A Million Stories in my Head

Theodore Nott: stoic, unflappable, academically terrifying, hasn’t heard a word Professor Babbling has said in thirteen minutes and twenty-two seconds because he’s been trying to figure out how you manage to tuck your quill behind your ear without it falling out.

That, and how you’re the only person in class who managed to finish the Ancient Runes translation without using a single cross-reference guide. And how you chew on your bottom lip when you’re focused, and how your handwriting slants slightly to the left, and how—

You glance up again, catching him mid-gaze.

He immediately jerks his head away so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t snap in half.

You squint. He suddenly finds his parchment very interesting. His ears, traitorous things, go a bit pink.

You blink again.

Nope. Still a murder plot. Definitely.

...

Class ends with the soft clack of textbooks shutting and chairs scraping across the floor. You take your time gathering your things, mostly because your bookmark has disappeared into a void of loose parchment.

Okay. That’s a problem for later.

Theodore Nott is still sitting there. Not moving. Not packing up.

You glance his way again. He pretends to yawn, which would be normal if it weren’t so obviously staged. Like, hand-to-chest, slow-motion, opera-singer yawn. No one yawns like that. You watch in real time as his brain short-circuits trying to look casual.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and head toward the door. And then:

“Wait.”

You stop. Turn. Blink.

Theodore Nott is standing. This feels promising.

“You, um—” he begins, voice low and uncertain. “You left your—uh…” He looks over at your desk. There is nothing there. Not even a scrap of parchment.

He stares at the empty space like it might help him. It does not.

“I left my…?” you say slowly, eyebrows lifted.

He panics. “Presence.”

Your brain takes a full three seconds to process that.

“My what?”

“Your—you left your—pencil sharpener,” he blurts. “Quill sharpener. Yes. That.”

You do not own a quill sharpener. Is that even a thing?

“Oh,” you say, smiling like you’re talking to a slightly confused, very pretty ghost. “Do you…have it?”

“No.”

Silence.

Then he blinks, visibly resets, and tries again. “Sorry. I meant—Hi. I’m Theodore. I mean, you know that. Obviously. We’ve had class together for like six years, I just—well.” He gestures vaguely toward your general existence. “Hi.”

You blink again. You’re doing a lot of blinking lately. “Hi…?”

“I like the way you annotate,” he says.

You stare.

“What?”

“I mean, not in a weird way. Just in a—your notes. Your margins. The way you organize them. It’s very…” He swallows. “…structured. Efficient. There’s a system. You color-code.”

You keep staring.

His voice lowers slightly, like he’s confessing to a crime. “I think about them sometimes.”

This might be the most unhinged flirtation you’ve ever witnessed.

“…Thanks?” you manage, because what else does one say when a gorgeous Slytherin boy admits to daydreaming about your annotated footnotes?

“Anyway,” he says, suddenly flustered again. “I’m going to leave now. With my dignity. Or…what’s left of it.”

He turns, walks directly into the doorframe, mutters “brilliant” under his breath, and disappears.

You stand there blinking at the empty doorway.

And then you laugh. Like, properly laugh.

You’re still laughing when you find your missing bookmark sticking out of Theodore’s textbook.

A/N: missed writing for theo

Next thing you know you're getting a text: "Sooo, I did something 😬"

And for a moment you're panicking.

Then he sends you a picture of the car.

And you're genuinely so confused, because what the hell does he need a car for??

But then you're beside him in the soft leather seats, watching him poised comfortably in the driver's seat, legs spread, one hand on the wheel, one hand on your thigh that keeps riding higher and higher as he's pushing 80, 90, 100 miles an hour.

You can feel the power of the car thrumming beneath you as he's taking turns and weaving in between other cars in a way that has your stomach in your throat.

He is reckless, driving like he's untouchable, like magic will save you if you go careening off the highway.

And he doesn't give a single fuck because he's gotten a taste of the adrenaline, and he's addicted to it.

He listens to his music as loud as it can go, the bass shaking the frame of the car, rattling the rearview mirror, sending pulses through your body.

(Probably Kendrick Lamar or some amped up house music).

He loves being immersed in the music, the hum of the car, the speed of the world as it passes by his window, the feel of your warm skin under his fingers. It's the one godsforsaken place that his mind is actually quiet.

He gets a smirk on his face every time his recklessness coaxes a gasp out of you, when he gets a little too close to the car next to you, or he pushes the accelerator even further.

(Even better if you grab his hand and squeeze).

He loves the sight of you as his passenger princess, how perfect you look by his side, in the curved plush of the seat, like it was made for you.

He loves how you'll shift in your seat to look at him unabashedly, or how you'll scoot closer to him, leaning over the center console to reach your hand into his curls or press a kiss to his cheek.

The dichotomy of the raw power beneath him and your gentle touch just does something to him.

Before long he's pulling over and tugging you into the back seat, desperate to have you on top of him, extraordinarily thankful for the extra tint on the windows.

The minute Snape set foot in the defense against the dark arts classroom, all whispers and conversations between students fell silent. His cloak billowed out in his wake as he approached the front, glaring at any student who dared look up at him. His hard eyes wandered over the rows and narrowed when they reached the table you and Hermoine sat at, next to you two free seats. Harry and Ron were late, and you gnawed at your lower lip in worry. Their last subject had been divination, which neither you nor Hermoine had taken, and you hadn't seen them since breakfast. Judging by his scowl, Snape would skin them for being late.

When Snape walked up to the chalk board, turning his back to the class, Hermoine leaned over and breathed in your ear: “Nott and Riddle aren't here yet either.” She was right. As your gaze brushed over the Slytherins on the other side of the room, you spotted two empty seats next to Malfoy that were usually occupied by Theodore Nott and Mattheo Riddle. Not that you missed the two, but their absence made anxiety curl in your stomach. Could it be linked to Harry’s and Ron’s nonattendance?

“Eyes on front,” Snape’s voice bellowed through the classroom and you flinched, returning your focus to the lesson. But just as you pulled out your parchment, quill and ink to copy the notes from the chalk board, the door burst open and all heads turned in a singular motion. The four missing boys stood in the entrance, albeit standing in pairs demonstrating visible hostility.

All of them looked like they had just fought a rabid pack of grindelows. Hair disheveled, some of their noses bleeding, Riddle’s knuckles were leaking blood and a purple bruise formed on Harry’s right cheek, Ron’s face was littered in cuts. Nott looked the least brutalized out of all of them, and the most annoyed. Everyone was staring, you and Hermoine included. The four of them heaved as if they had ran all the way up here, and Ron held his book back with both hands that seemed to be dissolving in real time, his face as red with fury when Malfoys voice drawled through the room. “My, my, Weasley, that bag must've been worth more than your mum!”

Before Ron could throw an insult back at him, Snape’s voice cut through the room, almost shaking with ire. “You're late. Twenty points from Gryffindor. Sit down!”

