Nonsense

he loves how you do your hair. how you smell like vanilla and cherries and springtime. he loves your eyes. so soft—until it’s him you’re looking at. he loves how you need your glasses to see the lecture notes and how focused you are even though it’s so fucking lame and you could just cheat like everyone else does. he loves how you’re a prude. he’d love for you not to be.

and one night, drunk at a dorm party, patrick stumbled across you as you walked back from your shower. your robe was tied tightly around your body and your shower caddy was dripping water down on the wooden floors and patrick’s words were slurred.

“give us a little show.” he twirled his finger and said you should take that robe off and give him a peek and a crowd had formed outside because every one on campus knew that you and patrick hated each other. or at least you hated him.

so you set your caddy down, and maybe for a split second patrick thought you were finally eroding down for him. but then you stood in your tippy toes and slapped him across the face. patrick’s jaw ticked as your peers gasped and a gaggle of patrick’s former lovers came to his rescue, asking if he was okay and shooting you dirty looks as if that would change his mind about him.

“why do you need to be such a bitch?” patrick spat. “if you need some fucking dick then just ask for it, babe. you know where i’ll be.”

you flipped him off and went back to your room.

and for the next month, it seemed like your hatred of him, of each other, had festered into some sort of septic mess. you were having spats in classes, debating over trivial historical nuances that you swore patrick didn’t even know about. he stole your books and held them over his head so you couldn’t get them. made lewd comments about your body.

and you called him a scumbag. a worthless piece of shit. insecure, immature—everything you thought would cut deep.

but none of it did, you see. because this was patrick’s prerogative. and he craved the growing fog of tension between you two. knew that some day soon his smirks and pretty eyes would make you see through to the other side. it turned him on to know how far under your skin he was. that you probably seethe when he’s on your mind. when you’re about to sleep, when you wake up. when you’re in the shower, and inevitably when you’re in class.

patrick thought about you when he fucked other girls. he thought about making you shut up. telling you to fucking take it. he didn’t want you to be easy like some of the other girls he had been with. he wanted the fight.

and patrick felt like a colony of ants crawling all over you. you couldn’t get rid of him and even when you weren’t thinking of him or he wasn’t around—someone was talking about him. some girl was twirling her hair and wishing he would text her back.

so maybe it was the fact that he was driving you to insanity that you knocked on his door one tuesday night. or maybe it was because you walked by the tennis courts before sunset and saw him wiping the sweat off his face with his sweat-stained t-shirt. maybe it was because you were beginning to despise when girls talked about him because you kind of felt jealous of them. maybe it’s because when you walked back by the tennis courts after studying at the library, you heard the tennis boys playing fuck marry kill with your name as one of the options. and you didn’t care what any of the other boys said. but during patrick’s turn he dismissed the other girls’ names and said the choice was clear. he wanted to fuck, marry and kill you.

patrick opened the door in just a towel. you bit the inside of your cheek and you wouldn’t look up at him until patrick lifted your chin.

“look who it is.”

you pushed him inside and shut the door.

the backs of his knees hit the bed and you were on top of him. his towel fell to the ground and there he was, completely naked. patrick flipped you around.

“you finally cracked, huh?” his cock was hard and bigger than you had (admittedly) imagined it. he scared you, his cockiness. and the size of his ego was somehow comparable to his erection, which wasn’t at all a coincidence.

“what are you even talking about?” you were grasping at straws; you didn’t want him to think he won. he hadn’t.

he took your loafers off.

“i’m on top of you taking your fucking clothes off—“

you pulled him down to kiss you and god, those schoolgirl gossip talks at lunch were right because he was so fucking good at kissing. at grinding his cock right into that spot that made you gasp into his mouth. that made him mock you and flip you on your stomach as he yanked your underwear down.

you went to take your skirt off and patrick grabbed your wrist.

“keep it on.”

and so you did. and you came there to be in charge and stick it to the man but patrick was palming your ass and pressing open-mouthed kisses down your back. pulling your hips up and licking a stripe up and down your pussy. kissing and sucking on your clit. you held your moans back but it was making your jugular pop and it was only getting harder.

his sounds were lewd, pornographic as he licked you, fucking his fingers into your cunt which was wet even before he put his mouth on you.

“just fucking give it up. moan my name you fucking prude.” patrick smacked your ass and you looked back at him, expecting his brows to be furrowed and his jaw to be tense with anger. but he was smiling at you, while at the same time mocking you with this look of faux pity which pissed you off.

“maybe if you made me feel good, you wouldn’t have to ask me to fucking moan for you.”

patrick clicked his tongue. grabbed your hair. “oh i see.”

and he bullied his cock into you. long, thick and impossibly hard. he pushed in and in and in until he couldn’t anymore and the pressure made you grab his fingers which were gripping your ass. his hands were so big it felt like you were completely grasped by him as he fucked you. but you bit your lip hard and buried your face into the pillow. didn’t moan or make a sound. only tiny mewls left your lips but that wasn’t good enough for patrick.

he hooked his finger into your mouth, lifting your head from the pillow. he leaned forward and the droplets swinging from the ends of his hair fell into your neck.

“why are you holding back?” he pulled all the way out and your mouth fell open. he pushed back in quickly. a small gasp came from your mouth. “i know this dick feels good. maybe you need more?” so he reached around to rub your clit. he wasn’t harsh though. he rubbed you in soft, intimate circles while his cock slammed in and out of you. his balls sticky against your ass. “that feel good?”

you couldn’t hold back anymore and you figured he won. so you nodded your head. “fuck—patrick.”

“yeah?”

“yeah—god—feels so good.”

he grabbed your jaw. “oh honey i know. just keep on taking it.”

and you did, sucking patrick’s fingers into your mouth. now, it felt like you won, as his cock twitched inside you and he threw his head back, a strangled groan escaping him.

“you like that?” you mocked him.

patrick kissed the side of your mouth. “i like—“ he pushed you further into the mattress as his hips moved faster. “when pretty girls like you shut the fuck up and take it.”

in reality, patrick did like your fingers in his mouth, clearly. he liked how you moaned around them and how your eyes fluttered shut. he liked how you said his name in this tiny voice that you were stupid enough to think he couldn’t hear. he liked how your legs shook and your hips gave out when he made you cum, and how you thanked him afterwards with this sheepish little grin on your face like you had just said grace.

Your friend practically dragged you to this party even when you said you didn't want to.

You had recently gone through a messy falling out with your high school best friend, Gabriel O'Hara. It left you angry and heartbroken since he was the closest person you've shared yourself with.

He accused you of not paying enough attention to him–that you were leaving him in the dust like everyone since you've been away at college.

You defended yourself that it wasn't like that but he just couldn't see it. It ended up as an arguing match over the phone–Gabriel telling you not to see him ever again in a fit of anger, which hurt a lot after it sunk in.

When you had come home over summer break, you other friend who had stayed invited you over to a block party someone was holding. It was on the same street Gabriel lived on so you denied profusely.

She assured you that you wouldn't see him. You wouldn't bump into him since apparently there'd be a bunch of people on the block and she'd be with you the entire time.

That's what she promised. Until she got so wasted she talked and danced with other people. 

You glare at your friend, cup held tightly in your hand. You took a swig of the alcohol, the bitter taste of it burning your throat. It tasted like pure shit but it was all these guys could muster up that wasn't a BuzzBall. Maybe a BuzzBall would've been better.

You were sure not to drink too much, too focused on making sure you didn't have an awkward conversation in the middle of your hometown. You held your stomach as you felt the need to pee.

You groaned under your breath, the buzz of the cheap alcohol thumping in your brain. If you didn't pee now, you'd surely burst any moment. You looked around to see if you could ask someone who lived here to let you in their bathroom. You'd rather die than use a bush of porta-potty.

Luckily, you saw some people leave and enter a house freely. Deciding this was your chance, you hurried your numbing legs across the lawns to slip past inside the house. 

Inside were various people, ranging from grabbing more drinks and food. You asked where the bathroom was, some kind stranger giving you directions that you were still kinda sober enough to process.

You lock the door behind you and collapse on the toilet after pulling your shorts down. After flushing and washing your hands, you decided to just take a breather on the toilet seat. You groaned as you rubbed your temples, annoyed that you're here, and annoyed that you can't even have fun with the fear of meeting your ex best friend. 

Once you felt a little better, you stood up and grabbed your cup again, ready to throw it out and drink a gallon of water at this point.

You glared at the inside of the cup as you stepped out, not realizing someone was coming from the side. You turned and you both made contact, the cup squishing between you two and spilling all over the stranger.

“Shit!” You yelped and you heard the stranger let out a surprised grunt. You look up and with your hazy vision you murmur. “Gabri?”

“Guess again.” He said. Your eyes focused and realized this person had similar features to Gabriel, just slightly older. It was his older brother, Miguel.

Miguel looked down at his soiled shirt, patting it down and lifting it to dry it off. Some droplets of your drink went into his hair, making it give off a bit of sparkle in the light.

His eyes met yours and you flinched. Does he know?

He said your name hesitantly. “Is that you?” The corner of his lips quirking up.

“Yeah. Yeah, it's me.” Fuck. “Sorry. I'm so sorry, I just spilled everything on you.” In a drunk haze you reach out to help him in some way but he stops you.

“It's fine.” He chuckles and looks at your behavior, the slight sway in your stance and blinking to focus. “You alright?” He asks, taking your arm gently.

“Fine,” You choke out. “Just needed some water.” Miguel tilts his head down at you and nods.

“Here. Let me help you.” He turns you in the other direction, presumably to the kitchen. His hand on your lower back and you have to fight the shiver from the warm contact.

In the kitchen, you lift yourself on the counter by the sink while Miguel rummages through the fridge, a few cold water bottles stacked inside. He grabs one and uncaps it for you then hands it over to you. You take it from him, your fingers brushing against each other. 

You cross your legs, your senses being heightened from the alcohol–is what you told yourself.

Miguel grabs a paper towel and wets it before dabbing it on his shirt, hoping to get the stickiness of it out. You sip from your bottle as he does so.

“Sorry…” You mumble again and Miguel laughs softly.

“Really, it's okay. Couldn't ask for a better way to see you after so long.” He glances at you.

“We never really talked.” You fiddled with the water cap.

“But I used to see you all the time around the house. Now you just disappeared from thin air, thanks to Gabri.” He grabs another paper towel to dry himself off.

You wince. “You know?” 

Miguel nods. “Yeah. Wasn't hard to tell. All he did was talk about you so when he stopped I figured something happened.” He shrugs, seemingly unbothered.

You felt a pang in your heart. Gabriel was always so sweet, was always your number one supporter and you did the same. You wondered why he felt so insecure this time around.

“Did he tell you why?” You ask, feeling the coldness of the water helling you sober up.

Miguel tosses the used paper towels in the trash. “Probably the same thing as everything. Feels like he's being abandoned, so he abandons people first.”

You look at him with furrowed brows. “That's it?”

Miguel nods and leans on the counter so he faces you. “Yeah. I mean makes sense. It's why he didn’t let us talk and it's why you stayed best friends for so long until you left.” He spins the rings on his fingers around.

“Didn't let us talk?” You scoffed. “Gabriel told me you were never home.”

Miguel laughs. “‘Cause he told me to. Went on some jealous rampage that I'd convince you to leave him.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “He told me every friend he made always left him for you.”

“He had shit friends that for some reason dropped him. Always when that happened, I'd want nothing to do with them but Gabriel believed I did it on purpose.” Miguel frowns.

You turn back to the ground where your leg swung softly. “He made you out to be such an asshole.”

He hums, his eyes staring at you while you begin to think. He gazes up and down your body, the skin of your legs showing and lightly sheer the crop top that made him lick his lips. He couldn't help himself any longer.

“Maybe it's the alcohol making me honest but I really started to like you before you up and left.” Miguel admits, standing up to face in front of you, fitting himself between your legs. He places his hands on your thighs and you stiffen, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“What? Is this some sort of joke?”

Miguel chuckles, his fangs showing that makes you weak. “No jokes here, baby.” The pet name rolls off his tongue easily which sends your heart pounding.  His fingers reach up to the belt loops on your shorts, curling around them. “I didn't get to see you much because of my brother. And I meant what I said–about his friends being assholes and how I never meant to hurt him, but with you,” He tugs on your belt loops and forces you to lose your balance so your hands could hold onto his arms. He buries his face in your neck and leaves a small kiss.

