Lily

the scent of peppermint sticks and honey-cakes clung to your dress, a fragrant cloud that felt absurdly out of place here, behind your father’s sweet shop. the air here smelled of damp brick, sour garbage and coal dust. specifically, the coal dust currently smudged on the cheek of haymitch abernathy, who had you pressed against the rough wall, his mouth hot and desperate on yours.

this was your secret. the district’s golden girl, the donner daughter from the town square shop with the pretty ribbons in her hair, and the sharp-tongued seam boy with violence in his eyes and a mocking smirk for everyone but you.

“you taste like sugar,” he muttered against your lips, his voice a low, rasping thing that sent a shiver straight through you. one of his hands was splayed on the brick beside your head, the other firm on your hip, his thumb tracing small, dizzying circles through the thin fabric of your dress.

“is that your way of saying you want more?” you retorted, tilting your head to give him better access to your neck, a thrill running through you at the daring of it. you were playing a part—the spoiled, pretty town girl slumming it—and you both knew it. but the way his breath hitched when you ran your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck? that was real. “it’s my family’s trade. you’re tasting.. proprietary donner caramel, abernathy. a luxury.”

he snorted, a warm puff of air against your skin. “a luxury, huh?” his teeth grazed your pulse point, not hard, but enough to make you gasp. “feels more like a necessity.” he pulled back just enough to look at you. in the dim alley light, his blue eyes were dark, intense.this was the haymitch only you got to see. the one who looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world of plastic capitol props.

“you’re insufferable,” you whispered, but you were smiling, tracing the line of his jaw.

“and you’re a terrible liar, sweetheart,” he murmured, closing the distance again. this kiss was slower, deeper. his hand left your hip to cup your face, his calloused thumb stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your chest ache. you melted into him, the spoiled-girl act forgotten, your fingers curling into the worn fabric of his shirt. this was the truth: the frantic, hidden meetings, the stolen moments that tasted of desperation, the way he made you feel alive.

“ahem.”

the sound was like a bucket of ice water.

you jerked apart. haymitch moved fast, shoving you behind him in one fluid motion, his body a solid, protective wall between you and the intruder.

maysilee donner stood at the mouth of the alley, her arms crossed over her pristine apron. her pretty face, so similar to yours, was a mask of utter, profound disgust. her nose was wrinkled as if she’d smelled something far worse than the alley’s usual offerings.

for a long, terrible second, no one spoke. the only sound was haymitch’s ragged breathing slowly steadying into something cold and controlled.

“well,” maysilee said finally, her voice dripping with a disdain so pure it could have crystallized sugar. her eyes raked over haymitch, from his scuffed boots to his disheveled hair. “i wondered where all the peppermint extract had gone. i should have known it was wafting down here to cover the stench.”

haymitch didn’t move from in front of you. you peered around his shoulder, your face burning.

“maysilee, it’s not—”

“don’t,” she cut you off, holding up a hand. she focused her withering gaze on haymitch. “i suppose i should have expected this. you always were a magpie, abernathy. drawn to anything shiny that doesn’t belong to you.”

haymitch’s shoulders tensed. you felt the anger radiating off him, but his voice, when it came, was deceptively flat. “got something to say, donner? or did you just come down here to work on your capitol-worthy sneer?”

maysilee’s eyes narrowed. she took a step forward, ignoring him to glare at you. “father is looking for you. mayor allister is placing a large order for her town hall party, and he needs you to mind the counter. though, given where your mind currently is…” she let the sentence hang, her gaze flicking back to haymitch with fresh revulsion.

then, she delivered the killing blow. she sniffed, her lip curling. “really, sister. itchy itchy haymitchy? of all the boys in the district? he probably still has lice from the seam.”

the old, childish taunt, so absurd and so perfectly, viciously maysilee, hung in the air.

a sound escaped you. a choked, horrified giggle that you instantly tried to swallow. it was the tension, the shock, the sheer absurdity of your perfect sister saying something so ridiculous in her iciest tone.

haymitch went very, very still. you felt the exact moment the protective fury morphed into something else. his head tilted slightly.

and then, from behind him, you heard it. a low, rusty sound you’d only heard a handful of times. a genuine, quiet chuckle.

“lice, huh?” haymitch said, the smirk audible in his voice. he finally shifted, turning just enough to glance at you. his blue eyes were alight with a wicked, shared amusement. “better check your fancy ribbons, sweetheart. might be contagious.”

you couldn’t help it. the giggles burst out of you, a helpless, unstoppable stream. you laughed at the insanity of it all—caught by maysilee, of all people, while being kissed senseless by the boy you weren’t supposed to want

maysilee looked from your laughing face to haymitch’s smirking one, her own expression shifting from disgust to something akin to furious bafflement. her perfect plan to shame you had backfired spectacularly.

“you’re both disgusting,” she spat, but the edge was gone, replaced by frustration. “and you,” she pointed a finger at you, “have caramel on your collar. and your hair is a mess. fix it. now.” with a final, flouncing turn, she stormed back towards the sweet shop, the sound of her heels clicking a furious retreat.

the alley was quiet again, save for your subsiding giggles. haymitch turned fully to face you, his hands coming up to frame your face. his thumbs gently wiped at the smudged caramel and coal dust on your cheek.

“itchy itchy haymitchy?” he repeated, one eyebrow arched, the ghost of that rare laugh still in his eyes.

“she’s an idiot,” you breathed, leaning into his touch.

“yeah,” he agreed softly, his gaze dropping to your lips. “but she’s your idiot. and she’s right about one thing.” he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you, a secret within a secret. “you are a mess, donner.”

and then he kissed you again, right there in the alley where you’d just been caught. this kiss wasn’t desperate or hungry. it was slow, sweet it tasted like stolen caramel, coal dust, and the thrilling, secret truth that not even maysilee donner’s perfect disdain could ruin this. he adored you, spoiled bits and all. after all, you were his sweetheart.

♡ taglist: @pinkdoeweirdo @whimsywritez

You set off, determined, as you approach a chatty Astoria Greengrass who's currently talking the ear off of some poor Hufflepuff girl. 

"Astoria, I need your help." you say sitting down next to her, the Hufflepuff taking the graciously given opportunity in full as she makes a quick getaway, shooting you a relieved glance. 

"Sure! What do you need?" she says sweetly, already having forgotten about her previous conversation. 

"It's Theo. I'm trying to figure out what to get him for his birthday. I want it to be special for him." 

"Oh, that's sweet! I'm sure he'd like anything from you, but if you need suggestions, how about a personally bound journal with charmed with a spell to keep it away from prying eyes? Can't trust Mattheo not to go snooping." she says with a laugh. 

"That's actually a really good idea. He does write a lot." you say, glad to start your investigation on such a high note. At this rate, you won't even have to ask any of the others. Thank Merlin there's someone at least partially sane in your house. 

"Oh, please. He doesn't need another reason to go lock himself away to brood." a sudden, familiar voice comes from behind, startling you out of your thoughts. 

"You should get him a silver pocket watch. Something traditional and sophisticated to match his aristocratic background." 

"Daphne, I appreciate your input but I'd rather not remind him of his father on his birthday. Besides, he doesn't care much for flashy things like that." you say, standing up now that the newly arrived Greengrass sister had practically taken over your side of the bench. 

"Well I can't say I didn't try. Come on Tori, we need to get started on that Binns essay." Daphne tugs on Astoria's arm until she's standing and she gives you a quick, apologetic wave before she's dragged away by her sister. 

You look down at the mostly empty piece of parchment you had brought with you to keep track of potential gifts. The journal idea is still on the table, but now you’re unsure about it. He does have tons of journals already. You shake it off, deciding to continue your search; you head down a corridor where you eventually come across Blaise Zabini, who's leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he wordlessly judges the students that cross his path now and then. 

"Zabini, do you have a second?" you ask, approaching him. 

He looks you up and down before answering. "What is it?"

"Theo's birthday is coming up. I wanted to get a few gift ideas from people, so I'm asking you." you say, slightly self-conscious now. 

He raises an eyebrow, letting out an amused scoff though you can tell he's thinking about it now. "I'm sure you know Nott isn't interested in any mundane rubbish you might buy from Hogsmeade. Get him some obscure book on ancient runes or theory. The older and more expensive, the better." he says, before straightening up and leaving, abandoning the conversation as soon as it started. 

"Okay…" you murmur to yourself, now even more discouraged, parchment still painfully blank. You weren't drowning in galleons and any connections you did have weren't anything to write home about, so even if you wanted to, getting a rare book he'd like is completely out of your reach. 

As you're standing there, dwelling on your shortcomings, a hand slaps you on the back, the sting causing a sudden wave of annoyance to wash away any previous feelings of self pity. You turn around, ready to chew out whoever it is, but they're speaking before you can even open your mouth. 

"Why the sad face?" Mattheo's voice is obnoxiously loud as he laughs, slapping your back again. Of course, you should've known it was him. Only he'd have enough audacity to do something like that. 

"Mattheo." you say with a grimace, pushing his hand away. 

"I've heard about your dilemma and I'm here to help." he says, his smile more unnerving than friendly. 

"Right, okay. You're close with him, what do you think he'd like?" you say, less hostile now that he's not just here to bother you. 

"A dagger," he says, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "One with a goblin-wrought silver blade. It's practical and sharp, perfect for him." 

"You want me to get him a weapon? For his birthday?" 

"Hey, I'm trying to help you out. Just don't get him anything overly sentimental; he'll end up throwing it out." he says seriously for a second before the smile returns to his face. 

"Good luck!" he laughs before walking down the hall, his voice echoing off the walls before it fades. 

That night you go to bed restless, your mind a jumbled mess of almost gifts that still don't seem right. Three more days to figure it out. You still have people to ask and thankfully no one's let it slip to Theo, who's still blissfully unaware of the lengths you're going to for him. 

You're refreshed and newly inspired the next morning, your qualms from yesterday nowhere to be found. You have Snape first thing that morning, and there's nothing like an early morning Potions class to get your mind going. You sit next to Theo, he'd get suspicious if you didn't, though your thoughts are focused on who you'll ask next after class is over. 

"Theo, I need to talk with Pansy after class, can I catch up with you later?" you ask, watching him prepare the ingredients for the potion assigned as the task of the day. 

"Parkinson?" he says, looking up at you now. "Why? Did she say something to you?"

"No, it's nothing like that. She just borrowed my Ancient Runes notes last week and she's 'forgotten' to give them back. It'll be quick, I promise."

You assume it's fine because he just shrugs and goes back to whatever he’s doing, but after class, when you grab your things and make your way over to Pansy out in the hall, you notice he's already there waiting for you. 

"Theo, you can go ahead, you don't have to wait for me." you say, slightly nervous now as you move to stand in front of him.

"You're acting strange. It'll only take a few minutes right? I can wait." he says, arms crossed now. He's probably noticed the tension in your form and on any other day, his awareness of your habits would make you swoon, but it isn't any other day so it does nothing but make you anxious. 

"Please? I just want to talk to her, and I can't do that if you're hovering over me." You love him but he really can't take a hint. 

"…Fine. I'll be in the common room. Don't be long." he gives in, still wary but you're clearly uncomfortable and he doesn't want to push it. 

"Thank you." you say giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before shooing him away. 

Your consultation with Pansy goes about as well as you expect. 

"Cologne." she says definitively once you ask her. "Something expensive, with cedarwood or amber." 

"What's wrong with the way he smells now?" you ask, frowning. 

"It's fine, but it's not impactful," she says, leaning forward and gently poking your chest with a manicured finger. "A proper wizard needs a signature scent. Trust me. Pick up something from that high-end apothecary in Paris. If you give him cedarwood, he’ll actually wear it just to keep you happy."

"Besides, every time he puts it on, he'll think of you. Romantic, isn't it?" she says with a satisfied smile. "You'll be thanking me later, I promise." 

You watch her as she walks off, chewing the inside of your cheek as you give the idea some thought. Another bust. Theo doesn't like attention (nothing screams attention like cologne), and the last thing you'd want to do is give him something that will make him uncomfortable, but that he'll still use out of obligation because you gave it to him.

You decide to retreat back to the common room, running into Draco on your way there. Your interaction with him is so short lived however, you’re not even sure you can call it a conversation. 

He laughs in your face not even a second after you finish speaking. "If you don't know what to get Nott for his birthday, then you shouldn’t be dating him." 

Jerk. So much for that. 

You head into the common room, dragging your feet as you practically throw yourself onto the nearest sofa, groaning into a pillow. After staying there for a few seconds, you lift your head, scanning the room. Theo's not there, he must be in his dormitory right now, but there are a few stragglers scattered around. Lorenzo Berkshire, your last hope, is currently laughing at a fifth year who's eyebrows are now singed from a particularly nasty game of exploding snap. 

"Enzo." your voice carries across the room as you sit up to face him. 

He looks up at you, his eyes still filled with mirth as he stands up. "Yeah?"

"Quick, come here and keep your voice down." you say waving him over. 

"Oh, a secret. Okay, I can do that." he's whispering now as he comes to sit beside you.

"It's Theo. What do you think he'd like as a gift?" 

"Mmm..how about a snake!" He says grinning and you know immediately he won't be of any help. "A pet that'll stay under his bed and guard his books. It'll even keep him company."

"Enzo, I want to give him a nice gift, not a trip to the hospital wing." You say sighing. "Also, I go to his dorm. Why would I want a venomous snake waiting for me?" 

"Oh right, good point." he smiles sheepishly. "Okay, then get him a bottle of Firewhisky, he looks like he needs it." 

"Thanks for the suggestions, but I'll just think of something on my own." you say, still cringing at the thought of Theo with a snake.

He gives you a shrug before he goes back to his game, already laughing again. Theo comes down now, his eyes searching the room before they land on your figure. A small smile pulls at his mouth as he approaches you. 

"Hey, you okay? Did you sort things out with Parkinson?" he says in that low, calming tone that makes your heart flutter, and now you can't help but feel bad that you've been tiptoeing around him trying to figure out what his friends think of him when he's right in front of you. What were you thinking? You know him better than anyone else, you're the one constantly around him, so why wouldn't you trust your own judgment?

"Theo, do you want to go to Hogsmeade tomorrow?" you ask softly, your hand finding his as your heart clenches painfully from the overwhelming affection you're constantly feeling for him. The others don't know anything about Theo, your Theo, who stays up until 2:00 AM reading muggle poetry because he finds the structure fascinating, who takes his tea with exactly two sugars but always pretends to drink it black, who secretly keeps dried flowers pressed between the pages of his favorite astronomy books because you had given them to him.

"Yeah, we can go." his fingers intertwine with yours as he watches you carefully. "You sure you're okay?" 

"I'm fine now. I've fixed my problem." 

____________________________________________

On the morning of his birthday, you drag him away to a secluded bench in a hidden corner of the courtyard. You're excitedly tugging him along, and he's still half asleep, but he's always willing to entertain you so he goes wherever you take him. You pull him down to sit next to you once you get to the bench, his eyes clear now that he's fully awake. 

"Close your eyes." you say grinning.

He does without questioning it and you're thankful to him for that. You quickly remove the parcel from the pocket in your robe and you take a deep breath, examining it over once again before speaking. 

"Okay, you can open them now." you say, and your excitement now turns to anxiety as you wait for his reaction to the gift you had put together the day before. 

You know he collects the chocolate frog cards so you managed, luckily, to track down a rare, vintage card of an ancient astronomer he's been talking about for a while. It's tucked inside the front page of a classic piece of muggle literature you had found second hand. You had gone through the book, making annotations and leaving notes for him to read. He'd been eyeing it for a few weeks, but he never bought it because he was wary about its muggle origin, so you just got it for him, problem solved. The final gift is a jumper you charmed with a warming spell, folded and placed neatly under the book. 

He goes through all the items one by one, his lack of response and expression making you unsure about his feelings towards the gift. He looks up at you once he's finished, the intensity of his gaze making you flinch. 

"When did you even have time to do all this?" he says, and he sounds as breathless as you feel. 

"I got them when we were at Hogsmeade yesterday and I couldn't really sleep last night anyway so.." you say fiddling with your fingers. 

He pulls you into a hug so quickly, it knocks the air out of you. You're guessing he likes the gift. You pat his back, laughing softly as his grip on you tightens. 

"Okay, okay. Seriously, you're crushing me." you say, patting his back harder now. 

His grip loosens, though he doesn't let you go completely. "Thank you. Really, it's perfect." he sighs into your hair, his voice wavering slightly. 

You're now immensely grateful you didn't follow any of the silly advice you were given about him. You know now that Theo does like sentimental things as long as they always come from you. Your arms wrap around him now as your head falls onto his shoulder, your voice a content murmur when you speak. "Happy Birthday, Theo."

————————————————————————

Tag list:

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@dayluxe

Fred Weasley was an observer by nature. To be a successful prankster, one had to understand the intricate, shifting dynamics of Hogwarts better than the professors did. He knew which stairs skipped, which portraits gossiped, and, most importantly, he knew the people.

He knew you.

Before the whispers started, Fred knew you as Luna Lovegood's older sister. You were a seventh-year Ravenclaw, a girl with a brilliant, effortless laugh and a habit of leaving sketches of magical creatures on the library tables. You were bright, radiating a warm, quiet gravity. Fred had always thought you were breathtakingly pretty. He'd thrown a few casual, roguish winks your way in the corridors over the years, enjoying the pretty blush that used to dust your cheeks.

But that was before.

He vividly remembered a cold night last spring. He had been sneaking back from the kitchens when he saw you sprinting through the Entrance Hall. Your dress had been torn at the shoulder, your hair a chaotic mess, and you were sobbing so hard you couldn't catch your breath. Fred had stepped out of the shadows, his hand reaching out, asking if you were alright, but you had flinched violently away from him as if he were made of fire, disappearing into the dark.

Fred hadn't understood it then— he thought about that a lot, once he understood. Wondering if stopping you that night would have changed anything at all. Probably not. But it sat with him anyway, a small, useless guilt he never quite mentioned to you, folded into the deeper reason he found himself unable to look away once he finally noticed what the following year had done to you.— When the new term started, the pieces violently snapped together.

The boys spun a tale of a wild night, twisting the narrative until you were the villain, the "easy" girl, the homewrecker. And the school, hungry for scandal, swallowed it whole.

You didn't let yourself think about that night in whole pieces anymore. What remained were fragments, disconnected and strange, surfacing without warning: the particular feeling of not controlling your body. Music too loud. Voices and laughs. Hands all over your body. A door that wouldn't open the way you needed it to. After that, mostly static, the specific gray nothing of a memory your own mind had decided you weren't ready to hold whole.

Warrington and Higgs told their version quickly, before you'd found your footing enough to tell your own. Said you'd wanted it and cornered them. And because their version required nothing uncomfortable from anyone who chose to believe it, most of the school simply believed it. Both of them had girlfriends throughout — kept them after, too, walked the corridors with their arms slung easy around two Slytherin girls who either didn't know or didn't care, while you walked those same corridors alone. Nobody's mouth curled with disgust at their names. That imbalance felt like its own separate injury, layered on top of everything else.

There were photographs. You never let yourself look, couldn't have made yourself look even if someone had asked, but you knew they existed, knew some fraction of every stranger's face might have seen something you never agreed to show anyone.

The cruelty that followed took every shape that usually takes — group projects where you were quietly excluded, your things going missing with casual regularity, notes appearing on your desk with words you'd stopped letting yourself really read, more lies spread with your name.

Luna was the only steady thing through all of it, from the very first night onward and every night after. She'd climbed uninvited into your bed that first night and simply stayed until morning, offering nothing but her presence. She hexed exactly one person badly enough to earn a month's detention and never once regretted it. In the weeks that followed, she rearranged her entire schedule without telling you, appearing at your side between nearly every class, walking you the long way around whatever corridor had grown unsafe that week, sitting with you at meals when you couldn't face the Ravenclaw table, simply there, endlessly, unconditionally, the one fixed point in a world that had rearranged itself overnight into something unrecognizable. She never once made you explain yourself, never once looked at you like you were something broken, and you spent that whole terrible year understanding, more clearly than you'd ever understood anything, that you had a sister who would choose you over and over, forever, without needing to be asked.

You'd rebuilt something out of the wreckage, slowly. Not the girl you used to be — she felt unreachable and dangerous now, a stranger you remembered with rage and distant fondness. You became something new instead: quieter, sharper at the edges, careful in ways you hadn't needed to be careful before.

Now, you were a ghost. You wore oversized, heavy sweaters that swallowed your frame. You kept your head down. When you walked into the Great Hall, a localized winter seemed to follow you; girls would pull their bags closer, and boys would laugh behind their hands, both saying snarky comments about you.

She got a bad reputation

She takes the long way home

Fred watched you from the Gryffindor table, his eyebrows were so furrowed they looked as if they were about to leave a crease. He watched a passing student deliberately knock your books out of your hands. You didn't argue. You just knelt on the stone floor, quietly gathering your scattered, beautiful charcoal drawings, your hands trembling.

"Why are you staring at the Ravenclaw girl so much? She's the definition of trouble, dude." Lee Jordan warned softly, noticing the look on his friend's eyes. "She's got a bad reputation, besides she was pretty, now- i don't know Fred, she has been with half of the school they say, you don't want to get dragged into her mess. It'll ruin you"

Fred slowly turned his head to look at Lee. The easy-going, laughing joker was entirely gone. Now there was a curiosity, an itch that Fred couldn't scratch as he looked in your direction; how had you ended up like this? You looked so...alone, so scared all the time. What was the point of that in light of the rumors and 'truths' being said about you? He didn't understand.

"I don't know, man, it's just... Is she really a problem? Or did everyone just decide that? She seems scared of her own shadow, I don't think so, none of that," the redhead commented, his eyes fixed on you crouching on the ground, gathering the things that fell.

Fred stood up, ignoring George's sharp, evaluating look, and walked straight across the Great Hall. He didn't care who was watching. He crossed the floor, knelt down perfectly in front of you, and began picking up your charcoal pencils.

You flinched. It was a tiny, heartbreaking movement, your eyes darting up to his face with pure panic. Up close, Fred was massive. He was well over six feet, broad-shouldered and strong from years of Beater practice, and he saw the exact moment your brain registered him as a threat.

It broke his heart.

Fred immediately made himself smaller, dropping his shoulders and offering a soft, completely unthreatening smile. "You dropped your Niffler sketch," Fred murmured gently, holding the paper out to you. "It's brilliant, by the way. The shading on the snout is perfect."

You snatched the paper from his hand, your chest heaving. "Leave me alone, Weasley," you whispered harshly, your voice raw. "Don't you have a prank to do? People are staring. It doesn't suit you to be seen with me."

"I like the attention," Fred says smoothly, keeping his voice impossibly gentle. "Let me walk you to Charms and we can talk about-."

"I said leave me alone!" you snapped, your survival instincts kicking in. You bit back hard, trying to drive him away before he could hurt you. "I don't need you to do anything for me, and I don't want to be one of your jokes!"

You practically sprinted out of the Great Hall. Fred stayed kneeling on the floor for a long moment, watching you go. You were terrified, bruised, and lashing out at everything. But Fred Weasley was nothing if not patient.

He didn't know the whole story yet. He only knew he didn't like watching someone go dim who used to be so bright, and that dislike, small and stubborn, was the seed of everything that came after.

And all of my friends seen her naked

Or so the story goes

He watched you for weeks before he ever worked up a proper reason to talk to you again after that fiasco.

He told himself, at first, it was simple curiosity — the same instinct that made him notice any injustice worth noticing. But if he was honest with himself, alone at night with nothing but the truth for company, it was more than that. You were pretty. You'd always been pretty, in the easy way he'd noticed and half-forgotten a while ago, but there was something else now too, something that pulled at him harder than simple attraction — the specific ache of watching someone hold themselves together by sheer will, refusing to fully break even while an entire school seemed determined to push.

He caught himself looking for you in the library some evenings, in the Great Hall, in the gaps between classes, always at a careful distance, never quite finding the right moment to actually approach. He noticed the particular way you tucked yourself into the smallest available space in any room, the way your shoulders came up around your ears whenever someone laughed too loud nearby, the careful blankness you wore like a second uniform.

"What's with that red hair head of yours? You look...too level-headed to be Fred Weasley," George's girlfriend remarked, pointing at him with her fork. She was good at reading people—especially the Weasleys.

"I just don't like seeing her look like that" he told, watching you eat alone at the end of the Ravenclaw table one evening, and it was true, even if it wasn't the whole truth. He wanted to see you laugh again — the real kind, loud and startled out of you, the kind he half-remembered from years ago and hadn't seen since. He wanted, more than he examined closely at the time, simply to be near you.

"Do something about it then, mate, change things," George said, patting his brother on the back; knowing that look on Fred's face meant much more than he intended.

Mistakes we all make them

But they won't let it go, no

The courtyard confrontation was the thing that finally gave him his opening.

He heard them before he saw them. Warrington's voice —One of your attackers—, low and mean, pitched just loud enough to be heard by the people he wanted to hear it, cutting across the courtyard where you'd been sitting alone with a book.

"Oi. Heard you've been keeping to yourself this week, Bit late for that, isn't it? Many guys have already been through you"

Higgs —the other attacker— laughed, that ugly, easy laugh boys like that always seemed to have ready.

You didn't look up from your book, You were sadly used to it. After the incident and the stupid and cruel version they peddled about what happened, the rumors only escalated. From taking something that was partially true—in In the sense that they were the ones who did that to you—and twisted it to their advantage by saying you wanted it, the rest just...created lies about you; guys you didn't even know saying they were with you, they paid you for services, girls swearing they saw you flirting with their boyfriends, people even implying you were probably with teachers. Your life became a circus of lies and distortion.

Fred, watching from the covered walkway, saw the way your hand had gone very still on the page, the only sign the words had landed anywhere at all.

He crossed the courtyard before he'd fully decided to.

"Something funny?" Fred said, dropping onto the bench directly between you and them, uninvited and entirely unbothered about it.

Warrington's grin faltered slightly. "This isn't your business, Weasley."

"Funny, I thought harassing someone in a public courtyard sort of made it everyone's business. Sort of the whole point of doing it in public, isn't it — wanting an audience." Fred's voice stayed light, almost pleasant, which somehow made it worse for the two of them than if he'd shouted. "Though I notice you didn't say anything remotely clever. Bit of a letdown, honestly. All that reputation for being such a laugh, and this is the material you've got. Does your girlfriend know this is how you spend your free periods, by the way? Might be worth mentioning."

Something flickered across Warrington's face — real discomfort, quickly buried.

"Watch it."

"Or what?" Fred tilted his head, genuinely curious. His large body shielding you from their view, intimidating them at the same time without needing to make an effort. "You'll say something else cruel to a girl who's done nothing except sit here reading? Terrifying stuff. I'm shaking."

The two of them muttered something unintelligible and moved off, and Fred watched them go with his jaw tight before he let himself relax.

He turned to you then, and you'd gone back to staring at your book, though your eyes hadn't moved down the page in several minutes.

"You didn't have to do that," you said, not looking up. "It's not your problem and I didn't ask for help.

"I know I didn't have to and you didn't ask" Fred shrugged, easy. "Wanted to, though. There's a difference."

"They'll just say something else next time. This doesn't fix anything."

"Probably not," Fred agreed. "But it's mildly satisfying watching them fumble for an insult and come up empty. I'll take the small wins where I can get them."

You looked up at him properly then, for the first time, something wary and assessing in your expression, like you were trying to work out what angle he was playing. He was close enough now that you registered, distantly, how much taller he was than you'd remembered — broad through the shoulders in the way boys got from years of Quidditch, tall enough that he'd had to fold himself down slightly to fit comfortably on the bench beside you. It should have been intimidating. Somehow, sitting there with his easy, unhurried posture, it wasn't.

"I'm not a joke or a charity project" you said finally. "In case that's where this is going. I don't need rescuing."

"Wasn't under the impression you did," Fred said, unbothered. "You handled yourself fine before I sat down. I just don't love watching people be cruel to someone for sport, and I had five minutes free, so." He shrugged again. "No joke. No project. Just didn't feel like doing nothing."

You studied him a moment longer, and something in his easy honesty seemed to land somewhere real, because the wariness eased, just slightly, at the edges.

"We haven't spoken in a while.," you said. "Since the divination substitute joke, it got us detention."

"You remember that." Fred looked genuinely pleased. "I'm flattered."

