Lydpop

Remus flicked the ashes of his cigarette out of the bedroom window, smoke leaving his lips along with a chuckle. "Yeah, right."

Sirius shrugged as he took a drag from his cigarette. "The results speak for themselves."

James, who didn't smoke because it would taint his athlete lungs (as he so humbly put it), propped one leg up as he backed up against the bed frame, adjusting his position on the floor. "You fucking wish."

"I could do that if I tried. You're not special, Pads. I just don't because I know it would be too much for a girl, especially around the full moon," Remus said.

"Oh here he goes again with his rough sex werewolf shit," James threw his hands up in the air, getting a laugh from Sirius.

"Stay jealous, Prongs. Stay jealous," Remus replied.

"Never made a girl squirt though, have you? You stay jealous, Moons," Sirius challenged.

"Surely you know that we do not believe you," James said.

Sirius sighed, leaning back onto his mattress, propping himself up on his elbows. "Well, when her cum shot all over my face, it did feel pretty fuckin' unbelievable."

"Just because virgins think you're good in the sack doesn't mean you are," Remus chimed back in, "how are they supposed to know that there's so much better out there?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Sirius said, leaning back up and tilting forward in Remus's direction, "I didn't realize you have a history of fuckin' making virgins squirt. I didn't realize this topic was so familiar to you, how dare I."

"It can't be that hard to make a virgin squirt, Sirius, I'm feelin' like that's pretty easy," James said.

"The real challenge is with experienced girls," Remus said, blowing more smoke out of the window, "You think you're all that? Get back to me when you make someone impossible to please come. Not even to squirt, just to come."

Sirius diverted his gaze from Remus to James, who looked to Remus, who looked back at James, who then turned to Sirius. "That a challenge?" Sirius asked.

"Maybe it is."

"Well if I'm gonna try, you're gonna try, you fucking asshole," Sirius told Remus.

"What, is James just off the hook? We all know he can't do it anyways."

James threw his hands up again. "I can do it."

"Okay, so pick a girl," Sirius said, raising his brows in challenge.

In a mocking voice, Remus joked, "but how will we ever find a girl that sex god Sirius Black can't please?"

"You think Y/N would do it?" James asked.

"You don't think that might ruin our friendship?" Remus questioned.

"Let's review," James said, standing up and beginning to count his points on his fingers, "one, we've all been friends with her for forever, so she trusts us. Two, we all know she's got experience, and we know there's a bunch of guys who haven't been able to make her come. Three, she doesn't strike me as someone who would get attached and ruin our friendships over sex. And four, perhaps the most important of all: she's hot and we all wanna fuck her."

"How the fuck do we even broach that subject?" Sirius asked, "are we supposed to ask her to let us fuck her as a competition? Do we just try to kiss her and see where it leads? This is Y/N for fucks sake."

"Correct," Remus responded, "it`'s just Y/N. I feel like it'll be way easier to ask her than some other random girl."

"Oh, Sirius has no problem asking random girls for sex," James joked, though he was serious.

"The only reason we're friends with Y/N is because she turned you down, do you remember that, Jamie?" Sirius shot back.

"She didn't turn me down, jackass, she was in a relationship. Otherwise, I would have for sure gotten to hit that."

"Big bad James and his big bad muscles on the big bad Quidditch team, ok then," Remus joked, "irresistible to all girls. Oh wait! Except for one."

"If you're jealous of my body, Moons, just say it. This," he gestured down his torso, "takes a lot of work."

"You're really talking yourself up when my skinny ass gets more girls than you do, and more boys too, for that matter. I'm sorry, which one of us has had sex with the majority of your Quidditch team? Oh, not you? Weird," Remus responded.

“You know that fraternization on the team would be frowned upon, why would you say that when you know-“

“Oh relax,” Remus cut James off.

“Doesn’t matter how many guys you get, Moons, you still can’t make Y/N come.”

“What are we, just going off the honors system here? I already don’t believe Sirius made someone squirt, you two want me to believe you if you just say you did it? Where’s the proof?” James questioned.

“Proof? What do you want us to do, suck her cum up in a syringe, you fucking weirdo?” Remus replied.

“No no, it’s a fair point,” Sirius chimed in, “I don’t believe half the shit you tell me anyway.”

“Ok, so what do you wanna do then? Fuck her at the same time?” Remus asked.

James and Sirius exchanged a long glance.

“You two aren’t serious.”

James and Sirius both shrugged.

“I’m not fucking her with you two idiots in the room ruining it,” Remus said.

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Sirius said, “I’d only make it better. For her especially.”

“Would not.”

“Would too.”

“You think you’re such a fucking sex god-“

“It’s not a little weird to fuck the same girl at the same time? What are we gonna do, take turns?” James asked.

“She’s got three holes,” Sirius said.

“Okay, but the entire point of fucking her is to see who can actually make her come, idiot,” Remus said, “so obviously that doesn’t matter. I’m not sticking my dick somewhere that I’ll be able to feel one of yours, guys.”

“Why not?” James asked genuinely.

“Because, because-“

“Because, because, come on, Rem, it’s only weird if you make it weird. I’ve seen your dick before.”

“Me changing in front of you is not the same as us fucking someone at the same time.”

“The thought of watching her get railed by one of us doesn’t do anything for you?” James asked.

Remus blinked, unable to cohesively think of a rebuttal. “I mean.”

“Mhm,” Sirius nodded.

“Okay, so it’s agreed, we’re all gonna fuck her with the rest of us there so we have proof we aren’t lying, and we’re gonna see who can make her come,” James said.

“What if we can all make her come?” Remus asked.

“Then whoever does it first?” James tried.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, I mean what if she comes harder for one of us? Once she comes it’s gonna be too easy to make her come again. Like that’s not a good gage,” Sirius said.

“No no, we share space equitably. No one hogs any part of her. Whoever makes her come first, wins,” Remus said.

“Wins what, exactly?” Sirius said.

James shrugged. “Let’s let her decide.”

────── ☾ ──────

Your gaze diverted between the three boys in front of you, your book laying open in your lap as you adjusted your cross-legged position on the common room couch. “Are you joking?”

“Nope,” said Sirius.

You processed for a few moments. “Okay, and what exactly do you get if you make me come first?” you asked.

James dipped his head and smirked. “We were uh- we were actually gonna let you decide that one.”

You raised your brows. “You were, were you?”

“…Yeah.”

You nodded your head up and down, thinking and processing. “And you all just assumed I’d say yes?”

“Honestly I don’t think we ever got that far,” Remus admitted.

“Right, right,” you said, “right.”

“You can say no, you know,” Sirius said.

You turned toward him. “I know.”

“So are you saying no?” he asked.

“No,” you replied, quicker than you anticipated.

“Are you saying yes?” Sirius pressed.

You pondered Sirius’s question. “Can I have a day or two to think about it?”

“Of course, of course,” James said.

Luckily you had plans in Hogsmeade the next day, which gave you an opportunity to give the boys an answer.

When Dorcas and Mary left the Hog’s Head early to “work on some overdue assignments,” you were left alone with the boys.

“So I have an answer for you,” you said.

“Already?” Remus said.

“Yeah, already, jackass.”

“And?”

“I’m down.”

All three boys exchanged glances. “Yeah?”

“Don’t act so surprised. You said no strings, you guys are hot, and fuck if I don’t need a good orgasm. The boys around here don’t do it for me, as you well know.” You’d tipsily told them several times how none of the boys at school could make you come.

“And you think we can?”

“If you’re really gonna try this hard, I think at least one of you has a shot. With all the sex you have? Please. If one of you can’t make me come, no one can. It’s worth a shot, and three tries is better than one.”

“Oh, so you’re using us?” Sirius joked.

“Mm, only because you guys wanted to use me first,” you lightheartedly shot back.

“Fair enough,” Sirius surrendered.

The conversation quickly shifted when butterbeers and pumpkin juices arrived, and all attention turned toward drinking games and late-night escapades.

As you walked through the cool-breezed, darkened streets of Hogsmeade, you took note of the lack of people around. You were sure the boys didn't notice.

"Where are you going?" Remus asked, watching you drift toward an alleyway.

You made a come-hither motion at the boys as you stepped into the alleyway, scanning quickly for any sign of life and finding none.

"What are you-" you grabbed Remus's face, cutting him off with a kiss. Without a second thought, Remus's hands found your waist, pulling you closer to him on instinct.

Both you and Remus were experienced enough to turn the kiss into a heated exchange quickly. You bit his bottom lip, and in turn, he took the moment of disconnection to slip his tongue into your mouth.

He took steps forward, backing you up until your back collided with the outer brick siding of Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop. Remus pulled away, thinking he had slammed your body into the wall too hard, but you immediately pulled him back. His body had no choice but to respond immediately, his hand holding the side of your jaw in place as his lips traveled down to the side of your neck.

The gap of his face in front of yours allowed you time to open your eyes and see Sirius and James watching the exchange intently.

"Guess Remus is going first then?" you teased.

"No, no, that's not the arrangement," Sirius said, "we all said no hogging. We all get equal shots. Move the fuck over."

Sirius grabbed your throat and pulled you forward into a kiss, causing Remus to stumble to the side in defeat.

Remus gestured to James to do what was just done to him to Sirius, but James wasn't one to fight for attention. James was one to wait until he was wanted, and until you were begging from attention from him. He would wait his turn patiently.

"Heathens," he snickered, "let her breathe for 2 seconds, would ya?"

Sirius pulled away, but his hand remained on your throat. "I'm sorry, I don't see you winning right now, do I? Shut up and maybe you'll learn something."

He resumed kissing you, and his hand dropped from your throat, tracing down your body until it landed between your legs. He pulled away to look into your eyes. You gave him a "yes" nod to signal that you consented to his touches.

That was the moment Remus decided he was done standing there like an idiot.

He dropped to his knees directly beside Sirius, tracing his fingers tauntingly slowly up your thighs, aiming for under your house-colored skirt.

Sirius noticed his efforts, and their hands collided directly on your underwear.

Like petulant little boys, you felt Sirius smack Remus's hand away, then Remus's hand smack him back, and then Sirius pulled his hand out from under your shirt and smacked Remus on the side of the head.

"Ass," Remus said his body moving sideways, causing his hand to leave its place under your skirt, "what the fuck was that for?"

"No one said we have to play fair," Sirius replied, shoving his hand back under your skirt and cupping between your thighs.

You barely reacted apart from a small gasp.

"You really are a tough one, huh?" Sirius teased, his hand falling for a moment.

Smirking, you responded, "you wanna make me come? You're gonna have to put in the work. Unless you think you can't handle it? Too busy fucking girls and not women?"

"Working me up is only gonna make this more intense for you," Sirius taunted, "you're playing a dangerous game."

"Don't listen to him, he's a cocky fuck," James laughed from behind Sirius.

You shifted your hips and let out a small moan. Sirius thought his words were really working you up, until he looked down to see that Remus had not only snuck his way between your legs while you and Sirius were talking, but that his head disappeared under your skirt.

Sirius decided to let Remus do some of the hard work before he chimed back in to bring you to the edge, so he stepped back, crossing his arms and sighing as he stood next to James. "At least flip the skirt up for me, gorgeous."

You pulled your skirt up, bunching it up and tucking it into its own waistband, leaving Remus visible, and when he pulled away to breathe, your core as well.

Remus flicked his tongue over your clit, one hand on your hip hooking a thumb around the fabric of your underwear to keep it to the side. Your fingers intertwined into his soft curls, keeping him in place as he moved his tongue faster and faster.

"You're kinda good at this," you spoke breathily, earning a moan of acknowledgement, the vibrations adding to your pleasure.

James decided to step in, standing to your side and turning your face toward him to finally take his turn at a kiss. The kiss was slow and passionate, the intimacy of it making you even wetter for Remus between your legs. His glasses fogged up due to the heat radiating off of your body.

