Kindred Spirit

“Good evening, everyone,” you said gently, taking a seat near the far end of the table, while Severus pulled the chair right next to yours, sitting close enough that his knee brushed yours under the table — a small, invisible touch of comfort and possession that only you felt.

“Evening, Y/N,” Remus Lupin smiled kindly at you, looking tired but warm. “Glad you could make it tonight. It is good to have your insight on the injuries and curses our members are facing.”

“Thank you, Remus. I am happy to help however I can,” you replied.

Molly Weasley bustled around the room, handing out tea and biscuits. “Here you go, dear,” she said, placing a cup in front of you. “You look a little pale, are you eating enough? You must look after yourself, you know!”

“I am perfectly fine, Molly, thank you,” you laughed softly.

Arthur Weasley nodded at you from across the table. “Always good to see you, Y/N. Hope we aren’t keeping you too late.”

“Not at all, Arthur.”

Nymphadora Tonks leaned over from her seat, her hair a bright bubblegum pink today, grinning widely. “You’re looking lovely as always, Y/N! Honestly, how do you manage to look so fresh when we’re all feeling like we’ve been dragged through a thorn bush backwards?”

“Practice, Tonks, lots of practice,” you winked playfully at her.

Kingsley Shacklebolt gave you a small, respectful nod. “Your reports on the movement of Death Eater activity have been very helpful. Excellent work.”

Before you could reply, a voice rang out from the armchair near the fireplace — lazy, deep and dripping with charm.

“Well, well… if it isn’t the most beautiful witch in all of London walking into this gloomy old house. I thought the sun had come inside for a moment.”

You froze slightly, turning your head to see Sirius Black leaning back comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, dark eyes fixed entirely on you, a crooked, roguish smirk on his face.

Everyone knew Sirius was free-spirited, charismatic and loved banter, but this was different. This was obvious, shameless flirting.

You gave him a polite, tight smile, shifting slightly in your seat. “Good evening, Sirius.”

“‘Good evening’?” Sirius chuckled, standing up and strolling casually toward your side of the table, ignoring the sharp glare Severus was sending his way. “That is far too formal for someone like you and me, don’t you think? You should call me Sirius. Or perhaps ‘handsome’, or ‘charming’, whichever you prefer.”

Remus sighed, rolling his eyes. “Sirius, behave yourself. Leave her alone.”

“I am just being friendly, Moony!” Sirius grinned, pulling a chair and dragging it right next to yours, sitting far closer than necessary. “Can’t a man appreciate beauty when he sees it? Y/N, you look absolutely radiant tonight. Honestly, being stuck in this house full of gloomy people must be torture for someone like you. You should let me take you out for a drink sometime, somewhere much nicer than this.”

“Sirius, please,” you laughed awkwardly, feeling heat creep up your neck. “I am quite alright, thank you.”

Severus remained silent beside you, but you felt the air around him drop several degrees colder. His jaw was clenched tight, his fingers gripping the edge of the table hard enough to turn knuckles white. He hated this. He hated Sirius looking at you like you were something to be won, hated him speaking to you with that familiar, flirty tone, hated that he couldn’t slam his fist on the table and shout She is mine right here and now. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not without exposing everything you had worked so hard to protect.

The meeting continued for nearly two hours. Plans were discussed, reports were given, dangers were weighed. But throughout every single minute of it, Sirius did not stop. He leaned toward you whenever he spoke, whispered silly jokes that were clearly meant only for you, brushed his arm against yours ‘accidentally’, complimented your intelligence, your skill, your hair, your eyes.

You were becoming more and more uncomfortable, shrinking away from him, your smiles becoming thinner and more forced. You kept glancing at Severus, silently pleading with your eyes, Do something, please, I don’t like this.

Severus saw every single glance, every flinch, every time you pulled yourself away. His patience, already paper-thin where Sirius Black was concerned, was snapping completely.

When the meeting finally ended, it was decided everyone would stay for dinner. The younger members — Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George and Ginny — had been waiting in the kitchen, and now they all trooped into the dining room to join the adults.

“Dinner is ready!” Molly called out, carrying huge bowls of food. “Everyone take your seats!”

You moved to sit next to Severus, naturally, but Sirius swiftly pulled out the chair right next to yours and sat down before you could, grinning triumphantly. Harry, Ron and Hermione sat opposite you, while the twins, Ginny and Remus sat nearby.

“Perfect,” Sirius said happily, leaning his elbow on the table so he was facing you completely. “Now I have you all to myself for the whole meal. You know Y/N, I have been thinking… you seem far too quiet and reserved to be hanging around people like him,” — he jerked his head dismissively toward Severus, who sat on your other side, looking like he was about to explode — “always looking so miserable and dark. You should spend more time with people who know how to have fun! Like me! James would have loved you, you know. You remind me so much of the kind of girls we used to chase back in school — pretty, smart, way too good for the blokes they usually end up with.”

Ron snickered behind his hand. “He’s got a point there, honestly. Snape looks like he drinks vinegar for breakfast.”

“Ron!” Hermione scolded, though she was trying very hard not to laugh herself. “Don’t be rude!”

“Well it’s true!” Fred chimed in, grinning widely. “Face it, Y/N, you’re way too cool to be hanging around old Snivellus!”

George nodded eagerly. “Exactly! Come join the fun side! Sirius is right, you’d have a much better time with us!”

Harry watched everything with curious green eyes, glancing between you, Sirius and Snape. He noticed how uncomfortable you looked, how you kept twisting your hands in your lap, how you leaned away from Sirius every time he leaned closer.

“Sirius, really, that is enough,” Remus said firmly, shaking his head. “You are making her uncomfortable.”

“I am just complimenting her!” Sirius laughed loudly, reaching out and lightly touching your hand resting on the table. “Can you blame me? She is absolutely—”

That was it. That small touch on your hand was the final straw.

Before Sirius could finish his sentence, Severus slammed his hand hard onto the wooden table, making plates, glasses and cutlery jump and rattle loudly. The sound echoed through the room instantly, silencing everyone. Every single pair of eyes turned toward him.

Severus stood up slowly, towering over the table, his face terrifyingly dark, black eyes blazing with absolute fury, voice low, sharp and deadly.

“Take your hands off her, Black. Now.”

Sirius blinked, looking amused rather than intimidated. “Whoa, calm down, Snivellus! I was just having a nice conversation with Y/N. Mind your own business, won’t you?”

“Everything regarding Y/N is my business,” Severus hissed, leaning forward slightly, his voice raising just enough so everyone could hear clearly. “Because you have been shamelessly, annoyingly and foolishly flirting… with my wife.”

Complete and utter silence fell over the room. You could hear a pin drop.

Molly froze with a spoonful of potatoes halfway to her mouth. Arthur dropped his fork. Remus’ eyes went wide as saucers. Tonks gasped loudly, her hair turning bright red instantly. Kingsley raised both eyebrows in absolute shock.

The children reacted even more dramatically.

“WHAT?!” Ron shrieked so loud his voice cracked, his face turning the colour of a tomato. “Snape has a WIFE?!”

“NO BLOODY WAY!” Fred yelled, looking like someone had just told him pigs could fly.

“MERLIN’S BEARD!” George finished, eyes bulging out of his head.

Harry stared between you and Severus, mouth hanging completely open. “You… you two are married?”

Hermione grabbed Ron’s arm tightly, eyes shining with excitement and shock. “Oh my goodness! That explains everything! All those little looks and touches I noticed but thought I was imagining!”

Ginny grinned broadly. “Well I never would have guessed in a million years!”

For a second, everyone was too stunned to speak. Then slowly, the shock turned into bright, happy smiles.

“Oh Severus!” Molly beamed, wiping happy tears from her eyes. “That is wonderful news! Truly wonderful! Oh my goodness, you kept that hidden well didn’t you?!”

“I must say,” Arthur smiled warmly, “I never would have put the two of you together, but… it actually makes perfect sense. You balance each other beautifully.”

Remus smiled widely, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, that certainly explains why you looked like you wanted to murder me once when I held the door open for her. I always wondered why you glared so fiercely.”

Tonks practically bounced in her seat. “This is the best thing I have heard all year! Oh Y/N! You lucky thing! Though I still cannot believe you managed to tame him of all people!”

Kingsley gave a deep, rumbling laugh. “A well-kept secret indeed. Congratulations to you both.”

But Sirius Black — Sirius was completely stunned. He sat there staring at Severus for several long seconds, mouth slightly open, looking utterly gobsmacked. Then suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed — loud, roaring, mocking laughter that bounced off the walls.

“HA! HA HA HA!”

Everyone turned to look at him, confused. Sirius wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, pointing his finger right at Severus.

“Oh this is absolutely brilliant! This is the best joke I have heard in years! You? Married to her? The beautiful, kind, clever Y/N is married to you? To old sour-faced, greasy-haired, miserable Snivellus?! Who in their right mind would ever choose you?! Who even wants you?! Merlin’s beard, Y/N, you poor thing! You must have lost your mind or been under a very strong Confundus Charm! How could you possibly stand him? He is nasty, bitter, cruel, boring, obsessed with the Dark Arts, he smells like dungeon and potions ingredients, and honestly, Severus, let us be real — nobody likes you! You are the most unpleasant man I have ever met in my life! You really think someone like her would actually want to be your wife, let alone—”

“THAT IS ENOUGH!”

Your voice rang out loud, clear and sharp, cutting straight through Sirius’ cruel words and laughter. You stood up from your chair, turning fully toward Sirius, your face calm but absolutely fierce, eyes blazing with protective fire. Everyone went quiet again instantly.

“How dare you speak about him like that,” you said, your voice shaking slightly with emotion but completely firm and unyielding. “You think you know him? You think you know anything about the man I love? You see the surface, you see what he chooses to show the world — because he has to, because it keeps everyone safe, because he sacrifices every single piece of his own happiness, his own reputation, his own comfort to protect people like you, people like Harry, people like all of us sitting right here in this room! You call him miserable? You call him cruel? He is the kindest, most loyal, most loving man I have ever known! He works harder, suffers more and gives more of himself than anyone here could even imagine!”

You paused, taking a deep breath, glancing sideways at Severus who was staring at you completely stunned, completely frozen, looking at you like you were the only thing in the whole world.

You turned your gaze back to Sirius, and then you smiled — a soft, glowing, radiant smile that made everyone’s breath catch. You placed one hand gently, proudly over your stomach.

“And you want to know why I chose him? Why I love him so much? Why I am proud to be his wife?” Your voice softened, turning warm and tender, loud enough for every single person in the room to hear clearly. “Because… I am carrying his child. Our baby. And there is absolutely no one else in this entire world I would rather raise a family with than Severus Snape.”

The silence that followed was different this time. It wasn’t shock. It was awe.

Severus stood frozen beside you. He heard your words, he processed them slowly — carrying his child… our baby… His brain simply stopped working for a moment. He stared down at your hand resting gently over your stomach, then up to your beautiful face, and slowly, slowly, his usual mask of coldness, of scowls and bitterness, completely shattered and fell away.

His dark eyes went wide, shining bright with pure, unfiltered happiness, shock, overwhelming love and joy. His pale face flushed with colour, his lips parted slightly, and then — the most impossible, beautiful thing happened.

Severus Snape smiled. A real, genuine, soft, bright smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners, full of so much happiness it looked like it hurt him a little. He looked absolutely radiant, completely transformed, looking at you as if you had hung the stars and moon just for him.

Everyone saw it. Everyone saw that expression.

“OH MY GOODNESS!” Molly squealed, bursting into happy tears again, clapping her hands together. “A BABY! SEVERUS AND Y/N ARE HAVING A BABY! THIS IS MAGNIFICENT!”

“This is the best news ever!” Arthur beamed, looking genuinely delighted.

Remus was grinning from ear to ear, looking between you and Severus, completely overcome with happiness. “Severus… honestly… congratulations. Truly.”

Tonks screamed happily, her hair turning gold and sparkling bright. “I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU WERE PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER! LOOK AT HIM! LOOK HOW HAPPY HE IS! I HAVE NEVER SEEN HIM LOOK LIKE THIS IN MY LIFE!”

Kingsley nodded slowly, smiling broadly. “This is wonderful news indeed. The Order needs more hope, and new life is the best hope there is.”

Even the children were absolutely thrilled.

“WHOA!” Harry grinned widely, his eyes sparkling. “I never thought I’d see Professor Snape look that happy! Ever!”

“HE LOOKS LIKE HE COULD BURST!” Ron laughed loudly, forgetting completely he had ever disliked the man. “Bloody hell, he actually looks… nice!”

“THIS IS LEGENDARY!” Fred cheered.

“ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT!” George yelled. “WE ARE GOING TO BE THE BEST UNCLES EVER!”

“I call godmother!” Ginny shouted instantly, raising her hand.

Hermione smiled softly, her heart warm. “This is beautiful. Truly beautiful.”

Even Sirius Black — finally shut up and silenced completely — looked from you to Severus, seeing the pure, overwhelming love shining clearly between you two, seeing how happy Severus was, seeing the fierce way you defended him, and slowly, the arrogance and mockery faded completely from his face. He looked stunned, humbled, and then finally, a genuine, crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“Alright, alright…” Sirius held both hands up in surrender, shaking his head, looking genuinely sorry and impressed. “Okay… I stand corrected. Merlin… I really, truly did not see that coming. You… you really are something else, Y/N. To love him like that, to defend him like that… and carrying his child? I… I apologise. Truly. I was an idiot. I didn’t know. And… honestly? You two look good together. He looks like a completely different man.”

Severus didn’t even look at Sirius. He didn’t care about Sirius anymore. He didn’t care about anything else in the room. He reached out, his hands shaking slightly, and wrapped his arms tight around your waist, pulling you gently but firmly right against him, resting one hand tenderly over yours resting on your stomach, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“You are pregnant?” he whispered against your skin, voice thick and rough with emotion, sounding breathless and incredibly happy. “We are going to have a child?”

“Yes, Sev,” you smiled up at him, reaching up to cup his face gently. “We are going to be a family.”

He closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply, holding you like you were the most precious thing in existence, and when he opened them again, they were filled with nothing but love.

“I love you so much,” he murmured. “More than words can say.”

“I love you too,” you replied softly.

Alicia’s brow shot up. “Never?”

“Not once.” You shrugged like it was obvious, but your cheeks warmed under their scrutiny. “Fred doesn’t care what I wear. He’s…Fred. He’s usually too busy planning how to explode dungbombs in Filch’s office to worry about whether my jumper has a low enough neckline.”

“As if,” Katie scoffed. “Boys are always weird about it at some point.”

“Not him,” you insisted.

Angelina narrowed her eyes, that mischievous spark lighting in them. “Maybe it’s because you don’t wear anything he’d notice.”

You gasped. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on,” Alicia laughed. “You’re hardly parading around in scandalous outfits.”

You threw your pillow at her. “I do too!”

“Not really,” Katie sing-songed, grinning.

You were spluttering for a comeback when Angelina leaned forward, smirk turning downright devilish. “Alright, then. Prove it. Wear something a little…naughty, tomorrow. See what Fred does.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

“Deadly serious,” Katie said, her eyes sparkling. “We’re making this an experiment.”

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Alicia chimed in, clapping her hands together.

“Absolutely not,” you said flatly, trying to bury your burning face in your pillow.

“Yes,” Angelina countered, already buzzing with excitement. “Think of it as…research. For science.”

“Science?” you echoed, incredulous.

“Mm-hm,” she said, utterly serious. “The science of male idiocy. We need to know if Fred is some rare exception to the jealousy rule or if he’s just very, very good at hiding it.”

The chorus of agreement rose around you, their voices overlapping until you groaned.

“Please, you lot are ridiculous—”

“Please?” Katie clasped her hands together dramatically. “Do it for us. Do it for womankind.”

“For womankind?” you repeated, laughing despite yourself.

“Yes,” Angelina said solemnly. “Besides, you’ve already got the perfect test subject. He’s besotted with you, which makes him ideal.”

Your cheeks warmed at the word besotted, though you tried to hide it behind another groan. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Alicia said.

Angelina grinned triumphantly. “So it’s settled, then. Tomorrow, you wear something short. Skirt, dress, doesn’t matter. See what happens.”

You buried your face in your pillow and muffled, “I hate you all.”

Their laughter rang through the common room, bright and victorious, and you knew - even as you sat there swearing up and down you wouldn’t do it - that you were already doomed to cave.

———————————————————————

The next morning, you sat on the edge of your bed with your head in your hands, glaring at the traitorous garment lying across your knees. A skirt. A short one.

Angelina, Katie, and Alicia were sprawled dramatically across the other beds, watching you like a panel of judges.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered.

“You agreed,” Angelina sing-songed.

“You forced me!”

“We encouraged you,” Alicia corrected sweetly, propping her chin on her hand. “There’s a difference.”

Katie grinned. “Oh, this is going to be brilliant. I want front-row seats to Fred’s meltdown.”

“There won’t be a meltdown because nothing is going to happen,” you said firmly, but the way your stomach squirmed as you stood and pulled the skirt into place betrayed your nerves.

It was shorter than you usually wore - just grazing your mid-thigh - and paired with a slouchy jumper, you felt both ridiculous and exposed. You smoothed your hands down the fabric, cheeks hot. “I look stupid.”

Angelina sat up and whistled. “You look hot. Fred’s going to trip over his own feet.”

Your pulse jumped.

The common room was buzzing with early risers when you descended the stairs. Fred was leaning against the back of the sofa, head thrown back in laughter at something George was saying, that familiar freckled grin lighting up his whole face.

You swallowed hard.

“Alright,” you whispered to yourself. “Here goes nothing.”

Fred spotted you almost instantly, grin widening as he pushed off the sofa and came striding toward you. His long legs made it impossible to escape, and before you could even brace yourself, he swooped in and pressed a warm kiss to your cheek.

“Morning, love,” he said brightly, arm looping around your shoulders. He smelled faintly of cinnamon and sugar, like always.

You braced for the comment - for the frown, the teasing, something - but instead, he launched right into a story.

“So George and I were in Zonko’s yesterday, and wait ‘til you hear this! We’ve finally cracked the spell formula for the trick wands. Oh, you’re going to love it—”

And that was it.

He didn’t look twice at your legs. Didn’t even blink. His arm around you was easy and comfortable, and his laugh was so carefree it made you want to scream. By the time you reached the Great Hall for breakfast, you were seething quietly.

That night, you reported back to the girls, sprawled across your blanket fort once more.

“Nothing?” Katie asked, incredulous.

“Not a word?” Alicia echoed, eyes wide.

You shook your head miserably. “Not a single bloody thing. He just told me about joke wands for ten minutes.”

Angelina groaned and flopped back on her pillow. “He’s either completely blind or completely unfazed. And I don’t know which one is worse.”

Katie narrowed her eyes, determination sparking. “Alright. Time to up the stakes.”

You groaned into your pillow. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”

Alicia’s grin spread. “Skirt didn’t do it? Next time…jeans. Tight ones. And a top to match.”

The girls giggled, already plotting, and you couldn’t help but feel the creeping dread in your stomach.

Because if Fred really didn’t care what you wore…what did that mean?

———————————————————————

By the time the next Hogsmeade trip rolled around, you were regretting everything.

Katie had all but shoved the outfit into your arms. Tight, low-rise jeans that clung to your hips in a way that made you blush just looking at them, and a snug, low-cut top that left very little to imagination.

“I can’t wear this in public,” you hissed, staring at yourself in the mirror of the girls’ dorm.

Angelina leaned against the bedpost with her arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. “Yes, you can. And you will. Because this is science.”

“For womankind,” Alicia added solemnly, which made Katie snort.

You groaned and covered your face with your hands, but five minutes later you found yourself tugging your cloak around your shoulders and heading down the stairs, praying the ground would open up and swallow you.

Fred was waiting for you in the common room, hair still damp from a shower, grinning wide the moment he saw you.

“There she is,” he said, bounding over. His eyes flicked down instinctively as you reached him - just for a split second - but you missed it, too busy tugging the hem of your top (which was riding up your stomach) back down.

“Ready?” you asked quickly, desperate to deflect.

“More than ready,” he said easily, slinging an arm over your shoulder as you walked toward the portrait hole. His hand slid down to your waist as you moved through the crowded staircase, fingers pressing just a little firmer when a group of boys shoved past.

Your heart stuttered, but you chalked it up to Fred being Fred - always casual with touch, always without thinking twice.

By the time you reached Honeydukes, he was still his usual self. Joking, laughing, buying you your favorite sweets like he always did. Not a single comment about the outfit. Not even a raised brow.

At one point, as you leaned over the counter to inspect a jar of Fizzing Whizzbees, Fred’s gaze lingered, jaw tightening briefly before he looked away. But you didn’t see.

“Alright,” he said later, as you strolled back up toward the castle with bags of sweets swinging from your hands. “Now be honest. Between you and me, do you reckon George could pull off selling Canary Creams at Slughorn’s dinner party?”

You tripped on a step. “What? Fred, I…are you seriously thinking about pranking Slughorn right now?”

He grinned, utterly unbothered. “Always thinking about pranking Slughorn.”

You gaped at him, exasperated, and that was the moment you knew.

He really didn’t care.

Back in the dorm later that night, the girls were waiting like vultures.

“So?” Katie demanded, practically bouncing on her bed.

“Spill,” Alicia added.

You collapsed onto your pillow with a dramatic groan. “Nothing.”

