𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓪

you’d forgotten about the little red post-it a while ago, but you’re swiftly reminded of it when another piece of paper lands on your notepad. you’re in charms instead, and it’s clear that the paper has been crudely ripped from a notebook. you read the words once, then twice. then you turn behind you, meeting fred’s stare. he shrugs, bored. ‘wasn’t too sure what to say, but i said id throw you some more.’ he pauses, waiting for you to say something, but you just give him a lopsided glare. he grins, all smug and toothy, before gesturing towards the notes on the board and scribbling them down, as if you were distracting him.

‘you know, your brother is quite annoying.’ you mutter, as the paper slips from your exercise book. ron looks up at you from the common room couch, with a curious expression. ‘uh, which one?’ he asks, glancing around. you frown. ‘fred, obviously.’ you mumble, passing him the note. he raises an eyebrow. ‘huh; this is new. probably the most he’s written this year.’

‘ouch.’ fred jokes, looking over at the two of you. ‘complaining about me already? if you’d given me the work from that astronomy lesson, i could stop bothering you.’ you roll your eyes at him. ‘fine. meet me in the library later.’

winter hits you like an evil, transfigured truck. you can barely see under the weight of your eyelids, and you swear your nose has forgotten its whole function. your professor should be proud that you’ve managed to claw your way here, with crumpled uniform and a packet of tissues and an unruly, half-assed hairsty-

the ripped corner of paper lands by your quill, and you tense up. you’re really not in the mood, and fred has chosen a bad day to be a pain in your ass. you ready yourself to start a whisper-shouting match, but you pause, scanning the words. your fingers thread instinctively through your hair, as if to check you haven’t suddenly turned bald, and he’s not pulling a mean joke. you can hear him tapping his desk impatiently, waiting for you to look at him. you concede, leaning behind you. he shifts forward, smiling at you. ‘you should do it like that more often.’ he bemuses, and you tilt your head a little to the side, as if you’re studying him. you watch his cheeks warm a little, bringing out some freckles. huh. ‘okay, thanks.’ you hum back, before twisting back to the board. you’re not sure if he notices you slipping the note into your robe pocket- but a tap on your chair leg suggests he might have.

you are in one of those foul moods when fred decides to slip into the empty seat next to you this lesson, instead of his typical spot directly behind. you glare at him, not even letting the edge of your lips curl. he raises his eyebrows in response, letting an arm dangle over the back of your chair. you decide to retaliate by shifting as far away from him as possible, dragging the chair legs over the wooden floor to move away. the rest of the lesson remains like that- a stark silence as you furiously note down the lesson, not daring to get too close to the gangly boy next to you. when you spill your ink, it’s basically your final straw. ‘fuck.’ you hiss, dragging your fingers over your skirt, unbothered by the future stains. ‘aw, shit. you need a hand?’ fred whispers, leaning beside you and pushing your book away from the spillage. there’s a hint of mockery in his tone, and your knuckles go tense. ‘leave me alone, weasley. i can clean up some ink.’ you mutter, shooting him an angry glare. he grins, shrugging back away from you. ‘yes, maam.’

when you come back from cleaning your hands, that shred of paper sits proudly amongst the remains of dried blue splodges. you shoot fred an incredulous glance. ‘you cannot be serious.’ you accuse, but he just winks in response, settling deeper into his chair. ‘idiot.’ you mutter, shoving him with the side of your shoulder as you sit back down. he swallows a chuckle, but you can see him growing a little more fidgety as you remain resting shoulder to shoulder for the rest of the lesson.

it seems fred had grown nervous since the last lesson, because he’s moved to the other side of the class. you don’t really notice, though. instead, you’re talking animatedly to alicia, rather engrossed in your insignificant debate. someone taps you, and you turn to them, a little surprised. you somewhat recognise her- a hufflepuff who might’ve competed in the talent show, or something. she hands you a folded piece of paper, gesturing to a boy, and then a girl, and then all the way to the back, before landing on none other than fred weasley. typical. you glance down at the paper, debating if you should open it or leave him hanging. your curiosity gets the better of you, and you unfurl it.

you can feel a new kind of warmth trickling up your neck, settling in your rosy cheeks. ‘what does it say?’ alicia asks, and you shrug her off. ‘nothing. just something dumb, like usual.’ you mumble back, gently circling your thumb over the words. you glance upwards, risking a look to the back of the room. you meet fred’s almost nervous gaze, and when he realises you’re staring, he breaks into a wide smile. you find yourself mirroring his grin, scrunching up your nose. he points at his temple, as if thinking, before clutching his chest dramatically. you stifle a giggle, and quite clearly pocket the paper this time, much to his satisfaction.

‘oi, weasley. did the notes get too academically challenging for you? your last one had a comma, so i’d understand.’ you tease, cornering him by the courtyard. he blinks in surprise, like he didn’t think you know who he is. george slips away silently, looking between the pair of you with the ghost of a smirk. ‘yeah,’ he concedes. ‘just figuring what to say next.’ he mumbles, but you can tell he’s lying. his eyes flick to his left hand, where he’s clearly hiding something in his palm. you grin gleefully, pushing his hand open. ‘aha!’ you yell, pulling the paper from him. he groans, and you realise this is the first time you’ve seen him bashful. you open it quickly, scanning it, before your lips part in surprise.

he looks at you expectantly, frowning at your lack of response. you look up at him. ‘i don’t have a pen on me.’ you reply honestly, with a shrug. he inhales as you pass him back the note wordlessly, shoulders sagging with the rejection. ‘give it to me in class, weasley!’ you yell, turning back to him with a wicked smile as you walk away. he pauses. ‘well, that depends on what you’re going to do!’

Year 2:

Soulmates were a tricky business.

No one fully understood the magic behind it—how the universe could possibly decide, from the moment you were born, that there was one person out there meant specifically for you. Even now, it remained one of the greatest mysteries of the magical world. There were no rules you could study, no spells to influence it, no way to predict it.

All anyone really knew was this: somewhere out there existed a person whose magic matched yours so perfectly that the universe itself would one day intervene and make it known.

How it chose to do that, however, was entirely unpredictable.

Some people were born with timers on their wrists, ticking down to the exact second they would meet the person meant for them. Others lived their entire lives in muted shades of grey until they met their soulmate and the world burst into colour all at once. Some carried their soulmate’s first words etched permanently into their skin, waiting for the moment they would finally hear them spoken aloud.

For others, it came later.

Marks that appeared on first touch. Marks that only revealed themselves after years of friendship. Marks that didn’t appear at all until it was far too late to matter.

There was no pattern. No certainty. No way to guess what form your own bond would take—or when it would appear, or who it would tie you to.

And so, by your second year, you had stopped thinking about it too much.

Well... not entirely.

Like any other girl, there were nights when you lay awake staring at the ceiling, letting your mind wander to the inevitable moment when it would happen. You imagined the first meeting in painstaking detail—how everything would fall into place like the final pieces of a puzzle, how suddenly the world would make sense in a way it never had before, as if you had finally found where you were meant to be.

You imagined what it would feel like to be close to them.

To hold their hand. To kiss them. To run your fingers through their hair and feel them do the same to you.

You imagined quiet moments and laughter, whispered words meant only for the two of you, a future that felt certain in a way nothing else ever did.

And sometimes, buried into your pillow so no one could hear, you’d find yourself smiling—giddy with anticipation for a life that hadn’t even begun yet.

But it was easy not to dwell on it too much.

None of your friends had found their soulmates yet—not Hermione, not anyone—and that made it easier. It meant you weren’t falling behind. It meant there was still time.

When it happened, it would happen.

And when it did, everything would make sense.

Until then, your biggest problem remained your exams.

The Great Hall was silent in that suffocating, unnatural way it only ever was during exams.

Rows upon rows of desks stretched endlessly beneath the enchanted ceiling, each one placed with careful precision—far enough apart to make cheating impossible, close enough to remind you that you weren’t alone in your misery. The usual warmth of the hall felt stripped away, replaced by something rigid and tense.

The only sound was the uneven scratching of quills against parchment, echoing faintly in the vast space like a hundred tiny clocks ticking out your time.

You hunched over your Transfiguration paper, brow furrowed in concentration, your hand moving quickly but carefully—fast enough to keep up with your thoughts, slow enough to avoid smudging the ink.

You were on the last question.

Finally.

Relief flickered through you as you exhaled quietly, adjusting your grip on your quill. You leaned in slightly, beginning to write your answer, already thinking about how quickly you could leave once you were done—how good it would feel to be free of the stifling silence, the pressure, the weight of it all.

A shadow fell across your desk.

Your quill stilled mid-word.

“Miss (Y/N).” Came Professor McGonagall’s voice, low and composed.

You looked up sharply, your pulse jumping.

She stood just behind you, posture as straight as ever, hands folded neatly behind her back. Her expression gave nothing away—no irritation, no warmth, just that familiar, impenetrable calm.

“Yes, Professor?” You whispered, instinctively lowering your voice to be mindful of your fellow classmates. The last thing you needed was Hermione scolding you after the exam for making a ruckus while she was trying to focus.

Her gaze flicked briefly to your paper, lingering for just a moment, before returning to your face.

“I’ll need you to come with me.” She said quietly.

Your stomach dropped.

“Now, please.”

For a second, you just stared at her.

Confusion hit first—sharp and immediate.

Had you done something wrong? That didn’t make any sense. You hadn’t even finished your exam yet. Your eyes darted down to your parchment, then back up at her.

“…my exam—?”

“I will take it with us.” She replied smoothly, already reaching forward.

Before you could protest, she lifted the parchment from your desk, your unfinished answer still drying on the page. You stared up at her in surprise, your quill still clutched in your fingers, ink well sitting open on the desk.

Something wasn’t right.

Slowly, you pushed your chair back, the scrape of its legs against the stone floor sounding far too loud in the heavy silence. A few heads turned at the noise—quick, curious glances—but just as quickly snapped back down to their work.

After all these were your final exams, they didn't have the time for their focus to be broken.

Your heart began to beat a little faster as you stood, a faint, uneasy feeling settling in your chest.

“Follow me.”

You trailed after her down the narrow aisle between the desks, acutely aware of every step you took, every eye you could feel flicking toward you before darting away again.

The large doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead, growing closer with every step, and with them, that strange, creeping sense that something had shifted.

You didn’t know what you had done.

Still, you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek and clenched your fists at your sides, willing yourself not to cry from sheer anxiety. The past few weeks had already left your nerves stretched painfully thin.

Between late nights revising, early mornings spent cramming information into your head, and the constant pressure hanging over every second-year student during exam season, it felt as though every nerve ending in your body had been stripped raw.

Even now, as you followed Professor McGonagall through the corridors, you could feel your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. You dug your nails into your palms until they hurt, desperately trying to ground yourself, but the growing lump in your throat refused to disappear.

Professor McGonagall led you into an empty classroom adjacent to the Great Hall and quietly shut the door behind you. The click of the latch sounded far louder than it should have.

"Sit."

You obeyed immediately, lowering yourself into the nearest chair while she remained standing. For a long moment she simply looked at you, her expression unreadable save for a distinct note of disappointment that made your stomach sink even further.

"Miss (L/N)," She began, her voice calm and measured, "students are made aware at the beginning of every examination period that cheating results in an immediate Dreadful. Your parents will be notified and the staff will need to discuss whether you will be permitted to sit a reexamination or whether further disciplinary measures are necessary."

For a second, you genuinely thought you had misheard her.

The words didn't make sense.

You stared up at her blankly.

"Professor... what?"

Her expression remained unchanged.

"You were found in possession of examination materials during your Transfiguration exam."

