she shines like stars

The noise was overwhelming, and you nearly pitied the opposing team as they filed out of the nearby rink’s entrance, but the feeling was quickly forgotten as you turned back to Blaise. He’d already been awarded a comically large plastic wrestling championship belt in the locker room for his efforts, and he was now laughing as he held the belt in his hand.

You ended the video as the cheering transformed into incoherent yelling and the occasional howl from one of the rookies, grinning at the team’s antics. Selecting the option to add text to the story, you typed, “Lots of love for number 7 on the bus tonight.”

Biting back a nervous grin, your stomach flip-flopped subtly at the sight of Blaise’s laugh replaying on your phone. You paused, taking a moment to push the thought aside before pressing the button at the bottom of the screen to post the story. 

When you glanced up, you realized that Blaise had stood from his seat, the plastic belt laid across the armrests. Your smile widened when you realized he was starting a speech. Crouching down into the aisle, you ensured that all his teammates and coaches could see.

“...thanks, boys.” He flashed a little smirk that made his teammates chuckle and your chest flutter dangerously before continuing. “But I want to acknowledge that this game was an incredible team effort! We showed up tonight, we played from end to end, we beat the number one team in the league because we are undefeated!”

The bus erupted into another wave of deafening cheers, applause, and whistles that set the floor vibrating underneath your feet and made your lips crack with a grin. There truly was nothing like the spirit of this team, your team – although you didn’t play, they’d claimed you long ago. Nights like these, with an away game won, spirits soaring, and a long drive back to your home campus ahead of you, were your absolute favorite. 

“Let’s hear it for your captain, Malfoy!” Blaise’s speech reached a fevered pitch as he yanked the blond boy from the seat he’d taken across from Blaise and Enzo. “Absolute beauty.” Despite looking slightly jostled, Malfoy grinned as his teammates cheered for him, offering the boys a wave like a movie star greeting a crowd of supporters. You giggled, setting your phone down on your knee and letting your camera hang around your neck so you could applaud. “Your tendy, Flint, with thirty-seven saves!” 

“Woohoo!” You let out a cheer that was easily drowned out by the clamber of the bus as the team cheered Flint’s best performance of the season.

“Berky, with the hatty!” Blaise’s speech continued on as he shouted out the impressive performances of the night to raucous applause, from goals to puck blocks to Riddle’s five-minute fighting major after he’d dropped the gloves with a rival defenseman who’d cross-checked a rookie in the head minutes before.

Of all the jobs you’d had since high school, this one was by far your favorite. During your freshman year of college, you’d received a mass email that the university’s D1 hockey team was looking for a photographer and social media manager, and with the thought that you had nothing to lose, you’d submitted your portfolio on the application portal. You’d scarcely believed your eyes when, a few weeks later, you’d received another email from the team’s head coach, informing you that you’d been selected. 

Initially, you’d been intimidated beyond belief. You were surrounded by future NHL prospects, after all. Your hands had shaken so badly during your first practice that nearly all the video you’d taken was unwatchable. But the boys had warmed up to you quickly, putting your worries at ease. By the end of the season, you were invited to team dinners and parties, basically an honorary member of the team. Three years into your favorite gig and you were inseparable from the hockey players.

“...and our photographer, who shows out, every. Single. Game!” 

Your eyes widened as the gazes of the players and coaches suddenly trained on the space where you were crouched on the floor. Chuckling, Blaise reached his hand out to you and you took it, standing up with a sheepish grin as the team roared, applause and loud whistles echoing across the bus. You tucked your phone back into your pocket and stepped closer to Blaise, who immediately slung his arm around you. Nervous giggles slipped from your lips, your cheeks feeling fiery. 

“Guys!” you protested, but Blaise shook his head, pulling you in closer to his chest.

“Half of you owe your profile pics to this one, don’t lie.” He nodded towards you and you laughed, knowing just how many of the boys around you had one of your hockey action shots as their Instagram profile picture. “You can thank her for all those DM’s, yeah?” You rolled your eyes at that, smacking him lightly in the chest. But as you looked up at him, you saw him beaming down at you, and for a split second you forgot how to breathe.

As quickly as it began, it was over. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road!” Grinning, Blaise released you and pointed up towards the front of the bus, where the bus driver chuckled back at him through the rear-view mirror. The team gave one last cheer as he tossed the plastic belt in the carry-on compartment above his head and sat back down in his seat. Then, the bus driver revved the engine and the vehicle grumbled to life.

After placing your camera in its case and setting it above with the carry-on bags, you glanced around and realized you’d committed a considerable oversight. In all the commotion as the team had boarded the bus after the win, you’d been so busy doing your job and filming content that you’d forgotten to find yourself a seat. Most of the athletics buses were huge – typically, there were far more seats than there were passengers on the bus, but as you looked around, there looked to be none available.

“Am I going crazy, or is this bus smaller than usual?” You tossed a worried glance at Draco, figuring he would know the answer. As the bus lurched forward, you stumbled, grabbing the edge of Blaise’s seat for support. 

Draco shook his head. “One of the athletics buses broke down this morning, and apparently everyone and their mother had an away game tonight. The small ones were all they had left.” He rolled his eyes, an expression of deep annoyance crossing his face. 

“What’re you so mad about?” Theo Nott scoffed in Draco’s direction, jutting his thumb at you. “She’s the one without a place to sit.”

“How were there enough seats for everyone on the way here but not on the way back?” You frowned in confusion.

Nott jerked his head toward the front of the vehicle. “Pucey rode here with his parents, but he’s coming back on the bus.”

You shrugged, letting out a wry laugh. “Guess I’m taking the aisle, then.” 

“No way.” Blaise’s objection was immediate as he shook his head. “C’mon, Berky and I’ll pack it in.” He threw back the armrests cordoning off his seat from Enzo’s and began to move away from the aisle and towards the window, nodding for his seatmate to do the same.

“Uhh…” Enzo glanced over at you and then down at his and Blaise’s seats, where there was clearly little more room to be found. “Yeah, sure.” Scooting down as best he could, he managed to create approximately two more inches of room before being squished between his linemate and the window.

You eyed the sliver of seat by the aisle they’d managed to empty. If you really, really tried, you might’ve been able to fit a quarter of your left thigh in the available space. Hockey players weren’t generally small humans, and there was no way they were going to be able to fit two of them and one photographer in a space meant for two people. “Guys, it’s really fine.” You weren’t overly fond of the idea of riding home cross-legged in the aisle, but as long as the driver didn’t hit too many sharp turns, you were sure you would be alright.

“C’mere.” Blaise patted his thigh, nodding towards you. “Just sit on me, then.”

You could’ve sworn the entire bus heard the breath that got stuck in your throat. Swallowing it thickly, you gave your head a little shake as you tried to ignore the way that your heart seemed suddenly determined to run away in your chest. “I – what?”

He shrugged, shooting you an easy grin. “It’s fine, just sit here.”

“I’m a whole person, I’m heavy! I can’t just sit on you for a couple hours.”

“What, you think I’ve been slacking in the weight room?” He let out a little scoff, and he would’ve looked almost offended if not for the playful glint in his dark eyes. “Sit.”

Finally, you relented, shaking your head and trying your best to look exasperated despite the fluttery feeling in your ribs. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears as you let him pull you into his chest, settling you across his huge thighs. As strong as he looked on the ice, he felt even stronger beneath you, your skin tingling where you felt his muscles tense and flex against you. He smelled ridiculously good, the scent of his expensive musky cologne enveloping you. You hoped with every fiber of your being that he couldn’t feel the embarrassingly loud pounding of your heartbeat as you sat against him.

“Comfy?”

You could feel the way his voice vibrated through his chest, surrounding you and seeping through your skin. It was an agonizing bliss, as was the little smirk he flashed your way, telling you that he knew he was teasing you.

“Yeah, I’m good.” The words were rushed, shoved from your mouth before your voice had the chance to waver.

When exactly you’d caught feelings for Blaise, you weren’t certain. Maybe it was during that first practice, when you’d filmed all of the boys answering a question as they exited the locker room and he’d given you a great sound byte with a handsome grin before winking and welcoming you to the team. Or maybe it was after the team had won the championship during your freshman year and he’d declared you their good-luck charm, insisting that you hold the enormous trophy and snatching your DSLR camera to take a picture. Perhaps it was piece by piece, day by day, your crush taking shape with every little pre-practice hug, every arm offered to help you across the ice when you needed to film from the opposite side of the rink, every wink and grin and touch. All you knew was that one day at the start of last season, your feelings had hit you like a train, and ever since that day, you couldn’t think straight or even breathe properly in the presence of one Blaise Zabini. 

He was your friend, just like any of the hockey guys. You were basically one of his teammates. But there were times when you wondered whether the two of you might be dancing on the edge of something more, glancing into the deep end and wondering whether you ought to jump in. You knew you shouldn’t make assumptions – all the hockey boys were flirts. It was probably just wishful thinking. Still, every time he wrapped his arms around you or complimented your photos after a game, you couldn’t help but get your hopes up. You were only human.

Trying to distract yourself, you leaned forward, trying to engage in whatever frenetic conversation Theo and Draco were having.

“...the Leafs are not going all the way this year!” Theo gave the bottom of his seat a frustrated smack. “You all wasted Marner, you’re wasting Matthews and Nylander, I’ll bet you miss the playoffs.”

“That’s rich, coming from the Oilers fan,” Draco scoffed. “McDavid’s walking the second he’s a free agent.”

You rolled your eyes, having heard this argument a million times before. “Canes are winning the cup,” you replied, your tone almost bored. “Anderson’s unreal, Slavin’s a wagon, they’ve got Aho, Ehlers, they’re getting a good season out of Taylor Hall…you can’t change my mind.” 

The boys glanced at each other, then glanced at you, wordless. Draco frowned, his mouth opening and closing a few times in futility. 

“That’s a good take,” Enzo finally said, breaking the silence with an emphatic nod. “That’s a really good take. Nice one.” He held his fist out for a bump and you obliged, laughing.

Glancing back at Draco and Theo, you shrugged your shoulders. “Your teams both suck.” You crinkled your nose playfully, keeping your gaze forward though you could practically feel Blaise’s eyes boring into the back of your head. Turning, you finally acknowledged him. “Sorry, Leafs fan.”

He raised his eyebrows, the intensity in his gaze sending a flurry of tingles across your skin. “Really?”

You turned around more fully to look at him, your weight resting on his right thigh as you moved in his grip. Shrugging, you widened your eyes in false innocence. “What? I’m just telling it like it is.”

