Dream World

Still, this felt quite different.

The moment you’d received the message that morning: Maverick wants to see you. And Rooster. Together. You’d spent the last hour trying to figure out what exactly you’d done.

Nothing came to mind, which somehow made you even more nervous.

Maverick sat behind his desk, reading through a stack of papers. He looked up as the two of you entered. “Morning.”

“Mav.” Rooster greeted.

“Good morning.” You echoed.

Maverick gestured toward the chairs opposite his desk. “Sit.”

The second Rooster dropped into the chair beside you, he leaned over slightly. “What’d you do?”

You looked at him and frowned. “What’d I do?”

“You got called in too.” He shrugged and looked at you.

You look around, slightly in distress. “Yeah, and you also got called in.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s exactly what somebody who’s done something says.”

Rooster opened his mouth to argue, but Mav was first. “I can hear both of you.”

You immediately sat back and Rooster cleared his throat. “Right.”

A smile tugged briefly at Maverick’s mouth and then he set the papers down. For a moment, the room grew quiet. It felt serious enough that both you and Rooster straightened instinctively.

Maverick noticed and his expression softened slightly. “Relax.”

But obviously, neither of you relaxed.

“I promise this isn’t a... disciplinary meeting.”

You folded your arms and rested them on the table. “Then why are we here?”

Maverick leaned back in his chair. “Because I need something from the both of you.”

That certainly got your attention.

You felt yourself sit up straighter. And beside you, Rooster did the same. The casual atmosphere disappeared immediately. Mission requests weren’t unusual, though Maverick asking for something personally was.

“What do you need?” Rooster asked.

Maverick’s gaze shifted toward you. Not Rooster, you. And suddenly your confusion doubled.

Because Rooster made more sense: he was an aviator. One of the best pilots in the squadron. You, on the other hand; were a medic who patched people up, treated injuries, dealt with emergencies after things went wrong.

So, you weren’t the one flying into danger, but the one waiting to deal with the consequences. So, why was Maverick looking at you like you were the important part of this conversation?

“I know we’re already busy preparing for the next operation,” Mav said. “And I know everyone’s schedules are packed.”

That wasn’t exactly reassuring.

Maverick folded his hands together. “But there’s something we need to address before then.”

You exchanged another glance with Rooster.

Neither of you seemed to have any idea where this was going. Maverick noticed and continued. “I’ve been reviewing reports from the last few deployments.”

Your stomach dropped slightly, reports were never a good sign. “And?”

Maverick leaned back slightly against the edge of his desk. The movement looked casual, but there was something thoughtful in the way he folded his arms across his chest.

His eyes moved between the two of you for a moment before settling somewhere beyond your shoulder, as though he was organising his thoughts before speaking.

“And I’ve noticed a recurring problem.”

A small crease formed between your brows.

Beside you, Rooster shifted in his chair, stretching one arm across the backrest behind him. Unlike you, he looked more relaxed now.

“What problem?” you asked.

Maverick pushed away from the desk and walked toward the large mission map mounted on the wall.

He stopped in front of the display and rested a hand against the edge of the table beneath it.

Several locations had already been marked in red and blue for the upcoming operation. Routes, landing zones, potential extraction points.

Maverick pointed toward one of them. “When something goes wrong here,” he said, tapping the location with his finger. “It takes too long for a medical team to reach the pilots.”

His finger moved to another marker. “And here.”

Then another.

“And here.”

You followed every movement carefully with your eyes.

At first, you weren’t entirely sure where he was going with this. The issue wasn’t new. Every medic on base knew response times were one of the biggest challenges in field operations.

But then something started clicking into place. Not fully, just enough to make you sit forward in your chair.

The leather creaked quietly beneath you. Maverick crossed his arms again and looked directly at both of you. “The reality is that minutes matter. Even seconds.”

Nobody spoke.

Because there wasn’t a single person in this room who could argue otherwise. You knew for a fact you certainly couldn’t.

You’d seen it too many times, watched patients arrive conscious and talking, only for complications to spiral because help had come a few minutes too late. And watched others survive injuries they shouldn’t have survived because someone reached them thirty seconds sooner than expected.

Medicine wasn’t always about skill. Sometimes not even about experience, but a lot of times came down to speed; being there first.

Maverick’s gaze settled on you. “So we’re changing things.”

Your eyebrows lifted immediately and a feeling of uncertainty settled in your stomach. “And what does that mean exactly?”

A small smile tugged at one corner of Maverick’s mouth. Not because anything was funny. Because he clearly knew what your reaction was about to be. “It means I want a dedicated flight medic.”

For a second, you genuinely thought you’d misunderstood him. The words registered. They just didn’t make sense.

“A medic capable of deploying directly with aviation teams rather than waiting for secondary transport.”

Your brain seemed to stall.

Then slowly, very slowly, you lifted a hand and pointed at yourself. “Me?”

“You.”

“Mav…” You laughed a short burst of disbelief before you could stop it. You shook your head, looking down at the floor for a second before glancing back up. “I don’t fly.”

“Not yet.”

That earned another laugh. This one louder. You leaned back in your chair, teeth showing as you laughed, your head tipping toward the ceiling. “That’s funny.”

Maverick didn’t even blink.

The smile disappeared from your face almost immediately. Your head lowered again. “Oh.”

Across from you, Maverick simply raised an eyebrow. Rooster straightened slightly, his lazy posture disappeared. For the first time since entering the room, he looked genuinely surprised.

“Wait,” he said. “Seriously?”

“Very seriously.”

You stared at Maverick. The conversation felt like it was happening several seconds ahead of where your brain currently was.

“Mav, I’m a medic.”

“Correct.”

“I’m not a pilot.”

“Also correct.”

“I don’t even have flight qualifications.”

“Which is why we’re having this conversation. Besides any medic in this field got basic pilot training. In case we hadn’t any.”

“Mav, that was years ago. I barely remember anything.”

Surely there were better candidates; people who already had aviation experience, who wouldn’t need months of additional training. Ones who actually belonged in an aircraft.

Maverick seemed to read every thought crossing your face. He’d always been annoyingly good at that.

“You’re one of the best medics I’ve worked with.”

The sentence hit you like a thrown object. You immediately looked away. The window suddenly became fascinating.

Outside, a maintenance crew was moving equipment across the tarmac. Anything was easier to focus on than being praised.

Maverick ignored your discomfort entirely. “You stay calm under pressure. You make decisions quickly. And every pilot I’ve spoken to trusts you.”

You nodded in agreement, you’d spent years earning that trust.

Long nights in medical tents, deployments that blurred together, holding pressure on wounds while helicopters landed around you. Even stitching injuries at three in the morning while exhausted pilots talked simply because they didn’t know who else to talk to.

And somehow, over the years, you’d earned their trust. You swallowed. Still uncomfortable under Maverick’s attention. “That still doesn’t explain why me.”

Maverick’s expression softened once again and he sat back down in front of Bradley and you. “Because if something happens up there,” he said quietly. “I want the best person possible arriving first.”

You looked down at your hands. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Maverick gave you time and then continued. “You won’t be flying missions as a pilot. You’ll be training to operate in aviation environments.”

And there it was. The catch.

“Oh no. Absolutely not.”

The grin appeared on Rooster’s face so quickly it was almost impressive. You didn’t even need to look at him. You could practically hear it.

That smug amusement practically radiated from his side of the room.

When you finally turned your head, he was already leaning back in his chair again, one arm stretched behind him and a hand resting on the backrest. His smile was lazy and entirely too pleased with itself.

Maverick noticed. “Something funny, Bradshaw?”

“Nah.” The grin widened. “Not really.”

You pointed at him before he could even open his mouth. “Don’t.”

That only made it worse.

The smile spread slowly across his face, his head dipping toward the floor for a moment as though he was genuinely trying to contain himself. He wasn’t. Not even a little.

His shoulders shifted as he leaned farther back in his chair, stretching one arm casually along the backrest behind him. The posture was loose, relaxed, completely at odds with the military setting around him.

The office itself was quiet enough that you could hear the distant hum of aircraft engines through the window. The February sun spilled across the floor in long rectangles, illuminating the mission map and the stack of paperwork still sitting untouched on Maverick’s desk.

Yet somehow all of your attention remained fixed on the increasingly delighted expression sitting beside you.

Rooster looked like he’d just been handed the greatest gift imaginable. “Oh, this is incredible.”

“Bradley.”

“A flight medic.”

“Bradley.”

“Who hates flying.” His grin widened immediately.

“I do not hate flying.” You groaned.

The response came far too quickly and too defensively.

Rooster laughed. Not one of those polite chuckles people offered out of obligation. A real laugh, an actual one.

The kind that pulled his entire face into it.

His head tipped back slightly, shoulders shaking once as the sound escaped him. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and for a moment he looked less like one of the Navy’s most respected aviators and more like a kid who’d just discovered something endlessly entertaining.

Unfortunately, that something was you.

“And you threw up during turbulence last year in a regular airplane.”

You glared at him while he just looked delighted. All the while Maverick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Bradshaw. You’re certainly helping.”

“Happy to contribute, sir.”

The older man sighed heavily before looking back at you. “The training starts next week.”

Your smile disappeared instantly and you paused. “Next week?”

“Next week.”

You slowly sank deeper into your chair. The feeling in your stomach got significantly worse.

Next to you, Rooster looked like he’d just been handed the greatest gift of his life. And suddenly, a horrible realization started forming. Because there was absolutely no reason Rooster needed to be present for this conversation.

None.

Maverick could have told him afterward. Could have sent an email or inform him during a briefing. Instead, he’d specifically called both of you into his office. Together.

Your eyes narrowed, slowly. “But, why is he here?”

You watched as Maverick leaned back in his chair, his hand drifting to the coffee mug on his desk. Across the desk, Maverick's mouth twitched suspiciously.

Your eyes narrowed as the sunlight spilled through the large windows overlooking the tarmac, turning the polished floor into strips of gold. Beyond the glass, mechanics moved between aircraft, tiny figures against the massive silhouettes of fighter jets.

Rooster tilted his head as he looked from you to Maverick, confusion spreading across his face. “That’s a good question, actually.”

The brunet aviator straightened in his chair. The lazy amusement he’d been carrying throughout the meeting disappeared as he pointed at himself.

“No, seriously. Why am I here?”

Maverick sighed heavily, leaning back against his desk as though this exact moment had been inevitable. When neither of you looked away, he finally relented. “Alright, look.”

Those two words made you sit up straighter. Beside you, Rooster looked equally wary.

Maverick crossed his arms and studied the two of you for a moment before speaking.

“Bradley is only here... because if this proposal moves forward, you’ll be training together.”

“Together?” you asked.

Rooster’s voice overlapped yours. “Together?”

Maverick nodded once.

“Together.”

The training went by quickly.

The first week wasn’t terrible, which was the problem. You had spent the entire weekend preparing yourself for disaster.

You’d expected to embarrass yourself. Expected to fail spectacularly, to spend every walking moment feeling out of place or even a bit self-conscious.

But when you spent the first few days mostly in classroom to follow sessions, you felt more at ease.

The sessions existed of PowerPoint presentations, safety procedures, emergency protocols and aircraft systems.

By Wednesday, you had started feeling suspiciously confident. Maybe a little too confident.

The classroom was warm compared to the cool weather outside, the room humming softly overhead while instructors moved through slides filled with diagrams and technical information. Most of the pilots looked bored out of their minds.

You, however, were taking notes.

Actual notes.

Pages and pages of them.

By the end of the morning, your notebook looked more organised than the instructor’s presentation. Even Bradley looked confused as he stared at your notebook, then at his... which was quite empty.

The second week was when things started becoming significantly less fun. Because the classroom disappeared and the simulators appeared.

The simulator facility occupied an entire section of the training center. Even from the outside, it looked intimidating. Large gray machines sat behind glass walls, each one designed to replicate the cockpit of an F/A-18 down to the smallest detail.

You stood outside the room staring through the glass. Rooster stood beside you. “You look like you’re attending a funeral.”

You kept looking in the room, self-doubt rolling off your shoulders. “I’m considering my options.”

“What options?” He asked with a grin.

Now you definitely refused to look at him. Him and his stupid, perfect, cute—what are you thinking? This is your colleague, and only your colleague.

“Running.”

His laugh echoed through the hallway and the instructor chose that exact moment to call everyone.

Once you were inside, the cockpit felt smaller than you expected. Much smaller. When you were seated, metal and screens surrounded you from every direction. Switches covered nearly every available surface, buttons everywhere, weird displays, too many controls... you sighed, this was a lot to remember.

The instructor began explaining procedures. You listened closely, and took notes, all while Bradley sat at the back of the room, watching your development.

Everything was fine, until the simulation actually started moving.

Your stomach dropped instantly. The artificial horizon shifted and the aircraft moved.

Almost two hours later, when the session finally ended, you emerged looking noticeably less enthusiastic than when you’d entered. Not that you were in the first place. So that said enough.

Rooster was waiting outside when you walked out the door. He sat stretched across one of the hallway benches; long legs extended in front of him, sunglasses tucked into the collar of his flight suit, you weren’t sure why but he always wore them. A cold water bottle rested beside him.

The second he saw your expression, his mouth twitched.

You pointed immediately. “Don’t even say anything.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“I am.” He winked.

By the third week, training had become part of your routine. Every morning started before sunrise, and ended exhausted.

You spent hours learning extraction procedures, emergency deployment methods, aviation communication systems, and survival protocols.

At some point Bradley even got you to join him in the gym at the end of the second week, mumbling something about neck muscles, though the only muscles you could think about were those—nope, you were not doing that. Not again.

Though most of the pilots seemed endlessly entertained by the process. Hangman was by far the worst. One afternoon you found yourself strapped into a helicopter seat while an instructor reviewed emergency procedures, again.

Hangman leaned against the open doorway of the helicopter, sunglasses reflecting the afternoon sun. “You look pretty nervous, darlin’.”

You chuckled, trying not to show too many nerves. “I’m just sitting.”

“Well, then, you look nervous while sitting.” A huge grin spread across the blond’s face, as he looked at you through his sunglasses.

The strange part wasn’t the training, it was how quickly you stopped feeling alone in it.

Every time you walked into a classroom, somebody waved you over. Every simulator session had an audience (much against your will), and most of all, every practical exercise somehow ended with half the squadron hanging around afterward.

One afternoon, after a particularly exhausting swimming lesson, you emerged from the locker room, hair wet after washing the chlorine off and a headache with the overwhelming urge to never looking at another swimming pool again.

