Little Dreamer

Arrival Day

Villa Elysia — Paros, Greece

Paros smelled like sunscreen, ouzo lemonade, and terrible decisions. 

The second you stepped out of the boat, hot Mediterranean air wrapped around your body like a damp hand. Your sundress stuck to the backs of your thighs immediately, which felt deeply disrespectful considering the amount of money you had spent on it and the fact that you had specifically chosen it because it was supposed to make you look effortlessly elegant. 

Instead, you currently looked like someone who had fought the sun and lost.

The villa came into view a few minutes later, perched dramatically along the cliffside overlooking the sea like something ripped straight out of a luxury travel magazine. White stone walls gleamed beneath the sun while blue shutters framed enormous open windows facing the water. The entire place looked suspiciously like the sort of location where people either fell in love or made decisions they regretted for the next decade. 

Given the people involved, probably both.

You adjusted the strap of your bag while following the narrow stone pathway toward the entrance. Somewhere nearby, music drifted through the open terrace doors alongside the unmistakable sound of Theo Nott shouting loudly enough to make himself everyone’s problem.

Mattheo’s voice drifted back from somewhere near the bar, too low to fully hear over Theo’s complaining, but Theo still reacted instinctively anyway, flipping him off without even turning around.

Mattheo, somehow, still laughed.

You weren’t sure what was more impressive. The fact that they could communicate almost entirely through insults, or the fact that it somehow worked.

“You look tense,” Enzo observed from beside you.

You glanced at him flatly. “I’m walking uphill in thirty degree weather while carrying luggage. Forgive me for lacking whimsy.” 

“I can carry your bag.”

“I’d rather die.”

“See, that’s the sort of emotional openness I adore about you.”

Before you could respond, Enzo reached down and grabbed your hand. 

You nearly stopped walking altogether.

The movement was so casual that it took your brain a moment to process it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed.

He looked genuinely confused by the question. “Holding your hand.”

“Why?” 

Enzo released a long-suffering sigh, like you were the unreasonable one here. “Well couples generally do that, sweetheart. It’s called affection.” 

You tried pulling away immediately. 

Unfortunately, Lorenzo Berkshire had always possessed the deeply irritating combination of strong hands, arrogant confidence, and absolutely zero respect for personal boundaries.

Worse, your hand fit into his like it belonged there.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you informed him.

“Massively.”

His thumb brushed lazily across your knuckles while he guided you toward the villa entrance like this was the most natural thing in the world. 

Annoyingly, your pulse betrayed you instantly.

Which was truly deeply inconvenient.

This was the man who had spent years making your life difficult purely because he found your reactions entertaining. 

The man who smiled like he knew exactly how annoying he was and had no intention of changing. 

The man who was currently pretending to be your boyfriend so your friends wouldn’t attempt to set you up with every eligible bachelor on the island.

And somehow he was acting far too convincing. 

You hated that.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he was good at it.

It was that a small, traitorous part of you could almost believe him.

The terrace overlooked the sea in sweeping stretches of blue and gold while the rest of the group lounged around enormous cream-colored sofas with cocktails in hand. Pansy reclined dramatically across one of the outdoor chairs wearing enough diamonds to blind the entire island while Theo and Blaise argued over something completely incomprehensible near the bar. 

Conversation stopped the second you and Enzo stepped onto the terrace holding hands. 

The last time you had all been in the same place like this, none of you had known what you would become yet.

It had been easier then—back when the future was still a theoretical thing people joked about over late-night firewhisky and half-smoked joints. Back when Enzo thought he’d be playing Quidditch for the rest of his life. 

Now he didn’t.

Retiring had been less dramatic than everyone expected. No scandal, no dramatic exit. Just a final season, a quiet announcement, and then him stepping into Berkshire Group like he’d always been headed there anyway. There were whispers, of course—there always were when someone like him stopped flying— but he never corrected them. 

He didn’t need to.

Across from him, Hermione had stopped simply surviving politics and started mastering them. The Department of International Magical Co-operation had turned out to be exactly what she had been built for—languages, treaties, endless negotiations that required patience she once insisted she didn’t have. 

Theo, meanwhile, had refused to explain anything about his work at all. 

There were rumors. Ingredients that couldn’t be sourced through legal channels. Clients who never stayed in one place long enough to be traced. Something in the back streets of Knockturn Alley that people only referred to in lowered voices. 

Theo never confirmed or denied any of it. He just smiled like he knew something the rest of the world didn’t.

Blaise had done what Blaise always did—turned taste into power. 

His restaurants weren’t just restaurants anymore. They were institutions. Velvet-lit, reservation-only, spoken about in the same tone people used for ancestral vaults at Gringotts or private members’ clubs that didn’t officially exist on maps. If you knew, you knew. If you didn’t, you simply weren’t worthy.

Mattheo had gone in the opposite direction of all of them.

Charity work didn’t suit the version of him people remembered from school, and maybe that was the point. He worked with impoverished magical youth programs now—funding, outreach, rebuilding broken families and worse broken systems. It made him harder to place in conversations where people preferred labels. He didn’t seem to mind. 

Draco and Harry finally put their longstanding rivalry to good use. 

Auror partners, improbably efficient. The kind of duo that made criminals cower in fear. Draco still looked personally offended by most things in life, but underneath that carefully structured indifference, he was a force to be reckoned with. Harry still looked like he’d seen too much and refused to let it define him. Somehow, it worked. 

Pansy, of course, hadn’t changed roles at all. 

She had simply expanded hers. 

London didn’t have an official social hierarchy. It just had Pansy Parkinson, and then everyone else clambering to get in her good graces. Invitations, influence, reputations that rose and fell depending on whether she mentioned your name in the right room. 

And somehow, against all probability, all of you were here. 

Together again.

At a wedding in Paros. 

What could possibly go wrong?

Theo’s reaction lasted a fraction too long.

Not the shock—everyone had that—but the way his gaze flicked to Mattheo first, like checking for something before he spoke.

Mattheo didn’t look surprised at all.

He was already watching Theo instead of you.

Pansy blinked once. Then slowly lowered her drink. 

“I might be more pissed than I thought,” she announced carefully. “Because surely Y/N and Lorenzo are not walking in holding hands right now.” 

Theo’s jaw physically dropped. 

“Sweet Salazar,” he breathed. “Berkshire, are you blackmailing her?”

“Excuse me?” Enzo said, sounding genuinely offended.

Theo pointed directly at you. “There is absolutely no way she voluntarily agreed to date you.”

“See?” you told Enzo. “Even Theo thinks it’s inconceivable.” 

Enzo looked down at you with an offended expression. “What exactly is so baffling about the fact that we’re dating?”

“Because,” Theo declared matter-of-factly, “you’re famously quite the little slut.” 

A few people choked on their drinks.

Mattheo let out a short laugh at Theo’s comment, but it wasn’t aimed at Enzo. His eyes stayed on Theo the entire time, like he was waiting to see how far Theo would push it. Theo didn’t look back at him, but the corner of his mouth twitched anyway.

“I beg your pardon?” Enzo said slowly.

“I meant no offense,” Theo said, absolutely meaning offense. “I’m a certified slut myself, but I’ve embraced said sluttiness and profusely refuse to be shackled by monogamy.” 

Enzo pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re a fucking idiot.” 

You bit back a smile. “Theo has a point, actually.”

Theo looked immensely pleased. “Thank you.” 

Enzo squeezed your hand slightly harder. “You’re both very cruel to me considering I’m currently in a loving committed relationship.” 

You glared at him with pure loathing. 

The asshole looked absolutely delighted.

“You are unbearable.” 

“And yet you chose me, love.”

You opened your mouth. 

Then closed it. 

Because technically, unfortunately, he was right.

The group immediately descended into chaos after that. 

Questions flew from every direction while Ginny physically dragged you toward the outdoor seating area beside Hermione with the sort of intensity usually reserved for murder investigations. 

“How did this happen?” Ginny demanded.

“When did this happen?” Hermione added immediately after. 

“Did hell freeze over?” Theo supplied in astonishment. 

“Did you hit your head?” Blaise asked you from across the room.

You froze. 

Completely froze.

Because in all fairness, fake dating had sounded considerably more convincing on a boat in the middle of the ocean than it did standing in front of your closest friends waiting for an explanation. 

Unfortunately, everyone was staring at you expectantly now. 

You turned toward Enzo slowly. 

The bastard looked perfectly relaxed. 

Enzo leaned back against the sofa with one arm stretched lazily behind you while the corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk. He looked disgustingly attractive in the late afternoon sun, which felt deeply unfair considering the circumstances. 

“Honestly?” Enzo said. 

Everyone immediately looked at him.

“I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her at the engagement party.”

Your head snapped toward him.

“She ignored me for most of the night,” he continued. “Actually, no. She insulted me for most of the night.” 

“That part I believe,” Theo muttered.

You stared at him carefully, trying to figure out whether he was improvising or genuinely insane. 

Probably both.

“I finally asked her out,” he said. “She told me no twice.” 

“Three times,” you corrected automatically.

His eyes flickered toward yours immediately, bright with amusement. 

“Right,” he said softly. “Three times.” 

Ginny gasped dramatically. “Oh, she made you grovel.” 

“She did,” Enzo agreed solemnly. “It was horrible. I suffered greatly.” 

“You’re so dramatic.” 

“I was emotionally wounded.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

Laughter erupted around the terrace.

Then he looked directly at you.

“But honestly,” he added, his voice lowering slightly, “I would’ve gotten on my knees and begged if that’s what it took for her to say yes.” 

The way he said it made your stomach do something profoundly unhelpful.

Which was ridiculous.

Because Lorenzo Berkshire flirted with everyone. He just happened to be particularly committed to tormenting you specifically. 

The terrace erupted instantly.

Pansy clutched Hermione’s arm with genuine delight while Theo looked personally aggrieved by the entire situation. Meanwhile you simply stared at Enzo because what the actual fuck.

He sounded convincing. 

Not smooth in the way Enzo usually flirted either. Not teasing or performative or careless. There was something lower in his voice now. Something annoyingly believable.

Ginny sighed wistfully into her drink. “This is juicy. I feel like I’m back in school.” 

“I miss Hogwarts gossip,” Pansy agreed. 

Hermione looked horrified. “I don’t.”

“I do,” Theo said with a smirk. “Bring back public scandal!”

Pansy sat up straighter. “Remember when Lavender Brown slapped Zacharias Smith during breakfast?”

“Well deserved,” Ginny said. 

“Remember when Theo tried dating two girls at once and accidentally invited both of them to Hogsmeade?” 

Theo frowned thoughtfully. 

“I genuinely forgot.” 

“You’re genuinely stupid,” Draco informed him.

Pansy leaned back slightly. “Some things never change. You lot have always been sluts, especially Lorenzo.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “He’s managed to avoid every serious relationship until now.”

“Which is suspicious,” Ginny added immediately.

Pansy tilted her head. “Or strategic.”

Across the table, Harry glanced between you and Enzo. “You two actually look like you might kill each other or get married. There’s no in between.”

“Comforting,” you muttered.

Theo leaned forward. “So what, Berkshire finally decided to grow up?”

Enzo’s smile didn’t change. “I’ve always been mature.”

The group laughed immediately.

Mattheo snorted into his drink before glancing toward Enzo.

“Berkshire somehow dated half the castle without ever getting hexed. Still impressive, honestly.” 

“Oh please,” Pansy scoffed. “Girls practically lined up for him.” 

Enzo shrugged nonchalantly. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” 

“I wasn’t aware you were a gentleman,” you quipped. 

The group erupted into boisterous laughter.

Ginny pointed accusingly. “Lorenzo clearly has a type.”

“I do not.”

“You most certainly do,” Hermione argued,

Mattheo smirked. “Pretty eyes and poor judgment.” 

Theo raised his glass. “Low self-preservation instincts.” 

“It’s not my fault I’m irresistible.” 

You took a slow sip of your drink before speaking. “Mhm. I remember the black book.” 

Enzo went completely still. 

Every head toward you instantly.

Pansy looked delighted already. “Oh my god.” 

Enzo didn’t speak immediately.

Just looked at you for half a second too long—like he was deciding whether to deny it or flee altogether.

Theo sat forward. “I forgot about the black book.” 

“What black book?” Hermione asked immediately.

You smiled sweetly. “Lorenzo kept a list.” 

"Of all his dalliances and conquests," Theo supplied.

Enzo looked like he wanted the ocean to swallow him whole. 

“Wasn’t it organized by grade level?” you continued thoughtfully. “Alphabetized too, if I remember correctly.”

Theo was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his drink. 

“And color coded,” you added.

“Oh, this is too good,” Ginny whispered gleefully.

Enzo stared at you for a moment. 

His eyes narrowed. 

Then, before you could react, his arm slid around your waist and pulled you firmly against his side. 

Your body reacted before your brain did—just for a fraction of a second. Like it remembered something you had worked very hard to forget.

“I’m a changed man.” 

The movement startled you enough that your breath caught slightly.

“The past is the past,” Enzo said smoothly, smiling at the group while his fingers rested warm against your waist. “I only have eyes for you now, sweetheart.”

You genuinely considered wringing his stupid neck.

The terrace erupted immediately. 

Ginny leaned toward Hermione. “He’s absolutely smitten.”

Hermione didn’t look surprised. “I know.”

You slid your hand down Enzo’s leg under the table and squeezed hard enough to make him inhale sharply. His expression didn’t change, but his fingers tightened at your waist in retaliation.

Mutual destruction. 

How very reassuring.

“Aren’t I a lucky woman?” 

“Get a room, you two,” Pansy called.

You rolled your eyes and slipped out of Enzo’s hold before the warmth of his hand could settle too comfortably beneath your skin. 

Theo grinned widely, which could only really mean trouble. “Wait—hold on. That reminds me.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

You already hated whatever was coming next.

Theo leaned back in his chair, pointing accusingly toward Enzo. “Berkshire used to be unhinged about you, you know.”

Enzo didn’t look up. “I’m sitting right here.”

“Yeah, and?” Theo said cheerfully. “You used to read every single article about her when she was in Paris.”

That finally got your attention.

Not because it surprised you.

But because for the first time that evening, Enzo looked genuinely uncomfortable.

The grip on his glass tightened slightly.

“That is categorically untrue,” he said flatly.

Pansy lifted a brow. “Is it?”

Ginny immediately sat forward, delighted. “Nott, please explain in excruciating detail.”

Theo looked far too pleased with himself. “Oh, he was religious about it. Every interview, every feature, every miniscule piece she did for those French magazines—he’d read them like scripture.”

Blaise nodded. “That is unfortunately accurate.”

Draco didn’t even look up from his drink. “Painfully accurate.”

Hermione blinked. “You tracked Y/N's career?”

“Theo is exaggerating," Enzo said through his teeth.

Mattheo, from across the table, finally smirked. “He absolutely isn’t.”

Enzo shot him a warning look.

But Theo only leaned forward further, like he was just getting warmed up. “He devoured anything and everything about you.” 

“That’s insane,” you said before you could stop yourself.

The second it left your mouth, Enzo turned toward you.

Too quickly.

Too sharply.

“There’s nothing wrong with staying informed,” he said defensively.

Ginny burst out laughing. “Informed. Right.”

Pansy looked genuinely delighted now. “So while Y/N was living her glamorous Paris life, Lorenzo was basically devouring her press coverage like a lunatic?”

“I’m not a lunatic.”

Theo raised his glass. “Right. And I’m the Chosen One.”

A quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him now instead of the others. “So you were reading about me.”

Not a question. Just a gentle confirmation, like you were testing how it sounded out loud.

Enzo didn’t answer right away.

Which, unfortunately for him, said everything.

You leaned back in your chair, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it uncomfortable before adding lightly, “That’s… actually quite sweet.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

A warning in them now. Subtle, but there.

You ignored it.

“A little strange, maybe,” you continued thoughtfully, “but sweet.”

A few people made faint, amused sounds around the table.

Enzo exhaled slowly through his nose. “It’s not—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in easily, before he could defend himself too hard. Then, with a small tilt of your glass toward him: “We’re dating. You’re allowed to be a little obsessed with me.”

The table reacted instantly.

Theo choked. “Oh my—”

Pansy looked like she might combust from joy. “I love her.”

Ginny was grinning into her drink. “She’s not wrong, actually.”

Enzo, however, went very still.

A muscle in his jaw ticked once.

“Right,” he said slowly, like he was choosing each word carefully. “Of course.”

You smiled innocently at him over your glass.

“Good,” you said. “Because I saw you on a few magazine covers too.”

That made him look up fully now.

“Oh?”

“Mostly in passing,” you added. “You were always doing something vaguely expensive-looking in a suit. It got repetitive.”

Theo made a strangled sound into his drink.

Draco actually laughed out loud.

Blaise looked faintly impressed. “That’s fair.”

Enzo, however, didn’t react to any of them.

He was only looking at you now.

“You read about me,” he said quietly.

The teasing was gone now.

Completely.

You held his gaze, expression perfectly calm. “There’s nothing wrong with staying informed.”

A beat.

Theo leaned back, exhaling dramatically. “Right. This is officially worse than I thought.”

That broke it again—cleanly, messily, like it always did with them.

Ginny immediately clapped her hands. “Okay. No. I’m done. I need answers.”

Hermione was already standing. “Come on.”

She reached for your wrist before you could object.

“We’re continuing this interrogation inside.”

The kitchen sat just off the terrace, all white marble and open windows letting warm sea air drift through gauzy curtains.

You barely made it three steps inside before Ginny grabbed your wrist.

“Oh absolutely not,” she said immediately. “You’re explaining everything.”

Hermione followed behind her carrying her drink with far too much calm for someone clearly enjoying this. 

“Start from the beginning.”

“There isn’t much to explain.”

Ginny stared at you blankly. 

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“You disappeared for one engagement party and came back dating Lorenzo Berkshire. That requires several explanations and possibly a PowerPoint.”

You grabbed a bottle of water from the counter mostly to avoid looking at either of them. Outside on the terrace, Theo was still loudly reenacting Enzo nearly choking over the black book comment while everyone laughed.

“I just,” you started carefully, “ran into him.”

Ginny looked deeply unimpressed. “You don’t genuinely expect us to believe that.”

“Trust me, I wasn’t expecting it either.”

Hermione frowned. “I thought you hated him?” 

“I never said I didn’t.”

“I knew it!” Ginny exclaimed. “All the arguing and fighting is just some fucked up form of foreplay, isn’t it?” 

“The sex has to be insane.”

Your cheeks flushed the same shade as her hair. “Gin!” 

“What?” Ginny said, completely unbothered. “The two of you have been at it since school.”

“Look,” you said with a sigh, “whatever is between me and Lorenzo is complicated, alright?” 

“So you like him,” Hermione accused.

You unscrewed the water bottle slowly. “We’re just seeing where things go.”

Which technically was not a lie.

Probably.

Hermione leaned against the counter, studying you carefully. “And how does he feel?”

You nearly answered immediately with something sarcastic before your brain, unhelpfully, replayed the sound of his voice earlier.

That stupid low sincerity he slipped into sometimes without warning.

Deeply irritating behavior, honestly.

“He’s being dramatic because there’s an audience,” you said finally.

Ginny barked out a laugh. “Please. Berkshire doesn’t look at girls like that.”

You frowned slightly. “Like what?”

“Like they’re the only person in the room worth paying attention to.”

“That feels dramatic.”

Hermione took a sip of her drink. “It’s really not.”

You looked between the two of them skeptically.

Ginny crossed her arms. “Do you know how irritating this is for me personally? I spent an embarrassing amount of effort trying to set you up with Mattheo.”

That caught your attention despite yourself.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Tell that to Mattheo,” Ginny repeated. “He’s attractive, funny, emotionally functional, and significantly less of an arsehole than Berkshire. It would’ve been perfect.”

You glanced absentmindedly toward the terrace.

Mattheo sat stretched back lazily in one of the lounge chairs while Theo talked with his hands beside him. Enzo stood near the railing with Draco and Blaise, sunlight catching the sharp lines of his face as he laughed at something Blaise said.

Then, like he felt you looking at him, Enzo turned his head.

His eyes found yours immediately.

Predictably, he looked unbearably smug the second he caught you staring.

“And there it is,” Ginny sighed dramatically.

You looked away from him first. “What?”

“Y/N,” Hermione said gently, “that man has been obsessed with you since Hogwarts.”

You snorted softly. “You can’t possibly believe that.”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” Hermione replied.

“Why?”

Hermione blinked once like the answer was obvious. “Because I have eyes.”

She said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like there wasn’t anything confusing about the way Enzo looked at you.

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Y/N,” Ginny interrupted, “he got detention sixth year because Cormac McLaggen asked if you were single.”

“He threatened him with a chair,” Hermione clarified.

Your eyebrows lifted despite yourself.

“You’re both clearly unwell.”

“It’s true,” Ginny confirmed. “Theo still brings it up when he wants to embarrass him.”

You looked back toward the terrace again before you could stop yourself.

Enzo was smiling at something Draco said, head tipped back slightly as late sunlight spilled across his skin. Relaxed. Easy. Beautiful in that infuriating effortless way he had always been beautiful.

Then he glanced toward the kitchen again.

Straight toward you.

Honestly, it was starting to feel less like a coincidence and more like a problem you absolutely had no intention of dealing with.

Hermione followed your line of sight before sighing softly. “Abort the Mattheo plan.”

Ginny groaned dramatically. “Oh come on.”

“No, seriously,” Hermione replied. “Look at him.”

You shouldn’t have looked.

Unfortunately, you did.

Enzo was still watching you.

Theo said something beside him that made everyone else laugh, but Enzo barely reacted because his attention remained fixed entirely on you.

The conversation around him kept going, but it might as well have been underwater.

He didn’t react to any of it.

Heat crawled slowly up your neck.

“You still think he isn’t absolutely head over heels for you?” Hermione informed you calmly.

You tore your eyes away from him. “You’re both insane.”

“Maybe,” Ginny allowed. “But if he breaks your heart, I’m legally allowed to kill him.”

“I’ll help,” Hermione offered.

You softened a little at that. Because this was why you loved them. Not because they hovered or pried or treated you delicately. Ginny certainly never had.

But because they cared. 

Loudly. Aggressively, sometimes. 

Still, they cared.

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head as the three of you drifted back toward the terrace.

The second you stepped outside again, Enzo’s attention snapped toward you instantly.

Honestly, at this point it was becoming slightly ridiculous.

Hermione suddenly sat up straighter like she’d remembered something important. “Actually, that reminds me.”

You felt immediate dread.

“Since you two lovebirds are dating,” she continued brightly, “you can share a room.”

You turned toward her immediately. “Mione...”

“It’s perfect, actually,” she said, entirely too pleased with herself. “That frees up the last room for Ron and Susan.”

“We can absolutely sleep separately,” you argued.

Enzo looked personally offended by the suggestion.

Theo wolf-whistled loudly. “Berkshire sharing a room with the girl he’s been obsessed with since Hogwarts. This is better than television.”

“You people are exhausting,” you informed them.

“And yet deeply entertaining,” Blaise replied.

Hermione stood, grabbing your wrist before you could protest further. “Come on. I’ll show you both upstairs.”

The boys immediately started making obnoxious noises behind you while Ginny laughed herself breathless against Pansy’s shoulder.

You refused to look at Enzo.

You could still feel him grinning anyway.

“Lorenzo.” 

Enzo snapped to attention like an obedient pet. “Coming, love.”

The group collectively lost their minds once again.

The bedroom was beautiful in the infuriating way all expensive villas were beautiful. White linen sheets covered a massive bed positioned directly across from open balcony doors overlooking the sea. Late sunlight spilled across the floor in warm golden streaks while sheer curtains moved lazily in the breeze.

You stopped in the doorway.

Something about it didn’t feel like a joke anymore. Not in the way the rest of the day had.

There was one bed.

You were beginning to suspect this entire trip was a punishment.

A beautiful, expensive, Mediterranean punishment.

Or worse.

A setup you didn’t fully understand yet.

And unfortunately, Lorenzo Berkshire was apparently part of the package.

“This has to be a joke.” 

Enzo looked over your shoulder.

“It’s fate.”

“Oh, this is delicious,” Theo said from somewhere behind you.

“Leave,” you ordered.

“No.”

“Now.”

Theo grinned before Draco physically dragged him away from the doorway while everyone else laughed and filtered back downstairs. On the way out, Theo brushed past Mattheo slightly too close.

Mattheo didn’t move.

He just tilted his head a fraction, like he was listening to something only Theo had said without speaking.

The second the room finally emptied, silence settled between you and Enzo.

You crossed your arms slowly. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” he repeated. “You’re the one who brought up the black book in front of everyone.”

“You deserved it.”

Lorenzo sighed in defeat.

“Probably.”

You hated that he admitted that so easily.

He set his suitcase near the dresser before glancing toward you again, amusement still lingering at the corners of his mouth. 

“You’re adorable when you’re angry.”

“I’m going to push you off this balcony.”

“You’d miss me.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

That annoyed you more than it should have.

Because beneath the teasing and sarcasm, he was looking at you strangely again.

Too soft. Too attentive. Like he was studying your expression for answers you had no intention of giving him.

It made your chest feel uncomfortably tight.

You looked away first.

“I’m not sharing a bed with you.” 

“Not even if I ask really nicely?” 

You glared at him.

“Fine, I’ll take the couch.” Enzo sighed. 

Then that stupid smirk of his appeared again. 

“But my offer still stands. If you ever feel lonely in that big, comfy bed—”

“I’d sooner cuddle a cactus.”

“Well you have called me a prick on multiple occassions…”

“Lorenzo.”

He answered immediately.

“Yes, love?"

He said it too easily. Like the nickname rolled off of his tongue without even thinking twice.

God.

You were going to kill him by the end of the week.

Or kiss him.

At this point, both felt equally possible.

🐚TAGLIST

Arrival Day

The Aquila Yacht — Aegean Sea, Greece

The boat ride to Paros was supposed to be relaxing. 

That was what Draco had said while shoving tickets into Enzo’s hand two nights earlier with all the emotional warmth of a government official issuing a parking fine.

“Try not to start any problems before the wedding week begins.” 

Which was a fascinating request coming from Draco Malfoy considering the man spent most of his adolescence being a public nuisance at best.

At the time, Enzo assumed the warning was unnecessary. 

Then he arrived at the private marina in Mykonos and saw you standing near the dock in a pale sundress and oversized sunglasses looking unfairly gorgeous at ten o’clock in the morning. 

Suddenly, Draco’s concerns felt significantly more reasonable. 

Enzo slowed for half a second. 

Not enough for anyone else to notice. Years of networking events, interviews, sponsorship deals, and public appearances had taught him how to keep his expression under control. From the outside, he looked perfectly relaxed. Confident. Unbothered.

Internally, however, things were already going spectacularly wrong.

Two weeks had passed since he’d last seen you at Draco and Hermione’s engagement party, which should’ve been enough time for the shock to wear off. It should’ve been enough time for him to stop thinking about the way you’d looked across a crowded room and for whatever strange hold you’d always had over him to finally loosen its grip.

Instead, seeing you again felt like being hit directly in the chest.

You looked up from your phone the moment he approached, and your expression remained completely neutral as your gaze settled on him. For some reason, that felt worse than if you’d slapped him across the face.

Anger he could work with, because hatred at least required emotion.

Indifference, however, was an entirely different problem.

“Berkshire,” you greeted.

The familiar irritation in your voice settled somewhere dangerously close to relief, and Enzo hated how quickly he recognized it. A decade had passed, yet he still knew the difference between your genuine annoyance and the version you performed for everyone else.

“Sweetheart.” 

Your eyes narrowed immediately. 

There it was again. That tiny spark of irritation you never quite managed to hide around him, the same one that used to appear whenever he pushed your buttons just to see your reaction.

Merlin, he’d missed that.

“You’re late.”

Enzo glanced at his watch before looking back at you. “I’m three minutes early.” 

“As I said,” you said flatly. “Late.” 

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Some things, apparently, never changed, and for the first time since arriving, he found himself genuinely grateful for that.

The yacht itself was absurd. 

Sleek, oversized, and aggressively ostentatious in a way only Draco Malfoy could justify without shame.

White leather seating curved across the upper deck. Champagne chilled in silver buckets beside trays of fruit nobody actually intended to eat. Somewhere below, soft music drifted through hidden speakers, blending into the sound of water against the hull.

Enzo barely noticed any of it. 

Because you were sitting across from him.

Because sunlight kept catching in your hair. 

Because apparently ten years hadn’t improved his self-control whatsoever. 

Which was unfortunate. 

Particularly because he’d spent the last decade becoming very good at pretending he had some. 

Professionally speaking, life had worked out rather well. 

After Hogwarts, he signed with Puddlemere immediately, spent three years becoming one of the league’s most marketable players, and then somehow found himself turning into the exact kind of businessman he used to mock. 

He built a life around investments, brand partnerships, property developments, and an honestly ridiculous amount of money. His mother liked to remind him regularly that he’d become respectable, which Enzo personally viewed as a rather unfortunate character flaw. 

The worst part was that he was actually good at it. The Berkshire Group had offices in London, Milan, and New York now, and his face appeared in magazines more often than he cared to admit. Half the wizarding world seemed convinced that he had his life perfectly together. 

The joke, of course, was that none of them knew a thing. 

Because despite the career, the money, and the women, there had always been one person he couldn’t quite forget. 

Unfortunately, that person was currently sitting twenty feet away glaring at him over a pair of sunglasses. 

“Are you going to stand there staring at me all morning or did you plan on actually sitting down?” 

Enzo dropped into the seat across from you with a lazy grin. 

“It wasn’t an invitation.”

“When has that ever stopped me?” 

“You’re an absolute pain in the arse.” 

“I missed you too, love.” 

The boat eased away from the dock, the marina shrinking in the horizon as the sea opened up in slow blue stretches.

Enzo stretched his arms across the back of the seat while watching you pretend to read. 

Pretend being the key word there. 

You hadn’t turned a single page in nearly five minutes. 

“You know,” he said conversationally, “most people would consider this romantic.” 

You stared at him.

“Most people haven’t sustained severe brain damage from years of playing Quidditch.”

“Cruel.” 

“Accurate.” 

Enzo grinned despite himself.

The truly deranged part was that every insult out of your mouth only made him want to grin wider. 

Ten years ago, you would’ve blushed after saying something like that. 

Now you looked him dead in the eye like you genuinely hoped the sea swallowed him whole. 

Fucking hell. 

That really shouldn’t have made him so goddamn hard.

The breeze shifted across the deck, tugging loose strands of hair across your face. Without thinking, you tucked them behind your ear while reaching for your drink, and the simple movement hit Enzo with an uncomfortable rush of familiarity.

You used to do that while studying.

Whenever you got frustrated with an essay or lost in thought over a textbook, your fingers would automatically brush your hair back in the exact same way. It was such a small thing, the kind of detail nobody should reasonably remember after so long, yet Enzo remembered it instantly.

Bollocks.