When James pulled away, he kept a hand under your chin to keep your eyes on him instead of Remus. Remus's unoccupied hand began to take over his tongue's spot, circling your clit as he moved his face further back, teasing your entrance.

You let out a moan, staring into James's eyes. James nodded when you made the noise. "Good girl, that feel good?"

"Mhm," you responded, moaning again.

Remus's tongue began to fuck into you, his hand still working your clit. You used your hand to press his face further into you, refusing to give up the pleasure. You so rarely were properly pleasured by men, since they were typically unfamiliar with how to actually work their way around a woman's body, but you had a feeling that at least one of these three had to know what they were doing. You hoped it would be all of them.

As far as who you wanted to win, well, you didn't really have a preference. Honestly, all of them were hot, and you would be happy coming for any of them. Of course, there was a little bit of stake in the game. They allowed you to pick the prize for whoever won. You hadn't told them yet, but the prize would be you. Consistent sex-capades with the one girl around who could truly do it for them? That's a prize in itself.

You knew they had a lot of sex. You knew they slept with a ton of people, but you also knew that they were usually the ones giving the pleasure, not receiving it. The prize? That would change.

"Fuck, Jamie," you moaned, still staring into his eyes as Remus ate you out.

Remus pulled away, his hand never stopping as he said, "that's not fucking fair, I'm the one doing the work down here. He didn't even earn his name."

"And you think you did?" James challenged.

"She's only moanin' cus of me," Remus shot back.

"Well, you clearly haven't made her come, and you've been down there long enough," James said, "my turn."

Remus had the same thought as Sirius, and opted to let James do some of the work as well.

He sighed and backed up, and James dropped to his knees.

Despite being on his knees, James gripped the back of your thighs, hoisting you up so that your thighs were resting on his shoulders. You squealed in surprise at his strength.

"You're strong," you said.

"You have no idea," he responded, gripping your ass and pushing you into his face, immediately beginning to move his tongue at a rapid pace, his head shaking back and forth from the speed.

"Oh fuck," you moaned, throwing your head back and knocking it against the brick, "fuck, just like that."

Sirius approached again, standing directly behind James an pushing his head further into you. He leaned over James and kissed you, swallowing to whimper that followed.

James refused to stop, eating you out like he was starving. Each time you made a noise that Sirius found hot, he pushed James's head harder into you. James didn't let out a single noise of protest.

You looked down and spotted Sirius's hand on James's head, forcing him to increase the pleasure his mouth was giving you, and it caused your core to flex.

"Fuck," you gasped, "oh my god, James, fuck."

"Earned his name, I see," Sirius teased, turning to Remus.

Remus pretended to act annoyed, but anyone could see his dick straining against his pants for dear life. Even if the name you moaned wasn't his, it was still hot nevertheless, and he knew it would be his name when he was the one making you come. He had no doubts. Why not let James and Sirius have a little fun first?

Part of the reason you were so hard to make come was that man didn't understand that just eating out or just penetration wasn't enough for you. These boys had no idea that as long as they remained kneeling between your legs, they were already way off.

It took ten minutes of James eating you out before he took a breath. "Fucking hell, are you close?"

You giggled. "I don't know, am I?"

Remus caught on. "You need to be fucked, huh?"

"Okay fuck you, she might actually be close," James said, but stood up anyways.

"Didn't you guys pick me because you knew it wouldn't be easy?" you asked.

James gripped your chin and pulled your face against his, trapping you in a heated kiss to remind you that he could, in fact, make you feel good.

“Up,” Remus said, snaking his arms around your thighs, prompting you to jump and wrap your legs around his hips.

You watched in the gap between your bodies as Remus pushed everything below the waist down, exposing his long, slender cock.

He gently pressed his forehead against yours, looking between your bodies as well as he lined himself up with your entrance. He waited a moment for you to revoke consent, but when you didn’t, he pushed himself into you.

You tilted your head back as he bottomed out, barely giving you any time to adjust before he started fucking you.

You locked your legs behind him, crossing your feet to keep you in place. He kept his hands under your thighs to hold you up as he fucked you, his lips trailing down to your jawline.

“Shit, Remus,” you moaned.

The use of his name only egged him on more, causing him to start fucking into you faster. “Good fucking girl, I can feel you squeezing me,” he whispered into your air.

You whined and whimpered as his cock pumped in out of you, and Remus was beginning to lose control.

You squirmed momentarily, and Remus grabbed your hand in his own, moving it over your head and pinning it against the brick wall. “Stay fucking still.”

You saw a window of opportunity, and arched your back. “Or what?” you breathily asked.

Remus nearly growled, immediately dropping your hand and wrapping his fingers around your throat. He snapped his hips harshly, not caring about the competition anymore, just caring about fucking you the hardest you’ve ever been fucked. His hand pressed your neck into the brick, rendering you unable to move your head. In tandem with deep thrusts, he repeated, “stay. Fucking. Still.”

You obeyed.

You opened your eyes and spotted James, who was covering half of his face with his hand, breathing deeply to maintain self control. The eye contact only added to your arousal, because James’s eyes were trained on you so intensely that you almost couldn’t handle it.

Your hands explored Remus’s body, feeling muscles on his arms that you couldn’t see in the light of day on his relatively skinny frame. You pawed at his hips, involuntarily trying to push each thrust even further into you.

Sirius approached you two, his cock in hand as he gently stroked himself. “Let her off the wall.”

Remus, sweaty and losing breath, removed his lips from sucking your jawline to look at Sirius. “I’m fucking occupied.”

“Let her off the wall,” Sirius repeated, “I didn’t say you had to stop fucking her.”

Remus dipped his head into the crook of your neck. “I fucking hate you,” he said, directed as Sirius, but he remembered the terms he agreed to, and knew he was hogging you. So he moved his hands to your thighs again, and stepped backward from the building, his cock still in you.

The shifting of his hips as he moved was causing stimulation without Remus even trying.

Remus turned so that your back was to Sirius, and he resumed fucking you, slower this time. His arms moved you slightly up and down to aid in his thrusts, his hips moving the best he could without you pressed against the wall.

Sirius pressed your back against his chest, his head dipping into the crook of your neck as he began to kiss your shoulder, your neck, and your jawline, until he turned your head sideways and kissed you.

You allowed your body to fall into him, Remus’s thrusts causing you to jerk upward every few seconds. Sirius fought to hold your head against his, but honestly you moving due to getting fucked only made him harder.

“You ever done this back here before?” Sirius whispered to you.

“Mhm,” you responded, barely able to speak from how hard Remus was thrusting into you.

Sirius spit into his hand and rubbed it up and down his cock, preparing himself.

“Stop for a second,” Sirius told Remus.

“Fuck no,” Remus said, lost in pleasure.

“Stop for a second or this could hurt her, dumbass,” Sirius clarified.

Remus stopped thrusting and pressed his forehead to your collarbone, catching his breath for a second and trying to stay still until he could resume movement.

Sirius lined himself up, wrapping one hand around your stomach, and using the other hand to hold your ass up as he slowly pushed himself into your ass.

You leaned your head back onto his shoulder, allowing him to take his time stretching you.

“Would you fucking hurry up?” Remus snapped, clearly annoyed.

“You can wait 10 more seconds,” Sirius replied, trying to focus on restraint.

“Shouldn’t have to, selfish fuck.”

“I’m selfish? Who just stood here fucking her without me or James getting-“

“Just fucking get to it,” Remus was losing control by the second.

“That’s what I’m doing, thank you very much.”

“It’s just like you to be cocky while you’re literally sticking your dick in-“

“Well maybe if you stopped fucking distracting me then I-“

“Would you two please shut up and fuck me?” you chimed in.

Sirius was finally bottomed out, and he tested the waters by thrusting only an inch or two at a time. Once he started a normal pace, Remus began his own relentless pace again, barely even acknowledging that Sirius was there.

When Remus thrusted in, jerking you backward, Sirius would take the opportunity to thrust forward as well, the two boys not having to move a ton because you were being tossed between their cocks, the movements giving you makeshift thrusts.

“James,” you said.

He perked up, somewhat shocked that you said his name while sandwiched between his two best friends.

“Yeah?”

“I need you to touch me,” you said.

Remus and Sirius both looked up to acknowledge what was happening, but ended up looking up directly at each other.

They stayed watching each other for a moment, their breaths staggered and their faces glistening from sweat.

Sirius reached past you and grabbed the back of Remus’s head, pulling him in.

Sirius and Remus’s lips collided directly next to you, and the sight of them kissing as they both fucked you almost did you in.

Almost. James approached your other side, not daring to interrupt the hotness of the kiss, and he placed his own soft kiss on your temple.

“You want me to touch you?” he teased.

“Please, Jamie,” you were not above pleading to get what you want.

James ran his hand down your body, which was still bouncing up and down, slowly dragging between your breast area and down your stomach. He stilled just under your skirt’s waistband.

“Ask me for it again,” James said.

“Please touch me, James, I need it so bad.”

His hand moved lower.

“How bad? You need me to make you come?”

“I need it, I wanna come, please Jamie, please.”

“Atta girl,” he said.

He kissed you as he began circling your clit with his finger. You moaned into the kiss, garnering the attention of Sirius and Remus, who breathily pulled away from one another to watch your body react to now being touched.

You leaned back against Sirius, your moans escalating in both frequency and volume.

“Oh m- fuck, I’m gonna come,” you moaned.

Sirius and Remus both began to fuck you harder, but you stopped them quickly.

“No, no, do what you were doing,” you said, “don’t escalate. Fuck me like you were.”

The boys both resumed their previous pace, and you felt the knot begin to form in your stomach.

James applied a slight bit more pressure to your clit, and you knew you were in for it.

“I’m coming, I-“

You came hard, your wetness completely coating Remus’s cock as your orgasm washed over you. It was so intense, likely from your body not being used to men making you come like this, that your legs started to shake. You would have fallen if it weren’t for two boys holding you between them.

James gradually slowed his hand down, kissing you through the orgasm to help calm you down.

Remus couldn’t help himself but join you. He hit your cervix with three brutal thrusts as he allowed himself to come, his head resting on your shoulder as he took a breath.

After you and Remus had calmed down, Sirius pulled out of you, allowing Remus to place you down. You stayed clinging onto Remus, not convinced that your legs would work after being hoisted up for so long.

Sirius had already taken a step back to finish himself off, roaring lowly as he came and painted a brick on the wall white.

That left James, who looked completely pleased and content.

“You didn’t-“

“Oh, I did,” James said, looking down.

You spotted the wet patch between his legs, and realized that James came without any stimulation of his own, but just from watching all of you and doing to you what he did.

Remus finally pulled out of you, stepping back from you and running his fingers through his hair. “Fuck.”

After a few minutes of everyone resetting and catching their breath, it was Sirius who finally asked, “so? Who won?”

“Clearly me,” James said, “she asked me to touch her, and that’s what did her in.”

“I’m sorry, whose cock was hitting her g-spot?” Remus smiled.

“It was the DP that did it, obviously, idiots,” Sirius defended himself.

They all turned to you.

“Tie.”

“No no no, it’s not a fucking tie,” Sirius said, walking back over to you, “which one of us did it for you? You have to pick one.”

“No I don’t,” you shrugged.

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t, Sirius,” you said, “I’m allowed to decide it’s a tie. I’m not in your little competition, I don’t have to follow any rules. It’s a tie.”

“But-“

“You were all fucking me at the same time, what did you expect?”

“So- so who gets whatever the winner gets, then?” James asked.

“All of you, I guess.”

“Yeah? And what do we all get?” Remus asked.

“Well, you all just came, so I guess you gotta wait,” you responded.

James raised his brows. “The prize is a blowjob? From you?”

“Yeah,” you said, “as many as you want, whatever you want with me, whenever you want, yeah.”

Remus smirked. Sirius chuckled and smiled wide, and James was still in disbelief.

“I haven’t come that hard in months,” Remus said.