Looking you up and down, he let out an incredulous little laugh. “You should keep in mind where you’re sitting before you go telling it like it is.”

The thing about your crush on Blaise was that you somehow couldn’t resist the urge to dig yourself in even deeper, even though you should’ve been trying to dig yourself out.

As you crossed your arms, you raised your own eyebrows. “What are you gonna do about it? Drop me?”

The edge of Blaise’s grin twitched, his nose scrunching playfully. “Nah.”

His strong arms were suddenly around you, pulling you all the way into his chest. You let out a little shriek of surprise, but then you felt the worst part – fingers digging into your sides, sending ticklish sparks through your stomach as a full-on scream slipped past your lips. Thankfully the bus was so loud that most people didn’t even turn around, but your cheeks burned as an unrelenting fountain of giggles poured from your lips thanks to Blaise’s torment.

“Blaise! Please!” You twisted and squirmed in his grip, but he was way too strong, and you could feel him smirking into your shoulder as his fingers teased your skin. “Pleaseee!”

“Who’s the best team in the league?” His voice lilted teasingly.

“The Leafs! The Leafs! I’m sorryyyy!” Finally, he relented, leaving you giggling and breathless in his arms.

“You heard it here first, boys. She’s a Leafs fan.”

Draco nodded astutely, glancing at you where you sat slumped against Blaise’s chest. “It’s for your own good.”

“No it is not,” you protested with a huff, sitting up. “And that was a sentiment provided under duress.” Turning, you crossed your arms as you pouted in Blaise’s direction. “You’re mean.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He gave a low chuckle as he circled his arms around your waist. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You didn’t – you stayed perched on his thigh as Mattheo passed back a fifth of Fireball and everyone drank, fueling the loud conversations and card games spawning throughout the bus. With the help of the alcohol, your muscles lost their tension. You relaxed back into Blaise’s arms, occasionally piping up to contribute to the heated hockey debates and chaotic partying stories. 

“I can barely drink this garbage anymore,” Theo groaned as he took another swig of the liquor. “Not after that post-'ship barn-burner our rookie year.”

“Wasn’t that the night you fell out the window of our Uber?” Blaise chimed in. Your eyes widened as you let out a giggle.

“Yes,” Theo groaned, looking as though he regretted bringing it up.

“Got his bell rung and he wasn’t even on the ice.” Mattheo’s face popped up in between Theo and Draco as he turned around in his seat, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“Wait, pause, I have so many questions.” You held up one finger in Theo’s direction. “Please tell me the car wasn’t moving.”

“Nearly parked.” Theo winced.

“Nearly?” 

“The back wheel only hit him a little.” Mattheo scrunched his nose, holding his thumb and forefinger slightly apart.

Shaking your head, you grinned. “That explains a lot.”

You felt the rumble of Blaise’s stifled laughter in his chest as Theo narrowed his eyes in your direction.

Enzo chuckled, nodding towards you. “You know, I always forget you weren’t around that night. Seems like you’ve been hanging out with us forever.”

“Didn’t think I was quite ready for a night out with you guys yet,” you mused. “I suppose I was right if Theo was falling out of car windows.”

“You sure came out after the next ‘ship, though.” Mattheo cracked an enormous grin as you groaned.

“Don’t even remind me!” You clamped your hands firmly over your face, shaking your head. “Never again. I can’t even think of gin without gagging.”

“Remind you of what?” Draco chimed in. “The drinking contest with Riddle? The arm-wrestling competition with the bouncer?” You aimed a swift kick at his shins and he dodged it, smirking. “Dancing on that table in the middle of the bar?”

“You’re the worst.”

“Zab carrying you home?”

You froze abruptly, your hands dropping from your face. Staring at Draco, you furrowed your brows in bewilderment. “Wait, what?”

Draco let out a low chuckle, a half-smile on his lips. “You don’t remember?”

Shaking your head, you thought back to that night. You remembered stumbling in the heels you’d foolishly worn as you walked back towards campus, but nothing after that. Shifting, you turned towards Blaise. 

“What happened?”

He exhaled softly, a little smile tugging at his lips. “It was no big deal. You were wearing those huge heels and you tripped, I didn’t want you to hurt yourself walking back.”

“He was hysterical,” Theo added dryly.

“He yelled at me in the middle of the street for letting you drink so much,” Mattheo drawled.

“Blaise!” You let out an incredulous little laugh. “It was my own stupid fault for drinking so much. You shouldn’t have yelled at Mattheo.”

“See?” Mattheo gestured so intensely in your direction that Draco was forced to duck. Blaise scoffed before turning back to you.

“You cut yourself when you fell,” he added. “I just brought you back to your dorm, helped you clean up your knees, and made sure you weren’t gonna be sick. ‘S all.”

“The dishes in the kitchen…” you trailed off, remembering the soapy dishes you’d woken up to in your sink the next morning. You’d always figured you’d cooked yourself a meal in your blacked-out state, wondering at how you’d managed to avoid burning the whole building down. “Did you cook for me?”

A low, breathy laugh slipped past his lips as he gave you that little smile that could melt you in an instant. He shrugged. “You said you really wanted mac n’ cheese.”

Your lips parted but you couldn’t find words, your heart fluttering in your chest with such intensity that you knew Blaise could hear it. But if he could, he didn’t mention it, instead gazing at you with that impossibly soft smile.

“Zab, you’re such a simp, it’s unreal.”

Mattheo’s voice provided a profoundly unwelcome snap back to reality, his smug grin hovering over the back of Theo’s seat like the Cheshire cat.

Before you could respond, you heard Blaise scoff, his muscles tensing beneath you. “I’ll show you a simp, Riddle.” You watched as his eyes narrowed in his teammate’s direction and his lip curled. “I’ll put you through the glass at practice tomorrow, you hear me?”

Despite the former’s love for a good fight, you could tell Mattheo had no desire to go toe-to-toe with Blaise as his eyes widened. “Heard.” He disappeared back into the group of seats ahead of you.

You couldn’t help but giggle at the memory of the defenseman’s alarmed expression as you turned back to Blaise. “Could you really do that?”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I wouldn’t,” he clarified, nodding in Mattheo’s direction. “But don’t tell him that.”

As the bus continued to cut through the pitch-black mountain roads, a sliver of the moon shining down on its passengers, the effects of the alcohol began to wane and the inside of the vehicle grew quiet. Players began to put in headphones, snack, or close their eyes, the remaining conversations growing hushed. Enzo soon fell asleep as Draco read and Theo stared out the window, leaving you and Blaise the only ones softly whispering to each other. 

You were completely cuddled up to him, sitting on his thigh with your knees pulled up to the seat, your head resting against his chest. His calloused fingers absentmindedly trailed across your ankle, his other hand wrapped around your waist. Your gaze was trained on the screen of your phone as you clipped the video footage you’d captured of the game, hoping to have a few posts ready for the team’s TikTok account by the end of the bus ride.

“Wow,” Blaise murmured, his eyes drifting down to your screen as you put the finishing touches on the clip of his game-winning goal. “You’re amazing at this, you know.”

You felt your cheeks growing warm, an irresistible grin tugging at your lips. “Says you, Mister OT-game-winner.” Giving him a gentle nudge in the ribs with your elbow, you giggled. “With goals like that, the posts make themselves.”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “There’s no way I could make that look like that.”

It was technically true – you’d added slow-motion and reverberation effects so the viewer could see every moment of the goal, every last second of buildup until he released the shot and the puck fired into the net. Still, you shrugged, a little smile on your face. 

“Just a little editing.”

He laughed, the low sound a whisper in the night. “Whatever you say.”

You finished another video before abandoning your work, turning off your phone and gazing out the window to let your eyes rest. The feeling of Blaise’s fingers trailing across your skin and the delicious smell of his cologne lulled you into a state of relaxation, your nerves slipping away entirely. 

Only time would tell what this night meant, but you didn’t want to worry about that yet. You felt nothing but safety, allowing your breathing to fall in time with his and your eyes to flutter closed as his fingers began to twine in the ends of your hair. Blaise had taken care of you before and he’d take care of you now. As you finally rested, you knew this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

He was intimately familiar with the feeling of a cold palm across his cheek, of the choking jab of a wand at his throat, he even knew the shock of a fist in his stomach; his father had taught him that much.

He also knew the feeling of a broken nose beneath his fist, the echoing ache of a black eye, the distinct burn of a split lip.

But not everything was so dark, he told himself, for he also knew frantic hands that tugged and pulled at buttons and zippers, the scratch of nails down his back, wet, messy, meaningless kisses; affection, surely.

He'd been touched plenty.

So he couldn't fathom why when your hand met his arm, he pulled back.

You'd leaned casually over him at breakfast, steadying yourself against his arm with a gentle touch to reach for the coffee and he'd yanked back so hard you nearly dropped the carafe and toppled off the bench beneath you.

"S-sorry!" you said genuinely, pulling your hand off of him and meeting his gold-flecked brown eyes that looked at you with alarm.

He held his arm close to his chest, protectively, like you'd burned him. Because, in a way, it felt like you had.

Your palm had radiated warmth, a gentle pressure, a rush of sweet serotonin that made his head feel like he'd sucked helium. It was perhaps the only touch he didn't have a framework of understanding for and his brow furrowed in confusion before he turned from you, intent on ignoring the feeling you'd stoked inside of him.

But it was as if his body was seeking you out after that, perhaps craving the unknown and unfamiliar, because suddenly you were everywhere.

He was leaving the quidditch pitch after practice, head down, fumbling with the fabric wrapped shoddily around his swollen fingers, cursing quietly as they twinged when he nearly ran straight into you.

You came up short in front of him, your breath caught in your lungs as you blinked up at him; he noted the tint of blush on your cheeks and the flutter of your long lashes.

Your eyes caught the movement of his hands and with a quick searching glance you slowly reached forward to help.

Your hand came to his large palm and though he didn't intend to, he jerked away again. Not far, but in some sort of automatic reaction to whatever it is that you were.

You paused, your touch lingering until he held his hand forward again and you gently adjusted the wrapping, careful, patient, and unrushed.

He forgot how to breathe.

Your fingertips brushed his palm, delicately danced around his swollen fingers and his pain was long forgotten as he felt something much stronger swelling in his stomach, a blooming, an unfurling, a hurricane of pixies.

You pinned the medical wrap with exceeding care and looked up softly and smiled.

"That should at least get you to the infirmary" you said quietly.

