The Serpent's Guard - Slytherin Boys
Summary: Y/N is back on her feet, her bruises are fading, and her boys are acting way too innocent for it to be believable.
Warnings: Violence, Mentions of sexual assault
Word count: 10.7k
. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ :.
Hogsmeade was chaos. Third-years darted through the streets, eager to cram into Zonko’s and plot whatever small-scale disasters they could unleash back at Hogwarts. Older students drifted toward the warmth of the Three Broomsticks—which was exactly where the Slytherin group was headed.
Dodging and weaving through the crush of people, Y/N was already feeling a bit overwhelmed when a steady hand pressed lightly to the small of her back.
“Stay close,” Draco murmured, his tone casual, but his eyes swept the crowd like a hawk.
Up ahead, Mattheo was already carving a path with his shoulders, and most students moved aside the moment they recognized him. For those who didn’t, he had no problem giving them a shove and keeping pace without so much as an apology.
Enzo fell into step on her right, one hand in his jacket pocket—the same pocket that always held the small, ridiculous knife he’d carried since they were twelve.
“You lot are acting like we’re on a spy mission,” she muttered, rolling her eyes at the boys’ antics.
Blaise didn’t even look at her, his gaze scanning a narrow alley to their left. “And if we were?”
On her other side, Theo appeared silently, slipping a Sugar Quill into her hand. Her favorite. She’d only mentioned running out of them back at the castle that morning. As she unwrapped it, she caught him tucking the rest of the bag into his coat pocket for later.
They moved as one—five shadows forming an unspoken wall. To anyone watching, it was casual, effortless. But she knew better.
Being best friends with these boys wasn’t just friendship. It was a line in the sand.
Because anyone foolish enough to cross them already knew the fastest way to bleed wasn’t through them.
It was in their first year that people started to realize how untouchable Y/N could be.
The library was quieter than usual that afternoon. Most of the first-years were still outside enjoying the last bit of autumn sun before winter truly set in, but Y/N had stayed behind to finish an essay for Professor Snape.
She was halfway through a paragraph when a shadow fell across her table.
“Didn’t think they let your kind in here,” a voice said.
Y/N looked up to see Seamus Finnegan standing there, arms folded, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
“My kind?” she repeated flatly.
“You know,” he said, lowering his voice. “Families like yours. Slytherin. Death Eater types.” He glanced at the green-trimmed tie around her neck like it was something foul. “Bet your dad’s real proud you’re carrying on the tradition.”
She stared at him for a beat, then went back to her parchment. “If you’re trying to insult me, you’ll have to be more original.”
His smirk widened. “Oh, I can be. Maybe I should tell the others to watch their backs—never know what a snake might do.”
Y/N’s hand tightened around her quill, but before she could respond, another voice cut in.
“Funny,” Mattheo said from behind Seamus, his tone light but edged. “I was about to say the same thing about you.”
Seamus turned, and suddenly the space behind him was filled. Draco, standing just to Mattheo’s left, wore a lazy smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. Blaise leaned against the nearest bookshelf like he had all the time in the world, but his gaze was sharp. Lorenzo had that deceptively calm expression he always carried before a storm, and Theo was at Y/N’s side without a word, his presence enough to make the air feel heavier.
Mattheo stepped closer, close enough that Seamus had to shift back. “See, here’s the thing,” he said conversationally. “You don’t get to talk to her like that. Ever.”
Draco’s voice was quieter, silkier. “Unless you’re trying to make enemies you can’t afford.”
Blaise let out a low chuckle. “And trust me—he can’t afford it.”
Lorenzo’s tone was almost polite. “So why don’t you walk away before this gets… unpleasant?”
Seamus hesitated, glancing between them. For a moment, Y/N thought he might push it, but then he muttered something under his breath and backed off, disappearing between the stacks.
The boys didn’t move until he was out of sight. Then Mattheo turned to Y/N with a grin that was far too pleased. “See? Easy.”
She arched a brow. “I could’ve handled it.”
“Sure,” Draco said dryly. “But now you don’t have to.”
Theo slid her quill back into her hand, his expression unreadable. “You’re welcome,” was all he said before taking the seat next to her.
And just like that, they went back to normal—like chasing off a Gryffindor in the middle of the library was as ordinary as breathing.
The moment they stepped into the Three Broomsticks, the warmth hit them—mugs steaming, the air thick with the smell of cinnamon and butterbeer, chatter humming under the creak of the old floorboards.
Enzo held the door for Y/N like a gentleman, but before she could take a step forward, the other four closed in on either side of her, moving with her like some well-rehearsed military formation.
Blaise’s eyes swept the room like he was planning a robbery, and Mattheo’s hand found the small of her back, steering her toward the booth with the best view of the exit.
“You do realize it’s just the Three Broomsticks, right?” Y/N muttered as she slid into the booth. Draco and Theo broke off toward the counter to order.
“And you do realize there’s a bloke in the corner with a shifty look and a suspicious muffin,” Enzo said, dead serious.
She followed his gaze. “That’s Filch, you moron. He’s always suspicious.”
Draco and Theo returned with drinks. Y/N reached for hers, but Mattheo plucked it away, took the most obnoxiously long sip imaginable, and handed it back with a nod like he’d just approved a bottle of wine.
She gaped. “Why are you all so on edge today? You’re acting like someone’s plotting my murder.”
They all suddenly found the table very interesting. Theo winced when her eyes landed on him.
“Oh no,” she said slowly. “What did you idiots do now?”
It happened earlier that week.
Y/N was stuck in History of Magic, trapped in the haze of Professor Binns’s droning voice, while the boys had unanimously decided they valued their sanity more than attendance. Instead, they leaned against the cold stone walls outside the classroom, voices low, trading idle banter while they waited for her.
The corridor was quiet—until the laughter started.
Heavy footsteps echoed off the walls as a group of Gryffindor fifth-years rounded the corner, led by Cormac McLaggen. He walked like he owned the place, flanked by four equally cocky friends. The moment his eyes landed on the Slytherin boys, his grin spread into something sharp.
“Well, well,” Cormac drawled. “Slytherin’s guard dogs. Standing around like obedient little pets, waiting for your precious Death Eater princess?”
Draco’s eyes narrowed, the smirk that tugged at his lips icy. “Watch your mouth, McLaggen.”
Cormac ignored him, his gaze sweeping the group like he was sizing them up. “Can’t say I blame you for keeping her close. Girl like that? Pretty face, old money, all dressed up in green… Bet she’s an easy bit of fun if you know what you’re doing. Might try her myself.”
The words hung in the air like poison.
His fist smashed into Cormac’s nose with a wet crack that echoed through the empty hall. Blood sprayed, splattering the wall and Mattheo’s knuckles. Cormac barely had time to cry out before Blaise’s hand fisted in the collar of one of his friends, hurling the boy headfirst into the wall. The dull thud of skull on stone was followed by a pained groan as the kid slumped to the floor.