"You were memorably annoying," you said, and the corner of your mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough that Fred noticed it, and filed it away, and decided, with an unexpected certainty, that he very much wanted to see the whole thing someday. "Did the stories about me keep you away? Now you want a taste of my mouth too? Leave me alone, Weasley. I don't believe your words." You snapped again, getting up abruptly and walking away from him, leaving Fred with the bitter feeling of having lost his recent victory.

Now, it was clear to him that his words weren't something you could easily trust, but he was determined.

The campaign to earn your trust was agonizingly slow, and Fred had to unlearn everything he knew about flirting. His usual method—loud, boisterous, invading personal space—would only terrify you. He needed to be a safe harbor, not a storm.

You thought that was the end of your encounters with Fred Weasley, but you couldn't have been more wrong. He kept appearing in your life, over the following weeks.

You ignored him in the library twice, burying yourself in a book and not looking up even when he sat two tables away, clearly hoping to be noticed. You gave him one-word answers in the corridors, sharp and final, designed to end conversations rather than continue them. Once, when he offered to carry a stack of books that had slipped from your arms, you snatched them back before he could touch them, muttering something about not needing help, and walked off without a backward glance.

Cause she's got a bad reputation

But I know what they don't,

"She hates me," Fred told George one night, more bewildered than discouraged.

"She doesn't hate you," George said, not looking up from the parchment he was scribbling on. "She's protecting herself. Different thing entirely, even if it looks the same from where you're standing."

"Feels the same, some days."

"Give it time. People who've been hurt that badly don't just decide to trust someone because he's persistent and reasonably charming. They test. They push. They see if you'll actually stick, or if you're just another person who'll get tired of the difficulty eventually." George glanced up. "You planning on getting tired?"

"No," Fred said, immediately, with more certainty than he'd expected from himself.

"Then keep showing up. Eventually the testing runs out before you do."

And I don't care what they say about you baby

They don't know what you've been through

Being interested in you, Fred discovered quickly, came with unsolicited advice attached, from nearly everyone who considered themselves entitled to offer it — which, given how many people considered themselves Fred's friend, turned out to be a great many people.

"You want to be careful there," a Hufflepuff boy said, catching him in a corridor with an expression of grave concern. "That one's — well. You know."

"I don't, actually. Enlighten me."

The guy had the decency to look uncomfortable and moved on without finishing the thought.

Alicia Spinnet cornered him with something closer to genuine worry. A seventh-year he barely knew delivered an entire unsolicited lecture about reputation. A girl from his own year, someone he'd always considered a friend, pulled him aside with misguided delicacy. "There are plenty of girls who'd be thrilled to have your attention, Fred. Girls without all that complication attached."

"Complication," Fred repeated, flat. "That's an interesting word for surviving something horrific and then getting punished for it by an entire school too lazy to check their facts."

It didn't stop there. Over the following weeks, the rumors reaching him multiplied and mutated, each one uglier and more inventive than the last, as though the school had turned cruelty into a competitive sport. He heard, from three different people in the space of a single day, that you'd been caught with a seventh-year Slytherin in a broom cupboard, that you'd slept with half the Quidditch team, that you'd once shown up to a professor's office hours wearing considerably less than the dress code required. He heard that you were a boyfriend-stealer, that you'd gone after someone's fiancé, that the whole 'victim act' was a performance you put on whenever you got caught.

"She seduces them and then plays scared when it doesn't work out the way she wanted," a Ravenclaw prefect told him once, with the particular authority of someone repeating something they'd heard exactly once and decided to believe completely. "Ask anyone."

"I have asked people," Fred said, sharp. "Nobody's ever given me a single fact. Just secondhand stories from someone who heard it from someone else. That's not information, that's just cruelty with extra steps."

He denied every single one, out loud, whenever he had the chance — not gently, not diplomatically, but with a flat, immovable certainty that left no room for negotiation. It cost him some goodwill. A few people stopped inviting him to things, uncomfortable with how forcefully he pushed back. He found he didn't particularly care.

What wore on him more than the rumors themselves was the sheer volume of unsolicited opinion attached to caring about you at all — as if his affection for you had become public property, something everyone felt entitled to weigh in on, correct, or warn him away from. He hadn't asked a single person for their thoughts. He got them anyway, constantly, from people who'd never once bothered to actually speak to you.

"I didn't ask," he told Katie Bell once, more tired than angry. "I never asked any of you what you thought about this. I don't need the opinion. I need people to stop treating a story they made up as something they're entitled to keep repeating at me."

But the warnings outnumbered the encouragement, and Fred found something clarifying in that — every warning only confirmed how wrong the whole situation was.

When people said no, he only found more desire to say yes, always having a taste for the complicated and impossible.

It was in the middle of all this that he made another mistake with you; Not thinking about the repercussions of their actions on you, how they were going to affect YOU.

He was crossing the courtyard with a knot of friends — Lee, Angelina, a couple from the Quidditch team — mid-conversation, laughing at something, when he spotted you passing at the edge of the crowd, alone, moving quickly the way you always moved now, trying not to be noticed.

He left mid-sentence. Didn't even finish the joke he'd been telling, just peeled off from his own friends without explanation and jogged to catch up with you, easy and unthinking, the way he'd have done for anyone he liked.

"Hey. Where are you headed? I'll walk with you."

You stopped, and your whole body went tight, eyes darting past him to where his friends stood watching, openly curious, then back to him.

"Don't," you said, low, urgent. "Please. Just — leave me alone."

"I don't mind the company, if you—"

"It's not about whether you mind." Your voice cracked slightly, frustration and fear tangled together. "Everyone's watching. It doesn't help you to be seen with me, Fred. It just makes you the next thing people talk about. Go back to your friends."

You walked away before he could answer, faster now, and Fred stood there in the middle of the courtyard, his friends' curious eyes still on him, understanding for the first time just how carefully you'd learned to calculate the cost of every interaction, and how little any of it had to do with whether you actually wanted him gone.

"You alright, mate?" Lee asked, once he'd rejoined them, glancing between Fred and the direction you'd disappeared.

"She seems to hate you, don't you think?" Angelina assessed, looking in the direction you had gone; unsure which version of events was correct, but always choosing to side with women until proven otherwise with compelling evidence.

"She was just in a hurry, I'll see her later," Fred murmured, embarrassed and confused, scratching the back of his neck uncertainly.

He didn't see what happened next. You did.

You'd barely made it two corridors away before a cluster of girls fell into step around you, boxing you in against the wall with the casual, practiced cruelty of people who'd done this before. You recognized a few of them — girls who'd never spoken a single word to you before that moment, girls who'd apparently decided your business was suddenly, urgently theirs.

"What was that, then?" one of them said, arms crossed, blocking your path forward. "Fred Weasley, chasing after you across the courtyard? Bit desperate, isn't it, even for you."

"Move," you said, low, tired, wanting nothing more than to disappear.

"Or what?" Another girl pushed your shoulder, not hard, but enough to make the point. "Are you trying to get your claws into him too? Heard you'll go after anyone these days. Is that the plan? Land yourself a Weasley so you've got someone to defend you?"

"You're disgusting, you know that?" the first girl added, shoving you again, harder this time. "Following him around like that. Does he know what you actually are?"

Something in you, worn thin by over a year of exactly this, finally cracked.

"I didn't follow him anywhere," you snapped, and your voice came out louder and steadier than you expected, surprising even yourself. "He came to me. I told him to leave me alone. Maybe if any of you spent five seconds actually asking me a question instead of deciding you already know the answer, you'd know that. But that would require you to care about the truth instead of the story, and clearly none of you do."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You straightened, spine locking, something old and buried finally finding its voice. "I'm so tired of all of you. Tired of being shoved into walls by people who've never spoken a single kind word to me. Tired of being a story you get to tell instead of a person you bothered to know. So move, or don't, but I'm done apologizing for existing near your precious Weasley."

"What's going on here?"

Angelina's voice cut through the group like a blade, sharp and unimpressed, George's girlfriend appearing right behind her, both of them taking in the scene — you boxed in, the cluster of girls around you — with immediate, unmistakable understanding.

"We were just talking," one of the girls said, already backing off.

"Doesn't look like talking to me,it does to you angie?" the Hufflepuff girl said, mild and dangerous all at once. "Looks like five of you cornering one of her. Very brave. Very fair fight."

"She's clearly obsessed with Fred, we were just—"

"You were just leaving," Angelina cut in, flat, daring any of them to argue. "Go on. Before I decide this is worth reporting properly."

The group dispersed, muttering, and you were left standing there, still shaking slightly, adrenaline and old fear tangled together in your chest.

"You didn't need to do that," you told them both, once the corridor had emptied. "Any of it. I could have handled it."

"You were handling it," Angelina said, something like respect in her voice. "Better than most people would've, honestly. We just didn't feel like watching you finish handling it alone."

"Thank you," you said, and meant it more than the words could properly carry. "Both of you."

"Anytime," they say, easy, warm. "Seriously. Anytime at all."

Angelina and George's girlfriend found Fred later that same evening, and didn't bother softening the account.

"You made her life harder today," Angelina told him, bluntly, watching his face fall. "Chasing after her in front of an audience like that. A whole pack of girls cornered her not ten minutes after you walked off, wanting to know if she was trying to get her claws into you. She stood up for herself, she impressive btw— but she shouldn't have had to. That's the cost of you doing something that felt completely normal to you, Fred. It wasn't normal for her. It never will be, not the way things are right now."

Fred sat with that for a long time after they'd gone, something heavy and new settling into his chest — the first real understanding that even his kindness, offered carelessly, could cost you something he'd never had to pay himself.

Trust me, I could be the one to treat you like a lady

Let me see what's underneath, all I need is you

With his observant nature, Fred decided to change his approach to you, to try another angle;

It started with a nickname.

You were easily startled, hyper-vigilant in the corridors. Whenever someone walked up behind you, your shoulders would instantly lock. Fred noticed. So, he developed a system.

"Morning, Angel," Fred's low, warm voice rumbled from a safe three feet behind you in the library.

You stopped sorting your Arithmancy charts. Angel. It was a quiet, affectionate little nickname he had randomly used one day, and it had stuck. Now, whenever he approached, he made sure to say it before he entered your peripheral vision. It was a verbal knock on the door. It told you exactly who was behind you, ensuring you never had to panic.

"What do you want, Fred?" you asked, though the biting edge in your voice had dulled considerably over the last three weeks.

"Just delivering the post," Fred said cheerfully. He didn't sit down. He respected the invisible boundary you kept around yourself. He simply dropped a small, expertly folded origami bird onto your textbook, gave you a bright, soft smile, and walked away.

You watched his broad back disappear behind the bookshelves before cautiously tapping the paper bird with your wand.

The origami bird sprang to life, fluttering its paper wings. It didn't explode. It didn't shout a joke. Instead, it unfolded itself into a small, neat square of parchment, bearing Fred's slanted handwriting:

'Your hair catch the light when you read by the window, You look like you're on fire, you just look so beautiful today, Angel. — F.'

A hot, involuntary flush crept up your neck. It wasn't the first note. Over the past month, Fred had been slipping these quiet, magically folded compliments into your life. He noticed your drawings. He noticed the way you helped elves. He noticed the slight change on the color of your eyes. He was systematically attempting to rebuild the self-worth that the castle had tried to strip away from you.

You quickly folded the note and shoved it into your pocket, fighting the terrifying, dangerous warmth blooming in your chest.

Luna, your lovely sister, was watching all of this unfold from her own quiet vantage point, never once intervened directly. She never pushed you toward him. She simply, patiently, made room for things to happen and stay close to it to see your reaction.

You caught her watching the two of you that same day, when Fred had tried and failed, again, to coax more than three words out of you.

"You could tell him to stop," Luna observed, not looking up from the copy of the Quibbler she held upside down. "If you actually wanted him to, he would stop if you properly say it"

"I don't— i know—it's just…complicated, but I don't want him to."

"I know," Luna said, simply, and went back to her magazine, and you found, not for the first time, that your sister always seemed to know things about you before you'd finished admitting them to yourself.

Fred kept trying, undeterred by rejection, though he adjusted his tactics as the weeks wore on — less direct approach, more sideways offering, small kindnesses left where you'd find them without an audience attached. He was really trying.

You hated how much you noticed him.

Not just the obvious things — though those were hard to ignore too, the sheer, absurd size of him folding himself into library chairs built for smaller people, the easy warmth in his voice even when he was being ridiculous. It was smaller than that, quieter. The way he still made you want to laugh, even now, even guarded as you'd become. The way some worn-down, stubborn part of you lit up, just slightly, every time his voice found you in a crowded room.

You remembered him from before, if you let yourself. Not in any grand, significant way — just ordinary fragments, the kind that only became significant in hindsight. A detention in third year you'd both been given for an entirely unrelated prank gone sideways, the two of you trading increasingly ridiculous excuses while scrubbing trophies, until Filch had to separate you for laughing too loudly. A running joke about a hopeless divination substitute that had somehow lasted two entire terms. A wink thrown your way in a crowded corridor once, casual and easy, that had made you blush for reasons you hadn't examined closely at the time.

You'd liked him. Quietly, the way you liked a lot of things back then, without needing to make a production of it. He'd been funny in a way that felt effortless rather than performed, kind in the small unremarkable ways that never asked for credit. If things had gone differently — if April had never happened, if the person you used to be had gotten to stay — you thought, sometimes, that you might have let yourself want this a long time ago, simply and without all the fear currently wrapped around it.

That was exactly why you couldn't let it happen now.

She got a bad reputation

Nobody gets too close

You knew, with a clarity that frightened you, precisely what it would cost him to be seen with you — the whispers, the warnings, the slow erosion of a reputation he'd built without ever needing to fight for it. You'd already watched it happen once, that very day, his friends' curious eyes following him across the courtyard. You didn't want to be the reason people looked at Fred Weasley differently. You didn't want to drag someone that bright down into the same grey, suffocating hell you'd been living in for over a year.

It would be so much easier, you told yourself, to simply keep him at a distance. Safer for him. Safer for you, too — wanting something you couldn't have was its own particular cruelty, and you'd had quite enough cruelty for one lifetime already.

But some stubborn, unconvinced part of you kept hoping he wouldn't listen to any of that. And that frightened you more than anything else.

You tried to talk to Luna about it, one evening, in the roundabout, careful way you talked about anything that mattered now.

"Sometimes I think about who I used to be," you admitted, staring at your hands rather than at your sister. "The loud one. The one who wore whatever she wanted and laughed too easily and didn't calculate every single interaction before she had it. And I think — if she'd just been quieter. Smaller. Less obviously happy. Maybe none of it would have happened. Maybe they wouldn't have looked twice."

Luna went very still, the way she did when something mattered enough to warrant her full, uninterrupted attention.

"You're angry at her," Luna said. Not a question.

"I don't know what I am. I just — I resent her, sometimes. That girl. For being so careless with herself. For not seeing it coming. And then I hate myself for resenting her, because none of it was her fault, and I know that, logically, I do — but knowing it and feeling it aren't the same thing, and I can't seem to make the feeling catch up."

"That's the cage," Luna said, quiet, certain. "The one I keep telling you that you built, and let other people help build. You resent the girl you used to be, and you can't forgive yourself for surviving what happened to her, and you won't let either feeling go, because letting go would mean admitting neither of them was ever fair to hold onto in the first place."

"It wasn't my fault," you said, though it came out smaller than you meant it to, like you were still convincing yourself.

"I know it wasn't. You know it wasn't, somewhere underneath all of this. But you don't talk about any of it — not to me, not really, not even now. You've gotten so good at protecting everyone else from the weight of it that you won't even let yourself feel it properly. You're so afraid of becoming her again — loud, open, easy to hurt — that you've stopped letting yourself be anyone at all. You avoid yourself, sister. That's the real problem. Not what happened. What you've done to survive it."

You didn't have an answer for that, not right away. But you sat with it, turning it over, and something in you recognized, with quiet horror, exactly how true it was.

"I don't know how to stop," you admitted finally.

"You don't have to know yet," Luna said, gentle now, reaching for your hand. "You just have to stop pretending you don't need to. That's usually where it starts."

The turning point in the Gryffindor dynamic happened on a rainy Tuesday in the common room.

Fred was reviewing a prototype for a new joke, while Lee Jordan and a few other seventh-years were chatting near the fire. The conversation drifted to the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend, and inevitably, to the gossip.

"I heard that she actually asked a guy to make out in a teacher's office! " Lee remarked casually, tossing a piece of popcorn into the air. "I mean, look at her. She looks miserable now, but she still keeps doing those things, just—No smoke without fire, right?"

Fred's patience snapped.

The sound was like a gunshot. Fred stood up, kicking his chair back so violently it crashed into a table. In two strides, he was across the room, grabbing the front of Lee's robes and slamming him hard against the stone wall.

"Say another bloody word about her," Fred snarled, his face twisted in absolute, blinding rage, his broad shoulders completely boxing Lee in. "Say it, Jordan. I'll break your jaw."

George caught his arm before the fist could land, hauling him back a step. "Fred. Stop." He turned to Lee, voice calm but serious. "You know that's not on, right?"

"Everyone says stuff like that about her—"

"That's exactly the problem." George's tone made the whole common room go quiet. "You've got a mum, Lee. Cousins. Probably a daughter someday, if that's the life you want. Would you want anyone talking about them the way you just talked about her? Fred and I have a sister. If i heard someone talk about Ginny like that, I'd swing first too. The only difference is you don't think it counts because she's not someone you care about. That's the thing that needs to stop being true. What we let slide is the world we're building for every woman who matters to us down the line."

Lee sat with that, discomfort plain on his face. "I didn't think about it like that. That was out of order."

The incident shifted everything.

The next day in the Great Hall, when a Slytherin girl muttered a slur as you walked past, Hermione loudly slammed her textbook shut and publicly threatened to hex the girl into oblivion.

You didn't thank her, you couldn't; you were still afraid to express anything and that it would all end up being an elaborate joke against you. But at the same time, something inside you screamed that that wasn't the intention and then for the first time in months, you weren't entirely alone with your sister, there were finally more people who saw you...as you were and not what others said.

Hermione found you in the library not long after, sitting down across from you without waiting for an invitation.

"I've been meaning to properly introduce myself," she said. "I don't think we've ever actually talked. I'd like to, if you're amenable."

You were wary, at first, the way you were wary of everyone new, but Hermione's directness made it hard to stay guarded for long — she asked real questions, listened properly to the answers, never once tiptoed around your history but never pried into it either.

"I like your theory about why Nifflers are drawn to anything shiny rather than anything valuable specifically," Hermione said, once, examining one of your sketchbook pages you'd left open by accident. "Most people assume it's about worth. I think you're right that it's actually about attention — they want the thing that catches the eye, not the thing that's technically precious. That's rather clever, actually."

Nobody had complimented your thinking that specifically in longer than you could remember, and you found yourself, slowly, looking forward to Hermione's company in a way you hadn't expected to.

Ron and Harry followed Hermione's lead within weeks, folding you into their orbit with the same easy, undemanding welcome — Ron greeting you as you enter the great hall with the same blunt enthusiasm he have with everyone, no careful edges, which felt, oddly, like a relief after months of people treating you like poison; Harry, quieter, sharing a knowing look with you sometimes that suggested he understood something about being defined by a story you never chose, though neither of you ever needed to say it outright.

It became a habit, over the following weeks — Hermione seeking you out, pulling you gently into her orbit, and the group along with her. And one time when she overheard two Ravenclaw girls repeating an old, ugly joke about you in the corridor, she didn't hesitate.

"That's not funny, and it's not true, and I'd genuinely like to know why either of you think repeating it makes you clever," Hermione said, stopping directly in front of them, immovable. "You don't know her. You've decided something about her based on a story two idiots made up to protect themselves. I'd think a bit harder about that, if I were you."

The girls didn't have a response. Word of the exchange spread, as these things did, and slowly, deliberately, Hermione's clear, public loyalty became one more thread in the growing web of people who'd decided, out loud and without apology, that you were worth defending.

"Thank you," you told her afterward, still a little stunned by the directness of it. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did," Hermione said, simply. "Quiet kindness is lovely, but it doesn't undo a year of public cruelty on its own. Sometimes the correction has to be just as visible as the original unfairness, or it doesn't actually shift anything."

It was around this same period that Fred learned something uncomfortable about himself, entirely by accident.

He'd fallen into step beside a Hufflepuff girl in the corridor one afternoon, out of pure habit — an easy, flirtatious opening line, the kind of thing Fred had said to a dozen girls without a second thought over the years, harmless in his own mind, just the ordinary currency of teenage flirtation.

He didn't notice anything wrong until your reaction later that day, in the library, when he tried the same easy, teasing register with you — some light joke about your reading choices, nothing unusual for him — and watched something flicker across your face that he'd never seen there before. Not annoyance. Something closer to alarm, quickly smoothed over, the kind of flinch a body makes before the mind catches up to explain it.

"What was that? " Fred asked, gentle, immediately abandoning whatever joke he'd been building toward.

"Nothing."

"It wasn't nothing. You went somewhere else for a second, Angel."

You were quiet for a long moment, weighing whether to say it.

"That thing you do," you said finally, careful. "The easy charm. The teasing, confident thing you do with girls, like it's just automatic and.. normal but when you did it just now, with me, it landed differently than I think you meant it to."

Fred sat with that, uncomfortable in a way he wasn't used to sitting with things.

"I didn't mean anything by it," he said. "It's just how I talk. Harmless, I always thought."

"I know you didn't mean anything. I'm not accusing you of anything." You picked at the corner of your book. "It's not really about you specifically. It's that easy confidence — the assumption that a girl's going to enjoy the attention, that flirting is just something owed, automatic, no real thought behind whether she wants it in that particular moment — that's part of what got twisted into something much worse for me. Not by you. But it's close enough to the shape of it that it catches me off guard sometimes."

Fred didn't say anything defensive. He let the discomfort of it actually land.

"I think I've never really had to think about that," he admitted, slowly, working it out as he said it. "Whether the girl actually wants the attention in that specific moment, or whether I'm just assuming she does because most of them seemed to, before. That's not really fair, is it? Assuming."

"It's not really about fair and isn't your fault. You don't do it with bad intentions, it's simply society that...makes assumptions about what women want or don't want, and somehow that scares me, it disgusts me now, I can't help it…I-i think that things have to be about paying attention. Actually checking, instead of assuming."

"I'll pay more attention," Fred said, and meant it with a seriousness that surprised even him. "To you. And I think — probably to everyone else too, from here on."

He got the chance to prove it a few weeks later, in a corridor near the Charms classroom, when a group of younger girls stopped him with the particular giggling boldness of fourth-years testing out flirtation for the first time, one of them clearly working up the nerve to ask him something.

The old Fred would have played along without a second thought — easy, charming, harmless fun, exactly the kind of interaction he'd never once questioned before. Instead, he found himself pausing, actually reading the room, checking whether the attention he was about to offer was wanted or simply assumed, and in turn, questioning whether he wanted to do it or was simply going to answer out of pure reflex.

"Sorry, I'm a bit behind for class," he said, kind but definite, not performing the flirtation the moment seemed to be angling for. "Another time, maybe."

He caught George watching the exchange afterward, eyebrows raised.

"You've gone quiet with the flirting lately."

"Not quiet. Just — i don't want it, i thinking about it first. Turns out that's a step I used to skip entirely."

"Huh," George said, considering. "Suits you, honestly. Didn't expect falling for someone to turn you thoughtful, but here we are; You're becoming just like me!" George joked at the end, earning complaints from his brother and a couple of laughs.

You didn't say anything else about it that day in the library, months earlier, when the conversation first happened. But something shifted between you, some small, real trust earned in the space of that uncomfortable, honest exchange, and Fred carried the lesson forward more carefully than he'd carried most lessons in his life — not as a single correction, but as an ongoing practice, tested and retested, month after month, until it simply became part of who he was rather than something he had to remember to do.

But these changes couldn't stop the memories or the actions of others.

A sight of a soul when it's breaking

Making my heart grow cold

It happened during a crowded period between classes. A group of older Slytherin boys pushed past you in the corridor. One of them—Warrington—deliberately he moved his hand over your butt. He leaned in, whispering something filthy in your ear, before laughing and walking away with his friends cheering him.

Your vision tunneled. The air in the corridor evaporated. The walls of Hogwarts suddenly felt like they were crushing your ribs.

You stumbled backward, gasping for air, your hands flying to your ears as you slid down the stone wall in a secluded alcove. The panic attack hit you with the force of a physical blow. You were back in that dark room. You could feel his hands on you. You couldn't breathe.

"Angel?"

The voice was alarmed, but it stayed exactly where it was. Fred rounded the corner, his eyes widening as he saw you curled into a ball on the floor, hyperventilating.

He moved toward you instinctively, but as his large, imposing shadow fell over you, you shrieked, pressing yourself harder against the stones. 'Too big. He's too big. He's a man.'

Fred understood instantly.

He threw himself backward, putting a solid five feet of distance between you. He dropped to his knees, making himself as small as physically possible, keeping his hands flat on the floor where you could see them.

"I'm right here, Angel," Fred said, his voice a low, steady rumble, stripped of all its usual volume. He didn't approach. He didn't try to touch you. "You're safe. You're in the corridor. It's Tuesday. I'm not going to touch you. I'm just going to sit right here on the floor until you can catch your breath."

You sobbed, your chest heaving, your eyes locked onto his face. Fred kept his gaze perfectly steady, radiating an absolute, unshakeable calm that he definitely didn't feel. He stayed on the cold stone floor for twenty minutes, talking to you about nonsense—about George's newest invention idea, about his mother's knitting, about anything that would anchor you to the present.

Slowly, the tunnel vision receded. Your breathing hitched, slowing down to a shuddering rhythm.

Fred didn't move until you finally leaned your head back against the wall, exhausted. Only then did he slowly slide his Gryffindor hoodie off over his head. He tossed it gently so it landed next to your knee.

"It's cold," Fred whispered. "Put that on. Nobody's going to bother you while you're wearing my colors and my name, darling."

You looked at the oversized, worn red hoodie.

You and Fred both knew it was a lie—a harmless little lie—that as soon as other people saw you, there would be more rumors and sharp comments about you, but you chose to believe him. You chose to feel comforted by his warmth and pretend that, if nothing had happened to you, you would just be two young people flirting and sharing a nice moment.

You chose to live that little fanciful lie.

Your hands were shaking as you pulled it over your head. It swallowed you whole, smelling fiercely of cinnamon and safety. You looked at Fred, still kneeling five feet away, giving you all the power, all the control.

"Thanks...for the patience and the chat-and-and the hoodie"

The silence between you stretched for a few moments.

"It smells better than I expected from you," you teased softly, the curve of your mouth rising.

Fred feel it like a victory and for the first time since the assault, you didn't want to run away from a man. You wanted him closer.

That slow progression of you relying on him was agonizing, beautiful, and deeply confusing for Fred. It started with proximity — sitting close enough in the library that your shoulders brushed, neither of you moving away. Then it became a habit — Fred's arm slung loosely along the back of whatever bench you shared, not quite touching you, close enough that you could lean into it if you wanted to, which, eventually, you did. Then it became something closer to comfort. But there was always a barrier, a flinch, a hesitation.

He was enormous, up close — taller than you by a full head, broad enough through the shoulders that his jumper swallowed you whole, strong enough that you'd watched him lift furniture other boys needed to be two for. Most days, you found you liked it — liked the solid, unhurried warmth of him, the way he never seemed to notice or mind his own size, just took up space easily and let you borrow some of that ease when you needed it.

Over the following weeks, it became something you both reached for more readily: his fingers, absent and easy in your hand; your head resting against his chest while he explained some ridiculous new joke-shop idea; his hand finding yours under a table, thumb tracing slow circles against your knuckles, an anchor rather than a demand.

None of it was romantic in the traditional sense, not yet — nothing that asked anything of you beyond comfort freely given and freely received. But it built, patient and constant, into something that felt, increasingly, like the safest place you had.

There were still moments, even if you tried to avoid them, when his size did something else entirely — a hand closing too fast around your arm to steady you on an uneven step, and your whole body locking rigid before you recognized who it was. Fred let go immediately every time, adjusting without complaint, always announcing himself now before closing any distance, making himself smaller in all the ways that mattered without ever once making you feel guilty for needing it.

Fred didn't know what he was doing.

One weekend, Fred cornered George and his girlfriend (a sweet, brilliant Hufflepuff pureblood who George had been entirely obsessed with for two years before she finally gave in), in the common room.