The hallway was nearly empty, though a figure sat alone near the windows, scrolling on a phone that looked way too little in those hands.

The figure, you now recognised as Bradley, looked up. “How’d it go?”

You dropped into the seat beside him, not caring that your wet hair left a mark against the back of your sweater.

“That bad?”

You shrugged. “I will never look the same at a swimming pool again.”

The hallway remained quiet around you, filled only with the distant sounds of activity elsewhere on base. Then Rooster nudged a bottle of water toward you. “You’ll get it.”

The certainty in his voice made you look over.

“How’d you know?”

He shrugged. “Because you always do.”

For some reason, those four words stayed in your mind much longer than they should have. Long after the training session ended, after you went home, after you convinced yourself they didn’t matter.

The first (actual) flight happened on a Tuesday morning.

The morning air was cool when you arrived at the flight line. The sun had only just started climbing over the horizon, painting the edges of the hangars gold. Ground crews moved across the tarmac carrying equipment and checklists while the distant roar of engines vibrated through the concrete beneath your boots.

For the first time since training began, everything felt real. Simulators were on thing, but this? You stood beside the jet staring up at it.

The aircraft seemingly bigger than usual. “You alright?” a smooth voice cut you out of your train of thoughts.

“I know I say this a lot, but I’m genuinely questioning every decision I’ve ever made.”

His smile appeared slowly. “Little late for that.”

You looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not helping, Rooster.”

By the time you’d finished securing everything, the instructor continued explaining procedures.

Most of your concentration was currently dedicated to breathing normally, which was becoming increasingly difficult with every passing second.

You could hear your own breathing through the headset, your heartbeat loud in your ears and every nervous thought bouncing around inside your skull.

Then the engine started and every other thought disappeared. The vibration traveled through the entire aircraft. The sound wasn’t heard so much as felt.

You’d spent years watching these jets from the outside. Nothing had prepared you for what it felt like sitting inside one.

Your eyes widened despite yourself.

A laugh crackled through your headset. “Pretty different from the simulator, huh?”

“Thanks for mentioning that again, Rooster.”

“No problem, I’ll be here the entire time to remind you.”

You could practically hear his smug grin.

The private training session had been Maverick’s idea. Which should have been your first warning.

The second warning had been the text message you’d received at five-thirty that morning: Bradshaw will meet you at Hangar 3. 0700. Don’t be late. Again. Bring flying gear.

You scoffed when you read the message, you’d been late once. By two minutes.

So, by seven o’clock, you were standing on the tarmac with a helmet tucked awkwardly beneath your arm and a growing sense of dread sitting somewhere behind your ribs.

The sun had barely risen. The air still carried the coldness of the night, and the base felt quieter than usual. A few maintenance crews moved between aircraft in the distance, their voices carrying faintly across the open concrete.

Rooster was already there, of course.

He stood beside the aircraft talking to one of the crew chiefs, flight helmet hanging loosely from his fingertips. The moment he noticed you approaching, his expression shifted into a softer smile. A contrast from his usual smirk.

“Well, you look thrilled to be here.”

You stopped beside him. “I considered driving directly into the ocean.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

You chose to ignore that comment. “What exactly are we doing today?”

He shrugged, his head hanging low with a teasing smile hanging on his lips. “Just some basic flying things.”

You were running through a checklist when Rooster’s voice crackled through your headset. “Nervous?”

“You’re literally flying this thing, why are you asking me this? Are you nervous?”

“Professional assessment, sweetheart.”

The takeoff felt different with Rooster flying.

Not because it was a different aircraft, but because he was flying. And everything felt effortless, the movements, communication, even the decisions.

Watching him work up close was strangely fascinating, you’d spent years seeing. you sighed loudly, you did not want to be there.

“You still with me back there?”

You nodded, before realising he could not see you. “Yes.” sadly

Hours later you found yourself flying low over the coastline. The ocean stretched endlessly beneath the aircraft, the February sun scattering across the water like shattered glass.

For once, your nerves had settled. You weren’t focused on the aircraft anymore. You couldn’t, not with him in front of you.

Rooster had spent the better part of the last hour talking you through procedures, explaining systems, occasionally throwing in some story about his own training that usually ended with you laughing despite yourself.

The tension that had been sitting in your shoulders all morning had finally begun to loosen. Well, what a way too jinx yourself...

The noise cut through the cockpit so sharply that your stomach immediately dropped. “What was that?”

The relaxed pilot who had spent the last hour teasing you vanished completely. His eyes darted across the instruments and his hand moved across controls with practiced precision.

You watched his posture change.

“Bradley?”

“Hydraulics.” He answered calmly. Too calmly.

Rooster’s voice came through the radio a second later as he contacted base. Who responded ‘Return to base, priority landing’ immediately.

Your stomach twisted. “How bad is it?”

Rooster glanced toward one of the instruments. His answer took a second too long.

“Bradley.”

“We’re okay.” You saw him nod as the aircraft shook once more. “We’re okay,” he repeated firmly. “But I need you to stay clam for me.”

Something about the way he said it made every hair on your arms stand up. His eyes remained fixed on the instruments and all the other dozens of things demanding his attention all at once.

The radio crackled, voiced overlapped with instructions, coordinates, runway information and a safe landing zone with a safe house. Wait, a safe house?

The atmosphere inside the cockpit had completely transformed.

Outside, the landscape had changed dramatically. The coastline was gone. The ocean had been replaced by rolling hills and dense stretches of forest, all muted beneath a grey February sky.

“What do you need me to do?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His attention remained fixed on the horizon while one hand moved across the controls.

You saw the way winter had left its fingerprints everywhere.

The trees were bare, the fields looked pale and lifeless as clouds hung low enough to make the world feel smaller.

“Nothing, stay put.” He answered and the aircraft jolted again.

The right side dipped unexpectedly before Rooster corrected it. You felt the turn in your stomach immediately. Your hand shot toward the side of your seat, fingers wrapping tightly around the edge.

The radio crackled to life. Several voices overlapped through the static. You couldn’t make sense of it, but you caught enough to understand that something had changed.

“Where are we going?”

Rooster exhaled slowly and his jaw tightened. “Nearest emergency strip.”

You stared at the back of his helmet. “The nearest?”

“The closest we can reach. Safely.”

You felt a cold wave of dread settle over you. “We’re not making base?”

“No, not with the hydraulic problem and the weather, we’re not making it to base. Too far”

The honesty of the answer was somehow worse than anything else.

The aircraft continued forward through the grey sky while warning lights flashed rhythmically across the instrument panel. Every few moments another vibration rattled through the frame, each one stronger than the last.

Then, finally, the runway appeared.

At first, you almost missed it. It wasn't the wide, professional landing strip you were used to seeing at base. It looked small and isolated. Like most people had forgotten about its existence. The weathered strip of pavement cut through the landscape like a scar.

Your stomach sank. “We’re landing there?”

“It’s our best option.”

That was not the answer you wanted.

The aircraft suddenly shook again. This time there was no disguising the severity of it. The entire frame rattled violently around you.

Metal groaned somewhere beneath the cockpit floor as several alarms erupted at once, filling the confined space with noise.

For the first time, you saw how hard Bradley was working. His shoulders were rigid and the muscles in his forearms stood out beneath his flight suit.

Every movement he made looked controlled, but it wasn't effortless anymore. The aircraft wasn’t responding properly anymore, everything he did was fighting him.

Outside, the runway grew larger. The old pavement rushed toward you at an alarming speed while empty trees blurred together on either side.

The radio continued feeding instructions through your headset, though you were sure neither of you were listening. Your entire world had narrowed to the sight of Bradley wrestling the aircraft toward the ground.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears as the runway filled the canopy. For one brief, beautiful moment, you thought you’d made it. The relief barely had time to register before the aircraft slammed down.

The impact was violent.

Your entire body jerked forward as the harness locked painfully across your chest. The force rattled through your teeth and up your spine. And the jet bounced back into the air.

Not high, but just enough to make everything worse. A second later it crashed back onto the runway. The impact launched you forward despite the restraints. Your helmet collided with the back of Bradley’s seat with a sickening crack that exploded through your skull.

Pain erupted instantly, it felt bright, blinding and disorienting. You barely had time to process it before the aircraft struck the pavement again.

The third impact was even harder.

Your head snapped backward this time, colliding with your own seat. The force sent stars across your vision. For a second the entire cockpit blurred.

The alarms sounded distant now.

Muffled.

It felt like you were underwater.

The aircraft skidded across the runway. You could feel the vibration tearing through the frame as tires screamed against old pavement. Somewhere outside, sparks flashed past the canopy.

Then everything began slowing down. The motion, noise, even the chaos. Until finally the aircraft ground to a halt.

For several seconds, you couldn’t tell whether your eyes were open or closed. The world tilted strangely around you.

The pain behind your forehead pulsed with every heartbeat. Somewhere ahead, Bradley was saying your name. At least, you thought he was. His voice sounded far away, distorted by the ringing in your ears and the thick fog settling over your thoughts.

For a while, you couldn’t tell if you were awake.

The world seemed to drift in and out around you. One moment there was darkness, then the next flashes of light slipped through your eyelids. Everything felt disconnected, like your brain was struggling to catch up to reality.

The first thing you became aware of was the wind. A low howl pressed against the outside of aircraft, rattling the damaged frame. Every few seconds, another gust swept through the surrounding trees, making branches scrape against one another somewhere beyond the runway.

The sound felt strangely lonely.

You tried opening your eyes, but immediately regretted it. Pain exploded behind your forehead, forcing them shut again.

Your stomach rolled unpleasantly.

For several long seconds, you simply sat there breathing through it.

Opening your eyes for a second time, you blinked the haze away. The warning lights still flashed across the instrument panel, bathing the cockpit in intermittent red and amber light. Their reflections bounced across the canopy like distant emergency beacons.

You tried sitting up but it only made the ringing in your ear worse. A splitting headache gave shivers down your spine. You could hear muffled sounds, then static.

The next time you opened your eyes, the world was more quiet, well, not completely quiet. You could hear the wind somewhere outside, rattling against the walls and windows, but it was nothing compared to the alarms and chaos from before.

For a moment, you simply stared at the ceiling.

It wasn’t the cockpit.

Wooden beams crossed overhead, illuminated by a small lamp somewhere nearby. The room felt warm, almost surprisingly so, and as your vision slowly cleared, you realized you were lying in an actual bed.

Confusion settled over you immediately.

You turned your head carefully.

The room wasn’t large. A small kitchenette occupied one corner. Shelves stocked with canned food and bottled water lined one wall. There was a tiny refrigerator, a radio, and a stack of old CDs sitting beside it.

It looked less like a military outpost and more like somebody’s forgotten studio apartment.

Then your eyes landed on the table.

A medical kit sat open beside several pieces of discarded gauze.

Bloodied gauze.

Your brows furrowed.

Blood?

You pushed yourself upright before your brain could fully catch up and were instantly filled with regret as pain exploded through your skull, making the entire room tilt. A sharp breath escaped you as dizziness crashed over you.

“Hey.” The voice startled you. Bradley was on his feet immediately.

One second he had been sitting across the room. The next he was beside the bed, one hand settling carefully against your shoulder. “Don’t do that.”

His voice was low, almost gentle, “You should be sleeping.”

You blinked up at him. The movement alone made your head pound. “What happened? Whose blood is that?”

His expression immediately told you everything you needed to know.

“Are you injured?” You asked, eyes already scanning his figure. He was wearing his flight suit halfway with a blue thermal long sleeve.

“After you get some sleep, you can asses me.”

You sighed and moved your hand toward your head. You felt some bandages across your forehead, and on your nose. Before you followed his advice and tried to relax once more.

When you woke up for the third time, you felt a gush of cold wind.

For a moment, you simply lay there, blinking slowly at the dim room around you. The small window above the kitchenette had been covered with a sheet of fabric on the inside, and the wind easily found ways through every crack in the old safe house. Each gust rattled the loose frame, making the entire house groan softly.

You guessed that the storm had been busy for a while.

Your head still hurt, but the dizziness wasn’t nearly as bad as before. The room came into focus much faster, and as you rubbed sleep from your eyes, a familiar smell drifted through the air.

Fresh coffee.

Your gaze immediately landed on the small kitchenette. Then moved farther, to Bradley

He was sitting on the tiny couch pushed against the opposite wall, hunched forward with his elbows resting on his knees. A mug sat on the table beside him, steam still curling from the surface.

You frowned.

The couch was ridiculously small.

You weren’t sure how Bradley had managed to fit on it at all. You certainly wouldn’t have.

Though, you barely noticed earlier how there was only one bed, you now thought of the fact that he’d have to sleep on the miniscule couch.

Slowly, you swung your legs over the edge of the mattress. The floor felt cold beneath your feet. When you stood, the room tilted slightly before settling again.

You ignored the dull protest from your headache and made your way across the room. The floorboards creaked beneath each careful step.

The brunet didn’t notice immediately.

His attention remained fixed on something in his hands. And so did yours. In his hands, he held a roll of gauze.

The back of his thermal long sleeve had been pushed up, exposing part of his side.

Dark bruising stretched across his ribs. You noticed that they were not small bruises, the entire area was a mix of purple, blue and even black.

Your medic instincts kicked in so fast it was almost embarrassing. “Bradley.”

His head lifted. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

You stared blankly at him. “I’ve had enough rest for somebody who only hit their head.”

Bradley just scoffed in reply. The sound was quiet, accompanied by the faintest smile as he leaned back against the couch cushions. “Only your head?”

You hated that he had a point. You still could feel everything hurt. Your ribs, shoulders, everything.

“It’s just some minor bruising.” He looked back at the roll in his hands.

“I think I will be the judge of that, since I’m a medic, and all,” you said.

Bradley’s expression softened. The teasing disappeared just as quickly as it had arrived. “You should sit down.”

“You should let me take a look at your ribs.”

“You have a concussion.”

“Says you, a pilot.” You crossed your arms, trying not to twitch when your side hurt more than you anticipated.

“A pilot who also got medical training.” His eyes wandering to your side.

“Not as much as I did.” You expected Bradley to argue, something to deflect the attention away from himself and back onto you. Instead, he simply looked at you for a moment before letting out a slow breath through his nose.

The expression on his face said he already knew he wasn’t winning this argument.

Without another word, he handed you the roll of gauze.