“What?” Ron asked in indignation and Snape's lips curled. “But, Professor, they were just as late as-”

“Sit down, Weasley, before I take fifty points from your house,” said Snape coolly and Harry pulled Ron along the rows to your table. Riddle and Nott sat down on their seats, just as the two slumped down next to you. The commotion was silenced by one look from Snape who now proceeded to scribble down the effects of the counter-curse you would learn today. Half your attention on your notes, you leaned over to the boys, just like Hermoine, with a questioning look. “What the hell happened?”

“Riddle fucking happened,” spat Ron under his breath. “He-” Suddenly, he broke off and looked at Harry, as though it had just dawned on him that Harry might not like to share whatever Riddle had said or done. Harry rolled his eyes. “He started talking shit about my parents.”

“He did not,” whispered Hermoine in shock, though you weren't quite sure why she was so surprised. Harry and Riddle had gotten into fights before. One time, they were started by Riddle going on about Harry’s dead parents, the other because Harry provoked him using his parentage.

It was a tale as old as time, and though you thought it was objectively worse of Riddle to be insulting Harry’s parents than the other way around, it didn't change the fact that a brawl between the two was a near monthly occurrence, with their friends joining in. Sometimes, they were each backed up by all their male housemates of their grade (last year, the whole male seventh year population of Gryffindor and Slytherin had to do detention together and it certainly didn't warm them up to each other), sometimes it was just Ron and Nott, sometimes it was one v one.

Harry shrugged her indignation off, he seemed less furious than Ron who was positively shaking with rage. “Whatever. I was just stupid to go off again, I should know his tricks by now.” Ron looked like he wanted to reply something, but just then, a shadow loomed over you and Snape's voice drawled. “Do you want to share anything with the class, Potter?”

Neither of you four spoke, and Snape seemed to take it as an invitation to inflict further punishment upon you. His spiteful eyes trailed over the four of you as he sneered. “I think I will put an end to this chit chat. Potter, you go and sit with Mr. Malfoy. Hermoine, over there with Miss Parkinson; Weasley, with Mr. Nott and you,” his eyes glanced over you swiftly, “go sit with Mr. Riddle. Go.” You hastily stuffed your quill and parchment into your bag, smiled at Hermoine, who gave you a worried look, and walked over to Riddle with a hammering heart. With him. God protect you.

Mattheo Riddle lounged in his chair as if it were a throne, his posture a calculated mix of arrogance and nonchalance that made him look untouchable, even in disarray. The faint trickle of dried blood at his temple and the faint purpling of a bruise along his jawline should have diminished him, but instead, they only sharpened his edge. His tie hung loosely around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a glimpse of pale skin marred by faint scars-trophies from fights he never seemed to avoid.

He didn't glance up as you approached, but the lazy, almost wolfish curve of his mouth suggested he knew you weee there. Something about the way his dark curls fell over his brow, paired with the faint metallic glint of the blood on his knuckles, made him seem both reckless and untamed, like a storm that brewed until it would inevitably destroy everything in its path.

Your anxiety only worsened when Riddle raised his head lazily and looked at your approaching figure. He had a cut on his nose that was still bleeding, and his eyes brushed over you with unmistakable disdain. Slowly, blood seeped down his hand and onto his parchment. You stared at the red dots as you stood in front of him, unsure what to do, frozen under his heavy stare. Until he scoffed and averted his eyes. “Merlin, you’re as slow as you are annoying. What's wrong, scared I'll bite? Don’t worry, sitting next to me won’t tarnish your perfect little Gryffindor reputation. Sit.”

Without a word, you finally managed to move your feet and rounded the table to sit down on the chair next to him with the utmost care, as if the slightest motion could tip him off. Was it riddiculous? Possibly. Were you keen on taking chances? No. You sat in silence as you got out your ink and quill and started scribbling on your parchment, head ducked over the paper and hair falling, thankfully, between the two of you like a curtain. A whole hour of sitting next to the ticking time bomb Mattheo Riddle. You were glad that your fingers weren't shaking as they flew over the parchment, leaving a trail of ink in their wake.

You couldn't have been more thankful for the silence, but Riddle seemed bored. You heard him shift in his chair, bounce his leg, and then, you heard his voice.

“Didn't think you Gryffindors scared so easily. Or is that just you?” Though you were sure he had noticed, Snape made no efforts to discipline Riddle for his insubordination. Of course not. But you knew, if you talked back at him, you would earn another ten points being taken from your house. And in any case, you weren't one to be provoked easily, and you weren't about to risk him hearing your voice shake, as it may have, if you'd opened your mouth. So you scribbled on in silence as Snape got up to demonstrate the wand movement.

“You're quiet for once,” whispered Riddle’s voice, closer than you expected, and you couldn't suppress the little flinch away from him. He chuckled darkly. “What happened?” he asked with the unmistakable sound of a predator circling its prey. “Lost your nerve, princess?”

When you looked up, away from him, your eyes met Hermoine who looked concerned. Barely moving, you shook your head and forced a smile upon your lips. This would be a long hour. You could tell from the tone in his voice that he would have his proper fun, would toy with you. Every instinct told you to fire back, but you called yourself to discipline. This was not the time. And if you would have been willing to start a fight, it would be highly unwise to take on Mattheo Riddle.

When Pansy Parkinson sniggered next to Hermoine, she averted her gaze and rolled her eyes, and you, too, looked back down onto the parchment. You should take notes on the wand movement. You would have, if it hadn't been for Riddle, leaning in once more. You were sure that, on the other side of the curtain, he was almost brushing your hair with his lips. It was silly, but his proximity made you blush. “Go on,” he prodded, “say something Gryffindor-y and self-righteous. Isn't that you speciality?”

“You will now pair up with your desk partners,” Snape’s voice sounded through the classroom, “and practice this jinx. If it has the intended effect, it should merely push your partner away a few feet. Finnigan, I would book an appointment in the hospital wing, I wouldn't trust Longbottom not to throw you out the window. If I see anyone taking advantage of this opportunity to right a perceived wrong,” he sneered, looking particularly at Harry and Ron who both scowled back, “they shall feel my wrath.”

Oh god. You had naively forgotten that this might happen. Let Riddle hex you? You should probably just hex yourself and be done with it. You sent him a quick glance as you rose from your seat and Snape piled up all desks at the wall to make space. If you hadn't known better, you could have thought that he was bored. But you saw the glint in his eyes as he met your gaze with his brown eyes. For a strange second, it flashed through your mind that he had surprisingly pretty eyes for- well, someone who's father was he-who-must-not-be-named.

“Try not to embarrass yourself,” he drawled mockingly and that irked you more than any of his comments had. You were very proud of your academic achievements, and you couldn't help but glare at the floor when you averted your eyes. You’d show him. Riddle whistled under his breath as you stood upright and raised your wand the proper way. “Look at you, all brave and noble, even in the face of the ‘Dark Lord’s Son’”

He was mocking you, and you found yourself wishing he'd just get in with hexing you instead. “If you're just going to yap all day, I'll do it first,” you said coolly, making him laugh. It was a strange sound, because you had never heard someone laugh so devoid of any warmth. Maybe nobody had ever taught him that laughs were supposed to signal happiness.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he said in a low voice. “Show me all about the ‘bravery’ you lot talk about.”