There was his furrowed brow again.

"Thank you..." he said with a lilt at the end, like it was a question, because you were a complete enigma to him.

"You're welcome, Mattheo" you said kindly, and then slid past him without another word.

He turned to watch you go.

You didn't want anything from him, he didn't think. You weren't coming on to him, though he wouldn't have minded it. So what the hell was your deal? He couldn't figure it out.

All he knew is that if that is how the gentlest brush of your fingers on his palm made him feel, he desperately wanted more.

Mattheo found small ways to get close to you after that; conveniently running into you between Potions and Divination, so you'd have a long walk through the castle together.

Then, bumping into you in Tomes and Scrolls after he'd heard you talking about a new book you wanted the previous night at dinner. He had to act like he knew what the hell you were talking about as you eagerly explained the plot; all he knew is that he liked the way you smiled, and liked the way being close to you made him feel; a contact high that he rode the entire afternoon by your side.

When you both returned to the castle, feet shuffling over the cobblestones at the clocktower courtyard you slowed beside him and he turned just in time to catch you as you threw your arms around him, looping them over his shoulders in a hug.

He froze, tense, his hands held out awkwardly on either side of you, unsure of what to do until you nuzzled in closer, your cheek against his and his body folded into you, his automatic defense system dropping and his arms circling you, daring to hold you against him.

He took a breath.

Another.

And he felt your warmth radiating through him in a type of magic he didn't understand but vowed never to stop seeking.

"So, you and YN, huh?" Theo mused as he twirled an unlit cigarette between his fingers that night in the common room.

Mattheo cocked an eyebrow at him.

"You hitting that, orrrr?"

"What?" No!"

He wasn't sure why the insinuation infuriated him, though perhaps it had something to do with the glint in Theo's eye, like he'd thought about it himself.

The spinning stopped and suddenly Mattheo had Theo's full attention.

"Are you... with her?" he asked.

"I — no?" Mattheo answered, confused. Because you weren't together, right? Yet everything with you felt so incredibly intimate, stripping him bare from the inside out. It was more intoxicating than anything he'd felt for or done with anyone before you.

The thought alone made him panic.

Because he realized suddenly he didn't want to share you with anyone else.

On one of those afternoons where the sunset seemed to linger, sending bursts of peach and orange over the oaks and pines as they swayed in the warm breeze Mattheo walked by your side as you admired the wildflowers in the field past the greenhouse. Because, of course that's what you were doing; he didn't even know this field was here, but you saw beauty everywhere, even where he was sure none existed.

He knew he needed to say something; he felt like he had a swarm of bees in his throat that he couldn't swallow as the words danced and garbled in his mouth; he didn't even know where to begin.

"What...—" he tried, his feet stopping as he looked down at them and rubbed the back of his neck, the familiar furrow in his brow returning, scrunching his face in a permanent look of uncertainty you'd grown accustomed to.

"What are we? What is this?" he asked with a hint of exasperation.

You smiled softly and looked up at him in the pink-peach filter of the waning day. His face was both puzzled and pained and you reached up to smooth the ever-present crease in his brow.

He tensed, rigid beneath your touch before relenting, the confusion on his face giving way to compassion, his amber-gold eyes searching yours.

"What do you want this to be?" you asked.

I want you all to myself. I want to feel this way every single day. I want to make you feel the way you make me feel. I want, I want, I want.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Slowly, he reached for you, trying to emulate the way you touched him: reverent, unrushed; not greedy, not hungry, not harsh. He reached to cup your face and let the pad of his thumb brush your cheek, tender and sweet.

He felt pressure like building nausea in his stomach that he knew well enough now to call nerves, and a thumping in his chest he'd learned was care, a tremble in his hand that you taught him was the effort to be gentle and an ache in his bones that he knew was longing and perhaps the beginning of something akin to love.

He leaned forward, pulling you towards him, and he brushed his lips over yours.

Sunshine erupted inside of him.

You forgot how to breathe — a night's-worth of summer fireworks between your ribs.

Your palm came to rest on his cheek but he didn't pull back, and your other hand fisted his shirt but he didn't tense; you laughed against his lips and he laughed back, carefree and weightless and he realized all at once that he was never starved for touch, only for you.

You smiled, your heart heavy with emotion, as you watched your best friend join her life with Draco's in an unbreakable vow.

You felt a swell of happiness at how sweet and sacrosanct the moment was, completely in awe of the beauty of it; weddings were always emotional, but this was the first for your group of friends, and in many ways it felt like it marked the start of a new chapter of your lives.

You glanced down the row of seats to see each of the boys dressed impeccably, dazzlingly handsome in their tuxedos. Blaise and Theo were watching intently, though Theo was tugging at his collar, and Enzo was slouched in his seat, arms crossed, impatiently waiting for the open bar at the reception though even his gaze was locked on the couple at the front of the room.

Finally, your eyes came to rest on the boy next to you. Mattheo was sitting rather unusually still, breathing calmly with the faintest hint of a smile on his lips that made your heart flutter. It was nice to see that despite all of their antics, there might be something in each of these boys that made them realize how special this was.

Your attention was pulled back as Draco began to speak his vows. He was the picture of calm, but you knew him well enough to hear the shake in his voice, his nerves.

"I pledge to honor you, love you and cherish you today and every day. Today I say 'I do' but to me that means 'I will'. I will stand by your side in the good and the bad. I bind myself to you, your happiness, your success, and your smile."

In a moment you felt the warmth of Mattheo's attention and turned to see him looking at you as Draco's soft whispers continued, though Mattheo didn't look away, instead, he was searching your face, drinking you in, like perhaps he was imagining saying those same words to you one day.

You blushed furiously as you felt goosebumps rise on your skin and your breath caught in your throat.

"I promise to be your guiding light in the darkness, your protector, a warming comfort in the cold, and a shoulder to lean on when life is too much to bear on your own."

Mattheo smiled at the words as he looked at you, eyes twinkling, like he was saying them to you in his mind, like he was sure, now, that that's exactly what he wanted you to hear him say. You felt tears line your eyes.

"You are my every dream come true. And if you give me your hand—"

Mattheo extended his palm to you subtly, mirroring the vow with one of his own. You glanced down and gently set your palm in his, tangling your fingers together as he grasped you tightly.

"—I will give you forever."

Your eyes lifted to his in surprise, but he didn't so much as flinch, instead, he let his smile swell on his perfect lips in a way you felt somewhere deep in your chest as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

His mind flickered for just a second to the small velvet box tucked in the back of his dresser, of the emerald and diamond ring inside of it, and then he tugged you toward him, pulling you close as he ducked his head, his lips softly brushing your ear as he whispered, "I love you pretty girl."

The emptiness of the bedroom betrayed the fact that Zabini Manor was hardly Blaise’s home. He was merely passing through this place, counting down the days until September. His school trunk sat alone, tucked into a vast walk-in closet, but he often visited it. Afternoons ticked by as he eyed the ebony-stained wood and the silver hardware, thinking of the upcoming school year.

Normally, summer wasn’t so bad. He’d often spent the months traveling with his mother or visiting the Malfoys. This year, though, his mother had brought home a new contender for the title of Mr. Zabini just in time for Blaise to return from Hogwarts. June had been filled with the discomfort and frustration of trying to accommodate yet another stranger in his mother’s house, spending hours in his room as he avoided the arrogant smirks and prideful glances of the interloper. Blaise couldn’t understand why the blokes all looked so satisfied with themselves – they were always gone within the year, accompanied by a scant explanation from his mother and an uncomfortable silence that filled the crevices of their conversations for a time.

Mercifully, his mother and the stranger had left for Cote D’Ivoire together on the second of July. Being left out of the family holiday scarcely bothered Blaise at first. However, as midnight threatened to turn the twenty-fourth into the twenty-fifth, the silence of the Manor began to feel like a taunt. He and Draco had used and abused the empty house in about every way imaginable throughout the month, throwing parties every night of the week and inviting everyone they knew. But when the lights turned off and everyone went home, he was met with the same hollow solitude, reminding him yet again that he was alone. Like a monster under the bed in the mind of a child, the emptiness hid away until the weary hours of night, when it slipped out to invade every crevice of the place.

When he couldn’t stand the silence anymore, he dipped a hand into his school trunk and pulled out a bundle of letters. Your handwriting danced across each page, and he could practically hear your voice speaking to him as he read the words stretching across the parchment. Though you were away on your own holiday with your parents and sister, reading the descriptions of the sights you’d seen and the stories you’d sent him about your family’s adventures helped quell the emptiness in his chest.

For much of his life, he’d scarcely given the idea of love a passing thought. Perhaps it had earned a cold laugh from his lips when Nott or Berkshire was down bad for some girl, but little more. The revolving door of Messrs. Zabini in his mother’s house had created little doubt in his mind that “love” was little more than a passing notion, a matter of convenience or a temporary impulse soon to be disposed of.

Then, Blaise met you.

You were his assigned dueling partner in Defense Against the Dark Arts. He wasn’t sure what deep-seated masochism had made him fall for the person required to throw hexes and jinxes at him from across the classroom, but every little combative flicker in your eyes and incantation from your lips intrigued him all the more. In October, he found himself looking forward to a class he’d previously held in little regard. By November, he was practicing spells in the Slytherin common room just so he could impress you the next time he saw you. But in December, he found himself facing the prospect of a change in partners as Professor Snape stood at the front of the classroom, frowning and telling his students that they’d make lousy duelists if they only learned one person’s style of combat. So he did what any normal person would’ve done.

He pretended to be struggling immensely in a subject he was consistently acing so that he could be tutored by you.

When you agreed to help him, he felt like he was on the top of the world. The thought of having no more reason to talk to you every week had created this horrible, suffocating feeling in his chest that he didn’t quite understand, but was relieved to have pushed aside for a few more months. However, it quickly became apparent that Blaise did not need help with Defense Against the Dark Arts. He easily grasped every concept you explained to him, and he was terrible at pretending otherwise.

But to his surprise, you kept showing up to each scheduled tutoring session, even once you’d run out of lessons to teach. At first, the two of you did the Defense homework together or revised for your exams. Then, you started just talking, spending hours in the library or one of your common rooms telling each other about your days and laughing about the ridiculous drama that was always in the air at Hogwarts.