"I need advice," Fred muttered, rubbing his face. "I don't want to mess this up, George. I really don't."

The girl offered a warm, empathetic smile. "She's trying, Fred. I think —From what you're saying— that she likes you. But her body doesn't know it's fully safe yet. You have to let her lead."

"Took me two years to get Sunshine to look at me and leave that bloke, Freddie," George said quietly, clapping his twin on the shoulder.

"And i didn't go through half the hell that girl went through. You have to be patient. You can't pretend to fix her. You just have to love her while she fixes herself." She added kindly.

But Fred, in his fierce protectiveness, inevitably messed up.

A week later, you found out Fred had actively threatened a group of Ravenclaws who had refused to partner with you in Potions. You were furious. You dragged him into an empty classroom, your eyes blazing.

"I didn't ask you to fight my battles, Fred!" you shouted, the oversized sleeves of his hoodie pulled over your hands. "I am not a broken toy for you to fix! I am not your property for you to be a caveman resorting to violence over me! You stepping in and threatening people just makes me look horrible! It makes it look like I need a big, strong man to survive!"

"You needed someone in your corner!" Fred yelled back, his own frustration and desperation boiling over. "I can't just stand by and watch them tear you apart, Angel! It kills me!"

"Then look away!" you cried, tears of pure frustration spilling over. "Because you can't erase what happened! You can't beat up the past, Fred! You can't solve this for me, and if you think you can, then you don't understand it at all!"

You stormed out, leaving Fred entirely gutted for days.

He sought Molly out the following weekend, home for a visit while the others sat in the kitchen with hot drinks — George and his girlfriend close together on one bench, Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione deep in their own conversation.

Fred found his mother alone by the sink.

"Mum. Can I talk to you about someone?"

Molly set down the cup she'd been drying. "Of course love."

"There's a girl—actually — you might've heard Ginny or some of the girls mention her. She's amazing, Mom, she has eyes that— I don't know, Just when they look at you they make you feel 'wooow' and it's sweet, kind, brave because—well, you know?" Fred paused, a silly smile spread across his face, ignoring Molly's mental effort to follow her son's strange and lovestruck explanation. "She makes me want to be a better man, a better person; she's everything that's right, and I don't think I've ever wanted to do things right with a girl so much. Besides, did I tell you she draws? she's properly talented, though she'd never say so herself. She's got this laugh that used to fill up whole rooms before this year, and getting even a piece of it back out of her feels like the best thing I've ever managed to do with my time. I think about her constantly, Mum. Not in the fun way, either — I mean I actually worry, all the time, whether I'm doing right by her."

Fred's voice drops to something more restrained; a mixture of sadness and anger. His brows furrow as he tries to find a way to express a pain that isn't his own.

"Something enormous happened to her last spring; Two boys disrespected her and—and took advantage of her… that wasn't her fault, not even slightly, and instead of the people responsible facing any of it, she's the one who's spent over a year paying for it, They all chose to blame her! Spreading stupid rumors and treating her badly when she doesn't deserve it."

He raised his eyes, meeting his mother's warm and understanding gaze. "I care about her more than I've ever cared about any girl, and I don't know how to help her properly. I keep getting it wrong — trying to fix things that aren't mine to fix."

Molly's whole expression had softened, listening. "That sounds like a great deal to be carrying, both of you."

"How do I help her, Mum? Properly. Not just showing up angry and throwing punches, though apparently I've been doing plenty of that."

"Helping looks like listening more than you speak," Molly said. "It looks like asking what she needs instead of guessing. It looks like being steady on the days she's not, without needing credit for the steadiness. You can't love someone healed, Fred. You can only love them exactly as they are, and trust that your presence matters even when it's not fixing anything at all."

"That's harder than throwing a punch."

"Infinitely harder," Molly agreed, smiling. "That's what being a good man actually looks like, more often than the dramatic version you probably picture." She studied her son for a long moment, something proud and a little misty in her expression. "You've grown up a great deal this year, you know. I don't say that lightly. Bring her round sometime! I'd really like to meet her."

Fred apologized the next time he saw you. It was a sincere, ego-less apology that melted the remaining ice around your heart. He promised to let you handle your own battles.

"You keep trying to solve this," you said, sharper than you meant, when Fred suggested going to Dumbledore together, already having drafted most of what he wanted to say. "You've decided you're going to fix this for me, and that's not your decision to make. You can't help by deciding what I need before I've decided it myself. I am grateful for the fury and the fists — but none of it helps me sit with the parts I haven't processed. It just gives me one more enormous thing to process on top of everything else."

Fred looked stricken. "I didn't think about it that way."

"Loving me isn't the same as managing this for me. I need you to be here. Not in charge of fixing what happened to me, because you can't, and every time you try, it makes even my own healing feel taken out of my hands."

"You're right," Fred said, finally. "I've been so angry on your behalf that I've been treating it like something I could solve with enough force. It's yours. All of it. Not mine."

"I need you to just be here. Steady. Not fixing. Just staying."

"I can do that," Fred said. "I promise."

And into the deeper she's sinking

I'm begging her please don't let go

There was a week late, not long after that you and Fred work things out, when you disappeared almost entirely — skipping meals, skipping the library, answering nothing, not even Luna's careful, persistent knocking in your door. It wasn't one single trigger. It was the accumulation of everything, finally too heavy to carry through another ordinary day — the anniversary of the party creeping closer on the calendar, a fresh round of whispers that had started up again for no reason and at the same time for being too close to fred, the exhausting, endless work of holding yourself together in front of people who'd decided, long ago, that you didn't deserve the effort.

Fred found you on the fourth day, curled in the farthest corner of an unused classroom, the one you'd once shared laughter in, now sitting in it alone in the dark.

"Hey," he said, quiet, not moving too fast, not crowding the doorway. "Angel, finally I have the privilege of seeing your face," he joked softly, then tentatively said "Can I come in?"

You didn't answer, just nod and he took that as permission, sitting down a careful distance away, close enough to be present, far enough to leave you room.

"You've been gone a few days," he said, gently. "I've been worried. Luna and the other ones have been worried. I'm not here to make you talk if you're not ready. I just — I needed to see you were alright. Or as alright as you can be today."

"I'm tired," you whispered, finally, voice hollow. "I'm so tired of holding all of it up. Some days I think it would just be easier to stop trying so hard to be okay. To just let myself sink, instead of fighting to stay afloat every single day."

Something in Fred's chest went cold and urgent at that, though he kept his voice steady, refusing to let his own fear show in a way that might frighten you further.

"Don't," he said, low, and it came out rawer than he meant it to, something close to pleading. "Please don't let go of this. Of any of it — of Luna, of me, of the people trying to hold on with you. I know it's exhausting. I know you're so tired of fighting a battle nobody else seems willing to fight alongside you. But I'm not asking you to be okay today. I'm just asking you not to disappear. There's a difference, and I need you to hear it." He approached and gently took your hands, caressing them in yours. "You don't have to be strong for one more single day. You just have to let us stay close enough to help carry some of this, instead of shutting the door and carrying it entirely alone."

Neither of you spoke for a while, letting the quiet settle into something less raw. Then Fred, apparently unable to stay serious for longer than strictly necessary, cleared his throat.

"You know," he said, thoughtfully, "if you really wanted to disappear properly, you should've picked a better hiding spot. This classroom's got terrible acoustics. I could hear you mising my jokes and or presence. Very unprofessional sulking, honestly. I'd give it a four out of ten."

"I wasn't sulking."

"Course not. You were doing advanced, silent brooding. Very different discipline. Requires years of training." He nudged your shoulder with his, gentle. "Next time, at least pick a classroom with better echo. I nearly walked into the wrong one twice looking for you. Gave Peeves a proper fright, actually, bursting in like that."

"You did not."

"I absolutely did. He called me 'overly dramatic,' which, from Peeves, is genuinely rich."

You're laughing at the absurdity of his joke, leaning forward; close enough now that the distance between you become charged, suspended, the kind of quiet neither of you rushed to break. Fred's hand came up, gentle, to brush something imaginary from your cheek, and for one long moment, his eyes dropped to your mouth and held there, and you felt yourself lean in, almost without deciding to.

Then some old, reflexive fear flickered across your face — nothing dramatic, just a half-second of hesitation, your body's old habit of bracing before your mind caught up to explain there was nothing to brace against.

Fred noticed immediately, and pulled back, gentle, unbothered.

"Hey, pretty girl, easy there yeah? We don't have to rush things—although I understand you're eager to taste this mouth ." He smiled and joke, easy, warm. "We'll kiss when you feel completely safe. I'm not going anywhere in the meantime don't worry; we'll have plenty of kisses when you really want them."

His body leaned down, kissing your forehead for a moment, a gesture that made tears sting behind your eyes.

You could have cried, a little, at how easily he let the moment go, how entirely unoffended he seemed by your own body's betrayal.

"Thank you," you said, quietly.

"Nothing to thank me for. I meant what I said. I'm patient, angel. More patient than I ever knew I had in me, if I'm honest, and I'm finding I quite like finding out."

As the moment faded and you gathered your things to go to your common room accompanied by Fred, he murmured something in your direction.

"I don't care what any of them think of you," he explained, noticing how you looked around, judging those who passed by. "Not one word of what they've decided. I only care about this —" He pointed his index finger at you and him. "about you still being here, tomorrow, and the day after, however slow that has to go. Don't let go, love. Whatever it takes. I'll be right here, holding on with you, for as long as you need me to."

You leaned into him, finally, silent tears slipping free, and he wrapped an arm around you without hesitation, and the two of you walk Until they arrived at your common room where Fred left you under some bad joke and the promise to see each other tomorrow that managed to make you smile.

It wasn't a fix. It was just a hand extended into the dark, and you took it, and that, that year, was enough to keep you from sinking any further.

She's got a bad reputation

But she's all that, all I want though,

Fred After that day he decided he was finally going to ask you out on a date and that made him lose his mind.

He found George and his girlfriend in the common room on a Tuesday evening, deposited himself directly across from them with the particular urgency of a man in genuine crisis.

"I need help. Both of you. Immediately."

George didn't even look up from his homework. "Let me guess."

"I want to ask her to go to Hogsmeade. And i have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, and you two are apparently the resident experts on making a hopeless, terrified declaration of feelings work out, so."

George's girl bit back a laugh. "This feels remarkably familiar."

"Doesn't it just," George agreed, setting down his quill with theatrical patience. "Alright. What's the actual crisis?"

"Everything. Where do I take her. What do I say. Do I bring flowers, is that too much, is it not enough—"

"Merlin, listen to yourself!" George said, though not unkindly. "This is exactly what I sounded like a year ago. Word for word, practically."

"It's a bit unsettling, honestly," his girlfriend added, grinning. "Like watching a play I've already seen and with another version of the cast!"

"A less handsome version, right Sunshine? I'm your favorite twin," George asked his girlfriend with a lopsided, flirty smile.

"You're obviously my favorite twin, you idiot." She answered by rolling her eyes.

"You're both being extremely unhelpful." He complained, burying his face in his hands.

"Fine, fine." George relented, actually thinking about it now. "Something simple. Somewhere quiet. Show her you thought about it without making it a production she has to perform gratitude for. And for Merlin's sake, don't bring flowers you didn't pick yourself. Effort matters more than expense."

"I don't have the money for expense anyway."

"Even better. Use that!" The girl leaned forward. "Ask her real questions. Actually listen. Let her talk more than you do, which I know is a genuine struggle for you specifically, and fred—"

The redhead looked up from his agenda—where he was writing down all the advice.

"Don't scare her off, make her your girlfriend so I have a sister-in-law!" George joked, amused, watching his brother practically turn bright red.

Fred left the conversation only slightly less panicked than he'd arrived, but armed, at least, with something resembling a plan.

He found you the next afternoon in the library, and lost every scrap of the composure George had helped him rehearse within about four seconds of sitting down.

"Right. So. I've been thinking," Fred started, then stopped, then started again. "That is — I wanted to ask you something, and I've had this whole speech planned, and I've apparently forgotten every word of it, which is deeply embarrassing, so you'll just have to bear with me."

"That's an alarming opening."

"It's going somewhere, I promise." He dragged a hand through his hair, uncharacteristically flustered. "I wanted to know if you'd let me take you to Hogsmeade. Properly, I mean. An actual date, not just us wandering around like usual pretending it isn't one. I have some money saved up and i borrowed a bit from Mum, which I'm slightly ashamed of but not ashamed enough to not mention it, apparently — and I just. I'd like to take you somewhere nice, if you'd want that. No pressure at all if you don't. I just wanted to actually ask instead of hoping you'd assume."

You looked at him — flushed, rambling, entirely undone by his own nerves — and found something in your chest loosen at the sheer, earnest effort of it.

"I'd want that," you said, and watched relief and delight war for control of his whole face.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Brilliant." He grinned, wide and a little disbelieving. "Right. Good. I'm going to go tell George immediately, purely so he can stop asking me about it every four minutes."

The date itself was, for the first hour, exactly what he'd promised — easy, warm, ordinary in a way you were slowly learning to trust. He bought you a hot chocolate with the careful pride of someone spending money he'd genuinely worked for, made you laugh twice loud enough that people at nearby tables glanced over, walked close enough that your shoulders brushed the whole way down the high street.

He'd clearly planned it in more detail than he let on — steering you past Honeydukes because he remembered, from some offhand comment months earlier, that you preferred the sour sweets to the sweet ones; stopping at the stationer's because he'd noticed your sketchbook was nearly full and pretended, badly, that buying you a new one was an impulsive decision rather than the entire reason he'd suggested that particular street.

"You're not subtle," you told him, watching him fumble an explanation for why you absolutely needed a new sketchbook right that moment.

"I never claimed to be." He grinned, entirely unrepentant. "Subtlety's overrated. I'd rather you know exactly how much thought went into this."

"I forgot what this felt like," you admitted, a little later, threading your arm through his without quite deciding to. "Just being normal."

"Get used to it," Fred said. "I intend to keep giving you normal, boring, lovely afternoons for as long as you'll let me."

But Hogwarts was a small world.

As you were walking back toward the castle, the path narrowed near the Shrieking Shack. And there they were. The two Slytherins.

They blocked the path, smirking as they looked at you, then at Fred.

"Well, well," one of them sneered, looking you up and down with an expression that made you violently nauseous. "Looks like the pleasure hole found a Weasley! Tell me, Fred, are you just waiting for your turn? Because you don't have to buy her butterbeer for that. If you just want to see what she looks like under that coat, me and the lads still have the photographs from that night."

The world stopped.

The words landed like a physical blow. Shame rose fast and total, your whole body wanting to disappear.

Fred didn't shout. He didn't say a word. He dropped your hand. With a terrifying, deadly silence, Fred lunged.

He crossed the distance in two strides, the first punch connecting solid with Warrington's jaw, and then Higgs was on him too, chaos, fast and furious.

He tackled the boy to the snowy ground, his massive fist coming down with bone-shattering force across the other Slytherin jaw. Blood sprayed onto the snow.

The second boy reached for his wand, but before he could cast a hex, a blur of motion slammed into him from the side.

George, passing by with his girlfriend on his arm, took one look, sighed heavily, and waded directly into the fight beside his brother without a second's hesitation. George didn't need to ask questions. He joined the fray instantly.

The two Weasley twins were an unstoppable, brutal force of protective rage. They beat the two boys until they were bloody, bruised, and begging for mercy in the snow.

"Delete them," Fred said, breathing hard, voice low and dangerous. "Now. Every copy."

They deleted them, hands shaking, face covered in blood.

"Get on your knees," George snarled at the other one, kicking him down. "Apologize to her. Now."

The two boys, bleeding and terrified, crawled in the snow toward you, stammering out pathetic, fearful apologies.

You stood there, shaking violently. You should have felt vindicated. You should have felt relieved. But as you looked at the two boys cowering in the snow, you felt a massive, suffocating wave of anger. They weren't apologizing because they were sorry for destroying your life. They were apologizing because two bigger, stronger men had beaten them into submission.

You turned and ran all the way back to the castle, your mind a churning mess — grateful for Fred's fury, ashamed of the scene, moved by feelings you weren't ready to examine, and underneath it all, a harder, colder anger: that they'd only apologized because two much larger boys forced them to their knees, not because they'd ever once felt genuine remorse. The apology changed nothing, not really. It left you hollow rather than avenged.

And there was Luna; as always, at the right moment.

"I don't know what I'm feeling," you admitted. "Grateful, and furious, and humiliated, and something about Fred that terrifies me more than any of it. It's too much all at once."

She gently I take some blankets, wrap you up, and sit down next to you. Her wide, pale eyes were filled with a profound, ancient wisdom.

"You're think that you are angry at Fred for fighting," Luna said softly. "But you're really angry at yourself."

"I am weak, Luna," you sobbed, burying your face in your hands. "I am broken. I couldn't even defend myself. Fred had to do it. I'm just a victim. That's all I'll ever be."

"No," Luna said firmly. She reached out, tilting your chin up. "The problem isn't what happened to you. What happened was a tragedy, and it wasn't your fault. But the problem now, sister, is that you never allowed yourself to grieve. You let them build a cage of shame around you, and then you locked the door from the inside to stay safe."

Luna brushed a tear from your cheek. "Fred didn't fight them to save you. He fought them because he loves you. But only you can save yourself. You have to accept the pain, mourn the girl you used to be, and step out of the cage. You are so much stronger than the worst thing that ever happened to you."

Her words cracked the foundation of your trauma. You wept—not tears of panic, but tears of profound, shattering grief. You grieved the loss of your innocence. You grieved the pain. And slowly, the cage door swung open.

"Thank you," you said, once the worst of it had passed, voice raw. "For staying. That whole first night, and every night since. I don't think I ever properly thanked you for that."

"You don't have to thank a sister for loving you," Luna said, and the simplicity of it undid you all over again.

Nobody knows the way that I know her, said

Nobody knows the weight that's on her shoulders, said

Nobody knows the way that I know her, said

She got it bad, she got it bad

It was past midnight when you finally walked into the Gryffindor common room. Hermione had given you the password while ago.

The room was deserted, save for the dying embers of the fire. And Fred.

He was sitting on the rug, staring into the flames. His knuckles were bruised and bandaged. He looked up when he heard your footsteps, his brown eyes filled with an anxious, desperate hope. He immediately stood up, making sure not to crowd you.

"Angel," Fred whispered. "I'm sorry. I lost my temper. I couldn't hear him talk about you like that."

"I know," you said softly. You walked closer. You didn't stop at the safe three-foot perimeter. You walked right up to him, until you had to tilt your head back to look into his face. "I'm not mad at you, Fred. I was just... I was mourning. But I'm done hiding now."

Fred let out a shaky breath, his eyes tracing your features as if you were a miracle.

"Good," he murmured. A small, tentative version of his usual cocky grin touched his lips. He gestured to the quiet room. "Since we're both awake and you made a super brave decision, like the wonderful woman you are...we have to celebrate! care to dance?"

You laughed, a genuine, bright sound. "There's no music, Fred."

"I'll hum," he offered perfectly seriously.

He held out his hand. He didn't grab yours; he gave you the power to choose. Slowly, you placed your hand in his. His fingers were warm and rough. He pulled you gently closer, his other hand resting lightly on your waist.

You swayed together in the quiet, firelit room. Fred's humming was terrible, off-key, and wonderfully endearing. You laughed, resting your forehead against his chest. You could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

An then you stopped swaying, looking up at him.

The firelight danced across his freckles. Fred stopped humming and looked down at your lips, his breathing shallow.

He clearly, desperately wanted to kiss you. The longing in his eyes was almost painful. But he stayed perfectly still, as if it was waiting for you.

He was giving you complete control over your own body.

You took a deep breath and let go of the fear.

You got up on your tiptoes, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck, and pressed your lips to his.

Fred let out a deep, ragged groan—a sound of absolute, starved devotion. His arms wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He kissed you back with a gentleness that broke your heart and mended it all at once. It was a soft, perfect, completely safe kiss.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless. Fred rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a smile of pure, unadulterated joy spreading across his face.

"Be my girl, Angel," Fred whispered into the quiet room, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. "Let me be yours. I promise I'll always wait for you."

"I'm yours, Fred," you whispered back. "I'm right here."

For a moment, Fred simply stared at you, like he hadn't quite let the words land yet. Then, all at once, they did.

"YES!" He shouted it, loud enough that it echoed off the common room's stone walls, both fists thrown into the air as he spun in a full, delighted circle. "Merlin's beard — YES. Finally. Thank Merlin, thank Godric, thank whoever's listening—"

"Fred, it's past midnight—"

"I don't care! I have never cared less about anything in my entire life!" He grabbed you by the waist and spun you once, laughing, before setting you back down, slightly dizzy and laughing yourself despite every instinct telling you to shush him. "You said yes! You're my girlfriend! I'm going to go wake George up and tell him, actually, no — better idea — I'm going to tell the whole common room in the morning, very loudly, possibly with a banner—"

"Please don't make a banner."

"No promises." He was still grinning, entirely too pleased with himself, when he suddenly dropped to one knee in front of you with theatrical seriousness, taking both your hands in his. "Actually — wait. Before the banner. I have one request. One incredibly important, life-altering request."

"That's an ominous amount of buildup for a request."

"It's very important, I promise." His eyes were bright with mischief, though something more sincere sat underneath it. "Come to my match against Slytherin this weekend. Sit where I can see you. Cheer for me, embarrassingly loud, so the whole pitch knows exactly who my girlfriend is."

You hesitated, the old fear rising automatically — a crowd, all those eyes, the murmurs that would inevitably follow you to the stands. But something steadier rose up beneath the fear this time, something that had been growing in you for months now, patient and quiet and finally strong enough to answer back.

"Okay," you said, and watched his whole face light up like you'd handed him the sun.

You went. You sat in the stands with Luna on one side and Hermione on the other, and when the murmurs started — they always did — you felt the old urge to disappear, to make yourself small, to let the whispers win the way they always had.

You didn't.

Instead, halfway through the first half, you made a different decision entirely. You excused yourself from the stands, And you walked towards the section where the teachers were watching the game, with your heart hammering the whole way, and looked for Professor McGonagall.

"I need to tell you something," you said, when she approached you , voice steadier than you expected. "About last spring. About what actually happened, not the version everyone decided to believe."

You told her everything — carefully, in pieces, your voice cracking more than once, McGonagall listening without a single interruption, her expression growing sharper and more furious with every sentence. When you finished, she didn't offer empty comfort. She stood and pulled you into a brief, fierce hug that startled you both.

"Thank you for telling me," she said, quiet and utterly sincere. "I am so sorry it took this long for someone to properly ask. This will be investigated thoroughly, I promise you that. You have been remarkably brave, both in surviving this and in choosing to speak now. I want you to know that."

You returned to your place with your hands still shaking, but lighter than you'd felt in over a year — the specific, enormous relief of having finally, truly been heard.

Griffyndor win the match no long after, Fred was diving in a spectacular blur of scarlet and gold, and when he landed, he searched the stands immediately, found your face, and grinned so wide it looked like it might genuinely hurt.

The celebration that night in the common room was loud and chaotic in exactly the way Gryffindor common rooms were built for. Fred, still flushed from the match, climbed onto a table without warning, silencing the room with a piercing whistle.

"I have an announcement," he declared, entirely too pleased with himself. "This absolutely brilliant woman right here" — he pointed at you, and you felt your whole face go hot — "has agreed to be my girlfriend. I am the luckiest man in this castle. Possibly the luckiest man in Britain. I intend to be insufferable about it for the foreseeable future, so you should all prepare yourselves accordingly!"

The room erupted into cheers and good-natured groaning in equal measure, George whooping loudest of all, and you stood there in the middle of it, thoroughly embarrassed and thoroughly, undeniably happy, thinking that you couldn't remember the last time you'd let yourself be celebrated like this — loudly, publicly, without flinching once.

The weeks that followed were, by Fred's own cheerful admission, "a proper campaign of showing off."

He carried your bag whenever you'd let him, which was often, mostly because he made such a production of the martyrdom involved. He introduced you to strangers in corridors with unnecessary flourish — "this is my girlfriend, yes, the talented one, the one who draws" — until you started swatting his arm every time, which never once stopped him.

McGonagall's investigation moved faster than either of you expected. Within a month, the truth had been thoroughly, officially established — testimonies gathered, the timeline reconstructed, the photographs finally, properly accounted for and destroyed under supervision rather than simply threatened out of existence in a muddy street. Warrington and Higgs were expelled before the term's end, their names quietly, permanently removed from the school roster, the official record finally, belatedly matching the truth you'd been carrying alone for over a year.

The reaction, when it spread, was its own strange reckoning. Some people had the decency to look ashamed — the Ravenclaw prefect who'd warned Fred off you weeks earlier avoided your eyes entirely for a full month afterward. Others apologized outright, awkward and overdue, and you accepted what felt genuine and let the rest simply exist without your energy attached to it. A few, stubbornly, still doubted — clung to the story that had been easier to believe, unwilling to let a little thing like an official expulsion change their minds. You found, to your own surprise, that you'd made peace with that too. You couldn't force everyone to see the truth. You could only keep living it, loudly, in front of the people who mattered.

Fred, for his part, seemed to consider it a personal mission to make sure you never doubted, for even a moment, exactly how he saw you.

"You're staring again," you told him once, over breakfast, catching him watching you with unguarded, open adoration.

"I'm allowed, right? You're my girlfriend. I intend to stare as much as I like, and you let me, for the rest of my natural life." He stole a bite of your toast, grinning at your protest. "Get used to it, Angel. I've got a whole lot of staring saved up."

The summer sun beat down on the sprawling, chaotic garden of The Burrow.

You were sitting on a woven blanket under the shade of the apple orchard, a sketchbook balanced on your knees. You were wearing a light summer dress, your shoulders bare, the sun catching the healthy, golden glow of your skin. The shadows were gone. The heavy, oversized sweaters were packed away.

A few yards away, George and his girl were laughing as they tried to de-gnome a particularly stubborn patch of rosebushes. Harry and Ron were flying above the pitch.

Suddenly, a pair of large, warm hands covered your eyes from behind.

"Guess who," a low, rumbling voice murmured in your ear.

"The most irritating Beater in Great Britain?" you teased, leaning your head back against his chest.

Fred chuckled, dropping his hands and sliding down onto the blanket beside you. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you tightly against his side. He pressed a kiss to your temple, looking down at the detailed sketch of a Niffler on your page.

"Beautiful," Fred said softly. He wasn't just talking about the drawing.

You leaned your head on his broad shoulder, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of cinnamon and summer grass. You weren't entirely cured; some days were still hard, and some nights you still woke up panicking. But you weren't fighting alone anymore.

"Dinner's ready!" Molly Weasley called out from the back porch, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes crinkling with joy as she looked at the two of you sitting under the tree.

Fred stood up, offering you his hand. You took it, letting him pull you to your feet. As you walked back toward the warm, noisy, beautiful chaos of the Weasley house hand-in-hand, you knew that your reputation didn't matter.

He became…careful. Pranks didn’t go as far as they used to. Essays were always handed in on time because most of his time he spent with you, you helped him study. Even Fred started to tutor a couple of younger years in Potions. 

Fred had always silently been top of his class at Potions. Everyone thought Fred was secretly Snape’s favourite student. Or, he would be. If Fred wasn’t a Gryffindor. 

But, no matter how many times his family or his friends, or your family and friends, pushed…Fred never acted on his feelings. 

And you denied he had any for you. 

“We’re just friends,” you chuckled, chopping carrots in the Weasley kitchen with Ginny. 

“Y/n-”

“Gin,” you sighed. “I know you would love for all of us to become actual sisters, but…it’s insane! Fred doesn’t have feelings for me. We’re friends. Good friends. But that’s it.”

Ginny gave you another deadpanned look. “What is the date right now?”

You laughed. “Ginny.”

“Just humour me.”

Rolling your eyes, you sighed. “Fine. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“And where are you?”

“Here. With you.”

“Ah. Just the first part.”

“I am here,” you said. “At The Weasley Burrow. Chopping carrots for tomorrow’s Christmas dinner.”

“And where is your family?”

“At home. Preparing for a movie marathon with their neighbours. It’s another long battle to find the perfect Christmas movie.”

“Where’s your jumper right now?”

“Upstairs.”

“In whose room?”

“Fred’s- Ginny.”

Ginny barked a laugh. “You can’t deny it! It’s so painfully obvious.”