Gripping your wand tighter, you understood it as an encouragement to use the spell on him first. You could just say the incarnation. Just swing your wand. You could do it. “Discedo!” Your pronunciation was perfect, your aim was right, the movement of your wand mirrored Snape's as you concentrated hard. And, to your silent triumph, Riddle was nearly knocked off his feet as he was pushed back and stumbled a few feet, dangerously close to the fireplace. Just as described, you had done it correctly and for some strange reason, you awaited his praise.

Even more surprising was that you received it. “Nice one, princess,” Riddle called and walzed back to you with a lazy grin as if he hadn't just nearly crushed into a burning fire. If you thought about it, you weren't even sure he'd mind that. You'd watched him dislocate his arm in a brawl and crack it back in place without so much as a wince or a frown. Sometimes you thought he couldn't feel pain, but that was impossible. Maybe he liked it. It would suit him, you thought.

Over your spiraling thoughts, you nearly missed the almost gentle way he pulled his wand out of his pocket, much more tender than you had ever seen him regard a living being. You suppressed the urge to take a step back when he pointed it at you, determined not to show fear. Also, you were already in enough danger to smash into the wall behind you as it was. “Your friends seem worried,” Riddle grinned and you were momentarily distracted as you caught Harry’s frown and Hermoine's worried expression. Ron was too busy being pushed around the room by Nott who seemed bored out of his mind.

“Do you ever stop talking?” you snapped and were surprised by your own daring. “Just cast the damn jinx and get it over with!” Riddle raised his brows and you could have slapped yourself. Great idea, challenging him when he was pointing a wand at you and you were not allowed to use yours. Riddle seemed mostly amused, though, twirling his wand around in his hand as if he was contemplating something. Probably, how hard he would smash you into that wall. If Mattheo Riddle was good at one thing, it was cursing people.

Finally, he raised his hand, not even mouthing the spell, that show-off. You shielded yourself for the impact of the wall, but suddenly, a force, not unlike a giant hand or a strong gust of wind, pushed you, not backwards- but forward. Instead of crashing into the wall, you found yourself stumbling helplessly into the arms of Mattheo Riddle himself, who caught you, circled one arm around your waist and gave you the most innocent of expressions. “Oops, my bad, princess.”

For some reason, you blushed. Maybe because he was so close to you you could have wiped the dried blood off his face. Or maybe it was the hand on your waist, encircled by your arm, touching his. His hands felt larger than you had expected and he buried his fingers in your robes, crooking his head at you with a sly grin. No doubt, he was trying to measure your reaction, read it off your face in all damming detail. If it hadn't been the classroom, you would have looked like you were about to kiss. His relaxed smirk was infuriating. "Come on, princess, you know you can't resist me."

Shaking him off, you took a few steps back, legs tingling from the jinx. No way that hadn't been intentional. You should probably be angry, but you were more so glad you hadn't crashed into a wall. But just when you were about to raise your wand once more, Snape’s harsh “WANDS DOWN” had you retract. You all were dismissed with one wave of his hand and you hurried over to your book bag. You had never wanted to escape a room this quickly.

To your annoyance, Riddle leaned down for his bag right alongside you and you made haste to bring some distance between the two of you. Again, your caution seemed to be of his amusement, because he chuckled coolly. “What, afraid you’ll catch something? 'M not contagious.” Without an answer, you pushed past him, making a beeline towards the doors and were the first one out. Only when you had walked two corridors, you could take a moment to breathe out.

“You’re alive!” called Ron in mock surprise when you joined the others in the common room a few minutes later. Laughing, albeit weakly, you slumped down into the seat next to him by the fire. Harry and Hermoine looked up and Hermoine’s eyes scanned your form as if she was looking for signs of harm. “Blimey,” sighed Ron, “I thought for sure he'd jinx you into next week.”

“Me too,” you said, rubbing your temples. The frown on Hermoine's face deepened. “It's not funny,” she suddenly snapped, catching all of you by surprise with her fervor. “This could have ended badly! And what do we learn from that?” She asked sternly and Ron raised his hands in surrender. “No talking in class.”

“It's alright, Hermoine,” you said, smiling at her. It was touching how protective your friends were. “Riddle didn't do anything to me, did he? And I was part of that conversation, it's as much my fault as it is Ron's.”

“You should be worried about me, Hermoine!” Ron chimed in and rubbed his shoulder that seemed to be sore. “Do you have any idea into how many bookshelves and walls I crashed today? Nott’s a real piece of shit, I didn't even get to jinx him back!”

“Well, Pansy Parkinson didn't even have time to raise her wand at me,” said Hermoine with an air of superiority, and Ron rolled his eyes. “Well, she isn't much of an academic weapon, is she? Other than you.” Hermoine, who had just looked determined to snap at him once more, seemed somewhat dumbfounded by the sudden complement. To your surprise, she even seemed to blush a little in the dim light of the fireplace.

“Why was Riddle even looming over you like that?” Harry asked through the silence. “I mean… what were you talking about?” Ron and Hermoine, both a little red in the face, turned to look at you as well.

“He talked, I didn't,” you shrugged, for some reason feeling like you had to vindicate yourself. “He was a real chatterbox, I think he just wanted to get a rise out of me.” And he had, you suddenly realized. Damn.

“You handled yourself really well,” said Hermoine and Ron nodded in agreement. “Yeah,” he grinned, “If you could've only pushed Riddle a few feet further back, you'd have set him on fire, how cool would that have been?” He laughed at the idea and even Hermoine smiled a little.

“Wouldn't want to kick off his tragic backstory villain arc,” you grinned and Ron snorted. “Lost case, I'm telling you.”

Shaking your head with a small smile, you watched Ron combust with laughter. Both Harry and Hermoine chuckled, but mostly at Ron’s amusement over his own joke. After that, the conversation trailed off towards school work. Harry and Ron were indignant at Hermoine for already conceptualizing NEWT revision tables when it hadn't even snowed yet, with Ron promising her that he would not touch a textbook until they had beaten the Slytherins at the next quidditch game, the first of the season. When they started to bicker as usual, you started to drown their voices out and you gazed into the fire, lost in thought.

The first time you'd seen Mattheo Riddle had been on your first day in Hogwarts. You'd been scared and jumpy the whole time, the castle intimidated you, the magic astounded you, but at the same time, you felt like an outsider, unworthy of such a royal institution. When you'd been waiting for the hat to call your name, you'd been half expecting to be forgotten, a confirmation that you just weren't good enough. Your worries had been momentarily shunted to the back of your head when another name was called, “Riddle, Mattheo”, and a collective whisper, in its entirety as loud as a yell, had rolled over the hall.