He looked away first, pretending to focus on the sea stretching endlessly around him. Unfortunately, that strategy had never worked particularly well where you were concerned. Before long, his gaze gravitated toward you instinctively.

“You’re staring again,” you said without looking up from your book.

“I’m appreciating the scenery.”

“The sea’s behind you.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I wasn’t talking about the sea.”

Slowly, you lowered the book into your lap and fixed him with a look that suggested you were reconsidering the moral dilemma of casting an unforgivable curse.

“You’ve got a truly inspirational lack of shame, Berkshire.”

“I prefer persistence.”

“You’re exhausting.”

Enzo rested an arm across the back of his chair, completely unbothered by the insult.

“You used to like me.”

“That was before my frontal lobe developed,” you replied smoothly. “People grow.”

Christ.

The worst part was that he genuinely couldn't tell whether he wanted to laugh or drag you into the nearest empty cabin. Possibly both.

Enzo pressed a hand dramatically against his chest.

“You’re genuinely vicious now.”

“No,” you corrected calmly. “Now I just say it out loud.”

The smile on his face faltered slightly.

Most people would've missed the implication entirely, but Enzo didn't.

A decade ago, you used to soften your opinions around him. You used to bite back comments and let things slide, always worried about hurting someone's feelings. Now you looked him directly in the eye and said exactly what you thought.

Something sharp twisted low in his stomach before he shoved the feeling aside.

“What’s the point of attending a wedding if you’re not willing to have a little fun?”

You took another sip of champagne.

“I’m here to support my friends, not sleep with anything that has a pulse.”

“I’m perfectly capable of doing both.”

“Only because you’re physically incapable of keeping it in your pants.”

Enzo smiled slowly.

“You think about my pants a surprising amount for someone who allegedly hates me.”

Your expression remained perfectly composed.

“I’ve already seen what’s inside your pants and it's hardly worth revisiting.”

His cock twitched instantly.

Bloody hell.

There was honestly something deeply wrong with him.

Any normal man would've found your constant insults concerning. Enzo found them outrageously arousing. It was genuinely fucked up.

Even when you were younger, you had always been funny beneath the softness. Most people only saw the sweet girl who followed rules and minded her business, but Enzo remembered the muttered comments during class that used to catch him so off guard he'd nearly spit pumpkin juice in Professor Flitwick's face more than once.

Most people never noticed that side of you.

Enzo always did.

Which was exactly the problem.

Your phone buzzed against the side table between you, pulling him from his thoughts. You glanced down at the screen and immediately looked annoyed, which naturally made him interested.

Before you could stop him, Enzo leaned forward just enough to read the messages lighting up your screen.

GINNY: Please shag someone this week. Mione and I are begging.

HERMIONE: Mattheo asked about you earlier. I think you two would really get on.

GINNY: Forget about getting on. You need to get on him. Riddle is hot, rich, and emotionally intelligent. The man is right up your alley, babe.

Enzo leaned back in his chair with a low whistle, the kind that suggested he was already far too entertained by something he absolutely shouldn't have been entertaining himself with.

“Emotionally intelligent,” he repeated. “Bit insulting to the rest of us, honestly.”

You reached for your phone at once, clicking your tongue in annoyance. “Were you raised in a barn?”

“A mansion, actually.”

“You nosy, insufferable prick,” you said with a glare. “You can’t read people’s private messages.”

A shiver ran down his spine at the scorching insults.

The fact that he still had the ability to rile you up after all this time genuinely thrilled him.

If he had a mind healer, this would most certainly be the first facet of his dazzling personality a professional would psychoanalyze.

“I absolutely can if you leave them directly in front of me,” he replied without missing a beat.

You stared at him for a long moment, debating several options that would almost certainly ruin the mood and possibly your criminal record, before exhaling and placing your phone back on the table with visible irritation.

“Your friends are right,” Enzo said smoothly, stretching his arm along the back of his chair like he had nowhere else to be and all the time in the world to annoy you. “You do need a good shag.”

“What I need,” you replied sweetly, “is for you to fall overboard.”

“See,” he murmured, as though genuinely considering it, “that one felt hostile.”

“It was meant to.”

His gaze drifted briefly to the water, sunlight flickering across the surface in slow, careless patterns, before he looked back at you again. His expression had shifted slightly, casual on the surface but sharper underneath it.

“Mattheo’s not a bad option though.”

He said it like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter at all. Unfortunately, it mattered a very concerning amount.

Enzo leaned back further in his chair, settling into something deliberately relaxed. “Too bad he’s not your type.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly above the rim of your sunglasses. “You don’t know my type.”

“I do, actually.”

You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him work for it. “Go on then. Enlighten me.”

He tapped a finger lightly against his glass, pretending to think, though the look in his eyes suggested he had already decided long before he spoke.

“Emotionally unavailable,” he said lazily. “Bad at listening. Overconfident. Makes questionable decisions and somehow still expects to be forgiven.”

You held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

“That’s not my type.”

“It used to be.”

Your smile was sharp when it came. “How convenient that it also describes you.”

“If the shoe fits, love.”

“Careful,” you said lightly. “Before I throw the shoe directly at your arrogant head.”

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he teased, leaning in just slightly now, eyes bright with it. “I’m so close.”

You wrinkled your nose in disgust. “You’re revolting.”

“That’s not a denial.”

A sigh slipped out of you as you leaned back again, the kind of exhausted patience usually reserved for particularly persistent disasters. “Do you ever get tired of hearing your own voice?”

“No,” he said immediately. Then, softer but sharper in intent, “Do you ever get tired of pretending I don’t affect you?”

The question landed more cleanly than it should have, sharper than you were prepared for.

For just a moment, you hesitated.

Not long—barely enough to register to anyone else.

But Enzo noticed.

He always did.

He shifted forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, attention sharpening in a way that made the space between you feel suddenly smaller.

“You always do that,” he added.

“Do what?”

“That thing where you go quiet when I get close.”

Your eyes flicked up, sharper now. “You’re delusional.”

“Maybe,” he agreed easily, though his gaze didn’t move. “But you didn’t answer the question.”

“What question?”

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to yours, slower this time, as if he were choosing not to acknowledge it.

“Why Mattheo?”

You blinked once. “What about him?”

“Do you like him?”

The words came too quickly, too cleanly, like he hadn’t meant to let them out that fast. He didn’t like that he’d asked, and he liked even less how much he wanted the answer to be no.

“Why does it matter?” you asked.

“It doesn’t,” he said at once.

Too easily.

He reached for his glass, turning it slowly between his fingers as if the conversation had already lost interest for him, though the tension in his posture said otherwise.

“Just doesn’t strike me as your usual standard,” he added lightly.

Your gaze sharpened instantly. “My usual standard?”

“Mmm,” he hummed. “You’ve never been particularly interested in obvious choices.”

There was a pause then, the kind that tried very hard to pass itself off as casual and failed miserably.

You studied him for a moment longer than necessary. “Are you trying to insult me or Mattheo?”

“Why would I insult you?”

“Because you’re bored.”

“Never.”

You gave him a look that suggested you didn’t believe a single word he had ever said in his life.

He exhaled lightly, as though you were the difficult one in this scenario. “I’m just saying. Riddle seems… simple.”

“Simple,” you repeated flatly.

“Predictable,” he corrected. “A safe option. The reformed bad boy turned charity sweetheart. Very approved by Hermione Granger energy.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched like it might have been the start of a smile.

“And you think I don’t like safe options?”

Enzo’s eyes flicked to you immediately, sharp and instinctive, before he forced them back into something more casual.

“I think you get bored easily,” he said.

You leaned back into your chair, watching him over the rim of your sunglasses. “You think a lot of things about me.”

“I have to,” he replied. “You don’t exactly volunteer information.”

“That’s because it’s none of your bloody business.”

A pause settled between you again, heavier this time, though neither of you acknowledged it for what it was.

Then Enzo exhaled, lighter again, as if he hadn’t just been watching you a second too closely.

“So. Mattheo?”

You let out a long sigh. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he said immediately.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “I just don’t want you stuck talking to someone who can’t keep up.”

You looked at him for a long moment, expression unreadable, before shaking your head slightly.

“You’re not subtle, Berkshire.”

Enzo smiled. “I’m not trying to be.”

And somehow, annoyingly, he looked completely convinced of that.

“You’re annoying when you smirk like that,” you informed him.

“You’re beautiful when you’re mean to me.”

Your expression shifted, just slightly, the kind of flicker most people would miss entirely.

Enzo didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

The problem with knowing someone at sixteen was that parts of them stayed carved into you permanently. Tiny things. Little reactions. Habits. Expressions. 

He still knew exactly when you were uncomfortable. 

Still knew when your sarcasm sharpened because you were deflecting. 

Still knew the difference between your real smile and the practiced polite ones. 

And apparently that knowledge was going to kill him someday. 

“I heard about Daphne,” you said casually, like you were commenting on the weather rather than casually dragging his entire recent romantic history into the Mediterranean sunlight.

Enzo blinked once, slow and deliberate, the kind of pause that usually meant he was deciding whether to lie, deflect, or make a joke.

“What about her?”

You shrugged one shoulder, gaze fixed far too carefully on the horizon, where the sea met the sky in a line so clean it almost looked staged. “Nothing. Just heard you broke up.”

That earned you a longer look.

Enzo studied you properly now, not the lazy, half-interested attention he usually gave the world, but something sharper underneath it. Your voice had been steady, your posture controlled, your sunglasses angled just enough to hide your expression.

Calm. Deliberate. Entirely too casual.

He knew you well enough to know it was anything but.

“You sound curious,” he said lightly.

“You sound defensive,” you shot back without missing a beat.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Why did you bring her up?”

“I can’t imagine it would be fun running into your ex-girlfriend at a wedding,” you replied, still not looking at him. “Small island. Limited escape routes. Emotional entanglements everywhere.”

Enzo let out a quiet hum, leaning back in his chair like the entire conversation was mildly entertaining rather than slightly disarming. “Hmm. I’m having loads of fun with you right now.”

“I’m not your ex.”

No.

You were something far worse.

You definitely weren’t Daphne.

And that was the problem.

Because Daphne had been clean lines and polished expectations. She had been the kind of relationship that made sense on paper, the kind his mother approved of immediately and his social circle nodded at without question. She was elegant dinners, planned appearances, and conversations that never accidentally spiraled into anything too real.

She also had expectations Enzo had never quite managed to meet, the kind that required a level of certainty he’d never been especially good at offering.

It had ended quietly, almost politely, with all the correct words said in all the wrong emotional places—which, in hindsight, was probably the most damning part of it.

“So,” you said after a beat, shifting the weight of the conversation before it could settle too heavily, “what exactly happened between you two?”

“I don’t want to talk about Daphne.”

That, of course, made you look at him differently.

One brow lifted slightly as you finally turned your head toward him. “So she did break your heart.”

Enzo gave a small, noncommittal shrug, eyes flicking briefly back to the water as though it held something more interesting than the conversation. “Something like that.”

“I didn’t even think you had a heart to begin with.”

That made him huff a laugh despite himself.

“I think you think about me more than you care to admit.”

You didn’t even blink. “I think you flatter yourself constantly.”

“That’s because I’m very flattering.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned further back into the lounge chair, letting the sun catch the edge of your sunglasses as the wind shifted around both of you. For a few seconds, the conversation eased into silence, the kind that wasn’t quite comfortable but wasn’t quite tense either.

It hovered somewhere in between, fragile and unclaimed.

Then suddenly, horribly, something clicked in Enzo’s head.

An idea.

The kind that arrived fully formed and immediately felt like a bad decision wearing a charming smile.

He stared at you for half a second too long.

You didn’t notice at first. Or maybe you did and simply chose to ignore it, which was worse.

“We should pretend to date,” he said at last.

For better or for worse, that got your attention.

You went completely still.

Slowly, deliberately, you lowered your sunglasses just enough for him to see your eyes properly. The expression behind them was unreadable in the way that usually meant he had either said something genius or something deeply, irreversibly stupid.

“…What?”

Enzo smiled lazily, despite the fact that his pulse had just decided to accelerate without permission.

“We pretend to date,” he repeated, like it was the most reasonable suggestion in the world. “You get Hermione and Ginny off your back, stop them from trying to marry you off to every man with a pulse on this island. I make Daphne jealous, neither of us look pathetically single, and we both get through the wedding week without being emotionally ambushed at every turn.”

He leaned back like that explained everything.

Which, annoyingly, it almost did.

You stared at him.

Not blinking. Not reacting. Just staring, like you were trying to determine whether he had suffered a head injury sometime between boarding the yacht and this exact moment.

“This is idiotic,” you said finally.

“Probably.”

“It’s manipulative.”

“Definitely.”

“It would never work.”

A beat.

Then Enzo nodded once, as though conceding a reasonable point. “You’re right. We should probably shag at least once if we want it to be believable.”

That earned him a look so sharp it could have cut glass.

Salazar, you were vicious.

He loved every second of it.

Your phone buzzed again before you could respond.

You didn’t even need to look at it to know what it was.

GINNY: If you reject Mattheo without even trying, I’m calling in reinforcements and getting your mum involved.

A long exhale left you as you closed your eyes for half a second, the expression of someone who had just been personally victimized by friendship.

Enzo bit back a grin.

“You’re considering it,” he said, quieter now.

“I’m considering tossing myself off this yacht.”

“Close enough.”

You opened your eyes again and pointed a warning finger at him. “This isn’t real.”

“Obviously.”

“There will be boundaries.”

“How sexy,” he murmured.

“You’re not allowed to flirt with me for entertainment.”

Enzo blinked once, as if genuinely considering the accusation, then smiled slowly anyway. “That’s unfortunate, considering it’s already become my favorite hobby.”

You looked genuinely offended by his existence. 

Which, frustratingly, only seemed to improve his mood.

You hesitated longer than you wanted to admit. Long enough that he could see the exact moment your resistance started to shift, even if you clearly hated that it was happening.

“Fine,” you said at last.

The word landed like a reluctant surrender. Like you were agreeing to something far more catastrophic than it actually was.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.

At least, that's what you told yourself.

Enzo had to actively fight the instinct to smile too widely.

He failed slightly.

Immediately, your eyes narrowed. “You look far too happy about this.”

“I’m naturally joyful.”

“You’re naturally irritating.”

“And yet,” he added lightly, “you still said yes.”

That earned him another look.

You stood before he could say anything else, gathering your book and your champagne glass with deliberate composure, like you needed distance to regain control of the situation.

“That’s because watching this inevitably blow up in your face sounds deeply entertaining.” 

“Now, sweetheart,” Enzo drawled. “Is that any way to talk to your loving boyfriend?”

“Fuck off, Berkshire.”

You didn’t even look at him when you said it. You were already standing, already turning away, already walking toward the opposite side of the deck like the conversation had been filed under irrelevant and mildly irritating. 

Sunlight spilled across your shoulders in soft gold as the sea breeze caught the hem of your dress, tugging it just enough to make it look like the ocean itself was trying to keep you there. Enzo hated the ocean for that. It had no respect for boundaries.

He watched you go anyway.

Longer than necessary.

Long enough that it stopped being something he could pretend was casual.

Long enough that it started feeling like he was actively making life choices that would inevitably bite him in the arse in the near future.

You bent slightly to adjust your sunglasses, completely unaware of the absolute collapse happening behind you in real time.

Enzo let out a quiet groan and tipped his head back, staring up at the brutal, indifferent Mediterranean sky like it had personally conspired against him.

Because it had to be illegal, honestly.

The way you could insult him, reject him, walk away from him—and still leave him standing there like an idiot who kept hoping for something he had no real right to hope for, even when he knew better.

He dragged a hand down his face.

Merlin.

He was so fucked.

🐚TAGLIST

You were not Gotham’s lesson. You were its contradiction.

You walked into the lives of heroes with no cape, no crest, no ancestral oath or alien sun burning beneath your skin. You arrived with steady hands, tired eyes, and a reputation that made even gods go quiet.

You could heal anything. That was what everyone said.

The Justice League said it with reverence. The Titans said it with relief. The Outlaws said it with reckless gratitude. Young Justice said it like they had discovered a cheat code and decided not to read the terms of service.

Jon said you were “basically a miracle.”

Damian said miracles were unreliable.

You had smiled at him when he said it. Amused.

“Good thing I’m not a miracle, then,” you had replied.

He had disliked you immediately.

Not because you were wrong.

Because he wanted you to be.

The first time Damian let you heal him, he was twenty-one and old enough to know better.

It was not a serious injury. That was what he told himself. A fractured wrist after a fight with a metahuman trafficking cell near the docks. He had taken the hit redirecting a collapsing beam away from a child. The child survived. His wrist did not.

A favourable exchange.

You found him on a rooftop afterwards, attempting to secure a splint one-handed with the grim concentration of a man personally offended by gauze. You stood in front of him for five seconds before saying, “That wrap is a hate crime.”

Damian did not look up. “It is functional.”

“It is shaped like unresolved childhood trauma.”

His eyes lifted. You smiled mildly.

He stared. “You are bold for someone within throwing distance.”

“You’re injured.”

“You believe that protects you?”

“No. I believe your wrist is broken and your left-handed aim with medical tape is probably worse than you think.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. The worst part was that you were correct.

You stepped closer but did not reach for him.

That was unusual. Most people reached. Medics, especially. Even kind ones often forgot that kindness could still become an invasion if delivered without permission.

You held your hands at your sides.

“I can heal it,” you said.

“No.”

“Okay.”

He paused.

You did not argue. No persuasive speech. No moral lecture. No “you don’t have to be tough with me,” which was a phrase Damian loathed almost as much as “calm down.”

You simply accepted his answer and leaned against the roof access door.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“To make sure you don’t pass out from pain while continuing your one-man war against compression bandages.”

“I will not pass out.”

“Great. Then this will be boring.”

The silence that followed should have annoyed him.

It did. But not only.

You watched the skyline instead of watching him. You gave him privacy without leaving him alone. It was a surprisingly difficult balance, and Damian hated that you managed it.

Eventually, his splint slipped. You did not comment.

His wrist throbbed hard enough that his vision flashed white at the edges. You still did not comment.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Fine,” he said. You looked over. “I will permit your assistance.”

“Assistance with the splint or healing?”

He paused. You waited.

Damian looked at your hands. They were steady. Scarred in small places, though no injuries lingered long on you. He knew that much. Everyone knew that. You healed quickly. You healed others faster.

A miracle, Jon had called you. A risk, Damian thought.

“To heal,” he said finally.

You stepped toward him. Slowly. “May I touch your wrist?”

“Yes.”

Your fingers settled around the fracture. Warmth bloomed beneath your palm.

Damian prepared for pain. There was none.

The ache vanished. The bone slid back into place with a painless shift that should have been impossible. Swelling disappeared. Torn tissue knitted itself whole. His fingers, stiff seconds before, flexed freely.

He stared at his hand. There should have been consequences. There were always consequences.

You released him and took half a step back. Your own fingers curled briefly against your palm.

A twitch. Almost nothing.

Damian saw it. “What was that?”

You blinked. “What was what?”

“Your hand.”

“My hand exists. Very observant.”

He frowned.

You smiled. It was a practised smile.

He would understand that later.

At the time, he only knew that he disliked it.

Trust came slowly.

Damian preferred it that way. Trust that arrived too quickly was either foolishness or manipulation. Real trust was built like a fortress: stone by stone, inspected from every angle, reinforced after every storm.

You never rushed him. That was the first stone.

You respected every no. That was the second.

You remembered details he did not expect anyone to notice: that he preferred tea without sugar, that he hated being touched from behind, that Titus became restless during thunderstorms, that Damian’s right shoulder tightened before he admitted exhaustion.

You learned the names of his animals before you learned the gossip about his family. That was several stones at once.

“You brought treats,” Damian said the first time you visited the Manor, and Titus abandoned dignity to shove his massive head into your hands.

“For Titus.”

“I can see that.”

“You sound offended.”

“You have bribed my dog.”

“I have respected his interests.”

Titus wagged his tail with shameless enthusiasm.

Damian crossed his arms. “He has betrayed me.”

“You love him anyway.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled down at Titus. “Good boy.”

Damian watched the way your hands scratched behind the dog’s ears. Gentle, sure, absent of fear. Titus leaned against you like a creature who knew exactly where kindness lived.

Damian did not realise he was staring until you glanced up.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Your smile became suspicious. “Was that almost fondness?”

“No.”

“It looked like almost fondness.”

“You are mistaken.”

“I’m choosing to believe otherwise.”

“Your delusions are your own burden.”

You laughed. Damian looked away too late.

After that, you became a regular presence.

Not constant. Damian would not have tolerated constant.

Familiar.

You appeared in the Cave after League missions, carrying medical supplies and the quiet authority of someone who had seen heroes at their worst and remained unimpressed by theatrics. You patched Grayson while he told a story with too many hand gestures and not enough respect for his own cracked ribs. You argued with Todd about antibiotics until he took them out of spite. You confiscated Drake’s coffee once and survived.

Damian had been impressed. Not that he said so.

Jon noticed, because Jon noticed everything Damian wished he would not.

“You like them,” Jon said one evening on a rooftop patrol.

Damian did not stumble. Barely.

“I tolerate them.”

Jon floated beside him, cape moving in the wind. “You gave them one of your sketches.”

“It was a medical diagram.”

“It was a drawing of their hands.”

“Hands are medically relevant.”

“You wrote ‘rest’ under it.”

“They do not rest.”

Jon’s grin widened. “You are so down bad.” Damian turned slowly. Jon backed up in the air. “I say that with love.”

“I will remove you from the sky.”

“You can’t fly.”

“I will improvise.”

Jon laughed.

Damian resumed walking. His ears were warm.

Jon landed beside him, quieter now. “They look at you differently, too.”

Damian’s step faltered. “They do not.”

“They do.”

“Kryptonian hearing does not make you an expert on human emotion.”

“No, but hearing their heartbeat change when you walk in is pretty compelling evidence.” Damian stopped. Jon also stopped, expression immediately apologetic. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You listen to their heart?”

“Not intentionally! It’s just loud when they see you.”

Damian’s own heart became deeply undisciplined.

Jon smiled softly. “You should tell them.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Damian glanced at him, suspicious. “You concede too easily.”

“No, I just know you’ll do it eventually and pretend it was your idea.”

Damian glared. Jon grinned.

Two nights later, you found another drawing tucked into your medical bag. This one was of Titus asleep with his head on your knee. Beneath it, in Damian’s precise handwriting, was one sentence: He trusts you. This reflects well on your character.

You found Damian in the garden.

It was raining, because Gotham apparently believed subtlety was for lesser cities. He stood beneath a stone archway, pretending not to wait.

You approached with the sketch held carefully against your chest.

“This is beautiful,” you said.

“It is accurate.”

“It’s kind.”

“That is debatable.”

“No.” You smiled. “It isn’t.”

Damian looked away.

You stepped under the arch beside him. Rain whispered over ivy. The Manor glowed behind you both, all old stone and golden windows.

“Thank you,” you said.

He nodded stiffly.

There was a silence.

Not uncomfortable. That had become dangerous.

You looked at him, and Damian could feel the moment opening like a door.

“You’re allowed to want things,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. It was not fair, how gently you said it. As if the words were not a blade sliding between armour plates. “I am aware.”

“You know it intellectually.”

He looked at you sharply. Your smile was sad.

“What do you want, Damian?”

Many answers came to him.

Peace. Purpose. His father’s approval, though he had outgrown needing it and somehow not outgrown wanting it. A world where children were not trained into weapons. A self that did not sometimes still hear his grandfather’s voice and mistake it for his own.

But those truths were too large for the rain. So he chose the smaller one. The braver one.

“You,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Damian did not look away. Your face changed in a way he did not have language for. Softened, yes, but not with pity. With wonder. With wanting so open, it made his chest hurt.

“You have me,” you whispered.

He should have asked if you were certain. He should have warned you that he did not love gently by instinct, that his devotion had teeth, that he was still learning how to hold without gripping too tightly.

Instead, he leaned in.

You met him halfway.

The first kiss was rain-cold and mouth-warm, hesitant for only the first breath. Then your hand rose to his cheek, and Damian let himself lean into it.

Let himself want. Let himself be wanted.

Later, Jon would claim he heard Damian’s heartbeat “attempt to achieve escape velocity.”

Damian would threaten him. Several times.

But in the rain, beneath ivy, you kissed him like there was nothing in him that needed to be earned back from violence.

And Damian, foolishly perhaps, believed you.

He should have known the past would come for him with a blade. 

The League of Assassins rarely wasted poetry.

When the case began, it looked like a string of metahuman disappearances. Three teenagers taken from Metropolis. Two from Gotham. One from Blüdhaven. All newly powered. All young enough to be frightened by what their bodies had become and old enough for someone cruel to turn that fear into compliance.

Oracle connected the disappearances to an abandoned hospital outside Gotham registered under six false companies, two shell organisations, and one name Damian had not heard spoken aloud in years.

A minor League sect. Old blood. New methods.

His father stood at the Cave computer, grim and silent. Grayson’s usual warmth had sharpened into focus. Drake’s fingers flew across keys. Todd checked and rechecked his weapons with quiet, murderous care. Jon stood beside Damian, tension radiating off him like sunlight behind storm clouds.

You stood near the medbay entrance. Damian saw you before anyone spoke.

“No,” he said.

Your eyes moved to him. “Excuse me?”

“You are not coming.”

Todd muttered, “Smooth, brat.”

Damian ignored him.

You stepped closer. “They’ll have injured kids inside.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want a healer there?”

“I do not want you there.”

The room went still.

Your face did not change, but Damian saw the hurt land. He regretted the phrasing instantly.

Not the meaning. The wound.

You folded your arms. “Because it’s dangerous?”

“Because it is League.”

Your expression softened, which was worse than anger. “Dami.”

“No.”

“You can’t keep me away from every shadow in your past.”

“I can keep you away from this one.”

“That isn’t your choice.”

“It is if I refuse to allow you through the Zeta-tube.”

Drake winced.

Grayson said, “Dami.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, he thought you would argue. Part of him wanted you to. Part of him wanted you angry enough that the fear in his chest had somewhere to go.

Instead, you nodded once. “Fine.”

Damian hated the word.

You looked at Bruce. “I’ll coordinate med support from here.”

Bruce’s gaze shifted between you and Damian.

Then he nodded. “Accepted.”

You did not look at Damian again.

Good, he told himself. He had protected you.

It felt like losing.

The facility beneath the hospital was exactly what Damian expected. That made it worse.

Stone corridors beneath sterile tile. Modern restraints bolted into old walls. Hidden sigils carved under steel plates. The League had always understood the value of layering cruelty beneath cleanliness.

The team split. Batman and Nightwing cleared the upper labs. Red Hood secured the escape route with a level of aggression that suggested several assassins would later require reconstructive dentistry. Red Robin disabled surveillance from the Cave with you beside him on medical coordination. Damian and Jon moved through the lower chambers.

They found the first two teenagers in a containment room.

Bruised. Dehydrated. Alive. One had burns from power-dampening cuffs. The other had a dislocated shoulder and a split lip. Damian’s jaw tightened as Jon broke the cuffs with careful rage.

Your voice came through comms. “Status?”

“Two recovered,” Damian replied. “Nonfatal injuries. Burns, dislocation, dehydration.”

A short pause. “Can they move?”

“Yes.”

“Get them to extraction. I’ll have medics ready.”

Damian heard it in your voice. The restraint.

You wanted to be there. You wanted to put your hands over the burns and make them vanish.

Instead, you gave orders.

He was proud. He was afraid. Both feelings sat together in him like badly behaved animals.

They moved deeper.

The final chamber was beneath the old surgical wing. It had once been an operating theatre. The League had turned it into something worse. Six teenagers were strapped to tilted metal tables arranged in a circle around a machine pulsing with stolen metahuman energy. Their powers fed into the device through cables bright with unstable light.

In the centre stood a man in black armour with a white sash marked in old League script.

Damian knew the title.

Not the man. That hardly mattered. The League was full of replaceable monsters wearing inherited arrogance.

“Blood heir,” the man said.

Jon’s eyes burned red. “I hate when they call you that.”

“As do I,” Damian said.

Then the fight began. Assassins dropped from the rafters. Red solar emitters ignited in the walls, flooding the room in pulses designed to weaken Jon without fully stripping him. Power-dampening fields snapped on around the captives. Blades flashed.

Damian moved.

He had been raised in rooms like this. He knew their rhythm. Strike before the second attacker lands. Never follow the obvious opening. The left wall hides a second blade. The floor sigil is not decorative. The man with the shorter sword is the true threat.

He fought like memory given teeth. Jon fought beside him, weakened but furious, each hit controlled enough to avoid collapsing the chamber on the children.

“Red Robin,” Damian snapped over comms. “Disable the solar emitters.”

“Working,” Tim replied. “They’re layered into the medical grid.”

Todd’s voice cut in, breathless and violent. “I can blow the grid.”

“Do not blow the grid,” Tim and Bruce said at once.

Todd scoffed. “No one appreciates vision.”

Your voice came through, tight. “Damian, behind you.”

He turned before the blade reached his spine.

An assassin fell.

Damian’s pulse sharpened. You were watching through hacked security feeds.

Good. Bad. You were seeing too much.

The lead assassin smiled.

“Still guided by softer hands,” he said.

Damian lunged.

Mistake.

Not fatal. Almost.

The floor beneath him flared with old script. Chains of black light erupted around his right arm and shoulder, locking him mid-strike. Jon shouted and tried to reach him, but two assassins drove him back beneath red solar pulses.

Damian twisted. The chains tightened.

The lead assassin drew a curved blade.

Not toward Damian’s heart. Toward his arm.

Damian understood at once. Maiming, not killing. A message. A punishment. A ritual humiliation. The blood heir made less whole.

He fought the chains with everything he had.

Not enough.

The blade came down. Pain went white.

For one suspended heartbeat, there was nothing.

Then sound returned.

Jon screaming his name. The teenagers crying out. The wet sound of blood hitting tile.

Damian looked down. His right arm was nearly severed below the elbow. Attached by ruined flesh, fractured bone, and a stubbornness his body had apparently inherited from him.

The sight was clinical in its horror.

He knew what losing the arm would mean.

Not death. Worse, in some ways.

Relearning everything. Sword forms. Drawing. Writing. Touch. Balance. The language of his body rewritten by another person’s blade.

Pain struck next, vast and blinding.

Damian dropped to his knees. His left hand clamped above the wound. Blood surged between his fingers.

“Robin!” Bruce’s voice cracked over comms.

That, more than the injury, frightened him. His father sounded afraid.

Jon hit the lead assassin so hard that the man flew into the far wall.

The solar emitters died.

Tim’s voice, “Grid down.”

Todd, “I still think explosions would’ve been faster.”

Your voice came next. Not steady. Not anymore.

“Damian?”

He clenched his teeth. Could not answer.

Jon dropped beside him, face white. He pressed both hands over Damian’s arm, trying to stem the bleeding without making it worse.

“Oh God,” Jon breathed. “Dami, stay with me.”

“I am… here,” Damian forced out.