In February, during one of those rambling conversations, you confessed to Blaise with a soft voice and downcast eyes that no one had ever bought you flowers before. He couldn’t fathom the thought that no one had shown you the treatment that you deserved. The little downturn of your lips and sadness in your ordinarily confident eyes invaded his mind until he was ready to make a fool of himself just to make you happy. The Slytherin who’d once only had an icy laugh to offer at the thought of love was suddenly spending his waking hours thinking of ways to spoil you. You came back to your dormitory on Valentine’s Day to a bed full of the most flowers you’d ever seen in one place, sitting in the arms of a stuffed bear taller than your headboard and as wide as the mattress it was sitting on.

By March, most of your study sessions consisted of more snogging than studying, which Blaise considerably preferred to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

When Blaise said goodbye to you for the summer, his chest felt like it was liable to split in two. The lump in his throat as he wrapped you in his arms at Platform 9 ¾ was, frankly, embarrassing. Although you assured him that the time would pass quickly and the two of you would be reunited in no time, every day that stood in the way of holding you again seemed to pass more slowly than the last. The formerly jaded heir to the house of Zabini now laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, your face flashing through his mind over and over as he desperately tried to wish away the month of July

In the distance, another jagged bolt of heat lightning flashed through the sky. The wind whipped across the open acres of the Zabini estate, threatening a thunderstorm and sending branches knocking against the doors to the balcony. Blaise rolled over in bed, thoughts of you still running through his mind as the wind howled at his back.

The echoing knocks against the French doors grew louder - more insistent.

Frowning, Blaise sat up abruptly. That wasn’t the sound of leafy branches scraping the balcony. Someone was knocking at the door. Taking ahold of the wand that was perched on his bedside table, he stood, slipping across the room and toward the French doors. In the darkness, he couldn’t discern anything but the shadowy shape of a figure standing on his balcony.

Just as he began to point his wand, another crack of light appeared in the sky. The face peering back at him through the door was your face. Your skin was glistening with sweat from the excruciating temperature and your hair was stuck to your forehead but it was you all the same.

“How –” The word fell from his lips in a rush as he hurriedly closed the rest of the distance between you two, throwing the doors open. He was greeted by the sweet smell of your perfume and your bright, beautiful smile as you looked back at him. Before you could so much as step over the threshold, his arms were around you, clutching you as close to him as he could possibly manage.

“How are you here?” His voice was muffled as he spoke into your hair. He could scarcely believe this was real. Every wish he’d made in the emptiness of the Manor had suddenly come to fruition.

“My parents had Ministry business in London.” Your face was pressed into Blaise’s chest, and he felt your grin widen as he pressed kisses into your hair. “My sister said she’d cover for me if I wanted to see you while they were gone and, well…here I am.”

“But the anti-Apparation wards…” He trailed off, still not understanding how it was possible that he was holding you in his arms.

“I can fly a broom, you know.” Blaise finally released you to see you smirking playfully up at him. “Perhaps I’m not as great as you, Mister Chaser, but I do manage. It’s not like it was difficult to find the place.” You waved a hand at the enormous Manor house with a laugh. “In fact, it’s rather hard to miss.”

“You flew halfway across the country to see me?” Gone was any trace of the arrogance that most of the wizarding world associated with Blaise Zabini. He was staring at you with unbridled bewilderment.

“I was worried!” You held your hands up in an emphatic gesture. “You sounded so…empty in your last few letters. I hated the idea of you all by yourself in this big house.”

“You are…” He trailed off, shaking his head as he stared at you in wonder. “Come here.” Taking a hold of your waist, he pulled you towards him, crashing his lips into yours.

You twined your arms around his neck, a little whine slipping from your lips, and he groaned unabashedly. He longed to lose himself in you and never resurface, to drown himself in the taste of your lipgloss and the smell of your perfume. Every one of his senses was overtaken by you and he couldn’t imagine a better reality than the one he was experiencing right this instant.

“We should go inside,” you finally murmured, your voice shaky and breathless. “ I think it’s about to storm.”

Any awareness of the heat lightning in the air had slipped into the deep recesses of his mind the moment Blaise saw your face, but he realized with a start that you were right. Hot wind blew threateningly across the balcony and in the silence, he heard the first low rumblings of thunder in the distance. “Come on, love.” With a gentle hand at the base of your spine, he guided you through the open doors.

Despite the heat, Blaise clung to you as the two of you collapsed into his bed, stroking your hair tenderly while you laid your head against his chest. You clutched his other hand in yours, playing with the silver rings on his fingers as you spoke in low voices and watched the incoming storm through the windows.

“Did your mum tell you when she’ll be back?” There was a hint of hesitation in your tone, seemingly afraid of the answer that he gave as he shook his head. The sadness in your gaze as you glanced back up at him made his chest ache – he desperately wanted to assure you not to worry about such things.

“It’s alright.” He shrugged, trying to feign nonchalance. “Rather them be away than have some strange bloke here.”

A furrow appeared between your eyebrows that he immediately tried to smooth away with his thumb. A rumble of thunder filled the silence as you chewed on your bottom lip. Then, after a moment, you finally spoke. “We should go somewhere together.”

Blaise let out a low huff of amusement. “Where?”

“Anywhere.” He tucked a lock of hair behind your ear as you glanced up at him. “Anywhere that’s not a massive, empty house where all you can hear is your own thoughts. We can get on our brooms and go to the sea, or the city, or some Muggle suburb where we can watch the neighbors argue about the latest gossip. Just…somewhere else.”

“‘S alright now.” His lips curved upward into a smile. “You’re here.”

“You sap.” You crinkled your nose at him, but you were grinning from ear to ear.

His eyes softened. “We can go wherever you want.”

You laid nose-to-nose with Blaise, whispering into the late hours of the night as rain began to pour down onto the Zabini estate, finally banishing the oppressive heat. Plans for adventures floated through the air, offering excitement for the days ahead. When you finally fell asleep, it was in his arms. He watched your eyelids flutter and droop and your body relax, grinning as you snuggled closer to him. Finally, he closed his own eyes, the knot of emptiness that had lived in his chest having finally vanished.

Sixth Year

Hogwarts Castle — Scottish Highlands, Scotland

Sixth year was supposed to be simple.

Study hard. Pass your N.E.W.T.s. Try not to get murdered by Hermione Granger's increasingly aggressive study schedules.

Reasonable goals, honestly.

Unfortunately, Hogwarts rarely cared about reasonable goals.

Breakfast in the Great Hall smelled like burnt toast, strong coffee, and the collective suffering of students surviving on four hours of sleep. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted windows overhead while owls swooped between tables delivering letters, parcels, and occasionally mild chaos.

At the Ravenclaw table, you were busy attacking a piece of toast with far more hostility than it deserved.

Across from you, Ginny watched for a moment before setting down her pumpkin juice.

"Why do you look like someone's spat in your coffee?"

You looked up immediately.

"Because Binns assigned us three essays before nine in the morning."

Ginny snorted.

"You love essays."

"That's not the point."

"You color-code your notes for fun."

"That's also not the point."

A few seats away, Hermione finally looked up from the alphabetized monstrosity she called a planner. She scanned the two of you over the top of her parchment before letting out a long-suffering sigh.

"Honestly, both of you sound ridiculous."

Ginny pointed dramatically across the table. 

“See? She gets it.” 

“No, I don’t,” Hermione corrected. “You’re enabling her theatrics.” 

You pressed a hand to your chest in mock offense.  

“Hermione Granger accusing me of theatrics is rich considering you once cried over an Arithmancy grade in fifth year.”

Hermione looked scandalized. 

“I got a ninety-eight.” 

“Exactly.” 

Ginny burst out laughing while Hermione narrowed her eyes at you over the rim of her teacup. 

“You’re never letting that go, are you?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

Truthfully, breakfast with Hermione and Ginny had become one of your favorite parts of sixth year. Hermione brought structure. Ginny brought chaos. You mostly contributed sarcasm and snacks.

The arrangement worked surprisingly well.

“You’re both avoiding the real issue,” Ginny announced suddenly. 

You frowned. “What real issue?” 

“The fact the Lorenzo Berkshire has been staring at you for the last five minutes.” 

You nearly inhaled your coffee.

Hermione immediately glanced toward the Slytherin table with all the subtlety of a Bombarda spell. “Oh dear.”

“Oh dear?” you repeated weakly.

“He’s absolutely looking at you.” 

You grimaced. “Maybe he’s looking at someone behind me.”

“He’s not,” Ginny said.

“He could be.” 

“He winked,” Hermione informed you helpfully.

You closed your eyes briefly.

Across the room, the Slytherin table erupted into laughter. 

You still did not look over.

You refused to give him the satisfaction.

That was exactly what he wanted.

Lorenzo Berkshire had the sort of laugh that carried across a room. Loud enough to turn heads, charming enough that nobody seemed to mind. Unfortunately, half the female population of Hogwarts appeared to find that endearing.

The truly irritating part was that he was objectively attractive in the same way fire was objectively hot. Widely acknowledged. Scientifically verifiable. Potentially dangerous if handled incorrectly.

He was tall in a lazy sort of way, as though he'd never quite realized how much space he occupied. His uniform was perpetually untidy, sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows and tie loosened just enough to suggest he'd either come from Quidditch practice or a terrible decision.

Sometimes both. 

Girls liked Lorenzo because he flirted shamelessly and made them feel chosen. Boys liked him because he was reckless and somehow impossible to genuinely dislike. 

You disliked him anyway. 

Mostly on principle. 

Hermione gathered her books neatly into her bag before standing. “Come on. We’re going to be late for Charms.”

“We meaning you,” Ginny corrected. “Some of us weren’t cursed with responsibility.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. “You’re impossible.” 

“So I’ve been told.” 

The three of you moved through the crowded corridors together while students rushed toward class around you. Hermione walked with purpose like she always did while continuing a conversation about N.E.W.T.-level coursework.

You listened with half your attention until Hermione suddenly stopped speaking mid-sentence.

“What?” 

Hermione's eyes flickered over your shoulder.

The look alone made your stomach sink.

"You've gained a shadow."

You already knew who it was before you turned.

Sure enough, Lorenzo appeared beside you a second later, grinning like he'd been personally invited to persistently annoy you.

You let out an immediate groan. “Go away.”

Instead of being offended, Lorenzo looked absolutely delighted.

“Good morning to you too, little raven.” 

“I’d rather drink Acromantula venom than be called pet names by you.” 

“That’s oddly specific.” 

“I’ve had time to think about it.” 

Ginny made a loud, delighted sound of laughter, while Hermione—traitor that she was—looked far too entertained for someone who was supposed to be the voice of reason.

Lorenzo glanced between the group before focusing back on you. “You always this friendly in the morning?" 