At that point, you had never heard the name Riddle, nor had you the name Voldemort. Blissfully unaware, you'd never even heard of the wizarding war before, the dark times. The only time you'd been in touch with magic before was in diagon alley, but you'd met barely any wizards before. Maybe you had been the only student in the gaggle of them who didn't know what dark a legacy he carried.

What you did notice was more so the way he carried himself. Even at the young age of eleven, he had a kind of untouchable confidence about him. He seemed to be entirely detached from the nerves that coiled so prominently in your belly. Only regarding his fellow, whispering students and the professor with a defiant look, he planted the hat upon his head that disappeared almost in it's entirety inside it. In retrospective, you had wondered why the hat hadn't immediately shouted out Slytherin, seeing as Riddle was one through and through, and the house’s founder’s heir on top of that.

After a while - the whispers had turned into a steady, ever growing buzzing of curious and hostile voices. Safe to say you had been beyond confused and had leaned over to ask the girl next to you why everyone was reacting like this- the name had sounded utterly inoffensive to your innocent ears. But before you could ask her, the hat shouted out “SLYTHERIN” and the boy ripped it off abruptly to stomp over to the Slytherin table, glaring at anyone he passed. They whispered behind his back, and back then, you'd thought 'how can they do this? He hasn't done anything!’. You hated making people feel unwelcome. Of course, you'd learn that Riddle was an expert in that regard himself.

When you now thought back to that, you wondered wether he could have been saved from whatever pipeline he was currently diving into, getting into fights, supposedly even torturing people and, though you took those rumors with a grain of salt, even killing student’s pets. But maybe he'd always been as detached and dark as he was now. At your first Halloween feast in Hogwarts, the evening a troll had sent the school into a panic, he'd caught your eye. As students around him shrieked in fear and stumbled over their own feet trying to escape, he had been eating cake and watching the panicked students as if they were unconvincing extras in a mildly interesting stage play. He'd even grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets, as if it was all beneath him.

Then, in second year, everyone had assumed him to be Slytherin’s heir. It didn't seem to bother him very much, maybe he was even proud. Like all the muggleborns, you'd done your very best to steer clear of him, but your friendship to Harry made it harder since they were constantly at each other’s throats. You'd cried once when you overheard him tell his friends that “at least the monster had good taste”, you'd always wanted everyone to like you and though you had already accepted that some people simply wouldn't, it hurt that anyone could be reveling in the idea of you or your friends being attacked by a monster.

Not that he was any kinder to his own friends, or at least outwardly he wasn't. When Malfoy had gotten attacked by buckbeak in third year, he'd simply watched and laughed, something thirteen year old you found utterly disgusting, even though you detested Malfoy.

As unlikely as it sounded, fourth year was the first time you talked to him- or rather, bickered with him. When Harry had been fighting the Hungarian Horntail and you and Hermoine had been at the edge of your seats, frozen with fear and worry, the Slytherins had come along and Riddle had made a comment about how he would be far more entertained if the Tournament would have some death in it again. For a moment, you'd forgotten how scared you were of him.

Though you weren't what people would call “heroic” or “brave”, in spite of your house, you tended to lose your temper when it came to your friends. That day, you had, when you'd shot around to shriek at Riddle what the fuck was wrong with him, aghast how he could even say something like that. But just when Riddle's eyes flickered over you as if he'd just noticed you for the first time (he probably had), Harry got the egg and you were distracted from him. In spite of what he had said, though, when Harry turned up after the third task with Cedric's body, he'd been pale as a sheet as he stared down at the dead boy. Not so happy that a champion was dead now, after all.

Fifth year was when he started to pick on you. It was also the year he started getting into fights. Actual fights. Of course, there had been smaller brawls before, immature duels, but there was an edge to him when he returned to Hogwarts that year. He was more serious, and most importantly, more angry. A student laughing too loud was enough to set him off on a bad day, and once he was, there would be blood. A lot of it. It became a weekly occurrence to see him walking into classrooms with a bloodied shirt or nose, or cuts and bruises on his face and hands. Fifth year was when even some of the teachers started getting scared of him.

Other than any other year, Riddle had stayed in Hogwarts for the Holidays in sixth year. It only stood out to you because most people went home to see their families, wanting to be close in times of uncertainty. And because of that one morning, when you'd taken a walk around the black lake and spotted him, standing in the cold without so much as a cloak and staring into space with a distant expression. It was the first time in years he'd looked human, and you had found yourself staring until he turned his head and snapped at you.

In seventh year, you had been assigned to prefect patrols with each other for a few disastrous days. Each night, you'd stumbled into your common room, burned out from the stress it caused you to be near him. To be subjected to his cunning comments that drove you over the edge, with him having a front seat. It was probably good fun for him. Out of pure boredom, he had amused himself with you. And he'd won, kind of, when you begged McGonnagall to reassign you after a mere week, which she did. Maybe you had been imagining things, but he had been strangely more hostile to you since then, as if it had actually bothered him.

Now, in your eighth and final year, staring mindlessly into the flames, you found yourself wondering wether he'd ever had a chance to be anything else than he was right now. Or rather, anyone else. With him, you found yourself thinking of him as a thing rather than a person more often than you'd liked to admit. Maybe because he didn't seem very human. If the times and environments had been different, maybe he'd have been, too. But, you reminded yourself, he was still him, and you were still you.

Maybe some diety had listened to your tired sermon the previous night, or maybe it was mere coincidence. It could also be your stupidity. But the next day, you found yourself assigned detention with Riddle himself. You had to recognize that pulling your wand at Malfoy and him in full sight of any professor who might turn the corner was a little stupid, but the others somehow never got caught doing it. You, on the other hand…

You had been on your way to the library after dinner the next day, on your own since your friends were already on their way to the common room. Maybe some backup would’ve been good, but you were quite glad none of them heard the words that left Malfoy’s mouth when he passed you in the halls, talking loudly to Riddle. “Granger may be smart, but brains won't save her when the Dark Lord finally catches up to her.” Your head had shot up from the parchment you had been buried in and you stuffed it into your bag, accelerating your steps, a white hot anger stirring inside you. But Malfoy wasn't finished yet. “Honestly,” he drawled, gesticulating vaguely, “It'd be poetic, wouldn't it? The little mudblood trying to stand up to a Death Eater and getting exactly what she deserves.”

He didn't have the chance to say anything further, because your newly learned discedo jinx made him stumble backwards and knock into the wall. Before he could even realize what happened, you sent a silent disarming charm his way and his wand flew in another direction. You were momentarily stunned by your own skill as you watched Malfoy's face go red with anger, but when he leaped from the wall, you pointed your wand at his chest, rage burning inside you and wiping away any concerns about school rules that you followed so adamantly other days.

Malfoy opened his mouth, no doubt to insult you, but you got ahead of him. “You think saying something cruel makes you clever, Malfoy?” you spat at him. “You're really proud of being a terrible person, are you?” Malfoy broke out into a cackle that was silenced by your wand now pressing into his chest. You felt tempted to bombarda maxima his head off, and the fact that you did scared you a little, but it couldn't quell the fire in your chest.