Angelina sat up so fast her blanket fell to the floor. “Nothing? You were practically falling out of that top.”

“Tell me about it,” you muttered, cheeks heating.

“Unbelievable,” Alicia said, flopping back against her cushions.

Katie narrowed her eyes, wicked grin spreading. “Alright then. If the skirt didn’t work, and the top didn’t work…there’s only one thing left.”

You raised a wary brow. “…What?”

“The LBD,” Angelina said with a flourish, as if the three letters explained everything.

“The what now?” you asked.

They groaned in unison.

“Little. Black. Dress,” Alicia said slowly, as though speaking to a child.

You blinked. “That’s a thing?”

Katie threw a pillow at your head. “Of course it’s a thing! It’s the thing. The ultimate test. No man alive can ignore a girl in a little black dress.”

Angelina smirked, eyes gleaming. “And lucky for you…Gryffindor’s throwing a party next weekend.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” they chorused.

———————————————————————

The dormitory was a war zone of fabric.

Angelina had practically raided her trunk, Alicia had added jewelry to the pile, and Katie was sitting cross-legged on your bed holding up a pair of knee-high boots like they were sacred relics.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered for the hundredth time, glaring at the dress laid out in front of you. Black. Tight. The neckline plunged lower than you’d ever dared. The hemline…well, calling it “modest” would’ve been a straight up lie.

Angelina grinned like a cat. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s indecent,” you shot back.

“It’s science,” Alicia countered with what had become their tagline.

“For womankind,” Katie cheered dramatically.

You groaned into your hands, but twenty minutes later, there you were in front of the mirror. Dress on, boots hugging your thighs, hair tamed just enough to look intentional. Your reflection stared back, wide-eyed and flushed.

“You look…” Angelina tilted her head. “…dangerous.”

“Like a heart attack waiting to happen,” Alicia added approvingly.

Katie wiggled her brows. “Fred’s not going to survive the night.”

The common room was already pulsing with music and laughter by the time you descended the stairs. Red and gold banners hung from the ceiling, butterbeer bottles clinked, and students filled every corner.

But the moment you stepped into view, the air shifted. Heads turned. Conversations stuttered. A whistle cut through the noise.

Your face burned. You kept your chin high, forcing yourself to stride through the crowd until your eyes found the only person you cared about.

Fred.

He was across the room, laughing with George, a butterbeer in hand. But then his gaze landed on you.

For a fraction of a second, his grin slipped. His eyes darkened, flicking down your figure with a heat that made your knees wobble. His hand tightened around the neck of the bottle.

Then, just as quickly, the easy smile returned. He passed the drink to George, wove through the crowd with that infuriatingly confident stride, and slipped an arm around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“There you are,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Come dance with me.”

No comment. No raised brow. Nothing.

On the dance floor, his hand stayed firm at your waist, thumb brushing slow circles against the fabric of your dress. Once, when a Ravenclaw boy’s gaze lingered a bit too long, Fred pulled you closer, his smirk sharpening. But he said nothing.

You felt your frustration boil under your skin. Didn’t he notice? Didn’t he care?

By the time the party had started to wind down, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You tugged Fred toward the stairs, heart pounding. He followed easily, brows lifting in amusement. “What’s this then? Sneaking me away for a midnight snog?”

You whirled on him, arms crossed, trying to mask the twist in your chest. “Why don’t you care what I wear?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “…What?”

“The skirt. The jeans. This dress! I’ve tried everything. And you don’t even blink!” Your voice cracked, equal parts embarrassment and anger. “Everyone else’s boyfriends get jealous or at least say something, but you—”

Fred’s smirk curved, slow and dangerous, as if the pieces had finally clicked. He stepped closer, gaze fixed on yours.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice was low, teasing but warm.

You faltered. “Well, you don’t act like it.”

“That’s because,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your temple before pressing a kiss to your forehead, “you can wear whatever you want, baby. I can protect what’s mine.”

The words sank into you like honey, melting every knot of frustration until your knees felt weak.

When he pulled back, that cocky grin was in place again, but softer now. Tender.

From across the room, the girls - watching unabashedly from their blanket pile - sighed in perfect unison.

And then he kissed you, properly this time, leaving no room for doubt at all.

———————————————————————

Tag list: @vivianette @ellouisa17 @wisp1q @divineani @cattleray @billieeilishkisser @lupinsweater @allielovesstars @starryeddie @adhxmoony @jaredcadillaci

———————————————————————

BONUS SCENE:

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the tower windows, warming the common room in a way that felt almost cruel after last night’s chaos. Empty bottles and crumpled banners littered the floor, evidence of a Gryffindor party well-celebrated.

You shuffled into the girls’ corner still in your pajamas, hair messy, eyes heavy with sleep. But the second you sat down, three sets of eyes locked on you like you were a mouse cornered by kneazles.

“Well?” Katie demanded.

You buried your face in your pillow. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” Alicia gasped, clutching her blanket dramatically. “You basically set the bar for dramatic boyfriend declarations. Protect what’s mine? Merlin’s beard, we nearly fainted.”

Angelina was already grinning like she’d won a bet. “I knew it. I knew he was holding out on us. That boy’s got steel nerves. He noticed from the start.”

You peeked out from behind your pillow, cheeks hot. “He…he really didn’t say anything, though. Until I practically started a fight.”

Katie flopped back on her bed with a sigh. “Because he’s Fred. The man thrives on winding people up. He probably loved every second of watching you spiral.”

“Ugh,” you groaned, but there was no real bite in it. Because they were right. Fred had loved it. You’d seen it in his smirk, in the way his eyes danced when you finally cracked.

Alicia leaned forward, smirking. “So? Be honest. Did the line make you melt?”

You threw your pillow at her. “Shut up.”

Angelina caught it before it hit, tossing it back at you with a cackle. “She melted. Absolutely puddled.”

Katie sighed dreamily, hugging her knees. “Honestly, I don’t blame you. If my boyfriend ever said that to me, I’d swoon on the spot.”

You groaned again, flopping back dramatically against the cushions. “He’s insufferable.”

“Insufferable,” Angelina agreed, smirk tugging at her lips. “And absolutely perfect for you.”

Across the common room, Fred lounged with George near the fire, pretending not to listen but clearly tuned in, his ears just a little too pink to be casual. When your eyes met his, he sent you a shameless wink, mouthing, Told you so.

Your stomach flipped, traitorous and warm, and despite yourself, a smile tugged at your lips.

Your weight was held precariously on the broomstick which rattled beneath you — twisting and turning in every direction possible. The sight of your green robes swooshing this way and that caused the stands of heads to turn in every direction, trying to locate your resisting broomstick that held you, almost dangling.

Even the Ravenclaw team remained on their own broomsticks, transfixed at the sight — not even bothering with the fact that the goalposts were now deserted of protection against the Quaffle, which now floated around aimlessly.

Theodore Nott made his way over to your other side, before you abruptly turned in the other direction. “Careful, bella,” he said, narrowly avoiding being hit by the tail of twigs from the end of your broomstick.

“Make — it — STOP,” you rasped out, struggling to hold on — the broomstick moving even impossibly faster as it continued to rotate.

“Theo, go tell Flint to call time-out!” Mattheo yelled over the increasingly loud gasps coming from the crowd, as he tried to reach for the handle of your broom to hold it still.

Theo nodded, quickly tilting the hilt of his own broomstick towards the Slytherin captain.

Draco Malfoy, who was too preoccupied by your struggle rather than the golden snitch he was supposed to catch, made his way over.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concern — and mild entertainment — laced in his words.

“Oh — yeah — FANTASTIC!” you roared sarcastically, as your broomstick began to rise upwards and descend a few feet rapidly.

The sound of Madam Hooch’s whistle rang throughout the pitch, as Theo made his way back over to the small huddle of team players that had formed around you. Behind him was Blaise Zabini — Adrian Pucey and Marcus Flint behind him a distance away, watching in astonishment.

“How do we make it stop?” Theo asked, as Mattheo was almost knocked off his own broom — the handle of yours colliding with the front of his, sending him spinning.

“Guys!” a voice called from the stands. As you spun, you caught the brief sight of your two other friends who weren’t on the Quidditch team — Pansy Parkinson and Enzo Berkshire.

“Get her off it!” Pansy shrieked out, covering her eyes with the palms of her hands as she thought you were about to plummet to the grounds.

Mattheo and Theo exchanged a silent look with one another, before tilting their brooms downwards. They hovered below where you flew — waiting to catch you if you fell.

“Try a spell or something!” Enzo said, as he began to pull out his own wand, Draco and Blaise following suit.

“Immobulus!” Draco called out. The green sparks that illuminated from the tip of his wand twinkled around the wooden broomstick; he had missed you, as you were moving too fast.

“It’s not working,” he said, growing concerned the more pale your face became with each passing minute of vertigo.

“What is that?” Pansy pointed towards a cloaked figure that stood at the bottom of the pitch, beneath the stands. The figure was staring fixedly at your broomstick, their mouth forming around unheard words.

“Ugh, I’ll be back. Don’t let her fall!” Pansy ordered, before hurriedly making her way through the stands of immobile Slytherins, who stood transfixed at the sight.

Half of your weight was dangling off the broomstick, as you struggled to maintain your balance on the spinning death trap.

The whole stadium was simultaneously drowned in deafening silence and roars of raucous. Many people gasped, others letting out a sob. Hagrid had even covered his eyes from where he stood near the Ravenclaw students.

Your stomach dropped, as you felt yourself free fall. You shut your eyes tightly, bracing for the impact of the hard grounds.

Then, a collective cheer echoed throughout the stands — louder even than when the Quidditch Cup was awarded. You blinked your eyes open, realizing that you hadn’t landed on the muddy ground, yet rather, in someone’s arms.

“I’ve got you,” Mattheo said, as he pulled you onto his own broomstick — Theo holding onto the handle from beside you to ensure that it could support both of your weights.

A sick crunching sound was heard. You looked down, seeing your broomstick, or, what remained of it, as it toppled to the ground.

You stared with your mouth agape, still shaking as you reached to hold onto Mattheo. “You could say I caught you, huh?” he said jokingly, sending a sly wink over his shoulder at you, before heading towards the grounds.

A gleam of gold shining near where your broomstick had landed caught your eye, causing you to gasp.

“Malfoy, the snitch!” you yelled over Mattheo’s shoulder.

You had caught his attention, as well as the attention of Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, and the rest of the stands. Malfoy lurched forward, Chang barrelling towards the snitch from the opposite side of the pitch.

Both teams held their breaths, watching as the two dived towards the remnants of your broomstick. Malfoy fell towards the muddy terrain, rolling for a few meters.

You gasped. You saw a green gloved-hand reach into the air, brandishing a fluttering snitch that fought against his closed fist.

“Malfoy’s caught the snitch. Slytherin wins!” Lee Jordan roared, his own prejudice against the Slytherin team dispersed from the horrors of the match.

The stadium erupted in applause and cheers, as the rest of the team hurdled towards Malfoy on the grounds — your arms still clenched tightly around Mattheo’s mid-section.

“That was brilliant!” Blaise roared, as Theo clapped a hand on Malfoy’s back, earning a wince from him. Enzo made his way over from the stands, followed by the rest of the Slytherin spectators.

“That was-,” he began, before a horrid scream came from behind the stands.

“YOU!” a female voice roared.

Pansy Parkinson came striding onto the field, pulling a sobbing Ravenclaw by the sleeve of her robe behind her.

“This one,” she began, as the girl reluctantly tried to break away from Pansy’s grasp. “Was hexing your broom.”

The girl sobbed, covering her streaming eyes with the sleeves of her robes. “I was t-told t-to. Another boy said h-he would h-hex me if I d-didn’t,” she sobbed.

“Who?” Theo asked angrily, a shared look of fury mirrored on Mattheo’s, Blaise’s, and Draco’s faces from where they’d made their way over to the forming group.

Wordlessly, the sobbing girl pointed to a boy on the Ravenclaw team. Countless heads turned in his direction. You recognized the boy as being in the same year as you — you had even spoken to him on your first train ride to Hogwarts, the two of you anxious about which House you’d be sorted into.

He was already staring at the lot of you, feigning innocent concern. Before you could stop him, Mattheo had stride towards him, pushing him sharply across the shoulders — the boy toppling backwards to the grass of the pitch.

“Don’t-,” you tried to grab Theo’s arm, but he pulled away, following after Mattheo, wand clenched in his hand.

The boy unsteadily tried to push himself back up from the grass, brandishing his wand from the pocket of his Quidditch robes. He was quickly shot back down by Theo’s loud shout of “Expelliarmus!” as he caught the boy’s wand, dropping it to the ground and stomping on it with the heel of his shoe.

A Ravenclaw first-year from the growing crowd on the pitch gasped, covering his eyes with his much too large robes. Many of the Slytherins cheered, encouragements of “Yeah, hex his arse!” spewing about.

Mattheo leaned towards the boy as he laid on the grass, pulling him forwards by the hem of his Quidditch uniform, punching him across the nose harshly.

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” roared an authoritative voice, hurtling towards the crowd that had grown around the three fighting boys. Professor McGonagall had made her way over, Madam Hooch at her side.

“Depulso!” McGonagall roared. The three boys separated from one another — Theo and Mattheo on one side of the group, the Ravenclaw boy, who clutched his bleeding nose, on the other.

“He’s a filthy cheater,” Pansy chimed in.

“That’s enough, Parkinson!” McGonagall said, fury laced in her voice, her top-hat almost falling over her eyes as she shook on the spot with outrage.

“You,” she spoke, pulling the Ravenclaw boy up by his arm, “Go to Madam Pomfrey’s — and 50 points will be taken from Ravenclaw.” The boy quickly hurried away, his head downcast, a trail of blood following him as he left to the sound of whispers.

“And you two,” she spoke, addressing Mattheo and Theo. “25 points each will be taken from Slytherin.”

“Worth it,” Theo whispered, loud enough that only the seven of you could hear. Mattheo silently fist-bumped him.

“And detention,” she continued. She shook her head exasperatedly, before turning her way back towards the empty grounds, mumbles of “honestly,” and “completely unacceptable,” falling from her lips. Madam Hooch followed shortly after her.

“You all right, bella?” Theo asked you, placing an arm around your shoulders.

“I’m fine,” you assured. “My broom isn’t, though,” you pointed towards the remnants of the wooden broom that lay a few feet away.

“You know, that Ravenclaw boy had a pretty nice one..” Mattheo smirked, a glint in his eyes.

“You can’t steal his broom,” Enzo warned.

“Without us,” Draco finished, him, Blaise, and Pansy joining the rest of you.

“That’s not what I meant-,” he started.

“Come on, with any luck, we can hex him before he even makes it to Madam Pomfrey’s,” Pansy said excitedly, breaking into a run across the field towards the castle.

The five of you stared after her.

“Come on!” she looked over her shoulder and signalled for you guys to follow, breaking into a sprint.

Draco smirked, before running after her, his own broomstick clutched in his hand. Mattheo followed with a laugh, Theo reaching for your hand before the two of you sprinted after. Blaise shrugged, before running.

“Bloody hell,” Enzo sighed out, following, too.

© angelicchris

His arms caged you in—biceps flexed and bulging with the effort of holding your thighs spread wide, veins standing out like cords under flushed skin. You were lost in it: the size of him, the way those muscles bunched and released with every snap of his hips, dwarfing your smaller frame. Your hands scrabbled for purchase, nails raking over the hard curve of his left bicep, and then—pure instinct—you twisted your head and bit down.

Hard.

Teeth sank into the swollen peak of muscle, the salt of his sweat exploding across your tongue. Mattheo’s rhythm stuttered; a raw, shocked sound tore from his throat, half-groan, half-roar. His cock jerked inside you, impossibly thicker, and he slammed in to the root with a force that shoved you up the mattress.

“Fuck—” The word cracked like a whip. His grip spasmed, fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he hauled you back down, impaling you again. “Do that again.”

You did. Another savage bite, right beside the first, and he lost it completely. The careful control he’d been clinging to snapped; he manhandled you like a ragdoll, flipping you onto your stomach mid-thrust, yanking your hips up until your knees barely touched the sheets. One massive hand splayed between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat; the other clamped your waist, dragging you back onto his cock with every brutal stroke.

“Bite,” he snarled, voice ragged, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your spine. He shifted his arm—deliberately—until the bitten bicep hovered beside your face, flexing hard enough that the muscle jumped under the fresh teeth marks. “Fucking mark me while I split you open.”

You lunged. Teeth clamped down again, harder, and he roared—hips snapping forward so viciously your vision blurred. The angle was deeper now, cockhead grinding over that spot that made your toes curl, and you came with a muffled scream into his arm. Your cunt spasmed, gushing around him, slick squirting down your thighs in messy pulses.

Mattheo didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He fucked you through it, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. Another bite—your jaw aching, his bicep a constellation of purple crescents—and he shattered. Cock swelling, pulsing, he buried himself deep and spilled in thick, hot ropes, flooding your cunt until it leaked out around his base with every shallow thrust he couldn’t resist.

Your cunt was still pulsing, slick dripping like a faucet, pooling on the soaked sheets beneath you, the obscene squelch of his cock lingering in the air as he finally stilled, chest heaving against your back. He didn’t pull out. Just pressed his forehead to your shoulder blade, breath ragged, and flexed the bitten arm experimentally.

Dean’s eyes met hers, the dark green swimming in them punched the air straight out of her lungs, overcome by the pain he was battling. He forced his eyes away once again, drowning another sip of whisky while nodding at her. But she couldn’t drop it, not when he had accidentally let her in on the flickers of pain clinging to him like a second layer of skin. 

“C’mon, what’s going on, Dean?” She turned towards him, shuffling around to sit sideways, eyes fully focused on Dean. His head rolled back, exposing the throat her lips would find in her dreams, muscles tensing as he inhaled a deep breath of air. (Y/n) didn’t dare move, didn’t dare touch him, even though her heart was begging her to move closer. 

“It’s just one of those evenings, all good, sweetheart.” His rough voice did little to soothe the uneasiness she felt. Her cautious eyes flickered over his face, trying not to get lost in the endless amount of his freckles, of the soft shaping of his plush lips. 

“I don’t believe you.” Dean’s head rolled towards (y/n), he stared at her for a moment before letting go of another deep sigh. She watched his tongue run over his lower lip, teeth nibbling on the soft skin for a moment before he cleared his throat. 

“It’s always too close. Every fucking time you’re on a hunt with me I see myself burning your body. I fail you, every single time, and I’m fucking tired of it.” Her eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, not understanding what he was trying to tell her. 

“You could never fail me, Dean. It’s us against the world, isn’t it? And it will always be like that. I’m going nowhere, not without you.” (Y/n)’s hand found his, she interlocked their fingers while stroking the back of his big hand with her thumb. Neither of them spoke, neither of them managed to give room to what was lingering between them, nothing but a buzz in the air. 

“You will, eventually.” His words made her choke on her breath, hand tightening its grip on his. Before (y/n) could stop herself, she crawled into his lap, almost knocking over the bottle of whisky with her urgent movements. His hands settled on her waist, keeping her pressed to him, all while she cupped his warm cheeks, feeling the stubble of his beard press against her palms. 

“There is no place I’d rather be but at your side, Dean Winchester. Where would I even go without you?” He tried to look away, tried to close his eyes to drown out the truth she was just beginning to share like the wax of a burning candle slowly dripping down its body. 

“You deserve an out, and if it comes around, I hope you’ll take it.” Her lips found his before another word could leave him. Tears had begun to drip from her eyes, letting the salty taste linger on their lips as the slow kiss kept them close together. Dean pulled away first, forehead pressed against hers, “This is fucking stupid, sweetheart.”

“If this is stupid then I don’t ever want to feel another thing ever again.” Dean kissed her again. A groan rumbled through him at the touch, which was no longer as soft but grew hungrier as he pulled her further against him, letting her hips roll against his. Both their hearts were racing, but not from the adrenaline still lingering in their systems, nor from the buzz of the whisky they were all too used to, but from the new sensations crashing upon them like a sudden thunderstorm hitting them. 

“Shit, are you sure about this, (y/n)?” His voice dripped with something almost primal, a strong undertone she hadn’t ever heard from him before. With goosebumps rising on her body, she let go of a breathy “yes”, letting it linger for a moment before rolling her hips again. Dean pushed her onto the bed with a few strong movements, letting her get comfortable on the mattress before he started to work on her jeans. 

The fabric found rest on the floor, first the jeans, then her shirt, then his, until eventually both were only left in their underwear. Chest to chest, heart to heart. Dean’s movements were skilled, experienced, not as shaky as the ones she was used to from men she met whenever they were on a hunt and Dean found another body to pass some time with. He rid her of her bra, lips almost instantly finding her chest to suck on the warm skin, undoubtedly leaving marks. 

“Dean,” (y/n) raised her hips, needing to feel him pressed against her as she arched her back. The chuckle he let go of was raspy, filling the room like a song made to lure them into one’s trap, keeping them close until time would eventually run out. He lowered himself onto her, shifting his weight to his arms and knees while exploring her breasts. 

