✴︎

BEFORE SHE WAS A VISION in baby blue lace, Tabitha Shelby was the wildest, most untamed creature in Small Heath.

To the rest of the world, she was Arthur Shelby’s remarkably bright daughter, a girl whose academic reports were flawless. But to her family, she was simply "Tabby Cat." She’d earned the moniker because she had a habit of disappearing into the shadows of the smoky brick alleyways, roaming the rooftops of the betting shops, and somehow always landing squarely on her feet.

Growing up, while her school tutors praised her immaculate classic scripts and flawless mathematics, Tabby spent her real hours down at the cut. She smelled of canal water, thick coal smoke, horsehair, and scrap metal. Uncle Charlie and Curly practically raised her alongside her cousin Michael—Aunt Polly’s boy—and her young uncle Finn. Finn was the youngest of the Shelby siblings, trailing far behind Arthur, Tommy, John, and Ada, which made him much closer in age to Tabby and Michael. The three of them were a tight, inseparable trio, a pact of the younger generation who kept each other’s darkest secrets.

Down at the stables, Tabby’s obsession with hair and style didn't start with high-end fashion magazines; it started with the horses. She would spend hours sitting on upturned wooden buckets, her small hands buried in the thick, coarse manes of Tommy’s prized racehorses. While Curly fed them, Tabby would meticulously section out the hair, inventing intricate braided patterns, fishtails, and weaving wild dock leaves and ribbons into their forelocks. She even figured out how to use heated metal rods from the blacksmith’s forge, carefully wrapping the horses' coarse hair around them to see how long she could get the curls to hold. The dangerous, high-strung stallions would stand perfectly still for her, lulled by her soft voice as she styled them.

When she wasn't transforming the stables into a makeshift salon, she was practicing on whatever human canvas she could corner. Aunt Ada and John’s wife, Esme, were her favorite victims. Tabby would drag a stool into the center of the kitchen, demanding they sit down. She’d pinch their cheeks to bring out the color, use burnt cork to darken their eyebrows, and apply crushed berry juice to their lips.

"Just a bit of rouge, Aunt Ada, to make you look like a French actress," Tabby would whisper, her blue eyes wide with intense focus. Ada would sigh but let the girl work, secretly loving the attention, while Esme would laugh wildly, encouraging Tabby to make her look as bold and fiercely beautiful as possible. Tabby only kept her school grades at the top of the class to keep her father Arthur and Aunt Polly assured, buying herself the freedom to spend her nights exactly how she wanted.

Because her absolute favorite pastime was entirely forbidden.

In the dead of night, when Small Heath fell into a heavy, smoke-filled slumber, Tabby would slip out of her bedroom window. She’d sneak past the guard dogs—who knew her scent too well to bark—and enter the quiet stables. With practiced, silent hands, she’d bridle a horse, lead it out into the dark, and ride out into the countryside like a ghost in the wind.

She’d return just before dawn, a complete and utter mess. Her golden-blonde curls would be tangled with twigs and burrs, her face smudged with soot and horse sweat, and her clothes absolutely ruined. She would sneak back into the house, collapse onto her mattress, and fall into a dead sleep.

Without fail, a few minutes later, the bedroom door would creak open. A young, furious Finn would storm inside, stomping over to her bed. He would grab her by the shoulders, shaking her with pure, adolescent rage.

"You went without me again!" Finn would hiss, his voice cracking in anger as he tried not to wake the house. "Why didn't you take me, Tabby? I could’ve kept watch! Next time, I’m telling Arthur, I swear to God!"

Tabby would just let out a sleepy, gummy laugh, shoving a pillow over her face until Finn inevitably gave up and sat on the edge of her bed, demanding a full report of how fast the horse had gone.

But there was one secret Tabby didn't even share with Finn or Michael.

Whenever Aunt Polly took her down to Little Italy to gather supplies, Tabby’s cool, confident demeanor would melt into something entirely different. It was all because of the bakery down there. And more importantly, because of Lorenzo.

Lorenzo was a stunningly handsome Italian boy with a slim, graceful figure, soft brown eyes, and dark brunette hair that fell perfectly across his forehead. He worked behind the counter, his hands always dusted with white flour.