“Wh- do something!” Draco hissed nervously at Riddle who was watching the scene, just like the small crowd that had assembled around you.

A wild laugh escaped you. “You fucking coward. Do you think saying stuff like that is funny? No wonder no one respects you!”

An utterly unexpected sound made both you and Malfoy freeze, though the latter didn't have much of a choice, with your wand still pointed at his chest. Riddle was laughing. Well, not really. It was more of a chuckle. His eyes were locked on you, shimmering with… intrigue? Aghast, you stared at him and your anger welled up once more. This was funny to him, yes? Well, if he didn't have anyone to stand up for, sucks for him. But your healthy dose of respect for Mattheo Riddle made you bite back the reply, merely purse your lips together and turn back to Malfoy, who seemed to have found his voice again.

“It's only a matter of time before the Dark Lord wipes out your little group of do-gooders,” he snarled in your face. “Should be quite the spectacle.”

“Crawl in a hole and die, Malfoy,” you growled, starting to feel a little stupid with your wand pointed at him purposelessly.

“Let's end this party here, princess, don't you think?”

His voice had you turn around slowly. Riddle's wand was pointed lazily at you, as if he were merely twirling it in his fingers. But you knew better. Every movement was deliberate. His wand was pointed at you on purpose. He exuded the aura of a calm before the storm, a small smile danced around his lips. He had this way of making everything into his entertainment. But you wouldn't lie, his wand and his eyes had a definite shiver run up your spine.

“What on earth is going on here?”

You shot around when Professor McGonnagall’s voice bellowed through the hallway and jumped back. The scene she saw was not ideal, with both Mattheo's and your wand pulled as if you were about to duel. Which was strictly forbidden in an uncontrolled environment like this. Not that you'd ever be stupid enough to duel Mattheo Riddle. When the Professor approached, you saw her heaving chest and dread filled your stomach, you wished desperately to be anywhere but here. It was important to you to be liked by teachers, especially McGonnagall, who you’d always looked up to.

“I don't want to believe this,” said Professor McGonnagall, enraged. “Miss y/n, Mr Riddle, detention.” She turned to you and wrinkled her nose. “This is disappointing. I would've expected better from you, especially.”

Mattheo knew he should have been groaning about the detention, but he was busy wondered why you didn't try to defend yourself. Try to tell McGonnagall how Malfoy had provoked you. A crowd of eyewitnesses could have confirmed the story, and McGonnagall surely wouldn't take kindly to threats against her favorite student. But when he looked back at you, the look on your face surprised him. You looked absolutely mortified, he wondered for a second if you would start to cry. But you merely lowered your head and pulled your wand away. McGonnagall gave you a sinister glare. By the look on your face, she could just as well have hit you with the cruciatus curse.

“Pathetic,” whispered Malfoy in his ear, but he couldn't quite agree. It was intriguing. Why did it matter so much to you what fucking McGonnagall thought? He realized, of course, that he was more indifferent of teacher’s perceptions of him than other students, but you looked as if you were facing the death penalty.

Seemingly unable to watch this trainwreck further, a Hufflepuff sixth year spoke up on your behalf. “Please, Professor, Malfoy said some awful things about Hermoine Granger.” Malfoy's grin faltered when McGonnagall looked at him, a wave of affirming murmurs confirming the story to her. “The detention will be extended to you as well, then,” she said coolly and strode off, still positively fuming. Mattheo wanted to catch you before you could slip away, though he wasn't sure what for. Maybe he could tease you, rile you up, that was always good fun. And more than that, he wanted to find out why you had reacted so strongly to McGonnagall’s words.

But you were gone, had made a break for it when McGonnagall had left, no trace of you left. When they kept walking, he drowned out Draco's rants as he thought back to your face when McGonnagall had caught you coming close to jinxing Malfoy (which he found to be hotter than he ever thought he would). There was quite the lioness hidden in you, when provoked. His previous quips at you had usually been met with faux indifference and even fear. Good to know even you, sweet, goody-two-shoes you had a darker side about you. He wouldn't deny that he felt tempted to see it again.

Dalton’s eyes followed you as he gazed from behind his hair. He had seen you around the building, specifically the floor he was living on. There was a living room area that no one ever actually used at the end of the hall and he had run into you there once or twice, usually in passing. He didn’t realize you had a class together until the second week of class, when he saw your face attentively listening in the back of the classroom. Your lips were pursed with concentration but were so focused on the teacher he didn't think you could see anything else. That’s why he felt so comfortable starring; he truly believed you had no idea. 

The class droned on. It was a gen ed requirement that he would google the answers to. He could sit with his sketchbook open and lightly brushing his pencil over the paper. He didn’t realize he was drawing you until he looked down. He was then made consciously aware of how he saw you. Poised, shy, timid, pretty. 

“Miss Y/L/N,” the professor said, breaking you out of your perfectly sculpted listening gaze. Your eyes went wide with what Dalton assumed was fear. “Do you know the answer?” He looked back up at the board. Some slideshow with a lot of numbers, none that made any sense to him. When had he stopped taking notes? 

You looked down at your own notes. You knew the answer but for some reason it was stuck in your throat. You cleared it, attempting to force the word out of your mouth. You had to look away before you could answer. 

“237,” you offered, voice quiet. 

The professor’s gaze was predatory. Dalton didn’t like the way he was gazing at you, like you were something to be conquered, someone to be broken down. He had never enjoyed the teachers who leached into clearly shy students. The professor nodded, moving along, giving you neither a praise or a follow up question. Your face was now glued down. He had clearly startled you out of your shell. 

When class ended, Dalton got up first. He didn't have as much to put away because he wasn’t actually paying attention. He weaved against the flow of traffic to the back of the room where you were carefully placing your things back into your bag. 

“Don’t worry about him,” he said, without thinking. He should’ve thought twice about letting you know he was watching you but the words had already escaped his mouth. “He’s a dick.” You looked up at Dalton, eyes pretty and doe like. You cleared your throat, another instance of forcing yourself to speak when no words were coming out. 

You nodded instead. 

“You live in the same building as me right? Miller Hall?” You nodded again, this time a sound coming with it. 

“Yeah. Dalton right?” Your voice was still quiet but he smiled at the reassurance that he was also noticed. 

“Yeah. Y/N?” You nodded back at him. You stood up from your chair, putting your bag over your shoulder. “Are you going back there? I don’t mean to ask in a creepy way, swear.” He chuckled nervously. “I was just heading back and was wondering if you wanted some company.” Suddenly he was the shy one. He felt like cowering under your gaze, revoking his invitation and running out the door. He tried to remember what his mom had said about making friends. All he had right now was Chris and she had other friends. He needed to branch out. Branching out could help him with his sleep issues. 

“Sure,” you said finally, voice surprisingly pleasant. “This is my last class today.” He smiled, all teeth and gums, while he moved out of the way so you could go first. 

“Me too. I took way too many early classes.” 