“Ginny-”

“You are spending Christmas with us-”

“Because Molly invited me.”

“You could be spending it at home.”

“I still might if you keep-”

“And your Hufflepuff jumper is currently in the one room in this house where other house memorabilia has been banned.”

You sighed, again. “Ginny.”

“And you won’t be spending Christmas with your folks, so don’t even try and threaten that because Fred will just magically appear in your living room to drag you back here.”

You placed a hand on your hip. “Gin? Who did that exact thing last year?”

Ginny paused for a moment. “I was desperate and outnumbered by boys. That was different.”

From behind you, there was sudden whistling. “Happy Christmas Eve, ladies.”

“Hi, George.”

“George, tell Y/n that her and Fred should just make this whole thing official.”

“George, tell Ginny that she’s delusional. Please.”

George smiled, turning to his sister. “You’re delusional.” Then he turned to you. “And you and Fred should have gotten together years ago.”

“You agree with me! Why am I the delusional one?”

“She said ‘please’. And I’m not about to argue with a Professor again.”

For the last three years, you had been the head History teacher at Hogwarts. The second you had gotten the promotion, Fred had been there at your front door with flowers (real ones) and an invitation to join him at The Burrow since Molly was throwing a congratulations meal, along with your mother, for you. 

Eventually, the argument of your love life (that should or should not include Fred) eventually died away. People helped with meal-prep, games prep, or started a wrapping station at the table. 

By the next day, you took your usual seat at the table besides Fred. If neither of you were talking to someone else, you were talking to each other. 

It seemed like, from day one, you and Fred couldn’t stop talking. No conversation topic was too far or too scary to handle. You could be honest with your fears and feelings when you were with Fred. And, although he told George almost everything, the parts that he couldn’t talk to his brother about, you knew. 

“Ready? Okay…Go!”

Like every New Year, party games were involved. This time: Charades and Pictionary. 

Ever since finding out about your childhood parties, Arthur Weasley had found great joy in taking part. Whilst he and Molly didn’t always win, they got pretty close. 

But the one team that did…was you and Fred. 

At first, everyone thought you were both cheating. You had experience in the game, and Fred had experience in cheating. So, you and Fred had your own special round of cards that were charmed by Hermione. 

No cheating. No magic. Fully muggle. 

A single box drawn, a couple of lines— “Fleet Street!”

The next page. “Cheddar Race!”

Another— “Fairytale of New York!”

“Home Alone.”

“While You Were Sleeping!”

“Chocolate chip cookie. Milk. Santa Claus. Interrogation. Gods- Norse— Loki! Spice Girls. Dumbledore. The Black Lake. Muggle School-”

“Time!” Hermione called. 

“Fourteen?!” Ron called out. “How?! Are we sure they’re not cheating?”

“Mind reading?”

You just shrugged with a smile and collapsed comfortably next to Fred who threw his arm over your shoulder. 

“We’re just that good.”

The Charades round went just as well, as Fred acted out the different titles. 

As time ticked on, and midnight drew closer, you disappeared upstairs to grab your jumper whilst everyone went outside to set up the firework display with your parents. 

“Looking for something?” 

Standing up, quickly, you turned to face Fred who was leaning against his open door frame. 

“What did you do with it?”

“Do with what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fredrick Weasley.”

Fred chuckled, holding up his hands. “Alright, alright. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You’re lucky I let you keep that traitor jumper inside my room.”

“Traitor?” You laughed. 

Fred hummed, opening his wardrobe and reaching into the top shelf at the very back. “Yep. Traitor. You were meant to be supporting Gryffindor at our last match. And, instead, you turned up-”

“In my house colours.” You laughed, reaching for your jumper. Only, Fred pulled it back for a moment until you looked at him once again and he handed it over, peacefully. 

“Does it really have to be in my room, though?”

You nodded, pulling the sleeves up your arm before hauling it over your head. Fred came and stood a little closer, gently tugging your hair from the collar as you pulled it down your body. 

Neither of you noticed the fact the letter on the front was an ‘F’ in bold red colouring. 

“Yes. As a matter of fact, it does.”

“Why? If anything, you should be wearing my house colours. It’s my room.”

“You would prefer that, wouldn’t you?” You glared, playfully, at Fred. 

“I would actually.”

“Then it’s a shame I refuse to wear the losing house colours.”

Fred gave a dramatic gasp as he watched you walk away. “Take that back.”

“Can’t. Hufflepuff won more games.”

“For, like, one year.” Fred followed you. 

“Five, actually.”

“And we weren’t the losing team! That was Ravenclaw and you know it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Y/n-”

Chuckling, you came to a stop on the stairs whilst Fred hurried in front of you. On more than one occasion, meeting Fred at eye-to-eye level on a set of stairs was one of your favourite moments. 

“Okay, okay. Maybe Gryffindor weren’t the biggest losers. But Hufflepuff still won more games.”

For a moment, you expected Fred to continue to argue with you. But he didn’t. Instead, he fell quiet. Rather, you both did, as the fireworks outside started going off. 

Meanwhile, Fred’s gaze travelled from your jumper to your face, where his gaze fell the way it usually did. Like…he wanted to spend longer looking — like you had something on your face but didn’t know — but didn’t want you to see something in return. 

“It’s midnight.”

You smiled, unconsciously leaning a little closer to him. “Happy New Year, Fred.”

He leaned a little closer, too. Fred smiled. “Happy New Year, Y/n.” Then, after a moment, said: “We’ll have a better view from upstairs.”

“Lead the way.”

Letting Fred take your hand, you followed him back up the stairs and towards his room. Making sure you were safe, he helped you out of his bedroom window and onto the stuck out roof Ginny’s room from below. 

Before long, school was starting up again and you were far from that firework-filled night with Fred, making new seating charts for your classes. 

“Hey,” Fred called out. “Ready for food?”

“Almost.”

“What are you working on? Seating chart? Nice.”

“I’m trying to work it so— ah ha!”

Fred scanned your page for a moment as names moved around for the sixth time. “Are you planning for a lot of weddings in your future?”

“As if our teachers didn’t do it.”

You were splitting seating between students who could help each other, and students who even Fred knew had crushes on each other. Running a joke shop that stocked love potions also meant selling a lot of antidotes, too. 

“Someone might as well have the chance at a decent love life because of me. Merlin knows mine is shocking.” You laughed. “You know, the last date I went on said I was a six out of ten, but he might rank me higher if I let him sleep with me.”

“What?!”

You laughed, a little, again. “I know.”

“The guy from the-the library? Why didn’t you tell me before? That date was-” Fred pretended to do a quick calculation in his head. “Five months ago!”

“Relax, Fred. It’s hardly my worst one. Besides, at least this way, the kids might find them sooner without experiencing just…any of that.”

Fred looked from you and then towards the chart. “If we were in the same year, we would have been sat together.”

“What? Tutoring each other? I think Snape would have preferred-”

“Not just because of that,” Fred said, quietly. “Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

Looking up at him, you felt something slowly wash over you. Something he was trying to tell you, without letting you read it on his face first. 

“What that guy said…you didn’t believe him, did you?”

“That I’m a six out of ten?”

Fred nodded. And you paused. 

It wasn’t like you thought of yourself terribly, but you didn’t think you were the most beautiful woman in the world. You weren’t a celebrity, or a model. Over the years, a lot of people agreed if you worked in entertainment, you would be more suited for Radio than anything else. 

“Well, I don’t think it’s that simple. People…have certain traits they find attractive, that’s all.”

“Y/n.”

“It’s not like I’m the most beautiful, stunning woman in the world. A-And I can be messy. And sometimes oblivious, but it doesn’t make me stupid or ignorant. Not on purpose, at least. And-”

“Y/n-”

“Look, the guy was an ass and-”

“You’re beautiful, Y/n.” 

Your ramblings stopped dead in their tracks as you heard Fred. Not just his words, but his tone. Soft, kind, truthful. Not an ounce of sarcasm or mocking. Then you saw the look in his eyes. 

It was like he was letting you read him. And you were trying, but something just wasn’t clicking. Like looking at a house in a distant field, on a foggy morning. 

You knew what the house looked like. What it felt like, and what it smelled like. But the fog was distorting your vision. Was the tiles on the second roof still red, or were they painted white like the wood that encased Ginny’s room?

And what was Fred writing on the poster sign in the window?

“You’re beautiful,” Fred repeated, softly. “And it’s not just my opinion. It’s a fact, too.”

Unsure on what to say whilst the cogs in your head started turning, you just swallowed nervously and nodded. “Thank you, Fred.”

“We should…we should probably get going.”

Food. Right. 

“Oh, shoot- you’re right. Let me grab my jacket and I’ll, uhh…just be a second.”

Rushing into your office, you closed the door behind you just so you could take a moment to breathe. Your head was starting to spin. What was Fred trying to tell you? What was he writing on the—

Turning around, quickly, you looked through the crack in your door. Fred was standing in the middle of your empty classroom. He was standing tall, but completely relaxed. He was still in his suit from work, paired with the tie you had gifted him for Christmas. 

It was a simple floral design with a mixture of red, yellow and black colours against a warm-winter background. 

Gently, as he looked around your classroom, his thumb rubbed back and forth over one of the yellow flowers with black detailing. 

No. It’s a coincidence. You’re as delusional as Ginny. 

But…

In the fading sun, and the brightening candles, you felt your mind flashback to your Yule Ball. You and your friends had agreed to go together, without dates, since a Ravenclaw boy has dumped your friend a week after asking her to be his date. 

Only, halfway through the night, a hand reached out for yours and pulled you from the table you were sitting at, minding the bags and coats for your friends whilst they danced. 

Fred pulled you onto the dance floor and held you close as he led you around the room. 

“You deserve to have at least one decent memory that doesn’t include being the coat-chaperone.”

“Who said I wasn’t enjoying it?”

“Even you can’t be enjoying something so mundane.”

“I guess you have a point.”

“I have a very good point. I would have been your date if you’d asked.”

You nodded, slowly. “We were going as a group, and I didn’t want to upset anyone.”

“I could have been your secret date.”

“You can’t be secretive to save your life, Fred Weasley.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t.” You laughed. “It took you less than five minutes to spill the beans to me, about George and his crush on Angelia.”

“Hey, that was in confidence. And, yes, I can keep secrets from you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really.”

“Okay, then,” you smiled. “What’s this big secret?”

Fred laughed. “Oh, no, no. I’m not telling you. You’re gonna have to figure it out.”

“If I’ve got to figure it out, then why does it have to be a secret?”

Fred smiled, gently. “Because…when the time is right…you’ll know.”

“You’re playing the long game? You? Fred Weasley? Who spent half of his fourth year trying to figure out who his Secret Santa was before we’d even picked names?”

“Hey! I already knew it would be you. I just wanted to know what you got me.”

You smiled, boldly. “And did you like it?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Hufflepuff colours. Very nice.”

You laughed. “I gave you a red ‘F’ on the front.”

“You just want to see me kicked off the team so it’ll be easier for your friends to win.”

“Don’t have to. We already win more games than you do.”

Fred feigned an injury. “You wound me.”

You laughed. “Relax, Fredrick. You have my permission to burn it in protest of us winning the next game.”

“Oh, I already did. Went up with fireworks.”

You didn’t really believe him, but either way, you weren’t offended. You’d used magic in order to make that jumper. The one you got him for Christmas — the one you’d handmade with red and yellow yarn — had been his real present.

That was the one he also wore for his games. He called it his lucky charm.

“But. If you really want to know another secret of mine…I can dance. But only when I have a really good partner.”

“That one I’m starting to figure out.”

In the hours that followed, you tried to be as normal as possible. But the harder you tried, the harder the signs got to ignore. Old memories played through your head, and looking at them through a different lens…

It was like everything was beginning to fall into place. The wind was blowing, the sun was rising and the fog was clearing. 

“How long has she been like this?” Hermione asked, waving a hand in front of your face. 

Ginny, Angelia and Hermione had stayed the night at your place for girls night. You’d been weird all evening. Like a detective who was retired but couldn’t let that one case go. 

Waking up in the morning, Ginny had found you at the kitchen table, completely zoned out in a stern panic. Rather than panic, herself, Ginny had made herself a cup of tea and sat beside you. 

Ginny had both of her sisters do the same. 

“Should we call someone?” Hermione asked. 

“What do you think happened?” Angelia asked. 

“I think she’s finally realising the truth.”

“About…” 

Ginny nodded. 

For the first time, you spoke. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“Honey, you lost that a long time ago.”

Furrowing your brows, you snapped back into reality and swatted your hand against Ginny, who just smiled. “There she is.”

“Welcome back.”

“How are you?”

“It can’t be true,” you shook your head. 

“Tea?”

“Please.”

“Girls?” Ginny asked. 

Both nodded and turned back to you whilst Ginny made the tea. 

“Maybe I’m reading it wrong. I could be reading it wrong, right? Fred doesn’t…”

You looked at Angelia and Hermione for guidance, but both just looked at each other. They couldn’t lie to you. 

“Fred is definitely your friend,” Angelia told you. 

“Definitely,” Hermione agreed. 

“But…” 

Hermione took a breath. “But…and this isn’t to say he’s only friends with you because of it—”

“Because he’s not!” Angelia nodded, holding your hand. “He is certainly your friend because you’re friends.”

“But-”

“But my brother has been pathetically pining over you for years, is madly in love with you, and would marry you in a heartbeat if you asked him to. Bet he’d even take your last name, if you wanted him to.”

Ginny laid the mugs of tea on the table and took her seat. 

“I, like everyone here, has been waiting years for you to realise the same. So, start from the beginning. When did it finally click?”

Girls night bled into a Girl’s Weekend that eventually included George, Harry and Ron. 

“I’m such an idiot.”

George joined you on the floor, wrapping his arm around you. “You’re not an idiot. You’re just in shock.”

“Right.” Ron kneeled on your other side. “Look at me and Hermione. It took us almost ten years to realise our feelings.”

“Felt longer,” Harry mumbled before Hermione hit him. 

“People just need time.”

Suddenly, Angelia crouched in front of you and gently pulled your hands from your face. You were mortified. 

“But, none of that matters right now. What matters is…and I think I already know the answer, but I do think saying it out loud will help…do you feel the same for Fred as he does for you?”

“I…”

You thought you knew your answer, too. But you couldn’t say for certain. You loved Fred. Of course you did. He was your best friend. But…in love? 

Suddenly, your mind was flooded with worries. What if you were wrong? What if he was wrong? What if it was just the chase? What if his feelings have changed? He could meet someone else tomorrow and realise it was just a school crush that lasted too long?

What if you fucked it up? What if you lost him? What if you were the reason you lost him?

“Okay, maybe we should just let Y/n take all of this information in first before she answers questions about her own feelings.”

Before everyone left, you swore them all to secrecy. At least until you could figure it out and talk to Fred. 

Only, you kept postponing your talk with Fred. 

The thought of seeing him, never mind talking, was terrifying to you. For the first time in your life, you didn’t know what to do when it came to Fred. Or your feelings. Or his feelings. 

But you couldn’t ignore him forever. 

“Are you avoiding me?”

You practically jumped out of your skin. “Fred!”

“Are you avoiding me?”

“What?” Two seconds into his surprise visit and you already felt like you had been strapped to a lie detector exam. “N-No. Of course not. Why would I avoid you?”

Quickly, you picked up a pile of papers you didn’t need, and hurried out of your office. Fred just stepped out of the way to let you pass, and watched as you placed a page on each desk. 

“Because this is the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other and you keep telling me you’re busy. Which I can fully respect…so long as you’re not suddenly busy trying to avoid me.”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Fred looked at a page on one of the desks. “And an Historian is suddenly teaching Sex Ed?”

“What?”

Fred held up the pamphlet as you turned around. “Uhh…sure! I…uhh…”

Fred smiled a little, putting the pamphlet back down. “Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

“George told me what happened.”

“George?”

Fred nodded. “My brother? Kinda looks like me but a little less good looking? Y/n-”

Suddenly, you closed your eyes and held out your hand. “Stop!”

“Okay.” Fred said, his voice gentle. “I’m…staying put.”

“I don’t know if I can do this right now.”

“We’ve gotta talk, eventually.” Fred remained completely calm. “How about this? I just…say a couple sentences and then you can decide what to do with them?”

Fred could see the fear in your eyes as you finally opened them again. For a moment, it did sting. You were his best friend, and his own feelings were causing your fear. 

But, the longer he looked, the more he saw. And the more he recognised the fear. His news was scary to you, but that wasn’t causing the growing fear and anxiety in your eyes. 

Your fear was your uncertainty. 

“Okay.”

Fred took a small breath. “Okay. I just want to preface this by saying you are my best friend. Away from feelings and other complicated adult…stuff. You are my friend. And, if you want to keep it that way forever and completely ignore this new information, I will be happy to do so. Having you in my life and seeing you happy is enough for me. Loving you, and being in love with you are two separate things. But, for me, I hold both for you. I always have. And I always will. I’m not saying that to scare you, but just to…assure you. Just in case.”

“Okay.”

“How we move forward…I will leave that for you to decide. You are fully in control here. Whatever you want to do. But, if you don’t mind, I do think we should talk a little more about this eventually. Unless you want to completely ignore it for the rest of our lives. Whatever makes you happy.”

“Why didn’t you tell me yourself?” 

The question left your lips before you could stop and overthink any further. 

“I respect our friendship. I didn’t want you to freak out-”

“Freak out?!”

Fred held up his hands as you hurried forward and then stopped yourself, unsure about what to do. “Okay, well, you’re not exactly disproving my point-”

“No. No, no, no, this isn’t me freaking out-”

“It kinda looks like it.”

“I’m not freaking out!”

Fred watched as you started pacing, picking up pamphlets and replacing them on different desks. “Aaand now we’re pacing.”

“I-I just need a minute, okay?” 

“Okay.”

“It’s a lot…it’s a lot to take in. But I am not freaking out.”

Fred shook his head as he took a seat. “You’re not freaking out. Take all the minutes you want.”

“Thank you.”

Feeling glued to the floor, you took a few deep breaths whilst Fred sat comfortably at one of the desks and looked around the room at the different decor and ceiling candles. 

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Sitting there. Like that.”

Fred held out his hands, wanting to laugh. “I’m sitting normally.”

“Well…stop it. It’s too…casual.”

Slowly, Fred stood and leaned against the desk. 

“That doesn’t help either.” 

Fred just gave you a reassuring look. Why can’t he be the one freaking out, huh? “Look,” he said. “We don’t have to talk right now. I just came to see you because I don’t want you avoiding me because I’ve made you feel uncomfortable.”

“Merlin,” you mumbled to yourself, throwing down the pamphlets as Fred continued to talk. 

“I get it. I mean, if I were in your position I’d be freaked out, too! But I’ve had a couple years to deal with th-”

Fred’s voice was suddenly muffled by the feeling of your lips colliding with his own, as you reached up to pull him down and closer to you. 

For a moment, you had the confidence of a thousand suns that were fully prepared to sunburn everyone in sight. But they quickly burst into a ball of flames, and into a black hole.

Quickly, you pulled away, definitely freaked out. 

“I-I…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have- I don’t know why- oh, fuck.”

Fred smirked, keeping his hand anchored at your waist before you could run away. Not that your body would let you. “Did you just kiss me?”

“No.”

Fred narrowed his eyes, playfully, at you. “I think you did.”

“It was someone else.”

“Who else is here, Y/n?”

“Peeves?”

Fred raised his brow. “You’re not sure?”

Looking at Fred, you didn’t really know what had come over you. One second your eyes are flicking between his, the next you're kissing him, again. 

Fred took a second before kissing you back and pulling you closer to him. He didn’t care how many times you kissed him, or how many times you denied it immediately after; the small noise that escaped your throat when he gently deepened the kiss, and the feeling of your hand in the back of his hair, pulling him closer to you, made it worth it. 

༊*·˚ chapter one

༊*·˚ chapter two

༊*·˚ chapter three

༊*·˚ chapter four

༊*·˚ chapter five

༊*·˚ chapter six

༊*·˚ chapter seven

He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.

He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.

Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”

“The what?”

“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”

He didn’t get it together.

If anything, he got worse.

The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.

Everyone knew.

Except you.

You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.

You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.

You had bigger things to think about.

Like getting out of Hawkins.

Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.

“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”

You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.

Anything that helped you leave.

You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.

Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.

Leaving didn’t feel sad.

It felt necessary.

So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.

Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.

Waiting.

For you.

For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.

Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.

Then he saw you.

And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”

“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”

His heart actually stuttered.

Lost. God. If only you knew.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”

“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”

You blinked at him.

Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.

You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.

“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”

You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.

God. He’d do anything to hear that again.

“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”

Everything, he almost said.

But not the homework.

He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.

Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.

“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”

You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.

And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.

“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”

Easy. Right.

Except nothing about this was easy for him.

Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.

You thought he was struggling with science.

He was struggling with you.

“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”

Trying.

If you only knew.

He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.

All because you were here.

Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.

He wanted you to fly.

He just selfishly wished he could go with you.

“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”

He swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.

Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.

He just couldn’t help it.

You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.

He tried, really tried, to look at the page.

Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.

None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”

Steve blinked.

You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”

Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”

God.

He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.

Pathetic.

He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.

You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.

By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.

He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.

The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.

The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.

“I got it,” Steve said.

“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”

You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.

Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.

In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.

And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.

He started getting good. Like, actually good.

He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.

“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”

Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.

You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.

Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.

You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.

He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.

He thought about asking you out a hundred times.

Every single session.

When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.

The words sat on the tip of his tongue.

Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?

Do you want to go to the movies?

Do you want to go out with me?

But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.

You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.

He was. . . Steve.

Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.

Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.

He felt lucky you even talked to him.

So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He tried harder.

He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.

Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”

You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.

How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.

The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.

You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.

You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.

Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.

He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.

Dance.

Dance meant dates.

Dates meant asking someone.

Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.

You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”

When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”

Nancy.

You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”

Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

You blinked. “The dance?”

“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.

You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”

Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.

Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.

It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.

Steve panicked.

Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”

You smiled. “Have fun.”

She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.

The silence that followed felt deafening.

Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.

Just ask her.

It’s not that hard.

It’s literally just words.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it.

Tried again.

“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”

“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“You said you didn’t have a date.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”

Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.

“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.

“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”

He stopped breathing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”

Might as well.

It shouldn’t have made him that happy.

But it did. It really, really did.

The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.

Because Steve would not shut up.

He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.

“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”

“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”

“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”

Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.

They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.

When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.

And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.

Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.

You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.

“Hey.”

The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.

You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.

You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.

Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.

At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.

His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.

And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”

Friend.

It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.

Friend.

His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.

He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.

The door clicked shut.

He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?

He laughed once, bitter and quiet.

Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please—

The door opened.

It was you.

Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.

“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”

You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.

Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.

“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

Closed it.

His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.

“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”

Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.

“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.

Instead, he just looked at you.

God.

You were looking at him like you cared.

Like you were already bracing to help him.

It made everything worse and better at the same time.

“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”

You tilted your head. “What thing?”

“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.

“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”

“That’s the thing,” he blurted.

You stopped.

He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.

“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”

You blinked.

“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”

“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”

Your brain stalled.

“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”

Your mouth fell open a little.

“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”

“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”

You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”

Steve froze.

“. . . You noticed that?”

“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”

He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”

“Oh,” you breathed.

Oh.

All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.

Your stomach flipped.

Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.

“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”

You frowned immediately. “Steve.”

“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”

Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.

He swallowed.

“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”

For a second, neither of you said anything.

And then you stepped closer.

Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.

Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

He short-circuited.

“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”

His heart dropped. “Oh.”

“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”

He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”

Your throat tightened.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Oh.

The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.

Everything did.

You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”

He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”

His brain stopped working.

“. . . What?”

“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”

The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.

“Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

“Like. . . like like me?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”

He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.

“You’re serious?”

“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.

“Out of— are you insane?”

You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.

And then you were just. . . standing there.

Close.

Really close.

His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.

You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.

His breath hitched.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”

He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.

When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.

Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”

You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”

“Morning, baby,” he drawls, wrapping his large arms around your torso. “Ready to go?”

You whip around, facing him with wide panicked eyes, more than half of your makeup still incomplete.

He laughs at your expression. “It’s fine, baby, take your time."

"It's only 7:20,” he reassures you, kissing the side of your head before reaching down for his toothbrush.

You sigh in relief, shifting slightly to the side so that you and Mattheo can share the sink.

"What's your first class, baby?" he asks, though it's muffled by the toothpaste in his mouth so it sounds more like: was’ yo firz clas, bavi?

You laugh, glancing at his reflection through the mirror.

"DADA," you answer as he rinses out his mouth. "Without you, unfortunately."

He sighs. "Shame."

He attempts to tame his hair slightly and you stop what you're doing to watch him adoringly, he catches you staring and grins at you.

He turns to face you properly when you reach up expectantly. He bends down slightly while you tiptoe so you can reach his hair, you gently detangle some of his curls.

"Cute!" you compliment when you’re done, he laughs and stands to his full height again. 

"Thanks, baby,” he says, before kissing your nose as to not smudge the lipgloss you just applied. “I’ll go get us a seat first, join me when you're done?”

You nod, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Careful not to get caught sneaking out!” you call out when he’s about to leave your room.

“Please, who do you think you’re talking to?" he calls back smugly.

The door shuts and you shake your head, smiling to yourself.

♡ 8:00 - breakfast

Breakfast opens at 7:30, so the great hall is already crowded and lively when you enter at 8.

Luckily, there’s a seat and a plate saved for you at the Slytherin table.

Your friends greet you when you approach the table. Although they all seem half asleep (and half dead), they try their best to smile and greet you very nicely. You greet them with a bright smile and a cheerful "hello!"

Your energy this early in the morning will never not astonish them.

You take your seat next to Mattheo and he wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you closer.

“Sweetheart, settle this debate for us will you?” Enzo calls.

Besides you, Mattheo rolls his eyes at the nickname — he coined it for you first — but turns to look at you in anticipation nonetheless. You turn to Enzo. “What is it?”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Nothing, just their stupid dick measuring contests.”

Your eyes widen.

“Not actually!" Enzo says quickly. "Holy shit, it’s a figure of speech.”

You relax, sighing in relief.

“Alright, then,” you say. “What’s the debate?”

“We want to know who you think would win in a fight between all of us.” Theo says.

“Like, a five-way fight between all of you?" you let out a soft laugh, furrowing your brows. “I don’t know if I’m the best person to ask, I’m really biased—”

Mattheo smirks.

“Hang on, it’s Blaise, Enzo, Mattheo and I.” Theo says, confused. “Who’s the fifth person?”

“Pansy.”

Mattheo laughs at your statement, understanding immediately where your loyalties and bias lie.

“She’s not a part of this.” Theo says. Pansy rolls her eyes.

“Why not?” you say innocently, picking at your fruit cup. “My money’s on her.”

♡ 9:00 - first classes

Defence Against the Dark Arts (a double lesson!), charms & potions. It would be absolute hell if you didn’t have Mattheo next to you for the latter two classes.

You spend the classes drawing hearts on his hand, playing tic tac toe on the corner of your class assignment worksheet & occasionally listening to the professor, definitely!

You doze off somewhere in the middle of Snape's lecture, head resting on Mattheo's arm. He knows that his arm will be numb after the class but he really can't find it in himself to care.

You blink, waking up slowly. You stare, with bleary eyes, at Mattheo’s wrist watch.

"20 more minutes, angel," he murmurs, low enough so you can hear it, an amused smile on his face.

You pout, sitting up straight. You try your best to make sense of the blackboard, narrowing your eyes at the unfamiliar words.

Mattheo nudges his notebook in your direction.

"You wrote notes?" you ask incredulously.

He smirks. "Figured you'd need them, Sleepy.”

You roll your eyes at the teasing nickname, but catch up on the lesson through the familiar handwriting. You notice a small “hi sweetheart i love you ♡” written on the top corner of the page. 

His hand inches closer to your free hand on your lap, interlacing your fingers as his eyes stay trained on the board.

♡ 12:00 - lunch

Per your idea, Mattheo's entire friend group (and now yours, too, really) eats their lunches outside in the grass area — like a makeshift picnic.

"The weather's so lovely, I'm surprised more people don't eat outside," you hum as the group spreads your blanket underneath a shaded area.

"Yeah, who wouldn't want to eat with bugs?" Enzo says sarcastically before wincing when Theo smacks the back of his head over his comment. Your mood is undisrupted, though, as you cheerfully wave to a bird a few inches away from you before it flies away. 