“You’re losing too much blood.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop being sarcastic while actively bleeding out!”

Your voice came again. “Jon. Status.”

Jon looked at the comm on Damian’s collar, horrified.

“It’s his arm,” Jon said. “It’s—it’s almost gone.”

Silence. The kind that took all air with it.

Then the sound Damian dreaded most. The Zeta-tube activating in the chamber beyond.

“No,” Damian rasped.

Jon looked at him. “Damian—”

“No.”

He tried to push himself upright. Failed.

The chamber doors opened. Batman entered first, cape like a storm, medkit in hand.

You came behind him.

Your eyes found Damian. Everything in your face stopped.

No. That was his first thought.

Not relief. Not love.

No.

Because he knew you. He knew what you were seeing. Not only the blood. Not only the limb hanging by torn flesh. Not only the future unravelling in one brutal line.

You were seeing something you could fix.

“Do not,” he said.

Your face crumpled. You crossed the room anyway.

Bruce knelt at Damian’s other side, taking over pressure from Jon with controlled, terrible efficiency.

“Tourniquet,” Bruce said.

Jon was already moving.

You knelt in front of Damian.

“Hi,” you whispered.

Absurd. He loved you so fiercely in that moment that it frightened him more than the blood loss.

“No,” he said again.

Your hands hovered over his arm. Shaking now. The tremor was visible. He hated that.

“I can save it,” you said.

His vision blurred. “No.”

“You could lose your hand.”

“I know.”

“Your arm.”

“I know.”

“Damian.”

He looked at you. Your eyes were full of tears, but beneath the fear was something harder.

Resolve. The same resolve he had seen in you a hundred times when someone was hurt. When pain became a problem and your body became the answer.

“No,” he whispered.

You touched his face with one blood-slick hand.

He should have turned away. He did not.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

His heart stopped. “No.”

“I can’t let them take this from you.”

“No.”

“You draw with this hand.” His throat closed. “You hold your sword with it,” you continued, voice breaking. “You hold Titus. You hold me.”

“Beloved—”

“I can help.”

“You will take the wound.”

“Not all of it.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know my body.” A desperate, broken smile flickered across your mouth. “It changes things. It softens the transfer sometimes. I probably won’t get it as bad.”

“Probably,” Damian spat.

You flinched. Good.

No. Not good. Nothing was good.

Bruce’s gaze snapped to you. “What does that mean?”

No one answered him. The entire chamber seemed to narrow around you and Damian.

Your hand was still on his face. His blood streaked your fingers.

“I can’t watch you lose part of yourself,” you whispered.

Rage and terror rose together in Damian’s chest. “You think my hand is myself?”

“No,” you said immediately. “No. That’s not what I mean.”

“That is what you said.”

“I mean they took enough from you. The League took enough. Your childhood, your choices, your body, your pain, your name before you even knew what names meant.” Your voice cracked. “I cannot sit here with the power to stop them from taking one more thing and choose not to.”

His breath hitched.

There it was. The blade under the kindness.

Not pity. Fury. You were angry for him. You were choosing him. You were choosing him over yourself.

He wanted to weep. He wanted to shout. He wanted to beg.

“Ask me,” he said.

Your face broke. “Damian—”

“Ask me.”

The words cost him more than blood.

You stared at him. “I can’t.”

Pain lanced through him.

Not from the arm. From you.

“You can,” he said. “You must.”

“If I ask, you’ll say no.”

“Yes.”

“And then I’ll have to let it happen.”

“You will have to honour my choice.”

Your tears spilled over. “I’m not strong enough for that.”

Damian’s heart shattered.

Bruce went very still beside him. Jon made a small, broken sound.

You leaned closer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.

And then your hands closed around Damian’s ruined arm.

The transfer hit like lightning.

Damian screamed. So did you. For one second, pain filled everything. Not leaving him gently, not fading like mercy. It ripped out of him, dragging fire and nerve and blood with it.

Then his arm healed. Bone snapped into alignment. Flesh knitted. Tendons reconnected. Skin sealed beneath your palms. Feeling surged down to his fingertips in a brutal rush.

His hand flexed. Whole. His.

Then you collapsed.

Your right arm buckled beneath you.

Not severed. Not as bad. You had been right. Somehow, impossibly, terribly right.

But the damage still tore through you. A jagged wound split from your forearm toward your wrist, deep enough to expose blood and white flashes of bone beneath muscle. Your fingers curled uselessly. Blood poured down your hand, splattering onto the tile. Your shoulder hit the floor, and your breath broke on a sound Damian would hear forever.

For half a second, he stared at his healed hand. Then at yours.

No.

No.

No.

He lunged toward you. His body, newly healed but blood-weakened, nearly failed him. Jon caught his shoulder. Damian shoved him away and dragged himself to you with both hands, both whole hands, which made it worse.

“Beloved,” he choked.

You were curled around your injured arm, face white with agony.

Bruce moved quickly, already applying pressure to your wound. You cried out. Damian flinched as if the sound had opened him.

“Do not touch them,” he snapped at Bruce.

Bruce’s eyes flashed. “They’re bleeding.”

Damian knew he was being irrational. He did not care.

“Damian,” you gasped.

His attention snapped to you.

You were looking at him. Not your arm.

Him.

Relief trembled through your expression.

Relief.

Because his arm was whole. Because you had succeeded.

Damian felt something inside him go cold and wild.

“How dare you,” he whispered.

Your eyes filled. “I’m sorry.”

“How dare you.”

“I couldn’t—”

“You could,” he said, voice shaking. “You chose not to.”

Your face crumpled.

He wanted to take the words back. He wanted to sharpen them. He wanted to kiss you until your pain disappeared. He wanted your blood off the floor. He wanted his wound back.

“You chose me,” he said.

Your lips trembled. “Yes.”

“Over yourself.”

“Yes.”

The honesty was a killing blow.

Damian’s breath left him.

Bruce tightened the pressure bandage around your arm. You whimpered, trying to stay still. Jon knelt nearby, crying openly now. Damian barely saw him.

“You were right,” you whispered. His heart stopped. “It’s not as bad.”

Damian stared at you.

Then laughed once. A terrible sound.

“You think that matters?” Your eyes searched his, confused through pain and shock. “You think because the wound is smaller, the violation is smaller?”

You flinched.

Bruce’s expression tightened.

Jon whispered, “Dami…”

“No,” Damian snapped. “Do not.”

Your breathing hitched.

Damian’s hands shook. His right hand, whole and healed, shook.

That made him angrier. That made him love you more. That made him hate everything.

“You did not save my arm,” he said, voice breaking. “You made it yours.”

Your face went slack.

There. Good.

No. Not good.

Truth. Necessary and brutal.

You looked at your wounded arm as if seeing it for the first time. Blood soaked the bandage beneath Bruce’s hands.

Your mouth opened. No sound came out.

Then the pain took you. Your eyes rolled back.

Damian caught you before your head hit the floor. “Beloved?”

No response.

“Beloved.”

Bruce pressed two fingers to your throat. “Pulse is weak. We need extraction now.”

Damian held you against him, his healed hand cradling your head.

His arm worked perfectly. He had never hated his own body more.

The Watchtower medbay smelled like antiseptic and fear. Damian sat outside the surgical suite with blood on his clothes.

Yours. His. Both.

He had refused to change.

Todd had said nothing, which was how Damian knew the situation had reached an unnatural level of horror. Jon sat on the floor across from him, knees drawn up, cape wrapped around his shoulders. He had cried himself quiet twenty minutes earlier. Bruce stood near the observation window like a statue carved by grief. Grayson paced. Drake typed furiously on one tablet, then another, then stopped as if realising no amount of data would make time move faster.

Todd leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, helmet off, face pale and furious.

“This is bullshit,” Jason said finally. No one answered. “This whole damn thing is bullshit.”

“Jason,” Dick said softly.

“No. They should’ve told us.”

Damian’s eyes lifted.

Todd looked at him.

Not accusing. Not pitying.

Understanding.

It was unbearable.

“They should’ve told us what healing cost,” Jason said. “Before any of us let them touch us.”

Damian looked down at his right hand.

He flexed his fingers. Whole. Obedient. Yours now, some treacherous part of him thought.

No.

No.

He dug his nails into his palm. Pain answered.

His pain. At least that remained.

“They knew I would refuse,” Damian said.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

Everyone looked at him.

“They knew,” he repeated. “So they did not ask.”

Jon’s face crumpled again.

Bruce said, quietly, “They thought they were saving you.”

Damian’s gaze snapped to his father. “They were.”

Silence.

Damian stood. His body swayed.

Jon scrambled up, but Damian lifted a hand. Jon stopped.

Damian looked at Bruce. “That is the problem.”

Bruce’s face tightened.

“I know,” he said.

Of course he did. Bruce Wayne understood being saved against his will. Understood surviving at a cost someone else paid. Understood the rage that followed gratitude so closely they became nearly impossible to separate.

Damian hated that he understood.

The surgical doors opened. Dr Mid-Nite emerged, expression grave but not hopeless. Damian was in front of him immediately.

“They’re alive,” the doctor said.

Damian nearly collapsed.

He did not. But Jon did, a little, against the wall.

“The transferred injury was severe,” Dr Mid-Nite continued. “Less catastrophic than yours would have been, but still serious. The arm is salvageable. There’s nerve trauma, tendon damage, blood loss. Their accelerated healing is responding, but slowly.”

“Will they regain function?” Damian asked.

“Likely, with treatment and time.”

Likely. Damian hated likely. Likely was probably wearing a white coat.

He wanted certainty. He got none.

“Can I see them?”

The doctor hesitated. Damian’s eyes narrowed.

Bruce stepped closer. “He won’t interfere.”

Dr Mid-Nite looked at Damian. Damian lifted his chin.

“I will not interfere,” he said.

He did not know if it was true. But he meant to make it so.

The doctor nodded.

You looked too small in the bed. Damian hated that thought. You were not small. You were not fragile. You were not a wounded bird cupped in his hands.

You were the person who had looked at the League’s attempt to maim him and said, No more. You were the person who had made yourself the answer.

You were terrible. You were brave. You were unconscious beneath white sheets, right arm wrapped from shoulder to wrist and elevated in a brace.

Damian approached slowly. Machines hummed. Your face was pale with pain even in sleep.

He stopped beside the bed. For a long time, he did nothing.

Then he reached out with his right hand. The healed one.

His fingers hovered over your bandaged arm.

He did not touch. He could not.

It felt obscene.

“Why?” he whispered.

You did not answer. The monitors did.

Steady beep. Alive.

Damian sat. He folded his hands in his lap. His right hand looked unchanged. Same calluses. Same scars. Same fine ink stain near his thumb from sketching two days earlier. Same knuckles bruised from training. Same fingers that had held yours in the garden.

It should have been a relief.

It was. That was the cruelty.

He was relieved.

He loved his hand. He loved what it allowed him to do. Draw. Fight. touch. Feed Titus scraps when Alfred was not looking. Hold his sword. Hold you.

He had not wanted to lose it. He had been prepared to.

You had seen the part of him that feared the loss, the part he would have hidden beneath pride, and you had chosen that frightened part over your own safety.

Damian hated you for it. Damian loved you for it. Both truths wrapped around his throat until breathing became difficult.

“You should have asked,” he said. His voice shook. “You should have asked me and allowed me to refuse. You should have trusted me to survive less than wholeness.” His eyes burned. “You should not have loved me like the League.”

The words entered the room and stayed. He regretted them immediately.

No. He did not.

Yes. Both. Always both with you now.

You stirred. Damian sat forward sharply. Your eyelids fluttered.

“Beloved?”

Your eyes opened slowly. Unfocused.

Then they found him.

Relief. Again.

Damian closed his eyes. When he opened them, you were trying to smile.

“Arm?” you rasped.

His jaw tightened. “Yours or mine?”

Your smile vanished.

Good. No. He was tired of good. Tired of bad. Tired of feeling everything.

“Damian,” you whispered.

He took the cup from beside the bed and held the straw to your lips. His right hand did not tremble this time.

You drank. Only a little. He set the cup down.

“My arm is whole,” he said.

Your eyes closed. “Good.”

The word struck him like a slap. He stood so quickly the chair scraped back.

Your eyes opened, startled.

“No,” he said.

Your face twisted with pain and confusion. “No?”

“No. You do not get to say good.”

Your throat bobbed. “I saved it.”

“You took it.”

“I saved it.”

“At the cost of your own.”

“It isn’t as bad.”

He stared at you. You seemed to hear yourself then. Your face faltered.

“It isn’t,” you said, quieter. “I knew it wouldn’t be as bad.”

“You did not know.”

“I was pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure,” he repeated.

Your eyes filled.

His hands curled into fists. Both hands. “You gambled with your body.”

“I gambled to keep yours.”

“I did not ask you to.”

“I know.”

“You did not let me refuse.”

“I know.”

“You did not trust me.”

That hurt you. Your mouth trembled. “I did trust you.”

“No.” Damian shook his head once. “You trusted that I would survive. You did not trust that I had the right to choose what survival looked like.”

Tears slipped down your temples.

“I couldn’t bear it,” you whispered.

“What?”

“The thought of you losing it.” Your gaze flicked to his right hand. “Your hand. Your arm. Your art. Your sword. The way you touch everything like you’re still learning you’re allowed to be gentle.”

Damian went still.

Your voice broke. “I couldn’t bear knowing I could help and choosing not to. I couldn’t bear seeing another piece of you taken by them.”

He looked away. The room blurred.

Damn you. Damn you for knowing that. Damn you for seeing the child beneath the blade, the boy raised by people who called ownership love, the man still trying to make his body his own. Damn you for choosing him. Damn you for being right that part of him was glad.

“I would have learned,” he said. You sobbed once. “I would have adapted.”

“I know.”

“I am more than my sword hand.”

“I know,” you said, crying harder now. “I know, Damian. I swear I know. I didn’t do it because I thought you’d be less. I did it because I love all of you, and I couldn’t watch you be forced to lose something when I had a chance to stop it.”

His anger fractured. Love rushed in through the crack.

Unwelcome. Unstoppable.

He sat down again, slower this time. “You chose me over yourself.”

Your eyes held his. “Yes.”

The honesty hurt worse than any lie could have.

Damian lowered his head. For a moment, he was back in the chamber. Your hand on his face. Your eyes full of tears. Your voice saying sorry because you already knew you were about to betray him for love.

He hated that he understood. He hated that if it had been you on the floor with your arm nearly severed, he did not know if he would have done better.

That thought humbled him. Humiliation would have been easier. This was grief.

“I love you,” he said.

Your breath caught. He looked at you.

“I love you for choosing me,” he continued, voice rough. “For looking at the worst thing the League tried to make me and refusing to let them take more. I love you for your fury. For your tenderness. For wanting me whole even when I was prepared not to be.”

Your face crumpled.

“And I hate you for choosing me over yourself.”

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

“No,” he said. “Listen.”

Your eyes opened again.

“I hate that you decided my wholeness was worth your damage. I hate that I am relieved. I hate that part of me wants to thank you while another part wants to never let you touch me again.”

A tear slid down your cheek. Damian reached for it.

Stopped.

“May I?” he asked.

Your face broke all over again. “Yes.”

He wiped the tear away with his right thumb. His healed thumb.

You leaned into the touch. He nearly broke.

“I am angry,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I will be angry for some time.”

“I know.”

“I may not forgive you quickly.”

Your lips trembled. “Okay.”

“But I am staying.”

A sob caught in your throat. Damian leaned closer.

“I am staying,” he repeated. “Because love is not leaving when one has been wounded. Even by the beloved.”

You cried then.

Not quietly. Not beautifully. You cried like something in you had finally stopped bracing for abandonment.

Damian rested his forehead against yours, careful of the tubes, the bandages, the injured arm held between you like a third presence.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

His eyes closed. “I know.”

A faint, watery laugh escaped you. “Arrogant.”

“Yes.”

“Say it back anyway?”

His mouth softened. “I love you.”

Your breath shuddered.

“I love you,” he said again, because the words seemed to hurt you in a healing way, and Damian was beginning to understand that not all pain was harm. “I love you, and you were wrong.”

You laughed and sobbed at the same time. “That is very you.”

“I am consistent.”

“You are.”

His hand remained on your face. Your uninjured hand lifted slowly and covered his.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The monitor kept counting proof of your survival. Damian listened like it was scripture.

Recovery was not gentle. Yours rarely was.

The wound had not taken your arm, but it had changed it. Nerves misfired beneath the skin. Your fingers trembled. Grip strength came and went like a moody ghost. Some days, your hand curled stiffly and refused to open without coaxing. Some nights, the pain climbed from wrist to shoulder and left you pale, sweating, biting back sounds Damian wished he could tear from the world.

He did not offer to have you heal yourself. He had learned enough by then. You could accelerate your recovery only in fragments, carefully, at the cost of exhaustion that frightened everyone.

So you healed slowly. Humanly.

Damian stayed. Angrily. Devotedly.

He brought tea and corrected your posture with surgical precision. He read aloud when the pain made focusing difficult. He chose poetry at first because he thought it might soothe you. Then he chose murder mysteries because you criticised everyone’s investigative technique so fiercely that even Drake listened from the doorway with reluctant approval.

He brushed your hair when your arm hurt too much.

The first time, you cried. He pretended not to notice until you said, “You can notice.”

So he did.

“You are crying,” Damian said.

You laughed wetly. “Thanks.”

“I am uncertain what response is appropriate.”

“Just keep going.”

He did. His fingers moved through your hair with grave concentration.

Todd walked in, saw the scene, and immediately walked back out muttering, “Nope, too intimate, I’m emotionally allergic.”

You laughed so hard that Damian threatened him through the door.

Some days, Damian’s anger sharpened unexpectedly.

A dropped cup. Your wince while trying to flex your fingers. The sight of you struggling to button a shirt. Each small reminder of what you had taken from him and made yours.

One afternoon, you caught him staring at your hand as you failed to hold a pen.

“Say it,” you said.

Damian looked up. “What?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I am thinking many things.”

“The angry one.”

His jaw tightened.

You waited. Always waiting, even now.

He exhaled. “I am thinking that I should be the one unable to hold a pen.”

Your face softened with pain.

“I am thinking that you stole a consequence from me.”

“Yes.”

“I am thinking that I am grateful.”

Your eyes filled.

His voice hardened. “And that gratitude disgusts me.”

You set the pen down. “Damian.”

“No. You asked.”

“I did.”

He stood, restless, anger moving through him like a blade seeking a target. “I look at my hand and I am relieved. I draw and I am relieved. I hold my sword and I am relieved. I touch you and I am relieved.”

Your mouth trembled.

He looked at you, furious and wrecked. “Then I look at your hand.”

You said nothing.

“I do not know where to put the relief,” he confessed.

Your expression crumpled.

Oh. There it was. The truth under the anger.

He did not know how to be grateful for something that had hurt you. He did not know how to love the saved part of himself without feeling like he was betraying the wounded part of you.

You rose carefully from the chair. He stiffened. You came close but did not touch.

“I don’t need you to be only grateful,” you said softly. His throat tightened. “I don’t even need you to be grateful at all.”

“I am.”

“I know.”

“I despise it.”

“I know.”

Your injured hand hung between you, bandaged, trembling slightly.

Damian looked at it. Then, slowly, he held out his right hand. His healed hand.

You stared.

“May I?” he asked.

Your eyes filled. “Yes.”

He took your injured hand with unbearable care. The bandages were soft beneath his fingers.

Your hand trembled in his. He lifted it and pressed his mouth to your knuckles. You inhaled sharply.

“I am angry,” he said against your skin. “I am grateful.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Your eyes closed. “I know,” you whispered.

He looked up.

“And I hate,” he said, voice rough, “that those truths do not cancel each other out.”

You opened your eyes. “They don’t have to.”

“No.” He held your hand between both of his. “No,” he repeated. “They do not.”

It was not forgiveness. Not yet.

But it was contact. It was honest. It was enough for that moment.

Jon came often. He was terrible at pretending he was not checking on both of you. He brought snacks, flowers, terrible jokes, and one stuffed cow wearing a tiny Robin cape.

Damian stared at it. You stared at it.

Jon held it out with both hands. “For emotional support.”

Damian said, “Leave.”

You laughed immediately.

Jon brightened. “See? It helped.”

“It offended me.”

“That’s your love language.”

“I will make you eat the cow.”

“It has a name.”

“No.”

“Moo-bin.”

Damian closed his eyes. You laughed so hard you had to clutch your injured arm, which made Damian glare at Jon with genuine threat.

Jon winced. “Sorry. Sorry. Medium laughter only.”

You wheezed, “Moo-bin.”

Damian looked at you.

Betrayal. Absolute betrayal.

Jon smiled, then sobered. “Can I talk to Damian for a sec?”

You looked between them.

Damian stiffened. “If this is another emotional intervention—”

“It is.”

“No.”

“Dami.”

You touched Damian’s wrist gently. “Go,” you said.

He frowned. “I’m fine.”

“That word is banned.”

“I am stable, medicated, and entertained by Moo-bin.”

Jon looked delighted. Damian looked betrayed again. Still, he followed Jon into the hallway.

For several seconds, Jon said nothing.

Damian crossed his arms. “Speak.”

Jon looked toward the medbay door. Then back at Damian. “You’re allowed to be glad.”

Damian went still.

Jon’s face was open and earnest and far too difficult to dismiss.

“That your arm is okay,” Jon said. “You’re allowed to be glad.”

Damian looked away. 

“They would want you to be.”

“That is part of the problem.”

“I know.”

“You do not.”

Jon’s jaw tightened.

“I watched them do it,” he said.

Damian looked back.

Jon’s eyes shone. “I watched you say no. I watched them do it anyway. I watched you heal and them drop. I’m angry too.”

Damian’s throat closed.

Jon stepped closer. “But I also heard your heartbeat when you saw your hand move again.”

Damian flinched.

“Sorry,” Jon said quickly. “I know. Accidental perceiving. Bad habit.”

Damian did not respond.

Jon continued anyway. “It sounded like hope.”

The words struck too deep. Damian turned away.

Jon’s voice softened. “I don’t think that makes you bad.”

Damian’s jaw clenched.

“The League made you think every gift is a debt,” Jon said. “But this isn’t that.”

“It feels like that.”

“I know.”

“They paid in blood.”

“Yeah.”

“For me.”

“Yes.”

“How is that not debt?”

Jon was quiet. Then he said, “Because they’re not asking you to repay it.” Damian shut his eyes. “They’re asking you to stay.”

Damian hated how simple Jon made things. How gentle. How impossible to refute.

“I do not know if staying is enough,” Damian said.

Jon stepped beside him. “Maybe not every day. But it’s a start.”

The hallway remained silent.

Then Damian said, “Moo-bin is a terrible name.”

Jon laughed, startled. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“You keeping him?”

Damian looked toward the medbay door.

Through the small window, he could see you holding the cow in your lap, smiling faintly at its ridiculous cape.

“Yes,” Damian said.

Jon wisely did not comment.

The first time you returned to the garden, your hand was still bandaged. The rain had stopped earlier, leaving the paths dark and shining beneath the evening lights. Titus wandered ahead, sniffing at wet leaves. The Manor windows glowed gold behind you.

Damian walked beside you. Close enough that your sleeves brushed.

You stopped beneath the same ivy arch where he had first told you he wanted you. The memory sat between you.

Soft. Cruel. Yours.

You looked at him. “I’m scared you’ll never look at me the same.”

Damian’s chest tightened.

He considered lying.

No. No more soft lies.

“I do not look at you the same.”

Your face fell.

He turned toward you fully. “I know more now.”

You swallowed. “That sounds ominous.”

“It is honest.”

Your mouth trembled.

He reached for your injured hand. Paused. You nodded.

He took it carefully. “I know you are capable of betraying my choice to preserve my body.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know you are reckless when afraid.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

“I know you love me with a ferocity that does not always ask permission.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I’ll keep saying it.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to make it right.”

Damian looked down at your joined hands.

His whole one. Your wounded one.

“There is no undoing it.”

Your breath caught.

He looked back at you.

“There is only what comes next.”

You opened your eyes. “What comes next?”

He brushed his thumb lightly over the edge of your bandage. “You tell me when you are in pain.” You nodded. “You do not minimise it because it is less than what I would have suffered.” Another tear fell. “You let me be angry without deciding I no longer love you.” Your face crumpled. “And I,” he continued, voice roughening, “will learn to feel relief without turning it into shame.”

You stared at him.

The rain began again, soft at first. Gotham had timing. Terrible, dramatic timing.

You laughed through tears.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re negotiating emotional terms in the rain.”

“It is a serious matter.”

“It’s very romantic.”

“It is practical.”

“It can be both.”

He considered this. Then nodded once. “Fine.”

Your smile was small. “Fine?”

“It can be both.”

You stepped closer. “Can I kiss you?”

Damian’s heart moved painfully.

Even after everything. Especially after everything. You asked.

“Yes,” he said.

You kissed him gently. Too gently. As if afraid he would break beneath the weight of what you had done.

Damian’s left hand rose to your face. His right rested against your waist, whole and steady and unbearable.

He deepened the kiss. You made a soft sound against his mouth. He held you there beneath the ivy while rain gathered in your hair.

When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.

“You are not forgiven yet,” he whispered.

Your eyes opened. “I know.”

“But you are loved.”

Your face broke open with relief so bright it nearly hurt to see. 

He continued before the words could fail him. “You are loved while I am angry. You are loved while I am grateful. You are loved while I do not understand how to carry either.”

Your injured hand rose slowly and touched his chest. Over his heart.

“I can live with that,” you whispered.

“You must.”

A faint smile. “Bossy.”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

His throat tightened. “I know.”

You gave him a look.

He let the smallest smile touch his mouth. “I love you too.”

Titus barked from somewhere near the fountain, apparently offended that no one was paying attention to him.

You laughed.

Damian’s right hand flexed at your waist. He felt the motion. Felt every tendon obey. Felt relief. Felt guilt. Felt your warmth beneath his palm.

This time, he did not push any of it away. He held it. All of it. The anger. The gratitude. The love. The wound. The choice stolen and the life preserved. The hand he kept and the hand you injured to keep it for him.

Pain had gone somewhere. So had love.

Not cleanly. Not without consequence. But here, in the rain, with your hand over his heart and his over your bandages, Damian understood something he had never been taught in the League.

A gift paid in blood could still be wrong. A wrong thing could still come from love. Love could wound and remain love. And healing, real healing, was not the absence of scars. It was the choice to stay and learn the shape of them.

Damian pressed his forehead to yours.

“I will draw again,” he said quietly. Your breath caught. “And when I do, you will sit for me.”

You smiled through fresh tears. “What will you draw?”

He looked at your face. Your wet hair. Your tired eyes. Your stubborn, devastating tenderness. Then your bandaged hand. Then his own.

“Hands,” he said.

You laughed softly. “Again?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Damian lifted your injured hand and kissed the bandages. “Because they tell the truth.”

You looked at him like he had given you something fragile.

Maybe he had. Maybe he was learning. Maybe both of you were.

The rain fell harder, silvering the garden.

Inside the Manor, his family waited with tea, lectures, jokes, and the unbearable relief of people who had almost lost too much and were now determined to hover about it.

Out here, there was only you. Only him. Only the wound between you, no longer hidden.

Damian held your hand. You held his. Neither of you were whole in the way you had been before.

But you were here.

Loved. Angry. Alive.

"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."

His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."

Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.

"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."

His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.

"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."

"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.

"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."

"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.

"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.

It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.

"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."

Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.

After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.

"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."

You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"

"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."

Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"

"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."

Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."

It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.

From: [email protected] Subject: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below. - I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this. - As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void. - Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person. As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.

Regards, Damian.

You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated. - I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate. - Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session. - As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday! Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!

Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.

This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.

Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.

"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.

You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."

His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."

You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."

He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."

"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"

He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."

"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"

"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."

"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."

He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."

"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."

He raises a brow. "Expired?"

Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."

He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"

Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."

His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”

Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”

His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”

“Yes, sir.”

Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.

Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”

“This movie is non-sensical.”

“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.

He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”

“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”

“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”

“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”

His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”

“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”

He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.

A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.

“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”

He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”

“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”

His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”

You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”

“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.

“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”

When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reminder on Friday Meetings

You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.

Regards, Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)

Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings

I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.

Regards, Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.) Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.

The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.

Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.

“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”

He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.

You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.

You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.

“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”

His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”

You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.

“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”

“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”

You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”

“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.

The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.

”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”

His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”

You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”

He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”

He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”

“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”

You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”

He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.

“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”

You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.

Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.

"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.

"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.

"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"

"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.

You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."

"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.

"But you don't." You remind him.

Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."

Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"

Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."

You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"

He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.

His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."

"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."

His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."

"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."

He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."

"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."

His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."

You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."

Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.

"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.

You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.

"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."

His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.

Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.

"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."

Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."

Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.

Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.

You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.

What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?

The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.

You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.

You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?

You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.

You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.

"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."

He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."

Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.

"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."

His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."

He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."

Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.

He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.

Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.

Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.

The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.

"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.

The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.

"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"

Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."

"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"

You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.

Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.

"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.

"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.

She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."

You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.

"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"

Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.

"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."

"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"

"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."

You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.

It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.

You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.

“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."

Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.

"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you should’ve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.

The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."

Your brows furrow. "On?"

"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."

You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."

“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."

A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.

“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”

The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.

Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”

She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”

“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."

"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."

We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.

“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”

She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”

Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”

Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”

Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”

“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”

That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all you’re taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."

She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.

"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”

Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”

She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.

The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.

“What did you say to her?”

“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.

His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"

You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.

“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“

A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.

Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.

"You stay away from her." Damian growls.

"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"

Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."

“Damian!” You shout.

That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.

His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.

Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.

His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.

Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.

“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.

“He was hurting you.”

“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”

His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”

Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.

“Not a real one.”

He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.

“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”

“Damian—”

“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”

“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”

His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.

“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”

His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.

“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”

His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”

“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."

"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”

“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."

“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”

“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”

“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."

"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."

He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.

"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."

"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."

The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.

It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.

He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.

“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.

"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."

Your smile teethers into something soft when you feel the soft press of his mouth against the shell of your ear. "Yeah, guess our operation tonight ended in a success."

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

Mattheo didn’t even glance up from his plate. “Didn’t ask for it, Hufflepuff.”

His voice was low, edged with that familiar bite. Sharp tongued as ever.

Around you, his friends, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy exchanged looks. Theo smirked into his pumpkin juice.

You shrugged, undeterred, and reached for some toast. “You didn’t have to. You skipped dinner yesterday. Figured you might be hungry.”

He finally looked at you then, dark eyes narrowing. “Stalking my eating habits now? Cute.” The sarcasm dripped like venom, but you just beamed at him, biting into your own toast.

Across the table, Pansy snorted. “Merlin, she’s at it again. Give it a rest, sweetheart. He’s not going to suddenly turn into Prince Charming because you bring him fruit.”

“I’m not expecting charming,” you replied lightly, defending yourself with a small laugh. “Just making sure he doesn’t starve while plotting world domination or whatever it is you lot do before Potions.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “Bold for a Puff. Most of your house would’ve run by now.”