“What do you need, baby?” The new nickname pushed heat through her body, her hands found his to pull him back in for another kiss while her legs found their way around his waist. Without breaking the kiss, (y/n) flipped them around, back to straddling his lap with her middle pressed against his hard cock. Both groaned at the touch, a sound which only grew stronger as she began to rub herself against him, letting her hips roll again and again. “Fuck, if you keep that up, I’ll come in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

“I didn’t think you were that easy, Winchester.” Her teasing words made his hand snap out, finding her throat to keep a tight grasp on her. With her breath hitched in her chest, (y/n) stared down at a smirking Dean, he had his eyebrows raised as if he was challenging her to say another word, to tease him some more before he’d show her how to fall over the edge with him buried deep inside of her. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll fuck that attitude right out of you.” She didn’t get a chance to reply, found herself pushed onto her back once again with him hovering over her. All (y/n) could do was watch Dean free his hard cock, the tip flushed and covered in precum, and roll a condom down his length. “Ready?”

With nothing but a nod thrown his way, (y/n) allowed Dean to push into her. Both let go of a shaky breath, bodies clinging to one another to adjust. He gave her a moment, let his head find the crook of her neck to litter her skin with kisses before he began to move, fucking her against the mattress with calculated rolls of his hips. 

Moans, curses, and heavy breaths left them as Dean kept fucking her, burying himself inside of her with every thrust, all while her legs had a tight grasp on his middle. It felt slow, and yet fast enough to leave their hearts racing, not set on hurrying a moment this intimate and new. Dean’s hand found hers, he pressed it against the pillow as if he was trying to ground himself, needing to remind himself that this wasn’t just another dream he’d eventually be ripped from. 

“You feel so fucking perfect, shit, baby.” Her walls tightened around him, unable to reply with any words she could no longer string together. (Y/n)’s mind was trapped, unable to work on its own as he guided her further towards the edge with every thrust. 

It felt as if she was burning, body being hit by electricity over and over again, knowing that her climax was about to hit. Dean began to move faster, hips snapping against hers to push her into her orgasm before he would cum first. She rubbed her bundle of nerves, and came with a call of his name, body arched against his while drowning in the intense sensation.

Dean kept fucking into her, not daring to stop while looking down at her, watching (y/n) breathe through her orgasm. And then he came, head hanging low, eyes squeezed shut to cling to the relief flushing through him like a wave washing all his pent up frustration from him. 

“Are you okay?” He mumbled the words against her lips, chasing them for another kiss before slowly pulling from her. Dean found his place next to her on the bed moments later, with (y/n) pressed to his chest and her fingers tracing shapes on his warm skin. 

“Bet I can make her come more times than you,” Mattheo said, voice a low growl, like he was staking a claim. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot, reeking of whisky and mint, making your skin prickle. “What do you think, princess? Wanna see who fucks you better?”

Theo’s laugh was a velvet rasp, his legs spread wide, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I’ll have you screaming my name before he even gets you wet. You’ll be begging for my cock, tesoro, trust me.” His accent curled around the words, thick with promise, his fingers flexing like he was already imagining you under him.

Your breath hitched, cunt already throbbing, soaking through your panties at the torment you've already endured from the pair tonight, slow whispers against your ear, calloused hands roaming your thighs. You should’ve backed out, laughed it off, but their eyes—Mattheo’s warmth, Theo’s teasing—had you hooked, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Prove it,” you whispered, voice shaky but defiant, and their grins widened, feral and dangerous.

Mattheo’s hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you up with a possessive tug. Theo was already moving, tossing his wand aside with a clatter, his long strides matching Mattheo’s as they dragged you through the dungeon’s winding corridors. Their hands were everywhere—Mattheo’s gripping your arm, bruising, Theo’s on your lower back, fingers grazing the curve of your ass, sending heat pooling low. The dorm door slammed shut, the heavy oak rattling the stone walls, locked with a wandless spell that echoed like a gunshot. The room was a cave of shadows, green lanterns casting an eerie glow, the air cool and sharp, smelling faintly of old books and their mingled scents, all undercut with the faint metallic tang of post-match adrenaline.

Mattheo didn’t wait. He shoved you against the nearest four-poster, the carved wood biting into your hips, his body pinning you, hard and unyielding. “Having regrets yet?” he growled with no intention of letting you answer, lips crashing into yours, all teeth and desperation, his tongue claiming you, tasting of smoke and sin. His hands tore at your shirt, buttons popping like tiny explosions, scattering across the floor. Theo was behind you, his deft fingers unhooking your bra, letting it fall as his lips grazed your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin. “Cazzo, you’re fucking perfect,” he murmured, his breath hot and damp, nipping until you whimpered.

You were caught in their heat, drowning in it—Mattheo’s raw intensity, Theo’s calculated seduction. They stripped you bare in seconds, skirt yanked down, panties ripped off, the fabric tearing with a sharp rip that made you gasp. Your skin was alive with sensation—the cool silk sheets under your knees as they pushed you onto the bed, the rough calluses of Mattheo’s hands, the soft brush of Theo’s fingers. You were trembling, cunt dripping, the air thick with the musky scent of your arousal, mingling with their sweat and cologne.

Mattheo climbed over you, knees spreading your thighs, his eyes locked on your slick folds. “Fuck, look at that, so fucking wet already,” he said, voice hoarse, his fingers sliding through your folds, the wet squelch loud, obscene, filling the room. “You’re dripping for us, barely touched you yet.” Theo knelt beside your head, his cock already out, hard and curving, pre-cum beading at the tip. “Open that pretty mouth, dolcezza,” he purred, voice like silk, “let’s see how much you can take.”

“First one’s mine,” Mattheo snapped, smirking at Theo as he plunged two fingers into your cunt without warning, stretching you so fast you cried out, the burn raw and overwhelming. His knuckles grazed your walls, curling hard against your G-spot, his thumb grinding your clit in brutal circles. The wet slaps of his fingers fucking you echoed, your slick coating his hand, dripping onto the sheets. Theo’s hand tangled in your hair, guiding your lips to his cock, the taste salty, musky, as he pushed past your lips, hitting the back of your throat. “That’s it, baby, let go,” he coaxed, voice low, “choke on me, show us how good you are.”

The first orgasm hit like a tidal wave, your cunt clamping down on Mattheo’s fingers, a scream muffled around Theo’s cock as your body bucked, slick spraying onto Mattheo’s wrist, the sheets. “Fuck, yes, soak my hand,” Mattheo groaned, not slowing, his fingers pumping through your spasms, dragging out every pulse. “One,” he counted, voice smug, his free hand slapping your inner thigh, the sting blooming hot.

Theo didn’t give you a second to breathe. He pulled out, letting you gasp, only to replace his cock with his fingers, forcing you to taste your own slick as he slid them into your mouth. “Suck.” he ordered, his other hand pinching your nipple, twisting until you yelped. Meanwhile, Mattheo’s mouth descended, his tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit, sucking hard, the wet slurping sounds mixing with your choked moans. “So fucking sweet, still pulsing for me,” he muttered against you, the vibrations sending shocks through your core. “Come on, baby, give us another.”

Your body was screaming, nerves frayed, but the pleasure was relentless. Theo’s fingers fucked your mouth, his thumb smearing your spit across your lips, while Mattheo’s tongue flicked mercilessly, his fingers sliding back in, three this time, stretching you to the point of pain. The second orgasm tore through you, your walls spasming, your thighs shaking as you screamed around Theo’s fingers, slick gushing again, pooling under you. “Two,” Theo purred, licking his fingers clean, his eyes never leaving your flushed, tear-streaked face.

They didn’t stop. Mattheo was on you now, flipping you onto your knees, the bed creaking under his weight. “Gonna fuck you till you’re dumb,” he growled, his cock slamming into your sensitive cunt, the stretch burning, his girth filling you so completely your breath caught and your toes curled. His thrusts were brutal, hips slamming into your ass, the wet slap of skin on skin ringing out, your slick coating his thighs. Theo was in front, fisting your hair hard, guiding his cock back to your mouth. “Suck me good, doll, let’s see that throat work,” he said, thrusting deep, your gag reflex kicking in as spit dribbled down your chin.

“Who’s fucking you better, baby?” Mattheo taunted, his thrusts punishing, each one driving his cock deeper, hitting your cervix, making your body jolt. “Mmmngh—Matt—fuck!” you babbled, voice breaking, your walls clamping down hard, spasming around his length as another orgasm ripped through you, your nails scrabbling at Theo’s thighs, desperate to hold on. Slick sprayed, soaking the sheets, your body trembling uncontrollably. “Yeaahh, that’s it, makin’ a fucking mess on my cock, aren’t you?” Mattheo groaned, his hips stuttering, your pussy gripping him like a vice. “Three.”

You were a wreck, oversensitive, nerves screaming, but they didn’t care. “Can’t—please, too much,” you sobbed, words slurred, spit pooling on the sheets as Theo pulled out, stroking himself, his eyes dark with lust. “Too much?” Theo mocked, gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him, his thumb smearing your tears. “We've barely started.” Mattheo spanked you, hard, the sting sharp, blooming across your ass. “Keep coming, baby, let go for us,” he growled, his cock relentless, dragging another orgasm from you, your body convulsing, vision blurring as you screamed, “Four.”

They repositioned you, your limbs like jelly, barely able to hold yourself up. Theo took Mattheo’s place now, pulling you to straddle Mattheo, who lay back, his cock sliding into your dripping cunt with a wet squelch, the burn making you whimper. Theo was behind, lubing himself with a wandless spell, his fingers teasing your ass, cold and slick, before he pushed in, slow but unforgiving. The dual stretch was unbearable—two cocks filling you, splitting you open, the burn, the sensitivity and pleasure blurring into a single, overwhelming pulse. “So fucking tight back here, fuck,” Theo grunted, his voice strained, his hands digging into your hips. “Relax, baby, let us both have you.”

They moved together, Mattheo’s hips snapping up, Theo’s thrusting deep, their cocks dragging against your walls, filling you completely. The room was a symphony of filth: the wet, rhythmic slaps of their thrusts, your broken sobs—“Oh god, can’t, please, fuck, I’m done”—their grunts, Theo’s Italian curses, Mattheo’s filthy encouragements. “Take it, you can take it,” Mattheo murmured, his thumb circling your clit, sparking another orgasm, your body shaking, cunt and ass clenching around them, juices gushing down your thighs. “Five,” they growled together, their voices raw.

You were gone, fucked-out, babbling nonsense—“No more, fuck, can’t take it, please, oh god, can't — again”—your body betraying you, orgasms crashing one after another, six, seven, eight, you couldn’t count, each one tearing through you, leaving you trembling, tears streaming, drool pooling, your mind a haze of pleasure and pain, so close to the edge of blacking out. “Look at her, Mattheo, fucking ruined,” Theo rasped, his cock twitching as your ass clamped down, another climax making you shudder. “Good girl, so fucking tight,” Mattheo groaned, his fingers slick with your release, his hips faltering as your pussy milked him.

They didn’t stop, pushing you past reason, your body a trembling, oversensitive mess. “One more, baby, give us one more,” Theo growled, spanking you again, the sting sharp, your cunt spasming as another orgasm hit, your screams silent now, throat raw. “Nine,” Mattheo counted, his voice breaking as he thrust up, spilling into you, hot and thick. Theo followed, his cum flooding your ass, his groans vibrating through you as your body shook, another climax—ten, maybe more—leaving you limp, barely conscious. Cum and arousal leaked around both of their shafts, both snapping their hips a few more times in a symphony of moans.

They slowed, finally, your body boneless between them, their cum dripping from you, mixing with your slick, soaking the sheets. The air was heavy with sex—sweat, musk, the sharp scent of your release, their cologne. Mattheo pulled out first, his hands gentle now, conjuring a warm, damp cloth to clean you, the softness a stark contrast to his earlier brutality. Theo eased you onto his chest, his lips brushing your forehead, whispering, “Brava, amore, so fucking perfect.” Mattheo tucked a blanket around you, his fingers brushing your hair, murmuring, “Took us like a fucking champ, princess.”

The Slytherin common room was shrouded in the perpetual gloom of the Black Lake's underwater glow, casting eerie green shadows. It was late, well past curfew, the fireside reduced to embers that barely warmed the chill air. She, a fifth-year Slytherin with sharp wit and sharper ambitions, lounged on a velvet armchair, her emerald robes discarded in favor of a simple black slip that clung to her curves. She flipped through a potions textbook, but her mind wandered to the two boys who occupied far too much of her thoughts.

Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott. Both pure-blood heirs, both devastatingly handsome in their own ways—Draco with his platinum hair and aristocratic sneer, Theo with his brooding intensity and tousled dark locks. She had fallen into a friends-with-benefits arrangements with each separately over the past year. Draco's encounters were all fire and possession, his hands claiming her body like it was his birthright. Theo's were slower, more deliberate, his touches unraveling her with a quiet hunger that left her breathless. They knew about each other—Slytherins thrived on secrets, after all—but an unspoken rule kept their paths from crossing: her time with one never overlapped with the other. It worked, mostly.

Tonight, though, fate—or perhaps the devilish luck of Slytherin—had other plans. The heavy door to the boys' dormitory creaked open, and Draco strode in first, his tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He spotted her immediately, a predatory smile curling his lips. "Hey," he says, voice low and laced with intent. "Fancy finding you here alone."

Before she could respond, another figure emerged from the shadows near the stairs—Theo, his prefect badge glinting faintly, eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. "Malfoy," Theo said flatly, his gaze shifting to her. "Didn't realize you had dibs tonight."

Her heart stutters. She sat up straighter, crossing her legs to hide the sudden flush creeping up her thighs. "Boys," she said coolly, though her pulse raced. "This isn't a queue."

Draco's eyes flicked to Theo, a spark of rivalry igniting. "She's not your property, Nott. I was here first."

Theo stepped closer, his tall frame casting a long shadow. "And? She's not yours either. We've kept this civil so far."

The air thickened with tension, the kind that could snap into a hex or something far more heated. She watched them, a thrill uncoiling in her belly. She'd fantasized about this—both of them, together, their egos clashing over her body. But saying it aloud? That was a risk even for a Slytherin.

"Why fight?" she interjected, her voice steady despite the heat building between her legs. "You both want the same thing. Me." She uncrossed her legs deliberately, letting the slip ride up her thigh. Their eyes followed the movement, Draco's jaw tightening, Theo's breath hitching.

Draco recovered first, a smirk returning. "Share? With Nott? I'd sooner hex myself."

But Theo's gaze lingered on her, dark and considering. "She's right. No point in arguing. Unless..." He trailed off, a sly glint in his eye mirroring Draco's ambition.

"Unless what?" Draco demanded.

"We make it interesting. A competition. Whoever makes her cum the most wins. Loser backs off for a month." Theo's words hung in the air, bold and challenging.

Her stomach clenched at the idea. "And if I say no?"

Draco knelt before her, his hand sliding up her calf, fingers tracing the sensitive skin behind her knee. "You won't. Admit it—you've thought about this."

She had. Of course she had. Theo moved to her other side, his fingers brushing her hair from her shoulder, lips grazing her ear. "Say yes. Let us show you what the two of us can do."

Her resolve crumbled under their touches. "Fine. But my rules: safe words. 'Serpent' to stop. And you take turns—no ganging up unless I say."

They nodded, the agreement sealed with a shared, hungry look. Draco stood, offering his hand. "My room. Now."

Draco's dormitory was all dark wood and silver accents, the four-poster bed dominating the space. She entered first, the door clicking shut behind Theo. The air hummed with anticipation. She turned to face them, slipping the straps of her nightdress down her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. Naked now, her skin prickled under their stares—Draco's appreciative and possessive, Theo's intense and appraising.

"Beautiful," Theo murmured, stepping forward to trace the curve of her hip.

Draco shoved him aside lightly. "My turn first. Rules are rules." He guided her to the bed, laying her back against the cool sheets. His mouth crashed onto hers, tongue demanding entry, hands roaming her body. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they pebbled hard. She arched into him, moaning into the kiss as he pinched one peak, rolling it between his fingers.

Theo watched from the edge of the bed, his cock straining against his trousers, but he held back, eyes locked on where Draco's hand dipped between her thighs. Draco spread her legs wide, exposing her slick pussy to the room. "Already wet for me," he taunted, glancing at Theo. "Let's see how long she lasts."

He lowered his head, breath hot against her folds before his tongue flicked out, lapping at her clit. She gasps, fingers tangling in his blond hair. Draco ate her out with fervor, sucking her clit into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to sting. Two fingers plunged inside her, curling to hit that spot that made her vision blur. He pumped them relentlessly, his free hand holding her thigh down as she bucked.

"That's it," Draco growled against her skin. "Cum on my tongue. Show Nott how good I make you feel."

The pressure built fast, her walls fluttering around his fingers. She cried out, orgasm ripping through her, slick coating his chin as she shuddered. Draco licked her clean, smug as he pulled back. "One for me."

She panted, body still tingling, but Theo was already there, stripping off his shirt to reveal toned muscles scarred from Quidditch. "My turn." He flipped her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up so her ass presented to him. His hands kneaded her cheeks, spreading them to expose her fully. "Such a pretty pussy. Dripping from him already."

He didn't tease; Theo dove in, tongue thrusting into her entrance, fucking her with it while his thumb circled her clit. She moaned into the pillow, pushing back against his face. He added fingers, three now, stretching her wider than Draco had, scissoring to rub her inner walls. His other hand reached around to tweak her nipple, pulling until she whimpered.

"Come on, baby," Theo urged, voice muffled. "Give me one. Let me taste it."

She shattered again, faster this time, her pussy clenching hard around his tongue as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Theo hummed in approval, lapping up her release before withdrawing. "One for me. Tied."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Not for long." He undressed swiftly, his cock springing free—long and pale, veined and curving slightly. He positioned her on her back again, hooking her legs over his shoulders. "Watch this, Nott." With one thrust, he buried himself inside her, groaning at the tight heat.

She whines, the fullness overwhelming after the oral. Draco set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward, cock dragging against her sensitive spots. He leaned down, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard while his hand wrapped around her throat—not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of control. "Feel that? My cock owning this pussy."

She clawed at his back, nails leaving red trails, the edge building anew. Theo stroked himself slowly, mesmerized by the sight of Draco pounding into her, her breasts bouncing with each thrust. She came hard, walls milking Draco's length, but he didn't stop, fucking her through it until she sobbed from the overstimulation.

"Two," Draco panted, pulling out just before he lost control. His cock glistened with her arousal.

Theo wasted no time, flipping her onto all fours facing him. He shed his pants, his cock thicker than Draco's, with a slight upward curve. "My go." He rubbed the head along her slit, teasing her entrance before slamming in. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream, the stretch burning sweetly.

Theo gripped her hips, thrusting deep and slow at first, grinding against her clit with each roll. Then he sped up, one hand sliding to rub circles on her swollen nub. "Look at me," he commanded. She did, eyes locking as he fucked her relentlessly. His free hand pinched her clit, the sharp sensation pushing her over.

She came with a wail, pussy spasming, squirting a little onto his thighs. Theo growled, holding her steady. "Two. Still tied."

The competition intensified. Draco claimed the next round, sitting on the bed and pulling her onto his lap, facing away. He guided her down onto his cock reverse cowgirl, hands on her ass as she rode him. "Bounce, darling. Harder." She did, slamming down, his length hitting deep. He reached around to finger her clit, the dual penetration from his cock and fingers sending her spiraling. Her orgasm hit her like lightning, her cries echoing off the stone walls.

"Three for me," Draco announced, voice strained.

Theo took over seamlessly, laying her on her side and lifting one leg high. He entered her from behind, spooning close, his cock stroking her g-spot with precision. His hand snaked around to play with her breasts, twisting nipples while he whispered filthy encouragements. "Cum again. Soak my cock." She did, body convulsing, tying it at three.

Sweat slicked their skin, the room filled with the sounds of flesh slapping and her moans. She was a mess—hair tangled, lips swollen, pussy aching but craving more. The boys switched again, Draco eating her out while Theo fucked her mouth. She sucked Theo eagerly, tongue swirling around his head, hollowing her cheeks as he thrust shallowly.

Draco's tongue worked her clit, fingers inside, and she came around them, the vibration of her moan making Theo groan. But he pulled out before finishing. "Four for me."

Theo retaliated by bending her over the bed, ass up, and spanking her lightly before plunging in. He fucked her hard, hand fisting her hair, pulling her head back. "Scream for me." She did, orgasm ripping through as his cock pulsed inside her.

"Four."

The turns blurred—Draco using a vibrating charm on a silver ring from his wand, sliding it onto his finger to buzz against her clit while he thrust; Theo binding her wrists with a soft silk tie, teasing her with feather-light touches before ravaging her. She lost count, each one more intense, her body trembling from the onslaught.

By the tenth—five each—they were all fraying. Draco had her on her back, legs spread wide, cock driving deep while Theo knelt by her head, feeding her his length. She gagged slightly as Theo hit the back of her throat, but the fullness from both ends pushed her to cum again, pussy clenching Draco.

"Wait," Draco gasped, pulling out. "Tie at six? No—wait, that's seven for me if she..."

She came untouched from the intensity, slick dripping. Theo laughed breathlessly. "Call it even. Or keep going."

Her voice hoarse, managed, "Together. Both of you. Now."

They didn't argue. Theo lay back, pulling her on top, impaling her on his cock. Draco positioned behind, slicking himself with her arousal before pressing against her ass. "Relax," he murmured, inching in. The double penetration stretched her impossibly, pain-pleasure blurring as they filled her.

They moved in tandem, Theo thrusting up into her pussy, Draco grinding into her ass. Hands everywhere—Draco's on her breasts, squeezing and slapping lightly; Theo's on her clit, rubbing furiously. She was lost, sensations overwhelming, orgasms chaining one after another until she couldn't distinguish them.