“I would've wanted to steal you.” His warm breath pants on your skin. His hands let go of your belt loops to rest on your hips. You have no idea which is worse–or better.

Miguel feels your blood pumping through your veins under his lips and smirks.

Your mind spun with how close he was and what words he was spilling.

“Where's Gabriel?” You ask in a whisper.

“Not anywhere that matters right now.” 

“Of course, it matters!” You squeal in a high pitched whisper. “I'm not about to fuck my best friends older brother.”

“Ex best friend and I never said we were fucking. Unless you want to, I'm down.” He nibbles on your neck and you whine.

You struggle with the need between your legs and your mind fighting between your personal morals versus personal desire. For the few times you've seen Miguel while you were still friends with Gabriel, you've noticed he was hot. It wasn't often but you'd enjoy the days where he came home from the gym, tank top drenched in sweat and headband pushing his fringe back while he took gulps from his tumbler.

Gabriel would snap you out of your stupor with a call of your name and you never noticed the small smirk when Miguel saw the small flustered look on your face.

Miguel feels your heart pounding and the stiff way you hold his shoulders. His smirk drops and he lifts his head from your neck to look at you.

“I'm just teasing. If you don't want anything, we don't have to. Do you have a ride? I could take you home.” Miguel murmurs gently, letting go and slipping his hands off your body.

You stop him from leaving, his eyes widening when you place his hands back to your hips.“No, no. I want…I want to.” You breathe out.

Miguel smirks again. “Yeah?” He hums, his hands feeling the curve of your hips and squeezes your thighs in his palms.

“Mhm.” You nod, letting yourself succumb to whatever is about to happen.

“How badly do you want it?” He asks. Your arms rest loosely around his neck, lips brushing against one another. 

“Miguel…” You whine, not wanting to play this game. Miguel's heart skips a beat, cock twitching in his pants at how cute you look and sound whining for him.

“Contéstame, nena.” He pressed a teasing kiss to the corner of your lips. You lock your legs around his waist and his hands go under your shirt, feeling up your torso and up your back to tug on your bra strap.

“Fuck–badly, Miguel.” You groan. Miguel shutters out a sigh, collecting you in his arms and hurrying back to the bathroom in a poor attempt at gaining privacy for you two. 

He sets you down on the sink counter and locks the door, his lips immediately finding yours. You let out a weak moan and curl your fingers in his hair while he slides your bra up to cup your breast underneath your shirt.

Were really about to do this? Fucking your ex best friends older brother that was convinced would steal you from him– and that he's technically right?

He's not here so maybe a little bit of the forbidden fruit wouldn't hurt…

“I was told I would be meeting the stable hand here,” he continues, still uncertain. “To collect a horse.”

An accent. Foreign. He must be part of Prince Friedrich’s contingent, newly arrived from the Kingdom of Prussia this morning. And he must be exceedingly green to mistake you for a stable hand. Despite your riding breeches being muddied from your ride, any discerning footman would recognise that the fine tailoring is not typical of a servant's attire. Even one in the employ of the Crown. His own attire, however, is old-fashioned and ill-fitting - it bears all the marks of a hand-me-down from another household servant or perhaps an older family member.

You purse your lips to stifle a smile. The opportunity to toy with one of the charmingly naive lackeys from the Prussian delegation sparks your mischievous side. Besides, he’ll need to toughen up if he’s to survive in London. “Don’t they permit women to become stable hands in Prussia?”

He blinks. “No.”

“And this horse is for Prince Friedrich?”

“Yes.” He raises his eyebrows, as though it should be self-evident why he’s here. As if everyone should recognise Prince Friedrich’s footman. The man pulls his shoulder back and there’s a subtle hint of authority in his stance. You’re unsure if it’s the language barrier or his presumption, but his curt answers irk you.

“Very well, then,” you say, gently guiding your horse towards him. “This is Artemis. She’s the finest in the stable.”

“This is your finest horse?” He chuckles heartily and your mouth becomes a thin line and your nostrils flare. 

“Perhaps His Royal Highness would prefer a pony?”

He straightens, a haughty glint in his eye. “It’s covered in filth.”

“My lady is a keen rider and has already been out this morning. But if Prince Freidrich can’t handle a little dirt -”

“Of course, I can manage.”

You arch an eyebrow, his tone further irritating you. “If you say so,” you reply, handing him the reins.

As he mounts Artemis, you can’t help but decide to give him a parting gift. You give her a firm slap on her hindquarters. Artemis bolts forward, sending the young man bouncing precariously in the saddle. You watch with satisfaction as he disappears down the path, his shouts of alarm fading into the distance. 

Perhaps now he’ll think twice before assuming someone is a servant.

With a contented smile, you leave the stables, already brimming with excitement at the thought of telling your ladies-in-waiting about your encounter. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As far as you’re concerned, there isn’t enough wide open space in London. Far too many locked doors and whispered secrets. Or worse. Written down secrets. Specifically, the sort published by Lady Whistledown. You’d much rather be at home than endure another visit to the capital but when Queen Charlotte invited you to stay at her residence for the duration of the social season, you could hardly refuse. Not when Her Majesty and your late father, the Duke of Kettering, were such dear friends.

You suspect this invitation to spend the season at the palace might be the Queen’s ultimate attempt to honour your father’s memory. It was expected that you’d be desperate to find a husband after he passed. On paper, it should have been simple enough - your inheritance is decent enough to tempt a husband.

But finding a suitor hasn’t been easy. You’re not asking for much. You don’t want titles or wealth. Just a husband who’d be content to let you spend the day out riding rather than attending social engagements. Events like this one are your idea of hell on earth. Although it wasn’t as bad as yesterday when you had to present yourself to the Queen as one of the eligible misses of the season. 

As you stepped into the centre of the room, your palms turned cold and you could feel your stomach turning inside out as you waited for the Queen to give her verdict. There’s an old saying: the brighter a lady shines, the faster she may burn. And you’d rather not find yourself turned to ash at the hands of the ton. 

You exhaled an audible sigh of relief when Her Majesty remained seated and deigned to give you a small nod of approval. Neither the diamond nor the disgrace of the season and you’re glad of it - it means fewer eyes on you. But even that short burst in the relatively dim limelight made you want to flee from the room and vomit. You put yourself through your paces in the saddle this morning just to shake off the lingering feeling of dread.

You should be grateful that the Queen did not wave you away dismissively. This is your second social season after all and your value is quickly plummeting. You just need a husband who is content to stay out of the spotlight. And is resigned to the fact that you’ll probably prefer your horse’s company to theirs. 

If only you really were a stable hand instead of the late Duke of Kettering’s daughter.

As you mingle in Queen Charlotte’s banquet hall amongst other guests, waiting upon the arrival of Prince Freidrich, you feel a twinge of guilt about your encounter with his footman this morning. Perhaps after this welcome dinner, you’ll discreetly invite him to meet you in the stables as a gesture of apology.

The footman was handsome, after all, despite the blonde whiskers he must have grown in an attempt to appear more mature. You wouldn’t mind ruffling his perfectly coiffed hair before letting him bend you over the stable door.

Your companion jolts you from your daydream by squeezing your arm with her silk glove excitedly. You turn and smooth the front of your gown as Queen Charlotte and her nephew Prince Friedrich’s arrival is announced. 

The doors open and it takes every ounce of your self-control to maintain a dignified composure as Queen Charlotte walks in, arm-in-arm with Prince Friedrich’s footman.

Or the man who you thought was Prince Friedrich’s footman.

Damn.

Of course, you sent Prince Friedrich himself chasing across the palace grounds on the back of your startled mare.

While your face retains a dignified composure, you can’t do anything about the prickle of embarrassment flushing your chest. It’s only a matter of time before the Queen introduces Prince Freidrich to you and you will need to eat copious amounts of humble pie, slathered with grovelling apologies and dusted off with begging for forgiveness.

There’s no avoiding it. Even though tonight’s dinner isn’t an official event of the season - just a small dinner for the fifty or so palace guests and members of the Royal Family, Prince Friedrich is still introduced to every eligible woman in the room. Including you. 

Queen Charlotte, eventually steers him towards you. “Allow me to present my nephew, Prince Friedrich of Prussia.”

You curtsy and allow him to greet your gloved hand with a kiss but your stomach twists in anticipation, waiting for him to admonish you in front of the Queen.

“Lady Kettering, your gown - it is exquisite,” he says, in the usual formality. “And I hope your ride this morning was more pleasant than mine.”

You take a breath to compose your apology but you’re saved from the necessity.

“Yes, the Prince had a simply awful time this morning. First, his footman forgets to pack his riding wear so he has to borrow some from the Viscount of Paisley. And then a common girl posing as a stable hand gave Prince Friedrich your horse and sent him galloping across the plain.”

“I see,” you say cautiously but the corners of Prince Freidrich’s mouth twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. You ask, “And is my horse alright?”

Queen Charlotte laughs at this. “I should have known that you would be more concerned about your mount than the Prince of Prussia.”

You smile. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It’s only that I’m confident a duplicitous stable girl was no match for His Royal Highness.”

“Your mare was returned safely,” smiles Prince Friedrich, a roguish glint in his eye.

Prince Friedrich bows and Queen Charlotte bustles him away onto the next group of eager girls. 

As you watch him greet the next group you wonder: why is the Prince of Prussia making excuses for you?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the grand dining room, you search for your place setting at the far end of the table beside the other noble families from minor houses to no avail. They’ve missed me, you think in horror as you look around at the filled seats but one of your friends nudges you and nods at the empty seat next to Prince Friedrich. 

There must be some mistake. 

But when you glance at the Prince, still standing behind his chair expectantly at the middle of the table, he catches your eye and places a hand on the empty seat. 

Barely daring to breathe, you wonder if this is his way of getting back at you for the events of this morning. Perhaps he arranged for your table setting to go missing and you’ll be publicly humiliated when you dare to assume the seat next to him would be for you. 

You walk for what feels like a very long time to the other side of the table, feeling eyes on you as every step is like your shoes are made of lead. You do your best not to clench your fists as your face grows hot in anticipation of being embarrassed in front of everyone. 

Dipping your head, you refuse to look at Prince Friedrich and instead discreetly look at the place cards as you pass. The titles become increasingly grand as you approach the centre of the table until you reach the grandest of them all.

Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte.

His Royal Highness, Prince Friedrich.

Then you see your name. Etched in gold on eggshell paper. At the place setting beside Prince Friedrich’s.

You blink, feeling relief course through you. You’ve never sat this close to the Queen before. The centre of the table was reserved for distinguished guests like, well, Prince Friedrich.

“Lady Kettering, I hope you don’t mind me stealing you away from your usual dinner companions,” says Prince Friedrich, looking at your friends staring wide-eyed at you from the other end of the table.

“It’s my pleasure, Your Highness,” you say, giving them a sharp look. As the servers remove the cloches from the banquet before you, conversation erupts around the table, giving you the chance to swallow your pride. “And I do apologise for this morning,” you add quietly. “I had mistakenly assumed you were Prince Friedrich’s footman.”

“A footman?” He grins, and tilts his head, picturing himself as a footman before adding. “I too would like to apologise. I should never have assumed a beautiful woman such as yourself was a stable hand,” he says. 

“When did you come to the realisation that I wasn’t?”

“I knew your horse’s name. When I asked who owned her, I was told it was a lady who was as wild as the horses she keeps.” Your mouth twists into a reluctant smile. “Is that true?” he asks, his green eyes twinkling with interest.

“Oh no,” you smile, sipping your freshly poured wine, aware of his eyes following your every movement. “My horses are very well-behaved.”

He laughs. It’s a pretty laugh. “Can I assume that means you are looking forward to the season beginning?” He gives you a wry smile. His eyes are alight with enthusiasm as he waits for you to share in his excitement for the beginning of the social season. But there’s something else in his gaze, something more intense.

You must put an end to this before he gets the wrong idea and you’re made a spectacle of. Prince Friedrich will be the most sought-after man of the season and you don’t want the attention that accompanies competing for his affections - to be thrust into the spotlight and have Lady Whistledown write about you would be more attention than you could bear. 

You glance around to see if anyone is listening before lowering your voice. “Your Highness - may I speak candidly?”

“Nothing would please me more,” he says sincerely, his tone softening.