“Same,” you said. You walked out the door and he followed quickly behind to keep in pace with you. It was a nice fall day, leaves falling down and gathering in the grass. Weeds were overgrown, no one was lingering out in the cold. The walk back would be uneventful but peaceful. “How do you like the building?” 

“It’s fine. We live too high up for my taste.” 

“And the elevators are always broken,” you said. 

“Yes! That should be illegal when there are so many floors.” The comradery broke some tension between the two of you. Your smile lost some tension. 

“Do you have a roommate?” you questioned. 

“I did but not anymore. Her name’s Chris so we got mixed up on the gender assignments,” he explained. “You?” 

“Not currently, no. I was lucky and didn’t have anyone to start with.” You held your bag close to your side. Dalton weaved through the cobblestone walkway that had quickly become familiar to him. “The building settles a lot at night. It can get spooky by myself.” 

“I hear that,” he muttered. “I still have a nightlight.” He wasn’t sure why he had admitted that you didn’t give him any crazed reaction. 

“It can get dark,” you admitted. Your lack of judgment made him feel a little bit safer as the walk continued. He wondered how many doors down you were. He wondered if maybe you would be up for a sleepover later in your friendship, just so that neither of you get scared anymore. His mind wandered and he didn’t reel any thoughts back in as you asked him about his art. 

-

Dalton enjoyed hanging out with you. He hadn’t known a person to sit quietly with him while he worked and you worked and you both just enjoyed having someone else there. You would walk down to his room, bare feet padded on the hardwood floor, and knock on his door, with your textbooks tucked under your arm.

You got the spare bed while he sketched, playing some music quietly from his music. This is how you would spend time together. Talking when necessary but never feeling pressured to. It was easy to get lost in silence when Dalton got zoned into his work. 

Chris opened the door without knocking.

“We should go to the frat party tonight,” she announced instead of saying hello. You and Dalton looked up. You even jumped at the sudden change of atmosphere. You were nose deep in work. You had met Chris in passing and knew she was friends with Dalton. She had always been kind to you, if not a little invasive. You didn’t mind here though. 

“All of us?” you asked, voice quiet. 

“I think you need to get out of your shell. Both of you. You’re so preoccupied with things going on in your brain it seems like I can never get you to hang out like normal people.” Dalton shared a wary glance with you. 

“I don’t know Chris,” he said. 

“I do.” She took a step forward. “What’s the worst that could happen? You get drunk and have to come home? It’s boring and we leave early?” 

“Frat parties have never exactly been safe for girls,” you told her, caution laced in your voice. 

“I’ll be there,” Chris said. 

“So will I,” Dalton said, with more umph. You met his gaze. There was a glaze of protection over his eyes that made you feel better about going. It also left you with a small warm pit in your stomach, something akin to appreciation or adoration. You gave him a warm smile. 

“I don’t know guys,” you said. 

“C’mon. You have gotta get out eventually. Why not sooner rather than later?” 

Dalton gave you a look again. He was asking you with his eyes if you were okay with it. After spending some time together in silence, you had gotten used to reading each other's expressions. You shrugged. He narrowed his eyes. You opened yours wider, shaking your head in disinterest. 

“Okay no more Jedi mind talk,” Chris said. “Yes or no?” 

“We’ll go,” you said. Dalton tried to hide his surprise. 

“Sounds like we’re going then.”

-

The frat party was loud. It was so loud that you could barely hear yourself think over the people screaming at each other, stumbling over the furniture and spilling drinks onto the ground. It was slippery and unwelcoming. It was nothing you had ever actually experienced before. You tried so hard to keep yourself out of these situations so you didn’t have to be uncomfortable for an extended period of time. 

You found yourself standing closer to Dalton, as close as you had ever actually been to him. There is something special about being stuck in an unwelcoming space and becoming even closer with people you wouldn’t have otherwise been so close with. Chris pushed forward. 

You found a mostly empty doorway and gathered like you were going to make a game plan or something. 

“Let’s be nosy upstairs,” Chris said. You immediately cramped up with the thought of someone walking in on you being in their space. “We’re already here. Why not? You wanna stay down here?” Chris questioned. You could tell she was trying to be helpful. You really liked her and appreciated her excitement but was already way too far out of your comfort zone. 

“You can go. I can go find some crackers or something,” you said to Dalton. He raised his eyebrows, shaking his head. 

“I can stay with you.”

“No, no. There could be something up there that’s fun. Bring me down a present.” He shared a glance with Chris. 

“See? She’s giving you permission Dalton, let’s go.” You rolled your eyes playfully and shoved him forward a little. He looked back between the two of you but Chris was already grabbing his arm. “She’ll keep her phone on.” She dragged him by the arm upstairs. 

You turned back to the crowd. There were a few people there you recognized from class but no one you were friends with. You cleared your throat and straightened your back. You could do this. You could be a college student who goes and gets a shitty drink and lurks in the background. 

The kitchen was less packed, which you were grateful for. There were straggled, circling the kitchen island. There was a bunch of finger food that you didn’t exactly trust. You found a punch bowl, which you didn’t trust either, but grabbed a solo cup anyway. You tried to slink back, not make too much attention as you waited for Chris and Dalton to come back down. 

You walked back towards the main room where the music was being played. You bumped into others who paid you no mind. The dance floor was the best for people to watch. There were girls there with pretty makeup and interesting outfit choices. They danced, eyes closed, smiling with each other as they drank. The boys watched as well, eyes traveling further down than yours were. 

“Hey.” You turned around, not noticing at first that someone was talking to you. “You’re in my 201 math class right?” 

A boy you didn’t recognize was leaning against the wall beside you. You furrowed your eyebrows, trying to place his face. He had a dirty expression on his face that you didn’t like. He was taller than you, looking down and it felt like you were cowering. You shook your head. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“No, I think you are. With Straus?” Maybe you just didn’t pay enough attention to your fellow students in that class. You grabbed the solo cup tighter, holding it to your chest. You thought of all the stories of boys slipping things in girls drinks while they’re unaware. The haunting thought lingered. You suddenly wished Dalton was around and then was startled with how deep your connection with him was. You hadn’t known each other long but you supposed it was just something about living with no real friends in a new environment. 

“It’s a big class,” you lied. He gave an exaggerated nod. 

“Yeah tots.” He moved closer to you. You took a step back and hit the wall. You glanced up to the stairs, unable to find a familiar face. 

Upstairs, Dalton was laying underneath the bed of Nick the Dick. He could see the bathroom through his eyeline, the feet of a boy that should not be there. The puke pooled on the ground, next to his weathered shoes. Nick was standing at the mirror, saying something stupid that Dalton wasn’t listening to. His breathing was weathered. He looked at the door, wishing Chris to come save him, wishing he had brought you upstairs. 

What is that? 

What is that? 

Nick opened the door and left. He crawled out from underneath the bed feverishly and looked up, just to be met with the boy's face again. This time he puked all over Dalton whose eyes shut in surprise and disgust. He scrunched his hands together, trying to throw aside the vision. 