You met his gaze steadily. “Most of my house doesn’t see the point in running from someone who hasn’t actually done anything to them.” Your eyes flicked back to Mattheo. “Besides, I like sitting here.”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He took the apple though after a long pause and bit into it with more force than necessary.

You counted that as a win.

This had become routine. Weeks, maybe months now, of you orbiting him like a persistent moon.

Good mornings in the corridors, even when he responded with nothing but a grunt or a cutting remark about your “annoying cheerfulness.”

Little things: fixing the strap on his bag when it broke during Transfiguration, saving him a seat in the library (which he ignored and sat somewhere else, only for you to move anyway), defending him when some Gryffindor idiot muttered “Death Eater spawn” loud enough for the hall to hear.

His friends had started teasing you mercilessly at first.

“Another lap around the Riddle fan club?” Blaise had drawled one evening in the Slytherin common room after you’d somehow ended up there (Theo had dragged you along, claiming you were “funny” and “harmless”).

“Careful, love,” Pansy had added with a wicked grin. “He bites.”

You’d just shrugged and settled onto the couch like you belonged. “I’m not scared of teeth.”

Over time, the teasing softened. You laughed at their jokes, bantered back, helped Theo with Charms homework, and even managed to get Draco to admit your taste in Quidditch teams wasn’t completely abysmal.

You became part of the group, almost by accident. They got used to your presence. Mattheo… tolerated it.

Or at least, that’s what he showed.

Lunch was more of the same. You slipped into the seat beside him again, ignoring the way Lorenzo Berkshire raised his eyebrows across the table.

“Saved you the last treacle tart,” you whispered, sliding the plate over. “I know they’re your favorite.”

Mattheo exhaled sharply through his nose. “You keeping a bloody list or something?”

“Maybe.” You grinned, unbothered. “Someone has to notice these things.”

Theo kicked Mattheo under the table. “Mate, she’s literally handing you desserts on a silver platter and you’re acting like she hexed you.”

“Shut it, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, dangerous. But his hand closed around the fork anyway.

You chatted easily with the others, Pansy about the latest fashion disaster in the common room, Blaise about the upcoming match, Draco about some pureblood nonsense you mostly tuned out.

Every so often you’d glance at Mattheo, offering a comment or a small smile. He rarely responded with more than a grunt or a sarcastic jab.

He never spoke to you nicely. Not once.

Yet you kept showing up. After classes, in the corridors “How was Arithmancy?” even when he brushed past you with a muttered “Don’t you have badgers to hug?”

You sat with the Slytherins at dinner, laughing when they roasted each other, fitting in like a bright patch on dark fabric.

His friends noticed.

One evening in the Slytherin dungeons, after you’d left (having fixed a rip in Mattheo’s robes with a quick charm and a cheerful “See you tomorrow!”), Theo finally snapped.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Riddle.”

Mattheo leaned back in his chair by the fire, nursing a glass of firewhisky. “Problem?”

Blaise chuckled. “She does more for you in a day than half the girls throwing themselves at you ever have. Brings you food, defends your sorry arse, actually listens when you’re in one of your moods”

“I don’t have moods,” Mattheo cut in coldly.

Mattheo’s eyes darkened. “She’s just another girl hovering. They all do it eventually. Looking for the thrill of the ‘dark’ prince or whatever bollocks they tell themselves.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “She’s not looking for thrill, you dense git. She likes you. Properly. And she’s not scared off by your award winning personality.”

“She’s a Hufflepuff,” Mattheo said dismissively, though his grip on the glass tightened. “Too soft. Too… good. She’ll get tired of it.”

Theo laughed. “She’s been at it for months. Sat through your worst days. Defended you to McGonagall when you got detention for that stunt with the Gryffindors. And you still treat her like dirt.”

He was possessive by nature, territorial. But admitting she mattered? That was weakness. And Mattheo Riddle didn’t do weakness.

“She’s nothing,” he said finally, voice low and sharp. “Just background noise.”

His friends exchanged glances. They knew better. They saw the way his eyes followed her when she left the room, the subtle shift when she sat beside him. The hidden softness he buried under sarcasm and ice.

You, meanwhile, walked back toward the Hufflepuff basement with a small, satisfied smile. He’d eaten the tart. He’d let you sit there. Progress, in your book.

You weren’t naive. You knew he was cold, conflicted, carrying shadows most people couldn’t imagine. But you saw the good, buried, fighting to surface. You weren’t afraid. And you weren’t going anywhere.

Mattheo could pretend to tolerate you all he wanted.

You’d keep showing up until he couldn’t pretend anymore.

———

It was a rainy Thursday when things shifted, just a little.

You were waiting outside the Potions dungeon after class, two umbrellas tucked under your arm (one borrowed from the Hufflepuff common room because you knew he’d “forgotten” his again).

Students streamed past, giving you odd looks. A group of Ravenclaws whispered behind their hands.

Mattheo emerged last, collar up, expression stormy. His eyes landed on you and narrowed.

“Don’t,” he said before you could speak, brushing past.

You fell into step beside him anyway, unfurling one umbrella and holding it over both of you. “It’s pouring. You’ll catch a cold and then complain about it for a week.”

“I don’t complain.” His voice was clipped. “And I don’t need a bloody babysitter.”

“Too bad. I’m self appointed.” You smiled up at him, rain pattering loudly against the fabric. He didn’t take the umbrella from you, but he also didn’t speed up to leave you behind. Small victories.

Theo and Blaise caught up, grinning like idiots.

“Look at that,” Theo drawled. “Domestic already. Riddle, you gonna let her carry your books next?”

Mattheo shot him a withering glare. “Fuck off.”

You laughed softly. “I already did his Arithmancy notes last week when he was… occupied.” You didn’t mention the detention he’d earned for hexing a seventh year who’d called him a monster in the corridor. You’d simply copied the notes in your neatest handwriting and left them on his usual spot in the library.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “See? She’s useful. Unlike you when you’re brooding.”

Mattheo’s jaw flexed. He said nothing the rest of the walk.

Dinner that evening brought new company.

A tall Gryffindor boy, Cedric’s old friend, Marcus something, had wandered over to the Slytherin table, apparently on some inter house project nonsense. He stopped right beside you, flashing a bright, easy smile.

“Hey, I’ve seen you around. You’re the Hufflepuff who talks to this lot without running. Impressive.” His eyes lingered. “We’re having a study group in the library tomorrow. Potions theory. You seem like you know your stuff. Want to join?”

You felt Mattheo stiffen beside you before you even answered.

“That’s sweet,” you said politely, “but I usually study with these guys. Thanks though.”

Marcus didn’t take the hint immediately. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Less… intense.” He glanced at Mattheo meaningfully.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Mattheo beat you to it.

“She said no.” His voice was low, dangerous, laced with that dark charisma that made people listen. He didn’t even look up from his plate, but the temperature around the table seemed to drop. “Run along, Gryffindor.”

Marcus hesitated, then shrugged with a nervous laugh. “Alright, Riddle. Didn’t mean to step on toes.” He left.

Silence fell for half a second before Pansy cackled. “Territorial much?”

“I’m eating,” Mattheo muttered. “Don’t need distractions.”

You turned to him, heart doing a small flip at the possessiveness he’d just shown, even if it was wrapped in irritation. “You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve handled it.”

“Clearly.” His sarcasm was sharp. “You were about to agree.”

“I wasn’t.” You poked his arm lightly. He didn’t pull away. “I like sitting with you lot. Even when you’re grumpy.”

Draco snorted into his goblet. “Grumpy. That’s one word for it.”

The real crack appeared two days later.

It was late evening in the Slytherin common room. You’d been dragged there again, this time by Pansy, who wanted your opinion on a dress for the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend.

You ended up staying, curled up on the couch with a book while the boys played a lazy game of Exploding Snap nearby.

Mattheo was in one of his moods. Silent, sharp edged, staring into the fire like it had personally offended him. You knew the signs by now something from his past, or a letter from home, or just the weight of his own name pressing down.

You stood up quietly and disappeared toward the dorms corridor (Pansy had shown you where the spare blankets were kept weeks ago). When you returned, you draped a slightly warmer one over his shoulders without a word.

He tensed. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“You looked cold.” You sat back down beside him, closer than usual. “And you always steal the good blanket when we’re down here.”

“I don’t steal…..” He stopped, exhaling through his nose. For once, he didn’t shrug the blanket off. His fingers curled into the fabric anyway.

Theo watched the exchange with open amusement. Later, when you stepped away to grab drinks for everyone, he leaned toward Mattheo.

“You know she’s in love with you, right? Properly. Not the silly crush shit.”

Mattheo’s eyes flicked toward your retreating figure. “She’s delusional.”

“Or you’re blind,” Blaise added quietly. “She defends you to teachers, to randoms in the hall, even to her own housemates who think she’s lost her mind. Brings you food, fixes your shit, sits with you even when you’re a complete bastard to her. And you still act like she’s nothing.”

“Because she is nothing,” Mattheo snapped, voice low and venomous. But his eyes betrayed him,they followed you as you laughed at something Pansy said across the room.

“She’ll wise up eventually. Get tired of playing saint to the villain.”

Draco shook his head. “You keep telling yourself that, mate. But the way you nearly hexed that Gryffindor for just talking to her? That wasn’t nothing.”

Mattheo didn’t reply. Inside, the conflict raged. You made things easier, yes. Mornings were less bleak with your stupid cheerful “good morning” and perfectly ripe apples. His robes didn’t fall apart. He hadn’t missed meals. And the way you looked at him… like he was worth saving… it terrified him. Because if he let you in, if he admitted how much he’d come to expect your presence, then you became leverage.

A weakness.

And people like him didn’t get to keep soft, bright things without breaking them.

He was possessive. The thought of you smiling at someone else like you smiled at him made magic crackle at his fingertips. Territorial. He wanted you close but he refused to give you anything back. It wasn’t fair. He knew that. He just didn’t care.

Or so he told himself.

The next morning you were there again, sliding into your usual seat with a bright, “Good morning, Mattheo,” and placing a small vial beside his plate.

“Pepperup Potion,” you explained before he could sneer. “Just in case. You sounded a bit off last night.”

He stared at the vial, then at you. Something in his chest twisted uncomfortably, warm, annoying.

“You’re exhausting,” he said flatly. But he took the vial. Tucked it into his robe pocket like it was nothing.

You just grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Across the table, his friends shared knowing looks. They were done watching him self destruct in slow motion.

One of these days, Mattheo Riddle was going to have to face the fact that the persistent Hufflepuff had already wormed her way past every wall he’d built.

And when that happened… well. Even he wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.

———

Slytherin party,

The common room pulsed with music and low green light, the party in full swing after Slytherin’s narrow win over Ravenclaw.

Music thrummed from enchanted speakers, firewhisky flowed freely, and clusters of students laughed too loudly, danced too close, and forgot for one night about OWLs, NEWTs, and the shadows hanging over the wizarding world.

You’d shown up with Pansy, who had insisted on you wearing a simple but flattering black dress she’d “borrowed” from somewhere.

“Blend in for once, Puff,” she’d teased. You’d laughed and gone along with it. By now, no one batted an eye when you appeared in Slytherin territory. You were one of them. Sort of.

Mattheo sat in his usual spot on the large leather couch near the fireplace, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest.

A glass of firewhisky dangled from his fingers. His expression was the same half bored, half dangerous mask he wore most days.

You had claimed the spot beside him earlier, but the crowd had shifted. Now a Slytherin girl, sixth year, long dark hair, sharp cheekbones and sharper ambition had taken your place.

Literally. She was practically in his lap, one hand trailing down his chest, laughing breathily at something he hadn’t even said.

“Mattheo,” she purred, loud enough for you to hear over the music, “you really are the most interesting one here. All that mystery… I bet I could make you smile if you let me try.”

She leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear.

Mattheo didn’t push her away. He also didn’t pull her closer. He simply took a slow sip of his drink, eyes distant, like she was background noise. No smirk, no flirtation, no interest. Just cold tolerance.

You stood a few feet away, watching for a moment. A small sigh escaped you, not dramatic, not heartbroken, just… tired.

You knew this game. Girls threw themselves at him constantly. The dark aura, the dangerous reputation, the undeniable charisma, he attracted them like moths to a cursed flame. And he usually let them hover until they got bored.

You turned away and spotted Theo leaning against a stone pillar, nursing his own drink and watching the scene with clear amusement.

“Hey, Theo,” you said brightly, walking over and bumping his shoulder. “Think we’ll see another Exploding Snap disaster tonight, or has Lorenzo learned his lesson?”

Theo grinned down at you, glad for the distraction. “Doubt it. He’s already three drinks in and eyeing that pack of cards like an idiot. You good?” His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the couch.

You shrugged, leaning beside him. “I’m fine. She’s bold, I’ll give her that. Think she’ll last longer than the last one who tried?”

Theo chuckled. “Nah. He’s not even pretending tonight. Look at his face, pure ice. Poor girl doesn’t realize she’s talking to a statue.”

You laughed softly, genuine and light. Talking with Theo was easy. He had become a real friend over the past weeks, someone who actually listened when you rambled about Herbology or the latest book you’d read.

“I was going to ask Mattheo if he wanted to dance later, but… maybe not. He looks like he’d rather hex the music.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, studying you. “You’re really not bothered by that?” He nodded toward the girl, who was now tracing patterns on Mattheo’s arm while he stared into the fire.

You took a sip of your butterbeer. “Bothered? A little. But I’m not going to compete by climbing all over him. That’s not me.” Your voice stayed calm, sweet but honest. “He knows I’m here. If he wants me to leave, he can say it. He never does.”

Theo shook his head, half laughing. “You’re something else, you know that? Most girls would be over there hexing her by now. Or crying in the corner.”

You smiled, eyes drifting back to Mattheo despite yourself. “I’m not scared of him, or of this.” You gestured vaguely at the party. “Besides, I like talking to you lot. Even when he’s being… himself.”

Mattheo’s gaze had found you.

Even from across the room, even while the dark-haired girl whispered something in his ear, his eyes locked onto you and Theo. His jaw tightened. The girl’s hand slid higher on his thigh and he shifted away just slightly but didn’t stop her. His fingers flexed around his glass until his knuckles paled.

He didn’t like it.

Not the girl. Her touch felt like nothing, irrelevant, annoying. But you standing there, laughing with Theo, looking perfectly at ease in his common room, in his world… that twisted something ugly and possessive in his chest.

You were supposed to be orbiting him. Not chatting and smiling at Nott like it was the most natural thing.

Yet he said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched, brooding.

Later, the girl finally gave up with a dramatic huff and stalked off to find easier prey. Mattheo didn’t even watch her leave.

You eventually wandered back, sliding onto the couch beside him now that the seat was free. Your shoulder brushed his.

“Enjoying the party?” you asked lightly, offering him a fresh drink you’d grabbed on the way.

Mattheo took it without thanks, setting his empty one aside. “It’s loud,” he said flatly. His eyes flicked to you, scanning your face like he was searching for cracks. “You and Nott seemed cozy.”

There it was the sharp edge. Not quite jealousy admitted, but close.

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Theo’s funny. We were just talking about how terrible Lorenzo is at cards.” You paused, then added, “You could’ve joined us. Or told that girl to give you space if she was bothering you.”

He scoffed, leaning back. “Didn’t need to. Not interested.” His voice dropped, sarcastic and low. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant attention to feel important, Hufflepuff.”

You didn’t flinch. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on giving her any competition.” You reached over and straightened his already loose tie with gentle fingers, a small habitual gesture.

“You looked bored. Thought maybe you’d want actual company instead of… whatever that was.”

Mattheo stared at your hands on his tie, then at your face. The conflict raged behind his eyes, wanting to snap at you, push you away, and simultaneously wanting to pull you closer so no one else could even look at you the wrong way. He settled for his usual defense.

“You’re too much,” he muttered, but he didn’t move away from your touch.

———

Weekend ends, and the new week already started badly for Mattheo.

A letter from his father’s old circle had arrived that morning cryptic, demanding, laced with expectations he wanted nothing to do with but couldn’t fully escape. Combined with a brutal detention from Snape and losing a Quidditch strategy argument to Draco, his mood was blacker than the dungeons.

The kind of day where the shadows around him felt heavier, and everyone with sense stayed out of his way.

Everyone except you.

You had noticed immediately during breakfast. His shoulders were tense, jaw locked, eyes darker than usual.

Still, you slid into your usual seat beside him with a gentle smile, placing a steaming cup of his favorite black coffee (extra strong) in front of him.

“Morning, Mattheo,” you said softly. “Rough night? I brought you….”

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a whip. Louder and sharper than he’d ever been with you. The entire Slytherin table went quiet.

You blinked, hand still hovering near the cup. “I just thought….”

Mattheo turned to you fully, eyes blazing with barely contained fury and exhaustion. “You thought what? That your pathetic little acts of kindness would fix anything? That I want you here every single fucking day breathing down my neck like some lovesick puppy?”

The words cut deep. His friends froze.

“Mattheo…” Theo started quietly.

“No.” Mattheo didn’t even look at him. His gaze stayed locked on you, cold and unrelenting.

“I’m done with this. Done with you hovering, done with the apples and the notes and the stupid blankets and the defending me like I’m some broken charity case. Leave me and my group alone. Go back to your Hufflepuff flowers and mind your own business for once.”

The silence was suffocating.

You stared at him for a long second, heart twisting painfully in your chest. Your eyes stung, but you refused to cry in front of them. Not here. Instead, you swallowed hard and stood up slowly.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, voice small but steady. “I’ll leave.”

You turned and walked away without another word, head high even as your hands trembled at your sides. The Great Hall felt endless. A few people whispered, but you didn’t look back.

Mattheo didn’t watch you go. He gripped his fork until it bent, then shoved his plate away and stormed out. His friends exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing to him. Not yet.

Three days passed.

You kept your word. No more good mornings in the corridor. No more saving seats. No more sitting at the Slytherin table.

You ate with your housemates, smiled politely when people asked what happened, and threw yourself into Herbology and helping in the kitchens, anything to stay busy.

You missed them. You missed him. But you respected his wishes. If he wanted space, you’d give it to him, even if it hurt.

The Slytherin group felt the absence immediately.

Lunch on day one was too quiet. No one to laugh at Lorenzo’s terrible jokes or argue Quidditch with Draco. No soft voice reminding them about upcoming assignments.

By day two, Pansy was scowling at everything. “This is ridiculous. The table feels empty.”

Theo kept glancing toward the Hufflepuff table where you sat, surrounded by your housemates but somehow looking… dimmer. Less bright.

Day three, Blaise finally said it out loud in the common room: “She’s makes this lot tolerable. Can we bring her back”

Mattheo was there, slouched in his usual chair by the fire, pretending not to listen.

He hadn’t spoken much in three days. His mood hadn’t improved, in fact, it had soured further. The little things you used to handle were piling up. His bag strap had broken again. He’d missed dinner once because no one reminded him. The common room felt colder without your occasional presence.

He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. No weaknesses.

His friends disagreed.

On the evening of the fourth day, the group made their move.

Pansy and Theo cornered you after Charms class, blocking your path to the Hufflepuff basement with determined expressions.

“You’re coming with us,” Pansy declared, linking her arm through yours.

You blinked in surprise. “Pansy, I can’t. He said…”

“He’s an idiot,” Theo cut in. “A miserable idiot. The common room has been dead without you. Draco’s even more unbearable. Lorenzo keeps losing at cards because no one’s betting against him properly. Come on. Just for a bit.”

You hesitated, biting your lip. “I don’t want to make things worse.”

Blaise appeared behind them, smirking. “Too late for that. Mattheo’s been brooding like the Dark Lord himself since you left. We miss you, love. Properly.”

After a few more minutes of gentle insistence (and Pansy threatening to drag you), you gave in. You let them lead you down to the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering the entire way.

And there, in his usual spot by the fireplace, sat Mattheo.

He looked up when the portrait hole opened. His eyes landed on you immediately, widening for half a second before the guarded mask slammed back into place. He said nothing.

The others moved casually, like this was normal. Pansy pulled you toward the couch. Theo dropped into the seat across from Mattheo with a pointed look.

“Look who we found,” Theo announced lightly. “Our favorite Hufflepuff.”

You stood awkwardly for a moment, offering a small, uncertain smile to the group. “Hi.”

Draco nodded at you, almost relieved. “About time. The silence was getting pathetic.”

You sat down carefully, not beside Mattheo this time, but on the opposite end of the large couch, giving him the space he’d demanded. Your hands twisted in your lap. You didn’t look directly at him, but you could feel his stare burning into the side of your face.

The conversation started slowly, Pansy complaining about homework, Blaise teasing Lorenzo, but it gradually warmed up. You laughed softly at one of Theo’s jokes, the sound familiar and bright again. For the first time in days, the common room felt alive.

Mattheo remained silent, watching you from the shadows of his seat. His jaw was tight, fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest. The conflict was clear in his eyes, the same storm you’d always seen, only sharper now. He’d told you to leave. You had. And now that you were back (because of them), the relief mixing with his anger and possessiveness was making his chest feel too tight.

He still didn’t speak to you.

Laughter echoed off the stone walls as Lorenzo dramatically retold his latest failed attempt at asking out a Ravenclaw, complete with sound effects.

Pansy was curled up beside you on the couch, showing you fabric swatches for some upcoming event, while Theo kept sliding in clever quips that made everyone groan or laugh.

You smiled and participated. You really did. You complimented Pansy’s choices, teased Lorenzo right back, and even debated Quidditch tactics with Draco when he dragged you into it. It felt good to be back among them.

They had become real friends, and their obvious relief at having you there eased some of the ache in your chest.

But with Mattheo… it was different now.

You stayed on the far end of the couch. You didn’t slide closer like you used to. You didn’t offer him the fresh drink Blaise had passed around. You didn’t reach over to fix the cuff of his sleeve when it rode up.

Every time your eyes accidentally met his, you gave a small, polite nod and looked away again. Careful. Guarded. Not cold, you couldn’t quite manage that but no longer shining that bright, effortless warmth directly at him.

Mattheo noticed.

He sat in his usual chair, legs stretched out, nursing the same glass of firewhisky he’d barely touched. His dark eyes followed your every movement. The way you laughed freely with Theo. The way you leaned into Pansy’s side comfortably. The way you existed in his space without orbiting him like before.

It irritated him more than he wanted to admit.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Pansy murmured to you at one point, low enough that only you could hear. Her eyes flicked toward Mattheo. “Still sore about what the idiot said?”

You shrugged lightly, tracing a pattern on the couch leather with your finger. “I’m here for you guys. Not… not to push anything. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t want the extra stuff from me. I’m respecting that.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “He’s a dramatic prick. He didn’t mean half of it.”

“Maybe.” You offered her a small smile. “But I’m not risking it again. Not right now.”

Mattheo’s grip tightened on his glass. He’d heard enough.

When Theo stood up to grab more drinks and you naturally followed to help him carry them back, Mattheo’s voice cut through the air sharp, sarcastic, aimed straight at you.

“Careful, Hufflepuff. Wouldn’t want you overexerting yourself playing servant again.”

You paused, holding two glasses steadily. The group quieted a little. You met his gaze evenly this time, no flinch, but no smile either.

“I’m just helping a friend, Mattheo,” you said softly. Calm. Not defensive. “No big gestures. No hovering.”

You set the drinks down and returned to your spot without another word. No apple. No blanket. No gentle check in about his clearly still terrible mood.

The silence stretched for a beat too long.

Theo cleared his throat. “Smooth, mate. Really winning her back with that one.”

“Shut up, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, but his eyes stayed on you. That possessive streak was flaring hot under his skin. You were here, in his common room, surrounded by his friends, yet you were keeping him at arm’s length. It felt wrong.

The next few days followed the same careful pattern.

You sat with the group at meals again, but not directly beside Mattheo. You chose seats between Pansy and Blaise, or across from Theo.

You still defended the group when outsiders made snide comments, your Hufflepuff loyalty ran deep but you no longer singled Mattheo out.

No more personal good mornings whispered just to him. No more saving his favorite desserts. You were warm with everyone else, bright and kind like always.

With him, you were… polite.

“Pass the salt, please?” you’d asked at dinner the next evening, voice neutral when your eyes met his.

He’d slid it over without a word, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Later in the common room, when you’d laughed at one of Draco’s rare jokes and bumped knees with Theo accidentally, Mattheo had snapped at Lorenzo over nothing, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips.

His friends saw it all.

“You’re an absolute bellend,” Blaise told him bluntly one night after you’d left for curfew (earlier than usual, another new habit). “She’s giving you exactly what you asked for and you look like you want to burn the castle down.”

Mattheo leaned back, staring at the dying fire. “She’s acting like I’m a stranger.”

Draco snorted. “You told her to leave you alone. Loudly. In front of the entire hall. What did you expect? Eternal devotion on command?”

“I expected….” Mattheo stopped himself, running a hand through his messy curls.

He didn’t know what he expected. He’d wanted space, wanted the annoying persistence gone. But now the absence of her specific light left everything feeling flat. The little comforts he’d pretended not to notice were glaringly missing. And worse, seeing her still smiling, still caring, but redirecting all of it away from him… it stirred something ugly and jealous and needy he refused to name.

He was emotionally conflicted on the best of days. This was torture.

A few nights later, the group was studying (or pretending to) in the common room. You were helping Pansy with her Transfiguration essay, heads bent together, your neat handwriting filling the page. Mattheo sat nearby, book open but unread.

You felt his stare again. Heavy. Burning.

When Pansy got up to fetch another book, leaving the two of you momentarily semi-alone, you glanced up. His eyes didn’t waver.

You offered a small, cautious smile. “Need help with anything? The essay’s brutal this week.”

Mattheo’s response was instinct sharp-tongued and defensive. “Don’t start that again.”

You closed your ink bottle slowly, expression softening but staying reserved. “I’m not starting anything. Just offering as a friend. Like I do for the others.”

The distinction stung more than he cared to admit.

He wanted to snap again. Push harder. But the words caught in his throat when he saw the careful walls behind your eyes the way you were protecting yourself now, even while sitting in his world.

You waited a beat longer, then turned back to your own work when he stayed silent.

Mattheo Riddle watched you, the same storm raging behind his guarded expression. He was possessive. Territorial. And right now, the girl who had always chosen him was choosing distance, even while staying close to everyone else.

It was driving him mad.

The common room was quieter tonight, the fire crackling softly as most students had retreated to dorms or the library for last minute revisions. Only the core group remained scattered across the couches and armchairs, Pansy flipping through a magazine, Theo and Blaise arguing over chess moves, Draco reading with a bored expression, and Lorenzo half asleep.

You had been sitting with Pansy again, but something had shifted in you. You’d watched Mattheo. Really watched him. The way his eyes tracked you when he thought no one noticed.

The tighter set of his jaw whenever you laughed with the others. The restless tapping of his fingers. He was regretting it. You could see it, the conflict, the stubborn pride warring with whatever softer thing lived under all that armor. He wanted you close again. He just didn’t know how to say it.

Time to test the theory.

You stood up casually, stretching, and moved across the room. Instead of your careful distance, you dropped down on the couch right beside Mattheo, close enough that your thigh pressed lightly against his. The same spot you used to claim every night before the blow up.

Mattheo tensed instantly, dark eyes snapping to you.

You didn’t look at him right away. You simply leaned forward, grabbing a spare quill from the low table and twirling it between your fingers like nothing had changed. “Theo, pass me that book on curses? I want to check something for Pansy’s essay.”

Theo raised an eyebrow but tossed it over with a knowing smirk.

As you settled back, your shoulder brushed Mattheo’s. You felt the sharp inhale he tried to hide.

He lasted maybe thirty seconds.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The words came out harsher than he probably intended, laced with that unwilling venom. “Decided to test how much shit I’ll take before I snap again, Hufflepuff?”

You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze. There was no flinch in your eyes, only quiet understanding.

You saw it: the regret flickering behind the ice, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach out but refused to let himself.

“I’m just sitting here,” you said softly, voice even and sweet. “Like I used to. You haven’t told me to move.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump. He tried again, the meanness spilling out despite himself, like a defense mechanism he couldn’t turn off.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have to. Thought I made it clear you’re exhausting. Always there, always fixing things no one asked you to fix. Find someone else to play hero for.”

The words stung, but you saw straight through them. His eyes betrayed him, lingering on the way your hair fell over your shoulder, on your hand resting near his leg. He wasn’t pushing you away physically. He wasn’t standing up.

He was just… lashing out, the same way a wounded animal snaps at the hand trying to help.

You smiled. Small. Knowing. “You don’t mean that.”

He scoffed, looking away into the fire. “Don’t tell me what I mean.”

But he still didn’t move.

Emboldened, you shifted even closer, tucking your legs under you so your knee rested against his thigh. You reached over and gently tugged the loose thread on his sleeve that had been bothering you for days, something you would’ve fixed without thinking weeks ago. He froze under your touch but didn’t pull back.

“Mattheo,” you murmured, low enough that the others pretended not to hear, “you can keep saying mean things if it makes you feel better. I’m not leaving this time unless you really want me to. And I don’t think you do.”

His breathing hitched. For a moment, the guarded mask cracked completely. Something raw and conflicted flashed across his face, possessiveness, relief, anger at himself, that hidden softness he buried so deep.

His hand lifted halfway, like he might touch your arm, then dropped back down.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Then louder, sharper, still failing at kindness “You’re going to regret sticking around when I inevitably ruin whatever this is.”

You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder for just a second, testing, pushing, offering. “Maybe. But I’m still here.”

He didn’t shrug you off. Didn’t stand up. Didn’t tell the group to kick you out.

Instead, after a long, heavy silence, his body relaxed, just a fraction, against yours. His arm stayed draped along the back of the couch, fingers inches from your shoulder. Territorial. Close. Accepting.

Pansy caught your eye across the room and hid a triumphant grin behind her magazine. Theo didn’t even bother hiding his smirk as he moved a chess piece.

Mattheo still hadn’t spoken to you nicely. Not really.

But he wasn’t pushing you away anymore.

Your theory had been right. He regretted it. He wanted you back in his orbit closer than before, even if his sharp tongue hadn’t caught up to that truth yet.

You’d rest your head against his shoulder for a moment here, brush his hand while passing a drink there. He tolerated it all with his usual gruff silence and occasional sharp remark, but the tension rolling off him was palpable.

His friends had had enough.

Pansy caught Theo’s eye across the room and gave the tiniest nod. The plan they made that morning was in motion.

“Truth or Dare,” Pansy announced suddenly, clapping her hands. “I’m bored out of my mind and someone needs to entertain me.”

Lorenzo perked up immediately. Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. Blaise smirked like he already knew where this was going.

Mattheo narrowed his eyes but said nothing, he rarely backed down from a challenge, even a stupid one.

You smiled softly. “I’m in.”

The game started innocently enough. Lorenzo admitted to stealing Pansy’s favourite lipstick.

Draco chose dare and had to charm his eyebrows pink for the next ten minutes.