“Why did you arrange for me to sit here?”

Prince Friedrich looks taken aback. “Well… after this morning, I knew I had to find out more about you.”

You nod sadly. This is what you were afraid of but you had expected it nonetheless.

“This is my second - and hopefully last - season. You see, I’m not used to being in the public eye and I find the social season to be entirely mortifying.”

“I see…” says Prince Friedrich slowly.

“You Highness, please don’t mistake me. I’m honoured to be in your presence but -”

“Lady Kettering -” Prince Friedrich lowers his voice. “You told me you would speak candidly. Please disperse with the airs and graces.”

You push your food around on your plate. It’s risky to speak so plainly to aristocracy. Their fragile egos normally demand a guarded formality. “I am sorry but the idea of competing with other women to become the Princess Consort of Prussia is more publicity than I can handle. I need to find a husband quickly. A marriage of convenience.”

“Convenience…” He nods thoughtfully. “I understand. A marriage to me would certainly thrust you into the public eye, with all the scrutiny that entails.”

He’s not offended. Thank god. “Exactly, Your Highness. The attention would be unbearable.”

“It is a pity,” he says quietly. “Because I’m sure a mutually convenient marriage would have its benefits.”

Mutually convenient? Your own inheritance pales in comparison to the riches that Prince Friedrich is heir to. What would he gain from marrying you?

You look up from your plate to see that he’s brazenly smirking at you. 

Oh. 

It’s undeniable this time. He’s flirting with you. You feel heat creeping up your neck and you know you must look feverish when his eyes roam across your corseted chest.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Your Highness,” you say, your whisper barely audible.

“I mean that sharing a marital bed would have its… advantages.” Prince Friedrich takes a sip of his wine, seemingly pleased that he’s made you flustered. Now, you can’t have that.

You glance over his shoulder to make sure Queen Charlotte is occupied. “I don’t need a husband to reap those sorts of advantages.”

When you say that, he slops half of his wine down his front in surprise. “You - you don’t?”

You arch an eyebrow. “You don’t have other companions for that sort of thing?” You pass him your napkin so he can clean himself up, your fingers grazing his knee under the table, making him inhale a sharp intake of breath. “You’re not worried about being unable to please your new wife?”

He stares straight ahead, momentarily stunned. Like he never realised sex was something you could be bad at. After a beat, he shakes his head. “It would not be prudent if people knew I was having - ”

“You mistake me. It is not my intention to get caught.”

Prince Friedrich sighs, a sad smile playing on his lips. “If only it were that simple. I’m surrounded by people. Always.”

The two of you sit quietly, allowing the servants to replace your empty plates with dessert. You can practically hear the cogs in the Prince’s head as his brain works overtime, trying to decide how to respond to this new information. Prince Friedrich takes a polite bite of chocolate cake and sits back.

“Once again, being the Queen’s nephew complicates things,” you say, sitting forward and sliding your fork through a sizable portion. “Don’t you have an appetite after your ride this morning, Your Highness?”

“I think the news that you do not wish me to court you has disappointed me so much that I never want to eat again,” he jokes half-heartedly before returning his focus entirely to you.

“If only we really were a stable hand and a footman - waiting until all the palace guests had gone to bed to meet in the stables after dark,” you say after eating the last bite of cake on your plate. 

Prince Friedrich swallows thickly and your eyes move from his Adam's apple to the almost untouched piece of cake on his plate.

“Are you - are you still hungry, my lady?” he asks.

You lean forward and take a scoop of whipped cream from his plate with your fork. “I’m insatiable.” 

You eat the whipped cream and he watches with bated breath as you take several seconds longer than necessary to drag the polished silver fork from between your lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You scratch Artemis’s head in the dark stables, wondering if you’ve made a mistake in being here. Mostly you were interested to see if the sweet, naive Prince Friedrich would turn up. But you know how noblemen are. Their egos are so easy to bruise that an adverturess could scare them off simply by existing. 

Which is why you can scarcely believe it when there’s a knock at the closed stable door. You don’t breathe for a second before remembering that only Prince Freidrich would knock before entering a stable of all places.

He opens the door and for a moment is visibly relieved to see you. You stare at each other. The only sound is the soft rustling of the horses, that is until he closes the door behind him and moves to you with an agility that surprises you, considering how unstable he was on your horse earlier.  

If he had no appetite earlier, it has certainly returned now. Prince Friedrich has a hungry look in his eyes as he pulls you close by the waist and kisses you. You squeeze your eyes shut, expecting a clash of teeth but his kiss is passionate, even skilled. Your shoulders untense as you relax into it and slide your arms around his neck, allowing him to pull your body against his. Even through the many skirts under your evening gown, you can feel that he’s hard.

His tongue enters your mouth, licking and swirling it against yours - it’s surprisingly good. And he smells good. A beautiful sandalwood cologne that can only be from the finest perfumery.

You pull back breathlessly before you can allow the inebriating scent and feel of him to rid you of your senses. “Prince Friedrich, I -”

“Please, just Freidrich.”

“Friedrich.” Even with his permission the name feels strange in your mouth. “How much romantic experience do you have?”

“I’ve read books,” he says quickly and you press your lips together to stop laughing.

“You mean romance books? Like Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron?”

“No, I mean… instructional.”

“Instructions on how to fuck?” He nods and flushes a deep shade of pink at the question and this time you can’t help but laugh. “Remind me to spend time in the palace library in Prussia if I ever visit.” You study him. “I meant more… practical experience. It’s not the type of thing you can learn from a book.”

“I have a little experience.”

“Like what? Just kissing?” He hesitates and you move your hand down between your bodies and brush his hard cock through his trousers. “Or has anyone ever touched you like this before?”

Friedrich swallows. “Before now, you mean?” You nod and he hesitates again, guessing that it’s not the answer you want to hear. “No,” he says, truthfully.

You withdraw your hand. “Maybe this is something you should save for your future wife.”

“Marry me, then,” he blurts out, his voice trembling slightly with urgency.

You groan inwardly, shaking your head. “Friedrich, I wasn’t being coy when I told you I don’t want to be wed to a Prince. Besides, the season is starting tomorrow and you’ll be introduced to a hundred wealthy, beautiful women. Each one of them would be a better match than I.”

“Impossible.”

“You don’t know that -”

“I know that nobody has ever spoken to me the way that you did tonight. Or this morning for that matter.”

You smile despite yourself. You can believe it. If you were trying to secure the Prince’s hand in marriage, you would have carried yourself with much more grace and dignity than you have thus far.

“That’s because I have the manners of a common mule and the propriety of a common whore,” your grin falters and you look at him seriously. “And both of those qualities make me thoroughly incompatible with the Prince of Prussia. Marrying you is out of the question.”

“I understand,” he says, clearly worried that you’re reconsidering fucking him. “Let me be one of your companions. Show me how to do it.”

“Will you promise not to ask for my hand in marriage when this is done?”

Your hands undo the lacing on his trousers as he hitches his breath. “Anything. Sh-show me. Please.”

You remove your gloves and toss them on the stable floor. You slide your bare hand into his underwear and feel him shudder when you grip his cock. Christ almighty. It’s bigger than what you had expected from the innocent Prince.

“Since we’re practising so that you can please your future wife,” you tell him as you jerk your hand along his length. “I’ll tell you what feels good and what doesn’t. And you must do the same.”

He exhales shakily. “This - this feels good.”

“That’s a good start,” you smirk. “And you have a nice cock, Your Highness. The Princess Consort of Prussia will be a very lucky woman indeed once I’ve shown you how to use it.”

“Oha,” he breathes. 

“So eager,” you tut playfully, your face inches from his. 

You pull him close and he moans into your mouth as you kiss him. The sound of his evident pleasure sends heat tearing through you. You make a mental note to tell your future lovers to share their vocal appreciation because the sounds Prince Friedrich is making are driving you wild. 

As you kiss him, you lead him over to the loose pile of straw and get to the floor. The straw is scratchy on your bare arms but your legs are thankfully spared by the protection of your skirts. 

“When the time comes to do this with your lady wife, you should both undress. But our clothes will remain on - mostly. This is more convenient if there’s an unexpected intruder. Plus, this hay is itchy.”

“Allow me,” says Prince Freidrich, sitting back on his knees and pulling off his jacket. For a second you wonder if he’s misunderstood what you said about undressing but then he flattens his jacket on the straw behind you for you to lie on.

If you were the swooning type, you might just have fainted then and there.

“May I?” he asks, touching the hem of your skirt at your ankle. You nod and he pushes up your skirts. You lift your hips, allowing him to remove your satin underwear. “Verdammt,” he breathes. He moves his head between your legs and you almost sit up in surprise. You don’t mind him having a better look at you if it’s his first time but this feels extremely personal.

“What are you doing?” you ask. 

He looks up at you and you pull your skirts close to your stomach. “My book - it said to kiss you here to make sure you are ready.” His face is so close to you that you can feel his hot breath against your pussy.

“Your book said to kiss me… there?” Your eyebrows knit together but you think about how his tongue felt swirling inside your mouth and a stab of ache pierces through your ribs. 

“It is not customary?” You shake your head and he frowns in confusion but doesn’t move. 

And you realise that you don’t want him to go anywhere. That the idea of him kissing you there in the skilled way he was kissing your mouth inflames you. Out of amused interest, you lift yourself up onto one elbow only to find him looking at you intently, hanging on your every word, waiting to find out what he should do. You realise that you rather like the look of him here, between your legs.

“You -” You swallow. “- You may try. If it pleases you. But I warn you, I - oh -”

Your warning dissipates into the air as Prince Friedrich leans down and glides his hot tongue deep into the seam of your pussy with absolutely no hesitation. You feel yourself relax as you let him get on with this custom he’s learned from his book. You admit, it’s not unpleasant. But you’re not sure what he’s trying to achieve. 

It sort of feels like when you touch yourself. Maybe less dextrous but it’s hotter and wetter and - and - 

Good lord.

Much to your surprise - and your delight - you feel a soft, delicious warmth spreading from your core as he kisses you where you’ve never been kissed before. You splay your fingers through his blonde hair - your other hand still clutching your dress as his velvet mouth envelops your clutch of nerves and a wave of pleasure cascades through your body.

“Oh - oh fuck,” you curse, not caring that you’re swearing in front of the Prince. He pulls back abruptly and you pant.

“My lady?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

“Yes - god, yes,” you whine, impatient for his mouth to return to you.

He looks at you with that same subtle glint of authority he gave you this morning and says, “In that case, you are not keeping up with your side of the bargain. You promised you’d tell me what feels good.” 

Prince Friedrich dips his head and resumes, going from sucking on your clit to lapping up your juices and back again as you squirm and rock against him. This time you remember to hold up your side of the bargain. You pant and tell him how good his mouth feels - how good he feels. Everything is soaked, from your skirts to his chin and nose as he lets you grind yourself against his face. 

The flat of his tongue slides across your heat and it’s heavenly. Usually, when you’re with a partner, you’re used to working hard for your release - at the exact right position and tempo to pry yourself apart. But right now you’re just lying back and taking what Prince Friedrich’s tongue offers to you. And it’s offering exactly what you need.

“Don’t stop,” you mewl. “So good. S’good. So good -”

You feel yourself unravelling, your praise and words of affirmation turning into an incoherent babble as your orgasm breaches the surface. You must be making some semblance of sense because he listens - he keeps going and it’s all too much and not enough at once as your walls squeeze around nothing while Prince Friedrich continues his delicious assault on your bundle of nerves. 

Damn. You do your very best not to cry out and draw attention to the stables as Prince Friedrich gets closer and closer to making you cum on his tongue. But it’s nigh impossible as you feel the heat rise from your stomach and pull back like the tide. 

And then there’s the drop you’d been waiting for. 

“Oh - god,” you moan, drawing out the last syllable so that it drips as slowly as treacle. Ecstasy courses through your body as your release washes over you, making your thighs tremble on either side of the Prince’s head. Your chest heaves and you gently tug on his hair, away from your oversensitive cunt. “That’s - that’s good. It’s good. It’s enough,” you gasp before collapsing your head back onto his jacket.

Prince Friedrich gives you a few more slow, gentle licks and murmurs, “So feucht.” before drawing a finger over your twitching, soaking wet entrance, admiring his own handiwork. You don’t know what his words mean and you don’t have the cognizance to ask as you stare up at the wooden beams and try to regain your senses. 