"I wasn't copying."

The denial left your mouth before you could stop it.

McGonagall's gaze lowered pointedly and, confused, you followed it.

The moment you saw your leg, your entire body went cold.

Written across the skin of your calf in cramped black handwriting were notes. Definitions. Theories. Entire sections of information taken directly from your textbooks and condensed into neat little sentences. There had to be dozens of them, stretching across your skin in dense clusters of writing.

Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

"What the hell?"

Your mind immediately began scrambling for an explanation. Had someone done this while you slept? Had ink somehow transferred from your notes? Had you absentmindedly written on yourself during a revision session? None of it made sense. You had showered the night before.

In your panic, you failed to notice that this wasn't even your handwriting.

"No."

You immediately started rubbing at your skin.

"No, Professor, I didn't write this."

You scrubbed harder, panic making your movements frantic.

"I swear I didn't."

The notes didn't budge.

Your palms were beginning to sweat, but the ink remained exactly where it was, stubborn and unmoving.

"It's not even coming off!"

The last few words came out dangerously close to a sob.

You looked back up at McGonagall, your vision beginning to blur around the edges as tears gathered in your eyes. Everything suddenly felt horribly unfair. You had spent weeks preparing for these exams. You had stayed up late memorizing definitions, quizzed yourself until your head hurt, worried yourself sick over every possible outcome.

"I swear I didn't do this, Professor," you said, your voice wobbling despite your best efforts. "I promise. Please don't fail me. I studied so hard."

The tears escaped before you could stop them.

One moment you were trying to hold yourself together and the next you were crying outright, fat tears rolled down your cheeks while the tiny amount of mascara you'd put on that morning in an attempt to look slightly less exhausted began smudging around your eyes. The embarrassment only made it worse. You couldn't remember the last time you had cried in front of a teacher, but now you couldn't seem to stop.

It was only through your tears that you noticed something change in McGonagall's expression. The disappointment that had been there moments ago had vanished completely, replaced by something that looked remarkably like realization. Her eyes flickered briefly from the notes scrawled across your skin back to your face and you watched as the pieces seemed to fall into place behind them.

"Miss (L/N)," She said, her voice considerably gentler than it had been a moment ago, "it would appear that I owe you an apology."

You blinked up at her through watery eyes, still struggling to catch your breath.

"What?"

"I believe there has been a misunderstanding."

For a moment you simply stared at her, the words refusing to make sense. A misunderstanding? Five minutes ago she had been discussing whether you would be forced to repeat the year.

"Once you've composed yourself," McGonagall continued, clearing her throat and smoothing a hand over her robes, "You may return to the examination hall and complete your exam."

The room fell silent.

You looked down at the notes still covering your skin and then back up at her, trying to understand what had changed. The writing was still there. The evidence hadn't disappeared. If anything, it seemed even more obvious now than it had before. Yet whatever conclusion McGonagall had reached was apparently enough to completely alter the situation.

Before you could ask any further questions, however, she was already moving toward the door.

By the time you had managed to stop crying and make yourself somewhat presentable again, your eyes were still red and your cheeks still blotchy. You clutched your exam paper tightly against your chest as you made your way back toward the Great Hall, still trying to piece together what had happened.

The corridor ahead was empty save for two approaching figures.

At first you barely paid them any attention.

Professor Snape was walking briskly in your direction, his dark robes billowing dramatically behind him as they always seemed to. Beside him walked another student, hands shoved into his pockets and expression thunderous enough to make most people step out of his way.

Mattheo Riddle.

At first, you barely paid attention. Then your eyes caught on the black smudges beneath his eyes—dark, uneven streaks that clung to his lashes and marked the skin beneath them. Mascara. Your mascara.

You stopped walking.

Mattheo stopped too.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The corridor around you felt strangely distant, as though everything else had faded into a muffled blur while the two of you stood suspended in something sharp and disorienting.

His gaze moved over your face, lingering on your red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Slowly—almost visibly—understanding began to settle across both of your expressions at the same time, like the final pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

The notes that hadn’t been written by you but had appeared on your skin anyway.

The mascara that hadn’t been applied by him but was now smeared across his face.

The reason Professor Snape was escorting him down the corridor.

His expression darkened first.

Yours followed not long after.

You had never met him before. Never spoken to him.

And yet somehow, within minutes of discovering he was your soulmate, Mattheo Riddle had nearly gotten you expelled.

As he continued to glare at you from across the corridor, looking every bit as offended by the situation as you felt, you came to one very simple conclusion.

The universe had an absolutely horrific sense of humour.

Year 6:

It was quiet in the dormitory—far too quiet for a weekday morning.

You frowned slightly, still half-asleep as you burrowed deeper beneath your blankets, turning your face further into the pillow. Usually by now the room would already be alive with noise: drawers slamming shut, sleepy complaints about unfinished homework, someone inevitably losing a sock five minutes before class. But there was none of it. No chatter. No rushing footsteps.

Which could only mean one thing.

You had woken up too early.

A pleased little sigh escaped you as you snuggled further into the warmth of your bed, already drifting back toward sleep. Maybe you had another hour left. Maybe—

“(Y/N) (L/N), FOR GODRIC’S SAKE, WAKE UP! YOU’VE ALREADY MISSED BREAKFAST!”

You bolted upright so fast you nearly headbutted the bedpost.

“WHAT?!” You shrieked, voice rough with sleep as panic shot through you all at once, “Hermione, why didn’t you wake me?!”

“I DID, YOU TEA TOWEL!”

The insult barely registered as you threw your blankets off yourself and stumbled out of bed in a frenzy, hair a complete mess and heart racing with the immediate horror of being late. Your bag was still unpacked from the night before, half your books hanging out of it as you rushed around the room trying to pull yourself together.

“Why didn’t anyone shake me harder?!” You complained, yanking your uniform shirt over your head inside out before realizing and swearing under your breath.

Hermione, already fully dressed and exasperatingly put together, didn’t even look up from stuffing parchment into her bag, “I did! It's not my fault you sleep like the dead.”

You huffed, grabbing your skirt and tugging it on crookedly as you rushed toward the mirror, mentally planning the fastest possible route to class. If you skipped properly brushing your hair and just fixed it on the way—maybe if you brushed your teeth in the bathroom nearest the Charms corridor—

And then you looked up.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you.

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

Your own reflection stared back at you in equal horror, pale and frozen and impossibly awake now, but you barely noticed the expression on your face because your eyes were locked on the red mark pressed against your cheek.

A lipstick stain.

Bright. Smudged.

Unmistakably shaped like the imprint of someone’s mouth.

Your breath caught.

There was another near the corner of your lips, blurred slightly like it had been kissed there carelessly. One against your jaw. Another lower down, just beneath your ear.

Dread began settling into you slowly, horribly, piece by piece.

“No.” You whispered.

Your hands started shaking.

“No, no—”

You turned slightly toward the mirror, fingers fumbling desperately with the collar of your shirt as you pulled it aside.

More.

Faint red marks scattered across your skin, disappearing beneath the fabric of your clothes. Some were clearer than others; some were smeared, dragged slightly, as though whoever had left them behind had done so thoughtlessly. Casually.

You stared at them, your reflection blurring around the edges as tears began burning in your eyes.

Your throat tightened painfully.

The room suddenly felt too small, too warm, your chest caving inward as realization settled fully over you.

“)Y/N), come on, class starts in—”

Hermione stopped mid-sentence.

You didn’t turn around, but you saw her expression shift in the mirror from annoyance to shock. Her eyes caught on the marks scattered across your neck and collarbone, and the look on her face softened so quickly it made something inside you crack further.

“Oh.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

A heavy silence settled across the room. Then you heard Hermione approach slowly, carefully, like she was afraid one wrong movement would shatter you completely. She stopped just behind you, her reflection appearing over your shoulder, and when you finally forced yourself to look up again you saw nothing but sympathy written all over her face.

“Oh, (Y/N),” She said softly, and somehow the gentleness in her voice hurt worse than the marks themselves, “I’m so sorry.”

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to inhale, then exhale, trying desperately to hold yourself together.

“It’s fine,” You said immediately, too quickly, your voice unnaturally flat, “It’s not like I liked him anyway.”

The second the words left your mouth, your chin trembled.

Hermione’s expression crumpled.

And suddenly you couldn’t do it anymore.

A broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, and then the tears were falling all at once, hot and uncontrollable as the ache in your chest finally split wide open. You covered your mouth with your hand like that could somehow hold the sobs back, but it was useless. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you as weeks and months of buried hope came crashing down all at once.

Hermione caught you before you could fall properly, pulling you into her arms immediately.

And the second she did, you broke completely.

You cried into her shoulder so hard it hurt, fingers clutching desperately at the fabric of her jumper while humiliation and heartbreak tore through you in waves.

Your soulmate had slept with someone else.

A few mornings later, when Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor table for breakfast, she wasn't remotely offended when the eyes of her friends immediately flicked over her shoulder.

It had become something of a routine.

Every day for the past week, someone would look up when she arrived, expecting to find you trailing behind her. Every day their faces would fall when they realized she was alone.

Just as she was today.

Harry was the first to break the silence, "She still won't come down?"

Hermione's grip tightened slightly around her spoon.

The concern on his face mirrored exactly how she felt.

You hadn't attended a single class all week. The first two days had been the worst. You had cried until you physically exhausted yourself, until your body finally gave out and sleep claimed you against your will. By the following morning, you'd developed a fever bad enough that Hermione had practically dragged you to the Hospital Wing herself.

Madam Pomfrey had taken one look at your blotchy face, red-rimmed eyes, and dangerously high temperature before ordering you into a bed and refusing to hear arguments.

Hermione had stayed beside you for as long as she'd been allowed.

She remembered watching you sleep fitfully beneath white sheets, occasionally stirring only to curl further into yourself. She remembered the way your hand would sometimes move unconsciously toward your neck, fingers brushing against skin where the marks had long since faded.

Eventually Madam Pomfrey had forced Hermione out, insisting there was nothing more she could do.

Now several days later, the fever had broken.

But you still hadn't left your room.

Hermione shook her head, "No."

Hermione sighed, reaching for her tea, though her attention was nowhere near her breakfast. Her gaze swept across the Great Hall, not aimlessly skimming over the hundreds of students filling the room, but locking onto its target almost immediately like a heat-seeking missile.

Mattheo Riddle.

He sat at the Slytherin table with his friends, laughing at something one of them had said, completely at ease, looking every bit like he hadn't a single worry in the world. The sight of him sitting there so carelessly, smiling like life had handed him every reason to, made Hermione irrationally want to march across the hall, grab him by the ears, and squeeze his head until it popped like an unsightly pimple.

He had absolutely no idea.

No idea that his soulmate hadn't left her bed in days.

No idea that she'd cried herself into a fever.

No idea that Hermione had spent hours sitting beside her, listening to her sob until she had nothing left in her, only to watch her stare blankly at the canopy above her bed as though she'd forgotten how to exist.

Her jaw tightened.

"Look at him," She muttered bitterly, her eyes boring so intensely into the side of his head that she was almost disappointed when he didn't spontaneously burst into flames, "I spent half the week consoling her, and he's sitting over there like he's the bloody king of the world."

Then, she looked back down into the untouched cup of tea in front of her, watching her own furious reflection ripple across its surface. The anger was still there, burning hot beneath her skin, but it had long since become tangled with something far more unbearable.

Helplessness.

Because no matter how angry she was, it wouldn't undo what had happened.

It wouldn't stop you from shutting yourself away in your dormitory, curtains drawn around your bed, convinced that facing four wooden bedposts was somehow easier than facing the rest of the world.