Theo got asked about his latest failed hookup and laughed it off.

Then Pansy turned her sharp gaze on you.

“Truth or Dare, darling?”

You felt the shift in the air. Mattheo’s posture stiffened beside you.

“Dare,” you said, because backing down in front of this group had never been your style.

Pansy’s smile turned wicked. “I dare you to kiss Theo. Proper kiss. Ten seconds.”

The room went still.

Theo raised an eyebrow, clearly in on it, but kept his expression playful. “Only if she wants to. I’m not above being used for a good cause.”

You glanced sideways at Mattheo. His hand had curled into a fist on the armrest, knuckles white. His jaw was locked so tightly it looked painful. Dark eyes burned holes into Theo, then flicked to you, possessive, stormy, conflicted.

Your theory had been right. He was cracking.

You leaned forward slowly, giving Mattheo every chance to say something. He didn’t. He just watched, breathing shallow.

You turned to Theo, cupped his cheek lightly, and pressed your lips to his. It was soft, brief, exactly ten seconds. Theo kissed back gently, more performative than anything, and pulled away with a dramatic sigh.

“Not bad, Puff,” he teased, winking.

You sat back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, heart racing for an entirely different reason. You didn’t look at Mattheo immediately.

The crack appeared.

Mattheo let out a low, dangerous sound, almost a growl. Magic crackled faintly around him, making the fire flare for a second.

“Enough,” he said sharply, voice dripping with venom. “This game is fucking stupid.”

Pansy feigned innocence. “Jealous, Riddle?”

“I’m not jealous of Nott getting pity kisses,” he snapped, the words unwilling and too quick.

His eyes finally met yours raw, territorial, and something deeper. “She can kiss whoever the hell she wants.”

But he looked like he wanted to hex Theo into next week.

You saw the tiny fracture in his restraint. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to pull you into his lap and erase what just happened. The hidden softness bleeding through the anger. He cared. Deeply. He just wouldn’t admit it yet.

The game continued awkwardly for a few more rounds before dying out.

As people started heading to bed or pretending to study, the group quietly regrouped near the fireplace once you’d stepped away to grab water.

“Close,” Theo muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Did you see his face? He nearly lost it.”

“Not enough,” Draco said. “He’s still too stubborn. One little kiss isn’t cracking that reinforced concrete he calls emotional walls.”

Pansy crossed her arms. “New plan then. We need to push harder. Something that forces him to choose publicly. Maybe Hogsmeade this weekend. We get her to ‘casually’ flirt with someone else. Or we set up a situation where she has to be alone with one of us and see how long it takes before he drags her back.”

Blaise chuckled darkly. “Or we make him think she’s actually moving on. He’s possessive as hell. If he believes he might lose her for real…”

Theo glanced over at Mattheo, who was now staring into the fire like it had personally betrayed him. “He’s already regretting everything. We just need one more push and that restraint of his is dead.”

They all looked toward you as you walked back, none the wiser to their scheming.

Mattheo’s eyes followed you the entire way, dark and intense. The crack was there. Now they just had to widen it until he had no choice but to admit what everyone else already knew.

———

The Hogsmeade weekend arrived under a crisp, clear sky the first proper snow dusting the rooftops like powdered sugar.

Students poured out of the castle gates in excited clusters, scarves wrapped high and pockets jingling with allowance money.

The Slytherin group had claimed their usual spot near the Shrieking Shack path for pre butterbeer strategy, but today their energy was sharper, purposeful.

The new plan was simple and ruthless : push Mattheo until his restraint shattered completely.

Pansy had looped her arm through yours as you all walked down the snowy path. “Stick close to me at first,” she whispered, lips barely moving. “Then ‘accidentally’ wander off with Theo or Blaise when we reach the village. We’ll make it look natural.”

You glanced at her, then at Mattheo walking a few steps ahead, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable. “You’re really doing this?”

Theo fell into step beside you, grinning. “He needs it. The kiss barely made him twitch. Time to light a proper fire under his arse.”

You exhaled, a mix of nerves and reluctant amusement fluttering in your chest.

Part of you still felt the sting from his harsh words days ago, but another part, the one that saw every hidden crack in his armor, wanted him to finally admit what was so obvious to everyone else.

“Just… don’t go too far. I don’t actually want to hurt him.”

“Too late for that,” Blaise murmured from behind. “He’s been hurting himself plenty.”

Mattheo slowed slightly, eyes flicking back toward you. You offered him a small, neutral smile the same careful one you’d been giving him since returning to the group. He didn’t return it, but his gaze lingered.

The village was bustling. Honeydukes was packed, Zonko’s even louder. The group moved as one at first, weaving through the crowd.

You stayed near Mattheo out of habit, your shoulder occasionally brushing his in the narrow street. He didn’t pull away.

Inside the Three Broomsticks, you all claimed a large corner booth. Firewhisky for the boys, butterbeers for everyone. Conversation flowed easily until Pansy executed the first move.

“I need to check out that new robe shop,” she announced, standing up. “Come with me, Draco? I want a second opinion.”

Draco sighed but followed, shooting the rest of you a knowing look. Lorenzo tagged along “for snacks.” That left you, Mattheo, Theo, and Blaise.

You took a slow sip of butterbeer, then turned to Theo with a bright, deliberate smile. “Theo, didn’t you say there’s a new shipment of cursed artifacts at Dervish and Banges? I’ve been wanting to see that silver dagger you mentioned last week.”

Theo’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Absolutely. Let’s go before the good stuff disappears.” He stood and offered you his hand.

You took it without hesitation, letting him help you out of the booth. Your fingers lingered in his just a second longer than necessary. “Mattheo, Blaise, we’ll be back soon,” you said casually, like it was nothing.

Mattheo’s entire body went rigid. His glass hit the table harder than needed. “Since when do you give a fuck about cursed artifacts?”

You shrugged, still holding Theo’s hand. “Since Theo told me they’re fascinating. You know I like shiny, dangerous things.” Your tone was light, playful the same sweetness you used to direct only at him.

Theo tugged you gently toward the door. “We won’t be long, mate.”

Blaise stayed behind, nursing his drink and watching Mattheo like a hawk.

The snow crunched under your boots as you and Theo walked down the high street.

You didn’t go straight to Dervish and Banges. Instead, Theo led you on a slow, meandering route stopping at a stall selling enchanted jewelry, laughing loudly at your jokes, standing a little too close when showing you a necklace with a tiny snake charm.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you muttered, cheeks pink from the cold and the performance.

Theo grinned down at you. “It’s for the greater good. Look behind us, don’t turn too obviously.”

You risked a glance. Mattheo was stalking after you both, coat flapping open, expression thunderous. Blaise was a few paces behind him, failing to hide his amusement.

Your heart skipped. The plan was working.

Theo leaned in closer, pretending to examine the necklace around your neck, his fingers brushing your collarbone. “Smile at me like you mean it,” he whispered.

You did, soft, warm, the kind of smile that used to be reserved for Mattheo’s rare good moments. Theo laughed like you’d said something brilliant.

That was when Mattheo snapped.

“Having fun?” His voice cut through the snowy street like a blade. He stopped right beside you, eyes locked on where Theo’s hand still rested near your shoulder. The possessiveness rolled off him in waves, dark and electric. “Didn’t realize you two were suddenly so fucking cozy.”

Theo raised an innocent eyebrow. “Just showing her the artifacts, like she asked. Problem?”

Mattheo’s jaw worked. He looked at you, really looked.

There was that storm again : jealousy burning hot, restraint fraying at the edges, the unwilling mean streak fighting against something deeper.

“You’re really doing this?” he said to you, voice low and sharp. “Parading around with Nott after everything? Thought you were supposed to be the one who saw ‘good’ in people. Not throwing yourself at the first idiot who smiles at you.”

The words stung, but you saw right through them again. His hands were clenched. He was one breath away from dragging you away from Theo. The crack from the truth or dare game had widened significantly.

You stepped just a little closer to Theo, testing. “I’m not throwing myself at anyone, Mattheo. I’m just… spending time with friends. Like you told me to do. Remember? Stop hovering. Stop fixing things for you.”

Mattheo’s eyes darkened dangerously. For a second you thought he might actually hex Theo. Instead, he grabbed your wrist not painfully, but firm enough to feel possessive.

“We’re going back to the group,” he growled. “Now.”

Theo smirked. “Whatever you say, Riddle.”

You let Mattheo pull you along, his grip staying locked around your wrist the entire walk back to the Three Broomsticks.

He didn’t let go even when you reached the booth. He sat down and tugged you into the seat directly beside him closer than you’d been in weeks. His thigh pressed against yours. His arm draped along the back of the booth, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder like a silent claim.

He was still being an arse, muttering sarcastic comments under his breath and shooting Theo lethal glares, but he wasn’t pushing you away.

The plan had started. And it was already cracking him open.

Pansy and the others returned shortly after, taking in the scene with barely concealed triumph. Mattheo didn’t speak to you nicely. Not yet.

But the territorial hold on your wrist, the way his body angled toward yours like a shield, and the raw, conflicted heat in his eyes said more than his sharp tongue ever could.

The restraint was dying.

The rest of the Hogsmeade afternoon passed in a charged haze.

Mattheo didn’t release your wrist for a long time. Even after you all returned to the Three Broomsticks, his arm stayed slung possessively behind you on the booth, fingers occasionally brushing the back of your neck like a silent warning to everyone else.

He was still sharp tongued, snapping at Lorenzo for talking too loud, throwing barbed comments at Theo, but he kept you glued to his side.

The group wasn’t done yet.

As the sun began to dip and snow started falling heavier, they all gathered outside, Pansy with a calculated sigh “It’s getting late. We should head back, but some of us still need to pick up things from Honeydukes. Theo, you mentioned wanting more of that fizzing whizzbees?”

Theo caught on instantly. “Yeah, and I could use help carrying stuff.” He looked straight at you. “Come with me? You’ve got better taste in sweets than these lot.”

You felt Mattheo’s body coil like a spring beside you.

Before you could answer, you turned to him with that same soft, testing smile you’d been using. “Do you mind? I’ll be quick.”

His dark eyes flashed. The crack was widening dangerously. “Yes, I fucking mind,” he bit out, the words escaping before he could stop them. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”

They went quiet. Even Draco raised an eyebrow.

You tilted your head, pushing just a little more. “Why not? You’ve made it very clear I’m exhausting. That I should stop hovering around you. I’m just hanging out with friends, Mattheo. Like you wanted.”

That struck hard. Mattheo’s hand slid from the to your waist, gripping firmly. Territorial. Needy in a way he’d never allowed himself to show.

“You know that’s not ” He stopped, jaw clenching. The internal war was visible, the mean, guarded part of him fighting the part that had grown addicted to your presence, your care, your unwavering light.

Theo slowly, offering his hand again with an exaggerated grin. “Ready when you are, love.”

Pushing further Theo says “It’s just sweets, mate. Unless you’ve got a problem with that?”

Mattheo’s eyes darkened. He pulled you flush against him in one sharp movement, right there on the snowy street in front of everyone. No grand speech. No soft vulnerability. Just raw, irritated truth wrapped in his usual barbed tone.

“Yeah. I’ve got a fucking problem with it.” He glared at Theo, then looked down at you, jaw tight. “You win, alright? Happy now?”

You tilted your head, staying close but testing him one last time. “Win what?”

Mattheo let out a sharp, sarcastic breath, his breath visible in the cold air.

“This. You. The constant hovering and fixing and defending my sorry arse like I’m worth the effort.” His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it became more territorial.

“I told you to fuck off because it was easier. Because you make shit… simpler. And I hate how much I’ve gotten used to it.”

He glanced at the group, who were all watching with barely hidden smirks, then back at you. His next words came out gruff, almost annoyed at himself for saying them.

“I don’t want you orbiting anyone else. Not Theo. Not some Gryffindor prick. No one. You’re annoying as hell and far too soft for someone like me, but I want you next to me. Where you’ve been. Stop with the careful polite bullshit you’ve been doing since I snapped at you. Just… be there again. Like before.”

It wasn’t flowery. It wasn’t sweet. It was Mattheo, reluctant, possessive, laced with sarcasm and that dark charisma.

He leaned in closer, voice dropping so only you could hear the rest. “And if Nott tries to hold your hand again, I’ll break his fingers. Clear enough for you, Hufflepuff?”

You smiled softly, reaching up to fix the collar of his coat like you used to. He didn’t stop you.

“Crystal clear,” you murmured.

Mattheo huffed, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he slung his arm firmly over your shoulders and started walking back toward the castle, keeping you tucked tightly against his side. The others fell in behind you, Pansy looking victorious and Theo chuckling quietly.

“Fucking finally,” Blaise muttered.

Mattheo shot them all a sharp look. “Say another word and I’ll hex every single one of you.”

But his hand stayed on your shoulder the entire walk back. No more pushing you away. No more pretending he didn’t care. He still wasn’t nice, not really, but the walls had come down in the only way Mattheo Riddle knew how.

And you were right where he wanted you.

———

The castle was quiet by the time you slipped through the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering against your ribs.

It had been a long evening after Hogsmeade. Mattheo had kept you close the entire way back, but he hadn’t said much more after his gruff admission. The weight of everything still felt new and fragile.

You were nervous. Actually nervous, for the first time in months around him. Your fingers tightened around the rolled up essay you’d finished copying for him (Arithmancy, due tomorrow).

It was a small thing, an old habit, but it gave you an excuse to see him before bed.

You knocked softly on the door to his dorm. Theo and the others were still downstairs, giving the two of you space.

Mattheo opened it in a loose black shirt and trousers, hair messy like he’d already been running his hands through it. His dark eyes softened a fraction when they landed on you.

“Essay,” you mumbled, holding it out. “I know you hate this topic, so I made notes on the side.”

He took it without a word, stepping back to let you in.

The room smelled faintly of him, smoke, cedar, and that sharp edge of magic that always clung to him.

You lingered for half a second too long, then leaned in quickly, pressing a soft, shy kiss to his cheek before immediately turning to leave.

“Sorry, goodnight,” you whispered, cheeks burning as you tried to rush back out.

A flick of his wrist and the door slammed shut, locking with a sharp click.

You froze, back to him. “Mattheo, I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to push, I just”

He was on you in two strides.

His hands came up on either side of your head, caging you against the door with his body. The wood was cool behind your back; he was burning hot in front.

That stern, smug look was fixed on his face, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction, one corner of his mouth curved in that dangerous half smirk.

“Do it again,” he ordered, voice low and rough.

You blinked up at him, still flustered. “I… what?”

“Kiss me again,” he repeated, leaning closer until his breath brushed your lips. “Properly this time. Don’t run.”

Your heart stuttered. The nervousness melted under the intensity of his gaze. You rose onto your toes and kissed his cheek once more, slower this time.

Then, gathering your courage, you turned your head and brushed your lips softly against his.

Mattheo made a low sound in his throat, half satisfaction, half relief. One hand left the door to slide into your hair, tilting your head as he deepened the kiss, claiming your mouth like he’d been waiting weeks to do it. Possessive. Hungry. But there was something almost gentle underneath the fire.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. The smug look had softened into something warmer, more private.

“You’re still an idiot for thinking I’d let you run after that,” he muttered, sharp tongued as ever, but his thumb stroked your cheek. “Told you earlier, you’re mine. That means you don’t get to kiss me and bolt, Hufflepuff.”

You laughed breathlessly, the last of the nerves dissolving. “I was scared you’d regret it tomorrow morning.”

Mattheo huffed, pulling you away from the door and toward his bed. He sat down and tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

“I regret a lot of things,” he admitted gruffly. “But not this. Not you.” He pressed another kiss to your temple, almost absentmindedly. “You make my life easier. Better. Even when I’m a moody bastard. So stay.”

You nestled into his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his shirt. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” His voice dropped, that dark charisma curling around the words. “Because I’m territorial as hell, and I’ve decided you’re stuck with me now.”

From outside the door, you both heard Theo’s muffled voice “Finally! Can we come in yet or are you two still snogging?”

Mattheo didn’t even look up. “Fuck off, Nott!” he called back, but there was no real heat in it.

You giggled against his neck. He squeezed you tighter, a rare, quiet chuckle rumbling through his chest.

For the first time in a long time, Mattheo Riddle looked… content.

Still guarded, still sarcastic, still carrying shadows, but with you curled in his arms, the weight seemed lighter.

You had seen the good in him from the start. Now he was finally letting himself believe it too.

            It became a pattern between the two of you, him greeting you with some random phrase in a language you didn’t understand and you laughing it off, saying hello to him in English. You’d wondered if he would stop after the end of your fifth year, but when he’d spotted you in NEWT Charms, he’d immediately resumed the ritual. You were glad, and not just because he was paying attention to you. It felt like you could see another side of him when he spoke his first language, like he was letting you in on a different part of himself.

             As you sat down after your brief conversation with Theo, Padma raised her eyebrows at you playfully.

            “Oh, hush.” You laughed, shoving her playfully as you rolled her eyes. You knew what she was going to say before she said it.

            “You’ve got to jump on that, are you kidding?” She shook her head, her thick ebony ponytail swishing back and forth behind her. “He’s so hot and you have an opening!”

            “I do not ‘have an opening,’ Padma.” You grinned exasperatedly. “Besides, you need to be quiet. You’ll only inflate his ego if he hears you.”

            “If only I had your self-restraint. If Theo Nott talked to me…”

            “If he came up to you and said a bunch of random words to you in a language you don’t understand, I’m sure you’d be just as confused as I am.”

            “What does it matter what language he’s speaking?” She threw her hands up in the air dramatically. “He’s attractive in all of them.” You sighed, laughing softly to yourself. As much as you loved Padma, she had no idea what she was talking about. Theo could have any girl he wanted, you definitely weren’t going to ‘have an opening’ with him anytime soon.

            Professor Flitwick began the lesson and you attentively followed his demonstration as he walked the class through drills of the Extinguishing Spell. You soon mastered the technique and Flitwick instructed you to walk around the classroom and help others as they sought to extinguish the fire that he’d conjured. As you finished correcting Dean Thomas’s aim, you glanced around the room and saw that Hermione had also been employed to help, along with Theo. Your eyes locked with his as he turned in your direction and you felt your face flush as you looked away quickly.

            “Impressive, bella.” He raised his eyebrows as his path crossed yours. You rolled your eyes playfully at his need to throw in a little Italian for good measure.

            “Thanks,” you replied politely. You smiled at him, though you found yourself unable to meet his eyes. Internally shaking your head at your own easily flustered nature, you walked away quickly.

            After Megan Jones’s spell backfired and her flame got a bit out of hand, Professor Flitwick brought the drills to an end and began the second half of class, a lecture on nonverbal spells theory. You and Padma split a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans as the two of you took notes. The lecture was fascinating and you scarcely noticed time passing until you ran out of Every Flavor Beans. It wasn’t long before Flitwick called the class to a close and you packed up your things. As you and Padma left the classroom, the two of you fell into conversation with Pansy and Daphne, discussing the all-too public snog that Daphne had witnessed between Ron Weasley and Lavender Brown in the Astronomy corridor the evening before.

            “I didn’t even know they were seeing each other!” Padma remarked in surprise. “I feel sorry for her, honestly. Weasley’s a bore.”

            “Well, there were a lot of words for what they were doing, but ‘boring’ certainly wasn’t one of them,” Daphne drawled, grimacing. “It was so – “

            “Ciao, bella ragazza,” a deep voice interrupted. You turned to see Theo smirking at you and throwing you a nod as he walked past, keeping pace with Mattheo Riddle and Blaise Zabini next to him.

            “Bye, Theo.” You shook your head, grinning slightly as you waved to him. Turning back to the girls, you chuckled softly to yourself. “He’s ridiculous.”

            “Haven’t you ever wondered what he’s saying?” Pansy asked suddenly. You raised your eyebrows in surprise.

            “I guess. I don’t know, he’s just saying random stuff, right?” You shrugged. “Besides, I’m not sure I could figure it out if I tried. ‘Ciao’ is literally the only word I know, and Hogwarts doesn’t exactly keep a strong collection of Italian-to-English dictionaries.”

            “But Tomes and Scrolls has a languages collection,” Pansy countered. Daphne suddenly glanced at her, shooting her a look that you couldn’t decipher, and Pansy shook her head. “Tomorrow’s a Hogsmeade trip. You should take a look.” You furrowed your eyebrows.

            “Okay, I guess I will.” You wondered why she was so insistent about it – she’d never indicated that Theo’s assorted ramblings might be of importance before. But with your curiosity sparked, you resolved to stop by Tomes and Scrolls the next day.

            The next week, with a few books on Italian language safely tucked inside your trunk in Ravenclaw Tower, you listened carefully to the words coming from Theo’s mouth as Charms class began.

            “Tutti gli oceani del mondo non potrebbero rivaleggiare con la tua bellezza.” He shot you the same confident look as usual and you smiled back, repeating the phrase to yourself in your mind.

            “Good to see you too, Theo.” As soon as he returned to the back of the classroom, you hastily wrote everything you could remember in the margins of your parchment to reference later. Then you did your best to put it all out of your mind so that you could focus on the Charms lesson. Though you were sure that whatever the sentence meant would disappoint Pansy’s curiosity, you couldn’t help but feel a slightly intrigued as well.

            “Did you manage to get it down?” Padma hissed, glancing at your parchment as you labeled it for note-taking. You nodded.

            “Don’t get your hopes up, though.” You leaned over to whisper in your best friend’s ear. “It’s probably nothing interesting.” You paused, studying the foreign words. “If it turns out he’s been insulting me all this time, I’m gonna flip.”

            After Charms concluded, you returned to your dormitory and retrieved your new purchases from Tomes and Scrolls. Locating a particularly secluded section of the Ravenclaw common room, you sat down and began to flip through the books until you found a section with direct word translations. Painstakingly, you started with the first word and began to hunt for its meaning.

            “Tutti gli oceani del mondo – all the oceans of the world.” Your whispers to yourself cut through the silence as you studied the words. Why on Earth was Theo talking about oceans? Maybe the books were wrong. Nonetheless, you continued, trying to trust the process.

“Tutti gli oceani del mondo non potrebbero rivaleggiare con – all the oceans of the world could not rival.” What? You must’ve written something down wrong, you figured, because the words still didn’t make any sense together. Either that or you’d been right all along and Theo had just been talking nonsense for the heck of it. Maybe he thought it was funny. Out of curiosity, you searched for the last three words you’d written down.

La tua – together, they meant something like “your,” but didn’t help make the sentence any more coherent. What could oceans not rival you in? Doing magic? Eating popcorn? Rolling your eyes, you searched for the next word.

Bellezza – beauty. Huh.

“All the oceans of the world could not rival your beauty.” You stared at the sentence that had appeared on your parchment with wide eyes. It wasn’t an insult – far from it. It was actually one of the most lovely and poetic compliments you’d ever received, and you couldn’t help but let the sound of his voice echo in your head as he said them. Your lips parted in silent surprise.

            Your mind raced. Was this right? Were you even reading correctly? Was this some kind of joke or did he really mean…but how could he? He was one of the most handsome, popular guys in your year, there was no way he wouldn’t just ask you out if he really thought those things. Rejection wasn't exactly something he needed to worry about.

            Closing the book in front of you, you realized that there was only one person who could answer all your questions. As you stood, you took your piece of parchment in your hand and resolved to go find Pansy.

            Thankfully, locating Pansy didn’t require much searching. You found her sitting in the library, leaned back and filing her nails while Daphne studied across from her and Draco mumbled about something or other, his lip curled in distaste. She turned slowly at the sound of your approach, but the moment she saw your expression she sat up, interrupting Draco with haste.

            “Get, Malfoy.” She waved her hand in a shooing motion. Though Draco frowned, glancing at the two of you in confusion, he gathered up his books and stepped away from the table.

            “He didn’t have to leave.” You guiltily watched Draco sit down at another table by himself.

            “He did if we’re going to talk about what I think we’re going to talk about,” Pansy declared. “Can’t keep a secret to save his life.” She focused in on you, her expression intense. “Did you do your research?”

            “Did you know what he was saying all this time?”

            “I had my suspicions.” She paused as you pulled out a chair and sat down in Draco’s former spot. “What was this one, exactly?” Your cheeks turned pink as you handed her the parchment and her eyebrows shot up. Her curiosity piqued, Daphne sat down her quill and leaned over to look also.

            “Wow, Nott’s got more game than I thought,” Daphne said with a grin. She looked you up and down playfully. “You’re a lucky girl.”

            “But there’s no way he actually means that, right?” Both Pansy and Daphne met you with skeptical glances. “I mean, if he felt that way why wouldn’t he just ask me out?” Pansy laughed under her breath, shaking her head slightly before leaning towards you over the table.

            “Look.” Her focused expression held your attention. “What you have to understand is that Nott being popular is basically an accidental byproduct of him being really good at Quidditch and really hot. Objectively, of course. That’s not my arena.” She cleared her throat and you laughed softly. “He’s learned how to talk the talk when he wants to look cool – mostly thanks to Riddle’s terrible influence – but he’s actually kind of quiet. Reads a lot. He doesn’t really know how to put himself out there, and with the way that girls throw themselves at him, he’s never really had to.  That is, until...” She nodded in your direction.

            “Theo…Theo likes me?”

            “He hasn’t told me anything, but the way he looks at you?” She let out a breathy little chuckle, crossing her arms as she leaned back in her chair. “He’s down bad.” Your whole face turned warm.

            “Pans!” Daphne gave her friend a light smack on the arm. “And you call Draco a blabbermouth.”

            “What? If I don’t get this ball rolling, no one will. He was hitting on her in a language she doesn’t even understand!”

            “What should I do, though?” you interrupted. “I mean, I can’t just pretend that I still have no clue what he’s getting at.”

            "Then don't." Pansy looked you up and down frankly. "You've got all those language books now. Use your resources."

            You arrived to Charms the next Friday with a nervous flutter in your stomach, repeating unfamiliar words in your head. As you entered the classroom, you glanced around, nearly forgetting to wave to Professor Flitwick before you sat down. Theo hadn’t arrived yet, and neither had Daphne or Pansy. However, Padma was waiting for you, eyeing you excitedly. You’d filled her in on your discoveries after talking to Pansy, and she was thrilled (if not a little smug that she had, in fact, told you so).

            “Hello, gorgeous!” Your best friend greeted you, beaming as she pulled her knee up to her chest. “See, I’m doing my best Nott impression.” You shook your head lovingly.

            “Hi, Padma. I do believe you’d have to learn Italian to accomplish that effect.” You sat down, letting your bag fall to your side with a loud smack. “Merlin, Transfiguration was difficult today.”

            “Glad I dropped it!” she replied cheerfully. “Divination was cake.”

            “That’s because all you lot do in that class is stare into crystal balls and spout nonsense.”

            “That’s all Transfiguration is too!” Padma protested. “Except you actually have to remember the nonsense, and occasionally the nonsense comes back into play when you have to turn a porcupine into a pincushion.”

            “Well that’s – “ You were about to launch into your defense of Transfiguration when a deep voice interrupted you.

            “È una bellissima giornata ora che sei qui, dolcezza.” Theo Nott stepped into your field of vision, a textbook in hand, grinning down at you. Once again, you had no idea what he was saying, but you were prepared this time. Well, here goes nothing.

            “Puoi semplicemente flirtare con me in inglese, lo sai.” You smirked back at him, trying to give off an air of confidence even though you weren’t entirely sure that the words coming out of your mouth were correct. (You can flirt with me in English, you know)

            The book in his hands hit the floor with a resounding smack.

            He stared at you for what felt like an eternity. A wave of nerves began to overtake you – what if your translation was wrong? Had you accidentally said something embarrassing? Was Pansy completely wrong about the way that he felt about you? As you looked back at him, you saw that his cheeks were completely flushed. He swallowed hard, then hurried away to the back of the classroom.

            “Well, that could’ve gone better,” you whispered indirectly at Padma. You turned in hopes of having an emergency conference with Pansy and Daphne, but Professor Flitwick quickly interrupted you as he cleared his throat, signaling the start of class.

            “Good afternoon, everyone, today we’ll be continuing on with nonverbal spells theory, then spending the end of class on review.” He stepped forward and the stray book at the front of the room caught his eye. With a frown, he waved his wand and sent it flying toward its owner. You turned around reflexively and saw Theo staring in your direction as he placed his book back on his desk, still looking shaken. Hastily, you whipped back around. “Do try to keep your textbook at your own seat, Mr. Nott.” You heard a few students laugh as you withdrew your parchment and your quill from your bag.

            That day might’ve been the only day you’d ever been eager for a Charms class to end. With your thoughts an endless swirl in your mind and your stomach turning with anxiety, you could hardly concentrate on the lesson. You felt guilty, as though you were betraying your favorite professor, when you realized that you’d been utterly distracted for nearly fifteen minutes and completely lost track of the lecture. Resolving to take detailed notes to keep yourself attentive, you began to write determinedly. But even the words written by your own hand began to make little sense to you as worry consumed your focus.

            “Miss Y/L/N, can you remind us of the effect produced by the Reductor Curse?”

            You snapped back to reality at the sound of Professor Flitwick calling on you. “Um, pardon?” He frowned.

            “The Reductor Curse, Miss Y/L/N.”

            “Oh, Reducto.”

            “Right,” Professor Flitwick said slowly. “That is the incantation, but what is the effect?”

            “Oh, um, destroys solid objects.”

            “That’s correct.” He gave you one last troubled look before turning to the other side of the classroom. “And who can tell me, what is the color of the spell?” You raised your hand, hoping to assure him of your attentiveness, but he didn’t even look in your direction as he called on Lorenzo Berkshire instead.

            Finally, class concluded. You were ready to hurry out the door with the hopes of catching Theo – you needed to apologize for whatever you’d done. However, as you packed your things, you lifted your head to see Professor Flitwick standing before you.

            “Miss Y/L/N, could I speak to you for a moment?” Your stomach dropped.

            “Of course, Professor,” you replied quickly, following him to a quiet corner of the classroom as your friends left.

            “I couldn’t help but notice that you were a bit distracted in class today.” His voice was gentle and respectful, but that made you feel even guiltier to have let him down.

            “Yes, Professor. I’m so sorry, it won’t happen again.”

            “I know that it won’t, Miss Y/L/N, I know you.” He nodded solemnly. “I did not ask you to stay after class so that I could scold you. As your Head of House, I simply want to make sure that you are alright. I know that you faced some challenges in your earlier days at Hogwarts.”

            “I’m okay.” You let out a heavy breath.

            “Are you sure, Miss Y/L/N? No one trying to make your life difficult?” You shook your head.

            “No, nothing like that. Just…something didn’t go the way I planned, that’s all.”

            “Ah.” His eyes grew distant. “Yes, the best-laid plans of mice and men do often go awry, as the Muggles say. Oddly, I've found that some of my most errant plans have had the best outcomes." The warm smile on his face brought you a slight reassurance. "Do let me know if you need someone to speak with.”

            “Of course,” you affirmed with a polite smile. “Thank you, Professor.”