Every time Tabby walked in, Lorenzo’s face would light up. While Polly was busy counting coins and arguing over the price of lard, Lorenzo would lean over the counter, his brown eyes locking onto Tabby’s blue ones. He’d flash a dimpled smile and slip an extra, warm, freshly baked bagel into her brown paper bag, brushing his fingers against hers.

"For the prettiest girl in Birmingham," he’d whisper.

Tabby, who could out-smart a grown man in a street fight, would instantly turn a deep, rosy pink, her freckles popping against her blushing cheeks as she took the bagel with a soft, breathless thanks.

But tonight, there were no canal boats, no soot-stained clothes, and no flour-dusted bakeries. Tonight, Tabby Cat was dressed like a princess.

The silence that stretched across the opulent drawing room of Tommy’s new mansion was so heavy you could hear the distinct, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock. The record player had screeched to a definitive, awkward halt under Polly’s frozen hand.

For a second, nobody moved.

Ada’s hand flew to her chest, her jaw slack as if she’d just been struck. Michael quickly brought his crystal glass to his mouth, trying to mask a sudden, sharp snort with a hasty gulp of whiskey. Next to him, John completely buried his face into the crook of Esme’s neck, his shoulders shaking violently as he tried—and failed—to stifle a massive grin. He’d seen the fashion magazines hidden under her mattress, and Esme had already tipped him off about Tabby's talent.

Arthur, sitting stiffly beside a perfectly poised Linda, blinked hard. The nervous chuckle died in his throat. He looked at his daughter—the girl with the brilliant school reports that he used to brag about until he was red in the face.

"Beauty school?" Arthur repeated, his thick Birmingham drawl cracking slightly. "Tabby, love... you’ve got a mind that could run a bloody country if ya wanted to. What d'you mean *beauty school*?"

Tabby sat cross-legged on the plush rug, surrounded by a sea of torn wrapping paper, expensive ribbons, and the exquisite pearl necklace John had just given her gleaming against her collarbone. Despite the sudden suffocating tension, she didn’t shrink. She smoothed down the lace frills of her baby blue dress, adjusted her matching kitten heels, and looked up. Her blue Shelby eyes—the exact same shade as her father's and uncles'—were bright, cool, and entirely unbothered.

She offered that familiar, wide, gummy smile that crinkled the freckles dusted across her pink cheeks. "I mean exactly what I said, Dad. I’m going to learn hair, makeup, aesthetics. I’m going to open a salon."

"A salon," Aunt Polly’s voice cut through the air like a razor blade. She stepped away from the record player, her dark eyes locking onto her niece with a mixture of profound confusion and fierce disapproval. "Tabitha Shelby, we did not claw our way out of the mud of Small Heath, and you did not earn top marks in every single classic and mathematics course, just to paint the nails of wealthy women who have nothing better to do."

"It's a waste," a low, gravelly voice murmured from the corner of the room.

Tommy was sitting back in a deep leather armchair, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. Grace sat gracefully on the armrest beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. Tommy didn’t look angry; he looked analytical, his calculated gaze weighing Tabby down. "You have a strategic mind, Tabby. You kept your grades pristine. I had a place lined up for you. A real path. You’re putting your talents to waste for... what? Powder and paint?"

Finn, sitting on the arm of the sofa near Michael, gave Tabby a subtle, encouraging nudge with his shoe. He and Michael knew better than anyone that once Tabby set her wild, stubborn mind to something, the whole family couldn't turn her around.

Tabby let out a soft, melodic laugh, tossing her head back so her frizzy, golden-blonde curls bounced. She stood up, commanding the room with an effortless confidence that was miles ahead of her years.

"It's not a waste, Uncle Tommy," Tabby said smoothly, her voice calm but carrying an unshakeable weight. "You think strategy is only found in ledgers and betting shops? I kept my grades up because a Shelby woman doesn't fail at anything she puts her hand to. And I did it to keep you and Dad off my back until I was old enough to make my own choices."

She turned her gaze to Linda’s carefully chosen stack of college textbooks and stationery, still sitting open in its box. "Thank you for the thought, Linda. Truly. But I’m not spending the next three years buried in old law books. The world is changing. Women want to look like film stars now. They want the modern cuts, the bold lips, the glamour. There is an absolute fortune to be made in beauty, and I intend to own the biggest establishment in Birmingham. Maybe even London."