Lying alone in the operating theatre, Mattheo stared up at the endless white ceiling, the fluorescent lights suspended above him glowing too brightly against the sterile stillness of the room. The air smelled sharply of antiseptic and brewed potions, the kind that clung to the back of your throat and made everything feel clinical and unreal. He lay perfectly still on the narrow table, thin hospital linens draped over his lower half, his arms bare and cold at his sides, and tried to make sense of how his entire world had overturned in less than an hour.

His mind was strangely, terrifyingly quiet.

An hour ago, he had been in his flat, alone with the quiet he had grown used to. The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful but resigned. He had made his peace with never seeing you again. After the last time at the apothecary — after the way you had looked at him, hurt and furious and done — he had taken you at your word. He had stayed away. He had told himself it was better that way. Better for you, that was.

And then you had appeared on his doorstep.

He could still see you standing there: shaking, breathless, tears streaking down your face, hands reaching for him as if he were the only solid thing left in the world. He had imagined seeing you again a thousand times, but never like that.

Even now, lying beneath the surgical lights, his chest tightened at the memory of it. He hadn’t felt anger. He hadn’t felt betrayal. He hadn’t even felt confusion in the way he might have expected.

He had felt shock, yes — a violent, dizzying shock — but beneath it had been something far more dangerous: a surge of fierce, aching protectiveness that had arrived before logic could intervene. Before questions. Before resentment. Before pride.

You had a son.

He had a son.

Somewhere in this very building was a child who carried his blood and yours intertwined, a child who had existed for years without his knowledge, who had grown and laughed and cried and fallen asleep without him ever being there to witness it.

The thought hollowed him out in a way he hadn’t known was possible.

He had always dreamed — quietly, foolishly — of a future that involved you and children and a life that felt steadier than the one he had been raised in. He had buried that dream when he lost you. And yet it had happened anyway. Just without him.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting building behind them. How was he meant to feel about this? Furious that you hadn’t told him? Grateful that you had protected the child from his name, from his family, from the darkness that clung to it? Overwhelmed that the only reason he now knew was because that same child might not survive the night?

He hadn’t hesitated. That was the part that startled him most. When the Healer had explained the transplant, the urgency, the risks — he had barely listened. When they had separated him from you to run the compatibility spells, he had let them.

He hadn’t seen you again after that.

Not while they drew his blood. Not while they ran spells to test compatibility. Not even when the Healer returned, breathless, eyes wide with something like relief.

“You’re a match.”

He hadn’t asked how risky it was.

He hadn’t asked how long recovery would take.

He hadn’t asked a single question.

“Let’s do it.” He’d said.

Because you had asked him.

And because if there was even a sliver of a chance that the boy fighting for his life carried his blood—his eyes, his stubbornness, his laugh—then nothing else mattered.

Now he lay here in a thin surgical gown, bare arms exposed to the chill of the room. Somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the heavy double doors, your son—his son—was being prepared the same way. Cleaned. Draped. Marked. Cut open.

The image made his throat close. Somewhere only a few walls away, his son lay unconscious, unaware that the man about to be cut open beside him was his father.

A son.

He had a child.

He wondered what the boy looked like. Whether he had your eyes. Whether he smiled the way you used to when you were trying not to laugh. Whether he scowled when he was concentrating. Whether he hated vegetables. Whether he’d ever asked about him.

Somewhere in the world, his greatest, most secret dream had existed for years without him knowing. A little boy who might have his dark hair. Or your eyes. A boy who had taken his first steps, said his first word, scraped his knees, laughed—

All without him there.

He had missed everything.

The first cry. The first birthday. The first nightmare.

You had carried that alone.

A hot tear slipped from the corner of his eye and trailed down toward his temple before he could stop it. A nurse noticed immediately and stepped closer, dabbing it away with careful gentleness.

“Nervous?” she asked softly, her voice warm despite the mask concealing most of her face.

He wasn’t afraid of the scalpel or the pain or the scar that would follow. He wasn’t even afraid of not waking up, if it came to that. The risk felt inconsequential in comparison to the boy in the other room.

He was devastated.

Devastated that it had taken his son nearly dying for him to find out he existed.

Devastated that the only reason you were in the same building as him right now was because you were terrified of losing someone else you loved.

Devastated that he still loved you enough that there had never been a choice.

Devastation that the only bridge between you now was a hospital corridor and a life-or-death procedure.

He stared back up at the lights, breathing slow and steady as the Healer approached with the final vial of sleeping draught.

Somewhere close by, you were probably pacing. Or standing frozen. Watching through enchanted glass as your child lay on a table not unlike this one.

He wondered if you’d spare him a thought.

If you’d look through the wall and remember the boy he used to be.

If, when this was over, you would look at him differently.

The Healer’s voice broke through gently.

“Count back from ten for me.”

Mattheo exhaled slowly.

For the first time in years, he didn’t feel lost.

For you.

“Ten…”

His vision blurred at the edges.

“Nine…”

For his son.

“Eight…”

If he woke up, everything would be different.

“Seven…”

If he didn’t—

At least his son would have a chance at a new life.

“Six…”

Darkness crept in, soft and heavy.

His final thought wasn’t fear.

It was your name.

And the quiet, undeniable truth that he would always answer when you called.

When Mattheo’s eyes fluttered open, the first coherent thought he had was that he’d been flattened.

Not by a truck — he had no frame of reference for Muggle vehicles — but certainly by something large, fast, and deeply malicious. An iron Bludger travelling at one hundred and fifty kilometres an hour felt about right. His entire torso throbbed in protest when he so much as breathed, a deep, stitched-together soreness radiating through his ribs that told him Madam Pomfrey had done her job but not without consequence. There was a tightness across his chest where bones had clearly been mended, bruises pulling faintly beneath the skin as though they were reluctant to fade.

Sunlight streamed in through the tall Hospital Wing windows, warm and golden, pooling across white sheets and polished floors. The air carried the familiar scent of dittany and clean linen, with something faintly sweet drifting in from the open window — late spring, perhaps. It was peaceful. Deceptively so.

Sunlight streamed in through the tall Hospital Wing windows, warm and golden, pooling across white sheets and polished floors. The air carried the familiar scent of dittany and clean linen, with something faintly sweet drifting in from the open window — late spring, perhaps. It was peaceful. Deceptively so.

His head ached.

He blinked slowly, vision swimming into focus as he let out a low groan and attempted to shift upright. The movement sent a sharp flare of pain through his ribs, forcing him to sink back against the pillows with a quiet curse under his breath.

And that was when he noticed you.

Curled in the wooden chair pulled tightly against his bedside, your arms were folded atop the mattress, cheek resting on them. Your hair had fallen forward, spilling across your face in soft disarray, half-hiding your features. Even in sleep your brows were faintly drawn together, as if your body refused to fully relax while he remained injured. One of your hands was still loosely wrapped around his wrist.

A small, unguarded smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Carefully — foolishly — he lifted his free hand despite the way his chest screamed in warning. He reached toward you, movements slow and deliberate, and gently brushed the fallen strand of hair back from your face so he could see you properly. The simple action cost him more than he’d admit, but the sight of you there, made it worth it.

He let his hand fall back against the sheets and turned his gaze toward the open window, watching sunlight catch in the dust motes drifting lazily through the air. He wondered how long he’d been there. Hours? A day? Long enough for you to refuse to leave, apparently.

“You absolute idiot.”

Your voice cut cleanly through the quiet.

He turned his head back toward you to find you blinking awake, confusion flickering across your features for half a second before recognition hit. Relief flooded your face so quickly it almost looked like fury.

“You are such an insufferable, reckless, arrogant—”

He winced dramatically, though the expression was slightly less exaggerated than he would have preferred given the pain in his ribs, “Good morning to you too, darling.”

You shot upright at once, your hand tightening instinctively around his wrist, “Don’t you dare ‘darling’ me. What were you thinking? Provoking Fred and George like that? You practically invited them to take your head off!”

He leaned back into the pillows with a lazy smirk, ignoring the sharp protest from his torso, “Please. They couldn’t take my head off if they tried.”

“You were unconscious for three hours!”

“Hey,” He gestured vaguely toward himself, wincing as the motion tugged at something tender, “I needed my beauty sleep. It takes effort to look this good.”

Your eyes flashed with exasperation, “You are unbelievable.”

He watched you as you spoke, as you paced a half-step before sitting back down, as your hands moved animatedly while you scolded him. Beneath the irritation in your voice was something far more fragile. Your eyes were rimmed faintly red. Your lashes clumped slightly at the corners. You had cried.

For him.

“You scared me,” You muttered finally, the sharpness dissolving into something quieter, “You don’t think. You just act.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you now without the shield of his usual bravado, “You were here the whole time?”

“Of course I was.”

The answer was immediate. Instinctive. As though the idea of being anywhere else had never even crossed your mind.

Something tightened in his chest — and it wasn’t from the broken ribs. It was heavier than that. Warmer. He reached for your hand properly this time, threading his fingers through yours despite the ache it caused.

“You never think,” You hissed, though your grip on him betrayed you, “You just throw yourself into things like you’re invincible.”

“And you think too much,” He countered lightly, squeezing your hand, “That’s why we work.”

You rolled your eyes, but your thumb brushed absentmindedly over his knuckles, the motion tender despite your frustration. “If you die doing something stupid, I will never forgive you.”

He laughed softly at that — a low, easy sound that made you frown even harder.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The golden warmth of memory dissolved without warning.

Sunlight dimmed into blinding white. The soft scent of dittany sharpened into antiseptic and potion fumes. And the dull ache in his body returned all at once — deeper now, heavier, real.

Mattheo’s eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes sticking for a moment as though even that small movement required effort. His throat was dry, his limbs weighted, his abdomen tight and sore in a way that felt foreign. For a few disoriented seconds he didn’t know where he was. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar — smooth, sterile, charmed with faint protective sigils that shimmered if he focused hard enough.

Then the memory came back in a rush.

He shifted slightly and instantly regretted it, a sharp pulling pain flaring across his side beneath layers of bandaging. A quiet breath escaped him as he settled back against the pillows, jaw tightening until the wave passed.

His eyes moved instinctively to the chair beside his bed.

Empty.

The space beside him was neat, untouched. No slumped figure. No tangled hair falling over tired eyes. No hand wrapped around his wrist.

The room was too quiet.

No soft breathing. No pacing footsteps. No you.

The disappointment that settled in his chest wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even new. It was quiet and familiar, like something he had felt before and learned not to react to. Of course you weren’t here. You would be exactly where you had been for hours — beside Leo.

Leo.

The door opened gently before he could sink too far into his thoughts. A nurse stepped inside, eyes scanning the parchment in her hands before she glanced up — and stopped short.

“Oh! You’re awake,” She said, surprise quickly softening into pleased relief, “That’s wonderful.”

He swallowed, his voice rough when he forced it out, “How long?”

“Several hours. Your body responded very well to the procedure. The surgery went very smoothly.”

His heart thudded once, hard enough that he felt it in his throat. “And the boy?”

Her expression gentled immediately, the professional distance slipping just slightly, “The surgery was a success. He’s stable. We’re monitoring him closely for any signs of rejection, but everything so far is extremely promising.”

The air left his lungs in a slow, unsteady exhale. Only then did he realize how tightly he’d been holding himself together, even unconscious. The tension in his shoulders eased fractionally against the pillows.

“And… (Y/N)?” He asked before he could stop himself.

“She hasn’t left his side,” The nurse replied softly, “I can let her know you’re awake.”

He nodded once.

Yes.

Please.

It didn’t take long.

The door opened again, slower this time, as though whoever stood on the other side had needed a second to gather themselves.

You stepped inside.

You looked like someone who had been bracing for impact for hours and had only just been told the crash might have been avoided. Pale. Exhausted. Shadows beneath your eyes that no amount of sleep would erase. But there was something else there now too — something that hadn’t existed the last time he saw you.

Relief.

You stopped near the foot of his bed instead of approaching fully, hands twisting together unconsciously as if you weren’t sure what the appropriate distance between you was anymore.