The door opened. Chris emerged. 

“Dalton?” He looked over at him. “Dalton? Are you okay?” He looked back up. Nothing. Nothing. He took a deep breath, eyes still wide and crazed. He got up. Chris was still talking but he pushed past her, mumbling something about how they needed to leave. He barreled down the stairs, pushing past someone as he went. 

He looked across the room. He was still reeling from whatever happened in the bathroom. All the faces looked like a blur. He searched for something familiar, needing to find the face he was looking for. 

Finally he eyes set on you. You were in the corner of the room, being boxed in by some guy he didn’t recognize. The man had an arm over your head, leaning in real close. He could see your face from behind him. 

Dalton pushed forward. He put his hand on the man's arm. You were immediately relieved to see him, even though all the color had drained from his face. 

“What’s going on?” Dalton asked.

“Nothing man.” He noticed the firm grip you had on the top of your drink. This man’s words were not slurred. He was sober and Dalton decided he was dangerous. 

“Is he bothering you?” Dalton asked, eyes going back to you. You didn’t say anything. Your voice remained dead in your throat. If you couldn't talk in the best of times, you couldn’t talk now. 

“Everythings fine,” the guy promised. 

“Let’s go,” Dalton said. He still had cold sweats running down his face. 

“Woah. We were having a conversation here.” Dalton met the guy's face. He didn’t recognize him and he knew his thought process wasn’t sound. He punched the guy anyway. 

You gasped, taking a step back. The guy stumbled back but Dalton had already grabbed your arm and pulled you back into the crowd. It was too loud and no one noticed that there was now some annoyed man trying to follow you through the party. Chris was at the front door waiting. You met her eyes. 

“What happened?” she asked, trying to keep up with Dalton’s fast paced walk. 

“Some guy was scaring her.” 

“Huh?” 

“He was being a lot,” you promised. Even as you walked back towards your building, Dalton’s iron grip was on your arm. 

“What happened before that?” Chris asked. Her voice was stern. 

“What?” you asked. 

“Don’t worry about it right now. Let’s just get back.” You glanced back at the now fading party. You couldn’t see the guy anymore. Dalton had a hard look on his face that you had never seen before. 

“We actually do need to talk about that,” Chris said. “Something happened in there.” 

“We don’t need to get into that,” he promised. He stopped in the middle of the courtyard. You glanced around the dark night. Campus was mostly silent. You saw the security cart go around the corner. 

“You punched someone!” Chris said. 

“He was bothering her!” he said. 

“But what happened to you up there!” You looked between the two of them. He took a deep breath. 

“I saw someone in the bathroom that wasn’t there. I’m having sleep issues.”

“Were you sleeping?” you asked, genuinely concerned. He shook his head. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. He turned his body toward you completely. You nodded. You wouldn’t tell if you actually were. You felt invaded and uncomfortable. The feeling lingered around like that man was hiding behind you. 

“I’m okay.” He grabbed your hand. 

“Are you sure?” You nodded. Chris looked between the two of you. 

“Positive,” you promised. “Are you okay?” He wasn’t but he didn’t say it. He knew that you and Chris would hound him and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He didn't know what he felt about anything right now. 

He nodded. 

Chris rolled her eyes. 

“Are you gonna buy that?” 

“For right now, yeah,” you said. Dalton gave you apologetic eyes. You held his hand, comfortable with it there. Chris took a deep breath. 

“Alright fine. Are you gonna be okay tonight?” He nodded, looking back at her. She nodded slowly and turned to the building. It wasn’t far now. “Maybe we all just need to go to sleep. They spiked the punch or something.” He didn’t want to mention he had nothing to drink so he stayed silent. She gestured for you two to follow her. 

Your hand remained in Dalton’s. He was holding onto it for dear life as his mind reeled. He had the sudden urge to talk to his mom but he pushed it aside. He was a grown man now. He could deal with this alone or with his friends. You took the elevator, that was gratefully working. Chris stopped off at her floor and gave you both goodnights and I’m sorries. 

Finally you were on your floor. 

“Thank you for helping me back there,” you said. You had been meaning to say it but the words kept getting stuck in your head. 

“Of course. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you,” he said. 

“Same.” You walked down to his room. He wanted to drop you off but you kept going past your room, no conversation needed. Neither of you wanted to sleep in a lonely room. He pushed open his door, the silence so loud. You sat down on the spare bed. 

“I’m gonna get changed,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay. I don’t think I wanna be alone right now.” 

“Me too.” He grabbed some clothes and walked to the bathroom. 

When he walked down the hallway he thought about how he wasn’t there for you when you needed him. He had been upstairs, scared of his own accord. Something could have happened. He slowly undressed behind a shower curtain. He could’ve stayed and asked you to leave but he didn’t. 

Whatever this was, whatever was going on in his head, he had no intention of getting you involved. 

“Do you remember the last time I went to a frat party,” Dalton asked, head tilted up to look at Chris. She looked down at him, pursing her lips in annoyance. 

“That was literally months ago and since then you haven’t seen a dead person once.” 

“She has a point,” you offered. You were sitting on Dalton’s desk, trying to peer pressure him into going to a stupid party. He had been far too cautious since his incident and it was about time he started to go out more. Chris found a flier laying around and declared that the three of you were going to go even if she had to drag you guys there. 

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” 

“I am on your side,” you said. “This is your side. You just don’t know it yet.” He rolled his eyes and looked between the two of you. He had never been sure how he ended up friends with the two of you. Usually he was grateful for it, knowing he wasn’t alone out here. Moments like these he wondered how worth it was, even when he glanced at you and his eyes lingered a little longer than they should have. You met his gaze, trying not to blush under it. Chris pretended not to notice your acts of persuasion. “C’mon D,” you pleaded. You sat up all the way and leaned forward to him. He was looking up at you, something he could get used to. 

“Fine.” 

“Yes!” “Sweet!” 

You hopped off the desk and offered him your hand to help him up. He took it without a second thought. The weight of his hand was relaxing and familiar. You briefly thought about how you wished you could remain holding his hand forever. 

“I’ll come get you guys at 8 alright?” Chris asked. You nodded. She backed away to the door, bringing two fingers to her eyes and then flipped them back around towards you. “Be ready or I’ll leave without you.” “Please do,” Dalton pleaded. 

“You’re stuck going,” she promised. She opened up the door, calling about something she had to do before you left. You turned to Dalton, a smile plastered on your face. It was a goofy one, half to taunt him, half to have a reason to smile at him. 

“It’ll be fun,” you promised. 

“If you say so.” -

It was loud before you even went in. Greek Row had a line of houses that all seemed too large to be real and too old to be nice. You could immediately tell which one was having a party from a distance. There were people hanging out on the curb, drinking beer, watching the stars, dancing in the grass and doing other weird things. Dalton scooted closer to you, trying not to show his disinterest. 

You nudged him. 

“Lighten up,” you said. 