John finally popped his head up from Esme's neck, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "Told ya, didn't I? She's got the spark! Let the girl paint faces if she wants to. Better than looking at dusty old papers."

"Shut up, John," Polly snapped, though the corner of her mouth twitched. She looked at Tabby, studying the girl's posture. Tabby wasn't cowering. She was standing tall, looking at her family with a cool, wild certainty. Polly recognized that look. It was the same look she saw in the mirror every morning. The Shelby men thought they ruled the world, but the women knew exactly how to manipulate it.

Linda cleared her throat softly, placing a gentle, restricting hand on Arthur’s arm. "Arthur, dear, perhaps we should discuss the... moral implications of such a secular environment. College provides a structured—"

"With all due respect, Linda," Tabby interrupted, her tone sweet as honey but sharp as a switchblade, "my dad is the one I’m speaking to."

Michael choked on his drink again, and Finn had to bite his lip to keep from cheering.

Arthur looked between his wife and his daughter. His chest heaved. He looked at Tabby's gummy smile, the bright blue eyes that looked so much like his own, and the sheer, unadulterated confidence oozing from her. She wasn't afraid of Tommy. She wasn't afraid of Polly. She was a wild thing, beautiful and terrifyingly smart.

Slowly, the tension in Arthur’s broad shoulders began to melt. A massive, proud grin broke across his weathered face. He pushed himself up from the sofa, ignoring Linda's protesting gasp, and walked over to his daughter.

"A salon, eh?" Arthur boomed, throwing his heavy arms around her, burying his face in her frizzy blonde curls. "The biggest bloody salon in England! My girl’s gonna be styling princesses next, you watch!"

"Dad, you're crushing the lace," Tabby laughed, though she hugged him back tightly, burying her face into his waistcoat.

Tommy watched the display, inhaling a slow drag of his cigarette. He glanced up at Grace, who gave him a soft, knowing smile that said, *Let it go.* Tommy let out a quiet sigh, the ghost of an amused smirk touching his lips.

"If you're going to do it, Tabby," Tommy said, his voice cutting through Arthur's loud roaring laughter, "you do it right. You don't work for anyone else. You buy the building. The Shelby Company Limited will clear the funds for the property by Monday morning."

Tabby pressed a hand against her new pearl necklace, her blue eyes flashing with victory. She looked at her uncle Tommy and gave a sharp, playful nod. "Deal, Uncle Tommy. And don't worry—I'll give you a discount on your haircuts."

The room erupted into chuckles, the heavy silence fully broken. John raised his glass to her, Esme cheered, and even Polly let out a defeated but fond sigh, shaking her head as she went back to finally fix the record player. As the jazz music kicked back up, filling the grand room, Tabby sat back down between Finn and Michael, kicking off her kitten heels with a triumphant smile.

The collision was a chaotic symphony of rustling paper and a scent that smelled aggressively like spring. Tommy didn’t fall—he was too rooted for that—but he staggered as a mountain of shopping bags exploded against his chest.

"My goodness!"

The voice was like a trumpet in a library. Tommy stepped back, his jaw tight, his lips pursed in a thin line of pure, concentrated annoyance. He closed his eyes for a fleeting second, praying for the strength not to simply keep walking.

"No, no, no! Look what you did!"

Tommy’s eyes snapped open. There, standing on the wet cobbles, was a woman who looked like she had been dressed by a manic florist. Daisy was a riot of color: a pink dress, a light white coat, and a yellow hat so large the flower on the brim seemed to have its own weather system. Her hair wasn't styled in the stiff, frozen waves of the city; it was a wild, curly halo of honey-gold that seemed to vibrate with her every movement.

"My dress!" she squealed, pointing a gloved finger at a bright purple gown currently soaking up the filth of a London puddle. "It was the last one in Mayfair, you know. I had to practically duel a Duchess for it."

Tommy sighed, reached into the muck, and plucked the sodden silk from the water. With the cold, mechanical efficiency of a man wringing a neck, he twisted the fabric to squeeze the grime out.

“Eeeeek!” Tommy’s shoulder hiked up to cover his right ear instinctively. He glared at her, but Daisy was too busy inspecting the carnage.

"I’m going to die," she remarked, though her voice held a hint of amusement beneath the drama. She leaned her back against the brick wall and began a slow, theatrical slide toward the ground, her mismatched heels—one blue, one green—kicking out. "Tell the world I died for a hemline."