Mattheo puts a bowl of freshly washed (by him, of course) strawberries in front of you. Enzo grins and reaches a hand out, it's slapped away by Mattheo.

"What the fuck, Mattheo?" he whines.

"They're for her," he says with a flat look, gesturing to you.

"I don't mind sharing," you say placatingly, ever the peacekeeper. Pansy snorts.

"Bad idea sharing food with Enzo, you turn around for half a second and it's all gone," she says.

Mattheo nods his head. "Exactly."

"Everyone's protecting her and no one's protecting me," he grumbles under his breath, but he decidedly keeps his hands to his own food for the rest of the picnic.

You laugh, grabbing a strawberry and lifting it to Mattheo's mouth.

He raises his eyebrow at the gesture, you laugh and push the strawberry closer to his mouth. He rolls his eyes but parts his lips for you anyway. 

You smile, pleased, before squealing when his tongue makes contact with your finger.

"Gross, Mattheo!" you laugh, wiping your finger on his shirt.

He smirks and tugs you closer to him. You pretend to fight him out of his grasp before relaxing on his lap.

♡ 1:30 - back to class

The next few classes are harder to get through as they very much lack Mattheo. At least you have Pansy right next to you as you dutifully finish the classwork assigned to you, despite her insistence on distracting you.

“This girl is just so delusional,” Pansy says, twirling her pen.

“That’s mean,” you say, unfocused, eyes still darting back and forth across the page as you try your best to complete the equation.

She raises her eyebrows.

“She spread a rumour about me and called me a ‘slut’ who wanted her ugly ass boyfriend,” she says.

“Oh,” you say, pursing your lips. “Carry on then.”

She smiles, self-satisfied. You turn to her.

“What’d you get for question 5?” 

She looks down at her paper before looking back up at you.

“America?” she says, you frown.

“Pans, this is math.” She shrugs in response.

You huff and put down your pen, deciding you’ve done the best you can do and it’s time for a break. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you bite back a smile. There’s only a few people you haven't silenced notifications from.

matty <3 — sleep over tonight? (15:05) — i’ve got a surprise for you after quidditch (15:06)

You bite your cheek, texting back under the table as discreetly as you can. 

sweetheart ♡ — yes please!!!! <3 <3 (15:08)

Pansy gives you a knowing smirk, spotting the giddiness of your body language.

“I know exactly who you’re texting,” she teases.

“Shut up!” you laugh, shoving at her. 

♡ 4:00 - afterschool

Your energy is almost completely depleted by the time you make it back to your dorm room, so you slip into more comfortable clothes and nestle yourself under the covers to take a quick nap.

When you wake up half an hour later, your groggy vision is half covered by ginger fur. You smile, reaching to curl your arm around your (and Mattheo’s) newly rescued and adopted kitten. You figure Mattheo must have dropped her off at your dorm before he went to Quidditch.

“Hi Honey,” you coo her name, petting her fur. She purrs responsively, nuzzling her face against your palm.

Originally, you had named her Sweetheart. But after you turned your head every time Mattheo called her name, you had to change it to something you were not called. Well, frequently called.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say before teasing. “You like my dorm more than Mattheo’s, don’t you?”

Honey says (or meows) nothing in response. You sigh dramatically.

“I get it, you don’t want to hurt Mattheo’s feelings.”

She meows which you take as a response, you laugh, petting her. “It’s okay, Honey, I think Mattheo likes my dorm more, too.”

You spend the rest of your late afternoon reading your new book, placing post-it notes on the top of one of the pages as a reminder to yourself to tell Mattheo how the love interest reminds you of him. 

♡ 6:00 - dinner

You balance two stacked plates on one hand while scooping excessive amounts of food on top with the other. A girl across the dining table from you gives you an odd look, you smile unabashedly at her.

You sit back down in your seat and begin to separate the portions of food onto the two plates.

“Babe, that’s so sad,” Pansy snorts from across from you. “It’s like no one’s feeding you and you have to ration your food.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s for Mattheo.”

“Well, of course I know that,” Pansy says.

Finally, the Slytherin boys trudge through the door — freshly showered after training and still loud and rowdy with boisterous energy. They make their way over to your table.

“Hi baby, miss me?” Mattheo says, placing a haste kiss on the side of your head before sitting next to you.

“Sure,” you say teasingly to him, before turning to the whole group. “How was quidditch?”

“Killer,” Theo says, “Flint was pissed today, so, apparently, we all have to suffer.”

You cautiously eye the brunette a few tables away.

“Yikes,” you say, sliding the plate over to Mattheo. He digs in immediately before pausing to look up at you. He swallows his food.

“Thank you,” he says politely, you laugh and bump his shoulder with yours.

You frown when you realise your bite of food contains something you hate, you look over at Mattheo, scrunching up your face.

He laughs and signals for you to give it to him, so you happily pile it onto his plate.

♡ 7:00 - movie night with mattheo

After dinner, the two of you sneak your way into his dorm. You change out of your robes and into a pair of shorts you left in his room and one of his muggle band t-shirts. It hits just above your knee and it smells like him. 

Not for the first time, his scent clinging onto the t-shirt brings you back to the first time you met. Who knew that the scent wafting from that cauldron of amorentia potion would be the same one that would cling to everything you own all this time later. 

You lie back in his bed while he gets changed himself, you let your eyes close.

"I'm glad you've made yourself comfortable," his teasing voice rings out. You open your eyes to smile at him, not bothering to get up. He walks over to you and the mattress dips.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," you say back smiling, you sit up and lean against his headboard. Suddenly remembering the text message he sent you what feels like ages ago. "What's the surprise?"

He grins at the reminder.

"Remember that old muggle movie you wanted to watch last week... what was it called?” he asks as you try your best to recall. “It starred that actress you love." 

You frown in thought before your eyes light up in realisation.

"Oh! Audrey Hepburn," you say.

A week ago, during one of your Muggle Movie Nights (as you call it), Mattheo had admitted that he’d never seen an Audrey Hepburn film and you proclaimed that he absolutely had to start with Roman Holiday. Determined to culture your boyfriend and desperate to rewatch it yourself, the two of you scoured every streaming site to find it — to no avail.

"Did you finally find a way to pirate it?" you ask gleefully, he shakes his head softly before moving to his desk.

"Not exactly."

He opens his desk drawer, pulling out a DVD with the familiar title on the cover. You gasp, reaching to grab it. You trace the red letters on the cover. 

"How did you find this? Where did you find this?” you ask in disbelief, looking up at him. “When did you even have time to look for this?"

His grin is soft with affection for you.

"I found it in a store in Hogsmeade,” he shrugs. “No big deal."

Total lie. In reality, he had dragged Theo and Enzo through the entire village, stopping at every CD/DVD store just to browse the titles. Eventually, after the sky had turned dark and his friends were ready to abandon him on his impossible search, he found a copy.

Not that you had to know any of that. Besides, the huge smile on your face made it all worth it to him.

"Shall we watch it?" he asks, already slipping it into the DVD player connected to his laptop.

You nod, curling into his side. “I can’t believe you have a DVD player, you’re such an old man.”

“Hey, this old man is your knight in shining armour, princess,” he argues, wrapping his arms around you. 

“You’re right, you are,” you murmur, while the black and white title card of Roman Holiday displays on his laptop.

♡ 9:00 - getting unready for bed

After the movie (and after he consoles you, while trying hard to suppress his laughter, when you cry over the ending), he sits on your bed while you swipe makeup wipes across your face. 

As much as Mattheo adores watching you get ready, there’s something he loves so much about watching you get unready. 

There’s something so intimate in getting to see you completely bare and completely yourself.

You gently rub moisturiser onto your face and catch him staring at you through the mirror, you breathe out a laugh.

“What?” you ask.

A year ago, you’d be slightly mortified if he saw you like this. You’re confident enough without makeup but you still like that extra boost a good eyelash day or lipgloss can give you.

Now, you finish your routine and walk closer to him. Stepping in between his thighs. 

His hands come up to rest on your hips, smiling up at you.

“Nothing,” he says. “You’re just the prettiest thing on earth.”

You laugh and roll your eyes at his hyperbole, but it's not enough for him. He’s certain you’re the most beautiful being in the universe. 

♡ 10:00 - late night talking with mattheo

You’re lying on your stomach, half of your upper body lying on his chest. Your pointer finger traces his arm slowly, like his veins are braille and his scars are stars.

“Would you ever get a tattoo?” you murmur.

“I’ve thought about it,” he smiles lazily, eyes half closed.

“Yeah? Tattoos would suit you,” you hum. "What would you get?"

“What do you think I should get?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” you say, deep in thought. “I could see you with one of those barbed wire designs or your initials or—"

“Your name?” he interrupts with a smirk.

You huff out a laugh and roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m not kidding. I'd do it right now,” he says, only half joking. 

“Mattheo!” you scold, though the effect is ruined by your giggle. “You’re way too young and that is also a horrible idea.”

“First of all, I’m older than you.”

“By, like, a few months.”

“And I would totally do it, in a heartbeat,” he promises. “No matter what happens, I’m yours forever. You already know.” 

You smile. “That’s a little romantic.”

"I'm very romantic, thank you very much," he huffs.

"Yeah, you are."

He glances down at you before looking up at the ceiling again.

“Besides, before you know it, we’ll be eighteen,” he says.

There’s a short lull of silence as you process his words.

“That’s crazy to think about,” you say, leaning your head into his chest again.

“Yeah.”

“I still feel like I'm sixteen years old and six and eight and thirteen,” you admit, hoping he understands what you mean. “I don’t know if I ever won’t.”

“I get that,” he says with a small nod. "I can't imagine you're much different now than when you were six, though."

You gasp half-heartedly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's not an insult," he chuckles. "I just can't imagine you ever being anything but yourself."

You look at him properly now, tilting your head up.

“I know what you mean,” you say. “That’s kind of sweet.”

You scrunch your nose when you imagine your younger self.

“When I was younger, I wanted to be a princess—”

“Very on brand,” he quips.

“I also wanted to be a teacher at some point,” you say. “An English teacher, I think?”

“You’d make a good teacher,” he says.

“Really?” he nods.

“Thanks,” you yawn. “Did you have a dream job when you were younger?”

He answers after a small beat of silence.

“I wanted to be a great sorcerer.” It’s only partly a lie.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell you that when he was younger, the concept of “dreams” and aspirations were foreign to him. Instead, there were expectations. Heavy expectations placed on him by his parents or Death Eaters.

Though, meeting you when he was sixteen has taught him to dream. Maybe one day he’ll tell you that and thank you for it. 

Instead, he adds. “Or a professor — a charms professor, probably.” 

“You’d be so good at that,” you say genuinely. 

His arm curls around your shoulders, pulling you in closer.

You play with the watch on his wrist, counting the watch hands and realising that it’s almost eleven.

“You never take anything off when you sleep,” you murmur. 

He looks down at his hand — at the watch around his wrist, the bracelet you made him, a silver band ring he wears on his middle finger and his signet ring carved with his initials. You fiddle with that last ring. 

Mattheo wordlessly slips off his signet before bringing your hand up. He slips the ring onto your thumb.

He kisses the ring on your hand and you let out a breathy laugh. He locks eyes with you for a moment before shifting so that you’re underneath him.

He places the mass of his body weight on his elbows, but you can still feel him pressing close as he plants kisses down your neck.

Your eyes become half lidded as you melt under him. You fight to suppress a yawn, hoping he doesn’t notice. You want him to touch you like this forever.

He chuckles. “Sweetheart.” 

"Yeah?" you murmur, fighting to keep your heavy eyelids open. He lifts his head to look at you. 

“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” he says.

You shake your head quickly, looking at him with wide eyes. “No, no.”

He laughs. “M’just teasing, baby. We should sleep, it’s getting late.”

“But I want to talk to you longer,” you frown, your lips forming a pout. 

"We have all of tomorrow," he says warmly. "We've got time."

♡ 11:00 - goodnight, sweetheart

By 11, you’re tucked into his side fast asleep. Your hair rollers poke into his chest ever so slightly but he's used to it by now, it's familiar.

He keeps his phone brightness on the lowest setting as he reads to pass the time. His insomnia keeps him from sleeping most nights and, though sleeping next to you helps him significantly, it’s still always there hindering him. 

He doesn’t tell you, though. Because he knows you’d pry your eyes open to keep yourself from falling asleep, just to keep him company. Instead, you get to fall asleep quickly beside him. 

He feels his heart swell when he looks down at you. Your lips part as you snore and he laughs, shaking his head fondly. 

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

Mattheo puts down his phone before carefully flicking off your bedside lamp. He prays sleep will come soon as he lets his body relax close to yours. 

♡ 1:00 - goodnight, mattheo

In his younger years, Mattheo often misunderstood violence for love.

Growing up in that castle, within those cold walls, he learnt that love was pain. Naturally, he wanted to flee from it.

Throughout his teen years, he feared the day he'd fall in love because he believed it would only give a person the opportunity to hurt him. 

Now, he understands he had it all wrong. Love is not loud and frightening like heavy shoes storming through rooms and rough hands slamming doors, love is not the piercing silence between two people.

Love is his rough hand in your soft one, it’s his ring on your finger like a promise he hasn’t made yet, it’s the music the two of you love, it’s the movies you watch, it’s strawberries on a picnic, it's the sound of your heartbeat syncing to his, it’s sleeping beside you — it’s a comfortable thing.

As it turns out, love is a quiet thing that hums louder than real noise. He can feel — more than hear — it everywhere, thrumming through his veins or in his head when he looks at you.

No matter how fleeting, he knows now that loving someone, even at the cost of pain, is always worth it just for this feeling.

But he knows you’ll stay. Maybe forever, if he gets his way. If not? He doesn’t feel that sickening urge to leave claw marks on you to keep you in his grasp, he just wants to be close to you now while he can. 

There’s no place close enough to you, though. So, for now, he sleeps with his arms tight around you and hopes it’s enough to mould your souls together for eternity.

thank you to all my readers — whether you've been here since the first fic, the last one or any in between <3. i hope you caught some of the references and callbacks in this fic & i hope you liked it !! know that you can always send in requests for sweetheart!reader & mattheo because i'll probably continue writing for them as long as this blog is alive ♡

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Bianca was a blur of movement by the Great Lake.

She darted along the grassy bank, boots thudding softly against the earth as she zig-zagged around rocks and half-buried roots, stopping every few seconds to crouch down and inspect something with intense focus before bolting off again. A stick became a wand, a pebble became treasure, and the reeds at the water’s edge were clearly hiding something very important.

You watched her with a fond smile, arms folded loosely as you leaned back against the cool stone.

“She has too much energy.” You said, though there was no real complaint in your voice—only wonder.

Theo huffed a quiet laugh beside you, eyes never leaving her, “She’s a firecracker.”

Bianca shrieked with laughter as she nearly tripped over her own feet, caught herself at the last second, and then stood very still—carefully regaining her balance before continuing on her way.

Theo tilted his head slightly, watching her, “She takes after you.”

You laughed, startled, “Are you crazy?”

He glanced at you, amused, “What?”

You nodded toward Bianca. “Look at her. She’s observant. Thoughtful. She watches everything. She’s lively, yeah—but she hardly ever leaps without looking first.” You smiled softly, “That’s all you.”

Theo went quiet at that, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.

He watched Bianca sprint past a patch of wildflowers, slow just enough to avoid stepping on them, then take off again.

“…Maybe.” He conceded.

A moment later, he added, half-thoughtful, half-teasing, “She’d be a good Chaser.”

You snorted, “Of course you’d say that.”

“Did you see that turn?” He said, nodding toward her as she swerved sharply to avoid the water’s edge, “She'll be a star quidditch player.”

You hummed, considering it. “I don’t know,” You said slowly, “I kind of see her as a Magizoologist.”

Theo glanced at you, “Yeah?”

“She’s gentle,” You said, “Curious. She doesn’t just want to look—she wants to understand.” You smiled as Bianca crouched again, whispering something to a very unimpressed-looking duck, “I think she’d love creatures.”

Theo’s expression softened.

“Whatever she chooses,” He said quietly, “she’ll be brilliant.”

The words lingered between you.

The lake rippled softly. The breeze carried the scent of water and grass. Bianca’s laughter echoed across the shore, bright and unburdened.

And then—slowly, inevitably—the conversation faded.

Neither of you spoke.

Because the truth settled in like a weight neither of you wanted to name.

There were futures you were imagining that you wouldn’t get to see. First matches. First discoveries. First failures. First triumphs.

Theo swallowed.

You hugged your arms closer to yourself, eyes fixed on Bianca as if memorizing the way the sunlight caught in her curls.

For a moment, it was almost peaceful.

And for a moment, that made it hurt so much more.

Bedtime was always a gamble.

There were nights when Bianca conked out long before she was meant to, curled boneless and warm in Theo’s arms, and you and him would exchange a silent look before jointly deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. No pajamas. No teeth brushed. Not if it meant waking her. You’d just lay her down as she was and hope she didn't wake up.

Some nights, she went down like a dream—padding excitedly toward bed because she was looking forward to the story that Theo read to her. When it was your turn, Bianca would read to you instead, you'd study the pictures with exaggerated seriousness, and make enthusiastic oohs and ahhs at all the right moments while Bianca beamed in pride at her reading skills.

And then there were the nights she refused.

It would almost be easier if she weren’t tired—at least then you could burn the energy off. A walk around the castle usually did the trick. More often than not, she’d be asleep in Theo’s arms before you even turned back toward the common room, her cheek pressed into his shoulder, breathing slow and even.

But the worst nights were when she was exhausted and still couldn’t sleep.

Overtired, overstimulated, and furious about it.

The crying cut through you in a way nothing else did—sharp and relentless, scraping along your nerves until you felt hollowed out. Theo held on as long as he could. When it became too much, he’d quietly excuse himself.

"Ten minutes." He promised, "I'll be back."

But when fifteen passed and he still hadn’t returned, you didn’t go looking for him. You knew where he was—the common room, breathing, grounding himself. You let him have those extra minutes.

You held Bianca instead, her small body tense in your arms, her face damp with tears. You hugged her close and rocked back and forth, humming softly at first, then singing—a lullaby from a film you used to love as a child.

Gradually, the sobs quieted.

Her breathing evened out.

And when you were absolutely certain she was gone—truly asleep—you tucked her into bed, smoothing the blankets, lingering just long enough to make sure she didn’t stir.

Only then did you leave.

You closed the door quietly behind you and let out a long breath.

“She’s finally down.” You murmured, collapsing onto the couch beside Theo like your bones had simply decided they were finished.

He looked up from the parchment spread across the coffee table. His hair was mussed, sleeves rolled up, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back up.” He said quietly.

Your head tipped against his shoulder without thinking. “It’s okay, Theo,” You replied softly, “You deserved the break after the fight to get her into pajamas.”

He exhaled—a deep, exhausted sigh—and let his head fall forward for a moment. The common room was dim, fire crackling low, everything wrapped in that hazy, end-of-day quiet where the world felt temporarily paused.

After a beat, Theo straightened slightly, shaking his head like he could physically shake himself awake. “Okay,” He said, gesturing to the parchment with his chin, “Do you want to start writing the Charms essay?”

You nodded, eyes already heavy. “In a second,” You murmured, “Just… give me a second.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

The fire crackled. The room softened. The parchment remained untouched.

And sometime in the night, Theo’s head tipped gently against yours, his breathing evening out as sleep finally claimed him too—the two of you tangled together on the couch like you belonged there.

Morning crept into the Slytherin common room slowly.

Pale light filtered in through the tall windows, casting faint shapes across the stone floor and catching on the dying embers in the fireplace. The room was quiet in that in-between way—too early for students rushing to class, too late for true solitude.

Sometime during the night, the distance between you and Theo had disappeared entirely.

Your head was tucked beneath his chin now, his arm slung loosely—but securely—around your waist. One of your legs had somehow ended up tangled with his, your body curved into his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His cheek rested against the crown of your head, breath warm and steady, fingers curled faintly into the fabric of your sleeve.

You looked… settled.

Theo hadn’t slept that deeply in weeks.

The first voices shattered the quiet.

“Oi—what the hell?”

Blaise stopped short just inside the common room, halfway through a yawn. Mattheo, behind him, followed his line of sight—and froze. Then a slow, shit-eating grin spread across his face.

“Mama y papà.” He said cheerfully.

Theo stirred at the sound, brows knitting together. You shifted too, burrowing closer on instinct, your face scrunching in your sleep in that exact way Bianca did when she didn’t want to wake up yet.

Theo’s eyes fluttered open.

It took him a moment to piece things together. The couch. The dying fire. The weight against his chest.

You.

His arm tightened before he could stop himself.

Draco let out a low whistle. “Merlin,” He drawled, “You leave one kid with him for a week and suddenly he’s playing house.”

Theo’s eyes snapped fully open, “Shut up.”

Lorenzo folded his arms, unimpressed but unmistakably entertained, “Are we interrupting something?”

You shifted again, mumbling something soft and unintelligible into Theo’s chest. Your hand slid up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt like it was a lifeline.

Theo held his breath.

For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling—at the stone arches, at the faint greenish light—fully aware of his friends staring like the two of you were a particularly scandalous exhibit in a zoo.

And still, despite himself, his eyelids felt heavy again.

“Bianca?” He murmured, voice barely there.

“Still fast asleep.” Mattheo supplied easily.

Theo didn’t even fight it.

His eyes slid shut again, arm tightening just a fraction more around you as his head tipped back against the couch.

Out cold.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

“Oh my God,” Blaise whispered, “He’s actually asleep."

Lorenzo stared, "My old man used to do the same too. Fell asleep through a whole movie once."

The Slytherin common room was almost unnervingly quiet at that hour.

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls, green flames reflecting in the tall windows like something alive beneath the lake outside. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, leaving only a soft pool of light near the couches where you and Theo sat—books spread open, parchment littered with notes, ink smudges marking the evidence of three solid feet of Transfiguration essays each.

You were officially on a break.

You shivered, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders just as Theo stood, rolling his neck once before moving toward the small table where he’d set up the kettle. You watched him quietly as he brewed tea—precise, unhurried, like the ritual itself grounded him.

When he returned and placed a cup in front of you, you couldn’t help the smile that curved your lips.

The teabag was still steeping.

You took a careful sip. It was perfect. Strong, but not bitter. Exactly how you liked it.

A soft chuckle slipped out of you before you could stop it.

Theo glanced up, “What?”

You shook your head, lifting the cup slightly, “Nothing. Just—thank you.”

He nodded once, but his mouth twitched like he knew there was more to it.

Then, almost without thinking, you said, “You know… before meeting her, I didn’t think I’d ever even look twice at you.”

Theo’s quill froze mid-scratch.

Slowly, he turned to face you, one brow lifting. “Wow,” He drawled, “I feel incredibly flattered.”

You winced, “No—wait. That came out wrong.”

He studied you now, the teasing edge fading, curiosity sharpening his expression.

“I just mean,” You continued, fingers worrying the hem of your sleeve, “before Bianca, I honestly thought we’d graduate and pass by each other without ever really being in each other’s lives.” You hesitated, “But now…”

“Now what?” He asked quietly.

You gestured vaguely between the two of you—the firelight, the late hour, the way his knee brushed yours and neither of you moved away.

“You know exactly how I like my tea,” You said softly, “And I know how you like yours. I’m allergic to smoke, and you stopped smoking before this even became…” Your voice trailed off as you ducked your head, unsure how to name what sat between you, “Whatever this is.”

“Whatever this is,” You finished, almost to yourself, “It’s funny, isn’t it? How sometimes things just… happen. Completely out of order.”

Theo leaned back slightly, watching you like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“She changed things.” He said.

“Yes,” You whispered, “She certainly did.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“I never thought about it before.” He admitted finally, voice low.

“About what?”

“Any of this,” He said, “A family. A future. I didn’t think I was capable of it, to be honest.” His jaw tightened. “Thought I was too screwed up to deserve one.”

Your chest ached.

“And now?” You asked softly.

“Now,” He said, barely above a breath, “I want it more than anything in the world.” His eyes met yours, “Bianca. And you.”

Your heart stuttered painfully.

“I don’t know when it happened,” He went on, “Or how. I just know that somewhere along the way, I stopped yearning for my past—and started anticipating the future instead.”

The fire popped, sharp in the stillness.

You looked at him—really looked. The shadows beneath his eyes. The tension he carried like armor. The boy who had let himself love without realizing how deeply it would cut.

“I think,” You said, voice trembling just slightly, “I feel the same way, Theo.” You swallowed, “I want a future with you.”

You reached for him before fear could catch up, your fingers brushing his wrist. He went utterly still at the contact, breath hitching like you’d struck something vital.

You hesitated, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you lifted your gaze to his—and then your hands began to tremble when you saw it. The want in his eyes. Bare. Unguarded.

Theo leaned in slowly, deliberately—giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His forehead rested against yours first, warm and steady, grounding you both.

“Ti amo.” He whispered.

You didn’t need to understand Italian to know what he was saying.

The kiss started softly, tentative—his lips brushing yours like a question he was afraid to ask too loudly. When you responded, just as gently, his breath shuddered, relief and emotion tangling together.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. Like he was learning you. Like he was afraid that if he rushed, the moment might fracture.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if anchoring himself. You melted into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater, the firelight warming your skin as the world narrowed to this—this quiet, impossible thing that had found you both.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, foreheads still touching.

You really did love him.

Theo had been in a mood.

It settled over him the moment the owl arrived—thick parchment, precise handwriting, the professors’ seal pressed into the wax like a finality. You’d read it together at the kitchen table in the common room, Bianca swinging her legs beneath the chair, humming to herself as she colored, blissfully unaware.

We believe we have found a way to reverse the spell. Preliminary tests indicate a high probability of success. We are confident we can return the child to her proper time.

Ever since then, something in Theo had gone quiet.

Not angry. Not cruel. Just… withdrawn. As if he’d folded inward, brick by careful brick, building walls he refused to name. He spoke less. Smiled less. When Bianca reached for him, he held her a little tighter, a little longer—like he was memorizing the weight of her, the way she fit against his chest.

You told yourself you understood.

Of course he was going to miss her. You were going to miss her too. Somewhere between shared breakfasts and bedtime stories, scraped knees and tangled curls, Bianca had taken root in your heart. The thought of watching her vanish—of returning to your normal lives and pretending these weeks hadn’t rewritten you—made your throat ache in a way you didn’t know how to soothe.

That night, Bianca went to bed easily.

Too easily.

She pressed a sticky kiss to your cheek, murmured something sleepy in Italian, and curled beneath her blankets without protest. No fuss. No tears. Just acceptance.

It felt like a bad omen.

Theo waited until the door clicked shut behind you before he spoke.

“What if we don’t send her back?”

You turned slowly, the words not quite registering, “What?”

“What if we keep her here,” He said, voice low and urgent, like if he spoke too loudly the idea might shatter, “What if we just—don’t go through with it. We have time with her. Real time. Why should we give that up?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Theo,” You said carefully, “What are you talking about?”

“We’re her parents,” He said, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious, “And if we send her back, we’re sending her to a life where she doesn’t have a mother. At least this way—” His voice cracked, just slightly, “—at least this way she has both of us.”

“Theo—”

“I know it hasn’t been perfect,” He rushed on, stepping closer, words tumbling over each other, “But we’re learning. We can do this. We already are. You see her—she’s happy here. She’s safe.” His eyes searched yours desperately, “She doesn’t have to lose you.”

Your chest burned.

“I know we could do this,” You whispered, “I know that. But Bianca isn’t our child. Not really. No matter how badly we want her to be.”

His jaw tightened, muscles jumping beneath the skin.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” He said sharply, “To grow up without a mother. To wake up every day knowing there’s a hole in your life you’ll never fill.” His voice dropped, rough and raw, “If she stays here, she doesn’t have to lose you. Whatever it is—whatever happens to you—we can catch it early. We can fix it.”

Your vision blurred.

“If Bianca stays here,” You said, voice breaking, “the you in the future loses his daughter forever. He’s already lost his wife, Theo. Don’t make him lose his baby girl too.”

Something in him snapped.

“Screw him.” He said hoarsely.

He reached for you suddenly, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes like he could stop the tears if he tried hard enough. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

“I have everything I’ve ever wanted right here,” He whispered, “Right now.”

Your sob escaped before you could stop it, fingers clutching at his sleeves like an anchor.

“Theo,” You breathed, “you know as well as I do… she isn’t meant to be here.”

