your hands were pressed into Jamesâs, his palm clammy, trembling against yours. You felt every twitch of his fingers as he tried to steady himself. Tried to steady you.
The first strand of light bound itself around your wrists, hot enough to sting.
âDo you, James Potter, swear to honor Y/N, to stand beside her as husband, bound not only to her but to the families that have forged this bond?â
Jamesâs jaw was rigid, his voice hoarse. âI do.â
The magic seared, the band tightening, burning his words into your skin.
âDo you, Y/N, swear the same? To stand as wife, to obey the will of this bond, to strengthen not only your family but the order it serves?â
Your voice cracked. âIââ You wanted to say no. Every inch of you screamed against it. But your motherâs grip tightened at your back, her hiss like venom in your ear: Say it.
James squeezed your hand hard. His eyes locked on yours, pleading, trying to share the weight.
You choked on the word. âI do.â
The second coil of fire wrapped around your wrists.
The hooded figure raised the wand higher, voice resonant now, echoing like thunder through the hall. âDo you, together, vow to serve the greater cause of unity, to preserve the purity of blood, to stand as a symbol to those who will follow?â
The crowd leaned forward, breathless.
Jamesâs lips parted, his breath shuddering. He looked at youâburning with defiance, begging forgiveness all at onceâand then he whispered, âI do.â
The vow struck him like a blow, the magic flashing white-hot, branding the promise into his very core. His grip on you trembled, but he didnât let go.
Your throat burned, your vision swam. The words felt like knives as you forced them out: âI do.â
The final band snapped tight, binding your joined hands in a cage of blinding fire. For one awful second, you thought it might kill you both. Your skin seared, your bones rattled with the force of it, your soul itself being pinned to something dark and absolute.
Then the light sank, burrowed beneath your skin, leaving only a faint, glowing mark at your wrists where your hands touched.
The vow was complete.
The room erupted. Applause. Cheers. Goblets raised in triumph. It was deafening, sickening, victorious.
You couldnât breathe.
James didnât release your hand. He couldnâtânot with the vow chaining you both tighter than iron. His eyes flicked to yours, glassy with unshed fury and grief, his voice breaking in the smallest whisper only you could hear.
âIâm sorry.â
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The applause was still roaring when hands tore him away from you. Cold, bony fingers clamped onto his shoulder, another pair yanking his arm so hard it nearly dislocated.
âEnough of that,â a voice hissed, low and triumphant. âThe vow is sealed. The boy must be prepared.â
âNoâ!â James wrenched against them, his hand slipping from yours as they dragged him backward. The glow of the vow still burned at his wrist, a phantom weight where your skin had touched. His heart hammered wildly, sickeningly, as though ripping itself apart trying to reach you.
He glimpsed you once â your face pale, eyes wide, mouth shaping his name â but then you were swallowed by the crowd.
âLet go of me!â James spat, his voice raw, cracking as he shoved back against the menâs grips. He didnât care how many watched. He didnât care that his father was there, tall and stone-faced in his immaculate robes.
His fathers hand struck his son across the face with such violence that Jamesâs head snapped sideways. Pain sparked white-hot. The applause muffled, drowned by the rush of blood in his ears.
âControl yourself,â his father said, his tone as smooth and polite as if he were scolding him for slouching at the dinner table. But his eyes were steel. âYou shame us with this display.â
âI donât give a damn about your display!â James roared, chest heaving, lip split from the blow. âYouâve ruined herâyouâve ruined everythingââ
Another strike. This one from someone else â an older wizard with cruel eyes who smiled as James crumpled to his knees. A boot pressed between his shoulders, shoving him down into the marble floor like a dog.
âLesson one,â the man said coldly, âis obedience.â
James coughed blood onto the polished stone. He could feel dozens of eyes on him, but none moved to help. Not even his father. Especially not his father.
âYou will sit with the men,â the older wizard continued. âYou will drink. You will listen. You will learn what it means to be a husband who strengthens a cause, not weakens it with childish tantrums.â
Strong arms hauled James upright again, forcing him into a heavy chair at the edge of the hall. Goblets of wine and firewhisky slammed down in front of him, older wizards crowding close, their voices like snakes hissing at his ears.
âSmile, Potter.â
âRaise your glass.â
âForget her tearsâwomen must be molded, not coddled.â
Jamesâs fists shook around the goblet. His lip stung, his wrist still burned with the mark of the vow. His whole body shook with rage.
Through the sea of bodies, he craned desperately, searching for you. For even a glimpse. For proof that you hadnât been dragged into something worse.
But you were gone.
And James, trapped between men who called themselves fathers, mentors, allies, sat bleeding in silence, his chest splitting with the unbearable ache of losing you twice in one night.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Before you could even catch your breath, hands â cold, unyielding, insistentâdragged you away from James. The warmth of his hand, the tether to reality, was ripped from you in a heartbeat, leaving a hollow ache that throbbed in your chest.
Your motherâs grip was iron, but now joined by a cadre of older womenâfaces sharp, eyes calculating, movements precise and suffocating. They surrounded you, forcing your shoulders back, tilting your chin up, whispering instructions like daggers.