Another Gryffindor lunged at Draco, but Enzo intercepted, twisting the boy’s arm until the joint popped. The scream was sharp, but it cut off when Enzo slammed his knee into the boy’s gut, folding him like paper before shoving him hard into the wall.
Theo stepped into the path of the fourth Gryffindor, calm as death, and swept his leg out, knocking the boy to the ground. Without a word, he pressed his boot against the kid’s chest, pinning him there like it was nothing.
Mattheo didn’t stop at one punch—he had Cormac pinned against the wall now, his free hand gripping the front of the Gryffindor’s robes so tightly the fabric strained. He drove his fist into Cormac’s ribs once, twice, three times, each blow forcing the air from his lungs with a ragged gasp.
“You say her name like that again,” Mattheo growled, his voice low and shaking with rage, “and I will put you in the Hospital Wing so long they’ll need to owl your parents to recognize you.”
Cormac spat blood onto the floor. “You’ll… pay for this… all of you—”
Draco stepped forward, cutting him off with a punch to the gut that made him drop to his knees. “No, McLaggen. You just paid. In advance.”
Blaise crouched beside him, his voice quiet enough that only Cormac could hear. “Every corridor, every class, every trip to Hogsmeade—you’ll feel us watching. Try something again, and we won’t stop at bruises.”
Enzo grabbed a fistful of Cormac’s hair and yanked his head up so their eyes met. “Next time, I’ll break your nose so bad they’ll have to piece it back together with magic—and maybe not even then.”
Theo finally lifted his boot from the boy he’d pinned, letting him scramble back to his friends. “Go.”
Cormac and his battered crew staggered down the hall, leaving a trail of blood and curses under their breath. One of them glared over his shoulder, eyes full of venom. “You’ll regret this.”
“Nothing,” Mattheo said too fast.
“Uh-huh. Because nothing usually makes you act like a bunch of paranoid bodyguards with commitment issues.”
Draco leaned back, voice smooth. “Drop it, Y/N.”
She narrowed her eyes, then sighed. “You’re all exhausting.”
Mattheo smirked. “Exhausting? You’d last maybe a week without us.”
“Dead from embarrassment, maybe.”
Blaise pointed at her with his mug. “She’s not wrong.”
“At least we keep you alive,” Enzo said.
“Alive and loud,” Theo muttered.
She whipped her head toward him. “I am not loud—” She stopped mid-sentence to gesture at a table of Hogwarts girls giving her death stares. “See? This. I am so tired of being glared at every time I walk into a room.”
Mattheo grinned. “That’s because they’re jealous.”
“You’re sitting with us,” Draco said simply.
Blaise shrugged. “And we’re prettier than their boyfriends.”
Enzo nodded seriously. “They’re mad they’re not in your spot.”
Y/N gave them all a deadpan look. “Okay, first of all, all five of you look like trolls that escaped from under a bridge—no idea why anyone would be jealous of this.”
Mattheo clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. “That’s cold, princess. Wounded, even.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow. “You love us.”
“Love?” she scoffed. “You’re delusional. At best I tolerate you.”
Enzo grinned. “That’s the nicest thing she’s ever said to us.”
Theo took a sip of his drink. “And yet she never sits anywhere else.”
Y/N groaned. “Mostly because you don’t let me.”
She groaned again. “Why can’t you bother some other girl? Spread the misery—you’ve all got fangirls.”
Mattheo leaned forward. “Because it’s you.”
Theo nodded once. “And that’s the only answer you’re getting.”
Draco smirked. “Besides, they wouldn’t survive sitting with us.”
Blaise raised his brows, looking at Y/N. “You barely do.”
“Barely survive?” Y/N scoffed. “I deserve hazard pay for dealing with you lot.”
Mattheo grinned. “Your payment is our charming company.”
“Then I’m underpaid,” she shot back.
Before they could reply, a voice cut in.
A girl from a nearby table leaned against the booth, eyes locked on Mattheo like she was trying to melt him with sheer willpower. “Hi, Mattheo. Thought you might want to join me and my friends instead of… this.” Her gaze flicked to Y/N, dripping disdain. “I’m sure she won’t mind sharing.”
Y/N blinked. “Wow. Subtle as a brick.”
Mattheo didn’t even look up at the girl. “Not interested.”
Her smile faltered. “Oh, come on—”
He finally looked at her, tone flat. “You’re rude to her, you’re invisible to me. Simple as that.”
The girl’s mouth opened, closed, then she huffed and walked off.
Y/N smirked. “You do have your moments, Riddle.” She threw him one of her winning smiles that made boys swoon.
He grinned. “Only for you, princess.” He raised his glass at her.
“Jealous,” Mattheo shot back.
Blaise raised his glass. “I am.”
Enzo rolled his eyes. “You’re all hopeless.”
Theo’s lips twitched. “And yet somehow, she’s still here.”
Y/N sighed dramatically. “Stockholm syndrome.”
Mattheo grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
The table erupted into laughter, and just like that, the tension melted back into their usual chaos.
It was late—so late the castle felt like it was holding its breath. Everyone was asleep, but for some reason, Y/N couldn’t settle. She tossed and turned in her bed until frustration finally pushed her upright. With a quiet sigh, she slipped her feet into slippers and pulled on a hoodie—one of the boys’, stolen months ago and never returned.
She moved as silently as she could, careful not to wake Pansy, Daphne, or the other girls in the dorm. The Slytherin Common Room was still and dim, lit only by the faint green glow of the lake filtering through the windows.
Halfway down the stairs, she hesitated. She could go and wake one of the boys—she knew full well they’d have a fit if they found out she was wandering the castle alone at night. But part of her craved the space. It wasn’t that she was tired of them—Merlin knew she adored them—it was just… sometimes their protectiveness felt like a cage lined with velvet.
So, deciding against waking them, she slipped out of the Common Room and started toward the Astronomy Tower. She kept to the shadows, taking routes she knew prefects rarely patrolled. The stones beneath her feet were cold, the air even colder, curling into her lungs with each breath.
There was something about the castle at night—the dark, sprawling corridors, the hush of it all—that eased her restless mind. Out here, with only the whisper of her footsteps and the faint draft from the windows, she felt something she didn’t often get to feel.
As she walked, the castle was silent save for the faint whisper of her slippers against the stone floor. The torchlight cast long, flickering shadows along the corridor, stretching and curling like they were alive. She was starting to relax again when a new sound broke the stillness.
They echoed off the walls, slow but deliberate, and they weren’t hers.
Her chest tightened. She quickened her pace, the hem of her hoodie brushing her legs as she headed for the nearest broom closet. If she could get inside before whoever it was rounded the corner, they’d walk right past without knowing she was there.
She’d just reached the alcove when a hand shot out of the darkness, gripping her arm and spinning her sharply around.