She felt the sting behind her eyes before she realized she was blinking a little too often.

"I can't believe someone like her is supposed to end up with someone like him." She murmured, her voice losing all of its earlier bite.

She absentmindedly stabbed at her pancakes with her fork, skewering a lone berry in the process without even noticing.

"She's the sweetest, kindest, most selfless person I've ever met," Hermione continued quietly, swallowing around the lump that had formed in her throat, "She'd do absolutely anything for the people she loves, and somehow..." She gave a humorless laugh, shaking her head, "Somehow he's the person the universe chose for her."

Finally, Hermione let out a slow, defeated sigh.

"How could the universe be so cruel?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, but neither of them answered.

Because what could they possibly say?

Afterall, they had no idea what it was like to be rejected by your soulmate.

Your head felt impossibly heavy.

When you'd finally cried yourself to sleep the night before, you'd hoped that maybe—just maybe—you'd wake up feeling even a little bit lighter.

Instead, it felt as though someone had stuffed your head full of damp cotton.

Everything was muted.

You could see the familiar shape of your dormitory around you, the sunlight spilling lazily through the windows, painting warm patches across the wooden floor, but none of it felt real. If someone had asked you to name half a dozen things in your own room, you weren't entirely convinced you could have done it. Your thoughts drifted in and out without ever quite settling long enough to grasp them.

Outside, Hogwarts carried on as though nothing had happened.

Somewhere below the tower, students laughed as they crossed the courtyard on their way back from breakfast. Every so often, a shrill whistle carried in through the open window, followed by the distant roar of voices from the Quidditch pitch.

Life went on.

It always did.

But inside your dormitory, it felt as though time itself had stopped.

Like you were sitting inside a vacuum, sealed away from the rest of the castle, where even the sound of your own breathing seemed impossibly far away.

You hadn't even realized someone was knocking.

The sound barely registered through the haze clouding your mind, so faint and distant that you mistook it for part of a dream. It wasn't until the door slowly creaked open that you finally stirred, letting out a weary sigh without even bothering to look up.

"Hermione," You mumbled into your pillow, your voice hoarse from days of crying, "Please... I don't want breakfast."

There was a brief pause.

"Well," Came a decidedly unfamiliar voice, "It's a good thing Chocolate Frogs aren't considered breakfast."

Your eyes snapped open.

Slowly, you pushed yourself upright, blinking through the fog in your head until the figure standing sheepishly in your doorway came into focus.

Messy ginger hair.

Hands buried deep in his pockets.

A crooked smile that looked like it wasn't entirely sure whether it belonged there.

"...Fred?"

The way you said his name made him chuckle softly.

Not because it was funny, exactly, but because your tone carried that slight undercurrent of cautiousness, like you were trying to work out whether you were looking at Fred Weasley or his identical twin.

"It's me," He assured you with an easy grin, "George is considerably uglier."

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.

Fred caught it but, to his credit, didn't point it out. He simply closed the door quietly behind him and wandered further into the dormitory, his hands still buried in the pockets of his jumper as though he were only stopping by for a casual chat.

Although, you knew better than to believe that.

He was here for something.

You just couldn't work out what.

Had Hermione sent him? Had she somehow decided that Fred's ridiculous sense of humour might succeed where she had failed? More importantly, how in Merlin's name had he even managed to get into the girls' dormitory in the first place?

"...What are you doing here?" You asked.

The question left your mouth more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.

Truthfully, you didn't really care.

Whether Fred was here or not, whether he'd come to cheer you up or drag you to breakfast or simply stare at you until you spoke, all you wanted was to be left alone again. So you settled back against your headboard, waiting for whatever explanation he had prepared so you could nod absentmindedly, mumble something about still being tired, and hope he'd take the hint.

Fred scratched the back of his neck.

"I don't really know," He admitted after a moment with a small shrug, "I heard Hermione talking about you downstairs."

He finally pulled his hands from his pockets.

A handful of Chocolate Frog boxes tumbled into his palms.

"I heard she was worried." He looked down at the collection of sweets before giving one shoulder another little shrug, "Next thing I knew, I was standing outside your door."

He crossed the room and sat down carefully on the edge of your bed.

Instinctively, you tugged your cocoon of blankets out from beneath him, unwilling to surrender even that small comfort. Fred pretended not to notice. Instead, he simply dropped the Chocolate Frogs into your lap one by one.

"I figured," He said, "if nothing else, chocolate rarely makes things worse."

You stared down at them for a second before absentmindedly picking one up and peeling open the box.

"Whatever Hermione's worried about..." You murmured, carefully unfolding the cardboard, "...it isn't going to happen."

The chocolate frog immediately sprang from your hands.

You watched it bounce across the dormitory floor, disappearing beneath someone's bed but you paid no heed, fishing the card from the now-empty box instead.

Helga Hufflepuff.

Nice.

"I just wanted some time to be alone," You said quietly, your thumb tracing absent circles over the edge of the card, "Some time to think. You wouldn't understand."

Fred's smile faded.

"Oh," He said, leaning back on his hands, "Believe me."

His eyes drifted toward the window for a moment.

"I know exactly what that's like."

You froze, your thumb absentmindedly tracing the edge of the Nicolas Flamel card as you silently cursed your own stupidity.

Of course.

You had completely forgotten who you were talking to.

Everyone knew Fred Weasley's story.

It had been impossible not to.

It had spread through Hogwarts like wildfire the day the twins turned sixteen and discovered, to the absolute bewilderment of the entire school, that they shared the same soulmate mark. The same name inked onto both of their wrists.

Angelina.

No one had known what to make of it. How could the universe make a mistake? It wasn't supposed to.

Yet somehow, two brothers had been promised the same girl.

In the end, Angelina had chosen George.

No one blamed her. She'd simply followed her heart.

And just like that, Fred had become the boy without a soulmate.

What followed had been painful to watch.

Every passing week seemed to chip away at something that had once felt unbreakable. Fred and George had always existed as a pair. Joined at the hip, people liked to joke. Before that, joined by an umbilical cord. There had never been one without the other.

It had been heartbreaking watching the distance grow between the twins afterwards. Not all at once, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, until people realized Fred no longer occupied the seat beside George in the Great Hall. They stopped seeing them sneaking through corridors together after curfew. Their jokes became less frequent, their laughter less shared.

Fred simply couldn't bear to watch the girl he'd spent years believing was destined to love him fall into his brother's arms instead.

Eventually, time had done what time always did.

The sharp edges had dulled.

The twins laughed together again. They pulled pranks together. They looked, from the outside at least, like themselves again. But anyone paying close enough attention could tell they were never quite the same.

How could they be?

Their seemingly inseverable brotherhood had been eclipsed by an ineffable bond.

Soulmates.

It was no longer Fred and George, the terrible terrors. Now, it was George and Angelina, the star-crossed lovers, and Fred, who had been left behind.

"I'm sorry." You whispered, the apology slipping out before you could stop it.

Fred's eyes met yours.

"So am I."

He didn't elaborate.

He didn't have to.

And for the first time in days, you felt the glass jar you had trapped yourself in begin to crack.

This whole time, you'd convinced yourself that hiding in your dormitory was helping. As long as you stayed within these four walls, you could pretend the world outside had stopped moving. Pretend that morning had never happened.

Reality settled over you with unbearable clarity.

That was what this was, wasn't it?

Rejection.

Mattheo had known exactly who you were. He'd known that every mark left on his skin would bloom across yours. He'd known you would wake up wearing the evidence of his choices.

And he'd done it anyway.

The thought hollowed you out.

Your entire life, you'd been told that soulmates were certainty. That somewhere in the world there was one person who would choose you above everyone else because the universe itself had decided you belonged together.

So what did it mean when they didn't?

If even your soulmate could look at you and still choose someone else...

Where exactly did that leave you?

Slowly, you lifted your eyes from the card to Fred, who was sitting beside you now, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, his gaze already fixed on you.

Your heart ached.

Because the answer to your unvoiced question was written all over his face.

He was every bit as heartbroken as you were.

Just as lost.

Just as unsure of where he fit into a universe that had promised him one thing, only to hand him another.

It hurt him every time he saw George with Angelina. You knew it did. No matter how much he loved his brother, no matter how genuinely happy he wanted to be for him, there had to be a small part of him that wondered why it hadn't been him.

Why fate had bothered writing her name onto his skin at all.

And you knew, with sickening certainty, that the next time you saw Mattheo...

It would tear you apart in exactly the same way.

Fred's expression softened as he noticed your eyes beginning to fill again.

He offered you a small, sympathetic smile.

"Well..." He said, giving one shoulder an exaggerated shrug, "At least we've got each other."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It was watery and quiet, immediately chased by the tear that finally slipped down your cheek. Fred grinned a little wider, looking entirely too pleased with himself for managing to get even the tiniest laugh out of you.

"I suppose the reject bin isn't completely empty."

"No," Fred agreed, "Turns out it's got surprisingly good company."

Turns out misery really did love company.

It was almost pathetic, in a way.

The only reason you had finally been able to leave your room, to walk back into the Great Hall, to sit through classes without feeling like the walls were caving in around you, was because you'd discovered you weren't the only person carrying around this strangely specific kind of heartbreak.

Your chest still tightened whenever Mattheo walked into a room. Every accidental glance across a corridor still left you feeling hollowed out from the inside, wondering how someone who was supposedly destined to love you had found it so easy to choose somebody else instead.

But sitting beside Fred somehow made it easier to breathe.

You supposed anyone watching from the outside would've found it to be the most obvious outcome imaginable.

Birds of a feather.

Two people who had somehow fallen through the cracks of destiny naturally gravitating toward one another.

Before long, spending time with Fred stopped feeling like something you consciously chose to do and instead became part of your routine. You'd find him waiting outside your classroom without either of you having planned it, or he'd drop into the empty seat beside you at breakfast as though it had always belonged to him.

Sometimes you talked about soulmates.

Most of the time, you didn't.

And somehow, those were your favourite conversations.

You hadn't realized just how grateful you'd become for his presence until one morning at breakfast when Harry slid onto the bench opposite you, looking unusually flustered and whispered, "I met my soulmate last night."

Thankfully, Hermione's excited gasp and Ron's loud, "You what?!" completely drowned out the sound of your breath catching in your throat.

For a brief, horrible second, it felt as though you had left your own body.

The conversation continued around you in muffled voices while you watched it all unfold from somewhere far away, like you were observing it through thick glass. Hermione was already peppering Harry with questions. Harry, red-faced and grinning despite himself, tried unsuccessfully to answer them both at once.

You just... watched.

Until something warm wrapped gently around your hand beneath the table and your attention snapped back. Without saying a word, you laced your fingers through his beneath the tablecloth, hidden from everyone else.

The knot in your stomach loosened.

Not completely. But just enough so that when you turned back to Harry, the smile on your face no longer felt so forced.

"Congratulations, Harry," You said softly, "I'm really happy for you."

Harry's smile faltered.

Only then did it seem to occur to him what he'd just blurted out—and who he'd blurted it out in front of.

A flicker of guilt passed across his face behind his glasses.

"Oh, (Y/N), I didn't—I wasn't thinking—"

You shook your head before he could finish, "It's okay."

And surprisingly...

It was.

Harry relaxed, offering you a small, grateful smile before Hermione immediately launched into another question, successfully stealing his attention once more.

Only then did you turn your head.

Fred was already looking at you.

Your joined hands still rested beneath the table, his thumb absentmindedly brushing across your knuckles.

"I just can't believe how much time I've wasted."

Your voice was quiet as you stared up at the canopy of Fred's bed, watching the afternoon sunlight dance lazily across the faded red fabric. Beside you, Fred lay with one arm tucked behind his head, the other dangling over the edge of the mattress. He turned his head slightly.