You shifted closer on the couch and carefully lifted the hem of his thermal shirt higher. The movement exposed more of his side, and once again, your professional instincts took over.

The bruising stretched farther than you’d expected.

Dark patches of purple and blue stretched across his side, disappearing beneath the fabric at his waist. The skin was already swollen in places, evidence of just how hard the landing had been. Seeing it up close made something tighten uncomfortably in your chest.

Bradley noticed your expression immediately.

“It’s not that bad.”

You slowly looked up at him and the look you gave him, made him sigh.

“Okay,” he amended. “Maybe it’s a little bad.”

That earned the faintest smile. It appeared for only a second before disappearing again, but it was enough. The tension that had been sitting heavily between you since the crash seemed to ease slightly.

Outside, the storm continued building. Wind rattled the windows hard enough to make the old safe house creak, and every so often snow tapped softly against the glass.

The sounds should have felt unsettling, but somehow they didn’t. If anything, they made the small room feel even more isolated from the rest of the world.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You focused on examining his ribs, letting years of training take over. Your hands moved automatically as you checked for tenderness and watched his reactions. Bradley tried his best to hide them, but he was terrible at it. You caught every slight tightening of his jaw, every controlled breath, every tiny flinch he thought went unnoticed.

“You’ve probably got bruised ribs,” you concluded in a quiet voice.

“Good.”

You paused your movements slightly. “How is that good?”

“Because it means they’re probably not broken, which means less pain for me.”

You stifled a laugh. “You do realise that bruised ribs are often times as painful as broken ribs.”

“You’re kidding. Right?” Bradley looked up at your face.

You inhaled a breath. “Well, no. I bruised my ribs a year ago, and I still feel the pain, well sometimes.”

“Oh.”

You let your eyes wander over his face before returning to his bruises. “But, I don’t think this’ll be as bad. It is mostly the swelling that is bad.”

He only nodded in response, looking down at the way your hands were moving to patch him up. “How’d it happen?”

“Erm... by coughing.”

Bradley let out a surprised laugh, only to wince in pain. “You can’t be serious.”

The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. “I’m dead serious.” He settled back into the couch cushions while you reached for fresh bandages.

The room had grown darker while you worked. The lamp beside the kitchenette cast a warm glow across the safe house, leaving the corners in shadow.

Everything felt smaller at night, as did the distance between you.

Maybe that was why you noticed it, or maybe you’d been noticing it for longer than you wanted to admit.

At some point, you became aware that he wasn’t giving his undivided attention to his bandages. No, he was looking at you.

Not in a way that made you uncomfortable. But every time you glanced down to secure another piece of gauze, you could feel it.

You tried to ignore it and focus on your work instead. You concentrated on smoothing the bandage into place and making sure it sat comfortably against his side. Yet, the awareness lingered stubbornly at the edgde of your thoughts.

The storm rattled softly against the windows. Wind swept through the trees outside, and somewhere in the distance a branch scraped against the side of the building. Whilst inside the safe house everything felt strangely still.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of you. So, you looked up, just to find him already looking at you.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Only then did you realise how close you’d gotten. Close enough that suddenly meeting his gaze felt far more intimate than it should have.

You looked away first and dropped your attention back to the bandage, which was already secure. Still, you adjusted it anyway, pretending there was something left to fix.

Beside you, Bradley shifted slightly before clearing his throat.

The sound broke whatever had settled between you.

“We’re probably going to be stuck here for a while.”

You frowned, almost grateful for the change in subject. “What do you mean?”

Bradley leaned back carefully, one arm resting across the back of the couch. “The radio worked for a few minutes earlier. Long enough to get a weather report.”

Your hands stilled. “And?”

Outside, a gust of wind slammed against the side of the safe house hard enough to make the small window rattle.

Bradley glanced toward it before looking back at you. “They might’ve mentioned a snowstorm.”

You blinked. “A snowstorm?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It’ll be for another day or two.”

You sighed in annoyance. “A day or two, seriously?”

Bradley gave a small shrug, though the movement immediately made him wince.

“A day if we’re lucky. Two if the storm decides it likes us.”

“Well, that’s just fantastic.”

The dry response earned the faintest smile from him.

Outside, the wind rattled the little window again. Snow had started piling up against the glass now, turning the world beyond it into an endless blur of white.

The trees you’d been able to see an hour ago were almost completely gone.

The reality of being stranded settled a little deeper into your chest.

It was just the two of you and whatever happened to be stocked inside the safe house. Your eyes drifter around the room. “Please tell me there’s food.”

Bradley followed your gaze. “There should be.”

The answer inspired absolutely no confidence.

You both stood at roughly the same time. Or attempted to anyway.

You immediately regretted the decision when your headache reminded you of its existence. Bradley wasn’t doing much better; the second he straightened, one hand automatically moved toward his ribs.

Neither of you acknowledged it. Some things were apparently easier to ignore.

The kitchenette turned out to be depressingly small.

The two of you found yourselves bumping shoulders almost immediately while opening cabinets and checking shelves.

“You know,” Bradley muttered, crouching in front of a lower cabinet, “this would be a lot easier if this place was designed for actual human beings.”

“It was probably designed before people got tall.”

“I take personal offence to that.”

You snickered a laugh.

A moment later, Bradley held up a can triumphantly. “Good news.”

“Beans?” you repeated, squinting at the label as if it might magically transform into something more appealing.

Bradley’s smile faltered almost immediately, his earlier triumph dimming as he took in your reaction. He let out a small breath through his nose, shoulders dropping just slightly. “Okay,” he admitted after a beat, lowering the can a fraction. “Medium news.”

Despite that, the inventory turned out to be better than either of you had expected.

As you continued digging through cabinets and drawers, you found several cans of soup tucked toward the back, along with more beans, a couple boxes of pasta, and a sleeve of crackers that looked mercifully intact.

There were even a few packets of instant oatmeal shoved into a corner, and somehow a dusty jar of peanut butter that looked like it had been sitting there long enough to qualify as a historical artefact.

It wasn’t exactly gourmet, but it was enough to keep you going.

That small sense of victory lasted right up until you opened the refrigerator.

You frowned immediately, the shift in your expression sharp enough that Bradley noticed without even looking.

“Bradley.”

“Hm?” he responded absently, still rummaging through a drawer.

“How much water have we got?”

That got his attention. He straightened and stepped closer, leaning slightly over your shoulder to peer inside. It only took him a second to see what you were seeing.

Then he frowned too.

Inside the fridge sat two large bottles.

That was it.

Your survival instinct kicked in instantly, running through calculations before you could stop it.

Two people, potentially stranded for two days. Drinking water alone would eat through that supply faster than you liked. Add in cooking, basic hygiene, anything else that might come up, it was not enough.

You reached in and pulled one of the bottles out, turning it in your hands to read the label more carefully.

Bradley watched your expression shift, and his own tightened slightly in response.

“That’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked, his tone quieter now, more serious. But the both of you knew the answer to that.

“It’s not great,” you replied, though the understatement felt almost ridiculous the moment it left your mouth.

That earned a soft snort from him, though there wasn’t much humour behind it.

You placed the bottle back inside the fridge with more care than necessary and leaned back against the counter, folding your arms loosely as you stared at the shelves.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke.

Something struck the side of the building with a dull thump, making you both glance instinctively toward the sound before the silence settled again.

Finally, Bradley crossed his arms, shifting his weight slightly as he looked at you.

“So what’s the plan, medic?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, your gaze drifted toward the window, where the snowfall had thickened into something almost blinding. The world outside had disappeared into white, the trees barely visible through the storm as it continued to build.

Then the idea came to you. Well, it was not necessarily a good idea, but it was a practical one.

“We could use snow.” You nod slowly, turning back to face him.

Bradley blinked at you, clearly caught off gaurd.

You held his gaze, waiting for a response.

“The frozen stuff outside?” He asked after a moment, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“That’s generally what snow is,” you replied dryly.

His expression shifted, skepticism written plainly across his face as he glanced toward the window again.

You gestured in that direction, more firmly this time. “We’ll melt it.”

Understanding dawned gradually, his features softening as the idea clicked into place.

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

He looked outside again, then back at you, then outside once more as if trying to fully process what you were suggesting.

“You want us to go into a blizzard and collect snow,” he said, his tone hovering somewhere between disbelief and reluctant acceptance.

“When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous.”

“It’s survival.”

That seemed to land differently. A slow smile began to form on his face; not the teasing grin you’d come to expect, but something quieter, warmer.

There was a hint of something else there too, something that made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t entirely understand.

“You really switched into survival mode fast,” he said, studying you more closely now.

You blinked, thrown slightly by the comment. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we crash one plane,” he explained, gesturing vaguely around the room, “and suddenly you’re planning how to keep us alive in the wilderness.”

You pointed toward the fridge, your tone sharpening just a little. “I’m just using common sense and the stupid training I got for almost a month. Besides we have four liters of water, only four—“

“Right.”

“—Four liters that we need for drinking, by the way. Especially with our circumstances—“

“Right.”

“—And we are not making soup with our emergency drinking water.”

The smile widened at that, and for some reason, that only irritated you more. “You think this is funny.”

“I think it’s cute, I think you’re—“

Your brain stalled completely. And for a split second, neither of you moved.

Then Bradley seemed to realize what he’d just said at the exact same moment you processed it. The smile vanished almost instantly, replaced by something far more uncertain.

A brief, awkward silence followed.

Outside, the wind battered the walls again, louder this time, as if the storm itself had decided to punctuate the moment.

Neither of you spoke nor moved.

Then Bradley cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. “We should probably find a pot.”

You stared at him for a second longer than necessary, while he stared very intently at a cabinet.

Coward.

A second later, you turned away too, focusing on opening drawers and cabinets with more attention than they deserved, pretending your face wasn’t suddenly warmer than it had any right to be.

The rest of the evening passed surprisingly quickly.

Maybe it was because neither of you had much choice but to focus on practical things. Between figuring out food, checking supplies, and arguing over how much water constituted “reasonable rationing,” there wasn’t much room left for thinking about the fact that you were stranded in the middle of nowhere.

The soup turned out exactly how canned soup was supposed to turn out, almost edible.

You sat across from each other at the small table near the kitchenette, eating from mismatched bowls while the storm continued building outside.

By the time dinner was finished, the darkness outside had become complete.

You carried your bowl to the sink out of habit, your body moving on autopilot until your brain caught up with the reality of your situation. The moment your fingers brushed the faucet, you froze, remembering that water was no longer something to waste.

The realisation settled heavily in your chest, and you stopped halfway through turning the handle, staring at it as if it had personally betrayed you.

You decided to set the bowl down with the others on the counter, future-you could deal with the consequences of unwashed dishes, because present-you was far too exhausted to care.

Everything hurt in a way that was impossible to ignore, from the dull ache in your head to the sharp reminders in your ribs, and the weight of it all made the bed across the room look incredibly appealing.

The room fell into a suspicious silence as your eyes drifted toward the bed, then toward Bradley, and then back again as if hoping the situation might somehow resolve itself without either of you having to say anything.

It didn’t, of course, and the word “No” slipped out of you before you could stop it, immediately drawing his attention as he looked at you and asked, “No what?”

You straightened slightly, forcing confidence into your voice as you said, “You’re sleeping in the bed,” even though you were already bracing for the argument that would follow.

Bradley blinked at you as if you had just suggested something completely unreasonable, and his response came with a hint of disbelief. “I’m sorry?”

You didn’t back down, even though you felt far less certain than you sounded, and you repeated, “You heard me.” Which only made him lean back in his chair and shake his head. “Absolutely not.”

You frowned at him, already feeling the familiar frustration building as you said his name in warning, but he cut you off with a firm ‘No,’ and just like that, the argument began exactly as expected.

Neither of you gave an inch, and neither of you seemed remotely interested in actually listening to the other, as you insisted that he needed proper sleep while he countered that you did too.

You pointed out that he had literally crash-landed a jet, and he shot back that you had been unconscious, and the back-and-forth continued in a loop that neither of you seemed capable of breaking.

Eventually, Bradley stood up, gathered the his bowl with a sense of finality, and pointed toward the bed as though he were concluding a briefing, stating firmly, “You’re sleeping there,” which only made you cross your arms and repeat it with equal stubbornness.

He stared at you, and you stared right back, neither of you willing to be the first to give in as the wind rattled the windows around you.

The silence stretched until Bradley finally let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that suggested he was already exhausted by the argument. “Look, I’ve already spent a night on the couch, I could do it again.”

That made you open your mouth immediately to argue your point before the words caught in your throat. “Already a night?”

Bradley nodded slightly. He suddenly found everything else in the small house far more interesting than you. His gaze darting anywhere but your face as you pressed him. “How long was I out?”

“A while.”

You shook your head in mild annoyance. “How long?”

He rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture that looked far too guilty t be reassuring, and after a brief hesitation, he said, “You were unconscious most of yesterday.”

You had been out for over twenty-four hours, and he had been here the entire time, dealing with everything on his own, and the thought made something shift uncomfortably inside you.

You looked at him again, your voice quieter now as you said, “You’ve been here alone with me for over twenty-four hours?”

He glanced at you briefly before looking away again, brushing it off. “You make it sound weird.”

You didn’t let it go, though. “You carried me here?”

“Yeah.”

“You treated my concussion?”

“Yeah.” He let out a sigh.

“You stayed awake, in your condition, and then tried to sleep on the couch?”

“Also, yeah.”

“Congratulations,” you said with a smile.

“For?” He looked genuinely confused now.

“For proving my point, you need sleep. Actual sleep.”

“I beg to differ, since you needed a whole day of sleep to recover, it is obvious that you should be resting.”

You groaned loudly and dramatically, even though you knew he wasn’t wrong, and Bradley looked entirely too pleased with himself as he watched you give in.

So that was why, ten minutes later you found yourself in the bed, and Bradley was once again on the couch, and the arrangement felt just as wrong as it had before.

Sleep did not come easily, at least not for you, and you spent the first hour staring at the ceiling while your thoughts refused to settle.

The second hour was spent rolling onto your side, trying to find a position that didn’t make something ache, and the third hour was dedicated to convincing yourself that the situation wasn’t bothering you as much as it clearly was.

The couch was far too small for him, and every time Bradley shifted, the springs protested loudly enough for you to hear, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent safe house and making it impossible to ignore.