            “You’re very welcome. Now, best get going. I do believe that you have a friend waiting for you.” He gestured toward the back of the classroom and you turned to see Theo standing in the doorway. You froze, your heart dropping in your chest.

            “Um, right.” Smoothing your uniform skirt, you quickly attempted to regain your composure. “Great talking to you.”

            “And you as well. Have a lovely evening.”

            “You too!”

            Your heart thundered as you scooped up your school bag and walked towards the door – and Theo.

            “Um, hi.” You bit your lip worriedly as you looked up at him. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

            “Of course, bella.” He froze, seeming to catch himself in the habit. “I…did not realize that you were familiar with the Italian language.”

            You shook your head hesitantly. “Actually, that one sentence is really all I’ve got.” You saw him relax slightly. He stepped away from the doorway and you followed him out of the classroom.

            “Where’d you learn that?” His grey eyes flashed with intrigue as he looked down at you.

            “Oh, that? That was the power of Pansy Parkinson and an English-to-Italian dictionary.”

            Theo grimaced. “Parkinson! I’m going to…” He trailed off, letting out a sigh. “Meddler.”

            “I meant what I said earlier,” you began softly. “Or at least what I thought I said, anyway. You can flirt with me in English.” You glanced up at him hesitantly. “I don’t mind.”

            “English is not a very romantic language.” You blushed as he gave you a playful grin. “I apologize if I frightened you, bella.” His voice grew sincere. “It was not my best moment.”

            “I was going to say the same thing,” you admitted. “I’m sorry if I scared you, or if it was all too sudden, or – “ He interrupted you, shaking his head adamantly.

            “No, dolcezza.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “It was time. I should have…I should have told you long ago.”

            “Told me what?” Your eyes connected with his, stopping him in his tracks.

            “Well, if you know now, what I’ve been saying – surely you must have figured, the way I feel about you.” You froze, surprised at his candid admission.

“Well, to be honest, I still don’t understand most of it.” Theo let out a little laugh. “But the parts I figured out…Theo, that’s some of the sweetest stuff anyone has ever said to me.” You gave him a little smile and your stomach fluttered when you realized that his cheeks were turning pink. It was adorable. “Why wouldn’t you want me to know?”

“It’s so embarrassing.” He chuckled bashfully, running a hand through his hair as he looked at the ground.

            “Hey, my attempts at mastering the Italian language were pretty embarrassing.”

            “You did well, bella.” His voice was so strained that you nearly laughed out loud. You raised your eyebrows skeptically. “Okay, so that is not how you say the words. At all.” You burst into laughter and he did the same, in spite of himself. He had a beautiful laugh, deep and clear and joyful, and when it was gone you longed for more.

            “It’s okay,” you said with a giggle. “You can tell me it was bad.”

            “It was…well, it was very cute.” He looked down at you with hesitant eyes and you blushed, grinning softly. “Even though you are not so good yet.”

            “Well, maybe I’ll learn better if you tell me more about what you’ve been saying all this time.” You smiled back, nervousness fluttering in your chest.

            He let out a sigh, leaning his head back in resignation before looking back at you. “I suppose so.” He ran a hand through his hair again and you observed with amusement how his curls immediately flopped back in his face. “Well…you see, Mattheo and Blaise, they have a very unfortunate sense of humor. Last year, they decided it would be really funny to…to dare me to ask you out.”

            You shifted uncomfortably on your feet. “So – this was a dare?”

            Theo’s eyes widened. “No! I mean, yes,” he corrected, “But they dared me because…well, they could see how I felt about you. That you made me nervous. They thought it was really funny.” Your stomach flipped as your eyes met his. “I thought for a few days that I would just do it, but then I saw you, and – “ He shook his head. “So I asked you out in Italian.”

            “So that’s what you said the first time?” He nodded sheepishly. “Theo, that’s really sweet.” His eyes brightened and you realized just how close he was to you as your words got caught in your throat. “Theo?”

            “Hmm?”

            “You could always…ask me again.” You looked at him hopefully and his face split into an adorable grin as he took your hands in his. “I’m sure it would help with the language acquisition skills, after all,” you teased. He chuckled.

            “Merlin knows you need it.” Your mouth fell open in mock surprise and you shook your head playfully.

            “So rude.”

            His eyes softened as he watched you, and your heart thundered inside your chest as he ran his thumb over your knuckles, making your skin tingle as his grey gaze held you captive.

            “Vorresti venire a cena con me?” The smooth sound of his voice washed over you as you stood on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. (Will you go out to dinner with me?)

As a Hufflepuff, you’d tended to steer clear of Theo and his Slytherin friends before that day, but learning that you shared a second language had changed all of that. You finally had someone you could turn to when you missed your family’s Mediterranean cooking or the sounds of the Tuscany countryside in the summer. As you spent more time around Theo, his friends started to warm up to you, and you soon reached a point where you couldn’t imagine your life without them. Though you got on fine with the other Hufflepuffs, the Slytherins were your real friends.

Even as you grew closer to the others, the bond between you and Theo remained special. It began to transcend your shared heritage and move into other areas of your life as well. When he made the Slytherin Quidditch team, you started attending every match. The two of you sat next to each other during classes and studied together in the evenings. He started spending holidays with your family and took you on a multi-day tour of the art museums in London for your birthday. Exactly no one was surprised when he finally pulled you close and kissed you in the middle of the Slytherin common room at the end of your fifth year. Anyone else interested in Theo had long since learned that he only had eyes for you…and anyone interested in you had learned to keep quiet in order to avoid attracting his ire.

You and Theo discovered as friends, and now especially that you were dating, how useful it could be to share a second language. Even when you were around your other closest friends, there were some things that each of you only wanted to say to the other. And at a school as rife with nosy people as Hogwarts, it was one of the few surefire ways to keep your personal business personal.

As Professor Slughorn dismissed the class, you stood and took Theo’s hand, pulling your bag onto your shoulder as the two of you approached your friends.

“Ugh, what a disaster.” Draco scowled in dismay, looking very much indeed like he was sucking on a lemon. “How did Weasley make it into this class anyway? Snape would have never stood for this.”

“I think he deserves to have room to grow,” you interjected. “Look at Potter. He used to be miserable at Potions and now he’s doing great!”

“Hufflepuffs, honestly.” Draco shook his head as he frowned at you and you laughed, knowing he was joking. As your friends left the classroom, Theo drew you closer to him. His eyes softened as he glanced down at you, kissing the top of your head softly before following them. The two of you walked hand-in-hand in the direction of the Slytherin common room.

“Draco ha ferito i tuoi sentimenti?” Theo lowered his voice as he spoke, glancing at Draco’s back as he walked next to Blaise and Pansy. You shook your head, giggling softly at your boyfriend’s protective nature. (Did Draco hurt your feelings?)

“No, stava solo scherzando,” you assured him, giving his hand a soft squeeze. He looked somewhat mollified, but still glowered at the blond boy’s back. (No, he was just teasing.)

“Non mi piace quando ti parla in quel modo.” Theo shook his head. “Adoro che tu sia un Hufflepuff, sei così gentile e – “ (I don’t like when he talks to you like that. I love that you are a Hufflepuff, you are so kind and – )

“Would you two stop that?” You glanced away from Theo to see Pansy pulling a face at the two of you. “No one knows what you’re saying!”

“That’s the point.” Theo frowned at her. You laughed at his cranky demeanor, giving him a playful little shove.

“He just doesn’t want you all to know his biggest secret,” you teased. “Deep down, he’s actually a huge sweetie who gives me compliments all the t—” Theo cut off your words, clapping a large hand over your mouth.

“That’s enough,” he sighed, grinning down at you as you crossed your arms. You squirmed in his grip and he wrapped his other arm around you, holding you to him as you pushed on his chest. His mischievous laugh made your heart flutter as the two of you tousled in the hall. “You’re adorable.” Blaise raised his eyebrows at the sight in front of him.

“You’re so whipped, mate.”

Theo furrowed his brows at his friend in displeasure, but you just grinned as you watched him. “Don’t worry about it, love,” you said to him gently before turning to Blaise. “We’ll get him back next time he brings a girl around.” You gave him a wink and giggled at his disapproving expression.

“Excuse you, Blaise Zabini is a free agent.” He raised his eyebrows haughtily and you rolled your eyes as he referred to himself in the third person. “You’ll never catch me limiting myself to one woman.” This time, it was Theo’s turn to scoff.

“Right, mate. I’ll go tell that to Alyssa Park then.” You grinned at your boyfriend as Blaise sputtered, his eyes wide. Alyssa Park was a gorgeous Slytherin in the year above you who Blaise had finally worked up the courage to talk to after months of poorly-disguised pining in the Great Hall.

“I-I don’t fancy Park.” You shook your head and took Theo’s hand as he began to walk faster to keep up with the rest of the group.

Once you and your friends reached the Slytherin common room, you all settled in front of a fireplace in the corner, spreading yourselves over the emerald-colored vintage couches and the floor. Theo laid with his back against the armrest of a chaise while you sat in between his legs, your back against his chest and his arms around you. The rhythm of his breathing and the echo of his deep voice in his chest helped you relax as you listened to him tell a story to your friends.

“And that’s how Enzo nearly got mowed down by a Vespa in Rome.” His throaty chuckle and the hints of his southern European accent were music to your ears, making you feel safe and at home as he stroked your hair gently.

“Those things are everywhere!” Enzo’s cry of protest made you giggle. You glanced to your left, where he sat on the floor with his legs crossed, throwing up his hands in dismay. “How was I supposed to know to look out?”

“I don’t know,” Theo drawled. “I figured that after the fifth time I told you to keep an eye out for the Muggles on the fast scooters, you would get it, but perhaps I was mistaken.” Enzo sighed in resignation and the group laughed as he surrendered good-naturedly.

“Berk, you ought to come with a warning sign,” Draco remarked from an adjacent armchair. “I remember one time…”

You lost track of Draco’s story as you laid contentedly back into your boyfriend’s touch. He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek and you beamed, a hint of a blush gracing your cheeks. “Ti amo, Teddy,” you whispered, leaning your head back to look up at him. (I love you, Teddy)

There was a time when you would’ve never been able to picture Theo like this. Even when the two of you had first become friends, he’d always been a bit stoic and reserved. His unexpressive nature had initially made you wonder whether he actually enjoyed spending time with you, and you’d tried to keep your expectations for your friendship low. But before Christmas holidays during your fourth year, he’d approached you after Transfiguration with a little gift box in his hand. Inside was a silver necklace chain that held the most brilliant, sparkling gem you’d ever seen.

“It’s beautiful, Theo! Thank you.” Your mouth hung open as you stared at the jewelry, struggling for words.

“I hope you like it. I know you said that was your favorite color.” He nodded at the gem in your hand and your heart swelled. You couldn’t believe he’d remembered.

“That’s so sweet,” you gushed. “I love it.”

“I’m glad.” Just for a moment, his ordinarily somber face softened, and you caught the hint of a grin tugging on his lips. “Oh, um, I also have this.” He turned and fished something out of his bag. It was a weathered book that he deposited into your hands. As you read the words, you saw that it was a collection of Italian children’s tales, including some of the ones that your father had told you before bed when you were younger. “I know it’s a bit silly, I just –”

“It’s perfect.” Before you could think better of it, you threw your arms around him. You panicked as you felt him freeze for a moment, but then, slowly, he relaxed. He wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug, resting his chin on the top of your head.

The day before everyone left for holidays, Pansy had invited you to sit with the Slytherins at lunch. When you’d sat down across from her at the table, she’d immediately complimented your new necklace.

“Thank you!” You beamed. “Theo gave it to me for Christmas.” The dark-haired girl’s mouth fell open as she glanced around, looking in vain for Theo, who had not yet arrived. “What?”

“He must really like you.” She laughed good-naturedly. “I’ve known that boy since birth and he still hasn’t got a clue what to get me for Christmas.”

As your fingers played with the necklace that still hung around your neck, you sighed contentedly. Resting your head against Theo's shoulder, you closed your eyes.

“Anch'io ti amo, tesoro.” Theo’s soft breath tickled your ear as he held you close to him. “Sei il mio tutto, sono così felice di averti.” (I love you too, treasure. You are my everything, I am so blessed to have you.)

“No one knows what you’re saying!”

You and Theo both jumped and you jerked out of your relaxed state in his arms, turning back towards your friends to look for the source of the noise. Faced with Mattheo’s smug expression, his hands still wrapped around his mouth to amplify his yell, you pressed your lips together in displeasure.

“It’s called a private conversation, mate,” Theo retorted dryly.

“Yeah, I don’t know about you, Riddle, but I don’t really want to know.” Blaise’s face contorted in distaste and you laughed.

Behind you, Blaise guided the door closed, returning it to its resting place with a soft thud and a click of the lock. As he worked, you glanced around, intrigued by the silence that had fallen over the school. Each of your footsteps echoed softly against the stone without the chatter of fellow students or the swishing of robes in the distance to conceal the sound. In the darkness, the torches mounted to the walls flickered, casting inconsistent light across your boyfriend’s face as he returned to your side.

"I've never seen it like this before," you murmured, your wide eyes taking in the sight of the castle in its current state of vacancy.

"You've never been out of bed past curfew before?" His voice was low and amused, the ghostly touch of his breath sending little tingles up your neck. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling your back against his firm chest.

You shook your head. "Never." A breath of a laugh slipped past your lips as you turned your head to look back at him. "I used to be very well-behaved, I'll have you know."

"What a shame." His lips twitched with amusement, a shadow of mischief falling over his gaze. "I've ruined you."

"And spoiled me," you added with a playful grin, thinking of the dozen packages that were waiting for you up in your dormitory, brought by the delivery owls of the various shops you and Blaise had visited in London that day.

A low whisper tickled your ear. "What am I going to do with you?"

The timbre of his voice made something burn low in your stomach. Your breath caught in your throat as his teeth nipped at the sensitive skin of your earlobe before his lips grazed your neck.

"Blaise —"

"Shh." A little smirk spread across his lips as he interrupted your whine, his whisper teasing in your ear. "Don't want to get us caught, now, do you?"

With that he slipped past you, pausing to allow you to slip your hand in his before he continued into the castle and towards a vast corridor in the distance. You let out a little huff of protest as your free hand wrapped around his bicep, the desire radiating through your body suddenly put on pause as you were rushed into the shadows. Glancing up at him, your nose crinkled.

"Unfair."

A low laugh rumbled in his throat as he illuminated his wand. "Poor baby."

"You're mean." You shot a pout in his direction, your brows furrowing.

Meeting your gaze with a knowing one of his own, he raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That's not what you said this afternoon."

Recalling the way you'd cuddled up to him on the London Eye, telling him about how perfect your day together had been, you sighed dramatically. "Fine. You're kinda the best boyfriend ever."

He grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "That's my girl."

You'd been dating Blaise for the past three months, and in that time, he'd done nothing but prove that he was your dream man. When he took you out on dates he loved to spoil you, whether it was with his money, his attention, or both. That day, the two of you had snuck aboard the Knight Bus in Hogsmeade and ridden it to London, where you'd visited a gorgeous French restaurant, at least fifteen shops, and wandered around the city in between. It really was a perfect date, not just because of the luxury but because you'd gotten to hear Blaise's stories of visiting the city with his mum when he was a kid. You'd felt so close to him, your heart swelling with warmth when he spoke.

You opened your mouth, but quickly closed it again when you saw that the two of you were coming to a row of portraits in the corridor. Most of them snored softly in the darkness, but a few sets of curious eyes trailed after you as you and Blaise crossed the hall. One wistful, airy voice murmured about young love in the distance. Another, measurably crankier one snapped at kids these days. Despite yourself, you giggled, your eyes flicking up toward Blaise, who shook his head with a bemused grin.

“Put that light out!”

You inhaled sharply, nearly jumping out of your skin and leaping back into Blaise’s chest as your gaze snapped in every direction, searching for the source of the noise. When you finally spotted a cantankerous portrait in a sleeping cap glaring at your boyfriend’s wand light, you exhaled in relief, though your heart was still racing. 

Blaise’s strong arms wrapped around your shoulders. “Don’t worry, I gotcha.” Holding you to his chest, he squeezed your shoulder gently as you attempted to regain your normal breathing pattern.

“Are you deaf? Put that light out!”

Rolling his eyes, Blaise lowered his wand, murmuring nox under his breath. “C’mon, let’s go this way.” He pointed towards a turn in the corridor and the two of you hurried on, leaving the cranky portrait behind.

You found yourself on a walkway above the Grand Stairs, looking down on the ordinarily crowded passageway. Here, the portraits slept — if any of them were still awake, you wouldn't know it, with Blaise's wand light now extinguished. The only light to guide your footsteps now belonged to the castle's torches, flickering flames and shadows stretching up the vast walls towards the ceiling high above you. Again, the fragile silence returned. The soft breathing of the sleeping portraits and your footfalls against the stone served as the only noises within the expansive stairwell.

"Alright?" Raising an eyebrow, he glanced down at you. There was a degree of amusement in his gaze but an element of care too, a gentleness behind his eyes that soothed the last hints of tension in your muscles.

"Yeah." You nodded, your voice a whisper as you rested your head against his shoulder for a moment. He smoothed your hair before giving your hand a gentle tug, beckoning you forward.

The two of you crept across the walkway, cautious of creaks that would wake the portraits, before beginning your trek up the moving staircases. You were getting closer to Ravenclaw Tower now, where Blaise would drop you off. A satisfied little grin crept across your lips at the thought that the two of you had successfully snuck out without getting caught. Even at the start of this school year, you would've never pictured yourself doing such a thing. But now you had, and it had been fun. By yourself, you would've been nervous, but with Blaise by your side, you felt invincible.

You both leapt from the landing to a connecting staircase as it began to shift, your hands intertwined. Giggling softly at the rush of adrenaline you felt in your stomach, you climbed the stairs. With a glance, you calculated the route you would need to take to end up in Ravenclaw tower. You turned carefully. Crossing a landing and continuing up the stairs, you wound up several flights.

But as the stairwell on which you stood began to slow its movement, connecting to a landing that would lead you to the Defense tower, you froze. Next to you, you could feel Blaise do the same. In the darkness, staring back at you, sat laser-focused yellow eyes.

Mrs. Norris.

"Students out of bed!" The strained, haggard shout came a mere moment later. It was Filch. You'd know the voice anywhere. "Students out of bed!"

"Run." Blaise's voice was filled with urgency. Rushing onto the landing, the two of you hurried past Mrs. Norris and into the Defense corridor. "Come on, this way!"

Your hands remained clasped as you staggered forward with thundering footsteps, no longer caring about disturbing the portraits that lined the corridors as you raced into the twisting guts of the castle. Behind you, you could hear the cries of Mrs. Norris and the clanging tremor of Filch's lantern as he stumbled after you. He was getting closer. Urgency seized you as you ducked into low-ceilinged halls and let Blaise lead you through passageways you'd never seen, feeling as though you were receiving a terrifyingly high-stakes tour of the castle.

"Students out of bed!" an ancient portrait of Mortimer the Malaised cried, and you resisted the urge to shout something very rude indeed back in the portrait's direction.

"Here!" Blaise hissed before guiding you hastily down a hall that you'd never even noticed before. Inside stood a puzzlingly large suit of armor on one side and a nondescript door on the other. Yanking the door open, he allowed you to scramble inside before stepping in himself and closing it silently behind him.

The two of you stood rigidly still in the closet, your eyes squeezed shut and his arms wrapped around you, clutching you to his chest as the clanging and uneven footsteps grew closer. You let out a breath of relief when Mortimer the Malaised insisted that he didn't know which way the two of you had gone, grateful you'd held your tongue earlier. Still, though, every muscle in your body seemed to tense as Filch approached the corridor that had offered you and Blaise shelter. For a single, painstaking moment, the caretaker grumbled at the entrance, his voice mere meters away. You didn't dare to even breathe for fear of giving up your hiding place.

But then, mercifully, he huffed, grunting something that sounded like dismissal. The sounds of his uneven gait and rusting lantern slipped away into the distance, as did Mrs. Norris's mews of protest.

When the air was finally silent, you dared to release your shaky breath, opening your eyes to see Blaise in front of you. You let out a whisper of an incredulous laugh, collapsing against his firm chest as you tried to process what you'd just experienced. He rubbed your back with his palm, easing the immense tension out of your muscles.

"You still okay?"

You released your arms from around his ribcage so you could look up at him. "Yeah." Giving a wry smile, you shook your head. "Merlin, I've certainly never done anything like that before."

"You're a natural." A playful grin stretched across his face. "We should sneak out more often."

"Well you're the one that knows every hidden passageway at Hogwarts, apparently," you rebutted lightly, though you still didn't dare raise your voice above a murmur. "I never realized there was a broom cupboard here."

He laughed softly. "I've known about this one since Third Year."

You raised an eyebrow, taking in a falsely scandalized gasp. "Blaise Zabini. Was this all just a ploy to get me into a broom cupboard with you?"

"Oh, sweet girl." There was a teasing glimmer in his eye as he caressed your cheek with his thumb. "You should've known better. After all, I'm dead-set on ruining you."

The thought of what that might entail sent a delicious tingle up your spine. Salazar, if he wanted to ruin you, it was more than welcome. He could take apart everything you'd been before him, everything you thought you knew, and scatter it to the ends of the earth for all you cared. The well-behaved little Ravenclaw princess that you once were, with her Mary Janes and her Prefect boyfriend, was dead now. You were free from all of that.

Biting your lip, you found his gaze with wide, wanting eyes. "Then do it, Zabini."

Your back hit the wall of the broom cupboard with a thud that stole your breath, his hand coming up to protect the back of your head as his lips met yours in a searing kiss. They worked against yours with an urgency that you couldn't help but mirror, a desperation to be closer, closer, closer, emphasized when his hands lowered to grip your hips fervently. The silver of his signet ring kissed the bare flesh of your back as your sweater slipped up to reveal a hint of your skin, the sensation of his fingers grasping at you making you whimper softly into his mouth.

He slipped his tongue between your lips, the desperate invasion of your space making you want him all the more. Your fingers grasped the collar of his shirt and then your arms twined around his neck, trying to meld him to you at every point possible. A low growl escaped from his throat, making your knees weak. But the shakiness of your stance ceased to matter as he lifted your thigh and wrapped your leg around him, slotting himself up against you. Lowering his lips to your neck, he began to explore every inch of your sensitive skin.

The sounds that were spilling from your lips were utterly uncontrolled, little whimpers and moans that grew more urgent with every one of your boyfriend's ministrations. Your fingers grasped desperately at the fabric of his shirt, gasping as he took your flesh in his teeth and sucked.

"Blaise —!"

"Oi!"

The delicious mix of pleasure and pain was still clouding your head as you processed the distant outcry. Your gaze flashed toward the door of the broom cupboard and suddenly, with a murmured incantation and a crash it was open.

"Are you aware that you are in violation of Hogwarts curfew?"

Before you could glance through the doorway or open your mouth to speak, before you could even so much as think, a horrible, spine-chilling realization overcame you like a bucket of ice water poured over your head.

You knew that voice.

Before Blaise, you’d spent years dating Ernie MacMillan. He was a bloke who looked great on paper, all high marks, leadership, and volunteerism. Though you’d thought you were doing the right thing, taking his friends as your friends and his enemies – especially Blaise himself – as your enemies, Ernie had been double-crossing you the entire time. Your previous relationship had fallen apart in catastrophic fashion when you’d found him snogging Hannah Abbot, his Prefect partner.

And of course, who'd found you on a night like this? It had to be your cheating ex-boyfriend and Hannah, his new girlfriend.

They both knew that you were with Blaise now. Turning around from a two-year relationship to date your ex-boyfriend's worst enemy would've been a pretty difficult thing to keep quiet. But you'd done your best to avoid them both since the breakup, and you'd certainly never wanted either of them to see you like this. You knew that your lips were puffy and swollen, your hair messy, your clothes wrinkled, a hickey was rapidly forming on your neck…you looked utterly wrecked.

You couldn't manage to move or speak. What were you supposed to do? You couldn't step out the door, couldn't let him see you, but you also couldn't stay where you were. The best option seemed to be melting into the wall of the broom cupboard and disappearing altogether.

"Hey."

Blaise's gentle voice pulled you from your spiraling thoughts as he pulled you into his arms. Almost subconsciously, you took shelter in them, allowing him to draw you close. His fingers found your hair, gently smoothing it and teasing the knots out before he straightened your skirt.

"C'mon."

Hesitantly, you stepped forward, blinking rapidly as your eyes struggled to adjust to the white light streaming from the Prefects' wands. Your stomach swirled with nerves, but you felt reassured by the way that Blaise's arms sheltered you from their prying gazes.

"Ten points from —"

As your vision slowly cleared, you saw the way that Blaise silenced your ex-boyfriend with a single glare.

"Remember our chat, MacMillan."

Ernie's gaze turned to stone, his lips shrinking into a thin line. His eyes flicked from Blaise to you, his jaw shifting in agitation. You saw his glance move across your body, shifting from your puffy lips to the hickey on your neck to his enemy's arms around you.

Blaise turned, nodding in Hannah's direction. "Abbot."

She looked more frightened than anything, her eyebrows creasing as she glanced worriedly at Ernie. Her eyes narrowed when she saw that Ernie's gaze was still on you.

Ernie glared — at you, at Blaise, you weren't certain. "Fine. Go, then."

"C'mon." Hardly believing your ears, you glanced up at Blaise in confusion. He simply nodded toward the open corridor behind the Prefects and led you forward, away from the two most harrowing symbols of your past and into the cool night air beyond.

Blaise might not have been the perfect match for you on paper. His family was notorious in the wizarding world, and his house equally so. The two of you had a long history of shouting matches in the corridors and fiery glares exchanged in class, with you always taking Ernie’s side in their feud while the two of you were dating. But when your relationship with Ernie fell apart, Blaise was there, and though you were scared to believe it at first, he genuinely cared about you. You could see the fury etched across his face when you told him about the way that Ernie treated you, the times that your ex had made you feel small to bolster his own ego. Blaise made you feel safe, he made you laugh, he loved hearing what you had to say and how you felt — and you’d gradually realized that he’d guided you back to a version of yourself that you’d once thought was lost forever. You’d quit caring about what looked right on paper the day that he held you in his arms for the first time.

"What was that?" you whispered as you stepped back out into the Defense corridor, thinking of his words to your ex. Remember our chat? As far as you knew, Ernie and Blaise hadn't said much to each other since you'd broken up with the former. Ernie seemed to be too embarrassed to continue the feud since he'd blown up your relationship and Blaise had won you over. Whatever Blaise had been alluding to, though, had been powerful enough to stop Ernie from enforcing the rules, which was seemingly his greatest passion in life.

Blaise's eyes softened as he glanced down at you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "I'll tell you as soon as we get you back to your common room, alright? Just let me get you home first."

The walk back to Ravenclaw tower was easy, as though he'd spoken some sort of protection over you with his words to Ernie. You answered the riddle and held the door open so that he could slip in after you, finally letting out a steep exhale as you stepped back into the familiar room.

Each wall around you glittered with a thousand tiny bronze lights, the wallpaper designed to imitate stars in the night sky. The lights, in turn, illuminated the bronzy detailing woven into the celestially-patterned carpet and tapestries. Though most of the lights had been put out after curfew, a few remained, and the fires in each of the dozen fireplaces around the room aided in illuminating the space.

Thankfully, your common room was empty. Everyone else was already in bed at this hour, hoping to sleep in after a long week of classes or wake early to study. Only Padma, you knew, would still be up, and she was likely in your dormitory, working on her dream journal or her tea leaf readings.

You collapsed onto a high-backed couch, upholstered with soft blue velvet. Blaise followed suit and you immediately cuddled up to him, draping your legs over his thighs and snuggling into his chest. You grinned as he kissed the top of your head and a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the nearby fire.

"Hey, B?"

"Hmm?" He leaned back against the sofa, relaxing as he drew soft patterns on the skin of your upper arm with his fingertips.

"Why did we get away with that?"

He smiled wryly down at you, as if he'd known that you wouldn't let this go. Pausing for a moment, he let out a deep breath before he opened his mouth.

"Remember when you and MacMillan first broke up, and he wouldn't quit staring at you in Transfig?"

You nearly shuddered — you remembered those days all too well. You'd been terrified that if Ernie came up to talk to you, your resolve would break and you'd take him back, or you'd just burst into tears. It felt like you'd sliced yourself open horribly, and instead of letting the wound heal, someone was tearing it open over and over again. Despite the fact that he was with Hannah, he'd seemed utterly incapable of leaving you be, at least for the first week or so after the end of your relationship. Then, it all seemed to pass, strangely enough.

"I told you I just wanted him to leave me alone."

Blaise nodded. "And I wanted to make that happen for you."

Your eyes widened. Lifting your head, your gaze met your boyfriend's as you let out an incredulous laugh. "What did you do?"

He chuckled when he saw the look on your face. "Nothing Azkaban-worthy." Shrugging, he continued, "I just sent Pans on a photo-taking mission the next time he and Abbot were out on patrols. Then I told him that if he didn't want Sprout to see what he was getting up to with his Prefect partner when he was supposed to be working, he should probably leave you alone."

Jaw falling open, you stared at him. You were shocked — but though you knew it was wrong, you couldn't say you were angry. "You're blackmailing him?"

"I prefer to call it a mutually beneficial arrangement." Again, Blaise shrugged, grinning wryly. "He gets to remain a school Prefect despite his indiscretions, and I get to sleep soundly at night knowing my girl isn't being irritated by stray swots in the corridors." He turned his gaze back to you, the levity in his face tempering. "Are you upset?"

"No." You shook your head. "I — " Meeting his eyes, you saw the tenderness within them. "You protected me."

The events had taken place long before you and Blaise had even started dating — he'd given you time to stabilize and put yourself back together before all of that. But even when the two of you were newly friends, he'd gone out of his way to keep you safe from pain.

"I will always protect you." He sealed the promise with a kiss to your lips, lingering and passionate. The taste of fresh spearmint that you'd come to associate with him lingered on your tongue even after you'd broken apart.

You laid with your head against his chest for a while, listening to the sound of his heartbeat and the crackling fire in front of you. Before you'd grown close to Blaise, you'd never thought you could feel this way — so full of passion and desire for another person, so cared for, so loved. Every day, you felt like you were learning something brand new about what it meant to fall for him.

"When I first realized it was Ernie out there, I was afraid," you confessed, breaking the silence. He glanced down at you with gentle eyes, listening as you spoke. "Afraid that I would still feel the hurt when I saw him. But I felt…nothing." Your gaze shifted upwards, meeting Blaise's. "I'm just so grateful that it's over."

"Yeah, me too," he drawled, dragging his fingers lightly over your thigh. You laughed at that, feeling him lightly chuckle as well before he glanced back at you seriously. "You deserved so much more, angel."

"I have it, now."

You could see the subtle spark of pride in his gaze as he smiled. "Yeah?"