After what feels like a lifetime of bliss, you’re happy for your view of the stable roof to be interrupted when Prince Friedrich moves up your body to kiss you and you taste the unfamiliar taste of your arousal on his lips. You kiss him back, slipping your tongue into his mouth and nipping at his bottom lip. God, this was supposed to be you teaching him a few things - not the other way around. When you anonymise this encounter and retell it to your friends later they will certainly be hearing about this.

“Good?” he asks when he pulls back and you nod, before swallowing air.

“I have half a mind to sell my estate and move to Prussia after the social season is over if that is what they do there,” you say breathlessly. 

He smirks. “I have told you that it could be arranged. Come home with me and we won’t have to be discreet. We could do this every day.”

You pout playfully and push a loose curl from his forehead. “But I like the stables,” you joke even though your back is aching and a palace bed sounds much more appealing. 

“Well, we have stables in Prussia. You could bring Artemis.”

Artemis. 

He remembered her name. 

Your face softens as you picture her as a royal steed, wearing a white feathered plume like she’s the diamond of the season. 

But then the fleeting daydream disappears when you tell yourself that it’s a fantasy you can’t allow either of you to indulge in. As much as Queen Charlotte favours you, you know it would be seen as unacceptable for the Prince to marry someone from such a minor house.

And besides, you remind yourself that you don’t need a royal husband. You have your own home. You have your own horses. You have your own friends. You have everything you’ve ever wanted. But then, why does the thought of him making his social season debut at the ball tomorrow make your heart ache?

“There’s something else I’d like to ride, presently,” you say, in an attempt to rid the thought from your mind as you gently push on his shoulders until he lies on his back. 

You straddle the Prince and unfasten his trousers so you can pull his cock out. The sight of him, hard and ready for you and the way he twitches involuntarily in your palm makes your heart pound as hard and steady as horses hooves galloping.

You wriggle forward until you feel the smooth underside of his cock sliding under your messily slick folds, still wet from the orgasm the Prince had bestowed upon you with his mouth. A flicker of dark enjoyment ignites in you when you see a line between his brows as he knits them together and watches as you lift your skirts so he can watch you sliding back and forward along the length of his cock.

“Do you enjoy watching me do this, Your Highness?” you ask as you grind against him.

“I would enjoy watching you do anything,” he says, pushing your gown out of the way to take hold of your hips. “Du bist schön.”

You pause. “Do what?” 

“Nothing. Please. Don’t stop.” He presses his thumbs into your hipbones, urging you to create friction against him again. 

“You don’t want to fuck me?”

“Isn’t - isn’t that what we’re doing?” stutters Prince Friedrich. 

“Oh, my sweet Prince.” You bring your hand to his jaw as you lift yourself so you can position the head of his cock between your soaking folds with your other hand. “We’re only just getting started.”

You lock eyes with him and watch his face contort in pleasure as you slowly sink down, inch by glorious fucking inch. “Oh gott,” he whines. Your German is poor but you’re pretty confident you know what that means. 

“Let me know when you’re going to spill - I don’t want to carry your bastard,” you murmur, still cupping his face. “Do you understand?”

“Ja,” he says through gritted teeth. “I understand.”

You’re not sure he really does but that primal part of your brain that wants to fuck him now and worry about the consequences later tells you to shove your hips down against the resistance. You force the rest of his thick cock into you and inhale through your teeth, feeling the delicious way he stretches and fills you. His hands clamp down hard on your hips, his thumbs pressing fresh bruises into your hipbones. 

They don’t make them like this in Kettering. Or London for that matter. Equal parts sweet and naive yet firm and decisive. He doesn’t know what he wants yet but he still wants it. Desperately. 

As if proving your point, you lean forward to feel the beautiful way he drags out of you and he seizes the opportunity to bury his face into your cleavage, your corseted dress making it exceptionally easy for him. 

He moans open-mouthed against your chest, his tongue sloppily trying to find your nipple. You move your hips back and down and wildfire bursts in your lower belly when his cock nudges against that sweet spot you’ve been longing for. 

It’s not enough for him - he wants more. He lifts his hips and the tip of his cock drives against your G-spot.

“Oh - fuck. Freidrich. That feels good.”

“So it is okay for me to move too?” he asks.

“Please,” you murmur, closing your eyes and feeling him slide back into you at that perfect angle. 

You don’t need to tell him twice.

He rolls his hips upwards to meet yours as you ride him. You can hear how fucking wet you are.  Everything is slick and hot and drenched as you roll your hips up and down on top of him and he fucks himself into you.

“So schön,” he grunts and the foreign words sound guttural to your ears. 

“I hope that means ‘good’,” you tease, leaning forward to breathe hot air onto his neck.

“Pretty,” he murmurs in your ear. “So pretty.”

“Oh,” is all you can manage as his hips pick up pace. Fuck - you like him being under you like this. Even here, in the stables where someone might come looking if they notice that Prince Friedrich is missing from his chambers. 

The sound of your stretched, wet cunt fills the stables so obscenely that it peppers shame into your consciousness. But he hears it too. He jerks up so fiercely that his balls slap against you. You suck air in through your teeth at the sharp sting and he looks concerned but you reassure him. “It’s - oh fuck - keep going. Right there.”

You go from slamming yourself down on him to your whole body stiffening, letting him drive up into you as your hot orgasm approaches, creeping over you in pulsing waves. Your walls grip him, tightening and convulsing as -

“I should - tja - remove myself from inside you -” he stops thrusting up into you and you almost wail with disappointment.

“No - fuck - keep going.” What are you saying? You rock your hips and bounce on him, every nerve inside you applauding your decision to ignore your conscience as you manage to hang onto the precipice. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m going to -”

“Fuck it,” you heave, your walls squeezing impossibly tighter as you fuck yourself on him. “Cum in me. I don’t care.” What the fuck are you saying?!

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. 

It’ll be fine. 

You’ve had an accident or two and have been lucky so far.

You may as well have told the Prince that Christmas had come early. The sight of your flushed face, dishevelled hair and the way your tits are threatening to spill out of your dress with every bounce of your hips drives him wild. 

Frankly, you’re the most deliciously intoxicating thing he’s ever experienced. He just doesn’t have the necessary vocabulary to tell you this in English.

By this point, “Oh gott,” is the only thing he says that you can understand. You hardly hear the rest as he babbles away in German - you can barely hear anything over the pulse of blood pounding in your ears as Friedrich picks up his pace again. Your body locks down around him so tightly you wonder if you might break him. 

“Just like that - fuck, there,” you whimper. He takes the instruction well, driving his cock deep into you - exactly where you need it. The coil of heat in your core tightens impossibly tighter as he chokes words you don’t understand into your ear as he pulls you close to his chest

Maybe one day he’ll teach you what those words mean and you’ll find out that he was telling you what a good girl you are for taking his cock like this.

“Fuck - I’m - that’s it,” you sob, your chest heaving against his fine silk shirt and your fingers entwined in his soft blonde hair. You squeeze around him like a vice. “Friedrich, I -”

“Do it,” he groans. You hadn’t expected him to say that. And certainly not with the commanding tone he chooses. “Let me feel it.”

The coil inside you snaps. A blaze of white-hot fire bursts through you like stitches being ripped. You seize and cry out as your release whips through you with such force that you think you might go cross-eyed. You bury your face into his neck, smelling the rich sandalwood scent splashed on his skin, mixed with his sweat. 

Freidrich keeps his tight hold of your hips, fucking into you even as you shake and tremble. 

“Ich komme,” breathes the Prince. “Ich komme, ich komme.” It only takes a few more rough, slapping thrusts until you don’t have to guess what that means. You feel him finishing inside you, thick ropes of his spend painting your insides. 

You lie here like this for a few moments, collapsed onto his chest and feeling his seed leaking out of you. You feel dizzy as his chest rises and falls underneath you and his fingers tenderly trace lines up and down your back. He closes his eyes, feeling the satin of your gown as his fingertips dance across it.

You could easily fall asleep like this.

Instead, you hoist yourself off him and lie flat on your back as if unattaching yourself from him will place a barrier between you. Put a halt to the immense surge of affection you feel for him in this moment. But he doesn’t let you get far. Prince Friedrich rolls onto his side and cups your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone and skirting across your lips before he leans down to kiss you. You close your eyes, letting the kiss dissolve into a wet, lazy haze.

He pulls back and looks down into your eyes. “I promised I would not ask for your hand when this was over. So I have nothing else to say.”

“At least now you are prepared for the social season beginning tomorrow.”

“I don’t care about the season. I want to leave. Tonight. To take you with me.”

“I don’t have the wealth or the beauty for that to be allowed to happen,” you say. “The Queen would never find us to be a suitable match. Never mind Lady Whistledown having a field day.”

“You have more than enough of both for me.”

“For you, Friedrich. But not enough for Prince Friedrich. Not enough for The Crown,” you say, your heart breaking as you do. This was a bad idea, after all. You adjust your gown and get to your feet, pretending to ignore Prince Friedrich’s attempts to help you up.

“And what about my - my seed? What if you’re with child?”

You laugh mirthlessly. “We’d have to be exceptionally unlucky for that to happen on our first try. Put it far from your mind. Go and meet with the diamond of the season tomorrow and all of the ladies queuing up to become the Princess Consort of Prussia. They will make you much happier than I ever could.”

You walk towards the stable door but he takes your hand and gives you your discarded gloves. “Please don’t go.”

“I’m sorry, Friedrich.” You can’t. You can hear the gossip already. A thousand people whispering behind your back about how you’re not good enough for the Prince. It would be like that every day for the rest of your life in the spotlight if you did marry him. You tear your eyes away from him and open the stable door. 

“Will I ever see you again?” he asks after you.

You pause and turn around. “Perhaps.” You smile at him sadly. “Who knows? If I am with child, maybe you’ll have no choice but to whisk me away back to Prussia and marry me, never to be seen in London ever again. And everyone will wonder why.”

You turn back before he can see your face crumble, leaving the stable door open behind you as Prince Friedrich watches you leave into the night. Your mare whinnies, nudging him gently over her stable door.

Prince Friedrich gives in to her pestering and scratches her neck, much to her enjoyment. Before dawn, he will write a letter. To make sure a stall is prepared for Artemis in the palace stables in Prussia.

“Where is everyone?” The question, more to yourself than McLaggen, hangs in the chilled night air, icy on your skin after the pitch's fiery chaos. He holds one of the now-dilapidated oak front doors open and crumbling mortar silently dusts your heads and shoulders as you pass through the threshold. From a distance, you spot a familiar figure, carrying someone over one shoulder as they walk across the Entrance Hall. 

“Wood?” calls McLaggen.

At least one of your group is still alive. 

Oliver Wood stops in his tracks and turns, his face solemn. The realisation that the body he carries is dead and not simply injured hits you with sickening force. A young boy, blonde and no older than sixteen, hangs limp in his grasp.

“Colin Creevey,” says Wood sadly, in answer to the unasked question on the tip of your tongue. “He must have snuck back in through the Hog’s Head passageway to fight. He was only a kid.”

“Here, let me help,” says McLaggen. 

“It’s alright, mate - he’s -” Wood swallows with difficulty, the sentiment choking in his throat. “He’s only a wee thing.”

“Where - where are the others?” You’re surprised when your voice too is hoarse, barely a whisper. “Did you all get back to the castle alright?”

“We did,” says Wood as you and McLaggen fall into step with him, walking back towards the Great Hall. “But once we got back it was pandemonium. We were split up. I think the girls are in the Great Hall but some of the lads and I have been busy out here - helping carry bodies back and hoping that we don’t see anyone we know.”

The lads. You breathe a sigh of relief because it means Carmichael, Davies and Krum are all right too.

“We’ll be fine,” says McLaggen determinedly. “We’re all good fighters. Not kids like Colin -”

Wood shakes his head. “It’s not just kids like Colin - members of the Order of the Phoenix are dead. You remember Professor Lupin? He’s dead. And Fred Weasley.”

“Fred Weasley?” McLaggen halts. “Back when we were in the D.A. he was one of the best.” He says it matter-of-factly like Wood must be mistaken. 

“Gone,” says Wood with a sniff. “There were at least twenty bodies when I last left the Great Hall. And we keep finding more.” 