“Only with people I dislike.”

“Ouch.” 

“You’ll survive.” 

“I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “That one might’ve actually hurt.” 

You finally glanced at him properly. “You’re literally smiling.” 

“Maybe I enjoy it.” 

“Well, that’s concerning.” 

“The insults build character.” 

“You seem overdeveloped already.”

That earned a real laugh from him—warm and surprised like he hadn’t expected you to keep up with him so easily. 

Regrettably, Hermione noticed it too.

You saw the exact moment something clicked in her expression. 

Merlin help you. 

Hermione Granger with an idea was one of the most dangerous creatures alive. 

“You know,” she said mildly, “I actually think you two would get along if you stopped bickering for one second.” 

You and Lorenzo answered at the exact same time. 

“No, we wouldn’t.”

The synchronicity alone was enough to send Ginny into hysterics.

Lorenzo looked vaguely offended.

“You wound me, Hermione.”

Hermione smiled innocently. 

“Pity.” 

“The bullying in this castle has become outrageous.” 

“You started it,” you informed him.

“Did I?” 

“Yes.” 

“When?” 

“Approximately every time you speak.”

The thing was, Lorenzo shouldn't have been that attractive while carrying three textbooks under one arm and grinning like an idiot.

Yet somehow, tragically, he was. 

By the time you reached the Charms classroom, you were already aiming for your usual seat by the window. Safe. Predictable. Strategically far away from distractions. 

You had just settled in when Lorenzo dropped into the seat directly beside you.

You turned slowly to look at him.

“There are other chairs.” 

“But this one’s closest to you.” 

A strangled noise came from Ginny behind you. Hermione looked one second away from completely losing it. 

“You’re insufferable,” you informed him.

“Only for you, love.” 

Professor Flitwick clapped his hands together excitedly once everyone settled down. 

“Good morning, class! Before we begin, I’ve decided students could benefit from collaborative seating arrangements this term.” 

Your stomach sank.

Then he called your name.

“You will be seated beside Mr. Berkshire.”

For a moment, the world genuinely felt unfair.

Actually unfair.

Somewhere across the room, Theo Nott made a choking sound while Mattheo Riddle laughed into his sleeve.

Lorenzo turned to you with the expression of someone who had just won the lottery.

“Oh,” he said, delighted. “This is going to be fun.” 

At first, it was just Charms.

Then it became study groups that you hadn’t exactly agreed to but somehow always ended up attending anyway.

Then, somewhere between shared parchment and late-night revisions, Lorenzo Berkshire stopped being an occasional nuisance and became a permanent fixture in your life.

It started, technically, with tutoring.

Or more accurately, it started with Lorenzo repeatedly refusing to leave you alone until you finally gave in out of sheer exhaustion.

“Just one hour,” you warned, already gathering your notes as you met him in the library later that week. You made a point of sounding firm, like there was any chance that would matter.

Lorenzo leaned back in his chair looking entirely too pleased with himself, as though he had just won something important.

“Knew you’d say yes.”

You didn’t even look up as you flipped open your book. “You know nothing about me.”

That finally made him pause. His gaze flickered toward you, and something about his expression softened in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“I think I’d like to,” he said.

It was simple. Casual, even.

It shouldn't have affected you the way it did.

Unfortunately, it absolutely did.

The first session was supposed to last an hour.

It turned into three.

Three turned into six over the course of the week.

And before you really had time to notice what was happening, Lorenzo had developed an alarming habit of appearing wherever you happened to be studying.

The library.

Empty classrooms.

Even once by the Black Lake between classes, as if he’d simply materialized there by coincidence and not intent.

At some point, you stopped asking how he kept finding you.

Then, somehow, it became normal for him to sit at the Ravenclaw table during breakfast, claiming he needed help with assignments he very obviously already understood.

“You realize you’re actually smart, right?” you asked one evening while going over Charms theory with him, watching him scribble notes with exaggerated seriousness.

Lorenzo looked up immediately, scandalized. “That’s a horrible thing to say to someone.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He placed a hand over his chest like you had wounded him deeply. “Don’t ruin my reputation.”

Despite yourself, you laughed.

The sound made something in the air shift.

Lorenzo went very still for half a second.

“What?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly, already looking back down at his notes.

But after that, he looked at you differently.

Study sessions became routine.

Library corners tucked between shelves where no one bothered you. Empty classrooms after hours when the castle had gone quiet. Late nights in the common room when the fire burned low and time seemed to stretch.

You learned things about Lorenzo that didn’t fit the version of him people talked about in the corridors.

The strangest part was that he never seemed interested in proving them wrong.

Around everyone else, Lorenzo performed. He was charming because people expected him to be. Confident because it was easier than admitting when he wasn’t.

But around you, he was different.

Softer.

Almost like he had forgotten he was supposed to be pretending.

Beneath the charm and the arrogance, he was funny in a way that didn’t feel performative when it was just the two of you. Clever in a way people overlooked because he preferred deflecting with jokes instead of proving himself.

And he learned things about you too.

That your sarcasm wasn’t just attitude, it was armor. That you were sharper than you let people assume. That you could keep up with him—word for word, thought for thought—without ever really trying.

What surprised everyone else was how easily he started fitting into your life.

Lorenzo had always been someone people noticed. He entered rooms loudly, left them louder, and somehow managed to make every conversation revolve around him.

But with you, he stopped trying so hard.

He didn’t need an audience.

He didn’t need everyone laughing.

He just sat beside you in the library, stole your notes when he was bored, argued with your theories, and somehow became the person you expected to see whenever you walked into a room.

Somewhere in all of that, something shifted.

You weren’t sure when it happened.

Maybe it was during the nights when everyone else had gone to bed and the castle felt like it belonged only to the two of you. Maybe it was the way he started remembering small things without thinking—how you took your coffee, which quills you preferred, when you stopped talking because you were tired rather than because you were finished.

Or maybe it was simpler than that.

Maybe it was just the way he could make you laugh after a bad day without even trying.

The first time you noticed something was different was when someone else made him laugh.

It was ridiculous, really.

Lorenzo laughed with everyone.

That was what he did.

He was charming and easy and impossible not to like.

But when you saw another girl leaning against the doorway of the library, smiling at him the same way half the school did, something uncomfortable twisted in your chest.

You hated that you noticed.

You hated even more that he noticed you noticing.

Whatever it was, the result was the same.

You stopped dreading seeing him.

Then, worse than that, you started looking for him.

Which was a problem.

Because Lorenzo Berkshire was exactly the kind of person you had spent years convincing yourself you would never fall for.

Too charming.

Too confident.

Too impossible to ignore.

It was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

“You’re staring again,” you said one evening without looking up from your parchment, though you could feel his gaze from across the table in the library.

“I’m thinking,” Lorenzo replied easily.

“That’s concerning.”

“I think you’re pretty.”

Your quill nearly slipped from your fingers.

Across the table, Lorenzo was watching you like he already knew exactly what he’d done, and worse, like he was enjoying it.

“You can’t just say things like that,” you managed, forcing your attention back to your notes.

“Why not?”

The question came softly, almost genuinely curious.

“Because—”

You stopped.

Because what?

Because it made your chest feel tight in a way you didn’t have a name for? Because Lorenzo Berkshire flirted with half the school without consequence and you refused, absolutely refused, to become another girl who misread it? Because you had no interest in being someone he could smile at once and forget the next day?

You pressed your quill harder against the parchment than necessary.

Lorenzo leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table, still watching you.

“Cute,” he said.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He said it so easily, so confidently, like it was simply a fact he’d already decided for both of you.

And the worst part was how sure he sounded.

Like he might actually be right.

The weeks that followed only made things worse.

Study sessions stopped feeling like something you endured and started becoming something you actually looked forward to. Somewhere between arguing over essays, sharing notes, and pretending not to laugh at Lorenzo’s increasingly ridiculous commentary, spending time with him became easy in a way you hadn’t expected.

The days seemed to pass faster when you knew you’d see him afterward. Shared jokes slipped naturally into conversation, inside references appeared without either of you remembering where they started, and small habits formed so quietly that neither of you ever acknowledged them aloud. 

Yet somehow, despite all of that, the thing that unsettled you most was how normal it felt.

Lorenzo would save you a seat without asking. You would bring an extra scone to class because you already knew he’d forgotten breakfast. He’d lean over your shoulder to read something and remain there a second longer than necessary. You’d catch yourself looking for him whenever you entered a room.

And somewhere in between all of that, lingering glances started lasting a second too long to comfortably ignore. 

By the time Lorenzo invited you to a Slytherin party, saying no felt strangely impossible.

Which was how you ended up making what would later prove to be a catastrophic decision.

The Slytherin common room looked nothing like the library where most of your time together had been spent.

Everything glowed beneath low enchanted lighting that cast shifting shades of green across the stone walls, making the room feel both softer and more dangerous at the same time. Music pulsed through the space while clusters of students crowded the room, dancing, laughing, and making the sort of decisions they would almost certainly regret by breakfast the following morning. 

You stayed near the drinks table for as long as you could, fingers wrapped too tightly around a cup you weren’t even really drinking, wondering at what exact point your life had brought you here.

“You look terrified.”

The voice came from beside you.

You turned slightly to find Lorenzo leaning casually against the wall, looking completely at home in the chaos surrounding him. One shoulder rested against the stone while a familiar smile tugged at his mouth, as though he found your discomfort endlessly entertaining.

“I am terrified.”

His grin widened.

“Of me?” 

“Of Slytherins.”

Lorenzo dramatically pressed a hand against his chest.

“That’s offensive.”

“You people are deeply unsettling.”

The laugh that escaped him was warm and entirely unapologetic. 

Within minutes of arriving, the evening had already unfolded exactly as you’d expected. Pansy had offered you a shot with the enthusiasm of someone conducting a highly unethical scientific experiment. Theo had kissed you directly on the mouth for reasons he refused to explain and then disappeared into the crowd laughing. Blaise had taken one look at you before solemnly warning you to avoid the cupboard near the stairs without offering any additional information whatsoever. 

You still weren't entirely sure whether he'd been joking. 

Amidst the chaos, Lorenzo stayed close as though you might disappear if he let you out of his sight for even one second.

"You know," he said lightly, stepping closer as the crowd shifted around you, "you're here voluntarily." 

You let out a quiet laugh.

“Not my finest moment,” you admitted.

That earned another grin.

"No," he agreed. "But definitely one of my favorites."

Your eyes narrowed.