"Hm?"

It wasn't often the conversation drifted back to soulmates anymore.

Somehow, the two of you had become remarkably good at avoiding the very thing that had brought you together in the first place. But every now and then, usually when the castle had gone quiet around you, one of you would bring it up again.

And somehow it was always easier talking to Fred than anyone else.

"I've never even been on a date," You admitted with a humourless laugh, "Can you believe that?"

Fred's eyebrows lifted.

"I just... wasted so much time." You sighed, picking absentmindedly at a loose thread in the blanket. "I kept thinking there was no point. Why bother dating when the universe was supposedly going to hand me the perfect person eventually?"

You shook your head.

"I was so convinced that one day everything would just... happen."

A small smile tugged at your lips.

"I suppose, in retrospect, that's a rather ridiculous way to live."

Fred was quiet for a moment.

Then he nodded.

"I get it."

You looked over at him.

"Before my soulmate mark appeared," He continued, "I never really bothered trying either. I always figured I'd meet my soulmate eventually, so whoever I dated beforehand wouldn't really matter."

He let out a small breath through his nose.

"And after..." His smile turned a little sad, "Well, there wasn't much point then either."

You understood immediately.

"Everyone already had someone they were meant to end up with."

"Exactly."

He shrugged, "It felt like borrowing someone else's future."

Silence settled comfortably between you.

"I know exactly what you mean," You murmured, "Even if I'd somehow found someone I actually liked. It would've only been a matter of time before they found their soulmate."

"And then I'd just be..." You trailed off, "Temporary."

Fred didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

Because he'd spent the last year feeling exactly the same way.

You groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over your eyes, "I just want to go on a date for once."

Fred snorted.

"Is that too much to ask?" You bemoaned.

"I don't even want anything extravagant," You continued, finally sitting upright since the topic had become important enough to warrant an actual discussion. You gestured vaguely with your hands, trying to paint the picture in the air between you, "Just… one completely ordinary date."

Fred turned his head to look at you.

"I want to wear a pretty dress," You admitted, counting on your fingers, "I want to spend far too long doing my hair, even though it'll probably end up looking exactly the same as it did before. I want someone to bring me flowers."

The last part made Fred's eyebrows climb.

"...Flowers?"

You frowned at him as though he'd just said something outrageously offensive.

"Yes. Flowers."

"You've just spent the last minute insisting you don't want anything extravagant."

"They're flowers. It's the bare minimum."

A comfortable silence settled over the room again. You flopped back against the mattress with an exaggerated sigh, staring up at the canopy above while Fred continued looking at the ceiling beside you.

"I just..." You murmured after a while, your voice softer now, "I wish I knew what it felt like."

"What?"

"To have butterflies."

The admission felt oddly embarrassing.

"To get excited because someone asked me out. To spend the whole day wondering what they're going to think when they see me. To hold someone's hand because they wanted to hold mine." You laughed quietly at yourself, "I don't even care whether it's life-changing anymore."

You swallowed, the words catching slightly in your throat.

“I just wanted to know what normal feels like.”

For a moment, Fred didn’t respond.

He just lay there beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed lazily on the canopy above as though he were turning your words over somewhere quieter than conversation. The pause stretched longer than you expected it to—long enough that you almost convinced yourself he wasn’t going to answer at all, that the moment had passed and you’d said too much again.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he spoke.

“So let’s go on one.”

You frowned, turning your head slightly, having forgotten how the conversation had even ended, “...Go on what?”

“A date.”

That made you sit up a little more properly, the word feeling strangely out of place in the softness of the room, “A date?”

“Seems like the obvious solution.” He added, as though he were suggesting something as simple as going for a walk.

You blinked at him, trying to make sense of his expression, “...With who?”

Fred looked almost insulted.

"With me."

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind this time.

The air between you shifted—just slightly. You became acutely aware of the space between your shoulders, the way your fingers were curled into the blanket, the way Fred didn’t seem to notice any of it at all.

He, meanwhile, looked completely unconcerned with the fact that he had just suggested something that felt like it should be impossible to say out loud.

“I mean…” He continued after a beat, shrugging one shoulder as if it were obvious, “Think about it.”

You hesitated, “I am.”

“We’re both sitting here complaining we’ve never really dated anyone.”

“Yes…”

“We’re both catastrophically single.”

“Unfortunately.” You muttered, despite yourself.

“We both want to know what all the fuss is about.”

“I suppose.”

“So…” He spread his hands slightly, palms up, as though presenting the most logical conclusion in the world, “Why don’t we just take each other? Scratch the itch a bit.”

You looked away for a second, down at your hands where they were picking absently at the edge of the blanket, “I don’t know…” You admitted quietly.

Fred didn’t push. He rarely did.

Instead, he shifted slightly closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough that his presence was harder to ignore.

“You said you wanted to wear a pretty dress.”

“I did.” You murmured.

“You said you wanted a normal date.”

That made you glance back at him again.

Your voice came out softer this time, almost uncertain, “I do.”

A pause.

The kind that felt like something was being decided inside it.

Fred’s expression didn’t change much, but his voice gentled.

“So let me take you on one.”

Even though you were almost entirely certain Fred had suggested the date as a joke, you found yourself surprisingly nervous when the day finally arrived.

Not because you expected anything to happen.

It wasn't really a date, after all.

Not a real one.

Just two rejects pretending, for a few hours, that the universe hadn't forgotten about them.

Still, you couldn't deny there was something undeniably exciting about getting ready for it.

You stood in front of the mirror for far longer than you cared to admit, smoothing invisible creases from your clothes before immediately finding new ones to fuss over. Your hair had already been redone twice, and you were currently debating whether it looked better tucked behind your ears or left loose around your shoulders.

You had practically licked your lips dry, wanting to put on just a little bit of gloss, if not to look good then at least to stop you from worrying them so much.

But third year had taught you that makeup simply wasn't worth the argument.

The memory still made you grimace.

You had gotten a tube of cherry lip gloss as an impulse purchase from Hogsmeade. The bottle was just so cute and the colour was just right and it smelt like a cherry pie.

You'd worn it exactly once before Mattheo had cornered you in a corridor, positively livid over the matching sheen that had mysteriously appeared on his own lips.

The argument had been spectacular.

You'd shouted.

He'd shouted louder.

By the end of it both your cheeks had been burning, partly from anger and partly from the sheer humiliation.

After that, you'd quietly switched to glamour charms.

You shook your head, willing the memory to leave your mind. A light spritz of perfume followed, and then another after you convinced yourself the first one hadn't been enough.

This wasn't a date.

You reminded yourself of that several times while changing outfits.

And yet, by the time you finally slipped out of Gryffindor Tower—carefully timing your escape before Hermione and the others returned from lunch so nobody could make a spectacle of it—you couldn't deny the flutter of anticipation low in your stomach.

Your first date.

Fake though it may have been.

Fred was already waiting beside the Black Lake when you arrived. The moment he spotted you, his face broke into an easy grin. He awkwardly straightened where he stood before holding out a small bouquet of hand-picked wildflowers.

A smile spread across your face before you could stop it.

You accepted them carefully, bringing them close enough to catch their sweet scent, asking with a teasing lilt to your tone, "Now whose Herbology project did you ruin by nicking these?"

Fred clutched dramatically at his chest.

"I would never."

"No?"

"I'll have you know these were ethically sourced. Well, a bit of unpaid labour." He said, showing you the slight dirt that was still left on the tips of his fingers.

You grinned, leaning to give him a quick peck on the cheek, "There, paid for in full."

"So..." You said, looking up at him, "What's the plan? It isn't swimming, is it? Because I spent entirely too long on my hair."

His eyes flicked over said hair for only the briefest moment.

"It looks nice."

You blinked.

"...Thank you."

The words came so casually that he didn't even seem to realize he'd said them aloud. Then his usual grin returned, "And don't worry. I've got something much more special in mind."

Rather than reassuring you, that somehow made you considerably more suspicious.

Fred simply laughed before turning on his heel and beckoning for you to follow. He led you around the edge of the Black Lake and toward a dense cluster of trees you'd never paid much attention to before.

"I thought we'd collectively agreed wandering into mysterious forests was a terrible idea after the centaurs last year." You remarked as you ducked beneath a low branch he held out of your way.

"We did."

"And?"

"We also established I was the worse student between the two of us."

You rolled your eyes, "Can't argue with that."

A few moments later he stopped.

Nestled between several thick tree trunks was what appeared to be nothing more than a tiny tunnel woven entirely from vines and ivy.

Before you had time to question it, Fred crouched down and disappeared inside.

You stared after him.

"...Bit brazen of you to expect a girl to get on her knees on the first date, don't you think, Weasley?"

His laugh echoed back through the tunnel.

"Oh, come on."

"I'm simply making observations."

"Get in here, (Y/N)."

Still muttering dramatically under your breath, you crouched down and crawled after him. The tunnel only lasted a few feet.

The first thing you noticed as your head emerged from the other side was the sunlight. Bright summer sunshine spilled across your face exactly as expected.

The second thing you noticed was the cold.

A sharp, winter chill immediately kissed your cheeks and nipped at the end of your nose.

You blinked.

Then looked up.

Your breath caught.

Hidden away beyond the curtain of vines was a tiny clearing unlike anywhere else on the Hogwarts grounds.

Wildflowers carpeted the earth in every imaginable colour while rabbits darted lazily through the grass, entirely unconcerned by your arrival. Golden afternoon light poured through the canopy overhead, making the entire place glow like something lifted straight from a fairy tale.

But none of that was what stole your breath.

At the very centre of the clearing lay a lake.

Perfectly still.

Perfectly frozen.

A sheet of flawless ice sat beneath the blazing summer sun as though winter itself had been trapped inside this tiny corner of the world.

"...What on earth..."

"Amazing, isn't it?"

You turned to find Fred watching you rather than the lake.

His grin was quieter now. There was still that unmistakable stretch of pride across his face as he took in your gobsmacked reaction, but beneath it lingered a hint of fondness that sent a slight flush to your cheeks, one you stubbornly insisted was caused by the cold.

"I was mucking about here in second year," He admitted with an embarrassed scratch at the back of his neck, "George and I were trying to invent a product that could make it snow indoors."

"And?"

"And... I may have perpetually frozen the entire lake."

You stared at him, "You may have?"

He shrugged, "I got scared I'd be in trouble if anyone found it."

"So you..."

"So, I never told anyone."

As he spoke, he reached out and absentmindedly cast a quiet Scourgify over your clothes, brushing away the bits of moss and leaves that had collected while crawling through the tunnel.

His fingers paused near your shoulder.

"There."

He gently plucked a tiny twig from your hair before tucking a loose strand behind your ear with absent familiarity.

"So..." You looked back at the lake, "You've never shown anyone this?"

"No."

"...Not even George?"

Fred's smile softened.

He shook his head.

"No."

Something warm unfurled low in your chest.

Warmer than the summer sun beating down on you.

You felt it.

The butterflies.

Walking back toward the castle felt strangely bittersweet.

Like stepping out of a storybook.

The hidden clearing disappeared behind the curtain of vines the moment you stepped through it, swallowed once again by the forest as though it had never been there at all. If you hadn't still felt the lingering chill clinging to your clothes, you might have convinced yourself you'd imagined the entire afternoon.

Your nose stung from the cold.

Your cheeks, however, had turned pink from hours spent laughing beneath the summer sun.

The two of you had spent hours on that frozen lake.