He sucked in a breath—and this time, he couldn’t hold it back.

The sob tore out of his chest, raw and broken, his grip tightening like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“Don’t make me give you up, (Y/N),” He choked, voice collapsing on your name, “Please. I can’t— I can’t lose you too.”

His forehead stayed pressed to yours as his shoulders shook, grief and fear and want spilling out all at once. He wasn’t just pleading for Bianca.

He was pleading for you. For the life he’d tasted and already couldn’t bear to lose.

And you held him there, crying quietly into his collar, knowing that love—no matter how real—was not enough to change fate.

The second Theo entered the hospital wing, every instinct in his body screamed the same reckless, impossible thing.

Grab you. Grab Bianca. Apparate.

Disappear so completely that no one would ever find you again.

His mother had family in Italy—old blood, old names, people who still believed hospitality was sacred. They would open their doors. They would help you. They would protect you.

How hard could it be, really, to end up on their doorstep with a frightened child and a woman he loved?

Too easy.

Too selfish.

You didn’t even look at him when the thought flickered across his face. You simply squeezed Bianca’s hand and guided her forward, gentle but firm. You knew if you looked back at him, you would be all to convinced to leave together.

Theo swallowed hard, the bitterness rising sharp and ugly in his throat.

All he wanted—all he had ever wanted—was for the three of you to be happy. Together. Why was that such an impossible thing to ask for? Why did it feel like the universe kept dangling it just close enough for him to taste before ripping it away?

He knew the truth, even if it tore him apart.

Bianca belonged with his older self. The man who chose to have her. The man who could protect her. The man who could stay.

But she was his daughter too—damn it. Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood. And the thought of letting her go felt like carving something vital out of his chest.

You knelt in front of Bianca, pulling her into a tight embrace. You kissed her forehead, whispered words she couldn’t possibly understand, and said as little as you could. Her fingers were small and warm in yours, but they grew slick with sweat as she glanced around at the unfamiliar adults. She tightened her grip, grounding herself the only way she knew how, holding onto you like she could anchor the moment in place.

Theo watched, throat burning.

Then he knelt too.

He’d done it a thousand times—tying her shoes, wiping tears from her cheeks, crouching to her level when he needed her attention—but this time his knees hit the stone floor harder than usual. Pain flared and vanished, eclipsed by something far worse. His hands trembled as they came up to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing over her skin slowly, reverently—like he was trying to memorize the exact warmth of her.

“Hey.” He said softly.

His voice cracked immediately.

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening, and tried again, “Bambina.” (Little one)

Her eyes lifted to his.

Just like yours—wide, glassy, endlessly deep. Like looking into a pool of pearlescent ink that reflected too much truth.

“Ti vedrò presto, amore.” He said gently, brushing a curl back from her face. (I’ll see you soon, love.)

“Le cose saranno un po’ diverse…” His breath hitched, “Ma devi avere pazienza, va bene? Andrà tutto bene.” (Things will be a little different… but you need to be patient, okay? Everything will be fine.)

Bianca studied him with grave seriousness, like she was weighing his words carefully.

Then—suddenly—her face lit up.

“Oh!” She said brightly, “Come quella volta.” (Oh! Like that time.)

Theo blinked, “Come quando?” (Like when?)

“Come quando sei andato via con la mamma.” She explained easily. (Like when you went away with Mama.)

His chest tightened, “Quando?” (When?)

“Quando siete andati in ospedale.” She continued, rocking on her feet. (When you went to the hospital.)

"E poi sei tornato a casa felice." (And then you came home with happiness.)

Theo’s breath caught violently.

The room tilted.

"Felice?" He asked quietly, feeling like hell. (Happy?)

The word felt wrong in his mouth.

A cold, sickening thought slithered into his mind.

Was he happy when you passed?

His chest tightened, panic blooming sharp and fast, bile rising in his throat. His hands trembled where they rested, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Then—

Bianca tilted her head, frowning slightly—confused by his confusion.

“Quando sei tornato con il mio fratellino, Felice.” She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. (When you came back with my little brother, Felice.)

The world went very, very still.

Blood rushed through Theo’s head so fast he swayed, knees locking as though a feather could knock him over.

“Tuo… fratello?” He repeated hoarsely. (Your… brother?)

She nodded, curls bouncing. “Sì.” (Yes.)

“È piccolo,” She added solemnly, “Piange tanto.” (He’s little. He cries a lot.)

The hospital.

You being sick.

Too sick to carry her. Too sick to eat breakfast.

The reason Bianca hadn’t seemed sad. The reason she’d been so independent.

Not because you were going to die.

But because you were making room for someone new.

Felice.

Happiness.

Everything slid into place with sickening, breathtaking clarity.

“Oh." Theo breathed.

Bianca reached up, cupping his cheek with her small, warm hand.

“Non piangere, papà,” She whispered. (Don’t cry, Papa.)

He hadn’t even realized he was crying until that moment.

Salazar—this was mortifying. Breaking down like this. In front of professors. In front of you. In front of a three-year-old.

And yet—he couldn’t stop.

Tears spilled freely now, hot and unrestrained.

Because now he knew.

He would be happy. He would love you. And you would love him back.

You would build a life together. Two children. Maybe more. A family so warm and whole that Bianca would speak of it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His children would never have to imagine a future without their mother.

He would never have to watch them grow up with that hollow ache he’d carried his entire life.

He would never have to watch you get sick, watch you leave this world, leaving him alone to raise your daughter, the last remaining memory of you.

Theo pulled Bianca into his chest, holding her like he could imprint the feeling into his bones—her weight, her warmth, the steady beat of her heart.

“Ti amo.” He choked, “Ti amo tantissimo.” (I love you so, so much.)

Her arms wrapped around his neck—fierce and small.

You stared at the pair of them, heart aching, mind reeling. You felt for Theo—deeply—but shock quickly overtook sympathy.

Because between the two of them, you had absolutely not expected him to be the one crying.

“…Wait,” You said slowly. “What’s going on?”

Bianca turned her head as best she could while still buried against Theo’s chest.

“Papa says he loves me, mamma,” She announced cheerfully, “You’re too slow these days.”

Both of you froze.

“…You speak English?” You and Theo said in unison.

bonus:

The room was finally quiet.

Bianca was gone—sent back to a future that suddenly felt more real than the present—and Theo’s bedroom felt too large without her small presence filling it. The curtains were half-drawn, moonlight spilling across the sheets in pale silver bands. You lay on your side facing Theo, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arm resting loosely around your waist.

Theo was on the cusp of sleep, just as he had been for the past hour, but your incessant thinking refused to let him go.

“But if Bianca hadn’t come back,” You murmured, staring up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, “we would’ve just… gone on with our lives.”

He hummed softly, half-asleep but listening, his thumb tracing absentminded shapes into your side.

“And we wouldn’t have fallen in love,” You continued, the words tumbling out faster now, like if you didn’t say them you’d drown in them, “And if we didn’t fall in love, she wouldn’t exist. Which means she wouldn’t be able to come back and make us fall in love in the first place.”

You turned your face into his chest, your voice muffled, “So at the center of the loop—at the very beginning—there had to be a version of us that fell in love and had Bianca without any intervention at all.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not empty.

Then Theo sighed, fond and exhausted and deeply amused in that way that meant he loved you too much to be irritated.

“(Y/N), my love… amore mio,” He said gently. He had taken to repeating everything in Italian after English so it would help you learn faster. You felt his chest rise as he spoke again, slower and deliberate. “My future bride… la mia futura sposa. It is four in the morning.”

You groaned softly. “I know,” You sighed, “I just… I miss her.”

His arm tightened around you, grounding and warm, “Me too.”

For a moment, that was all there was—breathing, moonlight, and the quiet certainty that somewhere, somehow, the two of you were happy and whole.

Then Theo shifted.

You felt it before you saw it: the subtle slide of his hand, warm fingers sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt like he thought you wouldn’t notice.

“Say the word, dolcezza,” He murmured, his voice dipping into something unmistakably dangerous, “and I’ll bring her back to us.”

You slapped his hand away without even looking.

“It is four in the morning.” You said flatly.

He chuckled, low and unapologetic, eyes still closed like this was all part of his master plan, “Italiano, per favore.”

You hesitated, “Um… sono...sono le… una, due, tre, quattro… quattro del mattino?” (Um...it's....one, two three, four....four in the morning?)

“Perfetta,” He said smugly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Your accent is getting better.”

bonus bonus teehee:

The front door closed with a quiet, final click behind you.

For a moment, you just stood there.

The house felt different somehow—too still, like it had been holding its breath. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The sofa. The stairs. The framed photos waiting to be filled with memories that hadn’t happened yet.

Home.

You looked down at the bundle in your arms, your baby boy wrapped in impossibly soft blankets, his face pink and sleepy and perfect. Tears blurred your vision before you even realized they were coming.

Theo stepped in behind you, arms full—hospital bags slung over his shoulders, a car seat awkwardly balanced against his hip. He froze when he saw your face.

“Hey.” He murmured gently.

You turned, blinking hard, then leaned into him anyway, pressing a soft kiss to his lips—slow, grounding, full of everything you didn’t have words for. Then you kissed Felice’s tiny forehead, breathing him in like you’d been afraid he might disappear.

“Bentornato a casa, piccolo,” You whispered, voice shaking, “This is where you’re going to grow up.” (Welcome home, baby boy)

Theo swallowed, eyes shining. He reached out, brushing one finger over Felice’s cheek like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.

And then—

“MAMMA!”

Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Bianca came flying into the hallway, curls bouncing wildly, socks half-slipping off her feet. Mattheo, her godfather, was right behind her, laughing and reaching out uselessly like he could actually stop her.

“Bianca—piano, piano!” He called, “Slow down—!”

Theo reacted instantly.

He dropped the bags without a second thought and scooped Bianca up mid-run, lifting her clean off the ground just before she could crash straight into you. She shrieked with laughter as he spun her once, relief spilling out of him in a dozen breathless kisses pressed to her cheeks, her temple, her nose.

You watched them with a soft, aching smile.

Your heart lurched at the sight of your baby girl in his arms—hair wild, eyes bright, whole and glowing with excitement. You had missed her more than you’d allowed yourself to admit during the last few days. Every quiet moment in the hospital had carried the echo of her laughter, the absence of her small weight climbing into your lap.

You had been waiting eagerly to acquaint your children.

Theo had insisted it was better this way. Better for your recovery, better that you didn’t have to juggle between children so soon. He’d been gentle but unmovable about it, the same way he’d been your entire pregnancy—this one and Bianca’s.

At the first sign of discomfort, he’d been apparating you straight to the hospital wing or summoning your healer for a home visit without hesitation. You’d teased him once that your obstetrician must be thoroughly sick of him by now.

But judging by the way Theo paid—promptly, generously, without ever blinking—and by the fine silk scarf and expensive purse he’d gifted the healer who brought both of his children into the world, you suspected annoyance was the last thing they felt.

If anything, they were probably fond of him.

“Hey—hey—hey,” He murmured into her hair, “Careful, amore mio. Papà’s got you.”

Theo finally stopped spinning, still holding Bianca securely against his chest. He pressed one last kiss into her curls and rested his forehead briefly against hers, eyes closed like he was grounding himself.

And you realized, with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness—

And despite the 36 hours of grueling labor, you realized that, for this man, you would do it all again in a heartbeat.

Theo shifted Bianca onto one hip, still holding her tight as if she might vanish if he let go. Her laughter softened into a happy hum as she curled into him, arms looped around his neck.

Then her eyes finally landed on you.

On the bundle in your arms.

“Mamma?” She whispered, voice suddenly small.

You felt your throat close instantly.

“Vieni qui, amore,” You murmured, smiling through the sting behind your eyes, “Piano, va bene?” (Come here, love. Easy, okay?)

Theo crouched, keeping Bianca safely lifted as he guided her closer, one protective hand braced at her back. Mattheo lingered a few steps behind, unusually quiet, waiting for the family to have their moment.

Bianca leaned forward, peering into the soft folds of the blanket.

The baby stirred, tiny fingers flexing, lips puckering in a half-sleepy frown.

Her gasp was barely a sound.

“È… piccolo,” She breathed, "He's smaller than me."

Theo huffed out a soft laugh, eyes glassy.

You tilted Felice just enough so she could see his face properly. His eyes fluttered open for a brief second—dark, unfocused, brand new.

Bianca’s hand twitched like she wanted to reach out, then froze mid-air.

“Posso?” She asked, glancing up at you for permission. (Can I?)

“Yes,” You whispered, “Gently.”

Felice shifted again, a soft sound leaving him, and Bianca’s eyes went impossibly wide.

"He spoke to me." She gasped.

Theo pressed his lips together hard, eyes shining as he bent to kiss the side of Bianca’s head, then yours. His free hand came up to cradle you, thumb stroking slow, careful circles like he was afraid the moment might shatter.

“This,” he said quietly, voice thick, “is Felice, your little brother.”

Bianca straightened immediately.

“Felice,” She repeated, testing the name. Then she smiled, bright and sure, “Ciao, Felice. Io sono Bianca.”

The baby slept on, oblivious.

Mattheo cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes like something had gotten in them, "Merlin, enough to make a grown man cry."

And standing there in the doorway of your home, with laughter in the air and your children between you, you knew—

This was it.

This was the life Bianca had promised.

Happy.

bonus bonus BONUS scene for my patient babies:

The one thing about living in Italy was that you missed the company.

Not the weather, not the food—certainly not the wine—but them. The loud, sharp-edged comfort of people who knew you before the life you’d built now. The friends who felt less like friends and more like family, forged in dungeons and late nights and shared survival.

The friends you’d left behind at Hogwarts.

You thanked every higher power you could think of that Mattheo had moved here a few years after Bianca was born. It softened the ache. Made the distance feel survivable.

And now—now that it was Bianca’s sixth birthday, the first child in the entire group to hit that milestone—the rest of them had descended to Italy like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Thank goodness Slytherins were rich.

Draco and Blaise were already deep in conversation near the terrace doors, voices low and animated, catching up like no time had passed at all. Lorenzo and Mattheo, meanwhile, had somehow been tricked—lured, really—into assembling Bianca’s princess castle in the middle of the sitting room.

That would teach them to bring gifts that required instructions.

Bianca hovered nearby like a general overseeing her troops, crown slightly askew, offering entirely unhelpful instructions. Felice, on the other hand, had claimed the discarded wrapping paper as his own, even though his uncles had been kind enough to bring presents for him as well.

Instead, he toddled around the sitting room, triumphantly dragging the empty box the princess castle had come in behind him, until Theo scooped him up at the last second—saving him from the scattered screws as Mattheo struggled to put the thing together.

Theo hovered near you like a shadow, as he always did these days. One hand rested habitually—possessively—against the small of your back, grounding, warm. The other balanced Felice on his hip, your son’s face still slightly sticky with cake frosting as he played absently with the little tie you’d put him in today.

Then the front doors flew open.

“MISS ME, YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS?”

Pansy Parkinson’s voice sliced clean through the manor.

Theo barely had time to turn before she was already there—flinging her coat into Draco’s arms without looking, heels clicking furiously across the marble floor. Her eyes found you instantly.

Her face lit up.

“Oh my God—” She started, already smiling—

Then she stopped.

Her gaze dropped.

Paused.

Lifted.

Dropped again.

You barely had time to blink before—

SMACK.

Theo yelped, jerking back, hand flying to his arm, “What the hell—?!”

Pansy rounded on him like a woman possessed, “Can you PLEASE stop climbing on top of this poor woman?”

You laughed helplessly, one hand instinctively moving to your stomach.

Theo stared at her, scandalized, “Excuse you—”

“Salazar’s balls,” Pansy cut in, eyes wild, “How many children are you planning on having? Fancy your own Quidditch team, do you?!”

“How many children we decide to have is none of you—”

“And she is not an oven to keep popping out your buns,” Pansy said sweetly, patting his shoulder like she was doing him a favor, “Control yourself.”

Theo spluttered, “It’s not like I could carry them myself, now could I?!”

“You’re a wizard,” She snapped back, “I think you could figure it out!”

You tried—tried—to regain control, “Pansy—”

She turned on a dime, expression melting instantly as she crossed the space between you and pulled you into a careful hug.

“Oh, come here,” She murmured, “Look at you. Absolutely glowing.”

You laughed against her shoulder.

“I get it,” She added thoughtfully, pulling back to look at you again, “If I were Theo, I’d be filling you up with kids too.”

Theo opened his mouth.

SMACK.

“Do not.” Pansy warned.

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Theodore Nott had read enough books to know that the day his entire life changed was supposed to feel different.

The air would be heavier. The world sharper. Something—anything—would be off. A subtle wrongness, a warning. Foreshadowing of the wrench about to be thrown into his carefully ordered life.

He had felt it once before, when his mother died and left a hollow space behind that never quite filled.

But that was the thing.

Nothing felt wrong about today.

Had everything gone as it usually did, it would have been completely mundane—monotonous, even. Theodore woke up, ate breakfast, slipped outside for a smoke. Double Potions. Another smoke. Transfiguration. Lunch. Arithmancy.

And now he was stuck in Charms.

Professor Flitwick had been lecturing about advanced spell interactions—something about like and unlike spells, wand movements and intent—when the first spell fizzled.

Then another.

Then three more went wildly off course, sparks ricocheting off desks and dissolving into the air like fireflies gone wrong.

Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Focus,” Flitwick snapped, wand raised, “Clearly someone here has—”

The room cracked.

Not shattered. Not exploded.

Cracked—like reality itself had split open for half a second.

There was a blinding flash of gold light, a rush of displaced air, and then—

Silence.

Sitting in the middle of the classroom floor was a little girl.

She couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. Dark curls fell into her face, dressed in pajamas, and her small hands were clenched into fists as she looked around, eyes wide and terrified.

For exactly two seconds, she was quiet.

Then her lip trembled.

“—Papà?”

Her voice broke.

And then she started crying.

Not soft sniffles. Full-on, panicked sobs—the kind that came from being suddenly, completely lost.

“Voglio il mio papà!” She cried, scrambling to her feet, “Voglio andare a casa!” (I want my daddy! I want to go home!)

The classroom froze.

“…Did she just Apparate?” Someone whispered.

Another voice, baffled, “She’s a child.”

A Ravenclaw girl cautiously stepped forward, “Hey, it’s okay—”

The girl recoiled instantly, backing away as if burned, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“No! No, no, no!” She sobbed, shaking her head violently, “Non ti conosco! Voglio il mio papà! Voglio papà!” (I don't know you! I want my daddy! I want daddy!)

She spun in a slow, desperate circle, looking at all of them with pure, unfiltered fear.

“Papà! Dove sei?!” (Dad! Where are you?!)

Theo stared at her from his seat.

He wasn’t heartless—of course he wasn’t. There was something about the way she wailed, the sheer terror in her voice, that made his chest tighten painfully. And yet, he stayed where he was.

“Is she—speaking Italian?” Someone murmured.

A ripple of voices followed.

“Yeah.” “Definitely Italian.” “I don’t speak Italian.” “Does anyone speak Italian?”

Someone turned.

Then another.

Then, inevitably, every gaze slid to Theo.

Blaise nudged his arm, “Oi, Nott. You speak Italian, don’t you?”

He didn’t bother answering. Everyone already knew—thanks to the absolute slew of Italian curses he’d hurled at Weasley during the last Quidditch match.

“Great,” Blaise said immediately, “Do something.”

Theo’s eyes flicked back to the girl.

She had dropped to her knees now, small hands pressed to her face as she cried, her breathing beginning to hitch dangerously. A Hufflepuff girl hovered nearby, concern written all over her face, but every step closer only made the child cry harder.

“Voglio il mio papà… per favore…” She sobbed between gasps. (I want my daddy… please…)

Something twisted uncomfortably in Theo’s chest.

“I’m not exactly a baby person.” He muttered.

“Nott,” the Ravenclaw girl hissed, “She’s a toddler. She’s about to have a panic attack, and she can’t understand a word we’re saying.”

The girl let out a sharp, breathless sob, her chest stuttering as she tried—and failed—to calm herself.

“Papà…” She whimpered.

Theo closed his eyes for a brief second and exhaled.

“Cazzo.” (fuck)

He pushed his chair back and stood.

The entire classroom fell silent as he took a step toward her.

Theo approached slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture despite himself.

“Ehi,” He said gently, crouching a few feet away from her. His voice was low, careful, “Va tutto bene. Respira, sì? Piano, piano.” (It’s okay. Breathe, yeah? Slowly, slowly.)

The girl barely registered him.

She was still crying hard, hiccupping sobs shaking her tiny frame as she shook her head over and over, “No, no, no… voglio papà… voglio papà adesso…” (No, no, no… I want daddy… I want daddy now)

“Io so,” Theo murmured, trying to keep his tone steady, “Ma sei al sicuro. Nessuno ti farà male. Guarda me, piccola.” (I know, but you're safe. No one's going to hurt you. Look at me, little one.)

He reached out slightly—then stopped, unsure.

“Come ti chiami?” He asked softly. (What's your name?)

She sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve, eyes squeezed shut as if refusing to look at the world around her. “Voglio papà,” She repeated stubbornly, voice breaking again, “Ho paura…” (I want dad, I'm scared)

Theo swallowed.

“Papà non è lontano,” He said, choosing his words carefully, “Va bene? Respira con me.” (Dad’s not far away, Okay? Breathe with me.)

That was when she opened her eyes.

Really looked at him.

Her crying hitched mid-sob.

For half a second, her face went utterly still—eyes widening, breath catching like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Then—

“Papà!”

She surged forward.

Theo barely had time to react before a small body collided with his chest, tiny arms wrapping around his neck with desperate force. She buried her face into his robes, clutching him like he might disappear if she let go.

“Papà, papà, papà,” She cried, the word tumbling out between sobs, “Ti ho trovato… non andare via… per favore…” (I found you… don't go away… please…)

Theo froze.

Completely. Utterly.

His arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do as the child clung to him, shaking with leftover fear. Her tears soaked straight through his uniform as she pressed closer, like she was trying to crawl into him.

The room was dead silent.

Theo’s eyes flicked up.

Every single person was staring.

Flitwick looked like he might faint. The Ravenclaw girl’s mouth hung open. Blaise had gone eerily still, eyebrows raised so high they were nearly in his hairline.

Theo slowly mouthed, Get this child off me.

No one moved.

The girl sniffed loudly and tightened her grip, small hands fisting in the fabric of his robes. “Papà.” She whimpered again, quieter now, exhausted.

Theo looked down at her—at the way she fit far too easily against him, at how natural it felt for her to be there—and felt his brain short-circuit.

“I—” He cleared his throat, voice coming out rough, “Io… eh…”

She tilted her head just enough for him to feel the movement, her grip loosening slightly as the tension finally drained from her small body. Her breathing stuttered once more, then evened out, warm against his chest.

Theo looked down just in time to see her eyelids flutter.

Once.

Twice.

And then she was gone.

Fast asleep.

Her forehead rested against his collarbone, tiny fingers still curled tightly in his robes like she was afraid to let go even in sleep. A quiet, shaky sigh left her, the last echo of fear finally spent.

Theo swallowed hard.

The hospital wing smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, but it did nothing to calm the chaos of the little girl in Theo Nott’s arms. Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, and Snape hovered nearby, wands and parchment at the ready, while a few house-elves scurried nervously at the edges of the room.

Theo wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here—one hand on her back, the other awkwardly supporting her legs—and frankly, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to set her down in a cot and get the hell out of there.

“She appears… well, as far as magical diagnostics go." Pomfrey said uncertainly, trailing off.

Flitwick rubbed at the crease between his brows and sighed, “I’m not even sure what spells were cast. Perhaps someone transfigured an object into a child… though it seems highly unlikely. I did a head count, but maybe a student from another class managed to get de-aged? It will take me some time to get to the bottom of this.”

“During which,” McGonagall added crisply, “We need to figure out where exactly she is going to reside.”

All eyes turned to Theo, still awkwardly seated on the bed. The green tie in her grubby hands was clutched tightly, her shirt streaked with snot from her tears. He stared at the ceiling, silently praying to whatever deity listened that this problem would disappear.

“All right,” Flitwick muttered, “We need… more concrete information. Perhaps a simple veritas test to confirm basic biological markers…”

He waved his wand carefully over a tiny strand of her hair, muttering under his breath. The result came up empty. Flitwick let out a frustrated sigh, before his gaze fell on the way her small body curled naturally against Theo. Her fear of strangers was… painfully clear.

He waved his wand again, more deliberately this time.

“It would seem, Mr. Nott,” He began cautiously, “that you are biologically related to her.”

Theo blinked in shock, his grip faltering. The little girl nearly toppled in his arms.

“Excuse me?” He managed, voice tight, heart racing, utterly refusing to acknowledge what Flitwick had just said.

Flitwick adjusted his glasses nervously, “I—I understand this is… unusual. But the magical markers are clear. There is no doubt: you are biologically related to her.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed, “No. I… that… that’s impossible.”

McGonagall stepped forward, arms crossed, her voice calm but firm, “Mr. Nott, we must consider all possibilities. Clearly, she has appeared here through some magical anomaly."

Snape, leaning against the wall with an unimpressed frown, muttered, “Magical anomaly is one way to put it. Unprecedented, more like.”

Flitwick cleared his throat, “We may need to consider the… temporal aspect. Combined with the accelerated spellwork and residual transfiguration energy from earlier… it is conceivable that she has been displaced here from another point in time.”

Theo blinked, “…You’re saying… she’s from the future?”

“Yes,” McGonagall said carefully, though her eyes softened as she looked at the child curled against him, “And until we can stabilize whatever magical interference brought her here, we will need to come up with a plan to care for her."

Theo exhaled slowly, a sound somewhere between frustration and disbelief, "Alright then, take her."

Flitwick hesitated, frowning. The professors exchanged glances.

Theo’s heart thumped in a way that was decidedly unhelpful. The child pressed closer, nuzzling her face into his chest, hiccupping softly.

"Perhaps, it would be best for the child to stay with her fa—"

“I’m not her father,” He said firmly, “…And she is not my responsibility.”

“If you truly refuse,” McGonagall said quietly, “then the staff will care for her until we can determine a safe way to return her to her own time.”

McGonagall nodded once and gestured toward Madam Pomfrey, “Very well.”

Pomfrey stepped forward gently, arms outstretched, “Come now, dear. Let’s get you settled—”

The moment she felt herself being pulled away from the warm chest she’d been clinging to, the effect was immediate.

The little girl stiffened in Theo’s arms, eyes flying open as she registered that the hands lifting her did not belong to him. Her face crumpled, breath hitching once before she broke into loud, panicked sobs.

“No—no, no!” She cried, voice high and shaking, “Papà! Papà, portami!” (Dad! Dad, carry me!)

She twisted against him, burying her face into his chest as if trying to disappear. Tiny arms wrapped around his neck with desperate strength, her small body trembling violently.

Theo froze.

Pomfrey halted mid-step. Flitwick winced. Even Snape straightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Papà, per favore,” She sobbed, words tumbling over one another, “Ho paura… non voglio… non voglio…” (Daddy, please. I'm scared… I don't want… I don't want…)

Theo’s jaw tightened. He stared straight ahead, pulse pounding, every instinct screaming at him to hand her over and walk away. But her grip only tightened, her cries growing sharp and breathless.

She was shaking.

“Alright,” Theo snapped suddenly, sharper than he meant to, “Stop—just—don’t—”

Everyone froze.

Theo swallowed and glanced down at her. Her face was blotchy and red, lashes clumped with tears, chest hitching unevenly as she struggled to breathe. She looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes, like she was bracing for him to vanish.

Something twisted painfully in his chest.

“…Va bene,” He muttered, the Italian rough but instinctive, “Va bene. Basta piangere.” (All right. No more crying.)

Her sobs stuttered—not stopping, but slowing.

Awkwardly, he adjusted his hold, one arm settling more securely around her back while the other patted her shoulder once—too stiff, too careful. He cleared his throat.

“Shh.” He said quietly, glancing around like he’d been caught doing something illegal, rocking her back and forth like a rusty robot that hadn’t been oiled in years.

She sniffed hard, still clutching him, but the panic ebbed enough for her breathing to even out. Her head tucked beneath his chin, warm and damp against his collar.

McGonagall studied the child for a long moment, then Theo. Her expression softened—just a fraction.

“It seems,” She said evenly, “that she has made her preference quite clear.”