"That wasn't even remotely smooth."

"It worked though."

Before you could argue, his gaze drifted over you for a moment before returning to your face.

"You look nice tonight."

The words were casual. The effect was anything but. Your pulse stumbled hard enough that you immediately hated yourself for it.

"Don't do that."

His brow lifted innocently.

"Do what?"

"Say things like that and then act innocent afterward."

Something flickered briefly across his expression before disappearing beneath a grin.

"I'm never innocent."

"That's exactly the problem."

His smile softened slightly.

"And yet," he murmured, voice quieter now, "you still came here with me."

You hated how much warmth that sent straight through your chest.

As the evening wore on, the noise gradually blurred together into something distant and indistinct. Time stopped feeling particularly linear. Music, laughter, conversations, and movement all folded together until the entire night felt hazy around the edges.

Through it all, Lorenzo remained beside you.

Sometimes it was a hand settling briefly against your lower back as he guided you through a crowded room. Sometimes it was his fingers brushing yours when he passed you another drink. Sometimes it was the way he leaned slightly closer whenever he spoke, forcing you to pay attention even when you were determined not to.

None of it should have mattered.

Unfortunately, all of it did.

Every touch felt intentional.

Every glance lingered just a fraction longer than necessary. 

By the time you realized how isolated you had become from the rest of the party, you and Lorenzo were already standing near one of the quieter staircases, far enough away from the crowd that the music sounded distant.

The sudden quiet felt strangely intimate.

Earlier that night, when you’d been overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd and far too many people asking questions, Lorenzo had noticed before you said anything.

He always did.

He had quietly handed you a drink, guided you somewhere less crowded, and never once made you feel like you were difficult for needing a moment.

That was the dangerous thing about him.

He made it very easy to forget what everyone else said about him.

“You trust me?” Lorenzo asked quietly.

The question caught you off guard.

Not because the answer was difficult.

Because it wasn’t.

You did.

Somewhere between late-night study sessions and conversations that stretched long after they should have ended, Lorenzo had become the one person you never questioned.

“Yeah,” you admitted.

His expression changed slightly.

Like he hadn’t expected that answer.

Like your trust meant more than he knew what to do with.

Lorenzo kissed you carefully the first time.

Like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.

Like he wasn't entirely convinced this was real either.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt before you even realized what you were doing. His hand settled gently against your waist, steady and warm, and neither of you seemed particularly eager to be the first one to break apart.

The second kiss carried far less caution.

After that, everything became a blur of racing heartbeats, stolen breaths, and the quiet sound of his laughter against your mouth as though he still couldn't quite believe any of this was happening.

Later, when he led you through dimly lit corridors toward his dormitory, you knew you should've felt nervous.

Instead, you felt safe.

Which was somehow far more dangerous.

Because boys like Lorenzo were never supposed to feel safe.

They were supposed to be temporary. Exciting. The kind of mistake you laughed about years later while your friends reminded you they had warned you from the beginning.

Yet every time you looked at him, he seemed impossibly careful with you, as though he was handling something fragile, as though breaking your trust would be the worst thing he could possibly do.

When you finally stepped inside, he rested his forehead briefly against yours.

"Are you sure?"

The question was so quiet it almost hurt.

You hesitated, only for a second, but it was enough.

His expression softened immediately.

"You don't have to do anything," he said at once. "Seriously. We can just sleep. I don't mind."

That shouldn't have affected you as much as it did.

You laughed softly instead, mostly because your heart was beating too fast and you had no idea what to do with your hands.

"I'm fine."

Lorenzo studied your face carefully, like he was searching for something hidden there.

"You'd tell me if you weren't?"

"Yeah."

His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek.

"You nervous, little raven?"

"Just a little."

His smile softened.

"You don't have to be. Not with me. Never with me."

That should have been reassuring.

Instead, it made your chest tighten in a way you couldn't quite explain. Maybe because it sounded sincere. Maybe because, somehow, sincerity felt far more dangerous than charm ever had.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden nervousness twisting in your stomach, but the words slipped out before you could stop them.

"I just... haven't done this before."

The silence that followed settled between you almost immediately.

For perhaps the first time in your life, Lorenzo looked completely stripped of every defense he possessed. The usual smirk was gone. So was the teasing confidence he wore so effortlessly. All that remained was a brief, startled stillness.

"Oh."

You immediately regretted saying anything.

"Please don't make it weird."

His eyes widened.

"Weird?" he repeated. "Sweetheart, I'm trying very hard not to go into cardiac arrest right now."

Despite yourself, you laughed.

The sound seemed to pull him back to earth. Some of the tension eased from his shoulders as he exhaled slowly, and when he looked at you again, his expression had softened even further.

"Do you trust me?" he asked again.

The question felt different this time than it had before.

Earlier, it had been easy—something asked between laughter, lingering glances, and almost-kisses. Now it carried a weight that made your chest tighten.

Because this wasn't flirting anymore.

And the awful truth remained exactly the same.

You trusted him completely.

Probably more than you should have.

"I trust you, Enzo."

Something shifted in his expression at that.

Whatever traces of teasing or performance remained seemed to fall away entirely. He reached for your hand slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to pull away before his fingers finally curled gently around yours.

"We go slow," he murmured. "And if you want me to stop, I stop. Alright?"

You nodded.

"No pretending you're fine if you're not."

"I know."

"You sure?"

A faint smile tugged at your lips.

"You ask that a lot for someone with such an enormous ego."

His laugh was soft and genuine.

Then he kissed you again, and this time everything felt different.

The kiss was slower, more careful, carrying a tenderness that made your chest ache. There was something almost reverent about it, as though he was taking his time, memorizing every detail instead of rushing past the moment.

And somehow, that felt more dangerous than anything else.

Because none of this felt casual anymore.

That was the problem.

Lorenzo Berkshire was supposed to be fun—a crush, a fleeting mistake, a cautionary tale you laughed about later.

Instead, he felt real.

Terrifyingly, undeniably real.

And afterward, tangled together beneath dark green sheets while moonlight spilled across the floor, Lorenzo brushed a strand of hair away from your face with a gentleness that didn't match a single rumor you'd ever heard about him.

"You alright, little raven?"

You nodded sleepily.

His smile softened.

It was the most unguarded you'd ever seen him.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The silence didn't feel awkward. It felt suspended, as though the world had briefly paused and forgotten to keep moving.

His fingers traced absent patterns along your waist while you rested against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Eventually, his voice broke the quiet.

"You're thinking too much again."

You smiled.

"How can you tell?"

His fingers brushed lightly between your brows.

"You get this little line right here."

Your stomach flipped.

"You notice a lot about me."

A faint smile touched his mouth.

"I notice everything about you."

You turned slightly to look at him.

His hair was messy. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion. His shirt had vanished somewhere into the room without either of you remembering exactly when.

He looked unfairly beautiful.

And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, that realization scared you.

Not because you were afraid of him.

Because you were afraid of what this was becoming.

Somewhere between shared study sessions, stolen glances, and Lorenzo remembering exactly how you took your coffee without ever needing to ask, this had stopped being simple.

And judging by the way he was looking at you now, it had stopped being simple for him too.

That realization settled quietly between you.

And eventually, despite everything, you fell asleep anyway.

When you woke the next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains, washing the room in a pale, uncertain glow. For a few disorienting seconds, you remained suspended somewhere between sleep and memory, your mind struggling to place the unfamiliar warmth surrounding you.

Then Lorenzo shifted beside you.

His arm tightened instinctively around your waist, pulling you closer against his chest, and your breath caught immediately. The movement was so natural, so unconscious, that it felt intimate in a way you hadn't prepared yourself for.

Merlin.

Everything from the night before came rushing back at once.

His hands tangled in your hair. The softness of his voice whenever he asked if you were alright. The way he had looked at you afterward, with an expression far too sincere for someone like Lorenzo.

That was the part that lingered—not the kisses or the nerves, but the quiet tenderness in his eyes afterward. Something soft and unguarded that felt almost impossible from him, and somehow made your chest ache whenever you thought about it.

Like you mattered.

Like he was seeing something worth keeping.

Panic followed almost immediately.

Because Lorenzo was beautiful and funny and effortlessly charming in the way certain people simply existed in the world without trying. He was the kind of boy girls wrote poetry about in secret journals and cried over behind closed dormitory doors.

And you—

Godric.

You were already halfway in love with him.

The realization settled heavily in your chest, stealing the remaining traces of sleep. Dangerous didn't feel like a strong enough word for it. Dangerous implied there was still time to stop. This felt much worse.

This felt inevitable.

Carefully, you slipped out from beneath his arm, moving as slowly as possible while gathering your clothes from the floor. Every sound seemed amplified in the quiet room. The rustle of fabric. The creak of a floorboard. The nervous rhythm of your own heartbeat.

Lorenzo stirred once behind you, shifting deeper into the pillows, but he didn't wake.

You paused despite yourself.

For a moment, you simply looked at him.

Morning light softened the sharp edges of him. His dark hair was a mess against the pillow, his face relaxed in a way you almost never saw when he was awake. Without the constant smirk and easy confidence, he looked younger somehow. Less like the boy everyone knew and more like the one you'd slowly gotten to know over the past few months.

The one who remembered how you took your coffee.

The one who saved you a seat in the library without mentioning it.

The one who always seemed to notice when you were having a bad day before anyone else did.

For one reckless second, you almost climbed back into bed.

You almost let yourself stay.

Then common sense arrived and ruined everything.

You told yourself you only needed air. Five minutes to think. Five minutes to get your emotions under control before you did something completely humiliating, like confess your feelings to Lorenzo Berkshire after one night.

You weren't leaving him. Not really.

You just needed a few minutes to breathe, to untangle the mess of thoughts and feelings that had somehow taken over overnight. A little distance, a little clarity, and then you'd come back.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

You made it halfway down the corridor before realizing your necklace was still sitting on his bedside table.

With a quiet curse under your breath, you turned around.

The castle was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning as you retraced your steps, your shoes barely making a sound against the stone floor. By the time you reached the corridor leading to his dormitory, your embarrassment had faded enough that you were already mentally preparing yourself for the inevitable teasing.

You were only a few steps from the door when voices drifted through it.

You immediately recognized Mattheo's.

“Well, well,” he drawled, sounding far too amused for this hour of the morning. “Where’d your little raven disappear to?”

There was a pause.

A pause long enough that your heart almost betrayed you.

Because for one impossible second, you thought maybe he would say something.

Something that sounded like he missed you.