“The surgery was successful,” You said quietly, your voice fragile from overuse and too many unshed tears, “They’re keeping him here for observation to make sure there’s no rejection, but… they’re very optimistic.”

Mattheo watched your face as you spoke, noticed the way your shoulders sat lower than before, the way your breathing wasn’t as sharp or uneven. You looked lighter.

“That’s good.” Hhe murmured.

The understatement of it felt almost absurd, but neither of you had the strength for anything more dramatic.

Silence settled between you then — thick, complicated, full of years and unsaid things.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “Mattheo. Thank you. I— there aren’t words for what you’ve done. You saved my son’s life.”

Our son.

The correction burned against the inside of his ribs, but he swallowed it.

You stepped back slightly, retreat already instinctual, “You should rest. I’ll—”

“(Y/N).”

You froze mid-turn.

He shifted, pushing himself up just slightly despite the protest from his abdomen. The movement pulled at the bandages beneath his gown, and he knew you saw it — your eyes dropped for a fraction of a second to the outline of dressings across his midsection before snapping back up to his face.

And the sincerity in his expression.

“Can I meet him?”

The question lingered in the space between you, heavier than anything else that had been said since you walked in.

Your answer rose immediately, instinctive and protective.

No.

This was your child. Your entire world. The life you had built brick by fragile brick after everything fell apart. Letting him in meant loosening your grip on something you had guarded fiercely for years. It meant opening a door that could never fully close again.

But he had laid on that table without hesitation.

He had let them cut him open for your son.

His son.

You closed your eyes briefly, fighting the tightness building in your throat.

“I don’t…” You admitted quietly, the honesty slipping out before you could stop it, “I don’t think I can do that.”

“I’m not asking for anything else,” He said just as softly. No edge. No charm. Just sincerity stripped bare, “Just to see him. Just once.”

Your heart twisted painfully at that. He wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t accusing. He wasn’t even reminding you of what he’d given.

He was begging.

You nodded once, the movement small but decisive.

“When you’re recovered,” You said carefully, “When the Healers clear you to move around… you can meet him.”

The relief that crossed his face was subtle, but it was there — a loosening in his jaw, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Thank you.” He breathed.

You lingered for one heartbeat longer than necessary, something fragile and unspoken passing between you. Not forgiveness. Not resolution. But not hostility either.

Then you turned and walked toward the door.

It closed softly behind you.

The second you were alone in the corridor, you pressed your back against the cool wood, eyes squeezing shut as everything you’d been holding in finally slipped through the cracks. A single tear escaped, trailing slowly down your cheek.

You had never been able to watch him in pain.

And tonight had been no different.

When the nurse informed you that Mattheo had been observed long enough and was ready to be discharged, a quiet, uneasy tension settled into your chest.

Part of you wondered if he would make good on his request to meet Leo.

Another part of you wondered if he would even try.

You had made it painfully clear that you did not want him in your life. You had drawn that boundary in harsh, unmistakable words the last time he stood in your apothecary, and you had meant every one of them. But things were different now. He had saved Leo’s life. He had laid on an operating table without hesitation and given up part of himself for a child he hadn’t even known existed an hour earlier.

Your child.

His child.

The thought alone made your stomach twist.

You found yourself wondering whether he would disappear again the way he had five years ago—slipping out of your life without explanation, leaving nothing behind but questions you had long ago forced yourself to stop asking. It would almost be easier if he did.

You didn’t want to see him again.

You didn’t want to look into those dark eyes that belonged to your son. Eyes that, years ago, had made your chest ache in the best possible way. Eyes that had once reduced you to soft laughter and quiet surrender. Eyes that used to make you feel like the center of someone’s entire world.

Back then, you would have done anything for him.

But that had been another lifetime.

Now they only reminded you of everything that had been lost.

Still, you owed him.

At the very least, you owed him enough decency to make sure he wasn’t leaving the hospital alone in the condition he was in. The healers had warned you that he’d be sore for weeks. Walking would be difficult. Apparition was absolutely forbidden for the next several days.

If he didn’t have someone to take him home, you could at least arrange for transport—Draco, perhaps, or one of the few people who still remained in his orbit.

You approached his hospital room slowly, your hand tightening around the strap of your bag as you stopped outside the door.

But just as you lifted your hand to knock, you froze.

There was already someone inside.

A man’s voice drifted through the slightly open door. You hesitated, instinctively stepping back just out of sight as the conversation inside continued.

“…I’m just saying,” Another man was saying, his tone sharp with disbelief, “You do realize you could go to court, right?”

Your breath stilled.

“Theo—”

“No, seriously,” Theo continued, his voice rising slightly, “You don’t have to settle for just meeting him once. You’re his father, Mattheo. You’ve got parental rights. You could file for visitation. Shared custody if you wanted it.”

The words hit you like a physical blow.

A spark of fury surged through your body so suddenly it felt like electricity racing through your veins. Your hand tightened into a fist at your side, nails biting into your palm.

Rights?

What rights?

He didn’t even know Leo existed a week ago.

He wasn’t there when Leo was born. He hadn’t been the one lying half dead on the table of the hospital room, terrified and exhausted, clutching the sheets while the Healers shouted instructions over the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears. He hadn’t held Leo the first time the tiny bundle had been placed in your arms, red-faced and screaming and perfect.

He hadn’t changed a single diaper. Hadn’t warmed bottles at three in the morning. Hadn’t walked the narrow length of your flat for hours with a crying infant pressed to your shoulder because Leo wouldn’t settle unless he felt someone holding him.

He hadn’t been the one who went months without real sleep, waking every couple of hours to feed him, to soothe him, to make sure he was breathing.

He hadn’t been there for Leo’s first word.

His first steps.

He hadn’t been there the day the Healers sat you down and explained Leo’s diagnosis, the way the words had blurred together while panic rose along with bile in your throat.

He hadn’t been there for the endless appointments after that. For the waiting rooms and the tests and the quiet, suffocating fear that never fully left your chest.

He had no right—

“Theo, drop it.”

Mattheo’s voice cut through the room, low and tired.

“I’m not fighting for custody in court.”

For a moment, relief washed through you so quickly it left you dizzy.

Relief… and something else you couldn’t quite name.

Of course he wasn’t going to fight for custody. Of course he wasn’t going to demand anything. He didn’t want the responsibility. He didn’t want the upheaval, the obligation, the reality of fatherhood crashing into the life he’d built without you.

He would simply disappear again.

Just like the first time.

“I’m not going to do that to (Y/N).” Mattheo continued quietly.

Theo probed, concerned, “You’re serious? You’re just going to walk away?”

There was a brief silence before Mattheo spoke again, and when he did his voice was softer. Quieter.

Resigned.

“Besides,” He said, “the kid’s better off without the whole world knowing he’s Voldemort’s grandson.”

Your breath caught.

Even without seeing him, you could hear it in his voice—the self-loathing buried under the words, the bitterness that had always followed him like a shadow. It had been there even back at Hogwarts, long before the war had ended.

Mattheo had always known his lineage wasn’t something to be proud of.

He hated his father.

Or perhaps hated wasn’t the right word.

Feared him.

No matter how many times he insisted otherwise.

You remembered the way his jaw used to tighten whenever the subject came up. The way his eyes would flick toward Harry across the Great Hall, something dark and complicated passing through them.

He had envied Harry.

Not for the fame. Not for the praise or the hero worship that followed him through the halls.

But for something much simpler.

Harry had faced the Dark Lord again and again. And every time, he had walked away victorious. Mattheo had never believed he could do the same.

On the other side of the door, Theo sighed heavily.

Slowly you let go of the handle and walked away. Without another sound, you turned and walked away down the corridor, the quiet hum of the hospital lights following you.

A part of you felt relief settling into your chest like a slow exhale. If that was truly how he felt—if he believed Leo was better off without him—then perhaps he would never come. Perhaps he would simply disappear again, slipping quietly out of your lives the same way he had all those years ago.

Leo would finally get better now.

He wouldn’t have to endure any more procedures meant only to buy time. No more endless appointments, no more sterile rooms that smelled like antiseptic and fear.

He could finally be a normal child.

He could go back to daycare full-time and run around with the other kids instead of sitting on the sidelines when he got tired too quickly. He could have unhealthy food and birthday cake at other children's parties without you hovering anxiously beside him. He could run across playgrounds and climb and shout and tumble to the ground, without needing to stop every few minutes to catch his breath, without the faint grey tinge that used to settle over his skin after too much excitement.

He could do all of that now.

And yet, despite all of that, something in your chest twisted painfully as you walked away.

Because another part of you—one you didn’t quite know what to do with—wanted Mattheo to meet him.

Wanted to show Leo to his father.

You wanted to thank him properly, with more than the rushed words you’d given him earlier. Words didn’t feel like enough for what he had done. For the chance he had given your son. Gratitude pressed against your ribs, heavy and persistent, begging for release.

But beneath that gratitude was something else. Something quieter. Something far less rational.

A part of you wanted to show Mattheo what the two of you had created together.

You wanted to stand them side by side and see if the resemblance was truly as undeniable as it felt every time you looked at Leo. Those same dark eyes. The same sharp curve of his smile. Every time Leo laughed, every time he tilted his head in that particular way, it struck you with the same painful familiarity that sent a sharp pang through your chest.

You wondered what Mattheo would see if he looked at him.

If he would recognize those pieces of himself instantly, the way you always had.

You wondered how they would interact.

Because for the past few years, Leo’s world had been small.

It had been doctors and nurses and quiet afternoons at home. It had been you—only you—carrying the weight of every scraped knee, every fever, every frightened night. You had been the one to shoulder him when he got tired, the one to lift him into bed, the one to promise him over and over again that everything would be okay even when you weren’t sure it would be.

And sometimes, in the quietest moments, you wondered what it would be like if he had someone else.

Someone to help carry that weight.

Someone who could give him the things you couldn’t.

A father.

By the time you reached Leo’s room, your thoughts were still tangled together in a tight knot that refused to loosen.

Leo was awake when you entered.

He was sitting up slightly in the bed, propped against a mountain of pillows that seemed far too large for his small frame, clutching the stuffed hippogriff he had asked Harry to bring him from home. His hair stuck out in messy tufts from sleep, face slightly sunken from exhaustion but when he saw you in the doorway his entire face lit up with that bright, uncomplicated joy that children carried so easily.

"Mummy!"

The word broke through the fog in your mind instantly.

You crossed the room in two quick steps, the heaviness in your chest easing just a little as he held his arms up for you. Carefully, mindful of the healing spells still wrapped around his small body, you gathered him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as his tiny hands clung to the fabric of your robes.

“Hey, my love,” You murmured softly, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry.” He said immediately.

Despite everything, a small laugh escaped you.

“I think we can arrange that,” You said gently, brushing your thumb along his cheek, “I’ll ask the nurse to bring something."

For a few moments the room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand. Your eyes drifted to the window, though you barely saw the view beyond it.

Somewhere down the hall, Mattheo Riddle was being discharged.

And you still didn’t know whether you hoped he would come find you — or whether you prayed he wouldn’t.

The walk down the corridor felt longer than it actually was.

Every step Mattheo took echoed faintly against the polished floors of St. Mungo’s, the sound sharp in the quiet ward. In all honesty, he had been avoiding this. There was nothing he wanted more than to meet his son for the very first time, and yet a part of him had been afraid—so afraid that he had managed to put it off for days. But now he was being discharged, and he knew if he didn’t do it now you might never give him the chance again.

There was absolutely no way you would give him your address.

His thoughts chased themselves in restless circles as he walked. He was afraid Leo would recognize him somehow. Afraid he wouldn’t recognize him at all. Afraid the boy wouldn’t like him. Afraid he might like him too much. Afraid Leo wouldn’t care about him in the slightest.

The ache in his abdomen was dull now. Constant, but more ignorable than it had been before.

Still, it wasn’t the pain in his body that made his steps slow.

It was the door at the end of the hall.