By the time the sun had begun sinking below the treeline, painting the ice in shades of amber and gold, the two of you had been too exhausted to do much more than sit side by side on the frozen shore, talking until the growing darkness reminded you that professors generally frowned upon students disappearing into enchanted forests after curfew.

Now, the familiar warmth of the castle wrapped around you as the heavy oak doors swung shut behind you.

The sudden change in temperature made your fingers tingle unpleasantly as feeling slowly returned to them.

A comfortable silence settled between you as you wandered through the entrance hall.

Students passed around you in little groups, chatting animatedly over dinner plans and unfinished essays, but neither of you made any move toward joining them.

Eventually, you reached the foot of the marble staircase.

You turned toward Fred.

He'd been unusually quiet for the last few minutes.

The easy confidence he'd carried all afternoon had somehow disappeared somewhere between the lake and the castle, replaced instead by something unexpectedly hesitant. His hands had found the pockets of his jumper again and he rocked back slightly on his heels before clearing his throat.

"(Y/N)..."

"Hm?"

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"So..."

You waited.

"I know..." He let out a small, awkward laugh, "I know this wasn't exactly a date-date. But…" His eyes found yours again, "I had a really good time."

Something in your chest fluttered.

"And unless I've completely misread today..." He continued carefully, "I think maybe you did too."

You did.

Far more than you'd expected to.

"So..." He took a small breath, "Unless I've made an absolute fool of myself here, I was wondering if maybe—"

"Let's go on a second date, Fred."

The words escaped before your brain had the chance to stop them.

You hadn't meant to interrupt him.

Truthfully, you'd been rather enjoying the exceedingly rare spectacle of Fred Weasley stumbling over his own words. It was oddly endearing watching someone who always seemed to have a joke ready suddenly become hopelessly tongue-tied.

Unfortunately, your own anticipation had won the race.

Silence settled between you. Fred simply stared. For one wonderfully long moment, he looked completely dumbfounded.

Then, slowly, a grin began tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It spread across his face before he could stop it, bright enough that you watched him actively try to suppress it.

"Well," He drawled, folding his arms as though he hadn't just been struck speechless, "Someone's certainly getting ahead of herself, isn't she?"

You folded your own arms in mock offence.

"Oh?"

"I hadn't even finished asking yet."

"You were taking too long."

He took one thoughtful look at you before his grin returned in full force.

"...So," He tilted his head ever so slightly, "Same time next week?"

Fred was always good at date ideas.

You knew that much by now.

Every time you met him, there was something planned—something a little ridiculous, a little exhausting, and always, without fail, something that made it impossible for you to think about anything else except how much you were laughing.

But with the July heat pressing down over Hogwarts like a heavy, unrelenting spell, even Fred’s usual energy had begun to soften at the edges.

The castle itself felt sluggish. Corridors held onto warmth long after sunset, windows stayed permanently open, and even the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall seemed stuck in an endless stretch of pale, hazy blue.

But it seemed the unbearable heat had given Fred an idea for another date.

Which was how you found yourself standing at the edge of the Black Lake in a cute bikini you’d been waiting all summer to wear, your shoes discarded somewhere in the grass behind you, watching him attempt to skip stones across the water.

He managed one bounce.

The stone immediately sank.

“Hm,” Fred said thoughtfully, staring at the ripples like they had personally betrayed him, “I’ve gotten considerably worse at that.”

“You were never good.”

“I distinctly remember being excellent.”

“That’s the heat talking. It’s cooked your brain.”

He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offence.

“You wound me.”

“I try.”

He looked at you, a sinister smile on his face that gave you a feeling that he was planning something, “Well, I try harder.”

You barely had time to process the warning in his grin before you felt it—a sharp splash against your shoulders, cold water exploding across your skin.

“Fred!”

You sputtered as you broke the surface, hair dripping into your eyes just in time to see him double over laughing.

And then, before you could retaliate, he cannonballed in after you.

Every moment of calm dissolved into splashing, laughter, and half-hearted attempts to dunk one another beneath the surface. Fred succeeded exactly once before you retaliated by grabbing his ankle and dragging him under with you, emerging seconds later breathless and triumphant.

By the time the chaos finally eased, you’d drifted farther from shore, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and your sides aching from laughing too hard.

For a moment, there was nothing but gentle movement. Water lapping softly against your shoulders. Sunlight scattering across the surface in broken gold. Fred floating nearby, hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like he didn’t have a single thought in his head except this.

You turned slightly, your gaze catching on something in the water near your hands.

It glimmered faintly beneath the surface.

“Oh—wait—” You said, reaching out instinctively, “I think that’s a shell or something. It's pretty."

Before you could even finish the sentence, Fred was already diving.

He disappeared beneath the surface without hesitation.

"Chivalry is dead, they say."

The words died in your throat when he resurfaced a moment later, shaking water from his hair.

In his hand, he held the shell out proudly, grinning at you, “Ta-da.”

You smiled automatically, already reaching for it, already preparing some teasing comment until your eyes slipped past his hand.

Past the shell.

To his wrist.

Angelina.

The name sat against his skin like it belonged there.

Like it had always belonged there.

Your fingers stopped mid-air.

Fred was still talking, still smiling, still looking at you with that easy warmth that had become so familiar you didn’t even think about it anymore. His voice blurred slightly at the edges, like it was coming from farther away than it actually was, and the lake around you suddenly felt quieter, heavier, as though it had decided to hold its breath with you.

You couldn’t look away from it.

Angelina.

It wasn't wasn't the first time you were seeing it. It definitely wasn't new.

And yet seeing it like this—so close, so real, so casually visible between moments of laughter—made something inside you tighten in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.

The universe’s choice.

Not you.

Never you.

A strange stillness settled in your chest, not sharp at first, just heavy, like the slow sinking of something you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your thoughts began to slip before you could catch them, drifting in directions you couldn’t stop.

Would they make a good couple?

Did she ever think about him when she looked at George?

Did she ever wonder what it would’ve been like if she’d chosen differently, if she’d taken a different path, if she’d looked at the wrong twin and hesitated just a second longer?

And worse—did Fred ever think about it too?

The shell in his hand suddenly felt irrelevant, something from a different moment entirely, like it didn’t belong in this one anymore. Like it had been part of a version of the world where you weren’t thinking about this. Where you weren’t standing in the middle of a lake watching the evidence of a future you didn’t belong in wrapped around his wrist.

You weren’t even fully aware of the shift until it had already happened.

One moment you were here, in sunlight and laughter and water that still clung warm to your skin.

The next, everything felt distant.

Muted.

As though you had stepped just slightly outside of yourself.

“…(Y/N)?”

You blinked, forcing yourself back into your body, into the moment, into the lake and the shell and him.

Fred was closer now, his expression no longer playful. The smile had faded without him even seeming to notice, replaced by something quieter, more attentive.

“You alright?”

For a second, you forgot how to answer.

Then you managed something that almost resembled normal.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

His eyes didn’t leave your face.

“You sure?”

Too quickly—too automatically—you nodded.

“Just cold.”

Even as you said it, you knew it wasn’t convincing.

Fred didn’t push. He rarely did when it mattered.

Instead, he moved closer through the water until his arm brushed yours, steady and grounding, and then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he slipped it around your waist to keep you from drifting too far with the current.

“Yeah? Well,” He said softly, almost lightly again, as though trying to pull you back without forcing it, “We can fix that.”

And for a moment, you let him.

Just a moment.

A final moment.

In all honesty, you hadn’t meant to avoid him.

Really, you hadn’t.

It wasn’t like you actively chose to turn around every time you saw Fred in the corridors, or pretend you hadn’t received his notes because you’d gone to bed early, or slip out of a room the second you heard his boisterous laughter drawing closer—the same laughter that used to send a wave of warmth flooding through you.

But every time you saw him—his warm brown eyes, shadowed by long lashes—you felt that sinking pit open up in your stomach, swallowing everything else whole. It ruined your day before it had even properly begun.

And even though all you wanted was to be near him, you couldn’t help but turn away every time his eyes searched for you.

You really should have considered the fact that Fred wasn’t going to take it lying down.

And that he knew all about the secret passageways scattered around Hogwarts.

So you really shouldn’t have been surprised when he appeared in the corridor that had been empty not even a second ago—grabbing your wrist and stopping you in your tracks.

“Fred.”

“This push-and-pull bullshit isn’t going to work with me, (Y/N),” He said immediately, “If you want to break up with me, you better look me in the eye and do it.”

Ironic.

Because you couldn’t.

Your gaze stayed anchored to his wrist—specifically, to the inked name along his pulse, peeking out from beneath his sleeve.

And just like that, the pit in your stomach returned.

“This isn’t going to work, Fred.”

His brows twitched, his grip tightening just a fraction—like he was afraid you’d slip away again if he loosened it.

“Why?”

You let out a breath, shaking your head like the answer should be obvious.

“Because you’re not meant to be with me,” You said, “You’re already… destined for someone else.”

A flicker of confusion crossed his face.

“My brother’s soulmate?” He said, almost incredulous, “I would never do that to him. And she’s already made her choice.”

“And if she didn’t?” You pressed, your voice tightening, “If she changes her mind tomorrow? If she decides you’re the one she’s meant to be with… would you change yours?”

The question hung between you.

Fred didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his gaze sharpened.

“Well then what about you?” He shot back, “If Riddle suddenly realizes how badly he messed up—comes crawling back, begging you to take him—would you go?”

The edge in his voice hit harder than you expected.

Suddenly, you were back in your dorm room again, staring at lipstick marks you hadn’t chosen, feeling that same hollow, awful ache in your chest.

Except this time—

he wasn’t your soulmate.

You had no claim to Fred.

If he turned around tomorrow and chose Angelina, you couldn’t fault him for it.

After all… she was his soulmate.

And if he wasn’t by your side—

If Mattheo came back, asking for your forgiveness—

Would you really be able to go back to him like nothing had happened? Could you let him touch you with the same hands that had touched someone else, pretend you didn’t know exactly where they had been? Could you stand there in his arms and still feel that sense of certainty you used to dream soulmates would bring—the feeling that this was your place in the world, that you were chosen, needed, loved completely?

“No,” You said, your voice barely above a whisper as the realization settled in, “I wouldn’t.”

Your voice steadied as you continued.

“I don’t want someone who would hurt me on purpose,” You said quietly, “I don’t want someone who makes me feel like I’m something they can come back to when it suits them. Like the only reason I’m with them is because someone out there decided it.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his.

“I want you.” You admitted, your voice tightening as you realized just how true it was.

These past few weeks with Fred had been the happiest you’d been in a long time. When you were with him, it felt like you’d finally found your place in the universe.

And that terrified you.

Because he wasn’t yours.

Not really.

And if those lipstick marks had broken your heart, then watching Fred walk away from you and go back to Angelina the second she called would destroy you.

“But I want you to want me too,” You finished, “Not just because I’m there. Not just to fill some empty space.”

Silence settled between you.

Fred’s grip loosened—not letting go, just sliding from your wrist to your hand, holding it instead.

“I’ll admit it,” He said after a moment, “That’s how it started.”

Your chest tightened.

“Just… something to make it hurt less,” He continued, quieter now, “Something to not feel so bloody lonely all the time.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you.

“But it’s not that anymore, (Y/N).”

And when you met his eyes, all you saw was sincerity. It hit you in a way you couldn’t quite explain—like the two of you weren’t just standing in a corridor anymore, but somewhere else entirely. Somewhere smaller. Quieter.

Just the two of you in the entire universe.

“I’m falling for you,” He said, like it scared him a little to admit it, he'd been burned before and he was scared he was going to be again, “And I want to be with you. Soulmate or not.”

You wanted to believe him.

You really did.