The camera of the moment seemed to pull back. In the background, Daisy was a blur of pink and yellow, sliding down the wall in a mock faint. In the foreground, Tommy Shelby stood perfectly still, holding a dripping purple rag, staring out into the middle distance with a look of utter, hollow disdain. His icy blue eyes were vacant, his mind screaming a single question: Why today? Of all the streets in London, why did I have to turn this one?

"It’s alright," Tommy rasped, dropping the dress. "I’ll get you another one."

"Another one?" She stopped her descent, her eyes wide. "Sir, this was the last one in Mayfair! You can't just replace a masterpiece with a print! It’s like replacing a husband—you can do it, but the spark is never the same!"

"Come on," Tommy muttered, grabbing her arm and hauling her up before she hit the mud. "You need a drink. Or I do."

Ten minutes later, the most dangerous man in Birmingham was sitting in a sun-drenched coffee shop, looking like a wolf trapped in a dollhouse.

On the small marble table between them sat two tiny cups of espresso and a single slice of lemon cake they were meant to "share." Tommy hadn't touched the fork. He sat with his coat cast open, a cigarette burning between his stained fingers, watching the smoke drift toward her massive yellow hat.

Daisy, however, was in her element.

"And I told the girl at the boutique, I said, 'Darling, if I wanted to look sensible, I’d stay in the country and marry a man with a sensible dog.' But no! I wanted the purple. I needed the purple. It has a certain... je ne sais quoi, don't you think, Mr. Shelby?"

Tommy didn't answer. He just watched her.

"You're very quiet," she noted, finally taking a dainty bite of the cake. "But your eyes are very loud. They're saying, 'Daisy, why are you like this?' and my answer is usually 'Because being boring is a sin, and I’m a very religious woman when it comes to style.'"

She leaned in, her clinking gold jewelry catching the light, her unstyled curls bouncing. "And the shoes! You didn't even mention the shoes. Most men would think I forgot to get dressed in the dark, but it’s a choice! One for the sky, one for the grass. It’s poetic. Don't you think it’s poetic to walk on the sky and the grass at the same time?"

Tommy took a long, slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nose. He looked at the lemon cake, then at the girl who was currently narrating the history of her mismatched heels as if it were an epic poem.

"I think," Tommy said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that finally made her pause, "that you haven't breathed for three minutes."

Daisy blinked, then laughed—a bright, silver sound that made a few 'sensible' Londoners turn their heads. "Oh, I breathe through my skin, Mr. Shelby. It’s much more efficient. But you! You look like you haven't smiled since the turn of the century. Was your sister really that mean to you this morning? Or is it just the coat? It’s very heavy. It looks like you’re carrying the heavy thing from off you’re back with the way you’re bending!."

Tommy looked at her, his expression unreadable. For the first time all day, the heavy, suffocating weight of the Shelby business felt... distant. This girl was a disaster, a colorful, loud, expensive disaster, but she didn't want anything from him. She didn't know who he was. To her, he was just a grumpy man in a dark coat who owed her a dress.

"The coat stays on," Tommy murmured, a ghost of a smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And the dress will be at your hotel by tomorrow. Or the shop will be burned down if not."

Daisy gasped, delighted. "Oh! A man of action! I knew those eyes meant trouble. Tell me, Mr. Shelby... do you always threaten arson when you’re on a date?"

"This isn't a date, Daisy," Tommy said, though he didn't move to leave.

"Of course it is," she chirped, sliding the plate of lemon cake toward him. "Any time a man ruins a woman’s Vionnet and buys her espresso to compensate, it’s a date. Now, eat your cake. You look like you need the sugar with those bags under your eyes."

₊ . ݁ ⋆౨Chapter one

₊ . ݁ ⋆౨ Chapter two

₊ . ݁ ⋆౨ Chapter three

₊ . ݁ ⋆౨ Chapter four

₊ . ݁ ⋆౨ Chapter five

₊ . ݁ ⋆౨Chapter six

The Scottish highlands were draped in a heavy, charcoal mist that morning, the kind that smelled of wet slate and ancient cedar. Hogwarts always felt most like itself when it was damp; the castle seemed to huddle together for warmth, its stone corridors humming with the collective anxieties of students returning for their sixth year.