âHold your head higher,â your mother said, voice silk over steel. âDo not let the world see hesitation. You are a Potter. You are a Granger. You will not fail.â
You opened your mouth, but one of the older women, a distant aunt you barely remembered, gripped your jaw, forcing your lips shut. âDo not speak unless spoken to. Words are a weapon, and tonight, they are not yours.â
The coldness of her touch burned more than the fire of the vow at your wrist. Your fingers itched to touch the mark, to feel Jamesâs presence again, but it was goneâswallowed by distance, by the weight of their control.
âEverything you are, everything you will be, is no longer yours,â your mother whispered, almost tenderly, leaning so close you could feel her breath. âYou exist to serve. To obey. To represent your family and your husband. Do you understand?â
Tears stung your eyes, but you were not allowed to cry. One of the women pressed a cloth to your face, inspecting for any hint of weakness, any betrayal in your expression.
They guided you to a side chamber, walls lined with mirrors. Every reflection felt like accusation. Your body was prodded, your posture corrected until your spine ached. Hairpins dug into your scalp, corsets squeezed the air from your lungs. âYou must be flawless,â they hissed. âA single falter will reflect on your family, your husbandâŚon you.â
Hours passed, each moment an endless echo of instructions, corrections, whispers, threats: Do not falter. Do not cry. Do not betray him. Do not betray yourself. You pressed your palm over the faint glow of the vow still burning at your wrist. Its fire had shifted from warmth to chains, tightening with every command, every word, every measured breath.
And all the while, James haunted you. You imagined him bleeding, trapped, obeying, suffering in silence, and the knowledge that you could not help him tore at you. You werenât just preparing for a ball. You were being remadeâstripped of choice, of agency, of safety.
By the time your mother allowed you a momentâs rest, your body was trembling, your mind fractured, every shadow in the room a threat. Sleep was impossible. Every sound âevery rustle of silk, every whisper behind the mirrors â made your chest constrict as if the air itself had been poisoned.
You pressed your palm over the vowâs mark again. It burned faintly, a cruel reminder that James was out there somewhere, suffering, while you were trapped. And for the first time, the enormity of what had been done to both of you crashed over you: the vow, the parade, the audience, the expectations. The night had not just begun. It had already claimed you.
âď¸ mentions of death! // obsession // love triangle // dark! Characters
â The love triangle ruts towards a dramatic shift - broken between the twins and the investigation getting closer, could you three find a romantic common ground?
A/N: longtime no see of this story! I hope you guys find interest â hehe it was fun to revisit.
Morning dawned cold and gray over Hogwarts, the castle cloaked in an uneasy silence that felt almost unnatural. The usual chatter in the Great Hall was replaced by low murmurs and nervous glances. Everyone had heard the news â Luna, the quiet Ravenclaw first year, was missing. Not just missing, but gone. Vanished without a trace.
You sat at the edge of the Gryffindor table, watching the ripple of panic wash through the students as the rumors spread like wildfire. The whispers were sharp and cruel â âDid she run away?â âMaybe she was a Mudblood spy.â âOr worse.â Even the younger studentsâ faces were pale, eyes wide with fear and fascination. The unspoken dread hung thick between bites of breakfast and clattering of cutlery.
The teachers, too, were restless. Professors strode through the corridors with grim faces, exchanging clipped words in hushed tones. Filch had been ordered to patrol more often, and Peeves seemed more subdued, prowling but careful not to stir too much trouble.
You felt it too â the shift in the castleâs heartbeat. This was no longer a prank, no longer just vengeance on a house that deserved it. The lines were blurring, and with that came danger â for everyone, including you.
Fred and George sat across from you, masks of casual concern firmly in place, but you could see it flicker in their eyes â the same storm you felt brewing inside. Fred kept glancing around as if expecting someone to appear, accusing or desperate. George was quieter, tracing patterns on the tablecloth with a finger, lost in thought.
When you caught Fredâs eye, he offered a tight smile. âTheyâre scared. And theyâre looking for someone to blame.â
You nodded, voice low. âThatâs why we have to be careful. If the wrong people start asking questionsâŚâ You didnât finish. You didnât need to.
George leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. âThe professors will tighten security. The Order might get involved if this keeps up.â
You swallowed the knot forming in your throat. The stakes were rising, and the fragile web youâd all spun was beginning to strain. Your plan to control the chaos was slipping through your fingers like smoke.
Still, you stayed calm. You had to. Because if anyone was going to survive this game, it would be you â the one who saw every move before it was made, who could outthink even the cunning Weasley twins.
The castle was watching, waiting, terrified.
And you were ready.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The castle was different now.
Every hallway felt sharper, every shadow heavier, as though the very stones themselves knew what was happening. You moved through it carefully, deliberately, the way someone would navigate a chessboard midgame â because thatâs what it was, really. A game.
Only the three of you knew the rules.
Fred and George had always been a pair of firestorms, chaotic and bright and untouchable. But something was unraveling inside them since the Ravenclaw girlâs death. The twins were no longer perfectly aligned.
And you felt it first.
It started small: George was quieter, watching you when he thought you werenât looking. Fred, on the other hand, was louder, sharper, like every laugh or smirk he gave you was a little too bright, a little too forced.