A heavy silence accompanies you into the Great Hall, where the reality of war is laid bare. The sky above the enchanted ceiling is pitch black. There’s not a single star in the sky visible. Dark clouds loom so claustrophobically close it’s a wonder there’s any air in the hall at all. Dozens of the fallen are lined up along the centre of the room. Some with crying families at their side, and some, you realise with a sinking feeling, are completely alone. 

Your eyes scour the room searching for your own loved ones. At this side of the row of bodies nearest you, there’s a crowd that can only be Fred Weasley’s family. Relief washes over you as you spot Angelina, at the edge of the group, sobbing on Alicia’s shoulder.

Another two who are still alive.

But your relief is short-lived when you see only Leanne and Katie at the far end of the hall, crowded around someone on the floor. 

Panic makes the hair on your arm rise. 

You break into a run, heart pounding, as you pass by too many bodies to count, each step fuelled by a mix of hope and dread. Leanne and Katie look up at your arrival, still holding each other, tears streaking down their faces. 

Cho is kneeling on the floor, holding the lifeless hand of a girl. She has the same long, wavy, auburn hair as Marietta. But it can’t be Marietta. Eddie isn’t here. And besides, she’s covered in dust, with pieces of rubble strewn in her hair. Marietta was always fussy about her appearance. She wouldn’t be caught dead looking like this.

McLaggen catches up with you and stops dead, momentarily stunned by the scene before him. “Fuck… Marietta.” His whisper hits you like a slowing charm.

“That’s not - it’s not -” Your legs feel like lead as you take a step closer. “I don’t think it’s Marietta - I mean, her face is…” That’s not Marietta’s face. Where are her scars? You sink to your knees across from Cho to get a closer look at the girl’s face. If you look hard enough, maybe it won’t be true. You’ll find some difference. A freckle or a piercing that proves this isn’t Marietta. 

“The curse must have died with her,” Cho murmurs, her voice quiet with grief as a tear drips onto Marietta’s serene, unblemished face. 

“She’s so beautiful,” sobs Leanne. “I mean - not that she wasn’t before -“

Fuck.

The truth hits hard. Undeniable. Raw.

It is her. 

“She was beautiful,” you agree, your voice breaking as a surge of memories overwhelms you, letting the tears flow unguarded. “Before the curse, when she had the curse and - and after.”

After. You never thought there would be a time after Marietta. Ever since your first day at Hogwarts, Marietta Edgecombe was there. After the sorting ceremony, you found yourself sitting across from her at the Ravenclaw table. You still remember the way she covered her mouth with the back of her hand and whispered something that made Cho giggle when Professor Dumbledore stood up to give his beginning-of-term speech. And it was at that point she had first seemed so different to you then. She loved gossip and fashion and makeup and boys - the two of you never really saw eye to eye. Mostly because you insisted you ‘weren’t like other girls’. 

But Marietta eventually showed you that you weren’t so different to other girls after all. And that other girls had their own interests just like you. It took longer than you’d like to admit to figure out that liking flying instead of Transfiguration didn’t make you superior. And so, Marietta transfigured your dress for Slughorn’s party. And you taught her how to fly a broom well enough to go on a dangerous mission to Azkaban. 

You suppose, if you let yourself think about the sad truth of it, her scars were probably the reason why she was so good at Transfiguration. She had spent a long time when you were still at Hogwarts, in the dormitory mirror with her wand pointed at her face, trying to rid herself of the scars that spelt ‘SNEAK’ across her cheeks and nose.

“How did she…?” The question dies in your throat as you look at Cho, not sure if you're ready to hear the answer. But she shakes her head. She doesn’t know. “I mean, where did you find her? And where’s Carmichael? Wasn’t he with her?” Eddie would know what had happened. “Does he even know she’s…?”

“We don’t have any answers,” says Katie not unkindly but it’s clear that your incessant questioning isn’t helping when they’re just as lost as you.

“Wood said that the guys were helping with the bodies,” McLaggen reminds you. “Maybe they’ll know more. They’ll be back in a… oh, fuck.”

McLaggen’s voice trails off and you look up to see why. 

Krum and Davies walk along the length of the hall, carrying a body. Krum holding under the arms and Davies carrying the legs. As they move, Krum clenches his jaw and Davies stares straight ahead solemnly.

“Nonononono…” you whimper, getting to your feet to get out of the way so that they can set the body down next to Marietta. Your hands reach for McLaggen’s and his find you, neither of you daring to take your eyes off of the body being carried towards you as you grasp at each other’s forearms for something - anything - to cling onto. 

Krum and Davies set the lifeless figure down and step out of the way. Nobody says anything for a long time as you stare down at them.

The echo of a mischievous smile is still etched on Eddie Carmichael’s face, even in death. You half expect his eyes to fly open. “Only winding you up, mucker,” he’d say, sitting upright and dusting himself off. And you’d roll your eyes and slap his arm for worrying you so. For letting the practical joke play out too long.

It’s not a joke. No matter how much you want it to be.

Carmichael. 

Your last shred of hope turns to dust. Even in Azkaban, Carmichael was a vial of Awakening Potion - the jolt of energy you needed to turn the tide in the depths of your despair. He almost made Azkaban feel like a game. Reminded you that being locked up was just a temporary situation - something that would pass. But this? This is permanent. 

“Where - where did you find him?” asks McLaggen. His voice is thick, barely recognisable.

Davies clears his throat. “Near the staircase behind the tapestry on the sixth floor. Longbottom said it was where he found Marietta.”

They were together.

McLaggen winces at Davies’ words and shuts his eyes momentarily, unable to bring himself to look at the lifeless figures of Marietta Edgecombe and Eddie Carmichael. You, on the other hand, can’t look away. 

The dust coating their faces makes them look almost blue-tinged. The remnants of an explosion, perhaps? The broken bits of rubble are still stuck in Marietta’s hair. Trembling slightly, you crouch down to try to disentangle them with your fingers, careful not to pull at her scalp. 

It’s no good. 

While you’ve never had an eye for Transfiguration like Marietta, you extract McLaggen’s dad’s wand from your pocket and press it gently at the pieces of rubble and one by one, transfigure them into tiny, blue forget-me-nots. 

To an onlooker, she might seem merely asleep, her hair adorned with forget-me-nots as if chosen by her own hand on a sunny day at Seafarer's Beacon. This small touch of beauty, reminiscent of the way her paper snowflakes once danced around the lighthouse stairwell or the summer wreath she hung on the front door just yesterday, captures the essence of Marietta's spirit. 

She always had an eye for making this world a little more beautiful.

Cho waves her wand in a complicated figure of eight and a wreath of the same forget-me-nots flourishes into existence. She places it silently at Eddie’s head before the two of you stand up and join the rest in quiet mourning. 

“You okay?” you whisper to McLaggen, noticing his ashen face. His brow furrows as if silently debating something internally. 

“How long have we got before the fighting starts again?” he asks the group, breaking the silence, his words piercing the heavy air.

“Not long I reckon,” says Davies.

McLaggen’s demeanour shifts, a firm look of determination on his face. “Potter needs to hand himself in… Where is he?” He looks around the room with an intense, measured sort of calm that you’ve only witnessed once before. When he stood up in the Black Dragon and asked Marcus Flint to step outside. “I’ll hand him over myself if I have to.” 

“Vot is this?” asks Krum as McLaggen makes to leave.

“Not gonna happen,” Davies tells McLaggen firmly, stepping in front of him.

“If he’d just handed himself over right at the start then Ed and Marietta would still be alive.” McLaggen tries to push past but Davies moves again.

“Handing over Potter isn’t going to bring them back -” says Davies.

For the first time, McLaggen raises his voice, drawing the attention of mourners in the hall. “How many more of us are going to have to die for him?!”

“Cormac -” you start and reach for his hand. “Marietta and Carmichael wouldn’t have wanted us to turn him in.”

“We don’t know what they’d have wanted,” he says bitterly and your own face screws up in anguish, fighting tears and unable to find the words to argue with him. 

But before anyone else can argue with him an amplified voice causes the noise in the Great Hall to halt into momentary silence.

“Harry Potter is dead!” 

The last word bounces around the stone walls. Dead. Dead. Dead.

There’s murmuring and hushing as You-Know-Who’s disembodied voice calls every survivor to attention. Everyone looks skywards as if it’ll make the words clearer. Make them make sense.

“He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him,” the voice continues. 

You’d be the first to admit you’re not Potter’s biggest fan but from everything you’ve heard about it, you know he has the same selfless, noble streak that McLaggen and the rest of your Gryffindor friends have - and you can’t imagine any of them running away to save themselves. You furrow your eyebrows together and look at Katie - she knows Potter best. As expected, she mirrors your thoughts with a firm shake of her head.

“He wouldn’t -” Katie starts, but the voice cuts her off.

“We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone. The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you and The Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered. As will every member of their family.” 

The seven of you gather close as you hold your breath waiting to hear what will happen to you.

“Come out of the castle now. Kneel before me and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brother and sisters will live and be forgiven and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

McLaggen shakes his head. “It - it can’t all have been for nothing. Breaking them all out of Azkaban - it - it’s just can’t.”

“He’s lying. Harry’s not - he’s not dead,” says Cho with an air of trying to convince herself that it’s the truth. 

You look over to where Fred Weasley’s body lies and see that Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger are looking around frantically for the missing member of their trio. The pair stumble into a run, leaving the Great Hall and the rest of the survivors begin following them. 

If Harry Potter isn’t dead then why are his two best friends panicking?

You stay rooted to the spot. “Look, we can’t go out there. No matter what You-Know-Who said about sparing us - Cerys told me that Muggleborns and traitors will be killed.”

“Well, we’re not going out there to surrender,” says McLaggen. “We’re going out there to fight.”

Everyone breaks into squabbling.

“They’re going to kill us,” you insist, feeling helpless as you point out the impending death sentence.

“We can’t just stay in here,” says Katie.

“Angelina and Alicia are going,” points out Leanne.

You feel like you’re going mad. Desperation grips you as you beg them to understand. “A Death Eater told me herself that they’re going to execute the Muggleborns and force purebloods into Death Eater families.”

Davies finally chimes in, siding with caution. “I agree with Keeps. They’ll slaughter us all.”

“Not if I kill him first,” says McLaggen, straightening up but his change in demeanour makes your blood run cold.

“Kill who?” asks Cho. “You’re not talking about killing You-Know-Who, are you?”

McLaggen pauses, his gaze fixed on the distant double doors. When he speaks, his voice is clear, and full of resolve. “Not You-Know-Who. Voldemort.” 

The use of the taboo name is heavy in the air for a split second as a silent shock ripples through the group. McLaggen begins to march forward, his steps deliberate, pulling the rest of you from your stupor as you scramble to keep pace, murmurs of disbelief echoing behind him.

Wait - what?

He follows the direction of the crowd leaving the Great Hall.

“Cormac - wait - no,” you panic, pulling on his arm but he keeps walking as you practically jog to keep up with his long strides. “Cormac?” 

“McLaggen, what are you playing at, mate?” Davies too tries to get Cormac’s attention while you march.

McLaggen’s eyes darken, a flash of the recent pain  “No, we end this. I kill Voldemort. If I finish him off, Marietta and Eddie won’t have died for nothing…” 

“No, Cormac -” 

“I think ve need a plan,” Krum says looking slightly wary.

“There’s no time for a plan. All I need is one shot. One clear shot,” he says, staring ahead defiantly as you join the back of the moving crowd. 

“Cormac McLaggen, will you listen to me?!” Your voice is unusually shrill, half-choked with fear and desperation, as you plant yourself firmly in his path, forcing him to confront you. “You can’t just ‘take a shot’ at him. There’ll be protective enchantments. And even if by some miracle you breach those, it’ll be as good as suicide.”

Cormac halts and looks down into your eyes sadly. “You said it yourself - we’re all dead anyway. To them, we’re nothing but a bunch of traitors and Muggleborns.”

“I should be the one to do it, then,” you plead. “You’re from a pureblood family. You might still have a chance.” He shakes his head, dismissing the idea and you flare up. “And why not? I’m just as capable as you.”

“You are capable,” he insists. “But I should be the one to do it.”

“Why?” demands Cho, her voice sharp.

“I’m done for when they find out I killed the Minister for Magic’s daughter.” 