"Fuck—!" Draco came first, spilling hot inside her ass, the clench triggering Theo. He followed, flooding her pussy, their releases mixing as she shattered between them.

They collapsed in a tangle, breaths ragged, bodies spent. No winner declared—the competition forgotten in the haze of satisfaction. She lay between them, sated and sore, a sly smile on her lips. "Best night ever. Rematch?"

Draco chuckled, kissing her shoulder. "You're on."

Theo nuzzled her neck. "As long as we share."

He lounged on the plush velvet armchair by the fire, one leg slung lazily over the armrest, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The glow of the flames danced across his tanned skin, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the messy curls that fell into his eyes. He was watching you now, his gaze intense, a slow smirk tugging at his lips as he set his wine glass down with a deliberate clink.

“C’mere,” he said, his voice low and husky, carrying that familiar edge of command that sent a shiver down your spine. He patted his thigh, the motion casual but loaded with intent. “Now, love.”

You smirked, tossing the towel onto the counter, your bare feet padding across the cool hardwood floor. “So demanding,” you teased, but the heat in his gaze pulled you in like gravity. When you reached him, his hands were on you in an instant, strong fingers curling around your hips as he tugged you down onto his lap. You landed with a soft gasp, straddling his thighs, your knees sinking into the chair’s plush cushions. His grip tightened, possessive, grounding you against him as his lips curved into a wicked grin.

“This fucking tank top,” he growled, his voice rough with accusation, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the hem of the fabric. “You’ve been torturing me all night, you know that? Sitting there, looking like this, in front of my mates.” His eyes dropped to your chest, where the thin cotton hugged the swell of your breasts, the faint outline of your nipples just visible in the firelight. His pupils dilated, swallowing the warm brown of his irises.

You laughed, the sound catching in your throat as his hands moved higher, cupping you gently through the fabric, his thumbs grazing with a reverence that made your pulse race. “It’s just a top, Matty,” you murmured, threading your fingers through his curls, soft and slightly damp from the warmth of the room. You gave a gentle tug, and he groaned, his head tipping back slightly, throat bobbing.

“Just a top,” he mocked softly, his smirk devilish. “You’ve no idea the state you’ve put me in.” His hands slipped beneath the tank top, calloused palms warm against your skin as they slid up, lifting the fabric. He didn’t bother pulling it off entirely—just bunched it above your chest, exposing you to his gaze. The cool air hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his stare, dark and ravenous.

“Merlin, look at you,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe. His hands cupped your breasts, fingers tracing their curves with a tenderness that bordered on worship. “So fucking perfect.” He leaned forward, his lips brushing the soft skin at the swell of one breast, and then his mouth closed over you, warm and wet, a slow, deliberate lap of his tongue that made you gasp. The sensation was electric, sending a jolt straight to your core, your hips shifting against his lap.

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your skin as he sucked gently, his tongue swirling over your nipple with a devotion that made your head spin. “I love these,” he mumbled, his words muffled against your flesh, lips moving against the sensitive peak. “So soft… so fucking perfect.” His voice was low, almost incoherent, as he lapped again, slow and teasing, his stubble grazing your skin, adding a delicious friction. He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your damp skin. “Could stay here forever, just like this, tasting you.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging harder, and he moaned, the sound raw and desperate, as he switched to your other breast, his tongue flicking before he sucked again, deeper this time. The wet heat of his mouth, the way his lips closed around you, sent waves of pleasure through you, your body arching into him. “Mattheo,” you whimpered, your voice trembling, and he growled softly, his teeth grazing ever so slightly, just enough to make you squirm.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he rasped, his words slurred around your skin, his lips never fully leaving you. “Love how you feel… love how you taste.” His hands roamed, one staying at your chest, thumb teasing the now-wet peak he’d left behind, while the other slid to your lower back, pressing you closer. You could feel him, hard and straining beneath you, the evidence of his desire only amplifying the heat pooling in your core.

He pulled back for a moment, his lips shiny, eyes hooded as he looked up at you. “You’re my everything,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, rough with need. “I love you so fucking much.” Before you could respond, his mouth was on you again, kissing, lapping, sucking with a fervor that was both tender and insatiable. His hands gripped you tighter, like he couldn’t get close enough, like he wanted to consume you entirely.

You rocked against him, the friction of your hips against his drawing a low groan from his throat, his lips faltering for just a moment before he dove back in, mumbling against your skin, “Can’t get enough… never enough.” The fire crackled behind you, its warmth a faint echo of the heat between you, the air thick with the scent of cedar, wine, and the raw intimacy of the moment.

Mattheo Riddle

The Astronomy Tower was your sanctuary, high above the clamour of Hogwarts' corridors, where the night sky stretched like an endless black canvas pricked with stars. You had slipped away after curfew, careful of prefect patrols and Filch's watchful eye as you climbed to the top, where the cool autumn wind tugged at your robes.

Mattheo had promised to meet you here, but he was late, as usual. Probably detained by some late-night plotting with the other Slytherin boys, no doubt, but you didn't mind. The solitude gave you time to lean against the stone parapet, tracing constellations with your fingertip in the chill air.

The tower door creaked open below, and you turned, expecting his familiar silhouette, all sharp angles and shadowed intensity.

But the footsteps were heavier, more deliberate, and when Silvanus Fredericks emerged from the spiral staircase, your stomach twisted.

He was a seventh-year Hufflepuff, broad-shouldered and perpetually rumpled, with a mop of sandy hair that fell into his eyes. You'd known him since third year, when he'd started lingering after Potions, offering to carry your books or explain the finer points of brewing Fluxweed. You'd taken it as kindness, nothing more. Hufflepuffs were like that, weren't they? Always ready with a hand. But then you'd started seeing Mattheo, and Silvanus's friendliness had soured into something sharper.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, straightening up, your hand instinctively dropping to your wand in your pocket. The wind carried the faint scent of the lake below, damp and earthy.

Silvanus stopped a few paces away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his yellow-trimmed robes. His face was flushed, whether from the climb or something else, you couldn't tell. "Waiting for Riddle? Always the dramatic spot for your little trysts." His voice was low, laced with that bitterness you'd heard creeping in over the last year.

You crossed your arms, the stone biting into your back as you edged toward the parapet. "That's none of your business, Silvanus. If you're here to lecture me again, save it. I told you last time-"

"Last time," he cut in, stepping closer, his boots scraping against the worn floorboards. "Yeah, when you laughed in my face. After everything I did for you. Carried your damn cauldron when it overflowed in fifth year, stayed up half the night helping you revise for OWLs. And what do I get? You run off with that psycho Slytherin who hexes Gryffindors for fun."

You felt a flicker of irritation, hot and familiar. "I never asked for your help. You offered. And Mattheo's not-" You stopped yourself.

Defending Mattheo to Silvanus was pointless; the boy had made up his mind months ago, ever since he'd cornered you in the library and spat out that you should dump Mattheo before he "ruined you." Mattheo had overheard, of course. The fight in the courtyard had been brutal. Fists, not wands, because Mattheo knew the professors were tracking hexes. Silvanus had limped for weeks, his nose crooked even after Madam Pomfrey fixed it.

"You used me," Silvanus said now, his voice rising, echoing off the tower walls. He pulled his hands from his pockets, fists clenched. "Admit it. All those smiles, the way you'd touch my arm when I explained something. You knew what it meant. And then you pick him? The Dark Lord's son?" He spat the words like they were poison, advancing another step. The stars above seemed to wheel lazily, indifferent.

"I didn't use you," you snapped, your heart picking up speed. The door to the stairs was behind him now, and the tower felt smaller, the wind sharper. "You were a friend. That's it. If you're this twisted up about it, that's on you."

His laugh was short, ugly. "Friend. Right. And now you're waiting up here like some lovesick fool, hoping he'll show. He won't change, you know. He'll drag you down with him...curses, detentions, worse. I tried to warn you." His eyes narrowed, the flush deepening to red. "Dump him. Before it's too late."

You shook your head, backing up until your heels hit the parapet's low wall. The drop below was dizzying, a sheer plunge to the castle grounds. "I'm not dumping anyone. Leave, Silvanus. This isn't-"

He lunged before you could finish, his hand clamping around your wrist like a vice. "You owe me," he growled, yanking you forward. His breath was hot against your face, smelling of firewhiskey and resentment. "All those times. I could've had anyone, but I wasted it on you."

"Let go!" You twisted, trying to wrench free, but he was stronger, his build all muscle. Panic clawed up your throat as he shoved you backward. Your shoulders hit the stone floor hard, the impact jarring through your spine.

Before you could scramble up, he was on you, his weight pinning you down. His knees straddled your hips, and one hand clamped around your throat, not hard enough to choke yet, but enough to hold you in place. You gasped, your hands flying up to claw at his arm, nails digging into his skin.

"Silvanus, stop," you rasped, fear creeping into your voice. The stars above blurred as panic set in. You twisted beneath him, but he leaned down, his breath hot against your ear.

"Let's see how Riddle likes it, when something he has is taken from him," he whispered, his voice low and ragged. His face brushed against your neck, the stubble on his cheek scraping your skin. You froze, every muscle tensing as his lips pressed against your collarbone, sucking lightly at first, then harder, leaving a wet trail up to your jaw.

"Get off," you said again, your voice breaking. You bucked your hips, trying to throw him off, but he tightened his grip on your throat, making it harder to breathe. Stars danced in your vision, not the ones in the sky.

"I should just take what I'm owed," he murmured, his free hand sliding down your side, fingers digging into your hip. He grabbed the hem of your skirt, yanking it up roughly. Fabric tore with a sharp rip, the sound echoing in the quiet tower. Cold air hit your exposed thigh, and his hand crept higher, brushing against your skin in a way that made your stomach churn.

"No," you choked out, terror flooding you. You thrashed harder, your heart pounding in your ears. His fingers inched closer, invasive and unwanted, pressing against the edge of your underwear. You could feel his breath quickening, his body shifting as he leaned in more.

Desperation surged through you. You drew your knee up sharply, aiming for his groin. It connected with a solid thud, and he grunted in pain, his hold loosening just enough. You shoved with all your strength, rolling him off you. He tumbled to the side, clutching himself, his face twisted in agony.

He toppled sideways, cursing, and you scrambled up, skirt hanging in tatters, legs shaking as you bolted for the stairs. Your wand was still in your pocket, forgotten in the scramble, but there was no time—his footsteps pounded behind you, heavy and furious. "You bitch—get back here!"

The spiral staircase blurred as you descended, robes flapping, heart slamming against your ribs.

One flight.

Two flights.

The stone steps were slick under your shoes. You could hear him gaining, his laboured breaths echoing. At the next landing, you risked a glance back: his face was a mask of fury, eyes wild. You pushed harder, lungs burning, and burst through the heavy oak door at the bottom, right into a solid chest.

Strong hands caught your arms, steadying you as you stumbled. Mattheo. His dark curls were windswept, tie loose, but his brown eyes sharpened instantly at the sight of you, dishevelled, skirt ripped, neck already blooming with red fingerprints and marks.

"What the fuck-" His gaze flicked past you, and the air shifted, crackling with something dangerous. Silvanus skidded to a halt at the door, chest heaving.

Mattheo's arm snaked around your waist, pulling you behind him in one fluid motion. You pressed against his back, the familiar scent of smoke and sandalwood grounding you even as your knees threatened to buckle.

"You," Mattheo said, voice low and lethal, like the hiss of a curse uncoiling. He didn't draw his wand. Didn't need to. His stance widened, shoulders squaring like a predator scenting blood.

Silvanus faltered, wiping sweat from his brow, but his chin lifted in defiance. "Stay out of this, Riddle. This is between me and her."

Mattheo's laugh was a dark, mirthless thing, echoing in the narrow corridor. "Between you and my girl? That's a bold fucking lie." He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, forcing Silvanus back a pace. "Told you, you come near her again, and I'd carve your hands off and feed them to the giant squid. Slowly."

You clutched at Mattheo's sleeve, breath still coming in gasps, but he didn't spare you a glance, not yet. His focus was absolute, rage simmering just beneath the surface, controlled but volcanic. Silvanus sneered, pulling his wand halfway from his pocket, but Mattheo was faster.

He closed the distance in two strides, fist cracking into Silvanus's jaw with a meaty thud. The Hufflepuff reeled, wand clattering to the stone floor, and Mattheo followed with a knee to the gut, driving the air from him.

Silvanus doubled over, retching, but he swung wildly, a desperate haymaker that Mattheo ducked easily. Riddle's elbow smashed into the side of his head, sending him sprawling against the wall. Blood trickled from Silvanus's split lip, staining his collar. He tried to rise, groping for his wand, but Mattheo planted a boot on his wrist, grinding down until he yelped.

"Pathetic," Mattheo snarled, hauling him up by the front of his robes and slamming him back against the cold stone. Silvanus's head cracked audibly, and for a moment, his eyes glazed. "You think you can put your hands on her? Whisper your little grudges in her ear like some lovesick house-elf?" Another punch, this one to the ribs, crack, and Silvanus wheezed, sliding down the wall in a heap.

You watched from a few feet away, pulse thundering, a mix of relief and lingering fear knotting your stomach. Mattheo's knuckles were split, bloodied, but he didn't stop until Silvanus was a crumpled mess, groaning softly, too battered to rise. Only then did he step back, breathing steady, and kick the fallen wand down the corridor into the shadows.

He crouched then, close enough that Silvanus could focus on his face through the swelling haze. Mattheo's voice dropped to a whisper, cold and precise, the kind that promised truths no one wanted to hear. "Listen good, Fredericks. You know what you're gonna do next? You're gonna leave Hogwarts. Leave England. By the end of the week. Or I'll use every dark connection I have to make it seem like you never existed. No body, no trace. Just gone. And trust me, no one's going to look too hard for a Hufflepuff nobody."

He straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers as if touching the boy had dirtied him. Silvanus whimpered something incoherent, but Mattheo turned away, as if he was beneath notice now.

His expression softened the instant his eyes met yours, still hard around the edges, but the fury banked for your sake.

"Hey," he murmured, hands coming up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. They were warm, despite the chill in the air, and you leaned into them, the tremor in your limbs finally breaking free. "You're safe. I've got you."

Tears pricked your eyes, hot and unwelcome, but you blinked them back. "He...he came out of nowhere. I was just waiting, and he…"

Mattheo's jaw tightened, but he pulled you closer, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other tilting your chin up to inspect the bruises on your neck.

"I know. Bastard's had it coming since that library stunt. Should've finished him then." His voice was rough, laced with self-recrimination, but he swallowed it down. "Come on. Not here."

He guided you down the corridor, away from the tower's base, his body a shield between you and the shadows. The Slytherin common room was a short walk through the dungeons. Filch's cat slunk past without a glance but Mattheo had ways of keeping patrols off their path. The heavy door to the boys' dorms yielded to his murmured Alohomora, and he led you into his room, the one at the end of the hall, warded against intruders with spells he'd learned from books best not named.

He locked the door behind you, then eased you onto the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. "Sit. Let me see."

You nodded, letting him kneel in front of you, his knees bracketing yours. He drew his wand from his sleeve.

"This might sting," he warned, but his touch was gentle as he traced the tip over your throat. "Episkey."

A cool tingle spread across the marks, the pressure easing as the skin knit back together. He moved lower, to the scrapes on your palms from the fall, then to your thigh where the skirt hung in shreds. His fingers hesitated there, eyes darkening, not with anger now, but something protective, fierce. "He touched you here?"

The question was quiet, but it carried weight, like he was memorizing it for later reckoning.

You nodded, swallowing hard. "Tried to. I kicked him off before…"

"Good girl," he breathed, the words fierce with pride. He healed the shallow scratches from his nails, then flicked his wand again, Reparo, and the skirt mended with a soft whisper of threads realigning. But he didn't stop there. His hands lingered, sliding up to cup your waist, pulling you forward until your forehead rested against his. "No one lays a finger on you. Not while I'm breathing."

The words wrapped around you like a ward, solid and unyielding. You exhaled shakily, fingers threading into his curls, tugging just enough to feel him solid and real.

"I was scared," you admitted, voice small in the quiet of the room. "For a second, I thought-"

"Don't." He cut you off, but softly, lips brushing your temple. "He's nothing. A worm with delusions." He pulled back slightly, searching your face, his thumb tracing your jaw. The anger was still there, banked embers in his eyes, but for you, it was all tenderness, raw, unguarded. "You did good, running to me. That's what you do okay? Always. You run to me."

You managed a watery smile, nodding, and he caught it with his mouth, kissing you slow and deep, like he was sealing a vow. His lips were firm, tasting faintly of mint from the gum he chewed to cover his smoking, and he poured everything into it, possession, reassurance, the unspoken promise that he'd burn the world before letting it touch you again.

One hand cradled the back of your head, the other splayed across your back, holding you steady as the kiss deepened, tongues tangling in a rhythm that chased away the shadows.

When he broke it, you were both breathing harder, foreheads pressed together again. He stood, shrugging off his robes and kicking them toward the corner, then tugged at the hem of your shirt. "Off with these. You're staying here tonight." It wasn't a question, but his tone left room for no argument.

You let him help you change into one of his old shirts, soft and oversized, smelling of him. The bed was cool against your skin as you slipped under the covers, and he followed, pulling you against his chest without hesitation. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and anchoring, his breath steady against your hair. "Sleep," he murmured, lips grazing your shoulder in a final, soft kiss. "I'll be here."

Exhaustion pulled you under quickly, the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you like a spell. In the dark of his dorm, with the castle silent beyond the wards, you slept deeply for the first time that night.

Safe, claimed, and utterly his.

Theo Nott

The greenhouse air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming Venomous Tentacula, their tendrils curling lazily in the humid warmth like veins pulsing under glass. Afternoon light filtered through the panes in soft, diffused shafts, casting long shadows across the worktables cluttered with pots and parchment.

You'd claimed the far corner for yourself, away from the bustle of Herbology's end-of-class exodus, your quill scratching idly over a detailed sketch of a Flutterby Bush for your essay. The assignment was due next week, but you'd promised Theo you'd wrap it up early, clear the deck for the evening he had planned.

Just the two of you, tucked away in this very greenhouse after hours, with its muffled quiet and the faint rustle of leaves as your only witnesses. Soft kisses under the glow of floating lanterns, his hands gentle on your waist, the world narrowing to the brush of his lips and the low timbre of his voice murmuring Italian endearments against your skin. You'd been together long enough that these moments felt like breathing, easy yet essential.

The door creaked open at the far end, hinges protesting the humidity, and you glanced up without much thought. Professor Sprout had mentioned popping in to check on the third-years' mandrakes, but the figure silhouetted against the corridor's torchlight was taller, broader, clad in the red and gold that always set your teeth on edge in Slytherin-Gryffindor shared classes.

Graham Maldon. Sixth-year, Quidditch beater with a build of a wrestler, solid shoulders, jaw set like he was perpetually chewing on a grudge.

You didn't know him well; your paths crossed in corridors or the Great Hall, nods exchanged out of house courtesy that never warmed past polite. But then you remembered the duelling club last month, the way the air had crackled when Theo dismantled him in front of a crowd.

A swift Incarcerous had bound him mid-spell, followed by a hex Theo had pulled from some obscure tome, something that wrenched sobs from Maldon's throat, raw and humiliating, echoing off the classroom walls while half the school watched. You'd kissed Theo afterward in the alcove outside, the flush of victory making his eyes spark in that way that undid you. .

He paused just inside the threshold, letting the door swing shut with a soft thud that seemed to amplify in the enclosed space. His eyes scanned the rows of tables, lingering on the empty pots and scattered soil, before landing on you.

You shifted slightly on your stool, the wood creaking under you, and returned to your drawing, though your quill hovered now, ink beading unused.

"Professor around?" His voice was gruff, laced with that Gryffindor bravado that bordered on bark.

You didn't look up right away, letting the silence stretch a beat, two. The greenhouse felt smaller with him in it, the air thicker, as if the plants themselves were holding their breath. "Not that I've seen. Try the her office in the castle."

He didn't move. Boots scraped against the flagstones as he took a step closer, then another, circling the central fountain where water trickled in a deliberate, unhurried rhythm. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy as the humidity clinging to your skin, tracing the line of your bent neck, the spill of your hair over one shoulder. Your fingers tightened on the quill, the feather quivering faintly.

"Alone, then," he said, not quite a question. He stopped at the adjacent table, leaning his hip against it, arms crossing over his chest. The red tie hung loose, like he'd been tugging at it. "Sketching away like it's not half-past four. Nott keeping you waiting?"

The casual drop of Theo's name prickled, but you kept your tone even, eyes fixed on the parchment. The Flutterby's wings were coming out wrong, too angular, not ethereal enough. "Something like that. If you're done lurking, door's that way."

A low huff escaped him, not quite a laugh. He pushed off the table, closing the distance to yours in two unhurried strides, his shadow falling across your work. The scent of him cut through the earthy air, sweat and broom polish, sharp and intrusive.

He planted his hands on the edge of your table, leaning in just enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes. They were hazel, flecked with something stormy, and fixed on you with an intensity that made the hairs on your arms rise.

"You were there, weren't you? After the duel." His words came slow, deliberate, each one measured like he was testing the weight of them. "Kissing him like he'd won the House Cup. All that slimy Slytherin charm. Bet it felt good, watching him make me look like a fool."