Tonight, in the common room, the three of you sat together near the fire after everyone else had gone to bed. It was late enough that the only sound was the crackle of flames and the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows.
Fred was slouched back in his chair, legs stretched out, his arm draped lazily along the back of yours. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didnât quite reach his eyes.
George sat opposite, elbows on his knees, staring at the fire like it might answer something for him.
It wasnât like before. Before, there had been easy banter, smirks shared like secrets, the thrill of what you were all doing stitching you together like co-conspirators in some grand, violent play.
Now, the room felt tense.
âI donât like how you look at her,â George said finally, voice low, dark.
Fred didnât even glance at him. âI look at her the same way you do.â
âNo,â George said, lifting his gaze to you. His eyes were sharp now, burning. âYou look at him like you want to belong to him.â
You didnât flinch.
Because the truth was, he wasnât wrong.
You wanted them both in different ways. Fred with his reckless grin, the way he laughed even when his hands were still stained with someone elseâs blood. George with his stillness, his calculation, the quiet obsession that felt like he could see through your skin.
Fred finally looked over at George, smirk turning dangerous. âShe doesnât belong to anyone.â
The fire popped loudly between you, casting orange light across all three faces.
George leaned back slowly, but his eyes never left yours. âMaybe not yet.â
Your pulse skittered.
The twins had always been in sync â finishing each otherâs sentences, moving like two sides of the same mind. But now, they were starting to splinter, the cracks widening every time George caught you watching Fred, every time Fred stood a little too close behind you.
And you⌠you didnât stop it.
You didnât want to.
Fred leaned forward suddenly, bracing his forearms on his knees, the firelight glinting in his eyes. âYou trust us, donât you?â
You tilted your head. âShouldnât I?â
He smirked, but there was no humor in it. âYou should.â
George stood then, slow and deliberate, moving until he was right behind your chair. You felt the heat of him before his voice ghosted against your ear.
âAnd what if youâre the only thing keeping us from tearing each other apart?â
The room went still.
Fredâs jaw tightened, his eyes locked on his twin.
Your heart pounded, but you leaned back in the chair, perfectly calm, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter until it almost hurt.
Because maybe George was right.
Maybe you were the only thing holding them together.
And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You knew it was coming.
The tension had been building all week, thickening with every passing glance, every brush of fingers, every time Fred stood a little too close or Georgeâs gaze lingered too long.
But tonight, it finally cracked.
It was late again â it always was, the three of you hiding away after curfew when the castle was quiet, when all the whispers of the day turned into secrets no one else could hear. You sat in the empty classroom the twins had claimed as their own, legs crossed on top of one of the desks, the candlelight flickering over the three of you like the scene of a confession.
Fred paced.
George leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes like ice on his twin.
And you, as always, were right in the middle â the still point in the storm.
âWeâre getting sloppy,â George said finally, voice sharp enough to cut through the heavy air. âThe Ravenclaw was one thing, but now the professors are watching us. Someone saw you two near the dungeons before curfew last night.â
Fred stopped pacing, turned on him. âYou think I donât know that?â
âYou donât act like you do.â
Fredâs grin was slow, dangerous. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
George pushed off the wall. âIt means youâre distracted.â His eyes flicked to you. âWeâre distracted.â
The air between the three of you burned hotter.
Fred laughed once, sharp and humorless. âYouâre jealous.â
âOf you?â Georgeâs voice was low now, dark and steady. âYou think she looks at you the way she looks at me?â
Fredâs grin faded.
And there it was â the first real crack.
Because you had been looking at them both differently. Letting yourself. Because why shouldnât you? You were the one keeping them out of suspicion, feeding alibis to professors before they could be questioned, playing your part so well no one could see the truth.
But the twins? They were unraveling.
You leaned back on the desk, watching them like a queen surveying a battlefield. âIf you two kill each other before anyone else gets caught,â you said slowly, âthen all of this was for nothing.â
They both turned to you then, like you were the center of gravity in the room â because you were.
Fred stepped closer first, his jaw tight, eyes locked on yours like he wanted to tear something open and see what was inside.
Then George moved too, not as fast, but quieter, darker, until he was right there beside you.
âTell us,â George said softly. âDo you want him more than me?â
You felt the heat of both of them now, the way the room seemed to shrink smaller and smaller, the walls pressing in as though the castle itself wanted to hear your answer.
But you didnât give one.
Instead, you smiled â small, sharp, dangerous.
âWhy should I have to choose?â you whispered.
The silence after that was deafening.
Fred stared at you, chest rising and falling fast.
Georgeâs fingers flexed against the edge of the desk like he was holding himself still by force alone.
And in that moment, you knew you had them both â tangled in you, in each other, in the web youâd spun tighter than any spell.
Because maybe George was right.
Maybe you were the only thing keeping them from tearing each other apart.
And maybe that was exactly what you wanted.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The next murder wasnât planned.
You felt it in your chest the moment you heard the rumors the next morningâwhispers sliding down the tables of the Great Hall like a curse. This time it wasnât Slytherin. It wasnât random.