“And they’ll let the rest of us walk free?” asks Cho rhetorically. “Umbridge has been looking for us since all this started. If she’s anything to do with the new regime - she’ll make sure that we’re first to go. She’ll probably - she’ll probably frame us for Marietta’s death.” The idea leaves a bitter scowl on her face. Of course, Umbridge would. What a sympathetic story it’d make too. Marietta Edgecombe - Umbridge’s secretary. Kidnapped by the D.A. and killed in battle. 

“As much as I don’t like the idea of going out there without a plan, we’re running out of time and there’s nowhere else left to go,” says Davies resignedly as the seven of you look beyond the double doors at the courtyard. “So if any of us get the chance we should take it.”

“Exactly,” says Krum. “Ve train together, ve fight together.”

“I say if anyone gets close enough to You-Know - I mean - Voldemort, we do it. The Killing Curse,” says Katie.

Leanne nods. “I agree.”

You and McLaggen exchange a determined look. One last mission. Together.

“Alright,” McLaggen says, addressing everyone with a confidence reminiscent of the sort you usually have when rousing your Quidditch team. “Alright. Let’s do this. Let’s kill Voldemort.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

The remnants of Dumbledore’s Army huddle together in the devastated courtyard. 

Harry Potter is dead.

The grim truth of it is laid bare for everyone to see in the slowly lightening darkness that precedes the dawn as you gaze at his body lying limp in Hagrid’s arms as he sobs.

The lump in your throat isn’t so much for Potter as for what he represented, what his death means for you and your friends. Marietta is dead. Carmichael is dead. You and the rest of the D.A. will probably join them soon. If McLaggen isn’t executed he’ll be married off to some other Death Eater. You hold onto McLaggen’s hand tight, barely listening to Voldemort addressing the crowd as you instead silently count each second your hand is in his before you’re inevitably separated. 

You watch as Hagrid is instructed to place Potter on the ground at his feet.

Voldemort paces in front of the crowd, his giant snake wrapped around his shoulders as he points to Potter’s dead body. “He was nothing - ever - but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him.”

“He beat you!” yells Ron Wealsey, a few places down to your left. You try to shrink back, away from the attention he’s bringing to your group but McLaggen holds fast - the same look of defiance painted on his face as is on Weasley’s. 

To your horror, McLaggen shouts, “Your Death Eaters were losing!” Members of the D.A. and several others in the crowd cry out in dissent too. 

“Cormac,” you plead. The idea of any of you breaking through the void between the survivors and Death Eaters to aim a Killing Curse at Voldemort seems like a childish fantasy now that you’re out here, facing him. You just want to slip away. The last thing you want is for any of the D.A. to be made a humiliating example of. You look at the army facing you. They outnumber you by at least five to one. You’re starting to realise that the best you can hope for is a quick death. “Please don’t draw attention to yourself.”

There’s a bang and a flash of light and you flinch when Voldemort silences the crowd.

“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds. Killed while trying to save himself -”

But Voldemort’s voice breaks off when you’re jostled to the side as Neville Longbottom breaks through the clutch of D.A. members and charges at him. Clearly, your group weren’t the only ones who planned to take a shot at Voldemort to end this once and for all. There are more bangs and flashes when Neville is disarmed and knocked to the ground and another silencing charm is cast over the crowd.

“And who is this? Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”

Just as you were afraid of. The first dissenter to be made an example of. You clutch onto McLaggen as Bellatrix Lestrange catches Neville’s wand and taunts him. Neville eventually gets to his feet, unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man's-land between the Hogwarts survivors and the Death Eaters. 

“Neville Longbottom… But you are a pureblood aren’t you, my brave boy?”

“So what if I am?” he spits back.

“You show spirit and bravery. And you come of noble stock. You will make a valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”

“I’ll join you when hell freezes over!” shouts Neville before turning and raising his fist in the direction of the survivors. “Dumbledore’s Army!”

The silencing charm breaks and your friends jeer at Voldemort in response. 

Your own voice is lost in your throat.

“Very well. Are there any more purebloods who, like Neville, will refuse to join my Death Eaters?”

“You’re damn right!” calls McLaggen. “Like hell, we’ll join you!”

You want to clap your hand over his big fat mouth but before you can other survivors join in the yelling.

“Yeah!” echoes Ron Weasley. “We’d rather die!”

“Ah, but you misunderstand me,” replies You-Know-Who in his snakelike whisper. “Too much magical blood has been spilt already and you are valuable. Pureblood families are dying out. Extinguished by those who choose to mate with Mudbloods and muggles.”

McLaggen lets go of your hand and slips his hand into his pocket, finding his wand.

“Don’t!” You hiss through your teeth, pulling at his arm.

McLaggen ignores you and stares straight ahead, looking at Voldemort defiantly. “And so what if we are? Being pureblooded doesn’t mean anything!”

“Another like Neville Longbottom who refuses to join my Death Eaters?” asks Voldemort, looking directly at McLaggen amongst the collection of D.A. members and the remaining Gryffindor students. “Come asks forward, unless you are afraid that your Mudblood sympathies have made you weak.”

McLaggen moves his arm so that his wand is hidden behind his back and takes a step forward.

“No! No, stop! Cormac!” You don’t bother hushing your voice this time as you realise he’s actually about to stand beside Neville. You cling onto him frantically with all your might, begging him not to step forward. But you’re not the only one shrieking. 

“Ron!” You look over to see Granger, attempting to pull Ron Weasley back too.

“Come now! Come forward!” laughs Voldemort. “Don’t be shy. Come forward and I’ll show you just how useful those from noble bloodlines will be in the new world.”

“Cormac!” you sob, pulling his arm so tightly that you think you might rip his arm from his socket. He takes another two steps and your feet slide on the uneven rubble underfoot. With a solemn look, he places his hand over yours and eases them off his arm. You look desperately over at Granger and she too has had her grip wrenched free from Weasley. For just a second, the two of you lock eyes in helpless, shared understanding.

You let go of Cormac and almost fall to your knees when he and Weasley join Longbottom but before you collapse, Cho and Krum catch under your arms, stopping you from crumbling as you try to remember how to breathe again.

Voldemort's voice cuts through the tense air. "Those of you who stand before me refuse to acknowledge the way things are now," he declares, his gaze sweeping over the brave three standing in defiance. “You may not become Death Eaters… but your children will.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, a mix of fear and outrage simmering among the gathered survivors. Voldemort turns to face his supporters. “Now, where is the Minister for Magic? Thicknesse?” Pius Thicknesse steps forward, his long, dark hair danker than you remember it from when you first met him last summer. "Have your daughter bring forth the girls," he commands, his voice echoing ominously across the courtyard. "Let these ancient and noble pureblood families be joined as one."

Thicknesse’s bloodshot eyes dart around edgily. “My Lord - I - I cannot find her.”

“You won’t,” says McLaggen and you exhale a weak groan. The last shred of hope you had that McLaggen might make it through this act of defiance disapparates in an instant. “She’s dead. I made sure of it.”

Thicknesse, fueled by a mix of grief and rage, attempts to barrel through Voldemort’s supporters, his eyes set on McLaggen with a vengeance. But before Thicknesse can reach him, Voldemort, with a flick of his wand, halts Thicknesse's charge.

Voldemort's gaze lands on McLaggen, his curiosity piqued. "And who is this?" he inquires, his voice cold yet amused, as he looks from the distraught Thicknesse to the defiant McLaggen.

"That's the boy she wanted. The one she - my Cerys - asked to be promised to, my lord," Thicknesse says, raising a quivering finger at McLaggen.

Voldemort laughs. A high-pitched, chilling laugh. "I can see why - he's a handsome one," he remarks as he steps towards McLaggen who remains steadfast. Unflinching. "No matter," Voldemort continues, turning away from McLaggen and dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand as if Cerys’s death were nothing more than a trivial inconvenience. "There are plenty of suitable matches from other families willing to produce heirs -"

"I'll kill the next one too,” says McLaggen and Neville and Weasley look at him in agreement. “We all will. If you force any of us into pure-blood marriages against our will, we'll make sure that the bloodlines end with us."

Voldemort pauses and turns around slowly as if hardly daring to believe that McLaggen has spoken out so openly. “Too much magical blood has been wasted already tonight... although perhaps I can make an exception," he muses, his gaze still fixed on McLaggen. "Your bloodline, at least, will end with you."

"And so will yours," says McLaggen. And even though you can’t see his face, you can tell he’s wearing that confident, intense look that so often precedes him doing the impossible. 

And just for a second, you think it’s happening. Against the odds, McLaggen, who has saved your skin countless times now, is about to save everyone for good. McLaggen. The Keeper. About to make the save that defines the wizarding world as you know it.

But before McLaggen can even extend his wand, Voldemort, with a flicker of dark amusement in his eyes, utters, "Avada Kedavra!" 

McLaggen’s body falls to the ground, lifeless, just as quickly and easily as the falling Quidditch stands on the pitch.

Your stomach lurches. You open your mouth not sure whether you’re about to scream or vomit. The sound that escapes your lips is torn from the depths of your soul, as you witness the love of your life crumple in a heap on the rubble. 

Your heart shatters beyond repair. 

Each cracked piece is a kiss, a memory, a dream for your future, now lost forever.

“No!” come the shocked cries of Katie and Leanne. 

“Cormac…” sobs Cho, still holding you up, though her tight grip falters in shock.

“I’ll kill him myself,” says Krum, letting you go and attempting to push past to get to Voldemort.

But it’s Neville who is closest. The jinx holding him breaks and he charges forward unarmed and wandless toward Voldemort who reacts quicker once more and halts him with a body-bind curse.

As one, the Death Eaters raise their wands, holding the fighters of Hogwarts at bay.

“Gryffindor arrogance!” screams Voldemort. “But no more.” Voldemort points his wand to the sky and everyone except you looks up. Your eyes are still fixed on McLaggen’s body on the stone floor as Voldemort’s snake slithers between McLaggen and Potter menacingly. “There will be no more sorting at Hogwarts school. There will be no more houses. The emblem, shield and colours of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?”

McLaggen is only metres away but your heart thuds in your chest watching the snake slither along the courtyard. Feeling faint again, you remember how you huddled around the kitchen table in the lighthouse listening to reports on Potterwatch about how the snake carries out Voldemort’s bidding. The rumours that Voldemort feeds people he’s killed to the snake. 

The thought is so horrifying, so all-consuming, that you barely notice Voldemort catching the Sorting Hat from mid-air and forcing it onto Neville’s head. 

It’s only when Neville’s scream splits the dawn that you look up and watch in horror as Neville rooted to the spot, writhes on the spot wearing the burning hat on his head.

And then, so many things happen simultaneously that you feel your head spinning.

There’s uproar from the distant boundary of the school as what sounds like hundreds of people swarm over the out-of-sight walls, yelling at the top of their lungs as they charge towards the courtyard.

Then come hooves and the twangs of bows. And arrows suddenly land amongst the Death Eaters on Voldemort’s side who break rank and scramble, shouting in surprise as the centaurs continue to attack.

Cormac McLaggen’s death has given everyone a second wind. The fact that it’s what he’d have wanted is of no comfort to you.

In one swift, fluid motion Neville breaks free of the body-bind curse upon him, the hat falls off of him and he draws from its depths something long and silver with a glittering rubied hand. The slash of the silver blade is silent amongst the pandemonium of the crowd and stampeding centaurs yet it draws every eye, including your own. 

With a single stroke, Neville slices off the head of the great snake’s head which spins high into the air. And Voldemort’s mouth is open in a scream of fury that nobody can hear. The snake’s body thuds to the ground.

You panic, as fighting resumes and people run in all directions. You can’t let them trample McLaggen’s. Or Potter’s if you can help it.

“Harry? Where’s Harry?!” bellows Hagrid, above the almighty chaotic racket.

A jet of light whizzes over your heads and you duck. You keep low as you sprint over to McLaggen’s body, determined to move his body away from the fighting. 

McLaggen lies alone. Potter is gone.

You panic some more. This time panicking that Potter’s body has been taken by the Death Eaters to be paraded like some kind of trophy. You won’t let that happen to McLaggen. 

You scramble over to him and hook your arms under his, pulling his dead weight towards a corner of the courtyard. Even though a wand is in your pocket, you don’t even think about pulling it out and joining the fight. You don’t even think about casting a shied charm. All you think about is getting McLaggen’s body out of the way. 