You set the quill down, the soft clink against the inkwell louder than it should have been. Tension coiled in your chest, wrapping around your ribs. The greenhouse's glass walls seemed to press in, the distant hum of the castle fading to nothing.

"I was there," you agreed, voice steady despite the way your pulse ticked up. "And he did win. Fair and square. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with him. Or the Professors."

Maldon's lips curled, not a smile but something feral, teeth flashing white. He straightened a fraction, but didn't retreat, loomed instead, his presence filling the space between you like smoke. "Fair. Right. That hex he hit me with, had me bawling like a first-year in front of everyone. Laughed about it for weeks, didn't they? Your lot. And you, slipping him that tongue right after, like it was nothing. Congratulating the prick who broke me down."

You pushed back from the table, stool scraping, putting a sliver of space between you. The air felt charged now, the kind of static before a storm, where every breath pulled in ozone and threat.

"It wasn't about you. And it wasn't congratulations." The words slipped out sharper than intended, laced with the edge of warning. Maldon's eyes narrowed, the storm in them darkening.

"Not about me?" He echoed it low, leaning in again, one hand drifting to the table's edge near yours, fingers splaying wide. The wood creaked under his grip. "Everything's about someone, love. You think I didn't see how you looked at him? All doe-eyed and desperate. Bet you spread those legs for him quick enough after, didn't you? Rewarding the winner."

Heat flooded your face, not embarrassment, but fury, white-hot and clarifying. You stood, chair toppling back with a clatter that echoed off the glass, your hands flat on the table now, mirroring his stance. Inches separated you, the heat of him radiating like a poorly banked fire. "Watch your mouth, Maldon. You don't know a damn thing about me or him. Walk away. Now."

For a moment, he held there, breath mingling with yours, the tension a live wire humming between you. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, lingering on the curve of your collarbone where your blouse gaped slightly from the humidity's pull. Something shifted in his expression, calculation flickering behind the rage, like a predator reassessing prey.

Then, slow as sap rising in a tree, his hand shot out, not to strike, but to seize. Fingers tangled in your hair at the nape, yanking your head back with a force that snapped your neck, exposing your throat. Pain bloomed sharp and immediate, but he didn't stop, twisted, forcing you down, your cheek slamming into the scarred wood of the table. Parchment scattered, inkpot tipping to spill black rivulets across your sketch, the Flutterby dissolving into abstract smears.

You gasped, the impact jarring through your skull, temple scraping against a splintered edge. Warmth trickled. Blood, coppery and insistent, streaking down your cheek.

His weight pressed in from behind, knee nudging your legs apart just enough to pin your hips, his other hand clamping your wrist to the table's surface. The greenhouse spun for a second, greens blurring, before sharpening into hyper-focus: the crush of his body against yours, the ragged edge of his breathing in your ear, the distant drip of water from a leaky pane.

"Attitude like that," he muttered, voice thick now, edged with something darker than anger, hunger, twisted and ugly. His grip tightened in your hair, scalp burning, holding you immobile as he leaned over you, chest to your back. "Makes a bloke think you like it rough. All that fire. Bet Nott doesn't even know what to do with it."

"Let go," you hissed through gritted teeth, straining against his hold, but he only laughed, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through you. Fear coiled low in your gut, cold and slithering, but you shoved it down, channelled it into words, sharp as shattered glass. "You're pathetic. Crying over a lost duel like it's the end of the world. This won't make you feel better."

He stilled, breath hitching, and for a heartbeat, the pressure eased, just enough that you thought you might twist free.

But then he ground down harder, his hips rolling against your backside in a deliberate press, the hard line of his arousal unmistakable through the fabric. Revulsion surged, bile rising, but you bit it back, body rigid under him.

His free hand fumbled at his belt, the clink of buckle echoing obscenely in the quiet, leather sliding free with a whisper. "Pathetic?Is that what you tell yourself when you're bent over for him?" His voice dropped to a rasp, hot against your ear, words dripping like venom. "Keep talking. See, I've been thinking about this since that kiss. How you'd feel under me instead, tight and squirming, begging for it. I'll make you forget his name. Start with that smart mouth, then work my way down. Split you open right here on Sprout's table, leave you leaking so when he shows, he smells me on you."

The threats landed heavy, each one a stone in your stomach, slowing time to a crawl. His belt hung loose now, hand drifting to your hip, fingers digging into the waistband of your skirt, tugging experimentally.

The air thickened, every sensation amplified: the rough grain of the wood biting your cheek, the metallic tang of blood on your tongue where you'd bitten the inside of your lip, the humid press of his body trapping heat between you. Your heart hammered, a frantic drum against your ribs, fear sharpening to a blade's edge, but you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of silence. "Touch me," you spat, voice trembling but laced with venom, "and I'll hex your balls off before you can blink."

He chuckled again, darker this time, the sound rumbling through his chest as he shifted, grinding once more, slow, insistent, like he was savouring the power.

His hand in your hair wrenched tighter, temple scraping anew, fresh blood welling. "Brave words for a girl pinned like a butterfly. But I like the fight. Makes it sweeter when you break."

The zipper rasped, a sound that clawed at your nerves, his fingers brushing the hem of your skirt, inching upward-

The door banged open, a gust of cooler air slicing through the greenhouse like a curse. Footsteps. Light, measured, but carrying the weight of intent.

Theo.

Maldon froze, his hand stilling on your thigh, but he didn't release you. Instead, he twisted his head, a smirk curling his lips as he caught sight of the figure in the doorway.

Theo, all lean lines and shadowed elegance, his dark hair tousled from the wind off the lake, Slytherin robes unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone. His wand was already in hand, loose at his side, but his eyes, those deep, unreadable blues, locked on the scene with a predator's precision. The colour drained from his face, not to pallor but to something colder, like marble veined with fury.

"Well, look who showed," Maldon drawled, voice slimy with mockery, though his body tensed atop you. He didn't pull away, pressed closer, if anything, a deliberate taunt. "Your girl's got a mouth on her, Nott. Been putting it to good use, too. Come to watch the show? Or you gonna cry like I did last time?"

Theo's expression didn't fracture. No wild rage, no barked threats.

He simply stepped forward, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that echoed. His gaze flicked over you, taking in the blood on your temple, the tangle of your hair, the unnatural arch of your body under Maldon's weight...and something flickered in his eyes, a shadow passing over still water.

"Get off her," he said, voice low, accented vowels clipping the words like a blade through silk. Not a shout, but it carried, filling the space, making the plants seem to wilt.

Maldon laughed, the sound forced now, brittle at the edges. He rocked his hips once more, pointed, vulgar, drawing a muffled sound from your throat. "Or what? You'll hex me to tears again? Face it, mate, she deserves it. Your little kiss was just the warmup."

The air crackled, not with magic yet, but with the promise of it. Theo stopped a few paces away, wand lifting slow, deliberate, the tip tracing an idle pattern in the air. His face was a mask, beautifully blank, lips pressed to a thin line, but his free hand clenched at his side, knuckles whitening.

"You mistake me for someone who begs for duels," he murmured, the words rolling soft, almost conversational, but laced with ice. "But touch what's mine…" He trailed off, eyes narrowing on Maldon's hand in your hair. "And I'll show you what regret tastes like."

Maldon sneered, shoving you down harder into the table, the wood digging into your ribs, breath catching, but the bravado faltered when Theo moved.

Not a charge, but a flick, wand slicing through the air in a precise arc. "Expelliarmus."

The disarming spell hit like a whipcrack, not at Maldon's wand (still holstered), but at his belt, sending it flying across the room to coil like a snake against a pot of shrivelfigs. The Gryffindor jerked, surprise widening his eyes, and in that split second, Theo closed the gap.

You twisted then, using the distraction, elbow slamming back into Maldon's gut. He grunted, grip loosening, and you shoved away, scrambling across the table, ink and soil smearing your robes. Your temple throbbed, vision spotting with red, but you backed toward the fountain, wand finally in hand, trembling but raised.

Maldon recovered with a snarl, lunging after you, "You little-"

But Theo was there, intercepting with a shoulder to his chest that sent them both crashing into a trestle of Devil's Snare. Vines writhed, seeking purchase, but Theo rolled free first, lithe and controlled, coming up with his wand levelled.

"Stupefy." The stunner glanced off Maldon's raised arm, sizzling against his sleeve, but it bought Theo the moment he needed.

The Gryffindor roared, drawing his own wand at last and fired wildly.

"Diffindo!" Slicing curse, ragged and unfocused, carving a furrow in the table where your sketch had lain. Wood splintered, shards flying, and you ducked, heart slamming.

Theo didn't flinch. He sidestepped, fluid as shadow, countering with a murmured "Petrificus Totalus."

The full-body bind caught Maldon mid-stride, his legs locking, arms snapping to his sides as he toppled forward like a felled oak. He hit the ground hard, faceplanting into the soil with a muffled thud, wand skittering away. Dust and dirt bloomed around him, clinging to his robes, but he was out, rigid, helpless, eyes wide with impotent fury.

Silence fell then, broken only by your ragged breaths and the faint patter of water. Theo stood over him for a long moment, chest rising steady, wand still poised. Then, with a casual flick, Enervate, just enough to slacken the bind, not revive, but loosen. Maldon's body went limp, unconscious but breathing, a heap of red and gold amid the greenery.

You slid down the table's edge, legs giving out, knees hitting the flagstones.

The world tilted, adrenaline crashing, leaving you shaking, temple sticky with blood, skirt twisted, the ghost of his weight still pressing on your back. Tears welled, hot and furious, but you swiped them away, hating the vulnerability.

Theo turned then, holstering his wand with a precision that belied the storm in his eyes. He crossed to you in three strides, dropping to one knee, hands hovering for a beat, uncertain, as if afraid you'd shatter.

"Cara mia," he breathed, the endearment soft, Italian lilt wrapping around it like velvet. His fingers found your chin first, tilting your face gently, thumb brushing the blood from your temple with exquisite care. "Look at me. Are you-"

"I'm fine," you lied, voice cracking, but the lie crumbled under his gaze. Those eyes, dark and fathomless, searched yours, seeing through the bravado to the tremor beneath.

A sob escaped, unbidden, and you curled into him, forehead dropping to his shoulder, hands fisting his robes. He smelled of old books and cedar, grounding, safe. The antithesis of the cloying sweat that still lingered in your nose.

"Shh," he murmured, arms encircling you slow, deliberate, pulling you into his lap there on the dirty floor. One hand stroked your back in long, soothing lines, the other cradling your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, avoiding the tender spots.

"You're safe. He's gone. I have you." His voice was a low rumble against your ear, steady as a heartbeat, but you felt the tension in him, the tight wire of rage he kept leashed for your sake. He pressed his lips to your hair, once, twice, soft kisses that chased the chill from your skin. "My brave girl. The way you fought...Dio, you have no idea."

You clung tighter, the shakes wracking through you in waves, his warmth seeping in like sunlight through cracks. "He...he wouldn't stop. The things he said…" The words tumbled out, fragmented, the threats replaying in jagged flashes. Grinding, belt unbuckling, split open. Shame burned, hot and twisting, but Theo's hold tightened, protective, a fortress of lean muscle and quiet strength.

"He'll pay," Theo whispered, not a vow but a certainty, lips brushing your temple now, careful of the scrape. He drew back slightly, cupping your face in both hands, thumbs tracing your cheekbones, wiping away the tears that fell unheeded. His gaze held yours, intense, unwavering love there, fierce and unyielding, mingled with a sorrow that cut deeper than anger. "Not with fists or hexes. Something slower. He'll unravel from the inside."

He kissed you then, soft, reverent, lips melding to yours with a tenderness that stole your breath. No heat, just reassurance, tongue flicking gentle against your lower lip until you parted for him, letting him taste the salt of your fear and chase it away with the sweetness of him. It deepened by increments, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck, angling you closer, until the world narrowed to the slide of mouths, the faint hitch of his breath when you nipped his lip in response.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he exhaled shakily.

"I should have been here sooner. This-" His free hand ghosted over your skirt, smoothing the wrinkles with a touch light as moth wings, then higher, to the bruises blooming on your wrists.

"Episkey," he murmured, without breaking eye contact. The healing charm flowed cool over your temple, knitting the scrape closed, then your wrists, the ache fading to a dull throb. But he didn't stop, tracing his lips over each spot in turn, kisses feather-light, worshipful. "I'll kill him for this. Slowly."

You shook your head, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the faint stubble there. "Don't. Just… stay."

He nodded, once, the promise etched in the set of his mouth. Shifting, he gathered you closer, rising fluidly with you in his arms, effortless, as if you weighed nothing. Cradling you against his chest, he carried you to the alcove by the door, away from the mess, settling on a low bench amid hanging ferns.

There, he held you, legs tangled, your head on his shoulder, his chin resting atop your hair. One hand traced idle patterns on your arm, the other laced with yours, thumb circling your knuckles. Minutes stretched, the greenhouse's quiet wrapping around you like a ward, his presence a balm to the raw edges.

"I love you," he said eventually, voice hushed, as if the words were a secret too precious for volume. He tilted your chin up, kissing you again, deeper this time, but still soft, lips lingering, breath mingling. "More than this place, more than the stars. No one touches you. Ever."

You melted into it, the fluff of earlier reclaimed in fragments, his free hand cupping your waist, thumb dipping under your blouse to brush bare skin, warm and possessive. Kisses trailed to your jaw, your neck, avoiding the fading marks, each one a seal against the dark.

When the tremors finally ebbed, he pulled a vial from his pocket, small, obsidian-stoppered, contents swirling murky green. Glancing once at Maldon's prone form, he rose, laying you gently aside.

"Wait here," he said, and crossed to the Gryffindor. Kneeling, he pried open limp jaws, tipping the potion past unresisting lips. It vanished quick, absorbed like smoke, and Theo wiped his hands on his robes, expression closing to something remote, lethal.

Night terrors first, screams in the dead of night, bladder failing in cold sweat, the humiliation of soaked sheets. Then the bleed into reality. Shadows at the edges of vision, whispers in empty rooms, reality fraying until he clawed at walls, begging for it to stop. Slow. Insidious. A curse without a wand.

He returned to you then, drawing you up and into his arms again, walking you out of the greenhouse, to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, away from prying eyes. There, under the canopy's dappled light, he kissed you thoroughly, hands roaming with renewed gentleness, fluff reclaiming the night. Soft presses of lips to collarbone, fingers lacing through yours as he murmured poetry in Italian, the words washing over you like rain. Protective, loving, yours, utterly.

Maldon woke later to Filch's grumbles, head pounding, no memory of the vial. But that night, in the Gryffindor tower, the dreams came. And they never truly left.

Enzo Berkshire

You’d always liked it best late at night in the common room, when the fire in the hearth burned low and the chatter of first-years had faded to snores in the dorms.

Tonight, you’d curled up on one of the leather sofas near the back, a heavy tome on Ancient Runes open across your lap, though your mind was elsewhere. Enzo had promised to slip away from his prefect rounds early, his grin boyish and conspiratorial when he’d whispered about sneaking you into an alcove for some uninterrupted time before curfew. The thought warmed you, a quiet glow against the dungeon’s chill, and you traced idle patterns on the book’s margin, imagining his hands, warm and teasing, pulling you close.

The common room’s entrance groaned, a low, grinding sound as the stone wall slid open. You glanced up, expecting Enzo’s familiar loping stride, the easy charm that still made your pulse skip after months together.

But the figure stepping through wasn’t him. Karl Denshaw, sixth-year Slytherin, broad and angular, his dark hair falling in a messy fringe over eyes that always seemed to carry a grudge. His robes were slightly askew, tie missing, as if he’d been tugging at it in agitation. You knew him vaguely, mostly through his younger sister, Lila, a seventh-year who’d had a brief, disastrous fling with Enzo last term, back when he was still the castle’s resident heartbreaker.

Before you. Before he’d changed.

You straightened, closing the book with a soft thud, the air shifting subtly, like the moment before a storm breaks. Karl’s gaze found you immediately, locking on with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

He didn’t speak at first, just crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, boots scuffing the polished floor. The firelight caught the sharp planes of his face, casting shadows that deepened the scowl etched there.

“Denshaw,” you said, voice cool but cautious, fingers brushing the wand tucked in your pocket. “Didn’t know you were still up. Looking for someone?”

He stopped a few feet away, leaning against the armrest of the opposite sofa, arms crossed. His knuckles were white, gripping his biceps too tight, and the tension rolled off him in waves, thick enough to taste.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, clipped, like he was biting back something sharper. “You, actually.”

Your brow lifted, but you kept your posture relaxed, legs crossed, book resting on your knee. The common room was empty. Unusual for a Friday night, but the Quidditch team was off celebrating a win, and most others were either in bed or sneaking around elsewhere. The silence felt heavier now, the lake’s faint hum beyond the windows a distant pulse. “Me? What’s this about, Karl?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushed off the sofa, pacing a slow arc around the low table between you, his eyes never leaving your face. The fire crackled, a log shifting, sending sparks up the chimney.

“You’re always glued to him, aren’t you?” he said finally, words dripping with disdain. “Berkshire. The great Lorenzo, charming his way through half the school. Thought you were smarter than that.”

You exhaled through your nose, irritation flaring but tempered by the need to keep this civil. House unity and all that, even if Karl’s tone was testing you. “If you’ve got a problem with Enzo, take it up with him. I’m not his secretary.”

His laugh was sharp, humourless, cutting through the quiet like a blade. He stopped pacing, planting himself directly across from you, hands braced on the table, leaning in close enough that you caught the faint tang of Firewhisky on his breath.

“Oh, I’ve got a problem. My sister’s still crying herself to sleep because of that bastard. Lila thought he cared, thought he was different. Then he drops her like she’s nothing, moves on to you.” His eyes raked over you, lingering on the open collar of your shirt, the sliver of skin above your skirt’s waistband. “What makes you so special, huh? Why’d he stick with you?”

You set the book aside, slow and deliberate, meeting his gaze head-on. The firelight flickered, casting his face half in shadow, but you didn’t flinch. “Lila knew what she was getting into,” you said, voice steady, though your pulse ticked up. “Enzo’s reputation wasn’t exactly a secret. He didn’t promise her forever, Karl. She made her choice.”

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking under the skin, and his hands curled into fists on the table. The air tightened further, the lake’s ripples outside seeming to slow, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

“Choice?” he spat, voice rising, echoing off the stone. “You think that makes it okay? He played her, broke her, and you’re sitting here defending him like some lovesick groupie. She was in love, for Merlin’s sake. He knew better.”

You stood then, not fast but firm, putting the table between you. Your wand was in your hand now, not raised but ready, the hawthorn wood warm against your palm. “I’m not saying it was right. But Enzo’s not that person anymore. He’s changed, and I’m not going to apologize for being with him. If you’re looking for someone to blame, look at Lila for chasing a fantasy. Or look at yourself for not letting it go.”

The words landed like a slap, and Karl’s face twisted, from anger, yes, but something uglier beneath it, a kind of wounded pride that made his eyes glint dangerously. He straightened, stepping around the table, closing the distance in a heartbeat. You backed up instinctively, the sofa’s edge hitting your calves, but he didn’t stop.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, voice dropping to a growl, low and intimate in a way that made your stomach churn. “He broke her heart, so I’m going to break something of his. Starting with you.”

Your breath caught, not from fear, but from the sheer venom in his tone. He lunged before you could raise your wand, hands slamming into your shoulders, forcing you back against the sofa.

The impact drove the air from your lungs, your head snapping back against the leather armrest, and before you could twist away, he was on you, knees pinning your thighs, one hand seizing your wrist to wrench the wand free. It clattered to the floor, rolling under the table, and panic surged, hot and sharp.

You thrashed, nails raking his arm, drawing red lines across his skin, but he was heavier, stronger, his weight crushing you into the cushions.

“Get off me!” you hissed, bucking under him, but his other hand grabbed the front of your shirt, yanking hard. Fabric tore with a sickening rip, buttons popping, scattering across the floor like marbles. Cold air hit your chest, your bra exposed, and his hand moved lower, groping roughly, fingers digging into skin that wasn’t his to touch. Revulsion burned through you, bile rising, but you kept fighting, knee jerking up only to be trapped by his bulk.

“Keep squirming,” he muttered, breath hot against your ear, his voice thick with something dark and twisted. “I like it. He hurt her, crying for weeks, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep. I’m gonna make you scream louder than she did. Leave you in pieces for him to find.”

The threat sank like lead, every word deliberate, paced to let the weight settle. His hand tightened, bruising, sliding lower, and your heart hammered so hard it hurt. Fear was there now, real and clawing, but you forced it into defiance, spitting in his face. “You’re disgusting,” you snarled, voice shaking but sharp. “He’ll kill you for this.”

Karl laughed, a low, ugly sound, wiping the spit from his cheek with a sneer. “Let him try.”

His fingers dug harder, tearing at the remnants of your shirt, but you twisted hard, using the sofa’s give to roll sideways. Your elbow caught his jaw, not hard enough to stun but enough to surprise, and his grip faltered. You shoved with everything you had, heels digging into the cushions, and he toppled off, cursing as he hit the floor.

You scrambled up, shirt hanging in tatters, chest heaving as you dove for your wand. Your fingers brushed it under the table just as the common room wall groaned open again.

Enzo.