It was a Gryffindor.
A sixth-year Prefect, found behind the Quidditch stands at dawn, throat cut clean as parchment.
And for the first time, there had been witnesses.
Not enough to identify anyone clearly, but enough to say they saw someoneâtwo someonesârunning across the pitch after curfew.
Your blood ran cold even as you stirred sugar into your tea, movements calm and deliberate while the hall buzzed with panic. Fred and George werenât at breakfast. Not yet. Which meant they were either asleep in the dormitory or busy burning evidence somewhere.
You had to fix this. Fast.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The corridors swarmed with prefects and professors the entire day, everyone watching everyone else like enemies on the brink of war. Classes were half-empty. No one lingered alone. Even Filch had stopped muttering under his breath and had taken to stalking the halls with Mrs. Norris like a soldier on patrol.
By the time you slipped into the unused classroom that night, Fred and George were already there.
They looked⌠different.
Fred was pacing again, faster this time, movements sharp like he couldnât stop. George sat slouched in a chair, jaw tight, knuckles pale where they gripped the armrest.
Neither of them spoke when you shut the door behind you.
âYou killed a Prefect.â Your voice was even, measured, but your chest felt tight. âDo you have any idea what that means?â
Fred ran a hand through his hair, finally stopping mid-step to face you. âHe was there, Y/N. He saw us leaving the pitch last night. He was going to tell someone.â
âYou could have scared him,â you snapped. âStunned him. Anything but this.â
George looked up then, eyes darker than youâd ever seen. âHe followed us.â His voice was quiet, steady, and far more unsettling than Fredâs frantic energy. âWouldnât stop asking questions. Wanted to know why we were out there. Said he was going to tell McGonagall.â
âSo you killed him.â
Silence.
Fred finally sat down beside his brother, elbows braced on his knees. He looked at you like he was waiting for anger, disappointment, something sharp enough to cut through the heat twisting between the three of you.
But you didnât give it to him.
Because they didnât need scolding. They needed control.
Your control.
You stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until you were standing between them where they sat. The firelight from the lone candle made their faces look almost the sameâtwo halves of the same chaos, both watching you like you were the only steady thing left.
âYouâre both getting reckless,â you said softly. âSloppy. If the professors connect you to this, itâs over. For all of us.â
Fred tilted his head back, staring up at you with something dangerous in his eyes. âThen tell us what to do.â
Georgeâs voice was lower. âOr who to kill next.â
You didnât flinch.
Because the truth was, you werenât sure whether you were horrified or exhilarated.
They were spinning out, the mask slipping piece by piece. And somehow, you were the only one who could pull them backâor push them further over the edge.
And maybe that power was starting to feel addictive.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The Aurors arrived by midday.
It was subtle at first â whispers in the halls about unfamiliar faces, about Ministry robes moving through the castle in small groups. By lunch, they werenât whispers anymore. They were facts.
Two Aurors were questioning professors in hushed voices at the head table. Another pair stood near the entrance of the Great Hall, scanning students as they filed in. The students shifted nervously under the scrutiny, suddenly hyperaware of every word spoken, every glance exchanged.
The Ravenclaw girl had been shocking. The Prefect, unforgivable.
Now it was an investigation.
And Hogwarts was a cage.
You sat at the Gryffindor table, back straight, expression perfectly composed as you buttered a piece of toast you had no intention of eating. Across the hall, Fred and George were playing their roles to perfection â loud, obnoxious, exactly the sort of boys no one would ever accuse of something this brutal.
But you could see it in their eyes when they glanced at you.
The weight of the Prefectâs death.
The tightening noose.
The need for you to fix it.
And you would.
Because thatâs what you did â you didnât just survive the game; you controlled it.
By evening, the castle was under lockdown. Curfew was moved earlier. Students werenât allowed in the corridors alone. Prefects patrolled in pairs. The professors had been given a list of names to watch closely.
You wondered if Fred or George were on it.
You slipped into the classroom after dinner to find the twins waiting, the door shut, the air charged.
Fred was sitting on the edge of a desk, tapping his wand against his leg. Restless. George stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the dark grounds beyond the glass.
âTheyâre going to start interviewing students tomorrow,â you said quietly, shutting the door behind you. âIndividually. One by one.â
Fred smirked. âLet me guess â weâre on the list?â
âProbably near the top.â
George finally turned from the window, eyes locking on yours. âThen fix it.â
The words were calm. Too calm.
You stepped closer, chin lifting. âI will. But you two need to stop losing control.â
Fredâs smirk slipped a fraction, but his eyes were on you, not George. âMaybe you make us lose it.â
The room went still.
Georgeâs gaze snapped to his brother, sharp enough to draw blood.
You held Fredâs stare, heartbeat steady, even as something electric and dangerous crackled between the three of you.
Because maybe he was right.
Maybe you did make them lose control.
And maybe you liked it.
You didnât sleep that night. Instead, you slipped through the castle like a ghost, planting seeds where you needed them â a rumor here, a whispered accusation there. By the time the Aurors started questioning students in the morning, theyâd have three false leads before they even thought about Fred and George.
Control. Always control.