But you needn’t worry. Perhaps everyone is too busy fighting to pay attention to the girl with the burned clothes and the tear-streaked face heaving a corpse into a corner. From your peripheral sense, you can tell even as you drag him away, that the fighting in the courtyard is thinning out as the fighters run into the caste. 

Your resolve hardens. You’ll rejoin them soon, now Cormac’s body is shielded behind what’s left of this wall. You just need a second. 

A second to say goodbye.

You collapse in a pile beside him in the empty courtyard and press the heels of your palms into your eyes, stemming the tears. You can’t bring yourself to look at his face, knowing that the green eyes under his closed lids will never see yours again.

“What a stupid plan,” you choke, wondering aloud as you wipe your eyes. “Thinking we could take on Voldemort. And then you actually tried it…”

You try to steady your breathing, feeling your hot breath stick to your grimy palms as you cover your face. The humidity of your own air makes your stomach twist. It brings back memories of laughing under the duvet cover in Seafarer’s Beacon, face to face with McLaggen, intensely close as your eyes roamed over that trademark arrogant smirk on his face,

“You bloody arrogant git,” you sniff, the words a mix of endearment and despair, a tribute to the man who dared to challenge the darkness with his unyielding self-assurance.

Then, the faintest movement - a murmur so soft it might be mistaken for the wind.

“I’m dead and you’re still calling me a git?” 

Your eyes snap open, heart caught between hope and disbelief. The world tilts, reality warping at the edges as you stare at McLaggen. Solid, unmistakably alive, his presence defies every certainty that death had claimed him. "McLaggen?" Your voice is a tremble, a prayer whispered against the tide of despair that had nearly consumed you.

“So it’s McLaggen again, is it?” he asks blearily, slowly opening his eyes and looking up at you. “I must have done something to annoy you again.”

He’s alive?

Or… maybe you died too? You pinch yourself to see if you can feel pain. Hard. 

You can.

You blink dumbfounded at the cautiously expectant look on McLaggen’s face. He can’t be alive. He just can’t be. You’d never be that lucky. Out of instinct, you pinch him too to check if he’s real.

“Ow!” he winces.

He is alive.

You blink in disbelief as the tiniest smirk crosses his face. “I - how?” 

“Lucky charm,” says Cormac as with difficulty he brings his hand up to the chest pocket of his t-shirt and tries to extract something.

“What the-” You're breathless, caught in the sway between joy and the lingering shadow of sorrow.

“Just - look.” 

Once you’ve helped him take the Polaroid out of his shirt pocket you recognise it immediately. A selfie of you and Cormac in the Quidditch stands at Hogwarts. The one you used to use as a bookmark. A snapshot from what seems like a lifetime ago. Except there’s a burned scar on it now. Right through the middle.

“I think that this -" he touches the photo in your hand, "- took the brunt of the Killing Curse. And somehow, it spared me.”

“Cormac,” you say gently, given that he’s just woken up after being an inch away from death. “That’s not how the Killing Curse works. You can’t be saved by - by love.” 

But even as you say the word love, something prickles on the back of your neck. And to give him credit, he has a point.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” asks McLaggen, giving you a stern look, so assuringly familiar, grounds you, reminding you of the countless times his stubbornness had been a beacon in darker days.

“Maybe it was the picture,” you concede softly, brushing his curly hair, feeling something warm and wet. Blood. “Your head is bleeding -”

Yells of shock and cheers erupt from the Great Hall, interrupting your reasoning.

“Harry?”

“He’s alive!”

The mix of distant exclamations makes you both freeze. 

“It sounds like Potter wasn’t killed by Voldemort’s Killing Curse either…” you say, looking in the direction of the castle doors. When you turn back to face McLaggen he’s frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s fine,” he says, touching the back of his head.

“Cormac, are you annoyed because you’re not the only one who survived the Killing Curse tonight?”

“Let’s go back - the others might need our help,” says McLaggen, ignoring the question. You get to your feet and offer him a hand to get up which he accepts, straining with effort as he does.

“It’s alright if you are,” you offer, helping him onto his feet. 

“Well, nobody’s going to remember I survived it if Potter is alive too.” McLaggen puts an arm around your shoulder and you brace yourself to support him but he doesn’t need it. He just pulls you close as you walk through the courtyard - if it wasn’t for the devastation it would feel exactly like how the two of you used to walk around Hogwarts. McLaggen with his arm around you, your body slotting into the crux of his arm like you were always meant to be there.

“I don’t want anyone else to try to help,” Harry’s voice rings loudly from the hall as you slowly ascend the castle steps. “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.”

Of course, it’s got to be Potter. 

“Cormac, when they write the history books nobody’s gonna remember anything we did. It’s Potter’s story. We’re just the background characters,” you say.

“Well, I can think of a few people who’ll remember,” says McLaggen, nodding to the rest of the D.A. just visible through the doors of the Great Hall as the crowd of onlookers watch Potter and Voldemort circling each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and your friends sit at what used to be the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. Neville Longbottom is talking to Michael Corner and Terry Boot while Terry admires the great, ruby-handled sword lying across the middle of the table.

Harry Potter is moving among the groups of survivors, his presence a quiet pillar of strength as he shakes hands and listens to their stories. The hero of the day.

Harry won. You and McLaggen made it back into the Great Hall just to see the final killing blow. You watched Voldemort hit the floor with your own two eyes. And now, you’re at a loose end. Elation feels distant, almost inappropriate, as the absence of Marietta and Eddie haunts the space around you, their unoccupied places at the table a silent testament to the cost of this victory.

“Explain it again,” says McLaggen, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Slower this time.”

“Cormac, keep still,” you chide, wrapping a bandage around his head.

“Harry sacrificed himself which meant he gave everyone in the castle sacrificial protection,” says Cho, with the appropriate air of speaking to someone with a head injury. “So none of the curses that Voldemort or the Death Eaters cast stuck properly. Which is why the Killing Curse didn’t kill you.”

“So how come Harry didn’t die?”

Cho pauses and purses her lips. “I don’t actually know.”

“And how do we know it wasn’t my sacrifice that was protecting everyone in the castle?” says McLaggen who then winces as you tie the bandage.

“Because, darling, you didn’t sacrifice yourself. You just tried to attack Voldemort and got knocked out trying,” you say soothingly.

“That makes it sound much less cool than it was,” grumbles McLaggen, half-joking, half-serious. “And I didn’t even get a sword,” he adds, glancing at Terry who is now miming Neville cutting the head off of a snake with the sword of Gryffindor.

A silence falls as you sit down beside McLaggen, resting your head on his shoulder, seeking comfort in the familiar warmth of his presence, your stomach jolts every time you think about Voldemort cutting him down so casually.

“I noticed none of you were at my deathbed when I came round, by the way,” he says, as if he can’t help himself from trying to lighten the mood.

“Ve vere busy covering the two of you with a shield charm,” says Krum. “Then the Death Eaters turned their attention to us and ve had to retreat.”

“It’s a shame Potter didn’t sacrifice himself just a little bit earlier,” you say, sadly, thinking about Marietta and Carmichael.

“You’re always so harsh on him,” says Katie, looking over your shoulder. “Harry’s actually not bad once you get to know him.”

As you turn to respond, Potter approaches the Gryffindor table and greets the D.A. McLaggen stands to meet him.

“Good work out there, Potter,” he says bracingly. “You make putting your life on the line look easy, mate.”

“Er, thanks,” says Potter uncertainly. He looks even more tired than you feel. There are dark circles under his eyes and even though he’s not covered in as much soot, blood and debris as you and McLaggen, he looks pale and drawn. “You too, McLaggen. I saw what you did. It was really decent of you, standing up for Muggleborns like that when you could have kept quiet.”

“Well,” says McLaggen casually, taking your hand and bringing you to your feet. “There was a lot at stake.” You slip your arm around his waist and give him a little squeeze.

“And you - you were the one causing the Ministry so much grief back in October, right? You broke the Muggleborns out of Azkaban?”

You nod and gesture to the area of the table where Cho, Krum, Katie, Leanne, Davies, Wood, Angelina and Alicia are all engrossed in conversation. “We all did. Everyone who was half-decent on a broom.” You pull a tight-lipped smile thinking about what Katie said about you being harsh on Potter. “Except you, of course. Could have used your skills if you weren’t the Ministry’s most wanted.”

Potter smiles weakly. “Thanks, I appreciate that coming from you… Captain.”

McLaggen brings you tighter into a one-armed hug around your shoulders as Potter walks away.

“Do you think he called me ‘Captain’ because he can’t remember my name?” you ask as you both watch Potter continuing the rounds..

“Oh, one hundred per cent,” says McLaggen.

“Unbelievable. I’ve only played Quidditch against him every single year since he started school.”

“Maybe you need a better name.”

“Oh, really?” You roll your eyes and turn to face him, waiting for the punchline. “Go on, then. You got a nickname for me or something?”

McLaggen smirks and his self-satisfied smile meets his green eyes. “I meant a new surname.”

Oh.

“McLaggen, I -“

“You might have to start calling me Cormac all the time now, though. It’s gonna get pretty confusing otherwise.”

You take a deep breath and McLaggen falters slightly when you reach up and hold the sides of his face with both hands. His prickly stubble tickles your palms.

“McLaggen, I really think we need to find Madam Pomfrey.”

“What?” 

“Have you or have you not sustained a head injury?”

McLaggen looks at you intently, his green eyes focusing on yours. “I’m serious.”

“I am too,” you say. “You sure you haven’t been confunded again?”

“I’m pretty confident that’s not the case,” he says. 

“Ask me again once you’ve had your head checked out,” you murmur before pressing your lips against his. Even under the smoke and sweat, you can still smell the heady amber and jasmine scent of him that so reminds you of your first Potions lesson together.

“Alright, I will,” says Cormac McLaggen when you eventually break apart. “If it’d make you happy.”

It would.

It would make you deliriously happy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nope. You were not going to think about it today or any other day. Thinking would get you obsessed, and then you’d become this pathetic mess for a killer. You weren’t going to remember how he’d controlled all your senses in your shower, how confident and commanding he sounded when he talked to you, how full and stretched you felt when he was inside you.

Stop it. You wiped your face with both hands roughly to break your chain of thought. Even that short daydreaming was enough to make you throb between your legs and a little more of it could make you something really deranged, like taking up the phone, calling him, and asking him why he left in the middle of the night.

You put on your favorite PJs to cheer yourself up –all black with silver stars on them – and dragged your feet to the kitchen to drink some water and prepare coffee. All you needed was a fun Saturday that didn’t require you going out except for a quick visit to the bakery downstairs and some vintage horror movies. Then you’d be fine until the end of this week and would act unaffected and uninterested in your meeting the next Sunday.

You inhaled the coffee in the paper bag and scooped some into the coffee machine slowly. While you were pouring the water into the machine, your door knocked, no, banged three times. You jumped and poured some of the water on the counter. It was still dark outside and no one you knew would bother you at this hour unless something was really, really wrong.

Your hand automatically went over your heart, as if that could calm you down. While you were debating whether you should open the door or hope someone had the wrong address and would leave soon, you heard your name.

“Wake up! It’s me!” said the unmistakable voice. “C’mon,” he yelled and doubled his efforts in banging.

“Go away Adrian!”

“What?”

“I’m not opening the door. Go away.”

He waited for a few beats. “Wha–Why?! You need to open this door. And don’t use my name!”

The nerve of this guy… “Fuck you, Adrian!” He must have really thought that you were a doormat and would take him anytime. No matter what he did.

“Rude! And what did I tell you, huh? Stop using my name! Who the fuck is Adrian? Not me!”

He was downright bellowing now and your neighbors probably didn’t appreciate all those banging and shouting at five in the morning.

“Adrian, get the fuck out of this building right now,” you said, standing only a few inches away from the door. “I’m not letting you in after what you did?”

“What did I do?” he said, sounding genuinely confused.

“Will you leave, please?”

“Did–did you not like it? I swear, I thought you were into it! What did I do wrong? Was the water pressure too hard on your pussy? God, I hope not. I just didn’t want to make it too gentle, you know?”

“I–no…” you muttered, knowing it was impossible for him to hear that. How dense was he?