He stopped outside the room you had told him to come to, his hand hovering awkwardly near the handle. For a moment he simply stood there, staring at the pale wood like it might bite him if he touched it.

He had faced far worse things in his life.

Really, he had.

But somehow, in that moment, he felt like he would rather be hit with the Cruciatus again by his father than open that door.

He’d rather be beaten and bruised by Tom Riddle himself than be rejected by his son.

The door opened before he could knock.

You stood there, already tense the moment your eyes landed on him.

For a second neither of you spoke.

Then, silently, you stepped aside and let him in.

The hospital room was small but bright, sunlight filtering through the tall windows and painting the white sheets gold. And there, sitting upright in the bed surrounded by blankets and an impressive army of stuffed animals, was a little boy with messy dark curls and wide curious eyes.

Mattheo stopped walking.

The dull ache in his abdomen seemed to travel straight up into his lungs, clenching so tightly he felt his throat close.

For a moment the world narrowed into something painfully quiet.

Because it was like looking into a mirror that had somehow bent time.

The same dark curls.

The same sharp little nose.

And the eyes—

Merlin.

The eyes.

His chest tightened so suddenly he almost forgot how to breathe.

Leo looked up at the unfamiliar man standing awkwardly near the doorway. He stared at him for a moment, wide eyes filled with open curiosity, before turning to look at you with a confused expression. But he didn’t say anything.

Such a well-mannered little boy.

Mattheo’s throat went dry.

You stepped forward before he could attempt to speak.

“Leo,” You said gently, resting a hand on the bed beside him, “This is Mattheo. We… went to school together.”

And just like that, the pain returned.

Of course.

Honestly, what had he expected? After only finding out about the child a week ago, had he really thought you would introduce him as anything more?

Not a friend.

Not anything important.

Just someone you had once known.

Mattheo forced himself not to react. Forced the small smile that lifted his mouth as he approached the bed slowly.

“Hey, Leo.”

Leo studied him very seriously, the way children do when they’re trying to figure someone out.

“Hi.” He murmured after a moment, clutching the stuffed animal in his hands, cheeks puffed into a thoughtful little pout.

Then his eyes dropped to Mattheo’s arms.

The small brown bandages from where the IVs had been were still visible against his skin. The nurses had probably found it easy to locate his veins—they ran prominently along his forearms.

Leo looked back down at his own arms.

Your gaze followed his.

The boy had bright magical-creature bandages decorating his skin, placed in almost the exact same spots.

Leo looked back up at Mattheo.

“Are you sick, mister?”

Mattheo felt his heart clench painfully.

He glanced briefly at you before looking back at the boy.

“Yeah,” He said softly. Then he lifted the hem of his shirt slightly, revealing the bandages wrapped carefully around his abdomen, “I had to get a little operation.”

Leo’s eyebrows shot up.

“I have matching ones!” He said excitedly.

Before you could stop him, he lifted the hem of his hospital gown, proudly revealing the bandages in the exact same place.

“We’re the same,” He said in quiet awe, “Mummy says we’re brave boys.”

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

If only he knew how similar they really were.

Mattheo let out a soft chuckle, something warm and fragile behind the sound.

“I bet you’re much braver than me, Leo.”

Leo grinned.

They talked for a few more minutes.

Mostly Leo talking.

About daycare. About his favorite snacks. About the cake he wanted for his birthday. About all the things he planned to do once he was finally allowed to leave the hospital.

Mattheo listened to every word like it was something precious, a quiet, almost forlorn smile resting on his lips.

And the entire time he could feel your gaze on him.

Watching.

Measuring.

Trying to understand what kind of man stood in front of your child.

Eventually the ache in his side began to grow too sharp to ignore.

Mattheo shifted slightly, stepping back from the bed.

“Well,” He said quietly, “I should probably go.”

Leo looked mildly disappointed, but he nodded.

“Okay.”

Mattheo hesitated.

Then, slowly, he raised his hand and gently brushed Leo’s curls back from his eyes. His fingers lingered for just a moment before he patted the boy’s head softly, his thumb briefly brushing across his cheek.

“Nice meeting you, Leo.”

Then he turned toward the door.

He had almost reached it when a small voice called after him.

“Mister!”

Mattheo stopped immediately.

He turned back.

Leo was sitting up straighter now, holding one of the stuffed hippogriffs and waving its little arm enthusiastically through the air.

“Bye!” Leo called brightly, “Get well soon, mister!”

For a moment Mattheo just stood there.

Then he smiled.

A real smile this time—soft and warm and a little broken around the edges.

“You too, Leo.”

He lifted his hand in a small wave.

And then he left.

By the time he finally made it down to the hospital lobby, Theo was already waiting for him.

The moment Theo saw his face, he sighed.

He didn’t even ask how it went.

Instead, he simply grabbed Mattheo’s bag from the chair beside him and slung it over his shoulder before guiding him toward the exit.

“Absolutely under no circumstances are you drinking for the next couple weeks.”

Mattheo didn’t answer.

His mind was still somewhere upstairs, replaying the image of a small boy with dark curls and bright eyes waving a stuffed hippogriff goodbye.

Theo glanced at him sideways as they stepped outside.

“I mean it, Mattheo.”

Still no response.

Because for the first time since the surgery, Mattheo realized something.

Those painkillers did very little to dull the ache in his chest.

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Diagon Alley was louder than Mattheo remembered.

Laughter burst from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, bright and obnoxious, spilling out into the street. Boots crunched against fresh snow, voices overlapped and tangled until they blurred into a constant, overwhelming hum. Mattheo walked past the owl emporium, eyes flicking from shopfront to shopfront as he took in the familiar district.

It was only a couple of years ago he’d been here with his mates, shoving each other out of the way, complaining about prices, picking up school supplies before Hogwarts started.

That version of him felt like someone else entirely.

Jaw tight, shoulders tense, Mattheo moved through the crowd without really looking—until something small and warm slipped into his hand.

He froze.

Tiny fingers curled confidently around his own, secure and unquestioning, like they belonged there. Like they’d done it a thousand times before.

Mattheo looked down.

A little boy—no older than three—stood at his side, dark curls peeking out from beneath a knitted hat that sat slightly crooked on his head. Snow clung to the hem of his coat, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold. He was talking animatedly, words tumbling over one another without pause.

“—and then Mum said I couldn’t have another frog but it wasn’t my fault ’cause it jumped away before I could eat it—”

Mattheo didn’t realize he’d stopped walking until the boy tugged gently on his hand, confused.

“Why did we stop?” The child asked, finally glancing up.

Their eyes met.

The boy went completely still.

His gaze dropped—from Mattheo’s face… to their joined hands.

And then he let go.

Immediately.

His lower lip trembled, fear flooding his expression so fast it made Mattheo’s stomach drop. The child stared up at him like he’d just realized he was standing beside a stranger in the middle of a nightmare.

“I—” The boy whispered, panic creeping into his voice, “You’re not— you’re not—”

“Hey,” Mattheo said quickly, crouching down before the kid could bolt. His voice came out stiffer than he meant it to, “It’s okay. It’s alright. We’ll find your parents.”

The boy backed up anyway, glossy eyes darting around wildly as his breathing quickened.

“Mum!” He blurted, voice cracking, “Mum!”

“It’s alright,” Mattheo said, hands raised slightly, trying to keep his movements slow. Gods, he was bad at this, “Easy, yeah?”

The boy sniffed hard, nodding like he was trying very hard to be brave, though tears slipped free anyway. Snow clung to his boots, melting slowly against the cobblestones.

Mattheo swallowed.

He’d never been good with kids. What was he even supposed to do? It wasn’t his fault—the kid had grabbed his hand. But now everyone would be looking. Thinking. Judging.

Should he find security? The Aurors? But what if the kid ran off while he did? And the boy was in no state to go anywhere alone—especially not with someone like him.

Oh, he could see the headline now.

Mattheo Riddle, Dark Lord’s heir, caught in attempted kidnapping scandal.

Fantastic.

“Do you know where your mum is?” He asked gently.

The boy opened his mouth to answer—

“Leo?”

Mattheo didn’t hear it at first. The background noise faded into nothing as he focused entirely on the child in front of him.

Then the voice rang out again, louder this time.

“Leo?!”

The boy’s entire face lit up.

“Mummy!” He shouted.

Before Mattheo could react—before he could even stand—the boy turned and ran, slipping through the throngs of people with alarming speed.

“Hey—!” Mattheo straightened quickly, heart lurching. Was that actually his mum? Or just someone else calling the name? Was it even his responsibility to check?

He forced himself to keep track of the small figure weaving through the crowd, panic rising with every second that passed, until Leo crashed straight into a woman ahead of him.

The impact made her stumble.

And then—

Mattheo felt the world stop.

The noise of Diagon Alley vanished. The crowd disappeared. The laughter, the shouting, the movement—it all dissolved, leaving him frozen in place, staring at the scene in front of him as snow fell silently around them.

Leo threw his arms around you.

Mattheo’s breath punched out of his chest.

Late-night dates in the Hogwarts kitchens. Stolen kisses between library shelves. Sneaking into the Slytherin dorms, laughing quietly under the covers.

It hit him all at once.

He felt like he might throw up.

You dropped to your knees immediately, arms wrapping around the boy, a mixture of fear and overwhelming relief written plainly across your face.

“You scared me, Leo,” You breathed, pulling him close, “How many times have I told you not to run off? It’s dangerous—and crowded.”

“I’m sorry, mummy.” He wailed, sobbing into your chest, his small body shaking as the last few terrifying moments caught up to him. His little breaths hitched violently—relief crashing over him now that he was safe, now that he was back where he belonged.

A life without you had flashed through his mind. A life where he couldn’t find you in the crowd. A life where he was small and scared and surrounded by strangers.

Mattheo couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way your arms wrapped around him so instinctively—so protectively.

Mattheo stayed where he was.

He should’ve looked away. Should’ve turned around, melted back into the crowd, pretended he’d never seen you at all. But his feet refused to move, rooted to the cold stone as he watched you hold your son like the world might fall apart if you let go.

That realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

Your son.

You had a son.

Eventually, the boy’s sobs softened into quiet sniffles. You brushed his curls back gently, pressing a kiss to his temple, murmuring reassurances Mattheo felt like he could hear even from where he stood.

He knew it like the back of his own hand.

You ran your fingers through his hair, coiling softly around his curls as you peppered kisses along his skin, letting him bury his face in your neck.

As if you could shield him from the entire world.

Mattheo’s chest tightened painfully.

You’d whispered those same reassurances to him once—late at night, when the castle was quiet and the future still felt possible. Almost a lifetime ago.

And then a third presence entered the moment.

The fragile bubble shattered.

Harry Potter.

He emerged from the crowd like he belonged there—like this wasn’t chance, but routine. Like this was where he was meant to be. He crouched easily beside you, concern written plainly across his face as his eyes took in the boy’s tear-streaked cheeks.

Leo kept his face hidden in your chest while you explained what had happened, sharing a private smile with Harry over the boy’s head at the way Leo continued to wail dramatically, clinging to you as though the world had nearly ended.

Mattheo felt bile crawl up his throat.

Harry reached out, resting a hand on Leo’s back, rubbing slow, comforting circles.

Mattheo’s skin prickled violently, like a thousand fire ants crawling beneath it. His eyes burned—he told himself it was the cold.

Leo lifted his head then, revealing his flushed, tear-stained face. Harry chuckled softly and, without hesitation, lifted the boy onto his shoulders like it was nothing.

Not awkward.

Not uncertain.

Like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Like a father would.

Mattheo’s mind betrayed him instantly—swift, cruel, merciless.

Of course it’s him.

The golden boy. The hero.

Of course.

Someone safe. Someone good. Someone better than him.

Something inside Mattheo’s chest cracked, sharp and final.

You stood, reaching for Leo as Harry crouched instinctively to make it easier for you. You wiped Leo’s wet cheeks with a handkerchief, murmuring for him to blow his nose, your tone gentle but firm. The three of you fit together seamlessly, movements practiced and effortless.