His silhouette filled the doorway, prefect badge glinting faintly in the firelight, his lanky frame deceptively relaxed until his eyes, warm brown, usually soft with mischief, landed on you. On the torn shirt, the red marks blooming on your chest, the wildness in your eyes. Then on Karl, scrambling to his feet, knuckles bloodied from your nails.

Time seemed to freeze, the air in the common room turning thick, suffocating. Enzo’s face didn’t twist into rage or shock, t hardened, a cold, calculating mask settling over his features, the kind you’d seen only once or twice, when his charm gave way to something ruthless. He stepped forward, wand already in hand, the motion fluid, almost lazy, but the air around him crackled with intent.

“Berkshire,” Karl spat, wiping blood from his lip, standing now but not advancing. His bravado was fraying, voice unsteady as he tried to play it off. “Your girl’s got a sharp tongue. Thought I’d teach her some manners since you can’t.”

Enzo didn’t answer immediately. He closed the distance in two strides, stopping just short of Karl, his wand loose at his side but his free hand flexing, fingers curling like they ached to break something.

His eyes flicked to you again, a silent check, Are you okay?, and you nodded once, shaky but firm, clutching your wand. He exhaled, a slow breath that did nothing to soften the ice in his gaze.

“You touched her,” he said, voice low, almost conversational, but each word was a blade honed sharp. “That was a mistake.”

Karl sneered, but his wand hand twitched, uncertain. “Mistake? Like the one you made with my sister? Used her up, tossed her aside like trash. I’m just returning the favor.” He gestured at you, a crude wave toward your torn shirt. “Fair’s fair, yeah?”

Enzo’s lips twitched, not a smile, but something colder, more dangerous.

“Fair,” he echoed, and then he moved. A fluid grace that was almost careless, like a cat toying with prey.

His wand flicked up, Impedimenta, and Karl staggered, slowed to a crawl mid-step, limbs moving as if through treacle. Enzo didn’t pause. He closed the gap, grabbing Karl by the collar and slamming him face-first into the stone wall with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed from Karl’s nose, staining the floor, but Enzo didn’t let up. Spun him around, knee driving into his stomach, doubling him over.

Karl gasped, swinging wildly, a fist grazing Enzo’s cheek, but it lacked force. Enzo caught his wrist, twisting it back until Karl yelped, the snap of bone audible in the quiet.

“You thought you could touch her?” Enzo’s voice stayed low, eerily calm, but the words dripped venom. “Put your hands on what’s mine?”

Another twist, another cry, and then Enzo drove his fist into Karl’s jaw, sending him sprawling across the table, scattering quills and inkwells.

Karl tried to rise, blood streaming from his nose, but Enzo was on him again, hauling him up by the robes and slamming him back down, wood splintering under the impact.

“Stay down,” Enzo said, almost bored, but his eyes burned with a fury that belied the tone.

He didn’t use his wand again, just fists, calculated and relentless, each hit landing with a dull thud until Karl was a groaning heap, barely conscious, face swollen and bloodied.

Finally, Enzo stepped back, breathing steady, knuckles raw but not trembling. He wiped them on his robes, leaving red smears, and turned to you without sparing Karl another glance. The common room seemed to exhale, the lake’s ripples resuming their quiet dance across the walls.

You were still by the sofa, wand clutched tight, torn shirt pulled closed over your chest. The adrenaline was fading, leaving you cold, shaking, the violation of Karl’s hands lingering like a stain. Enzo crossed to you in an instant, his prefect demeanour gone, replaced by something softer, raw.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, hands hovering before settling gently on your arms, careful not to touch where Karl had.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice soft now, all honey and warmth, the contrast jarring against the brutality of moments ago. “You’re alright. He’s done.”

You nodded, but the motion felt distant, like you were watching yourself from outside your body. Tears welled, hot and unbidden, and you swiped at them angrily, hating the weakness. Enzo saw, his brow furrowing, and he pulled you into him, slowly, giving you time to pull away, but you didn’t.

You sank into his chest, his arms wrapping around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting lightly on your back. He smelled of peppermint and clean wool, familiar and safe, and the knot in your chest loosened slightly, though the shakes didn’t stop.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, lips brushing your hair, the words a quiet anchor. “No one’s touching you again. Not ever.”

His hand stroked your back in slow, steady circles, grounding you, and he pressed a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, soft and lingering, like he was trying to erase every trace of Karl’s presence.

“You were so strong, love. Kicking his arse before I even got here.” A faint smile curved his voice, trying to coax one from you, but it didn’t push.

You exhaled shakily, fingers curling into his robes, anchoring yourself to him. “He...he said he wanted to break me. Worse than Lila. His hands…” Your voice cracked, the memory of those fingers, rough and unwanted, clawing at your skin. Enzo’s hold tightened, just enough to feel protective, not caging, and he pulled back to meet your eyes, his own blazing with a quiet fury that hadn’t faded.

“He’ll never touch you again,” he said, voice low but certain, a vow carved in stone. He brushed a thumb across your cheek, wiping away a tear, then tilted your chin to inspect the red marks on your chest, the torn fabric. His jaw clenched, but his touch stayed gentle as he drew his wand.

“Episkey,” he murmured, the charm easing the bruises, the sting fading under a cool wash of magic. Then, with a flick ,Reparo, your shirt knit back together, seams stitching seamlessly, though the memory of the tear lingered.

He didn’t stop there. Enzo shifted, sitting beside you on the sofa, pulling you into his lap so your legs draped over his, his arms encircling you fully.

He kissed you then slow, deliberate, lips soft but firm against yours, tasting faintly of the peppermint he always carried. It wasn’t hungry or desperate, but a claiming, a reminder that you were his, and he was yours, and no one could wedge between that. His tongue brushed yours, gentle but sure, and you melted into it, hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, the soft strands grounding you further. He kissed your jaw next, then the corner of your mouth, each press a quiet promise, his breath warm against your skin.

“I love you,” he said against your lips, the words barely a whisper but heavy with truth. “More than anything. You know that, right?”

His forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-closed, and you nodded, the last of the tension bleeding out as you leaned into him.

“I know,” you whispered back, voice steadier now, though your hands still shook faintly. “I love you too.”

He held you there, minutes stretching in the fire’s dying glow, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm, your hip, anywhere he could touch without hurting. The lake murmured beyond the walls, a quiet lullaby, and Enzo’s warmth, his steady heartbeat under your cheek, pulled you back from the edge. Karl groaned faintly from the floor, stirring, but Enzo didn’t move, just flicked his wand lazily, a wordless Silencio muffling the sound.

“We’ll deal with him tomorrow,” Enzo murmured, lips brushing your hair again. “McGonagall will have his hide. But tonight, you’re with me. Just us.” He kissed you once more, deeper this time, hand cupping your face like you were something precious, fragile but not broken. And in his arms, you believed it.

Draco Malfoy

The Quidditch pitch thrummed with the aftermath of the match, the air thick with the scent of churned grass and sweat-soaked leather. Slytherin had clinched the victory against Ravenclaw, the final score a smug seventy points to twenty, thanks to Draco's dive for the Snitch that had left the stands erupting in divided cheers and boos.

You lingered near the edge of the Slytherin benches, away from the milling crowd of green-robed supporters who clustered around the team captain, Pansy and Daphne weaving through them with triumphant shrieks. Your scarf hung loose around your neck, the silver serpent emblem catching the late afternoon sun, and you brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, the wind still whipping from the brooms' wake.

Draco had spotted you mid-celebration, banking his Nimbus low over the barrier before dismounting in a fluid leap. He had pulled you close right there, gloves still on, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that tasted of victory and salt, possessive, lingering just long enough to draw whistles from the team and a few envious glares from the stands.

"Saved it for you," he had murmured against your lips, that trademark smirk curling as he tucked a finger under your chin.

Then he was off, striding toward the changing rooms with the rest of the Slytherins, broom slung over his shoulder, already barking orders about strategy for the next match against Gryffindor.

You watched him go, the familiar warmth flickering in your chest. You turned to gather your things, intending to slip away before the post-match chaos thickened, when a shadow fell across the bench.

Grant Peakes loomed there, a sixth-year Hufflepuff with broad shoulders from farm work back home and a face scarred faintly from a Bludger mishap two terms ago.

You recognized him vaguely, shared Potions with the Hufflepuffs, where he kept to himself, eyes always darting toward the Slytherin table like he carried a grudge heavier than his satchel. Now, his jaw was set, fists clenched at his sides, the flush of anger creeping up his neck.

"Enjoy the show, did you?" His voice came out rough, laced with that badger-house earnestness twisted sour. He stepped closer, blocking your path to the castle path, his boots scuffing the trampled turf. "Malfoy's little victory lap. Kissing his princess like he owns the pitch. Bet that makes your day, eh?"

You paused, satchel slung over your shoulder, regarding him with the steady gaze. "Peakes. If you're here to congratulate Slytherin, the team's inside. Though I doubt that's it."

He snorted, eyes flicking to the changing rooms where laughter echoed faintly, then back to you, narrowing. "Congratulate? That lot? Malfoy's family ruined mine before he could even hold a wand. His aunt Bellatrix drove my mum round the twist when I was still in nappies. Curses that turned her mind to mush. Left her locked in St. Mungo's, raving about shadows. And there he is, swanning about, happy as you please."

The words landed heavy, pulling at threads you knew too well, the war's echoes that clung to bloodlines like Fiendfyre scars. You shifted your weight, voice softening just a fraction, not out of softness but the bare courtesy you extended to tales of true loss. "That's... wretched. No child deserves that legacy. But Draco had no hand in it. Bellatrix's madness was her own. He's not her."

Peakes's face twisted, the pity you offered landing like salt in a cut. He took another step, close enough now that you caught the faint tang of damp wool from his robes.

"Not her? He's her blood. Struts around like it don't touch him. And you? defending him? After that kiss? Like he's some hero." His tone dipped, turning coaxing, almost pleading, as if you were the key to unravelling it all. "Walk away from that poison. You don't have to tie yourself to it. Come find me in the kitchens sometime. Real talk, no games. Someone who knows what loss is, not just plays at it."

You tilted your head, the dismissal plain in the faint curve of your lips. not cruel, but final, like closing a book on a dull chapter. "I appreciate the concern. Truly. But my choices are mine. Draco's not the monster you paint. Leave it there, Peakes. Before it eats you whole."

That did it. The coaxing shattered, his eyes flashing with the raw hurt of rejection piled on old grief.

"Leave it? You think you can pity me and send me off like a kicked pup? Malfoy's aunt broke my family. You're blind if you can't see the spit of her in him." He jabbed a finger toward the changing rooms, voice rising sharp enough to turn a few heads from the dispersing crowd. "He's happy now, isn't he? Snitch in hand, you on his arm. Makes me sick."

You held your ground, chin lifting, the cold edge sharpening your words without raising your voice. "Blind? No. Just not burdened by grudges that aren't mine to carry. Bellatrix is gone. Locked away. Draco was a baby then, same as you. Punish ghosts if you must, but not him. Not us."

The argument hung there, taut as a bowstring, and Peakes snapped. His hand flew out, a backhand that cracked across your cheek with the force of pent-up years.

Pain bloomed hot and immediate, stars bursting behind your eyes as you staggered, the world tilting. Your satchel slipped from your shoulder, spilling books into the mud, and you hit the ground hard, palms scraping turf, the taste of blood sharp on your lip where it split.

The stands' railing dug into your side, and before you could roll away, he was on you, knees straddling your hips, his weight pinning you down. Rough hands wrenched your arms behind your back, twisting until your shoulders screamed, your wand slipping from your sleeve to clatter uselessly under the bench. Nails bit into your palms as you strained, the cloak tangling around your legs like bonds.

"You purebloods and your excuses," he hissed, drawing his own wand from his pocket, the tip jabbing cold against your throat. His face hovered inches above yours, twisted with a rage that bordered on mania, freckles stark against the pallor. "Bellatrix broke my mum, twisted her mind till she didn't know her own name. Maybe I should return the favour. Make you scream her screams."

Fear coiled low in your belly, sharp and unfamiliar, but you shoved it aside, meeting his glare with eyes that burned. The tremble in your limbs you locked down, voice emerging steady, laced with that honed wit that cut deeper than spells. "Go on, then. Prove you're no better than the monster you hate.. Pathetic echo of a real curse."

He froze, wand quivering against your skin, the words striking home like a well-aimed Bludger. For a heartbeat, the stands held only the wind's low moan and the distant cheers from the castle.

Then his lips peeled back in a cruel, barking laugh, the sound jagged and unhinged. "Wit won't save you, princess. There are other ways to break a girl. Ways that leave marks Malfoy can't ignore."

His free hand fisted in the back of your shirt, yanking savagely. Fabric tore with a ripping snarl, the seams giving from collar to hem, exposing the chill air to your spine and straps beneath.

You thrashed beneath him, legs kicking wildly, the wood bruising your heels. Revulsion surged, hot and choking, as his fingers grazed your bare skin, groping with clumsy malice.

"Get off me, you wretched-" The words choked off in a grunt as you twisted, elbow slamming backward into his ribs with all the force you could muster. Bone yielded under the blow, a satisfying crack, and he reared back with a yelp, his wand hand jerking away.

It was enough. You bucked upward, shoving him sideways, and scrambled to your feet, shirt gaping, cloak askew, blood trickling from a split lip where your teeth had caught it.

Your wand lay just out of reach, but you didn't stop, bolting down the stand's steps two at a time, heart slamming against your ribs. Peakes recovered with a curse, stumbling after you, his boots pounding the planks. "You can't run from this! I'll-"

The changing rooms loomed at the pitch's edge, a squat stone building half-veiled in mist. You hurtled toward the heavy oak door just as it swung open, steam billowing from within like dragon's breath.

You collided with Draco's chest, the impact jarring your bones, his Quidditch leathers damp and smelling of leather and sweat. He caught you by the elbows, steadying you with a startled

"What the-?" but the question evaporated as his grey eyes raked over you: the torn shirt clutched at your throat, the blooming bruise on your cheek, the wild disarray of your hair and the faint tracks of tears you hadn't felt fall.

His expression shuttered in an instant, the post-match glow hardening to ice.

"You," he breathed, voice a venomous drawl, as Peakes skidded to a halt a dozen paces away, wand raised and chest heaving.

The Hufflepuff's face twisted in defiance, but wariness crept in at the sight of Draco Malfoy, fresh from glory and flanked now by the changing room's emerging teammate, Blaise lingering in the doorway, brows furrowed.

Peakes jabbed his wand forward, desperation sharpening his snarl. "Malfoy. This is for my mum. Your aunt's handiwork. Time you paid."

Draco eased you behind him, his body a taut barrier, one arm extended to keep you close while the other summoned his wand from his sleeve with a flick of his wrist. The wood gleamed, steady in his grip, and his lip curled in that aristocratic sneer that promised ruin. "Peakes. How original. Assaulting girls now? Father's war left you short on wits, did it?"

The Huffleboy fired first. A wild Stupefy that crackled through the air like faulty lightning. Draco parried it with a languid Protego, the shield blooming silver and sending sparks scattering across the grass. "Pathetic," Draco muttered, advancing a step, his free hand gesturing you back toward Blaise. "Get her inside."

You shook your head, no yielding, not even now. But Draco shot you a sharp glance over his shoulder, the command in his eyes brooking no argument.

Blaise moved to your side, murmuring, "Come on," and you allowed it, retreating to the threshold.

Peakes circled, boots sinking into the mud, hurling a Reducto that gouged a furrow in the earth near Draco's feet. The Slytherin seeker dodged with fluid ease, years of evading Bludgers honing his reflexes, and retaliated with a hissed Expelliarmus.

Peakes' wand spun from his fingers, arcing high before clattering into a puddle. Unarmed, the Hufflepuff charged, fists swinging in a broad arc meant to fell.

Draco sidestepped, the Muggle-style blow whistling past, and countered with calculated precision: a jab of his wand to Peakes' knee, Locomotor Mortis, locking the leg rigid mid-stride. The boy toppled forward, arms windmilling, and Draco followed with a swift kick to the shoulder that drove him face-first into the muck. Peakes spluttered, scrambling up on one knee, but Draco was there, boot pinning his wand arm to the ground, tip of his wand pressed to the boy's temple.

"Legilimens," Draco said softly, not a full probe but enough, a shallow skim that pulled a gasp from Peakes, his eyes widening in recalled horror. The invasion was intimate, stripping layers without a drop of blood. Peakes thrashed, mud caking his robes, but Draco held firm, voice dropping to a silken threat. "Feel that? Your mother's pain, twisted back at you. But I'm not her. Get up, and crawl back to your badger hole. Touch her again, and I'll ensure you regret every breath."

He released the probe with a flick, stepping back as Peakes shuddered, retching into the grass. The Hufflepuff staggered to his feet, snatching his wand and stumbling toward the castle path, defeated but unbroken... for now. Draco watched him go, chest rising steady, then turned to you, the fury melting into something raw, urgent.

Blaise melted back inside at a nod from Draco, leaving the two of you in the doorway's steam. You stood rigid, the torn shirt a sodden weight, the bruise throbbing in time with your pulse. The tears came then, unbidden and hot, spilling over lashes you had schooled to stay dry. You swiped at them with the back of your hand, hating the fracture, the way your breath caught like a sob.

Draco's jaw clenched, but he pulled you inside, away from prying eyes, the door thudding shut behind.

The changing room's benches were empty, towels strewn, the air thick with the scent of liniment. He guided you to sit, kneeling before you, his Quidditch gear still strapped on.

"Let me see." His wand traced gentle arcs, Episkey for the split lip, sealing it with a tingle; another for the bruises on your wrists, fading the purple blooms. The torn shirt he mended with a murmured Reparo, threads knitting seamlessly, but his fingers lingered on your shoulders, massaging knots of tension.

You leaned into his touch, the reserve crumbling, allowing the warmth for him alone the boy who saw your edges and stayed.

A sob escaped, muffled against his shoulder as he drew you close, arms enveloping you in a cocoon of leather and him. "Shh," he murmured, lips pressing to your temple, your hair. "I've got you. No one's laying a hand on you. Not while I'm here."

His kisses came soft at first, forehead, eyelids, the healed curve of your mouth, then deeper, one hand cupping your nape as he claimed your lips with a hunger born of fear. It poured reassurance into you, slow and thorough, tongues tangling until the world narrowed to his taste, his steadiness. When he broke away, breath shared, he rested his brow to yours. "You're mine. Safe. Always."

You nodded, fingers threading his damp hair, the anchor of him pulling you back from the edge. The match's triumph felt distant now, but in his hold, victory took new shape.

Blaise Zabini

You had found a flat boulder near the Black Lake's edge, away from the castle's main paths, and settled there with your knees drawn up, a small leather-bound journal open on your lap.

The pages held neat notes from Charms, Professor Flitwick's latest lecture on Cheering Charms, annotated with your own observations on their volatility with Amortentia traces.

Blaise was due to meet you soon; he had grumbled about enduring another round of McGonagall's Transfiguration revisions, but you both knew it was code for escaping the Slytherin common room's post-dinner gossip. These outings by the lake were your ritual: quiet talks about nothing and everything, his arm around your shoulders, the world reduced to the two of you and the occasional ripple from the giant squid.

Your robes were folded neatly beside you, sleeves rolled to your elbows against the mild chill, the silver clasp of your house tie undone for once. You traced a diagram with your quill, the ink drying in crisp lines, content in the isolation.

A crunch of gravel pulled your attention up. Footsteps approached from the tree line, deliberate but not hurried.

Wayne Lament emerged from the scrub of willows, a seventh-year Ravenclaw with a mop of unkempt brown hair and a face perpetually smudged from library dust or Quidditch mud, hard to tell which. His blue-trimmed robes were rumpled, tie knotted crookedly, and he carried a satchel slung low like it weighed him down.

You recognized him in passing: the sort who hovered at the edges of house gatherings, always with a tip on the next match or a whispered odds sheet.

He stopped a few paces away, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking to your journal before settling on the lake. "Mind if I join? Better than trudging back to the tower alone."

You closed the journal with a soft snap, setting it aside, your expression neutral, a polite mask that invited nothing. "Free shore. But if you're angling for company, the giant squid's might provide better conversation."

He huffed a short laugh, dropping onto a nearby rock without invitation, close enough that you shifted slightly to maintain space. The water gurgled between you, indifferent.

"Fair enough. Just… needed air. Ravenclaw common room's a madhouse after supper. All riddles and revisions." He paused, picking at a loose thread on his cuff, gaze still on the horizon. "You out here often? With Zabini, I mean."

The question hung casual, but you caught the undercurrent, the way his shoulders tensed. You leaned back on your hands, pebbles shifting under your palms. "When the mood strikes. Why?"

He shrugged, but his eyes slid to you now, assessing.

"No reason. Just seen you two. He's got that whole untouchable thing going, smooth as a new broom handle. Bets big on the matches, too. Sharp eye for it." Another pause, longer this time, his fingers drumming on his knee. "Heard he cleaned up last weekend. Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. Put a fair bit on the badgers."

You arched a brow, the quill twirling idly between your fingers. Gossip about Blaise's side wagers wasn't new; he played them like chess, never enough to draw real heat, just enough to pad the Galleon pouch. "Sounds like him. If you've got a grudge with the odds, take it up with the snitch."

Wayne's laugh came again, tighter this time, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The sun dipped lower, turning the lake's surface to molten gold.