For you, the transition had been seamless. While others spent their summers mourning the loss of freedom, you had spent yours buried in a stack of linguistics texts, alternating between the rhythmic roll of Spanish vowels and the guttural precision of German. Coming back to the Ravenclaw common room felt like sliding into a well-worn leather armchair—it was quiet, it was logical, and it was home.

You had carved out a life here that was perfectly balanced, anchored by a trio that made absolutely no sense on paper. There was Jasmine, a Slytherin whose hair was a shade of red so fierce it looked like it might actually catch fire. She was brilliant in a way that felt dangerous, her mind a steel trap of ambition and wit. Then there was Mona, a Hufflepuff who looked like she’d been kissed by the sun, all tan skin and soft smiles, until she opened her mouth and delivered a barb so sharp it could draw blood.

The three of you stood near the edge of the stone bridge, the wind whipping your robes around your ankles.

"If Slughorn tries to pair me with another dunderhead, I’m poisoning the cauldron. Accidental, of course," Jasmine drawled, leaning against the railing with an air of practiced boredom.

Mona laughed, a bright sound that defied the gloom. "Oh, hush. You love the drama. Just don't get blood on my cardigan." She turned to you, her expression softening as she reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "And you, little bird. Don't let the Ravenclaw tower swallow you whole today. Try to breathe between the pages."

They both leaned in, Jasmine planting a quick, loud kiss on your left cheek and Mona doing the same on the right.

"Ugh, get off," you muttered, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips as you wiped your cheeks. "You're both suffocating. Go to your dungeons and your basements."

"See you at dinner, nerd!" Jasmine yelled over her shoulder as they retreated toward the castle.

You watched them go for a moment, the warmth of the interaction lingering even as the cold rain began to pick up. Squaring your shoulders, you turned and began the trek down toward the Herbology greenhouses. The grass was slick and vibrant, a neon green against the grey sky, and by the time you reached Greenhouse Three, the humidity had already begun to frizz your hair.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and dragon dung fertilizer. You quickly slid onto a bench between Simon and Robin, two fellow Ravenclaws who were currently engaged in a heated debate about the ethical implications of Sentient Shrubs.

"Finally," Simon whispered, nudging your shoulder. "Robin thinks the shrubs have a right to vote. I think they just want to eat our fingers."

"I just think we should respect their personal space," Robin countered, leaning his elbows on the old, scarred wooden table. Behind him, a row of Chittering Lilies made rhythmic clicking noises, like a room full of tiny typewriters.

Professor Sprout clapped her soil-stained hands together, her face beaming under her patched hat. "Welcome back, sixth years! This is a momentous term. As this is the final year many of you will spend in my greenhouses before your N.E.W.T. specializations, we are ending with a legacy project."

A collective groan rippled through the room.

"Now, now!" Sprout chuckled. "It’s quite simple. A year-long partnership. One plant, grown from seed to maturity. But," she held up a finger, "you will not be working with your housemates. Innovation requires different perspectives! I have pre-assigned your partners."

The room descended into chaos. Hands shot up; voices rose in desperate pleas.

"Hopefully I get Daisy," Robin muttered, eyes darting toward a Hufflepuff across the room. "She actually does work, unlike the rest of the Gryffindors who are too busy jumping off moving staircases for fun."

"If I get a boy, I’m going to kill myself," you whispered, crossing your arms tightly. "I don't have the patience to teach a boy how to not drown a Mandrake. I just hope I have the energy to even keep up with any of them. The energy Gryffindors have will forever leave me baffled."

Simon nodded solemnly. "It’s the excessive consumption of pumpkin juice. It rots the 'logic' center of the brain."

"You and Benito! Step right up, darlings!" Sprout’s voice rang out like a bell.

The air left your lungs. Simon and Robin both froze, their eyes widening as they slowly turned to look at you, then toward the front of the room.

"What?" you breathed, the word barely a puff of air.

"Benito and you? Where are you, dear?" Sprout scanned the crowd.

Then you saw him. He was leaning against a potting shed, the very definition of 'carelessly cool.' His Gryffindor tie was pulled so loose it was practically a necklace, and his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms. He had a smirk that looked like it had been permanently etched onto his face, and his hair was a controlled mess of curls.

You stood up, your legs feeling like lead. "Professor, please. There’s been a mistake. I’m—"

"Y/n, I don’t want to hear a word," Sprout said firmly, though her eyes remained kind. "Everyone has their partner and didn't complain."