“McLaggen!” Y/N gasped, her voice half a laugh of relief, half an annoyed scold. She pressed a palm to her chest. “You scared me.”
It wasn’t that she liked Cormac—Merlin, no—but running into another student was better than running into Filch or a prefect. At least it meant she wasn’t the only one taking a late-night risk.
But Cormac didn’t answer. Didn’t even crack a smug smile. He just stood there, staring at her with a strange, unreadable expression.
The uneasy feeling crawled higher in her chest.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed them—marks along his cheekbone and jaw. Bruises, old enough to be fading, but still clear under the torchlight. A mottled mix of yellow, brown, and faint purple, like someone had driven their fist into him more than once.
If she didn’t know any better, she’d bet her wand those were the boys’ work.
And if she was right, Cormac being here—alone, at night—wasn’t just coincidence.
Her heartbeat sped for an entirely different reason.
“McLaggen, you’re hurting me,” Y/N whispered, her voice tight as she twisted against his grip. His fingers dug into the soft skin of her arm like iron clamps, and no matter how she pulled, his hold only tightened.
Instead of letting go, his mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Before she could say anything else, shadows shifted along the corridor walls. Four more figures emerged from the darkness, fanning out until they formed a loose half-circle around her.
They were all taller, older—faces she vaguely recognized from the Gryffindor common crowd. The kind of boys who laughed too loud in the corridors and thought they owned whatever space they stood in. The torchlight caught on their grins, too wide and too knowing, as they began to close in.
Y/N’s free hand slipped into her hoodie pocket on instinct, fingertips searching—begging—for the familiar, reassuring shape of her wand. But all she found was empty fabric.
Her heart skipped, then plummeted.
Enzo’s voice flashed in her head, sharp and unrelenting: “Never walk alone without your wand. You never know the danger you could be in.”
And she had walked right into it.
The truth crashed over her in an instant—she was trapped, wandless, boxed in by five boys who were bigger, stronger, and looking at her like she was prey.
Her pulse was roaring in her ears now. The air felt heavier, colder. She tried to keep her breathing steady, but her mind was already running through impossible scenarios—how she could maybe duck under an arm, how fast she could run barefoot if she ditched her slippers, whether she’d even make it three steps before one of them caught her.
Without thinking—without daring to think—Y/N twisted hard and shoved Cormac with every ounce of strength she had. His back slammed against the nearest wall with a loud thud, his grip on her arm breaking for just a second.
But that second was all she got.
“All right, that’s it!” one of his friends snarled, and then they were on her.
A hand like a vice clamped around her shoulders, pinning her back to the cold stone wall. Another boy’s fingers tangled into her hair, yanking her head back so sharply her neck screamed in pain.
Then crack—her skull hit the wall.
White light exploded across her vision, her ears ringing like she’d been hit with a Blasting Curse. Her knees buckled, but they didn’t let her fall.
The first punch slammed into her ribs. The second made her cry out. By the third, her breath was gone completely.
Someone’s elbow caught her jaw, snapping her head to the side. The metallic tang of blood spread across her tongue, dripping from the corner of her mouth.
“You Death Eater brat think you’re untouchable?” one sneered into her ear, his voice low, oily, far too close.
Another leaned in, his eyes flicking slowly over her, not like he was looking at an opponent—but like he was looking. His smirk spread, teeth flashing in the dim light, and the way the others chuckled made her stomach turn.
One hand, which had been gripping her arm, began to slide lower—not in a shove, not to strike—but in a way that made every inch of her skin crawl.
She twisted hard, trying to wrench free, but the boy behind her pinned her hips against the wall with his body. His breath was hot against her neck as he murmured, “Bet you’re not so high and mighty when we’ve got you cornered.”
Her chest constricted—not from the blows, but from the realization of what they wanted.
The laughter grew quieter, darker, almost… eager. They weren’t just crowding her now; they were closing in.
Her mind screamed, but her body was too battered to do more than flinch.
“What the hell is going on here?!”
The shout split the corridor like a whip crack.
A tall figure in Ravenclaw robes strode forward, wand already drawn, the gleam of a prefect’s badge catching the torchlight.
Cormac’s smirk faltered, his eyes darting to the newcomer. His friends’ grins evaporated, replaced by thin-lipped panic.
The hand at her hip dropped instantly, and with a shove that sent her sprawling to the floor, they bolted—Cormac first, the rest scrambling after him, their footsteps pounding away down the corridor.
The Ravenclaw prefect was at her side in an instant, crouching down. “Y/L/N —Merlin, you’re bleeding—”
But she could barely hear him.
And even with them gone, she still felt their hands on her.
It was early—too early—for anyone sane to be awake, and the boys were still dragging themselves out of bed when the dormitory door slammed open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
Pansy Parkinson stood in the doorway.
Her usually flawless hair was a mess, dark strands sticking out like she’d been running her hands through it. Her robes were wrinkled, the collar askew. Pansy Parkinson never looked anything less than polished. The sight was wrong—deeply wrong.
Theo, who had been half-asleep with one sock on, jolted like he’d been hexed. Enzo, still shirtless, yanked the nearest blanket up to his chest in mock horror. “Bloody hell, Parkinson, we could’ve been naked!”
She just stood there—breathing too fast, eyes wide and glassy. Her knuckles were white around the edge of the doorframe, like she was holding herself up by sheer will.
Draco, who had been lacing his shoes, froze. The teasing smirk that usually lingered on his face vanished in an instant. He straightened slowly, his eyes scanning her with uncharacteristic softness.
“Pansy?” His voice was quieter now. “What’s wrong?”
By then, all the boys had stilled. Jokes died on their tongues. It wasn’t often Pansy let her guard down. It was never like this.
Her mouth opened—but no words came out. Only a sharp, trembling inhale before the first sob broke free.
Theo was already on his feet. Enzo’s teasing expression fell into something sharper, more alert. Blaise pushed off the wall where he’d been leaning, his gaze narrowing. Mattheo crossed his arms and furrowed his eyebrows.
Draco crossed the room in three strides, pulling her into his arms without hesitation. She didn’t resist—just clung to him, shoulders shaking as she buried her face in his chest.
Mattheo stepped closer, his shadow stretching long across the dorm floor, voice sharp but low. “Pansy, we can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.”
Her head lifted slowly from Draco’s chest, her eyes swollen and red. She looked right at Mattheo, lips trembling like she could barely hold the words in.
The air in the room turned heavy—thick enough to choke on.
Every boy froze for a split second before moving all at once, the sound of bare feet and shifting sheets filling the space. The half-dressed chaos didn’t matter—Theo’s pajama pants, Blaise’s undone shirt, Mattheo’s bare shoulders. They were crowding her now, their combined presence suffocating, their faces carved with something between panic and fury.
“What?” Blaise’s voice was unrecognizable—low, sharp, like a blade. “Parkinson, I need you to tell us exactly what happened.” His dark eyes bore into her, and for once, there was no teasing in them, no calm veneer. Only lethal focus.