"Not a grudge. Not exactly. Just… stings when you're on the wrong side of it. Lost a few Sickles myself that game. More than a few, actually." He rubbed the back of his neck, voice dropping. "Started small, you know? Tips from mates, a Galleon here or there. Thought I had the edge. But Zabini… he doesn't miss. Took me for twenty last term alone. And that was before the Cup."

You watched him, the cool detachment holding, but curiosity flickered, Ravenclaws weren't usually this loose-lipped. "Rough luck. Quidditch's a gamble. You win some, you lose more if you're daft about it."

His jaw tightened at that, a muscle jumping, but he pressed on, words tumbling slower now, like testing ice. "Daft. Yeah. That's what they say. Mates stopped lending after a while. Said I was in too deep. Then the ones I owed… they don't ask nice. Hexes in the halls, notes in my trunk. Lost a eyebrow to a nasty Bat-Bogey last week."

He met your eyes then, direct, the plea veiled but there. "Zabini's the one who raked it in. If anyone can call it off, it's him. Thought maybe… you could put in a word? For old times' sake, or whatever. Tell him to spot me the lot. Twenty-five Galleons. I can pay interest, once exams ease up."

The request landed flat, and you set the quill down, folding your arms. Sympathy was a luxury you rarely extended beyond your own; debts were a fool's game, and Blaise's rules were ironclad. "Not my circus, Lament. Blaise doesn't bend on wagers. Fair's fair. If you borrowed from sharks, that's your swim. Chat with him yourself if you're that desperate."

He straightened, colour rising in his cheeks, the casual slouch gone.

"Not your circus? Easy for you to say. Pureblood vaults don't run dry, do they? No mates ditching you over a few bad calls. No waking up to your robes singed because some thug from the village wants his cut." His voice sharpened, the words building like a poorly brewed potion. "Zabini waltzes in, takes the pot, leaves the rest of us scraping. And you? You sit here, scribbling charms like it's all tea and crumpets. Bet you've never haggled for a Knut in your life."

You held his stare, chin lifting, the chill in your tone honed from years of deflecting house rivals. "Haven't needed to. And neither should you, if you'd kept your wand in your pocket instead of your nose in the betting ring. Sorry for your mates, but I'm not your fixer. Find another shore to whine on."

The shift was palpable, his hands balling into fists on his thighs. He stood abruptly, gravel scattering, towering over your boulder now. "Whine? This is my life you're brushing off. Friends gone, marked for every dark corner in Hogsmeade. All because your boyfriend's got a knack for the pitch and a heart like Flobberworm mucus." He stepped closer, boots inches from your robes, voice dropping to a growl. "One word from you, and maybe he listens. Or maybe he doesn't care enough to. Either way, you're part of it, parading around like galleons don't burn holes."

Irritation pricked, hot under the skin, but you rose smoothly, journal tucked under your arm, refusing to crane up at him. "Part of what? Your bad choices? I've got my own essays to grind, Lament. If Blaise's name sticks in your craw, swallow it down. Not my mess, not my wand to wave it clean."

That broke something. His face contorted, the plea curdling to rage, and he lunged, hands clamping your shoulders, shoving you back onto the boulder with enough force to knock the breath from you. The journal flew, pages fluttering like startled birds into the shallows. Pain jarred your spine against unyielding stone, and you gasped, hands flying up to shove at his chest. "Get your hands-"

He didn't. His knee jammed between yours, pinning your legs, weight bearing down as he wrenched your arms to your sides. The lake's chill seeped through your robes where they bunched, and your wand, tucked in your boot for the casual meet, stayed out of reach. Panic bloomed, sharp and unwelcome, but you twisted, nails digging into his wrists. "Lament, you sod...off me!"

"Can't get the gold back," he snarled, breath ragged, face flushed inches from yours, spittle flecking your cheek. "Fine. But I'll get my worth another way. Pureblood skin fetches a price in the right alleys. You'll do."

His free hand fisted the hem of your shirt, yanking upward with a vicious tear. Fabric rent from waistband to ribs, the cool air slapping against your bare midriff, lace edge of your bra no shield. Revulsion twisted your gut, and you bucked wildly, knee driving up toward his thigh in a glancing hit that drew a grunt.

"Let go, you absolute git!" The words came fierce, laced with the bite of corridor taunts, even as fear clawed higher, your limbs straining against his grip. Tears stung, hot and traitorous, but you blinked them back, elbow jabbing his side...once...twice...until he loosened just enough.

With a desperate heave, you rolled sideways, dislodging him into the gravel. He cursed, scrambling, but you were up. Shirt clutched at your waist, feet pounding the shore toward the castle path. Pebbles slipped under your soles, the water's splash mocking your flight, and Wayne's boots thundered behind. "You think that's it? I'll-"

The path curved, willows parting, and you slammed into a solid chest.

Blaise.

Striding down with that languid grace, satchel over one shoulder, a faint smile fading as he caught you. His arms steadied you instantly, dark eyes widening at the sight: your torn shirt, the wild heave of your breath, the faint sheen of unshed tears glazing your gaze. You trembled against him, the cold façade fracturing, fingers twisting in his robes as the warmth you reserved for him alone seeped through the cracks.

"Blaise-" The word broke, half-sob, and he pulled you closer, one hand splaying across your back.

"Easy," he murmured, voice a low rumble, but then Wayne burst from the trees, panting, face twisted in fury. Blaise's head snapped up, the tenderness icing over to something lethal, his free hand already drawing his wand, an extension of his poise.

"You," Blaise said, the syllable flat, dangerous, as he eased you behind him, body shielding yours. "Lament. Got a death wish today?"

Wayne skidded to a halt, wand half-raised, chest working like bellows. "Zabini. Your girl's got a mouth. Told her about the bets. Your wins. She laughed it off. Like twenty-five Galleons is pocket change." He jabbed the wand forward, a shaky Stupefy lancing out, fuelled by desperation.

Blaise deflected it with a casual flick, Protego, the shield shimmering like oil on water, then stepped forward, you tucked safe at his side, your own wand snatched from your boot now clutched tight.

"Twenty-five? That's your sum? Merlin, boy, learn to fold before you fold." His tone was silk over steel, the smooth drawl that masked barbs.

Wayne snarled, circling left toward the water, firing a Reducto that exploded a spray of pebbles skyward. Blaise sidestepped fluidly, countering with a whispered Aguamenti, a jet of water erupting from his wand tip, slamming into Wayne's chest like a tidal shove. The Ravenclaw staggered back, soaked, boots slipping on wet stones, but he recovered, lunging with a wild Expelliarmus.

The disarming charm grazed Blaise's shoulder, singeing cloth, but he absorbed it, advancing with predatory calm.

"You touch her for that? For debts you chased?" Another spell from Wayne, a fumbling Incarcero that ropes lashed out too slow and Blaise severed them mid-air with a precise Diffindo, threads unraveling like mist. He closed the gap then, wand weaving a barrier of minor hexes: a tripping jinx that sent Wayne sprawling knee-deep in shallows, a stinging curse that bloomed red welts across his knuckles.

Wayne thrashed up, water sluicing off him, and charged bare-handed, fists swinging in a sloppy arc. Blaise met the first with his forearm, then drove his wand hilt into Wayne's solar plexus, doubling him over with a wheeze. A full Petrificus Totalus as Wayne gasped for air, the body-bind locking him rigid, toppling him face-first into the shallows with a splash. He floated there, helpless, bubbles rising from his frozen mouth, the lake's current tugging gently at his robes.

Blaise stood over him a moment, breathing even, wand tip trailing water droplets. He levitated Wayne's wand from the muck, Accio, soft as a sigh and threw it into the lake.

"Sleep it off in the mud. If you wake owing more, it's on you." A final Ennervate partial, enough to loosen the bind come morning, and Wayne slumped fully, unconscious driftwood.

He turned to you then, the edge softening, striding back as you sat on the path's verge, knees pulled tight, shirt ends knotted hastily at your waist.

The tears spilled now, silent and unchecked, carving paths down your cheeks—you swiped at them with a trembling hand, Blaise knelt without a word, his presence a balm.

"Come here," he said quietly, pulling you into his chest, arms wrapping secure, his chin resting atop your head.

You melted against him, face buried in the clean line of his shirt, the sobs muffled but coming fierce. The reserve you armoured yourself with dissolved here, warmth flooding for him, the one whose touch unravelled you without demand. "He… asked for the money. Wouldn't drop it. Then he... Like I was collateral."

Blaise's hold tightened, one hand stroking your hair in slow passes, the other tracing your spine. "Shh. I know. Bastard's paid for it."

He pulled back gently, tilting your chin, eyes dark and steady as he inspected the scrapes on your arms from the gravel, the faint bruises at your shoulders. His wand moved with care, Episkey for the abrasions, a soft glow sealing skin; Tergeo to clean the grit, then a healing charm for the deeper aches, ribs and back easing under the warmth.

The torn shirt he mended next, Reparo knitting the fabric whole, but his fingers lingered on your waist, thumb brushing the now-seamless hem in silent apology. "There. Good as new."

He cupped your face, thumbs wiping tears with exquisite tenderness, and kissed you, chasing salt with lips soft as whispers, deep and anchoring, his tongue coaxing yours in unhurried strokes, pouring steadiness into the kiss until your breaths synced, hands fisting his collar to pull him closer.

He broke it slowly, forehead to yours, voice a murmur. "No one takes from you. Not while I'm here." His arms drew you up, settling you against his side as he gathered your journal from the water's edge, dried with a flick, pages pristine. The lake whispered on, the sun sinking, but Blaise's warmth held the dusk at bay, a promise etched in every shared silence.

Tom Riddle

The steam in the Prefects Bathroom hung thick as fog over a moor, curling up from the vast bath that stretched like a small pool across the marble floor.

You had sunk into the warm water earlier, muscles unwinding after a long day, the scented bubbles fizzing softly around you. Tom had promised to join you once his patrols wrapped up. Those late-night rounds he took with a prefect's badge pinned to his robes, his presence enough to silence any whispers in the corridors.

The bathroom's high ceilings amplified every drip from the golden taps, the mermaid mural on the wall watching with painted eyes. Your wand rested on the edge of the tub, within reach, but the heat had lulled you into a drowsy haze.

The door creaked open, a faint echo through the mist. You lifted your head, water sloshing gently as you shifted. "Tom? That you?"

No response came.

Just the soft pad of footsteps on the tiles, muffled by the steam. A prickle of unease stirred in your chest, slow at first, like ice melting into a vein.

You waited a beat, listening. The steps drew closer, deliberate, not Tom's usual measured stride. Your heart picked up, a quiet thrum against the water's warmth.

"Tom?" you called again, voice sharper this time.

Silence answered, broken only by another step.

The unease sharpened into fear, cold fingers tracing your spine. You reached for your wand, but hesitated.

Perhaps it was nothing, a trick of the echoes. No. Better safe.

You grabbed the towel from the side, wrapping it around yourself as you stood, water cascading down your legs. The steps led up from the tub, slick under your bare feet, and you climbed them carefully, steam swirling thicker near the floor.

Halfway up, a shape materialized from the mist. Tall, cloaked in school robes, face obscured until it was too late.

A hand clamped over your mouth, rough and unyielding, while an arm snaked around your waist, yanking you back against a hard chest.

You were slammed into the tiled wall beside the tub, the impact jarring through your bones, cold ceramic biting into your skin through the towel. Breath exploded from your lungs in a muffled gasp, fear exploding into terror as the body pressed closer, trapping you.

"Quiet now," a voice hissed in your ear, low and ragged with fury. Malcolm Appleby. You recognized it from classes. A seventh-year Ravenclaw, sharp-minded but always skirting the, edges of rules.

His hand stayed over your mouth, fingers digging in, while his other arm pinned your arms to your sides. The steam cloaked you both, turning the bathroom into a blurred prison. "Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise for Riddle."

You twisted against him, heels slipping on the wet tiles, but his weight held you firm. Panic clawed up your throat, hot and suffocating, your mind racing through the day's fragments.

Tom had mentioned something in passing, catching Appleby with contraband in the library, dark artifacts smuggled in a bag. He had reported it to his head of house, the expulsion swift. Appleby was due on the morning train, gone from Hogwarts by dawn.

But here he was, breath hot on your neck, rage pouring off him like the steam.

"Think you're safe in here?" he muttered, his grip tightening until your jaw ached. "Riddle ruins my life, gets me tossed out like rubbish." His free hand shifted, sliding down to tug at the towel's edge, fingers brushing skin. Fear turned to nausea, a sick twist in your gut. "I'll ruin something of his. You. Break you so deep, no spell fixes it. He'll see your face and remember what he cost me."

You bit down on his palm, teeth sinking in hard enough to taste blood. He yelped, hand jerking back, and you sucked in air to scream but his fist cracked into your side, driving the breath out again.

Pain bloomed, ribs protesting, but you stomped on his foot, elbow jabbing backward into his stomach. He grunted, hold loosening for a split second, and you shoved free, towel slipping but clutched tight as you bolted across the tiles.

The door was a hazy outline through the steam, your feet slapping wet stone, heart pounding in your ears. Appleby's curses echoed behind you, footsteps splashing as he pursued. "Get back here, you little-"

You burst through the door into the cooler corridor, steam billowing out like smoke, and collided straight into a solid figure.

Arms caught you, steadying your stumble, and you looked up into Tom's face, pale, sharp features set in confusion that shifted to icy comprehension in an instant. His dark eyes took in your dishevelled towel, the budding bruise on your cheek from the wall, the terror etched on your face.

Then they flicked past you to Appleby, who skidded to a halt in the doorway, chest heaving.

"Riddle," Appleby snarled, wand already drawn, pointed low. "Perfect timing. Come to collect what's left?"

Tom's arm tightened around you, pulling you behind him with a gentleness that contrasted the steel in his posture. He released you slowly, stepping forward, his own wand appearing in his hand like it had always been there. The corridor's torches flickered, casting long shadows that danced across his face, highlighting the cold fury building in his eyes. No outburst, no roar, just a quiet, seething anger that chilled the air more than any draft.

"Appleby," Tom said, voice smooth as silk over a blade, each syllable precise. "I see expulsion wasn't lesson enough. Touching what's mine? A fatal error."

Appleby's laugh was forced, edged with desperation, but he raised his wand higher. "What's yours? She's just a girl. You took everything from me. My future, gone because of your meddling. I'll leave her marked, Riddle. See how you like that."

Tom's expression didn't change, but his wand moved in a subtle flick. "Petrificus Totalus."

The body-bind hit Appleby mid-step, locking his limbs rigid, eyes wide with shock as he toppled forward like a statue. He hit the stone floor with a thud, wand clattering away. Tom advanced, slow and unhurried, the anger in him a controlled burn, visible in the tight line of his jaw, the way his fingers gripped his wand.

You leaned against the wall, breaths coming in shaky gasps, the fear still pulsing through you like poison. The towel felt thin, inadequate, the corridor's chill seeping into your wet skin, but you couldn't move, rooted by the aftermath, the violation of Appleby's hands lingering like a shadow.

Tom knelt beside the frozen Appleby, tilting his head as if studying a specimen.

"You thought to harm her," he murmured, voice low, almost conversational, but laced with venom that made your skin crawl. "To destroy what I hold dear. Foolish." He raised his wand again, tip tracing a lazy pattern over Appleby's form. "Transfiguration suits you better. Something small. Insignificant."

Appleby's eyes bulged, the only part of him that could move, terror flashing in them as Tom's spell took hold. "Formica mutatio."

Appleby's body shimmered, shrinking, limbs retracting, form twisting into something tiny and black. An ant, scuttling in panic on the floor.

Tom's foot hovered over it, boot casting a shadow. "By morning, they'll assume you caught that train. No one will look for a speck like you."

The ant froze, then darted. Too slow.

Tom's heel came down with deliberate force, a soft crunch echoing in the quiet corridor. He ground it once, expression unchanging, then lifted his foot, wiping the sole on the stone as if erasing dirt. The anger in him simmered, satisfied but not quenched, his gaze lifting to you.

He crossed back in two strides, the mask cracking slightly as he reached you. His hands settled on your shoulders, light at first, assessing.

"Are you injured?" The words were soft, but the underlying fury vibrated through them, directed not at you but at the ghost of what had happened.

You nodded, then shook your head, the fear crashing over you in waves now that safety allowed it. Tears burned your eyes, spilling hot down your cheeks, and you clutched the towel tighter, body trembling. "He… he was going to… I couldn't…"

Tom's arms enveloped you then, pulling you against his chest, one hand cradling your head, the other rubbing slow circles on your back. His robes were dry, warm, smelling of parchment and faint cologne, a stark contrast to the bathroom's damp.

"Hush," he whispered, lips brushing your temple. "He's gone. Nothing now." But his hold tightened, possessive, the anger flaring anew in the tension of his muscles. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering, then tilted your chin up to examine the bruise on your cheek, his thumb tracing it gently.

"Episkey," he murmured, wand summoned to his fingers. The healing spread cool relief, the pain dulling to nothing. He healed the ache in your side next, movements precise, but his eyes held yours throughout, dark with a mix of rage and something deeper, regret, perhaps, for not being there sooner. "No one will harm you again. I swear it."

The comfort sank in slowly, his presence a shield against the lingering terror. You leaned into him, sobs quieting to hiccups, his hand stroking your hair with uncharacteristic tenderness.

He kissed you. Soft at first, lips firm against yours, tasting of control reclaimed. It deepened as you responded, his tongue seeking yours, urgent now, pouring reassurance into every touch. One hand cupped your face, the other at your waist, holding you close as if to merge you into him, safe from the world.

When he broke away, breaths mingling, he rested his forehead against yours. "You're mine," he said, voice low, fierce with protection. "And I'll destroy anyone who forgets that."

He guided you back into the bathroom, door sealing with a wave of his wand, steam still swirling but less oppressive now. He helped you into the water again, towel discarded, his eyes averted with rare respect until you were submerged. Then he shed his outer robes, joining you, arms pulling you onto his lap in the shallows. Kisses trailed your neck, your shoulders, slow and deliberate, washing away the fear with each press. His hands explored gently, healing any overlooked scrape, comfort building layer by layer until the anger faded, leaving only the two of you in the warm depths.

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away. “Couldn’t sleep. Too bright tonight.”

You tilted your head. “The moon?”

He nodded, smiling a little. “Professor Sprout says the plants grow best under it. It feels… peaceful.”

You stepped closer, the moonlight catching in his eyes—soft brown turned molten gold. “You really love this, don’t you? The quiet. The earth. All of it.”

Neville’s shoulders lifted in a shy shrug. “I do. I think… it loves us back, in its own way.”

The air between you hummed gently, the night holding its breath. Somewhere above, an owl hooted, and the faint rustle of leaves filled the silence.

Then, without quite meaning to, you said, “Dance with me.”

Neville blinked. “What?”

You laughed softly, holding out your hand. “No music, no audience—just the moon and us.”

He hesitated, eyes wide, but his hand found yours. His palm was warm and a little rough from the hours spent in the greenhouses.

You guided him closer, placing his other hand on your waist. He blushed so deeply it made your heart ache.

“I’m not very good at this,” he admitted.

“You’re doing fine,” you said gently. “Just follow.”

And he did—hesitant at first, but slowly, something shifted. His movements grew steadier, his grip more confident. The two of you swayed beneath the glowing moon, the rhythm of your breathing enough of a song.

When you looked up, the light gilded his face in soft gold. You thought you’d never seen anyone look so real, so alive.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I used to hate the moon. It made me feel small. But right now…” He met your gaze and smiled—small, certain, and full of quiet wonder. “Right now, I think it’s perfect.”

You didn’t answer. You just leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, the night spinning slow and golden around you.

Mattheo loomed over you, his broad frame caging you in, all lean muscle and scarred skin, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he stared down at you. Those eyes—black, hungry, dangerous—drank you in like you were prey, and fuck, you felt like it. He was shirtless, trousers barely clinging to his hips, the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric. You’d never been with him before, never been this close, and the reality of him—his size, his intensity—made your stomach twist with nerves and want.

“Gonna fucking ruin you,” he growled, his voice low and rough, dripping with that cocky edge that made your thighs clench. His hands gripped your hips, hard enough to bruise, and he pushed your legs wider, his gaze dropping to the slick, aching heat between them. “You ready for me, or you gonna beg me to go slow?”

You swallowed, your throat dry, but you managed a nod, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m ready.” It was a lie, and he knew it—could see it in the way your body trembled, the way your breath hitched when he shoved his trousers down, freeing himself. His cock was thick, veined, heavy, and so fucking big it made your eyes widen, a flicker of panic mixing with the need pooling in your core.

He smirked, catching your reaction, and leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his stubble scraping your skin. “Don’t worry, princess,” he murmured, his voice dark and taunting. “I’ll make it fit.” He lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance, glistening with your arousal, and you braced yourself, fingers digging into the sheets.

When he pushed in, it was slow but relentless, the stretch burning, overwhelming, as he filled you inch by agonizing inch. You tensed, a sharp gasp escaping you as your body struggled to adjust to his size, your cunt clenching tight around him, trying to accommodate the intrusion. “Fuck,” you whimpered, your voice shaking, your legs trembling as you arched beneath him, half-pain, half-pleasure. “Matty, you’re—fuck, you’re too big.”

He stilled, his cock buried halfway, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he let out a low, guttural groan. “Relax,” he growled, but his voice was softer than before, a rare hint of concern breaking through his dominance. “You’re takin’ me so well, just—fuck, just breathe.” He leaned down, biting at your neck, his teeth sharp enough to sting, grounding you as you gasped, your body slowly adjusting, the burn giving way to a deep, throbbing fullness that made your head spin.