The guilt only grew stronger with each passing minute, and you found yourself throwing the blankets off before pulling them back on again, only to kick them off once more as frustration built. You turned onto your left side, then to your right, then onto your back again, but nothing seemed to help, and the bed itself only made things worse by being far too comfortable.

Eventually, you sat upright with a quiet sigh, the room dimly lit by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the snow-covered window, and your gaze drifted toward the couch across the room.

Bradley appeared to be asleep, one arm hanging off the side while his legs looked far too long for the space he was confined to, and the entire situation looked as uncomfortable as it felt.

You stared at him for a moment, then at the floor, and then back at him again as a new problem presented itself, because there was no way you were going to get any sleep while he was stuck like that.

You considered your options carefully, weighing the possibility of sleeping on the floor against the idea of waking him up and forcing him into the bed, but neither option felt particularly appealing.

You sat there for another thirty seconds, trying to decide what to do, before letting out a heavy sigh as you realised that neither choice felt right.

Somehow, that led you to a third option, one that made very little sense but felt like the only thing you could do in the moment, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you climbed carefully out of bed and crossed the room, dragging your blanket behind you.

The floorboards creaked softly beneath your feet as you approached the couch, and a moment later you found yourself standing directly beside him, looking down at Bradley as you waited for something to happen.

Nothing did, and he remained asleep, completely unaware of your presence as you frowned slightly and continued standing there, fully aware that this was probably the worst possible plan you could have come up with.

After another minute passed, even you had to admit that this was ridiculous, and yet you still hadn’t come up with a better solution, leaving you stuck in place with no clear idea of what to do next.

Bradley remained completely asleep, one arm dangling over the edge of the couch while the other was tucked awkwardly beneath his head. The couch looked even smaller up close.

You weren’t entirely sure how he’d managed to spend an entire night on it already, let alone volunteer for a second one.

The longer you stood there, the more ridiculous you felt.

You were a grown adult. And somehow you’d ended up standing over a sleeping pilot at three in the morning because guilt wouldn’t let you go back to bed.

You sighed.

The sound wasn’t particularly loud, but in the quiet safe house it might as well have been.

Bradley’s brow twitched. Then one eye opened. For a second, he simply stared up at you.

Sleep still clung to his expression, softening the sharp edges of his features. His hair was sticking up in several directions, and there was a crease pressed into one side of his face from the couch cushion.

The sight would’ve been funny if you hadn’t immediately been caught.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“So your solution was standing over me?”

“It wasn’t my solution.”

“You’re literally standing over me.”

“I was thinking.”

Bradley’s mouth twitched.

The smile disappeared almost immediately when he pushed himself upright. The movement made him pause halfway through, one hand pressing briefly against his side before he continued.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke.

The lamp near the kitchenette cast a warm glow across the room. Outside the windows, snow continued piling higher against the glass, making the safe house feel even smaller.

“You should’ve slept. Yesterday.” You looked at him.

He leaned back against the couch and looked toward the dark window. “I tried. You should go back to bed, sweetheart.”

“No, seriously.” You folded your arms. “I have spent the last three hours feeling guilty.”

Bradley sighed immediately, like he’d already anticipated the argument before it had even begun. You could see the exhaustion sitting behind his eyes now, it was not just physical exhaustion either. More the kind that came from spending too many hours worrying about somebody else.

Unfortunately, that only made you feel worse.

The guilt had been sitting in your chest since the moment you’d woken up and learned how long you’d been unconscious.

It had followed you through dinner, through the conversations about water and snow and survival plans, and it had certainly followed you into bed.

Or rather, it had followed you into the bed while Bradley folded himself onto a couch clearly designed for somebody much shorter.

“So, yeah, I couldn’t sleep.”

A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I gathered that from the whole standing-over-me-in-the-dark thing.”

“It wasn’t that weird.” You looked down at your hands. Then back at him. “I feel bad.”

The confession came out quieter than expected.

Bradley immediately frowned. “For what?”

You looked at him like the answer should’ve been obvious. “For all of it.”

His eyebrows pulled together more, if that was even possible.

You continued before he could interrupt. “You carried me here. You spent a day taking care of me. You stayed awake while I was unconscious. You patched me up. You probably didn’t sleep. Then I wake up and you’re pretending your ribs aren’t killing you while you sleep on a couch that looks like it’s actively trying to fold you in half.”

By the time you finished, Bradley was staring at you.

You looked away first.

The lamp beside the kitchenette cast a warm glow across the room, illuminating the small space in shades of gold and amber. It made the safe house almost feel cozy despite the storm raging outside.

Almost.

“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I spent three hours lying in that bed feeling guilty.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Bradley looked down at the floor for a second, before looking back up at you, and said, “You would’ve done the same thing.”

You knew he was right, but you still felt guilty. “Yeah, I would. So, come share the bed with me.”

There. You said it. Finally.

Bradley let out a shocked laugh. “Wow, you hit your head harder than I thought.”

“Oh, come on. I’m trying to be nice here. We can put a wall of pillows between us, though there aren’t that many, we’ll figure something out.”

Bradley’s gaze drifted toward the bed. Then toward the couch beneath him. Then back toward the bed again.

You watched the exact moment he realized neither of you were sleeping properly.

You also watched the moment he realized you weren’t going back to bed unless he agreed.

“You are unbelievably stubborn.”

The grin that spread across your face was immediate. “So I’ve been told.”

“Repeatedly, I imagine.”

“Constantly.”

Bradley shook his head and slowly pushed himself to his feet. The movement earned another wince that he tried and failed to hide.

A few minutes later, the pillow wall existed.

It was ridiculous; there were two pillows you had spare laying between the two of you, and some from the couch lying against your sides.

The both of you knew it was ridiculous, but neither of you worded it.

The bed was only barely large enough for two people, which resulted in several minutes of awkwardly rearranging blankets and trying not to elbow each other in the ribs before finally settling.

Sleep didn’t last long.

A loud sound ripped through the safe house with enough force to drag you awake instantly.

Your eyes flew open.

And your body reacted before your mind did, every muscle tensing as your heart lurched violently against your ribs. The noise echoed through the tiny cabin, deep and sharp enough that, for one horrifying second, your brain reached the only conclusion it knew how to make.

Gunshots.

You were halfway upright before another deafening crack split the night.

Then the entire room lit up.

A blinding white light poured through the small window for the briefest second before disappearing again, throwing long shadows across the walls.

A second later, thunder rolled overhead. The sound shook the little safe house so hard the window rattled violently in its frame.

You blinked several times, trying to slow your breathing and decided to lay back down.

Outside, the storm had transformed overnight.

Yesterday’s snow had been relentless but quiet, blanketing everything beneath an endless sheet of white.

Sometime during the night, warmer air must have rolled in. Now rain hammered against the roof while thunder rolled across the mountains, each strike sounding like it had landed somewhere in the surrounding forest.

Another flash illuminated the room.

You groaned softly, dragging a hand down your face. “Seriously?”

You’d always hated thunderstorms. You wouldn’t necessarily call it a fear, especially since multiple people were scared of thunderstorms.

You mostly hated how unpredictable they were. The waiting between each flash and the sudden explosion of loud noises. The way every strike made your shoulders tense even when you knew it was coming.

At home, you developed a system since your teenage years. You’d cover yourself with multiple blankets, you’d close your curtains and put in your noise cancelling AirPods.

The music would be loud enough to drown out the thunder until eventually you fell asleep.

Unfortunately, you didn’t have most of those things near you.

Instead, you were stranded in a tiny emergency safe house somewhere in the middle of a snow-covered forest with one blanket, one bruised pilot, and a storm that sounded determined to tear the roof off.

You sighed quietly and rubbed at your tired eyes, when a though popped into your head. Maybe another pillow would help, you could try and cover your ears with it.

It wouldn’t stop the noise entirely, but it might dull it enough that you’d eventually fall back asleep.

Slowly, careful not to aggravate your bruised ribs, you reached around in the darkness.

Your fingers brushed fabric first, at least you thought it was. Whatever was touching your fingertips was definitely not the blanket you’d been sleeping under.

You shifted slightly, your hand moving just enough to figure out what exactly your head had been resting on.

A flash of lightening illuminated the room.

It was then that you realised, you were not sleeping on your side anymore, let alone your pillow.

Sometime during the night, whether from turning over or trying to get comfortable, you’d somehow crossed the world’s least effective pillow barrier.

Your cheek was resting comfortably against Bradley’s upper arm. Well, not just his arm, more like his bicep.

Your eyes widened.

You stared into the darkness for several long seconds, suddenly becoming acutely aware of everything around you; the steady warmth beside you, the slow rise and fall of his breathing, and the fact that one of your hands had somehow ended up lightly gripping the sleeve of his T-shirt.

You had no idea how that had happened. You couldn’t remember moving at all.

Maybe he had rolled over, maybe you had. Or maybe the pillow wall had given up hours ago.

None of those explanations felt particularly comforting.

You debated retreating immediately and pretending none of this had ever happened.

But before you could even begin to move, a raspy voice spoke.

“Go back to sleep.” His voice was rough with sleep, barely louder than the rain outside.

You blinked, startled. “…You’re awake?”

A quiet hum answered you. “I am now.”

Mortification settled over you almost instantly. “Oh my God.”

You immediately tried lifting your head, which turned out to be a mistake. Pain shot through your ribs and forehead at the same time, forcing you to stop halfway with a quiet hiss.

Bradley’s arm shifted slightly beneath you, not to move you away, but to steady you. “You don’t have to launch yourself across the room.”

“I wasn’t…”

“You were.”

Another flash of lightning lit the room, and you caught the faintest hint of amusement on his face before darkness swallowed it again.

“I crossed the pillow wall.”

“You did.” You could hear his smile in his voice.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I figured.”

Silence settled between you again as rain drummed steadily against the roof and thunder rolled somewhere farther away this time.

You glanced toward the window. “I hate thunderstorms,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

Bradley’s gaze followed yours. “You scared of them?”

You considered the question, then shook your head. “No.”

Another rumble.

You pulled the blanket a little higher without thinking. “I just don’t like not knowing when the next one’s coming.”

Bradley was quiet for a moment before looking back at you. “You know…” he began, his voice still low and softened by sleep, “I thought you woke up because of your concussion.”

“I thought we were being shot at.”

That earned a quiet, sleepy laugh from him. The kind that stayed in his chest more than escaped it.

“You spend too much time around Marines.”

“You spend too much time crashing airplanes.”

“Hey! I landed it.”

“Yeah, into a forest.” You smiled despite yourself as another clap of thunder rolled through the mountains.

This time, without thinking, your fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of his sleeve.

Neither of you said anything.

He simply glanced down at your hand for a brief moment before looking back toward the ceiling.

His voice was so quiet you almost missed it. “It’s just thunder.”

♡ Character list :

✦ Outer Banks ✦ MCU / X-men ✦ Teen Wolf ✦ Criminal Minds ✦ Harry potter (+ Marauders, ...) ✦ Maze Runner ✦ Percy Jackson ✦ Narnia ✦ Top Gun ✦ Formula one ✦ Walking Dead ✦ Stranger Things ✦ Feel free to request some more characters!

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Menu : Street Food specials

◉ Garlic Knots — Best Friends to Lovers ◉ Mozzarella Sticks — Roommates ◉ Loaded Nachos — Fake Dating ◉ Churros — Childhood Friends Reunited ◉ Pretzel Bites — One Bed ◉ Taco Basket — Opposites Attract ◉ Fried Pickles — Academic Rivals ◉ Onion Rings — Second Chances ◉ Corn Dogs — Found Family ◉ Curly Fries — “Everyone knows except them”

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Appetizers blurbs

Dumplings — “You don’t have to be strong today.” Cheese Croquettes — Stuck together during a storm Garlic Bread — “I waited for you.” Chicken Noodle Soup — Taking care of them when they're sick Soft Pretzel — Reunion after years apart Flatbread Bites — “I thought I lost you.” Mini Tacos — Accidental voicemail confession French Fries — Sitting together in comfortable silence Potato Wedges — “Tell me what's wrong.” Stuffed Olives — The aftermath of an argument

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Main course AUs

Spaghetti & Meatballs — Soulmate AU Steak Tartare — Bodyguard AU Moules frites — Summer Camp AU Chicken Pot Pie — Small Town AU Burrito Bowl — Apocalypse Survival AU Double Cheeseburger — Fake Relationship AU Pizza BBQ — College AU Truffle Pasta — Celebrity x Normal Person AU Flemish Beef Stew — Childhood Friends to Strangers to Lovers AU Lasagna — “We Meet Again Every Lifetime” AU Belgian Fries — Neighbors AU Ravioli — Teacher AU Casserole — Single Parent AU Mac & Cheese — Pen Pal AU Aspargus — Coffee Shop AU

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Desserts Fluff prompts

Chocolate Chip Cookies — Building a pillow fort together Tiramisu — Teaching them something they never learned Pumpkin Cheesecake — Matching Halloween costumes Moelleux — Adopting your first animal Belgian Waffles — Late-night stargazing Strawberry Shortcake — “I saved you a seat.” Christmas Sugar Cookies — First family holiday together Chocolate Fondue — Learning each other's love languages Blueberry Muffin — “This reminded me of you.” Vanilla Ice Cream — Falling asleep on their shoulder

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Cocktails Hurt/comfort

Strawberry Sunrise — Character A breaks down after holding everything in for too long Lemon Drop — Panic attack comfort Blueberry Vodka — Grief and healing Fizzy Peachtree — Recovering after a difficult mission Pink Flamingo — “You don’t have to carry this alone.” Berry Blush — Emotional reunion after months apart

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Milkshake specials Angst

Chocolate Overload — Unrequited love Strawberry Swirl — Right person, wrong time Cookies & Cream — Miscommunication Blue Velvet — “I never meant to hurt you.” Honeycomb Crunch — Comfort to Hurt Mocha Madness — Character death fake-out Triple Chocolate — Sacrificing your own happiness for someone else's Peanut Butter Crunch — “Why didn’t you tell me?” Cotton Candy Shake — One person remembers, the other doesn’t Salted Caramel — Almost confession interrupted Moonlight Milkshake — Meeting again after one of them changed completely

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Chef's Special Can’t seem to decide?

Send me: ♡ A character ♡ A trope ♡ A theme (fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, found family, etc.) And I’ll pick something from the menu for you!

You reach for the Diary in your bag without quite knowing why.

It feels familiar in your hands in the way a memory does, intimate, faintly unsettling. You set it down beside your notes, and only then do you take a breath.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Let’s see what you have to say.”