Like this was how it had always been.

Like this was a family.

Harry glanced around the street then, eyes scanning the crowd.

For one terrifying second, Mattheo thought he’d been seen.

But Harry’s gaze slid right past him.

Invisible.

He always had been.

Mattheo forced himself to breathe as you adjusted Leo’s scarf, your fingers familiar in the way they smoothed fabric and fixed loose ends. When your own cap almost slipped from your hair, Harry caught it easily and adjusted it on your head.

The intimacy of it burned worse than any curse.

It hurt more than Mattheo had been prepared for.

He took a step back.

Then another.

The noise of Diagon Alley rushed back in all at once—too loud, too bright, too alive—as Mattheo turned away, forcing his legs to move before his resolve could shatter.

And just like that—

He ran away from you.

For the second time.

The apartment reeked of firewhisky and stale smoke.

It clung to the walls, the furniture, his clothes—thick and suffocating, like it had soaked into the bones of the place. Empty bottles littered the floor like little graves, glass catching the dim light in dull, accusing flashes. The blinds were drawn tight despite the hour, shutting out the world and trapping the room in a grey, airless gloom.

Mattheo sat slumped against the couch, back pressed to the cushions, head hanging forward. A half-empty bottle dangled loosely from his fingers, knuckles white where he gripped it just enough not to drop it. His hair fell in tangled waves across his face, unwashed, uncared for. His eyes were red and glassy, rimmed dark with exhaustion and something far worse.

He didn’t hear the knock the first time.

Or maybe he did—and didn’t care.

The door swung open anyway.

“Mattheo?”

Theo’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with panic. He stepped inside first, stopping dead as the smell hit him. Blaise followed, then Draco, then Lorenzo—each of them faltering as they took in the state of the apartment.

The mess. The bottles. Him.

“Bloody hell,” Blaise muttered, face scrunching up in disgust at the smell, “What the hell have you been doing to yourself?”

Mattheo let out a hollow laugh. It scraped its way out of his chest, uneven and bitter, like the sound hurt to make.

“Celebrating.” He slurred, lifting the bottle weakly in something like a toast.

Draco moved first, crossing the room in quick strides. He crouched in front of Mattheo, eyes scanning the bottles, the ashtray overflowing on the table, the untouched plate of food gone cold beside him.

“Are you only drinking?” Draco demanded, voice sharp with barely restrained anger, “Did you even eat anything?”

Mattheo blinked slowly, as if the question required far more effort than it should have.

Lorenzo shut the door behind them with a quiet but deliberate click. His expression darkened as he took everything in, "Are you crazy, mate? Drinking like this on an empty stomach? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

The question hung in the air.

Mattheo lifted his head slowly. His gaze was unfocused, unfixed, like he was looking through them instead of at them. When he spoke, the words came flat and empty—so devoid of emotion it was worse than if he’d been screaming.

“Yeah,” He said. A pause. “Yeah, I want to die.”

The room went dead silent.

Lorenzo's breath hitched audibly. Blaise's jaw tightening so hard a muscle jumped beneath his skin. Draco's shoulders stiffened, his usual composure cracking just enough to reveal shock.

“Mattheo…” Theo crouched beside him, voice soft now, “Hey. Look at me.”

Mattheo didn’t.

Instead, he laughed again—short, sharp, and broken.

“I saw her,” He blurted suddenly, the words slicing through the silence like shattered glass, “I saw (Y/N).”

Every single one of them stiffened.

The name alone was enough. It dragged old memories to the surface—half-known truths, unfinished stories. They hadn’t known every detail of what you and Mattheo had been, but they knew enough. Enough to know that five years later, you still haunted him.

Mattheo’s voice cracked on the last syllable of your name.

The scene replayed in his head again. And again. And again.

The way the boy ran to you without hesitation. The way he called you mum. The way he fit into your arms so perfectly, like that was where he’d always belonged.

So safe. So loved.

Mattheo squeezed his eyes shut.

He wanted to forget.

Forget the sound of your voice. Forget the sight of your hands in the boy’s hair. Forget the way his chest had collapsed in on itself.

Forget. Forget. Forget.

He lifted the bottle again with shaking fingers, desperate to drown the images—but Theo was faster. He yanked it from Mattheo’s grasp and hurled it across the room, where it shattered against the wall.

“Mattheo, enough!” Theo snapped, voice cracking under the strain.

Mattheo laughed—an ugly, broken sound, soaked in firewhisky and grief.

“She has a kid,” He said, words unraveling as they spilled out, “She has a son.”

He dragged a hand down his face, eyes burning.

“With Harry,” He continued hoarsely, “Harry fucking Potter.”

Draco sucked in a sharp breath. Blaise swore quietly under his breath, running a hand through his hair. Lorenzo went rigid, jaw tightening as the weight of it settled over them.

No one spoke.

“She looked…” Mattheo whispered, his voice barely holding together, “She looked so happy.”

His gaze dropped to the floor, unfocused, haunted, like he was staring at something only he could see.

“She has a family.” He murmured.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, “A real one. One I could never give her.”

The words seemed to hollow him out completely.

Mattheo slumped back against the couch, shoulders caving in as if the last of his strength had finally given out. All the anger, all the bitterness, all the fight drained away at once.

Theo pulled Mattheo forward, wrapping an arm tightly around his shoulders. Mattheo didn’t fight it. Didn’t pretend to be strong. He went slack against Theo’s chest, forehead dropping to his shoulder as the dam finally broke.

The first sob tore out of him, sharp and violent.

Then another.

His chest shook as he clutched weakly at Theo’s shirt, sobbing uncontrollably, years of grief pouring out all at once. Blaise knelt beside them, silent but steady, placing a grounding hand on Mattheo’s knee.

And for the second time, a Riddle broke down into tears.

You had always loved potions.

Not in the casual way most students did — not in the “this will be on the exam” sort of way — but in the quiet, consuming way that made hours slip through your fingers unnoticed. You would reread chapters of Advanced Potion-Making in your free time, not because you had to, but because you wanted to. The margins of your textbooks were crowded with notes in your handwriting — tiny adjustments, theories about ingredient substitutions, alternate brewing times you were convinced would produce cleaner results.

Back at Hogwarts, while other students groaned over essays and procrastinated revision, you found comfort in the steady rhythm of slicing ingredients to exact measurements, in the soft simmer of a cauldron behaving precisely as it should, in the delicate flick of a wrist required to stir clockwise exactly seven times before reversing.

Honestly, it was a wonder you hadn’t been sorted into Ravenclaw.

During your years working closely under Professor Slughorn, you realized it wasn’t just a subject you excelled in — it was something that fit naturally into the architecture of your mind. Ingredients, counteractions, stabilizing agents — they didn’t feel like facts you had to memorize. They slotted together instinctively. You could sense when a potion was slightly off before it visibly reacted. You could adjust ratios by intuition alone.

Slughorn had noticed.

He praised your instinct for balance, your steady hand, your ability to recover a potion that would have been ruined in anyone else’s cauldron. You stayed after lessons. You helped bottle stock. You listened — really listened — when he reminisced about former students who had gone on to greatness.

And silently, secretly, you hoped that one day he would speak about you the same way. That years from now, some future student would hear your name spoken with pride.

You always imagined you would work for someone.

Perhaps at St. Mungo’s, brewing restorative drafts in sterile, whitewashed rooms. Or assisting in a well-established apothecary tucked neatly into Diagon Alley, your name printed small beneath a more experienced potioneer’s on the door.

Owning your own shop?

That had felt impossibly distant. Something older witches did. Something that required decades of experience and iron confidence.

Not something a young mother barely out of school would dare attempt.

And yet.

Here you were.

The windows were carefully arranged — softly glowing vials in pastel blues, deep violets, and warm ambers displayed in graduated heights. Dried bundles of lavender, sage, and dittany hung from enchanted hooks overhead, releasing faint calming scents whenever the door opened. Every detail had been considered, adjusted, perfected.

You had been lucky — incredibly lucky. Slughorn’s mentorship gave you credibility. His letters of recommendation opened doors that would have remained firmly shut otherwise.

But brewing talent alone didn’t teach you how to build something from the ground up.

That was where George Weasley came in.

After the war, George had taken you under his wing in a way that was equal parts chaotic and surprisingly disciplined. Between helping him experiment with potion-based joke products at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and sitting in the cramped back office reviewing inventory ledgers, you learned things no textbook could teach you. Profit margins. Supplier negotiations. Branding. Customer retention. How to enchant shelving so stock rotated itself seamlessly. How to make a storefront inviting without seeming desperate.

So you took the risk.

You signed the lease with trembling hands. You invested your savings. You brewed for weeks before opening — stockpiling essentials, perfecting labels, testing stabilizing charms on every cork and seal.

And somehow — unbelievably — it worked.

The bell above the shop door chimed softly as you flipped the sign to Open.

Morning light spilled through the front windows, catching on glass and crystal and turning the entire space into something gently luminous. You tied your hair back with practiced fingers and stepped behind the counter. The air smelled faintly of peppermint and crushed lavender, with a subtle metallic undertone from the polished silver stirring rods laid out to dry.

Your first task was always restocking.

You moved methodically down the shelves, checking labels and quantities with the quiet efficiency of habit. Wiggenweld Potion — three left. You fetched a fresh crate from the back room, carefully lifting each vial and aligning the labels outward at the exact same angle. Blood-Replenishing Potion — predictably low again. Ministry workers were notoriously stubborn about minor injuries.

You crouched to straighten the bottom shelf, brushing your fingers over a jar of powdered moonstone that had shifted slightly overnight. With a murmured charm under your breath, the jars slid neatly back into perfect symmetry.

It was mundane.

Simple.

Ordinary.

And you loved it.

There was something deeply grounding about the repetition. About knowing exactly what needed to be done and doing it well. No chaos. No uncertainty. Just order, precision, and the quiet satisfaction of competence.

Behind the counter sat Leo’s small wooden stool, tucked neatly into its place. He wasn’t there yet — at daycare for a few more hours before you’d pick him up early — but you could already picture him perched there, chin in his hands, asking endless questions about what each bottle did.

Sometimes you let him stick labels on empty jars. Sometimes you let him “supervise” as you stirred. The shop had become as much his world as yours.

After the shelves were perfect and the front display adjusted just slightly — one amber vial moved an inch to the left for better balance — you slipped into the back office.

It wasn’t large. A modest space partitioned off by a frosted glass door. But it was yours.

A sturdy oak desk sat against the far wall, ledgers stacked neatly in one corner, parchment organized into careful piles awaiting signatures. A small window overlooked the alley, letting in softer, more private light than the shopfront.

You set down your bag and exhaled slowly.

Your gaze drifted, as it always did, to the photograph on your desk.

You and Leo.

Taken on a quiet afternoon in the park. Leo’s laughter frozen in perpetual motion, hair windswept, his tiny arms wrapped around your neck. In the moving image, his hand occasionally reached up to tug playfully at your sleeve; you responded by pulling him closer, pressing a kiss to his temple, both of you smiling like nothing in the world could touch you.

Your fingers brushed gently over the frame.

For a moment, the shop faded into a distant hum — the faint bubbling of a self-stirring cauldron in the preparation room, the muffled shuffle of passersby outside.

The sharp ring of the bell above the shop door broke the quiet.

You blinked, setting the photograph carefully back in its place.

Professional instinct settled over you like a cloak as you straightened your shoulders and stepped out of the office, a polite greeting already forming on your lips.

You stepped out from the back office, smoothing your hands down the front of your blouse as you did, the familiar professional smile already settling onto your face.

“—Oh, welcome in—”

The words died halfway through.

Standing just inside the doorway, pale hair catching in the morning light, was Draco Malfoy.

For a split second, neither of you moved.

He looked just as startled as you felt — grey eyes widening almost imperceptibly before his usual composure slid back into place. He hadn’t expected to see you. That much was obvious. And you certainly hadn’t expected to see him standing in your shop as though he’d walked into the wrong room.