Flitwick nodded, rubbing his hands together nervously, “Yes… yes, I’m afraid forcing the issue would only distress her further.”

Theo exhaled sharply through his nose, “…Unbelievable.”

The girl whimpered once more, fingers tightening in his shirt as if reminding him she was still there.

Theo stiffened, then sighed.

“…Fine,” He said quietly, “Okay. She can—she can stay. For now. Until you figure this out.”

The walk back to the Slytherin dorms was… an experience.

Theo kept his pace measured, one arm secured firmly around the sleeping weight against his chest. She’d fallen back asleep somewhere between the hospital wing and the dungeon corridor, her curls tickling his jaw every time she shifted, breath warm against his collarbone.

He ignored the stares.

The whispers.

The way a passing Hufflepuff nearly walked into a wall trying to figure out why Theodore Nott was carrying a child through the corridors like this was a perfectly normal occurrence.

The Slytherin common room fell silent the moment he stepped inside.

Lorenzo blinked once. Then twice.

“…Is this some sort of social experiment?”

Mattheo’s grin spread slowly, wicked and delighted, “Papa's home.”

Theo shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Say another word,” he warned quietly, “and I’ll hex you.”

Blaise tilted his head, eyes flicking between Theo and the small, curled form in his arms. “Congratulations,” He said lightly, “When were you planning on telling us you’d been leading a double life?”

Theo didn’t dignify that with a response. He adjusted his grip slightly when the girl shifted, instinctively tightening his hold, and turned toward the stairs.

Behind him came a chorus of barely-suppressed laughter and stage-whispered “Night, daddy!” that followed him all the way up.

He noticed the change in his dorm the second he stepped inside.

Not because it was loud.

But because it was wrong.

Sitting neatly on his bed were things that had absolutely not been there that morning.

Tiny clothes, folded with precise magical care. Soft socks. A small blanket charmed with a low, steady warmth. Even a stuffed creature—some sort of dragon, judging by the horns—rested near the pillow, its stitched eyes cheerfully oblivious.

Theo just stood there.

Staring.

This was real. This was happening.

He looked down at the small, sleeping child in his arms, her face slack with sleep, lashes dark against her cheeks. A living, breathing human being. And somehow—somehow—he was now responsible for her.

His stomach twisted.

This hardly seemed responsible.

Did the staff really just let him walk out with an entire child and no follow-up instructions? No pamphlet? No checklist? How was he meant to keep one of these things alive? What if she woke up hungry? Or scared? Or—Merlin forbid—started crying? Again.

Theo swallowed hard, dread creeping in like a cold chill down his spine.

He crossed the room slowly and carefully, as if any wrong step might shatter the fragile reality holding this together, and lowered her onto the bed. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake, curling instinctively toward the lingering warmth of his body.

He hesitated.

Then, with movements stiff and unsure, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and tucked it in the way he vaguely remembered adults doing when he was small—firm but gentle, like it mattered.

He stepped back.

She looked… peaceful.

Completely unaware that she had just detonated his entire existence.

Theo dragged a hand down his face and turned toward the door.

He needed a cigarette. Immediately.

Just as his fingers brushed the handle, a small sound stopped him.

“Papà…”

It was barely audible—a sleepy mumble, her brow knitting faintly as one small hand twitched against the sheets.

Theo froze.

“…Papà.” She murmured again, softer this time, like she was reaching for him even in her dreams.

He closed his eyes and let out a slow, resigned breath.

“Merda.” He muttered.

If he left and she woke up—

He glanced at the chair beside the bed.

Then back at her.

“…Unbelievable.” He whispered.

Theo pulled the chair closer and sat down, leaning back with his arms crossed, eyes never leaving her face. He flinched every time she so much as twitched, every uneven breath sending his pulse spiking.

Just for tonight.

That’s what he told himself as exhaustion settled heavy in his bones.

Just until she woke up.

Theo woke to pins and needles.

A sharp, unpleasant numbness shot up his legs, like they’d ceased to exist sometime during the night and were only now remembering their purpose. He sucked in a quiet breath and shifted—immediately regretted it.

There was weight on him.

Warm. Solid.

Theo froze.

Slowly, carefully, he looked down.

She was asleep in his lap.

At some point during the night—at some point he did not remember authorizing—the little girl had migrated from the bed, curled herself into the space between his arms and legs, and settled there like she belonged. Her head rested against his bicep, curls splayed messily over his chest, one small hand clutching the fabric of his shirt.

Theo stared.

His mind helpfully offered no explanation.

He vaguely recalled her stirring sometime in the early hours. A soft whimper. A half-formed Papà breathed into the dark. He must have reached out—must have pulled her close without fully waking, murmuring something useless and soothing under his breath.

Apparently, his subconscious had decided this was his life now.

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t, really—his legs were numb to the point of concern, and any shift risked waking her. Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fluttering faintly as she slept, utterly unbothered by the fact that she was using him as a mattress.

Theo let his head fall back against the chair with a silent groan.

“This is a disaster.” He whispered.

She stirred at the sound, nose scrunching slightly, fingers tightening in his sleeve as if anchoring herself. Theo went completely still, heart hammering like he’d been caught committing a crime.

He tensed, eyes snapping down just as she stirred properly, lifting her head and blinking blearily up at him.

For a long second, they just looked at each other.

Then her face brightened.

“Buongiorno,” She said, voice thick with sleep. A pause, “…Papà.” (Good morning.)

After getting her dressed for the day using the clothes the professors had provided, Theo could only thank Salazar that whoever—or whatever—had sent her back in time had at least had the decency to send an older child.

Because Merlin help him, she was competent.

She managed socks on her own. Shoes, too—wrong feet at first, but she fixed it herself with a sharp little huff of frustration. He didn’t even have to supervise. He just stood there, half-awake, watching in stunned silence.

The only time he stepped in was when the shirt became her enemy.

She wrestled with it valiantly, tugging it halfway over her head before getting stuck, arms flailing wildly as she wobbled on the mattress like a headless chicken. For one terrifying second, Theo was certain she was going to pitch forward and crack her skull open on the floor.

Just as he reached her, hands already out, she stamped one socked foot and protested indignantly.

“Papà! Sono una bambina grande—faccio da sola!” (Dad! I'm a big girl, I can do it on my own!)

He waited—hands hovering uselessly in the air—until she finally relented with an irritated sigh and allowed him to tug the shirt the rest of the way down. She immediately smoothed it herself afterward, chin lifted proudly.

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose.

This was going to be a long day.

By the time they stumbled downstairs, the Slytherin dorm was already awake and in motion. Mattheo, Draco, Lorenzo, and Blaise were halfway through getting ready, bags slung over shoulders as they headed out for breakfast.

Theo was still in his pajamas.

He didn’t care.

The professors had given him permission to skip class until further notice—something he had accepted with a detached nod, too tired to even question how serious this apparently was.

He was already mentally charting a course to the kitchens. Quiet. Private. No gawking students. No questions.

He turned toward the common room—

And she bolted.

“—Oi, wait—!”

Too late.

She launched herself down the stairs at an alarming speed, feet barely touching the steps. Theo’s heart stopped dead in his chest.

“Slow down!” He snapped, already moving after her, “You’re going to—”

She did not fall.

Instead, she hit the common room floor at a full sprint and beelined straight for Mattheo, slamming into his pant leg with the force and commitment of a homing missile.

Mattheo yelped, stumbling half a step, “What the—”

“Zio Mattheo!” She chirped joyfully, arms wrapping around his leg like she’d just found a long-lost treasure.

The room went dead silent.

Draco stared.

Lorenzo choked.

Blaise pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking.

Mattheo looked down slowly. Very slowly.

“…Little girl,” He said carefully, “how do you know my name?”

Theo stopped behind her and closed his eyes.

“She can’t speak any English, you idiot.”

Mattheo glanced up at him, affronted, “I see recognition in those beady eyes—”

He looked back down at her just in time to see her grin widen, all teeth and delight.

“Buongiorno!” She announced brightly.

Mattheo snorted despite himself.

Then she lifted her arms toward him, wobbling slightly on her feet, “Portami! Portami, zio Mattheo!”

Mattheo blinked. Once.

Then he looked up at Theo, eyebrow raised.

Theo sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, the tips of his ears burning.

“She’s asking her uncle to carry her.”

Mattheo’s grin turned downright smug as he crouched and scooped her up like she weighed nothing—slung against his arm with all the care of someone carrying a sack of potatoes. She giggled, utterly delighted, legs kicking happily.

Theo moved instantly.

“Oi—if you drop her, I swear to Merlin—!”

Mattheo adjusted his grip lazily, unfazed, “Relax. I’ve got her.”

Blaise smirked, “Wow. Someone’s being all fatherly for a bloke who isn’t a baby person.”

Draco leaned against the stair rail, grinning, “Yeah, daddy. Love this look on you."

“…I hate all of you,” Theo muttered darkly.

The girl twisted in Mattheo’s arms, peering over his shoulder. “Papà!” she called brightly. “Voglio fare colazione con zio Mattheo!” (Daddy! I want to have breakfast with Uncle Mattheo!)

Theo opened his mouth on instinct.

“Non puoi chie—” (You can't ask)

He stopped.

Because she wasn’t crying.

She wasn’t reaching for him.

She wasn’t clinging to his sleeve like the world might end if he stepped two feet away.

She was perfectly content. Happy, even. Nestled comfortably in someone else’s arms.

Theo’s brain stalled.

Then—click.

The realization hit him like divine intervention.

An hour.

A whole, uninterrupted hour without tiny hands grabbing his clothes. Without panicked crying. Without being someone’s emotional anchor.

The synapses in his brain fired one by one like fireworks. Sweet, blessed relief bloomed so fast he was pretty sure he could feel tears—possibly drool—gathering.

He lifted his gaze slowly and locked eyes with Mattheo.

“You,” He said calmly, decisively, “are on babysitting duty.”

“What?” Mattheo barked, “Oi—wait—!”

Theo was already turning away.

“Feed her,” He called over his shoulder, “Don’t drop her."

Out of the common room. Down the corridor. Gone like a wanted man escaping Azkaban.

“HEY!” Mattheo shouted after him, “That’s not how this works!”

The girl waved cheerfully from his arms, “Ciao, papà!”

Mattheo looked down at her.

Then back at the hallway Theo had vanished down.

"Well, I hope you enjoy being an orphan. Take it from me it's better than having a shit dad." He said absently, carrying her toward the door.

Theo didn’t even remember reaching the usual alcove.

He only knew his hands were shaking by the time he lit the cigarette, breath dragging deep and slow as the smoke filled his lungs. The burn grounded him. Anchored him. For five blessed minutes, he was just Theo again—no professors, no timelines, no small human being calling him papà.

He shouldn’t feel guilty for this. Dammit.

It wasn’t like he was some kind of deadbeat. He wasn’t even her actual father. Her actual father existed a decade in the future and had—presumably—actively chosen to have this suctioning little tentacle of a child.

He exhaled, staring at the stone wall.

And yet.

She adored him. Wanted him. Chose him over everyone else without hesitation. Which meant—somewhere in the future—he must be doing something right.

Sometime in the future… I’m a good father.

The thought unsettled him more than the panic ever had.

He had never imagined children in his life. Never thought himself capable of it—not after losing his mother so young. How would future him handle this? How would he guide her, discipline her, protect her from the quiet, unrelenting cruelties of the world?

How would he keep her safe?

Theo exhaled again, watching the smoke curl upward and vanish.

Merlin, he needed that.

When he finally returned to the common room, the laughter hit him first.

She was being levitated up and down—up and down—by Mattheo, shrieking with unrestrained delight. Chocolate smeared her cheeks, and it was painfully obvious Mattheo had absolutely no sense when it came to not jostling a child who had just eaten her body weight in breakfast.

Theo stepped closer.

Her face lit up the moment she saw him.

“Papà!”

Something eased in his chest.

At least future me doesn’t screw this up, he thought faintly.

Mattheo gently lowered her into Theo’s arms.

And immediately—

“—achoo!”

She blinked. Sniffed.

Then again.

“Ach—ah—choo!”

Theo froze.

Her nose scrunched as she rubbed at it clumsily, eyes beginning to water, cheeks flushing, “Papà…?”

Theo’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.

Was she sick? Had he missed something? She’d been fine an hour ago—

Mattheo’s gaze flicked from her red nose to Theo’s ash-stained fingers. He sighed, already reaching for her and lifting her back into his arms.

“…Go shower,” He said calmly, “I’ll skip first class.”

Theo blinked, “I—I didn’t know—”

“I know,” Mattheo cut in easily, “It’s all good. Go.”

Theo swallowed.

“…Right.” He muttered.

He hesitated only a moment before turning toward the stairs. As he passed, she reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve.

“Papà?” She asked softly.

Theo stopped.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly—then corrected himself, Italian rough but sincere, “Tornerò subito. Promesso.” (I'll be right back. Promise)

Her shoulders relaxed instantly.

Mattheo watched him go, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

When Theo returned—hair damp, robes changed, skin scrubbed raw of smoke and ash—the little girl didn’t sneeze once.

Instead, she wriggled free of Mattheo’s arms and launched herself at him with a delighted squeak, wrapping her arms around his neck like she’d been waiting.

Theo caught her automatically.

She settled against him, warm and content.

And for the first time, the weight that settled in his chest had nothing to do with panic.

It felt a lot like guilt.

And something dangerously close to resolve.

Theo was collapsed across his bed, utterly defeated. The day had been… long. He hadn’t even gone to class, but that was before the small human currently treating him like a jungle gym had decided it was time for her daily inspection.

He didn’t even have the energy to move her. She clambered over him, tugging at his robes and sniffing at his hair, and he let her—somehow, it was easier than trying to resist. Five minutes of relative respite came only when she discovered something else interesting: the top of his dresser, the ceiling, the corner of the bedpost.

Every so often, one of her “uncles” captured her attention—Blaise, Draco, and Enzo—each appearing just long enough to be ignored by the child, much to Theo’s surprise. Somehow she recognized them, somehow she liked them, and somehow they had managed to reconcile the fact that she adored Mattheo more than all of them combined faster than Theo had reconciled her existence at all. He watched them all patiently endure, his mind boggling at how quickly they’d adjusted.

Currently, she had his hair in a death grip, determined to tug out every last strand with her clammy little hands. Theo winced as she yanked again, a protest lodged somewhere deep in his chest. She scrambled backward across his chest—kicking him squarely in the face in the process—then crawled toward the edge of the bed and started opening the drawer of his bedside table.

“Oi. Cosa fai?” He asked, tone half-scolding, half-exasperated. (What are you doing)

“Voglio un elastico per capelli! Mamma sempre ne tiene qui.” She declared, fumbling through the drawer. (I want a hair tie! Mom always keeps some here.)

Theo froze.

Mom? She has a mom?

The thought hit him like a bucket of ice water. All this time, he had assumed—stupidly—that she had appeared out of thin air, some magical anomaly he had to manage. Now the idea that she had a mother… a real, actual human mother… knocked the air out of his lungs. He felt absurdly unprepared.

She pulled something plastic-sounding from the drawer and held it up.

“Papà… cos’è questo?” (Papa... what is this?)

Theo’s heart skipped. He blinked, eyes widening. And then the aneurysm in his brain fully bloomed: a condom wrapper. In his daughter’s hand.

“Oi! Restituiscilo!” He shouted, leaping upright just in time for her to bolt, giggling, around the room. (Give that back!)

“Get that out of her hand!” He yelled again, spinning to intercept her, but it was too late. She dashed past Blaise, who was already doubled over laughing, and then past Draco, who had his hands pressed over his mouth to keep from cackling. Even Lorenzo had tears in his eyes from the absurdity.

“Little girl,” Lorenzo called, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably as he wiped tears from his face, “wait a second—what is her actual name?”

Theo froze mid-chase, mind scrambling.

“You… you don’t know her name?”

The little girl shrieked with laughter from the foot of the bed, completely oblivious to the chaos she had caused, while Theo felt like the universe was quietly reminding him that, yes he was an utter fool.

The little girl zig-zagged across the room, still clutching the condom wrapper like it was some kind of treasure. Theo lunged, arms flailing, but she ducked under his reach and squealed with pure delight.

“Papà! Prendimi!” She shouted, her voice ringing with mischief. (Papa! Catch me)

“Merlin’s beard, why am I even doing this?!” Theo groaned, diving forward again, only to collide gently with Blaise, who had fallen onto the floor laughing.

“Oi! Watch it, Nott!” Blaise gasped between giggles, brushing off his robes, “Maybe if you had been as enthusiastic about birth control as your little girl there, you wouldn't be having this problem."

Theo didn’t even glance at them. His focus was entirely on the girl, who had somehow vaulted onto the armrest of the sofa and was teetering dangerously.

“Oi! Scendi di lì, immediatamente!” He barked. (Hey! Get down from there, right now!)

“Papà!” She chirped again, holding the wrapper above her head like a flag, “Guarda! Guarda!” (Papa! Look! Look!)

Before he could reach her, Mattheo appeared like a hero in the last second, levitating gently above the floor with his wand, and swooped in. “I got her!” He said triumphantly.

He glanced down at the pile of humans scattered around the room—Blaise doubled over, Draco snickering, Enzo leaning helplessly against the wall—and grinned, “You really gave them a run for their money, huh, Bianca?”

Theo froze mid-lunge.

“You… you know her name?” He asked, voice tight with disbelief.

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, utterly flabbergasted, “You didn’t?”

Raising children, Theo decided, was an absurd amount of work.

He handed Bianca over to Madam Pomfrey the second she woke up.

He had tried—really tried—to delay it, holding out hope that the professors would have some sort of solution by now. But it had been three days. Three days of dungeon air, sleep-mussed curls, and the unmistakable stickiness that came with being a toddler. She desperately needed a shower.

And while Theo was getting increasingly comfortable handling her—some might even say paternal—he was still very much not prepared to be the one responsible for that particular task.

Pomfrey had taken one look at the state of Bianca’s curls, the faint smudges on her cheeks, and Theo’s exhausted expression and immediately agreed.

Theo sighed in relief, already imagining a shower of his own. Or maybe collapsing onto a bed and stealing an extra hour of sleep. He didn’t understand why he was so tired—he was sleeping the same amount he always did.

Still. He felt wrecked.

He promised he’d come back.

Repeated it, even.

Swore on—well. Something. He wasn’t sure what, but it sounded convincing enough.

It didn’t help.

She cried anyway.

Clutched his robes with tiny hands, face crumpling as she begged him not to leave, words tumbling out too fast and too panicked for him to catch more than Papà and non andare. Theo pried her fingers loose with a wince, murmuring reassurances the entire time—but he couldn’t will himself to walk away while she was screaming like that.

Especially now that he knew the difference between her cries.

So, one of the girls’ bathrooms had been cleared out for the morning.

Pomfrey, Bianca, and Theo occupied it alone, the echoes far too loud for his liking. He stood just outside the stall while Pomfrey bathed her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, posture stiff—like a chastened criminal awaiting judgment.

The child sang.

Loudly.

Badly.

And every time Theo stopped responding—

“Papà?”

—her voice wobbled, threatening to tip into tears.

“Sono qui,” He called back immediately, instinctive, “Brava.” (I'm here. Good job)

She giggled and continued singing something that sounded vaguely like a nursery rhyme and vaguely like a direct threat to musical theory.

Theo leaned his head back against the tiled wall and exhaled.

My God, was she clingy.

Then again… he supposed he couldn’t fault her for it.

If Flitwick was right—if she truly had come from the future—then she’d been ripped away from her home. Likely somewhere warm and familiar in Italy. Dropped into damp, grey Scotland. Surrounded by strangers. Spoken to in a language she didn’t understand.

Clinging to the only constant she recognized.

Him.

The thought settled heavy in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. Theo swallowed, fingers twitching as the familiar urge for a cigarette crept in—persistent, comforting.

He resisted.

Inside the stall, the singing faltered.

“Papà!” She called, sharper now.

“I’m here,” Theo answered immediately, softer this time, “Sono qui. Non vado da nessuna parte.” (I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.)

The singing resumed—quieter. Sleepier.

Theo closed his eyes.

Unbelievable.

Bianca emerged from the bath wrapped in a towel with a warming charm woven into the fabric, her pajamas peeking out beneath it. Her curls were still damp, springing in every direction, cheeks flushed pink and clean, eyes already heavy with sleep. Madam Pomfrey handed her over with a satisfied nod and a stern warning about drafts, and Theo took her automatically, settling her against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was now only dimly aware of how absurd this entire situation was.

They stepped out into the corridor together, the stone cool and quiet at this hour—

—and promptly ran straight into you.

You froze.

You’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. Whispers carried between classes, exaggerated retellings murmured in the Slytherin common room. Nott has a kid. From the future. Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. There were more reasonable theories floating around—some magical accident that accidentally teleported a child here from outside Hogwarts walls. Others were more creative, claiming Theo had a secret child hidden away in Italy and the time-travel nonsense was just a cover story.

You firmly belonged to the former camp.

This—whatever this was—had to be some sort of misunderstanding.

You opened your mouth, ready to apologize for bumping into him—

“Mama!”

The word rang out, bright and clear, echoing far too loudly down the stone corridor.

Bianca lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all day. She wriggled out of Theo’s already-loose hold with surprising strength, arms stretching toward you, the towel slipping dangerously as she leaned forward.

“Mama! Mama!” She chirped, utterly delighted, fingers grasping at empty air, “Sei tornata! Mi sei mancato!” (You’re back! I missed you!)

You stared at her.

Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.

Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

You stared at her.

Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.

Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

You forced a smile, gentle and careful, lowering yourself slightly so you weren’t towering over her.

“I’m not your mama, little one.” You said softly.

You spared Theo a glance, silently pleading for him to say something—anything—but he looked like a statue carved from pure shock, arms still locked around Bianca as though letting go might shatter reality itself.

Bianca frowned.

Just a little.

Her brows knit together as she studied you, head tilting to one side in confusion. Then she turned in Theo’s arms, small hand gripping the front of his robes like an anchor.

You spared Theo a glance.

He hadn’t moved.

Not an inch.

He looked like a statue carved in shock, Bianca still tucked securely in his arms, as though letting go might shatter something irreparable.

Bianca’s smile faltered.

Just a little.

Her brows knit together as she studied your face, head tilting in quiet confusion. Then she turned slowly toward Theo, curls brushing his collar.

“Papà?” She asked, uncertain now.

Theo swallowed.

She pressed her cheek against his chest and spoke again, voice small but earnest—

“Papà… ora che la mamma è tornata, possiamo andare a casa? Ho sonno.” (Papa… now that mama is back, can we go home? I'm sleepy)

“There is absolutely no way I’m her mother.”

Your voice echoed far louder than you intended in the hospital wing, ricocheting off white curtains and cold stone with humiliating clarity.

Madam Pomfrey paused mid-sentence.

Flitwick blinked.

McGonagall’s lips thinned—just slightly.

Theo, seated stiffly on the edge of the bed with a sleeping Bianca curled against his chest, did not move. He looked like someone who had accepted his fate three hours ago and was now simply watching the universe pile on for sport.

It was hard to believe he’d been standing in this exact position less than a week ago, being told the very same thing.

Honestly, he wasn’t even sure the news had fully settled yet. He hadn’t had time to properly panic—not just about Bianca having a mother, but about who that mother apparently was. A girl he’d never given a second glance to. Someone who, in some unfathomable future, he had fallen in love with. Married. Chosen to have a family with.

Theo Nott. Married. A father by choice.

The thought felt so foreign he thought he might throw up.

“For one,” You continued, gesturing vaguely at yourself like the evidence should be self-explanatory, “I would remember giving birth. I am quite certain of that.”

Pomfrey cleared her throat delicately.

“And second,” You added, beginning to pace, panic sharpening every word, “there are processes involved in creating children. Processes which I have never done—” You pointed sharply at Theo, “—with him.”

Theo didn’t react. Didn’t even flinch. He just adjusted his grip slightly when Bianca shifted, instinctively tucking her closer as she sighed in her sleep.

Flitwick glanced down at his parchment, “…The magical diagnostics are, I’m afraid, quite clear.”

You stopped short. “So you’re actually telling me,” You said slowly, incredulously, “that this child is from the future? A future where I have a baby with Nott of all people?”

McGonagall folded her hands calmly, “Miss (Y/N)—”

“You’re joking, right?” You cut in, letting out a hollow laugh, “I mean, everyone here can see that there isn’t even a modicum of possibility that the two of us would date—let alone get married, let alone have a child.”

Theo’s jaw tightened.

He wanted to argue—wanted to back you up, to scoff and insist this was ridiculous, that there had to be some enormous mistake, some elaborate cosmic joke with particularly poor timing. A week ago, he would have done exactly that.

But he’d been standing in this same position barely days earlier.

He knew now that arguing would get him nowhere.

Soon enough, Bianca would wake up. She always did. And when she did, she would cry—sharp, panicked, desperate cries that cut straight through stone and reason alike. She would call for you the same way she had called for him, voice cracking, hands reaching for something familiar in a world that made no sense.

And if you were even remotely a decent person, you wouldn’t be able to ignore it.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, uncomfortable and inescapable.

But Bianca only shifted in his arms, letting out a small, congested sniff as she rubbed at her itchy nose against his robes. Theo adjusted his hold without thinking, brushing his thumb gently along her back until her body went slack again, weight settling against him.

Theodore Nott was not a single father.

Absolutely not.

He wasn’t even a father if one wanted to argue technicalities—and frankly, he did. Loudly. Frequently. If he wasn’t considered a father, then you certainly couldn’t be considered a mother. It was only fair. Balanced. Logical.

And yet.

If he was being forced to look after a suction cup turned human child—day in and day out—then he didn’t see why you got to take the easy way out and keep avoiding her. Avoiding them.

It felt less like co-parenting and more like he was chasing you down for childcare payments.

So he handed Bianca off to Mattheo—who was, once again, skipping class and therefore had no grounds to complain—and went looking for you.

He caught you just as Potions let out, students flooding into the corridor in clusters of laughter and complaints. Theo slipped through them with singular purpose and grabbed your elbow just outside the classroom doors.

You startled, turning sharply, “Nott? What do you need?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what this is about,” He hissed, releasing you only to cross his arms over his chest, “Go see your child.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, “She’s not my kid.”

“She’s as much yours as she is mine,” Theo shot back, frustration flaring hot in his chest, “and it’s not fair that I’m the one looking after her all day.”

“We can’t even speak the same language.”

“She’s three,” He snapped, “All you need to do is watch her while she plays with toys or draws or—Merlin—something.”

“She doesn’t even want to come with me.”

The words hit harder than he expected.

“Maybe she would,” Theo said, quieter but still sharp, “if you spent more time with her.”

The conversation had officially crossed into absurd territory. Theo felt like every dramatic woman in those ridiculous telenovelas his mother used to watch—hands flying, emotions everywhere, dignity nowhere to be found.

You scoffed, “Oh, come off it, Nott. Don’t you find it strange that she can only speak Italian? Nothing else? Not even my first language?”

Theo frowned, but you weren’t finished.

“She never comes to me first,” You continued, voice tightening, “Never asks me for help when she’s eating. Never reaches for me when she wants something. You’re always her first choice. Have you noticed that?”

His mouth opened—closed again.

“And,” You went on, softer now, more brittle, “you know she never lets me carry her? Not even once. And believe me, I’ve tried. She squirms out of my arms every time.”

The anger he’d carried with him faltered.

He could see it then—the hurt etched into your expression, raw and unguarded. Theo shifted, frowning, “She’s just… not used to—”

“I don’t think that’s it.” You interrupted quietly.

You hesitated. Took a breath.

“What if,” You said, voice barely above a whisper now, “what if in the future… I’m not there?”

Theo’s chest went cold.

“No,” Theo said quickly, the word cutting through the silence like he could sever the thought itself, “No. That’s—there are other explanations.”

You looked at him, eyes searching his face.

“Like what?” You asked.

He exhaled sharply, already reaching, “Maybe we just—split up. In the future. People do that. All the time.”

Your mouth twisted, humorless, “Right. So either I’m dead, or I’m a deadbeat.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s exactly what you said,” You shot back, “Because if I’m alive and well and present, Theo, then why doesn’t she know my language? Why doesn’t she come to me? Why doesn’t she trust me?”

His jaw clenched, “You don’t know that she doesn’t—”

“She doesn’t,” You said quietly, firmly, “And you know it.”

He felt like he couldn't breathe. His hand twitched at his side.