You open the runes’ book. The pages are nothing out of the ordinary. No dramatics. No magic announcing itself. Just dense, precise, and impossibly old ink. Diagrams fill the pages: angular symbols, circles intersecting lines, runes nested within runes. You recognise some of them immediately.

And you begin to read.

Ancient runes, the text explains, were never meant to be universal. That was their purpose and their protection. Unlike modern spellwork, runes were designed to exclude as much as they revealed. Older witches and wizards used them not simply to record information, but to communicate indirectly. To leave behind messages that would only unfold for the right mind, the right magic, the right moment.

Every recorded rune tells a story, but never the same one twice.

A rune inscribed by a healer might speak of balance and restoration. The same rune, etched by a warrior, could explain of sacrifice and endurance. The meaning was not fixed; it was relational. Dependent on the reader. Dependent on what they carried within themselves. But most of all, dependent on the maker.

You feel something click into place. That is the beauty of using symbols to communicate. The diary and the runes are two halves of the same truth: one preserving memory, the other teaching you how to read what should not exist anymore. Together, they don’t just give information, they give context.

You lean back in your chair, breath shallow and your mind racing.

McGonagall wasn’t suggesting Ancient Runes for academic curiosity. She was giving you a lifeline. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

Shadow jumps onto the table, tail flicking across your parchment, and you laugh softly despite yourself. You scratch behind his ears, grounding yourself in the simple, familiar motion. “Alright,” you whisper again, breath steadier now. “I guess we should go.”

The stack of books in your arms is slightly ridiculous, and you know it. Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, a Charms reference guide, and the Diary of Hogwarts are tucked safely between them all. At this point, you’re fairly certain you’re carrying more parchment than some professors.

The library doors swing shut behind you with a soft creak. “Seems we always meet at the library.” You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear those words. A familiar blond-haired Slytherin is leaning casually against the wall nearby, hands in his pockets, looking entirely too amused by your reaction. 

“Merlin—”

Abraxas grins in response, “Good afternoon to you too.”

You shift the books higher in your arms, “Malfoy.”

“L/n.”

And for a moment neither of you says anything. Then he pushes away from the wall. “Seems we always meet at the library,” he repeats as if you hadn’t heard him clearly the first time. You shrug, “Uh, I guess.”

“The exception being Hogsmeade.”

“Yeah,” you trail off slightly, not sure what to reply. A group of third years passed at the far end of the corridor, their laughter echoing faintly against the stone walls. Merlin, you wish your friends were here so you could disappear from this conversation. His gaze lingered on the stack of books balanced against your chest before he looked back at you, a thoughtful expression settling over his features. For once, he didn’t seem interested in teasing you. If anything, he looked genuinely curious. “Why are you always here anyway?”

You blinked at the question, caught off guard by its randomness. For a moment, you weren’t even sure what he meant. 

“The library?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder as though there might be another location hidden somewhere nearby. 

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, the library.” You stared at him some more before shifting your books into a more comfortable position, “Mainly to study.”

Abraxas’ expression suggested he found that answer deeply unsatisfactory. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked you over, as though trying to determine wether you were joking, “All the time?” A laugh escaped through your nose, 

“That’s generally how studying works.”

“You study more than some Ravenclaws.”

“Thank you.”

He lifted his eyebrows immediately, “I didn’t think that was a compliment.”

“Then you should’ve phrased it differently.”

For a brief moment, amusement flickered across his face, and you found yourself resisting the urge to roll your eyes. It was strange how easily he seemed able to start conversations that went absolutely nowhere while somehow keeping you standing there listening. “Let me guess,” you said, deciding to turn the attention back on him. “You’re here to be loud with your friends again?”

The reaction was small enough that most people would’ve missed it. Abraxas’ head tilted ever so slightly, and something unreadable crossed his face at the word ‘friends’ before disappearing just as quickly. The moment passed so fast that you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it. “You shouldn’t worry about it,” he said. You frowned at his words in confusion, “Worry about what?”

“If we’re loud.”

There was something absurdly confident about the way he said it, as though he were offering a perfectly reasonable solution to a perfectly reasonable problem.

“You can always ask us to be quiet.”

You stopped walking altogether and looked at him, then you laughed. Not politely, not kindly, but the sort of laugh that escaped before you could stop it.

“As if that would work.”

Abraxas looked genuinely offended by that, “I can be reasonable.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You simply looked at him, waiting for the joke, while he looked back at you as though the importance of the discussion should have been obvious. 

Finally, you sighed. That was apparently enough to break whatever composure he was attempting to maintain. A grin spread across his face, transforming him from the polished heir to an ancient pure-blood family into a sixteen-year-old boy who was far too pleased with himself.

“I mean... you never know unless you try.”

A few days pass in what feels like the blink of an eye and the castle slowly begins to wake up again.

At first it’s subtle: an extra trunk left in the corridor, distant laughter echoing through the staircases, owls swooping in through open windows carrying late Christmas letters and forgotten scarves. Then, all at once, Hogwarts is alive again. Students return in waves, bringing with them cold cheeks, snow-dusted cloaks, and an unbearable amount of noise.

You hadn’t realised just how quiet things had been until now, and strangely enough… it’s nice. The loneliness of Christmas break settles somewhere softer in your chest, no longer an ache but a memory. You survived your first holiday alone. 

Mostly by studying and nearly spiralling over magical time books. Not your most glamorous winter break. But still... a break.

Now, you’re curled up in one of the armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, the fire crackling warmly nearby. The room is lively again—golden light spilling across the rugs, students chatting over card games, unpacking sweets, or loudly recounting family drama no one asked for. Your group has fully reclaimed a section near the fireplace. Lucas is sprawled dramatically across the sofa, one leg hanging over the armrest as though he owns the furniture.

Maeve sits cross-legged on the floor, enthusiastically unpacking an alarming amount of sweets from a festive tin. Whilst Alicia is leaning against the couch, holding up a scarf with a deeply offended expression. “My great aunt knitted me this,” she says, staring at the aggressively orange garment. “And before anyone says anything—yes, she is legally blind.”

Lucas bursts into laughter. “That is tragic,” he says, wiping fake tears from his eyes. “That scarf could blind other people.”

“Oh, shut up,” Alicia says, throwing it at him. He catches it with a grin. “No, no, you’re keeping this. This is amazing.” 

Lilith, who was curled into the armchair opposite you, quietly unwraps a small box of chocolates and offers one to Cressida, who you snuck in with Ben, accepts it with a shy smile. Ben, sitting on the rug beside the coffee table, carefully inspects something what looks like a brand-new quill set. “My mother sent these from Diagon Alley,” he says. “Apparently they’re self-correcting.”

Lucas leans forward. “That sounds almost illegal for schoolwork.”

“I suppose… but it’s practical,” Ben replies when Maeve suddenly gasps, “Merlin, wait... I forgot!” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a knitted pair of mittens. “My mother made these for me!”

“They’re adorable,” you say honestly.

“One of them is bigger than the other,” Alicia points out with a grin. Maeve looks down, “…well now I can have asymmetrical warmth.” You laugh softly, leaning back further into your chair. 

A warmth from being surrounded again by your friends. Well… your friends here. It’s different from before. Different from Harry and Hermione and Ron. Different from your real life. But not lesser, just different.

Shadow is curled in your lap now, half-asleep as your fingers absentmindedly scratch behind his ears. Lucas glances over at you, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “So,” he says. “What did you do all break?”

You freeze for exactly half a second.

What did you do? Well, you discovered a magical sentient diary. Learned you may eventually be erased from existence. Considered Ancient Runes as a lifeline. Had several emotionally compromising interactions with Tom Riddle. Had McGonagall give you a surprisingly helpful elective recommendations. All while Dumbledore was barely any help for you. 

You pause, it is not as if you can say all of this. So, you settled with saying you: “Studied,” you nod. Lucas stares blankly while Alicia groans. “That is so deeply disappointing.”

“You mean to tell me,” Lucas says dramatically, sitting upright, “that while the rest of us were suffering through awkward family dinners and forced socialisation, you were here voluntarily doing essays?”

“Yes.”

Maeve shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re insane.” You shrug. “I had a very thrilling Christmas with books about Graphorns.” 

Lilith snorts quietly into her tea as Lucas points accusingly. “See? This is what happens when you spend too much time with Cressida and Ben.” Cressida stifled a laugh and Ben looks up, mildly offended. “Excuse me?”

“Academic corruption,” Lucas says gravely, “said what I said.” 

You laugh, a real one this time, until Lucas suddenly snaps his fingers. “Oh! Speaking of horrifying academic choices,” he says, turning to you. “Timetable changes. Did anyone else get elective recommendations?” 

Your heart skips. Ancient Runes. Right. Back to reality. You shift slightly in your chair. “Actually, McGonagall spoke to me before break ended.” That gets their attention quickly. Ben looks up first. “About what?”

“She wants me to consider taking another new elective.”

Maeve’s eyes widen. “Wait, seriously?” You nod, trying to sound far less pleased than you secretly are. “Apparently I’m doing well enough.”

“Well enough?” Alicia repeats. “You literally live in the library.”

“Did she mention which one?”

You nod, stirring your hot chocolate absentmindedly, “Ancient Runes.” That earns a more mixed reaction. Lilith tilts her head, “Ancient Runes?” Ben raises a brow, “Certainly interesting.”

“Is it awful?” you ask Ben who answers with, “Depends, do you enjoy staring at symbols for several hours and slowly losing your mind?” 

Lucas turns to look at him. “I thought you took Ancient Runes?”

Ben nods with a smile. “I love to study it, not learn about it.”

You stare at him, “…Encouraging.” Cressida, who has been quietly listening until now, finally speaks up from her armchair. “I take Arithmancy,” she says, smoothing down the sleeve of her jumper. “And honestly, people make it sound worse than it is.” 

Lucas looks horrified. “Numbers with magic sounds like a personal attack.”

“It’s pattern recognition,” Cressida replies simply. “Predictive systems. Magical equations.” Alicia groans at what Cressida said, “You lost me immediately.” The other girl smiles faintly. “Though, it’s useful.”

Lilith tucks a curl behind her ear. “I still think Divination is worse.” Ben lets out a dramatic sigh at her words, “Thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” Maeve says. “Divination sounds kind of fun.” 

Alicia scoffs at her, “It’s fun until you’re asked deeply personal questions disguised as coursework.” Lucas points at the group at Alicia’s words, “See? Exactly why I try to avoid it.”

“Don’t be so daft, Lucas. Personally, I chose divination and I quite like it,” Maeve turned towards you, “maybe you’ll be surprised to see you like ancient runes more.” Lucas stares at her, mind blank as he spurts out, “Wait, you willingly chose Divination?” 

Laughter ripples through the group again, easy and warm. You let yourself relax fully into the cushions, into the noise of your friends and the firelight and the beautiful normalcy of discussing electives like your entire existence isn’t hanging together by ancient potions and questionable destiny. Just for tonight, you can pretend things are simple.

⋆｡⋆˙⟡ Defence against the Dark Arts class

Defense Against the Dark Arts was usually loud before class properly started.

Not severely loud, but layered with murmured conversations, the scrape of chairs, the occasional sharp laugh from the Slytherin corner where Tom Riddle sat with his usual circle. They tended to occupy the middle left side of the classroom like they owned it, speaking in low voices that still somehow carried.

Today, though, something felt off. You noticed it almost immediately as you slid into your seat beside Lucas. The room felt heavier, dimmer, somehow, despite the candles floating steadily overhead. Lucas dropped into the chair next to you with a sigh, shoving his bag beneath the desk. “Please tell me you did the reading,” he muttered. “Because if someone asks me about defensive structures again, I may simply pass away.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, pulling out your parchment. “You say that every lesson.”

“And one day I’ll mean it.” 

Normally, that would’ve been enough to settle you into the familiar rhythm of class. But your attention kept drifting. Toward the left corner. Toward him. The difference was subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you did. The small cluster of Slytherins around him weren’t acting like they usually did. No smug commentary. No effortless confidence spilling across the room and no amused looks aimed at other students.

Instead, they sat close together, speaking quietly amongst themselves, almost cautiously. One of the boys leaned toward Riddle, whispering something too low to hear. Another glanced briefly over his shoulder before looking away again. Even Avery, who normally looked unbearably self-satisfied at all times, seemed tense.

And he himself… looked calm. Perfectly composed, as always. Which somehow made it worse. His fingers tapped once against the desk before stilling completely, dark eyes fixed ahead like he already knew something no one else did. 

You realised you’d been staring when Lucas nudged your elbow lightly. “What are you looking at?” Your gaze flicked back to the front of the classroom. “Nothing.”

Lucas followed your earlier line of sight anyway, brows faintly furrowing. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Them,” he said quietly. “They’re being weirdly quiet.”

You resisted the urge to look again immediately. “I noticed.” For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, from somewhere behind you, a chair scraped sharply across stone. The both of you jumped in your seat. 

Riddle slowly turned his head toward the noise, expression unreadable, before his eyes shifted briefly and landed on you. The room suddenly felt much colder than it had a second ago.

Professor Merrythought swept into the classroom a few minutes later, robes billowing sharply behind her, and the low conversations immediately died out. 

“Wands away until instructed,” she said crisply. “Considering the quality of practical work before Christmas, I’ve no interest in rebuilding my classroom today.”

A few people groaned quietly. Lucas leaned toward you, “That’s aimed at the Hufflepuffs who set the tapestry on fire last time.”

“Wasn’t it just one tapestry?”

“It was three.” You hid a smile as Merrythought began writing the lesson topic across the board with a flick of her wand.

COUNTER-CURSES & DEFENSIVE REVERSALS.

The lecture started quickly after that, parchment scratching around the room as students copied notes. Merrythought spoke briskly, pacing between rows while explaining the difference between reversing minor hexes and breaking intentionally layered dark magic.

Beside you, Lucas lasted approximately eight minutes before getting distracted again. “I still think staying at Hogwarts over Christmas would’ve been brilliant,” he whispered, doodling absently in the corner of his notes. “No family dinners, no obnoxiously loud cousins and no aunt asking if I’ve ‘met any lovely girls yet’ as if I am into girls.”

You glanced sideways at him, “You say that now, until you’re actually here.”

“No, genuinely,” he grinned. “You could’ve had the entire castle basically to yourself.”

“It wasn’t empty,” you murmured.