Something that sounded like last night mattered.

Inside the room, you heard movement. The rustle of sheets. Someone opening a drawer. The easy, familiar chaos of boys stumbling through another morning.

Then silence.

A brief pause settled over the room, as though everyone was waiting for an answer.

You should've kept walking. You should've turned around and given them the privacy of a conversation that was never meant for your ears.

Instead, you froze where you stood.

And then Lorenzo laughed.

The sound reached you before the words did, familiar enough that your chest tightened instinctively. Yet there was something different about it now. Not cruel, not deliberately unkind, but careless in a way that made your stomach sink. It was the easy, thoughtless laugh of someone who had no idea they were standing on top of a landmine, completely unaware of the damage they were about to cause.

"Don’t know,” Lorenzo said.

The answer came too quickly.

Too casually.

Like he was trying harder than usual to make it sound like he didn’t care.

“Don’t care.”

For a moment, your mind refused to make sense of the words. They seemed to hang suspended in the air between the door and the corridor, disconnected from meaning, disconnected from the boy who had spent the last several months tearing down your walls and becoming an essential part of your life.

There was a strange pause before he continued.

The kind of pause that made you wonder if maybe, for one impossible second, he was going to say something else.

Something honest.

"I got my dick wet and another name in the black book. That's all that really matters."

The world didn't shatter.

That would have been easier.

Instead, it felt as though something inside you simply went silent. Every thought vanished at once, chased away by a sudden rushing noise in your ears that drowned out everything else. Somewhere inside the dormitory, Mattheo laughed. Someone said something in response. A few more voices joined in.

You barely heard any of it.

The corridor suddenly felt impossibly long and strangely unreal, as though you were standing outside your own body watching the scene unfold from somewhere far away.

Because the worst part wasn't even what he'd said.

It was how effortlessly the words had left his mouth.

There was no hesitation. No discomfort. No indication whatsoever that the night you'd spent replaying in your head since waking up had meant anything to him beyond a passing amusement.

Of course.

Of course you'd gotten it wrong.

You had mistaken something real for something temporary.

And somehow, that hurt worse.

You had taken every smile, every lingering glance, every moment of softness and built an entire story around it without realizing you were the only person living inside that story.

Lorenzo had never promised you anything.

He had never asked you to fall for him.

You had simply filled in the blanks yourself.

Another name in the black book.

The phrase echoed relentlessly through your mind, growing sharper each time it repeated itself. Not a girl he cared about. Not someone worth remembering. Just another story. Another tally mark. Another name scribbled into a collection that meant far more to him than you ever had.

You stood there for another second, perfectly still, afraid that if you moved too quickly whatever fragile thing was holding you together might finally splinter apart.

Then, before anyone could open the door and find you standing there, you took a slow step backward. Another followed after that, and then another, each one carrying you farther away from the room, farther away from the boy you'd trusted far more than you should've.

And before anyone could hear it happen, you walked away and let your heart break somewhere else.

The next Charms class felt unbearable in a way you could never have prepared for.

You arrived early, choosing a seat near the middle of the room where it would be easy to stare straight ahead and pretend you weren't waiting for something you already dreaded. The classroom gradually filled around you with the usual morning noise, students chatting as they unpacked books and compared homework, but none of it managed to settle the knot that had been sitting in your stomach for two days.

Lorenzo arrived a few minutes later.

He looked exactly the same as he always did. Relaxed. Effortlessly composed. Infuriatingly handsome in a way that now felt almost cruel. There were no visible signs that anything had changed for him, no indication that the night replaying endlessly in your head had followed him into the daylight at all.

Then he saw you.

His expression shifted immediately, the easy smile disappearing almost as soon as it appeared.

"Hey," he said carefully as he slid into the seat beside you. "You disappeared pretty quickly the other night."

You didn't look at him.

Instead, you kept your eyes fixed on the front of the classroom, your posture rigid and controlled. The distance between you felt deliberate now, every inch of it carefully maintained. You were suddenly grateful for the desk separating you because it gave your hands somewhere to hide while your pulse hammered beneath your skin.

Beside you, Lorenzo frowned.

"Y/N?"

Slowly, you turned your head.

And when you finally spoke, your voice came out calm enough to surprise even yourself.

"Well," you said evenly, "you got an easy fuck and another name for your book."

The effect was immediate.

Every trace of color drained from his face as though someone had physically struck him. His entire body went still, eyes locked on yours in complete disbelief.

"In the end," you continued quietly, refusing to let your voice shake, "that's all that really matters, right?"

For the first time since you'd met him, Lorenzo looked entirely stripped of the things that usually defined him. There was no charm, no confidence, no easy grin waiting to smooth everything over. There was only horror.

"You heard that?"

You looked away before he could see anything else in your expression.

"No."

The lie was pathetic. You both knew it.

He leaned toward you immediately, panic flashing across his face. "Wait—"

"No."

"It wasn't—"

"I genuinely do not care."

The words tasted bitter the second they left your mouth. You cared so much it felt impossible to breathe around it.

"That's not true," he said instantly.

His voice sounded different now. Tighter. Stripped raw of all the effortless confidence he usually wore like armor. For once there was no performance in it, no carefully crafted charm. Just uncertainty and something dangerously close to desperation.

"You think I meant that?" he asked.

You stared straight ahead at the blackboard.

"I think," you interrupted quietly, "that you should leave me alone."

And for once, Lorenzo had no clever response.

No joke.

No charm.

No perfectly timed smile to make everything disappear.

Because he had spent months convincing you that he was different.

And somehow, in one stupid sentence, he had proven he wasn’t.

"Little raven—"

"Don't call me that."

The words landed harder than you intended, sharp enough that he physically flinched.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Professor Flitwick swept into the classroom, and whatever chance there had been to fix it vanished.

Lorenzo tried anyway.

He cornered you after class, apologizing before you'd even made it through the doorway. He found you after dinner. Waited outside the library. Appeared after Quidditch practice with increasingly frantic attempts to explain himself.

You ignored every single one.

At first he seemed convinced he could fix it if he just found the right words. Then the days stretched into weeks, and the determination slowly faded into something quieter. Eventually, painfully, he stopped trying.

The year moved forward without him in it.

You stayed with Hermione and Ginny, building a life out of routines and coursework and friendships that didn't require you to think too hard about what you'd lost. Lorenzo stayed with Theo and Mattheo, surrounded by laughter that sounded too easy to mean anything and girls who still looked at him like he hung the stars.

Sometimes, despite your best efforts, you caught him looking at you across classrooms or crowded corridors.

The expression was never the one you remembered.

The smugness was gone. The flirtation too.

Instead, there was something heavier in its place. Something that lingered a little too long to be casual and looked far too much like regret.

It didn't matter.

At least that was what you told yourself.

Because regret couldn't change what you'd heard.

Regret couldn't make you unhear it.

And regret certainly couldn't put back the pieces of something you'd been foolish enough to believe was real.

Then he graduated.

Then you did.

Then life happened the way it always does, carrying you forward whether you were ready or not.

Years passed. Cities changed. People came and went.

And eventually Lorenzo Berkshire became something you learned to lock away carefully, buried beneath distance and time and the stubborn insistence that you were perfectly fine without him.

Until Hermione got engaged.

And suddenly, after nearly a decade of pretending he was just a memory, the boy who broke your heart at sixteen was standing across a ballroom looking at you like he had never once forgotten how to hold it.

🐚TAGLIST

Year 2:

Soulmates were a tricky business.

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

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

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

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

For others, it came later.

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

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

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

Well... not entirely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When it happened, it would happen.

And when it did, everything would make sense.

Until then, your biggest problem remained your exams.

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

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

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

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

You were on the last question.

Finally.

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

A shadow fell across your desk.

Your quill stilled mid-word.

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

You looked up sharply, your pulse jumping.

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

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

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

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

Your stomach dropped.

“Now, please.”

For a second, you just stared at her.

Confusion hit first—sharp and immediate.

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

“…my exam—?”

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

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

Something wasn’t right.

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

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

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

“Follow me.”

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

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

You didn’t know what you had done.

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

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

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

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

"Sit."

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

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

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

The words didn't make sense.

You stared up at her blankly.

"Professor... what?"

Her expression remained unchanged.

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

"I wasn't copying."

The denial left your mouth before you could stop it.

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

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

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

Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

"What the hell?"

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

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

"No."

You immediately started rubbing at your skin.

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

You scrubbed harder, panic making your movements frantic.

"I swear I didn't."

The notes didn't budge.

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

"It's not even coming off!"

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

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

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

The tears escaped before you could stop them.

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

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

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

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

"What?"

"I believe there has been a misunderstanding."

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

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

The room fell silent.

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

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

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

The corridor ahead was empty save for two approaching figures.

At first you barely paid them any attention.

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

Mattheo Riddle.

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

You stopped walking.

Mattheo stopped too.

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

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

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

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

The reason Professor Snape was escorting him down the corridor.

His expression darkened first.

Yours followed not long after.

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

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

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

The universe had an absolutely horrific sense of humour.

Year 6:

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

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

Which could only mean one thing.

You had woken up too early.

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

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

You bolted upright so fast you nearly headbutted the bedpost.

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

“I DID, YOU TEA TOWEL!”

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

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

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

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

And then you looked up.

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

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

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

A lipstick stain.

Bright. Smudged.

Unmistakably shaped like the imprint of someone’s mouth.

Your breath caught.

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

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

“No.” You whispered.

Your hands started shaking.

“No, no—”

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

More.

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

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

Your throat tightened painfully.

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

“)Y/N), come on, class starts in—”

Hermione stopped mid-sentence.

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

“Oh.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

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

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

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

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

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

Hermione’s expression crumpled.

And suddenly you couldn’t do it anymore.

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

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

And the second she did, you broke completely.

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

Your soulmate had slept with someone else.

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

It had become something of a routine.

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

Just as she was today.

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

Hermione's grip tightened slightly around her spoon.

The concern on his face mirrored exactly how she felt.

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

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

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

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

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

Now several days later, the fever had broken.

But you still hadn't left your room.

Hermione shook her head, "No."

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

Mattheo Riddle.

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

He had absolutely no idea.

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

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

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

Her jaw tightened.

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

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

Helplessness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, Hermione let out a slow, defeated sigh.

"How could the universe be so cruel?"

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

Because what could they possibly say?

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

Your head felt impossibly heavy.

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

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

Everything was muted.

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

Outside, Hogwarts carried on as though nothing had happened.

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

Life went on.