When he started moving again, pushing deeper, you thought you’d break apart, the stretch so intense it stole your breath. But then he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, his cock filling you so completely you could feel him everywhere—deep, pulsing, claiming. He expected you to go quiet now, to turn into one of those girls he was used to—soft moans, maybe a shy whimper of his name, letting him take over, letting him fuck them into the mattress while they stayed pliant, passive, a perfect little pillow princess. He set a slow, brutal pace, each thrust rocking your body, the wet squelch of your cunt loud in the quiet room, slick dripping down your thighs and soaking his balls.

But you didn’t stay quiet. You couldn’t. The words spilled out, raw and unfiltered, a fucked-out babble that came from somewhere deep, somewhere desperate. “Fuck, Matty, s-so good,” you moaned, your voice trembling, slurred with pleasure as you clawed at his back. “Your cock’s so fucking big, splitting me open, s–shit—feels like you’re in my stomach.”

His rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering as your words hit him like a curse. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and dark, a flicker of shock breaking through his usual smug control. “Yeah?” he rasped, his voice rough, almost unsteady, like he couldn’t believe the filth pouring from your mouth. He was used to silence, to gasps and whimpers, not this—not you, babbling like a whore in heat, describing every raw sensation in vivid, desperate detail. It threw him, made his head spin, rutting faster inside you like an amateur, his cock twitching inside you as he tried to hold onto his control.

You didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, the words tumbling out as he fucked you harder, deeper, the bed creaking under the force of his thrusts. “God, yes, right there,” you gasped, your legs wrapping tight around his waist, pulling him in, your cunt clenching so tight it made him groan. “Filling me so fucking good, Matty, fuck—love how you’re stretching me, so deep, so fucking full.” The sultry tone of your voice against his ear almost had his eyes rolling back, a full body shudder wrecking through him as his grip turned almost brutal against your hips.

His breath hitched, a low, broken sound, and you saw it—the way his control was cracking, the way your words were unraveling him. He was supposed to be the one in charge, the one making you beg, but your voice was a fucking hex, each syllable chipping away at his composure. He slammed into you harder, the headboard smacking the wall, the head of his cock rapidly pistoning into that perfect squishy spot inside you, his fingers digging into your hips so deep you’d feel the bruises for days. “Fuck, you’re—” he started, but cut himself off, shaking his head like he was trying to shake off the haze your words were casting. “Fuck, keep talking baby.”

You were too far gone to not, too lost in the pleasure, in the way his cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, making your body sing. “Don’t stop, Matty,” you whined, your voice a messy, fucked-out slur, your nails raking down his back, leaving red welts. “Fuck me harder, wanna feel every inch of you, wanna come all over this big fucking cock.” Your words were incoherent, a babble of need and praise, and you felt slick gushing around him, coating your thighs, the obscene wet sound of him fucking you filling the room.

He groaned, a raw, desperate sound, his hips snapping faster, rougher, like he was trying to fuck the words out of you, but it only made you louder. “Shit, you’re so good, Matty, ruining me,” you moaned, your head lolling back, your eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure built, sharp and overwhelming. “Love how you fuck me, so fucking deep, making me yours, fuck—gonna come so hard, please, please.”

He was unraveling, his thrusts erratic, his breath ragged, his usual dominance fraying under the onslaught of your words. He leaned down, biting at your shoulder, hard enough to make you gasp, his tongue soothing the sting as he tried to ground himself, but your babbling was too much. “Fuck, you’re so tight, so wet,” he growled, his voice breaking, almost pleading. “Gonna make me come if you keep talkin’ like that.”

“Yes, yes, come in me, Matty,” you babbled, your voice a desperate, trembling mess as you clenched around him, your orgasm crashing closer. “Fill me up, want your cum so bad, want you dripping out of me, fuck—” Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body arching, shaking, as you came with a shattered cry of his name, your cunt pulsing around him, cream coating his dick and slick gushing down your thighs, soaking the sheets.

He followed right after, his groan raw and guttural, his cock twitching as he spilled inside you, his thrusts sloppy and desperate as he rode out the pleasure. His body shuddered, collapsing against you, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. For a long moment, the room was silent except for the sound of your panting, the faint creak of the bed settling beneath you. Any thoughts he had of you being a one time thing were out the window now, you weren't getting rid of him if you tried.

Mattheo lifted his head, his eyes still dazed, a faint, disbelieving smirk tugging at his lips. “Fucking hell,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, wrecked. “Didn’t expect that mouth on you. You’re gonna fucking kill me next time.”

“In the common rooms? Why would they be there?”

“I don’t really know anything other than that, someone said they saw the two going back to the Slytherin common room and Malfoy looked upset.”

Your boyfriend, Draco Malfoy, and his friend Enzo were absent from the Great Hall, you had expected to meet them on the way here, yet they were nowhere in sight. According to the random student who happened to hear from someone else said that they were both headed back to the dorm rooms, while Draco seemingly looked distraught. You weren’t sure what was going on, but you couldn’t sit back while something could have gone awry.

In a hurry, you scampered out the large gates of the hall and made your way back to your lover’s dorm room. A sickening worry built at the bottom of your stomach, they hardly ever truly fought, just teasing and playful banter, nothing more. It was rather strange to think Lorenzo had done something to enrage or upset Draco. With that thought, you sped your pace, jogging to the stairs without getting called out by a professor.

“You saw her going where with Lorenzo?” Draco, who has now stopped to a full halt, stared at the group of Huffies with absolute confusion, poor little ones shivered under his stare.

The pair had talked about them seeing you along with a peppy Berkshire strolling back to the dorms alone. “Um… we saw—She was—the–the Slytherin dorms…” Maybe Draco didn’t realize it, but the foreboding shadow that crossed along his glare scared the living wits out of the 2nd years. The younger students scattered away in a panic yelling apologies as if they had caused the blond’s anger.

The man stomped his way back to the Slytherin common rooms, rather pissed at his cousin’s actions. During the recent days, he noticed Enzo’s carefree attitude with you, more so than usual. Touching shoulders, laughing in close quarters.

He hated how close you had gotten with his cousin, often giggling about who knows what amongst yourselves. Now he was worried that this friendship had taken a turn for the worst, resulting in tangles and met breathes underneath the covers of a duvet…

You didn’t know what to expect when you got there, maybe a loud brawl, deafening silence, but you didn’t think to see Enzo, alone, legs crossed as he sat on the bed. A playful smirk planted along his lips, and a suffocatingly sweet scent filling your lungs with ease.

“Enzo? Where’s Draco?” You had asked with hesitation, his smile only grew wider, pupils slithering into a narrowed gaze as you walked closer.

“I heard Draco was with you, did something happen between you two?” The muscles at your nape craned slightly as he stood straight, thin fingertips lacing around the loose strands of your windswept hair. “Between Draco and I?” An amused chuckle emerged from his throat, “Oh no… There’s nothing at all! Not yet that is.”

“What do you–” In a whirlwind you were instantly pushed to the bed, wrists engulfed in his grasp, rendered immobile as he held you in a unanticipated position. His body hovering over yours like a shadow, the gentle teasing look he usually had was replaced with a dark shade that drowned his expression, this wasn’t the Enzo you knew. The smile on his face was gone in an instant, a strained sigh releasing from its place, “–so annoying.”

His unexpected change in personality stunned your voice, you weren’t sure who you were looking at anymore. “Always showing off your shitty affection in front of everyone, treating me like the fucking third-wheel. M’tired of playing nice, love.”

Hands held above your head, while a warm touch crawled down your skirt, his usual boba brown eyes now slim and watchful of your every reaction.

Every breathe felt thick, alluring, filling your senses with something unknown, core pulsing with each strained breathe. Encouraging deep sinful desires in your mind, your shirt began unbuttoning little by little, till your bra was fully visible, pretty black lace that Draco loved.

Along with the lace panties that were now soaking with arousal as the tips of his nails nipped at the cloth. Rubbing the sensitive muscle through the barrier, back arching at the pleasuring contact.

It was wrong, you shouldn’t have been following through with his every action, an electrifying wave circuiting through your nerves for each touch of his fingers. Calling his name in a pathetic whimper, hoping he’d cease the torture applied to your throbbing pussy. Your hands were finally released, when Enzo sat up, straddling a single leg, ceasing all actions and a knowing smile formed on his lips. He didn’t say a word as you looked at him with confused aroused eyes.

The silence dispersed as the door opened forcefully, slamming against the wall. Draco had a clear view of the spectacle, his dear girlfriend with reddened cheeks as she sat up in alarm, skirt wrinkled up her waist, and a good for nothing relative moving from his place on top of her to stand without shame, a smirk played like he won a game.

Draco snatched the man’s collar without much thought, knowing that he must have done something. “The bloody hell you think you’re doing, Berkshire?!” He spat to the man who had shown no remorse or disturbance from being caught in his actions. “Just satisfying the little lady, coz! Needed some help, and I was the only one around.” Hands rose in mock defense, expression never faltering for a second, his gaze challenged the blond with every word that fell off his tongue.

“You’re a fucking whore, you son of a bitch,” Draco’s tone lowered as the insults hissed from his tightened jaw, before he managed to say more, the man felt a wave of dizziness take him over, heart hammering against his rib cage as his grip on Enzo’s dress shirt loosened. A hand found place on his sweating forehead, face completely flushed despite being in a rather chilled room. “What on—” Deep intakes of oxygen did no help to calm his change in heart rate, the sound of you calling his name in a worry only rushed the blood across his veins, “what did you do?”

“Come on!” He stretched the last syllable, “do you really have no faith in me whatsoever?” Looking at his cousin with exaggerated offense, but the glare Draco sent his way said he wasn’t in the mood to play games.

Scoffing at Draco’s boring attitude, he revealed, “I sprayed the air with an aphrodisiac,” waving his hand as he explained like it wasn’t a crucial detail.

Both you and your boyfriend stared at Enzo in shock, not before Draco forcefully pulling him by the collar again, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Yelling without an ounce of restraint, “is that a rhetorical question?” The chestnut haired joked in this stiff atmosphere.

Before spouting another round of insults, Draco’s voice ceased as the feeling of a hardened object poking at the topmost area of his thigh; looking down at the protruding tent increasing in the crotch of Enzo’s trousers, “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…” he said exasperatedly, but Enzo simply answered casually, “it’s not like I’m immune to the air, I can get horny too.” Smirking at his cousin, “and it doesn’t look like you are either,” pointing towards the growing ache bulging from the black slacks Draco wore.

Pushing the annoyance away Draco’s glare made its way towards you as he approached, yelling at how you could let Enzo tempt you into bed, why would you get anywhere near him alone in the a closed off room. “I didn’t mean to! Truly!” But the click of his tongue told you that he refused to listen to your explanation.

A hand rested on Draco’s shoulder, deceiving devil-worn lips whispering in the man’s ear, Enzo seemingly found another way to get what he wants. “Don’t blame her, she just wanted to have a good time for once.” Which warranted a glare, brows scrunching in a look of disgust, “M’sorry… I was just worried about you guys.” You peeped from under them from where you sat on the bed, both men standing in front of you, bodies tall and imposing.

“Worried–? How does being worried—” Enzo cut him off before trying to tie him into another one of his schemes, quietly challenging into the blond’s ear, “bet I could get her to cum first.”

“I cannot believe you’re thinking with your bloody cock at a time like this!”

“Your’s doesn’t seem like it’s against the idea,” pointing towards Draco’s erection which apparently grew more in size compared to the last 10 seconds.

Draco clicked his tongue with annoyance, but didn’t deny the fact, not before peering down at your aroused state—breasts peeping from your messy uniform, legs flushed as you eyes bore with the glazed doe pupils, lips all pink and blushed—did he bend down, ring-cladded fingers wrapping around your throat, thin lips hovering over your ears, “be good.” A sharp inhale shot into your lungs, the silver rings chilling your skin, his thumb applying pressure to your bobbing throat.

Releasing you to find his way to the emerald cushioned couch that had a clear view of the pornographic entertainment about to take place.

You sat bewildered, pussy still throbbing when Enzo straddled over your waist, chuckling about how he’ll finally have some long overdue fun. Your body pressed against the mattress, slender hands crawled up your thighs, threatening the elastic at your panties, but you tried to hold him back, whispering his name as your eyes made contact with your boyfriend, his gaze simply watched your every reaction, legs and arms crossed as though he awaited a show to unfold.

Enzo whispered reassurance to your worries, kissing down your neck, explaining that it was all allowed under Draco’s watch. Nodding to his words, the edges of your panties slithered down your legs, cold air tickling the exposed skin as hands spread your thighs nice and wide for his eyes.

Pussy dripping wet with your juice, glistening and pulsing for every passing second. “Already so wet, baby. Such a little pervert.” He teased, not wasting a second before licking a quick stripe at your folds, tip of his tongue teasing the aching clit, spit coating your skin.

Your aroused moans echoed in the room, back arching to the relief, crying out as your hips bucked. Large palms keeping your legs spread while his mouth left attacks on your cunt, the hot muscle traversed every crevice of your labia, circling around your entrance as you whimpered begs for him to end this torture, teasing licks and nips tingled your body, awaiting for a relief of pleasure.

Maybe pitying your pathetic state, his long fingers entered inside you with ease, thrusting in a come hither motion, curling at your insides, pressing onto the one spot that had your lips form an ‘O’. Moans following after without resistance, Draco found your noises to be far louder than what you’ve done in any other session with him, perhaps the effects of Enzo’s drug did wonders to amplify the sensations you felt.

In a matter of minutes you were already creaming as a product of Enzo’s skilled fingers. Licking the cum soaked digits whilst staring at your flushed self, sweat sticking to your hair, trying to catch some form of air.

Without even a moment to rest after that intense wave of pleasure, Enzo pulled you from the bed, leading you towards your dear lover. With a push at your lower back, your knees straddled clothed legs, hands holding onto broad shoulders as your bare throbbing pussy hovered in the air.

Assuming it was Draco’s time to have his way with you, he unzipped the neglected length confined within the dratted cloth, cock whipping out, long and pale pink, leaking with white beads of his precum, all from watching you come undone by the hands of his bastard cousin.

Before he could get his hands on your waist, leading you down the length of his shaft, Enzo uttered Incarcerous, resulting in Draco’s hands tying in a thick rope, halting any action he had planned to do.

“Enzo—!”

“It’s still my turn,” smiling at the pissed off platinum blond with innocence. His hands found purchase on your sensitive waist, bunching your skirt up, and releasing his erection from the boxers and trousers that dared to hold it back. Smearing his precum along your entrance, “ready, sweetheart?” You leaned towards Draco, your hold tightening as you nodded, “need words, love.”

“I-I’m ready,” staring at grey worn pupils, watching your lust soaked features, eyes widening as your muscles stretched open at the insertion of his long cock, sliding deep and slow until you were filled to the base.

“You’re so tight,” a strained groan tumbling from his throat, fingers piercing the fat of your hips, as he tried to hold onto his sanity, the feeling of your walls clinging onto him could have him cumming inside you in a matter of seconds.

With every inch of his strength, he managed to pull out half way, and entered with a harsh thrust, massaging your wall of nerves clenching onto him as he plunged your pussy at a slow motion. Hitting the tip of your cervix as his pelvis smacked against your bare flesh. Fuck, how bad he wanted this. Destroying his friend’s… No, his cousin’s girlfriend right before his very eyes, banging your slutty cunt like it was the only thing you were good for.

Breasts bouncing with every smack, Draco suffered, his cock twitching for every moan that ripped from your lips, nails piercing his shoulders, and he could do nothing of it, wrists still constrained by the tight ropes of an Incarcerous spell, burning into his skin as his own girlfriend got fucked on another’s cock.

Moaning into your boyfriend’s mouth, messily devouring each other with tongue, teeth, and all. He was refrained from fucking you, now his neglected dick was left alone, soaking itself in its own dripping want, veins twitching, and quite embarrassingly getting so close to his own release. The vibrations of Enzo’s thrusts shook under the couch, tits bouncing for every rhythm, wrapping your arms around the boy’s neck as your climax neared after several plaps, moans dripping from your lips while huffs crumbled from the blond’s chest; the line of lust and logic were blurred, Draco should have been furious, should have taken his girlfriend away from this dreadful man, yet he dealt with the devil and the sight has him so close to cumming on his own.

Enzo’s digits found way to your folds, tantalizing it with lazy circles, prodding deep inside your abused hole while your walls twitched inside, squeezing his length for its worth as it kisses the cervix.

With perfect timing, your body came undone, orgasm combusted inside you, spurting all over Enzo’s fingers and onto the black slacks underneath you, follow by Draco’s own relief, the warmth and sight of your juices dripping from your pussy dragged his release out of its impending state, spurting ropes of white on the surrounding area. “Fuck—” Enzo bit his lips, your wave of pleasure vibrated the warm cunt swallowing him whole, in just a thrust or two, his tip kissed your bundles and relived his aching cock, biting into your barely concealed shoulder.

Room now smelling like sweat and sin, your head laid on the shoulder in front of you, ropes came undone from the order of the man behind you, and Draco’s hands were free. You couldn’t handle anymore, shallow breathes from trembling lungs, trying to control your quaking muscles.

“That was—Hot! Fuck, can’t believe you’ve been hoarding this, Malfoy.” Said hoarder didn’t have much to say, his hands busying his thoughts as he fondled the fat of your thighs, dragging your ass down to meet his mushroom tip, still coloured red and twitching with a saturated need for your cunt.

Protruding into your entrance before you could utter a protest, thrusting deep, stretching your already used walls. You screamed his name, tears streaming down your face, entire body overstimulated from the first two times you had came. “You’re not gonna just make me sit and watch are you?” Enzo peeped, watching like a dejected puppy, cock whipped like a rock dripping with cream, “m’still not satisfied.”

Draco, who glared at the man with pure annoyance, suddenly changed your position, laying his back onto the cum stained couch, veins dragging out the spongy muscles only to smack back inside full to the hilt. “Hurry it on will you, Berkshire.”

Enzo merrily placed himself on his knees right behind your awaiting ass, moaning incoherent babbles of words and cries, as drool fell from your O formed lips, eyes rolling to the back of your skull the moment a familiar fleshy tip enters your anus. “God—haah—” Whining moans cried out from the brown haired, holding onto the couch for dear life, you were so tight, tighter than your cunt, choking his cock in a suffocating hold.

He began to rock his hips in sync with Draco’s thrusts, both lengths making contact through the muscly barrier between your holes, fucking you at a sped up rhythm, striking deep inside you without falter. Choking on your own moans, long white fingers stuffed your drooling mouth, while another played with the stiff throbbing clit; the room was filled with groans and whines, couch shaking with violence as you were sandwiched between two figures, pistoning into your accessible holes, gagging at the digits digging past your lips, while the blond thumbed your clit, pinching the little flap as your cried a muffle scream. Spraying his clothes and skin with uncontrollable squirts, eyes bubbling with salty water, glazing over your sight; was it embarrassment or from the immense pleasure that has you in tears? You couldn’t be sure, but you knew you have never seen Draco’s face with such a devilish look ever in your life.

“Can’t believe—” Slaps of your ass colliding with bare skin filled Draco’s pauses, walls fluttering around his dick, skin sweetly kissing his base with a smack of your ass, “you’re a fucking slut, can’t be satisfied with one dick up your bloody pussy.” Each insult had you squeezing around the two, holes tightening, moaning at Draco’s fist in your hair, pulling it back as he attacks your pulse point.

Pleasure and pain coursing down your veins, prompting cries and screams that excited the men installed inside you. Filthy squelches littered the air, who knows how long you had been going at it or for how many times had you soiled the area with your essence.

Hoarse cries scratched your esophagus, all parts of you had been filthed with white ropes, cream dripping down your skin, fat glops stuffing your cunt and anus, the two with tousled hair and out of sync breathes just smirked at the sight of your fucked out state, body violently shaking after their abuse to your smaller frame, “Fuck–she’s so pretty,” Enzo kissed behind your ear, rubbing at your entrance as a comfort, but only enlisted mewls from your swollen lips.

“Get yourself a girl of your own, Berkshire.” Draco protectively threw an arm around you, smacking the other’s hand from your fluttering muscle, “I just fucked her and you’re still acting this way?” He stared at his cousin with astonishment, “sharing is carrying, coz.”

“This was a one time thing, you arse.” A tsk clicked its way from Enzo’s tongue, fixing himself with a spell, stains and wet patches void from his trousers like nothing had ever occurred. Making a theatrical bow before leaving out the door.

You muttered a pathetic whine of your lover’s name, hoping for some form of comfort, but the dark look in his eyes told another story. “You looked quite happy on my cousin’s dick, weren’t you, darling.” Drawing out the pet name like poison, bunching your hair in a hold, forcing you to look you into his eyes, a stutter of a whimper managed to come from your sore voice.

“Better teach you who you belong too…”

None of you knew the arrangement of such events, how Lorenzo controlled the word of mouth within Hogwarts, just small rumors that would play you into his little trap. Get you to finally cum on his length cock, cry his name for once, and enjoy the frustrated look of his dear cousin’s face when he can do nothing but watch. The last part was completely unexpected, thinking Draco would drag you out of the room, but Enzo would never complain about at opportunity to fuck your ass. He just needed to get it to happen again.