Theo shook his head, hands curling into fists at his sides, “You’re making assumptions."

"I don't want to confuse her," You snapped, "What if I spend time with her now and she goes back to a future where she's confused that future me doesn't? Don't you think it's better for her to not be left with any painful memories?"

"Fuck this." He said harshly.

You stared at him, stunned, “Theodo—”

He turned away before you could finish.

He needed a fucking cigarette.

Theo didn’t look at you when you spoke.

“I thought I might find you here.” You sighed, stepping into the Astronomy Tower. The night air was sharp, the stars cruelly clear.

He only glanced at you once before turning back to the edge, exhaling smoke into the dark. The orange tip of his cigarette flared, then dimmed.

He hadn’t gone back before bedtime like he’d promised Bianca.

The thought twisted in his chest—but he shoved it down. Mattheo would handle it. He told himself Mattheo would’ve worn her out enough that she’d gone down on her own. That she’d fallen asleep surrounded by noise and laughter and familiar faces. That she wouldn’t notice.

But he couldn’t go back now. Not like this. Not smelling like smoke and guilt and the kind of fear that hollowed you out from the inside.

You shifted, eyes flicking to the small graveyard of cigarette stubs at his feet, and visibly bit back a comment.

“You can’t seriously be that upset at the thought of me dying, are you, Nott?” You said lightly, like it was a joke you didn’t quite believe in, “After all, we aren’t anything to each other.”

Theo’s fingers stilled.

Truthfully, he wasn’t.

Not in the way you meant.

It wasn’t you he was grieving.

It was the future he thought he was building.

He had thought—Merlin help him—that he was doing something right.

Thought that maybe—maybe—this was him breaking the cycle. Overcoming his own childhood, his own grief, his own scars. The way she clung to him, trusted him, sought him out—he’d taken that as proof. Proof that he was doing something right. That he was raising her in a house full of warmth. Of love.

A home that wasn’t cold. A father who didn’t disappear into silence. A childhood that didn’t feel like walking on broken glass.

He had thought he was undoing the damage his own father had carved into him.

Breaking the curse.

And now it felt like he was watching history fold back in on itself.

Bianca would lose her mother. Just like he had.

She’d be left in a cold home, one that hollowed out instead of held you together. She’d grow into something sharp and distant and unfeeling—just like him. Just like his father.

Would he turn into him?

Would he still be able to love Bianca if every time he looked at her, all he saw was you? Would he sit across from her in silence at meals, watching her struggle to eat in the tension, only to hear her throwing up later—alone on the bathroom floor, crying for a mother who wasn’t there?

Would he say the same vile things? Lock her in the same closet?

Would his hands—

Theo’s breath hitched.

He’d never imagined hitting a child. Never.

But perhaps his father hadn’t imagined it either. Not at first.

Perhaps he was driven to it.

He took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it away, crushing the ember beneath his heel before reaching for another with trembling fingers.

He never got the chance to light it.

Your hand closed around his wrist.

Firm. Steady.

He stilled.

Slowly, his focus shifted—really shifted—to you.

For the first time since Bianca had seen you, since the world had tilted on its axis, he truly looked at your face.

And there it was.

Your eyes.

Or rather—

Bianca’s.

His throat closed, eyes flickering over your face as he began to compare the two of you when your nose began to twitch, the smell of the smoke finally getting to you.

"Achoo!"

Theo couldn't help but let out a dry breath of laughter.

“You should spend time with her,” He said finally, voice rough—scraped raw by smoke and something dangerously close to tears, “I wanted nothing more than to remember my mother when she died.”

The words hung between you, fragile and devastating.

Theo swallowed.

“She deserves that,” He added quietly, “And so do you.”

Morning came quietly in the Slytherin dorms. The others had already left the dorm to get breakfast and begin classes.

Theo had been awake long before it—again. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the small lump buried beneath his blankets. Bianca had twisted herself sideways sometime in the night, curls exploding in every direction, one chubby foot sticking out from under the covers like a silent rebellion.

“Bianca,” He murmured gently, nudging the lump, “È mattina.” (It's morning.)

She made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whine and promptly rolled onto her stomach, hugging the pillow tighter.

“No,” She mumbled sleepily, “Ho sonno…” (I'm sleepy)

Theo blinked, staring at the blanket-wrapped lump that was technically his responsibility. For a fleeting moment, he considered letting her sleep—just fifteen more minutes, surely that wouldn’t hurt.

But experience had already taught him better.

If she slept in, she’d be feral by noon. No nap. No quiet. No sleep later. Which meant another night of pacing the dorm with a squirming toddler while his own body begged for rest.

He sighed. The deep, tired, fatherly kind—the one he was rapidly perfecting.

Just as he leaned forward to try again, there was a knock at the door.

Theo froze.

His mind leapt immediately to the all possibilities.

Professor McGonagall, stern and efficient, here to inform him they’d finally found a way to send Bianca back to her own time.

Or worse—here to say they couldn’t.

Another knock followed. Softer. Hesitant.

Theo stood slowly, smoothing a hand through his already-mussed hair, heart doing something distinctly unhelpful in his chest. When he opened the door, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting.

But it was you.

You stood there awkwardly, hands clasped in front of you like you might bolt at any second. You weren’t in your uniform—dressed casually instead—and floating just behind you was a small enchanted tray, stacked with breakfast.

Theo’s brows lifted despite himself.

“Oh,” He said. Guarded. Careful. “…Morning.”

You hesitated, then offered a small, tentative smile.

“I brought breakfast.”

Behind him, there was sudden movement.

Bianca’s head popped up from the blankets, curls crushed on one side of her face, eyes still hazy with sleep.

She stared at you for half a second before her entire expression lit up.

“Mama!”

Theo barely had time to react before she scrambled upright, tangling herself in the covers.

“Buongiorno?” You said, tilting your head as you stepped inside, “I—uh. I’m hoping I'm pronouncing that right.”

Theo stepped aside as you entered, watching carefully as Bianca scooted closer, clutching her blanket around her shoulders like a cape. You set the tray down on the bedside table and sat beside her without hesitation.

Breakfast became a quiet, shared thing.

Bianca sat between the two of you on the bed, half-awake but cooperative, munching on cut fruit and toast while you worked patiently through the knots in her hair. She winced once, then relaxed when your touch stayed gentle.

“I used to have curls like this too.” You said softly, lifting a section of her hair.

Theo glanced over, wondering why you were saying this. Perhaps you were just getting sick of being out of the loop while Theo constantly reminded Bianca not to chew with her mouth open, “Really?”

You hummed, “Yeah. Until I spent one entire summer swimming. Completely ruined them.”

"Oh." He muttered.

“And then,” You continued, amused, “I discovered Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and never really went back.”

You began sectioning her hair, fingers moving more confidently now, twisting it into neat little ponies.

Theo slid the tray closer to you, “You sure you don’t want some?”

You shook your head lightly, “I already ate.”

Bianca paused mid-bite, brows knitting together. She looked up at you, then spoke quietly.

“Mamma… stai male di nuovo?” (Are you sick again?)

Theo stiffened slightly, “…Cosa intendi?” (What do you mean?)

Bianca shrugged, matter-of-fact in the way only children could be, “A volte la mamma sta male e non riesce a mangiare.” (Sometimes mommy gets sick and can’t eat.)

Theo looked at you slowly, something uneasy settling in his chest.

You tilted your head, confused, "Am I missing something?"

The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet.

Theo had never realized just how quiet it could get when everyone was actually in class. On the rare occasions he skipped, he was usually surrounded by his noisy gaggle of friends—laughter, insults, the scrape of chairs. Now, with most of the students gone, the space felt cavernous, almost reverent.

Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, casting lazy rectangles of gold across the stone floor. The lake beyond the glass shimmered faintly, shadows drifting slowly along the walls.

Theo sat at one of the long tables, a textbook open in front of him. Beside him, Bianca occupied her own chair, perched atop a cushion to give her some height. Even then, she barely reached the tabletop—her upper body completely propped up on her elbows as she strained forward, tongue poking out in concentration.

A piece of parchment lay in front of her, covered in colorful scribbles, and a box of crayons sat nearby—formerly one of Theo’s cigarette packs, now successfully transfigured.

You sat on his other side.

Your space had slowly expanded until it spilled over into his—parchment and quills scattered between you, a textbook here, a notebook there. You leaned in to show him a particularly complicated potion formula, pointing at your notes with the tip of your wand.

“So yesterday, we covered the difference between tinctures and infusions,” You explained, flipping through your notebook until you found the relevant lecture, “I wrote the key points here—see? You mostly just need to memorize the ratios.”

Theo scanned your notes, brow furrowing as he compared them to the questions listed beneath. He tapped one section with his finger.

“What about this one?” He asked, “It doesn’t match the ratio.”

You leaned closer to see what he was pointing at, scooting nearer without thinking, “Oh—okay, this one’s an exception. It’s considered an infusion because of the brewing process, not the base ingredients.”

You were just about to continue when Bianca suddenly sat upright, eyes wide, like she’d uncovered a great secret.

“Papà! Mamma! Guarda!” She chirped, spinning the parchment toward you with pride.

You leaned in immediately, your expression softening.

It was a drawing—very clearly the three of you. Stick figures, yes, but unmistakable. One tall with dark hair. One beside him with longer hair. And a much smaller one in the middle, curls drawn in chaotic loops. Behind you stood a crooked little house, flowers floating inexplicably in midair, and a tiny sun tucked into the corner of the page.

You laughed quietly, “This is adorable.”

Bianca smiled, satisfied, but said nothing—already basking in the praise.

You turned to Theo, “What’s wow in Italian?”

He shifted his gaze from the drawing to you, and it was only then you realized just how close you’d gotten—practically halfway into his seat. At this distance, you could see every individual lash, the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

You froze.

Theo leaned in, lowering his head toward your ear. When he spoke, his voice was low and lazy, far too close.

“Wow." He said simply.

You pulled back just enough to glare at him, “You’re unbearable.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, “You asked.”

Theo hadn’t planned on going to the Hufflepuff house party.

Not really.

But you’d insisted—gentle, firm in that way that made it hard to argue without sounding like an idiot.

“Go,” You’d said, already kneeling to help Bianca with her pajamas, “You haven’t been out in days. You deserve a night that doesn’t involve a sticky toddler."

Bianca had protested briefly, arms looping around his neck like a vise, but you’d distracted her with some Jaffa cakes. That seemed to do it.

So he went.

There was music. Laughter. Too many people packed into a common room that smelled faintly of firewhisky and bad decisions. Mattheo handed him a drink almost immediately.

Theo stared at it.

Then thought of Bianca—overtired, unfamiliar bed, the very real possibility that she’d decide midnight was an appropriate time to throw a tantrum and demand to be taken back to Theo's dorm only to be greeted by his drunk self.

He handed it back.

“No?” Mattheo blinked.

“No.” Theo said flatly.

He stayed long enough to prove he’d tried. Not to himself but to you. Who he knew would give him a teasing scold when he'd come back early, tail tucked between his legs.

And then—quietly, without much fanfare—he left.

The Slytherin dorms were dim when he returned, the corridors hushed and cool. He moved carefully, like any loud noise might break something fragile.

When he opened his door, the first thing he noticed was the lamp.

Low. Warm. Soft golden light spilling across the room.

The second thing—

You were there, curled on your side beneath his blankets, Bianca tucked against your chest like she belonged there. One of your arms was draped protectively around her small body, fingers curled instinctively at her back. Bianca’s face was pressed into your collarbone, curls splayed wildly across the pillow.

Fast asleep.

Theo stopped just inside the doorway.

Something tight in his chest loosened. Something else replaced it—heavier, warmer, far more dangerous.

You’d kicked off your shoes, throwing off your jacket as well in favour of casting a warming charm over the two of you right as you had fallen asleep. Bianca’s tiny hand was fisted in the fabric of your shirt, anchoring herself.

Theo approached slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He studied your face.

A loose strand of hair had fallen across your cheek, brushing your lips. In your sleep, your brow pinched faintly, nose scrunching in the exact same way Bianca’s did.

He let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle before he could stop himself.

Carefully—so carefully—he reached out and brushed the strand of hair away from your face with two fingers.

You stirred.

Not fully awake—just enough to shift closer to Bianca, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Your hand tightened reflexively around her back.

Theo froze.

Bianca was going to lose this one day.

She was going to lose this—the warmth, the safety, the arms of her mother.

He was going to lose this someday.

He didn't want to lose you.

He wanted you for the rest of his life.

The thought hit hard and fast, knocking the breath out of his chest.

He swallowed, jaw tightening, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of Bianca’s back. On the way your fingers curved protectively at her spine even in sleep, like your body knew the job before your mind ever caught up.

Then you shifted again.

This time more sharply.

Your eyes blinked open, unfocused and glassy with sleep, lashes fluttering as you took in the dim room. For half a second, you looked confused—then awareness snapped in all at once.

You stiffened.

“Oh—Merlin—” You whispered hoarsely, lifting your head an inch before immediately freezing again when Bianca huffed and burrowed closer.

You blinked.

You slowly sank back down, mortified.

Theo watched as realization dawned on your face.

Then, horrified, you wiped at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand.

“I—” You croaked, then cleared your throat quietly, “I wasn’t… I wasn’t actually asleep.”

Theo raised a brow.

You winced, “Okay. That’s a lie. I was trying not to fall asleep.”

He stayed silent, letting you dig.

“I was pretending,” You continued in a rushed whisper, cheeks warming, “I thought if I stayed really still she’d think it was bedtime and settle down and—well—apparently I fell asleep first.”

Theo huffed out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh.

You shot him a look, “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

You sighed, rubbing your face with one hand, careful not to jostle Bianca, “This is so embarrassing.”

Theo didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he stood, crossed the room quietly, and took the blanket draped over the chair. His movements were careful—deliberate—as he unfolded it and drew it up over you and Bianca, tucking it in around her small shoulders before letting it settle across your waist.

“You can sleep here tonight,” He said finally, voice low. Then, after a beat, softer, “If you want.”

You blinked up at him, the last of sleep still clinging to you.

“Here?” You asked, whispering like the room might object.

He shrugged one shoulder, “She’s already settled. No point moving her.”

You hesitated.

Then nodded, “Okay.”

Theo’s jaw loosened, just a little.

A few days later, Theo was running on fumes.

The bone-deep exhaustion that settled behind his eyes and refused to leave. The kind that made time blur and thoughts lag half a second behind reality. Between the staggered schedules, half-missed classes, and nights that never quite counted as sleep, he felt like he was permanently five minutes behind himself.

You weren’t doing much better.

The professors still hadn’t found a way to send Bianca back, which meant the two of you had fallen into a strange, grinding rhythm: one of you attending class while the other watched her, trading off half-written notes—if by some miracle you hadn’t fallen asleep mid-lecture. You were grateful the professors were granting you at least that much grace.

The rest of the time was spent cramming together right before bedtime while Bianca threw a tantrum of truly mythological proportions.

It turned out she’d woken up once to find the two of you studying together and had somehow come to the conclusion that whenever she went to sleep, you and Theo threw secret parties without her.

So now—despite being exhausted—she refused to sleep.

You hadn’t known children could get overtired before.

Apparently, it was a thing.

A loud, shrill, nails-on-a-chalkboard thing.

Bianca was a small whirlwind. All limbs and laughter and boundless, feral energy that refused to burn out indoors.

So when you suggested a picnic by the Black Lake, Theo thought you’d finally lost your mind.

“You want to let her run free,” He said flatly, “near a giant squid.”

“She just needs to run,” You insisted, rubbing your temples, “Like—really run. Until her lungs give out.”

Theo stared at you, hollow-eyed.

“…You’re a genius.”

So there you were.

The grass near the lake was warm beneath the afternoon sun, the water dark and glassy, the mountains reflected on its surface like a painting. A blanket was spread out behind you with food you’d asked the house-elves to make—and while it looked incredible, you were deeply offended by the lack of sweets.

Apparently the elves had decided Bianca didn’t need sugar.

Who cared about Bianca?

You wanted a chocolate lava cake, damn it.

Bianca, meanwhile, had already abandoned the blanket entirely.

She shrieked with laughter as Theo lifted her into the air, spinning once before tossing her just high enough to make her squeal—then catching her easily.

“Ancora!” She demanded, breathless. (Again.)

Theo obliged.

He laughed—really laughed. Not the tired, guarded version you’d grown used to, but something lighter, freer. He threw her again, caught her, bounced her once on his hip before setting her down just long enough for her to sprint off in a wild, crooked circle.

You watched from the blanket.

At first, it was just fondness. Relief. Gratitude that she was finally burning off that impossible energy. You couldn’t deny it—the sound of a child laughing so freely tugged a smile from you before you could stop it.

Then your gaze shifted.

Theo crouched when she spoke, his attention completely zeroed in on her. When she stumbled, he steadied her without thinking. When she reached for him, he went instantly—lifting her with an ease that felt instinctive, like muscle memory he’d never known he had.

And something in your chest shifted.

Warm.

Tight.

Soft in a way you hadn’t expected.

He stole your breath.

You stared at him.

At the boy you’d never really noticed. The boy you’d fully expected to graduate without so much as a conversation between you. Someone who, before all of this, would’ve been nothing more than a footnote—if that—in the story of your life.

Not your ending.

And yet the realization hit you so suddenly you almost laughed.

Somewhere—somewhen—years from now, a version of you would love him enough to choose to have a child with this man.

And now?

You got it.

You got the vision your future self must have seen when she decided to lock him down.

You supposed it made sense that you’d never seen Theo like this before. He was just a boy—how could you possibly know whether a teenage boy would grow into someone steady? Someone safe. Someone capable of love that endured, of support that didn’t waver.

A man you could build a life with.

But watching him now—watching him lift Bianca again as she squealed, watching the way his hand stayed firm at her back—your stomach flipped.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your ovaries, traitors that they were, staged a full rebellion.

And for the first time, the future didn’t feel impossible.

It felt inevitable.

You stood abruptly and joined them, brushing grass from your skirt. “Alright,” You said, “My turn.”

You bent to lift Bianca—

“No!” She protested instantly.

She wriggled out of your arms with shocking strength for someone so small and darted straight back to Theo, wrapping herself around his leg like an anchor.

Your smile slipped. Just for a heartbeat.

“Oh—okay,” You said quickly, forcing it back into place, “That’s fine. Totally fine.”

You took a step back, suddenly unsure of where to put your hands, your weight, yourself. The breeze off the Black Lake felt colder now. You stared out at the water instead of them, swallowing the strange tightness in your chest.

Theo noticed.

He frowned, glancing between you and Bianca, then crouched so he was level with her. Gently, carefully, he loosened her grip just enough to look at her face.

“Perché non vuoi che mamma ti prenda?” He asked softly. (Why don’t you want mamma to pick you up?)

The word mamma hit you even before you processed it.

You turned away a little more, heart stuttering. You didn’t understand the rest of what he said, not really. You suddenly felt like you were standing on the edge of something sacred and private, like you’d wandered into a family photograph you didn’t belong in.

Bianca’s face scrunched up, serious in that way only children could be when they believed they were being very reasonable.

“Mamma è troppo malata per portarmi, papà,” She said firmly, “Lo sai.” (Mamma's too sick to take me, papa. You know that.)

Theo froze.

The world seemed to tilt, just slightly.

Theo’s eyes flicked to you slowly.

You tilted your head, not knowing how spines began to claw up his hands and feet, making him feel cold, "What's wrong?"

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You attended here for first, second, and third years before transferring to Ilvermory. The school in which, somehow, made it to the Cup finals, bringing you back here to Hogwarts for the final match.

But, instead of sitting with your classmates, you’re perched in the Hogwarts section. Right next to your oldest friend, Cho Chang, who has kept in contact with you via owl for years.

The crowd goes wild as Lane sails the Quaffle through the hoop, right past the Keeper’s fingers, but something pulls your attention farther down the field, where you catch sight of Draco flying up towards the stands.

He looks over his shoulder, barking an order to his teammate that gets lost to the wind as it brushes his platinum hair from his face, revealing a strong, sharp jaw.

He twists back around on his broom, his jersey pinned to his broad shoulders and narrow waist by the force of the air. His gaze is focused, blue eyes sharp as ice, but he swoops upward suddenly, and then—then you’re looking at each other.

You barely have time to blink, your breath caught in your chest. His eyes narrow slightly, glancing at Cho, then back at you, before a faint buzzing sound reaches your ears and he takes off again down the pitch after the Snitch.

Cho shoots you a look, then tucks her dark hair behind her ear.

“Listen, it’s just the stupid jersey, okay? Trust me. They ditched the Quidditch robes, and everyone's gone crazy, but he’s just the same person he’s always been.”

You hum. “Mean, sniveling, and judgmental?”

“That’s Draco Malfoy for you.”

You turn back to the pitch, watching as he weaves between defenders like a ribbon. Effortless and weightless.

“Hell of a flier, though,” you mutter under your breath.

She sighs. “You’re supposed to be cheering for your school.”

“I am!”

“I don’t think eye-fucking the opposing seeker is exactly team spirit—”

Suddenly, a shrill voice cuts her off. “And here we are at the Quidditch Cup finals!” You glance over your shoulder to see none other than Rita Skeeter up on the platform a few feet away. “Tensions are high, and tonight only one team will—oh? What’s happening?” 

She adjusts her glasses, leaning precariously over the edge, one hand pressed to her chest in dramatic concern. Her quill hovers over her shoulder, its feathered tip angled downward as if it’s looking too. 

You follow her gaze.

Below, Draco is racing towards the ground at a breakneck speed. You rise to your feet in alarm, brows furrowing. He’s going too fast. He’s going to—

Malfoy slams into the dirt, arm outstretched, and you wince as his arm twists at un unnatural angle.

Rita gasps. “A devastating fall for Draco Malfoy! Will he live to see another match? Oh, wait. Wait! What is that in his hand? The Snitch!” She turns to the quill. “Cut that part out. The first question, yes.” The quill rushes to oblige her request, the paper snapping in the air as it scratches something out.

“Slytherin wins the Cup!” she announces, her almost voice drowned out by the roar of the crowd. 

Your heart pounds in your throat as you look down again, expecting to see healers rush out, wands at the ready to help the wounded Seeker. But instead, Malfoy’s already on his feet, striding off the pitch. Even from up here, you can see the way his arm dangles unnaturally, the skin of his shoulder rubbed raw. 

The announcer sounds the horn, officially ending the match, just as Malfoy rips off his glove with his teeth. His broad chest heaves with every breath, and as he disappears through the doors under the stands, you catch a glimpse of the back of his jersey.

His last name hangs off him, bloody and torn. 

On instinct, you move towards the stairway, but Cho catches you by the wrist.

“Where are you going?”

You gesture down to the pitch. “I’m a healer, Cho. I can help.”

Rita turns toward you, head cocked, but you keep your eyes on your friend.

Cho’s lips part in surprise. “You’re not serious. He will just go to the infirmary later. He’ll be fine!” 

“He’s in pain,” you say. “This is literally, like, my duty.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the only reason.”

The two of you look at each other for a long moment before, finally, she exhales in defeat and releases you. “Fine. Go. But I want the full story later with details—”

You barely hear the rest of her sentence because you’re already rounding the tent fabric flap and taking the steps two at a time.

Downstairs, underneath the pitch, it’s dark and musty. Lanterns line the corridor, with multiple doors on each side for the players’ rooms and stairwells winding up to the viewing platforms. 

The staircase happens to deposit you in the right spot at the right time, because when you whirl around the bottom step, you bump into something solid and warm.

Draco hisses, leaping back and cradling his shoulder. 

“Watch it,” he snaps, scowling down at you like you’ve injured him further. 

His jersey has completely slipped off his shoulder now, revealing bloody, scraped flesh and a joint that looks painfully out of place. 

Ignoring his attitude, you look around for the nearest room. 

 “Here—” You brush back a curtain and gesture him inside. “I’m a healer. Let me help.”

“About time this place got some of those,” Draco says, but he takes one look inside the cramped room—with its pile of crates, wooden table, and a solitary stray lantern—before brushing past you. “Take your help somewhere else.”

“Your shoulder is dislocated!” you argue, still holding the tent flap open. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

He pauses, then looks over his shoulder. Your gazes lock, and his jaw pulses, a strand of platinum hair falling into his eyes.

You jut your chin toward the table. “Just sit down, Malfoy. You’ll be pain free in two minutes.”

He must really be in agony, because he does, finally, follow you inside and take a seat where you tell him to. The room smells like wood and rust, but it’s not unpleasant, and it’s sterile enough for a procedure like this. 

Reaching into the bag hanging across your body, you procure your wand and a small vial. 

Draco scoffs. “You carry that around with you? Just hoping to run into some injured person?”

“Oh, this?” You wiggle the glass in front of his face that’s level with yours. “This little bottle of salve that’s going to heal you right now? I sure do. Aren’t you lucky? Now, take off your shirt.”

The corner of his mouth curves into a dangerous smirk, but it falters as he starts to peel the ruined jersey over his head. Lantern lights spills over the hard lines of his stomach, cascading over his muscles flexing with the movement. Once the shirt is gone, he leans back on one lean, toned arm, and the smirk is back.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “You can look. You like what you see?”

You sniff once, trying very hard not to let your eyes wander his broad, toned frame. “You sure are cocky for a guy with a dislocated shoulder.”

He shrugs. “Why shouldn’t I be? I caught the Snitch. Won the Cup. And I didn’t even make it off the pitch before I’ve got girls pouncing on me.”

You glare at him, suddenly wishing this ointment had a bit more bite to it. “I wasn’t pouncing on you! I saw you were hurt, and I just…”

The murmur of the crowd outside fills the silence between you, but a peek up at Draco reveals he is not the least bit convinced by your statement.

“…I wanted to help,” you finish lamely.

“How noble.” His smirk grows. “Go on, then.”

You swallow hard before uncorking the salve and lathering your hands with the silky ointment. The bitter herbs bite your nose, a familiar scent after all your time in the infirmary. 

“I’m just going to put this on first to stop the bleeding on these ground burns, and then I’ll set the bone,” you say, your fingers hovering over his skin. 

“Fine,” he mutters, bracing himself. “Get on with it.”

Slowly, you bring your hands down to his warm skin. He hisses, and you jerk back, startled, but he just shakes his head and gestures for you to keep going. You bring your hands back to his shoulder, even gentler this time, fingers gliding over his bicep and shoulder, carefully skimming over his wounds.

Then, you steady his elbow with one hand, and press your wand against his shoulder joint with the other. 

“This might hurt a little, I’m sorry,” you say. 

“Why are you apologizing?”

You keep your eyes on your work, prodding his arm clinically and trying not to think about how it would feel wrapped around you. “Because it’s going to pinch. Ache. Be uncomfortable. What am I supposed to say?”

He curses under his breath, then looks away. “Merlin, you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

Your gaze darts up in surprise. Malfoy was always telling you to stop apologizing when you were kids. But he remembered that? He remembers… you?

Shaking those thoughts away, you focus on the task at hand, pressing the wand right under his joint. You whisper the spell behind your teeth, and then his shoulder socket slides back into position with a sickening click. 

“Fuck!” Draco gasps, jerking in your hold. “What in Merlin’s bloody name was that?”

“I said I was sorry!”

“Yes, but apologies don’t help! Fuck!” He pinches his eyes closed, blond lashes caressing his windswept cheeks in the lamplight. 

You step back, suddenly unsure what to do now as your hands turn cold, dropping from his warm skin.

“The joint is back in place, but you’ll need to go to the infirmary to get a proper fitted sling,” you say.

He sighs heavily, then tests his arm. His hair glints in the light as he carefully moves his shoulder back and forth. 

“Alight,” he says finally, voice firm and determined.

You squint at him in confusion. “Alright?”

He glances up at you and crooks two fingers, beckoning for you to step back into his space. 

“C’mon then.” His hand finds your waist, and before you know what’s happening, you’re tugged forward across the dirt floor until your chest brushes his. “You’ve tended to me, Healer. Now let’s get to the main event, shall we? The reason you’re really here?”

You swallow hard, mouth suddenly gone dry as your gaze drops to his lips, and you watch as they curve up slightly. 

You should be defending yourself right now. Arguing with him that you had absolutely no ulterior motives. But as his breath ghosts over your cheek, you forget how to form words. Merlin, you even forget how to breathe. 

He hovers there, his hand on your hip and his nose brushing yours, for a second. 

But it’s a second too long.