Pansy’s throat bobbed. She sucked in a breath that sounded too big for her lungs. “She was attacked last night—she’s in the Hospital Wing—”
She didn’t even get to finish.
Mattheo snatched a hoodie off his bed, shoving his arms halfway in before giving up and letting it hang loose around his shoulders. Blaise grabbed the first coat within reach, his jaw clenched so hard a vein stood out in his temple. Theo moved silently, sliding his wand into his sleeve with slow, deliberate precision, his eyes locked straight ahead. Enzo crouched once to pull a sheathed knife from under his trunk, slipping it into his boot like muscle memory.
Draco yanked his shirt over his head, the fabric twisting in his fists, his pale hair a messy halo that did nothing to soften the look on his face—pure, unfiltered rage.
They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
Every movement screamed the same silent promise.
Someone had touched her.
Someone had hurt her.
And someone would pay.
Draco broke from the group first, gently but firmly setting Pansy back toward the doorway. His voice was calm, almost soft, but carried the weight of a death sentence. “Stay here.”
Then they were gone—storming out of the dorm in a blur of bare feet, clattering boots, and flapping fabric.
The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Pansy standing alone in the charged, echoing silence—her pulse still racing from the storm she had just unleashed.
The Hospital Wing doors burst open so violently that they slammed against the stone wall with a deafening crack. Madam Pomfrey’s head snapped up from where she’d been tending to another student, her expression immediately darkening.
“This is not a—” she began sharply, but stopped the moment she saw who had entered. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Of course. She’d known it was only a matter of time before this group stormed in.
Five boys. Half-dressed, hair mussed from sleep, chests heaving like they’d sprinted from Hogsmeade to the castle without stopping. Their faces were carved with worry, but it was the way their eyes moved—sharp, unblinking, scanning the room like predators scenting blood—that made the air in the ward tighten.
Mattheo moved first, his boots striking the floor in deliberate, heavy steps. “Where is she?” The words were low, but the venom in them left no room for hesitation.
Madam Pomfrey’s frown deepened, though a flicker of softness passed through her gaze. “She’s sleeping,” she said, voice measured. “But you will keep your voices down.”
She pointed toward the farthest bed, hidden behind two privacy screens.
They didn’t promise anything. They didn’t even acknowledge her. They just moved—shoulders squared, jaws tight—leaving Pomfrey to tend to her other student while the storm passed her by.
Y/N lay pale against the stark white sheets, the sterile scent of antiseptic hanging heavy in the air. Her hair was tangled and matted with blood along her hairline, strands sticking to her skin. A deep purplish bruise spread across her temple, shadowing one eye. The corner of her mouth was split, the dried crimson standing out against the pallor of her face. Her bottom lip was swollen, and faint, finger-shaped bruises marred the delicate skin along her jaw and neck—each one a silent map of what had been done to her.
Theo’s breath caught sharply in his throat. Blaise’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned bone white, the tendons in his hands straining. Enzo muttered something low in Italian—too rough to be a prayer, too venomous to be anything but a curse.
Mattheo didn’t move. He stood rooted at the foot of her bed, eyes locked on her, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real—here, hurt, and he hadn’t been there to stop it. His jaw flexed, muscles twitching, the weight of his silence somehow louder than words.
It was Draco who moved first. His hand reached out slowly, almost tentatively, like she might shatter if he touched her too roughly. He brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, his voice breaking into a whisper.
He sniffed, barely holding it together. She hated that nickname—he knew she did—but it was his, and in that moment, it was all he could give her.
Her lashes fluttered, and for a heartbeat, they all leaned forward, holding their breath. But her eyes never opened.
Madam Pomfrey appeared behind them, her steps measured, her presence suddenly filling the quiet. She moved closer, voice low but firm. “She’s been stabilized. Broken ribs, concussion, bruising… she’ll need plenty of rest.”
Her eyes swept over the group like she was assessing whether they’d be trouble in her ward. "She’s lucky that Ravenclaw prefect found her when he did.”
Theo’s head turned toward her, sharp as a blade. “Lucky?” His voice was dangerously smooth, every syllable deliberate, precise—meant to cut. “Lucky would’ve been them never laying a hand on her.”
Pomfrey’s gaze narrowed, suspicion flickering in her expression. “You lot wouldn’t happen to know who did this, would you?” She planted her hands on her hips, as if she could force the truth from them.
The boys glanced at each other—just one heartbeat’s worth of silent conversation—before Mattheo answered.
It was a lie, and they all knew it. But telling a professor would mean detentions, docked points, maybe a week’s suspension. Nothing close to the punishment they had in mind.
And especially not for Cormac McLaggen.
Madam Pomfrey didn’t press them for names. She simply studied them for a long, tense moment, eyes narrowing as though she could read every violent thought sparking behind theirs. Then she turned to leave.
But just before stepping away, she hesitated. She was a healer—a protector—someone sworn to mend what others had broken. Yet seeing a girl left battered and bruised by the hands of boys who would likely walk free made her wonder if what she was about to say was the right thing at all.
Her voice came quiet—too quiet—forcing them to lean in, every word sinking into their bones. “If she wakes while you’re here, give her space. Don’t crowd her… let her breathe.”
Her gaze shifted to the dark, ugly marks ringing Y/N’s throat, and her tone dipped lower, sharper—like the edge of a knife pressed to skin.
“Those fingerprints aren’t from someone who only wanted to hurt her. They’re from someone who wanted to take the breath from her entirely… and likely wouldn’t have stopped there.” With that, Madam Promfrey left without looking back to see their faces.
Enzo crouched beside her bed, elbows resting heavily on his knees. His gaze never left Y/N’s face—the split lip, the bruised temple, the shadowed marks down her neck. His jaw tightened before he swallowed hard, voice low, almost hesitant to give shape to the thought.
“Do you think…” he faltered, eyes tracing the ugly fingerprints at her throat, “…do you think he—they—tried to force themselves on her?”
The words hit the others like a physical blow.
Mattheo’s head snapped toward him, eyes blazing, jaw flexing like he was physically holding himself back from destroying something—or someone—right then and there. His hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles popped.
Theo’s expression didn’t change at first, but his fingers twitched at his sides, clenching and unclenching like he was rehearsing the act of wrapping them around someone’s throat. The stillness in him wasn’t calm—it was the quiet before a lightning strike.
Blaise gave a cold, flat look that made him seem older, sharper. “If they did,” he said, his voice low enough to make Pomfrey glance their way from across the ward, “they’re not walking out of this castle in one piece.”
Enzo’s nostrils flared, his shoulders tense. “Not walking out at all sounds better.”
And then there was Draco. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make a show of it—but his gaze stayed on Y/N as he spoke, his tone so calm it was unsettling.