It always did.

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

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

You hadn't even realized someone was knocking.

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

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

There was a brief pause.

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

Your eyes snapped open.

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

Messy ginger hair.

Hands buried deep in his pockets.

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

"...Fred?"

The way you said his name made him chuckle softly.

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

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

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.

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

Although, you knew better than to believe that.

He was here for something.

You just couldn't work out what.

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

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

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

Truthfully, you didn't really care.

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

Fred scratched the back of his neck.

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

He finally pulled his hands from his pockets.

A handful of Chocolate Frog boxes tumbled into his palms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The chocolate frog immediately sprang from your hands.

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

Helga Hufflepuff.

Nice.

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

Fred's smile faded.

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

His eyes drifted toward the window for a moment.

"I know exactly what that's like."

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

Of course.

You had completely forgotten who you were talking to.

Everyone knew Fred Weasley's story.

It had been impossible not to.

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

Angelina.

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

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

In the end, Angelina had chosen George.

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

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

What followed had been painful to watch.

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

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

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

Eventually, time had done what time always did.

The sharp edges had dulled.

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

How could they be?

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

Soulmates.

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

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

Fred's eyes met yours.

"So am I."

He didn't elaborate.

He didn't have to.

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

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

Reality settled over you with unbearable clarity.

That was what this was, wasn't it?

Rejection.

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

And he'd done it anyway.

The thought hollowed you out.

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

So what did it mean when they didn't?

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

Where exactly did that leave you?

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

Your heart ached.

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

He was every bit as heartbroken as you were.

Just as lost.

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

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

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

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

It would tear you apart in exactly the same way.

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

He offered you a small, sympathetic smile.

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

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

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

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

Turns out misery really did love company.

It was almost pathetic, in a way.

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

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

But sitting beside Fred somehow made it easier to breathe.

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

Birds of a feather.

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

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

Sometimes you talked about soulmates.

Most of the time, you didn't.

And somehow, those were your favourite conversations.

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

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

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

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

You just... watched.

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

The knot in your stomach loosened.

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

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

Harry's smile faltered.

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

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

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

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

And surprisingly...

It was.

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

Only then did you turn your head.

Fred was already looking at you.

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

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

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

"Hm?"

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

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

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

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

Fred's eyebrows lifted.

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

You shook your head.

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

A small smile tugged at your lips.

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

Fred was quiet for a moment.

Then he nodded.

"I get it."

You looked over at him.

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

He let out a small breath through his nose.

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

You understood immediately.

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

"Exactly."

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

Silence settled comfortably between you.

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

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

Fred didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

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

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

Fred snorted.

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

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

Fred turned his head to look at you.

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

The last part made Fred's eyebrows climb.

"...Flowers?"

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

"Yes. Flowers."

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

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

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

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

"What?"

"To have butterflies."

The admission felt oddly embarrassing.

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

You swallowed, the words catching slightly in your throat.

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

For a moment, Fred didn’t respond.

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

Then, almost absentmindedly, he spoke.

“So let’s go on one.”

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

“A date.”

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

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

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

Fred looked almost insulted.

"With me."

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind this time.

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

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

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

You hesitated, “I am.”

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

“Yes…”

“We’re both catastrophically single.”

“Unfortunately.” You muttered, despite yourself.

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

“I suppose.”

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

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

Fred didn’t push. He rarely did.

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

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

“I did.” You murmured.

“You said you wanted a normal date.”

That made you glance back at him again.

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

A pause.

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

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

“So let me take you on one.”

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

Not because you expected anything to happen.

It wasn't really a date, after all.

Not a real one.

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

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

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

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

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

The memory still made you grimace.

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

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

The argument had been spectacular.

You'd shouted.

He'd shouted louder.

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

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

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

This wasn't a date.

You reminded yourself of that several times while changing outfits.

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

Your first date.

Fake though it may have been.

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

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

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

Fred clutched dramatically at his chest.

"I would never."

"No?"

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

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

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

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

"It looks nice."

You blinked.

"...Thank you."

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

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

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

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

"We did."

"And?"

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

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

A few moments later he stopped.

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

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

You stared after him.

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

His laugh echoed back through the tunnel.

"Oh, come on."

"I'm simply making observations."

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

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

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

The second thing you noticed was the cold.

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

You blinked.

Then looked up.

Your breath caught.

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

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

But none of that was what stole your breath.

At the very centre of the clearing lay a lake.

Perfectly still.

Perfectly frozen.

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

"...What on earth..."

"Amazing, isn't it?"

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

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

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

"And?"

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

You stared at him, "You may have?"

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

"So you..."

"So, I never told anyone."

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

His fingers paused near your shoulder.

"There."

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

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

"No."

"...Not even George?"

Fred's smile softened.

He shook his head.

"No."

Something warm unfurled low in your chest.

Warmer than the summer sun beating down on you.

You felt it.

The butterflies.

Walking back toward the castle felt strangely bittersweet.

Like stepping out of a storybook.

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

Your nose stung from the cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, you reached the foot of the marble staircase.

You turned toward Fred.

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

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

"(Y/N)..."

"Hm?"

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"So..."

You waited.

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

Something in your chest fluttered.

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

You did.

Far more than you'd expected to.

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

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

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

You hadn't meant to interrupt him.

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

Unfortunately, your own anticipation had won the race.

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

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

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

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

You folded your own arms in mock offence.

"Oh?"

"I hadn't even finished asking yet."

"You were taking too long."

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

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

Fred was always good at date ideas.

You knew that much by now.

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

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

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

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

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

He managed one bounce.

The stone immediately sank.

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

“You were never good.”

“I distinctly remember being excellent.”

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

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

“You wound me.”

“I try.”

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

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

“Fred!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It glimmered faintly beneath the surface.

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

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

He disappeared beneath the surface without hesitation.

"Chivalry is dead, they say."

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

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

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

Past the shell.

To his wrist.

Angelina.

The name sat against his skin like it belonged there.

Like it had always belonged there.

Your fingers stopped mid-air.

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

You couldn’t look away from it.

Angelina.

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

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

The universe’s choice.

Not you.

Never you.

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

Would they make a good couple?

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

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

And worse—did Fred ever think about it too?

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

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

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

The next, everything felt distant.

Muted.

As though you had stepped just slightly outside of yourself.

“…(Y/N)?”

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

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

“You alright?”

For a second, you forgot how to answer.

Then you managed something that almost resembled normal.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

His eyes didn’t leave your face.

“You sure?”

Too quickly—too automatically—you nodded.

“Just cold.”

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

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

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

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

And for a moment, you let him.

Just a moment.

A final moment.

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

Really, you hadn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fred.”

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

Ironic.

Because you couldn’t.

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

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

“This isn’t going to work, Fred.”

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

“Why?”

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

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

A flicker of confusion crossed his face.

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

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

The question hung between you.

Fred didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his gaze sharpened.

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

The edge in his voice hit harder than you expected.

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

Except this time—

he wasn’t your soulmate.

You had no claim to Fred.

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

After all… she was his soulmate.

And if he wasn’t by your side—

If Mattheo came back, asking for your forgiveness—

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

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

Your voice steadied as you continued.

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

Your eyes lifted to meet his.

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

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

And that terrified you.

Because he wasn’t yours.

Not really.

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

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

Silence settled between you.

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

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

Your chest tightened.

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

He looked at you then—really looked at you.

“But it’s not that anymore, (Y/N).”

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

Just the two of you in the entire universe.

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

You wanted to believe him.

You really did.

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

“But what about—”

“Fuck Angelina, alright!”

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

His voice dropped.

“Not like I do when I’m with you.”

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

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

His heartbeat was fast.

Almost as fast as yours.

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

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

But at the last second, he turned his head.

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

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

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

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

You realized—

It was everything you had ever dreamed it would be.

The Gryffindor common room was rarely this quiet.

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

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

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

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

“Because I am right every single time.”

“You absolutely are not.”

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

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

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

“Show-off.” He murmured.

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

Fred paused.

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

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

Until it didn’t.

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

You both turned slightly.

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

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

You blinked, “What is?”

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

Silence settled for half a beat.

Fred’s hand stopped moving on your waist.

You slowly closed the crossword book.

Then you looked up at her properly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good job, sweetheart.”

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

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

“Oh yeah?” He murmured.

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

“S'that so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron physically recoiled.

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flicked to Fred.

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

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

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

Fred noticed it too. Of course he did.

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

“Oi—”

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

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

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

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

He responded with a face of pure disgust.

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

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

Eventually, Mattheo Riddle became very good at pretending.

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

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

But heartbreak?

Guilt?

Regret?

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

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

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

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

He learned how to fill his days well enough.

Work helped.

Noise helped.

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

Because silence was dangerous.

Silence was where you lived.

People stopped mentioning your name around him after a while.

That helped.

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

Years passed that way.

Quietly. Pathetically.

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

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

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

Then, silently, he swallowed the pain.

And pretended he never noticed them.

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You were sitting in one of the more secluded areas of the spacious room, in the corner of the softest couch closest to the fireplace and his best friend was asleep, his head on your lap. From here he could see your fingers running absentmindedly through Mattheo’s curls as your eyes skimmed the book in your other hand and he could see the rise and fall of Mattheo’s chest - he was out.

And fuck if that didn’t make Theo just a little bit angrier, because every argument he’d had died on his lips.

Not many people knew this, but Mattheo couldn’t sleep for shit, he hardly got more than a few hours a week. There weren’t a lot of peaceful evenings in his childhood and it left him riddled with nightmares and then insomnia. But here he was in the corner of the common room, people walking by, laughing and talking, out fucking cold in your lap. He looked peaceful, a word no one had ever in the history of the wizarding world used to describe a Riddle.

And of course it was because of you. Theo had tried genuinely, passionately to dislike you but you were so good. And fucking cool, and you loved the shit out of his best friend and despite how much shit he and all of his friends gave the two of you, if he was honest with himself, he was jealous of what you had.

Theo’s blustery entrance caught your attention, and you glanced up at him, eyes wide, perhaps ready for an argument, having sensed his anger when he’d left and Mattheo had chosen to stay behind. But you hoped he would save any argument until later, praying that Mattheo could sleep a little bit longer; surely Theo had to know how badly he needed it.

But instead of yelling, Theo slowly approached you, coming around the back of the couch and wrapping his arms around you in a brief but sincere hug, letting his head rest atop yours. And for a moment you were completely content cocooned between the smile you could see on Mattheo’s lips and the smile you could sense from the boy behind you.