“I’m trying,” he promised. You approached the door, slipping through the people making out on the porch. Once you got inside it was like a whole other world had opened up. There were people everywhere, against walls, chugging drinks, dancing against each other. The music was so loud you could hardly see yourself think. Dalton put a hesitant hand to one ear, clearly trying to get used to the overstimulation. 

“I’m gonna go upstairs and be nosy!” Chris called over the music. “Either of you want to come?” 

“I want a drink!” you yelled. She nodded.

“Dalton?” 

“I’ll go with her!” Even though you were practically screaming at each other, it was hard to hear. Chris saluted you both before snaking through the crowd to the stairs. 

You didn’t recognize anyone around. It was kind of humbling, realizing how big the school actually was. Dalton was walking close behind you as you made it to a table with snacks. You grabbed a solo cup and poured yourself some of the red liquid, not entirely sure what was in it. 

“You want some?!”

“You drink it first!” You rolled your eyes and took a sip. It was foul but not bad enough to make a face. You offered him a drink of yours, which he took. He made a disgusted face, shaking his head as he tried to rid himself of the flavor. You giggled, taking back your cup. 

“Want one?!”  He paused, swallowing hard. There were so many people that you were pressed against the table and practically against each other. 

“Sure?!” You nodded once, a bright smile on your face. You poured him some and handed it over. You grabbed his arm and weaved him through the crowd so you wouldn’t lose him. You ran into people dancing, narrowly avoiding the people making out on the stairs. 

Once you got further away from the living room you were able to hear yourself think a little bit more. Dalton was drinking quickly, despite his looks of distaste. You took a large swig to catch up to him. 

“Wanna dance?!” you asked. His eyes went wide as he took a large swallow. The scrunched face of disgust went over his face and then it was even again. He looked towards the crowd of people dancing, men's hands on girls hips, bodies pressed together. Just the thought of it made him blush furiously. “D?!” 

“Yeah!” He put down his cup, forgetting about it immediately. This time he grabbed your hand and led you back into the crowd. He didn’t like it but he forced himself to be in the middle so that less people paid attention to him. There was awful music playing but it had an aggressive base that was rocking the floors. You tossed your drink away far too early into a garbage can and started to dance to the music. Dalton wondered if he should put his hands on your sides as you started to move along to the music, looking too intoxicating for his already intoxicated mind. 

“C’mon D!” you yelled. You put your hands on his sides, moving him back and forth. He tried not to gasp at your hands. Instead he just put his palms on your hips as well, evening out the playing field. His grip was fiery and incredibly distracting. You were moving him but you weren’t thinking about it anymore. You were thinking about him and you were pulling him closer to you and your chests were flush. You looked him in the eye, not breaking eye contact. It felt like you were playing a game of who would break first. Your breathing was becoming ragged. Was it smokey in here? 

Your hands moved up towards his neck. You put your arms on his shoulders. His lips parted. Your torsos were fused together at this point and he was making every effort to hold you even closer to him. Everyone else seemed like a blur. 

You lifted your hand up a bit and then placed it on his neck. He would’ve flushed if he wasn’t knee deep in the moment. Your fingers were cool against his bare skin. 

“Dalton,” you said, voice too quiet for him to hear but he recognized the way your lips said his name. 

“Yeah?” 

You leaned forward, kissing him without thinking. His lips parted, breathing in the air you were giving him. He had never felt so euphoric. It briefly crossed his mind that this is what college was for. To make out with the girl he loved in the middle of a room after drinking something was probably too strong. Your hand went to his hair, tangling in his knots. 

“C’mon,” you whispered and he only caught it because his face was now so close to yours. Your hand was in his. You had never been in this house before but you were determined now, body on fire. His other hand found your hip. You ran up the stairs. People were staggering around but your mind was now occupied. You tried a door but it was locked. Dalton put both of his hands on your sides behind you. You were a girl on a mission now. 

You tried the next door. Locked. 

You tried the next one. It opened with a gentle nudge. It was a bathroom, clearly someone’s private one. There was a door attached to it on the side, probably to a bedroom. You grabbed Dalton’s hand off your side and pulled him inside, slamming the door shut. 

It was so tight that you were barely able to both get in there. A walk-in shower was shoved in the corner and a sink was beside it, a toilet on the other side. The sink was just barely jutting out of the wall yet you still managed to hoist yourself up to it. You grabbed Dalton, who was far too happy to oblige, and smashed his lips against yours. 

All of the tension that had been living within the two of you seemed to fuel the moment. He parted your legs with his hand so he could stand between them. His boldness only turned you on more. You wrapped a leg around his, both of his hands on your sides, gently hiking up your shirt so he could touch your bare skin. 

Your brain was muddled. There was nothing in the world anymore except Dalton and his lips and his hair and his body against yours, hot, flush, more toned than you would’ve thought. His lips left yours to trail down your neck. You moaned, which made him visibly react. 

Dalton had never felt better, he was convinced. He could live in this bathroom with you forever and never grow unhappy. You put the back of your head against the mirror. Though your torso moved back he didn’t let it stop him from being pressed against you. 

Right then, you would’ve done anything he asked. You were all too happy to melt down to your knees. In fact, you were thinking about it as his lips nipped your collar bone. You let out a sharp breath and was about to push him backwards so you could sink off the counter when the adjoining door flew open. 

You both jumped, suddenly broken out of the moment. Even though he was startled, his hands didn’t leave your side, he just backed up a bit. 

Chris stood in the doorway, her mouth open wide. Then she started to laugh. A hearty laughter, mixed with genuine surprise. 

“Sorry to interrupt!” You grabbed a towel that was on the rack and threw it at her. She dodged it. 

“We’re in the middle of something Chris,” Dalton said, voice dangerously low and borderline seductive. You glanced at him, chest still heaving. 

“I can tell. Maybe next time you guys should lock the doors. Anyone could walk in.” 

“Duly noted,” he said. You gestured for her to leave. She stayed put. 

“This must be much better than what happened in the bathroom at the last party you went to Dalton.” He rolled his eyes, not even able to bring himself to care. It crossed your mind to just go back to the dorms so you wouldn’t have to deal with interruptions. It felt so far away. You had only been here 20 minutes but it now felt like 20 minutes too long. 

Your hand was still lazily hanging off Dalton’s shoulder. 

“This door doesn’t lock,” she said, twisting it. 

“Alright,” you said. 

“You wanna give someone a free show?” Your knees hurt. Hurt wasn’t exactly the right word. Your knees ached. 

“Chris,” you said. 

“I’m warning you. Anything anyone sees could be recorded.” You pushed yourself off the counter. Dalton stumbled back. You grabbed his hand. 

“We’re going back to the dorms.” 

“We just got here!” she exclaimed. 

“Dorms,” you said. She laughed a bit, lips parted in pleasant surprise. 

“Yes ma’am. I’ll see you guys back there.” You pushed past her. 

“Knock when you get there!” Dalton called as you dragged him back down the stairs. Chris rolled her eyes. The things on the counter had been shoved to the ground, toothpaste in the sink, towel on the ground.