Your face scrunched up in a look of pure, unadulterated indignity. You turned and pointed both hands toward the back of the room, where Claudia, a fiery Gryffindor, was currently in a physical tug-of-war with Edgar, a spindly Ravenclaw. They were yanking on a brochure so hard it was tearing, their faces inches apart as they snarled at each other.

"They're literally brawling, Professor!" you hissed.

Sprout looked at them, then back to you with a sigh. "Well, dear, the whole point of picking a partner from a different house was exactly for this reason. Now go on and get to know each other." She bustled off to break up the fight, which had escalated to Claudia grabbing a handful of Edgar’s thick black hair while his glasses hung crookedly off one ear.

You turned slowly to face Benito. He was already standing there, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, watching you with an expression that was half-amused and half-annoyed.

"So you don't want to be my partner?" he asked. His voice was lower than you expected, with a thick, melodic lilt.

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag. "You know that's not it. I’d just like to be with my friends, that’s all. And I know you’d want the same. You probably had a whole plan to spend the year throwing Dirigible Plums at people's heads."

He shrugged, his shoulders moving with a languid sort of grace. "I mean, I did want to get to know someone outside of my house. But you obviously don't want to," he said.

The accent hit you fully then—Puerto Rico. It was unmistakable. The way he shortened the ends of his words, the rhythmic cadence of his speech. It was the exact dialect you had been obsessing over all summer.

"Buddy, it’s up to you if you want to understand," you said, your voice dripping with Ravenclaw pragmatism as you began stuffing the project rubrics into your bag. "I just prefer to be with my friends rather than someone who won't take the project seriously."

Benito’s eyes widened. He let out a sharp, dry scoff. "Que tipa tan difícil," he muttered under his breath, turning his head away.

You froze. Your head snapped up, your eyes narrowing into slits. "What the hell did you just say?"

He smirked, clearly not expecting you to catch the drift of his tone, even if he thought you didn't know the words. He repeated it, slower this time, his eyes challenging you.

You didn't blink. "No soy difícil, Benito. Solo soy eficiente. Y si piensas que vas a flojear en este proyecto, estás muy equivocado," you snapped back in perfect, sharp Spanish.

The smirk vanished. His jaw actually dropped, and for the first time, the cocky Gryffindor looked completely derailed. "Wait... how the hell do you know Spanish?"

"I read books. You should try it sometime," you said, turning on your heel and heading for the greenhouse exit. He scrambled to follow you, his long strides easily keeping pace as you stepped out into the damp air. Behind you, the sounds of the greenhouse—Sprout’s shouting and the class’s cheering over the Edgar-Claudia wrestling match—faded into the mist.

As you neared the castle steps, you stopped abruptly and shoved a massive stack of library books and parchment into his chest. He stumbled back, catching them against his ribs.

"Catch up on all of this," you commanded. "We start in three days."

"Three days?" He let out a disbelieving laugh, his accent thickening in his surprise. "Chica, we have the whole year to do this project. Relax."

"Exactly. Which is why we'll finish the bulk of the research this term so the plant actually survives the winter. Logic, Benny. Try to find some."

"You’re loca," he muttered, shaking his head. "I can't do three days. I have things to do."

You crossed your arms, leaning back on one foot, looking him up and down. "And why exactly is that? What could a Gryffindor possibly have that is more important than a passing grade?"

Benito leaned in slightly, a playful, dangerous spark returning to his eyes. "Slow down, preciosa. You're not my girlfriend."

Your face went hot, a flush creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the humidity. "I—I never said—"

"Unless you want to be," he added with a wink. He was buried behind the books, only his eyes and the top of his head visible, so you comically slammed one more heavy tome on top of the pile for good measure.

"Three days," you repeated firmly.

"I have Quidditch practice!" he groaned from behind the paper wall.

You sighed, rolling your eyes toward the grey sky. "Fine. When then?"

"Hmm. How about next week?"

Your eyes hardened. "Next week? Absolutely not. Fine—Monday. But I swear if you don't catch up on the reading—wait, what’s your name again?”

"Benny."

"Seriously?"

"Benito. But you can call me Benny if you want," he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, flirtatious register that probably worked on everyone else in this school.