There was a strange, suspended quiet between you.

You cleared your throat first.

"Welcome, can I help you with anything today?"

He glanced around the shop — at the neatly arranged shelves, the glowing vials, the dried herbs overhead — clearly buying himself a second to recover.

“This is… yours?” He asked, gaze somehow boring into you and completely avoiding you all at once.

"It is," You replied, folding your hands loosely in front of you, “I opened a few months ago.”

Another nod. Slightly slower this time.

“It’s impressive.”

The compliment sounded almost reluctant — not insincere, just careful. As though he wasn’t entirely sure how warm he was allowed to be.

“Well, I'm glad I've impressed you,” You said softly, a small, controlled smile touching your lips, “What can I help you with?”

Draco shifted his weight subtly, "I need a hangover potion. The strongest you can manage."

Of course he did.

You moved behind the counter, grateful for the barrier it provided. Turning toward the shelves, you located the darker glass bottles near the back — your stronger brews, thick and nearly opaque. As you reached for one, you were acutely aware of his gaze flickering toward you and then snapping away the moment you might catch him looking.

The silence felt louder than it should have.

You set the vial gently on the counter between you.

“Freshly brewed three days ago,” You explained, falling into familiar rhythm, "It should take effect in about thirty minutes to an hour. Try not to take it with any other potions, it might effect their absorption."

Then you glanced up.

His eyes met yours.

And held.

For the briefest second, the shop disappeared. You were back at Hogwarts — stone walls, dungeon air cool against your skin, the weight of familiar uniform robes settling over your shoulders.

Then the moment fractured.

He cleared his throat and reached for the vial, examining the label.

The silence was heavy and you found your eyes darting across the shop, trying your best not to make eye contact unless absolutely necessary.

“So,” He said after a moment, still turning the bottle slowly between his fingers instead of looking at you, “Shop’s doing well?”

“It is.” You answered, "The traffic from the Auror's office helps."

“Yeah.” He gave a small nod toward the window, where the faint outline of government buildings stood further down the street, "I suppose I’ll be around more often. Occupational hazard.”

You blinked, genuinely surprised, “Oh. You’re an Auror?”

He shifted slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether he enjoyed that reaction or not, “Have been for a bit.”

“Huh.” You tilted your head. Harry hadn't mentioned it to you. You wondered why, “Didn’t picture that.”

A beat passed.

As he reached into his coat to retrieve payment, his movements were unhurried. Controlled. His gaze dipped — subtle, fleeting — toward your hands resting against the counter as you prepared the receipt.

Bare.

No ring.

He didn’t comment on it. Didn’t even let his expression shift.

Draco adjusted the cuffs of his coat, “Good to see you… doing well.”

There it was — the smallest pause before doing well. Not emotional. Just aware. Acknowledging that life had continued. That choices had been made. That some people had stayed stuck longer than others.

“You too.” You said simply.

And that was it.

He stepped toward the door, hesitating only long enough to add, “I’ll be sure to let my coworkers know about this place."

You gave a polite nod, “Appreciated.”

The bell chimed as he pushed the door open, cool air slipping in briefly before it closed behind him.

Silence settled back into the shop.

You exhaled slowly, not realizing you’d been holding the breath in.

Not knowing who the potion was really for.

It had only been a few days since you’d seen Draco when the bell rang again.

You were restocking a display of Pepperup Potion, carefully aligning the red glass bottles so the labels faced outward, when the door chimed and you glanced up automatically.

And in what felt like a small twist of cruel fate, another blast from the past stepped inside.

Blaise Zabini stood just beyond the threshold, dark coat immaculate as ever, posture relaxed but eyes sharp and assessing.

Of course.

You shouldn’t have been surprised. Draco had said he’d mention your shop to the others.

You just hadn’t expected anyone to actually follow through.

“Zabini,” You greeted, tone polite but edged faintly with surprise, “What can I help you with today?”

Truthfully, Blaise didn’t need anything.

Between the hangover potion Draco had picked up days ago and Theo temporarily moving into Mattheo’s flat to ensure he didn’t spiral into something catastrophic, their circle was functioning on damage control.

As controlled as they ever were, anyway.

Unless you happened to stock a potion that erased memories and restored someone to their former arrogant, insufferably confident self.

But ever since Draco had returned from your shop with that thoughtful look and that infuriating insistence—

“She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.”

—and added—

“I work with Potter. He doesn’t wear one either.”

Blaise had rolled his eyes.

“Maybe because they’re both in careers where jewelry is inconvenient or dangerous?” He had argued.

But Draco had been stubborn.

“Potter never mentioned being married. Or having a child.”

“Because he didn’t want to tell your nosy arse.” Blaise had shot back.

Still.

Draco had been certain something didn’t add up.

And so Blaise had come to see for himself.

He stepped further inside your shop now, gaze sweeping slowly over the shelves, the glowing vials, the neat order of everything. Not judgmental.

Observant.

Calculating.

“What can I get you?” You asked again, slipping fully into shopkeeper mode.

He approached the counter, resting one forearm against it casually — perhaps a touch too casually. His presence wasn’t invasive, but there was something deliberate about the way he occupied space.

“Headache draught,” He said smoothly, “Something for chronic migraines.”

You hummed thoughtfully and turned toward the shelves, “Are you taking any other medications?”

A quiet sound of no came from behind you. You could feel his gaze roaming — cataloguing the shop, the layout, you.

You selected a pale blue vial and returned, setting it down gently in front of him.

“Maximum dose is twice a day,” You instructed.

He didn’t reach for it immediately.

Instead, he nodded slowly, as though committing the information to memory.

His eyes flicked — briefly, subtly — to your left hand resting on the counter.

Bare.

Just like Draco had said.

The silence stretched slightly thinner. His gaze lingered again — thoughtful. Comparing timelines. Weighing possibilities.

You resisted the urge to withdraw your hand.

You were just beginning to feel that faint prickle of discomfort when the bell above the door rang again.

You turned automatically.

And your entire demeanor shifted.

“George!”

George Weasley strode in like the place belonged to him, scarf slung half over one shoulder, grin immediate and bright.

“There’s my favorite girl.” He announced warmly.

You laughed — open and unguarded, “Thanks for coming by.”

Without hesitation, George slipped behind the counter as though he’d done it a hundred times before. Which, to be fair, he had. He leaned in and pulled you into a brief, easy hug.

Effortless. Familiar.

You didn’t stiffen.

You hugged him back just as naturally.

Blaise’s eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly.

“Zabini,” George greeted casually, though Blaise had caught the brief stiffening when George first recognized him, “Good to see you.”

“Likewise.” Blaise replied smoothly.

George dropped his arm from around you but didn’t move far, resting a hand casually on the counter near yours.

“So,” George asked lightly, “What did you need, love?”

You rolled your eyes faintly, “Let me just finish up here and we can talk.”

You rang Blaise up quickly, moving around him with practiced ease to retrieve the receipt parchment. The familiarity between you and George was obvious — in the way you brushed past him without hesitation, in the shared glances, in the easy rhythm of conversation already building.

Blaise watched all of it.

The laughter. The proximity. The comfort.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

You looked far too comfortable with George Weasley for that to mean nothing.

“Good seeing you.” Blaise said smoothly, slipping the vial into his coat pocket.

“You too.” You replied, already half-turned toward George as he launched into a dramatic recounting of his morning, something involving a misfired Canary Cream and an overenthusiastic intern.

The bell chimed as Blaise stepped back outside.

He didn’t look back.

But as he descended the steps and blended into the street traffic, one thought settled firmly into place.

If Potter wasn’t your partner…

If Draco was right about the rings…

Then why did George Weasley suddenly look like a far more plausible answer?

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"It's not a crush." You defend, though you know too well that it is. "I just think that he's cool." You keep your gaze locked on the papers at your desk, hoping to defuse the conversation.

"Cool, huh?"

You don't answer him, and that in itself is all he needs to know.

-

The next day Superman saves three young kids from a three story fall, and you watch the reports fly in. Hero, savior, wonder. Words used to describe him as he brings the kids to safety on the sidewalk. The event is caught from multiple different angles, and you watch every one you can find in your researching, feeling your heart well with pride. But you don't know him, never have, so why do you feel so attached?

Clark pushes his way into the office twenty minutes later, never on time, and you look up from your laptop to smile at him. He smiles back, and his dimples flash, triggering a resemblance to something in your head.

"Morning," He greets, and the tone of his voice washes over you. He's happy today, and walks tall as he makes his way to the desk.

"Morning." You say it back almost instinctually, but you're stuck on the fact he reminds of you someone. The dimples. Superman has dimples. God, you're so down bad that you're seeing him in everything. You worry you're losing your mind the next time Clark grins at you, and again you see the similarity to the man you're obsessed with. Clark Kent looks like Superman, just a little. Not really. Who are you kidding?

You're just seeing what you want to see, which is a more attainable version of your celebrity crush. Still, you can't stop yourself when you say "I have never noticed those before." Clark turns to you, and you clarify. "Your dimples. I've never noticed them before."

It's as if you saying that short circuit's something in Clarks brain as he fumbles for a response. "I've always had them." He ends up blurting, as if you don't know that now. Then after a moment, his voice softer, like he's gone shy, "Do you not like them?"

It stuns you a little, because of course you like them. You've always had a thing for guys with dimples—superman included—though you can't say that to Clark. He's your coworker, your friend. "No, I do. I like them. They're cute." And you mean the words you say. Because Clark's dimples are cute, and so is Clark.

You're in serious trouble now. A crush on Superman, a public figure you may never meet or even see in person, is one thing. A potential crush on your coworker. Bad, Bad, BAD.

-

A week later and you wake up sweating. And not from any nightmare, no, from a very, very good dream. A dream about Clark. You are absolutely fucked.

“I'm sure it's not as bad as you think.”

Lois is trying to calm you down, but there’s nothing she can do. You are fixated on him, on your coworker Clark Kent. You'd called her after much deliberation on the topic, and after a near panic attack you decided you needed her expert council.

“I’m having dreams about him Lois! And they’re not PG rated!” You’ve got your head in your hands, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. Deep breathes, in and out. “Every time I see him, I'm gonna think…god, you know what I'll think about.”

Three days ago Clark had brushed past you in the break room, a hand on your back as he reached for the coffee machine. And you’d shivered at the touch, his touch. His hand was warm, gentle and big. And you’d be damned if you could forget about it. And he apologized profusely as if he'd felt your shiver in his heart, "sorry, i didn't mean—that was out of line, sorry."

You hadn't known how to tell him that it was perfectly alright, perhaps even more so than that, for him to touch you. In fact, you wanted him to, and that was something you hadn't felt in a long time.

"What the hell am I gonna do?" you manage to look at Lois across from you now, and you know that she has no reasonable answers for you.

"Maybe tell him how you feel?" she offers, which is a totally unreasonable answer, just as you'd suspected.

"He's my coworker! I see him every day, and if he rejects me I'll have to change my name and run off to a whole new country."

"I don't think he'd reject you." Lois says, and there's a knowing smile on her lips. But you don't quite catch her drift.

"You're right, he's too nice to turn me down. He'd go out with me out of pity, we'd date for years and then finally when we're old and dying he'll say "it's not you, it's me." and—"

"Woah, okay stop." Lois has taken a few steps forward and is crouching in front of you, her hands on your knees.

"Did it ever occur to you that he might like you back?"

"No. Well, maybe. I don't know."

Lois just smiles at you, and pulls you in for a hug. She's used to you, to your out of control thoughts, and she squeezes you tight. "It's going to be fine, it's just Clark, not the end of the world."

-

A day after that conversation, and it sure does feel like some kind of hell. Sitting across from Clark is like torture, especially when he looks at you over his glasses, smiles brightly. Those dimples. Damn him.

There's only one thing for you to do. One thing that can fix the landslide of thoughts. A dive so deep down a rabbit hole of Superman media that no man will ever compare. Yes, that's reasonable right?