But it had felt different, more quieter. The corridors colder somehow, the castle echoing in a way it usually didn’t when students filled it. Snow piled against the windows for days while the remaining handful of students wandered around half aimlessly, untethered from the usual chaos of term-time. Lucas rested his chin in his hand. “Still, better than my holiday.”

“What happened?”

“My older brother tried to demonstrate apparition inside the house.”

You blinked, “…Why?”

“He said he was ‘practising precision.’”

“That sounds ominous.”

“He splinched himself into Mother’s hydrangeas.”

You snorted loudly enough that a few people turned. Merrythought paused mid-sentence and Lucas immediately sat up straighter, pretending to copy notes with intense focus. After a moment, she continued. You shook your head slightly, still fighting a smile, before your attention drifted toward the front of the room again. 

At the front of the classroom, Merrythought demonstrated a counter-curse with a clean flick of her wand, sending a practice hex unraveling midair in a burst of silver sparks. 

Across the room, Riddle still hadn’t spoken much. One of the boys near him muttered something low. He answered without looking away from the front. And for the briefest moment, you caught the expression on his face. Not distracted, nor bored, just intensely focused. Like whatever had settled over that group before class still hadn’t left. 

Lucas leaned toward you and whispered, “Has he said anything yet?”

You stop scribbling in your DADA book and turn to face him. “Who?”

The boy next to you nods his and mouths ‘Riddle’, to which you nod your head. “Believe it or not, but he helped with my essay for History of Magic.”

Lucas gaped at your words. “What? I need all the details.”

By lunchtime, the strange tension from Defence Against the Dark Arts had faded into the usual chaos of Hogwarts conversation. The Great Hall buzzed with noise, cutlery clinking against plates, students shouting across tables, owls swooping very occasionally overhead despite several professors’ visible irritation about it.

You sat next to Lucas with Lilith and Alicia in front of you, absently tearing apart a piece of bread while the conversation around you bounced between classes, Christmas disasters, and the increasingly dramatic debate over the new Transfiguration arrangement.

Cressida, Ben, and Maeve had disappeared somewhere after class. “Probably the library,” Alicia guessed, spearing potatoes onto her plate. “Or they’re having a gossip sesh.”

“Both equally likely,” Lucas said.

You smiled faintly, gaze drifting toward the staff table. Dumbledore sat near the centre, speaking to another professor with that calm, unreadable expression he always seemed to wear.

You really needed to do some new research about the potion and figure Tom Riddle out.

After lunch, the castle settled into that strange mid-afternoon lull where everyone was technically supposed to be productive. Students drifted toward lessons, common rooms, or the library with stacks of books balanced precariously in their arms. 

The corridors echoed softly with distant footsteps and muffled conversation. You headed toward the library alone. Well, ‘alone’.

The Diary sat tucked carefully between your books inside your bag, heavier than it should’ve been. You’d told Lucas you needed to “catch up on studies,” which wasn’t technically a lie. You did have assignments to finish. But the pull toward The Diary had become impossible to ignore, Veritas Tempus, even thinking the words made something tighten faintly in your chest.

You still didn’t fully understand what it was. Or why The Diary responded the way it did. Every interaction only seemed to raise more questions instead of answering them. 

The library doors creaked open quietly as you stepped inside. Instant silence swallowed you whole. Madam Pince glanced up from her desk immediately, eyes narrowing with suspicion that seemed permanently etched into her face. Once she determined you weren’t about to commit a crime against literature, she looked back down.

Then you moved deeper between the shelves until you found a quieter corner near the back windows. Snow pressed softly against the glass outside, pale winter light spilling across the table as you sat down. For a few minutes, you genuinely tried to work, opened your Transfiguration essay, read the first paragraph and wrote half a sentence and sighed, you really weren’t in the mood to study.

You shoved The Diary carefully back into your bag alongside your parchment, gathering your books with far less care than usual. The chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood. You’d barely taken two steps away from the table when a voice drifted from somewhere between the shelves.

“Leaving so soon?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin, “Merlin—” You turned sharply and saw Tom Riddle leaning lightly against the edge of a nearby bookshelf, arms folded loosely across his chest. 

The dim library light caught against the sharp lines of his face, dark eyes fixed steadily on you with that infuriatingly calm expression he always wore. You hadn’t even heard him approach and your pulse still hadn’t settled, “Riddle,” you said flatly. “It’s none of your business.”

One corner of his mouth tilted faintly.

“Maybe.”

The silence stretched for a second too long.

You adjusted your grip on your books. “Were you lurking there intentionally, or is that just a hobby now?”

“I was reading.”

“In the dark?”

“It’s a library,” he said smoothly. “The lighting is unfortunate everywhere.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. There was something off about him today too. Not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice probably, but beneath the composed expression sat the same strange tension you’d caught earlier during Defence Against the Dark Arts. 

Riddle’s gaze flicked briefly toward your bag, “You looked frustrated.” Your fingers tightened instinctively around the strap. “Congratulations on your observational skills.”

“That bad?”

You hesitated. The logical thing would’ve been to brush him off completely. Walk away and pretend none of this bothered you. Instead, before you could stop yourself, you exhaled sharply, “I’m tired.” The honesty surprised even you. 

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Not softer, just… more attentive. “Tired of studying?” he asked wondering.

“No,” though that would’ve been easier. You looked away briefly toward the frost-covered windows lining the far side of the library. “Tired of not understanding things.” 

For the first time since the conversation started, Riddle went completely still, not casual-still, but the kind that made it feel like every word suddenly mattered far more than before. When you looked back at him, his eyes hadn’t left your face once. “And yet,” he said softly, “you keep trying anyway.” It wasn’t really a question, and somehow, that made your chest tighten more than if it had been.

“If you ever want help, you know where to find me,” and with that he left, leaving you standing confused.

Wooow, I posted again, surpriseee!

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“Okay,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence, “I just need everyone to emotionally prepare me.”

“For what?” Cleo asked.

“For Steve Harrington,” you replied seriously. “Because if anything happens to him, I will not be okay.”

Kiara snorted. “You say this every time we watch.”

“And every time I’m right,” you shot back. “The hair. The bat. The babysitter thing? I’m weak.”

Wheezie nodded enthusiastically. “The hat too. At the end of episode eight!”

You gasped. “YES. The cap. Thank you, Wheezie. Someone gets it.”

Sarah laughed, finally looking up from her phone. “Rafe is going to lose his mind if he hears this conversation.”

You waved her off. “He’s not here. And he’s with John B, JJ, and Pope. I have at least—” you checked the time, “—ten more minutes to openly thirst.”

“Bold of you to assume JJ didn’t drag Rafe along just to mess with him,” Kiara said.

You frowned. “... Rafe would never go willingly.”

As if on cue, your phone buzzed.

Rafe : JJ is testing my patience rn. Also why am I at the store with them.

You stared at the screen.

“…He’s with them,” you whispered.

Sarah burst out laughing. “No way.”

You typed back quickly.

You : You’re with them?? Since when do you willingly go on snack runs with Pogues?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Rafe : Since you said you were watching Stranger Things and JJ said you’d probably be talking about that ‘hair guy’ again.

Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile.

You : First of all, his name is Steve. Second of all, you’re just jealous.

There was a pause.

Rafe : I am not jealous.

Another message followed immediately.

His hair isn’t even all that.

You laughed out loud, drawing everyone’s attention.

“He’s jealous,” you announced.

“I knew it,” Kiara said smugly.

Wheezie leaned closer. “Is he coming back soon?”

“Apparently,” you said, locking your phone. “With snacks and a bruised ego probably.”

The door finally opened a few minutes later, voices carrying in before bodies did.

“We got everything!” JJ yelled. “And before anyone asks—yes, Rafe complained the entire time.”

Rafe walked in last, arms full of snacks, eyes immediately finding you on the couch. His expression softened the second he saw you, the tension in his shoulders melting just a bit.

You smiled at him sweetly.

“Hey, baby,” you said innocently.

He set the snacks down and leaned over the back of the couch, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “You talk about that guy again?”

You tilted your head. “Which one?”

His jaw tightened just slightly. “The one with the hair.”

You laughed and reached up, tugging him down so you could whisper, “Relax. You’re still my favorite man.”

He huffed, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “Good. Because I’m not doing my hair like that.”

“Your loss,” you teased.

He shook his head, but stayed close, one hand resting on your shoulder as everyone settled back in, everyone settled to the final episode beginning—snacks opened, couch crowded, and Rafe very clearly making sure you weren’t leaning too much toward the TV when Steve Harrington finally appeared on screen.

MASTERLIST

So you gathered your books, stacking them against your chest, and moved.

A quieter table, tucked between the taller shelves, far from the glow of the windows. No line of sight to Riddle, no Ravenclaw chatter. Just the steady creak of the library and shadow hopping gracefully onto the chair beside you.

You exhaled, finally.

What you didn’t notice was that Riddle had followed your movement with his eyes.

The girls still asked their questions, still leaned closer, still tried to keep his attention. He did answer, precise and unhurried. But every now and again, when one of them bent over her notes, he let his gaze flicker away. Over to where you’d disappeared between the shelves. As if he was checking that you were still there. 

You had been at it for what felt like hours. The same dusty pages. The same nonsensical lines of Binns’ lectures, copied into parchment as if the man had conspired to make history the dullest subject imaginable. You rubbed your temples, scrawling and crossing out the same line for the third time.

The essay question stared back at you mockingly: “Discuss the lasting political influence of the Rebellion of 1612 on modern magical treaties.”

You groaned under your breath, leaning back and glaring at the books towered before you. “Lasting political influence,” you muttered bitterly. “Lasting headache, more like—”

A voice cut into your irritation, smooth and deliberate: “You do realise you’ve been sighing loud enough for half the library to hear?”

You startled, snapping your gaze to the side. Tom Riddle stood there, arms crossed loosely, his face unreadable with any emotion. “I’m not sighing that loud,” you said, sharper than intended. “Some of us just… think with our lungs.”

“Apparently,” he said mildly, though there was the glimmer of mockery in his eyes. “It’s rather difficult to concentrate with someone theatrically suffering a few tables away.”

You flushed hot, part anger, part embarrassment. “Then don’t listen.”

But Riddle didn’t leave. Instead, without asking, he slid into the chair beside you, as if it had been his place all along.

You stiffened. “What are you—?”

“What’s the subject?” he interrupted, eyes already flicking across the stack of books in front of you. He plucked one from the pile, turned it over with practiced hands. “History of Magic. That explains the… dramatics.”

“I’m not being dramatic,” you said defensively, shoving your parchment a little closer to your side so he wouldn’t read your scrawled half-answers. “I just can’t find the link between the treaties and the bloody rebellion.”

His brow arched. “Can’t, or won’t?”

Your jaw tightened. “Can’t.”

For a moment, you braced for laughter. For him to smirk and walk away, mocking you for not knowing something a second-year might’ve managed. But instead, Riddle leaned forward, scanning the text. His hand slid to another book, flipping it open with ease.

“Here,” he said, tapping the margin of a dense paragraph. His tone wasn’t gentle, exactly, but it wasn’t cruel either, just quietly precise. “The Rebellion of 1612 forced the Ministry to realise that outright suppression only made resistance stronger. So they shifted strategy.”

He angled the book toward you.

“After 1612, the Ministry began establishing formal treaties instead of relying on military enforcement. The rebellion is the reason the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was reorganised into the structure we use today. It wasn’t just about quelling goblin unrest, it reshaped how the Ministry treats all Non-Wizarding communities. Diplomatic oversight. Negotiation. Mutual rights clauses.”

He looked at you again, his eyes sharp, assessing your reaction.

“That’s your link. Political evolution through necessity.”

And suddenly the essay didn’t feel quite as impossible. 

You blinked at the page. It… was the link you’d been searching for. Plain as day when he pointed it out.

“That’s… exactly it,” you admitted reluctantly, biting your lip as you wrote it down. “How did you—”

He shut the book softly. “Because I pay attention.”

You rolled your eyes at that, but your chest felt oddly lighter.  When you looked up again, he was already standing. As though the whole thing had been a minor detour, nothing more.

“You should try doing the same,” he said, almost absently, and then drifted back toward his table, leaving you staring after him with your quill frozen mid-word. It was then when you realised the Ravenclaws had already left. 

Seems like it was a short session. 

It took you a full minute to realise how your heart was pounding.

You closed the book a little too quickly, the echo of his words still threading through your head. “Because I pay attention.”

It should’ve annoyed you. It should’ve made you bristle the way his every smug comment usually did. But instead… it lingered. 

The strange, quiet fact that he had noticed you were struggling. That he had chosen to sit down instead of walking away.

And more than that, he hadn’t mocked you for it.

You caught yourself chewing on your quill. “Why does he even—” you started, but stopped. 

The question died before it could fully form. Because the truth was, you were tired of trying to untangle Tom Riddle. Tired of searching for meaning in every little glance, every silence, every time his attention fell where you least expected it.

Maybe you’d never understand why he did the things he did.

So you made yourself stop. 

Stop asking, stop dissecting. 

Just… wait. 

Watch and let him reveal himself in his own way, at his own pace.

Because, if you were honest with yourself, it was almost always him who came to you first. Not the other way around. 

That thought both comforted and unsettled you, lingering at the edges of your mind as you dipped your quill back into ink and tried to force your attention onto treaties and giants. 

But it was useless. All you could think about was how it felt when he sat beside you. The sharp edges of your frustration dulled, like his presence had steadied the storm inside your head without you asking.

And that, you realised, was exactly what scared you.

The library was quieter than an hour ago, the kind of silence that felt layered, like the snow blanketing the grounds outside. 

Your quill scratched against the parchment, the last stubborn lines of your History of Magic essay bleeding into existence. It had taken you hours to get this far, but finally, finally, you were close to finishing.

You reached for another book, one you hadn’t noticed before. Its spine was cracked, pages yellowed, the kind of text no one willingly touched unless desperate for obscure references. 

You cracked it open, scanning lazily for something you could use to stretch your essay with a few extra sentences.

And then you saw it.

Veritas Tempus.

The name didn’t jump out from a potions manual, or even from a professor’s notes, it was buried here, in the middle of a random history chapter, wedged between half-legends and footnotes about forgotten rituals.