“They put their hands on our girl.” His silver eyes finally flicked toward the others. “We make sure they never use those hands again.”
For a long moment, the five of them stood there in silence, the unspoken agreement settling over them like a blood oath. What happened last night would not—could not—go unanswered.
The boys didn’t leave Y/N’s side for the rest of the morning—or the entire afternoon. Madam Pomfrey scolded them more than once for missing classes, her sharp tone echoing in the ward, but in the end, she let it slide. “Just this once,” she muttered, clearly knowing they weren’t going anywhere.
Pansy and Daphne slipped in before their first class, arms full of contraband from the Great Hall—warm rolls, slices of toast, a few pieces of fruit. They placed the food in front of the boys with a look that said they’d better eat it before it went cold.
“We’ll take extra notes for you,” Daphne assured them, her voice soft but firm. “And for her.”
Pansy didn’t sit. Instead, she crossed to Y/N’s bedside, smoothing the blanket over her before reaching for a clean cloth. With slow, deliberate movements, she began wiping away the dried blood that clung to her friend’s skin. The boys stayed quiet, watching Pansy’s practiced care. Her eyes shimmered once—just once—before she blinked the tears away.
On the other side of the bed, Daphne drew her wand, murmuring a soft incantation under her breath. The tangles in Y/N’s hair loosened, the dried blood flaking away until those familiar, soft waves returned to their usual shine.
For the first time since they’d arrived, a faint smile tugged at the boys’ lips. They all knew how particular Y/N was about her appearance—always perfectly put together, no matter the situation. Seeing her closer to herself, even in sleep, was a small relief.
When the girls finally gathered their things to leave, they didn’t go without a moment of quiet reassurance. Daphne bent slightly, placing a soft kiss on Theo’s cheek before squeezing his hand. Pansy leaned over Blaise, pressing her lips to his temple in a rare display of affection, her fingers briefly brushing over Draco’s as she passed him—a silent promise they’d keep Y/N’s place safe until she returned. Matthe nodded at the girls in appreciation and returned to looking at Y/N in despair.
And then they were gone, the faint echo of the Hospital Wing doors shutting behind them, leaving the room quieter than before.
Y/N still hadn’t stirred. Her breathing was steady, but her eyelids never fluttered open, not even when Blaise shifted in his chair so it scraped the floor or when Enzo accidentally dropped a fork. The longer she stayed asleep, the more a slow, gnawing worry crept into the room.
At one point, Draco stood and crossed to Madam Pomfrey’s desk, his voice low but tight. “If she’s not awake by tomorrow morning, I’ll be writing to my father. He’ll have someone from St. Mungo’s here before the end of the day.”
Madam Pomfrey, without looking up from her notes, gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “She’s healing. She needs rest, not your father breathing down my neck.”
Draco returned to his seat, ignoring the pointed remark, but his eyes never left Y/N.
As the sun dipped lower, throwing long shadows across the ward, the boys grew quieter—not out of peace, but focus. They didn’t speak much, but when they did, it was in low, deliberate voices. Plans. Names. The best way to corner Cormac and his little gang without a professor catching wind.
Mattheo’s boot tapped against the floor in a slow, dangerous rhythm. Blaise leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, speaking in a calm, almost bored tone that didn’t match the razor in his words. Enzo cracked his knuckles. Theo sat back in his chair, eyes half-lidded but sharp, absorbing every detail.
It wasn’t a question of if they were going after them.
It was a question of how much damage they would do.
A few minutes later, Madam Pomfrey swept back over, her arms folded and her expression carved from stone. “You five need to head to dinner.”
They didn’t move. Not a glance, not a twitch.
Before any of them could open their mouths to argue, she cut them off, her voice cracking through the quiet like a whip. “This is not a request. Go. To. Dinner. Now—before I fetch the Headmaster and have you banned from this ward until she wakes up.”
That got their attention.
Five pairs of eyes locked on her, all sharp edges and silent challenge. Draco’s gaze narrowed into ice; Theo’s jaw ticked once. Blaise leaned back in his chair with a lazy glare that was anything but lazy. Enzo’s lips twitched like he was a second away from saying something he’d regret, and Mattheo… Mattheo just stared at her, slow and deliberate, like he was weighing whether this was worth a fight.
Madam Pomfrey didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She’d seen enough dangerous tempers in her years at Hogwarts to know that if she gave an inch, these boys would take a mile.
Finally, Blaise let out a low, annoyed sigh and stood, the scrape of his chair loud in the stillness. “Fine,” he muttered, but it was clear it wasn’t surrender—it was strategy.
One by one, they rose, each of them casting a final glance at Y/N before heading for the doors, every step reluctant. But not before saying their own quiet goodbyes.
Draco leaned down, murmuring something only she could hear if she’d been awake. Theo adjusted her blanket so it covered her shoulders, his touch lingering a moment too long. Blaise, ever casual, tapped his knuckles lightly against the side of her bed, like a silent promise. Enzo bent to press a quick kiss to her hairline, whispering in Italian before pulling back. And Mattheo… Mattheo didn’t speak at all—he just stood there for a moment, looking at her like he was memorizing every detail, before finally turning and walking away.
The corridors were already buzzing when the boys stepped out of the Hospital Wing, but the moment they appeared together, the noise dimmed.
Students parted for them without a word, some leaning into their friends to whisper, others just watching with wide eyes. The story had spread like wildfire overnight—how Y/N had been attacked, how she’d been found bloody and unconscious. No one knew exactly what had happened, but they knew enough to look twice at the five Slytherin boys moving through the crowd like a storm front.
Every step they took was measured, purposeful. Draco’s expression was cold marble, his gaze fixed ahead. Mattheo’s jaw worked like he was grinding glass between his teeth. Blaise’s usual lazy smirk was gone, replaced with something unreadable but sharp. Enzo walked with his hands in his pockets, but his eyes tracked every face, every whisper. Theo was quiet, his shoulders tight, his stare dark and steady.
The hallway was thick with murmurs and whispers between groups.
“They say she’s still unconscious—”
“Bet it was Gryffindors—”
A few braver students tried to hold their gaze, but quickly looked away when one of the boys locked eyes with them. No one dared step in their path.
It wasn’t until a couple of days later that Y/N’s eyes fluttered open.
At first, she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. The world was a blur of pale light and shadow, the smell of antiseptic and faint lavender filling her senses. She blinked slowly, her lashes sticking together, and the ceiling of the Hospital Wing swam into focus above her.
Her body felt heavy—like every limb had been weighed down. A deep ache radiated through her ribs, each breath a reminder of the bruises and breaks beneath her skin. When she tried to sit up, a sharp pain shot through her side, stealing the air from her lungs.
A soft gasp escaped her, and in an instant, Madam Pomfrey was there.
“Ah—no, no, none of that.” Her voice was firm but not unkind as she pressed a steadying hand to Y/N’s shoulder, guiding her gently back against the pillows.