But as you moved through the dark corridors, you couldnât shake the feeling that this was spiraling faster than even you could handle.
Because Fred and George werenât just following your lead anymore.
They were circling each other.
Circling you.
And you werenât sure what would snap first â the investigation closing in, or the twins themselves.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The interviews began before dawn.
By the time the castle woke, the Aurors had already moved through every corridor with the quiet intensity of hunting dogs. Professors looked pale and tight-mouthed, the Prefects tense, even the usual snickering Slytherins subdued under the weight of a girl vanishing without a trace.
Rumors were spreading like fire through dry grass.
You spent the entire day feeding them, twisting them just enough to keep eyes off the twins. Slipping hints into conversations, planting doubts, making certain people look the wrong way. Every word had to land perfectly. One mistake and the whole game would come down around you.
But tonight, you didnât come to the hidden classroom for strategy.
Tonight, it felt like walking into the heart of a storm.
Fred was already there, pacing like he couldnât stand still, shoulders tight with barely leashed energy.
George leaned against the wall, deceptively calm, but his eyes never left you.
Neither of them spoke when you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you, the silence heavy enough to feel against your skin.
âThey asked about me,â Fred said at last, his voice low, rough. âWhere I was. What I saw. Said theyâd talk to you next.â
Georgeâs gaze flicked toward you, slow and sharp. âWhat will you tell them?â
You didnât even hesitate. âThat none of us had anything to do with it.â
Fredâs mouth curved, but it wasnât his usual grin. âYou always sound so sure.â
âBecause I am.â
Your heart thudded steady as you crossed the room, stopping just in front of them. âYou think Iâd let anyone touch you?â
Fred froze. Georgeâs jaw tightened, his shoulders shifting like he was holding something back.
Then Fred stepped closer. âAnd what if it all burns down anyway?â
You tilted your chin up. âThen I burn with you.â
That did it.
Fredâs mouth crashed onto yours like he couldnât stand it anymore.
One hand caught the back of your neck, the other fisting in your robes as if he didnât trust you to stay put. He kissed like he was furious about it, like he needed to taste every breath you had just to prove he could.
Your back hit the table, hard enough to scatter parchment and quills to the floor, but neither of you stopped.
George moved before you even had time to breathe. He came up behind you, heat radiating off him like a second fire, his hand sliding low around your waist, slow, deliberate.
âTell me to leave,â he said against your ear, voice low and dark.
You didnât.
Instead, you leaned back against him, the heat of his body at your back while Fredâs mouth claimed yours again, harder this time, like he could feel you slipping toward George and refused to give you up.
Georgeâs lips brushed your jaw, then lower, the scrape of his teeth dragging sparks all the way down your throat.
Fredâs hand slid to your hip, his thumb brushing the edge of skin beneath your shirt, and suddenly you were gasping into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair like you didnât care who pulled back first.
They didnât give you the chance.
Fred kissed you like a war; George touched you like a secret.
The two of them moved around you like they could devour every inch of air, like they were done pretending this was anything but inevitable.
Your head fell back against Georgeâs shoulder, your lips breaking from Fredâs just long enough to breathe before Georgeâs mouth found the soft spot below your ear, slow and deep and shattering.
Fredâs forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with something you couldnât name but felt all the way to your bones.
You didnât know when it had stopped being about alibis and plans and danger.
All you knew was that you were in the middle of them, and they werenât going to let you go.
It didnât take long for George to find you again â but not as the fox this time.
You were sitting on the stone fence near Hagridâs hut, legs swinging over the edge, watching the sky fade into dusky lavender. The grass whispered in the evening wind, and the faint smell of woodsmoke curled from Hagridâs chimney. You werenât sure if George would actually come. Part of you hoped he wouldnâtâthings felt heavier now, loaded with something you couldnât quite name since heâd found out the truth.
But then, you heard it.
âEvening, Trouble.â
You looked over your shoulder to find him standing there, hands in his pockets, hair a little mussed like heâd run a hand through it too many times on the way over.
You tried to ignore the way your pulse skipped. âEvening,â you said, voice soft.
George walked over and leaned against the fence beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours when the wind shifted. He didnât speak at first, and neither did you. For once, the boy who filled every room with noise seemed content with the quiet.
It wasnât awkward, though. It was⌠comfortable.
Finally, he tilted his head toward you.
âSo,â he said, voice quieter than usual, âwill I ever get to see it properly?â
You blinked. âSee what?â
âThe fox,â George said with a grin. âI mean, Iâve seen bitsâfur and teeth and all thatâbut not⌠you. Not the way you want to be seen.â
His tone was careful. Like he was asking for something sacred, not teasing.
Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve. The idea of letting someone watch you transform made you feel exposed in a way even more intimate than telling him the secret itself. But there was something about the way George was looking at youâopen, patient, almost reverentâthat made you nod before you could talk yourself out of it.
âOkay,â you murmured.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The forest edge was cool and quiet, shadows stretching long as you stepped into the clearing. George stopped a few paces back, giving you space, his usual grin softening at the edges.
âYou sure?â he asked, voice low.
You nodded. And then, without another word, you closed your eyes, letting the familiar pull of magic sweep through you.