But the tattoo of her name lingered in your mind—a ghost between the two of you you didn’t know how to exorcise.

“But what about—”

“Fuck Angelina, alright!”

Your eyes widened and he dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, desperate, “There isn’t a single part of me that wants her right now,” He said, “I thought I did. I thought I was supposed to. But I don’t.”

His voice dropped.

“Not like I do when I’m with you.”

You stared at him, that pit in your stomach beginning to dissipate, just slightly.

“(Y/N), please.” He said, taking your hand in both of his and pulling you closer, guiding your palm to rest against his chest.

His heartbeat was fast.

Almost as fast as yours.

“If you don’t feel the same way about me, that’s okay,” He said softly, “But don’t push me away because you think I’d rather be with anyone other than you. Because there is no one else, and there never will be.”

Something in you shifted, quiet but undeniable, and before you could second-guess it you stepped closer, your hand coming up to rest against his shoulder as you rose onto your toes, leaning in with the simple intention of pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

But at the last second, he turned his head.

Your breath caught, your lips just a hair away from meeting his, so close you could feel the warmth of him, could see your own reflection in his blown out pupils. Your gaze dropped, almost involuntarily, to his mouth for just a moment and before you knew what was happening, you had closed the distance.

You had always thought your first kiss would be with your soulmate. You had saved it, carefully, stubbornly, building it up in your mind during sleepless nights—imagining electricity in little jolts rushing through your body, feeling inexplicable heat where he would've grabbed the dips of your waist, imagining certainty, imagining that unmistakable feeling that would tell you, without question, this is it.

You thought you would feel boundless joy rush through you, a state of euphoria that made you feel tethered and floating at the same time as you kissed the person you were meant to be with for the very first time.

As your arms slid around Fred’s neck and pulled him closer, as he kissed you back, his arms looping around your waist as he began to lose himself into you, blurring the lines between where you ended and he began.

You realized—

It was everything you had ever dreamed it would be.

The Gryffindor common room was rarely this quiet.

It almost felt like you had managed to catch your foot in the rug and slip into some kind of alternate dimension. Normally, it was chaos in its purest form—laughter spilling over armchairs, someone shouting about Quidditch from across the room, first-years getting shushed for the tenth time in five minutes. But tonight, the fire crackled softly instead of roaring, and even that felt like it was trying not to disturb the peace.

You were curled up in Fred’s lap like it was the most natural place in the world, one of his arms loosely around your waist while the other lazily traced patterns against your knee. You, meanwhile, were fully invested in a crossword puzzle like your life depended on it.

“Six across,” You murmured, brow furrowed, “Ten letters. ‘An ingredient in Pepper-Up potion—’ oh, this is easy.”

Fred hummed behind you, amused, “You say that about every single clue.”

“Because I am right every single time.”

“You absolutely are not.”

You glanced up at him over your shoulder, squinting, “Are you challenging my intellectual superiority?”

He shrugged, though that infuriating smirk was still on his face, “Not at all. Oh look—twelve down. Another word for humility. Quick, how many letters in 'not (Y/N)'?”

You clicked your tongue, rolling your eyes, and moved on to the next clue, solving it just as quickly as the last one. You leaned back against him with a satisfied little grin—and Fred tightened his arm around you just enough to make you tilt into him again.

“Show-off.” He murmured.

You solved another clue, and without thinking, pressed a quick kiss to his jaw.

Fred paused.

Then, like it was nothing at all, he kissed the top of your head in return.

It became a rhythm after that—clue, answer, kiss; clue, answer, kiss—soft and absentminded, warm in a way that made the rest of the world feel very far away.

Until it didn’t.

“You two are adorable.” Came a voice behind you.

You both turned slightly.

Lavender Brown stood a few steps away, arms folded, her expression somewhere between pity and smug satisfaction. Her gaze flicked pointedly between you and Fred, lingering just a second too long on the way you were sitting together.

“It’s just…” She continued lightly, “such a shame, isn’t it?”

You blinked, “What is?”

“That you’re not actually soulmates.” Her lips curled, “It’s such a shame you’ll never know what it feels like to be in your soulmate’s arms.”

Silence settled for half a beat.

Fred’s hand stopped moving on your waist.

You slowly closed the crossword book.

Then you looked up at her properly.

“Well, I actually take a lot of pride in that,” You said, voice sweet as honey, “At least I’m not like some people who the big man in the sky clearly knew wouldn’t be able to land a partner with that face and personality… so he had to shackle some poor bloke to them just to make it work.”

Fred made a sound that suspiciously resembled a cough hiding a laugh.

Lavender’s face went red instantly, “That’s— I didn’t—”

“Mm.” You tilted your head, “Anyway, good talk.”

She opened her mouth again, clearly searching for something to salvage her dignity, but nothing came. After a second of flustered silence, she spun on her heel and walked away far faster than she’d arrived.

The moment she was gone, Fred let out a low whistle.

“Good job, sweetheart.”

“Well,” You said with a small shrug, “I am the funny one in this relationship.”

Fred hummed quietly—the sound vibrating through his chest where your back was pressed against him.

“Oh yeah?” He murmured.

There was something in his voice now—lower, slower, warmer.

“S'that so?”

Something about it—the depth of his tone, the way his words seemed to slur like they were weighing on his tongue, the way he looked at you like he was genuinely drunk on you—made your stomach drop in a way you’d never felt before.

The crossword book slipped from your lap and fell to the floor.

And then you were turning fully in his arms, grabbing the front of his jumper, and kissing him properly.

Fred made a sound of surprise that quickly melted into something far more pleased. His palm slid to your back, pulling you in, and you felt yourself go slightly hollow with it—like every thought had been knocked clean out of you. Your hands moved up to frame his jaw as he kissed you back with growing desire.

And for a moment, the rest of the world didn’t exist at all.

Ron Weasley chose that exact moment to walk into the common room like he had impeccable comedic timing and absolutely no sense of mercy.

The door swung open with a creak, letting in a burst of cold corridor air—and Ron, flanked by a couple of his friends, froze mid-step.

Ron physically recoiled.

“For God’s sake,” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, “Can you guys stop this disgusting display of affection?"

Fred didn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looked mildly offended that Ron had interrupted his very important work of being glued to your lips.

You, still slightly breathless—and also slightly offended—were actually a little relieved he’d walked in. Because if you’d been allowed to carry on, you were fairly certain you’d be expelled for public indecency.

Ron gestured vaguely at the scene like it physically pained him, like he was about to wretch up his guts at the thought of one of his best friends with his brother, “It makes other people who haven’t found their soulmates feel bad.”

Your eyes flicked to Fred.

And before you could stop it, you both shared the same secret smile.

Ron hadn’t even realized what he’d implied.

Still, something warm and oddly sweet curled in your stomach anyway.

Fred noticed it too. Of course he did.

“Right,” He said lazily, looking back at Ron, “We’ll make ourselves scarce then. Wouldn’t want to traumatise poor, lonely Ronald.”

“Oi—”

But Fred was already standing, pulling you up with him in one smooth motion like it was second nature.

You barely had time to steady yourself before his hand found yours.

And just like that, he was leading you toward the staircase.

You glanced over your shoulder at Ron one last time, sending him a mischievous smile and a quick wink.

He responded with a face of pure disgust.

It made you laugh—but the sound faded as you climbed higher into the tower, Fred still holding your hand like he had no intention of letting go.

epilogue: (lowkey the og plan was to kill off freddie but i changed my mind lol)

Eventually, Mattheo Riddle became very good at pretending.

It was a skill he perfected over the years in the same quiet, miserable way people learned to live with old injuries—carefully, stubbornly, until the pain became less of a sharp wound and more of a permanent ache woven into everyday life.

At first, it had been difficult. Mattheo had always been a man of candor. When he wanted something, he took it. When he felt desire, he showed it, and more often than not the world bent willingly into his hands. When he felt anger, disgust, hatred—he made sure everyone around him felt it too.

But heartbreak?

Guilt?

Regret?

Those emotions sat strangely on him, like clothes tailored for someone else entirely.

For a long time, he found reminders of you everywhere. Every couple passing him in the street felt like a mockery of something he had ruined with his own hands.

But time had a cruel way of dulling even the sharpest pain.

Eventually, Hogwarts became memories instead of places. The castle faded into nothing more than fragments in the back of his mind. He stopped dreaming about you eventually. Or perhaps he simply stopped remembering the dreams by morning.

He learned how to fill his days well enough.

Work helped.

Noise helped.

Women helped sometimes too, though never for very long. He became frighteningly good at moving from one distraction to the next without ever lingering long enough for silence to settle around him properly.

Because silence was dangerous.

Silence was where you lived.

People stopped mentioning your name around him after a while.

That helped.

Or at least, that was what he liked to believe.

Years passed that way.

Quietly. Pathetically.

And eventually, he became good enough at pretending that even he almost believed himself.

Until one morning, long after he had stopped allowing himself to think about soulmates at all, Mattheo woke to faint silver lines stretching across the skin of his stomach.

For a long moment, he simply stared at them in the mirror.

Then, silently, he swallowed the pain.

And pretended he never noticed them.

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The twins had made it big! They were constantly working on new ideas for the shop, coming up with new candies that made feet swell, vials that steamed in the shape of an ugly face, and so much more. 

Even after graduating, growing up, becoming independent, and now training to become an Aurologist, you still had a certain ginger boy on your mind. You figured it was just some schoolgirl crush that would have faded after the reality of the real world hit you. However, the same boy you thought you would forget about became a part of your weekly routine. Who could blame you? The Weasley twins constantly had a lineup of girls waiting on hand and foot for one of the twins even to look their way. 

Rain thudded against the windows of each shop in Diagon Alley. New first-years were seen scattering around the cobblestone roadway to get the essentials for the new year at Hogwarts. You smiled softly as you watched, reminiscing on the times you had in the same shops. 

As you made your way through the shouting kids and confused parents, you walked into the shop you now knew best. Every shelf was engraved in your mind, and you knew the entire catalog by how often you showed up. 

You would typically come in on Thursday mornings when training was about an hour later than the rest of the week. It’s not exactly that you wanted to shop there. I mean, their products were genius, don’t get me wrong. However, no matter how hard you tried to pretend to read various labels and act confused about certain charms just to linger a bit longer, all that information went in one ear and out the other when you could be listening to Fred instead.

The familiar ringing of a bell rang through the shop. Giggles were heard from every direction, even some squeals of children figuring out the products.

You walked through, eyes scanning the shop. Your eyes settled on the front counter, the familiar tall red-headed boy restocking some candies. A faint smile laced your lips as you walked towards the counter. 

“George got you doing the restocks now?” You teased lightly. 

Fred looked up, the faint annoyance on his face turning into a soft smile.

“Well, isn’t it our most valued customer?” He teased back. A mischievous grin laced his lips as he placed an elbow on the counter, setting his chin on top of his closed fist. If it weren’t for you keeping it in the back of your mind that you and Fred were merely friends, you would’ve melted right on the spot at his stupid little face.

“Got anything new yet?” You asked back, head tilting slightly.

“Not yet. We have been working on a new product. Should be ready next week if our favorite girl wants to come back into the shop for a little look and maybe a test?” He laced the question with a faint hint of puppy dog eyes, almost begging for you to test it out.

“You’re too desperate that it’s concerning,” you shot back. “You’re probably gonna turn my hands purple with sprinkles or something.”

“Well, now we have to think of a new product.”

A faint snort of laughter left your lips, shaking your head and your hand lightly covering your mouth. 