"I never knew I could feel this way." You read his expression nervously, wondering if you were getting too sappy. But your boyfriend, who was constantly surrounded by finery, who wore rings that could pay off a mortgage, was looking at you like you were the most beautiful treasure he'd ever seen. "I wake up every day wanting you. When I'm with you, I just want to be closer. Every minute with you feels so good, I think I still have the biggest crush on you ever." You giggled softly, biting your lip as you felt your cheeks heat up. "I…didn't realize it could feel like that."

His hands wrapped around your hips, repositioning you until you were straddling him and making you squeal and laugh in surprise. As your arms twined around his neck, he pulled you in, capturing you in another head-spinning kiss. You melted under his touch, a blissful whine in your throat, and in that moment you knew you would never, ever be tired of kissing him. No matter how long his hands were on your skin, you would always want more.

"I love you."

He murmured the words against your lips for the first time, the declaration rushing through you like a flood. You rested your forehead against his, an irresistible grin spreading across your lips.

"I love you too."

You lost track of time after that, snogging and touching and clinging to each other until your long day finally caught up with the both of you and you were taken by exhaustion. As your eyes fluttered closed on the common room couch, still wrapped up in Blaise's arms, you recalled the last time you'd fallen asleep in a Hogwarts common room. It had been the night you'd caught your ex cheating on you, when Blaise had found you sobbing over him in an empty classroom and taken care of you. As your tears had stopped falling and your eyes began to close, he'd promised you that the next day would be better. Merlin, it had been. There had been so many more better days ahead of you, and every single one had included him.

Thinking back on it, you were certain you'd fallen in love with Blaise a little bit on that night, and a little bit more every day since.

Ernie had been his usual cheerful, friendly self earlier in the day, but during Potions he seemed distracted, nodding disjointedly when you spoke to him and scribbling in the margins of his parchment instead of actually taking notes. You didn’t think anything of it, figuring he was just tired. He was a school Prefect in the running for Head Boy next year, and involved with just about every club from Dueling to Choir to Charms. Certainly, it wasn’t the first time he’d grown worn out by the end of the day.

Once Potions ended, though, he’d acted stranger still. Instead of walking you back to Ravenclaw tower like he usually did, he’d disappeared the moment you turned your back to pack your school bag. After a moment of searching for him in the herd of students wandering out of the classroom, you’d shrugged it off. Perhaps he’d suddenly remembered some responsibility he needed to complete or a club meeting for which he was running late.

However, as the main corridor in the dungeons cleared, with students hurrying back to their common rooms, you heard something strange – a voice echoing through the hall, hushed but amplified by the hollow, stone-carved space.

“Han!” There was a chuckle, low and distinctly male, emanating from behind one of the pillars at the end of the corridor. “Han, my love, we really shouldn’t.” It was bright and amused despite its protests. “Come, now, what if someone sees?”

The voice was so familiar, your feet froze to the spot immediately. It was Ernie’s voice.

Almost involuntarily, you turned in the direction of the thick stone pillar, whispering a spell to suppress the noise of your heels clicking against the floor of the corridor. In the silence you could hear the continued whispers echoing through the hall.

“Everyone’s already left.” You’d heard Hannah Abbot’s voice many times before, but never like this – she sounded like a vixen caricature and you wanted to hex her immediately. “It’s alright, Ern, no one will see.”

“Han, you know –” 

The boy you’d known that morning as your loving, sweethearted, devoted boyfriend suddenly froze as you stood in front of him, his Prefect partner’s arms twined around his shoulders like a second skin.

“Am I interrupting something?”

You felt a strange spark of pride at the way your voice failed to waver even as your heart sunk into your boots and your stomach roiled at the sight before you. In your wildest nightmares, you couldn’t have created this – your boyfriend who you’d spent over two years devoted to, with his hands all over a girl who you’d thought of as a friend.

Ernie saw you first, his eyes widening in horror as he took in the way your arms crossed in front of your chest and your jaw tensed, clearly understanding exactly what you were interrupting. Hannah, whose back was towards you, whipped around the moment she heard your voice, her jaw dropping when she saw you. Finally, her stance wavered, her arms slowly retreating from your boyfriend’s shoulders and her feet stepping back.

“Baby, I –” 

You cut off Ernie’s wavery protest with a watery, tense laugh. “Oh, please, carry on,” you snapped. “Don’t let me interfere.” The tears were already gathering in your waterline, but you refused to let them escape, firmly blinking them away. 

“Please, baby, you don’t understand.” He finally stepped away from Hannah, causing her to stumble to the side as he came towards you. She looked astounded at his sudden disregard for her, and in another situation, you would have felt bad for her. “It was a mistake! It only happened a couple of times, I swear. It was so stupid, please, you have to believe me.”

He tried to reach for your hands to hold them in his, as he’d done a thousand times before. This time, though, you pulled away, a sudden wave of disgust crashing through you. Who was this bloke standing in front of you? In the two years of your relationship, you’d never seen anything close to this side of him. The Ernie you knew was intelligent, responsible, sweet, caring…nothing like the person you were witnessing now, begging you to just forget about the way you’d caught him with another girl.

Your eyebrows lifted, your lips pressing together as you continued to fight back tears. “Is this what you’ve been doing while you were ‘patrolling’ on your rounds? Taking advantage of the fact that I’m not there to see you with her?” Memories flashed in your mind of the way he used to complain that he missed you while he was patrolling the corridors at night. You wondered if he’d meant it at some point or if it was a lie from the beginning.

“I –” Ernie sputtered, but from the look in his eyes, you knew you’d hit the nail on the head. Nausea overtook you, sickness in your stomach and your throat as you wondered how long, exactly, this had been going on. He’d been a Prefect for almost the entire duration of your relationship – had he been fooling you this whole time?

The rest of the argument was a blur, fading into unreality as your mind struggled to process the fact that your whole world had just turned on its head. Finally, you turned on your heel, exhausted and convinced that there was no point in continuing this fight. 

“Baby, please.” Ernie’s eyes were full of tears, an expression of despair carved so deeply on his face that in any other situation you would’ve run to him, wrapping him tightly in your arms and holding him closely until everything was better. But nothing could make this better, he’d brought this on himself. “We can work this out, there must be something I can do –”

You shook your head firmly, tears once again pricking at the corners of your own eyes, your vision blurring. Even this morning, you couldn’t have imagined a scenario where you would’ve ever ended things with Ernie. The two of you had talked about getting married after Hogwarts, moving into a flat together, how many children you would have… Just the previous week, he’d told you that he wanted to buy you a promise ring. Your lungs seized at the thought that you’d excitedly described your ideal ring while he was snogging Hannah Abbot on the side.

“No.” Finally, your voice trembled as you brought your gaze up to meet his eyes. “There’s nothing you can do, not anymore. We’re done, if that wasn’t clear.” Then, you glanced back at Hannah, who was still standing behind the two of you, chewing on her glossy lip. “You can have him.” With that, you stormed away.

When Ernie and Hannah finally disappeared behind you, the tears began to fall. Sobs seized your throat as your feet carried you further and further into the dungeons, getting you lost in the dark corridors beneath the school. You couldn’t believe this was happening. Thoughts raced faster than Firebolts in your head, time and space falling to the wayside as you wondered with horror how many of these hallways your newly ex-boyfriend had snogged Hannah in while the two of you were dating. You’d molded your entire life around him. His friends were your friends, his enemies were your enemies. Meanwhile, you weren’t even his only girlfriend.

You stumbled through the dungeons with shaking shoulders and weak knees until you finally found the door to an empty classroom. Stumbling through, you claimed your refuge amongst the silhouettes of abandoned chairs, some stacked atop dust-ridden desks. Rays of sunset streamed through the window, displaying the writings of some former professor on the blackboard, untouched through years of disuse. You stared blankly at the words, eyes unseeing as you slid down the stone wall, sinking to the floor and pulling your knees to your chest.

Time slipped by as you sobbed on the dusty floor, your forehead resting on your knees, the wool of your tights pricking your skin. It felt impossible to wrap your mind around the sudden implosion of your relationship that had felt so perfect in the morning. Why weren’t there any signs? How had you not noticed? He’d lied to you so smoothly, so successfully – if you hadn’t caught him and Hannah together, how much longer would you have stayed with him without realizing? A million questions tormented you in the midst of your seemingly unending flow of tears. 

The sun had slipped behind the mountains and the sky turned from pink to navy by the time your breath steadied, but you still couldn’t fathom the thought of getting up and facing the world. Your hands were still shaking and you were certain your eyes were horrendously red and swollen. Just the thought of anyone seeing you in this state filled you with dread.

And then, as if your life were some cruel joke, the door to the empty classroom slowly began to swing open.

Your breath seized in your chest. “Occupied!” you called, but your voice was so weak and shaky you were certain that no one could hear you. Inhaling and exhaling, you tried to summon the strength for another protest.

It was too late. Inside the doorway stood a silhouette, some fellow student with a schoolbag in hand. He stepped into the empty classroom, flinging his bag down atop a desk without a chair resting on it.

“Please go away.”

The words spilled out of your mouth involuntarily, and the bloke jumped, searching for the source of the noise. Quickly, you swiped at your cheeks, trying to erase the remaining evidence of your tears as his eyes fell on you.

“What’re you doing in here?”

Every muscle in your body tensed at once. You hadn’t recognized the figure in the darkness, your vision blurred from crying, but you knew that voice.

“Zabini?”

Of course, as if your day couldn’t get any worse, it had to be Blaise Zabini who found you crying and covered in dust on the floor of an empty classroom.

Ernie hated Slytherins, and Zabini most of all. The feeling was most certainly mutual. Although it was typically Draco Malfoy who ran about the corridors sneering at students from other houses and throwing wayward jinxes at anyone who looked at him the wrong way, whenever you and Ernie were in sight, Zabini took on the role. He and Ernie were constantly exchanging insults and hexes. The other Slytherins would join in to fling ink in Ernie’s direction in class or make over-the-top gagging sounds whenever the two of you held hands. The obnoxious behavior had lessened once Ernie became a Prefect, as Zabini quickly learned how easy it was for him to take points from Slytherin, but his lip still curled at the sight of you. You were sure he’d get a great laugh out of seeing you like this. 

Abandoning his school bag, he stepped closer, and your heart jumped into your throat. But his lips didn’t quirk upward into his usual smirk. Instead, a little furrow appeared between his eyebrows as he frowned, looking you up and down.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine,” you snapped. “Just…had a bit of a stomachache. I was hoping for a little privacy.”

Brows raising, he eyed you suspiciously. “The Hospital Wing is that way, you know.” He gestured out the door of the empty classroom. 

“Well, it’s passed anyhow.” Standing, you dusted off your skirt, praying that your hands weren’t still shaking. “I’ll be going.”

“Right.” His skeptical voice flowed through the room as you turned away, stepping towards the door. “You sure you’re okay?”

Something about his insistence annoyed you, and you turned back around to face him. “What’s it to you?” you snapped. Immediately, you regretted opening your mouth, your shaky voice betraying you. “You hate me.”

Zabini let out a little scoff. “No, I don’t.” His eyes shifted for a moment as he paused. “MacMillan, maybe. But not you.”

Just the thought of Ernie made your face fall, and to your embarrassment, tears began to gather in your eyes again. Face hot with humiliation, you turned back towards the door, but your feet seemed to be glued to the spot.

“Hey.”

His voice was low and oddly calming, even as you struggled to hide your tears from his sight.

“What’s wrong?”

Finally, you turned back towards him. He was inches from you now, gazing down at you with a mix of confusion and sincerity that you’d never seen on his face before. It was such a far cry from the arrogant, sarcastic version of him that you’d always known, it made you wonder whether this was all a strange dream. First, the person you trusted most in the world betrayed you, and then someone you wouldn’t trust as far as you could throw him was standing in front of you with nothing but care in his eyes.

“I might hate him too.”

Something inside of you broke, as though admitting the truth out loud had eliminated your last hope that maybe none of it was real. Sobs wracked your body and tears flowed down your cheeks, but you were only left to shatter on your own for a moment. A pair of arms wrapped around you, and then Blaise Zabini, of all people, was holding you up as your knees trembled beneath you.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured softly, guiding you back towards the spot where you’d been sitting against the wall. For a moment, he released you, and you wondered if this was all some cruel joke leading up to him hexing you or throwing ink in your face. But then you saw that he was taking off his school robes, revealing the black button-up and trousers that he wore underneath. You opened your mouth to ask what he was doing, but before you could, he laid his robes down on the dusty floor.

“There you go.” He guided you down so you were sitting on his robes, settling himself down beside you.

You frowned, glancing over at him with watery eyes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

His eyes lowered for a moment before he met your gaze. “Because whatever he did to you, you didn’t deserve it.”

You cried for a long time after that, one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders as you laid your head against him. It felt strange and wrong to be in the arms of someone that wasn’t Ernie, especially considering the bloke currently holding you was his worst enemy. But Blaise was there, and he cared, and strangely enough his touch felt like it was the one thing that could soothe the sickening sensation of loneliness and abandonment that was breaking you down. Though you knew your smeared makeup was probably getting all over his shirt and he was sitting on the dusty floor while you were resting on his discarded robes, he didn’t seem to mind, rubbing your back steadily as you released all of the grief that had accumulated inside you. 

As your tears began to dry up and your trembling finally paused, his low voice finally slipped through the air. “What happened?” His thumb traced your shoulder gently. 

You swallowed hard, forcing your weak voice to speak. “He’s been snogging his Prefect partner for a while.”

Glancing up, you tried to read Blaise’s expression, still not fully trusting him not to laugh. But there was no trace of amusement on his face, only an anger that pooled into disgust. 

“He’s even more of an idiot than I thought he was, then.”

You gave a weak laugh, your fingers fiddling with the edge of your skirt. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious.” He gave your shoulder a light squeeze. “You gave a tosser like that a chance and he wasted it? He’s got to be the dimmest bloke alive.”

Instinctively, a protest rose in your chest. That wasn’t the version of Ernie you’d known for two years. The Ernie that you fell in love with was funny, adorable, kind, intelligent… But it was all a lie, you remembered. It must’ve been. Somehow, you’d missed it.

“He was a good boyfriend,” you managed. “While we were together.” It still felt so strange to say. Imagining your life without Ernie seemed impossible.

Blaise let out a mirthless chuckle. “He’s a cheater and a prat.” His voice lilted with amusement. “You’re allowed to admit it.”

You frowned. “I know you hate him, but I dated him for a reason.” An annoyed little huff escaped your lips. “I’m not a total idiot.”

“I never said you were.” His words were light but insistent. “I always figured he must’ve been doing something to keep you around.”

Satisfied with that, you let silence fall around you. Your thoughts, though, continued to swirl like a tornado in your mind. Were you a total idiot? During your last fight, Ernie had tried to deceive, cheat, and manipulate you, and yet if someone had asked you the day before, you would’ve insisted that such a thing was impossible. How had you managed to ignore every flaw in his character for years?

“How –” You bit your lip, pausing as you wondered how to ask the question that was on your mind.

“Hmm?” Blaise glanced down at you attentively.

“Why don’t you like Ernie?” you finally asked, your voice soft and wavering. “How did you see…whatever it is about him that makes the two of you not get on? How did I miss it?”

A little sigh escaped from Blaise’s lips as your question hung in the air.

“Quit thinking like that,” he finally responded. “This wasn’t your fault.”

He’d read you like a crystal ball – the thoughts of self-doubt and anger at your own naivete had been spiraling in your mind since the moment you’d discovered Ernie’s cheating. But your expression was insistent as you finally lifted your head from his shoulder and held his gaze. “I still want to know.”

Blaise glanced downward, swallowing heavily. For a moment, you wondered whether he would answer. Then, he lifted his eyes back towards you.

“I can’t stand MacMillan because I can’t stand hypocrites,” he finally said. He paused, seemingly considering his words before continuing. “Have you ever noticed how he looks down his nose at everyone when a party gets busted, or when someone gets caught sneaking out, but when he wants to go get food from the kitchens it’s fine? Or how he’s always talking about how you have to earn high marks, how he’s put in the work for his grades, but in the next breath he’s asking you for your notes because he was ‘too tired’ to take them himself?” With a scoff, he shook his head. “He’s a swot who’s not even good at being a swot. That’s why I don’t like him.”

You frowned, glancing down at your lap as you considered Blaise’s words. Ernie had always justified those things to you when you’d first started dating. His dormitory was right next to the kitchens, it wasn’t as if he were sneaking across the castle when he went for a late snack. He was involved in so many activities, he was more tired than the other students and deserved help more than they did. Soon after, he’d stopped having to come up with the excuses. You’d made them for him. 

Of course he was spending a great deal of time with Hannah, she was his fellow Prefect, and they had plenty of projects to work on for the betterment of the school. Of course he was taking longer on patrols than the other Prefects did, he was dedicated to searching every corner of the castle for students out of bed. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, even though tears were beginning to trickle down your cheeks once again.

His fingers that had previously been resting against his thigh lifted, finding purchase beneath your chin and lifting your head so that your eyes connected with his. “Don’t you dare cry over him.” Thumb lightly swiping across your damp cheeks, he cleared the evidence of your sadness away. “No more tears, okay? He’s not worth it.”

Nodding, you gave a loud sniff, trying your best to curb the crying that had been plaguing you for hours. With a heavy inhale, you worked to steady your breathing. As you continued to think on Blaise’s words, another thought struck you.

“He always told me you hated us because we weren’t in Slytherin.”

You weren’t sure why you said it – maybe as a way of trying to explain to Blaise why you’d been so quick to take Ernie’s side in their unending feud. But at your words, his dark eyes narrowed and his jaw tensed before he looked squarely into your eyes.

“I never hated you,” he said firmly. “Never.”

A tension rose in the room, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. You were suddenly very aware of the places where Blaise’s fingers were touching your skin, in the little gap between the bottom of your sweater and the top of your skirt. Once again you found yourself wondering whether you should be sitting so close to him, and your lips parted as you fumbled for something to say.

“You did get ink on my favorite shoes, though,” you finally managed. A wry laugh escaped from your lips as you tried to diffuse the tension.

He raised his eyebrows. “Then let me take you to Madame Malkin’s, I’ll buy you a hundred more.” When you gave another soft laugh, he eyed you insistently. “I’m serious. I’m sorry.”

Shrugging, you gave him a little smile. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“Come here.” He lowered his touch to your knee and brought his palm across your legs, glancing at you for permission. You felt a moment of hesitation, but the comfort that Blaise brought you quickly won out over whatever little hangups you were still facing at the thought that you were in the arms of Ernie’s worst enemy. Caving to his touch, you relaxed into him, letting him bring your legs to rest over his thighs and pulling you in close to his chest. Your arms twined lightly around his torso in return. “I would take you to London and let you spend all my gold, just as long as you don’t cry over that rancid prat again, you hear me?”

“You say that now,” you replied, a lilt of playfulness audible in your still-tired voice, “but I really like bags.”

Blaise threw back his head and laughed at that, in his eyes a mixture of amusement and relief that you were joking instead of crying. “Buy whatever you want, I promise.”

You giggled softly despite yourself. “‘S okay. I’m not really in a spendy mood.” Resting your head against his chest, you closed your eyes and let yourself relax for the first time in hours. Although your heart still ached, the tension in your muscles finally released.

Seeming to sense your tiredness, he let the conversation fall to the wayside as a heavy exhale slipped past your lips. “There you go, angel.” His voice was a low murmur, reverberating against your body and soothing you further. “Did y’ eat dinner yet?”

You shook your head. “I can’t go up there.” Your weary whisper was barely audible. “Everyone’ll ask why we’re not sitting together.” There was a pain in your chest as you wondered whether your ex-boyfriend would be sitting with Hannah instead.

"I’ll go get you some food.” He gave your knee a little squeeze. “You just rest.”

Your heart nearly melted at that, but the thought of leaving the empty classroom still filled you with dread. “The common room will be just as bad.”

“Then we won’t go to your common room. We’ll go to mine.”

The Slytherins stared at you in confusion when you stepped through the door of their common room, but if Blaise’s arm wrapped protectively around you didn’t put a stop to that, the glare he shot at them, daring any of them to object, certainly did. Once his housemates had made the wise decision to turn back around in their seats and mind their own business, he guided you toward a beautiful, high-backed couch in front of the fireplace. After pulling a few throw pillows and a blanket from the neighboring chairs, he let you settle in, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders.

“Still doing alright?” He checked in on you as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and you nodded gratefully. “I’ll be right back,” he assured you, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “If you need anything, just let the girls know.” As he gestured toward a nearby set of armchairs, you saw two girls settled in them, one with a dark, chin-length bob and one with medium-length blonde hair. You knew them to be Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass, and although you’d never considered them particularly friendly before, they now looked back at you with genuine smiles as Pansy waved. 

“Thanks.” You gave him a soft smile, glad to have a few more allies in unfamiliar territory. Never had you considered that you’d ever step foot in the Slytherin common room, and when Blaise left for the Great Hall, you took to studying your surroundings. You’d always known the room was located below the Black Lake, but truly seeing the bluish-green light seeping in through the windows as fish and mermaids swam by was a different experience entirely. The dark-coloured furniture and moody ambience, with torchlights flickering off the walls, made the place suitable to your current persuasion. 

You were in your sixth year at Hogwarts, and you’d never even considered friendship with any Slytherin, mostly because Ernie had always told you that they hated anyone who wasn’t in their own house. It would have been so easy for you to carry on this way until the end of school. But the Slytherins you’d encountered that day were nothing like Ernie had described. For the first time, you were able to consider that maybe your breakup with him was a good thing. The idea of your future without him still felt hazy and made you a bit ill, but you wondered what else you might find behind the curtain of the lies he’d told you. What else could you experience and enjoy now that you weren’t tied to him? 

Blaise’s return with two large plates of beans, potatoes, and ham pulled you from your thoughts a few minutes later, and you finally remembered how hungry you actually were. You hadn’t eaten since lunch, and the clock on the wall told you it was now nearly eight o’clock at night. 

“You’re amazing.” Gratefully, you took one of the plates into your hands as he settled down on the couch next to you to eat. 

It didn’t take long after you finished your meal and Vanished your dishes for your eyes to start fluttering closed. Your head relaxed against Blaise’s shoulder and you heard him let out a contented little sigh, reclining against the back of the couch so you could lay against his chest instead. 

“All good?” His voice seemed to wrap around you just like the blanket he’d provided, keeping you warm and safe.

You nodded, a little smile on your lips. As you fell to sleep, you felt his fingers gently running through your hair, ensuring it was out of your face.

“Things will be better tomorrow, angel.”

“You no longer have a father.”

The words rang through the quiet of your bedroom, so loud and clear that for a terrifying second, you thought he was standing right behind you again. You froze, your hand hovering inches from your face, staring at the empty space over your shoulder in the reflection.

But the room was empty. The argument was over. The storm had passed through, leaving only the wreckage in its wake.

It had happened less than an hour ago in the suffocating heat of the formal dining room. The air conditioning had been broken all afternoon, the heavy British summer air pressing against the windows like a physical weight, souring everyone's mood before the evening had even begun. You couldn't even remember what small, insignificant thing had triggered it. A misplaced comment? A tone of voice he didn't like? It didn't matter. Once the spark was lit, your father had burned the entire room down.

The venom in his voice had been a physical blow. He hadn't just been angry; he had been malicious.

“You torture and ruin everything you’re near,” he had snarled, his face twisted into something unrecognizable, stepping into your space until you were pressed against the edge of the mahogany table. “You are pathetic. Useless. I am entirely done with you.”

You turned your face away from the mirror, unable to look at yourself anymore as those words echoed on a cruel, endless loop in your mind. The silence of the manor felt mocking now.

Your father would forget about it a week later, pretend like everything was fine, and return to his usual routine. It was nothing new.

Standing up from the vanity, you took a deep breath, trying to steady the frantic, erratic rhythm of your heart. You reached down, smooth palms sweeping down the fabric of your dress. It was a beautiful piece—a flowing, ethereal summer dress that fell just right, the color casting a soft, flattering glow against your skin. It was exactly the kind of dress that was supposed to make you feel radiant, light, and carefree.

As your hands smoothed the final wrinkles from the skirt, you caught sight of yourself in the full-length mirror across the room. For a fleeting, fragile moment, a tiny hint of a smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

You actually look decent, you thought to yourself. The thought was a quiet, stubborn rebellion against the cruelty you’d just endured. You weren't ruined. You weren't a disaster. You had managed to put on a beautiful dress, your hair fell perfectly past your shoulders, and despite everything, you looked like someone who belonged at a glamorous pureblood summer party. It was a small anchor of comfort, a tiny shield to hold up against the world before you had to step out the front door and pretend that your heart wasn't bleeding out through your ribs.

You reached back for your favorite tube of lip gloss, applying a fresh, thick layer of the shimmering pink tint. Your lips were plump and glossy, catching the light perfectly. You pressed them together, staring at the polished, perfect girl in the glass.

The mask was on. Now, you just had to survive the night.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Nott Manor gardens were a masterclass in pureblood opulence, but tonight, they felt like a gilded cage.

Flawless floating lanterns drifted through the heavy, humid summer air, casting a warm, amber glow over the hundreds of guests mingling on the marble terrace. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, expensive firewhisky, and the suffocating perfume of high society. Everywhere you looked, people were laughing—sharp, practiced, aristocratic laughs that never reached their eyes. Couples glided across the makeshift outdoor dance floor to the sweeping, flawless rhythms of a live magical orchestra, completely detached from the reality of the world outside their bubble.

You stood near the edge of the terrace, a chilled glass of elf-made champagne held tightly in your hand, though you hadn't taken a single sip. Your fingers were wrapped so tightly around the delicate crystal stem that your knuckles were white.

"Oh, darling, your dress is simply divine," a friend of your mother’s purred, gliding past you with a glittering smile that felt entirely transactional. "Such a perfect choice for the summer solstice."

"Thank you, Ms. Zabini," you forced out. The words felt like ash in your mouth. You forced the tiniest, most polite tilt of your lips—a performance you had been practicing your entire life.

But the moment she turned away, the fake smile vanished, and the heavy, crushing weight in your chest returned tenfold. It was dizzying, standing in a crowd of hundreds of people who were all looking right at you, yet feeling entirely, utterly alone. They saw the beautiful summer dress. They saw the perfect, shimmering gloss on your lips and the meticulous makeup. They didn't see the girl who had been screaming in a dining room an hour ago. They didn't see the invisible bruises left behind by words meant to mutilate your self-worth.

Pathetic. Useless.

The words vibrated in your ears, louder than the cello section of the orchestra. Every burst of laughter from a nearby group of teenagers made you flinch internally, convinced for a paranoid second that they somehow knew. That they could look at you and see exactly what your father saw: a disaster. A girl who ruined everything she touched.

The heat of the summer night suddenly felt entirely too restrictive. The air was too thick to pull into your lungs, and the bright, flashing lights of the lanterns began to blur together. You needed to get out. You needed to slide beneath the radar before the glossiness in your eyes turned into actual, cascading tears in front of the most judgmental crowd in Great Britain.

Setting your untouched glass down on a passing waiter’s silver tray, you took a step back into the shadows.

Slowly, carefully, you slipped away from the bright perimeter of the terrace, retreating down the stone steps and into the sprawling, unlit paths of the rose gardens. With every step you took away from the music and the chatter, the suffocating pressure in your throat eased just a fraction.

You kept walking until the noise of the party was nothing more than a faint, rhythmic hum in the distance. The gravel path gave way to cool, damp grass, and you finally stopped under the massive, sweeping branches of an ancient willow tree near the edge of the estate’s dark treeline.

Here, in the dark, there was no one to perform for.

The protective armor you had worn all evening immediately began to crack. Your posture crumbled, your shoulders hunching forward as a cold shiver ran down your spine despite the summer heat. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, grabbing your own elbows as if you could physically hold yourself together before you completely shattered into a thousand pieces.

You stared out into the dark, silent woods, your lips pressed into a tight, trembling line to stop the sob rising in your throat. Your eyes grew fiercely glossy, the heavy glaze of tears catching the faint, distant amber light of the party. You were so tired. So entirely, physically exhausted from fighting a battle inside your own head.

"You're missing Malfoy trying to explain how he's the best seeker Hogwarts has seen, even though he's the reason the team loses every year," a quiet, familiar voice murmured from the shadows of the willow tree.

You didn't have to look to know it was Theodore.

His voice had a distinct, quiet gravity to it—a low, soothing register that had been a constant in your life since you were both old enough to hide from your parents' stuffy dinners in the dark corners of library alcoves. He stepped out from the curtain of weeping willow branches, the sharp, dark tailoring of his formal dress robes catching the faint, filtered moonlight. He looked every bit the perfect pureblood heir, poised and flawless, but the moment his eyes landed on you, the easy, teasing remark died instantly on his lips.

Theo took in the fierce, protective grip of your arms wrapped around your chest, the tight, trembling line of your jaw, and the unmistakable, glossy shimmer of tears reflecting the distant lantern light.

The childhood friend who knew every inflection of your voice, who could read your moods before you even spoke, instantly recognized the hollow, fractured look of someone who had just been pushed past their breaking point.

"Hey," Theo’s voice dropped, losing every ounce of its formal, public edge. He closed the distance between you in two long, urgent strides, stepping directly into your space. "What happened? Look at me."

You fiercely shook your head, staring stubbornly at the grass, your arms tightening even more. "Nothing. Go back to the party, Theo. I’m just... catching my breath."

"Don't lie to me," he murmured, his voice incredibly gentle but unyielding. He didn't force you to look up, but he stood close enough that you could feel the steady warmth radiating from him, blocking out the rest of the world. "You're shaking. And you only hide out by the treeline when things are bad at home. Is it your dad?"

Hearing him say it—naming the monster in the room—was the final blow to your crumbling defenses. A ragged, trembling breath escaped your throat, and the first tear finally spilled over, hot and heavy, tracking a slow path down your cheek. You quickly reached up with a sharp, frustrated hand to swipe it away, hissing under your breath as your finger came away smudged with dark makeup.

"Damn it," you whispered, your voice cracking completely as the reality of the night washed over you. "My mascara is going to run. I look a mess."

"You don't," Theo said softly, stepping even closer. Without a single thought for the pristine, expensive silk of his formal robes, he raised his arm and used the soft, crisp edge of his sleeve to gently tap beneath your eye, catching the rogue tear before it could ruin the rest of your makeup. "You could never look a mess. But more importantly, I don't care about the makeup. Talk to me."

The dam broke. The sheer safety of Theo’s presence—the familiar, grounding scent of cedarwood and crisp summer air that always followed him—made it impossible to keep the walls up for another second.

The words came out in a breathless, frantic, unvarnished rush. You ranted about the screaming match in the dining room, the suffocating heat of the house, and the sheer, unbridled venom in your father’s voice. You told him how he had cornered you, how his face had twisted with a hatred you couldn't understand, and then, with a choked, bitter laugh, you forced out the words that had been mutilating your mind all evening.