You leaned in, heart tugging at your ribs as you read the faded ink:

Some scholars argue that Veritas Tempus was no more than a myth. A fable created to explain sudden disappearances or the unaccountable knowledge of a witch or wizard. Others, suggests its existence as an experimental draught, one designed to bent the seals of time itself. It is believed to be an ancient spell or potion capable of binding one’s truth to time itself. Scholars agree on one thing, the records of its use remain scattered, contradictory and largely destroyed. 

Whether it functions as a doorway, a curse or gift remains disputed. 

Published 1832, Author Unknown

Your breath caught.

Not in a potions book or in a restricted volume locked away behind iron gates.

But here hidden in plain sight, dismissed as myths and folklore. It made your skin prickle. Dumbledore’s cryptic hints. The endless books that led you nowhere. The tears you’d swallowed down in frustration. And now this sitting in your hands like a ghost.

You stared down at the ink, pulse racing. If Veritas Tempus really was the potion that had torn you from your life… then why was it written like a story no one should take seriously?

You dragged your eyes down further to the pages, going past the summary. 

On the Nature of Veritas Tempus

Amongst the most enigmatic accounts within our magical annals lies the whispered doctrine of Veritas Tempus. The matter is of such rarity and disputation that few dare record its name, and fewer still profess to comprehend its nature.

Though commonly described in hushed tones as a “myth” or “allegory,” a number of learned scholars attest with cautious certainty that Veritas Tempus was no mere fireside fable, but rather an experimental draught, perfected, so they say, by the imposition of a spell. The potion, if such it may be called, was believed to knit together the temporal seams of past, present, and future, binding one’s truth to time itself.

It is further held that Veritas Tempus leaves upon its supplicant an indelible mark: a token, a fragment drawn forth from their former state. This remnant might assume the form of a living creature, a treasured object, or even a scent or sound most familiar to the subject. Such manifestation, born of temporal distortion, represents the paradox of memory made flesh. It is at once a relic of the past, a companion of the present, and a portent of what is yet to be.

Alas, records suggest that the witch or wizard who once partook of this fateful work could never be restored to their rightful hour. “One-way passage,” the sages wrote. Though there are claims shadowed and contradictory that a reversal was sought, none speak of its success. Thus, whether the spell is curse, boon, or divine jest remains unsettled.

Nor is it known whether the witches and wizards rumoured to have vanished by this art truly invoked it, or whether their disappearances may be explained by other misfortunes. It has been proposed that, should a traveler linger too long beyond their natural span, or fail to discover the path home, their very existence might unravel, erased not only from the present but from the memory of all. Parents would recall no child, companions no friend, professors no student. As though the individual had never been wrought into the tapestry of the world at all.

The historical record is likewise fraught with accounts of certain witches and wizards who vanished without explanation, after doing research of the potion, known by many, whose names now linger only as footnotes in older ledgers:

Callista Damaris, famed arithmancer, whose last writings spoke of “the lattice of eternity.”

Aurelius Greengrave, a noted linguist of runes, disappeared upon the eve of presenting a treatise on temporal markers.

 Silas Thorncroft, a minor alchemist of no particular renown, known chiefly for the abrupt cessation of his work and life.

 Evandra Mirelle, a Beauxbâtons enchantress, spoken of in rumor as one who “walked between dawn and dusk, never belonging to either.”

To some, these are but cases of misfortune, the casualties of war or the vanishing toll of accident. Yet others perceive in their disappearances the signature of Veritas Tempus, a work too perilous for mortal hands, and too greatly despised by the Fates to endure.

Thus the potion remains an enigma. Whether a doorway, a prison, or a promise, the truth is veiled in the mists of time. And as ever, what fragments of knowledge remain lie scattered, hidden, contradictory, and too often destroyed by those who sought to silence them.

You barely noticed the time passing, the library fading around you as your eyes devoured the brittle pages of The Book. Every line seemed to pull you deeper—the vanished witches and wizards, the whispers of Veritas Tempus, the terrifying idea of being erased from existence entirely.

A soft clearing of a throat jolted you upright.

“Miss L/n,” the librarian said gently, her voice carrying the faintest hint of reproach. “It’s getting quite late. You should return to your dorm before you get caught.”

You blinked, cheeks warm with the realisation that you’d been lost in the book for hours. “Oh, yes… of course,” you murmured, quickly stacking your notes and books.

She gave a small smile. “I’ll put these back for you before anyone notices, don’t worry. You’d be in trouble otherwise.”

You started toward the door, grateful, until she stopped you with a soft tap on your arm.

“Wait,” she said, holding up a finger. “Take your own book back… before you lose it.”

You frowned, confused. “My… book?”

She held out the leather-bound book carefully, as though it were the most precious thing in the library.

If it wasn’t technically the library’s book… then whose was it?

No author, no proper publication date, just a dusty, strange volume tucked between mundane tomes of history. Most of it was normal enough, recounting battles, treaties, and magical politics, but then… the mention of Veritas Tempus, hidden in the margins as if it had never belonged.

Your fingers closed around it instinctively, a mixture of relief and apprehension twisting in your chest. “Thank you,” you said, and with a nod, you walked away, the library quiet behind you.

As you made your way down the hall, questions began to rise like small, persistent flames.

The castle feels different during the holidays, echoing, hollow, too large without the rush of hundreds of students filling its veins.

Your footsteps sound louder than they should as you walk, soft and uneven against the ancient stone floors.

Shadow pads beside you, tail flicking, the only other heartbeat in the corridor.

You clutch the book to your chest.

A book that shouldn’t exist.

No title, no author, no library stamp, no record in the catalogues.

Yet there it was on your table. And then, gone from the shelf the moment you tried to place it back. And then, returned to you by a librarian who seemed convinced it was yours. Your stomach twists.

It’s pretty weird if you thought about it. Too weird.

Magic can be unpredictable, sure. Old magic even more so… but books don’t rewrite themselves, pages don’t disappear. Potions lost for centuries don’t suddenly show up wedged between chapters on goblin rebellions.

You walk a bit faster, your fingers tightening around the leather binding. “Why would a book like this even be here?” you whisper to yourself. Shadow lets out a small, questioning chirp.

“Yeah, I don’t know either.”

You turn a corner. The torches flicker behind you as if reacting to your thoughts. The castle feels alive tonight, but not in the usual way it does, watchful in a way that makes your skin prickle.

Your mind spins with questions: If Veritas Tempus erases identities… If names vanish from history… If people simply disappear without a trace… Then how are there still known witches and wizards linked to it? Why would some names be known? What made them exceptions? Did they choose to leave everything behind? Or did the magic choose for them?

Your family. Your friends. Harry. Ron. Hermione. The war. The world you’re trying to save. Your name. Your existence.

A cold breath escapes you.

The empty hallway swallows the sound.

You shake your head, trying to steady yourself, that’s why Dumbledore is in such a hurry. That’s why he keeps pushing cryptic riddles and half-answers. That’s why this book appeared exactly when it did.

But none of it makes sense.

None of it feels safe.

A portrait mutters irritably as you pass, but you barely hear it. Your focus is on the book pressed to your chest, warm from your hands, too warm for something that’s supposed to be ordinary.

“Just a book,” you whisper again.

But you don’t believe that. Not even for a second.

You say the password to the Fat Lady, and step inside the Gryffindor common room, the warmth of the fire washing over you. Though, the chill of the corridor clings to your spine.

Morning comes too quickly.

Sunlight slips through the gaps in your curtains, landing directly on your face with the subtlety of a Stunning Spell. You groan, rolling onto your side, but sleep refuses to return. Your head already aches, the dull, throbbing kind that usually follows too much thinking and not enough answers.

You push yourself upright.

The dormitory is quiet. Shadow stretches on your pillow, tail flicking lazily, as though he had a peaceful night’s sleep and not one filled with prophetic book-pages and strange dreams.

You rub your eyes.

The book sits on your bedside table exactly where you left it. You stare at it for a long moment. You should open it again. You should try to understand what you saw.

But your brain feels like it's on the brink of cracking open like an overfilled cauldron, and you know you won’t make sense of anything on an empty stomach.

So you swing your legs off the bed, and decide that breakfast is the only sensible thing you can manage without unraveling.

The common room is still half-asleep when you pass through. Embers glowing in the fireplace, couches unoccupied, someone’s scarf forgotten hanging over a chair. The castle feels warmer this morning, less eerie than last night. Or maybe you’re just distracting yourself.

By the time you reach the Great Hall, a comforting hum of clinking silverware and soft chatter fills the air. Only a fraction of the usual crowd remains with students who stayed for the holidays, but it feels safe in a way the library did not.

You find a spot near the end of Gryffindor table and immediately reach for a piece of toast and whatever fruit is closest.

You take a long sip of pumpkin juice and breathe. For a moment, things almost feel normal again. Almost.

Your thoughts drift back to the book, the potion, the names that shouldn’t exist, and the page that transformed into something else entirely. Your skin prickles at the memory. There’s no part of you that believes it was a simple trick of the light.

But you remind yourself firmly: you need a clear head before diving back in.

You pull your Care of Magical Creatures assignment from your bag and spread the parchment across the table. At least this is familiar territory about Thestrals, Bowtruckles and the migratory habits of Mooncalves. Straightforward. Logical. Nothing that threatens your existence.

You dip your quill into ink and begin writing, letting the rhythm settle your nerves.

And for a while, it works. The quill scratching on the parchment filling the silence with a few other students who chose not to go home. But every so often, your gaze drifts toward the doorway. 

Toward your bag. Toward the memory of the book’s warm leather cover.

You try to focus on describing the preferred habitat of Crups, but your mind insists on replaying the same questions:

From where and why did the book appear?

And what does Veritas Tempus have to do with you?

You force your quill to keep moving.

For now, breakfast and magical beasts are the fragile barricade standing between you and complete mental collapse. But you know the moment you return to your dorm, you’ll have to open the book again.

Your quill scratches softly across the parchment, the half-formed paragraph about hippogriffs waiting for you to decide whether they are noble, proud creatures that demand respect or absolute menaces if you so much as blink wrong. 

A few scattered students linger over late breakfasts, the clatter of cutlery echoing through all the empty spaces left behind by those who went home for the holidays. Golden morning light pours through the windows, washing the tables in a soft haze.

You’re halfway through writing “Hippogriffs are extremely sensitive to tone and posture…” when a tiny, hesitant tap lands on your shoulder.

You freeze.

It comes again. A little firmer this time.

When you turn, you find a girl who can’t be older than eleven standing behind you red-cheeked, bundled in a scarf several sizes too big, her hair escaping its ribbon in chaotic puffs. She clutches a small deck of cards in both hands like she’s holding a rare magical artefact.

“H-hi,” she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Um… sorry to bother you. Really sorry. It’s just… everyone in my dorm left for break and I don’t really… have anyone to play with…”

She lifts the cards a little higher, almost like an offering.

“They’re Exploding Snap,” she adds quickly. “But I promise I’m really careful and I’ve only set my sleeve on fire... twice.”

You blink at her, then something warm tugs at your chest. Her hopeful expression, the way she keeps adjusting her scarf, the slight wobble in her voice… It all feels painfully familiar.

Especially after the few days you had. After a dream you can’t stop replaying. After the book whose pages seemed to shift under your gaze like it was alive.

“Do you… want to play with me?” the girl asks, quieter this time. “Just one round? You don’t have to if you’re busy, I just thought… you looked nice, and not scary.”

Your quill rolls off your parchment and clatters onto the table, but you don’t reach for it. The castle may feel strange, your assignment may be waiting, your mind may be full of too many questions, too many secrets, too many dreams, but right now, someone is asking you for something simple.

Something ordinary.

The girl shuffles the cards with exaggerated seriousness, like it’s the most important game in the world.

“So… what do you say?” she whispers and you nod in reply, shoving your essay and books aside.

She deals the first round with the seriousness of someone preparing for battle, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she aligns each card with painful precision. You’re about to comment on her technique when she suddenly speaks softly, like she’s afraid she might chase the thought away if she says it too loud.

“My dad taught me how to play this,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on the deck. “He says the most important part isn’t learning the cards.”

You raise a brow, leaning back just a little. “Isn’t learning the cards… the entire point?”

She shakes her head quickly, curls bouncing. “No, he says you have to play with the people, not the cards.”

Your face does something between a frown and a squint. “How does that work?“

She giggles a soft, breathy little sound that makes her look less lonely and more… eleven. “No, he meant… um…”

She’s fumbling for the words, tiny fingers tapping nervously on the deck as she gathers the thought.

“If the people you’re playing with feel like you see them and believe them, like you’re really there with them, then your cards are already right.”

You blink. Very slowly. “…I’m sorry,” you say, tone half-genuine, half-teasing, “is your dad a philosopher disguised as a normal wizard?”

She shrugs, cheeks turning pink. “He works in brooms maintenance.”

“Huh,” you say finally, because you don’t know what else to say.

She brightens at your confusion, encouraged. “He said people forget that games aren’t just about winning. They’re about being with someone. And if you’re so busy staring at your cards that you stop noticing the people, and what they do… then you’ve already lost.”

There’s a small and quiet beat where her words sit between you, warm and oddly heavy at the same time.

You look at her once again. At the kid with no friends left in the castle. At the deck clutched in her hands like a lifeline. At the way she’s trying desperately to make a connection in a place that suddenly feels too big for her.

And maybe… maybe it hits you a little, because your life right now is just a mess of secrets, impossible missions, and dreams you shouldn’t be having. It’s all so loud in your head that you almost forgot small things still matter.

“Alright,” you say, softer now. “So play with the people, not the cards. Got it.”

She beams, practically glowing. “Exactly!”

You tap your fingers on the table, a slow smile tugging at your mouth.

“Then show me how it’s done, philosopher’s daughter.”

She sits up straighter, cheeks round with excitement as she shuffles the deck again, this time with a little more confidence. And for a moment, you can feel something settle in your chest.

Not calm, no, that’s too strong. But a moment of a simple presence. A moment where you’re not lost in potions that erase you or dreams that feel too real.

The library is quieter than usual, so quiet that even the soft scratch of your quill feels intrusive. You’ve tucked yourself into one of the more secluded corners, surrounded by towers of books on magical creature husbandry. The morning light slants pale and cold through the high windows, catching the ink as you write about the dietary habits of adolescent hippogriffs.

You’re finally, finally getting into the rhythm of your notes, your thoughts lining up neatly for once when the stillness fractures.

First it’s a shuffle. Then the low rumble of voices. Then unmistakable laughter that sounds careless and echoing, entirely too loud for a place where people are meant to whisper, not shout.

You stiffen. Almost immediately.