Before you could reply, you heard a crash of boxes to your left. You and Fred both turned your heads to look for the noise. As if he knew too well how good you and Fred were getting along, it was George. He had managed to knock over an entire display of Puking Pastilles, splaying them across the floor. A sheepish grin laced his lips before he performed a charm, cleaning up the mess almost instantly. 

“Fred, why didn’t you tell me our favorite customer had walked in? Got me looking like a terrible owner.”

“Co-Owner,” Fred corrected. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever pleases your pretty little head.”

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” Fred teased, poising his hands beside his cheek like a prissy little schoolgirl. 

A faint giggle left your lips as you looked to George. “I heard there’s a new product in the works. Blow anything up with it yet?”

“No,” he shot back. That was a one-time thing!” George defended as he looked to his brother. “You can’t tell this girl anything. One wrong move and she will hold it against you even in your grave.”

“She makes us look busy. I think it’s worth it,” he replied with a shrug laced with a faint wink.

George rolled his eyes playfully. “Anyways, Sunshine. You looking for anything or just another visit?”

You simply shrugged, eyes glancing around. “Mainly just a little visit before I go on for training. Wanted to see if the place was still holding up or if it was on stilts.”

“Fred, we’re banning her for life,” he joked.

A small smirk laced your lips before you heard the bell ring once more, signaling more customers coming through. You glanced at the clock on the wall, numbers displayed chaotically. If it weren’t for the twins teaching you how that clock worked, you would’ve guessed it was 4 pm.

A small sigh left your lips. “I think I have to head out. I have to be at training in forty minutes, and who knows if the train decides to show up on time,” you said with a reluctant smile.

George picked up some more boxes from behind the counter, smiling as he slowly started walking off.  “Good luck!”

Now, it was just you and Fred again. The nervousness bundled back up into your body as you both looked at each other. A small breath left your lips, trying to find words again. 

“So, you’ll be back next week?” Fred seemed to ask hesitantly.

“Where else would I rather be?” You asked with a small smile.

A small smile laced Fred’s lips as he gave a faint nod of approval. He hesitated before bednign down, grabbing something behind the counter. Curiosity filled you before he popped back up, holding a small bag of chocolate chip cookies. A faint smile laced your lips. 

“What’s with the bag?”

“Mum said I should give you these on her behalf. She says hi,” Fred mentioned a bit nervously. 

Your smile widened ever so slightly. Molly truly was one of the most thoughtful women you had met in your time at Hogwarts.

“She remembers me?”

Fred hesitated, the back of his neck creeping pink. “She loves to hear about you and what you’ve been up to.”

A faint rose covered your cheekbones. 

They talk about me…?

You reached over and gently took the bag. His slender fingers ghosting yours for a moment before pulling away abruptly. You noticed his eyes dart away, glancing over a small paper on the countertop. The boy across from you cleared his throat before speaking again. 

“Yeah, so, I’ll see you next Thursday.”

You gave a faint nod, cookies now in your bag. 

“I’ll be ready to test the new famous product.” You said a bit playfully, hoping to return the earlier mood.

Fred’s lips grew wide with a nod.

“I’ll have them ready for our favorite.”

Fred and george pov

George made his way towards the counter once more, wiping his hands with a cloth.

“You're good for business, yknow?” George nudged Fred with his elbow, still glancing at the front door.

“What do you mean?” Fred’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, his eyes finally tearing from the door you had left through.

“You know she only comes in here to see you.”

“No, she doesn't. She just likes settling down before going into training,” Fred defended. You only ever thought of him as a friend, right? I mean, if you were ever going to make a move, it would have been the countless times Fred practically forced you to be his partner in potions whenever George would skip class or be sick.

Or at least the man who had once been yours.

At first, you thought you were mistaken. After all, years passed without seeing him or hearing his voice, but it was him.

For several seconds, neither of you moved. You stood frozen, one hand gripping the strap of your bag while he looked at you.

Then he smiled. He had changed, his face was more mature now, his features sharper, his shoulders seemed broader beneath the dark coat he was wearing.

Life had moved forward for both of you. You have taken different paths, met different people, built entirely new versions of yourselves. You graduated, found a job, moved away from home, and learned how to live on your own, and yet, as you watched him rise from his seat and walk toward you, a part of you felt all those years disappear.

James made his way through the small crowd gathered near the counter, and for a moment the murmur of the café faded away completely. The only thing left was the sound of his shoes against the wooden floor.

"Wow..." he said when he stopped less than a meter away. His voice was deeper than you remembered. "It's really you."

You tried to react, forcing your vocal cords to produce a sound. "James," you managed, and your own voice sounded strange to your ears. "Hi."

"Hi," he replied, his eyes behind his glasses studying your face. "You look... incredible. Seriously."

"Thanks. You look... different," you said, adjusting your bag on your shoulder.

"Is that a subtle way of saying I'm getting old?" he joked.

The tension in your shoulders eased immediately. God, it was ridiculous how he could still do that with a single sentence.

"A vanilla oat milk latte to go!" the barista called from behind the counter, interrupting the moment.

"That's mine," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the counter.

James nodded, but he didn't move, he kept looking at you, and from the way his fingers nervously tapped against the side of his coffee cup, you knew he was fighting an internal battle of his own.

"I know you're probably busy..." he said, taking a small step back to give you space, though he never looked away. "But, I moved here a week ago for a new project. Do you have to run, or... do you have five minutes?"

You glanced at your phone. 8:40, if you left right then, you'd arrive at your desk ten minutes early, answer emails, and continue with your life.

James slipped a hand into his coat pocket and waited for your answer.

"I have ten minutes," you heard yourself say before your brain had time to catch up.

A small laugh escaped him, a mix of relief and genuine happiness, and he nodded toward the table by the window he had just left. "Ten minutes is more than enough," he said, turning around to lead the way.

You walked toward the counter to pick up your vanilla latte. As you took the cardboard cup, you noticed your fingers trembling slightly, a physical reaction that betrayed the nerves you were trying to hide. The barista gave you a quick smile before turning to the next customer.

You sat down in the chair across from James. On the table, besides his half-finished coffee, there was a notebook and a pen.

“So, the big city,” James began, resting his forearms on the table and leaning slightly toward you, reducing the physical distance and, almost unintentionally, recreating a small bubble of intimacy. “You always said you wanted to come here after graduation. You look completely in your element.”

“It took me a while to adjust, I’m not going to lie,” you replied, wrapping both hands around the warm cup. “The pace here is intense, but I found my place. I work at an agency a few blocks from here. What about you? You said you moved here a week ago.”

James nodded, running a hand through his hair. That gesture, at least, hadn’t changed at all.

“Yeah, it was kind of last-minute. I was offered a position leading an urban design project here. Getting settled has been chaos, I still have everything packed in boxes in an apartment that’s way too big for me, but it was an opportunity I couldn’t turn down. Though I’ll admit, this place was a little overwhelming. Up until about two minutes ago.”

The way he looked at you gave the last sentence a weight that made you hold your breath. There was no flirtation in his tone; it was simply James being honest.

“And are you here alone?” you asked. The question lingered in the air.

James caught the implication immediately. A spark of amusement flashed in his eyes before his expression softened. “Alone,” he answered calmly, holding your gaze. “Completely alone. My dog arrives next week once the heavy part of the move is done, if that counts. But other than him, there’s no one.”

An involuntary, almost imperceptible sense of relief traveled down your spine. To distract yourself, you took a sip of your coffee.

“What about you?” he asked, tossing the question back with genuine curiosity. “Is there someone?”

You glanced at the café clock on the wall. Four of your ten minutes had already passed. But when you saw the anticipation on James’s face, you realized there was no point in hiding the truth.

“My routine is pretty solitary,” you said with a small smile. “I like the quiet before heading into the office.”

James nodded slowly, taking in your words. There was a brief silence between the two of you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of pause that happens when two people who once cared deeply for each other try to figure out how much of the past remains intact and how much has worn away with time.

“It’s strange,” James murmured, breaking the silence as he absentmindedly stirred his spoon in his cup. “I ended up on this street completely by accident because I got lost. I came here because I desperately needed caffeine and then suddenly, there you are.”

“Fate has a pretty twisted sense of humor,” you commented, feeling the warmth of the coffee beginning to loosen the knot in your stomach.

“Or maybe it’s just good luck,” he replied. “We didn’t end things in the best way, I know, but I always wondered how you were doing. I always wanted to know if you managed to accomplish everything you talked about back then.”

Your ten minutes were running out, but the concept of time was beginning to lose its importance in the face of the moment’s gravity. You were about to answer when the phone in your bag started vibrating, cruelly reminding you of the real world.

You pulled it out quickly, feeling almost guilty, as though you’d been caught doing something forbidden. The screen displayed your boss’s name. It was 8:51.

“I have to take this,” you said with an apologetic grimace.

“Don’t worry, duty calls,” James replied, straightening in his chair and giving you an understanding smile.

You raised the phone to your ear as you stood. “Hello? Yes, Marta... No, I’m just around the corner. I’ll be there in two minutes. Yes, the reports are already on my desk... Of course. See you in the conference room.”

You hung up and slipped the phone away. When you looked up again, James was already standing, he had closed his notebook and was adjusting the buttons of his dark coat.

“You always were a woman of your word,” he commented, amusement dancing in his eyes as he walked with you toward the café exit.

The cool morning air hit your face the moment you pushed open the glass door. The sound of traffic, the murmur of hurried pedestrians, and the scent of damp asphalt instantly pulled you back to reality. Your office was only three blocks away.

You stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and turned to face him. James stopped in front of you, his hands tucked into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. The wind tousled the fringe falling over his forehead.

“It was really good seeing you, James. Truly,” you said, surprised by the complete honesty in your own voice.

“Same here. More than you can imagine,” he replied.

For a second, uncertainty hung between you, that awkward moment when neither person knows whether to say goodbye with a handshake, a hug, or a kiss on the cheek. James broke the indecision by stepping forward and wrapping his arms around you.

It was a brief hug, but a firm one. When he pulled away, James slipped one hand out of his pocket and held out a small card.

“My new number. And the address of my office, which, from what I can tell, isn’t too far from yours,” he said, looking at you. “If you ever have another ten minutes one afternoon, or maybe even an hour, I’d love for you to finish telling me what happened to you all these years.”

You took the card. Your fingers brushed his for a fraction of a second, and once again, you felt that spark.

“I’ll text you,” you promised, slipping the card into your blazer pocket.

“I’ll be waiting,” he smiled, taking a step back. “Have a good day at the office.”

“Good luck with the move.”

You turned around and started walking briskly toward your building. After a few yards, you couldn’t resist the temptation and glanced back over your shoulder. James was still there, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, watching you leave. You tightened your grip on your coffee cup and quickened your pace.

The next months became an exercise in patience and rediscovery. What started with a text message on a Thursday afternoon, "I have an hour free. Are you still interested in that coffee?" soon became a constant.

Too much had changed, and neither of you wanted to ruin the peace you'd found after the breakup by diving headfirst back into old habits. So, you decided to get to know each other again from scratch, as if you were two strangers who happened to share memories.

You discovered that the James Potter in his late twenties, no longer left everything until the last minute. Work had given him structure; you watched him speak with genuine passion about his urban development plans.

For his part, he got to know the woman you had become. He was always impressed by your confidence, by the way you defended your projects, and by how completely you had made the city your own.

"You're much more decisive than I remember," he told you one evening while the two of you shared a pizza on the floor of his new apartment, his enormous Labrador resting its head on your knees. "You used to overthink everything. Now you just go and do it, I like that."

"Well, the city forces you to grow up," you replied with a smile, though the compliment left a warmth in your chest that lingered for days.

As the summer went on, your meetings became more varied. They were no longer just coffee before work, they became walks through the park, visits to secondhand bookstores, and dinners after long days at the office.