The matron’s hands were surprisingly gentle for someone with such a brisk, no-nonsense air. She propped Y/N up just enough to tip a vial of potion to her lips. “Slow sips,” Madam Pomfrey instructed. The liquid was warm, bitter, and vaguely metallic as it slid down her throat, the familiar burn of Skele-Gro and pain draught mingling together.
Y/N nodded faintly, though her mind was still foggy. She tried to speak, but her throat was raw, her voice coming out as a weak rasp. “How… long?”
“You’ve been here for two days,” Pomfrey said, her tone softening just slightly. “Rest now. You’re safe.”
The word lodged in Y/N’s chest like a splinter. She wanted to believe it, to let it sink in and soothe the tremor in her hands—but the memory still clung to her like a second skin: cold, unyielding hands on her arms, the echo of jeering voices in her ears, the rank smell of sweat and damp stone filling her lungs.
Her vision blurred, and before she could stop herself, tears welled and spilled hot down her cheeks. Madam Pomfrey’s sharp eyes caught it instantly.
Without hesitation, the matron moved closer, her own expression tightening. She took Y/N’s hand in a warm but firm grip, her thumb brushing against the bruises mottling the delicate skin. “Dear girl…” her voice dropped, low and deliberate, “do you know who did this to you?”
Y/N swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to where Madam Pomfrey’s hand clasped her own. The question hung in the air like a weight pressing on her chest. She did know.
Cormac’s smirking face flashed in her mind, along with the shadows of his friends closing in. The way his grip had bruised her arm. The sound of her own voice broke when she told him to let go.
Her lip trembled, but it wasn’t fear of punishment that kept her silent—it was the memory of five very different faces. Her boys. She could almost see them now, sharp-jawed and furious, the moment they’d hear the name. She knew exactly what they’d do next: no hesitation, no mercy.
And maybe that was why she didn’t say it. Because if she did, she wouldn’t be protecting herself—she’d be protecting them.
Her throat tightened, but she shook her head slowly, a tear slipping down her cheek. “No… I didn’t see.”
Madam Pomfrey’s sharp eyes lingered, just long enough to make Y/N’s stomach twist. But she only hummed softly, patting her hand before standing. “Rest, then. You’ll need your strength.”
When the mediwitch left, Y/N buried her face into the pillow, willing her heartbeat to slow. She told herself she’d done the right thing. She had to believe that.
The soft scrape of the privacy screen broke the silence, followed by a rush of familiar voices.
“Merlin, I swear, if she’s still asleep—” Enzo’s words cut off instantly when his eyes landed on her.
They all froze when they reached her bed. For a heartbeat, they just stood there, drinking in the sight of her awake, as though they were afraid she’d vanish if they blinked.
They looked wrecked. Dark circles under their eyes, uniforms wrinkled like they’d slept in them—if they’d slept at all. That restless edge of barely contained violence still clung to them, but it was muted now, buried under relief.
Draco was the first to speak. “You’re awake,” he said, voice low but steady, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed him.
Theo didn’t wait for permission—he crossed the room in three strides and wrapped his arms around her, careful, like she was made of glass. “You scared the life out of us,” he murmured.
The others followed, wordless, crowding in until she was cocooned in a warm, gentle circle of them. Enzo’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder, Blaise’s arm curved protectively around her back, Draco’s hand found hers and gave it the faintest squeeze, and Mattheo leaned in close enough that his hair brushed her cheek.
They didn’t crush her. They didn’t jostle her. Every movement was slow, deliberate, mindful of her injuries.
When they finally pulled back, Mattheo was the one who spoke. “Do you… know who did this?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than it should have been. All of them were watching her too closely.
And she realized—they already knew.
They weren’t asking to find out. They were asking to see if she’d say it.
She swallowed, her gaze flicking from face to face. “No… I didn’t see.”
Something passed between them then, silent and electric. They didn’t push. They didn’t press. But she could see it in their eyes—whatever had been done to her had already been answered for.
She glanced around the space, her mind still sluggish but beginning to piece things together. It wasn’t just the familiar white sheets and antiseptic smell of the Hospital Wing—it was the mess around her bed that caught her attention.
Five chairs, all crowded in too close, forming a lopsided barricade around her. Two of them had blankets thrown over the backs, one with a pillow still dented from someone’s head. A couple of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans were scattered on her bedside table like someone had been nervously snacking and then forgotten them mid-chew.
On the other side, a small forest of flowers—wild, mismatched, some in vases, some clearly transfigured cups—took up nearly the entire second table.
She turned back to her boys, lifting one brow in quiet accusation. “Did you guys… stay here?”
None of them answered right away. Enzo shifted in his chair, scratching the back of his neck like he’d been caught doing something deeply un-Slytherin. Blaise just leaned back, trying to look casual but failing spectacularly.
Theo didn’t bother pretending. “Of course we did,” he said simply, like it wasn’t up for debate.
Mattheo smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What, you think we were just gonna go about our week like nothing happened?”
Draco’s gaze softened, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. “You weren’t alone. Not for a second.”
Y/N blinked at him, then let a full-blown smile spread across her face—warm and bright despite the faint bruises. It was the kind of smile that made all five boys momentarily forget how to breathe, though none of them would ever admit it out loud.
“You stayed here with me? Seriously? What about class? And—”
Theo leaned back with a scoff. “Class can wait. You can’t.”
Mattheo grinned, lazy and smug. “Yeah, McGonagall can live without my presence for a few days. Poor woman will just have to cope.”
Blaise gestured toward the disaster zone around her bed. “We basically moved in. This is the Slytherin Common Room now. Don’t touch anything, it’s arranged very specifically.”
Enzo smirked. “We even took shifts so one of us was awake at all times. It was like guarding treasure… except the treasure occasionally drooled.”
“I did not—!” Y/N started, only for Draco to cut in, his tone dry. “You totally did. I was here for it.”
Her jaw dropped. “Wow. Risk your near-perfect attendance for me and then slander me? Truly heroic, Malfoy.”
Draco’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “You’re welcome.”
Y/N let out a laugh, light and almost normal—until it caught in her throat with a small wince. Her hand instinctively pressed against her ribs, the dull ache reminding her that healing bones didn’t care about good moods.
All five boys immediately tensed, their eyes snapping to her like hawks. But none of them said anything. They just watched, quiet, the air thick with unspoken worry.
After a beat, Y/N sighed and shifted against her pillows. “Can someone get me a mirror?” she asked, her tone casual, though she could feel the edge of anxiety creeping into her voice. “I just… I need to see how bad it is.”
“No,” Blaise said flatly, not even looking at her.
Her brows drew together. “Blaise—”
“I said no,” he repeated, firmer this time.
Y/N rolled her eyes and tried again, softening her voice. “Please, I just want to—”
She didn’t get to finish.
Mattheo’s jaw tightened, and he cut in sharply. “You look beautiful like always, princess. There’s no need to worry about it.”