The voices swell, overlapping in that boyish way where everyone is trying to dominate the conversation without actually saying anything meaningful. Something about a Quidditch match. Something else about a prank gone wrong. Something about, Merlin help you, someone’s cousin who hexed himself into growing antlers.

You grind your teeth and angle your head just enough to see past the edge of your book tower. The Slytherin students from Hogsmeade, the same group who had crouched in the middle of High Street to shower your cat with praise and scratches.

They’re sprawled around a single table like they own it. One has his feet on a chair. Another is tossing a crumpled ball of parchment into the air and catching it with a smug ease that makes you want to snatch it mid-flight and set it on fire. A third is animatedly reenacting something using only his hands and questionable sound effects.

You blink at them. Hard.

One of them; Wilkes, tall, sandy hair, the perpetual smirk of someone who has never been told “No” in his life, leans back in his chair until it teeters dangerously. “Mate, I’m telling you, if Ravenclaw's chaser hadn’t fouled him, we’d have won by at least—”

“—you’d have lost faster, you pillock,” Rosier snorts. “You can’t score to save your life.”

The first boy gasps dramatically. “Excuse me? If I played Quidditch, I would win every game!”

The table erupts into laughter loud enough that you swear one of the portraits shivers.

Your quill hovers mid-sentence, ink pooling at the tip.

You inhale. Exhale.

Inhale again, slower this time, attempting something noble like patience.

It lasts approximately six seconds.

You shoot them another glance, intending to glare them into silence. It’s petty. It’s doomed to fail. But you try anyway.

You let out a very quiet, very unimpressed sigh.

Of course it would be them.

Of course the universe would decide that in the single moment you actually try to be productive they would be the ones to invade your peace.

Your cat really had terrible taste.

You finally let out a long, frustrated sigh. That was it. Your patience had gone away. Where was the librarian when you needed her? Where was anyone to remind these boys that libraries weren’t meant to be performance stages for obnoxious Slytherins? Your quill hovered over the page, useless now, your notes scattered like tiny rebellions against your sanity.

Carefully, you start gathering your papers, stacking them neatly, trying to tuck the chaos into some semblance of order. You push the books back onto the shelves as quietly as humanly possible, hoping no one notices. Every careful movement feels like a secret mission.

You slip towards the library doors, praying the noise behind you doesn’t attract any attention. The corridor ahead is dim and empty perfect for a quiet escape. Relief blooms in your chest.

Until you see Tom Riddle standing there. Right at the doors. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Watching you. Calm, unnervingly composed, like he had been expecting you all along.

You clear your throat, forcing an awkward smile. “Riddle.”

He tilts his head, scanning you for a beat too long. “You’re still doing essays? Don’t have anything better to do?”

You shrug, shrugging off the tension like it’s nothing, but inside you feel every nerve buzz. “I… don’t, really. Everyone else went home for the holidays.”

He narrows his eyes just slightly, as if he knows more than you want him to. “I thought Creevey asked you to come home with him.”

You freeze, surprised. “He… how did you know?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. He just gives a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Enjoy your holidays.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Walking away, disappearing down the empty corridor like he had never been there at all.

You stand there for a long moment, blinking after him, trying to make sense of why your chest feels like it’s both racing and sinking at the same time. Then, finally, you turn, letting the quiet of the castle swallow you as you continue on this time, truly alone.

You decided to head to the Great Hall. Now is a good time to study there since its quiet. Quiet without the usual hum of voices, clattering cutlery, and floating conversations. The ceiling stretches above you like an empty sky, clouds drifting lazily as if they, too, have nowhere urgent to be. It’s almost peaceful but almost unsettling at the same time.

You enter with your bag slung over one shoulder, the familiar weight of books pressing reassuringly against your side. Reading sounds like the safest possible thing to do, something grounding before the next term begins and everything inevitably grows complicated again.

Without really thinking about it, your feet carry you toward the Hufflepuff table.

You don’t realise it at first. Not until you’ve already sat down, shrugged your bag off, and begun stacking your books neatly beside you. Old habits, you suppose. Muscle memory from a life that feels both close and impossibly far away. You consider moving briefly, but then again the hall is nearly empty, and no one seems to care. So you stay.

You pull out your Care of Magical Creatures notes and reopen the chapter on Graphorns. Thick-skinned, territorial, notoriously difficult to tame. You underline a sentence, jot a small note in the margin, then stack a few other books beside you, including that one, placed carefully at the bottom, as if it might hear you if you acknowledged it too openly.

Time slips by without you noticing.

At some point, a soft pop breaks the silence. You look up, startled, to find a house-elf standing beside the table, clutching a small glass.

“Hydration is important,” the elf mutters, already setting down a glass of pumpkin juice in front of you. “Thinking dries the brain.”

And before you can respond, it vanishes.

You stare at the spot where it stood, mouth slightly open. House-elves rarely come out unless summoned, and certainly not to offer unsolicited advice. Slowly, you murmur a ‘thank you’ to the empty air, though you’re not sure anyone hears.

You return to your reading, shaking off the moment. You brush a strand of hair out of your face, shifting in your seat, reaching to rest your arm back down... and knock the glass.

It tips dangerously close to the edge. Your heart jumps into your throat as you grab it just in time, fingers tightening around the cool surface. The glass wobbles but stays upright.

Relief floods you right up until you see the splash. Pumpkin juice has spilled across the table. Across the edge of a book. Your breath catches.

No. No, no, no.

You set the glass aside and grab the book immediately, panic buzzing through your veins. Juice drips from the corners as you lift it, orange liquid sliding down onto the stone floor. Your hands tremble as you open it, bracing yourself for warped pages, smeared ink, ruined text, only to see nothing.

The pages are perfectly dry. Not even damp. The ink is crisp, the parchment smooth, as if the juice had never touched it at all.

You flip a page. And another. And still nothing.

You stare at it, heart pounding now for an entirely different reason. Slowly, you turn the book over, inspecting the cover, the spine, the edges. No stains. No swelling. No scent of pumpkin juice lingering in the air.

It’s untouched.

Your fingers tighten around the book as unease curls low in your stomach. You glance around the Great Hall instinctively, but it remains empty and quiet, indifferent to your sudden spiral of questions.

You place the book back on the table again, confused.

You don’t go back to your common room after that.

You try. You really tried. You had made it halfway across the hallway before the thoughts of the book come flooding in—dry pages, untouched ink, the impossible absence of damage, forces your feet to slow.

Because there is exactly one person in this castle who might already know the answer and choose not to tell you unless you ask the right way.

So, you find yourself climbing the moving staircases almost on instinct, your fingers tight around the strange, weightless book tucked beneath your arm. The castle seems to guide you, steps shifting, corridors opening, until you are standing outside a door you recognise far too well.

You knock.

“Enter,” Dumbledore’s voice calls, warm and expectant, as though he has been waiting.

His office is exactly as you remember it: humming softly with magic, silver instruments ticking and whirring, portraits pretending not to listen.

You don’t sit. You simply hold out the book to let him see.

“You’ve found it,” he says gently, fingers steepled, blue eyes sharp beneath the calm.

You swallow. “Yeah. It just appeared. And then it didn’t behave like a normal book. Pumpkin juice spilled on it. Nothing happened.”

You hesitate, then add, quieter, “It remembers people no one else does.”

Dumbledore gestures to the chair opposite him. You sit. For a moment, he only studies you. Not unkindly or curiously or purposefully. “That,” he finally says, “is the Diary of Hogwarts.”

Now, you were officially even more confused.

“A… diary?” you repeat.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Not a diary in the sense of idle thoughts or sentimental recollections. Hogwarts does not indulge in such... triviality. It is more like a record, a living one.”

He rises from his chair and walks toward one of the tall bookcases lining the circular walls. His fingers trail along spines older than most nations.

“Hogwarts,” he continues, “is not merely stone and spellwork. It observes, listens and remembers. Long before ministries, long before recorded magical law, this castle bore witness to every student who crossed its threshold.”

He turns back to you.

“Some names fade from history not because they were unimportant but because time chose not to keep them.”

Your chest tightens. “So... this remembers them instead.”

Dumbledore nods. “The Diary exists to preserve what the world loses. Witches and wizards who slipped between times. Those who were misplaced, misaligned… or removed.”

You think of the names you read. The unfamiliar ones. The sudden certainty you felt that they mattered.

“Why me?” you ask. “Why would it show itself to me?”

A pause. “Because,” Dumbledore says carefully, “you are where you are meant to be.”

Silence stretches between you.

“The Diary,” he continues, “responds to temporal instability. To fractures in one’s place in time. It does not belong to the library because it cannot be catalogued. It moves, chooses, and when it does, only the intended reader sees what it wishes to show.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your robes. “So the pages can change,” you ask, completely infatuated with the thought that a book like that actually can exist. Even in a place like Hogwarts.

“Yes, it should,” Dumbledore replies. “The Diary does not offer answers directly. It offers what you are ready to understand. Or what you need to ask the right questions.”

“What about the juice?” you press. “I spilt it. Why didn’t it—”

“Because,” he interrupts gently, “the Diary is bound to the magic of the world itself. It cannot be damaged by mundane means. Ink can fade, parchment can burn, memory, however, is far more resilient.”

He studies you again, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“You are searching for truth,” he says. “About time and about where you belong.”

You think of the potion. The names erased. The dream. The way the book felt warm beneath your hands.

“And it’s helping me,” you whisper.

“Yes,” Dumbledore says. “But help is not the same as safety.”

You look up sharply, eyebrows drawn in a confused line across your forehead.

“The Diary will answer you,” he continues, “but it will never guide you. It records. It reflects. What you take from it and what you choose to believe, will shape what comes next.”

You stand slowly, heart racing once more. “So I should keep it,” you say.

Dumbledore smiles, just barely. “You already have,” he replies.

As you turn to leave, his voice follows you one last time.

“Be mindful,” he says softly. “It already remembers those who were forgotten.”

“And,” he adds after a pause. “it does not forget those who are still deciding whether they wish to be.”

The days slip by quietly, one bleeding into the next.

You spend most of them studying in that focused, almost desperate way that keeps your thoughts from wandering too far. Books pile up around you beneath the towering Christmas tree in the Great Hall, its enchanted lights glowing softly above as if trying to compensate for the emptiness of the castle. Without the usual crowds, the hall feels cavernous, echoing with memories instead of voices.

It’s the first Christmas you’ve ever spent alone.

And somehow… it doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would.

Shadow is always with you, curled against your leg or sprawled across your open book like he owns the place. When you pause, staring up at the ceiling instead of reading, he nudges your hand insistently, grounding you. Still, you can’t help but think of your old friends, of laughter that filled spaces like this, of conversations that didn’t require so much effort. You miss them in a quiet, aching way.

Before you realise it, Christmas fades, replaced by that strange in-between time when the year is almost over. New Year’s hovers just a day or two away.

It’s during one of those calm mornings that Professor McGonagall stops you in the corridor.

“Oh—hi, Professor,” you say, straightening instinctively.

“Miss L/n,” she replies, nodding once. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” you answer, a little surprised at how genuine it sounds.

She gestures for you to walk with her, her pace measured. “I wanted to speak with you briefly. I’ve been reviewing academic progress reports.”

You brace yourself, but her tone isn’t sharp.

“Yes,” she says crisply. “Well enough, in fact, that I’m considering recommending you for advanced-level classes in both subjects during your sixth year provided you keep up the good work.”

Your heart jumps. “Advanced classes?”

“Yes,” McGonagall confirms. “They require commitment. But I believe they would suit you.”

“And how are you holding up with your electives?” McGonagall asks. “Care of Magical Creatures and Divination, if I recall correctly.”

“Care of Magical Creatures is… grounding,” you say after a moment. “Divination is more difficult. It’s not exactly predictable.”

Her lips press into a thin line that suggests she agrees. “Few things of importance ever are.”

“There’s one more thing. I’d like you to consider taking Ancient Runes.”

Your brows knit together. “Ancient Runes?”

“I believe it would benefit you,” she says carefully. “In more ways than one. It may help you… contextualise certain matters you’ve been grappling with.”

There’s something pointed in her tone. Measured and deliberate.

“Think about it,” she finishes. “And enjoy the remainder of your holiday, Miss L/n.”

With that, she turns and walks away, robes sweeping behind her.

You remain where you are for a moment, the quiet of the castle settling around you again. Ancient Runes. Advanced classes. You sigh, New Year’s just around the corner.

Later that day, curiosity outweighs caution.

You retreat to one of the quieter corners of the library, far from the main tables, tucked between two tall shelves that smell faintly of dust and ink. Shadow pads along behind you, tail flicking lazily as he settles on the windowsill nearby. The castle outside the glass is dark, snow drifting slowly past the towers.

Ancient Runes.

You pull a heavy volume from the shelf, its spine heavily cracked with age: Foundations of Runic Theory and Temporal Binding. The title alone makes your pulse quicken. You lower yourself into the chair and open it carefully, half-expecting the pages to fall out the book when you open it. 

They don’t, lucky you.

Runes, you quickly learn, are not simply an old language. They’re intent made visible, magic stripped down to its most fundamental shapes. Each symbol carries meaning, power, and memory all at once. Unlike wandwork, which channels magic outward, runes anchor it. Bind it. Preserve it.

You skim, then slow.

Another passage catches your eye:

Runic magic is uniquely suited to phenomena involving continuity, identity, legacy, and time, where conventional spellcraft proves unstable.

Your fingers still.

Time.

You flip another page, then another, heart beating faster as you tried to form connections to everything you’d learned so far. Ancient runes are often used in protective wards, but also in preservation spells, memory enchantments, and long-forgotten temporal seals. They are used to mark things that must remain, even when the world insists on changing.

You swallow.

How can this help with something McGonagall knows you’re struggling with? 

What were you even struggling with in her eyes?

Another text explains that advanced runic study teaches witches and wizards how to read magical residue left behind by powerful acts: spells cast long ago, objects displaced from their origin, histories rewritten so subtly that only the runes notice the fracture. Runes, it says, recognise truth even when records do not.

You think of The book.

The names no one remembers.

The potion that bends time and erases identity.

And suddenly, McGonagall’s suggestion doesn’t feel random at all.

Ancient Runes wouldn’t help you change the past or fix it. But it might teach you how to recognise what has been altered. How to read the seams where time has been stitched back together too neatly. How to protect yourself from being erased the way those others were.

You lean back, exhaling slowly.

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