You pull open your laptop, and type 'Superman' into the search bar. Videos and images of the man fill your screen, articles and interviews with him popping up in every corner. But there's a haunting presence surrounding so many of them. Interviews with Superman, reported on by Clark Kent from the daily planet. Articles about Superman's latest saves written and edited by the one and only. You peek over the top of your laptop screen, and find Clark with his head in his own work.

His curls fall effortlessly into his eyes, and you wonder how he can see anything he's reading at all. A sigh leaves your lips, blissful and dreamy, and you don't realize you do it until Clark looks up at you.

He blushes when he catches you already looking his way. "Everything okay?" he asks, and you allow the sound of his voice to envelop you for a moment. It's a voice that sounds familiar, not in the sense that you've heard Clark speak so many times before, but almost like you've heard a similar voice spoken by someone else. Someone with a cape and very similar dimples.

"Yeah," you can feel your brows pulling down into a frown as you look at him. "Yeah, everything's good." you've never been good at masking your feelings, and now must be one of those times, your expression the dead giveaway.

"What's on your mind?" Clark rolls his office chair closer to your desk, his paperwork long forgotten. You turn your laptop around to face him with an unknown confidence.

"You know Superman, right?" you watch as Clark's eyes scan over all the articles he's written about the hero in the past, before he nods with hesitation. "Yeah, sort of, I mean professionally speaking."

You don't know what comes over you then, but the words spill from you before you can properly think them over. "Can you get me in contact with him? Unprofessionally speaking?"

You're unsure if what you're implying is landing right in Clark's brain, but he seems to short circuit at the words. He readjusts his glasses, and grabs at his tie, as if to loosen it. "Yeah, uh, sure. What did you want to talk to him about?"

You turn your laptop back to face you, and begin typing something new into the search bar. "If I asked nicely, do you think he'd grab a coffee with me?"

Clark nearly chokes, or at least you think that's the case considering the strangled noise that escapes his throat. "You want to ask Superman on a date?" the words sound tight, and stressed coming from him.

"Maybe?" you glance up from your screen to note the look of shock that covers Clark from head to toe. His entire body language has changed, and it makes you shift in your seat.

"Do you think he'll turn me down?" you say at last when Clark fails to offer anything further in the way of conversation. Your question seems to tug him out of his stupor, though he's still sitting up straighter than usual, as if he's walking on thin ice that you can't see.

"I don't think anyone could turn you down."

-

Clark is reeling. He can’t quite believe it. You want to ask him on a date. Well, not him exactly. Superman. Who is also him. Fuck, this is getting complicated.

Clark had been falling for you for months now, unbeknownst to anyone in the office, and he had to admit that when he heard of your crush on Superman originally, he got a bit of a kick out of it. A confidence boost. Until of course he realised that it wasn’t really him, Clark Kent that you wanted.

It’s weird to feel jealous of yourself, but that’s exactly how Clark feels. The feeling of “what does he have that I don’t?” Is strange when you have everything said other has.

Still, Clark puts you in contact with ‘Superman’ because for him, it’s impossible to say no to you. I mean how could he? Every time you smile at him his knees go weak and that day when you told him his dimples were cute? He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

So somehow, Clark is all done up in his ‘superman’ attire, ready to go meet you for coffee. But how does superman even have coffee? Should Clark get the same order he always does, or will you catch on if you recognise he has the same tastes?

Still, despite his doubts, he refuses to stand you up. He meets you outside the daily planet, standing tall just like he always tries to do when in this suit.

“Hey.” you greet him with such a wide smile, one that lights him up from the inside out, and he thinks in that mere second that maybe he doesn’t need the sun to heal, maybe he just needs you.

“Hello.” He extends a hand, formal despite the circumstances. “Clark has told me so much about you.”

“I was just about to say the same thing.” You answer, taking his hand to shake.

“So, shall we?” Clark gestures down the street, toward a coffee shop that he happens to appear at almost every day.

“We shall.”

-

For the most part, the date goes well. You talk about a plethora of things, and he makes jokes that have you red in the face with laughter. But there is something missing, shoes you don’t think even a superhuman man can fill.

Right now, you’re on the roof of a building taller than any tree, with the one and only Superman, looking over the city you love so much. And somewhere in that city, is a man you can’t stop thinking about. And that man, surprisingly enough, isn’t the one right beside you.

“What’s on your mind?” The voice covers you, smooth like stones washed up on the shore.

You look over at Superman, a singular curl coming loose in his hair from the wind that passes by. “You’re beautiful.” You tell him, before you can so much as think it over. “So beautiful, and kind, and funny, and a great listener.”

“Why, thank you.” He starts “I think of you the same way.” You know he means it, and that’s what makes it harder to say the next part.

“I’m going to sound like an asshole right now,” you preface, “but I know someone else, that is beautiful, and kind, funny, and a great listener. And he has these dimples that are just the cutest, and his eyes are so gentle and dreamy–“

Superman cuts you off, albeit politely. “I have a sneaky suspicion I’m being rejected right now.”

It makes you sick in your stomach to have to do it, but you nod, “I am so sorry.”

Superman is quiet for a moment, and then he smiles, soft and understanding. “It’s okay. But if you don’t mind me asking, who exactly am I being rejected for?”

You pause, and you know Superman isn’t pressuring or guilt tripling you in any way. You feel safe, and comfortable, to tell him the truth. Maybe that’s why he’s such a hero.

“Clark. Clark Kent.”

-

Clark’s heart stops in his chest. At least it feels that way when his name falls from your lips.

“Clark, like the Clark who set up this date?” The words tumble from him laced with confusion and doubt that isn’t an act. He almost says "who me?!" but manages to stop himself just in time.

“Yeah.” You heave a sigh, one that sounds heavenly and princess like. “Don’t tell, but I think I’m obsessed with him.”

That almost makes Clark break character. He can’t believe it. You like him, really like him, and he has a fucking shot after all.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s rude, and mean. We’re on a date and I’m talking about some other guy, what is wrong with me?

But Clark wants to know more, he’s begging for it internally. “No, no it’s fine. He seems like a nice guy.”

You smile subtly, staring off at the city around you. “He really is.” Clark is just about ready to pump his fist into the air.

"Why don't you ask him out?" he says instead.

You're quiet, and when you turn to face him the look in your eyes is anxious, unsure. "Because he might turn me down, and I don't know if I can handle that."

It's like a sucker punch to his gut, "I don't think anyone could turn you down." he mutters, losing himself in the look on your face. He watches, as your expression changes, shifts from one of nerves to one of confusion.

"He said the same thing." it's almost a whisper but he catches the words, despite the breeze trying to carry them away.

"Who did?" his own response is quiet too, as if you're telling each other secrets you don't want the air to hear.

"Clark. He said that exact same thing to me the day I asked you out."

-

It all comes together then as you stand there staring at Superman. His dimples, the curls in his eyes, the voice you know so well, the humor that is so familiar and kind. The touch of his hands, warm and gentle and big.

It's like a fog has lifted and you're unsure how you never saw it before. "Oh my god," you take a step back, wanting to cower in the corner from shame. You just gave the most embarrassing rom-com speech about Clark Kent, to Clark Kent. "Oh my god," you say again, your eyes scanning over every inch of the man before you. Superman. Superman. Superman. Except it's not is it? It's Clark, it's so clearly Clark that you feel stupid.

"What?" there's panic on his face, and you watch as he realizes that you know. That you see through him. "Oh," it hits him, and you watch as he also takes a step backward.

"You're Superman." you say, and it seems absolutely idiotic considering he's standing right in front of you in the red and blue suit, a giant yellow 'S' plastered on his broad chest.

He stays quiet, watching you closely. You take a step forward, and he stays utterly still, like a deer in headlights.

"You're Clark." you just needed to say it out loud. To fully convince yourself it's true. And it is. As soon as you say it, Clark—no superman—nods.

"Surprise?" he says it warily, daring for a soft and cautious smile.

-

Shortly after that conversation you beeline it out of there, promising to meet Clark later that night to really talk it over. But for now you need to sit with your thoughts, figure things out, and come to terms with the fact you just told the man you might be falling for exactly how you feel without knowing it.

To think you've had feelings for the same man twice, thinking that he was two different people? You have a type.

But you can't seem to get over completely exposing yourself and your feelings by rejecting Clark—for Clark. You pace back and forth in your apartment for an hour, maybe even two, before there's a knock at the door. You've run out of time.

"Hey," you groan as you open the door for him. He's in normal clothes now, out of the Superman suit, and he looks so unbelievably good. The white button up, the dress pants, the hair. His curls are set free, and you can almost feel your pupils dilate at the sight.

"Hey." his voice is soft, so gentle, so him. "How are you feeling?" there's genuine concern in his eyes, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he wants to reach out but refuses too.

"I'm okay, I guess. It's a lot."

He nods, and glances around your apartment, he's only been here once before for a staff party you held at your place last Christmas. He sat on the couch with you for most of the night, watching Jimmy dance offbeat to music you had coming from your tv. You think that might have been the first spark you felt for him, though you didn't know it at the time.

"So, about what happened on the roof."

As soon as he says it you want to crumble to the floor in shame. You keep yourself upright, though it's a struggle, as he continues, though he doesn't miss the way you wince at the topic of conversation.

"Did you mean what you said?"

You feel nauseous, but you nod. "Every word."

-

Clark can't help it. He tries to stop himself, but the smile grows, crawling across his face and clinging there. Stuck. "You said you were obsessed with me." he says through the smile, teasing, remembering.

He watches as you look away from him, your embarrassment endearing, sweet. "Did I say that? I don't remember saying that." the words tumble from you but he knows you're partly joking. You know just as well as he does what you said before.

He wants to laugh, wants to spin you around like a Princess, but he just takes a singular step forward, still grinning. "I distinctly remember you saying it." he adds, unable to take his eyes away from you. He's thrilled, excited, but also a little nervous. What if he made this all up in his head? What if it's just all one amazing dream?

"I'm a little obsessed with you too. For what it's worth." He adores the way you look up at him, the furrowed brows, making way for a smile of your own.

"Just a little obsessed?"

He feels the heat rising up his neck, "A completely normal amount of obsessed, I think."

That's the moment he reaches out, taking one of your hands in his own. He's hopeful that you won't pull away, be repulsed by the fact he isn't as human as you once thought he was. You stay with your hand in his own, and give his fingers a squeeze of reassurance before you speak again.

"So," you lower your head a little, "how many times did you laugh at me behind my back when I was watching videos of 'super-you' in the office?"

He pretends to think it over, look up at the ceiling contemplatively. He remembers those times, where he was almost jealous of himself. It feels so silly looking back now.

"Only once or twice." he answers, after a moment. "How many times did you almost figure out it was me?" He's been wanting to know since this afternoon, since you called him out. But there have been times in the past where he thought you already knew, where he thought maybe you were waiting for him to tell you.

"The dimples almost gave you away." You reach a hand up to touch his face, and he has to resist the urge to close his eyes in contentment. He nods, only slightly, not wanting you to move your hand away from his jaw.

"Unfortunately that is something I don't have much control over."

His eyes scan over every inch of your face, committing this moment and each of your expressions to memory. The smile lines and the way your eyelashes flutter. The purse of your lips as you try not to laugh. The lips he has a very strong urge to kiss right about now.

"I still can't get over the fact," he starts, "that you rejected me, for me." he leans in a little bit closer, as he says it, just to tease, and he revels in the roll of your eyes.

"Shut up, Kent." you say, right before you push up and close the rest of the distance between his mouth and yours. It's a not a perfect kiss, and his nose bumps with yours as he tries to hold you up to his height. He also can't stop smiling, so that doesn't help matters, and it might just be the messiest, most awkward kiss he's ever had. But it's also the best one. Because he's never felt this amount of joy before, never felt so at home in someone else's house, in someone else's hands.

So when you pull away, bashful and laughing, he brings you back in for one more.

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