"I'm good, thanks," you said, reaching into your bag and pulling out a small planner. "Send me your Quidditch schedule so I can align it with mine so we can study."

Benito’s eyebrows shot up. "Wait, you play Quidditch? I’ve never seen you on the pitch! Are you a Seeker? You look like a Seeker."

You furrowed your brows, genuinely confused. "What? No. I have my Book Club and my Ancient Runes circle."

His face flattened instantly. The excitement vanished. "Oh. Right. Books. Of course." He shifted the weight of the library you’d just handed him. "Fine. I'll get another sheet and give it to you tomorrow, is that okay?"

"Yes, I guess that will do," you said, your voice softening just a fraction at the way he looked—struggling with the books but still trying to look cool. "Even though I’d appreciate it if you could try to hand it to me tonight."

"When would I get time?" he asked, sounding genuinely harassed.

"Midnight feast," you said matter-of-factly. "The Great Hall is always open. You have no excuse."

"I'll try," he muttered, adjusting his grip on the stack. "No promises."

"Goodbye, Benito."

"Bye, princesseca," he called out, a smirk audible in his voice even as you turned away.

You felt the heat rush to your cheeks again, a deep, traitorous blush. You gripped the straps of your bag and walked faster, the sound of his laughter echoing faintly against the stone walls of Hogwarts.

The rest of the day was a blur of parchment and ink, but your mind was elsewhere—specifically, stuck on a certain Gryffindor whose Spanish was as smooth as his ego was large.

By the time 11:30 PM rolled around, the Ravenclaw common room was a graveyard of abandoned quill caps and snoring fifth-years. You, however, were wide awake. You checked your reflection in a darkened window, smoothing out your sweater. It wasn't for him, you told yourself. It was for the sake of the project. You couldn't have a disorganized partner; it would disrupt your entire ecosystem.

Slipping out of the tower, you navigated the moving staircases with the practiced ease of a local. The castle at night was different—the shadows were longer, the portraits were grumpier, and the air smelled of snuffed candles and old stone.

When you reached the Great Hall, the massive oak doors were slightly ajar. A single long table was lit by a cluster of floating candles, casting a warm, golden glow over the empty space. And there he was.

Benito was sprawled out across the bench, one leg hooked over the table and a piece of toast hanging precariously from his mouth. He wasn't wearing his robes anymore; he was in a oversized black sweater, his curls even more chaotic than they had been in the greenhouse.

"You're late," you whispered, your voice echoing off the high rafters.

He didn't jump. Instead, he slowly turned his head, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he swallowed the toast. "And you're exactly on time. Very Ravenclaw of you, reina."

"It’s called being punctual," you countered, sliding onto the bench opposite him. You pointedly ignored the way the candlelight caught the gold in his eyes. "Do you have it?"

"Directa al grano," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Always business with you. Don't you ever just... breathe? Look at the stars? Eat a pastry?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, smoothing it out on the table with a theatrical flourish. Beside it, he placed a small, napkin-wrapped bundle. "My Quidditch schedule. And," he unwrapped the napkin to reveal two warm, chocolate-filled croissants, "bribes. From the kitchens. The house-elves love me."

"I don't need bribes, Benito. I need you to understand the difference between a Venomous Tentacula and a Flitterbloom."

"I know the difference," he said, his voice dropping into that low, husky tone again. He leaned across the table, his face inches from yours. "One tries to eat you, and the other just wants to dance. I’m more of a dancer myself."

You felt that familiar heat rising to your cheeks. To hide it, you snatched up the schedule and peered at it. "You have practice four times a week? At five in the morning?"

"Champions don't sleep," he said, though he looked like he could nap for a decade right there on the table. "But I have a gap on Tuesday afternoons. And Sunday nights."

"Sunday nights are for the library," you said firmly.

"Sunday nights are for fun, y/n. But fine. If it means I get to hear you speak Spanish again, I’ll suffer through the library." He picked up a croissant and held it out to you. "Eat. You look like you’re about to start calculating the gravitational pull of the moon. Relax for five minutes."

You looked at the croissant, then at him. His eyes were softer now, less "cocky Gryffindor" and more "boy who stayed up late just to meet you."

"Fine," you muttered, taking the pastry. It was still warm, the chocolate melting onto your fingers. "But we start the research on Tuesday. No excuses. If you show up late, I’m changing the partnership to a solo project and telling Sprout you’ve been transmuted into a teapot."