"'You no longer have a father,'" you repeated, your voice trembling violently as you paced a small, agitated line in the grass. "'You torture and ruin everything you're near. You're pathetic. Useless.' He told me he was completely done with me, Theo. Right before I had to put on a stupid dress and come here to pretend everything is perfect."

Theo didn't interrupt you once. He stood perfectly still, his dark eyes tracking your frantic movements with an intense, unwavering focus. But as the horrific specifics of your father’s words left your lips, you could see a terrifying shift in him. The casual, relaxed posture of a party guest vanished entirely, replaced by a fierce, protective stillness.

His jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. His hands, buried in his pockets, curled into rigid fists. Theo knew the cruelty of pureblood patriarchs better than anyone; he lived with the cold, crushing weight of a demanding father every single day. But hearing that malice directed at you—the one person he always sought out, the brightest part of his entire world—made a dark, dangerous anger flare behind his ribs. He looked like he wanted to burn your father’s manor to the ground.

You stopped pacing, your breath hitching as a sob threatened to catch in your chest. You bit down hard on your lower lip to steady it, entirely unaware that you were smudging the glossy pink tint you’d carefully applied an hour ago.

"I just..." Your voice dropped to a broken, fragile whisper, your eyes wide and glossy as you finally looked up at him through wet, heavy lashes. "How can he say that to me? Am I really that awful, Theo? Do I really ruin everything?"

"Hey. Stop that right now," Theo said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding register that instantly cut through the roaring noise in your head.

He closed the final remaining inches between you, crossing the line from childhood friend to something much deeper, much more permanent. He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently catching your wrist to pull your hand away from your face, stopping you from biting your lip. His thumb brushed lightly against your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to anchor yourself to him.

"Look at me," he murmured, holding your gaze until your tear-filled eyes locked onto his dark, fierce ones. "He is entirely, completely wrong. Every single word out of his mouth was a lie born out of his own miserable incompetence. You don't ruin anything. You are the brightest, most incredible person in that entire suffocating house, and he doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you. Do you hear me? Look at what you did tonight—you took the absolute worst he could throw at you, and you still put on this beautiful dress, and you still stood tall. You are not pathetic. You are extraordinary."

Theo's thumb stayed resting gently against your chin, the warmth of his skin a steady, grounding anchor against your trembling frame. His dark eyes scanned every inch of your face, his expression softening from fierce protective anger into something so tender it made your chest ache in an entirely different way. A faint, soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips, deliberately breaking through the heavy tension.

"Your dad is an idiot," he repeated softly, his voice a low murmur in the quiet night air. With his free hand, he reached into the inner pocket of his tailored dress robes and pulled out his wand. "And since we are definitely not going back inside that stuffy ballroom tonight, let’s fix this. Keep your eyes closed."

You blinked, a little confused, your long lashes still spiked with tears. "Theo, what are you—"

"Trust me. Eyes shut," he ordered gently.

You let your eyelids flutter closed. Deprived of your sight, your other senses heightened instantly. You could hear the rustle of the willow leaves above you, the distant, faint swell of the orchestra, and the steady, calm rhythm of Theo’s breathing. You felt the warm tip of his wand hover just millimeters away from your cheek, followed by the faint, comforting brush of a whisper-soft Tergeo spell.

The heavy, damp weight of the ruined mascara evaporated from your skin. The cool air hit your face, leaving it feeling clean, fresh, and entirely relieved of the evidence of your breakdown.

"There," Theo murmured, his breath fanning across your cheek. You opened your eyes to find him holding out your small, beaded clutch, which he must have slipped from your hand without you even realizing it. "Now, where is that shiny stuff you always wear? The one you're usually applying every twenty minutes?"

A small, genuine laugh finally broke through your chest—the first real laugh you had experienced all day, and it felt like a splash of cool water on a fever. "My lip gloss? Theo, you don't even know what it's called."

"I know it's pink, and I know it's in here," he retorted, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he unclipped the silver latch of your bag and successfully fished out the tube. He unscrewed the cap, looking at the little doe-foot applicator wand with an expression of intense skepticism, as if it were a complex piece of Ancient Runes. "Right. Sit still. I'm fixing it."

"Theo, absolutely not. You cannot apply lip gloss," you giggled, instinctively trying to take a half-step back, but he was faster. His left hand slid around your waist, his palm warm and firm against the small of your back, anchoring you gently but securely in place.

"I am a Nott, I can do anything," he teased, though his tone shifted into something incredibly intense and focused as he leaned in.

Suddenly, the space between you evaporated. He was close—entirely too close. Your breath hitched as he stepped fully into your personal space, the faint scent of mint and cedarwood wrapping around you like a protective blanket. The playful banter faded into a breathless, charged silence as Theo concentrated entirely on your mouth.

He held your chin steady with his thumb and forefinger, his jaw set, his tongue lightly poking out the corner of his mouth in sheer, unadulterated concentration. Step by painstaking step, he carefully swiped the glossy pink tint across your bottom lip, his hand incredibly steady for someone who had never touched makeup in his life.

Your heart did a sudden, violent flip in your chest. Standing out here in the dark, held firmly against him while he meticulously painted your lips, the entire nightmare of your father's words vanished completely. There was no dining room, no cruel shouting, no suffocating expectations. There was only the steady beat of Theo's heart and the intense, reverent way he was looking at you.

"Smush them together," he whispered, his eyes flicking up from your mouth to meet yours, his dark iris dilated in the moonlight.

You did, pressing your lips together to distribute the slick, glittering formula. Theo stepped back just a fraction to survey his handiwork, a proud, incredibly soft expression melting the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face.

"Perfect. See? A natural," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, rough register that made your skin prickle with goosebumps. "Don't let anyone tell you that you look anything less than perfect tonight."

Before you could even formulate a witty comeback to tease him about his newfound makeup skills, the atmosphere around you shifted. Across the sprawling, dark lawns, the music drifting from the grand ballroom terrace changed. The upbeat, rigid waltz melody melted away, replaced by a slow, sweeping, deeply romantic arrangement of strings that floated beautifully through the humid summer night.

Theo looked toward the distant, glittering lights of the manor, then turned his gaze back down to you. The playful, cocky smirk vanished from his lips, replaced by an expression that was entirely tender, entirely safe.

He tucked the tube of lip gloss carefully back into your beaded clutch and set the bag down on a rustic stone bench nearby. Then, taking a deliberate step back into the shadow of the weeping willow, he dropped into a ridiculously low, overly dramatic, traditional pureblood bow.

"May I have this dance, my lady?" he asked, extending a long-fingered hand toward you. His dark eyes shone in the moonlight with an unspoken, fierce promise to protect you from everything outside this garden. "No stuffy lords, no expectations, no fathers. Just us."

You looked down at your high heels, which were already sinking miserably into the soft, damp summer grass, and then looked up at his waiting hand. For the first time all day, the suffocating weight in your chest felt light enough to lift.

With a genuine grin, you kicked the painful shoes off entirely, letting them toss carelessly into the grass. Stepping barefoot onto the cool, soothing earth, you placed your hand firmly in his.

"I thought you'd never ask," you whispered.

Theo smiled, a soft, private thing meant only for you, and pulled you flush against his chest. His right hand rested with a gentle but protective weight against the small of your back, while your left hand was tucked safely against his crisp dress robes, right over his heart. He began to guide you in a slow, effortless sway, completely ignoring the proper steps of the high-society dances you had both been forced to learn as children. Out here in the dark, there were no rules.

You let your forehead rest gently against his shoulder, closing your eyes as the rhythm of the music washed over you. The world narrowed down to the cool grass beneath your toes, the sweet scent of jasmine, and the steady, calming, rhythmic beat of Theo’s heart beneath his clothes.

"I've got you," he whispered into your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction, pulling you closer into the safest harbor in the world. "I've always got you. Don't ever forget that."

"forza! for cazzo, forza!" he muttered, running a hand through his already dishevelled dark hair. he wasn't even watching the magical projection floating in the air anymore. he was stalking back and forth, a lean, coiled spring of pure italian angst. his slytherin tie was loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms dusted with dark hair. he looked like a roman emperor about to sacrifice a senator.

"theo, they're just kicking a ball," you said, not looking up from your page.

he stopped pacing and turned to you, his eyes wide with theatrical horror. "just kicking a ball? amore mio, this is not 'just kicking a ball.' this is history. this is honor. this is the legacy of the roman empire condensed into ninety minutes of pure, beautiful agony." he gestured wildly at the floating screen where a tiny player in blue had just fallen over, clutching his shin.

"he seems to be in agony," you noted dryly.

"arte! he is an artist! a master of the dramatic fall! it is a strategy, a ballet of pain designed to manipulate the referee, a brutish german with no appreciation for subtlety," theo explained, pacing again. "and you, my bella, are distracting me with your… your book."

"my apologies," you said, marking your page and closing the book. "wouldn't want to interfere with the sacred ritual."

"exactly," he said, pointing a finger at you. "it requires concentration. positive energy. i have a lucky sock on."

"you only have one lucky sock on?"

"yes. the other one is for the second half. it's a system, tesoro. you wouldn't understand."

you watched him for a moment longer, a fond smile playing on your lips. he was ridiculous. a pure-blood wizard with a family tree that could be traced back to caesar himself, and he was losing his mind over a football match. but he was your ridiculous wizard.

he finally sank onto the floor in front of your chair, leaning his back against your knees. he tilted his head back to look at you, his dark eyes pleading. "say it."

"say what?"

"you know. the good luck phrase."

you sighed, pretending to be exasperated, but you leaned down and whispered against his ear, "forza azzurri."

he shuddered, a full-body tremor of what you could only assume was raw, unadulterated italian pride. "sì, così. again."

"forza azzurri," you said, a little louder this time.

"bellissima," he breathed, turning his attention back to the game just as the crowd in the magical projection roared. a blue jersey had scored. theo shot to his feet, his arms thrown in the air, a string of joyous, rapid-fire italian erupting from him. "ci credo! meraviglioso! che gol! did you see that? did you see that beauty, mia cara?"

"it was very… blue," you offered.

he spun around, grabbing your hands and pulling you to your feet. he spun you in a clumsy, ecstatic circle, the common room blurring around you. "it is more than blue! it is the color of the sky, the sea, the blood of michelangelo! it is everything!"

he stopped spinning, his hands still holding yours, his face flushed with victory and the fire in the hearth. he was breathing heavily, his eyes shining. "we did it."

"you kicked the ball from all the way over here? impressive, nott."

"no, you fool," he said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate murmur that made your stomach flutter. "you. you said the words. you brought the luck. it is always you."

he let go of one of your hands to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. "sei il mio portafortuna. you are my good luck charm."

"just yours?" you teased softly.

"always mine," he whispered, and then he was kissing you. it wasn't a soft, sweet kiss. it was a winning kiss, a triumphant kiss, tasting of victory and something else, something dark and inherently theo. it was a kiss that claimed, that promised, that left no room for doubt.

when he finally pulled away, the roar of the crowd from the magical screen faded into the background. the rest of the common room was celebrating, shouting, but in your little bubble by the fire, it was silent.

"they still have another half to play," you reminded him gently.

The boys didn’t hate love, far from it. But this? This was something else entirely. Because before you Mattheo was smug smirks and one night stands, careless hookups and relentless flirting. And now? Now he was heart eyes, soft kisses, intertwined hands and sweet whispers, nuzzling noses, pink roses, monogamous. And if that could happen to Mattheo? It could happen to any of them.

Terrifying.

Theo shook his head with his own look of disdain that slowly transformed into an irked confusion.

“It’s like he’s been drugged, like he’s on Amortentia.” He paused, a brief look of shock on his face. “Wait, you don’t think?…” He let the sentiment hang and looked around at his friends.

They all thought for a moment.

Then collectively shook their heads at the notion.

You weren’t that kind of girl. And if they were completely honest with themselves they didn’t blame Mattheo, though they’d never admit it. You were the kind of girl any of them would fall for, too sweet for your own good, with a beautiful smile and a kind heart. No, you didn’t need to drug anyone to make them fall for you.

“Can you imagine him on it, though?” Theo laughed. “I mean, what’s left? Would he stand on the table and serenade her?!”

“He’d probably propose,” Blaise said flatly.

“There would be tears involved—“ Enzo added.

“—Poems. Sonnets,” Draco snickered.

They laughed.

Then, a collective moment of silence ensued as they all imagined the utter humiliation of their lovesick friend. Slowly their thoughts permeated, and it was like small lightbulbs clicked on over each of their heads as they shared sly, mischievous smiles with one another.

— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Two weeks later you slid into breakfast beside Mattheo, your thigh pressing against his, close enough to feel his radiating warmth, to be wrapped in his scent like vetiver and pine. He looked over to you and smiled so wide his eyes twinkled and a small dimple formed in each cheek.

“Good morning, YN!” Draco said eagerly, pulling you from the moment. You were taken aback at his unusually chipper energy.

“Hi, Draco,” you said, turning to smile across the table at him.

You looked around and realized all of the boys were smiling back at you, which was slightly confusing but ultimately a very welcome change; you knew your presence irked them, they were never subtle about it. So this felt… nice.

“Drink up, mate!” Blaise said, pushing a goblet towards Mattheo. “Got a big game this afternoon, don’t want you dehydrated.” Mattheo snorted but acquiesced, accepting the goblet and taking several gulps before you both busied yourselves with your breakfast.

In a moment you could feel Mattheo’s hand under the table gently squeezing your thigh and you looked over to see him smiling at you, his amber eyes twinkling and his mouth quirked in a perfect grin that you immediately mirrored.

“Hey, I love you,” he whispered and pressed a quick warm kiss to your lips. It lingered with heady pressure and your eyes fluttered closed before they opened again as he gently pulled away.

Theo and Draco were batting each other’s arms in anticipation.

Blaise was holding his breath.

But that was it.

One sincere statement. One chaste kiss. And then the morning continued in relative normality. Sure, you ogled each other, finished each other’s sentences, giggled at each other, blushed. The boys watched the two of you intently like a tennis match back and forth waiting for Mattheo’s impending implosion, his grand, drug-induced outburst. It never came.

“You fucking twat! You got a bad batch,” Theo whisper-yelled to Draco.

“Excuse me who couldn’t be bothered to go get it himself? I assure you it’s the best money can buy,” Draco rebutted.

“Clearly didn’t work…” Blaise muttered under his breath as the three of them continued to argue, each too busy bickering to notice Lorenzo sliding in beside Mattheo, half-asleep, mid-yawn reaching for the wrong goblet and taking a swig. Then another.

He felt his cheeks flush and set the goblet down very very slowly. He let out a deep breath. And then he calmly stood and sauntered down the table next to you, nearly pushing a third year off the bench to make space beside you.

He sat backwards, leaning against the table so he was facing you directly. Closely. Mattheo looked up briefly, clocking his movement.

“Hey,” Enzo said, smoothly running his hand through his hair, tousling it in the effortless way he liked to do to get attention.

“Hi Enzo,” you giggled.

“Fuck I love how my name sounds on your lips” he said, low and sultry.

“What?” You laughed again, your giggle a bit more unstable.

“What the fuck did you just say to her?” Mattheo echoed, the rising edge of his tone finally catching the others’ attention.

But Lorenzo only had eyes for you and your lips… his lidded eyes locked on them as he bit his own like he was indulgently imagining what you tasted like.

“You’re so fucking hot, YN. I’m crazy about you,” he said, breathless.

Mattheo was on his feet. “Berkshire you have two fucking seconds to back the fuck away from her before your face meets the table.”

You looked quickly between Enzo and Mattheo, trying to diffuse the situation.

And now Theo, Draco, and Blaise were paying attention for an entirely different reason.

Blaise reached for Mattheo’s goblet, confirming it was empty. “Enz,” he asked. “Did you drink this??”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”Mattheo snapped, his eyes never leaving Lorenzo whose eyes never left you. He couldn’t look away from you, his cheeks swirling pink with flustered desire. He couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you; you, you, you, your gorgeous hair, your delicious perfume, your laugh, your perfect laugh, your goddamn lips, all of you, right there in front of him this whole time. He had to have you. He reached for you.

And was yanked off his seat and flung to the floor.

“—No no no!!” Theo shouted.

“—Wait!!” Blaise yelled.

They tried to intercede, leaping over table.

“—You don’t fucking touch her!” Mattheo roared as he pinned Lorenzo down.

“Matty!!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet.

“I love her!!” Enzo shouted valiantly. “She’s everything to me, Riddle you’ll never understand the way I feel!”

Mattheo’s fist flew and Enzo let out a yell as he grabbed his face, blood gushing between his fingers.

“Say that shit again!” Mattheo dared, just as his friends managed to grab ahold of him, barely holding him back.

“ILUFFHER!” Enzo cried, the sentiment muffled in tears beneath his hands and his blood.

Mattheo tried to swing again.

“Mattheo!!” Theo shouted as they held him back. “He’s drugged! He’s on Amortentia!!”

Mattheo’s attention finally snapped to his friends. “What?!”

“We put it in your goblet” Blaise admitted quickly.

“Why the fuck?—“ Mattheo started.

“—Come on,” Draco said, pushing the group towards the door as he nervously eyed the nearby professors.

— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

All of you sat side by side on a bench outside the infirmary.

Blaise was rubbing his temple.

Draco had his arms crossed as he pouted.

Theo looked down at his hands in his lap.

Mattheo flexed his split knuckle which was slowly mending itself as you held his other hand.

And on the far end of the bench, Lorenzo held a rag to his bleeding nose, staunching the blood there as the side effects of the Amortentia wore off, leaving him confused and very grumpy.

“What doesn’t make sense is that you drank it too, didn’t you?” you asked Mattheo quietly.

“Yeah, I mean I remember feeling warm in my chest, like I wanted to be near you and tell you how I felt,” he said.

A pause.

“Maybe that just means I can’t possibly love you more than I already do?” he concluded, glancing at you with a lopsided, lovesick smile.

Lorenzo gagged.

Draco sighed.

Theo groaned.

And Blaise ran his hands down his face as you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Mattheo’s lips with a satisfying smack.

Two Weeks Before the Wedding

Malfoy Manor — Wiltshire, England

The champagne was expensive, the flowers were excessive, and Draco Malfoy somehow looked unbearably smug even at his own engagement party.

Honestly, it was comforting. 

Malfoy Manor practically glowed beneath enchanted chandeliers and floating candles while a string quartet played somewhere near the terrace doors. The entire estate smelled faintly of roses, expensive liquor, and old money, which felt deeply on brand for Draco. 

Hermione had softened the manor considerably over the years. Warm gold accents replaced some of the harsher silver décor while floating fairy lights wound themselves through ivy climbing the stone walls, giving the estate a warmth it never possessed during your Hogwarts years.

It was still unmistakably Malfoy.

Beautiful.

Elegant.

Slightly intimidating.

Which, honestly, suited Draco and Hermione perfectly.

You stood near the champagne tower with Ginny watching Draco arguing with a waiter over a canapé presentation like it was a matter of national importance. 

“I can’t believe they’re actually getting married,” Ginny said, sounding genuinely emotional about it. 

You took a slow sip of champagne. “I can. Hermione’s been reorganizing Draco’s life for years. Marriage was just the final hostile takeover.” 

Ginny snorted loudly enough to attract attention from several nearby guests. A passing waiter nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks trying not to laugh.

Hermione appeared beside you moments later looking stunning in dark green silk and deeply exhausted already. There were at least six wedding planners orbiting her at all times these days, which honestly felt excessive considering Hermione Granger could probably organize an international summit with nothing but a clipboard and sheer force of will.

“Why is my fiancé terrorizing the catering staff?” she asked.

“Because they displeased his lordship,” you answered smoothly.

“To be fair,” Hermione said tiredly, “they put fig jam on the wrong side of the cracker.” 

You blinked. “Well, now I’m on his side. Execute them immediately.”

Hermione rolled her eyes while Ginny dissolved into laughter.

The ballroom buzzed with familiar chaos.

Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini were arguing near the fireplace over quidditch statistics neither of them actually cared about. Pansy Parkinson reclined dramatically across a velvet sofa like a queen holding court while Harry and Ron stood nearby wearing identical expressions of patient suffering.

You hadn't realized how easily you'd slipped back into this.

Paris had been beautiful. Exciting. Liberating, even.

But there was something dangerously comforting about slipping back into old friendships. These people knew every embarrassing version of you that had ever existed. They knew the seventeen-year-old who cried over exam results, the twenty-two-year-old who accidentally set an entire flat kitchen on fire attempting to make pasta, and the woman who packed up her life four years ago and left England with a one-way ticket and a bruised heart.

Hermione suddenly stopped walking and turned toward both of you with a suspiciously bright smile.

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

“Absolutely not.” 

Ginny groaned.

"See? This is why she's impossible."

"You made the face," you defended.

"What face?"

"The face that means you're about to ask me for something unreasonable."

Hermione looked offended.

"I don't have a face."

"You absolutely have a face."

"It's the same one you made before forcing us to reorganize your entire library because apparently alphabetical order is a lifestyle."

"It is a lifestyle."

"It's a cry for help."

Hermione ignored you beautifully.

"I know magical weddings don't usually have bridesmaids," Hermione began, her voice softer than usual, "but I can't imagine standing at the altar without the two people who have stood beside me through every version of my life."

Her eyes flickered between you and Ginny.

"You’ve been there for the late-night study sessions, the disasters, the heartbreaks, and everything in between. You're not just my best friends—you've been my family for as long as I can remember."

Ginny's hand flew to her mouth.

You felt your own throat tighten.

A watery smile appeared on Hermione's face.

"So, if you'll let me, I'd like the two witches who helped me survive Hogwarts and everything that came after to stand beside me one more time."

Her eyes shone with tears.

"Will you both be my bridesmaids?"

Ginny squealed first before launching herself at Hermione. You laughed and wrapped your arms around both of them a second later, feeling something unexpectedly warm settle in your chest. 

“Of course we will.”

Hermione squeezed you tighter. 

“Thank Godric. Pansy’s been trying to appoint herself maid of honor for three weeks.” 

Across the room, Pansy lifted her champagne flute.

"And I would've done an exceptional job."

“You wanted swans,” Draco said flatly.

“I still want swans.” 

“You wanted black swans.” 

“They’re moodier.” 

The room dissolved into laughter while Draco looked like he regretted every life decision that brought him to this point. 

You smiled into your champagne glass. 

Merlin, you had missed this. 

Not London specifically.

London was grey and crowded and smelled vaguely like wet concrete for most of the year. This felt different. Easier. Familiar in a way that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed gently.

Home wasn't a place anymore.

Home was Hermione stealing control of every situation she entered.

Home was Ginny creating problems for sport.

Back at Hogwarts, it had always been the three of you.

Hermione with her terrifying competence.

Ginny with her reckless mouth.

And you somewhere in the middle trying desperately to keep up.

You remembered late nights in the Ravenclaw dormitories with Hermione sprawled across your bed ranting about Draco Malfoy before she realized she was hopelessly in love with him. Ginny sneaking firewhisky into study sessions and convincing all of you to make catastrophically bad decisions afterward.

The three of you survived exams, heartbreaks, career crises, and one truly horrific shared flat in London after graduation that nearly ended in homicide over labeled sugar quills. 

Then life happened.

Hermione became Hermione Granger, future Minister and general force of nature.

Ginny built a career that somehow suited her perfectly because apparently getting paid to fly around on a broomstick and terrify people was a legitimate profession.

And you...

You left.

At twenty-two, while everyone else was building lives in England, you'd accepted an offer from Maison Celeste, one of the most prestigious magical luxury houses in Europe.

What began as a temporary contract in Paris quickly became something much bigger.

The work was demanding, creative, and occasionally chaotic. You spent your days developing campaigns, overseeing collections, and modernizing one of the most influential magical luxury houses in Europe. Every year seemed to bring another promotion, another opportunity, and another reason to stay.

Somewhere between fashion weeks, product launches, and endless meetings conducted in three different languages, Paris stopped feeling temporary.

It became yours.

You found a tiny apartment overlooking the Seine and slowly filled it with books, plants, and furniture that cost far too much money. You built friendships, dated men whose names your friends still couldn't pronounce properly, and learned that there was something deeply satisfying about creating a life that belonged entirely to you.

For four years, that life had been enough.

Then your boss offered you something impossible to refuse.

Maison Celeste had been planning a London expansion for years, and when the time finally came, there was only one person they trusted to run it.

You.

The promotion came with more responsibility, a significantly larger salary, and an office overlooking the Thames that still felt vaguely ridiculous every time you walked into it.

Coming back to London hadn't been part of your original plan.

Yet the moment you stepped off the train three months ago, something inside you settled.

You missed Paris.

You would probably always miss Paris.

But you had missed this too.

Sunday brunches with Hermione. Ginny showing up unannounced and eating everything in your refrigerator. Harry and Ron arguing over absolutely nothing.

The familiar comfort of people who knew every version of you and loved you anyway.

For the first time in years, your life felt balanced.

You had a career you loved, friends you adored, and a future that belonged entirely to you.

It almost felt too good to be true.

Which, in hindsight, should've been your first warning sign of the evening.

Ginny linked her arm through yours as the three of you drifted toward the bar where several waiters passed around trays of drinks and tiny desserts that looked too pretty to eat. 

“So,” Ginny began casually.

“No.” 

Ginny blinked. “I haven’t even said anything yet.” 

“You were about to attempt matchmaking and I’m choosing to spare us both the embarrassment.” 

Hermione appeared beside you again as though summoned by the scent of meddling. 

“You’re not seriously telling me you’re not dating anyone,” Ginny said. 

“I’m not dating anyone.” 

Hermione frowned suspiciously. “That feels like a lie.” 

You accepted another champagne flute from a passing waiter. “Thank you both for your continued confidence in my ability to attract men. Unfortunately, I value my peace and quiet.”

“You’ve been back in London for three months,” Ginny pointed out. “You haven’t gone out with anyone.” 

“Maybe she’s secretly married,” Harry offered from nearby.

Ron looked horrified. “Can people do that?” 

“Yes, Ronald,” Hermione sighed. “People can secretly get married.” 

Ginny turned back toward you with renewed determination. “Harry works with a curse-breaker who’s gorgeous.”

“Fascinating.” 

“He owns a bookstore,” Hermione added.

You gasped softly. “Oh no. Not a bookstore owner. My one weakness.” 

“He’s genuinely lovely,” Ginny insisted.

“I’m sure he is. Unfortunately for him, I’d rather throw myself into the Thames.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You’re exhausting.” 

“I’m selective.”

“You haven’t dated anyone in two years.” 

You smiled into your drink. “Maybe I’m the problem.” 

“Definitely,” said a familiar male voice behind you. “But I actually think it’s your best quality.” 

Every muscle in your body locked up.

No. 

No, no, no.

Absolutely not. 

Of all the people in the room. Of all the disasters the universe could've chosen to inflict upon you tonight.

Him.

Realistically, you had always known this moment was inevitable. Your friend group overlapped far too much for it not to happen eventually.

You had just been hoping for it to happen much, much later.

Preferably years from now.

Ideally sometime next century.

Maybe after one of you had moved to a different continent.

Or been swallowed by a Hungarian Horntail.

You weren't particularly picky.

Slowly, you turned around and found Lorenzo Berkshire standing a few feet away with his hands tucked casually into the pockets of a perfectly tailored black suit. 

His tie hung loose around his neck like he’d already given up pretending to behave tonight and his dark hair fell messily across his forehead in a way that looked artistically effortless. 

He looked older than the last time you’d seen him.

Sharper somehow. 

Still devastatingly handsome in the most irritating way imaginable.

The softness that used to linger around the edges of his features had disappeared over the years, replaced by something more defined. More dangerous. 

Girls used to follow him around Hogwarts like it was the most natural thing in the world. Boys wanted to be him, professors liked him despite themselves, and Enzo carried himself with the kind of effortless confidence that only existed in men who had never once doubted their own charm. 

Unfortunately for him, you had. 

Frequently.

Your hobby throughout sixth year had essentially been reminding Lorenzo Berkshire that he was not, in fact, God's gift to women.

The fact that you'd eventually fallen in love with him felt deeply embarrassing in retrospect.

You watched the exact moment recognition hit him properly.

Recognition crossed his face before he could stop it. The smirk disappeared for the briefest moment, only to return slower this time.

More deliberate.

More dangerous.

"Hello, little raven."

For one horrible moment, your chest squeezed.

The nickname.

Ten years later and the stupid nickname still landed exactly where it wasn't supposed to.

You smiled pleasantly.

"Hello, dickhead."

Theo burst out laughing somewhere across the room.

Ginny made a strangled choking noise beside you that suggested she might've inhaled champagne.

Enzo laughed. 

Actually laughed—a warm, surprised sound that was entirely too pleased with itself.

The noise hit you with the force of an unpleasant memory, dragging you briefly back to late nights in the common room, shared bottles of firewhisky, and his arm draped over the back of your chair while he laughed at something ridiculous Theo had said.

You quickly shoved the memory into a mental bin and set it on fire.

"Merlin," he murmured. "Paris really did a number on you."

You took a sip of champagne.

"Thank you. Therapy and foreign men helped tremendously."

Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes for half a second before the amusement returned.

Then, just as quickly, the amusement returned, smooth and practiced as ever.

"You know," he said conversationally, taking another step closer, "I liked you better when you weren't such a bitch."

You didn't even hesitate.

"I'm sure you did."

His grin widened.

You smiled sweetly.

"She was easier to get into bed."

The silence that followed was immediate and razor-sharp.

Theo promptly choked on his drink.

Blaise muttered, "Holy shit," under his breath.

Pansy looked openly delighted by the unfolding disaster, and somewhere across the ballroom, Draco lowered his champagne glass with the unmistakable expression of a man who had no intention of missing what happened next.

And Enzo— 

Enzo froze. 

The reaction lasted less than a second. His smile never slipped, and his posture remained loose and relaxed, as though your words hadn’t affected him at all.

But you saw it.

You’d spent years memorizing Lorenzo Berkshire without ever meaning to. You knew the tiny tells he thought nobody noticed.

The hit landed.

Just enough to crack the polished composure he wore so effortlessly.

Something ugly and petty inside you felt satisfied.

Good.

You hoped it hurt.

Not out of lingering anger, not in any way that made sense after all this time, but because ten years ago he had walked away from the wreckage while you had been left standing in the aftermath, holding every broken piece.

And seeing even the faintest crack in that carefully maintained composure felt, against your better judgment, deeply satisfying.

You took another slow sip of champagne while holding his gaze.

The thing about Lorenzo Berkshire was that everyone assumed he was impossible to embarrass. Nothing ever seemed to stick to him. A bad joke, a rejection, a room full of people turning against him—he always recovered with another smile, another quip, another effortless display of charm.

But years ago, you had discovered the flaw in that carefully polished confidence.

Enzo didn’t handle indifference well.

Everyone else gave him something—laughter, attention, irritation, affection. You were the exception. The one who didn’t always laugh. The one who walked away first. The one who refused to play along.

Most people never noticed the tiny cracks that followed: the fraction of a pause, the sharpened look, the brief slip in his composure before he smoothed it over.

You did.