The change was fluid now, the kind of thing youâd practiced until it felt like second nature. The air shifted; the world tilted. And then you were there on four paws, fur bristling faintly in the wind, ears twitching as you lifted your head to meet Georgeâs stunned gaze.
He let out a low whistle. âBloody hell.â
You huffed softly through your noseâhalf embarrassed, half pleasedâbefore padding closer, tail flicking.
George crouched slowly, careful not to spook you, and held out his hand like he wasnât sure if youâd actually come near.
You did.
His fingers were warm when they brushed over your fur, gentle in a way you didnât expect from someone whose life seemed built on chaos and laughter. He didnât say much, just looked at you like you were something extraordinary.
After a long moment, he murmured, âYouâre beautiful, you know that?â
You froze, ears flicking.
George seemed to realize what heâd said and laughed under his breath, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. âThe fox,â he clarified quickly. âI meanâyou too, obviouslyâbut⌠yeah. Both, I guess.â
You let out a soft chuff that mightâve been a laugh if youâd been human, brushing your nose against his hand before stepping back.
Something in his eyes shifted thenâlike this wasnât just curiosity anymore. Like the secret youâd shared had cracked something open between you both, something quiet and unspoken but there all the same.
By the time you shifted back, the stars had begun to prickle the sky. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a little breathless, a little unsure.
George just smiled, softer than youâd ever seen him smile before.
âThanks for trusting me, Trouble,â he said quietly.
And for the first time, you realized he wasnât teasing when he called you that. It sounded almost like a promise.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The corridors at midday were always crowded, voices echoing against stone walls, students rushing between classes like waves in a storm. Usually, it was easy to disappear in the chaosâblend in, keep your head down, pretend you werenât the girl with the fox-shaped secret burning in her chest.
But the moment you saw George weaving through the crowd ahead, that all changed.
It was the first time youâd seen him since the night in the clearing. The night he saw the fox up close, touched your fur like it was something fragile and important. The night that left you lying awake until morning, staring at the ceiling, wondering if things would feel different now.
And they did.
George spotted you almost instantly, like heâd been looking for you before he even realized it. His grin came first, sharp and warm, the kind that made the air feel thinner somehow. But when his eyes met yours, it softened.
He changed course without hesitation, cutting through the chaos until he was in front of you, walking backward to match your pace.
âMorning, Trouble,â he said, voice pitched low, just for you.
You hated the way your heart jumped at that. âMorning, George.â
For a moment, it was like the rest of the corridor didnât existâthe chattering students, the teachers barking at dawdlers, the endless buzz of castle life. It was just him.
George glanced down at the books in your arms. âHeading to class?â
âNo, I just carry these for fun,â you deadpanned.
He smirked. âFigures. Thought maybe you were hiding more secrets in there. Like, I dunno, a spare fox tail or something.â
You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you with a small, traitorous smile.
It was strange, though.
Before, George Weasley had always been this loud, untouchable thingâbright like sunlight, too quick to catch, always surrounded by people and noise and laughter.
But now, walking beside you in the crowded corridor, he didnât feel untouchable.
He felt⌠normal.
Not boringânever boringâbut like the two of you shared something real, something outside the chaos of prank wars and Quidditch matches and the usual Weasley theatrics.
And maybe that was why your stomach twisted when his shoulder brushed yours as he steered you around a knot of younger students without thinking. Like the connection between you had changed shape overnight, soft and close in a way you werenât sure how to name yet.
As you reached the stairwell, George slowed his steps.
âSee you later?â he asked, casual on the surface, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Like he wasnât asking about running into each other by chance.
âYeah,â you said before you could stop yourself.
The grin he gave you then was so warm it was almost unfair.
âGood. Donât get into trouble without me.â
And with that, he was gone, swallowed up by the crowd, leaving you on the steps with your pulse skipping in your throat and the faintest smile tugging at your mouth.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The note wasnât exactly subtle.
Folded into a neat square and slipped onto your desk during Charms, it had your name scrawled across the front in Georgeâs messy handwriting, complete with a little doodle of a fox in the corner.
You unfolded it slowly under the desk, careful not to draw attention.
Meet me by the old Astronomy stairwell after classes. Bring your sense of adventure. âG
Your heart gave one hard, traitorous thump before you stuffed the note into your bag and tried to focus on the lesson.
You failed miserably.
The stairwell was nearly deserted by the time you found it, the last stragglers from the Astronomy Tower long gone. The sun was just beginning to dip, casting the stone walls in warm, hazy light.
George leaned against the railing like he had all the time in the world, arms crossed, that crooked grin already in place when he saw you.
âKnew youâd come,â he said simply.
You raised a brow. âAnd what exactly am I here for? More fox jokes?â
âNope. Your turn to see a secret.â
He led you up the narrow spiral stairs, higher than youâd ever gone before. The tower door at the top was clearly off-limitsâlocked, probably forgotten by most studentsâbut George pulled a bent hairpin from his pocket like this was routine.
âYouâre breaking into school property?â you whispered, incredulous.