Benito laughed, a deep, rich sound that made the candles flicker. "You're mean. I like it."

He watched you take a bite of the croissant, a satisfied look on his face. For a moment, the silence of the Great Hall wasn't heavy—it was comfortable. The smell of chocolate and old wood felt like a secret the two of you were sharing.

"So," he said, breaking the silence. "Spanish and German? Why?"

"Knowledge is the only thing they can't take away from you," you said simply, dabbing a bit of chocolate from your lip.

Benito’s gaze lingered on your mouth for a second too long before he looked back up at your eyes. "True. But sometimes, you have to stop reading about the world and actually live in it. I could teach you things that aren't in those books, princesseca."

"Like how to fall off a broom?" you quipped.

"Like how to win," he whispered, a playful glint in his eyes.

You stood up, clutching the schedule to your chest like a shield. "We'll see about that. Tuesday. Don't forget your notes."

"I won't," he promised, leaning back and watching you walk toward the doors. "And y/n?"

You paused, looking back over your shoulder.

"You have chocolate on your cheek," he said, pointing to his own face with a wink.

You frantically wiped your face, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs as you hurried out of the hall. Behind you, you could hear him humming a reggaeton beat under his breath, the sound fading as you climbed the stairs toward the safety of the Ravenclaw tower.

The project hadn't even started, and you already knew this was going to be the longest year of your life.

By the time you reached the eagle knocker of the Ravenclaw tower, you weren't just blushing—you were fuming. The cool, nocturnal air of the corridors usually settled your thoughts, but tonight it only seemed to fan the flames of your irritation.

"Princesseca," you hissed to yourself, the word feeling like a spark on your tongue. "The nerve. The absolute, unmitigated Gryffindor gall."

The bronze eagle stared at you with its blank, metallic eyes. "What has a heart that does not beat, and a tongue that does not speak?" it asked in its melodic, ethereal voice.

"A shoe," you snapped, perhaps a bit too aggressively. "Now let me in before I transmute this door into a pile of toothpicks."

The door swung open, and you marched into the blue-and-bronze sanctuary of the common room. It was near-empty, save for a few seventh-years buried under a mountain of Arithmancy charts. You sank into your favorite velvet armchair by the window, the Scottish stars blurring behind the glass.

You pulled out the crumpled Quidditch schedule he’d given you. The handwriting was atrocious—sharp, slanted, and chaotic, just like the person who wrote it. There were even little doodles of snitches in the margins. You stared at it until the parchment began to vibrate in your trembling grip.

"He thinks this is a game," you whispered to the empty room. "He thinks he can just show up with a smuggled croissant and a wink and I’ll just... what? Do all the work while he hums along to whatever rhythmic nonsense is bouncing around that thick skull of his?"

The sheer inefficiency of him was what truly grated. You had spent your entire academic career cultivating a reputation for precision. You were the girl who knew the botanical properties of Mimbulus mimbletonia by heart; he was the boy who probably thought "organic chemistry" was a brand of hair gel.

You aggressively wiped your cheek again, even though you were certain the chocolate was gone. You could still feel the phantom heat of his gaze, that lazy, heavy-lidded look that seemed to say he knew exactly how much he was bothering you. And he liked it. That was the worst part. He wasn't just lazy; he was a provocateur.

"I am going to bury him in the Restricted Section," you muttered, pulling a fresh piece of parchment toward you. You began to draft a "Partnership Contract," pressing the quill down so hard the nib squeaked in protest.

Clause 1: No nicknames.

Clause 2: No humming.

Clause 3: Spanish is for academic translation only.

You paused, the image of him leaning across the table—smelling like rain, old parchment and mangos with a hint of mint, and something warm like cinnamon—flashing through your mind. You shook your head violently, your hair whipping against your neck.

"He is a distraction," you told yourself firmly. "A loud, arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed distraction who clearly thinks Ravenclaws are just walking encyclopedias meant for his entertainment."

You spent the next hour color-coding a study guide so intense it would make a Gringotts goblin weep. If Benito wanted to pass this year, he was going to have to survive you first. By the time you finally climbed the spiral stairs to your dormitory, your jaw was tight and your eyes were bright with a very specific kind of competitive fire.