Something in his tone made her pause. It wasn’t playful, like his usual remarks. It was protective—possessive, even. Like the thought of her seeing herself right now was something he physically couldn’t allow.
Her gaze swept over them, each one deliberately avoiding her eyes, their stubbornness almost comical—if the tension in the room weren’t so thick.
Finally, her eyes landed on Enzo. He had the same unyielding expression as the rest, jaw set, shoulders squared… but she knew him. He was always the first to crack under her puppy-dog eyes.
She tilted her head slightly, letting her lower lip jut out just the faintest bit, her gaze softening into that practiced, devastatingly innocent look.
Theo didn’t even have to look to know what was happening. “Enzo, look away. Don’t fall for it,” he muttered, still staring determinedly at the wall like it might save him.
Enzo held her gaze for a few seconds, his lips twitching like he was fighting a losing battle. Then he exhaled sharply, muttering something in Italian under his breath before flicking his wand. A small mirror appeared in his hand, which he reluctantly offered to her.
Mattheo groaned. Draco shot Enzo a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
Y/N didn’t care—she took the mirror with a small, triumphant smile.
That smile faltered almost immediately.
The bruises were worse than she’d imagined. Faint yellowing marked her temple where the swelling had gone down, but her lip was still swollen and cracked. The angry purple blotches on her cheekbone stood out stark against her skin.
But it wasn’t until her eyes dropped to her throat that the breath caught in her lungs.
The skin there was mottled, a deep, ugly purple, with distinct oval marks where fingers had dug in. She could almost feel the pressure again, phantom and suffocating. Her own fingers rose without thinking, tracing the shape of those prints like she was trying to convince herself they weren't really there.
The room was dead silent.
Mattheo’s voice, low and taut, broke it. “Don’t.”
It wasn’t clear if he meant don’t touch, don’t look, or don’t think about it—but the way his hand curled into a fist made it clear he wanted the marks gone as much as she did.
The room stayed silent, heavy with something unspoken.
Theo moved first. His steps were slow, deliberate, as if approaching something breakable. Without saying a word, he reached down and gently pried the mirror from her hands.
“Hey—” Y/N started, but Theo shook his head, his expression firm.
“That’s enough,” he said quietly. Not unkindly, but in a tone that brooked no argument. He set the mirror down on the far bedside table, well out of her reach.
Blaise leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and gave her a look that was all warmth and calm, the kind of look you gave someone when they were teetering on the edge. “You should be focusing on healing, not… replaying it,” he said softly. “Scars fade. Bruises fade. And you’ll still be you.”
Mattheo leaned back in his chair, his jaw still tense, but his voice was quieter now. “They’re not worth another second of your thoughts,” he said. “We’ve already made sure of that.”
That last part made her pause. She glanced between them, catching the subtle glances they exchanged—the way Draco’s knuckles twitched like he wanted to crack them again, the faint bruising along Theo’s jaw, the thin cut on Mattheo’s cheek that hadn’t been there before.
Her voice came out softer than she intended, a whisper that still seemed to slice through the quiet. “You know…” Her eyes moved over each of them slowly, deliberately. “You knew it was McLaggen, didn’t you?”
The air shifted. No one answered. No one looked at her.
“That’s why you were so overprotective at the Three Broomsticks,” she said, her tone firmer now, though her throat still ached. “You weren’t just being… you. You were watching for him.”
Theo’s jaw flexed once, twice. Blaise leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the floor. Enzo fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve like he was trying to keep his hands busy.
Mattheo finally met her gaze, his own eyes dark, unflinching. “We didn’t just know.” He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, voice dropping low. “We made sure he won’t try it again.”
The silence that followed was thick, and though they didn’t elaborate, Y/N didn’t need details. She could see them—Cormac and his little gang—cornered somewhere, the boys standing over them with the same sharp, vicious edge she’d seen when they were angry enough to burn the world down.
“Are they at least alive?” Y/N asked, her tone a little too light for the weight in the air, like she was trying to cut through it with humor.
Draco’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, more like he was biting one back. Theo didn’t look away from her, but the corner of his lip curled just slightly. Blaise gave a low hum that wasn’t exactly confirmation, but wasn’t denial either. Enzo only chuckled and looked at his bruised hands.
Mattheo leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, and let out a slow breath. “Alive?” His eyes glinted darkly, almost daring her to push further. “Unfortunately.”
Y/N huffed out a soft, incredulous laugh and shook her head, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself. She didn’t press, didn’t prod—because she already knew the answer, and part of her wasn’t sure she wanted the details. Whatever they’d done, it was enough. More than enough.
Days later, Y/N was finally released from the Hospital Wing and greeted by Pansy and Daphne’s high-pitched squeals the second she stepped into the Slytherin Common Room. Their excitement echoed off the stone walls, drawing more than a few curious glances, but neither of them cared.
Her five shadows trailed in right behind her, their presence as natural as the flickering green light cast from the lake.
Y/N laughed, the sound soft but genuine, and let herself be pulled into their arms. Pansy’s hug was quick but tight, like she was making sure Y/N was solid and real, while Daphne wrapped her up more gently, careful not to press against her ribs.
“I swear, you scared years off my life,” Pansy muttered against her ear, pulling back to give her a critical once-over.
“You’re glowing though,” Daphne said, brushing a loose curl from Y/N’s face before smiling. “Even after everything, you still somehow look better than half the girls in our year.”
Y/N rolled her eyes and hugged them tighter. “I missed you both more than I thought possible.”
Pansy and Daphne wasted no time linking arms with Y/N, steering her toward the girls’ dormitory like two generals escorting a prized treasure. Y/N barely had time to throw a wave over her shoulder before she was being marched away.
Naturally, the boys started to follow.
Draco was already halfway across the room, Theo trailing lazily behind him, Blaise pretending he wasn’t actually invested but keeping pace anyway, Mattheo right on Y/N’s heels, and Enzo—of course—snatching another biscuit from the snack table as he went.
Pansy stopped so abruptly that Draco nearly ran into her. She turned, eyes narrowing into a glare so sharp it could have stripped the varnish from a broomstick. Daphne crossed her arms for emphasis.
“You heathens,” Pansy announced, stabbing a perfectly manicured finger toward the floor, “will stay here.”
Mattheo raised a brow. “Heathens? Bit dramatic—”
“Not dramatic enough,” Daphne cut in smoothly. “Y/N needs some estrogen for once, not to be swarmed by five overgrown guard dogs.”
“We are not—” Draco began.
“You are,” Pansy snapped. “You’re all hopeless. Sit. Stay. Roll over if you must, but you’re not coming upstairs.”
Y/N chuckled over her shoulder, giving them an exaggerated little wave. “Don’t miss me too much.”
The boys just stood there as the girls disappeared up the spiral staircase, each of them looking vaguely insulted at having been dismissed like misbehaving pets.