âNot breaking,â George corrected as the lock gave a soft click. âBorrowing. Thereâs a difference.â
The door creaked open to reveal a space you hadnât expected: a small, neglected rooftop with crumbling stone edges and a view of the entire grounds bathed in fading sunlight.
It was⌠beautiful.
George stepped aside with a dramatic flourish. âWelcome to the best view at Hogwarts. Fred and I found it first year. Donât worryâweâve only fallen off once.â
You snorted softly, stepping out into the open air. The wind tugged at your hair as you looked around. The lake shimmered in the distance; the Forbidden Forest stretched like a dark sea beyond it.
âItâs amazing,â you murmured.
âTold you,â George said, leaning casually against the wall beside you, though his eyes were watching your face instead of the view.
You sat on the edge carefully, legs dangling over the side as the breeze swept through. George dropped down next to you, close enough that your knees almost touched.
âSo,â you said after a moment, âthis is what you wanted to show me?â
âNot just this.â He pulled a small paper bag from his pocket with a grin. âSnagged a few things from the kitchens, too. Thought we could make it an official meeting of the Secrets Club.â
You shook your head, laughing under your breath as he handed you a warm treacle tart.
But then there was quiet again. Not awkwardâjust⌠there. The kind that made you aware of every brush of his sleeve against yours, every shift of his shoulder as he leaned back on his hands.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, more careful.
âFigured if you trusted me with the fox thing⌠I should trust you with this. Hardly anyone knows about this spot.â
You glanced at him. âNot even Fred?â
He smirked faintly. âOkay, Fred knows. But thatâs it. Itâs ours now, yeah?â
Something in your chest tightened at that. Ours.
You looked back out at the view before he could see the way your mouth threatened to curve into something hopelessly soft.
âYeah,â you said quietly. âOurs.â
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The sun sank lower, the sky bleeding into streaks of rose and gold, and for a long time, neither of you moved.
But the space between you felt alive.
Like a single breath could change everything.
The treacle tart was long gone, the paper bag crumpled between you, but neither of you made a move to leave.
The sun had slipped below the horizon now, leaving only the afterglow streaking the sky in faint pinks and deepening purples. Hogwarts stretched below like a living thingâlanterns glowing in the windows, the Quidditch stands rising in the distance, the lake catching the last scraps of light.
You shouldâve gone back already.
You didnât want to.
George sat beside you on the edge of the rooftop, leaning back on his hands like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Every so often, his shoulder would brush yours. Not on purposeâyou didnât think so, anyway. But the warmth of it lingered each time, like the ghost of a touch he hadnât quite decided on yet.
He was quieter tonight, too. No wild grin, no teasing that never ended. Just George.
You liked this version of him.
Maybe too much.
âFunny thing,â he said finally, voice pitched low so it wouldnât carry, âI thought I knew you.â
You glanced over. âAnd you didnât?â
George shook his head faintly, eyes still on the darkening grounds below. âNot even close. Turns out youâre a secret fox-running-around-the-forest kind of girl. Didnât see that coming.â
You huffed softly, resting your elbows on your knees. âGuess Iâm full of surprises.â
That grin tugged at his mouth again, small but real. âYeah. Iâm starting to like that about you.â
You looked away quickly, heat blooming at the base of your neck.
Because there was something in the way he said it. Casual, sure, but heavier somehow. Like he wasnât just talking about your fox form. Like he meant youâthe girl who used to blend into the hallways, who now sat on secret rooftops with him sharing stolen treacle tarts while the world below carried on without noticing.
The thought made your chest tight and weightless all at once.
George shifted then, turning so he was facing you instead of the view. One knee bent, elbow resting casually on it, but his eyes never left your face.
âCan I ask you something?â he said softly.
You swallowed. âWhat?â
âWhy me?â
It caught you off guard.
He didnât sound smug or teasingâjust curious. Like he really wanted to know why you hadnât run when he saw you. Why youâd trusted him with something youâd kept from everyone else.
You hesitated, fingers twisting in your lap before you said, âBecause you didnât look at me like I was⌠strange. When you saw the fox. You just looked⌠curious. Like you wanted to know me. Not the secret. Me.â
Georgeâs expression shiftedâsomething flickering behind his eyes like he wasnât sure what to do with the words.
âYeah,â he said finally, voice a little rougher than before. âI think I did.â
The quiet stretched, thick and fragile, as though the whole castle below was holding its breath.
You didnât know what wouldâve happened nextâif he wouldâve leaned in, if you wouldâve let himâbecause a sharp gust of wind rattled the tower door, making both of you jump.
The spell broke.
George laughed under his breath, running a hand through his hair. âWe should probably get down before someone catches us.â
But the way his hand brushed your back as you stoodâsteady, warm, lingering just long enoughâmade it clear that whatever this was between you hadnât gone anywhere.
It was only getting stronger.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You see him again.
Itâs between classes, the long corridors crowded with students rushing past in a blur of robes and chatter. Youâve grown used to spotting George now; your eyes seek him out almost instinctively, like the world has quietly decided heâs the only bit of color worth noticing.
He sees you first this time.
Thereâs a moment where the hall feels too small. His stride slows as though he hadnât planned to stop, but now he canât help it. The noise of the castle softens around you, fading to the thudding beat in your chest.