The strangest thing was how easy everything felt, there wasn't the awkwardness of traditional first dates because you already knew he hated raw tomatoes, and he knew perfectly well that you crossed your fingers when you were nervous. Yet there was still this new layer of mystery: discovering his new musical tastes, his new ambitions, and the scars, both physical and emotional, that the years apart had left behind.

By September, the line between "just friends" had begun to feel dangerously thin.

You could see it in the way James held your gaze a second longer than was strictly platonic, or in how his hand unconsciously searched for yours whenever you crossed a busy street, only for him to let go a little too quickly afterward.

One autumn evening, as you walked back toward your building beneath a light drizzle that was beginning to cool the streets, the silence between you grew dense.

You stopped beneath the awning entrance, sheltered from the rain.

"Thanks for walking me home," you said, pulling the collar of your coat higher.

"Always," James replied.

His eyes flickered briefly to your lips before meeting yours again.

The wind picked up, and he took a step closer, closing the distance you had both spent months carefully maintaining.

"Hey..." he said. "I've been thinking."

"Oh yeah? About what?" you asked, your heart suddenly stumbling in your chest.

James ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "About how much I've loved getting to know you again these past few months. Really. You're incredible."

Then he took another half-step forward, leaving only inches between you and completely shattering the invisible barrier of friendship.

"I think I've already gotten to know my new best friend," he said softly. "And the problem is that I'm starting to like her just as much as I liked her the first time."

You froze.

The cool autumn air seemed to solidify inside your lungs, and your hands clenched into fists inside your coat pockets. You had no idea what to say.

James's words hung between you, mixing with the sound of rain striking the pavement.

For months, you built the perfect fortress, a safe place where James Potter was simply a wonderful friend recovered from your past. With a single sentence, he had torn it all down.

Your eyes widened slightly as you stared at him, your mind, which normally operated at a thousand miles an hour, went completely blank. You wanted to say something clever, maybe make a joke to ease the sudden electricity crackling in the air, but your vocal cords refused to cooperate. Your mouth parted slightly, but no sound emerged.

James noticed your paralysis immediately, the confidence he'd shown moments earlier wavered, his fingers twitched nervously, as though he wanted to touch your arm and apologize, but he stopped himself halfway.

"Hey..." he murmured, offering a small, shy smile. "You don't have to say anything. I didn't mean to scare you."

You remained motionless, your pulse hammering in your throat, painfully aware that whatever you said next would change everything, then the elevator bell rang inside the empty lobby. The metallic sound made you jump. The doors slid open, and you escaped into them as if they were a refuge. You pressed the button for your floor three times in rapid succession until the doors finally closed, erasing James and the rainy street from view.

The hum of the elevator surrounded you as it climbed, but the silence was deceptive. Inside your head, the noise was deafening.

"What did you just do?" you scolded yourself, leaning against the mirrored wall.

Your reflection stared back at you, completely lost cheeks flushed from cold and nerves, rain-speckled hair, wide eyes full of guilt. You had left him standing there.

After months of rebuilding something beautiful, you run away like a frightened teenager.

When the elevator finally stopped, you stepped out into the hallway of your floor and made your way to your apartment. Your hands were trembling so badly that you dropped your key once before finally managing to fit it into the lock, you slipped inside, turned the deadbolt, and rested your forehead against the cold wood of the door, closing your eyes.

Your apartment, which usually greeted you with a comforting sense of peace, felt strangely unfamiliar tonight. You let your bag fall to the floor without worrying where it landed and shrugged off your coat, draping it over the back of a chair.

You crossed the living room toward the window overlooking the main avenue. You knew it was a bad idea, knew it would only make everything worse, but your feet moved on their own, carefully, you approached the glass, partially hiding behind the curtain, and looked down toward the entrance of the building.

The sidewalk was empty. James was gone.

Only the reflection of the streetlights shimmered across the wet pavement while cars passed by, spraying water in their wake. A wave of something that felt alarmingly close to disappointment washed through you.

Then your phone began vibrating in the pocket of your coat. The steady buzz against your thigh made your heart lurch. Slowly, you pulled it out, already dreading what you might find on the screen. A text message.

From James.

You stared at the glowing notification for several long seconds, your pulse still racing as you debated whether to open it or simply turn your phone off completely.

Finally, you swiped your thumb across the screen.

“I'm sorry, I moved too fast and put pressure on you. That wasn't my intention, I never meant to scare you or damage what we have now.”

The simplicity of the message drove a sharp spike of guilt straight into your stomach.

There were no accusations, no anger, just James's usual kindness, even after being left standing alone in the rain in the most abrupt way possible.

You sank onto the couch, curling your legs against your chest. The phone remained lit in your hand, casting a bluish glow across your face in the dim living room.

You forced yourself to examine the panic that had overtaken you only minutes earlier. Why did you run? The answer was so simple it frightened you, because the safe ground, you'd convinced yourself you were standing on, had never really existed. For months, you had told yourself that you and James were only friends. That you had moved on, that the past was behind you, but the truth was that you'd fallen in love with him all over again, or maybe, if you were being completely honest with yourself, you'd never stopped.

You stared at the text box beneath his message. The cursor blinked patiently, waiting. You typed;

“I'm upstairs now. Everything's okay.”

Then deleted it, too cold.

You tried again.

“I'm sorry. I had a panic attack.”

Deleted, too vulnerable.

In the end, you placed the phone face down on the coffee table, you decided the best thing to do was let the night pass, to wait for the storm in your head to settle.

The four days that followed were filled with silence so complete it felt almost suffocating. Your phone never rang with James's familiar ringtone. No messages appeared on your screen in the middle of the afternoon. But the silence wasn't because of a lack of interest, if anything, it was because of the exact opposite, pure fear.

The problem wasn't that you didn't like James, the real problem was that you felt exactly the same way.

His words had lodged themselves firmly in your mind, replaying on an endless loop every night as you tossed and turned in bed.

The realization that the older James, the mature, grounded, renewed version of him, attracted you just as much, if not more, than the boy you'd loved years ago terrified you completely.

Moving forward meant tearing down the safety net of friendship that the two of you had spent months carefully rebuilding, and once that step was taken, there would be no going back. What if the ghosts of the past returned? The memory of your breakup, with its sleepless nights, distance, and broken promises, hung over you like a shadow.

You remembered how hard it had been to put yourself back together the first time. If you tried again and failed, you wouldn't just lose an ex-boyfriend. You would lose the chance to keep him in your life at all, whatever fragile thing remains between you would finally break for good. So, you retreated to your oldest ally: Routine.

On Friday morning, you walked into the café, ordered your vanilla oat milk latte, and sat at the table by the window, staring out at the street.

Part of you hoped to see his dark coat emerge from the crowd, another part dreaded it, but James never appeared. He was giving you space, or maybe he was afraid too.

On Saturday night, unable to focus on the movie playing on your television, you found yourself staring at the small white card he'd given you months earlier, still tucked safely inside the drawer of your nightstand. Your mind had become a battlefield between logic and your heart; logic told you to protect yourself, the stability you'd built in this city was too valuable to risk over a love from the past, but your heart remembered the warmth of his embrace, the easy familiarity of his laughter, and the unmistakable love in his eyes whenever he looked at you.

By Sunday, the weight of uncertainty had become unbearable, you couldn't spend the rest of your life hiding behind fear. If the past few months had taught you anything, it was that neither of you were the same immature college students anymore.

With shaking hands and a heart pounding against your ribs, you picked up your phone, opened your conversation with James, which had slipped several places down your message list after four days of silence, and typed:

"We need to talk. Do you have ten minutes?"

The moment you sent it, you locked the screen and placed the phone face down on the table, holding your breath as you waited for the answer that would determine whether you let the past win, or finally allowed yourself to build a future with him.

The reply came less than two minutes later. Not as a text, but as the sound of a notification that made your heart leap.

"For you, always. I'm at the park near your building, walking Sirius. Do you want me to come to the entrance, or would you rather come here?"

You looked out the window, the afternoon sky had begun to turn violet, and the autumn wind was blowing hard.

You didn't hesitate, you wrapped a scarf around your neck, grabbed your keys, and left, you needed to walk, and the cold air to clear your mind before seeing him again.

The moment you entered the park, you spotted him. James sat with his back to you on one of the wooden benches while his black Labrador enthusiastically sniffed through a pile of dry leaves, he wore the same dark coat from that first morning. Even from a distance, you could see the tension in the line of his shoulders. He wasn't moving. Just waiting.

Your footsteps across the grass made the dog perk up his ears and bark happily, immediately giving away your presence.

James turned around, the moment he saw you, he stood, relief flashed across his face, quickly followed by obvious caution.

"Hi," he said once you were close enough.

The wind tousled his hair, and his eyes searched for yours.

"Hi," you replied, stopping a few feet away.

Sirius trotted over enthusiastically, wagging his tail, and petting him gave you the few precious seconds you needed to gather your courage.

"I told you I'll always make time for you," James said softly, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. "Listen... I'm sorry if what I said the other night made you feel pressured. I never wanted to scare you or push you away. These last four days without hearing from you have been... difficult."

"I didn't pull away because I don't feel the same way, James." The words escaped before you could stop them. "The problem is exactly that I do. I feel exactly the same way you do."

James froze, a spark of hope flashed across his face, but before he could move toward you, you raised a hand.

You weren't finished.

"I feel the same way, and it terrifies me," you admitted, your voice trembling. "It took me a long time to recover from what happened between us in college. I built a life here where I feel safe. A life where I know exactly what tomorrow is going to look like, and then you came back and turned everything upside down."

You swallowed hard.

"These last few months have been wonderful, but I'm scared, James. I'm terrified that if we take the next step, the ghosts of the past will come back. What if we make the same mistakes? What if distance, work, or our own insecurities destroy everything we've worked so hard to rebuild? If we fail again… I don't think I could survive it."

James listened without interrupting once.

When you finally finished, he took the step you'd stopped him from taking before, closing the distance between you. You could feel the warmth radiating from him despite the cold. He removed his hands from his pockets and gently took yours in his. Your fingers were freezing.

"Look at me," he said softly.

You lifted your eyes.

"You have every right to be afraid. I am too. I'd be an idiot if I wasn't afraid of losing you again." He squeezed your hands gently, filling you with a sense of reassurance you hadn't realized you needed.

"But there's something you're forgetting," he continued, a tender smile touching his lips. "We're not those kids anymore, the ones who didn't know what they wanted or how to communicate, we've changed, you're not the same person, and neither am I."

His thumb brushed softly across your knuckles. "We can't pretend the past never happened, but we also can't let it decide our future. I don't want to go back to what we had before."

His voice softened further. "I want to build something completely new with you. Here. Now." He leaned closer, breaking the final physical barrier between you.

"I can't promise it'll be perfect. I can't promise we won't have problems. But I can promise that this time I know exactly what I have in front of me, and I'm not going to let it go because of something stupid."

His eyes never left yours. "We don't have to rush. We can take it slow."

A small smile appeared. "One day at a time. What do you say?"

The wind swept through the park again, sending dry leaves spiraling around your feet, but the cold no longer mattered, you looked down at your hands intertwined with his, then at his face, the face of the man you'd loved, the man you'd missed, the man you'd rediscovered in an ordinary little café. The ghosts were still there somewhere, tucked away in forgotten corners of memory, but for the first time, the light of the present felt brighter than the shadows of the past.

"One day at a time," you whispered. A tremendous weight lifted from your shoulders.

James smiled, and before you could say anything else, he leaned down and sealed the promise with the kiss you'd both been waiting months for.