“You seemed to like it. But if you didn’t why didn’t you say anything? I wouldn’t–I would never–”

Your treacherous heart was softening so fast. He sounded apologetic and sincere, about the wrong thing, of course. You took a deep breath and reminded yourself that he rejected you several times, ignored you for months after his promise, was extremely rude last night when you saw him on the street and fucking left you after fucking you in the middle of the night. Now he decided he wasn’t done with you and came back at this hour for god knows why and you were done with him thinking he has all the control when it comes to you.

But he was still shouting, giving too much detail about your shower-time last night while apologizing and you didn’t want anyone to know how pathetic your whimpers were when you were overstimulated.

“It’s not about that!” you yelled and opened the door. There he was, in his full Vigilante suit and looking rough.

“Finally! What’s gotten into you? I thought you’d be–”

“What happened to you?” you asked after the initial shock of seeing his ripped and dusty suit. It was cut neatly at least a few inches on his arm and you could see his slashed skin with still moist blood on it.

“I was made to wait at the door for an hour – that’s what happened.” He was still shouting for some reason. He’d never gotten the knack of silently talking and whispering. Well, except for when he fucked. Nope. You weren’t going to think about that.

“You’re bleeding!”

“I was bleeding, now it stopped. It does that, you know. The human body is an amazing machine.”

The sight of blood made you forget all about his shitty actions. “We need to clean that wound. C’mon, sit down here and let me get the first aid kit.” You walked him back to the old chair in the living room and he sat down.

“What was that thing you were mad about?” he shouted again while you were rummaging through your drawers for the small first-aid kit you’d never used. “Is it about the overstimulation?”

“Can you please be quiet? It’s five in the morning and my neighbors aren’t keen on this type of thing,” you said, going back to the living room.

“Oh, okay. Sorry.” He removed his mask and smiled apologetically. He wasn’t as clueless as he seemed – he knew how devastating his smile was.

You did a double-take. There were new bruises on his face, the one he had under his eye got darker, and his eye was reddish. His lower lip was split and he looked like a mess all over.

“What the fuck happened to you?” you asked again.

“It’s nothing. Come here.”

You did, but not because he told you so. You poured some iodine on a cotton ball to clean the shallow wound on his harm. It probably wouldn’t need any stitches. You didn’t know shit about these things, maybe it could get infected. “You need to see a doctor.”

“Very funny. Ow! Owowowowow–fuck! That hurts.”

“Still funny?”

He looked up and narrowed his eyes. “Why are you like this?”

You didn’t want to talk and sound pathetic. “Nothing. Stop whining, I need to clean this.” When you were done, you stared at his bruises. “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking at you like a puppy, and taking your hand in his. Your heart started beating a bit faster until he put your hand on his dick. “But you can make it better, right?”

“Dude, what the fuck? Are you hard?”

“Sit on me,” he said. How could he be so demanding while looking battered and boyish?

“What?”

“I want you to ride me on this chair.”

“Are you fucking serious?” you shouted indignantly while feeling very much turned on by his words.

“Yeah. I’m so fucking horny right now. I’ve been for a while. I wanted to fuck you before I left, you were all warm and naked with only a towel around your body. I swear to you, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

It was your turn to narrow your eyes. “Why did you leave?”

“Um, I had some important business.”

“More important than fucking me, apparently.”

“Yea-no. No, definitely no. But like, you know… Can we fuck, and then talk later?”

Unbelievable! “Absolutely not.”

“You don’t want to?” His sad tone matched his puppy eyes.

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you still jerking me off through my pants?”

“I don’t–” You quickly took your hand back once you realized what you were doing, feeling your cheeks getting heated and took a step back.

“Come back,” he said with a shit-eating grin.

Why not? Just one more time and you’ll kick him out. Maybe you’ll even resign from the team – they pay nearly nothing anyway. And then no more Adrian and his mixed as fuck signals.

You took a tiny step forward this time and Adrian’s impatient hands grabbed your hip and forced you to ride his thigh. Even the slightest contact with several layers of cloth between your cunt and his leg was enough to give you a sudden jolt of pleasure. It was only hours ago when you’d felt like you had all the sex you needed for a lifetime but here you were, gripping his shoulders to re-position yourself and unconsciously roll your hips.

“How’re you feeling over there?”

“Good,” you managed to say with a whimper. To be honest, this was enough. More than enough, you didn’t need anything more.

“Do you want to feel better and take my cock deep inside?”

“Nope.”

The look in his eyes wasn’t the reassuring kind. You’d never seen him that intent on doing something crazy unless he really, really wanted to kill someone.

Your worries were quickly drowned in the kiss he coaxed you into by pulling your head against his with a hand at your nape. It was unexpectedly slow and gentle but equally intense and purposeful. You soon found yourself naked from the waist down and straddling not just him but also the whole chair, with your legs placed on each arm of the chair and your ass pretty much on air.

He bit his middle finger to pull off his glove and deliberately slid his finger between your folds. You tried to bear down but his other hand behind your back and the stupid chair under your knees kept you in the air. By this time, you knew he wasn’t merciful and that excited smile on his face meant begging would only spur him on but you just couldn’t stop moving your hips, basically humping the air just for the tiniest amount of contact.

He lowered his pants and allowed you to take only the tip of him – which made you even wilder. “I thought you didn’t want it deep inside?”

“I thought you were ignoring me,” you said between gritted teeth.

He frowned. “Now, who said that? I feel like you’ve been accusing me of shit I didn’t do.”

You weren’t going to argue with him while he was halfway in you. “I also thought you wanted me to ride you.”

He rolled his eyes and looked adorable while doing it. “Well. Obviously. But I also like it when you’re desperate for me. I just can’t wipe that image of you, crying on my bed and begging for my cock.” He started laughing and surprisingly, it didn’t sound cruel or mocking. “Man, that was amazing. I was already pretty much obsessed with you but since then, I can’t even clean my weapons without thinking of you.”

You felt your anger and bitterness dissolve and drown in uncertain darkness like two sugar cubes in your warm morning coffee. If he thought you were unable to make your own choice when you were under the influence of that sex pollen, it was a good thing he couldn’t read your thoughts now because there weren’t any. Some part of your body, not necessarily your pussy, was making all the decisions for you. 

You put your hands on his chest and put your knees on the chair, still straddling him. You must have looked scarily decisive because this time, he didn’t try to stop you and only regarded you with wide eyes. He didn’t stop you when you slowly positioned him to your liking and took him completely in with slow strokes. 

After that, you threaded your fingers in his soft hair and pulled slightly and experimentally. When he didn’t do anything, you pulled harder and were rewarded with a small whimper. He fell into some sort of false security when you stroked his hair gently, as if to apologize, eyes closed in bliss and his pink lips curved in a small smile.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you said.

“I know, right?” he said, which was the wrong thing.

You hastily took your top off, leaving you naked, in contrast to his fully clothed, armored and armed body – something that should have made you feel vulnerable but astonishingly had the opposite effect. You held onto his hair with both hands and used it as leverage as you started to ride him wildly. Now that was the sound you were after. Short whimpers and gasps of pain sprinkled around his pleasured moans.

Soon enough, he started to beg in fragmented sentences between grunts and hisses.

“I’m begging you, please, do it faster.”

“You think you deserve it?”

“I, uh, yeah?” he said, not even bothering to break his gaze to your tits.

“Really?”

“Maybe, no?”

You felt like laughing, genuinely laughing, despite how you’d been feeling and the whole vibe turned more light-hearted, even just for you. Still holding onto his hair, you whispered into his ear. “Be my good boy and touch me. And I’ll see what I can do.”

His face lights up and in the blink of an eye, he spits on his fingers before touching your bundle of nerves. The physical contact, as much as the shock at his crudeness, makes you jump and you quickly realize your clit still hasn’t recovered from last night’s play. One would have thought you’d join were hot whimpers and sexy talking but all you could do was let out loud shouts and groans as you slid up and down on his dick with the speed and rigor you would never have expected from yourself.

Once he grabbed your hips to first help and then control your movements, you let your fingers slide down to his neck and clawed at his shoulders, earning hard thrusts from him as he held your hips steady. 

“Ad-Adrian,” you gasped. “I’m gonna, oh fuck– you’re gonna make me cum,” you said, spurring him on to rub tight circles on your clit again. You tried to bury your face in his neck but he held you back, watching your face intently as you came, only letting himself finish later.

You collapsed on his chest – not the most comfortable place with his chest plate but you didn’t mind. His arms engulfed you tightly. With their strength and thickness, you felt like they went around you twice.

You were still trying to catch your breath and burning from the inside when you felt him kiss your hair and mumble your name in a rough voice.

“Hmm,” you said, too tired to even look at him.

“I’d die for you.”

Okay, that got you.

“Um, what?”

“I would…die for you?”

“Is that a question?” you asked, feeling your heartbeat in your throat.

“No,” he said, sounding much surer now.

“Does that mean you love me?”

“I–Oh, look at you, all naked? Why are you naked anyway? You should wear something, it’s really chilly outside and your apartment isn’t very warm either.” 

With no effort whatsoever, he lifted you and put you on your feet, ignoring your slight sway, and started looking for your clothes.

“Adrian.”

“Where are your pants?” he kept muttering while you put on the oversized cardigan and covered your front, finally feeling vulnerable.

“Adrian,” you repeated, now calmer.

“Look, I can’t,” he said and turned back to look at you. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what that is and– I, isn’t that enough?”

“That you’d die for me?” you asked, more confused than ever.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want you to die for me.”

“Well, duh. I don’t want to die. I just said I would. Like, for you.”

You didn’t know what to say. Maybe it was enough. Maybe it wouldn’t be in the future. You needed to lighten the mood because he was avoiding your gaze now.

“Most guys would say ‘I would kill for you,’ wouldn’t they?”

It had the desired effect and he smiled. It was a lopsided one but still, a smile. “Well, I’ve already done that tonight.”

“What?”

“I mean, I couldn’t finish the business but I was, I swear I was. Until the cops came and–”

That was way too much information you could process while your cunt was still wet and twitching from intense fucking. “Did you leave the bed tonight to kill–”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling again. “I was supposed to kill him tonight, but you know what happened. You were naughty.”

“Wha–But, why for me? I didn’t ask you t–Adrian, killing isn’t a romantic gesture, for fuck’s sake.”

He frowned and looked annoyed. “I didn’t do it to be romantic. I just wanted to get the guy who was responsible for putting you in that situation.”

This time you just let your eyes and shocked expression do the questioning.

“Well, after that day at my house, I was really worried about you. I mean, you could have died. Or, got raped if you were at some public place. Sure it was sexy and hard to forget to see you horny like that but the more I thought, the angrier I got. And I didn’t want to approach you again without killing him because I was with you that day and I should have prevented it. It was all my fault, you know”

You most certainly didn’t. “Uh-huh.”

“So I started my search, which by the way, wasn’t the easiest thing and I’m not saying this to brag about what I did. I had to bust so many drug gangs. Peacemaker will be mad as hell when he returns back because I left nothing to him. Anyways finally found the guy, but he was gone for a while. Then I found out he was coming yesterday for a new shipment, just for one day and–”

“And that was the guy you were beating up last night.”

“Yep. And he’s not a very nice man,” he said, pointing at the bruise on his face. “It’s bruised,

 Right?

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to sound like I was waiting for a reward.”

Your knees couldn’t carry you anymore, so you let yourself fall on the couch. “You have a very peculiar way of thinking, Adrian.”

He looked at you with those wide eyes for a while and then sighed. “Okay, I’ll let myself out.”

“You’re leaving again?”

“You don’t want me to leave?”

Did you? To be honest, you had no idea. It was all too much. Every reason you were mad at him was now nullified and if you thought he was crazy now, you didn’t know what he was. But after all that shitstorm, the only thing that was still ringing in your ears was his “I would die for you.”

“Adrian?”

“Yeah?”

“Come sit next to me,” you said, patting the empty space near you.

He did, but he looked nervous. Once next to you, you smoothed his wavy hair back, planted a few soft kisses on his bruised cheek and curled half on your seat, half on his lap. He hugged you back and even through the armor, you could hear his strong heartbeat.

“Adrian?”

“Yeah?” he said, his nose rubbing against your hair as he inhaled deeply.

“I still have that t-shirt and boxers of yours you lent me.”

You heard an amused scoff. “You can have them. I’m not gonna kill you for thievery.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to take a shower and wear something clean and join me in the bed to sleep until noon?”