âFox,â he says softly, the nickname barely audible above the passing footsteps.
You roll your eyes, but thereâs no bite in it. âGeorge,â you return, trying to sound casual though your pulse betrays you.
His grin curves slow and lazy, but thereâs something different behind it. He looks at you like heâs memorizing thisâyour hair a little mussed from the wind outside, the faint flush in your cheeks from hurrying to class. Like youâre something more than you should be.
It leaves you feeling shy in a way you didnât expect.
âDo youâuh,â he starts, then stops, his usual smooth confidence tripping over itself. âYou heading to Charms?â
You nod. âYeah.â
âI can walk with you,â he offers quickly, too quickly.
And there it isâthat soft thing growing between you. It hums under your skin as you fall into step together. The conversation is simpleâQuidditch practice, the weather, the upcoming Hogsmeade tripâbut every word feels like itâs carrying something heavier underneath.
His hand brushes yours once, purely by accident, but neither of you moves away.
Itâs maddening, this in-between. The almosts. The lingering glances.
By the time you reach the Charms corridor, you both pause, neither wanting to cut the moment.
âGuess this is you,â he says, shoving his hands in his pockets like heâs afraid they might give him away otherwise.
You nod, clutching your books a little tighter. âYeah.â
For a second, he just studies you. Not teasing, not smirkingâjust looking like he wants to understand all the things you arenât saying.
âSee you later, Fox,â he says, softer this time.
And you think maybe you like the way he says it.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
It happens at dusk, the castle wrapped in that hour where day and night seem to blur together. The air is warm but edged with the promise of evening chill, the wind stirring the grass by the Black Lake into rippling waves.
You hadnât planned on seeing him tonight. Honestly, youâd wanted some space to think, to breathe. The last few days had felt heavy with things you didnât know how to nameâevery glance across the corridors, every near-touch of his hand, every smirk that lingered just a heartbeat too long. It was all starting to feel like something, and you werenât sure you were ready for it.
But there he was.
George Weasley, leaning against an oak tree like it had been waiting for him all along, his arms crossed casually over his chest. Except⌠not really casually. There was a tension there if you looked closely enoughâa kind of stillness that didnât fit him at all. He was usually all motion, all noise and warmth and life. Now he looked like someone holding his breath.
âThought I might find you,â he said when your eyes met. His voice was soft, like the evening itself had dulled it into something gentler.
Your stomach did something strange. âYou were looking for me?â
That earned the smallest curve of his mouth, but not the usual teasing grin. âMaybe,â he admitted.
You crossed the grass slowly, feeling your pulse trip over itself with every step. The wind played at your hair, the smell of the lake and the sharp bite of early autumn all around you. When you finally reached him, you didnât know what to say.
Neither did he.
For a long moment, you just stood there, close enough that you could see the faint gold flecks in his brown eyes, the scar along his knuckle where he once told you Fred accidentally hit him with a Beaterâs bat.
George cleared his throat lightly. âYou know,â he began, his voice deliberately easy, âI like the fox. Sheâs clever, fast⌠impossible to catch.â He glanced at you then, the corner of his mouth twitching. âAnd I swear she mocks me every time she steals my breakfast.â
That pulled a reluctant laugh out of you, though your heart was still climbing its way up your throat.
âBut the thing isâŚâ He stopped, shifted slightly like the words themselves were heavier than he expected. His hand lifted halfway, hesitated, then slowly reached to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your skin for just a second, but it was enough to set something fluttering deep in your chest.
âI like her,â he said softly, his hand lingering by your cheek now, thumb grazing lightly as though he didnât even realize he was doing it. âBut as much as I like the foxâŚâ His eyes held yours, steady and unflinching. âI like you way more.â
You froze, the words landing with a weight you hadnât been ready for.
George didnât stop there. Maybe he couldnât.
âYouâre brilliant,â he said, a little rough around the edges now, like the admission had been simmering too long. âYouâre smart, stubborn as hell, make me feel like Iâm two steps behind no matter what I do.â He swallowed, his thumb still tracing small, absent circles at the corner of your jaw. âAnd Merlin help meâyou are the most beautiful girl Iâve ever seen.â
You couldnât breathe. Not with the wind lifting the lake, not with the smell of pine and water all around, not with him looking at you like that.
âGeorge,â you managed, but it came out thin and uncertain, your pulse hammering against your ribs.
He leaned in slowly, as though giving you every chance to push him away. But you didnât move. Couldnât.
The first press of his lips was careful, almost tentativeâlike he was afraid the moment might shatter if he wasnât gentle enough. You tilted into it before you could think, fingers curling lightly in the fabric of his sweater. His other hand slid to your cheek, holding you like you were something breakable he didnât want to risk losing.
When you kissed him back, properly this time, it deepened into something warm and unhurried. Like both of you had been waiting far too long.
By the time you broke apart, the stars were out, the sky darkening behind his messy hair. He didnât step back. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between.
âDefinitely like you better as the girl,â he murmured, grinning now, his usual spark finally breaking through.
You laughed softly, cheeks aching, heart entirely his, and for the first time in days, you didnât feel like running from it anymore.