“Merlin, we have so much to tell you,” Daphne said as soon as they slipped into the dormitory, the door clicking shut behind them.
“Okay, well, spill it,” Y/N said, collapsing onto her bed in the most dramatic fashion she could manage—only to wince as her ribs reminded her they still weren’t entirely healed. “Ow. Right. Still fragile. Anyway, I’m dying to know what’s been going on these past few days. And you know the boys—they can gossip like little first-years, but it’s always this whole thing where I have to stop them and explain the backstory, which I do not have time for.”
Pansy didn’t even crack a smile. She perched on the edge of Y/N’s bed, her voice dropping low. “This isn’t the usual gossip.”
Daphne crossed her arms, leaning against the bedpost. “Cormac McLaggen and his gang? They’re gone.”
Y/N’s brow furrowed. “Gone as in—?”
“As in,” Daphne said, eyes glinting, “transferred to St. Mungo’s. They were found outside the castle grounds, in a ditch. Barely breathing. Broken bones, smashed faces… and three of Cormac’s fingers—” she lifted her own for emphasis, “—missing.”
Y/N froze, her pulse skipping. “Missing?”
“Clean slice,” Pansy murmured, her gaze darkening. “Not torn. Cut. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing.”
“They say it took three mediwizards just to keep him from bleeding out on the way there,” Daphne added. “And none of them remember how they got there.”
Pansy’s lips curved in a humorless smile. “No witnesses. No footprints. No one saw a thing. And if anyone knows who did it…” she trailed off, shrugging. “They’re not talking.”
Y/N swallowed hard, but she didn’t ask the obvious question. She didn’t have to.
Y/N stayed quiet, fingers curling into the blanket in her lap. Her ribs ached, but it was nothing compared to the slow, curling chill creeping up her spine.
Pansy and Daphne kept talking, trading rumors—how the staff was calling it “an unfortunate accident,” how Hagrid swore he hadn’t seen a soul near the gates that night.
But Y/N wasn’t listening anymore. She didn’t need to.
The image was already there in her mind—five boys, her boys, moving through the dark like shadows. Silent. Precise. Ruthless. She could almost hear Theo’s measured voice, Blaise’s low laugh, the crunch of Mattheo's boots in the dirt. Draco’s gloved hand holding someone down. Enzo's knife flashed once under the moonlight.
A missing finger.
No witnesses.
No evidence.
Her stomach twisted, not from fear, but from the knowledge that she’d been right all along. They had known. And they hadn’t just handled it—they’d sent a message.
“Y/N?” Daphne’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Are you okay? You’ve gone pale.”
She forced a small smile, shaking her head. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
They believed her. Of course they did.
But in the back of her mind, she could still hear the sound of bone snapping. And though she’d never say it out loud, she knew—if she’d asked them to, they wouldn’t have stopped at a finger.
By the time Y/N stepped back into the main stretch of the Slytherin common room, the green-tinged light of the Black Lake spilled through the tall, arched windows, dappling the stone floor in rippling patterns. The water’s eerie glow felt almost comically at odds with what she was about to walk into.
Her boys were sprawled around like they owned the place. Blaise was shuffling a deck of Exploding Snap cards with lazy precision. Enzo leaned forward in his chair, forearms resting on his knees, his sharp gaze tracking her every move. Theo sat cross-legged, casually flipping a silver coin over and over without even looking at it. Mattheo lounged with his boots propped on the table, lazily spinning a wicked little blade between his fingers—the very same blade Y/N recognized instantly as Enzo’s. And Draco just sat there, pale eyes locked on her, unreadable as ever.
Y/N stopped a few feet away, her brows lifting. “So… I heard about McLaggen.”
Mattheo’s lips quirked. “Did you now?”
“They say it was an accident,” Y/N continued, letting her tone drip with mock sweetness. "Funny thing about him showing up in St. Mungo’s all banged up. What was it—broken ribs, concussion, three missing fingers?” She tilted her head in fake sympathy. “Merlin, he’s gonna have such a hard time holding his cutlery now.”
Theo’s coin froze mid-air. Blaise smirked faintly, not even pretending to hide it. Enzo looked almost proud, leaning back just enough for her to catch the flash of satisfaction in his eyes. Mattheo’s grin widened, and he spun the blade once more before flicking it upright in his palm.
“That’s Enzo’s knife, by the way,” Y/N said dryly, pointing at it. “You’re not even subtle.”
They didn’t answer her, not really—but they didn’t need to. Between the faint bruises, the way they sat just a little too relaxed, and the smug glints in their eyes, she already knew exactly what they’d done.
Y/N crossed her arms, her smirk matching theirs. “Well… next time you lot go on a field trip to rearrange someone’s bones, send me a postcard, yeah? Maybe a souvenir finger. I could use a keychain.”
That broke them. Blaise nearly choked on his own laughter, Enzo’s chuckle turned into a full-blown snort, and Theo had to cover his mouth with his hand. Mattheo grinned like the cat who’d swallowed the canary, while Draco just shook his head—though the twitch at the corner of his lips gave him away.
Y/N stood, stretching gingerly, her bruises still tender. “Anyway, I’m off before Madam Pomfrey finds out I’ve been laughing this much. Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone… or do, actually. It’s entertaining.” She gave them a mock salute and walked out, hips swaying just enough to make it look intentional.
The silence she left behind lasted all of three seconds.
“She’s perfect,” Blaise declared, dead serious.
“Dangerously perfect,” Theo agreed with a sage nod.
“I’d throw hands for her,” Enzo muttered.
Mattheo smirked. “You already did.”
“Not before I did,” Draco shot back without even looking away from the door.
Enzo snorted. “Malfoy, all you did was stare Cormac down until he nearly peed himself.”
“Which worked,” Draco replied smoothly. “I’m efficient. Why get my hands dirty when Enzo has a perfectly good blade and Mattheo enjoys the manual labor?”
“Excuse me, I call it craftsmanship,” Mattheo said, mock-offended.
Theo rolled his eyes. “You lot sound like you’re auditioning for Who Wants to Be Y/N’s Favorite? Spoiler—she tolerates all of you equally.”
“That’s because I am her favorite,” Blaise said, smirking.
“You’re delusional,” Mattheo shot back instantly. “If anyone’s her favorite, it’s me.”
Enzo leaned back, grinning. “Keep dreaming. Theo’s her twin in spirit, Draco’s her childhood enemy-slash-savior, and Blaise is just there for background decoration.”
Blaise scoffed. “Bold words for someone who played second knife.”
“Second knife?!” Enzo barked a laugh. “Mate, you’re not even in the cutlery drawer.”
The bickering quickly spiraled into overlapping insults, exaggerated scoffs, and playful shoves until Theo groaned, dragging his hands over his face.
“Merlin help the rest of the world,” he muttered. “She’s ours… and everyone else should probably invest in body armor.”
